I HAVE now come to the most difficult part of my story. And why? Because
I do not know enough about it. And why should I not know as much about
this part as about any other part? For of course I could know nothing
about the story except Diamond had told it; and why should not Diamond
tell about the country at the back of the north wind, as well as about
his adventures in getting there? Because, when he came back, he had
forgotten a great deal, and what he did remember was very hard to tell.
Things there are so different from things here! The people there do not
speak the same language for one thing. Indeed, Diamond insisted that
there they do not speak at all. I do not think he was right, but it may
well have appeared so to Diamond. The fact is, we have different reports
of the place from the most trustworthy people. Therefore we are bound
to believe that it appears somewhat different to different people. All,
however, agree in a general way about it.
I will tell you something of what two very different people have
reported, both of whom knew more about it, I believe, than Herodotus.
One of them speaks from his own experience, for he visited the country;
the other from the testimony of a young peasant girl who came back from
it for a month's visit to her friends. The former was a great Italian
of noble family, who died more than five hundred years ago; the latter a
Scotch shepherd who died not forty years ago.
The Italian, then, informs us that he had to enter that country through
a fire so hot that he would have thrown himself into boiling glass to
cool himself. This was not Diamond's experience, but then Durante--that
was the name of the Italian, and it means Lasting, for his books will
last as long as there are enough men in the world worthy of having
them--Durante was an elderly man, and Diamond was a little boy, and so
their experience must be a little different. The peasant girl, on the
other hand, fell fast asleep in a wood, and woke in the same country.
In describing it, Durante says that the ground everywhere smelt sweetly,
and that a gentle, even-tempered wind, which never blew faster or
slower, breathed in his face as he went, making all the leaves point one
way, not so as to disturb the birds in the tops of the trees, but, on
the contrary, sounding a bass to their song. He describes also a little
river which was so full that its little waves, as it hurried along, bent
the grass, full of red and yellow flowers, through which it flowed. He
says that the purest stream in the world beside this one would look as
if it were mixed with something that did not belong to it, even although
it was flowing ever in the brown shadow of the trees, and neither sun
nor moon could shine upon it. He seems to imply that it is always the
month of May in that country. It would be out of place to describe here
the wonderful sights he saw, for the music of them is in another key
from that of this story, and I shall therefore only add from the account
of this traveller, that the people there are so free and so just and so
healthy, that every one of them has a crown like a king and a mitre like
a priest.
The peasant girl--Kilmeny was her name--could not report such grand
things as Durante, for, as the shepherd says, telling her story as I
tell Diamond's--
“Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew.
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
When she spoke of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swayed a living stream,
And the light a pure and cloudless beam:
The land of vision it would seem,
And still an everlasting dream.”
The last two lines are the shepherd's own remark, and a matter of
opinion. But it is clear, I think, that Kilmeny must have described
the same country as Durante saw, though, not having his experience, she
could neither understand nor describe it so well.
Now I must give you such fragments of recollection as Diamond was able
to bring back with him.
When he came to himself after he fell, he found himself at the back of
the north wind. North Wind herself was nowhere to be seen. Neither
was there a vestige of snow or of ice within sight. The sun too had
vanished; but that was no matter, for there was plenty of a certain
still rayless light. Where it came from he never found out; but he
thought it belonged to the country itself. Sometimes he thought it came
out of the flowers, which were very bright, but had no strong colour.
He said the river--for all agree that there is a river there--flowed
not only through, but over grass: its channel, instead of being rock,
stones, pebbles, sand, or anything else, was of pure meadow grass, not
over long. He insisted that if it did not sing tunes in people's ears,
it sung tunes in their heads, in proof of which I may mention that, in
the troubles which followed, Diamond was often heard singing; and when
asked what he was singing, would answer, “One of the tunes the river
at the back of the north wind sung.” And I may as well say at once that
Diamond never told these things to any one but--no, I had better not say
who it was; but whoever it was told me, and I thought it would be well
to write them for my child-readers.
He could not say he was very happy there, for he had neither his father
nor mother with him, but he felt so still and quiet and patient and
contented, that, as far as the mere feeling went, it was something
better than mere happiness. Nothing went wrong at the back of the north
wind. Neither was anything quite right, he thought. Only everything was
going to be right some day. His account disagreed with that of Durante,
and agreed with that of Kilmeny, in this, that he protested there was no
wind there at all. I fancy he missed it. At all events we could not do
without wind. It all depends on how big our lungs are whether the wind
is too strong for us or not.
When the person he told about it asked him whether he saw anybody he
knew there, he answered, “Only a little girl belonging to the gardener,
who thought he had lost her, but was quite mistaken, for there she was
safe enough, and was to come back some day, as I came back, if they
would only wait.”
“Did you talk to her, Diamond?”
“No. Nobody talks there. They only look at each other, and understand
everything.”
“Is it cold there?”
“No.”
“Is it hot?”
“No.”
“What is it then?”
“You never think about such things there.”
“What a queer place it must be!”
“It's a very good place.”
“Do you want to go back again?”
“No; I don't think I have left it; I feel it here, somewhere.”
“Did the people there look pleased?”
“Yes--quite pleased, only a little sad.”
“Then they didn't look glad?”
“They looked as if they were waiting to be gladder some day.”
This was how Diamond used to answer questions about that country. And
now I will take up the story again, and tell you how he got back to this
country.