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Now before I come to tell this next part of my story, there are severalthings which seem in want of explanation. I speak of people as lookingold and young, and of there being relations between them such asfatherly and motherly, son-like and lover-like. It bewildered me atfirst, but I came to guess at the truth. It would seem that in thefurther world spirits do preserve for a long time the characteristics ofthe age at which they last left the earth; but I saw no very youngchildren anywhere at first, though I came afterwards to know what befellthem. It seemed to me that, in the first place I visited, the onlyspirits I saw were of those who had been able to make a deliberatechoice of how they would live in the world and which kind of desiresthey would serve; it is very hard to say when this choice takes placein the world below, but I came to believe that, early or late, theredoes come a time when there is an opening out of two paths before eachhuman soul, and when it realises that a choice must be made. Sometimesthis is made early in life; but sometimes a soul drifts on, guileless ina sense, though its life may be evil and purposeless, not lookingbackwards or forwards, but simply acting as its nature bids it act. Whatit is that decides the awakening of the will I hardly know; it is all asecret growth, I think; but the older that the spirit is, in the senseof spiritual experience, the earlier in mortal life that choice is made;and this is only another proof of one of the things which Amroth showedme, that it is, after all, imagination which really makes the differencebetween souls, and not intellect or shrewdness or energy; all the realthings of life--sympathy, the power of entering into fine relations,however simple they may be, with others, loyalty, patience, devotion,goodness--seem to grow out of this power of imagination; and the reasonwhy the souls of whom I am going to speak were so content to dwell wherethey were, was simply that they had no imagination beyond, but dwelthappily among the delights which upon earth are represented by sound andcolour and scent and comeliness and comfort. This was a perpetualsurprise to me, because I saw in these fine creatures such a faculty ofdelicate perception, that I could not help believing again and againthat their emotions were as deep and varied too; but I found little bylittle, that they were all bent, not on loving, and therefore on givingthemselves away to what they loved, but in gathering in perceptions andsensations, and finding their delight in them; and I realised that whatlies at the root of the artistic nature is its deep and vitalindifference to anything except what can directly give it delight, andthat these souls, for all their amazing subtlety and discrimination, hadvery little hold on life at all, except on its outer details andsuperficial harmonies; and that they were all very young in experience,and like shallow waters, easily troubled and easily appeased; and thattherefore they were being dealt with like children, and allowed fullscope for all their little sensitive fancies, until the time should comefor them to go further yet. Of course they were one degree older thanthe people who in the world had been really immersed in what may becalled solid interests and serious pursuits--science, politics,organisation, warfare, commerce--all these spirits were very youthfulindeed, and they were, I suppose, in some very childish nursery of God.But what first bewildered me was the finding of the earthly proportionsof things so strangely reversed, the serious matters of life so utterlyset aside, and so much made of the things which many people take no sortof trouble about, as companionships and affections, which are so oftenturned into a matter of mere propinquity and circumstance. But of thisI shall have to speak later in its place.
Now it is difficult to describe the time I spent in the land of delight,because it was all so unlike the life of the world, and yet was sostrangely like it. There was work going on there, I found, but thenature of it I could not discern, because that was kept hidden from me.Men and women excused themselves from our company, saying they mustreturn to their work; but most of the time was spent in leisurelyconverse about things which I confess from the first did not interestme. There was much wit and laughter, and there were constant games andassemblies and amusements. There were feasts of delicious things, music,dramas. There were books read and discussed; it was just like a verycultivated and civilised society. But what struck me about the peoplethere was that it was all very restless and highly-strung, a perpetualtasting of pleasures, which somehow never pleased. There were two peoplethere who interested me most. One was a very handsome and courteousman, who seemed to desire my company, and spoke more freely than therest; the other a young man, who was very much occupied with the girl,my companion, and made a great friendship with her. The elder of thetwo, for I must give them names, shall be called Charmides, which seemsto correspond with his stately charm, and the younger may be known asLucius.
I sat one day with Charmides, listening to a great concert of stringedand wind instruments, in a portico which gave on a large shelteredgarden. He was much absorbed in the music, which was now of a brisk andmeasured beauty, and now of a sweet seriousness which had a veryluxurious effect upon my mind. "It is wonderful to me," said Charmides,as the last movement drew to a close of liquid melody, "that thesesounds should pass into the heart like wine, heightening and upliftingthe thought--there is nothing so beautiful as the discrimination ofmood with which it affects one, weighing one delicate phrase againstanother, and finding all so perfect."
"Yes," I said, "I can understand that; but I must confess that thereseems to me something wanting in the melodies of this place. The musicwhich I loved in the old days was the music which spoke to the soul ofsomething further yet and unattainable; but here the music seems to haveattained its end, and to have fulfilled its own desire."
"Yes," said Charmides, "I know that you feel that; your mind is veryclear to me, up to a certain point; and I have sometimes wondered whyyou spend your time here, because you are not one of us, as your friendCynthia is."
I glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia sat on a great carved settleamong cushions, side by side with Lucius, whispering to him with asmile.
"No," I said, "I do not think I have found my place yet, but I am here,I think, for a purpose, and I do not know what that purpose is."
"Well," he said, "I have sometimes wondered myself. I feel that you mayhave something to tell me, some message for me. I thought that when Ifirst saw you; but I cannot quite perceive what is in your mind, and Isee that you do not wholly know what is in mine. I have been here for along time, and I have a sense that I do not get on, do not move; and yetI have lived in extreme joy and contentment, except that I dread toreturn to life, as I know I must return. I have lived often, and alwaysin joy--but in life there are constantly things to endure, little thingswhich just ruffle the serenity of soul which I desire, and which I mayfairly say I here enjoy. I have loved beauty, and not intemperately; andthere have been other people--men and women--whom I have loved, in asense; but the love of them has always seemed a sort of interruption tothe life I desired, something disordered and strained, which hurt me,and kept me away from the peace I desired--from the fine weighing ofsounds and colours, and the pleasure of beautiful forms and lines; and Idread to return to life, because one cannot avoid love and sorrow, andmean troubles, which waste the spirit in vain."
"Yes," I said, "I can understand what you feel very well, because I toohave known what it is to desire to live in peace and beauty, not to bedisturbed or fretted; but the reason, I think, why it is dangerous, isnot because life becomes too _easy_. That is not the danger at all--lifeis never easy, whatever it is! But the danger is that it grows toosolemn! One is apt to become like a priest, always celebrating holymysteries, always in a vision, with no time for laughter, and disputing,and quarrelling, and being silly and playing. It is the poor body againthat is amiss. It is like the camel, poor thing; it groans and weeps,but it goes on. One cannot live wholly in a vision; and life does notbecome more simple so, but more complicated, for one's time and energyare spent in avoiding the sordid and the tiresome things which onecannot and must not avoid. I remember, in an illness which I had, when Iwas depressed and fanciful, a homely old doctor said to me, 'Don't betoo car
eful of yourself: don't think you can't bear this and that--goout to dinner--eat and drink rather too much!' It seemed to be coarseadvice, but it was wise."
"Yes," said Charmides, "it was wise; but it is difficult to feel it soat the time. I wonder! I think perhaps I have made the mistake of beingtoo fastidious. But it seemed so fine a goal that one had in sight, tochasten and temper all one's thoughts to what was beautiful--to judgeand distinguish, to choose the right tones and harmonies, to be alwaysrejecting and refining. It had its sorrows, of course. How often in theold days one came in contact with some gracious and beautifulpersonality, and flung oneself into close relations; and then one beganto see this and that flaw. There were lapses in tact, petulances,littlenesses; one's friend did not rightly use his beautiful mind; hewas jealous, suspicious, trivial, petty; it ended in disillusionment.Instead of taking him as a passenger on one's vessel, and determining tolive at peace, to overlook, to accommodate, one began to watch for anopportunity of putting him down courteously at some stopping-place; andinstead of being grateful for his friendship, one was vexed with him fordisappointing one. We must speak more of these things. I seem to feelthe want of something commoner and broader in my thoughts; but in thisplace it is hard to change."
"Will you forgive me then," I said, "if I ask you plainly what thisplace is? It seems very strange to me, and yet I think I have been herebefore."
Charmides looked at me with a smile. "It has been called," he said, "bymany ugly names, and men have been unreasonably afraid of it. It is theplace of satisfied desire, and, as you see, it is a comfortable placeenough. The theologians in their coarse way call it Hell, though that isa word which is forbidden here; it is indeed a sort of treason to usethe word, because of its unfortunate association--and you can see withyour own eyes that I have done wrong even to speak of it."
I looked round, and saw indeed that a visible tremor had fallen on thegroups about us; it was as though a cold cloud, full of hail anddarkness, had floated over a sunny sky. People were hurrying out of thegarden, and some were regarding us askance and with frowns ofdisapproval. In a moment or two we were left alone.
"I have been indiscreet," said Charmides, "but I feel somehow in arebellious mood; and indeed it has long seemed absurd to me that youshould be unaware of the fact, and so obviously guileless! But I willspeak no more of this to-day. People come and go here very strangely,and I have sometimes wondered if it would not soon be time for me to go;but it would be idle to pretend that I have not been happy here."
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