Selected Stories (9781440673832) (10 page)

‘I told them about you, and how clever you were, and how many books you had, and they said, “Mr Bons will certainly disbelieve you.” '

‘Stuff and nonsense, my young friend. You grow impertinent. I—well—I will settle the matter. Not a word to your father. I will cure you. To-morrow evening I will myself call here to take you for a walk, and at sunset we will go up this alley opposite and hunt for your omnibus, you silly little boy.'

His face grew serious, for the boy was not disconcerted, but leapt about the room singing, ‘Joy! joy! I told them you would believe me. We will drive together over the rainbow. I told them that you would come.'

After all, could there be anything in the story? Wagner? Keats? Shelley? Sir Thomas Browne? Certainly the case was interesting.

And on the morrow evening, though it was pouring with rain, Mr Bons did not omit to call at Agathox Lodge.

The boy was ready, bubbling with excitement, and skipping about in a way that rather vexed the President of the Literary Society. They took a turn down Buckingham Park Road, and then-having seen that no one was watching them—slipped up the alley. Naturally enough (for the sun was setting) they ran straight against the omnibus.

‘Good heavens!' exclaimed Mr Bons. ‘Good gracious heavens!'

It was not the omnibus in which the boy had driven first, nor yet that in which he had returned. There were three horses—black, grey, and white, the grey being the finest. The driver, who turned round at the mention of goodness and of heaven, was a sallow man with terrifying jaws and sunken eyes. Mr Bons, on seeing him, gave a cry as if of recognition, and began to tremble violently.

The boy jumped in.

‘Is it possible?' cried Mr Bons. ‘Is the impossible possible?'

‘Sir; come in, sir. It is such a fine omnibus. Oh, here is his name—Dan someone.'

Mr Bons sprang in too. A blast of wind immediately slammed the omnibus door, and the shock jerked down all the omnibus blinds, which were very weak on their springs.

‘Dan ... Show me. Good gracious heavens! we're moving.'

‘Hooray!' said the boy.

Mr Bons became flustered. He had not intended to be kidnapped. He could not find the door-handle, nor push up the blinds. The omnibus was quite dark, and by the time he had struck a match, night had come on outside also. They were moving rapidly.

‘A strange, a memorable adventure,' he said, surveying the interior of the omnibus, which was large, roomy, and constructed with extreme regularity, every part exactly answering to every other part. Over the door (the handle of which was outside) was written, ‘Lasciate ogni baldanza voi che entrate'—at least, that was what was written, but Mr Bons said that it was Lashy arty something, and that baldanza was a mistake for speranza. His voice sounded as if he was in church. Meanwhile, the boy called to the cadaverous driver for two return tickets. They were handed in without a word. Mr Bons covered his face with his hand and again trembled. ‘Do you know who that is!' he whispered, when the little window had shut upon them. ‘It is the impossible.'

‘Well, I don't like him as much as Sir Thomas Browne, though I shouldn't be surprised if he had even more in him.'

‘More in him?' He stamped irritably. ‘By accident you have made the greatest discovery of the century, and all you can say is that there is more in this man. Do you remember those vellum books in my library, stamped with red lilies? This—sit still, I bring you stupendous news!—
this is the man who wrote them.'

The boy sat quite still. ‘I wonder if we shall see Mrs Gamp?' he asked, after a civil pause.

‘Mrs—?'

‘Mrs Gamp and Mrs Harris.
⁵
I like Mrs Harris. I came upon them quite suddenly. Mrs Gamp's bandboxes have moved over the rainbow so badly. All the bottoms have fallen out, and two of the pippins off her bedstead tumbled into the stream.'

‘Out there sits the man who wrote my vellum books!' thundered Mr Bons, ‘and you talk to me of Dickens and of Mrs Gamp?'

‘I know Mrs Gamp so well,' he apologized. ‘I could not help being glad to see her. I recognized her voice. She was telling Mrs Harris about Mrs Prig.'

‘Did you spend the whole day in her elevating company?'

‘Oh, no. I raced. I met a man who took me out beyond to a race-course. You run, and there are dolphins out at sea.'

‘Indeed. Do you remember the man's name?'

‘Achilles. No; he was later. Tom Jones.'

Mr Bons sighed heavily. ‘Well, my lad, you have made a miserable mess of it. Think of a cultured person with your opportunities! A cultured person would have known all these characters and known what to have said to each. He would not have wasted his time with a Mrs Gamp or a Tom Jones. The creations of Homer, of Shakespeare, and of Him who drives us now, would alone have contented him. He would not have raced. He would have asked intelligent questions.'

‘But, Mr Bons,' said the boy humbly, ‘you will be a cultured person. I told them so.'

‘True, true, and I beg you not to disgrace me when we arrive. No gossiping. No running. Keep close to my side, and never speak to these Immortals unless they speak to you. Yes, and give me the return tickets. You will be losing them.'

The boy surrendered the tickets, but felt a little sore. After all, he had found the way to this place. It was hard first to be disbelieved and then to be lectured. Meanwhile, the rain had stopped, and moonlight crept into the omnibus through the cracks in the blinds.

‘But how is there to be a rainbow?' cried the boy.

‘You distract me,' snapped Mr Bons. ‘I wish to meditate on beauty. I wish to goodness I was with a reverent and sympathetic person.'

The lad bit his lip. He made a hundred good resolutions. He would imitate Mr Bons all the visit. He would not laugh, or run, or sing, or do any of the vulgar things that must have disgusted his new friends last time. He would be very careful to pronounce their names properly, and to remember who knew whom. Achilles did not know Tom Jones—at least, so Mr Bons said. The Duchess of Malfi was older than Mrs Gamp—at least, so Mr Bons said. He would be self-conscious, reticent, and prim. He would never say he liked anyone. Yet when the blind flew up at a chance touch of his head, all these good resolutions went to the winds, for the omnibus had reached the summit of a moonlit hill, and there was the chasm, and there, across it, stood the old precipices, dreaming, with their feet in the everlasting river. He exclaimed, ‘The mountain! Listen to the new tune in the water! Look at the camp-fires in the ravines,' and Mr Bons, after a hasty glance, retorted, ‘Water? Camp-fires? Ridiculous rubbish. Hold your tongue. There is nothing at all.'

Yet, under his eyes, a rainbow formed, compounded not of sunlight and storm, but of moonlight and the spray of the river. The three horses put their feet upon it. He thought it the finest rainbow he had seen, but did not dare to say so, since Mr Bons said that nothing was there. He leant out—the window had opened—and sang the tune that rose from the sleeping waters.

‘The prelude to Rhinegold?' said Mr Bons suddenly. ‘Who taught you these
leit motifs?'
He, too, looked out of the window. Then he behaved very oddly. He gave a choking cry, and fell back on to the omnibus floor. He writhed and kicked. His face was green.

‘Does the bridge make you dizzy?' the boy asked.

‘Dizzy!' gasped Mr Bons. ‘I want to go back. Tell the driver.'

But the driver shook his head.

‘We are nearly there,' said the boy. ‘They are asleep. Shall I call? They will be so pleased to see you, for I have prepared them.'

Mr Bons moaned. They moved over the lunar rainbow, which ever and ever broke away behind their wheels. How still the night was! Who would be sentry at the Gate?

‘I am coming,' he shouted, again forgetting the hundred resolutions. ‘I am returning—I, the boy.'

‘The boy is returning,' cried a voice to other voices, who repeated, ‘The boy is returning.'

‘I am bringing Mr Bons with me.'

Silence.

‘I should have said Mr Bons is bringing me with him.'

Profound silence.

‘Who stands sentry?'

‘Achilles.'

And on the rocky causeway, close to the springing of the rainbow bridge, he saw a young man who carried a wonderful shield.

‘Mr Bons, it is Achilles, armed.'

‘I want to go back,' said Mr Bons.

The last fragment of the rainbow melted, the wheels sang upon the living rock, the door of the omnibus burst open. Out leapt the boy—he could not resist—and sprang to meet the warrior, who, stopping suddenly, caught him on his shield.

‘Achilles!' he cried, ‘let me get down, for I am ignorant and vulgar, and I must wait for that Mr Bons of whom I told you yesterday.'

But Achilles raised him aloft. He crouched on the wonderful shield, on heroes and burning cities, on vineyards graven in gold, on every dear passion, every joy, on the entire image of the Mountain that he had discovered, encircled, like it, with an everlasting stream. ‘No, no,' he protested, ‘I am not worthy. It is Mr Bons who must be up here.'

But Mr Bons was whimpering, and Achilles trumpeted and cried, ‘Stand upright upon my shield!'

‘Sir, I did not mean to stand! Something made me stand. Sir, why do you delay? Here is only the great Achilles, whom you knew.'

Mr Bons screamed, ‘I see no one. I see nothing. I want to go back.' Then he cried to the driver, ‘Save me! Let me stop in your chariot. I have honoured you. I have quoted you. I have bound you in vellum. Take me back to my world.'

The driver replied, ‘I am the means and not the end. I am the food and not the life. Stand by yourself, as that boy has stood. I cannot save you. For poetry is a spirit; and they that would worship it must worship in spirit and in truth.'

Mr Bons—he could not resist—crawled out of the beautiful omnibus. His face appeared, gaping horribly. His hands followed, one gripping the step, the other beating the air. Now his shoulders emerged, his chest, his stomach. With a shriek of ‘I see London,' he fell—fell against the hard, moonlit rock, fell into it as if it were water, fell through it, vanished, and was seen by the boy no more.

‘Where have you fallen to, Mr Bons? Here is a procession arriving to honour you with music and torches. Here come the men and women whose names you know. The mountain is awake, the river is awake, over the race-course the sea is awaking those dolphins, and it is all for you. They want you—'

There was the touch of fresh leaves on his forehead. Some one had crowned him.

The body of Mr Septimus Bons has been found in a shockingly mutilated condition in the vicinity of the Bermondsey gas-works. The deceased's pockets contained a sovereign-purse, a silver cigar-case, a bijou pronouncing dictionary, and a couple of omnibus tickets. The unfortunate gentleman had apparently been hurled from a considerable height. Foul play is suspected, and a thorough investigation is pending by the authorities.

‘“Quem,
whom;
fugis,
are you avoiding;
ah demens,
you silly ass;
habitarunt di quoque,
gods too have lived in;
silvas,
the woods.” Go ahead!'

I always brighten the classics—it is part of my system—and therefore I translated
demens
by ‘silly ass'. But Miss Beaumont need not have made a note of the translation, and Ford, who knows better, need not have echoed after me, ‘Whom are you avoiding, you silly ass, gods too have lived in the woods.'

‘Ye-es,' I replied, with scholarly hesitation. ‘Ye-es.
Silvas
—woods, wooded spaces, the country generally. Yes.
Demens,
of course, is
de-mens.
“Ah, witless fellow! Gods, I say, even gods have dwelt in the woods ere now.” '

‘But I thought gods always lived in the sky,' said Mrs Worters, interrupting our lesson for I think the third-and-twentieth time.

‘Not always,' answered Miss Beaumont. As she spoke she inserted ‘witless fellow' as an alternative to ‘silly ass'.

‘I always thought they lived in the sky.'

‘Oh, no, Mrs Worters,' the girl repeated. ‘Not always.' And finding her place in the note-book she read as follows: ‘Gods. Where. Chief deities—Mount Olympus. Pan—most places, as name implies. Oreads—mountains. Sirens, Tritons, Nereids—water (salt). Naiads—water (fresh). Satyrs, Fauns, etc.—woods. Dryads—trees.'

‘Well, dear, you have learnt a lot. And will you now tell me what good it has done you?'

‘It has helped me—' faltered Miss Beaumont. She was very earnest over her classics. She wished she could have said what good they had done her.

Ford came to her rescue. ‘Of course it's helped you. The classics are full of tips. They teach you how to dodge things.'

I begged my young friend not to dodge his Virgil lesson.

‘But they do!' he cried. ‘Suppose that long-haired brute Apollo wants to give you a music lesson. Well, out you pop into the laurels. Or Universal Nature comes along. You aren't feeling particularly keen on Universal Nature, so you turn into a reed.'

‘Is Jack mad?' asked Mrs Worters.

But Miss Beaumont had caught the allusions—which were quite ingenious, I must admit. ‘And Croesus?“
¹
she inquired. ‘What was it one turned into to get away from Croesus?'