No More Learning

Suddenly the first two horses neighed, and then stood still, and would
go no further. Before them was a glint of water, and they knew by the
rushing sound that it was a river. They dismounted, and after much
tugging and coaxing brought the horses to the river-side. In the midst
of the water stood a tall old woman with grey hair flowing over a grey
dress. She stood up to her knees in the water, and stooped from time to
time as though washing. Presently they could see that she was washing
something that half floated. The moon cast a flickering light upon it,
and they saw that it was the dead body of a man, and, while they were
looking at it, an eddy of the river turned the face towards them, and
each of the five troopers recognized at the same moment his own face.
While they stood dumb and motionless with horror, the woman began to
speak, saying slowly and loudly: 'Did you see my son? He has a crown of
silver on his head, and there are rubies in the crown. ' Then the oldest
of the troopers, he who had been most often wounded, drew his sword and
cried: 'I have fought for the truth of my God, and need not fear the
shadows of Satan,' and with that rushed into the water. In a moment he
returned. The woman had vanished, and though he had thrust his sword
into air and water he had found nothing.

The five troopers remounted, and set their horses at the ford, but all
to no purpose. They tried again and again, and went plunging hither
and thither, the horses foaming and rearing. 'Let us,' said the old
trooper, 'ride back a little into the wood, and strike the river
higher up. ' They rode in under the boughs, the ground-ivy crackling
under the hoofs, and the branches striking against their steel caps.
After about twenty minutes' riding they came out again upon the river,
and after another ten minutes found a place where it was possible to
cross without sinking below the stirrups. The wood upon the other
side was very thin, and broke the moonlight into long streams. The
wind had arisen, and had begun to drive the clouds rapidly across the
face of the moon, so that thin streams of light seemed to be dancing
a grotesque dance among the scattered bushes and small fir-trees. The
tops of the trees began also to moan, and the sound of it was like the
voice of the dead in the wind; and the troopers remembered the belief
that tells how the dead in purgatory are spitted upon the points of the
trees and upon the points of the rocks. They turned a little to the
south, in the hope that they might strike the beaten path again, but
they could find no trace of it.

Meanwhile, the moaning grew louder and louder, and the dance of the
white moon-fires more and more rapid. Gradually they began to be
aware of a sound of distant music. It was the sound of a bagpipe,
and they rode towards it with great joy. It came from the bottom of
a deep, cup-like hollow. In the midst of the hollow was an old man
with a red cap and withered face. He sat beside a fire of sticks, and
had a burning torch thrust into the earth at his feet, and played an
old bagpipe furiously. His red hair dripped over his face like the
iron rust upon a rock. 'Did you see my wife? ' he cried, looking up a
moment; 'she was washing! she was washing! ' 'I am afraid of him,' said
the young trooper, 'I fear he is one of the Sidhe. ' 'No,' said the old
trooper, 'he is a man, for I can see the sun-freckles upon his face.
We will compel him to be our guide'; and at that he drew his sword,
and the others did the same. They stood in a ring round the piper, and
pointed their swords at him, and the old trooper then told him that
they must kill two rebels, who had taken the road between Ben Bulben
and the great mountain spur that is called Cashel-na-Gael, and that he
must get up before one of them and be their guide, for they had lost
their way. The piper turned, and pointed to a neighbouring tree, and
they saw an old white horse ready bitted, bridled, and saddled. He
slung the pipe across his back, and, taking the torch in his hand, got
upon the horse, and started off before them, as hard as he could go.

The wood grew thinner and thinner, and the ground began to slope up
toward the mountain. The moon had already set, and the little white
flames of the stars had come out everywhere. The ground sloped more
and more until at last they rode far above the woods upon the wide
top of the mountain. The woods lay spread out mile after mile below,
and away to the south shot up the red glare of the burning town. But
before and above them were the little white flames. The guide drew rein
suddenly, and pointing upwards with the hand that did not hold the
torch, shrieked out, 'Look; look at the holy candles! ' and then plunged
forward at a gallop, waving the torch hither and thither. 'Do you hear
the hoofs of the messengers? ' cried the guide. 'Quick, quick! or they
will be gone out of your hands! ' and he laughed as with delight of the
chase. The troopers thought they could hear far off, and as if below
them, rattle of hoofs; but now the ground began to slope more and more,
and the speed grew more headlong moment by moment. They tried to pull
up, but in vain, for the horses seemed to have gone mad. The guide
had thrown the reins on to the neck of the old white horse, and was
waving his arms and singing a wild Gaelic song. Suddenly they saw the
thin gleam of a river, at an immense distance below, and knew that they
were upon the brink of the abyss that is now called Lug-na-Gael, or in
English the Stranger's Leap. The six horses sprang forward, and five
screams went up into the air, a moment later five men and horses fell
with a dull crash upon the green slopes at the foot of the rocks.


THE OLD MEN OF THE TWILIGHT

AT the place, close to the Dead Man's Point, at the Rosses, where
the disused pilot-house looks out to sea through two round windows
like eyes, a mud cottage stood in the last century. It also was a
watchhouse, for a certain old Michael Bruen, who had been a smuggler
in his day, and was still the father and grandfather of smugglers,
lived there, and when, after nightfall, a tall schooner crept over the
bay from Roughley, it was his business to hang a horn lanthorn in the
southern window, that the news might travel to Dorren's Island, and
from thence, by another horn lanthorn, to the village of the Rosses.
But for this glimmering of messages, he had little communion with
mankind, for he was very old, and had no thought for anything but for
the making of his soul, at the foot of the Spanish crucifix of carved
oak that hung by his chimney, or bent double over the rosary of stone
beads brought to him in a cargo of silks and laces out of France. One
night he had watched hour after hour, because a gentle and favourable
wind was blowing, and _La Mere de Misericorde_ was much overdue; and
he was about to lie down upon his heap of straw, seeing that the dawn
was whitening the east, and that the schooner would not dare to round
Roughley and come to an anchor after daybreak; when he saw a long line
of herons flying slowly from Dorren's Island and towards the pools
which lie, half choked with reeds, behind what is called the Second
Rosses. He had never before seen herons flying over the sea, for they
are shore-keeping birds, and partly because this had startled him out
of his drowsiness, and more because the long delay of the schooner
kept his cupboard empty, he took down his rusty shot-gun, of which the
barrel was tied on with a piece of string, and followed them towards
the pools.

When he came close enough to hear the sighing of the rushes in the
outermost pool, the morning was grey over the world, so that the tall
rushes, the still waters, the vague clouds, the thin mist lying among
the sand-heaps, seemed carved out of an enormous pearl. In a little he
came upon the herons, of whom there were a great number, standing with
lifted legs in the shallow water; and crouching down behind a bank of
rushes, looked to the priming of his gun, and bent for a moment over
his rosary to murmur: 'Patron Patrick, let me shoot a heron; made into
a pie it will support me for nearly four days, for I no longer eat as
in my youth. If you keep me from missing I will say a rosary to you
every night until the pie is eaten. ' Then he lay down, and, resting his
gun upon a large stone, turned towards a heron which stood upon a bank
of smooth grass over a little stream that flowed into the pool; for he
feared to take the rheumatism by wading, as he would have to do if he
shot one of those which stood in the water. But when he looked along
the barrel the heron was gone, and, to his wonder and terror, a man of
infinitely great age and infirmity stood in its place. He lowered the
gun, and the heron stood there with bent head and motionless feathers,
as though it had slept from the beginning of the world. He raised the
gun, and no sooner did he look along the iron than that enemy of all
enchantment brought the old man again before him, only to vanish when
he lowered the gun for the second time. He laid the gun down, and
crossed himself three times, and said a _Paternoster_ and an _Ave
Maria_, and muttered half aloud: 'Some enemy of God and of my patron
is standing upon the smooth place and fishing in the blessed water,'
and then aimed very carefully and slowly. He fired, and when the smoke
had gone saw an old man, huddled upon the grass and a long line of
herons flying with clamour towards the sea. He went round a bend of the
pool, and coming to the little stream looked down on a figure wrapped
in faded clothes of black and green of an ancient pattern and spotted
with blood. He shook his head at the sight of so great a wickedness.
Suddenly the clothes moved and an arm was stretched upwards towards
the rosary which hung about his neck, and long wasted fingers almost
touched the cross. He started back, crying: 'Wizard, I will let no
wicked thing touch my blessed beads'; and the sense of a great danger
just escaped made him tremble.

'If you listen to me,' replied a voice so faint that it was like a
sigh, 'you will know that I am not a wizard, and you will let me kiss
the cross before I die. '

'I will listen to you,' he answered, 'but I will not let you touch my
blessed beads,' and sitting on the grass a little way from the dying
man, he reloaded his gun and laid it across his knees and composed
himself to listen.

'I know not how many generations ago we, who are now herons, were the
men of learning of the King Leaghaire; we neither hunted, nor went to
battle, nor listened to the Druids preaching, and even love, if it
came to us at all, was but a passing fire. The Druids and the poets
told us, many and many a time, of a new Druid Patrick; and most among
them were fierce against him, while a few thought his doctrine merely
the doctrine of the gods set out in new symbols, and were for giving
him welcome; but we yawned in the midst of their tale. At last they
came crying that he was coming to the king's house, and fell to their
dispute, but we would listen to neither party, for we were busy with
a dispute about the merits of the Great and of the Little Metre; nor
were we disturbed when they passed our door with sticks of enchantment
under their arms, travelling towards the forest to contend against his
coming, nor when they returned after nightfall with torn robes and
despairing cries; for the click of our knives writing our thoughts in
Ogham filled us with peace and our dispute filled us with joy; nor
even when in the morning crowds passed us to hear the strange Druid
preaching the commandments of his god. The crowds passed, and one, who
had laid down his knife to yawn and stretch himself, heard a voice
speaking far off, and knew that the Druid Patrick was preaching within
the king's house; but our hearts were deaf, and we carved and disputed
and read, and laughed a thin laughter together. In a little we heard
many feet coming towards the house, and presently two tall figures
stood in the door, the one in white, the other in a crimson robe; like
a great lily and a heavy poppy; and we knew the Druid Patrick and our
King Leaghaire. We laid down the slender knives and bowed before the
king, but when the black and green robes had ceased to rustle, it was
not the loud rough voice of King Leaghaire that spoke to us, but a
strange voice in which there was a rapture as of one speaking from
behind a battlement of Druid flame: "I preached the commandments of the
Maker of the world," it said; "within the king's house and from the
centre of the earth to the windows of Heaven there was a great silence,
so that the eagle floated with unmoving wings in the white air, and
the fish with unmoving fins in the dim water, while the linnets and
the wrens and the sparrows stilled their ever-trembling tongues in
the heavy boughs, and the clouds were like white marble, and the
rivers became their motionless mirrors, and the shrimps in the far-off
sea-pools were still, enduring eternity in patience, although it was
hard. " And as he named these things, it was like a king numbering his
people. "But your slender knives went click, click! upon the oaken
staves, and, all else being silent, the sound shook the angels with
anger. O, little roots, nipped by the winter, who do not awake although
the summer pass above you with innumerable feet. O, men who have no
part in love, who have no part in song, who have no part in wisdom,
but dwell with the shadows of memory where the feet of angels cannot
touch you as they pass over your heads, where the hair of demons cannot
sweep about you as they pass under your feet, I lay upon you a curse,
and change you to an example for ever and ever; you shall become grey
herons and stand pondering in grey pools and flit over the world in
that hour when it is most full of sighs, having forgotten the flame of
the stars and not yet found the flame of the sun; and you shall preach
to the other herons until they also are like you, and are an example
for ever and ever; and your deaths shall come to you by chance and
unforeseen, that no fire of certainty may visit your hearts. "'

The voice of the old man of learning became still, but the voteen
bent over his gun with his eyes upon the ground, trying in vain to
understand something of this tale; and he had so bent, it may be for a
long time, had not a tug at his rosary made him start out of his dream.
The old man of learning had crawled along the grass, and was now trying
to draw the cross down low enough for his lips to reach it.

'You must not touch my blessed beads,' cried the voteen, and struck
the long withered fingers with the barrel of his gun. He need not have
trembled, for the old man fell back upon the grass with a sigh and was
still. He bent down and began to consider the black and green clothes,
for his fear had begun to pass away when he came to understand that
he had something the man of learning wanted and pleaded for, and now
that the blessed beads were safe, his fear had nearly all gone; and
surely, he thought, if that big cloak, and that little tight-fitting
cloak under it, were warm and without holes, Saint Patrick would take
the enchantment out of them and leave them fit for human use. But the
black and green clothes fell away wherever his fingers touched them,
and while this was a new wonder, a slight wind blew over the pool and
crumbled the old man of learning and all his ancient gear into a little
heap of dust, and then made the little heap less and less until there
was nothing but the smooth green grass.


WHERE THERE IS NOTHING, THERE IS GOD.

THE little wicker houses at Tullagh, where the Brothers were accustomed
to pray, or bend over many handicrafts, when twilight had driven them
from the fields, were empty, for the hardness of the winter had brought
the brotherhood together in the little wooden house under the shadow
of the wooden chapel; and Abbot Malathgeneus, Brother Dove, Brother
Bald Fox, Brother Peter, Brother Patrick, Brother Bittern, Brother
Fair-brows, and many too young to have won names in the great battle,
sat about the fire with ruddy faces, one mending lines to lay in the
river for eels, one fashioning a snare for birds, one mending the
broken handle of a spade, one writing in a large book, and one shaping
a jewelled box to hold the book; and among the rushes at their feet lay
the scholars, who would one day be Brothers, and whose school-house
it was, and for the succour of whose tender years the great fire was
supposed to leap and flicker. One of these, a child of eight or nine
years, called Olioll, lay upon his back looking up through the hole
in the roof, through which the smoke went, and watching the stars
appearing and disappearing in the smoke with mild eyes, like the eyes
of a beast of the field. He turned presently to the Brother who wrote
in the big book, and whose duty was to teach the children, and said,
'Brother Dove, to what are the stars fastened? ' The Brother, rejoicing
to see so much curiosity in the stupidest of his scholars, laid down
the pen and said, 'There are nine crystalline spheres, and on the first
the Moon is fastened, on the second the planet Mercury, on the third
the planet Venus, on the fourth the Sun, on the fifth the planet Mars,
on the sixth the planet Jupiter, on the seventh the planet Saturn;
these are the wandering stars; and on the eighth are fastened the fixed
stars; but the ninth sphere is a sphere of the substance on which the
breath of God moved in the beginning. '

'What is beyond that? ' said the child.

'There is nothing beyond that; there is God. '

And then the child's eyes strayed to the jewelled box, where one great
ruby was gleaming in the light of the fire, and he said, 'Why has
Brother Peter put a great ruby on the side of the box? '

'The ruby is a symbol of the love of God. '

'Why is the ruby a symbol of the love of God? '

'Because it is red, like fire, and fire burns up everything, and where
there is nothing, there is God. '

The child sank into silence, but presently sat up and said, 'There is
somebody outside. '

'No,' replied the Brother. 'It is only the wolves; I have heard them
moving about in the snow for some time. They are growing very wild, now
that the winter drives them from the mountains. They broke into a fold
last night and carried off many sheep, and if we are not careful they
will devour everything. '

'No, it is the footstep of a man, for it is heavy; but I can hear the
footsteps of the wolves also. '

He had no sooner done speaking than somebody rapped three times, but
with no great loudness.

'I will go and open, for he must be very cold. '

'Do not open, for it may be a man-wolf, and he may devour us all. '

But the boy had already drawn back the heavy wooden bolt, and all the
faces, most of them a little pale, turned towards the slowly-opening
door.

'He has beads and a cross, he cannot be a man-wolf,' said the child,
as a man with the snow heavy on his long, ragged beard, and on the
matted hair, that fell over his shoulders and nearly to his waist, and
dropping from the tattered cloak that but half-covered his withered
brown body, came in and looked from face to face with mild, ecstatic
eyes. Standing some way from the fire, and with eyes that had rested at
last upon the Abbot Malathgeneus, he cried out, 'O blessed abbot, let
me come to the fire and warm myself and dry the snow from my beard and
my hair and my cloak; that I may not die of the cold of the mountains
and anger the Lord with a wilful martyrdom. '

'Come to the fire,' said the abbot, 'and warm yourself, and eat the
food the boy Olioll will bring you. It is sad indeed that any for whom
Christ has died should be as poor as you. '

The man sat over the fire, and Olioll took away his now dripping cloak
and laid meat and bread and wine before him; but he would eat only of
the bread, and he put away the wine, asking for water. When his beard
and hair had begun to dry a little and his limbs had ceased to shiver
with the cold, he spoke again.

'O blessed abbot, have pity on the poor, have pity on a beggar who has
trodden the bare world this many a year, and give me some labour to do,
the hardest there is, for I am the poorest of God's poor. '

Then the Brothers discussed together what work they could put him to,
and at first to little purpose, for there was no labour that had not
found its labourer in that busy community; but at last one remembered
that Brother Bald Fox, whose business it was to turn the great quern in
the quern-house, for he was too stupid for anything else, was getting
old for so heavy a labour; and so the beggar was put to the quern from
the morrow.

The cold passed away, and the spring grew to summer, and the quern
was never idle, nor was it turned with grudging labour, for when any
passed the beggar was heard singing as he drove the handle round. The
last gloom, too, had passed from that happy community, for Olioll, who
had always been stupid and unteachable, grew clever, and this was the
more miraculous because it had come of a sudden. One day he had been
even duller than usual, and was beaten and told to know his lesson
better on the morrow or be sent into a lower class among little boys
who would make a joke of him. He had gone out in tears, and when he
came the next day, although his stupidity, born of a mind that would
listen to every wandering sound and brood upon every wandering light,
had so long been the byword of the school, he knew his lesson so well
that he passed to the head of the class, and from that day was the best
of scholars. At first Brother Dove thought this was an answer to his
own prayers to the Virgin, and took it for a great proof of the love
she bore him; but when many far more fervid prayers had failed to add a
single wheatsheaf to the harvest, he began to think that the child was
trafficking with bards, or druids, or witches, and resolved to follow
and watch. He had told his thought to the abbot, who bid him come to
him the moment he hit the truth; and the next day, which was a Sunday,
he stood in the path when the abbot and the Brothers were coming from
vespers, with their white habits upon them, and took the abbot by the
habit and said, 'The beggar is of the greatest of saints and of the
workers of miracle. I followed Olioll but now, and by his slow steps
and his bent head I saw that the weariness of his stupidity was over
him, and when he came to the little wood by the quern-house I knew by
the path broken in the under-wood and by the foot-marks in the muddy
places that he had gone that way many times. I hid behind a bush where
the path doubled upon itself at a sloping place, and understood by the
tears in his eyes that his stupidity was too old and his wisdom too new
to save him from terror of the rod. When he was in the quern-house I
went to the window and looked in, and the birds came down and perched
upon my head and my shoulders, for they are not timid in that holy
place; and a wolf passed by, his right side shaking my habit, his left
the leaves of a bush. Olioll opened his book and turned to the page
I had told him to learn, and began to cry, and the beggar sat beside
him and comforted him until he fell asleep. When his sleep was of the
deepest the beggar knelt down and prayed aloud, and said, "O Thou Who
dwellest beyond the stars, show forth Thy power as at the beginning,
and let knowledge sent from Thee awaken in his mind, wherein is nothing
from the world, that the nine orders of angels may glorify Thy name";
and then a light broke out of the air and wrapped Aodh, and I smelt the
breath of roses. I stirred a little in my wonder, and the beggar turned
and saw me, and, bending low, said, "O Brother Dove, if I have done
wrong, forgive me, and I will do penance. It was my pity moved me";
but I was afraid and I ran away, and did not stop running until I came
here. '

Then all the Brothers began talking together, one saying it was such
and such a saint, and one that it was not he but another; and one that
it was none of these, for they were still in their brotherhoods, but
that it was such and such a one; and the talk was as near to quarreling
as might be in that gentle community, for each would claim so great
a saint for his native province. At last the abbot said, 'He is none
that you have named, for at Easter I had greeting from all, and each
was in his brotherhood; but he is Aengus the Lover of God, and the
first of those who have gone to live in the wild places and among
the wild beasts. Ten years ago he felt the burden of many labours
in a brotherhood under the Hill of Patrick and went into the forest
that he might labour only with song to the Lord; but the fame of his
holiness brought many thousands to his cell, so that a little pride
clung to a soul from which all else had been driven. Nine years ago he
dressed himself in rags, and from that day none has seen him, unless,
indeed, it be true that he has been seen living among the wolves on the
mountains and eating the grass of the fields. Let us go to him and
bow down before him; for at last, after long seeking, he has found the
nothing that is God; and bid him lead us in the pathway he has trodden.
They passed in their white habits along the beaten path in the wood,
the acolytes swinging their censers before them, and the abbot, with
his crozier studded with precious stones, in the midst of the incense;
and came before the quern-house and knelt down and began to pray,
awaiting the moment when the child would wake, and the Saint cease
from his watch and come to look at the sun going down into the unknown
darkness, as his way was.


OF COSTELLO THE PROUD, OF OONA THE DAUGHTER OF DERMOTT
AND OF THE BITTER TONGUE.

COSTELLO had come up from the fields and lay upon the ground before
the door of his square tower, resting his head upon his hands and
looking at the sunset, and considering the chances of the weather.
Though the customs of Elizabeth and James, now going out of fashion
in England, had begun to prevail among the gentry, he still wore the
great cloak of the native Irish; and the sensitive outlines of his face
and the greatness of his indolent body had a commingling of pride and
strength which belonged to a simpler age. His eyes wandered from the
sunset to where the long white road lost itself over the south-western
horizon and to a horseman who toiled slowly up the hill. A few more
minutes and the horseman was near enough for his little and shapeless
body, his long Irish cloak, and the dilapidated bagpipes hanging from
his shoulders, and the rough-haired garron under him, to be seen
distinctly in the grey dusk. So soon as he had come within earshot, he
began crying: 'Is it sleeping you are, Tumaus Costello, when better men
break their hearts on the great white roads? Get up out of that, proud
Tumaus, for I have news! Get up out of that, you great omadhaun! Shake
yourself out of the earth, you great weed of a man! '

Costello had risen to his feet, and as the piper came up to him seized
him by the neck of his jacket, and lifting him out of his saddle threw
him on to the ground.

'Let me alone, let me alone,' said the other, but Costello still shook
him.

'I have news from Dermott's daughter, Winny. ' The great fingers were
loosened, and the piper rose gasping.

'Why did you not tell me,' said Costello, 'that you came from her? You
might have railed your fill. '

'I have come from her, but I will not speak unless I am paid for my
shaking. '

Costello fumbled at the bag in which he carried his money, and it was
some time before it would open, for the hand that had overcome many men
shook with fear and hope. 'Here is all the money in my bag,' he said,
dropping a stream of French and Spanish money into the hand of the
piper, who bit the coins before he would answer.

'That is right, that is a fair price, but I will not speak till I have
good protection, for if the Dermotts lay their hands upon me in any
boreen after sundown, or in Cool-a-vin by day, I will be left to rot
among the nettles of a ditch, or hung on the great sycamore, where they
hung the horse-thieves last Beltaine four years. ' And while he spoke he
tied the reins of his garron to a bar of rusty iron that was mortared
into the wall.

'I will make you my piper and my body-servant,' said Costello, 'and no
man dare lay hands upon the man, or the goat, or the horse, or the dog
that is Tumaus Costello's. '

'And I will only tell my message,' said the other, flinging the saddle
on the ground, 'in the corner of the chimney with a noggin in my hand,
and a jug of the Brew of the Little Pot beside me, for though I am
ragged and empty, my forebears were well clothed and full until their
house was burnt and their cattle harried seven centuries ago by the
Dillons, whom I shall yet see on the hob of hell, and they screeching';
and while he spoke the little eyes gleamed and the thin hands clenched.

Costello led him into the great rush-strewn hall, where were none of
the comforts which had begun to grow common among the gentry, but a
feudal gauntness and bareness, and pointed to the bench in the great
chimney; and when he had sat down, filled up a horn noggin and set it
on the bench beside him, and set a great black jack of leather beside
the noggin, and lit a torch that slanted out from a ring in the wall,
his hands trembling the while; and then turned towards him and said:
'Will Dermott's daughter come to me, Duallach, son of Daly? '

'Dermott's daughter will not come to you, for her father has set women
to watch her, but she bid me tell you that this day sennight will be
the eve of St. John and the night of her betrothal to Namara of the
Lake, and she would have you there that, when they bid her drink to him
she loves best, as the way is, she may drink to you, Tumaus Costello,
and let all know where her heart is, and how little of gladness is in
her marriage; and I myself bid you go with good men about you, for I
saw the horse-thieves with my own eyes, and they dancing the "Blue
Pigeon" in the air. ' And then he held the now empty noggin towards
Costello, his hand closing round it like the claw of a bird, and cried:
'Fill my noggin again, for I would the day had come when all the water
in the world is to shrink into a periwinkle-shell, that I might drink
nothing but Poteen. '

Finding that Costello made no reply, but sat in a dream, he burst out:
'Fill my noggin, I tell you, for no Costello is so great in the world
that he should not wait upon a Daly, even though the Daly travel the
road with his pipes and the Costello have a bare hill, an empty house,
a horse, a herd of goats, and a handful of cows. '

'Praise the Dalys if you will,' said Costello as he filled the noggin,
'for you have brought me a kind word from my love. '

For the next few days Duallach went hither and thither trying to raise
a bodyguard, and every man he met had some story of Costello, how he
killed the wrestler when but a boy by so straining at the belt that
went about them both that he broke the big wrestler's back; how when
somewhat older he dragged fierce horses through a ford in the Unchion
for a wager; how when he came to manhood he broke the steel horseshoe
in Mayo; how he drove many men before him through Rushy Meadow at
Drum-an-air because of a malevolent song they had about his poverty;
and of many another deed of his strength and pride; but he could find
none who would trust themselves with any so passionate and poor in a
quarrel with careful and wealthy persons like Dermott of the Sheep and
Namara of the Lake.

Then Costello went out himself, and after listening to many excuses
and in many places, brought in a big half-witted fellow, who followed
him like a dog, a farm-labourer who worshipped him for his strength,
a fat farmer whose forefathers had served his family, and a couple of
lads who looked after his goats and cows; and marshalled them before
the fire in the empty hall. They had brought with them their stout
cudgels, and Costello gave them an old pistol apiece, and kept them
all night drinking Spanish ale and shooting at a white turnip which
he pinned against the wall with a skewer. Duallach of the Pipes sat
on the bench in the chimney playing 'The Green Bunch of Rushes,' 'The
Unchion Stream,' and 'The Princes of Breffeny' on his old pipes, and
railing now at the appearance of the shooters, now at their clumsy
shooting, and now at Costello because he had no better servants. The
labourer, the half-witted fellow, the farmer and the lads were all well
accustomed to Duallach's railing, for it was as inseparable from wake
or wedding as the squealing of his pipes, but they wondered at the
forbearance of Costello, who seldom came either to wake or wedding, and
if he had would scarce have been patient with a scolding piper.

On the next evening they set out for Cool-a-vin, Costello riding a
tolerable horse and carrying a sword, the others upon rough-haired
garrons, and with their stout cudgels under their arms. As they rode
over the bogs and in the boreens among the hills they could see
fire answering fire from hill to hill, from horizon to horizon, and
everywhere groups who danced in the red light on the turf, celebrating
the bridal of life and fire. When they came to Dermott's house they
saw before the door an unusually large group of the very poor, dancing
about a fire, in the midst of which was a blazing cartwheel, that
circular dance which is so ancient that the gods, long dwindled to
be but fairies, dance no other in their secret places. From the door
and through the long loop-holes on either side came the pale light of
candles and the sound of many feet dancing a dance of Elizabeth and
James.

They tied their horses to bushes, for the number so tied already showed
that the stables were full, and shoved their way through a crowd of
peasants who stood about the door, and went into the great hall where
the dance was. The labourer, the half-witted fellow, the farmer and the
two lads mixed with a group of servants who were looking on from an
alcove, and Duallach sat with the pipers on their bench, but Costello
made his way through the dancers to where Dermott of the Sheep stood
with Namara of the Lake pouring Poteen out of a porcelain jug into horn
noggins with silver rims.

'Tumaus Costello,' said the old man, 'you have done a good deed
to forget what has been, and to fling away enmity and come to the
betrothal of my daughter to Namara of the Lake. '

'I come,' answered Costello, 'because when in the time of Costello De
Angalo my forebears overcame your forebears and afterwards made peace,
a compact was made that a Costello might go with his body-servants and
his piper to every feast given by a Dermott for ever, and a Dermott
with his body-servants and his piper to every feast given by a Costello
for ever. '

'If you come with evil thoughts and armed men,' said the son of Dermott
flushing, 'no matter how strong your hands to wrestle and to swing the
sword, it shall go badly with you, for some of my wife's clan have
come out of Mayo, and my three brothers and their servants have come
down from the Ox Mountains'; and while he spoke he kept his hand inside
his coat as though upon the handle of a weapon.

'No,' answered Costello, 'I but come to dance a farewell dance with
your daughter. '

Dermott drew his hand out of his coat and went over to a tall pale girl
who was now standing but a little way off with her mild eyes fixed upon
the ground.

'Costello has come to dance a farewell dance, for he knows that you
will never see one another again. '

The girl lifted her eyes and gazed at Costello, and in her gaze was
that trust of the humble in the proud, the gentle in the violent,
which has been the tragedy of woman from the beginning. Costello led
her among the dancers, and they were soon drawn into the rhythm of the
Pavane, that stately dance which, with the Saraband, the Gallead, and
the Morrice dances, had driven out, among all but the most Irish of
the gentry, the quicker rhythms of the verse-interwoven, pantomimic
dances of earlier days; and while they danced there came over them the
unutterable melancholy, the weariness with the world, the poignant and
bitter pity for one another, the vague anger against common hopes and
fears, which is the exultation of love. And when a dance ended and the
pipers laid down their pipes and lifted their horn noggins, they stood
a little from the others waiting pensively and silently for the dance
to begin again and the fire in their hearts to leap up and to wrap them
anew; and so they danced and danced Pavane and Saraband and Gallead and
Morrice through the night long, and many stood still to watch them,
and the peasants came about the door and peered in, as though they
understood that they would gather their children's children about them
long hence, and tell how they had seen Costello dance with Dermott's
daughter Oona, and become by the telling themselves a portion of
ancient romance; but through all the dancing and piping Namara of the
Lake went hither and thither talking loudly and making foolish jokes
that all might seem well with him, and old Dermott of the Sheep grew
redder and redder, and looked oftener and oftener at the doorway to see
if the candles there grew yellow in the dawn.

At last he saw that the moment to end had come, and, in a pause after a
dance, cried out from where the horn noggins stood that his daughter
would now drink the cup of betrothal; then Oona came over to where he
was, and the guests stood round in a half-circle, Costello close to
the wall to the right, and the piper, the labourer, the farmer, the
half-witted man and the two farm lads close behind him. The old man
took out of a niche in the wall the silver cup from which her mother
and her mother's mother had drunk the toasts of their betrothals, and
poured Poteen out of a porcelain jug and handed the cup to his daughter
with the customary words, 'Drink to him whom you love the best. '

She held the cup to her lips for a moment, and then said in a clear
soft voice: 'I drink to my true love, Tumaus Costello. '

And then the cup rolled over and over on the ground, ringing like
a bell, for the old man had struck her in the face and the cup had
fallen, and there was a deep silence.

There were many of Namara's people among the servants now come out of
the alcove, and one of them, a story-teller and poet, a last remnant of
the bardic order, who had a chair and a platter in Namara's kitchen,
drew a French knife out of his girdle and made as though he would
strike at Costello, but in a moment a blow had hurled him to the
ground, his shoulder sending the cup rolling and ringing again. The
click of steel had followed quickly, had not there come a muttering and
shouting from the peasants about the door and from those crowding up
behind them; and all knew that these were no children of Queen's Irish
or friendly Namaras and Dermotts, but of the wild Irish about Lough
Gara and Lough Cara, who rowed their skin coracles, and had masses
of hair over their eyes, and left the right arms of their children
unchristened that they might give the stouter blows, and swore only by
St. Atty and sun and moon, and worshipped beauty and strength more than
St. Atty or sun and moon.

Costello's hand had rested upon the handle of his sword and his
knuckles had grown white, but now he drew it away, and, followed by
those who were with him, strode towards the door, the dancers giving
way before him, the most angrily and slowly, and with glances at the
muttering and shouting peasants, but some gladly and quickly, because
the glory of his fame was over him. He passed through the fierce
and friendly peasant faces, and came where his good horse and the
rough-haired garrons were tied to bushes; and mounted and bade his
ungainly bodyguard mount also and ride into the narrow boreen. When
they had gone a little way, Duallach, who rode last, turned towards
the house where a little group of Dermotts and Namaras stood next to a
more numerous group of countrymen, and cried: 'Dermott, you deserve to
be as you are this hour, a lantern without a candle, a purse without a
penny, a sheep without wool, for your hand was ever niggardly to piper
and fiddler and story-teller and to poor travelling people. ' He had
not done before the three old Dermotts from the Ox Mountains had run
towards their horses, and old Dermott himself had caught the bridle of
a garron of the Namaras and was calling to the others to follow him;
and many blows and many deaths had been had not the countrymen caught
up still glowing sticks from the ashes of the fires and hurled them
among the horses with loud cries, making all plunge and rear, and some
break from those who held them, the whites of their eyes gleaming in
the dawn.
For the next few weeks Costello had no lack of news of Oona, for now
a woman selling eggs or fowls, and now a man or a woman on pilgrimage
to the Well of the Rocks, would tell him how his love had fallen ill
the day after St. John's Eve, and how she was a little better or a
little worse, as it might be; and though he looked to his horses and
his cows and goats as usual, the common and uncomely, the dust upon the
roads, the songs of men returning from fairs and wakes, men playing
cards in the corners of fields on Sundays and Saints' Days, the rumours
of battles and changes in the great world, the deliberate purposes of
those about him, troubled him with an inexplicable trouble; and the
country people still remember how when night had fallen he would bid
Duallach of the Pipes tell, to the chirping of the crickets, 'The Son
of Apple,' 'The Beauty of the World,' 'The King of Ireland's Son,' or
some other of those traditional tales which were as much a piper's
business as 'The Green Bunch of Rushes,' 'The Unchion Stream,' or 'The
Chiefs of Breffeny'; and while the boundless and phantasmal world of
the legends was a-building, would abandon himself to the dreams of his
sorrow.

Duallach would often pause to tell how some clan of the wild Irish had
descended from an incomparable King of the Blue Belt, or Warrior of the
Ozier Wattle, or to tell with many curses how all the strangers and
most of the Queen's Irish were the seed of the misshapen and horned
People from Under the Sea or of the servile and creeping Ferbolg;
but Costello cared only for the love sorrows, and no matter whither
the stories wandered, whether to the Isle of the Red Lough, where the
blessed are, or to the malign country of the Hag of the East, Oona
alone endured their shadowy hardships; for it was she and no king's
daughter of old who was hidden in the steel tower under the water
with the folds of the Worm of Nine Eyes round and about her prison;
and it was she who won by seven years of service the right to deliver
from hell all she could carry, and carried away multitudes clinging
with worn fingers to the hem of her dress; and it was she who endured
dumbness for a year because of the little thorn of enchantment the
fairies had thrust into her tongue; and it was a lock of her hair,
coiled in a little carved box, which gave so great a light that men
threshed by it from sundown to sunrise, and awoke so great a wonder
that kings spent years in wandering or fell before unknown armies in
seeking to discover her hiding-place; for there was no beauty in the
world but hers, no tragedy in the world but hers: and when at last
the voice of the piper, grown gentle with the wisdom of old romance,
was silent, and his rheumatic steps had toiled upstairs and to bed,
and Costello had dipped his fingers into the little delf font of
holy water and begun to pray to Mary of the Seven Sorrows, the blue
eyes and star-covered dress of the painting in the chapel faded from
his imagination, and the brown eyes and homespun dress of Dermott's
daughter Winny came in their stead; for there was no tenderness in
the world but hers. He was of those ascetics of passion who keep
their hearts pure for love or for hatred as other men for God, for
Mary and for the Saints, and who, when the hour of their visitation
arrives, come to the Divine Essence by the bitter tumult, the Garden
of Gethsemane, and the desolate Rood ordained for immortal passions in
mortal hearts.

One day a serving-man rode up to Costello, who was helping his two lads
to reap a meadow, and gave him a letter, and rode away without a word;
and the letter contained these words in English: 'Tumaus Costello,
my daughter is very ill. The wise woman from Knock-na-Sidhe has seen
her, and says she will die unless you come to her. I therefore bid you
come to her, whose peace you stole by treachery. --DERMOTT, THE SON OF
DERMOTT. '

Costello threw down his scythe, and sent one of the lads for Duallach,
who had become woven into his mind with Oona, and himself saddled his
great horse and Duallach's garron.

When they came to Dermott's house it was late afternoon, and Lough
Gara lay down below them, blue, mirror-like, and deserted; and though
they had seen, when at a distance, dark figures moving about the door,
the house appeared not less deserted than the Lough. The door stood
half open, and Costello knocked upon it again and again, so that a
number of lake gulls flew up out of the grass and circled screaming
over his head, but there was no answer.

'There is no one here,' said Duallach, 'for Dermott of the Sheep is
too proud to welcome Costello the Proud,' and he threw the door open,
and they saw a ragged, dirty, very old woman, who sat upon the floor
leaning against the wall. Costello knew that it was Bridget Delaney,
a deaf and dumb beggar; and she, when she saw him, stood up and made
a sign to him to follow, and led him and his companion up a stair and
down a long corridor to a closed door. She pushed the door open and
went a little way off and sat down as before; Duallach sat upon the
ground also, but close to the door, and Costello went and gazed upon
Winny sleeping upon a bed. He sat upon a chair beside her and waited,
and a long time passed and still she slept on, and then Duallach
motioned to him through the door to wake her, but he hushed his
very breath, that she might sleep on, for his heart was full of that
ungovernable pity which makes the fading heart of the lover a shadow
of the divine heart. Presently he turned to Duallach and said: 'It is
not right that I stay here where there are none of her kindred, for
the common people are always ready to blame the beautiful. ' And then
they went down and stood at the door of the house and waited, but the
evening wore on and no one came.

'It was a foolish man that called you Proud Costello,' Duallach cried
at last; 'had he seen you waiting and waiting where they left none but
a beggar to welcome you, it is Humble Costello he would have called
you. '

Then Costello mounted and Duallach mounted, but when they had ridden a
little way Costello tightened the reins and made his horse stand still.
Many minutes passed, and then Duallach cried: 'It is no wonder that
you fear to offend Dermott of the Sheep, for he has many brothers and
friends, and though he is old, he is a strong man and ready with his
hands, and he is of the Queen's Irish, and the enemies of the Gael are
upon his side. '

And Costello answered flushing and looking towards the house: 'I swear
by the Mother of God that I will never return there again if they do
not send after me before I pass the ford in the Brown River,' and he
rode on, but so very slowly that the sun went down and the bats began
to fly over the bogs. When he came to the river he lingered awhile upon
the bank among the flowers of the flag, but presently rode out into the
middle and stopped his horse in a foaming shallow. Duallach, however,
crossed over and waited on a further bank above a deeper place. After a
good while Duallach cried out again, and this time very bitterly: 'It
was a fool who begot you and a fool who bore you, and they are fools of
all fools who say you come of an old and noble stock, for you come of
whey-faced beggars who travelled from door to door, bowing to gentles
and to serving-men. '

With bent head, Costello rode through the river and stood beside him,
and would have spoken had not hoofs clattered on the further bank and a
horseman splashed towards them. It was a serving-man of Dermott's, and
he said, speaking breathlessly like one who had ridden hard: 'Tumaus
Costello, I come to bid you again to Dermott's house. When you had
gone, his daughter Winny awoke and called your name, for you had been
in her dreams. Bridget Delaney the Dummy saw her lips move and the
trouble upon her, and came where we were hiding in the wood above the
house and took Dermott of the Sheep by the coat and brought him to his
daughter. He saw the trouble upon her, and bid me ride his own horse to
bring you the quicker. '

Then Costello turned towards the piper Duallach Daly, and taking him
about the waist lifted him out of the saddle and hurled him against a
grey rock that rose up out of the river, so that he fell lifeless into
the deep place, and the waters swept over the tongue which God had made
bitter, that there might be a story in men's ears in after time. Then
plunging his spurs into the horse, he rode away furiously toward the
north-west, along the edge of the river, and did not pause until he
came to another and smoother ford, and saw the rising moon mirrored in
the water. He paused for a moment irresolute, and then rode into the
ford and on over the Ox Mountains, and down towards the sea; his eyes
almost continually resting upon the moon which glimmered in the dimness
like a great white rose hung on the lattice of some boundless and
phantasmal world. But now his horse, long dark with sweat and breathing
hard, for he kept spurring it to an extreme speed, fell heavily,
hurling him into the grass at the road-side. He tried to make it stand
up, and failing in this, went on alone towards the moonlight; and came
to the sea and saw a schooner lying there at anchor. Now that he could
go no further because of the sea, he found that he was very tired and
the night very cold, and went into a shebeen close to the shore and
threw himself down upon a bench. The room was full of Spanish and Irish
sailors who had just smuggled a cargo of wine and ale, and were waiting
a favourable wind to set out again. A Spaniard offered him a drink in
bad Gaelic. He drank it greedily and began talking wildly and rapidly.

For some three weeks the wind blew inshore or with too great violence,
and the sailors stayed drinking and talking and playing cards, and
Costello stayed with them, sleeping upon a bench in the shebeen, and
drinking and talking and playing more than any. He soon lost what
little money he had, and then his horse, which some one had brought
from the mountain boreen, to a Spaniard, who sold it to a farmer from
the mountains, and then his long cloak and his spurs and his boots of
soft leather. At last a gentle wind blew towards Spain, and the crew
rowed out to their schooner, singing Gaelic and Spanish songs, and
lifted the anchor, and in a little while the white sails had dropped
under the horizon. Then Costello turned homeward, his life gaping
before him, and walked all day, coming in the early evening to the road
that went from near Lough Gara to the southern edge of Lough Cay. Here
he overtook a great crowd of peasants and farmers, who were walking
very slowly after two priests and a group of well-dressed persons,
certain of whom were carrying a coffin. He stopped an old man and
asked whose burying it was and whose people they were, and the old man
answered: 'It is the burying of Oona, Dermott's daughter, and we are
the Namaras and the Dermotts and their following, and you are Tumaus
Costello who murdered her. '

Costello went on towards the head of the procession, passing men who
looked at him with fierce eyes, and only vaguely understanding what
he had heard, for now that he had lost the understanding that belongs
to good health, it seemed impossible that a gentleness and a beauty
which had been so long the world's heart could pass away. Presently he
stopped and asked again whose burying it was, and a man answered: 'We
are carrying Dermott's daughter Winny whom you murdered, to be buried
in the island of the Holy Trinity,' and the man stooped and picked up
a stone and cast it at Costello, striking him on the cheek and making
the blood flow out over his face. Costello went on scarcely feeling the
blow, and coming to those about the coffin, shouldered his way into the
midst of them, and laying his hand upon the coffin, asked in a loud
voice: 'Who is in this coffin? '

The three old Dermotts from the Ox Mountains caught up stones and bid
those about them do the same; and he was driven from the road, covered
with wounds, and but for the priests would surely have been killed.

When the procession had passed on, Costello began to follow again, and
saw from a distance the coffin laid upon a large boat, and those about
it get into other boats, and the boats move slowly over the water to
Insula Trinitatis; and after a time he saw the boats return and their
passengers mingle with the crowd upon the bank, and all disperse by
many roads and boreens. It seemed to him that Winny was somewhere on
the island smiling gently as of old, and when all had gone he swam
in the way the boats had been rowed and found the new-made grave
beside the ruined Abbey of the Holy Trinity, and threw himself upon
it, calling to Oona to come to him. Above him the square ivy leaves
trembled, and all about him white moths moved over white flowers, and
sweet odours drifted through the dim air.

He lay there all that night and through the day after, from time to
time calling her to come to him, but when the third night came he had
forgotten, worn out with hunger and sorrow, that her body lay in the
earth beneath; but only knew she was somewhere near and would not come
to him.

Just before dawn, the hour when the peasants hear his ghostly voice
crying out, his pride awoke and he called loudly: 'Winny, daughter of
Dermott of the Sheep, if you do not come to me I will go and never
return to the island of the Holy Trinity,' and before his voice had
died away a cold and whirling wind had swept over the island and he saw
many figures rushing past, women of the Sidhe with crowns of silver and
dim floating drapery; and then Oona, but no longer smiling gently, for
she passed him swiftly and angrily, and as she passed struck him upon
the face crying: 'Then go and never return. '

He would have followed, and was calling out her name, when the whole
glimmering company rose up into the air, and, rushing together in the
shape of a great silvery rose, faded into the ashen dawn.

Costello got up from the grave, understanding nothing but that he had
made his beloved angry and that she wished him to go, and wading out
into the lake, began to swim. He swam on and on, but his limbs were too
weary to keep him afloat, and her anger was heavy about him, and when
he had gone a little way he sank without a struggle, like a man passing
into sleep and dreams.

The next day a poor fisherman found him among the reeds upon the lake
shore, lying upon the white lake sand with his arms flung out as
though he lay upon a rood, and carried him to his own house. And the
very poor lamented over him and sang the keen, and when the time had
come, laid him in the Abbey on Insula Trinitatis with only the ruined
altar between him and Dermott's daughter, and planted above them two
ash-trees that in after days wove their branches together and mingled
their trembling leaves.




ROSA ALCHEMICA


O blessed and happy he, who knowing the mysteries
of the gods, sanctifies his life, and purifies his
soul, celebrating orgies in the mountains with holy
purifications. --_Euripides. _




ROSA ALCHEMICA


I

IT is now more than ten years since I met, for the last time, Michael
Robartes, and for the first time and the last time his friends
and fellow students; and witnessed his and their tragic end, and
endured those strange experiences, which have changed me so that my
writings have grown less popular and less intelligible, and driven
me almost to the verge of taking the habit of St. Dominic. I had
just published _Rosa Alchemica_, a little work on the Alchemists,
somewhat in the manner of Sir Thomas Browne, and had received many
letters from believers in the arcane sciences, upbraiding what they
called my timidity, for they could not believe so evident sympathy
but the sympathy of the artist, which is half pity, for everything
which has moved men's hearts in any age. I had discovered, early in
my researches, that their doctrine was no merely chemical phantasy,
but a philosophy they applied to the world, to the elements and to
man himself; and that they sought to fashion gold out of common metals
merely as part of an universal transmutation of all things into some
divine and imperishable substance; and this enabled me to make my
little book a fanciful reverie over the transmutation of life into art,
and a cry of measureless desire for a world made wholly of essences.

I was sitting dreaming of what I had written, in my house in one of
the old parts of Dublin; a house my ancestors had made almost famous
through their part in the politics of the city and their friendships
with the famous men of their generations; and was feeling an unwonted
happiness at having at last accomplished a long-cherished design, and
made my rooms an expression of this favourite doctrine. The portraits,
of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full
of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors, and shut out
all history and activity untouched with beauty and peace; and now when
I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the rose in the hand of the
Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and precise that it seemed
more like a thought than a flower, or at the grey dawn and rapturous
faces of my Francesca, I knew all a Christian's ecstasy without his
slavery to rule and custom; when I pondered over the antique bronze
gods and goddesses, which I had mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a
pagan's delight in various beauty and without his terror at sleepless
destiny and his labour with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to
my bookshelf, where every book was bound in leather, stamped with
intricate ornament, and of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare
in the orange of the glory of the world, Dante in the dull red of
his anger, Milton in the blue grey of his formal calm; and I could
experience what I would of human passions without their bitterness and
without satiety. I had gathered about me all gods because I believed
in none, and experienced every pleasure because I gave myself to none,
but held myself apart, individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished
steel: I looked in the triumph of this imagination at the birds of
Hera, glowing in the firelight as though they were wrought of jewels;
and to my mind, for which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the
doorkeepers of my world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent
a beauty as their own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought
in so many other moments, that it was possible to rob life of every
bitterness except the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had
followed this thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate
sorrow. All those forms: that Madonna with her brooding purity, those
rapturous faces singing in the morning light, those bronze divinities
with their passionless dignity, those wild shapes rushing from despair
to despair, belonged to a divine world wherein I had no part; and every
experience, however profound, every perception, however exquisite,
would bring me the bitter dream of a limitless energy I could never
know, and even in my most perfect moment I would be two selves, the
one watching with heavy eyes the other's moment of content. I had
heaped about me the gold born in the crucibles of others; but the
supreme dream of the alchemist, the transmutation of the weary heart
into a weariless spirit, was as far from me as, I doubted not, it had
been from him also. I turned to my last purchase, a set of alchemical
apparatus which, the dealer in the Rue le Peletier had assured me,
once belonged to Raymond Lully, and as I joined the _alembic_ to the
_athanor_ and laid the _lavacrum maris_ at their side, I understood the
alchemical doctrine, that all beings, divided from the great deep where
spirits wander, one and yet a multitude, are weary; and sympathized,
in the pride of my connoisseurship, with the consuming thirst for
destruction which made the alchemist veil under his symbols of lions
and dragons, of eagles and ravens, of dew and of nitre, a search for an
essence which would dissolve all mortal things. I repeated to myself
the ninth key of Basilius Valentinus, in which he compares the fire
of the last day to the fire of the alchemist, and the world to the
alchemist's furnace, and would have us know that all must be dissolved
before the divine substance, material gold or immaterial ecstasy,
awake. I had dissolved indeed the mortal world and lived amid immortal
essences, but had obtained no miraculous ecstasy. As I thought of these
things, I drew aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness, and
it seemed to my troubled fancy that all those little points of light
filling the sky were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, who
labour continually, turning lead into gold, weariness into ecstasy,
bodies into souls, the darkness into God; and at their perfect labour
my mortality grew heavy, and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men
of letters in our age have cried, for the birth of that elaborate
spiritual beauty which could alone uplift souls weighted with so many
dreams.


II

My reverie was broken by a loud knocking at the door, and I wondered
the more at this because I had no visitors, and had bid my servants
do all things silently, lest they broke the dream of my inner life.
Feeling a little curious, I resolved to go to the door myself, and,
taking one of the silver candlesticks from the mantlepiece, began to
descend the stairs. The servants appeared to be out, for though the
sound poured through every corner and crevice of the house there was
no stir in the lower rooms. I remembered that because my needs were so
few, my part in life so little, they had begun to come and go as they
would, often leaving me alone for hours. The emptiness and silence
of a world from which I had driven everything but dreams suddenly
overwhelmed me, and I shuddered as I drew the bolt. I found before me
Michael Robartes, whom I had not seen for years, and whose wild red
hair, fierce eyes, sensitive, tremulous lips and rough clothes made
him look now, just as they used to do fifteen years before, something
between a debauchee, a saint, and a peasant. He had recently come to
Ireland, he said, and wished to see me on a matter of importance;
indeed, the only matter of importance for him and for me. His voice
brought up before me our student years in Paris, and remembering the
magnetic power he had once possessed over me, a little fear mingled
with much annoyance at this irrelevant intrusion, as I led the way up
the wide staircase, where Swift had passed joking and railing, and
Curran telling stories and quoting Greek, in simpler days, before
men's minds, subtilized and complicated by the romantic movement in
art and literature, began to tremble on the verge of some unimagined
revelation. I felt that my hand shook, and saw that the light of the
candle wavered and quivered more than it need have upon the Maenads on
the old French panels, making them look like the first beings slowly
shaping in the formless and void darkness. When the door had closed,
and the peacock curtain, glimmering like many-coloured flame, fell
between us and the world, I felt, in a way I could not understand,
that some singular and unexpected thing was about to happen. I went
over to the mantlepiece, and finding that a little chainless bronze
censer, set, upon the outside, with pieces of painted china by Orazio
Fontana, which I had filled with antique amulets, had fallen upon its
side and poured out its contents, I began to gather the amulets into
the bowl, partly to collect my thoughts and partly with that habitual
reverence which seemed to me the due of things so long connected with
secret hopes and fears. 'I see,' said Michael Robartes, 'that you are
still fond of incense, and I can show you an incense more precious than
any you have ever seen,' and as he spoke he took the censer out of my
hand and put the amulets in a little heap between the _athanor_ and the
_alembic_. I sat down, and he sat down at the side of the fire, and sat
there for awhile looking into the fire, and holding the censer in his
hand. 'I have come to ask you something,' he said, 'and the incense
will fill the room, and our thoughts, with its sweet odour while we
are talking. I got it from an old man in Syria, who said it was made
from flowers, of one kind with the flowers that laid their heavy purple
petals upon the hands and upon the hair and upon the feet of Christ in
the Garden of Gethsemane, and folded Him in their heavy breath, until
He cried against the cross and his destiny. ' He shook some dust into
the censer out of a small silk bag, and set the censer upon the floor
and lit the dust which sent up a blue stream of smoke, that spread
out over the ceiling, and flowed downwards again until it was like
Milton's banyan tree. It filled me, as incense often does, with a faint
sleepiness, so that I started when he said, 'I have come to ask you
that question which I asked you in Paris, and which you left Paris
rather than answer. '

He had turned his eyes towards me, and I saw them glitter in the
firelight, and through the incense, as I replied: 'You mean, will I
become an initiate of your Order of the Alchemical Rose? I would not
consent in Paris, when I was full of unsatisfied desire, and now that I
have at last fashioned my life according to my desire, am I likely to
consent? '

'You have changed greatly since then,' he answered. 'I have read your
books, and now I see you among all these images, and I understand
you better than you do yourself, for I have been with many and many
dreamers at the same cross-ways. You have shut away the world and
gathered the gods about you, and if you do not throw yourself at their
feet, you will be always full of lassitude, and of wavering purpose,
for a man must forget he is miserable in the bustle and noise of the
multitude in this world and in time; or seek a mystical union with
the multitude who govern this world and time. ' And then he murmured
something I could not hear, and as though to someone I could not see.

For a moment the room appeared to darken, as it used to do when he was
about to perform some singular experiment, and in the darkness the
peacocks upon the doors seemed to glow with a more intense colour. I
cast off the illusion, which was, I believe, merely caused by memory,
and by the twilight of incense, for I would not acknowledge that he
could overcome my now mature intellect; and I said: 'Even if I grant
that I need a spiritual belief and some form of worship, why should I
go to Eleusis and not to Calvary? ' He leaned forward and began speaking
with a slightly rhythmical intonation, and as he spoke I had to
struggle again with the shadow, as of some older night than the night
of the sun, which began to dim the light of the candles and to blot out
the little gleams upon the corner of picture-frames and on the bronze
divinities, and to turn the blue of the incense to a heavy purple;
while it left the peacocks to glimmer and glow as though each separate
colour were a living spirit. I had fallen into a profound dream-like
reverie in which I heard him speaking as at a distance. 'And yet there
is no one who communes with only one god,' he was saying, 'and the
more a man lives in imagination and in a refined understanding, the
more gods does he meet with and talk with, and the more does he come
under the power of Roland, who sounded in the Valley of Roncesvalles
the last trumpet of the body's will and pleasure; and of Hamlet, who
saw them perishing away, and sighed; and of Faust, who looked for
them up and down the world and could not find them; and under the
power of all those countless divinities who have taken upon themselves
spiritual bodies in the minds of the modern poets and romance writers,
and under the power of the old divinities, who since the Renaissance
have won everything of their ancient worship except the sacrifice of
birds and fishes, the fragrance of garlands and the smoke of incense.
The many think humanity made these divinities, and that it can unmake
them again; but we who have seen them pass in rattling harness, and
in soft robes, and heard them speak with articulate voices while we
lay in deathlike trance, know that they are always making and unmaking
humanity, which is indeed but the trembling of their lips. '

He had stood up and begun to walk to and fro, and had become in my
waking dream a shuttle weaving an immense purple web whose folds had
begun to fill the room. The room seemed to have become inexplicably
silent, as though all but the web and the weaving were at an end in
the world. 'They have come to us; they have come to us,' the voice
began again; 'all that have ever been in your reverie, all that you
have met with in books. There is Lear, his head still wet with the
thunder-storm, and he laughs because you thought yourself an existence
who are but a shadow, and him a shadow who is an eternal god; and
there is Beatrice, with her lips half parted in a smile, as though all
the stars were about to pass away in a sigh of love; and there is the
mother of the God of humility who cast so great a spell over men that
they have tried to unpeople their hearts that he might reign alone, but
she holds in her hand the rose whose every petal is a god; and there,
O swiftly she comes! is Aphrodite under a twilight falling from the
wings of numberless sparrows, and about her feet are the grey and white
doves. ' In the midst of my dream I saw him hold out his left arm and
pass his right hand over it as though he stroked the wings of doves. I
made a violent effort which seemed almost to tear me in two, and said
with forced determination: 'You would sweep me away into an indefinite
world which fills me with terror; and yet a man is a great man just in
so far as he can make his mind reflect everything with indifferent
precision like a mirror. ' I seemed to be perfectly master of myself,
and went on, but more rapidly: 'I command you to leave me at once,
for your ideas and phantasies are but the illusions that creep like
maggots into civilizations when they begin to decline, and into minds
when they begin to decay. ' I had grown suddenly angry, and seizing the
_alembic_ from the table, was about to rise and strike him with it,
when the peacocks on the door behind him appeared to grow immense; and
then the _alembic_ fell from my fingers and I was drowned in a tide
of green and blue and bronze feathers, and as I struggled hopelessly
I heard a distant voice saying: 'Our master Avicenna has written that
all life proceeds out of corruption. ' The glittering feathers had now
covered me completely, and I knew that I had struggled for hundreds of
years, and was conquered at last. I was sinking into the depth when
the green and blue and bronze that seemed to fill the world became a
sea of flame and swept me away, and as I was swirled along I heard
a voice over my head cry, 'The mirror is broken in two pieces,' and
another voice answer, 'The mirror is broken in four pieces,' and a more
distant voice cry with an exultant cry, 'The mirror is broken into
numberless pieces'; and then a multitude of pale hands were reaching
towards me, and strange gentle faces bending above me, and half wailing
and half caressing voices uttering words that were forgotten the moment
they were spoken. I was being lifted out of the tide of flame, and
felt my memories, my hopes, my thoughts, my will, everything I held
to be myself, melting away; then I seemed to rise through numberless
companies of beings who were, I understood, in some way more certain
than thought, each wrapped in his eternal moment, in the perfect
lifting of an arm, in a little circlet of rhythmical words, in dreaming
with dim eyes and half-closed eyelids. And then I passed beyond these
forms, which were so beautiful they had almost ceased to be, and,
having endured strange moods, melancholy, as it seemed, with the weight
of many worlds, I passed into that Death which is Beauty herself, and
into that Loneliness which all the multitudes desire without ceasing.
All things that had ever lived seemed to come and dwell in my heart,
and I in theirs; and I had never again known mortality or tears, had I
not suddenly fallen from the certainty of vision into the uncertainty
of dream, and become a drop of molten gold falling with immense
rapidity, through a night elaborate with stars, and all about me a
melancholy exultant wailing. I fell and fell and fell, and then the
wailing was but the wailing of the wind in the chimney, and I awoke
to find myself leaning upon the table and supporting my head with my
hands. I saw the _alembic_ swaying from side to side in the distant
corner it had rolled to, and Michael Robartes watching me and waiting.
'I will go wherever you will,' I said, 'and do whatever you bid me, for
I have been with eternal things. ' 'I knew,' he replied, 'you must need
answer as you have answered, when I heard the storm begin. You must
come to a great distance, for we were commanded to build our temple
between the pure multitude by the waves and the impure multitude of
men. '


III

I did not speak as we drove through the deserted streets, for my mind
was curiously empty of familiar thoughts and experiences; it seemed
to have been plucked out of the definite world and cast naked upon
a shoreless sea. There were moments when the vision appeared on the
point of returning, and I would half-remember, with an ecstasy of joy
or sorrow, crimes and heroisms, fortunes and misfortunes; or begin to
contemplate, with a sudden leaping of the heart, hopes and terrors,
desires and ambitions, alien to my orderly and careful life; and then
I would awake shuddering at the thought that some great imponderable
being had swept through my mind. It was indeed days before this feeling
passed perfectly away, and even now, when I have sought refuge in the
only definite faith, I feel a great tolerance for those people with
incoherent personalities, who gather in the chapels and meeting-places
of certain obscure sects, because I also have felt fixed habits and
principles dissolving before a power, which was _hysterica passio_
or sheer madness, if you will, but was so powerful in its melancholy
exultation that I tremble lest it wake again and drive me from my
new-found peace.

When we came in the grey light to the great half-empty terminus, it
seemed to me I was so changed that I was no more, as man is, a moment
shuddering at eternity, but eternity weeping and laughing over a
moment; and when we had started and Michael Robartes had fallen asleep,
as he soon did, his sleeping face, in which there was no sign of all
that had so shaken me and that now kept me wakeful, was to my excited
mind more like a mask than a face. The fancy possessed me that the man
behind it had dissolved away like salt in water, and that it laughed
and sighed, appealed and denounced at the bidding of beings greater or
less than man. 'This is not Michael Robartes at all: Michael Robartes
is dead; dead for ten, for twenty years perhaps,' I kept repeating to
myself. I fell at last into a feverish sleep, waking up from time to
time when we rushed past some little town, its slated roofs shining
with wet, or still lake gleaming in the cold morning light. I had been
too preoccupied to ask where we were going, or to notice what tickets
Michael Robartes had taken, but I knew now from the direction of the
sun that we were going westward; and presently I knew also, by the way
in which the trees had grown into the semblance of tattered beggars
flying with bent heads towards the east, that we were approaching the
western coast. Then immediately I saw the sea between the low hills
upon the left, its dull grey broken into white patches and lines.

When we left the train we had still, I found, some way to go, and
set out, buttoning our coats about us, for the wind was bitter and
violent. Michael Robartes was silent, seeming anxious to leave me to
my thoughts; and as we walked between the sea and the rocky side of a
great promontory, I realized with a new perfection what a shock had
been given to all my habits of thought and of feelings, if indeed some
mysterious change had not taken place in the substance of my mind, for
the grey waves, plumed with scudding foam, had grown part of a teeming,
fantastic inner life; and when Michael Robartes pointed to a square
ancient-looking house, with a much smaller and newer building under its
lee, set out on the very end of a dilapidated and almost deserted pier,
and said it was the Temple of the Alchemical Rose, I was possessed with
the phantasy that the sea, which kept covering it with showers of white
foam, was claiming it as part of some indefinite and passionate life,
which had begun to war upon our orderly and careful days, and was about
to plunge the world into a night as obscure as that which followed
the downfall of the classical world. One part of my mind mocked this
phantastic terror, but the other, the part that still lay half plunged
in vision, listened to the clash of unknown armies, and shuddered at
unimaginable fanaticisms, that hung in those grey leaping waves.

We had gone but a few paces along the pier when we came upon an old
man, who was evidently a watchman, for he sat in an overset barrel,
close to a place where masons had been lately working upon a break in
the pier, and had in front of him a fire such as one sees slung under
tinkers' carts. I saw that he was also a voteen, as the peasants say,
for there was a rosary hanging from a nail on the rim of the barrel,
and as I saw I shuddered, and I did not know why I shuddered. We had
passed him a few yards when I heard him cry in Gaelic, 'Idolaters,
idolaters, go down to Hell with your witches and your devils; go down
to Hell that the herrings may come again into the bay'; and for some
moments I could hear him half screaming and half muttering behind us.
'Are you not afraid,' I said, 'that these wild fishing people may do
some desperate thing against you? '

'I and mine,' he answered, 'are long past human hurt or help, being
incorporate with immortal spirits, and when we die it shall be the
consummation of the supreme work. A time will come for these people
also, and they will sacrifice a mullet to Artemis, or some other
fish to some new divinity, unless indeed their own divinities, the
Dagda, with his overflowing cauldron, Lug, with his spear dipped in
poppy-juice lest it rush forth hot for battle, Aengus, with the three
birds on his shoulder, Bodb and his red swineherd, and all the heroic
children of Dana, set up once more their temples of grey stone. Their
reign has never ceased, but only waned in power a little, for the Sidhe
still pass in every wind, and dance and play at hurley, and fight their
sudden battles in every hollow and on every hill; but they cannot build
their temples again till there have been martyrdoms and victories, and
perhaps even that long-foretold battle in the Valley of the Black Pig. '

Keeping close to the wall that went about the pier on the seaward side,
to escape the driving foam and the wind, which threatened every moment
to lift us off our feet, we made our way in silence to the door of the
square building. Michael Robartes opened it with a key, on which I
saw the rust of many salt winds, and led me along a bare passage and
up an uncarpeted stair to a little room surrounded with bookshelves.
A meal would be brought, but only of fruit, for I must submit to a
tempered fast before the ceremony, he explained, and with it a book on
the doctrine and method of the Order, over which I was to spend what
remained of the winter daylight. He then left me, promising to return
an hour before the ceremony. I began searching among the bookshelves,
and found one of the most exhaustive alchemical libraries I have ever
seen. There were the works of Morienus, who hid his immortal body
under a shirt of hair-cloth; of Avicenna, who was a drunkard and yet
controlled numberless legions of spirits; of Alfarabi, who put so many
spirits into his lute that he could make men laugh, or weep, or fall in
deadly trance as he would; of Lully, who transformed himself into the
likeness of a red cock; of Flamel, who with his wife Parnella achieved
the elixir many hundreds of years ago, and is fabled to live still in
Arabia among the Dervishes; and of many of less fame. There were very
few mystics but alchemical mystics, and because, I had little doubt, of
the devotion to one god of the greater number and of the limited sense
of beauty, which Robartes would hold an inevitable consequence; but I
did notice a complete set of facsimiles of the prophetical writings of
William Blake, and probably because of the multitudes that thronged his
illumination and were 'like the gay fishes on the wave when the moon
sucks up the dew. ' I noted also many poets and prose writers of every
age, but only those who were a little weary of life, as indeed the
greatest have been everywhere, and who cast their imagination to us, as
a something they needed no longer now that they were going up in their
fiery chariots.

Presently I heard a tap at the door, and a woman came in and laid a
little fruit upon the table. I judged that she had once been handsome,
but her cheeks were hollowed by what I would have held, had I seen her
anywhere else, an excitement of the flesh and a thirst for pleasure,
instead of which it doubtless was an excitement of the imagination and
a thirst for beauty. I asked her some question concerning the ceremony,
but getting no answer except a shake of the head, saw that I must await
initiation in silence. When I had eaten, she came again, and having
laid a curiously wrought bronze box on the table, lighted the candles,
and took away the plates and the remnants. So soon as I was alone,
I turned to the box, and found that the peacocks of Hera spread out
their tails over the sides and lid, against a background, on which were
wrought great stars, as though to affirm that the heavens were a part
of their glory. In the box was a book bound in vellum, and having upon
the vellum and in very delicate colours, and in gold, the alchemical
rose with many spears thrusting against it, but in vain, as was shown
by the shattered points of those nearest to the petals. The book was
written upon vellum, and in beautiful clear letters, interspersed
with symbolical pictures and illuminations, after the manner of the
_Splendor Solis_.

The first chapter described how six students, of Celtic descent,
gave themselves separately to the study of alchemy, and solved, one
the mystery of the Pelican, another the mystery of the green Dragon,
another the mystery of the Eagle, another that of Salt and Mercury.
What seemed a succession of accidents, but was, the book declared,
the contrivance of preternatural powers, brought them together in the
garden of an inn in the South of France, and while they talked together
the thought came to them that alchemy was the gradual distillation of
the contents of the soul, until they were ready to put off the mortal
and put on the immortal. An owl passed, rustling among the vine-leaves
overhead, and then an old woman came, leaning upon a stick, and,
sitting close to them, took up the thought where they had dropped it.
Having expounded the whole principle of spiritual alchemy, and bid
them found the Order of the Alchemical Rose, she passed from among
them, and when they would have followed was nowhere to be seen. They
formed themselves into an Order, holding their goods and making their
researches in common, and, as they became perfect in the alchemical
doctrine, apparitions came and went among them, and taught them more
and more marvellous mysteries. The book then went on to expound so
much of these as the neophyte was permitted to know, dealing at the
outset and at considerable length with the independent reality of our
thoughts, which was, it declared, the doctrine from which all true
doctrines rose. If you imagine, it said, the semblance of a living
being, it is at once possessed by a wandering soul, and goes hither
and hither working good or evil, until the moment of its death has
come; and gave many examples, received, it said, from many gods. Eros
had taught them how to fashion forms in which a divine soul could
dwell, and whisper what they would into sleeping minds; and Ate, forms
from which demonic beings could pour madness, or unquiet dreams, into
sleeping blood; and Hermes, that if you powerfully imagined a hound at
your bedside it would keep watch there until you woke, and drive away
all but the mightiest demons, but that if your imagination was weakly,
the hound would be weakly also, and the demons prevail, and the hound
soon die; and Aphrodite, that if you made, by a strong imagining, a
dove crowned with silver and bad it flutter over your head, its soft
cooing would make sweet dreams of immortal love gather and brood
over mortal sleep; and all divinities alike had revealed with many
warnings and lamentations that all minds are continually giving birth
to such beings, and sending them forth to work health or disease, joy
or madness. If you would give forms to the evil powers, it went on,
you were to make them ugly, thrusting out a lip, with the thirsts of
life, or breaking the proportions of a body with the burdens of life;
but the divine powers would only appear in beautiful shapes, which
are but, as it were, shapes trembling out of existence, folding up
into a timeless ecstasy, drifting with half-shut eyes, into a sleepy
stillness. The bodiless souls who descended into these forms were what
men call the moods; and worked all great changes in the world; for just
as the magician or the artist could call them when he would, so they
could call out of the mind of the magician or the artist, or if they
were demons, out of the mind of the mad or the ignoble, what shape
they would, and through its voice and its gestures pour themselves
out upon the world. In this way all great events were accomplished; a
mood, a divinity, or a demon, first descending like a faint sigh into
men's minds and then changing their thoughts and their actions until
hair that was yellow had grown black, or hair that was black had grown
yellow, and empires moved their border, as though they were but drifts
of leaves. The rest of the book contained symbols of form, and sound,
and colour, and their attribution to divinities and demons, so that the
initiate might fashion a shape for any divinity or any demon, and be as
powerful as Avicenna among those who live under the roots of tears and
of laughter.


IV

A couple of hours after sunset Michael Robartes returned and told me
that I would have to learn the steps of an exceedingly antique dance,
because before my initiation could be perfected I had to join three
times in a magical dance, for rhythm was the wheel of Eternity, on
which alone the transient and accidental could be broken, and the
spirit set free. I found that the steps, which were simple enough,
resembled certain antique Greek dances, and having been a good dancer
in my youth and the master of many curious Gaelic steps, I soon had
them in my memory. He then robed me and himself in a costume which
suggested by its shape both Greece and Egypt, but by its crimson colour
a more passionate life than theirs; and having put into my hands a
little chainless censer of bronze, wrought into the likeness of a rose,
by some modern craftsman, he told me to open a small door opposite
to the door by which I had entered. I put my hand to the handle,
but the moment I did so the fumes of the incense, helped perhaps by
his mysterious glamour, made me fall again into a dream, in which I
seemed to be a mask, lying on the counter of a little Eastern shop.
Many persons, with eyes so bright and still that I knew them for more
than human, came in and tried me on their faces, but at last flung
me into a corner with a little laughter; but all this passed in a
moment, for when I awoke my hand was still upon the handle. I opened
the door, and found myself in a marvellous passage, along whose sides
were many divinities wrought in a mosaic, not less beautiful than the
mosaic in the Baptistery at Ravenna, but of a less severe beauty;
the predominant colour of each divinity, which was surely a symbolic
colour, being repeated in the lamps that hung from the ceiling, a
curiously-scented lamp before every divinity. I passed on, marvelling
exceedingly how these enthusiasts could have created all this beauty in
so remote a place, and half persuaded to believe in a material alchemy,
by the sight of so much hidden wealth; the censer filling the air, as I
passed, with smoke of ever-changing colour.

I stopped before a door, on whose bronze panels were wrought great
waves in whose shadow were faint suggestions of terrible faces. Those
beyond it seemed to have heard our steps, for a voice cried: 'Is the
work of the Incorruptible Fire at an end? ' and immediately Michael
Robartes answered: 'The perfect gold has come from the _athanor_. ' The
door swung open, and we were in a great circular room, and among men
and women who were dancing slowly in crimson robes. Upon the ceiling
was an immense rose wrought in mosaic; and about the walls, also in
mosaic, was a battle of gods and angels, the gods glimmering like
rubies and sapphires, and the angels of the one greyness, because, as
Michael Robartes whispered, they had renounced their divinity, and
turned from the unfolding of their separate hearts, out of love for a
God of humility and sorrow. Pillars supported the roof and made a kind
of circular cloister, each pillar being a column of confused shapes,
divinities, it seemed, of the wind, who rose as in a whirling dance
of more than human vehemence, and playing upon pipes and cymbals; and
from among these shapes were thrust out hands, and in these hands were
censers. I was bid place my censer also in a hand and take my place
and dance, and as I turned from the pillars towards the dancers, I
saw that the floor was of a green stone, and that a pale Christ on a
pale cross was wrought in the midst. I asked Robartes the meaning of
this, and was told that they desired 'To trouble His unity with their
multitudinous feet. ' The dance wound in and out, tracing upon the floor
the shapes of petals that copied the petals in the rose overhead, and
to the sound of hidden instruments which were perhaps of an antique
pattern, for I have never heard the like; and every moment the dance
was more passionate, until all the winds of the world seemed to have
awakened under our feet. After a little I had grown weary, and stood
under a pillar watching the coming and going of those flame-like
figures; until gradually I sank into a half-dream, from which I was
awakened by seeing the petals of the great rose, which had no longer
the look of mosaic, falling slowly through the incense-heavy air,
and, as they fell, shaping into the likeness of living beings of an
extraordinary beauty. Still faint and cloud-like, they began to dance,
and as they danced took a more and more definite shape, so that I was
able to distinguish beautiful Grecian faces and august Egyptian faces,
and now and again to name a divinity by the staff in his hand or by a
bird fluttering over his head; and soon every mortal foot danced by the
white foot of an immortal; and in the troubled eyes that looked into
untroubled shadowy eyes, I saw the brightness of uttermost desire as
though they had found at length, after unreckonable wandering, the lost
love of their youth. Sometimes, but only for a moment, I saw a faint
solitary figure with a veiled face, and carrying a faint torch, flit
among the dancers, but like a dream within a dream, like a shadow of
a shadow, and I knew by an understanding born from a deeper fountain
than thought, that it was Eros himself, and that his face was veiled
because no man or woman from the beginning of the world has ever known
what love is, or looked into his eyes, for Eros alone of divinities
is altogether a spirit, and hides in passions not of his essence if he
would commune with a mortal heart. So that if a man love nobly he knows
love through infinite pity, unspeakable trust, unending sympathy; and
if ignobly through vehement jealousy, sudden hatred, and unappeasable
desire; but unveiled love he never knows. While I thought these things,
a voice cried to me from the crimson figures: 'Into the dance! there
is none that can be spared out of the dance; into the dance! into the
dance! that the gods may make them bodies out of the substance of our
hearts'; and before I could answer, a mysterious wave of passion, that
seemed like the soul of the dance moving within our souls, took hold of
me, and I was swept, neither consenting nor refusing, into the midst. I
was dancing with an immortal august woman, who had black lilies in her
hair, and her dreamy gesture seemed laden with a wisdom more profound
than the darkness that is between star and star, and with a love like
the love that breathed upon the waters; and as we danced on and on,
the incense drifted over us and round us, covering us away as in the
heart of the world, and ages seemed to pass, and tempests to awake and
perish in the folds of our robes and in her heavy hair.

Suddenly I remembered that her eyelids had never quivered, and that her
lilies had not dropped a black petal, or shaken from their places, and
understood with a great horror that I danced with one who was more or
less than human, and who was drinking up my soul as an ox drinks up a
wayside pool; and I fell, and darkness passed over me.


V

I awoke suddenly as though something had awakened me, and saw that I
was lying on a roughly painted floor, and that on the ceiling, which
was at no great distance, was a roughly painted rose, and about me on
the walls half-finished paintings. The pillars and the censers had
gone; and near me a score of sleepers lay wrapped in disordered robes,
their upturned faces looking to my imagination like hollow masks; and
a chill dawn was shining down upon them from a long window I had not
noticed before; and outside the sea roared. I saw Michael Robartes
lying at a little distance and beside him an overset bowl of wrought
bronze which looked as though it had once held incense. As I sat thus,
I heard a sudden tumult of angry men and women's voices mix with the
roaring of the sea; and leaping to my feet, I went quickly to Michael
Robartes, and tried to shake him out of his sleep. I then seized him
by the shoulder and tried to lift him, but he fell backwards, and
sighed faintly; and the voices became louder and angrier; and there
was a sound of heavy blows upon the door, which opened on to the pier.
Suddenly I heard a sound of rending wood, and I knew it had begun to
give, and I ran to the door of the room. I pushed it open and came out
upon a passage whose bare boards clattered under my feet, and found
in the passage another door which led into an empty kitchen; and as I
passed through the door I heard two crashes in quick succession, and
knew by the sudden noise of feet and the shouts that the door which
opened on to the pier had fallen inwards. I ran from the kitchen and
out into a small yard, and from this down some steps which descended
the seaward and sloping side of the pier, and from the steps clambered
along the water's edge, with the angry voices ringing in my ears.