XXI

Some time after this I was surprised one morning at the sudden entrance

of Amroth into my cell. He came in with a very bright and holiday

aspect, and, assuming a paternal air, said that he had heard a very

creditable account of my work and conduct, and that he had obtained

leave for me to have an exeat. I suppose that I showed signs of

impatience at the interruption, for he broke into a laugh, and said,

"Well, I am going to insist. I believe you are working too hard, and we

must not overstrain our faculties. It was bad enough, in the old days,

but then it was generally the poor body which suffered first. But indeed

it is quite possible to overwork here, and you have the dim air of the

pale student. Come," he said, "whatever happens, do not become priggish.

Not to want a holiday is a sign of spiritual pride. Besides, I have

some curious things to show you."

I got up and said that I was ready, and Amroth led the way like a boy

out for a holiday. He was brimming over with talk, and told me some

stories about my friends in the land of delight, interspersing them with

imitation of their manner and gesture, which made me giggle--Amroth was

an admirable mimic. "I had hopes of Charmides," he said; "your stay

there aroused his curiosity. But he has gone back to his absurd tones

and half-tones, and is nearly insupportable. Cynthia is much more

sensible, but Lucius is a nuisance, and Charmides, by the way, has

become absurdly jealous of him. They really are very silly; but I have a

pleasant plot, which I will unfold to you."

As we went down the interminable stairs, I said to Amroth, "There is a

question I want to ask you. Why do we have to go and come, up and down,

backwards and forwards, in this absurd way, as if we were still in the

body? Why not just slip off the leads, and fly down over the crags like

a pair of pigeons? It all seems to me so terribly material."

Amroth looked at me with a smile. "I don't advise you to try," he said.

"Why, little brother, of course we are just as limited here in these

ways. The material laws of earth are only a type of the laws here. They

all have a meaning which remains true."

"But," I said, "we can visit the earth with incredible rapidity?"

"How can I explain?" said Amroth. "Of course we can do that, because the

material universe is so extremely small in comparison. All the stars in

the world are here but as a heap of sand, like the motes which dance in

a sunbeam. There is no question of size, of course! But there is such a

thing as spiritual nearness and spiritual distance for all that. The

souls who do not return to earth are very far off, as you will sometime

see. But we messengers have our short cuts, and I shall take advantage

of them to-day."

We went out of the great door of the fortress, and I felt a sense of

relief. It was good to put it all behind one. For a long time I talked

to Amroth about all my doings. "Come," he said at last, "this will never

do! You are becoming something of a bore! Do you know that your talk is

very provincial? You seem to have forgotten about every one and

everything except your Philips and Annas--very worthy creatures, no

doubt--and the Master, who is a very able man, but not the little

demigod you believe. You are hypnotised! It is indeed time for you to

have a holiday. Why, I believe you have half forgotten about me, and yet

you made a great fuss when I quitted you."

I smiled, frowned, blushed. It was indeed true. Now that he was with me

I loved him as well, indeed better than ever; but I had not been

thinking very much about him.

We went over the moorlands in the keen air, Amroth striding cleanly and

lightly over the heather. Then we began to descend into the valley,

through a fine forest country, somewhat like the chestnut-woods of the

Apennines. The view was of incomparable beauty and width. I could see a

great city far out in the plain, with a river entering it and leaving

it, like a ribbon of silver. There were rolling ridges beyond. On the

left rose huge, shadowy, snow-clad hills, rising to one tremendous dome

of snow.

"Where are you going to take me?" I said to Amroth.

"Never mind," said he; "it's my day and my plan for once. You shall see

what you shall see, and it will amuse me to hear your ingenuous

conjectures."

We were soon on the outskirts of the city we had seen, which seemed a

different kind of place from any I had yet visited. It was built, I

perceived, upon an exactly conceived plan, of a stately, classical kind

of architecture, with great gateways and colonnades. There were people

about, rather silent and serious-looking, soberly clad, who saluted us

as we passed, but made no attempt to talk to us. "This is rather a

tiresome place, I always think," said Amroth; "but you ought to see it."

We went along the great street and reached a square. I was surprised at

the elderly air of all we met. We found ourselves opposite a great

building with a dome, like a church. People were going in under the

portico, and we went in with them. They treated us as strangers, and

made courteous way for us to pass.

Inside, the footfalls fell dumbly upon a great carpeted floor. It was

very like a great church, except that there was no altar or sign of

worship. At the far end, under an alcove, was a statue of white marble

gleaming white, with head and hand uplifted. The whole place had a

solemn and noble air. Out of the central nave there opened a series of

great vaulted chapels; and I could now see that in each chapel there

was a dark figure, in a sort of pulpit, addressing a standing audience.

There were names on scrolls over the doors of the light iron-work

screens which separated the chapels from the nave, but they were in a

language I did not understand.

Amroth stopped at the third of the chapels, and said, "Here, this will

do." We came in, and as before there was a courteous notice taken of us.

A man in black came forward, and led us to a high seat, like a pew, near

the preacher, from which we could survey the crowd. I was struck with

their look of weariness combined with intentness.

The lecturer, a young man, had made a pause, but upon our taking our

places, he resumed his speech. It was a discourse, as far as I could

make out, on the development of poetry; he was speaking of lyrical

poetry. I will not here reproduce it. I will only say that anything more

acute, delicate, and discriminating, and, I must add, more entirely

valueless and pedantic, I do not think I ever heard. It must have

required immense and complicated knowledge. He was tracing the

development of a certain kind of dramatic lyric, and what surprised me

was that he supplied the subtle intellectual connection, the missing

links, so to speak, of which there is no earthly record. Let me give a

single instance. He was accounting for a rather sudden change of thought

in a well-known poet, and he showed that it had been brought about by

his making the acquaintance of a certain friend who had introduced him

to a new range of subjects, and by his study of certain books. These

facts are unrecorded in his published biography, but the analysis of the

lecturer, done in a few pointed sentences, not only carried conviction

to the mind, but just, so to speak, laid the truth bare. And yet it was

all to me incredibly sterile and arid. Not the slightest interest was

taken in the emotional or psychological side; it was all purely and

exactly scientific. We waited until the end of the address, which was

greeted with decorous applause, and the hall was emptied in a moment.

We visited other chapels where the same sort of thing was going on in

other subjects. It all produced in me a sort of stupefaction, both at

the amazing knowledge involved, and in the essential futility of it all.

Before we left the building we went up to the statue, which represented

a female figure, looking upwards, with a pure and delicate beauty of

form and gesture that was inexpressibly and coldly lovely.

We went out in silence, which seemed to be the rule of the place.

When we came away from the building we were accosted by a very grave and

courteous person, who said that he perceived that we were strangers, and

asked if he could be of any service to us, and whether we proposed to

make a stay of any duration. Amroth thanked him, and said smilingly that

we were only passing through. The gentleman said that it was a pity,

because there was much of interest to hear. "In this place," he said

with a deprecating gesture, "we grudge every hour that is not devoted to

thought." He went on to inquire if we were following any particular line

of study, and as our answers were unsatisfactory, he said that we could

not do better than begin by attending the school of literature. "I

observed," he said, "that you were listening to our Professor, Sylvanus,

with attention. He is devoting himself to the development of poetical

form. It is a rich subject. It has generally been believed that poets

work by a sort of native inspiration, and that the poetic gift is a sort

of heightening of temperament. But Sylvanus has proved--I think I may go

so far as to say this--that this is all pure fancy, and what is worse,

unsound fancy. It is all merely a matter of heredity, and the apparent

accidents on which poetical expression depends can be analysed exactly

and precisely into the most commonplace and simple elements. It is only

a question of proportion. Now we who value clearness of mind above

everything, find this a very refreshing thought. The real crown and sum

of human achievement, in the intellectual domain, is to see things

clearly and exactly, and upon that clearness all progress depends. We

have disposed by this time of most illusions; and the same scientific

method is being strenuously applied to all other processes of human

endeavour. It is even hinted that Sylvanus has practically proved that

the imaginative element in literature is purely a taint of barbarism,

though he has not yet announced the fact. But many of his class are

looking forward to his final lecture on the subject as to a profoundly

sensational event, which is likely to set a deep mark upon all our

conceptions of literary endeavour. So that," he said with a tolerant

smile, gently rubbing his hands together, "our life here is not by any

means destitute of the elements of excitement, though we most of us, of

course, aim at the acquisition of a serene and philosophic temper. But

I must not delay you," he added; "there is much to see and to hear, and

you will be welcomed everywhere: and indeed I am myself somewhat closely

engaged, though in a subject which is not fraught with such polite

emollience. I attend the school of metaphysics, from which we have at

last, I hope, eliminated the last traces of that debasing element of

psychology, which has so long vitiated the exact study of the subject."

He took himself off with a bow, and I gazed blankly at Amroth. "The

conversation of that very polite person," I said, "is like a bad dream!

What is this extraordinarily depressing place? Shall I have to undergo a

course here?"

"No, my dear boy," said Amroth. "This is rather out of your depth. But I

am somewhat disappointed at your view of the situation. Surely these are

all very important matters? Your disposition is, I am afraid, incurably

frivolous! How could people be more worthily employed than in getting

rid of the last traces of intellectual error, and in referring

everything to its actual origin? Did not your heart burn within you at

his luminous exposition? I had always thought you a boy of intellectual

promise."

"Amroth," I said, "I will not be made fun of. This is the most dreadful

place I have ever seen or conceived of! It frightens me. The dryness of

pure science is terrifying enough, but after all that has a kind of

strange beauty, because it deals either with transcendental ideas of

mathematical relation, or with the deducing of principle from

accumulated facts. But here the object appears to be to eliminate the

human element from humanity. I insist upon knowing where you have

brought me, and what is going on here."

"Well, then," said Amroth, "I will conceal it from you no longer. This

is the paradise of thought, where meagre and spurious philosophers, and

all who have submerged life in intellect, have their reward. It _is_,

as you say, a very dreary place for children of nature like you and me.

But I do not suppose that there is a happier or a busier place in all

our dominions. The worst of it is that it is so terribly hard to get out

of. It is a blind alley and leads nowhere. Every step has to be

retraced. These people have to get a very severe dose of homely life to

do them any good; and the worst of it is that they are so entirely

virtuous. They have never had the time or the inclination to be anything

else. And they are among the most troublesome and undisciplined of all

our people. But I see you have had enough; and unless you wish to wait

for Professor Sylvanus's sensational pronouncement, we will go

elsewhere, and have some other sort of fun. But you must not be so much

upset by these things."

"It would kill me," I said, "to hear any more of these lectures, and if

I had to listen to much of our polite friend's conversation, I should go

out of my mind. I would rather fall into the hands of the cragmen! I

would rather have a stand-up fight than be slowly stifled with

interesting information. But where do these unhappy people come from?"

"A few come from universities," said Amroth, "but they are not as a rule

really learned men. They are more the sort of people who subscribe to

libraries, and belong to local literary societies, and go into a good

many subjects on their own account. But really learned men are almost

always more aware of their ignorance than of their knowledge, and

recognise the vitality of life, even if they do not always exhibit it.

But come, we are losing time, and we must go further afield."