Джон Пристли - Benighted

If the man did, he gave no sign, but stood there as if he were staring out of another world. Penderel had a sudden desire to pound the great senseless carcase. But then he remembered that they were now in a remote part of Wales, were really travellers in a foreign country, and that it was quite possible that this fellow, who was obviously some kind of servant, could hardly understand English. He might be the solitary surviving specimen of the original aborigines of this island. Penderel knew no Welsh and could only begin all over again, this time raising his voice and introducing some fine descriptive gestures. At the end, the man came to life, though only slowly. First, he lumbered forward a pace, looked towards the car, examined the night, then very laboriously and solemnly shook his head. After that, he tapped Penderel, who looked in silence and amazement as if he were watching the movements of some prehistoric monster, lightly on the chest, pointed indoors, tapped himself on the chest, and ended by producing from somewhere at the back of his throat, a very queer gurgling sound.

This noise made Penderel jump, it was so unexpected. "What's that?" he cried sharply. Even Welsh ought not to sound like that; it was as if a lump of earth had tried to make a remark.

By way of reply, the man pushed his face near to Penderel"s, opened his mouth very wide, and pointed to it with a long dark forefinger. Then he padded away, leaving Penderel to gape through the open door. He must have retired to fetch his master, for it could hardly be his own house, though he looked more like a performing bear than a butler. Penderel wondered whether to walk forward into the large hall visible through the door or to return for a moment to the Wavertons, who must be wondering what was happening. He turned, however, only to find them at his elbow.

"This is absurd," Mrs. Waverton was declaring indignantly. "Keeping us here like this! What's the matter?"

He determined to put an easy face upon it.

"The matter has just disappeared, to find somebody, I think. Did you see him? I don't think he's real."

"What did he say?" Waverton asked.

"Nothing. I don't believe he could say anything. I don't think he knows English or anything else. Wait until you have a good look at him. He's a huge troll who's got all rusty inside."

Mrs. Waverton, as usual, seemed to brush away this kind of talk. "Let's go in, Philip. They couldn't refuse to let us stay, an awful night like this. And it's ridiculous standing here."

"Isn't it?" said Penderel, heartily. "As if we were carol-singers and this were some kind of devilish Christmas, perhaps Lucifer's birthday."

"We'll go in then," said Waverton. "But what about the car?"

"They'll tell us where to put it later. I must sit down somewhere where there isn't any rain. My head screams with it." And Mrs. Waverton marched in, followed by the two men.

The first thing that Penderel noticed was that the house had electric light. Somehow he hadn't expected that: it was impossible to imagine the giant troll fingering the switches or going round the accumulators. But the lights weren't behaving properly though; they were jumping and flickering, and they made the whole place jumpy, queerly uncertain. It was the kind of hall you rarely see except on the stage, being both entrance hall and lounge (and, if necessary, dining and drawing rooms), lofty and panelled, with a large open fireplace in the left-hand far corner, a broad staircase running up on the right and a gallery above, with a door immediately on the left and two more on the right. The fire was a smouldering old ruin; the table in the centre was very old; and all the chairs seemed to be faded and crazy. There was something ruinous about the whole place, and though it was gloriously snug after the howling misery of the night outside, it hardly suggested comfort and a warm hospitality. Penderel decided that it had a smell of mice and old newspapers.

They all stood bunched together and dripping near the door, and waited in silence for something to happen. After the first glance round, Penderel fixed his eyes on the staircase, down which – if life were what it ought to be – a lady with a long white train should come sweeping, with a great candlestick in each hand. He watched the stairs jump with the lights, and had a sudden daft desire to rush to the bottom of them, strike an attitude, and say something very romantic at the top of his voice. Enter the three wettest people in Christendom: one of them , obviously a tragic clown , approaches the jumping stairs . What a pity people didn't really think of life as a play, taking care to come on properly, to say and do no more than was necessary, and then to make a good clean exit. If there were any drinks going later, he must point that out to Waverton: it was one of those things you can only say over a drink.

The first door on the right suddenly opened and a thin elderly man in black walked into the hall, halting when he was a few paces from them. He was followed by a waddling old woman who came up and looked them over curiously with eyes like tiny black buttons. At the back was the huge creature, who stood lumpishly near the door.

"My name is Femm," said the thin man, "Horace Femm. I cannot understand what is the matter. Our servant, Morgan there, is dumb." His voice was as thin as he was, very dry and harsh, and he spoke with a curious and disconcerting precision.

Penderel cleared his throat, but Mrs. Waverton cut in before him, hastily giving their names and declaring their errand.

"Shelter?" Mr. Femm looked dubious and put his long hand to his chin. You seemed to hear bone rubbing bone.

"What is it?" the old woman suddenly screamed, making them all jump.

Mr. Femm pushed out his neck, bringing his mouth nearer to the hand she held to her ear. Instead of raising his voice he contrived to make it extraordinarily penetrating by hissing his words. The effect was strangely sinister, and indeed he seemed to turn a malignant eye upon the woman. "Shelter," he hissed. "They want to stay here all night." It sounded rather like the villain of old-fashioned melodrama.

The other shook her head. "They can"t. We can't have them here." Although she had examined them so thoroughly, she talked as if they weren't really there.

"You see how it is," said Mr. Femm, in his ordinary tones. "My sister, Rebecca here, is somewhat deaf. Morgan, as I have already pointed out, is dumb. My brother, Sir Roderick Femm, the master of this house, is confined to his bed upstairs, very old, very weak, and may not live long. Though not, I beg to assure you, without hospitable instincts, I myself am as rusty as an old file. This house is partly a barn and partly a ruin and could not accommodate you even for a night. I advise you, for your own sakes, to look elsewhere. There is, I believe, an inn about twelve miles from here."

These people might have been living in another world; they didn't seem to know what was happening all round them; it was time now to make them understand the situation. All three began explaining at once. Mrs. Waverton went up to Miss Femm and shouted in her ear. Penderel and Waverton hustled the uncomprehending Mr. Femm to the open door and confronted him with the black and torrential night itself, through which there still came a menacing roar.

"The road's gone on each side of this house," cried Waverton, waving a hand to left and right. "We can't go half a mile, let alone twelve miles. We're cut off from everywhere. Even the road below's under water."

"For that matter," Penderel added, determined to show Mr. Femm what sort of world he was living in, "this place may be under water soon or even buried. The hill's crumbling on each side, and it looks as if something above here, a lake or a reservoir, has burst its banks. Listen to that." He held up his hand impressively. The roaring really did seem louder than ever. Penderel thought he could hear the distant crashing of rocks.