Where the Blue Begins

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning he sighted land. Coming out on the bridge, the wholeface of things was changed. The sea-colour had lightened to a tawnygreen; gulls dipped and hovered; away on the horizon lay a soft bluecontour. "Land Ho!" he shouted superbly, and wondered what new countryhe had discovered. He ran up a hoist of red and yellow signal flags, andsteered gaily toward the shore.

  It had grown suddenly cold: he had to fetch Captain Scottie's pea-jacketto wear at the wheel. On the long spilling crests, that crumbled andspread running layers of froth in their hurry shoreward, the Pomeraniarode home. She knew her landfall and seemed to quicken. Steadilyswinging on the jade-green surges, she buried her nose almost to thehawse-pipes, then lifted until her streaming forefoot gleamed out of afrilled ruffle of foam.

  Gissing, too, was eager. A tingling buoyancy and impatience took holdof him: he fidgeted with sheer eagerness for life. Land, the belovedstability of our dear and only earth, drew and charmed him. Behind wasthe senseless, heartbreaking sea. Now he could discern hills rising ina gilded opaline light. In the volatile thin air was a quick sense ofstrangeness. A new world was close about him: a world that he could see,and feel, and inhale, and yet knew nothing of.

  Suddenly a great humility possessed him. He had been froward and sillyand vain. He had shouted arrogantly at Beauty, like a noisy tourist ina canyon; and the only answer, after long waiting, had been the paltrydiminished echo of his own voice. He thought shamefully of his follies.What matter how you name God or in what words you praise Him? In thisnew foreign land he would quietly accept things as he found them. Thelaughter of God was too strange to understand.

  No, there was no answer. He was doubly damned, for he had made truth amere sport of intellectual riddling. The mind, like a spinning flywheelof fatigued steel, was gradually racked to bursting by the conflictof stresses. And yet: every equilibrium was an opposure of forces.Rotation, if swift enough, creates amazing stability: he had seen howthe gyroscope can balance at apparently impossible angles. Perhaps itwas so of the mind. If it twirls at high speed it can lean right outover the abyss without collapse. But the stationary mind--he thoughtof Bishop Borzoi--must keep away from the edge. Try to force it tothe edge, it raves in panic. Every mind, very likely, knows its ownfrailties, and does well to safeguard them. At any rate, that was themost generous interpretation. Most minds, undoubtedly, were uneasy inhigh places. They doubted their ability to refrain from jumping off.How many bones of fine intellects lay whitening at the foot of thetheological cliff--It seemed to be a lonely coast, and wintry.Patches of snow lay upon the hills, the woods were bare and brown. Abottle-necked harbour opened out before him. He reduced the engines toDead Slow and glided gaily through the strait. He had been anxious lesthis navigation might not be equal to the occasion: he did not want todisgrace himself at this final test. But all seemed to arrange itselfwith enchanted ease. A steep ledge of ground offered a natural pier,with tree-stumps for bollards. He let her come gently beyond the spot;reversed the propellers just at the right time, and backed neatlyalongside. He moved the telegraph handle to FINISHED WITH ENGINES; ranout the gangplank smartly, and stepped ashore. He moored the vessel foreand aft, and hung out fenders to prevent chafing.

  The first thing to do, he said to himself, is to get the lie of theland, and find out whether it is inhabited.

  A hillside rising above the water promised a clear view. The stubblegrass was dry and frosty, after the warm days at sea the chill wasnipping; but what an elixir of air! If this is a desert island, hethought, it will be a glorious discovery. His heart was jocund withanticipation. A curious foreign look in the landscape, he thought; quiteunlike anything--Suddenly, where the hill arched against pearly sky, hesaw narrow thread of smoke rising. He halted in alarm. Who might thisbe, friend or foe? But eager agitation pushed him on. Burning to know,he hurried up to the brow of the hill.

  The smoke mounted from a small bonfire of sticks in a sheltered thicket,where a miraculous being--who was, as a matter of fact, a rather raggedand dingy vagabond--was cooking a tin of stew over the blaze.

  Gissing stood, quivering with emotion. Joy such as he had never knowndarted through all the cords of his body. He ran, shouting, in mirth andterror. In fear, in a passion of love and knowledge and understanding,he abased himself and yearned before this marvel. Impossible to haveconceived, yet, once seen, utterly satisfying and the fulfilment of allneeds. He laughed and leaped and worshipped. When the first transportwas over, he laid his head against this being's knee, he nestled thereand was content. This was the inscrutable perfect answer.

  "Cripes!" said the puzzled tramp, as he caressed the nuzzling head. "Thepurp's loco. Maybe he's been lost. You might think he'd never seen a manbefore."

  He was right.

  And Gissing sat quietly, his throat resting upon the soiled knee of avery old and spicy trouser.

  "I have found God," he said.

  Presently he thought of the ship. It would not do to leave her soinsecurely moored. Reluctantly, with many a backward glance and a heartfull of glory, he left the Presence. He ran to the edge of the hill tolook down upon the harbour.

  The outlook was puzzlingly altered. He gazed in astonishment. What werethose poplars, rising naked into the bright air?--there was somethingfamiliar about them. And that little house beyond... he staredbewildered.

  The great shining breadth of the ocean had shrunk to the roundness ofa tiny pond. And the Pomerania? He leaned over, shaken with questions.There, beside the bank, was a little plank of wood, a child's plaything,roughly fashioned shipshape: two chips for funnels; red and yellowfrosted leaves for flags; a withered dogwood blossom for propeller. Heleaned closer, with whirling mind. In the clear cool surface of thepond he could see the sky mirrored, deeper than any ocean, pellucid,infinite, blue.

  He ran up the path to the house. The scuffled ragged garden lay nakedand hard. At the windows, he saw with surprise, were holly wreaths tiedwith broad red ribbon. On the porch, some battered toys. He opened thedoor.

  A fluttering rosy light filled the room. By the fireplace thepuppies--how big they were!--were sitting with Mrs. Spaniel. Joyousuproar greeted him: they flung themselves upon him. Shouts of "Daddy!Daddy!" filled the house, while the young Spaniels stood by morebashfully.

  Good Mrs. Spaniel was gratefully moved. Her moist eyes shone brightly inthe firelight.

  "I knew you'd be home for Christmas, Mr. Gissing," she said. "I've beentelling them so all afternoon. Now, children, be still a moment and letme speak. I've been telling you your Daddy would be home in time for aChristmas Eve story. I've got to go and fix that plum pudding."

  In her excitement a clear bubble dripped from the tip of her tongue. Shecaught it in her apron, and hurried to the kitchen.