THE CHILD OF THE DAWN

 By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

 FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE

 [Greek: ędu ti tharsaleais ton makron teiein bion elpisin]

Author of THE UPTON LETTERS, FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW, BESIDE STILL WATERS, THE ALTAR FIRE, THE SCHOOLMASTER, AT LARGE, THE GATE OF DEATH, THESILENT ISLE, JOHN RUSKIN, LEAVES OF THE TREE, CHILD OF THE DAWN, PAULTHE MINSTREL

 1912

To MY BEST AND DEAREST FRIENDHERBERT FRANCIS WILLIAM TATHAMIN LOVE AND HOPE

INTRODUCTION

I think that a book like the following, which deals with a subject sogreat and so mysterious as our hope of immortality, by means of anallegory or fantasy, needs a few words of preface, in order to clearaway at the outset any misunderstandings which may possibly arise in areader's mind. Nothing is further from my wish than to attempt anyphilosophical or ontological exposition of what is hidden behind theveil of death. But one may be permitted to deal with the subjectimaginatively or poetically, to translate hopes into visions, as I havetried to do. 

The fact that underlies the book is this: that in the course of a verysad and strange experience--an illness which lasted for some two years, involving me in a dark cloud of dejection--I came to believepractically, instead of merely theoretically, in the personalimmortality of the human soul. I was conscious, during the whole time, that though the physical machinery of the nerves was out of gear, thesoul and the mind remained, not only intact, but practically unaffectedby the disease, imprisoned, like a bird in a cage, but perfectly free inthemselves, and uninjured by the bodily weakness which enveloped them. This was not all. I was led to perceive that I had been living lifewith an entirely distorted standard of values; I had been ambitious, covetous, eager for comfort and respect, absorbed in trivial dreams andchildish fancies. I saw, in the course of my illness, that what reallymattered to the soul was the relation in which it stood to other souls;that affection was the native air of the spirit; and that anything whichdistracted the heart from the duty of love was a kind of bodilydelusion, and simply hindered the spirit in its pilgrimage. 

It is easy to learn this, to attain to a sense of certainty about it, and yet to be unable to put it into practice as simply and frankly asone desires to do! The body grows strong again and reasserts itself; butthe blessed consciousness of a great possibility apprehended and graspedremains. 

There came to me, too, a sense that one of the saddest effects ofwhat is practically a widespread disbelief in immortality, whichaffects many people who would nominally disclaim it, is that we thinkof the soul after death as a thing so altered as to be practicallyunrecognisable--as a meek and pious emanation, without qualities or aimsor passions or traits--as a sort of amiable and weak-kneed sacristan inthe temple of God; and this is the unhappy result of our so often makingreligion a pursuit apart from life--an occupation, not an atmosphere; sothat it seems impious to think of the departed spirit as interested inanything but a vague species of liturgical exercise. 

I read the other day the account of the death-bed of a great statesman, which was written from what I may call a somewhat clerical point ofview. It was recorded with much gusto that the dying politician took nointerest in his schemes of government and cares of State, but foundperpetual solace in the repetition of childish hymns. This fact had, ormight have had, a certain beauty of its own, if it had been expresslystated that it was a proof that the tired and broken mind fell back uponold, simple, and dear recollections of bygone love. But there wasmanifest in the record a kind of sanctimonious triumph in the extinctionof all the great man's insight and wisdom. It seemed to me that theright treatment of the episode was rather to insist that those greatqualities, won by brave experience and unselfish effort, were onlytemporarily obscured, and belonged actually and essentially to thespirit of the man; and that if heaven is indeed, as we may thankfullybelieve, a place of work and progress, those qualities would be activelyand energetically employed as soon as the soul was freed from thetrammels of the failing body. 

Another point may also be mentioned. The idea of transmigration andreincarnation is here used as a possible solution for the extremedifficulties which beset the question of the apparently fortuitousbrevity of some human lives. I do not, of course, propound it asliterally and precisely as it is here set down--it is not a forecast ofthe future, so much as a symbolising of the forces of life--but _therenewal of conscious experience_, in some form or other, seems to be theonly way out of the difficulty, and it is that which is here indicated. If life is a probation for those who have to face experience andtemptation, how can it be a probation for infants and children, who diebefore the faculty of moral choice is developed? Again, I find it veryhard to believe in any multiplication of human souls. It is even moredifficult for me to believe in the creation of new souls than in thecreation of new matter. Science has shown us that there is no actualaddition made to the sum of matter, and that the apparent creation ofnew forms of plants or animals is nothing more than a rearrangement ofexisting particles--that if a new form appears in one place, it merelymeans that so much matter is transferred thither from another place. Ifind it, I say, hard to believe that the sum total of life is actuallyincreased. To put it very simply for the sake of clearness, andaccepting the assumption that human life had some time a beginning onthis planet, it seems impossible to think that when, let us say, the twofirst progenitors of the race died, there were but two souls in heaven;that when the next generation died there were, let us say, ten souls inheaven; and that this number has been added to by thousands andmillions, until the unseen world is peopled, as it must be now, if noreincarnation is possible, by myriads of human identities, who, aftera single brief taste of incarnate life, join some vast community ofspirits in which they eternally reside. I do not say that this latterbelief may not be true; I only say that in default of evidence, it seemsto me a difficult faith to hold; while a reincarnation of spirits, ifone could believe it, would seem to me both to equalise the inequalitiesof human experience, and give one a lively belief in the virtue andworth of human endeavour. But all this is set down, as I say, in atentative and not in a philosophical form. 

And I have also in these pages kept advisedly clear of Christiandoctrines and beliefs; not because I do not believe wholeheartedly inthe divine origin and unexhausted vitality of the Christian revelation, but because I do not intend to lay rash and profane hands upon thehighest and holiest of mysteries. 

I will add one word about the genesis of the book. Some time ago Iwrote a number of short tales of an allegorical type. It was a curiousexperience. I seemed to have come upon them in my mind, as one comesupon a covey of birds in a field. One by one they took wings and flew;and when I had finished, though I was anxious to write more tales, Icould not discover any more, though I beat the covert patiently todislodge them. 

This particular tale rose unbidden in my mind. I was never consciousof creating any of its incidents. It seemed to be all there from thebeginning; and I felt throughout like a man making his way along a road, and describing what he sees as he goes. The road stretched ahead of me;I could not see beyond the next turn at any moment; it just unrolleditself inevitably and, I will add, very swiftly to my view, and was thusa strange and momentous experience. 

I will only add that the book is all based upon an intense belief inGod, and a no less intense conviction of personal immortality andpersonal responsibility. It aims at bringing out the fact that our lifeis a very real pilgrimage to high and far-off things from mean andsordid beginnings, and that the key of the mystery lies in the frankfacing of experience, as a blessed process by which the secret purposeof God is made known to us; and, even more, in a passionate belief inLove, the love of friend and neighbour, and the love of God; and in theabsolute faith that we are all of us, from the lowest and most degradedhuman soul to the loftiest and wisest, knit together with chains ofinfinite nearness and dearness, under God, and in Him, and through Him, now and hereafter and for evermore. 

A. C. B. 

THE OLD LODGE, MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, _January_, 1912. 

The Child of the Dawn

I

Certainly the last few moments of my former material, worn-out life, asI must still call it, were made horrible enough for me. I came to, afterthe operation, in a deadly sickness and ghastly confusion of thought. Iwas just dimly conscious of the trim, bare room, the white bed, a figureor two, but everything else was swallowed up in the pain, which filledall my senses at once. Yet surely, I thought, it is all somethingoutside me? . .. My brain began to wander, and the pain became a thing. It was a tower of stone, high and blank, with a little sinister windowhigh up, from which something was every now and then waved above thehouse-roofs. .. . The tower was gone in a moment, and there was a heappiled up on the floor of a great room with open beams--a granary, perhaps. The heap was of curved sharp steel things like sickles:something moved and muttered underneath it, and blood ran out on thefloor. Then I was instantly myself, and the pain was with me again; andthen there fell on me a sense of faintness, so that the cold sweat-dropsran suddenly out on my brow. There came a smell of drugs, sharp andpungent, on the air. I heard a door open softly, and a voice said, "Heis sinking fast--they must be sent for at once. " Then there were morepeople in the room, people whom I thought I had known once, long ago;but I was buried and crushed under the pain, like the thing beneath theheap of sickles. There swept over me a dreadful fear; and I could seethat the fear was reflected in the faces above me; but now they werestrangely distorted and elongated, so that I could have laughed, if onlyI had had the time; but I had to move the weight off me, which wascrushing me. Then a roaring sound began to come and go upon the air, louder and louder, faster and faster; the strange pungent scent cameagain; and then I was thrust down under the weight, monstrous, insupportable; further and further down; and there came a sharp brightstreak, like a blade severing the strands of a rope drawn taut andtense; another and another; one was left, and the blade drew near. .. . 

I fell suddenly out of the sound and scent and pain into the mostincredible and blessed peace and silence. It would have been like asleep, but I was still perfectly conscious, with a sense of unutterableand blissful fatigue; a picture passed before me, of a calm sea, of vastdepth and clearness. There were cliffs at a little distance, greatheadlands and rocky spires. I seemed to myself to have left them, tohave come down through them, to have embarked. There was a pale lighteverywhere, flushed with rose-colour, like the light of a summer dawn;and I felt as I had once felt as a child, awakened early in the littleold house among the orchards, on a spring morning; I had risen from mybed, and leaning out of my window, filled with a delightful wonder, I had seen the cool morning quicken into light among the dewyapple-blossoms. That was what I felt like, as I lay upon the movingtide, glad to rest, not wondering or hoping, not fearing or expectinganything--just there, and at peace. 

There seemed to be no time in that other blessed morning, no need todo anything. The cliffs, I did not know how, faded from me, and theboundless sea was about me on every side; but I cannot describe thetimelessness of it. There are no human words for it all, yet I mustspeak of it in terms of time and space, because both time and spacewere there, though I was not bound by them. 

And here first I will say a few words about the manner of speech I shalluse. It is very hard to make clear, but I think I can explain it in animage. I once walked alone, on a perfect summer day, on the South Downs. The great smooth shoulders of the hills lay left and right, and, infront of me, the rich tufted grass ran suddenly down to the plain, whichstretched out before me like a map. I saw the fields and woods, theminute tiled hamlet-roofs, the white roads, on which crawled tiny carts. A shepherd, far below, drove his flock along a little deep-cut laneamong high hedges. The sounds of earth came faintly and sweetly up, obscure sounds of which I could not tell the origin; but the tinkling ofsheep-bells was the clearest, and the barking of the shepherd-dog. Myown dog sat beside me, watching my face, impatient to be gone. But atthe barking he pricked up his ears, put his head on one side, andwondered, I saw, where that companionable sound came from. What he madeof the scene I do not know; the sight of the fruitful earth, the homesof men, the fields and waters, filled me with an inexpressible emotion, a wide-flung hope, a sense of the immensity and intricacy of life. Butto my dog it meant nothing at all, though he saw just what I did. To himit was nothing but a great excavation in the earth, patched and streakedwith green. It was not then the scene itself that I loved; that was onlya symbol of emotions and ideas within me. It touched the spring of ahost of beautiful thoughts; but the beauty and the sweetness were thecontribution of my own heart and mind. 

Now in the new world in which I found myself, I approached the thoughtsof beauty and loveliness direct, without any intervening symbols at all. The emotions which beautiful things had aroused in me upon earth wereall there, in the new life, but not confused or blurred, as they hadbeen in the old life, by the intruding symbols of ugly, painful, evilthings. That was all gone like a mist. I could not think an evil or anugly thought. 

For a period it was so with me. For a long time--I will use the wordsof earth henceforth without any explanation--I abode in the same calm, untroubled peace, partly in memory of the old days, partly in the newvisions. My senses seemed all blended in one sense; it was not sight orhearing or touch--it was but an instant apprehension of the essence ofthings. All that time I was absolutely alone, though I had a sense ofbeing watched and tended in a sort of helpless and happy infancy. It wasalways the quiet sea, and the dawning light. I lived over the scenes ofthe old life in a vague, blissful memory. For the joy of the new lifewas that all that had befallen me had a strange and perfectsignificance. I had lived like other men. I had rejoiced, toiled, schemed, suffered, sinned. But it was all one now. I saw that eachinfluence had somehow been shaping and moulding me. The evil I had done, was it indeed evil? It had been the flowering of a root of bitterness, the impact of material forces and influences. Had I ever desired it?Not in my spirit, I now felt. Sin had brought me shame and sorrow, andthey had done their work. Repentance, contrition--ugly words! I laughedsoftly at the thought of how different it all was from what I haddreamed. I was as the lost sheep found, as the wayward son taken home;and should I spoil my joy with recalling what was past and done with forever? Forgiveness was not a process, then, a thing to be sued for and tobe withheld; it was all involved in the glad return to the breast of God. 

What was the mystery, then? The things that I had wrought, ignoble, cruel, base, mean, selfish--had I ever willed to do them? It seemedimpossible, incredible. Were those grievous things still growing, seeding, flowering in other lives left behind? Had they invaded, corrupted, hurt other poor wills and lives? I could think of them nolonger, any more than I could think of the wrongs done to myself. Thosehad not hurt me either. Perhaps I had still to suffer, but I could notthink of that. I was too much overwhelmed with joy. The whole thingseemed so infinitely little and far away. So for a time I floated on themoving crystal of the translucent sea, over the glimmering deeps, thedawn above me, the scenes of the old life growing and shaping themselvesand fading without any will of my own, nothing within or without me butineffable peace and perfect joy. 

II

I knew quite well what had happened to me; that I had passed throughwhat mortals call Death: and two thoughts came to me; one was this. There had been times on earth when one had felt sure with a sort of deepinstinct that one could not really ever die; yet there had been hours ofweariness and despair when one had wondered whether death would not meana silent blankness. That thought had troubled me most, when I hadfollowed to the grave some friend or some beloved. The mouldering form, shut into the narrow box, was thrust with a sense of shame and disgraceinto the clay, and no word or sign returned to show that the spiritlived on, or that one would ever find that dear proximity again. Howfoolish it seemed now ever to have doubted, ever to have been troubled!Of course it was all eternal and everlasting. And then, too, came asecond thought. One had learned in life, alas, so often to separate whatwas holy and sacred from daily life; there were prayers, liturgies, religious exercises, solemnities, Sabbaths--an oppressive strain, toooften, and a banishing of active life. Brought up as one had been, therehad been a mournful overshadowing of thought, that after death, and withGod, it would be all grave and constrained and serious, a perpetualliturgy, an unending Sabbath. But now all was deliciously mergedtogether. All of beautiful and gracious that there had been in religion, all of joyful and animated and eager that there had been in secularlife, everything that amused, interested, excited, all fine pictures, great poems, lovely scenes, intrepid thoughts, exercise, work, jests, laughter, perceptions, fancies--they were all one now; only sorrow andweariness and dulness and ugliness and greediness were gone. Thethought was fresh, pure, delicate, full of a great and mirthful content. 

There were no divisions of time in my great peace; past, present, andfuture were alike all merged. How can I explain that? It seems soimpossible, having once seen it, that it should be otherwise. The daydid not broaden to the noon, nor fade to evening. There was no nightthere. More than that. In the other life, the dark low-hung days, oneseemed to have lived so little, and always to have been makingarrangements to live; so much time spent in plans and schemes, inalterations and regrets. There was this to be done and that to becompleted; one thing to be begun, another to be cleared away; always insearch of the peace which one never found; and if one did achieve it, then it was surrounded, like some cast carrion, by a cloud of poisonousthoughts, like buzzing blue-flies. Now at last one lived indeed; butthere grew up in the soul, very gradually and sweetly, the sense thatone was resting, growing accustomed to something, learning the ways ofthe new place. I became more and more aware that I was not alone; it wasnot that I met, or encountered, or was definitely conscious of anythought that was not my own; but there were motions as of great winds inthe untroubled calm in which I lay, of vast deeps drawing past me. Therewere hoverings and poisings of unseen creatures, which gave me neitherawe nor surprise, because they were not in the range of my thought asyet; but it was enough to show me that I was not alone, that there waslife about me, purposes going forward, high activities. 

The first time I experienced anything more definite was when suddenly Ibecame aware of a great crystalline globe that rose like a bubble out ofthe sea. It was of an incredible vastness; but I was conscious that Idid not perceive it as I had perceived things upon the earth, but thatI apprehended it all together, within and without. It rose softly andswiftly out of the expanse. The surface of it was all alive. It hadseas and continents, hills and valleys, woods and fields, like our ownearth. There were cities and houses thronged with living beings; it wasa world like our own, and yet there was hardly a form upon it thatresembled any earthly form, though all were articulate and definite, ranging from growths which I knew to be vegetable, with a dumb andsightless life of their own, up to beings of intelligence and purpose. It was a world, in fact, on which a history like that of our own worldwas working itself out; but the whole was of a crystalline texture, iftexture it can be called; there was no colour or solidity, nothing butform and silence, and I realised that I saw, if not materially yet inthought, and recognised then, that all the qualities of matter, thesounds, the colours, the scents--all that depends upon materialvibration--were abstracted from it; while form, of which the idea existsin the mind apart from all concrete manifestations, was still present. For some time after that, a series of these crystalline globes passedthrough the atmosphere where I dwelt, some near, some far; and I saw inan instant, in each case, the life and history of each. Some were stillall aflame, mere currents of molten heat and flying vapour. Some had thefirst signs of rudimentary life--some, again, had a full and organisedlife, such as ours on earth, with a clash of nations, a stream ofcommerce, a perfecting of knowledge. Others were growing cold, and thelife upon them was artificial and strange, only achieved by a highlyintellectual and noble race, with an extraordinary command of naturalforces, fighting in wonderfully constructed and guarded dwellingsagainst the growing deathliness of a frozen world, and with a tortureddespair in their minds at the extinction which threatened them. Therewere others, again, which were frozen and dead, where the drifting snowpiled itself up over the gigantic and pathetic contrivances of a raceliving underground, with huge vents and chimneys, burrowing furtherinto the earth in search of shelter, and nurturing life by amazingprocesses which I cannot here describe. They were marvellously wise, those pale and shadowy creatures, with a vitality infinitely ahead ofour own, a vitality out of which all weakly or diseased elements hadlong been eliminated. And again there were globes upon which all seemeddead and frozen to the core, slipping onwards in some infinite progress. But though I saw life under a myriad of new conditions, and with anendless variety of forms, the nature of it was the same as ours. Therewas the same ignorance of the future, the same doubts and uncertainties, the same pathetic leaning of heart to heart, the same wistful desireafter permanence and happiness, which could not be there or so attained. 

Then, too, I saw wild eddies of matter taking shape, of a subtlety thatis as far beyond any known earthly conditions of matter as steam isabove frozen stone. Great tornadoes whirled and poised; globes ofspinning fire flew off on distant errands of their own, as when theheavens were made; and I saw, too, the crash of world with world, whensatellites that had lost their impetus drooped inwards upon some centralsun, and merged themselves at last with a titanic leap. All this enacteditself before me, while life itself flew like a pulse from system tosystem, never diminished, never increased, withdrawn from one to settleon another. All this I saw and knew. 

III

I thought I could never be satiated by this infinite procession ofwonders. But at last there rose in my mind, like a rising star, the needto be alone no longer. I was passing through a kind of heavenly infancy;and just as a day comes when a child puts out a hand with a consciousintention, not merely a blind groping, but with a need to clasp andcaress, or answers a smile by a smile, a word by a purposeful cry, so ina moment I was aware of some one with me and near me, with a heart and anature that leaned to mine and had need of me, as I of him. I knew himto be one who had lived as I had lived, on the earth that wasours, --lived many lives, indeed; and it was then first that I becameaware that I had myself lived many lives too. My human life, which I hadlast left, was the fullest and clearest of all my existences; but theyhad been many and various, though always progressive. I must not nowtell of the strange life histories that had enfolded me--they had risenin dignity and worth from a life far back, unimaginably elementary andinstinctive; but I felt in a moment that my new friend's life had beenfar richer and more perfect than my own, though I saw that there werestill experiences ahead of both of us; but not yet. I may describe hispresence in human similitudes, a presence perfectly defined, thoughapprehended with no human sight. He bore a name which describedsomething clear, strong, full of force, and yet gentle of access, likewater. It was just that; a thing perfectly pure and pervading, whichcould be stained and troubled, and yet could retain no defilement oragitation; which a child could scatter and divide, and yet wasabsolutely powerful and insuperable. I will call him Amroth. Him, I say, because though there was no thought of sex left in my consciousness, his was a courageous, inventive, masterful spirit, which gave ratherthan received, and was withal of a perfect kindness and directness, loveundefiled and strong. The moment I became aware of his presence, I felthim to be like one of those wonderful, pure youths of an Italianpicture, whose whole mind is set on manful things, untroubled by thelove of woman, and yet finding all the world intensely gracious andbeautiful, full of eager frankness, even impatience, with long, slim, straight limbs and close-curled hair. I knew him to be the sort of beingthat painters and poets had been feeling after when they represented orspoke of angels. And I could not help laughing outright at the thoughtof the meek, mild, statuesque draped figures, with absurd wings anddepressing smiles, that encumbered pictures and churches, with whom nohuman communication would be possible, and whose grave and discomfitingglance would be fatal to all ease or merriment. I recognised in Amrotha mirthful soul, full of humour and laughter, who could not be shockedby any truth, or hold anything uncomfortably sacred--though indeed heheld all things sacred with a kind of eagerness that charmed me. Insteadof meeting him in dolorous pietistic mood, I met him, I remember, as atschool or college one suddenly met a frank, smiling, high-spirited youthor boy, who was ready at once to take comradeship for granted, andwalked away with one from a gathering, with an outrush of talk and plansfor further meetings. It was all so utterly unlike the subdued andcautious and sensitive atmosphere of devotion that it stirred us both, I was aware, to a delicious kind of laughter. And then came a swiftinterchange of thought, which I must try to represent by speech, thoughspeech was none. 

"I am glad to find you, Amroth, " I said. "I was just beginning to wonderif I was not going to be lonely. "

"Ah, " he said, "one has what one desires here; you had too much to seeand learn at first to want my company. And yet I have been with you, pointing out a thousand things, ever since you came here. "

"Was it you, " I said, "that have been showing me all this? I thought Iwas alone. "

At which Amroth laughed again, a laugh full of content. "Yes, " he said, "the crags and the sunset--do you not remember? I came down with you, carrying you like a child in my arms, while you slept; and then I sawyou awake. You had to rest a long time at first; you had had much tobear--uncertainty--that is what tires one, even more than pain. And Ihave been telling you things ever since, when you could listen. "

"Oh, " I said, "I have a hundred things to ask you; how strange it is tosee so much and understand so little!"

"Ask away, " said Amroth, putting an arm through mine. 

"I was afraid, " I said, "that it would all be so different--like acatechism 'Dost thou believe--is this thy desire?' But instead it seemsso entirely natural and simple!"

"Ah, " he said, "that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it ishard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just assurprising and interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: theonly things that are gone--for a time, that is--are the things that areugly and sad. But they are useful too in their way, though you have noneed to think of them now. Those are just the discipline, the training. "

"But, " I said, "what makes people so different from each other downthere--so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel, selfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind--like you, forinstance?"

"No, " he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, "of course Idon't mind--I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally!But don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgustinglives are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin bybeing enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer. The divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret. "

IV

Once I said:

"Which kind of people do you find it hardest to help along?"

"The young people, " said Amroth, with a smile. 

"Youth!" I said. "Why, down below, we think of youth as being sogenerous and ardent and imitative! We speak of youth as the time tolearn, and form fine habits; if a man is wilful and selfish inafter-life, we say that it was because he was too much indulged inchildhood--and we attach great importance to the impressions of youth. "

"That is quite right, " said Amroth, "because the impressions of youthare swift and keen; but of course, here, age is not a question of yearsor failing powers. The old, here, are the wise and gracious and patientand gentle; the youth of the spirit is stupidity and unimaginativeness. On the one hand are the stolid and placid, and on the other are thebrutal and cruel and selfish and unrestrained. "

"You confuse me greatly, " I said; "surely you do not mean that spirituallife and progress are a matter of intellectual energy?"

"No, not at all, " said he; "the so-called intellectual people are oftenthe most stupid and youngest of all. The intellect counts for nothing:that is only a kind of dexterity, a pretty game. The imagination is whatmatters. "

"Worse and worse!" I said. "Does salvation belong to poets andnovelists?"

"No, no, " said Amroth, "that is a game too! The imagination I speak ofis the power of entering into other people's minds and hearts, ofputting yourself in their place--of loving them, in fact. The more youknow of people, the better chance there is of loving them; and you canonly find your way into their minds by imaginative sympathy. I willtell you a story which will show you what I mean. There was once afamous writer on earth, of whose wisdom people spoke with bated breath. Men went to see him with fear and reverence, and came away, saying, 'Howwonderful!' And this man, in his age, was waited upon by a little maid, an ugly, tired, tiny creature. People used to say that they wondered hehad not a better servant. But she knew all that he liked and wanted, where his books and papers were, what was good for him to do. She didnot understand a word of what he said, but she knew both when he hadtalked too much, and when he had not talked enough, so that his mind waspent up in itself, and he became cross and fractious. Now, in reality, the little maid was one of the oldest and most beautiful of spirits. Shehad lived many lives, each apparently humbler than the last. She nevergrumbled about her work, or wanted to amuse herself. She loved the sillyflies that darted about her kitchen, or brushed their black heads onthe ceiling; she loved the ivy tendrils that tapped on her window in thebreeze. She did not go to church, she had no time for that; or if shehad gone, she would not have understood what was said, though she wouldhave loved all the people there, and noticed how they looked and sang. But the wise man himself was one of the youngest and stupidest ofspirits, so young and stupid that he had to have a very old and wisespirit to look after him. He was eaten up with ideas and vanity, so thathe had no time to look at any one or think of anybody, unless theypraised him. He has a very long pilgrimage before him, though he wrotepretty songs enough, and his mortal body, or one of them, lies in thePoets' Corner of the Abbey, and people come and put wreaths there withtears in their eyes. "

"It is very bewildering, " I said, "but I see a little more than I did. It is all a matter of feeling, then? But it seems hard on people thatthey should be so dull and stupid about it all, --that the truth shouldlie so close to their hand and yet be so carefully concealed. "

"Oh, they grow out of dulness!" he said, with a movement of his hand;"that is what experience does for us--it is always going on; we getwidened and deepened. Why, " he added, "I have seen a great man, as theycalled him, clever and alert, who held a high position in the State. Hewas laid aside by a long and painful illness, so that all his work wasput away. He was brave about it, too, I remember; but he used to thinkto himself how sad and wasteful it was, that when he was most energeticand capable he should be put on the shelf--all the fine work he mighthave done interrupted; all the great speeches he would have madeunuttered. But as a matter of fact, he was then for the first timegrowing fast, because he had to look into the minds and hearts of allsorrowful and disappointed people, and to learn that what we do mattersso little, and that what we are matters so much. When he did at lastget back to the world, people said, 'What a sad pity to see so fine acareer spoilt!' But out of all the years of all his lives, those yearshad been his very best and richest, when he sat half the day feeble inthe sun, and could not even look at the papers which lay beside him, orwhen he woke in the grey mornings, with the thought of another miserableday of idleness and pain before him. "

I said, "Then is it a bad thing to be busy in the world, because ittakes off your mind from the things which matter?"

"No, " said Amroth, "not a bad thing at all: because two things are goingon. Partly the framework of society and life is being made, so that menare not ground down into that sordid struggle, when little experience ispossible because of the drudgery which clouds all the mind. Though eventhat has its opportunities! And all depends, for the individual, uponhow he is doing his work. If he has other people in mind all the time, and does his work for them, and not to be praised for it, then all iswell. But if he is thinking of his credit and his position, then he doesnot grow at all; that is pomposity--a very youthful thing indeed; butthe worst case of all is if a man sees that the world must be helped andmade, and that one can win credit thus, and so engages in work of thatkind, and deals in all the jargon of it, about using influence andliving for others, when he is really thinking of himself all the time, and trying to keep the eyes of the world upon him. But it is all growthreally, though sometimes, as on the beach when the tide is coming in, the waves seem to draw backward from the land, and poise themselves in acrest of troubled water. "

"But is a great position in the world, " I said, "whether inherited orattained, a dangerous thing?"

"Nothing is _dangerous_, child, " he said. "You must put all that out ofyour mind. But men in high posts and stations are often not progressingevenly, only in great jogs and starts. They learn very often, with asudden surprise, which is not always painful, and sometimes is verybeautiful and sweet, that all the ceremony and pomp, the great house, the bows and the smiles, mean nothing at all--absolutely nothing, exceptthe chance, the opportunity of not being taken in by them. That is theuse of all pleasures and all satisfactions--the frame of mind which madethe old king say, 'Is not this great Babylon, which I havebuilded?'--they are nothing but the work of another class in the greatschool of life. A great many people are put to school withself-satisfaction, that they may know the fine joy of humiliation, thedelight of learning that it is not effectiveness and applause thatmatters, but love and peacefulness. And the great thing is that weshould feel that we are growing, not in hardness or indifference, nornecessarily even in courage or patience, but in our power to feel andour power to suffer. As love multiplies, suffering must multiply too. The very Heart of God is full of infinite, joyful, hopeful suffering;the whole thing is so vast, so slow, so quiet, that the end of sufferingis yet far off. But when we suffer, we climb fast; the spirit grows oldand wise in faith and love; and suffering is the one thing we cannotdispense with, because it is the condition of our fullest and purestlife. "

V

I said suddenly, "The joy of this place is not the security of it, butthe fact that one has not to think about security. I am not afraid ofanything that may happen, and there is no weariness of thought. One doesnot think till one is tired, but till one has finished thinking. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "that was the misery of the poor body!"

"And yet I used to think, " I said, "in the old days that I was gratefulto the body for many pleasant things it gave me--breathing the air, feeling the sun, eating and drinking, games and exercise, and thestrange thing one called love. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "all those things have to be made pleasant, or toappear so; otherwise no one could submit to the discipline at all; butof course the pleasure only got in the way of the thought and of thehappiness; it was not what one saw, tasted, smelt, felt, that onedesired, but the real thing behind it; even the purest thing of all, thesight and contact of one whom one loved, let us say, with no sensualpassion at all, but with a perfectly pure love; what a torment thatwas--desiring something which one could not get, the real fusion offeeling and thought! But the poor body was always in the way then, saying, 'Here am I--please me, amuse me. '"

"But then, " I said, "what is the use of all that? Why should the pure, clear, joyful, sleepless life I now feel be tainted and hampered anddrugged by the body? I don't feel that I am losing anything by losingthe body. "

"No, not losing, " said Amroth, "but, happy though you are, you are notgaining things as fast now--it is your time of rest and refreshment--butwe shall go back, both of us, to the other life again, when the timecomes: and the point is this, that we have got to win the best thingsthrough trouble and struggle. "

"But even so, " I said, "there are many things I do not understand--thechild that opens its eyes upon the world and closes them again; theyoung child that suffers and dies, just when it is the darling of thehome; and at the other end of the scale, the helpless, fractiousinvalid, or the old man who lives in weariness, wakeful and tortured, and who is glad just to sit in the sun, indifferent to every one andeverything, past feeling and hoping and thinking--or, worst of all, thepeople with diseased minds, whose pain makes them suspicious andmalignant. What is the meaning of all this pain, which seems to dopeople nothing but harm, and makes them a burden to themselves andothers too?"

"Oh, " said he, "it is difficult enough; but you must remember that weare all bound up with the hearts and lives of others; the child thatdies in its helplessness has a meaning for its parents; the child thatlives long enough to be the light of its home, that has a significancedeep enough; and all those who have to tend and care for the sick, tolighten the burden and the sorrow for them, that has a meaning surelyfor all concerned? The reason why we feel as we do about broken lives, why they seem so utterly purposeless, is because we have the proportionso wrong. We do not really, in fact, believe in immortality, when we arebound in the body--some few of us do, and many of us say that we do. Butwe do not realise that the little life is but one in a great chain oflives, that each spirit lives many times, over and over. There is nosuch thing as waste or sacrifice of life. The life is meant to do justwhat it does, no more and no less; bound in the body, it all seems solong or so short, so complete or so incomplete; but now and here we cansee that the whole thing is so endless, so immense, that we think nomore of entering life, say, for a few days, or entering it for ninetyyears, than we should think of counting one or ninety water-drops in theriver that pours in a cataract over the lip of the rocks. Where we dolose, in life, is in not taking the particular experience, be it smallor great, to heart. We try to forget things, to put them out of ourminds, to banish them. Of course it is very hard to do otherwise, in abody so finite, tossed and whirled in a stream so infinite; and thus weare happiest if we can live very simply and quietly, not straining tomultiply our uneasy activities, but just getting the most and the bestout of the elements of life as they come to us. As we get older inspirit, we do that naturally; the things that men call ambitions andschemes are the signs of immaturity; and when we grow older, those slipoff us and concern us no more; while the real vitality of feeling andemotion runs ever more clear and strong. "

"But, " I said, "can one revive the old lives at will? Can one look backinto the long range of previous lives? Is that permitted?"

"Yes, of course it is permitted, " said Amroth, smiling; "there are norules here; but one does not care to do it overmuch. One is just glad itis all done, and that one has learnt the lesson. Look back if youlike--there are all the lives behind you. "

I had a curious sensation--I saw myself suddenly a stalwart savage, strangely attired for war, near a hut in a forest clearing. I was goingaway somewhere; there were other huts at hand; there was a fire, in theside of a mound, where some women seemed to be cooking something andwrangling over it; the smoke went up into the still air. A child cameout of the hut, and ran to me. I bent down and kissed it, and it clungto me. I was sorry, in a dim way, to be going out--for I saw otherfigures armed too, standing about the clearing. There was to be fightingthat day, and though I wished to fight, I thought I might not return. But the mind of myself, as I discerned it, was full of hurtful, cruel, rapacious thoughts, and I was sad to think that this could ever havebeen I. 

"It is not very nice, " said Amroth with a smile; "one does not care torevive that! You were young then, and had much before you. "

Another picture flashed into the mind. Was it true? I was a woman, itseemed, looking out of a window on the street in a town with high, darkhouses, strongly built of stone: there was a towered gate at a littledistance, with some figures drawing up sacks with a pulley to a door inthe gate. A man came up behind me, pulled me roughly back, and spokeangrily; I answered him fiercely and shrilly. The room I was in seemedto be a shop or store; there were barrels of wine, and bags of corn. Ifelt that I was busy and anxious--it was not a pleasant retrospect. 

"Yet you were better then, " said Amroth "you thought little of yourdrudgery, and much of your children. "

Yes, I had had children, I saw. Their names and appearance floatedbefore me. I had loved them tenderly. Had they passed out of my life? Ifelt bewildered. 

Amroth laid a hand on my arm and smiled again. "No, you came near tosome of them again. Do you not remember another life in which you loveda friend with a strange love, that surprised you by its nearness? He hadbeen your child long before; and one never quite loses that. "

I saw in a flash the other life he spoke of. I was a student, it seemed, at some university, where there was a boy of my own age, a curious, wilful, perverse, tactless creature, always saying and doing the wrongthing, for whom I had felt a curious and unreasonable responsibility. Ihad always tried to explain him to other people, to justify him; and hehad turned to me fop help and companionship in a singular way. I sawmyself walking with him in the country, expostulating, gesticulating;and I saw him angry and perplexed. .. . The vision vanished. 

"But what becomes of all those whom we have loved?" I said; "it cannotbe as if we had never loved them. "

"No, indeed, " said Amroth, "they are all there or here; but there liesone of the great mysteries which we cannot yet attain to. We shall beall brought together some time, closely and perfectly; but even now, inthe world of matter, the spirit half remembers; and when one isstrangely and lovingly drawn to another soul, when that love is not ofthe body, and has nothing of passion in it, then it is some closeancient tie reasserting itself. Do you not know how old and remote someof our friendships seemed--so much older and larger than could beaccounted for by the brief days of companionship? That strange hungerfor the past of one we love is nothing but the faint memory of what hasbeen. Indeed, when you have rested happily a little longer, you willmove farther afield, and you will come near to spirits you have loved. You cannot bear it yet, though they are all about you; but one regainsthe spiritual sense slowly after a life like yours. "

"Can I revisit, " I said, "the scene of my last life--see and know whatthose I loved are doing and feeling?"

"Not yet, " said Amroth; "that would not profit either you or them. Thesorrow of earth would not be sorrow, it would have no cleansing power, if the parted spirit could return at once. You do not guess, either, howmuch of time has passed already since you came here--it seems to youlike yesterday, no doubt, since you last suffered death. To meet lossand sorrow upon earth, without either comfort or hope, is one of thefinest of lessons. When we are there, we must live blindly, and if wehere could make our presence known at once to the friends we leavebehind, it would be all too easy. It is in the silence of death that itsvirtue lies. "

"Yes, " I said, "I do not desire to return. This is all too wonderful. Itis the freshness and sweetness of it all that comes home to me. I donot desire to think of the body, and, strange to say, if I do think ofit, the times that I remember gratefully are those when the body wasfaint and weary. The old joys and triumphs, when one laughed and lovedand exulted, seem to me to have something ugly about them, because onewas content, and wished things to remain for ever as they were. It wasthe longing for something different that helped me; the acquiescence wasthe shame. "

VI

One day I said to Amroth, "What a comfort it is to find that there is noreligion here!"

"I know what you mean, " he said. "I think it is one of the things thatone wonders at most, to remember into how very small and narrow a thingreligion was made, and how much that was religious was never supposed tobe so. "

"Yes, " I said, "as I think of it now, it seems to have been a gameplayed by a few players, a game with a great many rules. "

"Yes, " he said, "it was a game often enough; but of course the mischiefof it was, that when it was most a game it most pretended to besomething else--to contain the secret of life and all knowledge. "

"I used to think, " I said, "that religion was like a noble and generousboy with the lyrical heart of a poet, made by some sad chance into aking, surrounded by obsequious respect and pomp and etiquette, bound bya hundred ceremonious rules, forbidden to do this and that, taught tothink that his one duty was to be magnificently attired, to acquiregraceful arts of posture and courtesy, subtly and gently prevented fromobeying natural and simple impulses, made powerless--a crowned slave; sothat, instead of being the freest and sincerest thing in the world, itbecame the prisoner of respectability and convention, just a part of thesocial machine. "

"That was only one side of it, " said Amroth. "It was often where it wasleast supposed to be. "

"Yes, " I said, "as far as I resent anything now, I resent the conversionof so much religion from an inspiring force into a repressive force. Onelearnt as a child to think of it, not as a great moving flood of energyand joy, but as an awful power apart from life, rejoicing in pettyrestrictions, and mainly concerned with creating an unreal atmosphere ofnarrow piety, hostile to natural talk and laughter and freedom. God'said was invoked, in childhood, mostly when one was naughty anddisobedient, so that one grew to think of Him as grim, severe, irritable, anxious to interfere. What wonder that one lost all wish tomeet God and all natural desire to know Him! One thought of Him asimpossible to please except by behaving in a way in which it was notnatural to behave; and one thought of religion as a stern and dreadfulprocess going on somewhere, like a law-court or a prison, which one hadto keep clear of if one could. Yet I hardly see how, in the interests ofdiscipline, it could have been avoided. If only one could have begun atthe other end!"

"Yes, " said Amroth, "but that is because religion has fallen so muchinto the hands of the wrong people, and is grievously misrepresented. It has too often come to be identified, as you say, with human law, as apower which leaves one severely alone, if one behaves oneself, and whichpunishes harshly and mechanically if one outsteps the limit. It comesinto the world as a great joyful motive; and then it becomes identifiedwith respectability, and it is sad to think that it is simply from thefact that it has won the confidence of the world that it gains its awfulpower of silencing and oppressing. It becomes hostile to frankness andindependence, and puts a premium on caution and submissiveness; but thatis the misuse of it and the degradation of it; and religion is still themost pure and beautiful thing in the world for all that; the doctrineitself is fine and true in a way, if one can view it without impatience;it upholds the right things; it all makes for peace and order, and evenfor humility and just kindliness; it insists, or tries to insist, on thefact that property and position and material things do not matter, andthat quality and method do matter. Of course it is terribly distorted, and gets into the hands of the wrong people--the people who want to keepthings as they are. Now the Gospel, as it first came, was a perfectlybeautiful thing--the idea that one must act by tender impulse, that onemust always forgive, and forget, and love; that one must take a naturaljoy in the simplest things, find every one and everything interestingand delightful . .. The perfectly natural, just, good-humoured, uncalculating life--that was the idea of it; and that one was not to besuperior to the hard facts of the world, not to try to put sorrow orpain out of sight, but to live eagerly and hopefully in them and throughthem; not to try to school oneself into hardness or indifference, but tolove lovable things, and not to condemn or despise the unlovable. Thatwas indeed a message out of the very heart of God. But of course all theacrid divisions and subdivisions of it come, not from itself, but fromthe material part of the world, that determines to traffic with thebeautiful secret, and make it serve its turn. But there are plenty oftrue souls within it all, true teachers, faithful learners--and theworld cannot do without it yet, though it is strangely fettered andbound. Indeed, men can never do without it, because the spiritual forceis there; it is full of poetry and mystery, that ageless brotherhood ofsaints and true-hearted disciples; but one has to learn that many thatclaim its powers have them not, while many who are outside allorganisations have the secret. "

"Yes, " I said, "all that is true and good; it is the exclusive claim andnot the inclusive which one regrets. It is the voice which says, 'Acceptmy exact faith, or you have no part in the inheritance, ' which is wrong. The real voice of religion is that which says, 'You are my brother andmy sister, though you know it not. ' And if one says, 'We are all atfault, we are all far from the truth, but we live as best we can, looking for the larger hope and for the dawn of love, ' that is thesecret. The sacrament of God is offered and eaten at many a social meal, and the Spirit of Love finds utterance in quiet words from smiling lips. One cannot teach by harsh precept, only by desirable example; and theworst of the correct profession of religion is that it is often littlemore than taking out a licence to disapprove. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "you are very near a great truth. The mistake wemake is like the mistake so often made on earth in matters of humangovernment--the opposing of the individual to the State, as if the Statewere something above and different to the individual--like the oldthought of the Spirit moving on the face of the waters. The individualis the State; and it is the same with the soul and God. God is not abovethe soul, seeing and judging, apart in isolation. The Spirit of God isthe spirit of humanity, the spirit of admiration, the spirit of love. Itmatters little what the soul admires and loves, whether it be a floweror a mountain, a face or a cause, a gem or a doctrine. It is thatwonderful power that the current of the soul has of setting towardssomething that is beautiful: the need to admire, to worship, to love. Aregiment of soldiers in the street, a procession of priests to asanctuary, a march of disordered women clamouring for their rights--ifthe idea thrills you, if it uplifts you, it matters nothing whetherother people dislike or despise or deride it--it is the voice of God foryou. We must advance from what is merely brilliant to what is true; andthough in the single life many a man seems to halt at a certain point, to have tied up his little packet of admirations once and for all, thereare other lives where he will pass on to further loves, his passiongrowing more intense and pure. We are not limited by our circle, by ourgeneration, by our age; and the things which youthful spirits aredivining and proclaiming as great and wonderful discoveries, are oftenbeing practised and done by silent and humble souls. It is not theconcise or impressive statement of a truth that matters, it is theintensity of the inner impulse towards what is high and true whichdifferentiates. The more we live by that, the less are we inclined toargue and dispute about it. The base, the impure desire is only theimperfect desire; if it is gratified, it reveals its imperfections, andthe soul knows that not there can it stay; but it must have faced andtested everything. If the soul, out of timidity and conventionality, says 'No' to its eager impulses, it halts upon its pilgrimage. Some ofthe most grievous and shameful lives on earth have been fruitful enoughin reality. The reason why we mourn and despond over them is, again, that we limit our hope to the single life. There is time for everything;we must not be impatient. We must despair of nothing and of no one; thetrue life consists not in what a man's reason approves or disapproves, not in what he does or says, but in what he sees. It is useless toexplain things to souls; they must experience them to apprehend them. The one treachery is to speak of mistakes as irreparable, and of sins asunforgivable. The sin against the Spirit is to doubt the Spirit, and thesin against life is not to use it generously and freely; we are happiestif we love others well enough to give our life to them; but it is betterto use life for ourselves than not to use it at all. "

VII

One day I said to Amroth, "Are there no rules of life here? It seemsalmost too good to be true, not to be found fault with and censured andadvised and blamed. "

"Oh, " said Amroth, laughing, "there are plenty of _rules_, as you callthem; but one feels them, one is not told them; it is like breathing andseeing. "

"Yes, " I replied, "yet it was like that, too, in the old days; themisery was when one suddenly discovered that when one was acting in whatseemed the most natural way possible, it gave pain and concern to someone whom one respected and even loved. One knew that one's action wasnot wrong, and yet one desired to please and satisfy one's friends; andso one fell back into conventional ways, not because one liked them butbecause other people did, and it was not worth while making a fuss--itwas a sort of cowardice, I suppose?"

"Not quite, " said Amroth; "you were more on the right lines than thepeople who interfered with you, no doubt; but of course the truth isthat our principles ought to be used, like a stick, to supportourselves, not like a rod to beat other people with. The most difficultpeople to teach, as you will see hereafter, are the self-righteouspeople, whose lives are really pure and good, but who allow theirpreferences about amusements, occupations, ways of life, to becomematters of principle. The worst temptation in the world is the habit ofinfluence and authority, the desire to direct other lives and to conformthem to one's own standard. The only way in which we can help otherpeople is by loving them; by frightening another out of something whichhe is apt to do and of which one does not approve, one effectsabsolutely nothing: sin cannot be scared away; the spirit must learn todesire to cast it away, because it sees that goodness is beautiful andfine; and this can only be done by example, never by precept. "

"But it is the entire absence of both that puzzles me here, " I said. "Nothing to do and a friend to talk to; it's a lazy business, I think. "

Amroth looked at me with amusement. "It's a sign, " he said, "if you feelthat, that you are getting rested, and ready to move on; but you will bevery much surprised when you know a little more about the life here. Youare like a baby in a cradle at present; when you come to enter one ofour communities here, you will find it as complicated a business as youcould wish. Part of the difficulty is that there are no rules, to useyour own phrase. It is real democracy, but it is not complicated by anyquestions of property, which is the thing that clogs all politicalprogress in the world below. There is nothing to scheme for, noambitions to gratify, nothing to gain at the expense of others; the onlything that matters is one's personal relation to others; and this iswhat makes it at once so simple and so complex. But I do not think it isof any use to tell you all this; you will see it in a flash, when thetime comes. But it may be as well for you to remember that there will beno one to command you or compel you or advise you. Your own heart andspirit will be your only guides. There is no such thing as compulsion orforce in heaven. Nothing can be done to you that you do not choose orallow to be done. "

"Yes, " I said, "it is the blessed and beautiful sense of freedom fromall ties and influences and fears that is so utterly blissful. "

"But this is not all, " said Amroth, shaking his head with a smile. "This is a time of rest for you, but things are very different elsewhere. When you come to enter heaven itself, you will be constantly surprised. There are labour and fear and sorrow to be faced; and you must notthink it is a place for drifting pleasantly along. The moral struggleis the same--indeed it is fiercer and stronger than ever, because thereis no bodily languor or fatigue to distract. There are choices to bemade, duties to perform, evil to be faced. The bodily temptationsare absent, but there is still that which lay behind the bodilyfrailties--curiosity, love of sensation, excitement, desire; the strongduality of nature--the knowledge of duty on the one hand and theindolent shrinking from performance--that is all there; there is thesame sense of isolation, and the same need for patient endeavour as uponearth. All that one gets is a certain freedom of movement; one is notbound to places and employments by the material ties of earth; but youmust not think that it is all to be easy and straightforward. We caneach of us by using our wills shorten our probation, by not resistinginfluences, by putting our hearts and minds in unison with the will ofGod for us; and that is easier in heaven than upon earth, because thereis less to distract us. But on the other hand, there is more temptationto drift, because there are no material consequences to stimulate us. There are many people on earth who exercise a sort of practical virtuesimply to avoid material inconveniences, while there is no such motivein heaven; I say all this not to disturb your present tranquillity, which it is your duty now to enjoy, but just to prepare you. You must beprepared for effort and for endeavour, and even for strife. You must useright judgment, and, above all, common sense; one does not get out ofthe reach of that in heaven!"

VIII

These are only some of the many talks I had with Amroth. They rangedover a great many subjects and thoughts. What I cannot indicate, however, is the lightness and freshness of them; and above all, theirentire frankness and amusingness. There were times when we talked liketwo children, revived old simple adventures of life--he had lived farmore largely and fully than I had done--and I never tired of hearing thetales of his old lives, so much more varied and wonderful than my own. Sometimes we merely told each other stories out of our imaginations andhearts. We even played games, which I cannot describe, but they werelike the games of earth. We seemed at times to walk and wander together;but I had a sense all this time that I was, so to speak, in hospital, being tended and cared for, and not allowed to do anything wearisome ordemanding effort. But I became more and more aware of other spiritsabout me, like birds that chirp and twitter in the ivy of a tower, or inthe thick bushes of a shrubbery. Amroth told me one day that I mustprepare for a great change soon, and I found myself wondering what itwould be like, half excited about it, and half afraid, unwilling as Iwas to lose the sweet rest, and the dear companionship of a friend whoseemed like the crown and sum of all hopes of friendship. Amroth becameutterly dear to me, and it was a joy beyond all joys to feel his happyand smiling nature bent upon me, hour by hour, in sympathy andunderstanding and love. He said to me laughingly once that I had much ofearth about me yet, and that I must soon learn not to bend my thoughtsso exclusively one way and on one friend. 

"Yes, " I said, "I am not fit for heaven yet! I believe I am jealous; Icannot bear to think that you will leave me, or that any other souldeserves your attention. "

"Oh, " he said lightly, "this is my business and delight now--but youwill soon have to do for others what I am doing for you. You like thiseasy life at present, but you can hardly imagine how interesting it isto have some one given you for your own, as you were given to me. It isthe delight of motherhood and fatherhood in one; and when I was allowedto take you away out of the room where you lay--I admit it was not apleasant scene--I felt just like a child who is given a kitten for itsvery own. "

"Well, " I said, "I have been a very satisfactory pet--I have done littleelse but purr. " I felt his eyes upon me in a wonderful nearness of love;and then I looked up and I saw that we were not alone. 

It was then that I first perceived that there could be grief in heaven. I say "first perceived, " but I had known it all along. But by Amroth'sgentle power that had been for a time kept away from me, that I mightrest and rejoice. 

The form before me was that of a very young and beautiful woman--sobeautiful that for a moment all my thought seemed to be concentratedupon her. But I saw, too, that all was not well with her. She was not atpeace with herself, or her surroundings. In her great wide eyes therewas a look of pain, and of rebellious pain. She was attired in a robethat was a blaze of colour; and when I wondered at this, for it wasunlike the clear hues, pearly grey and gold, and soft roseate light thathad hitherto encompassed me, the voice of Amroth answered my unutteredquestion, and said, "It is the image of her thought. " Her slim whitehands moved aimlessly over the robe, and seemed to finger the jewelswhich adorned it. Her lips were parted, and anything more beautiful thanthe pure curves of her chin and neck I had seldom seen, though sheseemed never to be still, as Amroth was still, but to move restlesslyand wearily about. I knew by a sort of intuition that she was unawareof Amroth and only aware of myself. She seemed startled and surprised atthe sight of me, and I wondered in what form I appeared to her; in amoment she spoke, and her voice was low and thrilling. 

"I am so glad, " she said in a half-courteous, half-distracted way, "tofind some one in the place to whom I can speak. I seem to be alwaysmoving in a crowd, and yet to see no one--they are afraid of me, Ithink; and it is not what I expected, not what I am used to. I am inneed of help, I feel, and yet I do not know what sort of help it is thatI want. May I stay with you a little?"

"Why, yes, " I said; "there is no question of 'may' here. "

She came up to me with a sort of proud confidence, and looked at mefixedly. "Yes, " she said, "I see that I can trust you; and I am tired ofbeing deceived!" Then she added with a sort of pettishness, "I havenowhere to go, nothing to do--it is all dull and cold. On earth it wasjust the opposite. I had only too much attention and love. .. . Oh, yes, "she added with a strange glance, "it was what you would probably callsinful. The only man I ever loved did not care for me, and I was lovedby many for whom I did not care. Well, I had my pleasures, and I supposeI must pay for them. I do not complain of that. But I am determined notto give way: it is unjust and cruel. I never had a chance. I was alwaysbrought up to be admired from the first. We were rich at my home, and insociety--you understand? I made what was called a good match, and Inever cared for my husband, but amused myself with other people; and itwas splendid while it lasted: then all kinds of horrible thingshappened--scenes, explanations, a lawsuit--it makes me shudder toremember it all; and then I was ill, I suppose, and suddenly it was allover, and I was alone, with a feeling that I must try to take up withall kinds of tiresome things--all the things that bored me most. But nowit may be going to be better; you can tell me where I can find people, perhaps? I am not quite unpresentable, even here? No, I can see that inyour face. Well, take me somewhere, show me something, find somethingfor me to do in this deadly place. I seem to have got into a perpetualsunset, and I am so sick of it all. "

I felt very helpless before this beautiful creature who seemed sotroubled and discontented. "No, " said the voice of Amroth beside me, "itis of no use to talk; let her talk to you; let her make friends with youif she can. "

"That's better, " she said, looking at me. "I was afraid you were goingto be grave and serious. I felt for a minute as if I was going to beconfirmed. "

"No, " I said, "you need not be disturbed; nothing will be done to youagainst your wish. One has but to wish here, or to be willing, and theright thing happens. "

She came close to me as I said this, and said, "Well, I think I shalllike you, if only you can promise not to be serious. " Then she turned, and stood for a moment disconsolate, looking away from me. 

All this while the atmosphere around me had been becoming lighter andclearer, as though a mist were rising. Suddenly Amroth said, "You willhave to go with her for a time, and do what you can. I must leave youfor a little, but I shall not be far off; and if you need me, I shall beat hand. But do not call for me unless you are quite sure you need me. "He gave me a hand-clasp and a smile, and was gone. 

Then, looking about me, I saw at last that I was in a place. Lonely andbare though it was, it seemed to me very beautiful. It was like a grassyupland, with rocky heights to left and right. They were most delicate inoutline, those crags, like the crags in an old picture, with sharp, smooth curves, like a fractured crystal. They seemed to be of a creamystone, and the shadows fell blue and distinct. Down below was a greatplain full of trees and waters, all very dim. A path, worn lightly inthe grass, lay at my feet, and I knew that we must descend it. The girlwith me--I will call her Cynthia--was gazing at it with delight. "Ah, "she said, "I can see clearly now. This is something like a real place, instead of mist and light. We can find people down here, no doubt; itlooks inhabited out there. " She pointed with her hand, and it seemed tome that I could see spires and towers and roofs, of a fine and airyarchitecture, at the end of a long horn of water which lay very blueamong the woods of the plain. It puzzled me, because I had the sensethat it was all unreal, and, indeed, I soon perceived that it was thegirl's own thought that in some way affected mine. "Quick, let us go, "she said; "what are we waiting for?"

The descent was easy and gradual. We came down, following the path, overthe hill-shoulders. A stream of clear water dripped among stones; itall brought back to me with an intense delight the recollection of longdays spent among such hills in holiday times on earth, but all withoutregret; I only wished that an old and dear friend of mine, with whom Ihad often gone, might be with me. He had quitted life before me, and Iknew somehow or hoped that I should before long see him; but I did notwish things to be otherwise; and, indeed, I had a strange interest inthe fretful, silly, lovely girl with me, and in what lay before us. Sheprattled on, and seemed to be recovering her spirits and her confidenceat the sights around us. If I could but find anything that would drawher out of her restless mood into the peace of the morning! She had acharm for me, though her impatience and desire for amusement seemeduninteresting enough; and I found myself talking to her as an elderbrother might, with terms of familiar endearment, which she seemed to begrateful for. It was strange in a way, and yet it all appeared natural. The more we drew away from the hills, the happier she became. "Ah, " shesaid once, "we have got out of that hateful place, and now perhaps wemay be more comfortable, "--and when we came down beside the stream to agrove of trees, and saw something which seemed like a road beneath us, she was delighted. "That's more like it, " she said, "and now we may findsome real people perhaps, "--she turned to me with a smile--"though youare real enough too, and very kind to me; but I still have an idea thatyou are a clergyman, and are only waiting your time to draw a moral. "

IX

Now before I go on to tell the tale of what happened to us in the valleythere were two very curious things that I observed or began to observe. 

The first was that I could not really see into the girl's thought. Ibecame aware that though I could see into the thought of Amroth aseasily and directly as one can look into a clear sea-pool, with all itsrounded pebbles and its swaying fringes of seaweed, there was in thegirl's mind a centre of thought to which I was not admitted, a fortressof personality into which I could not force my way. More than that. Whenshe mistrusted or suspected me, there came a kind of cloud out from thecentral thought, as if a turbid stream were poured into the sea-pool, which obscured her thoughts from me, though when she came to know meand to trust me, as she did later, the cloud was gradually withdrawn;and I perceived that there must be a perfect sacrifice of will, anintention that the mind should lie open and unashamed before the thoughtof one's friend and companion, before the vision can be complete. WithAmroth I desired to conceal nothing, and he had no concealment from me. But with the girl it was different. There was something in her heartthat she hid from me, and by no effort could I penetrate it; and I sawthen that there is something at the centre of the soul which is our veryown, and into which God Himself cannot even look, unless we desire thatHe should look; and even if we desire that He should look into oursouls, if there is any timidity or shame or shrinking about us, wecannot open our souls to Him. I must speak about this later, when thegreat and wonderful day came to me, when I beheld God and was beheld byHim. But now, though when the girl trusted me I could see much of herthought, the inmost cell of it was still hidden from me. 

And then, too, I perceived another strange thing; that the landscape inwhich we walked was very plain to me, but that she did not see the samethings that I saw. With me, the landscape was such as I had loved mostin my last experience of life; it was a land to me like the Englishhill-country which I loved the best; little fields of pasture mostly, with hedgerow ashes and sycamores, and here and there a clear stream ofwater running by the wood-ends. There were buildings, too, lowwhite-walled farms, roughly slated, much-weathered, with evidences ofhomely life, byre and barn and granary, all about them. These slopingfields ran up into high moorlands and little grey crags, with the treesand thickets growing in the rock fronts. I could not think that peoplelived in these houses and practised agriculture, though I saw withsurprise and pleasure that there were animals about, horses and sheepgrazing, and dogs that frisked in and out. I had always believed andhoped that animals had their share in the inheritance of light, and nowI thought that this was a proof that it was indeed so, though I couldnot be sure of it, because I realised that it might be but the thoughtsof my mind taking shape, for, as I say, I was gradually aware that thegirl did not see what I saw. To her it was a different scene, of somesouthern country, because she seemed to see vineyards, and high-walledlanes, hill-crests crowded with houses and crowned with churches, suchas one sees at a distance in the Campagna, where the plain breaks intochestnut-clad hills. But this difference of sight did not make me feelthat the scene was in any degree unreal; it was the idea of thelandscape which we loved, its pretty associations and familiar features, and the mind did the rest, translating it all into a vision of sceneswhich had given us joy on earth, just as we do in dreams when we are inthe body, when the sleeping mind creates sights which give us pleasure, and yet we have no knowledge that we are ourselves creating them. So wewalked together, until I perceived that we were drawing near to the townwhich we had discerned. 

And now we became aware of people going to and fro. Sometimes theystopped and looked upon us with smiles, and even greetings; andsometimes they went past absorbed in thought. 

Houses appeared, both small wayside abodes and larger mansions withsheltered gardens. What it all meant I hardly knew; but just as we haveperfectly decided tastes on earth as to what sort of a house we like andwhy we like it, whether we prefer high, bright rooms, or rooms low andwith subdued light, so in that other country the mind creates what itdesires. 

Presently the houses grew thicker, and soon we were in a street--thetown to my eyes was like the little towns one sees in the Cotswoldcountry, of a beautiful golden stone, with deep plinths and cornices, with older and simpler buildings interspersed. My companion becamestrangely excited, glancing this way and that. And presently, as if wewere certainly expected, there came up to us a kindly and grave person, who welcomed us formally to the place, and said a few courteous wordsabout his pleasure that we should have chosen to visit it. 

I do not know how it was, but I did not wholly trust our host. His mindwas hidden from me; and indeed I began to have a sense, not of evil, indeed, or of oppression, but a feeling that it was not the placeappointed for me, but only where my business was to lie for a season. Agroup of people came up to us and welcomed my companion with greatcheerfulness, and she was soon absorbed in talk. 

X

Now before I come to tell this next part of my story, there are severalthings which seem in want of explanation. I speak of people as lookingold and young, and of there being relations between them such asfatherly and motherly, son-like and lover-like. It bewildered me atfirst, but I came to guess at the truth. It would seem that in thefurther world spirits do preserve for a long time the characteristics ofthe age at which they last left the earth; but I saw no very youngchildren anywhere at first, though I came afterwards to know what befellthem. It seemed to me that, in the first place I visited, the onlyspirits I saw were of those who had been able to make a deliberatechoice of how they would live in the world and which kind of desiresthey would serve; it is very hard to say when this choice takes placein the world below, but I came to believe that, early or late, theredoes come a time when there is an opening out of two paths before eachhuman soul, and when it realises that a choice must be made. Sometimesthis is made early in life; but sometimes a soul drifts on, guileless ina sense, though its life may be evil and purposeless, not lookingbackwards or forwards, but simply acting as its nature bids it act. Whatit is that decides the awakening of the will I hardly know; it is all asecret growth, I think; but the older that the spirit is, in the senseof spiritual experience, the earlier in mortal life that choice is made;and this is only another proof of one of the things which Amroth showedme, that it is, after all, imagination which really makes the differencebetween souls, and not intellect or shrewdness or energy; all the realthings of life--sympathy, the power of entering into fine relations, however simple they may be, with others, loyalty, patience, devotion, goodness--seem to grow out of this power of imagination; and the reasonwhy the souls of whom I am going to speak were so content to dwell wherethey were, was simply that they had no imagination beyond, but dwelthappily among the delights which upon earth are represented by sound andcolour and scent and comeliness and comfort. This was a perpetualsurprise to me, because I saw in these fine creatures such a faculty ofdelicate perception, that I could not help believing again and againthat their emotions were as deep and varied too; but I found little bylittle, that they were all bent, not on loving, and therefore on givingthemselves away to what they loved, but in gathering in perceptions andsensations, and finding their delight in them; and I realised that whatlies at the root of the artistic nature is its deep and vitalindifference to anything except what can directly give it delight, andthat these souls, for all their amazing subtlety and discrimination, hadvery little hold on life at all, except on its outer details andsuperficial harmonies; and that they were all very young in experience, and like shallow waters, easily troubled and easily appeased; and thattherefore they were being dealt with like children, and allowed fullscope for all their little sensitive fancies, until the time should comefor them to go further yet. Of course they were one degree older thanthe people who in the world had been really immersed in what may becalled solid interests and serious pursuits--science, politics, organisation, warfare, commerce--all these spirits were very youthfulindeed, and they were, I suppose, in some very childish nursery of God. But what first bewildered me was the finding of the earthly proportionsof things so strangely reversed, the serious matters of life so utterlyset aside, and so much made of the things which many people take no sortof trouble about, as companionships and affections, which are so oftenturned into a matter of mere propinquity and circumstance. But of thisI shall have to speak later in its place. 

Now it is difficult to describe the time I spent in the land of delight, because it was all so unlike the life of the world, and yet was sostrangely like it. There was work going on there, I found, but thenature of it I could not discern, because that was kept hidden from me. Men and women excused themselves from our company, saying they mustreturn to their work; but most of the time was spent in leisurelyconverse about things which I confess from the first did not interestme. There was much wit and laughter, and there were constant games andassemblies and amusements. There were feasts of delicious things, music, dramas. There were books read and discussed; it was just like a verycultivated and civilised society. But what struck me about the peoplethere was that it was all very restless and highly-strung, a perpetualtasting of pleasures, which somehow never pleased. There were two peoplethere who interested me most. One was a very handsome and courteousman, who seemed to desire my company, and spoke more freely than therest; the other a young man, who was very much occupied with the girl, my companion, and made a great friendship with her. The elder of thetwo, for I must give them names, shall be called Charmides, which seemsto correspond with his stately charm, and the younger may be known asLucius. 

I sat one day with Charmides, listening to a great concert of stringedand wind instruments, in a portico which gave on a large shelteredgarden. He was much absorbed in the music, which was now of a brisk andmeasured beauty, and now of a sweet seriousness which had a veryluxurious effect upon my mind. "It is wonderful to me, " said Charmides, as the last movement drew to a close of liquid melody, "that thesesounds should pass into the heart like wine, heightening and upliftingthe thought--there is nothing so beautiful as the discrimination ofmood with which it affects one, weighing one delicate phrase againstanother, and finding all so perfect. "

"Yes, " I said, "I can understand that; but I must confess that thereseems to me something wanting in the melodies of this place. The musicwhich I loved in the old days was the music which spoke to the soul ofsomething further yet and unattainable; but here the music seems to haveattained its end, and to have fulfilled its own desire. "

"Yes, " said Charmides, "I know that you feel that; your mind is veryclear to me, up to a certain point; and I have sometimes wondered whyyou spend your time here, because you are not one of us, as your friendCynthia is. "

I glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia sat on a great carved settleamong cushions, side by side with Lucius, whispering to him with asmile. 

"No, " I said, "I do not think I have found my place yet, but I am here, I think, for a purpose, and I do not know what that purpose is. "

"Well, " he said, "I have sometimes wondered myself. I feel that you mayhave something to tell me, some message for me. I thought that when Ifirst saw you; but I cannot quite perceive what is in your mind, and Isee that you do not wholly know what is in mine. I have been here for along time, and I have a sense that I do not get on, do not move; and yetI have lived in extreme joy and contentment, except that I dread toreturn to life, as I know I must return. I have lived often, and alwaysin joy--but in life there are constantly things to endure, little thingswhich just ruffle the serenity of soul which I desire, and which I mayfairly say I here enjoy. I have loved beauty, and not intemperately; andthere have been other people--men and women--whom I have loved, in asense; but the love of them has always seemed a sort of interruption tothe life I desired, something disordered and strained, which hurt me, and kept me away from the peace I desired--from the fine weighing ofsounds and colours, and the pleasure of beautiful forms and lines; and Idread to return to life, because one cannot avoid love and sorrow, andmean troubles, which waste the spirit in vain. "

"Yes, " I said, "I can understand what you feel very well, because I toohave known what it is to desire to live in peace and beauty, not to bedisturbed or fretted; but the reason, I think, why it is dangerous, isnot because life becomes too _easy_. That is not the danger at all--lifeis never easy, whatever it is! But the danger is that it grows toosolemn! One is apt to become like a priest, always celebrating holymysteries, always in a vision, with no time for laughter, and disputing, and quarrelling, and being silly and playing. It is the poor body againthat is amiss. It is like the camel, poor thing; it groans and weeps, but it goes on. One cannot live wholly in a vision; and life does notbecome more simple so, but more complicated, for one's time and energyare spent in avoiding the sordid and the tiresome things which onecannot and must not avoid. I remember, in an illness which I had, when Iwas depressed and fanciful, a homely old doctor said to me, 'Don't betoo careful of yourself: don't think you can't bear this and that--goout to dinner--eat and drink rather too much!' It seemed to be coarseadvice, but it was wise. "

"Yes, " said Charmides, "it was wise; but it is difficult to feel it soat the time. I wonder! I think perhaps I have made the mistake of beingtoo fastidious. But it seemed so fine a goal that one had in sight, tochasten and temper all one's thoughts to what was beautiful--to judgeand distinguish, to choose the right tones and harmonies, to be alwaysrejecting and refining. It had its sorrows, of course. How often in theold days one came in contact with some gracious and beautifulpersonality, and flung oneself into close relations; and then one beganto see this and that flaw. There were lapses in tact, petulances, littlenesses; one's friend did not rightly use his beautiful mind; hewas jealous, suspicious, trivial, petty; it ended in disillusionment. Instead of taking him as a passenger on one's vessel, and determining tolive at peace, to overlook, to accommodate, one began to watch for anopportunity of putting him down courteously at some stopping-place; andinstead of being grateful for his friendship, one was vexed with him fordisappointing one. We must speak more of these things. I seem to feelthe want of something commoner and broader in my thoughts; but in thisplace it is hard to change. "

"Will you forgive me then, " I said, "if I ask you plainly what thisplace is? It seems very strange to me, and yet I think I have been herebefore. "

Charmides looked at me with a smile. "It has been called, " he said, "bymany ugly names, and men have been unreasonably afraid of it. It is theplace of satisfied desire, and, as you see, it is a comfortable placeenough. The theologians in their coarse way call it Hell, though that isa word which is forbidden here; it is indeed a sort of treason to usethe word, because of its unfortunate association--and you can see withyour own eyes that I have done wrong even to speak of it. "

I looked round, and saw indeed that a visible tremor had fallen on thegroups about us; it was as though a cold cloud, full of hail anddarkness, had floated over a sunny sky. People were hurrying out of thegarden, and some were regarding us askance and with frowns ofdisapproval. In a moment or two we were left alone. 

"I have been indiscreet, " said Charmides, "but I feel somehow in arebellious mood; and indeed it has long seemed absurd to me that youshould be unaware of the fact, and so obviously guileless! But I willspeak no more of this to-day. People come and go here very strangely, and I have sometimes wondered if it would not soon be time for me to go;but it would be idle to pretend that I have not been happy here. "

XI

What Charmides had told me filled me with great astonishment; it seemedto me strange that I had not perceived the truth before. It made me feelthat I had somehow been wasting time. I was tempted to call Amroth to myside, but I remembered what he had said, and I determined to resist theimpulse. I half expected to find that our strange talk, and the veryobvious disapproval of our words, had made some difference to me. But itwas not the case. I found myself treated with the same smiling welcomeas before, and indeed with an added kind of gentleness, such as olderpeople give to a child who has been confronted with some hard fact oflife, such as a sorrow or an illness. This in a way disconcerted me; forin the moment when I had perceived the truth, there had come over me thefeeling that I ought in some way to bestir myself to preach, to warn, to advise. But the idea of finding any sort of fault with thesecontented, leisurely, interested people, seemed to me absurd, and so Icontinued as before, half enjoying the life about me, and half bored byit. It seemed so ludicrous in any way to pity the inhabitants of theplace, and yet I dimly saw that none of them could possibly continuethere. But I soon saw that there was no question of advice, because Ihad nothing to advise. To ask them to be discontented, to suffer, toinquire, seemed as absurd as to ask a man riding comfortably in acarriage to get out and walk; and yet I felt that it was just that whichthey needed. But one effect the incident had; it somehow seemed to drawme more to Cynthia. There followed a time of very close companionshipwith her. She sought me out, she began to confide in me, chatteringabout her happiness and her delight in her surroundings, as a childmight chatter, and half chiding me, in a tender and pretty way, for notbeing more at ease in the place. "You always seem to me, " she said, "asif you were only staying here, while I feel as if I could live here forever. Of course you are very kind and patient about it all, but you arenot at home--and I don't care a bit about your disapproval now. " Shetalked to me much about Lucius, who seemed to have a great attractionfor her. "He is all right, " she said. "There is no nonsense abouthim, --we understand each other; I don't get tired of him, and we likethe same things. I seem to know exactly what he feels about everything;and that is one of the comforts of this place, that no one asksquestions or makes mischief; one can do just as one likes all the time. I did not think, when I was alive, that there could be anything sodelightful as all this ahead of me. "

"Do you never think--?" I began, but she put her hand to my lips, like achild, to stop me, and said, "No, I never think, and I never mean tothink, of all the old hateful things. I never wilfully did any harm; Ionly liked the people who liked me, and gave them all they asked--andnow I know that I did right, though in old days serious people used totry to frighten me. God is very good to me, " she went on, smiling, "toallow me to be happy in my own way. "

While we talked thus, sitting on a seat that overlooked the greatcity--I had never seen it look so stately and beautiful, so full of allthat the heart could desire--Lucius himself drew near to us, smiling, and seated himself the other side of Cynthia. "Now is not thisheavenly?" she said; "to be with the two people I like best--for you area faithful old thing, you know--and not to be afraid of anythingdisagreeable or tiresome happening--not to have to explain or makeexcuses, what could be better?"

"Yes, " said Lucius, "it is happy enough, " and he smiled at me in afriendly way. "The pleasantest point is that one can _wait_ in thischarming place. In the old days, one was afraid of a hundredthings--money, weather, illness, criticism. One had to make love in ahurry, because one missed the beautiful hour; and then there was thehorror of growing old. But now if Cynthia chooses to amuse herself withother people, what do I care? She comes back as delightful as ever, andit is only so much more to be amused about. One is not even afraid ofbeing lazy, and as for those ugly twinges of what one calledconscience--which were only a sort of rheumatism after all--that is allgone too; and the delight of finding that one was right after all, andthat there were really no such things as consequences!"

I became aware, as Lucius spoke thus, in all his careless beauty, of avague trouble of soul. I seemed to foresee a kind of conflict betweenmyself and him. He felt it too, I was aware; for he drew Cynthia to him, and said something to her; and presently they went off laughing, like apair of children, waving a farewell to me. I experienced a sense ofdesolation, knowing in my mind that all was not well, and yet feeling sopowerless to contend with happiness so strong and wide. 

XII

Presently I wandered off alone, and went out of the city with a suddenimpulse. I thought I would go in the opposite direction to that by whichI had entered it. I could see the great hills down which Cynthia and Ihad made our way in the dawn; but I had never gone in the furtherdirection, where there stretched what seemed to be a great forest. Thewhole place lay bathed in a calm light, all unutterably beautiful. Iwandered long by streams and wood-ends, every corner that I turnedrevealing new prospects of delight. I came at last to the edge of theforest, the mouths of little open glades running up into it, with fernand thorn-thickets. There were deer here browsing about the dingles, which let me come close to them and touch them, raising their heads fromthe grass, and regarding me with gentle and fearless eyes. Birds sangsoftly among the boughs, and even fluttered to my shoulder, as ifpleased to be noticed. So this was what was called on earth the place oftorment, a place into which it seemed as if nothing of sorrow or paincould ever intrude!

Just on the edge of the wood stood a little cottage, surrounded by aquiet garden, bees humming about the flowers, the scents of which camewith a homely sweetness on the air. But here I saw something which I didnot at first understand. This was a group of three people, a man and awoman and a boy of about seventeen, beside the cottage porch. They had arustic air about them, and the same sort of leisurely look that all thepeople of the land wore. They were all three beautiful, with a simpleand appropriate kind of beauty, such as comes of a contented sojourn inthe open air. But I became in a moment aware that there was a disturbingelement among them. The two elders seemed to be trying to persuade theboy, who listened smilingly enough, but half turned away from them, asthough he were going away on some errand of which they did not approve. They greeted me, as I drew near, with the same cordiality as onereceived everywhere, and the man said, "Perhaps you can help us, sir, for we are in a trouble?" The woman joined with a murmur in the request, and I said I would gladly do what I could; while I spoke, the boywatched me earnestly, and something drew me to him, because I saw a lookthat seemed to tell me that he was, like myself, a stranger in theplace. Then the man said, "We have lived here together very happily along time, we three--I do not know how we came together, but so it was;and we have been more at ease than words can tell, after hard lives inthe other world; and now this lad here, who has been our delight, saysthat he must go elsewhere and cannot stay with us; and we would persuadehim if we could; and perhaps you, sir, who no doubt know what liesbeyond the fields and woods that we see, can satisfy him that it isbetter to remain. "

While he spoke, the other two had drawn near to me, and the eyes of thewoman dwelt upon the boy with a look of intent love, while the boylooked in my face anxiously and inquiringly. I could see, I found, verydeep into his heart, and I saw in him a need for further experience, anda desire to go further on; and I knew at once that this could only besatisfied in one way, and that something would grow out of it both forhimself and for his companions. So I said, as smilingly as I could, "Ido not indeed know much of the ways of this place, but this I know, thatwe must go where we are sent, that no harm can befall us, and that weare never far away from those whom we love. I myself have lately beensent to visit this strange land; it seems only yesterday since I leftthe mountains yonder, and yet I have seen an abundance of strange andbeautiful things; we must remember that here there is no sickness ormisfortune or growing old; and there is no reason, as there often seemedto be on earth, why we should fight against separation and departure. Noone can, I think, be hindered here from going where he is bound. So Ibelieve that you will let the boy go joyfully and willingly, for I amsure of this, that his journey holds not only great things for himself, but even greater things for both of you in the future. So be content andlet him depart. "

At this the woman said, "Yes, that is right, the stranger is right, andwe must hinder the child no longer. No harm can come of it, but onlygood; perhaps he will return, or we may follow him, when the day comesfor that. "

I saw that the old man was not wholly satisfied with this. He shook hishead and looked sadly on the boy; and then for a time we sat and talkedof many things. One thing that the old man said surprised me verygreatly. He seemed to have lived many lives, and always lives of labour;he had grown, I gathered from his simple talk, to have a great love ofthe earth, the lives of flocks and herds, and of all the plants thatgrew out of the earth or flourished in it. I had thought before, in afoolish way, that all this might be put away from the spirit, in theland where there was no need of such things; but I saw now that therewas a claim for labour, and a love of common things, which did notbelong only to the body, but was a real desire of the spirit. He spokeof the pleasures of tending cattle, of cutting fagots in the forestwoodland among the copses, of ploughing and sowing, with the breath ofthe earth about one; till I saw that the toil of the world, which I haddimly thought of as a thing which no one would do if they were notobliged, was a real instinct of the spirit, and had its counterpartbeyond the body. I had supposed indeed that in a region where alltroublous accidents of matter were over and done with, and where therewas no need of bodily sustenance, there could be nothing whichresembled the old weary toil of the body; but now I saw gladly that thiswas not so, and that the primal needs of the spirit outlast the visibleworld. Though my own life had been spent mostly among books and thingsof the mind, I knew well the joys of the countryside, the blossoming ofthe orchard-close, the high-piled granary, the brightly-painted waggonloaded with hay, the creaking of the cider-press, the lowing of cattlein the stall, the stamping of horses in the stable, the mud-stainedimplements hanging in the high-roofed, cobwebbed barn. I had never knownwhy I loved these things so well, and had invented many fancies toexplain it; but now I saw that it was the natural delight in work andincrease; and that the love which surrounded all these things was thesign that they were real indeed, and that in no part of life could theybe put away. And then there came on me a sort of gentle laughter at thethought of how much of the religion of the world spent itself on biddingthe heart turn away from vanities, and lose itself in dreams of wondersand doctrines, and what were called higher and holier things than barnsand byres and sheep-pens. Yet the truth had been staring me in the faceall the time, if only I could have seen it; that the sense of constraintand unreality that fell upon one in religious matters, when some curiousand intricate matter was confusedly expounded, was perfectly natural andwholesome; and that the real life of man lay in the things to which onereturned, on work-a-day mornings, with such relief--the acts of life, the work of homestead, library, barrack, office, and class-room, thesight and sound of humanity, the smiles and glances and unconsideredwords. 

When we had sat together for a time, the boy made haste to depart. Wethree went with him to the edge of the wood, where a road passed upamong the oaks. The three embraced and kissed and said many lovingwords; and then to ease the anxieties of the two, I said that I wouldmyself set the boy forward on his way, and see him well bestowed. Theythanked me, and we went together into the wood, the two lovingly wavingand beckoning, and the boy stepping blithely by my side. 

I asked him whether he was not sorry to go and leave the quiet place andthe pair that loved him. He smiled and said that he knew he was notleaving them at all, and that he was sure that they would soon follow;and that for himself the time had come to know more of the place. Ilearned from him that his last life had been an unhappy one, in acrowded street and a slovenly home, with much evil of talk and act abouthim; he had hated it all, he said, but for a little sister that he hadloved, who had kissed and clasped him, weeping, when he lay dying of amiserable disease. He said that he thought he should find her, whichmade part of his joy of going; that for a long while there had come tohim a sense of her remembrance and love; and that he had once sent histhought back to earth to find her, and she was in much grief and care;and that then all these messages had at once ceased, and he knew thatshe had left the body. He was a merry boy, full of delight and laughter, and we went very cheerfully together through the sunlit wood, with itsgreen glades and open spaces, which seemed all full of life andhappiness, creatures living together in goodwill and comfort. I saw inthis journey that all things that ever lived a conscious life in one ofthe innumerable worlds had a place and life of their own, and a time ofrefreshment like myself. What I could not discern was whether there wasany interchange of lives, whether the soul of the tree could become ananimal, or the animal progress to be a man. It seemed to me that it wasnot so, but that each had a separate life of its own. But I saw howfoolish was the fancy that I had pursued in old days, that there was acentral reservoir of life, into which at death all little lives weremerged; I was yet to learn how strangely all life was knit together, but now I saw that individuality was a real and separate thing, whichcould not be broken or lost, and that all things that had ever enjoyed aconsciousness of the privilege of separate life had a true dignity andworth of existence; and that it was only the body that had madehostility necessary; that though the body could prey upon the bodies ofanimal and plant, yet that no soul could devour or incorporate any othersoul. But as yet the merging of soul in soul through love was unseen andindeed unsuspected by me. 

Now as we went in the wood, the boy and I, it came into my mind in aflash that I had seen a great secret. I had seen, I knew, very little ofthe great land yet--and indeed I had been but in the lowest place ofall: and I thought how base and dull our ideas had been upon earth ofGod and His care of men. We had thought of Him dimly as sweeping intoHis place of torment and despair all poisoned and diseased lives, alllives that had clung to the body and to the pleasures of the body, allwho had sinned idly, or wilfully, or proudly; and I saw now that He usedmen far more wisely and lovingly than thus. Into this lowest placeindeed passed all sad, and diseased, and unhappy spirits: and instead ofbeing tormented or accursed, all was made delightful and beautiful forthem there, because they needed not harsh and rough handling, but careand soft tendance. They were not to be frightened hence, or to live infear and anguish, but to live deliciously according to their wish, andto be drawn to perceive in some quiet manner that all was not well withthem; they were to have their heart's desire, and learn that it couldnot satisfy them; but the only thing that could draw them thence was thelove of some other soul whom they must pursue and find, if they could. It was all so high and reasonable and just that I could not admire itenough. I saw that the boy was drawn thence by the love of his littlesister, who was elsewhere; and that the love and loss of the boy wouldpresently draw the older pair to follow him and to leave the place ofheart's delight. And then I began to see that Cynthia and Charmides andLucius were being made ready, each at his own time, to leave theirlittle pleasures and ordered lives of happiness, and to followheavenwards in due course. Because it was made plain to me that it wasthe love and worship of some other soul that was the constraining force;but what the end would be I could not discern. 

And now as we went through the wood, I began to feel a strange elationand joy of spirit, severe and bracing, very different from my languidand half-contented acquiescence in the place of beauty; and now thewoods began to change their kind; there were fewer forest trees now, butbare heaths with patches of grey sand and scattered pines; and therebegan to drift across the light a grey vapour which hid the delicatehues and colours of the sunlight, and made everything appear pale andspare. Very soon we came out on the brow of a low hill, and saw, allspread out before us, a place which, for all its dulness and darkness, had a solemn beauty of its own. There were great stone buildings verysolidly made, with high chimneys which seemed to stream with smoke; wecould see men, as small as ants, moving in and out of the buildings; itseemed like a place of manufacture, with a busy life of its own. Buthere I suddenly felt that I could go no further, but must return. Ihoped that I should see the grim place again, and I desired with all mysoul to go down into it, and see what eager life it was that was beinglived there. And the boy, I saw, felt this too, and was impatient toproceed. So we said farewell with much tenderness, and the boy went downswiftly across the moorland, till he met some one who was coming out ofthe city, and conferred a little with him; and then he turned and wavedhis hand to me, and I waved my hand from the brow of the hill, envyinghim in my heart, and went back in sorrow into the sunshine of the wood. 

And as I did so I had a great joy, because I saw Amroth come suddenlyrunning to me out of the wood, who put his arm through mine, and walkedwith me. Then I told him of all I had seen and thought, while he smiledand nodded and told me it was much as I imagined. "Yes, " he said, "it iseven so. The souls you have seen in this fine country here are just aschildren who are given their fill of pleasant things. Many of them havecome into the state in which you see them from no fault of their own, because their souls are young and ignorant. They have shrunk from allpain and effort and tedium, like a child that does not like his lessons. There is no thought of punishment, of course. No one learns anything ofpunishment except a cowardly fear. We never advance until we have thewill to advance, and there is nothing in mere suffering, unless we learnto bear it gently for the sake of love. On earth it is not God but manwho is cruel. There is indeed a place of sorrow, which you will see whenyou can bear the sight, where the self-righteous and the harsh go for atime, and all those who have made others suffer because they believed intheir own justice and insight. You will find there all tyrants andconquerors, and many rich men, who used their wealth heedlessly; andeven so you will be surprised when you see it. But those spirits are thehardest of all to help, because they have loved nothing but their ownvirtue or their own ambition; yet you will see how they too are drawnthence; and now that you have had a sight of the better country, tell mehow you liked it. "

"Why, " I said, "it is plain and austere enough; but I felt a greatquickening of spirit, and a desire to join in the labours of the place. "

Amroth smiled, and said, "You will have little share in that. You willfind your task, no doubt, when you are strong enough; and now you mustgo back and make unwilling holiday with your pleasant friends, you havenot much longer to stay there; and surely"--he laughed as he spoke--"youcan endure a little more of those pretty concerts and charming talk ofart and its values and pulsations!"

"I can endure it, " I said, laughing, "for it does me good to see you andto hear you; but tell me, Amroth, what have you been about all thistime? Have you had a thought of me?"

"Yes, indeed, " said Amroth, laughing. "I don't forget you, and I loveyour company; but I am a busy man myself, and have something pleasanterto do than to attend these elegant receptions of yours--at which, indeed, I have sometimes thought you out of place. "

As we thus talked we came to the forest lodge. The old pair came runningout to greet me, and I told them that the boy was well bestowed. I couldsee in the woman's face that she would soon follow him, and even theold man had a look that I had not seen in him before; and here Amrothleft me, and I returned to the city, where all was as peaceable asbefore. 

XIII

But when I saw Cynthia, as I presently did, she too was in a differentmood. She had positively missed me, and told me so with manyendearments. I was not to remain away so long. I was useful to her. Charmides had become tiresome and lost in thought, but Lucius was assweet as ever. Some new-comers had arrived, all pleasant enough. Sheasked me where I had been, and I told her all the story. "Yes, that isbeautiful enough, " she said, "but I hate all this breaking up and goingon. I am sure I do not wish for any change. " She made a grimace ofdisgust at the idea of the ugly town I had seen, and then she said thatshe would go with me some time to look at it, because it would make herhappier to return to her peace; and then she went off to tell Lucius. 

I soon found Charmides, and I told him my adventures. "That is acurious story, " he said. "I like to think of people caring for eachother so; that is picturesque! These simple emotions are interesting. And one likes to think that people who have none of the finer tastesshould have something to fall back upon--something hot and strong, as weused to say. "

"But, " I said, "tell me this, Charmides, was there never any one in theold days whom you cared for like that?"

"I thought so often enough, " said he, a little peevishly, "but you donot know how much a man like myself is at the mercy of little things! Anugly hand, a broken tooth, a fallen cheek . .. It seems little enough, but one has a sort of standard. I had a microscopic eye, you know, and alittle blemish was a serious thing to me. I was always in search ofsomething that I could not find; then there were awkward strains in thecharacters of people--they were mean or greedy or selfish, and all mypleasure was suddenly dashed. I am speaking, " he went on, "with astrange candour! I don't defend it or excuse it, but there it was. I didonce, as a child, I believe, care for one person--an old nurse ofmine--in the right way. Dear, how good she was to me! I remember oncehow she came all the way, after she had left us, to see me on my waythrough town. She just met me at a railway station, and she had bought alittle book which she thought might amuse me, and a bag of oranges--sheremembered that I used to like oranges. I recollect at the time thinkingit was all very touching and devoted; but I was with a friend of mine, and had not time to say much. I can see her old face, smiling, withtears in her eyes, as we went off. I gave the book and the oranges away, I remember, to a child at the next station. It is curious how it allcomes back to me now; I never saw her again, and I wish I had behavedbetter. I should like to see her again, and to tell her that I reallycared! I wonder if that is possible? But there is really so much to dohere and to enjoy; and there is no one to tell me where to go, so that Iam puzzled. What is one to do?"

"I think that if one desires a thing enough here, Charmides, " I said, "one is in a fair way to obtain it. Never mind! a door will be opened. But one has got to care, I suppose; it is not enough to look upon it asa pretty effect, which one would just like to put in its place withother effects--'Open, sesame'--do you remember? There is a charm atwhich all doors fly open, even here!"

"I will talk to you more about this, " said Charmides, "when I have hadtime to arrange my thoughts a little. Who would have supposed that anold recollection like that would have disturbed me so much? It wouldmake a good subject for a picture or a song. "

XIV

It was on one of these days that Amroth came suddenly upon me, with avery mirthful look on his face, his eyes sparkling like a man strugglingwith hidden laughter. "Come with me, " he said; "you have been so dutifullately that I am alarmed for your health. " Then we went out of thegarden where I was sitting, and we were suddenly in a street. I saw in amoment that it was a real street, in the suburb of an English town;there were electric trams running, and rows of small trees, and an openspace planted with shrubs, with asphalt paths and ugly seats. On theother side of the road was a row of big villas, tasteless, dreary, comfortable houses, with meaningless turrets and balconies. I could nothelp feeling that it was very dismal that men and women should live insuch places, think them neat and well-appointed, and even grow to lovethem. We went into one of these houses; it was early in the morning, anda little drizzle was falling, which made the whole place seem verycheerless. In a room with a bow-window looking on the road there werethree persons. An old man was reading a paper in an arm-chair by thefire, with his back to the light. He looked a nice old man, with hisclear skin and white hair; opposite him was an old lady in anotherchair, reading a letter. With his back to the fire stood a man of aboutthirty-five, sturdy-looking, but pale, and with an appearance of beingsomewhat overworked. He had a good face, but seemed a littleuninteresting, as if he did not feed his mind. The table had been spreadfor breakfast, and the meal was finished and partly cleared away. Theroom was ugly and the furniture was a little shabby; there was a glazedbookcase, full of dull-looking books, a sideboard, a table with writingmaterials in the window, and some engravings of royal groups andcelebrated men. 

The younger man, after a moment, said, "Well, I must be off. " He noddedto his father, and bent down to kiss his mother, saying, "Take care ofyourself--I shall be back in good time for tea. " I had a sense that hewas using these phrases in a mechanical way, and that they werecustomary with him. Then he went out, planting his feet solidly on thecarpet, and presently the front door shut. I could not understand why wehad come to this very unemphatic party, and examined the whole roomcarefully to see what was the object of our visit. A maid came in andremoved the rest of the breakfast things, leaving the cloth still on thetable, and some of the spoons and knives, with the salt-cellars, intheir places. When she had finished and gone out, there was a silence, only broken by the crackling of the paper as the old man folded it. Presently the old lady said: "I wish Charles could get his holiday alittle sooner; he looks so tired, and he does not eat well. He doesstick so hard to his business. "

"Yes, dear, he does, " said the old man, "but it is just the busiesttime, and he tells me that they have had some large orders lately. Theyare doing very well, I understand. "

There was another silence, and then the old lady put down her letter, and looked for a moment at a picture, representing a boy, a largephotograph a good deal faded, which hung close to her--underneath it wasa small vase of flowers on a bracket. She gave a little sigh as she didthis, and the old man looked at her over the top of his paper. "Justthink, father, " she said, "that Harry would have been thirty-eight thisvery week!"

The old man made a comforting sort of little noise, half sympathetic andhalf deprecatory. "Yes, I know, " said the old lady, "but I can't helpthinking about him a great deal at this time of the year. I don'tunderstand why he was taken away from us. He was always such a goodboy--he would have been just like Charles, only handsomer--he was alwayshandsomer and brighter; he had so much of your spirit! Not but whatCharles has been the best of sons to us--I don't mean that--no one couldbe better or more easy to please! But Harry had a different way withhim. " Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away. "No, " sheadded, "I won't fret about him. I daresay he is happier where he is--Iam sure he is--and thinking of his mother too, my bonny boy, perhaps. "

The old man got up, put his paper down, went across to the old lady, andgave her a kiss on the brow. "There, there, " he said soothingly, "we maybe sure it's all for the best;" and he stood looking down fondly at her. Amroth crossed the room and stood beside the pair, with a hand on theshoulder of each. I saw in an instant that there was an unmistakablelikeness between the three; but the contrast of the marvellousbrilliance and beauty of Amroth with the old, world-wearied, simple-minded couple was the most extraordinary thing to behold. "Yes, Ifeel better already, " said the old lady, smiling; "it always does megood to say out what I am feeling, father; and then you are sure tounderstand. "

The mist closed suddenly in upon the scene, and we were back in a momentin the garden with its porticoes, in the radiant, untroubled air. Amrothlooked at me with a smile that was full, half of gaiety and half oftenderness. "There, " he said, "what do you think of that? If all hadgone well with me, as they say on earth, that is where I should be now, going down to the city with Charles. That is the prospect which to thedear old people seems so satisfactory compared with this! In that houseI lay ill for some weeks, and from there my body was carried out. Andthey would have kept me there if they could--and I myself did not wantto go. I was afraid. Oh, how I envied Charles going down to the cityand coming back for tea, to read the magazines aloud or play backgammon. I am afraid I was not as nice as I should have been about all that--theevenings were certainly dull!"

"But what do you feel about it now?" I said. "Don't you feel sorry forthe muddle and ignorance and pathos of it all? Can't something be doneto show everybody what a ghastly mistake it is, to get so tied down tothe earth and the things of earth?"

"A mistake?" said Amroth. "There is no such thing as a mistake. Onecannot sorrow for their grief, any more than one can sorrow for thechild who cries out in the tunnel and clasps his mother's hand. Don'tyou see that their grief and loss is the one beautiful thing in thoselives, and all that it is doing for them, drawing them hither? Why, thatis where we grow and become strong, in the hopeless suffering of love. Iam glad and content that my own stay was made so brief. I wish it couldbe shortened for the three--and yet I do not, because they will gain sowonderfully by it. They are mounting fast; it is their very ignorancethat teaches them. Not to know, not to perceive, but to be forced tobelieve in love, that is the point. "

"Yes, " I said, "I see that; but what about the lives that are broken andpoisoned by grief, in a stupor of pain--or the souls that do not feel itat all, except as a passing shadow--what about them?"

"Oh, " said Amroth lightly, "the sadder the dream the more blessed theawakening; and as for those who cannot feel--well, it will all come tothem, as they grow older. "

"Yes, " I said, "it has done me good to see all this--it makes manythings plain; but can you bear to leave them thus?"

"Leave them!" said Amroth. "Who knows but that I shall be sent to helpthem away, and carry them, as I carried you, to the crystal sea ofpeace? The darling mother, I shall be there at her awakening. They areold spirits, those two, old and wise; and there is a high placeprepared for them. "

"But what about Charles?" I said. 

Amroth smiled. "Old Charles?" he said. "I must admit that he is not avery stirring figure at present. He is much immersed in his game offinance, and talks a great deal in his lighter moments about thecommercial prospects of the Empire and the need of retaliatory tariffs. But he will outgrow all that! He is a very loyal soul, but not veryadventurous just now. He would be sadly discomposed by an affectionwhich came in between him and his figures. He would think he wanted achange--and he will have a thorough one, the good old fellow, one ofthese days. But he has a long journey before him. "

"Well, " I said, "there are some surprises here! I am afraid I am veryyouthful yet. "

"Yes, dear child, you are very ingenuous, " said Amroth, "and that is agreat part of your charm. But we will find something for you to dobefore long! But here comes Charmides, to talk about the need ofexquisite pulsations, and their symbolism--though I see a change in himtoo. And now I must go back to business. Take care of yourself, and Iwill be back to tea. " And Amroth flashed away in a very cheerful mood. 

XV

There were many things at that time that were full of mystery, thingswhich I never came to understand. There was in particular a certain sortof people, whom one met occasionally, for whom I could never whollyaccount. They were unlike others in this fact, that they never appearedto belong to any particular place or community. They were both men andwomen, who seemed--I can express it in no other way--to be in thepossession of a secret so great that it made everything else trivial andindifferent to them. Not that they were impatient or contemptuous--itwas quite the other way; but to use a similitude, they were likegood-natured, active, kindly elders at a children's party. They did notshun conversation, but if one talked with them, they used a kind oftender and gentle irony, which had something admiring and complimentaryabout it, which took away any sense of vexation or of baffled curiosity. It was simply as though their concern lay elsewhere; they joined inanything with a frank delight, not with any touch of condescension. Theywere even more kindly and affectionate than others, because they did notseem to have any small problems of their own, and could give their wholeattention and thought to the person they were with. These inscrutablepeople puzzled me very much. I asked Amroth about them once. 

"Who are these people, " I said, "whom one sometimes meets, who are sofar removed from all of us? What are they doing here?"

Amroth smiled. "So you have detected them!" he said. "You are quiteright, and it does your observation credit. But you must find it out foryourself. I cannot explain, and if I could, you would not understand meyet. "

"Then I am not mistaken, " I said, "but I wish you would give me ahint--they seem to know something more worth knowing than all beside. "

"Exactly, " said Amroth. "You are very near the truth; it is staring youin the face; but it would spoil all if I told you. There is plenty aboutthem in the old books you used to read--they have the secret of joy. "And that is all that he would say. 

It was on a solitary ramble one day, outside of the place of delight, that I came nearer to one of these people than I ever did at any othertime. I had wandered off into a pleasant place of grassy glades withlittle thorn-thickets everywhere. I went up a small eminence, whichcommanded a view of the beautiful plain with its blue distance and theenamelled green foreground of close-grown coverts. There I sat for along time lost in pleasant thought and wonder, when I saw a man drawingnear, walking slowly and looking about him with a serene and delightedair. He passed not far from me, and observing me, waved a hand ofwelcome, came up the slope, and greeting me in a friendly and openmanner, asked if he might sit with me for a little. 

"This is a pleasant place, " he said, "and you seem very agreeablyoccupied. "

"Yes, " I said, looking into his smiling face, "one has no engagementshere, and no need of business to fill the time--but indeed I am not surethat I am busy enough. " As I spoke I was regarding him with somecuriosity. He was a man of mature age, with a strong, firm-featuredface, healthy and sunburnt of aspect, and he was dressed, not as I wasfor ease and repose, but with the garments of a traveller. His hat, which was large and of some soft grey cloth, was pushed to his back, andhung there by a cord round his neck. His hair was a little grizzled, andlay close-curled to his head; in his strong and muscular hand he carrieda stick. He smiled again at my words, and said:

"Oh, one need not trouble about being busy until the time comes; thatis a feeling one inherits from the life of earth, and I am sure you havenot left it long. You have a very fresh air about you, as if you hadrested, and rested well. "

"Yes, I have rested, " I said; "but though I am content enough, there issomething unquiet in me, I am afraid!"

"Ah!" he said, "there is that in all of us, and it would not be wellwith us if there were not. Will you tell me a little about yourself?That is one of the pleasures of this life here, that we have no need tobe cautious, or to fear that we shall give ourselves away. "

I told him my adventures, and he listened with serious attention. 

"Ah, that is all very good, " he said at last, "but you must not be inany hurry; it is a great thing that ideas should dawn upon usgradually--one gets the full truth of them so. It was the hurry of lifewhich was so bewildering--the shocks, the surprises, the uglyreflections of one's conduct that one saw in other lives--the cornersone had to turn. Things, indeed, come suddenly even here, but one is ledup to them gently enough; allowed to enter the sea for oneself, notsoused and ducked in it. You will need all the strength you can store upfor what is before you, and I can see in your face that you are storingup strength--but the weariness is not quite gone out of your mind. "

He was silent for a little, musing, till I said, "Will you not tell mesome of your own adventures? I am sure from your look that you havethem; and you are a pilgrim, it seems. Where are you bound?"

"Oh, " he said lightly, "I am not one of the people who haveadventures--just the journey and the talk beside the way. "

"But, " I said, "I have seen some others like you, and I am puzzled aboutit. You seem, if I may say so--I do not mean anything disrespectful orimpertinent--to be like the gipsies whom one meets in quiet countryplaces, with a secret knowledge of their own, a pride too great to beworth expressing, not anxious about life, not weary or dissatisfied, caring not for localities or possessions, but with a sort of eagerpleasure in freedom and movement. "

He laughed. "Yes, " he said, "you are right! I am no doubt a sort ofnomad, as you say, detached from life perhaps. I don't know that it isdesirable; there is a great deal to be said for living in the same placeand loving the same things. Most people are happier so, and learn whatthey have to learn in that manner. "

"Yes, " I said, "that is true and beautiful--the same old house, the sametrees and pastures, the stream and the water-plants that hide it, theblue hills beyond the nearer wood--the dear familiar things; but even sothe road which passes through the fields, over the bridge, up thecovert-side . .. It leads somewhere, and the heart on sunny days leaps upto follow it! Talking with you here, I feel a hunger for something widerand more free; your voice has the sound of the wind, with the secretknowledge of strange hill-tops and solitary seas! Sometimes the heartsettles down upon what it knows and loves, but sometimes it reaches outto all the love and beauty hidden in the world, and in the waters beyondthe world, and would embrace it all if it could. The faces one sees asone passes through unfamiliar cities or villages, how one longs to talk, to question, to ask what gave them the look they wear. .. . And you, if Imay say it, seem to have passed beyond the need of wanting or desiringanything . .. But I must not talk thus to a stranger; you must forgiveme. "

"Forgive you?" said the stranger; "that is only an earthly phrase--theold terror of indiscretion and caution. What are we here for but to getacquainted with one another--to let our inmost thoughts talk together?In the world we are bounded by time and space, and we have the terror ofeach other's glances and exteriors to contend with. We make friends onearth in spite of our limitations; but in heaven we get to know eachother's hearts; and that blessing goes back with us to the dim fieldsand narrow houses of the earth. I see plainly enough that you are notperfectly happy; but one can only win content through discontent. Whereyou are now, you are not in accord with the souls about you. Never mindthat! There are beautiful spirits within reach of your hand and heart; alittle clouded by mistaking the quality of joy, no doubt, but great andeverlasting for all that. You must try to draw near to them, and findspirits to love. Do you not remember in the days of earth how one feltsometimes in an unfamiliar place--among a gathering of strangers--atchurch perhaps, or at some school which one visited, where one saw theyoung faces, which showed so clearly, before the world had stampeditself in frowns and heaviness upon them, the quality of the soulwithin? Don't you remember the feeling at such times of how many therewere in the world whom one might love, if one had leisure andopportunity and energy? Well, there is no need to resist that, or todeplore it here; one may go where one's will inclines one, and speak asone's heart tells one to speak. I think you are perhaps too conscious ofwaiting for something. Your task lies ahead of you, but the work of lovecan begin at once and anywhere. "

"Yes, " I said, "I feel that now and here. Will you not tell me somethingof yourself in return? I cannot read your mind clearly--it is occupiedwith something I cannot grasp--what is your work in heaven?"

"Oh, " he said lightly, "that is easy enough, and yet you would notunderstand it. I have been led through the shadow of fear, and I havepassed out on the other side. And my duty is to release others fromfear, as far as I can. It is the darkest shadow of all, because itdwells in the unknown. Pain, without it, is no suffering at all; indeedpain is almost a pleasure, when one knows what it is doing for one. Butfear is the doubt whether pain or suffering are really helping us; andjust as memory never has any touch of fear about it, so hope maylikewise have done with fear. "

"But how did you learn this?" I said. 

"Only by fearing to the uttermost, " he replied. "The power--it is notcourage, because that only defies fear--cannot be given one; it must bepainfully won. You remember the blessing of the pure in heart, that theyshall see God? There would be little hope in that promise for the soulthat knew itself to be impure, if it were not for the other side ofit--that the vision of God, which is the most terrible of all things, can give purity to the most sin-stained soul. In that vision, all desireand all fear have an end, because there is nothing left either to desireor to dread. That vision we may delay or hasten. We may delay it, if weallow our prudence, or our shame, or our comfort, to get in the way: wemay hasten it, if we cast ourselves at every moment of our pilgrimageupon the mercy and the love of God. His one desire is that we should besatisfied; and if He seems to put obstacles in our way, to keep uswaiting, to permit us to be miserable, that is only that we may learn tocast ourselves into love and service--which is the one way to His heart. But now I must be going, for I have said all that you can bear. Will youremember this--not to reserve yourself, not to think others unworthy orhostile, but to cast your love and trust freely and lavishly, everywhereand anywhere? We must gather nothing, hold on to nothing, just giveourselves away at every moment, flowing like the stream into everychannel that is open, withholding nothing, retaining nothing. I see, " headded, "very great and beautiful things ahead of you, and very sad andpainful things as well. But you are close to the light, and it isbreaking all about you with a splendour which you cannot guess. "

He rose up, he took my hand in his own and laid the other on my brow, and I felt his heart go out to mine and gather me to him, as a child isgathered to a father's arms. And then he went silently and lightly uponhis way. 

XVI

The time moved on quietly enough in the land of delight. I madeacquaintance with quite a number of the soft-voiced contented folk. Sometimes it interested me to see the change coming upon one or another, a wonder or a desire that made them sit withdrawn and abstracted, andbreaking with a sort of effort out of the dreamful mood. Then they wouldleave us, sometimes quite suddenly, sometimes with courteous adieus. New-comers, too, kept arriving, to be made pleasantly at home. I foundmyself seeing more of Cynthia. She was much with Lucius, and they seemedas gay as ever, but I saw that she was sometimes puzzled. She said to meone day as we sat together, "I wish you would tell me what this is allabout? I do not want to change it, and I am very happy, but isn't it allrather pointless? I believe you have some secret you are keeping fromme. " She was sitting close beside me, like a child, resting her head onmy arm, and she took my hand in both of hers. 

"No, " I said, "I am keeping nothing from you, pretty child! I could notexplain to you what is in my mind, and it would spoil your pleasure if Icould. It is all right, and you will see in good time. "

"I hate to be put off like that, " she said. "You are not reallyinterested in me; and you do not trust me; you do not care about thethings I care about, and if you are so superior, you ought to explain tome why. "

"Well, " I said, "I will try to explain. Do you ever remember having beenvery happy in a place, and having been obliged to leave it, alwayshoping to return; and then when you did return, finding that, thoughnothing was changed, you were yourself changed, and could not, even ifyou would, have taken up the old life again?"

"Yes, " said Cynthia, musing, "I remember that sort of thing happeningonce, about a house where I stayed as a child. It seemed so stupid anddull when I went back that I wondered how I could ever have really likedit. "

"Well, " I said, "it is the same sort of thing here. I am only here for atime, and though I do not know where I am going or when, I think I shallnot be here much longer. "

At this Cynthia did what she had never done before--she kissed me. Thenshe said, "Don't speak of such disagreeable things. I could not get onwithout you. You are so convenient, like a comfortable old arm-chair. "

"What a compliment!" I said. "But you see that you don't like myexplanation. Why trouble about it? You have plenty of time. Is Luciuslike an arm-chair, too?"

"No, " she said, "he is exciting, like a new necklace--and Charmides, heis exciting too, in a way, but rather too fine for me, like aball-dress!"

"Yes, " I said, "I noticed that your own taste in dress is different oflate. This is a much simpler thing than what you came in. "

"Oh, yes, " she said, "it doesn't seem worth while to dress up now. Ihave made my friends, and I suppose I am getting lazy. "

We said little more, but she did not seem inclined to leave me, and wasmore with me for a time. I actually heard her tell Lucius once that shewas tired, at which he laughed, not very pleasantly, and went away. 

But my own summons came to me so unexpectedly that I had but little timeto make my farewell. 

I was sitting once in a garden-close watching a curious act proceeding, which I did not quite understand. It looked like a religious ceremony; aman in embroidered robes was being conducted by some boys in whitedresses through the long cloister, carrying something carefully wrappedup in his arms, and I heard what sounded like an antique hymn of a finestiff melody, rapidly sung. 

There had been nothing quite like this before, and I suddenly becameaware that Amroth was beside me, and that he had a look of anger in hisface. "You had better not look at this, " he said to me; "it might not bevery helpful, as they say. "

"Am I to come with you?" I said. "That is well--but I should like to saya word to one or two of my friends here. "

"No, not a word!" said Amroth quickly. He looked at me with a curiouslook, in which he seemed to be measuring my strength and courage. "Yes, that will do!" he added. "Come at once--don't be surprised--it will bedifferent from what you expect. "

He took me by the arm, and we hurried from the place; one or two of thepeople who stood by looked at us in lazy wonder. We walked in silencedown a long alley, to a great gate that I had often passed in mystrolls. It was a barred iron gate, of a very stately air, with highstone gateposts. I had never been able to find my outward way to this, and there was a view from it of enchanting beauty, blue distant woodsand rolling slopes. Amroth came quickly to the gate, seemed to unlockit, and held it open for me to pass. "One word, " he said with his mostbeautiful smile, his eyes flashing and kindling with some secretemotion, "whatever happens, do not be _afraid_! There is nothingwhatever to fear, only be prepared and wait. " He motioned me through, and I heard him close the gate behind me. 

XVII

I was alone in an instant, and in terrible pain--pain not in any part ofme, but all around and within me. A cold wind of a piercing bitternessseemed to blow upon me; but with it came a sense of immense energy andstrength, so that the pain became suddenly delightful, like thestretching of a stiffened limb. I cannot put the pain into exact words. It was not attended by any horror; it seemed a sense of infinite griefand loss and loneliness, a deep yearning to be delivered and made free. I felt suddenly as though everything I loved had gone from me, irretrievably gone and lost. I looked round me, and I could discernthrough a mist the bases of some black and sinister rocks, that toweredup intolerably above me; in between them were channels full of stonesand drifted snow. Anything more stupendous than those black-ribbedcrags, those toppling precipices, I had never seen. The wind howledamong them, and sometimes there was a noise of rocks cast down. I knewin some obscure way that my path lay there, and my heart absolutelyfailed me. Instead of going straight to the rocks, I began to creepalong the base to see whether I could find some easier track. Suddenlythe voice of Amroth said, rather sharply, in my ear, "Don't be silly!"This homely direction, so peremptorily made, had an instantaneouseffect. If he had said, "Be not faithless, " or anything in the copybookmanner, I should have sat down and resigned myself to solemn despair. But now I felt a fool and a coward as well. 

So I addressed myself, like a dog who hears the crack of a whip, to therocks. 

It would be tedious to relate how I clambered and stumbled and agonised. There did not seem to me the slightest use in making the attempt, or thesmallest hope of reaching the top, or the least expectation of findinganything worth finding. I hated everything I had ever seen or known;recollections of old lives and of the quiet garden I had left came uponme with a sort of mental nausea. This was very different from theamiable and easy-going treatment I had expected. Yet I did struggle on, with a hideous faintness and weariness--but would it never stop? Itseemed like years to me, my hands frozen and wetted by snow and drippingwater, my feet bruised and wounded by sharp stones, my garmentsstrangely torn and rent, with stains of blood showing through in places. Still the hideous business continued, but progress was never quiteimpossible. At one place I found the rocks wholly impassable, andchoosing the broader of two ledges which ran left and right, I workedout along the cliff, only to find that the ledge ran into theprecipices, and I had to retrace my steps, if the shuffling motions Imade could be so called. Then I took the harder of the two, whichzigzagged backwards and forwards across the rocks. At one place I saw athing which moved me very strangely. This was a heap of bones, green, slimy, and ill-smelling, with some tattered rags of cloth about them, which lay in a heap beneath a precipice. The thought that a man couldfall and be killed in such a place moved me with a fresh misery. Whatthat meant I could not tell. Were we not away from such things asmouldering flesh and broken bones? It seemed not; and I climbed madlyaway from them. Quite suddenly I came to the top, a bleak platform ofrock, where I fell prostrate on my face and groaned. 

"Yes, that was an ugly business, " said the voice of Amroth beside me, "but you got through it fairly well. How do you feel?"

"I call it a perfect outrage, " I said. "What is the meaning of thishateful business?"

"The meaning?" said Amroth; "never mind about the meaning. The point isthat you are here!"

"Oh, " I said, "I have had a horrible time. All my sense of security isgone from me. Is one indeed liable to this kind of interruption, Amroth?"

"Of course, " said Amroth, "there must be some tests; but you will bebetter very soon. It is all over for the present, I may tell you, andyou will soon be able to enjoy it. There is no terror in pastsuffering--it is the purest joy. "

"Yes, I used to say so and think so, " I said, closing my eyes. "But thiswas different--it was horrible! And the time it lasted, and the despairof it! It seems to have soaked into my whole life and poisoned it. "

Amroth said nothing for a minute, but watched me closely. 

Presently I went on. "And tell me one thing. There was a ghastly thing Isaw, some mouldering bones on a ledge. Can people indeed fall and diethere?"

"Perhaps it was only a phantom, " said Amroth, "put there like thesights in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, the fire that was fed secretly withoil, and the robin with his mouth full of spiders, as an encouragementfor wayfarers!"

"But that, " I said, "would be too horrible for anything--to turn theterrors of death into a sort of conjuring trick--a dramaticentertainment, to make one's flesh creep! Why, that was the misery ofsome of the religion taught us in old days, that it seemed often onlydramatic--a scene without cause or motive, just displayed to show us theanger or the mercy of God, so that one had the miserable sense that muchof it was a spectacular affair, that He Himself did not really suffer orfeel indignation, but thought it well to feign emotions, like aschoolmaster to impress his pupils. --and that people too were notpunished for their own sakes, to help them, but just to startle orconvince others. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "I was only jesting, and I see that my jests wereout of place. Of course what you saw was real--there are no pretenceshere. Men and women do indeed suffer a kind of death--the seconddeath--in these places, and have to begin again; but that is only for acertain sort of self-confident and sin-soaked person, whose will needsto be roughly broken. There are certain perverse sins of the spiritwhich need a spiritual death, as the sins of the body need a bodilydeath. Only thus can one be born again. "

"Well, " I said, "I am amazed--but now what am I to do? I am fit fornothing, and I shall be fit for nothing hereafter. "

"If you talk like this, " said Amroth, "you will only drive me away. There are certain things that it is better not to confess to one'sdearest friend, not even to God. One must just be silent about them, tryto forget them, hope they can never happen again. I tell you, you willsoon be all right; and if you are not you will have to see a physician. But you had better not do that unless you are obliged. "

This made me feel ashamed of myself, and the shame took off my thoughtsfrom what I had endured; but I could do nothing but lie aching andpanting on the rocks for a long time, while Amroth sat beside me insilence. 

"Are you vexed?" I said after a long pause. 

"No, no, not vexed, " said Amroth, "but I am not sure whether I have notmade a mistake. It was I who urged that you might go forward, and Iconfess I am disappointed at the result. You are softer than I thought. "

"Indeed I am not, " I said. "I will go down the rocks and come up again, if that will satisfy you. "

"Come, that is a little better, " said Amroth, "and I will tell you nowthat you did well--better indeed at the time than I expected. You didthe thing in very good time, as we used to say. "

By this time I felt very drowsy, and suddenly dropped off into asleep--such a deep and dreamless sleep, to descend into which was likeflinging oneself into a river-pool by a bubbling weir on a hot and dustyday of summer. 

I awoke suddenly with a pressure on my arm, and, waking up with a senseof renewed freshness, I saw Amroth looking at me anxiously. "Do notsay anything, " he said. "Can you manage to hobble a few steps? If youcannot, I will get some help, and we shall be all right--but there maybe an unpleasant encounter, and it is best avoided. " I scrambled to myfeet, and Amroth helped me a little higher up the rocks, lookingcarefully into the mist as he did so. Close behind us was a steep rockwith ledges. Amroth flung himself upon them, with an agile scramble ortwo. Then he held his hand down, lying on the top; I took it, and, stiffened as I was, I contrived to get up beside him. "That is right, "he said in a whisper. "Now lie here quietly, don't speak a word, andjust watch. "

I lay, with a sense of something evil about. Presently I heard the soundof voices in the mist to the left of us; and in an instant there loomedout of the mist the form of a man, who was immediately followed by threeothers. They were different from all the other spirits I had yetseen--tall, lean, dark men, very spare and strong. They looked carefullyabout them, mostly glancing down the cliff, and sometimes conferredtogether. They were dressed in close-fitting dark clothes, which seemedas if made out of some kind of skin or untanned leather, and their wholeair was sinister and terrifying. They passed quite close beneath us, sothat I saw the bald head of one of them, who carried a sort of hook inhis hands. 

When they got to the place where my climb had ended, they stopped andexamined the stones carefully: one of them clambered a few feet down thecliff. Then he came back and seemed to make a brief report, after whichthey appeared undecided what to do; they even looked up at the rockwhere we lay; but while they did this, another man, very similar, camehurriedly out of the mist, said something to the group, and they alldisappeared very quickly into the darkness the same way they had come. Then there was a silence. I should have spoken, but Amroth put a fingeron his lips. Presently there came a sound of falling stones, and afterthat there broke out among the rocks below a horrible crying, as of aman in sore straits and instant fear. Amroth jumped quickly to his feet. "This will not do, " he said. "Stay here for me. " And then leaping downthe rock, he disappeared, shouting words of help--"Hold on--I amcoming. "

He came back some little time afterwards, and I saw that he was notalone. He had with him an old stumbling man, evidently in the lastextremity of terror and pain, with beads of sweat on his brow and bloodrunning down from his hands. He seemed dazed and bewildered. And Amrothtoo looked ruffled and almost weary, as I had never seen him look. Icame down the rock to meet them. But Amroth said, "Wait here for me; ithas been a troublesome business, and I must go and bestow this poorcreature in a place of safety--I will return. " He led the old man awayamong the rocks, and I waited a long time, wondering very heavily whatit was that I had seen. 

When Amroth came back to the rock he was fresh and smiling again: heswung himself up, and sat by me, with his hands clasped round his knees. Then he looked at me, and said, "I daresay you are surprised? You didnot expect to see such terrors and dangers here? And it is a greatmystery. "

"You must be kind, " I said, "and explain to me what has happened. "

"Well, " said Amroth, "there is a large gang of men who infest thisplace, who have got up here by their agility, and can go no further, who make it their business to prevent all they can from coming up. Iconfess that it is the hardest thing of all to understand why it isallowed; but if you expect all to be plain sailing up here, you aremistaken. One needs to be wary and strong. They do much harm here, andwill continue to do it. "

"What would have happened if they had found us here?" I said. 

"Nothing very much, " said Amroth; "a good deal of talk no doubt, andsome blows perhaps. But it was well I was with you, because I could havesummoned help. They are not as strong as they look either--it is mostlyfear that aids them. "

"Well, but _who_ are they?" I said. 

"They are the most troublesome crew of all, " said Amroth, "and comenearest to the old idea of fiends--they are indeed the origin of thatnotion. To speak plainly, they are men who have lived virtuous lives, and have done cruel things from good motives. There are some kings andstatesmen among them, but they are mostly priests and schoolmasters, I imagine--people with high ideals, of course! But they are notreplenished so fast as they used to be, I think. Their difficulty isthat they can never see that they are wrong. Their notion is that thisis a bad place to come to, and that people are better left in ignoranceand bliss, obedient and submissive. A good many of them have given upthe old rough methods, and hang about the base of the cliff, dissuadingsouls from climbing: they do the most harm of all, because if one doesturn back here, it is long before one may make a new attempt. But enoughof this, " he added; "it makes me sick to think of them--the old fellowyou saw with me had an awful fright--he was nearly done as it was! But Isee you are feeling stronger, and I think we had better be going. Onedoes not stay here by choice, though the place has a beauty of its own. And now you will have an easier time for awhile. "

We descended from our rock, and Amroth led the way, through a longcleft, with rocks, very rough and black, on either side, and fallenfragments under foot. It was steep at first; but soon the rocks grewlower; and we came out presently on to a great desolate plain, withstones lying thickly about, among a coarse kind of grass. At each step Iseemed to grow stronger, and walked more lightly, and in the thin fineair my horrors left me, though I still had a dumb sense of sufferingwhich, strange to say, I found it almost pleasant to resist. And so wewalked for a time in friendly silence, Amroth occasionally indicatingthe way. The hill began to slope downwards very slowly, and the wind tosubside. The mist drew off little by little, till at last I saw ahead ofus a great bare-looking fortress with high walls and little windows, anda great blank tower over all. 

XVIII

We were received at the guarded door of the fortress by a porter, whoseemed to be well acquainted with Amroth. Within, it was a big, bareplace, with, stone-arched cloisters and corridors, more like a monasterythan a castle. Amroth led me briskly along the passages, and took meinto a large room very sparely furnished, where an elderly man satwriting at a table with his back to the light. He rose when we entered, and I had a sudden sense that I was coming to school again, as indeed Iwas. Amroth greeted him with a mixture of freedom and respect, as awell-loved pupil might treat an old schoolmaster. The man himself wastall and upright, and serious-looking, but for a twinkle of humour thatlurked in his eye; yet I felt he was one who expected to be obeyed. Hetook Amroth into the embrasure of a window, and talked with him in lowtones. Then he came back to me and asked me a few questions of which Idid not then understand the drift--but it seemed a kind of very informalexamination. Then he made us a little bow of dismissal, and sat down atonce to his writing without giving us another look. Amroth took me out, and led me up many stone stairs, along whitewashed passages, with narrowwindows looking out on the plain, to a small cell or room near the topof the castle. It was very austerely furnished, but it had a little doorwhich took us out on the leads, and I then saw what a very large placethe fortress was, consisting of several courts with a great centraltower. 

"Where on earth have we got to now?" I said. 

"Nowhere '_on earth_, '" said Amroth. "You are at school again, and youwill find it very interesting, I hope and expect, but it will be hardwork. I will tell you plainly that you are lucky to be here, because ifyou do well, you will have the best sort of work to do. "

"But what am I to do, and where am I to go?" I said. "I feel like a newboy, with all sorts of dreadful rules in the background. "

"That will all be explained to you, " said Amroth. "And now good-bye forthe present. Let me hear a good report of you, " he added, with aparental air, "when I come again. What would not we older fellows giveto be back here!" he added with a half-mocking smile. "Let me tell you, my boy, you have got the happiest time of your life ahead of you. Well, be a credit to your friends!"

He gave me a nod and was gone. I stood for a little looking out ratherdesolately into the plain. There came a brisk tap at my door, and a manentered. He greeted me pleasantly, gave me a few directions, and Igathered that he was one of the instructors. "You will find it hardwork, " he said; "we do not waste time here. But I gather that you havehad rather a troublesome ascent, so you can rest a little. When you arerequired, you will be summoned. "

When he left me, I still felt very weary, and lay down on a little couchin the room, falling presently asleep. I was roused by the entry of ayoung man, who said he had been sent to fetch me: we went down along thepassages, while he talked pleasantly in low tones about the arrangementsof the place. As we went along the passages, the doors of the cells keptopening, and we were joined by young men and women, who spoke to me orto each other, but all in the same subdued voices, till at last weentered a big, bare, arched room, lit by high windows, with rows ofseats, and a great desk or pulpit at the end. I looked round me in greatcuriosity. There must have been several hundred people present, sittingin rows. There was a murmur of talk over the hall, till a bell suddenlysounded somewhere in the castle, a door opened, a man stepped quicklyinto the pulpit, and began to speak in a very clear and distinct tone. 

The discourse--and all the other discourses to which I listened in theplace--was of a psychological kind, dealing entirely with the relationsof human beings with each other, and the effect and interplay ofemotions. It was extremely scientific, but couched in the simplestphraseology, and made many things clear to me which had formerly beenobscure. There is nothing in the world so bewildering as the selectiveinstinct of humanity, the reasons which draw people to each other, theattractive power of similarity and dissimilarity, the effects of classand caste, the abrupt approaches of passion, the influence of the bodyon the soul and of the soul on the body. It came upon me with a shock ofsurprise that while these things are the most serious realities in theworld, and undoubtedly more important than any other thing, littleattempt is made by humanity to unravel or classify them. I cannot hereenter into the details of these instructions, which indeed would beunintelligible, but they showed me at first what I had not at allapprehended, namely the proportionate importance and unimportance of allthe passions and emotions which regulate our relations with other souls. These discourses were given at regular intervals, and much of our timewas spent in discussing together or working out in solitude the detailsof psychological problems, which we did with the exactness of chemicalanalysis. 

What I soon came to understand was that the whole of psychology is ruledby the most exact and immutable laws, in which there is nothingfortuitous or abnormal, and that the exact course of an emotion can bepredicted with perfect certainty if only all the data are known. 

One of the most striking parts of these discourses was the fact thatthey were accompanied by illustrations. I will describe the first ofthese which I saw. The lecturer stopped for an instant and held up hishand. In the middle of one of the side-walls of the room was a greatshallow arched recess. In this recess there suddenly appeared a scene, not as though it were cast by a lantern on the wall, but as if the wallwere broken down, and showed a room beyond. 

In the room, a comfortably furnished apartment, there sat two people, ahusband and wife, middle-aged people, who were engaged in a miserabledispute about some very trivial matter. The wife was shrill andprovocative, the husband curt and contemptuous. They were obviously notreally concerned about the subject they were discussing--it only formeda ground for disagreeable personalities. Presently the man went out, saying harshly that it was very pleasant to come back from his work, dayafter day, to these scenes; to which the woman fiercely retorted that itwas all his own fault; and when he was gone, she sat for a timemechanically knitting, with the tears trickling down her cheeks, andevery now and then glancing at the door. After which, with greatsecrecy, she helped herself to some spirits which she took from acupboard. 

The scene was one of the most vulgar and debasing that can be describedor imagined; and it was curious to watch the expressions on the faces ofmy companions. They wore the air of trained doctors or nurses, watchingsome disagreeable symptoms, with a sort of trained and serenecompassion, neither shocked nor grieved. Then the situation wasdiscussed and analysed, and various suggestions were made which weredealt with by the lecturer, in a way which showed me that there was muchfor us to master and to understand. 

There were many other such illustrations given. They were, I discovered, by no means imaginary cases, projected into our minds by a kind ofmental suggestion, but actual things happening upon earth. We saw manystrange scenes of tragedy, we had a glimpse of lunatic asylums andhospitals, of murder even, and of evil passions of anger and lust. Wesaw scenes of grief and terror; and, stranger still, we saw many thingsthat were being enacted not on the earth, but upon other planets, wherethe forms and appearances of the creatures concerned were fantastic andstrange enough, but where the motive and the emotion were all perfectlyclear. At times, too, we saw scenes that were beautiful and touching, high and heroic beyond words. These seemed to come rather by contrastand for encouragement; for the work was distinctly pathological, anddealt with the disasters and complications of emotions, as a rule, rather than with their glories and radiances. But it was all incrediblyabsorbing and interesting, though what it was to lead up to I did notquite discern. What struck me was the concentration of effort upon humanemotion, and still more the fact that other hopes and passions, such asambition and acquisitiveness, as well as all material and economicproblems, were treated as infinitely insignificant, as just theframework of human life, only interesting in so far as the baser andmeaner elements of circumstance can just influence, refining orcoarsening, the highest traits of character and emotion. 

We were given special cases, too, to study and consider, and here I hadthe first inkling of how far it is possible for disembodied spirits tobe in touch with those who are still in the body. 

As far as I can see, no direct intellectual contact is possible, exceptunder certain circumstances. There is, of course, a great deal ofthought-vibration taking place in the world, to which the best analogyis wireless telegraphy. There exists an all-pervading emotional medium, into which every thought that is tinged with emotion sends a ripple. Thoughts which are concerned with personal emotion send the firmestripple into this medium, and all other thoughts and passions affect it, not in proportion to the intensity of the thought, but to the nature ofthe thought. The scale is perfectly determined and quite unalterable;thus a thought, however strong and intense, which is concerned withwealth or with personal ambition sends a very little ripple into themedium, while a thought of affection is very noticeable indeed, and morenoticeable in proportion as it is purer and less concerned with any kindof bodily passion. Thus, strange to say, the thought of a father for achild is a stronger thought than that of a lover for his beloved. I donot know the exact scale of force, which is as exact as that of chemicalvalues--and of course such emotions are apt to be complex and intricate;but the purer and simpler the thought is, the greater is its force. Perhaps the prayers that one prays for those whom one loves send thestrongest ripple of all. If it happens that two of these ripples ofpersonal emotion are closely similar, a reflex action takes place; andthus is explained the phenomenon which often takes place, the suddensense of a friend's personality, if that friend, in absence, writes onea letter, or bends his mind intently upon one. It also explains the wayin which some national or cosmic emotion suddenly gains simultaneousforce, and vibrates in thousands of minds at the same time. 

The body, by its joys and sufferings alike, offers a great obstructionto these emotional waves. In the land of spirits, as I have indicated, an intention of congenial wills gives an instantaneous perception; butthis seems impossible between an embodied spirit and a disembodiedspirit. The only communication which seems possible is that of a vagueemotion; and it seems quite impossible for any sort of intellectual ideato be directly communicated by a disembodied spirit to an embodiedspirit. 

On the other hand, the intellectual processes of an embodied spirit areto a certain extent perceptible by a disembodied spirit; but there is acondition to this, and that is that some emotional sympathy must haveexisted between the two on earth. If there is no such sympathy, then thebody is an absolute bar. 

I could look into the mind of Amroth and see his thought take shape, asI could look into a stream, and see a fish dart from a covert of weed. But with those still in the body it is different. And I will thereforeproceed to describe a single experience which will illustrate my point. 

I was ordered to study the case of a former friend of my own who wasstill living upon earth. Nothing was told me about him, but, sitting inmy cell, I put myself into communication with him upon earth. He hadbeen a contemporary of mine at the university, and we had many interestsin common. He was a lawyer; we did not very often meet, but when we didmeet it was always with great cordiality and sympathy. I now found himill and suffering from overwork, in a very melancholy state. When Ifirst visited him, he was sitting alone, in the garden of a littlehouse in the country. I could see that he was ill and sad; he was makingpretence to read, but the book was wholly disregarded. 

When I attempted to put my mind into communication with his, it was verydifficult to see the drift of his thoughts. I was like a man walking ina dense fog, who can just discern at intervals recognisable objects asthey come within his view; but there was no general prospect and nodistance. His mind seemed a confused current of distressing memories;but there came a time when his thought dwelt for a moment upon myself;he wished that I could be with him, that he might speak of some of hisperplexities. In that instant, the whole grew clearer, and little bylittle I was enabled to trace the drift of his thoughts. I became awarethat though he was indeed suffering from overwork, yet that his enforcedrest only removed the mental distraction of his work, and left his mindfree to revive a whole troop of painful thoughts. He had been a man ofstrong personal ambitions, and had for twenty years been endeavouring torealise them. Now a sense of the comparative worthlessness of his aimshad come upon him. He had despised and slighted other emotions; and hismind had in consequence drifted away like a boat into a bitter andbarren sea. He was a lonely man, and he was feeling that he had done illin not multiplying human emotions and relations. He reflected much uponthe way in which he had neglected and despised his home affections, while he had formed no ties of his own. Now, too, his career seemed tohim at an end, and he had nothing to look forward to but a maimed andinvalided life of solitude and failure. Many of his thoughts I could notdiscern at all--the mist, so to speak, involved them--while many wereobscure to me. When he thought about scenes and people whom I had neverknown, the thought loomed shapeless and dark; but when he thought, as heoften did, about his school and university days, and about his homecircle, all of which scenes were familiar to me, I could read his mindwith perfect clearness. At the bottom of all lay a sense of deepdisappointment and resentment. He doubted the justice of God, and blamedhimself but little for his miseries. It was a sad experience at first, because he was falling day by day into more hopeless dejection; while herefused the pathetic overtures of sympathy which the relations in whosehouse he was--a married sister with her husband and children--offeredhim. He bore himself with courtesy and consideration, but he was so muchworn with fatigue and despondency that he could not take any initiative. But I became aware very gradually that he was learning the true worthand proportion of things--and the months which passed so heavily for himbrought him perceptions of the value of which he was hardly aware. Letme say that it was now that the incredible swiftness of time in thespiritual region made itself felt for me. A month of his sufferingspassed to me, contemplating them, like an hour. 

I found to my surprise that his thoughts of myself were becoming morefrequent; and one day when he was turning over some old letters andreading a number of mine, it seemed to me that his spirit almostrecognised my presence in the words which came to his lips, "It seemslike yesterday!" I then became blessedly aware that I was actuallyhelping him, and that the very intentness of my own thought wasquickening his own. 

I discussed the whole case very closely and carefully with one of ourinstructors, who set me right on several points and made the whole stateof things clear to me. 

I said to him, "One thing bewilders me; it would almost seem that aman's work upon earth constituted an interruption and a distraction fromspiritual influences. It cannot surely be that people in the body shouldavoid employment, and give themselves to secluded meditation? If thesoul grows fast in sadness and despondency, it would seem that oneshould almost have courted sorrow on earth; and yet I cannot believethat to be the case. "

"No, " he said, "it is not the case; the body has here to be considered. No amount of active exertion clouds the eye of the soul, if only themotive of it is pure and lofty, and if the soul is only set patientlyand faithfully upon the true end of life. The body indeed requires duelabour and exercise, and the soul can gain health and clearness thereby. But what does cloud the spirit is if it gives itself wholly up to narrowpersonal aims and ambitions, and uses friendship and love as mererecreations and amusements. Sickness and sorrow are not, as we used tothink, fortuitous things; they are given to those who need them, as highand rich opportunities; and they come as truly blessed gifts, when theybreak a man's thought off from material things, and make him fall backupon the loving affections and relations of life. When one re-entersthe world, a woman's life is sometimes granted to a spirit, because awoman by circumstance and temperament is less tempted to decline uponmeaner ambitions and interests than a man; but work and activity are nohindrances to spiritual growth, so long as the soul waits upon God, anddesires to learn the lessons of life, rather than to enforce its ownconclusions upon others. "

"Yes, " I said, "I see that. What, then, is the great hindrance in thelife of men?"

"Authority, " he said, "whether given or taken. That is by far thegreatest difficulty that a soul has to contend with. The knowledge ofthe true conditions of life is so minute and yet so imperfect, when oneis in the body, that the man or woman who thinks it a duty todisapprove, to correct, to censure, is in the gravest danger. In thefirst place it is so impossible to disentangle the true conditions ofany human life; to know how far those failures which are lightly calledsins are inherited instincts of the body, or the manifestation ofimmaturity of spirit. Complacency, hard righteousness, spiritualsecurity, severe judgments, are the real foes of spiritual growth; andif a man is in a position to enforce his influence and his will uponothers, he can fall very low indeed, and suspend his own growth for avery long and sad period. It is not the criticism or the analysis ofothers which hurts the soul, so long as it remains modest and sincereand conscious of its own weaknesses. It is when we indulge in secure orcompassionate comparisons of our own superior worth that we gobackwards. "

This was but one of the many cases which I had to investigate. I do notsay that this is the work of all spirits in the other world--it is notso; there are many kinds of work and occupation. This was the one nowallotted to me; but I did become aware of the intense and lovinginterest which is bent upon the souls of the living by those who aredeparted. There is not a soul alive who is not being thus watched andtended, and helped, as far as help is possible; for no one is everforced or compelled or frightened into truth, only drawn and wooed bylove and care. 

I must say a word, too, of the great and noble friendships which Iformed at this period of my existence. We were not free to make many ofthese at a time. Love seems to be the one thing that demands an entireconcentration, and though in the world of spirits I became aware thatone could be conscious of many of the thoughts of those about mesimultaneously, yet the emotion of love, in the earlier stages, issingle and exclusive. 

I will speak of two only. There were a young man and a young woman whowere much associated with me at that time, whom I will call Philip andAnna. Philip was one of the most beautiful of all the spirits I evercame near. His last life upon earth had been a long one, and he had beena teacher. I used to tell him that I wished I had been under him as apupil, to which he replied, laughing, that I should have found him veryuninteresting. He said to me once that the way in which he had alwaysdistinguished the two kinds of teachers on earth had been by whetherthey were always anxious to teach new books and new subjects, or went oncontentedly with the old. "The pleasure, " he said, "was in the teaching, in making the thought clear, in tempting the boys to find out what theyknew all the time; and the oftener I taught a subject the better I likedit; it was like a big cog-wheel, with a number of little cog-wheelsturning with it. But the men who were always wanting to change theirsubjects were the men who thought of their own intellectual interestfirst, and very little of the small interests revolving upon it. " Thecharm of Philip was the charm of extreme ingenuousness combined withdaring insight. He never seemed to be shocked or distressed by anything. He said one day, "It was not the sensual or the timid or theill-tempered boys who used to make me anxious. Those were definitefaults and brought definite punishment; it was the hard-hearted, virtuous, ambitious, sensible boys, who were good-humoured andrespectable and selfish, who bothered me; one wanted to shake them as aterrier shakes a rat--but there was nothing to get hold of. They were acredit to themselves and to their parents and to the school; and yetthey went downhill with every success. "

Anna was a woman of singularly unselfish and courageous temperament. Shehad been, in the course of her last life upon earth, a hospital nurse;and she used to speak gratefully of the long periods when she wasnursing some anxious case, when she had interchanged day and night, sleeping when the world was awake, and sitting with a book or needleworkby the sick-bed, through the long darkness. "People used to say to methat it must be so depressing; but those were my happiest hours, as thedark brightened into dawn, when many of the strange mysteries of lifeand pain and death gave up their secrets to me. But of course, " sheadded with a smile, "it was all very dim to me. I felt the truth ratherthan saw it; and it is a great joy to me to perceive now what washappening, and how the sad, bewildered hours of pain and misery leavetheir blessed marks upon the soul, like the tools of the graver on thegem. If only we could learn to plan a little less and to believe alittle more, how much simpler it would all be!"

These two became very dear to me, and I learnt much heavenly wisdom fromthem in long, quiet conferences, where we spoke frankly of all we hadfelt and known. 

XIX

It was at this time, I think, that a great change came over my thoughts, or rather that I realised that a great change had gradually taken place. Till now, I had been dominated and haunted by memories of my latest lifeupon earth; but at intervals there had visited me a sense of older andpurer recollections. I cannot describe exactly how it came about--and, indeed, the memory of what my heavenly progress had hitherto been, asopposed to my earthly experience, was never very clear to me; but Ibecame aware that my life in heaven--I will call it heaven for want of abetter name--was my real continuous life, my home-life, so to speak, while my earthly lives had been, to pursue the metaphor, like termswhich a boy spends at school, in which he is aware that he not onlylearns definite and tangible things, but that his character is hardenedand consolidated by coming into contact with the rougher facts oflife--duty, responsibility, friendships, angers, treacheries, temptations, routine. The boy returns with gladness to the serener andsweeter atmosphere of home; and just in the same way I felt I hadreturned to the larger and purer life of heaven. But, as I say, therecollection of my earlier life in heaven, my occupations andexperience, was never clear to me, but rather as a luminous and hauntingmist. I questioned Amroth about this once, and he said that this was theuniversal experience, and that the earthly lives one lived were likedeep trenches cut across a path, and seemed to interrupt the heavenlysequence; but that as the spirit grew more pure and wise, theconsciousness of the heavenly life became more distinct and secure. Buthe added, what I did not quite understand, that there was little need ofmemory in the life of heaven, and that it was to a great extent theinheritance of the body. Memory, he said, was to a great extent aninterruption to life; the thought of past failures and mistakes, andespecially of unkindnesses and misunderstandings, tended to obscure andcomplicate one's relations with other souls; but that in heaven, whereactivity and energy were untiring and unceasing, one lived far more inthe emotion and work of the moment, and less in retrospect and prospect. What mattered was actual experience and the effect of experience; memoryitself was but an artistic method of dealing with the past, andcorresponded to fanciful and delightful anticipations of the future. "The truth is, " he said, "that the indulgence of memory is to a greatextent a mere sentimental weakness; to live much in recollection is asign of exhausted and depleted vitality. The further you are removedfrom your last earthly life, the less tempted you will be to recall it. The highest spirits of all here, " he said, "have no temptation ever torevert to retrospect, because the pure energies of the moment areall-sustaining and all-sufficing. "

The only trace I ever noticed of any memory of my past life in heavenwas that things sometimes seemed surprisingly familiar to me, and that Ihad the sense of a serene permanence, which possessed and encompassedme. Indeed I came to believe that the strange feeling of permanencewhich haunts one upon earth, when one is happy and content, even thoughone knows that everything is changing and shifting around one, and thatall is precarious and uncertain, is in itself a memory of the serene anduntroubled continuance of heaven, and a desire to taste it and realiseit. 

Be this as it may, from the time of my finding my settled task andordered place in the heavenly community the memories of my old life uponearth began to fade from my thoughts. I could, indeed, always recallthem by an effort, but there seemed less and less inclination to do sothe more I became absorbed in my heavenly activities. 

One thing I noticed in these days; it surprised me very greatly, till Ireflected that my surprise was but the consequence of the strange andmournful blindness with regard to spiritual things in which we liveunder the dark skies of earth. We have there a false idea that somehowor other death takes all the individuality out of a man, obliteratingall the whims, prejudices, the thorny and unreasonable dislikes andfancies, oddities, tempers, roughnesses, and subtlenesses from atemperament. Of course there are a good many of these things whichdisappear together with the body, such as the glooms, suspicions, andcloudy irritabilities, which are caused by fatigue and malaise, and byill-health generally. But a man's whims and fancies and dislikes do notby any means disappear on earth when he is in good health; on thecontrary, they are often apt to be accentuated and emphasised when he isfree from pain and care and anxiety, and riding blithely over the wavesof life. Indeed there are men whom I have known who are never kind orsympathetic till they are in some wearing trouble of their own; whenthey are prosperous and cheerful, they are frankly intolerable, becausetheir mirth turns to derision and insolence. 

But one of the reasons why the heavenly life is apt to appear inprospect so wearisome a thing is, because we are brought up to feel thatthe whole character is flattened out and charged with a serene kind ofpriggishness, which takes all the salt out of life. The word "saintly, "so terribly misapplied on earth, grows to mean, to many of us, anirritating sort of kindness, which treats the interests and animatedelements of life with a painful condescension, and a sympathy of whichthe basis is duty rather than love. The true sanctification, which Icame to perceive something of later, is the result of a process ofendless patience and infinite delay, and the attainment of it implies ahumility, seven times refined in the fires of self-contempt, in whichthere remains no smallest touch of superiority or aloofness. How utterlydepressing is the feigned interest of the imperfect human saint inmatters of mundane concern! How it takes at once both the joy out ofholiness and the spirit out of human effort! It is as dreary as theprofessional sympathy of the secluded student for the news of athleticcontests, as the tolerance of the shrewd man of science for the femininelogic of religious sentiment!

But I found to my great content that whatever change had passed over thespirits of my companions, they had at least lost no fibre of theirindividuality. The change that had passed over them was like the changethat passes over a young man, who has lived at the University amongdilettante literary designs and mild sociological theorising, when hefinds himself plunged into the urgent practical activities of the world. Our happiness was the happiness which comes of intense toil, with nofatigue to dog it, and from a consciousness of the vital issues whichwe were pursuing. But my companions had still intellectual faults andpreferences, self-confidence, critical intolerance, boisterousness, wilfulness. Stranger still, I found coldness, anger, jealousy, still atwork. Of course in the latter case reconciliation was easier, both inthe light of common enthusiasm and, still more, because mentalcommunication was so much swifter and easier than it had been on earth. There was no need of those protracted talks, those tiresome explanationswhich clever people, who really love and esteem each other, fall into onearth--the statements which affirm nothing, the explanations whichelucidate nothing, because of the intricacies of human speech and thefact that people use the same words with such different implications andmeanings. All those became unnecessary, because one could pierceinstantaneously into the very essence of the soul, and manifest, withoutthe need of expression, the regard and affection which lay beneath thecross-currents of emotion. But love and affection waxed and waned inheaven as on earth; it was weakened and it was transferred. Few soulsare so serene on earth as to see with perfect equanimity a friend, whomone loves and trusts, becoming absorbed in some new and excitingemotion, which may not perhaps obliterate the original regard, but whichmust withdraw from it for a time the energy which fed the flame of theintermitted relation. 

It was very strange to me to realise the fact that friendships andintimacies were formed as on earth, and that they lost their freshness, either from some lack of real congeniality or from some divergence ofdevelopment. Sometimes, I may add, our teachers were consulted by theaggrieved, sometimes they even intervened unasked. 

I will freely confess that this all immensely heightened the intereststo me of our common life. One could see two spirits drawn together bysome secret tie of emotion, and one could see some further influencestrike across and suspend it. One case of this I will mention, which istypical of many. There came among us an extremely lively and ratherwhimsical spirit, more like a boy than a man. I wondered at first why hewas chosen for this work, because he seemed both fitful and evencapricious; but I gradually realised in him an extraordinary fineness ofperception, and a swiftness of intuition almost unrivalled. He had apower of weighing almost by instinct the constituent elements ofcharacter, which seemed to me something like the power of tonality in amusician, the gift of recognising, by pure faculty, what any notes maybe, however confusedly jangled on an instrument. It was wonderful to mehow often his instantaneous judgments proved more sagacious than ourcarefully formed conclusions. 

This boy became extraordinarily attractive to an older woman who was oneof our number, who was solitary and abstracted, and of an intenseseriousness of devotion to her work. It was evident both that she felthis charm intensely and that her disposition was wholly alien to thedisposition of the boy himself. In fact, she simply bored him. He tookall that he did lightly, and achieved by an intense momentaryconcentration what she could only achieve by slow reflection. Thisdevotion had in it something that was strangely pathetic, because ittook the form in her of making her wish to conciliate the boy'sadmiration, by treating thoughts and ideas with a lightness and a humourto which she could by no means attain, and which made things worserather than better, because she could read so easily, in the thoughts ofothers, the impression that she was attempting a handling of topicswhich she could not in the least accomplish. But advice was useless. There it was, the old, fierce, constraining attraction of love, as ithad been of old, making havoc of comfortable arrangements, attemptingthe impossible; and yet one knew that she would gain by the process, that she was opening a door in her heart that had hitherto been closed, and learning a largeness of view and sympathy in the process. Her faulthad ever been, no doubt, to estimate slow and accurate methods toohighly, and to believe that all was insecure and untrustworthy that wasnot painfully accumulated. Now she saw that genius could accomplishwithout effort or trouble what no amount of homely energy could effect, and a new horizon was unveiled to her. But on the boy it did not seem tohave the right result. He might have learned to extend his sympathy to anature so dumb and plodding; and this coldness of his called down arebuke of what seemed almost undue sternness from one of our teachers. It was not given in my presence, but the boy, bewildered by the severitywhich he did not anticipate, coupled indeed with a hint that he must beprepared, if he could not exhibit a more elastic sympathy, to have hiscourse suspended in favour of some more simple discipline, told me thewhole matter. "What am I to do?" he said. "I cannot care for Barbara;her whole nature upsets me and revolts me. I know she is very good andall that, but I simply am not myself when she is by; it is like taking arun with a tortoise!"

"Well, " I said, "no one expects you to give up all your time to takingtortoises for runs; but I suppose that tortoises have their rights, andmust not be jerked along on their backs, like a sledge. "

"Oh, " said he, "you are all against me, I know; and I am not sure thatthis place is not rather too solemn for me. What is the good of beingwiser than the aged, if one has more commandments to keep?"

Things, however, settled down in time. Barbara, I think, must have beentaken to task as well, because she gave up her attempts at wit; and theend of it was that a quiet friendship sprang up between the incongruouspair, like that between a wayward young brother and a plain, kindly, and elderly sister, of a very fine and chivalrous kind. 

It must not be thought that we spent our time wholly in these emotionalrelations. It was a place of hard and urgent work; but I came to realisethat, just as on earth, institutions like schools and colleges, where agreat variety of natures are gathered in close and daily contact, areshot through and through with strange currents of emotion, which somepeople pay no attention to, and others dismiss as mere sentimentality, so it was also bound to be beyond, with this difference, that whereas onearth we are shy and awkward with our friendships, and all sorts ofphysical complications intervene, in the other world they assume theirfrank importance. I saw that much of what is called the serious businessof life is simply and solely necessitated by bodily needs, and is reallyentirely temporary and trivial, while the real life of the soul, whichunderlies it all, stifled and subdued, pent-up uneasily and crampedunkindly like a bright spring of water under the superincumbent earth, finds its way at last to the light. On earth we awkwardly divide thisimpulse; we speak of the relation of the soul to others and of therelation of the soul to God as two separate things. We pass over thewords of Christ in the Gospel, which directly contradict this, and whichmake the one absolutely dependent on, and conditional on, the other. Wespeak of human affection as a thing which may come in between the souland God, while it is in reality the swiftest access thither. We speak asthough ambition were itself made more noble, if it sternly abjures allmultiplication of human tenderness. We speak of a life which sacrificesmaterial success to emotion as a failure and an irresponsible affair. The truth is the precise opposite. All the ambitions which have theirend in personal prestige are wholly barren; the ambitions which aim atsocial amelioration have a certain nobility about them, though theysubstitute a tortuous by-path for a direct highway. And the plain truthis that all social amelioration would grow up as naturally and asfragrantly as a flower, if we could but refine and strengthen and awakenour slumbering emotions, and let them grow out freely to gladden thelittle circle of earth in which we live and move. 

XX

It was at this time that I had a memorable interview with the Master ofthe College. He appeared very little among us, though, he occasionallygave us a short instruction, in which he summed up the teaching on acertain point. He was a man of extraordinary impressiveness, mainly, Ithink, because he gave the sense of being occupied in much larger andwider interests. I often pondered over the question why the short, clear, rather dry discourses which fell from his lips appeared to be sofar more weighty and momentous than anything else that was ever said tous. He used no arts of exhortation, showed no emotion, seemed hardlyconscious of our presence; and if one caught his eye as he spoke, onebecame aware of a curious tremor of awe. He never made any appeal to ourhearts or feelings; but it always seemed as if he had condescended fora moment to put aside far bigger and loftier designs in order to drop afruit of ripened wisdom in our way. He came among us, indeed, like astatesman rather than like a teacher. The brief interviews we had withhim were regarded with a sort of terror, but produced, in me at least, an almost fanatical respect and admiration. And yet I had no reason tosuppose that he was not, like all of us, subject to the law of life andpilgrimage, though one could not conceive of him as having to enter thearena of life again as a helpless child!

On this occasion I was summoned suddenly to his presence. I found him, as usual, bent over his work, which he did not intermit, but merelymotioned me to be seated. Presently he put away his papers from him, andturned round upon me. One of the disconcerting things about him was thefact that his thought had a peculiarly compelling tendency, and thatwhile he read one's mind in a flash, his own thoughts remained verynearly impenetrable. On this occasion he commended me for my work and myrelations with my fellow-students, adding that I had made rapidprogress. He then said, "I have two questions to ask you. Have you anyspecial relations, either with any one whom you have left behind you onearth, or with any one with whom you have made acquaintance since youquitted it, which you desire to pursue?"

I told him, which was the truth, that since my stay in the College I hadbecome so much absorbed in the studies of the place that I seemed tohave became strangely oblivious of my external friends, but that it wasmore a suspension than a destruction of would-be relations. 

"Yes, " he said, "I perceive that that is your temperament. It has itseffectiveness, no doubt, but it also has its dangers; and, whateverhappens, one ought never to be able to accuse oneself justly of anydisloyalty. "

He seemed to wait for me to speak, whereupon I mentioned a very dearfriend of my days of earth; but I added that most of those whom I hadloved best had predeceased me, and that I had looked forward to arenewal of our intercourse. I also mentioned the names of Charmides andCynthia, the latter of whom was in memory strangely near to my heart. 

He seemed satisfied with this. Then he said, "It is true that we have tomultiply relationships with others, both in the world and out of it; butwe must also practise economy. We must not abandon ourselves to passingfancies, or be subservient to charm, while if we have made an emotionalmistake, and have been disappointed with one whom we have taken thetrouble to win, we must guard such conquests with a close and peculiartenderness. But enough of that, for I have to ask you if there is anyspecial work for which you feel yourself disposed. There is a greatchoice of employment here. You may choose, if you will, just to livethe spiritual life and discharge whatever duties of citizenship you maybe called upon to perform. That is what most spirits do. I need notperhaps tell you"--here he smiled--"that freedom from the body does notconfer upon any one, as our poor brothers and sisters upon earth seem tothink, a heavenly vocation. Neither of course is the earthly fallacyabout a mere absorption in worship a true one--only to a very few isthat conceded. Still less is this a life of leisure. To be leisurelyhere is permitted only to the wearied, and to those childish creatureswith whom you have spent some time in their barren security. I do notthink you are suited for the work of recording the great scheme of life, nor do I think you are made for a teacher. You are not sufficientlyimpartial! For mere labour you are not suited; and yet I hardly thinkyou would be fit to adopt the most honourable task which your friendAmroth so finely fulfils--a guide and messenger. What do you think?"

I said at once that I did not wish to have to make a decision, but thatI preferred to leave it to him. I added that though I was conscious ofmy deficiencies, I did not feel conscious of any particular capacities, except that I found character a very fascinating study, especially inconnection with the circumstances of life upon earth. 

"Very well, " he said, "I think that you may perhaps be best suited tothe work of deciding what sort of life will best befit the souls who areprepared to take up their life upon earth again. That is a task of deepand infinite concern; it may surprise you, " he added, "to learn thatthis is left to the decision of other souls. But it is, of course, thegoal at which all earthly social systems are aiming, the rightapportionment of circumstances to temperament, and you must not besurprised to find that here we have gone much further in that direction, though even here the system is not perfected; and you cannot begin toapprehend that fact too soon. It is unfortunate that on earth it iscommonly believed, owing to the deadening influence of material causes, that beyond the grave everything is done with a Divine unanimity. But ofcourse, if that were so, further growth and development would beimpossible, and in view of infinite perfectibility there is yet verymuch that is faulty and incomplete. But I am not sure what lies beforeyou; there is something in your temperament which a little baffles me, and our plans may have to be changed. Your very absorption in your work, your quick power of forgetting and throwing off impressions has itsdangers. But I will bear in mind what you have said, and you may for thepresent resume your studies, and I will once more commend you; you havedone well hitherto, and I will say frankly that I regard you as capableof useful and honourable work. " He bowed in token of dismissal, and Iwent back to my work with unbounded gratitude and enthusiasm. 

XXI

Some time after this I was surprised one morning at the sudden entranceof Amroth into my cell. He came in with a very bright and holidayaspect, and, assuming a paternal air, said that he had heard a verycreditable account of my work and conduct, and that he had obtainedleave for me to have an exeat. I suppose that I showed signs ofimpatience at the interruption, for he broke into a laugh, and said, "Well, I am going to insist. I believe you are working too hard, and wemust not overstrain our faculties. It was bad enough, in the old days, but then it was generally the poor body which suffered first. But indeedit is quite possible to overwork here, and you have the dim air of thepale student. Come, " he said, "whatever happens, do not become priggish. Not to want a holiday is a sign of spiritual pride. Besides, I havesome curious things to show you. "

I got up and said that I was ready, and Amroth led the way like a boyout for a holiday. He was brimming over with talk, and told me somestories about my friends in the land of delight, interspersing them withimitation of their manner and gesture, which made me giggle--Amroth wasan admirable mimic. "I had hopes of Charmides, " he said; "your staythere aroused his curiosity. But he has gone back to his absurd tonesand half-tones, and is nearly insupportable. Cynthia is much moresensible, but Lucius is a nuisance, and Charmides, by the way, hasbecome absurdly jealous of him. They really are very silly; but I have apleasant plot, which I will unfold to you. "

As we went down the interminable stairs, I said to Amroth, "There is aquestion I want to ask you. Why do we have to go and come, up and down, backwards and forwards, in this absurd way, as if we were still in thebody? Why not just slip off the leads, and fly down over the crags likea pair of pigeons? It all seems to me so terribly material. "

Amroth looked at me with a smile. "I don't advise you to try, " he said. "Why, little brother, of course we are just as limited here in theseways. The material laws of earth are only a type of the laws here. Theyall have a meaning which remains true. "

"But, " I said, "we can visit the earth with incredible rapidity?"

"How can I explain?" said Amroth. "Of course we can do that, because thematerial universe is so extremely small in comparison. All the stars inthe world are here but as a heap of sand, like the motes which dance ina sunbeam. There is no question of size, of course! But there is such athing as spiritual nearness and spiritual distance for all that. Thesouls who do not return to earth are very far off, as you will sometimesee. But we messengers have our short cuts, and I shall take advantageof them to-day. "

We went out of the great door of the fortress, and I felt a sense ofrelief. It was good to put it all behind one. For a long time I talkedto Amroth about all my doings. "Come, " he said at last, "this will neverdo! You are becoming something of a bore! Do you know that your talk isvery provincial? You seem to have forgotten about every one andeverything except your Philips and Annas--very worthy creatures, nodoubt--and the Master, who is a very able man, but not the littledemigod you believe. You are hypnotised! It is indeed time for you tohave a holiday. Why, I believe you have half forgotten about me, and yetyou made a great fuss when I quitted you. "

I smiled, frowned, blushed. It was indeed true. Now that he was with meI loved him as well, indeed better than ever; but I had not beenthinking very much about him. 

We went over the moorlands in the keen air, Amroth striding cleanly andlightly over the heather. Then we began to descend into the valley, through a fine forest country, somewhat like the chestnut-woods of theApennines. The view was of incomparable beauty and width. I could see agreat city far out in the plain, with a river entering it and leavingit, like a ribbon of silver. There were rolling ridges beyond. On theleft rose huge, shadowy, snow-clad hills, rising to one tremendous domeof snow. 

"Where are you going to take me?" I said to Amroth. 

"Never mind, " said he; "it's my day and my plan for once. You shall seewhat you shall see, and it will amuse me to hear your ingenuousconjectures. "

We were soon on the outskirts of the city we had seen, which seemed adifferent kind of place from any I had yet visited. It was built, Iperceived, upon an exactly conceived plan, of a stately, classical kindof architecture, with great gateways and colonnades. There were peopleabout, rather silent and serious-looking, soberly clad, who saluted usas we passed, but made no attempt to talk to us. "This is rather atiresome place, I always think, " said Amroth; "but you ought to see it. "

We went along the great street and reached a square. I was surprised atthe elderly air of all we met. We found ourselves opposite a greatbuilding with a dome, like a church. People were going in under theportico, and we went in with them. They treated us as strangers, andmade courteous way for us to pass. 

Inside, the footfalls fell dumbly upon a great carpeted floor. It wasvery like a great church, except that there was no altar or sign ofworship. At the far end, under an alcove, was a statue of white marblegleaming white, with head and hand uplifted. The whole place had asolemn and noble air. Out of the central nave there opened a series ofgreat vaulted chapels; and I could now see that in each chapel therewas a dark figure, in a sort of pulpit, addressing a standing audience. There were names on scrolls over the doors of the light iron-workscreens which separated the chapels from the nave, but they were in alanguage I did not understand. 

Amroth stopped at the third of the chapels, and said, "Here, this willdo. " We came in, and as before there was a courteous notice taken of us. A man in black came forward, and led us to a high seat, like a pew, nearthe preacher, from which we could survey the crowd. I was struck withtheir look of weariness combined with intentness. 

The lecturer, a young man, had made a pause, but upon our taking ourplaces, he resumed his speech. It was a discourse, as far as I couldmake out, on the development of poetry; he was speaking of lyricalpoetry. I will not here reproduce it. I will only say that anything moreacute, delicate, and discriminating, and, I must add, more entirelyvalueless and pedantic, I do not think I ever heard. It must haverequired immense and complicated knowledge. He was tracing thedevelopment of a certain kind of dramatic lyric, and what surprised mewas that he supplied the subtle intellectual connection, the missinglinks, so to speak, of which there is no earthly record. Let me give asingle instance. He was accounting for a rather sudden change of thoughtin a well-known poet, and he showed that it had been brought about byhis making the acquaintance of a certain friend who had introduced himto a new range of subjects, and by his study of certain books. Thesefacts are unrecorded in his published biography, but the analysis of thelecturer, done in a few pointed sentences, not only carried convictionto the mind, but just, so to speak, laid the truth bare. And yet it wasall to me incredibly sterile and arid. Not the slightest interest wastaken in the emotional or psychological side; it was all purely andexactly scientific. We waited until the end of the address, which wasgreeted with decorous applause, and the hall was emptied in a moment. 

We visited other chapels where the same sort of thing was going on inother subjects. It all produced in me a sort of stupefaction, both atthe amazing knowledge involved, and in the essential futility of it all. 

Before we left the building we went up to the statue, which representeda female figure, looking upwards, with a pure and delicate beauty ofform and gesture that was inexpressibly and coldly lovely. 

We went out in silence, which seemed to be the rule of the place. 

When we came away from the building we were accosted by a very grave andcourteous person, who said that he perceived that we were strangers, andasked if he could be of any service to us, and whether we proposed tomake a stay of any duration. Amroth thanked him, and said smilingly thatwe were only passing through. The gentleman said that it was a pity, because there was much of interest to hear. "In this place, " he saidwith a deprecating gesture, "we grudge every hour that is not devoted tothought. " He went on to inquire if we were following any particular lineof study, and as our answers were unsatisfactory, he said that we couldnot do better than begin by attending the school of literature. "Iobserved, " he said, "that you were listening to our Professor, Sylvanus, with attention. He is devoting himself to the development of poeticalform. It is a rich subject. It has generally been believed that poetswork by a sort of native inspiration, and that the poetic gift is a sortof heightening of temperament. But Sylvanus has proved--I think I may goso far as to say this--that this is all pure fancy, and what is worse, unsound fancy. It is all merely a matter of heredity, and the apparentaccidents on which poetical expression depends can be analysed exactlyand precisely into the most commonplace and simple elements. It is onlya question of proportion. Now we who value clearness of mind aboveeverything, find this a very refreshing thought. The real crown and sumof human achievement, in the intellectual domain, is to see thingsclearly and exactly, and upon that clearness all progress depends. Wehave disposed by this time of most illusions; and the same scientificmethod is being strenuously applied to all other processes of humanendeavour. It is even hinted that Sylvanus has practically proved thatthe imaginative element in literature is purely a taint of barbarism, though he has not yet announced the fact. But many of his class arelooking forward to his final lecture on the subject as to a profoundlysensational event, which is likely to set a deep mark upon all ourconceptions of literary endeavour. So that, " he said with a tolerantsmile, gently rubbing his hands together, "our life here is not by anymeans destitute of the elements of excitement, though we most of us, ofcourse, aim at the acquisition of a serene and philosophic temper. ButI must not delay you, " he added; "there is much to see and to hear, andyou will be welcomed everywhere: and indeed I am myself somewhat closelyengaged, though in a subject which is not fraught with such politeemollience. I attend the school of metaphysics, from which we have atlast, I hope, eliminated the last traces of that debasing element ofpsychology, which has so long vitiated the exact study of the subject. "

He took himself off with a bow, and I gazed blankly at Amroth. "Theconversation of that very polite person, " I said, "is like a bad dream!What is this extraordinarily depressing place? Shall I have to undergo acourse here?"

"No, my dear boy, " said Amroth. "This is rather out of your depth. But Iam somewhat disappointed at your view of the situation. Surely these areall very important matters? Your disposition is, I am afraid, incurablyfrivolous! How could people be more worthily employed than in gettingrid of the last traces of intellectual error, and in referringeverything to its actual origin? Did not your heart burn within you athis luminous exposition? I had always thought you a boy of intellectualpromise. "

"Amroth, " I said, "I will not be made fun of. This is the most dreadfulplace I have ever seen or conceived of! It frightens me. The dryness ofpure science is terrifying enough, but after all that has a kind ofstrange beauty, because it deals either with transcendental ideas ofmathematical relation, or with the deducing of principle fromaccumulated facts. But here the object appears to be to eliminate thehuman element from humanity. I insist upon knowing where you havebrought me, and what is going on here. "

"Well, then, " said Amroth, "I will conceal it from you no longer. Thisis the paradise of thought, where meagre and spurious philosophers, andall who have submerged life in intellect, have their reward. It _is_, as you say, a very dreary place for children of nature like you and me. But I do not suppose that there is a happier or a busier place in allour dominions. The worst of it is that it is so terribly hard to get outof. It is a blind alley and leads nowhere. Every step has to beretraced. These people have to get a very severe dose of homely life todo them any good; and the worst of it is that they are so entirelyvirtuous. They have never had the time or the inclination to be anythingelse. And they are among the most troublesome and undisciplined of allour people. But I see you have had enough; and unless you wish to waitfor Professor Sylvanus's sensational pronouncement, we will goelsewhere, and have some other sort of fun. But you must not be so muchupset by these things. "

"It would kill me, " I said, "to hear any more of these lectures, and ifI had to listen to much of our polite friend's conversation, I should goout of my mind. I would rather fall into the hands of the cragmen! Iwould rather have a stand-up fight than be slowly stifled withinteresting information. But where do these unhappy people come from?"

"A few come from universities, " said Amroth, "but they are not as a rulereally learned men. They are more the sort of people who subscribe tolibraries, and belong to local literary societies, and go into a goodmany subjects on their own account. But really learned men are almostalways more aware of their ignorance than of their knowledge, andrecognise the vitality of life, even if they do not always exhibit it. But come, we are losing time, and we must go further afield. "

XXII

We went some considerable distance, after leaving our intellectualfriends, through very beautiful wooded country, and as we went we talkedwith much animation about the intellectual life and its dangers. It hadalways, I confess, appeared to me a harmless life enough; not veryeffective, perhaps, and possibly liable to encourage a man in a trivialsort of self-conceit; but I had always looked upon that as aninstinctive kind of self-respect, which kept an intellectual person fromdwelling too sorely upon the sense of ineffectiveness; as an addictionnot more serious in its effects upon character than the practice ofplaying golf, a thing in which a leisurely person might immerse himself, and cultivate a decent sense of self-importance. But Amroth showed methat the danger of it lay in the tendency to consider the intellect tobe the basis of all life and progress. "The intellectual man, " he said, "is inclined to confuse his own acute perception of the movement ofthought with the originating impulse of that movement. But of coursethought is a thing which ebbs and flows, like public opinion, accordingto its own laws, and is not originated but only perceived by men ofintellectual ability. The danger of it is a particularly arid sort ofself-conceit. It is as if the Lady of Shalott were to suppose that shecreated life by observing and rendering it in her magic web, whereas herdevotion to her task simply isolates her from the contact with otherminds and hearts, which is the one thing worth having. That is, ofcourse, the danger of the artist as well as of the philosopher. Theyboth stand aside from the throng, and are so much absorbed in the aspectof thought and emotion that they do not realise that they are separatedfrom it. They are consequently spared, when they come here, thepunishment which falls upon those who have mixed greedily, selfishly, and cruelly with life, of which you will have a sight before long. Butthat place of punishment is not nearly so sad or depressing a place asthe paradise of delight, and the paradise of intellect, because thesufferers have no desire to stay there, can repent and feel ashamed, andtherefore can suffer, which is always hopeful. But the artistic andintellectual have really starved their capacity for suffering, the oneby treating all emotion as spectacular, and the other by treating it asa puerile interruption to serious things. It takes people a long time towork their way out of self-satisfaction! But there is another curiousplace I wish you to visit. It is a dreadful place in a way, but by nomeans consciously unhappy, " and Amroth pointed to a great building whichstood on a slope of the hill above the forest, with a wide and beautifulview from it. Before very long we came to a high stone wall with a gatecarefully guarded. Here Amroth said a few words to a porter, and we wentup through a beautiful terraced park. In the park we saw little knots ofpeople walking aimlessly about, and a few more solitary figures. But ineach case they were accompanied by people whom I saw to be warders. Wepassed indeed close to an elderly man, rather fantastically dressed, wholooked possessed with a kind of flighty cheerfulness. He was talking tohimself with odd, emphatic gestures, as if he were ticking off thepoints of a speech. He came up to us and made us an effusive greeting, praising the situation and convenience of the place, and wishing us apleasant sojourn. He then was silent for a moment, and added, "Now thereis a matter of some importance on which I should like your opinion. " Atthis the warder who was with him, a strong, stolid-looking man, with anexpression at once slightly contemptuous and obviously kind, held up hishand and said, "You will, no doubt, sir, remember that you haveundertaken--" "Not a word, not a word, " said our friend; "of course youare right! I have really nothing to say to these gentlemen. "

We went up to the building, which now became visible, with its long andstately front of stone. Here again we were admitted with someprecaution, and after a few minutes there came a tall andbenevolent-looking man, to whom Amroth spoke at some length. The manthen came up to me, said that he was very glad to welcome me, and thathe would be delighted to show us the place. 

We went through fine and airy corridors, into which many doors, as ofcells, opened. Occasionally a man or a woman, attended by a male or afemale warder, passed us. The inmates had all the same kind of air--asort of amused dignity, which was very marked. Presently our companionopened a door with his key and we went in. It was a small, pleasantly-furnished room. Some books, apparently of devotion, lay onthe table. There was a little kneeling-desk near the window, and theroom had a half-monastic air about it. When we entered, an elderly man, with a very serene face, was looking earnestly into the door of acupboard in the wall, which he was holding open; there was, so far as Icould see, nothing in the cupboard; but the inmate seemed to bestruggling with an access of rather overpowering mirth. He bowed to us. Our conductor greeted him respectfully, and then said, "There is astranger here who would like a little conversation with you, if you canspare the time. "

"By all means, " said the inmate, with a very ingratiating smile. "It isvery kind of him to call upon me, and my time is entirely at hisdisposal. "

Our conductor said to me that he and Amroth had some brief business totransact, and that they would call for me again in a moment. The inmatebowed, and seemed almost impatient for them to depart. He motioned me toa chair, and the moment they left us he began to talk with greatanimation. He asked me if I was a new inmate, and when I said no, only avisitor, he looked at me compassionately, saying that he hoped I mightsome day attain to the privilege. "This, " he said, "is the abode offinal and lasting peace. No one is admitted here unless his convictionsare of the firmest and most ardent character; it is a reward forfaithful service. But as our time is short, I must tell you, " he said, "of a very curious experience I have had this very morning--a spiritualexperience of the most reassuring character. You must know that I held ahigh official position in the religious world--I will mention nodetails--and I found at an early age, I am glad to say, the imperativenecessity of forming absolutely impregnable convictions. I went to workin the most business-like way. I devoted some years to hard reading andsolid thought, and I found that the sect to which I belonged was lackingin certain definite notes of divine truth, while the weight of evidencepointed in the clearest possible manner to the fact that one particularsection of the Church had preserved absolutely intact the primitivefaith of the Saints, and was without any shadow of doubt the perfectlylogical development of the principles of the Gospel. Mine is not anature that can admit of compromise; and at considerable sacrifice ofworldly prospects I transferred my allegiance, and was instantlyrewarded by a perfect serenity of conviction which has never faltered. 

"I had a friend with whom I had often discussed the matter, who was muchof my way of thinking. But though I showed him the illogical nature ofhis position, he hung back--whether from material motives or from mereemotional associations I will not now stop to inquire. But I could notpalter with the truth. I expostulated with him, and pointed out to himin the sternest terms the eternal distinctions involved. I broke off allrelations with him ultimately. And after a life spent in the mostsolemn and candid denunciation of the fluidity of religious belief, which is the curse of our age, though it involved me in many of theheart-rending suspensions of human intercourse with my nearest anddearest so plainly indicated in the Gospel, I passed at length, incomplete tranquillity, to my final rest. The first duty of the sincerebeliever is inflexible intolerance. If a man will not recognise thetruth when it is plainly presented to him, he must accept the eternalconsequences of his act--separation from God, and absorption in guiltyand awestruck regret, which admits of no repentance. 

"One of the privileges of our sojourn here is that we have a strange andbeautiful device--a window, I will call it--which admits one to a sightof the spiritual world. I was to-day contemplating, not without pain, but with absolute confidence in its justice, the sufferings of some ofthese lost souls, and I observed, I cannot say with satisfaction, butwith complete submission, the form of my friend, whom my testimony mighthave saved, in eternal misery. I have the tenderest heart of any manalive. It has cost me a sore struggle to subdue it--it is more unrulyeven than the will--but you may imagine that it is a matter of deep andcomforting assurance to reflect that on earth the door, the one door, tosalvation is clearly and plainly indicated--though few there be thatfind it--and that this signal mercy has been vouchsafed to me. I havethen the peace of knowing, not only that my choice was right, but thatall those to whom the truth is revealed have the power to choose it. Iam a firm believer in the uncovenanted mercies vouchsafed to those whohave not had the advantages of clear presentment, but for thedeliberately unfaithful, for all sinners against light, the sentence isinflexible. "

He closed his eyes, and a smile played over his features. 

I found it very difficult to say anything in answer to this monologue;but I asked my companion whether he did not think that some clearerrevelation might be made, after the bodily death, to those who for somehuman frailty were unable to receive it. 

"An intelligent question, " said my companion, "but I am obliged toanswer in the negative. Of course the case is different for those whohave accepted the truth loyally, even if their record is stained by thefoulest and most detestable of crimes. It is the moral and intellectualadhesion that matters; that once secured, conduct is comparativelyunimportant, if the soul duly recurs to the medicine of penitence andcontrition so mercifully provided. I have the utmost indulgence forevery form of human frailty. I may say that I never shrank from contactwith the grossest and vilest forms of continuous wrong-doing, so long asI was assured that the true doctrines were unhesitatingly andsubmissively accepted. A soul which admits the supremacy of authoritycan go astray like a sheep that is lost, but as long as it recognisesits fold and the authority of the divine law, it can be sought andfound. 

"The little window of which I spoke has given me indubitable testimonyof this. There was a man I knew in the flesh, who was regarded as amonster of cruelty and selfishness. He ill-treated his wife and misusedhis children; his life was spent in gross debauchery, and his conduct onseveral occasions outstepped the sanctions of legality. He was a forgerand an embezzler. I do not attempt to palliate his faults, and therewill be a heavy reckoning to pay. But he made his submission at thelast, after a long and prostrating illness; and I have oculardemonstration of the fact that, after a mercifully brief period ofsuffering, he is numbered among the blest. That is a sustainingthought. "

He then with much courtesy invited me to partake of some refreshment, which I gratefully declined. Once or twice he rose, and opening thelittle cupboard door, which revealed nothing but a white wall, he drankin encouragement from some hidden sight. He then invited me to kneelwith him, and prayed fervently and with some emotion that light might bevouchsafed to souls on earth who were in darkness. Just as he concluded, Amroth appeared with our conductor. The latter made a courteous inquiryafter my host's health and comfort. "I am perfectly happy here, " hesaid, "perfectly happy. The attentions I receive are indeed more than Ideserve; and I am specially grateful to my kind visitor, whoseindulgence I must beg for my somewhat prolonged statement--but when onehas a cause much at heart, " he added with a smile, "some prolixity iseasily excused. "

As we re-entered the corridor, our conductor asked me if I would care topay any more visits. "The case you have seen, " he said, "is an extremelytypical and interesting one. "

"Have you any hope, " said Amroth, "of recovery?"

"Of course, of course, " said our conductor with a smile. "Nothing ishopeless here; our cures are complete and even rapid; but this is aparticularly obstinate one!"

"Well, " said Amroth, "would you like to see more?"

"No, " I said, "I have seen enough. I cannot now bear any more. "

Our conductor smiled indulgently. 

"Yes, " he said, "it is bewildering at first; but one sees wonderfulthings here! This is our library, " he added, leading us to a great airyroom, full of books and reading-desks, where a large number of inmateswere sitting reading and writing. They glanced up at us with friendlyand contented smiles. A little further on we came to another cell, before which our conductor stopped, and looked at me. "I should like, "he said, "if you are not too tired, just to take you in here; there isa patient, who is very near recovery indeed, in here, and it would dohim good to have a little talk with a stranger. "

I bowed, and we went in. A man was sitting in a chair with his head inhis hands. An attendant was sitting near the window reading a book. Thepatient, at our entry, removed his hands from his face and looked up, half impatiently, with an air of great suffering, and then slowly rose. 

"How are you feeling, dear sir?" said our conductor quietly. 

"Oh, " said the man, looking at us, "I am better, much better. The lightis breaking in, but it is a sore business, when I was so strong in mypride. "

"Ah, " said our guide, "it is indeed a slow process; but happiness andhealth must be purchased; and every day I see clearly that you aredrawing nearer to the end of your troubles--you will soon be leaving us!But now I want you kindly to bestir yourself, and talk a little to thisfriend of ours, who has not been long with us, and finds the placesomewhat, bewildering. You will be able to tell him something of what ispassing in your mind; it will do you good to put it into words, and itwill be a help to him. "

"Very well, " said the man gravely, "I will do my best. " And the otherswithdrew, leaving me with the man. When they had gone, the man asked meto be seated, and leaning his head upon his hand he said, "I do not knowhow much you know and how little, so I will tell you that I left theworld very confident in a particular form of faith, and very muchdisposed to despise and even to dislike those who did not agree with me. I had lived, I may say, uprightly and purely, and I will confess that Ieven welcomed all signs of laxity and sinfulness in my opponents, because it proved what I believed, that wrong conduct sprang naturallyfrom wrong belief. I came here in great content, and thought that thisplace was the reward of faithful living. But I had a great shock. I wasvery tenderly attached to one whom I left on earth, and the severestgrief of my life was that she did not think as I did, but used to pleadwith me for a wider outlook and a larger faith in the designs of God. She used to say to me that she felt that God had different ways ofsaving different people, and that people were saved by love and not bydoctrine. And this I combated with all my might. I used to say, 'Doctrine first, and love afterwards, ' to which she often said, 'No, love is first!'

"Well, some time ago I had a sight of her; she had died, and enteredthis world of ours. She was in a very different place from this, but shethought of me without ceasing, and her desire prevailed. I saw her, though I was hidden from her, and looked into her heart, and discernedthat the one thing which spoiled her joy was that I was parted from her. 

"And after that I had no more delight in my security. I began to sufferand to yearn. And then, little by little, I began to see that it islove after all which binds us together, and which draws us to God; butmy difficulty is this, that I still believe that my faith is true; andif that is true, then other faiths cannot be true also, and then I fallinto sad bewilderment and despair. " He stopped and looked at me fixedly. 

"But, " I said, "if I may carry the thought further, might not all betrue? Two men may be very unlike each other in form and face andthought--yet both are very man. It would be foolish arguing, if a manwere to say, 'I am indeed a man, and because my friend is unlikeme--taller, lighter-complexioned, swifter of thought--therefore hecannot be a man. ' Or, again, two men may travel by the same road, andsee many different things, yet it is the same road they have bothtravelled; and one need not say to the other, 'You cannot have travelledby the same road, because you did not see the violets on the bank underthe wood, or the spire that peeped through the trees at the folding ofthe valleys--and therefore you are a liar and a deceiver!' If onebelieves firmly in one's own faith, one need not therefore say that allwho do not hold it are perverse and wilful. There is no excuse, indeed, for not holding to what we believe to be true, but there is no excuseeither for interfering with the sincere belief of another, unless onecan persuade him he is wrong. Is not the mistake to think that one holdsthe truth in its entirety, and that one has no more to learn and toperceive? I myself should welcome differences of faith, because it showsme that faith is a larger thing even than I know. What another sees maybe but a thought that is hidden from me, because the truth may be seenfrom a different angle. To complain that we cannot see it all is asfoolish as when the child is vexed because it cannot see the back of themoon. And it seems to me that our duty is not to quarrel with others whosee things that we do not see, but to rejoice with them, if they willallow us, and meanwhile to discern what is shown to us as faithfully aswe can. "

The man heard me with a strange smile. "Yes, " he said, "you arecertainly right, and I bless the goodness that sent you hither; but whenyou are gone, I doubt that I shall fall back into my old perplexities, and say to myself that though men may see different parts of the samething, they cannot see the same thing differently. "

"I think, " I said, "that even that is possible, because on earth thingsare often mere symbols, and clothe themselves in material forms; and itis the form which deludes us. I do not myself doubt that grace flowsinto us by very different channels. We may not deny the claim of any oneto derive grace from any source or symbol that he can. The only thing wemay and must dare to dispute is the claim that only by one channel maygrace flow. But I think that the words of the one whom you loved, ofwhom you spoke, are indeed true, and that the love of each other and ofGod is the force which draws us, by whatever rite or symbol or doctrineit may be interpreted. That, as I read it, is the message of Christ, whogave up all things for utter love. "

As I said this, our guide and Amroth entered the cell. The man rose upquickly, and drawing me apart, thanked me very heartily and with tearsin his eyes; and so we said farewell. When we were outside, I said tothe guide, "May I ask you one question? Would it be of use if I remainedhere for a time to talk with that poor man? It seemed a relief to him toopen his heart, and I would gladly be with him and try to comfort him. "

The guide shook his head kindly. "No, " he said, "I think not. Irecognise your kindness very fully--but a soul like this must find theway alone; and there is one who is helping him faster than any of us canavail to do; and besides, " he added, "he is very near indeed to hisrelease. "

So we went to the door, and said farewell; and Amroth and I wentforward. Then I said to him as we went down through the terraced garden, and saw the inmates wandering about, lost in dreams, "This must be a sadplace to live in, Amroth!"

"No, indeed, " said he, "I do not think that there are any happier thanthose who have the charge here. When the patients are in the grip ofthis disease, they are themselves only too well content; and it is ablessed thing to see the approach of doubt and suffering, which meansthat health draws near. There is no place in all our realm where onesees so clearly and beautifully the instant and perfect mercy of God, and the joy of pain. " And so we passed together out of the guarded gate. 

XXIII

"Well, " said Amroth, with a smile, as we went out into the forest, "I amafraid that the last two visits have been rather a strain. We must findsomething a little less serious; but I am going to fill up all yourtime. You had got too much taken up with your psychology, and we mustnot live too much on theory, and spin problems, like the spider, out ofour own insides; but we will not spend too much time in trudging overthis country, though it is well worth it. Did you ever see anything morebeautiful than those pine-trees on the slope there, with the bluedistance between their stems? But we must not make a business oflandscape-gazing like our friend Charmides! We are men of affairs, youand I. Come, I will show you a thing. Shut your eyes for a minute andgive me your hand. Now!"

A sudden breeze fanned my face, sweet and odorous, like the wind out ofa wood. "Now, " said Amroth, "we have arrived! Where do you think weare?"

The scene had changed in an instant. We were in a wide, level country, in green water-meadows, with a full stream brimming its grassy banks, inwillowy loops. Not far away, on a gently rising ground, lay a long, straggling village, of gabled houses, among high trees. It was like thesort of village that you may find in the pleasant Wiltshire countryside, and the sight filled me with a rush of old and joyful memories. 

"It is such a relief, " I said, "to realise that if man is made in theimage of God, heaven is made in the image of England!"

"That is only how you see it, child, " said Amroth. "Some of my ownhappiest days were spent at Tooting: would you be surprised if I saidthat it reminded me of Tooting?"

"I am surprised at nothing, " I said. "I only know that it is all veryconsiderate!"

We entered the village, and found a large number of people, mostlyyoung, going cheerfully about all sorts of simple work. Many of themwere gardening, and the gardens were full of old-fashioned flowers, blooming in wonderful profusion. There was an air of settled peace aboutthe place, the peace that on earth one often dreamed of finding, andindeed thought one had found on visiting some secluded place--only todiscover, alas! on a nearer acquaintance, that life was as full ofanxieties and cares there as elsewhere. There were one or two elderlypeople going about, giving directions or advice, or lending a helpinghand. The workers nodded blithely to us, but did not suspend their work. 

"What surprises me, " I said to Amroth, "is to find every one so muchoccupied wherever we go. One heard so much on earth about craving forrest, that one grew to fancy that the other life was all going to be asort of solemn meditation, with an occasional hymn. "

"Yes, indeed, " said Amroth, "it was the body that was tired--the soul isalways fresh and strong--but rest is not idleness. There is no suchthing as unemployment here, and there is hardly time, indeed, for all wehave to do. Every one really loves work. The child plays at working, theman of leisure works at his play. The difference here is that work isalways amusing--there is no such thing as drudgery here. "

We walked all through the village, which stretched far away into thecountry. The whole place hummed like a beehive on a July morning. Manysang to themselves as they went about their business, and sometimes acouple of girls, meeting in the roadway, would entwine their arms anddance a few steps together, with a kiss at parting. There was a sense ofhigh spirits everywhere. At one place we found a group of childrensitting in the shade of some trees, while a woman of middle age toldthem a story. We stood awhile to listen, the woman giving us a pleasantnod as we approached. It was a story of some pleasant adventure, withnothing moral or sentimental about it, like an old folk-tale. Thechildren were listening with unconcealed delight. 

When we had walked a little further, Amroth said to me, "Come, I willgive you three guesses. Who do you think, by the light of yourpsychology, are all these simple people?" I guessed in vain. "Well, Isee I must tell you, " he said. "Would it surprise you to learn that mostof these people whom you see here passed upon earth for wicked andunsatisfactory characters? Yet it is true. Don't you know the kind ofboys there were at school, who drifted into bad company and idle ways, mostly out of mere good-nature, went out into the world with a blackmark against them, having been bullied in vain by virtuous masters, thedespair of their parents, always losing their employments, and oftencoming what we used to call social croppers--untrustworthy, sensual, feckless, no one's enemy but their own, and yet preserving through itall a kind of simple good-nature, always ready to share things withothers, never knowing how to take advantage of any one, trusting themost untrustworthy people; or if they were girls, getting into trouble, losing their good name, perhaps living lives of shame in bigcities--yet, for all that, guileless, affectionate, never excusingthemselves, believing they had deserved anything that befell them? Thesewere the sort of people to whom Christ was so closely drawn. They haveno respectability, no conventions; they act upon instinct, never byreason, often foolishly, but seldom unkindly or selfishly. They give allthey have, they never take. They have the faults of children, and thetrustful affection of children. They will do anything for any one who iskind to them and fond of them. Of course they are what is calledhopeless, and they use their poor bodies very ill. In their last stageson earth they are often very deplorable objects, slinking intopublic-houses, plodding raggedly and dismally along highroads, sufferingcruelly and complaining little, conscious that they are universallyreprobated, and not exactly knowing why. They are the victims ofsociety; they do its dirty work, and are cast away as offscourings. Theyare really youthful and often beautiful spirits, very void of offence, and needing to be treated as children. They live here in greathappiness, and are conscious vaguely of the good and great intention ofGod towards them. They suffer in the world at the hands of cruel, selfish, and stupid people, because they are both humble anddisinterested. But in all our realms I do not think there is a place ofsimpler and sweeter happiness than this, because they do not take theirforgiveness as a right, but as a gracious and unexpected boon. Andindeed the sights and sounds of this place are the best medicine forcrabbed, worldly, conventional souls, who are often brought here whenthey are drawing near the truth. "

"Yes, " I said, "this is just what I wanted. Interesting as my work haslately been, it has wanted simplicity. I have grown to consider life toomuch as a series of cases, and to forget that it is life itself that onemust seek, and not pathology. This is the best sight I have seen, for itis so far removed from all sense of judgment. The song of the saints maybe sometimes of mercy too. "

XXIV

"And now, " said Amroth, "that we have been refreshed by the sight ofthis guileless place, and as our time is running short, I am going toshow you something very serious indeed. In fact, before I show it you Imust remind you carefully of one thing which I shall beg you to keep inmind. There is nothing either cruel or hopeless here; all is implacablyjust and entirely merciful. Whatever a soul needs, that it receives; andit receives nothing that is vindictive or harsh. The ideas of punishmenton earth are hopelessly confused; we do not know whether we arerevenging ourselves for wrongs done to us, or safeguarding society, ordeterring would-be offenders, or trying to amend and uplift thecriminal. We end, as a rule, by making every one concerned, whetherpunisher or punished, worse. We encourage each other in vindictivenessand hypocrisy, we cow and brutalise the transgressor. We rescue no one, we amend nothing. And yet we cannot read the clear signs of all this. The milder our methods of punishment become, the less crime is there topunish. But instead of being at once kind and severe, which is perfectlypossible, we are both cruel and sentimental. Now, there is no such thingas sentiment here, just as there is no cruelty. There is emotion in fullmeasure, and severity in full measure; no one is either pettishlyfrightened or mildly forgiven; and the joy that awaits us is all themore worth having, because it cannot be rashly enjoyed or reached by anyshort cuts; but do not forget, in what you now see, that the end isjoy. "

He spoke so solemnly that I was conscious of overmastering curiosity, not unmixed with awe. Again the way was abbreviated. Amroth took me bythe hand and bade me close my eyes. The breeze beat upon my face for amoment. When I opened my eyes, we were on a bare hillside, full ofstones, in a kind of grey and chilly haze which filled the air. Justahead of us were some rough enclosures of stone, overlooked by a sort oftower. They were like the big sheepfolds which I have seen on northernwolds, into which the sheep of a whole hillside can be driven forshelter. We went round the wall, which was high and strong, and came tothe entrance of the tower, the door of which stood open. There seemed tobe no one about, no sign of life; the only sound a curious wailing note, which came at intervals from one of the enclosures, like the crying of aprisoned beast. We went up into the tower; the staircase ended in a bareroom, with four apertures, one in each wall, each leading into a kind ofbalcony. Amroth led the way into one of the balconies, and pointeddownwards. We were looking down into one of the enclosures which layjust at our feet, not very far below. The place was perfectly bare, androughly flagged with stones. In the corner was a rough thatched shelter, in which was some straw. But what at once riveted my attention was thefigure of a man, who half lay, half crouched upon the stones, his headin his hands, in an attitude of utter abandonment. He was dressed in arough, weather-worn sort of cloak, and his whole appearance suggestedthe basest neglect; his hands were muscular and knotted; his ragged greyhair streamed over the collar of his cloak. While we looked at him, hedrew himself up into a sitting posture, and turned his face blankly uponthe sky. It was, or had been, a noble face enough, deeply lined, andwith a look of command upon it; but anything like the hopeless and uttermisery of the drawn cheeks and staring eyes I had never conceived. Iinvoluntarily drew back, feeling that it was almost wrong to look atanything so fallen and so wretched. But Amroth detained me. 

"He is not aware of us, " he said, "and I desire you to look at him. "

Presently the man rose wearily to his feet, and began to pace up anddown round the walls, with the mechanical movements of a caged animal, avoiding the posts of the shelter without seeming to see them, and thencast himself down again upon the stones in a paroxysm of melancholy. Heseemed to have no desire to escape, no energy, except to suffer. Therewas no hope about it all, no suggestion of prayer, nothing but blank andunadulterated suffering. 

Amroth drew me back into the tower, and motioned me to the nextbalcony. Again I went out. The sight that I saw was almost more terriblethan the first, because the prisoner here, penned in a similarenclosure, was more restless, and seemed to suffer more acutely. Thiswas a younger man, who walked swiftly and vaguely about, casting glancesup at the wall which enclosed him. Sometimes he stopped, and seemed tobe pursuing some dreadful train of solitary thought; he gesticulated, and even broke out into mutterings and cries--the cries that I had heardfrom without. I could not bear to look at this sight, and coming back, besought Amroth to lead me away. Amroth, who was himself, I perceived, deeply moved, and stood with lips compressed, nodded in token of assent. We went quickly down the stairway, and took our way up the hill amongthe stones, in silence. The shapes of similar enclosures were to be seeneverywhere, and the indescribable blankness and grimness of the scenestruck a chill to my heart. 

From the top of the ridge we could see the same bare valleys stretchingin all directions, as far as the eye could see. The only other buildingin sight was a great circular tower of stone, far down in the valley, from which beat the pulse of some heavy machinery, which gave the sense, I do not know how, of a ghastly and watchful life at the centre of all. 

"That is the Tower of Pain, " said Amroth, "and I will spare you theinner sight of that. Only our very bravest and strongest can enter thereand preserve any hope. But it is well for you to know it is there, andthat souls have to enter it. It is thence that all the pain of countlessworlds emanates and vibrates, and the governor of the place is the mosttried and bravest of all the servants of God. Thither we must go, foryou shall have sight of him, though you shall not enter. "

We went down the hill with all the speed we might, and, I will confessit, with the darkest dismay I have ever experienced tugging at my heart. We were soon at the foot of the enormous structure. Amroth knocked atthe gate, a low door, adorned with some vague and ghastly sculptures, things like worms and huddled forms drearily intertwined. The dooropened, and revealed a fiery and smouldering light within. High up inthe tower a great wheel whizzed and shivered, and moving shadowscrossed and recrossed the firelit walls. 

But the figure that came out to us--how shall I describe him? It was themost beautiful and gracious sight of all that I saw in my pilgrimage. Hewas a man of tall stature, with snow-white, silvery hair and beard, dressed in a dark cloak with a gleaming clasp of gold. But for all hisage he had a look of immortal youth. His clear and piercing eye had aglance of infinite tenderness, such as I had never conceived. There weremany lines upon his brow and round his eyes, but his complexion was asfresh as that of a child, and he stepped as briskly as a youth. We bowedlow to him, and he reached out his hands, taking Amroth's hand and minein each of his. His touch had a curious thrill, the hand that held minebeing firm and smooth and wonderfully warm. 

"Well, my children, " he said in a clear, youthful voice, "I am glad tosee you, because there are few who come hither willingly; and the oldand weary are cheered by the sight of those that are young and strong. Amroth I know. But who are you, my child? You have not been among uslong. Have you found your work and place here yet?" I told him my storyin a few words, and he smiled indulgently. "There is nothing like beingat work, " he said. "Even my business here, which seems sad enough tomost people, must be done; and I do it very willingly. Do not befrightened, my child, " he said to me suddenly, drawing me nearer to him, and folding my arm beneath his own. "It is only on earth that we arefrightened of pain; it spoils our poor plans, it makes us fretful andmiserable, it brings us into the shadow of death. But for all that, asAmroth knows, it is the best and most fruitful of all the works that theFather does for man, and the thing dearest to His heart. We cannotprosper till we suffer, and suffering leads us very swiftly into joy andpeace. Indeed this Tower of Pain, as it is called, is in fact nothingbut the Tower of Love. Not until love is touched with pain does itbecome beautiful, and the joy that comes through pain is the only realthing in the world. Of course, when my great engine here sends a thrillinto a careless life, it comes as a dark surprise; but then followcourage and patience and wonder, and all the dear tendance of Love. Ihave borne it all myself a hundred times, and I shall bear it again ifthe Father wills it. But when you leave me here, do not think of me asof one who works, grim and indifferent, wrecking lives and destroyinghomes. It is but the burning of the weeds of life; and it is as needfulas the sunshine and the rain. Pain does not wander aimlessly, smitingdown by mischance and by accident; it comes as the close and dearintention of the Father's heart, and is to a man as a trumpet-call fromthe land of life, not as a knell from the land of death. And now, dearchildren, you must leave me, for I have much to do. And I will giveyou, " he added, turning to me, "a gift which shall be your comfort, anda token that you have been here, and seen the worst and the best thatthere is to see. "

He drew from under his cloak a ring, a circlet of gold holding a redstone with a flaming heart, and put it on my finger. There piercedthrough me a pang intenser than any I had ever experienced, in which allthe love and sorrow I had ever known seemed to be suddenly mingled, andwhich left behind it a perfect and intense sense of joy. 

"There, that is my gift, " he said, "and you shall have an old man'sloving blessing too, for it is that, after all, that I live for. " Hedrew me to him and kissed me on the brow, and in a moment he was gone. 

We walked away in silence, and for my part with an elation of spiritwhich I could hardly control, a desire to love and suffer, and do and beall that the mind of man could conceive. But my heart was too full tospeak. 

"Come, " said Amroth presently, "you are not as grateful as I hadhoped--you are outgrowing me! Come down to my poor level for an instant, and beware of spiritual pride!" Then altering his tone he said, "Ah, yes, dear friend, I understand. There is nothing in the world like it, and you were most graciously and tenderly received--but the end is notyet. "

"Amroth, " I said, "I am like one intoxicated with joy. I feel that Icould endure anything and never make question of anything again. Howinfinitely good he was to me--like a dear father!"

"Yes, " said Amroth, "he is very like the Father "--and he smiled at me amysterious smile. 

"Amroth, " I said, bewildered, "you cannot mean--?"

"No, I mean nothing, " said Amroth, "but you have to-day looked very farinto the truth, farther than is given to many so soon; but you are achild of fortune, and seem to please every one. I declare that a littlemore would make me jealous. "

Presently, catching sight of one of the enclosures hard by, I said toAmroth, "But there are some questions I must ask. What has justhappened had put it mostly out of my head. Those poor suffering soulsthat we saw just now--it is well, with them, I am sure, so near theMaster of the Tower--he does not forget them, I am sure--but who arethey, and what have they done to suffer so?"

"I will tell you, " said Amroth, "for it is a dark business. Those twothat you have seen--well, you will know one of them by name and fame, and of the other you may have heard. The first, that old shaggy-hairedman, who lay upon the stones, that was ----"

He mentioned a name that was notorious in Europe at the time of my lifeon earth, though he was then long dead; a ruthless and ambitiousconqueror, who poured a cataract of life away, in wars, for his ownaggrandisement. Then he mentioned another name, a statesman who pursueda policy of terrorism and oppression, enriched himself by barbarouscruelty exercised in colonial possessions, and was famous for thecalculated libertinism of his private life. 

"They were great sinners, " said Amroth, "and the sorrows they made andflung so carelessly about them, beat back upon them now in a surge ofpain. These men were strangely affected, each of them, by the smallestsight or sound of suffering--a tortured animal, a crying child; and yetthey were utterly ruthless of the pain that they did not see. It was alack, no doubt, of the imagination of which I spoke, and which makes allthe difference. And now they have to contemplate the pain which theycould not imagine; and they have to learn submission and humility. It isa terrible business in a way--the loneliness of it! There used to be anold saying that the strongest man was the man that was most alone. Butit was just because these men practised loneliness on earth that theyhave to suffer so. They used others as counters in a game, they hadneither friend nor beloved, except for their own pleasure. They dependedupon no one, needed no one, desired no one. But there are many othershere who did the same on a small scale--selfish fathers and mothers whomade homes miserable; boys who were bullies at school and tyrants in theworld, in offices, and places of authority. This is the place ofdiscipline for all base selfishness and vile authority, for all who haveoppressed and victimised mankind. "

"But, " I said, "here is my difficulty. I understand the case of theoppressors well enough; but about the oppressed, what is the justice ofthat? Is there not a fortuitous element there, an interruption of theDivine plan? Take the case of the thousands of lives wasted by somebrutal conqueror. Are souls sent into the world for that, to be drivenin gangs, made to fight, let us say, for some abominable cause, andthen recklessly dismissed from life?"

"Ah, " said Amroth, "you make too much of the dignity of life! You do notknow how small a thing a single life is, not as regards the life ofmankind, but in the life of one individual. Of course if a man had butone single life on earth, it would be an intolerable injustice; and thatis the factor which sets all straight, the factor which most of us, inour time of bodily self-importance, overlook. These oppressors have nopower over other lives except what God allows, and bewildered humanityconcedes. Not only is the great plan whole in the mind of God, but everysingle minutest life is considered as well. In the very case you spokeof, the little conscript, torn from his home to fight a tyrant'sbattles, hectored and ill-treated, and then shot down upon some crowdedbattle-field, that is precisely the discipline which at that point oftime his soul needs, and the blessedness of which he afterwardsperceives; sometimes discipline is swift and urgent, sometimes it isslow and lingering: but all experience is exactly apportioned to thequality of which each soul is in need. The only reason why there seemsto be an element of chance in it, is that the whole thing is soinconceivably vast and prolonged; and our happiness and our progressalike depend upon our realising at every moment that the smallest joyand the most trifling pleasure, as well as the tiniest ailment or themost subtle sorrow, are just the pieces of experience which we are meantat that moment to use and make our own. No one, not even God, can forceus to understand this; we have to perceive it for ourselves, and to livein the knowledge of it. "

"Yes, " I said, "it is true, all that. My heart tells me so; but it isvery wonderful and mysterious, all the same. But, Amroth, I have seenand heard enough. My spirit desires with all its might to be at its ownwork, hastening on the mighty end. Now, I can hold no more of wonders. Let me return. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "you are right! These wonders are so familiar to methat I forget, perhaps, the shock with which they come to minds unusedto them. Yet there are other things which you must assuredly see, whenthe time comes; but I must not let you bite off a larger piece than youcan swallow. "

He took me by the hand; the breeze passed through my hair; and in aninstant we were back at the fortress-gate, and I entered the belovedshelter, with a grateful sense that I was returning home. 

XXV

I returned, as I said, with a sense of serene pleasure and security tomy work; but that serenity did not last long. What I had seen withAmroth, on that day of wandering, filled me with a strange restlessness, and a yearning for I knew not what. I plunged into my studies withdetermination rather than ardour, and I set myself to study what is themost difficult problem of all--the exact limits of individualresponsibility. I had many conversations on the point with one of myteachers, a young man of very wide experience, who combined in anunusual way a close scientific knowledge of the subject with a peculiaremotional sympathy. He told me once that it was the best outfit for thescientific study of these problems, when the heart anticipated theslower judgment of the mind, and set the mind a goal, so to speak, towork up to; though he warned me that the danger was that the mind wasoften reluctant to abandon the more indulgent claims of the heart; andhe advised me to mistrust alike scientific conclusions and emotionalinferences. 

I had a very memorable conversation with him on the particular questionof responsibility, which I will here give. 

"The mistake, " I said to him, "of human moralists seems to me to be, that they treat all men as more or less equal in the matter of moralresponsibility. How often, " I added, "have I heard a school preachertell boys that they could not all be athletic or clever or popular, butthat high principle and moral courage were things within the reach ofall. Whereas the more that I studied human nature, the more did thepower of surveying and judging one's own moral progress, and the powerof enforcing and executing the dictates of the conscience, seem to mefaculties, like other faculties. Indeed, it appears to me, " I said, "that on the one hand there are people who have a power of moraldiscrimination, when dealing with the retrospect of their actions, butno power of obeying the claims of principle, when confronted with asituation involving moral strain; while on the other hand there seem tome to be some few men with a great and resolute power of will, capableof swift decision and firm action, but without any instinct for moralityat all. "

"Yes, " he said, "you are quite right. The moral sense is in reality ahigh artistic sense. It is a power of discerning and being attracted bythe beauty of moral action, just as the artist is attracted by form andcolour, and the musician by delicate combinations of harmonies and theexquisite balance of sound. You know, " he said, "what a suspension is inmusic--it is a chord which in itself is a discord, but which depends forits beauty on some impending resolution. It is just so with moralchoice. The imagination plays a great part in it. The man whosemorality is high and profound sees instinctively the approachingcontingency, and his act of self-denial or self-forgetfulness dependsfor its force upon the way in which it will ultimately combine withother issues involved, even though at the moment that act may seem to beunnecessary and even perverse. "

"But, " I said, "there are a good many people who attain to a sensible, well-balanced kind of temperance, after perhaps a few failures, from apurely prudential motive. What is the worth of that?"

"Very small indeed, " said my teacher. "In fact, the prudential morality, based on motives of health and reputation and success, is a thing thathas often to be deliberately unlearnt at a later stage. The strangecatastrophes which one sees so often in human life, where a man by oneact of rashness, or moral folly, upsets the tranquil tenor of hislife--a desperate love-affair, a passion of unreasonable anger, a pieceof quixotic generosity--are often a symptom of a great effort of thesoul to free itself from prudential considerations. A good thing donefor a low motive has often a singularly degrading and deforminginfluence on the soul. One has to remember how terribly the heavenlyvalues are obscured upon earth by the body, its needs and its desires;and current morality of a cautious and sensible kind is often worse thanworthless, because it produces a kind of self-satisfaction, which is thehardest thing to overcome. "

"But, " I said, "in the lives of some of the greatest moralists, one sooften sees, or at all events hears it said, that their morality isuseless because it is unpractical, too much out of the reach of theordinary man, too contemptuous of simple human faculties. What is one tomake of that?"

"It is a difficult matter, " he replied; "one does indeed, in the livesof great moralists, see sometimes that their work is vitiated byperverse and fantastic preferences, which they exalt out of allproportion to their real value. But for all that, it is better to be onthe side of the saints; for they are gifted with the sort of instinctiveappreciation of the beauty of high morality of which I spoke. Unselfishness, purity, peacefulness seem to them so beautiful anddesirable that they are constrained to practise them. While controversy, bitterness, cruelty, meanness, vice, seem so utterly ugly and repulsivethat they cannot for an instant entertain even so much as a thought ofthem. "

"But if a man sees that he is wanting in this kind of perception, " Isaid, "what can he do? How is he to learn to love what he does notadmire and to abhor what he does not hate? It all seems so fatalistic, so irresistible. "

"If he discerns his lack, " said my teacher with a smile, "he is probablynot so very far from the truth. The germ of the sense of moral beauty isthere, and it only wants patience and endeavour to make it grow. But itcannot be all done in any single life, of course; that is where thehuman faith fails, in its limitations of a man's possibilities to asingle life. "

"But what is the reason, " I said, "why the morality, the high austerityof some persons, who are indubitably high-minded and pure-hearted, is soutterly discouraging and even repellent?"

"Ah, " he said, "there you touch on a great truth. The reason of that isthat these have but a sterile sort of connoisseur-ship in virtue. Virtuecannot be attained in solitude, nor can it be made a matter of privateenjoyment. The point is, of course, that it is not enough for a man tobe himself; he must also give himself; and if a man is moral because ofthe delicate pleasure it brings him--and the artistic pleasure ofasceticism is a very high one--he is apt to find himself here in verystrange and distasteful company. In this, as in everything, the onlysafe motive is the motive of love. The man who takes pleasure in usinginfluence, or setting a lofty example, is just as arid a dilettante asthe musician who plays, or the artist who paints, for the sake of theapplause and the admiration he wins; he is only regarding others as somany instruments for registering his own level of complacency. Everyone, even the least complicated of mankind, must know the exquisitepleasure that comes from doing the simplest and humblest service to onewhom he loves; how such love converts the most menial office into aluxurious joy; and the higher that a man goes, the more does he discernin every single human being with whom he is brought into contact a soulwhom he can love and serve. Of course it is but an elementary pleasureto enjoy pleasing those whom we regard with some passion of affection, wife or child or friend, because, after all, one gains something oneselfby that. But the purest morality of all discerns the infinitely lovablequality which is in the depth of every human soul, and lavishes itstenderness and its grace upon it, with a compassion that grows andincreases, the more unthankful and clumsy and brutish is the soul whichit sets out to serve. "

"But, " I said, "beautiful as that thought is--and I see and recogniseits beauty--it does limit the individual responsibility very greatly. Surely a prudential morality, the morality which is just because itfears reprisal, and is kind because it anticipates kindness, is betterthan none at all? The morality of which you speak can only belong to thenoblest human creatures. "

"Only to the noblest, " he said; "and I must repeat what I said before, that the prudential morality is useless, because it begins at the wrongend, and is set upon self throughout. I must say deliberately that thesoul which loves unreasonably and unwisely, which even yields itself tothe passion of others for the pleasure it gives rather than for thepleasure it receives--the thriftless, lavish, good-natured, affectionate people, who are said to make such a mess of theirlives--are far higher in the scale of hope than the cautiouslyrespectable, the prudently kind, the selfishly pure. There must be nomistake about this. One must somehow or other give one's heart away, andit is better to do it in error and disaster than to treasure it foroneself. Of course there are many lives on earth--and an increasingnumber as the world develops--which are generous and noble andunselfish, without any sacrifice of purity or self-respect. But theessence of morality is giving, and not receiving, or even practising;the point is free choice, and not compulsion; and if one cannot give_because_ one loves, one must give _until_ one loves. "

XXVI

But all my speculations were cut short by a strange event which happenedabout this time. One day, without any warning, the thought of Cynthiadarted urgently and irresistibly into my mind. Her image came between meand all my tasks; I saw her in innumerable positions and guises, butalways with her eyes bent on me in a pitiful entreaty. Afterendeavouring to resist the thought for a little as some kind of fantasy, I became suddenly convinced that she was in need of me, and in urgentneed. I asked for an interview with our Master, and told him the story;he heard me gravely, and then said that I might go in search of her; butI was not sure that he was wholly pleased, and he bent his eyes upon mewith a very inquiring look. I hesitated whether or not to call Amroth tomy aid, but decided that I had better not do so at first. The questionwas how to find her; the great crags lay between me and the land ofdelight; and when I hurried out of the college, the thought of thedescent and its dangers fairly unmanned me. I knew, however, of no otherway. But what was my surprise when, on arriving at the top, not far fromthe point where Amroth had greeted me after the ascent, I saw a littlesteep path, which wound itself down into the gulleys and chimneys of theblack rocks. I took it without hesitation, and though again and again itseemed to come to an end in front of me, I found that it could be tracedand followed without serious difficulty. The descent was accomplishedwith a singular rapidity, and I marvelled to find myself at thecrag-base in so brief a time, considering the intolerable tedium of theascent. I rapidly crossed the intervening valley, and was very soon atthe gate of the careless land. To my intense joy, and not at all to mysurprise, I found Cynthia at the gate itself, waiting for me with alook of expectancy. She came forwards, and threw herself passionatelyinto my arms, murmuring words of delight and welcome, like a child. 

"I knew you would come, " she said. "I am frightened--all sorts ofdreadful things have happened. I have found out where I am--and I seemto have lost all my friends. Charmides is gone, and Lucius is cruel tome--he tells me that I have lost my spirits and my good looks, and amtiresome company. "

I looked at her--she was paler and frailer-looking than when I left her;and she was habited very differently, in simpler and graver dress. Butshe was to my eyes infinitely more beautiful and dearer, and I told herso. She smiled at that, but half tearfully; and we seated ourselves on abench hard by, looking over the garden, which was strangely andluxuriantly beautiful. 

"You must take me away with you at once, " she said. "I cannot live herewithout you. I thought at first, when you went, that it was rather arelief not to have your grave face at my shoulder, "--here she took myface in her hands--"always reminding me of something I did not want, andought to have wanted--but oh, how I began to miss you! and then I got sotired of this silly, lazy place, and all the music and jokes andcompliments. But I am a worthless creature, and not good for anything. Icannot work, and I hate being idle. Take me anywhere, _make_ me dosomething, beat me if you like, only force me to be different from whatI am. "

"Very well, " I said. "I will give you a good beating presently, ofcourse, but just let me consider what will hurt you most, silly child!"

"That is it, " she said. "I want to be hurt and bruised, and shaken as mynurse used to shake me, when I was a naughty child. Oh dear, oh dear, how wretched I am!" and poor Cynthia laid her head on my shoulder andburst into tears. 

"Come, come, " I said, "you must not do that--I want my wits about me;but if you cry, you will simply make a fool of me--and this is no timefor love-making. "

"Then you do really _care_", said Cynthia in a quieter tone. "That isall I want to know! I want to be with you, and see you every hour andevery minute. I can't help saying it, though it is really veryundignified for me to be making love to you. I did many silly things onearth, but never anything quite so feeble as that!"

I felt myself fairly bewildered by the situation. My psychology did notseem to help me; and here at least was something to love and rescue. Iwill say frankly that, in my stupidity and superiority, I did not reallythink of loving Cynthia in the way in which she needed to be loved. Shewas to me, with all my grave concerns and problems, as a charming andintelligent child, with whom I could not even speak of half the thoughtswhich absorbed me. So I just held her in my arms, and comforted her asbest I could; but what to do and where to bestow her I could not tell. I saw that her time to leave the place of desire had come, but what shecould turn to I could not conceive. 

Suddenly I looked up, and saw Lucius approaching, evidently in a veryangry mood. 

"So this is the end of all our amusement?" he said, as he came near. "You bring Cynthia here in your tiresome, condescending way, you liveamong us like an almighty prig, smiling gravely at our fun, and then yougo off when it is convenient to yourself; and then, when you want alittle recreation, you come and sit here in a corner and hug yourdarling, when you have never given her a thought of late. You _know_that is true, " he added menacingly. 

"Yes, " I said, "it is true! I went of my own will, and I have come backof my own will; and you have all been out of my thoughts, because I havehad much work to do. But what of that? Cynthia wants me and I have comeback to her, and I will do whatever she desires. It is no goodthreatening me, Lucius--there is nothing you can do or say that willhave the smallest effect on me. "

"We will see about that, " said Lucius. "None of your airs here! We arepeaceful enough when we are respectfully and fairly treated, but we haveour own laws, and no one shall break them with impunity. We will have nohalf-hearted fools here. If you come among us with your damnedmissionary airs, you shall have what I expect you call the crown ofmartyrdom. "

He whistled loud and shrill. Half-a-dozen men sprang from the bushes andflung themselves upon me. I struggled, but was overpowered, and draggedaway. The last sight I had was of Lucius standing with a disdainfulsmile, with Cynthia clinging to his arm; and to my horror and disgustshe was smiling too. 

XXVII

I had somehow never expected to be used with positive violence in theworld of spirits, and least of all in that lazy and good-natured place. Considering, too, the errand on which I had come, not for my ownconvenience but for the sake of another, my treatment seemed to me veryhard. What was still more humiliating was the fact that my spirit seemedjust as powerless in the hands of these ruffians as my body would havebeen on earth. I was pushed, hustled, insulted, hurt. I could havesummoned Amroth to my aid, but I felt too proud for that; yet thethought of the cragmen, and the possibility of the second death, didvisit my mind with dismal iteration. I did not at all desire a furtherdeath; I felt very much alive, and full of interest and energy. Worstof all was my sense that Cynthia had gone over to the enemy. I had beenso loftily kind with her, that I much resented having appeared in hersight as feeble and ridiculous. It is difficult to preserve any dignityof demeanour or thought, with a man's hand at one's neck and his knee inone's back: and I felt that Lucius had displayed a really Satanicalmalignity in using this particular means of degrading me in Cynthia'ssight, and of regaining his own lost influence. 

I was thrust and driven before my captors along an alley in the garden, and what added to my discomfiture was that a good many people rantogether to see us pass, and watched me with decided amusement. I wastaken finally to a little pavilion of stone, with heavily barredwindows, and a flagged marble floor. The room was absolutely bare, andcontained neither seat nor table. Into this I was thrust, with someobscene jesting, and the door was locked upon me. 

The time passed very heavily. At intervals I heard music burst outamong the alleys, and a good many people came to peep in upon mewith an amused curiosity. I was entirely bewildered by my position, and did not see what I could have done to have incurred my punishment. But in the solitary hours that followed I began to have a suspicionof my fault. I had found myself hitherto the object of so much attentionand praise, that I had developed a strong sense of complacency andself-satisfaction. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that there was evenmore behind, but I could not, by interrogating my mind and searching outmy spirits, make out clearly what it was; yet I felt I was having asharp lesson; and this made me resolve that I would ask for no kind ofassistance from Amroth or any other power, but that I would try to meetwhatever fell upon me with patience, and extract the full savour of myexperience. 

I do not know how long I spent in the dismal cell. I was in somediscomfort from the handling I had received, and in still greaterdejection of mind. Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching. Three of mycaptors appeared, and told me roughly to go with them. So, a pitiablefigure, I limped along between two of them, the third following behind, and was conducted through the central piazza of the place, between twolines of people who gave way to the most undisguised merriment, and evenshouted opprobrious remarks at me, calling me spy and traitor and otherunpleasant names. I could not have believed that these kind-mannered andcourteous persons could have exhibited, all of a sudden, such frankbrutality, and I saw many of my own acquaintance among them, whoregarded me with obvious derision. 

I was taken into a big hall, in which I had often sat to hear a concertof music. On the dais at the upper end were seated a number of dignifiedpersons, in a semicircle, with a very handsome and stately old man inthe centre on a chair of state, whose face was new to me. Before thisCourt I was formally arraigned; I had to stand alone in the middle ofthe floor, in an open space. Two of my captors stood on each side of me;while the rest of the court was densely packed with people, who greetedme with obvious hostility. 

When silence was procured, the President said to me, with a show ofgreat courtesy, that he could not disguise from himself that the chargeagainst me was a serious one; but that justice would be done to me, fully and carefully. I should have ample opportunity to excuse myself. He then called upon one of those who sat with him to state the casebriefly, and call witnesses and after that he promised I might speak formyself. 

A man rose from one of the seats, and, pleading somewhat rhetorically, said that the object of the great community, to which so many were proudto belong, was to secure to all the utmost amount of innocentenjoyment, and the most entire peace of mind; that no pressure was putupon any one who decided to stay there, and to observe the quiet customsof the place; but that it was always considered a heinous andill-disposed thing to attempt to unsettle any one's convictions, or toattempt, by using undue influence, to bring about the migration of anycitizen to conditions of which little was known, but which there wasreason to believe were distinctly undesirable. 

"We are, above all, " he said, "a religious community; our rites and ourceremonies are privileges open to all; we compel no one to attend them;all that we insist is that no one, by restless innovation or cynicalcontempt, should attempt to disturb the emotions of serenecontemplation, distinguished courtesy, and artistic feeling, for whichour society has been so long and justly celebrated. "

This was received with loud applause, indulgently checked by thePresident. Some witnesses were then called, who testified to theindifference and restlessness which I had on many occasions manifested. It was brought up against me that I had provoked a much-respected memberof the community, Charmides, to utter some very treasonous andunpleasant language, and that it was believed that the rash and unhappystep, which he had lately taken, of leaving the place, had been entirelyor mainly the result of my discontented and ill-advised suggestion. 

Then Lucius himself, wearing an air of extreme gravity and evendespondency, was called, and a murmur of sympathy ran through theaudience. Lucius, apparently struggling with deep emotion, said that hebore me no actual ill-will; that on my first arrival he had done hisbest to welcome me and make me feel at home; that it was probably knownto all that I had been accompanied by an accomplished and justly popularlady, whom I had openly treated with scanty civility and undisguisedcontempt. That he had himself, under the laws of the place, contracteda close alliance with my unhappy protégée, and that their union had beenduly accredited; but that I had lost no opportunity of attempting toundermine his happiness, and to maintain an unwholesome influence overher. That I had at last left the place myself, with a most uncivilabruptness; during the interval of absence my occupations were believedto have been of the most dubious character: it was more than suspected, indeed, that I had penetrated to places, the very name of which couldhardly be mentioned without shame and consternation. That my associateshad been persons of the vilest character and the most brutalantecedents; and at last, feeling in need of distraction, I had againreturned with the deliberate intention of seducing his unhappy partnerinto accompanying me to one or other of the abandoned places I hadvisited. He added that Cynthia had been so much overcome by her emotion, and her natural compassion for an old acquaintance, that he hadpersuaded her not to subject herself to the painful strain of anappearance in public; but that for this action he threw himself upon themercy of the Court, who would know that it was only dictated bychivalrous motives. 

At this there was subdued applause, and Lucius, after adding a fewbroken words to the effect that he lived only for the maintenance oforder, peace, and happiness, and that he was devoted heart and soul tothe best interests of the community, completely broke down, and wasassisted from his place by friends. 

The whole thing was so malignant and ingenious a travesty of what hadhappened, that I was entirely at a loss to know what to say. ThePresident, however, courteously intimated that though the case appearedto present a good many very unsatisfactory features, yet I was entirelyat liberty to justify myself if I could, and, if not, to makesubmission; and added that I should be dealt with as leniently aspossible. 

I summoned up my courage as well as I might. I began by saying that Iclaimed no more than the liberty of thought and action which I knew theCourt desired to concede. I said that my arrival at the place wasmysterious even to myself, and that I had simply acted under orders inaccompanying Cynthia, and in seeing that she was securely bestowed. Isaid that I had never incited any rebellion, or any disobedience to lawsof the scope of which I had never been informed. That I had indeedfrankly discussed matters of general interest with any citizen whoseemed to desire it; that I had been always treated with markedconsideration and courtesy; and that, as far as I was aware, I hadalways followed the same policy myself. I said that I was sincerelyattached to Cynthia, but added that, with all due respect, I could nolonger consider myself a member of the community. I had transferredmyself elsewhere under direct orders, with my own entire concurrence, and that I had since acted in accordance with the customs andregulations of the community to which I had been allotted. I went on tosay that I had returned under the impression that my presence wasdesired by Cynthia, and that I must protest with all my power againstthe treatment I had received. I had been arrested and imprisoned withmuch violence and contumely, without having had any opportunity ofhearing what my offence was supposed to have been, or having had anysemblance of a trial, and that I could not consider that my usage hadbeen consistent with the theory of courtesy, order, or justice soeloquently described by the President. 

This onslaught of mine produced an obvious revulsion in my favour. ThePresident conferred hastily with his colleagues, and then said that myarrest had indeed been made upon the information of Lucius, and with thecognisance of the Court; but that he sincerely regretted that I had anycomplaint of unhandsome usage to make, and that the matter would becertainly inquired into. He then added that he understood from my wordsthat I desired to make a complete submission, and that in that case Ishould be acquitted of any evil intentions. My fault appeared to be thatI had yielded too easily to the promptings of an ill-balanced andspeculative disposition, and that if I would undertake to disturb nolonger the peace of the place, and to desist from all further tamperingwith the domestic happiness of a much-respected pair, I should bedischarged with a caution, and indeed be admitted again to theprivileges of orderly residence. 

"And I will undertake to say, " he added, "that the kindness and courtesyof our community will overlook your fault, and make no further referenceto a course of conduct which appears to have been misguided rather thandeliberately malevolent. We have every desire not to disturb in any waythe tranquillity which it is, above all things, our desire to maintain. May I conclude, then, that this is your intention?"

"No, sir, " I said, "certainly not! With all due respect to the Court, I cannot submit to the jurisdiction. The only privilege I claim is theprivilege of an alien and a stranger, who in a perfectly peacefulmanner, and with no seditious intent, has re-entered this land, and hasthereupon been treated with gross and unjust violence. I do not for amoment contest the right of this community to make its own laws andregulations, but I do contest its right to fetter the thought and theliberty of speech of all who enter it. I make no submission. The LadyCynthia came here under my protection, and if any undue influence hasbeen used, it has been used by Lucius, whom I treated with a confidencehe has abused. And I here appeal to a higher power and a higher court, which may indeed permit this unhappy community to make its ownregulations, but will not permit any gross violation of elementaryjustice. "

I was carried away by great indignation in the course of my words, whichhad a very startling effect. A large number of the audience left thehall in haste. The judge grew white to the lips, whether with anger orfear I did not know, said a few words to his neighbour, and then with agreat effort to control himself, said to me:

"You put us, sir, by your words, in a very painful position. You do notknow the conditions under which we live--that is evident--andintemperate language like yours has before now provoked an invasion ofour peace of a most undesirable kind. I entreat you to calm yourself, toaccept the apologies of the Court for the incidental and indeedunjustifiable violence with which you were treated. If you will onlyreturn to your own community, the nature of which I will not now stay toinquire, you may be assured that you will be conducted to our gates withthe utmost honour. Will you pledge yourself as a gentleman, and, as Ibelieve I am right in saying, as a Christian, to do this?"

"Yes, " I said, "upon one condition: that I may have an interview withthe Lady Cynthia, and that she may be free to accompany me, if shewishes. "

The President was about to reply, when a sudden and unlooked-forinterruption occurred. A man in a pearly-grey dress, with a cloakclasped with gold, came in at the end of the hall, and advanced withrapid steps and a curiously unconcerned air up the hall. The judges rosein their places with a hurried and disconcerted look. The stranger cameup to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and bade me presently follow him. Then he turned to the President, and said in a clear, peremptory voice:

"Dissolve the Court! Your powers have been grossly and insolentlyexceeded. See that nothing of this sort occurs again!" and then, ascending the dais, he struck the President with his open hand hard uponthe cheek. 

The President gave a stifled cry and staggered in his place, and then, covering his face with his hands, went out at a door on the platform, followed by the rest of the Council in haste. Then the man came downagain, and motioned me to follow him. I was not prepared for whathappened. Outside in the square was a great, pale, silent crowd, in themost obvious and dreadful excitement and consternation. We went rapidly, in absolute stillness, through two lines of people, who watched us withan emotion I could not quite interpret, but it was something very likehatred. 

"Follow me quickly, " said my guide; "do not look round!" and, as wewent, I heard the crowd closing up in a menacing way behind us. But wewalked straight forward, neither slowly nor hurriedly but at adeliberate pace, to the gateway which opened on the cliffs. At thispoint I saw a confusion in the crowd, as though some one were being keptback, and in the forefront of the throng, gesticulating and arguing, was Lucius himself, with his back to us. Just as we reached the gate Iheard a cry; and from the crowd there ran Cynthia, with her hairunbound, in terror and faintness. Our guide opened the gate, andmotioned us swiftly through, turning round to face the crowd, which nowran in upon us. I saw him wave his arm; and then he came quickly throughthe gate and closed it. He looked at us with a smile. "Don't be afraid, "he said; "that was a dangerous business. But they cannot touch us here. "As he said the word, there burst from the gardens behind us a storm ofthe most hideous and horrible cries I had ever heard, like the howlingof wild beasts. Cynthia clung to me in terror, and nearly swooned in myarms. "Never mind, " said the guide; "they are disappointed, and nowonder. It was a near thing; but, poor creatures, they have noinitiative; their life is not a fortifying one; and besides, they willhave forgotten all about it to-morrow. Rut we had better not stop here. There is no use in facing disagreeable things, unless one is obliged. "And he led the way down the valley. 

When we had got a little farther off, our guide told us to sit down andrest. Cynthia was still very much frightened, speechless with excitementand agitation, and, like all impulsive people, regretting her decision. I saw that it was useless to say anything to her at present. She satwearily enough, her eyes closed, and her hands clasped. Our guide lookedat me with a half-smile, and said:

"That was rather an unpleasant business! It is astonishing how excitedthose placid and polite people can get if they think their privilegesare being threatened. But really that Court was rather too much. Theyhave tried it before with some success, and it is a clever trick. Butthey have had a lesson to-day, and it will not need to be repeated for awhile. "

"You arrived just at the right moment, " I said, "and I really cannotexpress how grateful I am to you for your help. "

"Oh, " he said, "you were quite safe. It was just that touch of temperthat saved you; but I was hard by all the time, to see that things didnot go too far. "

"May I ask, " I said, "exactly what they could have done to me, and whattheir real power is?"

"They have none at all, " he said. "They could not really have doneanything to you, except imprison you. What helps them is not their ownpower, which is nothing, but the terror of their victims. If you had notbeen frightened when you were first attacked, they could not haveoverpowered you. It is all a kind of playacting, which they perform withremarkable skill. The Court was really an admirable piece of drama--theyhave a great gift for representation. "

"Do you mean to say, " I said, "that they were actually aware that theyhad no sort of power to inflict any injury upon me?"

"They could have made it very disagreeable for you, " he said, "if theyhad frightened you, and kept you frightened. As long as that lasted, you would have been extremely uncomfortable. But as you saw, the momentyou defied them they were helpless. The part played by Lucius was reallyunpardonable. I am afraid he is a great rascal. "

Cynthia faintly demurred to this. "Never mind, " said the guidesoothingly, "he has only shown you his good side, of course; and I don'tdeny that he is a very clever and attractive fellow. But he makes noprogress, and I am really afraid that he will have to be transferredelsewhere; though there is indeed one hope for him. "

"Tell me what that is, " said Cynthia faintly. 

"I don't think I need do that, " said our friend, "you know better thanI; and some day, I think, when you are stronger, you will find the wayto release him. "

"Ah, you don't know him as I do, " said Cynthia, and relapsed intosilence; but did not withdraw her hand from mine. 

"Well, " said our guide after a moment's pause, "I think I have done allI can for the time being, and I am wanted elsewhere. "

"But will you not advise me what to do next?" I said. "I do not see myway clear. "

"No, " said the guide rather drily, "I am afraid I cannot do that. Thatlies outside my province. These delicate questions are not in my line. Iwill tell you plainly what I am. I am just a messenger, perhaps morelike a policeman, " he added, smiling, "than anything else. I just go andappear when I am wanted, if there is a row or a chance of one. Don'tmisunderstand me!" he said more kindly. "It is not from any lack ofinterest in you or our friend here. I should very much like to know whatstep you will take, but it is simply not my business: our duties hereare very clearly defined, and I can just do my job, and nothing more. "

He made a courteous salute, and walked off without looking back, leavingon me the impression of a young military officer, perfectly courteousand reliable, not inclined to cultivate his emotions or to waste words, but absolutely effective, courageous, and dutiful. 

"Well, " I said to Cynthia with a show of cheerfulness, "what shall we donext? Are you feeling strong enough to go on?"

"I am sure I don't know, " said Cynthia wearily. "Don't ask me. I havehad a great fright, and I begin to wish I had stayed behind. Howuncomfortable everything is! Why can one never have a moment's peace?There, " she said to me, "don't be vexed, I am not blaming you; but Ihated you for not showing more fight when those men set on you, and Ihated Lucius for having done it; you must forgive me! I am sure you onlydid what was kind and right--but I have had a very trying time, and Idon't like these bothers. Let me alone for a little, and I daresay Ishall be more sensible. "

I sat by her in much perplexity, feeling singularly helpless andineffective; and in a moment of weakness, not knowing what to do, Iwished that Amroth were near me, to advise me; and to my relief saw himapproaching, but also realised in a flash that I had acted wrongly, andthat he was angry, as I had never seen him before. 

He came up to us, and bending down to Cynthia with great tenderness, took her hand, and said, "Will you stay here quietly a little, Cynthia, and rest? You are perfectly safe now, and no one will come near you. Wetwo shall be close at hand; but we must have a talk together, and seewhat can be done. "

Cynthia smiled and released me. Amroth beckoned me to withdraw with him. When we had got out of earshot, he turned upon me very fiercely, andsaid, "You have made a great mess of this business. "

"I know it, " I said feebly, "but I cannot for the life of me see where Iwas wrong. "

"You were wrong from beginning to end, " he said. "Cannot you see that, whatever this place is, it is not a sentimental place? It is all thiswretched sentiment that has done the mischief. Come, " he added, "I havean unpleasant task before me, to unmask you to yourself. I don't likeit, but I must do it. Don't make it harder for me. "

"Very good, " I said, rather angrily too. "But allow me to say thisfirst. This is a place of muddle. One is worked too hard, and shown toomany things, till one is hopelessly confused. But I had rather have yourcriticism first, and then I will make mine. "

"Very well!" said Amroth facing me, looking at me fixedly with his blueeyes, and his nostrils a little distended. "The mischief lies in yourtemperament. You are precocious, and you are volatile. You have hadspecial opportunities, and in a way you have used them well, but yourhead has been somewhat turned by your successes. You came to that placeyonder, with Cynthia, with a sense of superiority. You thought yourselftoo good for it, and instead of just trying to see into the minds andhearts of the people you met, you despised them; instead of learning, you tried to teach. You took a feeble interest in Cynthia, made a pet ofher; then, when I took you away, you forgot all about her. Even thegreat things I was allowed to show you did not make you humble. You tookthem as a compliment to your powers. And so when you had your chance togo back to help Cynthia, you thought out no plan, you asked no advice. You went down in a very self-sufficient mood, expecting that everythingwould be easy. "

"That is not true, " I said. "I was very much perplexed. "

"It is only too true, " said Amroth; "you enjoyed your perplexity; Idaresay you called it faith to yourself! It was that which made youweak. You lost your temper with Lucius, you made a miserable fight ofit--and even in prison you could not recognise that you were in fault. You did better at the trial--I fully admit that you behaved wellthere--but the fault is in this, that this girl gave you her heart andher confidence, and you despised them. Your mind was taken up with otherthings; a very little more, and you would be fit for the intellectualparadise. There, " he said, "I have nearly done! You may be angry if youwill, but that is the truth. You have a wrong idea of this place. It isnot plain sailing here. Life here is a very serious, very intricate, very difficult business. The only complications which are removed arethe complications of the body; but one has anxious and tryingresponsibilities all the same, and you have trifled with them. You mustnot delude yourself. You have many good qualities. You have somecourage, much ingenuity, keen interests, and a good deal ofconscientiousness; but you have the makings of a dilettante, thereadiness to delude yourself that the particular little work you areengaged in is excessively and peculiarly important. You have got theproportion all wrong. "

I had a feeling of intense anger and bitterness at all this; but as hespoke, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I saw that Amroth wasright. I wrestled with myself in silence. 

Presently I said, "Amroth, I believe you are right, though I think atthis moment that you have stated all this rather harshly. But I do seethat it can be no pleasure to you to state it, though I fear I shallnever regain my pleasure in your company. "

"There, " said Amroth, "that is sentiment again!"

This put me into a great passion. 

"Very well, " I said, "I will say no more. Perhaps you will just be goodenough to tell me what I am to do with Cynthia, and where I am to go, and then I will trouble you no longer. "

"Oh, " said Amroth with a sneer, "I have no doubt you can find some verynice semidetached villas hereabouts. Why not settle down, and make thepoor girl a little mote worthy of yourself?"

At this I turned from him in great anger, and left him standing where hewas. If ever I hated any one, I hated Amroth at that moment. I went backto Cynthia. 

"I have come back to you, dear, " I said. "Can you trust me and go withme? No one here seems inclined to help us, and we must just help eachother. "

At which Cynthia rose and flung herself into my arms. 

"That was what I wanted all along, " she said, "to feel that I could beof use too. You will see how brave I can be. I can go anywhere with youand do anything, because I think I have loved you all the time. "

"And you must forgive me, Cynthia, " I said, "as well. For I did not knowtill this moment that I loved you, but I know it now; and I shall loveyou to the end. "

As I said these words I turned, and saw Amroth smiling from afar; thenwith a wave of the hand to us, he turned and passed out of our sight. 

XXVIII

Left to ourselves, Cynthia and I sat awhile in silence, hand in hand, like children, she looking anxiously at me. Our talk had broken down allpossible reserve between us; but what was strange to me was that I felt, not like a lover with any need to woo, but as though we two had longsince been wedded, and had just come to a knowledge of each other'shearts. At last we rose; and strange and bewildering as it all was, Ithink I was perhaps happier at this time than at any other time in theland of light, before or after. 

And let me here say a word about these strange unions of soul that takeplace in that other land. There is there a whole range of affections, from courteous tolerance to intense passion. But there is a peculiarbond which springs up between pairs of people, not always of differentsex, in that country. My relation with Amroth had nothing of thatemotion about it. That was simply like a transcendental essence ofperfect friendship; but there was a peculiar relation, between pairs ofsouls, which seems to imply some curious duality of nature, of whichearthly passion is but a symbol. It is accompanied by an absoluteclearness of vision into the inmost soul and being of the other. Cynthia's mind was as clear to me in those days as a crystal globe mightbe which one could hold in one's hand, and my mind was as clear to her. There is a sense accompanying it almost of identity, as if the othernature was the exact and perfect complement of one's own; I can explainthis best by an image. Think of a sphere, let us say, of alabaster, broken into two pieces by a blow, and one piece put away or mislaid. Thefirst piece, let us suppose, stands in its accustomed place, and theowner often thinks in a trivial way of having it restored. One day, turning over some lumber, he finds the other piece, and wonders if itis not the lost fragment. He takes it with him, and sees on applying itthat the fractures correspond exactly, and that joined together thepieces complete the sphere. 

Even so did Cynthia's soul fit into mine. But I grew to understand laterthe words of the Gospel--"they neither marry nor are given in marriage. "These unions are not permanent, any more than they are really permanenton earth. On earth, owing to material considerations such as childrenand property, a marriage is looked upon as indissoluble. But this takesno account of the development of souls; and indeed many of the unions ofearth, the passion once over, do grow into a very noble and beautifulfriendship. But sometimes, even on earth, it is the other way; andpassion once extinct, two natures often realise their dissimilaritiesrather than their similarities; and this is the cause of muchunhappiness. But in the other land, two souls may develop in quitedifferent ways and at a different pace. And then this relation may alsocome quietly and simply to an end, without the least resentment orregret, and is succeeded invariably by a very tender and truefriendship, each being sweetly and serenely content with all that hasbeen given or received; and this friendship is not shaken or fretted, even if both of the lovers form new ties of close intimacy. Some naturesform many of these ties, some few, some none at all. I believe that, asa matter of fact, each nature has its counterpart at all times, but doesnot always succeed in finding it. But the union, when it comes, seems totake precedence of all other emotions and all other work. I did not knowthis at the time; but I had a sense that my work was for a time over, because it seemed quite plain to me that as yet Cynthia was not in theleast degree suited to the sort of work which I had been doing. 

We walked on together for some time, in a happy silence, though quietcommunications of a blessed sort passed perpetually between us withoutany interchange of word. Our feet moved along the hillside, away fromthe crags, because I felt that Cynthia had no strength to climb them;and I wondered what our life would be. 

Presently a valley opened before us, folding quietly in among the hills, full of a golden haze; and it seemed to me that our further way lay downit. It fell softly and securely into a further plain, the country beingquite unlike anything I had as yet seen--a land of high and craggymountains, the lower parts of them much overgrown with woods; the valleyitself widened out, and passed gently among the hills, with here andthere a lake. Dotted all about the mountain-bases, at the edges of thewoods, were little white houses, stone-walled and stone-tiled, withsmall gardens; and then the place seemed to become strangely familiarand homelike; and I became aware that I was coming home: the samethought occurred to Cynthia; and at last, when we turned a corner ofthe road, and saw lying a little back from the road a small house, witha garden in front of it, shaded by a group of sycamores, we dartedforwards with a cry of delight to the home that was indeed our own. Thedoor stood open as though we were certainly expected. It was thesimplest little place, just a pair of rooms very roughly and plainlyfurnished. And there we embraced with tears of joy. 

XXIX

The time that I spent in the valley home with Cynthia is the mostdifficult to describe of all my wanderings; because, indeed, there isnothing to describe. We were always together. Sometimes we wandered highup among the woods, and came out on the bleak mountain-heads. Sometimeswe sat within and talked; and by a curious provision there werephenomena there that were more like changes of weather, and interchangeof day and night, than at any other place in the heavenly country. Sometimes the whole valley would be shrouded with mists, sometimes itwould be grey and overcast, sometimes the light was clear and radiant, but through it all there beat a pulse of light and darkness; and I donot know which was the more desirable--the hours when we walked in theforests, with the wind moving softly in the leaves overhead like afalling sea, or those calm and silent nights when we seemed to sleep anddream, or when, if I waked, I could hear Cynthia's breath coming andgoing evenly as the breath of a tired child. It seemed like the essenceof human passion, the end that lovers desire, and discern faintly behindand beyond the accidents of sense and contact, like the sounding of asweet chord, without satiety or fever of the sense. 

I learnt many strange and beautiful secrets of the human heart in thosedays: what the dreams of womanhood are--how wholly different from thedreams of man, in which there is always a combative element. The soul ofCynthia was like a silent cleft among the hills, which waits, in its ownstill content, until the horn of the shepherd winds the notes of a chordin the valley below; and then the cleft makes answer and returns an airyecho, blending the notes into a harmony of dulcet utterance. And shetoo, I doubt not, learnt something from my soul, which was eager andinventive enough, but restless and fugitive of purpose. And then therecame a further joy to us. That which is fatherly and motherly in theworld below is not a thing that is lost in heaven; and just as the loveof man and woman can draw down and imprison a soul in a body of flesh, so in heaven the dear intention of one soul to another brings about ayearning, which grows day by day in intensity, for some further outletof love and care. 

It was one quiet misty morning that, as we sat together in tranquiltalk, we heard faltering steps within our garden. We had seen, let mesay, very little of the other inhabitants of our valley. We hadsometimes seen a pair of figures wandering at a distance, and we hadeven met neighbours and exchanged a greeting. But the valley had nosocial life of its own, and no one ever seemed, so far as we knew, toenter any other dwelling, though they met in quiet friendliness. Cynthiawent to the door and opened it; then she darted out, and, just when Iwas about to follow, she returned, leading by the hand a tiny child, wholooked at us with an air of perfect contentment and simplicity. 

"Where on earth has this enchanting baby sprung from?" said Cynthia, seating the child upon her lap, and beginning to talk to it in astrangely unintelligible language, which the child appeared tounderstand perfectly. 

I laughed. "Out of our two hearts, perhaps, " I said. At which Cynthiablushed, and said that I did not understand or care for children. Sheadded that men's only idea about children was to think how much theycould teach them. 

"Yes, " I said, "we will begin lessons to-morrow, and go on to the LatinGrammar very shortly. "

At which Cynthia folded the child in her arms, to defend it, andreassured it in a sentence which is far too silly to set down here. 

I think that sometimes on earth the arrival of a first child is a verytrying time for a wedded pair. The husband is apt to find his wife'slove almost withdrawn from him, and to see her nourishing all kinds ofjealousies and vague ambitions for her child. Paternity is apt to be avery bewildered and often rather dramatic emotion. But it was not sowith us. The child seemed the very thing we had been needing withoutknowing it. It was a constant source of interest and delight; and inspite of Cynthia's attempts to keep it ignorant and even fatuous, it diddevelop a very charming intelligence, or rather, as I soon saw, began toperceive what it already knew. It soon overwhelmed us with questions, and used to patter about the garden with me, airing all sorts ofdelicious and absurd fancies. But, for all that, it did seem to make anend of the first utter closeness of our love. Cynthia after this seldomwent far afield, and I ranged the hills and woods alone; but it was allabsurdly and continuously happy, though I began to wonder how long itcould last, and whether my faculties and energies, such as they were, could continue thus unused. And I had, too, in my mind that other scenewhich I had beheld, of how the boy was withdrawn from the two old peoplein the other valley. Was it always thus, I wondered? Was it so, thatsouls were drawn upwards in ceaseless pilgrimage, loving and passing on, and leaving in the hearts of those who stayed behind a longingunassuaged, which was presently to draw them onwards from the peacewhich they loved perhaps too well?

XXX

The serene life came all to an end very suddenly, and with no warning. One day I had been sitting with Cynthia, and the child was playing onthe floor with some little things--stones, bits of sticks, nuts--whichit had collected. It was a mysterious game too, accompanied with muchimpressive talk and gesticulations, much emphatic lecturing ofrecalcitrant pebbles, with interludes of unaccountable laughter. We hadbeen watching the child, when Cynthia leaned across to me and said:

"There is something in your mind, dear, which I cannot quite see into. It has been there for a long time, and I have not liked to ask you aboutit. Won't you tell me what it is?"

"Yes, of course, " I said; "I will tell you anything I can. "

"It has nothing to do with me, " said Cynthia, "nor with the child; itis about yourself, I think; and it is not altogether a happy thought. "

"It is not unhappy, " I said, "because I am very happy and verywell-content. It is just this, I think. You know, don't you, how I wasbeing employed, before I came back, God be praised, to find you? I wasbeing trained, very carefully and elaborately trained, I won't say tohelp people, but to be of use in a way. Well, I have been wondering whyall that was suspended and cut short, just when I seemed to be finishingmy training. I have been much happier here than I ever was before, ofcourse. Indeed I have been so happy that I have sometimes thought italmost wrong that any one should have so much to enjoy. But I ampuzzled, because the other work seems thrown away. If you wonder whetherI want to leave our life here and go back to the other, of course I donot; but I have felt idle, and like a boy turned down from a high classat school to a low one. "

"That is not very complimentary to me!" said Cynthia, laughing. "Supposewe say a boy who has been working too hard for his health, and has beengiven a long holiday?"

"Yes, " I said, "that is better. It is as if a clerk was told that heneed not attend his office, but stay at home; and though it is pleasantenough, he feels as if he ought to be at his work, that he appreciateshis home all the more when he can't sit reading the paper all themorning, and that he does not love his home less, but rather more, because he is away all the day. "

"Yes, " said Cynthia, "that is sensible enough; and I am amazed sometimesthat you can be so good and patient about it all--so content to be somuch with me and baby here; but I don't think it is quite--what shall Isay?--quite healthy either!"

"Well, " I said, "I have no wish to change; and here, I am glad to think, there is never any doubt about what one is meant to do. "

And so the subject dropped. 

How little I thought then that this was to be the end of the old scene, and that the curtain was to draw up so suddenly upon a new one. 

But the following morning I had been wandering contentedly enough in thewood, watching the shafts of light strike in among the trees, upon theglittering fronds of the ferns, and thinking idly of all my strangeexperiences. I came home, and to my surprise, as I came to the door, I heard talk going on inside. I went hastily in, and saw that Cynthiawas not alone. She was sitting, looking very grave and serious, andwonderfully beautiful--her beauty had grown and increased in amarvellous way of late. And there were two men, one sitting in a chairnear her and regarding her with a look of love; it was Lucius; and I sawat a glance that he was strangely changed. He had the same spirited andmirthful look as of old, but there was something there which I hadnever seen before--the look of a man who had work of his own, and hadlearned something of the perplexity and suffering of responsibility. Theother was Amroth, who was looking at the two with an air ofirrepressible amusement. When I entered, Lucius rose, and Amroth said tome:

"Here I am again, you see, and wondering whether you can regain thepleasure you once were kind enough to take in my company?"

"What nonsense!" I said rather shamefacedly. "How often have I blushedin secret to think of that awful remark. But I was rather harried, youmust admit. "

Amroth came across to me and put his arm through mine. 

"I forgive you, " he said, "and I will admit that I was very provoking;but things were in a mess, and, besides, it was very inconvenient for meto be called away at that moment from my job!"

But Lucius came up to me and said:

"I have come to apologise to you. My behaviour was hideous and horrible. I won't make any excuses, and I don't suppose you can ever forget what Idid. I was utterly and entirely in the wrong. "

"Thank you, Lucius, " I said. "But please say no more about it. My ownbehaviour on that occasion was infamous too. And really we need not goback on all that. The whole affair has become quite an agreeablereminiscence. It is a pleasure, when it is all over, to have beenthoroughly and wholesomely shown up, and to discover that one has been apompous and priggish ass. And you and Amroth between you did me thatblessed turn. I am not quite sure which of you I hated most. But I maysay one thing, and that is that I am heartily glad to see you have leftthe land of delight. "

"It was a tedious place really, " said Lucius, "but one felt bound inhonour to make the best of it. But indeed after that day it washorrible. And I wearied for a sight of Cynthia! But you seem to havedone very well for yourselves here. May I venture to say frankly howwell she is looking, and you too? But I am not going to interrupt you. I have got my billet, I am thankful to say. It is not a very exalted one, but it is better than I deserve; and I shall try to make up for wastedtime. "

"Hear, hear!" said Amroth; "a very creditable sentiment, to be sure!"

Lucius smiled and blushed. Then he said:

"I never was much of a hand at expressing myself correctly; but you knowwhat I mean. Don't take the wind out of my sails!"

And then Amroth turned to me, and said suddenly:

"And now I have something else to tell you, and not wholly good news; soI will just say it at once, without beating about the bush. You are tocome with us too. "

Cynthia looked up suddenly with a glance of pale inquiry. Amroth tookher hand. 

"No, dear child, " he said, "you are not to accompany him. You must stayhere awhile, until the child is grown. But don't look like that! Thereis no such thing as separation here, or anywhere. Don't make it harderfor us all. It is unpleasant of course; but, good heavens, what wouldbecome of us all if it were not for that! How dull we should be withoutsuffering!"

"Yes, yes, " said Cynthia, "I know--and I will say nothing against it. But--" and she burst into tears. 

"Come, come, " said Amroth cheerfully, "we must not go back to the olddays, and behave as if there were partings and funerals. I will give youfive minutes alone to say good-bye. Lucius, we must start, " and, turningto me, he said, "Meet us in five minutes by the oak-tree in the road. "

They went out, Lucius kissing Cynthia's hand in silence. 

Cynthia came up to me and put her arms round my neck and her cheek tomine. We sobbed, I fear, like two children. 

"Don't forget me, dearest, " she said. 

"My darling, what a word!" I said. 

"Oh, how happy we have been together!" she said. 

"Yes, and shall be happier still, " I said. 

And then with more words and signs of love, too sacred even to bewritten down, we parted. It was over. I looked back once, and saw mydarling gather the child to her heart, and look up once more at me. ThenI closed the door; something seemed to surge up in my heart andoverwhelm me; and then the ring on my finger sent a sharp pang throughmy whole frame, which recalled me to myself. And I say it with all thestrength of my spirit, I saw how joyful a thing it was to suffer andgrieve. I came down to the oak. The two were waiting in silence, andLucius seemed to be in tears. Amroth put his arm through mine. 

"Come, brother, " he said, "that was a bad business; I won't pretendotherwise; but these things had better come swiftly. "

"Yes, " said Lucius, "but it is a cruel affair, and I can't sayotherwise. Why cannot God leave us alone?"

"Lucius, " said Amroth very gravely, "here you may say and think as youwill--and the thoughts of the heart are best uttered. But one must notblaspheme. "

"No, no, " said Lucius, "I was wrong. I ought not to have spoken so. Andindeed I know in my heart that somehow, far off, it is well. But I wasthinking, " he said, turning to me, and grasping my hand in both of hisown, "not of you, but of Cynthia. I am glad with all my heart that youtook her from me, and have made her happy. But what miserable creatureswe all are; and how much more miserable we should be if we were notmiserable!"

And then we started. It was a dreary hour that, full of deep and gnawingpain. I pictured to myself Cynthia at every moment, what she was doingand thinking; how swiftly the good days had flown; how perfectly happyI had been; and so my wretched silent reverie went on. 

"I must say, " said Amroth at length, breaking a dismal silence, "thatthis is very tedious. Can't you take some interest? I have verydisagreeable things to do, but that is no reason why I should be boredas well!" And he then set himself to talk with much zest of all my oldfriends and companions, telling me how each was faring. Charmides, itseemed, had become a very accomplished architect and designer; Philipwas a teacher at the College. And he went on until, in spite of myheaviness, I felt the whole of life beginning to widen and vibrate allabout me, and a sense almost of shame creeping into my mind that I hadbecome so oblivious of all the other friendships and relations I hadformed. I forced myself to talk and to ask questions, and found myselfwalking more briskly. It was not very long before we parted with Lucius. He was left at the doors of a great barrack-like like building, andAmroth told me he was to be employed as an officer, very much in thesame way as the young man who was sent to conduct me away from thetrial; and I felt what a good officer Lucius would make--smart, prompt, polite, and not in the least sentimental. 

So we went on together rather gloomily; and then Amroth let me look fora little deep into his heart; and I saw that it was filled with a kindof noble pity for me in my suffering; but behind the pity lay thatblissful certainty which made Amroth so light-hearted, that it was justso, through suffering, that one became wise; and he could no more thinkof it as irksome or sad than a jolly undergraduate thinks of thetraining for a race or the rowing in the race as painful, but takes itall with a kind of high-hearted zest, and finds even the nervousness anexciting thing, life lived at high pressure in a crowded hour. 

XXXI

And thus we came ourselves to a new place, though I took but little noteof all we passed, for my mind was bent inward upon itself and uponCynthia. The place was a great solid stone building, in many courts, with fine tree-shaded fields all about; a school, it seemed to me, withboys and girls going in and out, playing games together. Amroth told methat children were bestowed here who had been of naturally fine andfrank dispositions, but who had lived their life on earth under foul andcramped conditions, by which they had been fretted rather than tainted. It seemed a very happy and busy place. Amroth took me into a great roomthat seemed a sort of library or common-room. There was no one there, and I was glad to sit and rest; when suddenly the door opened, and a mancame in with outstretched hands and a smile of welcome. I looked up, and it was none but the oldest and dearest friend of my last life, whohad died before me. He had been a teacher, a man of the simplest andmost guileless life, whose whole energy and delight was given toteaching and loving the young. The surprising thing about him had alwaysbeen that he could meet one, after a long silence or a suspension ofintercourse, as simply and easily as if one had but left him the daybefore; and it was just the same here. There was no effusiveness ofgreeting--we just fell at once into the old familiar talk. 

"You are just the same, " I said to him, looking at the burly figure, thebig, almost clumsy, head, and the irradiating smile. His great charm hadalways been an entire unworldliness and absence of ambition. 

He smiled at this and said:

"Yes, I am afraid I am too easy-going. " He had never cared to talk abouthimself, and now he said, "Well, yes, I go along in my old prosy way. It is just like the old schooldays, with half the difficulties gone. Ofcourse the children are not always good, but that makes it the moreamusing; and one can see much more easily what they are thinking of anddreaming about. "

I found myself telling him my adventures, which he heard with the samequiet attention and I was sure that he would never forget a singlepoint--he never forgot anything in the old days. 

"Yes, " he said at the end, "that's a wonderful story. You always had thetrouble of the adventures, and I had the fun of hearing them. "

He asked me what I was now going to do, and I said that I had not theleast idea. 

"Oh, that will be all right, " he said. 

It was all so comfortable and simple, so obvious indeed, that I laughedto think of the bitter and miserable reveries I had indulged in when hewas taken from me, and when the stay of my life seemed gone. The wholeincident seemed to give me back a touch of the serenity which I hadlost, and I saw how beautifully this joy of meeting had been planned forme, when I wanted it most. Presently he said that he must go off for alesson, and asked me to come with him and see the children. We went intoa big class-room, where some boys and girls were assembling. Here he wasexactly the same as ever; no sentiment, but just a kind of bluffpaternal kindness. The lesson was most informal--a good deal ofquestioning and answering; it was a biographical lecture, but devoted, I saw, in a simple way, to tracing the development of the hero'scharacter. "What made him do that?" was a constant question. The answerswere most ingenious and extraordinarily lively; but the order wasperfect. At the end he called up two or three children who had shownsome impatience or jealousy in the lesson, and said a few half-humorouswords to them, with an air of affectionate interest. 

"They are jolly little creatures, " he said when they had all gone out. 

"Yes, " I said, with a sigh, "I do indeed envy you. I wish I could be setto something of the kind. "

"Oh, no, you don't, " he said; "this is too simple for you! You wantsomething more artistic and more psychological. This would bore you toextinction. "

We walked all round the place, saw the games going on, and werepresently joined by Amroth, who seemed to be on terms of oldacquaintanceship with my friend. I was surprised at this, and he said:

"Why, yes, Amroth had the pleasure of bringing me here too. Things aredone here in groups, you know; and Amroth knows all about our lot. It isvery well organised, much better than one perceives at first. Youremember how you and I drifted to school together, and the set of boyswe found ourselves with--my word, what young ruffians some of us were!Well, of course all that had been planned, though we did not know it. "

"What!" said I; "the evil as well as the good?"

The two looked at each other and smiled. 

"That is not a very real distinction, " said Amroth. "Of course the poorbodies got in the way, as always; there was some fizzing and someprecipitation, as they say in chemistry. But you each of you gave andreceived just what you were meant to give and receive; though these arecomplicated matters, like the higher mathematics; and we must not talkof them to-day. If one can escape the being shocked at things and yet beuntainted by them, and, on the other hand, if one can avoid pomposityand yet learn self-respect, that is enough. But you are tired to-day, and I want you just to rest and be refreshed. "

Presently Amroth asked me if I should like to stay there awhile, and Imost willingly consented. 

"You want something to do, " he said, "and you shall have some lightemployment. "

That same day, before Amroth left me, I had a curious talk with him. 

I said to him: "Let me ask you one question. I had always had a sort ofhope that when I came to the land of spirits, I should have a chance ofseeing and hearing something of some of the great souls of earth. I haddimly imagined a sort of reception, where one could wander about andlisten to the talk of the men one had admired and longed to see--Plato, let me say, and Shakespeare, Walter Scott, and Shelley--some of theimmortals. But I don't seem to have seen anything of them--only justordinary and simple people. "

Amroth laughed. 

"You do say the most extraordinarily ingenuous things, " he said. "In thefirst place, of course, we have quite a different scale of values here. People do not take rank by their accomplishments, but by their power ofloving. Many of the great men of earth--and this is particularly thecase with writers and artists--are absolutely nothing here. They had, itis true, a fine and delicate brain, on which they played with greatskill; but half the artists of the world are great as artists, simplybecause they do not care. They perceive and they express; but they wouldnot have the heart to do it at all, if they really cared. Some of them, no doubt, were men of great hearts, and they have their place and work. But to claim to see all the highest spirits together is as absurd as ifyou called on a doctor in London at eleven o'clock and expected to meetall the great physicians at his house, intent on general conversation. Some of the great people, indeed, you have met, and they were verysimple persons on earth. The greatest person you have hitherto seen wasa butler on earth--the master of your College. And if it does not shockyour aristocratic susceptibilities too much, the President of this placekept a small shop in a country village. But one of the teachers herewas actually a marquis in the world! Does that uplift you? He teachesthe little girls how to play cricket, and he is a very good dancer. Perhaps you would like to be introduced to him?"

"Don't treat me as a child, " I said, rather pettishly. 

"No, no, " said Amroth, "it isn't that. But you are one of thoseimpressible people; and they always find it harder to disentanglethemselves from the old ideas. "

I spent a long and happy time in the school. I was given a littleteaching to do, and found it perfectly enchanting. Imagine children witheverything greedy and sensual gone, with none of the crossness orspitefulness that comes of fatigue or pressure, but with all theinteresting passions of humanity, admiration, keenness, curiosity, andeven jealousy, emulation, and anger, all alive and active in them. Theywere not angelic children at all, neither meek nor mild. But they weregenerous and affectionate, and it was easy to evoke these feelings. Theone thing absent from the whole place was any touch of sentimentality, which arises from natural affections suppressed into a giggling kind ofsecrecy. They expressed affection loudly and frankly, just as theyexpressed indignation and annoyance. All the while I kept Cynthia in myheart; she was ever before me in a thousand sweet postures and withinnumerable glances. But I saw much of my sturdy and wholesome-mindedold friend; and the sore pain of parting faded away out of my heart, andleft me with nothing but the purest and deepest love, which helped me inall I did or said, and made me patient and tender-hearted. And thus theperiod sped not unhappily away, though I had my times of agony anddespair. 

XXXII

I became aware at this time, very gradually and even solemnly, that somecrisis of my life was approaching. How the monition came to me I hardlyknow; I felt like a man wandering in the dark, with eyes strained andhands outstretched, who is dimly aware of some great object, tree orhaystack or house, looming up ahead of him, which he cannot directlysee, but of which he is yet conscious by the vibration of some sixthsense. The wonder came by degrees to overshadow my thoughts with a senseof expectant awe, and to permeate all the urgent concerns of my lifewith its shadowy presence. Even the thought of Cynthia, who indeed wasalways in my mind, became obscured with the dimness of this obscureanticipation. 

One day Amroth stood beside me as I worked; he was very grave andserious, but with a joyful kind of courage about him. I pushed my booksand papers away, and rose to greet him, saying half-unconsciously, andjust putting my thought into words:

"So it has come!"

"Yes, " said Amroth, "it has come! I have known it for some little time, and my thought has mingled with yours. I tell you frankly that I didnot quite expect it; but one never knows here. You must come with me atonce. You are to see the last mystery; and though I am glad for yoursake that it is come, yet I tremble for you, because it is unlike anyother experience; and one can never be the same again. "

I felt myself oppressed by a sudden terror of darkness, but, half toreassure myself, I answered lightly:

"But it does not seem to have affected you, Amroth! You are alwayslight-hearted and cheerful, and not overshadowed by any dark or gloomythoughts. "

"Yes, yes, " said Amroth hurriedly. "It is easy enough, when it is onceover. Nothing that is behind one matters; but this is a thing that onecannot jest about. Of course there is nothing to fear; but to be broughtface to face with the greatest thing in the world is not a light matter. Let me say this. I am to be with you all through; and my only word toyou is that you must do exactly what I tell you, and at once, withoutany doubting or flinching. Then all will be well! But we must not delay. Come at once, and keep your mind perfectly quiet. "

We went out together; and there seemed to have fallen a sense of gravityover all whom we met. My companions did not speak to me as we walkedout, but stood aside to see me pass, and even looked at me, I thought, with an air half of reverence, half of a sort of natural compassion, asone might watch a dear friend go to be tried for his life. 

We came out of the door, and found, it seemed to me, an unusualstillness everywhere. The wind, which often blew high on the bare moor, had dropped. We took a path, which I had never seen, which struck offover the hills. We walked for a long time, almost in silence. But Icould not bear the strange curiosity which was straining at my heart, and I said presently to Amroth:

"Give me some idea what I am to see or to endure. Is it some judgmentwhich I am to face, or am I to suffer pain? I would rather know the bestand the worst of it. "

"It is everything, " said Amroth; "you are to see God. All is comprisedin that. "

His words fell with a shocking distinctness in the calm air, and I feltmy heart and limbs fail me, and a dizziness came over my mind. Hardlyknowing what I did or said, I came to a stop. 

"But I did not know that it was possible, " I said. "I thought that Godwas everywhere--within us, about us, beyond us? How can that be?"

"Yes, " said Amroth, "God is indeed everywhere, and no place containsHim; neither can any of us see or comprehend Him. I cannot explainit; but there is a centre, so to speak, near to which the uncleanand the evil cannot come, where the fire of His thought burns thehottest. .. . Oh, " he said, "neither word nor thought is of any use here;you will see what you will see!"

Perhaps the hardest thing I had to bear in all my wanderings was thesight of Amroth's own fear. It was unmistakable. His spirit seemedprepared for it, perfectly courageous and sincere as it was; but therewas a shuddering awe upon him, for all that, which infected me with anextremity of terror. Was it that he thought me unequal to theexperience? I could not tell. But we walked as men dragging themselvesinto some fiery and dreadful martyrdom. 

Again I could not bear it, and I cried out suddenly:

"But, Amroth, He is Love; and we can enter without fear into thepresence of Love!"

"Have you not yet guessed, " said Amroth sternly, "how terrible Love canbe? It is the most terrible thing in the world, because it is thestrongest. If Death is dreadful, what must that be which is strongerthan Death? Come, let us be silent, for we are near the place, and thisis no time for words;" and then he added with a look of the deepestcompassion and tenderness, "I wish I could speak differently, brother, at this hour; but I am myself afraid. "

And at that we gave up all speech, and only our thoughts sprang togetherand intertwined, like two children that clasp each other close in aburning house, when the smoke comes volleying from the door. 

We were coming now to what looked like a ridge of rocks ahead of us; andI saw here a wonderful thing, a great light of incredible pureness andwhiteness, which struck upwards from the farther side. This began tolight up our own pale faces, and to throw our backs into a dark shadow, even though the radiance of the heavenly day was all about us. And atlast we came to the place. 

It was the edge of a precipice so vast, so stupendous, that no word caneven dimly describe its depth; it was all illuminated with incredibleclearness by the light which struck upwards from below. It wasabsolutely sheer, great pale cliffs of white stone running downwardsinto the depth. To left and right the precipice ran, with an irregularoutline, so that one could see the cliff-fronts gleam how many millionsof leagues below! There seemed no end to it. But at a certain point fardown in the abyss the light seemed stronger and purer. I was at first soamazed by the sight that I gazed in silence. Then a dreadful dizzinesscame over me, and I felt Amroth's hand put round me to sustain me. Thenin a faint whisper, that was almost inaudible, Amroth, pointing with hisfinger downwards, said:

"Watch that place where the light seems clearest. "

I did so. Suddenly there came, as from the face of the cliff, a thinglike a cloudy jet of golden steam. It passed out into the clear air, shaping itself in strange and intricate curves; then it grew darker incolour, hung for an instant like a cloud of smoke, and then faded intothe sky. 

"What is that?" I said, surprised out of my terror. 

"I may tell you that, " said Amroth, "that you may know what you see. There is no time here; and you have seen a universe made, and live itslife, and die. You have seen the worlds created. That cloud of whirlingsuns, each with its planets, has taken shape before your eyes; life hasarisen there, has developed; men like ourselves have lived, havewrestled with evil, have formed states, have died and vanished. That isall but a single thought of God. "

Another came, and then another of the golden jets, each fading intodarkness and dispersing. 

"And now, " said Amroth, "the moment has come. You are to make the lastsacrifice of the soul. Do not shrink back, fear nothing. Leap into theabyss!"

The thought fell upon me with an infinity and an incredulity of horrorthat I cannot express in words. I covered my eyes with my hands. 

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot, " I said; "anything but this! God be merciful;let me go rather to some infinite place of torment where at least I mayfeel myself alive. Do not ask this of me!"

Amroth made no answer, and I saw that he was regarding me fixedly, himself pale to the lips; but with a touch of anger and even ofcontempt, mixed with a world of compassion and love. There was somethingin this look which seemed to entreat me mutely for my own sake and hisown to act. I do not know what the impulse was that came tome--self-contempt, trust, curiosity, the yearning of love. I closed myeyes, I took a faltering step, and stumbled, huddling and aghast, overthe edge. The air flew up past me with a sort of shriek; I opened myeyes once, and saw the white cliffs speeding past. Then anunconsciousness came over me and I knew no more. 

XXXIII

I came to myself very gradually and dimly, with no recollection at firstof what had happened. I was lying on my back on some soft grassy place, with the air blowing cool over me. I thought I saw Amroth bending overme with a look of extraordinary happiness, and felt his arm about me;but again I became unconscious, yet all the time with a blissfulness ofrepose and joy, far beyond what I had experienced at my first waking onthe sunlit sea. Again life dawned upon me. I was there, I was myself. What had happened to me? I could not tell. So I lay for a long time halfdreaming and half swooning; till at last life seemed to come backsuddenly to me, and I sat up. Amroth was holding me in his arms close tothe spot from which I had sprung. 

"Have I been dreaming?" I said. "Was it here? and when? I cannotremember. It seems impossible, but was I told to jump down? What hashappened to me? I am confused. "

"You will know presently, " said Amroth, in a tone from which all thefear seemed to have vanished. "It is all over, and I am thankful. Do nottry to recollect; it will come back to you presently. Just rest now; youhave been through strange things. "

Suddenly a thought began to shape itself in my mind, a thought ofperfect and irresistible joy. 

"Yes, " I said, "I remember now. We were afraid, both of us, and you toldme to leap down. But what was it that I saw, and what was it that wastold me? I cannot recall it. Oh, " I said at last, "I know now; it comesback to me. I fell, in hideous cowardice and misery. The wind blewshrill. I saw the cliffs stream past; then I was unconscious, I think. I seem to have died; but part of me was not dead. My flight was stayed, and I floated out somewhere. I was joined to something that was likeboth fire and water in one. I was seen and known and understood andloved, perfectly and unutterably and for ever. But there was pain, somewhere, Amroth! How was that? I am sure there was pain. "

"Of course, dear child, " said Amroth, "there was pain, because there waseverything. "

"But, " I said, "I cannot understand yet; why was that terrible leapdemanded of me? And why did I confront it with such abject cowardice anddismay? Surely one need not go stumbling and cowed into the presence ofGod?"

"There is no other way, " said Amroth; "you do not understand howterrible perfect love is. It is because it is perfect that it isterrible. Our own imperfect love has some weakness in it. It is mixedwith pleasure, and then it is not a sacrifice; one gives as much ofoneself as one chooses; one is known just so far as one wishes to beknown. But here with God there must be no concealment--though even therea man can withhold his heart from God--God never uses compulsion; andthe will can prevail even against Him. But the reason of the leap thatmust be taken is this: it is the last surrender, and it cannot be madeon our terms and conditions; it must be absolute. And what I feared foryou was not anything that would happen if you did commit yourself toGod, but what would happen if you did not; for, of course, you couldhave resisted, and then you would have had to begin again. "

I was silent for a little, and then I said: "I remember now moreclearly, but did I really see Him? It seems so absolutely simple. Nothing happened. I just became one with the heart and life of theworld; I came home at last. Yet how am I here? How is it I was notmerged in light and life?"

"Ah, " said Amroth, "it is the new birth. You can never be the sameagain. But you are not yet lost in Him. The time for that is not yet. It is a mystery; but as yet God works outward, radiates energy and forceand love; the time will come when all will draw inward again, and bemerged in Him. But the world is as yet in its dawning. The rising sunscatters light and heat, and the hot and silent noon is yet to come;then the shadows move eastward, and after that comes the waning sunsetand the evening light, and last of all the huge and starlit peace of thenight. "

"But, " I said, "if this is really so, if I have been gathered close toGod's heart, why is it that instead of feeling stronger, I only feelweak and unstrung? I have indeed an inner sense of peace and happiness, but I have no will or purpose of my own that I can discern. "

"That, " said Amroth, "is because you have given up all. The sense ofstrength is part of our weakness. Our plans, our schemes, our ambitions, all the things that make us enjoy and hope and arrange, are but signsof our incompleteness. Your will is still as molten metal, it has bornethe fierce heat of inner love; and this has taken all that is hard andstubborn and complacent out of you--for a time. But when you return tothe life of the body, as you will return, there will be this greatdifference in you. You will have to toil and suffer, and even sin. Butthere will be one thing that you will not do: you will never becomplacent or self-righteous, you will not judge others hardly. You willbe able to forgive and to make allowances; you will concern yourselfwith loving others, not with trying to improve them up to your ownstandard. You will wish them to be different, but you will not condemnthem for being different; and hereafter the lives you live on earth willbe of the humblest. You will have none of the temptations of authority, or influence, or ambition again--all that will be far behind you. Youwill live among the poor, you will do the most menial and commonplacedrudgery, you will have none of the delights of life. You will bedespised and contemned for being ugly and humble and serviceable andmeek. You will be one of those who will be thought to have no spirit torise, no power of making men serve your turn. You will miss what arecalled your chances, you will be a failure; but you will be trusted andloved by children and simple people; they will depend upon you, and youwill make the atmosphere in which you live one of peace and joy. Youwill have selfish employers, tyrannical masters, thankless childrenperhaps, for whom you will slave lovingly. They will slight you and evendespise you, but their hearts will turn to you again and again, andyours will be the face that they will remember when they come to die, asthat of the one person who loved them truly and unquestioningly. Thatwill be your destiny; one of utter obscurity and nothingness upon earth. Yet each time, when you return hither, your work will be higher andholier, and nearer to the heart of God. And now I have said enough; foryou have seen God, as I too saw Him long ago; and our hope ishenceforward the same. "

"Yes, " I said to Amroth, "I am content. I had thought that I should beexalted and elated by my privileges; but I have no thought or dream ofthat. I only desire to go where I am sent, to do what is desired of me. I have laid my burden down. "

XXXIV

Presently Amroth rose, and said that we must be going onward. 

"And now, " he said, "I have a further thing to tell you, and that isthat I have very soon to leave you. To bring you hither was the last ofmy appointed tasks, and my work is now done. It is strange to rememberhow I bore you in my arms out of life, like a little sleeping child, andhow much we have been together. "

"Do not leave me now, " I said to Amroth. "There seems so much that Ihave to ask you. And if your work with me is done, where are you nowgoing?"

"Where am I going, brother?" said Amroth. "Back to life again, andimmediately. And there is one thing more that is permitted, and that isthat you should be with me to the last. Strange that I should haveattended you here, to the very crown and sum of life, and that youshould now attend me where I am going! But so it is. "

"And what do you feel about it?" I said. 

"Oh, " said Amroth, "I do not like it, of course. To be so free andactive here, and to be bound again in the body, in the close, suffering, ill-savoured house of life! But I have much to gain by it. I have asharpness of temper and a peremptoriness--of which indeed, " he said, smiling, "you have had experience. I am fond of doing things in my ownway, inconsiderate of others, and impatient if they do not go right. Iam hard, and perhaps even vulgar. But now I am going like a board to thecarpenter, to have some of my roughness planed out of me, and I hope todo better. "

"Well, " I said, "I am too full of wonder and hope just now to be alarmedfor you. I could even wish I were myself departing. But I have a desireto see Cynthia again. "

"Yes, " said Amroth, "and you will see her; but you will not be longafter me, brother; comfort yourself with that!"

We walked a little farther across the moorland, talking softly atintervals, till suddenly I discerned a solitary figure which wasapproaching us swiftly. 

"Ah, " said Amroth, "my time has indeed come. I am summoned. "

He waved his hand to the man, who came up quickly and even breathlessly, and handed Amroth a sealed paper. Amroth tore it open, read itsmilingly, gave a nod to the officer, saying "Many thanks. " The officersaluted him; he was a brisk young man, with a fresh air; and he then, without a word, turned from us and went over the moorland. 

"Come, " said Amroth, "let us descend. You can do this for yourself now;you do not need my help. " He took my hand, and a mist enveloped us. Suddenly the mist broke up and streamed away. I looked round me incuriosity. 

We were standing in a very mean street of brick-built houses, withslated roofs; over the roofs we could see a spire, and the chimneys ofmills, spouting smoke. The houses had tiny smoke-dried gardens in frontof them. At the end of the street was an ugly, ill-tended field, onwhich much rubbish lay. There were some dirty children playing about, and a few women, with shawls over their heads, were standing togetherwatching a house opposite. The window of an upper room was open, and outof it came cries and moans. 

"It's going very badly with her, " said one of the women, "poor soul; butthe doctor will be here soon. She was about this morning too. I had aword with her, and she was feeling very bad. I said she ought to be inbed, but she said she had her work to do first. "

The women glanced at the window with a hushed sort of sympathy. A youngwoman, evidently soon to become a mother, looked pale and apprehensive. 

"Will she get through?" she said timidly. 

"Oh, don't you fear, Sarah, " said one of the women, kindly enough. "Shewill be all right. Bless you, I've been through it five times myself, and I am none the worse. And when it's over she'll be as comfortable asnever was. It seems worth it then. "

A man suddenly turned the corner of the street; he was dressed in ashabby overcoat with a bowler hat, and he carried a bag in his hand. Hecame past us. He looked a busy, overtried man, but he had agood-humoured air. He nodded pleasantly to the women. One said:

"You are wanted badly in there, doctor. "

"Yes, " he said cheerfully, "I am making all the haste I can. Where'sJohn?"

"Oh, he's at work, " said the woman. "He didn't expect it to-day. Buthe's better out of the way: he 'd be no good; he'd only be interferingand grumbling; but I'll come across with you, and when it's over, I'lljust run down and tell him. "

"That's right, " said the doctor, "come along--the nurse will be roundin a minute; and I can make things easy meantime. "

Strange to say, it had hardly dawned upon me what was happening. Iturned to Amroth, who stood there smiling, but a little pale, his arm inmine; fresh and upright, with his slim and graceful limbs, his brightcurled hair, a strange contrast to the slatternly women and theheavily-built doctor. 

"So this, " he said, "is where I am to spend a few years; my new fatheris a hardworking man, I believe, perhaps a little given to drink butkind enough; and I daresay some of these children are my brothers andsisters. A score of years or more to spend here, no doubt! Well, itmight be worse. You will think of me while you can, and if you have thetime, you may pay me a visit, though I don't suppose I shall recogniseyou. "

"It seems rather dreadful to me, " said I, "I must confess! Who wouldhave thought that I should have forgotten my visions so soon? Amroth, dear, I can't bear this--that you should suffer such a change. "

"Sentiment again, brother, " said Amroth. "To me it is curious andinteresting, even exciting. Well, good-bye; my time is just up, Ithink. "

The doctor had gone into the house, and the cries died away. A momentafter a woman in the dress of a nurse came quickly along the street, knocked, opened the door, and went in. I could see into the room, apoorly furnished one. A girl sat nursing a baby by the fire, and lookedvery much frightened. A little boy played in the corner. A woman wasbustling about, making some preparations for a meal. 

"Let me do you the honours of my new establishment, " said Amroth with asmile. "No, dear man, don't go with me any farther. We will part here, and when we meet again we shall have some new stories to tell. Blessyou. " He took his hand from my arm, caught up my hand, kissed it, said, "There, that is for you, " and disappeared smiling into the house. 

A moment later there came the cry of a new-born child from the windowabove. The doctor came out and went down the street; one of the womenjoined him and walked with him. A few minutes later she returned with ayoung and sturdy workman, looking rather anxious. 

"It's all right, " I heard her say, "it's a fine boy, and Annie is doingwell--she'll be about again soon enough. "

They disappeared into the house, and I turned away. 

XXXV

It is difficult to describe the strange emotions with which thedeparture of Amroth filled me. I think that, when I first entered theheavenly country, the strongest feeling I experienced was the sense ofsecurity--the thought that the earthly life was over and done with, andthat there remained the rest and tranquillity of heaven. What I cannoteven now understand is this. I am dimly aware that I have lived a greatseries of lives, in each of which I have had to exist blindly, notknowing that my life was not bounded and terminated by death, and onlydarkly guessing and hoping, in passionate glimpses, that there might bea permanent life of the soul behind the life of the body. And yet, atfirst, on entering the heavenly country, I did not remember havingentered it before; it was not familiar to me, nor did I at first recallin memory that I had been there before. The earthly life seems toobliterate for a time even the heavenly memory. But the departure ofAmroth swept away once and for all the sense of security. One felt ofthe earthly life, indeed, as a busy man may think of a troublesome visithe has to pay, which breaks across the normal current of his life, whilehe anticipates with pleasure his return to the usual activities of homeacross the interval of social distraction, which he does not exactlydesire, but yet is glad that it should intervene, if only for theheightened sense of delight with which he will resume his real life. Ihad been happy in heaven, though with periods of discontent and momentsof dismay. But I no longer desired a dreamful ease; I only wishedpassionately to be employed. And now I saw that I must resign allexpectation of that. As so often happens, both on earth and in heaven, Ihad found something of which I was not in search, while the work which Ihad estimated so highly, and prepared myself so ardently for, had neverbeen given to me to do at all. 

But for the moment I had but one single thought. I was to see Cynthiaagain, and I might then expect my own summons to return to life. Whatsurprised me, on looking back at my present sojourn, was the extremeapparent fortuitousness of it. It had not been seemingly organised orlaid out on any plan; and yet it had shown me this, that my ownintentions and desires counted for nothing. I had meant to work, and Ihad been mostly idle; I had intended to study psychology, and I hadfound love. How much wiser and deeper it had all been than anythingwhich I had designed!

Even now I was uncertain how to find Cynthia. But recollecting thatAmroth had warned me that I had gained new powers which I mightexercise, I set myself to use them. I concentrated myself upon thethought of Cynthia; and in a moment, just as the hand of a man in adark room, feeling for some familiar object, encounters and closes uponthe thing he is seeking, I seemed to touch and embrace the thought ofCynthia. I directed myself thither. The breeze fanned my hair, and as Iopened my eyes I saw that I was in an unfamiliar place--not the forestwhere I had left Cynthia, but in a terraced garden, under a great hill, wooded to the peak. Stone steps ran up through the terraces, the topmostof which was crowned by a long irregular building, very quaintlydesigned. I went up the steps, and, looking about me, caught sight oftwo figures seated on a wooden seat at a little distance from me, overlooking the valley. One of these was Cynthia. The other was a youngand beautiful woman; the two were talking earnestly together. SuddenlyCynthia turned and saw me, and rising quickly, came to me and caught mein her arms. 

"I was sure you were somewhere near me, dearest, " she said; "I dreamedof you last night, and you have been in my thoughts all day. "

My darling was in some way altered. She looked older, wiser, and calmer, but she was in my eyes even more beautiful. The other girl, who hadlooked at us in surprise for a moment, rose too and came shyly forwards. Cynthia caught her hand, and presented her to me, adding, "And now youmust leave us alone for a little, if you will forgive me for asking it, for we have much to ask and to say. "

The girl smiled and went off, looking back at us, I thought, half-enviously. 

We went and sat down on the seat, and Cynthia said:

"Something has happened to you, dear one, I see, since I saw youlast--something great and glorious. "

"Yes, " I said, "you are right; I have seen the beginning and the end;and I have not yet learned to understand it. But I am the same, Cynthia, and yours utterly. We will speak of this later. Tell me first what hashappened to you, and what this place is. I will not waste time intalking; I want to hear you talk and to see you talk. How often have Ilonged for that!"

Cynthia took my hand in both of her own, and then unfolded to me herstory. She had lived long in the forest, alone with the child, and thenthe day had come when the desire to go farther had arisen in his mind, and he had left her, and she had felt strangely desolate, till she toohad been summoned. 

"And this place--how can I describe it?" she said. "It is a home forspirits who have desired love on earth, and who yet, from some accidentof circumstance, have never found one to love them with any intimacy ofpassion. How strange it is to think, " she went on, "that I, just by theinheritance of beauty, was surrounded with love and the wrong sort oflove, so that I never learned to love rightly and truly; while so many, just from some lack of beauty, some homeliness or ungainliness offeature or carriage, missed the one kind of love that would havesustained and fed them--have never been held in a lover's arms, or helda child of their own against their heart. And so, " she went on smiling, "many of them lavished their tenderness upon animals or crafty servantsor selfish relations; and grew old and fanciful and petulant beforetheir time. It seems a sad waste of life that! Because so many of themare spirits that could have loved finely and devotedly all the time. Buthere, " she said, "they unlearn their caprices, and live a life bystrict rule--and they go out hence to have the care of children, or totend broken lives into tranquillity--and some of them, nay most of them, find heavenly lovers of their own. They are odd, fractious people atfirst, curiously concerned about health and occupation and one can oftendo nothing but listen to their complaints. But they find their way outin time, and one can help them a little, as soon as they begin todesire to hear something of other lives but their own. They have tolearn to turn love outwards instead of inwards; just as I, " she addedlaughing, "had to turn my own love inwards instead of outwards. "

Then I told Cynthia what I could tell of my own experiences, and sheheard them with astonishment. Then I said:

"What surprises me about it, is that I seem somehow to have been givenmore than I can hold. I have a very shallow and trivial nature, like astream that sparkles pleasantly enough over a pebbly bottom, but inwhich no boat or man can swim. I have always been absorbed in theobservation of details and in the outside of things. I spent so muchenergy in watching the faces and gestures and utterances and tricks ofthose about me that I never had the leisure to look into their hearts. And now these great depths have opened before me, and I feel morechildish and feeble than ever, like a frail glass which holds a mostprecious liquor, and gains brightness and glory from the hues of thewine it holds, but is not like the gem, compact of colour and radiance. "

Cynthia laughed at me. 

"At all events, you have not forgotten how to make metaphors, " she said. 

"No, " said I, "that is part of the mischief, that I see the likenessesof things and not their essences. " At which she laughed again moresoftly, and rested her cheek on my shoulder. 

Then I told her of the departure of Amroth. 

"That is wonderful, " she said. 

And then I told her of my own approaching departure, at which she grewsad for a moment. Then she said, "But come, let us not waste time inforebodings. Will you come with me into the house to see the likenessesof things, or shall we have an hour alone together, and try to look intoessences?"

I caught her by the hand. 

"No, " I said, "I care no more about the machinery of theseinstitutions. I am the pilgrim of love, and not the student oforganisations. If you may quit your task, and leave your ladies toregretful memories of their lap-dogs, let us go out together for alittle, and say what we can--for I am sure that my time is approaching. "

Cynthia smiled and left me, and returned running; and then we rambledoff together, up the steep paths of the woodland, to the mountain-top, from which we had a wide prospect of the heavenly country, a great bluewell-watered plain lying out for leagues before us, with the shapes ofmysterious mountains in the distance. But I can give no account of allwe said or did, for heart mingled with heart, and there was little needof speech. And even so, in those last sweet hours, I could not helpmarvelling at how utterly different Cynthia's heart and mind were frommy own; even then it was a constant shock of surprise that we shouldunderstand each other so perfectly, and yet feel so differently aboutso much. It seemed to me that, even after all I had seen and suffered, my heart was still bent on taking and Cynthia's on giving. I seemed tosee my own heart through Cynthia's, while she appeared to see mine butthrough her own. We spoke of our experiences, and of our many friends, now hidden from us--and at last we spoke of Lucius. And then Cynthiasaid:

"It is strange, dearest, that now and then there should yet remain anydoubt at all in my mind about your wish or desire; but I must speak; andbefore I speak, I will say that whatever you desire, I will do. But Ithink that Lucius has need of me, and I am his, in a way which I cannotdescribe. He is halting now in his way, and he is unhappy because hislife is incomplete. May I help him?"

At this there struck through me a sharp and jealous pang; and a darkcloud seemed to float across my mind for a moment. But I set all aside, and thought for an instant of the vision of God. And then I said:

"Yes, Cynthia! I had wondered too; and it seems perhaps like the lasttaint of earth, that I would, as it were, condemn you to a sort ofwidowhood of love when I am gone. But you must follow your own heart, and its pure and sweet advice, and the Will of Love; and you must useyour treasure, not hoard it for me in solitude. Dearest, I trust you andworship you utterly and entirely. It is through you and your love that Ihave found my way to the heart of God; and if indeed you can takeanother heart thither, you must do it for love's own sake. " And afterthis we were silent for a long space, heart blending wholly with heart. 

Then suddenly I became aware that some one was coming up through thewood, to the rocks where we sat: and Cynthia clung close to me, and Iknew that she was sorrowful to death. And then I saw Lucius come up outof the wood, and halt for a moment at the sight of us together. Then hecame on almost reverently, and I saw that he carried in his hand asealed paper like that which had been given to Amroth; and I read it andfound my summons written. 

Then while Lucius stood beside me, with his eyes upon the ground, Isaid:

"I must go in haste; and I have but one thing to do. We have spoken, Cynthia and I, of the love you have long borne her; and she is yoursnow, to comfort and lead you as she has led and comforted me. This isthe last sacrifice of love, to give up love itself; and this I do verywillingly for the sake of Him that loves us: and here, " I said, "is astrange thing, that at the very crown and summit of life, for I am surethat this is so, we should be three hearts, so full of love, and yet sosorrowing and suffering as we are. Is pain indeed the end of all?"

"No, " said Cynthia, "it is not the end, and yet only by it can wemeasure the depth and height of love. If we look into our hearts, weknow that in spite of all we are more than rewarded, and more thanconquerors. "

Then I took Cynthia's hand and laid it in the hand of Lucius; and I leftthem there upon the peak, and turned no more. And no more woeful spiritwas in the land of heaven that day than mine as I stumbled wearily downthe slope, and found the valley. And then, for I did not know the way todescend, I commended myself to God; and He took me. 

XXXVI

I saw that I was standing in a narrow muddy road, with deep ruts, whichled up from the bank of a wide river--a tidal river, as I could see, from the great mudflats fringed with seaweed. The sun blazed down uponthe whole scene. Just below was a sort of landing-place, where lay anumber of long, low boats, shaded with mats curved like the hood of awaggon; a little farther out was a big quaint ship, with a high sternand yellow sails. Beyond the river rose great hills, thickly clothedwith vegetation. In front of me, along the roadside, stood a number ofmud-walled huts, thatched with some sort of reeds; beyond these, on theleft, was the entrance of a larger house, surrounded with high walls, the tops of trees, with a strange red foliage, appearing over theenclosure, and the tiled roofs of buildings. Farther still were thewalls of a great town, huge earthworks crowned with plasteredfortifications, and a gate, with a curious roof to it, running out ateach end into horns carved of wood. At some distance, out of a grove tothe right, rose a round tapering tower of mouldering brickwork. The restof the nearer country seemed laid out in low plantations of somegreen-leaved shrub, with rice-fields interspersed in the more levelground. 

There were only a few people in sight. Some men with arms and legsbare, and big hats made of reeds, were carrying up goods from thelanding-place, and a number of children, pale and small-eyed, dirty andhalf-naked, were playing about by the roadside. I went a few paces upthe road, and stopped beside a house, a little larger than the rest, with a rough verandah by the door. Here a middle-aged man was seated, plaiting something out of reeds, but evidently listening for soundswithin the house, with an air half-tranquil, half-anxious; by him on aslab stood something that looked like a drum, and a spray of azaleaflowers. While I watched, a man of a rather superior rank, with a darkflowered jacket and a curious hat, looked out of a door which opened onthe verandah and beckoned him in; a sound of low subdued wailing cameout from the house, and I knew that my time was hard at hand. It wasstrange and terrible to me at the moment to realise that my life was tobe bound up, I knew not for how long, with this remote place; but I wasconscious too of a deep excitement, as of a man about to start upon arace on which much depends. There came a groan from the interior of thehouse, and through the half-open door I could see two or three dimfigures standing round a bed in a dark and ill-furnished room. One ofthe figures bent down, and I could see the face of a woman, very pale, the eyes closed, and the lips open, her arms drawn up over her head asin an agony of pain. Then a sudden dimness came over me, and a deadlyfaintness. I stumbled through the verandah to the open door. Thedarkness closed in upon me, and I knew no more. 

THE END