Selected Stories (9781440673832) (9 page)

To enter the alley itself required some courage. Not only was it horribly dark, but he now realized that it was an impossible terminus for an omnibus. If it had not been for a policeman, whom he heard approaching through the fog, he would never have made the attempt. The next moment he had made the attempt and failed. Nothing. Nothing but a blank alley and a very silly boy gaping at its dirty floor. It
was
a hoax. ‘I'll tell papa and mamma,' he decided. ‘I deserve it. I deserve that they should know. I am too silly to be alive.' And he went back to the gate of Agathox Lodge.

There he remembered that his watch was fast. The sun was not risen; it would not rise for two minutes. ‘Give the bus every chance,' he thought cynically, and returned into the alley.

But the omnibus was there.

It had two horses, whose sides were still smoking from their journey, and its two great lamps shone through the fog against the alley's walls, changing their cobwebs and moss into tissues of fairyland. The driver was huddled up in a cape. He faced the blank wall, and how he had managed to drive in so neatly and so silently was one of the many things that the boy never discovered. Nor could he imagine how ever he would drive out.

‘Please,' his voice quavered through the foul brown air. ‘Please, is that an omnibus?'

‘Omnibus est,' said the driver, without turning round. There was a moment's silence. The policeman passed, coughing, by the entrance of the alley. The boy crouched in the shadow, for he did not want to be found out. He was pretty sure, too, that it was a Pirate; nothing else, he reasoned, would go from such odd places and at such odd hours.

‘About when do you start?' He tried to sound nonchalant.

‘At sunrise.'

‘How far do you go?'

‘The whole way.'

‘And can I have a return ticket which will bring me all the way back?'

‘You can.'

‘Do you know, I half think I'll come.' The driver made no answer. The sun must have risen, for he unhitched the brake. And scarcely had the boy jumped in before the omnibus was off.

How? Did it turn? There was no room. Did it go forward? There was a blank wall. Yet it was moving—moving at a stately pace through the fog, which had turned from brown to yellow. The thought of warm bed and warmer breakfast made the boy feel faint. He wished he had not come. His parents would not have approved. He would have gone back to them if the weather had not made it impossible. The solitude was terrible; he was the only passenger. And the omnibus, though well-built, was cold and somewhat musty. He drew his coat round him, and in so doing chanced to feel his pocket. It was empty. He had forgotten his purse.

‘Stop!' he shouted. ‘Stop!' And then, being of a polite disposition, he glanced up at the painted notice-board so that he might call the driver by name. ‘Mr Browne! stop; oh, do please stop!'

Mr Browne did not stop, but he opened a little window and looked in at the boy. His face was a surprise, so kind it was and modest.

‘Mr Browne, I've left my purse behind. I've not got a penny. I can't pay for the ticket. Will you take my watch, please? I am in the most awful hole.'

‘Tickets on this line,' said the driver, ‘whether single or return, can be purchased by coinage from no terrene mint. And a chronometer, though it had solaced the vigils of Charlemagne or measured the slumbers of Laura, can acquire by no mutation the doublecake that charms the fangless Cerberus of Heaven!' So saying, he handed in the necessary ticket, and, while the boy said ‘Thank you,' continued: ‘Titular pretensions, I know it well, are vanity. Yet they merit no censure when uttered on a laughing lip, and in an homonymous world are in some sort useful, since they do serve to distinguish one Jack from his fellow. Remember me, therefore, as Sir Thomas Browne.
²

‘Are you a Sir? Oh, sorry!' He had heard of these gentlemen drivers. ‘It is good of you about the ticket. But if you go on at this rate, however does your bus pay?'

‘It does not pay. It was not intended to pay. Many are the faults of my equipage; it is compounded too curiously of foreign woods; its cushions tickle erudition rather than promote repose; and my horses are nourished not on the evergreen pastures of the moment, but on the dried bents and clovers of Latinity. But that it pays!—that error at all events was never intended and never attained.'

‘Sorry again,' said the boy rather hopelessly. Sir Thomas looked sad, fearing that, even for a moment, he had been the cause of sadness. He invited the boy to come up and sit beside him on the box, and together they journeyed on through the fog, which was now changing from yellow to white. There were no houses by the road; so it must be either Putney Heath or Wimbledon Common.

‘Have you been a driver always?'

‘I was a physician once.'

‘But why did you stop? Weren't you good?'

‘As a healer of bodies I had scant success, and several score of my patients preceded me. But as a healer of the spirit I have succeeded beyond my hopes and my deserts. For though my draughts were not better nor subtler than those of other men, yet, by reason of the cunning goblets wherein I offered them, the queasy soul was ofttimes tempted to sip and be refreshed.'

‘The queasy soul,' he murmured; ‘if the sun sets with trees in front of it, and you suddenly come strange all over, is that a queasy soul?'

‘Have you felt that?'

‘Why yes.'

After a pause he told the boy a little, a very little, about the journey's end. But they did not chatter much, for the boy, when he liked a person, would as soon sit silent in his company as speak, and this, he discovered, was also the mind of Sir Thomas Browne and of many others with whom he was to be acquainted. He heard, however, about the young man Shelley, who was now quite a famous person, with a carriage of his own, and about some of the other drivers who are in the service of the Company. Meanwhile the light grew stronger, though the fog did not disperse. It was now more like mist than fog, and at times would travel quickly across them, as if it was part of a cloud. They had been ascending, too, in a most puzzling way; for over two hours the horses had been pulling against the collar, and even if it were Richmond Hill they ought to have been at the top long ago. Perhaps it was Epsom, or even the North Downs; yet the air seemed keener than that which blows on either. And as to the name of their destination, Sir Thomas Browne was silent.

Crash!

‘Thunder, by Jove!' said the boy, ‘and not so far off either. Listen to the echoes! It's more like mountains.'

He thought, not very vividly, of his father and mother. He saw them sitting down to sausages and listening to the storm. He saw his own empty place. Then there would be questions, alarms, theories, jokes, consolations. They would expect him back at lunch. To lunch he would not come, nor to tea, but he would be in for dinner, and so his day's truancy would be over. If he had had his purse he would have bought them presents—not that he should have known what to get them.

Crash!

The peal and the lightning came together. The cloud quivered as if it were alive, and torn streamers of mist rushed past. ‘Are you afraid?' asked Sir Thomas Browne.

‘What is there to be afraid of? Is it much farther?'

The horses of the omnibus stopped just as a ball of fire burst up and exploded with a ringing noise that was deafening but clear, like the noise of a blacksmith's forge. All the cloud was shattered.

‘Oh, listen, Sir Thomas Browne! No, I mean look; we shall get a view at last. No, I mean listen; that sounds like a rainbow!'

The noise had died into the faintest murmur, beneath which another murmur grew, spreading stealthily, steadily, in a curve that widened but did not vary. And in widening curves a rainbow was spreading from the horses' feet into the dissolving mists.

‘But how beautiful! What colours! Where will it stop? It is more like the rainbows you can tread on. More like dreams.'

The colour and the sound grew together. The rainbow spanned an enormous gulf. Clouds rushed under it and were pierced by it, and still it grew, reaching forward, conquering the darkness, until it touched something that seemed more solid than a cloud.

The boy stood up. ‘What is that out there?' he called. ‘What does it rest on, out at that other end?'

In the morning sunshine a precipice shone forth beyond the gulf. A precipice—or was it a castle? The horses moved. They set their feet upon the rainbow.

‘Oh, look!' the boy shouted. ‘Oh, listen! Those caves—or are they gateways? Oh, look between those cliffs at those ledges. I see people! I see trees!'

‘Look also below,' whispered Sir Thomas. ‘Neglect not the diviner Acheron.'
³

The boy looked below, past the flames of the rainbow that licked against their wheels. The gulf also had cleared, and in its depths there flowed an everlasting river. One sunbeam entered and struck a green pool, and as they passed over he saw three maidens rise to the surface of the pool, singing, and playing with something that glistened like a ring.

‘You down in the water—' he called.

They answered, ‘You up on the bridge—' There was a burst of music. ‘You up on the bridge, good luck to you. Truth in the depth, truth on the height.'

‘You down in the water, what are you doing?'

Sir Thomas Browne replied: ‘They sport in the mancipiary possession of their gold'; and the omnibus arrived.

The boy was in disgrace. He sat locked up in the nursery of Agathox Lodge, learning poetry for a punishment. His father had said, ‘My boy! I can pardon anything but untruthfulness,' and had caned him, saying at each stroke, ‘There is
no
omnibus,
no
driver, no bridge,
no
mountain; you are a
truant,
a
guttersnipe, a liar.'
His father could be very stern at times. His mother had begged him to say he was sorry. But he could not say that. It was the greatest day of his life, in spite of the caning and the poetry at the end of it.

He had returned punctually at sunset—driven not by Sir Thomas Browne, but by a maiden lady who was full of quiet fun. They had talked of omnibuses and also of barouche landaus. How far away her gentle voice seemed now! Yet it was scarcely three hours since he had left her up the alley.

His mother called through the door. ‘Dear, you are to come down and to bring your poetry with you.'

He came down, and found that Mr Bons was in the smoking-room with his father. It had been a dinner party.

‘Here is the great traveller!' said his father grimly. ‘Here is the young gentleman who drives in an omnibus over rainbows, while young ladies sing to him.' Pleased with his wit, he laughed.

‘After all,' said Mr Bons, smiling, ‘there is something a little like it in Wagner. It is odd how, in quite illiterate minds, you will find glimmers of Artistic Truth. The case interests me. Let me plead for the culprit. We have all romanced in our time, haven't we?'

‘Hear how kind Mr Bons is,' said his mother, while his father said, ‘Very well. Let him say his Poem, and that will do. He is going away to my sister on Tuesday, and
she
will cure him of this alley-slopering.' (Laughter.) ‘Say your Poem.'

The boy began.‘ “Standing aloof in giant ignorance.”'

His father laughed again—roared. ‘One for you, my son! “Standing aloof in giant ignorance!” I never knew these poets talked sense. Just describes you. Here, Bons, you go in for poetry. Put him through it, will you, while I fetch up the whisky?'

‘Yes, give me the Keats,' said Mr Bons. ‘Let him say his Keats to me.'

So for a few moments the wise man and the ignorant boy were left alone in the smoking-room.

‘“Standing aloof in giant ignorance, of thee I dream and of the Cyclades, as one who sits ashore and longs perchance to visit—” '
⁴

‘Quite right. To visit what?'

‘“To visit dolphin coral in deep seas,” ' said the boy, and burst into tears.

‘Come, come! why do you cry?'

‘Because—because all these words that only rhymed before, now that I've come back they're me.'

Mr Bons laid the Keats down. The case was more interesting than he had expected.
‘You?
' he exclaimed. ‘This sonnet,
you?'

‘Yes—and look, farther on: “Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, and precipices show untrodden green.” It is so, sir. All these things are true.'

‘I never doubted it,' said Mr Bons, with closed eyes.

‘You—then you believe me? You believe in the omnibus and the driver and the storm and that return ticket I got for nothing and—'

‘Tut, tut! No more of your yarns, my boy. I meant that I never doubted the essential truth of Poetry. Some day, when you have read more, you will understand what I mean.'

‘But, Mr Bons, it is so. There is light upon the shores of darkness. I have seen it coming. Light and a wind.'

‘Nonsense,' said Mr Bons.

‘If I had stopped! They tempted me. They told me to give up my ticket—for you cannot come back if you lose your ticket. They called from the river for it, and indeed I was tempted, for I have never been so happy as among those precipices. But I thought of my mother and father, and that I must fetch them. Yet they will not come, though the road starts opposite our house. It has all happened as the people up there warned me, and Mr Bons has disbelieved me like everyone else. I have been caned. I shall never see that mountain again.'

‘What's that about me?' said Mr Bons, sitting up in his chair very suddenly.