A Far Country — Complete. Winston Churchill
or what seemed like it; strangulation, the sense of being picked up and hurled by a terrific force whither? a blinding whiteness, in which it was impossible to breathe, one sharp, almost unbearable pain, then another, then oblivion. … Finally, awakening, to be confronted by a much worried Uncle Jake.
By this time the detective story had fallen to the floor, and Tom was huddled up in his chair, asleep. He arose obediently and wrapped a wet towel around his head, and began to write. Once he paused long enough to mutter:—“Yes, that's about it—that's the way I felt!” and set to work again, mechanically—all the praise I got for what I deemed a literary achievement of the highest order! At three o'clock, a.m., he finished, pulled off his clothes automatically and tumbled into bed. I had no desire for sleep. My brain was racing madly, like an engine without a governor. I could write! I could write! I repeated the words over and over to myself. All the complexities of my present life were blotted out, and I beheld only the long, sweet vista of the career for which I was now convinced that nature had intended me. My immediate fortunes became unimportant, immaterial. No juice of the grape I had ever tasted made me half so drunk. … With the morning, of course, came the reaction, and I suffered the after sensations of an orgie, awaking to a world of necessity, cold and grey and slushy, and necessity alone made me rise from my bed. My experience of the night before might have taught me that happiness lies in the trick of transforming necessity, but it did not. The vision had faded—temporarily, at least; and such was the distraction of the succeeding days that the subject of the theme passed from my mind. …
One morning Tom was later than usual in getting home. I was writing a letter when he came in, and did not notice him, yet I was vaguely aware of his standing over me. When at last I looked up I gathered from his expression that something serious had happened, so mournful was his face, and yet so utterly ludicrous.
“Say, Hugh, I'm in the deuce of a mess,” he announced.
“What's the matter?” I inquired.
He sank down on the table with a groan.
“It's Alonzo,” he said.
Then I remembered the theme.
“What—what's he done?” I demanded.
“He says I must become a writer. Think of it, me a writer! He says I'm a young Shakespeare, that I've been lazy and hid my light under a bushel! He says he knows now what I can do, and if I don't keep up the quality, he'll know the reason why, and write a personal letter to my father. Oh, hell!”
In spite of his evident anguish, I was seized with a convulsive laughter. Tom stood staring at me moodily.
“You think it's funny—don't you? I guess it is, but what's going to become of me? That's what I want to know. I've been in trouble before, but never in any like this. And who got me into it? You!”
Here was gratitude!
“You've got to go on writing 'em, now.” His voice became desperately pleading. “Say, Hugh, old man, you can temper 'em down—temper 'em down gradually. And by the end of the year, let's say, they'll be about normal again.”
He seemed actually shivering.
“The end of the year!” I cried, the predicament striking me for the first time in its fulness. “Say, you've got a crust!”
“You'll do it, if I have to hold a gun over you,” he announced grimly.
Mingled with my anxiety, which was real, was an exultation that would not down. Nevertheless, the idea of developing Tom into a Shakespeare—Tom, who had not the slightest desire to be one I was appalling, besides having in it an element of useless self-sacrifice from which I recoiled. On the other hand, if Alonzo should discover that I had written his theme, there were penalties I did not care to dwell upon. … With such a cloud hanging over me I passed a restless night.
As luck would have it the very next evening in the level light under the elms of the Square I beheld sauntering towards me a dapper figure which I recognized as that of Mr. Cheyne himself. As I saluted him he gave me an amused and most disconcerting glance; and when I was congratulating myself that he had passed me he stopped.
“Fine weather for March, Paret,” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed in a strange voice.
“By the way,” he remarked, contemplating the bare branches above our heads, “that was an excellent theme your roommate handed in. I had no idea that he possessed such—such genius. Did you, by any chance, happen to read it?”
“Yes, sir—I read it.”
“Weren't you surprised?” inquired Mr. Cheyne.
“Well, yes, sir—that is—I mean to say he talks just like that, sometimes—that is, when it's anything he cares about.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Cheyne. “That's interesting, most interesting. In all my experience, I do not remember a case in which a gift has been developed so rapidly. I don't want to give the impression—ah that there is no room for improvement, but the thing was very well done, for an undergraduate. I must confess I never should have suspected it in Peters, and it's most interesting what you say about his cleverness in conversation.” He twirled the head of his stick, apparently lost in reflection. “I may be wrong,” he went on presently, “I have an idea it is you—” I must literally have jumped away from him. He paused a moment, without apparently noticing my panic, “that it is you who have influenced Peters.”
“Sir?”
“I am wrong, then. Or is this merely commendable modesty on your part?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Then my hypothesis falls to the ground. I had greatly hoped,” he added meaningly, “that you might be able to throw some light on this mystery.”
I was dumb.
“Paret,” he asked, “have you time to come over to my rooms for a few minutes this evening?”
“Certainly, sir.”
He gave me his number in Brattle Street. …
Like one running in a nightmare and making no progress I made my way home, only to learn from Hallam—who lived on the same floor—that Tom had inconsiderately gone to Boston for the evening, with four other weary spirits in search of relaxation! Avoiding our club table, I took what little nourishment I could at a modest restaurant, and restlessly paced the moonlit streets until eight o'clock, when I found myself in front of one of those low-gabled colonial houses which, on less soul-shaking occasions, had exercised a great charm on my imagination. My hand hung for an instant over the bell. … I must have rung it violently, for there appeared almost immediately an old lady in a lace cap, who greeted me with gentle courtesy, and knocked at a little door with glistening panels. The latch was lifted by Mr. Cheyne himself.
“Come in, Paret,” he said, in a tone that was unexpectedly hospitable.
I have rarely seen a more inviting room. A wood fire burned brightly on the brass andirons, flinging its glare on the big, white beam that crossed the ceiling, and reddening the square panes of the windows in their panelled recesses. Between these were rows of books—attractive books in chased bindings, red and blue; books that appealed to be taken down and read. There was a table covered with reviews and magazines in neat piles, and a lamp so shaded as to throw its light only on the white blotter of the pad. Two easy chairs, covered with flowered chintz, were ranged before the fire, in one of which I sank, much bewildered, upon being urged to do so.
I utterly failed to recognize “Alonzo” in this new atmosphere. And he had, moreover, dropped the subtly sarcastic manner I was wont to associate with him.
“Jolly old house, isn't it?” he observed, as though I had casually dropped in on him for a chat; and he stood, with his hands behind him stretched to the blaze, looking down at me. “It was built by a certain Colonel Draper, who fought at Louisburg, and afterwards fled to England at the time of the Revolution.