by H. G. Wells
The Angel had the bow in his hand, and by way of answer drove it acrossthe strings. The quality of the note made the Vicar turn suddenly.
The Angel's hand tightened on the instrument. The bow flew back andflickered, and an air the Vicar had never heard before danced in hisears. The Angel shifted the fiddle under his dainty chin and went onplaying, and as he played his eyes grew bright and his lips smiled. Atfirst he looked at the Vicar, then his expression became abstracted. Heseemed no longer to look at the Vicar, but through him, at somethingbeyond, something in his memory or his imagination, something infinitelyremote, undreamt of hitherto....
The Vicar tried to follow the music. The air reminded him of a flame, itrushed up, shone, flickered and danced, passed and reappeared. No!--itdid not reappear! Another air--like it and unlike it, shot up after it,wavered, vanished. Then another, the same and not the same. It remindedhim of the flaring tongues that palpitate and change above a newly litfire. There are two airs--or _motifs_, which is it?--thought the Vicar.He knew remarkably little of musical technique. They go dancing up, onepursuing the other, out of the fire of the incantation, pursuing,fluctuating, turning, up into the sky. There below was the fire burning,a flame without fuel upon a level space, and there two flirtingbutterflies of sound, dancing away from it, up, one over another, swift,abrupt, uncertain.
"Flirting butterflies were they!" What was the Vicar thinking of? Wherewas he? In the little room next to his study, of course! And the Angelstanding in front of him smiling into his face, playing the violin, andlooking through him as though he was only a window----. That _motif_again, a yellow flare, spread fanlike by a gust, and now one, then witha swift eddying upward flight the other, the two things of fire andlight pursuing one another again up into that clear immensity.
The study and the realities of life suddenly faded out of the Vicar'seyes, grew thinner and thinner like a mist that dissolves into air, andhe and the Angel stood together on a pinnacle of wrought music, aboutwhich glittering melodies circled, and vanished, and reappeared. He wasin the land of Beauty, and once more the glory of heaven was upon theAngel's face, and the glowing delights of colour pulsated in his wings.Himself the Vicar could not see. But I cannot tell you of the vision ofthat great and spacious land, of its incredible openness, and height,and nobility. For there is no space there like ours, no time as we knowit; one must needs speak by bungling metaphors and own in bitternessafter all that one has failed. And it was only a vision. The wonderfulcreatures flying through the aether saw them not as they stood there,flew through them as one might pass through a whisp of mist. The Vicarlost all sense of duration, all sense of necessity----
"Ah!" said the Angel, suddenly putting down the fiddle.
The Vicar had forgotten the book on Political Economy, had forgotteneverything until the Angel had done. For a minute he sat quite still.Then he woke up with a start. He was sitting on the old iron-boundchest.
"Really," he said slowly, "you are very clever."
He looked about him in a puzzled way. "I had a kind of vision while youwere playing. I seemed to see----. What did I see? It has gone."
He stood up with a dazzled expression upon his face. "I shall never playthe violin again," he said. "I wish you would take it to your room--andkeep it----. And play to me again. I did not know anything of musicuntil I heard you play. I do not feel as though I had ever heard anymusic before."
He stared at the Angel, then about him at the room. "I have never feltanything of this kind with music before," he said. He shook his head. "Ishall never play again."
THE ANGEL EXPLORES THE VILLAGE.
XXIV.
Very unwisely, as I think, the Vicar allowed the Angel to go down intothe village by himself, to enlarge his ideas of humanity. Unwisely,because how was he to imagine the reception the Angel would receive? Notthoughtlessly, I am afraid. He had always carried himself with decorumin the village, and the idea of a slow procession through the littlestreet with all the inevitable curious remarks, explanations, pointings,was too much for him. The Angel might do the strangest things, thevillage was certain to think them. Peering faces. "Who's _he_ got now?"Besides, was it not his duty to prepare his sermon in good time? TheAngel, duly directed, went down cheerfully by himself--still innocent ofmost of the peculiarities of the human as distinguished from the angelicturn of mind.
The Angel walked slowly, his white hands folded behind his hunchedback, his sweet face looking this way and that. He peered curiously intothe eyes of the people he met. A little child picking a bunch of vetchand honeysuckle looked in his face, and forthwith came and put them inhis hand. It was about the only kindness he had from a human being(saving only the Vicar and one other). He heard Mother Gustick scoldingthat granddaughter of hers as he passed the door. "You _Brazen_Faggit--you!" said Mother Gustick. "You Trumpery Baggage!"
The Angel stopped, startled at the strange sounds of Mother Gustick'svoice. "Put yer best clo'es on, and yer feather in yer 'at, and off yougoes to meet en, fal lal, and me at 'ome slaving for ye. 'Tis a FancyLady you'll be wantin' to be, my gal, a walkin' Touch and Go, with yeridleness and finery----"
The voice ceased abruptly, and a great peace came upon the battered air."Most grotesque and strange!" said the Angel, still surveying thiswonderful box of discords. "Walking Touch and Go!" He did not know thatMrs Gustick had suddenly become aware of his existence, and wasscrutinizing his appearance through the window-blind. Abruptly the doorflew open, and she stared out into the Angel's face. A strangeapparition, grey and dusty hair, and the dirty pink dress unhooked toshow the stringy throat, a discoloured gargoyle, presently to beginspouting incomprehensible abuse.
"Now, then, Mister," began Mrs Gustick. "Have ye nothin' better to dothan listen at people's doors for what you can pick up?"
The Angel stared at her in astonishment.
"D'year!" said Mrs Gustick, evidently very angry indeed. "Listenin'."
"Have you any objection to my hearing...."
"Object to my hearing! Course I have! Whad yer think? You aint such aNinny...."
"But if ye didn't want me to hear, why did you cry out so loud? Ithought...."
"_You thought!_ Softie--that's what _you_ are! You silly girt staringGaby, what don't know any better than to come holding yer girt mouthwide open for all that you can catch holt on? And then off up there totell! You great Fat-Faced, Tale-Bearin' Silly-Billy! I'd be ashamed tocome poking and peering round quiet people's houses...."
The Angel was surprised to find that some inexplicable quality in hervoice excited the most disagreeable sensations in him and a strongdesire to withdraw. But, resisting this, he stood listening politely (asthe custom is in the Angelic Land, so long as anyone is speaking). Theentire eruption was beyond his comprehension. He could not perceive anyreason for the sudden projection of this vituperative head, out ofinfinity, so to speak. And questions without a break for an answer wereoutside his experience altogether.
Mrs Gustick proceeded with her characteristic fluency, assured him hewas no gentleman, enquired if he called himself one, remarked that everytramp did as much nowadays, compared him to a Stuck Pig, marvelled athis impudence, asked him if he wasn't ashamed of himself standing there,enquired if he was rooted to the ground, was curious to be told what hemeant by it, wanted to know whether he robbed a scarecrow for hisclothes, suggested that an abnormal vanity prompted his behaviour,enquired if his mother knew he was out, and finally remarking, "I gotsomethin'll move you, my gentleman," disappeared with a ferociousslamming of the door.
The interval struck the Angel as singularly peaceful. His whirling mindhad time to analyse his sensations. He ceased bowing and smiling, andstood merely astonished.
"This is a curious painful feeling," said the Angel. "Almost worse thanHungry, and quite different. When one is hungry one wants to eat. Isuppose she was a woman. Here one wants to get away. I suppose I mightjust as well go."
He turned slowly and went down the road meditating. He heard the cottagedoor re-open, and tur
ning his head, saw through intervening scarletrunners Mrs Gustick with a steaming saucepan full of boiling cabbagewater in her hand.
"'Tis well you went, Mister Stolen Breeches," came the voice of MrsGustick floating down through the vermilion blossoms. "Don't you comepeeping and prying round this yer cottage again or I'll learn yemanners, I will!"
The Angel stood in a state of considerable perplexity. He had no desireto come within earshot of the cottage again--ever. He did not understandthe precise import of the black pot, but his general impression wasentirely disagreeable. There was no explaining it.
"I _mean_ it!" said Mrs Gustick, crescendo. "Drat it!--I _mean_ it."
The Angel turned and went on, a dazzled look in his eyes.
"She was very grotesque!" said the Angel. "_Very._ Much more than thelittle man in black. And she means it.---- But what she means I don'tknow!..." He became silent. "I suppose they all mean something,", hesaid, presently, still perplexed.
XXV.
Then the Angel came in sight of the forge, where Sandy Bright's brotherwas shoeing a horse for the carter from Upmorton. Two hobbledehoys werestanding by the forge staring in a bovine way at the proceedings. As theAngel approached these two and then the carter turned slowly through anangle of thirty degrees and watched his approach, staring quietly andsteadily at him. The expression on their faces was one of abstractinterest.
The Angel became self-conscious for the first time in his life. He drewnearer, trying to maintain an amiable expression on his face, anexpression that beat in vain against their granitic stare. His handswere behind him. He smiled pleasantly, looking curiously at the (to him)incomprehensible employment of the smith. But the battery of eyes seemedto angle for his regard. Trying to meet the three pairs at once, theAngel lost his alertness and stumbled over a stone. One of the yokelsgave a sarcastic cough, and was immediately covered with confusion atthe Angel's enquiring gaze, nudging his companion with his elbow tocover his disorder. None spoke, and the Angel did not speak.
So soon as the Angel had passed, one of the three hummed this tune in anaggressive tone.
Music]
Then all three of them laughed. One tried to sing something and foundhis throat contained phlegm. The Angel proceeded on his way.
"Who's _e_ then?" said the second hobbledehoy.
"Ping, ping, ping," went the blacksmith's hammer.
"Spose he's one of these here foweners," said the carter from Upmorton."Daeamned silly fool he do look to be sure."
"Tas the way with them foweners," said the first hobbledehoy sagely.
"Got something very like the 'ump," said the carter from Upmorton."Daeae-ae-aemned if 'E ent."
Then the silence healed again, and they resumed their quietexpressionless consideration of the Angel's retreating figure.
"Very like the 'ump et is," said the carter after an enormous pause.
XXVI.
The Angel went on through the village, finding it all wonderful enough."They begin, and just a little while and then they end," he said tohimself in a puzzled voice. "But what are they doing meanwhile?" Once heheard some invisible mouth chant inaudible words to the tune the man atthe forge had hummed.
"That's the poor creature the Vicar shot with that great gun of his,"said Sarah Glue (of 1, Church Cottages) peering over the blind.
"He looks Frenchified," said Susan Hopper, peering through theinterstices of that convenient veil on curiosity.
"He has sweet eyes," said Sarah Glue, who had met them for a moment.
The Angel sauntered on. The postman passed him and touched his hat tohim; further down was a dog asleep in the sun. He went on and sawMendham, who nodded distantly and hurried past. (The Curate did notcare to be seen talking to an angel in the village, until more was knownabout him). There came from one of the houses the sound of a childscreaming in a passion, that brought a puzzled look to the angelic face.Then the Angel reached the bridge below the last of the houses, andstood leaning over the parapet watching the glittering little cascadefrom the mill.
"They begin, and just a little while, and then they end," said the weirfrom the mill. The water raced under the bridge, green and dark, andstreaked with foam.
Beyond the mill rose the square tower of the church, with the churchyardbehind it, a spray of tombstones and wooden headboards splashed up thehillside. A half dozen of beech trees framed the picture.
Then the Angel heard a shuffling of feet and the gride of wheels behindhim, and turning his head saw a man dressed in dirty brown rags and afelt hat grey with dust, who was standing with a slight swaying motionand fixedly regarding the Angelic back. Beyond him was another almostequally dirty, pushing a knife grinder's barrow over the bridge.
"Mornin'," said the first person smiling weakly. "Goomorn'." He arrestedan escaping hiccough.
The Angel stared at him. He had never seen a really fatuous smilebefore. "Who are you?" said the Angel.
The fatuous smile faded. "No your business whoaaam. Wishergoomorn."
"Carm on:" said the man with the grindstone, passing on his way.
"Wishergoomorn," said the dirty man, in a tone of extreme aggravation."Carncher Answerme?"
"Carm _on_ you fool!" said the man with the grindstone--receding.
"I don't understand," said the Angel.
"Donunderstan'. Sim'l enough. Wishergoomorn'. Willyanswerme? Wontchr?gemwishergem goomorn. Cusom answer goomorn. No gem. Haverteachyer."
The Angel was puzzled. The drunken man stood swaying for a moment, thenhe made an unsteady snatch at his hat and threw it down at the Angel'sfeet. "Ver well," he said, as one who decides great issues.
"_Carm_ on!" said the voice of the man with the grindstone--stoppingperhaps twenty yards off.
"You _wan_ fight, you ----" the Angel failed to catch the word. "I'llshow yer, not answer gem's goomorn."
He began to struggle with his jacket. "Think I'm drun," he said, "I showyer." The man with the grindstone sat down on the shaft to watch. "Carmon," he said. The jacket was intricate, and the drunken man began tostruggle about the road, in his attempts to extricate himself, breathingthreatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotelyenough, that these demonstrations were hostile. "Mur wun know yer when Idone wi' yer," said the drunken man, coat almost over his head.
At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequentinterstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinkerdisplayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel's observant eyes.He squared up in masterly fashion.
"Take the paint off yer," he remarked, advancing and receding, fists upand elbows out.
"Carm on," floated down the road.
The Angel's attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists,that swayed and advanced and retreated. "Come on d'yer say? I'll showyer," said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity;"My crikey! I'll show yer."
Suddenly he lurched forward, and with a newborn instinct and raising adefensive arm as he did so, the Angel stepped aside to avoid him. Thefist missed the Angelic shoulder by a hairsbreadth, and the tinkercollapsed in a heap with his face against the parapet of the bridge. TheAngel hesitated over the writhing dusty heap of blasphemy for a moment,and then turned towards the man's companion up the road. "Lemmeget up,"said the man on the bridge: "Lemmeget up, you swine. I'll show yer."
A strange disgust, a quivering repulsion came upon the Angel. He walkedslowly away from the drunkard towards the man with the grindstone.
"What does it all mean?" said the Angel. "I don't understand it."
"Dam fool!... say's it's 'is silver weddin'," answered the man with thegrindstone, evidently much annoyed; and then, in a tone of growingimpatience, he called down the road once more; "Carm on!"
"Silver wedding!" said the Angel. "What is a silver wedding?"
"Jest is rot," said the man on the barrow. "But 'E's always avin' some'scuse like that. Fair sickenin it is. Lars week it wus 'is bloomin'birthday, and _then_ 'e ad'nt ardly got sober orf a coml
imentary drunkto my noo barrer. (_Carm_ on, you fool.)"
"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "Why does he sway about so?Why does he keep on trying to pick up his hat like that--and missingit?"
"_Why!_" said the tinker. "Well this _is_ a blasted innocent country!_Why!_ Because 'E's blind! Wot else? (Carm on--_Dam_ yer). Because 'E'sjust as full as 'E can 'old. That's _why_!"
The Angel noticing the tone of the second tinker's voice, judged itwiser not to question him further. But he stood by the grindstone andcontinued to watch the mysterious evolutions on the bridge.
"Carm on! I shall 'ave to go and pick up that 'at I suppose.... 'E'salways at it. I ne'er 'ad such a blooming pard before. _Always_ at it,'e is."
The man with the barrow meditated. "Taint as if 'e was a gentleman and'adnt no livin' to get. An' 'e's such a reckless fool when 'e gets a biton. Goes offerin out everyone 'e meets. (_There_ you go!) I'm blessed if'e didn't offer out a 'ole bloomin' Salvation Army. No judgment in it.(Oh! _Carm_ on! _Carm_ on!). 'Ave to go and pick this bloomin' 'at upnow I s'pose. 'E don't care, _wot_ trouble 'e gives."
The Angel watched the second tinker walk back, and, with affectionateblasphemy, assist the first to his hat and his coat. Then he turned,absolutely mystified, towards the village again.
XXVII.
After that incident the Angel walked along past the mill and roundbehind the church, to examine the tombstones.
"This seems to be the place where they put the broken pieces," said theAngel--reading the inscriptions. "Curious word--relict! Resurgam! Thenthey are not done with quite. What a huge pile it requires to keep herdown.... It is spirited of her."