by H. G. Wells
"I have nothing in my pocket," said the Angel.
"Is this here village called Siddermorton?" said the Tramp, risingcreakily to his feet and pointing to the clustering roofs down the hill.
"Yes," said the Angel, "they call it Siddermorton."
"I know it, I know it," said the Tramp. "And a very pretty littlevillage it is too." He stretched and yawned, and stood regarding theplace. "'Ouses," he said reflectively; "Projuce"--waving his hand at thecornfields and orchards. "Looks cosy, don't it?"
"It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel.
"It _'as_ a quaint beauty of its own--yes.... Lord! I'd like to sackthe blooming place.... I was born there."
"Dear me," said the Angel.
"Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?"
"Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!"
"It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and theycuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em.That's a pithed frog. Well--that there village is full of pithed humanbeings."
The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said.
"That's so--you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad theirbrains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it.And you see that little red place there?"
"That's called the national school," said the Angel.
"Yes--that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love withhis conceit.
"Really! That's very interesting."
"It stands to reason," said the Tramp. "If they 'ad brains they'd 'aveideas, and if they 'ad ideas they'd think for themselves. And you cango through that village from end to end and never meet anybody doing asmuch. Pithed human beings they are. I know that village. I was bornthere, and I might be there now, a toilin' for my betters, if I 'adntstruck against the pithin'."
"Is it a painful operation?" asked the Angel.
"In parts. Though it aint the heads gets hurt. And it lasts a long time.They take 'em young into that school, and they says to them, 'come in'ere and we'll improve your minds,' they says, and in the little kiddiesgo as good as gold. And they begins shovin' it into them. Bit by bit and'ard and dry, shovin' out the nice juicy brains. Dates and lists andthings. Out they comes, no brains in their 'eads, and wound up nice andtight, ready to touch their 'ats to anyone who looks at them. Why! Onetouched 'is 'at to me yesterday. And they runs about spry and does allthe dirty work, and feels thankful they're allowed to live. They take apositive pride in 'ard work for its own sake. Arter they bin pithed. Seethat chap ploughin'?"
"Yes," said the Angel; "is _he_ pithed?"
"Rather. Else he'd be paddin' the hoof this pleasant weather--like meand the blessed Apostles."
"I begin to understand," said the Angel, rather dubiously.
"I knew you would," said the Philosophical Tramp. "I thought you was theright sort. But speaking serious, aint it ridiculous?--centuries andcenturies of civilization, and look at that poor swine there, sweatin''isself empty and trudging up that 'ill-side. 'E's English, 'e is. 'Ebelongs to the top race in creation, 'e does. 'E's one of the rulers ofIndjer. It's enough to make a nigger laugh. The flag that's braved athousand years the battle an' the breeze--that's _'is_ flag. There neverwas a country was as great and glorious as this. Never. And that's wotit makes of us. I'll tell you a little story about them parts as youseems to be a bit of a stranger. There's a chap called Gotch, Sir JohnGotch they calls 'im, and when _'e_ was a young gent from Oxford, I wasa little chap of eight and my sister was a girl of seventeen. Theirservant she was. But Lord! everybody's 'eard that story--it's commonenough, of 'im or the likes of 'im."
"I haven't," said the Angel.
"All that's pretty and lively of the gals they chucks into the gutters,and all the men with a pennorth of spunk or adventure, all who won'tdrink what the Curate's wife sends 'em instead of beer, and touch theirhats promiscous, and leave the rabbits and birds alone for theirbetters, gets drove out of the villages as rough characters. Patriotism!Talk about improvin' the race! Wot's left aint fit to look a nigger inthe face, a Chinaman 'ud be ashamed of 'em...."
"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "I don't follow you."
At that the Philosophic Tramp became more explicit, and told the Angelthe simple story of Sir John Gotch and the kitchen-maid. It's scarcelynecessary to repeat it. You may understand that it left the Angelpuzzled. It was full of words he did not understand, for the onlyvehicle of emotion the Tramp possessed was blasphemy. Yet, though theirtongues differed so, he could still convey to the Angel some of his own(probably unfounded) persuasion of the injustice and cruelty of life,and of the utter detestableness of Sir John Gotch.
The last the Angel saw of him was his dusty black back receding down thelane towards Iping Hanger. A pheasant appeared by the roadside, and thePhilosophical Tramp immediately caught up a stone and sent the birdclucking with a viciously accurate shot. Then he disappeared round thecorner.
MRS JEHORAM'S BREADTH OF VIEW.
XXXI
"I heard some one playing the fiddle in the Vicarage, as I came by,"said Mrs Jehoram, taking her cup of tea from Mrs Mendham.
"The Vicar plays," said Mrs Mendham. "I have spoken to George about it,but it's no good. I do not think a Vicar should be allowed to do suchthings. It's so foreign. But there, _he_ ...."
"I know, dear," said Mrs Jehoram. "But I heard the Vicar once at theschoolroom. I don't think this _was_ the Vicar. It was quite clever,some of it, quite smart, you know. And new. I was telling dear LadyHammergallow this morning. I fancy--"
"The lunatic! Very likely. These half-witted people.... My dear, I don'tthink I shall ever forget that dreadful encounter. Yesterday."
"Nor I."
"My poor girls! They are too shocked to say a word about it. I wastelling dear Lady Ham----"
"Quite proper of them. It was _dreadful_, dear. For them."
"And now, dear, I want you to tell me frankly--Do you really believethat creature was a man?"
"You should have heard the violin."
"I still more than half suspect, Jessie ----" Mrs Mendham leant forwardas if to whisper.
Mrs Jehoram helped herself to cake. "I'm sure no woman could play theviolin quite like I heard it played this morning."
"Of course, if you say so that settles the matter," said Mrs Mendham.Mrs Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon allquestions of art, music and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been aminor poet. Then Mrs Mendham added a judicial "Still--"
"Do you know," said Mrs Jehoram, "I'm half inclined to believe the dearVicar's story."
"How _good_ of you, Jessie," said Mrs Mendham.
"But really, I don't think he _could_ have had any one in the Vicaragebefore that afternoon. I feel sure we should have heard of it. I don'tsee how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermortonwithout the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so...."
"I always distrust the Vicar," said Mrs Mendham. "I know him."
"Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr Angel were someone veryclever and eccentric--"
"He would have to be _very_ eccentric to dress as he did. There aredegrees and limits, dear."
"But kilts," said Mrs Jehoram.
"Are all very well in the Highlands...."
Mrs Jehoram's eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly acrossa patch of yellowish-green up the hill.
"There he goes," said Mrs Jehoram, rising, "across the cornfield. I'msure that's him. I can see the hump. Unless it's a man with a sack.Bless me, Minnie! here's an opera glass. How convenient for peeping atthe Vicarage!... Yes, it's the man. He is a man. With _such_ a sweetface."
Very unselfishly she allowed her hostess to share the opera glass. Fora minute there was a rustling silence.
"His dress," said Mrs Mendham, "is _quite_ respectable now."
"Quite," said Mrs Jehoram.
Pause.
"He looks cross!"
"And his coat is dust
y."
"He walks steadily enough," said Mrs Mendham, "or one might think....This hot weather...."
Another pause.
"You see, dear," said Mrs Jehoram, putting down the lorgnette. "What Iwas going to say was, that possibly he might be a genius in disguise."
"If you can call next door to nothing a disguise."
"No doubt it was eccentric. But I've seen children in little blouses,not at all unlike him. So many clever people _are_ peculiar in theirdress and manners. A genius may steal a horse where a bank-clerk may notlook over the hedge. Very possibly he's quite well known and laughingat our Arcadian simplicity. And really it wasn't so improper as some ofthese New Women bicycling costumes. I saw one in one of the IllustratedPapers only a few days ago--the _New Budget_ I think--quite tights, youknow, dear. No--I cling to the genius theory. Especially after theplaying. I'm sure the creature is original. Perhaps very amusing. Infact, I intend to ask the Vicar to introduce me."
"My dear!" cried Mrs Mendham.
"I'm resolute," said Mrs Jehoram.
"I'm afraid you're rash," said Mrs Mendham. "Geniuses and people of thatkind are all very well in London. But here--at the Vicarage."
"We are going to educate the folks. I love originality. At any rate Imean to see him."
"Take care you don't see too much of him," said Mrs Mendham. "I've heardthe fashion is quite changing. I understand that some of the very bestpeople have decided that genius is not to be encouraged any more. Theserecent scandals...."
"Only in literature, I can assure you, dear. In music...."
"Nothing you can say, my dear," said Mrs Mendham, going off at atangent, "will convince me that that person's costume was not extremelysuggestive and improper."
A TRIVIAL INCIDENT.
XXXII.
The Angel came thoughtfully by the hedge across the field towards theVicarage. The rays of the setting sun shone on his shoulders, andtouched the Vicarage with gold, and blazed like fire in all the windows.By the gate, bathed in the sunlight, stood little Delia, the waitingmaid. She stood watching him under her hand. It suddenly came into theAngel's mind that she, at least, was beautiful, and not only beautifulbut alive and warm.
She opened the gate for him and stood aside. She was sorry for him, forher elder sister was a cripple. He bowed to her, as he would have doneto any woman, and for just one moment looked into her face. She lookedback at him and something leapt within her.
The Angel made an irresolute movement. "Your eyes are very beautiful,"he said quietly, with a remote wonder in his voice.
"Oh, sir!" she said, starting back. The Angel's expression changed toperplexity. He went on up the pathway between the Vicar's flower-beds,and she stood with the gate held open in her hand, staring after him.Just under the rose-twined verandah he turned and looked at her.
She still stared at him for a moment, and then with a queer gestureturned round with her back to him, shutting the gate as she did so, andseemed to be looking down the valley towards the church tower.
THE WARP AND THE WOOF OF THINGS.
XXXIII.
At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of hisday's adventures.
"The strange thing," said the Angel, "is the readiness of you HumanBeings--the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting methis morning----"
"Seemed to enjoy it," said the Vicar. "I know."
"Yet they don't like pain," said the Angel.
"No," said the Vicar; "_they_ don't like it."
"Then," said the Angel, "I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spikeof leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it causedthe most uncomfortable----"
"Stinging nettle!" said the Vicar.
"At any rate a new sort of pain. And another plant with a head like acoronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged----"
"A thistle, possibly."
"And in your garden, the beautiful, sweet-smelling plant----"
"The sweet briar," said the Vicar. "I remember."
"And that pink flower that sprang out of the box----"
"Out of the box?" said the Vicar.
"Last night," said the Angel, "that went climbing up thecurtains---- Flame!"
"Oh!--the matches and the candles! Yes," said the Vicar.
"Then the animals. A dog to-day behaved most disagreeably----. And theseboys, and the way in which people speak----. Everyone seemsanxious--willing at any rate--to give this Pain. Every one seems busygiving pain----"
"Or avoiding it," said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him."Yes--of course. It's fighting everywhere. The whole living world is abattle-field--the whole world. We are driven by Pain. Here. How it lieson the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!"
"But why does everyone--everything--want to give pain?" asked the Angel.
"It is not so in the Angelic Land?" said the Vicar.
"No," said the Angel. "Why is it so here?"
The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. "It _is_ so," he said."Pain," said he still more slowly, "is the warp and the woof of thislife. Do you know," he said, after a pause, "it is almost impossible forme to imagine ... a world without pain.... And yet, as you played thismorning----
"But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelicworld. Indeed, a number of people--excellent religious people--have beenso impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death,things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me anexcessive view. But it's a deep question. Almost beyond one's power ofdiscussion----"
And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon"Necessity," how things were so because they were so, how one _had_ todo this and that. "Even our food," said the Vicar. "What?" said theAngel. "Is not obtained without inflicting Pain," said the Vicar.
The Angel's face went so white that the Vicar checked himself suddenly.Or he was just on the very verge of a concise explanation of theantecedents of a leg of lamb. There was a pause.
"By-the-bye," said the Angel, suddenly. "Have you been pithed? Like thecommon people."
THE ANGEL'S DEBUT.
XXXIV.
When Lady Hammergallow made up her mind, things happened as sheresolved. And though the Vicar made a spasmodic protest, she carried outher purpose and got audience, Angel, and violin together, atSiddermorton House before the week was out. "A genius the Vicar hasdiscovered," she said; so with eminent foresight putting any possibilityof blame for a failure on the Vicar's shoulders. "The dear Vicar tellsme," she would say, and proceed to marvellous anecdotes of the Angel'scleverness with his instrument. But she was quite in love with heridea--she had always had a secret desire to play the patroness toobscure talent. Hitherto it had not turned out to be talent when it cameto the test.
"It would be such a good thing for him," she said. "His hair is longalready, and with that high colour he would be beautiful, simplybeautiful on a platform. The Vicar's clothes fitting him so badly makeshim look quite like a fashionable pianist already. And the scandal ofhis birth--not told, of course, but whispered--would be--quite anInducement----when he gets to London, that is."
The Vicar had the most horrible sensations as the day approached. Hespent hours trying to explain the situation to the Angel, other hourstrying to imagine what people would think, still worse hours trying toanticipate the Angel's behaviour. Hitherto the Angel had always playedfor his own satisfaction. The Vicar would startle him every now and thenby rushing upon him with some new point of etiquette that had justoccurred to him. As for instance: "It's very important where you putyour hat, you know. Don't put it on a chair, whatever you do. Hold ituntil you get your tea, you know, and then--let me see--then put it downsomewhere, you know." The journey to Siddermorton House wasaccomplished without misadventure, but at the moment of introductionthe Vicar had a spasm of horrible misgivings. He had forgotten toexplain introductions. The Angel's naive amusement was evident, butnothing very terrible happened.
"Rummy looking gr
easer," said Mr Rathbone Slater, who devotedconsiderable attention to costume. "Wants grooming. No manners. Grinnedwhen he saw me shaking hands. Did it _chic_ enough, I thought."
One trivial misadventure occurred. When Lady Hammergallow welcomed theAngel she looked at him through her glasses. The apparent size of hereyes startled him. His surprise and his quick attempt to peer over thebrims was only too evident. But the Vicar had warned him of the eartrumpet.
The Angel's incapacity to sit on anything but a music stool appeared toexcite some interest among the ladies, but led to no remarks. Theyregarded it perhaps as the affectation of a budding professional. He wasremiss with the teacups and scattered the crumbs of his cake abroad.(You must remember he was quite an amateur at eating.) He crossed hislegs. He fumbled over the hat business after vainly trying to catch theVicar's eye. The eldest Miss Papaver tried to talk to him aboutcontinental watering places and cigarettes, and formed a low opinion ofhis intelligence.
The Angel was surprised by the production of an easel and several booksof music, and a little unnerved at first by the sight of LadyHammergallow sitting with her head on one side, watching him with thosemagnified eyes through her gilt glasses.
Mrs Jehoram came up to him before he began to play and asked him theName of the Charming Piece he was playing the other afternoon. The Angelsaid it had no name, and Mrs Jehoram thought music ought never to haveany names and wanted to know who it was by, and when the Angel told herhe played it out of his head, she said he must be Quite a Genius andlooked open (and indisputably fascinating) admiration at him. The Curatefrom Iping Hanger (who was professionally a Kelt and who played thepiano and talked colour and music with an air of racial superiority)watched him jealously.