I cannot remember whether this tale is true or not. If I read it through
very carefully I have a suspicion that I should come to the conclusion
that it is not. But, unfortunately, I cannot read it through very
carefully, because, you see, it is not written yet. The image and the
idea of it clung to me through a great part of my boyhood; I may have
dreamt it before I could talk; or told it to myself before I could read;
or read it before I could remember. On the whole, however, I am certain
that I did not read it, for children have very clear memories about
things like that; and of the books which I was really fond I can still
remember, not only the shape and bulk and binding, but even the position
of the printed words on many of the pages. On the whole, I incline to
the opinion that it happened to me before I was born.
.....
At any rate, let us tell the story now with all the advantages of the
atmosphere that has clung to it. You may suppose me, for the sake of
argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants
in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the
quality of food, and take their half-hour’s vacation so fast that it has
none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one’s leisure is the
most unbusiness-like of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if
they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all
had one eye a little off, hypnotised by the huge eye of the clock. In
short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their
fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest
chain ever tied to a man--it is called a watch-chain.
Now, among these there entered and sat down opposite to me a man who
almost immediately opened an uninterrupted monologue. He was like all
the other men in dress, yet he was startlingly opposite to them in all
manner. He wore a high shiny hat and a long frock coat, but he wore them
as such solemn things were meant to be worn; he wore the silk hat as if
it were a mitre, and the frock coat as if it were the ephod of a high
priest. He not only hung his hat up on the peg, but he seemed (such was
his stateliness) almost to ask permission of the hat for doing so, and
to apologise to the peg for making use of it. When he had sat down on
a wooden chair with the air of one considering its feelings and given a
sort of slight stoop or bow to the wooden table itself, as if it were an
altar, I could not help some comment springing to my lips. For the man
was a big, sanguine-faced, prosperous-looking man, and yet he treated
everything with a care that almost amounted to nervousness.
For the sake of saying something to express my interest I said, “This
furniture is fairly solid; but, of course, people do treat it much too
carelessly.”
As I looked up doubtfully my eye caught his, and was fixed as his was
fixed in an apocalyptic stare. I had thought him ordinary as he entered,
save for his strange, cautious manner; but if the other people had seen
him then they would have screamed and emptied the room. They did not see
him, and they went on making a clatter with their forks, and a murmur
with their conversation. But the man’s face was the face of a maniac.
“Did you mean anything particular by that remark?” he asked at last, and
the blood crawled back slowly into his face.
“Nothing whatever,” I answered. “One does not mean anything here; it
spoils people’s digestions.”
He limped back and wiped his broad forehead with a big handkerchief; and
yet there seemed to be a sort of regret in his relief.
“I thought perhaps,” he said in a low voice, “that another of them had
gone wrong.”
“If you mean another digestion gone wrong,” I said, “I never heard of
one here that went right. This is the heart of the Empire, and the other
organs are in an equally bad way.”
“No, I mean another street gone wrong,” and he said heavily and quietly,
“but as I suppose that doesn’t explain much to you, I think I shall have
to tell you the story. I do so with all the less responsibility, because
I know you won’t believe it. For forty years of my life I invariably
left my office, which is in Leadenhall Street, at half-past five in the
afternoon, taking with me an umbrella in the right hand and a bag in the
left hand. For forty years two months and four days I passed out of the
side office door, walked down the street on the left-hand side, took
the first turning to the left and the third to the right, from where I
bought an evening paper, followed the road on the right-hand side round
two obtuse angles, and came out just outside a Metropolitan station,
where I took a train home. For forty years two months and four days I
fulfilled this course by accumulated habit: it was not a long street
that I traversed, and it took me about four and a half minutes to do it.
After forty years two months and four days, on the fifth day I went out
in the same manner, with my umbrella in the right hand and my bag in the
left, and I began to notice that walking along the familiar street tired
me somewhat more than usual; and when I turned it I was convinced that I
had turned down the wrong one. For now the street shot up quite a steep
slant, such as one only sees in the hilly parts of London, and in this
part there were no hills at all. Yet it was not the wrong street; the
name written on it was the same; the shuttered shops were the same; the
lamp-posts and the whole look of the perspective was the same; only
it was tilted upwards like a lid. Forgetting any trouble about
breathlessness or fatigue I ran furiously forward, and reached the
second of my accustomed turnings, which ought to bring me almost within
sight of the station. And as I turned that corner I nearly fell on the
pavement. For now the street went up straight in front of my face like a
steep staircase or the side of a pyramid. There was not for miles round
that place so much as a slope like that of Ludgate Hill. And this was
a slope like that of the Matterhorn. The whole street had lifted itself
like a single wave, and yet every speck and detail of it was the same,
and I saw in the high distance, as at the top of an Alpine pass, picked
out in pink letters the name over my paper shop.
“I ran on and on blindly now, passing all the shops and coming to a part
of the road where there was a long grey row of private houses. I had,
I know not why, an irrational feeling that I was a long iron bridge in
empty space. An impulse seized me, and I pulled up the iron trap of a
coal-hole. Looking down through it I saw empty space and the stairs.
“When I looked up again a man was standing in his front garden, having
apparently come out of his house; he was leaning over the railings and
gazing at me. We were all alone on that nightmare road; his face was in
shadow; his dress was dark and ordinary; but when I saw him standing so
perfectly still I knew somehow that he was not of this world. And the
stars behind his head were larger and fiercer than ought to be endured
by the eyes of men.
“‘If you are a kind angel,’ I said, ‘or a wise devil, or have anything
in common with mankind, tell me what is this street possessed of
devils.’
“After a long silence he said, ‘What do you say that it is?’
“‘It is Bumpton Street, of course,’ I snapped. ‘It goes to Oldgate
Station.’
“‘Yes,’ he admitted gravely; ‘it goes there sometimes. Just now,
however, it is going to heaven.’
“‘To heaven?’ I said. ‘Why?’
“‘It is going to heaven for justice,’ he replied. ‘You must have treated
it badly. Remember always that there is one thing that cannot be endured
by anybody or anything. That one unendurable thing is to be overworked
and also neglected. For instance, you can overwork women--everybody
does. But you can’t neglect women--I defy you to. At the same time, you
can neglect tramps and gypsies and all the apparent refuse of the State
so long as you do not overwork it. But no beast of the field, no horse,
no dog can endure long to be asked to do more than his work and yet have
less than his honour. It is the same with streets. You have worked this
street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If
you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this
street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have
gone quietly. But at last the street has grown tired of your tireless
insolence; and it is bucking and rearing its head to heaven. Have you
never sat on a bucking horse?’
“I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to
be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven. But
in a moment my sanity returned, and I said, ‘But this is all nonsense.
Streets go to the place they have to go. A street must always go to its
end.’
“‘Why do you think so of a street?’ he asked, standing very still.
“‘Because I have always seen it do the same thing,’ I replied, in
reasonable anger. ‘Day after day, year after year, it has always gone to
Oldgate Station; day after...’
“I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in
revolt.
“‘And you?’ he cried terribly. ‘What do you think the road thinks of
you? Does the road think you are alive? Are you alive? Day after day,
year after year, you have gone to Oldgate Station....’ Since then I have
respected the things called inanimate.”
And bowing slightly to the mustard-pot, the man in the restaurant
withdrew.