H. G. (Herbert George) Wells.

The wonderful visit online

. (page 1 of 10)
Online LibraryH. G. (Herbert George) WellsThe wonderful visit → online text (page 1 of 10)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook

Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)

The Wonderful Visit

* * * * *

By the Same Author

The Time Machine

DAILY CHRONICLE. - "Grips the imagination as it is only
gripped by genuinely imaginative work.... A strikingly
original performance."

SATURDAY REVIEW. - "A book of remarkable power and
imagination, and a work of distinct and individual merit."

SPECTATOR. - "Mr Wells' fanciful and lively dream is well
worth reading."

NATIONAL OBSERVER. - "A _tour de force_.... A fine piece
of literature, strongly imagined, almost perfectly expressed."

GLASGOW HERALD. - "One of the best pieces of work I have
read for many a day."

* * * * *

Macmillan's Colonial Library

The Wonderful Visit

by H. G. Wells

Author of the "Time Machine"

Macmillan and Co.
and New York

No. 241

_All rights reserved_

This Edition is intended for circulation only in India and the British


































On the Night of the Strange Bird, many people at Sidderton (and some
nearer) saw a Glare on the Sidderford moor. But no one in Sidderford saw
it, for most of Sidderford was abed.

All day the wind had been rising, so that the larks on the moor
chirruped fitfully near the ground, or rose only to be driven like
leaves before the wind. The sun set in a bloody welter of clouds, and
the moon was hidden. The glare, they say, was golden like a beam shining
out of the sky, not a uniform blaze, but broken all over by curving
flashes like the waving of swords. It lasted but a moment and left the
night dark and obscure. There were letters about it in _Nature_, and a
rough drawing that no one thought very like. (You may see it for
yourself - the drawing that was unlike the glare - on page 42 of Vol.
cclx. of that publication.)

None in Sidderford saw the light, but Annie, Hooker Durgan's wife, was
lying awake, and she saw the reflection of it - a flickering tongue of
gold - dancing on the wall.

She, too, was one of those who heard the sound. The others who heard the
sound were Lumpy Durgan, the half-wit, and Amory's mother. They said it
was a sound like children singing and a throbbing of harp strings,
carried on a rush of notes like that which sometimes comes from an
organ. It began and ended like the opening and shutting of a door, and
before and after they heard nothing but the night wind howling over the
moor and the noise of the caves under Sidderford cliff. Amory's mother
said she wanted to cry when she heard it, but Lumpy was only sorry he
could hear no more.

That is as much as anyone can tell you of the glare upon Sidderford
Moor and the alleged music therewith. And whether these had any real
connexion with the Strange Bird whose history follows, is more than I
can say. But I set it down here for reasons that will be more apparent
as the story proceeds.



Sandy Bright was coming down the road from Spinner's carrying a side of
bacon he had taken in exchange for a clock. He saw nothing of the light
but he heard and saw the Strange Bird. He suddenly heard a flapping and
a voice like a woman wailing, and being a nervous man and all alone, he
was alarmed forthwith, and turning (all a-tremble) saw something large
and black against the dim darkness of the cedars up the hill. It seemed
to be coming right down upon him, and incontinently he dropped his bacon
and set off running, only to fall headlong.

He tried in vain - such was his state of mind - to remember the beginning
of the Lord's Prayer. The strange bird flapped over him, something
larger than himself, with a vast spread of wings, and, as he thought,
black. He screamed and gave himself up for lost. Then it went past him,
sailing down the hill, and, soaring over the vicarage, vanished into the
hazy valley towards Sidderford.

And Sandy Bright lay upon his stomach there, for ever so long, staring
into the darkness after the strange bird. At last he got upon his knees
and began to thank Heaven for his merciful deliverance, with his eyes
downhill. He went on down into the village, talking aloud and confessing
his sins as he went, lest the strange bird should come back. All who
heard him thought him drunk. But from that night he was a changed man,
and had done with drunkenness and defrauding the revenue by selling
silver ornaments without a licence. And the side of bacon lay upon the
hillside until the tallyman from Portburdock found it in the morning.

The next who saw the Strange Bird was a solicitor's clerk at Iping
Hanger, who was climbing the hill before breakfast, to see the sunrise.
Save for a few dissolving wisps of cloud the sky had been blown clear
in the night. At first he thought it was an eagle he saw. It was near
the zenith, and incredibly remote, a mere bright speck above the pink
cirri, and it seemed as if it fluttered and beat itself against the sky,
as an imprisoned swallow might do against a window pane. Then down it
came into the shadow of the earth, sweeping in a great curve towards
Portburdock and round over the Hanger, and so vanishing behind the woods
of Siddermorton Park. It seemed larger than a man. Just before it was
hidden, the light of the rising sun smote over the edge of the downs and
touched its wings, and they flashed with the brightness of flames and
the colour of precious stones, and so passed, leaving the witness agape.

A ploughman going to his work, along under the stone wall of
Siddermorton Park, saw the Strange Bird flash over him for a moment and
vanish among the hazy interstices of the beech trees. But he saw little
of the colour of the wings, witnessing only that its legs, which were
long, seemed pink and bare like naked flesh, and its body mottled white.
It smote like an arrow through the air and was gone.

These were the first three eye-witnesses of the Strange Bird.

Now in these days one does not cower before the devil and one's own
sinfulness, or see strange iridiscent wings in the light of dawn, and
say nothing of it afterwards. The young solicitor's clerk told his
mother and sisters at breakfast, and, afterwards, on his way to the
office at Portburdock, spoke of it to the blacksmith of Hammerpond, and
spent the morning with his fellow clerks marvelling instead of copying
deeds. And Sandy Bright went to talk the matter over with Mr Jekyll, the
"Primitive" minister, and the ploughman told old Hugh and afterwards the
vicar of Siddermorton.

"They are not an imaginative race about here," said the Vicar of
Siddermorton, "I wonder how much of that was true. Barring that he
thinks the wings were brown it sounds uncommonly like a Flamingo."



The Vicar of Siddermorton (which is nine miles inland from Siddermouth
as the crow flies) was an ornithologist. Some such pursuit, botany,
antiquity, folk-lore, is almost inevitable for a single man in his
position. He was given to geometry also, propounding occasionally
impossible problems in the _Educational Times_, but ornithology was his
_forte_. He had already added two visitors to the list of occasional
British birds. His name was well-known in the columns of the _Zoologist_
(I am afraid it may be forgotten by now, for the world moves apace). And
on the day after the coming of the Strange Bird, came first one and then
another to confirm the ploughman's story and tell him, not that it had
any connection, of the Glare upon Sidderford moor.

Now, the Vicar of Siddermorton had two rivals in his scientific
pursuits; Gully of Sidderton, who had actually seen the glare, and who
it was sent the drawing to _Nature_, and Borland the natural history
dealer, who kept the marine laboratory at Portburdock. Borland, the
Vicar thought, should have stuck to his copepods, but instead he kept a
taxidermist, and took advantage of his littoral position to pick up rare
sea birds. It was evident to anyone who knew anything of collecting that
both these men would be scouring the country after the strange visitant,
before twenty-four hours were out.

The Vicar's eye rested on the back of Saunders' British Birds, for he
was in his study at the time. Already in two places there was entered:
"the only known British specimen was secured by the Rev. K. Hilyer,
Vicar of Siddermorton." A third such entry. He doubted if any other
collector had that.

He looked at his watch - _two_. He had just lunched, and usually he
"rested" in the afternoon. He knew it would make him feel very
disagreeable if he went out into the hot sunshine - both on the top of
his head and generally. Yet Gully perhaps was out, prowling observant.
Suppose it was something very good and Gully got it!

His gun stood in the corner. (The thing had iridiscent wings and pink
legs! The chromatic conflict was certainly exceedingly stimulating). He
took his gun.

He would have gone out by the glass doors and verandah, and down the
garden into the hill road, in order to avoid his housekeeper's eye. He
knew his gun expeditions were not approved of. But advancing towards him
up the garden, he saw the curate's wife and her two daughters, carrying
tennis rackets. His curate's wife was a young woman of immense will, who
used to play tennis on his lawn, and cut his roses, differ from him on
doctrinal points, and criticise his personal behaviour all over the
parish. He went in abject fear of her, was always trying to propitiate
her. But so far he had clung to his ornithology....

However, he went out by the front door.


If it were not for collectors England would be full, so to speak, of
rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand
interesting things. But happily the collector prevents all that, either
killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people
of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. It makes
work for people, even though Acts of Parliament interfere. In this way,
for instance, he is killing off the chough in Cornwall, the Bath white
butterfly, the Queen of Spain Fritillary; and can plume himself upon the
extermination of the Great Auk, and a hundred other rare birds and
plants and insects. All that is the work of the collector and his glory
alone. In the name of Science. And this is right and as it should be;
eccentricity, in fact, is immorality - think over it again if you do not
think so now - just as eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness
(I defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of
either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not Fitted to
Survive. The collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the
days of heavy armour - he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the
throats of those who are overthrown. So one may go through England from
end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild
flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds,
and never be offended by any breach of the monotony, any splash of
strange blossom or flutter of unknown wing. All the rest have been
"collected" years ago. For which cause we should all love Collectors,
and bear in mind what we owe them when their little collections are
displayed. These camphorated little drawers of theirs, their glass cases
and blotting-paper books, are the graves of the Rare and the Beautiful,
the symbols of the Triumph of Leisure (morally spent) over the Delights
of Life. (All of which, as you very properly remark, has nothing
whatever to do with the Strange Bird.)


There is a place on the moor where the black water shines among the
succulent moss, and the hairy sundew, eater of careless insects, spreads
its red-stained hungry hands to the God who gives his creatures - one to
feed another. On a ridge thereby grow birches with a silvery bark, and
the soft green of the larch mingles with the dark green fir. Thither
through the honey humming heather came the Vicar, in the heat of the
day, carrying a gun under his arm, a gun loaded with swanshot for the
Strange Bird. And over his disengaged hand he carried a pocket
handkerchief wherewith, ever and again, he wiped his beady face.

He went by and on past the big pond and the pool full of brown leaves
where the Sidder arises, and so by the road (which is at first sandy and
then chalky) to the little gate that goes into the park. There are seven
steps up to the gate and on the further side six down again - lest the
deer escape - so that when the Vicar stood in the gateway his head was
ten feet or more above the ground. And looking where a tumult of bracken
fronds filled the hollow between two groups of beech, his eye caught
something parti-coloured that wavered and went. Suddenly his face
gleamed and his muscles grew tense; he ducked his head, clutched his gun
with both hands, and stood still. Then watching keenly, he came on down
the steps into the park, and still holding his gun in both hands, crept
rather than walked towards the jungle of bracken.

Nothing stirred, and he almost feared that his eyes had played him
false, until he reached the ferns and had gone rustling breast high into
them. Then suddenly rose something full of wavering colours, twenty
yards or less in front of his face, and beating the air. In another
moment it had fluttered above the bracken and spread its pinions wide.
He saw what it was, his heart was in his mouth, and he fired out of pure
surprise and habit.

There was a scream of superhuman agony, the wings beat the air twice,
and the victim came slanting swiftly downward and struck the ground - a
struggling heap of writhing body, broken wing and flying bloodstained
plumes - upon the turfy slope behind.

The Vicar stood aghast, with his smoking gun in his hand. It was no bird
at all, but a youth with an extremely beautiful face, clad in a robe of
saffron and with iridescent wings, across whose pinions great waves of
colour, flushes of purple and crimson, golden green and intense blue,
pursued one another as he writhed in his agony. Never had the Vicar seen
such gorgeous floods of colour, not stained glass windows, not the wings
of butterflies, not even the glories of crystals seen between prisms, no
colours on earth could compare with them. Twice the Angel raised
himself, only to fall over sideways again. Then the beating of the wings
diminished, the terrified face grew pale, the floods of colour abated,
and suddenly with a sob he lay prone, and the changing hues of the
broken wings faded swiftly into one uniform dull grey hue.

"Oh! _what_ has happened to me?" cried the Angel (for such it was),
shuddering violently, hands outstretched and clutching the ground, and
then lying still.

"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "I had no idea." He came forward cautiously.
"Excuse me," he said, "I am afraid I have shot you."

It was the obvious remark.

The Angel seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time. He
raised himself by one hand, his brown eyes stared into the Vicar's.
Then, with a gasp, and biting his nether lip, he struggled into a
sitting position and surveyed the Vicar from top to toe.

"A man!" said the Angel, clasping his forehead; "a man in the maddest
black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
am indeed in the Land of Dreams!"



Now there are some things frankly impossible. The weakest intellect will
admit this situation is impossible. The _Athenæum_ will probably say as
much should it venture to review this. Sunbespattered ferns, spreading
beech trees, the Vicar and the gun are acceptable enough. But this Angel
is a different matter. Plain sensible people will scarcely go on with
such an extravagant book. And the Vicar fully appreciated this
impossibility. But he lacked decision. Consequently he went on with it,
as you shall immediately hear. He was hot, it was after dinner, he was
in no mood for mental subtleties. The Angel had him at a disadvantage,
and further distracted him from the main issue by irrelevant iridescence
and a violent fluttering. For the moment it never occurred to the Vicar
to ask whether the Angel was possible or not. He accepted him in the
confusion of the moment, and the mischief was done. Put yourself in his
place, my dear _Athenæum_. You go out shooting. You hit something. That
alone would disconcert you. You find you have hit an Angel, and he
writhes about for a minute and then sits up and addresses you. He makes
no apology for his own impossibility. Indeed, he carries the charge
clean into your camp. "A man!" he says, pointing. "A man in the maddest
black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
am indeed in the Land of Dreams!" You _must_ answer him. Unless you take
to your heels. Or blow his brains out with your second barrel as an
escape from the controversy.

"The Land of Dreams! Pardon me if I suggest you have just come out of
it," was the Vicar's remark.

"How can that be?" said the Angel.

"Your wing," said the Vicar, "is bleeding. Before we talk, may I have
the pleasure - the melancholy pleasure - of tying it up? I am really most
sincerely sorry...." The Angel put his hand behind his back and winced.

The Vicar assisted his victim to stand up. The Angel turned gravely and
the Vicar, with numberless insignificant panting parentheses, carefully
examined the injured wings. (They articulated, he observed with
interest, to a kind of second glenoid on the outer and upper edge of the
shoulder blade. The left wing had suffered little except the loss of
some of the primary wing-quills, and a shot or so in the _ala spuria_,
but the humerus bone of the right was evidently smashed.) The Vicar
stanched the bleeding as well as he could and tied up the bone with his
pocket handkerchief and the neck wrap his housekeeper made him carry in
all weathers.

"I'm afraid you will not be able to fly for some time," said he, feeling
the bone.

"I don't like this new sensation," said the Angel.

"The Pain when I feel your bone?"

"The _what_?" said the Angel.

"The Pain."

"'Pain' - you call it. No, I certainly don't like the Pain. Do you have
much of this Pain in the Land of Dreams?"

"A very fair share," said the Vicar. "Is it new to you?"

"Quite," said the Angel. "I don't like it."

"How curious!" said the Vicar, and bit at the end of a strip of linen to
tie a knot. "I think this bandaging must serve for the present," he
said. "I've studied ambulance work before, but never the bandaging up of
wing wounds. Is your Pain any better?"

"It glows now instead of flashing," said the Angel.

"I am afraid you will find it glow for some time," said the Vicar, still
intent on the wound.

The Angel gave a shrug of the wing and turned round to look at the Vicar
again. He had been trying to keep an eye on the Vicar over his shoulder
during all their interview. He looked at him from top to toe with raised
eyebrows and a growing smile on his beautiful soft-featured face. "It
seems so odd," he said with a sweet little laugh, "to be talking to a

"Do you know," said the Vicar, "now that I come to think of it, it is
equally odd to me that I should be talking to an Angel. I am a somewhat
matter-of-fact person. A Vicar has to be. Angels I have always regarded
as - artistic conceptions - - "

"Exactly what we think of men."

"But surely you have seen so many men - - "

"Never before to-day. In pictures and books, times enough of course. But
I have seen several since the sunrise, solid real men, besides a horse
or so - those Unicorn things you know, without horns - and quite a number
of those grotesque knobby things called 'cows.' I was naturally a little
frightened at so many mythical monsters, and came to hide here until it
was dark. I suppose it will be dark again presently like it was at
first. _Phew!_ This Pain of yours is poor fun. I hope I shall wake up

"I don't understand quite," said the Vicar, knitting his brows and
tapping his forehead with his flat hand. "Mythical monster!" The worst
thing he had been called for years hitherto was a 'mediaeval
anachronism' (by an advocate of Disestablishment). "Do I understand
that you consider me as - as something in a dream?"

"Of course," said the Angel smiling.

"And this world about me, these rugged trees and spreading fronds - - "

"Is all so _very_ dream like," said the Angel. "Just exactly what one
dreams of - or artists imagine."

"You have artists then among the Angels?"

"All kinds of artists, Angels with wonderful imaginations, who invent
men and cows and eagles and a thousand impossible creatures."

"Impossible creatures!" said the Vicar.

"Impossible creatures," said the Angel. "Myths."

"But I'm real!" said the Vicar. "I assure you I'm real."

The Angel shrugged his wings and winced and smiled. "I can always tell
when I am dreaming," he said.

"_You_ - dreaming," said the Vicar. He looked round him.

"_You_ dreaming!" he repeated. His mind worked diffusely.

He held out his hand with all his fingers moving. "I have it!" he said.
"I begin to see." A really brilliant idea was dawning upon his mind. He
had not studied mathematics at Cambridge for nothing, after all. "Tell
me please. Some animals of _your_ world ... of the Real World, real
animals you know."

"Real animals!" said the Angel smiling. "Why - there's Griffins and
Dragons - and Jabberwocks - and Cherubim - and Sphinxes - and the
Hippogriff - and Mermaids - and Satyrs - and...."

"Thank you," said the Vicar as the Angel appeared to be warming to his
work; "thank you. That is _quite_ enough. I begin to understand."

He paused for a moment, his face pursed up. "Yes ... I begin to see it."

"See what?" asked the Angel.

"The Griffins and Satyrs and so forth. It's as clear...."

"I don't see them," said the Angel.

"No, the whole point is they are not to be seen in this world. But our
men with imaginations have told us all about them, you know. And even I
at times ... there are places in this village where you must simply take
what they set before you, or give offence - I, I say, have seen in my
dreams Jabberwocks, Bogle brutes, Mandrakes.... From our point of view,
you know, they are Dream Creatures...."

"Dream Creatures!" said the Angel. "How singular! This is a very curious
dream. A kind of topsy-turvey one. You call men real and angels a myth.
It almost makes one think that in some odd way there must be two worlds
as it were...."

"At least Two," said the Vicar.

"Lying somewhere close together, and yet scarcely suspecting...."

"As near as page to page of a book."

"Penetrating each other, living each its own life. This is really a

1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Online LibraryH. G. (Herbert George) WellsThe wonderful visit → online text (page 1 of 10)