The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy
Page 30
When they arrived at the widow’s door the pig placed itself close against it, so as to be able to enter at the same time with its master. This annoyed the sacristan exceedingly; of course he could not allow the pig to enter, yet how to keep it out he did not know. The widow, who was rather of a timorous disposition, called out before opening the door,
“Who’s there?”
The sacristan immediately answered that it was he, and that there was a pig outside which seemed desirous to enter. Was it hers?
“No,” she said; “pray drive it away.”
“I have tried to do so,” said the sacristan, “but I have not succeeded.”
“Wait a moment, I will see what I can do;” and a minute afterwards the widow opened the door. Armed with a besom, she dealt the pig a tremendous blow on the snout.
Now it is well known that a pig, which may be as bold as a lion on all other occasions, will not a face a housewife with a besom. So the sacristan’s pig started back, and howled terribly, while its master, profiting by its retreat, entered the house.
The sacristan found a warm, blazing fire in the widow’s little sitting-room, and the table was spread out for her solitary supper. The place had a look of comfort about it which directly went to his heart, and he regretted that so amiable a person should have no one always at hand to talk to her on serious subjects, and advise her in the management of her affairs. She appeared much pleased to see him, the more so as that evening she had been reflecting on her solitary lot. She immediately placed another platter on the table, and produced some wine, which she kept by her to use medicinally, as occasion required. The sacristan was touched by her kindness. In return he talked to her very comfortably, showing her the folly of setting one’s heart on sublunary things, and doing full justice to her provisions the while. He would have been perfectly happy had it not been for the incessant ringing of the pig’s bell outside the house. The widow, in the course of conversation, asked him what he was doing in that out-of-the-way part of the world. He told her he had requested leave of absence from his priest, and that during it he was determined to pass the time in meditation amid the solitude of the Common. She admired his resolution, and said that at any time when he might feel dull, she would be happy to see him; for which he thanked her, with evident gratitude, and said he would willingly profit by her offer.
In this cozy manner the conversation continued for some time, till at last the widow asked where he intended passing the night. The sacristan was on the point of telling her about the shed, when he remembered she might call upon him there, and discover that he was the owner of the pig, which still kept up his annoyance by incessantly ringing its bell; so he checked himself, and said that it would be on any part of the Common where he could find a dry spot.
“But, my good soul,” said the widow, “you will catch your death of cold there, for you are evidently far from strong. I will tell you what I will do. I will make up a little bed for you in the back room.”
Before the sacristan could explain how gratefully he accepted her offer, both he and the widow were startled by what at first they considered an unearthly noise, but afterwards found to be the pig howling tremendously, and furiously ringing its bell at the same time.
“Somebody must surely be killing that pig,” said the widow.
“Poor pig!” said the sacristan, with great resignation in his tone; “it is very sad, but we should remember it is the lot of its race, and we ought to smother our feelings.”
The widow now left the room to prepare the bed, and in a few minutes again entered, saying that all was ready.
Terrible as had been the cries of the pig before, they were sotto voce compared with those it now uttered. They might with ease have been heard as far as Newington; and to add to the discomfort, the sacristan could easily perceive that they were gathering a crowd about the house. What to do he knew not. He was perfectly aware the pig would not cease its annoyance so long as he remained in the house, and he had not the heart to leave, he was so comfortable in it. He endeavoured to support the infliction for nearly an hour longer, when, fearing that the widow would feel irritated if the pig continued its cries, and as he particularly wished to stand well in her good graces, he told her that happy as he was it was hardly becoming an anchorite to indulge in so much luxury, and that with much genuine sorrow he must leave her. She attempted to dissuade him, but in vain; and, with a profusion of thanks for her kindness, he left the house.
He found in the road not only the pig, which was now silent, but a great crowd as well. He pushed through them and was soon lost to their sight in the darkness. He had hardly proceeded a hundred yards when the pig joined him. The sight of the poor animal put him into a great passion, and as a reward for its ill-timed services, he bestowed on its ribs a dozen hearty kicks, resolving in his mind that if he were acting wrongly he would repent of it afterwards.
When he arrived at the shed he went to his corner, and first took down his bottle of wine, which he placed by his side. He passed a large portion of the night in meditation, principally on the good qualities of the widow, with occasional thoughts on the pig. From time to time he put the bottle to his lips and took a hearty draught to keep the warmth of his person up to the same temperature as it would have reached on an African desert.
When day broke he found the imp in the shed, accompanied by two others, more hideous than himself.
“You passed a very respectable night for an anchorite,” said one.
“In what was I at fault?”
“Your treatment of your friend the pig was infamous. You know you do not love him.”
“I admit it,” said the sacristan. “As an anchorite it is my duty to detach myself from earthly affections, and the pig is a mundane animal.”
“So is the widow,” said the imp.
“But the widow has a soul,” said the sacristan, “and it is my duty to talk seriously to her.”
“And a pretty face, and money as well,” said the imp.
“You may attempt to disturb my meditations by talking of the widow and her attractions as much as you please,” said the sacristan, “but you will not annoy me.”
“Of that I am perfectly persuaded,” said the imp; “but we will talk of something else. How do you intend occupying yourself to-day?”
“I have to go to the City for some more wine.”
“Very like an anchorite, indeed,” said the imp; reversing the empty bottle, from which but one drop fell.
“If you can prove to me that the anchorites of old would not have done the same during a cold night on Kennington Common, I will leave it off; till then I shall continue it.”
So saying, he put on his cap and left the shed, the pig making no attempt to follow him.
The sacristan continued this method of life for two or three days longer. During the time he made several attempts to call on the widow, but each time the pig kept so close to his heels that he was obliged to desist. One calm moonlight night he thought he would take a walk. He strolled in the direction of Camberwell, the pig following him. Presently he saw two female figures a little in advance, and he hastened to overtake them. When he had reached them he found they were dressed like ladies, but so muffled up in coifs and cloaks that it was impossible for him to see whether they were young or old, handsome or ugly. He entered into conversation with them, and they answered him very courteously. He walked by their side, talking of the beauty of the night and other congenial subjects. They continued walking on, conversing very discreetly, the pig from time to time ringing its bell, not in an angry manner, but simply as if in doubt on some subject passing in its mind. They proceeded with their walk till it got very late, and the heavens became covered with thick clouds, which totally obscured the moon from their sight.
At last, when it was at least ten o’clock, the sacristan was on the point of stopping to wish his fair companions good night, as it was time for him to return, when they heard before them the sounds of a violin most exquisitely played
, but they could not see the performer. They continued their road onwards, listening to the music (by-the-bye it was the same air the devil played to Tartini in his sleep some hundred years afterwards). A spell seemed to be on them, for they could not stop, but followed the invisible musician. The pig now began to be very uneasy, and rang its bell in an angry manner; the sacristan, however, paid no attention to it, but walked onwards.
In this manner they marched for at least two hours, when at last the sacristan found himself on the borders of Blackheath. One of his lady companions then said to him, “We are going to a very pleasant party to-night a little way farther on. I wish you would accompany us; I am sure you would be well received, and you would have an opportunity of immensely improving the minds of the company.”
In spite of the anger of the pig the sacristan consented, and presently they found themselves in the midst of a circle brilliantly lit up. On one side was a raised orchestra for some musicians, all of whom were of the most extraordinary shapes with instruments as strange. Their music, however, was of the most delightful description, so much so as to dispel all fear on the part of the sacristan, and inspire him with a wish to dance. Presently the whole circle was filled with dancers, all of the most fantastic, and many even of the most horrible shapes; still he felt no fear, but stood aside wishing to join them. At last his two lady companions, who had been standing beside him, threw off their wrappers, and appeared in costumes so disgracefully décolleté, that the author declines to describe them. The ladies seized the sacristan each by a hand and drew him gently into the middle of the circle, and then commenced dancing. The orchestra at the time played more brilliantly than ever, while the poor pig ran round and round outside the circle, uttering the most discordant sounds and ringing its bell furiously. The sacristan now danced with all his might, his grotesque figure flying about in all directions, while he performed the most eccentric steps. He became more and more excited with the scene, and danced with still greater vigour. But in a moment the whole vanished, and he found himself in pitchy darkness in the midst of the heath, and in a pouring shower of rain. He listened for a moment for the bell of his pig, but it was no longer heard. The spell under which he had been labouring for some days past was broken, and he found he had been making a great fool of himself. With much difficulty he discovered the high road to London, and arrived at his lodgings about daybreak. The next morning he commenced a new life. He became, not superciliously pious, but a good charitable man, doing his duty in the church, giving alms of all he had to the poor, and contented with being thought no better than his neighbours.
EDWARD LEAR (1812-1888) was the second great pioneer, with Lewis Carroll, of Nonsense Literature. Like the Reverend Dodgson, Lear was somewhat happier in the company of children than that of adults, and he took the side of the children in opposing the tedium of moral instruction. He never achieved the recognition which he sought to win by means of his work as a landscape artist, although his beautifully-detailed studies of parrots and macaws are nowadays highly prized, but his verses - which achieve a marvellous blend of absurdity and euphony which no one has ever managed to imitate - have always been much loved. His first collection, The Book of Nonsense, appeared in 1846, signed “Derry Down Derry”, and was twice expanded in 1861 and 1863. Some of his most famous poems - including “The Owl and the Pussycat” and “The Jumblies” - were in Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany and Alphabets (1871); the rest - including “The Dong with a Luminous Nose” and “The Pobble Who Has No Toes” - were in Laughable Lyrics (1877).
As with Carroll’s “nonsense” Lear’s work contains a very particular opposition to and rejection of “sense”, which is by no means devoid of meaning. His weirdly escapist poems express, in a strangely pathetic fashion, the misery and sense of alienation which he felt throughout his life, which was blighted by epilepsy (for whose effects, which were not at the time understood, he probably thought himself culpable).
THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE
By Edward Lear
When awful darkness and silence reign
Over the great Gromboolian plain,
Through the long, long wintry nights;-
When the angry breakers roar
As they beat on the rocky shore;-
When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore:
Then, through the vast and gloomy dark,
There moves what seems a fiery spark,
A lonely spark with silvery rays
Piercing the coal-black night, -
A meteor strange and bright:
Hither and thither the vision strays,
A single lurid light.
Slowly it wanders, - pauses, - creeps, -
Anon it sparkles, - flashes and leaps;
And ever as onward it gleaming goes
A light on the Bong-tree stems it throws.
And those who watch at that midnight hour
From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry, as the wild light passes along, -
“The Dong! - the Dong!
“The Wandering Dong through the forest goes!
“The Dong! the Dong!
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!”
Long years ago
The Dong was happy and gay,
Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl
Who came to those shores one day,
For the Jumblies came in a Sieve, they did, -
Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd
Where the Oblong Oysters grow,
And the rocks are smooth and gray.
And all the woods and the valleys rang
With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang, -
“Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a sieve.”
Happily, happily passed those days!
While the cheerful Jumblies stayed;
They danced in circlets all night long,
To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong,
In moonlight, shine, or shade.
For day and night he was always there
By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair,
With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair.
Till the morning came of that hateful day
When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away,
And the Dong was left on the cruel shore
Gazing - gazing for evermore, -
Ever keeping his weary eyes on
That pea-green sail on the far horizon, -
Singing the Jumbly Chorus still
As he sat all day on the grassy hill, -
“Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a sieve.”
But when the sun was low in the West,
The Dong arose and said, -
“What little sense I once possessed
Has quite gone out of my head!”
And since that day he wanders still
By lake and forest, marsh and hill,
Singing - “O somewhere, in valley or plain
“Might I find my Jumbly Girl again!
“For ever I’ll seek by lake and shore
“Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!”
Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks,
Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks,
And because by night he could not see,
He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree
On the flowery plain that grows.
And he wove him a wondrous Nose, -
A Nose as strange as a Nose could be!
Of vast proportions and painted red,
And tied with cords to the back of his head.
-In a hollow rounded space it ended
With a luminous lamp within suspended,
All fenced about
With a bandage stout
To prevent the wind from blowing it out; -
And with holes all round to send the light,
In gleaming rays on the dismal night.
And now each night, and all night long,
Over those plains still roams the Dong;
And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe
You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe
While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain
To meet with his Jumbly Girl again;
Lonely and wild - all night he goes, -
The Dong with a luminous Nose!
And all who watch at the midnight hour.
From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright,
Moving along through the dreary night, -
“This is the hour when forth he goes,
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!
“Yonder - over the plain he goes;
“He goes!
“He goes;
“The Dong with a luminous Nose!”
WALTER BESANT (1836-1901) was a prolific Victorian novelist, knighted late in life, whose early best-sellers were written in collaboration with James Rice (1844-1882). He was a founder member of the Society of Authors and had a lifelong interest in social reform. Several fantasies which he wrote in collaboration with Rice were collected in The Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other Tales (1876), including the bizarre title story, in which a young man leases his healthy appetite to an aging sybarite and takes on himself the painful side-effects of the other’s self-indulgence, and “Titania’s Farewell”, an allegory in which the fairies leave England in protest against social injustice. Besant later wrote a few solo fantasies, including the identity exchange story The Doubts of Dives (1889) and the multiple personality story The Ivory Gate (1892); he also wrote two early futuristic novels, The Revolt of Man (1882) and The Inner House (1888).