The Wonderful Visit H. G. Wells (best novels to read .txt) 📖

gluck⁠—as the Vicar refills his glass)⁠—after what has happened I should not be surprised to see the side of the room fall away, and the hosts of heaven appear to take you away again⁠—take us both away even. You have so far enlarged my imagination. All these years I have been forgetting Wonderland. But still⁠—. It will certainly be wiser to break the thing gently to them.”

“This life of yours,” said the Angel. “I’m still in the dark about it. How do you begin?”

“Dear me!” said the Vicar. “Fancy having to explain that! We begin existence here, you know, as babies, silly pink helpless things wrapped in white, with goggling eyes, that yelp dismally at the font. Then these babies grow larger and become even beautiful⁠—when their faces are washed. And they continue to grow to a certain size. They become children, boys and girls, youths and maidens (Crack), young men and young women. That is the finest time in life, according to many⁠—certainly the most beautiful. Full of great hopes and dreams, vague emotions and unexpected dangers.”

“That was a maiden?” said the Angel, indicating the door through which Delia had disappeared.

“Yes,” said the Vicar, “that was a maiden.” And paused thoughtfully.

“And then?”

“Then,” said the Vicar, “the glamour fades and life begins in earnest. The young men and young women pair off⁠—most of them. They come to me shy and bashful, in smart ugly dresses, and I marry them. And then little pink babies come to them, and some of the youths and maidens that were, grow fat and vulgar, and some grow thin and shrewish, and their pretty complexions go, and they get a queer delusion of superiority over the younger people, and all the delight and glory goes out of their lives. So they call the delight and glory of the younger ones, Illusion. And then they begin to drop to pieces.”

“Drop to pieces!” said the Angel. “How grotesque!”

“Their hair comes off and gets dull coloured or ashen grey,” said the Vicar. “I, for instance.” He bowed his head forward to show a circular shining patch the size of a florin. “And their teeth come out. Their faces collapse and become as wrinkled and dry as a shrivelled apple. ‘Corrugated’ you called mine. They care more and more for what they have to eat and to drink, and less and less for any of the other delights of life. Their limbs get loose in the joints, and their hearts slack, or little pieces from their lungs come coughing up. Pain.⁠ ⁠…”

“Ah!” said the Angel.

“Pain comes into their lives more and more. And then they go. They do not like to go, but they have to⁠—out of this world, very reluctantly, clutching its pain at last in their eagerness to stop.⁠ ⁠…”

“Where do they go?”

“Once I thought I knew. But now I am older I know I do not know. We have a legend⁠—perhaps it is not a legend. One may be a churchman and disbelieve. Stokes says there is nothing in it.⁠ ⁠…” The Vicar shook his head at the bananas.

“And you?” said the Angel. “Were you a little pink baby?”

“A little while ago I was a little pink baby.”

“Were you robed then as you are now?”

“Oh no! Dear me! What a queer idea! Had long white clothes, I suppose, like the rest of them.”

“And then you were a little boy?”

“A little boy.”

“And then a glorious youth?”

“I was not a very glorious youth, I am afraid. I was sickly, and too poor to be radiant, and with a timid heart. I studied hard and pored over the dying thoughts of men long dead. So I lost the glory, and no maiden came to me, and the dullness of life began too soon.”

“And you have your little pink babies?”

“None,” said the Vicar with a scarce perceptible pause. “Yet all the same, as you see, I am beginning to drop to pieces. Presently my back will droop like a wilting flowerstalk. And then, in a few thousand days more I shall be done with, and I shall go out of this world of mine.⁠ ⁠… Whither I do not know.”

“And you have to eat like this every day?”

“Eat, and get clothes and keep this roof above me. There are some very disagreeable things in this world called cold and rain. And the other people here⁠—how and why is too long a story⁠—have made me a kind of chorus to their lives. They bring their little pink babies to me and I have to say a name and some other things over each new pink baby. And when the children have grown to be youths and maidens, they come again and are confirmed. You will understand that better later. Then before they may join in couples and have pink babies of their own, they must come again and hear me read out of a book. They would be outcast, and no other maiden would speak to the maiden who had a little pink baby without I had read over her for twenty minutes out of my book. It’s a necessary thing, as you will see. Odd as it may seem to you. And afterwards when they are falling to pieces, I try and persuade them of a strange world in which I scarcely believe myself, where life is altogether different from what they have had⁠—or desire. And in the end, I bury them, and read out of my book to those who will presently follow into the unknown land. I stand at the beginning, and at the zenith, and at the setting of their lives. And on every seventh day, I who am a man myself, I who see no further than they do, talk to them of the Life to Come⁠—the life of which we know nothing. If such a life there be. And slowly I drop to pieces amidst my prophesying.”

“What a strange life!” said the Angel.

“Yes,” said the Vicar. “What a strange life! But the thing that makes it strange to me