THERE were two rugs in the library, and for some time we used to dispute
the vexed question of their relative merits. Æsthetically, there was
something to be said for both of them. The rug that stood by the
writing-desk from which father wrote to the newspapers was soft and
furry; indeed, it was almost as pleasant a couch as the sofa with the
soft cushions in the drawing-room, which was taboo. Moreover, it lent
itself very readily to such fashionable winter sport as bear-hunting,
providing as it did a trackless prairie, a dangerous marsh, or the quarry
itself as the adventure required. The joys of the other rug were of a
calmer kind, and were, perhaps, chiefly due to its advantageous position
before the fire. It was pleasant to toast oneself on a winter evening
and trace with idle fingers the agreeable deviations of its pattern.
Sometimes it might be the ground plan of a make-up city, with forts and
sweet-shops and palaces for our friends; sometimes it would be a maze,
and we would pursue, with bated breath, the vaulted passages that led to
the dread lair of the Minotaur. But such plots as these were of passive,
rather than active, interest. Reviewing the argument dispassionately,
Fenimore Cooper may have had a slight advantage over Nathaniel Hawthorne;
bear-hunting may have been a little more popular than the dim excitements
of Greek myth.
But while the discussion was at its height, there dawned in the East the
sun that was to prove fatal to Perseus and the Deerslayer alike. I do
not know from which of our uncles “The Arabian Nights” first came to an
enraptured audience; but I am sure that an uncle must have been
responsible for its coming, for as a gift it was avuncular in its
splendour. We quickly realised that the world had changed, and took the
necessary steps to welcome our new guest. The old lamp in the hall that
had graced the illicit doings of pirates and smugglers in the past was
thenceforward the property of Aladdin; a strange bottle that had been
Crusoe’s served to confine the unfortunate genie; and with quickening
pulses we discovered that in the fireside rug we possessed no less a
treasure than the original magic carpet.
I must explain that we were not like those fortunate children of whom
Miss Nesbit writes with such humorous charm. To us there fell no
tremendous adventures; we might polish Aladdin’s lamp till it shone like
the moon without gaining a single concrete acid-drop for our pains. But
the “Arabian Nights” gave us all that we ever thought of seeking either
in books or toys in those uncritical days—a starting-point for our
dreams. And this, I take it, is the best thing that a writer can give a
child, and it was for lack of this that we considered the works of Lewis
Carroll silly, while finding one of the books of Miss Molesworth—I wish I
could recall its name—a masterpiece of fancy and erudition.
So when the din of the schoolroom did not suit my mood, or the
authorities were unduly didactic, I would slip away to the twilit library
and guide the magic carpet through the delicate meadows of my dreams.
The fire would blaze and crackle in the grate and fill my eyes with
tears, so that it was easy to fancy myself in a sparkling world of
sunshine. And from the shadows of the room little creatures would creep
out to touch my glowing cheeks with cool, soft fingers, or to pluck
timidly at the sleeve of my coat. I did not endeavour to give these shy
companions of the dark any definite place in my universe. Their
sympathetic reticence was reassuring in that room of great leaping
shadows, and I was glad that they should keep me company in the
blackness, a thing so terrible when I woke up at night in my bed.
Sometimes, perhaps, I wondered how they could bear to live in the place
where nightmare was; but for the rest I accepted their society gladly and
without question. There was plenty of room on the carpet for such quiet
fellows, and if they liked to accompany me on my travels I, at least,
would not prevent them.
It did not occur to me at the time, as it certainly does now, that I
should never again be so near to fairyland as I was then. I was inclined
to be sceptical concerning the actual existence of the supernatural,
though I recognised that a judicious acceptance of its theories set a new
kingdom beneath one’s feet for play. And it is only now that I realise
how wonderfully vivid my dreams were, with what zest of timid life the
little shadow-folk thrilled and trembled round me. It is true that I
remained conscious of my normal environment; the fire, the dark room, and
the bookcases were all there, and even a kind of quiet sense of the World
beyond the Door, the hall and the passages and my brothers and sisters at
their quarrels. But it was as if these things had become merely an idea
in my mind, while my feet were set on the pleasant roads of a new world.
The thing that I had hoped became true; and the truth that I had been
taught lingered in my mind only as a familiar story, a business of
second-hand emotions, neither very desirable nor very interesting. The
little folk gathered and whispered round me in the dark, and there was
full day in the world that was my own.
It was hard to leave that world for this other place, which even now I
cannot understand; but when some errant Olympian or righteously indignant
brother had dragged me from my lair, I did not attempt to defend myself
from the charge of moodiness. I had no words to tell them what they had
done, and I could only stand blinking beneath the light of the gas in the
hall, and endeavour to recall their wholly tiresome rules and regulations
for the life of youth. Dimly I knew that my right place was before the
fire in the library, and I wondered whether the little folk could use the
Magic Carpet without me, or whether they stayed expectant in the shadows,
like me, a little lonely, and a little chill. But in those days
moodiness was only a lesser crime than sulkiness, and I had perforce to
fold up my fancies and pass, an emotional bankrupt, into the
unsympathetic world of the playroom. To-morrow, perhaps, the Magic
Carpet might be mine again; meanwhile, I would exist.
Peter Pan has asked us a good many times whether we believe in fairies.
It is, of course, a matter of faith, to be accepted or denied, but not to
be discussed. For my part, I think of a little boy nodding on a rug
before the fire on many a winter’s evening, and I clap my hands.
Gratitude could do no less.