William the Fourth (3 page)

There had been that terrible meeting two months ago. William was running a race with one of his friends. It was quite a novel race invented by William. The competitors each had their mouths full
of water and the one who could run the farthest without either swallowing his load or discharging it, won. William in the course of the race encountered Mrs Adolphus Crane, who was on her way to
William’s house to pay him a surprise visit. She recognised him and addressed to him a kindly, affectionate remark. Of course, if he had had time to think over the matter from all points of
view, he might have conceived the idea of swallowing the water before he answered. But, as he afterwards explained, he had no time to think. The worst of it was that the painful incident was
witnessed by almost all William’s family from the drawing-room window. Mrs Adolphus Crane’s visit on that occasion was a very short one. She seemed slightly distant. It was felt
strongly that something must be done to win back her favour. William disclaimed all responsibility.

‘Well, I can’t help it. I
can’t
help it. I don’t mind. Honestly I don’t mind if she doesn’t like me. Well, I don’t mind if she doesn’t come
again, either.’

‘But, William, she’s your godmother.’

‘Well,’ said the goaded William. ‘I can’t help
that.
I didn’t do
that.
’

When Mrs Adolphus Crane’s birthday came, William’s mother attacked him again.

‘You ought to give her something William, you know, especially after the way you treated her the last time she came over.’

‘I’ve nothin’ to give her,’ said William simply. ‘She can have that book Uncle George gave me, if she likes. Yes, she can have that.’ He warmed to the
subject. ‘You know. The one about Ancient Hist’ry. I don’t mind her having it a bit.’

‘But you haven’t read it.’

‘I don’t mind not readin’ it,’ said William generously. ‘I – I’d like her to have it,’ he went on.

But it was Mrs Brown who had the great inspiration.

‘We’ll have William’s photograph taken for her.’

It was quite simple to say that, and it was quite simple to make an appointment at the photographer’s, but it was another matter to provide an escort for him. Mrs Brown happened to have a
bad cold; Mr Brown was at the office; Robert, William’s grown-up brother, flatly refused to go with him. So, after a conversation that lasted almost an hour, William’s elder sister
Ethel was induced, mainly by bribery and corruption, to go with William to the photographer’s. But she took a friend with her to act as a buffer state.

William, at the appointed hour, was in a state of suppressed fury. To William the lowest depth of humiliation was having his photograph taken. Mrs Brown had expended much honest toil upon him.
He had been washed and brushed and combed and manicured till his spirits had sunk below zero. To William, complete cleanliness was quite incompatible with happiness. He had been encased in his
‘best suit’ – a thing of hard, unbending cloth; with that horror of horrors, a stiff collar.

‘Won’t a jersey do?’ he had asked plaintively. ‘It’ll probably make me ill – give me a sore throat or somethin’ – this tight thing at my neck,
an’ I wouldn’t like to be ill – ’cause of giving you trouble,’ he ended piously

Mrs Brown was touched – she was the one being in the world who never lost faith in William.

‘But you wear it every Sunday, dear,’ she protested.

‘Sundays is different,’ he said. ‘Everyone wears silly things on Sundays – but, but s’pose I met someone on my way there.’ His horror was pathetic.

‘Well, you look very nice, dear. Where are your gloves?’

‘Gloves?’
he said indignantly.

‘Yes – to keep your hands clean till you get there.’

‘Is anyone goin’ to
give
me anythin’ for doin’ all this?’

She sighed.

‘No, dear. It’s to give pleasure to your godmother. I know you like to give people pleasure.’ William was silent, cogitating over this entirely new aspect of his character.

He set off down the road with Ethel and her friend Blanche. Bosom friends of his, with jerseys, with normal dirty hands and faces, passed him and stared at him in amazement.

He acknowledged their presence only by a cold stare. On ordinary days he was a familiar figure on that road himself, also comfortably jerseyed and gloriously dirty. He would then have greeted
them with a war-whoop and a friendly punch. But now he was an outcast, a pariah, a thing apart – a boy in his best clothes and kid gloves on an ordinary morning.

The photographer was awaiting them. William returned his smile of welcome with a scowl.

‘So this is our little friend?’ said the photographer. ‘And what is his name?’

William grew purple.

Ethel began to enjoy it.

‘Willie,’ she said.

Now, there were many insults that William had learned to endure with outward equanimity, but this was not one. Ethel knew perfectly well his feeling with regard to the name ‘Willie’.
It was a deliberate revenge because she had to waste a whole morning on him. Moreover, Ethel had various scores to wipe off against William, and it was not often that she had him entirely at her
mercy

William growled. That is the only word that describes the sound emitted.

‘Pretty name for a pretty boy’ commented the photographer in sprightly vein.

Ethel and Blanche gurgled. William, dark and scowling, looked unspeakable things at them.

‘Come forward,’ said the photographer invitingly. ‘Any preparations? Fancy dress?’

‘I think not,’ gurgled Ethel.

‘I have some nice costumes,’ he persisted. ‘A little page? Bubbles? But perhaps the hair is hardly suitable. Cupid? I have some pretty wings and drapery. But perhaps the little
boy’s expression is hardly— No, I think not,’ hastily, as he encountered the fixed intensity of William’s scowling gaze. ‘Remove the cap and gloves, my little
chap.’

He looked up and down William’s shining, immaculate person. Ah, very nice.’

He waved Ethel and Blanche to a seat.

‘Now, my boy—’

He waved the infuriated William to a rustic woodland scene at the other end.

‘Now, stand just here. That’s right. No, not quite so stiff – and – no, not quite so hunched up, my little chap . . . the hands resting carelessly . . . one on the hip, I
think . . . just easy and natural . . .
that’s
right . . . but no, hardly Relax the brow a little. And – ah, no . . . not a grimace . . . it would spoil a pretty picture . . .
the feet
so . . .
and the head
so . . .
the hair is slightly deranged . . . that’s better.’

Let it stand to William’s eternal credit that he resisted the temptation to bite the photographer’s hand as it strayed among his short locks. At last he was posed and the
photographer returned to the camera, but during his return William moved feet, hands, and head to an easier position. The photographer sighed.

‘Ah, he’s moved. William’s moved. What a pity! We’ll have to begin all over again.’

He returned to William, and very patiently he rearranged William’s feet and hands and head.

‘The toes turned out – not in, you see, Willie, and the hands
so,
and the head slightly on one side . . .
so,
no, not right down on to the shoulder . . . ah,
that’s right . . . that’s sweet, a very pretty picture.’

Ethel had retired hysterically behind a screen.

The photographer returned to his camera. William promptly composed his limbs more comfortably

‘Ah, what a pity! Willie’s moved again. We shall have to commence afresh.’

He returned to William and again put his unwilling head on one side, his hand upon his hip, and turned William’s stout boots at a graceful angle.

He returned. William was clinging doggedly to his pose. Anything to put an end to this torture.

Ah, right,’ commented the photographer. ‘Splendid! Ve-ery pretty. The head just a lee-eetle more on one side. The expression a lee-eetle less – melancholy. A smile, please
– just a lee-eetle smile. Ah, no,’ hastily, as William savagely bared his teeth, ‘perhaps it is better without the smile.’ Suppressed gurgles came from behind the screen
where Ethel clung helplessly to Blanche. ‘One more, please.
Sitting,
I think, this time. The legs crossed – easily and naturally –
so.
The elbow resting on the arm
of the chair and the cheek upon the hand
-so.’
He retired to a distance and examined the effect, with his head on one side. ‘A little spoilt by the expression, perhaps –
but very pretty. The expression a lee-eetle less – er – fierce, if you will pardon the word.’ William here deigned to speak. ‘I can’t look any different to
this,’ he remarked coldly ‘Now, think of the things I say’ went on the photographer, brightly. ‘Sweeties? Ah!’ looking merrily at William’s unchanging ferocious
expression. ‘Do I see a saucy little smile?’ As a matter of fact, he didn’t, because at that moment Ethel, her eyes streaming, peeped round the screen for another look at the
priceless sight of William in his best suit, in the familiar attitude of the Bard of Avon. Encountering the concentrated fury of William’s gaze, she retired hastily.

‘Seaside with spade and bucket?’ went on the photographer, watching William’s unchanging expression. ‘Pantomimes? That nice, soft, furry pussy cat you’ve got at
home?’ But seeing William’s expression change from one of scornful fury to one of Nebuchadnezzan rage and fury, he hastily pressed the little ball lest worse should follow.

Ethel’s description of the morning considerably enlivened the lunch table. Only Mrs Brown did not join in the roars of laughter.

‘But I think it sounds very nice, dear,’ she said, ‘very nice. I’m very much looking forward to the proofs coming.’

‘Well, it was priceless,’ said Ethel. ‘It was ever so much funnier than the pantomime. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. For years to come, if I feel depressed, I
shall just think of William this morning. His face . . . oh, his face!’

William defended himself.

‘My face is jus’ like anyone else’s face,’ he said indignantly. ‘I don’t know why you’re all laughing. There’s nothin’ funny about my face.
I’ve never
done
anythin’ to it. It’s no different to other people’s. It doesn’t make
me
laugh.’

‘No, dear,’ said Mrs Brown soothingly, ‘it’s very nice – very nice, indeed. And I’m sure it will be a beautiful photograph.’

The proofs arrived the next week. They were highly appreciated by William’s family. There were two positions. In one William, in an attitude of intellectual contemplation, glowered at them
from an artistic background; in the other, he stood stiffly with one hand on his hip, his toes (in spite of all) turned resolutely in, and glared ferociously and defiantly upon the world in
general. Mrs Brown was delighted. ‘I think it’s awfully nice,’ she said, ‘and he looks so smart and clean.’

William, mystified by Robert’s and Ethel’s reception of them, carried them up to his room and studied them long and earnestly

‘Well, I can’t see wot’s
funny
about them,’ he said at last, half indignantly and half mystified. ‘It doesn’t seem funny to
me
.’

‘You’ll have to write a letter to your godmother, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, as Mrs Adolphus Crane’s birthday drew near.

‘Me?’ said William bitterly. ‘I should think I’ve done
enough
for her.’

‘No,’ said Mrs Brown firmly, ‘you
must
write a letter.’

‘I dunno what to say to her.’

‘Say whatever comes into your head.’

‘I dunno how to
spell
all the words that come in my head.’

‘I’ll help you, dear.’

Seeing no escape, William sat gloomily down at the table and was supplied with pen, ink, and paper. He looked round disapprovingly.

‘S’pose I wear out the nib?’ he said sadly. Mrs Brown obligingly placed a box of nibs at his elbow. He sighed wearily. Life sometimes is hardly worth living.

After much patient thought he got as far as ‘Dear Godmother’. He occupied the next ten minutes in seeing how far you could bend apart the two halves of a nib without breaking them.
After breaking six, he wearied of the occupation and returned to his letter. With deeply furrowed brow and protruding tongue he continued his efforts. ‘Many happy returns of your birthday. I
hopp you are verry well. I am very well and so is mother and father and Ethel and Robbert.’ He gazed out of the window and chewed the end of his penholder into splinters. Some he swallowed,
then choked, and had to retire for a drink of water. Then he demanded a fresh pen. After about fifteen minutes he returned to his epistolary efforts.

‘It is not raning today,’ he wrote, after much thought. Then, ‘It did not rane yesterday and we are hoppin’ it will not rane tomorrow’

Having exhausted that topic, he scratched his head in despair, wrinkled up his brows, and chewed his penholder again.

‘I have a hole in my stokking,’ was his next effort. Then, ‘I have had my phottograf took and send it for a birthday present. Some people think it funny but to me it seems
alrite. I hopp you will like it. Your loving godsun, William.’