Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Vernon stopped short.

  “Listen to that,” he cried. “It is the Spring Song. This has probably been going on here since the beginning of time. They say that nothing changes in these islands — only they call Demeter the Virgin Mary and Dionysos St. Dionysius.”

  He sat down on a boulder and lit his pipe. “Let’s burn tobacco to the gods,” he said. “It’s too enchanted to hurry through. . . . I suppose it’s the way I’ve been educated, but I could swear I’ve known it all before. This is the season of the Spring Festival, and you may be sure it’s the same here to-day as it was a thousand years before Homer. The winter is over, and the Underworld has to be appeased, and then the Goddess will come up from the shades.”

  I had never heard Vernon talk like this before, and I listened with some curiosity. I am no classical scholar, but at that moment I too felt the spell of a very ancient and simple world.

  “This was the beginning of the year for the Greeks, remember,” he went on—”for the Greeks as we know them, and for the old Mediterranean peoples before them whose ritual they absorbed. The bones of that ritual never altered. . . . You have to begin with purification — to feed the ghosts of the dead in the pot-holes with fireless and wineless sacrifices and so placate them, and to purify your own souls and bodies and the earth by which you live. You have your purgation herbs like buckthorn and agnus castus, and you have your pharmakos, your scapegoat, who carries away all impurities. And then, when that is done, you are ready for the coming of the Maiden. It is like Easter after Good Friday — the festival after the fast and penitence. It is always the woman that simple folk worship — the Mother who is also the Maid. Long ago they called her Pandora or Persephone, and now they call her the Blessed Virgin, but the notion is the same — the sinless birth of the divine. You may be sure it is she whom the peasants in this island worship, as their fathers did three thousand years ago — not God the Father.

  “The Greeks had only the one goddess,” he went on, “though she had many names. Later they invented the Olympians — that noisy, middle-class family party — and the priests made a great work with their male gods, Apollo and the like. But the woman came first, and the woman remained. You may call her Demeter, or Aphrodite, or Hera, but she is the same, the Virgin and the Mother, the ‘mistress of wild things,’ the priestess of the new birth in spring. Semele is more than Dionysos, and even to sophisticated Athens the Mailed Virgin of the Acropolis was more than all the pantheon. . . . Don’t imagine it was only a pretty fancy. The thing had all the beauty of nature, and all the terror too.” He flung back his head and quoted some sonorous Greek.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Euripides,” he replied. “It has been well translated,” and he quoted:

  “‘For her breath is on all that hath life, and she floats in the air

  Bee-like, death-like, a wonder.’

  “I can see it all,” he cried. “The sacred basket, the honey and oil and wine, the torches crimsoning the meadows, the hushed, quiet people waiting on the revelation. They are never more than a day or two from starvation all the winter, and the coming of the Maiden is a matter for them of life and death. They wait for her as devout souls to-day wait for the Easter Resurrection. I can hear the ritual chant and the thin, clear music of the flutes. . . . Yes, but they were seeing things which are now hid from us — Dionysos with his thyrsus, and goat-feet in the thickets, and the shadows of dancing nymphs! If you starve for three months and put your soul into waiting for the voice from heaven, you are in the mood for marvels. Terror and horror, perhaps, but unspeakable beauty, too, and a wild hope. That was the Greek religion, not the Olympians and their burnt offerings. And it is the kind of religion that never dies.”

  I thought this pretty good for the scion of an evangelical family, and I said so.

  He laughed. “It isn’t my own creed, you know. I dislike all kinds of priestcraft. But, though I’m a stout Protestant, I’m inclined to think sometimes that it is a pity that we have departed from the practice of all other religions and left out the Mother of God. . . . Let’s go on — I want to see what is on the other side of the cape.”

  Beyond the little headland we came suddenly on a very different scene. Here was the harbour of the island. Beside a rude quay some fisher-boats lay at anchor with their brown sails furled. Along the water-front ran a paved terrace, a little dilapidated and with bushes growing in the cracks of the stones. Above rose a great building, showing to seaward as a blank white wall pierced with a few narrow windows. At first sight I took it for a monastery, but a second glance convinced me that its purpose had never been religious. It looked as if it had once been fortified, and the causeway between it and the sea may have mounted guns. Most of it was clearly very old, but the architecture was a jumble, showing here the enriched Gothic of Venice, and there the straight lines and round arches of the East. It had once, I conjectured, been the hold of some Venetian sea-king, then the palace of a Turkish conqueror, and was now, perhaps, the manor-house of this pleasant domain. The owners, whoever they might be, were absent, for not a chimney smoked.

  We passed the quay and wandered along the great terrace, which was as solidly masoned as a Roman road. For a little the house hung sheer above us, its walls level with the rock, with in three places flights of steps from the causeway ending in small postern doors. Obviously the main entrance was on the other side. There were no huts to be seen, and no sign of life except a little group of fishermen below on the shore, who were sitting round a fire over which a pot was boiling. As we continued along the terrace beyond the house we came to orchards and olive yards, no doubt part of the demesne, and had a glimpse of a rugged coast running out into the sunset.

  The place impressed even my sluggish fancy. This great silent castle in the wilds, hung between sky and earth, and all rosy in the last fires of the sun, seemed insubstantial as a dream. I should not have been surprised if it had vanished like a mirage and left us staring at a bare hillside. Only the solid blocks of the causeway bound us to reality. Here, beyond doubt, men had lived and fought far back in the ages. The impression left on my mind was of a place inhabited for æons, sunk for the moment in sleep, but liable to awake suddenly to a fierce life. As for Vernon he seemed positively rapt.

  “There’s your castle in Spain,” he cried. “Odd thing! but I seem to have seen all this before. I knew before we turned the corner that there were olive trees there, and that the rocks tumbled just in that way into the cove. Listen!”

  The sound of voices drifted up from the beach, and there was a snatch of a song.

  “That’s Antiphilos of Byzantium — you remember in the Anthology — the fisher-boys singing round the broth-pot. Lord! what a haunted spot! I’d like to spend the night here.”

  I can give no reason for it, but I suddenly felt a strange uneasiness, which made me turn back and stride at a good pace along the terrace. We seemed to have blundered outside the ordinary natural world. I had a feverish desire to get away from the shadow of that pile of masonry, to get beyond the headland and in sight of the yacht. The place was wonderful, secret, beautiful, yet somehow menacing. Vernon clearly felt nothing of all this, for he grumbled at my haste. “Hang it, we’re not walking for a wager,” he complained. “There’s loads of time before dinner. . . . I want to stay on here a bit. I never saw such a place.”

  At the beginning of the paved terrace, close to the quay, we came suddenly upon two men, probably from the fishermen’s party we had seen on the shore. They were well-set-up fellows, with handsome, clear-cut faces, for the true Greek strain is still found in the islands. We came on them by surprise as we turned the corner of a rock, and they may have thought from our direction that we were coming from the house. Anyhow they seemed to get the fright of their lives. Both leaped aside and looked at us with startled angry eyes. Then they flung up their right hands; and for a moment I thought they were going to attack us.

  But they contented themselves with spitting on their breasts a
nd each holding out a clenched fist with the little finger and the thumb extended. I had seen this before — the ancient protection against the evil eye. But what impressed me was the expression in their faces. It was at Vernon that they stared, and when their stare moved from him it took in the pile of the house above. They seemed to connect us in some way with the house, and in their eyes there was an almost animal fear and hate. . . . I looked after them when they had passed, and observed that they were hurrying with bent heads up the path which may have led to their village.

  Vernon laughed. “Queer chaps! They looked as scared as if they had seen Pan.”

  “I don’t like this place,” I told him when we were approaching the dinghy. “Some of your infernal gods and goddesses have got loose in it. I feel as if I want to run.”

  “Hullo!” he cried. “You’re getting as impressionable as a minor poet. . . . Hark! There it is again! Do you hear? The Spring Song?”

  But the thin notes which drifted down from the upland no longer seemed to me innocent. There was something horrible about that music.

  Next morning, when we were steaming south in calm weather with the island already dim behind us, I found Vernon smoking peacefully on deck and looking at sea-birds through a glass. He nodded gaily as I sat down beside him.

  “I had the dream all right — one room nearer. But the room in which I wait has changed. It must be due to being out here, for hitherto I’ve always spent April in England. I suppose I furnished it unconsciously with things I had seen at home — there was a big lacquer cabinet for one thing, and something like pictures or tapestry on the walls — and there were great silver fire-dogs. But now it’s quite bare. The same room of course — I couldn’t mistake it — but scarcely any furniture in it except a dark lump in a corner. . . . Only the fire-dogs are the same. . . . Looks as if the decks were being cleared for action.”

  I had expected to find him a little heavy about the eyes, but he appeared as fresh as if he had just come from a morning swim, and his voice had a boyish carelessness.

  “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve lost every scrap of funk or nervousness about the dream? It’s a privilege, not an incubus. Six years to wait! I wish I knew how I was going to put them in. It will be a dull business waiting.”

  III

  Fate contrived that to Vernon, as to several million others, the next four years should scarcely deserve the name of dull. By the middle of August I was being cursed by a Guards sergeant in Chelsea barrack yard, and Vernon was training with his Yeomanry somewhere in Yorkshire.

  My path was plain compared to that of many honest men. I was a bachelor without ties, and though I was beyond the statutory limit for service I was always pretty hard trained, and it was easy enough to get over the age difficulty. I had sufficient standing in my profession to enable me to take risks. But I am bound to say I never thought of that side. I wanted, like everybody else, to do something for England, and I wanted to do something violent. For me to stay at home and serve in some legal job would have been a thousand times harder than to go into the trenches. Like everybody else, too, I thought the war would be short, and my chief anxiety was lest I should miss the chance of fighting. I was to learn patience and perspective during four beastly years.

  I went to France in October ‘14, and Vernon dined with me before I started. He had got a curious notion into his head. He thought that the war would last for full six years, and his reason was that he was convinced that his dream had to do with it. The opening of the last door would be on the battlefield — of that he was convinced. The consequence was that he was in no hurry. My nephew Charles, who was in the same Yeomanry, spent his days pleading to be sent abroad and trying to exchange into any unit he thought would get away first. On the few occasions I met him he raved like a lunatic about the imbecility of a Government that kept him kicking his heels in England. But Vernon, the night he dined with me, was as placid as Buddha. “I’m learning my job,” he said, “and I’ve a mighty lot to learn. I ought to be a fair soldier in six years’ time — just when the crisis is due.” But he was very anxious about me, and wanted to get into the Guards to be beside me. Only his fatalism kept him from agitating for a change, for he felt that as he had begun in the Yeomanry, Providence most likely meant him to continue there. He fussed a good deal about how we were to correspond, for I seemed to have taken the place of his family. But on the whole I was happy about him, his purpose was so clear and his mind so perfectly balanced. I had stopped thinking seriously about the dream, for it seemed only a whimsy in the middle of so many urgent realities.

  I needn’t tell you the kind of time I had in France. It was a long dismal grind, but I had the inestimable advantage of good health, and I was never a day off duty because of sickness. I suppose I enjoyed it in a sense; anyhow I got tremendously keen about my new profession, and rose in it far quicker than I deserved. I was lucky, too. As you know, I stopped something in every big scrap — at Festubert, Loos, Ginchy, Third Ypres, Cambrai, and Bapaume — so that I might have covered my sleeve with wound-stripes if I had been so minded. But none of the damage was serious, and I can hardly find the marks of it to-day. I think my worst trial was that for more than three years I never had a sight of Vernon.

  He went out in the summer of ‘15 to the Dardanelles and was in the Yeomanry fight at Suvla, where a bit of shrapnel made rather a mess of his left shoulder. After that he was employed on various staff jobs, and during ‘16 was engaged in some kind of secret service in the Ægean and the Levant. I heard from him regularly, but of course he never spoke of his work. He told me he had learned modern Greek and could speak it like a native, and I fancy he had a hand in Venizelos’s revolution. Then he went back to his regiment, and was in the “Broken Spurs” division when the Yeomanry were dismounted. He was wounded again in Palestine in ‘17, just before the taking of Jerusalem, and after that was second in command of a battalion.

  When I was on leave in February ‘18 Charles dined with me at the Club — a much older and wiser Charles, with an empty sleeve pinned to his tunic, who was now employed in home training.

  “It’s a bloody and disgusting war,” said my nephew, “and if any fellow says he likes it, you can tell him from me that he’s a liar. There’s only one man I ever met who honestly didn’t mind it, and that was old Vernon, and everybody knows that he’s cracked.”

  He expatiated on the exact nature of Vernon’s lunacy.

  “Cracked — as — cracked, and a very useful kind of insanity, too. I often wish I had half his complaint. He simply didn’t give a hang for the old war. Wasn’t interested in it, if you see what I mean. Oh, brave as you-be-damned, of course, but plenty of other chaps were brave. His was the most cold-blooded, unearthly kind of courage. I’ve seen the same thing in men who were sick of life and wanted to be killed and knew they were going to be killed, but Vernon wasn’t that sort. He had no notion of being killed — always planning out the future and talking of what he was going to do after the war. As you know, he got badly mauled at Suvla, and he nearly croaked with malaria in Crete, and he had his head chipped at Neby Samwil, so he didn’t bear what you might call a charmed life. But some little bird had whispered in his ear that he wasn’t going to be killed, and he believed that bird. You never saw a fellow in your life so much at his ease in a nasty place.

  “It wasn’t that he was a fire-eater,” Charles went on. “He never went out to look for trouble. It was simply that it made no difference to him where he was or what he was doing — he was the same composed old fish, smiling away, and keeping quiet and attending to business, as if he thought the whole thing rather foolishness.”

  “You describe a pretty high class of soldier,” I said. “I can’t understand why he hasn’t gone quicker up the ladder.”

  “I can,” said Charles emphatically. “He was a first-class battalion officer but he wasn’t a first-class soldier. The trouble with him, as I say, is that he wasn’t interested in the war. He had no initiative, you understand — alway
s seemed to be thinking about something else. It’s like Rugby football. A man may be a fine player according to the rules, but unless his heart is in the business and he can think out new tactics for himself he won’t be a great player. Vernon wasn’t out to do anything more than the immediate situation required. You might say he wasn’t dead-set enough on winning the war.”

  I detected in Charles a new shrewdness. “How did the others get on with him?” I asked.

  “The men believed in him and would have followed him into hell, and of course we all respected him. But I can’t say he was exactly popular. Too dashed inhuman for that. He ought to fall in love with a chorus-girl and go a regular mucker. Oh, of course, I like him tremendously and know what a rare good fellow he is! But the ordinary simple-minded, deserving lad jibs at Sir Galahad crossed with the low-church parson and the ‘Varsity don.”

  The Broken Spurs came to France in the early summer of ‘18, but I had no chance of meeting them. My life was rather feverish during the last weeks of the campaign, for I was chief staff-officer to my division, and we were never much out of the line. Then, as you know, I nearly came by my end in September, when the Boche made quite a good effort in the way of a gas attack. It was a new gas, which we didn’t understand, and I faded away like the grin of the Cheshire cat, and was pretty ill for a time in a base hospital. Luckily it didn’t do me any permanent harm, but my complexion will be greenery-yallery till the day of my death.

  I awoke to consciousness in a tidy little bed to learn that the war was all but over and the Boche hustling to make peace. It took me some days to get my head clear and take notice, and then, one morning, I observed the man in the bed next to me. His head was a mass of bandages, but there was something about the features that showed which struck me as familiar. As luck would have it, it turned out to be Vernon. He had been badly hit, when commanding his battalion at the crossing of the Scheldt, and for a day or two had been in grave danger. He was recovering all right, but for a time neither of us was permitted to talk, and we used to lie and smile at each other and think of all the stories we would presently tell. It was just after we got the news of the Armistice that we were allowed to say how d’ye do. We were as weak as kittens, but I, at any rate, felt extraordinarily happy. We had both come through the war without serious damage, and a new world lay before us. To have Vernon beside me put the coping-stone on my contentment, and I could see that he felt the same. I remember the thrill I had when we could stretch out our arms and shake hands.