Erewhon Revisited

My father could walk but slowly, for George’s boots had blistered his feet, and it seemed to him that the river-bed, of which he caught glimpses now and again, never got any nearer; but all things come to an end, and by seven o’clock on the night of Tuesday, he was on the spot which he had left on the preceding Friday morning.  Three entire days had intervened, but he felt that something, he knew not what, had seized him, and that whereas before these three days life had been one thing, what little might follow them, would be another—­and a very different one.

He soon caught sight of his horse which had strayed a mile lower down the river-bed, and in spite of his hobbles had crossed one ugly stream that my father dared not ford on foot.  Tired though he was, he went after him, bridle in hand, and when the friendly creature saw him, it recrossed the stream, and came to him of its own accord—­either tired of his own company, or tempted by some bread my father held out towards him.  My father took off the hobbles, and rode him bare-backed to the camping ground, where he rewarded him with more bread and biscuit, and then hobbled him again for the night.

“It was here,” he said to me on one of the first days after his return, “that I first knew myself to be a broken man.  As for meeting George again, I felt sure that it would be all I could do to meet his brother; and though George was always in my thoughts, it was for you and not him that I was now yearning.  When I gave George my watch, how glad I was that I had left my gold one at home, for that is yours, and I could not have brought myself to give it him.”

“Never mind that, my dear father,” said I, “but tell me how you got down the river, and thence home again.”

“My very dear boy,” he said, “I can hardly remember, and I had no energy to make any more notes.  I remember putting a scrap of paper into the box of sovereigns, merely sending George my love along with the money; I remember also dropping the box into a hole in a tree, which I blazed, and towards which I drew a line of wood-ashes.  I seem to see a poor unhinged creature gazing moodily for hours into a fire which he heaps up now and again with wood.  There is not a breath of air; Nature sleeps so calmly that she dares not even breathe for fear of waking; the very river has hushed his flow.  Without, the starlit calm of a summer’s night in a great wilderness; within, a hurricane of wild and incoherent thoughts battling with one another in their fury to fall upon him and rend him—­and on the other side the great wall of mountain, thousands of children praying at their mother’s knee to this poor dazed thing.  I suppose this half delirious wretch must have been myself.  But I must have been more ill when I left England than I thought I was, or Erewhon would not have broken me down as it did.”

No doubt he was right.  Indeed it was because Mr. Cathie and his doctor saw that he was out of health and in urgent need of change, that they left off opposing his wish to travel.  There is no use, however, in talking about this now.

I never got from him how he managed to reach the shepherd’s hut, but I learned some little from the shepherd, when I stayed with him both on going towards Erewhon, and on returning.

“He did not seem to have drink in him,” said the shepherd, “when he first came here; but he must have been pretty full of it, or he must have had some bottles in his saddle-bags; for he was awful when he came back.  He had got them worse than any man I ever saw, only that he was not awkward.  He said there was a bird flying out of a giant’s mouth and laughing at him, and he kept muttering about a blue pool, and hanky-panky of all sorts, and he said he knew it was all hanky-panky, at least I thought he said so, but it was no use trying to follow him, for it was all nothing but horrors.  He said I was to stop the people from trying to worship him.  Then he said the sky opened and he could see the angels going about and singing ‘Hallelujah.’”

“How long did he stay with you?” I asked.

“About ten days, but the last three he was himself again, only too weak to move.  He thought he was cured except for weakness.”

“Do you know how he had been spending the last two days or so before he got down to your hut?”

I said two days, because this was the time I supposed he would take to descend the river.

“I should say drinking all the time.  He said he had fallen off his horse two or three times, till he took to leading him.  If he had had any other horse than old Doctor he would have been a dead man.  Bless you, I have known that horse ever since he was foaled, and I never saw one like him for sense.  He would pick fords better than that gentleman could, I know, and if the gentleman fell off him he would just stay stock still.  He was badly bruised, poor man, when he got here.  I saw him through the gorge when he left me, and he gave me a sovereign; he said he had only one other left to take him down to the port, or he would have made it more.”

“He was my father,” said I, “and he is dead, but before he died he told me to give you five pounds which I have brought you.  I think you are wrong in saying that he had been drinking.”

“That is what they all say; but I take it very kind of him to have thought of me.”

My father’s illness for the first three weeks after his return played with him as a cat plays with a mouse; now and again it would let him have a day or two’s run, during which he was so cheerful and unclouded that his doctor was quite hopeful about him.  At various times on these occasions I got from him that when he left the shepherd’s hut, he thought his illness had run itself out, and that he should now reach the port from which he was to sail for S. Francisco without misadventure.  This he did, and he was able to do all he had to do at the port, though frequently attacked with passing fits of giddiness.  I need not dwell upon his voyage to S. Francisco, and thence home; it is enough to say that he was able to travel by himself in spite of gradually, but continually, increasing failure.

“When,” he said, “I reached the port, I telegraphed as you know, for more money.  How puzzled you must have been.  I sold my horse to the man from whom I bought it, at a loss of only about 10 pounds, and I left with him my saddle, saddle-bags, small hatchet, my hobbles, and in fact everything that I had taken with me, except what they had impounded in Erewhon.  Yram’s rug I dropped into the river when I knew that I should no longer need it—­as also her substitutes for my billy and pannikin; and I burned her basket.  The shepherd would have asked me questions.  You will find an order to deliver everything up to bearer.  You need therefore take nothing from England.”

At another time he said, “When you go, for it is plain I cannot, and go one or other of us must, try and get the horse I had:  he will be nine years old, and he knows all about the rivers:  if you leave everything to him, you may shut your eyes, but do not interfere with him.  Give the shepherd what I said and he will attend to you, but go a day or two too soon, for the margin of one day was not enough to allow in case of a fresh in the river; if the water is discoloured you must not cross it—­not even with Doctor.  I could not ask George to come up three days running from Sunch’ston to the statues and back.”

Here he became exhausted.  Almost the last coherent string of sentences I got from him was as follows:-

“About George’s money if I send him 2000 pounds you will still have nearly 150,000 pounds left, and Mr. Cathie will not let you try to make it more.  I know you would give him four or five thousand, but the Mayor and I talked it over, and settled that 2000 pounds in gold would make him a rich man.  Consult our good friend Alfred” (meaning, of course, Mr. Cathie) “about the best way of taking the money.  I am afraid there is nothing for it but gold, and this will be a great weight for you to carry—­about, I believe 36 lbs.  Can you do this?  I really think that if you lead your horse you . . . no—­there will be the getting him down again—­”

“Don’t worry about it, my dear father,” said I, “I can do it easily if I stow the load rightly, and I will see to this.  I shall have nothing else to carry, for I shall camp down below both morning and evening.  But would you not like to send some present to the Mayor, Yram, their other children, and Mrs. Humdrum’s grand-daughter?”

“Do what you can,” said my father.  And these were the last instructions he gave me about those adventures with which alone this work is concerned.

The day before he died, he had a little flicker of intelligence, but all of a sudden his face became clouded as with great anxiety; he seemed to see some horrible chasm in front of him which he had to cross, or which he feared that I must cross, for he gasped out words, which, as near as I could catch them, were, “Look out!  John!  Leap!  Leap!  Le . . . ” but he could not say all that he was trying to say and closed his eyes, having, as I then deemed, seen that he was on the brink of that gulf which lies between life and death; I took it that in reality he died at that moment; for there was neither struggle, nor hardly movement of any kind afterwards—­nothing but a pulse which for the next several hours grew fainter and fainter so gradually, that it was not till some time after it had ceased to beat that we were certain of its having done so.