The Hill of Dreams - Arthur Machen (that summer book TXT) 📗

lovers bowed, but not too low, remembering their own honor, before those who were to be equal companions and friends as well as wives. It was not such conceptions as these that he embodied in the amazing emblems of his ritual; he was not, he told himself, a young officer, “something in the city,” or a rising barrister engaged to a Miss Dixon or a Miss Gervase. He had not thought of looking out for a nice little house in a good residential suburb where they would have pleasant society; there were to be no consultations about wallpapers, or jocose whispers from friends as to the necessity of having a room that would do for a nursery. No glad young thing had leant on his arm while they chose the suite in white enamel, and china for “our bedroom,” the modest salesman doing his best to spare their blushes. When Edith Gervase married she would get mamma to look out for two really good servants, “as we must begin quietly,” and mamma would make sure that the drains and everything were right. Then her “girl friends” would come on a certain solemn day to see all her “lovely things.” “Two dozen of everything!” “Look, Ethel, did you ever see such ducky frills?” “And that insertion, isn’t it quite too sweet?” “My dear Edith, you are a lucky girl.” “All the underlinen specially made by Madame Lulu!” “What delicious things!” “I hope he knows what a prize he is winning.” “Oh! do look at those lovely ribbon-bows!” “You darling, how happy you must be.” “Real Valenciennes!” Then a whisper in the lady’s ear, and her reply, “Oh, don’t, Nelly!” So they would chirp over their treasures, as in Rabelais they chirped over their cups; and everything would be done in due order till the wedding-day, when mamma, who had strained her sinews and the commandments to bring the match about, would weep and look indignantly at the unhappy bridegroom. “I hope you’ll be kind to her, Robert.” Then in a rapid whisper to the bride: “Mind, you insist on Wyman’s flushing the drains when you come back; servants are so careless and dirty too. Don’t let him go about by himself in Paris. Men are so queer, one never knows. You have got the pills?” And aloud, after these secreta, “God bless you, my dear; goodbye! cluck, cluck, goodbye!”

There were stranger things written in the manuscript pages that Lucian cherished, sentences that burnt and glowed like “coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame.” There were phrases that stung and tingled as he wrote them, and sonorous words poured out in ecstasy and rapture, as in some of the old litanies. He hugged the thought that a great part of what he had invented was in the true sense of the word occult: page after page might have been read aloud to the uninitiated without betraying the inner meaning. He dreamed night and day over these symbols, he copied and recopied the manuscript nine times before he wrote it out fairly in a little book which he made himself of a skin of creamy vellum. In his mania for acquirements that should be entirely useless he had gained some skill in illumination, or limning as he preferred to call it, always choosing the obscurer word as the obscurer arts. First he set himself to the severe practice of the text; he spent many hours and days of toil in struggling to fashion the serried columns of black letter, writing and rewriting till he could shape the massive character with firm true hand. He cut his quills with the patience of a monk in the scriptorium, shaving and altering the nib, lightening and increasing the pressure and flexibility of the points, till the pen satisfied him, and gave a stroke both broad and even. Then he made experiments in inks, searching for some medium that would rival the glossy black letter of the old manuscripts; and not till he could produce a fair page of text did he turn to the more entrancing labour of the capitals and borders and ornaments. He mused long over the Lombardic letters, as glorious in their way as a cathedral, and trained his hand to execute the bold and flowing lines; and then there was the art of the border, blossoming in fretted splendor all about the page. His cousin, Miss Deacon, called it all a great waste of time, and his father thought he would have done much better in trying to improve his ordinary handwriting, which was both ugly and illegible. Indeed, there seemed but a poor demand for the limner’s art. He sent some specimens of his skill to an “artistic firm” in London; a verse of the “Maud,” curiously emblazoned, and a Latin hymn with the notes pricked on a red stave. The firm wrote civilly, telling him that his work, though good, was not what they wanted, and enclosing an illuminated text. “We have great demand for this sort of thing,” they concluded, “and if you care to attempt something in this style we should be pleased to look at it.” The said text was “Thou, God, seest me.” The letter was of a degraded form, bearing much the same relation to the true character as a “churchwarden gothic” building does to Canterbury Cathedral; the colours were varied. The initial was pale gold, the h pink, the o black, the u blue, and the first letter was somehow connected with a bird’s nest containing the young of the pigeon, who were waited on by the female bird.

“What a pretty text,” said Miss Deacon. “I should like to nail it up in my room. Why don’t you try to do something like that, Lucian? You might make something by it.”

“I sent them these,” said Lucian, “but they don’t like them much.”

“My dear boy! I should think not! Like them! What were you thinking of to draw