‘Mother’s settled down already,’ Joan whispered. ‘She likes it! That means Tom’ll like it too. But she’ll live indoors.’
In his own mind, however, rose another thought, although he agreed with what she said. He was thinking how odd it was that Mother always appeared to be settled in the mouth of a hole. She stood, framed by the dark doorway, as though a deep burrow stretched behind her and below. The simile of the nervous badger, peering forth upon a dangerous upper world, passed through him. A great tenderness rose in his heart. Mother, he knew, though she had done no actual work, had felt the move a heavy strain. To dig a new hole, of course, was a dusty and laborious job, whereas to flutter across a few fields to another tree was but a careless joy.
‘I’ve been through all the rooms,’ she said cautiously, as they went down the passage, ‘and everything seems very nice indeed, Joe. The wood makes it seem a bit dark, perhaps, but it’s all very respectable. And the parlour looks really quite distinguished. Tea’s laid for us in the dining-room.’
They went in; the fire shone brightly; the lamp was lit. Mother moved towards the great silver tea-pot, letting herself down with a sigh into the black horsehair arm-chair. It was as though she went down into the earth. He sat with his cup of tea in the wide settle of the ingle-nook, and Joan, having first seen to her parents’ wants, then took the corner facing him.
They settled in. Yet this settling was characteristic of the family, for whereas Mother settled down, Mr. Wimble and his daughter became unsettled. That is, they felt restless. Mother, with the security of a comfortable home and comfortable income at her back, cropped her food safely, yet wondered why she felt dull and bored and lonely. There is no call to describe the actions and reactions of her familiar type to the conditions of the quiet country life, and her chief tragedy that winter was perhaps that when ‘his lordship, the vicar,’ called, he surprised her in old garden clothes, the fire in the ‘distinguished parlour’ (kept unused against just this particular event) unlighted, so that she was obliged to receive him in the dark dining-room with the ungentlemanly settles.
Joan and her father were unsettled for the very reason that made her settled. Mother felt her feet. They felt their wings.
A week after the settling in, their restless feeling, wholly unanticipated, came to a head. The windy skies were already calling the swallows together swiftly, collecting their mobile squadrons in a few hours for the grand southern tour. And these amazing birds seemed nothing less than an incarnation of the air itself. There is nothing of earth about them anywhere; their feet are too weak to stand on the ground; every darting turn they make is a movement of the entire creature, rather than of the head first and then the body; they have no necks, their bullet heads turn simultaneously with the tail, and all at once. Joan and her father watched them daily going about their careless, windy life, gathering on the telegraph wires, giving the young ones hints, on the wing to the very last minute. They had no packing-up to do.
‘They’ll be off soon now,’ said Joan. ‘Wherever they are, they go — don’t they?’ There was a tinge of restless desire in her eyes as she followed their movements.
‘A few days, yes,’ said her father. ‘About the middle of the month they leave. They know right enough.’
And two days later — it was October 15th — Joan woke at dawn and looked out of her open window. The twittering of many thousand voices had called her out of sleep, but something in her heart had called her too. It was very early, the daylight of dawn, yet not the daylight quite, and everywhere, from fields and trees, the chorus of bird-life was audible. Birds sing their best and loudest always in that half-hour which precedes the actual dawn. The volume is astonishing. ‘As the real daylight comes, it sinks and almost ceases, and never in the whole twenty-four hours is there such an hour again.’ The entire air seemed calling ‘good-bye and safe return’ to those about to leave.
Joan ran and woke her father. ‘They’re off,’ she whispered, as he crawled out of his warm bed, careful not to waken his wife. ‘Come and say good-bye.’
The peculiar joy and mystery of early morning was in the quiet house and in the sharp tang of the fresh, cool autumn air. In nightgown and pyjamas, a single rug about their shoulders, they leaned out of the upper window. The ivy rustled just beneath them on the wall, there was a whisper among the yellow walnut leaves to their right, the orchard trees hung still and motionless, breathing out the perfume of earth and fruit and heavy dew.
The sky, however, was alive; it seemed all motion; even the streaky clouds tinged with pale colour looked like stretched wings mightily extended. And the vague murmur of a flock of birds rose everywhere. There was a hurricane of wings above the world, as the armies of the swallows came carelessly together. They left in scattered groups, but with every party that left, another instantly assembled, born out of empty space. Multitudes took the wing towards the sea, while other darting multitudes collected instantly behind them. The air, indeed, was alive and whirring into a symbol of lovely, rushing flight — swarming, settling, turning, wheeling in a turmoil of ascending and descending feathers that yet expressed a design of ordered beauty. Myriad clusters formed, then instantly dispersed again, threaded together upon one invisible pattern; now herded into a wedge, shaped like a wild black comet, now circling, streaming, dividing, melting away into a living cloud. The evolutions were bewildering.
As the eastern horizon began to burn with red and gold, the wings took colour faintly, brightening as an upward slant revealed their pallid under-sides, then darkening again as they tilted backwards. The swallows alternately focussed and dispersed. Separate hordes, turning at high velocity with one accord, shot forth and away to the south. They rose, they sank, they vanished. They went first to the coast; for their migration, led by the infallible sense of orientation which is subconscious knowledge, takes place chiefly in the night — in darkness. Within a brief half-hour the whole of the immense army disappeared. The sky was still and silent, motionless and empty. The swallows were gone.
‘They’ve taken part of me with them,’ whispered Joan, ‘part of my warmth,’ and she drew the rug closer about her shoulders as the October sun came up above the misty fields.
‘They’ll be in Algeria to-morrow,’ sighed her father, ‘and I’d like to be there too.’ His thought went back to the sun-drenched garden where nightingales sang in the February moonlight. . . . The old romance stirred in him painfully. ‘Mother, poor old Mother,’ he murmured to himself, ‘she seemed so wonderful then. How strange!’ He felt himself old suddenly. He felt himself caught, caged — stuck.
‘That’s where I was born, wasn’t it?’ Joan asked, catching the sentence. She straightened herself suddenly, throwing the rug aside; the sun shone into her face and on her golden hair that fell rippling over her nightgown. The light gleamed, too, in her moistened eyes. He saw joy steal back upon her. ‘But, Daddy,’ she exclaimed with an odd touch of confident wonder in her voice and look, ‘we can be there just the same, if we want to.’ She raised herself on her toes a moment as though she were going to dance or fly. In the pale gold light of the sunrise she looked like some ethereal bird of fire rising into the air.
‘We can be everywhere — everywhere at once — really! Don’t you see? We always want to be somewhere else anyhow. That proves it.’
And as she said it, he remembered the cinema, and felt his wings again; he was free, uncaged; of course he could go anywhere, everywhere at once almost. He knew himself eternally young. He realised Air, that which is everywhere at once and cannot age. Earth obeys time, grows old, changes, and eventually dies; but air is ever changeless, free of time altogether, unageing. It cannot wear away, it is invisible, omnipresent. The wings of the spirit opened in him, rose into space and light, then flashed, darting after the amazing swallows. ‘Wherever I am, I go,’ he hummed, as he went softly back along the cold passage and crept cautiously into bed beside his wife, who, heavily breathing still, had not moved since he left her, and lay in ignora
nce of the sunrise, as also of the army of happy wings that by now were already out of England and far across the sea.
And, later in the day, as he stood with her near a gravel-pit beside the road, watching a colony of busy starlings, she objected: ‘What a noise and fuss about nothing! What a nuisance they are, Joe. Do come on, dear. There’s really nothing to watch, and I want to get in and change my things in case any callers come.’
He remembered a passage about starlings written by a strenuous big-game hunter, who yet had the air-magic in his blood. He quoted it to her, as best he could, and she said it was pretty:
‘Happy birdies! What a bore all morality seems, as one watches them. How tiresome it is to be high in the scale (and human)! Those who would shake off the cobwebs — who are tired of teachings and preachings and heavy-high novellings, who would see things anew, and not mattering, rubbing their eyes and forgetting their dignities, missions, destinies, virtues, and the rest of it — let them come and watch a colony of starlings at work in a gravel-pit.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘quite pretty. Selous got a glimpse there — didn’t he? — but only a glimpse. The great thing is to see it all. He forgot the swallows.’
His thought ran on, fragments becoming audible sometimes. ‘It’s all one, you see. Stars and starlings are the same one thing, only differently expressed. . . . That’s what genius does, of course. Genius has the bird’s-eye point of view. . . . It sees analogies everywhere, the underlying unity of everything — sees the similar in the dissimilar. It reduces the Many to the One,’ he added in a louder tone, as a Primer came opportunely to his support.
‘I ask you, Mother,’ he cried with enthusiasm, ‘what else is genius but that? I ask you?’
‘What?’ said Mother, as they went indoors.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Wimble watched the year draw to its close and run into the past. Born slowly out of sullen skies, it had shaken off the glistening pearls of April and slipped, radiant and laughing, into May; at the end of June, full-bosomed still and stately, it had begun to hasten, lest the roses hold it prisoner for ever; pausing a moment in August, it looked out with perfect eyes upon the world as from a pinnacle; then, poised and confident, began the grand descent down the red slopes of Autumn into the peace of winter and the snow.
Thus, at least, its history described itself in Wimble’s thoughts, because his little mind, standing on tiptoe, saw it whole and from above. ‘You ought to publish it, dear,’ said Mother, to whom he mentioned it one December evening round the fire. ‘You really ought to write it.’ He objected that everybody knew it just as well as he did. ‘It’s always happening to everybody, so why should I remind them?’ ‘Because they don’t see it,’ was her answer. ‘Besides, they’d think you wonderful.’ But Wimble was no writer. He shook his untidy head, yet secretly pleased with his wife’s remark that people don’t see the obvious. It was almost an air-remark. Mother was changing a little. . . . And he dozed in his chair, thinking how easily the world calls a man wonderful — he has but to startle it — and how easily, too, that man is destroyed if he believes its verdict.
With the rare exception of occasional signs like this, however, his wife had not mobilised her being radically for a big change. She retired into her prosaic background, against which, as with certain self-protecting, ultra-cautious animals and insects, she remained safely invisible. Back to the land proved rather literal for her; she wore her heavy garden-gloves with pride. At the same time her practical nature, streaked with affection, patience, and unselfishness, took on, somehow, a tiny glint of gold. Her eyes grew lighter, her movements less laborious. Fear lessened in her; joy often caught her by surprise. Sparks, though not yet flame, lit up her attitude to things, as if, close to her beloved element of earth, the country life both soothed and blessed her. She felt at home. She said ‘what’ far less frequently. This quiet, peaceful winter was perhaps for her a period of gestation. The family gathered about her more than in town.
With a buoyancy hard to define and possibly not justified, Wimble watched her. He looked out upon life about him. His health was good, but this buoyancy was based on something deeper than that; his health was good because of it. Nothing mattered, a foolish phrase of those who shirked responsibilities, was far from him; everything mattered equally expressed it better. The New Thing coming, which he and Joan called Air, lay certainly in him, though very far yet from finding full expression. The germ of it at any rate lay in him, as in her. The fact that they recognised it was proof of that. A divine carelessness took charge of his whole life and being; Mother was aware of it; even Tom responded mildly: ‘quite sets a fellow up,’ as he expressed it after his rare week-end visits, the Sunday spent in killing rabbits; ‘town’s overrated after all.’
They merged pleasantly enough with their surroundings, melting without shock into the life of neighbours, sharing the community existence, narrow, conventional, uninspired though it was. And all through the dark and clouded months, the skies emptied of birds, weighted at the low horizons, afraid to shine, yet waiting for the marvellous coming dawn — all through these heavy weeks and days Joan’s presence, flitting everywhere with careless singing and dancing, shot the wintry gloom with happy radiance. It was her spontaneous dancing that especially made Wimble stare and wonder. It conveyed meanings no words could compass, expressing better than anything else the new attitude he felt coming into life. He remembered the flood of shadowy ideas her graceful gestures had poured into him once before when he walked up Maida Vale; and that strange night in the flat when, seeing her dancing on the London roof, he was dimly aware of a new language which included even inanimate objects. The strange shudder that accompanied the vision he had forgotten. This magical rhythm was her secret. It stirred the heart, making it vulnerable to impulses from some brighter, happier state she knew instinctively and in advance. Mother, he noticed, watched her too, peering above her knitting-needles, moving her head in sympathy, sometimes a faint, wondering smile lighting upon her bewildered, careworn face. A real smile, however, for it was in the eyes alone, and did not touch the lips. Even Tom admired. ‘You ought to be taught,’ he said guardedly. ‘You’d touch ’em up a bit. If you did that in church the whole world would go.’ He too, without knowing it, realised that something sacred, inspired, regenerating was being whispered.
Yet Joan herself, though growing older, hardly developed in the ordinary way. She did not grow up. She remained backward somehow. She lived subconsciously, perhaps. Some new knowledge, gathering below the surface, found expression in this spontaneous dancing. With the dawn, now slowly coming, it would burst full-fledged upon the world, and the world itself would dance with joy. Meanwhile, a new bloom, a new beauty settled on the girl, and Mother proudly insisted that she ‘must go to a good photographer and have her picture taken.’ But the result was commonplace, for in the rigid black and white outline all the subtlety escaped, and, regretting the money wasted, Mother wondered why it had failed. Like the audience at the Vicarage charities when Joan danced, she watched the performance, felt a hint of strange beauty, clapped her hands and wondered ‘what it meant.’
‘It’s her life, you see,’ Wimble comforted her. ‘And you can’t photograph life. To get her real meaning, we ought to do it with her — dance it.’
‘She’s light, rather, for her age,’ replied Mother ambiguously. ‘But everybody seems to love her somehow,’ she added proudly. ‘She seems to make people happy. P’r’aps later she’ll develop and get sensible.’ She sighed, and resumed her knitting. Presently she got up to light the lamps. ‘The days are drawing out, Joe,’ she mentioned, smiling. ‘Spring will be here before we know it.’ He lifted the chimney to help her, turned up the wick, struck a match, and kissed her fondly.
The country life, it seemed, had brought them all together more, made them aware of their underlying unity, as it were. They flocked. Wimble, dressed now in wide brown knickerbockers, wearing bright stockings and brogue shoes with feathered tongues that fl
apped when he walked, noticed the change with pleasure. The new attitude was only in his brain as yet, but it was already stealing down into his heart. This increased sense of a harmonious manifold unity in the family impressed him, and it was Joan, he felt, who made him see it, if she was not also the cause of its coming to pass. Only some spiritual actuary could make it quite clear, but he discerned the oneness behind the different members of his family, uniting them. In this subconscious, completer self lay full understanding. There was no need to pay annual subscriptions to an Aquarian Society to realise that! Moreover, if a small family with such divergent interests and ambitions could flock and realise unity, the larger family of a village, country, nation could do the same — once the underlying unity were realised. That was the difficulty. The whole world was, after all, but a single family, humanity. . . . In his quiet country nook Wimble dreamed his great dream. He saw the nations with but a single flag, a single drum, a single anthem, true to a larger single patriotism that could never again be split up into lesser divisional patriotisms. The universal fraternity of indivisible Air was coming; the subconscious where individuals pooled their surface differences would become conscious; that was the truth, he felt, the one great thing the Aquarian lecturer had said. . . . He remembered the cinema, with its mechanical suggestion of a unification of world-experience faintly offered; he remembered the free, happy, collective life of the inhabitants of air, the natural singers of the world. The deep underlying sense of unity buried in the subconscious once realised, full understanding must follow, and with complete understanding the way was cleared for love. And it was Joan’s dancing, somehow, that set the dream within his heart. The new attitude to life he imagined dawning on the world was the first hint of a coming spiritual consciousness, and for spiritual consciousness the totality of things is present. ‘All at once and everywhere at once,’ as she had put it. His heart swelled big within him as he dreamed. . . .
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 213