Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  And the book of their childhood is torn,

  Is blotted, and crumpled, and torn!

  Supper at the Pension dissipated effectively the odd sense of enchantment to which he had fallen a victim, but it revived again with a sudden rush when Jimbo and his sister came up at half-past eight to say good-night. It began when the little fellow climbed up to plant a resounding kiss upon his lips, and it caught him fullest when Monkey’s arms were round his neck, and he heard her whisper in his ear —

  ‘Sleep as tightly as you can, remember, and don’t resist. We’ll come later to find you.’ Her brown eyes were straight in front of his own. Goodness, how they shone! Old Sirius and Aldebaran had certainly left a ray in each.

  ‘Hope you don’t get any longer when you’re asleep!’ she added, giving him a sly dig in the ribs — then was gone before he could return it, or ask her what she meant by ‘we’ll find you later.’

  ‘And don’t say a word to Mother,’ was the last thing he heard as she vanished down the stairs.

  Slightly confused, he glanced down at the aged pumps he happened to have on, and noticed that one bow was all awry and loose. He stooped to fidget with it, and Mother caught him in the act.

  ‘I’ll stitch it on for you,’ she said at once. ‘It won’t take a minute. One of the children can fetch it in the morning.’

  But he was ashamed to add to her endless sewing. Like some female Sisyphus, she seemed always pushing an enormous needle through a mountain of clothes that grew higher each time she reached the top.

  ‘I always wear it like that,’ he assured her gravely, his thoughts still busy with two other phrases—’ find you’ and ‘sleep tightly.’ What in the world could they mean? Did the children really intend to visit him at night? They seemed so earnest about it. Of course it was all nonsense. And yet —— !

  ‘You mustn’t let them bother you too much,’ he heard their mother saying, her voice sounding a long way off. ‘They’re so wildly happy to have some one to play with.’

  ‘That’s how I like them,’ he answered vaguely, referring half to the pumps and half to the children. ‘They’re no trouble at all, believe me.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve spoilt them rather — —’

  ‘But — not at all,’ he murmured, still confused. ‘They’re only a little loose — er — lively, I mean. That’s how they should be.’

  And outside all heard their laughing voices dying down the street as they raced along to the Citadelle for bed. It was Monkey’s duty to see her brother safely in. Ten minutes later Mother would follow to tell them tuck-up stories and hear their prayers.

  ‘Excuse me! Have you got a hot-water bottle?’ asked a sudden jerky voice, and he turned with a start to see Jane Anne towering beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he answered, ‘but I don’t carry such things about with me.’ He imagined she was joking, then saw that it was very serious.

  She looked puzzled a moment. ‘I meant — would you like one? Everybody uses them here.’ She thought all grown-ups used hot-water bottles.

  He hesitated a second. The child looked as though she would produce one from her blouse like any conjurer. As yet, however, the article in question had not entered his scheme of life. He declined it with many thanks.

  ‘I can get you a big one,’ she urged. But even that did not tempt him.

  ‘Will you have a cold-water bandage then — for your head — or anything?’

  She seemed so afflicted with a desire to do something for him that he almost said ‘Yes’; only the fear that she might offer next a beehive or a gramophone restrained him.

  ‘Thank you so much, but really I can manage without it — to-night.’

  Jane Anne made no attempt to conceal her disappointment. What a man he was, to be sure! And what a funny place the world was!

  ‘It’s Jinny’s panacea,’ said Mother, helping herself with reckless uncertainty to a long word. ‘She’s never happy unless she’s doing for somebody,’ she added ambiguously. ‘It’s her metier in life.’

  ‘Mother, what are you saying?’ said the child’s expression. Then she made one last attempt. She remembered, perhaps, the admiring way he had watched her brother and sister’s antics in the Den before. She was not clever on her feet, but at least she could try.

  ‘Shall I turn head over heels for you, then?’

  He caught her mother’s grave expression just in time to keep his laughter back. The offer of gymnastics clearly involved sacrifice somewhere.

  ‘To-morrow,’ he answered quickly. ‘Always put off till to-morrow what you’re too old to do to-day.’

  ‘Of course; I see — yes.’ She was more perplexed than ever, as he meant that she should be. His words were meaningless, but they helped the poignant situation neatly. She could not understand why all her offers were refused like this. There must be something wrong with her selection, perhaps. She would think of better ones in future. But, oh, what a funny place the world was!

  ‘Good-night, then, Mr. — Cousin Rogers,’ she said jerkily with resignation. ‘Perhaps to-morrow — when I’m older — —’

  ‘If it comes.’ He gravely shook the hand she held out primly, keeping a certain distance from him lest he should attempt to kiss her.

  ‘It always comes; it’s a chronic monster,’ she laughed, saying the first thing that came into her queer head. They all laughed. Jane Anne went out, feeling happier. At least, she had amused him. She marched off with the air of a grenadier going to some stern and difficult duty. From the door she flung back at him a look of speechless admiration, then broke into a run, afraid she might have been immodest or too forward. They heard her thumping overhead.

  And presently he followed her example. The Pension sitting-room emptied. Unless there was something special on hand — a dance, a romp, a game, or some neighbours who dropped in for talk and music — it was rarely occupied after nine o’clock. Daddy had already slipped home — he had this mysterious way of disappearing when no one saw him go. At this moment, doubtless, a wumbled book absorbed him over at the carpenter’s. Old Miss Waghorn sat in a corner nodding over her novel, and the Pension cat, Borelle, was curled up in her sloping, inadequate lap.

  The big, worn velvet sofa in the opposite corner was also empty. On romping nights it was the train de Moscou, where Jimbo sold tickets to crowded passengers for any part of the world. To-night it was a mere dead sofa, uninviting, dull.

  He went across the darkened room, his head scraping acquaintance with the ivy leaves that trailed across the ceiling. He slipped through the little hall. In the kitchen he heard the shrill voice of Mme. Jequier talking very loudly about a dozen things at once to the servant-girl, or to any one else who was near enough to listen. Luckily she did not see him. Otherwise he would never have escaped without another offer of a hot-water bottle, a pot of home-made marmalade, or a rug and pillow for his bed. He made his way downstairs into the street unnoticed; but just as he reached the bottom his thundering tread betrayed him. The door flew open at the top.

  ‘Bon soir, bonne nuit,’ screamed the voice; ‘wait a moment and I’ll get the lamp. You’ll break your neck. Is there anything you want — a hot-water bottle, or a box of matches, or some of my marmalade for your breakfast? Wait, and I’ll get it in a moment — —’ She would have given the blouse off her back had he needed, or could have used it.

  She flew back to the kitchen to search and shout. It sounded like a quarrel; but, pretending not to hear, he made good his escape and passed out into the street. The heavy door of the Post Office banged behind him, cutting short a stream of excited sentences. The peace and quiet of the night closed instantly about his steps.

  By the fountain opposite the Citadelle he paused to drink from the pipe of gushing mountain water. The open courtyard looked inviting, but he did not go in, for, truth to tell, there was a curious excitement in him — an urgent, keen desire to get to sleep as soon as possible. Not that he felt sleepy — quite the reverse in fact, but that he looked
forward to his bed and to ‘sleeping tightly.’

  The village was already lost in slumber. No lights showed in any houses. Yet it was barely half-past nine. Everywhere was peace and stillness. Far across the lake he saw the twinkling villages. Behind him dreamed the forests. A deep calm brooded over the mountains; but within the calm, and just below the surface in himself, hid the excitement as of some lively anticipation. He expected something. Something was going to happen. And it was connected with the children. Jimbo and Monkey were at the bottom of it. They had said they would come for him — to ‘find him later.’ He wondered — quite absurdly he wondered.

  He passed his cousin’s room on tiptoe, and noticed a light beneath the door. But, before getting into bed, he stood a moment at the open window and drew in deep draughts of the fresh night air. The world of forest swayed across his sight. The outline of the Citadelle merged into it. A point of light showed the window where the children already slept. But, far beyond, the moon was loading stars upon the trees, and a rising wind drove them in glittering flocks along the heights….

  Blowing out the candle, he turned over on his side to sleep, his mind charged to the brim with wonder and curious under-thrills of this anticipation. He half expected — what? Reality lay somewhere in the whole strange business; it was not merely imaginative nonsense. Fairyland was close.

  And the moment he slept and began to dream, the thing took a lively and dramatic shape. A thousand tiny fingers, soft and invisible, drew him away into the heart of fairyland. There was a terror in him lest he should — stick. But he came out beautifully and smoothly, like a thread of summer grass from its covering sheath.

  ‘I am slippery after all, then — slippery enough,’ he remembered saying with surprised delight, and then ——

  CHAPTER XV

  Look how the floor of heaven

  Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.

  There’s not the smallest orb which thou beholdest

  But in his motion like an angel sings,

  Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims.

  Merchant of Venice.

  —— there came to him a vivid impression of sudden light in the room, and he knew that something very familiar was happening to him, yet something that had not happened consciously for thirty years and more — since his early childhood in the night-nursery with the bars across the windows.

  He was both asleep and awake at the same time. Some part of him, rather, that never slept was disengaging itself — with difficulty. He was getting free. Stimulated by his intercourse with the children, this part of him that in boyhood used to be so easily detached, light as air, was getting loose. The years had fastened it in very tightly. Jimbo and Monkey had got at it. And Jimbo and Monkey were in the room at this moment. They were pulling him out.

  It was very wonderful; a glory of youth and careless joy rushed through him like a river. Some sheath or vesture melted off. It seemed to tear him loose. How in the world could he ever have forgotten it — let it go out of his life? What on earth could have seemed good enough to take its place? He felt like an eagle some wizard spell had imprisoned in a stone, now released and shaking out its crumpled wings. A mightier spell had set him free. The children stood beside his bed!

  ‘I can manage it alone,’ he said firmly. ‘You needn’t try to help me.’

  No sound was audible, but they instantly desisted. This thought, that took a dozen words to express ordinarily, shot from him into them the instant it was born. A gentle pulsing, like the flicker of a flame, ran over their shining little forms of radiance as they received it. They shifted to one side silently to give him room. Thus had he seen a searchlight pass like lightning from point to point across the sea.

  Yet, at first, there was difficulty; here and there, in places, he could not get quite loose and free.

  ‘He sticks like Daddy,’ he heard them think. ‘In the head it seems, too.’

  There was no pain in the sensation, but a certain straining as of unaccustomed muscles being stretched. He felt uncomfortable, then embarrassed, then — exhilarated. But there were other exquisite sensations too. Happiness, as of flooding summer sunshine, poured through him.

  ‘He’ll come with a rush. Look out!’ felt Jimbo— ‘felt’ expressing ‘thought’ and ‘said’ together, for no single word can convey the double operation thus combined in ordinary life.

  The reality of it caught him by the throat.

  ‘This,’ he exclaimed, ‘is real and actual. It is happening to me now!’

  He looked from the pile of clothes taken off two hours ago — goodness, what a mass! — to the children’s figures in the middle of the room. And one was as real as the other. The moods of the day and evening, their play and nonsense, had all passed away. He had crossed a gulf that stood between this moment and those good-nights in the Pension. This was as real as anything in life; more real than death. Reality — he caught the obvious thought pass thickly through the body on the bed — is what has been experienced. Death, for that reason, is not real, not realised; dinner is. And this was real because he had been through it, though long forgotten it. Jimbo stood aside and ‘felt’ directions.

  ‘Don’t push,’ he said.

  ‘Just think and wish,’ added Monkey with a laugh.

  It was her laugh, and perhaps the beauty of her big brown eyes as well, that got him finally loose. For the laughter urged some queer, deep yearning in him towards a rush of exquisite accomplishment. He began to slip more easily and freely. The brain upon the bed, oddly enough, remembered a tradition of old Egypt — that Thoth created the world by bursting into seven peals of laughter. It touched forgotten springs of imagination and belief. In some tenuous, racy vehicle his thought flashed forth. With a gliding spring, like a swooping bird across a valley, he was suddenly — out.

  ‘I’m out!’ he cried.

  ‘All out!’ echoed the answering voices.

  And then he understood that first vivid impression of light. It was everywhere, an evenly distributed light. He saw the darkness of the night as well, the deep old shadows that draped the village, woods, and mountains. But in themselves was light, a light that somehow enabled them to see everything quite clearly. Solid things were all transparent.

  Light even radiated from objects in the room. Two much-loved books upon the table shone beautifully — his Bible and a volume of poems; and, fairer still, more delicate than either, there was a lustre on the table that had so brilliant a halo it almost corruscated. The sparkle in it was like the sparkle in the children’s eyes. It came from the bunch of violets, gentians, and hepaticas, already faded, that Mother had placed there days ago on his arrival. And overhead, through plaster, tiles, and rafters he saw — the stars.

  ‘We’ve already been for Jinny,’ Jimbo informed him; ‘but she’s gone as usual. She goes the moment she falls asleep. We never can catch her up or find her.’

  ‘Come on,’ cried Monkey. ‘How slow you both are! We shan’t get anywhere at this rate.’ And she made a wheel of coloured fire in the air. ‘I’m ready,’ he answered, happier than either. ‘Let’s be off at once.’

  Through his mind flashed this explanation of their elder sister’s day- expression — that expression of a moth she had, puzzled, distressed, only half there, as the saying is. For if she went out so easily at night in this way, some part of her probably stayed out altogether. She never wholly came back. She was always dreaming. The entire instinct of the child, he remembered, was for others, and she thought of herself as little as did the sun — old tireless star that shines for all.

  ‘She’s soaked in starlight,’ he cried, as they went off headlong. ‘We shall find her in the Cave. Come on, you pair of lazy meteors.’

  He was already far beyond the village, and the murmur of the woods rose up to them. They entered the meshes of the Star Net that spun its golden threads everywhere about them, linking up the Universe with their very hearts.

  ‘There are no eyes or puddles to-night. Everybo
dy sleeps. Hooray, hooray!’ they cried together.

  There were cross-currents, though. The main, broad, shining stream poured downwards in front of them towards the opening of the Cave, a mile or two beyond, where the forests dipped down among the precipices of the Areuse; but from behind — from some house in the slumbering village — came a golden tributary too, that had a peculiar and astonishing brightness of its own. It came, so far as they could make out, from the humped outline of La Citadelle, and from a particular room there, as though some one in that building had a special source of supply. Moreover, it scattered itself over the village in separate swift rivulets that dived and dipped towards particular houses here and there. There seemed a constant coming and going, one stream driving straight into the Cave, and another pouring out again, yet neither mingling. One stream brought supplies, while the other directed their distribution. Some one, asleep or awake — they could not tell — was thinking golden thoughts of love and sympathy for the world.

  ‘It’s Mlle. Lemaire,’ said Jimbo. ‘She’s been in bed for thirty years—’ His voice was very soft.

  ‘The Spine, you know,’ exclaimed Monkey, a little in the rear.

  ‘ —— and even in the daytime she looks white and shiny,’ added the boy. ‘I often go and talk with her and tell her things.’ He said it proudly. ‘She understands everything — better even than Mother.’ Jimbo had told most. It was all right. His leadership was maintained and justified. They entered the main stream and plunged downwards with it towards the earth — three flitting figures dipped in this store of golden brilliance.

  A delicious and wonderful thing then happened. All three remembered.

  ‘This was where we met you first,’ they told him, settling down among the trees together side by side. ‘We saw your teeth of gold. You came in that train — —’

  ‘I was thinking about it — in England,’ he exclaimed, ‘and about coming out to find you here.’

  ‘The Starlight Express,’ put in Jimbo.