XV
There were many things at that time that were full of mystery, thingswhich I never came to understand. There was in particular a certain sortof people, whom one met occasionally, for whom I could never whollyaccount. They were unlike others in this fact, that they never appearedto belong to any particular place or community. They were both men andwomen, who seemed--I can express it in no other way--to be in thepossession of a secret so great that it made everything else trivial andindifferent to them. Not that they were impatient or contemptuous--itwas quite the other way; but to use a similitude, they were likegood-natured, active, kindly elders at a children's party. They did notshun conversation, but if one talked with them, they used a kind oftender and gentle irony, which had something admiring and complimentaryabout it, which took away any sense of vexation or of baffled curiosity.It was simply as though their concern lay elsewhere; they joined inanything with a frank delight, not with any touch of condescension. Theywere even more kindly and affectionate than others, because they did notseem to have any small problems of their own, and could give their wholeattention and thought to the person they were with. These inscrutablepeople puzzled me very much. I asked Amroth about them once.
"Who are these people," I said, "whom one sometimes meets, who are sofar removed from all of us? What are they doing here?"
Amroth smiled. "So you have detected them!" he said. "You are quiteright, and it does your observation credit. But you must find it out foryourself. I cannot explain, and if I could, you would not understand meyet."
"Then I am not mistaken," I said, "but I wish you would give me ahint--they seem to know something more worth knowing than all beside."
"Exactly," said Amroth. "You are very near the truth; it is staring youin the face; but it would spoil all if I told you. There is plenty aboutthem in the old books you used to read--they have the secret of joy."And that is all that he would say.
It was on a solitary ramble one day, outside of the place of delight,that I came nearer to one of these people than I ever did at any othertime. I had wandered off into a pleasant place of grassy glades withlittle thorn-thickets everywhere. I went up a small eminence, whichcommanded a view of the beautiful plain with its blue distance and theenamelled green foreground of close-grown coverts. There I sat for along time lost in pleasant thought and wonder, when I saw a man drawingnear, walking slowly and looking about him with a serene and delightedair. He passed not far from me, and observing me, waved a hand ofwelcome, came up the slope, and greeting me in a friendly and openmanner, asked if he might sit with me for a little.
"This is a pleasant place," he said, "and you seem very agreeablyoccupied."
"Yes," I said, looking into his smiling face, "one has no engagementshere, and no need of business to fill the time--but indeed I am not surethat I am busy enough." As I spoke I was regarding him with somecuriosity. He was a man of mature age, with a strong, firm-featuredface, healthy and sunburnt of aspect, and he was dressed, not as I wasfor ease and repose, but with the garments of a traveller. His hat,which was large and of some soft grey cloth, was pushed to his back, andhung there by a cord round his neck. His hair was a little grizzled, andlay close-curled to his head; in his strong and muscular hand he carrieda stick. He smiled again at my words, and said:
"Oh, one need not trouble about being busy until the time comes; thatis a feeling one inherits from the life of earth, and I am sure you havenot left it long. You have a very fresh air about you, as if you hadrested, and rested well."
"Yes, I have rested," I said; "but though I am content enough, there issomething unquiet in me, I am afraid!"
"Ah!" he said, "there is that in all of us, and it would not be wellwith us if there were not. Will you tell me a little about yourself?That is one of the pleasures of this life here, that we have no need tobe cautious, or to fear that we shall give ourselves away."
I told him my adventures, and he listened with serious attention.
"Ah, that is all very good," he said at last, "but you must not be inany hurry; it is a great thing that ideas should dawn upon usgradually--one gets the full truth of them so. It was the hurry of lifewhich was so bewildering--the shocks, the surprises, the uglyreflections of one's conduct that one saw in other lives--the cornersone had to turn. Things, indeed, come suddenly even here, but one is ledup to them gently enough; allowed to enter the sea for oneself, notsoused and ducked in it. You will need all the strength you can store upfor what is before you, and I can see in your face that you are storingup strength--but the weariness is not quite gone out of your mind."
He was silent for a little, musing, till I said, "Will you not tell mesome of your own adventures? I am sure from your look that you havethem; and you are a pilgrim, it seems. Where are you bound?"
"Oh," he said lightly, "I am not one of the people who haveadventures--just the journey and the talk beside the way."
"But," I said, "I have seen some others like you, and I am puzzled aboutit. You seem, if I may say so--I do not mean anything disrespectful orimpertinent--to be like the gipsies whom one meets in quiet countryplaces, with a secret knowledge of their own, a pride too great to beworth expressing, not anxious about life, not weary or dissatisfied,caring not for localities or possessions, but with a sort of eagerpleasure in freedom and movement."
He laughed. "Yes," he said, "you are right! I am no doubt a sort ofnomad, as you say, detached from life perhaps. I don't know that it isdesirable; there is a great deal to be said for living in the same placeand loving the same things. Most people are happier so, and learn whatthey have to learn in that manner."
"Yes," I said, "that is true and beautiful--the same old house, the sametrees and pastures, the stream and the water-plants that hide it, theblue hills beyond the nearer wood--the dear familiar things; but even sothe road which passes through the fields, over the bridge, up thecovert-side ... it leads somewhere, and the heart on sunny days leaps upto follow it! Talking with you here, I feel a hunger for something widerand more free; your voice has the sound of the wind, with the secretknowledge of strange hill-tops and solitary seas! Sometimes the heartsettles down upon what it knows and loves, but sometimes it reaches outto all the love and beauty hidden in the world, and in the waters beyondthe world, and would embrace it all if it could. The faces one sees asone passes through unfamiliar cities or villages, how one longs to talk,to question, to ask what gave them the look they wear.... And you, if Imay say it, seem to have passed beyond the need of wanting or desiringanything ... but I must not talk thus to a stranger; you must forgiveme."
"Forgive you?" said the stranger; "that is only an earthly phrase--theold terror of indiscretion and caution. What are we here for but to getacquainted with one another--to let our inmost thoughts talk together?In the world we are bounded by time and space, and we have the terror ofeach other's glances and exteriors to contend with. We make friends onearth in spite of our limitations; but in heaven we get to know eachother's hearts; and that blessing goes back with us to the dim fieldsand narrow houses of the earth. I see plainly enough that you are notperfectly happy; but one can only win content through discontent. Whereyou are now, you are not in accord with the souls about you. Never mindthat! There are beautiful spirits within reach of your hand and heart; alittle clouded by mistaking the quality of joy, no doubt, but great andeverlasting for all that. You must try to draw near to them, and findspirits to love. Do you not remember in the days of earth how one feltsometimes in an unfamiliar place--among a gathering of strangers--atchurch perhaps, or at some school which one visited, where one saw theyoung faces, which showed so clearly, before the world had stampeditself in frowns and heaviness upon them, the quality of the soulwithin? Don't you remember the feeling at such times of how many therewere in the world whom one might love, if one had leisure andopportunity and energy? Well, there is no need to resist that, or todeplore it here; one may go where one's will inclines one, and speak asone's heart tells one to speak. I think you are perhaps too conscious ofwaiti
ng for something. Your task lies ahead of you, but the work of lovecan begin at once and anywhere."
"Yes," I said, "I feel that now and here. Will you not tell me somethingof yourself in return? I cannot read your mind clearly--it is occupiedwith something I cannot grasp--what is your work in heaven?"
"Oh," he said lightly, "that is easy enough, and yet you would notunderstand it. I have been led through the shadow of fear, and I havepassed out on the other side. And my duty is to release others fromfear, as far as I can. It is the darkest shadow of all, because itdwells in the unknown. Pain, without it, is no suffering at all; indeedpain is almost a pleasure, when one knows what it is doing for one. Butfear is the doubt whether pain or suffering are really helping us; andjust as memory never has any touch of fear about it, so hope maylikewise have done with fear."
"But how did you learn this?" I said.
"Only by fearing to the uttermost," he replied. "The power--it is notcourage, because that only defies fear--cannot be given one; it must bepainfully won. You remember the blessing of the pure in heart, that theyshall see God? There would be little hope in that promise for the soulthat knew itself to be impure, if it were not for the other side ofit--that the vision of God, which is the most terrible of all things,can give purity to the most sin-stained soul. In that vision, all desireand all fear have an end, because there is nothing left either to desireor to dread. That vision we may delay or hasten. We may delay it, if weallow our prudence, or our shame, or our comfort, to get in the way: wemay hasten it, if we cast ourselves at every moment of our pilgrimageupon the mercy and the love of God. His one desire is that we should besatisfied; and if He seems to put obstacles in our way, to keep uswaiting, to permit us to be miserable, that is only that we may learn tocast ourselves into love and service--which is the one way to His heart.But now I must be going, for I have said all that you can bear. Will youremember this--not to reserve yourself, not to think others unworthy orhostile, but to cast your love and trust freely and lavishly, everywhereand anywhere? We must gather nothing, hold on to nothing, just giveourselves away at every moment, flowing like the stream into everychannel that is open, withholding nothing, retaining nothing. I see," headded, "very great and beautiful things ahead of you, and very sad andpainful things as well. But you are close to the light, and it isbreaking all about you with a splendour which you cannot guess."
He rose up, he took my hand in his own and laid the other on my brow,and I felt his heart go out to mine and gather me to him, as a child isgathered to a father's arms. And then he went silently and lightly uponhis way.
The Child of the Dawn Page 17
