The Complete Uncle Silas Stories Read Free

you come for, anyway?” And I told her. She wouldn’t believe me. “It’s right,” I says, “I just come for the lily.” And she just stared at me. “And you know what they do to people who steal?” she says. “Yes,” I says, and they were the days when you could be hung for looking at a sheep almost. “But picking flowers ain’t stealing,” I says. “Ssshhh!” she says again. “What d’ye think I’m going to say if they find me here? Don’t talk so loud. Come here behind these trees and keep quiet.” And we went and sat down behind some old box-trees and she kept whispering about the lily and telling me to whisper for fear anyone should come. “I’ll get you the lily all right,” she says, “if you keep quiet. I’ll dig it up.”’
    He ceased talking, and after the sound of his harsh, uncouth racy voice the summer afternoon seemed quieter than ever, the drowsy, stumbling boom of the bees in the July flowers only deepening the hot drowsy silence. I took a drink of the strong, cool, flower-odoured wine and waited for my Uncle Silas to go on with the story, but nothing happened, and finally I looked up at him.
    â€˜Well?’ I said. ‘What happened?’
    For a moment or two he did not speak. But finally he turned and looked at me with a half-solemn, half-vivacious expression, one eye half-closed, and told me in a voice at once dreamy, devilish, innocent, mysterious and triumphant, all and more than I had asked to know.
    â€˜She gave me the lily,’ he said.

The Revelation
    My Great-uncle Silas was a man who never washed himself. ‘God A’mighty,’ he would say, ‘why should I? It’s a waste o’ time. I got summat else to do ’sides titivate myself wi’ soap.’ For years his housekeeper washed him instead.
    Every morning, winter and summer, he sat in the high-backed chair under the window of geraniums waiting for that inexorable performance. He would sit there in a pretence of being engrossed in the newspaper of the day before, his waistcoat on but undone over his collarless blue shirt, his red neckerchief dangling on the arm of the chair, his face gloomy and long with the wretchedness of expectation. Sometimes he would lower the corner of the newspaper and squint out in the swift but faint hope that she had forgotten him. She never did. She would come out at last with the bowl of water and the rank cake of yellow soap that he would say she had been suckled on, and the rough hand-flannel that she had made up from some staunch undergarment she had at last discarded. In winter the water, drawn straight from the well, would be as bitter and stinging as ice. She never heated it. And as though her own hands had lost all feeling she would plunge them straight into it, and then rub the soap against the flannel until it lathered thinly, like snow. All the time he sat hidden behind the newspaper with a kind of dumb hope, like an ostrich. At last, before he knew what was happening, the paper would be snatched from his hands, the flannel, like a cold compress, would be smacked against his face, and a shudder of utter misery would pass through his body before he began to pour forth the first of his blasphemous protestations. ‘God damn it, woman! You want to finish me, don’t you? You want to finish me! You want me to catch me death, you old nanny-goat! I know. You want me …’ The words and their effect would be drowned andsmothered by the renewed sopping of the flannel and he would be forced at last into a miserable acquiescence. It was the only time when the look of devilish vitality and wickedness left his face and never seemed likely to return.
    Once a week, also, she succeeded in making him take a bath. She gave him that, too.
    The house was very old and its facilities for bathing and washing were such that it might have been built expressly for him. There was