by George Moore
Wouldst thou have me learn, Jesus, that God is to be put aside? Again, Paul, thou showest me the vanity of words. God forbid that I should say banish God from thy hearts. God cannot be banished, for God is in us. All things proceed from God; all things end in God; God like all the rest is a possession of the mind. He who would be clean must be obedient to God. God has not designed us to know him except through our conscience. Each man’s conscience is a glimpse. These are some of the things that I have learnt, Paul, in the wilderness during the last twenty years. But seek not to understand me. Thou canst not understand me and be thyself; but, Paul, I can comprehend thee, for once I was thou. Whither goest thou? Paul cried, looking back. But Jesus made no answer, and Paul, with a flutter of exaltation in his heart, turned towards Cæsarea, knowing now for certain that Jesus would not go to Jerusalem to provoke the Jews against him. Italy would therefore hear of the life and death of our Lord Jesus Christ that had brought salvation for all, and Spain afterwards. Spain, Spain, Spain! he repeated as he walked, filled with visions of salvation. He walked with Spain vaguely in his mind till his reverie was broken by the sound of voices, and he saw people suddenly in a strange garb going towards the hillside on which he had left Jesus; neither Jews nor Greeks were they, and on turning to a shepherd standing by he heard that the strangely garbed people were monks from India, and they are telling the people, the shepherd said, that they must not believe that they have souls, and that they know that they are saved. What can be saved but the spirit? Paul cried, and he asked the shepherd how far he was from the village of Bethennabrio. Not more than half-an-hour, the shepherd answered, and it was upon coming into sight of the village that Paul began to trace a likeness between the doctrines that Jesus had confided to him and the shepherd’s story of the doctrines that were being preached by the monks from India. His thoughts were interrupted by the necessity of asking the first passenger coming from the village to direct him to the inn, and it was good tidings to hear that there was one.
However meagre the food might be, it would be enough, he answered, and while he sat at supper he remembered Jesus again, and while thinking of his doctrines and the likeness they bore to those the Indians were preaching, some words of Jesus returned to him. He had said that he did not think he was going back to the Brook Kerith, and it may well be, Paul muttered, that in saying those words he was a prophet without knowing it. The monks from India will meet him in the valley, and if they speak to him they will soon gather from him that he divined much of their philosophy while watching his flock, and finding him to be of their mind they may ask him to return to India with them and he will preach there.
Sleep began to gather in Paul’s eyes and he was soon dozing, thinking in his doze how pleasant it was to lie in a room with no bats above him. A remembrance of the smell kept him awake, but his fatigue was so great that his sleep grew deeper and deeper and many hours passed over, and the people in the inn thought that Paul would never wake again. But this long sleep did not redeem him from the fatigue of his journeys. He could not set out again till late in the afternoon, and it was evening when he passed over the last ridge of hills and saw the yellow sands of Cæsarea before him. The sky was grey, and the rain that Jesus had foreseen was beginning to fall, and it was through shades of evening that he saw the great mole covered with buildings stretching far into the sea. Timothy will be waiting for me at the gate if he has not fallen over a precipice, he said, and a few minutes after he caught sight of Timothy waiting for him. Paul opened his arms to him. Thoughtest that I was lost to thee for ever, Timothy? God whispered in my ears, Timothy answered, that he would bring thee back safely, and the ship is already in offing. It would be well to go on board now, for at daybreak we weigh anchor. Thou’lt sleep better on board. And Paul, who was too weary even to answer, allowed himself to be led. And, too weary to sleep, he lay waking often out of shallow sleeps. He could hear Timothy breathing by his side, and when he raised his eyes he saw the stars that were to guide them along the coasts; but the beauty of the stars could not blot out of his mind the shepherd’s face: and Paul’s thoughts murmured, he who believed himself the Messiah and still thinks he is Jesus of Nazareth which was raised by his Father from the dead. Yet without his help I should not have reached Cæsarea. It then seemed to Paul that the shepherd was an angel in disguise sent to his aid, or a madman. A madman with a strange light in his eyes, he continued, and fell to thinking if the voice that spoke out of the cloud bore any likeness to the voice that had compelled his attention for so long a term on the hillside. But a bodily voice, he said, cannot resemble a spiritual voice, and it is enough that the Lord Jesus spoke to me, and that his voice has abided in me and become my voice. It is his voice that is now calling me to Rome, and it is his voice that I shall hear when my life is over, saying: Paul, I have long waited for thee; come unto me, faithful servant, and receive in me thy gain and the fruit of all thy labour. He repeated the words so loudly that Timothy awoke, and at the sight of the young man’s face the present sank out of sight and he was again in Lystra, and on looking into the young man’s eyes he knew that Timothy would remind him always of the woman in Lystra whom he would never see again. Of what art thou thinking, Paul? The voice seemed to come from the ends of the earth, but it came from Timothy’s lips. Of Lystra, Timothy, that we shall never see again nor any of the people we have ever known. We are leaving our country and our kindred. But remember, Timothy, that it is God that calls thee Homeward. And they sat talking in the soft starlight of what had befallen them when they separated in the darkness. Timothy told that he remembered the way he had come by sufficiently not to fall far out of it, and that at daybreak he had met shepherds who had directed him. He had walked and he had rested and in that way managed to reach Cæsarea the following evening. A long journey on foot, but a poor adventure. But thou hast been away three days, three days and three nights.... How earnest thou hither? Thy eyes are full of story. A fair adventure, Timothy, and he related his visit to the Essenes and their dwelling among the cliffs above the Brook Kerith. A fair adventure truly, Timothy. Would I’d been with thee to have seen and heard them. Would indeed that we had not been separated —— He was about to tell the shepherd’s story but was stopped by some power within himself. But how didst thou come hither? Timothy asked again, and Paul answered, the Essenes sent their shepherd with me. Timothy begged Paul to tell him more about the Essenes, but the sailors begged them to cease talking, and next day the ship touched at Sidon, and Julius, in whose charge Paul had been placed, gave him the liberty to go unto his friends and to refresh himself.
The sea of Cilicia was beautifully calm, and they sailed on, hearing all the sailors, who were Greek, telling their country’s legends of the wars of Troy, and of Venus whose great temple was in Cyprus. After passing Cyprus they came to Myra, a city of Cilicia, and were fortunate enough to find a ship there bound for Alexandria, sailing from thence to Italy. Julius put them all on board it; but the wind was unfavourable, and as soon as they came within sight of the Cnidus the wind blew against them and they sailed to Crete and by Salome till they came to a coast known as the Fair Havens by the city of Lasea, where much time was spent to the great danger of the ship, and also to the lives of the passengers and the crew as Paul fully warned them, the season, he said, being too advanced for them to expect fair sailings. I have fared much by land and sea, he said, and know the danger and perils of this season. He was not listened to, but the Haven being not safe in winter they loosed for Phoenice; and the wind blew softly, and they mocked Paul, but not long, for a dangerous wind arose known as euroclydon, against which the ship could not bear up, and so the crew let her drive before it till in great fear of quicksands they unloaded the ship of some cargo. And next day, the wind rising still higher, they threw overboard all they could lay hands upon, and for several days and nights the wrack was so thick and black overhead that they were driven on and on through unknown wastes of water, Paul exhorting all to be of good cheer, for an angel of God had exhorte
d him that night, telling that none should drown.
And when the fourteenth day was spent it seemed to the sailors that they were close upon land. Upon sounding they found fifteen fathoms, and afraid they were upon rocks, they cast out anchors. But the anchors did not hold, and the danger of drowning became so great as the night advanced that the sailors would have launched a boat, but Paul besought them to remain upon the ship; and when it was day they discovered a certain creek in which they thought they might beach the ship, which they did, and none too soon, for the ship began to break to pieces soon after. But shall our prisoners be supposed to swim ashore? the soldiers asked, and they would have killed the prisoners, but the centurion restrained them, for he was minded to save Paul’s life, and all reached the shore either by swimming or clinging to wreckage which the waves cast up upon the shore.
They were then upon the island of Melita, where Paul was mistaken for a murderer because a viper springing out of a bundle of sticks fastened on his hand. But he shook off the beast into the fire and felt no harm, and the barbarians waited for him to swell and fall down suddenly, but when he showed no sign of sickness they mistook him for a god, and in fear that they would offer sacrifices in his honour, as the priests of Lystra wished to do when he bade the cripple stand straight upon his feet, he told them that he was a man like themselves; he consented, however, that they should bring him to Publius, the chief man of the island, who lay sick with fever and a flux of blood, and he rose up healed as soon as Paul imposed his hand upon him. And many other people coming, all of whom were healed, the barbarians brought him presents.
After three months’ stay they went on board a ship from Alexandria, whose sign was Castor and Pollux, and a fair wind took them to Syracuse, where they tarried three days; a south wind arose at Rhegium and carried them next into Puteoli, where Paul found the brethren, who begged the centurion Julius to allow him to remain with them for a few days, and on account of his great friendship and admiration of Paul he allowed him to tarry for seven days.
From Puteoli Paul and Timothy and Aristarchus went forward towards Rome with the centurion, and the news of their journey having preceded them the brethren came to meet them as far as The Three Taverns.... With great rejoicing they all went on to Rome together, and when they arrived in Rome the centurion delivered the prisoners to the Captain of the Guard, but Paul was permitted to live by himself with a soldier on guard over him, and he enjoyed the right to see whom he pleased and to teach his doctrine, which he did, calling as soon as he was rested the chiefs of the Jews together, and when they were come together he related to them the story of the persecutions he had endured from the Jews from the beginning, and that he had appealed to Cæsar in order to escape from them. He expounded and testified the Kingdom of God, persuading them on all matters concerning Jesus, his birth, his death and his resurrection, enjoining them to look into the Scriptures and to accept the testification of five hundred, many of whom were still alive, while some were sleeping. He spoke from morning to evening.
The rest of his story is unknown.
Lewis Seymour and Some Women
CONTENTS
APOLOGIA PRO SCRIPTIS MEIS
PREFACE TO LEWIS SEYMOUR AND SOME WOMEN
CHAP. I.
CHAP. II.
CHAP. III.
CHAP. IV.
CHAP. V.
CHAP. VI.
CHAP. VII.
CHAP. VIII.
CHAP. IX.
CHAP. X.
CHAP. XI.
CHAP. XII.
CHAP. XIII.
CHAP. XIV.
CHAP. XV.
CHAP. XVI.
CHAP. XVII.
CHAP. XVIII.
CHAP. XIX.
CHAP. XX.
CHAP. XXI.
CHAP. XXII.
CHAP. XXIII.
CHAP. XXIV.
CHAP. XXV.
CHAP. XXVI.
CHAP. XXVII.
CHAP. XXVIII.
CHAP. XXIX.
CHAP. XXX.
CHAP. XXXI.
CHAP. XXXII.
CHAP. XXXIII.
CHAP. XXXIV.
CHAP. XXXV.
The first edition’s title page
The original frontispiece
EPISTLE DEDICATORY
TO
THOMAS RUTTLEDGE
OF
WESTPORT, COUNTY MAYO.
My Dear Tom, You will begin to receive the Carra Edition in October, begotten almost as much of your management of my property as of my modesty. So prepare yourselves.
Always affectionately yours,
GEORGE MOORE.
APOLOGIA PRO SCRIPTIS MEIS
WHEN I SAY that it may be doubted if any English writer owes as much to his American readers as I do, I am not thinking of the Carra edition but of the instinctive and spontaneous appreciation of my books which began in America with the publication of Confessions of a Young Man, a book written some thirty years ago; America was forthcoming when England lagged, and that my readers beyond may know how valuable their help was, coming at a time when I was almost without readers in England, I append to this little exordium of thanks the vera historia of the literary struggle I have been engaged in for the last forty years.
It was in the beginning of 1880 that a letter came to the rue de la Tour des Dames telling me that I must return to Ireland at once and seek another agent, the reason given by Joe Blake for relinquishing his charge being that owing to the disturbed state of the country he could no longer collect my rents. Joe Blake was a near relative, my mother’s brother, and for that was appointed agent at my father’s death. I had confirmed the appointment when I came of age, and Joe Blake had supplied me with money from the day I started forth to study art in Paris accompanied by an old family servant, William Maloney, with whom Parisian life found so little favour that he begged to be allowed to leave my service at the end of the year. He missed his beer and music-halls, and to let him go seemed the only way to rid myself of his censorship of my ambition, which was nothing less than a complete remoulding of myself inwardly and outwardly. I wished to think, to speak and to dress like a Frenchman, but was shamefaced before my valet and continued to wear English clothes as long as he was with me. But when he left my orders were given to a French tailor; I grew a Capoul beard, curled my hair and wore exaggerated collars and neckties, achieving in a few years such a change in my appearance that William Maloney would have passed me in the street without recognising me, and would certainly have declined to re-enter my service if I had proposed to re-engage him. It would have been a point of honour with him to refuse to brush the clothes I wore, and he could not have kept back some contemptuous words about my hat; he might have spoken of it as one only fit for my sister to wear when she went out riding. I had not thought of William Maloney for several years, but he was again in my thoughts, a great rough Irishman whom I easily imagined contented in Joe Blake’s service in Ballinfad, having the horses to think about and a meeting at the Curragh to look forward to. Whether he had gone to Ballinfad or into service in London I did not know, nor did it matter; I was thinking of him only because he and Joe Blake represented all that I had tried to escape from — language, religion, ideas. But the past had returned; it had laid hands upon me and would soon undo the work I had done on myself. I shall be as I was, I cried. My evenings in the Nouvelle Athènes are over, never to be resumed; my afternoons in Manet’s studio in the rue Amsterdam; my visits to Degas in the rue Fontaine; everything is over. And catching sight at that moment of Manet’s portrait of my Polish mistress, I began to ask myself: In whose shop will she hang and what manner of man will buy her? I will run away, leaving everything to be sold, and if I answer no letters Paris will dissolve like a dream; I shall never know how much my tables and chairs and pictures fetched at the sale. Let them go, let them go — I belong to Paris no longer.
In Confessions of a Young Man I have told of the almost hysterical grief with which I watched the water widening
between me and the shores of the country where my youth was spent, and if I tell it again it is because a story-teller is like an acrobat in this much: he needs a spring-board. Joe’s letter was an excellent one; but I need not trouble the reader with an account of my meeting with Joe in Dublin; sufficient to say that I signed his accounts, though my solicitor begged me not to sign them. The literary life is inveterate in me and I was prepared to make any monetary sacrifices to escape from money, an aversion that would have easily led me to my ruin if I had not met Tom Ruttledge in Cornfield and entrusted the management of my affairs to him. In these he was successful from the first, proposing a reduction in rent to the tenants which they accepted, and still more important was his discovery of a timber merchant who paid five hundred pounds for the thinning of the woods, a sum of money on which I was to live in London for two years at least, creeping back all the while into English life and thought; wearing loosely, I said, the skin that I grew in Paris, or sloughing it and joining affinity with my original self. “ But can we return to ourselves?” I asked and laid aside the thought petulantly, it seeming certain that the concern of the year was to banish faith for ever in Irish land and get my living in journalism. Thereat I fell to considering my chances, viewing almost aggressively the book of verses I had published whilst in Paris; Martin Luther, a drama in five acts in blank verse; and another volume of poems, the proofs of which I had in my pocket. Books that had to be paid for were out of my present humour, and my hopes set on a single poem which had found an admirer in the editor of the Spectator, who wrote to thank me for it, expressing even a wish to see me when I came to London. As Mr. Hutton knew nothing of my long acquaintance with Montmartre he looked upon the stanza: —
