Leaf By Niggle

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LEAF BY NIGGLE

J. R. R. TOLKIEN

THERE was once a little man called Niggle, who had a long journey to make. He did not want

to go, indeed the whole idea was distasteful to him; but he could not get out of it. He knew he

would have to start some time, but he did not hurry with his preparations.

Niggle was a painter. Not a very successful one, partly because he had many other things to

do. Most of these things he thought were a nuisance; but he did them fairly well, when he could not

get out of them: which (in his opinion) was far too often. The laws in his country were rather strict.

There were other hindrances, too. For one thing, he was sometimes just idle, and did nothing at all.

For another, he was kind-hearted, in a way. You know the sort of kind heart: it made him

uncomfortable more often than it made him do anything; and even when he did anything, it did not

prevent him from grumbling, losing his temper, and swearing (mostly to himself). All the same, it

did land him in a good many odd jobs for his neighbour, Mr. Parish, a man with a lame leg.

Occasionally he even helped other people from further off, if they came and asked him to. Also,

now and again, he remembered his journey, and began to pack a few things in an ineffectual way: at

such times he did not paint very much.

He had a number of pictures on hand; most of them were too large and ambitious for his skill.

He was the sort of painter who can paint leaves better than trees. He used to spend a long time on a

single leaf, trying to catch its shape, and its sheen, and the glistening of dewdrops on its edges. Yet

he wanted to paint a whole tree, with all of its leaves in the same style, and all of them different.

There was one picture in particular which bothered him. It had begun with a leaf caught in the

wind, and it became a tree; and the tree grew, sending out innumerable branches, and thrusting out

the most fantastic roots. Strange birds came and settled on the twigs and had to be attended to. Then

all round the Tree, and behind it, through the gaps in the leaves and boughs, a country began to

open out; and there were glimpses of a forest marching over the land, and of mountains tipped with

snow. Niggle lost interest in his other pictures; or else he took them and tacked them on to the edges

of his great picture. Soon the canvas became so large that he had to get a ladder; and he ran up and

down it, putting in a touch here, and rubbing out a patch there. When people came to call, he

seemed polite enough, though he fiddled a little with the pencils on his desk. He listened to what

they said, but underneath he was thinking all the time about his big canvas, in the tall shed that had

been built for it out in his garden (on a plot where once he had grown potatoes).

He could not get rid of his kind heart. "I wish I was more strong-minded!" he sometimes said

to himself, meaning that he wished other people's troubles did not make him feel uncomfortable.

But for a long time he was not seriously perturbed. "At any rate, I shall get this one picture done,

my real picture, before I have to go on that wretched journey," he used to say. Yet he was beginning

to see that he could not put off his start indefinitely. The picture would have to stop just growing

and get finished.

One day, Niggle stood a little way off from his picture and considered it with unusual

attention and detachment. He could not make up his mind what he thought about it, and wished he

had some friend who would tell him what to think. Actually it seemed to him wholly unsatisfactory,

and yet very lovely, the only really beautiful picture in the world. What he would have liked at that

moment would have been to see himself walk in, and slap him on the back, and say (with obvious

sincerity): "Absolutely magnificent! I see exactly what you are getting at. Do get on with it, and

don't bother about anything else! We will arrange for a public pension, so that you need not."

However, there was no public pension. And one thing he could see: it would need some

concentration, some work, hard uninterrupted work, to finish the picture, even at its present size. He

rolled up his sleeves, and began to concentrate. He tried for several days not to bother about other

things. But there came a tremendous crop of interruptions. Things went wrong in his house; he had

to go and serve on a jury in the town; a distant friend fell ill; Mr. Parish was laid up with lumbago;

and visitors kept on coming. It was springtime, and they wanted a free tea in the country: Niggle

lived in a pleasant little house, miles away from the town. He cursed them in his heart, but he could

not deny that he had invited them himself, away back in the winter, when he had not thought it an

"interruption" to visit the shops and have tea with acquaintances in the town. He tried to harden his

heart; but it was not a success. There were many things that he had not the face to say no to,

whether he thought them duties or not; and there were some things he was compelled to do,

whatever he thought. Some of his visitors hinted that his garden was rather neglected, and that he

might get a visit from an Inspector. Very few of them knew about his picture, of course; but if they

had known, it would not have made much difference. I doubt if they would have thought that it

mattered much. I dare say it was not really a very good picture, though it may have had some good

passages. The Tree, at any rate, was curious. Quite unique in its way. So was Niggle; though he was

also a very ordinary and rather silly little man.

At length Niggle's time became really precious. His acquaintances in the distant town began to

remember that the little man had got to make a troublesome journey, and some began to calculate

how long at the latest he could put off starting. They wondered who would take his house, and if the

garden would be better kept.

The autumn came, very wet and windy. The little painter was in his shed. He was up on the

ladder, trying to catch the gleam of the westering sun on the peak of a snow-mountain, which he

had glimpsed just to the left of the leafy tip of one of the Tree's branches. He knew that he would

have to be leaving soon: perhaps early next year. He could only just get the picture finished, and

only so so, at that: there were some comers where he would not have time now to do more than hint

at what he wanted.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" he said sharply, and climbed down the ladder. He

stood on the floor twiddling his brush. It was his neighbour, Parish: his only real neighbour, all

other folk lived a long way off. Still, he did not like the man very much: partly because he was so

often in trouble and in need of help; and also because he did not care about painting, but was very

critical about gardening. When Parish looked at Niggle's garden (which was often) he saw mostly

weeds; and when he looked at Niggle's pictures (which was seldom) he saw only green and grey

patches and black lines, which seemed to him nonsensical. He did not mind mentioning the weeds

(a neighbourly duty), but he refrained from giving any opinion of the pictures. He thought this was

very kind, and he did not realize that, even if it was kind, it was not kind enough. Help with the

weeds (and perhaps praise for the pictures) would have been better.

"Well, Parish, what is it?" said Niggle.

"I oughtn't to interrupt you, I know," said Parish (without a glance at the picture). "You are

very busy, I'm sure."

Niggle had meant to say something like that himself, but he had missed his chance. All he said

was: "Yes."

"But I have no one else to turn to," said Parish.

"Quite so," said Niggle with a sigh: one of those sighs that are a private comment, but which

are not made quite inaudible. "What can I do for you?"

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