By WALTER DE LA MARE

From The Riddle and Other Stories, by Walter de la Mare.

Copyright, 1923, by Walter de la Mare.

By permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

It was the ebbing light of evening that recalled me out of my story to a

consciousness of my whereabouts. I dropped the squat little red book to

my knee and glanced out of the narrow and begrimed oblong window. We

were skirting the eastern coast of cliffs, to the very edge of which a

ploughman, stumbling along behind his two great horses, was driving the

last of his dark furrows. In a cleft far down between the rocks a cold

and idle sea was soundlessly laying its frigid garlands of foam. I

stared over the flat stretch of waters, then turned my head, and looked

with a kind of suddenness into the face of my one fellow-traveller.

He had entered the carriage, all but unheeded, yet not altogether

unresented, at the last country station. His features were a little

obscure in the fading daylight that hung between our four narrow walls,

but apparently his eyes had been fixed on my face for some little time.

He narrowed his lids at this unexpected confrontation, jerked back his

head, and cast a glance out of his mirky glass at the slip of

greenish-bright moon that was struggling into its full brilliance above

the dun, swelling uplands.

“It’s a queer experience, railway-travelling,” he began abruptly, in a

low, almost deprecating voice, drawing his hand across his eyes. “One is

cast into a passing privacy with a fellow-stranger and then is gone.” It

was as if he had been patiently awaiting the attention of a chosen

listener.

I nodded, looking at him. “That privacy, too,” he ejaculated, “all

that!” My eyes turned towards the window again: bare, thorned, black

January hedge, inhospitable salt coast, flat waste of northern water.

Our engine driver promptly shut off his steam, and we slid almost

noiselessly out of sight of sky and sea into a cutting.

“It’s a desolate country,” I ventured to remark.

“Oh, yes, ‘desolate,’” he echoed a little wearily. “But what frets me is

the way we have of arrogating to ourselves the offices of judge, jury,

and counsel all in one. As if this earth.... I never forget it—the

futility, the presumption. It _leads_ nowhere. We drive in—into all this

silence, this—this, ‘forsakenness,’ this dream of a world between her

lights of day and night time. We desecrate. Consciousness! What restless

monkeys men are.” He recovered himself, swallowed his indignation with

an obvious gulp. “As if,” he continued, in more chastened tones—“as if

that other gate were not for ever ajar, into God knows what of peace and

mystery.” He stooped forward, lean, darkened, objurgatory. “Don’t we

make our world? Isn’t that our blessed, our betrayed responsibility?”

I nodded, and ensconced myself, like a dog in straw, in the basest of

all responses to a rare, even if eccentric, candour—caution.

“Well,” he continued, a little weariedly, “that’s the indictment. Small

wonder if it will need a trumpet to blare us into that last ‘Family

Prayers.’ Then perhaps a few solitaries—just a few—will creep out of

their holes and fastnesses, and draw mercy from the merciful on the

cities of the plain. The buried talent will shine none the worse for the

long, long looming of its napery spun from dream and desire.

“Years ago—ten, fifteen, perhaps—I chanced on the queerest specimen of

this order of the ‘talented.’ Much the same country, too. This”—he swept

his glance out towards the now invisible sea—“this is a kind of dwarf

replica of it. More naked, smoother, more sudden and precipitous, more

‘forsaken,’ moody! Alone! The trees are shorn there, as if with

monstrous shears, by the winter gales. The air’s salt. It is a country

of stones and emerald meadows, of green, meandering, aimless lanes, of

farms set in their cliffs and valleys like rough time-bedimmed jewels,

as if by some angel of humanity, wandering between dark and daybreak.

“I was younger then—in body: the youth of the mind is for men of a

certain age; yours, maybe, and mine. Even then, even at that, I was

sickened of crowds, of that unimaginable London—swarming wilderness of

mankind in which a poor, lost, thirsty dog from Otherwhere tastes first

the full meaning of that idle word ‘forsaken.’ ‘Forsaken by whom?’ is

the question I ask myself now. Visitors to my particular paradise were

few then—as if, my dear sir, we are not all of us visitors, visitants,

revenants, on earth, panting for time in which to tell and share our

secrets, roving in search of marks that shall prove our quest not vain,

not unprecedented, not a treachery. But let that be.

“I would start off morning after morning, bread and cheese in pocket,

from the bare old house I lodged in, bound for that unforeseen nowhere

for which the heart, the fantasy, aches. Lingering hot noondays would

find me stretched in a state half-comatose, yet vigilant, on the

close-flowered turf of the fields or cliffs, on the sun-baked sands and

rocks, soaking in the scene and life around me like some pilgrim

chameleon. It was in hope to lose my way that I would set out. How shall

a man find his way unless he lose it? Now and then I succeeded. That

country is large, and its land and sea marks easily cheat the stranger.

I was still of an age, you see, when my ‘small door’ was ajar, and I

planted a solid foot to keep it from shutting. But how could I know what

I was after? One just shakes the tree of life, and the rare fruits come

tumbling down, to rot for the most part in the lush grasses.

“What was most haunting and provocative in that far-away country was its

fleeting resemblance to the country of dream. You stand, you sit, or lie

prone on its bud-starred heights, and look down; the green, dispersed,

treeless landscape spreads beneath you, with its hollow and mounded

slopes, clustering farmstead, and scatter of village, all motionless

under the vast wash of sun and blue, like the drop-scene of some

enchanted playhouse centuries old. So, too, the visionary bird-haunted

headlands, veiled faintly in a mist of unreality above their broken

stones and the enormous saucer of the sea.

“You cannot guess there what you may not chance upon, or whom. Bells

clash, boom, and quarrel hollowly on the edge of darkness in those

breakers. Voices waver across the fainter winds. The birds cry in a

tongue unknown yet not unfamiliar. The sky is the hawks’ and the stars’.

_There_ one is on the edge of life, of the unforeseen, whereas our

cities—are not our desiccated, jaded minds ever continually pressing and

edging further and further away from freedom, the vast unknown, the

infinite presence, picking a fool’s journey from sensual fact to fact at

the tail of that he-ass called Reason? I suggest that in that solitude

the spirit within us realises that it treads the outskirts of a region

long since called the Imagination. I assert we have strayed, and in our

blindness abandoned——”

* * * * *

My stranger paused in his frenzy, glanced out at me from his obscure

corner as if he had intended to stun, to astonish me with some violent

heresy. We puffed out slowly, laboriously from a “Halt” at which in the

gathering dark and moonshine we had for some while been at a standstill.

Never was wedding-guest more desperately at the mercy of ancient

mariner.

“Well, one day,” he went on, lifting his voice a little to master the

resounding heart-beats of our steam-engine—“one late afternoon, in my

goalless wanderings, I had climbed to the summit of a steep grass-grown

cart-track, winding up dustily between dense, untended hedges. Even then

I might have missed the house to which it led, for, hair-pin fashion,

the track here abruptly turned back on itself, and only a far fainter

footpath led on over the hill-crest. I might, I say, have missed the

house and—and its inmates, if I had not heard the musical sound of what

seemed like the twangling of a harp. This thin-drawn, sweet, tuneless

warbling welled over the close green grass of the height as if out of

space. Truth cannot say whether it was of that air or of my own fantasy.

Nor did I ever discover what instrument, whether of man or Ariel, had

released a strain so pure and yet so bodiless.

“I pushed on and found myself in command of a gorse-strewn height, a

stretch of country that lay a few hundred paces across the steep and

sudden valley in between. In a V-shaped entry to the left, and sunwards,

lay an azure and lazy tongue of the sea. And as my eye slid softly

thence and upwards and along the sharp, green horizon line against the

glass-clear turquoise of space, it caught the flinty glitter of a square

chimney. I pushed on, and presently found myself at the gate of a

farmyard.

“There was but one straw-mow upon its staddles. A few fowls were sunning

themselves in their dust-baths. White and pied doves preened and cooed

on the roof of an outbuilding as golden with its lichens as if the

western sun had scattered its dust for centuries upon the large slate

slabs. Just that life and the whispering of the wind: nothing more. Yet

even at one swift glimpse I seemed to have trespassed upon a peace that

had endured for ages; to have crossed the viewless border that divides

time from eternity. I leaned, resting, over the gate, and could have

remained there for hours, lapsing ever more profoundly into the blessed

quietude that had stolen over my thoughts.

“A bent-up woman appeared at the dark entry of a stone shed opposite to

me, and, shading her eyes, paused in prolonged scrutiny of the stranger.

At that I entered the gate and, explaining that I had lost my way and

was tired and thirsty, asked for some milk. She made no reply, but after

peering up at me, with something between suspicion and apprehension on

her weather-beaten old face, led me towards the house which lay to the

left on the slope of the valley, hidden from me till then by plumy

bushes of tamarisk.

“It was a low grave house, grey-chimneyed, its stone walls traversed by

a deep shadow cast by the declining sun, its dark windows rounded and

uncurtained, its door wide open to the porch. She entered the house, and

I paused upon the threshold. A deep unmoving quiet lay within, like that

of water in a cave renewed by the tide. Above a table hung a wreath of

wild flowers. To the right was a heavy oak settle upon the flags. A beam

of sunlight pierced the air of the staircase from an upper window.

“Presently a dark, long-faced, gaunt man appeared from within,

contemplating me, as he advanced, out of eyes that seemed not so much to

fix the intruder as to encircle his image, as the sea contains the

distant speck of a ship on its wide, blue bosom of water. They might

have been the eyes of the blind; the windows of a house in dream to

which the inmate must make something of a pilgrimage to look out upon

actuality. Then he smiled, and the long, dark features, melancholy yet

serene, took light upon them, as might a bluff of rock beneath a thin

passing wash of sunshine. With a gesture he welcomed me into the large

dark-flagged kitchen, cool as a cellar, airy as a belfry, its sweet air

traversed by a long oblong of light out of the west.

“The wide shelves of the painted dresser were laden with crockery. A

wreath of freshly-gathered flowers hung over the chimney-piece. As we

entered, a twittering cloud of small birds, robins, hedge-sparrows,

chaffinches fluttered up a few inches from floor and sill and

window-seat, and once more, with tiny starry-dark eyes observing me,

soundlessly alighted. I could hear the infinitesimal _tic-tac_ of their

tiny claws upon the slate. My gaze drifted out of the window into the

garden beyond, a cavern of clearer crystal and colour than that which

astounded the eyes of young Aladdin.

“Apart from the twisted garland of wild flowers, the shining metal of

range and copper candlestick, and the bright-scoured crockery, there was

no adornment in the room except a rough frame, hanging from a nail in

the wall, and enclosing what appeared to be a faint patterned fragment

of blue silk or fine linen. The chairs and table were old and heavy. A

low, light warbling, an occasional _skirr_ of wing, a haze-like drone of

bee and fly—these were the only sounds that edged a quiet intensified in

its profundity by the remote stirrings of the sea.

“The house was stilled as by a charm, yet thought within me asked no

questions; speculation was asleep in its kennel. I sat down to the milk

and bread, the honey and fruit which the old woman laid out upon the

table, and her master seated himself opposite to me, now in a low

sibilant whisper—a tongue which they seemed to understand—addressing

himself to the birds, and now, as if with an effort, raising those

strange grey-green eyes of his to bestow a quiet remark upon me. He

asked, rather in courtesy than with any active interest, a few

questions, referring to the world, its business and transports—_our_

beautiful world—as an astronomer in the small hours might murmur a few

words to the chance-sent guest of his solitude concerning the secrets of

Uranus or Saturn. There is another, an inexplorable side to the moon.

Yet he said enough for me to gather that he, too, was of that small

tribe of the aloof and wild to which our cracked old word ‘forsaken’

might be applied, hermits, lamas, clay-matted fakirs, and such-like; the

snowy birds that play and cry amid mid-oceanic surges; the living of an

oasis of the wilderness; which share a reality only distantly dreamed of

by the time-driven thought-corroded congregations of man.

“Yet so narrow and hazardous I somehow realised was the brink of

fellow-being (shall I call it?) which we shared, he and I, that again

and again fantasy within me seemed to hover over that precipice Night

knows as fear. It was he, it seemed, with that still embracive

contemplation of his, with that far-away yet reassuring smile, that kept

my poise, my balance. ‘No,’ some voice within him seemed to utter, ‘you

are safe; the bounds are fixed; though hallucination chaunt its decoy,

you shall not irretrievably pass over. Eat and drink, and presently

return to life.’ And I listened, and, like that of a drowsy child in its

cradle, my consciousness sank deeper and deeper, stilled, pacified into

the dream which, as it seemed, this soundless house of stone now reared

its walls.

“I had all but finished my meal when I heard footsteps approaching on

the flags without. The murmur of other voices, distinguishably shrill

yet guttural even at a distance, and in spite of the dense stones and

beams of the house which had blunted their timbre, had already reached

me. Now the feet halted. I turned my head—cautiously, even perhaps

apprehensively—and confronted two figures in the doorway.

“I cannot now guess the age of my entertainer. These children—for

children they were in face and gesture and effect, though as to form and

stature apparently in their last teens—these children were far more

problematical. I say ‘form and stature,’ yet obviously they were

dwarfish. Their heads were sunken between their shoulders, their hair

thick, their eyes disconcertingly deep-set. They were ungainly; their

features peculiarly irregular, as if two races from the ends of the

earth had in them intermingled their blood and strangeness; as if,

rather animal and angel had connived in their creation.

“But if some inward light lay on the still eyes, on the gaunt,

sorrowful, quixotic countenance that now was fully and intensely bent on

mine, emphatically that light was theirs also. He spoke to them; they

answered—in English, my own language, without a doubt: but an English

slurred, broken, and unintelligible to me, yet clear as a bell,

haunting, penetrating, pining as voice of nix or siren. My ears drank in

the sound as an Arab parched with desert sand falls on his dried belly

and gulps in mouthfuls of crystal water. The birds hopped nearer as if

beneath the rod of an enchanter. A sweet continuous clamour arose from

their small throats. The exquisite colours of plume and bosom burned,

greened, melted in the level sun-ray, in the darker air beyond.

“A kind of mournful gaiety, a lamentable felicity, such as rings in the

cadences of an old folk-song, welled into my heart. I was come back to

the borders of Eden, bowed and outwearied, gazing from out of dream into

dream, homesick, ‘forsaken.’

“Well, years have gone by,” muttered my fellow-traveller deprecatingly,

“but I have not forgotten that Eden’s primeval trees and shade.

“They led me out, these bizarre companions, a he and a she, if I may put

it as crudely as my apprehension of them put it to me then. Through a

broad door they conducted me—if one who leads may be said to be

conducted—into their garden. Garden! A full mile long, between

undiscerned walls, it sloped and narrowed towards a sea at whose dark

unfoamed blue, even at this distance, my eyes dazzled. Yet how can one

call that a garden which reveals no ghost of a sign of human

arrangement, of human slavery, of spade or hoe?

“Great boulders shouldered up, tessellated, embossed, powdered with a

thousand various mosses and lichens, between a flowering greenery of

weeds. Wind-stunted, clear-emerald, lichen-tufted trees smoothed and

crisped the inflowing airs of the ocean with their leaves and spines,

sibilating a thin scarce-audible music. Scanty, rank, and uncultivated

fruits hung close their vivid-coloured cheeks to the gnarled branches.

It was the harbourage of birds, the small embowering parlour of their

house of life, under an evening sky, pure and lustrous as a water-drop.

It cried, ‘Hospital’ to the wanderers of the universe.

“As I look back in ever-thinning, nebulous remembrance on my two

companions, hear their voices gutturally sweet and shrill, catch again

their being, so to speak, I realise that there was a kind of Orientalism

in their effect. Their instant courtesy was not Western, the smiles that

greeted me, whenever I turned my head to look back at them, were

infinitely friendly, yet infinitely remote. So ungainly, so far from our

notions of beauty and symmetry were their bodies and faces, those heads

thrust heavily between their shoulders, their disproportioned yet

graceful arms and hands, that the children in some of our English

villages might be moved to stone them, while their elders looked on and

laughed.

“Dusk was drawing near; soon night would come. The colours of the

sunset, sucking its extremest dye from every leaf and blade and petal,

touched my consciousness even then with a vague fleeting alarm.

“I remember I asked these strange and happy beings, repeating my

question twice or thrice, as we neared the surfy entry of the valley

upon whose sands a tiny stream emptied its fresh water—I asked them if

it was they who had planted this multitude of flowers, many of a kind

utterly unknown to me and alien to a country inexhaustibly rich. ‘We

wait; we wait!’ I think they cried. And it was as if their cry awoke

echo from the green-walled valleys of the mind into which I had strayed.

Shall I confess that tears came into my eyes as I gazed hungrily around

me on the harvest of their patience?

“Never was actuality so close to dream. It was not only an unknown

country, slipped in between these placid hills, on which I had chanced

in my ramblings. I had entered for a few brief moments a strange region

of consciousness. I was treading, thus accompanied, amid a world of

welcoming and fearless life—oh, friendly to me!—the paths of man’s

imagination, the kingdom from which thought and curiosity, vexed

scrutiny and lust—a lust it may be for nothing more impious than the

actual—had prehistorically proved the insensate means of his banishment.

‘Reality,’ ‘Consciousness’: had he for ‘the time being’ unwittingly,

unhappily missed his way? Would he be led back at length to that garden

wherein cockatrice and basilisk bask, harmlessly, at peace?

“I speculate now. In that queer, yes, and possibly sinister company,

sinister only because it was alien to me, I did not speculate. In their

garden, the familiar was become the strange—‘the strange’ that lurks in

the inmost heart, unburdens its riches in trance, flings its light and

gilding upon love, gives heavenly savour to the intemperate bowl of

passion, and is the secret of our incommunicable pity. What is yet

queerer, these things were evidently glad of my company. They stumped

after me (as might yellow men after some Occidental quadruped never

before seen) in merry collusion of nods and wreathed smiles at this

perhaps unprecedented intrusion.

“I stood for a moment looking out over the placid surface of the sea. A

ship in sail hung phantom-like on the horizon. I pined to call my

discovery to its seamen. The tide gushed, broke, spent itself on the

bare boulders, I was suddenly cold and alone, and gladly turned back

into the garden, my companions instinctively separating to let me pass

between them. I breathed in the rare, almost exotic heat, the tenuous,

honeyed, almond-laden air of its flowers and birds—gull, sheldrake,

plover, wagtail, finch, robin, which as I half-angrily, half-sadly

realised fluttered up in momentary dismay only at _my_ presence—the

embodied spectre of their enemy, man. Man? Then who were these?...

“I lost again a way lost early that morning, as I trudged inland at

night. The dark came, warm and starry. I was dejected and exhausted

beyond words. That night I slept in a barn and was awakened soon after

daybreak by the crowing of cocks. I went out, dazed and blinking into

the sunlight, bathed face and hands in a brook near by, and came to a

village before a soul was stirring. So I sat under a thrift-cushioned,

thorn-crowned wall in a meadow, and once more drowsed off and fell

asleep. When again I awoke, it was ten o’clock. The church clock in its

tower knelled out the strokes, and I went into an inn for food.

“A corpulent, blonde woman, kindly and hospitable, with a face

comfortably resembling her own sow’s, that yuffed and nosed in at the

open door as I sat on my stool, served me with what I called for. I

described—not without some vanishing shame, as if it were a treachery—my

farm, its whereabouts.

“Her small blue eyes ‘pigged’ at me with a fleeting expression which I

failed to translate. The name of the farm, it appeared, was Trevarras.

‘And did you see any of the Creatures?’ she asked me in a voice not

entirely her own. ‘The Creatures’? I sat back for an instant and stared

at her; then realised that Creature was the name of my host, and Maria

and Christus (though here her dialect may have deceived me) the names of

my two gardeners. She spun an absurd story, so far as I could tack it

together and make it coherent. Superstitious stuff about this man who

had wandered in upon the shocked and curious inhabitants of the district

and made his home at Trevarras—a stranger and pilgrim, a ‘foreigner,’ it

seemed, of few words, dubious manners, and both uninformative.

“Then there was something (she placed her two fat hands, one of them

wedding-ringed, on the zinc of the bar-counter, and peered over at me,

as if I were a delectable ‘wash’), then there was something about a

woman ‘from the sea.’ In a ‘blue gown,’ and either dumb, inarticulate,

or mistress of only a foreign tongue. She must have lived in sin,

moreover, those pig’s eyes seemed to yearn, since the children were

‘simple,’ ‘naturals’—as God intends in such matters. It was useless.

One’s stomach may sometimes reject the cold sanative aerated water of

‘the next morning,’ and my ridiculous intoxication had left me dry but

not yet quite sober.

“Anyhow, this she told me, that my blue woman, as fair as flax, had died

and was buried in the neighbouring churchyard (the nearest to, though

miles distant from Trevarras). She repeatedly assured me, as if I might

otherwise doubt so sophisticated a fact, that I should find her grave

there, her ‘stone.’

“So indeed I did—far away from the elect, and in a shade-ridden

north-west corner of the sleepy, cropless acre: a slab, scarcely

rounded, of granite, with but a name bitten out of the dark, rough

surface, ‘_Femina Creature_.’”