THE WOLVES.
My readers may remember that Ian was on the point of acquainting his
mother with an important event in his spiritual history, when they
were interrupted by the involuntary call of the girls from the New
House. The mother, as will readily be believed, remained desirous of
listening to her son's story, though dreading it would not be of a kind
to give her much satisfaction; but partly from preventions--favoured,
it must be confessed by Ian, and yet more from direct avoidance on his
part, the days passed without her hearing anything more of it. Ian had
in truth almost repented his offer of the narrative: a certain vague
assurance that it would not be satisfactory to her, had grown upon
him until he felt it unkind to lay before her an experience whose
narration would seem to ask a sympathy she could not give. But the
mother was unable to let the thing rest. More than by interest she
was urged by anxiety. In spite of her ungodlike theories of God, it
was impossible she could be in despair about her noble Ian; still,
her hope was at best founded on the uncovenanted mercies of God, not
on the security of his bond! She did not believe that God was doing
and would do his best for every man; therefore she had no assurance
that he would bring down the pride of Ian, and compel his acceptance
of terms worthy of an old Roman father, half law-circumventing lawyer,
half heartless tyrant. But her longing to hear what her son had
proposed telling her, was chiefly inspired by the hope of getting
nearer to him, of closer sympathy becoming possible between them
through her learning more clearly what his views were. She constantly
felt as if walking along the side of a thick hedge, with occasional
thinnesses through which now and then she gained a ghostly glimpse
of her heart's treasure gliding along the other side--close to her,
yet so far that, when they spoke, they seemed calling across a gulf
of dividing darkness. Therefore, the night after that spent by her
sons on the hill, all having retired some two hours before, the mother,
finding herself unable to sleep, rose as she had often done ere now,
and stole to the door of the little room under the thatch where Ian
lay. Listening, and judging him awake, she went softly in, and sat down
by his bedside.
There had been such occasions on which, though son as well as mother
was wide awake, neither spoke a word; but this time the mother could
not be silent.
"You never told me, Ian, the story you began about something that
made you pray!"
Ian saw he could not now draw back without causing, her more trouble
than would the narration.
"Are you sure you will not take cold mother dear?" he said.
"I am warmly clad, my son; and my heart, more than I can tell you,
is longing to hear all about it."
"I am afraid you will not find my story so interesting as you
expect, mother!"
"What concerns you is more interesting to me than anything else in
the whole world, Ian."
"Not more than God, mother?" said Ian.
The mother was silent. She was as honest as her sons. The question,
dim-lucent, showed her, if but in shadow, something of the truth
concerning herself--not so that she could grasp it, for she saw it
as in a glimmer, a fluctuating, vanishing flash--namely, that she
cared more about salvation than about God--that, if she could but
keep her boy out of hell, she would be content to live on without
any nearer approach to him in whom she had her being! God was to her
an awe, not a ceaseless, growing delight!
There are centuries of paganism yet in many lovely Christian
souls--paganism so deep, therefore so little recognized, that their
earnest endeavour is to plant that paganism ineradicably in the
hearts of those dearest to them.
As she did not answer, Ian was afraid she was hurt, and thought it
better to begin his story at once.
"It was one night in the middle of winter--last winter, near
Moscow," he began, "and the frost was very bitter--the worst night
for cold I have ever known. I had gone with a companion into the
depth of a great pine forest. On our way, the cold grew so intense,
that we took refuge at a little public-house, frequented by peasants
and persons of the lowest ranks. On entering I saw a scene which
surpassed all for interest I had ever before witnessed. The little
lonely house was crammed with Russian soldiers, fierce-looking
fellows, and I daresay their number formed our protection from
violence. Many of them were among the finest looking fellows I have
ever seen. They were half drunk, and were dancing and singing with
the wildest gesticulations and grimaces; but such singing for
strange wildness and harmony combined I had never before listened
to. One would keep up a solo for some minutes, when the whole
company would join in a sort of chorus, dancing frantically about,
but with the most perfect regularity of movement. One of them came
up to me and with a low bow begged me in the name of the rest to
give them some money. I accordingly gave them a silver ruble, upon
which the whole party set up a shout, surrounded me, and in a moment
a score of brawny fellows had lifted me in the air, where I was
borne along in triumph. I took off my cap and gave three
hip-hip-hurrahs as loud as my lungs could bawl, whereupon, with the
profoundest expressions of gratitude, I was lowered from my
elevation. One of them then who seemed to be the spokesman of the
rest, seized me in his arms and gave me a hearty kiss on the cheek,
on which I took my departure amid universal acclamation.--But all
that's not worth telling you about; it was not for that I
began--only the scene came up so clear before me that it drew me
aside."
"I don't need to tell you, Ian," said his mother, with shining eyes,
"that if it were only what you had to eat on the most ordinary day
of your life, it would be interesting to me!"
"Thank you, mother dear; I seem to know that without being told; but
I could never talk to you about anything that was not interesting to
myself."
Here he paused. He would rather have stopped.
"Go on, go on, Ian. I am longing to hear."
"Well--where was I?--We left at the inn our carriage and horses, and
went with our guns far into the forest--all of straight, tall pines,
up and up; and the Little island-like tops of them, which, if there
be a breath of wind, are sure to be swaying about like the motion of
a dream, were as still as the big frosty stars in the deep blue
overhead."
"What did you want in such a lonely place at that time of the
night?" asked the mother.
She sat with firm-closed lips, and wide, night-filled eyes looking
at her son, the fear of love in her beautiful face--a face more
beautiful than any other that son had yet seen, fit window for a
heart so full of refuge to look out of; and he knew how she looked
though the darkness was between them.
"Wolves, mother," he answered.
She shuddered. She was a great reader in the long winter nights, and
had read terrible stories of wolves--the last of which in Scotland
had been killed not far from where they sat.
"What did you want with the wolves, Ian?" she faltered.
"To kill them, mother. I never liked killing animals any more than
Alister; but even he destroys the hooded crow; and wolves are yet
fairer game. They are the out-of-door devils of that country, and I
fancy devils do go into them sometimes, as they did once into the
poor swine: they are the terror of all who live near the forests.
"There was no moon--only star-light; but whenever we came to any
opener space, there was light enough from the snow to see all about;
there was light indeed from the snow all through the forest, but the
trees were thick and dark. Far away, somewhere in the mystery of the
black wood, we could now and then hear a faint howling: it came from
the red throats of the wolves."
"You are frightening me, Ian!" said the mother, as if they had been
two children telling each other tales.
"Indeed, mother, they are very horrible when they hunt in droves,
ravenous with hunger. To kill one of them, if it be but one, is to
do something for your kind. And just at that time I was oppressed
with the feeling that I had done and was doing nothing for my
people--my own humans; and not knowing anything else I could at the
moment attempt, I resolved to go and kill a wolf or two: they had
killed a poor woman only two nights before.
"As soon as we could after hearing the noise of them, we got up into
two trees. It took us some time to discover two that were fit for
our purpose, and we did not get them so near each other as we should
have liked. It was rather anxious work too until we found them, for
if we encountered on foot a pack of those demons, we could be but a
moment or two alive: killing one, ten would be upon us, and a
hundred more on the backs of those. But we hoped they would smell us
up in the trees, and search for us, when we should be able to give
account of a few of them at least: we had double-barrelled guns, and
plenty of powder and ball."
"But how could you endure the cold--at night--and without food?"
"No, mother; we did not try that! We had plenty to eat in our
pockets. My companion had a bottle of vodki, and--"
"What is that?" asked the mother with suspicion.
"A sort of raw spirit--horrible stuff--more like spirits of wine.
They say it does not hurt in such cold."
"But, Ian!" cried the mother, and seemed unable to say more.
"Don't be frightened, mother!" said Ian, with a merry laugh. "Surely
you do not imagine _I_ would drink such stuff! True, I had my
bottle, but it was full of tea. The Russians drink enormous
quantities of tea--though not so strong as you make it."
"Go on, then, Ian; go on."
"We sat a long time, and there was no sign of the wolves coming near
us. It was very cold, but our furs kept in our warmth. By and by I
fell asleep--which was not dangerous so long as I kept warm, and I
thought the cold must wake me before it began to numb me. And as 'I
slept I dreamed; but my dream did not change the place; the forest,
the tree I was in, all my surroundings were the same. I even dreamed
that I came awake, and saw everything about me just as it was. I
seemed to open my eyes, and look about me on the dazzling snow from
my perch: I was in a small tree on the border of a little clearing.
"Suddenly, out of the wood to my left, issued something, running
fast, but with soundless feet, over the snow. I doubted in my dream
whether the object were a live thing or only a shadow. It came
nearer, and I saw it was a child, a little girl, running as if for
her life. She came straight to the tree I sat in, and when close to
it, but without a moment's halt, looked up, and I saw a sweet little
face, white with terror--which somehow seemed, however, not for
herself, but for me. I called out after her to stop, and I would
take her into the tree beside me, where the wolves could not reach
her; but she only shook her head, and ran on over the clearing into
the forest. Among the holes I watched the fleeting shape appear and
disappear and appear again, until I saw it no more. Then first I
heard another kind of howl from the wolves--that of pursuit. It
strengthened and swelled, growing nearer and nearer, till at last,
through the stillness of the night and the moveless forest and the
dead snow, came to my ear a kind of soft rushing sound. I don't know
how to describe it. The rustle of dry leaves is too sharp; it was
like a very soft heavy rain on a window--a small dull padding
padding: it was the feet of the wolves. They came nearer and grew
louder and louder, but the noise was still muffled and soft. Their
howling, however, was now loud and horrid. I suppose they cannot
help howling; if they could, they would have too much power over
poor creatures, coming upon them altogether at unawares; but as it
is, they tell, whether they will or no, that they are upon the way.
At length, dark as a torrent of pitch, out of the forest flowed a
multitude of obscure things, and streamed away, black over the snow,
in the direction the child had taken. They passed close to the foot
of my tree, but did not even look up, flitting by like a shadow
whose substance was unseen. Where the child had vanished they also
disappeared: plainly they were after her!
"It was only a dream, mother! don't be so frightened," interrupted
lan, for here his mother gave a little cry, almost forgetting what
the narration was.
"Then first," he went on, "I seemed to recover my self-possession. I
saw that, though I must certainly be devoured by the wolves, and the
child could not escape, I had no choice but go down and follow, do
what I could, and die with her. Down I was the same instant, running
as I had never run before even in a dream, along the track of the
wolves. As I ran, I heard their howling, but it seemed so far off
that I could not hope to be in time to kill one of them ere they
were upon her. Still, by their howling, it did not appear they had
reached her, and I ran on. Their noise grew louder and louder, but I
seemed to run miles and miles, wondering what spell was upon me that
I could not come up with them. All at once the clamour grew hideous,
and I saw them. They were gathered round a tree, in a clearing just
like that I had left, and were madly leaping against it, but ever
falling back baffled. I looked up: in the top of the tree sat the
little girl, her white face looking down upon them with a smile. All
the terror had vanished from it. It was still white as the snow, but
like the snow was radiating a white light through the dark foliage
of the fir. I see it often, mother, so clear that I could paint it.
I was enchanted at the sight. But she was not in safety yet, and I
rushed into the heap of wolves, striking and stabbing with my
hunting-knife. I got to the tree, and was by her in a moment. But
as I took the child in my arms I woke, and knew that it was a dream.
I sat in my own tree, and up against the stem of it broke a howling,
surging black wave of wolves. They leaped at the tree-bole as a
rock-checked billow would leap. My gun was to my shoulder in a
moment, and blazed among them. Howls of death arose. Their
companions fell upon the wounded, and ate them up. The tearing and
yelling at the foot of the tree was like the tumult of devils full
of hate and malice and greed. Then for the first time I thought
whether such creatures might not be the open haunts of demons. I do
not imagine that, when those our Lord drove out of the man asked
permission to go into the swine, they desired anything unheard of
before in the demon-world. I think they were not in the way of going
into tame animals; but, as they must go out of the man, as they
greatly dreaded the abyss of the disembodied, and as no ferocious
animals fit to harbour them were near, they begged leave to go into
such as were accessible, though unsuitable; whereupon the natural
consequence followed: their presence made the poor swine miserable
even to madness, and with the instinct of so many maniacs that in
death alone lies their deliverance, they rushed straight into the
loch."
"It may be so, Ian! But I want to hear how you got away from the
wolves."
"I fired and fired; and still they kept rushing on the tree-hole,
heaping themselves against it, those behind struggling up on the
backs of those next it, in a storm of rage and hunger and jealousy.
Not a few who had just helped to eat some of their fellows, were
themselves eaten in turn, and not a scrap of them left; but it was a
large pack, and it would have taken a long time to kill enough to
satisfy those that remained. I killed and killed until my ammunition
was gone, and then there was nothing for it but await the light.
When the morning began to dawn, they answered its light with
silence, and turning away swept like a shadow back into the wood.
Strange to tell, I heard afterwards that a child had been killed by
them in the earlier part of that same night. But even now sometimes,
as I lie awake, I grow almost doubtful whether the whole was not a
hideous dream.
"Not the less for that was what I went through between the time my
powder came to an end and the dawn of the morning, a real spiritual
fact.
"In the midst of the howling I grew so sleepy that the horrible
noise itself seemed to lull me while it kept me awake, and I fell
into a kind of reverie with which my dream came back and mingled. I
seemed to be sitting in the tree with the little shining girl, and
she was my own soul; and all the wrong things I had in me, and all
the wrong things I had done, with all the weaknesses and evil
tendencies of my nature, whether mine by fault or by inheritance,
had taken shape, and, in the persons of the howling wolves below,
were besieging me, to get at me, and devour me. Suddenly my soul was
gone. Above were the still, bright stars, shining unmoved; beneath
was the white, betraying snow, and the howling wolves; away through
the forest was fleeting, ever fleeting, my poor soul, in the
likeness of a white-faced child! All at once came a great stillness,
as of a desert place, where breathed nor life of man nor life of
beast. I was alone, frightfully alone--alone as I had never been
before. The creatures at the foot of the tree were still howling,
but their cry sounded far away and small; they were in some story I
had been reading, not anywhere in my life! I was left and lost--left
by whom?--lost by whom?--in the waste of my own being, without stay
or comfort. I looked up to the sky; it was infinite--yet only a part
of myself, and much too near to afford me any refuge from the desert
of my lost self. It came down nearer; the limitless space came down,
and clasped me, and held me. It came close to me--as if I had been a
shape off which all nature was taking a mould. I was at once
everything and nothing. I cannot tell you how frightful it was! In
agony I cried to God, with a cry of utter despair. I cannot say
whether I may believe that he answered me; I know this, that a great
quiet fell upon me--but a quiet as of utter defeat and helplessness.
Then again, I cannot tell how, the quiet and the helplessness melted
away into a sense of God--a feeling as if great space all about me
was God and not emptiness. Wolf nor sin could touch me! I was a wide
peace--my very being peace! And in my mind--whether an echo from
the Bible, I do not know--were the words:--'I, even I, am he that
comforteth thee. I am God, thy saviour!' Whereas I had seemed all
alone, I was with God, the only withness man can really share! I
lifted my eyes; morning was in the east, and the wolves were
slinking away over the snow."
How to receive the strange experience the mother did not know. She
ought to say something, for she sorely questioned it! Not a word had
he spoken belonging to the religion in which she had brought him up,
except two--SIN and GOD! There was nothing in it about the
atonement! She did not see that it was a dream, say rather a vision,
of the atonement itself. To Ian her interpretation of the atonement
seemed an everlasting and hopeless severance. The patience of God
must surely be far more tried by those who would interpret him, than
by those who deny him: the latter speak lies against him, the former
speak lies for him! Yet all the time the mother felt as in the
presence of some creature of a higher world--one above the ordinary
race of men--whom the powers of evil had indeed misled, but perhaps
not finally snared. She little thought how near she was to imagining
that good may come out of evil--that there is good which is not of
God! She did not yet understand that salvation lies in being one
with Christ, even as the branch is one with the vine;--that any
salvation short of knowing God is no salvation at all. What moment a
man feels that he belongs to God utterly, the atonement is there,
the son of God is reaping his harvest.
The good mother was not, however, one of those conceited,
stiff-necked, power-loving souls who have been the curse and ruin
of the church in all ages; she was but one of those in whom
reverence for its passing form dulls the perception of unchangeable
truth. They shut up God's precious light in the horn lantern of
human theory, and the lantern casts such shadows on the path to the
kingdom as seem to dim eyes insurmountable obstructions. For the
sake of what they count revealed, they refuse all further
revelation, and what satisfies them is merest famine to the next
generation of the children of the kingdom. Instead of God's truth
they offer man's theory, and accuse of rebellion against God such as
cannot live on the husks they call food. But ah, home-hungry soul!
thy God is not the elder brother of the parable, but the father with
the best robe and the ring--a God high above all thy longing, even
as the heavens are high above the earth.