APHORISMS
FOR a time Peregrine was as one distraught. It may not be far beside the
mark to term him mad. He saw himself in the past mocked by a woman; he
saw himself now mocked by a man. In both he saw vaguely the shadow of
mockery by a Higher Power. Truly a hard state. Yet strangely, for all
that, he lost not hold on his quest. Where heart’s desire had urged him
in the past, fierce obstinacy now spurred him forward. The face of the
woman he sought was ever before his mind. He believed her withheld and
hidden from him by conspiring Fate. This roused him to battle. He would
move Earth and Heaven and Hell to find her; die, if need be, in the
attempt. This you may guess he was very like to do. Already his
wanderings had told on him. It was now mid-winter, as we have seen, and
that season is not one for e’en the hardiest to be afoot at all times,
dependent on chance for shelter.
Of late he had aged considerably. This was not over strange, since age
comes not with the mere passing of Time, but with the pressure of his
finger in the passing. He had pressed hard on Peregrine. You see him
very different from the love-bathed youth, who had sat by the sundial in
the flower-scented garden; the joyous youth, who had wandered the fields
with Pippo; the wounded youth, who had lain in the wood, his cheek
pressed to Mother Earth; the egoist, who had held his Council of Arts in
Castle Syrtes; who, dauntless, had fought his way through the forest. He
was a man soul-sick, weary, desperate, pursuer of a forlorn hope, so men
would term it.
Here it was that a certain duplex side of his character showed itself.
One part of his nature would have ranged itself on the side of men,
would have stood with them for the madness of his quest, its mere
foolishness rather. This part of his nature he strangled very fiercely.
Pride had a hand in the strangling. He would make his quest true, prove
himself no fool. He saw himself in a sense creator of what he sought. He
himself, by virtue of his belief in the woman, would materialize her, if
she existed but in realms of fancy. Thus, I say, he would prove himself
no fool. This was veritable madness. Yet I have told you Peregrine was
for the moment not fully sane.
Leaving the cottage of illusion,—this is what he termed it to himself,
and very bitterly,—he had made for the south, to the pass between the
hills. Descending for a time, the path had at length led upwards between
more pine woods, like to that he had lately traversed. Misery and the
whiteness of the snow combined to daze him. He walked like a man in a
trance. Subconsciously his mind worked, came to the state I have shown
you. In this mood he formed certain aphorisms, some possibly already
known by him; some new, created from old material.
“_Cogito, ergo sum_,—I think, therefore I exist,” being the first of
them it led easily to his second.
“Thought is a creative power. Think deeply, and you will create
greatly.” _Ergo_, by dwelling with every particle of his mind on the
thought of the woman he sought, he would create her.
“Hope is a collective force. Terror and doubt disperse what you have
thereby acquired.” _Ergo_, hope was the thought by which he would
collect material for his creation. To allow terror or doubt to work
alongside would be to undertake one of the seven labours of Hercules.
“Desire, being also thought and thereby creative, brings its own
attainment.” _Ergo_, he desired the woman he sought and would attain to
her. This was as certain as that a wheat seed can bring forth nought but
wheat. It became, to his mind, a law of Nature. You see each of his
aphorisms harping to the same end. Doubtless there were plenty more of
them. Those I have given you will suffice.
Coming near the summit of the hill he made out a wayside cross,
backgrounded by the pines. It stood weather-beaten and solitary. Here
and there the stone was hidden by yellow fungus and grey lichen. Below
it knelt a figure. For a breathing space Peregrine felt his heart bound.
The next instant he had himself and his heart well under control. No
second time would he give way to mere fancy. Here he was very wise.
Coming further he saw a little peasant girl, ragged and ill clad. At the
foot of the cross she had laid a bunch of holly. She turned on his
approach, looking at him with wide childish eyes.
“I give you good-day, sir,” she said shyly, as he paused a moment.
“Good-day,” responded Peregrine, though in no mood to term it truly
good.
“I—I have laid the holly there,” she said, as seeing him still stop she
sought for conversation.
“A pretty thought,” said Peregrine indulgently. It was no more in his
nature to snub a child than to strike an animal.
“I often bring flowers,” pursued the little maid. “First there are
daffodils and primroses to bring. They are very fresh and sweet. Later
come bluebells and herb Robert. They are not so pleasant-scented. Next
come roses and honeysuckle. They are the most fragrant of all. In the
autumn there are always leaves, which are as pretty as flowers, when
they are red and gold. Now there is holly.”
“That is pretty too,” said Peregrine.
“Yes,” replied the child. “But it is sad. It is very thorny, and the
berries are red like blood. When I see it I think of the crown of
thorns, and Christ’s death.”
“A sorrowful fancy,” said Peregrine, and somewhat uneasily.
“’Tis not a fancy,” averred the child, discriminating nicely. “’Tis a
thought. Fancies may not be over good.”
“Truly,” smiled Peregrine, finding amusement despite himself at the
earnest tone of the small discriminator. “What manner of fancies, may I
ask?”
Gravely she surveyed him. There was no mockery in his smile. An’ there
had been she would have held her peace. Instead she cogitated, seeking
to make her meaning clear.
“I know,” she said wisely after a moment, “that there are evil spirits
in the world. They roam abroad, especially in darkness. I used to fancy
we were all safer from their power from Christmas till Ascension Day. I
fancied Christ truly on the earth during that time. After Ascension Day
He seemed further away, and sometimes I was frighted. I told this to
Father Bernard. He said that it was merely fancy. He said Our Lord was
ever present now upon the earth in the Blessed Sacrament, in greater
glory now than when He lived on earth before. I have forgotten what more
he said; but I am no longer frighted when Ascension Day is past. You
see, what I held before was fancy, and—and—I cannot tell you rightly,
but Father Bernard would show you that fancies are not the same as
thoughts.”
“Humph!” said Peregrine, having no mind to test the perspicacity of
Father Bernard or any other priest on the matter. He hitched his cloak
closer around him, ready to start again on his way. The movement
disclosed his tabor hanging by a frayed ribbon from his neck. The child
saw it; curiosity was quick astir.
“What is that?” she demanded, finger pointing.
“My tabor,” returned Peregrine.
“Tabor?” she queried. The word as well as the instrument was unknown to
her. “What is a tabor?”
“A musical instrument,” said Peregrine, smiling at the little ignoramus.
“Music!” Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed. “Ah, play it!” This was
on a note of deep entreaty.
Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. Here was an interlude in his former
mood of blackness. It was not wholly distasteful. You have seen that he
favoured children. He found quaintness in this one.
“What shall I play for you?” he demanded, unslinging the instrument.
“Play while I sing,” she said firmly. “That will sound well.”
Peregrine chuckled. “Truly that depends on the singing,” quoth he. “On,
then, with the song.”
Birdlike her voice rose in the pure air. Peregrine catching the melody
came in with the tabor. Here is what she sang.
Of one that is so fair and bright
_Velut maris stella_,
Brighter than the day is light,
_Parens et puella_:
I cry to thee, thou see to me,
Lady, pray thy Son for me,
_Tam pia_,
That I may come to thee
_Maria_.
All this world was forlorn
_Eva peccatrice_,
Till our Lord was here born
_De te genetrice_.
With _ave_ it went away
Darkling night, and comes the day
_Salutis_;
The well springeth out of thee,
_Virtutis_.
Lady, flower of each thing,
_Rosa sine spina_,
Thou bear’st Jesus, Heaven’s King,
_Gratia divina_:
Of all thou bear’st the prize,
Lady, queen of paradise
_Electa_:
Maid mild, Mother _es
Effecta_.
“There,” she cried triumphant, as she ended, most innocently pleased
with the performance, “I said it would sound well.”
“Liquid silver notes from a throat of gold,” said Peregrine, verily
astonished. “An’ I had not other matters on hand, you and I might well
roam the world together, and men would truly hearken to us, or they are
greater dullards than even I judge them.”
She looked at him with longing eyes. His words held open a vista of
bliss before her. But she shook her head sadly.
“It cannot be. I have work to do,” she said sorrowful.
“For that matter so indeed have I,” quoth Peregrine. “What manner of
work is thine?”
“I mind my father’s goats,” she responded. “What work is yours?”
“I seek some one,” said Peregrine grimly.
“Some one you have lost?”
“Some one I have never found,” was the answer.
“Oh,” responded the child perplexed. Then shyly, “I must be about my
work. I thank you, sir. God speed you with your seeking.” Waiting for no
response she nodded to him, turned off into the pinewood.
Peregrine went slowly on his way.
The interlude had come happily. There is a healthful sanity in a child’s
company, even if it endure but a brief space. Peregrine felt his mind
somewhat cleansed of the murkiness which had enshrouded it. He began to
picture the woman he sought as present with him. This eased his mind for
a while, even though it tantalized. It lifted him to a more exalted
mood. He identified her with the Spirit of Life around him, saw her
passing over the snow swift-footed, fancied her coming from among the
pines towards him, heard her voice in the light breeze which stirred
them. He held her thus in his thought throughout the day. He saw her
image in the glowing sunset, fancied the purpling light across the hills
the spreading of her veil. So far so good. With the night, fatigue
descended on him. There comes a point in this state when fancy cannot
readily be embraced, nor even held though formerly present. Reality is
required upon which to rest the mind. This Peregrine had not. Fancy
slipping from him left him desolate. He was also very hungry. Fate had
thrown no dwelling in his path whereat he could beg bread. Therefore he
had not broken his fast since early morning. The needs of nature joining
with desolation of mind to bear him down, he found himself heavily
weighted.
Darkness lay around him. The sky, which at close of sunset had clouded,
brought very meagre light to guide him. Only the faint glimmer of the
white road before him gave him his route. He stumbled on, sinking at
times knee deep in the snow, where it lay drifted beneath the wall.
The wind began to rise, and with it feathery flakes came silent and
insidious. They touched his cheek like soft cold kisses. You would never
have dreamed danger in their tenderness. They came faster, thicker. The
wind swirled them in a dancing maze. A few steps further, and a blizzard
was upon him. The wind rushing from the north smote him that he could
barely stand. The snow leaped and flashed around him, blinding,
suffocating. He staggered on doggedly.
“An’ I stop now I never find her.” That was his thought, barely
articulate even to his own mind.
In his stress forgotten habit came to him. A prayer rose to his lips. He
put it swift aside. Long ago he had prayed, believed in prayer, in God,
in a woman he had created,—a woman who had prayed. She had mocked at
him; cast him from her. Therefore he had put her and her beliefs from
him, and with them his own, being like to hers. In this you see sheer
stupidity, and rightly. The Creator is not responsible for hypocrisy in
His creatures. That is where the Devil comes in with his handling of
matters. This Peregrine had not seen formerly, nor was like to do so
now, blinded and stupefied as he was by his conflict with the snow.
Putting prayer aside, then, he trusted to his own efforts. It is certain
that he lacked not courage of a kind. His arm up shielding his face, he
struggled on. His breath came in sobbing gasps. A dark mass looming
before him brought him to a halt. From out the mass gleamed a faint
light piercing the snow-driven atmosphere. He took a step towards it,
and sank in a drift to his thigh. For a moment he struggled, but to sink
the deeper. Well-nigh spent, drowsiness was falling on him. It seemed
that further effort availed him nought. As well rest now as not; rest
and sleep.
In the blinding snow around him he thought he saw a woman standing. She
came nearer, bending to him. Now indeed he cried, “At last!” and
stretched out his arms. Even as he cried, he saw her eyes. They were
avenging, terrible.... The snow was like a white flame round her....
Shuddering with more than cold, he looked full at her. Then
unconsciousness fell upon him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------