_The Glamour of the Snow_
I
Hibbert, always conscious of two worlds, was in this mountain villageconscious of three. It lay on the slopes of the Valais Alps, and he hadtaken a room in the little post office, where he could be at peace towrite his book, yet at the same time enjoy the winter sports and findcompanionship in the hotels when he wanted it.
The three worlds that met and mingled here seemed to his imaginativetemperament very obvious, though it is doubtful if another mind lessintuitively equipped would have seen them so well-defined. There wasthe world of tourist English, civilised, quasi-educated, to which hebelonged by birth, at any rate; there was the world of peasants to whichhe felt himself drawn by sympathy--for he loved and admired theirtoiling, simple life; and there was this other--which he could only callthe world of Nature. To this last, however, in virtue of a vehementpoetic imagination, and a tumultuous pagan instinct fed by his veryblood, he felt that most of him belonged. The others borrowed from it,as it were, for visits. Here, with the soul of Nature, hid his centrallife.
Between all three was conflict--potential conflict. On the skating-rinkeach Sunday the tourists regarded the natives as intruders; in thechurch the peasants plainly questioned: "Why do you come? We are hereto worship; you to stare and whisper!" For neither of these two worldsaccepted the other. And neither did Nature accept the tourists, for ittook advantage of their least mistakes, and indeed, even of thepeasant-world "accepted" only those who were strong and bold enough toinvade her savage domain with sufficient skill to protect themselvesfrom several forms of--death.
Now Hibbert was keenly aware of this potential conflict and want ofharmony; he felt outside, yet caught by it--torn in the three directionsbecause he was partly of each world, but wholly in only one. Theregrew in him a constant, subtle effort--or, at least, desire--to unifythem and decide positively to which he should belong and live in.The attempt, of course, was largely subconscious. It was the naturalinstinct of a richly imaginative nature seeking the point ofequilibrium, so that the mind could feel at peace and his brain be freeto do good work.
Among the guests no one especially claimed his interest. The men werenice but undistinguished--athletic schoolmasters, doctors snatching aholiday, good fellows all; the women, equally various--the clever, thewould-be-fast, the dare-to-be-dull, the women "who understood," and theusual pack of jolly dancing girls and "flappers." And Hibbert, with hisforty odd years of thick experience behind him, got on well with thelot; he understood them all; they belonged to definite, predigestedtypes that are the same the world over, and that he had met the worldover long ago.
But to none of them did he belong. His nature was too "multiple" tosubscribe to the set of shibboleths of any one class. And, since allliked him, and felt that somehow he seemed outside of them--spectator,looker-on--all sought to claim him.
In a sense, therefore, the three worlds fought for him: natives,tourists, Nature....
It was thus began the singular conflict for the soul of Hibbert. _In_his own soul, however, it took place. Neither the peasants nor thetourists were conscious that they fought for anything. And Nature, theysay, is merely blind and automatic.
The assault upon him of the peasants may be left out of account, for itis obvious that they stood no chance of success. The tourist world,however, made a gallant effort to subdue him to themselves. But theevenings in the hotel, when dancing was not in order, were--English. Theprovincial imagination was set upon a throne and worshipped heavilythrough incense of the stupidest conventions possible. Hibbert used togo back early to his room in the post office to work.
"It is a mistake on my part to have _realised_ that there is anyconflict at all," he thought, as he crunched home over the snow atmidnight after one of the dances. "It would have been better to havekept outside it all and done my work. Better," he added, looking backdown the silent village street to the church tower, "and--safer."
The adjective slipped from his mind before he was aware of it. Heturned with an involuntary start and looked about him. He knew perfectlywell what it meant--this thought that had thrust its head up from theinstinctive region. He understood, without being able to express itfully, the meaning that betrayed itself in the choice of the adjective.For if he had ignored the existence of this conflict he would at thesame time, have remained outside the arena. Whereas now he had enteredthe lists. Now this battle for his soul must have issue. And he knewthat the spell of Nature was greater for him than all other spells inthe world combined--greater than love, revelry, pleasure, greater eventhan study. He had always been afraid to let himself go. His pagan souldreaded her terrific powers of witchery even while he worshipped.
The little village already slept. The world lay smothered in snow. Thechalet roofs shone white beneath the moon, and pitch-black shadowsgathered against the walls of the church. His eye rested a moment on thesquare stone tower with its frosted cross that pointed to the sky: thentravelled with a leap of many thousand feet to the enormous mountainsthat brushed the brilliant stars. Like a forest rose the huge peaksabove the slumbering village, measuring the night and heavens. Theybeckoned him. And something born of the snowy desolation, born of themidnight and the silent grandeur, born of the great listening hollows ofthe night, something that lay 'twixt terror and wonder, dropped from thevast wintry spaces down into his heart--and called him. Very softly,unrecorded in any word or thought his brain could compass, it laid itsspell upon him. Fingers of snow brushed the surface of his heart. Thepower and quiet majesty of the winter's night appalled him....
Fumbling a moment with the big unwieldy key, he let himself in and wentupstairs to bed. Two thoughts went with him--apparently quite ordinaryand sensible ones:
"What fools these peasants are to sleep through such a night!" And theother:
"Those dances tire me. I'll never go again. My work only suffers in themorning." The claims of peasants and tourists upon him seemed thus in asingle instant weakened.
The clash of battle troubled half his dreams. Nature had sent her Beautyof the Night and won the first assault. The others, routed and dismayed,fled far away.
Four Weird Tales Page 10
