{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15964/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15964","id":"gutenberg_15964","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15964","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Fantasy fiction","Near-death experiences -- Fiction","Religious fiction","Spiritual life -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                         THE CHILD OF THE DAWN\n\n                     By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON\n\n                 FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE\n\n      [Greek: edu ti tharsaleais ton makron teiein bion elpisin]\n\nAuthor of THE UPTON LETTERS, FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW, BESIDE STILL WATERS,\nTHE ALTAR FIRE, THE SCHOOLMASTER, AT LARGE, THE GATE OF DEATH, THE\nSILENT ISLE, JOHN RUSKIN, LEAVES OF THE TREE, CHILD OF THE DAWN, PAUL\nTHE MINSTREL\n\n                                 1912\n\n\n\n\nTo MY BEST AND DEAREST FRIEND\nHERBERT FRANCIS WILLIAM TATHAM\nIN LOVE AND HOPE\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nI think that a book like the following, which deals with a subject so\ngreat and so mysterious as our hope of immortality, by means of an\nallegory or fantasy, needs a few words of preface, in order to clear\naway at the outset any misunderstandings which may possibly arise in a\nreader's mind. Nothing is further from my wish than to attempt any\nphilosophical or ontological exposition of what is hidden behind the\nveil of death. But one may be permitted to deal with the subject\nimaginatively or poetically, to translate hopes into visions, as I have\ntried to do.\n\nThe fact that underlies the book is this: that in the course of a very\nsad and strange experience--an illness which lasted for some two years,\ninvolving me in a dark cloud of dejection--I came to believe\npractically, instead of merely theoretically, in the personal\nimmortality of the human soul. I was conscious, during the whole time,\nthat though the physical machinery of the nerves was out of gear, the\nsoul and the mind remained, not only intact, but practically unaffected\nby the disease, imprisoned, like a bird in a cage, but perfectly free in\nthemselves, and uninjured by the bodily weakness which enveloped them.\nThis was not all. I was led to perceive that I had been living life\nwith an entirely distorted standard of values; I had been ambitious,\ncovetous, eager for comfort and respect, absorbed in trivial dreams and\nchildish fancies. I saw, in the course of my illness, that what really\nmattered to the soul was the relation in which it stood to other souls;\nthat affection was the native air of the spirit; and that anything which\ndistracted the heart from the duty of love was a kind of bodily\ndelusion, and simply hindered the spirit in its pilgrimage.\n\nIt is easy to learn this, to attain to a sense of certainty about it,\nand yet to be unable to put it into practice as simply and frankly as\none desires to do! The body grows strong again and reasserts itself; but\nthe blessed consciousness of a great possibility apprehended and grasped\nremains.\n\nThere came to me, too, a sense that one of the saddest effects of\nwhat is practically a widespread disbelief in immortality, which\naffects many people who would nominally disclaim it, is that we think\nof the soul after death as a thing so altered as to be practically\nunrecognisable--as a meek and pious emanation, without qualities or aims\nor passions or traits--as a sort of amiable and weak-kneed sacristan in\nthe temple of God; and this is the unhappy result of our so often making\nreligion a pursuit apart from life--an occupation, not an atmosphere; so\nthat it seems impious to think of the departed spirit as interested in\nanything but a vague species of liturgical exercise.\n\nI read the other day the account of the death-bed of a great statesman,\nwhich was written from what I may call a somewhat clerical point of\nview. It was recorded with much gusto that the dying politician took no\ninterest in his schemes of government and cares of State, but found\nperpetual solace in the repetition of childish hymns. This fact had, or\nmight have had, a certain beauty of its own, if it had been expressly\nstated that it was a proof that the tired and broken mind fell back upon\nold, simple, and dear recollections of bygone love. But there was\nmanifest in the record a kind of sanctimonious triumph in the extinction\nof all the great man's insight and wisdom. It seemed to me that the\nright treatment of the episode was rather to insist that those great\nqualities, won by brave experience and unselfish effort, were only\ntemporarily obscured, and belonged actually and essentially to the\nspirit of the man; and that if heaven is indeed, as we may thankfully\nbelieve, a place of work and progress, those qualities would be actively\nand energetically employed as soon as the soul was freed from the\ntrammels of the failing body.\n\nAnother point may also be mentioned. The idea of transmigration and\nreincarnation is here used as a possible solution for the extreme\ndifficulties which beset the question of the apparently fortuitous\nbrevity of some human lives. I do not, of course, propound it as\nliterally and precisely as it is here set down--it is not a forecast of\nthe future, so much as a symbolising of the forces of life--but _the\nrenewal of conscious experience_, in some form or other, seems to be the\nonly way out of the difficulty, and it is that which is here indicated.\nIf life is a probation for those who have to face experience and\ntemptation, how can it be a probation for infants and children, who die\nbefore the faculty of moral choice is developed? Again, I find it very\nhard to believe in any multiplication of human souls. It is even more\ndifficult for me to believe in the creation of new souls than in the\ncreation of new matter. Science has shown us that there is no actual\naddition made to the sum of matter, and that the apparent creation of\nnew forms of plants or animals is nothing more than a rearrangement of\nexisting particles--that if a new form appears in one place, it merely\nmeans that so much matter is transferred thither from another place. I\nfind it, I say, hard to believe that the sum total of life is actually\nincreased. To put it very simply for the sake of clearness, and\naccepting the assumption that human life had some time a beginning on\nthis planet, it seems impossible to think that when, let us say, the two\nfirst progenitors of the race died, there were but two souls in heaven;\nthat when the next generation died there were, let us say, ten souls in\nheaven; and that this number has been added to by thousands and\nmillions, until the unseen world is peopled, as it must be now, if no\nreincarnation is possible, by myriads of human identities, who, after\na single brief taste of incarnate life, join some vast community of\nspirits in which they eternally reside. I do not say that this latter\nbelief may not be true; I only say that in default of evidence, it seems\nto me a difficult faith to hold; while a reincarnation of spirits, if\none could believe it, would seem to me both to equalise the inequalities\nof human experience, and give one a lively belief in the virtue and\nworth of human endeavour. But all this is set down, as I say, in a\ntentative and not in a philosophical form.\n\nAnd I have also in these pages kept advisedly clear of Christian\ndoctrines and beliefs; not because I do not believe wholeheartedly in\nthe divine origin and unexhausted vitality of the Christian revelation,\nbut because I do not intend to lay rash and profane hands upon the\nhighest and holiest of mysteries.\n\nI will add one word about the genesis of the book. Some time ago I\nwrote a number of short tales of an allegorical type. It was a curious\nexperience. I seemed to have come upon them in my mind, as one comes\nupon a covey of birds in a field. One by one they took wings and flew;\nand when I had finished, though I was anxious to write more tales, I\ncould not discover any more, though I beat the covert patiently to\ndislodge them.\n\nThis particular tale rose unbidden in my mind. I was never conscious\nof creating any of its incidents. It seemed to be all there from the\nbeginning; and I felt throughout like a man making his way along a road,\nand describing what he sees as he goes. The road stretched ahead of me;\nI could not see beyond the next turn at any moment; it just unrolled\nitself inevitably and, I will add, very swiftly to my view, and was thus\na strange and momentous experience.\n\nI will only add that the book is all based upon an intense belief in\nGod, and a no less intense conviction of personal immortality and\npersonal responsibility. It aims at bringing out the fact that our life\nis a very real pilgrimage to high and far-off things from mean and\nsordid beginnings, and that the key of the mystery lies in the frank\nfacing of experience, as a blessed process by which the secret purpose\nof God is made known to us; and, even more, in a passionate belief in\nLove, the love of friend and neighbour, and the love of God; and in the\nabsolute faith that we are all of us, from the lowest and most degraded\nhuman soul to the loftiest and wisest, knit together with chains of\ninfinite nearness and dearness, under God, and in Him, and through Him,\nnow and hereafter and for evermore.\n\nA.C.B.\n\nTHE OLD LODGE, MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, _January_, 1912.\n\n\n\n\nThe Child of the Dawn\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nCertainly the last few moments of my former material, worn-out life, as\nI must still call it, were made horrible enough for me. I came to, after\nthe operation, in a deadly sickness and ghastly confusion of thought. I\nwas just dimly conscious of the trim, bare room, the white bed, a figure\nor two, but everything else was swallowed up in the pain, which filled\nall my senses at once. Yet surely, I thought, it is all something\noutside me? ... my brain began to wander, and the pain became a thing.\nIt was a tower of stone, high and blank, with a little sinister window\nhigh up, from which something was every now and then waved above the\nhouse-roofs.... The tower was gone in a moment, and there was a heap\npiled up on the floor of a great room with open beams--a granary,\nperhaps. The heap was of curved sharp steel things like sickles:\nsomething moved and muttered underneath it, and blood ran out on the\nfloor. Then I was instantly myself, and the pain was with me again; and\nthen there fell on me a sense of faintness, so that the cold sweat-drops\nran suddenly out on my brow. There came a smell of drugs, sharp and\npungent, on the air. I heard a door open softly, and a voice said, \"He\nis sinking fast--they must be sent for at once.\" Then there were more\npeople in the room, people whom I thought I had known once, long ago;\nbut I was buried and crushed under the pain, like the thing beneath the\nheap of sickles. There swept over me a dreadful fear; and I could see\nthat the fear was reflected in the faces above me; but now they were\nstrangely distorted and elongated, so that I could have laughed, if only\nI had had the time; but I had to move the weight off me, which was\ncrushing me. Then a roaring sound began to come and go upon the air,\nlouder and louder, faster and faster; the strange pungent scent came\nagain; and then I was thrust down under the weight, monstrous,\ninsupportable; further and further down; and there came a sharp bright\nstreak, like a blade severing the strands of a rope drawn taut and\ntense; another and another; one was left, and the blade drew near....\n\nI fell suddenly out of the sound and scent and pain into the most\nincredible and blessed peace and silence. It would have been like a\nsleep, but I was still perfectly conscious, with a sense of unutterable\nand blissful fatigue; a picture passed before me, of a calm sea, of vast\ndepth and clearness. There were cliffs at a little distance, great\nheadlands and rocky spires. I seemed to myself to have left them, to\nhave come down through them, to have embarked. There was a pale light\neverywhere, flushed with rose-colour, like the light of a summer dawn;\nand I felt as I had once felt as a child, awakened early in the little\nold house among the orchards, on a spring morning; I had risen from my\nbed, and leaning out of my window, filled with a delightful wonder,\nI had seen the cool morning quicken into light among the dewy\napple-blossoms. That was what I felt like, as I lay upon the moving\ntide, glad to rest, not wondering or hoping, not fearing or expecting\nanything--just there, and at peace.\n\nThere seemed to be no time in that other blessed morning, no need to\ndo anything. The cliffs, I did not know how, faded from me, and the\nboundless sea was about me on every side; but I cannot describe the\ntimelessness of it. There are no human words for it all, yet I must\nspeak of it in terms of time and space, because both time and space\nwere there, though I was not bound by them.\n\nAnd here first I will say a few words about the manner of speech I shall\nuse. It is very hard to make clear, but I think I can explain it in an\nimage. I once walked alone, on a perfect summer day, on the South Downs.\nThe great smooth shoulders of the hills lay left and right, and, in\nfront of me, the rich tufted grass ran suddenly down to the plain, which\nstretched out before me like a map. I saw the fields and woods, the\nminute tiled hamlet-roofs, the white roads, on which crawled tiny carts.\nA shepherd, far below, drove his flock along a little deep-cut lane\namong high hedges. The sounds of earth came faintly and sweetly up,\nobscure sounds of which I could not tell the origin; but the tinkling of\nsheep-bells was the clearest, and the barking of the shepherd-dog. My\nown dog sat beside me, watching my face, impatient to be gone. But at\nthe barking he pricked up his ears, put his head on one side, and\nwondered, I saw, where that companionable sound came from. What he made\nof the scene I do not know; the sight of the fruitful earth, the homes\nof men, the fields and waters, filled me with an inexpressible emotion,\na wide-flung hope, a sense of the immensity and intricacy of life. But\nto my dog it meant nothing at all, though he saw just what I did. To him\nit was nothing but a great excavation in the earth, patched and streaked\nwith green. It was not then the scene itself that I loved; that was only\na symbol of emotions and ideas within me. It touched the spring of a\nhost of beautiful thoughts; but the beauty and the sweetness were the\ncontribution of my own heart and mind.\n\nNow in the new world in which I found myself, I approached the thoughts\nof beauty and loveliness direct, without any intervening symbols at all.\nThe emotions which beautiful things had aroused in me upon earth were\nall there, in the new life, but not confused or blurred, as they had\nbeen in the old life, by the intruding symbols of ugly, painful, evil\nthings. That was all gone like a mist. I could not think an evil or an\nugly thought.\n\nFor a period it was so with me. For a long time--I will use the words\nof earth henceforth without any explanation--I abode in the same calm,\nuntroubled peace, partly in memory of the old days, partly in the new\nvisions. My senses seemed all blended in one sense; it was not sight or\nhearing or touch--it was but an instant apprehension of the essence of\nthings. All that time I was absolutely alone, though I had a sense of\nbeing watched and tended in a sort of helpless and happy infancy. It was\nalways the quiet sea, and the dawning light. I lived over the scenes of\nthe old life in a vague, blissful memory. For the joy of the new life\nwas that all that had befallen me had a strange and perfect\nsignificance. I had lived like other men. I had rejoiced, toiled,\nschemed, suffered, sinned. But it was all one now. I saw that each\ninfluence had somehow been shaping and moulding me. The evil I had done,\nwas it indeed evil? It had been the flowering of a root of bitterness,\nthe impact of material forces and influences. Had I ever desired it?\nNot in my spirit, I now felt. Sin had brought me shame and sorrow, and\nthey had done their work. Repentance, contrition--ugly words! I laughed\nsoftly at the thought of how different it all was from what I had\ndreamed. I was as the lost sheep found, as the wayward son taken home;\nand should I spoil my joy with recalling what was past and done with for\never? Forgiveness was not a process, then, a thing to be sued for and to\nbe withheld; it was all involved in the glad return to the breast of God.\n\nWhat was the mystery, then? The things that I had wrought, ignoble,\ncruel, base, mean, selfish--had I ever willed to do them? It seemed\nimpossible, incredible. Were those grievous things still growing,\nseeding, flowering in other lives left behind? Had they invaded,\ncorrupted, hurt other poor wills and lives? I could think of them no\nlonger, any more than I could think of the wrongs done to myself. Those\nhad not hurt me either. Perhaps I had still to suffer, but I could not\nthink of that. I was too much overwhelmed with joy. The whole thing\nseemed so infinitely little and far away. So for a time I floated on the\nmoving crystal of the translucent sea, over the glimmering deeps, the\ndawn above me, the scenes of the old life growing and shaping themselves\nand fading without any will of my own, nothing within or without me but\nineffable peace and perfect joy.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nI knew quite well what had happened to me; that I had passed through\nwhat mortals call Death: and two thoughts came to me; one was this.\nThere had been times on earth when one had felt sure with a sort of deep\ninstinct that one could not really ever die; yet there had been hours of\nweariness and despair when one had wondered whether death would not mean\na silent blankness. That thought had troubled me most, when I had\nfollowed to the grave some friend or some beloved. The mouldering form,\nshut into the narrow box, was thrust with a sense of shame and disgrace\ninto the clay, and no word or sign returned to show that the spirit\nlived on, or that one would ever find that dear proximity again. How\nfoolish it seemed now ever to have doubted, ever to have been troubled!\nOf course it was all eternal and everlasting. And then, too, came a\nsecond thought. One had learned in life, alas, so often to separate what\nwas holy and sacred from daily life; there were prayers, liturgies,\nreligious exercises, solemnities, Sabbaths--an oppressive strain, too\noften, and a banishing of active life. Brought up as one had been, there\nhad been a mournful overshadowing of thought, that after death, and with\nGod, it would be all grave and constrained and serious, a perpetual\nliturgy, an unending Sabbath. But now all was deliciously merged\ntogether. All of beautiful and gracious that there had been in religion,\nall of joyful and animated and eager that there had been in secular\nlife, everything that amused, interested, excited, all fine pictures,\ngreat poems, lovely scenes, intrepid thoughts, exercise, work, jests,\nlaughter, perceptions, fancies--they were all one now; only sorrow and\nweariness and dulness and ugliness and greediness were gone. The\nthought was fresh, pure, delicate, full of a great and mirthful content.\n\nThere were no divisions of time in my great peace; past, present, and\nfuture were alike all merged. How can I explain that? It seems so\nimpossible, having once seen it, that it should be otherwise. The day\ndid not broaden to the noon, nor fade to evening. There was no night\nthere. More than that. In the other life, the dark low-hung days, one\nseemed to have lived so little, and always to have been making\narrangements to live; so much time spent in plans and schemes, in\nalterations and regrets. There was this to be done and that to be\ncompleted; one thing to be begun, another to be cleared away; always in\nsearch of the peace which one never found; and if one did achieve it,\nthen it was surrounded, like some cast carrion, by a cloud of poisonous\nthoughts, like buzzing blue-flies. Now at last one lived indeed; but\nthere grew up in the soul, very gradually and sweetly, the sense that\none was resting, growing accustomed to something, learning the ways of\nthe new place. I became more and more aware that I was not alone; it was\nnot that I met, or encountered, or was definitely conscious of any\nthought that was not my own; but there were motions as of great winds in\nthe untroubled calm in which I lay, of vast deeps drawing past me. There\nwere hoverings and poisings of unseen creatures, which gave me neither\nawe nor surprise, because they were not in the range of my thought as\nyet; but it was enough to show me that I was not alone, that there was\nlife about me, purposes going forward, high activities.\n\nThe first time I experienced anything more definite was when suddenly I\nbecame aware of a great crystalline globe that rose like a bubble out of\nthe sea. It was of an incredible vastness; but I was conscious that I\ndid not perceive it as I had perceived things upon the earth, but that\nI apprehended it all together, within and without. It rose softly and\nswiftly out of the expanse. The surface of it was all alive. It had\nseas and continents, hills and valleys, woods and fields, like our own\nearth. There were cities and houses thronged with living beings; it was\na world like our own, and yet there was hardly a form upon it that\nresembled any earthly form, though all were articulate and definite,\nranging from growths which I knew to be vegetable, with a dumb and\nsightless life of their own, up to beings of intelligence and purpose.\nIt was a world, in fact, on which a history like that of our own world\nwas working itself out; but the whole was of a crystalline texture, if\ntexture it can be called; there was no colour or solidity, nothing but\nform and silence, and I realised that I saw, if not materially yet in\nthought, and recognised then, that all the qualities of matter, the\nsounds, the colours, the scents--all that depends upon material\nvibration--were abstracted from it; while form, of which the idea exists\nin the mind apart from all concrete manifestations, was still present.\nFor some time after that, a series of these crystalline globes passed\nthrough the atmosphere where I dwelt, some near, some far; and I saw in\nan instant, in each case, the life and history of each. Some were still\nall aflame, mere currents of molten heat and flying vapour. Some had the\nfirst signs of rudimentary life--some, again, had a full and organised\nlife, such as ours on earth, with a clash of nations, a stream of\ncommerce, a perfecting of knowledge. Others were growing cold, and the\nlife upon them was artificial and strange, only achieved by a highly\nintellectual and noble race, with an extraordinary command of natural\nforces, fighting in wonderfully constructed and guarded dwellings\nagainst the growing deathliness of a frozen world, and with a tortured\ndespair in their minds at the extinction which threatened them. There\nwere others, again, which were frozen and dead, where the drifting snow\npiled itself up over the gigantic and pathetic contrivances of a race\nliving underground, with huge vents and chimneys, burrowing further\ninto the earth in search of shelter, and nurturing life by amazing\nprocesses which I cannot here describe. They were marvellously wise,\nthose pale and shadowy creatures, with a vitality infinitely ahead of\nour own, a vitality out of which all weakly or diseased elements had\nlong been eliminated. And again there were globes upon which all seemed\ndead and frozen to the core, slipping onwards in some infinite progress.\nBut though I saw life under a myriad of new conditions, and with an\nendless variety of forms, the nature of it was the same as ours. There\nwas the same ignorance of the future, the same doubts and uncertainties,\nthe same pathetic leaning of heart to heart, the same wistful desire\nafter permanence and happiness, which could not be there or so attained.\n\nThen, too, I saw wild eddies of matter taking shape, of a subtlety that\nis as far beyond any known earthly conditions of matter as steam is\nabove frozen stone. Great tornadoes whirled and poised; globes of\nspinning fire flew off on distant errands of their own, as when the\nheavens were made; and I saw, too, the crash of world with world, when\nsatellites that had lost their impetus drooped inwards upon some central\nsun, and merged themselves at last with a titanic leap. All this enacted\nitself before me, while life itself flew like a pulse from system to\nsystem, never diminished, never increased, withdrawn from one to settle\non another. All this I saw and knew.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nI thought I could never be satiated by this infinite procession of\nwonders. But at last there rose in my mind, like a rising star, the need\nto be alone no longer. I was passing through a kind of heavenly infancy;\nand just as a day comes when a child puts out a hand with a conscious\nintention, not merely a blind groping, but with a need to clasp and\ncaress, or answers a smile by a smile, a word by a purposeful cry, so in\na moment I was aware of some one with me and near me, with a heart and a\nnature that leaned to mine and had need of me, as I of him. I knew him\nto be one who had lived as I had lived, on the earth that was\nours,--lived many lives, indeed; and it was then first that I became\naware that I had myself lived many lives too. My human life, which I had\nlast left, was the fullest and clearest of all my existences; but they\nhad been many and various, though always progressive. I must not now\ntell of the strange life histories that had enfolded me--they had risen\nin dignity and worth from a life far back, unimaginably elementary and\ninstinctive; but I felt in a moment that my new friend's life had been\nfar richer and more perfect than my own, though I saw that there were\nstill experiences ahead of both of us; but not yet. I may describe his\npresence in human similitudes, a presence perfectly defined, though\napprehended with no human sight. He bore a name which described\nsomething clear, strong, full of force, and yet gentle of access, like\nwater. It was just that; a thing perfectly pure and pervading, which\ncould be stained and troubled, and yet could retain no defilement or\nagitation; which a child could scatter and divide, and yet was\nabsolutely powerful and insuperable. I will call him Amroth. Him, I say,\nbecause though there was no thought of sex left in my consciousness,\nhis was a courageous, inventive, masterful spirit, which gave rather\nthan received, and was withal of a perfect kindness and directness, love\nundefiled and strong. The moment I became aware of his presence, I felt\nhim to be like one of those wonderful, pure youths of an Italian\npicture, whose whole mind is set on manful things, untroubled by the\nlove of woman, and yet finding all the world intensely gracious and\nbeautiful, full of eager frankness, even impatience, with long, slim,\nstraight limbs and close-curled hair. I knew him to be the sort of being\nthat painters and poets had been feeling after when they represented or\nspoke of angels. And I could not help laughing outright at the thought\nof the meek, mild, statuesque draped figures, with absurd wings and\ndepressing smiles, that encumbered pictures and churches, with whom no\nhuman communication would be possible, and whose grave and discomfiting\nglance would be fatal to all ease or merriment. I recognised in Amroth\na mirthful soul, full of humour and laughter, who could not be shocked\nby any truth, or hold anything uncomfortably sacred--though indeed he\nheld all things sacred with a kind of eagerness that charmed me. Instead\nof meeting him in dolorous pietistic mood, I met him, I remember, as at\nschool or college one suddenly met a frank, smiling, high-spirited youth\nor boy, who was ready at once to take comradeship for granted, and\nwalked away with one from a gathering, with an outrush of talk and plans\nfor further meetings. It was all so utterly unlike the subdued and\ncautious and sensitive atmosphere of devotion that it stirred us both,\nI was aware, to a delicious kind of laughter. And then came a swift\ninterchange of thought, which I must try to represent by speech, though\nspeech was none.\n\n\"I am glad to find you, Amroth,\" I said. \"I was just beginning to wonder\nif I was not going to be lonely.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"one has what one desires here; you had too much to see\nand learn at first to want my company. And yet I have been with you,\npointing out a thousand things, ever since you came here.\"\n\n\"Was it you,\" I said, \"that have been showing me all this? I thought I\nwas alone.\"\n\nAt which Amroth laughed again, a laugh full of content. \"Yes,\" he said,\n\"the crags and the sunset--do you not remember? I came down with you,\ncarrying you like a child in my arms, while you slept; and then I saw\nyou awake. You had to rest a long time at first; you had had much to\nbear--uncertainty--that is what tires one, even more than pain. And I\nhave been telling you things ever since, when you could listen.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"I have a hundred things to ask you; how strange it is to\nsee so much and understand so little!\"\n\n\"Ask away,\" said Amroth, putting an arm through mine.\n\n\"I was afraid,\" I said, \"that it would all be so different--like a\ncatechism 'Dost thou believe--is this thy desire?' But instead it seems\nso entirely natural and simple!\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it is\nhard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just as\nsurprising and interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: the\nonly things that are gone--for a time, that is--are the things that are\nugly and sad. But they are useful too in their way, though you have no\nneed to think of them now. Those are just the discipline, the training.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"what makes people so different from each other down\nthere--so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel,\nselfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind--like you, for\ninstance?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, \"of course I\ndon't mind--I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally!\nBut don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgusting\nlives are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin by\nbeing enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer.\nThe divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret.\"\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nOnce I said:\n\n\"Which kind of people do you find it hardest to help along?\"\n\n\"The young people,\" said Amroth, with a smile.\n\n\"Youth!\" I said. \"Why, down below, we think of youth as being so\ngenerous and ardent and imitative! We speak of youth as the time to\nlearn, and form fine habits; if a man is wilful and selfish in\nafter-life, we say that it was because he was too much indulged in\nchildhood--and we attach great importance to the impressions of youth.\"\n\n\"That is quite right,\" said Amroth, \"because the impressions of youth\nare swift and keen; but of course, here, age is not a question of years\nor failing powers. The old, here, are the wise and gracious and patient\nand gentle; the youth of the spirit is stupidity and unimaginativeness.\nOn the one hand are the stolid and placid, and on the other are the\nbrutal and cruel and selfish and unrestrained.\"\n\n\"You confuse me greatly,\" I said; \"surely you do not mean that spiritual\nlife and progress are a matter of intellectual energy?\"\n\n\"No, not at all,\" said he; \"the so-called intellectual people are often\nthe most stupid and youngest of all. The intellect counts for nothing:\nthat is only a kind of dexterity, a pretty game. The imagination is what\nmatters.\"\n\n\"Worse and worse!\" I said. \"Does salvation belong to poets and\nnovelists?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Amroth, \"that is a game too! The imagination I speak of\nis the power of entering into other people's minds and hearts, of\nputting yourself in their place--of loving them, in fact. The more you\nknow of people, the better chance there is of loving them; and you can\nonly find your way into their minds by imaginative sympathy. I will\ntell you a story which will show you what I mean. There was once a\nfamous writer on earth, of whose wisdom people spoke with bated breath.\nMen went to see him with fear and reverence, and came away, saying, 'How\nwonderful!' And this man, in his age, was waited upon by a little maid,\nan ugly, tired, tiny creature. People used to say that they wondered he\nhad not a better servant. But she knew all that he liked and wanted,\nwhere his books and papers were, what was good for him to do. She did\nnot understand a word of what he said, but she knew both when he had\ntalked too much, and when he had not talked enough, so that his mind was\npent up in itself, and he became cross and fractious. Now, in reality,\nthe little maid was one of the oldest and most beautiful of spirits. She\nhad lived many lives, each apparently humbler than the last. She never\ngrumbled about her work, or wanted to amuse herself. She loved the silly\nflies that darted about her kitchen, or brushed their black heads on\nthe ceiling; she loved the ivy tendrils that tapped on her window in the\nbreeze. She did not go to church, she had no time for that; or if she\nhad gone, she would not have understood what was said, though she would\nhave loved all the people there, and noticed how they looked and sang.\nBut the wise man himself was one of the youngest and stupidest of\nspirits, so young and stupid that he had to have a very old and wise\nspirit to look after him. He was eaten up with ideas and vanity, so that\nhe had no time to look at any one or think of anybody, unless they\npraised him. He has a very long pilgrimage before him, though he wrote\npretty songs enough, and his mortal body, or one of them, lies in the\nPoets' Corner of the Abbey, and people come and put wreaths there with\ntears in their eyes.\"\n\n\"It is very bewildering,\" I said, \"but I see a little more than I did.\nIt is all a matter of feeling, then? But it seems hard on people that\nthey should be so dull and stupid about it all,--that the truth should\nlie so close to their hand and yet be so carefully concealed.\"\n\n\"Oh, they grow out of dulness!\" he said, with a movement of his hand;\n\"that is what experience does for us--it is always going on; we get\nwidened and deepened. Why,\" he added, \"I have seen a great man, as they\ncalled him, clever and alert, who held a high position in the State. He\nwas laid aside by a long and painful illness, so that all his work was\nput away. He was brave about it, too, I remember; but he used to think\nto himself how sad and wasteful it was, that when he was most energetic\nand capable he should be put on the shelf--all the fine work he might\nhave done interrupted; all the great speeches he would have made\nunuttered. But as a matter of fact, he was then for the first time\ngrowing fast, because he had to look into the minds and hearts of all\nsorrowful and disappointed people, and to learn that what we do matters\nso little, and that what we are matters so much. When he did at last\nget back to the world, people said, 'What a sad pity to see so fine a\ncareer spoilt!' But out of all the years of all his lives, those years\nhad been his very best and richest, when he sat half the day feeble in\nthe sun, and could not even look at the papers which lay beside him, or\nwhen he woke in the grey mornings, with the thought of another miserable\nday of idleness and pain before him.\"\n\nI said, \"Then is it a bad thing to be busy in the world, because it\ntakes off your mind from the things which matter?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Amroth, \"not a bad thing at all: because two things are going\non. Partly the framework of society and life is being made, so that men\nare not ground down into that sordid struggle, when little experience is\npossible because of the drudgery which clouds all the mind. Though even\nthat has its opportunities! And all depends, for the individual, upon\nhow he is doing his work. If he has other people in mind all the time,\nand does his work for them, and not to be praised for it, then all is\nwell. But if he is thinking of his credit and his position, then he does\nnot grow at all; that is pomposity--a very youthful thing indeed; but\nthe worst case of all is if a man sees that the world must be helped and\nmade, and that one can win credit thus, and so engages in work of that\nkind, and deals in all the jargon of it, about using influence and\nliving for others, when he is really thinking of himself all the time,\nand trying to keep the eyes of the world upon him. But it is all growth\nreally, though sometimes, as on the beach when the tide is coming in,\nthe waves seem to draw backward from the land, and poise themselves in a\ncrest of troubled water.\"\n\n\"But is a great position in the world,\" I said, \"whether inherited or\nattained, a dangerous thing?\"\n\n\"Nothing is _dangerous_, child,\" he said. \"You must put all that out of\nyour mind. But men in high posts and stations are often not progressing\nevenly, only in great jogs and starts. They learn very often, with a\nsudden surprise, which is not always painful, and sometimes is very\nbeautiful and sweet, that all the ceremony and pomp, the great house,\nthe bows and the smiles, mean nothing at all--absolutely nothing, except\nthe chance, the opportunity of not being taken in by them. That is the\nuse of all pleasures and all satisfactions--the frame of mind which made\nthe old king say, 'Is not this great Babylon, which I have\nbuilded?'--they are nothing but the work of another class in the great\nschool of life. A great many people are put to school with\nself-satisfaction, that they may know the fine joy of humiliation, the\ndelight of learning that it is not effectiveness and applause that\nmatters, but love and peacefulness. And the great thing is that we\nshould feel that we are growing, not in hardness or indifference, nor\nnecessarily even in courage or patience, but in our power to feel and\nour power to suffer. As love multiplies, suffering must multiply too.\nThe very Heart of God is full of infinite, joyful, hopeful suffering;\nthe whole thing is so vast, so slow, so quiet, that the end of suffering\nis yet far off. But when we suffer, we climb fast; the spirit grows old\nand wise in faith and love; and suffering is the one thing we cannot\ndispense with, because it is the condition of our fullest and purest\nlife.\"\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nI said suddenly, \"The joy of this place is not the security of it, but\nthe fact that one has not to think about security. I am not afraid of\nanything that may happen, and there is no weariness of thought. One does\nnot think till one is tired, but till one has finished thinking.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"that was the misery of the poor body!\"\n\n\"And yet I used to think,\" I said, \"in the old days that I was grateful\nto the body for many pleasant things it gave me--breathing the air,\nfeeling the sun, eating and drinking, games and exercise, and the\nstrange thing one called love.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"all those things have to be made pleasant, or to\nappear so; otherwise no one could submit to the discipline at all; but\nof course the pleasure only got in the way of the thought and of the\nhappiness; it was not what one saw, tasted, smelt, felt, that one\ndesired, but the real thing behind it; even the purest thing of all, the\nsight and contact of one whom one loved, let us say, with no sensual\npassion at all, but with a perfectly pure love; what a torment that\nwas--desiring something which one could not get, the real fusion of\nfeeling and thought! But the poor body was always in the way then,\nsaying, 'Here am I--please me, amuse me.'\"\n\n\"But then,\" I said, \"what is the use of all that? Why should the pure,\nclear, joyful, sleepless life I now feel be tainted and hampered and\ndrugged by the body? I don't feel that I am losing anything by losing\nthe body.\"\n\n\"No, not losing,\" said Amroth, \"but, happy though you are, you are not\ngaining things as fast now--it is your time of rest and refreshment--but\nwe shall go back, both of us, to the other life again, when the time\ncomes: and the point is this, that we have got to win the best things\nthrough trouble and struggle.\"\n\n\"But even so,\" I said, \"there are many things I do not understand--the\nchild that opens its eyes upon the world and closes them again; the\nyoung child that suffers and dies, just when it is the darling of the\nhome; and at the other end of the scale, the helpless, fractious\ninvalid, or the old man who lives in weariness, wakeful and tortured,\nand who is glad just to sit in the sun, indifferent to every one and\neverything, past feeling and hoping and thinking--or, worst of all, the\npeople with diseased minds, whose pain makes them suspicious and\nmalignant. What is the meaning of all this pain, which seems to do\npeople nothing but harm, and makes them a burden to themselves and\nothers too?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said he, \"it is difficult enough; but you must remember that we\nare all bound up with the hearts and lives of others; the child that\ndies in its helplessness has a meaning for its parents; the child that\nlives long enough to be the light of its home, that has a significance\ndeep enough; and all those who have to tend and care for the sick, to\nlighten the burden and the sorrow for them, that has a meaning surely\nfor all concerned? The reason why we feel as we do about broken lives,\nwhy they seem so utterly purposeless, is because we have the proportion\nso wrong. We do not really, in fact, believe in immortality, when we are\nbound in the body--some few of us do, and many of us say that we do. But\nwe do not realise that the little life is but one in a great chain of\nlives, that each spirit lives many times, over and over. There is no\nsuch thing as waste or sacrifice of life. The life is meant to do just\nwhat it does, no more and no less; bound in the body, it all seems so\nlong or so short, so complete or so incomplete; but now and here we can\nsee that the whole thing is so endless, so immense, that we think no\nmore of entering life, say, for a few days, or entering it for ninety\nyears, than we should think of counting one or ninety water-drops in the\nriver that pours in a cataract over the lip of the rocks. Where we do\nlose, in life, is in not taking the particular experience, be it small\nor great, to heart. We try to forget things, to put them out of our\nminds, to banish them. Of course it is very hard to do otherwise, in a\nbody so finite, tossed and whirled in a stream so infinite; and thus we\nare happiest if we can live very simply and quietly, not straining to\nmultiply our uneasy activities, but just getting the most and the best\nout of the elements of life as they come to us. As we get older in\nspirit, we do that naturally; the things that men call ambitions and\nschemes are the signs of immaturity; and when we grow older, those slip\noff us and concern us no more; while the real vitality of feeling and\nemotion runs ever more clear and strong.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"can one revive the old lives at will? Can one look back\ninto the long range of previous lives? Is that permitted?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course it is permitted,\" said Amroth, smiling; \"there are no\nrules here; but one does not care to do it overmuch. One is just glad it\nis all done, and that one has learnt the lesson. Look back if you\nlike--there are all the lives behind you.\"\n\nI had a curious sensation--I saw myself suddenly a stalwart savage,\nstrangely attired for war, near a hut in a forest clearing. I was going\naway somewhere; there were other huts at hand; there was a fire, in the\nside of a mound, where some women seemed to be cooking something and\nwrangling over it; the smoke went up into the still air. A child came\nout of the hut, and ran to me. I bent down and kissed it, and it clung\nto me. I was sorry, in a dim way, to be going out--for I saw other\nfigures armed too, standing about the clearing. There was to be fighting\nthat day, and though I wished to fight, I thought I might not return.\nBut the mind of myself, as I discerned it, was full of hurtful, cruel,\nrapacious thoughts, and I was sad to think that this could ever have\nbeen I.\n\n\"It is not very nice,\" said Amroth with a smile; \"one does not care to\nrevive that! You were young then, and had much before you.\"\n\nAnother picture flashed into the mind. Was it true? I was a woman, it\nseemed, looking out of a window on the street in a town with high, dark\nhouses, strongly built of stone: there was a towered gate at a little\ndistance, with some figures drawing up sacks with a pulley to a door in\nthe gate. A man came up behind me, pulled me roughly back, and spoke\nangrily; I answered him fiercely and shrilly. The room I was in seemed\nto be a shop or store; there were barrels of wine, and bags of corn. I\nfelt that I was busy and anxious--it was not a pleasant retrospect.\n\n\"Yet you were better then,\" said Amroth \"you thought little of your\ndrudgery, and much of your children.\"\n\nYes, I had had children, I saw. Their names and appearance floated\nbefore me. I had loved them tenderly. Had they passed out of my life? I\nfelt bewildered.\n\nAmroth laid a hand on my arm and smiled again. \"No, you came near to\nsome of them again. Do you not remember another life in which you loved\na friend with a strange love, that surprised you by its nearness? He had\nbeen your child long before; and one never quite loses that.\"\n\nI saw in a flash the other life he spoke of. I was a student, it seemed,\nat some university, where there was a boy of my own age, a curious,\nwilful, perverse, tactless creature, always saying and doing the wrong\nthing, for whom I had felt a curious and unreasonable responsibility. I\nhad always tried to explain him to other people, to justify him; and he\nhad turned to me fop help and companionship in a singular way. I saw\nmyself walking with him in the country, expostulating, gesticulating;\nand I saw him angry and perplexed.... The vision vanished.\n\n\"But what becomes of all those whom we have loved?\" I said; \"it cannot\nbe as if we had never loved them.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said Amroth, \"they are all there or here; but there lies\none of the great mysteries which we cannot yet attain to. We shall be\nall brought together some time, closely and perfectly; but even now, in\nthe world of matter, the spirit half remembers; and when one is\nstrangely and lovingly drawn to another soul, when that love is not of\nthe body, and has nothing of passion in it, then it is some close\nancient tie reasserting itself. Do you not know how old and remote some\nof our friendships seemed--so much older and larger than could be\naccounted for by the brief days of companionship? That strange hunger\nfor the past of one we love is nothing but the faint memory of what has\nbeen. Indeed, when you have rested happily a little longer, you will\nmove farther afield, and you will come near to spirits you have loved.\nYou cannot bear it yet, though they are all about you; but one regains\nthe spiritual sense slowly after a life like yours.\"\n\n\"Can I revisit,\" I said, \"the scene of my last life--see and know what\nthose I loved are doing and feeling?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Amroth; \"that would not profit either you or them. The\nsorrow of earth would not be sorrow, it would have no cleansing power,\nif the parted spirit could return at once. You do not guess, either, how\nmuch of time has passed already since you came here--it seems to you\nlike yesterday, no doubt, since you last suffered death. To meet loss\nand sorrow upon earth, without either comfort or hope, is one of the\nfinest of lessons. When we are there, we must live blindly, and if we\nhere could make our presence known at once to the friends we leave\nbehind, it would be all too easy. It is in the silence of death that its\nvirtue lies.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I do not desire to return. This is all too wonderful. It\nis the freshness and sweetness of it all that comes home to me. I do\nnot desire to think of the body, and, strange to say, if I do think of\nit, the times that I remember gratefully are those when the body was\nfaint and weary. The old joys and triumphs, when one laughed and loved\nand exulted, seem to me to have something ugly about them, because one\nwas content, and wished things to remain for ever as they were. It was\nthe longing for something different that helped me; the acquiescence was\nthe shame.\"\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nOne day I said to Amroth, \"What a comfort it is to find that there is no\nreligion here!\"\n\n\"I know what you mean,\" he said. \"I think it is one of the things that\none wonders at most, to remember into how very small and narrow a thing\nreligion was made, and how much that was religious was never supposed to\nbe so.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"as I think of it now, it seems to have been a game\nplayed by a few players, a game with a great many rules.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"it was a game often enough; but of course the mischief\nof it was, that when it was most a game it most pretended to be\nsomething else--to contain the secret of life and all knowledge.\"\n\n\"I used to think,\" I said, \"that religion was like a noble and generous\nboy with the lyrical heart of a poet, made by some sad chance into a\nking, surrounded by obsequious respect and pomp and etiquette, bound by\na hundred ceremonious rules, forbidden to do this and that, taught to\nthink that his one duty was to be magnificently attired, to acquire\ngraceful arts of posture and courtesy, subtly and gently prevented from\nobeying natural and simple impulses, made powerless--a crowned slave; so\nthat, instead of being the freest and sincerest thing in the world, it\nbecame the prisoner of respectability and convention, just a part of the\nsocial machine.\"\n\n\"That was only one side of it,\" said Amroth. \"It was often where it was\nleast supposed to be.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"as far as I resent anything now, I resent the conversion\nof so much religion from an inspiring force into a repressive force. One\nlearnt as a child to think of it, not as a great moving flood of energy\nand joy, but as an awful power apart from life, rejoicing in petty\nrestrictions, and mainly concerned with creating an unreal atmosphere of\nnarrow piety, hostile to natural talk and laughter and freedom. God's\naid was invoked, in childhood, mostly when one was naughty and\ndisobedient, so that one grew to think of Him as grim, severe,\nirritable, anxious to interfere. What wonder that one lost all wish to\nmeet God and all natural desire to know Him! One thought of Him as\nimpossible to please except by behaving in a way in which it was not\nnatural to behave; and one thought of religion as a stern and dreadful\nprocess going on somewhere, like a law-court or a prison, which one had\nto keep clear of if one could. Yet I hardly see how, in the interests of\ndiscipline, it could have been avoided. If only one could have begun at\nthe other end!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"but that is because religion has fallen so much\ninto the hands of the wrong people, and is grievously misrepresented.\nIt has too often come to be identified, as you say, with human law, as a\npower which leaves one severely alone, if one behaves oneself, and which\npunishes harshly and mechanically if one outsteps the limit. It comes\ninto the world as a great joyful motive; and then it becomes identified\nwith respectability, and it is sad to think that it is simply from the\nfact that it has won the confidence of the world that it gains its awful\npower of silencing and oppressing. It becomes hostile to frankness and\nindependence, and puts a premium on caution and submissiveness; but that\nis the misuse of it and the degradation of it; and religion is still the\nmost pure and beautiful thing in the world for all that; the doctrine\nitself is fine and true in a way, if one can view it without impatience;\nit upholds the right things; it all makes for peace and order, and even\nfor humility and just kindliness; it insists, or tries to insist, on the\nfact that property and position and material things do not matter, and\nthat quality and method do matter. Of course it is terribly distorted,\nand gets into the hands of the wrong people--the people who want to keep\nthings as they are. Now the Gospel, as it first came, was a perfectly\nbeautiful thing--the idea that one must act by tender impulse, that one\nmust always forgive, and forget, and love; that one must take a natural\njoy in the simplest things, find every one and everything interesting\nand delightful ... the perfectly natural, just, good-humoured,\nuncalculating life--that was the idea of it; and that one was not to be\nsuperior to the hard facts of the world, not to try to put sorrow or\npain out of sight, but to live eagerly and hopefully in them and through\nthem; not to try to school oneself into hardness or indifference, but to\nlove lovable things, and not to condemn or despise the unlovable. That\nwas indeed a message out of the very heart of God. But of course all the\nacrid divisions and subdivisions of it come, not from itself, but from\nthe material part of the world, that determines to traffic with the\nbeautiful secret, and make it serve its turn. But there are plenty of\ntrue souls within it all, true teachers, faithful learners--and the\nworld cannot do without it yet, though it is strangely fettered and\nbound. Indeed, men can never do without it, because the spiritual force\nis there; it is full of poetry and mystery, that ageless brotherhood of\nsaints and true-hearted disciples; but one has to learn that many that\nclaim its powers have them not, while many who are outside all\norganisations have the secret.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"all that is true and good; it is the exclusive claim and\nnot the inclusive which one regrets. It is the voice which says, 'Accept\nmy exact faith, or you have no part in the inheritance,' which is wrong.\nThe real voice of religion is that which says, 'You are my brother and\nmy sister, though you know it not.' And if one says, 'We are all at\nfault, we are all far from the truth, but we live as best we can,\nlooking for the larger hope and for the dawn of love,' that is the\nsecret. The sacrament of God is offered and eaten at many a social meal,\nand the Spirit of Love finds utterance in quiet words from smiling lips.\nOne cannot teach by harsh precept, only by desirable example; and the\nworst of the correct profession of religion is that it is often little\nmore than taking out a licence to disapprove.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"you are very near a great truth. The mistake we\nmake is like the mistake so often made on earth in matters of human\ngovernment--the opposing of the individual to the State, as if the State\nwere something above and different to the individual--like the old\nthought of the Spirit moving on the face of the waters. The individual\nis the State; and it is the same with the soul and God. God is not above\nthe soul, seeing and judging, apart in isolation. The Spirit of God is\nthe spirit of humanity, the spirit of admiration, the spirit of love. It\nmatters little what the soul admires and loves, whether it be a flower\nor a mountain, a face or a cause, a gem or a doctrine. It is that\nwonderful power that the current of the soul has of setting towards\nsomething that is beautiful: the need to admire, to worship, to love. A\nregiment of soldiers in the street, a procession of priests to a\nsanctuary, a march of disordered women clamouring for their rights--if\nthe idea thrills you, if it uplifts you, it matters nothing whether\nother people dislike or despise or deride it--it is the voice of God for\nyou. We must advance from what is merely brilliant to what is true; and\nthough in the single life many a man seems to halt at a certain point,\nto have tied up his little packet of admirations once and for all, there\nare other lives where he will pass on to further loves, his passion\ngrowing more intense and pure. We are not limited by our circle, by our\ngeneration, by our age; and the things which youthful spirits are\ndivining and proclaiming as great and wonderful discoveries, are often\nbeing practised and done by silent and humble souls. It is not the\nconcise or impressive statement of a truth that matters, it is the\nintensity of the inner impulse towards what is high and true which\ndifferentiates. The more we live by that, the less are we inclined to\nargue and dispute about it. The base, the impure desire is only the\nimperfect desire; if it is gratified, it reveals its imperfections, and\nthe soul knows that not there can it stay; but it must have faced and\ntested everything. If the soul, out of timidity and conventionality,\nsays 'No' to its eager impulses, it halts upon its pilgrimage. Some of\nthe most grievous and shameful lives on earth have been fruitful enough\nin reality. The reason why we mourn and despond over them is, again,\nthat we limit our hope to the single life. There is time for everything;\nwe must not be impatient. We must despair of nothing and of no one; the\ntrue life consists not in what a man's reason approves or disapproves,\nnot in what he does or says, but in what he sees. It is useless to\nexplain things to souls; they must experience them to apprehend them.\nThe one treachery is to speak of mistakes as irreparable, and of sins as\nunforgivable. The sin against the Spirit is to doubt the Spirit, and the\nsin against life is not to use it generously and freely; we are happiest\nif we love others well enough to give our life to them; but it is better\nto use life for ourselves than not to use it at all.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nOne day I said to Amroth, \"Are there no rules of life here? It seems\nalmost too good to be true, not to be found fault with and censured and\nadvised and blamed.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Amroth, laughing, \"there are plenty of _rules_, as you call\nthem; but one feels them, one is not told them; it is like breathing and\nseeing.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I replied, \"yet it was like that, too, in the old days; the\nmisery was when one suddenly discovered that when one was acting in what\nseemed the most natural way possible, it gave pain and concern to some\none whom one respected and even loved. One knew that one's action was\nnot wrong, and yet one desired to please and satisfy one's friends; and\nso one fell back into conventional ways, not because one liked them but\nbecause other people did, and it was not worth while making a fuss--it\nwas a sort of cowardice, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" said Amroth; \"you were more on the right lines than the\npeople who interfered with you, no doubt; but of course the truth is\nthat our principles ought to be used, like a stick, to support\nourselves, not like a rod to beat other people with. The most difficult\npeople to teach, as you will see hereafter, are the self-righteous\npeople, whose lives are really pure and good, but who allow their\npreferences about amusements, occupations, ways of life, to become\nmatters of principle. The worst temptation in the world is the habit of\ninfluence and authority, the desire to direct other lives and to conform\nthem to one's own standard. The only way in which we can help other\npeople is by loving them; by frightening another out of something which\nhe is apt to do and of which one does not approve, one effects\nabsolutely nothing: sin cannot be scared away; the spirit must learn to\ndesire to cast it away, because it sees that goodness is beautiful and\nfine; and this can only be done by example, never by precept.\"\n\n\"But it is the entire absence of both that puzzles me here,\" I said.\n\"Nothing to do and a friend to talk to; it's a lazy business, I think.\"\n\nAmroth looked at me with amusement. \"It's a sign,\" he said, \"if you feel\nthat, that you are getting rested, and ready to move on; but you will be\nvery much surprised when you know a little more about the life here. You\nare like a baby in a cradle at present; when you come to enter one of\nour communities here, you will find it as complicated a business as you\ncould wish. Part of the difficulty is that there are no rules, to use\nyour own phrase. It is real democracy, but it is not complicated by any\nquestions of property, which is the thing that clogs all political\nprogress in the world below. There is nothing to scheme for, no\nambitions to gratify, nothing to gain at the expense of others; the only\nthing that matters is one's personal relation to others; and this is\nwhat makes it at once so simple and so complex. But I do not think it is\nof any use to tell you all this; you will see it in a flash, when the\ntime comes. But it may be as well for you to remember that there will be\nno one to command you or compel you or advise you. Your own heart and\nspirit will be your only guides. There is no such thing as compulsion or\nforce in heaven. Nothing can be done to you that you do not choose or\nallow to be done.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"it is the blessed and beautiful sense of freedom from\nall ties and influences and fears that is so utterly blissful.\"\n\n\"But this is not all,\" said Amroth, shaking his head with a smile.\n\"This is a time of rest for you, but things are very different elsewhere.\nWhen you come to enter heaven itself, you will be constantly surprised.\nThere are labour and fear and sorrow to be faced; and you must not\nthink it is a place for drifting pleasantly along. The moral struggle\nis the same--indeed it is fiercer and stronger than ever, because there\nis no bodily languor or fatigue to distract. There are choices to be\nmade, duties to perform, evil to be faced. The bodily temptations\nare absent, but there is still that which lay behind the bodily\nfrailties--curiosity, love of sensation, excitement, desire; the strong\nduality of nature--the knowledge of duty on the one hand and the\nindolent shrinking from performance--that is all there; there is the\nsame sense of isolation, and the same need for patient endeavour as upon\nearth. All that one gets is a certain freedom of movement; one is not\nbound to places and employments by the material ties of earth; but you\nmust not think that it is all to be easy and straightforward. We can\neach of us by using our wills shorten our probation, by not resisting\ninfluences, by putting our hearts and minds in unison with the will of\nGod for us; and that is easier in heaven than upon earth, because there\nis less to distract us. But on the other hand, there is more temptation\nto drift, because there are no material consequences to stimulate us.\nThere are many people on earth who exercise a sort of practical virtue\nsimply to avoid material inconveniences, while there is no such motive\nin heaven; I say all this not to disturb your present tranquillity,\nwhich it is your duty now to enjoy, but just to prepare you. You must be\nprepared for effort and for endeavour, and even for strife. You must use\nright judgment, and, above all, common sense; one does not get out of\nthe reach of that in heaven!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nThese are only some of the many talks I had with Amroth. They ranged\nover a great many subjects and thoughts. What I cannot indicate,\nhowever, is the lightness and freshness of them; and above all, their\nentire frankness and amusingness. There were times when we talked like\ntwo children, revived old simple adventures of life--he had lived far\nmore largely and fully than I had done--and I never tired of hearing the\ntales of his old lives, so much more varied and wonderful than my own.\nSometimes we merely told each other stories out of our imaginations and\nhearts. We even played games, which I cannot describe, but they were\nlike the games of earth. We seemed at times to walk and wander together;\nbut I had a sense all this time that I was, so to speak, in hospital,\nbeing tended and cared for, and not allowed to do anything wearisome or\ndemanding effort. But I became more and more aware of other spirits\nabout me, like birds that chirp and twitter in the ivy of a tower, or in\nthe thick bushes of a shrubbery. Amroth told me one day that I must\nprepare for a great change soon, and I found myself wondering what it\nwould be like, half excited about it, and half afraid, unwilling as I\nwas to lose the sweet rest, and the dear companionship of a friend who\nseemed like the crown and sum of all hopes of friendship. Amroth became\nutterly dear to me, and it was a joy beyond all joys to feel his happy\nand smiling nature bent upon me, hour by hour, in sympathy and\nunderstanding and love. He said to me laughingly once that I had much of\nearth about me yet, and that I must soon learn not to bend my thoughts\nso exclusively one way and on one friend.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I am not fit for heaven yet! I believe I am jealous; I\ncannot bear to think that you will leave me, or that any other soul\ndeserves your attention.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said lightly, \"this is my business and delight now--but you\nwill soon have to do for others what I am doing for you. You like this\neasy life at present, but you can hardly imagine how interesting it is\nto have some one given you for your own, as you were given to me. It is\nthe delight of motherhood and fatherhood in one; and when I was allowed\nto take you away out of the room where you lay--I admit it was not a\npleasant scene--I felt just like a child who is given a kitten for its\nvery own.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I have been a very satisfactory pet--I have done little\nelse but purr.\" I felt his eyes upon me in a wonderful nearness of love;\nand then I looked up and I saw that we were not alone.\n\nIt was then that I first perceived that there could be grief in heaven.\nI say \"first perceived,\" but I had known it all along. But by Amroth's\ngentle power that had been for a time kept away from me, that I might\nrest and rejoice.\n\nThe form before me was that of a very young and beautiful woman--so\nbeautiful that for a moment all my thought seemed to be concentrated\nupon her. But I saw, too, that all was not well with her. She was not at\npeace with herself, or her surroundings. In her great wide eyes there\nwas a look of pain, and of rebellious pain. She was attired in a robe\nthat was a blaze of colour; and when I wondered at this, for it was\nunlike the clear hues, pearly grey and gold, and soft roseate light that\nhad hitherto encompassed me, the voice of Amroth answered my unuttered\nquestion, and said, \"It is the image of her thought.\" Her slim white\nhands moved aimlessly over the robe, and seemed to finger the jewels\nwhich adorned it. Her lips were parted, and anything more beautiful than\nthe pure curves of her chin and neck I had seldom seen, though she\nseemed never to be still, as Amroth was still, but to move restlessly\nand wearily about. I knew by a sort of intuition that she was unaware\nof Amroth and only aware of myself. She seemed startled and surprised at\nthe sight of me, and I wondered in what form I appeared to her; in a\nmoment she spoke, and her voice was low and thrilling.\n\n\"I am so glad,\" she said in a half-courteous, half-distracted way, \"to\nfind some one in the place to whom I can speak. I seem to be always\nmoving in a crowd, and yet to see no one--they are afraid of me, I\nthink; and it is not what I expected, not what I am used to. I am in\nneed of help, I feel, and yet I do not know what sort of help it is that\nI want. May I stay with you a little?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" I said; \"there is no question of 'may' here.\"\n\nShe came up to me with a sort of proud confidence, and looked at me\nfixedly. \"Yes,\" she said, \"I see that I can trust you; and I am tired of\nbeing deceived!\" Then she added with a sort of pettishness, \"I have\nnowhere to go, nothing to do--it is all dull and cold. On earth it was\njust the opposite. I had only too much attention and love.... Oh, yes,\"\nshe added with a strange glance, \"it was what you would probably call\nsinful. The only man I ever loved did not care for me, and I was loved\nby many for whom I did not care. Well, I had my pleasures, and I suppose\nI must pay for them. I do not complain of that. But I am determined not\nto give way: it is unjust and cruel. I never had a chance. I was always\nbrought up to be admired from the first. We were rich at my home, and in\nsociety--you understand? I made what was called a good match, and I\nnever cared for my husband, but amused myself with other people; and it\nwas splendid while it lasted: then all kinds of horrible things\nhappened--scenes, explanations, a lawsuit--it makes me shudder to\nremember it all; and then I was ill, I suppose, and suddenly it was all\nover, and I was alone, with a feeling that I must try to take up with\nall kinds of tiresome things--all the things that bored me most. But now\nit may be going to be better; you can tell me where I can find people,\nperhaps? I am not quite unpresentable, even here? No, I can see that in\nyour face. Well, take me somewhere, show me something, find something\nfor me to do in this deadly place. I seem to have got into a perpetual\nsunset, and I am so sick of it all.\"\n\nI felt very helpless before this beautiful creature who seemed so\ntroubled and discontented. \"No,\" said the voice of Amroth beside me, \"it\nis of no use to talk; let her talk to you; let her make friends with you\nif she can.\"\n\n\"That's better,\" she said, looking at me. \"I was afraid you were going\nto be grave and serious. I felt for a minute as if I was going to be\nconfirmed.\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"you need not be disturbed; nothing will be done to you\nagainst your wish. One has but to wish here, or to be willing, and the\nright thing happens.\"\n\nShe came close to me as I said this, and said, \"Well, I think I shall\nlike you, if only you can promise not to be serious.\" Then she turned,\nand stood for a moment disconsolate, looking away from me.\n\nAll this while the atmosphere around me had been becoming lighter and\nclearer, as though a mist were rising. Suddenly Amroth said, \"You will\nhave to go with her for a time, and do what you can. I must leave you\nfor a little, but I shall not be far off; and if you need me, I shall be\nat hand. But do not call for me unless you are quite sure you need me.\"\nHe gave me a hand-clasp and a smile, and was gone.\n\nThen, looking about me, I saw at last that I was in a place. Lonely and\nbare though it was, it seemed to me very beautiful. It was like a grassy\nupland, with rocky heights to left and right. They were most delicate in\noutline, those crags, like the crags in an old picture, with sharp,\nsmooth curves, like a fractured crystal. They seemed to be of a creamy\nstone, and the shadows fell blue and distinct. Down below was a great\nplain full of trees and waters, all very dim. A path, worn lightly in\nthe grass, lay at my feet, and I knew that we must descend it. The girl\nwith me--I will call her Cynthia--was gazing at it with delight. \"Ah,\"\nshe said, \"I can see clearly now. This is something like a real place,\ninstead of mist and light. We can find people down here, no doubt; it\nlooks inhabited out there.\" She pointed with her hand, and it seemed to\nme that I could see spires and towers and roofs, of a fine and airy\narchitecture, at the end of a long horn of water which lay very blue\namong the woods of the plain. It puzzled me, because I had the sense\nthat it was all unreal, and, indeed, I soon perceived that it was the\ngirl's own thought that in some way affected mine. \"Quick, let us go,\"\nshe said; \"what are we waiting for?\"\n\nThe descent was easy and gradual. We came down, following the path, over\nthe hill-shoulders. A stream of clear water dripped among stones; it\nall brought back to me with an intense delight the recollection of long\ndays spent among such hills in holiday times on earth, but all without\nregret; I only wished that an old and dear friend of mine, with whom I\nhad often gone, might be with me. He had quitted life before me, and I\nknew somehow or hoped that I should before long see him; but I did not\nwish things to be otherwise; and, indeed, I had a strange interest in\nthe fretful, silly, lovely girl with me, and in what lay before us. She\nprattled on, and seemed to be recovering her spirits and her confidence\nat the sights around us. If I could but find anything that would draw\nher out of her restless mood into the peace of the morning! She had a\ncharm for me, though her impatience and desire for amusement seemed\nuninteresting enough; and I found myself talking to her as an elder\nbrother might, with terms of familiar endearment, which she seemed to be\ngrateful for. It was strange in a way, and yet it all appeared natural.\nThe more we drew away from the hills, the happier she became. \"Ah,\" she\nsaid once, \"we have got out of that hateful place, and now perhaps we\nmay be more comfortable,\"--and when we came down beside the stream to a\ngrove of trees, and saw something which seemed like a road beneath us,\nshe was delighted. \"That's more like it,\" she said, \"and now we may find\nsome real people perhaps,\"--she turned to me with a smile--\"though you\nare real enough too, and very kind to me; but I still have an idea that\nyou are a clergyman, and are only waiting your time to draw a moral.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nNow before I go on to tell the tale of what happened to us in the valley\nthere were two very curious things that I observed or began to observe.\n\nThe first was that I could not really see into the girl's thought. I\nbecame aware that though I could see into the thought of Amroth as\neasily and directly as one can look into a clear sea-pool, with all its\nrounded pebbles and its swaying fringes of seaweed, there was in the\ngirl's mind a centre of thought to which I was not admitted, a fortress\nof personality into which I could not force my way. More than that. When\nshe mistrusted or suspected me, there came a kind of cloud out from the\ncentral thought, as if a turbid stream were poured into the sea-pool,\nwhich obscured her thoughts from me, though when she came to know me\nand to trust me, as she did later, the cloud was gradually withdrawn;\nand I perceived that there must be a perfect sacrifice of will, an\nintention that the mind should lie open and unashamed before the thought\nof one's friend and companion, before the vision can be complete. With\nAmroth I desired to conceal nothing, and he had no concealment from me.\nBut with the girl it was different. There was something in her heart\nthat she hid from me, and by no effort could I penetrate it; and I saw\nthen that there is something at the centre of the soul which is our very\nown, and into which God Himself cannot even look, unless we desire that\nHe should look; and even if we desire that He should look into our\nsouls, if there is any timidity or shame or shrinking about us, we\ncannot open our souls to Him. I must speak about this later, when the\ngreat and wonderful day came to me, when I beheld God and was beheld by\nHim. But now, though when the girl trusted me I could see much of her\nthought, the inmost cell of it was still hidden from me.\n\nAnd then, too, I perceived another strange thing; that the landscape in\nwhich we walked was very plain to me, but that she did not see the same\nthings that I saw. With me, the landscape was such as I had loved most\nin my last experience of life; it was a land to me like the English\nhill-country which I loved the best; little fields of pasture mostly,\nwith hedgerow ashes and sycamores, and here and there a clear stream of\nwater running by the wood-ends. There were buildings, too, low\nwhite-walled farms, roughly slated, much-weathered, with evidences of\nhomely life, byre and barn and granary, all about them. These sloping\nfields ran up into high moorlands and little grey crags, with the trees\nand thickets growing in the rock fronts. I could not think that people\nlived in these houses and practised agriculture, though I saw with\nsurprise and pleasure that there were animals about, horses and sheep\ngrazing, and dogs that frisked in and out. I had always believed and\nhoped that animals had their share in the inheritance of light, and now\nI thought that this was a proof that it was indeed so, though I could\nnot be sure of it, because I realised that it might be but the thoughts\nof my mind taking shape, for, as I say, I was gradually aware that the\ngirl did not see what I saw. To her it was a different scene, of some\nsouthern country, because she seemed to see vineyards, and high-walled\nlanes, hill-crests crowded with houses and crowned with churches, such\nas one sees at a distance in the Campagna, where the plain breaks into\nchestnut-clad hills. But this difference of sight did not make me feel\nthat the scene was in any degree unreal; it was the idea of the\nlandscape which we loved, its pretty associations and familiar features,\nand the mind did the rest, translating it all into a vision of scenes\nwhich had given us joy on earth, just as we do in dreams when we are in\nthe body, when the sleeping mind creates sights which give us pleasure,\nand yet we have no knowledge that we are ourselves creating them. So we\nwalked together, until I perceived that we were drawing near to the town\nwhich we had discerned.\n\nAnd now we became aware of people going to and fro. Sometimes they\nstopped and looked upon us with smiles, and even greetings; and\nsometimes they went past absorbed in thought.\n\nHouses appeared, both small wayside abodes and larger mansions with\nsheltered gardens. What it all meant I hardly knew; but just as we have\nperfectly decided tastes on earth as to what sort of a house we like and\nwhy we like it, whether we prefer high, bright rooms, or rooms low and\nwith subdued light, so in that other country the mind creates what it\ndesires.\n\nPresently the houses grew thicker, and soon we were in a street--the\ntown to my eyes was like the little towns one sees in the Cotswold\ncountry, of a beautiful golden stone, with deep plinths and cornices,\nwith older and simpler buildings interspersed. My companion became\nstrangely excited, glancing this way and that. And presently, as if we\nwere certainly expected, there came up to us a kindly and grave person,\nwho welcomed us formally to the place, and said a few courteous words\nabout his pleasure that we should have chosen to visit it.\n\nI do not know how it was, but I did not wholly trust our host. His mind\nwas hidden from me; and indeed I began to have a sense, not of evil,\nindeed, or of oppression, but a feeling that it was not the place\nappointed for me, but only where my business was to lie for a season. A\ngroup of people came up to us and welcomed my companion with great\ncheerfulness, and she was soon absorbed in talk.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nNow before I come to tell this next part of my story, there are several\nthings which seem in want of explanation. I speak of people as looking\nold and young, and of there being relations between them such as\nfatherly and motherly, son-like and lover-like. It bewildered me at\nfirst, but I came to guess at the truth. It would seem that in the\nfurther world spirits do preserve for a long time the characteristics of\nthe age at which they last left the earth; but I saw no very young\nchildren anywhere at first, though I came afterwards to know what befell\nthem. It seemed to me that, in the first place I visited, the only\nspirits I saw were of those who had been able to make a deliberate\nchoice of how they would live in the world and which kind of desires\nthey would serve; it is very hard to say when this choice takes place\nin the world below, but I came to believe that, early or late, there\ndoes come a time when there is an opening out of two paths before each\nhuman soul, and when it realises that a choice must be made. Sometimes\nthis is made early in life; but sometimes a soul drifts on, guileless in\na sense, though its life may be evil and purposeless, not looking\nbackwards or forwards, but simply acting as its nature bids it act. What\nit is that decides the awakening of the will I hardly know; it is all a\nsecret growth, I think; but the older that the spirit is, in the sense\nof spiritual experience, the earlier in mortal life that choice is made;\nand this is only another proof of one of the things which Amroth showed\nme, that it is, after all, imagination which really makes the difference\nbetween souls, and not intellect or shrewdness or energy; all the real\nthings of life--sympathy, the power of entering into fine relations,\nhowever simple they may be, with others, loyalty, patience, devotion,\ngoodness--seem to grow out of this power of imagination; and the reason\nwhy the souls of whom I am going to speak were so content to dwell where\nthey were, was simply that they had no imagination beyond, but dwelt\nhappily among the delights which upon earth are represented by sound and\ncolour and scent and comeliness and comfort. This was a perpetual\nsurprise to me, because I saw in these fine creatures such a faculty of\ndelicate perception, that I could not help believing again and again\nthat their emotions were as deep and varied too; but I found little by\nlittle, that they were all bent, not on loving, and therefore on giving\nthemselves away to what they loved, but in gathering in perceptions and\nsensations, and finding their delight in them; and I realised that what\nlies at the root of the artistic nature is its deep and vital\nindifference to anything except what can directly give it delight, and\nthat these souls, for all their amazing subtlety and discrimination, had\nvery little hold on life at all, except on its outer details and\nsuperficial harmonies; and that they were all very young in experience,\nand like shallow waters, easily troubled and easily appeased; and that\ntherefore they were being dealt with like children, and allowed full\nscope for all their little sensitive fancies, until the time should come\nfor them to go further yet. Of course they were one degree older than\nthe people who in the world had been really immersed in what may be\ncalled solid interests and serious pursuits--science, politics,\norganisation, warfare, commerce--all these spirits were very youthful\nindeed, and they were, I suppose, in some very childish nursery of God.\nBut what first bewildered me was the finding of the earthly proportions\nof things so strangely reversed, the serious matters of life so utterly\nset aside, and so much made of the things which many people take no sort\nof trouble about, as companionships and affections, which are so often\nturned into a matter of mere propinquity and circumstance. But of this\nI shall have to speak later in its place.\n\nNow it is difficult to describe the time I spent in the land of delight,\nbecause it was all so unlike the life of the world, and yet was so\nstrangely like it. There was work going on there, I found, but the\nnature of it I could not discern, because that was kept hidden from me.\nMen and women excused themselves from our company, saying they must\nreturn to their work; but most of the time was spent in leisurely\nconverse about things which I confess from the first did not interest\nme. There was much wit and laughter, and there were constant games and\nassemblies and amusements. There were feasts of delicious things, music,\ndramas. There were books read and discussed; it was just like a very\ncultivated and civilised society. But what struck me about the people\nthere was that it was all very restless and highly-strung, a perpetual\ntasting of pleasures, which somehow never pleased. There were two people\nthere who interested me most. One was a very handsome and courteous\nman, who seemed to desire my company, and spoke more freely than the\nrest; the other a young man, who was very much occupied with the girl,\nmy companion, and made a great friendship with her. The elder of the\ntwo, for I must give them names, shall be called Charmides, which seems\nto correspond with his stately charm, and the younger may be known as\nLucius.\n\nI sat one day with Charmides, listening to a great concert of stringed\nand wind instruments, in a portico which gave on a large sheltered\ngarden. He was much absorbed in the music, which was now of a brisk and\nmeasured beauty, and now of a sweet seriousness which had a very\nluxurious effect upon my mind. \"It is wonderful to me,\" said Charmides,\nas the last movement drew to a close of liquid melody, \"that these\nsounds should pass into the heart like wine, heightening and uplifting\nthe thought--there is nothing so beautiful as the discrimination of\nmood with which it affects one, weighing one delicate phrase against\nanother, and finding all so perfect.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I can understand that; but I must confess that there\nseems to me something wanting in the melodies of this place. The music\nwhich I loved in the old days was the music which spoke to the soul of\nsomething further yet and unattainable; but here the music seems to have\nattained its end, and to have fulfilled its own desire.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Charmides, \"I know that you feel that; your mind is very\nclear to me, up to a certain point; and I have sometimes wondered why\nyou spend your time here, because you are not one of us, as your friend\nCynthia is.\"\n\nI glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia sat on a great carved settle\namong cushions, side by side with Lucius, whispering to him with a\nsmile.\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"I do not think I have found my place yet, but I am here,\nI think, for a purpose, and I do not know what that purpose is.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I have sometimes wondered myself. I feel that you may\nhave something to tell me, some message for me. I thought that when I\nfirst saw you; but I cannot quite perceive what is in your mind, and I\nsee that you do not wholly know what is in mine. I have been here for a\nlong time, and I have a sense that I do not get on, do not move; and yet\nI have lived in extreme joy and contentment, except that I dread to\nreturn to life, as I know I must return. I have lived often, and always\nin joy--but in life there are constantly things to endure, little things\nwhich just ruffle the serenity of soul which I desire, and which I may\nfairly say I here enjoy. I have loved beauty, and not intemperately; and\nthere have been other people--men and women--whom I have loved, in a\nsense; but the love of them has always seemed a sort of interruption to\nthe life I desired, something disordered and strained, which hurt me,\nand kept me away from the peace I desired--from the fine weighing of\nsounds and colours, and the pleasure of beautiful forms and lines; and I\ndread to return to life, because one cannot avoid love and sorrow, and\nmean troubles, which waste the spirit in vain.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I can understand what you feel very well, because I too\nhave known what it is to desire to live in peace and beauty, not to be\ndisturbed or fretted; but the reason, I think, why it is dangerous, is\nnot because life becomes too _easy_. That is not the danger at all--life\nis never easy, whatever it is! But the danger is that it grows too\nsolemn! One is apt to become like a priest, always celebrating holy\nmysteries, always in a vision, with no time for laughter, and disputing,\nand quarrelling, and being silly and playing. It is the poor body again\nthat is amiss. It is like the camel, poor thing; it groans and weeps,\nbut it goes on. One cannot live wholly in a vision; and life does not\nbecome more simple so, but more complicated, for one's time and energy\nare spent in avoiding the sordid and the tiresome things which one\ncannot and must not avoid. I remember, in an illness which I had, when I\nwas depressed and fanciful, a homely old doctor said to me, 'Don't be\ntoo careful of yourself: don't think you can't bear this and that--go\nout to dinner--eat and drink rather too much!' It seemed to be coarse\nadvice, but it was wise.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Charmides, \"it was wise; but it is difficult to feel it so\nat the time. I wonder! I think perhaps I have made the mistake of being\ntoo fastidious. But it seemed so fine a goal that one had in sight, to\nchasten and temper all one's thoughts to what was beautiful--to judge\nand distinguish, to choose the right tones and harmonies, to be always\nrejecting and refining. It had its sorrows, of course. How often in the\nold days one came in contact with some gracious and beautiful\npersonality, and flung oneself into close relations; and then one began\nto see this and that flaw. There were lapses in tact, petulances,\nlittlenesses; one's friend did not rightly use his beautiful mind; he\nwas jealous, suspicious, trivial, petty; it ended in disillusionment.\nInstead of taking him as a passenger on one's vessel, and determining to\nlive at peace, to overlook, to accommodate, one began to watch for an\nopportunity of putting him down courteously at some stopping-place; and\ninstead of being grateful for his friendship, one was vexed with him for\ndisappointing one. We must speak more of these things. I seem to feel\nthe want of something commoner and broader in my thoughts; but in this\nplace it is hard to change.\"\n\n\"Will you forgive me then,\" I said, \"if I ask you plainly what this\nplace is? It seems very strange to me, and yet I think I have been here\nbefore.\"\n\nCharmides looked at me with a smile. \"It has been called,\" he said, \"by\nmany ugly names, and men have been unreasonably afraid of it. It is the\nplace of satisfied desire, and, as you see, it is a comfortable place\nenough. The theologians in their coarse way call it Hell, though that is\na word which is forbidden here; it is indeed a sort of treason to use\nthe word, because of its unfortunate association--and you can see with\nyour own eyes that I have done wrong even to speak of it.\"\n\nI looked round, and saw indeed that a visible tremor had fallen on the\ngroups about us; it was as though a cold cloud, full of hail and\ndarkness, had floated over a sunny sky. People were hurrying out of the\ngarden, and some were regarding us askance and with frowns of\ndisapproval. In a moment or two we were left alone.\n\n\"I have been indiscreet,\" said Charmides, \"but I feel somehow in a\nrebellious mood; and indeed it has long seemed absurd to me that you\nshould be unaware of the fact, and so obviously guileless! But I will\nspeak no more of this to-day. People come and go here very strangely,\nand I have sometimes wondered if it would not soon be time for me to go;\nbut it would be idle to pretend that I have not been happy here.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nWhat Charmides had told me filled me with great astonishment; it seemed\nto me strange that I had not perceived the truth before. It made me feel\nthat I had somehow been wasting time. I was tempted to call Amroth to my\nside, but I remembered what he had said, and I determined to resist the\nimpulse. I half expected to find that our strange talk, and the very\nobvious disapproval of our words, had made some difference to me. But it\nwas not the case. I found myself treated with the same smiling welcome\nas before, and indeed with an added kind of gentleness, such as older\npeople give to a child who has been confronted with some hard fact of\nlife, such as a sorrow or an illness. This in a way disconcerted me; for\nin the moment when I had perceived the truth, there had come over me the\nfeeling that I ought in some way to bestir myself to preach, to warn,\nto advise. But the idea of finding any sort of fault with these\ncontented, leisurely, interested people, seemed to me absurd, and so I\ncontinued as before, half enjoying the life about me, and half bored by\nit. It seemed so ludicrous in any way to pity the inhabitants of the\nplace, and yet I dimly saw that none of them could possibly continue\nthere. But I soon saw that there was no question of advice, because I\nhad nothing to advise. To ask them to be discontented, to suffer, to\ninquire, seemed as absurd as to ask a man riding comfortably in a\ncarriage to get out and walk; and yet I felt that it was just that which\nthey needed. But one effect the incident had; it somehow seemed to draw\nme more to Cynthia. There followed a time of very close companionship\nwith her. She sought me out, she began to confide in me, chattering\nabout her happiness and her delight in her surroundings, as a child\nmight chatter, and half chiding me, in a tender and pretty way, for not\nbeing more at ease in the place. \"You always seem to me,\" she said, \"as\nif you were only staying here, while I feel as if I could live here for\never. Of course you are very kind and patient about it all, but you are\nnot at home--and I don't care a bit about your disapproval now.\" She\ntalked to me much about Lucius, who seemed to have a great attraction\nfor her. \"He is all right,\" she said. \"There is no nonsense about\nhim,--we understand each other; I don't get tired of him, and we like\nthe same things. I seem to know exactly what he feels about everything;\nand that is one of the comforts of this place, that no one asks\nquestions or makes mischief; one can do just as one likes all the time.\nI did not think, when I was alive, that there could be anything so\ndelightful as all this ahead of me.\"\n\n\"Do you never think--?\" I began, but she put her hand to my lips, like a\nchild, to stop me, and said, \"No, I never think, and I never mean to\nthink, of all the old hateful things. I never wilfully did any harm; I\nonly liked the people who liked me, and gave them all they asked--and\nnow I know that I did right, though in old days serious people used to\ntry to frighten me. God is very good to me,\" she went on, smiling, \"to\nallow me to be happy in my own way.\"\n\nWhile we talked thus, sitting on a seat that overlooked the great\ncity--I had never seen it look so stately and beautiful, so full of all\nthat the heart could desire--Lucius himself drew near to us, smiling,\nand seated himself the other side of Cynthia. \"Now is not this\nheavenly?\" she said; \"to be with the two people I like best--for you are\na faithful old thing, you know--and not to be afraid of anything\ndisagreeable or tiresome happening--not to have to explain or make\nexcuses, what could be better?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lucius, \"it is happy enough,\" and he smiled at me in a\nfriendly way. \"The pleasantest point is that one can _wait_ in this\ncharming place. In the old days, one was afraid of a hundred\nthings--money, weather, illness, criticism. One had to make love in a\nhurry, because one missed the beautiful hour; and then there was the\nhorror of growing old. But now if Cynthia chooses to amuse herself with\nother people, what do I care? She comes back as delightful as ever, and\nit is only so much more to be amused about. One is not even afraid of\nbeing lazy, and as for those ugly twinges of what one called\nconscience--which were only a sort of rheumatism after all--that is all\ngone too; and the delight of finding that one was right after all, and\nthat there were really no such things as consequences!\"\n\nI became aware, as Lucius spoke thus, in all his careless beauty, of a\nvague trouble of soul. I seemed to foresee a kind of conflict between\nmyself and him. He felt it too, I was aware; for he drew Cynthia to him,\nand said something to her; and presently they went off laughing, like a\npair of children, waving a farewell to me. I experienced a sense of\ndesolation, knowing in my mind that all was not well, and yet feeling so\npowerless to contend with happiness so strong and wide.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nPresently I wandered off alone, and went out of the city with a sudden\nimpulse. I thought I would go in the opposite direction to that by which\nI had entered it. I could see the great hills down which Cynthia and I\nhad made our way in the dawn; but I had never gone in the further\ndirection, where there stretched what seemed to be a great forest. The\nwhole place lay bathed in a calm light, all unutterably beautiful. I\nwandered long by streams and wood-ends, every corner that I turned\nrevealing new prospects of delight. I came at last to the edge of the\nforest, the mouths of little open glades running up into it, with fern\nand thorn-thickets. There were deer here browsing about the dingles,\nwhich let me come close to them and touch them, raising their heads from\nthe grass, and regarding me with gentle and fearless eyes. Birds sang\nsoftly among the boughs, and even fluttered to my shoulder, as if\npleased to be noticed. So this was what was called on earth the place of\ntorment, a place into which it seemed as if nothing of sorrow or pain\ncould ever intrude!\n\nJust on the edge of the wood stood a little cottage, surrounded by a\nquiet garden, bees humming about the flowers, the scents of which came\nwith a homely sweetness on the air. But here I saw something which I did\nnot at first understand. This was a group of three people, a man and a\nwoman and a boy of about seventeen, beside the cottage porch. They had a\nrustic air about them, and the same sort of leisurely look that all the\npeople of the land wore. They were all three beautiful, with a simple\nand appropriate kind of beauty, such as comes of a contented sojourn in\nthe open air. But I became in a moment aware that there was a disturbing\nelement among them. The two elders seemed to be trying to persuade the\nboy, who listened smilingly enough, but half turned away from them, as\nthough he were going away on some errand of which they did not approve.\nThey greeted me, as I drew near, with the same cordiality as one\nreceived everywhere, and the man said, \"Perhaps you can help us, sir,\nfor we are in a trouble?\" The woman joined with a murmur in the request,\nand I said I would gladly do what I could; while I spoke, the boy\nwatched me earnestly, and something drew me to him, because I saw a look\nthat seemed to tell me that he was, like myself, a stranger in the\nplace. Then the man said, \"We have lived here together very happily a\nlong time, we three--I do not know how we came together, but so it was;\nand we have been more at ease than words can tell, after hard lives in\nthe other world; and now this lad here, who has been our delight, says\nthat he must go elsewhere and cannot stay with us; and we would persuade\nhim if we could; and perhaps you, sir, who no doubt know what lies\nbeyond the fields and woods that we see, can satisfy him that it is\nbetter to remain.\"\n\nWhile he spoke, the other two had drawn near to me, and the eyes of the\nwoman dwelt upon the boy with a look of intent love, while the boy\nlooked in my face anxiously and inquiringly. I could see, I found, very\ndeep into his heart, and I saw in him a need for further experience, and\na desire to go further on; and I knew at once that this could only be\nsatisfied in one way, and that something would grow out of it both for\nhimself and for his companions. So I said, as smilingly as I could, \"I\ndo not indeed know much of the ways of this place, but this I know, that\nwe must go where we are sent, that no harm can befall us, and that we\nare never far away from those whom we love. I myself have lately been\nsent to visit this strange land; it seems only yesterday since I left\nthe mountains yonder, and yet I have seen an abundance of strange and\nbeautiful things; we must remember that here there is no sickness or\nmisfortune or growing old; and there is no reason, as there often seemed\nto be on earth, why we should fight against separation and departure. No\none can, I think, be hindered here from going where he is bound. So I\nbelieve that you will let the boy go joyfully and willingly, for I am\nsure of this, that his journey holds not only great things for himself,\nbut even greater things for both of you in the future. So be content and\nlet him depart.\"\n\nAt this the woman said, \"Yes, that is right, the stranger is right, and\nwe must hinder the child no longer. No harm can come of it, but only\ngood; perhaps he will return, or we may follow him, when the day comes\nfor that.\"\n\nI saw that the old man was not wholly satisfied with this. He shook his\nhead and looked sadly on the boy; and then for a time we sat and talked\nof many things. One thing that the old man said surprised me very\ngreatly. He seemed to have lived many lives, and always lives of labour;\nhe had grown, I gathered from his simple talk, to have a great love of\nthe earth, the lives of flocks and herds, and of all the plants that\ngrew out of the earth or flourished in it. I had thought before, in a\nfoolish way, that all this might be put away from the spirit, in the\nland where there was no need of such things; but I saw now that there\nwas a claim for labour, and a love of common things, which did not\nbelong only to the body, but was a real desire of the spirit. He spoke\nof the pleasures of tending cattle, of cutting fagots in the forest\nwoodland among the copses, of ploughing and sowing, with the breath of\nthe earth about one; till I saw that the toil of the world, which I had\ndimly thought of as a thing which no one would do if they were not\nobliged, was a real instinct of the spirit, and had its counterpart\nbeyond the body. I had supposed indeed that in a region where all\ntroublous accidents of matter were over and done with, and where there\nwas no need of bodily sustenance, there could be nothing which\nresembled the old weary toil of the body; but now I saw gladly that this\nwas not so, and that the primal needs of the spirit outlast the visible\nworld. Though my own life had been spent mostly among books and things\nof the mind, I knew well the joys of the countryside, the blossoming of\nthe orchard-close, the high-piled granary, the brightly-painted waggon\nloaded with hay, the creaking of the cider-press, the lowing of cattle\nin the stall, the stamping of horses in the stable, the mud-stained\nimplements hanging in the high-roofed, cobwebbed barn. I had never known\nwhy I loved these things so well, and had invented many fancies to\nexplain it; but now I saw that it was the natural delight in work and\nincrease; and that the love which surrounded all these things was the\nsign that they were real indeed, and that in no part of life could they\nbe put away. And then there came on me a sort of gentle laughter at the\nthought of how much of the religion of the world spent itself on bidding\nthe heart turn away from vanities, and lose itself in dreams of wonders\nand doctrines, and what were called higher and holier things than barns\nand byres and sheep-pens. Yet the truth had been staring me in the face\nall the time, if only I could have seen it; that the sense of constraint\nand unreality that fell upon one in religious matters, when some curious\nand intricate matter was confusedly expounded, was perfectly natural and\nwholesome; and that the real life of man lay in the things to which one\nreturned, on work-a-day mornings, with such relief--the acts of life,\nthe work of homestead, library, barrack, office, and class-room, the\nsight and sound of humanity, the smiles and glances and unconsidered\nwords.\n\nWhen we had sat together for a time, the boy made haste to depart. We\nthree went with him to the edge of the wood, where a road passed up\namong the oaks. The three embraced and kissed and said many loving\nwords; and then to ease the anxieties of the two, I said that I would\nmyself set the boy forward on his way, and see him well bestowed. They\nthanked me, and we went together into the wood, the two lovingly waving\nand beckoning, and the boy stepping blithely by my side.\n\nI asked him whether he was not sorry to go and leave the quiet place and\nthe pair that loved him. He smiled and said that he knew he was not\nleaving them at all, and that he was sure that they would soon follow;\nand that for himself the time had come to know more of the place. I\nlearned from him that his last life had been an unhappy one, in a\ncrowded street and a slovenly home, with much evil of talk and act about\nhim; he had hated it all, he said, but for a little sister that he had\nloved, who had kissed and clasped him, weeping, when he lay dying of a\nmiserable disease. He said that he thought he should find her, which\nmade part of his joy of going; that for a long while there had come to\nhim a sense of her remembrance and love; and that he had once sent his\nthought back to earth to find her, and she was in much grief and care;\nand that then all these messages had at once ceased, and he knew that\nshe had left the body. He was a merry boy, full of delight and laughter,\nand we went very cheerfully together through the sunlit wood, with its\ngreen glades and open spaces, which seemed all full of life and\nhappiness, creatures living together in goodwill and comfort. I saw in\nthis journey that all things that ever lived a conscious life in one of\nthe innumerable worlds had a place and life of their own, and a time of\nrefreshment like myself. What I could not discern was whether there was\nany interchange of lives, whether the soul of the tree could become an\nanimal, or the animal progress to be a man. It seemed to me that it was\nnot so, but that each had a separate life of its own. But I saw how\nfoolish was the fancy that I had pursued in old days, that there was a\ncentral reservoir of life, into which at death all little lives were\nmerged; I was yet to learn how strangely all life was knit together,\nbut now I saw that individuality was a real and separate thing, which\ncould not be broken or lost, and that all things that had ever enjoyed a\nconsciousness of the privilege of separate life had a true dignity and\nworth of existence; and that it was only the body that had made\nhostility necessary; that though the body could prey upon the bodies of\nanimal and plant, yet that no soul could devour or incorporate any other\nsoul. But as yet the merging of soul in soul through love was unseen and\nindeed unsuspected by me.\n\nNow as we went in the wood, the boy and I, it came into my mind in a\nflash that I had seen a great secret. I had seen, I knew, very little of\nthe great land yet--and indeed I had been but in the lowest place of\nall: and I thought how base and dull our ideas had been upon earth of\nGod and His care of men. We had thought of Him dimly as sweeping into\nHis place of torment and despair all poisoned and diseased lives, all\nlives that had clung to the body and to the pleasures of the body, all\nwho had sinned idly, or wilfully, or proudly; and I saw now that He used\nmen far more wisely and lovingly than thus. Into this lowest place\nindeed passed all sad, and diseased, and unhappy spirits: and instead of\nbeing tormented or accursed, all was made delightful and beautiful for\nthem there, because they needed not harsh and rough handling, but care\nand soft tendance. They were not to be frightened hence, or to live in\nfear and anguish, but to live deliciously according to their wish, and\nto be drawn to perceive in some quiet manner that all was not well with\nthem; they were to have their heart's desire, and learn that it could\nnot satisfy them; but the only thing that could draw them thence was the\nlove of some other soul whom they must pursue and find, if they could.\nIt was all so high and reasonable and just that I could not admire it\nenough. I saw that the boy was drawn thence by the love of his little\nsister, who was elsewhere; and that the love and loss of the boy would\npresently draw the older pair to follow him and to leave the place of\nheart's delight. And then I began to see that Cynthia and Charmides and\nLucius were being made ready, each at his own time, to leave their\nlittle pleasures and ordered lives of happiness, and to follow\nheavenwards in due course. Because it was made plain to me that it was\nthe love and worship of some other soul that was the constraining force;\nbut what the end would be I could not discern.\n\nAnd now as we went through the wood, I began to feel a strange elation\nand joy of spirit, severe and bracing, very different from my languid\nand half-contented acquiescence in the place of beauty; and now the\nwoods began to change their kind; there were fewer forest trees now, but\nbare heaths with patches of grey sand and scattered pines; and there\nbegan to drift across the light a grey vapour which hid the delicate\nhues and colours of the sunlight, and made everything appear pale and\nspare. Very soon we came out on the brow of a low hill, and saw, all\nspread out before us, a place which, for all its dulness and darkness,\nhad a solemn beauty of its own. There were great stone buildings very\nsolidly made, with high chimneys which seemed to stream with smoke; we\ncould see men, as small as ants, moving in and out of the buildings; it\nseemed like a place of manufacture, with a busy life of its own. But\nhere I suddenly felt that I could go no further, but must return. I\nhoped that I should see the grim place again, and I desired with all my\nsoul to go down into it, and see what eager life it was that was being\nlived there. And the boy, I saw, felt this too, and was impatient to\nproceed. So we said farewell with much tenderness, and the boy went down\nswiftly across the moorland, till he met some one who was coming out of\nthe city, and conferred a little with him; and then he turned and waved\nhis hand to me, and I waved my hand from the brow of the hill, envying\nhim in my heart, and went back in sorrow into the sunshine of the wood.\n\nAnd as I did so I had a great joy, because I saw Amroth come suddenly\nrunning to me out of the wood, who put his arm through mine, and walked\nwith me. Then I told him of all I had seen and thought, while he smiled\nand nodded and told me it was much as I imagined. \"Yes,\" he said, \"it is\neven so. The souls you have seen in this fine country here are just as\nchildren who are given their fill of pleasant things. Many of them have\ncome into the state in which you see them from no fault of their own,\nbecause their souls are young and ignorant. They have shrunk from all\npain and effort and tedium, like a child that does not like his lessons.\nThere is no thought of punishment, of course. No one learns anything of\npunishment except a cowardly fear. We never advance until we have the\nwill to advance, and there is nothing in mere suffering, unless we learn\nto bear it gently for the sake of love. On earth it is not God but man\nwho is cruel. There is indeed a place of sorrow, which you will see when\nyou can bear the sight, where the self-righteous and the harsh go for a\ntime, and all those who have made others suffer because they believed in\ntheir own justice and insight. You will find there all tyrants and\nconquerors, and many rich men, who used their wealth heedlessly; and\neven so you will be surprised when you see it. But those spirits are the\nhardest of all to help, because they have loved nothing but their own\nvirtue or their own ambition; yet you will see how they too are drawn\nthence; and now that you have had a sight of the better country, tell me\nhow you liked it.\"\n\n\"Why,\" I said, \"it is plain and austere enough; but I felt a great\nquickening of spirit, and a desire to join in the labours of the place.\"\n\nAmroth smiled, and said, \"You will have little share in that. You will\nfind your task, no doubt, when you are strong enough; and now you must\ngo back and make unwilling holiday with your pleasant friends, you have\nnot much longer to stay there; and surely\"--he laughed as he spoke--\"you\ncan endure a little more of those pretty concerts and charming talk of\nart and its values and pulsations!\"\n\n\"I can endure it,\" I said, laughing, \"for it does me good to see you and\nto hear you; but tell me, Amroth, what have you been about all this\ntime? Have you had a thought of me?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Amroth, laughing. \"I don't forget you, and I love\nyour company; but I am a busy man myself, and have something pleasanter\nto do than to attend these elegant receptions of yours--at which,\nindeed, I have sometimes thought you out of place.\"\n\nAs we thus talked we came to the forest lodge. The old pair came running\nout to greet me, and I told them that the boy was well bestowed. I could\nsee in the woman's face that she would soon follow him, and even the\nold man had a look that I had not seen in him before; and here Amroth\nleft me, and I returned to the city, where all was as peaceable as\nbefore.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nBut when I saw Cynthia, as I presently did, she too was in a different\nmood. She had positively missed me, and told me so with many\nendearments. I was not to remain away so long. I was useful to her.\nCharmides had become tiresome and lost in thought, but Lucius was as\nsweet as ever. Some new-comers had arrived, all pleasant enough. She\nasked me where I had been, and I told her all the story. \"Yes, that is\nbeautiful enough,\" she said, \"but I hate all this breaking up and going\non. I am sure I do not wish for any change.\" She made a grimace of\ndisgust at the idea of the ugly town I had seen, and then she said that\nshe would go with me some time to look at it, because it would make her\nhappier to return to her peace; and then she went off to tell Lucius.\n\nI soon found Charmides, and I told him my adventures. \"That is a\ncurious story,\" he said. \"I like to think of people caring for each\nother so; that is picturesque! These simple emotions are interesting.\nAnd one likes to think that people who have none of the finer tastes\nshould have something to fall back upon--something hot and strong, as we\nused to say.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"tell me this, Charmides, was there never any one in the\nold days whom you cared for like that?\"\n\n\"I thought so often enough,\" said he, a little peevishly, \"but you do\nnot know how much a man like myself is at the mercy of little things! An\nugly hand, a broken tooth, a fallen cheek ... it seems little enough,\nbut one has a sort of standard. I had a microscopic eye, you know, and a\nlittle blemish was a serious thing to me. I was always in search of\nsomething that I could not find; then there were awkward strains in the\ncharacters of people--they were mean or greedy or selfish, and all my\npleasure was suddenly dashed. I am speaking,\" he went on, \"with a\nstrange candour! I don't defend it or excuse it, but there it was. I did\nonce, as a child, I believe, care for one person--an old nurse of\nmine--in the right way. Dear, how good she was to me! I remember once\nhow she came all the way, after she had left us, to see me on my way\nthrough town. She just met me at a railway station, and she had bought a\nlittle book which she thought might amuse me, and a bag of oranges--she\nremembered that I used to like oranges. I recollect at the time thinking\nit was all very touching and devoted; but I was with a friend of mine,\nand had not time to say much. I can see her old face, smiling, with\ntears in her eyes, as we went off. I gave the book and the oranges away,\nI remember, to a child at the next station. It is curious how it all\ncomes back to me now; I never saw her again, and I wish I had behaved\nbetter. I should like to see her again, and to tell her that I really\ncared! I wonder if that is possible? But there is really so much to do\nhere and to enjoy; and there is no one to tell me where to go, so that I\nam puzzled. What is one to do?\"\n\n\"I think that if one desires a thing enough here, Charmides,\" I said,\n\"one is in a fair way to obtain it. Never mind! a door will be opened.\nBut one has got to care, I suppose; it is not enough to look upon it as\na pretty effect, which one would just like to put in its place with\nother effects--'Open, sesame'--do you remember? There is a charm at\nwhich all doors fly open, even here!\"\n\n\"I will talk to you more about this,\" said Charmides, \"when I have had\ntime to arrange my thoughts a little. Who would have supposed that an\nold recollection like that would have disturbed me so much? It would\nmake a good subject for a picture or a song.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nIt was on one of these days that Amroth came suddenly upon me, with a\nvery mirthful look on his face, his eyes sparkling like a man struggling\nwith hidden laughter. \"Come with me,\" he said; \"you have been so dutiful\nlately that I am alarmed for your health.\" Then we went out of the\ngarden where I was sitting, and we were suddenly in a street. I saw in a\nmoment that it was a real street, in the suburb of an English town;\nthere were electric trams running, and rows of small trees, and an open\nspace planted with shrubs, with asphalt paths and ugly seats. On the\nother side of the road was a row of big villas, tasteless, dreary,\ncomfortable houses, with meaningless turrets and balconies. I could not\nhelp feeling that it was very dismal that men and women should live in\nsuch places, think them neat and well-appointed, and even grow to love\nthem. We went into one of these houses; it was early in the morning, and\na little drizzle was falling, which made the whole place seem very\ncheerless. In a room with a bow-window looking on the road there were\nthree persons. An old man was reading a paper in an arm-chair by the\nfire, with his back to the light. He looked a nice old man, with his\nclear skin and white hair; opposite him was an old lady in another\nchair, reading a letter. With his back to the fire stood a man of about\nthirty-five, sturdy-looking, but pale, and with an appearance of being\nsomewhat overworked. He had a good face, but seemed a little\nuninteresting, as if he did not feed his mind. The table had been spread\nfor breakfast, and the meal was finished and partly cleared away. The\nroom was ugly and the furniture was a little shabby; there was a glazed\nbookcase, full of dull-looking books, a sideboard, a table with writing\nmaterials in the window, and some engravings of royal groups and\ncelebrated men.\n\nThe younger man, after a moment, said, \"Well, I must be off.\" He nodded\nto his father, and bent down to kiss his mother, saying, \"Take care of\nyourself--I shall be back in good time for tea.\" I had a sense that he\nwas using these phrases in a mechanical way, and that they were\ncustomary with him. Then he went out, planting his feet solidly on the\ncarpet, and presently the front door shut. I could not understand why we\nhad come to this very unemphatic party, and examined the whole room\ncarefully to see what was the object of our visit. A maid came in and\nremoved the rest of the breakfast things, leaving the cloth still on the\ntable, and some of the spoons and knives, with the salt-cellars, in\ntheir places. When she had finished and gone out, there was a silence,\nonly broken by the crackling of the paper as the old man folded it.\nPresently the old lady said: \"I wish Charles could get his holiday a\nlittle sooner; he looks so tired, and he does not eat well. He does\nstick so hard to his business.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, he does,\" said the old man, \"but it is just the busiest\ntime, and he tells me that they have had some large orders lately. They\nare doing very well, I understand.\"\n\nThere was another silence, and then the old lady put down her letter,\nand looked for a moment at a picture, representing a boy, a large\nphotograph a good deal faded, which hung close to her--underneath it was\na small vase of flowers on a bracket. She gave a little sigh as she did\nthis, and the old man looked at her over the top of his paper. \"Just\nthink, father,\" she said, \"that Harry would have been thirty-eight this\nvery week!\"\n\nThe old man made a comforting sort of little noise, half sympathetic and\nhalf deprecatory. \"Yes, I know,\" said the old lady, \"but I can't help\nthinking about him a great deal at this time of the year. I don't\nunderstand why he was taken away from us. He was always such a good\nboy--he would have been just like Charles, only handsomer--he was always\nhandsomer and brighter; he had so much of your spirit! Not but what\nCharles has been the best of sons to us--I don't mean that--no one could\nbe better or more easy to please! But Harry had a different way with\nhim.\" Her eyes filled with tears, which she brushed away. \"No,\" she\nadded, \"I won't fret about him. I daresay he is happier where he is--I\nam sure he is--and thinking of his mother too, my bonny boy, perhaps.\"\n\nThe old man got up, put his paper down, went across to the old lady, and\ngave her a kiss on the brow. \"There, there,\" he said soothingly, \"we may\nbe sure it's all for the best;\" and he stood looking down fondly at her.\nAmroth crossed the room and stood beside the pair, with a hand on the\nshoulder of each. I saw in an instant that there was an unmistakable\nlikeness between the three; but the contrast of the marvellous\nbrilliance and beauty of Amroth with the old, world-wearied,\nsimple-minded couple was the most extraordinary thing to behold. \"Yes, I\nfeel better already,\" said the old lady, smiling; \"it always does me\ngood to say out what I am feeling, father; and then you are sure to\nunderstand.\"\n\nThe mist closed suddenly in upon the scene, and we were back in a moment\nin the garden with its porticoes, in the radiant, untroubled air. Amroth\nlooked at me with a smile that was full, half of gaiety and half of\ntenderness. \"There,\" he said, \"what do you think of that? If all had\ngone well with me, as they say on earth, that is where I should be now,\ngoing down to the city with Charles. That is the prospect which to the\ndear old people seems so satisfactory compared with this! In that house\nI lay ill for some weeks, and from there my body was carried out. And\nthey would have kept me there if they could--and I myself did not want\nto go. I was afraid. Oh, how I envied Charles going down to the city\nand coming back for tea, to read the magazines aloud or play backgammon.\nI am afraid I was not as nice as I should have been about all that--the\nevenings were certainly dull!\"\n\n\"But what do you feel about it now?\" I said. \"Don't you feel sorry for\nthe muddle and ignorance and pathos of it all? Can't something be done\nto show everybody what a ghastly mistake it is, to get so tied down to\nthe earth and the things of earth?\"\n\n\"A mistake?\" said Amroth. \"There is no such thing as a mistake. One\ncannot sorrow for their grief, any more than one can sorrow for the\nchild who cries out in the tunnel and clasps his mother's hand. Don't\nyou see that their grief and loss is the one beautiful thing in those\nlives, and all that it is doing for them, drawing them hither? Why, that\nis where we grow and become strong, in the hopeless suffering of love. I\nam glad and content that my own stay was made so brief. I wish it could\nbe shortened for the three--and yet I do not, because they will gain so\nwonderfully by it. They are mounting fast; it is their very ignorance\nthat teaches them. Not to know, not to perceive, but to be forced to\nbelieve in love, that is the point.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I see that; but what about the lives that are broken and\npoisoned by grief, in a stupor of pain--or the souls that do not feel it\nat all, except as a passing shadow--what about them?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Amroth lightly, \"the sadder the dream the more blessed the\nawakening; and as for those who cannot feel--well, it will all come to\nthem, as they grow older.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"it has done me good to see all this--it makes many\nthings plain; but can you bear to leave them thus?\"\n\n\"Leave them!\" said Amroth. \"Who knows but that I shall be sent to help\nthem away, and carry them, as I carried you, to the crystal sea of\npeace? The darling mother, I shall be there at her awakening. They are\nold spirits, those two, old and wise; and there is a high place\nprepared for them.\"\n\n\"But what about Charles?\" I said.\n\nAmroth smiled. \"Old Charles?\" he said. \"I must admit that he is not a\nvery stirring figure at present. He is much immersed in his game of\nfinance, and talks a great deal in his lighter moments about the\ncommercial prospects of the Empire and the need of retaliatory tariffs.\nBut he will outgrow all that! He is a very loyal soul, but not very\nadventurous just now. He would be sadly discomposed by an affection\nwhich came in between him and his figures. He would think he wanted a\nchange--and he will have a thorough one, the good old fellow, one of\nthese days. But he has a long journey before him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"there are some surprises here! I am afraid I am very\nyouthful yet.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear child, you are very ingenuous,\" said Amroth, \"and that is a\ngreat part of your charm. But we will find something for you to do\nbefore long! But here comes Charmides, to talk about the need of\nexquisite pulsations, and their symbolism--though I see a change in him\ntoo. And now I must go back to business. Take care of yourself, and I\nwill be back to tea.\" And Amroth flashed away in a very cheerful mood.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nThere were many things at that time that were full of mystery, things\nwhich I never came to understand. There was in particular a certain sort\nof people, whom one met occasionally, for whom I could never wholly\naccount. They were unlike others in this fact, that they never appeared\nto belong to any particular place or community. They were both men and\nwomen, who seemed--I can express it in no other way--to be in the\npossession of a secret so great that it made everything else trivial and\nindifferent to them. Not that they were impatient or contemptuous--it\nwas quite the other way; but to use a similitude, they were like\ngood-natured, active, kindly elders at a children's party. They did not\nshun conversation, but if one talked with them, they used a kind of\ntender and gentle irony, which had something admiring and complimentary\nabout it, which took away any sense of vexation or of baffled curiosity.\nIt was simply as though their concern lay elsewhere; they joined in\nanything with a frank delight, not with any touch of condescension. They\nwere even more kindly and affectionate than others, because they did not\nseem to have any small problems of their own, and could give their whole\nattention and thought to the person they were with. These inscrutable\npeople puzzled me very much. I asked Amroth about them once.\n\n\"Who are these people,\" I said, \"whom one sometimes meets, who are so\nfar removed from all of us? What are they doing here?\"\n\nAmroth smiled. \"So you have detected them!\" he said. \"You are quite\nright, and it does your observation credit. But you must find it out for\nyourself. I cannot explain, and if I could, you would not understand me\nyet.\"\n\n\"Then I am not mistaken,\" I said, \"but I wish you would give me a\nhint--they seem to know something more worth knowing than all beside.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Amroth. \"You are very near the truth; it is staring you\nin the face; but it would spoil all if I told you. There is plenty about\nthem in the old books you used to read--they have the secret of joy.\"\nAnd that is all that he would say.\n\nIt was on a solitary ramble one day, outside of the place of delight,\nthat I came nearer to one of these people than I ever did at any other\ntime. I had wandered off into a pleasant place of grassy glades with\nlittle thorn-thickets everywhere. I went up a small eminence, which\ncommanded a view of the beautiful plain with its blue distance and the\nenamelled green foreground of close-grown coverts. There I sat for a\nlong time lost in pleasant thought and wonder, when I saw a man drawing\nnear, walking slowly and looking about him with a serene and delighted\nair. He passed not far from me, and observing me, waved a hand of\nwelcome, came up the slope, and greeting me in a friendly and open\nmanner, asked if he might sit with me for a little.\n\n\"This is a pleasant place,\" he said, \"and you seem very agreeably\noccupied.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, looking into his smiling face, \"one has no engagements\nhere, and no need of business to fill the time--but indeed I am not sure\nthat I am busy enough.\" As I spoke I was regarding him with some\ncuriosity. He was a man of mature age, with a strong, firm-featured\nface, healthy and sunburnt of aspect, and he was dressed, not as I was\nfor ease and repose, but with the garments of a traveller. His hat,\nwhich was large and of some soft grey cloth, was pushed to his back, and\nhung there by a cord round his neck. His hair was a little grizzled, and\nlay close-curled to his head; in his strong and muscular hand he carried\na stick. He smiled again at my words, and said:\n\n\"Oh, one need not trouble about being busy until the time comes; that\nis a feeling one inherits from the life of earth, and I am sure you have\nnot left it long. You have a very fresh air about you, as if you had\nrested, and rested well.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have rested,\" I said; \"but though I am content enough, there is\nsomething unquiet in me, I am afraid!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" he said, \"there is that in all of us, and it would not be well\nwith us if there were not. Will you tell me a little about yourself?\nThat is one of the pleasures of this life here, that we have no need to\nbe cautious, or to fear that we shall give ourselves away.\"\n\nI told him my adventures, and he listened with serious attention.\n\n\"Ah, that is all very good,\" he said at last, \"but you must not be in\nany hurry; it is a great thing that ideas should dawn upon us\ngradually--one gets the full truth of them so. It was the hurry of life\nwhich was so bewildering--the shocks, the surprises, the ugly\nreflections of one's conduct that one saw in other lives--the corners\none had to turn. Things, indeed, come suddenly even here, but one is led\nup to them gently enough; allowed to enter the sea for oneself, not\nsoused and ducked in it. You will need all the strength you can store up\nfor what is before you, and I can see in your face that you are storing\nup strength--but the weariness is not quite gone out of your mind.\"\n\nHe was silent for a little, musing, till I said, \"Will you not tell me\nsome of your own adventures? I am sure from your look that you have\nthem; and you are a pilgrim, it seems. Where are you bound?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said lightly, \"I am not one of the people who have\nadventures--just the journey and the talk beside the way.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"I have seen some others like you, and I am puzzled about\nit. You seem, if I may say so--I do not mean anything disrespectful or\nimpertinent--to be like the gipsies whom one meets in quiet country\nplaces, with a secret knowledge of their own, a pride too great to be\nworth expressing, not anxious about life, not weary or dissatisfied,\ncaring not for localities or possessions, but with a sort of eager\npleasure in freedom and movement.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"Yes,\" he said, \"you are right! I am no doubt a sort of\nnomad, as you say, detached from life perhaps. I don't know that it is\ndesirable; there is a great deal to be said for living in the same place\nand loving the same things. Most people are happier so, and learn what\nthey have to learn in that manner.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"that is true and beautiful--the same old house, the same\ntrees and pastures, the stream and the water-plants that hide it, the\nblue hills beyond the nearer wood--the dear familiar things; but even so\nthe road which passes through the fields, over the bridge, up the\ncovert-side ... it leads somewhere, and the heart on sunny days leaps up\nto follow it! Talking with you here, I feel a hunger for something wider\nand more free; your voice has the sound of the wind, with the secret\nknowledge of strange hill-tops and solitary seas! Sometimes the heart\nsettles down upon what it knows and loves, but sometimes it reaches out\nto all the love and beauty hidden in the world, and in the waters beyond\nthe world, and would embrace it all if it could. The faces one sees as\none passes through unfamiliar cities or villages, how one longs to talk,\nto question, to ask what gave them the look they wear.... And you, if I\nmay say it, seem to have passed beyond the need of wanting or desiring\nanything ... but I must not talk thus to a stranger; you must forgive\nme.\"\n\n\"Forgive you?\" said the stranger; \"that is only an earthly phrase--the\nold terror of indiscretion and caution. What are we here for but to get\nacquainted with one another--to let our inmost thoughts talk together?\nIn the world we are bounded by time and space, and we have the terror of\neach other's glances and exteriors to contend with. We make friends on\nearth in spite of our limitations; but in heaven we get to know each\nother's hearts; and that blessing goes back with us to the dim fields\nand narrow houses of the earth. I see plainly enough that you are not\nperfectly happy; but one can only win content through discontent. Where\nyou are now, you are not in accord with the souls about you. Never mind\nthat! There are beautiful spirits within reach of your hand and heart; a\nlittle clouded by mistaking the quality of joy, no doubt, but great and\neverlasting for all that. You must try to draw near to them, and find\nspirits to love. Do you not remember in the days of earth how one felt\nsometimes in an unfamiliar place--among a gathering of strangers--at\nchurch perhaps, or at some school which one visited, where one saw the\nyoung faces, which showed so clearly, before the world had stamped\nitself in frowns and heaviness upon them, the quality of the soul\nwithin? Don't you remember the feeling at such times of how many there\nwere in the world whom one might love, if one had leisure and\nopportunity and energy? Well, there is no need to resist that, or to\ndeplore it here; one may go where one's will inclines one, and speak as\none's heart tells one to speak. I think you are perhaps too conscious of\nwaiting for something. Your task lies ahead of you, but the work of love\ncan begin at once and anywhere.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I feel that now and here. Will you not tell me something\nof yourself in return? I cannot read your mind clearly--it is occupied\nwith something I cannot grasp--what is your work in heaven?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said lightly, \"that is easy enough, and yet you would not\nunderstand it. I have been led through the shadow of fear, and I have\npassed out on the other side. And my duty is to release others from\nfear, as far as I can. It is the darkest shadow of all, because it\ndwells in the unknown. Pain, without it, is no suffering at all; indeed\npain is almost a pleasure, when one knows what it is doing for one. But\nfear is the doubt whether pain or suffering are really helping us; and\njust as memory never has any touch of fear about it, so hope may\nlikewise have done with fear.\"\n\n\"But how did you learn this?\" I said.\n\n\"Only by fearing to the uttermost,\" he replied. \"The power--it is not\ncourage, because that only defies fear--cannot be given one; it must be\npainfully won. You remember the blessing of the pure in heart, that they\nshall see God? There would be little hope in that promise for the soul\nthat knew itself to be impure, if it were not for the other side of\nit--that the vision of God, which is the most terrible of all things,\ncan give purity to the most sin-stained soul. In that vision, all desire\nand all fear have an end, because there is nothing left either to desire\nor to dread. That vision we may delay or hasten. We may delay it, if we\nallow our prudence, or our shame, or our comfort, to get in the way: we\nmay hasten it, if we cast ourselves at every moment of our pilgrimage\nupon the mercy and the love of God. His one desire is that we should be\nsatisfied; and if He seems to put obstacles in our way, to keep us\nwaiting, to permit us to be miserable, that is only that we may learn to\ncast ourselves into love and service--which is the one way to His heart.\nBut now I must be going, for I have said all that you can bear. Will you\nremember this--not to reserve yourself, not to think others unworthy or\nhostile, but to cast your love and trust freely and lavishly, everywhere\nand anywhere? We must gather nothing, hold on to nothing, just give\nourselves away at every moment, flowing like the stream into every\nchannel that is open, withholding nothing, retaining nothing. I see,\" he\nadded, \"very great and beautiful things ahead of you, and very sad and\npainful things as well. But you are close to the light, and it is\nbreaking all about you with a splendour which you cannot guess.\"\n\nHe rose up, he took my hand in his own and laid the other on my brow,\nand I felt his heart go out to mine and gather me to him, as a child is\ngathered to a father's arms. And then he went silently and lightly upon\nhis way.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nThe time moved on quietly enough in the land of delight. I made\nacquaintance with quite a number of the soft-voiced contented folk.\nSometimes it interested me to see the change coming upon one or another,\na wonder or a desire that made them sit withdrawn and abstracted, and\nbreaking with a sort of effort out of the dreamful mood. Then they would\nleave us, sometimes quite suddenly, sometimes with courteous adieus.\nNew-comers, too, kept arriving, to be made pleasantly at home. I found\nmyself seeing more of Cynthia. She was much with Lucius, and they seemed\nas gay as ever, but I saw that she was sometimes puzzled. She said to me\none day as we sat together, \"I wish you would tell me what this is all\nabout? I do not want to change it, and I am very happy, but isn't it all\nrather pointless? I believe you have some secret you are keeping from\nme.\" She was sitting close beside me, like a child, resting her head on\nmy arm, and she took my hand in both of hers.\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"I am keeping nothing from you, pretty child! I could not\nexplain to you what is in my mind, and it would spoil your pleasure if I\ncould. It is all right, and you will see in good time.\"\n\n\"I hate to be put off like that,\" she said. \"You are not really\ninterested in me; and you do not trust me; you do not care about the\nthings I care about, and if you are so superior, you ought to explain to\nme why.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I will try to explain. Do you ever remember having been\nvery happy in a place, and having been obliged to leave it, always\nhoping to return; and then when you did return, finding that, though\nnothing was changed, you were yourself changed, and could not, even if\nyou would, have taken up the old life again?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Cynthia, musing, \"I remember that sort of thing happening\nonce, about a house where I stayed as a child. It seemed so stupid and\ndull when I went back that I wondered how I could ever have really liked\nit.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it is the same sort of thing here. I am only here for a\ntime, and though I do not know where I am going or when, I think I shall\nnot be here much longer.\"\n\nAt this Cynthia did what she had never done before--she kissed me. Then\nshe said, \"Don't speak of such disagreeable things. I could not get on\nwithout you. You are so convenient, like a comfortable old arm-chair.\"\n\n\"What a compliment!\" I said. \"But you see that you don't like my\nexplanation. Why trouble about it? You have plenty of time. Is Lucius\nlike an arm-chair, too?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"he is exciting, like a new necklace--and Charmides, he\nis exciting too, in a way, but rather too fine for me, like a\nball-dress!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I noticed that your own taste in dress is different of\nlate. This is a much simpler thing than what you came in.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she said, \"it doesn't seem worth while to dress up now. I\nhave made my friends, and I suppose I am getting lazy.\"\n\nWe said little more, but she did not seem inclined to leave me, and was\nmore with me for a time. I actually heard her tell Lucius once that she\nwas tired, at which he laughed, not very pleasantly, and went away.\n\nBut my own summons came to me so unexpectedly that I had but little time\nto make my farewell.\n\nI was sitting once in a garden-close watching a curious act proceeding,\nwhich I did not quite understand. It looked like a religious ceremony; a\nman in embroidered robes was being conducted by some boys in white\ndresses through the long cloister, carrying something carefully wrapped\nup in his arms, and I heard what sounded like an antique hymn of a fine\nstiff melody, rapidly sung.\n\nThere had been nothing quite like this before, and I suddenly became\naware that Amroth was beside me, and that he had a look of anger in his\nface. \"You had better not look at this,\" he said to me; \"it might not be\nvery helpful, as they say.\"\n\n\"Am I to come with you?\" I said. \"That is well--but I should like to say\na word to one or two of my friends here.\"\n\n\"No, not a word!\" said Amroth quickly. He looked at me with a curious\nlook, in which he seemed to be measuring my strength and courage. \"Yes,\nthat will do!\" he added. \"Come at once--don't be surprised--it will be\ndifferent from what you expect.\"\n\nHe took me by the arm, and we hurried from the place; one or two of the\npeople who stood by looked at us in lazy wonder. We walked in silence\ndown a long alley, to a great gate that I had often passed in my\nstrolls. It was a barred iron gate, of a very stately air, with high\nstone gateposts. I had never been able to find my outward way to this,\nand there was a view from it of enchanting beauty, blue distant woods\nand rolling slopes. Amroth came quickly to the gate, seemed to unlock\nit, and held it open for me to pass. \"One word,\" he said with his most\nbeautiful smile, his eyes flashing and kindling with some secret\nemotion, \"whatever happens, do not be _afraid_! There is nothing\nwhatever to fear, only be prepared and wait.\" He motioned me through,\nand I heard him close the gate behind me.\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nI was alone in an instant, and in terrible pain--pain not in any part of\nme, but all around and within me. A cold wind of a piercing bitterness\nseemed to blow upon me; but with it came a sense of immense energy and\nstrength, so that the pain became suddenly delightful, like the\nstretching of a stiffened limb. I cannot put the pain into exact words.\nIt was not attended by any horror; it seemed a sense of infinite grief\nand loss and loneliness, a deep yearning to be delivered and made free.\nI felt suddenly as though everything I loved had gone from me,\nirretrievably gone and lost. I looked round me, and I could discern\nthrough a mist the bases of some black and sinister rocks, that towered\nup intolerably above me; in between them were channels full of stones\nand drifted snow. Anything more stupendous than those black-ribbed\ncrags, those toppling precipices, I had never seen. The wind howled\namong them, and sometimes there was a noise of rocks cast down. I knew\nin some obscure way that my path lay there, and my heart absolutely\nfailed me. Instead of going straight to the rocks, I began to creep\nalong the base to see whether I could find some easier track. Suddenly\nthe voice of Amroth said, rather sharply, in my ear, \"Don't be silly!\"\nThis homely direction, so peremptorily made, had an instantaneous\neffect. If he had said, \"Be not faithless,\" or anything in the copybook\nmanner, I should have sat down and resigned myself to solemn despair.\nBut now I felt a fool and a coward as well.\n\nSo I addressed myself, like a dog who hears the crack of a whip, to the\nrocks.\n\nIt would be tedious to relate how I clambered and stumbled and agonised.\nThere did not seem to me the slightest use in making the attempt, or the\nsmallest hope of reaching the top, or the least expectation of finding\nanything worth finding. I hated everything I had ever seen or known;\nrecollections of old lives and of the quiet garden I had left came upon\nme with a sort of mental nausea. This was very different from the\namiable and easy-going treatment I had expected. Yet I did struggle on,\nwith a hideous faintness and weariness--but would it never stop? It\nseemed like years to me, my hands frozen and wetted by snow and dripping\nwater, my feet bruised and wounded by sharp stones, my garments\nstrangely torn and rent, with stains of blood showing through in places.\nStill the hideous business continued, but progress was never quite\nimpossible. At one place I found the rocks wholly impassable, and\nchoosing the broader of two ledges which ran left and right, I worked\nout along the cliff, only to find that the ledge ran into the\nprecipices, and I had to retrace my steps, if the shuffling motions I\nmade could be so called. Then I took the harder of the two, which\nzigzagged backwards and forwards across the rocks. At one place I saw a\nthing which moved me very strangely. This was a heap of bones, green,\nslimy, and ill-smelling, with some tattered rags of cloth about them,\nwhich lay in a heap beneath a precipice. The thought that a man could\nfall and be killed in such a place moved me with a fresh misery. What\nthat meant I could not tell. Were we not away from such things as\nmouldering flesh and broken bones? It seemed not; and I climbed madly\naway from them. Quite suddenly I came to the top, a bleak platform of\nrock, where I fell prostrate on my face and groaned.\n\n\"Yes, that was an ugly business,\" said the voice of Amroth beside me,\n\"but you got through it fairly well. How do you feel?\"\n\n\"I call it a perfect outrage,\" I said. \"What is the meaning of this\nhateful business?\"\n\n\"The meaning?\" said Amroth; \"never mind about the meaning. The point is\nthat you are here!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"I have had a horrible time. All my sense of security is\ngone from me. Is one indeed liable to this kind of interruption,\nAmroth?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Amroth, \"there must be some tests; but you will be\nbetter very soon. It is all over for the present, I may tell you, and\nyou will soon be able to enjoy it. There is no terror in past\nsuffering--it is the purest joy.\"\n\n\"Yes, I used to say so and think so,\" I said, closing my eyes. \"But this\nwas different--it was horrible! And the time it lasted, and the despair\nof it! It seems to have soaked into my whole life and poisoned it.\"\n\nAmroth said nothing for a minute, but watched me closely.\n\nPresently I went on. \"And tell me one thing. There was a ghastly thing I\nsaw, some mouldering bones on a ledge. Can people indeed fall and die\nthere?\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was only a phantom,\" said Amroth, \"put there like the\nsights in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, the fire that was fed secretly with\noil, and the robin with his mouth full of spiders, as an encouragement\nfor wayfarers!\"\n\n\"But that,\" I said, \"would be too horrible for anything--to turn the\nterrors of death into a sort of conjuring trick--a dramatic\nentertainment, to make one's flesh creep! Why, that was the misery of\nsome of the religion taught us in old days, that it seemed often only\ndramatic--a scene without cause or motive, just displayed to show us the\nanger or the mercy of God, so that one had the miserable sense that much\nof it was a spectacular affair, that He Himself did not really suffer or\nfeel indignation, but thought it well to feign emotions, like a\nschoolmaster to impress his pupils.--and that people too were not\npunished for their own sakes, to help them, but just to startle or\nconvince others.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"I was only jesting, and I see that my jests were\nout of place. Of course what you saw was real--there are no pretences\nhere. Men and women do indeed suffer a kind of death--the second\ndeath--in these places, and have to begin again; but that is only for a\ncertain sort of self-confident and sin-soaked person, whose will needs\nto be roughly broken. There are certain perverse sins of the spirit\nwhich need a spiritual death, as the sins of the body need a bodily\ndeath. Only thus can one be born again.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I am amazed--but now what am I to do? I am fit for\nnothing, and I shall be fit for nothing hereafter.\"\n\n\"If you talk like this,\" said Amroth, \"you will only drive me away.\nThere are certain things that it is better not to confess to one's\ndearest friend, not even to God. One must just be silent about them, try\nto forget them, hope they can never happen again. I tell you, you will\nsoon be all right; and if you are not you will have to see a physician.\nBut you had better not do that unless you are obliged.\"\n\nThis made me feel ashamed of myself, and the shame took off my thoughts\nfrom what I had endured; but I could do nothing but lie aching and\npanting on the rocks for a long time, while Amroth sat beside me in\nsilence.\n\n\"Are you vexed?\" I said after a long pause.\n\n\"No, no, not vexed,\" said Amroth, \"but I am not sure whether I have not\nmade a mistake. It was I who urged that you might go forward, and I\nconfess I am disappointed at the result. You are softer than I thought.\"\n\n\"Indeed I am not,\" I said. \"I will go down the rocks and come up again,\nif that will satisfy you.\"\n\n\"Come, that is a little better,\" said Amroth, \"and I will tell you now\nthat you did well--better indeed at the time than I expected. You did\nthe thing in very good time, as we used to say.\"\n\nBy this time I felt very drowsy, and suddenly dropped off into a\nsleep--such a deep and dreamless sleep, to descend into which was like\nflinging oneself into a river-pool by a bubbling weir on a hot and dusty\nday of summer.\n\nI awoke suddenly with a pressure on my arm, and, waking up with a sense\nof renewed freshness, I saw Amroth looking at me anxiously. \"Do not\nsay anything,\" he said. \"Can you manage to hobble a few steps? If you\ncannot, I will get some help, and we shall be all right--but there may\nbe an unpleasant encounter, and it is best avoided.\" I scrambled to my\nfeet, and Amroth helped me a little higher up the rocks, looking\ncarefully into the mist as he did so. Close behind us was a steep rock\nwith ledges. Amroth flung himself upon them, with an agile scramble or\ntwo. Then he held his hand down, lying on the top; I took it, and,\nstiffened as I was, I contrived to get up beside him. \"That is right,\"\nhe said in a whisper. \"Now lie here quietly, don't speak a word, and\njust watch.\"\n\nI lay, with a sense of something evil about. Presently I heard the sound\nof voices in the mist to the left of us; and in an instant there loomed\nout of the mist the form of a man, who was immediately followed by three\nothers. They were different from all the other spirits I had yet\nseen--tall, lean, dark men, very spare and strong. They looked carefully\nabout them, mostly glancing down the cliff, and sometimes conferred\ntogether. They were dressed in close-fitting dark clothes, which seemed\nas if made out of some kind of skin or untanned leather, and their whole\nair was sinister and terrifying. They passed quite close beneath us, so\nthat I saw the bald head of one of them, who carried a sort of hook in\nhis hands.\n\nWhen they got to the place where my climb had ended, they stopped and\nexamined the stones carefully: one of them clambered a few feet down the\ncliff. Then he came back and seemed to make a brief report, after which\nthey appeared undecided what to do; they even looked up at the rock\nwhere we lay; but while they did this, another man, very similar, came\nhurriedly out of the mist, said something to the group, and they all\ndisappeared very quickly into the darkness the same way they had come.\nThen there was a silence. I should have spoken, but Amroth put a finger\non his lips. Presently there came a sound of falling stones, and after\nthat there broke out among the rocks below a horrible crying, as of a\nman in sore straits and instant fear. Amroth jumped quickly to his feet.\n\"This will not do,\" he said. \"Stay here for me.\" And then leaping down\nthe rock, he disappeared, shouting words of help--\"Hold on--I am\ncoming.\"\n\nHe came back some little time afterwards, and I saw that he was not\nalone. He had with him an old stumbling man, evidently in the last\nextremity of terror and pain, with beads of sweat on his brow and blood\nrunning down from his hands. He seemed dazed and bewildered. And Amroth\ntoo looked ruffled and almost weary, as I had never seen him look. I\ncame down the rock to meet them. But Amroth said, \"Wait here for me; it\nhas been a troublesome business, and I must go and bestow this poor\ncreature in a place of safety--I will return.\" He led the old man away\namong the rocks, and I waited a long time, wondering very heavily what\nit was that I had seen.\n\nWhen Amroth came back to the rock he was fresh and smiling again: he\nswung himself up, and sat by me, with his hands clasped round his knees.\nThen he looked at me, and said, \"I daresay you are surprised? You did\nnot expect to see such terrors and dangers here? And it is a great\nmystery.\"\n\n\"You must be kind,\" I said, \"and explain to me what has happened.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Amroth, \"there is a large gang of men who infest this\nplace, who have got up here by their agility, and can go no further,\nwho make it their business to prevent all they can from coming up. I\nconfess that it is the hardest thing of all to understand why it is\nallowed; but if you expect all to be plain sailing up here, you are\nmistaken. One needs to be wary and strong. They do much harm here, and\nwill continue to do it.\"\n\n\"What would have happened if they had found us here?\" I said.\n\n\"Nothing very much,\" said Amroth; \"a good deal of talk no doubt, and\nsome blows perhaps. But it was well I was with you, because I could have\nsummoned help. They are not as strong as they look either--it is mostly\nfear that aids them.\"\n\n\"Well, but _who_ are they?\" I said.\n\n\"They are the most troublesome crew of all,\" said Amroth, \"and come\nnearest to the old idea of fiends--they are indeed the origin of that\nnotion. To speak plainly, they are men who have lived virtuous lives,\nand have done cruel things from good motives. There are some kings and\nstatesmen among them, but they are mostly priests and schoolmasters,\nI imagine--people with high ideals, of course! But they are not\nreplenished so fast as they used to be, I think. Their difficulty is\nthat they can never see that they are wrong. Their notion is that this\nis a bad place to come to, and that people are better left in ignorance\nand bliss, obedient and submissive. A good many of them have given up\nthe old rough methods, and hang about the base of the cliff, dissuading\nsouls from climbing: they do the most harm of all, because if one does\nturn back here, it is long before one may make a new attempt. But enough\nof this,\" he added; \"it makes me sick to think of them--the old fellow\nyou saw with me had an awful fright--he was nearly done as it was! But I\nsee you are feeling stronger, and I think we had better be going. One\ndoes not stay here by choice, though the place has a beauty of its own.\nAnd now you will have an easier time for awhile.\"\n\nWe descended from our rock, and Amroth led the way, through a long\ncleft, with rocks, very rough and black, on either side, and fallen\nfragments under foot. It was steep at first; but soon the rocks grew\nlower; and we came out presently on to a great desolate plain, with\nstones lying thickly about, among a coarse kind of grass. At each step I\nseemed to grow stronger, and walked more lightly, and in the thin fine\nair my horrors left me, though I still had a dumb sense of suffering\nwhich, strange to say, I found it almost pleasant to resist. And so we\nwalked for a time in friendly silence, Amroth occasionally indicating\nthe way. The hill began to slope downwards very slowly, and the wind to\nsubside. The mist drew off little by little, till at last I saw ahead of\nus a great bare-looking fortress with high walls and little windows, and\na great blank tower over all.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nWe were received at the guarded door of the fortress by a porter, who\nseemed to be well acquainted with Amroth. Within, it was a big, bare\nplace, with, stone-arched cloisters and corridors, more like a monastery\nthan a castle. Amroth led me briskly along the passages, and took me\ninto a large room very sparely furnished, where an elderly man sat\nwriting at a table with his back to the light. He rose when we entered,\nand I had a sudden sense that I was coming to school again, as indeed I\nwas. Amroth greeted him with a mixture of freedom and respect, as a\nwell-loved pupil might treat an old schoolmaster. The man himself was\ntall and upright, and serious-looking, but for a twinkle of humour that\nlurked in his eye; yet I felt he was one who expected to be obeyed. He\ntook Amroth into the embrasure of a window, and talked with him in low\ntones. Then he came back to me and asked me a few questions of which I\ndid not then understand the drift--but it seemed a kind of very informal\nexamination. Then he made us a little bow of dismissal, and sat down at\nonce to his writing without giving us another look. Amroth took me out,\nand led me up many stone stairs, along whitewashed passages, with narrow\nwindows looking out on the plain, to a small cell or room near the top\nof the castle. It was very austerely furnished, but it had a little door\nwhich took us out on the leads, and I then saw what a very large place\nthe fortress was, consisting of several courts with a great central\ntower.\n\n\"Where on earth have we got to now?\" I said.\n\n\"Nowhere '_on earth_,'\" said Amroth. \"You are at school again, and you\nwill find it very interesting, I hope and expect, but it will be hard\nwork. I will tell you plainly that you are lucky to be here, because if\nyou do well, you will have the best sort of work to do.\"\n\n\"But what am I to do, and where am I to go?\" I said. \"I feel like a new\nboy, with all sorts of dreadful rules in the background.\"\n\n\"That will all be explained to you,\" said Amroth. \"And now good-bye for\nthe present. Let me hear a good report of you,\" he added, with a\nparental air, \"when I come again. What would not we older fellows give\nto be back here!\" he added with a half-mocking smile. \"Let me tell you,\nmy boy, you have got the happiest time of your life ahead of you. Well,\nbe a credit to your friends!\"\n\nHe gave me a nod and was gone. I stood for a little looking out rather\ndesolately into the plain. There came a brisk tap at my door, and a man\nentered. He greeted me pleasantly, gave me a few directions, and I\ngathered that he was one of the instructors. \"You will find it hard\nwork,\" he said; \"we do not waste time here. But I gather that you have\nhad rather a troublesome ascent, so you can rest a little. When you are\nrequired, you will be summoned.\"\n\nWhen he left me, I still felt very weary, and lay down on a little couch\nin the room, falling presently asleep. I was roused by the entry of a\nyoung man, who said he had been sent to fetch me: we went down along the\npassages, while he talked pleasantly in low tones about the arrangements\nof the place. As we went along the passages, the doors of the cells kept\nopening, and we were joined by young men and women, who spoke to me or\nto each other, but all in the same subdued voices, till at last we\nentered a big, bare, arched room, lit by high windows, with rows of\nseats, and a great desk or pulpit at the end. I looked round me in great\ncuriosity. There must have been several hundred people present, sitting\nin rows. There was a murmur of talk over the hall, till a bell suddenly\nsounded somewhere in the castle, a door opened, a man stepped quickly\ninto the pulpit, and began to speak in a very clear and distinct tone.\n\nThe discourse--and all the other discourses to which I listened in the\nplace--was of a psychological kind, dealing entirely with the relations\nof human beings with each other, and the effect and interplay of\nemotions. It was extremely scientific, but couched in the simplest\nphraseology, and made many things clear to me which had formerly been\nobscure. There is nothing in the world so bewildering as the selective\ninstinct of humanity, the reasons which draw people to each other, the\nattractive power of similarity and dissimilarity, the effects of class\nand caste, the abrupt approaches of passion, the influence of the body\non the soul and of the soul on the body. It came upon me with a shock of\nsurprise that while these things are the most serious realities in the\nworld, and undoubtedly more important than any other thing, little\nattempt is made by humanity to unravel or classify them. I cannot here\nenter into the details of these instructions, which indeed would be\nunintelligible, but they showed me at first what I had not at all\napprehended, namely the proportionate importance and unimportance of all\nthe passions and emotions which regulate our relations with other souls.\nThese discourses were given at regular intervals, and much of our time\nwas spent in discussing together or working out in solitude the details\nof psychological problems, which we did with the exactness of chemical\nanalysis.\n\nWhat I soon came to understand was that the whole of psychology is ruled\nby the most exact and immutable laws, in which there is nothing\nfortuitous or abnormal, and that the exact course of an emotion can be\npredicted with perfect certainty if only all the data are known.\n\nOne of the most striking parts of these discourses was the fact that\nthey were accompanied by illustrations. I will describe the first of\nthese which I saw. The lecturer stopped for an instant and held up his\nhand. In the middle of one of the side-walls of the room was a great\nshallow arched recess. In this recess there suddenly appeared a scene,\nnot as though it were cast by a lantern on the wall, but as if the wall\nwere broken down, and showed a room beyond.\n\nIn the room, a comfortably furnished apartment, there sat two people, a\nhusband and wife, middle-aged people, who were engaged in a miserable\ndispute about some very trivial matter. The wife was shrill and\nprovocative, the husband curt and contemptuous. They were obviously not\nreally concerned about the subject they were discussing--it only formed\na ground for disagreeable personalities. Presently the man went out,\nsaying harshly that it was very pleasant to come back from his work, day\nafter day, to these scenes; to which the woman fiercely retorted that it\nwas all his own fault; and when he was gone, she sat for a time\nmechanically knitting, with the tears trickling down her cheeks, and\nevery now and then glancing at the door. After which, with great\nsecrecy, she helped herself to some spirits which she took from a\ncupboard.\n\nThe scene was one of the most vulgar and debasing that can be described\nor imagined; and it was curious to watch the expressions on the faces of\nmy companions. They wore the air of trained doctors or nurses, watching\nsome disagreeable symptoms, with a sort of trained and serene\ncompassion, neither shocked nor grieved. Then the situation was\ndiscussed and analysed, and various suggestions were made which were\ndealt with by the lecturer, in a way which showed me that there was much\nfor us to master and to understand.\n\nThere were many other such illustrations given. They were, I discovered,\nby no means imaginary cases, projected into our minds by a kind of\nmental suggestion, but actual things happening upon earth. We saw many\nstrange scenes of tragedy, we had a glimpse of lunatic asylums and\nhospitals, of murder even, and of evil passions of anger and lust. We\nsaw scenes of grief and terror; and, stranger still, we saw many things\nthat were being enacted not on the earth, but upon other planets, where\nthe forms and appearances of the creatures concerned were fantastic and\nstrange enough, but where the motive and the emotion were all perfectly\nclear. At times, too, we saw scenes that were beautiful and touching,\nhigh and heroic beyond words. These seemed to come rather by contrast\nand for encouragement; for the work was distinctly pathological, and\ndealt with the disasters and complications of emotions, as a rule,\nrather than with their glories and radiances. But it was all incredibly\nabsorbing and interesting, though what it was to lead up to I did not\nquite discern. What struck me was the concentration of effort upon human\nemotion, and still more the fact that other hopes and passions, such as\nambition and acquisitiveness, as well as all material and economic\nproblems, were treated as infinitely insignificant, as just the\nframework of human life, only interesting in so far as the baser and\nmeaner elements of circumstance can just influence, refining or\ncoarsening, the highest traits of character and emotion.\n\nWe were given special cases, too, to study and consider, and here I had\nthe first inkling of how far it is possible for disembodied spirits to\nbe in touch with those who are still in the body.\n\nAs far as I can see, no direct intellectual contact is possible, except\nunder certain circumstances. There is, of course, a great deal of\nthought-vibration taking place in the world, to which the best analogy\nis wireless telegraphy. There exists an all-pervading emotional medium,\ninto which every thought that is tinged with emotion sends a ripple.\nThoughts which are concerned with personal emotion send the firmest\nripple into this medium, and all other thoughts and passions affect it,\nnot in proportion to the intensity of the thought, but to the nature of\nthe thought. The scale is perfectly determined and quite unalterable;\nthus a thought, however strong and intense, which is concerned with\nwealth or with personal ambition sends a very little ripple into the\nmedium, while a thought of affection is very noticeable indeed, and more\nnoticeable in proportion as it is purer and less concerned with any kind\nof bodily passion. Thus, strange to say, the thought of a father for a\nchild is a stronger thought than that of a lover for his beloved. I do\nnot know the exact scale of force, which is as exact as that of chemical\nvalues--and of course such emotions are apt to be complex and intricate;\nbut the purer and simpler the thought is, the greater is its force.\nPerhaps the prayers that one prays for those whom one loves send the\nstrongest ripple of all. If it happens that two of these ripples of\npersonal emotion are closely similar, a reflex action takes place; and\nthus is explained the phenomenon which often takes place, the sudden\nsense of a friend's personality, if that friend, in absence, writes one\na letter, or bends his mind intently upon one. It also explains the way\nin which some national or cosmic emotion suddenly gains simultaneous\nforce, and vibrates in thousands of minds at the same time.\n\nThe body, by its joys and sufferings alike, offers a great obstruction\nto these emotional waves. In the land of spirits, as I have indicated,\nan intention of congenial wills gives an instantaneous perception; but\nthis seems impossible between an embodied spirit and a disembodied\nspirit. The only communication which seems possible is that of a vague\nemotion; and it seems quite impossible for any sort of intellectual idea\nto be directly communicated by a disembodied spirit to an embodied\nspirit.\n\nOn the other hand, the intellectual processes of an embodied spirit are\nto a certain extent perceptible by a disembodied spirit; but there is a\ncondition to this, and that is that some emotional sympathy must have\nexisted between the two on earth. If there is no such sympathy, then the\nbody is an absolute bar.\n\nI could look into the mind of Amroth and see his thought take shape, as\nI could look into a stream, and see a fish dart from a covert of weed.\nBut with those still in the body it is different. And I will therefore\nproceed to describe a single experience which will illustrate my point.\n\nI was ordered to study the case of a former friend of my own who was\nstill living upon earth. Nothing was told me about him, but, sitting in\nmy cell, I put myself into communication with him upon earth. He had\nbeen a contemporary of mine at the university, and we had many interests\nin common. He was a lawyer; we did not very often meet, but when we did\nmeet it was always with great cordiality and sympathy. I now found him\nill and suffering from overwork, in a very melancholy state. When I\nfirst visited him, he was sitting alone, in the garden of a little\nhouse in the country. I could see that he was ill and sad; he was making\npretence to read, but the book was wholly disregarded.\n\nWhen I attempted to put my mind into communication with his, it was very\ndifficult to see the drift of his thoughts. I was like a man walking in\na dense fog, who can just discern at intervals recognisable objects as\nthey come within his view; but there was no general prospect and no\ndistance. His mind seemed a confused current of distressing memories;\nbut there came a time when his thought dwelt for a moment upon myself;\nhe wished that I could be with him, that he might speak of some of his\nperplexities. In that instant, the whole grew clearer, and little by\nlittle I was enabled to trace the drift of his thoughts. I became aware\nthat though he was indeed suffering from overwork, yet that his enforced\nrest only removed the mental distraction of his work, and left his mind\nfree to revive a whole troop of painful thoughts. He had been a man of\nstrong personal ambitions, and had for twenty years been endeavouring to\nrealise them. Now a sense of the comparative worthlessness of his aims\nhad come upon him. He had despised and slighted other emotions; and his\nmind had in consequence drifted away like a boat into a bitter and\nbarren sea. He was a lonely man, and he was feeling that he had done ill\nin not multiplying human emotions and relations. He reflected much upon\nthe way in which he had neglected and despised his home affections,\nwhile he had formed no ties of his own. Now, too, his career seemed to\nhim at an end, and he had nothing to look forward to but a maimed and\ninvalided life of solitude and failure. Many of his thoughts I could not\ndiscern at all--the mist, so to speak, involved them--while many were\nobscure to me. When he thought about scenes and people whom I had never\nknown, the thought loomed shapeless and dark; but when he thought, as he\noften did, about his school and university days, and about his home\ncircle, all of which scenes were familiar to me, I could read his mind\nwith perfect clearness. At the bottom of all lay a sense of deep\ndisappointment and resentment. He doubted the justice of God, and blamed\nhimself but little for his miseries. It was a sad experience at first,\nbecause he was falling day by day into more hopeless dejection; while he\nrefused the pathetic overtures of sympathy which the relations in whose\nhouse he was--a married sister with her husband and children--offered\nhim. He bore himself with courtesy and consideration, but he was so much\nworn with fatigue and despondency that he could not take any initiative.\nBut I became aware very gradually that he was learning the true worth\nand proportion of things--and the months which passed so heavily for him\nbrought him perceptions of the value of which he was hardly aware. Let\nme say that it was now that the incredible swiftness of time in the\nspiritual region made itself felt for me. A month of his sufferings\npassed to me, contemplating them, like an hour.\n\nI found to my surprise that his thoughts of myself were becoming more\nfrequent; and one day when he was turning over some old letters and\nreading a number of mine, it seemed to me that his spirit almost\nrecognised my presence in the words which came to his lips, \"It seems\nlike yesterday!\" I then became blessedly aware that I was actually\nhelping him, and that the very intentness of my own thought was\nquickening his own.\n\nI discussed the whole case very closely and carefully with one of our\ninstructors, who set me right on several points and made the whole state\nof things clear to me.\n\nI said to him, \"One thing bewilders me; it would almost seem that a\nman's work upon earth constituted an interruption and a distraction from\nspiritual influences. It cannot surely be that people in the body should\navoid employment, and give themselves to secluded meditation? If the\nsoul grows fast in sadness and despondency, it would seem that one\nshould almost have courted sorrow on earth; and yet I cannot believe\nthat to be the case.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"it is not the case; the body has here to be considered.\nNo amount of active exertion clouds the eye of the soul, if only the\nmotive of it is pure and lofty, and if the soul is only set patiently\nand faithfully upon the true end of life. The body indeed requires due\nlabour and exercise, and the soul can gain health and clearness thereby.\nBut what does cloud the spirit is if it gives itself wholly up to narrow\npersonal aims and ambitions, and uses friendship and love as mere\nrecreations and amusements. Sickness and sorrow are not, as we used to\nthink, fortuitous things; they are given to those who need them, as high\nand rich opportunities; and they come as truly blessed gifts, when they\nbreak a man's thought off from material things, and make him fall back\nupon the loving affections and relations of life. When one re-enters\nthe world, a woman's life is sometimes granted to a spirit, because a\nwoman by circumstance and temperament is less tempted to decline upon\nmeaner ambitions and interests than a man; but work and activity are no\nhindrances to spiritual growth, so long as the soul waits upon God, and\ndesires to learn the lessons of life, rather than to enforce its own\nconclusions upon others.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I see that. What, then, is the great hindrance in the\nlife of men?\"\n\n\"Authority,\" he said, \"whether given or taken. That is by far the\ngreatest difficulty that a soul has to contend with. The knowledge of\nthe true conditions of life is so minute and yet so imperfect, when one\nis in the body, that the man or woman who thinks it a duty to\ndisapprove, to correct, to censure, is in the gravest danger. In the\nfirst place it is so impossible to disentangle the true conditions of\nany human life; to know how far those failures which are lightly called\nsins are inherited instincts of the body, or the manifestation of\nimmaturity of spirit. Complacency, hard righteousness, spiritual\nsecurity, severe judgments, are the real foes of spiritual growth; and\nif a man is in a position to enforce his influence and his will upon\nothers, he can fall very low indeed, and suspend his own growth for a\nvery long and sad period. It is not the criticism or the analysis of\nothers which hurts the soul, so long as it remains modest and sincere\nand conscious of its own weaknesses. It is when we indulge in secure or\ncompassionate comparisons of our own superior worth that we go\nbackwards.\"\n\nThis was but one of the many cases which I had to investigate. I do not\nsay that this is the work of all spirits in the other world--it is not\nso; there are many kinds of work and occupation. This was the one now\nallotted to me; but I did become aware of the intense and loving\ninterest which is bent upon the souls of the living by those who are\ndeparted. There is not a soul alive who is not being thus watched and\ntended, and helped, as far as help is possible; for no one is ever\nforced or compelled or frightened into truth, only drawn and wooed by\nlove and care.\n\nI must say a word, too, of the great and noble friendships which I\nformed at this period of my existence. We were not free to make many of\nthese at a time. Love seems to be the one thing that demands an entire\nconcentration, and though in the world of spirits I became aware that\none could be conscious of many of the thoughts of those about me\nsimultaneously, yet the emotion of love, in the earlier stages, is\nsingle and exclusive.\n\nI will speak of two only. There were a young man and a young woman who\nwere much associated with me at that time, whom I will call Philip and\nAnna. Philip was one of the most beautiful of all the spirits I ever\ncame near. His last life upon earth had been a long one, and he had been\na teacher. I used to tell him that I wished I had been under him as a\npupil, to which he replied, laughing, that I should have found him very\nuninteresting. He said to me once that the way in which he had always\ndistinguished the two kinds of teachers on earth had been by whether\nthey were always anxious to teach new books and new subjects, or went on\ncontentedly with the old. \"The pleasure,\" he said, \"was in the teaching,\nin making the thought clear, in tempting the boys to find out what they\nknew all the time; and the oftener I taught a subject the better I liked\nit; it was like a big cog-wheel, with a number of little cog-wheels\nturning with it. But the men who were always wanting to change their\nsubjects were the men who thought of their own intellectual interest\nfirst, and very little of the small interests revolving upon it.\" The\ncharm of Philip was the charm of extreme ingenuousness combined with\ndaring insight. He never seemed to be shocked or distressed by anything.\nHe said one day, \"It was not the sensual or the timid or the\nill-tempered boys who used to make me anxious. Those were definite\nfaults and brought definite punishment; it was the hard-hearted,\nvirtuous, ambitious, sensible boys, who were good-humoured and\nrespectable and selfish, who bothered me; one wanted to shake them as a\nterrier shakes a rat--but there was nothing to get hold of. They were a\ncredit to themselves and to their parents and to the school; and yet\nthey went downhill with every success.\"\n\nAnna was a woman of singularly unselfish and courageous temperament. She\nhad been, in the course of her last life upon earth, a hospital nurse;\nand she used to speak gratefully of the long periods when she was\nnursing some anxious case, when she had interchanged day and night,\nsleeping when the world was awake, and sitting with a book or needlework\nby the sick-bed, through the long darkness. \"People used to say to me\nthat it must be so depressing; but those were my happiest hours, as the\ndark brightened into dawn, when many of the strange mysteries of life\nand pain and death gave up their secrets to me. But of course,\" she\nadded with a smile, \"it was all very dim to me. I felt the truth rather\nthan saw it; and it is a great joy to me to perceive now what was\nhappening, and how the sad, bewildered hours of pain and misery leave\ntheir blessed marks upon the soul, like the tools of the graver on the\ngem. If only we could learn to plan a little less and to believe a\nlittle more, how much simpler it would all be!\"\n\nThese two became very dear to me, and I learnt much heavenly wisdom from\nthem in long, quiet conferences, where we spoke frankly of all we had\nfelt and known.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nIt was at this time, I think, that a great change came over my thoughts,\nor rather that I realised that a great change had gradually taken place.\nTill now, I had been dominated and haunted by memories of my latest life\nupon earth; but at intervals there had visited me a sense of older and\npurer recollections. I cannot describe exactly how it came about--and,\nindeed, the memory of what my heavenly progress had hitherto been, as\nopposed to my earthly experience, was never very clear to me; but I\nbecame aware that my life in heaven--I will call it heaven for want of a\nbetter name--was my real continuous life, my home-life, so to speak,\nwhile my earthly lives had been, to pursue the metaphor, like terms\nwhich a boy spends at school, in which he is aware that he not only\nlearns definite and tangible things, but that his character is hardened\nand consolidated by coming into contact with the rougher facts of\nlife--duty, responsibility, friendships, angers, treacheries,\ntemptations, routine. The boy returns with gladness to the serener and\nsweeter atmosphere of home; and just in the same way I felt I had\nreturned to the larger and purer life of heaven. But, as I say, the\nrecollection of my earlier life in heaven, my occupations and\nexperience, was never clear to me, but rather as a luminous and haunting\nmist. I questioned Amroth about this once, and he said that this was the\nuniversal experience, and that the earthly lives one lived were like\ndeep trenches cut across a path, and seemed to interrupt the heavenly\nsequence; but that as the spirit grew more pure and wise, the\nconsciousness of the heavenly life became more distinct and secure. But\nhe added, what I did not quite understand, that there was little need of\nmemory in the life of heaven, and that it was to a great extent the\ninheritance of the body. Memory, he said, was to a great extent an\ninterruption to life; the thought of past failures and mistakes, and\nespecially of unkindnesses and misunderstandings, tended to obscure and\ncomplicate one's relations with other souls; but that in heaven, where\nactivity and energy were untiring and unceasing, one lived far more in\nthe emotion and work of the moment, and less in retrospect and prospect.\nWhat mattered was actual experience and the effect of experience; memory\nitself was but an artistic method of dealing with the past, and\ncorresponded to fanciful and delightful anticipations of the future.\n\"The truth is,\" he said, \"that the indulgence of memory is to a great\nextent a mere sentimental weakness; to live much in recollection is a\nsign of exhausted and depleted vitality. The further you are removed\nfrom your last earthly life, the less tempted you will be to recall it.\nThe highest spirits of all here,\" he said, \"have no temptation ever to\nrevert to retrospect, because the pure energies of the moment are\nall-sustaining and all-sufficing.\"\n\nThe only trace I ever noticed of any memory of my past life in heaven\nwas that things sometimes seemed surprisingly familiar to me, and that I\nhad the sense of a serene permanence, which possessed and encompassed\nme. Indeed I came to believe that the strange feeling of permanence\nwhich haunts one upon earth, when one is happy and content, even though\none knows that everything is changing and shifting around one, and that\nall is precarious and uncertain, is in itself a memory of the serene and\nuntroubled continuance of heaven, and a desire to taste it and realise\nit.\n\nBe this as it may, from the time of my finding my settled task and\nordered place in the heavenly community the memories of my old life upon\nearth began to fade from my thoughts. I could, indeed, always recall\nthem by an effort, but there seemed less and less inclination to do so\nthe more I became absorbed in my heavenly activities.\n\nOne thing I noticed in these days; it surprised me very greatly, till I\nreflected that my surprise was but the consequence of the strange and\nmournful blindness with regard to spiritual things in which we live\nunder the dark skies of earth. We have there a false idea that somehow\nor other death takes all the individuality out of a man, obliterating\nall the whims, prejudices, the thorny and unreasonable dislikes and\nfancies, oddities, tempers, roughnesses, and subtlenesses from a\ntemperament. Of course there are a good many of these things which\ndisappear together with the body, such as the glooms, suspicions, and\ncloudy irritabilities, which are caused by fatigue and malaise, and by\nill-health generally. But a man's whims and fancies and dislikes do not\nby any means disappear on earth when he is in good health; on the\ncontrary, they are often apt to be accentuated and emphasised when he is\nfree from pain and care and anxiety, and riding blithely over the waves\nof life. Indeed there are men whom I have known who are never kind or\nsympathetic till they are in some wearing trouble of their own; when\nthey are prosperous and cheerful, they are frankly intolerable, because\ntheir mirth turns to derision and insolence.\n\nBut one of the reasons why the heavenly life is apt to appear in\nprospect so wearisome a thing is, because we are brought up to feel that\nthe whole character is flattened out and charged with a serene kind of\npriggishness, which takes all the salt out of life. The word \"saintly,\"\nso terribly misapplied on earth, grows to mean, to many of us, an\nirritating sort of kindness, which treats the interests and animated\nelements of life with a painful condescension, and a sympathy of which\nthe basis is duty rather than love. The true sanctification, which I\ncame to perceive something of later, is the result of a process of\nendless patience and infinite delay, and the attainment of it implies a\nhumility, seven times refined in the fires of self-contempt, in which\nthere remains no smallest touch of superiority or aloofness. How utterly\ndepressing is the feigned interest of the imperfect human saint in\nmatters of mundane concern! How it takes at once both the joy out of\nholiness and the spirit out of human effort! It is as dreary as the\nprofessional sympathy of the secluded student for the news of athletic\ncontests, as the tolerance of the shrewd man of science for the feminine\nlogic of religious sentiment!\n\nBut I found to my great content that whatever change had passed over the\nspirits of my companions, they had at least lost no fibre of their\nindividuality. The change that had passed over them was like the change\nthat passes over a young man, who has lived at the University among\ndilettante literary designs and mild sociological theorising, when he\nfinds himself plunged into the urgent practical activities of the world.\nOur happiness was the happiness which comes of intense toil, with no\nfatigue to dog it, and from a consciousness of the vital issues which\nwe were pursuing. But my companions had still intellectual faults and\npreferences, self-confidence, critical intolerance, boisterousness,\nwilfulness. Stranger still, I found coldness, anger, jealousy, still at\nwork. Of course in the latter case reconciliation was easier, both in\nthe light of common enthusiasm and, still more, because mental\ncommunication was so much swifter and easier than it had been on earth.\nThere was no need of those protracted talks, those tiresome explanations\nwhich clever people, who really love and esteem each other, fall into on\nearth--the statements which affirm nothing, the explanations which\nelucidate nothing, because of the intricacies of human speech and the\nfact that people use the same words with such different implications and\nmeanings. All those became unnecessary, because one could pierce\ninstantaneously into the very essence of the soul, and manifest, without\nthe need of expression, the regard and affection which lay beneath the\ncross-currents of emotion. But love and affection waxed and waned in\nheaven as on earth; it was weakened and it was transferred. Few souls\nare so serene on earth as to see with perfect equanimity a friend, whom\none loves and trusts, becoming absorbed in some new and exciting\nemotion, which may not perhaps obliterate the original regard, but which\nmust withdraw from it for a time the energy which fed the flame of the\nintermitted relation.\n\nIt was very strange to me to realise the fact that friendships and\nintimacies were formed as on earth, and that they lost their freshness,\neither from some lack of real congeniality or from some divergence of\ndevelopment. Sometimes, I may add, our teachers were consulted by the\naggrieved, sometimes they even intervened unasked.\n\nI will freely confess that this all immensely heightened the interests\nto me of our common life. One could see two spirits drawn together by\nsome secret tie of emotion, and one could see some further influence\nstrike across and suspend it. One case of this I will mention, which is\ntypical of many. There came among us an extremely lively and rather\nwhimsical spirit, more like a boy than a man. I wondered at first why he\nwas chosen for this work, because he seemed both fitful and even\ncapricious; but I gradually realised in him an extraordinary fineness of\nperception, and a swiftness of intuition almost unrivalled. He had a\npower of weighing almost by instinct the constituent elements of\ncharacter, which seemed to me something like the power of tonality in a\nmusician, the gift of recognising, by pure faculty, what any notes may\nbe, however confusedly jangled on an instrument. It was wonderful to me\nhow often his instantaneous judgments proved more sagacious than our\ncarefully formed conclusions.\n\nThis boy became extraordinarily attractive to an older woman who was one\nof our number, who was solitary and abstracted, and of an intense\nseriousness of devotion to her work. It was evident both that she felt\nhis charm intensely and that her disposition was wholly alien to the\ndisposition of the boy himself. In fact, she simply bored him. He took\nall that he did lightly, and achieved by an intense momentary\nconcentration what she could only achieve by slow reflection. This\ndevotion had in it something that was strangely pathetic, because it\ntook the form in her of making her wish to conciliate the boy's\nadmiration, by treating thoughts and ideas with a lightness and a humour\nto which she could by no means attain, and which made things worse\nrather than better, because she could read so easily, in the thoughts of\nothers, the impression that she was attempting a handling of topics\nwhich she could not in the least accomplish. But advice was useless.\nThere it was, the old, fierce, constraining attraction of love, as it\nhad been of old, making havoc of comfortable arrangements, attempting\nthe impossible; and yet one knew that she would gain by the process,\nthat she was opening a door in her heart that had hitherto been closed,\nand learning a largeness of view and sympathy in the process. Her fault\nhad ever been, no doubt, to estimate slow and accurate methods too\nhighly, and to believe that all was insecure and untrustworthy that was\nnot painfully accumulated. Now she saw that genius could accomplish\nwithout effort or trouble what no amount of homely energy could effect,\nand a new horizon was unveiled to her. But on the boy it did not seem to\nhave the right result. He might have learned to extend his sympathy to a\nnature so dumb and plodding; and this coldness of his called down a\nrebuke of what seemed almost undue sternness from one of our teachers.\nIt was not given in my presence, but the boy, bewildered by the severity\nwhich he did not anticipate, coupled indeed with a hint that he must be\nprepared, if he could not exhibit a more elastic sympathy, to have his\ncourse suspended in favour of some more simple discipline, told me the\nwhole matter. \"What am I to do?\" he said. \"I cannot care for Barbara;\nher whole nature upsets me and revolts me. I know she is very good and\nall that, but I simply am not myself when she is by; it is like taking a\nrun with a tortoise!\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"no one expects you to give up all your time to taking\ntortoises for runs; but I suppose that tortoises have their rights, and\nmust not be jerked along on their backs, like a sledge.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said he, \"you are all against me, I know; and I am not sure that\nthis place is not rather too solemn for me. What is the good of being\nwiser than the aged, if one has more commandments to keep?\"\n\nThings, however, settled down in time. Barbara, I think, must have been\ntaken to task as well, because she gave up her attempts at wit; and the\nend of it was that a quiet friendship sprang up between the incongruous\npair, like that between a wayward young brother and a plain, kindly,\nand elderly sister, of a very fine and chivalrous kind.\n\nIt must not be thought that we spent our time wholly in these emotional\nrelations. It was a place of hard and urgent work; but I came to realise\nthat, just as on earth, institutions like schools and colleges, where a\ngreat variety of natures are gathered in close and daily contact, are\nshot through and through with strange currents of emotion, which some\npeople pay no attention to, and others dismiss as mere sentimentality,\nso it was also bound to be beyond, with this difference, that whereas on\nearth we are shy and awkward with our friendships, and all sorts of\nphysical complications intervene, in the other world they assume their\nfrank importance. I saw that much of what is called the serious business\nof life is simply and solely necessitated by bodily needs, and is really\nentirely temporary and trivial, while the real life of the soul, which\nunderlies it all, stifled and subdued, pent-up uneasily and cramped\nunkindly like a bright spring of water under the superincumbent earth,\nfinds its way at last to the light. On earth we awkwardly divide this\nimpulse; we speak of the relation of the soul to others and of the\nrelation of the soul to God as two separate things. We pass over the\nwords of Christ in the Gospel, which directly contradict this, and which\nmake the one absolutely dependent on, and conditional on, the other. We\nspeak of human affection as a thing which may come in between the soul\nand God, while it is in reality the swiftest access thither. We speak as\nthough ambition were itself made more noble, if it sternly abjures all\nmultiplication of human tenderness. We speak of a life which sacrifices\nmaterial success to emotion as a failure and an irresponsible affair.\nThe truth is the precise opposite. All the ambitions which have their\nend in personal prestige are wholly barren; the ambitions which aim at\nsocial amelioration have a certain nobility about them, though they\nsubstitute a tortuous by-path for a direct highway. And the plain truth\nis that all social amelioration would grow up as naturally and as\nfragrantly as a flower, if we could but refine and strengthen and awaken\nour slumbering emotions, and let them grow out freely to gladden the\nlittle circle of earth in which we live and move.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nIt was at this time that I had a memorable interview with the Master of\nthe College. He appeared very little among us, though, he occasionally\ngave us a short instruction, in which he summed up the teaching on a\ncertain point. He was a man of extraordinary impressiveness, mainly, I\nthink, because he gave the sense of being occupied in much larger and\nwider interests. I often pondered over the question why the short,\nclear, rather dry discourses which fell from his lips appeared to be so\nfar more weighty and momentous than anything else that was ever said to\nus. He used no arts of exhortation, showed no emotion, seemed hardly\nconscious of our presence; and if one caught his eye as he spoke, one\nbecame aware of a curious tremor of awe. He never made any appeal to our\nhearts or feelings; but it always seemed as if he had condescended for\na moment to put aside far bigger and loftier designs in order to drop a\nfruit of ripened wisdom in our way. He came among us, indeed, like a\nstatesman rather than like a teacher. The brief interviews we had with\nhim were regarded with a sort of terror, but produced, in me at least,\nan almost fanatical respect and admiration. And yet I had no reason to\nsuppose that he was not, like all of us, subject to the law of life and\npilgrimage, though one could not conceive of him as having to enter the\narena of life again as a helpless child!\n\nOn this occasion I was summoned suddenly to his presence. I found him,\nas usual, bent over his work, which he did not intermit, but merely\nmotioned me to be seated. Presently he put away his papers from him, and\nturned round upon me. One of the disconcerting things about him was the\nfact that his thought had a peculiarly compelling tendency, and that\nwhile he read one's mind in a flash, his own thoughts remained very\nnearly impenetrable. On this occasion he commended me for my work and my\nrelations with my fellow-students, adding that I had made rapid\nprogress. He then said, \"I have two questions to ask you. Have you any\nspecial relations, either with any one whom you have left behind you on\nearth, or with any one with whom you have made acquaintance since you\nquitted it, which you desire to pursue?\"\n\nI told him, which was the truth, that since my stay in the College I had\nbecome so much absorbed in the studies of the place that I seemed to\nhave became strangely oblivious of my external friends, but that it was\nmore a suspension than a destruction of would-be relations.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I perceive that that is your temperament. It has its\neffectiveness, no doubt, but it also has its dangers; and, whatever\nhappens, one ought never to be able to accuse oneself justly of any\ndisloyalty.\"\n\nHe seemed to wait for me to speak, whereupon I mentioned a very dear\nfriend of my days of earth; but I added that most of those whom I had\nloved best had predeceased me, and that I had looked forward to a\nrenewal of our intercourse. I also mentioned the names of Charmides and\nCynthia, the latter of whom was in memory strangely near to my heart.\n\nHe seemed satisfied with this. Then he said, \"It is true that we have to\nmultiply relationships with others, both in the world and out of it; but\nwe must also practise economy. We must not abandon ourselves to passing\nfancies, or be subservient to charm, while if we have made an emotional\nmistake, and have been disappointed with one whom we have taken the\ntrouble to win, we must guard such conquests with a close and peculiar\ntenderness. But enough of that, for I have to ask you if there is any\nspecial work for which you feel yourself disposed. There is a great\nchoice of employment here. You may choose, if you will, just to live\nthe spiritual life and discharge whatever duties of citizenship you may\nbe called upon to perform. That is what most spirits do. I need not\nperhaps tell you\"--here he smiled--\"that freedom from the body does not\nconfer upon any one, as our poor brothers and sisters upon earth seem to\nthink, a heavenly vocation. Neither of course is the earthly fallacy\nabout a mere absorption in worship a true one--only to a very few is\nthat conceded. Still less is this a life of leisure. To be leisurely\nhere is permitted only to the wearied, and to those childish creatures\nwith whom you have spent some time in their barren security. I do not\nthink you are suited for the work of recording the great scheme of life,\nnor do I think you are made for a teacher. You are not sufficiently\nimpartial! For mere labour you are not suited; and yet I hardly think\nyou would be fit to adopt the most honourable task which your friend\nAmroth so finely fulfils--a guide and messenger. What do you think?\"\n\nI said at once that I did not wish to have to make a decision, but that\nI preferred to leave it to him. I added that though I was conscious of\nmy deficiencies, I did not feel conscious of any particular capacities,\nexcept that I found character a very fascinating study, especially in\nconnection with the circumstances of life upon earth.\n\n\"Very well,\" he said, \"I think that you may perhaps be best suited to\nthe work of deciding what sort of life will best befit the souls who are\nprepared to take up their life upon earth again. That is a task of deep\nand infinite concern; it may surprise you,\" he added, \"to learn that\nthis is left to the decision of other souls. But it is, of course, the\ngoal at which all earthly social systems are aiming, the right\napportionment of circumstances to temperament, and you must not be\nsurprised to find that here we have gone much further in that direction,\nthough even here the system is not perfected; and you cannot begin to\napprehend that fact too soon. It is unfortunate that on earth it is\ncommonly believed, owing to the deadening influence of material causes,\nthat beyond the grave everything is done with a Divine unanimity. But of\ncourse, if that were so, further growth and development would be\nimpossible, and in view of infinite perfectibility there is yet very\nmuch that is faulty and incomplete. But I am not sure what lies before\nyou; there is something in your temperament which a little baffles me,\nand our plans may have to be changed. Your very absorption in your work,\nyour quick power of forgetting and throwing off impressions has its\ndangers. But I will bear in mind what you have said, and you may for the\npresent resume your studies, and I will once more commend you; you have\ndone well hitherto, and I will say frankly that I regard you as capable\nof useful and honourable work.\" He bowed in token of dismissal, and I\nwent back to my work with unbounded gratitude and enthusiasm.\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nSome time after this I was surprised one morning at the sudden entrance\nof Amroth into my cell. He came in with a very bright and holiday\naspect, and, assuming a paternal air, said that he had heard a very\ncreditable account of my work and conduct, and that he had obtained\nleave for me to have an exeat. I suppose that I showed signs of\nimpatience at the interruption, for he broke into a laugh, and said,\n\"Well, I am going to insist. I believe you are working too hard, and we\nmust not overstrain our faculties. It was bad enough, in the old days,\nbut then it was generally the poor body which suffered first. But indeed\nit is quite possible to overwork here, and you have the dim air of the\npale student. Come,\" he said, \"whatever happens, do not become priggish.\nNot to want a holiday is a sign of spiritual pride. Besides, I have\nsome curious things to show you.\"\n\nI got up and said that I was ready, and Amroth led the way like a boy\nout for a holiday. He was brimming over with talk, and told me some\nstories about my friends in the land of delight, interspersing them with\nimitation of their manner and gesture, which made me giggle--Amroth was\nan admirable mimic. \"I had hopes of Charmides,\" he said; \"your stay\nthere aroused his curiosity. But he has gone back to his absurd tones\nand half-tones, and is nearly insupportable. Cynthia is much more\nsensible, but Lucius is a nuisance, and Charmides, by the way, has\nbecome absurdly jealous of him. They really are very silly; but I have a\npleasant plot, which I will unfold to you.\"\n\nAs we went down the interminable stairs, I said to Amroth, \"There is a\nquestion I want to ask you. Why do we have to go and come, up and down,\nbackwards and forwards, in this absurd way, as if we were still in the\nbody? Why not just slip off the leads, and fly down over the crags like\na pair of pigeons? It all seems to me so terribly material.\"\n\nAmroth looked at me with a smile. \"I don't advise you to try,\" he said.\n\"Why, little brother, of course we are just as limited here in these\nways. The material laws of earth are only a type of the laws here. They\nall have a meaning which remains true.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"we can visit the earth with incredible rapidity?\"\n\n\"How can I explain?\" said Amroth. \"Of course we can do that, because the\nmaterial universe is so extremely small in comparison. All the stars in\nthe world are here but as a heap of sand, like the motes which dance in\na sunbeam. There is no question of size, of course! But there is such a\nthing as spiritual nearness and spiritual distance for all that. The\nsouls who do not return to earth are very far off, as you will sometime\nsee. But we messengers have our short cuts, and I shall take advantage\nof them to-day.\"\n\nWe went out of the great door of the fortress, and I felt a sense of\nrelief. It was good to put it all behind one. For a long time I talked\nto Amroth about all my doings. \"Come,\" he said at last, \"this will never\ndo! You are becoming something of a bore! Do you know that your talk is\nvery provincial? You seem to have forgotten about every one and\neverything except your Philips and Annas--very worthy creatures, no\ndoubt--and the Master, who is a very able man, but not the little\ndemigod you believe. You are hypnotised! It is indeed time for you to\nhave a holiday. Why, I believe you have half forgotten about me, and yet\nyou made a great fuss when I quitted you.\"\n\nI smiled, frowned, blushed. It was indeed true. Now that he was with me\nI loved him as well, indeed better than ever; but I had not been\nthinking very much about him.\n\nWe went over the moorlands in the keen air, Amroth striding cleanly and\nlightly over the heather. Then we began to descend into the valley,\nthrough a fine forest country, somewhat like the chestnut-woods of the\nApennines. The view was of incomparable beauty and width. I could see a\ngreat city far out in the plain, with a river entering it and leaving\nit, like a ribbon of silver. There were rolling ridges beyond. On the\nleft rose huge, shadowy, snow-clad hills, rising to one tremendous dome\nof snow.\n\n\"Where are you going to take me?\" I said to Amroth.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said he; \"it's my day and my plan for once. You shall see\nwhat you shall see, and it will amuse me to hear your ingenuous\nconjectures.\"\n\nWe were soon on the outskirts of the city we had seen, which seemed a\ndifferent kind of place from any I had yet visited. It was built, I\nperceived, upon an exactly conceived plan, of a stately, classical kind\nof architecture, with great gateways and colonnades. There were people\nabout, rather silent and serious-looking, soberly clad, who saluted us\nas we passed, but made no attempt to talk to us. \"This is rather a\ntiresome place, I always think,\" said Amroth; \"but you ought to see it.\"\n\nWe went along the great street and reached a square. I was surprised at\nthe elderly air of all we met. We found ourselves opposite a great\nbuilding with a dome, like a church. People were going in under the\nportico, and we went in with them. They treated us as strangers, and\nmade courteous way for us to pass.\n\nInside, the footfalls fell dumbly upon a great carpeted floor. It was\nvery like a great church, except that there was no altar or sign of\nworship. At the far end, under an alcove, was a statue of white marble\ngleaming white, with head and hand uplifted. The whole place had a\nsolemn and noble air. Out of the central nave there opened a series of\ngreat vaulted chapels; and I could now see that in each chapel there\nwas a dark figure, in a sort of pulpit, addressing a standing audience.\nThere were names on scrolls over the doors of the light iron-work\nscreens which separated the chapels from the nave, but they were in a\nlanguage I did not understand.\n\nAmroth stopped at the third of the chapels, and said, \"Here, this will\ndo.\" We came in, and as before there was a courteous notice taken of us.\nA man in black came forward, and led us to a high seat, like a pew, near\nthe preacher, from which we could survey the crowd. I was struck with\ntheir look of weariness combined with intentness.\n\nThe lecturer, a young man, had made a pause, but upon our taking our\nplaces, he resumed his speech. It was a discourse, as far as I could\nmake out, on the development of poetry; he was speaking of lyrical\npoetry. I will not here reproduce it. I will only say that anything more\nacute, delicate, and discriminating, and, I must add, more entirely\nvalueless and pedantic, I do not think I ever heard. It must have\nrequired immense and complicated knowledge. He was tracing the\ndevelopment of a certain kind of dramatic lyric, and what surprised me\nwas that he supplied the subtle intellectual connection, the missing\nlinks, so to speak, of which there is no earthly record. Let me give a\nsingle instance. He was accounting for a rather sudden change of thought\nin a well-known poet, and he showed that it had been brought about by\nhis making the acquaintance of a certain friend who had introduced him\nto a new range of subjects, and by his study of certain books. These\nfacts are unrecorded in his published biography, but the analysis of the\nlecturer, done in a few pointed sentences, not only carried conviction\nto the mind, but just, so to speak, laid the truth bare. And yet it was\nall to me incredibly sterile and arid. Not the slightest interest was\ntaken in the emotional or psychological side; it was all purely and\nexactly scientific. We waited until the end of the address, which was\ngreeted with decorous applause, and the hall was emptied in a moment.\n\nWe visited other chapels where the same sort of thing was going on in\nother subjects. It all produced in me a sort of stupefaction, both at\nthe amazing knowledge involved, and in the essential futility of it all.\n\nBefore we left the building we went up to the statue, which represented\na female figure, looking upwards, with a pure and delicate beauty of\nform and gesture that was inexpressibly and coldly lovely.\n\nWe went out in silence, which seemed to be the rule of the place.\n\nWhen we came away from the building we were accosted by a very grave and\ncourteous person, who said that he perceived that we were strangers, and\nasked if he could be of any service to us, and whether we proposed to\nmake a stay of any duration. Amroth thanked him, and said smilingly that\nwe were only passing through. The gentleman said that it was a pity,\nbecause there was much of interest to hear. \"In this place,\" he said\nwith a deprecating gesture, \"we grudge every hour that is not devoted to\nthought.\" He went on to inquire if we were following any particular line\nof study, and as our answers were unsatisfactory, he said that we could\nnot do better than begin by attending the school of literature. \"I\nobserved,\" he said, \"that you were listening to our Professor, Sylvanus,\nwith attention. He is devoting himself to the development of poetical\nform. It is a rich subject. It has generally been believed that poets\nwork by a sort of native inspiration, and that the poetic gift is a sort\nof heightening of temperament. But Sylvanus has proved--I think I may go\nso far as to say this--that this is all pure fancy, and what is worse,\nunsound fancy. It is all merely a matter of heredity, and the apparent\naccidents on which poetical expression depends can be analysed exactly\nand precisely into the most commonplace and simple elements. It is only\na question of proportion. Now we who value clearness of mind above\neverything, find this a very refreshing thought. The real crown and sum\nof human achievement, in the intellectual domain, is to see things\nclearly and exactly, and upon that clearness all progress depends. We\nhave disposed by this time of most illusions; and the same scientific\nmethod is being strenuously applied to all other processes of human\nendeavour. It is even hinted that Sylvanus has practically proved that\nthe imaginative element in literature is purely a taint of barbarism,\nthough he has not yet announced the fact. But many of his class are\nlooking forward to his final lecture on the subject as to a profoundly\nsensational event, which is likely to set a deep mark upon all our\nconceptions of literary endeavour. So that,\" he said with a tolerant\nsmile, gently rubbing his hands together, \"our life here is not by any\nmeans destitute of the elements of excitement, though we most of us, of\ncourse, aim at the acquisition of a serene and philosophic temper. But\nI must not delay you,\" he added; \"there is much to see and to hear, and\nyou will be welcomed everywhere: and indeed I am myself somewhat closely\nengaged, though in a subject which is not fraught with such polite\nemollience. I attend the school of metaphysics, from which we have at\nlast, I hope, eliminated the last traces of that debasing element of\npsychology, which has so long vitiated the exact study of the subject.\"\n\nHe took himself off with a bow, and I gazed blankly at Amroth. \"The\nconversation of that very polite person,\" I said, \"is like a bad dream!\nWhat is this extraordinarily depressing place? Shall I have to undergo a\ncourse here?\"\n\n\"No, my dear boy,\" said Amroth. \"This is rather out of your depth. But I\nam somewhat disappointed at your view of the situation. Surely these are\nall very important matters? Your disposition is, I am afraid, incurably\nfrivolous! How could people be more worthily employed than in getting\nrid of the last traces of intellectual error, and in referring\neverything to its actual origin? Did not your heart burn within you at\nhis luminous exposition? I had always thought you a boy of intellectual\npromise.\"\n\n\"Amroth,\" I said, \"I will not be made fun of. This is the most dreadful\nplace I have ever seen or conceived of! It frightens me. The dryness of\npure science is terrifying enough, but after all that has a kind of\nstrange beauty, because it deals either with transcendental ideas of\nmathematical relation, or with the deducing of principle from\naccumulated facts. But here the object appears to be to eliminate the\nhuman element from humanity. I insist upon knowing where you have\nbrought me, and what is going on here.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Amroth, \"I will conceal it from you no longer. This\nis the paradise of thought, where meagre and spurious philosophers, and\nall who have submerged life in intellect, have their reward. It _is_,\nas you say, a very dreary place for children of nature like you and me.\nBut I do not suppose that there is a happier or a busier place in all\nour dominions. The worst of it is that it is so terribly hard to get out\nof. It is a blind alley and leads nowhere. Every step has to be\nretraced. These people have to get a very severe dose of homely life to\ndo them any good; and the worst of it is that they are so entirely\nvirtuous. They have never had the time or the inclination to be anything\nelse. And they are among the most troublesome and undisciplined of all\nour people. But I see you have had enough; and unless you wish to wait\nfor Professor Sylvanus's sensational pronouncement, we will go\nelsewhere, and have some other sort of fun. But you must not be so much\nupset by these things.\"\n\n\"It would kill me,\" I said, \"to hear any more of these lectures, and if\nI had to listen to much of our polite friend's conversation, I should go\nout of my mind. I would rather fall into the hands of the cragmen! I\nwould rather have a stand-up fight than be slowly stifled with\ninteresting information. But where do these unhappy people come from?\"\n\n\"A few come from universities,\" said Amroth, \"but they are not as a rule\nreally learned men. They are more the sort of people who subscribe to\nlibraries, and belong to local literary societies, and go into a good\nmany subjects on their own account. But really learned men are almost\nalways more aware of their ignorance than of their knowledge, and\nrecognise the vitality of life, even if they do not always exhibit it.\nBut come, we are losing time, and we must go further afield.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n\nWe went some considerable distance, after leaving our intellectual\nfriends, through very beautiful wooded country, and as we went we talked\nwith much animation about the intellectual life and its dangers. It had\nalways, I confess, appeared to me a harmless life enough; not very\neffective, perhaps, and possibly liable to encourage a man in a trivial\nsort of self-conceit; but I had always looked upon that as an\ninstinctive kind of self-respect, which kept an intellectual person from\ndwelling too sorely upon the sense of ineffectiveness; as an addiction\nnot more serious in its effects upon character than the practice of\nplaying golf, a thing in which a leisurely person might immerse himself,\nand cultivate a decent sense of self-importance. But Amroth showed me\nthat the danger of it lay in the tendency to consider the intellect to\nbe the basis of all life and progress. \"The intellectual man,\" he said,\n\"is inclined to confuse his own acute perception of the movement of\nthought with the originating impulse of that movement. But of course\nthought is a thing which ebbs and flows, like public opinion, according\nto its own laws, and is not originated but only perceived by men of\nintellectual ability. The danger of it is a particularly arid sort of\nself-conceit. It is as if the Lady of Shalott were to suppose that she\ncreated life by observing and rendering it in her magic web, whereas her\ndevotion to her task simply isolates her from the contact with other\nminds and hearts, which is the one thing worth having. That is, of\ncourse, the danger of the artist as well as of the philosopher. They\nboth stand aside from the throng, and are so much absorbed in the aspect\nof thought and emotion that they do not realise that they are separated\nfrom it. They are consequently spared, when they come here, the\npunishment which falls upon those who have mixed greedily, selfishly,\nand cruelly with life, of which you will have a sight before long. But\nthat place of punishment is not nearly so sad or depressing a place as\nthe paradise of delight, and the paradise of intellect, because the\nsufferers have no desire to stay there, can repent and feel ashamed, and\ntherefore can suffer, which is always hopeful. But the artistic and\nintellectual have really starved their capacity for suffering, the one\nby treating all emotion as spectacular, and the other by treating it as\na puerile interruption to serious things. It takes people a long time to\nwork their way out of self-satisfaction! But there is another curious\nplace I wish you to visit. It is a dreadful place in a way, but by no\nmeans consciously unhappy,\" and Amroth pointed to a great building which\nstood on a slope of the hill above the forest, with a wide and beautiful\nview from it. Before very long we came to a high stone wall with a gate\ncarefully guarded. Here Amroth said a few words to a porter, and we went\nup through a beautiful terraced park. In the park we saw little knots of\npeople walking aimlessly about, and a few more solitary figures. But in\neach case they were accompanied by people whom I saw to be warders. We\npassed indeed close to an elderly man, rather fantastically dressed, who\nlooked possessed with a kind of flighty cheerfulness. He was talking to\nhimself with odd, emphatic gestures, as if he were ticking off the\npoints of a speech. He came up to us and made us an effusive greeting,\npraising the situation and convenience of the place, and wishing us a\npleasant sojourn. He then was silent for a moment, and added, \"Now there\nis a matter of some importance on which I should like your opinion.\" At\nthis the warder who was with him, a strong, stolid-looking man, with an\nexpression at once slightly contemptuous and obviously kind, held up his\nhand and said, \"You will, no doubt, sir, remember that you have\nundertaken--\" \"Not a word, not a word,\" said our friend; \"of course you\nare right! I have really nothing to say to these gentlemen.\"\n\nWe went up to the building, which now became visible, with its long and\nstately front of stone. Here again we were admitted with some\nprecaution, and after a few minutes there came a tall and\nbenevolent-looking man, to whom Amroth spoke at some length. The man\nthen came up to me, said that he was very glad to welcome me, and that\nhe would be delighted to show us the place.\n\nWe went through fine and airy corridors, into which many doors, as of\ncells, opened. Occasionally a man or a woman, attended by a male or a\nfemale warder, passed us. The inmates had all the same kind of air--a\nsort of amused dignity, which was very marked. Presently our companion\nopened a door with his key and we went in. It was a small,\npleasantly-furnished room. Some books, apparently of devotion, lay on\nthe table. There was a little kneeling-desk near the window, and the\nroom had a half-monastic air about it. When we entered, an elderly man,\nwith a very serene face, was looking earnestly into the door of a\ncupboard in the wall, which he was holding open; there was, so far as I\ncould see, nothing in the cupboard; but the inmate seemed to be\nstruggling with an access of rather overpowering mirth. He bowed to us.\nOur conductor greeted him respectfully, and then said, \"There is a\nstranger here who would like a little conversation with you, if you can\nspare the time.\"\n\n\"By all means,\" said the inmate, with a very ingratiating smile. \"It is\nvery kind of him to call upon me, and my time is entirely at his\ndisposal.\"\n\nOur conductor said to me that he and Amroth had some brief business to\ntransact, and that they would call for me again in a moment. The inmate\nbowed, and seemed almost impatient for them to depart. He motioned me to\na chair, and the moment they left us he began to talk with great\nanimation. He asked me if I was a new inmate, and when I said no, only a\nvisitor, he looked at me compassionately, saying that he hoped I might\nsome day attain to the privilege. \"This,\" he said, \"is the abode of\nfinal and lasting peace. No one is admitted here unless his convictions\nare of the firmest and most ardent character; it is a reward for\nfaithful service. But as our time is short, I must tell you,\" he said,\n\"of a very curious experience I have had this very morning--a spiritual\nexperience of the most reassuring character. You must know that I held a\nhigh official position in the religious world--I will mention no\ndetails--and I found at an early age, I am glad to say, the imperative\nnecessity of forming absolutely impregnable convictions. I went to work\nin the most business-like way. I devoted some years to hard reading and\nsolid thought, and I found that the sect to which I belonged was lacking\nin certain definite notes of divine truth, while the weight of evidence\npointed in the clearest possible manner to the fact that one particular\nsection of the Church had preserved absolutely intact the primitive\nfaith of the Saints, and was without any shadow of doubt the perfectly\nlogical development of the principles of the Gospel. Mine is not a\nnature that can admit of compromise; and at considerable sacrifice of\nworldly prospects I transferred my allegiance, and was instantly\nrewarded by a perfect serenity of conviction which has never faltered.\n\n\"I had a friend with whom I had often discussed the matter, who was much\nof my way of thinking. But though I showed him the illogical nature of\nhis position, he hung back--whether from material motives or from mere\nemotional associations I will not now stop to inquire. But I could not\npalter with the truth. I expostulated with him, and pointed out to him\nin the sternest terms the eternal distinctions involved. I broke off all\nrelations with him ultimately. And after a life spent in the most\nsolemn and candid denunciation of the fluidity of religious belief,\nwhich is the curse of our age, though it involved me in many of the\nheart-rending suspensions of human intercourse with my nearest and\ndearest so plainly indicated in the Gospel, I passed at length, in\ncomplete tranquillity, to my final rest. The first duty of the sincere\nbeliever is inflexible intolerance. If a man will not recognise the\ntruth when it is plainly presented to him, he must accept the eternal\nconsequences of his act--separation from God, and absorption in guilty\nand awestruck regret, which admits of no repentance.\n\n\"One of the privileges of our sojourn here is that we have a strange and\nbeautiful device--a window, I will call it--which admits one to a sight\nof the spiritual world. I was to-day contemplating, not without pain,\nbut with absolute confidence in its justice, the sufferings of some of\nthese lost souls, and I observed, I cannot say with satisfaction, but\nwith complete submission, the form of my friend, whom my testimony might\nhave saved, in eternal misery. I have the tenderest heart of any man\nalive. It has cost me a sore struggle to subdue it--it is more unruly\neven than the will--but you may imagine that it is a matter of deep and\ncomforting assurance to reflect that on earth the door, the one door, to\nsalvation is clearly and plainly indicated--though few there be that\nfind it--and that this signal mercy has been vouchsafed to me. I have\nthen the peace of knowing, not only that my choice was right, but that\nall those to whom the truth is revealed have the power to choose it. I\nam a firm believer in the uncovenanted mercies vouchsafed to those who\nhave not had the advantages of clear presentment, but for the\ndeliberately unfaithful, for all sinners against light, the sentence is\ninflexible.\"\n\nHe closed his eyes, and a smile played over his features.\n\nI found it very difficult to say anything in answer to this monologue;\nbut I asked my companion whether he did not think that some clearer\nrevelation might be made, after the bodily death, to those who for some\nhuman frailty were unable to receive it.\n\n\"An intelligent question,\" said my companion, \"but I am obliged to\nanswer in the negative. Of course the case is different for those who\nhave accepted the truth loyally, even if their record is stained by the\nfoulest and most detestable of crimes. It is the moral and intellectual\nadhesion that matters; that once secured, conduct is comparatively\nunimportant, if the soul duly recurs to the medicine of penitence and\ncontrition so mercifully provided. I have the utmost indulgence for\nevery form of human frailty. I may say that I never shrank from contact\nwith the grossest and vilest forms of continuous wrong-doing, so long as\nI was assured that the true doctrines were unhesitatingly and\nsubmissively accepted. A soul which admits the supremacy of authority\ncan go astray like a sheep that is lost, but as long as it recognises\nits fold and the authority of the divine law, it can be sought and\nfound.\n\n\"The little window of which I spoke has given me indubitable testimony\nof this. There was a man I knew in the flesh, who was regarded as a\nmonster of cruelty and selfishness. He ill-treated his wife and misused\nhis children; his life was spent in gross debauchery, and his conduct on\nseveral occasions outstepped the sanctions of legality. He was a forger\nand an embezzler. I do not attempt to palliate his faults, and there\nwill be a heavy reckoning to pay. But he made his submission at the\nlast, after a long and prostrating illness; and I have ocular\ndemonstration of the fact that, after a mercifully brief period of\nsuffering, he is numbered among the blest. That is a sustaining\nthought.\"\n\nHe then with much courtesy invited me to partake of some refreshment,\nwhich I gratefully declined. Once or twice he rose, and opening the\nlittle cupboard door, which revealed nothing but a white wall, he drank\nin encouragement from some hidden sight. He then invited me to kneel\nwith him, and prayed fervently and with some emotion that light might be\nvouchsafed to souls on earth who were in darkness. Just as he concluded,\nAmroth appeared with our conductor. The latter made a courteous inquiry\nafter my host's health and comfort. \"I am perfectly happy here,\" he\nsaid, \"perfectly happy. The attentions I receive are indeed more than I\ndeserve; and I am specially grateful to my kind visitor, whose\nindulgence I must beg for my somewhat prolonged statement--but when one\nhas a cause much at heart,\" he added with a smile, \"some prolixity is\neasily excused.\"\n\nAs we re-entered the corridor, our conductor asked me if I would care to\npay any more visits. \"The case you have seen,\" he said, \"is an extremely\ntypical and interesting one.\"\n\n\"Have you any hope,\" said Amroth, \"of recovery?\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" said our conductor with a smile. \"Nothing is\nhopeless here; our cures are complete and even rapid; but this is a\nparticularly obstinate one!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Amroth, \"would you like to see more?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"I have seen enough. I cannot now bear any more.\"\n\nOur conductor smiled indulgently.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"it is bewildering at first; but one sees wonderful\nthings here! This is our library,\" he added, leading us to a great airy\nroom, full of books and reading-desks, where a large number of inmates\nwere sitting reading and writing. They glanced up at us with friendly\nand contented smiles. A little further on we came to another cell,\nbefore which our conductor stopped, and looked at me. \"I should like,\"\nhe said, \"if you are not too tired, just to take you in here; there is\na patient, who is very near recovery indeed, in here, and it would do\nhim good to have a little talk with a stranger.\"\n\nI bowed, and we went in. A man was sitting in a chair with his head in\nhis hands. An attendant was sitting near the window reading a book. The\npatient, at our entry, removed his hands from his face and looked up,\nhalf impatiently, with an air of great suffering, and then slowly rose.\n\n\"How are you feeling, dear sir?\" said our conductor quietly.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the man, looking at us, \"I am better, much better. The light\nis breaking in, but it is a sore business, when I was so strong in my\npride.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said our guide, \"it is indeed a slow process; but happiness and\nhealth must be purchased; and every day I see clearly that you are\ndrawing nearer to the end of your troubles--you will soon be leaving us!\nBut now I want you kindly to bestir yourself, and talk a little to this\nfriend of ours, who has not been long with us, and finds the place\nsomewhat, bewildering. You will be able to tell him something of what is\npassing in your mind; it will do you good to put it into words, and it\nwill be a help to him.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said the man gravely, \"I will do my best.\" And the others\nwithdrew, leaving me with the man. When they had gone, the man asked me\nto be seated, and leaning his head upon his hand he said, \"I do not know\nhow much you know and how little, so I will tell you that I left the\nworld very confident in a particular form of faith, and very much\ndisposed to despise and even to dislike those who did not agree with me.\nI had lived, I may say, uprightly and purely, and I will confess that I\neven welcomed all signs of laxity and sinfulness in my opponents,\nbecause it proved what I believed, that wrong conduct sprang naturally\nfrom wrong belief. I came here in great content, and thought that this\nplace was the reward of faithful living. But I had a great shock. I was\nvery tenderly attached to one whom I left on earth, and the severest\ngrief of my life was that she did not think as I did, but used to plead\nwith me for a wider outlook and a larger faith in the designs of God.\nShe used to say to me that she felt that God had different ways of\nsaving different people, and that people were saved by love and not by\ndoctrine. And this I combated with all my might. I used to say,\n'Doctrine first, and love afterwards,' to which she often said, 'No,\nlove is first!'\n\n\"Well, some time ago I had a sight of her; she had died, and entered\nthis world of ours. She was in a very different place from this, but she\nthought of me without ceasing, and her desire prevailed. I saw her,\nthough I was hidden from her, and looked into her heart, and discerned\nthat the one thing which spoiled her joy was that I was parted from her.\n\n\"And after that I had no more delight in my security. I began to suffer\nand to yearn. And then, little by little, I began to see that it is\nlove after all which binds us together, and which draws us to God; but\nmy difficulty is this, that I still believe that my faith is true; and\nif that is true, then other faiths cannot be true also, and then I fall\ninto sad bewilderment and despair.\" He stopped and looked at me fixedly.\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"if I may carry the thought further, might not all be\ntrue? Two men may be very unlike each other in form and face and\nthought--yet both are very man. It would be foolish arguing, if a man\nwere to say, 'I am indeed a man, and because my friend is unlike\nme--taller, lighter-complexioned, swifter of thought--therefore he\ncannot be a man.' Or, again, two men may travel by the same road, and\nsee many different things, yet it is the same road they have both\ntravelled; and one need not say to the other, 'You cannot have travelled\nby the same road, because you did not see the violets on the bank under\nthe wood, or the spire that peeped through the trees at the folding of\nthe valleys--and therefore you are a liar and a deceiver!' If one\nbelieves firmly in one's own faith, one need not therefore say that all\nwho do not hold it are perverse and wilful. There is no excuse, indeed,\nfor not holding to what we believe to be true, but there is no excuse\neither for interfering with the sincere belief of another, unless one\ncan persuade him he is wrong. Is not the mistake to think that one holds\nthe truth in its entirety, and that one has no more to learn and to\nperceive? I myself should welcome differences of faith, because it shows\nme that faith is a larger thing even than I know. What another sees may\nbe but a thought that is hidden from me, because the truth may be seen\nfrom a different angle. To complain that we cannot see it all is as\nfoolish as when the child is vexed because it cannot see the back of the\nmoon. And it seems to me that our duty is not to quarrel with others who\nsee things that we do not see, but to rejoice with them, if they will\nallow us, and meanwhile to discern what is shown to us as faithfully as\nwe can.\"\n\nThe man heard me with a strange smile. \"Yes,\" he said, \"you are\ncertainly right, and I bless the goodness that sent you hither; but when\nyou are gone, I doubt that I shall fall back into my old perplexities,\nand say to myself that though men may see different parts of the same\nthing, they cannot see the same thing differently.\"\n\n\"I think,\" I said, \"that even that is possible, because on earth things\nare often mere symbols, and clothe themselves in material forms; and it\nis the form which deludes us. I do not myself doubt that grace flows\ninto us by very different channels. We may not deny the claim of any one\nto derive grace from any source or symbol that he can. The only thing we\nmay and must dare to dispute is the claim that only by one channel may\ngrace flow. But I think that the words of the one whom you loved, of\nwhom you spoke, are indeed true, and that the love of each other and of\nGod is the force which draws us, by whatever rite or symbol or doctrine\nit may be interpreted. That, as I read it, is the message of Christ, who\ngave up all things for utter love.\"\n\nAs I said this, our guide and Amroth entered the cell. The man rose up\nquickly, and drawing me apart, thanked me very heartily and with tears\nin his eyes; and so we said farewell. When we were outside, I said to\nthe guide, \"May I ask you one question? Would it be of use if I remained\nhere for a time to talk with that poor man? It seemed a relief to him to\nopen his heart, and I would gladly be with him and try to comfort him.\"\n\nThe guide shook his head kindly. \"No,\" he said, \"I think not. I\nrecognise your kindness very fully--but a soul like this must find the\nway alone; and there is one who is helping him faster than any of us can\navail to do; and besides,\" he added, \"he is very near indeed to his\nrelease.\"\n\nSo we went to the door, and said farewell; and Amroth and I went\nforward. Then I said to him as we went down through the terraced garden,\nand saw the inmates wandering about, lost in dreams, \"This must be a sad\nplace to live in, Amroth!\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said he, \"I do not think that there are any happier than\nthose who have the charge here. When the patients are in the grip of\nthis disease, they are themselves only too well content; and it is a\nblessed thing to see the approach of doubt and suffering, which means\nthat health draws near. There is no place in all our realm where one\nsees so clearly and beautifully the instant and perfect mercy of God,\nand the joy of pain.\" And so we passed together out of the guarded gate.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n\n\"Well,\" said Amroth, with a smile, as we went out into the forest, \"I am\nafraid that the last two visits have been rather a strain. We must find\nsomething a little less serious; but I am going to fill up all your\ntime. You had got too much taken up with your psychology, and we must\nnot live too much on theory, and spin problems, like the spider, out of\nour own insides; but we will not spend too much time in trudging over\nthis country, though it is well worth it. Did you ever see anything more\nbeautiful than those pine-trees on the slope there, with the blue\ndistance between their stems? But we must not make a business of\nlandscape-gazing like our friend Charmides! We are men of affairs, you\nand I. Come, I will show you a thing. Shut your eyes for a minute and\ngive me your hand. Now!\"\n\nA sudden breeze fanned my face, sweet and odorous, like the wind out of\na wood. \"Now,\" said Amroth, \"we have arrived! Where do you think we\nare?\"\n\nThe scene had changed in an instant. We were in a wide, level country,\nin green water-meadows, with a full stream brimming its grassy banks, in\nwillowy loops. Not far away, on a gently rising ground, lay a long,\nstraggling village, of gabled houses, among high trees. It was like the\nsort of village that you may find in the pleasant Wiltshire countryside,\nand the sight filled me with a rush of old and joyful memories.\n\n\"It is such a relief,\" I said, \"to realise that if man is made in the\nimage of God, heaven is made in the image of England!\"\n\n\"That is only how you see it, child,\" said Amroth. \"Some of my own\nhappiest days were spent at Tooting: would you be surprised if I said\nthat it reminded me of Tooting?\"\n\n\"I am surprised at nothing,\" I said. \"I only know that it is all very\nconsiderate!\"\n\nWe entered the village, and found a large number of people, mostly\nyoung, going cheerfully about all sorts of simple work. Many of them\nwere gardening, and the gardens were full of old-fashioned flowers,\nblooming in wonderful profusion. There was an air of settled peace about\nthe place, the peace that on earth one often dreamed of finding, and\nindeed thought one had found on visiting some secluded place--only to\ndiscover, alas! on a nearer acquaintance, that life was as full of\nanxieties and cares there as elsewhere. There were one or two elderly\npeople going about, giving directions or advice, or lending a helping\nhand. The workers nodded blithely to us, but did not suspend their work.\n\n\"What surprises me,\" I said to Amroth, \"is to find every one so much\noccupied wherever we go. One heard so much on earth about craving for\nrest, that one grew to fancy that the other life was all going to be a\nsort of solemn meditation, with an occasional hymn.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Amroth, \"it was the body that was tired--the soul is\nalways fresh and strong--but rest is not idleness. There is no such\nthing as unemployment here, and there is hardly time, indeed, for all we\nhave to do. Every one really loves work. The child plays at working, the\nman of leisure works at his play. The difference here is that work is\nalways amusing--there is no such thing as drudgery here.\"\n\nWe walked all through the village, which stretched far away into the\ncountry. The whole place hummed like a beehive on a July morning. Many\nsang to themselves as they went about their business, and sometimes a\ncouple of girls, meeting in the roadway, would entwine their arms and\ndance a few steps together, with a kiss at parting. There was a sense of\nhigh spirits everywhere. At one place we found a group of children\nsitting in the shade of some trees, while a woman of middle age told\nthem a story. We stood awhile to listen, the woman giving us a pleasant\nnod as we approached. It was a story of some pleasant adventure, with\nnothing moral or sentimental about it, like an old folk-tale. The\nchildren were listening with unconcealed delight.\n\nWhen we had walked a little further, Amroth said to me, \"Come, I will\ngive you three guesses. Who do you think, by the light of your\npsychology, are all these simple people?\" I guessed in vain. \"Well, I\nsee I must tell you,\" he said. \"Would it surprise you to learn that most\nof these people whom you see here passed upon earth for wicked and\nunsatisfactory characters? Yet it is true. Don't you know the kind of\nboys there were at school, who drifted into bad company and idle ways,\nmostly out of mere good-nature, went out into the world with a black\nmark against them, having been bullied in vain by virtuous masters, the\ndespair of their parents, always losing their employments, and often\ncoming what we used to call social croppers--untrustworthy, sensual,\nfeckless, no one's enemy but their own, and yet preserving through it\nall a kind of simple good-nature, always ready to share things with\nothers, never knowing how to take advantage of any one, trusting the\nmost untrustworthy people; or if they were girls, getting into trouble,\nlosing their good name, perhaps living lives of shame in big\ncities--yet, for all that, guileless, affectionate, never excusing\nthemselves, believing they had deserved anything that befell them? These\nwere the sort of people to whom Christ was so closely drawn. They have\nno respectability, no conventions; they act upon instinct, never by\nreason, often foolishly, but seldom unkindly or selfishly. They give all\nthey have, they never take. They have the faults of children, and the\ntrustful affection of children. They will do anything for any one who is\nkind to them and fond of them. Of course they are what is called\nhopeless, and they use their poor bodies very ill. In their last stages\non earth they are often very deplorable objects, slinking into\npublic-houses, plodding raggedly and dismally along highroads, suffering\ncruelly and complaining little, conscious that they are universally\nreprobated, and not exactly knowing why. They are the victims of\nsociety; they do its dirty work, and are cast away as offscourings. They\nare really youthful and often beautiful spirits, very void of offence,\nand needing to be treated as children. They live here in great\nhappiness, and are conscious vaguely of the good and great intention of\nGod towards them. They suffer in the world at the hands of cruel,\nselfish, and stupid people, because they are both humble and\ndisinterested. But in all our realms I do not think there is a place of\nsimpler and sweeter happiness than this, because they do not take their\nforgiveness as a right, but as a gracious and unexpected boon. And\nindeed the sights and sounds of this place are the best medicine for\ncrabbed, worldly, conventional souls, who are often brought here when\nthey are drawing near the truth.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"this is just what I wanted. Interesting as my work has\nlately been, it has wanted simplicity. I have grown to consider life too\nmuch as a series of cases, and to forget that it is life itself that one\nmust seek, and not pathology. This is the best sight I have seen, for it\nis so far removed from all sense of judgment. The song of the saints may\nbe sometimes of mercy too.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n\n\"And now,\" said Amroth, \"that we have been refreshed by the sight of\nthis guileless place, and as our time is running short, I am going to\nshow you something very serious indeed. In fact, before I show it you I\nmust remind you carefully of one thing which I shall beg you to keep in\nmind. There is nothing either cruel or hopeless here; all is implacably\njust and entirely merciful. Whatever a soul needs, that it receives; and\nit receives nothing that is vindictive or harsh. The ideas of punishment\non earth are hopelessly confused; we do not know whether we are\nrevenging ourselves for wrongs done to us, or safeguarding society, or\ndeterring would-be offenders, or trying to amend and uplift the\ncriminal. We end, as a rule, by making every one concerned, whether\npunisher or punished, worse. We encourage each other in vindictiveness\nand hypocrisy, we cow and brutalise the transgressor. We rescue no one,\nwe amend nothing. And yet we cannot read the clear signs of all this.\nThe milder our methods of punishment become, the less crime is there to\npunish. But instead of being at once kind and severe, which is perfectly\npossible, we are both cruel and sentimental. Now, there is no such thing\nas sentiment here, just as there is no cruelty. There is emotion in full\nmeasure, and severity in full measure; no one is either pettishly\nfrightened or mildly forgiven; and the joy that awaits us is all the\nmore worth having, because it cannot be rashly enjoyed or reached by any\nshort cuts; but do not forget, in what you now see, that the end is\njoy.\"\n\nHe spoke so solemnly that I was conscious of overmastering curiosity,\nnot unmixed with awe. Again the way was abbreviated. Amroth took me by\nthe hand and bade me close my eyes. The breeze beat upon my face for a\nmoment. When I opened my eyes, we were on a bare hillside, full of\nstones, in a kind of grey and chilly haze which filled the air. Just\nahead of us were some rough enclosures of stone, overlooked by a sort of\ntower. They were like the big sheepfolds which I have seen on northern\nwolds, into which the sheep of a whole hillside can be driven for\nshelter. We went round the wall, which was high and strong, and came to\nthe entrance of the tower, the door of which stood open. There seemed to\nbe no one about, no sign of life; the only sound a curious wailing note,\nwhich came at intervals from one of the enclosures, like the crying of a\nprisoned beast. We went up into the tower; the staircase ended in a bare\nroom, with four apertures, one in each wall, each leading into a kind of\nbalcony. Amroth led the way into one of the balconies, and pointed\ndownwards. We were looking down into one of the enclosures which lay\njust at our feet, not very far below. The place was perfectly bare, and\nroughly flagged with stones. In the corner was a rough thatched shelter,\nin which was some straw. But what at once riveted my attention was the\nfigure of a man, who half lay, half crouched upon the stones, his head\nin his hands, in an attitude of utter abandonment. He was dressed in a\nrough, weather-worn sort of cloak, and his whole appearance suggested\nthe basest neglect; his hands were muscular and knotted; his ragged grey\nhair streamed over the collar of his cloak. While we looked at him, he\ndrew himself up into a sitting posture, and turned his face blankly upon\nthe sky. It was, or had been, a noble face enough, deeply lined, and\nwith a look of command upon it; but anything like the hopeless and utter\nmisery of the drawn cheeks and staring eyes I had never conceived. I\ninvoluntarily drew back, feeling that it was almost wrong to look at\nanything so fallen and so wretched. But Amroth detained me.\n\n\"He is not aware of us,\" he said, \"and I desire you to look at him.\"\n\nPresently the man rose wearily to his feet, and began to pace up and\ndown round the walls, with the mechanical movements of a caged animal,\navoiding the posts of the shelter without seeming to see them, and then\ncast himself down again upon the stones in a paroxysm of melancholy. He\nseemed to have no desire to escape, no energy, except to suffer. There\nwas no hope about it all, no suggestion of prayer, nothing but blank and\nunadulterated suffering.\n\nAmroth drew me back into the tower, and motioned me to the next\nbalcony. Again I went out. The sight that I saw was almost more terrible\nthan the first, because the prisoner here, penned in a similar\nenclosure, was more restless, and seemed to suffer more acutely. This\nwas a younger man, who walked swiftly and vaguely about, casting glances\nup at the wall which enclosed him. Sometimes he stopped, and seemed to\nbe pursuing some dreadful train of solitary thought; he gesticulated,\nand even broke out into mutterings and cries--the cries that I had heard\nfrom without. I could not bear to look at this sight, and coming back,\nbesought Amroth to lead me away. Amroth, who was himself, I perceived,\ndeeply moved, and stood with lips compressed, nodded in token of assent.\nWe went quickly down the stairway, and took our way up the hill among\nthe stones, in silence. The shapes of similar enclosures were to be seen\neverywhere, and the indescribable blankness and grimness of the scene\nstruck a chill to my heart.\n\nFrom the top of the ridge we could see the same bare valleys stretching\nin all directions, as far as the eye could see. The only other building\nin sight was a great circular tower of stone, far down in the valley,\nfrom which beat the pulse of some heavy machinery, which gave the sense,\nI do not know how, of a ghastly and watchful life at the centre of all.\n\n\"That is the Tower of Pain,\" said Amroth, \"and I will spare you the\ninner sight of that. Only our very bravest and strongest can enter there\nand preserve any hope. But it is well for you to know it is there, and\nthat souls have to enter it. It is thence that all the pain of countless\nworlds emanates and vibrates, and the governor of the place is the most\ntried and bravest of all the servants of God. Thither we must go, for\nyou shall have sight of him, though you shall not enter.\"\n\nWe went down the hill with all the speed we might, and, I will confess\nit, with the darkest dismay I have ever experienced tugging at my heart.\nWe were soon at the foot of the enormous structure. Amroth knocked at\nthe gate, a low door, adorned with some vague and ghastly sculptures,\nthings like worms and huddled forms drearily intertwined. The door\nopened, and revealed a fiery and smouldering light within. High up in\nthe tower a great wheel whizzed and shivered, and moving shadows\ncrossed and recrossed the firelit walls.\n\nBut the figure that came out to us--how shall I describe him? It was the\nmost beautiful and gracious sight of all that I saw in my pilgrimage. He\nwas a man of tall stature, with snow-white, silvery hair and beard,\ndressed in a dark cloak with a gleaming clasp of gold. But for all his\nage he had a look of immortal youth. His clear and piercing eye had a\nglance of infinite tenderness, such as I had never conceived. There were\nmany lines upon his brow and round his eyes, but his complexion was as\nfresh as that of a child, and he stepped as briskly as a youth. We bowed\nlow to him, and he reached out his hands, taking Amroth's hand and mine\nin each of his. His touch had a curious thrill, the hand that held mine\nbeing firm and smooth and wonderfully warm.\n\n\"Well, my children,\" he said in a clear, youthful voice, \"I am glad to\nsee you, because there are few who come hither willingly; and the old\nand weary are cheered by the sight of those that are young and strong.\nAmroth I know. But who are you, my child? You have not been among us\nlong. Have you found your work and place here yet?\" I told him my story\nin a few words, and he smiled indulgently. \"There is nothing like being\nat work,\" he said. \"Even my business here, which seems sad enough to\nmost people, must be done; and I do it very willingly. Do not be\nfrightened, my child,\" he said to me suddenly, drawing me nearer to him,\nand folding my arm beneath his own. \"It is only on earth that we are\nfrightened of pain; it spoils our poor plans, it makes us fretful and\nmiserable, it brings us into the shadow of death. But for all that, as\nAmroth knows, it is the best and most fruitful of all the works that the\nFather does for man, and the thing dearest to His heart. We cannot\nprosper till we suffer, and suffering leads us very swiftly into joy and\npeace. Indeed this Tower of Pain, as it is called, is in fact nothing\nbut the Tower of Love. Not until love is touched with pain does it\nbecome beautiful, and the joy that comes through pain is the only real\nthing in the world. Of course, when my great engine here sends a thrill\ninto a careless life, it comes as a dark surprise; but then follow\ncourage and patience and wonder, and all the dear tendance of Love. I\nhave borne it all myself a hundred times, and I shall bear it again if\nthe Father wills it. But when you leave me here, do not think of me as\nof one who works, grim and indifferent, wrecking lives and destroying\nhomes. It is but the burning of the weeds of life; and it is as needful\nas the sunshine and the rain. Pain does not wander aimlessly, smiting\ndown by mischance and by accident; it comes as the close and dear\nintention of the Father's heart, and is to a man as a trumpet-call from\nthe land of life, not as a knell from the land of death. And now, dear\nchildren, you must leave me, for I have much to do. And I will give\nyou,\" he added, turning to me, \"a gift which shall be your comfort, and\na token that you have been here, and seen the worst and the best that\nthere is to see.\"\n\nHe drew from under his cloak a ring, a circlet of gold holding a red\nstone with a flaming heart, and put it on my finger. There pierced\nthrough me a pang intenser than any I had ever experienced, in which all\nthe love and sorrow I had ever known seemed to be suddenly mingled, and\nwhich left behind it a perfect and intense sense of joy.\n\n\"There, that is my gift,\" he said, \"and you shall have an old man's\nloving blessing too, for it is that, after all, that I live for.\" He\ndrew me to him and kissed me on the brow, and in a moment he was gone.\n\nWe walked away in silence, and for my part with an elation of spirit\nwhich I could hardly control, a desire to love and suffer, and do and be\nall that the mind of man could conceive. But my heart was too full to\nspeak.\n\n\"Come,\" said Amroth presently, \"you are not as grateful as I had\nhoped--you are outgrowing me! Come down to my poor level for an instant,\nand beware of spiritual pride!\" Then altering his tone he said, \"Ah,\nyes, dear friend, I understand. There is nothing in the world like it,\nand you were most graciously and tenderly received--but the end is not\nyet.\"\n\n\"Amroth,\" I said, \"I am like one intoxicated with joy. I feel that I\ncould endure anything and never make question of anything again. How\ninfinitely good he was to me--like a dear father!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"he is very like the Father \"--and he smiled at me a\nmysterious smile.\n\n\"Amroth,\" I said, bewildered, \"you cannot mean--?\"\n\n\"No, I mean nothing,\" said Amroth, \"but you have to-day looked very far\ninto the truth, farther than is given to many so soon; but you are a\nchild of fortune, and seem to please every one. I declare that a little\nmore would make me jealous.\"\n\nPresently, catching sight of one of the enclosures hard by, I said to\nAmroth, \"But there are some questions I must ask. What has just\nhappened had put it mostly out of my head. Those poor suffering souls\nthat we saw just now--it is well, with them, I am sure, so near the\nMaster of the Tower--he does not forget them, I am sure--but who are\nthey, and what have they done to suffer so?\"\n\n\"I will tell you,\" said Amroth, \"for it is a dark business. Those two\nthat you have seen--well, you will know one of them by name and fame,\nand of the other you may have heard. The first, that old shaggy-haired\nman, who lay upon the stones, that was ----\"\n\nHe mentioned a name that was notorious in Europe at the time of my life\non earth, though he was then long dead; a ruthless and ambitious\nconqueror, who poured a cataract of life away, in wars, for his own\naggrandisement. Then he mentioned another name, a statesman who pursued\na policy of terrorism and oppression, enriched himself by barbarous\ncruelty exercised in colonial possessions, and was famous for the\ncalculated libertinism of his private life.\n\n\"They were great sinners,\" said Amroth, \"and the sorrows they made and\nflung so carelessly about them, beat back upon them now in a surge of\npain. These men were strangely affected, each of them, by the smallest\nsight or sound of suffering--a tortured animal, a crying child; and yet\nthey were utterly ruthless of the pain that they did not see. It was a\nlack, no doubt, of the imagination of which I spoke, and which makes all\nthe difference. And now they have to contemplate the pain which they\ncould not imagine; and they have to learn submission and humility. It is\na terrible business in a way--the loneliness of it! There used to be an\nold saying that the strongest man was the man that was most alone. But\nit was just because these men practised loneliness on earth that they\nhave to suffer so. They used others as counters in a game, they had\nneither friend nor beloved, except for their own pleasure. They depended\nupon no one, needed no one, desired no one. But there are many others\nhere who did the same on a small scale--selfish fathers and mothers who\nmade homes miserable; boys who were bullies at school and tyrants in the\nworld, in offices, and places of authority. This is the place of\ndiscipline for all base selfishness and vile authority, for all who have\noppressed and victimised mankind.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"here is my difficulty. I understand the case of the\noppressors well enough; but about the oppressed, what is the justice of\nthat? Is there not a fortuitous element there, an interruption of the\nDivine plan? Take the case of the thousands of lives wasted by some\nbrutal conqueror. Are souls sent into the world for that, to be driven\nin gangs, made to fight, let us say, for some abominable cause, and\nthen recklessly dismissed from life?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Amroth, \"you make too much of the dignity of life! You do not\nknow how small a thing a single life is, not as regards the life of\nmankind, but in the life of one individual. Of course if a man had but\none single life on earth, it would be an intolerable injustice; and that\nis the factor which sets all straight, the factor which most of us, in\nour time of bodily self-importance, overlook. These oppressors have no\npower over other lives except what God allows, and bewildered humanity\nconcedes. Not only is the great plan whole in the mind of God, but every\nsingle minutest life is considered as well. In the very case you spoke\nof, the little conscript, torn from his home to fight a tyrant's\nbattles, hectored and ill-treated, and then shot down upon some crowded\nbattle-field, that is precisely the discipline which at that point of\ntime his soul needs, and the blessedness of which he afterwards\nperceives; sometimes discipline is swift and urgent, sometimes it is\nslow and lingering: but all experience is exactly apportioned to the\nquality of which each soul is in need. The only reason why there seems\nto be an element of chance in it, is that the whole thing is so\ninconceivably vast and prolonged; and our happiness and our progress\nalike depend upon our realising at every moment that the smallest joy\nand the most trifling pleasure, as well as the tiniest ailment or the\nmost subtle sorrow, are just the pieces of experience which we are meant\nat that moment to use and make our own. No one, not even God, can force\nus to understand this; we have to perceive it for ourselves, and to live\nin the knowledge of it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"it is true, all that. My heart tells me so; but it is\nvery wonderful and mysterious, all the same. But, Amroth, I have seen\nand heard enough. My spirit desires with all its might to be at its own\nwork, hastening on the mighty end. Now, I can hold no more of wonders.\nLet me return.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"you are right! These wonders are so familiar to me\nthat I forget, perhaps, the shock with which they come to minds unused\nto them. Yet there are other things which you must assuredly see, when\nthe time comes; but I must not let you bite off a larger piece than you\ncan swallow.\"\n\nHe took me by the hand; the breeze passed through my hair; and in an\ninstant we were back at the fortress-gate, and I entered the beloved\nshelter, with a grateful sense that I was returning home.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n\nI returned, as I said, with a sense of serene pleasure and security to\nmy work; but that serenity did not last long. What I had seen with\nAmroth, on that day of wandering, filled me with a strange restlessness,\nand a yearning for I knew not what. I plunged into my studies with\ndetermination rather than ardour, and I set myself to study what is the\nmost difficult problem of all--the exact limits of individual\nresponsibility. I had many conversations on the point with one of my\nteachers, a young man of very wide experience, who combined in an\nunusual way a close scientific knowledge of the subject with a peculiar\nemotional sympathy. He told me once that it was the best outfit for the\nscientific study of these problems, when the heart anticipated the\nslower judgment of the mind, and set the mind a goal, so to speak, to\nwork up to; though he warned me that the danger was that the mind was\noften reluctant to abandon the more indulgent claims of the heart; and\nhe advised me to mistrust alike scientific conclusions and emotional\ninferences.\n\nI had a very memorable conversation with him on the particular question\nof responsibility, which I will here give.\n\n\"The mistake,\" I said to him, \"of human moralists seems to me to be,\nthat they treat all men as more or less equal in the matter of moral\nresponsibility. How often,\" I added, \"have I heard a school preacher\ntell boys that they could not all be athletic or clever or popular, but\nthat high principle and moral courage were things within the reach of\nall. Whereas the more that I studied human nature, the more did the\npower of surveying and judging one's own moral progress, and the power\nof enforcing and executing the dictates of the conscience, seem to me\nfaculties, like other faculties. Indeed, it appears to me,\" I said,\n\"that on the one hand there are people who have a power of moral\ndiscrimination, when dealing with the retrospect of their actions, but\nno power of obeying the claims of principle, when confronted with a\nsituation involving moral strain; while on the other hand there seem to\nme to be some few men with a great and resolute power of will, capable\nof swift decision and firm action, but without any instinct for morality\nat all.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"you are quite right. The moral sense is in reality a\nhigh artistic sense. It is a power of discerning and being attracted by\nthe beauty of moral action, just as the artist is attracted by form and\ncolour, and the musician by delicate combinations of harmonies and the\nexquisite balance of sound. You know,\" he said, \"what a suspension is in\nmusic--it is a chord which in itself is a discord, but which depends for\nits beauty on some impending resolution. It is just so with moral\nchoice. The imagination plays a great part in it. The man whose\nmorality is high and profound sees instinctively the approaching\ncontingency, and his act of self-denial or self-forgetfulness depends\nfor its force upon the way in which it will ultimately combine with\nother issues involved, even though at the moment that act may seem to be\nunnecessary and even perverse.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"there are a good many people who attain to a sensible,\nwell-balanced kind of temperance, after perhaps a few failures, from a\npurely prudential motive. What is the worth of that?\"\n\n\"Very small indeed,\" said my teacher. \"In fact, the prudential morality,\nbased on motives of health and reputation and success, is a thing that\nhas often to be deliberately unlearnt at a later stage. The strange\ncatastrophes which one sees so often in human life, where a man by one\nact of rashness, or moral folly, upsets the tranquil tenor of his\nlife--a desperate love-affair, a passion of unreasonable anger, a piece\nof quixotic generosity--are often a symptom of a great effort of the\nsoul to free itself from prudential considerations. A good thing done\nfor a low motive has often a singularly degrading and deforming\ninfluence on the soul. One has to remember how terribly the heavenly\nvalues are obscured upon earth by the body, its needs and its desires;\nand current morality of a cautious and sensible kind is often worse than\nworthless, because it produces a kind of self-satisfaction, which is the\nhardest thing to overcome.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"in the lives of some of the greatest moralists, one so\noften sees, or at all events hears it said, that their morality is\nuseless because it is unpractical, too much out of the reach of the\nordinary man, too contemptuous of simple human faculties. What is one to\nmake of that?\"\n\n\"It is a difficult matter,\" he replied; \"one does indeed, in the lives\nof great moralists, see sometimes that their work is vitiated by\nperverse and fantastic preferences, which they exalt out of all\nproportion to their real value. But for all that, it is better to be on\nthe side of the saints; for they are gifted with the sort of instinctive\nappreciation of the beauty of high morality of which I spoke.\nUnselfishness, purity, peacefulness seem to them so beautiful and\ndesirable that they are constrained to practise them. While controversy,\nbitterness, cruelty, meanness, vice, seem so utterly ugly and repulsive\nthat they cannot for an instant entertain even so much as a thought of\nthem.\"\n\n\"But if a man sees that he is wanting in this kind of perception,\" I\nsaid, \"what can he do? How is he to learn to love what he does not\nadmire and to abhor what he does not hate? It all seems so fatalistic,\nso irresistible.\"\n\n\"If he discerns his lack,\" said my teacher with a smile, \"he is probably\nnot so very far from the truth. The germ of the sense of moral beauty is\nthere, and it only wants patience and endeavour to make it grow. But it\ncannot be all done in any single life, of course; that is where the\nhuman faith fails, in its limitations of a man's possibilities to a\nsingle life.\"\n\n\"But what is the reason,\" I said, \"why the morality, the high austerity\nof some persons, who are indubitably high-minded and pure-hearted, is so\nutterly discouraging and even repellent?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"there you touch on a great truth. The reason of that is\nthat these have but a sterile sort of connoisseur-ship in virtue. Virtue\ncannot be attained in solitude, nor can it be made a matter of private\nenjoyment. The point is, of course, that it is not enough for a man to\nbe himself; he must also give himself; and if a man is moral because of\nthe delicate pleasure it brings him--and the artistic pleasure of\nasceticism is a very high one--he is apt to find himself here in very\nstrange and distasteful company. In this, as in everything, the only\nsafe motive is the motive of love. The man who takes pleasure in using\ninfluence, or setting a lofty example, is just as arid a dilettante as\nthe musician who plays, or the artist who paints, for the sake of the\napplause and the admiration he wins; he is only regarding others as so\nmany instruments for registering his own level of complacency. Every\none, even the least complicated of mankind, must know the exquisite\npleasure that comes from doing the simplest and humblest service to one\nwhom he loves; how such love converts the most menial office into a\nluxurious joy; and the higher that a man goes, the more does he discern\nin every single human being with whom he is brought into contact a soul\nwhom he can love and serve. Of course it is but an elementary pleasure\nto enjoy pleasing those whom we regard with some passion of affection,\nwife or child or friend, because, after all, one gains something oneself\nby that. But the purest morality of all discerns the infinitely lovable\nquality which is in the depth of every human soul, and lavishes its\ntenderness and its grace upon it, with a compassion that grows and\nincreases, the more unthankful and clumsy and brutish is the soul which\nit sets out to serve.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"beautiful as that thought is--and I see and recognise\nits beauty--it does limit the individual responsibility very greatly.\nSurely a prudential morality, the morality which is just because it\nfears reprisal, and is kind because it anticipates kindness, is better\nthan none at all? The morality of which you speak can only belong to the\nnoblest human creatures.\"\n\n\"Only to the noblest,\" he said; \"and I must repeat what I said before,\nthat the prudential morality is useless, because it begins at the wrong\nend, and is set upon self throughout. I must say deliberately that the\nsoul which loves unreasonably and unwisely, which even yields itself to\nthe passion of others for the pleasure it gives rather than for the\npleasure it receives--the thriftless, lavish, good-natured,\naffectionate people, who are said to make such a mess of their\nlives--are far higher in the scale of hope than the cautiously\nrespectable, the prudently kind, the selfishly pure. There must be no\nmistake about this. One must somehow or other give one's heart away, and\nit is better to do it in error and disaster than to treasure it for\noneself. Of course there are many lives on earth--and an increasing\nnumber as the world develops--which are generous and noble and\nunselfish, without any sacrifice of purity or self-respect. But the\nessence of morality is giving, and not receiving, or even practising;\nthe point is free choice, and not compulsion; and if one cannot give\n_because_ one loves, one must give _until_ one loves.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n\nBut all my speculations were cut short by a strange event which happened\nabout this time. One day, without any warning, the thought of Cynthia\ndarted urgently and irresistibly into my mind. Her image came between me\nand all my tasks; I saw her in innumerable positions and guises, but\nalways with her eyes bent on me in a pitiful entreaty. After\nendeavouring to resist the thought for a little as some kind of fantasy,\nI became suddenly convinced that she was in need of me, and in urgent\nneed. I asked for an interview with our Master, and told him the story;\nhe heard me gravely, and then said that I might go in search of her; but\nI was not sure that he was wholly pleased, and he bent his eyes upon me\nwith a very inquiring look. I hesitated whether or not to call Amroth to\nmy aid, but decided that I had better not do so at first. The question\nwas how to find her; the great crags lay between me and the land of\ndelight; and when I hurried out of the college, the thought of the\ndescent and its dangers fairly unmanned me. I knew, however, of no other\nway. But what was my surprise when, on arriving at the top, not far from\nthe point where Amroth had greeted me after the ascent, I saw a little\nsteep path, which wound itself down into the gulleys and chimneys of the\nblack rocks. I took it without hesitation, and though again and again it\nseemed to come to an end in front of me, I found that it could be traced\nand followed without serious difficulty. The descent was accomplished\nwith a singular rapidity, and I marvelled to find myself at the\ncrag-base in so brief a time, considering the intolerable tedium of the\nascent. I rapidly crossed the intervening valley, and was very soon at\nthe gate of the careless land. To my intense joy, and not at all to my\nsurprise, I found Cynthia at the gate itself, waiting for me with a\nlook of expectancy. She came forwards, and threw herself passionately\ninto my arms, murmuring words of delight and welcome, like a child.\n\n\"I knew you would come,\" she said. \"I am frightened--all sorts of\ndreadful things have happened. I have found out where I am--and I seem\nto have lost all my friends. Charmides is gone, and Lucius is cruel to\nme--he tells me that I have lost my spirits and my good looks, and am\ntiresome company.\"\n\nI looked at her--she was paler and frailer-looking than when I left her;\nand she was habited very differently, in simpler and graver dress. But\nshe was to my eyes infinitely more beautiful and dearer, and I told her\nso. She smiled at that, but half tearfully; and we seated ourselves on a\nbench hard by, looking over the garden, which was strangely and\nluxuriantly beautiful.\n\n\"You must take me away with you at once,\" she said. \"I cannot live here\nwithout you. I thought at first, when you went, that it was rather a\nrelief not to have your grave face at my shoulder,\"--here she took my\nface in her hands--\"always reminding me of something I did not want, and\nought to have wanted--but oh, how I began to miss you! and then I got so\ntired of this silly, lazy place, and all the music and jokes and\ncompliments. But I am a worthless creature, and not good for anything. I\ncannot work, and I hate being idle. Take me anywhere, _make_ me do\nsomething, beat me if you like, only force me to be different from what\nI am.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" I said. \"I will give you a good beating presently, of\ncourse, but just let me consider what will hurt you most, silly child!\"\n\n\"That is it,\" she said. \"I want to be hurt and bruised, and shaken as my\nnurse used to shake me, when I was a naughty child. Oh dear, oh dear,\nhow wretched I am!\" and poor Cynthia laid her head on my shoulder and\nburst into tears.\n\n\"Come, come,\" I said, \"you must not do that--I want my wits about me;\nbut if you cry, you will simply make a fool of me--and this is no time\nfor love-making.\"\n\n\"Then you do really _care_\", said Cynthia in a quieter tone. \"That is\nall I want to know! I want to be with you, and see you every hour and\nevery minute. I can't help saying it, though it is really very\nundignified for me to be making love to you. I did many silly things on\nearth, but never anything quite so feeble as that!\"\n\nI felt myself fairly bewildered by the situation. My psychology did not\nseem to help me; and here at least was something to love and rescue. I\nwill say frankly that, in my stupidity and superiority, I did not really\nthink of loving Cynthia in the way in which she needed to be loved. She\nwas to me, with all my grave concerns and problems, as a charming and\nintelligent child, with whom I could not even speak of half the thoughts\nwhich absorbed me. So I just held her in my arms, and comforted her as\nbest I could; but what to do and where to bestow her I could not tell.\nI saw that her time to leave the place of desire had come, but what she\ncould turn to I could not conceive.\n\nSuddenly I looked up, and saw Lucius approaching, evidently in a very\nangry mood.\n\n\"So this is the end of all our amusement?\" he said, as he came near.\n\"You bring Cynthia here in your tiresome, condescending way, you live\namong us like an almighty prig, smiling gravely at our fun, and then you\ngo off when it is convenient to yourself; and then, when you want a\nlittle recreation, you come and sit here in a corner and hug your\ndarling, when you have never given her a thought of late. You _know_\nthat is true,\" he added menacingly.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"it is true! I went of my own will, and I have come back\nof my own will; and you have all been out of my thoughts, because I have\nhad much work to do. But what of that? Cynthia wants me and I have come\nback to her, and I will do whatever she desires. It is no good\nthreatening me, Lucius--there is nothing you can do or say that will\nhave the smallest effect on me.\"\n\n\"We will see about that,\" said Lucius. \"None of your airs here! We are\npeaceful enough when we are respectfully and fairly treated, but we have\nour own laws, and no one shall break them with impunity. We will have no\nhalf-hearted fools here. If you come among us with your damned\nmissionary airs, you shall have what I expect you call the crown of\nmartyrdom.\"\n\nHe whistled loud and shrill. Half-a-dozen men sprang from the bushes and\nflung themselves upon me. I struggled, but was overpowered, and dragged\naway. The last sight I had was of Lucius standing with a disdainful\nsmile, with Cynthia clinging to his arm; and to my horror and disgust\nshe was smiling too.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n\nI had somehow never expected to be used with positive violence in the\nworld of spirits, and least of all in that lazy and good-natured place.\nConsidering, too, the errand on which I had come, not for my own\nconvenience but for the sake of another, my treatment seemed to me very\nhard. What was still more humiliating was the fact that my spirit seemed\njust as powerless in the hands of these ruffians as my body would have\nbeen on earth. I was pushed, hustled, insulted, hurt. I could have\nsummoned Amroth to my aid, but I felt too proud for that; yet the\nthought of the cragmen, and the possibility of the second death, did\nvisit my mind with dismal iteration. I did not at all desire a further\ndeath; I felt very much alive, and full of interest and energy. Worst\nof all was my sense that Cynthia had gone over to the enemy. I had been\nso loftily kind with her, that I much resented having appeared in her\nsight as feeble and ridiculous. It is difficult to preserve any dignity\nof demeanour or thought, with a man's hand at one's neck and his knee in\none's back: and I felt that Lucius had displayed a really Satanical\nmalignity in using this particular means of degrading me in Cynthia's\nsight, and of regaining his own lost influence.\n\nI was thrust and driven before my captors along an alley in the garden,\nand what added to my discomfiture was that a good many people ran\ntogether to see us pass, and watched me with decided amusement. I was\ntaken finally to a little pavilion of stone, with heavily barred\nwindows, and a flagged marble floor. The room was absolutely bare, and\ncontained neither seat nor table. Into this I was thrust, with some\nobscene jesting, and the door was locked upon me.\n\nThe time passed very heavily. At intervals I heard music burst out\namong the alleys, and a good many people came to peep in upon me\nwith an amused curiosity. I was entirely bewildered by my position,\nand did not see what I could have done to have incurred my punishment.\nBut in the solitary hours that followed I began to have a suspicion\nof my fault. I had found myself hitherto the object of so much attention\nand praise, that I had developed a strong sense of complacency and\nself-satisfaction. I had an uncomfortable suspicion that there was even\nmore behind, but I could not, by interrogating my mind and searching out\nmy spirits, make out clearly what it was; yet I felt I was having a\nsharp lesson; and this made me resolve that I would ask for no kind of\nassistance from Amroth or any other power, but that I would try to meet\nwhatever fell upon me with patience, and extract the full savour of my\nexperience.\n\nI do not know how long I spent in the dismal cell. I was in some\ndiscomfort from the handling I had received, and in still greater\ndejection of mind. Suddenly I heard footsteps approaching. Three of my\ncaptors appeared, and told me roughly to go with them. So, a pitiable\nfigure, I limped along between two of them, the third following behind,\nand was conducted through the central piazza of the place, between two\nlines of people who gave way to the most undisguised merriment, and even\nshouted opprobrious remarks at me, calling me spy and traitor and other\nunpleasant names. I could not have believed that these kind-mannered and\ncourteous persons could have exhibited, all of a sudden, such frank\nbrutality, and I saw many of my own acquaintance among them, who\nregarded me with obvious derision.\n\nI was taken into a big hall, in which I had often sat to hear a concert\nof music. On the dais at the upper end were seated a number of dignified\npersons, in a semicircle, with a very handsome and stately old man in\nthe centre on a chair of state, whose face was new to me. Before this\nCourt I was formally arraigned; I had to stand alone in the middle of\nthe floor, in an open space. Two of my captors stood on each side of me;\nwhile the rest of the court was densely packed with people, who greeted\nme with obvious hostility.\n\nWhen silence was procured, the President said to me, with a show of\ngreat courtesy, that he could not disguise from himself that the charge\nagainst me was a serious one; but that justice would be done to me,\nfully and carefully. I should have ample opportunity to excuse myself.\nHe then called upon one of those who sat with him to state the case\nbriefly, and call witnesses and after that he promised I might speak for\nmyself.\n\nA man rose from one of the seats, and, pleading somewhat rhetorically,\nsaid that the object of the great community, to which so many were proud\nto belong, was to secure to all the utmost amount of innocent\nenjoyment, and the most entire peace of mind; that no pressure was put\nupon any one who decided to stay there, and to observe the quiet customs\nof the place; but that it was always considered a heinous and\nill-disposed thing to attempt to unsettle any one's convictions, or to\nattempt, by using undue influence, to bring about the migration of any\ncitizen to conditions of which little was known, but which there was\nreason to believe were distinctly undesirable.\n\n\"We are, above all,\" he said, \"a religious community; our rites and our\nceremonies are privileges open to all; we compel no one to attend them;\nall that we insist is that no one, by restless innovation or cynical\ncontempt, should attempt to disturb the emotions of serene\ncontemplation, distinguished courtesy, and artistic feeling, for which\nour society has been so long and justly celebrated.\"\n\nThis was received with loud applause, indulgently checked by the\nPresident. Some witnesses were then called, who testified to the\nindifference and restlessness which I had on many occasions manifested.\nIt was brought up against me that I had provoked a much-respected member\nof the community, Charmides, to utter some very treasonous and\nunpleasant language, and that it was believed that the rash and unhappy\nstep, which he had lately taken, of leaving the place, had been entirely\nor mainly the result of my discontented and ill-advised suggestion.\n\nThen Lucius himself, wearing an air of extreme gravity and even\ndespondency, was called, and a murmur of sympathy ran through the\naudience. Lucius, apparently struggling with deep emotion, said that he\nbore me no actual ill-will; that on my first arrival he had done his\nbest to welcome me and make me feel at home; that it was probably known\nto all that I had been accompanied by an accomplished and justly popular\nlady, whom I had openly treated with scanty civility and undisguised\ncontempt. That he had himself, under the laws of the place, contracted\na close alliance with my unhappy protegee, and that their union had been\nduly accredited; but that I had lost no opportunity of attempting to\nundermine his happiness, and to maintain an unwholesome influence over\nher. That I had at last left the place myself, with a most uncivil\nabruptness; during the interval of absence my occupations were believed\nto have been of the most dubious character: it was more than suspected,\nindeed, that I had penetrated to places, the very name of which could\nhardly be mentioned without shame and consternation. That my associates\nhad been persons of the vilest character and the most brutal\nantecedents; and at last, feeling in need of distraction, I had again\nreturned with the deliberate intention of seducing his unhappy partner\ninto accompanying me to one or other of the abandoned places I had\nvisited. He added that Cynthia had been so much overcome by her emotion,\nand her natural compassion for an old acquaintance, that he had\npersuaded her not to subject herself to the painful strain of an\nappearance in public; but that for this action he threw himself upon the\nmercy of the Court, who would know that it was only dictated by\nchivalrous motives.\n\nAt this there was subdued applause, and Lucius, after adding a few\nbroken words to the effect that he lived only for the maintenance of\norder, peace, and happiness, and that he was devoted heart and soul to\nthe best interests of the community, completely broke down, and was\nassisted from his place by friends.\n\nThe whole thing was so malignant and ingenious a travesty of what had\nhappened, that I was entirely at a loss to know what to say. The\nPresident, however, courteously intimated that though the case appeared\nto present a good many very unsatisfactory features, yet I was entirely\nat liberty to justify myself if I could, and, if not, to make\nsubmission; and added that I should be dealt with as leniently as\npossible.\n\nI summoned up my courage as well as I might. I began by saying that I\nclaimed no more than the liberty of thought and action which I knew the\nCourt desired to concede. I said that my arrival at the place was\nmysterious even to myself, and that I had simply acted under orders in\naccompanying Cynthia, and in seeing that she was securely bestowed. I\nsaid that I had never incited any rebellion, or any disobedience to laws\nof the scope of which I had never been informed. That I had indeed\nfrankly discussed matters of general interest with any citizen who\nseemed to desire it; that I had been always treated with marked\nconsideration and courtesy; and that, as far as I was aware, I had\nalways followed the same policy myself. I said that I was sincerely\nattached to Cynthia, but added that, with all due respect, I could no\nlonger consider myself a member of the community. I had transferred\nmyself elsewhere under direct orders, with my own entire concurrence,\nand that I had since acted in accordance with the customs and\nregulations of the community to which I had been allotted. I went on to\nsay that I had returned under the impression that my presence was\ndesired by Cynthia, and that I must protest with all my power against\nthe treatment I had received. I had been arrested and imprisoned with\nmuch violence and contumely, without having had any opportunity of\nhearing what my offence was supposed to have been, or having had any\nsemblance of a trial, and that I could not consider that my usage had\nbeen consistent with the theory of courtesy, order, or justice so\neloquently described by the President.\n\nThis onslaught of mine produced an obvious revulsion in my favour. The\nPresident conferred hastily with his colleagues, and then said that my\narrest had indeed been made upon the information of Lucius, and with the\ncognisance of the Court; but that he sincerely regretted that I had any\ncomplaint of unhandsome usage to make, and that the matter would be\ncertainly inquired into. He then added that he understood from my words\nthat I desired to make a complete submission, and that in that case I\nshould be acquitted of any evil intentions. My fault appeared to be that\nI had yielded too easily to the promptings of an ill-balanced and\nspeculative disposition, and that if I would undertake to disturb no\nlonger the peace of the place, and to desist from all further tampering\nwith the domestic happiness of a much-respected pair, I should be\ndischarged with a caution, and indeed be admitted again to the\nprivileges of orderly residence.\n\n\"And I will undertake to say,\" he added, \"that the kindness and courtesy\nof our community will overlook your fault, and make no further reference\nto a course of conduct which appears to have been misguided rather than\ndeliberately malevolent. We have every desire not to disturb in any way\nthe tranquillity which it is, above all things, our desire to maintain.\nMay I conclude, then, that this is your intention?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" I said, \"certainly not! With all due respect to the Court,\nI cannot submit to the jurisdiction. The only privilege I claim is the\nprivilege of an alien and a stranger, who in a perfectly peaceful\nmanner, and with no seditious intent, has re-entered this land, and has\nthereupon been treated with gross and unjust violence. I do not for a\nmoment contest the right of this community to make its own laws and\nregulations, but I do contest its right to fetter the thought and the\nliberty of speech of all who enter it. I make no submission. The Lady\nCynthia came here under my protection, and if any undue influence has\nbeen used, it has been used by Lucius, whom I treated with a confidence\nhe has abused. And I here appeal to a higher power and a higher court,\nwhich may indeed permit this unhappy community to make its own\nregulations, but will not permit any gross violation of elementary\njustice.\"\n\nI was carried away by great indignation in the course of my words, which\nhad a very startling effect. A large number of the audience left the\nhall in haste. The judge grew white to the lips, whether with anger or\nfear I did not know, said a few words to his neighbour, and then with a\ngreat effort to control himself, said to me:\n\n\"You put us, sir, by your words, in a very painful position. You do not\nknow the conditions under which we live--that is evident--and\nintemperate language like yours has before now provoked an invasion of\nour peace of a most undesirable kind. I entreat you to calm yourself, to\naccept the apologies of the Court for the incidental and indeed\nunjustifiable violence with which you were treated. If you will only\nreturn to your own community, the nature of which I will not now stay to\ninquire, you may be assured that you will be conducted to our gates with\nthe utmost honour. Will you pledge yourself as a gentleman, and, as I\nbelieve I am right in saying, as a Christian, to do this?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"upon one condition: that I may have an interview with\nthe Lady Cynthia, and that she may be free to accompany me, if she\nwishes.\"\n\nThe President was about to reply, when a sudden and unlooked-for\ninterruption occurred. A man in a pearly-grey dress, with a cloak\nclasped with gold, came in at the end of the hall, and advanced with\nrapid steps and a curiously unconcerned air up the hall. The judges rose\nin their places with a hurried and disconcerted look. The stranger came\nup to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and bade me presently follow him.\nThen he turned to the President, and said in a clear, peremptory voice:\n\n\"Dissolve the Court! Your powers have been grossly and insolently\nexceeded. See that nothing of this sort occurs again!\" and then,\nascending the dais, he struck the President with his open hand hard upon\nthe cheek.\n\nThe President gave a stifled cry and staggered in his place, and then,\ncovering his face with his hands, went out at a door on the platform,\nfollowed by the rest of the Council in haste. Then the man came down\nagain, and motioned me to follow him. I was not prepared for what\nhappened. Outside in the square was a great, pale, silent crowd, in the\nmost obvious and dreadful excitement and consternation. We went rapidly,\nin absolute stillness, through two lines of people, who watched us with\nan emotion I could not quite interpret, but it was something very like\nhatred.\n\n\"Follow me quickly,\" said my guide; \"do not look round!\" and, as we\nwent, I heard the crowd closing up in a menacing way behind us. But we\nwalked straight forward, neither slowly nor hurriedly but at a\ndeliberate pace, to the gateway which opened on the cliffs. At this\npoint I saw a confusion in the crowd, as though some one were being kept\nback, and in the forefront of the throng, gesticulating and arguing,\nwas Lucius himself, with his back to us. Just as we reached the gate I\nheard a cry; and from the crowd there ran Cynthia, with her hair\nunbound, in terror and faintness. Our guide opened the gate, and\nmotioned us swiftly through, turning round to face the crowd, which now\nran in upon us. I saw him wave his arm; and then he came quickly through\nthe gate and closed it. He looked at us with a smile. \"Don't be afraid,\"\nhe said; \"that was a dangerous business. But they cannot touch us here.\"\nAs he said the word, there burst from the gardens behind us a storm of\nthe most hideous and horrible cries I had ever heard, like the howling\nof wild beasts. Cynthia clung to me in terror, and nearly swooned in my\narms. \"Never mind,\" said the guide; \"they are disappointed, and no\nwonder. It was a near thing; but, poor creatures, they have no\ninitiative; their life is not a fortifying one; and besides, they will\nhave forgotten all about it to-morrow. Rut we had better not stop here.\nThere is no use in facing disagreeable things, unless one is obliged.\"\nAnd he led the way down the valley.\n\nWhen we had got a little farther off, our guide told us to sit down and\nrest. Cynthia was still very much frightened, speechless with excitement\nand agitation, and, like all impulsive people, regretting her decision.\nI saw that it was useless to say anything to her at present. She sat\nwearily enough, her eyes closed, and her hands clasped. Our guide looked\nat me with a half-smile, and said:\n\n\"That was rather an unpleasant business! It is astonishing how excited\nthose placid and polite people can get if they think their privileges\nare being threatened. But really that Court was rather too much. They\nhave tried it before with some success, and it is a clever trick. But\nthey have had a lesson to-day, and it will not need to be repeated for a\nwhile.\"\n\n\"You arrived just at the right moment,\" I said, \"and I really cannot\nexpress how grateful I am to you for your help.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said, \"you were quite safe. It was just that touch of temper\nthat saved you; but I was hard by all the time, to see that things did\nnot go too far.\"\n\n\"May I ask,\" I said, \"exactly what they could have done to me, and what\ntheir real power is?\"\n\n\"They have none at all,\" he said. \"They could not really have done\nanything to you, except imprison you. What helps them is not their own\npower, which is nothing, but the terror of their victims. If you had not\nbeen frightened when you were first attacked, they could not have\noverpowered you. It is all a kind of playacting, which they perform with\nremarkable skill. The Court was really an admirable piece of drama--they\nhave a great gift for representation.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say,\" I said, \"that they were actually aware that they\nhad no sort of power to inflict any injury upon me?\"\n\n\"They could have made it very disagreeable for you,\" he said, \"if they\nhad frightened you, and kept you frightened. As long as that lasted,\nyou would have been extremely uncomfortable. But as you saw, the moment\nyou defied them they were helpless. The part played by Lucius was really\nunpardonable. I am afraid he is a great rascal.\"\n\nCynthia faintly demurred to this. \"Never mind,\" said the guide\nsoothingly, \"he has only shown you his good side, of course; and I don't\ndeny that he is a very clever and attractive fellow. But he makes no\nprogress, and I am really afraid that he will have to be transferred\nelsewhere; though there is indeed one hope for him.\"\n\n\"Tell me what that is,\" said Cynthia faintly.\n\n\"I don't think I need do that,\" said our friend, \"you know better than\nI; and some day, I think, when you are stronger, you will find the way\nto release him.\"\n\n\"Ah, you don't know him as I do,\" said Cynthia, and relapsed into\nsilence; but did not withdraw her hand from mine.\n\n\"Well,\" said our guide after a moment's pause, \"I think I have done all\nI can for the time being, and I am wanted elsewhere.\"\n\n\"But will you not advise me what to do next?\" I said. \"I do not see my\nway clear.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the guide rather drily, \"I am afraid I cannot do that. That\nlies outside my province. These delicate questions are not in my line. I\nwill tell you plainly what I am. I am just a messenger, perhaps more\nlike a policeman,\" he added, smiling, \"than anything else. I just go and\nappear when I am wanted, if there is a row or a chance of one. Don't\nmisunderstand me!\" he said more kindly. \"It is not from any lack of\ninterest in you or our friend here. I should very much like to know what\nstep you will take, but it is simply not my business: our duties here\nare very clearly defined, and I can just do my job, and nothing more.\"\n\nHe made a courteous salute, and walked off without looking back, leaving\non me the impression of a young military officer, perfectly courteous\nand reliable, not inclined to cultivate his emotions or to waste words,\nbut absolutely effective, courageous, and dutiful.\n\n\"Well,\" I said to Cynthia with a show of cheerfulness, \"what shall we do\nnext? Are you feeling strong enough to go on?\"\n\n\"I am sure I don't know,\" said Cynthia wearily. \"Don't ask me. I have\nhad a great fright, and I begin to wish I had stayed behind. How\nuncomfortable everything is! Why can one never have a moment's peace?\nThere,\" she said to me, \"don't be vexed, I am not blaming you; but I\nhated you for not showing more fight when those men set on you, and I\nhated Lucius for having done it; you must forgive me! I am sure you only\ndid what was kind and right--but I have had a very trying time, and I\ndon't like these bothers. Let me alone for a little, and I daresay I\nshall be more sensible.\"\n\nI sat by her in much perplexity, feeling singularly helpless and\nineffective; and in a moment of weakness, not knowing what to do, I\nwished that Amroth were near me, to advise me; and to my relief saw him\napproaching, but also realised in a flash that I had acted wrongly, and\nthat he was angry, as I had never seen him before.\n\nHe came up to us, and bending down to Cynthia with great tenderness,\ntook her hand, and said, \"Will you stay here quietly a little, Cynthia,\nand rest? You are perfectly safe now, and no one will come near you. We\ntwo shall be close at hand; but we must have a talk together, and see\nwhat can be done.\"\n\nCynthia smiled and released me. Amroth beckoned me to withdraw with him.\nWhen we had got out of earshot, he turned upon me very fiercely, and\nsaid, \"You have made a great mess of this business.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" I said feebly, \"but I cannot for the life of me see where I\nwas wrong.\"\n\n\"You were wrong from beginning to end,\" he said. \"Cannot you see that,\nwhatever this place is, it is not a sentimental place? It is all this\nwretched sentiment that has done the mischief. Come,\" he added, \"I have\nan unpleasant task before me, to unmask you to yourself. I don't like\nit, but I must do it. Don't make it harder for me.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" I said, rather angrily too. \"But allow me to say this\nfirst. This is a place of muddle. One is worked too hard, and shown too\nmany things, till one is hopelessly confused. But I had rather have your\ncriticism first, and then I will make mine.\"\n\n\"Very well!\" said Amroth facing me, looking at me fixedly with his blue\neyes, and his nostrils a little distended. \"The mischief lies in your\ntemperament. You are precocious, and you are volatile. You have had\nspecial opportunities, and in a way you have used them well, but your\nhead has been somewhat turned by your successes. You came to that place\nyonder, with Cynthia, with a sense of superiority. You thought yourself\ntoo good for it, and instead of just trying to see into the minds and\nhearts of the people you met, you despised them; instead of learning,\nyou tried to teach. You took a feeble interest in Cynthia, made a pet of\nher; then, when I took you away, you forgot all about her. Even the\ngreat things I was allowed to show you did not make you humble. You took\nthem as a compliment to your powers. And so when you had your chance to\ngo back to help Cynthia, you thought out no plan, you asked no advice.\nYou went down in a very self-sufficient mood, expecting that everything\nwould be easy.\"\n\n\"That is not true,\" I said. \"I was very much perplexed.\"\n\n\"It is only too true,\" said Amroth; \"you enjoyed your perplexity; I\ndaresay you called it faith to yourself! It was that which made you\nweak. You lost your temper with Lucius, you made a miserable fight of\nit--and even in prison you could not recognise that you were in fault.\nYou did better at the trial--I fully admit that you behaved well\nthere--but the fault is in this, that this girl gave you her heart and\nher confidence, and you despised them. Your mind was taken up with other\nthings; a very little more, and you would be fit for the intellectual\nparadise. There,\" he said, \"I have nearly done! You may be angry if you\nwill, but that is the truth. You have a wrong idea of this place. It is\nnot plain sailing here. Life here is a very serious, very intricate,\nvery difficult business. The only complications which are removed are\nthe complications of the body; but one has anxious and trying\nresponsibilities all the same, and you have trifled with them. You must\nnot delude yourself. You have many good qualities. You have some\ncourage, much ingenuity, keen interests, and a good deal of\nconscientiousness; but you have the makings of a dilettante, the\nreadiness to delude yourself that the particular little work you are\nengaged in is excessively and peculiarly important. You have got the\nproportion all wrong.\"\n\nI had a feeling of intense anger and bitterness at all this; but as he\nspoke, the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I saw that Amroth was\nright. I wrestled with myself in silence.\n\nPresently I said, \"Amroth, I believe you are right, though I think at\nthis moment that you have stated all this rather harshly. But I do see\nthat it can be no pleasure to you to state it, though I fear I shall\nnever regain my pleasure in your company.\"\n\n\"There,\" said Amroth, \"that is sentiment again!\"\n\nThis put me into a great passion.\n\n\"Very well,\" I said, \"I will say no more. Perhaps you will just be good\nenough to tell me what I am to do with Cynthia, and where I am to go,\nand then I will trouble you no longer.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Amroth with a sneer, \"I have no doubt you can find some very\nnice semidetached villas hereabouts. Why not settle down, and make the\npoor girl a little mote worthy of yourself?\"\n\nAt this I turned from him in great anger, and left him standing where he\nwas. If ever I hated any one, I hated Amroth at that moment. I went back\nto Cynthia.\n\n\"I have come back to you, dear,\" I said. \"Can you trust me and go with\nme? No one here seems inclined to help us, and we must just help each\nother.\"\n\nAt which Cynthia rose and flung herself into my arms.\n\n\"That was what I wanted all along,\" she said, \"to feel that I could be\nof use too. You will see how brave I can be. I can go anywhere with you\nand do anything, because I think I have loved you all the time.\"\n\n\"And you must forgive me, Cynthia,\" I said, \"as well. For I did not know\ntill this moment that I loved you, but I know it now; and I shall love\nyou to the end.\"\n\nAs I said these words I turned, and saw Amroth smiling from afar; then\nwith a wave of the hand to us, he turned and passed out of our sight.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n\nLeft to ourselves, Cynthia and I sat awhile in silence, hand in hand,\nlike children, she looking anxiously at me. Our talk had broken down all\npossible reserve between us; but what was strange to me was that I felt,\nnot like a lover with any need to woo, but as though we two had long\nsince been wedded, and had just come to a knowledge of each other's\nhearts. At last we rose; and strange and bewildering as it all was, I\nthink I was perhaps happier at this time than at any other time in the\nland of light, before or after.\n\nAnd let me here say a word about these strange unions of soul that take\nplace in that other land. There is there a whole range of affections,\nfrom courteous tolerance to intense passion. But there is a peculiar\nbond which springs up between pairs of people, not always of different\nsex, in that country. My relation with Amroth had nothing of that\nemotion about it. That was simply like a transcendental essence of\nperfect friendship; but there was a peculiar relation, between pairs of\nsouls, which seems to imply some curious duality of nature, of which\nearthly passion is but a symbol. It is accompanied by an absolute\nclearness of vision into the inmost soul and being of the other.\nCynthia's mind was as clear to me in those days as a crystal globe might\nbe which one could hold in one's hand, and my mind was as clear to her.\nThere is a sense accompanying it almost of identity, as if the other\nnature was the exact and perfect complement of one's own; I can explain\nthis best by an image. Think of a sphere, let us say, of alabaster,\nbroken into two pieces by a blow, and one piece put away or mislaid. The\nfirst piece, let us suppose, stands in its accustomed place, and the\nowner often thinks in a trivial way of having it restored. One day,\nturning over some lumber, he finds the other piece, and wonders if it\nis not the lost fragment. He takes it with him, and sees on applying it\nthat the fractures correspond exactly, and that joined together the\npieces complete the sphere.\n\nEven so did Cynthia's soul fit into mine. But I grew to understand later\nthe words of the Gospel--\"they neither marry nor are given in marriage.\"\nThese unions are not permanent, any more than they are really permanent\non earth. On earth, owing to material considerations such as children\nand property, a marriage is looked upon as indissoluble. But this takes\nno account of the development of souls; and indeed many of the unions of\nearth, the passion once over, do grow into a very noble and beautiful\nfriendship. But sometimes, even on earth, it is the other way; and\npassion once extinct, two natures often realise their dissimilarities\nrather than their similarities; and this is the cause of much\nunhappiness. But in the other land, two souls may develop in quite\ndifferent ways and at a different pace. And then this relation may also\ncome quietly and simply to an end, without the least resentment or\nregret, and is succeeded invariably by a very tender and true\nfriendship, each being sweetly and serenely content with all that has\nbeen given or received; and this friendship is not shaken or fretted,\neven if both of the lovers form new ties of close intimacy. Some natures\nform many of these ties, some few, some none at all. I believe that, as\na matter of fact, each nature has its counterpart at all times, but does\nnot always succeed in finding it. But the union, when it comes, seems to\ntake precedence of all other emotions and all other work. I did not know\nthis at the time; but I had a sense that my work was for a time over,\nbecause it seemed quite plain to me that as yet Cynthia was not in the\nleast degree suited to the sort of work which I had been doing.\n\nWe walked on together for some time, in a happy silence, though quiet\ncommunications of a blessed sort passed perpetually between us without\nany interchange of word. Our feet moved along the hillside, away from\nthe crags, because I felt that Cynthia had no strength to climb them;\nand I wondered what our life would be.\n\nPresently a valley opened before us, folding quietly in among the hills,\nfull of a golden haze; and it seemed to me that our further way lay down\nit. It fell softly and securely into a further plain, the country being\nquite unlike anything I had as yet seen--a land of high and craggy\nmountains, the lower parts of them much overgrown with woods; the valley\nitself widened out, and passed gently among the hills, with here and\nthere a lake. Dotted all about the mountain-bases, at the edges of the\nwoods, were little white houses, stone-walled and stone-tiled, with\nsmall gardens; and then the place seemed to become strangely familiar\nand homelike; and I became aware that I was coming home: the same\nthought occurred to Cynthia; and at last, when we turned a corner of\nthe road, and saw lying a little back from the road a small house, with\na garden in front of it, shaded by a group of sycamores, we darted\nforwards with a cry of delight to the home that was indeed our own. The\ndoor stood open as though we were certainly expected. It was the\nsimplest little place, just a pair of rooms very roughly and plainly\nfurnished. And there we embraced with tears of joy.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nThe time that I spent in the valley home with Cynthia is the most\ndifficult to describe of all my wanderings; because, indeed, there is\nnothing to describe. We were always together. Sometimes we wandered high\nup among the woods, and came out on the bleak mountain-heads. Sometimes\nwe sat within and talked; and by a curious provision there were\nphenomena there that were more like changes of weather, and interchange\nof day and night, than at any other place in the heavenly country.\nSometimes the whole valley would be shrouded with mists, sometimes it\nwould be grey and overcast, sometimes the light was clear and radiant,\nbut through it all there beat a pulse of light and darkness; and I do\nnot know which was the more desirable--the hours when we walked in the\nforests, with the wind moving softly in the leaves overhead like a\nfalling sea, or those calm and silent nights when we seemed to sleep and\ndream, or when, if I waked, I could hear Cynthia's breath coming and\ngoing evenly as the breath of a tired child. It seemed like the essence\nof human passion, the end that lovers desire, and discern faintly behind\nand beyond the accidents of sense and contact, like the sounding of a\nsweet chord, without satiety or fever of the sense.\n\nI learnt many strange and beautiful secrets of the human heart in those\ndays: what the dreams of womanhood are--how wholly different from the\ndreams of man, in which there is always a combative element. The soul of\nCynthia was like a silent cleft among the hills, which waits, in its own\nstill content, until the horn of the shepherd winds the notes of a chord\nin the valley below; and then the cleft makes answer and returns an airy\necho, blending the notes into a harmony of dulcet utterance. And she\ntoo, I doubt not, learnt something from my soul, which was eager and\ninventive enough, but restless and fugitive of purpose. And then there\ncame a further joy to us. That which is fatherly and motherly in the\nworld below is not a thing that is lost in heaven; and just as the love\nof man and woman can draw down and imprison a soul in a body of flesh,\nso in heaven the dear intention of one soul to another brings about a\nyearning, which grows day by day in intensity, for some further outlet\nof love and care.\n\nIt was one quiet misty morning that, as we sat together in tranquil\ntalk, we heard faltering steps within our garden. We had seen, let me\nsay, very little of the other inhabitants of our valley. We had\nsometimes seen a pair of figures wandering at a distance, and we had\neven met neighbours and exchanged a greeting. But the valley had no\nsocial life of its own, and no one ever seemed, so far as we knew, to\nenter any other dwelling, though they met in quiet friendliness. Cynthia\nwent to the door and opened it; then she darted out, and, just when I\nwas about to follow, she returned, leading by the hand a tiny child, who\nlooked at us with an air of perfect contentment and simplicity.\n\n\"Where on earth has this enchanting baby sprung from?\" said Cynthia,\nseating the child upon her lap, and beginning to talk to it in a\nstrangely unintelligible language, which the child appeared to\nunderstand perfectly.\n\nI laughed. \"Out of our two hearts, perhaps,\" I said. At which Cynthia\nblushed, and said that I did not understand or care for children. She\nadded that men's only idea about children was to think how much they\ncould teach them.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"we will begin lessons to-morrow, and go on to the Latin\nGrammar very shortly.\"\n\nAt which Cynthia folded the child in her arms, to defend it, and\nreassured it in a sentence which is far too silly to set down here.\n\nI think that sometimes on earth the arrival of a first child is a very\ntrying time for a wedded pair. The husband is apt to find his wife's\nlove almost withdrawn from him, and to see her nourishing all kinds of\njealousies and vague ambitions for her child. Paternity is apt to be a\nvery bewildered and often rather dramatic emotion. But it was not so\nwith us. The child seemed the very thing we had been needing without\nknowing it. It was a constant source of interest and delight; and in\nspite of Cynthia's attempts to keep it ignorant and even fatuous, it did\ndevelop a very charming intelligence, or rather, as I soon saw, began to\nperceive what it already knew. It soon overwhelmed us with questions,\nand used to patter about the garden with me, airing all sorts of\ndelicious and absurd fancies. But, for all that, it did seem to make an\nend of the first utter closeness of our love. Cynthia after this seldom\nwent far afield, and I ranged the hills and woods alone; but it was all\nabsurdly and continuously happy, though I began to wonder how long it\ncould last, and whether my faculties and energies, such as they were,\ncould continue thus unused. And I had, too, in my mind that other scene\nwhich I had beheld, of how the boy was withdrawn from the two old people\nin the other valley. Was it always thus, I wondered? Was it so, that\nsouls were drawn upwards in ceaseless pilgrimage, loving and passing on,\nand leaving in the hearts of those who stayed behind a longing\nunassuaged, which was presently to draw them onwards from the peace\nwhich they loved perhaps too well?\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n\nThe serene life came all to an end very suddenly, and with no warning.\nOne day I had been sitting with Cynthia, and the child was playing on\nthe floor with some little things--stones, bits of sticks, nuts--which\nit had collected. It was a mysterious game too, accompanied with much\nimpressive talk and gesticulations, much emphatic lecturing of\nrecalcitrant pebbles, with interludes of unaccountable laughter. We had\nbeen watching the child, when Cynthia leaned across to me and said:\n\n\"There is something in your mind, dear, which I cannot quite see into.\nIt has been there for a long time, and I have not liked to ask you about\nit. Won't you tell me what it is?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" I said; \"I will tell you anything I can.\"\n\n\"It has nothing to do with me,\" said Cynthia, \"nor with the child; it\nis about yourself, I think; and it is not altogether a happy thought.\"\n\n\"It is not unhappy,\" I said, \"because I am very happy and very\nwell-content. It is just this, I think. You know, don't you, how I was\nbeing employed, before I came back, God be praised, to find you? I was\nbeing trained, very carefully and elaborately trained, I won't say to\nhelp people, but to be of use in a way. Well, I have been wondering why\nall that was suspended and cut short, just when I seemed to be finishing\nmy training. I have been much happier here than I ever was before, of\ncourse. Indeed I have been so happy that I have sometimes thought it\nalmost wrong that any one should have so much to enjoy. But I am\npuzzled, because the other work seems thrown away. If you wonder whether\nI want to leave our life here and go back to the other, of course I do\nnot; but I have felt idle, and like a boy turned down from a high class\nat school to a low one.\"\n\n\"That is not very complimentary to me!\" said Cynthia, laughing. \"Suppose\nwe say a boy who has been working too hard for his health, and has been\ngiven a long holiday?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"that is better. It is as if a clerk was told that he\nneed not attend his office, but stay at home; and though it is pleasant\nenough, he feels as if he ought to be at his work, that he appreciates\nhis home all the more when he can't sit reading the paper all the\nmorning, and that he does not love his home less, but rather more,\nbecause he is away all the day.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Cynthia, \"that is sensible enough; and I am amazed sometimes\nthat you can be so good and patient about it all--so content to be so\nmuch with me and baby here; but I don't think it is quite--what shall I\nsay?--quite healthy either!\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I have no wish to change; and here, I am glad to think,\nthere is never any doubt about what one is meant to do.\"\n\nAnd so the subject dropped.\n\nHow little I thought then that this was to be the end of the old scene,\nand that the curtain was to draw up so suddenly upon a new one.\n\nBut the following morning I had been wandering contentedly enough in the\nwood, watching the shafts of light strike in among the trees, upon the\nglittering fronds of the ferns, and thinking idly of all my strange\nexperiences. I came home, and to my surprise, as I came to the door,\nI heard talk going on inside. I went hastily in, and saw that Cynthia\nwas not alone. She was sitting, looking very grave and serious, and\nwonderfully beautiful--her beauty had grown and increased in a\nmarvellous way of late. And there were two men, one sitting in a chair\nnear her and regarding her with a look of love; it was Lucius; and I saw\nat a glance that he was strangely changed. He had the same spirited and\nmirthful look as of old, but there was something there which I had\nnever seen before--the look of a man who had work of his own, and had\nlearned something of the perplexity and suffering of responsibility. The\nother was Amroth, who was looking at the two with an air of\nirrepressible amusement. When I entered, Lucius rose, and Amroth said to\nme:\n\n\"Here I am again, you see, and wondering whether you can regain the\npleasure you once were kind enough to take in my company?\"\n\n\"What nonsense!\" I said rather shamefacedly. \"How often have I blushed\nin secret to think of that awful remark. But I was rather harried, you\nmust admit.\"\n\nAmroth came across to me and put his arm through mine.\n\n\"I forgive you,\" he said, \"and I will admit that I was very provoking;\nbut things were in a mess, and, besides, it was very inconvenient for me\nto be called away at that moment from my job!\"\n\nBut Lucius came up to me and said:\n\n\"I have come to apologise to you. My behaviour was hideous and horrible.\nI won't make any excuses, and I don't suppose you can ever forget what I\ndid. I was utterly and entirely in the wrong.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Lucius,\" I said. \"But please say no more about it. My own\nbehaviour on that occasion was infamous too. And really we need not go\nback on all that. The whole affair has become quite an agreeable\nreminiscence. It is a pleasure, when it is all over, to have been\nthoroughly and wholesomely shown up, and to discover that one has been a\npompous and priggish ass. And you and Amroth between you did me that\nblessed turn. I am not quite sure which of you I hated most. But I may\nsay one thing, and that is that I am heartily glad to see you have left\nthe land of delight.\"\n\n\"It was a tedious place really,\" said Lucius, \"but one felt bound in\nhonour to make the best of it. But indeed after that day it was\nhorrible. And I wearied for a sight of Cynthia! But you seem to have\ndone very well for yourselves here. May I venture to say frankly how\nwell she is looking, and you too? But I am not going to interrupt you.\nI have got my billet, I am thankful to say. It is not a very exalted one,\nbut it is better than I deserve; and I shall try to make up for wasted\ntime.\"\n\n\"Hear, hear!\" said Amroth; \"a very creditable sentiment, to be sure!\"\n\nLucius smiled and blushed. Then he said:\n\n\"I never was much of a hand at expressing myself correctly; but you know\nwhat I mean. Don't take the wind out of my sails!\"\n\nAnd then Amroth turned to me, and said suddenly:\n\n\"And now I have something else to tell you, and not wholly good news; so\nI will just say it at once, without beating about the bush. You are to\ncome with us too.\"\n\nCynthia looked up suddenly with a glance of pale inquiry. Amroth took\nher hand.\n\n\"No, dear child,\" he said, \"you are not to accompany him. You must stay\nhere awhile, until the child is grown. But don't look like that! There\nis no such thing as separation here, or anywhere. Don't make it harder\nfor us all. It is unpleasant of course; but, good heavens, what would\nbecome of us all if it were not for that! How dull we should be without\nsuffering!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Cynthia, \"I know--and I will say nothing against it.\nBut--\" and she burst into tears.\n\n\"Come, come,\" said Amroth cheerfully, \"we must not go back to the old\ndays, and behave as if there were partings and funerals. I will give you\nfive minutes alone to say good-bye. Lucius, we must start,\" and, turning\nto me, he said, \"Meet us in five minutes by the oak-tree in the road.\"\n\nThey went out, Lucius kissing Cynthia's hand in silence.\n\nCynthia came up to me and put her arms round my neck and her cheek to\nmine. We sobbed, I fear, like two children.\n\n\"Don't forget me, dearest,\" she said.\n\n\"My darling, what a word!\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, how happy we have been together!\" she said.\n\n\"Yes, and shall be happier still,\" I said.\n\nAnd then with more words and signs of love, too sacred even to be\nwritten down, we parted. It was over. I looked back once, and saw my\ndarling gather the child to her heart, and look up once more at me. Then\nI closed the door; something seemed to surge up in my heart and\noverwhelm me; and then the ring on my finger sent a sharp pang through\nmy whole frame, which recalled me to myself. And I say it with all the\nstrength of my spirit, I saw how joyful a thing it was to suffer and\ngrieve. I came down to the oak. The two were waiting in silence, and\nLucius seemed to be in tears. Amroth put his arm through mine.\n\n\"Come, brother,\" he said, \"that was a bad business; I won't pretend\notherwise; but these things had better come swiftly.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Lucius, \"but it is a cruel affair, and I can't say\notherwise. Why cannot God leave us alone?\"\n\n\"Lucius,\" said Amroth very gravely, \"here you may say and think as you\nwill--and the thoughts of the heart are best uttered. But one must not\nblaspheme.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Lucius, \"I was wrong. I ought not to have spoken so. And\nindeed I know in my heart that somehow, far off, it is well. But I was\nthinking,\" he said, turning to me, and grasping my hand in both of his\nown, \"not of you, but of Cynthia. I am glad with all my heart that you\ntook her from me, and have made her happy. But what miserable creatures\nwe all are; and how much more miserable we should be if we were not\nmiserable!\"\n\nAnd then we started. It was a dreary hour that, full of deep and gnawing\npain. I pictured to myself Cynthia at every moment, what she was doing\nand thinking; how swiftly the good days had flown; how perfectly happy\nI had been; and so my wretched silent reverie went on.\n\n\"I must say,\" said Amroth at length, breaking a dismal silence, \"that\nthis is very tedious. Can't you take some interest? I have very\ndisagreeable things to do, but that is no reason why I should be bored\nas well!\" And he then set himself to talk with much zest of all my old\nfriends and companions, telling me how each was faring. Charmides, it\nseemed, had become a very accomplished architect and designer; Philip\nwas a teacher at the College. And he went on until, in spite of my\nheaviness, I felt the whole of life beginning to widen and vibrate all\nabout me, and a sense almost of shame creeping into my mind that I had\nbecome so oblivious of all the other friendships and relations I had\nformed. I forced myself to talk and to ask questions, and found myself\nwalking more briskly. It was not very long before we parted with Lucius.\nHe was left at the doors of a great barrack-like like building, and\nAmroth told me he was to be employed as an officer, very much in the\nsame way as the young man who was sent to conduct me away from the\ntrial; and I felt what a good officer Lucius would make--smart, prompt,\npolite, and not in the least sentimental.\n\nSo we went on together rather gloomily; and then Amroth let me look for\na little deep into his heart; and I saw that it was filled with a kind\nof noble pity for me in my suffering; but behind the pity lay that\nblissful certainty which made Amroth so light-hearted, that it was just\nso, through suffering, that one became wise; and he could no more think\nof it as irksome or sad than a jolly undergraduate thinks of the\ntraining for a race or the rowing in the race as painful, but takes it\nall with a kind of high-hearted zest, and finds even the nervousness an\nexciting thing, life lived at high pressure in a crowded hour.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\n\nAnd thus we came ourselves to a new place, though I took but little note\nof all we passed, for my mind was bent inward upon itself and upon\nCynthia. The place was a great solid stone building, in many courts,\nwith fine tree-shaded fields all about; a school, it seemed to me, with\nboys and girls going in and out, playing games together. Amroth told me\nthat children were bestowed here who had been of naturally fine and\nfrank dispositions, but who had lived their life on earth under foul and\ncramped conditions, by which they had been fretted rather than tainted.\nIt seemed a very happy and busy place. Amroth took me into a great room\nthat seemed a sort of library or common-room. There was no one there,\nand I was glad to sit and rest; when suddenly the door opened, and a man\ncame in with outstretched hands and a smile of welcome. I looked up,\nand it was none but the oldest and dearest friend of my last life, who\nhad died before me. He had been a teacher, a man of the simplest and\nmost guileless life, whose whole energy and delight was given to\nteaching and loving the young. The surprising thing about him had always\nbeen that he could meet one, after a long silence or a suspension of\nintercourse, as simply and easily as if one had but left him the day\nbefore; and it was just the same here. There was no effusiveness of\ngreeting--we just fell at once into the old familiar talk.\n\n\"You are just the same,\" I said to him, looking at the burly figure, the\nbig, almost clumsy, head, and the irradiating smile. His great charm had\nalways been an entire unworldliness and absence of ambition.\n\nHe smiled at this and said:\n\n\"Yes, I am afraid I am too easy-going.\" He had never cared to talk about\nhimself, and now he said, \"Well, yes, I go along in my old prosy way.\nIt is just like the old schooldays, with half the difficulties gone. Of\ncourse the children are not always good, but that makes it the more\namusing; and one can see much more easily what they are thinking of and\ndreaming about.\"\n\nI found myself telling him my adventures, which he heard with the same\nquiet attention and I was sure that he would never forget a single\npoint--he never forgot anything in the old days.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said at the end, \"that's a wonderful story. You always had the\ntrouble of the adventures, and I had the fun of hearing them.\"\n\nHe asked me what I was now going to do, and I said that I had not the\nleast idea.\n\n\"Oh, that will be all right,\" he said.\n\nIt was all so comfortable and simple, so obvious indeed, that I laughed\nto think of the bitter and miserable reveries I had indulged in when he\nwas taken from me, and when the stay of my life seemed gone. The whole\nincident seemed to give me back a touch of the serenity which I had\nlost, and I saw how beautifully this joy of meeting had been planned for\nme, when I wanted it most. Presently he said that he must go off for a\nlesson, and asked me to come with him and see the children. We went into\na big class-room, where some boys and girls were assembling. Here he was\nexactly the same as ever; no sentiment, but just a kind of bluff\npaternal kindness. The lesson was most informal--a good deal of\nquestioning and answering; it was a biographical lecture, but devoted,\nI saw, in a simple way, to tracing the development of the hero's\ncharacter. \"What made him do that?\" was a constant question. The answers\nwere most ingenious and extraordinarily lively; but the order was\nperfect. At the end he called up two or three children who had shown\nsome impatience or jealousy in the lesson, and said a few half-humorous\nwords to them, with an air of affectionate interest.\n\n\"They are jolly little creatures,\" he said when they had all gone out.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, with a sigh, \"I do indeed envy you. I wish I could be set\nto something of the kind.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, you don't,\" he said; \"this is too simple for you! You want\nsomething more artistic and more psychological. This would bore you to\nextinction.\"\n\nWe walked all round the place, saw the games going on, and were\npresently joined by Amroth, who seemed to be on terms of old\nacquaintanceship with my friend. I was surprised at this, and he said:\n\n\"Why, yes, Amroth had the pleasure of bringing me here too. Things are\ndone here in groups, you know; and Amroth knows all about our lot. It is\nvery well organised, much better than one perceives at first. You\nremember how you and I drifted to school together, and the set of boys\nwe found ourselves with--my word, what young ruffians some of us were!\nWell, of course all that had been planned, though we did not know it.\"\n\n\"What!\" said I; \"the evil as well as the good?\"\n\nThe two looked at each other and smiled.\n\n\"That is not a very real distinction,\" said Amroth. \"Of course the poor\nbodies got in the way, as always; there was some fizzing and some\nprecipitation, as they say in chemistry. But you each of you gave and\nreceived just what you were meant to give and receive; though these are\ncomplicated matters, like the higher mathematics; and we must not talk\nof them to-day. If one can escape the being shocked at things and yet be\nuntainted by them, and, on the other hand, if one can avoid pomposity\nand yet learn self-respect, that is enough. But you are tired to-day,\nand I want you just to rest and be refreshed.\"\n\nPresently Amroth asked me if I should like to stay there awhile, and I\nmost willingly consented.\n\n\"You want something to do,\" he said, \"and you shall have some light\nemployment.\"\n\nThat same day, before Amroth left me, I had a curious talk with him.\n\nI said to him: \"Let me ask you one question. I had always had a sort of\nhope that when I came to the land of spirits, I should have a chance of\nseeing and hearing something of some of the great souls of earth. I had\ndimly imagined a sort of reception, where one could wander about and\nlisten to the talk of the men one had admired and longed to see--Plato,\nlet me say, and Shakespeare, Walter Scott, and Shelley--some of the\nimmortals. But I don't seem to have seen anything of them--only just\nordinary and simple people.\"\n\nAmroth laughed.\n\n\"You do say the most extraordinarily ingenuous things,\" he said. \"In the\nfirst place, of course, we have quite a different scale of values here.\nPeople do not take rank by their accomplishments, but by their power of\nloving. Many of the great men of earth--and this is particularly the\ncase with writers and artists--are absolutely nothing here. They had, it\nis true, a fine and delicate brain, on which they played with great\nskill; but half the artists of the world are great as artists, simply\nbecause they do not care. They perceive and they express; but they would\nnot have the heart to do it at all, if they really cared. Some of them,\nno doubt, were men of great hearts, and they have their place and work.\nBut to claim to see all the highest spirits together is as absurd as if\nyou called on a doctor in London at eleven o'clock and expected to meet\nall the great physicians at his house, intent on general conversation.\nSome of the great people, indeed, you have met, and they were very\nsimple persons on earth. The greatest person you have hitherto seen was\na butler on earth--the master of your College. And if it does not shock\nyour aristocratic susceptibilities too much, the President of this place\nkept a small shop in a country village. But one of the teachers here\nwas actually a marquis in the world! Does that uplift you? He teaches\nthe little girls how to play cricket, and he is a very good dancer.\nPerhaps you would like to be introduced to him?\"\n\n\"Don't treat me as a child,\" I said, rather pettishly.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Amroth, \"it isn't that. But you are one of those\nimpressible people; and they always find it harder to disentangle\nthemselves from the old ideas.\"\n\nI spent a long and happy time in the school. I was given a little\nteaching to do, and found it perfectly enchanting. Imagine children with\neverything greedy and sensual gone, with none of the crossness or\nspitefulness that comes of fatigue or pressure, but with all the\ninteresting passions of humanity, admiration, keenness, curiosity, and\neven jealousy, emulation, and anger, all alive and active in them. They\nwere not angelic children at all, neither meek nor mild. But they were\ngenerous and affectionate, and it was easy to evoke these feelings. The\none thing absent from the whole place was any touch of sentimentality,\nwhich arises from natural affections suppressed into a giggling kind of\nsecrecy. They expressed affection loudly and frankly, just as they\nexpressed indignation and annoyance. All the while I kept Cynthia in my\nheart; she was ever before me in a thousand sweet postures and with\ninnumerable glances. But I saw much of my sturdy and wholesome-minded\nold friend; and the sore pain of parting faded away out of my heart, and\nleft me with nothing but the purest and deepest love, which helped me in\nall I did or said, and made me patient and tender-hearted. And thus the\nperiod sped not unhappily away, though I had my times of agony and\ndespair.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\n\nI became aware at this time, very gradually and even solemnly, that some\ncrisis of my life was approaching. How the monition came to me I hardly\nknow; I felt like a man wandering in the dark, with eyes strained and\nhands outstretched, who is dimly aware of some great object, tree or\nhaystack or house, looming up ahead of him, which he cannot directly\nsee, but of which he is yet conscious by the vibration of some sixth\nsense. The wonder came by degrees to overshadow my thoughts with a sense\nof expectant awe, and to permeate all the urgent concerns of my life\nwith its shadowy presence. Even the thought of Cynthia, who indeed was\nalways in my mind, became obscured with the dimness of this obscure\nanticipation.\n\nOne day Amroth stood beside me as I worked; he was very grave and\nserious, but with a joyful kind of courage about him. I pushed my books\nand papers away, and rose to greet him, saying half-unconsciously, and\njust putting my thought into words:\n\n\"So it has come!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"it has come! I have known it for some little time,\nand my thought has mingled with yours. I tell you frankly that I did\nnot quite expect it; but one never knows here. You must come with me at\nonce. You are to see the last mystery; and though I am glad for your\nsake that it is come, yet I tremble for you, because it is unlike any\nother experience; and one can never be the same again.\"\n\nI felt myself oppressed by a sudden terror of darkness, but, half to\nreassure myself, I answered lightly:\n\n\"But it does not seem to have affected you, Amroth! You are always\nlight-hearted and cheerful, and not overshadowed by any dark or gloomy\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Amroth hurriedly. \"It is easy enough, when it is once\nover. Nothing that is behind one matters; but this is a thing that one\ncannot jest about. Of course there is nothing to fear; but to be brought\nface to face with the greatest thing in the world is not a light matter.\nLet me say this. I am to be with you all through; and my only word to\nyou is that you must do exactly what I tell you, and at once, without\nany doubting or flinching. Then all will be well! But we must not delay.\nCome at once, and keep your mind perfectly quiet.\"\n\nWe went out together; and there seemed to have fallen a sense of gravity\nover all whom we met. My companions did not speak to me as we walked\nout, but stood aside to see me pass, and even looked at me, I thought,\nwith an air half of reverence, half of a sort of natural compassion, as\none might watch a dear friend go to be tried for his life.\n\nWe came out of the door, and found, it seemed to me, an unusual\nstillness everywhere. The wind, which often blew high on the bare moor,\nhad dropped. We took a path, which I had never seen, which struck off\nover the hills. We walked for a long time, almost in silence. But I\ncould not bear the strange curiosity which was straining at my heart,\nand I said presently to Amroth:\n\n\"Give me some idea what I am to see or to endure. Is it some judgment\nwhich I am to face, or am I to suffer pain? I would rather know the best\nand the worst of it.\"\n\n\"It is everything,\" said Amroth; \"you are to see God. All is comprised\nin that.\"\n\nHis words fell with a shocking distinctness in the calm air, and I felt\nmy heart and limbs fail me, and a dizziness came over my mind. Hardly\nknowing what I did or said, I came to a stop.\n\n\"But I did not know that it was possible,\" I said. \"I thought that God\nwas everywhere--within us, about us, beyond us? How can that be?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"God is indeed everywhere, and no place contains\nHim; neither can any of us see or comprehend Him. I cannot explain\nit; but there is a centre, so to speak, near to which the unclean\nand the evil cannot come, where the fire of His thought burns the\nhottest.... Oh,\" he said, \"neither word nor thought is of any use here;\nyou will see what you will see!\"\n\nPerhaps the hardest thing I had to bear in all my wanderings was the\nsight of Amroth's own fear. It was unmistakable. His spirit seemed\nprepared for it, perfectly courageous and sincere as it was; but there\nwas a shuddering awe upon him, for all that, which infected me with an\nextremity of terror. Was it that he thought me unequal to the\nexperience? I could not tell. But we walked as men dragging themselves\ninto some fiery and dreadful martyrdom.\n\nAgain I could not bear it, and I cried out suddenly:\n\n\"But, Amroth, He is Love; and we can enter without fear into the\npresence of Love!\"\n\n\"Have you not yet guessed,\" said Amroth sternly, \"how terrible Love can\nbe? It is the most terrible thing in the world, because it is the\nstrongest. If Death is dreadful, what must that be which is stronger\nthan Death? Come, let us be silent, for we are near the place, and this\nis no time for words;\" and then he added with a look of the deepest\ncompassion and tenderness, \"I wish I could speak differently, brother,\nat this hour; but I am myself afraid.\"\n\nAnd at that we gave up all speech, and only our thoughts sprang together\nand intertwined, like two children that clasp each other close in a\nburning house, when the smoke comes volleying from the door.\n\nWe were coming now to what looked like a ridge of rocks ahead of us; and\nI saw here a wonderful thing, a great light of incredible pureness and\nwhiteness, which struck upwards from the farther side. This began to\nlight up our own pale faces, and to throw our backs into a dark shadow,\neven though the radiance of the heavenly day was all about us. And at\nlast we came to the place.\n\nIt was the edge of a precipice so vast, so stupendous, that no word can\neven dimly describe its depth; it was all illuminated with incredible\nclearness by the light which struck upwards from below. It was\nabsolutely sheer, great pale cliffs of white stone running downwards\ninto the depth. To left and right the precipice ran, with an irregular\noutline, so that one could see the cliff-fronts gleam how many millions\nof leagues below! There seemed no end to it. But at a certain point far\ndown in the abyss the light seemed stronger and purer. I was at first so\namazed by the sight that I gazed in silence. Then a dreadful dizziness\ncame over me, and I felt Amroth's hand put round me to sustain me. Then\nin a faint whisper, that was almost inaudible, Amroth, pointing with his\nfinger downwards, said:\n\n\"Watch that place where the light seems clearest.\"\n\nI did so. Suddenly there came, as from the face of the cliff, a thing\nlike a cloudy jet of golden steam. It passed out into the clear air,\nshaping itself in strange and intricate curves; then it grew darker in\ncolour, hung for an instant like a cloud of smoke, and then faded into\nthe sky.\n\n\"What is that?\" I said, surprised out of my terror.\n\n\"I may tell you that,\" said Amroth, \"that you may know what you see.\nThere is no time here; and you have seen a universe made, and live its\nlife, and die. You have seen the worlds created. That cloud of whirling\nsuns, each with its planets, has taken shape before your eyes; life has\narisen there, has developed; men like ourselves have lived, have\nwrestled with evil, have formed states, have died and vanished. That is\nall but a single thought of God.\"\n\nAnother came, and then another of the golden jets, each fading into\ndarkness and dispersing.\n\n\"And now,\" said Amroth, \"the moment has come. You are to make the last\nsacrifice of the soul. Do not shrink back, fear nothing. Leap into the\nabyss!\"\n\nThe thought fell upon me with an infinity and an incredulity of horror\nthat I cannot express in words. I covered my eyes with my hands.\n\n\"Oh, I cannot, I cannot,\" I said; \"anything but this! God be merciful;\nlet me go rather to some infinite place of torment where at least I may\nfeel myself alive. Do not ask this of me!\"\n\nAmroth made no answer, and I saw that he was regarding me fixedly,\nhimself pale to the lips; but with a touch of anger and even of\ncontempt, mixed with a world of compassion and love. There was something\nin this look which seemed to entreat me mutely for my own sake and his\nown to act. I do not know what the impulse was that came to\nme--self-contempt, trust, curiosity, the yearning of love. I closed my\neyes, I took a faltering step, and stumbled, huddling and aghast, over\nthe edge. The air flew up past me with a sort of shriek; I opened my\neyes once, and saw the white cliffs speeding past. Then an\nunconsciousness came over me and I knew no more.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\n\nI came to myself very gradually and dimly, with no recollection at first\nof what had happened. I was lying on my back on some soft grassy place,\nwith the air blowing cool over me. I thought I saw Amroth bending over\nme with a look of extraordinary happiness, and felt his arm about me;\nbut again I became unconscious, yet all the time with a blissfulness of\nrepose and joy, far beyond what I had experienced at my first waking on\nthe sunlit sea. Again life dawned upon me. I was there, I was myself.\nWhat had happened to me? I could not tell. So I lay for a long time half\ndreaming and half swooning; till at last life seemed to come back\nsuddenly to me, and I sat up. Amroth was holding me in his arms close to\nthe spot from which I had sprung.\n\n\"Have I been dreaming?\" I said. \"Was it here? and when? I cannot\nremember. It seems impossible, but was I told to jump down? What has\nhappened to me? I am confused.\"\n\n\"You will know presently,\" said Amroth, in a tone from which all the\nfear seemed to have vanished. \"It is all over, and I am thankful. Do not\ntry to recollect; it will come back to you presently. Just rest now; you\nhave been through strange things.\"\n\nSuddenly a thought began to shape itself in my mind, a thought of\nperfect and irresistible joy.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I remember now. We were afraid, both of us, and you told\nme to leap down. But what was it that I saw, and what was it that was\ntold me? I cannot recall it. Oh,\" I said at last, \"I know now; it comes\nback to me. I fell, in hideous cowardice and misery. The wind blew\nshrill. I saw the cliffs stream past; then I was unconscious, I think.\nI seem to have died; but part of me was not dead. My flight was stayed,\nand I floated out somewhere. I was joined to something that was like\nboth fire and water in one. I was seen and known and understood and\nloved, perfectly and unutterably and for ever. But there was pain,\nsomewhere, Amroth! How was that? I am sure there was pain.\"\n\n\"Of course, dear child,\" said Amroth, \"there was pain, because there was\neverything.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"I cannot understand yet; why was that terrible leap\ndemanded of me? And why did I confront it with such abject cowardice and\ndismay? Surely one need not go stumbling and cowed into the presence of\nGod?\"\n\n\"There is no other way,\" said Amroth; \"you do not understand how\nterrible perfect love is. It is because it is perfect that it is\nterrible. Our own imperfect love has some weakness in it. It is mixed\nwith pleasure, and then it is not a sacrifice; one gives as much of\noneself as one chooses; one is known just so far as one wishes to be\nknown. But here with God there must be no concealment--though even there\na man can withhold his heart from God--God never uses compulsion; and\nthe will can prevail even against Him. But the reason of the leap that\nmust be taken is this: it is the last surrender, and it cannot be made\non our terms and conditions; it must be absolute. And what I feared for\nyou was not anything that would happen if you did commit yourself to\nGod, but what would happen if you did not; for, of course, you could\nhave resisted, and then you would have had to begin again.\"\n\nI was silent for a little, and then I said: \"I remember now more\nclearly, but did I really see Him? It seems so absolutely simple.\nNothing happened. I just became one with the heart and life of the\nworld; I came home at last. Yet how am I here? How is it I was not\nmerged in light and life?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Amroth, \"it is the new birth. You can never be the same\nagain. But you are not yet lost in Him. The time for that is not yet.\nIt is a mystery; but as yet God works outward, radiates energy and force\nand love; the time will come when all will draw inward again, and be\nmerged in Him. But the world is as yet in its dawning. The rising sun\nscatters light and heat, and the hot and silent noon is yet to come;\nthen the shadows move eastward, and after that comes the waning sunset\nand the evening light, and last of all the huge and starlit peace of the\nnight.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"if this is really so, if I have been gathered close to\nGod's heart, why is it that instead of feeling stronger, I only feel\nweak and unstrung? I have indeed an inner sense of peace and happiness,\nbut I have no will or purpose of my own that I can discern.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Amroth, \"is because you have given up all. The sense of\nstrength is part of our weakness. Our plans, our schemes, our ambitions,\nall the things that make us enjoy and hope and arrange, are but signs\nof our incompleteness. Your will is still as molten metal, it has borne\nthe fierce heat of inner love; and this has taken all that is hard and\nstubborn and complacent out of you--for a time. But when you return to\nthe life of the body, as you will return, there will be this great\ndifference in you. You will have to toil and suffer, and even sin. But\nthere will be one thing that you will not do: you will never be\ncomplacent or self-righteous, you will not judge others hardly. You will\nbe able to forgive and to make allowances; you will concern yourself\nwith loving others, not with trying to improve them up to your own\nstandard. You will wish them to be different, but you will not condemn\nthem for being different; and hereafter the lives you live on earth will\nbe of the humblest. You will have none of the temptations of authority,\nor influence, or ambition again--all that will be far behind you. You\nwill live among the poor, you will do the most menial and commonplace\ndrudgery, you will have none of the delights of life. You will be\ndespised and contemned for being ugly and humble and serviceable and\nmeek. You will be one of those who will be thought to have no spirit to\nrise, no power of making men serve your turn. You will miss what are\ncalled your chances, you will be a failure; but you will be trusted and\nloved by children and simple people; they will depend upon you, and you\nwill make the atmosphere in which you live one of peace and joy. You\nwill have selfish employers, tyrannical masters, thankless children\nperhaps, for whom you will slave lovingly. They will slight you and even\ndespise you, but their hearts will turn to you again and again, and\nyours will be the face that they will remember when they come to die, as\nthat of the one person who loved them truly and unquestioningly. That\nwill be your destiny; one of utter obscurity and nothingness upon earth.\nYet each time, when you return hither, your work will be higher and\nholier, and nearer to the heart of God. And now I have said enough; for\nyou have seen God, as I too saw Him long ago; and our hope is\nhenceforward the same.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said to Amroth, \"I am content. I had thought that I should be\nexalted and elated by my privileges; but I have no thought or dream of\nthat. I only desire to go where I am sent, to do what is desired of me.\nI have laid my burden down.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\n\nPresently Amroth rose, and said that we must be going onward.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, \"I have a further thing to tell you, and that is\nthat I have very soon to leave you. To bring you hither was the last of\nmy appointed tasks, and my work is now done. It is strange to remember\nhow I bore you in my arms out of life, like a little sleeping child, and\nhow much we have been together.\"\n\n\"Do not leave me now,\" I said to Amroth. \"There seems so much that I\nhave to ask you. And if your work with me is done, where are you now\ngoing?\"\n\n\"Where am I going, brother?\" said Amroth. \"Back to life again, and\nimmediately. And there is one thing more that is permitted, and that is\nthat you should be with me to the last. Strange that I should have\nattended you here, to the very crown and sum of life, and that you\nshould now attend me where I am going! But so it is.\"\n\n\"And what do you feel about it?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Amroth, \"I do not like it, of course. To be so free and\nactive here, and to be bound again in the body, in the close, suffering,\nill-savoured house of life! But I have much to gain by it. I have a\nsharpness of temper and a peremptoriness--of which indeed,\" he said,\nsmiling, \"you have had experience. I am fond of doing things in my own\nway, inconsiderate of others, and impatient if they do not go right. I\nam hard, and perhaps even vulgar. But now I am going like a board to the\ncarpenter, to have some of my roughness planed out of me, and I hope to\ndo better.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I am too full of wonder and hope just now to be alarmed\nfor you. I could even wish I were myself departing. But I have a desire\nto see Cynthia again.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Amroth, \"and you will see her; but you will not be long\nafter me, brother; comfort yourself with that!\"\n\nWe walked a little farther across the moorland, talking softly at\nintervals, till suddenly I discerned a solitary figure which was\napproaching us swiftly.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Amroth, \"my time has indeed come. I am summoned.\"\n\nHe waved his hand to the man, who came up quickly and even breathlessly,\nand handed Amroth a sealed paper. Amroth tore it open, read it\nsmilingly, gave a nod to the officer, saying \"Many thanks.\" The officer\nsaluted him; he was a brisk young man, with a fresh air; and he then,\nwithout a word, turned from us and went over the moorland.\n\n\"Come,\" said Amroth, \"let us descend. You can do this for yourself now;\nyou do not need my help.\" He took my hand, and a mist enveloped us.\nSuddenly the mist broke up and streamed away. I looked round me in\ncuriosity.\n\nWe were standing in a very mean street of brick-built houses, with\nslated roofs; over the roofs we could see a spire, and the chimneys of\nmills, spouting smoke. The houses had tiny smoke-dried gardens in front\nof them. At the end of the street was an ugly, ill-tended field, on\nwhich much rubbish lay. There were some dirty children playing about,\nand a few women, with shawls over their heads, were standing together\nwatching a house opposite. The window of an upper room was open, and out\nof it came cries and moans.\n\n\"It's going very badly with her,\" said one of the women, \"poor soul; but\nthe doctor will be here soon. She was about this morning too. I had a\nword with her, and she was feeling very bad. I said she ought to be in\nbed, but she said she had her work to do first.\"\n\nThe women glanced at the window with a hushed sort of sympathy. A young\nwoman, evidently soon to become a mother, looked pale and apprehensive.\n\n\"Will she get through?\" she said timidly.\n\n\"Oh, don't you fear, Sarah,\" said one of the women, kindly enough. \"She\nwill be all right. Bless you, I've been through it five times myself,\nand I am none the worse. And when it's over she'll be as comfortable as\nnever was. It seems worth it then.\"\n\nA man suddenly turned the corner of the street; he was dressed in a\nshabby overcoat with a bowler hat, and he carried a bag in his hand. He\ncame past us. He looked a busy, overtried man, but he had a\ngood-humoured air. He nodded pleasantly to the women. One said:\n\n\"You are wanted badly in there, doctor.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said cheerfully, \"I am making all the haste I can. Where's\nJohn?\"\n\n\"Oh, he's at work,\" said the woman. \"He didn't expect it to-day. But\nhe's better out of the way: he 'd be no good; he'd only be interfering\nand grumbling; but I'll come across with you, and when it's over, I'll\njust run down and tell him.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said the doctor, \"come along--the nurse will be round\nin a minute; and I can make things easy meantime.\"\n\nStrange to say, it had hardly dawned upon me what was happening. I\nturned to Amroth, who stood there smiling, but a little pale, his arm in\nmine; fresh and upright, with his slim and graceful limbs, his bright\ncurled hair, a strange contrast to the slatternly women and the\nheavily-built doctor.\n\n\"So this,\" he said, \"is where I am to spend a few years; my new father\nis a hardworking man, I believe, perhaps a little given to drink but\nkind enough; and I daresay some of these children are my brothers and\nsisters. A score of years or more to spend here, no doubt! Well, it\nmight be worse. You will think of me while you can, and if you have the\ntime, you may pay me a visit, though I don't suppose I shall recognise\nyou.\"\n\n\"It seems rather dreadful to me,\" said I, \"I must confess! Who would\nhave thought that I should have forgotten my visions so soon? Amroth,\ndear, I can't bear this--that you should suffer such a change.\"\n\n\"Sentiment again, brother,\" said Amroth. \"To me it is curious and\ninteresting, even exciting. Well, good-bye; my time is just up, I\nthink.\"\n\nThe doctor had gone into the house, and the cries died away. A moment\nafter a woman in the dress of a nurse came quickly along the street,\nknocked, opened the door, and went in. I could see into the room, a\npoorly furnished one. A girl sat nursing a baby by the fire, and looked\nvery much frightened. A little boy played in the corner. A woman was\nbustling about, making some preparations for a meal.\n\n\"Let me do you the honours of my new establishment,\" said Amroth with a\nsmile. \"No, dear man, don't go with me any farther. We will part here,\nand when we meet again we shall have some new stories to tell. Bless\nyou.\" He took his hand from my arm, caught up my hand, kissed it, said,\n\"There, that is for you,\" and disappeared smiling into the house.\n\nA moment later there came the cry of a new-born child from the window\nabove. The doctor came out and went down the street; one of the women\njoined him and walked with him. A few minutes later she returned with a\nyoung and sturdy workman, looking rather anxious.\n\n\"It's all right,\" I heard her say, \"it's a fine boy, and Annie is doing\nwell--she'll be about again soon enough.\"\n\nThey disappeared into the house, and I turned away.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\n\nIt is difficult to describe the strange emotions with which the\ndeparture of Amroth filled me. I think that, when I first entered the\nheavenly country, the strongest feeling I experienced was the sense of\nsecurity--the thought that the earthly life was over and done with, and\nthat there remained the rest and tranquillity of heaven. What I cannot\neven now understand is this. I am dimly aware that I have lived a great\nseries of lives, in each of which I have had to exist blindly, not\nknowing that my life was not bounded and terminated by death, and only\ndarkly guessing and hoping, in passionate glimpses, that there might be\na permanent life of the soul behind the life of the body. And yet, at\nfirst, on entering the heavenly country, I did not remember having\nentered it before; it was not familiar to me, nor did I at first recall\nin memory that I had been there before. The earthly life seems to\nobliterate for a time even the heavenly memory. But the departure of\nAmroth swept away once and for all the sense of security. One felt of\nthe earthly life, indeed, as a busy man may think of a troublesome visit\nhe has to pay, which breaks across the normal current of his life, while\nhe anticipates with pleasure his return to the usual activities of home\nacross the interval of social distraction, which he does not exactly\ndesire, but yet is glad that it should intervene, if only for the\nheightened sense of delight with which he will resume his real life. I\nhad been happy in heaven, though with periods of discontent and moments\nof dismay. But I no longer desired a dreamful ease; I only wished\npassionately to be employed. And now I saw that I must resign all\nexpectation of that. As so often happens, both on earth and in heaven, I\nhad found something of which I was not in search, while the work which I\nhad estimated so highly, and prepared myself so ardently for, had never\nbeen given to me to do at all.\n\nBut for the moment I had but one single thought. I was to see Cynthia\nagain, and I might then expect my own summons to return to life. What\nsurprised me, on looking back at my present sojourn, was the extreme\napparent fortuitousness of it. It had not been seemingly organised or\nlaid out on any plan; and yet it had shown me this, that my own\nintentions and desires counted for nothing. I had meant to work, and I\nhad been mostly idle; I had intended to study psychology, and I had\nfound love. How much wiser and deeper it had all been than anything\nwhich I had designed!\n\nEven now I was uncertain how to find Cynthia. But recollecting that\nAmroth had warned me that I had gained new powers which I might\nexercise, I set myself to use them. I concentrated myself upon the\nthought of Cynthia; and in a moment, just as the hand of a man in a\ndark room, feeling for some familiar object, encounters and closes upon\nthe thing he is seeking, I seemed to touch and embrace the thought of\nCynthia. I directed myself thither. The breeze fanned my hair, and as I\nopened my eyes I saw that I was in an unfamiliar place--not the forest\nwhere I had left Cynthia, but in a terraced garden, under a great hill,\nwooded to the peak. Stone steps ran up through the terraces, the topmost\nof which was crowned by a long irregular building, very quaintly\ndesigned. I went up the steps, and, looking about me, caught sight of\ntwo figures seated on a wooden seat at a little distance from me,\noverlooking the valley. One of these was Cynthia. The other was a young\nand beautiful woman; the two were talking earnestly together. Suddenly\nCynthia turned and saw me, and rising quickly, came to me and caught me\nin her arms.\n\n\"I was sure you were somewhere near me, dearest,\" she said; \"I dreamed\nof you last night, and you have been in my thoughts all day.\"\n\nMy darling was in some way altered. She looked older, wiser, and calmer,\nbut she was in my eyes even more beautiful. The other girl, who had\nlooked at us in surprise for a moment, rose too and came shyly forwards.\nCynthia caught her hand, and presented her to me, adding, \"And now you\nmust leave us alone for a little, if you will forgive me for asking it,\nfor we have much to ask and to say.\"\n\nThe girl smiled and went off, looking back at us, I thought,\nhalf-enviously.\n\nWe went and sat down on the seat, and Cynthia said:\n\n\"Something has happened to you, dear one, I see, since I saw you\nlast--something great and glorious.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"you are right; I have seen the beginning and the end;\nand I have not yet learned to understand it. But I am the same, Cynthia,\nand yours utterly. We will speak of this later. Tell me first what has\nhappened to you, and what this place is. I will not waste time in\ntalking; I want to hear you talk and to see you talk. How often have I\nlonged for that!\"\n\nCynthia took my hand in both of her own, and then unfolded to me her\nstory. She had lived long in the forest, alone with the child, and then\nthe day had come when the desire to go farther had arisen in his mind,\nand he had left her, and she had felt strangely desolate, till she too\nhad been summoned.\n\n\"And this place--how can I describe it?\" she said. \"It is a home for\nspirits who have desired love on earth, and who yet, from some accident\nof circumstance, have never found one to love them with any intimacy of\npassion. How strange it is to think,\" she went on, \"that I, just by the\ninheritance of beauty, was surrounded with love and the wrong sort of\nlove, so that I never learned to love rightly and truly; while so many,\njust from some lack of beauty, some homeliness or ungainliness of\nfeature or carriage, missed the one kind of love that would have\nsustained and fed them--have never been held in a lover's arms, or held\na child of their own against their heart. And so,\" she went on smiling,\n\"many of them lavished their tenderness upon animals or crafty servants\nor selfish relations; and grew old and fanciful and petulant before\ntheir time. It seems a sad waste of life that! Because so many of them\nare spirits that could have loved finely and devotedly all the time. But\nhere,\" she said, \"they unlearn their caprices, and live a life by\nstrict rule--and they go out hence to have the care of children, or to\ntend broken lives into tranquillity--and some of them, nay most of them,\nfind heavenly lovers of their own. They are odd, fractious people at\nfirst, curiously concerned about health and occupation and one can often\ndo nothing but listen to their complaints. But they find their way out\nin time, and one can help them a little, as soon as they begin to\ndesire to hear something of other lives but their own. They have to\nlearn to turn love outwards instead of inwards; just as I,\" she added\nlaughing, \"had to turn my own love inwards instead of outwards.\"\n\nThen I told Cynthia what I could tell of my own experiences, and she\nheard them with astonishment. Then I said:\n\n\"What surprises me about it, is that I seem somehow to have been given\nmore than I can hold. I have a very shallow and trivial nature, like a\nstream that sparkles pleasantly enough over a pebbly bottom, but in\nwhich no boat or man can swim. I have always been absorbed in the\nobservation of details and in the outside of things. I spent so much\nenergy in watching the faces and gestures and utterances and tricks of\nthose about me that I never had the leisure to look into their hearts.\nAnd now these great depths have opened before me, and I feel more\nchildish and feeble than ever, like a frail glass which holds a most\nprecious liquor, and gains brightness and glory from the hues of the\nwine it holds, but is not like the gem, compact of colour and radiance.\"\n\nCynthia laughed at me.\n\n\"At all events, you have not forgotten how to make metaphors,\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" said I, \"that is part of the mischief, that I see the likenesses\nof things and not their essences.\" At which she laughed again more\nsoftly, and rested her cheek on my shoulder.\n\nThen I told her of the departure of Amroth.\n\n\"That is wonderful,\" she said.\n\nAnd then I told her of my own approaching departure, at which she grew\nsad for a moment. Then she said, \"But come, let us not waste time in\nforebodings. Will you come with me into the house to see the likenesses\nof things, or shall we have an hour alone together, and try to look into\nessences?\"\n\nI caught her by the hand.\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"I care no more about the machinery of these\ninstitutions. I am the pilgrim of love, and not the student of\norganisations. If you may quit your task, and leave your ladies to\nregretful memories of their lap-dogs, let us go out together for a\nlittle, and say what we can--for I am sure that my time is approaching.\"\n\nCynthia smiled and left me, and returned running; and then we rambled\noff together, up the steep paths of the woodland, to the mountain-top,\nfrom which we had a wide prospect of the heavenly country, a great blue\nwell-watered plain lying out for leagues before us, with the shapes of\nmysterious mountains in the distance. But I can give no account of all\nwe said or did, for heart mingled with heart, and there was little need\nof speech. And even so, in those last sweet hours, I could not help\nmarvelling at how utterly different Cynthia's heart and mind were from\nmy own; even then it was a constant shock of surprise that we should\nunderstand each other so perfectly, and yet feel so differently about\nso much. It seemed to me that, even after all I had seen and suffered,\nmy heart was still bent on taking and Cynthia's on giving. I seemed to\nsee my own heart through Cynthia's, while she appeared to see mine but\nthrough her own. We spoke of our experiences, and of our many friends,\nnow hidden from us--and at last we spoke of Lucius. And then Cynthia\nsaid:\n\n\"It is strange, dearest, that now and then there should yet remain any\ndoubt at all in my mind about your wish or desire; but I must speak; and\nbefore I speak, I will say that whatever you desire, I will do. But I\nthink that Lucius has need of me, and I am his, in a way which I cannot\ndescribe. He is halting now in his way, and he is unhappy because his\nlife is incomplete. May I help him?\"\n\nAt this there struck through me a sharp and jealous pang; and a dark\ncloud seemed to float across my mind for a moment. But I set all aside,\nand thought for an instant of the vision of God. And then I said:\n\n\"Yes, Cynthia! I had wondered too; and it seems perhaps like the last\ntaint of earth, that I would, as it were, condemn you to a sort of\nwidowhood of love when I am gone. But you must follow your own heart,\nand its pure and sweet advice, and the Will of Love; and you must use\nyour treasure, not hoard it for me in solitude. Dearest, I trust you and\nworship you utterly and entirely. It is through you and your love that I\nhave found my way to the heart of God; and if indeed you can take\nanother heart thither, you must do it for love's own sake.\" And after\nthis we were silent for a long space, heart blending wholly with heart.\n\nThen suddenly I became aware that some one was coming up through the\nwood, to the rocks where we sat: and Cynthia clung close to me, and I\nknew that she was sorrowful to death. And then I saw Lucius come up out\nof the wood, and halt for a moment at the sight of us together. Then he\ncame on almost reverently, and I saw that he carried in his hand a\nsealed paper like that which had been given to Amroth; and I read it and\nfound my summons written.\n\nThen while Lucius stood beside me, with his eyes upon the ground, I\nsaid:\n\n\"I must go in haste; and I have but one thing to do. We have spoken,\nCynthia and I, of the love you have long borne her; and she is yours\nnow, to comfort and lead you as she has led and comforted me. This is\nthe last sacrifice of love, to give up love itself; and this I do very\nwillingly for the sake of Him that loves us: and here,\" I said, \"is a\nstrange thing, that at the very crown and summit of life, for I am sure\nthat this is so, we should be three hearts, so full of love, and yet so\nsorrowing and suffering as we are. Is pain indeed the end of all?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Cynthia, \"it is not the end, and yet only by it can we\nmeasure the depth and height of love. If we look into our hearts, we\nknow that in spite of all we are more than rewarded, and more than\nconquerors.\"\n\nThen I took Cynthia's hand and laid it in the hand of Lucius; and I left\nthem there upon the peak, and turned no more. And no more woeful spirit\nwas in the land of heaven that day than mine as I stumbled wearily down\nthe slope, and found the valley. And then, for I did not know the way to\ndescend, I commended myself to God; and He took me.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\n\nI saw that I was standing in a narrow muddy road, with deep ruts, which\nled up from the bank of a wide river--a tidal river, as I could see,\nfrom the great mudflats fringed with seaweed. The sun blazed down upon\nthe whole scene. Just below was a sort of landing-place, where lay a\nnumber of long, low boats, shaded with mats curved like the hood of a\nwaggon; a little farther out was a big quaint ship, with a high stern\nand yellow sails. Beyond the river rose great hills, thickly clothed\nwith vegetation. In front of me, along the roadside, stood a number of\nmud-walled huts, thatched with some sort of reeds; beyond these, on the\nleft, was the entrance of a larger house, surrounded with high walls,\nthe tops of trees, with a strange red foliage, appearing over the\nenclosure, and the tiled roofs of buildings. Farther still were the\nwalls of a great town, huge earthworks crowned with plastered\nfortifications, and a gate, with a curious roof to it, running out at\neach end into horns carved of wood. At some distance, out of a grove to\nthe right, rose a round tapering tower of mouldering brickwork. The rest\nof the nearer country seemed laid out in low plantations of some\ngreen-leaved shrub, with rice-fields interspersed in the more level\nground.\n\nThere were only a few people in sight. Some men with arms and legs\nbare, and big hats made of reeds, were carrying up goods from the\nlanding-place, and a number of children, pale and small-eyed, dirty and\nhalf-naked, were playing about by the roadside. I went a few paces up\nthe road, and stopped beside a house, a little larger than the rest,\nwith a rough verandah by the door. Here a middle-aged man was seated,\nplaiting something out of reeds, but evidently listening for sounds\nwithin the house, with an air half-tranquil, half-anxious; by him on a\nslab stood something that looked like a drum, and a spray of azalea\nflowers. While I watched, a man of a rather superior rank, with a dark\nflowered jacket and a curious hat, looked out of a door which opened on\nthe verandah and beckoned him in; a sound of low subdued wailing came\nout from the house, and I knew that my time was hard at hand. It was\nstrange and terrible to me at the moment to realise that my life was to\nbe bound up, I knew not for how long, with this remote place; but I was\nconscious too of a deep excitement, as of a man about to start upon a\nrace on which much depends. There came a groan from the interior of the\nhouse, and through the half-open door I could see two or three dim\nfigures standing round a bed in a dark and ill-furnished room. One of\nthe figures bent down, and I could see the face of a woman, very pale,\nthe eyes closed, and the lips open, her arms drawn up over her head as\nin an agony of pain. Then a sudden dimness came over me, and a deadly\nfaintness. I stumbled through the verandah to the open door. The\ndarkness closed in upon me, and I knew no more.\n\nTHE END","title":"The Child of the Dawn","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":68287}