CHESTERTON-Tales of the Long Bow - THE EXCLUSIVE LUXURY OF ENOCH OATES
If the present passage in the chronicles of the Long Bow seem but
a side issue, an interlude and an idyll, a mere romantic episode
lacking that larger structural achievement which gives solidity
and hard actuality to the other stories, the reader is requested
not to be hasty in his condemnation; for in the little love-story
of Mr. Oliver Green is to be found, as in a parable, the beginning
of the final apotheosis and last judgement of all these things.
It may well begin on a morning when the sunlight came late
but brilliant, under the lifting of great clouds from a great grey
sweep of wolds that grew purple as they dipped again into distance.
Much of that mighty shape was striped and scored with ploughed fields,
but a rude path ran across it, along which two figures could
be seen in full stride outlined against the morning sky.
They were both tall; but beyond the fact that they had both once
been professional soldiers, of rather different types and times,
they had very little in common. By their ages they might almost
have been father and son; and this would not have been contradicted
by the fact that the younger appeared to be talking all the time,
in a high, confident and almost crowing voice, while the elder
only now and then put in a word. But they were not father and son;
strangely enough they were really talking and walking together
because they were friends. Those who know only too well their
proceedings as narrated elsewhere would have recognized Colonel Crane,
once of the Coldstream Guards, and Captain Pierce, late of the
Flying Corps.
The young man appeared to be talking triumphantly about a great
American capitalist whom he professed to have persuaded to see
the error of his ways. He talked rather as if he had been slumming.
"I'm very proud of it, I can tell you," he said. "Anybody can
produce a penitent murderer. It's something to produce a
penitent millionaire. And I do believe that poor Enoch Oates
has seen the light (thanks to my conversations at lunch);
since I talked to him, Oates is another and a better man."
"Sown his wild oats, in fact," remarked Crane.
"Well," replied the other. "In a sense they were very quiet oats.
Almost what you might call Quaker Oats. He was a Puritan and a
Prohibitionist and a Pacifist and an Internationalist; in short,
everything that is in darkness and the shadow of death. But what you
said about him was quite right. His heart's in the right place.
It's on his sleeve. That's why I preached the gospel to the noble
savage and made him a convert."
"But what did you convert him to?" inquired the other.
"Private property," replied Pierce promptly. "Being a millionaire
he had never heard of it. But when I explained the first elementary
idea of it in a simple form, he was quite taken with the notion.
I pointed out that he might abandon robbery on a large scale and
create property on a small scale. He felt it was very revolutionary,
but he admitted it was right. Well, you know, he'd bought this big
English estate out here. He was going to play the philanthropist,
and have a model estate with all the regular trimmings; heads hygienically
shaved by machinery every morning; and the cottagers admitted once
a month into their own front gardens and told to keep off the grass.
But I said to him: 'If you're going to give things to people,
why not give 'em? If you give your friend a plant in a pot,
you don't send him an inspector from the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Vegetables to see he waters it properly. If you give
your friend a box of cigars, you don't make him write a monthly
report of how many he smokes a day. Can't you be a little generous
with your generosity? Why don't you use your money to make free
men instead of to make slaves? Why don't you give your tenants
their land and have done with it, or let 'em have it very cheap?'
And he's done it; he's really done it. He's created hundreds
of small proprietors, and changed the whole of this countryside.
That's why I want you to come up and see one of the small farms."
"Yes," said Colonel Crane, "I should like to see the farm."
"There's a lot of fuss about it, too; there's the devil of a row,"
went on the young man, in very high spirits. "Lots of big combines
and things are trying to crush the small farmers with all sorts
of tricks; they even complain of interference by an American.
You can imagine how much Rosenbaum Low and Goldstein and Guggenheimer
must be distressed by the notion of a foreigner interfering in England.
I want to know how a foreigner could interfere less than by giving
back their land to the English people and clearing out. They all put
it on to me; and right they are. I regard Oates as my property;
my convert; captive of my bow and spear."
"Captive of your long bow, I imagine," said the Colonel. "I bet
you told him a good many things that nobody but a shrewd business
man would have been innocent enough to believe."
"If I use the long bow," replied Pierce with dignity, "it is
a weapon with heroic memories proper to a yeoman of England.
With what more fitting weapon could we try to establish a yeomanry?"
"There is something over there," said Colonel quietly, "that looks
to me rather like another sort of weapon."
They had by this time come in full sight of the farm buildings
which crowned the long slope; and beyond a kitchen-garden
and an orchard rose a thatched roof with a row of old-fashioned
lattice windows under it; the window at the end standing open.
And out of this window at the edge of the block of building
protruded a big black object, rigid and apparently cylindrical,
thrust out above the garden and dark against the morning daylight.
"A gun!" cried Pierce involuntarily; "looks just like a howitzer;
or is it an anti-aircraft gun?"
"Anti-airman gun, no doubt," said Crane; "they heard you were coming
down and took precautions."
"But what the devil can he want with a gun?" muttered Pierce,
peering at the dark outline.
"And who the devil is HE, if it comes to that?" said the Colonel.
"Why, that window," explained Pierce, "that's the window of the room
they've let to a paying guest, I know. Man of the name of Green,
I understand; rather a recluse, and I suppose some sort of crank."
"Not an anti-armament crank, anyhow," said the Colonel.
"By George!" said Pierce, whistling softly. "I wonder whether
things really have moved faster than we could fancy! I wonder
whether it's a revolution or a civil war beginning after all.
I suppose we are an army ourselves; I represent the Air Force and you
represent the infantry."
"You represent the infants," answered the Colonel. "You're too
young for this world; you and your revolutions! As a matter
of fact, it isn't a gun, though it does look rather like one.
I see now what it is."
"And what in the world is it?" asked his friend.
"It's a telescope," said Crane. "One of those very big telescopes
they usually have in observatories."
"Couldn't be partly a gun and partly a telescope?" pleaded Pierce,
reluctant to abandon his first fancy. "I've often seen the phrase
'shooting stars,' but perhaps I've got the grammar and sense of
it wrong. The young man lodging with the farmer may be following
one of the local sports--the local substitute for duck-shooting!"
"What in the world are you talking about?" growled the other.
"Their lodger may be shooting the stars," explained Pierce.
"Hope their lodger isn't shooting the moon," said the flippant Crane.
As they spoke there came towards them, through the green
and twinkling twilight of the orchard, a young woman with
copper-coloured hair and a square and rather striking face,
whom Pierce saluted respectfully as the daughter of the house.
He was very punctilious upon the point that these new peasant
farmers must be treated like small squires and not like tenants or serfs.
"I see your friend Mr. Green has got his telescope out," he said.
"Yes, sir," said the girl. "They say Mr. Green is a great astronomer."
"I doubt if you ought to call me 'sir,'" said Pierce reflectively.
"It suggests rather the forgotten feudalism than the new equality.
Perhaps you might oblige me by saying 'Yes, citizen,' then we could
continue our talk about Citizen Green on an equal footing. By the way,
pardon me, let me present Citizen Crane."
Citizen Crane bowed politely to the young woman without any apparent
enthusiasm for his new title; but Pierce went on.
"Rather rum to call ourselves citizens when we're all so glad to be out
of the city. We really want some term suitable to rural equality.
The Socialists have spoilt 'Comrade'; you can't be a comrade without
a Liberty tie and a pointed beard. Morris had a good notion of one
man calling another Neighbour. That sounds a little more rustic.
I suppose," he added wistfully to the girl, "I suppose I could not
induce you to call me Gaffer?"
"Unless I'm mistaken," observed Crane, "that's your astronomer
wandering about in the garden. Thinks he's a botanist, perhaps.
Appropriate to the name of Green."
"Oh, he often wanders in the garden and down to the meadow and
the cowsheds," said the young woman. "He talks to himself a good deal,
explaining a great theory he's got. He explains it to everybody
he meets, too. Sometimes he explains it to me when I'm milking the cow."
"Perhaps you can explain it to us?" said Pierce.
"Not so bad as that," she said, laughing. "It's something like
that Fourth Dimension they talk about. But I've no doubt he'll
explain it to you if you meet him."
"Not for me," said Pierce. "I'm a simple peasant proprietor and ask
nothing but Three Dimensions and a Cow."
"Cow's the Fourth Dimension, I suppose," said Crane.
"I must go and attend to the Fourth Dimension," she said with a smile.
"Peasants all live by patchwork, running two or three side-shows,"
observed Pierce. "Curious sort of livestock on the farm.
Think of people living on a cow and chickens and an astronomer."
As he spoke the astronomer approached along the path by which the girl
had just passed. His eyes were covered with huge horn spectacles
of a dim blue colour; for he was warned to save his eyesight
for his starry vigils. This gave a misleading look of morbidity
to a face that was naturally frank and healthy; and the figure,
though stooping, was stalwart. He was very absent-minded. Every now
and then he looked at the ground and frowned as if he did not like it.
Oliver Green was a very young professor, but a very old young man.
He had passed from science as the hobby of a schoolboy to science
as the ambition of a middle-aged man, without any intermediate
holiday of youth. Moreover, his monomania had been fixed and frozen
by success; at least by a considerable success for a man of his years.
He was already a fellow of the chief learned societies connected
with his subject, when there grew up in his mind the grand, universal,
all-sufficing Theory which had come to fill the whole of his life
as the daylight fills the day. If we attempted the exposition
of that theory here, it is doubtful whether the result would
resemble daylight. Professor Green was always ready to prove it;
but if we were to set out the proof in this place, the next four or
five pages would be covered with closely printed columns of figures,
brightened here and there by geometrical designs, such as seldom
form part of the text of a romantic story. Suffice it to say that
the theory had something to do with Relativity and the reversal
of the relations between the stationary and the moving object.
Pierce, the aviator, who had passed much of his time on moving
objects not without the occasional anticipation of bumping into
stationary objects, talked to Green a little on the subject.
Being interested in scientific aviation, he was nearer to the
abstract sciences than were his friends, Crane with his hobby
of folk-lore or Hood with his love of classic literature or Wilding
White with his reading of the mystics. But the young aviator
frankly admitted that Professor Green soared high into the heavens
of the Higher Mathematics, far beyond the flight of his little aeroplane.
The Professor had begun, as he always began, by saying that it was
quite easy to explain; which was doubtless true, as he was always
explaining it. But he often ended by affirming fallaciously that it
was quite easy to understand, and it would be an exaggeration to say
that it was always understood. Anyhow, he was just about to read
his great paper on his great theory at the great Astronomical Congress
that was to be held that year at Bath; which was one reason why he
had pitched his astronomical camp, or emplaced his astronomical gun,
in the house of Farmer Dale on the hills of Somerset. Mr. Enoch Oates
could not but feel the lingering hesitation of the landlord when he
heard that his proteges the Dales were about to admit an unknown
stranger into their household. But Pierce sternly reminded him
that this paternal attitude was a thing of the past and that a free
peasant was free to let lodgings to a homicidal maniac if he liked.
Nevertheless, Pierce was rather relieved to find the maniac was only
an astronomer; but it would have been all the same if he had been
an astrologer. Before coming to the farm, the astronomer had set
up his telescope in much dingier places--in lodgings in Bloomsbury
and the grimy buildings of a Midland University. He thought he was,
and to a great extent he was, indifferent to his surroundings.
But for all that the air and colour of those country surroundings
were slowly and strangely sinking into him.
"The idea is simplicity itself," he said earnestly, when Pierce
rallied him about the theory. "It is only the proof that is,
of course, a trifle technical. Put in a very crude and popular shape,
it depends on the mathematical formula for the inversion of the sphere."
"What we call turning the world upside down," said Pierce.
"I'm all in favour of it."
"Everyone knows the idea of relativity applied to motion," went on
the Professor. "When you run out of a village in a motor-car,
you might say that the village runs away from you."
"The village does run away when Pierce is out motoring," remarked Crane.
"Anyhow, the villagers do. But he generally prefers to frighten
them with an aeroplane."
"Indeed?" said the astronomer with some interest. "An aeroplane
would make an even better working model. Compare the movement
of an aeroplane with what we call merely for convenience the fixity
of the fixed stars."
"I dare say they got a bit unfixed when Pierce bumped into them,"
said the Colonel.
Professor Green sighed in a sad but patient spirit. He could not help
being a little disappointed even with the most intelligent outsiders
with whom he conversed. Their remarks were pointed but hardly
to the point. He felt more and more that he really preferred those
who made no remarks. The flowers and the trees made no remarks;
they stood in rows and allowed him to lecture to them for hours
on the fallacies of accepted astronomy. The cow made no remarks.
The girl who milked the cow made no remarks; or, if she did,
they were pleasant and kindly remarks, not intended to be clever.
He drifted, as he had done many times before, in the direction of
the cow.
The young woman who milked the cow was not in the common connotation
what is meant by a milkmaid. Margery Dale was the daughter of a
substantial farmer already respected in that county. She had been
to school and learnt various polite things before she came back
to the farm and continued to do the thousand things that she could
have taught the schoolmasters. And something of this proportion
or disproportion of knowledge was dawning on Professor Green, as he
stood staring at the cow and talking, often in a sort of soliloquy.
For he had a rather similar sensation of a great many other things
growing up thickly like a jungle round his own particular thing;
impressions and implications from all the girl's easy actions
and varied avocations. Perhaps he began to have a dim suspicion
that he was the schoolmaster who was being taught.
The earth and the sky were already beginning to be enriched
with evening; the blue was already almost a glow like apple-green
behind the line of branching apple-trees; against it the bulk
of the farm stood in a darker outline, and for the first time
he realized something quaint or queer added to that outline by
his own big telescope stuck up like a gun pointed at the moon.
Somehow it looked, he could not tell why, like the beginning
of a story. The hollyhocks also looked incredibly tall.
To see what he would have called "flowers" so tall as that seemed
like seeing a daisy or a dandelion as large as a lamp-post. He
was positive there was nothing exactly like it in Bloomsbury.
These tall flowers also looked like the beginning of a story--
the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Though he knew little enough
of what influences were slowly sinking into him, he felt something
apt in the last memory. Whatever was moving within him was something
very far back, something that came before reading and writing.
He had some dream, as from a previous life, of dark streaks of field
under stormy clouds of summer and the sense that the flowers to be
found there were things like gems. He was in that country home
that every cockney child feels he has always had and never visited.
"I have to read my paper to-night," he said abruptly. "I really
ought to be thinking about it."
"I do hope it will be a success," said the girl; "but I rather
thought you were always thinking about it."
"Well, I was--generally," he said in a rather dazed fashion;
and indeed it was probably the first time that he had ever found
himself fully conscious of not thinking about it. Of what he was
thinking about he was by no means fully conscious.
"I suppose you have to be awfully clever even to understand it,"
observed Margery Dale conversationally.
"I don't know," he said, slightly stirred to the defensive.
"I'm sure I could make you see--I don't mean you aren't clever,
of course; I mean I'm quite sure you're clever enough to see--
to see anything."
"Only some sorts of things, I'm afraid," she said, smiling. "I'm sure
your theory has got nothing to do with cows and milking-stools."
"It's got to do with anything," he said eagerly; "with everything,
in fact. It would be just as easy to prove it from stools and cows
as anything else. It's really quite simple. Reversing the usual
mathematical formula, it's possible to reach the same results
in reality by treating motion as a fixed point and stability as a
form of motion. You were told that the earth goes round the sun,
and the moon goes round the earth. Well, in my formula, we first
treat it as if the sun went round the earth--"
She looked up radiantly. "I always THOUGHT it looked like that,"
she said emphatically.
"And you will, of course, see for yourself," he continued triumphantly,
"that by the same logical inversion we must suppose the earth
to be going round the moon."
The radiant face showed a shadow of doubt and she said "Oh!"
"But any of the things you mention, the milking-stool or the cow
or what not, would serve the same purpose, since they are objects
generally regarded as stationary."
He looked up vaguely at the moon which was steadily brightening
as vast shadows spread over the sky.
"Well, take those things you talk of," he went on, moved by a meaningless
unrest and tremor. "You see the moon rise behind the woods over
there and sweep in a great curve through the sky and seem to set
again beyond the hill. But it would be just as easy to preserve
the same mathematical relations by regarding the moon as the centre
of the circle and the curve described by some object such as the cow--"
She threw her head back and looked at him, with eyes blazing
with laughter that was not in any way mockery, but a childish
delight at the crowning coincidence of a fairy-tale.
"Splendid!" she cried. "So the cow really does jump over the moon!"
Green put up his hand to his hair; and after a short silence
said suddenly, like a man recalling a recondite Greek quotation:
"Why, I've heard that somewhere. There was something else--'The
little dog laughed--'"
Then something happened, which was in the world of ideas much
more dramatic than the fact that the little dog laughed.
The professor of astronomy laughed. If the world of things had
corresponded to the world of ideas, the leaves of the apple tree
might have curled up in fear or the birds dropped out of the sky.
It was rather as if the cow had laughed.
Following that curt and uncouth noise was a silence; and then
the hand he had raised to his head abruptly rent off his big blue
spectacles and showed his staring blue eyes. He looked boyish
and even babyish.
"I wonder whether you always wore them," she said. "I should think
they made that moon of yours look blue. Isn't there a proverb
or something about a thing happening once in a blue moon?"
He threw the great goggles on the ground and broke them.
"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "you seem to have taken quite
a dislike to them all of a sudden. I thought you were going
to wear them till--well, till all is blue, as they say."
He shook his head. "All is beautiful," he said. "You are beautiful."
The young woman was normally very lucid and decisive in dealing
with gentlemen who made remarks of that kind, especially when she
concluded that the gentlemen were not gentlemen. But for some reason
in this case it never occurred to her that she needed defence;
possibly because the other party seemed more defenceless than indefensible.
She said nothing. But the other party said a great deal,
and his remarks did not grow more rational. At that moment,
far away in their inn-parlour in the neighbouring town, Hood and
Crane and the fellowship of the Long Bow were actually discussing
with considerable interest the meaning and possibilities of the new
astronomical theory. In Bath the lecture-hall was being prepared
for the exposition of the theory. The theorist had forgotten all about it.
"I have been thinking a good deal," Hilary Pierce was saying,
"about that astronomical fellow who is going to lecture in Bath
to-night. It seemed to me somehow that he was a kindred spirit
and that sooner or later we were bound to get mixed up with him--
or he was bound to get mixed up with us. I don't say it's always
very comfortable to get mixed up with us. I feel in my bones that
there is going to be a big row soon. I feel as if I'd consulted
an astrologer; as if Green were the Merlin of our Round Table.
Anyhow, the astrologer has an interesting astronomical theory."
"Why?" inquired Wilding White with some surprise. "What have you
got to do with his theory?"
"Because," answered the young man, "I understand his astronomical
theory a good deal better than he thinks I do. And, let me tell you,
his astronomical theory is an astronomical allegory."
"An allegory?" repeated Crane. "What of?"
"An allegory of us," said Pierce; "and, as with many an allegory,
we've acted it without knowing it. I realized something about
our history, when he was talking, that I don't think I'd ever
thought of before."
"What in the world are you talking about?" demanded the Colonel.
"His theory," said Pierce in a meditative manner, "has got something
to do with moving objects being really stationary, and stationary
objects being really moving. Well, you always talk of me as if I
were a moving object."
"Heartbreaking object sometimes," assented the Colonel with
cordial encouragement.
"I mean," continued Pierce calmly, "that you talk of me as if I
were always motoring too fast or flying too far. And what you
say of me is pretty much what most people say of you. Most sane
people think we all go a jolly lot too far. They think we're
a lot of lunatics out-running the constable or looping the loop,
and always up to some new nonsense. But when you come to think of it,
it's we who always stay where we are, and the rest that's always
moving and shifting and changing."
"Yes," said Owen Hood; "I begin to have some dim idea of what you
are talking about."
"In all our little adventures," went on the other, "we have
all of us taken up some definite position and stuck to it,
however difficult it might be; that was the whole fun of it.
But our critics did not stick to their own position--not even
to their own conventional or conservative position. In each one
of the stories it was they who were fickle, and we who were fixed.
When the Colonel said he would eat his hat, he did it; when he
found it meant wearing a preposterous hat, he wore it. But his
neighbours didn't even stick to their own conviction that the hat
was preposterous. Fashion is too fluctuating and sensitive a thing;
and before the end, half of them were wondering whether they oughtn't
to have hats of the same sort. In that affair of the Thames factory,
Hood admired the old landscape and Hunter admired the old landlords.
But Hunter didn't go on admiring the old landlords; he deserted
to the new landlords as soon as they got the land. His conservatism
was too snobbish to conserve anything. I wanted to import pigs,
and I went on importing pigs, though my methods of smuggling
might land me in a mad-house. But Enoch Oates, the millionaire,
didn't go on importing pork; he went off at once on some new stunt,
first on the booming of his purses, and afterwards on the admirable
stunt of starting English farms. The business mind isn't steadfast;
even when it can be turned the right way, it's too easy to turn.
And everything has been like that, down to the little botheration
about the elephant. The police began to prosecute Mr. White, but they
soon dropped it when Hood showed them that he had some backing.
Don't you see that's the moral of the whole thing? The modern world
is materialistic, but it isn't solid. It isn't hard or stern or ruthless
in pursuit of its purpose, or all the things that the newspapers
and novels say it is; and sometimes actually praise it for being.
Materialism isn't like stone; it's like mud, and liquid mud at that."
"There's something in what you say," said Owen Hood, "and I should be
inclined to add something to it. On a rough reckoning of the chances
in modern England, I should say the situation is something like this.
In that dubious and wavering atmosphere it is very unlikely
there would ever be a revolution, or any very vital reform.
But if there were, I believe on my soul that it might be successful.
I believe everything else would be too weak and wobbly to stand up
against it."
"I suppose that means," said the Colonel, "that you're going to do
something silly."
"Silliest thing I can think of," replied Pierce cheerfully.
"I'm going to an astronomical lecture."
The degree of silliness involved in the experiment can be most
compactly and clearly stated in the newspaper report, at which
the friends of the experimentalists found themselves gazing with
more than their usual bewilderment on the following morning.
The Colonel, sitting at his club with his favourite daily paper
spread out before him, was regarding with a grave wonder a paragraph
that began with the following head-lines:
"A scene equally distressing and astonishing took place at the third
meeting of the Astronomical Society now holding its congress
at Bath. Professor Oliver Green, one of the most promising of
the younger astronomers, was set down in the syllabus to deliver
a lecture on 'Relativity in Relation to Planetary Motion.'
About an hour before the lecture, however, the authorities received
a telegram from Professor Green, altering the subject of his address
on the ground that he had just discovered a new star, and wished
immediately to communicate his discovery to the scientific world.
Great excitement and keen anticipation prevailed at the meeting,
but these feelings changed to bewilderment as the lecture proceeded.
The lecturer announced without hesitation the existence of a new
planet attached to one of the fixed stars, but proceeded to describe
its geological formation and other features with a fantastic
exactitude beyond anything yet obtained by way of the spectrum
or the telescope. He was understood to say that it produced life
in an extravagant form, in towering objects which constantly
doubled or divided themselves until they ended in flat filaments,
or tongues of a bright green colour. He was proceeding to give
a still more improbable of a more mobile but equally monstrous form
of life, resting on four trunks or columns which swung in rotation,
and terminating in some curious curved appendages, when a young man
in the front row, whose demeanour had shown an increasing levity,
called out abruptly: 'Why, that's a cow!' To this the professor,
abandoning abruptly all pretence of scientific dignity, replied by
shouting in a voice like thunder: 'Yes, of course it's a cow;
and you fellows would never have noticed a cow, even if she jumped
over the moon!' The unfortunate professor then began to rave
in the most incoherent manner, throwing his arms about and shouting
aloud that he and his fellow scientists were all a pack of noodles
who had never looked at the world they were walking on, which contained
the most miraculous things. But the latter part of his remarks,
which appeared to be an entirely irrelevant outburst in praise of
the beauty of Woman, were interrupted by the Chairman and officials
of the Congress, who called for medical and constabulary interference.
No less a person than Sir Horace Hunter, who, although best known
as a psycho-physiologist, has taken all knowledge for his province
and was present to show his interest in astronomical progress,
was able to certify on the spot that the unfortunate Green was
clearly suffering from dementia, which was immediately corroborated
by a local doctor, so that the unhappy man might be removed without
further scandal.
"At this point, however, a still more extraordinary development
took place. The young man in the front row, who had several times
interrupted the proceedings with irrelevant remarks, sprang to his feet,
and loudly declaring that Professor Green was the only sane man in
the Congress, rushed at the group surrounding him, violently hurled
Sir Horace Hunter from the platform, and with the assistance
of a friend and fellow-rioter, managed to recapture the lunatic
from the doctors and police, and carry him outside the building.
Those pursuing the fugitives found themselves at first confronted
with a new mystery, in the form of their complete disappearance.
It has since been discovered that they actually escaped by aeroplane;
the young man, whose name is said to be Pierce, being a well-known
aviator formerly connected with the Flying Corps. The other young man,
who assisted him and acted as pilot, has not yet been identified."
Night closed and the stars stood out over Dale's Farm; and the
telescope pointed at the stars in vain. Its giant lenses had
vainly mirrored the moon of which its owner had spoken in so vain
a fashion; but its owner did not return. Miss Dale was rather
unaccountably troubled by his absence, and mentioned it once or twice;
after all, as her family said, it was very natural that he should
go to an hotel in Bath for the night, especially if the revels
of the roystering astronomers were long and late. "It's no affair
of ours," said the farmer's wife cheerfully. "He is not a child."
But the farmer's daughter was not quite so sure on the point.
Next morning she rose even earlier than usual and went about her
ordinary tasks, which by some accident or other seemed to look more
ordinary than usual. In the blank morning hours, it was perhaps
natural that her mind should go back to the previous afternoon,
when the conduct of the astronomer could by no means be dismissed
as ordinary.
"It's all very well to say he's not a child," she said to herself.
"I wish I were as certain he's not an idiot. If he goes to an hotel,
they'll cheat him."
The more angular and prosaic her own surroundings seemed in the daylight,
the more doubt she felt about the probable fate of the moonstruck
gentleman who looked at a blue moon through his blue spectacles.
She wondered whether his family or his friends were generally
responsible for his movements; for really he must be a little dotty.
She had never heard him talk about his family; and she remembered
a good many things he had talked about. She had never even seen
him talking to a friend, except once to Captain Pierce, when they
talked about astronomy. But the name of Captain Pierce linked
itself up rapidly with other and more relevant suggestions.
Captain Pierce lived at the Blue Boar on the other side of the down,
having been married a year or two before to the daughter of the
inn-keeper, who was an old friend of the daughter of the farmer.
They had been to the same school in the neighbouring provincial town,
and had once been, as the phrase goes, inseparable. Perhaps friends
ought to pass through the phase in which they are inseparable to reach
the phase in which they can safely be separated.
"Joan might know something about it," she said to herself.
"At least her husband might know."
She turned back into the kitchen and began to rout things out
for breakfast; when she had done everything she could think of
doing for a family that had not yet put in an appearance, she went
out again into the garden and found herself at the same gate,
staring at the steep wooded hill that lay between the farm and
the valley of the Blue Boar. She thought of harnessing the pony;
and then went walking rather restlessly along the road over the hill.
On the map it was only a few miles to the Blue Boar; and she
was easily capable of walking ten times the distance. But maps,
like many other scientific documents, are very inaccurate.
The ridge that ran between the two valleys was, relatively to
that rolling plain, as definite as a range of mountains.
The path through the dark wood that lay just beyond the farm began
like a lane and then seemed to go up like a ladder. By the time she
had scaled it, under its continuous canopy of low spreading trees,
she had the sensation of having walked for a long time. And when
the ascent ended with a gap in the trees and a blank space of sky,
she looked over the edge like one looking into another world.
Mr. Enoch Oates, in his more expansive moments, had been known to
allude to what he called God's Great Prairies. Mr. Rosenbaum Low,
having come to London from, or through, Johannesburg, often referred
in his imperialistic speeches to the "illimitable veldt." But neither
the American prairie nor the African veldt really looks any larger,
or could look any larger, than a wide English vale seen from a low
English hill. Nothing can be more distant than the distance;
the horizon or the line drawn by heaven across the vision of man.
Nothing is so illimitable as that limit. Within our narrow island
there is a whole series of such infinities; as if the island itself
could hold seven seas. As she looked out over that new landscape,
the soul seemed to be slaked and satisfied with immensity and,
by a paradox, to be filled at last with emptiness. All things seemed
not only great but growing in greatness. She could fancy that the tall
trees standing up in the sunlight grew taller while she looked at them.
The sun was rising and it seemed as if the whole world rose with it.
Even the dome of heaven seemed to be lifting slowly; as if the very
sky were a skirt drawn up and disappearing into the altitudes
of light.
The vast hollow below her was coloured as variously as a map in an atlas.
Fields of grass or grain or red earth seemed so far away that they
might have been the empires and kingdoms of a world newly created.
But she could already see on the brow of a hill above the pine-woods
the pale scar of the quarry and below it the glittering twist
in the river where stood the inn of the Blue Boar. As she drew
nearer and nearer to it she could see more and more clearly a green
triangular field with tiny black dots, which were little black pigs;
and another smaller dot, which was a child. Something like a wind
behind her or within her, that had driven her over the hills,
seemed to sweep all the long lines of that landslide of a landscape,
so that they pointed to that spot.
As the path dropped to the level and she began to walk by farms
and villages, the storm in her mind began to settle and she recovered
the reasonable prudence with which she had pottered about her
own farm. She even felt some responsibility and embarrassment
about troubling her friend by coming on so vague an errand. But she
told herself convincingly enough that after all she was justified.
One would not normally be alarmed about a strayed lodger as if he
were a lion escaped from a menagerie. But she had after all very
good reason for regarding this lion as rather a fearful wildfowl.
His way of talking had been so eccentric that everybody for miles round
would have agreed, if they had heard him, that he had a tile loose.
She was very glad they had not heard him; but their imaginary
opinion fortified her own. They had a duty in common humanity;
they could not let a poor gentleman of doubtful sanity disappear
without further inquiry.
She entered the inn with a firm step and hailed her friend with something
of that hearty cheerfulness that is so unpopular in the early riser.
She was rather younger and by nature rather more exuberant than Joan;
and Joan had already felt the drag and concentration of children.
But Joan had not lost her rather steely sense of humour, and she heard
the main facts of her friend's difficulty with a vigilant smile.
"We should rather like to know what has happened," said the visitor
with vague carelessness. "If anything unpleasant had happened,
people might even blame us, when we knew he was like that."
"Like what?" asked Joan smiling.
"Why, a bit off, I suppose we must say," answered the other.
"The things he said to me about cows and trees and having found
a new star were really--"
"Well, it's rather lucky you came to me," said Joan quietly.
"For I don't believe you'd have found anybody else on the whole face
of the earth who knows exactly where he is now."
"And where is he?"
"Well, he's not on the face of the earth," said Joan Hardy.
"You don't mean he's--dead?" asked the other in an unnatural voice.
"I mean he's up in the air," said Joan, "or, what is often much
the same thing, he is with my husband. Hilary rescued him when they
were just going to nab him, and carried him off in an aeroplane.
He says they'd better hide in the clouds for a bit. You know
the way he talks; of course, they do come down every now and then
when it's safe."
"Escaped! Nabbed him! Safe!" ejaculated the other young woman
with round eyes. "What in the world does it all mean?"
"Well," replied her friend, "he seems to have said the same sort
of things that he said to you to a whole roomful of scientific men
at Bath. And, of course, the scientific men all said he was mad;
I suppose that's what scientific men are for. So they were just
going to take him away to an asylum, when Hilary--"
The farmer's daughter rose in a glory of rage that might have seemed
to lift the roof, as the great sunrise had seemed to lift the sky.
"Take him away!" she cried. "How dare they talk about such things?
How dare they say he is mad? It's they who must be mad to say
such stuff! Why, he's got more brains in his boots than they
have in all their silly old bald heads knocked together--and I'd
like to knock 'em together! Why, they'd all smash like egg-shells,
and he's got a head like cast-iron. Don't you know he's beaten
all the old duffers at their own business, of stars and things?
I expect they're all jealous; it's just what I should have expected
of them."
The fact that she was entirely unacquainted with the names,
and possibly the existence, of these natural philosophers did
not arrest the vigorous word-painting with which she completed
their portraits. "Nasty spiteful old men with whiskers," she said,
"all bunched together like so many spiders and weaving dirty
cobwebs to catch their betters; of course, it's all a conspiracy.
Just because they're all mad and hate anybody who's quite sane."
"So you think he's quite sane?" asked her hostess gravely.
"Sane? What do you mean? Of course he's quite sane,"
retorted Margery Dale.
With a mountainous magnanimity Joan was silent. Then after a pause
she said:
"Well, Hilary has taken his case in hand and your friend's safe
for the present; Hilary generally brings things off, however queer
they sound. And I don't mind telling you in confidence that he's
bringing that and a good many other things off, rather big things,
just now. You can't keep him from fighting whatever you do; and he
seems to be out just now to fight everybody. So I shouldn't wonder
if you saw all your old gentlemen's heads knocked together after all.
There are rather big preparations going on; that friend of his named
Blair is for ever going and coming with his balloons and things;
and I believe something will happen soon on a pretty large scale,
perhaps all over England."
"Will it?" asked Miss Dale in an absent-minded manner (for she
was sadly deficient in civic and political sense). "Is that your
Tommy out there?"
And they talked about the child and then about a hundred entirely
trivial things; for they understood each other perfectly.
And if there are still things the reader fails to understand,
if (as seems almost incredible) there are things that he wishes
to understand, then it can only be at the heavy price of studying
the story of the Unprecedented Architecture of Commander Blair;
and with that, it is comforting to know, the story of all these things
will be drawing near its explanation and its end.
CHESTERTON-Tales of the Long Bow - THE EXCLUSIVE LUXURY OF ENOCH OATES