Meeting with the Unexpected
Meeting with the Unexpected
It was pouring down that night. Motoring through the curtain of rain was made all the more hazardous as I still had a hang-over. The drumming in my head, added to the rain pattering on the screen made this journey unbearable. The headlights of the cars driving past kept me awake. Only fifty miles or so to go…
The trees on each side of the road had to fight against the storm too. Some twigs were caught in the windscreens, branches were snatched and whirling away, disorientated. I could sense the fury of the thunder, clapping and rending the integrity of the autumnal night.
Suddenly, a massive oak struck by lightning ended its fall across the road with an echoing thud. I lost control of my car, and we both ended up head first in a ditch. My loss of consciousness could not have lasted for more than an hour, since it was still pitch dark when I opened my eyes, and the blood on my brow had scarcely clotted. I groped for the torch, and directed its ray around me, stuck in the midst of nowhere.
I had to cling to the trees so as not to be knocked down by the violence of the wuthering wind as I made my way through the thick wood. Dizzy and dripping, I followed the ray of the torch along a crooked path, wishing that it would lead me to some kind of shelter.
It was more than a shelter. Behind the rusty gate was a manor, rundown, but it would do for one night. Most of the window- panes were shatered. It must have been beautiful in its early days, filled with light and laughter. The ground floor was damp, and a smell of rotten wood and mouldy crumbled stone choked me. A staircase led to the first floor. The steps were not safe. From the landing I cast a glance over my shoulder at the desolate hall below.
I finally opened a door. The study was dusty, and cobwebs extended from one shelf of the bookcase to the other ones. I sat down, and dropped my head into my arms. Strangely enough, the study looked fully furnished. What had happened to the owners of the manor ?
My right hand met a flat object on the desk. I lit it up, and behind the broken glass was a yellowish photography. The man was wearing spectacles, and next to him a woman was sitting with a toddler in her lap.
Time had stopped ages ago in this old house. The chime of the clock was no longer heard. However, I had the feeling that the place was not utterly dead...It was pregnant with an unnamed secret.
I directed the ray of the torch in the direction of the bookcase. My eyes encountered with delight centuries of writings, once read, then abandoned. In the left corner of the room, there was a writing desk with a little bookcase added to it, a piece of furniture dating from the second half of the 18th century. There were some letters in the little niches, an inkpot, a writing-pad, a key, and a globe ; America, Africa, the seas… on the little globe circled with wood. Some paintings were still hanging on the walls. A candlestick was sat on the mantelpiece. I struck a match and lit a candle. The room wrapped me in new sensations : charm, curiosity and fear.
I took a few steps towards the writing desk, and my eyes fell on the objects again : the letters, the inkpot, the key, the globe… the key. It was too small to open a door, but there it was, hanging from a hook in one of the niches. I examined it, and looked up at the little bookcase. It was locked. Behind the leaded panes were other books. I tried to open it with the key. The rusty piece of metal squeaked, and then, approaching the candle a little closer, I picked out a book. Robinson Crusoe ; the title was printed in golden letters. Next to it was one of Stevenson’s works : Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. On the flyleaf were scribbled the words : « Only the shallow know themselves. Oscar Wilde ».
I pondered over the quotation, squatting on the floor, when a cold gust of wind licked my neck and made me jump. I turned round. I noticed no alteration around me ; the door and the window were still closed. I stretched out my hand to seize the candlestick which was on the writing desk. I got hold of it. The candle flickered and then went out. Trembling in every limb, I fumbled for my match-box in my pocket, and after three attempts, I finally lit the candle. The draught was definitely there, coming from one of the crevices of the old mansion, or… from the fireplace, of course ! I reached for the torch this time and made my way towards the blackish fireplace. I could feel the air blowing. As if a voice was whispering words in my ear, I executed the command. I ducked and directed the light of my torch inside the fireplace. I leant my free hand on a stone so as not to lose my balance.
Something rather singuliar happened, then. A chip of the old stone crumbled down, and a metallic noise followed. I knelt near the spot, and there it was : a rectangular box, dusty, five inches wide and twice as long. I wiped the dust off the lid. It was not locked. I took a long breath and lifted the lid. I gazed at the content wide-eyed. What did I expect to find there : gold, jewels, a treasure ? Maybe it was a treasure, but to me it first appeared to be a mass of paper, a book. I tentatively took it out of the box and opened it. My eyes met the fine handwriting which, page after page, enlightened my mind. It was magic. There were lines and lines of quotations, maxims, thoughts. Nothing very personal, only reflections about life. And there again, the sentences I had read a few minutes earlier : « Only the shallow know themselves ».
Then, half way through the book, no more words, no more verses, only the sentences : « don’t let the printed page be your master, be yours first. Have an opinion of your own, and fear not the original. Don’t fear to contradict yourself. Nobody is perfect, nothing is permanent. Bring your own and personal touch to the order or disorder of things. Now, those blank pages are yours. Feel free to write or not to write on them. Do not undergo life but have a go in it, taking the path less travelled by, why not ? Be proud of what makes you feel different from the mass instead of fearing it. Take no heed of the meanness of your enemies ; just feel sorry for them. Open your eyes and look at the first flowers of spring blooming. Have a sense of wonder. Listen to the sparrow in the early morning. Seize the day. Feel the drizzling rain on your body. Don’t take anything for granted, not even my words... ».
When I woke up, the sun was beaming through the window panes. I first wondered where I was, and the I knew. That winding road in a stormy countryside had led me to a house where the discovery of a book was the turning point in a disillusioned life. It was as if I had heard the voices of wisdom coming out of the blue.
I have memorized some of the maxims of the book, but the most important thing I discovered was that we are our own masters. Not everything is « fate » thank goodness. I then chose not to take this book with me. Like my predecessor, I left it in its box. Feel free to add your words, or just feel free to think and act.
The man went out of the manor. His car was less damaged than he thought, and it was out of the ditch. A crane was lifting the tree away from the road and elevating it in the air.
The man got into his car and drove away.
