And Conachúr lived anew as he drove homewards.
He did not see the humble people who louted and stared as he dashed by,
nor the others who stood at strict attention marvelling at a king who
returned no salute.
His feet were so light he could have bounded in the chariot, but his
heart was lighter still.
It flew into his brain and stayed there, buoyant as a bubble, creative
as a moon; so charging his mind with its own essence that all which
was material merged in a flash to the spirit. The earth was eased of
grossness and became a shimmer of colours and transparencies; an aura
of gold and green rose on the crests of the manifolding hills. The
tender involutions of no bird’s song were heard, for all songs merged
into that of the lyrical earth and the clouds and the shining spaces
between them. The world was singing for Conachúr, and he was song. For
to the clairvoyance of love all that is unseen takes on sweet shape,
and all that we see we are shapen to. A new world emerges softly
from the old: not imperceptibly and unreckoned, but by such divine
gradations as we may note and rejoice in. Then the creator is manifest
in his creation, and all in us. We are it and all: we are the soul of
the world, and our own soul: we are the victors, for we are beyond
fear: we are the masters, for we are beyond desire.
How should fear or lust reach to the tops we spurn! The sour-faced
beggar shaking his oaken bowl may have our purse and a clasp of the
hand to boot. Yon shaking anatomy that hovers and limps shall have our
own health if none other is at hand, for all now is soft and easy, and
at one bend of a brow the Land of Heart’s Desire may be in being.
So Conachúr went, dreaming; the shaper of a world that was malleable to
his wish.
To this hour he had triumphed in all that he had undertaken, but he
had been unfriended, forging alone as in granite all that he willed,
and feeling at every instant the rigour of life and the intractability
of events. He saw that nothing he had yet done was so completed that it
might be forgotten. Here an event had left dissatisfaction in its wake:
there it had left an enemy. But from henceforth his work would have the
clean finish of the spring, and all that he planted should grow from
the root.
He would have double strength; his titanic own, and hers, breathing in
him like an elixir, exciting him, heartening him. She was--what was
she not! She was his to-morrow. She was his all and his last chance.
She was his future, vivifying all that had grown stale, and unfolding
horizons where an uttermost end had seemed. For at times an ending
comes on every man, and thereafter there is nothing to strive for,
there being nothing left to hope for; energy winces from the thought
of any task, and the future but prolongs a present that is insipid and
wearisome.
The departure of Maeve had been such an ending for Conachúr. Life had
halted there for him, or had moved in a round of sameness which chafed
and tormented his whirling mind. But he could forget her now and start
afresh, for when he looked on Deirdre she went into his blood and into
his bones, so that to be removed from her was as though he were distant
from his own arms or his own head.
He was impatient, and wished that all should know, as at one shout, his
glorious news, but he yet would not speak of it to any one. He knew
that he might safely leave the publishing of that event to Lavarcham,
and that ere nightfall every house in a radius of twenty miles would be
talking of the king’s marriage.
Down every road that ran from Emain Macha messengers would be going
in swift chariots to tell the tale and to bid those who were worthy
to the wedding feast. Not stopping for more than a few minutes at any
place; changing horses at the guest-houses, and dashing off again; some
deep into Connacht in the west, others eastwards into Leinster, and
more again speeding the long centre of Ireland to the two Munsters.
These distant kings and princes would think they had been slighted by
such short notice, or by a notice that could only reach them after the
event. But his wedding feast should endure for three months, and there
would be pleasure and leisure for all. At this moment, if Lavarcham was
doing her duty (and she was never neglectful), the ostlers should be
pulling the great chariots out and backing the snorting horses between
the shafts.
To-morrow would be a new day.
Every person who observed the king would look on him with something
else in the regard. Many reserves would be down, many barriers broken;
for all people look differently on the king when he is in love, and
they try to bathe in his fortunate regard.
The men would glance at him shyly and subtly: each look a reminder
and a well-wishing. While he stood among them he and they would laugh
without any word being said, and they would be more familiar with him
than they would otherwise dare. But if one dared to clap his shoulder,
Conachúr would clap that comrade’s shoulder again.
The women would look at him more openly; more softly and broodingly;
each mutely assuring him that all which was to come would be good; each
telling him that woman guards for man all that which no man can give;
each telling that because he loved one woman he must love all, and that
women are truly lovable, and are precious beyond all precious things.
He would see that they all wished to touch him, so that he might know
they were truly woman and not different from her he delighted in;
and he would see them turn from him, humbled and aggrieved, seeking
anxiously in other eyes for the confirmations which he must not give.
For when the king is in love the world goes mad, and all who love him
must cherish each other or sicken of their suppressed loyalty and
adoration.
For weeks to come Ulster would be an orgy. The man who had dodged
marriage as a fox tricks the hen-wife would tumble into it with a thud:
those who craved for and feared it would find that they were married
in a morning: maids would become daring and men shy. From one, walking
coyly in the moonlight, a shoulder-band might slip, and the moon and a
man would be rewarded for being out at night. One who stood and spoke
might suddenly shape her lips thus, and the man who looked would go
blind in his brains and stay so to the last quarter of the moon. A wave
of frolic and daring would go from the king, and thrill to the last
hamlet in his kingdom; for although war is glorious, death is its ruler
and companion; but from love life flows and everything that is lovely.
And, as his heart rose thus, Conachúr knew that he was the life of his
people, for he was king and lover, and that all swung about him as the
world swings round the sun.