“Know me?”
“Made them, yes,"—he paused a moment, then added,—"made them aware of your presence; aware of a force outside themselves that deliberately seeks their welfare, don’t you see?”
“By Jove, Sanderson—!” This put into plain language actual sensations he had felt, yet had never dared to phrase in words before. “They get into touch with me, as it were?” he ventured, laughing at his own sentence, yet laughing only with his lips.
“Exactly,” was the quick, emphatic reply. “They seek to blend with something they feel instinctively to be good for them, helpful to their essential beings, encouraging to their best expression—their life.”
“Good Lord, Sir!” Bittacy heard himself saying, “but you’re putting my own thoughts into words. D’you know, I’ve felt something like that for years. As though—” he looked round to make sure his wife was not there, then finished the sentence—"as though the trees were after me!”
“‘Amalgamate’ seems the best word, perhaps,” said Sanderson slowly. “They would draw you to themselves. Good forces, you see, always seek to merge; evil to separate; that’s why Good in the end must always win the day—everywhere. The accumulation in the long run becomes overwhelming. Evil tends to separation, dissolution, death. The comradeship of trees, their instinct to run together, is a vital symbol. Trees in a mass are good; alone, you may take it generally, are—well, dangerous. Look at a monkey-puzzler, or better still, a holly. Look at it, watch it, understand it. Did you ever see more plainly an evil thought made visible? They’re wicked. Beautiful too, oh yes! There’s a strange, miscalculated beauty often in evil—”
“That cedar, then—?”
“Not evil, no; but alien, rather. Cedars grow in forests all together.
The poor thing has drifted, that is all.”
They were getting rather deep. Sanderson, talking against time, spoke so fast. It was too condensed. Bittacy hardly followed that last bit. His mind floundered among his own less definite, less sorted thoughts, till presently another sentence from the artist startled him into attention again.
“That cedar will protect you here, though, because you both have humanized it by your thinking so lovingly of its presence. The others can’t get past it, as it were.”
“Protect me!” he exclaimed. “Protect me from their love?”
Sanderson laughed. “We’re getting rather mixed,” he said; “we’re talking of one thing in the terms of another really. But what I mean is—you see—that their love for you, their ‘awareness’ of your personality and presence involves the idea of winning you—across the border—into themselves—into their world of living. It means, in a way, taking you over.”
The ideas the artist started in his mind ran furious wild races to and fro. It was like a maze sprung suddenly into movement. The whirling of the intricate lines bewildered him. They went so fast, leaving but half an explanation of their goal. He followed first one, then another, but a new one always dashed across to intercept before he could get anywhere.
“But India,” he said, presently in a lower voice, “India is so far away—from this little English forest. The trees, too, are utterly different for one thing?”
The rustle of skirts warned of Mrs. Bittacy’s approach. This was a sentence he could turn round another way in case she came up and pressed for explanation.
“There is communion among trees all the world over,” was the strange quick reply. “They always know.”
“They always know! You think then—?”
“The winds, you see—the great, swift carriers! They have their ancient rights of way about the world. An easterly wind, for instance, carrying on stage by stage as it were—linking dropped messages and meanings from land to land like the birds—an easterly wind—”
Mrs. Bittacy swept in upon them with the tumbler—
“There, David,” she said, “that will ward off any beginnings of attack. Just a spoonful, dear. Oh, oh! not all !” for he had swallowed half the contents at a single gulp as usual; “another dose before you go to bed, and the balance in the morning, first thing when you wake.”
She turned to her guest, who put the tumbler down for her upon a table at his elbow. She had heard them speak of the east wind. She emphasized the warning she had misinterpreted. The private part of the conversation came to an abrupt end.
“It is the one thing that upsets him more than any other—an east wind,” she said, “and I am glad, Mr. Sanderson, to hear you think so too.”
III
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A DEEP HUSH FOLLOWED, IN the middle of which an owl was heard calling its muffled note in the forest. A big moth whirred with a soft collision against one of the windows. Mrs. Bittacy started slightly, but no one spoke. Above the trees the stars were faintly visible. From the distance came the barking of a dog.
Bittacy, relighting his cigar, broke the little spell of silence that had caught all three.
“It’s rather a comforting thought,” he said, throwing the match out of the window, “that life is about us everywhere, and that there is really no dividing line between what we call organic and inorganic.”
“The universe, yes,” said Sanderson, “is all one, really. We’re puzzled by the gaps we cannot see across, but as a fact, I suppose, there are no gaps at all.”
Mrs. Bittacy rustled ominously, holding her peace meanwhile. She feared long words she did not understand. Beelzebub lay hid among too many syllables.
“In trees and plants especially, there dreams an exquisite life that no one yet has proved unconscious.”
“Or conscious either, Mr. Sanderson,” she neatly interjected. “It’s only man that was made after His image, not shrubberies and things….”
Her husband interposed without delay.
“It is not necessary,” he explained suavely, “to say that they’re alive in the sense that we are alive. At the same time,” with an eye to his wife, “I see no harm in holding, dear, that all created things contain some measure of His life Who made them. It’s only beautiful to hold that He created nothing dead. We are not pantheists for all that!” he added soothingly.
“Oh, no! Not that, I hope!” The word alarmed her. It was worse than pope. Through her puzzled mind stole a stealthy, dangerous thing … like a panther.
“I like to think that even in decay there’s life,” the painter murmured. “The falling apart of rotten wood breeds sentiency, there’s force and motion in the falling of a dying leaf, in the breaking up and crumbling of everything indeed. And take an inert stone: it’s crammed with heat and weight and potencies of all sorts. What holds its particles together indeed? We understand it as little as gravity or why a needle always turns to the ‘North.’ Both things may be a mode of life….”
“You think a compass has a soul, Mr. Sanderson?” exclaimed the lady with a crackling of her silk flounces that conveyed a sense of outrage even more plainly than her tone. The artist smiled to himself in the darkness, but it was Bittacy who hastened to reply.
“Our friend merely suggests that these mysterious agencies,” he said quietly, “may be due to some kind of life we cannot understand. Why should water only run downhill? Why should trees grow at right angles to the surface of the ground and towards the sun? Why should the worlds spin for ever on their axes? Why should fire change the form of everything it touches without really destroying them? To say these things follow the law of their being explains nothing. Mr. Sanderson merely suggests—poetically, my dear, of course—that these may be manifestations of life, though life at a different stage to ours.”
“The ‘ breath of life,’ we read, ‘He breathed into them. These things do not breathe.” She said it with triumph.
Then Sanderson put in a word. But he spoke rather to himself or to his host than by way of serious rejoinder to the ruffled lady.
“But plants do breathe too, you know,” he said. “They breathe, they eat, they digest, they move about, and they adapt themselves to the
ir environment as men and animals do. They have a nervous system too… at least a complex system of nuclei which have some of the qualities of nerve cells. They may have memory too. Certainly, they know definite action in response to stimulus. And though this may be physiological, no one has proved that it is only that, and not—psychological.”
He did not notice, apparently, the little gasp that was audible behind the yellow shawl. Bittacy cleared his throat, threw his extinguished cigar upon the lawn, crossed and recrossed his legs.
“And in trees,” continued the other, “behind a great forest, for instance,” pointing towards the woods, “may stand a rather splendid Entity that manifests through all the thousand individual trees—some huge collective life, quite as minutely and delicately organized as our own. It might merge and blend with ours under certain conditions, so that we could understand it by being it, for a time at least. It might even engulf human vitality into the immense whirlpool of its own vast dreaming life. The pull of a big forest on a man can be tremendous and utterly overwhelming.”
The mouth of Mrs. Bittacy was heard to close with a snap. Her shawl, and particularly her crackling dress, exhaled the protest that burned within her like a pain. She was too distressed to be overawed, but at the same time too confused ‘mid the litter of words and meanings half understood, to find immediate phrases she could use. Whatever the actual meaning of his language might be, however, and whatever subtle dangers lay concealed behind them meanwhile, they certainly wove a kind of gentle spell with the glimmering darkness that held all three delicately enmeshed there by that open window. The odors of dewy lawn, flowers, trees, and earth formed part of it.
“The moods,” he continued, “that people waken in us are due to their hidden life affecting our own. Deep calls to sleep. A person, for instance, joins you in an empty room: you both instantly change. The new arrival, though in silence, has caused a change of mood. May not the moods of Nature touch and stir us in virtue of a similar prerogative? The sea, the hills, the desert, wake passion, joy, terror, as the case may be; for a few, perhaps,” he glanced significantly at his host so that Mrs. Bittacy again caught the turning of his eyes, “emotions of a curious, flaming splendor that are quite nameless. Well … whence come these powers? Surely from nothing that is … dead! Does not the influence of a forest, its sway and strange ascendancy over certain minds, betray a direct manifestation of life? It lies otherwise beyond all explanation, this mysterious emanation of big woods. Some natures, of course, deliberately invite it. The authority of a host of trees,"—his voice grew almost solemn as he said the words—"is something not to be denied. One feels it here, I think, particularly.”
There was considerable tension in the air as he ceased speaking. Mr. Bittacy had not intended that the talk should go so far. They had drifted. He did not wish to see his wife unhappy or afraid, and he was aware—acutely so—that her feelings were stirred to a point he did not care about. Something in her, as he put it, was “working up” towards explosion.
He sought to generalize the conversation, diluting this accumulated emotion by spreading it.
“The sea is His and He made it,” he suggested vaguely, hoping Sanderson would take the hint, “and with the trees it is the same….”
“The whole gigantic vegetable kingdom, yes,” the artist took him up, “all at the service of man, for food, for shelter and for a thousand purposes of his daily life. Is it not striking what a lot of the globe they cover … exquisitely organized life, yet stationary, always ready to our had when we want them, never running away? But the taking them, for all that, not so easy. One man shrinks from picking flowers, another from cutting down trees. And, it’s curious that most of the forest tales and legends are dark, mysterious, and somewhat ill-omened. The forest-beings are rarely gay and harmless. The forest life was felt as terrible. Tree-worship still survives to-day. Wood-cutters… those who take the life of trees… you see a race of haunted men….”
He stopped abruptly, a singular catch in his voice. Bittacy felt something even before the sentences were over. His wife, he knew, felt it still more strongly. For it was in the middle of the heavy silence following upon these last remarks, that Mrs. Bittacy, rising with a violent abruptness from her chair, drew the attention of the others to something moving towards them across the lawn. It came silently. In outline it was large and curiously spread. It rose high, too, for the sky above the shrubberies, still pale gold from the sunset, was dimmed by its passage. She declared afterwards that it move in “looping circles,” but what she perhaps meant to convey was “spirals.”
She screamed faintly. “It’s come at last! And it’s you that brought it!”
She turned excitedly, half afraid, half angry, to Sanderson. With a breathless sort of gasp she said it, politeness all forgotten. “I knew it … if you went on. I knew it. Oh! Oh!” And she cried again, “Your talking has brought it out!” The terror that shook her voice was rather dreadful.
But the confusion of her vehement words passed unnoticed in the first surprise they caused. For a moment nothing happened.
“What is it you think you see, my dear?” asked her husband, startled. Sanderson said nothing. All three leaned forward, the men still sitting, but Mrs. Bittacy had rushed hurriedly to the window, placing herself of a purpose, as it seemed, between her husband and the lawn. She pointed. Her little hand made a silhouette against the sky, the yellow shawl hanging from the arm like a cloud.
“Beyond the cedar—between it and the lilacs.” The voice had lost its shrillness; it was thin and hushed. “There … now you see it going round upon itself again—going back, thank God!… going back to the Forest.” It sank to a whisper, shaking. She repeated, with a great dropping sigh of relief—"Thank God! I thought … at first … it was coming here … to us!… David … to you !”
She stepped back from the window, her movements confused, feeling in the darkness for the support of a chair, and finding her husband’s outstretched hand instead. “Hold me, dear, hold me, please … tight. Do not let me go.” She was in what he called afterwards “a regular state.” He drew her firmly down upon her chair again.
“Smoke, Sophie, my dear,” he said quickly, trying to make his voice calm and natural. “I see it, yes. It’s smoke blowing over from the gardener’s cottage….”
“But, David,"—and there was a new horror in her whisper now—"it made a noise. It makes it still. I hear it swishing.” Some such word she used—swishing, sishing, rushing, or something of the kind. “David, I’m very frightened. It’s something awful! That man has called it out…!”
“Hush, hush,” whispered her husband. He stroked her trembling hand beside him.
“It is in the wind,” said Sanderson, speaking for the first time, very quietly. The expression on his face was not visible in the gloom, but his voice was soft and unafraid. At the sound of it, Mrs. Bittacy started violently again. Bittacy drew his chair a little forward to obstruct her view of him. He felt bewildered himself, a little, hardly knowing quite what to say or do. It was all so very curious and sudden.
But Mrs. Bittacy was badly frightened. It seemed to her that what she saw came from the enveloping forest just beyond their little garden. It emerged in a sort of secret way, moving towards them as with a purpose, stealthily, difficultly. Then something stopped it. It could not advance beyond the cedar. The cedar—this impression remained with her afterwards too—prevented, kept it back. Like a rising sea the Forest had surged a moment in their direction through the covering darkness, and this visible movement was its first wave. Thus to her mind it seemed… like that mysterious turn of the tide that used to frighten and mystify her in childhood on the sands. The outward surge of some enormous Power was what she felt… something to which every instinct in her being rose in opposition because it threatened her and hers. In that moment she realized the Personality of the Forest… menacing.
In the stumbling movement that she made away from the window and towards the bell she barely caught
the sentence Sanderson—or was it her husband?—murmured to himself: “It came because we talked of it; our thinking made it aware of us and brought it out. But the cedar stops it. It cannot cross the lawn, you see….”
All three were standing now, and her husband’s voice broke in with authority while his wife’s fingers touched the bell.
“My dear, I should not say anything to Thompson.” The anxiety he felt was manifest in his voice, but his outward composure had returned. “The gardener can go….”
Then Sanderson cut him short. “Allow me,” he said quickly. “I’ll see if anything’s wrong.” And before either of them could answer or object, he was gone, leaping out by the open window. They saw his figure vanish with a run across the lawn into the darkness.
A moment later the maid entered, in answer to the bell, and with her came the loud barking of the terrier from the hall.
“The lamps,” said her master shortly, and as she softly closed the door behind her, they heard the wind pass with a mournful sound of singing round the outer walls. A rustle of foliage from the distance passed within it.
“You see, the wind is rising. It was the wind!” He put a comforting arm about her, distressed to feel that she was trembling. But he knew that he was trembling too, though with a kind of odd elation rather than alarm. “And it was smoke that you saw coming from Stride’s cottage, or from the rubbish heaps he’s been burning in the kitchen garden. The noise we heard was the branches rustling in the wind. Why should you be so nervous?”
A thin whispering voice answered him:
“I was afraid for you, dear. Something frightened me for you. That man makes me feel so uneasy and uncomfortable for his influence upon you. It’s very foolish, I know. I think… I’m tired; I feel so overwrought and restless.” The words poured out in a hurried jumble and she kept turning to the window while she spoke.
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 287
