Smoke-gold by day, the numb exultant secrecies of fog, a fog-numb air filled with the solemn joy of nameless and impending prophecy, an ancient yellow light, the old smoke-ochre of the morning, never coming to an open brightness — such was October in England that year. Sometimes by night in stormy skies there was the wild, the driven moon, sometimes the naked time-far loneliness, the most-oh!- most familiar blazing of the stars that shine on men for ever, their nameless, passionate dilemma of strong joy and empty desolation, hope and terror, home and hunger, the huge twin tyranny of their bitter governance — wandering for ever and the earth again.
They are still-burning, homely particles of night, that light the huge tent of the dark with their remembered fire, recalling the familiar hill, the native earth from which we came, from which we could have laid our finger on them, and making the great earth and home seem near, most near, to wanderers; and filling them with naked desolations of doorless, houseless, timeless, and unmeasured vacancy.
And everywhere that year there was something secret, lonely, and immense that waited, that impended, that was still. Something that promised numbly, hugely, in the fog-numb air, and that never broke to any open sharpness, and that was almost keen and frosty October in remembered hills — oh, there was something there incredibly near and most familiar, only a word, a stride, a room, a door away — only a door away and never opened, only a door away and never found.
At night, in the lounging rooms of the old inn, crackling fires were blazing cheerfully, and people sat together drinking small cups of the black bitter liquid mud that they called coffee.
The people were mostly family groups who had come to visit their son or brother in the university. They were the most extraordinary, ugly, and distinguished-looking people Eugene had ever seen. There was the father, often the best-looking of the lot: a man with a ruddy weathered face, a cropped white moustache, iron-grey hair — an open, driving, bull-dog look of the country carried with tremendous style. The mother was very ugly with a long horse-face and grimly weathered cheek-flanks that seemed to have the tough consistency of well-tanned leather. Her grim bare smile shone in her weathered face and was nailed for ever round the gauntness of her grinning teeth. She had a neighing voice, a shapeless figure, distinguished by the bony and angular width of the hip structure, clothed with fantastic dowdiness — fantastic because the men were dressed so well, and because everything they wore, no matter how old and used it might be, seemed beautiful and right.
The daughter had the mother’s look: a tall gawky girl with a bony, weathered face and a toothy mouth; she wore an ill-fitting evening or party dress of a light unpleasant blue, with a big meaningless rosette of ruffles at the waist. She had big feet, bony legs and arms, and she was wearing pumps of dreary grey and grey silk stockings.
The son was a little fellow with ruddy apple-cheeks, crisp, fair, curly hair, and baggy grey trousers; and there was another youth, one of his college friends, of the same cut and quality, who paid a dutiful but cold attention to the daughter, which she repaid in kind, and with which everyone was completely satisfied.
They had to be seen to be believed, but even then, one could only say, like the man who saw the giraffe: “I don’t believe it.” The young men sat stiffly on the edges of their chairs, holding their little cups of coffee in their hands, bent forward in an attitude of cold but respectful attentiveness, and the conversation that went on among them was incredible. For their manner was impregnable; they were cold, remote, and formal almost to the point of military curtness, and yet Eugene felt among them constantly an utter familiarity of affection, a strange secret warmth, past words or spoken vows, that burned in them like glacial fire.
When you got ten or fifteen feet away from them their language could not have been more indecipherable if they had spoken in Chinese; but it was fascinating just to listen to the sounds. For there would be long mounting horse-like neighs, and then there would be reedy flute-like notes, and incisive cold finalities and clipped ejaculations and sometimes a lovely and most musical speech. But the horse-like neighs and clipped ejaculations would predominate; and suddenly Eugene understood how strange these people seemed to other races, and why Frenchmen, Germans, and Italians would sometimes stare at them with gape-mouthed stupefaction when they heard them talking.
Once when he passed by them they had the family vicar or some clergyman of their acquaintance with them. He was a mountain of a man, and he too, was hardly credible: the huge creature was at least six and a half feet tall, and he must have weighed three hundred pounds. He had a flaming moon of face and jowl, at once most animal and delicate, and he peered out keenly with luminous smoke-grey eyes beneath a bushy hedge-growth of grey brows. He was dressed in the clerical garb and his bulging grossly sensual calves were encased in buttoned gaiters. As Eugene went by, he was leaning forward with his little cup of muddy coffee held delicately in the huge mutton of his hand, peering keenly out beneath his beetling bush of brow. And what he said was this:
“Did you ever read — that is, in recent y?hs — the concluding chaptahs in ‘The Vicah of Wakefield’?” Carefully he set the little cup down in its saucer. “I was reading it just the other day. It’s an extraordinary thing!” he said.
It is impossible to reproduce the sound of these simple words, or the effect they wrought upon Eugene’s senses.
For, first, the words “Did you ever” were delivered in a delicate rising-and-falling neigh, the word “read” really came out with a long reedy sound, the words “that is, in recent y?hs,” in a parenthesis of sweetly gentle benevolence, the phrase “the concluding chaptahs in ‘The Vicah of Wakefield’” in full, deliberate, satisfied tones of titular respect, the phrase “I was reading it just the other day,” thoughtfully, reedily, with a subdued, gentle, and mellow reminiscence, and the final decisive phrase, “It’s an extraordinary thing,” with passionate conviction and sincerity that passed at the end into such an unction of worshipful admiration that the words “extraordinary thing” were not spoken but breathed out passionately, and had the sound “‘STRAWD’N’RY thing!”
“Ow!” the young man answered distantly, and in a rather surprised tone, with an air of coldly startled interest, “Now! I can’t say that I have — not since my nursery days, at any rate!” He laughed metallically.
“You should read it again,” the mountainous creature breathed unctuously. “A ‘STRAWD’N’RY thing! A ‘STRAWD’N’RY thing.” Delicately he lifted the little cup of muddy black in his huge hand again and put it to his lips.
“But FRIGHTFULLY sentimental, down’t you think?” the girl neighed sharply at this point. “I mean all the lovely-woman-stoops-to-folly sawt of thing, you know. After all, it is a bit thick to expect people to swallow THAT nowadays,” she neighed, “particularly after all that’s happened in the last twenty y?hs. I suppose it mattuhed in the eighteenth centureh, but after all,” she neighed with an impatient scorn, “who cares today? Who cares,” she went on recklessly, “WHAT lovely woman stoops to? I cawn’t see that it makes the SLIGHTEST difference. It’s not as if it mattuhed any longah! No one cares!”
“Ow!” the young man said with his air of coldly startled interest. “Yes, I think I follow you, but I don’t entirely agree. How can we be certain what IS sentimental and what’s not?”
“But it seems to me that he misses the whole point!” the girl exclaimed with one full, mouth-like rush. “After all,” she went on scornfully, “no one is interested in woman’s folly any longah — the ruined-maiden broken-vows sawt of thing. If that was what she got she should have jolly well known what she wanted to begin with! I’LL not waste any pity on her,” she said grimly. “The greatest folly is not knowin’ what you want to do! The whole point today is to live as cleveleh as possible! That’s the only thing that mattahs! If you know what you want and go about it cleveleh, the rest of it will take care of itself.”
“Um,” the mother now remarked, her gaunt bare smile set grimly, formidably, on her weathered face. “That takes a bit of doin’, DOESN’T it?” And as she spoke these quiet words her grim smile never faltered for an instant and there was a hard, an obdurate, an almost savage irony in her intonation, which left them all completely unperturbed.
“Oh, a ‘STRAWD’N’RY thing! A ‘STRAWD’N’RY thing!” the huge clerical creature whispered dreamily at this point, as if he had not heard them. And delicately he set his little cup back on the saucer.
Eugene’s first impulse when he saw and heard them was to shout with an astounded laughter — and yet, somehow, one never laughed. They had a formidable and impregnable quality that silenced laughter: a quality that was so assured in its own sense of inevitable rightness that it saw no other way except its own, and was so invincibly sure in its own way that it was indifferent to all others. It could be taken among strange lands and alien faces, and to the farthest and most savage colonies on earth, and would never change or alter by a jot.
Yes, they had found a way, a door, a room to enter, and there were walls about them now, and the way was theirs. The mark of dark time and the architecture of unnumbered centuries of years were on them, and had made them what they were; and what they were, they were, and would not change.
Eugene did not know if their way was a good way, but he knew it was not his. Their door was one he could not enter. And suddenly the naked empty desolation filled his life again, and he was walking on beneath the timeless sky, and had no wall at which to hurl his strength, no door to enter by, and no purpose for the furious unemployment of his soul. And now the worm was eating at his heart again. He felt the slow interminable waste and wear of grey time all about him and his life was passing in the darkness, and all the time a voice kept saying: “Why? Why am I here now? And where shall I go?”
When Eugene got out into the High Street after dinner, the dark air would be thronging with the music of great bells, and there would be a smell of fog and smoke and old October in the air, the premonitory thrill and menace of some intolerable and nameless joy. Often at night, the visage of the sky would by some magic be released from the thick greyness that had covered it by day, and would shine forth barely, blazing with flashing and magnificent stars.
And, as the old bells thronged through the smoky air, the students would be passing along the street, singly or in groups of two or three, briskly, and with the eager haste that told of meetings to come, appointments to be kept, the expectation of some good fortune, happiness, or pleasure toward which they hurried on.
The soft glow of lights would shine from the ancient windows of the colleges, and one could hear the faint sounds of voices, laughter, sometimes music.
Then Eugene would go to different pubs and drink until the closing time. Sometimes the proctors would come into a pub where he was drinking, speak amicably to everyone, and in a moment more go out again.
Somehow he always hoped that they would take him for a student. He could see them stepping up to him, as he stood there at the bar, saying courteously, yet gravely and sternly:
“Your name and college, sir?”
Then he could see the look of astonished disbelief on their grim red faces when he told them he was not a student, and at last, when he had convinced them, he could hear their crestfallen muttered-out apologies, and would graciously excuse them.
But the proctors never spoke to him, and the bar-man, seeing him look at them as they went out one night, misunderstood the look and laughed with cheerful reassurance:
“You’ve nothing at all to worry about, sir. They won’t bother you. It’s only the gentlemen at the university they’re after.”
“How do they know I’m not there?”
“That I couldn’t tell you, sir,” he answered cheerfully, “but they ‘ave a way of knowin’! Ah, yes!” he said with satisfaction, slapping a wet cloth down upon the bar. “They ‘ave a way of knowin’, right enough! They’re a clever lot, those chaps. A very clever lot, sir, and they always ‘ave a way of knowin’ when you’re not.” And smiling cheerfully, he made a vigorous parting swipe across the wood, and put the cloth away below the counter.
Eugene’s glass was almost empty and he looked at it, and wondered if he ought to have another. He thought they made them very small, and kept thinking of the governors of North and South Carolina. It was a fine, warm, open sort of pub, and there was a big fire-place just behind him, crackling smartly with a fire of blazing coals: he could feel the warmth upon his back. Outside, in the fog-numb air, people came by with lonely rapid footsteps and were lost in fog-numb air again.
At this moment the bar-maid, who had bronze-red hair and the shrewd witty visage of a parrot, turned and called out in a cheerful, crisply peremptory tone: “Time, please, gentlemen. Closing time.”
Eugene put the glass down empty on the bar again. He wondered what the way of knowing was.
It was October, about the middle of the month, at the opening of the Michaelmas term. Everywhere there was the exultant thrill and bustle of returning, of a new life, a new adventure beginning in an ancient and beautiful place that was itself enriched by the countless lives and adventures of hundreds of years which had come and gone. In the morning there was the smoky old-gold yellow of the sun, the numb excitement of the foggy air, a smell of good tobacco, beer, grilled kidneys, ham and sausages, and grilled tomatoes, a faint nostalgic smell of tea, and incredibly, somehow, in that foggy old-gold light, a smell of coffee — an intolerable, maddening, false, delusive smell, for when one went to find the coffee it would not be there: the coffee was black liquid mud, bitter, lifeless, and undrinkable.
Everything was very expensive and yet it made you feel rich yourself just to look at it. The little shops, the wine shops with their bay windows of small leaded glass, and the crusty opulence of the bottles of old port and sherry and the burgundies, the mellow homely warmth and quietness of the interior, the tailor shops, the tobacco shops with their selected grades of fine tobacco stored in ancient crocks, the little bell that tinkled thinly as you went in from the street, the decorous, courteous, yet suavely good-natured proprietor behind the counter, who had the ruddy cheeks, the flowing brown moustache and the wing-collar of the shopkeeper of solid substance, and who would hold the crock below your nose to let you smell the moist fragrance of a rare tobacco before you bought, and would offer you one of his best cigarettes before you left — all of this gave somehow to the simplest acts of life and business a ritualistic warmth and sanctity, and made you feel wealthy and secure.
And everywhere around Eugene in the morning there was the feeling of an imminent recovery, a recapture of a life that had always been his own. The buildings seemed to come from some essence of reality he had always ............