THE CASTLE OF LEAVES AND THE BEGGAR WITH THE LONG WHITE BEARD
Ann was good to all beggars as well as to old Jack, the watercress man,
and when I asked her about it once she told the story of the Castle of
Leaves. This castle was a ruin above the sea near where she was born.
So fragmentary and fallen was it that every November the oak leaves
covered it up. As a little child, Ann was taken up there on a May day
because the hawthorn growing there always blossomed in time, however
backward the season. Sitting among the ruins was an old white-haired
man playing on a harp, and for ever after she loved beggars, said
Aurelius, as if they were all going to have harps and long white beards
in due course. A white-haired beggar, according to tradition, was
infallibly to be found by anyone who went up to the Castle of Leaves on
May day, and the story which connects a beggar with the early days of
the castle might of itself explain why Ann never denied a beggar. Both
Mr Morgan and Ann knew the story, but Mr Morgan had found it written
in a book, with the date 1399, while Ann told it without a date as she
remembered it from the dark ages of her own childhood.
In those old days, if Ann was to be believed, there was nothing but
war. The young men went out to battle and never came back except as
spirits, or as old men, or as worse than either--some of them having
no more legs or arms than a fish, some crawling on their bellies with
their beards in the mud, or flapping along in the wind like a kind
of bird, or as lean and scattered as crickets--so that the children
laughed at them first and then ran away crying to their mothers because
they had such fathers. The mothers did not laugh save those that went
mad, and perhaps they were not the worst off. The women knew that these
strange idols and images crawling and jiggering home were the same that
had marched out to the war as if their sweethearts were in the far
countries before them, instead of behind them at the turnings of the
roads. They would not have loved them so much if they had not gone out
like that. The glorious young men departed; the young women were no
longer beautiful without them; the little children were blossoms of the
grave. The world was full of old men, maimed men, and young men going
to the wars, and of women crying because the soldiers had not come
back, and children crying because they had. And many and many a one had
no more tears left to cry with.
Beggars appeared and disappeared who looked like men, but spoke all
manner of tongues and knew not where their fathers or mothers or
children were, if they had any left, or if ever they had any, which
was doubtful, for they were not as other men, but as if they had come
thus into the astonished world, resembling carrion walking, or rotten
trees by the roadside. Few could till the fields, and it was always a
good summer for thistles, never for corn. The cattle died and there
was nothing to eat the grass. Some said it was a judgment. But what
had the poor cows and sheep done? What had the young men and women
done? They were but mankind. Nor were the great ones the worse for it.
They used to come back from the wars with gold and unicorns and black
slaves carrying elephants’ tusks and monkeys. Whether or not it was a
judgment, it was misery.
But one day there was a white ship in the harbour of Abercorran. A
man named Ivor ap Cadogan had come back who had been away in Arabia,
Cathay, and India, in Ophir and all the East, since he was a boy. No
man knew his family. He was a tall man with yellow hair and a long
beard of gold, and he was always singing to himself, and he was like
a king who has thrown away his crown, nor had he soldiers with him,
but only the dark foreign men who followed him from the ships. All day
long, day after day, they were unlading and carrying up beautiful white
stone from the ship to build a great shining castle above the sea. In
a little while came another ship out of the east, and another, and
another, like swans, coming in silent to the harbour. All were heavy
laden with the white stone, and with precious woods, which men carried
up into the hills above the shore. The sea forgot everything but calm
all through that summer while they were unlading the ships and building.
The finished castle was as huge and white, but not as terrible, as a
mountain peak when the snow has been chiselled by the north wind for
many midnights, and the wood of it smelt round about as sweet as a
flower, summer and winter. And Ivor ap Cadogan dwelt in the castle,
which was at that time called the Castle of Ophir. It had no gates,
no moat or portcullis, for no one was refused or sent away. Its fires
never went out. Day and night in winter the sky over the castle was
bright with the many fires and many lights. Round the walls grew trees
bearing golden fruit, and among them fountains of rustling crystal
stood up glittering for ever like another sort of trees.
People dreamed about the shining, white castle, and its gold, its
music, its everlasting festivals of youths and maidens.
Upon the roads now there were no more incomplete or withered men, or
if they were they were making for the Castle of Ophir among the hills.
It was better, said all men, to be a foreigner, or a monkey, or any
one of the wondrous beasts that wandered in the castle, or any of the
birds that flew round the towers, or any of the fish in the ponds under
the fountains, than to be a man upon the roads or in the villages. No
man now walked up and down until he had to sit, or sat until he had to
lie, or lay until he could rise no more and so died. They went up to
the Castle of Ophir and were healed, and dwelt there happily for ever
after. Those that came back said that in the castle they were just as
happy whether they were working hard or doing nothing: stiff, labouring
men whose chief pleasure used to be in resting from toil, could be
idle and happy in the castle long after their toil had been forgotten.
The charcoal-burners slept until they were clean, and the millers
until they were swarthy, and it seemed to them that the lives of their
fathers had been a huddle of wretchedness between birth and death. Even
the young men ceased going to the wars, but went instead to the castle
and the music and the feasting. All men praised Ivor ap Cadogan. Once
a lord from beyond the mountains sent men against the castle to carry
off gold, but they remained with Ivor and threw their weapons into the
ponds.
From time to time the white ships put out again from Abercorran, and
again returned. When their sails appeared in the bay, it was known that
calm had settled upon the sea as in the first year, and men and women
went down to welcome them. Those summers were good both for man and
beast. The earth brought forth tall, heavy corn which no winds beat
down. Granaries were full: at the castle a granary, as large as a
cathedral, was so full that the rats and mice had no room and so threw
themselves into the sea. And Ivor ap Cadogan grew old. His beard was as
white as the sails of his ships. A great beard it was, not like those
of our day, and you could see it blowing over his shoulder a mile away
as he walked the hills. So some men began to wonder whether one day he
would die, and who would be master then, and whether it would still be
calm when the ships sailed. But Summer came, and with it the ships, and
Autumn and the cramming of granaries and the songs of harvest, and men
forgot.
The next Summer was more glorious than any before. Only, the ships
never came. The sea was quiet as the earth, as blue as the sky. The
white clouds rose up out of the sea, but never one sail. Ivor went
to the high places to watch, and lifted a child upon his shoulders
to watch for him. No ship came. Ivor went no more to the cliffs, but
stayed always on the topmost towers of the castle, walking to and fro,
watching, while down below men were bringing in the harvest and the
songs had begun.
When at last the west wind blew, and one ship arrived, it was not in
the harbour but on the rocks, and it was full of dead men. Ivor and
all the people of the castle went down to see the ship and the dead
men. When they returned at nightfall the wind had blown the leaves from
the castle trees into the rooms so that they were almost filled. The
strange birds of the castle were thronging the air, in readiness to fly
over the sea. The strange animals of the castle had left their comfort
and were roaming in the villages, where they were afterwards killed.
The old men prophesied terrible things. The women were afraid. The
children stood, pale and silent, watching the dead leaves swim by like
fishes, crimson and emerald and gold, and they pretended that they were
mermen and mermaids sitting in a palace under the sea. But the women
took the children away along the road where the old men had already
gone. Led by Ivor, the young men descended to the shore to repair the
ship.
It was a winter of storm: men could not hear themselves speak for
the roaring of sea, wind, and rain, and the invisible armies of the
air. With every tide bodies of men and of the strange birds that had
set out over the sea were washed up. Men were not glad to see Ivor
and his dark companions at last departing in the mended ship. The
granaries were full, and no one starved, but time passed and no more
ships arrived. No man could work. The castle stood empty of anything
but leaves, and in their old cottages men did not love life. The Spring
was an ill one; nothing was at work in the world save wind and rain;
now the uproar of the wind drowned that of the rain, now the rain
drowned the wind, and often the crying of women and children drowned
both. Men marked the differences, and hoped for an end which they
were powerless to pursue. When the one ship returned, its cargo was
of birds and beasts such as had escaped in the falling of the leaves.
Ivor alone was glad of them. He had few followers--young men all of
them--up to the castle. Others came later, but went down again with
loads of corn. It was now seen that the granaries would some day be
emptied. People began to talk without respect of Ivor. They questioned
whence his wealth had come, by what right he had built the castle, why
he had concealed his birth. The young men living with him quarrelled
among themselves, then agreed in reproaching the master. At last they
left the castle in twos and threes, accusing him of magic, of causing
them to forget their gratitude to God. In the villages everyone was
quarrelling except when the talk turned to blaming Ivor. He made no
reply, nor ever came down amongst them, but stayed in the inmost
apartment with his remaining birds. One of the complaints against him
was that he fed the birds on good grain. Yet the people continued to go
up to the granaries at need. The beggars and robbers of the mountains
were beginning to contest their right to it, and blood was shed in many
of the rooms and corridors. No one saw the master. They said that they
did not care, or they said that he was dead and buried up in leaves;
but in truth they were afraid of his white hair, his quiet eye, and
the strange birds and beasts. Between them, the robbers and the young
men who had served him plundered the house. Some even attempted to
carry off the masonry, but left most of it along the roadside where
it lies to this day. At length, nothing worth a strong man’s time had
been overlooked. A few beggars were the latest visitors, cursing the
empty granary, trembling at the footsteps of leaves treading upon
leaves in all the rooms. They did not see Ivor, sitting among leaves
and spiders’ webs. A pack of hounds, hunting that way, chased the
stag throughout the castle but lost it; for it entered the room where
Ivor was sitting, and when the horn was blown under the new moon the
hounds slunk out bloodless yet assuaged, and the hunter thrashed them
for their lack of spirit, and cursed the old man for his magic, yet
ventured not in search of him along those muffled corridors. The very
road up to the castle was disappearing. The master, it was believed,
had died. The old men who had known him were dead; the young men were
at the wars. When a white-haired beggar stumbled into Abercorran from
the hills few admitted, though all knew in their hearts, that it was
Ivor ap Cadogan. For a year or two he was fed from door to door, but
he wearied his benefactors by talking continually about his birds that
he had lost. Some of the rich remembered against him his modesty,
others his ostentation. The poor accused him of pride; such was the
name they gave to his independent tranquillity. Perhaps, some thought,
it was a judgment--the inhabitants of the Castle of Ophir had been
too idle and too happy to think of the shortness of this life and the
glory to come. So he disappeared. Probably he went to some part where
he was not known from any other wandering beggar. “Wonderful long
white beards,” said Ann, “men had in those days--longer than that old
harper’s, and to-day there are none even like him. Men to-day can do a
number of things which the old ages never dreamed of, but their beards
are nothing in comparison to those unhappy old days when men with those
long white beards used to sit by the roadsides, looking as if they had
come from the ends of the earth, like wise men from the East, although
they were so old that they sat still with their beards reaching to the
ground like roots. Ivor ap Cadogan was one of these.”
Mr Morgan once, overhearing Ann telling me this tale, said, “What
the book says is much better. It says that in 1399 a Welshman, named
Llewelyn ab Cadwgan, who would never speak of his family, came from
the Turkish war to reside at Cardiff; and so great was his wealth that
he gave to everyone that asked or could be seen to be in need of it.
He built a large mansion near the old white tower, for the support
of the sick and infirm. He continued to give all that was asked of
him until his wealth was all gone. He then sold his house, which was
called the New Place, and gave away the money until that also was at
an end. After this he died of want, for no one gave to him, and many
accused him of extravagant waste.” With that Mr Morgan went gladly
and, for him, rapidly to his books. Nobody seeing him then was likely
to disturb him for that evening. At his door he turned and said “Good
night” to us in a perfectly kind voice which nevertheless conveyed, in
an unquestionable manner, that he was not to be disturbed.
“Good night, Mr Morgan,” said all of us. “Good night, Ann,” said I, and
slipped out into a night full of stars and of quietly falling leaves,
which almost immediately silenced my attempt to sing “O the cuckoo is a
pretty bird” on the way home.