North of London stretches a country called “The Midlands,” filled with
brick cities, all absolutely alike, but populated by natives who,
through heredity, have learned not only to distinguish between them
but even between the different houses; so that at meals and at evening
multitudes return, without confusion or scandal, each to the proper
place.
Last summer, desperate need forced me to cross that area, and I fell
into a motor-licence “control” which began in a market-town filled
with unherded beeves carrying red numbered tickets on their rumps. An
English-speaking policeman inspected my licence on a bridge, while the
cattle blundered and blew round the car. A native in plain clothes
lolled out an enormous mulberry-coloured tongue, with which he licked
a numbered label, precisely like one of those on the behinds of the
bullocks, and made to dab it on my wind-screen. I protested. “But it
will save you trouble,” he said. “You’re liable to be held up for your
licence from now on. This is your protection. Everybody does it.”
“Oh! If that’s the case----” I began weakly.
He slapped it on the glass and I went forward--the man was right--all
the cars I met were “protected” as mine was--till I reached some county
or other which marked the limit of the witch-doctoring, and entered,
at twilight, a large-featured land where the Great North Road ran,
bordered by wide way-wastes, between clumps of old timber.
Here the car, without warning, sobbed and stopped. One does not expect
the make-and-break of the magneto--that tiny two-inch spring of finest
steel--to fracture; and by the time we had found the trouble, night
shut down on us. A rounded pile of woods ahead took one sudden star
to its forehead and faded out; the way-waste melted into the darker
velvet of the hedge; another star reflected itself in the glassy black
of the bitumened road; and a weak moon struggled up out of a mist-patch
from a valley. Our lights painted the grass unearthly greens, and the
tree-boles bone-white. A church clock struck eleven, as I curled up
in the front seat and awaited the progress of Time and Things, with
some notion of picking up a tow towards morning. It was long since I
had spent a night in the open, and the hour worked on me. Time was
when such nights, and the winds that heralded their dawns, had been
fortunate and blessed; but those Gates, I thought, were for ever
shut....
I diagnosed it as a baker’s van on a Ford chassis, lit with unusual
extravagance. It pulled up and asked what the trouble might be. The
first sentence sufficed, even had my lights not revealed the full
hairless face, the horn-rimmed spectacles, the hooded boots below,
and the soft hat, fashioned on no block known to the Eastern trade,
above, the yellow raincoat. I explained the situation. The resources
of Mr. Henry Ford’s machines did not run to spare parts of my car’s
type, but--it was a beautiful night for camping-out. He himself was
independent of hotels. His outfit was a caravan hired these months
past for tours of Great Britain. He had been alone since his wife
died, of duodenal ulcer, five years ago. Comparative Ethnology was his
present study. No, not a professor, nor, indeed, ever at any College,
but a “realtor”--a dealer in real estate in a suburb of the great
and cultured centre of Omaha, Nebraska. Had I ever heard of it? I
had once visited the very place and there had met an unforgettable
funeral-furnisher; but I found myself (under influence of the night and
my Demon) denying all knowledge of the United States. I had, I said,
never left my native land; but the passion of my life had ever been
the study of the fortunes and future of the U. S. A.; and to this end
I had joined three Societies, each of which regularly sent me all its
publications.
He jerked her on to the grass beside my car, where our mingled lights
slashed across the trunks of a little wood; and I was invited into his
pitch-pine-lined caravan, with its overpowering electric installation,
its flap-table, typewriter, drawers and lockers below the bunk. Then he
spoke, every word well-relished between massy dentures; the inky-rimmed
spectacles obscuring the eyes and the face as expressionless as the
unrelated voice.
He spoke in capital letters, a few of which I have preserved, on our
National Spirit, which, he had sensed, was Homogeneous and in Ethical
Contact throughout--Unconscious but Vitally Existent. That was his
Estimate of our Racial Complex. It was an Asset, but a Democracy
postulating genuine Ideals should be more multitudinously-minded and
diverse in Outlook. I assented to everything in a voice that would have
drawn confidences from letter-boxes.
He next touched on the Collective Outlook of Democracy, and thence
glanced at Herd Impulse, and the counterbalancing necessity for
Individual Self-Expression. Here he began to search his pockets,
sighing heavily from time to time.
“Before my wife died, sir, I was rated a one-hundred-per-cent.
American. I am now--but.... Have you ever in Our Literature read a book
called _The Man Without a Country_? I’m him!” He still rummaged, but
there was a sawing noise behind the face.
“And you may say, first and last, drink did it!” he added. The noise
resumed. Evidently he was laughing, so I laughed too. After all, if a
man must drink, what better lair than a caravan? At his next words I
repented.
“On my return back home after her burial, I first received my Primal
Urge towards Self-Expression. Till then I had never realised myself....
Ah!”
He had found it at last in a breast pocket--a lank and knotty cigar.
“And what, sir, is your genuine Opinion of Prohibition?” he asked when
the butt had been moistened to his liking.
“Oh!--er! It’s a--a gallant adventure!” I babbled, for somehow I had
tuned myself to listen-in to tales of other things. He turned towards
me slowly.
“The Revelation _qua_ Prohibition that came to me on my return back
home from her funeral was _not_ along those lines. This is the Platform
_I_ stood on.” I became, thenceforward, one of vast crowds being
addressed from that Platform.
“There are Races, sir, which have been secluded since their origin
from the microbes--the necessary and beneficent microbes--of
Civ’lisation. Once those microbes are introdooced to ’em, those races
re-act precisely in proportion to their previous immunity _or_ Racial
Virginity. Measles, which I’ve had twice and never laid by for, are
as fatal to the Papuan as pneumonic plague to the White. Alcohol, for
them, is disaster, degeneration, and death. Why? You can’t get ahead
of Cause and Effect. Protect any race from its natural and God-given
bacteria and you automatically create the culture for its decay, when
that protection is removed. That, sir, is my Thesis.”
The unlit cigar between his lips circled slowly, but I had no desire to
laugh.
“The virgin Red Indian fell for the Firewater of the Paleface as soon
as it was presented to him. For Firewater, sir, he parted with his
lands, his integrity, an’ his future. What is he now? An Ethnological
Survival under State Protection. You get me? Immunise, or virg’nise,
the Cit’zen of the United States to alcohol, an’ you as surely redooce
him to the mental status an’ outlook of that Redskin. _That_ is the
Ne-mee-sis of Prohibition. And the Process has begun, sir. Haven’t you
noticed it already”--he gulped--“among Our People?”
“Well,” I said. “Men don’t always act as they preach, of course.”
“You won’t abrade _my_ National Complex. What’s the worst you’ve seen
in connection with Our People--and Rum?” The round lenses were full on
me. I chanced it.
“I’ve seen one of ’em on a cross-Channel boat, talking Prohibition in
the bar--pretty full. He had three drinks while I listened.”
“I thought you said you’d never quit England?” he replied.
“Oh, we don’t count France,” I amended hastily.
“Then was you ever at Monte Carlo? No? Well, I was--this spring. One of
our tourist steamers unloaded three hundred of ’em at the port o’ Veel
Franshe; and they went off to Monte Carlo to dine. I saw ’em, sir, come
out of the dinner-hall of that vast Hotel opp’site the Cassino there,
not drunk, but all--_all_ havin’ drink taken. In that hotel lounge
after that meal, I saw an elderly cit’zen up an’ kiss eight women,
none of ’em specially young, sittin’ in a circle on the settees; the
rest of his crowd applaudin’. Folk just shrugged their shoulders, and
the French nigger on the door, I heard him say: ‘It’s only the Yanks
tankin’ up.’ It galled me. As a one-hundred-per-cent. American, it
galled me unspeakably. And _you’ve_ observed the same thing durin’ the
last few years?”
I nodded. The face was working now in the yellow lights reflected from
the close-buttoned raincoat. He dropped his hand on his knee and struck
it again and again, before he steadied himself with the usual snap and
grind of his superb dentist-work.
“My Rev’lation _qua_ the Peril of Prohibition was laid on me on my
return back home in the hour of my affliction. I’d been discussin’
Prohibition with Mrs. Tarworth only the week before. Her best friend,
sir, a neighbour of ours, had filled one of the vases in our parlour
with chrysanthemums out of a bust wreath. I can’t ever smell to those
flowers now ’thout it all comin’ back. Yes, sir, in my hour of woe
it was laid on me to warn my land of the Ne-mee-sis of Presumption.
There’s only one Sin in the world--and that is Presumption. Without
strong Presumption, sir, we’d never have fixed Prohibition the way we
did.... An’ when I retired that night I reasoned it out that there was
but one weapon for me to work with to convey my message to my native
land. That, sir, was the Movies. So I reasoned it. I reasoned it
so-oo! Now the Movies wasn’t a business I’d ever been interested in,
though a regular attendant.... Well, sir, within ten days after I had
realised the Scope an’ Imperativeness of my Rev’lation, I’d sold out
an’ re-invested so’s everything was available. I quit Omaha, sir, the
freest--the happiest--man in the United States.”
A puff of air from the woods licked through the open door of the
caravan, trailing a wreath of mist with it. He pushed home the door.
“So you started in on Anti-Prohibition films?” I suggested.
“Sir?--More! It was laid on me to feature the Murder of Immunised
America by the Microbe of Modern Civ’lisation which she had
presumptuously defied. That text inspired all the titling. Before
I arrived at the concept of the Appeal, I was months studyin’ the
Movie business in every State of Our Union, in labour and trava-il.
The Complete Concept, sir, with its Potential’ties, came to me of a
Sunday afternoon in Rand Park, Keokuk, Iowa--the centre of our native
pearl-button industry. As a boy, sir, I used to go shell-tongin’ after
mussels, in a shanty-boat on the Cumberland River, Tennessee, always
hopin’ to find a thousand dollar pearl. (The shell goes to Keokuk for
manufacture.) I found my pearl in Keokuk--where my Concept came to me!
Excuse me!”
He pulled out a drawer of card-indexed photographs beneath the bunk,
ran his long fingers down the edges, and drew out three.
The first showed the head of an elderly Red Indian chief in full
war-paint, the lined lips compressed to a thread, eyes wrinkled,
nostrils aflare, and the whole face lit by so naked a passion of hate
that I started.
“That,” said Mr. Tarworth, “is the Spirit of the Tragedy--both of the
Red Indians who initially, and of our Whites who subsequently, sold
’emselves and their heritage for the Firewater of the Paleface. The
Captions run in diapason with that note throughout. But for a Film
Appeal, you must have a balanced _leet-motif_ interwoven with the
footage. Now this close-up of the Red Man I’m showin’ you, punctuates
the action of the dramma. He recurs, sir, watchin’ the progressive
degradation of his own people, from the advent of the Paleface
with liquor, up to the extinction of his race. After that, you see
him, again, more and more dominant, broodin’ over an’ rejoicin’ in
the downfall of the White American artificially virg’nised against
Alcohol--the identical cycle repeated. I got this shot of Him in
Oklahoma, one of our Western States, where there’s a crowd of the
richest Red Indians (drawin’ oil-royalties) on earth. But they’ve got
a Historical Society that chases ’em into paint and feathers to keep
up their race-pride, _and_ for the Movies. He was an Episcopalian
and owns a Cadillac, I was told. The sun in his eyes makes him look
that way. He’s indexed as ‘Rum-in-the-Cup’ (that’s the element of
Popular Appeal), but, say”--the voice softened with the pride of
artistry--“ain’t He just _it_ for my purposes?”
He passed me the second photo. The cigar rolled again and he held on:
“Now in every Film Appeal, you must balance your _leet-motif_ by
balancin’ the Sexes. The American Women, sir, handed Prohibition to
Us while our boys were away savin’ _you_. I know the type--’born an’
bred with it. She watches throughout the film what She’s brought
about--watches an’ watches till the final Catastrophe. She’s Woman
Triumphant, balanced against Rum-in-the-Cup--the Degraded Male.
I hunted the whole of the Middle West for Her in vain, ’fore I
remembered--not Jordan, but Abanna and Parphar--Mrs. Tarworth’s best
friend at home. I was then in Texarkhana, Arkansas, fixin’ up a deal
I’ll tell you about; but I broke for Omaha that evenin’ to get a shot
of Her. When I arrived so sudden she--she--thought, I guess, I meant
to make her Number Two. That’s Her. You wouldn’t realise the Type, but
it’s _it_.”
I looked; saw the trained sweetness and unction in the otherwise
hardish, ignorant eyes; the slightly open, slightly flaccid mouth; the
immense unconscious arrogance, the immovable certitude of mind, and
the other warning signs in the poise of the broad-cheeked head. He was
fingering the third photo.
“And when the American Woman realises the Scope an’ the Impact an’
the Irrevocability of the Catastrophe which she has created by Her
Presumption, She--She registers Despair. That’s Her--at the finale.”
It was cruelty beyond justification to have pinned down any living
creature in such agony of shame, anger, and impotence among life’s
wreckage. And this was a well-favoured woman, her torment new-launched
on her as she stood gripping the back of a stamped-velvet chair.
“And so you went back to Texarkhana without proposing,” I began.
“Why, yes. There was only forty-seven minutes between trains. I told
her so. But I got both shots.”
I must have caught my breath, for, as he took the photo back again,
he explained: “In the Movie business we don’t employ the actool. This
is only the Basis we build on to the nearest professional type. That
secures controlled emphasis of expression. She’s only the Basis.”
“I’m glad of that,” I said. He lit his cigar, and relaxed beneath the
folds of the loose coat.
“Well, sir, having secured my _leet-motifs_ and Sex-balances, the
whole of the footage coverin’ the downfall of the Red Man was as good
as given me by a bust Congregational Church that had been boosting
Prohibition near Texarkhana. That was why I’d gone there. One of their
ladies, who was crazy about Our National dealin’s with the Indian, had
had the details documented in Washington; an’ the resultant film must
have cost her any God’s dollars you can name. It was all there--the Red
Man partin’ with his lands and furs an’ women to the early settlers for
Rum; the liquor-fights round the tradin’-posts; the Government Agents
swindlin’ ’em with liquor; an’ the Indians goin’ mad from it; the Black
Hawk War; the winnin’ of the West--by Rum mainly--the whole jugful of
Shame. But that film failed, sir, because folk in Arkansaw said it was
an aspersion on the National Honour, and, anyway, buying land needful
for Our inevitable development was more Christian than the bloody
wars of Monarchical Europe. The Congregationalists wanted a new organ
too; so I traded a big Estey organ for their film. My notion was to
interweave it with parallel modern instances, from Monte Carlo and the
European hotels, of White American Degradation; the Main Caption bein’:
‘The Firewater of the Paleface Works as Indifferently as Fate.’ An’ old
Rum-in-the-Cup’s close-up shows broodin’--broodin’--broodin’--through
it all! You sense my Concept?”
He relighted his cigar.
“_I_ saw it like a vision. But, from there on, I had to rely on my
own Complex for intuition. I cut out all modern side-issues--the
fight against Prohibition; bootlegging; home-made Rum manufacture;
wood-alcohol tragedies, an’ all that dope. ’Dunno as I didn’t elim’nate
to excess. The Revolt of the Red Blood Corpuscules should ha’ been
stressed.”
“What’s _their_ share in it?”
“Vital! They clean up waste and deleterious matter in the humane
system. Under the microscope they rage like lions. Deprive ’em of
their job by sterilisin’ an’ virg’nising the system, an’ the Red Blood
Corpuscules turn on the humane system an’ destroy it bodily. Mentally,
too, mebbe. Ain’t that a hell of a thought?”
“Where did you get it from?”
“It came to me--with the others,” he replied as simply as Ezekiel might
have told a fellow-captive beside Chebar. “But it’s too high for a
Democracy. So I cut it right out. For Film purposes I assumed that,
at an unspecified date, the United States had become virg’nised to
liquor. The Taint was out of the Blood, and, apparently, the Instinct
had aborted. ‘The Triumph of Presumption’ is the Caption. But from
there on, I fell down because, for the film Appeal, you cannot present
such an Epoch without featurin’ confirmatory exhibits which, o’ course,
haven’t as yet materialised. That meant that the whole Cultural Aspect
o’ that Civ’lisation of the Future would have to be built up at
Hollywood; an’ half a million dollars wouldn’t cover it. ‘The Vision of
Virg’nised Civ’lisation.’ A hell of a proposition! But it don’t matter
now.”
He dropped his head and was still for a little.
“Never mind,” I said. “How does the idea work out--in your mind?”
“In my mind? As inevitably, sir, as the Red Man’s Fall through
Rum. My notion was a complete Cultural Exposay of a She-dom’nated
Civ’lisation, built on a virginal basis _qua_ alcohol, with immensely
increased material Productivity (say, there’d be money in that from big
Businesses demonstratin’ what they’ll prodooce a hundred years hence),
_and_ a side-wipe at the practically non-existent birth-rate.”
“Why that, too?” I asked.
He gave me the reason--a perfectly sound one--which has nothing to do
with the tale, and went on:
“After that Vision is fully realised, the End comes--as remorselessly
for the White as for the Red. How? The American Woman--you will recall
the first close-up of that lady I showed you, interweavin’ throughout
the narr’tive--havin’ accomplished all she set out to do, wishes to
demonstrate to the world the Integral Significance of Her Life-work.
Why not? She’s never been blamed in Her life. So delib’rately, out
of High Presumption, the American Woman withdraws all inhibit’ry
legislation, all barriers against Alcohol--to show what She has made of
Her Men. The Captions here run--‘The Zeenith of Presumption. America
Stands by Herself--Guide and Saviour of Humanity.’ ‘Let Evil do Its
Damnedest! We are above It.’ Say, ain’t that a hell of a thought?”
“A bit extravagant, isn’t it?”
“Extrav’gance? In the life of actool men an’ women? It don’t exist.
Well, anyway, that’s my top-note before the _day-bakkle_. There’s an
interval while the Great World-Wave is gatherin’ to sweep aside the
Children of Presumption. Nothin’ eventuates for a while. The Machine of
Virg’nised Civ’lisation functions by its own stored energy. And then,
sir--_then_ the World-Wave crashes down on the White as it crashed on
the Red Skin! (All this while old Rum-in-the-Cup is growin’ more an’
more dom’nant, as I told you.) But now, owin’ to the artificialised
mentality of the victims and the immune pop’lation, its effects are
Cataclysmic. ‘The Alcohol Appeal, held back for five Generations, wakes
like a Cyclone.’ That’s the Horror I’m stressin’. And Europe, and Asia,
and the Ghetto exploit America--cold. ‘A Virg’nised People let go all
holts, and part with their All.’ It is no longer a Dom’nation--but an
Obsession. Then a _Po_-ssession! Then come the Levelled Bay’nets of
Europe. Why so? Because the liquor’s peddled out, sir, under armed
European guards to the elderly, pleadin’ American Whites who pass over
their title-deeds--their businesses, fact’ries, canals, sky-scrapers,
town-lots, farms, little happy-lookin’ homes--everything--for it. You
can see ’em wadin’ into the ocean, from Oyster Bay to Palm Beach, under
great flarin’ sunsets of National Decay, to get at the stuff sooner.
And Europe’s got ’em by the gullet--peddlin’ out the cases, or a single
bottle at a time, to each accordin’ to his need--under the Levelled
Bay’nets of Europe.”
“But why lay all the responsibility on Europe?” I broke in. “Surely
some progressive American Liquor Trust would have been in the game from
the first?”
“Sure! But the Appeal is National, and there are some things, sir, that
the American People will _not_ stand for. It was Europe or nothing.
Otherwise, I could not have stressed the effect of the Levelled
Bay’nets of Europe. You see those bay’nets keepin’ order in the vast
cathedrals of the new religions--the broken whisky bottles round the
altar--the Priest himself, old and virg’nised, pleadin’ and prayin’
with his flock till, in the zeenith of his agony an’ his denunciations,
he too falls an’ wallows with the rest of ’em! Extrav’gant? No!
Logic. An’ so it spreads, from West to East, from East to West up to
the dividin’ line where the European and the Asiatic Liquor Trust
has parcelled out the Land o’ Presumption. No paltry rum-peddlin’ at
tradin’-posts _this_ time, but mile-long electric freight-trains,
surgin’ and swoopin’ from San Francisco an’ Boston with their seven
thousand ton of alcohol, till they meet head-on at the Liquor Line, an’
you see the little American People fawnin’ an’ pleadin’ round their
big wheels an’ tryin’ to slip in under the Levelled Bay’nets of Europe
to handle and touch the stuff, even if they can’t drink it. It’s
horrible--horrible! ‘The Wages of Sin!’ ‘The Death of the She-Dom’nated
Sons of Presumption!’”
He stood up, his head high in the caravan’s resonant roof, and mopped
his face.
“Go on!” I said.
“There ain’t much more. You see the devirg’nised European an’ the
immemorially sophisticated Asiatic, who can hold their liquor,
spreadin’ out an’ occupyin’ the land (the signs in the streets register
that) like--like a lavva-flow in Honolulu. There’s jest a hint, too, of
the Return of the Great Scourge, an’ how it fed on all this fresh human
meat. Jest a few feet of the flesh rottin’ off the bones--’same as
when Syph’lis originated in the Re-nay-sanse Epoch. Last of all--date
not specified--will be the herdin’ of the few survivin’ Americans into
their reservation in the Yellowstone Park by a few slouchin’, crippled
remnants of the Redskins. ’Get me? ‘Presumption’s Ultimate Reward.’
‘The Wheel Comes Full Circle.’ An’ the final close-up of Rum-in-the-Cup
with his Hate-Mission accomplished.”
He stooped again to the photos in the bunk-locker.
“I shot that,” he said, “when I was in the Yellowstone. It’s a document
to build up my Last Note on. They’re jest a party of tourists watchin’
grizzly bears rakin’ in the hotel dump-heaps (they keep ’em to show).
That wet light hits back well off their clothes, don’t it?”
I saw six or seven men and women, in pale-coloured raincoats, gathered,
with no pretence at pose, in a little glade. One man was turning up
his collar, another stooping to a bootlace, while a woman opened her
umbrella over him. They faced towards a dimly defined heap of rubbish
and tins; and they looked unutterably mean.
“Yes.” He took it back from me. “That would have been the final
note--the dom’nant resolvin’ into a minor. But it don’t matter now.”
“Doesn’t it?” I said, stupidly enough.
“Not to me, sir. My Church--I’m a Fundamentalist, an’ I didn’t read ’em
more than half the scenario--started out by disownin’ me for aspersin’
the National Honour. A bunch of our home papers got holt of it next.
They said I was a ren’gade an’ done it for dollars. An’ then the
ladies on the Social Betterment an’ Uplift Committees took a hand. In
_your_ country you don’t know the implications of _that_! I’m--I’m a
one-hundred-per-cent. American, but--I didn’t know what men an’ women
are. I guess none of us do at home, or we’d say so, instead o’ playin’
at being American Cit’zens. There’s no law with Us under which a man
can be jailed for aspersin’ the National Honour. There’s no need. It
got into the Legislature, an’ one Senator there he spoke for an hour,
demandin’ to have me unanimously an’ internationally disavowed by--by
my Maker, I presoom. No one else stood by me. I’d been to the big Jew
combines that control the Movie business in our country. I’d been to
Heuvelstein--he represents sixty-seven millions dollars’ interests.
They say he’s never read a scenario in his life. He read every last
word of mine aloud. He laughed some, but he said he was doin’ well in
a small way, and he didn’t propose to start up any pogroms against the
Chosen in New York. He said I was ahead of my time. I know that. An’
then--my wife’s best friend was back of this--folk at home got talkin’
about callin’ for an inquiry into my state o’ mind, an’ whether I was
fit to run my own affairs. I saw a lawyer or two over that, an’ I came
to a realisin’ sense of American Law _an’_ Justice. That was another
of the things I didn’t know. It made me sick to my stummick, sir--sick
with physical an’ mental terror an’ dread. So I quit. I changed my
name an’ quit two years back. Those ancient prophets an’ martyrs
haven’t got much on me in the things a Democracy hands you if you don’t
see eye to eye with it. Therefore, I have no abidin’-place except this
old caravan. Now sir, we two are like ships that pass in the night,
except, as I said, I’ll be very pleased to tow you into Doncaster this
morning. Is there anythin’ about _me_ strikes _you_ in any way as
deviatin’ from sanity?”
“Not in the least,” I replied quickly. “But what have you done with
your scenario?”
“Deposited it in the Bank of England at London.”
“Would you sell it?”
“_No_, sir.”
“Couldn’t it be produced here?”
“I am a one-hundred-per-cent. American. The way _I_ see it, I could not
be a party to an indirect attack on my Native Land.”
Once again he ground his jaws. There did not seem to be much left to
say. The heat in the shut caravan was more and more oppressive. Time
had stood still with me listening. I was aware now that the owls had
ceased hooting and that a night had gone out of the world. I rose from
the bunk. Mr. Tarworth, carefully rebuttoning his raincoat, opened the
door.
“Good Lord Gord Almighty!” he cried with a child’s awed reverence.
“It’s sun-up. Look!”
Daylight was just on the heels of dawn, with the sun following. The
icy-blackness of the Great North Road banded itself with smoking mists
that changed from solid pearl to writhing opal, as they lifted above
hedge-row level. The dew-wet leaves of the upper branches turned
suddenly into diamond facets, and that wind, which runs before the
actual upheaval of the sun, swept out of the fragrant lands to the
East, and touched my cheek--as many times it had touched it before, on
the edge, or at the ends, of inconceivable experiences.
My companion breathed deeply, while the low glare searched the folds
of his coat and the sags and wrinkles of his face. We heard the
far-away pulse of a car through the infinite, clean-born, light-filled
stillness. It neared and stole round the bend--a motor-hearse on its
way to some early or distant funeral, one side of the bright oak coffin
showing beneath the pall, which had slipped a little. Then it vanished
in a blaze of wet glory from the sun-drenched road, amid the songs of a
thousand birds.
Mr. Tarworth laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Say, Neighbour,” he said. “There’s somethin’ very soothin’ in the
Concept of Death after all.”
Then he set himself, kindly and efficiently, to tow me towards
Doncaster, where, when the day’s life should begin again, one might
procure a new magneto make-and-break--that tiny two-inch spring of
finest steel, failure of which immobilises any car.