DREAMS A DREAM AND SEES A VISION
Though habitually abstemious, Mr.Lavender was so very hungry that evening when he sat down to supper that he was unable to leave the lobster which Mrs.Petty had provided until it was reduced to mere integument.Since his principles prevented his lightening it with anything but ginger-beer he went to bed in some discomfort, and, tired out with the emotions of the day, soon fell into a heavy slumber, which at dawn became troubled by a dream of an extremely vivid character.He fancied himself, indeed, dressed in khaki, with a breastplate composed of newspapers containing reports of speeches which he had been charged to deliver to soldiers at the front.He was passing in a winged tank along those scenes of desolation of which he had so often read in his daily papers, and which his swollen fancy now coloured even more vividly than had those striking phrases of the past, when presently the tank turned a somersault, and shot him out into a morass lighted up by countless star-shells whizzing round and above.In this morass were hundreds and thousands of figures sunk like himself up to the waist, and waving their arms above their heads."These," thought Mr.Lavender, "must be the soldiers I have come to speak to," and he tore a sheet off his breastplate; but before he could speak from its columns it became thin air in his hand; and he went on tearing off sheet after sheet, hoping to find a speech which would stay solid long enough for him to deliver it.
At last a little corner stayed substantial in his hand, and he called out in a loud voice: "Heroes!"But at the word the figures vanished with a wail, sinking into the mud, which was left covered with bubbles iridescent in the light of the star-shells.At this moment one of these, bursting over his head, turned into a large bright moon; and Mr.Lavender saw to his amazement that the bubbles were really butterflies, perched on the liquid moonlit mud, fluttering their crimson wings, and peering up at him with tiny human faces."Who are you?" he cried; "oh! who are you?" The butterflies closed their wings; and on each of their little faces came a look so sad and questioning that Mr.Lavender's tears rolled down into his breastplate of speeches.A whisper rose from them."We are the dead."And they flew up suddenly in swarms, and beat his face with their wings.
Mr.Lavender woke up sitting in the middle of the floor, with light shining in on him through a hole in the curtain, and Blink licking off the tears which were streaming down his face.
"Blink," he said, "I have had a horrible dream." And still conscious of that weight on his chest, as of many undelivered speeches, he was afraid to go back to bed; so, putting on some clothes, he went carefully downstairs and out of doors into the morning.He walked with his dog towards the risen sun, alone in the silvery light of Hampstead, meditating deeply on his dream."I have evidently," he thought, "not yet acquired that felicitous insensibility which is needful for successful public speaking.This is undoubtedly the secret of my dream.For the sub-conscious knowledge of my deficiency explains the weight on my chest and the futile tearing of sheet after sheet, which vanished as I tore them away.I lack the self-complacency necessary to the orator in any surroundings, and that golden certainty which has enchanted me in the outpourings of great men, whether in ink or speech.This is, however, a matter which I can rectify with practice." And coming to a little may-tree in full blossom, he thus addressed it:
"Little tree, be my audience, for I see in you, tipped with the sunlight, a vision of the tranquil and beautiful world, which, according to every authority, will emerge out of this carnival of blood and iron."And the little tree lifted up its voice and answered him with the song of a blackbird.
Mr.Lavender's heart, deeply responsive to the voice of Nature, melted within him.
"What are the realms of this earth, the dreams of statesmen, and all plots and policies," he said, "compared with the beauty of this little tree? She--or is it a he?--breathes, in her wild and ****** dress, just to be lovely and loved.He harbours the blackbird, and shakes fragrance into the morning; and with her blossom catches the rain and the sun drops of heaven.I see in him the witchery of God; and of her prettiness would I make a song of redemption."So saying he knelt down before the little tree, while Blink on her haunches, very quiet beside him, looked wiser than many dogs.
A familiar gurgling sound roused him from his devotions, and turning his head he saw his young neighbour in the garb of a nurse, standing on the path behind him."She has dropped from heaven," he thought for all nurses are angels.
And, taking off his hat, he said: