The Knocking at the Door

A NUMBER of years ago I read that part of De Quincey’s Confessions which has to do with‘The knocking at the gate in Macbeth,’ and at that time, I remember, it brought to my mind some rather strange but immature thoughts. Having recently reread this little essay the thoughts have come again.

De Quincey speaks of the effect, on his mind, of this particular knocking at the gate, and explains the reason for the act in a very plausible way by saying that it was the genius of Shakespeare recognizing the need of it, as an act of transition from the passion incident to the murder to the resumption of normal actualities. ‘For,’ he says,’we must be made sensible that the world of ordinary life is suddenly arrested, laid asleep, tranced, racked into a dread armistice; . . . and all must pass self-withdrawn into a deep syncope and suspension of earthly passion. Hence it is that when the deed is done, when the work of darkness is perfect, then the world of darkness passes away like a pageantry in the clouds. The knocking at the gate is heard; and it makes known audibly that the reaction has commenced;

. . . and makes us profoundly sensible of the awful parenthesis that had suspended them.’

Beyond doubt he is speaking specifically of the knocking in Macbeth, and of that which pertained particularly to an act of murder. But, to me, all knocking at a closed door is fraught with the tragic, an imperative summons to open to the unknown; to suspend, for the time, the present action or conversation to make way for that which may not be denied. I have observed, with myself particularly, when in a room alone, that a sudden knocking at the door, coming without previous warning as to who might wish admittance, suspends, as if in mid-air, the thought or act upon which I am engaged. A feeling of vague apprehension possesses me, a momentary wonderment at the sudden and unexpected interruption of thought. And I have observed, too, when in a room with others, that at a knocking at the door all will turn toward it, suspending action, leaving the speech uncompleted, with a strained expression in their eyes, as if fearing some disaster; while the shadow of silence will fall upon us until the door is opened, and the cause of the unknown summons discovered. Though the shadow of silence, in such an instance, is of such short duration, and may fall so lightly upon some that it may be unperceived, to me it is none the less real.

What is the cause of this feeling of apprehension? What movement of the soul takes place in so short a time? This is a subject for the casuist, or psychologist; but it seems to me that all, or most, of the tragic things of life come upon us suddenly; the information, or warning, is followed so quickly by the act, that one has not time to bring reason to bear upon the situation and thus rob it of its terror; for with warning given in ample time to prepare ourselves for the possible catastrophe, when reason has exercised the faculty of analysis and there has been a consequent acceptance of the inevitable with such fortitude as one may bring to bear, the terror is, at least partially, eliminated.

We stand surrounded with the darkness of the unknown; the vague shadows of things possible but unforeseen constantly press upon and around us. Somewhere, beyond our present knowledge, the wheels of Destiny and Fate are grinding out the grist of events which make up life. We cannot know at what instant the web may fly out from the loom and entangle us in its meshes. A feeling of fear, intangible, unexplainable, possesses us. The fear of the unknown — except when one has time and quiet in which to contemplate its appearance, and so to order one’s thoughts that it may be received with calmness — lies dormant within us, yet ready to spring to attention at the least signal of danger.

Ordinarily we give our attention to the matter in hand, our thoughts are concentrated upon some special subject , or have wandered far afield in reverie. Then comes the sudden knocking at the door. The normal action of the mind is temporarily suspended, and the immediate subject is instantly displaced; the thoughts which followed leisurely the broad highway of purpose, or the devious by-paths of fancy, are arrested by a sudden shock, even brought back quickly with a spasmodic jerk of the senses. We are confronted, unprepared, with the unknown. A vague feeling of fear and apprehension fills the void made by a cessation of active cerebration, and we approach the door with hand outstretched to ward off that which may possibly bring us uneasiness, discomfort, or disaster. And whether the messenger who knocks bring us good tidings or bad, there will be a moment of internal unrest until the soul has resumed the state of tranquillity from which it has been rudely aroused. And if there be two in the room, at the first jarring sound of the knocking each will look toward the other with a glance of constraint, an unspoken questioning, and a wondering.

I speak here particularly of knocking, rather than of any other method of seeking admittance, or making one’s presence known. The ringing of a bell, or a calling, has on me no such effect as I have described, or on others whom I have been able to observe. Although there are times when the sharp, clamorous ring of a bell may startle one, it seems to me that this effect is entirely physical.

The ringing of a bell seems to indicate, to me, the presence of a person at a distance, or the action of a known force; a voice, when calling, holds some human quality that does not alarm the dormant consciousness, which, at another time, might arise with fear. And even if the voice be insistent, if it urge haste, or possess the quality of distress, we realize, though perhaps unconsciously, that the thing or thought from without has passed through, touched, or affected another being similar to one’s self.

With the knocking it is entirely different. There is something strangely insistent, something imperatively indicating that there must be no denial, in the rapping of knuckles against a closed door. The invisible is here and now. We cannot see what manner of person it is who desires the barrier removed which stands between us. There is no tone of voice, no visible gesture, no glance of eye, conveying the nature or attitude of the messenger awaiting us. And though we may arrive at some knowledge of the matter, or person, by the manner of knocking, — according as it is timid and cringing, backward and hesitant, or loud and vibrant, forceful and impelling, — we must still open wide the door to come to a full realization of its meaning. And until we do open wide the door, uncertainty must remain with us. And how quickly we spring forward, though we may place our hand hesitatingly on the knob, to relieve ourselves of this uncertainty.

For one fact is evident: the knocking is pregnant with meaning. And one realizes this by the moment of silence which intervenes between the knocking at, and the opening of, the door. It may mean to us a smile or a tear; probably no more than a momentary interest. But no matter; the knocking has come from without, and one may not rest in peace until the cause has been ascertained. And though by quiescence or effort we refrain from opening the door, making no movement by which we may arrive at the identity of the one who knocks, after he has gone we shall have a much greater feeling of unrest than if we went at first to receive the messenger; and this feeling will remain, with a haunting speculation, until it is absorbed by something of greater moment.

To me a knocking at the door is fraught with much meaning; it brings to me a queer feeling of the approach of the unknown; and even though my soul stands upon its threshold in openeyed wonderment and expectation, I must arise quickly to meet it.