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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/35132-h.zip b/35132-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ddb23b --- /dev/null +++ b/35132-h.zip diff --git a/35132-h/35132-h.htm b/35132-h/35132-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..597255e --- /dev/null +++ b/35132-h/35132-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7178 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Promise of Air, by Algernon Blackwood</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background:#fdfdfd; + color:black; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + font-size: medium; + margin-left:12%; + margin-right:12%; + text-align:justify; } + h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; } + p {text-indent: 4%; } + p.noindent {text-indent: 0%; } + hr.narrow { width: 40%; + text-align: center; } + blockquote.footnote { font-size: small; } + .caption { font-size: small; + font-weight: bold; } + .center { text-align: center; } + .ind1 {margin-left: 1em; } + .ind2 {margin-left: 2em; } + .ind3 {margin-left: 3em; } + .ind4 {margin-left: 4em; } + .ind5 {margin-left: 5em; } + .ind6 {margin-left: 6em; } + .ind7 {margin-left: 7em; } + .ind8 {margin-left: 8em; } + .ind9 {margin-left: 9em; } + .ind10 {margin-left: 10em; } + .ind11 {margin-left: 11em; } + .ind12 {margin-left: 12em; } + .ind13 {margin-left: 13em; } + .ind14 {margin-left: 14em; } + .ind15 {margin-left: 15em; } + .ind16 {margin-left: 16em; } + .ind17 {margin-left: 17em; } + .ind18 {margin-left: 18em; } + .ind19 {margin-left: 19em; } + .ind20 {margin-left: 20em; } + .large {font-size: large; } + table { font-size: medium; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Promise of Air, by Algernon Blackwood</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Promise of Air</p> +<p>Author: Algernon Blackwood</p> +<p>Release Date: January 31, 2011 [eBook #35132]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROMISE OF AIR***</p> +<br><br><center><h3>E-text prepared by Lionel Sear</h3></center><br><br> +<hr class="full"> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h3>THE PROMISE OF AIR</h3> + +<h4>By</h4> + +<h2>ALGERNON BLACKWOOD</h2> +<h5>Author of 'The Education of Uncle Paul,' 'A Prisoner in Fairyland,'</h5> +<h5>'The Centaur,' Etc.</h5> +<br><br><br> + +<h4>MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED +ST MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON +1918</h4> +<br><br><br> + +<h3>TO M. S.=K. (1913)</h3> + +<br><br><br> +<br><br><br> +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<br> +<h2>CHAPTER LINKS</h2> +<br><br><br> + + +<br> +<center> +<table summary=""> +<tbody><tr><td> + +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0001"> +I. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0002"> +II. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0003"> +III. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0004"> +IV. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0005"> +V. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0006"> +VI. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0007"> +VII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0008"> +VIII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0009"> +IX. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0010"> +X. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0011"> +XI. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0012"> +XII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0013"> +XIII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0014"> +XIV. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0015"> +XV. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0016"> +XVI. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0017"> +XVII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0018"> +XVIII. +</a></p> +<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0019"> +XIX. +</a></p> + +</td></tr> +</tbody></table> +</center> + +<br><br><br> + + + + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3> + + +<p>Joseph Wimble was the only son of an analytical chemist, who, having made +considerable profits out of an Invisible Sticking Plaster, sent the boy to +Charterhouse and Cambridge in the hope that he would turn out a gentleman. +When Joseph left Cambridge his father left business, referred to himself +as Expert, used a couple of letters after his name, and suggested making +the Grand Tour of Europe together as a finishing touch. 'To talk +familiarly of Rome and Vienna and Constantinople as though you knew them,' +he explained, 'is a useful thing. It helps one with the women, and to be +helped by women in life is half the battle.' His ambitions for his son +were considerable, including above all a suitable marriage. The abrupt +destruction of these ambitions, accordingly, was so bitter a +disappointment that he felt justified in giving the lad a nominal sum and +mentioning that he had better shift for himself. For Joseph married +secretly the daughter of a Norfolk corn-chandler, announcing the news to +his father upon the very eve of starting for the Grand Tour. +Joseph found himself with £500 and a wife.</p> + +<p>Joseph himself was of that placid temperament to which things in life just +came and went apparently without making very deep impressions. He was a +careless, indifferent sort of fellow even as a boy, careless of +consequences, indifferent to results: not irresponsible, yet very +easy-going. There was no intensity in him; he did not realise things. +'Oh, it's much the same to me,' would be his reply to most proposals. +'I'd as soon as not.' There was something fluid in his nature that +accepted life nonchalantly, as if all things were one to him; yet, again, +not that he was devoid of feeling or desires, but that he did not realise +life in the solid way of the majority. At school he did not realise that +he was what the world calls 'not quite a gentleman,' although the boys +made a point of proving it to him. At Cambridge he did not realise that +to pass his Little-go, or acquire the letters B.Sc., was of any +importance, although various learned and older men received good pay in +order to convince him of the fact. He just went along in a loose, +careless, big-hearted way of living, and took whatever came—exactly as it +came. He had a delightful smile and put on fat; shared his money with one +and all; existed in a methodical way as most other fellows of his age +existed, and grew older much as they did. So ordinary was he in fact, so +little distinguished from the rest of his kind, that men who knew him well +would stop and think when questioned if they numbered Joseph Wimble among +their acquaintances. 'Wimble, lemme see—oh yes, of course! Why, I've +known him for a couple of years!' That was Joseph Wimble. Only it made +no difference to him whether they remembered him or not. He behaved +rather as if everything was one to him in a very literal sense; as if the +whole bewildering kaleidoscope of life conveyed a single vast impression; +there was no reason to get excited over particular details; in the end it +was literally all one. His smattering of physics taught him that all +things could be expressed, more or less, in terms of one another. +That was his attitude, at any rate. 'Take it as a whole,' he would say +vaguely, 'and it's all right. It's all the same.'</p> + +<p>Yet his indifference to things was not so colourless as it appeared; but +was due, perhaps, to the transference of his interests elsewhere. +His centre of gravity hardly seemed on earth is one way of expressing it. +Behind the apparent stolidity hid something that danced and sang; +something almost flighty. It was laborious explanation that he dreaded +and despised, as though things capable of being 'explained' were of small +importance to him. He was eager to know things he wanted to know, yet in +a way he was too intensely curious, too impatient certainly, to put +himself to much trouble to find out. He refused to work, to 'grind' he +knew not how; yet he absorbed a good deal of knowledge; information came +to him, as it were. He figured to himself vaguely that there was another +surer way of learning than by memorising detail,—a flashing, darting, +sudden way, like the way of a bird. To follow a line of information to +its bitter end was a wearisome, stultifying business, the reality he +sought was lost sight of in the process. The main idea had interest for +him, but not the details, for the details blurred and obscured it. +Proof was a stupid word that blocked his faculties. He did not despise or +reject it exactly, but he refused to recognise it. In a sense he +overlooked it. Of answers to the important questions millions have been +asking for thousands of years there was no proof obtainable. Of survival, +for instance, or the existence of the soul, there was no 'proof,' yet for +that very reason he believed in both. He could 'prove' a stone, a tree, a +dog. He could name and weigh and describe it. The senses of hearing, +sight, and touch reported upon it, yet these reports he knew to be but +vibrations of the respective nerves that brought them to his brain. +They were at best indirect reports, and at worst referred to a mere +collection of unverified appearances. Logic, too, the backbone of +philosophy, affected him with weariness, just as his respect for reason +was shockingly undeveloped. And argument could prove anything, hence +argument for him was also futile. He jumped to the conclusion always. +Thus at school, and even more at Cambridge, he liked to know what other +fellows thought and believed, but as a whole and in outline only. +A general idea of 'what and why' was enough for him—just to catch the +drift.</p> + +<p>This faculty of catching the drift of any knowledge that he cared about +came to him naturally, as it seemed. They called him talented but lazy; +for he took the cream off; he swooped like a bird, caught it flying, and +was off upon another quest. Since there was no real proof of any of the +important things, why toil to master the tedious arguments and facts of +either side? There was somewhere a swifter, lighter way of knowing +things, a direct and instantaneous way. He was sure of it. Thus the +ordinary things of life he did not realise—quite as other people realised +them. They passed him by.</p> + +<p>One thing and one only, it seemed, he desired to realise, and that was +birds. It was a passion in him, a mania. He had a yearning desire to +understand the mystery of bird-life—not ornithology but <i>birds</i>. +Anything to do with birds changed the expression of his face at once; the +fat and placid indifference gave way to an emotion that, judging by his +expression, caused him a degree of wonder that was almost worship, of +happiness nearly painful. Their intense vitality inspired him, their +equality stirred respect. Anything to do with their flight, their songs, +their eggs, their habits fascinated him. And this fascination he +realised. He indulged it furiously, if of necessity secretly, since to +study bird-life fields and hedges must be visited without company. +But here again he took no particular pains, it seemed. As is usual with +an overmastering tendency, his knowledge of his subject was instinctive. +Before he went to Charterhouse he knew the size and colouring of every egg +that ever lay in a British nest, and by the time he left that school he +could imitate with marvellous accuracy the singing notes and whistles of +any bird he had heard once. He devoured books about them, studied their +differing ways of flight, knew every nest within a radius of miles about +his house in a given neighbourhood, and above all was moved to a kind of +ecstasy of wonder over the magic of their annual migration. That in +particular touched him into poetry. He thought dumbly about it, but his +imagination stirred. Inarticulateness increased his accumulating store of +wonder. The Grand Tour! Rome, Vienna, Constantinople, indeed! What were +the capitals of Europe compared to the Southern Tour <i>they</i> made! +That deep instinct to hurry after the fading sun, to keep in touch with +their source of life, to follow colour, heat, light, and beauty. +That vast autumnal flight! The marvel of the great return, entranced by +the southern sun, intoxicated with the music of the southern winds! +That such tiny bodies could dare four thousand miles of trackless space, +travelling for the most part in the darkness, carelessly carrying nothing +with them, and rush back in the spring to the very copse or hedgerow left +six months before—that was a source of endless wonder to his mind. +There was pathos and loneliness in their absence. England seemed empty +once the birds had flown. The sky was dead without the swallows. Of +course the land was dark and silent when they left, and of course it burst +into colour, rhythm, movement, and singing when they showered back upon it +in the spring!</p> + +<p>The sweet passion of woodland music caught his heart. He realised that +birds had a secret and mysterious life of their very own, and that the +world they lived in was a happy and desirable world. That strange +knowledge at a distance men called instinct, puzzled him. A new method of +communication belonged to it too. It had its laws and customs, its joys +and terrors, its habits, rules, and purposes; but these all were strangely +different from anything that solid earth-life knew. Freedom, light, and +swiftness were the characteristics of that existence, and joy its +outstanding quality. Its universal telepathy exhilarated. No other +beings in the universe expressed themselves naturally by singing.</p> + +<p>The Kingdom of the Air became for him a symbol of an existence higher than +anything on the earth; air stood for a condition that at present was +beyond the reach of humanity, but that humanity one day would achieve. +His imagination figured this glorious accomplishment as the next stage in +evolution. A clever poet might have made Joseph Wimble the hero of an +original fairy tale, in which he lived and suffered heavily on solid +ground, eternal type of the exile, vainly yearning for his natural +element, the air. For exile was in it; he claimed the knowledge of the +air as a familiar experience. He felt that he knew and understood the air +instinctively; he belonged 'up there'; he had nested in the trees, perched +on some topmost twig, had balanced in the breeze, and sung his heart out +from sheer joy of living; he had even flown.</p> + +<p>This was doubtless a mental exercise, an imaginative flight. It all +seemed familiar to him, long, long ago, before this enormous physical +frame had walled him down to the ground and weight had handicapped +aspiration so distressingly. He looked at his body in the glass and +sighed. 'There's something wrong,' he realised. 'Why should I need such +a mass of stuff to function through? I'm supposed to be more intelligent +than animals or things.' He thought of a swift—and sighed. Size and +weight were so out of proportion to the rôle he played on earth. +The smaller forms of life were far less handicapped; a flea, a beetle were +a thousand times stronger relatively than a human being, whereas a little +bird——It all left him inarticulate. He was always inarticulate. +Dumbly he yearned for air; desired, that is, the mental attitude of one to +whom free swift movement in the air was natural; and the intensity of the +yearning—the one thing he fully realised—<i>must</i> some day produce a +result. The beauty of an air-life hid in his blood. It expressed the +ultimate yearning of his very soul.</p> + +<p>'The next stage of the world is air,' he imagined with some part of his +intelligence that never could articulately clothe the dream in language. +'We shall never be happy and right until we know the air as birds do. +We've learned all the earth has got to teach us. There's a new age +coming—a new element its key: Air!'</p> + +<p>Earth, ever sweet and beautiful, was in the main, however, chiefly useful +only. Somehow he no longer felt the need of it.</p> + +<p>The unreality of objective knowledge, the limitations of the human +intellect afflicted him. He thought of the barren sterility of learned +minds, sacked tight with this objective information about the clothes of +the universe, yet uninformed concerning the living personality that wears +them. The scholars and collectors had no joy; they never sang.</p> + +<p>He thought hard about it. He tried to state to himself what he meant in +clear words. It was difficult. Already he thought in terms of air— +transparent, everywhere at once, radiant and flashing. He experienced a +completeness and a buoyancy that denied the accepted rule that two and two +make four. Two and two, of course, did make four on earth and in the +nursery or the nest. But somehow in the air—they just didn't. There was +no two and two at all. They didn't exist. It was some kind of +synthetical air-knowledge that he sought.</p> + +<p>'Earth is divisible—divided,' he said to himself. 'It has details, +separate objects, definite divisions into stones and things. But in the +air there is no division. Air is homogeneous—not as the physicist's gas, +but as an expression of space.' In the air, or rather of the air, two and +two make four became not false exactly, but impossible. It could not be +said. Earth is not continuous, but broken up; it belongs to time and +time's divisions of the nursery. Earth is an expression of separateness. +Even water has drops, fluid and cohering though it is. Air has no drops. +There are no drops of air. There are currents, streams and surfaces, all +undetailed. Earth, he felt, belonged to time and time's divisions where +two and two made four. But air was of another category altogether, and +not of time at all. Air was one.</p> + +<p>It explained his indifference to earth. Though fastened physically like +every one else to the ground, his inmost being lived in the air already, +and some day he would meet a person who would explain and justify this +extraordinary yearning. He was aware of this expectancy in him, for the +craving to become articulate produced it. He needed a mate, of course. +Together, somehow, their deep desire would find expression. He would +become articulate through her. And suddenly, with a kind of abrupt +surprise that belongs to birds, he found her.</p> + +<p>The surprising way he found her, too, was characteristic. They floated, +if not flew, into each other's arms.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER II.</h3> + + +<p>It was a glad May morning, the air soft-flowing and cool, the sunshine +warm and brilliant, when the youth cut his lectures and went out into the +fields, drawn irresistibly by the electric rush and sparkle of the spring. +The swallows were home from the Southern Tour, and the sky was singing. +He could not sit and listen to chemical formulae in a lecture-room; it was +not possible. He wandered out carelessly into the world of buttercups, +following the stream where the feathered willows bent in a wave of falling +green. It was a true bird-day, and his heart, uprising like the larks, +was shrilling. He felt exactly like a bird himself, and it made him laugh +as naturally as a bird might sing. He fell to copying their various +cries. They came up close and saw him. They were aware of him. +'Birds of the sweet spring skies!' he thought, and yearned to share their +strange collective life, individual still, yet part of their magical +community.</p> + +<p>He soon found himself out of the scholastic town and among the flat +expanse of yellow fields beyond. The stream was blue, the grass an +emerald green, the willows laughed, showing their under leaves, the dew +still sparkled. Buttercups by the million nodded in the breeze; wings +were everywhere, the surface of the earth was dancing, and the whole air +fluttered. The earth was dressed in blue and gold.</p> + +<p>The singing was so general that he had to pause in order to pick out the +separate melodies; the song of the birds was, indeed, so much a part of +their surroundings that an act of definite listening was necessary to hear +it. It linked him on to Nature; it made Nature articulate. He heard the +hearty whistle of the blackcap among the swaying tree-tops, shrill with +joy; a whitethroat tossed itself exultantly into the air beside him; he +heard the warblers trilling, the little calling cry of the chiff-chaff, +the tiny poem of the willow-warbler, the merry laughter of the dainty +wren. The tits shot everywhere, pecking in seed, pricking the sunshine +with their tiny beaks, darting, flashing. He passed a farm and saw the +vigorous outline of a blackbird, perched upon an oak bough still bare, +fluting as Pan fluted upon many-fountained Ida long ago; a chaffinch +dipped at him over the wall from wet shrubberies beyond, hopped to a twig +in the sunlight above the blackbird, and let loose a shower of notes like +silvery drops of water. Singing shook itself out of the atmosphere +everywhere, as though the whole of Nature moved and trembled into her +strange scale-less music. There was the joy of air upon the stirring +world.</p> + +<p>The life of air was dominant, ruling the heavy earth—bird-life. +What delicious names they had, Whitethroat, Gold-oriel, Wheat-ear, Dipper, +Bunting, Redpoll, Osprey, Snowy-owl, Snow-bunting, Martin; what lyrical +names with fun and laughter in them, a childlike beauty of air and sunny +woodland-space. The magic of Spring captured him by its suggestion: +nothing was fully out, it was suggested only—eternal promise, ethereal +glamour: prophecy, hope, expectancy—fulfilment.</p> + +<p>On all sides he felt the tremendous lift of the year that comes in May +with song and colour and movement. The world was rhythmical. It caught +him into joy, as though it would sweep him like a harp into passionate +response. Yet he remained dumb and inarticulate. He drank it in: but he +could not sing, he could not soar, he could not fly. This piping, +fluting, thrilling, this showering stream of sweet elemental song and +dance was not of the earth, but of the air. The strange yearning in him +grew and gathered into a dangerous accumulation. It must find expression +somehow or he would—burst.</p> + +<p>He threw himself down in the long grass beside the blue-throated stream, +and became at once all eyes and ears. There was no other way. The cool +touch of the luxuriant herbage brought a slight relief, as did the +itemising of the songs he heard and imitated, the colours he gazed upon +and named: the shimmering sheen of the rooks in the elm trees yonder; +the deep, unpolished ebony of the blackbird with its beak of gleaming +yellow; the bright and roving eye of the little whitethroat picking food +along the bank; the shearing speed of the swifts cutting the air with +tapering, scythe-like wings; the piping sweetness of a thrush, invisible +in a thicket behind the farm buildings—all these combined to put the true +bird-ecstasy upon him as he lay and watched and listened. The amazing +outburst of spring music lifted him almost into the air to join the ropes +of starlings twisting and untwisting as if they reproduced the wild soft +tangle of his unsatisfied yearnings. And their tiny flickering shadows +fell upon the ground in ever-shifting patterns that he could never catch +or seize. Upon his mind fell similarly rushing thoughts he was unable to +express . . . the rhythm of some mighty promise that uplifted. He was +aware of love and beauty. The soul in him rose and twittered like a +lark. . . .</p> + +<p>Then, presently, he raised his head above the screen of grass. There was +a sound of footsteps. His hearing was abnormally acute when this +bird-mood took him, for the tapping tread of a wagtail on the bank had +made itself distinctly heard. He saw the frisky creature, dainty as a +sprite, tripping nimbly among the rushes just below him. It balanced very +cleverly, neatly dressed in its tailor-made of feathers. He saw its fairy +ankles. It seemed to hold its skirts up. He caught its bright eye +peeping. It was gone.</p> + +<p>'Soft, slip of a bird!' he thought to himself with a sharp sensation of +regret; 'why did it leave me in such a hurry?' He felt something tender +and earnest in him, something true and thorough, yet careless and light +with joy, a true bird-quality. He felt, too, the pathos of the sudden +disappearance: a moment ago it had been there in all its gracious beauty, +and now the spot was empty.</p> + +<p>'Where, in what new haunted corner of these fields——' he began, +half-singing, when a new and startling flash of loveliness caught his eye +and took his breath away. Another wagtail, but this time yellow, +marvellous as a dream, came pricking into view.</p> + +<p>Somehow, beyond all understanding, the sweet apparition focussed his +tangle of inarticulate yearning into a blaze of delight that was a climax. +The advent of the exquisite little creature, with its delicate carriage, +its bosom of pure yellow, seemed symbolical almost. The idea of something +sylph-like from the heart of the air flashed into him. The whole singing, +dancing, coloured element produced this living emblem from its central +heart of the flooding Spring. There was true air-magic in it. +The passion of Spring and the mystery of birds focussed together in the +tiny symbol. Imagination touched the pitch of ecstasy. He turned +abruptly. There was a whirr, a streak of burning yellow that lost itself +against the sea of buttercups, and lo! He was—alone again.</p> + +<p>But this time the loneliness was more than he could bear.</p> + +<p>He sprang to his feet, and at full speed took the direction in which it +disappeared. Some wisdom of the birds was in him possibly, though alas, +not their light rapidity, for while guided wisely along the windings of +the willow-guarded stream, across the fields, past hedges, copses, farms, +over ditches innumerable, he could not overtake his prize—and so at last +came into a lonely spot that lay far away upon the surface of the +countryside. The occasional flash of yellow had led him onwards in this +way, as though the bird enticed him of set purpose; it would land, then +shoot away again just as he came up with it. It left a trail of gold +across the sunlit fields. It was a will-o'-the-wisp—in sunlight. +It behaved like some spiritual decoy.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, when he thought about it, his chase took on this aspect of +curious allurement, for he knew he could never catch the bird for actual +handling, even had he so desired. Nor did he wish to; he had no desire to +'prove' this symbol that summed up his imaginative passion. He only +wanted to come up with it; to meet its peeping eye, to watch it at close +quarters: its sylph-like beauty had seduced him. Twice he dashed through +the water, where the stream made a tiresome bend, and his track across the +fields of early hay would have warranted a farmer in putting dust-shot +into him. Yet he kept just within sight of it—of the flashing yellow +which made him oblivious of all else; and the brimstone butterflies, the +yellow-hammers, the orange-tinted kingfishers that obviously tried to +confuse the trail by shooting across his path, failed wholly to divert him +from the chase. He knew which gold to follow. It was in his heart.</p> + +<p>The wagtail at last shot headlong past a clump of bramble-bushes, and +Wimble, arriving also headlong, saw to his amazement that the yellow of +its breast remained on the branches as though caught and fixed. To his +astonishment the gold lay in a shining stream across the prickles without +moving. It held fast. He saw the gleaming line of it. He thought he was +dreaming for an instant—then discovered that the stream of gold was a +yellow scarf that had been netted by the hedge. It belonged to a human +being. The same second he saw a sun-bonnet and a book lying on the other +side by a pond below some willows. And the being was a blue-eyed girl. +His sylph of the air had come to earth. Two black stockings hung on a +branch to dry. She was bare-footed. He certainly met her eye, and it +was a surprised, reproachful eye. He looked down at her, and she looked +up at him. His heart came up into his throat and then into his eyes.</p> + +<p>'I suppose you know you're trespassing,' said a voice that was both cross +and sweet at once. 'These fields are father's.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' replied young Wimble of Trinity, staring at her in amazement. +'I'm awfully sorry.' He was lost in admiration and unable to conceal it. +She was more than a farmer's daughter, he was thinking, as instinctively +he transferred to her all the yearning, airy passion he had put into his +search for the yellow wagtail.</p> + +<p>'Father complained last week again, and there are new boards up +everywhere.' He remembered vaguely there had been complaints about +trespassing; he had blundered into the very spot where the offences had +been committed. 'So you've no excuse!' she added, watching him.</p> + +<p>'I'm awfully sorry,' he repeated, as he disentangled the yellow scarf and +passed the end into her outstretched hand. The sunburned skin just +matched the landscape, he noted the tiny bleached hairs upon her arm. +'I saw a yellow wagtail and went after it. They're rather uncommon.' +And then he added, 'I suppose it—you—got caught, scrambling through the +hedge. I'm frightfully sorry. Really, I'm ashamed. I saw the bird—and +forgot everything. I believe it flew back—flew into you!'</p> + +<p>They stood looking at each other. If he cut a comical figure, she +certainly did not; for whereas his face was hot, his tie flown over one +shoulder, his grey trousers splashed with mud; she seemed in her natural +setting between the willows and the hedge, the untidy hair falling loose +about the neck, her arms akimbo and her sunburned face suiting her to +perfection. She looked cool and extraordinarily radiant. He thought she +was absurdly beautiful; his heart began to beat deliciously; and when she +lost the cross expression and smiled at him the next moment he blurted out +a confused, impetuous something before he could possibly prevent it.</p> + +<p>'You're awfully becoming,' he stammered. 'I say—I'm jolly glad I saw +that yellow wagtail and followed it. I believe it flew back into your +heart.'</p> + +<p>Her smile broadened into a laugh at once. It was impossible to be angry +with such a youth. 'You undergraduates,' she said, 'are the most +ridiculous people I've ever known. But I shan't let you go now I've got +you. You're fairly caught.'</p> + +<p>'Rather,' said Wimble with unfeigned delight.</p> + +<p>'Then you'd better come with me and see father at once,' she went on. +'You can explain yourself to him—about the wagtail.'</p> + +<p>'Rather,' he repeated, though with less enthusiasm. It was the only word +that he could think of; and he added, 'presently.'</p> + +<p>She looked him up and down. 'It's best, I think.' And her laughter was +now friendly.</p> + +<p>'I will,' he repeated, 'I'll go anywhere with you. I admit I'm caught. +Do you think he'll be very nasty to me?'</p> + +<p>But he scarcely knew what he was saying all the time, for his one desire +was not to lose sight of her now that he had found her. Her face, her +laughter, her singing voice, her attitude, everything about her made him +gasp. He already thought of her in bird-terms. He remembered the +redwing, delicate thrush, that comes to England from the North and is off +again too soon—of countless birds that haunt our fields with transient +beauty, then vanish suddenly, afraid to stay and rest. An anxious pang +transfixed his heart. Any moment she might spread big yellow wings and +leave him fluttering on the ground. 'If I've done any damage,' he added, +'I'll put it right. It was worth it, anyhow.' But he saw that she +laughed with him now, not at him, and he began to smile himself. +She was adorable. 'I'll swear she's a birdy girl,' the thought flashed +through him.</p> + +<p>'If you'll turn your back a moment, please,' he heard her saying, +'I'll put my shoes and stockings on again. There's no good paddling any +more with <i>you</i> here.'</p> + +<p>'Rather not,' he said, and ran down to fetch them for her.</p> + +<p>And so it began and ended in the brief ten minutes of this intoxicating +May morning beside the willow pond where the birds of the countryside came +down to bathe at dawn and drink at sunset. It was an ideal opening. +She put her stockings on, but not before he had complained that she was +slow about it because a thorn had run into her toe, blaming him so that he +had to extract it with trembling fingers and a penknife. They were +laughing together like two children by the time he finished; and by the +time they reached the house he had dipped into her being and found, as in +a book of poetry, that all his favourite passages were marked. Moreover, +she had led him by so round a way that they had been obliged to rest under +the hedges more than once, and had discovered also that they were very +hungry. The sudden intimacy was the sudden falling in love of two young +persons who were obviously made for one another. It was the mating of two +birds. They had met by the pond, exchanged glances, and then flown off +together across the lawn. For it was spring and nesting time. . . . The +dust of blue and bronze was on the dragon-flies, the bloom and promise of +deep-bosomed summer in the air. . . .</p> + +<p>'Father, this is my friend, Mr. Wimble,' she introduced him. +'You remember, I told you. He's at Trinity.'</p> + +<p>'You'll stay and have a bite with us, won't you then? It's just time,' +was the genial invitation, given to hide his excusable lack of +recognition. There was no mention of the damaged fields nor of the +trespassing. 'Come, Joan, let's get at it, for I'm starving.'</p> + +<p>The name sounded wonderful, but Joseph knew it already and had already +used it, his face close against her red lips and shining eyes. He also +knew his fate was sealed, and he wished to heaven his own father was as +nice as hers.</p> + +<p>'I'm a chandler,' he was told in the course of the talk across the +luncheon table by the window while the birds hushed their song outside, +well knowing it was noon, 'a corn-chandler down in Norfolk. But I've got +two farms up here in Cambridgeshire, and I'm just up to look over 'em for +a chap as wants to buy 'em off me.' He was a rough-and-ready type, free +in his drink and language, using meaningless oaths more frequently as +intimacy grew, and betraying a somewhat irascible temperament as well. +Yet he was kindly enough. And before Joseph left to go back to his +forgotten lectures there had been an invitation too: 'You must come down +and see us there some time if you don't mind a bit of roughing it. +We live very simple.'</p> + +<p>From all of which it was clear that the corn-chandler was favourably +impressed by the visit of an Undergraduate of Cambridge University, and +would not be at all averse to marrying his daughter to the first available +young man with reasonable credentials. It was all so easy, instinctive, +natural. It ran so smoothly. It flowed, it flew. No obstacles appeared. +There was flight and rapture in it from the very start. The couple +managed to see one another once a day at least for the next three weeks, +but before the first week ended they were engaged. Young Wimble said +nothing at home because he knew his father would object to the daughter of +a corn-chandler who lived in Norfolk. By September they were married. +But by the end of September Joseph realised that they were married—quite +another thing. For his father meant what he said, and beyond a modest +allowance from the chandler to his daughter, they started life with +nothing but the small lump sum by means of which Mr. Wimble senior eased +his conscience and set himself right with the outside world. The capitals +of Europe were not visited.</p> + +<p>Joseph and Joan, however, took the situation like a pair of birds, lightly +and carelessly. They were as thoughtless as two finches on the lawn, and +as faithful as red linnets. The game of the yellow wagtail chase was kept +up between them. He pretended that it was her flying scarf he had seen +shining two miles across the buttercup fields, and she declared that she +had gone to the willow pond on purpose, knowing in her bones—she called +them feathers—that one day some one would find her there and capture her. +The actual wagtail was a real decoy. It was his yearning and her own +materialised.</p> + +<p>They laughed and played with the idea till it grew very real. And the +future did not frighten them a bit. They took their money and spent it on +their honeymoon, leaving for the south in October with the birds. +They started on the great Southern Tour, building their first nest far +away in a sun-drenched Algerian garden where the air, soft with the bloom +of an eternal summer, mastered the earth and made it seem of small +account. Nothing could weigh them down, nor cage them in. They led a +true air-life together, the winds were softly scented, stars shone nightly +above their cosy tent, they sang in the golden sunsets and washed their +young bodies in the morning dew.</p> + +<p>It was the paradise of a realised dream, a sparkling ecstasy they thought +could never end. Her beauty seemed to him the one thing necessary. +The autumn migration of the birds, mysterious with grandeur, had always +suggested to him a passing-away from earth, a procession to another life, +and a returning to sing of it with rapture in the spring. Their honeymoon +was this dream come true. They mated and married as birds do, on the +wing, and singing. And their first-born, a girl, was the offspring of a +passion as intense and radiant as any passion can be in this world. +Their imaginative ecstasy, prolonged wondrously through golden months, +lifted them from the earth towards the very stars. In it was singing, +flight, and rapture, the freedom of wild free spaces and the glory of +flashing, coloured wings.</p> + +<p>It was of the air. They fluted to one another beneath the moon; they +soared above the noonday heat, they warbled in the scented dusk. +Their child, conceived of sun and wind, in a transport of bliss akin to +that careless passionate happiness that makes bird-life a ceaseless +running song, was born where the missel-thrush sings in the moonlight, and +the nightingales in February. She was a veritable child of air. A bird +on the wing dropped her to earth in passing, and was gone. . . .</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<p>But something else was gone about that time as well. There came the +collapse of inevitable reaction—tragedy. It was as pitiful as anything +well could be. Having accomplished her chief end in life, the wife's +strange beauty faded: her lightness, brilliance waned, her rapture sank +and died; she became a heavy, rather stupid mother; she returned to type +whence youth and imagination had temporarily rescued her. Her underlying +traits of ordinary texture dulled the colour of her yellow wings. +She bequeathed her all to this radiant, sparkling firstborn, and herself +went out. The thing he loved in her vanished or became obliterated. +He had caught her main drift; he tired. She tired too. In him patient +affection replaced ecstatic adoration; in her there was tolerance, +misunderstanding, then disappointment. To live longer on the heights they +had first climbed became impossible. All that had fascinated him, caught +him into the air, departed from her. The bird flew from her—into the +little girl with yellow hair and big blue eyes.</p> + +<p>She wearied of the life in tents and spoke of 'artistic furniture' at +home, of comfort, and began to wonder how their 'living' could be +'earned.' The practical outlook developed, the carelessness of air +decreased. Tom, the second-born, was the culminating proof of the +saddening descent. He was just a jolly little dirty animal. 'He's like a +rabbit,' thought his father, looking with disappointment on him, thus +introducing the big, bitter quarrel that ended in their coming back to the +heavy skies of England, settling in a flat in Maida Vale, and led +eventually to his taking up work in connection with a modern publishing +house to provide the necessary food and rent and clothing. They landed +with a distinctly heavy thud—on earth.</p> + +<p>It was, on the mother's part, a great tragedy of sacrifice. Having given +all her best qualities to the first-born, she kept none over for herself— +not even enough to appreciate her loss. Her radiance, sparkle, lightness, +all her airy wonder, joy and singing, passed from her into yellow-haired +little Joan. She stared at it with dull misunderstanding in her heart. +She had not retained enough even to understand herself. She did not even +discover that she had changed, for only when a fragment remains is the +loss of the rest recognised, much less regretted.</p> + +<p>By expressing herself in reproduction, she had not grown richer, but had +somehow merely emptied herself. Her husband, moreover, was not heartless. +He was not even to blame. He remained tender, kind, and true, but he did +not love. For the thing he loved had gone—into another form.</p> + +<p>Like the shifting shadows of the wings upon the Cambridge flats that gay +spring morning, there fell upon his mind a shower of vague and +indescribable thoughts, only one of which he pounced upon before it fled +away.</p> + +<p>'What has been so long unconscious in me, little Joan may perhaps make +conscious. I wonder . . .!' He wondered till he died. He kept his +wings, that is.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> + + +<p>The return to London was a return to the demands of earth; from the bright +and fiery aether of the southern climate they landed with something of a +jar among sooty bricks and black-edged mortar. The sunshine dimmed, the +very air seemed solid. Regular hours of work made it difficult for him to +lift his wings, much less to fly; he knew the London air was good, but he +never noticed that it was air at all; he almost forgot they had ever lived +in the air and flown at all. Grocers, butchers, and bakers taught Mrs. +Wimble to become very practical, and the halfpenny newspapers stirred her +social ambitions for her children. Wimble worked hard and capably, and +they made both ends meet. He proved a patient husband and a devoted +father, if perhaps a rather vague one. His moment of realisation was +over. He accepted the routine of the majority, living methodically, +almost automatically, yet always a little absent-mindedly as though much +of his intelligence was unconsciously at work elsewhere.</p> + +<p>Both parents altered; but, whereas his change was on the surface only, his +wife's seemed fundamental and permanent. He was aware that he had +altered, she was not aware. They differed radically, for instance, about +the prolonged and golden honeymoon in the south.</p> + +<p>'The money lasted uncommonly well,' said Mrs. Wimble when they spoke of +it; 'it was a pity we didn't keep over a little, wasn't it?' There was a +hint of asperity in the droop of her lips.</p> + +<p>'We should have it now if we had,' he answered vaguely but with patience. +'But for me it's a memory that will always live.' He spoke with longing +tenderness.</p> + +<p>'What?' said Mrs. Wimble, who, like all slow thinkers, liked sentences +repeated, thus giving time to find an intelligent reply.</p> + +<p>'We had a lovely time out there,' she admitted with a sigh, and went on to +mention by way of complaint that she feared she was getting rather stout +in London. There was no idea in her that she had changed in any other +way; she looked back upon Algeria as a kind of youthful madness, half +regretting it. That the bird had flown from her heart did not occur to +her. Not alone her body, but her mind was getting stout. She had grown +so artificial that she was no longer real. The manners, moods, the words +and gestures she adopted in order to please or in order to appear as +others are, had ended by effectually screening her own natural self, that +which is every one's possession of unique value. It was not so much that +she was false as that she was not herself. She was unreal.</p> + +<p>In Wimble, however, those two years remained as something bewilderingly +beautiful. Just out of sight in his heart he wore still the steady glow +of it. He never could recall quite what he had felt in those deliriously +happy days, yet the knowledge that they had been deliriously happy +remained and warmed his blood. It was a big, brave, heartening memory +beneath his coloured waistcoat. He dreamed his dream, only he did not +tell it to any one—yet. He remained a kind, untidy husband and father. +But that was the outer portion of him. The inner portion flew and soared +and even sang. He no longer quite understood the meaning of this inner +portion, but some day, he felt, it would be drawn out of him again and +recognised. He would be taught to realise it, and what this bird-thing in +him meant would be made clear. Already he looked to little Joan with +something more than an infatuated father's adoration for her yellow hair, +her bright blue eyes, her light and dancing ways. Tom he just loved in +the way his mother loved. He remained a rabbit with distinctive +tendencies of the animal. But with Joan it was different. In Joan there +was something he looked forward to. Even at the age of five there was a +glint about her that increased the glow in him; at ten it was still more +marked. She puzzled her mother considerably, just as later she alarmed +her. 'I'm nervous about the child; she doesn't seem like other girls of +her age. I don't see her getting on much,' was her opinion, expressed +again and again in the same or similar language. 'Joan seems to me +backward.'</p> + +<p>'Well,' admitted her husband, 'she's certainly not in a hurry about it. +She's maturing slowly. Lots of them do—when there's a good deal to +mature.'</p> + +<p>'I hope you're right, Joe.' And then she added with pride by way of +compensation—'Tom's coming along nicely, anyhow,'—as though she spoke of +a growing vegetable or, as he thought, of a rabbit in a cage with lettuces +in front of it, and the idea of mating the chief end in life.</p> + +<p>Once past the age of sixteen, however, Joan too came along nicely, and +with a sudden rush that reminded her father of a young bird consciously +leaving the nest. She seemed to mature so abruptly. There came a +wondrous bloom upon her, as though the South poured up and blossomed in +her body, mind, and soul. It took her father deliciously by surprise. +The glowing thing in him spread too, rose to the surface, caught fire. +He watched her with amazement, joy, and pride. He felt wings inside him. +Thought danced—flashed against a background of blue and gold again.</p> + +<p>'She'll do something in the world before she's done,' he said confusedly +to himself, feeling a prophecy he had always made without realising it. +'There's wings in the girl. She'll teach them how to fly!'</p> + +<p>He was beginning to realise himself—through her. His early ideal had +taken flesh again, but this time with a difference. He had not merely +found it. He had created it.</p> + +<p>For, more and more lately, the influence of Joan upon him had been +growing. It was not merely that she made him feel young again, nor that +her queer ways made him aware that he wanted to sing and dance. It was, +in a word, that he recognised in her the remarkable thing he had known +first in her mother years ago—but released in all its golden fullness. +He recovered in her sparkling presence the imaginative dream that had +caught him up into the air in youth, and it was both in her general +attitude to life as well as in the odd things she now began to say and do. +Her general attitude expressed it better than her words and acts. +She <i>was</i> it—lived it naturally. She had the Air in her. In her +presence the old magic rose over him again. He remembered the strange +boyhood's point of view about it—that a new thing was stealing down into +the world of men, a new point of view, a new way of looking at old, dull, +heavy things, that Air was catching at the heart of humanity here and +there, trying to lift it somehow into freedom. He thought of the +collective wisdom and brotherhood of birds. He forgot that he was growing +old.</p> + +<p>The old longing for carelessness, lightness, speed in life—these snatched +at him with passionate yearning once again. Joan was the air-idea +personified. And she had begun to find herself.</p> + +<p>But so long now had he lived the mole-existence in London that at first +this delicious revival baffled and bewildered him. He could not suddenly +acquire speed without the risk of losing balance.</p> + +<p>He became aware of a maddening desire to escape. He wanted air. Joan, he +felt positive, knew the way. But the majority of people about him—his +wife, Tom, their visitors, their neighbours—had not the least idea what +it was he meant. And this lack of comprehension gave him a feeling of +insecurity. He was out of touch with his environment. He was above, +beyond, in advance of it. He was in the air a little.</p> + +<p>He looked down on them—in one sense.</p> + +<p>There were times when he did not know whether he was standing on his head +or his feet. 'Everything looks different suddenly,' as he expressed it. +He saw things upside down, or inside out, or backwards forwards. +And the condition first betrayed itself one afternoon when he returned +unexpectedly from work—he was still traveller to a publishing house—and +found his wife talking over the tea-cups with a caller. He burst into the +room before he knew that any one was there, and did not know how to escape +without appearing rude. He sat down and fingered a cup of tea. They were +talking of many things, the sins of their neighbours in Maida Vale, +chiefly, and after the pause and interruption caused by his unwelcome +entrance, the caller, searching for a suitable subject, asked:</p> + +<p>'You've heard about Captain Fox, I suppose?'</p> + +<p>'What?' asked Mrs. Wimble, opening her eyes as though anxious to read the +other's thoughts. Evidently she had not heard about Captain Fox.</p> + +<p>'I don't think I have,' she said cautiously. 'What—in particular?'</p> + +<p>'He's going to marry her,' was the reply. 'I know it for a fact. +But don't say anything about it <i>yet</i>, because I heard it from Lady +Spears, who . . .'</p> + +<p>She dragged a good deal of Burke into the complicated explanation, making +it as impressive as she could. Captain Fox, who was no better than he +should be, according to the speakers, paid rather frequent visits upon the +young widow of the ground-floor flat, who should have been better than she +was. To find that honest courtship explained the friendship was something +of a disappointment. Mrs. Marks wished to be the first to announce the +innocent interpretation, to claim authorship, indeed—having persistently +advocated the darker view.</p> + +<p>'Who'd ever have guessed that?' exclaimed Mrs. Wimble, off her guard a +moment. 'You always told me——'</p> + +<p>The face of her caller betrayed a passing flush.</p> + +<p>'Oh, one always hoped,' she began primly, when Mrs. Wimble interrupted her +with a firm, clear question:</p> + +<p>'By the bye, who <i>was</i> she?' she asked.</p> + +<p>And hearing it, Wimble felt his world turn upside down a moment. +He realised, that is, that his wife saw it upside down. For his wife to +ask such a question was as if he had asked it himself. He felt ashamed. +His world turned inside out. He looked down on them. He rose abruptly, +finding the energy to invent a true-escaping sentence:</p> + +<p>'You ask who she <i>was</i>,' he said, not with intentional rudeness, yet +firmly, 'when you ought to ask——'</p> + +<p>Both ladies stared at him with surprise, waiting for him to finish. +He was picking up the cup his sudden gesture had overturned.</p> + +<p>'Who she <i>is</i>,' concluded Wimble, with the astonishment of positive rebuke +in his tone. 'What can it matter who she was? It's what she is that's of +importance. The Captain's got to live with <i>that</i>.' And then the +escaping-sentence: 'If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Marks, I have to go upstairs +to see a book'—he hesitated, stammered, and ended in confusion—'about a +book.' And off he went, making a formal little bow at the door. +He went into the dining-room down the passage, vaguely aware that he had +not behaved very nicely. 'But, of course, I'm not a gentleman exactly,' +he said to himself; 'what's called a gentleman, that is. Father was only +an analytical chemist.'</p> + +<p>He stood still a moment, then dropped into a chair beside the table with +the red and black check cloth. His mind worked on by itself, as it were.</p> + +<p>'What I said was true, anyhow. People always ask, "Who was she?" about +everything. What the devil does that matter? It's what you are that +counts. Father was a chemist, but I—I——'</p> + +<p>He got up and walked over to the clock, because the clock stood on the +mantelpiece, and there was a mirror behind it. He wanted to see his own +face. He stared at himself a moment without speaking, thinking, or +feeling anything. He put his tie straight and picked a bit of cotton from +his shoulder.</p> + +<p>'I am Joseph Wimble, not a gentleman quite, not of much account anywhere +perhaps, but a true workman, earning £250 a year, knowing all about +the outside, and something about the inside of books; thirty-seven years +old, with a boy at the Grammar School, a girl of sixteen in the house, and +married to—to——' He paused, turned from the mirror, and sat down. +It cost him an effort to remember—'to Joan Lumley, daughter of a +corn-chandler in Norfolk, who might die any moment and leave us enough to +live on,' he went on, 'in a more comfortable position,' passing his hand +over his forehead; 'and my life is insured, and I've put a bit by, and +Tom's to be a solicitor's clerk, and everything's going smoothly except +that taxes——'</p> + +<p>The sound of an opening door disturbed him. He felt confused in his mind. +He heard Mrs. Marks saying loudly, 'And please say good-bye for me to your +<i>h</i>usband,' the aspirate so emphasised that it was obviously an +insecurity. She intended he should hear and understand she bore him no +ill-will for his bad manners, yet despised him. The steps went +downstairs, and the two questions came back upon him like pistol-shots:</p> + +<p>'Who <i>was</i> she? Who <i>am</i> I?</p> + +<p>He realised he had been wandering from the point.</p> + +<p>'I'm a centre of life, independent and unafraid,' thought flashed an +answer. 'I'm what I make myself, what I think myself. I'm not seeing + +things upside down; I'm beginning to think for myself, and that's what it +is. No one, nor nothing, nor anything anywhere in the world,' he went on, +mixed in speech, but clear in mind, 'can prevent me from being anything I +feel myself, will myself, say I am. I've never read nor thought nor +bothered my head about things before. By heavens! I'll begin! I <i>have</i> +begun——'</p> + +<p>'What's the matter, Joe? Have you got a headache, or is it the books +bothering you, dear?' His wife had come in upon him.</p> + +<p>She put her hand upon his forehead, and he got up from his chair and faced +her.</p> + +<p>'I've made a discovery,' he said, with exhilaration in his manner, +'a great discovery.' He looked triumphantly at her. 'I am.'</p> + +<p>'What are you?' she asked, thinking he was joking, and his sentence left +unfinished on purpose.</p> + +<p>'I <i>am</i>,' he repeated with emphasis. 'I have discovered that I am, that I +exist. Your question to that woman made me suddenly see it.'</p> + +<p>His wife looked flustered, and said vaguely, 'What?' Wimble continued:</p> + +<p>'As yet, I don't know exactly what I am, but I mean to find out. Up till +now I've been automatic, just doing things because other people do 'em. +But I've discovered that's not necessary. I'm going to do things in +future because I want to. But first I must find out <i>why</i> I am what I am. +Then the explanation'll come—of everything. Do you see what I mean? +It's a case of "Enquire within upon everything."' And he smiled. +His heart fluttered. He felt wings in it—again.</p> + +<p>'Do you mean you're going to start in the writing or publishing line, +Joe?' It had always been her secret ambition.</p> + +<p>'That may come later,' he told her, 'when I've something to say. For it's +really big, this discovery of mine. Most people never find it out at all. +She'—indicating with his thumb the direction Mrs. Marks had taken— +'hasn't, for instance. She simply isn't aware that she exists. +She isn't.'</p> + +<p>'Isn't what, dear?'</p> + +<p>'She is <i>not</i>, I mean, because she doesn't know she is,' he said loudly.</p> + +<p>'Oh, that way. I see.' Mrs. Wimble looked a wee bit frightened. He had +seen an animal, a rabbit for instance, look like that before it decided to +plunge back into its hole for safety.</p> + +<p>'There are strange, big things about these days, I know,' she said after a +pause, thinking of the books with queer titles his employers published. +'You have been reading too much, dear, thinking and——'</p> + +<p>'Mother,' he interrupted, instinctively omitting her name, and in a tone +that convinced her his head was momentarily turned, 'that's the whole +trouble. I've never thought in my life.'</p> + +<p>'But why should you, dear?' she soothed him, wondering if people who lost +their memory and wandered off exhibited such symptoms first. 'You always +do your work splendidly. Don't think too much, is what I say. It always +leads to worrying——'</p> + +<p>'Hardly ever—till this moment,' he was saying in the grave, emphatic way +that so alarmed her. 'Not even when I asked you to marry me, when Tom was +born, or Joan, or when we took this flat, or anything.'</p> + +<p>'You've made quite a success of your life without it anyhow, Joe dear. +And no woman could ask more than that. D'you feel poorly? Joan can fetch +Dr. Monson in a moment.' It was a variant of 'What?'</p> + +<p>'I feel better and bigger and stronger,' he replied, 'more real than ever +in my life before. I have never been really alive till this moment. +I <i>am</i>—and for the first time I know it. I'm experiencing.' He stopped +short, as Joan went down the passage singing, pausing a moment to look in, +then tactfully going on her way again. The fluttering in his heart became +more marked. Something was trying to escape. There was a whirr of wings +again. 'Mother,' he said to his wife, as their heads turned back from the +door together, 'do you know what "experiencing" is? D'you realise what +the word means?'</p> + +<p>She sat down, resting her arms upon the table. She looked quietly into +his eyes, as at one who is about to speak out of greater knowledge.</p> + +<p>'Joe dear, I <i>have</i> had experiences—experiences of my very own, you +know.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes, I know, I know. But what I mean is—do you get the meaning, +the real meaning of the word?'</p> + +<p>She sighed audibly. 'Not your meaning, perhaps,' she meant. But she did +not say it.</p> + +<p>'It means,' he said, delighted with her exquisite silence, 'it means— +er——' He thought hard a moment. 'Experience,' he went on, 'is that +"something" which changes potatoes into nourishment, and so into emotion. +That's it. Until you eat potatoes, you don't exist. Until you have +experiences, you don't exist. When you have experiences and know that you +have them, you—<i>per</i>sist.'</p> + +<p>She gasped aloud. She took his hand—very quietly.</p> + +<p>'Joe dear,' she said, softly as in their courtship days, 'such ideas don't +come into your head from nowhere. Has some one been talking to you? +Have you been reading these books?'</p> + +<p>His pulse was very quiet.</p> + +<p>'Have you been reading the firm's books, dear?' she repeated.</p> + +<p>She asked it gently, forgivingly, as a mother might ask her boy, +'Have you been tasting father's whisky?' The books were meant to sell to +booksellers, to the public, to people who needed that particular kind of +excitement. Her husband was to be trusted. He was not supposed to know +what they contained. His 'line' of trade was chiefly medical, +psychological, religious, philosophical. Fiction was another 'line'—for +the apprentice. Joe was an 'expert' traveller. He was expected to talk +about his wares, but not as one who read them. Merely their selling value +was his strong point.</p> + +<p>By the expression of his face she knew the answer.</p> + +<p>He leaned back in his chair, just as he did sometimes when he asked what +there was for dinner—the same real interest in his eyes—and he answered +very calmly:</p> + +<p>'My dear, I have—a bit. <i>Cogito ergo sum</i>. For the first time I +understood, in theory, that I existed. My reading taught me that. +But I never knew it in practice until just now, when I heard you ask that +question about the future Mrs. Fox: "Who <i>was</i> she?" And then I knew +also that you——'</p> + +<p>'You what?' enquired Mrs. Wimble, bridling.</p> + +<p>'Were unaware that you existed,' he replied point blank.</p> + +<p>'Aren't you a little beside yourself, Joe—sort of excited, or something? +'she gasped, proud of her tact and self-control. 'What else could I have +said? How could I have put it different?'</p> + +<p>'Joan,' he answered gently, 'you should have said, "What <i>is</i> she?" +For that would have meant you thought for yourself. It would have meant +that you knew you <i>were</i>, and that you knew she <i>was</i>.'</p> + +<p>'Original?' said Mrs. Wimble slowly, catching her husband's meaning +vaguely, but more than a little disturbed in her mind.</p> + +<p>'No,' he answered, 'true. Just as when, years ago—the sunshine lovely +and the fields full of buttercups—you wore a yellow scarf, and a wagtail +beside a willow pond came so near that——'</p> + +<p>'Joe,' she said with a slight flush that was half displeasure yet half +flattered vanity,' you needn't bring up that again. We were a bit above +ourselves, dear, when that happened. We lost our heads——'</p> + +<p>'Above ourselves! Free and real and happy,' he interrupted her, 'that's +what we were then. We had wings. We've lost 'em. We were in the air, I +tell you.' His voice grew louder. 'And what's more, we knew it.'</p> + +<p>He heard his daughter pass down the narrow passage again, singing. He got +up and seemed to shake himself. There was again a fluttering in him.</p> + +<p>'We certainly were in the air,' murmured his astonished wife.</p> + +<p>'You were a glorious yellow wagtail,' he went on, so that she didn't know +whether his laughter was in earnest or in play, 'and we were rising—into +flight. We've come down to earth since. We live in a hole, as it were. +I'm going to get out!'</p> + +<p>Joan's little song went past the door and died away towards the kitchen:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> Flow, fly, flow,<br> + Wherever I <i>am</i>, I <i>go</i>.<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>'We've lost our wings. We crawl about. We never dance now, or sing, +or——' He broke off abruptly. He felt the other portion of himself, so +long hidden, coming to the surface; and he was aware that it went after +his daughter. He was a little afraid of it—felt giddy. Her voice in the +distance sounded like a lark's, the lilt of her curious little song had an +echo of the open air in it, her tread brought back the tripping of the +wagtail along the river's bank. 'We never get out now,' he finished the +sentence, 'we never get out. Earth smothers us. We want air!'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wimble watched him a moment with frightened eyes. He was standing on +tiptoe, holding the tails of his coat in his hands as though he was about +to do something very unusual—something foolish and ridiculous, she +thought. He seemed about to dance, to rise, almost to fly up to the +ceiling. She felt uneasy, hot—a little ashamed.</p> + +<p>'We can go out more, dear, if you think it wise,' she said cautiously, +moving a little further away. 'It's the expense—I always thought——'</p> + +<p>Her husband stared at her a moment dumbly. He seemed to be listening. +In his heart a little, forgotten song crept back, answering the singing of +the girl. Then, dropping upon his heels again, he said patiently in a +soothing tone:</p> + +<p>'There, there, Mother! Forgive me if I frightened you. I was only +pretending we were young again. That old bird thing—bird-magic—came +over me for a moment. The girl's singing did it, I suppose. Something +ageless in me got the upper hand . . .'</p> + +<p>He took her hand and comforted her. 'Steady, Joe,' she said, horribly +puzzled, 'she is a bit flighty, I know.'</p> + +<p>'But we will go out more,' he went on more normally again, adopting her +meaning perfectly. 'Bother the expense! We'll go out this very night and +take the child with us. We'll dine out, my dear. I'll take you to a West +End restaurant!'</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> + + +<p>For Joan certainly was no ordinary girl; some called her backward, some +considered her deficient, but all agreed that she was singular. +Yet all liked her. Tall, slim and fair, with plenty of golden hair and +eyes of merry brightness, she was out of the common in an attractive sort +of way. Tom, her brother, with the mind of a solicitor's clerk, looked +down upon her; her mother, fond, conventional, socially ambitious, +despaired of her; her father alone held the opinion, 'There's something in +that girl. She's always herself. But town-life over-weights and hides +her; and in the end will suffocate. It'll snuff her out. She's meant for +country.' He was aware of something unusually real in her. They were +great friends. 'I want more air,' she had said once. 'In a field or +garden I'd grow enormous like a bean plant. In these streets I'm just a +stone squashed down by crowds. I'm in a hole and can't breathe. I prefer +a fewity.' Even her words were her own like this. 'I'd like room to +dance in. Life is a dance. I'd learn it in a field. I'd be a bird +girl.' Space was her need, for mind as well as body.</p> + +<p>It was her father's secret ambition too: a cottage, a garden with things +that grew silently into beauty, flowers, vegetables, plants; sweet +laughing winds; the rush of living rain at midnight; water to drink from a +deep, cool spring instead of from metal pipes; a large, inviting horizon +in which a man might lose himself; and above all—birds.</p> + +<p>'After a month in real private country—loose country, talking, dancing, +running country——' She paused.</p> + +<p>'Liquid, fluid, as it were,' he put in, delighted.</p> + +<p>'Yes, deep and clear as a river,' she went on, 'in country like that, do +you know what'd happen to me, father, after a few months of waiting?'</p> + +<p>'I know, but I can't quite say,' he answered. 'Tell me, child, for I'd +love to hear your own description.'</p> + +<p>'I'd fly,' was her answer. 'Everything in me would fly about like a bird, +picking up things, and all over the place at once without a plan—a fixed, +heavy plan like a street or square in London here—and yet getting on all +the time—getting further.'</p> + +<p>'And how would you learn, dear?'</p> + +<p>'Birds,' she laughed. 'There's bird-teaching, I'm sure.' She flitted +across to another chair as she said it. She came closer to her father, +who was listening with both ears, watching, drinking in something he had +known long ago and then forgotten. '<i>You</i> know all about it, Daddy. +You needn't pretend.'</p> + +<p>'You're rather like one, d'you know,' he smiled. 'Like a bird, I mean.' +He thought of a dabchick that hides so cleverly no one can put it up— +then, suddenly, is there, close at hand.</p> + +<p>She was perched on his knee before he knew it. Her small voice twittered +on into his ear. Something about her sparkled, flashed and vanished, and +it reminded him of sunshine on swift-fluttering wings through the speckled +shade of an orchard. She darted, whirred, and came to rest. He stroked +her.</p> + +<p>'Father, you know everything before I say it,' she went on, her face +shining with happiness that made her almost beautiful. 'If I could only +live like a bird, I could <i>live</i>. Here it's all a big, stuffy cage.' +She flitted to the window, pointing to roofs and walls and chimney-pots, +black with grime. The same instant she was back again upon his knees. +'To live like a bird is to be alive all over, I'm sure, I'm sure. +I know it. It's all routing here.'</p> + +<p>Whether she meant rotten, routine, or living in a rut, he did not ask. +He felt her meaning.</p> + +<p>'There's a nest in a garden waiting for us somewhere,' he said, living the +dream with her in his heart. 'And it's got an orchard, high deep grass, +wild flowers, hills in the distance, with a tremendous sky where the winds +go tearing about like the flight of birds. And a stream that ripples and +sings and shines. All alive, I mean, and always moving. They say the +country's stagnation. It isn't. It's a perfect rush——'</p> + +<p>'Of course,' she put in. 'Oh, father, think hard about that place, and +we'll attract it nearer and nearer, till in the end we drop into it and +grow like——'</p> + +<p>'Beans,' he laughed.</p> + +<p>'Birds,' she rippled, and hopped from his knee across the room, and was +down the passage and out of sight before he could draw another breath.</p> + +<p>There was something alert as lightning in the girl. She woke a similar +thing in him, too. It had nothing to do with brain as intellect, or with +reason, or with knowledge in the ordinary sense the world gives to these +words. But it had to do, he dimly felt, with another bigger thing that +was everywhere and in everything. Joan shared it, brought it nearer; it +was universal. What that bigger thing might be perplexed him. He was +aware that it drove past, alertness in so huge a thing conveying the +impression of vast power. There was grandeur in it somewhere, poise, +dignity, beauty; yet this subtle alertness too, and this swift protean +sparkle. It was towering as a night of stars, alluring as a peeping +wildflower, but prodigious also as though all the oceans flowed suddenly +between narrow banks in a flood of clearest water, very rapid, +terrifyingly deep. For a robe it wore the lustrous colouring of untold +age. His imagery, when he tried to visualise it, grew mixed. He called +it Experience. But sometimes he told himself he knew its Christian name— +its familiar, little, intimate nickname—and that was Wisdom.</p> + +<p>And so he was rather glad that Joan, like himself, was but half educated; +that she was backward, and that he knew, relatively, only the outsides of +books. For facts, he vaguely felt, might come between them and this +august yet precious thing they knew together. Birds could teach it, but +Ornithology hid it.</p> + +<p>Lately, however, as his wife divined, he had been dipping in between the +covers of the goods he travelled in. Caught by the bait of several +drugging titles, he had nibbled—in the train, in waiting-rooms, in the +'parlours' of commercial hotels where he put up for the night. +He had found names and descriptions of various things, but they were the +names and descriptions given by others to their own sensations. +The ordered classification merely developed snapshots. He recognised +photographs of dead things that he knew must be somewhere—alive. +The names made stationary what ought to dance along with incessant +movement. Only he did not realise this until he saw the photographs. +The alleged accuracy of a photograph was an insolent falsehood, pretending +that what was alive was dead, that what rushed was stationary. Dogs and +savages cannot recognise the photographs of their masters. +The resemblance has to be taught. Everything flows, his shilling +<i>Heraclitus</i> told him. He had always known it. Birds taught it. +Joan lived it. To classify was to photograph—a prevarication. +To publish a snapshot of a jumping horse was to teach what is not true. +Definitions were trivial and absurd, for what was true to-day was false +to-morrow. The sole value of names, of classification, of photographing +lay in stopping life for an instant so that its flow might be realised—as +a momentary stage in an incessant process. And he looked at a group of +acquaintances his wife had 'Kodaked' ten days ago, and realised with +delight how they all had rushed away, torn on ahead, lived, since she had +told that insignificant lie in black and white about them.</p> + +<p>Joan, catching him in the act of destroying it, had said, 'I know why +you're doing that, father.'</p> + +<p>'Why?' he asked, half ashamed and half surprised.</p> + +<p>'Because you don't want to stop them,' was her answer, 'and because it +wasn't fair of mother to catch them in the act like that. It wasn't all.'</p> + +<p>And as he stared at her curious peeping face, she came quickly up to him, +saying passionately, imploringly:</p> + +<p>'Oh, do let's get into the country soon, and live along with it, and grow +and know things. I feel so stuck still here, and always caught-in-the-act +like that photo. It's so dead. It's a toad of a place! The streets are +all nailed down on to the ground. In the country they run about——'</p> + +<p>He interrupted her on purpose:</p> + +<p>'But in a city life is supposed to be much richer than in the country,' he +said. 'You know that?'</p> + +<p>'It goes round and round like a circle, though; it doesn't go <i>on</i>. +I'm living other people's lives here. I want to live my own. Everybody +here lives the same thing over and over again till they get so hot they +get ill. I want to be cool and naked like a fern. Here I'm being +photographed all day long. Every man who looks at me takes a photograph. +Oh, father, I'm so tired of it. Do let's go soon and live hoppily like +the birds.'</p> + +<p>'You mean happily?' he asked, laughing with her.</p> + +<p>'It's the same thing,' she laughed back, 'it's like wings or running +water—always going wherever they are——</p> + +<center> +<img alt = "fig 1." src="images/fig1.jpg"><br> +</center> + + +<p>And was dancing to and fro over the carpet, when the door opened and in +came her brother Tom, followed by another youth.</p> + +<p>He looked surprised, ashamed, then vexed. It was Saturday afternoon. +He had been six months now in the office.</p> + +<p>'I've brought Mr. Halliday with me,' he said pompously, 'to have tea. +We've just been to a matinée at the Coliseum. Joan, this is Mr. Halliday, +our junior clerk. My sister, Harold.'</p> + +<p>Joan instantly looked gauche and ugly. She shook hands with a speckled +youth, whose shy want of manners did not prevent his eyeing her all over. +He sat down beside his friend, talking of the singing, dancing, juggling +and so on that they had witnessed. All the time he talked at something +else in her. But she hid it away as cleverly as a bird hides its nest. +The callow youth, without realising it, was hunting for a nest. In the +country he might have found it. He would have been sunburned, for one +thing, instead of speckled. The wind, the rain, the starlight would have +guided him. His natural instinct would have flowed out in a dance of +spontaneous running movement, easy, graceful, clean. Here, however, it +seemed rigid, ugly, diseased. He was living the life of others.</p> + +<p>'You were dancing just as we came in,' observed Mr. Halliday. 'Does that +line of things attract you? You are going on the stage, perhaps?'</p> + +<p>Joan looked past him out of the window, and saw the swallows flashing +about the sky.</p> + +<p>'I <i>can</i> dance,' she replied, 'but not on a stage.'</p> + +<p>'But you'd be a great success, I think, from what I saw,' opined the +junior clerk. And somehow he said it unpleasantly. His tone half +undressed her.</p> + +<p>She didn't flush, she didn't stammer, at first she didn't answer even. +She watched the swallows a moment, as though she had not heard him.</p> + +<p>'You only stare, you don't watch and enjoy,' she said suddenly, turning +upon him. 'And an audience like that. . .!' She stopped, got up from her +chair, put her head out of the open window and gazed into the air above. +When she turned back, she saw that her mother had come in and was leading +the others into the dining-room for tea. Her father's face wore a +singular expression—it seemed, of exultation. Tom, black as a +thunder-cloud, waited for her.</p> + +<p>'You're nothing but a little barbarian,' he said angrily under his breath. +The life of others he led had been sorely wounded. 'I can never bring Mr. +Halliday here again. You're simply not a lady.'</p> + +<p>'I'm a bird,' she laughed in his face. 'And you men can never understand + +that, because no man has a bird in him, but only a creepy, crawly animal. +We go on two legs, you on four.'</p> + +<p>'I'm ashamed of you, Joan. You're nothing but a savage.' He snapped at +her. He could have smacked her. His face was flushed, but his neck thin, +scraggy, white. He looked starved and twisted. 'In the City we——' he +began with a clown's dignity.</p> + +<p>'Live like rats in a drain,' she interrupted quickly, perched a moment on +her toes in front of his face. 'You don't breathe or dance. Tom,' she +added with a gesture of her arms like flapping wings, 'if you were alive, +you'd be—a mole. But you're not. You're a lot of other people. +You're a herd—always enclosed and always feeding.'</p> + +<p>She danced down the corridor and into her room, locked the door, slipped +out of some tight clothing, and began to sing her bird-song of incessant +movement:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> Flow! Fly! Flow!<br> + Wherever I <i>am</i> I <i>go</i>;<br> + I live on the run<br> + Like the birds—it's fun!<br> + Flow, fly, flow. . . .<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>She sang it to a tiny, uneven, twittering melody that was made up of half +notes. It went on and on, repeating itself without end. It seemed to +have no real end at all.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3> + + +<p>To others she was doubtless an exasperating being. To her father alone— +since he saw in her something he had lost but was now recovering, +something he therefore idealised, seeing in perfected form what was +actually but a germ still—to her father she expressed a little of that +higher carelessness, or wisdom, that he had touched in boyhood and now +yearningly desired again.</p> + +<p>'Oh, she's all in the air,' people said. And it was truer than they knew. +She had an affinity with all that flew. This bird-idea was in her heart +and blood. Whatever flew, whatever rose above the ground, whatever passed +swiftly, suddenly, from place to place, without deliberation, without +calculation, without weighing risk and profit—this appealed to her. +Yet there must be steadiness in it somewhere too, and it must get +somewhere. A swallow or a butterfly she approved, but not a bat. +The latter, for all its darting swiftness, was a sham; it was an +earth-crawler really, frightened into ridiculous movement by finding +itself aloft like a blown leaf; like a flying fish, it was wrong and out +of place. It merely flew round and round in stupid, broken circles +without rhythm. But the former were perfect. They were ideal. They were +almost spirits.</p> + +<p>And when her father said he was glad she was half educated, he only meant +glad that she had left school and teachers before her butterfly mind had +become a rigid, accurate, mechanical thing. She might play with books as +he himself did, fluttering over the covers, smelling their perfume, +glancing at sentences and chapter headings, at indices even. But she must +not build nests in them. A book, like a photograph, was an evillish +attempt to nail a flowing idea into a fixed pattern. In the author's mind +an idea was true, but when he had put it down in black and white he had +put down only a snapshot of it: the idea was already far away.</p> + +<p>'Not poetry-books,' Joan qualified this, 'because poetry runs clean off +the page. It's alive and wingy. It sings my bird-song—</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> Flow, fly, flow,<br> + Wherever I <i>am</i>—I <i>go</i>!<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>She had this unerring instinct of the bird in everything, the quality that +flashes, darts, is gone before it can be killed by capture. A bird is +everywhere and nowhere. It's all over the place at once. Look at it, and +it's no longer there; listen to it, and it's gone; touch it, and you catch +a sunbeam that warms the hand but loses half its beauty; catch it—and +it's dead. But no one ever caught a swallow or a skylark naturally on the +wing. Even the eye, the mind, the following thought grows dizzy in the +effort.</p> + +<p>For the cow in the field she had no song. 'Wherever I am, I stay,' was +without a tune of its own. A cow couldn't leave the ground. She wanted +something with incessant movement that could touch the earth, yet leave it +at will. Wings and water could. Birds and rain both flew. Half the time +a river (the only real water for her) flowed over the earth without +stopping on it, and half the time it was a cloud in the sky, yet never +lived there. 'Flow, fly, flow; wherever I <i>am</i>, I <i>go</i>,'—this was the +little song of life and change and movement that came out of her curious +heart and mind. 'Live on the run, like a bird, <i>that's</i> fun!' And by fun +she meant life, and the soaring joy of life.</p> + +<p>She applied her principle unconsciously to people, too. Few men had the +bird in them except her father. Mother was a badger, half the time out of +sight below the earth. She felt respect, but no genuine love, for mother.</p> + +<p>'A whale or a badger, I really don't know which,' she said. 'That's +Mother.'</p> + +<p>'Joan, I cannot allow you to speak in that way of your parent and my +wife.' The sentence was unreal. He chose it deliberately, as it seemed, +from some book or other. What she had said was sparklingly true, only it +could not be said. 'You were born out of mother, and so must think her +holy.'</p> + +<p>'I only meant that she is not birdy,' was the answer, 'and that she likes +thick salt water, or sticky earth. I mean that I never see her on the +surface much, and never for an instant <i>above</i> it. A fish is all right, +but not a half-and-half thing.'</p> + +<p>'She built your nest for you. She taught you how to fly. Remember that.' +He lit his pipe to hide the laughter that would bubble up.</p> + +<p>'But she never flew with me, father—as you do. Besides, you know, I +<i>like</i> whales and badgers. I only say they're not birds.'</p> + +<p>She paused, stared triumphantly at him a moment, and then with anxiety in +her tone, she added: 'And you said that as if some one had taught it you, +Daddy. Some one's put bird-lime near you—some book, I suspect.'</p> + +<p>'Grammar's all right enough in its way,' he told her finally, meaning +perhaps that there were correct and incorrect ways of saying a thing, and +so the little matter was nicely settled up, and they flew on to other +things as their way invariably was. But, after that, whenever mother was +in the room, they thought of something under ground or under water that +emerged for a brief moment to stare at them and wonder, heavens!—how they +lived. <i>They</i> wondered how, on earth, she lived. They were in different +worlds.</p> + +<p>For a long time now Joseph Wimble, 'travelling' in tabloid knowledge, had +been absorbing what is called the Spirit of the Age. On the paper +wrappers of his books—chiefly Knowledge Primers—were printed neat and +striking epitomes of the contents. Written by expert minds, these +epitomes were admirable brief statements. There was no room for argument. +They merely gave the entire book in a few short sentences that hit the +mind—and stayed in it. They left the impression that the problem was +proved, though actually it was merely stated. Hundreds of those +statements he had now read, until they flowed like a single sentence +through his consciousness, each <i>résumé</i> a word, as it were, in the phrase +describing the knowledge—or at least the tendencies—of the day. Wimble +was thus a concise phrase-book, who taught the grammar of the twentieth +century.</p> + +<p>For his Firm, alert and enterprising, had the gift of scenting a +given tendency before it was understood by the mass—still 'in the air,' +that is—yet while the mass still wanted to know about it; +then of choosing the writer who could crystallise it in simple language +that made the man in the street feel well informed and up to date. +The What's-in-the-Air-To-day Publishing Co. was well named; it had the +bird quality. These Picturesque Knowledge Primers sold like wildfire. +They purveyed knowledge in tabloid form and advertised the hungry public +into nourishment. The latest thing in politics, painting, flying, in +feminism or call-of-the-wild, in music, scouting, cubism, futurism, +feeding, dancing, clothing, ancient philosophy redressed, or modern pulpit +pretending to be neo—everything that thrills the public to-day, from +pageantry and Eurhythmics to higher thought and psychism, they touched +with clever condensing accuracy of aim, and grew fat upon the proceeds. +The stream of little books flowed forth, written by birds, distributed in +flocks, scattered broadcast like seed in a wind, each picked up eagerly +and discarded for the next—winged knowledge in sparrow doses. +The Managing Director, Fox Martin (<i>né</i> Max Levi), was a genius in his +way, sure as a hawk, clairvoyant as a raven. His <i>Bergson</i> sold as +successfully as his <i>Exercises for the Bedroom</i>—because he chose the +writer. He hovered, swooped, struck—and the primer was caught and issued +in its thousands. His advertising was consummate, for it convinced the +ordinary man he ought to know that particular Thing-in-the-Air-To-day, +just as he ought to wear a high collar with his evening clothes or a slit +in his coat behind with flannels. He aimed at the men as the machine-made +novel aims at the women.</p> + +<p>Wimble, <i>the</i> traveller <i>facile princeps</i>, for this kind of goods, knew, +therefore, everything that was 'in-the-air-to-day,' without knowing in the +least why it was to be believed, or what the arguments were. And yet he +knew that he was right. He knew things as a bird does, gathering them on +every wind, and shaping his inner life swiftly, unburdened by reasoning +calculation built on facts. Thus, useless in debate, his mind was packed +with knowledge. He was a walking Index.</p> + +<p>And the feeling in him that everything flowed and nothing was stationary +was strong. He dealt in shooting ideas, not in dead, photographic detail. +He flashed from one subject to another; flowed through all categories, +ancient and modern; skimmed the cream off current tendencies, and swept +above the knowledge of the day with a bird's-eye view, unburdened by fact +or argument.</p> + +<p>Of late, moreover, he had enjoyed these curious upside-down and inside-out +experiences, because he had filled himself to the saturation point, and +become, as it were, stationary. He could hold no more without a change. +He stopped. He took a snapshot photograph of himself, realised that he +existed as a separate, vital entity, and thenceforward watched himself +expectantly to see what the change was going to be, for he knew he would +not stay still. Hitherto he had been mechanical, whereas now he was an +engine capable of self-direction—an engine stoked to the brim. When the +air is at the saturation point, the tiniest additional percentage of +moisture causes rain to fall. It's the final straw that makes the camel +pause. So with Joseph Wimble. He was ready to discharge.</p> + +<p>And it was this chance remark of his under-ground wife asking who the +widow <i>was</i> that took the photograph, and made him say, 'I am.' +All he had read was included in the affirmation. The epitomes had become +part of his consciousness. Like the weary camel, like the moisture tired +of balancing in the air, he wanted to sit down now and consider. +His daughter's longing for the country was his too. And it was she who +now brought out all this.</p> + +<p>At dinner that night in a West End restaurant near Piccadilly Circus he +broached the subject and listened patiently to his wife's objections.</p> + +<p>'What's the good, even if we had the means, Joe? Burying ourselves like +that.'</p> + +<p>Joan hopped, as it were. She recognised her mother's instinctive dread +that she would go under ground or under water and never come up again.</p> + +<p>'None of the nice people, the county families, would call. There'd only +be the vicar and the local doctor, or p'r'aps a gentleman-farmer or two. +We know much better class in town, and there's always chances of getting +to know better still. Besides, who'd there be for Joan? The girl +wouldn't have a look-in, simply. And the winters are so sloppy in a +country cottage. Think of the Sundays. And the chickens and pigs I +really couldn't abide, and howling winds at night, and owls in the eaves, +and rats in the attics. You see, we'd have no standing at all.'</p> + +<p>'But just a week-end cottage, Mother,' Joan put in, 'just a place of +flowers and orchards and a little stream to flit down to overnight, so to +say—<i>that</i> now you'd like, wouldn't you?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, that's different,' she said more brightly, 'only that's not what +father means. He means a place to live in altogether. The week-end idea +is right enough. That's what everybody does who can afford to—a bungalow +on the Thames. But that means more money than we shall ever see, and even +for that you want to keep a motor or a horse and dog-cart, or a little +steam launch to get about in. Then the handy places are very expensive, +and we couldn't go very far because of Tom. Tom could come down and bring +his friends if it was near enough.'</p> + +<p>'Grandfather might give us a little nest cheap,' suggested Joan. +She didn't 'see' Tom in the cottage.</p> + +<p>But mother turned up her nose as she sipped her glass of Asti Spumante +that accompanied the west-end dinner by way of champagne. She didn't +approve of Norfolk.</p> + +<p>'There's no society,' she said. 'It's flat and chilly. Your grandfather +only stays there because there's the business to keep going. If we ever +did such a thing as to move to the country, it'd have to be the Surrey +pinewoods or the Thames.'</p> + +<p>She looked across the table questioningly at her husband. The music +played ragtime. The waiters bustled. There was movement and excitement +in the air about them. Joe looked quite distinguished in his evening +dress, and she felt proud and distinguished herself. She only wished he +were a publisher. Still, no one need feel ashamed of being interested in +the book line. Literature was not a trade.</p> + +<p>'Some place, yes, where the country's really alive,' he agreed. 'I don't +want to vegetate any more than you do, dear, I can assure you.'</p> + +<p>'Nor I, mother,' laughed Joan. 'I simply want to fly about all the time.'</p> + +<p>'Joan,' was the reply, half reproachfully, 'you always talk as if we kept +you in a cage at home. The more you fly the better we like it; I only say +choose places worth flying to——'</p> + +<p>Her husband interrupted abruptly.</p> + +<p>'It was nothing but a little dream of my own, really,' he said lightly. +'A castle in the air, a flash of country in the brain.' He laughed and +called the waiter.</p> + +<p>'Black, white, or Turkish?' he asked his wife. 'And what liqueur, dear?'</p> + +<p>'Turkish and Grand Marnier,' was the prompt reply, and she would have said +'<i>fine champagne</i>' only felt uncertain how <i>fine</i> should be pronounced. +They sipped their coffee and talked of other things. It was no good, this +speculative talk, it was too much in the air.</p> + +<p>The key of mother's mind was always: Who <i>was</i> she? What'll <i>they</i> say? +She lived underground, using the worn old narrow routes. Joan and her +father made their own pathways in the trackless air. During the remainder +of the evening they kept to the earth beside mother.</p> + +<p>That night in the poky flat, after the girl had gone to bed, Mrs. Wimble +observed to her husband:</p> + +<p>'Do you know, Joe, I think a little change <i>would</i> do her a lot of good. +She's getting restless here, and seems to take to nobody. Why not take +her with you sometimes on your literary trips?'</p> + +<p>This was her name for his journeys to provincial booksellers, or when sent +to interview one of the Primer writers upon some practical detail.</p> + +<p>'If we could afford it,' he replied.</p> + +<p>'Father might help,' she said, showing that she had considered the matter +already. 'It would be good for her—educational, I mean.'</p> + +<p>Her husband agreed, and they fell asleep on that agreement.</p> + +<p>A few days later a reply was received from Mrs. Wimble's father, the +corn-chandler in Norfolk, enclosing a cheque for £20 'as a starter.' +The parents were delighted. Joan preened her wings and began at once her +short flying journeys about the country with her father. He avoided the +Commercial Traveller Hotels and took her to little Inns, where they were +very cosy together. They went from Norfolk to the edge of Wales. +She acquired a bird's-eye knowledge of the map of Southern England. +These short trips gave her somehow the general 'feel' of the various +counties, each with its different 'note,' in much the same way as the +Primers gave her father his surface impression of England's mental +condition. She noticed and remembered the living arteries which are +rivers, he the streams of thought and theory which are tendencies. +The two maps were shown and explained, and each was wonderfully alert in +understanding the other's meaning. The girl drank in her father's +knowledge, while he in his turn 'felt' the country as a dancing sheet +beneath them, flowing, liquid, alive. A new language grew into existence +between them, a kind of shorthand, almost a symbol language. +They realised it first when talking of their journeys at the dinner-table, +and Mrs. Wimble looked puzzled. Her face betrayed anxiety; she asked +perplexed questions, looking up at them as a badger might look up at +wheeling pigeons from the opening of its hole. Mentally she turned tail +and dived out of sight below ground, where, with her feet on solid earth, +her back and sides touching material that did not yield, she felt more at +home, the darkness comforting and safe. Her husband and Joan flew too +near the sun. It dazzled her. They could have talked for hours without +her catching the drift, only they were far too fond of her to do so. +They resented going underground with her, but they came down and settled +on earth, folded their wings, used words instead of unintelligible +chirrupings, and chatted with her through the opening of the hole.</p> + +<p>One afternoon, then, in Chester, they received a telegram from her that, +for a moment, stopped the flow of things, though immediately afterwards +the rush went on with greater impetus than ever.</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> "Father passed away peacefully<br> + return at once + funeral to-morrow Swaffham."</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>And the family found itself with a solid little income of its own, free to +fly and settle where it would.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER VI.</h3> + + +<p>Nothing showed more vividly the peculiarity of Joan's unearthly airiness +than the way in which the death affected her. It was the first time the +great thing all talk about but none realise until they touch it, had come +near her. It gave her a feeling of insecurity. She felt the solid +earth—so called—unreal. Not that she had a feather of affection for her +mother's father. She regarded him as a second-rate animal of prey, like a +jackal, and always shrank when he was near. There was something 'sticky' +in him; she classed him with her father's father, earthy, but not +'clean-earthy'; muddy rather. But that an earthy person could disappear +in such a way made her feel shaky. If <i>he</i> couldn't stay on the earth, +who could?</p> + +<p>Outwardly, and according to the newspapers, he had died rather well, +leaving money to hospitals and waif Societies; but, inwardly, he had died +in deep disgrace, a bankrupt soul with a heavy overdraft at the bank. +He had been a self-seeker of that notorious kind that achieves worldly +success without much thought for others. Now that he was gone, mother +declared he was a hero, father denounced him privately as ignoble,—and +their daughter divined secretly that he was a jackal.</p> + +<p>His record, however, has nothing to do with this story, and is mentioned +only because his departure affected the members of his family. +Mother wept and pasted the obituary notices from the Norfolk papers in a +book; father soothed her with 'earth to earth, my dear, you know,' and +Joan remarked beneath her breath 'he belongs there, he never really left +it.' And felt an entirely new sensation.</p> + +<p>For death puzzled her. She realised it as a fact in her own life—she, +too, would come to an end, stop, go out. Yet that life could come to an +end astonished her; she simply didn't believe it. In her own queer way +she looked into the odd occurrence. The corn-chandler's death had raised +a dust; but it was an unjustifiable disappearance somehow; once the dust +settled she would surely see how and why it was unjustifiable. He would +still be on the earth. But the dust did not settle, the chandler did not +come back. He was beneath the earth. The feeling of insecurity remained +in her. Earth, evidently, was not her element.</p> + +<p>She envisaged then suddenly a delightful thing, and possibly being a mere +child still, in spite of her years, she actually believed it. It was +wondrous enough anyhow to be worth believing. For it occurred to her that +the body of earth went back merely to its own, earth to earth, sweetly, +naturally, while Something that had used that bit of earth, borrowing it, +was set free. It—that marvellous Something—likewise returned to its own +element—air. 'The airy part—that's me—flies off, if it's there at +all.' Only grandfather had made the mistake of identifying himself with +his borrowed earth, so he was finished and done with. Mother had the same +downward tendency. If she wasn't careful, she would be finished and done +with too. It was a matter of choice. But how could they? How could any +one? She and her father 'knew different'—it was mother's phrase—and +identified themselves with the airy part that was the reality.</p> + +<p>She looked the thing in the face as well as she could, trying to hold it +steady for a photograph. Death, to her mind, seemed to photograph the +life it put an end to. The long series of acts and movements ceased. +There came an abrupt full stop. Like a photograph this was somewhere, +somehow, false. Wings folded for the last time; air failed for ever; +there was a sudden drop to earth. Her grandfather, whom death had +photographed, had gone, yet surely only gone—elsewhere; his record in the +world of men and women was his attitude in the photograph; he was posing +elsewhere now, but even he had not really stopped. Her little Song of +Being did not mention anything of the sort. 'Flow, fly—stop! Wherever I +am—I drop!' was merely wrong. A living thing could never end. It could +neither drop nor stop. Some one had made a big mistake about death. +She felt insecure.</p> + +<p>And then she saw the matter differently, as though her mind made a sudden +swerving turn into bright sunlight. And the sense of insecurity began to +pass. This act of death revealed another meaning, connecting her with a +vaster centre somehow, joining her up with a main central power. +Death was returning to the main. She recovered the immense sense of unity +she had momentarily lost. It made her realise that this tremendous +centre, this main, was elsewhere than on the earth. Her conception of +this unity deepened. To join the majority was more than a neat phrase. +The photograph analogy came back of its own accord. Life here on the +earth was indeed but a photograph, taken almost instantaneously though it +seemed quite long, of a—moment's pose. The shutter snapped, the sitter +flashed elsewhere, flashed away to resume big interrupted activities, +behind space, behind time, where no hurry was—into a universal, mothering +state she felt as air. Man's life was a suburb of this state, a furnished +house in that suburb, a Maida Vale tenancy, as it were; but there was this +vast metropolis of air, the main, the centre, where the 'majority' lived, +and whither all lines of flight converged. A thought of Everlasting Wings +came to her with amazing comfort. And she realised that the insecurity +she felt belonged to the suburb earth, rather than to herself. +Others looked upon it as the one secure and solid permanency; for air was +unsafe but earth did not change; air meant giddiness, absence of support, +bewilderment, and terror of being lost, while earth stood for the reverse +of all these dangers—permanent security. Her mother, for instance, +simply dared not leave it for an instant. Whereas, it came to Joan +suddenly now, that it was earth that crumbled, melted, got easily broken +and dispersed, while air, though it moved, could never be destroyed. +'You can photograph earth,' she said, 'but no one has ever photographed +the air.'</p> + +<p>'A person just goes out—like that?' she asked her father, snapping her +fingers. 'How can it be, exactly? Time ends for him: is that it?' +Her face was distressed and puckered. She had no language to express the +ugly thing that blocked her running, flowing mind. 'Once you're in among +minutes, hours, years,' she went on, 'how can you ever get out of them? +<i>They</i> don't stop.'</p> + +<p>It seemed to her, apparently, that once a living thing exists it should +not cease to exist unless Time, which bore it, ceased as well. And then +another notion flashed upon her.</p> + +<p>'Or perhaps they're just a trick,' she exclaimed, referring to days and +minutes, 'and you've been alive somewhere else all the time too—and when +you die you go back to <i>that</i>!'</p> + +<p>Her father glanced up from the ordnance map he was studying and smiled +with a sort of bewildered happy amusement on his face. Mother, however, +turned with an uncomfortable sigh. 'That reminds me,' she stated +inconsequently, 'I must go and sit in the Park.' She turned as a cow that +prefers the rain upon its tail instead of in its eyes. 'I'll take a taxi, +dear,' she added from the door. 'Do,' said her husband, suppressing with +difficulty an intense desire to laugh out loud. 'Ask the porter in the +hall. Or shall I call one for you?' 'The porter'll do,' she said. +'I'll go and get ready.' He said good-bye kindly, and she went.</p> + +<p>'Time doesn't stop, of course,' he went on to Joan. '<i>You</i> don't stop +either, I suppose, if the whole truth were known.' He eyed her +quizzically, for he delighted in her wild, nonsensical questioning. +Behind it he divined that she knew something he didn't know, but only + +guessed. Or perhaps he had known it in his youth and since forgotten it. +He remembered the ecstasy which had produced her.</p> + +<p>'But why do we know a <i>bit</i> of the truth and not the whole? It's all one +piece. It must be, father. What hides the rest, then?'</p> + +<p>But he ignored the new questions. 'At death,' he said, 'you just go into +another category perhaps. I suspect that's it. You continue, sure +enough, but in another direction, as it were.'</p> + +<p>Joan brushed the map aside and lit with a hop upon the table as though she +fluttered down from above his head. Her hands rested on his shoulders, +and her eyes stared hard into his own. They were very bright and +twinkling. 'That's just throwing words at me,' she told him earnestly. +'That catty-thing, as you call it, isn't in <i>our</i> language and you know +it. You nipped it out of a book.' She shook her finger at him solemnly. +'What <i>I</i> mean is'—thrusting her keen face with its London pallor and +shining eyes closer to him—'how in the world can any one get out of Time, +once they're in it?' She drew back as though to focus him better and +command a true reply. 'Tell me that, please, father, will you?'</p> + +<p>'That's a question, isn't it?' he said laughingly, yet not really trying +to evade her. He wanted to hear her own answer, her own explanation. +He knew quite well—had not the Primer on Expression said so?—that the +things they discussed in this way lay just beyond known words. Only by +apparent nonsense-talk could they be brought within sight at all.</p> + +<p>'It's a thing we ought to know,' Joan went on gravely. 'I do know it +somewhere—only I haven't found it out quite.' Then, with another flash +of her blue eyes, she stated: 'If a person goes from here—from now, I +mean—they must go <i>to</i> somewhere else. I suppose they go back to the +bigger thing. They go all over the place at once, perhaps.' And again +she drew back a moment, staring at him as if judging height and distance +before taking a breathless swoop down into a lower branch.</p> + +<p>'Something like that, I imagine,' her father began. 'Time, you see, is +only a point, a single point—the present. And if——'</p> + +<p>But Joan was already following her own wild swoop, and hardly listening.</p> + +<p>'<i>That</i> I can understand,' she said rapidly. 'You escape at death from a +point where you've been stuck—like in a photograph. You go all over +then.' Her mind tried to say a hundred things. 'I understand. +That's easy. I'm an all-over person myself; I do several things at once— +like a flock of birds or a great high wind. And when I do things like +that they're always right, but if I wait and think about one of them, they +go wrong and I'm in an awful muddle——'</p> + +<p>'Your intuition being stronger than your reason,' he put in with a gasp.</p> + +<p>She did not notice the interruption; she had reached her tree; she saw a +thousand things below her simultaneously, grouped, as it were, into one.</p> + +<p>'But what I don't see plainly,' she returned to her original puzzle, +'is how a person—by dying—can get out of all this.' She flung her arms +out wide to include the room. 'Out of all this air and stuff.'</p> + +<p>'Space?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Space!' She darted upon the word with a twitter of satisfaction. +'I feel much more free among yards and miles, up and down, across and +round and through—than I do just in minutes and days and years. +Oh, I've got it,' she cried so suddenly that it startled him; 'Space is +several things, and Time is only one. Space has <i>throughth</i>—you go +through it in several directions at once. Time hasn't!'</p> + +<p>He caught his breath and stared obliquely at her, for the fact was she was +taking these ideas out of his own head. He had found them in his Primers, +of course; now, she was taking them from his mind, sharing his knowledge +by some strange, instinctive method of her own. In some such way, +perhaps, birds shared and communicated ideas with one another. He felt +dizzy; there was confusion in him as though he flew at fifty miles an hour +through the air and was without support, seeing many things at once below. +One of those moments was near when he stood upon his head. He was up a +tree with the girl; he felt the wind; he, too, saw a thousand things +at-once; he swayed.</p> + +<p>'Space,' he mentioned, as soon as he had recovered breath, and drawing +upon his inexhaustible reserve of Primers, 'has three dimensions, height, +breadth, and length. But Time has only one—length. In Time you go +forwards only, never back, or to the left or right. Time is a line. +Don't pinch—it hurts!' he cried, for in her excitement she leaned forward +and seized his coat-sleeve, taking up the flesh. 'So, possibly, at +death,' he continued as soon as she released him, 'a person——'</p> + +<p>'Goes off sideways,' she laughed, clapping her hands; 'disappears off +sideways——'</p> + +<p>'In a new direction,' he suggested. 'That's what I said long ago—another +category, where a body isn't necessary.'</p> + +<p>'It's not a full stop, anyhow,' she cried; 'it's a flight.'</p> + +<p>'Provided you've been already moving,' he said; 'some people don't move. +They haven't started. And for them, I suppose, it's a biggish change— +difficult, uncomfortable, painful too, possibly,' he added reflectively.</p> + +<p>'They start for the first time—at death.' She ran to the window, but the +same second was back again beside him.</p> + +<p>'They get off the ground—off the map altogether. But they go into the +air. They get alive,' and she picked the ordnance maps from the floor +where her impetuous movements had tossed them. 'Death is just a change of +direction then, really; that's all.' And the door slammed after her +flying figure, though it seemed to her father that she might equally have +gone by the window or the chimney, so swift and sudden was her way of +vanishing. 'Bless me, Joan, how you do fly about, to be sure!' he heard +his wife complaining in the passage. 'You bang about like a squirrel in a +cage. Whatever will the neighbours say?'</p> + +<p>She had taken all this time to clothe herself suitably for the Park. +Mr. Wimble saw her to the lift.</p> + +<p>'That's it,' he reflected a moment, before returning to search the map for +a suitable country place to settle down in; 'that's it exactly. +Mother says "Who was she?" and "What'll people say?" Joan says "Where, +why, who am I?" Mother is past and Joan is future. That's it exactly. +And I—well, what do I say?' He rose and looked at himself in the mirror +with the artistic frame his wife had 'selected' at Liberty's Bazaar.</p> + +<p>'I just say "I am,"' he concluded. 'So I'm present. That's it exactly.' +He chuckled inwardly. 'Past, present, future, that's what we are! +Yet somehow Joan's all three at once, a sort of universal point of view. +Ah!' He paused. 'Ah! she's not future. She's <i>now</i>!' He caught dimly +at the idea she tried to convey. To think of many subjects simultaneously +was to escape time, avoiding sequence of events and minutes, +obliterating—or, rather, seeing through—perspective which pretends that +a tree ten yards away is nearer to one than the forest just beyond it. +The centre, for her, was everywhere. To see things lengthwise only, in +time or space, was a slow addition sum achieved laboriously by the mind, +whereas, subconsciously, the bird's-eye view (as with the prodigy) +perceived everything at once, making separate addition, or two and two +make four, absurd. He was aware of a power in her, an attitude, a point +of view, higher than this precious intellect which knows things lengthwise +only, concentrating upon separate points, one at a time, consecutively. +Joan knew everything at once. Her conception of perceiving things was +all-embracing—as air. She flew; wherever she was, she went. 'Throughth' +was the word she coined to express it.</p> + +<p>He felt very happy, there was a peculiar sense of joy and lightness in +him, and yet he sighed. It was his mind that sighed. He was completely +muddled. Yet another part of him, something he shared rather, was bright +and clear and lucid. And, putting on his hat, he went after his wife and +sat with her in the Park for half an hour, feeling the need of a little +wholesome earth to counteract the dose of air Joan had administered to +him.</p> + +<p>They watched the people pass, the distinguished people as his wife called +them, but actually the people who were dressed in the fashion merely, +ordinary as sheep, shocked by the slightest evidence of originality,— +un-distinguished in their very essence. Mr. Wimble knew this, but Mrs. +Wimble remained uninformed. The review of rich, commonplace types passed +to and fro before their penny chairs, while they eyed them, Mrs. Wimble +thinking, 'This is the great London world, the people whose names and +dresses the newspapers refer to in Society columns. Oh dear!' Park Lane +was the background; none of them dined till half-past eight; they kept +numerous servants and were carelessly immoral, carelessly in debt, +intimate with 'foreign diplomats,' reserved and unemotional—the aileet, +as Mrs. Wimble called them. But, according to Mr. Wimble, they were +animals, a herd of animals. They couldn't escape from the line of Time. +They knew 'through' in Space, but not in Time. The bird-thing was not in +them.</p> + +<p>'Joan's coming on a bit,' ventured the father presently, trying to keep +himself down upon the earth.</p> + +<p>'If you call it coming on,' replied his wife, with a touch of acid +superiority she caught momentarily from her overdressed surroundings. +'It's a pity, it seems to me. She's not English, Joan isn't, whatever +else she is.'</p> + +<p>'Oh, come now,' said Mr. Wimble cautiously, adding, a moment afterwards, +'perhaps.'</p> + +<p>'It'll be the ruin of her, if we don't stop it in time,' came presently in +what he recognised as her 'Park' voice. 'She don't get it from <i>me</i>, +Joe.' Her words became inaudible a moment as she turned her head to +follow a vision she imagined was at least a duchess, though her husband +could have told her it had emerged, like themselves, from a suburban flat. +'I sometimes think the girl's got a soupsong of the East in her,' +continued Mrs. Wimble, glancing with what she meant to be an aristocratic +hint of wickedness and suspicion at her untidy husband.</p> + +<p>'She may have,' he replied innocently, 'for all I know. Something very +old and very new. It's not silly now, but it might become silly. +She's too careless somehow for this world—and too wise at the same time. +I can't make it out quite.' He looked up at the trees as the wind passed +rustling among the dull green leaves. How blue the sky was! How sweet +and fresh the taste of the air! There was room up there to move in. +He saw a swallow wheeling. And the old yearning burned in him. +He thought of the phrase 'bird-happy'—happy as a singing-bird.</p> + +<p>'It's a pity she's so peculiar. She'll make a mess of her life unless +you're careful, dear.' Mrs. Wimble said it out of a full heart really, +but she used the careless accent her surroundings prompted. She said it +with an air. And, to her keen annoyance, the County Council man came up +just then and asked for tickets, Mr. Wimble producing two plebeian coppers +out of a dirty leather purse to settle the account. The pennies spoilt +her dream. Money—but a lot of money—was what counted in life.</p> + +<p>'Tom's doing exceptionally, I'm glad to say,' she resumed, by way of +relieving an emotion that exasperated her. 'He'll make money. He'll be +somebody—some day.'</p> + +<p>'Tom's a good boy. He's safe and normal,' agreed her husband.</p> + +<p>When the taxi had rushed them back to Maida Vale, and Mrs. Wimble had +gone up in the lift, Mr. Wimble decided that he would like to go for a +little walk before coming in. It was towards sunset as he ambled off. +Joan, from the roof, watching the birds as they dashed racing through the +air at play, caught sight of him below and waved her hand. But he did not +see her; he did not look up; his eyes were on the ground. Yet he had a +springy walk as if he might rise any moment. Joan watched him for some +time, signalling as it were, making a series of slight movements and +gestures that seemed a method of communication almost. Had he glanced up +and seen her he must have noticed and understood what she was trying to +say, as a bird on the lawn would understand what its companion, perched in +the cedars overhead, was saying, distance no bar at all.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER VII.</h3> + + +<p>And then, suddenly, he did look up. Feeling his attention drawn, +he turned and raised his eyes to her. The rays of the setting sun fell on +her dress of white and yellow. She looked like a bird showing its +under-plumage. He waved his hand in return, instinctively making gestures +similar to her own, and as he did so, a Flock of Ideas flew down upon him +like a shower of leaves—nothing very distinct and sharp, but just loose, +flying ideas that were in-the-air-to-day.</p> + +<p>They seemed to result from the signalling; they interpreted something he +could not frame in words. They fluttered about his mind, trying to get in +and lodge. It was wireless communication—the kind used by animals, fish, +moths, insects, above all, birds. He remembered the female Emperor-moth +that, hidden in a closed box during the short breeding season, summoned +the males across twenty miles of country until her antennae were cut off, +when no male came near her. He felt as if Joan transmitted ideas to him, +shaking them through the air from invisible antennae. He received the +currents, but could not properly de-code them. He waved back to her +again, then was lost to view round the corner.</p> + +<p>'It's a queer thing,' ran through his mind, as though catching the drift +of something she had flashed towards him, 'but Joan's got something no one +else has got—yet. It's coming into the world. Telepathy and wireless +are signs, only she's got it naturally, she's born with it. She's in +touch with everything and everybody everywhere, as though Time and Space +don't trick her as they trick the rest. It's life, but a new kind of +life. It's air life. That's what she means by saying she's an +all-at-once and an all-over person. I understand it, but I haven't got it +myself—and, as if to prove it, he ran into another pedestrian who cursed +him, and, before he could recover himself, collided the next minute with a +lamp-post.</p> + +<p>The current that had been pouring through him was interrupted; it switched +elsewhere.</p> + +<p>'When more of us get like that,' it went on brokenly, 'when the whole +world feels it'—he snatched at an immense and brilliant certainty that +was gone before he could switch it completely into his mind—'it will be +brotherhood! The world will <i>feel</i> together,—one! It's beginning +already. Only people can't quite manage it yet.'</p> + +<p>And the strange lost mood of his youth poured through him, the point of +view that made everybody seem one to him, when air and birds offered the +dream of some inexpressible ideal. . . . He lost himself among the +buttercup fields of spring . . . wandered through Algerian gardens where +the missel-thrush sang in the moonlight and the radiant air was perfumed +with a thousand scents . . . then pulled himself up just in time to avoid +collision with a policeman who came heavily along the solid earth against +him.</p> + +<p>'Look where you're a-going,' growled the policeman.</p> + +<p>'Go where you're looking,' he answered silently in his mind. 'That's the +important thing—to look and to go!'</p> + +<p>He steadied himself then. His mind scurried through the Primers, but +found nothing that helped him much. Joan had asked him about Time and +Space, and he had replied almost as though she had put the words into him +first. Never before had he actually thought in such a way. Time and +Space, as a Primer reminded him, were merely 'Modes under which physical +phenomena are presented to our consciousness, under which our senses act +and by which our thoughts are limited.' Both were illusory, figments of +our finite minds; both could be subdivided or extended infinitely; both, +therefore, were unrealities. They were false, as a picture is false that +makes a pebble in the foreground as large as a cathedral in the background +in order to convey so-called perspective.</p> + +<p>And Joan, somehow or other, was aware of this, for she saw things +all-at-once and all-over. He thought of her word 'throughth'; it wasn't +bad. For she applied it to time as well as space. Time was more than a +line to her, it had several directions, like space. He smiled and felt +light and airy. Joan knew a landscape all at once, as though she had +another sense almost. Every man believes he sees a landscape all at once, +but in reality each spot is past by the time he sees it; it happened +several seconds ago; he sees it as it was when the light left it to travel +to his eye. Each spot has its separate <i>now</i>; there is no absolute Now. +He had been wrong to tell her there was only the present; he saw it; she +had flashed this into him somehow. To think the future is not there until +it is reached was as false as to think his flat was not there until he +stepped into it. He laughed happily, aware of a strange, light-hearted +carelessness known in childhood first, then known again when he fell in +love and so shared everything in the world. An immensely exalted point of +view seemed almost within his reach from which he could know, see and <i>be</i> +everything at once. Joan would know and understand what it meant; yet he +had created Joan . . . and had forgotten . . . He thought of light.</p> + +<p>By overtaking the rays of light thrown off from the battle of Waterloo he +could see it happening <i>now</i>; if he moved forward at the same pace as the +rays he could see Waterloo stationary; if he moved faster he could see the +battle going backwards, of course. But Waterloo remained always—there. +Time and space were mere tricks. The unit of perception decided the +childish dream of measurement. 'Ha, ha!' he chuckled. 'Real perception +is for the inner self, then, omnipresent, omniscient—at-once and +all-over.' To realise 'I am' was to identify oneself with all, and +everywhere. 'Wherever I am, I—<i>go</i>!'</p> + +<p>'That's it,' he concluded abruptly, dropping upon a bench in a little Park +he had reached, 'Joan doesn't think or reason. She just knows. She's an + +all-over and all-at-once person!' And he put the Primers, with their +neat, clever explanations, out of his head forthwith.</p> + +<p>'Cleverness,' he reflected, leaning back in the soft smothering dusk, +'is the hall-mark of To-day. It is worthless. It is the devil. +It separates, shuts off, confines and crystallises what should flow and +fly. Birds ain't clever. They just know. There's no cleverness in that +Southern Tour, there's knowledge—all shared together.' The Primer +writers, men who had made their names, were clever merely. +By concentrating on a single thing they could describe it, but they didn't +know it, because the whole was out of sight. They explained the bit of +truth. Joan, ignorant of the photographic details they described and +explained, yet knew the whole—somehow. But how? Wherever she was, she +went!</p> + +<p>He drew a long breath as if he had flown ten miles.</p> + +<p>'She's something new perhaps,' he felt run through him, 'something new and +brilliant flashing down into the old, tired world.' He lit his pipe with +difficulty in the wind, fascinated by the marvel of the little flaming +match. 'She's off the earth—a new type of consciousness altogether—sees +old things in another way—from above and all at once. She's got the bird +in her—'Half-angel and half-bird,' he remembered with a sigh. Only that +morning an essay on Rhythm in his newspaper, <i>The Times</i>, had mentioned: +'Angels have been called the Birds of God, and an angel, as we imagine +him, is a being that can do all good things as easily as a bird flies. +When we represent him with bodily wings we are thinking of the wings of +his spirit, and of a soaring power of action and thought for which we have +no analogy in this world except in the physical beauty of flight.' +'By Jove!' he cried aloud.</p> + +<p>A flock of sparrows, startled by a cat, rose like a fountain of grey +feathers past him, whirring through the air. There were fifty of them, +but they moved like one.</p> + +<p>'Got a whole flock in her!' he added.</p> + +<p>He watched the fluttering mass of busy wings as they shot into a leafy +plane tree overhead and vanished. A touch of awe stole over him. +'There's a whole flight of birds in her. She's a lot, yet one,' he went +on under his breath, thinking that the fifty sparrows went out of sight +like one person who turns a corner and is gone. How did they manage it? +By what magical sympathy, as though one single consciousness actuated them +all, did they swerve instantly together?</p> + +<p>There was something uncanny about it. He felt a little creepy even. . . . +The shadows were stealing over the deserted Park. A low wind shivered +through the iron fence. A vast nameless power came close. . . . He got +up slowly, heavily, and went out into the crowded street, glad a moment to +feel himself surrounded by men and women, all following routine, thick, +solid, reasoning folk, unable to fly. A swallow, flashing like visible +wind across the paling sky of pink and gold, went past him. He looked up. +He sighed. He wondered. Something marvellously sweet and lofty stirred +in him. With intense yearning he thought of his little, strange, birdy +daughter, Joan, again. His absorbing love for her spread softly to +include the world. 'If she should teach them . . .!' came the bewildering +idea, as though the swallow dropped it into him. 'Drag them out of their +holes, show them air and wings, make them bird-happy . . . teach them +that!'</p> + +<p>A tremendous freedom, lofty and careless, beckoned to him,—release, +escape at full speed into the infinite air; all cages opened, all bars +destroyed, doors wide and ceilings gone; that was what he felt.</p> + +<p>But lack of words blocked the completion of the wild, big thought in him, +for he had never felt quite like this since early youth, and had no means +of describing the swift yet deep emotion that was in him. He could not +express it—unless he sang. And he was afraid to sing. The County +Council would misinterpret Joy. There was an attendant in the Park, a +policeman in the road; he would be locked up merely.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER VIII.</h3> + + +<p>He plunged into the stream of pedestrians and it struck him how thickly, +heavily clothed they were; the street resembled a sluggish river of dark +liquid; he struggled through it, immersed to his shoulders.</p> + +<p>And the flock of curious, elusive thoughts, half-formed, fluttered above +his mind just near enough to drop their shadows before they scattered and +passed on. Much as a kitten pounces on the shadow of shifting foliage on +a lawn his brain pursued and pounced upon them, bringing up the best words +available, yet that did not suit because the necessary words do not exist. +It was only the shadow of the ideas he captured.</p> + +<p>'A new language is wanted,' he decided, 'a flying language, with a rapid +air vocabulary, condensed, intense. Everything else is speeding up +nowadays, but language lags behind. It's old-fashioned, slow. +All these ideas I've got, for instance, ought to go into a word or two by +rights. Joan put 'em into me just now from the roof by a couple of +gestures—enough to fill a dozen Primers with words. Ah, that's it! +What comes to me in a single thought—and in a second—takes thousands of +words to get itself told in language. Words are too detailed and clever: +they miss the whole. Aha! There's a new language floating into the world +from the air—a new way, a bird-way, of communicating. We shall share as +the birds do. We shall all understand each other by gesture—thought— +feeling! Instant understanding means a new sympathy; that, again, means a +divine carelessness, based on a common trust and faith.' And the +immensely lofty point of view—as from a dizzy height in space—once more +floated past him.</p> + +<p>He steadied himself by pausing to look in at the shop windows. On a +chemist's shelves he saw various things to stimulate, coax and feed people +into keener life. The Invisible Sticking Plaster was there, too, to patch +them up. Next door was a book-shop, where he remained glued to the window +like a fly to treacle-paper. 'Success and how to attain It,' he read, +'in twelve lessons, 1s.'; 'Train your Will and earn more Money, +4½d.'; 'The Mysteries of Life, Here and Hereafter, all +explained, 6d. net.' And second-hand copies of various books, marked +'All in this row tuppence only,' including several of the +'What's-in-the-Air-To-day' Primers.</p> + +<p>Beyond was a window full of clothing, woollen garments guaranteed not to +shrink; electric or magnetic belts, to store energy, 'special line—a +bargain,' and various goods for keeping warmth in various parts of the +body. All these shops, he reflected, sold things intended to increase or +preserve life, artificial things, cheaply made, and sold to the public as +dearly as possible, things intended to increase life and prevent its +going. In other shops he saw mechanical means for stimulating, +intensifying, driving life along. Life had come to this: All these +artificial tricks were necessary to keep it going. Food, knowledge, +clothes, speed that a bird possessed naturally in abundance. A robin's +temperature in the snow was 110°. Yet human beings required +thousands of shops that sold the conditions for keeping alive,—at a +profit. He passed an undertaker's shop—to die was a costly artificial +business too. There was too much earth in the whole affair. He remembered +that no one ever saw a bird dead, when its death was a natural death. +It slipped away and hid itself—ashamed of being caught dead!</p> + +<p>A crowd collected round him, thinking he had discovered something +exciting, and it jostled him until he elbowed his way out. He swerved +dizzily amid the booming, thundering traffic, as he crossed the road and +brought up against a toy-shop, where the sight of balls and butterfly +nets, ships and trains and coloured masks restored his equilibrium. +'Real things are still to be had,' the fluttering shadows danced across +his mind, 'And there are folk who like them!' he added in his own words, +as two tousled-headed children came up and stood beside him, staring +hungrily. He gave sixpence to each, told them to go in and buy something, +and then continued his evening walk along the crowded pavement. +'Life is a great grand thing,' he realised, 'if we could all get together +somehow. It's coming, I think. A change is coming, something light and +airy penetrating all this—this sluggish mass——' he broke off, again +unable to express the idea that fluttered round him—' ah! it's good to be +alive!' he went on, 'but to know it is better still. But you have no +right to live unless you can be grateful to life, and create your own +reason for existing. It means dancing, singing, flying!' He felt new +life everywhere near him; a new supply of a lighter, more vivid kind was +descending from the air. 'It's a new thing coming down into the world; +it's beginning to burst through everywhere: a change, a change of +direction——'</p> + +<p>He repeated this to himself as he moved slowly through the surging crowd. +Joan, he remembered, had called death a change of direction only. But as +he reached the word 'change,' it seemed to jump up at him and hang blazing +with fire before his eyes. He had caught it flying; he held it fast and +looked at it. The other shadows careered away, but this one stayed. +He had caught the thing that cast it. The flock of shadows, he realised, +were not cast by actual thoughts; they were the faint passage through his +mind of mysterious premonitions that Joan's gestures had tossed carelessly +towards him through the air. Coming ideas cast their shadow before. +This one, at least, he had captured in a word, a figure of speech. He had +pounced and caught it by the tail. It fluttered, but could not wholly get +away.</p> + +<p>Change was the keyword. A gigantic change was coming, but coming gently, +stealing along almost like a thief in the night, emerging into view +wherever a channel offered itself. Life was being geared up everywhere. +Human activities, physical, mental, spiritual, too, were increasing speed. +Humanity was being quickened. They were passing from earth to air.</p> + +<p>Signs were plentiful, though mysterious. His mind roamed through the +Epitomes of his Primers, skimming off the cream. Thinkers, artists, +preachers, although they hardly realised it, were beginning to look up +instead of down; from pulpit, press, and platform the little signs peeped +out and flashed about the mass of expectant men and women. The entire +world seemed standing on tip-toe, ready for a tentative flight at last. +There was a universal expectation abroad that was almost anticipation.</p> + +<p>But change involved dislocation here and there, and this dislocation was +apparent in the general confusion that reigned in the affairs of the +world. Stupendous hope was felt, though not yet realised and fulfilled. +No one as yet could justify it. Pessimism and confidence, both strangely +fundamental, were violently active. So long accustomed to terra firma, +the world asked questions of its little coming wings, and the new element +of air frightened even while it attracted—nervous, timid, wild, uneasy +questions were asked on every side. Deprived of the old, comfortable +ideas of Heaven and Hell, and suspicious of the newly hinted promise of +survival, hearts trembled while they listened to so sweet whispers of +escape into the air. The old shibboleths, distrusted, were slinking one +by one into their holes. Science could, perhaps, go usefully no further; +Reason, still proud upon her pinnacle, yet hesitated, unable to advance; +Theology looked round her with dim, tired eyes. The whole starving earth +paused upon a mighty change that should usher in a new and single thing—a +new direction. Alone the few who knew, felt glad and confident—joy. +But they <i>felt</i> it only, for as yet they could not tell it in language +usefully.</p> + +<p>They might live it, though!</p> + +<p>'Live it—ah!' he exclaimed, and his thoughts came back again to his +queer, birdy daughter. For Joan, he told himself, brimmed over with it. +She had in her the lightness, speed, and shining of the new element; she + +was glad and confident, full of joy, bird-happy, aware of principles +rather than of details. She sang. Of all creatures this spontaneous +expression of joy in life was known to birds alone. No other creatures +sang. The essential ecstasy that dwells in air, making its inhabitants +soar, fly, sing, was liberated in her human heart.</p> + +<p>True. . . . The weary world stood everywhere on tiptoe, craning its neck +into the air for some new expected prophet who should take it by the— +wing.</p> + +<p>It was a marvellous, delightful thought, and it sent his imagination +whirring into space. The wings of his mind went shivering. He gave +expression to it by a sudden gesture of his arms and head, making, it +seemed, a spontaneous effort to rise and fly—and, luckily, no one +observed him making it. It was similar, however, to the movement Joan had +made upon the roof as she stood outlined against the red and yellow sky; +similar, also, to the flashing curve the swallow had shown him not long +afterwards. It conveyed a thousand laborious sentences in a small +spontaneous gesture that was rhythmical. Ah! there was a change of rhythm +coming! And in rhythm lay a new means of instantaneous communication. +Two persons in the same rhythm knew and understood each other completely— +felt together. Then why not all?</p> + +<p>The flock of shifting shadows fell more thickly down upon the floor of his +receptive mind. He pounced upon them eagerly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it's an air-thing somehow,' he felt, watching the amazing pattern, +'a bird-thing coming. And she knows it. She's born with it.' He again +remembered the buttercup meadows of Cambridge and the singing gardens of +Algeria, the ecstasy, the light and heat of that exalted passion. +'Her mother had the germ of it, but in Joan it's blossomed out. +People would call her primitive, backward, even a little crazy, +'hysterical' is the word they'd use to-day, I suppose—but in reality +she's—er—awfully advanced. To be behind the race is the same as to be +ahead of it, for life is circular and to run fast ahead is to overtake +your tail. Signs of going back are equally signs of going forward. +The same place is passed again and again until all it can teach has been +caught from it; so the brain may be justifying scientifically To-day what +was known instinctively to ancient times. The subconscious becomes the +conscious.'</p> + +<p>'No, no,' the shadows painted somewhere behind his thought, 'it's not +circular, it's spiral. We come round to the same place again, only higher +up, above—in the air. And with the bird's-eye view from above comes +understanding.'</p> + +<p>Joan, he remembered, had said a few days before, speaking of his +button-hole: 'A flower is a stone put up several octaves.' That was +flight in itself—all she said had flight in it. Her statement was true, +literally, scientifically, spiritually, yet evolution was a word certainly +unknown to her, and the spiral movement equally beyond her mental +vocabulary.</p> + +<p>The shadows danced and grouped themselves anew.</p> + +<p>He reviewed strange signs that were-in-the-air-to-day, seeing them all as +aspects of one single thing. They were not really disconnected; their +apparent separation was caused by the various angles of survey, just as a +floor seen from below became a ceiling. All that he was thinking now was, +similarly, one big thing caught from various points of view. Some power +swifter, surer than thought in him surveyed it all at once; the tiresome +descriptions his mind laboured over took in the details separately—the +shifting shadows; yet the pattern as a whole was in him, captured by some +kind of instantaneous knowledge such as birds possess. Like Joan, he +caught the bird's-eye view, in principle. Yet she refused to be blinded +and smothered by the details, whereas they certainly muddled <i>him</i>. +It was necessary to select the details one thought about evidently. +He tried to stand outside himself and see the single something that +included all the details, and in proportion as he did so he seemed to rise +into the air.</p> + +<p>He reviewed these details flashily, and, so doing, got a glimpse, an +inkling, of the entirety whence they arose. All seemed to him significant +evidence of one and the same vast thing; this new, queer, rushing supply +of air-life flowing through everything everywhere, forcing a swift and +rhythmical way in the most unlikely places, modifying human activities in +all directions unaccountably. He saw a hundred of his Primer-Writers +sitting in a studious group about it, each describing certain specific +details, while the general outline of the whole escaped them individually. +Each called his scrap by different names, little aware that all sat +regarding the same one thing. It came up bubbling, dancing, pouring forth +with rhythm, bringing lightness into solid details, unsettling the +old-fashioned, and carrying many off their feet into the air. It was so +brimming that it overflowed; to resist it brought confusion, insecurity, +distress; to go with it was the only way to understand it—accepting the +huge new rhythm. Yet it had so many guises, so many protean forms. +Proteus was, indeed, a deathless truth, things changing into one another +because they all are one.</p> + +<p>He felt this new thing as synthesis, unity. The signs he reviewed +combined in a single gesture that conveyed it. Earth, with its reason, +logic, facts, could teach no more; Science was blocked from sheer +accumulation of undigested detail; the new knowledge was not there; a new +element was needed. And it was coming: Air.</p> + +<p>Already there was a change even in sight itself, and artists saw things in +a new direction. Mere foolishness to the majority, the cubists, futurists +and the like presented objects to others—others quite as intelligent as +the majority, quite as competent to judge—with an authentic fiat of truth +and beauty. They conveyed an essentially new view of objects, warning the +man in the street that the objective world is illusory and that concepts +built upon the reports of the senses are radically deceptive. A city seen +from an aeroplane resembled a cubist picture. This new sight seemed a +bird's-eye view, again, though using—going back to—the primitive, naked, +savage sight, yet a stage above it, higher, a tumultuous rhythm in it. +The spiral again!</p> + +<p>Side by side with it ran a strange new hearing too. The musicians—he +recalled the names that showered through the Primer pages—called +attention to this new hearing-from-another-angle. And, here again, it was +a going back apparently. Debussy used the old, primitive tone scale, +while Strauss and Scriabin, to say nothing of a hundred lesser ears, +extended the rhythm of music to include the world of sounds as none have +dared before. In literature, more swiftly assimilative and interpretative +of the airy inrush, the signs were thickly bewildering. Only, for the +majority, Pan being still misunderstood, the God of Air came more slowly +to his own. But the signs were everywhere, like birds and buttercups in +spring. The bird's-eye view, flashing marvellously, imperishably lovely, +was on the way into the hearts of men, the fairy touch, the protean +aspect, the light, electric rhythm running from the air upon the creaking +ground, urging the mass upwards with singing, dancing, into a synthesis, a +unity like a flock of birds.</p> + +<p>The nonsense of unintelligible words and decapitated sentences tried to +catch hold of what he felt, only failed to express it because it was too +big for used-up, pedestrian language. He felt this coming change and +swept along with it. He was aware of it all over.</p> + +<p>It came, he realised, flushing the most sensitive, receptive channels +first—the artists chiefly—and the apparent ugliness here and there was +due to distortion and exaggeration, to that violence necessary to overcome +the inertia of habit in a narrow groove, the tyranny of Mode. +The accumulated momentum of habit flowing so long in one direction called +for a prodigious rhythm to stop it first, then turn it back—into the new +direction. Mode was the devil—<i>der Geist der stets verneint</i>—forbidding +change, destroying innovators, worshipping that formal, dull routine which +is ever anti-spiritual because it photographs a moment and fixes it to +earth for always. . . . It was, of course, attacked, as all new movements +are attacked, with contempt, with ridicule, with anger; but the attacks +were negligible, and could not stay its gathering flow. The bright little +minds of the day charged against it, stuck their clever shafts, and +scuttled back again into the obscurity of their safe, accustomed groove. +Mistaking stagnation for balance, they clung to the solid earth of years +ago, but knew it not.</p> + +<p>Of all this his mind did not frame, much less utter, a single word. +But the pattern of its coming fell glowingly across his feelings. +Life too long had been a single photograph; it seemed now a rushing +cinematograph, revolving, advancing, mounting spirally into the air. +He felt it thus. Something new was pushing up the map from underneath to +meet the air; it was sprouting everywhere, going back to deep Pagan joy +and wonder, yet with Reason added to it. Reason looked back breathless to +Instinct long despised and cried, 'Come! Help me out!' And into his +mind leaped the symbolic image of a Centaur combining both these + +faculties. He added wings to it.</p> + +<p>'Reason—oh, of course! Without reason who could know that at a certain +station there must be a change of carriage?' The train and station once +there, that method of roving once accepted, Reason was as necessary as a +railway ticket. Only—well, he thought of the great Southern Tour and the +perfect motion and perfect knowledge that led those tiny travellers to +their distant destination and brought them home again to the identical +hedge and bush and twig six months later. There was another way of +communication. Birds knew it. The female Emperor-moth used it. +Our wireless poles and instruments followed laboriously to achieve it. +Yet the power itself lay in ourselves too, somewhere, waiting to be +recognised without costly mechanism.</p> + +<p>Yes, there surely was another way of travelling, of motion, coming, a +bird-way, yet even swifter, surer still, because independent of the earthy +body. The real, airy part of men and women were acquiring it already, +their real selves, thought and consciousness, learning the new mighty +rhythm by degrees. The transference of thought and consciousness was +close upon them—from the air; wireless communication with all parts of +space; the mysterious, unconscious wisdom of the bird, organised and +directed consciously by men and women.</p> + +<p>An immense thrill passed over him. He began to sing softly to himself, +but so softly, luckily, that no one overheard him: 'Flow, fly, flow; +Wherever I am, I <i>go</i>!' Joan knew it all unconsciously. She just sang +it.</p> + +<p>And bits of a bird-primer flew across his mind, casting the same delicate, +protean shadows against the wall where thought stopped helplessly. +The precocious intelligence of feathered life was still a mystery no +primer-writer could explain. The curlew, he recalled, after wintering in +New Zealand, paused to mate and nest in the South of England on his way to +Northern Siberia, while awaiting the summons to complete its journey when +the ice is gone. 'It is a fact, proved and attested beyond dispute, that +the evening the curlew leaves the South of England is invariably the day +on which the ice breaks in the north, at least two thousand miles +distant.' How does the curlew know it?</p> + +<p>He thought of the plover with five drums in his ear, able to hear the +'slow, sinuous movement of the worm in the soil, eight inches below the +hard-crusted surface'; of the lapwing who imitates the sound of rain by +drumming with his feet to bring the worms up; of the cuckoo matching her +egg with those of the foster-mother selected for her baby—hundreds of +variations; of the swallow, mating like the nightingale for life, and of a +certain pair of swallows, in particular, who 'for fifteen consecutive +years returned to the same spot, after wintering in Cape Colony, to build +their nest, arriving invariably on the same day of the year—the 11th of +April'; of the nightingales who winter separately, but return faithfully +together to England in the spring, the female, perhaps, from India, the +male from Persia.</p> + +<p>A hundred marvels of air-life came back to him; all 'instinct'—only +'mere instinct'! Birds, birds, birds! The wisdom of the birds! +Their communications, their flocking together, their swift rhythmical +movements, their singing language, their unity, their—brotherhood!</p> + +<p>From the air the new thing was rushing down upon the world, yes. Yet not +alone the sensitive artist-temperament perceived it; it came overflowing +into far less delicate channels as well, breaking up the old with + +difficulty, but producing first a tumult of disturbance that would later +fall into harmonious rhythm too. There were everywhere new men, new +women; behind the Woman Movement, for all its first excess, was a +colossal, necessary, inevitable thing. Once rhythmical, the disorder and +extravagance would become order, balance. The neuter woman was a passing +moment in it, not to endure. The new woman was but another sign of the +airy invasion which the painters and musicians, the writers and the +preachers, felt. And the air-man, with new nerves, new courage, new +outlook upon energy, even new bird-like face and strange lightning eyes, +was another obvious, physical, yet only half-physical, expression. +His audacious courage seemed somehow to focus the new consciousness +preparing. The birds were coming everywhere. A new element, a new +direction!</p> + +<p>In advance of the invasion, making way for it, old solid obstacles were +everywhere breaking down. He seemed to recognise a crumbling of +religions, of religious forms. The rigid creeds and dogmas, made by man, +and imprisoning him so long, were turning fluid before the stress of the +new arrival, melting down like sand-castles when the tide comes in. +They must hurry to adapt themselves, or else cease to exist. +Formal, elaborate, dead-letter theology must go, to let in—Religion. +The churches seemed to have become unreal already, continuing, +parrot-like, to teach traditional doctrines the people have long ago +abandoned. He heard another Primer whisper in his ear. 'Every one is +aware of the failure of the churches to touch modern life; to escape from +their grooves; to cease to deal in conventional and monotonous iterations +of old-fashioned formulae, instead of finding vital, human, developing +expressions of the spiritual craving in man. They do not teach <i>that the +Kingdom of Heaven is on earth</i>. They have isolated religion from +practical life. Religion must evolve with the evolution of human +culture'—or disappear. Its teaching must take wings and rise to lead +into the air, or remain stagnant on the ground in ruins, stony, +motionless, dead, a photograph.</p> + +<p>The 'wireless imagination' of the futurist was not so meaningless as it +sounded. The exaggeration that preceded the new arrival would soon pass. +Only, the first flight took the breath away a little, as when a man, from +walking, breaks into a run to leap into an unknown element. Through the +scientific world the quiver was running too. What's coming next? What in +the world is going to happen? seemed the universal cry. The composite +face of the world already assumed the eager lineaments of the great +bird-visage. The air was coming.</p> + +<p>The rhythm of life was everywhere being accelerated, and side by side with +the mechanical expression in telephones and wireless communications, a +quickening transformation of human sensibility was taking place as well. +It was the running start for a leap into the air. Facilities for +increasing the spontaneity of living existed at every street corner, but +it was air that first produced them. Air made them possible. There was +even approach towards the unification of the senses, one man hearing +through his teeth and skull, another seeing through his temples. +The localisation of sensibility was merging into a unified perception +whereby people would presently know all-over and at-once. They would +realise the eternal principle and ignore the obscuring details. Once they +all felt together as the bird did, brotherhood, which is sharing all in +natural sympathy, would be close. . . .</p> + +<p>The shadow-patterns flashed and rustled on across his mind. In a couple +of minutes all these wild ideas occurred to him. They were +extraordinarily elusive, yet extraordinarily real. In an interval as +brief as that between saying 'Quite well, thank you,' to some one who asks +'How are you?' this flock of suggestions swept over him and went their +way. They never grew clear enough to be actual thoughts; they were just +passing hints of what was in-the-air-to-day. All telescoped together in a +rapid rush, marked him, vanished, yet left behind them something that was +real. They came through his skin, he fancied, rather than through his +brain. They came all over.</p> + +<p>The pedestrians, meanwhile, shuffled past him heavily; he made his way +with difficulty, the thick stream opening to let him through, then closing +in again behind him. He felt closely in touch with them all, in more ways +than one; but the majority were still groping on the ground, hunting for +luxurious holes to shelter in. Only a few were looking up. He saw, here +and there, an eager face turned skywards, tipped with the beauty of a +flushing dawn. These, perhaps, felt it coming. But few as yet—one in a +million, say—would dare to fly.</p> + +<p>He watched them as he passed along, feeling them gathering him in. +He saw the endless, seething crowd as a unit. He felt their strength, +their beauty. He was aware of democracy, virile, proud, inevitable. +He felt the hovering bird above it somewhere, immense, inspiring. +The advancing tide was rising, undermining caste and class distinctions +steadily, breaking down conventions, the feeblest sand-castles children +ever built. He heard an awful thunder too. It revealed a storming +majesty, shattering, cataclysmic, making most hearts afraid—the opening +and stirring of multitudinous huge wings. Yet it was merely the new +element coming, the great invasion with its irresistible rhythm. +Democracy wore striped wings beneath its Sunday black, powerful, +magnificent eagle-wings. Birds flying in their thousands, he recalled, +convey sublimity. But yet he shuddered. The rising of such tremendous +wings involved somewhere—blood.</p> + +<p>He saw, with his bird's-eye view, the general levelling up, or levelling +down, in progress. No big outstanding figure led the world to-day. +There were no giants anywhere. Much of a muchness ruled in art and +business, as in statesmanship. No towering figures showed the way into +the air. On the other hand there was degeneracy that could not be denied. +He saw it, however, like the dirty flotsam seaweed pushed in front of a +great high-tide. Degeneracy precedes new growth when that growth is of a +different kind. Out of decaying wood springs a tree of fairer type, and +from the ashes of a burnt hemlock forest emerge maple, birch and oak, +while the flaming Fireweed lights the way with beauty. When a Canadian +forest is destroyed by fire, the growth next spring is of a totally new +kind, and no one has yet told whence came the seed of this new, different +growth. After a prairie fire, similarly, new flowers spring up that were +not there before. The subsoil possibly has concealed them; they are +discovered by the fiery heat. The decay of old, true grandeur he saw +everywhere, the democratic vulgarisation of beauty, the universal +levelling up and levelling down, but he saw these as evidence of that +crumbling of too in-bred forms which announced the new coming harvest from +the air. It was but the decay of old foundations which have served their +time.</p> + +<p>'We shall build lighter,' he half sang, half whispered to himself, +squeezing between a lamp-post and a workman who came rolling unsteadily +out of a tavern door; 'birds'-nests, up among the swinging trees! +We shall live more carelessly, and nearer to the stars! No cellars any +more, no basements, but gardens on the roof! Winds, colours, sunshine, +air! Oh!——' as the man bumped into him and sent him off the pavement +with 'Beg parding, sir!' 'No, I beg yours,' he replied, and came down to +earth with a crash, remembering that supper was at seven-thirty and he +must be turning homewards.</p> + +<p>So he turned and retraced his steps, feeling somehow that he had come down +from the mountain tops or from a skimming rush along high windy cliffs. +The net result of all these strange half-thoughts was fairly simple. +His imagination had been stirred by the sight of his daughter in the +sunset making those suggestive gestures against the coloured sky. +With her hands she had flung a shower of silver threads about him; along +these, somehow, her own queer ideas flashed into him. A new point of +view, a new attitude to life, something with the light, swift rhythm of a +bird's flight was coming into the minds of men. Most of those who felt it +were hardly conscious, perhaps, that they did so, because carried along +with it. The old were frightened, change being difficult for them; but +the young, the more sensitive ones among them at any rate, stretched out +their arms and legs to meet the flowing, flying invasion. 'Flow, fly, +flow; wherever I am—I <i>go</i>,' was in the air to-day. Joan knew. +New hope, new light, new language, all aspects of joy and confidence, +seemed dawning. Air and birds were symbols of it. It was rhythmical, +swift, spontaneous. It sang. It was bird-happy and bird-wise. It was a +new kind of consciousness, yet more than a mere expansion of present +consciousness. It was a new direction altogether, while its object, +purpose, aim was the oldest dream known to this old-tired world— +brotherhood and unity. A bird brotherhood! The wisdom of the Flock!</p> + +<p>'I declare,' he murmured, laughing quietly to himself, 'if any one could +hear me—see inside my mind just now—they'd say I was——!'</p> + +<p>And that reminded him of his wife. He remembered that he was thinking of +moving into the country with his family before very long. He came back to +a definite thought again. He pondered facts and ways and means. He was +very practical really at heart, no mere dreamer by any means. He weighed +the difficulties. Mother was one of them. Sad, sad, the bird had left +her; she was a badger now. He felt uneasy, troubled in his mind. But he +smiled. He was fond of her.</p> + +<p>'How ever shall we manage?' he asked himself. 'There are so many +incongruous things to reconcile. Gently, kindly, softly, airily is the +way.'</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, a bird-thought came to help him. Ah, it was practically +useful, this inspiration from the air. It was not merely nonsense, then!</p> + +<p>'If I just hope and believe, and do my best, and don't think—too much—it +will all come right. I must be spontaneous and instinctive, not +overweighted by worrying and detailed reason. I must believe and trust. +That's the way to get what's called good judgment. See it whole from the +air!'</p> + +<p>For the details that perplexed him were, after all, merely different +aspects of one and the same thing—the several points of view of Mother, +Joan, Tom, himself. Hold in the mind the details in solution, and the +problem must solve itself. If he understood each one—<i>that</i> was +necessary—while viewing the problem as a whole, the solution must come +spontaneously of itself. The bird's-eye view would show the way, while he +remained nominally leader, like the bird that heads the triangular wedge +of wild geese across a hundred miles of sky. This flashed upon him like a +song.</p> + +<p>And as he realised this, his trouble vanished; joy took its place; with it +came a sense of confidence, power, even wisdom. Though the matter was +trivial enough, it was the triumph of instinct: Reason laid out the +details, instinct pieced them together, then Intuition led. It was seeing +all-over, knowing all-at-once. Already he had begun to live like a bird, +and Joan, though he knew not how exactly, had taught him.</p> + +<p>'Wherever I am, I go,' went darting through his head. He smiled, felt +light and happy—and strangely wise. Perhaps he could help. Perhaps he +was going to be a teacher even. A Teacher, he realised, must first of all +find out the point of view of the person to be taught, and then discover a +new point of view which will make the wrong or foolish attitude harmonise +with reality. Everybody is right where he is, however wrong he may be. +Only he must not stay there. The Teacher is a priest who supplies the new +point of view. New teaching, however, was not necessary; the world was +choked to the brim with teaching already. A new airy understanding of old +teaching was the thing. . . .</p> + +<p>He was now close to the iron gates of Sun Court Mansions, where he lived. +In the diminutive, yet pretentious, plot of garden stood a tall, leafy +tree. A gust of wind blew past him at that moment with a roaring sound +that was like laughter, and he saw the tree shake and tremble. +The countless branches tossed in a dozen directions, hopelessly in +disorder, each branch, each twig obeying its own particular little rhythm. +That they all belonged to a single, central object seemed incredible, so +brave the show they made of being independent and apart.</p> + +<p>Then, as he stood and watched, seventy thousand leaves turned all one way, +showing their delicate under-skins. The great tree suddenly blew open. +He saw the trunk to which leaves and branches all belonged. And at the +wind's order the tree behaved as a single thing, even the most outlying +portions answering to the one harmonious rhythm. At which moment, once +again, a flock of birds rose from somewhere near with an effortless rush +and swooped in among the leaves with one great gesture common to each one. +They settled with the utmost ease. The myriad little busy details merged +in one; they disappeared. But in settling thus, they made the solid green +seem light as air, shiny, almost fluid.</p> + +<p>And Wimble, taking the odd hint, felt too that his own difficulties had +similarly turned fluid, melted, disappeared. The details merged into a +whole; they were referred, at any rate, to some central authority that hid +deep within him. A wind of inspiration, as it were, had blown him wide +open too. Details that tossed in different directions, apparently hostile +to one another, betrayed their common trunk. They showed their +under-sides. He was aware of an essential unity to which all belonged.</p> + +<p>Something in him shone. He had taught himself, at any rate. He went +upstairs, confident and light-hearted, breathless a little too, as though +he had enjoyed an exhilarating flight of leagues, instead of a two-mile +trudge along the solid, crowded pavements of Maida Vale.</p> + +<p>And later, when he went to bed, he fell asleep upon a gorgeous, airy +conviction: 'The Golden Age lies in front of us, and not behind!' +It was a birdy thought. He flew into dreamland with it in his wings.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER IX.</h3> + + +<p>Mrs. Wimble felt the death in another manner. It disconnected her from +life. It cut her off from a network of safe, accustomed grooves. +Something solid she had clung to subsided under ground. A final link with +childhood, youth, and beauty broke. Death has a way of making survivors +older suddenly. Mrs. Wimble now admitted age to herself; wore unsightly +and depressing black; felt sentimental about a big 'p' Past; and ruminated +uneasily about other worlds. Black with her was an admission that an +after-life was at best an open question. It was a lugubrious conventional +act symbolical of selfish grief, a denial of true religious teaching which +should have faith, and therefore joy, as its illuminating principle. +She did not understand the question. She had no answer ready. She said, +'What?'</p> + +<p>She referred to the 'lost' at intervals. It did not occur to her that +what is lost is open to recovery. When she said 'lost' she really meant +annihilated. For, though a Christian nominally, and a faithful +church-goer, when she had clothes she considered fit for the Deity to see +her in, her notions of a future state were mental conceptions merely that +contained no real belief. She was not aware that she did not believe, but +this was, of course, the fact. Her father, moreover, had long ago + +destroyed the reality of the two after-death places generally accepted, +soon after he had taught her that they both existed. Not wittingly for +his part, nor for her part, consciously. But since 'heavenly' was a term +he used to describe large sales of corn, and 'Go to hell, you idiot' was a +phrase he applied frequently to underlings in yard and office, his +daughter had grown up with less respect for the actuality of these +localities than she might otherwise have had.</p> + +<p>And with regard to her love for him—it was not love at all, but a selfish +dependence tempered with mild affection. He was now gone; she missed him. +A prop had sunk, a tie with the distant nursery snapped, the sense of +continuity with the fragrance of early days, of toys, of romance and +Christmas presents was no longer there. Instead of looking backwards— +still possible while a parent lives—she now looked forward into a +muddled, shadowy future that brought depression and low spirits. It was a +subterranean look. She went down under ground into her hole, yet +backwards, still peering with pathetic eagerness into the sunshine of life +that she must leave behind.</p> + +<p>Therefore, for her father at any rate, she knew not love. For the one +thing certain and positive about love is that those who feel it <i>know</i>, +and to mention loss in the sense of annihilation is but childish +ignorance. There is physical disappearance, separation, going elsewhere, +but these are temporary, another direction, as Joan expressed it. +Love shouts the fact, contemptuous of exact photographic proof. +No mother worth her salt, at any rate, believes that death is final loss. +She has known union; and Love brings, above all, the absolute +consciousness of eternal union. 'Loss,' used of death, is a devil-word +where love is, and as ignorant as 'loss of appetite' when food has become +a portion of the eater. One's self is not separable from its-self. +Love, having absorbed the essentials of what it loves, remains because it +<i>is</i>; for ever indivisible; there. The beloved dead step nearer when +their bodies drop aside. 'The dead know where they are, and what they're +doing,' as Joan mentioned. 'It's not for us to worry—in that way. +And they're out of hours and minutes. They probably have no time to come + +back and tell us.'</p> + +<p>To which Mother's whole attitude replied with an exasperated 'What? +I don't think you know what you mean, child.'</p> + +<p>Joan answered in a flash, her face clouding slightly, then breaking into a +happy smile again: 'But, mother, what people think about a thing has +nothing to do with the real meaning.'</p> + +<p>'Eh?' said Mother.</p> + +<p>'Their opinion doesn't matter.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wimble bridled a little. She was not yet ready to be taught to fly. +In this airy element she felt unsafe, bewildered, and therefore irritable.</p> + +<p>'Then you'll find out later, Joan, that it <i>does</i> matter,' she replied +emphatically with ruffled dignity. 'One can't play fast and loose with +things like that, not in this world, my dear. One must be fixed to +something—somewhere. Life isn't nonsense. And you'll remember later +that I said so.'</p> + +<p>Joan peeped at her sideways, as a robin might peep at a barking dog. +A tender and earnest expression lit upon her sparkling little face.</p> + +<p>'But life is a vision,' she said with a glow in her voice; 'it begins and +goes on just like that,' and she clicked her fingers in the air. +'If you see it from above, from outside—like a swallow—you know it all +at once like in a dream and vision, and it means everything there is to be +meant. You put in the details afterwards.' She was perched upon the +window-sill again, her long legs dangling. She began to sing her +bird-song.</p> + +<p>'There, there,' expostulated Mr. Wimble, who was listening, 'we're not +birds yet, Joan, whatever we're going to be,' but the last seven words +dropped unconsciously into the rhythm of her singing tune. He felt a wind +blow from her into his heart. Mrs. Wimble, however, remained concealed +behind her <i>World</i>. She was not actually reading anything, because her +eyes moved too quickly from paragraph to paragraph. But she said nothing +for some moments, and presently she folded the paper with great +deliberation, laying it beside her on the table, and patting it +emphatically.</p> + +<p>'Visions are for those that like them,' she announced, moving towards the +door and casting a sideways look of surprise and contempt at her husband +whose silence seemed to favour Joan. 'To my way of thinking, they're +unsettling. What time does Tom come in to-night?'</p> + +<p>They discussed Tom for a few moments, and it was remembered that he had a +latch-key and could let himself in, and that therefore they might go to +bed without anxiety. But what Mrs. Wimble said upon this unnecessary +topic meant really: 'You're both too much for me; my hopes are set on +Tom.' She continued her perusal of the <i>World</i> in her room, retiring +shortly afterwards to sleep heavily for nine full hours without a break.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER X.</h3> + + +<p>Her father stood upside-down—mentally, of course, not physically. +Certain of the Primer 'Epitomes' came in helter-skelter to support his +daughter's nonsense. At the same time he was aware that he ought to chide +her. And probably he would have done so but for the fact that before he +knew it, the girl was asking to be forgiven. He had not seen her move; +his mental sight was still following Mother. There was a flutter of +something white across the air—and there Joan was—upon his knee.</p> + +<p>And so he did not chide her. Nor did he rebuke her for singing under her +breath what she called 'Mother's Song,' beginning:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> O Disaster!<br> + You're my Master!<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> +<p>'Your mother's tired to-night,' he observed. 'But all the same, you are a +nasty little tease, you know.' Her arms felt like warm, smooth feathers as +he stroked them. He seemed floating lightly in mid-air above the roof. +And he remembered vaguely the fairy tales of his youth when Princesses +turned suddenly into swans. Oh, how beautiful it was, this bird idea, +this seeing and feeling things in the terms of birds. Those girls in +Greece the gods changed into a nightingale and a swallow—what a +delightful, exhilarating experience! Easy—and how true! 'The feathery +change came o'er you,' he murmured from the Treasury of Song, then, +interrupting his own mood of curious enjoyment, turned to Joan abruptly.</p> + +<p>'Why did you talk like that?' he inquired.</p> + +<p>'To make Mother move——'</p> + +<p>'To bed, you mean?' he asked, almost severely.</p> + +<p>'Yes, no,' said Joan.</p> + +<p>'Answer me properly, girl,' he observed.</p> + +<p>'Of course not. Move nearer to you—and me—even to grandpa. We ought to +be a flock somehow, I felt. But we looked so separate and apart, you two +on chairs, reading, him out of sight, and me on the window-sill.'</p> + +<p>'Eh?'</p> + +<p>'We ought to be one thing more. The whole world ought to be. +Not crowded—oh, there'd be heaps of room to move in—but all together +somehow like birds. It's only bad birds that are apart—ravens, hawks, +and birds of prey. All the others flock.' She darted from his knee and +stood upon her toes a second before him, staring down into his eyes. +'It's coming, you know, Daddy. It's coming, anyhow!' She said it +brightly, eagerly, yet with a singular conviction in her tone. +'The whole world's flocking somehow—somewhere—for I feel it. We shall +all be happy together once we get into the country.'</p> + +<p>A shiver of beauty passed through him as he heard her. He remembered his +walk up Maida Vale, and the rushing, shadowy presentiment in his mind that +something new was on the way.</p> + +<p>'Like a single big family, you mean? All after one high big thing +together?' He asked it, greatly wondering at her. But her reply made him +gasp. Where had she learned such things, unless from the air?</p> + +<p>'Your language is so draughty, Daddy. <i>I</i> mean a bird-world. +Birds aren't unselfish, they're just—together.'</p> + +<p>He rubbed his forehead, saying nothing, while she fluttered down upon his +knees again.</p> + +<p>'Like my body,' she said. 'Don't you see?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, no,' he laughed, using her method unconsciously.</p> + +<p>'I can't lace my boot with one hand, but the other isn't unselfish when it +comes to help. My head is no farther from <i>me</i> than my boot, is it?' +And she sang softly her bird-song of movement and delight, until he felt +the quality of her volatile, aerial mind flash down into his own and +lighten it amazingly.</p> + +<p>'My precious little daughter,' he cried, 'you are a bird, and you shall +teach me all your flying secrets. But, tell me,' he whispered, 'how in +the world did you find out all this?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I can't tell <i>that</i>,' she replied almost impatiently, 'for once I +begin to think it all goes, and I feel like an animal in a hole. But I'll +tell you soon—when the right moment comes—in the fields. I just go +about and it all shoots into me.'</p> + +<p>It was the true bird-quality, always singing, always on the alert, swift +to notice and be glad.</p> + +<p>'Yet I said it without thinking,' she went on, 'and the meaning came in +afterwards at the end—all of its own accord. And that's really the way +to live together. At least, it's coming——'</p> + +<p>'The next stage, the next move!'</p> + +<p>'Flight!' she cried, half singing it.</p> + +<p>'You live and talk,' he laughed, 'like a German sentence that carries all +in the head and suddenly puts the verb down at the end.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, yes,' he realised after she had gone to bed, while he sat there, +pondering her fluid statements, 'there is this new thing coming into life, +and it is in some sense indeed a bird-thing. It's a new outlook!'</p> + +<p>He caught at her feathery meanings none the less. A great aerial movement +had begun, an etherialisation, a spiritualisation of life. And in true +spirituality there was nothing vague; its expression was terrifically +definite, stupendously alive, swift, sure, and steady as a mighty bird. +Spirit was a bird of fire. Joan left him in that dreary sitting-room with +a feeling that life was glorious and that the entire population of the +globe must presently take flight and wing its way to some less ponderous +star—migration. Joan's language was absurd, yet she left winged ideas +rushing like imperial eagles through his mind. Humanity was really one, +but on earth alone it would never, never find it out. In the air it +would. Its upward struggles were not mere figures of speech. +Routine oppressed and deadened life, prisoning it within a network of +rigid, fixed ideas, and behind barriers of concentrated effort which +turned the fluid stagnant—hard. Routine was dulling, anti-spiritual. +To live like a quicksand before you get fixed and sank, this was the way. +To be ready for a fire that should burn up all you had. Life flows, +flies, flows; it has rhythm and abandon; self, by means of boundaries and +casting limits, resists this universal flow towards expansion +characteristic of all Nature. A bird was poised. True! But it was ready +to go in any direction instantly, for it was more various and less +intense, by no means purposeless, and never bound. It was spontaneous, +instantaneous, for ever on the run. That was living, that was 'fun.' +People, like animals, were congested. But life was growing quicker, +lighter, with rhythm, movement everywhere.</p> + +<p>The shadow dance began again deliciously.</p> + +<p>Yet to act intuitively seemed a dangerous plan for the majority at +present, to live on impulse seemed mere recklessness. But it would come. +Already people were tired of knowing exact and detailed reasons for all +they did. Confusion would come first, of course, but out of that +confusion, as out of the apparent trouble of a rising flock of birds, or +the scattered muddle of leaves and branches in a wind-tossed tree, would +follow magnificent concerted life. Democracy was growing wings. Soon it +would sing for joy.</p> + +<p>Yes, there was truth in it. Majestic powers were moving already past the +visible curtain of fixed and rigid formulae. To obey an intuition the +instant it came, was to find the opportunity at hand for carrying it out +effectively. To wait and hesitate, consider, reflect and reason out, was +to lose the chance. It was disobedience, and disobedience detached from +power. Fate was controlled by an obedient and instantaneous mind, for it +meant acting in harmony with these majestic powers. Understanding +followed later, as with Joan's outlook; the verb came down at the end, +explaining, justifying all that had preceded it. Good and evil were, +after all, misnomers of the nursery. In rhythm or out of rhythm was +common, aye, the commonest sense. Rhythm was simply ease, as +separateness, due to want of rhythm, was dis-ease.</p> + +<p>'Oh dear!' sighed Joseph Wimble, as he turned the light out and pattered +down the corridor to bed. 'I feel carried off my feet. What a buoyant +thing life is, to be sure! It gets big and light and happy when you least +expect it! Evidently, there's a big universal thing underlying it all— +that's what she means by air—and to lean upon <i>that</i>—subconsciously, +I suppose—to act in rhythm with it——' He broke off, colliding with a +chest of drawers Mother <i>would</i> keep in the narrow passage.</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, as he switched the light on in his bedroom, he realised +something very big and striking:</p> + +<p>'<i>Of course</i>, I'm a cosmic, not merely a planetary, being . . .!'</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XI.</h3> + + +<p>But what followed that night, while it may have caught him into the air, +as he phrased it, and given him an airy point of view, took his breath +away at the same time. He was not ready yet for so strange a revelation.</p> + +<p>He did not sleep very soundly. Too many ideas were rustling in his brain. +'Rise out of rigid ideas,' a voice kept whispering. 'Hold ideas loosely +in the mind. Cultivate agility of thought. Re-fresh, remake your +thought. Destroy the hard walls that hide God from you. He is so close +to you always. Shatter your idols and get free! Rise out of the network +of fixed ideas! Watch life without sinking into your own personality. +That is, share every point of view and think in every corner of your body. +Grow alive all over. Don't think things out in your head; <i>just see</i> +them! Embrace all possibilities! Get into the air! Melt down that +absurdity, the scientific materialist, and show him LIFE!'</p> + +<p>He heard these whispered sentences traversing the darkness like singing +arrows whose whistling speed made a noise of words. Even in sleep he +stood upon his head. But the arrows, of course, were feathered. +They were feathers. Wings flashed and fluttered everywhere about him. +He was in a cage. He must escape. He tried. Somehow, it seemed, he used +his whole body instead of his brain alone. He <i>was</i> escaping. . . . +Life, blown open by a wind, seemed to show its under-side where everything +was one. . . .</p> + +<p>By this time he was half awake. 'I must do something; I must act,' he +dimly realised. He turned over in his bed, and the sound of arrowy, +rushing air went farther into the distance as he did so.</p> + +<p>'It's imagination,' sneered a tiny, wakeful point in his mediocre brain. +Another part of him not brain was alight and shining.</p> + +<p>'But you're no farther from Reality by letting your imagination loose,' +sang a returning arrow—in his head. It came from something bigger than +his mind. His mind, strutting and arrogant, seemed such an insignificant +part of him, whereas the rest, where the arrows flashed and flew, seemed +so enormous that he was conscious of the 'nightmare touch' of Size. +Mind strove to justify itself, however, and Reason snatched at names and +labels.</p> + +<p>'But that's right,' a flying sentence laughed. 'You do not see a thing +until you've named it. You only feel it. Once, however, it's described, +it's seen!'</p> + +<p>'Aha! That's Joan's fairy-tale method grotesquely cropping up in my +dreams,' he realised—and so, of course, awoke properly.</p> + +<p>And it was here that his breath got shorter and his heart beat +irregularly.</p> + +<p>The room was dark and silent, but he heard a murmuring as though Night +were talking in her sleep. The dizziness of great heights was still about +him, and remained a little even when he turned the lights on. It was four +o'clock. The room wore a waiting, listening air, as though a moment +before it had all been whirling, and his waking at this unlawful hour had +disturbed it. Waking had rolled the darkness back, let in light, and +taken—a photograph. He felt mad and happy—madly happy. There was +nonsense in him that belonged to careless joy. The curious notion came +that he ought to introduce himself to the various objects—chairs, +cupboards, book-shelf, writing-table—and apologise to them for having +believed himself separate from them. He ought to explain. But the same +second he realised this as wrong, for he himself had been moving, +whirling, too. Everything had stopped, himself included, when he awoke. +He had stepped aside to look at it. He had photographed it. Of course it +stopped.</p> + +<p>'I am,' he remembered, 'but wherever I am, I <i>go</i>!'</p> + +<p>And then, before further Explanation could explain away the truth, he +seized at another diving arrow and saw it whole, though it vanished the +same instant:</p> + +<p>'I am the whole room. I am my surroundings!'</p> + +<p>Some new point of view had leaped into him, something almost daemonic that +suggested limitless confidence in his power to overcome all obstacles, +because they were part of his own being.</p> + +<p>Objects, things, details—during that amazing second at least—no longer +seemed separate, alone, apart from one another. They were not anywhere +cut off. Seen thus, a chair was a cupboard, a table was a basin, <i>he</i> +was the ceiling, bed, and carpet. Equally, a cat was a peacock, a mouse +was an elephant.</p> + +<p>He said these words to himself in an astonished whisper, and in doing so +he understood something he didn't understand. The sentence waited +for the verb, the meaning, and it suddenly came down pop—at the end. +Reason helped a little there, for he had named and described, and +therefore seen what before he had only felt. Perhaps further +understanding would follow. The verb would come. He would get up and +try. He would do something—act—act out his mood. Action seemed +suddenly a new kind of language, a three-dimensional language, an +ever-moving language in which objects took on character and played parts +for the sake of expression. A language of action! You are whatever you +do. . . .!</p> + +<p>And as this arrow shot its message past him it seemed that certain objects +in the room were about to jump at him. They did not actually move, but +they were just about to move—ready and alert. The instant he slept they +would rise and fly together again. It was his point of view, his mind in +him, that made them appear separate. Each object was clothed in its own +story of information, as it were. Objects were telling him something. +They were demonstrating an idea.</p> + +<p>'I am not alone, although I'm only one,' he said aloud. 'In arithmetic +one is not more lonely than seven.' But, again, he didn't understand +quite why he said it, while yet he understood perfectly at the same time. +'I'm not quite myself at any rate,' he added, and it was true. Perhaps he +was a trifle frightened, still hovering on the nightmare edge of sleep. +For all this happened in a single instant when he turned the light up. +With sight his breath came more easily at once, his heart beat steadily +again.</p> + +<p>Yet there was certainly a sense of rhythm in the room, though lessening +rapidly. He must hurry. The cage was closing round him again. He heard +the flying voices farther and farther in the distance, but still sweet +with a rhythmical new music.</p> + +<p>'Use the mood of the moment, but first understand why it is the mood of +the moment!'</p> + +<p>'Use the material you have at once! Don't wait for something different!'</p> + +<p>'There is no need to wait; to wait shows incompetence!'</p> + +<p>'Act instantly! Don't reason, calculate, think! Operate in a flash!'</p> + +<p>He felt, that is, rather as a bird might feel. There was haste, yet no +hurry, purpose yet leisure, delight without delay, spontaneity. So he got +out of bed, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and went on tiptoe into the +passage. Then, standing in the shaft of light from his room, the dark +corridor in front of him, he realised that the entire flat—the furnished +flat that Dizzy & Dizzy had let to him—was alive. The feathered arrows +were not imagined, the voice was not a dream. Inanimate things stirred +everywhere about him. He perceived their undersides and his own. +Their apartness that so dislocated the upper, outer, surface-life was only +apparent after all. Bars melted. He felt instantaneous. 'Wherever I am +I go!' But objects shared the same illusion: wherever they were, they +went! The sensations of a flock were in him. A new order of +consciousness was close.</p> + +<p>He paused and listened. No sound was audible. Mother's door was closed, +but Joan's, he saw, just opposite, stood ajar. A draught blew coldly on +him. He tapped gently and, receiving no reply, pushed the door wider and +peeped through. The light from the corridor behind poured in. The room +was empty, but the sheets, he saw, had not been lain in.</p> + +<p>Recalling then her state of excitement when she went to bed, he searched +the flat, peering cautiously even into Mother's room, but without result. +The front door was bolted on the inner side. She had not left the +building. He felt alarmed. Then a cold air stirred the hair of his head, +and, looking up, he saw that the trap-door in the ceiling was open and +that the ladder looked inviting. It 'jumped' at him, as he called it, +that is it drew his attention as with meaning. So he snatched a rug from +the shelf beneath the hat-rack, and, throwing it round his shoulders, + +clambered up on to the roof.</p> + +<p>It was September and the sky was soft with haze, yet still empty and +hungry for the swallows. Round balls of vapour pretending to be solid +were being driven by an upper wind across the stars; but the stars were +brilliant and shone through the edges of the vapour. And the night seemed +in a glow. The wind did not come down, the roof was still; the mass of +London lay like a smouldering furnace far below, bright patches +alternating with deep continents of shadow. He heard the town booming in +its sleep, a thick and heavy sound, yet resonant. And at first he saw +only a confused forest of chimneys about him that rose somewhat ominously +into the air, their crests invisible. Then, suddenly, one of them bent +over in a curve, fell silently with marvellous grace upon the leaden +covering; and, fluttering towards him softly as an owl, came some one who +had been standing against it—Joan.</p> + +<p>This happened in the first few seconds; but even before she came he was +aware that the strange stirring of inanimate nature in the room below had +transferred its magic up here. It was not discontinuous, that is, but +everywhere. It had come down into the flat, as from the outside world, +but the singular rhythm emanated first from here—above. Joan had to do +with it.</p> + +<p>It was exquisite, this soft feathery way she came to him across the London +roof, swooping low as with the flight of an owl, an owl that flies so +easily and buoyantly, it seems it never <i>could</i> drop. It was lovely. +In some such way a spirit, a disembodied life, might be expected to move. +He listened with eager intensity for the first word she would utter.</p> + +<p>'Father,' she whispered, 'it's the Bird!'</p> + +<p>He felt his entire life leap out on wings into open space. He had asked +no questions. She stood in front of him. Her voice, with its curious +lilt, seemed on the verge of singing. It came from her lips, but it +sounded everywhere about him, as though delivered by the air itself, as +though it dropped from the unravelling clouds, as though it fell singing +from the paling stars. Night breathed it. And it frightened him—for a +moment—out of himself. His ordinary mind seemed loose, uprooted, +floating away as though compelling music swayed it into great happiness. +His stream of easy breath increased. He touched that indefinable ecstasy +which is extension of consciousness, caused by what men call crudely +Beauty. Joy flooded him.</p> + +<p>'The Bird!' He repeated the words below his breath. 'What <i>do</i> you mean?' +Yet, even as he did so, something in him knew. 'A bird in her bosom' +flashed across him from some printed page. The girl, he realised, had +been communing with that type of life to which she was so mysteriously +akin. Its approach had stirred inanimate nature into language. +Meaning had invaded objects, striking rhythm, almost speech, from inert +details. Joan had brought this new living thing—new point of view—into +the very slates and furniture.</p> + +<p>'The Bird!' he whispered again.</p> + +<p>'Our Bird! Daddy.' And she opened her arms like soft white wings, the +shawl fluttering from them in the starlight.</p> + +<p>He ought to have said—'Nonsense; go back to bed; you'll catch your death +of cold!' Or to have asked 'What bird? I don't see any bird!'—and +laughed. Instead he merely echoed her strange remark. He agreed with +her. Instinctively, again, he knew something that he didn't know.</p> + +<p>'So it is!' he exclaimed in a whisper of excitement, taking a deeper +breath and peering expectantly about him, as though some exhilarating +power drew closer with the dawn. 'I do declare! The Bird—<i>our</i> Bird!'</p> + +<p>He caught her hand in his. She was very warm. And, touching her, he was +instantly aware of fuller knowledge, yet of less explanation. A sensation +of keen delight rose in him, free, light, and airy, new vast possibilities +in sight, almost within reach. He caught, for instance, at the meaning of +this great rhythm everywhere, this impression that dead objects moved and +conveyed a revelation that was so full of meaning it was almost language. +Birds saw them thus, flashing above them, noting one swift, crowded series +of objects one upon another. It was a runic script in the landscape that +birds read and understood in long sentences of colour, shade, and surface, +pages full of significant pictured outlines, turning rapidly over as they +skimmed the earth. It was a new language, a movement-language. +Birds read it out to one another as they flew. They acted it. +Their language was one of movement and of action, three-dimensional; and, +whether they flitted from one chimney to another, or travelled from +Primrose Hill to the suns of Abyssinia, their lives acted out this +significant, silent language.</p> + +<p>High, sweet rapture caught him. Of course birds sang, where men only +grunted and animals, still nearer to the ground, were inarticulate with +unrhythmical noises.</p> + +<p>All this flashed and vanished even while his eye lost its way in the +canopy of smoky air immediately above him.</p> + +<p>'Listen!' he heard in his ear, like the faint first opening whistle of +some tiny songster. 'They're waking now all over England. You felt it in +your sleep! That's what brought you up. It's the moment just before the +dawn!'</p> + +<p>A million, ten, twenty million birds were waking out of sleep. In field +and wood, in copse and hedge and barn, in tall rushes by the lakes, in +willows upon river banks, in glens and parks and gardens, on gaunt cliffs +above the sea, and on lonely dim salt marshes—everywhere over England the +birds were coming back to consciousness.</p> + +<p>It was this vast collective consciousness that had awakened him. He had +somehow or other taken on, through Joan, certain conditions of the great +Bird-mind. It was marvellous, yet at the time seemed natural. +He recalled the strange sentences: all descriptive of a bird's mentality, +put into words, of course, by his own brain. The movement of objects was +merely their new appearance, seen from above in rapid passage, all +speaking, telling something, reporting to the rushing bird the conditions +of the surface where they lay. And those at the point of lowest approach +in the curve of flight appeared to 'jump.' The sense of rhythm, moreover, +was the outstanding characteristic of feathered life—in song, in +movement, in beat of wing, in swinging habits of the larger kind when +migration regularly sets in and there is known that 'mighty breath which, +in a powerful language, felt not heard, instructs the fowls of heaven.' +He had responded somehow to the world of greater rhythms in which all airy +life existed, and compared with which human existence seemed disjointed, +disconnected, incomplete in rhythm.</p> + +<p>'Air,' he remembered from one of the ridiculous Primers, 'is the highest +perception we have, yet we need not be in the air to get this view. +We have placed the Heaven within us up there, because it was, physically, +our highest place to set it in.'</p> + +<p>'Listen! and you'll feel it all over you,' Joan's voice reached him. +'I often come here in the dawn. I know things here.'</p> + +<p>By 'listen' she meant apparently 'receive,' for no sound was audible +except the hum of London town still sleeping heavily.</p> + +<p>'So this is how you learn things! From the air?'</p> + +<p>'I don't learn anything—in that sense,' she murmured quickly. +'It's in me. It just flies out—I see it.'</p> + +<p>'Ah!' He caught a feather and understood.</p> + +<p>'Especially when I go like this! Look, Daddy!' And she darted from his +side and began on tiptoe a movement, half dance, half flight, between the +crowding chimney-stacks. She vanished and reappeared. He heard no sound. +The shadows clothed her, now close, now spread out, like wings whose +motion just escaped the measuring eye. And the dance was revealing in +someway he could not analyse. She seemed to bring the dawn up. The ugly +roof turned garden, the chimneys shaded off into trees, as though her +little dance flashed aspiration into rigid bricks. She interpreted the +flight of darkness, the awakening of wings, the silent rush of dawn. +No modern dancer, interpreting Chopin, Schumann, could have given a +deeper, truer revelation. She uttered in her movements a language that +she read, but a language for the majority at present undecipherable. +Action and gesture interpreted the inarticulate.</p> + +<p>She expressed, he was aware, the return to consciousness of the birds; but +at the same time she expressed a new air-born consciousness that was +stealing out of the skies upon a yet sleeping world.</p> + +<p>'By doing it, I understand it,' she laughed softly, but no whit +breathless, as she floated back to his side. 'But I can't tell it in +words till long afterwards.'</p> + +<p>The east grew lighter. The tips of the flying clouds turned red. +A beauty, as of dawn in the mountains, crept slowly over the towered +London world. It seemed the spires and soaring chimneys steadied down, as +though precipitating a pattern from some intricate movement of the +universe. Speech failed him for the moment. For the language of words is +but an invention of civilisation, and he had just heard the runic speech +that is universal and has no grammar but in natural signs of sky and +earth. And then the words he vainly sought dropped into him suddenly from +the air. Above him on a chimney crest a group of starlings fell to +chattering gaily; hidden in the leaves of trees far below he heard the +common sparrow chirrup; the earliest swallows, just awake, flashed +overhead, telling the joy of morning in their curves of joy. In the +distance trilled a rising lark.</p> + +<p>The wonder and glory of that breaking dawn lay for him, indeed, beyond all +telling; not that he had been insensible to loveliness in Nature hitherto, +but that he saw new meaning in it now. In himself he saw it. The point +of view was new. To Joan, however, it was merely familiar and natural. +But more—he was aware that in him lay the germ, at least, of a new airy +consciousness that included it all, and that he longed to share it with +the still sleeping world below. A mighty spiritual emotion swept him.</p> + +<p>'Mother would feel cold, and notice the blacks,' she laughed, but there +was love and pity in her laughter.</p> + +<p>For her it was all in the ordinary run and flow of habitual life. She was +aware of no exalted state of emotion. She said it as normally as a +swallow dares to take an insect from the heart of an amazing sunset. +That sunset and that insect both belong to it. There was no need to be +hysterical about either one or other.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XII.</h3> + + +<p>He woke in the morning and decided that his experience of the night +had been a vivid dream-experience, although that was not to deny a deep +reality to it. A sense of uplifting joy was in his heart that was the +rhythm of some larger life. A new lightness pervaded his very flesh and +bones; it sent him along the narrow passage to the bathroom—dancing, +much to the astonishment of the cook who caught a glimpse of the +phenomenon as she stirred the porridge; it made him sing while he sponged +himself, waking Mrs. Wimble earlier than usual and stirring in her an +unwelcome reminder that she was older, stouter than she had been. +For the singing brought back to her a fugitive memory of a sunny Algerian +garden, where life sang to a measure of blue and gold Romance, now +vanished beyond recall. 'Joe's odd this morning,' she thought, turning +over to sleep upon her other side.</p> + +<p>But Joe, meanwhile, splashed in his bath and went on singing just because +he couldn't help himself; his voice was meagre, yet it would come out. +He dried himself, standing in a hot sunbeam on the oil-cloth that made him +feel he caught the entire sun. Such a deluge of happiness, confidence, +natural bliss seemed in him, seemed everywhere about him too. He could +not understand it, but he felt it, and therefore it was real. In the rise +and fall of some larger rhythm than he had ever known he swung above a +world that could no longer cage him in. He saw the bars below him. +Alarm, anxiety, worry, even death were but little obstacles that tried to +trip him up and make him stumble, stop, and give up existence as too +difficult to face. They lay below him now. He saw them from above. +He was in the air. It made him laugh and sing to think that such tricks +could ever have frightened or discouraged him. Actually they were but of +use to stand on for a leap into the air—taking-off-things, spots to +jump from into space.</p> + +<p>'I can't explain it,' occurred to him, 'so it must be true.' It was a +thing his daughter might have said. He shared her point of view, it +seemed, completely now. They were in the air together.</p> + +<p>And, though later and by degrees, the airy exhilaration left him, so that +he came down to earth and settled, the descent was gradual and without a +thud. Something of lightness and of wonder stayed. The memory of some +loftier point of view guided him all day long amid the tangle of little +difficulties that usually seemed mountainous. He rose lightly above all +obstacles that opposed and hindered. He saw them from above, that is, he +saw them in proportion. Stepping on each in turn, he flew easily over +every one; they served their purpose as jumping-off spots for taking +flight. It was the Bird's-eye point of view.</p> + +<p>But each time he flew thus, he left his mind behind, using it as a cushion +for landing later, easily, without a jarring bump. And thus, before the +day was over, he realised somewhat this: that the instantaneous, +spontaneous attitude Joan stole from the air and taught him meant simply +that the subconscious became convincingly, superbly, conscious. +The personality operated as a whole without friction or delay from +separate portions that held back and hesitated. All these lesser, +separate rhythms merged in one. It mobilised, as with a lightning +instinct, the entire available forces of the being. He reacted to every +stimulus as a whole, instead of in separate parts. Action and decision +came in a single flash; to reason, judgment, the weighing of pros and +cons, and so forth, he appealed afterwards. That is, intuitive knowledge +became instantaneous action.</p> + +<p>And, realising this, he also grasped what Joan meant by describing a room +as 'happening all at once,' and found meaning also in her nonsense-dream +of feeling for the one-ness of all life everywhere. The details of the +room could be inserted later according to judgment and desire, and +four-footed animals on the ground might also discover later the point of +view of birds who, from a high altitude in the air, saw everything at +once. Instantaneous action, immediate conduct, spontaneous behaviour +enlisted the supporting drive of the entire universe behind them. +Properly accepted, absolutely obeyed, such a way of living ensured +inevitable success. It was irresistible; for since everything was one, +each detail was the whole, and no whole could be disobedient or hostile to +itself. And this was why he had danced along the passage-way and sung +into his sponge.</p> + +<p>Yet this attitude of mind, this point of view, was easily lost again; +it was difficult to hold permanently; to practise, still more difficult. +How to translate it into daily action was the problem. At breakfast this +new language of action seemed mere phantasy. He certainly <i>had</i> enjoyed a +dream of a three-dimensional language in which objects and things helped +to interpret his own wishes; he remembered that distinctly; and surely it +was not all imagination? Imagination, he felt sure, included prophecy as +well as memory.</p> + +<p>'It's time we found our country cottage,' he remarked, tasting his crisp +Cambridge sausage and bacon. 'I must get to work at once.'</p> + +<p>Mother glanced up over the morning newspaper she had crumpled till it +looked like a bundle for lighting the fire. She had ignored the news and +been deep in the advertisements. 'It's best to go to the agents,' she +observed, folding the paper with the creases uneven and the pages mixed, +then patting it into flatness. 'And if they're no good, we might insert +an advertisement stating our exact requirements.' She mopped up a remnant +of fried egg with a thick wedge of brown bread at the end of her fork. +'A nice neighbourhood's the chief thing, isn't it?'</p> + +<p>Her husband straightened the paper so that the creases fitted evenly and +the pages lay in sequence. It hurt him acutely to see it twisted; he felt +something out of place inside himself, as though the feathers of a wing +were tangled. 'It'll turn up,' he said airily, 'we shall come across it +suddenly. I'll go and see some agents all the same, though,' he added. +He had the feeling that the right place would hardly come through agents, +but would just 'turn up.' Somehow he would be attracted to it: it would +be there before his eyes; it would jump at him. He had already seen so +many agents. Newspaper advertisements never mentioned it. This strange +belief and faith was in him. 'I'll have a look,' he added, as his wife +put the plates together, swept some crumbs carefully from the cloth, then +tapped the marmalade spoon on the rim of the jar before she sucked it +clean.</p> + +<p>'There's no good just hoping and trusting to chance,' she said in a +practical voice. 'Nothing comes <i>that</i> way.' She clicked her tongue, +tasting the marmalade reflectively.</p> + +<p>'On the contrary—everything comes that way.' To believe, he grasped, was +to act with the Whole in which all that was required lay contained. +'Enquire within upon everything.' He laughed happily. But his wife had +not followed his thought—nor heard him.</p> + +<p>'That's turnip rind, not oranges,' she added. 'They sell you anything +nowadays, and everything's adulterated——' and laid the spoon aside.</p> + +<p>'In the country we'll make our own,' her husband interrupted. +'Delicious stuff!'</p> + +<p>'If we ever get there,' she replied, 'and if sugar ever goes down again, +and we can get servants who'll condescend to stay. There's no good being +too remote, remember, or we won't keep a single one. Servants won't stand +being dull.' She sighed. Life to her spelt apprehension.</p> + +<p>'Well, we've agreed on Sussex, haven't we?' he answered cheerfully, +hunting for his lost new attitude again. 'A nice bit of wayward Sussex, +where there are trees and fields and perhaps a snap of running water so +that the birds'll come—' he saw the cloud on Mother's face—' Oh, but in +a nice neighbourhood with decent neighbours,' he added, 'and a town not +too far away, with a cinema and shops, and so on. Oh, it will come all +right, Mother, don't you worry. We'll find it sure enough—probably this +very day. I feel it coming; it's close already; I can almost see it at +this moment.'</p> + +<p>'It's there, waiting for us all the time. The very place,' said Joan +suddenly, clapping her hands softly, and meeting her father's eye. +'Only we've got to want it enough and——'</p> + +<p>'Tidy up your place, child,' said Mother sharply, 'and fold your +serviette. It's time you were at your scales.' She sighed as Joan obeyed +and left the room, and two minutes later, while Mother made notes on a +squeaky slate for dinner, the sound of C major came to them through the +wall, going rapidly up and down again with both hands. Only it was +accompanied by a clear and happy voice that sang the notes, or rather sang +a running melody to them that turned even the technical routine into +music. The drudgery, though faithfully done, brought its fulfilment +almost within reach. Like a bird, she leaped upon the promise and enjoyed +it. Scales and music, toil and its results, prophecy and its +accomplishment—even in this tiny detail—seemed present in her +simultaneously. Carelessness and faithful plodding method went side by +side. This came to her father as he lit his pipe and listened to the pure +childish voice that unconsciously sang meaning, even beauty, into formal +rigid outline.</p> + +<p>'An all-at-once and all-over little creature,' he heard something whisper +to him. 'Care-less and happy as a bird. The true air quality! +That's the way, of course. I see it—a sort of bird's-eye view of +beginning and end in one. The joy of fulfilment shining through the +actual work. I'll find the cottage that way too!'</p> + +<p>He puffed thick clouds of smoke between himself and his wife, who stood +watching him, a touch of apprehension about her somewhere, impatience as +well. She too was listening. He recalled the smile of the badger at the +mouth of its hole. But, at any rate, it was a faithful, practical, and +affectionate badger. Moreover, once—strange memory—it had known wings, +it had been a bird! Wrong methods had brought it down to earth. +It puzzled him dreadfully, yet rather sweetly. The bird, he fancied, must +still lie hidden in her somewhere.</p> + +<p>'Joan never can do one thing properly at a time—not even her scales,' she +was saying. 'There she is, trying to sing before she's learnt her notes. +I wish you'd speak to her about it. But, if you ask <i>me</i>, <i>I</i> think it's +good money wasted—those music lessons.'</p> + +<p>How right she was, he thought, from her point of view. At the same time, +how entirely that point of view lacked vision. A badger criticised a bird +for flying uselessly when there were eggs to be laid and worms to be +pulled up and twigs for a nest to look at instead of rushing landscapes.</p> + +<p>'I will, dear. I'll speak to her at once, before I go to see the agents. +I'll bring back good news at dinner-time. Now good-bye, bless you.' +He kissed her. She looked so helpless and pathetic that he kissed her +again, adding 'Good-bye, old thing, don't worry. Take everything lightly +like a bird and remember—Wherever we are, we go!'</p> + +<p>'Good-bye, Joe dear. Do your best. You know our limit as to rent.' +He noticed that for once she had not asked him to repeat.</p> + +<p>He left the room and walked down the passage to admonish Joan, yet knowing +that there was nothing he could honestly chide her for. She sang at her +scales for the same reason he sang in his bath. In both of them, father +and daughter, was the carelessness and joy of air, the certainty that, +whatever they did on earth with effort, toil, and purpose, had in it— +behind it and sustaining it—the glad sweet element of air. Air had no +divisions, it was whole—a universal radiant element containing end and +beginning, everything. To act with it instantaneously was to be confident +that fulfilment lay already in the smallest germ of every action. +'The cottage lies there waiting for us now. Just look for it with faith +and careless happiness. . . . The perfect music lies within these boring +scales. Just sing to them. It brings accomplishment more swiftly near!'</p> + +<p>But on opening the door and poking his head inside, he found that she had +ceased singing and was diligently practising.</p> + +<p>'That's right,' he said, smiling; 'it's rather dull, but stick to it. +It'll please your mother, and before long you'll be able to play all my +favourite pieces.'</p> + +<p>She stopped, swung round on the stool and looked at him. Her little face +in its wreath of shining hair was very earnest, the eyes big with wonder +as though she had made a great discovery. He had seen a robin thus, +perched on a window-sill, its head cocked sideways at a crumb of bread— +poise, alertness, happiness in the attitude and gesture.</p> + +<p>'Well,' he asked, 'what is it now? 'And pointing to the maze of black +printed notes, she said: 'I only wanted to tell you something I've got +hold of—There are only seven notes after all—only seven altogether.'</p> + +<p>'That's all, yes.'</p> + +<p>'All the music in the world comes out of that—just seven notes—'</p> + +<p>'Combinations of them—with a lot of half-notes too,' he explained.</p> + +<p>'But half-notes only suggest. The real notes are the thing—just seven of +them. Isn't it jolly? They'll never frighten me again. Now, listen a +moment, Daddy, I'll play you what the wings sing when they rush along. +You know—the sound in the air when birds fly past:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> Flow, fly, flow,<br> + Wherever I am, I go;<br> + I live in the air<br> + Without thought or care,<br> + Flow, fly, flow. . . .<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>She played and sang till he felt every atom in his being moving +rhythmically to the little doggerel. He took her in his arms and hugged +her.</p> + +<p>'Ah,' he cried, 'I put all this into you unconsciously, and now you're +explaining it to me. That's fun indeed, isn't it?'</p> + +<p>'And I've only used three notes for it—for the tune, I mean,' she +exclaimed breathlessly as he released her. 'I've still got four more.'</p> + +<p>He blew her a kiss from the door and went on the top of a 'bus to Dizzy & +Dizzy, who gave him a list of orders to view some half-dozen desirable +cottages and bungalows in Sussex that seemed reasonably within the price +he could afford, but none of which, it so happened, was the thing he +wanted.</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<p>And during the day, odd thoughts and feelings, born of that mystic dawn he +had witnessed with the birds, came flitting round him. Being wordless, he +could only translate them as best occurred to him. It was impossible to +keep pace with many-sided life to-day unless a new method were discovered. +To skim adequately among the numerous sources of information and +instruction, wings were needed. With their speed and economy of energy +the feathered mind could dive into all, absorb fresh knowledge instantly, +and pass on swiftly to yet further sources. At present complete +exhaustion followed the mere bodily and mental effort to keep abreast even +with one line of thought and action. The bird's-eye view, involving +bird's-eye action, alone could manage it. It was a case of flow, fly, +flow, indeed. He was dimly aware of a new method coming softly, silently, +from the air. Air meant the spiritual method. While the body, guided by +surefooted, slow, laborious reason, attended to its necessary duties on +the ground, the mind, the soul, the spirit would flow, fly, flow, with the +new powers of the air. . . .</p> + +<p>He played lovingly with the idea. He thought of birds as the aborigines +of the air, the pioneers perhaps. They represent no climax of evolution. +On the earth men appeared last, preceded by many stages of earlier +development. Birds were, possibly, but the first, the earliest +inhabitants of their delicious realm, still imperfect, but alive with a +promise for mankind. They were not an ideal, they merely offered their +best qualities to those below.</p> + +<p>The Promise of the Air ran through him like a strain of glad spring music. +Air, he knew, as Joan used the term, meant aether, the mother of all air. +She dreamed of passages to dim old gleaming Hercules adrift in open space, +to Cassiopeia, happily, mightily wandering, to the golden blossoms of the +Nebulae's garden of shining gold. Across his mind the great flocks of +stars were flying. . . .</p> + +<p>'I'm <i>not</i> a "miserable sinner." It's a lie that "there is no health in +me." Nor do I believe that another man can "forgive my sins," because I +confess them to him, or that those who refuse to believe as I do—whatever +it is I <i>do</i> believe!—shall forfeit my special favours, least of all +suffer the smallest prick of a pin on that account. . . .!'</p> + +<p>If ever he had been affected by the dogmatic teaching of any person or +group of persons, alive or dead, he broke finally with them in that +moment.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XIII.</h3> + + +<p>Remembering his promise, though made only to himself, he proposed going to +the cinema. Tom, who was present during the discussion that followed, +wanted a Revue, but was overruled.</p> + +<p>'You can't smoke,' he objected, but what he really meant was that he +wanted to have his physical sensations stimulated by suggestive reminders +that he was a breeding rabbit that had never left earth—earth which a +single shower could turn into mud.</p> + +<p>'That won't hurt you for one night, Tom,' observed Mother, aware vaguely +of his difficulty.</p> + +<p>They chose the best the advertisements supplied and went off after an +early dinner. In a sort of bundle they started, Mother in her finery +forgetting the performance was in the dark, Joan, smiling, neat and +bright, her little ankles tripping, and Mr. Wimble important, holder of +the purse-strings and full of anticipatory wonder. Tom, smoking cheap +gold-tipped Turkish cigarettes, was superior and sulky. Like an untidy +bundle the family made the journey towards Piccadilly Circus, a bundle +with loose ends, patched corners, one end hardly belonging to the other, +yet obviously coherent for all that, and with a spot of brilliant colour— +Joan's bright, glancing eyes and eagerly pretty face.</p> + +<p>Tom, having bought a halfpenny evening paper, read the sporting and + +financial news; his racing tips had proved false; his mood was +ill-humoured; he eyed the girls on the pavement below, flicking his +cigarette ash over the edge of the motor-bus from time to time.</p> + +<p>'What's on?' enquired a chance acquaintance across the gangway, with an +eye on pretty Joan. 'Music hall or high-brow legitimate?'</p> + +<p>'Cinema,' returned Tom in a scratchy voice, 'with the family. I'm beat to +the wide.'</p> + +<p>'Who's put the wind up you this time?' enquired his friend.</p> + +<p>'Family. They put it across me sometimes. Can't be helped.'</p> + +<p>'Good egg!' was the reply, as the youth looked past him admiringly at +Joan.</p> + +<p>'Oh!—my sister,' mentioned Tom, proudly, and with a flash of +self-satisfaction; 'Joan, a friend of mine—Mr. Spindle,' adding under + +his breath something about Rolls Royce and Limousines, as though Mr. +Spindle, who was actually merely an employé in some motor works, owned +several expensive cars.</p> + +<p>Joan, ignorant of the strange modern slang they used, nodded sweetly, then +turned to watch the surging throng of energetic humanity on the pavement +below. She was in the corner seat. Father and Mother sat below—inside. +The sea of human beings rolled past like waves of water.</p> + +<p>'Everybody going somewhere,' she said half to herself with a thrill of +wonder. It struck her that, though hardly any one looked up, some must +surely want to fly, and one or two, at least, must know they could. +She wondered there were no collisions. All dodged and slid past and +side-stepped so cleverly. The energy, skill, and subconscious calculation +they used were considerable. In each brain was a distinct and separate +purpose, a mental picture of the spot each busily made for, while yet all +seemed governed by one common denial: that nothing off the earth was +conceivable even. Like crowding ants, they stuck to the ground, shuffling +laboriously along the world-worn routes. Their minds, she was persuaded, +knew heavy ways, unaware that horizons are made to lift. She watched the +herd in search for amusement after the drudgery of the day, engaged upon a +common search. What they really sought, she felt, was air. Only they +knew it not. In ignorance they toiled to find artificial excitement— +pleasure.</p> + +<p>She longed to lift them up and swing them loose into undivided space, let +them know freedom, lightness, spontaneous carelessness. If they would +only dance—it would be something.</p> + +<p>'And all going to the same place,' she added aloud. She sighed.</p> + +<p>'I hope to God they're not,' said Tom in his scratchy voice, thinking of +the cinema.</p> + +<p>'Eh?' remarked Mr. Spindle, with a thrust forward of his head.</p> + +<p>The motor-bus lumbered into the Circus and drew up, leaning over to one +side.</p> + +<p>'So long,' said Tom to his friend, 'we push off here.'</p> + +<p>Mr. Spindle offered his hand to Joan, who shook it, but looked past him, +refusing the gleaming eye he offered her at the same time. They clambered +down to their parents on the pavement, and joined the throng that swept +heavily into the pretentious doorways of the cinema building. As they +went in Joan glanced at her mother and realised that she loved her. +She looked so worried and so helpless. It was pathetic how heavily she +moved. Age! The age of the body, of course. But why should she be old? +She was barely forty. She was out, seeking with a good expenditure of +energy, for pleasure. It struck the girl suddenly that her mother's +ignorance was singular. She knew so little. Somewhere about her—at the +corners of her mouth, flickering in her opaque eyes, in the tilt of her +ears—was still a vestige of youth and fun and joy. But Mother ignored +it, crawling willingly with the herd. Yet the bird lurked in her surely. +In spite of this heavy crawling, there were wings tucked away in her +somewhere.</p> + +<p>'Mother, we're out on a spree,' whispered Joan. 'Wherever we are, we go! +Let me carry your bag?'</p> + +<p>'Eh, Joan? What d'you say? Don't shove, my love. We shall get nowhere +<i>that</i> way.' It was the Is-my-hat-on-straight tone of voice—self the +centre. She yielded the tiresome bag gratefully.</p> + +<p>'Everywhere, mother,' Joan whispered gaily. 'We'll get everywhere because +we belong everywhere. Besides I'm not shoving.'</p> + +<p>She glanced round at the other people, all pressing thickly towards the +booking-office. All of them had troubles, joys, hopes, fears, and vague +desires. All were out to enjoy themselves. Only their faces were so +anxious, lined, and care-worn. They wore an enormous quantity of +manufactured clothing, and each article of clothing represented similar +joys, hopes, fears, and vague desires, complicated toil of those who had +made and sold them.</p> + +<p>She felt a curious longing—to collect them all together on the roof one +morning so that they might dance and hear the birds sing at dawn. If only +they could realise the bird-life and what it meant—care-less, happy, +singing, dancing; deep purpose underneath it all, but that purpose not +clogged with the stupefying detail of unimportant items. The trouble all +had taken to clothe themselves suitably for this particular enjoyment was +alone enough to kill any spontaneity. She smelt the fields, the keen, +fresh air, the dew. She heard a lark rise whistling through the silver +air. . . .</p> + +<p>And she glanced back at her mother. Her mother was obviously adorned— +with effort and difficulty. She looked as if she had walked through a +Liberty curtain and parts of the curtain had stuck to her in patches. +This complexity of cloth and silk and beads was wrong—funny at any rate. +She sighed.</p> + +<p>'It's all right,' said her father, catching the sigh behind him. +'We must take our turn, you know. But I'm out for the best seats—no +matter what it costs.' It was like a breath of air to hear him say it.</p> + +<p>'Extravagance,' put in Mother under her breath, overhearing. +'But it <i>is</i> an exception, isn't it?' Her mind fixed upon the difficult +side of existence, the cost in labour and in pain.</p> + +<p>'Eh?' said Wimble. He put his gaudy tie straight with a free half-finger.</p> + +<p>'It isn't every night, I mean,' whispered Mother. 'It's an exception.' +She looked challengingly at the listening crowd. It was very warm. +The air smelt of people, clothes, and cheap scent. She was aware of +scullery-maids, boot-polish, stable-boys, and wages. The ham in the +larder—had they put the fly-cover over it? Oh dear, how sordid even +enjoyment was!</p> + +<p>'Move on, please,' boomed the deep voice of a policeman, and everybody +moved on a step or half a step, casting looks of admiration, respect, and +exasperation at the Great Bobby who represented rigidity, law, order, and +that vague, distant power—the Government. To be spontaneous meant to be +arrested, evidently.</p> + +<p>'Wot've you got left?' asked Wimble mildly, facing at last the +booking-clerk, then added quickly, 'Good. I'll take the three,' and put +the money down. 'No—four, I mean; four, of course. How stupid of me! +Thanks, thanks very much.' He had forgotten <i>himself</i>. Also, he had felt +for a second that he couldn't afford the price, but yet somehow it didn't + +matter. It was stupid, it was extravagant, it was un-practical; no one in +their senses could have approved his conduct. The clerk had explained +briefly that no cheap seats were left; there was nothing under four +shillings—and Wimble, without an instant's hesitation, had snapped up the +expensive seats.</p> + +<p>Joan witnessed it with a rush of joy. She saw her father slip several +silver discs across the counter and take pink slips of paper in exchange. +But it was not his extravagance, nor the prospect of greater comfort, that +caused her joy; it was the unhesitating spontaneity. Daddy had not +haggled; without hesitation he had taken the risk. He had flown. . . . +In reality he could not afford it, yet only a stingy convention might have +urged him to be careful. And he had not been care-full.</p> + +<p>'Take no thought . . .' whispered a voice—was it Joan's?—in his ear, as +they pressed forward. And, as a consequence, he immediately bought +several programmes where one would have been sufficient. Ah! They were +in full flight. Their wings were spread. The earth lay mapped beneath +them. In the silver, dewy dawn they flew. How keen the sweet, fresh +air. . . .!</p> + +<p>He looked at her. '<i>You</i> don't earn the family income, my dear,' he +observed drily, half-ashamed, half-proud. He fingered the pink tickets +nervously, clumsily.</p> + +<p>'But I will,' she replied. 'Besides, there's heaps for everybody really.'</p> + +<p>'You're an unpractical absurdity,' he murmured—then gasped.</p> + +<p>It was the child's reply that made him gasp:</p> + +<p>'We're alive! So we deserve it.'</p> + +<p>They swept the meadows and the pine copse in their flight. There was a +crimson dawn. They smelt the sea, the wide salt marshes. Freedom of +space was theirs.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he didn't quite understand what she meant, yet it made him feel +happy and careless. In a sense it made him feel—spiritual. She had said +something that was beyond the reach of language, of accurate language. +But it was true, true as a turnip. It satisfied him as a mouthful of +mashed potatoes, and was as easy to eat and swallow. What a simile! +He laughed to himself.</p> + +<p>'Be more accurate in your language,' he said slyly.</p> + +<p>'And stick in grammar all your life!' she replied. They moved on. +Tom looked superior and aloof. He did not belong to this ridiculous +party.</p> + +<p>'Hurry up, Daddy,' and Joan poked him in the ribs. 'Mother's waiting. +You're thinking of your old Primers.' It was true. He <i>had</i> paused a +moment. A sentence had flashed into his mind and made him stop, while +Mother and Tom were waiting in the corridor beyond, something about the +'courage of a fly.'</p> + +<p>A fly, the most fearless of attack of all creatures, an insect incapable +of fear. He remembered that Athena gave Menelaus, in order that he might +resist Hector—what? Not weapons or money or skill or strength. +No. Athena gave him—'the courage of a fly.'</p> + +<p>It struck him suddenly that the reckless courage of a fly—a fly that +settles on the nose, the lips, the hand of a being enormously more +powerful and terrible than itself—was unequalled among all living +creatures. No lion or tiger dared the half, no man the quarter. +But a fly, depending solely on its swift, unconquerable wings and power of +darting flight, risked these amazing odds. He—in paying this high price +for the tickets recklessly—had shown the courage of the fly: the sneers +of Tom, the abuse of Mother, the scorn of cautious and careful convention. +He had the money in his pocket, then why not spend it? His labour had +deserved it; he had earned it; he was indeed 'alive.' Like an audacious +fly he had settled on the nose of Fate. And all this Joan had snapped +into a sentence:</p> + +<p>'We deserve it. We're <i>alive</i>!'</p> + +<p>'Is it all right, dear?' asked Mother anxiously. She was stuck with her +elaborate flounces in a corner of the corridor. The programme-seller was +at her elbow, pressingly.</p> + +<p>'All right,' he replied, waving the programmes like a flag of victory, and +led the way towards the seats. 'Everything's paid.' He bowed, +dismissingly, to the girl. He walked on his toes.</p> + +<p>They went in. Mother flounced down proudly, as though the cost, the risk, +were hers. Anyhow, they had paid for their seats and had a right to them. +Now they could see the show in comfort and with easy consciences. +There was a vague feeling that too much had been expended, but it was +discreetly ignored. Vanity forbade. Economy might follow. Let it +follow. They could enjoy themselves for a few hours. They <i>would</i> enjoy +themselves. Some one had paid good money and money well earned. +Uneasiness was vulgar. Daddy's flying attitude influenced them all +secretly, and the great human power of make-believe, so gingerly expended +as a rule, asserted itself. They took the moment as birds take the air. +They flew with him.</p> + +<p>Settling themselves into their front-row seats, they fingered their +programmes, and felt like Royalty.</p> + +<p>Mother looked round her at the inferior human mass. 'We can see quite +well,' she observed. 'You were lucky, Joe. You got good seats.' +She was wholly unaware that she tried her wings.</p> + +<p>'Not bad,' scratched Tom, equally unaware that he flew behind her, though +parting from the sticky loamy soil with difficulty. Had his companion of +the motor-bus been with him, he would doubtless have said 'Good egg!' +instead.</p> + +<p>'It's all right,' said Wimble. 'Like to see a programme? 'He passed over +several—all he had. He felt uplifted, without knowing why. He felt +reckless, extravagant, careless, happy. He had touched the element of air + +without knowing it. He had forgotten 'money,' toil, conventional rigid +formality, the terror of the herd, everything that compressed life into a +four-footed rut, like the rut trodden by cows and pigs and rabbits. +He had, for a moment, left the earth. He had, however, no idea that he +was hovering in mid-air. Having taken a risk with courage—the courage of +the fly—he was not quite positive of his dizzy elevation. The strange, +intuitive, natural certainty of Joan was not yet quite his. He caught his +breath a little in this rarefied air, from this spiritual point of view— +this bird's-eye aspect—he was by no means sure of himself.</p> + +<p>The rush of the wonderful cinema then began, and he forgot himself.</p> + +<p>They experienced the sense such a performance leaves behind of having +been—as Mother put it—all over the place. Sitting in the dark the +individual at first is conscious only of himself, neighbours ignored if +not forgotten. The screen then flashes into light, and with the picture, +consciousness flashes across the world. The lie of the stationary +photograph is corrected, time is denied, partially at least, and space is +unable to boast and swagger as it loves to do. The cinema frees and +extends the consciousness, restores the past, and sets distance close +beneath the eyes. Only the watching self remains—pregnant symbol!—in +the darkness.</p> + +<p>It was one of the best performances in London; within an hour or two the +audience danced from the dingy streets of the metropolis into the sunlight +of India, Africa, and of islands among far southern seas. The +kaleidoscope of other lands and other ways of thinking, acting, living +carried them away with understanding sympathy. From savage wild life +drinking at water-holes in the sun-drenched Tropics, they darted across +half-charted oceans and watched the penguin and the polar bear amid arctic +ice. Over mountains, down craters, flying above cities and peering deep +under water, the various experiences of strange distant life came into +their ken. They flew about the planet. The leaders of the world gazed +at them, so close and real that their emotions were legible on their +magnified features. They smiled or frowned, then flashed away, and yet +still were there, living, thinking, willing this and that. Widely +separated portions of the vast human family presented themselves +vigorously, registered a tie of kinship, and were gone again about their +business, now become in some sense the business of the audience too. +Fighting, toiling, loving, hating, meeting death and adventure by sea and +land, creating and destroying, differing much in colour, custom, clothing, +and the rest, yet human as Wimble and his family were human, possessed +with the same griefs, hopes, and joys, the same passion to live, the same +fear of death—one great family.</p> + +<p>Joan slipped her arm into that of her father; they nestled closely, very +much in sympathy as the world rushed past their eyes upon the screen.</p> + +<p>'We're flying,' she whispered, with a squeeze, as the penguins on the +polar ice gave place to a scene of negroes sweating in the sun and +munching sugarcane while they lazily picked the fluffy cotton. +'We're everywhere all-at-once, don't you see?' A moment later, as though +to point her words, they looked down upon a mapped-out county from an +aeroplane. The unimportance of earth was visible in the distance.</p> + +<p>'You can't fly under water anyhow,' mumbled Wimble, as they left the air +and flashed with a submarine upon sponges, coral, and inquisitive, +perfectly poised fish. A black man was trying to knife a shark.</p> + +<p>'I can see what they feel though,' was the whispered answer. +'Inside their watery minds, I mean.'</p> + +<p>'Wherever I am I go,' he thought, but didn't say it, because by the time +he had reflected how foolish it was to remain stuck only upon the minute +point of his own tiny personal experience, they were climbing with a +scientific Italian of eminence down a crater full of smoke and steam, and +could almost hear the thunder of the explosions. But while they went +down, everything else went up. Smoke, steam, masses of rock all trying to +rise. 'Gravity is the devil,' he remembered; 'it keeps us from flying +into the sun.'</p> + +<p>The idea made him chuckle, and Joan pinched his arm, giggling too audibly +in her excitement.</p> + +<p>'Hush!' said Mother. They watched in silence then; a bird's-eye view of +the planet was what they watched. With each picture they took part. +Every corner of the globe, with its different activities, touched their +hearts and minds with interest—busy, rushing life in various forms, and +all going on simultaneously, at this very moment—now. Life obviously was +one. The strange unity was convincing. Nothing they saw was alien to +themselves, for they took part in it. In each picture they 'wondered what +it felt like.' They took for an instant, longer or shorter, the point of +view of a new aspect of life, of something as yet they had not actually +experienced. They longed—or dreaded—to stand within that huge cavern of +blue lonely ice and hear the waves of the Polar Sea lick up the snow; to +taste that sugary cane with animal-white teeth, and feel the fluffy cotton +between thick, lumpy fingers; to swim under water and look up instead of +down; to crawl fearfully a little nearer to the molten centre of the +planet through smoke and fire and awful thundering explosions. +They longed or dreaded. Mentally, that is, they experienced a new +relationship in each separate case, a relationship that stretched a +suburban consciousness beyond its normal ken.</p> + +<p>'It's very tiring,' mentioned Mother, during a brief interval of glaring +light, 'and hurts my eyes. And I can't see why they want to show us those +half-naked natives. I'm glad I'm English. Disgusting people, I call +them.'</p> + +<p>'They'll improve it, you know,' observed Tom; 'the flickering, I mean. +It's a great invention. Somebody made a bit of cash there all right.'</p> + +<p>One couple, at any rate, in the four-shilling seats felt the tie and knew +their consciousness extended to include them all. They were engaged with +all these various folk and multifarious activities. Humanity was one. +The cinema shouted it aloud. The sense of collective consciousness was +stirred.</p> + +<p>'Well,' gasped Mother, blinking her eyes in the sudden light at the end, +'that was a show, wasn't it?' She seemed tired rather than exhilarated.</p> + +<p>'Not half,' declared Tom, feeling for his cigarettes. He kept the +programmes, putting both into his pocket.</p> + +<p>'I'm glad I'm English anyhow,' repeated Mother, stationary at the mouth of +her hole in the ground; but whether she despised the Hottentots, the +Eskimo, or the penguins, she did not specify. It was her final verdict +merely. The statement said simply that she was satisfied to be her little +self, balanced safely on a clod of earth, in a spot of the universe called +England. Extension of consciousness gave her no joy at all. She felt +unsafe.</p> + +<p>They left the theatre slowly, their minds shrinking back with a touch of +disappointment, almost of pain, within the prescribed limits of normal, +practical life again. Wimble felt he had been flying, and had just come +back; he settled with difficulty. In the brief space between the +vestibule and the door his thoughts continued flying. There was +excitement and anticipation in him. 'The next stage,' he said to himself, +'will be hearing. We shall hear the people talk. After that—not so +very far away either—we shall see 'em <i>now</i>, and no interval of time at +all. Machinery won't be used. Our <i>minds</i> will do the trick. We'll see +everywhere with our thoughts!' He remembered his Telepathy Primer, giving +individual instances, as authentic and well proven as any reasonable +person could desire. He felt sure this vast, general development must +follow—some faculty of air, swift and flashing as light—the bird's-eye +view.</p> + +<p>The murky street, with its damp and chilly air, struck him in the face as +he stood with his family a moment, then walked down the steps. There was +still a luminous glow in the western sky above the roofs. Mother took his +arm to steady herself; Tom was behind, his eyes roving hungrily; Joan +flitted just in front.</p> + +<p>'Our 'bus is over there,' said Mother, pointing with a black-gloved hand.</p> + +<p>'We'll take a taxi, my dear,' was his reply. He hailed one, bundled his +astonished family inside, wished the driver 'Good-evening' with a smile, +and slammed the door upon his own coat-tails.</p> + +<p>'But you haven't told him the address,' said Mother.</p> + +<p>'He ought to know,' exclaimed Wimble, 'but he's not a bird yet, so I'd +better tell him.'</p> + +<p>'It might be safer,' added his wife sarcastically, holding on to his +coat-tails as he leaned out of the window to do so.</p> + +<p>He watched the crowd as they whirled away; he felt happy, happy, happy. +With the damp London air he felt as though a part of him still sweltered +in the golden sunshine, diving under blue clear water where the sponges +and the corals grew. Soft breezes touched his cheek one minute, the next +he laid his hand on glittering ice. He heard the surf crashing upon a +palm-clad reef. . . . These thronging people, policemen, costers, +shop-folk, pale-faced workers, and over-dressed men and women of the big +houses, all had some link with himself, that had been drawn closer; but so +had the swarthy half-naked folk at the Antipodes who had just claimed his +consciousness. They were all one really. Each nation seemed a mood. +The sense of oneness leaped upon his heart and seized him.</p> + +<p>'It all happened without our even moving,' as Joan had said on the way +home. 'I suppose everything's in us then, really. We're everywhere.' +And while Tom's superior 'Oh, cut it out' seemed more than usually +ignorant and silly, Wimble's heart flamed within him. For it came to him, +like a promise of wind-borne freedom, that there existed in his own being +an immense and mighty under-side that was only waiting to be organised +into fuller, even into all-embracing, consciousness. Man, he felt sure +again, was a cosmic, not only a planetary, being. He could know the +stars. The real self was of air. . . .</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XIV.</h3> + + +<p>'Look here, Father,' said Joan next day, 'why is it——' then paused, +unable apparently to express herself.</p> + +<p>'Eh, child?' He gasped, thinking her question consisted of those three +words alone, and wondering how in the world he was going to satisfy her.</p> + +<p>'Why is it,' she went on the next moment, 'that wherever we are we want to +be somewhere else, and whatever we know we want to know something else— +more at any rate? And we never want it alone. We want to tell everything +to some one else, I mean.'</p> + +<p>Father almost preferred the first question—it left openings for vaguer +answers. This definiteness increased his difficulty rather. He scratched +his head and passed his fingers through his hair, which looked just then +as if it would neither stay on nor down. He smoothed it deliberately, +thinking as hard and quickly as he could. He knew what the girl meant, of +course, more or less.</p> + +<p>'The instinct to <i>share</i> what we like is, I suppose, a proof that we——' +he was going to say.</p> + +<p>Before he could utter the words, however, she answered for him: 'Because +we ought to be everywhere at once and know everything at once—like in +that cinema. Isn't that it?'</p> + +<p>Mother, it so chanced, just then went past the open door along the +corridor; she went steadily, not to say heavily; she was obviously in one +place at a time, doing one thing at a time, a worthy, practical, useful +human being, and what the world considers a valuable unit of humanity— +yet surely, oh, surely, wrong and a wing-less entity clogged with earth +and the limits that earth-ignorance involved. She was on her way to scold +the servant, to order dinner, or to fetch socks to mend. Good. But it +was the way she went about her job—the un-birdy way—that proved the +badger in her. Air and the careless joy of air was nowhere in her, not +even in her most helpful actions. 'One should take life as a bird takes +the air,' he was thinking again. It had become a motto.</p> + +<p>And a flood of shadowy thoughts swept down upon his mind. Joan, when he +turned to find her, had already gone from the room. He was alone. +The half-read newspaper lay upon his knee; Tom had long since gone to the +office; the sun shone in across the sea of roofs and chimney-pots; he saw +a white, soft, fluffy cloud bedded in the blue. A swift shot gloriously +across the narrow strip of sky. And this flood of shadow thoughts poured +in and out of his mind like a hundred thousand swifts.</p> + +<p>They would have filled an entire Primer if written out and printed; but in +his mind, together with their host of suggestive correlations, they +flashed and vanished with the speed and ease of the swift, a bird that +seemed only wings, without body, legs, or head—powerful, graceful flight +personified. The laborious absurdity of words made him feel helpless and +rather stupid. He felt lonely, too, exiled from a finer, easier state of +being to which something in him properly and rightfully belonged. +The wings of the spirit stirred and fluttered in him. He sighed. +Joan's sentence vibrated in him like a song, for nothing so much as music +sets free the bird in human beings, enabling the soul to soar beyond all +possible categories of time and space, beyond all confinements and +limitations, even beyond death.</p> + +<p>It was his daughter's remark that led in this rushing shower of thoughts +that followed: 'Why is it that, wherever we are, we want to be elsewhere?'</p> + +<p>People as a whole were always afflicted with this desire to be somewhere +else. It was true. In London he longed for windy lanes, but in the windy +lanes he thought how nice it would be to see the shops and people in the +streets; at a party he would think with longing of the cosy room at home, +the book and chair beside the fire-corner with his pipe, yet in that +corner with pipe and book he would suddenly lay them down and remember +with envy the gaiety of company, the talk, the laughter, and the bright +companionship he was missing. It was often, if not always, so: the desire +to be elsewhere and otherwise seemed inherent in human beings; they were +never content or satisfied with the place they were in at a given moment.</p> + +<p>'It's the restlessness of the race,' he decided, 'for whom movement is so +laborious, slow, and costly. If they moved as a bird moves, swiftly, +instantly, and without trouble or cost, this restlessness would not be +felt.'</p> + +<p>Then he paused. 'But it's not merely that,' flashed through him, +'far, far more. It's the expression of a strange and deep belief: the +belief that we ought to be, and should be, <i>can</i> be everywhere at once. +This power lies in us somewhere, only as yet we haven't discovered how to +use it. . . . But it's coming, and air and flight, wings and speed are +already its beckoning symbols. We're being mysteriously quickened. +We ought to be able to know everything, and to be everywhere, at once, in +touch with all the universe, able to draw on all its powers. We have the +right. This longing so to know and be, this uneasy yearning in us, what +is it but an affirmation, a conviction that we can so be? Our wings go +fluttering in our tiny cages. Wherever I am I go—and I <i>am</i> wherever my +thought and desire are.'</p> + +<p>He sat back and thought about it. It seemed to him a great discovery. +He felt sure that somewhere in himself lay the power to be everywhere at +once, one with everybody and everything. To be aware of everybody +everywhere was the first step at any rate, and the cinema had dropped a +hint that it was coming.</p> + +<p>'Well—but the practical meaning of it—what? The use that people like +Mother should make of it—what? Bodies will never actually fly. +Certainly not, but thought flies already, and it only remains for +consciousness to accompany it. Bodies, of course, are earth; yet they +will, they must, grow lighter, more responsive, both as receiving and +transmitting instruments, consciousness no longer focussed only where the +body is. We shall be human cinemas,' he thought, 'going where we will, +instantaneously and easily as a bird, seeing all and knowing all. +Universal consciousness, of course, is a spiritual condition; it is an Air +quality, space and time denied. The Kingdom of Air is within us. +We shall experience air with its collective instantaneity. . . .'</p> + +<p>He folded his newspaper and went down the narrow corridor to his little +private den. 'Oh, that I had the wings of a dove,' occurred to him and +made him smile. 'A cry of the soul, of course,' he realised, as he took +his twenty limited steps between the rigid walls. He stubbed his toe +against the desk, and sat down in his revolving chair.</p> + +<p>The ideas set in motion by Joan's remark continued flowing, flying through +him. He seized what he could catch.</p> + +<p>'Our bodies, responding to a swifter, happier, more careless attitude of +mind, will gradually grow lighter, more sensitive; become less dense and +earthy; until at last we shall feel with everybody everywhere. No longer +separate and cut off from others, divided as earth is divided, we shall +win this immense increase of sympathy and be everywhere we want to be, +every-at-once, as Joan put it. We shall move with our thought—air! +We shall have instantaneity—air again! Our bodies may not fly, but our +consciousness will fly to one another, as light flies across the universe +unerringly from sun to sun—bodies of light. Like the birds in England, +we shall know when the Siberian ice has broken. We shall be off!'</p> + +<p>The thrill of some mighty wisdom came very near.</p> + +<p>He became strangely aware—it was like the lifting of great wings within +his soul—that this collective, airy consciousness was already gathering +the world into a flock; and it was the cinema, explained by Joan's brief +sentence, that flashed the amazing and uplifting thought upon him.</p> + +<p>Whirling round and round in his revolving chair, reason tried to grapple +with the rush of ideas. The contents of a hundred Primers rose +higgledy-piggledy, to congest his mind and memory. But his soul, rising +like a lark, outdistanced everything he had ever read. The one clear +dazzling certainty was this: 'We shall no longer be cut off and separate +from others.' A variant, surely, of loving, and therefore knowing, all +neighbours as ourselves. A thousand years as one day! To be everywhere +at once and to know everybody was, after all, but to slip the cables of +the tiny, separate self, and experience the Whole. Hence the desire to be +always elsewhere and otherwise. Hence, too, the innate yearning to +<i>share</i> experiences of all kinds with others. 'Nirvana' dropped from a +forgotten Primer into him, and for the first time pages of laborious +explanation utterly ignored, he grasped its gracious meaning fully. 'To +meet the Lord in the air and be for ever with him,' came another cliché. +They poured and rained upon him in their naked meanings, undisguised by +words.</p> + +<p>'Ah! To live in the Whole was not, then, to lose individuality, but to +extend and share it!' He spun round and round happily in his chair. +'Grand bird idea, and air ideal!' He saw in his heart the nations taking +wing at last, leaving earth below them, free of space and free of time, +sharing this new and undivided consciousness. It was spiritual, of +course; yet not an inaccessible nor a different state; it was a state +growing naturally and truly out of the physical. Spontaneous living and +the bird's-eye point of view were the first faint signs of its +approach. . . .</p> + +<p>The chair stopped turning, while he filled and lit his pipe, watching the +clouds of blue smoke float here and there in wreaths and eddies. +Joan's eyes peered across it at him like a phantom's. . . . 'It's immense, +but very simple,' he was thinking, 'her funny little song puts it all in a +nutshell . . . and the way she tries to live . . .' when a heavy tread +disturbed him and something came into the room.</p> + +<p>'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.</p> + +<p>'Not both,' she said, 'it makes a draught,' and closed her own.</p> + +<p>'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. . . .</p> + +<p>'You catch cold so easily,' she mumbled, then added quickly, 'the country +will suit us all better, won't it?'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' he answered, 'yet, once we're there, we shall want to be somewhere +else, I suppose——'</p> + +<p>'Oh, I hope not, Joe,' with a Martha sigh. 'Whatever makes you think +that?'</p> + +<p>'We can be, anyhow; we must remember that.'</p> + +<p>'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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>would</i> 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.</p> + +<p>'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.</p> + +<p>'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.</p> + +<p>'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 <i>mind</i>,' 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.'</p> + +<p>'Air,' she repeated slowly. 'Yes, dear.'</p> + +<p>'Air, dear, yes, and that means living like the birds, more carelessly, +more lightly, taking no thought for the morrow—<i>not</i> shirking work and +duties and so on, but——'</p> + +<p>'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.'</p> + +<p>'The very people,' he corrected her, 'for whom it's most difficult.'</p> + +<p>'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.'</p> + +<p>'And might help other people,' he added, 'eh?'</p> + +<p>She said nothing to that. 'It might sell; you never know.'</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'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 <i>could</i> understand and call it air. And air is gas, you know.' +He chuckled. 'Whereas what <i>I</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——'</p> + +<p>She caught a word and clutched it. 'Religious people,' she put it +hurriedly, 'might buy it—a book like that.'</p> + +<p>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.'</p> + +<p>'They do, yes,' said Mother—'I mean they don't. That's quite true.'</p> + +<p>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 <i>not</i> sting you. . . . +You can choose gloom or joy, I mean, just as you——'</p> + +<p>'Joe dear,' she interrupted, sitting forward in her chair, 'there's +something I wanted to say to you—seriously.'</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'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.</p> + +<p>'Of course, of course,' he said encouragingly, patting the hand he held.</p> + +<p>There was a moment'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.</p> + +<p>'I'm thinking of becoming High Church,' she announced.</p> + +<p>'Admirable!' he exclaimed. 'I'm delighted!'</p> + +<p>'What! You don't mind, dear?'</p> + +<p>'It's just exactly what'll suit you,' he replied happily. 'Just what you +need.'</p> + +<p>'But <i>very</i> 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.'</p> + +<p>'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 <i>his</i> 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.'</p> + +<p>' . . . Something to guide and help one a bit,' he heard her saying.</p> + +<p>'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!'</p> + +<p>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 <i>he</i> needs.'</p> + +<p>' . . . I was sure you wouldn't mind, Joe dear. I knew you'd understand,' +came from Mother at last.</p> + +<p>'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?'</p> + +<p>'I have begun already,' she said, more sure of herself.</p> + +<p>'Better still,' was his reply.</p> + +<p>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. . . .</p> + +<p>He laid the paper down and wondered; the two statements capped his flying +ideas so appositely.</p> + +<p>'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 +<i>all</i> . . .? What's got to happen first, I wonder?'</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'Something's got to happen first,' he sighed, 'before <i>all</i> 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 <i>going to happen</i>,' 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.</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'Admirable,' agreed her husband. 'I'll take her myself to-morrow.'</p> + +<p>'Why not to-day, dear?' she asked, relieved that she need not go herself.</p> + +<p>'We're off to look at cottages,' he told her. 'I'll take her +to-morrow.' And the matter was settled thus.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XV.</h3> + + +<p>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 <i>we</i> 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 +<i>Erewhon</i>, 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.</p> + +<p>'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.'</p> + +<p>'Suggestion,' he mumbled. 'Never mind. Mother'll feel better now that +you've been. That's something.'</p> + +<p>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.'</p> + +<p>'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.'</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>'Yet a bird,' he remembered, 'plunges headlong, at fifty miles an hour, +into a forest of branches, swaying possibly in a wind, avoided the +slightest collision, and with unerring and instant calculation +selects a twig and lands on it, balancing with perfect security on feet so +tiny they're not worth mentioning!' He felt clumsy and inferior. +What co-ordination of sight and muscle! What confidence! +What poise. . . . The throng of awkward, crawling, heavy-footed humans +sprawled in all directions; he was one of them, one of the least steady +too. And yet he was aware of something in himself that did not shake and +wobble, something secure and balanced, something that went gliding with +swift and certain safety. He noted the easy grace of Joan passing the +shop windows like a nut-hatch along a twig, half dancing and half flitting +on her toes. It was not a physical thing he felt. It was not that. +It was a quality—a careless, exquisite balance in herself. It entered +him too as he watched her. His soul rested securely amid the turmoil by +means of it. It was poise.</p> + +<p>His thoughts ran on. . . .</p> + +<p>'Look, Daddy,' Joan interrupted him. 'Here's a funny sign. What does it +mean? Let's go in.'</p> + +<p>He drew up beside her, a trifle breathless. They were in a side street, +the main stream of people pouring away at right angles now, bathed in the +autumn sunshine.</p> + +<p>'Look,' she repeated. 'Wings.' She pointed to a brass plate +advertisement in a little hall-way. 'Isn't it funny?' He read the sign +in neat black letters against the shining metal: 'Aquarian Society, +Membership Free,' and wondered what it meant. Ruins and battered objects +of the past occurred to him, for at first he connected the word with +'antiquarian.' Above them, black tipped with gold, were a pair of +outspread wings, the badge of the Society apparently. In brackets was +'First Floor,' and a piece of paper pasted below bore a notice: +'Meeting Daily from 11.30 to 1. All welcome.'</p> + +<p>'Let's go up, Daddy,' Joan said again. 'There's a meeting going on now, +and it's free. What does it mean? Something about birds——'</p> + +<p>'Water birds, probably,' he said, still puzzling about the strange word; +'<i>old</i> water birds apparently,' he added, combining both possible +derivations; 'perhaps a society to preserve old water birds and provide +artificial paddles when their webbed feet wear out.'</p> + +<p>They laughed at the idea, but their laughter hushed as a couple of ladies, +beautifully dressed and with what is called refined, distinguished +bearing, brushed past them and went upstairs, evidently going to the +meeting. Though they were unknown to him, and it was obvious, in his +black tail-coat and brown boots, that he was a commercial traveller of +sorts, they bowed with a pleasant little smile of polite apology for +pushing past. 'A duchess and her daughter at least! Old families +certainly!' he thought; 'yet they treated us as equals!' It startled him, +it was so un-English. He raised his hat and smiled. In their manner and +the expression of face he caught something new, a kindness, a sympathy, a +touch of light perhaps, something at any rate quick and alert and gentle +that brought the word 'sympathy' intuitively across his mind. He held his +hat in his hand a moment. 'They've got air in them,' flashed into him. +'I wonder if they're members.'</p> + +<p>'Your head's in a draught, Daddy,' said Joan. He put his hat on. A scrap +of conversation reached them from the stairs: 'I'd rather sit well at the +back, I think,' said the younger of the two.</p> + +<p>'We shall have to, probably,' was the reply; 'it's always full. +And remember—just keep an open mind and listen. The quackery doesn't +matter, nor the grammar. He was only a railway guard'—then something +inaudible as they turned the corner—'his idea of a New Age is true +somewhere, I'm positive. It was the speed of the train, you know—always +rushing through space—that made him . . .' And the voices died away.</p> + +<p>'Come, Joan, we'll go in too. What are you dawdling about for?' exclaimed +Wimble on the spur of the moment. Something in that interrupted sentence +caught him.</p> + +<p>'You, Daddy,' she said, as she tripped after him up the stairs.</p> + +<p>People were standing in the corridor and in the little hall; the room +beyond, where a heavily-moustached man, with an eager, soap-polished face, +cheerful expression, and bright earnest eyes, stood lecturing, was full. +The two ladies who had preceded them were sitting on a window-sill. +'I'm afraid there are no seats left,' whispered a pleasant, earnest woman +beside the door, 'but I've sent for some chairs. They'll be here +presently. I hope you'll hear something out here.' Wimble thanked her +with a nod and smile; he leaned against the wall with Joan and looked +about him.</p> + +<p>Some thirty people were crowded into the small inner room, three-quarters +of their number women, what are called 'nice' women. They were well +dressed; there was a rustle of silk, a faint atmosphere of perfume, and +fur, and soft expensive garments; young and old, he saw, a good many of +them in mourning. The men looked, generally speaking, like well-to-do +business men; he noticed one clergyman; a few were shabbily dressed; one +or two were workmen, mechanics possibly. There was an alert attention on +most of the faces, and in the air a kind of eager expectancy, serious, +watchful, yearning, and waiting to be satisfied; sympathetic, it seemed, +on the whole, rather than critical. One or two listeners looked vexed and +scowling, and a tall, thin-visaged man in the corner was almost angry. +But as a whole he got the impression of people just listening patiently, +people for the most part empty, hungry, wondering if what they heard might +fill them. He was aware of minds on tiptoe. Here, evidently, he judged, +was a group of enquiring folk following a new Movement. 'One of the Signs +of what's in the air To-day,' he thought. 'Five years ago these people +would have been in Church, convinced they were miserable sinners with no +good in them. That mechanic-looking fellow would have been in Chapel. +That portly man with the stolid face, wearing a black tail-coat, a low +collar, a heavy gold watch-chain and a black and white striped tie surely +took round the plate in Kensington.' The thin-faced angry man was merely +a professional iconoclast.</p> + +<p>He wondered. He thought a moment of the unimaginative English standing +about the island in hordes, marvellously reliable, marvellously brave, +with big, deep hearts, but childishly unobservant, conservative, +conventional, not to be moved till the fire burns the soles of their feet, +sturdy and unemotional, and constitutionally suspicious of all new things. +He saw these hordes, strong in their great earth-qualities, ballast of the +world, but at the same time world-rulers. . . . And then his thought +flashed back with a snap to the scene before him. What was this group +after? Why was it dissatisfied? Why had it turned from the ancient +shibboleths? Something, of course, was up. He wondered. These people +looked so earnest. This Aquarian Society, he knew, was one of a hundred, +a thousand others. It might be rubbish, it might contain a true idea, it +was sure to prove exaggerated. The people, however, were enquiring. +He glanced at Joan, but her eyes were fixed intently upon the speaker's +face—the face of a former railway guard whose familiarity with speed +(certainly not on <i>his</i> own crawling line, thought Wimble!), with rushing +transit from scene to scene through the air, had opened his mind to some +new idea or other.</p> + +<p>'I wonder if he sang "Wherever I am, I go!"' he whispered to Joan. +'He ought to, anyhow!' But Joan was too intent to hear him. +He swallowed his smile and listened. The speaker's rough, uncultivated +voice rang with sincerity. There was a glow about his face that only deep +conviction brings. To Wimble, however, it all sounded at the moment as if +he had fallen out of his Express Train and picked up his ideas as he +picked up himself.</p> + +<p>For at first he could not understand a single word, as though, +coming out of the busy human street, he had plunged neck-deep into a +stream of ideas that took his breath away. Having missed what had gone +before, he could not catch the drift of what he heard. Then gradually, +and by degrees, his listening mind fell into the rhythm of the minds about +him; he slipped into the mood of the meeting; his intelligence merged with +the collective intelligence of the others; he merged with the +group-consciousness of the little crowd. The hostile interjections had no +meaning for him, since those who made them, not being included in the +group-consciousness, spoke an unintelligible language.</p> + +<p>The speaker was very much in earnest evidently; he believed what he was +saying, at the moment anyhow. Possibly this belief was permanent; +possibly it was merely self-persuasion. Though obviously he expected +hostile comment from time to time, when it came—usually from the +iconoclast in the corner—he rarely replied to it. This method of +ignoring criticism was not only easier than answering it, it induced an +appearance of contemptuous superiority that increased his authority.</p> + +<p>Wimble and his daughter had come in at a happy moment, for the long +stretch of argument and explanation was just over, it seemed, and a +summing up was about to begin.</p> + +<p>'So where are we, then, with it all?' asked the lecturer. +'Where 'ave we got to? Where do we stand?'</p> + +<p>He paused, and into the pause fell the angry voice of the thin-faced man: +'Exactly where we started. You haven't stated one single fact as yet.'</p> + +<p>The speaker looked straight in front of him without a word, and the +audience, almost to an individual, ignored the criticism. They supported +the lecturer loyally, to the point at least of not even turning their +heads away. They stared patiently and waited.</p> + +<p>'Where 'ave we got to,' repeated the man on the platform, 'that's wot we +want to know, isn't it? After all we've listened to this morning, 'ow do +we stand about it?'</p> + +<p>'That's it exactly,' from the interrupter in a contemptuous but intense +tone of voice. He seemed annoyed that no one was intelligent enough to +support him. At a Society of Rationalist Control across the road he would +have been at home. He, too, was a seeker, and a very earnest one, only he +had tumbled into the wrong group. Across the road he might have been +constructive; here he was destructive merely.</p> + +<p>'Well, on the physical plane,' resumed the speaker, 'on wot I might call +the scientific and materialistic plane, as I've tried to show you, the +'ole trend of modern civilisation is towards speed and universality. +That's clear—at least I 'ope I've made it so. Air, and wot air +represents, shows itself in the physical plane like that. Distant +countries are getting all linked up everywhere—by wireless, by motor, by +aviation, by cinematograph, and the like. A kind of telepathy all over +the world is—' he hesitated an instant—'engendered.'</p> + +<p>'Go on,' from the critic, 'any word will do as well.'</p> + +<p>'That's the scientific side of the business, as it were,' he went on, 'the +practical, everyday aspect we can all understand. It's the universality +of the new element, air, as it affects the practical mind, so to speak; +the technical understanding and mastery or space—wot I called aether a +little while ago, as you'll remember—or, as the Aquarian Society prefers +to call it, as being simpler and shorter—air.'</p> + +<p>'Well,' he added, 'we now want to see 'ow we stand with regard to the +'igher side of life, the mental, spiritual aspect. Wot does this new Age, +in which air is the key—the symbol like—wot does it mean to the race on +<i>that</i> side?'</p> + +<p>'Gas,' interjected the other, but in a lower voice.</p> + +<p>From several books lying beside the water-bottle the lecturer selected +one. He adjusted a pair of heavy reading-glasses to his eyes.</p> + +<p>'The link between the two is better expressed than wot I can express it,' +he resumed quickly, 'in this little volume, <i>The New Science of Colour</i>— +and colour means light, remember, and light means aether, and aether means +space, universality—so it's all the same.'</p> + +<p>'Every bit of it,' came the contemptuous comment from the corner.</p> + +<p>'Just this short paragraph—I came across it by chance—except that there +reely is no chance at all—and it puts it well. It supplies the link. +So I'll read it.' He heavily emphasised certain words:</p> + +<p>'We are approaching an age of mental telepathy, in which the <i>organism of +the race</i> is about to become attuned to the second sense of the earth and +to the third element that sustains her—<i>i.e. air</i>—and in which our +action and our outlook will alike assume the characteristics of that +element, which are <i>elasticity and brilliance</i>.'</p> + +<p>He laid down the book, slowly removing the heavy glasses from his nose, +and while 'that's no proof was heard to snap from the corner, the other +repeated with emphasis of manner, yet lowering his voice at the same time: +'the organism of the race—becoming attuned to <i>air</i>—elasticity and +brilliance.'</p> + +<p>Fingering his glasses and looking very thoughtful, the speaker kept +silence for a minute or so. He drank a few sips of water slowly, while +everybody, even the interjector, waited, and those who had been staring at +him turned their eyes away from his face, as though embarrassed to watch +him drink. He produced a big handkerchief from his coat-tail pocket, +wiped his lips, and replaced the handkerchief with some difficulty whence +it came. The pause lengthened, but no one stirred. Then the +earnest-faced woman near the door touched Wimble on the arm and indicated +an empty chair, but Wimble, too absorbed in the proceedings, shook his +head impatiently. Joan slipped into it. Joan, he noticed, did not seem +interested; the keen attention she had shown at first had left her face, +she looked half bewildered and half bored. 'She's too much in it to need +explanation,' flashed across him.</p> + +<p>The slight shuffling warned the lecturer that the mind of his audience +needed holding lest it begin to wander. Picking up a sheet of paper +covered with notes, he advanced to the edge of the little platform and +cleared his throat.</p> + +<p>'As I've been trying to explain,' he began, ''umanity has now reached a +crushial moment in its development. The planet we live on belongs to the +sun, and the sun has just entered—in 1881, to be igsact,—the sign of +Aquarius. Aquarius, according to the old Chaldean system, is wot's called +an Air Sign, and the new powers waking in us all—coming down into our +world now—will be ruled by the element of air. The Age of Pisces, a +Water Sign, is just finished and done with. We are entering another +period. A new Age is beginning—the Age of Air.' And he glanced about +him as though to catch any evidence of challenge.</p> + +<p>'What is an Age?' asked a thin voice from the rear. It was not hostile, +and heads were turned to find the questioner, but without success.</p> + +<p>'An accomplice,' muttered the habitual interrupter to himself. +No one noticed the comment, and Wimble, now completely captured by the +collective sympathy, even wondered what he meant.</p> + +<p>'I'll tell you,' continued the lecturer, and referred to the sheet of +notes in his hand. 'I'll tell you again with pleasure.' +He emphasised the word 'again.' The glasses were readjusted. With a +certain air of mystery, as though he knew far more than he cared to +impart, he read aloud, emphasising frequent passages as his habit was, and +making here and there effective and semi-theatrical pauses. Behind this +cheapness, however, burned obviously a deep sincerity and belief. He +deemed himself a prophet, and he knew a prophet's proverbial fate.</p> + +<p>'Astronomers tell us that our sun and his fam'ly of planets revolve around +a central sun, which is millions of miles distant,' he read slowly, 'and +that it requires about 26,000 years to make one revolution.'</p> + +<p>Remembering one of his most successful Primers, Wimble sat forward on his +chair, all eagerness. Here was what the critic called a 'fact' at any +rate.</p> + +<p>'This orbit is called the Zodiac,' continued the other, 'and it is divided +into twelve signs.' He mentioned them, beginning with Aries and Taurus, +and ending with Aquarius and Pisces. 'Now, you asked what is an Age, +didn't you?' He paused a second. 'Well, our solar system takes a bit +over 2000 years to pass through each of these Signs, and this time is the +measurement of an Age. And with each Age certain new things 'appen.'</p> + +<p>He made this announcement with a certain mysterious significance.</p> + +<p>'Certain things 'appen to the planet and to us as lives on it. Certain +changes come. They're sure as summer and winter is sure—that is, you can +count on them. Those who know can count on them—prophets and people with +inner vision. There you get prophecy and the meaning of prophecy. +Vision!' And without a vision the people perish—miss their chances, that +is. The seers, the mystics, always know and see ahead, and this end of +the Age—and of the world as it's sometimes called stupidly—has been +prophesied by many.'</p> + +<p>The audience was on tiptoe with anticipation. Each individual possibly +hoped that certain personal peculiarities of his own were going to be +explained, made wonderful. Wimble was particularly aware of this +excitement; it dawned upon him that he was about to receive an +explanation, and a semi-scientific explanation too, of his own strange +ideas and feelings. He glanced across at Joan. She seemed, to his +amazement, asleep; her eyes were closed, at any rate; her attention was +not held. He wanted to poke her. He wanted to say 'I told you so,' or +rather 'You told me so.' But the speaker had ended his pause, and, to +Wimble's delight, was explaining that this movement of the sun passes +through the Zodiacal Signs in reverse order—'precession of the +equinoxes,' as it is called—Pisces therefore preceding Aquarius instead +of following it. Here was another 'fact' that his Knowledge Primer +justified.</p> + +<p>The personal anticipation in the audience was not immediately satisfied, +however. The speaker intensified it first by a slight delay. Aware that +he held the minds before him, he took his time.</p> + +<p>'Now, these Signs'—lifting his eyes from the sheet of paper and fixing +them upon a woman in the front row, who at once showed nervousness, as +though she would believe black was white, if only he would stare at some +one else—' these Signs ain't just dead things. They reveal and express +and convey intelligent life. They're immense intelligences, they're +Zodiacal Intelligences. That's wot they are. The 'ole universe, +remember, is alive, and you and I ain't the only living beings in it, nor +the 'ighest either. We're not the only <i>bodies</i>. No one can say wot +constitoots a body, a living body, nor define it. Our planet is a +tuppeny-'alfpenny affair compared to the others, and we're nothing but a +lot of hinsects like ants and so forth on it. But if the 'ole universe is +alive—and we know it is——'</p> + +<p>'Hanwell,' interrupted the angry man.</p> + +<p>'——each and every part of it must be alive too. And you can't leave out +the planets, stars, and suns, the most magnificent bodies, called the +'eavenly bodies, as you know. They're all living bodies. They're the +bodies of beings, living beings, but beings far higher than wot we are. +And the Zodiacal Signs are 'igher still. They represent functions of the +universe, as the ancients knew quite well. They're a kind of intelligence +we may call per'aps a Group Intelligence.'</p> + +<p>Again he paused a moment. Then, as no interruption came, he went on with +greater emphasis than before:</p> + +<p>'Now, each of these Zodiacal Intelligences—as the sun, with our little +earth alongside, passes through it—rules over its partickler period. +With every period we enter a new current of forces. Each period, +therefore, of about 2000 years has new Gods, new characteristics, new +types of 'uman beings with new tendencies and powers and possibilities in +them—a new point of view, if you like to call it so, or, as we Aquarians +call it, a new consciousness. Well, the Aquarius Sign just beginning, is +an Air Sign. We're getting our new powers, our new point of view and +hattitude, our new consciousness—from the air.'</p> + +<p>In his excitement and deep belief the word 'air' was dangerously near +'hair,' but no one smiled. Perhaps even the critic experienced similar +difficulties in his home circle that prevented his noticing it, or caring +to take advantage of it if he did.</p> + +<p>'I've already referred,' the speaker continued, 'to its effect on the +physical plane, new inventions and the like, and 'ow men now navigate the +air as fish do the sea, and send their thoughts spinning round the world +with the speed of lightning. That's easy enough. I mean, you can all see +it for yourselves. The areoplane's a fac' nobody can't get away from, +whichever way you take it. But the effect on the spiritual plane is not +so simple. It's not so easy to describe—far from it, I admit. When a +new mode of consciousness begins to hoperate in men and women, they find +difficulty in expressing it. They're puzzled a bit. They don't know +where they are with it quite. Those 'oo get it first are called quacks +and charlituns, and maybe swindlers too. The slower ones regard them with +suspicion, and they may think themselves lucky if they 'ain't stoned or +burned alive or crucified as they once was.'</p> + +<p>He smiled, and the audience smiled deprecating with him.</p> + +<p>'And the chief reason for their difficulty,' he went on, 'is simply this: +They 'aven't got the language. Nor the words. That's it. The words +describe the experiences of a new type of consciousness don't exist at +first. They come later, slowly, gradually. They evolve as the new powers +in the race evolve.'</p> + +<p>He took his glasses off and wiped them carefully.</p> + +<p>'So wot's the result?' he asked. 'Why, this. There's only <i>feeling</i> +left. The people that first get the new consciousness feel it in them. +But they can't prove it to others because their power is small. And they +can't explain it in words, because the words don't exist. So there you +are. Only the truth is there too jest the same.'</p> + +<p>The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, but no one took it up. +The critic was making notes on his cuff and probably had not heard it. +Some one coughed, however, and feet shuffled here and there.</p> + +<p>'<i>I</i> know it's true, and some of you 'ere in front of me know it's true,' +the speaker resumed quickly, his eyes alight and intense conviction in his +tone and manner, 'but we can't do more at first than <i>feel</i> it and be +glad. All we can do is to show it in our lives. We can live it. We can +feel the joy and speed and lightness of the air, and we can live it, show +it. We can express it that way, leaving the words to follow in good time. +And that's a lot, for example guides the world.'</p> + +<p>A murmur of applause greeted the emphatic statement, and Wimble, for one, +was tempted to rise on his toes with waving hands and give his confession +of faith in no uncertain voice. This railway guard, half quack, half +prophet, this man of the people whose knowledge was as faulty as his +grammar, had offered the first explanation he had yet heard of his own +strange attitude to life and of his experiences since boyhood. This man, +similarly, had caught his secret from the air. His exposition might be as +exaggerated and wild as the critic suggested, yet it was somewhere true, +he felt. The man, owing to his very ignorance perchance, had caught at +the skirts of a new and mighty truth that in a century would have become a +commonplace, but that at the present moment caused others with better +education than himself to talk of Hanwell. Wimble felt this excitement in +him—to get up before them all and say that he, too, had felt and tried to +live this light, new, swift and spontaneous airy consciousness. +The impulse, the generous desire to help, caught at him. Another minute +and he might have been on his toes, bearing stammering witness to the +truth that was in him. The lecturer himself, however, prevented.</p> + +<p>'We stand to-day,' he said, using his notes again, 'upon the cusp of the +Aquarian Age. The Piscean Age lies behind us. The Zodiacal Intelligences +of that Piscean Age were watery powers and water was its keynote and its +symbol. It was the Age of Jesus. Now, listen, please, listen closely, +for 'istory bears me out.'</p> + +<p>He moved nearer to the edge of the platform, and heads were craned forward +to lose no word.</p> + +<p>'The sun,' he said, in a lowered tone, 'entered the sign of Taurus in the +days of our pre'istoric Adam. That was the Taurian Age. Next came the +Arian Age—about the time that Abra'am lived, and with Aries the ram +replaced the bull. With the rise of the Roman Empire the sun entered the +sign of Pisces, and the Piscean Age began. It took the fish for its +symbol. That was the Christian Dispensation with its new outlook and +attitude, its new powers, its new type of consciousness. Jesus introduced +water baptism, and water became the symbol of purification. It was a +watery sign, as I told you. While it lasted, as you'll notice—the last +2000 years—this Piscean Age, with a fish for its symbol, 'as certainly +been one of water, and the many uses of that element 'ave been emphasised, +and sea and lake and river navigation have been brought to a 'igh degree +of efficiency.'</p> + +<p>He waited for the impression this was bound to produce. It was evidenced +by deep silence, broken only by the rustle of paper and soft garments.</p> + +<p>'Jesus Himself referred to the beginning of this Aquarian Age in these +words,' he continued solemnly and reverently, 'as you'll find in one of +Wisdom Books they don't include in our own Bible:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> 'And then the man who bears the pitcher will walk forth across an + arc of 'eaven; the sign and signet of the Son of Man will stand + forth in the Eastern sky. The wise will then lift up their + heads and know that the redemption of the earth is near.'</p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>He paused significantly. Then he added, his hands raised aloft and his +eyes turned toward the ceiling:</p> + +<p>'We're already in it, the new Dispensation, the New Age—air.'</p> + +<p>'Compressed air,' added the critic, after his long silence.</p> + +<p>'Bravo! bravo!' exclaimed Wimble, unable to suppress himself.</p> + +<p>'But surely a new Age can only begin in each person individually, and not +in any other sense,' put in the thin voice that had spoken once before.</p> + +<p>Unperturbed, the speaker repeated with deep emphasis, his eyes and hands +still raised aloft:</p> + +<p>'And air means spiritual. The Aquarian Age is pre-eminently a spiritual +age; and its meaning may now be apprehended by multitudes of people, +'ungry for truth, who will now come—are already coming—into an advanced +spiritual consciousness. Our air-bodies is being quickened.'</p> + +<p>The last few words seemed to produce a strange effect upon the chief +critic. Apparently they enraged him. He fidgeted, half rising from his +chair as though about to make a violent speech in reply. In the end, +however, he did nothing beyond shrugging his shoulders, with a muttered +'Consciousness indeed! Why, you don't even know the meaning of the word!' +He leaned back in his seat, unwilling to stay, yet too annoyed to leave; +he resigned himself, keeping his great onslaught perhaps for the close of +the meeting. Then, suddenly changing his mind, he leaped to his feet. +But the lecturer was before him. In a ringing voice that held his +audience and drowned the interruption, he dominated the room. +He was about to satisfy the anticipation raised some ten minutes earlier. +He took his listeners into his confidence.</p> + +<p>'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he cried, 'or brothers and sisters, as I'd +prefer to call you if you've no objection, wot is it we Aquarians means +when we talk of air, when we speak of air as the sign of the New Age? We +call it spiritual. Wot do we reely mean by that? 'Ow can we show it in +our lives? Let us come down to plain words, the language of the street.'</p> + +<p>There was again a rustle, as pencils and paper were prepared anew for +taking notes.</p> + +<p>'It means this—to put it quite plainly, simply: It means living lightly, +carelessly, spontaneously, as a bird does, so to speak, 'oose 'ome is air +and 'oo works 'ard without taking too much thought. It means living by +faith and that means—' he uttered the next words with great emphasis— +'living by the subconsciousness—by intuition.'</p> + +<p>'A bird's heart,' he cried, 'lies in the centre of its body. <i>We</i> must +live from the centre too.</p> + +<p>'That's the secret, and that's the first sign that you're getting it. +There you get the first 'int of this new Aquarian Age, and from the +moment we entered it—not so long ago, forty years or so—this idea of the +Subconsciousness 'as showed itself as the key-word of the day. +It's everywhere already. Even the scientific men 'as got it. Bergson +began with 'is intuition, and professors like Frood of Vienna and Young of +Zurich caught on like lightning. William James too, and a 'undred others. +Why, it's got down into our poietry and novels, and even the pore old +dying pulpits 'ave a smack at it just to try and keep their heads above +water.</p> + +<p>'To live by your subconscious knowledge, instead of by your slow old +calculating reason, means a new, airy way of living. And it's spiritual, +I say, because it stands for the beginning of a new knowledge and +understanding, and therefore a new sympathy with each other. With +everybody! All sorts of powers lie in our subconsciousness, powers of the +'ole race, powers forgotten and powers to come, and it's in touch with +greater powers still that so far 'ave been beyond us as a race. All +knowledge 'ides there—God.</p> + +<p>'And if you rely upon it, it will guide you—and guide you quickly, +surely, in a flash. Nor you won't go wrong either, for in your +subconsciousness you touch everybody else; we all join on down +there—within—and that's where the Kingdom of 'eaven lies—and if you +rely upon the Kingdom of 'eaven it will guide you right. We all touch +'ands if you go deep enough, and that means brotherhood, don't it? For it +means sympathy, understanding, love. The 'ottentot's your neighbour.'</p> + +<p>He stepped back, squaring his shoulders and drawing a deep breath as he +surveyed his audience.</p> + +<p>'Well, it's only just beginning. Some of us, many of us likely, don't +know about it yet, don't <i>feel</i> it. We're only ankle-deep as yet. And +those 'oo ain't aware of this great subconscious life, no amount of +argument or explanation won't put it into them. A new Age touches +individuals first, one 'ere, one there. The end of the world, as some +call it, 'appens to each heart alone, as somebody said just now. But +it'll come to all in the end. It's coming now. We're in Aquarius, and +sooner or later we'll <i>all</i> get into the air and know it. And the new +inventions, the new tricks everywhere, as I told you, are paving the way +already on the physical plane so that even the hintellectuals and +materialists are bound to feel its bigger side before long.</p> + +<p>'Air! Why, think of it, and wot a lovely symbol it is! It's everywhere. +It flows. Nothing belonging to the sky is stationary. It all moves. +Light grows and wanes, wind falls and rises, clouds, birds pass rapidly +across it. It 'as nothing rigid about it anywhere. Breath is the first +sign of life in your body when you're born, and the breath of the spirit +is the first sign of life in your soul when you are born again. And the +bird, remember, the natural in'abitant of air, 'as its heart in the centre +of its body!</p> + +<p>'The subconscious powers, the subconscious life—yes, that's the secret. +To rely upon it, live and act by it, means to act with the 'ole world at +once and know the 'appiness of brother'ood and love. It means to lose +yourself—your little conscious, surface, limited self—in the bigger +ocean of the air. 'Itherto it's been called living by faith and prayer. +That's all right enough, but it ain't enough. That means touching the +subconscious at moments only. We want to touch it always and every +minute. In this new Aquarian Age it will be at our fingers' ends, so to +speak. The "sub" will disappear. The subconscious will become the +conscious. We shall know everything, and everything at once; we shall be +everywhere, and everywhere at once.' He raised his voice. 'We shall be +ONE, and know that we are ONE. We shall 'ave spiritual consciousness.'</p> + +<p>The noise of an overturned chair was heard. Outside the shrill blast of +distant factory whistles suggested lunch and food. The critic, pushing +hastily past the hushed sitters near him, made his way to the door. +As he reached the passage he turned. 'That's the best recipe for hysteria +I ever heard,' he cried back, 'and the sooner you're safe in Hanwell, the +better for the world!'—and vanished.</p> + +<p>It was an abrupt and violent interruption, but yet it startled no one; the +thread of interest was not broken; a few heads turned to look, and then +faced towards the lecturer again. A general sigh was heard, expressive of +relief. The audience settled itself more comfortably, and a deeper +concentration of interest was felt at once. The removal of the hostile +element produced an immediate increase of attentive earnestness. +It showed first in the lecturer's face; his eyes grew fixed and steady, +his manner more confident, more impressive, and his tone of voice had a +more authoritative ring than before.</p> + +<p>He leaned forward with an air of mysterious intimacy, as though about to +share a secret knowledge he had not dared to divulge before a scoffer. +There was a booming note about his voice that thrilled. The charlatan +that hides in every human soul slipped out, unconsciously perhaps but +unmistakably. It was this, possibly, that affected Wimble as he watched +and waited, so eagerly attentive; or, possibly, it was some uncanny +anticipation of what he was about to hear. An emotion, at any rate, and +one shared by others in the small packed room, rose suddenly in his soul. +A little shiver ran down his spine, he shuddered, as once before he had +shuddered in Maida Vale.</p> + +<p>'Before we close this little meeting,' the deep voice rang, 'and before +you go your way and I go mine, per'aps not to come across each other's +path again for a tidy while—I want to just say this. It's as well we +all should know it, so as we are prepared.'</p> + +<p>He fixed his glowing eyes on one of his audience—on Wimble, it so +happened—and went on slowly, choosing his words with care and uttering +them with a conviction that was not without its impressiveness:</p> + +<p>'I want to warn you all, to give you this little word of warning. For I'm +led to believe—in fact, I may say it's been given me—that a dying Age— +don't die without an effort. An expiring Age, so to say, seeks to prolong +its life. With the result that, just before it passes, its +characteristics is first intensified. The Powers that have ruled over us +for 2000 years make themselves felt with extra strength; and these Powers, +seeing that their time is past, are no longer right. They're no longer +what we need. Good and right in their time, they now seem wrong, and out +of place. They're evil. We see them as evil, any'ow, though they make +for good in another way. I don't know if you foller me. Wot I mean is +that, when an old Age is passing and a new Age coming to birth—there's +conflict.'</p> + +<p>There was a renewed rustling, as this sentence was written down on many +half-sheets that had so far been blank. But Wimble had no need to make a +note of it. He remembered that walk down Maida Vale of several months +before, and again the singular shudder passed like a little wind of ice +along his nerves.</p> + +<p>'Conflict means trouble,' continued the speaker amid a solemn hush, +'and nothing big ever comes to birth without labour and travail and pain. +We must expect this pain and travail, and be ready for it. A new 'eaven +and a new earth will come, but they won't come easily. They will be +preceded by a mighty effort of the old ones to keep going a bit longer +first. A 'uge up'eaval, physically and spiritually, will take place +first—on the earth, that is, as well as in our 'earts—before we all get +caught up to meet the Lord in the air.'</p> + +<p>His sentences grew slower and more emphatic, more charged with conviction +and with warning. He made privileged communications. There were pauses +between his utterances:</p> + +<p>'I warn you, I prepare you, so that when it comes you will be ready and +prepared—not for yourselves, mind, but so as you may 'elp others wot +won't quite realise quite wot it all means.</p> + +<p>'For there'll be <i>sacrifice</i> as well.</p> + +<p>'There's always a sacrifice when a New Age catches 'old of our old earth, +and our old earth will shake and tremble in the re-making, and some of us +will shake and tremble too. You'll feel, maybe, that shudder in advance +and know what it means. Signs and wonders, men's 'earts failing them for +fear, and the instability of all solid things. + + +'There will be <i>death</i>.</p> + +<p>'Death takes its 'undreds, aye, its thousands at a time like that, and +many—the best and finest usually—go out before their time, as it seems. +But—mark this—they go out—to <i>h</i>elp!</p> + +<p>'There comes in the sacrifice.</p> + +<p>'They'll be taken off to 'elp, taken into the air, but taken away from +those they leave be'ind.'</p> + +<p>His tone grew lower, and a deeper hush passed over the little crowd before +him. There was dull fire in his eyes. An atmosphere of the prophet +clothed him.</p> + +<p>'It's just there,' he emphasised, 'that we—we who know—can 'elp.</p> + +<p>'For we know that death is nothing more nor less than slipping back into +your own subconsciousness, and so becoming greater and finer and more +active—more useful, too, and with grander powers—than we ever 'ad in our +limited, imperfect bodies. And we know that this separate life, ended at +death, is nothing but an episode in our universal life which death can +never put an end to because it is imperishable. We are part of the +universe, not of this little planet alone.</p> + +<p>'There'll be mourning, but we can 'elp dry their tears; there'll be +terror, but we can take their fear away; there'll be loneliness, but we +can show them—show 'em by the way we live—that there'll be reunion +better than before. We all meet in the sub-consciousness, and know each +other face to face. For it means reunion in the air, which is everywhere +at once and universal, and stands for that denial of space and time—that +spiritual haffirmation—we Aquarians call NOW.'</p> + +<p>He held out his hands as in blessing over the intently listening and +expectant throng. Gazing above their heads into space, he appeared to +concentrate his thoughts a moment. Then his face lightened, as though his +mental effort had succeeded.</p> + +<p>'After every meeting,' he then went on, but this time in a conversational +tone, as friend to friend, the prophet and his flock put aside, 'it is our +custom, as you know, to find a carrying-away Sentence. Something you can +take away and remember easily. Something that sums up all we've talked +about together. Something to keep in your minds and think about every +minute of the day until we meet again. Something you can try to live in +your daily lives.'</p> + +<p>He waited a moment to ensure that all listened closely.</p> + +<p>'The sentence I've chosen this time will 'elp you to remember all we've +said to-day. It's a symbol that includes the 'ole promise of the air +that's so soon to be fulfilled in us.</p> + +<p>'I'll now give it out—if yer all ready.' + + +The expectant, eager, attentive faces were a convincing proof that all +were ready and listening attentively.</p> + +<p>With a happy and confiding smile, the speaker then pronounced the +carrying-away sentence:</p> + +<p>'The 'eart of a bird lies in the <i>centre</i> of its body.'</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XVI.</h3> + + +<p>The carrying-away sentence stuck in Wimble's mind as he journeyed back to +the flat on the top of a motor omnibus with Joan, for it expressed a +concrete fact, a fact that he could understand. 'The heart of a bird lies +in the centre of its body,' he murmured to himself happily. It gave him a +secret thrill of joy and wonder. His own heart, thrust to the left though +it was, felt ageless. The happy, invincible optimism of the bird was in +him. To live from the centre was a neat way of expressing what he had +been trying to do for so long, and he had not been far wrong in taking the +life and attitude of a bird for his symbol. It meant neglecting the +strained, laborious effort of the calculating mind, and leaning for help +and guidance upon something bigger, deeper, less fallible than the +strutting conscious self. The railway guard labelled it the subconscious, +that mysterious region in which every soul is linked to every other soul, +involving thus that comprehensive sympathy which is the beginning possibly +of brotherhood. He phrased it wildly, but that was what he meant. +The bigger self that lay like an ocean behind his separate, personal +<i>thought</i> shared everything with every one. The joy, the wisdom of the +birds! The elasticity and brilliance of the universal air! The divine +carelessness that flows from living at the centre!</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> 'Flow, fly, flow!<br> + Wherever I am, I <i>go</i>;<br> + I live in the air<br> + Without thought or care . . . !'<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>'Daddy, you mustn't hum in public. It sounds so unusual, and people are +staring,' Joan reminded him. 'And you'll forget your hat and leave it +behind, if you don't put it on.'</p> + +<p>He smoothed his ruffled hair and placed his black billycock upon it.</p> + +<p>'So you've woken up at last, have you?' he replied, laughing at her. +'You slept through most of the lecture. What did you make of it,—eh?'</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a puzzled expression in her soft, bright eyes.</p> + +<p>'D'you think it was all nonsense? Was it true, I mean?' he repeated.</p> + +<p>'He didn't lie, but he didn't tell the truth,' she said at once. +'Besides, I wasn't asleep. I heard it all.'</p> + +<p>'You mean he didn't explain it properly?' he asked.</p> + +<p>'It was the wrong way,' she said.</p> + +<p>'Ah! words——'</p> + +<p>'He ought to have danced it,' she said suddenly with decision. 'It's too +quick, too flashing for words. <i>I</i> could have shown it to them easily, by +dancing it.'</p> + +<p>He remembered the amazing ideas her dancing gestures on the roof had once +put into him. Then, thinking of the teachers of the world conveying their +meaning by dancing and gestures from the pulpits, he chuckled.</p> + +<p>'Shall we join the Aquarians?' he asked slyly. 'What do you say to +becoming members of their Society?'</p> + +<p>She took her answer out of his own mind, it seemed.</p> + +<p>'If you belong, you belong. You needn't join. Societies are only cages, +Daddy. You're caught and you can't fly on.'</p> + +<p>'We could spend the money better, yes,' he mumbled. 'Garden-gloves for +mother, a lawn-mower, a hurricane lantern for stormy nights or +something——'</p> + +<p>'Much, much better,' she agreed.</p> + +<p>'When once we've found the cottage,' he went on vaguely.</p> + +<p>'It's there,' she interrupted instantly. 'Let's get the hurricane +lantern. I'd love to choose it with you. May I?'</p> + +<p>Wimble looked about him as the heavy vehicle lumbered clumsily along its +swaying journey. The soft autumn sunshine of hazy gold lay on the +streets, but there was a nip, a sharpness in the air that put an electric +sparkle into everything. The solid world was really lighter than it +looked. There was a covert brilliance ready to dart forth into +swift-rushing flame. He felt the throbbing sheen and rustle in the golden +light, and his heart sang with joy above the heavy streets and pavements. +He was aware of a point of view that almost denied weight to inert matter, +making the dead mass of the universe alive and dancing. This nip and +sparkle in the air interpenetrated all these fixed and heavy things, these +laborious structures, these rigid forms, dissolving them into flowing, +ever-changing patterns of fluid loveliness. He saw them again as powder, +the parks and road blown everywhere, the pavements lifted, the walls wide +open to the sky. The solid earth became transparent, flooded with light +and air. It seemed etherealised. It spread great golden wings towards +the blazing sun and limitless sky. Air knew no fixed and rigid forms. +Societies, of course, were only cages. He saw the huge cage of the earth +blow open. Humanity flew out at last. . . .</p> + +<p>'We'll get three, and at once,' he remarked, referring to the lanterns. +'And a pair of hedge-clippers as well, a ladder for the fruit trees, two +pair of best garden-gloves for mother, and a revolving summer-house where +she can follow the sun—and sit in peace.'</p> + +<p>That ridiculous lecture acted like some mental cuckoo that had chucked +him finally out of the nest into the air. If he did not actually fly, +he certainly walked on air, with the same faith that had once been claimed +for walking on the sea. He became a daring and a happy soul. +Air represented a confident and free imagination in which everything was +possible. Earth he still loved, but only as a place to land on and take +off from. Imagination and intuition must still, at his present stage, be +backed and checked by reason; earth was still there to sleep on. But that +spontaneous way of living which is air, using the ground merely as the +swallow does—a swallow that exists in space and almost entirely neglects +its legs—this careless and new attitude leaped forward in him towards +realisation. A bird, he remembered, though apparently so free and +careless, works actually with an ordered precision towards great purposes.</p> + +<p>He seemed conscious suddenly of a complete and absolute independence, +beyond the need of any one's comprehension. Few, if any, would understand +him, but that did not matter. The need to be understood was left behind, +below. He had soared beyond the loneliness even of a god. He felt very +humble, but very happy. And the loneliness would be but temporary, for +the rest of the world would follow before long. . . .</p> + +<p>The motor omnibus lurched and stopped with grunting noises. Wimble, led +by his more nimble daughter, climbed down the narrow spiral stair. +He glanced upwards longingly as he descended. He saw the flashing birds. +'The brotherhood of the air,' he thought. 'Oh, how the earth must yearn +for it!'</p> + +<p>'There's an ironmonger,' cried Joan, pointing across the road. And they +went in to buy the hurricane lanterns. They assumed, that is, that the +cottage was already found.</p> + +<p>Then, after luncheon, while Mother criticised the garden-gloves, observing +with regard to the hurricane lanterns that it was 'living backwards, +rather, to buy things before we have the place to use them in,' he took +from the book-shelf his copy of the <i>Queen of the Air</i> and read once again +a favourite passage. It was thumb-marked, the margin scored by his pencil +long years ago.</p> + +<p>' . . . the bird, in which the breath, or spirit, is more full than in any +other creature and the earth-power least. . . . It is little more than a +drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its +quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air +in its flying, like a blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, +surpasses it, outraces it;—<i>is</i> the air, conscious of itself, conquering +itself, ruling itself.</p> + +<p>'Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. +All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit +together in its song . . . unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in +its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring +nights, bursting into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping +and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like +little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals +of the wild rose. . . .'</p> + +<p>His reading was interrupted by the entrance from the passage of his wife, +her face heavily veiled; she was dressed for the street, in solemn black; +she wore a mysterious yet very confident expression. 'Joe dear, I'm going +out. I have an appointment at three o'clock sharp. I mustn't be late.'</p> + +<p>He watched her with an absent-minded air for a moment, as though he saw +her for the first time almost; all he could remember about her just then +was that during the cinema performance she had said with proud +superiority: 'I'm glad I'm English.' Then, recognising his wife, he +realised that she was going to confession, of course, for he guessed it by +the way she folded her hands, waiting patiently for a word of +commendation.</p> + +<p>'All right, my dear,' he said, 'and good luck. You'll be back for tea, I +suppose.' He rose and kissed her on her heavy veil, and she went out with +a smile. 'I'm so glad,' he added.</p> + +<p>'That's her stage,' he thought to himself, 'and the critic and the +Aquarian quack have their stage, and I have mine. It's all right.'</p> + +<p>There were immense tracts of experience in everybody, unknown, unused, but +waiting to be known and used. Some people lived in one tract only, caged +and fixed, unaware of the vast freedom a little farther outside +themselves. Different people knew different tracts, each positive that +his own particular tract alone was right—as for him, assuredly, it was— +thinking also that it was the only one, the whole, which, assuredly, it +was not. There was, however, assuredly, a point of view, the bird's, that +saw all these tracts at once, the boundaries and divisions between them +mere walls erected by the mind in ignorance. The bird's-eye view looked +down and saw the landscape whole, the divisions unreal, the separation +false. This attitude was the attitude of air; air unified; the unity of +humanity was realised. Consciousness, focussed hitherto upon little +separate tracts with feeble light, blazed upon all at once with shining +splendour.</p> + +<p>It was true. A great world-telepathy was being 'engendered,' barriers of +creed and class were crumbling, democracy was combing out its mighty +wings; the 'tracts' inhabited by Mother, Tom, the quack, the critic, by +himself and by Joan, by that narrow snob and gossip at the tea-party who +asked, 'Who <i>was</i> she?'—all these would be seen as adjoining little +strips belonging to the universal air which knows neither strips, +divisions nor boundaries.</p> + +<p>A great light blazed into his heart. He wondered. Apparently it was the +little, simple, insignificant people, and not the great minds of the day, +who were the first to become aware of air. The great ones were too rigid. +Air rushed first into the hearts of the uneducated, the ignorant, the +unformed and informal—the little children of the race. It has been ever +so. The learned, knowing too much, solid with facts and explanations, are +no longer fluid. They neither flow nor fly. The brotherhood of air, he +grasped, would come first through the untaught babes and little children +of earth's vast, scattered family.</p> + +<p>And, while these vague reflections danced across his mind, dropping their +curious shadows upon his own little tract of experience, his wife was +whispering her sins to another mind who should forgive them for her, the +critic was writing a vehement pamphlet to prove that he alone was right, +Tom, in the office, was scheming new plans for making money that should +satisfy his natural desires for pleasure and self-indulgence, the quack +was elaborating Zodiacal Explanations in his studio next to his Private +Consulting Room, and Joan——</p> + +<p>He listened. A light, tripping step went down the corridor, passed his +door and began to climb the ladder to the open skylight in the hall. +He listened closely, eagerly, a new rhythm catching at his heart. +The little song came to him faintly through the obstructing barriers of +brick and mortar. He caught the tap and tremble of her feet upon the +roof.</p> + +<p>Joan sang and danced above the world.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XVII.</h3> + + +<p>'Careless as a bird! Bird-happy and bird-wise,' he murmured to himself +as they moved in a month later. For he had found a cottage as by +instinct. It was not on the agents' list of modern, ugly and comfortless +cages, but was an old-world little place that had caught his eye by the +corner of the lane as he returned to the country station, weary and +almost faith-less, after a vain inspection. A white board suddenly +peered at him through the branches of a yew, there were roses up the +walls, a tiny fountain played on the lawn, and beyond he caught a glimpse +of a neglected orchard, sloping fields of yellow ragwort, and a stream. +The stream, moreover, ran under the road just there, so that he could +look down into it from the old stone bridge. The water ran swiftly, but +deep enough to grow long weeds of green and gold that swung with the +current like thick fairy hair. Two or three silver birches shone and +rustled by the wicket-gate. He went in. A robin hopped up, inspected +him, and hopped away into the shadow of the yew.</p> + +<p>The interior seemed to him like a bit of forest—the beams, the +panelling, the dark, stained settles. Yet there was a bathroom, too, the +kitchen was large and light, the bedrooms airy, the living-rooms just +right in size and number. The front windows looked out across the +rose-plot to the little green where the geese were gabbling, while the back +ones opened straight into the orchard, where fruit and walnut trees stood +ankle deep in uncut grass. The windows, too, were wide and high, letting +in big stretches of the sky. Also, there were a mulberry-bush and +several heavy quince trees. And the stream ran singing and bubbling +between the orchard and the farther fields, where, amid the sprinkled +gold of the ragwort, scuttled countless rabbits.</p> + +<p>Moreover, it was cheap, the drains were safe, the church was as +picturesque as an old-fashioned Christmas card, and the vicar was brother +to a peer. Thus there was something for everybody. The nest was found. +Mother inspected it in due course and gave her modified approval; +Tom said it 'sounded ripping,' he would 'run down for week-ends' +whenever he could; and Joan, catching her breath when she saw it first +on the afternoon of a golden-brown October day, felt a lump in her throat +and moisture in her eyes, such happiness rose in her breast. She stood +with her father in the sandy lane,—Mother had gone inside at once,—the +larches rustling and the excited geese examining their stiff town +clothing from behind. On the topmost branch of an apple tree a big brown +thrush was singing its heart out over the garden, its small packed +outline silhouetted against the pale blue sky. Joan caught her father's +hand.</p> + +<p>'Look!' she whispered, pointing. 'Listen!'</p> + +<p>He did so. He felt the strange excitement in the child. Her lips were +parted and her shining eyes turned heavenwards a moment. The thrush +poured forth its liquid song deliciously; and the sound sank into his +heart as though it expressed the full happiness of the air that welcomed +them to the cottage and the garden. He experienced surely something of +the soft air-magic as he stood there watching, listening. The natural +joy and sweetness of it touched him deeply. And his daughter sang a +strange thing then, murmuring it to herself. He only just caught +the curious words:</p> + +<blockquote><blockquote> +<p class = "noindent"> 'There's a bird for me<br> + On the apple tree!<br> + It's explaining all the garden!'<br></p> +</blockquote></blockquote> + +<p>Up the scaffolding of the quaint phrases he passed, as it were, with her +into the clear air beside the singing bird: that scrap of nonsense +'explaining all the garden' did the trick. A sack of meanings seemed +emptied before him out of the sweet October sky. The interesting, +valuable ideas in life began, he realised, just where language stops— +intelligible, sensible language, that is. Then came either poetry, +legend, nonsense, or else mere silence. Joan used a combination of the +former.</p> + +<p>'Words are parvenu people,' he recalled a Primer sentence, 'as compared +with thought and action. Communications between God and man must always +be either above or below them; for with words come in translations.'</p> + +<p>'Explaining all the garden!' The touch of nonsense brought a thousand +'translations' into his mind. The air was full of fluttering meanings +that showered about him. He balanced aloft on the twig beside the singing +thrush, his sight darting, as with the bird's-eye view, upon recent +happenings. He read various translations instantaneously.</p> + +<p>In front of him stood the cottage and garden, the fields and trees and +stream he had dreamed about with his daughter—an accomplished, solid +fact. It had come as by magic, materialised by thought and desire, and +yet, as Mother said, 'by chance.' But the chance included method, +because Fate obeyed a confident Belief. And circumstances were moulded +or modified by faith. He and Joan somehow held the sure sweetness of +fulfilment in their minds from the beginning; they had always believed, +indeed had known, the cottage would be found. And it had been found. +He had not fussed nor worried; there had been no friction due to the grit +of doubt. Like his queer, spontaneous daughter, he had believed in +his dream—and at the same time kept his eyes wide open like a hawk.</p> + +<p>As he stood there, listening to the song of the thrush and aware of its +poise on the swaying twig balanced so steadily, yet alert for spontaneous +flight in any direction, these fluttering translations of the child's +nonsense words shot through him. The joy of the happy thrush shone in his +heart, explaining the garden that was life.</p> + +<p>The bird, at that moment, flew off with a whirr of wings, still singing +as it vanished with an undulating swoop over the roof towards the +orchard. Across the patch of watery blue sky he had been watching shot +half a dozen swallows, then intent only upon darting insects, although on +the eve of their huge journey of ten thousand miles. Beyond them two +plover tumbled like blown leaves towards the ground, yet rising again +instantly before they touched it . . . and into his hand he felt Joan's +fingers creep softly. He looked down into her eyes, moist with +excitement, joy, and wonder. The magic of the air seemed all about them, +in their minds and hearts and very bodies even.</p> + +<p>'You've found a real nest, Daddy, but we can travel everywhere from +here.' It was said simply, as though a bird had learned to speak. +'Think of the journeys we shall make—just by staying here!'</p> + +<p>'The cottage seems swung in the branches, doesn't it?' he replied. +'Come on, now; let's go inside.' And he walked across the lawn, lifting +his feet quickly, lightly, as though he feared his weight might hurt the +earth, yet still more as though he might any instant spring into the air +and follow the thrush, the plover, or the swallows.</p> + +<p>Upon the threshold of the open door, at that minute, Mother faced them. +Having made her inspection of the arrangements and the furniture, all +that the workmen had done in the last few days, she came out to report. +She stood there very solidly, her feet in goloshes, planted tenaciously +upon the damp October earth. She was smiling contentedly; behind her +gleamed the white apron of the parlourmaid. Tea obviously was ready and +she was waiting for them to come in. A fire burned pleasantly in the +dining-room, glinting on a clean white table-cloth. There were buttered +toast and a jug of cream—solid realities both. This atmosphere of +wholesome, earthly comfort glowed about her. Her very smile conveyed it.</p> + +<p>'Mother's settled down already,' Joan whispered. 'She likes it! +That means Tom'll like it too. But she'll live indoors.'</p> + +<p>In his own mind, however, rose another thought, although he agreed with +what she said. He was thinking how odd it was that Mother always appeared +to be settled in the mouth of a hole. She stood, framed by the dark +doorway, as though a deep burrow stretched behind her and below. +The simile of the nervous badger, peering forth upon a dangerous upper +world, passed through him. A great tenderness rose in his heart. +Mother, he knew, though she had done no actual work, had felt the move a +heavy strain. To dig a new hole, of course, was a dusty and laborious +job, whereas to flutter across a few fields to another tree was but a +careless joy.</p> + +<p>'I've been through all the rooms,' she said cautiously, as they went +down the passage, 'and everything seems very nice indeed, Joe. The wood +makes it seem a bit dark, perhaps, but it's all very respectable. And +the parlour looks really quite distinguished. Tea's laid for us in the +dining-room.'</p> + +<p>They went in; the fire shone brightly; the lamp was lit. Mother moved +towards the great silver tea-pot, letting herself down with a sigh into +the black horsehair arm-chair. It was as though she went down into the +earth. He sat with his cup of tea in the wide settle of the ingle-nook, +and Joan, having first seen to her parents' wants, then took the corner +facing him.</p> + +<br><br><br> + +<p>They settled in. Yet this settling was characteristic of the family, for +whereas Mother settled down, Mr. Wimble and his daughter became +unsettled. That is, they felt restless. Mother, with the security of a +comfortable home and comfortable income at her back, cropped her food +safely, yet wondered why she felt dull and bored and lonely. There is no +call to describe the actions and reactions of her familiar type to the +conditions of the quiet country life, and her chief tragedy that winter +was perhaps that when 'his lordship, the vicar,' called, he surprised her +in old garden clothes, the fire in the 'distinguished parlour' +(kept unused against just this particular event) unlighted, so that she +was obliged to receive him in the dark dining-room with the ungentlemanly +settles.</p> + +<p>Joan and her father were unsettled for the very reason that made her +settled. Mother felt her feet. They felt their wings.</p> + +<p>A week after the settling in, their restless feeling, wholly +unanticipated, came to a head. The windy skies were already calling the +swallows together swiftly, collecting their mobile squadrons in a few +hours for the grand southern tour. And these amazing birds seemed nothing +less than an incarnation of the air itself. There is nothing of earth +about them anywhere; their feet are too weak to stand on the ground; +every darting turn they make is a movement of the entire creature, rather +than of the head first and then the body; they have no necks, their +bullet heads turn simultaneously with the tail, and all at once. Joan and +her father watched them daily going about their careless, windy life, +gathering on the telegraph wires, giving the young ones hints, on the +wing to the very last minute. They had no packing-up to do.</p> + +<p>'They'll be off soon now,' said Joan. 'Wherever they are, they go—don't +they?' There was a tinge of restless desire in her eyes as she followed +their movements.</p> + +<p>'A few days, yes,' said her father. 'About the middle of the month they +leave. <i>They</i> know right enough.'</p> + +<p>And two days later—it was October 15th—Joan woke at dawn and looked out +of her open window. The twittering of many thousand voices had called +her out of sleep, but something in her heart had called her too. +It was very early, the daylight of dawn, yet not the daylight quite, and +everywhere, from fields and trees, the chorus of bird-life was audible. +Birds sing their best and loudest always in that half-hour which precedes +the actual dawn. The volume is astonishing. 'As the real daylight +comes, it sinks and almost ceases, and never in the whole twenty-four +hours is there such an hour again.' The entire air seemed calling +'good-bye and safe return' to those about to leave.</p> + +<p>Joan ran and woke her father. 'They're off,' she whispered, as he +crawled out of his warm bed, careful not to waken his wife. 'Come and +say good-bye.'</p> + +<p>The peculiar joy and mystery of early morning was in the quiet house and +in the sharp tang of the fresh, cool autumn air. In nightgown and +pyjamas, a single rug about their shoulders, they leaned out +of the upper window. The ivy rustled just beneath them on the wall, +there was a whisper among the yellow walnut leaves to their right, the +orchard trees hung still and motionless, breathing out the perfume of +earth and fruit and heavy dew.</p> + +<p>The sky, however, was alive; it seemed all motion; even the streaky +clouds tinged with pale colour looked like stretched wings mightily +extended. And the vague murmur of a flock of birds rose everywhere. +There was a hurricane of wings above the world, as the armies of the +swallows came carelessly together. They left in scattered groups, but +with every party that left, another instantly assembled, born out of +empty space. Multitudes took the wing towards the sea, while other +darting multitudes collected instantly behind them. The air, indeed, was +alive and whirring into a symbol of lovely, rushing flight—swarming, +settling, turning, wheeling in a turmoil of ascending and descending +feathers that yet expressed a design of ordered beauty. Myriad clusters +formed, then instantly dispersed again, threaded together upon one +invisible pattern; now herded into a wedge, shaped like a wild black +comet, now circling, streaming, dividing, melting away into a living +cloud. The evolutions were bewildering.</p> + +<p>As the eastern horizon began to burn with red and gold, the wings took +colour faintly, brightening as an upward slant revealed their pallid +under-sides, then darkening again as they tilted backwards. +The swallows alternately focussed and dispersed. Separate hordes, turning +at high velocity with one accord, shot forth and away to the south. They +rose, they sank, they vanished. They went first to the coast; for their +migration, led by the infallible sense of orientation which is +subconscious knowledge, takes place chiefly in the night—in darkness. +Within a brief half-hour the whole of the immense army disappeared. +The sky was still and silent, motionless and empty. The swallows were +gone.</p> + +<p>'They've taken part of me with them,' whispered Joan, 'part of my +warmth,' and she drew the rug closer about her shoulders as the October +sun came up above the misty fields.</p> + +<p>'They'll be in Algeria to-morrow,' sighed her father, 'and I'd like to be +there too.' His thought went back to the sun-drenched garden where +nightingales sang in the February moonlight. . . . The old romance +stirred in him painfully. 'Mother, poor old Mother,' he murmured to +himself, 'she seemed so wonderful then. How strange!' He felt himself +old suddenly. He felt himself caught, caged—stuck.</p> + +<p>'That's where I was born, wasn't it?' Joan asked, catching the sentence. +She straightened herself suddenly, throwing the rug aside; the sun shone +into her face and on her golden hair that fell rippling over her +nightgown. The light gleamed, too, in her moistened eyes. He saw joy +steal back upon her. 'But, Daddy,' she exclaimed with an odd touch of +confident wonder in her voice and look, 'we <i>can</i> be there just the +same, if we want to.' She raised herself on her toes a moment as though +she were going to dance or fly. In the pale gold light of the sunrise +she looked like some ethereal bird of fire rising into the air.</p> + +<p>'We can be everywhere—everywhere at once—really! Don't you see? +We always want to be somewhere else anyhow. That proves it.'</p> + +<p>And as she said it, he remembered the cinema, and felt his wings again; +he was free, uncaged; of course he could go anywhere, everywhere at once +almost. He knew himself eternally young. He realised Air, that which is +everywhere at once and cannot age. Earth obeys time, grows old, changes, +and eventually dies; but air is ever changeless, free of time altogether, +unageing. It cannot wear away, it is invisible, omnipresent. The wings +of the spirit opened in him, rose into space and light, then flashed, +darting after the amazing swallows. 'Wherever I am, I go,' he hummed, as +he went softly back along the cold passage and crept cautiously into bed +beside his wife, who, heavily breathing still, had not moved since he +left her, and lay in ignorance of the sunrise, as also of the army of +happy wings that by now were already out of England and far across the +sea.</p> + +<p>And, later in the day, as he stood with her near a gravel-pit beside the +road, watching a colony of busy starlings, she objected: 'What a noise +and fuss about nothing! What a nuisance they are, Joe. <i>Do</i> come on, +dear. There's really nothing to watch, and I want to get in and change +my things in case any callers come.'</p> + +<p>He remembered a passage about starlings written by a strenuous big-game +hunter, who yet had the air-magic in his blood. He quoted it to her, as +best he could, and she said it was pretty:</p> + +<p>'Happy birdies! What a bore all morality seems, as one watches them. +How tiresome it is to be high in the scale (and human)! Those who would +shake off the cobwebs—who are tired of teachings and preachings and +heavy-high novellings, who would see things anew, and not mattering, +rubbing their eyes and forgetting their dignities, missions, destinies, +virtues, and the rest of it—let them come and watch a colony of +starlings at work in a gravel-pit.'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' he agreed, 'quite pretty. Selous got a glimpse there—didn't he? +—but only a glimpse. The great thing is to see it <i>all</i>. He forgot the +swallows.'</p> + +<p>His thought ran on, fragments becoming audible sometimes. 'It's all one, +you see. Stars and starlings are the same one thing, only differently +expressed. . . . That's what genius does, of course. Genius has the +bird's-eye point of view. . . . It sees analogies everywhere, the +underlying unity of everything—sees the similar in the dissimilar. +It reduces the Many to the One,' he added in a louder tone, as a Primer +came opportunely to his support.</p> + +<p>'I ask you, Mother,' he cried with enthusiasm, 'what else is genius but +that? I ask you?'</p> + +<p>'What?' said Mother, as they went indoors.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XVIII.</h3> + + +<p>Wimble watched the year draw to its close and run into the past. +Born slowly out of sullen skies, it had shaken off the glistening pearls +of April and slipped, radiant and laughing, into May; at the end of June, +full-bosomed still and stately, it had begun to hasten, lest the roses +hold it prisoner for ever; pausing a moment in August, it looked out with +perfect eyes upon the world as from a pinnacle; then, poised and +confident, began the grand descent down the red slopes of Autumn into the +peace of winter and the snow.</p> + +<p>Thus, at least, its history described itself in Wimble's thoughts, +because his little mind, standing on tiptoe, saw it whole and from above. +'You ought to publish it, dear,' said Mother, to whom he mentioned it one +December evening round the fire. 'You really ought to write it.' +He objected that everybody knew it just as well as he did. 'It's always +happening to everybody, so why should I remind them?' 'Because they +don't see it,' was her answer. 'Besides, they'd think you wonderful.' +But Wimble was no writer. He shook his untidy head, yet secretly pleased +with his wife's remark that people don't see the obvious. It was almost +an air-remark. Mother was changing a little. . . . And he dozed in his +chair, thinking how easily the world calls a man wonderful—he has but +to startle it—and how easily, too, that man is destroyed if he believes +its verdict.</p> + +<p>With the rare exception of occasional signs like this, however, his wife +had not mobilised her being radically for a big change. She retired into +her prosaic background, against which, as with certain self-protecting, +ultra-cautious animals and insects, she remained safely invisible. +Back to the land proved rather literal for her; she wore her heavy +garden-gloves with pride. At the same time her practical nature, streaked +with affection, patience, and unselfishness, took on, somehow, a tiny +glint of gold. Her eyes grew lighter, her movements less laborious. +Fear lessened in her; joy often caught her by surprise. Sparks, though +not yet flame, lit up her attitude to things, as if, close to her beloved +element of earth, the country life both soothed and blessed her. +She felt at home. She said 'what' far less frequently. This quiet, +peaceful winter was perhaps for her a period of gestation. The family +gathered about her more than in town.</p> + +<p>With a buoyancy hard to define and possibly not justified, Wimble watched +her. He looked out upon life about him. His health was good, but this +buoyancy was based on something deeper than that; his health was good +because of it. Nothing mattered, a foolish phrase of those who shirked +responsibilities, was far from him; everything mattered equally expressed +it better. The New Thing coming, which he and Joan called Air, lay +certainly in him, though very far yet from finding full expression. +The germ of it at any rate lay in him, as in her. The fact that they +recognised it was proof of that. A divine carelessness took charge of +his whole life and being; Mother was aware of it; even Tom responded +mildly: 'quite sets a fellow up,' as he expressed it after his rare +week-end visits, the Sunday spent in killing rabbits; 'town's overrated +after all.'</p> + +<p>They merged pleasantly enough with their surroundings, melting without +shock into the life of neighbours, sharing the community existence, +narrow, conventional, uninspired though it was. And all through the dark +and clouded months, the skies emptied of birds, weighted at the low +horizons, afraid to shine, yet waiting for the marvellous coming dawn— +all through these heavy weeks and days Joan's presence, flitting +everywhere with careless singing and dancing, shot the wintry gloom with +happy radiance. It was her spontaneous dancing that especially made +Wimble stare and wonder. It conveyed meanings no words could compass, +expressing better than anything else the new attitude he felt coming into +life. He remembered the flood of shadowy ideas her graceful gestures had +poured into him once before when he walked up Maida Vale; and that +strange night in the flat when, seeing her dancing on the London roof, he +was dimly aware of a new language which included even inanimate objects. +The strange shudder that accompanied the vision he had forgotten. + + +This magical rhythm was her secret. It stirred the heart, making it +vulnerable to impulses from some brighter, happier state <i>she</i> knew +instinctively and in advance. Mother, he noticed, watched her too, +peering above her knitting-needles, moving her head in sympathy, +sometimes a faint, wondering smile lighting upon her bewildered, careworn +face. A real smile, however, for it was in the eyes alone, and did not +touch the lips. Even Tom admired. 'You ought to be taught,' he said +guardedly. 'You'd touch 'em up a bit. If you did that in church the +whole world would go.' He too, without knowing it, realised that +something sacred, inspired, regenerating was being whispered.</p> + +<p>Yet Joan herself, though growing older, hardly developed in the ordinary +way. She did not grow up. She remained backward somehow. She lived +subconsciously, perhaps. Some new knowledge, gathering below the +surface, found expression in this spontaneous dancing. With the dawn, +now slowly coming, it would burst full-fledged upon the world, +and the world itself would dance with joy. Meanwhile, a new bloom, a new +beauty settled on the girl, and Mother proudly insisted that she 'must go +to a good photographer and have her picture taken.' But the result was +commonplace, for in the rigid black and white outline all the subtlety +escaped, and, regretting the money wasted, Mother wondered why it had +failed. Like the audience at the Vicarage charities when Joan danced, +she watched the performance, felt a hint of strange beauty, clapped her +hands and wondered 'what it meant.'</p> + +<p>'It's her life, you see,' Wimble comforted her. 'And you can't +photograph life. To get her real meaning, we ought to do it with her— +dance it.'</p> + +<p>'She's light, rather, for her age,' replied Mother ambiguously. +'But everybody seems to love her somehow,' she added proudly. +'She seems to make people happy. P'r'aps later she'll develop and get +sensible.' She sighed, and resumed her knitting. Presently she got up +to light the lamps. 'The days are drawing out, Joe,' she mentioned, +smiling. 'Spring will be here before we know it.' He lifted the chimney +to help her, turned up the wick, struck a match, and kissed her fondly.</p> + +<p>The country life, it seemed, had brought them all together more, made +them aware of their underlying unity, as it were. They flocked. Wimble, +dressed now in wide brown knickerbockers, wearing bright stockings and +brogue shoes with feathered tongues that flapped when he walked, noticed +the change with pleasure. The new attitude was only in his brain as yet, +but it was already stealing down into his heart. This increased sense of +a harmonious manifold unity in the family impressed him, and it was Joan, +he felt, who made him see it, if she was not also the cause of its coming +to pass. Only some spiritual actuary could make it quite clear, but he +discerned the oneness behind the different members of his family, uniting +them. In this subconscious, completer self lay full understanding. +There was no need to pay annual subscriptions to an Aquarian Society to +realise that! Moreover, if a small family with such divergent interests +and ambitions could flock and realise unity, the larger family of a +village, country, nation could do the same—once the underlying unity +were realised. That was the difficulty. The whole world was, after all, +but a single family, humanity. . . . In his quiet country nook Wimble +dreamed his great dream. He saw the nations with but a single flag, a +single drum, a single anthem, true to a larger single patriotism that +could never again be split up into lesser divisional patriotisms. The +universal fraternity of indivisible Air was coming; the subconscious +where individuals pooled their surface differences would become +conscious; that was the truth, he felt, the one great thing the Aquarian +lecturer had said. . . . He remembered the cinema, with its mechanical +suggestion of a unification of world-experience faintly offered; he +remembered the free, happy, collective life of the inhabitants of air, +the natural singers of the world. The deep underlying sense of unity +buried in the subconscious once realised, full understanding must follow, +and with complete understanding the way was cleared for love. And it was +Joan's dancing, somehow, that set the dream within his heart. The new +attitude to life he imagined dawning on the world was the first hint of a +coming spiritual consciousness, and for spiritual consciousness the +totality of things is present. 'All at once and everywhere at once,' as +she had put it. His heart swelled big within him as he dreamed. . . .</p> + +<p>'Coal's getting very expensive,' mentioned Mother, as she leaned forward +beside him to poke the fire. 'We'd better mix it with coke. You might +find out, Joe. We can't go on at this rate.'</p> + +<p>'I will, dear,' he replied. 'I'll write to Snodden and Tupps at once.' +He patted her knee and got up to go to his little den where he kept his +papers, books, and pipes, reflecting as he did so that it was easy enough +to love the world; it was loving the individual that breaks the heart. +Pricked by an instant of remorse, then, it occurred to him that a pat on +the knee, as a sign of love, might be improved. He trotted back and +kissed her. 'We must flock more and more and more,' he mumbled, and +before she could say 'What, Joe?' he gave her another kiss and was gone +to write to his coal merchant as she had suggested. He would bring back +the bird into Mother's heart or die in the attempt. If the new thing he +dreamed about didn't begin at home, it was not worth much. He felt +happy, so happy that he longed to share it with others; he would have +liked to mention it in his letter to the coal merchant. Instead, he +merely began, 'Dear Messrs. Snodden and Tupps,' yet signed himself, +'Yours full of faith,' since 'faithfully' alone sounded insincere.</p> + +<p>'Odd,' he reflected, 'that unless happiness is shared, it's incomplete, +unsatisfying. The chief item lacks. Selfish happiness is a +contradiction in terms. We are meant to share everything and be together +more. There's the instinctive proof of it.' If the coal merchant felt +equally happy, he might even have shared his coal. 'But he'd only think +me mad if I suggested that,' thought Wimble, chuckling. 'We can exchange +coal and money and still love one another.' He posted the letter before +he could change his mind, and came back to his wife. 'Some day,' he +said, as he sat down and poked the fire, 'some day, Mother, and not very +far off either, we shall all be sharing everything all over the world, +just as birds share the air and worms and water.' This time she did not +ask him to repeat his words. She smiled a comfortable smile half-way +between belief and incredulity. 'You really think so, Joe?' 'It's +coming,' he rejoined; 'it's in the air, you know, for I feel it. +Don't you?' he added. He leaned nearer and softly whispered in her ear, +'You're happy here, aren't you, Mother? Much happier than you used to +be? 'She smiled again contentedly. 'The country air, Joe dear,' she +replied. 'The bird's flown back into you,' he said, taking her hand and +ignoring the bunch of knitting-needles that came pricking with it. +'Perhaps,' she mumbled, 'perhaps. Life's sweeter, easier than it used to +be—in some ways.' She flushed a little, while Wimble murmured to +himself, yet just low for her to hear, 'and in your heart some late lark +singing, dear. A new thing is stealing down upon us all.' 'There's +something coming, certainly,' she agreed. 'Come,' he corrected her, 'not +coming. It's here now.' Holding hands, they looked into each other's +eyes, as Joan's little song and dancing steps went down the passage just +outside.</p> + + +<br><br> +<a name="2HCH0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> +<br><br> +<h3>CHAPTER XIX.</h3> + + +<p>January sparkled, dropped like a broken icicle, and was gone; February, +so eager for the sun that she shortens her days while lengthening her +searching evening hours, summoned one night the tyrant winds of March; +these shouted and blew the world awake, then yielded with a sigh to the +kiss of April's laughter. A disturbing sweetness ran upon the world, +agitating the hearts and minds of men. Yearning stirred even among deep +city slums; in the country hope and desire burst into glad singing. +Spring returned with her eternal magic. The hawthorn was in bloom.</p> + +<p>The birds came back, filling the air with song, with the glance of wings +and the whirr of feathers, with the gold and confidence of coming summer. +The air was alive again with careless joy. Wimble responded instantly. +The thrill pierced to his very marrow. Memories revived like +wild-flowers, and his thoughts, shot with the gold and blue of lost +romance, turned to the open air. He got some sandwiches, mounted his +bicycle, and, followed by Joan, started in a southerly direction as once, +long years ago, he had escaped from streets and lectures to spend a day +with his beloved birds. This time, however, it was not the +willow-haunted Cambridge flats that were his aim. He took Joan with him +to the bare open downs above the sea.</p> + +<p>It was a radiant morning, and a south-west wind blew gently in their +faces. Wimble's felt hat fluttered behind him at the end of a string, as +they skimmed down the sandy lanes towards Lewes, the smooth, scooped +hollows of the downs coming nearer every minute. Their majestic outline +seemed hung down from the sky itself, yet in spite of their mass they had +a light, almost transparent look in the morning brilliance. They melted +into the air. The noble line of them flung upwards the space as though +time met eternity and disappeared.</p> + +<p>Down the long hill into the ancient town Joan shot past him. He noticed +her balance, and thought of the perfect equilibrium of a bird that shoots +full speed upon its resting-place, then stops, securely poised, making no +single effort to recover steadiness. For all its tiny legs, no bird +wobbles or overbalances, much less trips or stumbles. Joan flew ahead of +him, both hands off the bars. The careless gesture reminded him of the +matchless grace of the wagtail. He laughed aloud, coasting after her +unconscious ease with his own more deliberate, reasoned caution. +'She could fly to Africa without a guide!' he thought, aware for an +instant of the great subconscious rhythm in Nature birds obeyed +instinctively. No wonder their purposes were carelessly achieved. +'She's sure,' he added. 'Something very big takes care of her, and she +knows it.'</p> + +<p>They walked up the steep hill out of the town, ran to the left along a +chalky lane, dipped in between the folds of grassy hills and great + +covering fields, Joan leading always without hesitation. Once they +paused to watch the aerial evolutions of a body of plover, rising, +falling, tumbling, turning at full speed without confusion or collision, +as though one single telepathic sympathy operated throughout the entire +mass of individuals. Instinct the Primers called it, but Wimble, +recalling the Aquarian lecture, caught at another phrase—subconscious +unity. It was a power, at any rate, beyond man's conscious reasoning +mind. The careless safety of the birds amazed him. 'Air wisdom!' he +exclaimed aloud to Joan; 'we shall all have it some day!' It was odd how +that crazy lecture had lodged ideas in his thoughts, claiming +confirmation, returning again and again to his memory. They coasted down +a grassy track into a village, left their bicycles behind a farmer's +gate, and sat down a moment to recover breath. It was ten o'clock in the +morning.</p> + +<p>From the tiny hamlet, where a few flint cottages and barns clustered +about an ivied church, they took the path southwards up the slope. +In the cup or the hills below them sheltered the toy buildings and the +trees. The rooks, advertising their clumsy flight and semi-human ways, +cawed noisily, playing in the gusty wind. They showed off consciously, +devoid of grace. One minute the scene was visible below, a perfect +miniature; the next it was hidden by a heavy shoulder of ground; the +earth had swallowed it, church, houses, trees, and all. No sound was +audible. Even the rooks had vanished. In front stretched an open and a +naked world. The human couple paused a moment and stared. The wind went +past their ears. There was a sense of immensity and freedom. There was +great light. They were on the Downs.</p> + +<p>'Oh, Daddy,' cried Joan, 'we're out of England! This is the world!'</p> + +<p>'And the world has blown wide open!' he replied. 'I feel everywhere at +once!' The gust whirled his words and laughter into space. +'The misunderstanding of streets and houses leaves——' he snatched at +the same time at his vanishing hat and seized the cord.</p> + +<p>Joan flung herself backwards against the wind with arms spread out, her +hat in one hand and a blue-ribbon that had tied her hair fluttering in +the other. The loosened hair streamed past her neck, great strands of it +flattened against the curve of her back as well, her short skirts +flapping with a noise like sails. Then, turning about, she faced the +gust, and everything streamed the other way. The wind clapped the +clothes so tight against her slender figure that it seemed to undress +her, or rather made them fit as tight and neat as feathers. Like some +bird of paradise, indeed, she looked, the slim black legs straining to +take the air. She began to dance.</p> + +<p>And as he watched the golden hair against the blue, there flashed into +him the memory of a distant day, when a saffron scarf had set his heart +on fire with strange airy yearnings, and the blue and golden earth had +danced to the tune of another spring. The tiny human outline amid this +vast expanse seemed wonderful, so safe, so exquisite, caught in some +rhythm born of the immensities of sky and earth and ocean. A mile to the +southward lay the sea. There was a taste of clover-honey, a tang of +salt, and the gorse laid its sweetness in between the two. Memories +crowded upon him as he watched Joan playing and dancing. The fervour and +earnestness of her pleasure exhilarated him. 'Blithe creature,' he said +to himself, 'you were surely born to fly!'—and remembered Mother as she +once had been and as she was now. Why had it all left her, this joyous +rapture of their early days together? Had the bird flown really from her +heart and into Joan? Was it not merely caged awhile? Had he himself not +helped to cage it? He recalled her radiant face beside the pond among +the emerald Cambridge fields, and the old first love poured back upon him +in a flood.</p> + +<p>In a lull of the wind he caught the ecstatic singing of a lark, and at +the same moment Joan danced back to his side suddenly and seized his arm. +Her voice, it almost seemed, carried on the trill and music of the lark. +'It's all new as gold,' she cried. 'Everybody'd live for ever up here. +We must bring Mother. She'd flow fly flow all over!'</p> + +<p>'Dance, my child,' he exclaimed, 'don't talk! Go on with your dancing. +It gives me ideas.'</p> + +<p>'But you're always thinking,' she said, still breathless from her +exertions. 'It spoils everything, that thinking and thinking——'</p> + +<p>'It's not thinking,' he interrupted, 'it's seeing. When you dance I see +things. I see everything at once. It's like a huge vision, yet so small +and simple that it's all in my head at once. It explains the universe +somehow to me. Thinking indeed! Why, I never thought in my life——'</p> + +<p>'There's a bird for me, On the apple tree, It's explaining all the +garden,' sang the girl, dancing away towards the yellow gorse. +Her father's words conveyed no meaning to her; she had not listened. +He watched her. Her movements, he felt, obeyed the great unconscious +rhythm that breathes through nature, through the entire universe, from +the spinning midge to the most distant sun. Surely it must include +humanity as well, these millions of separate individuals who had lost it +temporarily, much as Mother had lost the 'bird.' He, too, was caught +along with it, as though he shared it, did it, danced it. He could see +what he could not say. He understood. Immense, yet at lightning speed, +the meaning of Air slid with that simple dancing deep into his heart. +It was unity of life everywhere that he saw interpreted, and the ease, +the grace, the carelessness were due to their being mothered and +inspired by Nature's great safe rhythm. Relying on this, as birds did, +there was safety, unerring intelligence, infallible guidance, flight from +Siberia to Abyssinia possible without a leader. Birds migrated at night, +he remembered, stopping at dawn to rest and sing, then going on again in +the twilight: surer of their inner guidance in the darkness than in the +blaze of daylight. Amazing symbol! Instinct, unconscious, +subconscious—whatever it might be called in rigid language, this deep +attitude, poised and steady, obeyed the mighty rhythm that realised the +underlying unity of all that lives, of everything. Thought breaks this +rhythm, which it should merely guide; reason reduces, opposes, and +finally interrupts it. His backward child—and she was still a child for +all her eighteen years—had somehow tapped it.</p> + +<p>'Dance, my child, dance on!' he cried as he followed her. 'You dance joy +and brotherhood into my heart.' And, looking more like a mechanical +gollywog than a human being who has discovered truth, he floundered after +her as a gnome might chase a butterfly. Thus, swinging along between the +yellow gorse, over the tumuli, leaping the rabbit holes, he realised that +the love and joy he sought and dreamed about was here and now; not in +some future Golden Age, but at his very feet upon the earth. All that he +meant by Air and the Airy Consciousness was <i>now</i>. This little prophet +without a lyre saw it clear. Torn by the brambles, tripped by the holes, +he chased his marvellous dream as once, years before, he had chased an +elusive streak of gold across the Cambridge flats. He was caught by the +elemental rhythm of the Downs, borrowed in its turn from the suns of +uttermost space that equally obeyed and shared it.</p> + +<p>He looked about him. Immense domed surfaces, smooth as a pausing ocean, +stretched undulating to dim horizons; air lifted the earth into +immaterial space; they intermingled; and sight roved everywhere without a +break. Upon this vast expanse there were no details to enchain +attention, blocking the rhythm of the eye; no points of interest stood +up, as in mere 'scenery,' to fasten feeling to a limited area. +Enjoyment soared, unconfined, on wings. He saw no barriers, no trees, no +hedges or divisions; no summits startled him with 'See, how big I am!' +all self-asserting items lacked. Wind, sky, and sea offered their +unconditioned, limitless invitation. Even the flowers were unobtrusive, +the ragwort, thyme, and yellow gorse claimed no deliberate notice, and +the thistle-down flew past like air made visible. It was, in a word, +this liberation from detail, snapping attention with definite objects, +that set him free in mind, as Joan already proved herself free in action. +Earth here was sublimated into air.</p> + +<p>'Good heavens!' his heart cried out. 'It's here, it's now—this new +thing coming from the Air!'</p> + +<p>This deep rhythm of the landscape caught his very feet, making even his +physical movements elastic, springy, sharing the rise and fall of flight +expressed in the waving surface of the world about him. He no longer +stumbled. Joan's dancing, though apparently she merely leapt to catch +the thistle-down, or played with her flying hair and fluttering ribbon, +interpreted in the gestures of her young lithe figure all he felt, but +reproduced it unconsciously.</p> + +<p>This was, indeed, not England, but the world.</p> + +<p>'We're over the edge of everything,' sang Joan, catching at his hand. +'Hold up, Daddy! Hold up!' She tugged him along to join her wild, happy +dance. 'You ought to sing. We're over the edge of the world!'</p> + +<p>'Above it,' he cried breathlessly. 'We're in the air. Look out, my +dear——!'</p> + +<p>She had suddenly released his hand and sent him spinning with the +unaccustomed momentum. Her yellow hair vanished beyond a sea of golden +gorse. Her figure melted against it, she was out of sight. 'I'm not a +bird yet, at any rate,' he gasped, settling to rest upon a convenient +mound and mopping his forehead. 'Not in body, at least. I've got no +balance to speak of. I think too much—probably.' He heard her singing +somewhere far behind him, and again a lark overhead took up the note and +bore it into space.</p> + +<p>But with the repose of his creaking muscles and elderly body, the rhythm +he had tried to dance now slipped under his ageless and untiring soul. +Like a rising wind the Downs were under him and he was up. Seeking a +point to settle on, his eye found only strong, subtle lines against the +blue, and running along these lines, his spirit was flung forwards with +them, upward into limitless space. No peak, no precipice blocked their +endless utterance; they flowed, they flew, and Wimble's heart flew with +them. The sense of unity, characteristic of airy freedom, invaded his +soul triumphantly with its bird's-eye view. He saw life whole beneath +him. Perhaps he dozed, perhaps he even slept; at any rate he knew this +strange perspective that showed him life, with its huge freight of +plodding humanity, rising suddenly into the air.</p> + +<p>To rely upon inner, subconscious guidance was to rely upon that portion +of his being—that greater portion—which obeyed spontaneously an immense +rhythm of the mothering World-Spirit. Thought broke this rhythm; Reason +was clever but not wise. The subconscious powers, knowing nothing, yet +approached omniscience; enjoyed omnipresence, while still being <i>here</i>. +In that state his individuality pooled in sympathy with all others +everywhere, tapping a universal wisdom which is available to intuition +but not to argument, and is so simple that a child, a bird, may know it +easily, singing and dancing its expression naturally. Unerring, +infallible, it is the rhythm of divinity, it is reliance upon deity.</p> + +<p>This germ of understanding sprouted in his heart, and practice would +develop it. He realised himself linked up, not alone with Nature, but +with the entire human family—and hence, with Mother. The practice, it +was obvious, began with Mother. He must see to it at once. Yet, though +clear as crystal in his heart, in his mind it all remained confused, too +shy for language, so that he recalled what the railway guard had said—it +cannot yet be told, but it can be lived.</p> + +<p>His heart flew like a bird through empty space, above all obstacles, +above all barriers. There was no detail to enchain attention, nothing to +obscure free vision; the soul in him, grand super-bird, took flight. +The airy attitude to life became divinely clear and simple, because, with +this bird's perspective, he saw life whole. Details that blocked +creative energy on earth with fear and difficulty, seemed negligible +after all; they were places to take off from. As wings trust carelessly +for support upon the universal, ethereal element enveloping them, so +could, so must, his will know faith and safety in the immense and +powerful rhythms that guide that delicate thrush, the redwing, from +Siberia to England every autumn, and steer Sirius unleashed, +untroubled, towards his eternal goal. He watched the little wheatears, +back from Africa, flitting from perch to perch of tufted grass, soon to +leave for their summer in distant Norway. Obedient to this serene and +mighty guidance, secure upon these everlasting wings, he saw the bird in +humanity open its wings at last. A new reliance upon subconscious +inspiration, linking all together, from the butterfly to the angel, +flashed through him, air its symbol, wings and flight its emblem. +He realised, with an instant's strange intensity, the unity of +indivisible air manifested in all forms of life the planet bore.</p> + +<p>This undetailed space about him inspired him oddly, it symbolised his +dream, the dream that had haunted him since earliest youth. He looked +<i>down</i> upon the world beneath him, upon the stretch of years he had flown +over, upon the congested streets and houses where men lived, upon the +iron conventions and traditions imprisoning their minds from escape into +freedom that yet lay so close. The element of earth weighed still +heavily upon them; earth builds forms; air, being form-less, offered +liberty. He saw these million forms already crumbling; he saw the masses +at the upper windows, on the roofs, all looking—up. With the coming of +air, the day of forms was passing. The ferment, the unrest, the +universal questing shone in these upturned eyes. They would not look +down again. The vital force had drained out of a thousand forms which +have served their day; no past tradition was absolute; they had found it +out. Everywhere he saw the emergence of this new spirit, leaving behind +it the empty, unsatisfying forms, yearning for fuller self-expression +that the unifying ethereal element of air now promised. The roofs were +strangely crowded. He saw the myriad figures. He saw that some of them +already sang and danced!</p> + +<p>Already the new mighty rhythm caught them whirling into space, each soul +more and more <i>en rapport</i> with the universal world-soul. Into their +hearts, with the lift of wings and a happy bird-like song, it stole +subconsciously; the formulae of doctrine which change and shift were +giving place to inner experience, and inner experience cannot be +destroyed, since it is formless, acknowledging no boundaries, obedient to +no creed. Form was dying, life was being born. . . .</p> + +<p>He watched the tumbling plover, the sea-gulls grandly sailing, the +soaring lark; the floating thistledown went past along the careless wind; +he saw his un-thinking daughter's natural, happy dancing, one and all +interpreting this message of the air, this promise of liberty that +brimmed his deep heart and his uneducated mind. The huge simplicity of +the naked Downs made him see existence singularly as a whole; across the + +open sweep before him the air came sweetly, blowing the tangle of +artificial living into easy rhythm and dancing everywhere.</p> + +<p>He saw the accidental barriers between creed and sect and nation blown +away. A new spiritual unity took their place, a synthetic life, the +parts highly specialised, as with birds, yet the whole in perfect +harmony. The day of special, exclusive dispensations had disappeared, +and this organic spiritual unity, with its new religion of service, +lifted the people as with mighty wings.</p> + +<p>'Dance on, my child! dance on!' he cried, 'it makes me see things whole!' +He watched her light, flying movements against the sea of yellow gorse, +the hair like a saffron scarf upon the wind, her radiant face shining and +laughing with the blue of endless space behind it. She did not heed his +words; she danced away again; she seemed one with the tumbling plover, +the sailing sea-birds, and the drifting thistle-down. She danced with +the Spring, and the air was in her heart.</p> + +<p>The spirit quickened in him as he saw her. His consciousness, he knew, +was but a fragment of an immense and deeper consciousness, of limitless +scope and powers; this greater self made affirmations to which no mere +intellect would dare to set the boundaries. With the air there was a +return of joy, belief and wonder into a world that has too long denied +all three. Intellect might stand aside a little longer, watching +cautiously, like Mother, the flights of intuition, that flashing bird of +fire that strikes and vanishes; but science, hitherto destructive +chiefly, must enter a new field or be discredited. It must become +constructive, it must examine spiritual states. The barrier between the +organic and the inorganic was already breached.</p> + +<p>'Dance on! My heart flies dancing with you!'</p> + +<p>With you! Rather with everything and every one! For he had this curious +inspiration, as though all his past condensed now into a single moment— +that a new attitude, due to the subliminal consciousness becoming +consciously organised with its myriad and mighty powers, was stealing +down into the hearts of men from the air. Since its outstanding +characteristic was a fuller understanding, a natural sharing, +a deep, instinctive sympathy, it involved an actual realisation of +spiritual unity that intellect alone has never yet achieved, and never +can. It was no flabby, Utopian, idealistic brotherhood he saw, but +a practical, co-operative life based upon those greater powers, and upon +that completer understanding lying, hid with God, in the subliminal +regions of humanity. Experienced hitherto sporadically, only, he saw +in what his heart called the promise of the air, their universal +acceptance and development. . . . In a second of time, this all flashed +into him as he watched the dancing little human figure on the gigantic +landscape. And after it, if not actually with it, rose that +unaccountable, uneasy, half-terrible emotion of deep-seated pain he had +known before—the shudder . . . He trembled, tried to sing. Then the +gorse pricked him where he lay. He turned to make himself more +comfortable. He wriggled. The attempt to sing tickled his throat and he +coughed.</p> + +<p>He sat up, feeling in his pockets for a pencil and paper. For the first +time in his life he felt he must write. 'I must give it out,' he mumbled +to himself. 'It's so wonderful, so simple. I must share it. I must +tell it to others—to everybody.' He actually made some notes. +'Ah,' he thought, as he read them over a few days later, 'they're no + +good. I don't <i>quite</i> understand them now, to tell the truth.' +He sighed. 'I'm only muddled,' he decided, 'just a Man in the Street +bewildered by a touch of inspiration that blew into me!'</p> + +<p>He lay watching Joan for a little longer, dancing in the middle distance +still. The zest of a bird was in her, the toss, the scamper. +Lithe, spinning, sure, her movements interpreted the air far more clearly +than his thoughts could compass it in words. Her song came to him with +the breeze. He watched her, then waved the packet of sandwiches above +his head. He was hungry. They ate their lunch, and spent the rest of +the day exploring the great spaces round them.</p> + +<p>It was evening when they got home; they heard the random sweetness of the +thrush's song among the laurels on the lawn; a nightjar was churning in +the dusk beyond; there was a subdued and tiny chattering of the swallows +in the eaves. They found Mother among the flower-beds, wearing her big +garden-gloves. Wimble took her in his arms and kissed her.</p> + +<p>'It's come, Mother, it's come,' he whispered against her cheek. +'And, d'you know?—you've been with us all day long.'</p> + +<p>She looked up, peaceful and happy, a smell of garden earth about her, and +the glow of the sunset in her eyes. 'Have I really, Joe dear?' she said. +'How lovely!' And then she added: 'I believe it is; yes, I believe it +is.'</p> + +<p>Next morning Wimble woke very, very early—close upon three o'clock. +He peered out of the window a moment. The dawn, he saw with a happy sigh +of wonder, was just beginning to break. The gleam of light fell upon +Mother's face; and the singing of a lark high up in the clearing air came +to him. At the same moment Mother moved in her bed close by; her heavy +breathing was interrupted. He listened. She was talking in her sleep, +though the words were indistinguishable. He waited, thinking she might +get up and walk. Her eyes, however, did not open; she lay still again. +He slipped over to tuck the blankets more securely round her. +'Bless her!' he thought. 'She's asleep! Her surface consciousness is +merged with her deep, safe, wise subconsciousness——' And his thought +broke off abruptly. It had suddenly occurred to him that the +sleep-walker and the migrating bird both found their way unerringly in +the darkness, both obedient to inner guidance. He stood still an +instant, looking down upon her face in the pale morning light.</p> + +<p>'Who, what guides the redwing over hills, and vales, and seas?' he +whispered. 'Who, what guides the sleep-walker amid the intricacies of +Maple furniture?' He chuckled to himself. It was odd how the comic +Aquarian lecture cropped up in his memory like this once more.</p> + +<p>He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then went back to bed. +Mother still mumbled in her sleep—' Flow, fly, flow,' he seemed to +catch, 'it's coming, coming . . . '</p> + +<p>'It's the bird returning to her heart,' he whispered to himself. +Deep down inside her being something sang; outside, the carolling of the +lark continued, blithe and joyous in the breaking dawn. As he fell +asleep, the two sounds were so curiously mingled that they seemed almost +indistinguishable. . . .</p> + +<p> </p> + +<h5><i>Printed by</i> R. & R. CLARK. LIMITED, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</h5> + +<p> </p> +<hr class="full"> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROMISE OF AIR***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 35132-h.txt or 35132-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/5/1/3/35132">http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/1/3/35132</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Promise of Air + + +Author: Algernon Blackwood + + + +Release Date: January 31, 2011 [eBook #35132] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROMISE OF AIR*** + + +E-text prepared by Lionel Sear + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustration. + See 35132-h.htm or 35132-h.zip: + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35132/35132-h/35132-h.htm) + or + (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/35132/35132-h.zip) + + + + + +THE PROMISE OF AIR + +by + +ALGERNON BLACKWOOD + +Author of 'The Education of Uncle Paul,' 'A Prisoner in Fairyland,' +'The Centaur,' Etc. + + + + + + + +Macmillan and Co., Limited +St Martin's Street, London +1918 + + + + +TO M. S.=K. (1913) + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Joseph Wimble was the only son of an analytical chemist, who, having made +considerable profits out of an Invisible Sticking Plaster, sent the boy to +Charterhouse and Cambridge in the hope that he would turn out a gentleman. +When Joseph left Cambridge his father left business, referred to himself +as Expert, used a couple of letters after his name, and suggested making +the Grand Tour of Europe together as a finishing touch. 'To talk +familiarly of Rome and Vienna and Constantinople as though you knew them,' +he explained, 'is a useful thing. It helps one with the women, and to be +helped by women in life is half the battle.' His ambitions for his son +were considerable, including above all a suitable marriage. The abrupt +destruction of these ambitions, accordingly, was so bitter a +disappointment that he felt justified in giving the lad a nominal sum and +mentioning that he had better shift for himself. For Joseph married +secretly the daughter of a Norfolk corn-chandler, announcing the news to +his father upon the very eve of starting for the Grand Tour. +Joseph found himself with 500 pounds and a wife. + +Joseph himself was of that placid temperament to which things in life just +came and went apparently without making very deep impressions. He was a +careless, indifferent sort of fellow even as a boy, careless of +consequences, indifferent to results: not irresponsible, yet very +easy-going. There was no intensity in him; he did not realise things. +'Oh, it's much the same to me,' would be his reply to most proposals. +'I'd as soon as not.' There was something fluid in his nature that +accepted life nonchalantly, as if all things were one to him; yet, again, +not that he was devoid of feeling or desires, but that he did not realise +life in the solid way of the majority. At school he did not realise that +he was what the world calls 'not quite a gentleman,' although the boys +made a point of proving it to him. At Cambridge he did not realise that +to pass his Little-go, or acquire the letters B.Sc., was of any +importance, although various learned and older men received good pay in +order to convince him of the fact. He just went along in a loose, +careless, big-hearted way of living, and took whatever came--exactly as it +came. He had a delightful smile and put on fat; shared his money with one +and all; existed in a methodical way as most other fellows of his age +existed, and grew older much as they did. So ordinary was he in fact, so +little distinguished from the rest of his kind, that men who knew him well +would stop and think when questioned if they numbered Joseph Wimble among +their acquaintances. 'Wimble, lemme see--oh yes, of course! Why, I've +known him for a couple of years!' That was Joseph Wimble. Only it made +no difference to him whether they remembered him or not. He behaved +rather as if everything was one to him in a very literal sense; as if the +whole bewildering kaleidoscope of life conveyed a single vast impression; +there was no reason to get excited over particular details; in the end it +was literally all one. His smattering of physics taught him that all +things could be expressed, more or less, in terms of one another. +That was his attitude, at any rate. 'Take it as a whole,' he would say +vaguely, 'and it's all right. It's all the same.' + +Yet his indifference to things was not so colourless as it appeared; but +was due, perhaps, to the transference of his interests elsewhere. +His centre of gravity hardly seemed on earth is one way of expressing it. +Behind the apparent stolidity hid something that danced and sang; +something almost flighty. It was laborious explanation that he dreaded +and despised, as though things capable of being 'explained' were of small +importance to him. He was eager to know things he wanted to know, yet in +a way he was too intensely curious, too impatient certainly, to put +himself to much trouble to find out. He refused to work, to 'grind' he +knew not how; yet he absorbed a good deal of knowledge; information came +to him, as it were. He figured to himself vaguely that there was another +surer way of learning than by memorising detail,--a flashing, darting, +sudden way, like the way of a bird. To follow a line of information to +its bitter end was a wearisome, stultifying business, the reality he +sought was lost sight of in the process. The main idea had interest for +him, but not the details, for the details blurred and obscured it. +Proof was a stupid word that blocked his faculties. He did not despise or +reject it exactly, but he refused to recognise it. In a sense he +overlooked it. Of answers to the important questions millions have been +asking for thousands of years there was no proof obtainable. Of survival, +for instance, or the existence of the soul, there was no 'proof,' yet for +that very reason he believed in both. He could 'prove' a stone, a tree, a +dog. He could name and weigh and describe it. The senses of hearing, +sight, and touch reported upon it, yet these reports he knew to be but +vibrations of the respective nerves that brought them to his brain. +They were at best indirect reports, and at worst referred to a mere +collection of unverified appearances. Logic, too, the backbone of +philosophy, affected him with weariness, just as his respect for reason +was shockingly undeveloped. And argument could prove anything, hence +argument for him was also futile. He jumped to the conclusion always. +Thus at school, and even more at Cambridge, he liked to know what other +fellows thought and believed, but as a whole and in outline only. +A general idea of 'what and why' was enough for him--just to catch the +drift. + +This faculty of catching the drift of any knowledge that he cared about +came to him naturally, as it seemed. They called him talented but lazy; +for he took the cream off; he swooped like a bird, caught it flying, and +was off upon another quest. Since there was no real proof of any of the +important things, why toil to master the tedious arguments and facts of +either side? There was somewhere a swifter, lighter way of knowing +things, a direct and instantaneous way. He was sure of it. Thus the +ordinary things of life he did not realise--quite as other people realised +them. They passed him by. + +One thing and one only, it seemed, he desired to realise, and that was +birds. It was a passion in him, a mania. He had a yearning desire to +understand the mystery of bird-life--not ornithology but _birds_. +Anything to do with birds changed the expression of his face at once; the +fat and placid indifference gave way to an emotion that, judging by his +expression, caused him a degree of wonder that was almost worship, of +happiness nearly painful. Their intense vitality inspired him, their +equality stirred respect. Anything to do with their flight, their songs, +their eggs, their habits fascinated him. And this fascination he +realised. He indulged it furiously, if of necessity secretly, since to +study bird-life fields and hedges must be visited without company. +But here again he took no particular pains, it seemed. As is usual with +an overmastering tendency, his knowledge of his subject was instinctive. +Before he went to Charterhouse he knew the size and colouring of every egg +that ever lay in a British nest, and by the time he left that school he +could imitate with marvellous accuracy the singing notes and whistles of +any bird he had heard once. He devoured books about them, studied their +differing ways of flight, knew every nest within a radius of miles about +his house in a given neighbourhood, and above all was moved to a kind of +ecstasy of wonder over the magic of their annual migration. That in +particular touched him into poetry. He thought dumbly about it, but his +imagination stirred. Inarticulateness increased his accumulating store of +wonder. The Grand Tour! Rome, Vienna, Constantinople, indeed! What were +the capitals of Europe compared to the Southern Tour _they_ made! +That deep instinct to hurry after the fading sun, to keep in touch with +their source of life, to follow colour, heat, light, and beauty. +That vast autumnal flight! The marvel of the great return, entranced by +the southern sun, intoxicated with the music of the southern winds! +That such tiny bodies could dare four thousand miles of trackless space, +travelling for the most part in the darkness, carelessly carrying nothing +with them, and rush back in the spring to the very copse or hedgerow left +six months before--that was a source of endless wonder to his mind. +There was pathos and loneliness in their absence. England seemed empty +once the birds had flown. The sky was dead without the swallows. Of +course the land was dark and silent when they left, and of course it burst +into colour, rhythm, movement, and singing when they showered back upon it +in the spring! + +The sweet passion of woodland music caught his heart. He realised that +birds had a secret and mysterious life of their very own, and that the +world they lived in was a happy and desirable world. That strange +knowledge at a distance men called instinct, puzzled him. A new method of +communication belonged to it too. It had its laws and customs, its joys +and terrors, its habits, rules, and purposes; but these all were strangely +different from anything that solid earth-life knew. Freedom, light, and +swiftness were the characteristics of that existence, and joy its +outstanding quality. Its universal telepathy exhilarated. No other +beings in the universe expressed themselves naturally by singing. + +The Kingdom of the Air became for him a symbol of an existence higher than +anything on the earth; air stood for a condition that at present was +beyond the reach of humanity, but that humanity one day would achieve. +His imagination figured this glorious accomplishment as the next stage in +evolution. A clever poet might have made Joseph Wimble the hero of an +original fairy tale, in which he lived and suffered heavily on solid +ground, eternal type of the exile, vainly yearning for his natural +element, the air. For exile was in it; he claimed the knowledge of the +air as a familiar experience. He felt that he knew and understood the air +instinctively; he belonged 'up there'; he had nested in the trees, perched +on some topmost twig, had balanced in the breeze, and sung his heart out +from sheer joy of living; he had even flown. + +This was doubtless a mental exercise, an imaginative flight. It all +seemed familiar to him, long, long ago, before this enormous physical +frame had walled him down to the ground and weight had handicapped +aspiration so distressingly. He looked at his body in the glass and +sighed. 'There's something wrong,' he realised. 'Why should I need such +a mass of stuff to function through? I'm supposed to be more intelligent +than animals or things.' He thought of a swift--and sighed. Size and +weight were so out of proportion to the role he played on earth. +The smaller forms of life were far less handicapped; a flea, a beetle were +a thousand times stronger relatively than a human being, whereas a little +bird----It all left him inarticulate. He was always inarticulate. +Dumbly he yearned for air; desired, that is, the mental attitude of one to +whom free swift movement in the air was natural; and the intensity of the +yearning--the one thing he fully realised--_must_ some day produce a +result. The beauty of an air-life hid in his blood. It expressed the +ultimate yearning of his very soul. + +'The next stage of the world is air,' he imagined with some part of his +intelligence that never could articulately clothe the dream in language. +'We shall never be happy and right until we know the air as birds do. +We've learned all the earth has got to teach us. There's a new age +coming--a new element its key: Air!' + +Earth, ever sweet and beautiful, was in the main, however, chiefly useful +only. Somehow he no longer felt the need of it. + +The unreality of objective knowledge, the limitations of the human +intellect afflicted him. He thought of the barren sterility of learned +minds, sacked tight with this objective information about the clothes of +the universe, yet uninformed concerning the living personality that wears +them. The scholars and collectors had no joy; they never sang. + +He thought hard about it. He tried to state to himself what he meant in +clear words. It was difficult. Already he thought in terms of air-- +transparent, everywhere at once, radiant and flashing. He experienced a +completeness and a buoyancy that denied the accepted rule that two and two +make four. Two and two, of course, did make four on earth and in the +nursery or the nest. But somehow in the air--they just didn't. There was +no two and two at all. They didn't exist. It was some kind of +synthetical air-knowledge that he sought. + +'Earth is divisible--divided,' he said to himself. 'It has details, +separate objects, definite divisions into stones and things. But in the +air there is no division. Air is homogeneous--not as the physicist's gas, +but as an expression of space.' In the air, or rather of the air, two and +two make four became not false exactly, but impossible. It could not be +said. Earth is not continuous, but broken up; it belongs to time and +time's divisions of the nursery. Earth is an expression of separateness. +Even water has drops, fluid and cohering though it is. Air has no drops. +There are no drops of air. There are currents, streams and surfaces, all +undetailed. Earth, he felt, belonged to time and time's divisions where +two and two made four. But air was of another category altogether, and +not of time at all. Air was one. + +It explained his indifference to earth. Though fastened physically like +every one else to the ground, his inmost being lived in the air already, +and some day he would meet a person who would explain and justify this +extraordinary yearning. He was aware of this expectancy in him, for the +craving to become articulate produced it. He needed a mate, of course. +Together, somehow, their deep desire would find expression. He would +become articulate through her. And suddenly, with a kind of abrupt +surprise that belongs to birds, he found her. + +The surprising way he found her, too, was characteristic. They floated, +if not flew, into each other's arms. + + + +CHAPTER II + + +It was a glad May morning, the air soft-flowing and cool, the sunshine +warm and brilliant, when the youth cut his lectures and went out into the +fields, drawn irresistibly by the electric rush and sparkle of the spring. +The swallows were home from the Southern Tour, and the sky was singing. +He could not sit and listen to chemical formulae in a lecture-room; it was +not possible. He wandered out carelessly into the world of buttercups, +following the stream where the feathered willows bent in a wave of falling +green. It was a true bird-day, and his heart, uprising like the larks, +was shrilling. He felt exactly like a bird himself, and it made him laugh +as naturally as a bird might sing. He fell to copying their various +cries. They came up close and saw him. They were aware of him. +'Birds of the sweet spring skies!' he thought, and yearned to share their +strange collective life, individual still, yet part of their magical +community. + +He soon found himself out of the scholastic town and among the flat +expanse of yellow fields beyond. The stream was blue, the grass an +emerald green, the willows laughed, showing their under leaves, the dew +still sparkled. Buttercups by the million nodded in the breeze; wings +were everywhere, the surface of the earth was dancing, and the whole air +fluttered. The earth was dressed in blue and gold. + +The singing was so general that he had to pause in order to pick out the +separate melodies; the song of the birds was, indeed, so much a part of +their surroundings that an act of definite listening was necessary to hear +it. It linked him on to Nature; it made Nature articulate. He heard the +hearty whistle of the blackcap among the swaying tree-tops, shrill with +joy; a whitethroat tossed itself exultantly into the air beside him; he +heard the warblers trilling, the little calling cry of the chiff-chaff, +the tiny poem of the willow-warbler, the merry laughter of the dainty +wren. The tits shot everywhere, pecking in seed, pricking the sunshine +with their tiny beaks, darting, flashing. He passed a farm and saw the +vigorous outline of a blackbird, perched upon an oak bough still bare, +fluting as Pan fluted upon many-fountained Ida long ago; a chaffinch +dipped at him over the wall from wet shrubberies beyond, hopped to a twig +in the sunlight above the blackbird, and let loose a shower of notes like +silvery drops of water. Singing shook itself out of the atmosphere +everywhere, as though the whole of Nature moved and trembled into her +strange scale-less music. There was the joy of air upon the stirring +world. + +The life of air was dominant, ruling the heavy earth--bird-life. +What delicious names they had, Whitethroat, Gold-oriel, Wheat-ear, Dipper, +Bunting, Redpoll, Osprey, Snowy-owl, Snow-bunting, Martin; what lyrical +names with fun and laughter in them, a childlike beauty of air and sunny +woodland-space. The magic of Spring captured him by its suggestion: +nothing was fully out, it was suggested only--eternal promise, ethereal +glamour: prophecy, hope, expectancy--fulfilment. + +On all sides he felt the tremendous lift of the year that comes in May +with song and colour and movement. The world was rhythmical. It caught +him into joy, as though it would sweep him like a harp into passionate +response. Yet he remained dumb and inarticulate. He drank it in: but he +could not sing, he could not soar, he could not fly. This piping, +fluting, thrilling, this showering stream of sweet elemental song and +dance was not of the earth, but of the air. The strange yearning in him +grew and gathered into a dangerous accumulation. It must find expression +somehow or he would--burst. + +He threw himself down in the long grass beside the blue-throated stream, +and became at once all eyes and ears. There was no other way. The cool +touch of the luxuriant herbage brought a slight relief, as did the +itemising of the songs he heard and imitated, the colours he gazed upon +and named: the shimmering sheen of the rooks in the elm trees yonder; +the deep, unpolished ebony of the blackbird with its beak of gleaming +yellow; the bright and roving eye of the little whitethroat picking food +along the bank; the shearing speed of the swifts cutting the air with +tapering, scythe-like wings; the piping sweetness of a thrush, invisible +in a thicket behind the farm buildings--all these combined to put the true +bird-ecstasy upon him as he lay and watched and listened. The amazing +outburst of spring music lifted him almost into the air to join the ropes +of starlings twisting and untwisting as if they reproduced the wild soft +tangle of his unsatisfied yearnings. And their tiny flickering shadows +fell upon the ground in ever-shifting patterns that he could never catch +or seize. Upon his mind fell similarly rushing thoughts he was unable to +express . . . the rhythm of some mighty promise that uplifted. He was +aware of love and beauty. The soul in him rose and twittered like a +lark. . . . + +Then, presently, he raised his head above the screen of grass. There was +a sound of footsteps. His hearing was abnormally acute when this +bird-mood took him, for the tapping tread of a wagtail on the bank had +made itself distinctly heard. He saw the frisky creature, dainty as a +sprite, tripping nimbly among the rushes just below him. It balanced very +cleverly, neatly dressed in its tailor-made of feathers. He saw its fairy +ankles. It seemed to hold its skirts up. He caught its bright eye +peeping. It was gone. + +'Soft, slip of a bird!' he thought to himself with a sharp sensation of +regret; 'why did it leave me in such a hurry?' He felt something tender +and earnest in him, something true and thorough, yet careless and light +with joy, a true bird-quality. He felt, too, the pathos of the sudden +disappearance: a moment ago it had been there in all its gracious beauty, +and now the spot was empty. + +'Where, in what new haunted corner of these fields----' he began, +half-singing, when a new and startling flash of loveliness caught his eye +and took his breath away. Another wagtail, but this time yellow, +marvellous as a dream, came pricking into view. + +Somehow, beyond all understanding, the sweet apparition focussed his +tangle of inarticulate yearning into a blaze of delight that was a climax. +The advent of the exquisite little creature, with its delicate carriage, +its bosom of pure yellow, seemed symbolical almost. The idea of something +sylph-like from the heart of the air flashed into him. The whole singing, +dancing, coloured element produced this living emblem from its central +heart of the flooding Spring. There was true air-magic in it. +The passion of Spring and the mystery of birds focussed together in the +tiny symbol. Imagination touched the pitch of ecstasy. He turned +abruptly. There was a whirr, a streak of burning yellow that lost itself +against the sea of buttercups, and lo! He was--alone again. + +But this time the loneliness was more than he could bear. + +He sprang to his feet, and at full speed took the direction in which it +disappeared. Some wisdom of the birds was in him possibly, though alas, +not their light rapidity, for while guided wisely along the windings of +the willow-guarded stream, across the fields, past hedges, copses, farms, +over ditches innumerable, he could not overtake his prize--and so at last +came into a lonely spot that lay far away upon the surface of the +countryside. The occasional flash of yellow had led him onwards in this +way, as though the bird enticed him of set purpose; it would land, then +shoot away again just as he came up with it. It left a trail of gold +across the sunlit fields. It was a will-o'-the-wisp--in sunlight. +It behaved like some spiritual decoy. + +Afterwards, when he thought about it, his chase took on this aspect of +curious allurement, for he knew he could never catch the bird for actual +handling, even had he so desired. Nor did he wish to; he had no desire to +'prove' this symbol that summed up his imaginative passion. He only +wanted to come up with it; to meet its peeping eye, to watch it at close +quarters: its sylph-like beauty had seduced him. Twice he dashed through +the water, where the stream made a tiresome bend, and his track across the +fields of early hay would have warranted a farmer in putting dust-shot +into him. Yet he kept just within sight of it--of the flashing yellow +which made him oblivious of all else; and the brimstone butterflies, the +yellow-hammers, the orange-tinted kingfishers that obviously tried to +confuse the trail by shooting across his path, failed wholly to divert him +from the chase. He knew which gold to follow. It was in his heart. + +The wagtail at last shot headlong past a clump of bramble-bushes, and +Wimble, arriving also headlong, saw to his amazement that the yellow of +its breast remained on the branches as though caught and fixed. To his +astonishment the gold lay in a shining stream across the prickles without +moving. It held fast. He saw the gleaming line of it. He thought he was +dreaming for an instant--then discovered that the stream of gold was a +yellow scarf that had been netted by the hedge. It belonged to a human +being. The same second he saw a sun-bonnet and a book lying on the other +side by a pond below some willows. And the being was a blue-eyed girl. +His sylph of the air had come to earth. Two black stockings hung on a +branch to dry. She was bare-footed. He certainly met her eye, and it +was a surprised, reproachful eye. He looked down at her, and she looked +up at him. His heart came up into his throat and then into his eyes. + +'I suppose you know you're trespassing,' said a voice that was both cross +and sweet at once. 'These fields are father's.' + +'Yes,' replied young Wimble of Trinity, staring at her in amazement. +'I'm awfully sorry.' He was lost in admiration and unable to conceal it. +She was more than a farmer's daughter, he was thinking, as instinctively +he transferred to her all the yearning, airy passion he had put into his +search for the yellow wagtail. + +'Father complained last week again, and there are new boards up +everywhere.' He remembered vaguely there had been complaints about +trespassing; he had blundered into the very spot where the offences had +been committed. 'So you've no excuse!' she added, watching him. + +'I'm awfully sorry,' he repeated, as he disentangled the yellow scarf and +passed the end into her outstretched hand. The sunburned skin just +matched the landscape, he noted the tiny bleached hairs upon her arm. +'I saw a yellow wagtail and went after it. They're rather uncommon.' +And then he added, 'I suppose it--you--got caught, scrambling through the +hedge. I'm frightfully sorry. Really, I'm ashamed. I saw the bird--and +forgot everything. I believe it flew back--flew into you!' + +They stood looking at each other. If he cut a comical figure, she +certainly did not; for whereas his face was hot, his tie flown over one +shoulder, his grey trousers splashed with mud; she seemed in her natural +setting between the willows and the hedge, the untidy hair falling loose +about the neck, her arms akimbo and her sunburned face suiting her to +perfection. She looked cool and extraordinarily radiant. He thought she +was absurdly beautiful; his heart began to beat deliciously; and when she +lost the cross expression and smiled at him the next moment he blurted out +a confused, impetuous something before he could possibly prevent it. + +'You're awfully becoming,' he stammered. 'I say--I'm jolly glad I saw +that yellow wagtail and followed it. I believe it flew back into your +heart.' + +Her smile broadened into a laugh at once. It was impossible to be angry +with such a youth. 'You undergraduates,' she said, 'are the most +ridiculous people I've ever known. But I shan't let you go now I've got +you. You're fairly caught.' + +'Rather,' said Wimble with unfeigned delight. + +'Then you'd better come with me and see father at once,' she went on. +'You can explain yourself to him--about the wagtail.' + +'Rather,' he repeated, though with less enthusiasm. It was the only word +that he could think of; and he added, 'presently.' + +She looked him up and down. 'It's best, I think.' And her laughter was +now friendly. + +'I will,' he repeated, 'I'll go anywhere with you. I admit I'm caught. +Do you think he'll be very nasty to me?' + +But he scarcely knew what he was saying all the time, for his one desire +was not to lose sight of her now that he had found her. Her face, her +laughter, her singing voice, her attitude, everything about her made him +gasp. He already thought of her in bird-terms. He remembered the +redwing, delicate thrush, that comes to England from the North and is off +again too soon--of countless birds that haunt our fields with transient +beauty, then vanish suddenly, afraid to stay and rest. An anxious pang +transfixed his heart. Any moment she might spread big yellow wings and +leave him fluttering on the ground. 'If I've done any damage,' he added, +'I'll put it right. It was worth it, anyhow.' But he saw that she +laughed with him now, not at him, and he began to smile himself. +She was adorable. 'I'll swear she's a birdy girl,' the thought flashed +through him. + +'If you'll turn your back a moment, please,' he heard her saying, +'I'll put my shoes and stockings on again. There's no good paddling any +more with _you_ here.' + +'Rather not,' he said, and ran down to fetch them for her. + +And so it began and ended in the brief ten minutes of this intoxicating +May morning beside the willow pond where the birds of the countryside came +down to bathe at dawn and drink at sunset. It was an ideal opening. +She put her stockings on, but not before he had complained that she was +slow about it because a thorn had run into her toe, blaming him so that he +had to extract it with trembling fingers and a penknife. They were +laughing together like two children by the time he finished; and by the +time they reached the house he had dipped into her being and found, as in +a book of poetry, that all his favourite passages were marked. Moreover, +she had led him by so round a way that they had been obliged to rest under +the hedges more than once, and had discovered also that they were very +hungry. The sudden intimacy was the sudden falling in love of two young +persons who were obviously made for one another. It was the mating of two +birds. They had met by the pond, exchanged glances, and then flown off +together across the lawn. For it was spring and nesting time. . . . The +dust of blue and bronze was on the dragon-flies, the bloom and promise of +deep-bosomed summer in the air. . . . + +'Father, this is my friend, Mr. Wimble,' she introduced him. +'You remember, I told you. He's at Trinity.' + +'You'll stay and have a bite with us, won't you then? It's just time,' +was the genial invitation, given to hide his excusable lack of +recognition. There was no mention of the damaged fields nor of the +trespassing. 'Come, Joan, let's get at it, for I'm starving.' + +The name sounded wonderful, but Joseph knew it already and had already +used it, his face close against her red lips and shining eyes. He also +knew his fate was sealed, and he wished to heaven his own father was as +nice as hers. + +'I'm a chandler,' he was told in the course of the talk across the +luncheon table by the window while the birds hushed their song outside, +well knowing it was noon, 'a corn-chandler down in Norfolk. But I've got +two farms up here in Cambridgeshire, and I'm just up to look over 'em for +a chap as wants to buy 'em off me.' He was a rough-and-ready type, free +in his drink and language, using meaningless oaths more frequently as +intimacy grew, and betraying a somewhat irascible temperament as well. +Yet he was kindly enough. And before Joseph left to go back to his +forgotten lectures there had been an invitation too: 'You must come down +and see us there some time if you don't mind a bit of roughing it. +We live very simple.' + +From all of which it was clear that the corn-chandler was favourably +impressed by the visit of an Undergraduate of Cambridge University, and +would not be at all averse to marrying his daughter to the first available +young man with reasonable credentials. It was all so easy, instinctive, +natural. It ran so smoothly. It flowed, it flew. No obstacles appeared. +There was flight and rapture in it from the very start. The couple +managed to see one another once a day at least for the next three weeks, +but before the first week ended they were engaged. Young Wimble said +nothing at home because he knew his father would object to the daughter of +a corn-chandler who lived in Norfolk. By September they were married. +But by the end of September Joseph realised that they were married--quite +another thing. For his father meant what he said, and beyond a modest +allowance from the chandler to his daughter, they started life with +nothing but the small lump sum by means of which Mr. Wimble senior eased +his conscience and set himself right with the outside world. The capitals +of Europe were not visited. + +Joseph and Joan, however, took the situation like a pair of birds, lightly +and carelessly. They were as thoughtless as two finches on the lawn, and +as faithful as red linnets. The game of the yellow wagtail chase was kept +up between them. He pretended that it was her flying scarf he had seen +shining two miles across the buttercup fields, and she declared that she +had gone to the willow pond on purpose, knowing in her bones--she called +them feathers--that one day some one would find her there and capture her. +The actual wagtail was a real decoy. It was his yearning and her own +materialised. + +They laughed and played with the idea till it grew very real. And the +future did not frighten them a bit. They took their money and spent it on +their honeymoon, leaving for the south in October with the birds. +They started on the great Southern Tour, building their first nest far +away in a sun-drenched Algerian garden where the air, soft with the bloom +of an eternal summer, mastered the earth and made it seem of small +account. Nothing could weigh them down, nor cage them in. They led a +true air-life together, the winds were softly scented, stars shone nightly +above their cosy tent, they sang in the golden sunsets and washed their +young bodies in the morning dew. + +It was the paradise of a realised dream, a sparkling ecstasy they thought +could never end. Her beauty seemed to him the one thing necessary. +The autumn migration of the birds, mysterious with grandeur, had always +suggested to him a passing-away from earth, a procession to another life, +and a returning to sing of it with rapture in the spring. Their honeymoon +was this dream come true. They mated and married as birds do, on the +wing, and singing. And their first-born, a girl, was the offspring of a +passion as intense and radiant as any passion can be in this world. +Their imaginative ecstasy, prolonged wondrously through golden months, +lifted them from the earth towards the very stars. In it was singing, +flight, and rapture, the freedom of wild free spaces and the glory of +flashing, coloured wings. + +It was of the air. They fluted to one another beneath the moon; they +soared above the noonday heat, they warbled in the scented dusk. +Their child, conceived of sun and wind, in a transport of bliss akin to +that careless passionate happiness that makes bird-life a ceaseless +running song, was born where the missel-thrush sings in the moonlight, and +the nightingales in February. She was a veritable child of air. A bird +on the wing dropped her to earth in passing, and was gone. . . . + + + +But something else was gone about that time as well. There came the +collapse of inevitable reaction--tragedy. It was as pitiful as anything +well could be. Having accomplished her chief end in life, the wife's +strange beauty faded: her lightness, brilliance waned, her rapture sank +and died; she became a heavy, rather stupid mother; she returned to type +whence youth and imagination had temporarily rescued her. Her underlying +traits of ordinary texture dulled the colour of her yellow wings. +She bequeathed her all to this radiant, sparkling firstborn, and herself +went out. The thing he loved in her vanished or became obliterated. +He had caught her main drift; he tired. She tired too. In him patient +affection replaced ecstatic adoration; in her there was tolerance, +misunderstanding, then disappointment. To live longer on the heights they +had first climbed became impossible. All that had fascinated him, caught +him into the air, departed from her. The bird flew from her--into the +little girl with yellow hair and big blue eyes. + +She wearied of the life in tents and spoke of 'artistic furniture' at +home, of comfort, and began to wonder how their 'living' could be +'earned.' The practical outlook developed, the carelessness of air +decreased. Tom, the second-born, was the culminating proof of the +saddening descent. He was just a jolly little dirty animal. 'He's like a +rabbit,' thought his father, looking with disappointment on him, thus +introducing the big, bitter quarrel that ended in their coming back to the +heavy skies of England, settling in a flat in Maida Vale, and led +eventually to his taking up work in connection with a modern publishing +house to provide the necessary food and rent and clothing. They landed +with a distinctly heavy thud--on earth. + +It was, on the mother's part, a great tragedy of sacrifice. Having given +all her best qualities to the first-born, she kept none over for herself-- +not even enough to appreciate her loss. Her radiance, sparkle, lightness, +all her airy wonder, joy and singing, passed from her into yellow-haired +little Joan. She stared at it with dull misunderstanding in her heart. +She had not retained enough even to understand herself. She did not even +discover that she had changed, for only when a fragment remains is the +loss of the rest recognised, much less regretted. + +By expressing herself in reproduction, she had not grown richer, but had +somehow merely emptied herself. Her husband, moreover, was not heartless. +He was not even to blame. He remained tender, kind, and true, but he did +not love. For the thing he loved had gone--into another form. + +Like the shifting shadows of the wings upon the Cambridge flats that gay +spring morning, there fell upon his mind a shower of vague and +indescribable thoughts, only one of which he pounced upon before it fled +away. + +'What has been so long unconscious in me, little Joan may perhaps make +conscious. I wonder . . .!' He wondered till he died. He kept his +wings, that is. + + + +CHAPTER III + + +The return to London was a return to the demands of earth; from the bright +and fiery aether of the southern climate they landed with something of a +jar among sooty bricks and black-edged mortar. The sunshine dimmed, the +very air seemed solid. Regular hours of work made it difficult for him to +lift his wings, much less to fly; he knew the London air was good, but he +never noticed that it was air at all; he almost forgot they had ever lived +in the air and flown at all. Grocers, butchers, and bakers taught Mrs. +Wimble to become very practical, and the halfpenny newspapers stirred her +social ambitions for her children. Wimble worked hard and capably, and +they made both ends meet. He proved a patient husband and a devoted +father, if perhaps a rather vague one. His moment of realisation was +over. He accepted the routine of the majority, living methodically, +almost automatically, yet always a little absent-mindedly as though much +of his intelligence was unconsciously at work elsewhere. + +Both parents altered; but, whereas his change was on the surface only, his +wife's seemed fundamental and permanent. He was aware that he had +altered, she was not aware. They differed radically, for instance, about +the prolonged and golden honeymoon in the south. + +'The money lasted uncommonly well,' said Mrs. Wimble when they spoke of +it; 'it was a pity we didn't keep over a little, wasn't it?' There was a +hint of asperity in the droop of her lips. + +'We should have it now if we had,' he answered vaguely but with patience. +'But for me it's a memory that will always live.' He spoke with longing +tenderness. + +'What?' said Mrs. Wimble, who, like all slow thinkers, liked sentences +repeated, thus giving time to find an intelligent reply. + +'We had a lovely time out there,' she admitted with a sigh, and went on to +mention by way of complaint that she feared she was getting rather stout +in London. There was no idea in her that she had changed in any other +way; she looked back upon Algeria as a kind of youthful madness, half +regretting it. That the bird had flown from her heart did not occur to +her. Not alone her body, but her mind was getting stout. She had grown +so artificial that she was no longer real. The manners, moods, the words +and gestures she adopted in order to please or in order to appear as +others are, had ended by effectually screening her own natural self, that +which is every one's possession of unique value. It was not so much that +she was false as that she was not herself. She was unreal. + +In Wimble, however, those two years remained as something bewilderingly +beautiful. Just out of sight in his heart he wore still the steady glow +of it. He never could recall quite what he had felt in those deliriously +happy days, yet the knowledge that they had been deliriously happy +remained and warmed his blood. It was a big, brave, heartening memory +beneath his coloured waistcoat. He dreamed his dream, only he did not +tell it to any one--yet. He remained a kind, untidy husband and father. +But that was the outer portion of him. The inner portion flew and soared +and even sang. He no longer quite understood the meaning of this inner +portion, but some day, he felt, it would be drawn out of him again and +recognised. He would be taught to realise it, and what this bird-thing in +him meant would be made clear. Already he looked to little Joan with +something more than an infatuated father's adoration for her yellow hair, +her bright blue eyes, her light and dancing ways. Tom he just loved in +the way his mother loved. He remained a rabbit with distinctive +tendencies of the animal. But with Joan it was different. In Joan there +was something he looked forward to. Even at the age of five there was a +glint about her that increased the glow in him; at ten it was still more +marked. She puzzled her mother considerably, just as later she alarmed +her. 'I'm nervous about the child; she doesn't seem like other girls of +her age. I don't see her getting on much,' was her opinion, expressed +again and again in the same or similar language. 'Joan seems to me +backward.' + +'Well,' admitted her husband, 'she's certainly not in a hurry about it. +She's maturing slowly. Lots of them do--when there's a good deal to +mature.' + +'I hope you're right, Joe.' And then she added with pride by way of +compensation--'Tom's coming along nicely, anyhow,'--as though she spoke of +a growing vegetable or, as he thought, of a rabbit in a cage with lettuces +in front of it, and the idea of mating the chief end in life. + +Once past the age of sixteen, however, Joan too came along nicely, and +with a sudden rush that reminded her father of a young bird consciously +leaving the nest. She seemed to mature so abruptly. There came a +wondrous bloom upon her, as though the South poured up and blossomed in +her body, mind, and soul. It took her father deliciously by surprise. +The glowing thing in him spread too, rose to the surface, caught fire. +He watched her with amazement, joy, and pride. He felt wings inside him. +Thought danced--flashed against a background of blue and gold again. + +'She'll do something in the world before she's done,' he said confusedly +to himself, feeling a prophecy he had always made without realising it. +'There's wings in the girl. She'll teach them how to fly!' + +He was beginning to realise himself--through her. His early ideal had +taken flesh again, but this time with a difference. He had not merely +found it. He had created it. + +For, more and more lately, the influence of Joan upon him had been +growing. It was not merely that she made him feel young again, nor that +her queer ways made him aware that he wanted to sing and dance. It was, +in a word, that he recognised in her the remarkable thing he had known +first in her mother years ago--but released in all its golden fullness. +He recovered in her sparkling presence the imaginative dream that had +caught him up into the air in youth, and it was both in her general +attitude to life as well as in the odd things she now began to say and do. +Her general attitude expressed it better than her words and acts. +She _was_ it--lived it naturally. She had the Air in her. In her +presence the old magic rose over him again. He remembered the strange +boyhood's point of view about it--that a new thing was stealing down into +the world of men, a new point of view, a new way of looking at old, dull, +heavy things, that Air was catching at the heart of humanity here and +there, trying to lift it somehow into freedom. He thought of the +collective wisdom and brotherhood of birds. He forgot that he was growing +old. + +The old longing for carelessness, lightness, speed in life--these snatched +at him with passionate yearning once again. Joan was the air-idea +personified. And she had begun to find herself. + +But so long now had he lived the mole-existence in London that at first +this delicious revival baffled and bewildered him. He could not suddenly +acquire speed without the risk of losing balance. + +He became aware of a maddening desire to escape. He wanted air. Joan, he +felt positive, knew the way. But the majority of people about him--his +wife, Tom, their visitors, their neighbours--had not the least idea what +it was he meant. And this lack of comprehension gave him a feeling of +insecurity. He was out of touch with his environment. He was above, +beyond, in advance of it. He was in the air a little. + +He looked down on them--in one sense. + +There were times when he did not know whether he was standing on his head +or his feet. 'Everything looks different suddenly,' as he expressed it. +He saw things upside down, or inside out, or backwards forwards. +And the condition first betrayed itself one afternoon when he returned +unexpectedly from work--he was still traveller to a publishing house--and +found his wife talking over the tea-cups with a caller. He burst into the +room before he knew that any one was there, and did not know how to escape +without appearing rude. He sat down and fingered a cup of tea. They were +talking of many things, the sins of their neighbours in Maida Vale, +chiefly, and after the pause and interruption caused by his unwelcome +entrance, the caller, searching for a suitable subject, asked: + +'You've heard about Captain Fox, I suppose?' + +'What?' asked Mrs. Wimble, opening her eyes as though anxious to read the +other's thoughts. Evidently she had not heard about Captain Fox. + +'I don't think I have,' she said cautiously. 'What--in particular?' + +'He's going to marry her,' was the reply. 'I know it for a fact. +But don't say anything about it _yet_, because I heard it from Lady +Spears, who . . .' + +She dragged a good deal of Burke into the complicated explanation, making +it as impressive as she could. Captain Fox, who was no better than he +should be, according to the speakers, paid rather frequent visits upon the +young widow of the ground-floor flat, who should have been better than she +was. To find that honest courtship explained the friendship was something +of a disappointment. Mrs. Marks wished to be the first to announce the +innocent interpretation, to claim authorship, indeed--having persistently +advocated the darker view. + +'Who'd ever have guessed that?' exclaimed Mrs. Wimble, off her guard a +moment. 'You always told me----' + +The face of her caller betrayed a passing flush. + +'Oh, one always hoped,' she began primly, when Mrs. Wimble interrupted her +with a firm, clear question: + +'By the bye, who _was_ she?' she asked. + +And hearing it, Wimble felt his world turn upside down a moment. +He realised, that is, that his wife saw it upside down. For his wife to +ask such a question was as if he had asked it himself. He felt ashamed. +His world turned inside out. He looked down on them. He rose abruptly, +finding the energy to invent a true-escaping sentence: + +'You ask who she _was_,' he said, not with intentional rudeness, yet +firmly, 'when you ought to ask----' + +Both ladies stared at him with surprise, waiting for him to finish. +He was picking up the cup his sudden gesture had overturned. + +'Who she _is_,' concluded Wimble, with the astonishment of positive rebuke +in his tone. 'What can it matter who she was? It's what she is that's of +importance. The Captain's got to live with _that_.' And then the +escaping-sentence: 'If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Marks, I have to go upstairs +to see a book'--he hesitated, stammered, and ended in confusion--'about a +book.' And off he went, making a formal little bow at the door. +He went into the dining-room down the passage, vaguely aware that he had +not behaved very nicely. 'But, of course, I'm not a gentleman exactly,' +he said to himself; 'what's called a gentleman, that is. Father was only +an analytical chemist.' + +He stood still a moment, then dropped into a chair beside the table with +the red and black check cloth. His mind worked on by itself, as it were. + +'What I said was true, anyhow. People always ask, "Who was she?" about +everything. What the devil does that matter? It's what you are that +counts. Father was a chemist, but I--I----' + +He got up and walked over to the clock, because the clock stood on the +mantelpiece, and there was a mirror behind it. He wanted to see his own +face. He stared at himself a moment without speaking, thinking, or +feeling anything. He put his tie straight and picked a bit of cotton from +his shoulder. + +'I am Joseph Wimble, not a gentleman quite, not of much account anywhere +perhaps, but a true workman, earning 250 pounds a year, knowing all about +the outside, and something about the inside of books; thirty-seven years +old, with a boy at the Grammar School, a girl of sixteen in the house, and +married to--to----' He paused, turned from the mirror, and sat down. +It cost him an effort to remember--'to Joan Lumley, daughter of a +corn-chandler in Norfolk, who might die any moment and leave us enough to +live on,' he went on, 'in a more comfortable position,' passing his hand +over his forehead; 'and my life is insured, and I've put a bit by, and +Tom's to be a solicitor's clerk, and everything's going smoothly except +that taxes----' + +The sound of an opening door disturbed him. He felt confused in his mind. +He heard Mrs. Marks saying loudly, 'And please say good-bye for me to your +_h_usband,' the aspirate so emphasised that it was obviously an +insecurity. She intended he should hear and understand she bore him no +ill-will for his bad manners, yet despised him. The steps went +downstairs, and the two questions came back upon him like pistol-shots: + +'Who _was_ she? Who _am_ I? + +He realised he had been wandering from the point. + +'I'm a centre of life, independent and unafraid,' thought flashed an +answer. 'I'm what I make myself, what I think myself. I'm not seeing +things upside down; I'm beginning to think for myself, and that's what it +is. No one, nor nothing, nor anything anywhere in the world,' he went on, +mixed in speech, but clear in mind, 'can prevent me from being anything I +feel myself, will myself, say I am. I've never read nor thought nor +bothered my head about things before. By heavens! I'll begin! I _have_ +begun----' + +'What's the matter, Joe? Have you got a headache, or is it the books +bothering you, dear?' His wife had come in upon him. + +She put her hand upon his forehead, and he got up from his chair and faced +her. + +'I've made a discovery,' he said, with exhilaration in his manner, +'a great discovery.' He looked triumphantly at her. 'I am.' + +'What are you?' she asked, thinking he was joking, and his sentence left +unfinished on purpose. + +'I _am_,' he repeated with emphasis. 'I have discovered that I am, that I +exist. Your question to that woman made me suddenly see it.' + +His wife looked flustered, and said vaguely, 'What?' Wimble continued: + +'As yet, I don't know exactly what I am, but I mean to find out. Up till +now I've been automatic, just doing things because other people do 'em. +But I've discovered that's not necessary. I'm going to do things in +future because I want to. But first I must find out _why_ I am what I am. +Then the explanation'll come--of everything. Do you see what I mean? +It's a case of "Enquire within upon everything."' And he smiled. +His heart fluttered. He felt wings in it--again. + +'Do you mean you're going to start in the writing or publishing line, +Joe?' It had always been her secret ambition. + +'That may come later,' he told her, 'when I've something to say. For it's +really big, this discovery of mine. Most people never find it out at all. +She'--indicating with his thumb the direction Mrs. Marks had taken-- +'hasn't, for instance. She simply isn't aware that she exists. +She isn't.' + +'Isn't what, dear?' + +'She is _not_, I mean, because she doesn't know she is,' he said loudly. + +'Oh, that way. I see.' Mrs. Wimble looked a wee bit frightened. He had +seen an animal, a rabbit for instance, look like that before it decided to +plunge back into its hole for safety. + +'There are strange, big things about these days, I know,' she said after a +pause, thinking of the books with queer titles his employers published. +'You have been reading too much, dear, thinking and----' + +'Mother,' he interrupted, instinctively omitting her name, and in a tone +that convinced her his head was momentarily turned, 'that's the whole +trouble. I've never thought in my life.' + +'But why should you, dear?' she soothed him, wondering if people who lost +their memory and wandered off exhibited such symptoms first. 'You always +do your work splendidly. Don't think too much, is what I say. It always +leads to worrying----' + +'Hardly ever--till this moment,' he was saying in the grave, emphatic way +that so alarmed her. 'Not even when I asked you to marry me, when Tom was +born, or Joan, or when we took this flat, or anything.' + +'You've made quite a success of your life without it anyhow, Joe dear. +And no woman could ask more than that. D'you feel poorly? Joan can fetch +Dr. Monson in a moment.' It was a variant of 'What?' + +'I feel better and bigger and stronger,' he replied, 'more real than ever +in my life before. I have never been really alive till this moment. +I _am_--and for the first time I know it. I'm experiencing.' He stopped +short, as Joan went down the passage singing, pausing a moment to look in, +then tactfully going on her way again. The fluttering in his heart became +more marked. Something was trying to escape. There was a whirr of wings +again. 'Mother,' he said to his wife, as their heads turned back from the +door together, 'do you know what "experiencing" is? D'you realise what +the word means?' + +She sat down, resting her arms upon the table. She looked quietly into +his eyes, as at one who is about to speak out of greater knowledge. + +'Joe dear, I _have_ had experiences--experiences of my very own, you +know.' + +'Yes, yes, I know, I know. But what I mean is--do you get the meaning, +the real meaning of the word?' + +She sighed audibly. 'Not your meaning, perhaps,' she meant. But she did +not say it. + +'It means,' he said, delighted with her exquisite silence, 'it means-- +er----' He thought hard a moment. 'Experience,' he went on, 'is that +"something" which changes potatoes into nourishment, and so into emotion. +That's it. Until you eat potatoes, you don't exist. Until you have +experiences, you don't exist. When you have experiences and know that you +have them, you--_per_sist.' + +She gasped aloud. She took his hand--very quietly. + +'Joe dear,' she said, softly as in their courtship days, 'such ideas don't +come into your head from nowhere. Has some one been talking to you? +Have you been reading these books?' + +His pulse was very quiet. + +'Have you been reading the firm's books, dear?' she repeated. + +She asked it gently, forgivingly, as a mother might ask her boy, +'Have you been tasting father's whisky?' The books were meant to sell to +booksellers, to the public, to people who needed that particular kind of +excitement. Her husband was to be trusted. He was not supposed to know +what they contained. His 'line' of trade was chiefly medical, +psychological, religious, philosophical. Fiction was another 'line'--for +the apprentice. Joe was an 'expert' traveller. He was expected to talk +about his wares, but not as one who read them. Merely their selling value +was his strong point. + +By the expression of his face she knew the answer. + +He leaned back in his chair, just as he did sometimes when he asked what +there was for dinner--the same real interest in his eyes--and he answered +very calmly: + +'My dear, I have--a bit. _Cogito ergo sum_. For the first time I +understood, in theory, that I existed. My reading taught me that. +But I never knew it in practice until just now, when I heard you ask that +question about the future Mrs. Fox: "Who _was_ she?" And then I knew +also that you----' + +'You what?' enquired Mrs. Wimble, bridling. + +'Were unaware that you existed,' he replied point blank. + +'Aren't you a little beside yourself, Joe--sort of excited, or something? +'she gasped, proud of her tact and self-control. 'What else could I have +said? How could I have put it different?' + +'Joan,' he answered gently, 'you should have said, "What _is_ she?" +For that would have meant you thought for yourself. It would have meant +that you knew you _were_, and that you knew she _was_.' + +'Original?' said Mrs. Wimble slowly, catching her husband's meaning +vaguely, but more than a little disturbed in her mind. + +'No,' he answered, 'true. Just as when, years ago--the sunshine lovely +and the fields full of buttercups--you wore a yellow scarf, and a wagtail +beside a willow pond came so near that----' + +'Joe,' she said with a slight flush that was half displeasure yet half +flattered vanity,' you needn't bring up that again. We were a bit above +ourselves, dear, when that happened. We lost our heads----' + +'Above ourselves! Free and real and happy,' he interrupted her, 'that's +what we were then. We had wings. We've lost 'em. We were in the air, I +tell you.' His voice grew louder. 'And what's more, we knew it.' + +He heard his daughter pass down the narrow passage again, singing. He got +up and seemed to shake himself. There was again a fluttering in him. + +'We certainly were in the air,' murmured his astonished wife. + +'You were a glorious yellow wagtail,' he went on, so that she didn't know +whether his laughter was in earnest or in play, 'and we were rising--into +flight. We've come down to earth since. We live in a hole, as it were. +I'm going to get out!' + +Joan's little song went past the door and died away towards the kitchen: + + Flow, fly, flow, + Wherever I _am_, I _go_. + +'We've lost our wings. We crawl about. We never dance now, or sing, +or----' He broke off abruptly. He felt the other portion of himself, so +long hidden, coming to the surface; and he was aware that it went after +his daughter. He was a little afraid of it--felt giddy. Her voice in the +distance sounded like a lark's, the lilt of her curious little song had an +echo of the open air in it, her tread brought back the tripping of the +wagtail along the river's bank. 'We never get out now,' he finished the +sentence, 'we never get out. Earth smothers us. We want air!' + +Mrs. Wimble watched him a moment with frightened eyes. He was standing on +tiptoe, holding the tails of his coat in his hands as though he was about +to do something very unusual--something foolish and ridiculous, she +thought. He seemed about to dance, to rise, almost to fly up to the +ceiling. She felt uneasy, hot--a little ashamed. + +'We can go out more, dear, if you think it wise,' she said cautiously, +moving a little further away. 'It's the expense--I always thought----' + +Her husband stared at her a moment dumbly. He seemed to be listening. +In his heart a little, forgotten song crept back, answering the singing of +the girl. Then, dropping upon his heels again, he said patiently in a +soothing tone: + +'There, there, Mother! Forgive me if I frightened you. I was only +pretending we were young again. That old bird thing--bird-magic--came +over me for a moment. The girl's singing did it, I suppose. Something +ageless in me got the upper hand . . .' + +He took her hand and comforted her. 'Steady, Joe,' she said, horribly +puzzled, 'she is a bit flighty, I know.' + +'But we will go out more,' he went on more normally again, adopting her +meaning perfectly. 'Bother the expense! We'll go out this very night and +take the child with us. We'll dine out, my dear. I'll take you to a West +End restaurant!' + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +For Joan certainly was no ordinary girl; some called her backward, some +considered her deficient, but all agreed that she was singular. +Yet all liked her. Tall, slim and fair, with plenty of golden hair and +eyes of merry brightness, she was out of the common in an attractive sort +of way. Tom, her brother, with the mind of a solicitor's clerk, looked +down upon her; her mother, fond, conventional, socially ambitious, +despaired of her; her father alone held the opinion, 'There's something in +that girl. She's always herself. But town-life over-weights and hides +her; and in the end will suffocate. It'll snuff her out. She's meant for +country.' He was aware of something unusually real in her. They were +great friends. 'I want more air,' she had said once. 'In a field or +garden I'd grow enormous like a bean plant. In these streets I'm just a +stone squashed down by crowds. I'm in a hole and can't breathe. I prefer +a fewity.' Even her words were her own like this. 'I'd like room to +dance in. Life is a dance. I'd learn it in a field. I'd be a bird +girl.' Space was her need, for mind as well as body. + +It was her father's secret ambition too: a cottage, a garden with things +that grew silently into beauty, flowers, vegetables, plants; sweet +laughing winds; the rush of living rain at midnight; water to drink from a +deep, cool spring instead of from metal pipes; a large, inviting horizon +in which a man might lose himself; and above all--birds. + +'After a month in real private country--loose country, talking, dancing, +running country----' She paused. + +'Liquid, fluid, as it were,' he put in, delighted. + +'Yes, deep and clear as a river,' she went on, 'in country like that, do +you know what'd happen to me, father, after a few months of waiting?' + +'I know, but I can't quite say,' he answered. 'Tell me, child, for I'd +love to hear your own description.' + +'I'd fly,' was her answer. 'Everything in me would fly about like a bird, +picking up things, and all over the place at once without a plan--a fixed, +heavy plan like a street or square in London here--and yet getting on all +the time--getting further.' + +'And how would you learn, dear?' + +'Birds,' she laughed. 'There's bird-teaching, I'm sure.' She flitted +across to another chair as she said it. She came closer to her father, +who was listening with both ears, watching, drinking in something he had +known long ago and then forgotten. '_You_ know all about it, Daddy. +You needn't pretend.' + +'You're rather like one, d'you know,' he smiled. 'Like a bird, I mean.' +He thought of a dabchick that hides so cleverly no one can put it up-- +then, suddenly, is there, close at hand. + +She was perched on his knee before he knew it. Her small voice twittered +on into his ear. Something about her sparkled, flashed and vanished, and +it reminded him of sunshine on swift-fluttering wings through the speckled +shade of an orchard. She darted, whirred, and came to rest. He stroked +her. + +'Father, you know everything before I say it,' she went on, her face +shining with happiness that made her almost beautiful. 'If I could only +live like a bird, I could _live_. Here it's all a big, stuffy cage.' +She flitted to the window, pointing to roofs and walls and chimney-pots, +black with grime. The same instant she was back again upon his knees. +'To live like a bird is to be alive all over, I'm sure, I'm sure. +I know it. It's all routing here.' + +Whether she meant rotten, routine, or living in a rut, he did not ask. +He felt her meaning. + +'There's a nest in a garden waiting for us somewhere,' he said, living the +dream with her in his heart. 'And it's got an orchard, high deep grass, +wild flowers, hills in the distance, with a tremendous sky where the winds +go tearing about like the flight of birds. And a stream that ripples and +sings and shines. All alive, I mean, and always moving. They say the +country's stagnation. It isn't. It's a perfect rush----' + +'Of course,' she put in. 'Oh, father, think hard about that place, and +we'll attract it nearer and nearer, till in the end we drop into it and +grow like----' + +'Beans,' he laughed. + +'Birds,' she rippled, and hopped from his knee across the room, and was +down the passage and out of sight before he could draw another breath. + +There was something alert as lightning in the girl. She woke a similar +thing in him, too. It had nothing to do with brain as intellect, or with +reason, or with knowledge in the ordinary sense the world gives to these +words. But it had to do, he dimly felt, with another bigger thing that +was everywhere and in everything. Joan shared it, brought it nearer; it +was universal. What that bigger thing might be perplexed him. He was +aware that it drove past, alertness in so huge a thing conveying the +impression of vast power. There was grandeur in it somewhere, poise, +dignity, beauty; yet this subtle alertness too, and this swift protean +sparkle. It was towering as a night of stars, alluring as a peeping +wildflower, but prodigious also as though all the oceans flowed suddenly +between narrow banks in a flood of clearest water, very rapid, +terrifyingly deep. For a robe it wore the lustrous colouring of untold +age. His imagery, when he tried to visualise it, grew mixed. He called +it Experience. But sometimes he told himself he knew its Christian name-- +its familiar, little, intimate nickname--and that was Wisdom. + +And so he was rather glad that Joan, like himself, was but half educated; +that she was backward, and that he knew, relatively, only the outsides of +books. For facts, he vaguely felt, might come between them and this +august yet precious thing they knew together. Birds could teach it, but +Ornithology hid it. + +Lately, however, as his wife divined, he had been dipping in between the +covers of the goods he travelled in. Caught by the bait of several +drugging titles, he had nibbled--in the train, in waiting-rooms, in the +'parlours' of commercial hotels where he put up for the night. +He had found names and descriptions of various things, but they were the +names and descriptions given by others to their own sensations. +The ordered classification merely developed snapshots. He recognised +photographs of dead things that he knew must be somewhere--alive. +The names made stationary what ought to dance along with incessant +movement. Only he did not realise this until he saw the photographs. +The alleged accuracy of a photograph was an insolent falsehood, pretending +that what was alive was dead, that what rushed was stationary. Dogs and +savages cannot recognise the photographs of their masters. +The resemblance has to be taught. Everything flows, his shilling +_Heraclitus_ told him. He had always known it. Birds taught it. +Joan lived it. To classify was to photograph--a prevarication. +To publish a snapshot of a jumping horse was to teach what is not true. +Definitions were trivial and absurd, for what was true to-day was false +to-morrow. The sole value of names, of classification, of photographing +lay in stopping life for an instant so that its flow might be realised--as +a momentary stage in an incessant process. And he looked at a group of +acquaintances his wife had 'Kodaked' ten days ago, and realised with +delight how they all had rushed away, torn on ahead, lived, since she had +told that insignificant lie in black and white about them. + +Joan, catching him in the act of destroying it, had said, 'I know why +you're doing that, father.' + +'Why?' he asked, half ashamed and half surprised. + +'Because you don't want to stop them,' was her answer, 'and because it +wasn't fair of mother to catch them in the act like that. It wasn't all.' + +And as he stared at her curious peeping face, she came quickly up to him, +saying passionately, imploringly: + +'Oh, do let's get into the country soon, and live along with it, and grow +and know things. I feel so stuck still here, and always caught-in-the-act +like that photo. It's so dead. It's a toad of a place! The streets are +all nailed down on to the ground. In the country they run about----' + +He interrupted her on purpose: + +'But in a city life is supposed to be much richer than in the country,' he +said. 'You know that?' + +'It goes round and round like a circle, though; it doesn't go _on_. +I'm living other people's lives here. I want to live my own. Everybody +here lives the same thing over and over again till they get so hot they +get ill. I want to be cool and naked like a fern. Here I'm being +photographed all day long. Every man who looks at me takes a photograph. +Oh, father, I'm so tired of it. Do let's go soon and live hoppily like +the birds.' + +'You mean happily?' he asked, laughing with her. + +'It's the same thing,' she laughed back, 'it's like wings or running +water--always going wherever they are---- + +[Transcriber's note: Here 8 bars of a musical score accompany 6 lines of +verse] + + Flow, fly, flow, + Wher-ev-er I am I go + I live on the run, + Like a bird--that's fun! + Flow, fly, flow . . . + +And was dancing to and fro over the carpet, when the door opened and in +came her brother Tom, followed by another youth. + +He looked surprised, ashamed, then vexed. It was Saturday afternoon. +He had been six months now in the office. + +'I've brought Mr. Halliday with me,' he said pompously, 'to have tea. +We've just been to a matinee at the Coliseum. Joan, this is Mr. Halliday, +our junior clerk. My sister, Harold.' + +Joan instantly looked gauche and ugly. She shook hands with a speckled +youth, whose shy want of manners did not prevent his eyeing her all over. +He sat down beside his friend, talking of the singing, dancing, juggling +and so on that they had witnessed. All the time he talked at something +else in her. But she hid it away as cleverly as a bird hides its nest. +The callow youth, without realising it, was hunting for a nest. In the +country he might have found it. He would have been sunburned, for one +thing, instead of speckled. The wind, the rain, the starlight would have +guided him. His natural instinct would have flowed out in a dance of +spontaneous running movement, easy, graceful, clean. Here, however, it +seemed rigid, ugly, diseased. He was living the life of others. + +'You were dancing just as we came in,' observed Mr. Halliday. 'Does that +line of things attract you? You are going on the stage, perhaps?' + +Joan looked past him out of the window, and saw the swallows flashing +about the sky. + +'I _can_ dance,' she replied, 'but not on a stage.' + +'But you'd be a great success, I think, from what I saw,' opined the +junior clerk. And somehow he said it unpleasantly. His tone half +undressed her. + +She didn't flush, she didn't stammer, at first she didn't answer even. +She watched the swallows a moment, as though she had not heard him. + +'You only stare, you don't watch and enjoy,' she said suddenly, turning +upon him. 'And an audience like that. . .!' She stopped, got up from her +chair, put her head out of the open window and gazed into the air above. +When she turned back, she saw that her mother had come in and was leading +the others into the dining-room for tea. Her father's face wore a +singular expression--it seemed, of exultation. Tom, black as a +thunder-cloud, waited for her. + +'You're nothing but a little barbarian,' he said angrily under his breath. +The life of others he led had been sorely wounded. 'I can never bring Mr. +Halliday here again. You're simply not a lady.' + +'I'm a bird,' she laughed in his face. 'And you men can never understand +that, because no man has a bird in him, but only a creepy, crawly animal. +We go on two legs, you on four.' + +'I'm ashamed of you, Joan. You're nothing but a savage.' He snapped at +her. He could have smacked her. His face was flushed, but his neck thin, +scraggy, white. He looked starved and twisted. 'In the City we----' he +began with a clown's dignity. + +'Live like rats in a drain,' she interrupted quickly, perched a moment on +her toes in front of his face. 'You don't breathe or dance. Tom,' she +added with a gesture of her arms like flapping wings, 'if you were alive, +you'd be--a mole. But you're not. You're a lot of other people. +You're a herd--always enclosed and always feeding.' + +She danced down the corridor and into her room, locked the door, slipped +out of some tight clothing, and began to sing her bird-song of incessant +movement: + + Flow! Fly! Flow! + Wherever I _am_ I _go_; + I live on the run + Like the birds--it's fun! + Flow, fly, flow. . . . + +She sang it to a tiny, uneven, twittering melody that was made up of half +notes. It went on and on, repeating itself without end. It seemed to +have no real end at all. + + + +CHAPTER V + + +To others she was doubtless an exasperating being. To her father alone-- +since he saw in her something he had lost but was now recovering, +something he therefore idealised, seeing in perfected form what was +actually but a germ still--to her father she expressed a little of that +higher carelessness, or wisdom, that he had touched in boyhood and now +yearningly desired again. + +'Oh, she's all in the air,' people said. And it was truer than they knew. +She had an affinity with all that flew. This bird-idea was in her heart +and blood. Whatever flew, whatever rose above the ground, whatever passed +swiftly, suddenly, from place to place, without deliberation, without +calculation, without weighing risk and profit--this appealed to her. +Yet there must be steadiness in it somewhere too, and it must get +somewhere. A swallow or a butterfly she approved, but not a bat. +The latter, for all its darting swiftness, was a sham; it was an +earth-crawler really, frightened into ridiculous movement by finding +itself aloft like a blown leaf; like a flying fish, it was wrong and out +of place. It merely flew round and round in stupid, broken circles +without rhythm. But the former were perfect. They were ideal. They were +almost spirits. + +And when her father said he was glad she was half educated, he only meant +glad that she had left school and teachers before her butterfly mind had +become a rigid, accurate, mechanical thing. She might play with books as +he himself did, fluttering over the covers, smelling their perfume, +glancing at sentences and chapter headings, at indices even. But she must +not build nests in them. A book, like a photograph, was an evillish +attempt to nail a flowing idea into a fixed pattern. In the author's mind +an idea was true, but when he had put it down in black and white he had +put down only a snapshot of it: the idea was already far away. + +'Not poetry-books,' Joan qualified this, 'because poetry runs clean off +the page. It's alive and wingy. It sings my bird-song-- + + Flow, fly, flow, + Wherever I _am_--I _go_! + +She had this unerring instinct of the bird in everything, the quality that +flashes, darts, is gone before it can be killed by capture. A bird is +everywhere and nowhere. It's all over the place at once. Look at it, and +it's no longer there; listen to it, and it's gone; touch it, and you catch +a sunbeam that warms the hand but loses half its beauty; catch it--and +it's dead. But no one ever caught a swallow or a skylark naturally on the +wing. Even the eye, the mind, the following thought grows dizzy in the +effort. + +For the cow in the field she had no song. 'Wherever I am, I stay,' was +without a tune of its own. A cow couldn't leave the ground. She wanted +something with incessant movement that could touch the earth, yet leave it +at will. Wings and water could. Birds and rain both flew. Half the time +a river (the only real water for her) flowed over the earth without +stopping on it, and half the time it was a cloud in the sky, yet never +lived there. 'Flow, fly, flow; wherever I _am_, I _go_,'--this was the +little song of life and change and movement that came out of her curious +heart and mind. 'Live on the run, like a bird, _that's_ fun!' And by fun +she meant life, and the soaring joy of life. + +She applied her principle unconsciously to people, too. Few men had the +bird in them except her father. Mother was a badger, half the time out of +sight below the earth. She felt respect, but no genuine love, for mother. + +'A whale or a badger, I really don't know which,' she said. 'That's +Mother.' + +'Joan, I cannot allow you to speak in that way of your parent and my +wife.' The sentence was unreal. He chose it deliberately, as it seemed, +from some book or other. What she had said was sparklingly true, only it +could not be said. 'You were born out of mother, and so must think her +holy.' + +'I only meant that she is not birdy,' was the answer, 'and that she likes +thick salt water, or sticky earth. I mean that I never see her on the +surface much, and never for an instant _above_ it. A fish is all right, +but not a half-and-half thing.' + +'She built your nest for you. She taught you how to fly. Remember that.' +He lit his pipe to hide the laughter that would bubble up. + +'But she never flew with me, father--as you do. Besides, you know, I +_like_ whales and badgers. I only say they're not birds.' + +She paused, stared triumphantly at him a moment, and then with anxiety in +her tone, she added: 'And you said that as if some one had taught it you, +Daddy. Some one's put bird-lime near you--some book, I suspect.' + +'Grammar's all right enough in its way,' he told her finally, meaning +perhaps that there were correct and incorrect ways of saying a thing, and +so the little matter was nicely settled up, and they flew on to other +things as their way invariably was. But, after that, whenever mother was +in the room, they thought of something under ground or under water that +emerged for a brief moment to stare at them and wonder, heavens!--how they +lived. _They_ wondered how, on earth, she lived. They were in different +worlds. + +For a long time now Joseph Wimble, 'travelling' in tabloid knowledge, had +been absorbing what is called the Spirit of the Age. On the paper +wrappers of his books--chiefly Knowledge Primers--were printed neat and +striking epitomes of the contents. Written by expert minds, these +epitomes were admirable brief statements. There was no room for argument. +They merely gave the entire book in a few short sentences that hit the +mind--and stayed in it. They left the impression that the problem was +proved, though actually it was merely stated. Hundreds of those +statements he had now read, until they flowed like a single sentence +through his consciousness, each _resume_ a word, as it were, in the phrase +describing the knowledge--or at least the tendencies--of the day. Wimble +was thus a concise phrase-book, who taught the grammar of the twentieth +century. + +For his Firm, alert and enterprising, had the gift of scenting a +given tendency before it was understood by the mass--still 'in the air,' +that is--yet while the mass still wanted to know about it; +then of choosing the writer who could crystallise it in simple language +that made the man in the street feel well informed and up to date. +The What's-in-the-Air-To-day Publishing Co. was well named; it had the +bird quality. These Picturesque Knowledge Primers sold like wildfire. +They purveyed knowledge in tabloid form and advertised the hungry public +into nourishment. The latest thing in politics, painting, flying, in +feminism or call-of-the-wild, in music, scouting, cubism, futurism, +feeding, dancing, clothing, ancient philosophy redressed, or modern pulpit +pretending to be neo--everything that thrills the public to-day, from +pageantry and Eurhythmics to higher thought and psychism, they touched +with clever condensing accuracy of aim, and grew fat upon the proceeds. +The stream of little books flowed forth, written by birds, distributed in +flocks, scattered broadcast like seed in a wind, each picked up eagerly +and discarded for the next--winged knowledge in sparrow doses. +The Managing Director, Fox Martin (_nee_ Max Levi), was a genius in his +way, sure as a hawk, clairvoyant as a raven. His _Bergson_ sold as +successfully as his _Exercises for the Bedroom_--because he chose the +writer. He hovered, swooped, struck--and the primer was caught and issued +in its thousands. His advertising was consummate, for it convinced the +ordinary man he ought to know that particular Thing-in-the-Air-To-day, +just as he ought to wear a high collar with his evening clothes or a slit +in his coat behind with flannels. He aimed at the men as the machine-made +novel aims at the women. + +Wimble, _the_ traveller _facile princeps_, for this kind of goods, knew, +therefore, everything that was 'in-the-air-to-day,' without knowing in the +least why it was to be believed, or what the arguments were. And yet he +knew that he was right. He knew things as a bird does, gathering them on +every wind, and shaping his inner life swiftly, unburdened by reasoning +calculation built on facts. Thus, useless in debate, his mind was packed +with knowledge. He was a walking Index. + +And the feeling in him that everything flowed and nothing was stationary +was strong. He dealt in shooting ideas, not in dead, photographic detail. +He flashed from one subject to another; flowed through all categories, +ancient and modern; skimmed the cream off current tendencies, and swept +above the knowledge of the day with a bird's-eye view, unburdened by fact +or argument. + +Of late, moreover, he had enjoyed these curious upside-down and inside-out +experiences, because he had filled himself to the saturation point, and +become, as it were, stationary. He could hold no more without a change. +He stopped. He took a snapshot photograph of himself, realised that he +existed as a separate, vital entity, and thenceforward watched himself +expectantly to see what the change was going to be, for he knew he would +not stay still. Hitherto he had been mechanical, whereas now he was an +engine capable of self-direction--an engine stoked to the brim. When the +air is at the saturation point, the tiniest additional percentage of +moisture causes rain to fall. It's the final straw that makes the camel +pause. So with Joseph Wimble. He was ready to discharge. + +And it was this chance remark of his under-ground wife asking who the +widow _was_ that took the photograph, and made him say, 'I am.' +All he had read was included in the affirmation. The epitomes had become +part of his consciousness. Like the weary camel, like the moisture tired +of balancing in the air, he wanted to sit down now and consider. +His daughter's longing for the country was his too. And it was she who +now brought out all this. + +At dinner that night in a West End restaurant near Piccadilly Circus he +broached the subject and listened patiently to his wife's objections. + +'What's the good, even if we had the means, Joe? Burying ourselves like +that.' + +Joan hopped, as it were. She recognised her mother's instinctive dread +that she would go under ground or under water and never come up again. + +'None of the nice people, the county families, would call. There'd only +be the vicar and the local doctor, or p'r'aps a gentleman-farmer or two. +We know much better class in town, and there's always chances of getting +to know better still. Besides, who'd there be for Joan? The girl +wouldn't have a look-in, simply. And the winters are so sloppy in a +country cottage. Think of the Sundays. And the chickens and pigs I +really couldn't abide, and howling winds at night, and owls in the eaves, +and rats in the attics. You see, we'd have no standing at all.' + +'But just a week-end cottage, Mother,' Joan put in, 'just a place of +flowers and orchards and a little stream to flit down to overnight, so to +say--_that_ now you'd like, wouldn't you?' + +'Oh, that's different,' she said more brightly, 'only that's not what +father means. He means a place to live in altogether. The week-end idea +is right enough. That's what everybody does who can afford to--a bungalow +on the Thames. But that means more money than we shall ever see, and even +for that you want to keep a motor or a horse and dog-cart, or a little +steam launch to get about in. Then the handy places are very expensive, +and we couldn't go very far because of Tom. Tom could come down and bring +his friends if it was near enough.' + +'Grandfather might give us a little nest cheap,' suggested Joan. +She didn't 'see' Tom in the cottage. + +But mother turned up her nose as she sipped her glass of Asti Spumante +that accompanied the west-end dinner by way of champagne. She didn't +approve of Norfolk. + +'There's no society,' she said. 'It's flat and chilly. Your grandfather +only stays there because there's the business to keep going. If we ever +did such a thing as to move to the country, it'd have to be the Surrey +pinewoods or the Thames.' + +She looked across the table questioningly at her husband. The music +played ragtime. The waiters bustled. There was movement and excitement +in the air about them. Joe looked quite distinguished in his evening +dress, and she felt proud and distinguished herself. She only wished he +were a publisher. Still, no one need feel ashamed of being interested in +the book line. Literature was not a trade. + +'Some place, yes, where the country's really alive,' he agreed. 'I don't +want to vegetate any more than you do, dear, I can assure you.' + +'Nor I, mother,' laughed Joan. 'I simply want to fly about all the time.' + +'Joan,' was the reply, half reproachfully, 'you always talk as if we kept +you in a cage at home. The more you fly the better we like it; I only say +choose places worth flying to----' + +Her husband interrupted abruptly. + +'It was nothing but a little dream of my own, really,' he said lightly. +'A castle in the air, a flash of country in the brain.' He laughed and +called the waiter. + +'Black, white, or Turkish?' he asked his wife. 'And what liqueur, dear?' + +'Turkish and Grand Marnier,' was the prompt reply, and she would have said +'_fine champagne_' only felt uncertain how _fine_ should be pronounced. +They sipped their coffee and talked of other things. It was no good, this +speculative talk, it was too much in the air. + +The key of mother's mind was always: Who _was_ she? What'll _they_ say? +She lived underground, using the worn old narrow routes. Joan and her +father made their own pathways in the trackless air. During the remainder +of the evening they kept to the earth beside mother. + +That night in the poky flat, after the girl had gone to bed, Mrs. Wimble +observed to her husband: + +'Do you know, Joe, I think a little change _would_ do her a lot of good. +She's getting restless here, and seems to take to nobody. Why not take +her with you sometimes on your literary trips?' + +This was her name for his journeys to provincial booksellers, or when sent +to interview one of the Primer writers upon some practical detail. + +'If we could afford it,' he replied. + +'Father might help,' she said, showing that she had considered the matter +already. 'It would be good for her--educational, I mean.' + +Her husband agreed, and they fell asleep on that agreement. + +A few days later a reply was received from Mrs. Wimble's father, the +corn-chandler in Norfolk, enclosing a cheque for 20 pounds 'as a starter.' +The parents were delighted. Joan preened her wings and began at once her +short flying journeys about the country with her father. He avoided the +Commercial Traveller Hotels and took her to little Inns, where they were +very cosy together. They went from Norfolk to the edge of Wales. +She acquired a bird's-eye knowledge of the map of Southern England. +These short trips gave her somehow the general 'feel' of the various +counties, each with its different 'note,' in much the same way as the +Primers gave her father his surface impression of England's mental +condition. She noticed and remembered the living arteries which are +rivers, he the streams of thought and theory which are tendencies. +The two maps were shown and explained, and each was wonderfully alert in +understanding the other's meaning. The girl drank in her father's +knowledge, while he in his turn 'felt' the country as a dancing sheet +beneath them, flowing, liquid, alive. A new language grew into existence +between them, a kind of shorthand, almost a symbol language. +They realised it first when talking of their journeys at the dinner-table, +and Mrs. Wimble looked puzzled. Her face betrayed anxiety; she asked +perplexed questions, looking up at them as a badger might look up at +wheeling pigeons from the opening of its hole. Mentally she turned tail +and dived out of sight below ground, where, with her feet on solid earth, +her back and sides touching material that did not yield, she felt more at +home, the darkness comforting and safe. Her husband and Joan flew too +near the sun. It dazzled her. They could have talked for hours without +her catching the drift, only they were far too fond of her to do so. +They resented going underground with her, but they came down and settled +on earth, folded their wings, used words instead of unintelligible +chirrupings, and chatted with her through the opening of the hole. + +One afternoon, then, in Chester, they received a telegram from her that, +for a moment, stopped the flow of things, though immediately afterwards +the rush went on with greater impetus than ever. + + Father passed away peacefully + return at once + funeral to-morrow Swaffham. + +And the family found itself with a solid little income of its own, free to +fly and settle where it would. + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Nothing showed more vividly the peculiarity of Joan's unearthly airiness +than the way in which the death affected her. It was the first time the +great thing all talk about but none realise until they touch it, had come +near her. It gave her a feeling of insecurity. She felt the solid +earth--so called--unreal. Not that she had a feather of affection for her +mother's father. She regarded him as a second-rate animal of prey, like a +jackal, and always shrank when he was near. There was something 'sticky' +in him; she classed him with her father's father, earthy, but not +'clean-earthy'; muddy rather. But that an earthy person could disappear +in such a way made her feel shaky. If _he_ couldn't stay on the earth, +who could? + +Outwardly, and according to the newspapers, he had died rather well, +leaving money to hospitals and waif Societies; but, inwardly, he had died +in deep disgrace, a bankrupt soul with a heavy overdraft at the bank. +He had been a self-seeker of that notorious kind that achieves worldly +success without much thought for others. Now that he was gone, mother +declared he was a hero, father denounced him privately as ignoble,--and +their daughter divined secretly that he was a jackal. + +His record, however, has nothing to do with this story, and is mentioned +only because his departure affected the members of his family. +Mother wept and pasted the obituary notices from the Norfolk papers in a +book; father soothed her with 'earth to earth, my dear, you know,' and +Joan remarked beneath her breath 'he belongs there, he never really left +it.' And felt an entirely new sensation. + +For death puzzled her. She realised it as a fact in her own life--she, +too, would come to an end, stop, go out. Yet that life could come to an +end astonished her; she simply didn't believe it. In her own queer way +she looked into the odd occurrence. The corn-chandler's death had raised +a dust; but it was an unjustifiable disappearance somehow; once the dust +settled she would surely see how and why it was unjustifiable. He would +still be on the earth. But the dust did not settle, the chandler did not +come back. He was beneath the earth. The feeling of insecurity remained +in her. Earth, evidently, was not her element. + +She envisaged then suddenly a delightful thing, and possibly being a mere +child still, in spite of her years, she actually believed it. It was +wondrous enough anyhow to be worth believing. For it occurred to her that +the body of earth went back merely to its own, earth to earth, sweetly, +naturally, while Something that had used that bit of earth, borrowing it, +was set free. It--that marvellous Something--likewise returned to its own +element--air. 'The airy part--that's me--flies off, if it's there at +all.' Only grandfather had made the mistake of identifying himself with +his borrowed earth, so he was finished and done with. Mother had the same +downward tendency. If she wasn't careful, she would be finished and done +with too. It was a matter of choice. But how could they? How could any +one? She and her father 'knew different'--it was mother's phrase--and +identified themselves with the airy part that was the reality. + +She looked the thing in the face as well as she could, trying to hold it +steady for a photograph. Death, to her mind, seemed to photograph the +life it put an end to. The long series of acts and movements ceased. +There came an abrupt full stop. Like a photograph this was somewhere, +somehow, false. Wings folded for the last time; air failed for ever; +there was a sudden drop to earth. Her grandfather, whom death had +photographed, had gone, yet surely only gone--elsewhere; his record in the +world of men and women was his attitude in the photograph; he was posing +elsewhere now, but even he had not really stopped. Her little Song of +Being did not mention anything of the sort. 'Flow, fly--stop! Wherever I +am--I drop!' was merely wrong. A living thing could never end. It could +neither drop nor stop. Some one had made a big mistake about death. +She felt insecure. + +And then she saw the matter differently, as though her mind made a sudden +swerving turn into bright sunlight. And the sense of insecurity began to +pass. This act of death revealed another meaning, connecting her with a +vaster centre somehow, joining her up with a main central power. +Death was returning to the main. She recovered the immense sense of unity +she had momentarily lost. It made her realise that this tremendous +centre, this main, was elsewhere than on the earth. Her conception of +this unity deepened. To join the majority was more than a neat phrase. +The photograph analogy came back of its own accord. Life here on the +earth was indeed but a photograph, taken almost instantaneously though it +seemed quite long, of a--moment's pose. The shutter snapped, the sitter +flashed elsewhere, flashed away to resume big interrupted activities, +behind space, behind time, where no hurry was--into a universal, mothering +state she felt as air. Man's life was a suburb of this state, a furnished +house in that suburb, a Maida Vale tenancy, as it were; but there was this +vast metropolis of air, the main, the centre, where the 'majority' lived, +and whither all lines of flight converged. A thought of Everlasting Wings +came to her with amazing comfort. And she realised that the insecurity +she felt belonged to the suburb earth, rather than to herself. +Others looked upon it as the one secure and solid permanency; for air was +unsafe but earth did not change; air meant giddiness, absence of support, +bewilderment, and terror of being lost, while earth stood for the reverse +of all these dangers--permanent security. Her mother, for instance, +simply dared not leave it for an instant. Whereas, it came to Joan +suddenly now, that it was earth that crumbled, melted, got easily broken +and dispersed, while air, though it moved, could never be destroyed. +'You can photograph earth,' she said, 'but no one has ever photographed +the air.' + +'A person just goes out--like that?' she asked her father, snapping her +fingers. 'How can it be, exactly? Time ends for him: is that it?' +Her face was distressed and puckered. She had no language to express the +ugly thing that blocked her running, flowing mind. 'Once you're in among +minutes, hours, years,' she went on, 'how can you ever get out of them? +_They_ don't stop.' + +It seemed to her, apparently, that once a living thing exists it should +not cease to exist unless Time, which bore it, ceased as well. And then +another notion flashed upon her. + +'Or perhaps they're just a trick,' she exclaimed, referring to days and +minutes, 'and you've been alive somewhere else all the time too--and when +you die you go back to _that_!' + +Her father glanced up from the ordnance map he was studying and smiled +with a sort of bewildered happy amusement on his face. Mother, however, +turned with an uncomfortable sigh. 'That reminds me,' she stated +inconsequently, 'I must go and sit in the Park.' She turned as a cow that +prefers the rain upon its tail instead of in its eyes. 'I'll take a taxi, +dear,' she added from the door. 'Do,' said her husband, suppressing with +difficulty an intense desire to laugh out loud. 'Ask the porter in the +hall. Or shall I call one for you?' 'The porter'll do,' she said. +'I'll go and get ready.' He said good-bye kindly, and she went. + +'Time doesn't stop, of course,' he went on to Joan. '_You_ don't stop +either, I suppose, if the whole truth were known.' He eyed her +quizzically, for he delighted in her wild, nonsensical questioning. +Behind it he divined that she knew something he didn't know, but only +guessed. Or perhaps he had known it in his youth and since forgotten it. +He remembered the ecstasy which had produced her. + +'But why do we know a _bit_ of the truth and not the whole? It's all one +piece. It must be, father. What hides the rest, then?' + +But he ignored the new questions. 'At death,' he said, 'you just go into +another category perhaps. I suspect that's it. You continue, sure +enough, but in another direction, as it were.' + +Joan brushed the map aside and lit with a hop upon the table as though she +fluttered down from above his head. Her hands rested on his shoulders, +and her eyes stared hard into his own. They were very bright and +twinkling. 'That's just throwing words at me,' she told him earnestly. +'That catty-thing, as you call it, isn't in _our_ language and you know +it. You nipped it out of a book.' She shook her finger at him solemnly. +'What _I_ mean is'--thrusting her keen face with its London pallor and +shining eyes closer to him--'how in the world can any one get out of Time, +once they're in it?' She drew back as though to focus him better and +command a true reply. 'Tell me that, please, father, will you?' + +'That's a question, isn't it?' he said laughingly, yet not really trying +to evade her. He wanted to hear her own answer, her own explanation. +He knew quite well--had not the Primer on Expression said so?--that the +things they discussed in this way lay just beyond known words. Only by +apparent nonsense-talk could they be brought within sight at all. + +'It's a thing we ought to know,' Joan went on gravely. 'I do know it +somewhere--only I haven't found it out quite.' Then, with another flash +of her blue eyes, she stated: 'If a person goes from here--from now, I +mean--they must go _to_ somewhere else. I suppose they go back to the +bigger thing. They go all over the place at once, perhaps.' And again +she drew back a moment, staring at him as if judging height and distance +before taking a breathless swoop down into a lower branch. + +'Something like that, I imagine,' her father began. 'Time, you see, is +only a point, a single point--the present. And if----' + +But Joan was already following her own wild swoop, and hardly listening. + +'_That_ I can understand,' she said rapidly. 'You escape at death from a +point where you've been stuck--like in a photograph. You go all over +then.' Her mind tried to say a hundred things. 'I understand. +That's easy. I'm an all-over person myself; I do several things at once-- +like a flock of birds or a great high wind. And when I do things like +that they're always right, but if I wait and think about one of them, they +go wrong and I'm in an awful muddle----' + +'Your intuition being stronger than your reason,' he put in with a gasp. + +She did not notice the interruption; she had reached her tree; she saw a +thousand things below her simultaneously, grouped, as it were, into one. + +'But what I don't see plainly,' she returned to her original puzzle, +'is how a person--by dying--can get out of all this.' She flung her arms +out wide to include the room. 'Out of all this air and stuff.' + +'Space?' + +'Yes, Space!' She darted upon the word with a twitter of satisfaction. +'I feel much more free among yards and miles, up and down, across and +round and through--than I do just in minutes and days and years. +Oh, I've got it,' she cried so suddenly that it startled him; 'Space is +several things, and Time is only one. Space has _throughth_--you go +through it in several directions at once. Time hasn't!' + +He caught his breath and stared obliquely at her, for the fact was she was +taking these ideas out of his own head. He had found them in his Primers, +of course; now, she was taking them from his mind, sharing his knowledge +by some strange, instinctive method of her own. In some such way, +perhaps, birds shared and communicated ideas with one another. He felt +dizzy; there was confusion in him as though he flew at fifty miles an hour +through the air and was without support, seeing many things at once below. +One of those moments was near when he stood upon his head. He was up a +tree with the girl; he felt the wind; he, too, saw a thousand things +at-once; he swayed. + +'Space,' he mentioned, as soon as he had recovered breath, and drawing +upon his inexhaustible reserve of Primers, 'has three dimensions, height, +breadth, and length. But Time has only one--length. In Time you go +forwards only, never back, or to the left or right. Time is a line. +Don't pinch--it hurts!' he cried, for in her excitement she leaned forward +and seized his coat-sleeve, taking up the flesh. 'So, possibly, at +death,' he continued as soon as she released him, 'a person----' + +'Goes off sideways,' she laughed, clapping her hands; 'disappears off +sideways----' + +'In a new direction,' he suggested. 'That's what I said long ago--another +category, where a body isn't necessary.' + +'It's not a full stop, anyhow,' she cried; 'it's a flight.' + +'Provided you've been already moving,' he said; 'some people don't move. +They haven't started. And for them, I suppose, it's a biggish change-- +difficult, uncomfortable, painful too, possibly,' he added reflectively. + +'They start for the first time--at death.' She ran to the window, but the +same second was back again beside him. + +'They get off the ground--off the map altogether. But they go into the +air. They get alive,' and she picked the ordnance maps from the floor +where her impetuous movements had tossed them. 'Death is just a change of +direction then, really; that's all.' And the door slammed after her +flying figure, though it seemed to her father that she might equally have +gone by the window or the chimney, so swift and sudden was her way of +vanishing. 'Bless me, Joan, how you do fly about, to be sure!' he heard +his wife complaining in the passage. 'You bang about like a squirrel in a +cage. Whatever will the neighbours say?' + +She had taken all this time to clothe herself suitably for the Park. +Mr. Wimble saw her to the lift. + +'That's it,' he reflected a moment, before returning to search the map for +a suitable country place to settle down in; 'that's it exactly. +Mother says "Who was she?" and "What'll people say?" Joan says "Where, +why, who am I?" Mother is past and Joan is future. That's it exactly. +And I--well, what do I say?' He rose and looked at himself in the mirror +with the artistic frame his wife had 'selected' at Liberty's Bazaar. + +'I just say "I am,"' he concluded. 'So I'm present. That's it exactly.' +He chuckled inwardly. 'Past, present, future, that's what we are! +Yet somehow Joan's all three at once, a sort of universal point of view. +Ah!' He paused. 'Ah! she's not future. She's _now_!' He caught dimly +at the idea she tried to convey. To think of many subjects simultaneously +was to escape time, avoiding sequence of events and minutes, +obliterating--or, rather, seeing through--perspective which pretends that +a tree ten yards away is nearer to one than the forest just beyond it. +The centre, for her, was everywhere. To see things lengthwise only, in +time or space, was a slow addition sum achieved laboriously by the mind, +whereas, subconsciously, the bird's-eye view (as with the prodigy) +perceived everything at once, making separate addition, or two and two +make four, absurd. He was aware of a power in her, an attitude, a point +of view, higher than this precious intellect which knows things lengthwise +only, concentrating upon separate points, one at a time, consecutively. +Joan knew everything at once. Her conception of perceiving things was +all-embracing--as air. She flew; wherever she was, she went. 'Throughth' +was the word she coined to express it. + +He felt very happy, there was a peculiar sense of joy and lightness in +him, and yet he sighed. It was his mind that sighed. He was completely +muddled. Yet another part of him, something he shared rather, was bright +and clear and lucid. And, putting on his hat, he went after his wife and +sat with her in the Park for half an hour, feeling the need of a little +wholesome earth to counteract the dose of air Joan had administered to +him. + +They watched the people pass, the distinguished people as his wife called +them, but actually the people who were dressed in the fashion merely, +ordinary as sheep, shocked by the slightest evidence of originality,-- +un-distinguished in their very essence. Mr. Wimble knew this, but Mrs. +Wimble remained uninformed. The review of rich, commonplace types passed +to and fro before their penny chairs, while they eyed them, Mrs. Wimble +thinking, 'This is the great London world, the people whose names and +dresses the newspapers refer to in Society columns. Oh dear!' Park Lane +was the background; none of them dined till half-past eight; they kept +numerous servants and were carelessly immoral, carelessly in debt, +intimate with 'foreign diplomats,' reserved and unemotional--the aileet, +as Mrs. Wimble called them. But, according to Mr. Wimble, they were +animals, a herd of animals. They couldn't escape from the line of Time. +They knew 'through' in Space, but not in Time. The bird-thing was not in +them. + +'Joan's coming on a bit,' ventured the father presently, trying to keep +himself down upon the earth. + +'If you call it coming on,' replied his wife, with a touch of acid +superiority she caught momentarily from her overdressed surroundings. +'It's a pity, it seems to me. She's not English, Joan isn't, whatever +else she is.' + +'Oh, come now,' said Mr. Wimble cautiously, adding, a moment afterwards, +'perhaps.' + +'It'll be the ruin of her, if we don't stop it in time,' came presently in +what he recognised as her 'Park' voice. 'She don't get it from _me_, +Joe.' Her words became inaudible a moment as she turned her head to +follow a vision she imagined was at least a duchess, though her husband +could have told her it had emerged, like themselves, from a suburban flat. +'I sometimes think the girl's got a soupsong of the East in her,' +continued Mrs. Wimble, glancing with what she meant to be an aristocratic +hint of wickedness and suspicion at her untidy husband. + +'She may have,' he replied innocently, 'for all I know. Something very +old and very new. It's not silly now, but it might become silly. +She's too careless somehow for this world--and too wise at the same time. +I can't make it out quite.' He looked up at the trees as the wind passed +rustling among the dull green leaves. How blue the sky was! How sweet +and fresh the taste of the air! There was room up there to move in. +He saw a swallow wheeling. And the old yearning burned in him. +He thought of the phrase 'bird-happy'--happy as a singing-bird. + +'It's a pity she's so peculiar. She'll make a mess of her life unless +you're careful, dear.' Mrs. Wimble said it out of a full heart really, +but she used the careless accent her surroundings prompted. She said it +with an air. And, to her keen annoyance, the County Council man came up +just then and asked for tickets, Mr. Wimble producing two plebeian coppers +out of a dirty leather purse to settle the account. The pennies spoilt +her dream. Money--but a lot of money--was what counted in life. + +'Tom's doing exceptionally, I'm glad to say,' she resumed, by way of +relieving an emotion that exasperated her. 'He'll make money. He'll be +somebody--some day.' + +'Tom's a good boy. He's safe and normal,' agreed her husband. + +When the taxi had rushed them back to Maida Vale, and Mrs. Wimble had +gone up in the lift, Mr. Wimble decided that he would like to go for a +little walk before coming in. It was towards sunset as he ambled off. +Joan, from the roof, watching the birds as they dashed racing through the +air at play, caught sight of him below and waved her hand. But he did not +see her; he did not look up; his eyes were on the ground. Yet he had a +springy walk as if he might rise any moment. Joan watched him for some +time, signalling as it were, making a series of slight movements and +gestures that seemed a method of communication almost. Had he glanced up +and seen her he must have noticed and understood what she was trying to +say, as a bird on the lawn would understand what its companion, perched in +the cedars overhead, was saying, distance no bar at all. + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +And then, suddenly, he did look up. Feeling his attention drawn, +he turned and raised his eyes to her. The rays of the setting sun fell on +her dress of white and yellow. She looked like a bird showing its +under-plumage. He waved his hand in return, instinctively making gestures +similar to her own, and as he did so, a Flock of Ideas flew down upon him +like a shower of leaves--nothing very distinct and sharp, but just loose, +flying ideas that were in-the-air-to-day. + +They seemed to result from the signalling; they interpreted something he +could not frame in words. They fluttered about his mind, trying to get in +and lodge. It was wireless communication--the kind used by animals, fish, +moths, insects, above all, birds. He remembered the female Emperor-moth +that, hidden in a closed box during the short breeding season, summoned +the males across twenty miles of country until her antennae were cut off, +when no male came near her. He felt as if Joan transmitted ideas to him, +shaking them through the air from invisible antennae. He received the +currents, but could not properly de-code them. He waved back to her +again, then was lost to view round the corner. + +'It's a queer thing,' ran through his mind, as though catching the drift +of something she had flashed towards him, 'but Joan's got something no one +else has got--yet. It's coming into the world. Telepathy and wireless +are signs, only she's got it naturally, she's born with it. She's in +touch with everything and everybody everywhere, as though Time and Space +don't trick her as they trick the rest. It's life, but a new kind of +life. It's air life. That's what she means by saying she's an +all-at-once and an all-over person. I understand it, but I haven't got it +myself--and, as if to prove it, he ran into another pedestrian who cursed +him, and, before he could recover himself, collided the next minute with a +lamp-post. + +The current that had been pouring through him was interrupted; it switched +elsewhere. + +'When more of us get like that,' it went on brokenly, 'when the whole +world feels it'--he snatched at an immense and brilliant certainty that +was gone before he could switch it completely into his mind--'it will be +brotherhood! The world will _feel_ together,--one! It's beginning +already. Only people can't quite manage it yet.' + +And the strange lost mood of his youth poured through him, the point of +view that made everybody seem one to him, when air and birds offered the +dream of some inexpressible ideal. . . . He lost himself among the +buttercup fields of spring . . . wandered through Algerian gardens where +the missel-thrush sang in the moonlight and the radiant air was perfumed +with a thousand scents . . . then pulled himself up just in time to avoid +collision with a policeman who came heavily along the solid earth against +him. + +'Look where you're a-going,' growled the policeman. + +'Go where you're looking,' he answered silently in his mind. 'That's the +important thing--to look and to go!' + +He steadied himself then. His mind scurried through the Primers, but +found nothing that helped him much. Joan had asked him about Time and +Space, and he had replied almost as though she had put the words into him +first. Never before had he actually thought in such a way. Time and +Space, as a Primer reminded him, were merely 'Modes under which physical +phenomena are presented to our consciousness, under which our senses act +and by which our thoughts are limited.' Both were illusory, figments of +our finite minds; both could be subdivided or extended infinitely; both, +therefore, were unrealities. They were false, as a picture is false that +makes a pebble in the foreground as large as a cathedral in the background +in order to convey so-called perspective. + +And Joan, somehow or other, was aware of this, for she saw things +all-at-once and all-over. He thought of her word 'throughth'; it wasn't +bad. For she applied it to time as well as space. Time was more than a +line to her, it had several directions, like space. He smiled and felt +light and airy. Joan knew a landscape all at once, as though she had +another sense almost. Every man believes he sees a landscape all at once, +but in reality each spot is past by the time he sees it; it happened +several seconds ago; he sees it as it was when the light left it to travel +to his eye. Each spot has its separate _now_; there is no absolute Now. +He had been wrong to tell her there was only the present; he saw it; she +had flashed this into him somehow. To think the future is not there until +it is reached was as false as to think his flat was not there until he +stepped into it. He laughed happily, aware of a strange, light-hearted +carelessness known in childhood first, then known again when he fell in +love and so shared everything in the world. An immensely exalted point of +view seemed almost within his reach from which he could know, see and _be_ +everything at once. Joan would know and understand what it meant; yet he +had created Joan . . . and had forgotten . . . He thought of light. + +By overtaking the rays of light thrown off from the battle of Waterloo he +could see it happening _now_; if he moved forward at the same pace as the +rays he could see Waterloo stationary; if he moved faster he could see the +battle going backwards, of course. But Waterloo remained always--there. +Time and space were mere tricks. The unit of perception decided the +childish dream of measurement. 'Ha, ha!' he chuckled. 'Real perception +is for the inner self, then, omnipresent, omniscient--at-once and +all-over.' To realise 'I am' was to identify oneself with all, and +everywhere. 'Wherever I am, I--_go_!' + +'That's it,' he concluded abruptly, dropping upon a bench in a little Park +he had reached, 'Joan doesn't think or reason. She just knows. She's an +all-over and all-at-once person!' And he put the Primers, with their +neat, clever explanations, out of his head forthwith. + +'Cleverness,' he reflected, leaning back in the soft smothering dusk, +'is the hall-mark of To-day. It is worthless. It is the devil. +It separates, shuts off, confines and crystallises what should flow and +fly. Birds ain't clever. They just know. There's no cleverness in that +Southern Tour, there's knowledge--all shared together.' The Primer +writers, men who had made their names, were clever merely. +By concentrating on a single thing they could describe it, but they didn't +know it, because the whole was out of sight. They explained the bit of +truth. Joan, ignorant of the photographic details they described and +explained, yet knew the whole--somehow. But how? Wherever she was, she +went! + +He drew a long breath as if he had flown ten miles. + +'She's something new perhaps,' he felt run through him, 'something new and +brilliant flashing down into the old, tired world.' He lit his pipe with +difficulty in the wind, fascinated by the marvel of the little flaming +match. 'She's off the earth--a new type of consciousness altogether--sees +old things in another way--from above and all at once. She's got the bird +in her--'Half-angel and half-bird,' he remembered with a sigh. Only that +morning an essay on Rhythm in his newspaper, _The Times_, had mentioned: +'Angels have been called the Birds of God, and an angel, as we imagine +him, is a being that can do all good things as easily as a bird flies. +When we represent him with bodily wings we are thinking of the wings of +his spirit, and of a soaring power of action and thought for which we have +no analogy in this world except in the physical beauty of flight.' +'By Jove!' he cried aloud. + +A flock of sparrows, startled by a cat, rose like a fountain of grey +feathers past him, whirring through the air. There were fifty of them, +but they moved like one. + +'Got a whole flock in her!' he added. + +He watched the fluttering mass of busy wings as they shot into a leafy +plane tree overhead and vanished. A touch of awe stole over him. +'There's a whole flight of birds in her. She's a lot, yet one,' he went +on under his breath, thinking that the fifty sparrows went out of sight +like one person who turns a corner and is gone. How did they manage it? +By what magical sympathy, as though one single consciousness actuated them +all, did they swerve instantly together? + +There was something uncanny about it. He felt a little creepy even. . . . +The shadows were stealing over the deserted Park. A low wind shivered +through the iron fence. A vast nameless power came close. . . . He got +up slowly, heavily, and went out into the crowded street, glad a moment to +feel himself surrounded by men and women, all following routine, thick, +solid, reasoning folk, unable to fly. A swallow, flashing like visible +wind across the paling sky of pink and gold, went past him. He looked up. +He sighed. He wondered. Something marvellously sweet and lofty stirred +in him. With intense yearning he thought of his little, strange, birdy +daughter, Joan, again. His absorbing love for her spread softly to +include the world. 'If she should teach them . . .!' came the bewildering +idea, as though the swallow dropped it into him. 'Drag them out of their +holes, show them air and wings, make them bird-happy . . . teach them +that!' + +A tremendous freedom, lofty and careless, beckoned to him,--release, +escape at full speed into the infinite air; all cages opened, all bars +destroyed, doors wide and ceilings gone; that was what he felt. + +But lack of words blocked the completion of the wild, big thought in him, +for he had never felt quite like this since early youth, and had no means +of describing the swift yet deep emotion that was in him. He could not +express it--unless he sang. And he was afraid to sing. The County +Council would misinterpret Joy. There was an attendant in the Park, a +policeman in the road; he would be locked up merely. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +He plunged into the stream of pedestrians and it struck him how thickly, +heavily clothed they were; the street resembled a sluggish river of dark +liquid; he struggled through it, immersed to his shoulders. + +And the flock of curious, elusive thoughts, half-formed, fluttered above +his mind just near enough to drop their shadows before they scattered and +passed on. Much as a kitten pounces on the shadow of shifting foliage on +a lawn his brain pursued and pounced upon them, bringing up the best words +available, yet that did not suit because the necessary words do not exist. +It was only the shadow of the ideas he captured. + +'A new language is wanted,' he decided, 'a flying language, with a rapid +air vocabulary, condensed, intense. Everything else is speeding up +nowadays, but language lags behind. It's old-fashioned, slow. +All these ideas I've got, for instance, ought to go into a word or two by +rights. Joan put 'em into me just now from the roof by a couple of +gestures--enough to fill a dozen Primers with words. Ah, that's it! +What comes to me in a single thought--and in a second--takes thousands of +words to get itself told in language. Words are too detailed and clever: +they miss the whole. Aha! There's a new language floating into the world +from the air--a new way, a bird-way, of communicating. We shall share as +the birds do. We shall all understand each other by gesture--thought-- +feeling! Instant understanding means a new sympathy; that, again, means a +divine carelessness, based on a common trust and faith.' And the +immensely lofty point of view--as from a dizzy height in space--once more +floated past him. + +He steadied himself by pausing to look in at the shop windows. On a +chemist's shelves he saw various things to stimulate, coax and feed people +into keener life. The Invisible Sticking Plaster was there, too, to patch +them up. Next door was a book-shop, where he remained glued to the window +like a fly to treacle-paper. 'Success and how to attain It,' he read, +'in twelve lessons, one shilling'; 'Train your Will and earn more Money, +fourpence halfpenny'; 'The Mysteries of Life, Here and Hereafter, all +explained, sixpence net.' And second-hand copies of various books, marked +'All in this row tuppence only,' including several of the +'What's-in-the-Air-To-day' Primers. + +Beyond was a window full of clothing, woollen garments guaranteed not to +shrink; electric or magnetic belts, to store energy, 'special line--a +bargain,' and various goods for keeping warmth in various parts of the +body. All these shops, he reflected, sold things intended to increase or +preserve life, artificial things, cheaply made, and sold to the public as +dearly as possible, things intended to increase life and prevent its +going. In other shops he saw mechanical means for stimulating, +intensifying, driving life along. Life had come to this: All these +artificial tricks were necessary to keep it going. Food, knowledge, +clothes, speed that a bird possessed naturally in abundance. A robin's +temperature in the snow was 110 degrees. Yet human beings required +thousands of shops that sold the conditions for keeping alive,--at a +profit. He passed an undertaker's shop--to die was a costly artificial +business too. There was too much earth in the whole affair. He remembered +that no one ever saw a bird dead, when its death was a natural death. +It slipped away and hid itself--ashamed of being caught dead! + +A crowd collected round him, thinking he had discovered something +exciting, and it jostled him until he elbowed his way out. He swerved +dizzily amid the booming, thundering traffic, as he crossed the road and +brought up against a toy-shop, where the sight of balls and butterfly +nets, ships and trains and coloured masks restored his equilibrium. +'Real things are still to be had,' the fluttering shadows danced across +his mind, 'And there are folk who like them!' he added in his own words, +as two tousled-headed children came up and stood beside him, staring +hungrily. He gave sixpence to each, told them to go in and buy something, +and then continued his evening walk along the crowded pavement. +'Life is a great grand thing,' he realised, 'if we could all get together +somehow. It's coming, I think. A change is coming, something light and +airy penetrating all this--this sluggish mass----' he broke off, again +unable to express the idea that fluttered round him--' ah! it's good to be +alive!' he went on, 'but to know it is better still. But you have no +right to live unless you can be grateful to life, and create your own +reason for existing. It means dancing, singing, flying!' He felt new +life everywhere near him; a new supply of a lighter, more vivid kind was +descending from the air. 'It's a new thing coming down into the world; +it's beginning to burst through everywhere: a change, a change of +direction----' + +He repeated this to himself as he moved slowly through the surging crowd. +Joan, he remembered, had called death a change of direction only. But as +he reached the word 'change,' it seemed to jump up at him and hang blazing +with fire before his eyes. He had caught it flying; he held it fast and +looked at it. The other shadows careered away, but this one stayed. +He had caught the thing that cast it. The flock of shadows, he realised, +were not cast by actual thoughts; they were the faint passage through his +mind of mysterious premonitions that Joan's gestures had tossed carelessly +towards him through the air. Coming ideas cast their shadow before. +This one, at least, he had captured in a word, a figure of speech. He had +pounced and caught it by the tail. It fluttered, but could not wholly get +away. + +Change was the keyword. A gigantic change was coming, but coming gently, +stealing along almost like a thief in the night, emerging into view +wherever a channel offered itself. Life was being geared up everywhere. +Human activities, physical, mental, spiritual, too, were increasing speed. +Humanity was being quickened. They were passing from earth to air. + +Signs were plentiful, though mysterious. His mind roamed through the +Epitomes of his Primers, skimming off the cream. Thinkers, artists, +preachers, although they hardly realised it, were beginning to look up +instead of down; from pulpit, press, and platform the little signs peeped +out and flashed about the mass of expectant men and women. The entire +world seemed standing on tip-toe, ready for a tentative flight at last. +There was a universal expectation abroad that was almost anticipation. + +But change involved dislocation here and there, and this dislocation was +apparent in the general confusion that reigned in the affairs of the +world. Stupendous hope was felt, though not yet realised and fulfilled. +No one as yet could justify it. Pessimism and confidence, both strangely +fundamental, were violently active. So long accustomed to terra firma, +the world asked questions of its little coming wings, and the new element +of air frightened even while it attracted--nervous, timid, wild, uneasy +questions were asked on every side. Deprived of the old, comfortable +ideas of Heaven and Hell, and suspicious of the newly hinted promise of +survival, hearts trembled while they listened to so sweet whispers of +escape into the air. The old shibboleths, distrusted, were slinking one +by one into their holes. Science could, perhaps, go usefully no further; +Reason, still proud upon her pinnacle, yet hesitated, unable to advance; +Theology looked round her with dim, tired eyes. The whole starving earth +paused upon a mighty change that should usher in a new and single thing--a +new direction. Alone the few who knew, felt glad and confident--joy. +But they _felt_ it only, for as yet they could not tell it in language +usefully. + +They might live it, though! + +'Live it--ah!' he exclaimed, and his thoughts came back again to his +queer, birdy daughter. For Joan, he told himself, brimmed over with it. +She had in her the lightness, speed, and shining of the new element; she +was glad and confident, full of joy, bird-happy, aware of principles +rather than of details. She sang. Of all creatures this spontaneous +expression of joy in life was known to birds alone. No other creatures +sang. The essential ecstasy that dwells in air, making its inhabitants +soar, fly, sing, was liberated in her human heart. + +True. . . . The weary world stood everywhere on tiptoe, craning its neck +into the air for some new expected prophet who should take it by the-- +wing. + +It was a marvellous, delightful thought, and it sent his imagination +whirring into space. The wings of his mind went shivering. He gave +expression to it by a sudden gesture of his arms and head, making, it +seemed, a spontaneous effort to rise and fly--and, luckily, no one +observed him making it. It was similar, however, to the movement Joan had +made upon the roof as she stood outlined against the red and yellow sky; +similar, also, to the flashing curve the swallow had shown him not long +afterwards. It conveyed a thousand laborious sentences in a small +spontaneous gesture that was rhythmical. Ah! there was a change of rhythm +coming! And in rhythm lay a new means of instantaneous communication. +Two persons in the same rhythm knew and understood each other completely-- +felt together. Then why not all? + +The flock of shifting shadows fell more thickly down upon the floor of his +receptive mind. He pounced upon them eagerly. + +'Yes, it's an air-thing somehow,' he felt, watching the amazing pattern, +'a bird-thing coming. And she knows it. She's born with it.' He again +remembered the buttercup meadows of Cambridge and the singing gardens of +Algeria, the ecstasy, the light and heat of that exalted passion. +'Her mother had the germ of it, but in Joan it's blossomed out. +People would call her primitive, backward, even a little crazy, +'hysterical' is the word they'd use to-day, I suppose--but in reality +she's--er--awfully advanced. To be behind the race is the same as to be +ahead of it, for life is circular and to run fast ahead is to overtake +your tail. Signs of going back are equally signs of going forward. +The same place is passed again and again until all it can teach has been +caught from it; so the brain may be justifying scientifically To-day what +was known instinctively to ancient times. The subconscious becomes the +conscious.' + +'No, no,' the shadows painted somewhere behind his thought, 'it's not +circular, it's spiral. We come round to the same place again, only higher +up, above--in the air. And with the bird's-eye view from above comes +understanding.' + +Joan, he remembered, had said a few days before, speaking of his +button-hole: 'A flower is a stone put up several octaves.' That was +flight in itself--all she said had flight in it. Her statement was true, +literally, scientifically, spiritually, yet evolution was a word certainly +unknown to her, and the spiral movement equally beyond her mental +vocabulary. + +The shadows danced and grouped themselves anew. + +He reviewed strange signs that were-in-the-air-to-day, seeing them all as +aspects of one single thing. They were not really disconnected; their +apparent separation was caused by the various angles of survey, just as a +floor seen from below became a ceiling. All that he was thinking now was, +similarly, one big thing caught from various points of view. Some power +swifter, surer than thought in him surveyed it all at once; the tiresome +descriptions his mind laboured over took in the details separately--the +shifting shadows; yet the pattern as a whole was in him, captured by some +kind of instantaneous knowledge such as birds possess. Like Joan, he +caught the bird's-eye view, in principle. Yet she refused to be blinded +and smothered by the details, whereas they certainly muddled _him_. +It was necessary to select the details one thought about evidently. +He tried to stand outside himself and see the single something that +included all the details, and in proportion as he did so he seemed to rise +into the air. + +He reviewed these details flashily, and, so doing, got a glimpse, an +inkling, of the entirety whence they arose. All seemed to him significant +evidence of one and the same vast thing; this new, queer, rushing supply +of air-life flowing through everything everywhere, forcing a swift and +rhythmical way in the most unlikely places, modifying human activities in +all directions unaccountably. He saw a hundred of his Primer-Writers +sitting in a studious group about it, each describing certain specific +details, while the general outline of the whole escaped them individually. +Each called his scrap by different names, little aware that all sat +regarding the same one thing. It came up bubbling, dancing, pouring forth +with rhythm, bringing lightness into solid details, unsettling the +old-fashioned, and carrying many off their feet into the air. It was so +brimming that it overflowed; to resist it brought confusion, insecurity, +distress; to go with it was the only way to understand it--accepting the +huge new rhythm. Yet it had so many guises, so many protean forms. +Proteus was, indeed, a deathless truth, things changing into one another +because they all are one. + +He felt this new thing as synthesis, unity. The signs he reviewed +combined in a single gesture that conveyed it. Earth, with its reason, +logic, facts, could teach no more; Science was blocked from sheer +accumulation of undigested detail; the new knowledge was not there; a new +element was needed. And it was coming: Air. + +Already there was a change even in sight itself, and artists saw things in +a new direction. Mere foolishness to the majority, the cubists, futurists +and the like presented objects to others--others quite as intelligent as +the majority, quite as competent to judge--with an authentic fiat of truth +and beauty. They conveyed an essentially new view of objects, warning the +man in the street that the objective world is illusory and that concepts +built upon the reports of the senses are radically deceptive. A city seen +from an aeroplane resembled a cubist picture. This new sight seemed a +bird's-eye view, again, though using--going back to--the primitive, naked, +savage sight, yet a stage above it, higher, a tumultuous rhythm in it. +The spiral again! + +Side by side with it ran a strange new hearing too. The musicians--he +recalled the names that showered through the Primer pages--called +attention to this new hearing-from-another-angle. And, here again, it was +a going back apparently. Debussy used the old, primitive tone scale, +while Strauss and Scriabin, to say nothing of a hundred lesser ears, +extended the rhythm of music to include the world of sounds as none have +dared before. In literature, more swiftly assimilative and interpretative +of the airy inrush, the signs were thickly bewildering. Only, for the +majority, Pan being still misunderstood, the God of Air came more slowly +to his own. But the signs were everywhere, like birds and buttercups in +spring. The bird's-eye view, flashing marvellously, imperishably lovely, +was on the way into the hearts of men, the fairy touch, the protean +aspect, the light, electric rhythm running from the air upon the creaking +ground, urging the mass upwards with singing, dancing, into a synthesis, a +unity like a flock of birds. + +The nonsense of unintelligible words and decapitated sentences tried to +catch hold of what he felt, only failed to express it because it was too +big for used-up, pedestrian language. He felt this coming change and +swept along with it. He was aware of it all over. + +It came, he realised, flushing the most sensitive, receptive channels +first--the artists chiefly--and the apparent ugliness here and there was +due to distortion and exaggeration, to that violence necessary to overcome +the inertia of habit in a narrow groove, the tyranny of Mode. +The accumulated momentum of habit flowing so long in one direction called +for a prodigious rhythm to stop it first, then turn it back--into the new +direction. Mode was the devil--_der Geist der stets verneint_--forbidding +change, destroying innovators, worshipping that formal, dull routine which +is ever anti-spiritual because it photographs a moment and fixes it to +earth for always. . . . It was, of course, attacked, as all new movements +are attacked, with contempt, with ridicule, with anger; but the attacks +were negligible, and could not stay its gathering flow. The bright little +minds of the day charged against it, stuck their clever shafts, and +scuttled back again into the obscurity of their safe, accustomed groove. +Mistaking stagnation for balance, they clung to the solid earth of years +ago, but knew it not. + +Of all this his mind did not frame, much less utter, a single word. +But the pattern of its coming fell glowingly across his feelings. +Life too long had been a single photograph; it seemed now a rushing +cinematograph, revolving, advancing, mounting spirally into the air. +He felt it thus. Something new was pushing up the map from underneath to +meet the air; it was sprouting everywhere, going back to deep Pagan joy +and wonder, yet with Reason added to it. Reason looked back breathless to +Instinct long despised and cried, 'Come! Help me out!' And into his +mind leaped the symbolic image of a Centaur combining both these +faculties. He added wings to it. + +'Reason--oh, of course! Without reason who could know that at a certain +station there must be a change of carriage?' The train and station once +there, that method of roving once accepted, Reason was as necessary as a +railway ticket. Only--well, he thought of the great Southern Tour and the +perfect motion and perfect knowledge that led those tiny travellers to +their distant destination and brought them home again to the identical +hedge and bush and twig six months later. There was another way of +communication. Birds knew it. The female Emperor-moth used it. +Our wireless poles and instruments followed laboriously to achieve it. +Yet the power itself lay in ourselves too, somewhere, waiting to be +recognised without costly mechanism. + +Yes, there surely was another way of travelling, of motion, coming, a +bird-way, yet even swifter, surer still, because independent of the earthy +body. The real, airy part of men and women were acquiring it already, +their real selves, thought and consciousness, learning the new mighty +rhythm by degrees. The transference of thought and consciousness was +close upon them--from the air; wireless communication with all parts of +space; the mysterious, unconscious wisdom of the bird, organised and +directed consciously by men and women. + +An immense thrill passed over him. He began to sing softly to himself, +but so softly, luckily, that no one overheard him: 'Flow, fly, flow; +Wherever I am, I _go_!' Joan knew it all unconsciously. She just sang +it. + +And bits of a bird-primer flew across his mind, casting the same delicate, +protean shadows against the wall where thought stopped helplessly. +The precocious intelligence of feathered life was still a mystery no +primer-writer could explain. The curlew, he recalled, after wintering in +New Zealand, paused to mate and nest in the South of England on his way to +Northern Siberia, while awaiting the summons to complete its journey when +the ice is gone. 'It is a fact, proved and attested beyond dispute, that +the evening the curlew leaves the South of England is invariably the day +on which the ice breaks in the north, at least two thousand miles +distant.' How does the curlew know it? + +He thought of the plover with five drums in his ear, able to hear the +'slow, sinuous movement of the worm in the soil, eight inches below the +hard-crusted surface'; of the lapwing who imitates the sound of rain by +drumming with his feet to bring the worms up; of the cuckoo matching her +egg with those of the foster-mother selected for her baby--hundreds of +variations; of the swallow, mating like the nightingale for life, and of a +certain pair of swallows, in particular, who 'for fifteen consecutive +years returned to the same spot, after wintering in Cape Colony, to build +their nest, arriving invariably on the same day of the year--the 11th of +April'; of the nightingales who winter separately, but return faithfully +together to England in the spring, the female, perhaps, from India, the +male from Persia. + +A hundred marvels of air-life came back to him; all 'instinct'--only +'mere instinct'! Birds, birds, birds! The wisdom of the birds! +Their communications, their flocking together, their swift rhythmical +movements, their singing language, their unity, their--brotherhood! + +From the air the new thing was rushing down upon the world, yes. Yet not +alone the sensitive artist-temperament perceived it; it came overflowing +into far less delicate channels as well, breaking up the old with +difficulty, but producing first a tumult of disturbance that would later +fall into harmonious rhythm too. There were everywhere new men, new +women; behind the Woman Movement, for all its first excess, was a +colossal, necessary, inevitable thing. Once rhythmical, the disorder and +extravagance would become order, balance. The neuter woman was a passing +moment in it, not to endure. The new woman was but another sign of the +airy invasion which the painters and musicians, the writers and the +preachers, felt. And the air-man, with new nerves, new courage, new +outlook upon energy, even new bird-like face and strange lightning eyes, +was another obvious, physical, yet only half-physical, expression. +His audacious courage seemed somehow to focus the new consciousness +preparing. The birds were coming everywhere. A new element, a new +direction! + +In advance of the invasion, making way for it, old solid obstacles were +everywhere breaking down. He seemed to recognise a crumbling of +religions, of religious forms. The rigid creeds and dogmas, made by man, +and imprisoning him so long, were turning fluid before the stress of the +new arrival, melting down like sand-castles when the tide comes in. +They must hurry to adapt themselves, or else cease to exist. +Formal, elaborate, dead-letter theology must go, to let in--Religion. +The churches seemed to have become unreal already, continuing, +parrot-like, to teach traditional doctrines the people have long ago +abandoned. He heard another Primer whisper in his ear. 'Every one is +aware of the failure of the churches to touch modern life; to escape from +their grooves; to cease to deal in conventional and monotonous iterations +of old-fashioned formulae, instead of finding vital, human, developing +expressions of the spiritual craving in man. They do not teach _that the +Kingdom of Heaven is on earth_. They have isolated religion from +practical life. Religion must evolve with the evolution of human +culture'--or disappear. Its teaching must take wings and rise to lead +into the air, or remain stagnant on the ground in ruins, stony, +motionless, dead, a photograph. + +The 'wireless imagination' of the futurist was not so meaningless as it +sounded. The exaggeration that preceded the new arrival would soon pass. +Only, the first flight took the breath away a little, as when a man, from +walking, breaks into a run to leap into an unknown element. Through the +scientific world the quiver was running too. What's coming next? What in +the world is going to happen? seemed the universal cry. The composite +face of the world already assumed the eager lineaments of the great +bird-visage. The air was coming. + +The rhythm of life was everywhere being accelerated, and side by side with +the mechanical expression in telephones and wireless communications, a +quickening transformation of human sensibility was taking place as well. +It was the running start for a leap into the air. Facilities for +increasing the spontaneity of living existed at every street corner, but +it was air that first produced them. Air made them possible. There was +even approach towards the unification of the senses, one man hearing +through his teeth and skull, another seeing through his temples. +The localisation of sensibility was merging into a unified perception +whereby people would presently know all-over and at-once. They would +realise the eternal principle and ignore the obscuring details. Once they +all felt together as the bird did, brotherhood, which is sharing all in +natural sympathy, would be close. . . . + +The shadow-patterns flashed and rustled on across his mind. In a couple +of minutes all these wild ideas occurred to him. They were +extraordinarily elusive, yet extraordinarily real. In an interval as +brief as that between saying 'Quite well, thank you,' to some one who asks +'How are you?' this flock of suggestions swept over him and went their +way. They never grew clear enough to be actual thoughts; they were just +passing hints of what was in-the-air-to-day. All telescoped together in a +rapid rush, marked him, vanished, yet left behind them something that was +real. They came through his skin, he fancied, rather than through his +brain. They came all over. + +The pedestrians, meanwhile, shuffled past him heavily; he made his way +with difficulty, the thick stream opening to let him through, then closing +in again behind him. He felt closely in touch with them all, in more ways +than one; but the majority were still groping on the ground, hunting for +luxurious holes to shelter in. Only a few were looking up. He saw, here +and there, an eager face turned skywards, tipped with the beauty of a +flushing dawn. These, perhaps, felt it coming. But few as yet--one in a +million, say--would dare to fly. + +He watched them as he passed along, feeling them gathering him in. +He saw the endless, seething crowd as a unit. He felt their strength, +their beauty. He was aware of democracy, virile, proud, inevitable. +He felt the hovering bird above it somewhere, immense, inspiring. +The advancing tide was rising, undermining caste and class distinctions +steadily, breaking down conventions, the feeblest sand-castles children +ever built. He heard an awful thunder too. It revealed a storming +majesty, shattering, cataclysmic, making most hearts afraid--the opening +and stirring of multitudinous huge wings. Yet it was merely the new +element coming, the great invasion with its irresistible rhythm. +Democracy wore striped wings beneath its Sunday black, powerful, +magnificent eagle-wings. Birds flying in their thousands, he recalled, +convey sublimity. But yet he shuddered. The rising of such tremendous +wings involved somewhere--blood. + +He saw, with his bird's-eye view, the general levelling up, or levelling +down, in progress. No big outstanding figure led the world to-day. +There were no giants anywhere. Much of a muchness ruled in art and +business, as in statesmanship. No towering figures showed the way into +the air. On the other hand there was degeneracy that could not be denied. +He saw it, however, like the dirty flotsam seaweed pushed in front of a +great high-tide. Degeneracy precedes new growth when that growth is of a +different kind. Out of decaying wood springs a tree of fairer type, and +from the ashes of a burnt hemlock forest emerge maple, birch and oak, +while the flaming Fireweed lights the way with beauty. When a Canadian +forest is destroyed by fire, the growth next spring is of a totally new +kind, and no one has yet told whence came the seed of this new, different +growth. After a prairie fire, similarly, new flowers spring up that were +not there before. The subsoil possibly has concealed them; they are +discovered by the fiery heat. The decay of old, true grandeur he saw +everywhere, the democratic vulgarisation of beauty, the universal +levelling up and levelling down, but he saw these as evidence of that +crumbling of too in-bred forms which announced the new coming harvest from +the air. It was but the decay of old foundations which have served their +time. + +'We shall build lighter,' he half sang, half whispered to himself, +squeezing between a lamp-post and a workman who came rolling unsteadily +out of a tavern door; 'birds'-nests, up among the swinging trees! +We shall live more carelessly, and nearer to the stars! No cellars any +more, no basements, but gardens on the roof! Winds, colours, sunshine, +air! Oh!----' as the man bumped into him and sent him off the pavement +with 'Beg parding, sir!' 'No, I beg yours,' he replied, and came down to +earth with a crash, remembering that supper was at seven-thirty and he +must be turning homewards. + +So he turned and retraced his steps, feeling somehow that he had come down +from the mountain tops or from a skimming rush along high windy cliffs. +The net result of all these strange half-thoughts was fairly simple. +His imagination had been stirred by the sight of his daughter in the +sunset making those suggestive gestures against the coloured sky. +With her hands she had flung a shower of silver threads about him; along +these, somehow, her own queer ideas flashed into him. A new point of +view, a new attitude to life, something with the light, swift rhythm of a +bird's flight was coming into the minds of men. Most of those who felt it +were hardly conscious, perhaps, that they did so, because carried along +with it. The old were frightened, change being difficult for them; but +the young, the more sensitive ones among them at any rate, stretched out +their arms and legs to meet the flowing, flying invasion. 'Flow, fly, +flow; wherever I am--I _go_,' was in the air to-day. Joan knew. +New hope, new light, new language, all aspects of joy and confidence, +seemed dawning. Air and birds were symbols of it. It was rhythmical, +swift, spontaneous. It sang. It was bird-happy and bird-wise. It was a +new kind of consciousness, yet more than a mere expansion of present +consciousness. It was a new direction altogether, while its object, +purpose, aim was the oldest dream known to this old-tired world-- +brotherhood and unity. A bird brotherhood! The wisdom of the Flock! + +'I declare,' he murmured, laughing quietly to himself, 'if any one could +hear me--see inside my mind just now--they'd say I was----!' + +And that reminded him of his wife. He remembered that he was thinking of +moving into the country with his family before very long. He came back to +a definite thought again. He pondered facts and ways and means. He was +very practical really at heart, no mere dreamer by any means. He weighed +the difficulties. Mother was one of them. Sad, sad, the bird had left +her; she was a badger now. He felt uneasy, troubled in his mind. But he +smiled. He was fond of her. + +'How ever shall we manage?' he asked himself. 'There are so many +incongruous things to reconcile. Gently, kindly, softly, airily is the +way.' + +Then, suddenly, a bird-thought came to help him. Ah, it was practically +useful, this inspiration from the air. It was not merely nonsense, then! + +'If I just hope and believe, and do my best, and don't think--too much--it +will all come right. I must be spontaneous and instinctive, not +overweighted by worrying and detailed reason. I must believe and trust. +That's the way to get what's called good judgment. See it whole from the +air!' + +For the details that perplexed him were, after all, merely different +aspects of one and the same thing--the several points of view of Mother, +Joan, Tom, himself. Hold in the mind the details in solution, and the +problem must solve itself. If he understood each one--_that_ was +necessary--while viewing the problem as a whole, the solution must come +spontaneously of itself. The bird's-eye view would show the way, while he +remained nominally leader, like the bird that heads the triangular wedge +of wild geese across a hundred miles of sky. This flashed upon him like a +song. + +And as he realised this, his trouble vanished; joy took its place; with it +came a sense of confidence, power, even wisdom. Though the matter was +trivial enough, it was the triumph of instinct: Reason laid out the +details, instinct pieced them together, then Intuition led. It was seeing +all-over, knowing all-at-once. Already he had begun to live like a bird, +and Joan, though he knew not how exactly, had taught him. + +'Wherever I am, I go,' went darting through his head. He smiled, felt +light and happy--and strangely wise. Perhaps he could help. Perhaps he +was going to be a teacher even. A Teacher, he realised, must first of all +find out the point of view of the person to be taught, and then discover a +new point of view which will make the wrong or foolish attitude harmonise +with reality. Everybody is right where he is, however wrong he may be. +Only he must not stay there. The Teacher is a priest who supplies the new +point of view. New teaching, however, was not necessary; the world was +choked to the brim with teaching already. A new airy understanding of old +teaching was the thing. . . . + +He was now close to the iron gates of Sun Court Mansions, where he lived. +In the diminutive, yet pretentious, plot of garden stood a tall, leafy +tree. A gust of wind blew past him at that moment with a roaring sound +that was like laughter, and he saw the tree shake and tremble. +The countless branches tossed in a dozen directions, hopelessly in +disorder, each branch, each twig obeying its own particular little rhythm. +That they all belonged to a single, central object seemed incredible, so +brave the show they made of being independent and apart. + +Then, as he stood and watched, seventy thousand leaves turned all one way, +showing their delicate under-skins. The great tree suddenly blew open. +He saw the trunk to which leaves and branches all belonged. And at the +wind's order the tree behaved as a single thing, even the most outlying +portions answering to the one harmonious rhythm. At which moment, once +again, a flock of birds rose from somewhere near with an effortless rush +and swooped in among the leaves with one great gesture common to each one. +They settled with the utmost ease. The myriad little busy details merged +in one; they disappeared. But in settling thus, they made the solid green +seem light as air, shiny, almost fluid. + +And Wimble, taking the odd hint, felt too that his own difficulties had +similarly turned fluid, melted, disappeared. The details merged into a +whole; they were referred, at any rate, to some central authority that hid +deep within him. A wind of inspiration, as it were, had blown him wide +open too. Details that tossed in different directions, apparently hostile +to one another, betrayed their common trunk. They showed their +under-sides. He was aware of an essential unity to which all belonged. + +Something in him shone. He had taught himself, at any rate. He went +upstairs, confident and light-hearted, breathless a little too, as though +he had enjoyed an exhilarating flight of leagues, instead of a two-mile +trudge along the solid, crowded pavements of Maida Vale. + +And later, when he went to bed, he fell asleep upon a gorgeous, airy +conviction: 'The Golden Age lies in front of us, and not behind!' +It was a birdy thought. He flew into dreamland with it in his wings. + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +Mrs. Wimble felt the death in another manner. It disconnected her from +life. It cut her off from a network of safe, accustomed grooves. +Something solid she had clung to subsided under ground. A final link with +childhood, youth, and beauty broke. Death has a way of making survivors +older suddenly. Mrs. Wimble now admitted age to herself; wore unsightly +and depressing black; felt sentimental about a big 'p' Past; and ruminated +uneasily about other worlds. Black with her was an admission that an +after-life was at best an open question. It was a lugubrious conventional +act symbolical of selfish grief, a denial of true religious teaching which +should have faith, and therefore joy, as its illuminating principle. +She did not understand the question. She had no answer ready. She said, +'What?' + +She referred to the 'lost' at intervals. It did not occur to her that +what is lost is open to recovery. When she said 'lost' she really meant +annihilated. For, though a Christian nominally, and a faithful +church-goer, when she had clothes she considered fit for the Deity to see +her in, her notions of a future state were mental conceptions merely that +contained no real belief. She was not aware that she did not believe, but +this was, of course, the fact. Her father, moreover, had long ago +destroyed the reality of the two after-death places generally accepted, +soon after he had taught her that they both existed. Not wittingly for +his part, nor for her part, consciously. But since 'heavenly' was a term +he used to describe large sales of corn, and 'Go to hell, you idiot' was a +phrase he applied frequently to underlings in yard and office, his +daughter had grown up with less respect for the actuality of these +localities than she might otherwise have had. + +And with regard to her love for him--it was not love at all, but a selfish +dependence tempered with mild affection. He was now gone; she missed him. +A prop had sunk, a tie with the distant nursery snapped, the sense of +continuity with the fragrance of early days, of toys, of romance and +Christmas presents was no longer there. Instead of looking backwards-- +still possible while a parent lives--she now looked forward into a +muddled, shadowy future that brought depression and low spirits. It was a +subterranean look. She went down under ground into her hole, yet +backwards, still peering with pathetic eagerness into the sunshine of life +that she must leave behind. + +Therefore, for her father at any rate, she knew not love. For the one +thing certain and positive about love is that those who feel it _know_, +and to mention loss in the sense of annihilation is but childish +ignorance. There is physical disappearance, separation, going elsewhere, +but these are temporary, another direction, as Joan expressed it. +Love shouts the fact, contemptuous of exact photographic proof. +No mother worth her salt, at any rate, believes that death is final loss. +She has known union; and Love brings, above all, the absolute +consciousness of eternal union. 'Loss,' used of death, is a devil-word +where love is, and as ignorant as 'loss of appetite' when food has become +a portion of the eater. One's self is not separable from its-self. +Love, having absorbed the essentials of what it loves, remains because it +_is_; for ever indivisible; there. The beloved dead step nearer when +their bodies drop aside. 'The dead know where they are, and what they're +doing,' as Joan mentioned. 'It's not for us to worry--in that way. +And they're out of hours and minutes. They probably have no time to come +back and tell us.' + +To which Mother's whole attitude replied with an exasperated 'What? +I don't think you know what you mean, child.' + +Joan answered in a flash, her face clouding slightly, then breaking into a +happy smile again: 'But, mother, what people think about a thing has +nothing to do with the real meaning.' + +'Eh?' said Mother. + +'Their opinion doesn't matter.' + +Mrs. Wimble bridled a little. She was not yet ready to be taught to fly. +In this airy element she felt unsafe, bewildered, and therefore irritable. + +'Then you'll find out later, Joan, that it _does_ matter,' she replied +emphatically with ruffled dignity. 'One can't play fast and loose with +things like that, not in this world, my dear. One must be fixed to +something--somewhere. Life isn't nonsense. And you'll remember later +that I said so.' + +Joan peeped at her sideways, as a robin might peep at a barking dog. +A tender and earnest expression lit upon her sparkling little face. + +'But life is a vision,' she said with a glow in her voice; 'it begins and +goes on just like that,' and she clicked her fingers in the air. +'If you see it from above, from outside--like a swallow--you know it all +at once like in a dream and vision, and it means everything there is to be +meant. You put in the details afterwards.' She was perched upon the +window-sill again, her long legs dangling. She began to sing her +bird-song. + +'There, there,' expostulated Mr. Wimble, who was listening, 'we're not +birds yet, Joan, whatever we're going to be,' but the last seven words +dropped unconsciously into the rhythm of her singing tune. He felt a wind +blow from her into his heart. Mrs. Wimble, however, remained concealed +behind her _World_. She was not actually reading anything, because her +eyes moved too quickly from paragraph to paragraph. But she said nothing +for some moments, and presently she folded the paper with great +deliberation, laying it beside her on the table, and patting it +emphatically. + +'Visions are for those that like them,' she announced, moving towards the +door and casting a sideways look of surprise and contempt at her husband +whose silence seemed to favour Joan. 'To my way of thinking, they're +unsettling. What time does Tom come in to-night?' + +They discussed Tom for a few moments, and it was remembered that he had a +latch-key and could let himself in, and that therefore they might go to +bed without anxiety. But what Mrs. Wimble said upon this unnecessary +topic meant really: 'You're both too much for me; my hopes are set on +Tom.' She continued her perusal of the _World_ in her room, retiring +shortly afterwards to sleep heavily for nine full hours without a break. + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Her father stood upside-down--mentally, of course, not physically. +Certain of the Primer 'Epitomes' came in helter-skelter to support his +daughter's nonsense. At the same time he was aware that he ought to chide +her. And probably he would have done so but for the fact that before he +knew it, the girl was asking to be forgiven. He had not seen her move; +his mental sight was still following Mother. There was a flutter of +something white across the air--and there Joan was--upon his knee. + +And so he did not chide her. Nor did he rebuke her for singing under her +breath what she called 'Mother's Song,' beginning: + + O Disaster! + You're my Master! + +'Your mother's tired to-night,' he observed. 'But all the same, you are a +nasty little tease, you know.' Her arms felt like warm, smooth feathers as +he stroked them. He seemed floating lightly in mid-air above the roof. +And he remembered vaguely the fairy tales of his youth when Princesses +turned suddenly into swans. Oh, how beautiful it was, this bird idea, +this seeing and feeling things in the terms of birds. Those girls in +Greece the gods changed into a nightingale and a swallow--what a +delightful, exhilarating experience! Easy--and how true! 'The feathery +change came o'er you,' he murmured from the Treasury of Song, then, +interrupting his own mood of curious enjoyment, turned to Joan abruptly. + +'Why did you talk like that?' he inquired. + +'To make Mother move----' + +'To bed, you mean?' he asked, almost severely. + +'Yes, no,' said Joan. + +'Answer me properly, girl,' he observed. + +'Of course not. Move nearer to you--and me--even to grandpa. We ought to +be a flock somehow, I felt. But we looked so separate and apart, you two +on chairs, reading, him out of sight, and me on the window-sill.' + +'Eh?' + +'We ought to be one thing more. The whole world ought to be. +Not crowded--oh, there'd be heaps of room to move in--but all together +somehow like birds. It's only bad birds that are apart--ravens, hawks, +and birds of prey. All the others flock.' She darted from his knee and +stood upon her toes a second before him, staring down into his eyes. +'It's coming, you know, Daddy. It's coming, anyhow!' She said it +brightly, eagerly, yet with a singular conviction in her tone. +'The whole world's flocking somehow--somewhere--for I feel it. We shall +all be happy together once we get into the country.' + +A shiver of beauty passed through him as he heard her. He remembered his +walk up Maida Vale, and the rushing, shadowy presentiment in his mind that +something new was on the way. + +'Like a single big family, you mean? All after one high big thing +together?' He asked it, greatly wondering at her. But her reply made him +gasp. Where had she learned such things, unless from the air? + +'Your language is so draughty, Daddy. _I_ mean a bird-world. +Birds aren't unselfish, they're just--together.' + +He rubbed his forehead, saying nothing, while she fluttered down upon his +knees again. + +'Like my body,' she said. 'Don't you see?' + +'Yes, no,' he laughed, using her method unconsciously. + +'I can't lace my boot with one hand, but the other isn't unselfish when it +comes to help. My head is no farther from _me_ than my boot, is it?' +And she sang softly her bird-song of movement and delight, until he felt +the quality of her volatile, aerial mind flash down into his own and +lighten it amazingly. + +'My precious little daughter,' he cried, 'you are a bird, and you shall +teach me all your flying secrets. But, tell me,' he whispered, 'how in +the world did you find out all this?' + +'Oh, I can't tell _that_,' she replied almost impatiently, 'for once I +begin to think it all goes, and I feel like an animal in a hole. But I'll +tell you soon--when the right moment comes--in the fields. I just go +about and it all shoots into me.' + +It was the true bird-quality, always singing, always on the alert, swift +to notice and be glad. + +'Yet I said it without thinking,' she went on, 'and the meaning came in +afterwards at the end--all of its own accord. And that's really the way +to live together. At least, it's coming----' + +'The next stage, the next move!' + +'Flight!' she cried, half singing it. + +'You live and talk,' he laughed, 'like a German sentence that carries all +in the head and suddenly puts the verb down at the end.' + +'Yes, yes,' he realised after she had gone to bed, while he sat there, +pondering her fluid statements, 'there is this new thing coming into life, +and it is in some sense indeed a bird-thing. It's a new outlook!' + +He caught at her feathery meanings none the less. A great aerial movement +had begun, an etherialisation, a spiritualisation of life. And in true +spirituality there was nothing vague; its expression was terrifically +definite, stupendously alive, swift, sure, and steady as a mighty bird. +Spirit was a bird of fire. Joan left him in that dreary sitting-room with +a feeling that life was glorious and that the entire population of the +globe must presently take flight and wing its way to some less ponderous +star--migration. Joan's language was absurd, yet she left winged ideas +rushing like imperial eagles through his mind. Humanity was really one, +but on earth alone it would never, never find it out. In the air it +would. Its upward struggles were not mere figures of speech. +Routine oppressed and deadened life, prisoning it within a network of +rigid, fixed ideas, and behind barriers of concentrated effort which +turned the fluid stagnant--hard. Routine was dulling, anti-spiritual. +To live like a quicksand before you get fixed and sank, this was the way. +To be ready for a fire that should burn up all you had. Life flows, +flies, flows; it has rhythm and abandon; self, by means of boundaries and +casting limits, resists this universal flow towards expansion +characteristic of all Nature. A bird was poised. True! But it was ready +to go in any direction instantly, for it was more various and less +intense, by no means purposeless, and never bound. It was spontaneous, +instantaneous, for ever on the run. That was living, that was 'fun.' +People, like animals, were congested. But life was growing quicker, +lighter, with rhythm, movement everywhere. + +The shadow dance began again deliciously. + +Yet to act intuitively seemed a dangerous plan for the majority at +present, to live on impulse seemed mere recklessness. But it would come. +Already people were tired of knowing exact and detailed reasons for all +they did. Confusion would come first, of course, but out of that +confusion, as out of the apparent trouble of a rising flock of birds, or +the scattered muddle of leaves and branches in a wind-tossed tree, would +follow magnificent concerted life. Democracy was growing wings. Soon it +would sing for joy. + +Yes, there was truth in it. Majestic powers were moving already past the +visible curtain of fixed and rigid formulae. To obey an intuition the +instant it came, was to find the opportunity at hand for carrying it out +effectively. To wait and hesitate, consider, reflect and reason out, was +to lose the chance. It was disobedience, and disobedience detached from +power. Fate was controlled by an obedient and instantaneous mind, for it +meant acting in harmony with these majestic powers. Understanding +followed later, as with Joan's outlook; the verb came down at the end, +explaining, justifying all that had preceded it. Good and evil were, +after all, misnomers of the nursery. In rhythm or out of rhythm was +common, aye, the commonest sense. Rhythm was simply ease, as +separateness, due to want of rhythm, was dis-ease. + +'Oh dear!' sighed Joseph Wimble, as he turned the light out and pattered +down the corridor to bed. 'I feel carried off my feet. What a buoyant +thing life is, to be sure! It gets big and light and happy when you least +expect it! Evidently, there's a big universal thing underlying it all-- +that's what she means by air--and to lean upon _that_--subconsciously, +I suppose--to act in rhythm with it----' He broke off, colliding with a +chest of drawers Mother _would_ keep in the narrow passage. + +Then, suddenly, as he switched the light on in his bedroom, he realised +something very big and striking: + +'_Of course_, I'm a cosmic, not merely a planetary, being . . .!' + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +But what followed that night, while it may have caught him into the air, +as he phrased it, and given him an airy point of view, took his breath +away at the same time. He was not ready yet for so strange a revelation. + +He did not sleep very soundly. Too many ideas were rustling in his brain. +'Rise out of rigid ideas,' a voice kept whispering. 'Hold ideas loosely +in the mind. Cultivate agility of thought. Re-fresh, remake your +thought. Destroy the hard walls that hide God from you. He is so close +to you always. Shatter your idols and get free! Rise out of the network +of fixed ideas! Watch life without sinking into your own personality. +That is, share every point of view and think in every corner of your body. +Grow alive all over. Don't think things out in your head; _just see_ +them! Embrace all possibilities! Get into the air! Melt down that +absurdity, the scientific materialist, and show him LIFE!' + +He heard these whispered sentences traversing the darkness like singing +arrows whose whistling speed made a noise of words. Even in sleep he +stood upon his head. But the arrows, of course, were feathered. +They were feathers. Wings flashed and fluttered everywhere about him. +He was in a cage. He must escape. He tried. Somehow, it seemed, he used +his whole body instead of his brain alone. He _was_ escaping. . . . +Life, blown open by a wind, seemed to show its under-side where everything +was one. . . . + +By this time he was half awake. 'I must do something; I must act,' he +dimly realised. He turned over in his bed, and the sound of arrowy, +rushing air went farther into the distance as he did so. + +'It's imagination,' sneered a tiny, wakeful point in his mediocre brain. +Another part of him not brain was alight and shining. + +'But you're no farther from Reality by letting your imagination loose,' +sang a returning arrow--in his head. It came from something bigger than +his mind. His mind, strutting and arrogant, seemed such an insignificant +part of him, whereas the rest, where the arrows flashed and flew, seemed +so enormous that he was conscious of the 'nightmare touch' of Size. +Mind strove to justify itself, however, and Reason snatched at names and +labels. + +'But that's right,' a flying sentence laughed. 'You do not see a thing +until you've named it. You only feel it. Once, however, it's described, +it's seen!' + +'Aha! That's Joan's fairy-tale method grotesquely cropping up in my +dreams,' he realised--and so, of course, awoke properly. + +And it was here that his breath got shorter and his heart beat +irregularly. + +The room was dark and silent, but he heard a murmuring as though Night +were talking in her sleep. The dizziness of great heights was still about +him, and remained a little even when he turned the lights on. It was four +o'clock. The room wore a waiting, listening air, as though a moment +before it had all been whirling, and his waking at this unlawful hour had +disturbed it. Waking had rolled the darkness back, let in light, and +taken--a photograph. He felt mad and happy--madly happy. There was +nonsense in him that belonged to careless joy. The curious notion came +that he ought to introduce himself to the various objects--chairs, +cupboards, book-shelf, writing-table--and apologise to them for having +believed himself separate from them. He ought to explain. But the same +second he realised this as wrong, for he himself had been moving, +whirling, too. Everything had stopped, himself included, when he awoke. +He had stepped aside to look at it. He had photographed it. Of course it +stopped. + +'I am,' he remembered, 'but wherever I am, I _go_!' + +And then, before further Explanation could explain away the truth, he +seized at another diving arrow and saw it whole, though it vanished the +same instant: + +'I am the whole room. I am my surroundings!' + +Some new point of view had leaped into him, something almost daemonic that +suggested limitless confidence in his power to overcome all obstacles, +because they were part of his own being. + +Objects, things, details--during that amazing second at least--no longer +seemed separate, alone, apart from one another. They were not anywhere +cut off. Seen thus, a chair was a cupboard, a table was a basin, _he_ +was the ceiling, bed, and carpet. Equally, a cat was a peacock, a mouse +was an elephant. + +He said these words to himself in an astonished whisper, and in doing so +he understood something he didn't understand. The sentence waited +for the verb, the meaning, and it suddenly came down pop--at the end. +Reason helped a little there, for he had named and described, and +therefore seen what before he had only felt. Perhaps further +understanding would follow. The verb would come. He would get up and +try. He would do something--act--act out his mood. Action seemed +suddenly a new kind of language, a three-dimensional language, an +ever-moving language in which objects took on character and played parts +for the sake of expression. A language of action! You are whatever you +do. . . .! + +And as this arrow shot its message past him it seemed that certain objects +in the room were about to jump at him. They did not actually move, but +they were just about to move--ready and alert. The instant he slept they +would rise and fly together again. It was his point of view, his mind in +him, that made them appear separate. Each object was clothed in its own +story of information, as it were. Objects were telling him something. +They were demonstrating an idea. + +'I am not alone, although I'm only one,' he said aloud. 'In arithmetic +one is not more lonely than seven.' But, again, he didn't understand +quite why he said it, while yet he understood perfectly at the same time. +'I'm not quite myself at any rate,' he added, and it was true. Perhaps he +was a trifle frightened, still hovering on the nightmare edge of sleep. +For all this happened in a single instant when he turned the light up. +With sight his breath came more easily at once, his heart beat steadily +again. + +Yet there was certainly a sense of rhythm in the room, though lessening +rapidly. He must hurry. The cage was closing round him again. He heard +the flying voices farther and farther in the distance, but still sweet +with a rhythmical new music. + +'Use the mood of the moment, but first understand why it is the mood of +the moment!' + +'Use the material you have at once! Don't wait for something different!' + +'There is no need to wait; to wait shows incompetence!' + +'Act instantly! Don't reason, calculate, think! Operate in a flash!' + +He felt, that is, rather as a bird might feel. There was haste, yet no +hurry, purpose yet leisure, delight without delay, spontaneity. So he got +out of bed, put on dressing-gown and slippers, and went on tiptoe into the +passage. Then, standing in the shaft of light from his room, the dark +corridor in front of him, he realised that the entire flat--the furnished +flat that Dizzy & Dizzy had let to him--was alive. The feathered arrows +were not imagined, the voice was not a dream. Inanimate things stirred +everywhere about him. He perceived their undersides and his own. +Their apartness that so dislocated the upper, outer, surface-life was only +apparent after all. Bars melted. He felt instantaneous. 'Wherever I am +I go!' But objects shared the same illusion: wherever they were, they +went! The sensations of a flock were in him. A new order of +consciousness was close. + +He paused and listened. No sound was audible. Mother's door was closed, +but Joan's, he saw, just opposite, stood ajar. A draught blew coldly on +him. He tapped gently and, receiving no reply, pushed the door wider and +peeped through. The light from the corridor behind poured in. The room +was empty, but the sheets, he saw, had not been lain in. + +Recalling then her state of excitement when she went to bed, he searched +the flat, peering cautiously even into Mother's room, but without result. +The front door was bolted on the inner side. She had not left the +building. He felt alarmed. Then a cold air stirred the hair of his head, +and, looking up, he saw that the trap-door in the ceiling was open and +that the ladder looked inviting. It 'jumped' at him, as he called it, +that is it drew his attention as with meaning. So he snatched a rug from +the shelf beneath the hat-rack, and, throwing it round his shoulders, +clambered up on to the roof. + +It was September and the sky was soft with haze, yet still empty and +hungry for the swallows. Round balls of vapour pretending to be solid +were being driven by an upper wind across the stars; but the stars were +brilliant and shone through the edges of the vapour. And the night seemed +in a glow. The wind did not come down, the roof was still; the mass of +London lay like a smouldering furnace far below, bright patches +alternating with deep continents of shadow. He heard the town booming in +its sleep, a thick and heavy sound, yet resonant. And at first he saw +only a confused forest of chimneys about him that rose somewhat ominously +into the air, their crests invisible. Then, suddenly, one of them bent +over in a curve, fell silently with marvellous grace upon the leaden +covering; and, fluttering towards him softly as an owl, came some one who +had been standing against it--Joan. + +This happened in the first few seconds; but even before she came he was +aware that the strange stirring of inanimate nature in the room below had +transferred its magic up here. It was not discontinuous, that is, but +everywhere. It had come down into the flat, as from the outside world, +but the singular rhythm emanated first from here--above. Joan had to do +with it. + +It was exquisite, this soft feathery way she came to him across the London +roof, swooping low as with the flight of an owl, an owl that flies so +easily and buoyantly, it seems it never _could_ drop. It was lovely. +In some such way a spirit, a disembodied life, might be expected to move. +He listened with eager intensity for the first word she would utter. + +'Father,' she whispered, 'it's the Bird!' + +He felt his entire life leap out on wings into open space. He had asked +no questions. She stood in front of him. Her voice, with its curious +lilt, seemed on the verge of singing. It came from her lips, but it +sounded everywhere about him, as though delivered by the air itself, as +though it dropped from the unravelling clouds, as though it fell singing +from the paling stars. Night breathed it. And it frightened him--for a +moment--out of himself. His ordinary mind seemed loose, uprooted, +floating away as though compelling music swayed it into great happiness. +His stream of easy breath increased. He touched that indefinable ecstasy +which is extension of consciousness, caused by what men call crudely +Beauty. Joy flooded him. + +'The Bird!' He repeated the words below his breath. 'What _do_ you mean?' +Yet, even as he did so, something in him knew. 'A bird in her bosom' +flashed across him from some printed page. The girl, he realised, had +been communing with that type of life to which she was so mysteriously +akin. Its approach had stirred inanimate nature into language. +Meaning had invaded objects, striking rhythm, almost speech, from inert +details. Joan had brought this new living thing--new point of view--into +the very slates and furniture. + +'The Bird!' he whispered again. + +'Our Bird! Daddy.' And she opened her arms like soft white wings, the +shawl fluttering from them in the starlight. + +He ought to have said--'Nonsense; go back to bed; you'll catch your death +of cold!' Or to have asked 'What bird? I don't see any bird!'--and +laughed. Instead he merely echoed her strange remark. He agreed with +her. Instinctively, again, he knew something that he didn't know. + +'So it is!' he exclaimed in a whisper of excitement, taking a deeper +breath and peering expectantly about him, as though some exhilarating +power drew closer with the dawn. 'I do declare! The Bird--_our_ Bird!' + +He caught her hand in his. She was very warm. And, touching her, he was +instantly aware of fuller knowledge, yet of less explanation. A sensation +of keen delight rose in him, free, light, and airy, new vast possibilities +in sight, almost within reach. He caught, for instance, at the meaning of +this great rhythm everywhere, this impression that dead objects moved and +conveyed a revelation that was so full of meaning it was almost language. +Birds saw them thus, flashing above them, noting one swift, crowded series +of objects one upon another. It was a runic script in the landscape that +birds read and understood in long sentences of colour, shade, and surface, +pages full of significant pictured outlines, turning rapidly over as they +skimmed the earth. It was a new language, a movement-language. +Birds read it out to one another as they flew. They acted it. +Their language was one of movement and of action, three-dimensional; and, +whether they flitted from one chimney to another, or travelled from +Primrose Hill to the suns of Abyssinia, their lives acted out this +significant, silent language. + +High, sweet rapture caught him. Of course birds sang, where men only +grunted and animals, still nearer to the ground, were inarticulate with +unrhythmical noises. + +All this flashed and vanished even while his eye lost its way in the +canopy of smoky air immediately above him. + +'Listen!' he heard in his ear, like the faint first opening whistle of +some tiny songster. 'They're waking now all over England. You felt it in +your sleep! That's what brought you up. It's the moment just before the +dawn!' + +A million, ten, twenty million birds were waking out of sleep. In field +and wood, in copse and hedge and barn, in tall rushes by the lakes, in +willows upon river banks, in glens and parks and gardens, on gaunt cliffs +above the sea, and on lonely dim salt marshes--everywhere over England the +birds were coming back to consciousness. + +It was this vast collective consciousness that had awakened him. He had +somehow or other taken on, through Joan, certain conditions of the great +Bird-mind. It was marvellous, yet at the time seemed natural. +He recalled the strange sentences: all descriptive of a bird's mentality, +put into words, of course, by his own brain. The movement of objects was +merely their new appearance, seen from above in rapid passage, all +speaking, telling something, reporting to the rushing bird the conditions +of the surface where they lay. And those at the point of lowest approach +in the curve of flight appeared to 'jump.' The sense of rhythm, moreover, +was the outstanding characteristic of feathered life--in song, in +movement, in beat of wing, in swinging habits of the larger kind when +migration regularly sets in and there is known that 'mighty breath which, +in a powerful language, felt not heard, instructs the fowls of heaven.' +He had responded somehow to the world of greater rhythms in which all airy +life existed, and compared with which human existence seemed disjointed, +disconnected, incomplete in rhythm. + +'Air,' he remembered from one of the ridiculous Primers, 'is the highest +perception we have, yet we need not be in the air to get this view. +We have placed the Heaven within us up there, because it was, physically, +our highest place to set it in.' + +'Listen! and you'll feel it all over you,' Joan's voice reached him. +'I often come here in the dawn. I know things here.' + +By 'listen' she meant apparently 'receive,' for no sound was audible +except the hum of London town still sleeping heavily. + +'So this is how you learn things! From the air?' + +'I don't learn anything--in that sense,' she murmured quickly. +'It's in me. It just flies out--I see it.' + +'Ah!' He caught a feather and understood. + +'Especially when I go like this! Look, Daddy!' And she darted from his +side and began on tiptoe a movement, half dance, half flight, between the +crowding chimney-stacks. She vanished and reappeared. He heard no sound. +The shadows clothed her, now close, now spread out, like wings whose +motion just escaped the measuring eye. And the dance was revealing in +someway he could not analyse. She seemed to bring the dawn up. The ugly +roof turned garden, the chimneys shaded off into trees, as though her +little dance flashed aspiration into rigid bricks. She interpreted the +flight of darkness, the awakening of wings, the silent rush of dawn. +No modern dancer, interpreting Chopin, Schumann, could have given a +deeper, truer revelation. She uttered in her movements a language that +she read, but a language for the majority at present undecipherable. +Action and gesture interpreted the inarticulate. + +She expressed, he was aware, the return to consciousness of the birds; but +at the same time she expressed a new air-born consciousness that was +stealing out of the skies upon a yet sleeping world. + +'By doing it, I understand it,' she laughed softly, but no whit +breathless, as she floated back to his side. 'But I can't tell it in +words till long afterwards.' + +The east grew lighter. The tips of the flying clouds turned red. +A beauty, as of dawn in the mountains, crept slowly over the towered +London world. It seemed the spires and soaring chimneys steadied down, as +though precipitating a pattern from some intricate movement of the +universe. Speech failed him for the moment. For the language of words is +but an invention of civilisation, and he had just heard the runic speech +that is universal and has no grammar but in natural signs of sky and +earth. And then the words he vainly sought dropped into him suddenly from +the air. Above him on a chimney crest a group of starlings fell to +chattering gaily; hidden in the leaves of trees far below he heard the +common sparrow chirrup; the earliest swallows, just awake, flashed +overhead, telling the joy of morning in their curves of joy. In the +distance trilled a rising lark. + +The wonder and glory of that breaking dawn lay for him, indeed, beyond all +telling; not that he had been insensible to loveliness in Nature hitherto, +but that he saw new meaning in it now. In himself he saw it. The point +of view was new. To Joan, however, it was merely familiar and natural. +But more--he was aware that in him lay the germ, at least, of a new airy +consciousness that included it all, and that he longed to share it with +the still sleeping world below. A mighty spiritual emotion swept him. + +'Mother would feel cold, and notice the blacks,' she laughed, but there +was love and pity in her laughter. + +For her it was all in the ordinary run and flow of habitual life. She was +aware of no exalted state of emotion. She said it as normally as a +swallow dares to take an insect from the heart of an amazing sunset. +That sunset and that insect both belong to it. There was no need to be +hysterical about either one or other. + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +He woke in the morning and decided that his experience of the night +had been a vivid dream-experience, although that was not to deny a deep +reality to it. A sense of uplifting joy was in his heart that was the +rhythm of some larger life. A new lightness pervaded his very flesh and +bones; it sent him along the narrow passage to the bathroom--dancing, +much to the astonishment of the cook who caught a glimpse of the +phenomenon as she stirred the porridge; it made him sing while he sponged +himself, waking Mrs. Wimble earlier than usual and stirring in her an +unwelcome reminder that she was older, stouter than she had been. +For the singing brought back to her a fugitive memory of a sunny Algerian +garden, where life sang to a measure of blue and gold Romance, now +vanished beyond recall. 'Joe's odd this morning,' she thought, turning +over to sleep upon her other side. + +But Joe, meanwhile, splashed in his bath and went on singing just because +he couldn't help himself; his voice was meagre, yet it would come out. +He dried himself, standing in a hot sunbeam on the oil-cloth that made him +feel he caught the entire sun. Such a deluge of happiness, confidence, +natural bliss seemed in him, seemed everywhere about him too. He could +not understand it, but he felt it, and therefore it was real. In the rise +and fall of some larger rhythm than he had ever known he swung above a +world that could no longer cage him in. He saw the bars below him. +Alarm, anxiety, worry, even death were but little obstacles that tried to +trip him up and make him stumble, stop, and give up existence as too +difficult to face. They lay below him now. He saw them from above. +He was in the air. It made him laugh and sing to think that such tricks +could ever have frightened or discouraged him. Actually they were but of +use to stand on for a leap into the air--taking-off-things, spots to +jump from into space. + +'I can't explain it,' occurred to him, 'so it must be true.' It was a +thing his daughter might have said. He shared her point of view, it +seemed, completely now. They were in the air together. + +And, though later and by degrees, the airy exhilaration left him, so that +he came down to earth and settled, the descent was gradual and without a +thud. Something of lightness and of wonder stayed. The memory of some +loftier point of view guided him all day long amid the tangle of little +difficulties that usually seemed mountainous. He rose lightly above all +obstacles that opposed and hindered. He saw them from above, that is, he +saw them in proportion. Stepping on each in turn, he flew easily over +every one; they served their purpose as jumping-off spots for taking +flight. It was the Bird's-eye point of view. + +But each time he flew thus, he left his mind behind, using it as a cushion +for landing later, easily, without a jarring bump. And thus, before the +day was over, he realised somewhat this: that the instantaneous, +spontaneous attitude Joan stole from the air and taught him meant simply +that the subconscious became convincingly, superbly, conscious. +The personality operated as a whole without friction or delay from +separate portions that held back and hesitated. All these lesser, +separate rhythms merged in one. It mobilised, as with a lightning +instinct, the entire available forces of the being. He reacted to every +stimulus as a whole, instead of in separate parts. Action and decision +came in a single flash; to reason, judgment, the weighing of pros and +cons, and so forth, he appealed afterwards. That is, intuitive knowledge +became instantaneous action. + +And, realising this, he also grasped what Joan meant by describing a room +as 'happening all at once,' and found meaning also in her nonsense-dream +of feeling for the one-ness of all life everywhere. The details of the +room could be inserted later according to judgment and desire, and +four-footed animals on the ground might also discover later the point of +view of birds who, from a high altitude in the air, saw everything at +once. Instantaneous action, immediate conduct, spontaneous behaviour +enlisted the supporting drive of the entire universe behind them. +Properly accepted, absolutely obeyed, such a way of living ensured +inevitable success. It was irresistible; for since everything was one, +each detail was the whole, and no whole could be disobedient or hostile to +itself. And this was why he had danced along the passage-way and sung +into his sponge. + +Yet this attitude of mind, this point of view, was easily lost again; +it was difficult to hold permanently; to practise, still more difficult. +How to translate it into daily action was the problem. At breakfast this +new language of action seemed mere phantasy. He certainly _had_ enjoyed a +dream of a three-dimensional language in which objects and things helped +to interpret his own wishes; he remembered that distinctly; and surely it +was not all imagination? Imagination, he felt sure, included prophecy as +well as memory. + +'It's time we found our country cottage,' he remarked, tasting his crisp +Cambridge sausage and bacon. 'I must get to work at once.' + +Mother glanced up over the morning newspaper she had crumpled till it +looked like a bundle for lighting the fire. She had ignored the news and +been deep in the advertisements. 'It's best to go to the agents,' she +observed, folding the paper with the creases uneven and the pages mixed, +then patting it into flatness. 'And if they're no good, we might insert +an advertisement stating our exact requirements.' She mopped up a remnant +of fried egg with a thick wedge of brown bread at the end of her fork. +'A nice neighbourhood's the chief thing, isn't it?' + +Her husband straightened the paper so that the creases fitted evenly and +the pages lay in sequence. It hurt him acutely to see it twisted; he felt +something out of place inside himself, as though the feathers of a wing +were tangled. 'It'll turn up,' he said airily, 'we shall come across it +suddenly. I'll go and see some agents all the same, though,' he added. +He had the feeling that the right place would hardly come through agents, +but would just 'turn up.' Somehow he would be attracted to it: it would +be there before his eyes; it would jump at him. He had already seen so +many agents. Newspaper advertisements never mentioned it. This strange +belief and faith was in him. 'I'll have a look,' he added, as his wife +put the plates together, swept some crumbs carefully from the cloth, then +tapped the marmalade spoon on the rim of the jar before she sucked it +clean. + +'There's no good just hoping and trusting to chance,' she said in a +practical voice. 'Nothing comes _that_ way.' She clicked her tongue, +tasting the marmalade reflectively. + +'On the contrary--everything comes that way.' To believe, he grasped, was +to act with the Whole in which all that was required lay contained. +'Enquire within upon everything.' He laughed happily. But his wife had +not followed his thought--nor heard him. + +'That's turnip rind, not oranges,' she added. 'They sell you anything +nowadays, and everything's adulterated----' and laid the spoon aside. + +'In the country we'll make our own,' her husband interrupted. +'Delicious stuff!' + +'If we ever get there,' she replied, 'and if sugar ever goes down again, +and we can get servants who'll condescend to stay. There's no good being +too remote, remember, or we won't keep a single one. Servants won't stand +being dull.' She sighed. Life to her spelt apprehension. + +'Well, we've agreed on Sussex, haven't we?' he answered cheerfully, +hunting for his lost new attitude again. 'A nice bit of wayward Sussex, +where there are trees and fields and perhaps a snap of running water so +that the birds'll come--' he saw the cloud on Mother's face--' Oh, but in +a nice neighbourhood with decent neighbours,' he added, 'and a town not +too far away, with a cinema and shops, and so on. Oh, it will come all +right, Mother, don't you worry. We'll find it sure enough--probably this +very day. I feel it coming; it's close already; I can almost see it at +this moment.' + +'It's there, waiting for us all the time. The very place,' said Joan +suddenly, clapping her hands softly, and meeting her father's eye. +'Only we've got to want it enough and----' + +'Tidy up your place, child,' said Mother sharply, 'and fold your +serviette. It's time you were at your scales.' She sighed as Joan obeyed +and left the room, and two minutes later, while Mother made notes on a +squeaky slate for dinner, the sound of C major came to them through the +wall, going rapidly up and down again with both hands. Only it was +accompanied by a clear and happy voice that sang the notes, or rather sang +a running melody to them that turned even the technical routine into +music. The drudgery, though faithfully done, brought its fulfilment +almost within reach. Like a bird, she leaped upon the promise and enjoyed +it. Scales and music, toil and its results, prophecy and its +accomplishment--even in this tiny detail--seemed present in her +simultaneously. Carelessness and faithful plodding method went side by +side. This came to her father as he lit his pipe and listened to the pure +childish voice that unconsciously sang meaning, even beauty, into formal +rigid outline. + +'An all-at-once and all-over little creature,' he heard something whisper +to him. 'Care-less and happy as a bird. The true air quality! +That's the way, of course. I see it--a sort of bird's-eye view of +beginning and end in one. The joy of fulfilment shining through the +actual work. I'll find the cottage that way too!' + +He puffed thick clouds of smoke between himself and his wife, who stood +watching him, a touch of apprehension about her somewhere, impatience as +well. She too was listening. He recalled the smile of the badger at the +mouth of its hole. But, at any rate, it was a faithful, practical, and +affectionate badger. Moreover, once--strange memory--it had known wings, +it had been a bird! Wrong methods had brought it down to earth. +It puzzled him dreadfully, yet rather sweetly. The bird, he fancied, must +still lie hidden in her somewhere. + +'Joan never can do one thing properly at a time--not even her scales,' she +was saying. 'There she is, trying to sing before she's learnt her notes. +I wish you'd speak to her about it. But, if you ask _me_, _I_ think it's +good money wasted--those music lessons.' + +How right she was, he thought, from her point of view. At the same time, +how entirely that point of view lacked vision. A badger criticised a bird +for flying uselessly when there were eggs to be laid and worms to be +pulled up and twigs for a nest to look at instead of rushing landscapes. + +'I will, dear. I'll speak to her at once, before I go to see the agents. +I'll bring back good news at dinner-time. Now good-bye, bless you.' +He kissed her. She looked so helpless and pathetic that he kissed her +again, adding 'Good-bye, old thing, don't worry. Take everything lightly +like a bird and remember--Wherever we are, we go!' + +'Good-bye, Joe dear. Do your best. You know our limit as to rent.' +He noticed that for once she had not asked him to repeat. + +He left the room and walked down the passage to admonish Joan, yet knowing +that there was nothing he could honestly chide her for. She sang at her +scales for the same reason he sang in his bath. In both of them, father +and daughter, was the carelessness and joy of air, the certainty that, +whatever they did on earth with effort, toil, and purpose, had in it-- +behind it and sustaining it--the glad sweet element of air. Air had no +divisions, it was whole--a universal radiant element containing end and +beginning, everything. To act with it instantaneously was to be confident +that fulfilment lay already in the smallest germ of every action. +'The cottage lies there waiting for us now. Just look for it with faith +and careless happiness. . . . The perfect music lies within these boring +scales. Just sing to them. It brings accomplishment more swiftly near!' + +But on opening the door and poking his head inside, he found that she had +ceased singing and was diligently practising. + +'That's right,' he said, smiling; 'it's rather dull, but stick to it. +It'll please your mother, and before long you'll be able to play all my +favourite pieces.' + +She stopped, swung round on the stool and looked at him. Her little face +in its wreath of shining hair was very earnest, the eyes big with wonder +as though she had made a great discovery. He had seen a robin thus, +perched on a window-sill, its head cocked sideways at a crumb of bread-- +poise, alertness, happiness in the attitude and gesture. + +'Well,' he asked, 'what is it now? 'And pointing to the maze of black +printed notes, she said: 'I only wanted to tell you something I've got +hold of--There are only seven notes after all--only seven altogether.' + +'That's all, yes.' + +'All the music in the world comes out of that--just seven notes--' + +'Combinations of them--with a lot of half-notes too,' he explained. + +'But half-notes only suggest. The real notes are the thing--just seven of +them. Isn't it jolly? They'll never frighten me again. Now, listen a +moment, Daddy, I'll play you what the wings sing when they rush along. +You know--the sound in the air when birds fly past: + + Flow, fly, flow, + Wherever I am, I go; + I live in the air + Without thought or care, + Flow, fly, flow. . . . + +She played and sang till he felt every atom in his being moving +rhythmically to the little doggerel. He took her in his arms and hugged +her. + +'Ah,' he cried, 'I put all this into you unconsciously, and now you're +explaining it to me. That's fun indeed, isn't it?' + +'And I've only used three notes for it--for the tune, I mean,' she +exclaimed breathlessly as he released her. 'I've still got four more.' + +He blew her a kiss from the door and went on the top of a 'bus to Dizzy & +Dizzy, who gave him a list of orders to view some half-dozen desirable +cottages and bungalows in Sussex that seemed reasonably within the price +he could afford, but none of which, it so happened, was the thing he +wanted. + + + +And during the day, odd thoughts and feelings, born of that mystic dawn he +had witnessed with the birds, came flitting round him. Being wordless, he +could only translate them as best occurred to him. It was impossible to +keep pace with many-sided life to-day unless a new method were discovered. +To skim adequately among the numerous sources of information and +instruction, wings were needed. With their speed and economy of energy +the feathered mind could dive into all, absorb fresh knowledge instantly, +and pass on swiftly to yet further sources. At present complete +exhaustion followed the mere bodily and mental effort to keep abreast even +with one line of thought and action. The bird's-eye view, involving +bird's-eye action, alone could manage it. It was a case of flow, fly, +flow, indeed. He was dimly aware of a new method coming softly, silently, +from the air. Air meant the spiritual method. While the body, guided by +surefooted, slow, laborious reason, attended to its necessary duties on +the ground, the mind, the soul, the spirit would flow, fly, flow, with the +new powers of the air. . . . + +He played lovingly with the idea. He thought of birds as the aborigines +of the air, the pioneers perhaps. They represent no climax of evolution. +On the earth men appeared last, preceded by many stages of earlier +development. Birds were, possibly, but the first, the earliest +inhabitants of their delicious realm, still imperfect, but alive with a +promise for mankind. They were not an ideal, they merely offered their +best qualities to those below. + +The Promise of the Air ran through him like a strain of glad spring music. +Air, he knew, as Joan used the term, meant aether, the mother of all air. +She dreamed of passages to dim old gleaming Hercules adrift in open space, +to Cassiopeia, happily, mightily wandering, to the golden blossoms of the +Nebulae's garden of shining gold. Across his mind the great flocks of +stars were flying. . . . + +'I'm _not_ a "miserable sinner." It's a lie that "there is no health in +me." Nor do I believe that another man can "forgive my sins," because I +confess them to him, or that those who refuse to believe as I do--whatever +it is I _do_ believe!--shall forfeit my special favours, least of all +suffer the smallest prick of a pin on that account. . . .!' + +If ever he had been affected by the dogmatic teaching of any person or +group of persons, alive or dead, he broke finally with them in that +moment. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +Remembering his promise, though made only to himself, he proposed going to +the cinema. Tom, who was present during the discussion that followed, +wanted a Revue, but was overruled. + +'You can't smoke,' he objected, but what he really meant was that he +wanted to have his physical sensations stimulated by suggestive reminders +that he was a breeding rabbit that had never left earth--earth which a +single shower could turn into mud. + +'That won't hurt you for one night, Tom,' observed Mother, aware vaguely +of his difficulty. + +They chose the best the advertisements supplied and went off after an +early dinner. In a sort of bundle they started, Mother in her finery +forgetting the performance was in the dark, Joan, smiling, neat and +bright, her little ankles tripping, and Mr. Wimble important, holder of +the purse-strings and full of anticipatory wonder. Tom, smoking cheap +gold-tipped Turkish cigarettes, was superior and sulky. Like an untidy +bundle the family made the journey towards Piccadilly Circus, a bundle +with loose ends, patched corners, one end hardly belonging to the other, +yet obviously coherent for all that, and with a spot of brilliant colour-- +Joan's bright, glancing eyes and eagerly pretty face. + +Tom, having bought a halfpenny evening paper, read the sporting and +financial news; his racing tips had proved false; his mood was +ill-humoured; he eyed the girls on the pavement below, flicking his +cigarette ash over the edge of the motor-bus from time to time. + +'What's on?' enquired a chance acquaintance across the gangway, with an +eye on pretty Joan. 'Music hall or high-brow legitimate?' + +'Cinema,' returned Tom in a scratchy voice, 'with the family. I'm beat to +the wide.' + +'Who's put the wind up you this time?' enquired his friend. + +'Family. They put it across me sometimes. Can't be helped.' + +'Good egg!' was the reply, as the youth looked past him admiringly at +Joan. + +'Oh!--my sister,' mentioned Tom, proudly, and with a flash of +self-satisfaction; 'Joan, a friend of mine--Mr. Spindle,' adding under +his breath something about Rolls Royce and Limousines, as though Mr. +Spindle, who was actually merely an employee in some motor works, owned +several expensive cars. + +Joan, ignorant of the strange modern slang they used, nodded sweetly, then +turned to watch the surging throng of energetic humanity on the pavement +below. She was in the corner seat. Father and Mother sat below--inside. +The sea of human beings rolled past like waves of water. + +'Everybody going somewhere,' she said half to herself with a thrill of +wonder. It struck her that, though hardly any one looked up, some must +surely want to fly, and one or two, at least, must know they could. +She wondered there were no collisions. All dodged and slid past and +side-stepped so cleverly. The energy, skill, and subconscious calculation +they used were considerable. In each brain was a distinct and separate +purpose, a mental picture of the spot each busily made for, while yet all +seemed governed by one common denial: that nothing off the earth was +conceivable even. Like crowding ants, they stuck to the ground, shuffling +laboriously along the world-worn routes. Their minds, she was persuaded, +knew heavy ways, unaware that horizons are made to lift. She watched the +herd in search for amusement after the drudgery of the day, engaged upon a +common search. What they really sought, she felt, was air. Only they +knew it not. In ignorance they toiled to find artificial excitement-- +pleasure. + +She longed to lift them up and swing them loose into undivided space, let +them know freedom, lightness, spontaneous carelessness. If they would +only dance--it would be something. + +'And all going to the same place,' she added aloud. She sighed. + +'I hope to God they're not,' said Tom in his scratchy voice, thinking of +the cinema. + +'Eh?' remarked Mr. Spindle, with a thrust forward of his head. + +The motor-bus lumbered into the Circus and drew up, leaning over to one +side. + +'So long,' said Tom to his friend, 'we push off here.' + +Mr. Spindle offered his hand to Joan, who shook it, but looked past him, +refusing the gleaming eye he offered her at the same time. They clambered +down to their parents on the pavement, and joined the throng that swept +heavily into the pretentious doorways of the cinema building. As they +went in Joan glanced at her mother and realised that she loved her. +She looked so worried and so helpless. It was pathetic how heavily she +moved. Age! The age of the body, of course. But why should she be old? +She was barely forty. She was out, seeking with a good expenditure of +energy, for pleasure. It struck the girl suddenly that her mother's +ignorance was singular. She knew so little. Somewhere about her--at the +corners of her mouth, flickering in her opaque eyes, in the tilt of her +ears--was still a vestige of youth and fun and joy. But Mother ignored +it, crawling willingly with the herd. Yet the bird lurked in her surely. +In spite of this heavy crawling, there were wings tucked away in her +somewhere. + +'Mother, we're out on a spree,' whispered Joan. 'Wherever we are, we go! +Let me carry your bag?' + +'Eh, Joan? What d'you say? Don't shove, my love. We shall get nowhere +_that_ way.' It was the Is-my-hat-on-straight tone of voice--self the +centre. She yielded the tiresome bag gratefully. + +'Everywhere, mother,' Joan whispered gaily. 'We'll get everywhere because +we belong everywhere. Besides I'm not shoving.' + +She glanced round at the other people, all pressing thickly towards the +booking-office. All of them had troubles, joys, hopes, fears, and vague +desires. All were out to enjoy themselves. Only their faces were so +anxious, lined, and care-worn. They wore an enormous quantity of +manufactured clothing, and each article of clothing represented similar +joys, hopes, fears, and vague desires, complicated toil of those who had +made and sold them. + +She felt a curious longing--to collect them all together on the roof one +morning so that they might dance and hear the birds sing at dawn. If only +they could realise the bird-life and what it meant--care-less, happy, +singing, dancing; deep purpose underneath it all, but that purpose not +clogged with the stupefying detail of unimportant items. The trouble all +had taken to clothe themselves suitably for this particular enjoyment was +alone enough to kill any spontaneity. She smelt the fields, the keen, +fresh air, the dew. She heard a lark rise whistling through the silver +air. . . . + +And she glanced back at her mother. Her mother was obviously adorned-- +with effort and difficulty. She looked as if she had walked through a +Liberty curtain and parts of the curtain had stuck to her in patches. +This complexity of cloth and silk and beads was wrong--funny at any rate. +She sighed. + +'It's all right,' said her father, catching the sigh behind him. +'We must take our turn, you know. But I'm out for the best seats--no +matter what it costs.' It was like a breath of air to hear him say it. + +'Extravagance,' put in Mother under her breath, overhearing. +'But it _is_ an exception, isn't it?' Her mind fixed upon the difficult +side of existence, the cost in labour and in pain. + +'Eh?' said Wimble. He put his gaudy tie straight with a free half-finger. + +'It isn't every night, I mean,' whispered Mother. 'It's an exception.' +She looked challengingly at the listening crowd. It was very warm. +The air smelt of people, clothes, and cheap scent. She was aware of +scullery-maids, boot-polish, stable-boys, and wages. The ham in the +larder--had they put the fly-cover over it? Oh dear, how sordid even +enjoyment was! + +'Move on, please,' boomed the deep voice of a policeman, and everybody +moved on a step or half a step, casting looks of admiration, respect, and +exasperation at the Great Bobby who represented rigidity, law, order, and +that vague, distant power--the Government. To be spontaneous meant to be +arrested, evidently. + +'Wot've you got left?' asked Wimble mildly, facing at last the +booking-clerk, then added quickly, 'Good. I'll take the three,' and put +the money down. 'No--four, I mean; four, of course. How stupid of me! +Thanks, thanks very much.' He had forgotten _himself_. Also, he had felt +for a second that he couldn't afford the price, but yet somehow it didn't +matter. It was stupid, it was extravagant, it was un-practical; no one in +their senses could have approved his conduct. The clerk had explained +briefly that no cheap seats were left; there was nothing under four +shillings--and Wimble, without an instant's hesitation, had snapped up the +expensive seats. + +Joan witnessed it with a rush of joy. She saw her father slip several +silver discs across the counter and take pink slips of paper in exchange. +But it was not his extravagance, nor the prospect of greater comfort, that +caused her joy; it was the unhesitating spontaneity. Daddy had not +haggled; without hesitation he had taken the risk. He had flown. . . . +In reality he could not afford it, yet only a stingy convention might have +urged him to be careful. And he had not been care-full. + +'Take no thought . . .' whispered a voice--was it Joan's?--in his ear, as +they pressed forward. And, as a consequence, he immediately bought +several programmes where one would have been sufficient. Ah! They were +in full flight. Their wings were spread. The earth lay mapped beneath +them. In the silver, dewy dawn they flew. How keen the sweet, fresh +air. . . .! + +He looked at her. '_You_ don't earn the family income, my dear,' he +observed drily, half-ashamed, half-proud. He fingered the pink tickets +nervously, clumsily. + +'But I will,' she replied. 'Besides, there's heaps for everybody really.' + +'You're an unpractical absurdity,' he murmured--then gasped. + +It was the child's reply that made him gasp: + +'We're alive! So we deserve it.' + +They swept the meadows and the pine copse in their flight. There was a +crimson dawn. They smelt the sea, the wide salt marshes. Freedom of +space was theirs. + +Perhaps he didn't quite understand what she meant, yet it made him feel +happy and careless. In a sense it made him feel--spiritual. She had said +something that was beyond the reach of language, of accurate language. +But it was true, true as a turnip. It satisfied him as a mouthful of +mashed potatoes, and was as easy to eat and swallow. What a simile! +He laughed to himself. + +'Be more accurate in your language,' he said slyly. + +'And stick in grammar all your life!' she replied. They moved on. +Tom looked superior and aloof. He did not belong to this ridiculous +party. + +'Hurry up, Daddy,' and Joan poked him in the ribs. 'Mother's waiting. +You're thinking of your old Primers.' It was true. He _had_ paused a +moment. A sentence had flashed into his mind and made him stop, while +Mother and Tom were waiting in the corridor beyond, something about the +'courage of a fly.' + +A fly, the most fearless of attack of all creatures, an insect incapable +of fear. He remembered that Athena gave Menelaus, in order that he might +resist Hector--what? Not weapons or money or skill or strength. +No. Athena gave him--'the courage of a fly.' + +It struck him suddenly that the reckless courage of a fly--a fly that +settles on the nose, the lips, the hand of a being enormously more +powerful and terrible than itself--was unequalled among all living +creatures. No lion or tiger dared the half, no man the quarter. +But a fly, depending solely on its swift, unconquerable wings and power of +darting flight, risked these amazing odds. He--in paying this high price +for the tickets recklessly--had shown the courage of the fly: the sneers +of Tom, the abuse of Mother, the scorn of cautious and careful convention. +He had the money in his pocket, then why not spend it? His labour had +deserved it; he had earned it; he was indeed 'alive.' Like an audacious +fly he had settled on the nose of Fate. And all this Joan had snapped +into a sentence: + +'We deserve it. We're _alive_!' + +'Is it all right, dear?' asked Mother anxiously. She was stuck with her +elaborate flounces in a corner of the corridor. The programme-seller was +at her elbow, pressingly. + +'All right,' he replied, waving the programmes like a flag of victory, and +led the way towards the seats. 'Everything's paid.' He bowed, +dismissingly, to the girl. He walked on his toes. + +They went in. Mother flounced down proudly, as though the cost, the risk, +were hers. Anyhow, they had paid for their seats and had a right to them. +Now they could see the show in comfort and with easy consciences. +There was a vague feeling that too much had been expended, but it was +discreetly ignored. Vanity forbade. Economy might follow. Let it +follow. They could enjoy themselves for a few hours. They _would_ enjoy +themselves. Some one had paid good money and money well earned. +Uneasiness was vulgar. Daddy's flying attitude influenced them all +secretly, and the great human power of make-believe, so gingerly expended +as a rule, asserted itself. They took the moment as birds take the air. +They flew with him. + +Settling themselves into their front-row seats, they fingered their +programmes, and felt like Royalty. + +Mother looked round her at the inferior human mass. 'We can see quite +well,' she observed. 'You were lucky, Joe. You got good seats.' +She was wholly unaware that she tried her wings. + +'Not bad,' scratched Tom, equally unaware that he flew behind her, though +parting from the sticky loamy soil with difficulty. Had his companion of +the motor-bus been with him, he would doubtless have said 'Good egg!' +instead. + +'It's all right,' said Wimble. 'Like to see a programme? 'He passed over +several--all he had. He felt uplifted, without knowing why. He felt +reckless, extravagant, careless, happy. He had touched the element of air +without knowing it. He had forgotten 'money,' toil, conventional rigid +formality, the terror of the herd, everything that compressed life into a +four-footed rut, like the rut trodden by cows and pigs and rabbits. +He had, for a moment, left the earth. He had, however, no idea that he +was hovering in mid-air. Having taken a risk with courage--the courage of +the fly--he was not quite positive of his dizzy elevation. The strange, +intuitive, natural certainty of Joan was not yet quite his. He caught his +breath a little in this rarefied air, from this spiritual point of view-- +this bird's-eye aspect--he was by no means sure of himself. + +The rush of the wonderful cinema then began, and he forgot himself. + +They experienced the sense such a performance leaves behind of having +been--as Mother put it--all over the place. Sitting in the dark the +individual at first is conscious only of himself, neighbours ignored if +not forgotten. The screen then flashes into light, and with the picture, +consciousness flashes across the world. The lie of the stationary +photograph is corrected, time is denied, partially at least, and space is +unable to boast and swagger as it loves to do. The cinema frees and +extends the consciousness, restores the past, and sets distance close +beneath the eyes. Only the watching self remains--pregnant symbol!--in +the darkness. + +It was one of the best performances in London; within an hour or two the +audience danced from the dingy streets of the metropolis into the sunlight +of India, Africa, and of islands among far southern seas. The +kaleidoscope of other lands and other ways of thinking, acting, living +carried them away with understanding sympathy. From savage wild life +drinking at water-holes in the sun-drenched Tropics, they darted across +half-charted oceans and watched the penguin and the polar bear amid arctic +ice. Over mountains, down craters, flying above cities and peering deep +under water, the various experiences of strange distant life came into +their ken. They flew about the planet. The leaders of the world gazed +at them, so close and real that their emotions were legible on their +magnified features. They smiled or frowned, then flashed away, and yet +still were there, living, thinking, willing this and that. Widely +separated portions of the vast human family presented themselves +vigorously, registered a tie of kinship, and were gone again about their +business, now become in some sense the business of the audience too. +Fighting, toiling, loving, hating, meeting death and adventure by sea and +land, creating and destroying, differing much in colour, custom, clothing, +and the rest, yet human as Wimble and his family were human, possessed +with the same griefs, hopes, and joys, the same passion to live, the same +fear of death--one great family. + +Joan slipped her arm into that of her father; they nestled closely, very +much in sympathy as the world rushed past their eyes upon the screen. + +'We're flying,' she whispered, with a squeeze, as the penguins on the +polar ice gave place to a scene of negroes sweating in the sun and +munching sugarcane while they lazily picked the fluffy cotton. +'We're everywhere all-at-once, don't you see?' A moment later, as though +to point her words, they looked down upon a mapped-out county from an +aeroplane. The unimportance of earth was visible in the distance. + +'You can't fly under water anyhow,' mumbled Wimble, as they left the air +and flashed with a submarine upon sponges, coral, and inquisitive, +perfectly poised fish. A black man was trying to knife a shark. + +'I can see what they feel though,' was the whispered answer. +'Inside their watery minds, I mean.' + +'Wherever I am I go,' he thought, but didn't say it, because by the time +he had reflected how foolish it was to remain stuck only upon the minute +point of his own tiny personal experience, they were climbing with a +scientific Italian of eminence down a crater full of smoke and steam, and +could almost hear the thunder of the explosions. But while they went +down, everything else went up. Smoke, steam, masses of rock all trying to +rise. 'Gravity is the devil,' he remembered; 'it keeps us from flying +into the sun.' + +The idea made him chuckle, and Joan pinched his arm, giggling too audibly +in her excitement. + +'Hush!' said Mother. They watched in silence then; a bird's-eye view of +the planet was what they watched. With each picture they took part. +Every corner of the globe, with its different activities, touched their +hearts and minds with interest--busy, rushing life in various forms, and +all going on simultaneously, at this very moment--now. Life obviously was +one. The strange unity was convincing. Nothing they saw was alien to +themselves, for they took part in it. In each picture they 'wondered what +it felt like.' They took for an instant, longer or shorter, the point of +view of a new aspect of life, of something as yet they had not actually +experienced. They longed--or dreaded--to stand within that huge cavern of +blue lonely ice and hear the waves of the Polar Sea lick up the snow; to +taste that sugary cane with animal-white teeth, and feel the fluffy cotton +between thick, lumpy fingers; to swim under water and look up instead of +down; to crawl fearfully a little nearer to the molten centre of the +planet through smoke and fire and awful thundering explosions. +They longed or dreaded. Mentally, that is, they experienced a new +relationship in each separate case, a relationship that stretched a +suburban consciousness beyond its normal ken. + +'It's very tiring,' mentioned Mother, during a brief interval of glaring +light, 'and hurts my eyes. And I can't see why they want to show us those +half-naked natives. I'm glad I'm English. Disgusting people, I call +them.' + +'They'll improve it, you know,' observed Tom; 'the flickering, I mean. +It's a great invention. Somebody made a bit of cash there all right.' + +One couple, at any rate, in the four-shilling seats felt the tie and knew +their consciousness extended to include them all. They were engaged with +all these various folk and multifarious activities. Humanity was one. +The cinema shouted it aloud. The sense of collective consciousness was +stirred. + +'Well,' gasped Mother, blinking her eyes in the sudden light at the end, +'that was a show, wasn't it?' She seemed tired rather than exhilarated. + +'Not half,' declared Tom, feeling for his cigarettes. He kept the +programmes, putting both into his pocket. + +'I'm glad I'm English anyhow,' repeated Mother, stationary at the mouth of +her hole in the ground; but whether she despised the Hottentots, the +Eskimo, or the penguins, she did not specify. It was her final verdict +merely. The statement said simply that she was satisfied to be her little +self, balanced safely on a clod of earth, in a spot of the universe called +England. Extension of consciousness gave her no joy at all. She felt +unsafe. + +They left the theatre slowly, their minds shrinking back with a touch of +disappointment, almost of pain, within the prescribed limits of normal, +practical life again. Wimble felt he had been flying, and had just come +back; he settled with difficulty. In the brief space between the +vestibule and the door his thoughts continued flying. There was +excitement and anticipation in him. 'The next stage,' he said to himself, +'will be hearing. We shall hear the people talk. After that--not so +very far away either--we shall see 'em _now_, and no interval of time at +all. Machinery won't be used. Our _minds_ will do the trick. We'll see +everywhere with our thoughts!' He remembered his Telepathy Primer, giving +individual instances, as authentic and well proven as any reasonable +person could desire. He felt sure this vast, general development must +follow--some faculty of air, swift and flashing as light--the bird's-eye +view. + +The murky street, with its damp and chilly air, struck him in the face as +he stood with his family a moment, then walked down the steps. There was +still a luminous glow in the western sky above the roofs. Mother took his +arm to steady herself; Tom was behind, his eyes roving hungrily; Joan +flitted just in front. + +'Our 'bus is over there,' said Mother, pointing with a black-gloved hand. + +'We'll take a taxi, my dear,' was his reply. He hailed one, bundled his +astonished family inside, wished the driver 'Good-evening' with a smile, +and slammed the door upon his own coat-tails. + +'But you haven't told him the address,' said Mother. + +'He ought to know,' exclaimed Wimble, 'but he's not a bird yet, so I'd +better tell him.' + +'It might be safer,' added his wife sarcastically, holding on to his +coat-tails as he leaned out of the window to do so. + +He watched the crowd as they whirled away; he felt happy, happy, happy. +With the damp London air he felt as though a part of him still sweltered +in the golden sunshine, diving under blue clear water where the sponges +and the corals grew. Soft breezes touched his cheek one minute, the next +he laid his hand on glittering ice. He heard the surf crashing upon a +palm-clad reef. . . . These thronging people, policemen, costers, +shop-folk, pale-faced workers, and over-dressed men and women of the big +houses, all had some link with himself, that had been drawn closer; but so +had the swarthy half-naked folk at the Antipodes who had just claimed his +consciousness. They were all one really. Each nation seemed a mood. +The sense of oneness leaped upon his heart and seized him. + +'It all happened without our even moving,' as Joan had said on the way +home. 'I suppose everything's in us then, really. We're everywhere.' +And while Tom's superior 'Oh, cut it out' seemed more than usually +ignorant and silly, Wimble's heart flamed within him. For it came to him, +like a promise of wind-borne freedom, that there existed in his own being +an immense and mighty under-side that was only waiting to be organised +into fuller, even into all-embracing, consciousness. Man, he felt sure +again, was a cosmic, not only a planetary, being. He could know the +stars. The real self was of air. . . . + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +'Look here, Father,' said Joan next day, 'why is it----' then paused, +unable apparently to express herself. + +'Eh, child?' He gasped, thinking her question consisted of those three +words alone, and wondering how in the world he was going to satisfy her. + +'Why is it,' she went on the next moment, 'that wherever we are we want to +be somewhere else, and whatever we know we want to know something else-- +more at any rate? And we never want it alone. We want to tell everything +to some one else, I mean.' + +Father almost preferred the first question--it left openings for vaguer +answers. This definiteness increased his difficulty rather. He scratched +his head and passed his fingers through his hair, which looked just then +as if it would neither stay on nor down. He smoothed it deliberately, +thinking as hard and quickly as he could. He knew what the girl meant, of +course, more or less. + +'The instinct to _share_ what we like is, I suppose, a proof that we----' +he was going to say. + +Before he could utter the words, however, she answered for him: 'Because +we ought to be everywhere at once and know everything at once--like in +that cinema. Isn't that it?' + +Mother, it so chanced, just then went past the open door along the +corridor; she went steadily, not to say heavily; she was obviously in one +place at a time, doing one thing at a time, a worthy, practical, useful +human being, and what the world considers a valuable unit of humanity-- +yet surely, oh, surely, wrong and a wing-less entity clogged with earth +and the limits that earth-ignorance involved. She was on her way to scold +the servant, to order dinner, or to fetch socks to mend. Good. But it +was the way she went about her job--the un-birdy way--that proved the +badger in her. Air and the careless joy of air was nowhere in her, not +even in her most helpful actions. 'One should take life as a bird takes +the air,' he was thinking again. It had become a motto. + +And a flood of shadowy thoughts swept down upon his mind. Joan, when he +turned to find her, had already gone from the room. He was alone. +The half-read newspaper lay upon his knee; Tom had long since gone to the +office; the sun shone in across the sea of roofs and chimney-pots; he saw +a white, soft, fluffy cloud bedded in the blue. A swift shot gloriously +across the narrow strip of sky. And this flood of shadow thoughts poured +in and out of his mind like a hundred thousand swifts. + +They would have filled an entire Primer if written out and printed; but in +his mind, together with their host of suggestive correlations, they +flashed and vanished with the speed and ease of the swift, a bird that +seemed only wings, without body, legs, or head--powerful, graceful flight +personified. The laborious absurdity of words made him feel helpless and +rather stupid. He felt lonely, too, exiled from a finer, easier state of +being to which something in him properly and rightfully belonged. +The wings of the spirit stirred and fluttered in him. He sighed. +Joan's sentence vibrated in him like a song, for nothing so much as music +sets free the bird in human beings, enabling the soul to soar beyond all +possible categories of time and space, beyond all confinements and +limitations, even beyond death. + +It was his daughter's remark that led in this rushing shower of thoughts +that followed: 'Why is it that, wherever we are, we want to be elsewhere?' + +People as a whole were always afflicted with this desire to be somewhere +else. It was true. In London he longed for windy lanes, but in the windy +lanes he thought how nice it would be to see the shops and people in the +streets; at a party he would think with longing of the cosy room at home, +the book and chair beside the fire-corner with his pipe, yet in that +corner with pipe and book he would suddenly lay them down and remember +with envy the gaiety of company, the talk, the laughter, and the bright +companionship he was missing. It was often, if not always, so: the desire +to be elsewhere and otherwise seemed inherent in human beings; they were +never content or satisfied with the place they were in at a given moment. + +'It's the restlessness of the race,' he decided, 'for whom movement is so +laborious, slow, and costly. If they moved as a bird moves, swiftly, +instantly, and without trouble or cost, this restlessness would not be +felt.' + +Then he paused. 'But it's not merely that,' flashed through him, +'far, far more. It's the expression of a strange and deep belief: the +belief that we ought to be, and should be, _can_ be everywhere at once. +This power lies in us somewhere, only as yet we haven't discovered how to +use it. . . . But it's coming, and air and flight, wings and speed are +already its beckoning symbols. We're being mysteriously quickened. +We ought to be able to know everything, and to be everywhere, at once, in +touch with all the universe, able to draw on all its powers. We have the +right. This longing so to know and be, this uneasy yearning in us, what +is it but an affirmation, a conviction that we can so be? Our wings go +fluttering in our tiny cages. Wherever I am I go--and I _am_ wherever my +thought and desire are.' + +He sat back and thought about it. It seemed to him a great discovery. +He felt sure that somewhere in himself lay the power to be everywhere at +once, one with everybody and everything. To be aware of everybody +everywhere was the first step at any rate, and the cinema had dropped a +hint that it was coming. + +'Well--but the practical meaning of it--what? The use that people like +Mother should make of it--what? Bodies will never actually fly. +Certainly not, but thought flies already, and it only remains for +consciousness to accompany it. Bodies, of course, are earth; yet they +will, they must, grow lighter, more responsive, both as receiving and +transmitting instruments, consciousness no longer focussed only where the +body is. We shall be human cinemas,' he thought, 'going where we will, +instantaneously and easily as a bird, seeing all and knowing all. +Universal consciousness, of course, is a spiritual condition; it is an Air +quality, space and time denied. The Kingdom of Air is within us. +We shall experience air with its collective instantaneity. . . .' + +He folded his newspaper and went down the narrow corridor to his little +private den. 'Oh, that I had the wings of a dove,' occurred to him and +made him smile. 'A cry of the soul, of course,' he realised, as he took +his twenty limited steps between the rigid walls. He stubbed his toe +against the desk, and sat down in his revolving chair. + +The ideas set in motion by Joan's remark continued flowing, flying through +him. He seized what he could catch. + +'Our bodies, responding to a swifter, happier, more careless attitude of +mind, will gradually grow lighter, more sensitive; become less dense and +earthy; until at last we shall feel with everybody everywhere. No longer +separate and cut off from others, divided as earth is divided, we shall +win this immense increase of sympathy and be everywhere we want to be, +every-at-once, as Joan put it. We shall move with our thought--air! +We shall have instantaneity--air again! Our bodies may not fly, but our +consciousness will fly to one another, as light flies across the universe +unerringly from sun to sun--bodies of light. Like the birds in England, +we shall know when the Siberian ice has broken. We shall be off!' + +The thrill of some mighty wisdom came very near. + +He became strangely aware--it was like the lifting of great wings within +his soul--that this collective, airy consciousness was already gathering +the world into a flock; and it was the cinema, explained by Joan's brief +sentence, that flashed the amazing and uplifting thought upon him. + +Whirling round and round in his revolving chair, reason tried to grapple +with the rush of ideas. The contents of a hundred Primers rose +higgledy-piggledy, to congest his mind and memory. But his soul, rising +like a lark, outdistanced everything he had ever read. The one clear +dazzling certainty was this: 'We shall no longer be cut off and separate +from others.' A variant, surely, of loving, and therefore knowing, all +neighbours as ourselves. A thousand years as one day! To be everywhere +at once and to know everybody was, after all, but to slip the cables of +the tiny, separate self, and experience the Whole. Hence the desire to be +always elsewhere and otherwise. Hence, too, the innate yearning to +_share_ experiences of all kinds with others. 'Nirvana' dropped from a +forgotten Primer into him, and for the first time pages of laborious +explanation utterly ignored, he grasped its gracious meaning fully. 'To +meet the Lord in the air and be for ever with him,' came another cliche. +They poured and rained upon him in their naked meanings, undisguised by +words. + +'Ah! To live in the Whole was not, then, to lose individuality, but to +extend and share it!' He spun round and round happily in his chair. +'Grand bird idea, and air ideal!' He saw in his heart the nations taking +wing at last, leaving earth below them, free of space and free of time, +sharing this new and undivided consciousness. It was spiritual, of +course; yet not an inaccessible nor a different state; it was a state +growing naturally and truly out of the physical. Spontaneous living and +the bird's-eye point of view were the first faint signs of its +approach. . . . + +The chair stopped turning, while he filled and lit his pipe, watching the +clouds of blue smoke float here and there in wreaths and eddies. +Joan's eyes peered across it at him like a phantom's. . . . 'It's immense, +but very simple,' he was thinking, 'her funny little song puts it all in a +nutshell . . . and the way she tries to live . . .' when a heavy tread +disturbed him and something came into the room. + +'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 moment'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 role 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. + +'Yet a bird,' he remembered, 'plunges headlong, at fifty miles an hour, +into a forest of branches, swaying possibly in a wind, avoided the +slightest collision, and with unerring and instant calculation +selects a twig and lands on it, balancing with perfect security on feet so +tiny they're not worth mentioning!' He felt clumsy and inferior. +What co-ordination of sight and muscle! What confidence! +What poise. . . . The throng of awkward, crawling, heavy-footed humans +sprawled in all directions; he was one of them, one of the least steady +too. And yet he was aware of something in himself that did not shake and +wobble, something secure and balanced, something that went gliding with +swift and certain safety. He noted the easy grace of Joan passing the +shop windows like a nut-hatch along a twig, half dancing and half flitting +on her toes. It was not a physical thing he felt. It was not that. +It was a quality--a careless, exquisite balance in herself. It entered +him too as he watched her. His soul rested securely amid the turmoil by +means of it. It was poise. + +His thoughts ran on. . . . + +'Look, Daddy,' Joan interrupted him. 'Here's a funny sign. What does it +mean? Let's go in.' + +He drew up beside her, a trifle breathless. They were in a side street, +the main stream of people pouring away at right angles now, bathed in the +autumn sunshine. + +'Look,' she repeated. 'Wings.' She pointed to a brass plate +advertisement in a little hall-way. 'Isn't it funny?' He read the sign +in neat black letters against the shining metal: 'Aquarian Society, +Membership Free,' and wondered what it meant. Ruins and battered objects +of the past occurred to him, for at first he connected the word with +'antiquarian.' Above them, black tipped with gold, were a pair of +outspread wings, the badge of the Society apparently. In brackets was +'First Floor,' and a piece of paper pasted below bore a notice: +'Meeting Daily from 11.30 to 1. All welcome.' + +'Let's go up, Daddy,' Joan said again. 'There's a meeting going on now, +and it's free. What does it mean? Something about birds----' + +'Water birds, probably,' he said, still puzzling about the strange word; +'_old_ water birds apparently,' he added, combining both possible +derivations; 'perhaps a society to preserve old water birds and provide +artificial paddles when their webbed feet wear out.' + +They laughed at the idea, but their laughter hushed as a couple of ladies, +beautifully dressed and with what is called refined, distinguished +bearing, brushed past them and went upstairs, evidently going to the +meeting. Though they were unknown to him, and it was obvious, in his +black tail-coat and brown boots, that he was a commercial traveller of +sorts, they bowed with a pleasant little smile of polite apology for +pushing past. 'A duchess and her daughter at least! Old families +certainly!' he thought; 'yet they treated us as equals!' It startled him, +it was so un-English. He raised his hat and smiled. In their manner and +the expression of face he caught something new, a kindness, a sympathy, a +touch of light perhaps, something at any rate quick and alert and gentle +that brought the word 'sympathy' intuitively across his mind. He held his +hat in his hand a moment. 'They've got air in them,' flashed into him. +'I wonder if they're members.' + +'Your head's in a draught, Daddy,' said Joan. He put his hat on. A scrap +of conversation reached them from the stairs: 'I'd rather sit well at the +back, I think,' said the younger of the two. + +'We shall have to, probably,' was the reply; 'it's always full. +And remember--just keep an open mind and listen. The quackery doesn't +matter, nor the grammar. He was only a railway guard'--then something +inaudible as they turned the corner--'his idea of a New Age is true +somewhere, I'm positive. It was the speed of the train, you know--always +rushing through space--that made him . . .' And the voices died away. + +'Come, Joan, we'll go in too. What are you dawdling about for?' exclaimed +Wimble on the spur of the moment. Something in that interrupted sentence +caught him. + +'You, Daddy,' she said, as she tripped after him up the stairs. + +People were standing in the corridor and in the little hall; the room +beyond, where a heavily-moustached man, with an eager, soap-polished face, +cheerful expression, and bright earnest eyes, stood lecturing, was full. +The two ladies who had preceded them were sitting on a window-sill. +'I'm afraid there are no seats left,' whispered a pleasant, earnest woman +beside the door, 'but I've sent for some chairs. They'll be here +presently. I hope you'll hear something out here.' Wimble thanked her +with a nod and smile; he leaned against the wall with Joan and looked +about him. + +Some thirty people were crowded into the small inner room, three-quarters +of their number women, what are called 'nice' women. They were well +dressed; there was a rustle of silk, a faint atmosphere of perfume, and +fur, and soft expensive garments; young and old, he saw, a good many of +them in mourning. The men looked, generally speaking, like well-to-do +business men; he noticed one clergyman; a few were shabbily dressed; one +or two were workmen, mechanics possibly. There was an alert attention on +most of the faces, and in the air a kind of eager expectancy, serious, +watchful, yearning, and waiting to be satisfied; sympathetic, it seemed, +on the whole, rather than critical. One or two listeners looked vexed and +scowling, and a tall, thin-visaged man in the corner was almost angry. +But as a whole he got the impression of people just listening patiently, +people for the most part empty, hungry, wondering if what they heard might +fill them. He was aware of minds on tiptoe. Here, evidently, he judged, +was a group of enquiring folk following a new Movement. 'One of the Signs +of what's in the air To-day,' he thought. 'Five years ago these people +would have been in Church, convinced they were miserable sinners with no +good in them. That mechanic-looking fellow would have been in Chapel. +That portly man with the stolid face, wearing a black tail-coat, a low +collar, a heavy gold watch-chain and a black and white striped tie surely +took round the plate in Kensington.' The thin-faced angry man was merely +a professional iconoclast. + +He wondered. He thought a moment of the unimaginative English standing +about the island in hordes, marvellously reliable, marvellously brave, +with big, deep hearts, but childishly unobservant, conservative, +conventional, not to be moved till the fire burns the soles of their feet, +sturdy and unemotional, and constitutionally suspicious of all new things. +He saw these hordes, strong in their great earth-qualities, ballast of the +world, but at the same time world-rulers. . . . And then his thought +flashed back with a snap to the scene before him. What was this group +after? Why was it dissatisfied? Why had it turned from the ancient +shibboleths? Something, of course, was up. He wondered. These people +looked so earnest. This Aquarian Society, he knew, was one of a hundred, +a thousand others. It might be rubbish, it might contain a true idea, it +was sure to prove exaggerated. The people, however, were enquiring. +He glanced at Joan, but her eyes were fixed intently upon the speaker's +face--the face of a former railway guard whose familiarity with speed +(certainly not on _his_ own crawling line, thought Wimble!), with rushing +transit from scene to scene through the air, had opened his mind to some +new idea or other. + +'I wonder if he sang "Wherever I am, I go!"' he whispered to Joan. +'He ought to, anyhow!' But Joan was too intent to hear him. +He swallowed his smile and listened. The speaker's rough, uncultivated +voice rang with sincerity. There was a glow about his face that only deep +conviction brings. To Wimble, however, it all sounded at the moment as if +he had fallen out of his Express Train and picked up his ideas as he +picked up himself. + +For at first he could not understand a single word, as though, +coming out of the busy human street, he had plunged neck-deep into a +stream of ideas that took his breath away. Having missed what had gone +before, he could not catch the drift of what he heard. Then gradually, +and by degrees, his listening mind fell into the rhythm of the minds about +him; he slipped into the mood of the meeting; his intelligence merged with +the collective intelligence of the others; he merged with the +group-consciousness of the little crowd. The hostile interjections had no +meaning for him, since those who made them, not being included in the +group-consciousness, spoke an unintelligible language. + +The speaker was very much in earnest evidently; he believed what he was +saying, at the moment anyhow. Possibly this belief was permanent; +possibly it was merely self-persuasion. Though obviously he expected +hostile comment from time to time, when it came--usually from the +iconoclast in the corner--he rarely replied to it. This method of +ignoring criticism was not only easier than answering it, it induced an +appearance of contemptuous superiority that increased his authority. + +Wimble and his daughter had come in at a happy moment, for the long +stretch of argument and explanation was just over, it seemed, and a +summing up was about to begin. + +'So where are we, then, with it all?' asked the lecturer. +'Where 'ave we got to? Where do we stand?' + +He paused, and into the pause fell the angry voice of the thin-faced man: +'Exactly where we started. You haven't stated one single fact as yet.' + +The speaker looked straight in front of him without a word, and the +audience, almost to an individual, ignored the criticism. They supported +the lecturer loyally, to the point at least of not even turning their +heads away. They stared patiently and waited. + +'Where 'ave we got to,' repeated the man on the platform, 'that's wot we +want to know, isn't it? After all we've listened to this morning, 'ow do +we stand about it?' + +'That's it exactly,' from the interrupter in a contemptuous but intense +tone of voice. He seemed annoyed that no one was intelligent enough to +support him. At a Society of Rationalist Control across the road he would +have been at home. He, too, was a seeker, and a very earnest one, only he +had tumbled into the wrong group. Across the road he might have been +constructive; here he was destructive merely. + +'Well, on the physical plane,' resumed the speaker, 'on wot I might call +the scientific and materialistic plane, as I've tried to show you, the +'ole trend of modern civilisation is towards speed and universality. +That's clear--at least I 'ope I've made it so. Air, and wot air +represents, shows itself in the physical plane like that. Distant +countries are getting all linked up everywhere--by wireless, by motor, by +aviation, by cinematograph, and the like. A kind of telepathy all over +the world is--' he hesitated an instant--'engendered.' + +'Go on,' from the critic, 'any word will do as well.' + +'That's the scientific side of the business, as it were,' he went on, 'the +practical, everyday aspect we can all understand. It's the universality +of the new element, air, as it affects the practical mind, so to speak; +the technical understanding and mastery or space--wot I called aether a +little while ago, as you'll remember--or, as the Aquarian Society prefers +to call it, as being simpler and shorter--air.' + +'Well,' he added, 'we now want to see 'ow we stand with regard to the +'igher side of life, the mental, spiritual aspect. Wot does this new Age, +in which air is the key--the symbol like--wot does it mean to the race on +_that_ side?' + +'Gas,' interjected the other, but in a lower voice. + +From several books lying beside the water-bottle the lecturer selected +one. He adjusted a pair of heavy reading-glasses to his eyes. + +'The link between the two is better expressed than wot I can express it,' +he resumed quickly, 'in this little volume, _The New Science of Colour_-- +and colour means light, remember, and light means aether, and aether means +space, universality--so it's all the same.' + +'Every bit of it,' came the contemptuous comment from the corner. + +'Just this short paragraph--I came across it by chance--except that there +reely is no chance at all--and it puts it well. It supplies the link. +So I'll read it.' He heavily emphasised certain words: + +'We are approaching an age of mental telepathy, in which the _organism of +the race_ is about to become attuned to the second sense of the earth and +to the third element that sustains her--_i.e. air_--and in which our +action and our outlook will alike assume the characteristics of that +element, which are _elasticity and brilliance_.' + +He laid down the book, slowly removing the heavy glasses from his nose, +and while 'that's no proof was heard to snap from the corner, the other +repeated with emphasis of manner, yet lowering his voice at the same time: +'the organism of the race--becoming attuned to _air_--elasticity and +brilliance.' + +Fingering his glasses and looking very thoughtful, the speaker kept +silence for a minute or so. He drank a few sips of water slowly, while +everybody, even the interjector, waited, and those who had been staring at +him turned their eyes away from his face, as though embarrassed to watch +him drink. He produced a big handkerchief from his coat-tail pocket, +wiped his lips, and replaced the handkerchief with some difficulty whence +it came. The pause lengthened, but no one stirred. Then the +earnest-faced woman near the door touched Wimble on the arm and indicated +an empty chair, but Wimble, too absorbed in the proceedings, shook his +head impatiently. Joan slipped into it. Joan, he noticed, did not seem +interested; the keen attention she had shown at first had left her face, +she looked half bewildered and half bored. 'She's too much in it to need +explanation,' flashed across him. + +The slight shuffling warned the lecturer that the mind of his audience +needed holding lest it begin to wander. Picking up a sheet of paper +covered with notes, he advanced to the edge of the little platform and +cleared his throat. + +'As I've been trying to explain,' he began, ''umanity has now reached a +crushial moment in its development. The planet we live on belongs to the +sun, and the sun has just entered--in 1881, to be igsact,--the sign of +Aquarius. Aquarius, according to the old Chaldean system, is wot's called +an Air Sign, and the new powers waking in us all--coming down into our +world now--will be ruled by the element of air. The Age of Pisces, a +Water Sign, is just finished and done with. We are entering another +period. A new Age is beginning--the Age of Air.' And he glanced about +him as though to catch any evidence of challenge. + +'What is an Age?' asked a thin voice from the rear. It was not hostile, +and heads were turned to find the questioner, but without success. + +'An accomplice,' muttered the habitual interrupter to himself. +No one noticed the comment, and Wimble, now completely captured by the +collective sympathy, even wondered what he meant. + +'I'll tell you,' continued the lecturer, and referred to the sheet of +notes in his hand. 'I'll tell you again with pleasure.' +He emphasised the word 'again.' The glasses were readjusted. With a +certain air of mystery, as though he knew far more than he cared to +impart, he read aloud, emphasising frequent passages as his habit was, and +making here and there effective and semi-theatrical pauses. Behind this +cheapness, however, burned obviously a deep sincerity and belief. He +deemed himself a prophet, and he knew a prophet's proverbial fate. + +'Astronomers tell us that our sun and his fam'ly of planets revolve around +a central sun, which is millions of miles distant,' he read slowly, 'and +that it requires about 26,000 years to make one revolution.' + +Remembering one of his most successful Primers, Wimble sat forward on his +chair, all eagerness. Here was what the critic called a 'fact' at any +rate. + +'This orbit is called the Zodiac,' continued the other, 'and it is divided +into twelve signs.' He mentioned them, beginning with Aries and Taurus, +and ending with Aquarius and Pisces. 'Now, you asked what is an Age, +didn't you?' He paused a second. 'Well, our solar system takes a bit +over 2000 years to pass through each of these Signs, and this time is the +measurement of an Age. And with each Age certain new things 'appen.' + +He made this announcement with a certain mysterious significance. + +'Certain things 'appen to the planet and to us as lives on it. Certain +changes come. They're sure as summer and winter is sure--that is, you can +count on them. Those who know can count on them--prophets and people with +inner vision. There you get prophecy and the meaning of prophecy. +Vision!' And without a vision the people perish--miss their chances, that +is. The seers, the mystics, always know and see ahead, and this end of +the Age--and of the world as it's sometimes called stupidly--has been +prophesied by many.' + +The audience was on tiptoe with anticipation. Each individual possibly +hoped that certain personal peculiarities of his own were going to be +explained, made wonderful. Wimble was particularly aware of this +excitement; it dawned upon him that he was about to receive an +explanation, and a semi-scientific explanation too, of his own strange +ideas and feelings. He glanced across at Joan. She seemed, to his +amazement, asleep; her eyes were closed, at any rate; her attention was +not held. He wanted to poke her. He wanted to say 'I told you so,' or +rather 'You told me so.' But the speaker had ended his pause, and, to +Wimble's delight, was explaining that this movement of the sun passes +through the Zodiacal Signs in reverse order--'precession of the +equinoxes,' as it is called--Pisces therefore preceding Aquarius instead +of following it. Here was another 'fact' that his Knowledge Primer +justified. + +The personal anticipation in the audience was not immediately satisfied, +however. The speaker intensified it first by a slight delay. Aware that +he held the minds before him, he took his time. + +'Now, these Signs'--lifting his eyes from the sheet of paper and fixing +them upon a woman in the front row, who at once showed nervousness, as +though she would believe black was white, if only he would stare at some +one else--' these Signs ain't just dead things. They reveal and express +and convey intelligent life. They're immense intelligences, they're +Zodiacal Intelligences. That's wot they are. The 'ole universe, +remember, is alive, and you and I ain't the only living beings in it, nor +the 'ighest either. We're not the only _bodies_. No one can say wot +constitoots a body, a living body, nor define it. Our planet is a +tuppeny-'alfpenny affair compared to the others, and we're nothing but a +lot of hinsects like ants and so forth on it. But if the 'ole universe is +alive--and we know it is----' + +'Hanwell,' interrupted the angry man. + +'----each and every part of it must be alive too. And you can't leave out +the planets, stars, and suns, the most magnificent bodies, called the +'eavenly bodies, as you know. They're all living bodies. They're the +bodies of beings, living beings, but beings far higher than wot we are. +And the Zodiacal Signs are 'igher still. They represent functions of the +universe, as the ancients knew quite well. They're a kind of intelligence +we may call per'aps a Group Intelligence.' + +Again he paused a moment. Then, as no interruption came, he went on with +greater emphasis than before: + +'Now, each of these Zodiacal Intelligences--as the sun, with our little +earth alongside, passes through it--rules over its partickler period. +With every period we enter a new current of forces. Each period, +therefore, of about 2000 years has new Gods, new characteristics, new +types of 'uman beings with new tendencies and powers and possibilities in +them--a new point of view, if you like to call it so, or, as we Aquarians +call it, a new consciousness. Well, the Aquarius Sign just beginning, is +an Air Sign. We're getting our new powers, our new point of view and +hattitude, our new consciousness--from the air.' + +In his excitement and deep belief the word 'air' was dangerously near +'hair,' but no one smiled. Perhaps even the critic experienced similar +difficulties in his home circle that prevented his noticing it, or caring +to take advantage of it if he did. + +'I've already referred,' the speaker continued, 'to its effect on the +physical plane, new inventions and the like, and 'ow men now navigate the +air as fish do the sea, and send their thoughts spinning round the world +with the speed of lightning. That's easy enough. I mean, you can all see +it for yourselves. The areoplane's a fac' nobody can't get away from, +whichever way you take it. But the effect on the spiritual plane is not +so simple. It's not so easy to describe--far from it, I admit. When a +new mode of consciousness begins to hoperate in men and women, they find +difficulty in expressing it. They're puzzled a bit. They don't know +where they are with it quite. Those 'oo get it first are called quacks +and charlituns, and maybe swindlers too. The slower ones regard them with +suspicion, and they may think themselves lucky if they 'ain't stoned or +burned alive or crucified as they once was.' + +He smiled, and the audience smiled deprecating with him. + +'And the chief reason for their difficulty,' he went on, 'is simply this: +They 'aven't got the language. Nor the words. That's it. The words +describe the experiences of a new type of consciousness don't exist at +first. They come later, slowly, gradually. They evolve as the new powers +in the race evolve.' + +He took his glasses off and wiped them carefully. + +'So wot's the result?' he asked. 'Why, this. There's only _feeling_ +left. The people that first get the new consciousness feel it in them. +But they can't prove it to others because their power is small. And they +can't explain it in words, because the words don't exist. So there you +are. Only the truth is there too jest the same.' + +The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, but no one took it up. +The critic was making notes on his cuff and probably had not heard it. +Some one coughed, however, and feet shuffled here and there. + +'_I_ know it's true, and some of you 'ere in front of me know it's true,' +the speaker resumed quickly, his eyes alight and intense conviction in his +tone and manner, 'but we can't do more at first than _feel_ it and be +glad. All we can do is to show it in our lives. We can live it. We can +feel the joy and speed and lightness of the air, and we can live it, show +it. We can express it that way, leaving the words to follow in good time. +And that's a lot, for example guides the world.' + +A murmur of applause greeted the emphatic statement, and Wimble, for one, +was tempted to rise on his toes with waving hands and give his confession +of faith in no uncertain voice. This railway guard, half quack, half +prophet, this man of the people whose knowledge was as faulty as his +grammar, had offered the first explanation he had yet heard of his own +strange attitude to life and of his experiences since boyhood. This man, +similarly, had caught his secret from the air. His exposition might be as +exaggerated and wild as the critic suggested, yet it was somewhere true, +he felt. The man, owing to his very ignorance perchance, had caught at +the skirts of a new and mighty truth that in a century would have become a +commonplace, but that at the present moment caused others with better +education than himself to talk of Hanwell. Wimble felt this excitement in +him--to get up before them all and say that he, too, had felt and tried to +live this light, new, swift and spontaneous airy consciousness. +The impulse, the generous desire to help, caught at him. Another minute +and he might have been on his toes, bearing stammering witness to the +truth that was in him. The lecturer himself, however, prevented. + +'We stand to-day,' he said, using his notes again, 'upon the cusp of the +Aquarian Age. The Piscean Age lies behind us. The Zodiacal Intelligences +of that Piscean Age were watery powers and water was its keynote and its +symbol. It was the Age of Jesus. Now, listen, please, listen closely, +for 'istory bears me out.' + +He moved nearer to the edge of the platform, and heads were craned forward +to lose no word. + +'The sun,' he said, in a lowered tone, 'entered the sign of Taurus in the +days of our pre'istoric Adam. That was the Taurian Age. Next came the +Arian Age--about the time that Abra'am lived, and with Aries the ram +replaced the bull. With the rise of the Roman Empire the sun entered the +sign of Pisces, and the Piscean Age began. It took the fish for its +symbol. That was the Christian Dispensation with its new outlook and +attitude, its new powers, its new type of consciousness. Jesus introduced +water baptism, and water became the symbol of purification. It was a +watery sign, as I told you. While it lasted, as you'll notice--the last +2000 years--this Piscean Age, with a fish for its symbol, 'as certainly +been one of water, and the many uses of that element 'ave been emphasised, +and sea and lake and river navigation have been brought to a 'igh degree +of efficiency.' + +He waited for the impression this was bound to produce. It was evidenced +by deep silence, broken only by the rustle of paper and soft garments. + +'Jesus Himself referred to the beginning of this Aquarian Age in these +words,' he continued solemnly and reverently, 'as you'll find in one of +Wisdom Books they don't include in our own Bible: + + 'And then the man who bears the pitcher will walk forth across an + arc of 'eaven; the sign and signet of the Son of Man will stand + forth in the Eastern sky. The wise will then lift up their + heads and know that the redemption of the earth is near.' + +He paused significantly. Then he added, his hands raised aloft and his +eyes turned toward the ceiling: + +'We're already in it, the new Dispensation, the New Age--air.' + +'Compressed air,' added the critic, after his long silence. + +'Bravo! bravo!' exclaimed Wimble, unable to suppress himself. + +'But surely a new Age can only begin in each person individually, and not +in any other sense,' put in the thin voice that had spoken once before. + +Unperturbed, the speaker repeated with deep emphasis, his eyes and hands +still raised aloft: + +'And air means spiritual. The Aquarian Age is pre-eminently a spiritual +age; and its meaning may now be apprehended by multitudes of people, +'ungry for truth, who will now come--are already coming--into an advanced +spiritual consciousness. Our air-bodies is being quickened.' + +The last few words seemed to produce a strange effect upon the chief +critic. Apparently they enraged him. He fidgeted, half rising from his +chair as though about to make a violent speech in reply. In the end, +however, he did nothing beyond shrugging his shoulders, with a muttered +'Consciousness indeed! Why, you don't even know the meaning of the word!' +He leaned back in his seat, unwilling to stay, yet too annoyed to leave; +he resigned himself, keeping his great onslaught perhaps for the close of +the meeting. Then, suddenly changing his mind, he leaped to his feet. +But the lecturer was before him. In a ringing voice that held his +audience and drowned the interruption, he dominated the room. +He was about to satisfy the anticipation raised some ten minutes earlier. +He took his listeners into his confidence. + +'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he cried, 'or brothers and sisters, as I'd +prefer to call you if you've no objection, wot is it we Aquarians means +when we talk of air, when we speak of air as the sign of the New Age? We +call it spiritual. Wot do we reely mean by that? 'Ow can we show it in +our lives? Let us come down to plain words, the language of the street.' + +There was again a rustle, as pencils and paper were prepared anew for +taking notes. + +'It means this--to put it quite plainly, simply: It means living lightly, +carelessly, spontaneously, as a bird does, so to speak, 'oose 'ome is air +and 'oo works 'ard without taking too much thought. It means living by +faith and that means--' he uttered the next words with great emphasis-- +'living by the subconsciousness--by intuition.' + +'A bird's heart,' he cried, 'lies in the centre of its body. _We_ must +live from the centre too. + +'That's the secret, and that's the first sign that you're getting it. +There you get the first 'int of this new Aquarian Age, and from the +moment we entered it--not so long ago, forty years or so--this idea of the +Subconsciousness 'as showed itself as the key-word of the day. +It's everywhere already. Even the scientific men 'as got it. Bergson +began with 'is intuition, and professors like Frood of Vienna and Young of +Zurich caught on like lightning. William James too, and a 'undred others. +Why, it's got down into our poietry and novels, and even the pore old +dying pulpits 'ave a smack at it just to try and keep their heads above +water. + +'To live by your subconscious knowledge, instead of by your slow old +calculating reason, means a new, airy way of living. And it's spiritual, +I say, because it stands for the beginning of a new knowledge and +understanding, and therefore a new sympathy with each other. With +everybody! All sorts of powers lie in our subconsciousness, powers of the +'ole race, powers forgotten and powers to come, and it's in touch with +greater powers still that so far 'ave been beyond us as a race. All +knowledge 'ides there--God. + +'And if you rely upon it, it will guide you--and guide you quickly, +surely, in a flash. Nor you won't go wrong either, for in your +subconsciousness you touch everybody else; we all join on down +there--within--and that's where the Kingdom of 'eaven lies--and if you +rely upon the Kingdom of 'eaven it will guide you right. We all touch +'ands if you go deep enough, and that means brotherhood, don't it? For it +means sympathy, understanding, love. The 'ottentot's your neighbour.' + +He stepped back, squaring his shoulders and drawing a deep breath as he +surveyed his audience. + +'Well, it's only just beginning. Some of us, many of us likely, don't +know about it yet, don't _feel_ it. We're only ankle-deep as yet. And +those 'oo ain't aware of this great subconscious life, no amount of +argument or explanation won't put it into them. A new Age touches +individuals first, one 'ere, one there. The end of the world, as some +call it, 'appens to each heart alone, as somebody said just now. But +it'll come to all in the end. It's coming now. We're in Aquarius, and +sooner or later we'll _all_ get into the air and know it. And the new +inventions, the new tricks everywhere, as I told you, are paving the way +already on the physical plane so that even the hintellectuals and +materialists are bound to feel its bigger side before long. + +'Air! Why, think of it, and wot a lovely symbol it is! It's everywhere. +It flows. Nothing belonging to the sky is stationary. It all moves. +Light grows and wanes, wind falls and rises, clouds, birds pass rapidly +across it. It 'as nothing rigid about it anywhere. Breath is the first +sign of life in your body when you're born, and the breath of the spirit +is the first sign of life in your soul when you are born again. And the +bird, remember, the natural in'abitant of air, 'as its heart in the centre +of its body! + +'The subconscious powers, the subconscious life--yes, that's the secret. +To rely upon it, live and act by it, means to act with the 'ole world at +once and know the 'appiness of brother'ood and love. It means to lose +yourself--your little conscious, surface, limited self--in the bigger +ocean of the air. 'Itherto it's been called living by faith and prayer. +That's all right enough, but it ain't enough. That means touching the +subconscious at moments only. We want to touch it always and every +minute. In this new Aquarian Age it will be at our fingers' ends, so to +speak. The "sub" will disappear. The subconscious will become the +conscious. We shall know everything, and everything at once; we shall be +everywhere, and everywhere at once.' He raised his voice. 'We shall be +ONE, and know that we are ONE. We shall 'ave spiritual consciousness.' + +The noise of an overturned chair was heard. Outside the shrill blast of +distant factory whistles suggested lunch and food. The critic, pushing +hastily past the hushed sitters near him, made his way to the door. +As he reached the passage he turned. 'That's the best recipe for hysteria +I ever heard,' he cried back, 'and the sooner you're safe in Hanwell, the +better for the world!'--and vanished. + +It was an abrupt and violent interruption, but yet it startled no one; the +thread of interest was not broken; a few heads turned to look, and then +faced towards the lecturer again. A general sigh was heard, expressive of +relief. The audience settled itself more comfortably, and a deeper +concentration of interest was felt at once. The removal of the hostile +element produced an immediate increase of attentive earnestness. +It showed first in the lecturer's face; his eyes grew fixed and steady, +his manner more confident, more impressive, and his tone of voice had a +more authoritative ring than before. + +He leaned forward with an air of mysterious intimacy, as though about to +share a secret knowledge he had not dared to divulge before a scoffer. +There was a booming note about his voice that thrilled. The charlatan +that hides in every human soul slipped out, unconsciously perhaps but +unmistakably. It was this, possibly, that affected Wimble as he watched +and waited, so eagerly attentive; or, possibly, it was some uncanny +anticipation of what he was about to hear. An emotion, at any rate, and +one shared by others in the small packed room, rose suddenly in his soul. +A little shiver ran down his spine, he shuddered, as once before he had +shuddered in Maida Vale. + +'Before we close this little meeting,' the deep voice rang, 'and before +you go your way and I go mine, per'aps not to come across each other's +path again for a tidy while--I want to just say this. It's as well we +all should know it, so as we are prepared.' + +He fixed his glowing eyes on one of his audience--on Wimble, it so +happened--and went on slowly, choosing his words with care and uttering +them with a conviction that was not without its impressiveness: + +'I want to warn you all, to give you this little word of warning. For I'm +led to believe--in fact, I may say it's been given me--that a dying Age-- +don't die without an effort. An expiring Age, so to say, seeks to prolong +its life. With the result that, just before it passes, its +characteristics is first intensified. The Powers that have ruled over us +for 2000 years make themselves felt with extra strength; and these Powers, +seeing that their time is past, are no longer right. They're no longer +what we need. Good and right in their time, they now seem wrong, and out +of place. They're evil. We see them as evil, any'ow, though they make +for good in another way. I don't know if you foller me. Wot I mean is +that, when an old Age is passing and a new Age coming to birth--there's +conflict.' + +There was a renewed rustling, as this sentence was written down on many +half-sheets that had so far been blank. But Wimble had no need to make a +note of it. He remembered that walk down Maida Vale of several months +before, and again the singular shudder passed like a little wind of ice +along his nerves. + +'Conflict means trouble,' continued the speaker amid a solemn hush, +'and nothing big ever comes to birth without labour and travail and pain. +We must expect this pain and travail, and be ready for it. A new 'eaven +and a new earth will come, but they won't come easily. They will be +preceded by a mighty effort of the old ones to keep going a bit longer +first. A 'uge up'eaval, physically and spiritually, will take place +first--on the earth, that is, as well as in our 'earts--before we all get +caught up to meet the Lord in the air.' + +His sentences grew slower and more emphatic, more charged with conviction +and with warning. He made privileged communications. There were pauses +between his utterances: + +'I warn you, I prepare you, so that when it comes you will be ready and +prepared--not for yourselves, mind, but so as you may 'elp others wot +won't quite realise quite wot it all means. + +'For there'll be _sacrifice_ as well. + +'There's always a sacrifice when a New Age catches 'old of our old earth, +and our old earth will shake and tremble in the re-making, and some of us +will shake and tremble too. You'll feel, maybe, that shudder in advance +and know what it means. Signs and wonders, men's 'earts failing them for +fear, and the instability of all solid things. + +'There will be _death_. + +'Death takes its 'undreds, aye, its thousands at a time like that, and +many--the best and finest usually--go out before their time, as it seems. +But--mark this--they go out--to _h_elp! + +'There comes in the sacrifice. + +'They'll be taken off to 'elp, taken into the air, but taken away from +those they leave be'ind.' + +His tone grew lower, and a deeper hush passed over the little crowd before +him. There was dull fire in his eyes. An atmosphere of the prophet +clothed him. + +'It's just there,' he emphasised, 'that we--we who know--can 'elp. + +'For we know that death is nothing more nor less than slipping back into +your own subconsciousness, and so becoming greater and finer and more +active--more useful, too, and with grander powers--than we ever 'ad in our +limited, imperfect bodies. And we know that this separate life, ended at +death, is nothing but an episode in our universal life which death can +never put an end to because it is imperishable. We are part of the +universe, not of this little planet alone. + +'There'll be mourning, but we can 'elp dry their tears; there'll be +terror, but we can take their fear away; there'll be loneliness, but we +can show them--show 'em by the way we live--that there'll be reunion +better than before. We all meet in the sub-consciousness, and know each +other face to face. For it means reunion in the air, which is everywhere +at once and universal, and stands for that denial of space and time--that +spiritual haffirmation--we Aquarians call NOW.' + +He held out his hands as in blessing over the intently listening and +expectant throng. Gazing above their heads into space, he appeared to +concentrate his thoughts a moment. Then his face lightened, as though his +mental effort had succeeded. + +'After every meeting,' he then went on, but this time in a conversational +tone, as friend to friend, the prophet and his flock put aside, 'it is our +custom, as you know, to find a carrying-away Sentence. Something you can +take away and remember easily. Something that sums up all we've talked +about together. Something to keep in your minds and think about every +minute of the day until we meet again. Something you can try to live in +your daily lives.' + +He waited a moment to ensure that all listened closely. + +'The sentence I've chosen this time will 'elp you to remember all we've +said to-day. It's a symbol that includes the 'ole promise of the air +that's so soon to be fulfilled in us. + +'I'll now give it out--if yer all ready.' + +The expectant, eager, attentive faces were a convincing proof that all +were ready and listening attentively. + +With a happy and confiding smile, the speaker then pronounced the +carrying-away sentence: + +'The 'eart of a bird lies in the _centre_ of its body.' + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +The carrying-away sentence stuck in Wimble's mind as he journeyed back to +the flat on the top of a motor omnibus with Joan, for it expressed a +concrete fact, a fact that he could understand. 'The heart of a bird lies +in the centre of its body,' he murmured to himself happily. It gave him a +secret thrill of joy and wonder. His own heart, thrust to the left though +it was, felt ageless. The happy, invincible optimism of the bird was in +him. To live from the centre was a neat way of expressing what he had +been trying to do for so long, and he had not been far wrong in taking the +life and attitude of a bird for his symbol. It meant neglecting the +strained, laborious effort of the calculating mind, and leaning for help +and guidance upon something bigger, deeper, less fallible than the +strutting conscious self. The railway guard labelled it the subconscious, +that mysterious region in which every soul is linked to every other soul, +involving thus that comprehensive sympathy which is the beginning possibly +of brotherhood. He phrased it wildly, but that was what he meant. +The bigger self that lay like an ocean behind his separate, personal +_thought_ shared everything with every one. The joy, the wisdom of the +birds! The elasticity and brilliance of the universal air! The divine +carelessness that flows from living at the centre! + + 'Flow, fly, flow! + Wherever I am, I _go_; + I live in the air + Without thought or care . . . !' + +'Daddy, you mustn't hum in public. It sounds so unusual, and people are +staring,' Joan reminded him. 'And you'll forget your hat and leave it +behind, if you don't put it on.' + +He smoothed his ruffled hair and placed his black billycock upon it. + +'So you've woken up at last, have you?' he replied, laughing at her. +'You slept through most of the lecture. What did you make of it,--eh?' + +She looked at him with a puzzled expression in her soft, bright eyes. + +'D'you think it was all nonsense? Was it true, I mean?' he repeated. + +'He didn't lie, but he didn't tell the truth,' she said at once. +'Besides, I wasn't asleep. I heard it all.' + +'You mean he didn't explain it properly?' he asked. + +'It was the wrong way,' she said. + +'Ah! words----' + +'He ought to have danced it,' she said suddenly with decision. 'It's too +quick, too flashing for words. _I_ could have shown it to them easily, by +dancing it.' + +He remembered the amazing ideas her dancing gestures on the roof had once +put into him. Then, thinking of the teachers of the world conveying their +meaning by dancing and gestures from the pulpits, he chuckled. + +'Shall we join the Aquarians?' he asked slyly. 'What do you say to +becoming members of their Society?' + +She took her answer out of his own mind, it seemed. + +'If you belong, you belong. You needn't join. Societies are only cages, +Daddy. You're caught and you can't fly on.' + +'We could spend the money better, yes,' he mumbled. 'Garden-gloves for +mother, a lawn-mower, a hurricane lantern for stormy nights or +something----' + +'Much, much better,' she agreed. + +'When once we've found the cottage,' he went on vaguely. + +'It's there,' she interrupted instantly. 'Let's get the hurricane +lantern. I'd love to choose it with you. May I?' + +Wimble looked about him as the heavy vehicle lumbered clumsily along its +swaying journey. The soft autumn sunshine of hazy gold lay on the +streets, but there was a nip, a sharpness in the air that put an electric +sparkle into everything. The solid world was really lighter than it +looked. There was a covert brilliance ready to dart forth into +swift-rushing flame. He felt the throbbing sheen and rustle in the golden +light, and his heart sang with joy above the heavy streets and pavements. +He was aware of a point of view that almost denied weight to inert matter, +making the dead mass of the universe alive and dancing. This nip and +sparkle in the air interpenetrated all these fixed and heavy things, these +laborious structures, these rigid forms, dissolving them into flowing, +ever-changing patterns of fluid loveliness. He saw them again as powder, +the parks and road blown everywhere, the pavements lifted, the walls wide +open to the sky. The solid earth became transparent, flooded with light +and air. It seemed etherealised. It spread great golden wings towards +the blazing sun and limitless sky. Air knew no fixed and rigid forms. +Societies, of course, were only cages. He saw the huge cage of the earth +blow open. Humanity flew out at last. . . . + +'We'll get three, and at once,' he remarked, referring to the lanterns. +'And a pair of hedge-clippers as well, a ladder for the fruit trees, two +pair of best garden-gloves for mother, and a revolving summer-house where +she can follow the sun--and sit in peace.' + +That ridiculous lecture acted like some mental cuckoo that had chucked +him finally out of the nest into the air. If he did not actually fly, +he certainly walked on air, with the same faith that had once been claimed +for walking on the sea. He became a daring and a happy soul. +Air represented a confident and free imagination in which everything was +possible. Earth he still loved, but only as a place to land on and take +off from. Imagination and intuition must still, at his present stage, be +backed and checked by reason; earth was still there to sleep on. But that +spontaneous way of living which is air, using the ground merely as the +swallow does--a swallow that exists in space and almost entirely neglects +its legs--this careless and new attitude leaped forward in him towards +realisation. A bird, he remembered, though apparently so free and +careless, works actually with an ordered precision towards great purposes. + +He seemed conscious suddenly of a complete and absolute independence, +beyond the need of any one's comprehension. Few, if any, would understand +him, but that did not matter. The need to be understood was left behind, +below. He had soared beyond the loneliness even of a god. He felt very +humble, but very happy. And the loneliness would be but temporary, for +the rest of the world would follow before long. . . . + +The motor omnibus lurched and stopped with grunting noises. Wimble, led +by his more nimble daughter, climbed down the narrow spiral stair. +He glanced upwards longingly as he descended. He saw the flashing birds. +'The brotherhood of the air,' he thought. 'Oh, how the earth must yearn +for it!' + +'There's an ironmonger,' cried Joan, pointing across the road. And they +went in to buy the hurricane lanterns. They assumed, that is, that the +cottage was already found. + +Then, after luncheon, while Mother criticised the garden-gloves, observing +with regard to the hurricane lanterns that it was 'living backwards, +rather, to buy things before we have the place to use them in,' he took +from the book-shelf his copy of the _Queen of the Air_ and read once again +a favourite passage. It was thumb-marked, the margin scored by his pencil +long years ago. + +' . . . the bird, in which the breath, or spirit, is more full than in any +other creature and the earth-power least. . . . It is little more than a +drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its +quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air +in its flying, like a blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, +surpasses it, outraces it;--_is_ the air, conscious of itself, conquering +itself, ruling itself. + +'Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. +All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit +together in its song . . . unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in +its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring +nights, bursting into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping +and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like +little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals +of the wild rose. . . .' + +His reading was interrupted by the entrance from the passage of his wife, +her face heavily veiled; she was dressed for the street, in solemn black; +she wore a mysterious yet very confident expression. 'Joe dear, I'm going +out. I have an appointment at three o'clock sharp. I mustn't be late.' + +He watched her with an absent-minded air for a moment, as though he saw +her for the first time almost; all he could remember about her just then +was that during the cinema performance she had said with proud +superiority: 'I'm glad I'm English.' Then, recognising his wife, he +realised that she was going to confession, of course, for he guessed it by +the way she folded her hands, waiting patiently for a word of +commendation. + +'All right, my dear,' he said, 'and good luck. You'll be back for tea, I +suppose.' He rose and kissed her on her heavy veil, and she went out with +a smile. 'I'm so glad,' he added. + +'That's her stage,' he thought to himself, 'and the critic and the +Aquarian quack have their stage, and I have mine. It's all right.' + +There were immense tracts of experience in everybody, unknown, unused, but +waiting to be known and used. Some people lived in one tract only, caged +and fixed, unaware of the vast freedom a little farther outside +themselves. Different people knew different tracts, each positive that +his own particular tract alone was right--as for him, assuredly, it was-- +thinking also that it was the only one, the whole, which, assuredly, it +was not. There was, however, assuredly, a point of view, the bird's, that +saw all these tracts at once, the boundaries and divisions between them +mere walls erected by the mind in ignorance. The bird's-eye view looked +down and saw the landscape whole, the divisions unreal, the separation +false. This attitude was the attitude of air; air unified; the unity of +humanity was realised. Consciousness, focussed hitherto upon little +separate tracts with feeble light, blazed upon all at once with shining +splendour. + +It was true. A great world-telepathy was being 'engendered,' barriers of +creed and class were crumbling, democracy was combing out its mighty +wings; the 'tracts' inhabited by Mother, Tom, the quack, the critic, by +himself and by Joan, by that narrow snob and gossip at the tea-party who +asked, 'Who _was_ she?'--all these would be seen as adjoining little +strips belonging to the universal air which knows neither strips, +divisions nor boundaries. + +A great light blazed into his heart. He wondered. Apparently it was the +little, simple, insignificant people, and not the great minds of the day, +who were the first to become aware of air. The great ones were too rigid. +Air rushed first into the hearts of the uneducated, the ignorant, the +unformed and informal--the little children of the race. It has been ever +so. The learned, knowing too much, solid with facts and explanations, are +no longer fluid. They neither flow nor fly. The brotherhood of air, he +grasped, would come first through the untaught babes and little children +of earth's vast, scattered family. + +And, while these vague reflections danced across his mind, dropping their +curious shadows upon his own little tract of experience, his wife was +whispering her sins to another mind who should forgive them for her, the +critic was writing a vehement pamphlet to prove that he alone was right, +Tom, in the office, was scheming new plans for making money that should +satisfy his natural desires for pleasure and self-indulgence, the quack +was elaborating Zodiacal Explanations in his studio next to his Private +Consulting Room, and Joan---- + +He listened. A light, tripping step went down the corridor, passed his +door and began to climb the ladder to the open skylight in the hall. +He listened closely, eagerly, a new rhythm catching at his heart. +The little song came to him faintly through the obstructing barriers of +brick and mortar. He caught the tap and tremble of her feet upon the +roof. + +Joan sang and danced above the world. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +'Careless as a bird! Bird-happy and bird-wise,' he murmured to himself +as they moved in a month later. For he had found a cottage as by +instinct. It was not on the agents' list of modern, ugly and comfortless +cages, but was an old-world little place that had caught his eye by the +corner of the lane as he returned to the country station, weary and +almost faith-less, after a vain inspection. A white board suddenly +peered at him through the branches of a yew, there were roses up the +walls, a tiny fountain played on the lawn, and beyond he caught a glimpse +of a neglected orchard, sloping fields of yellow ragwort, and a stream. +The stream, moreover, ran under the road just there, so that he could +look down into it from the old stone bridge. The water ran swiftly, but +deep enough to grow long weeds of green and gold that swung with the +current like thick fairy hair. Two or three silver birches shone and +rustled by the wicket-gate. He went in. A robin hopped up, inspected +him, and hopped away into the shadow of the yew. + +The interior seemed to him like a bit of forest--the beams, the +panelling, the dark, stained settles. Yet there was a bathroom, too, the +kitchen was large and light, the bedrooms airy, the living-rooms just +right in size and number. The front windows looked out across the +rose-plot to the little green where the geese were gabbling, while the back +ones opened straight into the orchard, where fruit and walnut trees stood +ankle deep in uncut grass. The windows, too, were wide and high, letting +in big stretches of the sky. Also, there were a mulberry-bush and +several heavy quince trees. And the stream ran singing and bubbling +between the orchard and the farther fields, where, amid the sprinkled +gold of the ragwort, scuttled countless rabbits. + +Moreover, it was cheap, the drains were safe, the church was as +picturesque as an old-fashioned Christmas card, and the vicar was brother +to a peer. Thus there was something for everybody. The nest was found. +Mother inspected it in due course and gave her modified approval; +Tom said it 'sounded ripping,' he would 'run down for week-ends' +whenever he could; and Joan, catching her breath when she saw it first +on the afternoon of a golden-brown October day, felt a lump in her throat +and moisture in her eyes, such happiness rose in her breast. She stood +with her father in the sandy lane,--Mother had gone inside at once,--the +larches rustling and the excited geese examining their stiff town +clothing from behind. On the topmost branch of an apple tree a big brown +thrush was singing its heart out over the garden, its small packed +outline silhouetted against the pale blue sky. Joan caught her father's +hand. + +'Look!' she whispered, pointing. 'Listen!' + +He did so. He felt the strange excitement in the child. Her lips were +parted and her shining eyes turned heavenwards a moment. The thrush +poured forth its liquid song deliciously; and the sound sank into his +heart as though it expressed the full happiness of the air that welcomed +them to the cottage and the garden. He experienced surely something of +the soft air-magic as he stood there watching, listening. The natural +joy and sweetness of it touched him deeply. And his daughter sang a +strange thing then, murmuring it to herself. He only just caught +the curious words: + + 'There's a bird for me + On the apple tree! + It's explaining all the garden!' + +Up the scaffolding of the quaint phrases he passed, as it were, with her +into the clear air beside the singing bird: that scrap of nonsense +'explaining all the garden' did the trick. A sack of meanings seemed +emptied before him out of the sweet October sky. The interesting, +valuable ideas in life began, he realised, just where language stops-- +intelligible, sensible language, that is. Then came either poetry, +legend, nonsense, or else mere silence. Joan used a combination of the +former. + +'Words are parvenu people,' he recalled a Primer sentence, 'as compared +with thought and action. Communications between God and man must always +be either above or below them; for with words come in translations.' + +'Explaining all the garden!' The touch of nonsense brought a thousand +'translations' into his mind. The air was full of fluttering meanings +that showered about him. He balanced aloft on the twig beside the singing +thrush, his sight darting, as with the bird's-eye view, upon recent +happenings. He read various translations instantaneously. + +In front of him stood the cottage and garden, the fields and trees and +stream he had dreamed about with his daughter--an accomplished, solid +fact. It had come as by magic, materialised by thought and desire, and +yet, as Mother said, 'by chance.' But the chance included method, +because Fate obeyed a confident Belief. And circumstances were moulded +or modified by faith. He and Joan somehow held the sure sweetness of +fulfilment in their minds from the beginning; they had always believed, +indeed had known, the cottage would be found. And it had been found. +He had not fussed nor worried; there had been no friction due to the grit +of doubt. Like his queer, spontaneous daughter, he had believed in +his dream--and at the same time kept his eyes wide open like a hawk. + +As he stood there, listening to the song of the thrush and aware of its +poise on the swaying twig balanced so steadily, yet alert for spontaneous +flight in any direction, these fluttering translations of the child's +nonsense words shot through him. The joy of the happy thrush shone in his +heart, explaining the garden that was life. + +The bird, at that moment, flew off with a whirr of wings, still singing +as it vanished with an undulating swoop over the roof towards the +orchard. Across the patch of watery blue sky he had been watching shot +half a dozen swallows, then intent only upon darting insects, although on +the eve of their huge journey of ten thousand miles. Beyond them two +plover tumbled like blown leaves towards the ground, yet rising again +instantly before they touched it . . . and into his hand he felt Joan's +fingers creep softly. He looked down into her eyes, moist with +excitement, joy, and wonder. The magic of the air seemed all about them, +in their minds and hearts and very bodies even. + +'You've found a real nest, Daddy, but we can travel everywhere from +here.' It was said simply, as though a bird had learned to speak. +'Think of the journeys we shall make--just by staying here!' + +'The cottage seems swung in the branches, doesn't it?' he replied. +'Come on, now; let's go inside.' And he walked across the lawn, lifting +his feet quickly, lightly, as though he feared his weight might hurt the +earth, yet still more as though he might any instant spring into the air +and follow the thrush, the plover, or the swallows. + +Upon the threshold of the open door, at that minute, Mother faced them. +Having made her inspection of the arrangements and the furniture, all +that the workmen had done in the last few days, she came out to report. +She stood there very solidly, her feet in goloshes, planted tenaciously +upon the damp October earth. She was smiling contentedly; behind her +gleamed the white apron of the parlourmaid. Tea obviously was ready and +she was waiting for them to come in. A fire burned pleasantly in the +dining-room, glinting on a clean white table-cloth. There were buttered +toast and a jug of cream--solid realities both. This atmosphere of +wholesome, earthly comfort glowed about her. Her very smile conveyed it. + +'Mother's settled down already,' Joan whispered. 'She likes it! +That means Tom'll like it too. But she'll live indoors.' + +In his own mind, however, rose another thought, although he agreed with +what she said. He was thinking how odd it was that Mother always appeared +to be settled in the mouth of a hole. She stood, framed by the dark +doorway, as though a deep burrow stretched behind her and below. +The simile of the nervous badger, peering forth upon a dangerous upper +world, passed through him. A great tenderness rose in his heart. +Mother, he knew, though she had done no actual work, had felt the move a +heavy strain. To dig a new hole, of course, was a dusty and laborious +job, whereas to flutter across a few fields to another tree was but a +careless joy. + +'I've been through all the rooms,' she said cautiously, as they went +down the passage, 'and everything seems very nice indeed, Joe. The wood +makes it seem a bit dark, perhaps, but it's all very respectable. And +the parlour looks really quite distinguished. Tea's laid for us in the +dining-room.' + +They went in; the fire shone brightly; the lamp was lit. Mother moved +towards the great silver tea-pot, letting herself down with a sigh into +the black horsehair arm-chair. It was as though she went down into the +earth. He sat with his cup of tea in the wide settle of the ingle-nook, +and Joan, having first seen to her parents' wants, then took the corner +facing him. + + + +They settled in. Yet this settling was characteristic of the family, for +whereas Mother settled down, Mr. Wimble and his daughter became +unsettled. That is, they felt restless. Mother, with the security of a +comfortable home and comfortable income at her back, cropped her food +safely, yet wondered why she felt dull and bored and lonely. There is no +call to describe the actions and reactions of her familiar type to the +conditions of the quiet country life, and her chief tragedy that winter +was perhaps that when 'his lordship, the vicar,' called, he surprised her +in old garden clothes, the fire in the 'distinguished parlour' +(kept unused against just this particular event) unlighted, so that she +was obliged to receive him in the dark dining-room with the ungentlemanly +settles. + +Joan and her father were unsettled for the very reason that made her +settled. Mother felt her feet. They felt their wings. + +A week after the settling in, their restless feeling, wholly +unanticipated, came to a head. The windy skies were already calling the +swallows together swiftly, collecting their mobile squadrons in a few +hours for the grand southern tour. And these amazing birds seemed nothing +less than an incarnation of the air itself. There is nothing of earth +about them anywhere; their feet are too weak to stand on the ground; +every darting turn they make is a movement of the entire creature, rather +than of the head first and then the body; they have no necks, their +bullet heads turn simultaneously with the tail, and all at once. Joan and +her father watched them daily going about their careless, windy life, +gathering on the telegraph wires, giving the young ones hints, on the +wing to the very last minute. They had no packing-up to do. + +'They'll be off soon now,' said Joan. 'Wherever they are, they go--don't +they?' There was a tinge of restless desire in her eyes as she followed +their movements. + +'A few days, yes,' said her father. 'About the middle of the month they +leave. _They_ know right enough.' + +And two days later--it was October 15th--Joan woke at dawn and looked out +of her open window. The twittering of many thousand voices had called +her out of sleep, but something in her heart had called her too. +It was very early, the daylight of dawn, yet not the daylight quite, and +everywhere, from fields and trees, the chorus of bird-life was audible. +Birds sing their best and loudest always in that half-hour which precedes +the actual dawn. The volume is astonishing. 'As the real daylight +comes, it sinks and almost ceases, and never in the whole twenty-four +hours is there such an hour again.' The entire air seemed calling +'good-bye and safe return' to those about to leave. + +Joan ran and woke her father. 'They're off,' she whispered, as he +crawled out of his warm bed, careful not to waken his wife. 'Come and +say good-bye.' + +The peculiar joy and mystery of early morning was in the quiet house and +in the sharp tang of the fresh, cool autumn air. In nightgown and +pyjamas, a single rug about their shoulders, they leaned out +of the upper window. The ivy rustled just beneath them on the wall, +there was a whisper among the yellow walnut leaves to their right, the +orchard trees hung still and motionless, breathing out the perfume of +earth and fruit and heavy dew. + +The sky, however, was alive; it seemed all motion; even the streaky +clouds tinged with pale colour looked like stretched wings mightily +extended. And the vague murmur of a flock of birds rose everywhere. +There was a hurricane of wings above the world, as the armies of the +swallows came carelessly together. They left in scattered groups, but +with every party that left, another instantly assembled, born out of +empty space. Multitudes took the wing towards the sea, while other +darting multitudes collected instantly behind them. The air, indeed, was +alive and whirring into a symbol of lovely, rushing flight--swarming, +settling, turning, wheeling in a turmoil of ascending and descending +feathers that yet expressed a design of ordered beauty. Myriad clusters +formed, then instantly dispersed again, threaded together upon one +invisible pattern; now herded into a wedge, shaped like a wild black +comet, now circling, streaming, dividing, melting away into a living +cloud. The evolutions were bewildering. + +As the eastern horizon began to burn with red and gold, the wings took +colour faintly, brightening as an upward slant revealed their pallid +under-sides, then darkening again as they tilted backwards. +The swallows alternately focussed and dispersed. Separate hordes, turning +at high velocity with one accord, shot forth and away to the south. They +rose, they sank, they vanished. They went first to the coast; for their +migration, led by the infallible sense of orientation which is +subconscious knowledge, takes place chiefly in the night--in darkness. +Within a brief half-hour the whole of the immense army disappeared. +The sky was still and silent, motionless and empty. The swallows were +gone. + +'They've taken part of me with them,' whispered Joan, 'part of my +warmth,' and she drew the rug closer about her shoulders as the October +sun came up above the misty fields. + +'They'll be in Algeria to-morrow,' sighed her father, 'and I'd like to be +there too.' His thought went back to the sun-drenched garden where +nightingales sang in the February moonlight. . . . The old romance +stirred in him painfully. 'Mother, poor old Mother,' he murmured to +himself, 'she seemed so wonderful then. How strange!' He felt himself +old suddenly. He felt himself caught, caged--stuck. + +'That's where I was born, wasn't it?' Joan asked, catching the sentence. +She straightened herself suddenly, throwing the rug aside; the sun shone +into her face and on her golden hair that fell rippling over her +nightgown. The light gleamed, too, in her moistened eyes. He saw joy +steal back upon her. 'But, Daddy,' she exclaimed with an odd touch of +confident wonder in her voice and look, 'we _can_ be there just the +same, if we want to.' She raised herself on her toes a moment as though +she were going to dance or fly. In the pale gold light of the sunrise +she looked like some ethereal bird of fire rising into the air. + +'We can be everywhere--everywhere at once--really! Don't you see? +We always want to be somewhere else anyhow. That proves it.' + +And as she said it, he remembered the cinema, and felt his wings again; +he was free, uncaged; of course he could go anywhere, everywhere at once +almost. He knew himself eternally young. He realised Air, that which is +everywhere at once and cannot age. Earth obeys time, grows old, changes, +and eventually dies; but air is ever changeless, free of time altogether, +unageing. It cannot wear away, it is invisible, omnipresent. The wings +of the spirit opened in him, rose into space and light, then flashed, +darting after the amazing swallows. 'Wherever I am, I go,' he hummed, as +he went softly back along the cold passage and crept cautiously into bed +beside his wife, who, heavily breathing still, had not moved since he +left her, and lay in ignorance of the sunrise, as also of the army of +happy wings that by now were already out of England and far across the +sea. + +And, later in the day, as he stood with her near a gravel-pit beside the +road, watching a colony of busy starlings, she objected: 'What a noise +and fuss about nothing! What a nuisance they are, Joe. _Do_ come on, +dear. There's really nothing to watch, and I want to get in and change +my things in case any callers come.' + +He remembered a passage about starlings written by a strenuous big-game +hunter, who yet had the air-magic in his blood. He quoted it to her, as +best he could, and she said it was pretty: + +'Happy birdies! What a bore all morality seems, as one watches them. +How tiresome it is to be high in the scale (and human)! Those who would +shake off the cobwebs--who are tired of teachings and preachings and +heavy-high novellings, who would see things anew, and not mattering, +rubbing their eyes and forgetting their dignities, missions, destinies, +virtues, and the rest of it--let them come and watch a colony of +starlings at work in a gravel-pit.' + +'Yes,' he agreed, 'quite pretty. Selous got a glimpse there--didn't he? +--but only a glimpse. The great thing is to see it _all_. He forgot the +swallows.' + +His thought ran on, fragments becoming audible sometimes. 'It's all one, +you see. Stars and starlings are the same one thing, only differently +expressed. . . . That's what genius does, of course. Genius has the +bird's-eye point of view. . . . It sees analogies everywhere, the +underlying unity of everything--sees the similar in the dissimilar. +It reduces the Many to the One,' he added in a louder tone, as a Primer +came opportunely to his support. + +'I ask you, Mother,' he cried with enthusiasm, 'what else is genius but +that? I ask you?' + +'What?' said Mother, as they went indoors. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Wimble watched the year draw to its close and run into the past. +Born slowly out of sullen skies, it had shaken off the glistening pearls +of April and slipped, radiant and laughing, into May; at the end of June, +full-bosomed still and stately, it had begun to hasten, lest the roses +hold it prisoner for ever; pausing a moment in August, it looked out with +perfect eyes upon the world as from a pinnacle; then, poised and +confident, began the grand descent down the red slopes of Autumn into the +peace of winter and the snow. + +Thus, at least, its history described itself in Wimble's thoughts, +because his little mind, standing on tiptoe, saw it whole and from above. +'You ought to publish it, dear,' said Mother, to whom he mentioned it one +December evening round the fire. 'You really ought to write it.' +He objected that everybody knew it just as well as he did. 'It's always +happening to everybody, so why should I remind them?' 'Because they +don't see it,' was her answer. 'Besides, they'd think you wonderful.' +But Wimble was no writer. He shook his untidy head, yet secretly pleased +with his wife's remark that people don't see the obvious. It was almost +an air-remark. Mother was changing a little. . . . And he dozed in his +chair, thinking how easily the world calls a man wonderful--he has but +to startle it--and how easily, too, that man is destroyed if he believes +its verdict. + +With the rare exception of occasional signs like this, however, his wife +had not mobilised her being radically for a big change. She retired into +her prosaic background, against which, as with certain self-protecting, +ultra-cautious animals and insects, she remained safely invisible. +Back to the land proved rather literal for her; she wore her heavy +garden-gloves with pride. At the same time her practical nature, streaked +with affection, patience, and unselfishness, took on, somehow, a tiny +glint of gold. Her eyes grew lighter, her movements less laborious. +Fear lessened in her; joy often caught her by surprise. Sparks, though +not yet flame, lit up her attitude to things, as if, close to her beloved +element of earth, the country life both soothed and blessed her. +She felt at home. She said 'what' far less frequently. This quiet, +peaceful winter was perhaps for her a period of gestation. The family +gathered about her more than in town. + +With a buoyancy hard to define and possibly not justified, Wimble watched +her. He looked out upon life about him. His health was good, but this +buoyancy was based on something deeper than that; his health was good +because of it. Nothing mattered, a foolish phrase of those who shirked +responsibilities, was far from him; everything mattered equally expressed +it better. The New Thing coming, which he and Joan called Air, lay +certainly in him, though very far yet from finding full expression. +The germ of it at any rate lay in him, as in her. The fact that they +recognised it was proof of that. A divine carelessness took charge of +his whole life and being; Mother was aware of it; even Tom responded +mildly: 'quite sets a fellow up,' as he expressed it after his rare +week-end visits, the Sunday spent in killing rabbits; 'town's overrated +after all.' + +They merged pleasantly enough with their surroundings, melting without +shock into the life of neighbours, sharing the community existence, +narrow, conventional, uninspired though it was. And all through the dark +and clouded months, the skies emptied of birds, weighted at the low +horizons, afraid to shine, yet waiting for the marvellous coming dawn-- +all through these heavy weeks and days Joan's presence, flitting +everywhere with careless singing and dancing, shot the wintry gloom with +happy radiance. It was her spontaneous dancing that especially made +Wimble stare and wonder. It conveyed meanings no words could compass, +expressing better than anything else the new attitude he felt coming into +life. He remembered the flood of shadowy ideas her graceful gestures had +poured into him once before when he walked up Maida Vale; and that +strange night in the flat when, seeing her dancing on the London roof, he +was dimly aware of a new language which included even inanimate objects. +The strange shudder that accompanied the vision he had forgotten. + +This magical rhythm was her secret. It stirred the heart, making it +vulnerable to impulses from some brighter, happier state _she_ knew +instinctively and in advance. Mother, he noticed, watched her too, +peering above her knitting-needles, moving her head in sympathy, +sometimes a faint, wondering smile lighting upon her bewildered, careworn +face. A real smile, however, for it was in the eyes alone, and did not +touch the lips. Even Tom admired. 'You ought to be taught,' he said +guardedly. 'You'd touch 'em up a bit. If you did that in church the +whole world would go.' He too, without knowing it, realised that +something sacred, inspired, regenerating was being whispered. + +Yet Joan herself, though growing older, hardly developed in the ordinary +way. She did not grow up. She remained backward somehow. She lived +subconsciously, perhaps. Some new knowledge, gathering below the +surface, found expression in this spontaneous dancing. With the dawn, +now slowly coming, it would burst full-fledged upon the world, +and the world itself would dance with joy. Meanwhile, a new bloom, a new +beauty settled on the girl, and Mother proudly insisted that she 'must go +to a good photographer and have her picture taken.' But the result was +commonplace, for in the rigid black and white outline all the subtlety +escaped, and, regretting the money wasted, Mother wondered why it had +failed. Like the audience at the Vicarage charities when Joan danced, +she watched the performance, felt a hint of strange beauty, clapped her +hands and wondered 'what it meant.' + +'It's her life, you see,' Wimble comforted her. 'And you can't +photograph life. To get her real meaning, we ought to do it with her-- +dance it.' + +'She's light, rather, for her age,' replied Mother ambiguously. +'But everybody seems to love her somehow,' she added proudly. +'She seems to make people happy. P'r'aps later she'll develop and get +sensible.' She sighed, and resumed her knitting. Presently she got up +to light the lamps. 'The days are drawing out, Joe,' she mentioned, +smiling. 'Spring will be here before we know it.' He lifted the chimney +to help her, turned up the wick, struck a match, and kissed her fondly. + +The country life, it seemed, had brought them all together more, made +them aware of their underlying unity, as it were. They flocked. Wimble, +dressed now in wide brown knickerbockers, wearing bright stockings and +brogue shoes with feathered tongues that flapped when he walked, noticed +the change with pleasure. The new attitude was only in his brain as yet, +but it was already stealing down into his heart. This increased sense of +a harmonious manifold unity in the family impressed him, and it was Joan, +he felt, who made him see it, if she was not also the cause of its coming +to pass. Only some spiritual actuary could make it quite clear, but he +discerned the oneness behind the different members of his family, uniting +them. In this subconscious, completer self lay full understanding. +There was no need to pay annual subscriptions to an Aquarian Society to +realise that! Moreover, if a small family with such divergent interests +and ambitions could flock and realise unity, the larger family of a +village, country, nation could do the same--once the underlying unity +were realised. That was the difficulty. The whole world was, after all, +but a single family, humanity. . . . In his quiet country nook Wimble +dreamed his great dream. He saw the nations with but a single flag, a +single drum, a single anthem, true to a larger single patriotism that +could never again be split up into lesser divisional patriotisms. The +universal fraternity of indivisible Air was coming; the subconscious +where individuals pooled their surface differences would become +conscious; that was the truth, he felt, the one great thing the Aquarian +lecturer had said. . . . He remembered the cinema, with its mechanical +suggestion of a unification of world-experience faintly offered; he +remembered the free, happy, collective life of the inhabitants of air, +the natural singers of the world. The deep underlying sense of unity +buried in the subconscious once realised, full understanding must follow, +and with complete understanding the way was cleared for love. And it was +Joan's dancing, somehow, that set the dream within his heart. The new +attitude to life he imagined dawning on the world was the first hint of a +coming spiritual consciousness, and for spiritual consciousness the +totality of things is present. 'All at once and everywhere at once,' as +she had put it. His heart swelled big within him as he dreamed. . . . + +'Coal's getting very expensive,' mentioned Mother, as she leaned forward +beside him to poke the fire. 'We'd better mix it with coke. You might +find out, Joe. We can't go on at this rate.' + +'I will, dear,' he replied. 'I'll write to Snodden and Tupps at once.' +He patted her knee and got up to go to his little den where he kept his +papers, books, and pipes, reflecting as he did so that it was easy enough +to love the world; it was loving the individual that breaks the heart. +Pricked by an instant of remorse, then, it occurred to him that a pat on +the knee, as a sign of love, might be improved. He trotted back and +kissed her. 'We must flock more and more and more,' he mumbled, and +before she could say 'What, Joe?' he gave her another kiss and was gone +to write to his coal merchant as she had suggested. He would bring back +the bird into Mother's heart or die in the attempt. If the new thing he +dreamed about didn't begin at home, it was not worth much. He felt +happy, so happy that he longed to share it with others; he would have +liked to mention it in his letter to the coal merchant. Instead, he +merely began, 'Dear Messrs. Snodden and Tupps,' yet signed himself, +'Yours full of faith,' since 'faithfully' alone sounded insincere. + +'Odd,' he reflected, 'that unless happiness is shared, it's incomplete, +unsatisfying. The chief item lacks. Selfish happiness is a +contradiction in terms. We are meant to share everything and be together +more. There's the instinctive proof of it.' If the coal merchant felt +equally happy, he might even have shared his coal. 'But he'd only think +me mad if I suggested that,' thought Wimble, chuckling. 'We can exchange +coal and money and still love one another.' He posted the letter before +he could change his mind, and came back to his wife. 'Some day,' he +said, as he sat down and poked the fire, 'some day, Mother, and not very +far off either, we shall all be sharing everything all over the world, +just as birds share the air and worms and water.' This time she did not +ask him to repeat his words. She smiled a comfortable smile half-way +between belief and incredulity. 'You really think so, Joe?' 'It's +coming,' he rejoined; 'it's in the air, you know, for I feel it. +Don't you?' he added. He leaned nearer and softly whispered in her ear, +'You're happy here, aren't you, Mother? Much happier than you used to +be? 'She smiled again contentedly. 'The country air, Joe dear,' she +replied. 'The bird's flown back into you,' he said, taking her hand and +ignoring the bunch of knitting-needles that came pricking with it. +'Perhaps,' she mumbled, 'perhaps. Life's sweeter, easier than it used to +be--in some ways.' She flushed a little, while Wimble murmured to +himself, yet just low for her to hear, 'and in your heart some late lark +singing, dear. A new thing is stealing down upon us all.' 'There's +something coming, certainly,' she agreed. 'Come,' he corrected her, 'not +coming. It's here now.' Holding hands, they looked into each other's +eyes, as Joan's little song and dancing steps went down the passage just +outside. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +January sparkled, dropped like a broken icicle, and was gone; February, +so eager for the sun that she shortens her days while lengthening her +searching evening hours, summoned one night the tyrant winds of March; +these shouted and blew the world awake, then yielded with a sigh to the +kiss of April's laughter. A disturbing sweetness ran upon the world, +agitating the hearts and minds of men. Yearning stirred even among deep +city slums; in the country hope and desire burst into glad singing. +Spring returned with her eternal magic. The hawthorn was in bloom. + +The birds came back, filling the air with song, with the glance of wings +and the whirr of feathers, with the gold and confidence of coming summer. +The air was alive again with careless joy. Wimble responded instantly. +The thrill pierced to his very marrow. Memories revived like +wild-flowers, and his thoughts, shot with the gold and blue of lost +romance, turned to the open air. He got some sandwiches, mounted his +bicycle, and, followed by Joan, started in a southerly direction as once, +long years ago, he had escaped from streets and lectures to spend a day +with his beloved birds. This time, however, it was not the +willow-haunted Cambridge flats that were his aim. He took Joan with him +to the bare open downs above the sea. + +It was a radiant morning, and a south-west wind blew gently in their +faces. Wimble's felt hat fluttered behind him at the end of a string, as +they skimmed down the sandy lanes towards Lewes, the smooth, scooped +hollows of the downs coming nearer every minute. Their majestic outline +seemed hung down from the sky itself, yet in spite of their mass they had +a light, almost transparent look in the morning brilliance. They melted +into the air. The noble line of them flung upwards the space as though +time met eternity and disappeared. + +Down the long hill into the ancient town Joan shot past him. He noticed +her balance, and thought of the perfect equilibrium of a bird that shoots +full speed upon its resting-place, then stops, securely poised, making no +single effort to recover steadiness. For all its tiny legs, no bird +wobbles or overbalances, much less trips or stumbles. Joan flew ahead of +him, both hands off the bars. The careless gesture reminded him of the +matchless grace of the wagtail. He laughed aloud, coasting after her +unconscious ease with his own more deliberate, reasoned caution. +'She could fly to Africa without a guide!' he thought, aware for an +instant of the great subconscious rhythm in Nature birds obeyed +instinctively. No wonder their purposes were carelessly achieved. +'She's sure,' he added. 'Something very big takes care of her, and she +knows it.' + +They walked up the steep hill out of the town, ran to the left along a +chalky lane, dipped in between the folds of grassy hills and great +covering fields, Joan leading always without hesitation. Once they +paused to watch the aerial evolutions of a body of plover, rising, +falling, tumbling, turning at full speed without confusion or collision, +as though one single telepathic sympathy operated throughout the entire +mass of individuals. Instinct the Primers called it, but Wimble, +recalling the Aquarian lecture, caught at another phrase--subconscious +unity. It was a power, at any rate, beyond man's conscious reasoning +mind. The careless safety of the birds amazed him. 'Air wisdom!' he +exclaimed aloud to Joan; 'we shall all have it some day!' It was odd how +that crazy lecture had lodged ideas in his thoughts, claiming +confirmation, returning again and again to his memory. They coasted down +a grassy track into a village, left their bicycles behind a farmer's +gate, and sat down a moment to recover breath. It was ten o'clock in the +morning. + +From the tiny hamlet, where a few flint cottages and barns clustered +about an ivied church, they took the path southwards up the slope. +In the cup or the hills below them sheltered the toy buildings and the +trees. The rooks, advertising their clumsy flight and semi-human ways, +cawed noisily, playing in the gusty wind. They showed off consciously, +devoid of grace. One minute the scene was visible below, a perfect +miniature; the next it was hidden by a heavy shoulder of ground; the +earth had swallowed it, church, houses, trees, and all. No sound was +audible. Even the rooks had vanished. In front stretched an open and a +naked world. The human couple paused a moment and stared. The wind went +past their ears. There was a sense of immensity and freedom. There was +great light. They were on the Downs. + +'Oh, Daddy,' cried Joan, 'we're out of England! This is the world!' + +'And the world has blown wide open!' he replied. 'I feel everywhere at +once!' The gust whirled his words and laughter into space. +'The misunderstanding of streets and houses leaves----' he snatched at +the same time at his vanishing hat and seized the cord. + +Joan flung herself backwards against the wind with arms spread out, her +hat in one hand and a blue-ribbon that had tied her hair fluttering in +the other. The loosened hair streamed past her neck, great strands of it +flattened against the curve of her back as well, her short skirts +flapping with a noise like sails. Then, turning about, she faced the +gust, and everything streamed the other way. The wind clapped the +clothes so tight against her slender figure that it seemed to undress +her, or rather made them fit as tight and neat as feathers. Like some +bird of paradise, indeed, she looked, the slim black legs straining to +take the air. She began to dance. + +And as he watched the golden hair against the blue, there flashed into +him the memory of a distant day, when a saffron scarf had set his heart +on fire with strange airy yearnings, and the blue and golden earth had +danced to the tune of another spring. The tiny human outline amid this +vast expanse seemed wonderful, so safe, so exquisite, caught in some +rhythm born of the immensities of sky and earth and ocean. A mile to the +southward lay the sea. There was a taste of clover-honey, a tang of +salt, and the gorse laid its sweetness in between the two. Memories +crowded upon him as he watched Joan playing and dancing. The fervour and +earnestness of her pleasure exhilarated him. 'Blithe creature,' he said +to himself, 'you were surely born to fly!'--and remembered Mother as she +once had been and as she was now. Why had it all left her, this joyous +rapture of their early days together? Had the bird flown really from her +heart and into Joan? Was it not merely caged awhile? Had he himself not +helped to cage it? He recalled her radiant face beside the pond among +the emerald Cambridge fields, and the old first love poured back upon him +in a flood. + +In a lull of the wind he caught the ecstatic singing of a lark, and at +the same moment Joan danced back to his side suddenly and seized his arm. +Her voice, it almost seemed, carried on the trill and music of the lark. +'It's all new as gold,' she cried. 'Everybody'd live for ever up here. +We must bring Mother. She'd flow fly flow all over!' + +'Dance, my child,' he exclaimed, 'don't talk! Go on with your dancing. +It gives me ideas.' + +'But you're always thinking,' she said, still breathless from her +exertions. 'It spoils everything, that thinking and thinking----' + +'It's not thinking,' he interrupted, 'it's seeing. When you dance I see +things. I see everything at once. It's like a huge vision, yet so small +and simple that it's all in my head at once. It explains the universe +somehow to me. Thinking indeed! Why, I never thought in my life----' + +'There's a bird for me, On the apple tree, It's explaining all the +garden,' sang the girl, dancing away towards the yellow gorse. +Her father's words conveyed no meaning to her; she had not listened. +He watched her. Her movements, he felt, obeyed the great unconscious +rhythm that breathes through nature, through the entire universe, from +the spinning midge to the most distant sun. Surely it must include +humanity as well, these millions of separate individuals who had lost it +temporarily, much as Mother had lost the 'bird.' He, too, was caught +along with it, as though he shared it, did it, danced it. He could see +what he could not say. He understood. Immense, yet at lightning speed, +the meaning of Air slid with that simple dancing deep into his heart. +It was unity of life everywhere that he saw interpreted, and the ease, +the grace, the carelessness were due to their being mothered and +inspired by Nature's great safe rhythm. Relying on this, as birds did, +there was safety, unerring intelligence, infallible guidance, flight from +Siberia to Abyssinia possible without a leader. Birds migrated at night, +he remembered, stopping at dawn to rest and sing, then going on again in +the twilight: surer of their inner guidance in the darkness than in the +blaze of daylight. Amazing symbol! Instinct, unconscious, +subconscious--whatever it might be called in rigid language, this deep +attitude, poised and steady, obeyed the mighty rhythm that realised the +underlying unity of all that lives, of everything. Thought breaks this +rhythm, which it should merely guide; reason reduces, opposes, and +finally interrupts it. His backward child--and she was still a child for +all her eighteen years--had somehow tapped it. + +'Dance, my child, dance on!' he cried as he followed her. 'You dance joy +and brotherhood into my heart.' And, looking more like a mechanical +gollywog than a human being who has discovered truth, he floundered after +her as a gnome might chase a butterfly. Thus, swinging along between the +yellow gorse, over the tumuli, leaping the rabbit holes, he realised that +the love and joy he sought and dreamed about was here and now; not in +some future Golden Age, but at his very feet upon the earth. All that he +meant by Air and the Airy Consciousness was _now_. This little prophet +without a lyre saw it clear. Torn by the brambles, tripped by the holes, +he chased his marvellous dream as once, years before, he had chased an +elusive streak of gold across the Cambridge flats. He was caught by the +elemental rhythm of the Downs, borrowed in its turn from the suns of +uttermost space that equally obeyed and shared it. + +He looked about him. Immense domed surfaces, smooth as a pausing ocean, +stretched undulating to dim horizons; air lifted the earth into +immaterial space; they intermingled; and sight roved everywhere without a +break. Upon this vast expanse there were no details to enchain +attention, blocking the rhythm of the eye; no points of interest stood +up, as in mere 'scenery,' to fasten feeling to a limited area. +Enjoyment soared, unconfined, on wings. He saw no barriers, no trees, no +hedges or divisions; no summits startled him with 'See, how big I am!' +all self-asserting items lacked. Wind, sky, and sea offered their +unconditioned, limitless invitation. Even the flowers were unobtrusive, +the ragwort, thyme, and yellow gorse claimed no deliberate notice, and +the thistle-down flew past like air made visible. It was, in a word, +this liberation from detail, snapping attention with definite objects, +that set him free in mind, as Joan already proved herself free in action. +Earth here was sublimated into air. + +'Good heavens!' his heart cried out. 'It's here, it's now--this new +thing coming from the Air!' + +This deep rhythm of the landscape caught his very feet, making even his +physical movements elastic, springy, sharing the rise and fall of flight +expressed in the waving surface of the world about him. He no longer +stumbled. Joan's dancing, though apparently she merely leapt to catch +the thistle-down, or played with her flying hair and fluttering ribbon, +interpreted in the gestures of her young lithe figure all he felt, but +reproduced it unconsciously. + +This was, indeed, not England, but the world. + +'We're over the edge of everything,' sang Joan, catching at his hand. +'Hold up, Daddy! Hold up!' She tugged him along to join her wild, happy +dance. 'You ought to sing. We're over the edge of the world!' + +'Above it,' he cried breathlessly. 'We're in the air. Look out, my +dear----!' + +She had suddenly released his hand and sent him spinning with the +unaccustomed momentum. Her yellow hair vanished beyond a sea of golden +gorse. Her figure melted against it, she was out of sight. 'I'm not a +bird yet, at any rate,' he gasped, settling to rest upon a convenient +mound and mopping his forehead. 'Not in body, at least. I've got no +balance to speak of. I think too much--probably.' He heard her singing +somewhere far behind him, and again a lark overhead took up the note and +bore it into space. + +But with the repose of his creaking muscles and elderly body, the rhythm +he had tried to dance now slipped under his ageless and untiring soul. +Like a rising wind the Downs were under him and he was up. Seeking a +point to settle on, his eye found only strong, subtle lines against the +blue, and running along these lines, his spirit was flung forwards with +them, upward into limitless space. No peak, no precipice blocked their +endless utterance; they flowed, they flew, and Wimble's heart flew with +them. The sense of unity, characteristic of airy freedom, invaded his +soul triumphantly with its bird's-eye view. He saw life whole beneath +him. Perhaps he dozed, perhaps he even slept; at any rate he knew this +strange perspective that showed him life, with its huge freight of +plodding humanity, rising suddenly into the air. + +To rely upon inner, subconscious guidance was to rely upon that portion +of his being--that greater portion--which obeyed spontaneously an immense +rhythm of the mothering World-Spirit. Thought broke this rhythm; Reason +was clever but not wise. The subconscious powers, knowing nothing, yet +approached omniscience; enjoyed omnipresence, while still being _here_. +In that state his individuality pooled in sympathy with all others +everywhere, tapping a universal wisdom which is available to intuition +but not to argument, and is so simple that a child, a bird, may know it +easily, singing and dancing its expression naturally. Unerring, +infallible, it is the rhythm of divinity, it is reliance upon deity. + +This germ of understanding sprouted in his heart, and practice would +develop it. He realised himself linked up, not alone with Nature, but +with the entire human family--and hence, with Mother. The practice, it +was obvious, began with Mother. He must see to it at once. Yet, though +clear as crystal in his heart, in his mind it all remained confused, too +shy for language, so that he recalled what the railway guard had said--it +cannot yet be told, but it can be lived. + +His heart flew like a bird through empty space, above all obstacles, +above all barriers. There was no detail to enchain attention, nothing to +obscure free vision; the soul in him, grand super-bird, took flight. +The airy attitude to life became divinely clear and simple, because, with +this bird's perspective, he saw life whole. Details that blocked +creative energy on earth with fear and difficulty, seemed negligible +after all; they were places to take off from. As wings trust carelessly +for support upon the universal, ethereal element enveloping them, so +could, so must, his will know faith and safety in the immense and +powerful rhythms that guide that delicate thrush, the redwing, from +Siberia to England every autumn, and steer Sirius unleashed, +untroubled, towards his eternal goal. He watched the little wheatears, +back from Africa, flitting from perch to perch of tufted grass, soon to +leave for their summer in distant Norway. Obedient to this serene and +mighty guidance, secure upon these everlasting wings, he saw the bird in +humanity open its wings at last. A new reliance upon subconscious +inspiration, linking all together, from the butterfly to the angel, +flashed through him, air its symbol, wings and flight its emblem. +He realised, with an instant's strange intensity, the unity of +indivisible air manifested in all forms of life the planet bore. + +This undetailed space about him inspired him oddly, it symbolised his +dream, the dream that had haunted him since earliest youth. He looked +_down_ upon the world beneath him, upon the stretch of years he had flown +over, upon the congested streets and houses where men lived, upon the +iron conventions and traditions imprisoning their minds from escape into +freedom that yet lay so close. The element of earth weighed still +heavily upon them; earth builds forms; air, being form-less, offered +liberty. He saw these million forms already crumbling; he saw the masses +at the upper windows, on the roofs, all looking--up. With the coming of +air, the day of forms was passing. The ferment, the unrest, the +universal questing shone in these upturned eyes. They would not look +down again. The vital force had drained out of a thousand forms which +have served their day; no past tradition was absolute; they had found it +out. Everywhere he saw the emergence of this new spirit, leaving behind +it the empty, unsatisfying forms, yearning for fuller self-expression +that the unifying ethereal element of air now promised. The roofs were +strangely crowded. He saw the myriad figures. He saw that some of them +already sang and danced! + +Already the new mighty rhythm caught them whirling into space, each soul +more and more _en rapport_ with the universal world-soul. Into their +hearts, with the lift of wings and a happy bird-like song, it stole +subconsciously; the formulae of doctrine which change and shift were +giving place to inner experience, and inner experience cannot be +destroyed, since it is formless, acknowledging no boundaries, obedient to +no creed. Form was dying, life was being born. . . . + +He watched the tumbling plover, the sea-gulls grandly sailing, the +soaring lark; the floating thistledown went past along the careless wind; +he saw his un-thinking daughter's natural, happy dancing, one and all +interpreting this message of the air, this promise of liberty that +brimmed his deep heart and his uneducated mind. The huge simplicity of +the naked Downs made him see existence singularly as a whole; across the +open sweep before him the air came sweetly, blowing the tangle of +artificial living into easy rhythm and dancing everywhere. + +He saw the accidental barriers between creed and sect and nation blown +away. A new spiritual unity took their place, a synthetic life, the +parts highly specialised, as with birds, yet the whole in perfect +harmony. The day of special, exclusive dispensations had disappeared, +and this organic spiritual unity, with its new religion of service, +lifted the people as with mighty wings. + +'Dance on, my child! dance on!' he cried, 'it makes me see things whole!' +He watched her light, flying movements against the sea of yellow gorse, +the hair like a saffron scarf upon the wind, her radiant face shining and +laughing with the blue of endless space behind it. She did not heed his +words; she danced away again; she seemed one with the tumbling plover, +the sailing sea-birds, and the drifting thistle-down. She danced with +the Spring, and the air was in her heart. + +The spirit quickened in him as he saw her. His consciousness, he knew, +was but a fragment of an immense and deeper consciousness, of limitless +scope and powers; this greater self made affirmations to which no mere +intellect would dare to set the boundaries. With the air there was a +return of joy, belief and wonder into a world that has too long denied +all three. Intellect might stand aside a little longer, watching +cautiously, like Mother, the flights of intuition, that flashing bird of +fire that strikes and vanishes; but science, hitherto destructive +chiefly, must enter a new field or be discredited. It must become +constructive, it must examine spiritual states. The barrier between the +organic and the inorganic was already breached. + +'Dance on! My heart flies dancing with you!' + +With you! Rather with everything and every one! For he had this curious +inspiration, as though all his past condensed now into a single moment-- +that a new attitude, due to the subliminal consciousness becoming +consciously organised with its myriad and mighty powers, was stealing +down into the hearts of men from the air. Since its outstanding +characteristic was a fuller understanding, a natural sharing, +a deep, instinctive sympathy, it involved an actual realisation of +spiritual unity that intellect alone has never yet achieved, and never +can. It was no flabby, Utopian, idealistic brotherhood he saw, but +a practical, co-operative life based upon those greater powers, and upon +that completer understanding lying, hid with God, in the subliminal +regions of humanity. Experienced hitherto sporadically, only, he saw +in what his heart called the promise of the air, their universal +acceptance and development. . . . In a second of time, this all flashed +into him as he watched the dancing little human figure on the gigantic +landscape. And after it, if not actually with it, rose that +unaccountable, uneasy, half-terrible emotion of deep-seated pain he had +known before--the shudder . . . He trembled, tried to sing. Then the +gorse pricked him where he lay. He turned to make himself more +comfortable. He wriggled. The attempt to sing tickled his throat and he +coughed. + +He sat up, feeling in his pockets for a pencil and paper. For the first +time in his life he felt he must write. 'I must give it out,' he mumbled +to himself. 'It's so wonderful, so simple. I must share it. I must +tell it to others--to everybody.' He actually made some notes. +'Ah,' he thought, as he read them over a few days later, 'they're no +good. I don't _quite_ understand them now, to tell the truth.' +He sighed. 'I'm only muddled,' he decided, 'just a Man in the Street +bewildered by a touch of inspiration that blew into me!' + +He lay watching Joan for a little longer, dancing in the middle distance +still. The zest of a bird was in her, the toss, the scamper. +Lithe, spinning, sure, her movements interpreted the air far more clearly +than his thoughts could compass it in words. Her song came to him with +the breeze. He watched her, then waved the packet of sandwiches above +his head. He was hungry. They ate their lunch, and spent the rest of +the day exploring the great spaces round them. + +It was evening when they got home; they heard the random sweetness of the +thrush's song among the laurels on the lawn; a nightjar was churning in +the dusk beyond; there was a subdued and tiny chattering of the swallows +in the eaves. They found Mother among the flower-beds, wearing her big +garden-gloves. Wimble took her in his arms and kissed her. + +'It's come, Mother, it's come,' he whispered against her cheek. +'And, d'you know?--you've been with us all day long.' + +She looked up, peaceful and happy, a smell of garden earth about her, and +the glow of the sunset in her eyes. 'Have I really, Joe dear?' she said. +'How lovely!' And then she added: 'I believe it is; yes, I believe it +is.' + +Next morning Wimble woke very, very early--close upon three o'clock. +He peered out of the window a moment. The dawn, he saw with a happy sigh +of wonder, was just beginning to break. The gleam of light fell upon +Mother's face; and the singing of a lark high up in the clearing air came +to him. At the same moment Mother moved in her bed close by; her heavy +breathing was interrupted. He listened. She was talking in her sleep, +though the words were indistinguishable. He waited, thinking she might +get up and walk. Her eyes, however, did not open; she lay still again. +He slipped over to tuck the blankets more securely round her. +'Bless her!' he thought. 'She's asleep! Her surface consciousness is +merged with her deep, safe, wise subconsciousness----' And his thought +broke off abruptly. It had suddenly occurred to him that the +sleep-walker and the migrating bird both found their way unerringly in +the darkness, both obedient to inner guidance. He stood still an +instant, looking down upon her face in the pale morning light. + +'Who, what guides the redwing over hills, and vales, and seas?' he +whispered. 'Who, what guides the sleep-walker amid the intricacies of +Maple furniture?' He chuckled to himself. It was odd how the comic +Aquarian lecture cropped up in his memory like this once more. + +He bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then went back to bed. +Mother still mumbled in her sleep--' Flow, fly, flow,' he seemed to +catch, 'it's coming, coming . . . ' + +'It's the bird returning to her heart,' he whispered to himself. +Deep down inside her being something sang; outside, the carolling of the +lark continued, blithe and joyous in the breaking dawn. As he fell +asleep, the two sounds were so curiously mingled that they seemed almost +indistinguishable. . . . + + + +_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROMISE OF AIR*** + + +******* This file should be named 35132.txt or 35132.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/5/1/3/35132 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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