The Story Of The Peacock

by Barry Pain

THE STORY OF THE PEACOCK.

By Barry Pain.

Albert Borstone was the very worst story-teller I ever knew. That being so, it is hardly necessary to add that he was always telling stories. Similarly, I have noticed that a man hardly ever takes seriously to reciting unless he has an impediment in his speech.

I am blaming Borstone, not because his stories were seldom good or new. There are not very many good new stories. Nor can I in justice blame him for forgetting the point of them, since he never did forget the point. It was only that he was such a very long time getting to it. He was discursive. Discursiveness was what was chiefly the matter with him as a story-teller.

My first intimation that Borstone had a story about a peacock was received some months ago. He caught me up in the street, and said—

"Have you heard my little yarn about the peacock? I think you'll say it's one of the funniest you ever came across!"

"No, Borstone," I said; "I haven't heard it. But I'm catching a train! Will you have time?"

"Oh, yes! It's quite a short story! I'll walk with you to the station, and tell it as I go. You must know that old Sir Charles Ambley (you've heard of him, of course) used to keep pea-fowls. He didn't keep them actually in the garden, but quite near the garden, in one of those wire-netting enclosures; you must have seen the sort of thing I mean. We never kept fowls at home ourselves. I believe my father would rather have liked it, but when you come to go into the arithmetic of the thing you'll find there's more expense than profit about it. Not that that was the only objection. You see, an aunt of mine was living in the house, and she was always a light sleeper. And, of course, fowls do make the deuce of a noise in the early morning. That was a very queer thing, too, my aunt not being able to sleep well, for when she was a young girl she always used to be getting into trouble from her sleepiness; and——"

Well, he rambled on in this way until we got to the barrier. By that time he had worked round to the question of capital punishment. They would not let Borstone through the barrier, because he had no ticket; so he asked me if I would not miss that train and take the next, in order that he might finish the story. I was afraid that I could not do that, as I had an appointment; but I said that I should hope to hear the rest of the story on some other occasion.

A week or two afterwards I found Borstone at lunch in a restaurant. I believed that I was undetected, and selected a table as far from him as possible. Immediately afterwards a waiter brought me a message that Mr. Borstone would be glad if I would go and sit at his table. I sighed, and surrendered. He began at once.

How do you do? I wanted to finish that story about the peacock. You must know that Peter——"

"What Peter?"

"Hadn't I mentioned that? Sir Charles's friend, Peter Sadley. Peter had a great reputation as a wit. Whether he deserved it or not is another matter. It's just the same thing with stories. People have got to know that I sometimes tell a little yarn, and they come up to me and say, 'Hullo, Borstone! what's the latest?' just like that. Well, as likely as not, I may——"

"You were saying that Peter——"

"Oh, yes! I ought to have told you that Peter had a great reputation as a wit. I did say that, didn't I? Did I tell you that Sir Charles kept pea-fowls? Well, the under-gardener, seeing them coming——"

"What under-gardener? Seeing whom?"

"Sir Charles's under-gardener, seeing the fowls. I remember now; I hadn't told you about the fowls getting out. Every now and then, you know, they did get out, and, upon my soul, I don't blame them! I've often thought that, if I were a horse, or a fowl, or a pig, or any pet that's kept chained up, I shouldn't like it. You may depend upon it, they have their feelings and their love of liberty, just the same as we have. I've noticed that many a time. I noticed it when we lived in Shropshire. My father used to say——"

It was three o'clock before I got away from the restaurant, and Borstone protested warmly against my leaving when he was in the middle of a good story. For some things his memory was unfailing. For instance, he never forgot that he wanted to tell me the story of the peacock. Whenever he saw me he pounced down upon me, and always and invariably started away with that story, and always and invariably wandered off into something else.

The last time I saw Borstone I was on a station platform, and he hailed me from a carriage window of a train just on the point of starting.

"Here!" he said; "we've just one minute, and I'll tell you that peacock story as shortly and quickly as I can. Sir Charles Ambley kept pea-fowls. They would come into the garden, and the gardeners didn't like it. Sir Charles had a friend, Peter Sadley, who had a great reputation as a——"

At that moment the train started, and in the accident which subsequently followed Borstone was killed.

The extraordinary thing is that, though I never wanted to hear that story while there was a possibility that Borstone would finish it, I am now consumed by a desire to hear the rest of it. I lay awake at night, thinking of plausible conclusions for the story; but I have got nothing satisfactory yet.