THE CREATURE THAT MAN FORGETS
DESPITE the natural hubbub round the wound of Lord Ivywood and the
difficulties of the police in finding their way to the shore, the
fugitives of the Flying Inn must almost certainly have been captured but
for a curious accident, which also flowed, as it happened, from the
great Ivywood debate on Vegetarianism.
The comparatively late hour at which Lord Ivywood had made his discovery
had been largely due to a very long speech which Joan had not heard, and
which was delivered immediately before the few concluding observations
she had heard from Dr. Gluck. The speech was made by an eccentric, of
course. Most of those who attended, and nearly all of those who talked,
were eccentric in one way or another. But he was an eccentric of great
wealth and good family, an M.P., a J.P., a relation of Lady Enid, a man
well known in art and letters; in short, a personality who could not be
prevented from being anything he chose, from a revolutionist to a bore.
Dorian Wimpole had first become famous outside his own class under the
fanciful title of the Poet of the Birds. A volume of verse, expanding
the several notes or cries of separate song-birds into fantastic
soliloquies of these feathered philosophers, had really contained a
great deal of ingenuity and elegance. Unfortunately, he was one of those
who always tend to take their own fancies seriously, and in whose
otherwise legitimate extravagance there is too little of the juice of
jest. Hence, in his later works, when he explained “The Fable of the
Angel,” by trying to prove that the fowls of the air were creatures
higher than man or the anthropoids, his manner was felt to be too
austere; and when he moved an amendment to Lord Ivywood’s scheme for the
model village called Peaceways, urging that its houses should all follow
the more hygienic architecture of nests hung in trees, many regretted
that he had lost his light touch. But, when he went beyond birds and
filled his poems with conjectural psychology about all the Zoological
Gardens, his meaning became obscure; and Lady Susan had even described
it as his bad period. It was all the more uncomfortable reading because
he poured forth the imaginary hymns, love-songs and war-songs of the
lower animals, without a word of previous explanation. Thus, if someone
seeking for an ordinary drawing-room song came on lines that were headed
“A Desert Love Song,” and which began—
“Her head is high against the stars,
Her hump is heaved in pride,”
the compliment to the lady would at first seem startling, until the
reader realised that all the characters in the idyll were camels. Or, if
he began a poem simply entitled, “The March of Democracy,” and found in
the first lines—
“Comrades, marching evermore,
Fix your teeth in floor and door,”
he might be doubtful about such a policy for the masses; until he
discovered that it was supposed to be addressed by an eloquent and
aspiring rat to the social solidarity of his race. Lord Ivywood had
nearly quarrelled with his poetic relative over the uproarious realism
of the verses called “A Drinking Song,” until it was carefully explained
to him that the drink was water, and that the festive company consisted
of bisons. His vision of the perfect husband, as it exists in the
feelings of the young female walrus, is thoughtful and suggestive; but
would doubtless receive many emendations from anyone who had experienced
those feelings. And in his sonnet called “Motherhood” he has made the
young scorpion consistent and convincing, yet somehow not wholly
lovable. In justice to him, however, it should be remembered that he
attacked the most difficult cases on principle, declaring that there was
no earthly creature that a poet should forget.
He was of the blond type of his cousin, with flowing fair hair and
mustache, and a bright blue, absent-minded eye; he was very well dressed
in the carefully careless manner, with a brown velvet jacket and the
image on his ring of one of those beasts men worshipped in Egypt.
His speech was graceful and well worded and enormously long, and it was
all about an oyster. He passionately protested against the suggestion of
some humanitarians who were vegetarians in other respects, but
maintained that organisms so simple might fairly be counted as
exceptions. Man, he said, even at his miserable best, was always trying
to excommunicate some one citizen of the cosmos, to forget some one
creature that he should remember. Now, it seemed that creature was the
oyster. He gave a long account of the tragedy of the oyster, a really
imaginative and picturesque account; full of fantastic fishes, and coral
crags crawling and climbing, and bearded creatures streaking the
seashore and the green darkness in the cellars of the sea.
“What a horrid irony it is,” he cried, “that this is the only one of the
lower creatures whom we call a Native! We speak of him, and of him alone
as if he were a native of the country. Whereas, indeed, he is an exile
in the universe. What can be conceived more pitiful than the eternal
frenzy of the impotent amphibian? What is more terrible than the tear of
an oyster? Nature herself has sealed it with the hard seal of eternity.
The creature man forgets bears against him a testimony that cannot be
forgotten. For the tears of widows and of captives are wiped away at
last like the tears of children. They vanish like the mists of morning
or the small pools after a flood. But the tear of the oyster is a
pearl.”
The Poet of the Birds was so excited with his own speech that, after the
meeting, he walked out with a wild eye to the motor car, which had been
long awaiting him, the chauffeur giving some faint signs of relief.
“Toward home, for the present,” said the poet, and stared at the moon
with an inspired face.
He was very fond of motoring, finding it fed him with inspirations; and
he had been doing it from an early hour that morning, having enjoyed a
slightly lessened sleep. He had scarcely spoken to anybody until he
spoke to the cultured crowd at Ivywood. He did not wish to speak to
anyone for many hours yet. His ideas were racing. He had thrown on a fur
coat over his velvet jacket, but he let it fly open, having long
forgotten the coldness in the splendour of the moonstruck night. He
realised only two things: the swiftness of his car and the swiftness of
his thoughts. He felt, as it were, a fury of omniscience; he seemed
flying with every bird that sped or spun above the woods, with every
squirrel that had leapt and tumbled within them, with every tree that
had swung under and sustained the blast.
Yet in a few moments he leaned forward and tapped the glass frontage of
the car, and the chauffeur suddenly squaring his shoulders, jarringly
stopped the wheels. Dorian Wimpole had just seen something in the clear
moonlight by the roadside, which appealed both to this and to the other
side of his tradition; something that appealed to Wimpole as well as to
Dorian.
Two shabby looking men, one in tattered gaiters and the other in what
looked like the remains of fancy dress with the addition of hair, of so
wild a red that it looked like a wig, were halted under the hedge,
apparently loading a donkey cart. At least two rounded, rudely
cylindrical objects, looking more or less like tubs, stood out in the
road beside the wheels, along with a sort of loose wooden post that lay
along the road beside them. As a matter of fact, the man in the old
gaiters had just been feeding and watering the donkey, and was now
adjusting its harness more easily. But Dorian Wimpole naturally did not
expect that sort of thing from that sort of man. There swelled up in him
the sense that his omnipotence went beyond the poetical; that he was a
gentleman, a magistrate, an M.P. and J.P., and so on. This callousness
or ignorance about animals should not go on while he was a J.P.;
especially since Ivywood’s last Act. He simply strode across to the
stationary cart and said:
“You are overloading that animal, and it is forfeited. And you must come
with me to the police station.”
Humphrey Pump, who was very considerate to animals, and had always tried
to be considerate to gentlemen, in spite of having put a bullet into one
of their legs, was simply too astounded and distressed to make any
answer at all. He moved a step or two backward and stared with brown,
blinking eyes at the poet, the donkey, the cask, the cheese, and the
sign-board lying in the road.
But Captain Dalroy, with the quicker recovery of his national
temperament, swept the poet and magistrate a vast fantastic bow and said
with agreeable impudence, “interested in donkeys, no doubt?”
“I am interested in all things men forget,” answered the poet, with a
fine touch of pride, “but mostly in those like this, that are most
easily forgotten.”
Somehow from those two first sentences Pump realised that these two
eccentric aristocrats had unconsciously recognised each other. The fact
that it was unconscious seemed, somehow, to exclude him all the more. He
stirred a little the moonlit dust of the road with his rather
dilapidated boots and eventually strolled across to speak to the
chauffeur.
“Is the next police station far from here?” he asked.
The chauffeur answered with one syllable of which the nearest literal
rendering is “dno.” Other spellings have been attempted, but the
sentiment expressed is that of agnosticism.
But something of special brutality of abbreviation made the shrewd, and
therefore sensitive, Mr. Pump look at the man’s face. And he saw it was
not only the moonlight that made it white.
With that dumb delicacy that was so English in him, Pump looked at the
man again, and saw he was leaning heavily on the car with one arm, and
saw that the arm was shaking. He understood his countrymen enough to
know that whatever he said he must say in a careless manner.
“I hope it’s nearer to your place. You must be a bit done up.”
“Oh hell!” said the driver and spat on the road.
Pump was sympathetically silent, and Mr. Wimpole’s chauffeur broke out
incoherently, as if in another place.
“Blarsted beauties o’ dibrike and no breakfast. Blarsted lunch Hivywood
and no lunch. Blarsted black everlastin’ hours artside while ’e ’as ’is
cike an’ champine. And then it’s a dornkey.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Pump in a very serious voice, “that you’ve
had no food today?”
“Ow no!” replied the cockney, with the irony of the deathbed. “Ow, of
course not.”
Pump strolled back into the road again, picked up the cheese in his left
hand, and landed it on the seat beside the driver. Then his right hand
went to one of his large loose equivocal pockets, and the blade of a big
jack-knife caught and recaught the steady splendours of the moon.
The driver stared for several instants at the cheese, with the knife
shaking in his hand. Then he began to hack it, and in that white
witchlike light the happiness of his face was almost horrible.
Pump was wise in all such things, and knew that just as a little food
will sometimes prevent sheer intoxication, so a little stimulant will
sometimes prevent sudden and dangerous indigestion. It was practically
impossible to make the man stop eating cheese. It was far better to give
him a very little of the rum, especially as it was very good rum, and
better than anything he could find in any of the public-houses that were
still permitted. He walked across the road again and picked up the small
cask, which he put on the other side of the cheese and from which he
filled, in his own manner, the little cup he carried in his pocket.
But at the sight of this the cockney’s eyes lit at once with terror and
desire.
“But yer cawnt do it,” he whispered hoarsely, “its the pleece. It’s gile
for that, with no doctor’s letter nor sign-board nor nothink.”
Mr. Humphrey Pump made yet another march back into the road. When he got
there he hesitated for the first time, but it was quite clear from the
attitude of the two insane aristocrats who were arguing and posturing in
the road that they would notice nothing except each other. He picked the
loose post off the road and brought it to the car, humorously propping
it erect in the aperture between keg and cheese.
The little glass of rum was wavering in the poor chauffeur’s hand
exactly as the big knife had done, but when he looked up and actually
saw the wooden sign above him, he seemed not so much to pluck up his
courage, but rather to drag up some forgotten courage from the
foundations of some unfathomable sea. It was indeed the forgotten
courage of the people.
He looked once at the bleak, black pinewoods around him and took the
mouthful of golden liquid at a gulp, as if it were a fairy potion. He
sat silent; and then, very slowly, a sort of stony glitter began to come
into his eyes. The brown and vigilant eyes of Humphrey Pump were
studying him with some anxiety or even fear. He did look rather like a
man enchanted or turned to stone. But he spoke very suddenly.
“The blighter!” he said. “I’ll give ’im ’ell. I’ll give ’im bleeding
’ell. I’ll give ’im somethink wot ’e don’t expect.”
“What do you mean?” asked the inn-keeper.
“Why,” answered the chauffeur, with abrupt composure, “I’ll give ’im a
little dornkey.”
Mr. Pump looked troubled. “Do you think,” he observed, affecting to
speak lightly, “that he’s fit to be trusted even with a little donkey?”
“Ow, yes,” said the man. “He’s very amiable with donkeys, and donkeys we
is to be amiable with ’im.”
Pump still looked at him doubtfully, appearing or affecting not to
follow his meaning. Then he looked equally anxiously across at the other
two men; but they were still talking. Different as they were in every
other way, they were of the sort who forget everything, class, quarrel,
time, place and physical facts in front of them, in the lust of lucid
explanation and equal argument.
Thus, when the Captain began by lightly alluding to the fact that after
all it was his donkey, since he had bought it from a tinker for a just
price, the police station practically vanished from Wimpole’s mind—and I
fear the donkey-cart also. Nothing remained but the necessity of
dissipating the superstition of personal property.
“I own nothing,” said the poet, waving his hands outward, “I own nothing
save in the sense that I own everything. All depends whether wealth or
power be used for or against the higher purposes of the cosmos.”
“Indeed,” replied Dalroy, “and how does your motor car serve the higher
purposes of the cosmos?”
“It helps me,” said Mr. Wimpole, with honourable simplicity, “to produce
my poems.”
“And if it could be used for some higher purpose (if such a thing could
be), if some new purpose had come into the cosmos’s head by accident,”
inquired the other, “I suppose it would cease to be your property.”
“Certainly,” replied the dignified Dorian. “I should not complain. Nor
have you any title to complain when the donkey ceases to be yours when
you depress it in the cosmic scale.”
“What makes you think,” asked Dalroy, “that I wanted to depress it?”
“It is my firm belief,” replied Dorian Wimpole, sternly, “that you
wanted to ride on it” (for indeed the Captain had once repeated his
playful gesture of putting his large leg across). “Is not that so?”
“No,” answered the Captain, innocently, “I never ride on a donkey. I’m
afraid of it.”
“Afraid of a donkey!” cried Wimpole, incredulously.
“Afraid of an historical comparison,” said Dalroy.
There was a short pause, and Wimpole said coolly enough, “Oh, well,
we’ve outlived those comparisons.”
“Easily,” answered the Irish Captain. “It is wonderful how easily one
outlives someone else’s crucifixion.”
“In this case,” said the other grimly, “I think it is the donkey’s
crucifixion.”
“Why, you must have drawn that old Roman caricature of the crucified
donkey,” said Patrick Dalroy, with an air of some wonder. “How well you
have worn; why, you look quite young! Well, of course, if this donkey is
crucified, he must be uncrucified. But are you quite sure,” he added,
very gravely, “that you know how to uncrucify a donkey? I assure you
it’s one of the rarest of human arts. All a matter of knack. It’s like
the doctors with the rare diseases, you know; the necessity so seldom
arises. Granted that, by the higher purposes of the cosmos, I am unfit
to look after this donkey, I must still feel a faint shiver of
responsibility in passing him on to you. Will you understand this
donkey? He is a delicate-minded donkey. He is a complex donkey. How can
I be certain that, on so short an acquaintance, you will understand
every shade of his little likes and dislikes?”
The dog Quoodle, who had been sitting as still as the sphinx under the
shadow of the pine trees, waddled out for an instant into the middle of
the road and then returned. He ran out when a slight noise as of
rotatory grinding was heard; and ran back when it had ceased. But Dorian
Wimpole was much too keen on his philosophical discovery to notice
either dog or wheel.
“I shall not sit on its back, anyhow,” he said proudly, “but if that
were all it would be a small matter. It is enough for you that you have
left it in the hands of the only person who could really understand it;
one who searches the skies and seas so as not to neglect the smallest
creature.”
“This is a very curious creature,” said the Captain, anxiously, “he has
all sorts of odd antipathies. He can’t stand a motor-car, for instance,
especially one that throbs like that while it’s standing still. He
doesn’t mind a fur coat so much, but if you wear a brown velvet jacket
under it, he bites you. And you must keep him out of the way of a
certain kind of people. I don’t suppose you’ve met them; but they always
think that anybody with less than two hundred a year is drunk and very
cruel, and that anybody with more than two thousand a year is conducting
the Day of Judgment. If you will keep our dear donkey from the society
of such persons—Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!”
He turned in genuine disturbance, and dashed after the dog, who had
dashed after the motor-car and jumped inside. The Captain jumped in
after the dog, to pull him out again. But before he could do so, he
found the car was flying along too fast for any such leap. He looked up
and saw the sign of “The Old Ship” erect in the front like a rigid
banner; and Pump, with his cask and cheese, sitting solidly beside the
driver.
The thing was more of an earthquake and transformation to him even than
to any of the others; but he rose waveringly to his feet and shouted out
to Wimpole.
“You’ve left it in the right hands. I’ve never been cruel to a motor.”
In the moonlight of the magic pine-wood far behind, Dorian and the
donkey were left looking at each other.
To the mystical mind, when it is a mind at all (which is by no means
always the case), there are no two things more impressive and symbolical
than a poet and a donkey. And the donkey was a very genuine donkey, and
the poet was a very genuine poet; however lawfully he might be mistaken
for the other animal at times. The interest of the donkey in the poet
will never be known. The interest of the poet in the donkey was
perfectly genuine; and survived even that appalling private interview in
the owlish secrecy of the woods.
But I think even the poet would have been enlightened if he had seen the
white, set, frantic face of the man on the driver’s seat of his
vanishing motor. If he had seen it he might have remembered the name,
or, perhaps, even begun to understand the nature of a certain animal
which is neither the donkey nor the oyster; but the creature whom man
has always found it easiest to forget, since the hour he forgot God in a
Garden.
------------------------------------------------------------------------