"Well," said Amroth, with a smile, as we went out into the forest, "I am
afraid that the last two visits have been rather a strain. We must find
something a little less serious; but I am going to fill up all your
time. You had got too much taken up with your psychology, and we must
not live too much on theory, and spin problems, like the spider, out of
our own insides; but we will not spend too much time in trudging over
this country, though it is well worth it. Did you ever see anything more
beautiful than those pine-trees on the slope there, with the blue
distance between their stems? But we must not make a business of
landscape-gazing like our friend Charmides! We are men of affairs, you
and I. Come, I will show you a thing. Shut your eyes for a minute and
give me your hand. Now!"
A sudden breeze fanned my face, sweet and odorous, like the wind out of
a wood. "Now," said Amroth, "we have arrived! Where do you think we
are?"
The scene had changed in an instant. We were in a wide, level country,
in green water-meadows, with a full stream brimming its grassy banks, in
willowy loops. Not far away, on a gently rising ground, lay a long,
straggling village, of gabled houses, among high trees. It was like the
sort of village that you may find in the pleasant Wiltshire countryside,
and the sight filled me with a rush of old and joyful memories.
"It is such a relief," I said, "to realise that if man is made in the
image of God, heaven is made in the image of England!"
"That is only how you see it, child," said Amroth. "Some of my own
happiest days were spent at Tooting: would you be surprised if I said
that it reminded me of Tooting?"
"I am surprised at nothing," I said. "I only know that it is all very
considerate!"
We entered the village, and found a large number of people, mostly
young, going cheerfully about all sorts of simple work. Many of them
were gardening, and the gardens were full of old-fashioned flowers,
blooming in wonderful profusion. There was an air of settled peace about
the place, the peace that on earth one often dreamed of finding, and
indeed thought one had found on visiting some secluded place--only to
discover, alas! on a nearer acquaintance, that life was as full of
anxieties and cares there as elsewhere. There were one or two elderly
people going about, giving directions or advice, or lending a helping
hand. The workers nodded blithely to us, but did not suspend their work.
"What surprises me," I said to Amroth, "is to find every one so much
occupied wherever we go. One heard so much on earth about craving for
rest, that one grew to fancy that the other life was all going to be a
sort of solemn meditation, with an occasional hymn."
"Yes, indeed," said Amroth, "it was the body that was tired--the soul is
always fresh and strong--but rest is not idleness. There is no such
thing as unemployment here, and there is hardly time, indeed, for all we
have to do. Every one really loves work. The child plays at working, the
man of leisure works at his play. The difference here is that work is
always amusing--there is no such thing as drudgery here."
We walked all through the village, which stretched far away into the
country. The whole place hummed like a beehive on a July morning. Many
sang to themselves as they went about their business, and sometimes a
couple of girls, meeting in the roadway, would entwine their arms and
dance a few steps together, with a kiss at parting. There was a sense of
high spirits everywhere. At one place we found a group of children
sitting in the shade of some trees, while a woman of middle age told
them a story. We stood awhile to listen, the woman giving us a pleasant
nod as we approached. It was a story of some pleasant adventure, with
nothing moral or sentimental about it, like an old folk-tale. The
children were listening with unconcealed delight.
When we had walked a little further, Amroth said to me, "Come, I will
give you three guesses. Who do you think, by the light of your
psychology, are all these simple people?" I guessed in vain. "Well, I
see I must tell you," he said. "Would it surprise you to learn that most
of these people whom you see here passed upon earth for wicked and
unsatisfactory characters? Yet it is true. Don't you know the kind of
boys there were at school, who drifted into bad company and idle ways,
mostly out of mere good-nature, went out into the world with a black
mark against them, having been bullied in vain by virtuous masters, the
despair of their parents, always losing their employments, and often
coming what we used to call social croppers--untrustworthy, sensual,
feckless, no one's enemy but their own, and yet preserving through it
all a kind of simple good-nature, always ready to share things with
others, never knowing how to take advantage of any one, trusting the
most untrustworthy people; or if they were girls, getting into trouble,
losing their good name, perhaps living lives of shame in big
cities--yet, for all that, guileless, affectionate, never excusing
themselves, believing they had deserved anything that befell them? These
were the sort of people to whom Christ was so closely drawn. They have
no respectability, no conventions; they act upon instinct, never by
reason, often foolishly, but seldom unkindly or selfishly. They give all
they have, they never take. They have the faults of children, and the
trustful affection of children. They will do anything for any one who is
kind to them and fond of them. Of course they are what is called
hopeless, and they use their poor bodies very ill. In their last stages
on earth they are often very deplorable objects, slinking into
public-houses, plodding raggedly and dismally along highroads, suffering
cruelly and complaining little, conscious that they are universally
reprobated, and not exactly knowing why. They are the victims of
society; they do its dirty work, and are cast away as offscourings. They
are really youthful and often beautiful spirits, very void of offence,
and needing to be treated as children. They live here in great
happiness, and are conscious vaguely of the good and great intention of
God towards them. They suffer in the world at the hands of cruel,
selfish, and stupid people, because they are both humble and
disinterested. But in all our realms I do not think there is a place of
simpler and sweeter happiness than this, because they do not take their
forgiveness as a right, but as a gracious and unexpected boon. And
indeed the sights and sounds of this place are the best medicine for
crabbed, worldly, conventional souls, who are often brought here when
they are drawing near the truth."
"Yes," I said, "this is just what I wanted. Interesting as my work has
lately been, it has wanted simplicity. I have grown to consider life too
much as a series of cases, and to forget that it is life itself that one
must seek, and not pathology. This is the best sight I have seen, for it
is so far removed from all sense of judgment. The song of the saints may
be sometimes of mercy too."