The visitor—who came so regularly that one might almost call him the patron—sat feeding the old monkey—which should, in strict biology, be classified as ape, had it not lacked so completely the intellectual earnestness of the ape that monkey was the only word for it—with cherries. He was an oldish man, with grey hair, and wearing a suit so well tailored and well kept that it seemed like a civilian uniform. His countenance, too, was set in an expression of adequacy and composure which made it seem to be on parade; though parading in some subaltern capacity, for it was without the lineaments of authority. Indeed, if closely examined, it revealed marks of frustration and some distant timidity beneath the healthy colouring and the pompous mould of the lips.
There was nothing in his appearance to account for the degree of intimacy which obviously existed between him and his protégée. As a rule, those who practise these odd, these almost romantic, assignations with captive animals bear, or come to bear, a physical likeness to the creatures they frequent. The woman on whose knee the eagle perches, sits with drooping shoulders and responds to the eagle’s sad scrutiny with the almost blinded gaze of extreme far-sightedness. The man who grasps the bars of the buffalo’s cage is thick-set and burly, and stares in, round-eyed, with 117an expression of clouded wrathfulness. The giraffe and the lanky poet who extend their long necks towards each other exchange identical glances of supercilious sensibility and mistrust. But the man with the cherries bore no resemblance whatsoever to the creature he visited so punctually and indulged so patiently. One might even think that he had taken pains not to look like a monkey, and that in dress and manner he had exerted himself to obliterate the inherent simianity they had in common.
If this were so indeed, and the discreet fraternity badge on his lapel a symbol of how far he had travelled in the flight from the ape, he must have needed to retrench his vitality and abjure some natural instincts—a policy which could have imposed the traces of restriction and timidity which qualified his general air of calm prosperity. Certainly the old monkey looked much the livelier of the two, though she (it was a female) was so plainly aged and rather out of condition. Life seethed and pulsated under her shrivelled skin, life tensed the hand that scrabbled among her white hairs or clutched at the woollen shawl that was perpetually falling awry from her restless shoulders. The cherries he offered were snatched at, and conveyed with an odd rapid daintiness to the working mouth. The cherry-stones, which one by one the mouth returned to the paw, one by one were tossed gaily into the air, with an aristocratic disregard where they might fall. So many of them were spattered against the knees or the waistcoat of the visitor, or even hit him in the face, that one might have thought they were deliberately aimed, and with apish mischief and malice, but 118any such surmise was disallowed by the unwavering direction of her glance. Like dirty diamonds in their red sockets, her eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the cherries still in the basket.
Unoffended by the cherry-stones hailing upon him, the man continued to feed his favourite. From time to time he broke the silence, remarking, ‘Here’s a nice red one, darling,’ or ‘Look, what a big one!’ But these speeches seemed to be attached to the act of giving rather than addressed to a receiver. And though he sat facing her, he did not look at her with any persistency of awareness, certainly not as intelligently as he glanced from time to time at his wrist-watch.
His stay seemed to be more measured by cherries than by minutes. As the basket emptied, and her gaze clung more devouringly to the diminishing mound of pink and scarlet, he began to hasten a trifle, and to speak rather more and rather louder—as bath-water, running away, begins to chatter and gurgle when the bottom of the bath appears. Perhaps the smell was becoming too much for him. The old monkey was well cared-for, her bedding was plentiful and clean, the walls of the room were painted with white enamel, an electric fan whirred overhead; but for all that, the smell of old animal was oppressive, and like a direct defiance to the freshness and sparkle of the cherries. Now that the cherries were so few the smell seemed more prevailing— as if the power of an exorcism were running out.
The last cherry had been eaten. Frowning slightly, and with a natural embarrassment, the man said, ‘No more, my darling. No more just now,’ and rose to his feet. Diverted 119to a secondary pleasure, she snatched the empty basket and began to tear it to pieces. In trying to take it from her, his glance fell on her left hand, which clung to its toy. His features sharpened. He gave an exclamation of angry alarm—not loud, but so charged with feeling that the old monkey caught the infection of his tone and began to thresh up and down excitedly. There was a bell-push by the bed. He pressed it, and an attendant came in, her white apron rustling, her starched white veil standing out round her wholesome red face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘I hope nothing’s gone wrong with the old lady. What is it, ducks?’ she continued, bending over the bed.
‘Nurse,’ he said, and his air of dignified perturbation almost supplied the authority he lacked. ‘Nurse! My mother is not wearing her wedding-ring.’
‘Oh no, Mr Hardy, I know she isn’t. She plays such tricks with it, we’ve given up trying to make her keep it on. But it’s perfectly safe, Mr Hardy. Matron has it.’
‘I would prefer her to wear it. I would very much prefer her to wear it. It must be put back again, nurse, and somehow or other, she must be persuaded to keep it on.’
Addressing herself to the old monkey, the nurse said, ‘You’ve been enjoying yourself with those cherries, haven’t you, you naughty old pets!’
Colouring like a child, he said in a diminished voice, ‘After all, it’s a wedding-ring, you know. A wedding-ring. I don’t wish to be troublesome. But as her son, you see, and in my position, it is not pleasant for me to see her without it.’