He opened his eyes and looked about him. The room was full of wonder. It glistened, sparkled, shone. A million things, screened hitherto from sight by thick clouds of rushing minutes, paused and offered themselves; things that were commonplace before stood still, revealed in startling glory. They no longer raced past at headlong speed. Visible at last, unmasked, they showed themselves as they really were, in naked beauty. This beauty settled on everything in golden rain, it settled on himself as well. All that his eyes rested on looked—distinguished….
And, like snow-flakes, words and thoughts came thickly crowding, like flakes of fire too. He snatched at them, caught them in bunches, tried to sort them into sentences. They were everywhere about him, showering down as from a box of cardboard letters overturned in the sky. The reality he sought hid among them as a whole—he knew that—but no mere sequence of words and letters could quite capture this reality.
He plunged his hands among the flying symbols….
In a flash a number of things—an enormous number of things—became extraordinarily clear and simple; they became one single thing. Then, while reason and vision still fluttered to and fro, like a pair of butterflies, first one and then the other leading, he dashed in between them. He seized handfuls of the flying letters and made the queerest sentences out of them, longer and faster-moving than the first ones.
“Time is the arch-deceiver. It drives things past us in a hurrying flock. We snatch at them. And those we miss seem lost for ever because some one calls out, in a foolish voice of terror and regret, ‘Too late!’ Yet, in reality, we stand still; the rush of the hours is a sham. We see things out of proportion, like trees from the window of a train, their beauty hidden in a long, thick smudge. We do not move; it is the train that hurries us along: the trees are always steadily there—and beautiful. There is enough of everything for everybody—no need to try and get there first. To hurry is to chase your tail, which some one has suggested does not belong to you. It can never be captured by pursuit. But pause—stand still—it instantly presents itself, twitches its tip, and laughs: ‘I’ve been here all the time. I’m part of you!’”
He turned towards the empty chair and smiled. The smile, he felt, came marvellously back to him from the sunshine and the open world of sky and trees beyond. There was some one there who smiled—invisibly.
“You’re real, quite real,” the letters danced instantly into new sentences. “But you are so awfully close to me—so close I cannot see you.”
He felt the invisible Stranger suddenly as real as that. There was only one thing to see—only one thing everywhere. The beauty of the discovery put reason utterly and finally to flight. But that one thing was hiding. The Stranger concealed himself—he hid on purpose. He wanted to be looked for—found. And the heart grew “warm” or “cold” accordingly: when it was warm that mysterious anticipation stirred—"Some one is coming!”
And Uncle Felix, sitting in the sunlight of that breakfast-room, understood that the entire universe formed a conspiracy to hide “him.” Some one, indeed, had come, slipped into the gorgeous and detailed clothing of the entire world as easily as birds and trees slip into their own particular clothing, planning with Time to hide him, wanting to play a little—to play at Hide-and-Seek. “Let them all look for me! I’m hiding!…”
Yet so few would play! Instead of coming out to find him where he hid so simply in the open, they built severe and gloomy edifices; invented Rules of the game by which each could prove himself right and all the others wrong…. Oh, dear!… And all the time, he hid there in the open before their very eyes—in the wind, the stream, the grass, in the sunlight and the song of birds, and especially behind little careless things that took no thought … waiting to play and let himself be found… while songs and poems and fairy-tales, even religious too, cried endlessly across the world, “Look and you’ll find him.” There was only one thing to say: “Search in the open; he hides there!”
Everything became clear and simple—one thing, Life was a game of Hide-and-Seek. There were obstacles placed in the way on purpose to make it more interesting. One of them was Time. But everything was one thing, and one thing only; a peacock and a policeman were the same, so were an elephant and a violet, an uncle and a bee, a Purple Emperor and a child like Tim or Judy: all did, said, lived one and the same thing only. They looked different—because one looked at them differently.
Smiling happily to himself again as the letters grouped themselves swiftly into these curious sentences, he heard the birds singing in the clean, great sky… and it seemed to him that the Stranger blew softly upon his eyes and hair. The sentences instantly telescoped: “Come, look for me! There is no hurry; life has just begun….” And he barely had time to realise that the entire complicated mass of them had, after all, only this one thing to say… when the returning children bursting into the room scattered his long reverie, and the last cardboard letter disappeared like magic into empty space.
“Where is he?” cried Tim at once, staring impatiently about him. There was rebuke and disappointment in his eyes. “Uncle, you’ve been arguing. He’s gone!”
Judy was equally quick to seize the position of affairs. “You’ve frightened him away!” she declared with energy. “Quick! We must go out and look!”
“Yes,” muttered their uncle a little guiltily, and was about to add something by way of explanation when he felt Judy pull his sleeve. “Look!” she whispered. “He can’t have gone so very far!”
She pointed to the plate with the sugar, honey, cream, and crumbs upon it; a bird was picking up the crumbs, a wasp was on the lump of sugar, a bee beside it, standing on its head, was drinking at the drop of honey; all were unafraid, and very leisurely about it; there seemed no hurry; there was enough for every one. Then, as the trio of humans stared with delight, they saw another guest arrive and dance up gaily to the feast. A gorgeous butterfly sailed in, hovered above the crowded plate a moment, then settled comfortably beside its companions and examined the blob of cream. The others moved a little to make room for it. It was a Purple Emperor, the rarest butterfly in all England, whose home was normally high above the trees.
“Of course,” Judy whispered to her brother, as she watched the bee make room for its larger neighbour; “they belong to him—”
“He sent them,” replied Tim below his breath, “just to let us know—”
“Yes,” mumbled Uncle Felix for the second time, a soft amazement stealing over him. “He brought them. And they’re all the same thing really.”
There was the perfume of a thousand flowers in the room. A faint breeze floated through the open window and touched his eyes. He heard the world outside singing in the sunshine. “Come along,” he said in a low, hushed whisper; “let’s go and look.” And he moved eagerly—over the tree-and-peacock pattern.
They tiptoed out together, while the bird cocked up its head to watch them go; the bee, still drinking, raised its eyes; and all four fluttered their wings as though they laughed. They seemed to say “There is no hurry! We’re all alive together! There’s enough for all; no need to get there first!” They knew. The golden day lay waiting outside with overflowing beauty, and he who had brought them in stood just behind this beauty that hid and covered them. When they had eaten and drunk, they, too, would come and join the search. Exceedingly beautiful they were—the shy grace of the dainty bird, the brilliant wasp in black and gold, the soft brown bee, the magnificent Purple Emperor, fresh from the open spaces above the windy forest: all said the same big, joyful thing, “We are alive!… No hurry!…”
The trio flew down the passage, took the stairs in leaps and bounds, raced across the hall where the back-door, standing open, framed the lawn and garden in a blaze of sunshine.
And as Uncle Felix followed, half dancing like the other two, he saw a little thing that vaguely reminded him of—another little thing. The memory was vague and far away; there was a curious distance in it, like the distance of a dream recalled in the day-light, no lon
ger what is called quite real. For his eye caught something gleaming on the side-table below the presentation clock, and the odd, ridiculous word that sprang into his mind was “salver.” It was the silver salver on which Thompson brought in visitors’ cards. But it was a plate as well; and, being a plate, he remembered vaguely something about a collection. The association of ideas worked itself out in a remote and dreamlike way; he felt in his pocket for a shilling, a sixpence, or a threepenny bit, and wondered for a second where the big, dark building was to which all this belonged. Something was changed, it seemed. His clothes, this dancing sunshine, joy and laughter. The world was new. What did it mean?…
“No bells are ringing,” flashed back the flying letters in a spray.
He was on the point of catching something by the tail… when he saw the children waiting for him on the sunny lawn outside. He ran out instantly to join them. They had noticed nothing odd, apparently. It had never even occurred to them. And in himself the memory dived away, its very trail obliterated as though it had not been.
For this was Sunday morning, yet Sunday had not—happened.
HIDE-AND-SEEK
..................
III
THE GARDEN CLUNG CLOSE AND soft about the Old Mill House as a mood clings about the emotion that has summoned it. Uncle Felix, Tim, and Judy were as much a part of it as the lilac, hyacinths, and tulips. Any minute, it seemed, the butterflies and bees and birds might settle on them too.
For a bloom of exquisite, fresh wonder lay upon the earth, lay softly and secure as though it need never pass away. No fading of daylight could dim the glory of all the promises of joy the day contained, no hint of waning anywhere. “There is no hurry,” seemed written on the very leaves and blades of grass. “We’re all alive together! Come and—look!” The garden, lying there so gently in its beauty, hid a secret.
Yet, though all was so calm and peaceful, there was nowhere the dulness of stagnation. Life brimmed the old-world garden with incessant movement that flashed dancing and rhythm even into things called stationary. The joy of existence ran riot everywhere without check or hindrance; there was no time—to pause and die. For the sunlight did not merely lie upon the air—it poured; wind did not blow—it breathed, ambushed one minute among the rose-trees just above the ground, and cantering next through the crests of the busy limes. The elms and horse-chestnuts that ordinarily grew now leaped—leaped upwards to the sun; while all flying things—birds, insects, bees, and butterflies—passed in and out like darting threads of colour, pinning the beauty into a patterned tapestry for all to see. The entire day was charged with the natural delight of endless, sheer existence. It was visible.
Each detail, moreover, claimed attention, as though never seen properly before; no longer dulled by familiarity, but shaking off its “ordinary” appearance, proud to be looked at, naked and alive. The rivulet ran on, but did not run away; the gravel paths, soft as rolled brown sugar, led somewhere, but led in both directions, each of them inviting; the blue of the sky did not stay “up there and far away,” but dropped down close in myriad flakes, lifting the green carpet of the lawn to meet it. The day seemed like a turning circle that changed every moment to show another aspect of its gorgeous pattern, yet, while changing, only turned, unable to grow older or to pass away. There was something real at last, something that could be known, enjoyed—something of eternity about it. It was real.
“Wherever has he got to?” exclaimed Judy, trying to pierce the distances of earth and sky with distended eyes. “He can’t be very far away, because—I kissed him.”
Tim, sitting beside her on the grass, felt the exquisite mystery of it too. It was marvellous that any one could vanish in such a way. But he hesitated too. He felt uncertain about something. His thoughts flew off to that strange wood he loved to play in. He remembered the warning: “Beware the centre, if you enter; For once you’re there, you disappear!” But this explanation did not appeal to him as likely now. He stared at Judy and his uncle. Some one had touched him, making him warm and happy. He remembered that distinctly. He had caught a glimpse—though a glimpse too marvellous to be seen for long, even to be remembered properly. “But there’s no good looking unless we know where to look,” he remarked. “Is there?”
“He’s just gone out like a candle,” whispered Judy.
“Extror’nary,” declared her brother, hugging the excitement that thrilled his heart. “But he can’t be really lost. I’m sure of that!”
And a great hush fell upon them all. Some one, it seemed, was listening; some one was watching; some one was waiting for them to move.
“Uncle?” they said in the same breath together, then hung upon his answer.
This authority hesitated a moment, looking about him expectantly as though for help.
“I think,” he stated shyly, “I think—he’s—hiding.”
Nothing more wonderful ever fell from grown-up lips. They had heard it said before—but only said. Now they realised it.
“Hiding!” They stood up; they could see further that way. But they waited for more detail before showing their last approval.
“Out here,” he added.
They were not quite sure. They expected a disclosure more out of the ordinary. It might be true, but—
“Hide-and-seek?” they repeated doubtfully. “But that’s just a game.”
They were unsettled in their minds.
“Not that kind,” he replied significantly. “I mean the kind the rain plays with the wind and leaves, the stream with the stones and roots along its bank, the rivers with the sea. That’s the kind of hide-and-seek I mean!”
He chose instinctively watery symbols. And his tone conveyed something so splendid and mysterious that it was impossible to doubt or hesitate a moment longer.
“Oh,” they exclaimed. “It never ends, you mean?”
“Goes on for ever and ever,” he murmured. “The moment the river finds the sea it disappears and the sea begins to look. The wind never really finds the clouds, and the sun and the stars—”
“We know!” they shouted, cutting his explanations short.
“Come on then!” he cried. “We’ve got the hunt of our lives before us.” And he began to run about in a circle like an animal trying to catch its tail.
“But are we to look for him, or he for us?” inquired the boy, after a preliminary canter over the flower-beds.
“We for him.” They sprang to attention and clapped their hands.
“It’s an enormous hide,” said Tim. “We may get lost ourselves. Better look out!”
And then they waited for instructions. But the odd thing was that their uncle waited too. There was this moment’s hesitation. They looked to him. The old fixed habit asserted itself: a grown-up must surely know more than they did. How could it be otherwise? In this case, however, the grown-up seemed in doubt. He looked at them. It was otherwise.
“It’s so long since I played this kind of hide-and-seek,” he murmured.
“I’ve rather forgotten—”
He stopped short. There certainly was a difficulty. Nobody knew in what direction to begin.
“It’s a snopportunity,” exclaimed Judy. “I’m sure of that!”
“We just look—everywhere!” cried Tim.
A light broke over their uncle’s face as if a ray of sunshine touched it. His mind cleared. Some old, forgotten joy, wonderful as the dawn, burst into his heart, rose to fire in his eyes, flooded his whole being. A glory long eclipsed, a dream interrupted years ago, an uncompleted game of earliest youth—all these rose from their hiding-place and recaptured him, soul and body. He glanced at the children. These things he had recaptured, they, of course, had never lost; this state and attitude of wonder was their natural prerogative; he had recovered the ownership of the world, but they had possessed it always. They knew the whole business from beginning to end—only they liked to hear it stated. That was obviously his duty as a grown-up: to stick the label on.
“Of cour
se,” he whispered, deliciously enchanted. “You’ve got it. It’s the snopportunity! The great thing is to—look.”
And, as if to prove him right, a flock of birds passed sweeping through the air above their heads, paused in mid-flight, wheeled, fluttered noisily a second, then scattered in all directions like leaves whirled by an eddy of loose, autumn wind.
“Come on,” cried Tim, remembering perhaps the “dodgy” butterfly and trying to imitate it with his arms and legs. “I know where to go first. Just follow me!”
“And there’ll be signs, remember,” Uncle Felix shouted as he followed.
“Whoever finds a sign must let the others know at once.”
They began with the feeling that they would discover the Stranger in a moment, sure of the places where he had tried cleverly to conceal himself, but soon began to realise that this was no ordinary game, and that he certainly knew of mysterious spots and corners they had never dreamed about. It was as Tim declared, “an enormous hide.” Come-Back Stumper’s cunning dive into bed was nothing compared to the skill with which this hider eluded their keen searching. There was another difference too. In Stumper’s case their interest had waned, they felt they had been cheated somehow, they knew themselves defeated and had given up the search. But here the interest was unfailing; it increased rather than diminished; they were ever on the very edge of finding him, and more than once they shrieked with joy, “I’ve got him!"—only to find they had been “very hot” but not quite hot enough. It was, like everything else upon this happy morning, endless.
It continued and continued, as naturally as the rivulet that ran for ever downhill to find the sea, that nothing, it seemed, could put a stop to, much less an end. The feeling that time was passing utterly disappeared; weeks, months, and years lay waiting somewhere near, but could be left or taken, used or not used, as they pleased. To take a week and use it was like picking a flower that looked much prettier growing sweetly in the sunny earth. Why pick it? It came to an end that way! The minutes, the hours and days, morning, noon and night as well, the very seasons too, offered themselves, and—vanished. They did not come and go, they were just “there”; and to steal into one or other of them at will was like stealing into one mood after another as the heart decreed. They were mere counters in the gorgeous and unending game. They helped to hide the mysterious Stranger who was evidently in the centre round which all life lay grouped so marvellously. They hid and covered him as moods hide and cover the heart that wears them—temporarily. Uncle Felix and the children used them somewhat in this way, it seems, for while they looked and hunted in and out among them, any minute, day or season was recoverable at will. They did not pass away. It was the seekers who passed through them. To Uncle Felix, at any rate, it seemed a fact—this joyous sensation of immense duration, yet of nothing passing away: the bliss of utter freedom. He gasped to realise it. But the children did not gasp. They had always known that nothing ever really came to an end. “The weather’s still here,” he heard Judy calling across the lawn to Tim—as though she had just been looking among December snowdrifts and had popped back again into the fragrance of midsummer hayfields. “The Equator’s made of golden butterflies, all shining,” the boy called back, having evidently just been round the world and seen its gleaming waist….
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 123