Tom, meanwhile, bathed in a sea of new sensations. Distance held meaning for him, separation was a kind of keen starvation. He made discoveries— watched the moon rise, heard the wind, and knew the stars shone over the meadows below the house, things that before had been merely commonplace. He pictured these details as they might occur in France, and once when he saw a Swallow Tail butterfly, knowing that the few English specimens were said to have crossed the Channel, he had a touch of ecstasy, as though the proud insect brought him a message from the fields below the Finishing School. Also he read French books and found the language difficult but exquisite. All sweet and lovely things came from France, and at school he attempted violent friendships with three French boys and the Foreign Language masters, friendships that were not appreciated because they were not understood. But he made progress with the language, and it stood him in good stead in his examinations. He was aiming now at an Engineering College. He passed in—eventually—brilliantly enough.
Before that satisfactory moment, however, he knew difficult times. His inner life was in a splendid tumult. From the books he purloined he read a good many facts concerning waves and wave-formation. He learned, among other things, that all sensory impressions reached the nerves by impact of force in various wave-lengths; heat, light and sound broke upon the skin and eyes and ears in vibrations of æther or air that advanced in steady series of wavy formations which, though not quite similar to his dream-wave, were akin to it. Sensation, which is life, was thus linked on to his deepest, earliest memory.
A wave, however, instantly rejoined the parent stock and formed again. And perhaps it was the repetition of the wave—its forming again and breaking again—that impressed him most. For he imagined his impulses, emotions, tendencies all taking this wave-form, sweeping his moods up to a certain point, then dropping back into his centre—the Sea, he called it— which held steady below all temporary fluctuations—only to form once more and happen all over again.
With his moral and spiritual life it was similar: a wind came, wind of desire, wind of yearning, wind of hope, and he felt his strength accumulating, rising, bending with power upon the object that he had in view. To take that object exactly at the top of the wave was to achieve success; to miss that moment was to act with a receding and diminishing power, to dissipate himself in foam and spray before he could retire for a second rise. He saw existence as a wave. Life itself was a wave that rose, swept, curved, and finally—must break.
He merely visualised these feelings into pictures; he did not think them out, nor get them into words. The wave became symbolic to him of all life’s energies. It was the way in which all sensation expressed itself. Lettice was the high-water mark on shore he longed to reach and sweep back into his own tumultuous being. In that great underneath, the Sea, they belonged eternally together.…
One thing, however, troubled him exceedingly: he read that a wave was a segment of a circle, the perfect form, yet that it never completed itself. The ground on which it broke prevented the achievement of the circle. That, he felt, was a pity, and might be serious; there was always that sinister retirement for another effort that yet never did, and never could, result in complete achievement. He watched the waves a good deal on the shore, when occasion offered in the holidays—they came from France!—and made a discovery on his own account that was not mentioned in any of the books. And it was this: that the top of the wave, owing to its curve, was reflected in the under part. Its end, that is, was foretold in its beginning.
There was a want of scientific accuracy here, a confusion of time and space, perhaps, yet he noticed the idea and registered the thrill. At the moment when the wave was poised to fall its crest shone reflected in the base from which it rose.
But the more he watched the waves on the shore, the more puzzled he became. They seemed merely a movement of the sea itself. They endlessly repeated themselves. They had no true, separate existence until they— broke. Nor could he determine whether the crest or the base was the beginning, for the two ran along together, and what was above one minute was below the minute after. Which part started first he never could decide. The head kept chasing the tail in an effort to join up. Only when a wave broke and fell was it really—a wave. It had to ‘happen’ to earn its name.
There were ripples too. These indicated the direction of the parent wave upon whose side they happened, but not its purpose. Moods were ripples: they varied the surface of life but did not influence its general direction.
His own life followed a similar behaviour; he was full of ripples that were for ever trying to complete themselves by happening in acts. But the main Wave was the thing—end and beginning sweeping along together, both at the same time somehow. That is, he knew the end and could foretell it. It rose from the great ‘beneath’ which was the sea in him. It must topple over in the end and complete itself. He knew it would; he knew it would hurt; he knew also that he would not shirk it when it came. For it was a repetition somehow.
‘I jolly well mean to enjoy the smash,’ he felt. ‘I know one pair of Eyes already; there’s only the Whiff and the other Eyes to come. The moment I find them, I’ll go bang into it.’ He experienced a delicious shiver at the prospect.
One thing, however, remained uncertain: the stuff the Wave was made of. Once he discovered that, he would discover also—where the smash would come.
CHAPTER IV.
..................
‘CAN A CHAP FEEL THINGS coming?’ he asked his father. He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen then. ‘I mean, when you feel them coming, does that mean they must come?’
His father listened warily. There had been many similar questions lately.
‘You can feel ordinary things coming,’ he replied; ‘things due to association of ideas.’
Tom looked up. ‘Association?’ he queried uncertainly.
‘If you feel hungry,’ explained the doctor, ‘you know that dinner’s coming; you associate the hunger with the idea of eating. You recognise them because you’ve felt them both together before.’
‘They ought to come, then?’
‘Dinner does come—ordinarily speaking. You’ve learned to expect it from the hunger. You could, of course, prevent it coming,’ he added dryly, ‘only that would be bad for you. You need it.’
Tom reflected a moment with a puckered face. His father waited for him to ask more, hoping he would. The boy felt the sympathy and invitation.
‘Before,’ he repeated, picking out the word with sudden emphasis, his mind evidently breaking against a problem. ‘But if I felt hungry for something I hadn’t had before——?’
‘In that case you wouldn’t call it hunger. You wouldn’t know what to call it. You’d feel a longing of some kind and would wonder what it meant.’
Tom’s next words surprised him considerably. They came promptly, but with slow and thoughtful emphasis.
‘So that if I know what I want, and call it dinner, or pain, or—love, or something,’ he exclaimed, ‘it means that I’ve had it before? And that’s why I know it.’ The last five words were not a question but a statement of fact apparently.
The doctor pretended not to notice the variants of dinner. At least he did not draw attention to them.
‘Not necessarily,’ he answered. ‘The things you feel you want may be the things that everybody wants—things common to the race. Such wants are naturally in your blood; you feel them because your parents, your grandparents, and all humanity in turn behind your own particular family have always wanted them.’
‘They come out of the sea, you mean?’
‘That’s very well expressed, Tom. They come out of the sea of human nature, which is everywhere the same, yes.’
The compliment seemed to annoy the boy.
‘Of course,’ he said bluntly. ‘But—if it hurts?’ The words were sharply emphasised.
‘Association of ideas again. Toothache suggests the pincers. You want to get rid of the pain, but the pain has to get worse before it can ge
t better. You know that, so you face it gladly—to get it over.’
‘You face it, yes,’ said Tom. ‘It makes you better in the end.’
It suddenly dawned upon him that his learned father knew nothing, nothing at least that could help him. He knew only what other people knew. He turned then, and asked the ridiculous question that lay at the back of his mind all the time. It cost him an effort, for his father would certainly deem it foolish.
‘Can a thing happen before it really happens?’
Dr. Kelverdon may or may not have thought the question foolish; his face was hidden a moment as he bent down to put the Indian rug straight with his hand. There was no impatience in the movement, nor was there mockery in his expression, when he resumed his normal position. He had gained an appreciable interval of time—some fifteen seconds. ‘Tom, you’ve got good ideas in that head of yours,’ he said calmly; ‘but what is it that you mean exactly?’
Tom was quite ready to amplify. He knew what he meant:
‘If I know something is going to happen, doesn’t that mean that it has already happened—and that I remember it?’
‘You’re a psychologist as well as engineer, Tom,’ was the approving reply. ‘It’s like this, you see: In emotion, with desire in it, can predict the fulfilment of that desire. In great hunger you imagine you’re eating all sorts of good things.’
‘But that’s looking forward,’; the boy pounced on the mistake. ‘It’s not remembering.’
‘That is the difficulty,’ explained his father; ‘to decide whether you’re anticipating only—or actually remembering.’
‘I see,’ Tom said politely.
All this analysis concealed merely: it did not reveal. The thing itself dived deeper out of sight with every phrase. He knew quite well the difference between anticipating and remembering. With the latter there was the sensation of having been through it. Each time he remembered seeing Lettice the sensation was the same, but when he looked forward to seeing her again the sensation varied with his mood.
‘For instance, Tom—between ourselves this—we’re going to send Mary to that Finishing School in France where Lettice is.’ The doctor, it seemed, spoke carelessly while he gathered his papers together with a view to going out. He did not look at the boy; he said it walking about the room. ‘Mary will look forward to it and think about it so much that when she gets there it will seem a little familiar to her, as if—almost as if she remembered it.’
‘Thank you, father; I see, yes,’ murmured Tom. But in his mind a voice said so distinctly ‘Rot!’ that he was half afraid the word was audible.
‘You see the difficulty, eh? And the difference?’
‘Rather,’ exclaimed the boy with decision.
And thereupon, without the slightest warning, he looked out of the window and asked certain other questions. Evidently they cost him effort; his will forced them out. Since his back was turned he did not see his father’s understanding smile, but neither did the latter see the lad’s crimson cheeks, though possibly he divined them.
‘Father—is Miss Aylmer older than me?’
‘Ask Mary, Tom. She’ll know. Or, stay—I’ll ask her for you—if you like.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I just wanted to know,’ with an assumed indifference that barely concealed the tremor in the voice.
‘I suppose,’ came a moment later, ‘a Member of Parliament is a grander thing than a doctor, is it?’
‘That depends,’ replied his father, ‘upon the man himself. Some M.P.’s vote as they’re told, and never open their mouths in the House. Some doctors, again——’
But the boy interrupted him. He quite understood the point.
‘It’s fine to be an engineer, though, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘It’s a real profession?’
‘The world couldn’t get along without them, or the Government either. It’s a most important profession indeed.’
Tom, playing idly with the swinging tassel of the window-blind, asked one more question. His voice and manner were admirably under control, but there was a gulp, and his father heard and noted it.
‘Shall I have—shall I be rich enough—to marry—some day?’
Dr. Kelverdon crossed the room and put his hand on his son’s shoulder, but did not try to make him show his face. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘you will, my boy—when the time comes.’ He paused a moment, then added: ‘But money will not make you a distinguished man, whereas if you become a famous engineer, you’ll have money of your own and—any nice girl would be proud to have you.’
‘I see,’ said Tom, tying the strings of the tassel into knots, then untying them again with a visible excess of energy—and the conversation came somewhat abruptly to an end. He was aware of the invitation to talk further about Lettice Aylmer, but he resisted and declined it. What was the use? He knew his own mind already about that.
Yet, strictly speaking, Tom was not imaginative. It was as if an instinct taught him. More and more, the Wave, with its accompanying details of Eyes and Whiff, seemed to him the ghost of some dim memory that brought a forgotten warning in its train—something missed, something to be repeated, something to be faced and learned and—mastered.…
His father, meanwhile, went forth upon his rounds that day, much preoccupied about the character of his eldest boy. He felt a particular interest in the peculiar obsession that he knew overshadowed the young, growing life. It puzzled him; he found no clue to it; in his thought he was aware of a faint uneasiness, although he did not give it a definite name—something akin to what the mother felt. Admitting he was baffled, he fell back, however, upon such generalities as prenatal influence, ancestral, racial, and so eventually dismissed it from his active mind.
Tom, meanwhile, for his part, also went along his steep, predestined path. The nightmare had entirely deserted him, he now rarely dreamed; and his outer life shaped bravely, as with a boy of will, honesty, and healthy ambition might be expected. Neither Wavy feeling, Eyes, nor Whiff obtruded themselves: they left him alone and waited: he never forgot them, but he did not seek them out. Things once firmly realised remained in his consciousness; he knew that his life was rising like a wave, that all his energies worked in the form of waves, his moods and wishes, his passions, emotions, yearnings—all expressed themselves by means of this unalterable formula, yet all contributed finally to the one big important Wave whose climax would be reached only when it fell. He distinguished between Wave and Ripples. He, therefore, did not trouble himself with imaginary details; he did not search; he waited. This steady strength was his. His firm, square jaw and the fearless eyes of grey beneath the shock of straight dark hair told plainly enough the kind of stuff behind them. No one at school took unnecessary liberties with Tom Kelverdon.
But, having discovered one pair of Eyes, he did not let them go. In his earnest, dull, inflexible way he loved their owner with a belief in her truth and loyalty that admitted of no slightest question. Had his mother divined the strength and value of his passion, she would surely have asked herself with painful misgiving: ‘Is she—can she be— worthy of my boy?’ But his mother guessed it as little as any one else; even the doctor had forgotten those early signs of its existence; and Tom was not the kind to make unnecessary confidences, nor to need sympathy in any matter he was sure about.
There was down now upon his upper lip, for he was close upon seventeen and the Entrance Examination was rising to the crest of its particular minor wave, yet during the two years’ interval nothing—no single fact—had occurred to justify his faith or to confirm its amazing certainty within his heart. Mary, his sister, had not gone after all to the Finishing School in France; other girl friends came to spend the holidays with her; the Irish member of Parliament had either died or sunk into another kind of oblivion; the paths of the Kelverdons and the Aylmer family had gone apart; and the name of Lettice no longer thrilled the air across the tea-table, nor chance reports of her doings filled the London house with sudden light.
Yet for Tom she
existed more potently than ever. His yearning never lessened; he was sure she remembered him as he remembered her; he persuaded himself that she thought about him; she doubtless knew that he was going to be an engineer. He had cut a thread from the carpet in the hall—from the exact spot her flying foot had touched that Tuesday when she scampered off from him—and kept it in the drawer beside the Eastern packet that enshrined the Whiff. Occasionally he took it out and touched it, fingered it, even caressed it; the thread and the perfume belonged together; the ritual of the childish years altered a little—worship raised it to a higher level.
He saw her with her hair done up now, long skirts, and a softer expression in the tender, faithful eyes; the tomboy in her had disappeared; she gazed at him with admiration. The face was oddly real, it came very close to his own; once or twice, indeed, their cheeks almost touched: ‘almost,’ because he withdrew instantly, uneasily aware that he had gone too far— not that the intimacy was unwelcome, but that it was somehow premature. And the instant he drew back, a kind of lightning distance came between them; he saw her eyes across an immense and curious interval, though whether of time or space he could not tell. There was strange heat and radiance in it—as of some blazing atmosphere that was not England.
The eyes, moreover, held a new expression when this happened—pity. And with this pity came also pain: the strange, rich pain broke over all the other happier feelings in him and swamped them utterly.…
The Algernon Blackwood Collection Page 206