by George Moore
The king in whose court he was, knowing nothing of these things, cried to his servants to put Curithir out of the gate, and Curithir let them do this just as a child might, often enough not knowing what they were doing to him, so taken up was he with his memories of Liadin. And when the gate was shut behind him he didn’t look back but kept on walking the road, not minding what the world was saying: the great poet, Curithir, is without a story in his head, and the Lomna Druth, his dwarf, tells tales for him. He travelled ahead, wrapped up in his dreams, to the next king’s court; but when he stood up in the hall before the people it was the same thing as before, he could only gaze and gape about him, and when the king said: we’re tired of waiting for your story, Curithir answered: I cannot remember any story. If you’ve no stories to tell us, you’ve no business here. Put him out of the gates. As the servants were catching hold of him Curithir said: I could tell a story to you and it would be better than all the stories I’ve told you before this. Tell your tale, said the king. By my faith and my troth I cannot do that until I’ve seen Liadin. Liadin of the songs! the king answered, and Curithir said it could be no one else, and that he was waiting for the springtime to see her again.
The man is a fool, said the servants; there isn’t a story in his head. What was it that happened to you, Curithir, tell us that now? The greatest luck, said he, that ever happened to a man. And he went his way cheerfully, though he had nothing in the wide world, barring the memory of a night he had spent with Liadin under the boughs, and the hope in his heart that he might spend another one with her in the same place, which was a poor enough life for any man living on alms and whatever he could find. It was fairly easy while the summer lasted; it wasn’t so easy when the summer wasted into autumn; and it was hard enough when autumn dwindled into the cold weather. But Curithir knew neither time nor season until the season of love came round again, and he could say to himself: here is the month coming when I’ll see again Liadin of the beauties. And down he knelt, and he prayed that God would put the stories that he had forgotten back into his head so that he might earn enough to dress himself and be decent when he would meet her. But sure God took no notice of him, why would he indeed? and he could remember nothing but Liadin, and he kept on walking ahead, not seeing a thing in the world but springtime only. There wasn’t a green branch he passed but it put him in mind of the love night that awaited him, and every bird reminded him of the same thing. He crossed from Sligo into Mayo, praying that his waiting for Liadin at the druid stone might not be long, and in Mayo his heart gave a jump and a leap, for there she was at the druid stone, and by herself, without even the servant Brigit.
She got there before me, so much does she love me, he said, stretching out his arms towards her, and he thinking, the poor man, that she would run into them. Great was his grief indeed when, instead of running to meet him, she put the druid stone between them, and kept it there while she told him, across it, all that had befallen her and how things were. Is it a dream I’m dreaming, or am I hag-ridden? he said, and will you awaken me now, unless, indeed, I’m to die where I am and as I am? God help me, Curithir, she said, I’ve taken a pledge to break with you entirely. I was hard put to it to come here this day at all, and me badgered and tormented and cross-hackled the way I was. Will you hear the story of my escape from the priests? From the priests! he said, and with that he bent his face down into his hands, with nothing coming from him but now and then a moan or a groan, or a hard curse belike, while Liadin told her own story and all about the way she escaped from the priests of Corkaguiney. All that, he said, doesn’t matter, and nothing matters since we are to be parted, bad luck to the ones that hate the poets, said he, and it only hardened his heart against the priests to hear her tell that Mary’s own son had suffered on a cross to save the souls of men and women. All he could do was to moan out: the only soul I have is my love of you, Liadin, and the only soul you have is your love of me.
Wicked words, indeed, your honour; but the man wasn’t in his mind at the time, so that he could only think of the minute he had and couldn’t think at all about the eternity that was ahead of him. If you tell me any more, he said, I shall be like a tree knocked down by a big wind. Aren’t all my roots snapping under me? And such is my torment that I cannot listen any longer to that kind of talk. Hold your tongue, Liadin, I tell you now, and let you be saying that you’ll come after me into the forest, and stay with me there, where neither priest nor Protestant can find us, but only the squirrels and the forest cats and the small kind birds. Let you hear me out, Curithir, she replied. Didn’t they take the pledge from you under a threat? he asked, and she answered: They did, indeed, and they said they would put me into a nunnery, and lock me in it unless I took the pledge; and God knows it was hard to get away from them to meet you here. But a pledge is a pledge. What are you telling me? he interrupted. Is it that we’re not going to lie together under the boughs of that larch-tree? Is it to me, with the mark of your bite, and the track of your teeth on my shoulder, that you’re telling these things? And with that he commenced to cry, the creature. All that we done under the larches is done, said Liadin, for it would be flying in God’s face to break a vow we have given to him. At this Curithir burst out again, and the tears dropped down on to his cloak until it was as wet as if it had been dragged in the river. Wringing wet I am with the tears you’ve drawn out of my eyes, but no matter the tears, and he continued like that until she came around the other side of the druid’s stone to try and comfort him, and took his hand, saying they might be marching a bit of the road together. The time hasn’t come for parting yet, were her words, and it was hand in hand like that they marched on, till Curithir said: we are leaving the larch-tree behind us. Let the pair of us turn now, and go back to the larch-tree. I’ll not do that, said she; and, tell me now, said she, is there a man on the top of the earth would break a vow was made to God? Said he, if I take you to a holy man, and a very holy man, will you be minded by him, and will you do as he bids you? I will, in troth. Well, then, there’s a man on an island in Lough Carra, a holy man surely, for he has lived on that island by himself these fifty years. Cummins, son of Fiachna, is his name. Let us go to him now, for what better thing could the young people do than go to the old people in their trouble? Fine, the island that man lives on, not a prettier one in Ireland, with birds and beasts flying and skipping in the glades, waiting for the holy man, and they following him from his cell to his chapel as if they were his children; which they may be, for as everything that lives, the flying and the crawling and those that walk on four legs, and those that walk on two, are children of the God that made them.
Come, do not delay any longer, Liadin, for our trouble is a bad trouble, and if there’s a man in Ireland can cure us and help us that man is Cummins Mac Fiachna. Let us be off now. The walk will not be long passing by, for it’s but seven miles from here to the Abbey of Ballin-tubber, which was built by Roderick of Connaught, as you know well. And Cummins’ island is opposite the shore of Carn, the great wood; you must have heard tell of it, for the same place had a bad name for wolves. Come now with me and we’ll be beside the lake, calling for Cummins to fetch us in his boat, before the sun goes down behind the Partry mountains. And so sweet was Curithir’s talk that Liadin could do no less than follow him, although in her heart she knew all the time she was doing wrong. Sooner than she expected, they were passing by the skirts of the great wood and going down the hill-side and hollowing across the lake for Cummins. He didn’t keep them waiting. Only three times had they to shout before a boat was put out from the island, and Cummins, though he was then past seventy, could pull a good stroke as well as another, and in five minutes or less he was taking Liadin and Curithir into his boat and reading in their faces that theirs was a bad case of love. He was not minded to ask them any questions yet, but rowed on steadily till his boat was by the little quay that he had built for it. You seem in great trouble, my poor friends, he said; and they answered that that was their case, and sitting by th
e door of his cabin, the two of them began talking together.
Let one of you tell the story. And which shall it be? the hermit asked. Let Liadin tell it, Curithir answered, and Cummins said: I would sooner hear it from her, though I wouldn’t be doubting your word either, Curithir. All the same Curithir was not pleased with Liadin’s telling of the story; he thought he could have done it better himself, but he let her go on with it right to the heel, and then he went on his knees before Cummins, saying: is there no power on earth to take away the vow she entered into against her own free will? I say there is and that you are the man to do it. Rise to your feet, my son, Cummins said, and listen to what I’m going to tell you, and if you search your own heart you will find that I am not telling a lie nor making a mistake. We have no thought that you would be lying to us. Well, my son, not lying, perhaps, but making more of the thing than it really is. Well, I will not be doing that either, but just telling you the simple truth, which is, that from our childhood all things are passing away from us. The thoughts of our childhood die, and thoughts of boyhood enter into us; these die themselves and the thoughts of manhood get their grip; and these die after having their time. Our possessions and our health pass away from us; all things pass away from us except one thing only, for everything goes away except the love of God. Everyone comes back to the love of God just as you yourselves have done. You have come back to God with tears, with sighs, and laments about things that would leave you if you did not leave them. This leavetaking is a harder thing for the man than it is for the woman, Mac Fiachna said, for he was great at reading faces. And another word to yourself, Curithir: the bond she has entered into may lie sore upon her this day, but it will be easier on her to-morrow. Curithir looked to Liadin, thinking that she would say no to the hermit; but she stood saying nothing, her eyes cast down as if she was ashamed. You see, my son, how she stands, her eyes turned away from you and she in fear of temptation. No, Liadin cried. All you have spoken may be the truth, but that is not the truth. I do not fear temptation.
Let that be as it will be, said Cummins, I’m going to put you to the test this day, and you will see by morning that the love you think is part of yourself, and is going to last forever and ever, and beyond this world and through all eternity, is held to your senses the way a tree is tied to its roots, and as the tree’s roots loosen so your senses will loosen; take one of these senses away and some part of your love goes off with it. You think this is not so; well, we shall see. Which of our senses will you take from us? said Curithir, and the hermit answered: I will put that question to you — which will you choose now: to see each other and not to speak, or to speak and not see each other?
Liadin and Curithir were of the one mind about that, and they said it was better to see each other and not to speak than to speak and not to see each other. The choice being that way, the hermit brought them to a hut that was cut into two rooms with a window in the middle, so that they could look in at each other. He hung a lamp in each room the way they would have light to see by, and he left his altar-boy with them to see that they did not talk. Inside of five minutes they had feasted their eyes enough, and turning away from the window each cried: it is a tiresome thing and a silly thing to be gazing and not saying a word. Five minutes, am I saying? Three was more like the time that they took pleasure in each other’s shapes. In three minutes they were as weary as a fish taken out of the lake might be, and he waggling at the bottom of a boat. And looking at each other, their eyes said plainly: eyes are no good unless we may be telling what our eyes see. But they could not do this, for they had given a pledge and a vow to Cummins that they would not speak, and the altar-boy was there into the bargain. The last words they heard before the door was shut on them was the hermit telling the boy that if he closed as much as one eye he would know about it, and be made to feel his fault with a cudgel cut from the hazel copse in front of Cummins’ cell. Out of fear of the stick, not an eye did that boy close for the livelong night, and in the morning the three of them were worn out with watching; and when the hermit came to unlock the door the words he heard were: father, our choice was a bad one; we should have chosen to speak and not to see. Now is that so? said the hermit. You will have that test to-night, and as the pair of you have such a wish to be talking together, I’ll give you, Curithir, this side of the island to regale your eyes with, and Liadin she shall have the other, and you must pledge your word to me that you will keep the trees between you both, and that there shall be no whispering through the branches. You’ll have plenty of that to-night; keep your talk for the dark hours and your eyes for the light. You see, your honour, Church Island, the name it is known by to-day, is the largest island on Lake Carra, and it has about ten acres, maybe a dozen, and among the trees are tall rowans and ash and some beeches. I know the island from my boyhood, I interrupted; but go on with your story. Well, your honour, I have come to the most interesting part of it. I wouldn’t be too hard upon you, Cummins said; you won’t be the whole day without seeing one another. At Mass you may meet again, for I’ll offer up prayers to preserve you from temptation this night that is to come, and all other nights, if you like it. My Mass will be in two hours from now, and, until then, I shall be praying for you both and praying for myself and for the rest of the world, for it is the world needs our prayers to save it from God’s anger, he being distressed at the wickedness that is going on among you from year’s end to year’s end.
Listen, both of you, now, to what I am saying. For the next two hours I’ll be saying my prayers, and after that I’ll be reading the Mass that you are to hear in the chapel, and after that I’ll be in my cell, beautifying the scrolls, the missal I am painting, my present to the Abbot of Ballintubber, to whose kindness I am indebted for this comfortable island. I cannot be away from my work an afternoon if I would finish it this year; and while I am at work, weaving garlands and finding nooks and corners for the birds and the weasels and the squirrels and badgers and the foxes of my little domain, my cat will be watching for mice as patient as myself. I am telling you this, for I wish you both to imitate me and my cat, each on different sides of the island.
It’s a hard test and a cruel one you’re putting us to this day, said Curithir, for we are two young people and you are an old man. That is true, Cummins answered him. The old forget a great deal of youth’s needs and feelings, and it is truer still that the young know nothing at all of what the old people are thinking. You see, Curithir, Liadin makes no complaint, and he asked Curithir why he didn’t take example by her, but the tears were flowing down Curithir’s cheeks one after the other as rain falls from the eaves, and there was no voice in him, so thick were his sighs. Away with you now, the hermit cried, and let each keep to his and to her side of the island, and any transgressions will be reported to me by my little altar-boys. As he said these words Cummins fixed his eyes upon them, and the sight of Liadin’s calm and contrite looks satisfied him that the bond would not be broken by her; and he pitied Curithir, for he knew what was passing in Curithir’s heart better than he did what was passing in the woman’s, being a man himself, and he said: life is bitter to him now but the bitterness will pass and what was once bitter will become sweet, but if I let them go their gait what was once sweet will turn to worse bitterness. And Curithir, who understood the hermit’s mind, kept saying to himself, as he walked by the lake shore: ’tis the old that make life bitter for the young, and they make it betimes so bitter that the young would escape from them through death’s door. But there was no courage in him to divide himself from Liadin, which wasn’t the same with Liadin, whom Curithir could see between the trees betimes sitting on a rock, looking across the lake. Thinking of what? he asked himself, but he dared not call out to her for fear the little boys might hear and tell on him. Will she have the courage to drown herself, which I haven’t to-day, though talking with Liadin without seeing her may be no better enjoyment than feasting my eyes on her without speaking; and he wished the lake to rise up and carry them away, for living,
he said, is bitter as a sloe, and he cast one out of his mouth. Will this day never end? he asked; and, moaning, walked the shore, till at last the hermit’s bell summoned them to his cell.
So, the hermit said, you have chosen to speak but not to see each other? And he drew a curtain across the window and left them with the altar-boy, who was told to report if either peeped from behind the curtain. But without sight of each other they wearied of talking almost as soon, but not quite as soon, as they had wearied of gazing at each other. They wearied all the same, and though now and again they woke up from a doze and began talking again they were as unhappy the second day as they were the first.
Lad, the hermit said, have you waked or slept? And the lad answered: I may have dazed a bit, Father, but should have heard them, and the hermit looked at the curtain, and seeing it as he had left it, said: now, my children, tell me, isn’t human love, as I said it was, different in this from the love of God, that we can love God without the sight of his face or the sound of his voice? And Curither, answering Cummins, said he would not endure another night of talking without sight or sight without talking. And is it the same with you, my daughter? the hermit asked. But Liadin did not answer him, and he said: praise be to the great God, she has passed beyond temptation already. She has thrown the tempter out of herself, and you must strive, my son, to do likewise. Tell me, the hermit continued, turning to the woman, is it the way I’ve said? and she answered: it is just as you have said. I could bear a harder test than the one you gave us; I could indeed, and I could lie without sin beside Curithir there from dusk to dusk. Without temptation rising up within you? the hermit asked. Without any temptation that I could not throw out easily. Liadin, Liadin, that such words should have come from you, Curithir cried, turning his face aside, and her cruel talk brought such tears to his eyes that the hermit was sorry for him. You would be putting a great test upon yourself, my daughter, for the flesh is strong in the night-time and the spirit weakens towards morning. But to know if you speak truly, and have put temptation well away, I’ll let you lie with Curithir. Curithir covered his face with his hands to keep the hermit from seeing his joy. The hermit’s eyes were upon Liadin, and he said: I wouldn’t put you in doubt of danger, my child, but I’ll do this to give you a chance of earning greater glory by holding out, and for that reason, and to give you good help, I’ll make my altar-boy sleep between you. On hearing these words Curithir’s happiness turned to as great sorrow, and he was near running to the lake to drown himself, but, catching sight of Liadin’s face, he held his breath. Was this a trick of hers? he asked himself. Had she a spell to put on the boy so that he would sleep like a top, and would neither see nor hear them, and they crossing over each other in the night? And feeling that it would be better to have a little patience, for he would know all these things later on, he said no word but followed Cummins to the hut.
