Testimonies: A Novel by Patrick O'Brian Page A

with sheep and horses, and he physicked them as carefully as children. And he would stay up all night with a cow to help her with the calf, and he would sit with a bitch although there was nothing he could do for her and although he knew that the next morning he would have twenty miles over the mountain with the sheep to the wintering. But he was no good with the sheep dogs: he had not the patience for them, to form them. In my home we had good dogs, and my father and Meurig worked them with hardly a sound, far up on the mountain, almost out of sight. Emyr you could hear shouting and whistling every minute: his dogs did not work well; they would bite the sheep, and often Emyr would get outside himself. Then he would beat the dogs. He did it much too hard.
    Then when the pig was to be killed, or even a chicken, he would be excited and talkative in the morning—I did not understand it at first—and he would do it. He did it very well and cleanly, but he said he did not like doing it, and I know he did like it.
    That was different from the old man, too. The old man loved the killing of the pig, but it was different. His face was honest and happy when the blood spouted: Emyr’s was not.
    But poor Emyr: he knew that there was something, and he worked against it. It was the same about when he was mean; he knew that he should give with a good heart, but there was this thing inside him, and even if he did beat it, the giving was no satisfaction to him—money, not things; he would give things. It was the same when he ought to say thank you. He could not bring himself to it, but you could see him working to try to bring it out. He would pay a kindness back, five times over perhaps, but he would not say thank you at the time.
    Q . Was it those things you quarreled about?
    A . No: not them.
    Q . Did you ever speak to him about them?
    A . Only one thing I told him about: I told him straight and plain that if he contradicted his father again with other men there he would do wrong. The other things I could not talk about, except to joke a little about him being near with the money.
    Q . What did you quarrel about, then?
    A . It was in two ways. At first it was before Gerallt was born. Emyr was a big, strong man: he had a great deal of blood, his mother said. It was winter, and there was not much work to do on the farm—rain and rain all day. I could not—we quarreled then.
    He was angry against me and against himself and everything in the world. That was how we quarreled first; but that was not the real thing.
    It was after Gerallt was born and I was well again. He had been queer and cross for a day or two, and it was the day of the sale at Llan when the man was gored in the market. He came home excited and queer, and that was the first time he was like that with me. Every other time it was when he had done something mean, or when he had been beating one of the dogs. He knew it was evil: he would not speak in the evening, and he would never look at me when he put out the light. He hurt me so.
    I hated him then. Hated and dreaded him. I cried and cried: I hated him. He would be so gentle and kind, and so ashamed and he would try to make it right with me; but I hated him.
    His mother never knew, of course. Of course she never knew; but she saw me hating him and afraid of him, and then she hated me too, for his sake, although she was so gentle.
    We never spoke of it, Emyr and I. We could not. Between times (and it was long between times) we might be friendly together—he would be loving. But I would see his face, and it would be no good.
    I behaved badly then. I could have helped Emyr perhaps; but I was afraid of him.
    There was something that made it worse. Gerallt slept in our room and the servant on the big landing. I could not cry out and it was quite dark—he drew the curtains tight together. He was terribly strong, I cried all day then sometimes, when I could get away into the hayloft. Once I escaped when I saw it in his face; I