Escape, and Other Essays Part 7

X

THE VISITANT

I am going to try to put into words a very singular and very elusive experience which visits me not infrequently. I cannot say when it began, but I first became aware of it about four years ago.

It takes the form of an instantaneous mental vision, not very distinct but still not to be mistaken for anything else, of two people, a husband and wife, who are living somewhere in a large newly built house. The husband is a man of, I suppose, about forty-- the wife is a trifle younger, and they are childless. The husband is an active, well-built man with light, almost golden hair, rather coa.r.s.e in texture, and with a pointed beard of the same hue. He has fine, clean-cut, muscular hands, and he wears, as I see him, a rough, rather shabby suit of light, homespun cloth. The wife is of fair complexion, a beautiful woman, with brown hair, and dressed, I think, in a very simple and rather peculiar dress. They are people of high principle, wealthy, and with cultivated tastes. They care for music and books and art. The husband has no profession. They live in a wide, well-wooded landscape, I am inclined to think in Suss.e.x, in a newly built house, as I have said, of white plaster and timber, tiled, with many gables and with two large, bow- windowed rooms, rather low, the big mullioned oriels of which, with leaded roofs, are a rather conspicuous feature of the house. The house stands on a slightly rising ground, in a park-like demesne of a few acres, well timbered, and with open paddocks of gra.s.s. The house is approached by a drive from the main road, with two big gateposts of brick, and a white gate between. To the right of the house among the trees is the louvre of a stable. There is a terrace just in front of the house, full of flowers, with a low brick wall in front of it separating it from the field. I see the house and its surroundings more clearly than I see the figures themselves.

I cannot see the interior of the house at all clearly, with the exception of one room. I do not know where the front door is, nor have I ever seen any of the upper rooms. The one exception is a big room on the right of the house as one looks at it from the main road. This room I see with great distinctness. It is large and low, papered with a white paper and with a parquetry floor, designed for a music room. There is a grand piano, but what I see most clearly are a good many books, rather inconveniently placed in low white bookcases which run round most of the room, under the windows, with three shelves in each. It seems to me to be a bad arrangement, because it would be necessary to stoop down so much for the books, but I do not think that there is much reading done in the room.

There are several low armchairs draped in a highly coloured chintz with a white ground; there are pictures on the walls, but I cannot see them distinctly. I think they are water-colours. The curtains are of a very peculiar and bright blue. A low window-seat runs round the oriel, with cushions of the same blue. It is in this room only that I see the two people, always together; and I have never seen anyone else in the house. They are seen in certain definite positions, oftenest standing together looking out of the window, which must face the west, because I see the sunset out of it. As a rule, the woman's hand is pa.s.sed through the man's arm.

The vision simply flashes across my mind like a picture, whatever I am doing at the time. Sometimes I see it several times in a week, sometimes not for weeks together. I should recognise the house in a moment if I saw it; I do not think I should recognise the people. I cannot see the shapes of their features or their expressions, but I can see the bloom on the wife's cheek and its pure outline.

To the best of my knowledge I have never seen either the people or the house in real life; and yet I have strongly the sense that it is a real house and that the people are real. it does not seem to me like a mere imagination, because it comes too distinctly and too accurately for that. Nor does it seem to me to be a mere combination of things which I have seen. The curious part of it is that some parts of the vision are absolutely clear--thus I can see the very texture of the smooth plaster of the house, and the oak beams inset; and I can also see the fabric of the man's clothes and the colour of his hair; but, however much I interrogate my memory or my fancy about other details, they are all involved in a sort of mist which I cannot pierce. It is this which convinces me of the reality of the house, and makes me believe that it is not imagination; because, if it were, I think I should have enlarged my vision of the whole; but this I cannot do. There is a door, for instance, in the music-room, which is sometimes open, but even so I cannot see anything outside in the hall or pa.s.sage to which it leads. Moreover, though I can recollect the visions with absolute distinctness, I cannot evoke them. I may be reading or writing, and I suddenly see in my mind the house across the meadows; or I am in the music-room, and the two figures are standing together in the window.

So strongly do I feel the actuality of it all, that if this book should fall into the hands of the people to whom the vision refers, I will ask them to communicate with me. I have no idea what their past has been, but I know their characters well. The fact that they have no children is a sorrow to them, but has served to centre their affections strongly on each other. The husband is a very tranquil and unaffected man. There is no sort of pose about his life. He just lives as he likes best. He is unambitious, and he has no sense of a duty owed to others. But this is not coupled with any sense of contempt or aloofness--he is invariably kind and gentle.

He is an intellectual man, highly trained and clear-minded. The wife has less knowledge of the technique of artistic things, but a very fine, natural, critical taste. She cares, however, less for the things themselves than because her husband cares for them; but I do not think that she knows this. They have always enjoyed good health, and I cannot discern that they have had troubles of any kind. And I have the strongest sense of a perfectly natural high- mindedness about both, a healthy instinct for what is right and fine. They are absolutely without meanness; and they are entirely free from any sort of morbidity or dreariness. They have travelled a good deal, but they now seldom leave home; they designed and built their own house. One curious thing is that I have never heard music in the house, nor have I ever seen them reading, and yet I feel that they are much occupied with music and books.

What is the possible explanation of this curious vision? I have sometimes wondered if they have been brought into some unconscious rapport with me through one of my books. It seems to me just possible that when I have seen them standing together there may be some phrase in one of my books which has struck them and which they are accustomed to remember; and I think it may be some phrase about the sunset, because it is at sunset that I generally see them. But this does not explain my vision of the house, because I have never seen either of them outside of the house, and I have several times seen the music-room with no one in it; how does the vision of the house, which is so strangely distinct, come to me?

They inspire me with a great feeling of respect and friendship; the vision is very beautiful, and is always attended by a great sense of pleasure. I feel that it does me good in some obscure way to be brought into touch with them. Yet I can never retain my hold on the scene for more than an instant; it is just there and then it is gone.

It is a very strange thing to be conscious of two quite distinct personalities, and yet without any power of winding myself any further into their thoughts. There seems to be no vital contact. I am admitted, as it were, at certain times to a sight of the place, but I am sure that there is no sort of volition on their part about it; I do not feel that their thoughts are ever bent actually upon me, as I exist, but perhaps upon something connected with me.

I must add that, though I am a great dreamer at night and have always at all times a strong power of mental visualisations, I am not accustomed to be controlled by it, but rather to control it; and I have never at any time had any sort of similar vision, of a thing apart from memory or fancy.

I do believe very firmly in the telepathic faculty. I think that our thoughts are much affected both consciously and unconsciously by the thoughts of others. I believe thought takes place in a spiritual medium and that there is much interlacing and transference of thought. I have never tried any definite experiments in it, but I have had frequent evidence of my thoughts being affected by the thoughts of my friends. It seems to me that this may be a case of some open channel of communication, as if two wires had become in some way entangled. The whole method of thought is so obscure that it is hard to say under what conditions this takes place. But I allow myself the happiness of believing that the place and the people of whom I have been so often aware are real and tangible existences, and that impressions of things unseen and unrecognised by me have pa.s.sed into my brain, so that some secret fellowship has been established. It would be a great joy to me if this could be definitely established; and I am not without hopes that this piece of writing may by some happy chance be the bearer of definite tidings to two people whom unseen I love, and whose thought may have been bent aimlessly perhaps and indistinctly upon mine, but never without some touch of kinship and goodwill.

XI

THAT OTHER ONE

I am going to try, in these few pages, to draw water out of a deep well--the well of which William Morris wrote as the "Well at the World's End." I shall try to describe a very strange and secret experience, which visits me rarely and at unequal intervals; sometimes for weeks together not at all, sometimes several times in a day. When it happens it is not strange at all, nor wonderful; the only wonder about it is that it does not happen more often, because it seems at the moment to be the one true thing in a world of vain shadows; everything else falls away, becomes accidental and remote, like the lights, let me say, of some unknown town, which one sees as one travels by night and as one twitches aside the curtain from the window of a railway-carriage, in a sudden interval between two profound slumbers. The train has relaxed its speed; one looks out; the red and green signal lamps hang high in the air; and one glides past a sleeping town, the lamps burning quietly in deserted streets; there are house-fronts below, in a long thoroughfare suddenly visible from end to end; above, there are indeterminate shadows, the glimmering faces of high towers; it is all ghost-like and mysterious; one only knows that men live and work there; and then the tides of slumber flow in upon the brain, and one dives thirstily to the depths of sleep.

Before I say more about it, I will just relate my last taste of the mood. I was walking alone in the autumn landscape; bare fields about me; the trees of a village to my right touched sharply with gold and russet red; some white-gabled cottages cl.u.s.tered together, and there was a tower among the trees; it was near sunset, and the sun seemed dragging behind him to the west long wisps of purple and rusty clouds touched with fire; below me to the left a stream pa.s.sing slowly among rushes and willow-beds, all beautiful and silent and remote. I had an anxious matter in my mind, a thing that required, so it seemed to me, careful deliberation to steer a right course among many motives and contingencies. I had gone out alone to think it over. I weighed this against that, and it seemed to me that I was headed off by some obstacle whichever way I turned. Whatever I desired to do appeared to be disadvantageous and even hurtful. "Yes," I said to myself, "this is one of those cases where whatever I do, I shall wish I had done differently! I see no way out." It was then that a deeper voice still seemed to speak in me, the voice of something strong and quiet and even indolent, which seemed half-amused, half-vexed, by my perturbation. It said, "When you have done reasoning and pondering, I will decide." Then I thought that a sort of vague, half-spoken, half-dumb dialogue followed.

"What are you?" I said. "What right have you to interfere?"

The other voice did not trouble to answer; it only seemed to laugh a lazy laugh.

"I am trying to think this all out," I said, half-ashamed, half- vexed. "You may help me if you will; I am perplexed--I see no way out of it!"

"Oh, you may think as much as you like," said the other voice. "I am in no hurry, I can wait."

"But I AM in a hurry," I said, "and I cannot wait. This has got to be settled somehow, and without delay."

"I shall decide when the time comes," said the voice to me.

"Yes, but you do not understand," I said, feeling partly irritated and partly helpless. "There is this and that, there is so-and-so to be considered, there is the effect on these other persons to be weighed; there is my own position too--I must think of my health-- there are a dozen things to be taken into account."

"I know," said the voice; "I do not mind your balancing all these things if you wish. I shall take no heed of that! I repeat that, when you have finished thinking it out, I shall decide."

"Then you know what you mean to do?" said I, a little angered.

"No, I do not know just yet," said the voice; "but I shall know when the time comes; there will be no doubt at all."

"Then I suppose I shall have to do what you decide?" I said, angry but impressed.

"Yes, you will do what I decide," said the voice; "you know that perfectly well."

"Then what is the use of my taking all this trouble?" I said.

"Oh, you may just as well look into it," said the voice; "that is your part! You are only my servant, after all. You have got to work the figures and the details out, and then I shall settle. Of course you must do your part--it is not all wasted. What is wasted is your fretting and fussing!"

"I am anxious," I said. "I cannot help being anxious!"

"That is a pity!" said the voice. "It hurts you and it hurts me too, in a way. You disturb me, you know; but I cannot interfere with you; I must wait."

"But are you sure you will do right?" I said.

"I shall do what must be done," said the voice. "If you mean, shall I regret my choice, that is possible; at least you may regret it.

But it will not have been a mistake."

I was puzzled at this, and for a time the voice was silent, so that I had leisure to look about me. I had walked some way while the dialogue went on, and I was now by the stream, which ran full and cold into a pool beside the bridge, a pool like a clouded jewel.

How beautiful it was! . . . The old thoughts began again, the old perplexities. "If he says THAT," I said to myself, thinking of an opponent of my plan, "then I must be prepared with an answer--it is a weak point in my case; perhaps it would be better to write; one says what one thinks; not what one means to say. . . ."

"Still at work?" said the voice. "You are having a very uncomfortable time over there. I am sorry for that! Yet I cannot think why you do not understand!"

"What ARE you?" I said impatiently.

There was no answer to that.

"You seem very strong and patient!" I said at last. "I think I rather like you, and I am sure that I trust you; but you irritate me, and you will not explain. Cannot you help me a little? You seem to me to be out of sight--the other side of a wall. Cannot you break it down or look over?"

"You would not like that," said the voice; "it would be inconvenient, even painful; it would upset your plans very much.

Tell me--you like life, do you not?"