the justice of my case and in your judicial discernment, but for one
other thing. What will the Goddess Clio say, or the well-deserving
knight, if I offend History? She has stated her case, Sir Bartimeus has
written it, and then so late in the day I come with a different story,
a truer but different story. What will they do? Reader, the future is
dark, uncertain and long; I dare not trust myself to it if I offend
History. Clio and Sir Bartimeus will make hay of my reputation; an
innuendo here, a foolish fact there, they know how to do it, and not a
soul will suspect the goddess of personal malice or the great historian
of pique. Rodriguez gazed then through the deep blue window, forgetful
of all around, on battles that had not all the elegance or neatness of
which our histories so tidily tell. And as he gazed upon a merry
encounter between two men on the fringe of an ancient fight he felt a
touch on his shoulder and then almost a tug, and turning round beheld
the room he was in. How long he had been absent from it in thought he
did not know, but the Professor was still standing with folded arms
where he had left him, probably well satisfied with the wonder that his
most secret art had awakened in his guest. It was Morano who touched
his shoulder, unable to hold back any longer his impatience to see the
wars; his eyes as Rodriguez turned round were gazing at his master with
dog-like wistfulness.
The absurd eagerness of Morano, his uncouth touch on his shoulder,
seemed only pathetic to Rodriguez. He looked at the Professor's face,
the nose like a hawk's beak, the small eyes deep down beside it, dark
of hue and dreadfully bright, the silent lips. He stood there uttering
no actual prohibition, concerning which Rodriguez's eyes had sought;
so, stepping aside from his window, Rodriguez beckoned Morano, who at
once ran forward delighted to see those ancient wars.
A slight look of scorn showed faint upon the Professor's face such as
you may see anywhere when a master-craftsman perceives the gaze of the
ignorant turned towards his particular subject. But he said no word,
and soon speech would have been difficult, for the loud clamour of
Morano filled the room: he had seen the wars and his ecstasies were
ungoverned. As soon as he saw those fights he looked for the Infidels,
for his religious mind most loved to see the Infidel slain. And if my
reader discern or suppose some gulf between religion and the recent
business of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, Morano, if driven to
admit any connection between murder and his daily bread, would have
said, "All the more need then for God's mercy through the intercession
of His most blessed Saints." But these words had never passed Morano's
lips, for shrewd as he was in enquiry into any matter that he desired
to know, his shrewdness was no less in avoiding enquiry where there
might be something that he desired not to know, such as the origin of
his wages as servant of the Inn of the Dragon and Knight, those
delicate gold rings with settings empty of jewels.
Morano soon recognized the Infidel by his dress, and after that no
other wars concerned him. He slapped his thigh, he shouted
encouragement, he howled vile words of abuse, partly because he
believed that this foul abuse was rightly the due of the Infidel, and
partly because he believed it delighted God.
Rodriguez stood and watched, pleased at the huge joy of the simple man.
The Slave of Orion stood watching in silence too, but who knows if he
felt pleasure or any other emotion? Perhaps his mind was simply like
ours; perhaps, as has been claimed by learned men of the best-informed
period, that mind had some control upon the comet, even when farthest
out from the paths we know. Morano turned round for a moment to
Rodriguez:
"Good wars, master, good wars," he said with a vast zest, and at once
his head was back again at that calm blue window. In that flash of the
head Rodriguez had seen his eyes, blue, round and bulging; the round
man was like a boy who in some shop window has seen, unexpected, huge
forbidden sweets. Clearly, in the war he watched things were going well
for the Cross, for such cries came from Morano as "A pretty stroke,"
"There now, the dirty Infidel," "Now see God's power shown," "Spare him
not, good knight; spare him not," and many more, till, uttered faster
and faster, they merged into mere clamorous rejoicing.
But the battles beyond the blue window seemed to move fast, and now a
change was passing across Morano's rejoicings. It was not that he swore
more for the cause of the Cross, but brief, impatient, meaningless
oaths slipped from him now; he was becoming irritable; a puzzled look,
so far as Rodriguez could see, was settling down on his features. For a
while he was silent except for the little, meaningless oaths. Then he
turned round from the glass, his hands stretched out, his face full of
urgent appeal.
"Masters," he said, "God's enemy wins!"
In answer to Morano's pitiful look Rodriguez' hand went to his
sword-hilt; the Slave of Orion merely smiled with his lips; Morano
stood there with his hands still stretched out, his face still all
appeal, and something more for there was reproach in his eyes that men
could tarry while the Cross was in danger and the Infidel lived. He did
not know that it was all finished and over hundreds of years ago, a
page of history upon which many pages were turned, and which lay as
unalterable as the fate of some warm swift creature of early Eocene
days over whose fossil today the strata lie long and silent.
"But can nothing be done, master?" he said when Rodriguez told him
this. And when Rodriguez failed him here, he turned away from the
window. To him the Infidel were game, but to see them defeating
Christian knights violated the deeps of his feelings.
Morano sulky excited little more notice from his host and his master
who had watched his rejoicings, and they seem to have forgotten this
humble champion of Christendom. The Professor slightly bowed to
Rodriguez and extended a graceful hand. He pointed to the other window.
Reader, your friend shows you his collection of stamps, his fossils,
his poems, or his luggage labels. One of them interests you, you look
at it awhile, you are ready to go away: then your friend shows you
another. This also must be seen; for your friend's collection is a
precious thing; it is that point upon huge Earth on which his spirit
has lit, on which it rests, on which it shelters even (who knows from
what storms?). To slight it were to weaken such hold as his spirit has,
in its allotted time, upon this sphere. It were like breaking the twig
of a plant upon which a butterfly rests, and on some stormy day and
late in the year.
Rodriguez felt all this dimly, but no less surely; and went to the
other window.
Below the window were those wars that were soon coming to Spain, hooded
in mist and invisible. In the centre of the window swam as profound a
blue, dwindling to paler splendour at the edge, the wandering lights
were as lovely, as in the other window just to the left; but in the
view from the right-hand window how sombre a difference. A bare yard
separated the two. Through the window to the left was colour, courtesy,
splendour; there was Death at least disguising himself, well cloaked,
taking mincing steps, bowing, wearing a plume in his hat and a decent
mask. In the right-hand window all the colours were fading, war after
war they grew dimmer; and as the colours paled Death's sole purpose
showed clearer. Through the beautiful left-hand window were killings to
be seen, and less mercy than History supposes, yet some of the fighters
were merciful, and mercy was sometimes a part of Death's courtly pose,
which went with the cloak and the plume. But in the other window
through that deep, beautiful blue Rodriguez saw Man make a new ally, an
ally who was only cruel and strong and had no purpose but killing, who
had no pretences or pose, no mask and no manner, but was only the slave
of Death and had no care but for his business. He saw it grow bigger
and stronger. Heart it had none, but he saw its cold steel core
scheming methodical plans and dreaming always destruction. Before it
faded men and their fields and their houses. Rodriguez saw the machine.
Many a proud invention of ours that Rodriguez saw raging on that
ruinous plain he might have anticipated, but not for all Spain would he
have done so: it was for the sake of Spain that he was silent about
much that he saw through that window. As he looked from war to war he
saw almost the same men fighting, men with always the same attitude to
the moment and with similar dim conception of larger, vaguer things;
grandson differed imperceptibly from grandfather; he saw them fight
sometimes mercifully, sometimes murderously, but in all the wars beyond
that twinkling window he saw the machine spare nothing.
Then he looked farther, for the wars that were farthest from him in
time were farther away from the window. He looked farther and saw the
ruins of Peronne. He saw them all alone with their doom at night, all
drenched in white moonlight, sheltering huge darkness in their stricken
hollows. Down the white street, past darkness after darkness as he went
by the gaping rooms that the moon left mourning alone, Rodriguez saw a
captain going back to the wars in that far-future time, who turned his
head a moment as he passed, looking Rodriguez in the face, and so went
on through the ruins to find a floor on which to lie down for the
night. When he was gone the street was all alone with disaster, and
moonlight pouring down, and the black gloom in the houses.
Rodriguez lifted his eyes and glanced from city to city, to Albert,
Bapaume, and Arras, his gaze moved over a plain with its harvest of
desolation lying forlorn and ungathered, lit by the flashing clouds and
the moon and peering rockets. He turned from the window and wept.
The deep round window glowed with serene blue glory. It seemed a
foolish thing to weep by that beautiful glass. Morano tried to comfort
him. That calm, deep blue, he felt, and those little lights, surely,
could hurt no one.
What had Rodriguez seen? Morano asked. But that Rodriguez would not
answer, and told no man ever after what he had seen through that window.
The Professor stood silent still: he had no comfort to offer; indeed
his magical wisdom had found none for the world.
You wonder perhaps why the Professor did not give long ago to the world
some of these marvels that are the pride of our age. Reader, let us put
aside my tale for a moment to answer this. For all the darkness of his
sinister art there may well have been some good in the Slave of Orion;
and any good there was, and mere particle even, would surely have
spared the world many of those inventions that our age has not spared
it. Blame not the age, it is now too late to stop; it is in the grip of
inventions now, and has to go on; we cannot stop content with
mustard-gas; it is the age of Progress, and our motto is Onwards. And
if there was no good in this magical man, then may it not have been he
who in due course, long after he himself was safe from life, caused our
inventions to be so deadly divulged? Some evil spirit has done it, then
why not he?
He stood there silent: let us return to our story.
Perhaps the efforts of poor clumsy Morano to comfort him cheered
Rodriguez and sent him back to the window, perhaps he turned from them
to find comfort of his own; but, however he came by it, he had a hope
that this was a passing curse that had come on the world, whose welfare
he cared for whether he lived or died, and that looking a little
farther into the future he would see Mother Earth smiling and her
children happy again. So he looked through the deep-blue luminous
window once more, beyond the battles we know. From this he turned back
shuddering.
Again he saw the Professor smile with his lips, though whether at his
own weakness, or whether with cynical mirth at the fate of the world,
Rodriguez could not say.
THE FOURTH CHRONICLE
HOW HE CAME TO THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SUN
The Professor said that in curiosity alone had been found the seeds of
all that is needful for our damnation. Nevertheless, he said, if
Rodriguez cared to see more of his mighty art the mysteries of
Saragossa were all at his guest's disposal.
Rodriguez, sad and horrified though he was, forgot none of his
courtesy. He thanked the Professor and praised the art of Saragossa,
but his faith in man and his hope for the world having been newly
disappointed, he cared little enough for the things we should care to
see or for any of the amusements that are usually dear to youth.
"I shall be happy to see anything, señor," he said to the Slave of
Orion, "that is further from our poor Earth, and to study therein and
admire your famous art."
The Professor bowed. He drew small curtains over the windows, matching
his cloak. Morano sought a glimpse through the right-hand window before
the curtains covered it. Rodriguez held him back. Enough had been seen
already, he thought, through that window for the peace of mind of the
world: but he said no word to Morano. He held him by the arm, and the
Professor covered the windows. When the little mauve curtains were
drawn it seemed to Rodriguez that the windows behind them disappeared
and were there no more; but this he only guessed from uncertain
indications.
Then the Professor drew forth his wand and went to his cupboard of
wonder. Thence he brought condiments, oils, and dews of amazement.
These he poured into a vessel that was in the midst of the room, a bowl
of agate standing alone on a table. He lit it and it all welled up in
flame, a low broad flame of the colour of pale emerald. Over this he
waved his wand, which was of exceeding blackness. Morano watched as
children watch the dancer, who goes from village to village when spring
is come, with some new dance out of Asia or some new song.[Footnote: He
doesn't, but why shouldn't he?] Rodriguez sat and waited. The Professor
explained that to leave this Earth alive, or even dead, was prohibited
to our bodies, unless to a very few, whose names were hidden. Yet the
spirits of men could by incantation be liberated, and being liberated,
could be directed on journeys by such minds as had that power passed
down to them from of old. Such journeys, he said, were by no means
confined by the hills of Earth. "The Saints," exclaimed Morano, "guard
us utterly!" But Rodriguez smiled a little. His faith was given to the
Saints of Heaven. He wondered at their wonders, he admired their
miracles, he had little faith to spare for other marvels; in fact he
did not believe the Slave of Orion.
"Do you desire such a journey?" said the Professor.
"It will delight me," answered Rodriguez, "to see this example of your
art."
"And you?" he said to Morano.
The question seemed to alarm the placid Morano, but "I follow my
master," he said.
At once the Professor stretched out his ebony wand, calling the green
flame higher. Then he put out his hands over the flame, without the
wand, moving them slowly with constantly tremulous fingers. And all at
once they heard him begin to speak. His deep voice flowed musically
while he scarcely seemed to be speaking but seemed only to be concerned
with moving his hands. It came soft, as though blown faint from
fabulous valleys, illimitably far from the land of Spain. It seemed
full not so much of magic as mere sleep, either sleep in an unknown
country of alien men, or sleep in a land dreamed sleeping a long while
since. As the travellers heard it they thought of things far away, of
mythical journeys and their own earliest years.
They did not know what he said or what language he used. At first
Rodriguez thought Moorish, then he deemed it some secret language come
down from magicians of old, while Morano merely wondered; and then they
were lulled by the rhythm of those strange words, and so enquired no
more. Rodriguez pictured some sad wandering angel, upon some
mountain-peak of African lands, resting a moment and talking to the
solitudes, telling the lonely valley the mysteries of his home. While
lulled though Morano was he gave up his alertness uneasily. All the
while the green flame flooded upwards: all the while the tremulous
fingers made curious shadows. The shadow seemed to run to Rodriguez and
beckon him thence: even Morano felt them calling. Rodriguez closed his
eyes. The voice and the Moorish spells made now a more haunting melody:
they were now like a golden organ on undiscoverable mountains. Fear
came on Morano at the thought: who had power to speak like this? He
grasped Rodriguez by the wrist. "Master!" he said, but at that moment
on one of those golden spells the spirit of Rodriguez drifted away from
his body, and out of the greenish light of the curious room; unhampered
by weight, or fatigue, or pain, or sleep; and it rose above the rocks
and over the mountain, an unencumbered spirit: and the spirit of Morano
followed.
The mountain dwindled at once; the Earth swept out all round them and
grew larger, and larger still, and then began to dwindle. They saw then
that they were launched upon some astounding journey. Does my reader
wonder they saw when they had no eyes? They saw as they had never seen
before, with sight beyond what they had ever thought to be possible.
Our eyes gather in light, and with the little rays of light that they
bring us we gather a few images of things as we suppose them to be.
Pardon me, reader, if I call them things as we suppose them to be; call
them by all means Things As They Really Are, if you wish. These images
then, this tiny little brainful that we gather from the immensities,
are all brought in by our eyesight upside-down, and the brain corrects
them again; and so, and so we know something. An oculist will tell you
how it all works. He may admit it is all a little clumsy, or for the
dignity of his profession he may say it is not at all. But be this as
it may, our eyes are but barriers between us and the immensities. All
our five senses that grope a little here and touch a little there, and
seize, and compare notes, and get a little knowledge sometimes, they
are only barriers between us and what there is to know. Rodriguez and
Morano were outside these barriers. They saw without the imperfections
of eyesight; they heard on that journey what would have deafened ears;
they went through our atmosphere unburned by speed, and were unchilled
in the bleak of the outer spaces. Thus freed of the imperfections of
the body they sped, no less upon a terrible journey, whose direction as
yet Rodriguez only began to fear.
They had seen the stars pale rapidly and then the flash of dawn. The
Sun rushed up and at once began to grow larger. Earth, with her curved
sides still diminishing violently, was soon a small round garden in
blue and filmy space, in which mountains were planted. And still the
Sun was growing wider and wider. And now Rodriguez, though he knew
nothing of Sun or planets, perceived the obvious truth of their
terrible journey: they were heading straight for the Sun. But the
spirit of Morano was merely astounded; yet, being free of the body he
suffered none of those inconveniences that perturbation may bring to
us: spirits do not gasp, or palpitate, or weaken, or sicken.
The dwindling Earth seemed now no more than the size of some unmapped
island seen from a mountain-top, an island a hundred yards or so
across, looking like a big table.
Speed is comparative: compared to sound, their pace was beyond
comparison; nor could any modern projectile attain any velocity
comparable to it; even the speed of explosion was slow to it. And yet
for spirits they were moving slowly, who being independent of all
material things, travel with such velocities as that, for instance, of
thought. But they were controlled by one still dwelling on Earth, who
used material things, and the material that the Professor was using to
hurl them upon their journey was light, the adaptation of which to this
purpose he had learned at Saragossa. At the pace of light they were
travelling towards the Sun.
They crossed the path of Venus, far from where Venus then was, so that
she scarcely seemed larger to them; Earth was but little bigger than
the Evening Star, looking dim in that monstrous daylight.
Crossing the path of Mercury, Mercury appeared huger than our Moon, an
object weirdly unnatural; and they saw ahead of them the terrific glare
in which Mercury basks, from a Sun whose withering orb had more than
doubled its width since they came from the hills of Earth. And after
this the Sun grew terribly larger, filling the centre of the sky, and
spreading and spreading and spreading. It was now that they saw what
would have dazzled eyes, would have burned up flesh and would have
shrivelled every protection that our scientists' ingenuity could have
devised even today. To speak of time there is meaningless. There is
nothing in the empty space between the Sun and Mercury with which time
is at all concerned. Far less is there meaning in time wherever the
spirits of men are under stress. A few minutes' bombardment in a
trench, a few hours in a battle, a few weeks' travelling in a trackless
country; these minutes, these hours, these weeks can never be few.
Rodriguez and Morano had been travelling about six or seven minutes,
but it seems idle to say so.
And then the Sun began to fill the whole sky in front of them. And in
another minute, if minutes had any meaning, they were heading for a
boundless region of flame that, left and right, was everywhere, and now
towered above them, and went below them into a flaming abyss.
And now Morano spoke to Rodriguez. He thought towards him, and
Rodriguez was aware of his thinking: it is thus that spirits
communicate.
"Master," he said, "when it was all spring in Spain, years ago when I
was thin and young, twenty years gone at least; and the butterflies
were come, and song was everywhere; there came a maid bare-footed over
a stream, walking through flowers, and all to pluck the anemones." How
fair she seemed even now, how bright that far spring day. Morano told
Rodriguez not with his blundering lips: they were closed and resting
deeply millions of miles away: he told him as spirits tell. And in that
clear communication Rodriguez saw all that shone in Morano's memory,
the grace of the young girl's ankles, the thrill of Spring, the
anemones larger and brighter than anemones ever were, the hawks still
in clear sky; earth happy and heaven blue, and the dreams of youth
between. You would not have said, had you seen Morano's coarse fat
body, asleep in a chair in the Professor's room, that his spirit
treasured such delicate, nymph-like, pastoral memories as now shone
clear to Rodriguez. No words the blunt man had ever been able to utter
had ever hinted that he sometimes thought like a dream of pictures by
Watteau. And now in that awful space before the power of the terrible
Sun, spirit communed with spirit, and Rodriguez saw the beauty of that
far day, framed all about the beauty of one young girl, just as it had
been for years in Morano's memory. How shall I tell with words what
spirit sang wordless to spirit? We poets may compete with each other in
words; but when spirits give up the purest gold of their store, that
has shone far down the road of their earthly journey, cheering tired
hearts and guiding mortal feet, our words shall barely interpret.
Love, coming long ago over flowers in Spain, found Morano; words did
not tell the story, words cannot tell it; as a lake reflects a cloud in
the blue of heaven, so Rodriguez understood and felt and knew this
memory out of the days of Morano's youth. "And so, master," said
Morano, "I sinned, and would indeed repent, and yet even now at this
last dread hour I cannot abjure that day; and this is indeed Hell, as
the good father said."