The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  ‘It is, child, because they get so frightfully thin,’ he went on, ‘that they end by getting thinner than the thin end of a wedge.’

  The eyes of Mother twinkled, but the children still stared, waiting. They had never heard of this phrase about the wedge. Indeed Jane Anne shared with Jimbo total ignorance of the word at all. Like the audience who read his books, or rather ought to have read them, they expected something different, yet still hoped.

  ‘It’s a rhyme, and not a story though,’ he added, anticipating perhaps their possible disappointment. For the recent talk about expenses had chilled his imagination too much for an instantaneous story, whereas rhymes came ever to him easily.

  ‘All right! Let’s have it anyhow,’ came the verdict in sentences of

  French and English. And in the breathless pause that followed, even

  Mother looking up expectantly from her busy fingers, was heard this

  strange fate of the Thin Child who stole another’s bread-crumb:—

  He then grew thinner than the thin,

  The thin end of the wedge;

  He grew so pitifully thin

  It set his teeth on edge;

  But the edge it set his teeth upon

  Was worse than getting thinner,

  For it was the edge of appetite,

  And his teeth were in no dinner!

  There was a deep silence. Mother looked as though she expected more,— the good part yet to come. The rhyme fell flat as a pancake, for of course the children did not understand it. Its nonsense, clever enough, escaped them. True nonsense is for grown-ups only. Jane Anne stared steadily at him with a puzzled frown. Her face wore an expression like a moth.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy, very much,’ she said, certain as ever that the fault if any was her own, since all that Daddy said and did was simply splendid. Whereupon the others fairly screamed with delight, turning attention thereby from the dismal failure.

  ‘She doesn’t understand it, but she’s always so polite!’ cried Monkey.

  Her mother quickly intervened. ‘Never mind, Jane Anne,’ she soothed her, lest her feelings should be ruffled; ‘you shall never want a dinner, lovey; and when all Monkey’s teeth are gone you’ll still be able to munch away at something.’

  But Jinny’s feelings were never ruffled exactly, only confused and puzzled. She was puzzled now. Her confidence in her father’s splendour was unshakable.

  ‘And, anyhow, Mother, you’ll never be a thin wedge,’ she answered, meaning to show her gratitude by a compliment. She joined herself as loudly as anybody in the roar that followed this sally. Obviously, she had said a clever and amusing thing, though it was not clear to her why it was so. Her flushed face was very happy; it even wore a touch of proud superiority. Her talents were domestic rather than intellectual.

  ‘Excuse me, Daddy,’ she said gravely, in a pause that followed presently. ‘But what is a wedge, exactly? And I think I’d like to copy that poetry in my book, please.’ For she kept a book in which his efforts were neatly inscribed in a round copy-book handwriting, and called by Monkey ‘The Muddle Book.’ There his unappreciated doggerels found fame, though misunderstood most of all by the affectionate child who copied them so proudly.

  The book was brought at once. Her father wrote out the nonsense verse on his knee and made a funny little illustration in the margin. ‘Oh, I say!’ said Jimbo, watching him, while Monkey, lapsing into French, contributed with her usual impudence, ‘Pas tant mal!’ They all loved the illustrations.

  The general interest, then, as the way is with children, puppies, and other young Inconsistencies, centred upon the contents of the book. They eagerly turned the pages, as though they did not know its contents by heart already. They praised for the hundredth time the drawing of the Muddle Animal who

  Hung its hopes upon a nail

  Or laid them on the shelf;

  Then pricked its conscience with its tail,

  And sat upon itself.

  They looked also with considerable approval upon the drawings and descriptions of the Muddle Man whose manners towards the rest of the world were cool; because

  He saw things with his naked eye,

  That’s why his glance was chilly.

  But the explanation of the disasters he caused everywhere by his disagreeable sharpness of speech and behaviour did not amuse them. They observed as usual that it was ‘too impossible’; the drawings, moreover, did not quite convince:—

  So cutting was his speaking tone

  Each phrase snipped off a button,

  So sharp his words, they have been known

  To carve a leg of mutton;

  He shaved himself with sentences,

  And when he went to dances,

  He made—Oh shocking tendencies!-

  Deep holes with piercing glances.

  But on the last page the Muddle Man behaved so badly, was so positively indecent in his conduct, that he was persuaded to disappear altogether; and his manner of extinguishing himself in the illustration delighted the children far more than the verse whose fun again escaped them:—

  They observed he was indecent,

  But he said it wasn’t true,

  For he pronounced it ‘in descent’—

  Then disappeared from view!

  Mother’s alleged ‘second sight’ was also attributed to the fact that she ‘looked twice before she leaped’—and the drawing of that leap never failed to produce high spirits. For her calm and steady way of walking—sailing—had earned her the name of the frigate—and this was also illustrated, with various winds, all coloured, driving her along.

  The time passed happily; some one turned the lamp out, and Daddy, regardless of expense—he had been grumbling about it ten minutes before—heaped on the bricks of peat. Riquette, a bit of movable furniture without which the room seemed incomplete, deftly slipped in between the circle of legs and feet, and curled up upon Jinny’s lap. Her snoring, a wheezy noise that made Jimbo wonder ‘why it didn’t scrape her,’ was as familiar as the ticking of the clock. Old Mere Riquette knew her rights. And she exacted them. Jinny’s lap was one of these. She had a face like an old peasant woman, with a curious snub nose and irregular whiskers that betrayed recklessly the advance of age. Her snores and gentle purring filled the room now. A hush came over the whole party. At seven o’clock they must all troop over to the Pension des Glycines for supper, but there was still an hour left. And it was a magic hour. Sighs were audible here and there, as the exhausted children settled deeper into their chairs.

  A change came over the atmosphere. Would nothing exciting ever happen?

  ‘The stars are out,’ said Jimbo in his soft, gentle little voice, turning his head towards the windows. The others looked too—all except Mother, whose attitude suggested suspiciously that she slept, and Riquette, who most certainly did sleep. Above the rampart of the darkened Alps swung up the army of the stars. The brighter ones were reflected in the lake. The sky was crowded. Tiny, golden pathways slid down the purple walls of the night. ‘Some one in heaven is letting down the star-ladders…’ he whispered.

  Jimbo’s sentence had marked the change of key. Enchantment was abroad —the Saturday evening spell was in the room.

  And suddenly a new enormous thing stirred in their father’s heart. Whence it came, or why, he knew not. Like a fire it rose in him deep down, from very far away, delightful. Was it an inspiration coming, he wondered? And why did Jimbo use that phrase of beauty about star- ladders? How did it come into the mind of a little boy? The phrase opened a new channel in the very depths of him, thence climbing up and outwards, towards the brain…. And, with a thrill of curious high wonder, he let it come. It was large and very splendid. It came with a rush—as of numerous whispering voices that flocked about him, urging some exquisite, distant sweetness in him to unaccustomed delivery. A softness of ten thousand stars trooped down into his blood. Some constellation like the Pleiades had flung their fiery tackle across the dusk upon his mind. His thought t
urned golden….

  CHAPTER VIII

  ..................

  We are the stars which sing.

  We sing with our light.

  We are the birds of fire.

  We fly across the heaven.

  Our light is a star.

  We make a road for Spirits,

  A road for the Great Spirit.

  Among us are three hunters

  Who chase a bear:

  There never was a time

  When they were not hunting;

  We look down on the mountains.

  This is the Song of the Mountains.

  Red Indian (Algonquin) Lyric.

  Translator, J. D. PRINCE.

  ‘A star-story, please,’ the boy repeated, cuddling up. They all drew, where possible, nearer. Their belief in their father’s powers, rarely justified, was pathetic. Each time they felt sure he would make the adventures seem real, yet somehow he never quite did. They were aware that it was invention only. These things he told about he had not experienced himself. For they badly needed a leader, these children; and Daddy just missed filling the position. He was too ‘clever,’ his imagination neither wild nor silly enough, for children. And he felt it. He threw off rhymes and stories for them in a spirit of bravado rather—an expression of disappointment. Yet there was passion in them too—concealed. The public missed the heart he showed them in his books in the same way.

  ‘The stars are listening….’ Jimbo’s voice sounded far away, almost outside the window. Mother now snored audibly. Daddy took his courage in both hands and made the plunge.

  ‘You know about the Star Cavern, I suppose—?’ he began. It was the sudden idea that had shot into him, he knew not whence.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Where is it, please?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. That wasn’t a real question. Stories always begin like that.’ It was Jane Anne who thus finally commanded order.

  ‘It’s not a story exactly, but a sort of adventure,’ he continued, hesitating yet undaunted. ‘Star Caverns are places where the unused starlight gathers. There are numbers of them about the world, and one I know of is up here in our mountains,’ he pointed through the north wall towards the pine-clad Jura, ‘not far from the slopes of Boudry where the forests dip towards the precipices of the Areuse—’ The phrase ran oddly through him like an inspiration, or the beginning of a song he once had heard somewhere.

  ‘Ah, beyond le Vallon Vert? I know,’ whispered Jimbo, his blue eyes big already with wonder.

  ‘Towards the precipices on the farther side,’ came the explanation, ‘where there are those little open spaces among the trees.’

  ‘Tell us more exactly, please.’

  ‘Star-rays, you see,’ he evaded them, ‘are visible in the sky on their way to us, but once they touch the earth they disappear and go out like a candle. Unless a chance puddle, or a pair of eyes happens to be about to catch them, you can’t tell where they’ve gone to. They go really into these Star Caverns.’

  ‘But in a puddle or a pair of eyes they’d be lost just the same,’ came the objection.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said; ‘changed a little—increased by reflection—but not lost.’

  There was a pause; the children stared, expectantly. Here was mystery.

  ‘See how they mirror themselves whenever possible,’ he went on, ‘doubling their light and beauty by giving themselves away! What is a puddle worth until a Star’s wee golden face shines out of it? And then—what gold can buy it? And what are your eyes worth until a star has flitted in and made a nest there?’

  ‘Oh, like that, you mean—!’ exclaimed Jane Anne, remembering that the wonderful women in the newspaper stories always had ‘starry eyes.’

  ‘Like that, yes.’ Daddy continued. ‘Their light puts sympathy in you, and only sympathy makes you lovely and—and—’

  He stopped abruptly. He hesitated a moment. He was again most suddenly aware that this strange idea that was born in him came from somewhere else, almost from some one else. It was not his own idea, nor had he captured it completely yet. Like a wandering little inspiration from another mind it seemed passing through him on uncertain, feathery feet. He had suddenly lost it again. Thought wandered. He stared at Jimbo, for Jimbo somehow seemed the channel.

  The children waited, then talked among themselves. Daddy so often got muddled and inattentive in this way. They were accustomed to it, expected it even.

  ‘I always love being out at night,’ said Monkey, her eyes very bright; ‘it sort of excites and makes me soft and happy.’

  ‘Excuse me, Daddy, but have you been inside one? What’s it like? The Cave, I mean?’ Jinny stuck to the point. She had not yet travelled beyond it.

  ‘It all collects in there and rises to the top like cream,’ he went on, ‘and has a little tiny perfume like wild violets, and by walking through it you get clothed and covered with it, and come out again all soft-shiny—’

  ‘What’s soft-shiny, please?’

  ‘Something half-primrose and half-moon. You’re like a star—’

  ‘But how—like a star?’

  ‘Why,’ he explained gently, yet a little disappointed that his adventure was not instantly accepted, ‘you shine, and your eyes twinkle, and everybody likes you and thinks you beautiful—’

  ‘Even if you’re not?’ inquired Jinny.

  ‘But you are—’

  ‘Couldn’t we go there now? Mother’s fast asleep!’ suggested Jimbo in a mysterious whisper. He felt a curious excitement. This, he felt, was more real than usual. He glanced at Monkey’s eyes a moment.

  ‘Another time,’ said Daddy, already half believing in the truth of his adventure, yet not quite sure of himself. ‘It collects, and collects, and collects. Sometimes, here and there, a little escapes and creeps out into yellow flowers like dandelions and buttercups. A little, too, slips below the ground and fills up empty cracks between the rocks. Then it hardens, gets dirty, and men dig it out again and call it gold. And some slips out by the roof—though very, very little—and you see it flashing back to find the star it belongs to, and people with telescopes call it a shooting star, and—’ It came pouring through him again.

  ‘But when you’re in it—in the Cavern,’ asked Monkey impatiently; ‘what happens then?’

  ‘Well,’ he answered with conviction, ‘it sticks to you. It sticks to the eyes most, but a little also to the hair and voice, and nobody loves you unless you’ve got a bit of it somewhere on you. A girl, before any one falls in love with her, has always been there, and people who write stories and music and things—all have got some on their fingers or else nobody cares for what they write—’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, then why don’t you go there and get sticky all over with it?’ Jinny burst out with sudden eagerness, ever thinking of others before herself. ‘I’ll go and get some for you—lots and lots.’

  ‘I have been there,’ he answered slowly, ‘once long, long ago. But it didn’t stick very well with me. It wipes off so quickly in the day- time. The sunlight kills it.’

  ‘But you got some!’ the child insisted. ‘And you’ve got it still, I mean?’

  ‘A little, perhaps, a very little.’

  All felt the sadness in his voice without understanding it. There was a moment’s pause. Then the three of them spoke in a single breath—

  ‘Please show it to us—now,’ they cried.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, after a slight hesitation, ‘but—er—it’s only a rhyme, you see’; and then began to murmur very low for fear of waking Mother: he almost sang it to them. The flock of tiny voices whispered it to his blood. He merely uttered what he heard:—

  Starlight

  Runs along my mind

  And rolls into a ball of golden silk—

  A little skein

  Of tangled glory;

  And when I want to get it out again

  To weave the pattern of a verse or story,

  It
must unwind.

  It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled,

  And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled,

  To make my verse or story,

  The interfering sun has risen

  And burst with passion through my silky prison

  To melt it down in dew,

  Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton.

  Don’t you?

  I call it rotten!

  A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for several minutes. There was a faint laughter, quickly over, but containing sighs. Only Jinny stared straight into her father’s face, expecting more, though prepared at any stage to explode with unfeigned admiration.

  ‘But that “don’t you” comes in the wrong place,’ she objected anxiously. ‘It ought to come after “I call it rotten"—-’ She was determined to make it seem all right.

  ‘No, Jinny,’ he answered gravely, ‘you must always put others before yourself. It’s the first rule in life and literature.’

  She dropped her eyes to the fire like the others. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I see; of course.’ The long word blocked her mind like an avalanche, even while she loved it.

  ‘I call it rotten,’ murmured Monkey under her breath. Jimbo made no audible remark. He crossed his little legs and folded his arms. He was not going to express an opinion until he understood better what it was all about. He began to whisper to his sister. Another longish pause intervened. It was Jinny again who broke it.

  ‘And “wumbled,"‘ she asked solemnly as though the future of everybody depended on it, ‘what is wumbled, really? There’s no such thing, is there?—In life, I mean?’ She meant to add ‘and literature,’ but the word stopped her like a hedge.

  ‘It’s what happens to a verse or story I lose in that way,’ he explained, while Jimbo and Monkey whispered more busily still among themselves about something else. ‘The bit of starlight that gets lost and doesn’t stick, you see—ineffective.’

  ‘But there is no such word, really,’ she urged, determined to clear up all she could. ‘It rhymes—that’s all.’

  ‘And there is no verse or story,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘There was—that’s all.’