‘I hesitated, naturally, but no immediate threat had arisen from the tea I had tasted and I felt too that it was only polite to accede. We passed through the veiled doors into a well-appointed room lit only by a few shaded lamps and candles: seated within, I distinguished the forms of three men and a woman. The latter was curled up in a deep armchair and I could only discern a cascade of dark hair over her face. Two of the men seemed young and rather languorous, though in the gloom I could discern very little of their appearance, while the other was older, briar-eyebrowed, prominent of jawline, and had a very keen stare about him. I was ushered into a chair, a silver dish of comfits placed by my elbow, and I received the briefest of nods from the other occupants of the room.
‘Well, I shall hasten this account on. For the rest of the evening, certainly for several hours, in the gentle, subdued light of the room, I sipped the fragrant tea and tasted the most pleasing sweetmeats, both replenished at intervals by the attentive slim and plum-vestmented form who had discovered me in the blue jar, and I savoured the deep silences, and listened to the figures before me utter the most fantastic nonsense, in lilting, lightly-rhymed cadences. I could not recall them all, but some do linger with me, or at least such versions of them as I can now bring to memory. Shortly after I had been settled into my chair, for example, one of the languid young men tilted his chin upwards and mused: “I have sipped of the Jade Wine Spring, more delicate than jasmine, and after this draught I took the white craft, as the gong rang an ancient summoning.” As he said this, I confess I almost seemed to hear a thrilling within the upper air, as of the outer vibrations of a struck gong, and for a moment I had a glimpse of a tumbling waterfall, throwing up diamond points of light as it fell, frolicking.
‘Later, the other youth laced his fingers together, seemed to assume a pensive air, and murmured, placing weight upon each word: “Every star is a quiddity, of a thing that is yet to be. Their unseen visibility is—revealed unto me.” As he said this, I saw a look of surprise steal over his face and he stared hard into his tea cup. There came to me the thought of shapes forming around all the glinting points of light in the night sky, vast forms of quicksilver-like substances unknown to us, evanescent forces and impulses far beyond our usual comprehension. This vision flickered across my thoughts in the time it takes a candle to twist to the passing of a breeze, and was gone.
‘The young woman curled in the corner of the room also had images to place before us. In particular, “I have tasted,” she said, “of the peach that each of us is heir to: with its sap upon my lips, I have seen its hidden virtue.” And as her words died lingeringly away, I had the taste of the fruit on my tongue, and the sweet tang of it seemed somehow to open a great door in my mind, for a fleeting instant, onto a garden of deep pools, wall-climbing trees, lichened stones and many, many scents from a wild array of aromatic herbs and heady, richly-hued flowers.
‘At length these utterances seemed to cease altogether and we relapsed into a silence in which I suspect each of us tried to reclaim some of the images that had come to us. Then there came that shrill pang of sound again, from further within the house, and the same eddying forth of murmurous echoes that I had heard before, and the orientaline page began to usher us out with graceful gestures. My companions went through the main door of the room into a hallway beyond: but I was guided toward the way I came. As I passed through the tall, paned door, the veils of white muslin billowed out into the night air, and I found myself reminded of some insubstantial spirit tugging to escape from its bodily form. I shrugged off the thought, as the satin-clad figure accompanied me down the courtyard, and indicated that the gate had been pulled aside from the narrow alleyway so that I might pass freely beyond.’
Gabriel Larkland paused at this point in his narrative and gazed at us both solemnly.
‘I could not help the impression that I had been listening to a conversation conducted in an elaborate code, and that my hosts were indulging in an ironic delight at my incomprehension. You will say, no doubt, that I had an evening of refined civility to which my trespass and eavesdropping hardly entitled me, and that I merely chanced upon some gathering of unusually preciose contemplatives. So I would have thought too: were it not for what has befallen me since.’
He ran his fingers through hair the hue of dustmotes in sunlight, a very pale gold, and tilted a little further backwards into his chair, straightening out his scarlet waistcoat as he did so. Then he commenced to tell us of:
The Adventure of the Young Man with the Hat-Box
‘A short time later, as I returned my books at the Octagon Library, the assistant, a most lethargic youth, glanced at the titles—Vera & the Nihilists, The Dynamiters, The Girl Anarchist, The Secret Agent and so forth—and muttered that he supposed I might be interested in a leaflet, one of a pile that had been left at the desk, along with others announcing various lectures, seminars and study trips. In dramatic black lettering on a vermilion ground, there were the words THE MASK OF ANARCHY, and, rather less dramatically, the sub-title, A Lecture, and details of the venue (Corvel House, Helderfield—about forty miles away), the date (a week later) and the time (7pm). Well, Shelley is, of course, well outside my period of interest, and I was doubtful about going, but then I reflected that I should probably deal a little further, in my introductory chapter, with previous literary allusions to anarchism, and so I decided to go.
‘Thus it was that I took the train to Helderfield a week later. As I settled into my compartment for the journey, my contemplation of a pocket Shelley which I was perusing in order to prepare intelligent questions for the lecture, was interrupted by the rattling entry of a tall youth, dark of aspect, with an angular head, who was somewhat encumbered with accoutrements. I pointedly ignored this interruption while he arranged things upon the luggage rack, and I remained quasi-absorbed for the greater part of the journey, while other passengers came and went. For the last five halts, however, he was my sole companion on the journey, as the train wound painstakingly along the narrow valley on this almost-forgotten line, this relic of a railway. Since we seemed to be sharing so remote a destination, I eyed him more curiously than was perhaps polite.
‘His garb was all dark, and he wore stout dark hiking shoes too. His pale hands, like albino spiders, contrasted starkly against a black travelling cloak, and there was a hint of ennui in the half-closed eyes. As we neared Helderfield, the last stop on the line, he reached down from the webbed racking a leather cylinder, something like a hat box, soft and battered, and buckled in what appeared to be silver.
‘This item he handled with extreme care, setting it down gently on the seat before retrieving the remainder of his luggage and a heavy walking-stick. The way in which he hefted the hat-box gave me the impression that it was heavier than any hat could be, and I wondered vaguely as to its contents.
‘Then, the brakes of the train were applied with a little rush of air, and, contemplating the object of my journey, it occurred to me that I did not know the exact location of the venue and so I cleared my throat and asked if he knew where I might find Corvel House. The dark youth tilted his head a little and regarded me for a few moments. Then, in a well-modulated voice, he gave me very precise directions, explaining that it stood at some remove from the village, on the edge of the fells.
‘I expressed my gratitude, and, feeling that I must now make conversation, remarked that it could not be far now. A few old grey houses began to appear to either side of the line, clustered about with the long shadows of dusk. He withdrew a pocket-watch from the depths of his cloak, consulted it, and observed that he was a little earlier than he needed to be, adding, with an odd smile, “Still, I always like to get ahead.” I thanked him as we drew into the little wayside station, and held the door open after I alighted, so that he could pass through easily with his packages. He thrust the leather hat-box laboriously in front of him as he descended and, glancing at it, I admired the glinting of the silver buckles. My eye was suddenly caught, however, by another glist
ening upon the worn surface: a little thread of dark red liquid seeping from a seam. Before I could assimilate what this might signify, he was gone, with a great flurry of his dark cloak and stick, and I was left gaping after him on the greying platform, trying not to think too hard about his last remark.’
Mr Larkland refreshed himself again from the little glass by his side, flicked non-existent dust from his bronze jacket, and looked at us both in turn, significantly. Then he resumed his narrative:
‘I made sure of the time of the last train back, then followed the directions given to me by the dark young man with the hat-box. I had some misgivings about this, but there were few other people about and his directions had seemed very clear. After leaving the station, I took a by-road leading off left from the main road to the village and followed this as it ascended quite steeply, curving mostly around upon itself. The light was by now definitely waning, as the road became more of an unmade lane and took me through a spinney.
‘I was barely more than a few steps into this shaded wood when I heard a shriek and, staring hard in front, I saw the vague outline of a woman of some amplitude tear across the road and push herself through the thicket on the other side, greyish hair streaming behind her. I heard the sound of her flight through the dense woodland continue for some moments, but, worse still, I thought I heard too, the sound of other rustling, as though things had been disturbed by her onset and were now stirring themselves too. It was naturally my duty to come to her aid if I could, and I was wearing some of my more fustian wardrobe, so I did not mind if this became besmirched by the undergrowth: therefore, I made for where I thought I had seen her enter, little more than a rabbit track.
‘No sooner did I enter the innards of the spinney than I became aware of scurrying sounds, at once furtive and furious, all around me in the gloom, and as I bustled onwards, making what halting progress I could, there came also a burst of very outlandish laughter—human, very possibly, but with a dreadful glee about it that I did not like at all. Then some shift in the cloud cover revealed a gleaming demi-lune and the woods were lit with a strange glow.
‘As I looked all about me, I thought I could see this fitful light flicker onto the glint of unblinking eyes and the sharp white slash of bared teeth, hidden within the trees and the wavering shadows. Yet what was worst of all was this: that these barely-seen glimmers seemed to stem from about the same height as me, as if some upright beast were moving in there. Thoroughly unnerved, at any moment I expected to see ahead of me some thing with furred haunches, crouch low, straighten to the size of a man, and prepare to lunge.’
Our visitor dabbed his temples with a gamboge silk kerchief.
‘Crashing clumsily on, I fell over a twisted root, and had all the breath knocked out of me. I lay still for several long moments. I clawed and crawled my way along the ground a little, not daring to look up, and wheezing considerably. Then it was borne in upon me that the rustling in the brake was receding and that I could no longer glimpse the play of light upon the tall things in the shadows. I eased myself up, and took stock, breathing rapidly.
‘There seemed nothing I could now do to assist the fleeing woman, since both her and her pursuers would now be some way away. Nevertheless, I did not wish to abandon matters altogether. I therefore made my way very carefully and steadily along the narrow path, pausing at intervals to listen.
‘At last I came out upon some kind of clearing and tried to ascertain which way I should go. But as I stood there, doubtful, I saw a moving white shape at the head of a wider path, and could just make out through the dim gloaming a form of no great height wearing what seemed to be a white cloak and a white plumed cap.
‘I shouted out, and this figure started, swirled round, and pelted along the wide, oak-fringed track at a high pace. Tired as I was, I gave pursuit, but my fall had taken more out of me than I knew and I hardly gained at all—it was all I could do to keep the white figure in my sight and still avoid the knotted roots, knobbles, puddles and holes of the path. As I ran, though, I thought I saw again, out of the edge of my sight, quick glimpses of faces in the woods to either side, or at least of eyes, snouts and jaws that belonged to creatures who had no business to walk as we do.
‘The oak track came out at last upon a broad sweep of real road, and, though I cast about for a sight of the white-caped form in vain, I was very glad to be back on what looked more like terra firma. Then I tried to get my bearings. I could just make out the sound of running water a little way off and I recalled that the directions I had been given had advised me to cross over an old stone bridge, so in some desperation I made towards the sound.
‘Imagine my joy when this was exactly what I found. Leaning on the low parapet, I drank in the fresh breath of the stream beneath and clung to the old stone as to a solid truth in a world increasingly unreal to me. Then I rehearsed in my mind the rest of the directions: follow the road down a long sloping way, until it joins another, then take the right, etc.
Larkland gesticulated as if sketching out the route for our benefit.
‘Well, I must make matters short again. Either I misunderstood the directions entirely, or I had been comprehensively misled by the young man with the hat-box. For I never did find Corvel House. What I did find was that the route took me back to within a few hundred yards from the edge of the village, and that I had been sent in a wide circle. Yet there is one thing more. As I trudged wearily down the long slope of the firm road from the stone bridge, I glanced back at intervals just to see that I was not accompanied. As I did so, on the last long bend in the road before high hedges obscured my view, the half-moon emerged again and cast a wan radiance over a knoll of moorland that rose at the edge of the wood, which clustered around it like a ragged silvery mane. Upon this bare tor I could swear I saw, briefly delineated in the glimmering light, a high, dark, upright figure, which ended with a sharp-jawed beast’s head. After staring, wonder-struck, for a few moments, you may be sure I did not stay much longer, but pounded on towards the friendly amber street-lamps that I could begin to make out before me.’
The young man subsided a little, having evidently reached the culmination of his recital. Then he added, wearily: ‘I took the train home and slept for a long time.’
The Connoisseur allowed an appreciative silence to enfold this vivid set of recollections. Then he lit a few tall tapers in fine slender candlesticks, blowing out the spill and standing in thought, watching the slow spiralling of the smoke.
After a while, he turned to face Gabriel Larkland, and asked: ‘What were the titles of the books that you knocked from the hands of the young woman you so admire?’
His guest was visibly taken aback, and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, which still clutched the gamboge kerchief, said that he did not know. The Connoisseur persisted gently, until he had elicited from him, for one volume the fragment of a title, for another, some aspect of the design of the dust-wrapper, for a third the colour of the binding and a few scattered words seen on a loose paper enclosure, and so forth.
Then he asked about a few other aspects of the narrative that Larkland had laid before us and, urging him to come again at once if anything else of this ilk should transpire, sped him on his way. After some brief attempts to draw The Connoisseur out about what we had heard, I followed not long afterwards.
***
A few days later, I received an invitation to join The Connoisseur in his rooms, and arrived to find that another guest had preceded me. Thick of eyebrow and firm of jaw, he rose and bowed politely as I entered, and again when my friend introduced him as Professor Francis Hirth. When we were seated again, he began the following:
Diversion Upon Certain Ancient Philosophers
‘I have for some years held the Chair in Chinese Philosophy here, and my inclination has always been towards that civilised and dignified doctrine which we know in the West as Confucianism. It has been my purpose to espouse the values of this ancient and wise creed even though the greater interest of the public
has been enjoyed by its rival, Buddhism, or by all sorts of folk practices of the Chinese peasant. My book on Upholding the Heavenly Mean—The Way of Confucianism is, I believe I may say, quite well regarded, though there are no doubt some who would regard it as rather dry. Frankly, I have recently found cause to direct that reproach at the book myself.’
The Professor paused and smiled to himself.
‘But to proceed. A matter of a few weeks ago, I received an unexpected invitation to attend a seminar on Chinese philosophy of the fourth century, to take place in a private house just a short walk from the Octagon Library, where I often study. At first I regarded this unsolicited proposal with disfavour, since it had no very clear authority attached to it. But then I reflected that seminars on a theme so near to my interests are unusual, and that it would be discourteous to refuse, especially as the invitation offered “a different perspective”, a quality which my few competent critics had kindly identified as lacking in much of my work. In addition, I was glad to observe that “apt refreshments” were promised.
‘Upon my arrival at the house I was politely ushered into a dimly-lit drawing room, in which a few comfortable chairs had been placed facing each other, most of them already occupied by a few, a very few, fellow-guests. An expectant silence reigned. After a short while I was surprised, but really quite gratified, to hear a soaring plaint upon the sheng, a species of Chinese harmonica, whose wail can be very unearthly. This was followed by the sounding of a very deep-voiced gong.
The Collected Connoisseur Page 9