A Visit of Condolence

"A Visit of Condolence" is a poignant short story by Australian writer Henry Lawson, showcasing his signature themes of hardship, grief, and the complexities of human emotion. The narrative revolves around the visit of a neighbor to offer condolences to a grieving family following a tragedy. Through this visit, Lawson explores the nuances of social interactions and the often awkward exchanges that occur in times of sorrow. The story captures the essence of community support and the struggles individuals face as they navigate loss, highlighting both empathy and the difficulty of expressing true feelings in moments of mourning. Lawson's keen observations and realistic character portrayals offer a deep insight into the human condition.

• Short story

								
“Does Arvie live here, old woman?”

“Why?”

“Strike me dead! carn't yer answer a civil queschin?”

“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or I'll
send for a policeman.”

“Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch a
push an' smash yer ole shanty about yer ears--y'ole cow! I only arsked
if Arvie lived here! Holy Mosis! carn't a feller ask a civil queschin?”

“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”

“My oath! Don't he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my way
to do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come--damned if I ain't--to
be barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (Pause) I want
to tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'll
collar his job. I wouldn't like to see a cove collar a cove's job an'
not tell a bloke about it. What's up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”

“Arvie is dead!”

“Christ! (Pause) Garn! What-yer-giv'n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Anderson
wants-ter see him.”

“My God! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch like you
coming to torment me? For God's sake go away and leave me alone! I'm
telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last night.”

“My oath!”

The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down
Jones's Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said “Swelp me Gord! I'm
sorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?”

He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head,
tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear,
and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his
attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole;
then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a
very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though
calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately at
the pavement, and said:

“Kin I see him?”

He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who's-afraid kind
of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.

He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty--so
familiar to his class--and then directed his gaze to where the body lay
on the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the
coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie,
and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would
fit.

The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill
came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his
pocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead.

“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though
ashamed of his weakness, he said:

“There wasn't no post mortem, was there?”

“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day before--there was no post
mortem.”

“I thought there wasn't none,” said Bill, “because a man that's been
post mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked right
enough at first--just as if he was restin'--but after they'd had him
opened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but I
could. How old was Arvie?”

“Eleven.”'

“I'm twelve--goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?”

“Yes.”

“So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?”

“Yes.”

“So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”

“Yes.”

“So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't yer?”

“Yes.”

“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin', don't yer,
these times?”

“My God, yes! God only knows what I'll do now my poor boy's gone. I
generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when
that's done I've got to start my day's work, washing. And then I find it
hard to make both ends meet.”

“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was
brought home?”

“Ah, my God! Yes. I'll never forget it till my dying day. My poor
husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days
before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”

“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: 'Yer
husband's dead, mum,' he says; 'he dropped off all of a suddint,' and
mother said, 'My God! my God!' just like that, and went off.”

“Poor soul! poor soul! And--now my Arvie's gone. Whatever will me and
the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish
I was under the turf.”

“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It's no use frettin' over what's done.”

He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and
regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at
Arvie again.

“You should ha' tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.

“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”

“He wasn't very strong.”

“No, he was not, poor boy.”

“I thought he wasn't. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: they
didn't give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all
the time, and he didn't have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise,
lest he'd be sacked. He couldn't fight, an' the boys used to tease him;
they'd wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I'd like to
see 'em do it to me. He couldn't fight; but then, of course, he wasn't
strong. They don't bother me while I'm strong enough to heave a rock;
but then, of course, it wasn't Arvie's fault. I s'pose he had pluck
enough, if he hadn't the strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a
fatherly and lenient eye.

“My God!” she cried, “if I'd known this, I'd sooner have starved than
have my poor boy's life tormented out of him in such a place. He never
complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poor
little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”

“He never told yer?”

“No--never a word.”

“My oath! You don't say so! P'raps he didn't want to let you know he
couldn't hold his own; but that wasn't his fault, I s'pose. Y'see, he
wasn't strong.”

An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he
regarded it with critical interest for awhile:

“We've got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones's Alley
wunst--in that house over there. How d'yer like livin' in Jones's
Alley?”

“I don't like it at all. I don't like having to bring my children up
where there are so many bad houses; but I can't afford to go somewhere
else and pay higher rent.”

“Well, there is a good many night-shops round here. But then,” he
added, reflectively, “you'll find them everywheres. An', besides, the
kids git sharp, an' pick up a good deal in an alley like this; 'twon't
do 'em no harm; it's no use kids bein' green if they wanter get on in a
city. You ain't been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?”

“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband
thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”'

“I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I'm thinking about gittin'
a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where's he goin' ter be buried?”

“At Rookwood, to-morrow.”

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