L.P.

Hartley

A Summons

t could not have been long after midnight when I found myself awake, and so thoroughly awake, too. I did not feel
the misty withdrawal or the drowsy approaches of sleep. I had apparently been reasoning, for some seconds, with
admirable lucidity on the practical question: how had I come to wake up? The night was still. The ridiculous acornshaped appendage to the blind-cord no longer flapped in its eddying elliptical movement. And what of that odious
bluebottle fly? Doubtless it had crept into some corner, a fold in the valance, perhaps. I could not believe it was asleep. It
might be scratching itself with one foot, in the way flies have; a curious gesture that seems to imply a kind of equivocal
familiarity with oneselfan insulting salute, a greeting one couldnt possibly acknowledge. Flies have a flair for putrefaction; what had brought this one to my bedside, what strange prescience had inspired its sharp, virulent rushes and
brought that note of deadly exultation into its buzz? It had been all I could do to keep the creature off my face. Now it
was biding its time, but my ears were apprehensive for the renewal of its message of mortality, its monotonous memento
mori. That spray of virginia creeper, too, had apparently given up its desultory, stealthy, importune attack upon the window. Perhaps it had annoyed the window cleaner, and he, realizing the trouble it gave, had cut it off and dropped it to lie
withering on the grass. I seemed to see its shrivelled, upturned leaves, its pathetic, strained curve of a creature that curls
up to die. Surely this was not particularly sensible. A thought came to me suddenly.

It must have been someone knocking. My small sister slept in the next room. I remembered her parting words,
uttered in a voice that was half appeal, half command: Now, if I dream Im being murdered I shall knock on the wall,
and shall expect you to come. Of course, I reflected with uneasy amusement, my sister always had a lot to say at bedtime.
It was, in fact, the exercise of a natural right. One could not be packed off to bed in the middle of a sentence. One would
linger over embraces, one would adopt attitudes and poses too rich and noble for irreverent interruption. One would
drift into conversations and display a sudden interest.

Taptaptaptap.

As I thought. Now what had put this silly idea into my sisters head? It was absurd that a child should dream of
being murdered. It would not occur to her that there were such dreams. But perhaps someone had suggested ita servant whose mind was brimful of horrors. I myself had mentioned a dream of my own. Well, it was nothing. Still it had
something about a murder in it. Otherwise I suppose I shouldnt have thought it worth telling. Dreams seem so stupid
to other people, so flat, so precisely the commonplace thing that wouldnt invade a first-rate imagination. Surely it is a
privilege to be let into the secret of another persons dreams? And yet one recalls the despair, hurriedly transformed into
a look of conventional interest, that greets confessions of this kind. But an elder brothers dreams are not to be dismissed
lightly. Perhaps I had embroidered mine a little.

Taptaptap.

If I went in, what, after all, could I do? Fears are intangible things, but they distort the features. It must be curious to see people looking very much frightened. Would their eyes bulge, their fingers twitch, their mouths be twisted
into some unmeaning expression? As a general preposition it would be quite amusing. But to see ones sister in that
deplorable condition! She would probably be in bed, clutching the sheet, peering over the edge like one of Bluebeards
wives; or perhaps chewing it, the first symptom of feeble-mindedness! Very likely, though, she would be huddled up
under the bedclothes, a formless lump that I should be tempted to smack! But there are people who shrink from covering their heads, lest someone should come and hold down the bedclothes and stifle them. It is not very pleasant to think
of such a person bending over you. Perhaps the child wouldnt be in bed; she would have to get out to knock. At first
I might not see her at all; she might be crouching behind some piece of furniture, or even hidden in the wardrobe with
her head among the hooks. I should have to strike a match. How often they go out; you throw them on the carpet, and
the smouldering head burns a little hole. How funny: if she were lying at my feet, I might drop several matches on her
and never notice till she screamed.

Taptap.

It was much feebler that time. Better after all not to go in. It would create a sort of precedent, and one could not

set up as a professional smoother of pillows. Besides, children grow out of this sort of thing much more quickly if left to
themselves. Of course, I should not tell my sister I had heard her knocking; she might mistake my reason for not going to the rescue, and think I had somehow left her in the lurch. That would be absurd, for in spite of the cold I would
get out this minute, slip on my dressing-gown, and say, There, there, everythings all right, its only a dream! Perhaps
when my sister grew up I would tell her that I stayed away intentionally, feeling it was better for her to fight her battles
alone; we had all gone through it. Everyone keeps a few such explanations up his sleeve; age mellows them, and there is a
kind of pleasure in telling a story against oneself. For the present it was to remain my little secret. For my sister knew, or
would know now at any rate, that I was a heavy sleeper; and if she referred to the matter at breakfast I would use a little
pious dissimulationchildren are so easily put off. Probably she would be ashamed to mention it. After all it wasnt my
fault; I couldnt direct peoples dreams; at her age, too, I slept like a top. Dreaming about murders not very nice in a
child. I would have to talk to her alone about it some time.

Minutes passed, and the knocking was not renewed. I turned over. The bed was comfortable enough, but I felt I
should sleep sounder if my sister changed her room. This, after all, could easily be arranged.