The First Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK ®. Algernon Blackwood

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СКАЧАТЬ again swiftly like an animal into its hole where safety lay. Before disappearing, it had flashed a wireless message of warning, of welcome, of explanation—he knew not what term to use—to another of its own kind, to himself.

      O’Malley, utterly arrested, stood and stared. He would have spoken, for the invitation seemed obvious enough, but there came an odd catch in his breath, and words failed altogether. the boy, peering at him sideways, clung to his great parent’s side. For perhaps ten seconds there was this interchange of staring, intimate staring, between the three of them…and then the Irishman, confused, more than a little agitated, ended the silent introduction with an imperceptible bow and passed on slowly, knocking absent-mindedly through the crowd, down to his cabin on the lower deck.

      In his heart, deep down, stirred an indescribable sympathy with something he divined in these two that was akin to himself, but that as yet he could not name. On the surface he felt an emotion he knew not whether to call uneasiness or surprise, but crowding past it, half smothering it, rose this other more profound emotion. Something enormously winning in the atmosphere of father and son called to him in the silence: it was significant, oddly buried; not yet had it emerged enough to be confessed and labeled. But each had recognized it in the other. Each knew. Each waited. And it was extraordinarily disturbing.

      Before unpacking, he sat for a long time on his berth, thinking…trying in vain to catch through a thunder of surprising emotions the word that might bring explanation. That strange impression of giant bulk, unsupported by actual measurements; that look of startled security seeking shelter; that other look of being sure, of knowing where to go and being actually en route,—all these, he felt, grew from the same hidden cause whereof they were symptoms. It was this hidden thing in the man that had reached out invisibly and fired his own consciousness as their gaze met in that brief instant. And it had disturbed him so profoundly because the very same lost thing lay buried in himself. the man knew, whereas he anticipated merely—as yet. What was it? Why came there with it both happiness and fear?

      The word that kept chasing itself in a circle like a kitten after its own tail, yet bringing no explanation, was Loneliness—a loneliness that must be whispered. For it was loneliness on the verge of finding relief. And if proclaimed too loud, there might come those who would interfere and prevent relief. the man, and the boy too for that matter, were escaping. They had found the way back, were ready and eager, moreover, to show it to other prisoners.

      And this was as near as O’Malley could come to explanation. He began to understand dimly—and with an extraordinary excitement of happiness.

      “Well—and the bigness?” I asked, seizing on a practical point after listening to his dreaming, “what do you make of that? It must have had some definite cause surely?”

      He turned and fixed his light blue eyes on mine as we paced beside the Serpentine that summer afternoon when I first heard the story told. He was half grave, half laughing.

      “The size, the bulk, the bigness,” he replied, “must have been in reality the expression of some mental quality that reached me psychically, producing its effect directly on my mind and not upon the eyes at all.” In telling the story he used a simile omitted in the writing of it, because his sense of humor perceived that no possible turn of phrase could save it from grotesqueness when actually it was far from grotesque—extraordinarily pathetic rather: “As though,” he said, “the great back and shoulders carried beneath the loose black cape—humps, projections at least; but projections not ugly in themselves, comely even in some perfectly natural way, that lent to his person this idea of giant size. His body, though large, was normal so far as its proportions were concerned. In his spirit, though, there hid another shape. An aspect of that other shape somehow reached my mind.”

      Then, seeing that I found nothing at the moment to reply, he added:

      “As an angry man you may picture to yourself as red, or a jealous man as green!” He laughed aloud. “D’ye see, now? It was not really a physical business at all!”

      IV

      “We think with only a small part of the past, but it is with our entire past, including the original bent of our soul, that we desire, will, and act.”

      —HENRI BERGSON

      The balance of his fellow-passengers were not distinguished. There was a company of French tourists gong to Naples, and another lot of Germans bound for Athens, some business folk for Smyrna and Constantinople, and a sprinkling of Russians going home via Odessa, Batoum, or Novorossisk.

      In his own stateroom, occupying the upper berth, was a little round-bodied, red-faced Canadian drummer, “traveling” in harvest-machines. the name of the machine, its price, and the terms of purchase were his universe; he knew them in several languages; beyond them, nothing. He was good-natured, conceding anything to save trouble. “D’ye mind the light for a bit while I read in bed?” asked O’Malley. “Don’t mind anything much,” was the cheery reply. “I’m not particular; I’m easy-going and you needn’t bother.” He turned over to sleep. “Old traveler,” he added, his voice muffled by sheets and blankets, “and take things as they come.” And the only objection O’Malley found in him was that he took things as they came to the point of not taking baths at all, and not even taking all his garments off when he went to bed.

      The Captain, whom he knew from previous voyages, a genial, rough-voiced sailor from Sassnitz, chided him for so nearly missing the boat—“as usual.”

      “You’re too late for a seat at my taple,” he said with his laughing growl; “it’s a pidy. You should have led me know py telegram, and I then kepd your place. Now you find room at the doctor’s taple howefer berhaps…!”

      “Steamer’s very crowded this time,” O’Malley replied, shrugging his shoulders; “but you’ll let me come up sometimes for a smoke with you on the bridge?”

      “Of course, of course.”

      “Anybody interesting on board?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

      The jolly Captain laughed. “’Pout the zame as usual, you know. Nothing to stop ze ship! Ask ze doctor; he knows zooner than me. But, anyway, the nice ones, they get zeazick always and dizappear. Going Trebizond this time?” he added.

      “No; Batoum.”

      “Ach! Oil?”

      “Caucasus generally—up in the mountains a bit.”

      “God blenty veapons then, I hope. They shoot you for two pfennig up there!” And he was off with his hearty deep laugh and rather ponderous briskness toward the bridge.

      Thus O’Malley found himself placed for meals at the right hand of Dr. Stahl; opposite him, on the doctor’s left, a talkative Moscow fur-merchant who, having come to definite conclusions of his own about things n general, was persuaded the rest of the world must share them, and who delivered verbose commonplaces with a kind of pontifical utterance sometimes amusing, but usually boring; on his right a gentle-eyed, brown-bearded Armenian priest from the Venice monastery that had sheltered Byron, a man who ate everything except soup with his knife, yet with a daintiness that made one marvel, and with hands so graceful they might almost have replaced the knife without off offence. Beyond the priest sat the rotund Canadian drummer. He kept silence, watched the dishes carefully lest anything should escape him, and—ate. Lower down on the opposite side, one or two nondescripts between, sat the big, blond, bearded stranger with his son. Diagonally across from himself and the doctor, they were in full view.

      O’Malley talked to all and sundry whom his voice could reach, СКАЧАТЬ