The Wonderful Visit - H. G. Wells (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

air is full of Social Movements, of Economic change, the Woman Movement, Rational Dress, The Reunion of Christendom, Socialism, Individualism⁠—all the great and moving questions of the hour! Surely, we who follow the Great Reformer.⁠ ⁠… And here you are stuffing birds, and startling ladies with your callous disregard.⁠ ⁠…”

“But Mendham,” began the Vicar.

The Curate would not hear him. “You shame the Apostles with your levity.⁠ ⁠… But this is only a preliminary enquiry,” he said, with a threatening note in his sonorous voice, and so vanished abruptly (with a violent slam) from the room.

XVII The Curate (Continued)

“Are all men so odd as this?” said the Angel.

“I’m in such a difficult position,” said the Vicar. “You see,” he said, and stopped, searching his chin for an idea.

“I’m beginning to see,” said the Angel.

“They won’t believe it.”

“I see that.”

“They will think I tell lies.”

“And?”

“That will be extremely painful to me.”

“Painful!⁠ ⁠… Pain,” said the Angel. “I hope not.”

The Vicar shook his head. The good report of the village had been the breath of his life, so far. “You see,” he said, “it would look so much more plausible if you said you were just a man.”

“But I’m not,” said the Angel.

“No, you’re not,” said the Vicar. “So that’s no good.”

“Nobody here, you know, has ever seen an Angel, or heard of one⁠—except in church. If you had made your debut in the chancel⁠—on Sunday⁠—it might have been different. But that’s too late now.⁠ ⁠… (Bother!) Nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe in you.”

“I hope I am not inconveniencing you?”

“Not at all,” said the Vicar; “not at all. Only⁠—. Naturally it may be inconvenient if you tell a too incredible story. If I might suggest (ahem)⁠—.”

“Well?”

“You see, people in the world, being men themselves, will almost certainly regard you as a man. If you say you are not, they will simply say you do not tell the truth. Only exceptional people appreciate the exceptional. When in Rome one must⁠—well, respect Roman prejudices a little⁠—talk Latin. You will find it better⁠—”

“You propose I should feign to become a man?”

“You have my meaning at once.”

The Angel stared at the Vicar’s hollyhocks and thought.

“Possibly, after all,” he said slowly, “I shall become a man. I may have been too hasty in saying I was not. You say there are no angels in this world. Who am I to set myself up against your experience? A mere thing of a day⁠—so far as this world goes. If you say there are no angels⁠—clearly I must be something else. I eat⁠—angels do not eat. I may be a man already.”

“A convenient view, at any rate,” said the Vicar.

“If it is convenient to you⁠—”

“It is. And then to account for your presence here.”

“If,” said the Vicar, after a hesitating moment of reflection, “if, for instance, you had been an ordinary man with a weakness for wading, and you had gone wading in the Sidder, and your clothes had been stolen, for instance, and I had come upon you in that position of inconvenience; the explanation I shall have to make to Mrs. Mendham⁠—would be shorn at least of the supernatural element. There is such a feeling against the supernatural element nowadays⁠—even in the pulpit. You would hardly believe⁠—”

“It’s a pity that was not the case,” said the Angel.

“Of course,” said the Vicar. “It is a great pity that was not the case. But at any rate you will oblige me if you do not obtrude your angelic nature. You will oblige everyone, in fact. There is a settled opinion that angels do not do this kind of thing. And nothing is more painful⁠—as I can testify⁠—than a decaying settled opinion.⁠ ⁠… Settled opinions are mental teeth in more ways than one. For my own part,”⁠—the Vicar’s hand passed over his eyes for a moment⁠—“I cannot but believe you are an angel.⁠ ⁠… Surely I can believe my own eyes.”

“We always do ours,” said the Angel.

“And so do we, within limits.”

Then the clock upon the mantel chimed seven, and almost simultaneously Mrs. Hinijer announced dinner.

XVIII After Dinner

The Angel and the Vicar sat at dinner. The Vicar, with his napkin tucked in at his neck, watched the Angel struggling with his soup. “You will soon get into the way of it,” said the Vicar. The knife and fork business was done awkwardly but with effect. The Angel looked furtively at Delia, the little waiting maid. When presently they sat cracking nuts⁠—which the Angel found congenial enough⁠—and the girl had gone, the Angel asked: “Was that a lady, too?”

“Well,” said the Vicar (crack). “No⁠—she is not a lady. She is a servant.”

“Yes,” said the Angel; “she had rather a nicer shape.”

“You mustn’t tell Mrs. Mendham that,” said the Vicar, covertly satisfied.

“She didn’t stick out so much at the shoulders and hips, and there was more of her in between. And the colour of her robes was not discordant⁠—simply neutral. And her face⁠—”

“Mrs. Mendham and her daughters had been playing tennis,” said the Vicar, feeling he ought not to listen to detraction even of his mortal enemy. “Do you like these things⁠—these nuts?”

“Very much,” said the Angel. Crack.

“You see,” said the Vicar (Chum, chum, chum). “For my own part I entirely believe you are an angel.”

“Yes!” said the Angel.

“I shot you⁠—I saw you flutter. It’s beyond dispute. In my own mind. I admit it’s curious and against my preconceptions, but⁠—practically⁠—I’m assured, perfectly assured in fact, that I saw what I certainly did see. But after the behaviour of these people. (Crack). I really don’t see how we are to persuade people. Nowadays people are so very particular about evidence. So that I think there is a great deal to be said for the attitude you assume. Temporarily at least I think it would be best of you to do as you propose to do, and behave as a man as far as possible. Of course there is no knowing how or when you may go back. After what has happened (Gluck, gluck,