I
One of Ambrose Meyrick's favourite books was a railway timetable. He
spent many hours in studying these intricate pages of figures, noting
times of arrival and departure on a piece of paper, and following the
turnings and intersections of certain lines on the map. In this way he
had at last arrived at the best and quickest route to his native
country, which he had not seen for five years. His father had died when
he was ten years old.
This result once obtained, the seven-thirty to Birmingham got him in at
nine-thirty-five; the ten-twenty for the west was a capital train, and
he would see the great dome of Mynydd Mawr before one o'clock. His fancy
led him often to a bridge which crossed the railway about a mile out of
Lupton. East and west the metals stretched in a straight line, defying,
it seemed, the wisdom of Euclid. He turned from the east and gazed
westward, and when a red train went by in the right direction he would
lean over the bridge and watch till the last flying carriage had
vanished into the distance. He imagined himself in that train and
thought of the joy of it, if the time ever came--for it seemed long--the
joy in every revolution of the wheels, in every whistle of the engine;
in the rush and in the rhythm of this swift flight from that horrible
school and that horrible place.
Year after year went by and he had not revisited the old land of his
father. He was left alone in the great empty house in charge of the
servants during the holidays--except one summer when Mr. Horbury
despatched him to a cousin of his who lived at Yarmouth.
The second year after his father's death there was a summer of dreadful
heat. Day after day the sky was a glare of fire, and in these abhorred
Midlands, far from the breath of the sea and the mountain breeze, the
ground baked and cracked and stank to heaven. A dun smoke rose from the
earth with the faint, sickening stench of a brick-field, and the
hedgerows swooned in the heat and in the dust. Ambrose's body and soul
were athirst with the desire of the hills and the woods; his heart cried
out within him for the waterpools in the shadow of the forest; and in
his ears continually he heard the cold water pouring and trickling and
dripping from the grey rocks on the great mountain side. And he saw that
awful land which God has no doubt made for manufacturers to prepare
them for their eternal habitation, its weary waves burning under the
glaring sky: the factory chimneys of Lupton vomiting their foul smoke;
the mean red streets, each little hellway with its own stink; the dull
road, choking in its dust. For streams there was the Wand, running like
black oil between black banks, steaming here as boiling poisons were
belched into it from the factory wall; there glittering with iridescent
scum vomited from some other scoundrel's castle. And for the waterpools
of the woods he was free to gaze at the dark green liquor in the tanks
of the Sulphuric Acid factory, but a little way out of town. Lupton was
a very rising place.
His body was faint with the burning heat and the foulness of all about
him, and his soul was sick with loneliness and friendlessness and
unutterable longing. He had already mastered his Bradshaw and had found
out the bridge over the railway; and day after day he leaned over the
parapet and watched the burning metals vanishing into the west, into the
hot, thick haze that hung over all the land. And the trains sped away
towards the haven of his desire, and he wondered if he should ever see
again the dearly loved country or hear the song of the nightingale in
the still white morning, in the circle of the green hills. The thought
of his father, of the old days of happiness, of the grey home in the
still valley, swelled in his heart and he wept bitterly, so utterly
forsaken and wretched seemed his life.
It happened towards the end of that dreadful August that one night he
had tossed all through the hours listening to the chiming bells, only
falling into a fevered doze a little while before they called him. He
woke from ugly and oppressive dreams to utter wretchedness; he crawled
downstairs like an old man and left his breakfast untouched, for he
could eat nothing. The flame of the sun seemed to burn in his brain; the
hot smoke of the air choked him. All his limbs ached. From head to foot
he was a body of suffering. He struggled out and tottered along the road
to the bridge and gazed with dim, hopeless eyes along the path of
desire, into the heavy, burning mist in the far distance. And then his
heart beat quick, and he cried aloud in his amazed delight; for, in the
shimmering glamour of the haze, he saw as in a mirror the vast green
wall of the Great Mountain rise before him--not far, but as if close at
hand. Nay, he stood upon its slope; his feet were in the sweet-smelling
bracken; the hazel thicket was rustling beneath him in the brave wind,
and the shining water poured cold from the stony rock. He heard the
silver note of the lark, shrilling high and glad in the sunlight. He saw
the yellow blossoms tossed by the breeze about the porch of the white
house. He seemed to turn in this vision and before him the dear,
long-remembered land appeared in its great peace and beauty: meadows and
cornfield, hill and valley and deep wood between the mountains and the
far sea. He drew a long breath of that quickening and glorious air, and
knew that life had returned to him. And then he was gazing once more
down the glittering railway into the mist; but strength and hope had
replaced that deadly sickness of a moment before, and light and joy came
back to his eyes.
The vision had doubtless been given to him in his sore and pressing
need. It returned no more; not again did he see the fair height of
Mynydd Mawr rise out of the mist. But from that day the station on the
bridge was daily consecrated. It was his place of refreshment and hope
in many seasons of evil and weariness. From this place he could look
forward to the hour of release and return that must come at last. Here
he could remind himself that the bonds of the flesh had been broken in a
wonderful manner; that he had been set free from the jaws of hell and
death.
Fortunately, few people came that way. It was but a by-road serving a
few farms in the neighbourhood, and on the Sunday afternoon, in
November, the Head's sermon over and dinner eaten, he betook himself to
his tower, free to be alone for a couple of hours, at least.
He stood there, leaning on the wall, his face turned, as ever, to the
west, and, as it were, a great flood of rapture overwhelmed him. He sank
down, deeper, still deeper, into the hidden and marvellous places of
delight. In his country there were stories of the magic people who rose
all gleaming from the pools in lonely woods; who gave more than mortal
bliss to those who loved them; who could tell the secrets of that land
where flame was the most material substance; whose inhabitants dwelt in
palpitating and quivering colours or in the notes of a wonderful melody.
And in the dark of the night all legends had been fulfilled.
It was a strange thing, but Ambrose Meyrick, though he was a public
schoolboy of fifteen, had lived all his days in a rapt innocence. It is
possible that in school, as elsewhere, enlightenment, pleasant or
unpleasant, only comes to those who seek for it--or one may say
certainly that there are those who dwell under the protection of
enchantments, who may go down into the black depths and yet appear
resurgent and shining, without any stain or defilement of the pitch on
their white robes. For these have ears so intent on certain immortal
songs that they cannot hear discordant voices; their eyes are veiled
with a light that shuts out the vision of evil. There are flames about
these feet that extinguish the gross fires of the pit.
It is probable that all through those early years Ambrose's father had
been charming his son's heart, drawing him forth from the gehenna-valley
of this life into which he had fallen, as one draws forth a beast that
has fallen into some deep and dreadful place. Various are the methods
recommended. There is the way of what is called moral teaching, the way
of physiology and the way of a masterly silence; but Mr. Meyrick's was
the strange way of incantation. He had, in a certain manner, drawn the
boy aside from that evil traffic of the valley, from the stench of the
turmoil, from the blows and the black lechery, from the ugly fight in
the poisonous smoke, from all the amazing and hideous folly that
practical men call life, and had set him in that endless procession that
for ever and for ever sings its litanies in the mountains, going from
height to height on its great quest. Ambrose's soul had been caught in
the sweet thickets of the woods; it had been bathed in the pure water of
blessed fountains; it had knelt before the altars of the old saints,
till all the earth was become a sanctuary, all life was a rite and
ceremony, the end of which was the attainment of the mystic
sanctity--the achieving of the Graal. For this--for what else?--were
all things made. It was this that the little bird sang of in the bush,
piping a few feeble, plaintive notes of dusky evenings, as if his tiny
heart were sad that it could utter nothing better than such sorry
praises. This also celebrated the awe of the white morning on the hills,
the breath of the woods at dawn. This was figured in the red ceremony of
sunset, when flames shone over the dome of the great mountain, and roses
blossomed in the far plains of the sky. This was the secret of the dark
places in the heart of the woods. This the mystery of the sunlight on
the height; and every little flower, every delicate fern, and every reed
and rush was entrusted with the hidden declaration of this sacrament.
For this end, final and perfect rites had been given to men to execute;
and these were all the arts, all the far-lifted splendour of the great
cathedral; all rich carven work and all glowing colours; all magical
utterance of word and tones: all these things were the witnesses that
consented in the One Offering, in the high service of the Graal.
To this service also, together with songs and burning torches and dyed
garments and the smoke of the bruised incense, were brought the incense
of the bruised heart, the magic torches of virtue hidden from the world,
the red dalmatics of those whose souls had been martyred, the songs of
triumph and exultation chanted by them that the profane had crushed into
the dust; holy wells and water-stoups were fountains of tears. So must
the Mass be duly celebrated in Cor-arbennic when Cadwaladr returned,
when Teilo Agyos lifted up again the Shining Cup.
Perhaps it was not strange that a boy who had listened to such spells as
these should heed nothing of the foolish evils about him, the nastiness
of silly children who, for want of wits, were "crushing the lilies into
the dunghill." He listened to nothing of their ugly folly; he heard it
not, understood it not, thought as little of it as of their everlasting
chatter about "brooks" and "quarries" and "leg-hits" and "beaks from the
off." And when an unseemly phrase did chance to fall on his ear it was
of no more import or meaning than any or all of the stupid jargon that
went on day after day, mixing itself with the other jargon about the
optative and the past participle, the oratio obliqua and the verbs in
[Greek: mi]. To him this was all one nothingness, and he would not have
dreamed of connecting anything of it with the facts of life, as he
understood life.
Hence it was that for him all that was beautiful and wonderful was a
part of sanctity; all the glory of life was for the service of the
sanctuary, and when one saw a lovely flower it was to be strewn before
the altar, just as the bee was holy because by its wax the Gifts are
illuminated. Where joy and delight and beauty were, there he knew by
sure signs were the parts of the mystery, the glorious apparels of the
heavenly vestments. If anyone had told him that the song of the
nightingale was an unclean thing he would have stared in amazement, as
though one had blasphemed the Sanctus. To him the red roses were as holy
as the garments of the martyrs. The white lilies were pure and shining
virtues; the imagery of the _Song of Songs_ was obvious and perfect and
unassailable, for in this world there was nothing common nor unclean.
And even to him the great gift had been freely given.
So he stood, wrapt in his meditations and in his ecstasy, by the bridge
over the Midland line from Lupton to Birmingham. Behind him were the
abominations of Lupton: the chimneys vomiting black smoke faintly in
honour of the Sabbath; the red lines of the workmen's streets advancing
into the ugly fields; the fuming pottery kilns, the hideous height of
the boot factory. And before him stretched the unspeakable scenery of
the eastern Midlands, which seems made for the habitation of English
Nonconformists--dull, monotonous, squalid, the very hedgerows cropped
and trimmed, the trees looking like rows of Roundheads, the farmhouses
as uninteresting as suburban villas. On a field near at hand a
scientific farmer had recently applied an agreeable mixture consisting
of superphosphate of lime, nitrate of soda and bone meal. The stink was
that of a chemical works or a Texel cheese. Another field was just being
converted into an orchard. There were rows of grim young apple trees
planted at strictly mathematical intervals from one another, and grisly
little graves had been dug between the apple trees for the reception of
gooseberry bushes. Between these rows the farmer hoped to grow potatoes,
so the ground had been thoroughly trenched. It looked sodden and
unpleasant. To the right Ambrose could see how the operations on a
wandering brook were progressing. It had moved in and out in the most
wasteful and absurd manner, and on each bank there had grown a twisted
brake of trees and bushes and rank water plants. There were wonderful
red roses there in summer time. Now all this was being rectified. In the
first place the stream had been cut into a straight channel with raw,
bare banks, and then the rose bushes, the alders, the willows and the
rest were being grubbed up by the roots and so much valuable land was
being redeemed. The old barn which used to be visible on the left of the
line had been pulled down for more than a year. It had dated perhaps
from the seventeenth century. Its roof-tree had dipped and waved in a
pleasant fashion, and the red tiles had the glow of the sun in their
colours, and the half-timbered walls were not lacking in ruinous brace.
It was a dilapidated old shed, and a neat-looking structure with a
corrugated iron roof now stood in its place.
Beyond all was the grey prison wall of the horizon; but Ambrose no
longer gazed at it with the dim, hopeless eyes of old. He had a Breviary
among his books, and he thought of the words: _Anima mea erepta est
sicut passer de laqueo venantium_, and he knew that in a good season his
body would escape also. The exile would end at last.
He remembered an old tale which his father was fond of telling him--the
story of Eos Amherawdur (the Emperor Nightingale). Very long ago, the
story began, the greatest and the finest court in all the realms of
faery was the court of the Emperor Eos, who was above all the kings of
the Tylwydd Teg, as the Emperor of Rome is head over all the kings of
the earth. So that even Gwyn ap Nudd, whom they now call lord over all
the fair folk of the Isle of Britain, was but the man of Eos, and no
splendour such as his was ever seen in all the regions of enchantment
and faery. Eos had his court in a vast forest, called Wentwood, in the
deepest depths of the green-wood between Caerwent and Caermaen, which is
also called the City of the Legions; though some men say that we should
rather name it the city of the Waterfloods. Here, then, was the Palace
of Eos, built of the finest stones after the Roman manner, and within it
were the most glorious chambers that eye has ever seen, and there was no
end to the number of them, for they could not be counted. For the stones
of the palace being immortal, they were at the pleasure of the Emperor.
If he had willed, all the hosts of the world could stand in his greatest
hall, and, if he had willed, not so much as an ant could enter into it,
since it could not be discerned. But on common days they spread the
Emperor's banquet in nine great halls, each nine times larger than any
that are in the lands of the men of Normandi. And Sir Caw was the
seneschal who marshalled the feast; and if you would count those under
his command--go, count the drops of water that are in the Uske River.
But if you would learn the splendour of this castle it is an easy
matter, for Eos hung the walls of it with Dawn and Sunset. He lit it
with the sun and moon. There was a well in it called Ocean. And nine
churches of twisted boughs were set apart in which Eos might hear Mass;
and when his clerks sang before him all the jewels rose shining out of
the earth, and all the stars bent shining down from heaven, so
enchanting was the melody. Then was great bliss in all the regions of
the fair folk. But Eos was grieved because mortal ears could not hear
nor comprehend the enchantment of their song. What, then, did he do?
Nothing less than this. He divested himself of all his glories and of
his kingdom, and transformed himself into the shape of a little brown
bird, and went flying about the woods, desirous of teaching men the
sweetness of the faery melody. And all the other birds said: "This is a
contemptible stranger." The eagle found him not even worthy to be a
prey; the raven and the magpie called him simpleton; the pheasant asked
where he had got that ugly livery; the lark wondered why he hid himself
in the darkness of the wood; the peacock would not suffer his name to be
uttered. In short never was anyone so despised as was Eos by all the
chorus of the birds. But wise men heard that song from the faery regions
and listened all night beneath the bough, and these were the first who
were bards in the Isle of Britain.
Ambrose had heard the song from the faery regions. He had heard it in
swift whispers at his ear, in sighs upon his breast, in the breath of
kisses on his lips. Never was he numbered amongst the despisers of Eos.