HERMITS.
"'For thou,' quoth he, 'shalt be my wife,
And honoured for my queene;
With thee I meane to lead my life,
As shortly shall be seene.'"
Far away in an interminable vista of rock and forest, which lay behind
the King's hunting-tower, like the littered ruins of a world, stretched
out the wilderness. Silent lay the piles of desolation, rank after rank,
and voiceless save for the tales which none could understand of the ages
that were gone. And wildest of all, and more silent and full of
inarticulate eloquence, was the rift where the Cañon of the Hermits
split the waste in two.
Deep into the bowels of the stony land a soft, little, laughing river
had licked its way; and now in a cool channel, flanked with
perpendicular walls, it ran on, hundreds of feet below the level of the
wilderness, and seemed to rejoice to think how unenduring beside itself
was the everlasting rock.
Once or twice in a century a man might find the spot as he followed a
trail or sought the riches that lay hidden in the hills. And there, as
he stood upon the brink of that Titanic trench, he could not but feel
the overpowering presence of the ages which were young when the
foundations of the world were laid. He could not but feel, when he
listened to the river far below, singing over its never-ending task,
what a paltry scratching was the greatest work a man could do between
the cradle and the grave.
Perhaps it was this that made the hermits choose it for a resting-place,
and its utter solitude as well. Whatever was the cause, here they had
settled, where the perpendicular walls were grimmest and highest; and
here, far up in the face of the gaunt cliffs, they had hewn out caves to
dwell in. Visibly there was no approach to them; but he who found his
way to the little meadows at the foot, and pierced the luxuriant shrubs,
that from which the mighty ramparts sprung, would have discovered on
either hand a larger cave, which served at once as entrance-hall and
corral to the monastery. From the inmost recess of these a rude spiral
stair, cut in the solid rock, led upwards to a maze of crooked and
inclined galleries communicating with the cells.
Strange as was the hermitage, the hermits were stranger still. Their
order was probably without parallel in the history of Christian
monasticism. For here in each cell lived monk and nun as man and wife.
The origin of the order was lost in obscurity and unknown. The
literature on the subject was consequently prodigious. It is hardly too
much to say that Oneirian archæology lived on it. The accessible data
were, however, confined to two rubbings of symbols, said to be carved on
the walls of all the cells. The younger members of the Royal Society
were prepared to prove from these that the order was Pagan in its
origin, and, further, that it was the original unreformed Oriental
predecessor of the Eleusinian mysteries. Smart scientific and literary
society took this view to a man; but plain people, such as local
antiquaries, believed it to be a very ancient heresy of the Carthaginian
Church. Both, perhaps, were right. The gloomy pessimism of African
Christianity took many fantastic forms; and this, the most fantastic of
all, may well have been a Montanist modification of some pre-existing
Pagan brotherhood.
At any rate, it is certain that the order was in existence when
Kophetua's ancestor founded his colony. At that time it was an isolated
print of the Cross in a waste of heathendom; and, as soon as it was
discovered, the old knight took it under his protection. He found a
place for it in his absorptive community, along with all the other ruins
of peoples and social systems with which the country was littered. He
affiliated it to his beggar-guild. The order was thereafter regularly
subsidised; the hermits were registered; and, though amongst themselves
they were all equal, they were placed under an abbot, who represented
them in their relation to the state.
In those days the community had been numerous, but now its numbers had
greatly fallen off. All children that were born to the hermits were
taken away in infancy, to be brought up at a hospital of the order in a
neighbouring town; and, though formerly many re-entered the hermitage,
most of them now preferred the licence of the beggars' guild, of which
they were free. Penelophon herself had been born in the monastery; but
her father, on the death of his wife, had claimed his children in a fit
of insane anger at Heaven, and taken to the Liberties of St. Lazarus.
The abbot had now scarce half a score of brethren and sisters to be
responsible for; but he regularly made his report, and went to receive
his subsidy. It was during one of these expeditions that Kophetua had
encountered him out hunting. He was a pale man, with a red, ragged
beard, and grey eyes, which glistened under their white lashes with an
unhealthy restlessness. His spare figure, too, stooped forward with an
air half feeble, half eager, so that his whole aspect was one of aimless
intensity. The eagerness of the man had so struck Kophetua that he had
accosted him; and, interested in his wild talk, had accompanied him,
without revealing his identity, as far as his cell.
Besides the hermits, Kophetua was probably the only man who knew where
the rocky monastery was; and it was his first thought, after he had left
Penelophon, that it was there he would be able to find a safe refuge for
her. So, with the first glimmer of dawn, he had summoned her from her
prison, and silently stolen out to the stables. Here he had saddled his
horse, and, strapping a cushion across its withers, had ridden away,
with Penelophon before him.
They spoke little as they went; she was too happy, and he half afraid.
For, in the soiled and shabby gown she wore, and with her hair knotted
loosely up as best she could, she seemed once more the same strange
thing that first had fascinated him in its rags and filth. Presently she
grew tired, and her head gradually fell upon his breast. Then, as she
nestled close to him, a sense of peace came into his heart. Even as he
had gone to fetch her from the turret he knew the desire of finding her
a refuge was not the only reason for what he did. Another lay whispering
deep down in the bottom of his thoughts. At first he would not own it;
but now, as he neared the monastery, and the beggar-maid nestled still
closer in her weariness, the little voice spoke louder, the fancy seemed
less wild, and throne and crown and people grew faint and far away.
The abbot was getting water from the stream as, having descended the
difficult bridle-way by which the hermitage was reached, they approached
it along the meadows. He looked up in great surprise to see riding
towards him a young man in a plain hunting dress, with a girl in a grey
gown, old and patched, on the saddle before him. It was many years now
since a pair had come to join the hermit community, and they were
younger than any novices he himself could remember. So he set down his
gourd, and came forward eagerly to meet them.
"Welcome! welcome, my children!" he cried. "Even so should ye come to
the holy place, riding upon one horse, even as one thought shall
henceforth bear you both through life till the end. Come, my son, trust
thy wife a moment to me, that I may lift her down. Then take her to thy
breast for ever."
A faint flush overspread Penelophon's wan face as the hermit held up his
arms to take her. And as for Kophetua, he felt his heart leap in a kind
of reckless ecstasy; the blood rushed tingling through his veins, and
the whispering thought that had lain so quiet seemed to spring up and
speak aloud.
The moments flew by, and Kophetua let them go with never a word.
Penelophon gazed with wide eyes upon him, in shy wonder that he still
held back the truth. But Kophetua could not speak. The long romantic
ride, the almost unearthly scene about him, and the abbot's unexpected
welcome had strangely affected him. That plain little word "wife" was
full of magic. It seemed to have transformed his life into an old tale
and himself into its unreal hero. An excitement of a delicacy he had
never known took possession of him. It was like playing in a masquerade,
where the audience believed what they saw was real. It was play with all
the spice of earnest, and he could not bring himself to break the spell.
It would be time enough to explain to-morrow, he thought. To-night, at
any rate, the hermit's mistake would assure them of shelter, which it
was possible he might deny if he knew the truth.
So Kophetua put his horse in the great cave on the abbot's side of the
stream, and then they all went together up to his cell, where his wife
prepared a frugal meal. Long they sat together, listening to the
anchorites as they talked of the blessedness of the married state; and
each time they spoke of them as man and wife Kophetua's heart beat with
fresh delight, and the beggar-maid blushed anew.
Night fell at last, and the hermit led them further up the long winding
stair, all dark and slippery with the dripping moisture, to the cell
that was to be theirs. There he placed a flickering lamp in a little
recess, and then, with his blessing, left them alone in the heart of
the living rock.
For a little while they occupied themselves examining the gloomy abode.
But the feeling of oppression, from the vast masses of rock that
encompassed them, grew insupportable to the King, and he led the
beggar-maid to the mouth of the cave. There they stood in silence, side
by side, looking out upon the night. Before them was the giant wall of
grey rock, pierced here and there with dark holes, that were caves like
their own. In one glimmered a feeble light, and from it crept a weird,
low sound, as of a man and a woman monotonously chanting a weary prayer.
Then it ceased; the light died out with the chant, and, save for the
voice of the heedless river, as it hurried on far below them, all was
hushed in the majesty of the night.
The sense of perfect solitude that fell upon Kophetua then was strangely
sweet. Far beyond the dark fringe of jungle that crowned the cliff
rolled the solemn stars, but even they seemed nearer than the world he
had left. As the last sign of life disappeared, he turned instinctively
to the companion of his place. He saw her dimly in the faint starlight
gazing wistfully at him. As their eyes met she leaned earnestly towards
him, and half put out her hand in an unfinished gesture of supplication.
"Trecenito!" she said, and then stopped abruptly; but into the one word
was gathered such intense emotion, such a world of inarticulate
entreaty, that it made him start, and his breath came fast. For some
moments they stood looking at each other, each deeply moved, and it was
Penelophon who braved the evil silence and spoke first.
"Trecenito," she said again, "why did you let them call us man and wife?
Tell me, am I--am I indeed your wife?"
Once more her voice seemed to shed around the dim figure an inviolable
holiness, and make him suddenly calm. Without a word he quietly stepped
towards her, and deliberately put his signet ring upon her finger. Then,
taking the grey form in his arms, he gently kissed the pure, pale face.
In another moment she heard his firm step on the rocky stairs, and he
was gone.
In the morning, when the abbot came to milk his cow, he found Kophetua
fast asleep on a heap of rushes beside his horse. Immediately he roused
him.
"My son, my son," he cried, "what do you here? Why are you not beside
your wife?"
The King sprang up, and rubbed his eyes. Then he stared a while hard at
the hermit's eager face, till he could remember where he was.
"I have no wife," he said abruptly; and, striding past the hermit, he
walked rapidly to the river, and, casting off his clothes, he leaped
into the cool and sparkling water.
But even the heedless river could not bring back to him the cynical
calm he had lost. The ancient mystery of the place hung on him still
like a spell, and the river ran by behind him, laughing in lofty
contempt, as he took his way back. No longer could he think as was his
wont. The grim cliffs seemed to bar him from his old philosophy; and out
of the dark holes in their face, which marked the deserted cells, seemed
to come whisperings of thoughts long dead. The ghosts of all the sharp
griefs and insane dreaming that had wafted men and women hither, age
after age, in search of peace, streamed out like some unseen miasma, and
compassed him about. How many had been whirled into this silent eddy in
the great river of time before him to find or wait for the telling of
the great secret that vexed their soul! It was all he could bring his
thoughts to rest on. He felt about him, like a living presence, the
spirit of a mysticism long since dead, and he could reason no more.
Suddenly he started to find himself face to face with the red-bearded
hermit.
"What is this sin, my son? What is this lie?" cried the man, with
unsteady anger in his eye and voice.
"It is no sin. It is no lie," answered Kophetua sharply. "She is not my
wife. Last night she was, if ever man had wife. You yourself called her
so, and I was sure you spoke a sudden truth; but to-day it is changed.
You lied. She is not my wife. She shall not be my wife!"
He was conscious of speaking like a madman, but it was all he could find
to say. The hermit was in no way troubled at his wild speech. It seemed
the language he best understood.
"And why not, my son?" he answered quietly, though his eyes glittered
restlessly still.
"Because it was not for that I brought her here," said the King, trying
to bring back clearly the events and thoughts of yesterday. "I brought
her hither for refuge. She is wronged, foully wronged and persecuted,
and you must give her sanctuary."
"'Tis not my office," said the hermit. "You should take her to the
King."
"Nay," cried Kophetua, "her wrongs are more than a King can redress. It
is you who must give her shelter."
"It is impossible," said the abbot. "By the eternal laws, which no one
can break, none but man and wife may abide with us. Stay thou with her,
and all will be well."
"It cannot be," answered the King. "The voice of duty calls too loud
elsewhere."
"What duty is it speaks so big?" said the hermit, smiling, as though he
spoke with a child, to humour it from its wilfulness.
"I am one in high place," answered Kophetua. "I am master of wide
lands, and the well-being of the people calls me back."
"Ah, thou art like them all, my son," said the hermit sadly; "and yet
there is better than that in thee. I was even so myself long years ago.
Far away to the northward, by the blue waters of the Mediterranean, I
had authority over men. I had struggled for it from boyhood, for I knew
there was no peace save in breeding happiness for the world; so I sought
and won high place that I might teach men virtue and wisdom, and make
laws to force them to it."
"And that is my life too," cried Kophetua. "It is the life it is
cowardice to leave."
"Nay, hear me," continued the hermit. "There are worse sins than
cowardice; and those are they which men commit in the life I led. For,
mark me, however thou shalt ponder and prune and assay, yet every law
thou shalt make to uproot an abuse shall sow the seed of twenty more.
What law was ever proclaimed that did not bring evil in its train? I saw
my choicest measures, that had cost me all the wisdom and strength that
was in me, imperfect, always imperfect. As I passed by the ruins of the
evil I had smitten, lo! I saw on all hands new crimes for men to commit.
Look forward, I tell thee, as far as thou wilt, and look again and again
in thy diligence to foresee the results for good or evil of what thou
art about to do; strain thine eyes each time further into the unborn
time, till men shall wonder at thy foresight; yet never, never shalt
thou see the end. Even close in front of where thy vision reached at
furthest may slumber an evil tenfold more pestilent than that thou
wouldst destroy, and the forces thou hast started shall waken it at
last. If man will meddle with God's work, evil will come in the end. If
he shall try to drive the chariot of the sun, he will only scorch the
earth. God planted His laws in the beginning of the world that they
might grow in His strength. It is only because men, in the vanity of
their false wisdom, have cut and pruned and forced them to unnatural
growth that there is evil in the world. Leave them alone, I say, and sin
not."
"Nay, rather," cried Kophetua, "leave them and sin perforce. For how
shall a man find the path of virtue if he cease to try and better his
neighbours' lot."
"God has shown us the way," exclaimed the abbot, as one inspired; "join
us, and thou shalt see it too. To this end woman was given to man, and
man to woman. Take thou a woman to thyself, and find in her food to feed
thy yearning. Take one soul, and live for it. To desire more is but
vanity and ambition. Men will think themselves so great that one is not
enough for their devotion; but God meant otherwise. Man and woman He
made to be together, one perfect being. To cement this unity He gave us
the noble yearning of unselfishness, which has gone so wide astray. In
their pride men let it dissipate itself in ambitious philanthropy. Love
for the race is a dream. It is love of man and wife that is the only
truth."
Kophetua could not but be moved by the man's earnestness, so strangely
unhinged as he was by his surroundings and his troubles. The evils that
the old knight's grandest fancy had bred came vividly before him. Did
this hermit give the key of the mystery why his own life had been as
great a failure as the beggar-guild? The hermit's solution of the great
problem was easy; and sweet as it was easy.
"But I have no wife," objected the King, as he felt himself yielding.
"Ay, but there is one within thy reach," said the abbot. "Take her whom
thou broughtest hither last night."
"But there is none to wed us here," answered Kophetua, still seeking an
escape from the influence around him; "we will depart, and come again as
man and wife."
"There is no need," said the hermit. "It is not ceremonies that unite
two half-souls into one. Stay here the period of probation. Consecrate
thy life to her; sacrifice thine every hour to her greater comfort;
offer to her thine every thought and every action till the months of thy
noviciate be expired. By such ennobling service shalt thou find thyself
more truly wed to her than by the grandest and most solemn rites that
ever priests devised. Why, thou knowest it is true! Didst thou not feel
it last night, when thou couldst not deny she was thy wife?"
Then the King could answer nothing; he wandered away without a word, and
talked with other hermits. All had the same doctrine to preach, and each
time its truth sank deeper into Kophetua's heart. Day after day went by,
and still he did not depart. All day long the King and the beggar-maid
wandered by the side of the busy river like lovers, and never were
parted, save when the night fell and the abbess came to call Penelophon
to the cell beside her own, or when Kophetua climbed up into the hanging
woods to trap a deer and snare her a bird.
Hours they spent fishing, and took but little; for the King had no eye
for his float, let it bob how it would. The most part of the time he
would lie upon the flowery meadow, gazing like one bewitched at that for
which he lived; and that was Penelophon, sitting before him and
wreathing flowers and singing a low song, that mingled harmoniously with
the happy hum of the little lives of which the air was full. Ever and
again she ceased, and the King crept to her to put his arm about her
lovingly, and gently kiss the delicate face, as though he sipped honey
from a flower. Between each kiss she looked at him, still in shy wonder,
not able to believe such happiness was real. So they would sit a little
space, till the King was minded of his fishing, and rose to cast his
line anew. That business done, he stretched himself upon the grass again
to watch his float, and never watched it. For the maid began another
garland and another song, as one that dreamed, and the King must feed
his eyes again till his lips grew envious once more.
So the two worshipped one the other, and with idyllic ritual dallied
through the long marriage service which the hermits had enjoined.