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Title: From a Balcony
Author: Courage, James Francis (1903-1963)
Author [bibliographic note]: Anonymous
Date of first publication: August 1926
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: The Living Age, 25 September 1926
   [Vol. 330, No. 4290]
Date first posted: 27 June 2014
Date last updated: 27 June 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1186

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






FROM A BALCONY

BY JAMES F. COURAGE

From the _London Mercury_ (Literary monthly), _August_


The Major, whose surname was unfortunately Pratts, sat reading a book
in the morning-room.  He did not read as you and I read--as people read
who turn the pages of a volume consecutively.  No; the Major had,
during the course of his career, spent many years in different places
about the deserts of Africa, and had, in consequence, acquired an
entirely individual manner of reading.  Each page, having been perused,
was torn from its fellows and cast like a white raft upon the ocean of
the Major's blue Persian carpet.  The Pomeranian, who slept this
morning at the old soldier's feet, had been accustomed to these
fluttering pages for close upon fifteen years, and quivered not a
whisker as the beginning of Chapter Five of certain considerably tropic
memoirs glided past her ears to the floor.  She had heard many
times--and who shall say had not understood?--the reason, given with
martial precision, why the Major always read his books in this uncommon
manner.  He would explain very gravely--for he had a sense of
humor--that when one travels in the desert every ounce carried is
important; one must pay with the sweat of one's brow for each jot and
tittle of superfluity.

'What more natural, then,' the Major would conclude in the persuasive
voice of a born bachelor, 'what more natural than that I, fond of
reading as I am, should contract this habit of ridding myself of weight
as I go along?'  And the listener's pain at imagining so many no doubt
delightful books destroyed would be somewhat alleviated in
contemplation of the Major's path across the desert, strewn, like the
track of a monster paper-chase, with pages from Gibbon and thoughts
from Marie Corelli.

A breeze from the Park (we are in Knightsbridge) blew in through the
open French windows and played with the Major's white hair, of which
not even twenty-five years' foreign service had robbed him.  He was a
handsome man, with a cast of feature quite English and with a taking
blend of race and humor in his eyes and mouth.  For some years now he
had lived quietly in London, popular with many of a new generation, but
happy by himself, enjoying his peculiar passion for reading, and
devoting his affections to his small Pomeranian dog.

The little animal's name was Tommy, but _that_ was a private joke of
the Major's.  'For,' he would smile, 'who ever heard of a soldier's
dog--even though a female--graced with a name belonging to a sex whose
tactics are deplorable?'  Thus did Tommy forfeit the immediate label of
her sex; and it must be admitted that she occasionally carried out
flank attacks upon visitors with an entirely masculine and British
success.

But Tommy, in spite of her master's devotion, was aging rapidly.  This
morning as the breeze rustled the window curtains she glanced up, her
head a little heavy, to meet the Major's eyes fixed upon her, it being
fully five minutes since a page had descended to the carpet.  'Fifteen
years,' sighed the Major, 'is a long life for a little dog.'  He bent
down and smoothed the well-brushed coat of Tommy with something more
than a passing regret and affection.  'Bachelors we are, and bachelors
we shall remain, by Allah!' he exclaimed.  And the little dog, since
she was a spinster and could appreciate, of course, all the niceties of
the remark, wagged her short and fifteen-year-old tail in sly response.

Indeed, Tommy's age did worry the Major a great deal.  'One must have
companionship,' he would mutter thoughtfully; and in his less hopeful
moments, before the whiskey and soda took full effect, he considered
the horrible prospect of his existence if Tommy should die.  For Tommy,
although she frisked about and committed the usual canine indiscretions
during her daily walk with Major Pratts around the Serpentine, had had
an increasing number of off moments lately, when she would lie down
full of lassitude and heaviness, often allowing herself to be quite
tented over with pages from her master's latest book, and moving only
very slightly indeed when he knocked out his pipe against the hearth.

That no other animal could possibly take Tommy's place was an axiom
with the Major.  How, for instance, could another dog be trained to
inform him with the same compassionate tact when it was the hand of
Miss Gannet and nobody else's that had just rung the front-door bell of
the flat?  A quiet scamper into the hall, a brief sniff beneath the
portal, and finally a return to the Major and ever so slight a wink of
the eye--that was all, but what other dog could do it so surely, so
neatly?  Not one!  The Major drained his whiskey, and the round bottom
of the tumbler, like a cipher, seemed to answer him.  'One must have
companionship,' he muttered again.  But Tommy was unique.  Dogs might
be legion, but there could be only one Tommy.

This particular morning the dog's age, almost like a shadow, fell
heavily upon her master.  He rose quietly from his chair and walked up
and down the room once or twice before stepping out on to the tiny
balcony through the French windows.  From such an eminence, three
stories high, the people on the nether pavement, seen from directly
above, looked very much alike--no shoal of herrings spied from a boat
more so.  Yet what was it that suddenly caused Major Pratts to gaze
downward with a quickened attention, as if he had noticed an animal
native to another element--a bird, for instance--among those same
herrings?  The answer is simple: he had seen the top of Miss Gannet
floating through the crowd toward the entrance to the flats of which
his own apartments formed the third story.

It is time Miss Mildred Gannet was formally introduced.  She is a lady
of considerable charm, every atom of which she is capable of exerting
with an appropriate skill.  With what a tragic force, therefore, had it
dawned upon her, not six months since, upon--oh, sardonic Time!--her
thirty-eighth birthday, that the attractive youthfulness of her manner
and character were being steadily undermined by the growing age and
inflexibility of her person.  Even the Major, not generally observant,
had noticed her rise more slowly than usual from her chair one day, and
had begun stealthily to compute her years.  He was baulked by the
strange lack of evidence in her features upon which to estimate.  Her
expression had always been delightfully childlike.  Her hair had
scarcely a single strand of gray, and her complexion, though small
lines had sprung about her mouth and whimsical eyes, might well have
been envied by women many years her junior.  She was not tall, but had
a very charming dignity.

Nevertheless, the problem of her growing stiffness had of late
increasingly obsessed the agile mind of Miss Gannet, until one day
while glancing through a paper of modern tendencies she had come across
a certain discreet advertisement.  She read it.  She saw her course at
once.  Monkey glands would rejuvenate her!  At the very thought she
felt five years younger.

She made arrangements for the operation to take place secretly as soon
as possible.

Winter had come and gone, to leave no happier woman than Miss Gannet.
Her vocabulary had become enlarged to include 'gazelle,' 'lissom,'
'quiver,' and 'undulate.'  'I would never have believed,' she
frequently told herself, 'that any part of an animal that climbs trees
and dances to a street organ could work such a miracle in me.  Save for
a few remembered palpitations, I feel once more a _jeune fille_.' Which
is as may be.

Now the Major's concern at catching sight of the vertical axis, so to
speak, of Miss Gannet on this morning of which I speak needs a little
explanation.  Phrasing matters as delicately as possible, one may say
that it had been the lady's intention for several years to marry the
Major.

They had even discussed it openly between them.  After a preliminary
skirmish, Tommy's master (Tommy must not be forgotten) would break out,
on the defensive, 'My dear Mildred, I am quite happy as a bachelor.  My
household has run itself for a number of years with no friction to
speak of.  My habits need little castigation.  I admit I like
companionship; I add that I prefer it dumb; I have Tommy.  I am happy.
You are charming.  Do not let us mix our drinks.'

To which staccato broadside Mildred--who was, when all is said and
done, a lonely woman--would reply at once: 'Your happiness, Lionel,
seems to me only a stupid sort of isolation.  Don't, oh please, become
one of those pitiable walruses who waddle from club to club in pathetic
boredom, in incipient dyspepsia.  I admire you, I like you--'

But at this point the Major would rise in embarrassment and walk about
the room whispering: 'No, Mildred, no.  I was born a bachelor.  The
motto beneath my crest is _Libertas et amicitia_.  Let us stick to our
guns.  Have some more tea.'  And he would bend down to fondle Tommy's
head, believing securely that in the little dog's face, where no
opinion was evident, all must be sympathy.

But let us keep to the events of a morning.  Miss Gannet, with the
vigor of one realizing a second youth, scorned the help of the elevator
to lift her to the Major's flat, and climbed the flights of stairs with
some show of enjoyment.  Who it was that the valet was about to
announce there was no need for Tommy to inform her master: he awaited
the charge fully equipped, only picking up several pages from the floor
and thrusting them into the grate to ensure at least a background of
fire.  Tommy mounted a chair slowly.

The door opened.  'Lionel, I was taking a morning walk.  The weather is
delightful.  I thought I might just look in on you--Chloe upon Daphnis,
shall we say?  I am glad to find you at home.'

'Good morning, Mildred.  Tommy and I have breakfasted late and are, as
you see, still confined to barracks.  Sit down.  We are delighted to
see you.  Tommy, a lady wishes to sit on your chair.  Away, sir.'

'Ah, poor little dog!  But how slowly she gets down.'

'Mildred, I am worried about the animal--deeply worried.  He is
fifteen, not a day less, and I am afraid will not live much longer.'

'You expect the Last Post?' Miss Gannet was sly.

'I don't like to think of it,' whispered the Major.  'You know my
devotion.'

This evident dismay would have touched a heart far less fond than Miss
Gannet's; and indeed, though she admired Tommy only because she saw the
dog's master wished her to, she felt this morning that to console the
Major by all the means in her power would be an act of true charity.
She wished, however, with Spartan tact, to avoid the sentimental, the
diffuse.

How the wonderful idea came to her, who shall say?  The Major was at
first shy of her plan.  His powers of judgment did not work well in the
morning; and besides, he was not told of the one fact that would
straightway have decided him.  Mildred stayed to lunch; her gracious
company and an excellent meal sharpened his decision.

'Nevertheless,' he demurred gravely, 'I should be truly sorry if the
little dog suffers any pain.  In fact, my dear Mildred, I should reduce
you to the ranks for having suggested this business.  But we will hope
for the best.  Have some more coffee.'



A week later the operation took place; Tommy was given fresh thyroid
glands.  From the first the experiment was a success.  She took a new
interest altogether in affairs, and even flirted in her small way with
the surgeon who had performed this, the initial operation of its kind.

The Major was overwhelmed.  He transformed Tommy's partition in the
animal hospital into a bower of violets,--a flower of which she had
always been particularly fond,--and every day brought her novel
delicacies of fish and fowl.  Miss Gannet sent some blue catmint and
half a chicken, with a small card attached: 'To Cerberus from Beatrice.'

The experiment became known to the outside world.  Newspaper men
attempted to interview Major Pratts, but were ordered in military terms
to depart, and were privately judged guilty of insubordination.  The
_Pomeranian Mail_ published a supplement, with photographs of the
Major's house and of the Serpentine.

A journalist found out that Miss Gannet had suggested the operation to
the Major: the two were photographed together, and the old soldier's
services to the nation were recalled.  'Pratts of Pretoria'--what
memories of forgotten times!  People began to hint at a future
engagement.  A well-known maker of wedding cakes sent up a card, and
was stonily and summarily ordered about his business elsewhere.

The Major was furious.  He had never courted public distinction, and he
abhorred the powers of public opinion.  The prospect of his own will
being in any way coerced by rags of newspapers had never occurred to
him as possible or probable.  That his devotion to Tommy should be used
as it were against him, to show up him and Mildred Gannet in a species
of high relief before the background of the little dog's operation and
its consequent fame, seemed to him in the light of his own discomfiture
the work of a malignant monster.  He would have been sorely tempted to
prosecute--regardless of the indirect charge--had he not feared
additional publicity.  And what a sorry finish to a military career--to
be last noted by the eyes of the world as a figure in the law courts,
defending his own integrity.  No; anything but that.  One must grin and
bear it.

The day of Tommy's release arrived.  Miss Gannet insisted on
accompanying the Major in a taxi to bring the pet home--insisted over
the telephone.

'We will go together--Csar and Cleopatra in a chariot.'

'I had rather you did n't come, my dear Mildred.  You might excite him.'

'Nonsense, Lionel.  I am as quiet as a dove.'

As they drove off with Tommy from the hospital the Major winced as he
caught sight of the surgeon's face fixed into a smile of benediction
upon the happy trio.  Matters were becoming worse and worse!  But, of
course, it was Mildred's fault for having insisted on her presence this
morning.  Yet a further horror was in store for the unfortunate man at
the hospital gates.  The three of them were actually photographed as
the taxi paused to turn into the street.  A pressman with a large black
camera secured them for posterity.  The Major closed his eyes and dared
not think.  Had he been ten years younger he would have offered himself
for further colonial service; but that was out of the question.

Tommy's renewed vitality was mercifully a redeeming joy.  No sooner had
they reached the flat than delighted barks and frenzied scamperings to
and fro, such as the Major had not seen or heard in years, warmed his
heart.  Tommy had never displayed such energy and spirits before; all
signs of her former lassitude and valetudinarianism seemed entirely
submerged by waves of vigor.

'A miracle, Mildred.  Tommy's vitality has even affected me.  I trust
there will be no relapse.'

Miss Gannet replied guardedly, though with warmth: 'Why should there
be, Lionel?  There is scarcely ever any reaction.  But you must look
after her.  Perhaps a woman's care--'

'Stifling!  Disastrous!  I am perfectly capable.'  The Major walked
across the morning-room and opened the French windows that led on to
the balcony.  Throwing them back he breathed deeply, as if the very
idea of any but himself tending Tommy constrained him.

Mildred smiled and prepared to take her leave.

The Major turned.  'I am uncharitable.  Forgive me.  The manners of the
messroom.  Won't you stay to lunch?'

No, Miss Gannet could not stay.  Nevertheless the Major, strictly
against his own rules, opened a bottle of champagne at his solitary
meal and drank long to Tommy's health, to the damnation of the press,
and lastly--with some hesitation, and warmed by his first two
toasts--to Mildred Gannet.  Afterward he sat in the morning-room,
smoked a cigar, and in his usual individual manner began to read a
book.  Tilting and uncertain, the pages fluttered down to the carpet.

Tommy was irrepressible.  The Major could not concentrate upon his
reading, but looked up every other moment to watch the little dog
scampering about the room and biting here at a tassel, there at a
swaying curtain, as nimble as a puppy.

In the hour of triumph prepare for catastrophe.  A downward fluttering
page from the Major's hand, being caught playfully by a sudden fresh
breeze from the long windows, flashed down the room, and, returning as
quickly on a counterblast from the open door, twirled in captivating
circles on to the little balcony, where it paused for a moment,
hovering.  As might be expected, Tommy, with her new vivacity, could
not forbear such a chase.  Down the room whirled the page; down the
room scampered Tommy.  Toward the balcony she followed, in yelping
pursuit, while the Major started to his feet in alarm.  Too late!  High
over the balustrade sailed the page.  Up leaped Tommy, paused in sudden
realization of danger, scrambled, overbalanced, slipped.  Three stories
is a long and fatal fall for a little dog.



A month later, with something of military ceremony, Major Pratts and
Miss Mildred Gannet were married at a quiet but eminently Christian
church in Mayfair.  How much it was his own sincere wish to marry, the
Major will never now discuss, and indeed it is scarcely good form to
ask it of him.

The press had given the unfortunate gentleman little rest.  If the
interest aroused by the late Tommy's operation and renewed life had
seemed large, that stimulated by her death had been out of all
proportion, and had cast a faint but very unpleasant shadow of
absurdity over those concerned.  The Major was nearly distracted both
by his grief and by the 'insubordination' of the papers.

The loss of Tommy meant to him all that he had feared.  He was lonely.
'One must have companionship,' he repeated to himself, while, to his
own surprise, he came gradually to the conclusion--after all, a source
of consolation to him when he had finally arrived at it--that he would
be happier married.  And Mildred Gannet was, as we know, very fond of
him.  The bridesmaids wore violets.

The newly wed pair have been living lately in a pleasant house in the
country near Reading.  Mildred has lost nothing of the vigor of her
second youth.  But not very long since, at a dinner party at which the
Pratts were not present, one of the Major's friends was heard to ask
innocently whether it was from a purely memorial motive that the old
soldier had recently had several new balconies added to the upper rooms
of his home.






[End of From a Balcony, by James F. Courage]
