The Algernon Blackwood Collection

by Algernon Blackwood

  ‘Joe dear!’ said his wife as she entered,—’but you’ve got no air here!’ She opened a window, while he at once sprang up and opened another. Her manner gave him the impression that she had come in with a definite purpose; she had something important she wished to say. He decided to let it come out naturally. He would wait.

  ‘Not both,’ she said, ‘it makes a draught,’ and closed her own.

  ‘Bless you, my dear,’ he exclaimed, ‘you do look after me splendidly.’ He gave her a sudden hug and kiss that startled her. Looking at him in a puzzled, wistful way, she smiled, and something of long-forgotten days slipped in magically between them for an instant. He saw a yellow scarf across the smoke; she saw perhaps, a breathless boy with a field of golden buttercups behind him. . . .

  ‘You catch cold so easily,’ she mumbled, then added quickly, ‘the country will suit us all better, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘yet, once we’re there, we shall want to be somewhere else, I suppose——’

  ‘Oh, I hope not, Joe,’ with a Martha sigh. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘We can be, anyhow; we must remember that.’

  ‘Oh dear, Joe, you’re very restless these days,’ she exclaimed, and the way she said it made him realise her customary load of apprehension, her care-full, heavy way of taking life, seeing the difficulties first. Pessimism was a sure sign of waning life-forces. He felt pity and sympathy. And instantly an eddy of his recent whirlwind ideas swept down upon him and joy followed. He longed to communicate this joy to his wife, the joy she had known in her days of courtship long ago when the airy consciousness had touched her. And, as though to emphasise the contrast between their points of view, a wasp buzzed in through the open window just then, and Mother—shrank.

  In a flash he understood her very clearly. Her attitude to life was fear. Unable to leave the ground, she was always afraid of being caught. If she met a cow, it would toss her; a goat, it meant to butt her; a dog, a cat only waited an opportunity to bite or scratch, a wasp came in on purpose to sting her and not merely because it had lost its way. She invariably locked the door of her room and looked under the bed; she was nervous about lamps—they would blow up if she tried to put them out. Probably all these disasters would happen to her; her shrinking attitude of fear attracted the very thing she dreaded. People similarly would deceive her, since she expected, even demanded, it of them. In a word, the trouble she dreaded she attracted.

  ‘Fly at anything you’re afraid of,’ he said suddenly. ‘That paralyses it. It can’t happen then. Or, better still, fly over it.’ But she looked so bewildered, puzzled, even unhappy, that he got up and took her hand. ‘Don’t mind me, Mother dear,’ he said soothingly; ‘I’ve got an idea, that’s all.’ His heart brimmed full with comfort; her face said so plainly ‘I don’t understand, I feel out of it, I’m a little frightened! Only I can’t express it quite.’ ‘It’s immense but very simple,’ he went on; ‘Joan put it into me, I believe, first, and Joan was born out of us both, out of you and me, in those brilliant happy days when we were afraid of nothing. So it belongs to you, too, you see.’ He paused, giving her an opportunity to state her mission.

  ‘It’s all a bit beyond me, I’m afraid,’ said Mother patiently, an anxious expression in her eyes. But there was admiration as well. It occurred to her perhaps that she might have married a genius after all. She did not yet make her special and particular announcement, however. She would do so in her own way presently, no doubt.

  ‘Mother,’ he said abruptly, ‘there’s nothing in the universe beyond you.’ He dropped her hand and stood erect, opening his short arms to the sky outside the window. The wasp buzzed out at that moment, and left him her undivided attention. His eyes were fixed upon the clouds where the swallows darted. ‘Mother,’ he went on, ‘I’m illogical, unscientific, ignorant rather, and very confused in mind—in mind,’ he emphasised ‘but this immense idea beyond all books and learning has come to me, and I’m sure it’s wisdom, though I call it Air.’

  ‘Air,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Air, dear, yes, and that means living like the birds, more carelessly, more lightly, taking no thought for the morrow—not shirking work and duties and so on, but——’

  ‘But we know all that,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean, we’ve read it. It’s this sort of having-faith business. It’s all right for people with money.’

  ‘The very people,’ he corrected her, ‘for whom it’s most difficult.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ and she heaved another Martha sigh. There was a pause. ‘Couldn’t you put it in a book, Joe—write it?’ she asked, pride in one eye and ambition in the other. He looked very much of a man, standing there so erect with his eyes fixed on space above her head. ‘We could do with a bit extra, too.’

  ‘And might help other people,’ he added, ‘eh?’

  She said nothing to that. ‘It might sell; you never know.’

  He shook his head. He realised, once again, the pathos in her, and at the same time that she vampired him. It’s the pathetic people that ever vampire and exhaust those who are more vital.

  ‘I’m not literary,’ he replied, ‘not literary in that way. Only the few with air in them would catch my idea, and the others, the commonplace Press in particular which decides the sale of a book, would find a joke they could understand and call it air. And air is gas, you know.’ He chuckled. ‘Whereas what I mean is Air—instantaneous unifier of thought and action, the L.C.D. of a new order of existence, a new point of view born of collective sympathy, as with a flock of birds, community involving something akin to the strange bird-wisdom and bird-knowledge—’ he took a deep breath—’the solvent of all philosophic and religious problems——’

  She caught a word and clutched it. ‘Religious people,’ she put it hurriedly, ‘might buy it—a book like that.’

  He came back from his flight with a thud, landing beside her. ‘Their imagination is too sluggish, dear. As a rule, too, they have not intellect enough to detect the comic element in life. They can’t laugh at themselves. They exclude joy and fun and play. They never really sing.’

  ‘They do, yes,’ said Mother—’I mean they don’t. That’s quite true.’

  She settled herself more comfortably in her chair. Evidently she appreciated his talking to her of his intimate thought; she felt herself taken into his confidence and liked it. It made it easier for her to say what she had come to say. Noticing her gesture his own sympathy and pity deepened. ‘Ah, Mother dear,’ he exclaimed, touched by a sudden pathos,’ it’s wonderful to be alive, isn’t it? And to be able to think and feel ideas tearing about inside you? It’s worth everything—just to be able to say “I am,” and still more wonderful if you can add “I go.” That’s the secret. Live in the interest of the actual moment, but never imagine that it ties you there, eh? Life lies at your feet in a map; you can take what direction you please. Choice is your own, you can take or leave—as literally as when you stand above a jeweller’s counter. One person chooses the bright stones, another the dark. It’s all a matter of selection. On a picnic you may select the midge that stings you, the few drops of rain that fell, or the midges that did not sting you. . . . You can choose gloom or joy, I mean, just as you——’

  ‘Joe dear,’ she interrupted, sitting forward in her chair, ‘there’s something I wanted to say to you—seriously.’

  He took her hand again. He had noticed the growing pucker between her eyes and knew the difficulty she experienced in unburdening herself of something. He had chattered in this way to give her confidence and show his sympathy. But she had not followed, had not understood. She had remained safe in the mouth of her hole.

  ‘Talking of religion, as you were just now,’ she went on with an effort rather, ‘I—I wanted to talk to you about it.’ There was a hint, but a very tiny hint, of challenge in her voice.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said encouragingly, patting the hand he held.

  There was a mo
ment’s silence, while their eyes met and he smiled into her troubled face. What she was about to say meant much to her, and she feared opposition. She took a deeper breath.

  ‘I’m thinking of becoming High Church,’ she announced.

  ‘Admirable!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m delighted!’

  ‘What! You don’t mind, dear?’

  ‘It’s just exactly what’ll suit you,’ he replied happily. ‘Just what you need.’

  ‘But very High Church—it means confession, you know,’ she went on quickly, relieving herself of ideas evidently long pent up, ‘and it must be very helpful, I think, knowing one’s sins forgiven.’

  ‘Helpful, and very pleasant,’ he agreed, lowering his eyes from hers. The sudden sense of his own failure towards her pained him. She needed some one to lean on, to confide in, to unburden herself upon, and she turned to a paid official instead of to himself. She didn’t know yet that she could confess to herself and so forgive herself, which meant understanding her sins and deciding not to repeat them. She needed some one who could do this for her. It was the stage she was at. ‘Splendid,’ he reflected, ‘there were creeds for every stage. What a mercy!’ And while she explained herself now without shyness, but with a confusion as great as his own, at his stage, he listened to her as vaguely as, doubtless, she had listened to him. He glanced down at his newspaper, not to read it exactly, but in the way a man who wants to think—to think subconsciously perhaps—takes up the object nearest to his hand and regards it attentively. His eye ran along the print, while his thought was: ‘She wants something, some one to lean upon, of course, poor soul. I’m not sufficient, I don’t give her sympathy enough. I’ll do better in future. Her wings are on the flutter.’

  ‘ . . . Something to guide and help one a bit,’ he heard her saying.

  ‘The very thing, Mother, the very thing,’ he put in. ‘I’m so glad. It’ll speed you up. Quickening—that’s it, isn’t it? Quickening of the spirit, and of the body too,’ he added. ‘You’ll be flying with us next!’

  And while she poured into his ears the confused but genuine story of her need, his own mind continued its own wordless thoughts. He saw the millions of history wading through the creeds, and, thank heaven, there were creeds enough to satisfy every type. For himself, a creed seemed to play the rôle of a porter in a mountain climb—carrying the weight from the climber’s shoulders, but never guiding. Nevertheless, he blessed them all, and the Creed Primers in a long series with red covers and black lettering flashed across his memory. ‘All true,’ he realised, ‘every blessed one of them. And no wonder each man swears by his own that it alone is true. For it is true; it’s exactly what he needs.’

  ‘ . . . I was sure you wouldn’t mind, Joe dear. I knew you’d understand,’ came from Mother at last.

  ‘And so you shall, dear. It’ll help you along magnificently. We’ll start the moment we get into the country—start it up, eh?’

  ‘I have begun already,’ she said, more sure of herself.

  ‘Better still,’ was his reply.

  She got up, patted his shoulder awkwardly, kissed him, and stood a moment by his chair; a second later the door closed behind her. But hardly had her step died away along the corridor than the words his eye had rested upon absent-mindedly in the newspaper, rose and offered themselves. It was a coincidence, of course, but coincidences do occur. The sentence lay in the middle of a paragraph concerned with some new book or other, a book on Russia, he discovered, by glancing higher: ‘. . . She has a far-reaching vision, and her Church at least has for long been preoccupied with the idea of the union of humanity. . . . The idea of brotherhood and even universal brotherhood, permeates all classes of society . . .’; while opposite, and level with it in the adjoining column, oddly enough, was a notice of an article in some important Review or other with the title ‘The New Religion.’ The sentence quoted that caught his eye referred to the Church of England: ‘A pitifully forlorn body, bankrupt in valour and policy, resource and prestige.’ No one To-day with spiritual needs could, apparently, rely upon it; the new spirit regarded it as prehistoric. The people were far ahead of it already. . . .

  He laid the paper down and wondered; the two statements capped his flying ideas so appositely.

  ‘Yes, there’s a new thing coming into life,’ he exclaimed aloud. ‘It’s in the air, even in this vulgar halfpenny paper.’ He relit his pipe and smoked a moment hard. ‘Of course it’s not generally realised yet,’ he went on to himself between the puffs; ‘but that’s not odd after all: it’s taken the world two thousand years to realise Christ, and only a few realised Him when He was there. When—how—will this new spirit touch us all . . .? What’s got to happen first, I wonder?’

  He sighed and a curious shiver ran down his spine. Nothing, he remembered, was born, nothing big and deep ever came to birth, without travail and upheaval. He was conscious of this strange shiver in his being. He almost shuddered. His pipe went out. Through the open window he looked down upon the crowded pavements, but the next instant looked up to where the swallows danced and twittered happily in the summer light and air.

  The vision in Maida Vale came back to him when the masses, clothed in black, had seemed to rise and open a million mighty wings. He remembered the singular idea of blood that had accompanied it. And again a shudder touched him.

  ‘Something’s got to happen first,’ he sighed, ‘before all can take the air. Something’s got to happen.’ And then, as a burst of sunshine and cool wind entered the room together by the window, a sudden conviction swept him off his feet. The world blew open; the nations rose in a stupendous flock before his eyes; humanity as a unit spread its wings. ‘something’s going to happen,’ he exclaimed, ‘but out of it will grow the new birth of happy air!’ There was both joy and shuddering in his heart, but the joy was uppermost.

  He met his wife in the passage on his way out a little later. She button-holed him for a moment, a new confidence and lightness in her, it almost seemed. She was High Church now. It concerned their daughter. Joan, she mentioned, was not quite like other girls of her own age. She was growing very fast in mind as well as in body. She suggested a doctor for her. ‘A London doctor, and before we go to the country. We might have her overhauled, you know. She seems to me light-headed sometimes.’ Mother felt sure it would be wise. This time she was not anxious, did not worry as usual; she merely thought of the girl’s welfare in the best way that occurred to her. From her new High Church pedestal she looked out upon the world with a temporary new confidence, at any rate.

  ‘Admirable,’ agreed her husband. ‘I’ll take her myself to-morrow.’

  ‘Why not to-day, dear?’ she asked, relieved that she need not go herself.

  ‘We’re off to look at cottages,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take her to-morrow.’ And the matter was settled thus.

  CHAPTER XV.

  ..................

  THE VISIT TO THE DOCTOR was a great success, and Wimble left two guineas on the marble mantelpiece without regret. Joan was growing rapidly in mind and body, and mind and body should develop evenly if possible, otherwise there must be unbalance somewhere. ‘It’s a nervous, restless age we live in,’ observed the physician; ‘the mind is apt to take in too much nourishment and shoot ahead much quicker than it did when we were young, Mr. Wimble, and unless the body is well cared for, the nervous system cannot possibly keep even pace with the mass of instruction it receives at every turn. The young it is wisest to consider as healthy animals that need play, food, and rest in right proportions. Personally, I prefer to see the mind develop a trifle late, rather than too early.’ He advised, therefore, play, rest, and ample nourishment. ‘Half an hour’s rest in the afternoon, or better still, an hour,’ he added, ‘is an excellent thing.’ He looked at Joan searchingly, with both severity and kindness, for he had that mixture of father and policeman which belongs to most successful doctors. Joan felt a little guilty. She had not read Erewhon, of course, yet was vaguely aware she had done something
wrong. To be obliged to see a doctor touched the sense of shame in her. ‘The country’s just the thing for you,’ the specialist mentioned, ignoring the two guineas that lay within the reach of his hand, ‘the very place.’ And Wimble felt relieved as he went out. It was like a visit to the police that had ended happily. Neither he nor Joan had been arrested, but they had been told they must not do it again. He had paid a fine.

  ‘Mother’ll be very pleased with that,’ he remarked, while Joan, glancing up quickly, seemed glad it was over. ‘It’s the first time I’ve ever felt ill,’ she said. ‘The moment I saw him I felt I ought to be ill.’

  ‘Suggestion,’ he mumbled. ‘Never mind. Mother’ll feel better now that you’ve been. That’s something.’

  They walked happily down Seymour Street together. ‘Don’t skip, child. It looks funny in a town. Besides, you’re too big to skip.’ She took a slower pace to suit his slower little legs. But even so there were springs in her feet, and her movements seemed to push the solid earth away as though she wanted to rise. ‘Flow, fly, flow,’ she hummed, ‘wherever I am, I go.’

  ‘I shouldn’t hum in the street, dear, if I were you,’ he chided. People were staring, he noticed. ‘It looks so odd. I mean it sounds unusual.’

  She turned her bright, happy eyes upon him. ‘Daddy, that’s the doctor,’ she warned him, ‘you’re saying “No” to everything.’ She came close and took his arm, whispering at the same time, ‘I believe you’re sorry about the two guineas. You’re trying to get your money’s worth, as Tom calls it,’ and the shaft was so true it made him laugh.

  They turned down into the great thoroughfare of Oxford Street. It was brimmed with people, a river filled and running over. They crossed it somehow, he rather like a bewildered rabbit, a step forwards, a pause, a hesitating step backwards, a glance in both directions that saw nothing accurately, and then a flurried run; Joan catching his outstretched hand and pulling him against his will and better judgment, while his little coat-tails flapped in the wind. They landed on the curb, merged in the stream of pedestrians, bumped into some, collided with others, and were swept round the swirling corner of the Circus into the downhill torrent of Regent Street.