one in the sacristy. We went to the door again, and looked vainly in all
directions for light which might reveal a neighbouring village, or
hamlet, or even a woodlander's cottage.
Glad as we were of the shelter, and of the glow from the lamp, a
thought, a dream, a desire, divided us. We looked at each other
sidelong, each both seeking and avoiding the other's eyes.
"I cannot stay here," said the Body at last; "the place stifles me. I am
frightened to stay. The path outside is clear and well trodden; it must
lead somewhere, and as this chapel is here, and as the lamp is lit, a
village, or at least a house, cannot be far off."
The Will looked at him.
"Do not go," he said earnestly.
"Why?"
"I do not know. But do not let us part. I dare not leave here. I feel as
though this were our one safe haven to-night."
The Body moved to the door and opened it.
"I am going. And--and--I am going, too, because I am tired both of you
and the Soul. There is only one way for me, I see, and I go that way.
Farewell."
The door closed. The Will was alone. For a few moments he stood, smiling
scornfully. With a sudden despairing gesture he ran to the door, flung
it open, and peered into the darkness.
He could see no one; could hear no steps. His long beseeching cry was
drowned among these solitudes. Slowly he re-closed the door; slowly
walked across the stone flags; and with folded arms stood looking upon
the altar, dyed crimson with the glow from the great lamp which hung
midway in the nave.
There was a choir-stall to the right. Here he sat, for a time glad
merely to be at rest.
Soon all desire of sleep went from him, and he began to dream. At this
he smiled: it was so brief a while ago since he had said he would dream
no more.
Away now from his two lifelong comrades, and yet subtly connected with
them, and living by and through each, he felt a new loneliness. Life
could be very terrible. Life ... the word startled him. What life could
there be for him if the Body perished? That was why he had cried out in
anguish after his comrade had left, with that ominous word "farewell."
True, now he lived, breathed, thought, as before: but this, he knew, was
by some inexplicable miracle of personality, by which the three who had
been one were each enabled to go forth, fulfilling, and in all ways
ruled and abiding by, the natural law. If the Body should die, would he
not then become as a breath in frost? If the Soul ... ah! he wondered
what then would happen.
"When I was with the Body," he muttered, "I was weary of dreams, or
longed only for those dreams which could be fulfilled in action. But now
... now it is different. I am alone. I must follow my own law. But what
... how ... where ... am I to choose? All the world is a wilderness with
a heart of living light. The side we see is Life: the side we do not see
we call Hope. All ways--a thousand myriad ways--lead to it. Which shall
I choose? How shall I go?"
Then I began to dream ... I ... we ... then the Will began to dream.
Slowly the Forest Chapel filled with a vast throng, ever growing more
dense as it became more multitudinous, till it seemed as though the
walls fell away and that the aisles reached interminably into the world
of shadow, through the present into the past, and to dim ages.
Behind the altar stood a living Spirit, most wonderful, clothed with
Beauty and Terror.
Then the Will saw, understood, that this was not the Christ, nor yet the
Holy Spirit, but a Dominion. It was the Spirit of this world, one of the
Powers and Dominions whom of old men called the gods. But all in that
incalculable throng worshipped this Spirit as the Supreme God. He saw,
too, or realised, that, to those who worshipped, this Spirit appeared
differently, now as a calm and august dreamer, now as an inspired
warrior, now as a man wearing a crown of thorns against the shadow of a
gigantic cross: as the Son of God, or the Prophet of God, or in manifold
ways the Supreme One, from Jehovah to the savage Fetich.
Turning from that ocean of drowned life, he looked again at the
rainbow-plumed and opal-hued Spirit: but now he could see no one,
nothing, but a faint smoke that rose as from a torch held by an
invisible hand. The altar stood unserved.
Nor was the multitude present. The myriad had become a wavering shadow,
and was no more.
A child had entered the church. The little boy came slowly along the
nave till he stood beneath the red lamp, so that his white robe was warm
with its glow. He sang, and the Will thought it was a strange song to
hear in that place, and wondered if the child were not an image of what
was in his own heart.
When the day darkens,
When dusk grows light,
When the dew is falling,
When Silence dreams...
I hear a wind
Calling, calling
By day and by night.
What is the wind
That I hear calling
By day and by night,
The crying of wind?
When the day darkens,
When dusk grows light,
When the dew is falling?
The Will rose and moved towards the child. No one was there, but he saw
that a wind-eddy blew about the altar, for a little cloud of rose-leaves
swirled above it. As in a dream he heard a voice, faint and sweet:--
Out of the Palace
Of Silence and Dreams
My voice is falling
From height to height:
I am the Wind
Calling, calling
By day and by night.
The red flame waned and was no more. Above the altar a white flame, pure
as an opal burning in moonfire, rose for a moment, and in a moment was
mysteriously gathered into the darkness.
Startled, the Will stood moveless in the obscurity. Were these symbols
of the end--the red flame and the white ... the Body and the Soul?
Then he remembered the ancient wisdom of the Gael, and went out of the
Forest Chapel and passed into the woods. He put his lips to the earth,
and lifted a green leaf to his brow, and held a branch to his ear: and
because he was no longer heavy with the sweet clay of mortality, though
yet of the human clan, he heard that which we do not hear, and saw that
which we do not see, and knew that which we do not know. All the green
life was his. In that new world he saw the lives of trees, now pale
green, now of woodsmoke blue, now of amethyst: the grey lives of stone:
breaths of the grass and reed: creatures of the air, delicate and wild
as fawns, or swift and fierce and terrible, tigers of that undiscovered
wilderness, with birds almost invisible but for their luminous wings,
their opalescent crests.
With these and the familiar natural life, with every bird and beast
kindred and knowing him kin, he lived till the dawn, and from the dawn
till sunrise, and from sunrise till noon. At noon he slept. When he woke
he saw that he had wandered far, and was glad when he came to a
woodlander's cottage. Here a woman gave him milk and bread, but she was
dumb, and he could learn nothing from her. She showed him a way which he
followed; and by that high upland path, before sundown, he came again
upon the Forest Chapel, and saw that it stood on a spur of blue hills.
Were it not for a great and startling weakness that had suddenly come
upon him, he would have gone in search of his lost comrade. While he lay
with his back against a tree, vaguely wondering what ill had come upon
him, he heard a sound of wheels. Soon after a rough cart was driven
rapidly towards the Forest Chapel, but when the countryman saw him he
reined in abruptly, as though at once recognising one whom he had set
out to seek. "Your friend is dying," he said; "come at once if you want
to see him again. He sent me to look for you."
In a moment all lassitude and pain went from the Will, and he sprang
into the cart, asking (while his mind throbbed with a dreadful anxiety)
many questions. But all he could learn from his taciturn companion was
that yester eve his comrade had fallen in with a company of roystering
and loose folk, with whom he had drunk heavily over-night and gamed and
lived evilly; that all this day he had lain as in a stupor, till the
afternoon, when he awoke and straightway fell into a quarrel about a
woman, and, after fierce words and blows, had been mortally wounded
with a knife. He was now lying, almost in the grasp of death, at the Inn
of the Crossways.
In the whirl of anxiety, dread, and a new and terrible confusion, the
Will could not think clearly as to what he was to say or do, what was to
be or could be done for his friend. And while he was still swayed
helplessly, this way and that, as a herring in a net drifted to and fro
by wind and wave, the Inn was reached.
With stumbling eagerness he mounted the rough stairs, and entered a
small room, clean, though almost sordid in its bareness, yet through its
western window filled with the solemn light of sunset.
On a white bed lay the Body, and the Will saw at a glance that his
comrade had not long to live. The handkerchief the sufferer held on his
breast was stained with the bright crimson of the riven lungs; his white
face was whiter than the pillow, the more so, as a red splatch lay on
each cheek.
The dying man opened his eyes as the door opened. He smiled gladly when
he saw who had come.
"I am glad indeed of this," he whispered. "I feared I was to die alone,
and in delirium or unconsciousness. Now I shall not be alone till the
end. And then----"
But here the Will sank upon his knees by the bedside. For a few minutes
his tears fell upon the hand he clasped. The sobs shook in his throat.
He had never fully realised what love he bore his comrade, his second
self; how interwrought with him were all his joys and sorrows, his
interests, his hopes and fears.
Suddenly, with supplicating arms, he cried, "Do not die! Oh, do not die!
Save me, save me, save me!"
"How can I save you, how can I help you, dear friend?" asked the Body in
a broken voice; "my sand is all but run out; my hour is come."
"But do you not know, do you not see, that I cannot live without
you!--that I must _die_--that if you perish so must I also pass with
your passing breath!"
"No--no--no!--for, see, we are no longer one, but three. The Soul is far
from us now, and soon you too will be gone on your own way. It is only I
who can go no more into the beautiful dear world. O Will, if I could, I
would give all your knowledge and endless quest of wisdom and all your
hopes, and all the dreams and the white faith of the Soul, for one
little year of sweet human life--for one month even--ah, what do I say,
for a few days even, for a day, for a few hours! It is so terrible thus
to be stamped out. Yesterday I saw a dog leaping and barking in delight
as it raced about a wagon, and then in a moment a foot caught and it was
entangled, and the wagon-wheel crushed it into a lifeless mass. There
was no dog; for that poor beast it was the same as though it had never
been, as though the world had never been, as though nothing more was to
be. He was a breath blown unremembering out of nothing into nothing.
That is what death is. That is what death is, O Will!"
"No, no, it is too horrible--too cruel--too unjust."
"Yes, for you. But not for me. Your way is not the way of death, but of
life. For me, I am as the beasts are, their sorry lord, but akin--oh
yes, akin, akin. I follow the natural law in all things. And I know this
now, dear comrade: that without you and the Soul I should have been no
other than the brutes that know nothing save their innocent lusts and
live and die without thought."
The Will slowly rose.
"It was madness for us to separate and come upon this quest," he said,
looking longingly at the Body.
"Not so, dear friend. We should have had to separate soon or late,
whatsoever we had done. If I have feared you at times, and turned from
you often, I have loved you well, and still more the Soul. I think you
have both lied to me overmuch, and you mostly. But I forgive what I know
was done in love and hope. And you, O Will, forgive me for all I have
brought, what I now bring, upon you; forgive the many thwartings and
dull indifference and heavy drag I have so often, oh, so often been to
you. For now death is at hand. But I have one thing I wish to ask you."
"Speak."
"Before my life was broken, there was one whom I loved. Every hope,
every dream, every joy, every sorrow that I had came from this love. It
was her death which broke my life--not only for the piteous loss and all
it meant to me, but because death came with tragic heedlessness--for she
was young, and strong, and beautiful. And before she died, she said we
should meet again. I was never, and now am far the less worthy of her;
and yet--and yet--oh, if only that great, beautiful love were all I had
to doubt or fear, I should have no doubt or fear! But no--no--we shall
never meet. How can we? Before to-morrow I shall be like that crushed
dog, and not be: just as if I had never been!"
The blood rose, and sobs and tears made further words inaudible. But
after a little the Body spoke again.
"But you, O Will, you and the Soul both resemble me. We are as flowers
of the same colour, as clay of the same mould. It may be you shall meet
her. Tell her that my last thought was of her: take her all my dreams
and hopes--and say--and say--say----"
But here the Body sat up in the bed, ash-white, with parted lips and
straining eyes.
"What? Quick, quick, dear Body--say?----"
"Say that I loved best that in her which I loved best in myself--the
Soul. Tell her I have never wholly despaired. Ah, if only the Soul were
here, I would not even now despair! Tell her I leave all to the
Soul--and--and--love shall triumph----"
There was a rush of blood, a gurgling cry, and the Body sank back
lifeless. In the very moment of death the eyes lightened with a
wonderful radiance--it was as though the evening stars suddenly came
through the dark.
The Will looked to see whence it came. The Soul stood beside him, white,
wonderful, radiant.
"I have come," he said.
"For me?" said the Will, shaking as with an ague, yet in bitter irony.
"Yes, for you, and for the Body too."
"For the Body?--see, he is already clay. What word have you to say to
_that_, to _me_ who likewise am already perishing?
"This--do you remember what so brief a while ago we three as one
wrote--wrote with my spirit, through your mind, and the Body's
hand--these words: _Love is more great than we conceive, and Death is
the keeper of unknown redemptions?_"
"Yes--yes--O Soul! I remember, I remember."
"It was true there: it is true here. Have I not ever told you that Love
would save?"
With that the Soul moved over to the bedside, and kissed the Body.
"Farewell, fallen leaf. But the tree lives--and beyond the tree is the
wind, the breath of the eternal."
"Look," he added, "our comrade is still asleep, though now no mortal
skill could nourish the hidden spark"; and with that he stooped and
kissed again the silent lips and the still brow and the pulseless
heart, and suddenly a breath, an essence, came from the body, in form
like itself, a phantom, yet endued with a motion of life.
As the faintest murmur in a shell we heard him whisper, _Life! Life!
Life!_ Then, as a blown vapour, he was one with us. A singular change
came upon the clay which had once been so near and dear to us: a frozen
whiteness that had not been there before, a stillness as of ancient
marble.
The Will stood, appalled, with wild eyes. Some dreadful invisible power
was upon him.
"Lost!" he cried; and now his voice, too, was faint as a murmur in a
shell. But the Soul smiled.
Then the Will grew grey as a willow-leaf aslant in the wind; and as the
shadow of a reed wavered in the wind; and as a reed's shadow is and is
not, so was he suddenly no more.
But, in the miracle of a moment, the Soul appeared in the triple mystery
of substance, and mind, and spirit. In full and joyous life the Will
stood re-born, and now we three were one again.
I looked for the last time on that which had been our home. The lifeless
thing lay, most terribly still and strange; yet with a dignity that
came as a benediction, for this dead temple of life had yielded to a
divine law, allied not to shadow and decay, but to the recurrent spring,
to the eternal ebb and flow, to the infinite processional. It is we of
the human clan only who are troubled by the vast waste and refuse of
life. There is not any such waste, neither in the myriad spawn nor the
myriad seed: a Spirit sows by the law we do not see, and reaps by a law
we do not know.
Then I turned and went to the western window. I saw that the Inn stood
upon the Hills of Dream, yet, when I looked within, I knew that I was
again in my familiar home. Once more, beyond the fuchsia bushes, the sea
sighed, as it felt the long shore with a continuous foamless wave. In
the little room below, the lamp was lit; for the glow fell warmly upon
the gravel path, shell-bordered, and upon the tufted mignonette,
sea-pinks, and feathery southernwood. The sound of hushed voices rose.
And now the dawn is come, and I have written this record of what we, who
are now indeed one, but far more truly and intimately than before, went
out to seek. In another hour I shall go hence, a wayfarer again. I have
a long road to travel, but am sustained by joy, and uplifted by a great
hope. When, tired, I lay down the pen, and with it the last of mortal
uses, it will be to face the glory of a new day. I have no fear. I shall
not leave all I have loved, for I have that in me which binds me to this
beautiful world, for another life at least, it may be for many lives.
And that within me which dreamed and hoped shall now more gladly and
wonderfully dream, and hope, and seek, and know, and see ever deeper and
further into the mystery of beauty and truth. And that within me which
_knew_, now _knows_. In the deepest sense there is no spiritual dream
that is not true, no hope that shall for ever go famished, no tears that
shall not be gathered into the brooding skies of compassion, to fall
again in healing dews.
What the Body could not, nor ever could see, and what to the Will was a
darkness, or at best a bewildering mist, is now clear. There are
mysteries of which I cannot write; not from any occult secret, but
because they are so simple and inevitable, that, like the mystery of day
and night, or the change of the seasons, or life and death, they must be
learned by each, in his own way, in his own hour. It is not out of their
light that I see; it is by these stars that I set forth, where else I
should be as a shadow upon a trackless waste.
But Love, I am come to realise, is the supreme deflecting force. Love
"unloosens sins," unites failure, disintegrates the act; not by an
inconceivable conflict with the immutable law of consequence, but by
deflection. For the divine love follows the life, and turns and meets it
at last, and in that meeting deflects: so that that which is mortal,
evil, and what is of the mortal law, the act, sinks; and on the forehead
of the divine law that which is alone inevitable survives and moves
onward in the rhythm that is life. When we understand the mystery of
Redemption, we shall understand what Love is. The expiatory is an
unknown attribute in the Divine. Expiation is but the earthly
burnt-offering of that in us that is mortal: Redemption, which is the
spiritual absorption of the expiation due to others, and the measureless
restitution in love of wrong humbly brought to the soul and consumed
there--so that it issues a living force to meet and deflect--is the
living witness in that of us which is immortal. Those who wrong us do
indeed become our saviours. It is _their_ expiation that we make _ours_:
they must go free of us; and when they come again and discrown us, then
in love we shall be at one and equal. So far, words may clothe thought;
but, beyond, the soul knows there is no expiation. Except you redeem
yourself, there is no God. Forgiveness is the dream of little children:
beautiful because thus far we see and know, but no farther.
I see now what madness it was, as so often happened, to despise the
body. But one mystery has become clear to me through this strange quest
of ours--though when I say "I," or "our," I know not whether it is the
Body or the Will or the Soul that speaks, till I remember that triune
marriage at the deathbed, and know that while each is consciously
each--the one with memory, the other with knowledge and hope, the third
with wisdom and faith--we are yet one, as are the yellow and the white
and the violet in the single flame in this candle beside me. And this
mystery is, that the body was not built of life-warmed clay merely to be
the house of the soul. Were it so, were the soul unwed to its mortal
comrades, it would be no more than a moment's uplifted wave on an
infinite sea. Without memory, without hope, it would be no more than a
breath of the Spirit. But before the Divine Power moulded us into
substance, we were shaped by it in form. And form is, in the spiritual
law, what the crystal is in the chemic law.
For now I see clearly that the chief end of the body is to enable the
soul to come into intimate union with the natural law, so that it may
fulfil the divine law of Form, and be at one with all created life and
yet be for ever itself and individual. By itself the soul would only
vainly aspire; it has to learn to remember, to become at one with the
wind and the grass and with all that lives and moves; to take its life
from the root of the body, and its green life from the mind, and its
flower and fragrance from what it may of itself obtain, not only from
this world, but from its own dews, its own rainbows, dawn stars and
evening stars, and vast incalculable fans of time and death. And this I
have learned: that there is no absolute Truth, no absolute Beauty, even
for the Soul. It may be that in the Divine Forges we shall be so moulded
as to have perfect vision. Meanwhile only that Truth is deepest, that
Beauty highest which is seen, not by the Soul only, or by the Mind, or
by the Body, but all three as one. Let each be perfect in kind and
perfect in unity. This is the signal meaning of the mystery. It is so
inevitable that it has its blind descent to fetich as well as its divine
ascension. But the ignoble use does not annul the noble purport, any
more than the blindness of many obscures the dream of one.
There could be no life hereafter for the soul were it not for the body,
and what were that life without the mind, the child of both, whom the
ancient seers knew and named Mnemosyne? Without memory life would be a
void breath, immortality a vacuum.
Ah, the glory of the lifting light! The new day is come. Farewell.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] The Aztec word _Ehecatl_, which signifies alike the Wind (or
Breath), Shadow, and Soul.
IONA
"_There are moments when the soul takes wings: what it has to
remember, it remembers: what it loves, it loves still more: what it
longs for, to that it flies._"
Iona
A few places in the world are to be held holy, because of the love which
consecrates them and the faith which enshrines them. Their names are
themselves talismans of spiritual beauty. Of these is Iona.
The Arabs speak of Mecca as a holy place before the time of the prophet,
saying that Adam himself lies buried here: and, before Adam, that the
Sons of Allah, who are called Angels, worshipped; and that when Allah
Himself stood upon perfected Earth it was on this spot. And here, they
add, when there is no man left upon earth, an angel shall gather up the
dust of this world, and say to Allah, "There is nothing left of the
whole earth but Mecca: and now Mecca is but the few grains of sand that
I hold in the hollow of my palm, O Allah."
In spiritual geography Iona is the Mecca of the Gael.
It is but a small isle, fashioned of a little sand, a few grasses salt
with the spray of an ever-restless wave, a few rocks that wade in
heather and upon whose brows the sea-wind weaves the yellow lichen. But
since the remotest days sacrosanct men have bowed here in worship. In
this little island a lamp was lit whose flame lighted pagan Europe, from
the Saxon in his fens to the swarthy folk who came by Greek waters to
trade the Orient. Here Learning and Faith had their tranquil home, when
the shadow of the sword lay upon all lands, from Syracuse by the
Tyrrhene Sea to the rainy isles of Orcc. From age to age, lowly hearts
have never ceased to bring their burthen here. Iona herself has given us
for remembrance a fount of youth more wonderful than that which lies
under her own boulders of Dun-I. And here Hope waits.
To tell the story of Iona is to go back to God, and to end in God.