Where the Blue Begins
Produced by Dianne Bean
WHERE THE BLUE BEGINS
by Christopher Morley
TO FELIX and TOTO
"I am not free-- And it may be Life is too tight around my shins; For, unlike you, I can't break through A truant where the blue begins.
"Out of the very element Of bondage, that here holds me pent, I'll make my furious sonnet: I'll turn my noose To tightrope use And madly dance upon it.
"So I will take My leash, and make A wilder and more subtle fleeing And I shall be More escapading and more free Than you have ever dreamed of being!"
CHAPTER ONE
Gissing lived alone (except for his Japanese butler) in a littlehouse in the country, in that woodland suburb region called the CanineEstates. He lived comfortably and thoughtfully, as bachelors often do.He came of a respectable family, who had always conducted themselvescalmly and without too much argument. They had bequeathed him justenough income to live on cheerfully, without display but without havingto do addition and subtraction at the end of the month and then tear upthe paper lest Fuji (the butler) should see it.
It was strange, since Gissing was so pleasantly situated in life, thathe got into these curious adventures that I have to relate. I do notattempt to explain it.
He had no responsibilities, not even a motor car, for his tastes weresurprisingly simple. If he happened to be spending an evening at thecountry club, and a rainstorm came down, he did not worry about gettinghome. He would sit by the fire and chuckle to see the married memberscreep away one by one. He would get out his pipe and sleep that nightat the club, after telephoning Fuji not to sit up for him. When he feltlike it he used to read in bed, and even smoke in bed. When he went totown to the theatre, he would spend the night at a hotel to avoid thefatigue of the long ride on the 11:44 train. He chose a different hoteleach time, so that it was always an Adventure. He had a great deal offun.
But having fun is not quite the same as being happy. Even an income of1000 bones a year does not answer all questions. That charming littlehouse among the groves and thickets seemed to him surrounded by strangewhispers and quiet voices. He was uneasy. He was restless, and did notknow why. It was his theory that discipline must be maintained in thehousehold, so he did not tell Fuji his feelings. Even when he was alone,he always kept up a certain formality in the domestic routine. Fujiwould lay out his dinner jacket on the bed: he dressed, came down tothe dining room with quiet dignity, and the evening meal was served bycandle-light. As long as Fuji was at work, Gissing sat carefully inthe armchair by the hearth, smoking a cigar and pretending to readthe paper. But as soon as the butler had gone upstairs, Gissingalways kicked off his dinner suit and stiff shirt, and lay down on thehearth-rug. But he did not sleep. He would watch the wings of flamegilding the dark throat of the chimney, and his mind seemed drawn upwardon that rush of light, up into the pure chill air where the moon wasriding among sluggish thick floes of cloud. In the darkness he heardchiming voices, wheedling and tantalizing. One night he was walking onhis little verandah. Between rafts of silver-edged clouds were channelsof ocean-blue sky, inconceivably deep and transparent. The air wasserene, with a faint acid taste. Suddenly there shrilled a soft, sweet,melancholy whistle, earnestly repeated. It seemed to come from thelittle pond in the near-by copses. It struck him strangely. It mightbe anything, he thought. He ran furiously through the field, and tothe brim of the pond. He could find nothing, all was silent. Then thewhistlings broke out again, all round him, maddeningly. This kept on,night after night. The parson, whom he consulted, said it was onlyfrogs; but Gissing told the constable he thought God had something to dowith it.
Then willow trees and poplars showed a pallid bronze sheen, forsythiaswere as yellow as scrambled eggs, maples grew knobby with red buds.Among the fresh bright grass came, here and there, exhilarating smellsof last year's buried bones. The little upward slit at the back ofGissing's nostrils felt prickly. He thought that if he could bury itdeep enough in cold beef broth it would be comforting. Several times hewent out to the pantry intending to try the experiment, but every timeFuji happened to be around. Fuji was a Japanese pug, and rather correct,so Gissing was ashamed to do what he wanted to. He pretended he had comeout to see that the icebox pan had been emptied properly.
"I must get the plumber to put in a pukka drain-pipe to take the placeof the pan," Gissing said to Fuji; but he knew that he had no intentionof doing so. The ice-box pan was his private test of a good servant. Acook who forgot to empty it was too careless, he thought, to be a realsuccess.
But certainly there was some curious elixir in the air. He went forwalks, and as soon as he was out of sight of the houses he threw downhis hat and stick and ran wildly, with great exultation, over the hillsand fields. "I really ought to turn all this energy into some sort ofconstructive work," he said to himself. No one else, he mused, seemed toenjoy life as keenly and eagerly as he did. He wondered, too, about theother sex. Did they feel these violent impulses to run, to shout, toleap and caper in the sunlight? But he was a little startled, on one ofhis expeditions, to see in the distance the curate rushing hotly throughthe underbrush, his clerical vestments dishevelled, his tongue hangingout with excitement.
"I must go to church more often," said Gissing.
In the golden light and pringling air he felt excitable and high-strung.His tail curled upward until it ached. Finally he asked Mike Terrier,who lived next door, what was wrong.
"It's spring," Mike said.
"Oh, yes, of course, jolly old spring!" said Gissing, as though this wassomething he had known all along, and had just forgotten for the moment.But he didn't know. This was his first spring, for he was only tenmonths old.
Outwardly he was the brisk, genial figure that the suburb knew andesteemed. He was something of a mystery among his neighbours of theCanine Estates, because he did not go daily to business in the city, asmost of them did; nor did he lead a life of brilliant amusement like theAiredales, the wealthy people whose great house was near by. Mr. Poodle,the conscientious curate, had called several times but was not able tolearn anything definite. There was a little card-index of parishioners,which it was Mr. Poodle's duty to fill in with details of each person'sbusiness, charitable inclinations, and what he could do to amusea Church Sociable. The card allotted to Gissing was marked, in Mr.Poodle's neat script, Friendly, but vague as to definite participationin Xian activities. Has not communicated.
But in himself, Gissing was increasingly disturbed. Even his seizures ofjoy, which came as he strolled in the smooth spring air and sniffed thewild, vigorous aroma of the woodland earth, were troublesome becausehe did not know why he was so glad. Every morning it seemed to him thatlife was about to exhibit some delicious crisis in which the meaning andexcellence of all things would plainly appear. He sang in the bathtub.Daily it became more difficult to maintain that decorum which Fujiexpected. He felt that his life was being wasted. He wondered what oughtto be done about it.