The Elysian Fields

GERALD had come down as usual for the week-end, and they had taken out the two-seater and gone house-hunting. It was to be a flat in town, and a little place not too far out and somewhere near a golf-course. He had been the same gay Gerald she had always known, full of plans, keen on his work; and then there was the wedding, barely a couple of months away now. On the Monday morning he had said something about his head and something else about his throat; but neither of them had taken it very seriously.

This was when she was driving him to the station. He had waved to her from the carriage window as the train drew out. And that was the end of Gerald — of their engagement, of everything upon which they had staked their hopes and happiness. For on the Tuesday she had heard that he was ill; on the Thursday it was scarlet fever and pneumonia; and on the Sunday he was dead, and she had not been allowed to come near him. Nor was she even allowed to go to the funeral. She had been placed in quarantine and watched. But nothing happened to her. Only to Gerald.

At first she could not believe it. He had been so well and gay and sure. But as the weeks went by and no Gerald came to her, she had to believe it, like all the rest of them: like the two aunts with whom she lived, and like Gerald’s people, who wore black now. She said very little, but every night she lay awake, wondering whether she would ever sleep again; and often the dawn found her wretched and open-eyed. By day, her one relief was to get out the two-seater and drive alone over the roads they had taken. There was the long straight piece with the good surface— they had flown across that till the wind sung; there were curly roads, and roads that climbed, and narrow lanes that twisted. Sometimes she found forgetfulness; and all the time she seemed to be looking out for Gerald. But she never found him on any of the roads which they had taken.

The sleepless nights aged her. She grew thin and pale. Her aunts said she ought to go away, but she would not budge. She was always tired now, and one afternoon she fell fast asleep. She had never slept of an afternoon before. She had scorned the bare idea of it. But this afternoon — she remembered that first afternoon — it was raining outdoors and the world was dismal. So she had gone up to her room with a book, poked the fire, — for it was cold now, — and settled down in the one big chair.

She had begun to nod, and she had fought against it; but after a while the book had fallen to the floor. With so many bad nights, of misery, of wakefulness, she had surrendered. And that, was the first time the dream came: it was always the same dream, and it occurred in the Elysian Fields.

She called them the Elysian Fields; but, really, they were n’t so very unlike the fields she took between her house and the village, except that it was always May. She knew it was May by the flowers and the grass and the young green on the trees, and by the birds that were calling. And it was always sunshine here, with two fat clouds that looked like cotton-wool. Only two. The rest of the sky was wonderful and the sun was in the west. So it must be afternoon.

The first field was empty, and she walked through it and came to a bridge that crossed a little stream; and now she was in the big field. There were trees all along the edge of it, aspen and hawthorn and a pollard willow—she could n’t tell the names of the others because she was n’t close enough. And under the trees were young rabbits, some quite tiny, nibbling, and not very frightened, really, though they sat up and looked at her. When she was well into the big field, she saw Gerald.

At first she did n’t know it was Gerald : she only saw a man coming toward her; but when he came closer, she knew; and then she gave a cry, and he looked up and gave a shout, and opened his arms, and next they both rushed toward each other like mad. She had bare feet in the dream and so had he; but it did n’t hurt; and they were both in white and running and running and holding their arms out; and her skirt did n’t get in the way, though it was quite a long one; and then, just when she could see Gerald’s face quite close and plainly, she woke up and all was over. It was like that the first time.

Next day she tried again, and it succeeded. She locked her door this afternoon and lay down on her bed. But it was exact ly the same dream over again; first the smaller field, then the little bridge, and next the big field with Gerald. Anti it all left off as it had done before, just as they were about, to fly into each other’s arms. And the days after that, it was the same. He never saw her first: she always saw him; but he was always there; and when she gave her cry, he looked up and shouted back, and then they both started running — fast — so fast — like the wind!

She got to know the look of the grass, with the sun slanting across it and making it green and golden; and there were buttercups and daisies and purple orchids — only a few orchids — and dandelion puffs and speedwell; and overhead the two fat clouds that looked like cotton-wool. And some of the trees on the edge of the field had silvery leaves and were aspen, and there was the white hawthorn, and the willows; but she did n’t know what the other trees were because she had n’t been close enough. She could hear the blackbirds, and a cuckoo calling, and a thrush; and there were the little rabbits under the trees, who paused and listened but were n’t really afraid; and next she saw Gerald and forgot everything else and cried to him, and he answered; and then they both rushed like mad, and just when she could see into his eyes and the rest of his face and catch the ripple of his hair,—just when they almost touched one another,— she woke with a start, and she was in her room again, and the Elysian Fields were over. Try as she might, she could n’t go back to it; and, later on, in bed at night, that dream nev er came. But always, in the afternoon, she had only to close her eyes, and there they were!

Her aunts did n’t like this habit. They began to say, ‘No wonder you can’t sleep at night, if you go to sleep in the afternoon. You ought to take a nice long walk. That’ll make you properly tired, and then you ’ll be able to sleep.’ She never told them about Gerald. But, of course, she kept on; and after tea she’d get out the two-seater and take the drives they used to take, till it grew dark. And all the time she was trying to make the dream end differently; but she could n’t keep from waking just at the moment when she and Gerald were nearly in each other’s arms.

She tried and tried and tried. And then she thought of another way; and, somehow, she was free to do it. He was always coming toward her; and, instead of giving a cry and rushing, she would wait and keep quite still. And so she waited, and he came closer and closer, till he was so near that she could feel her heart thump; but now he looked, and it was he who gave the first shout, and then it ended the same way as before. She woke with a start, and it was over.

The next time she kept close to the edge of the field and tried creeping up to him. He had n’t seen her yet.; and now she was n’t so very far away. She’d cut off quite a big piece, and she did n’t call out or anything, but ran to him like mad; and again he looked up and saw her, and again she woke without having touched him or said a word.

She tried other ways. If she could only get behind him, so that he could n’t see her at all. But he always looked up and caught her, and they could never arrange anything beforehand in the dream.

And so it went on for weeks and weeks, and the fields never changed, and Gerald never changed, and no more did the ending. It was always May, and the sun was always in the west, making it the afternoon: and there were the same flowers and the same trees and the same birds, and the same little rabbits nibbling under the trees. And she and Gerald were always barefoot and dressed in white; and although, day after day, they came so close together, they never met really.

She thought of dodges, of all kinds of ways, to get round this. It was no good hiding in the trees, for he never came to the edge of the field where she could jump out on him, and the moment he saw her he began to run, and nothing could stop him.

She tried to think of new ways, by day, by night, and when she was driving alone in the two-seater. The last time was when she came to the long straight piece of road with the good surface, where Gerald and she had driven till the wind sang. It was in her ears today. It grew louder and louder as she let the little car out and simply flew. And then the wind stopped suddenly, and she was in the Elysian Fields.

She did n’t know how she had come there. She was n’t. expecting them. But there they were right enough, and there was Gerald. A long, long way off. But he saw her first to-day; as soon, yes, as soon as she had crossed the bridge and come into ihe big field. He was right at t he other end, but he waved and shouted; and now she could see him running toward her. But she knew how it would end, and so she did n’t budge, but waited there with her heart beating. Closer and closer he came, but she just stood perfectly still; and when he came quite close to her, she said, ‘Now I’m going to wake and it’ll be over.’ But she did n’t wake this time. She held out her arms, and there she was again, with Gerald. Really and truly together with him, just as she had been before in the old days. And not even then did she wake with a start and find herself on her bed in her room at the house. It was wonderful.

‘ Is n’t it wonderful?’ she said to Gerald ; but the man who was stooping over her could n’t understand.

He had seen the two-seater coming toward him on the long straight piece of road at he did n’t know how many miles an hour. And then suddenly it had swerved, and a tire had burst with a bang — he did n’t know which came first; and next there was this poor young lady thrown out and lying in the ditch, with the car overturned beside her. He thought he’d heard her say something, or try to say something. He repeated this at the inquest. Perhaps he was mistaken, said the coroner, who knew nothing whatever about the Elysian Fields.