XI
_His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung._
--JOHN KEATS.
Even as we entered the gates of Mr. Reverie's house beneath emboweringchestnuts, there advanced across the moonlit spaces to meet us afigure on foot like ourselves, leading his horse. He was in armour,yet unarmed. His steel glittered cold and blue; his fingers hungungauntleted; and on his pale face dwelt a look never happy warriorwore yet. He seemed a man Mars lends to Venus out of war to unhappyidleness. The disillusionment of age was in his face: yet he wasyouthful, I suppose; scarce older than Mercutio, and once, perhaps, aslight of wit.
He took my hand in a grasp cold and listless, and smiled frommirthless eyes.
Yet there was something strangely taking in this solitaryknight-at-arms. She for whom he does not fight, I thought, must havesomewhat of the immortals to grace her warrior with. And if it wereonly shadows that beset him and obscured his finer heart, shadows theywere of myrtle and rhododendron, with voices shrill and small as thesparrows', and eyes of the next-to-morning stars.
Indeed, these gardens whispered, and the wind at play in the airseemed to bear far-away music, dying and falling.
We entered the house and sat down to supper in a low room open to thenight. Reverie recounted our evening's talk. "I wish," he said,turning to his friend, "you would accompany Mr. Brocken and me onenight to the 'World's End' to hear these fellows talk. Such arrogance,such assurance, such bigotry and blindness and foxiness!--yet, on myword, a kind of gravity with it all, as if the scarecrows had somereal interest in the devil's tares they guard. Come now, let it be abargain between us, and leave this endless search awhile."
But the solitary knight shook his head. "They would jeer me out ofknowledge," he said. "Why, Reverie, the children cease their playwhen I pass, and draw their tops and marbles out of the dust, and gazetill I am hid from sight."
"It is fancy, only fancy," replied Reverie; "children stare at allthings new to them in the world. How else could they recognise andlearn again--how else forget? But as for this rabble's mockery, thereis a she-bear left called Oblivion which is their mistress, and willsome day silence every jeer."
The solitary knight shook his head again, eyeing me solemnly as if inhope to discern in my face the sorcery that held himself in thrall.
The few wax tapers gave but light enough to find the way from gobletto mouth. As for Reverie's wine, I ask no other, for it had thepoppy's scarlet, and overcame weariness so subtly I almost forgotthese were the hours of sleep we spent in waking; forgot, too, as ifof the lotus, all thought of effort and hope.
After all, thought I as I sipped, effort is the flaw that proves menmortal; while as for hope, who would seek a seed that floats on everywind and smothers the world with weeds that bear no fruit? It was, infact, fare very different from the ale and cheese of the "World's End."
"But you yourself," I said to Mr. Reverie presently; "in all the talkat the inn you kept a very scrupulous silence--discreet enough, I own.But now, what truly _was_ this Christian of whom we heard so much? andwhy, may I ask, do his neighbours slander the dead? You yourselves,did you ever meet with him?" I turned from one to the other of mycompanions as they glanced uneasily each at each.
"Well, sir," said Reverie rather deliberately, "I have met him andtalked with him. I often think of him, in spite of myself. Yet he wasa man of little charm. He certainly had a remarkable gift forestranging his friends. He was a foe to the most innocent compromise.For myself, I found not much humour in him, no eye for grace or art,and a limited imagination that was yet his absolute master.Nevertheless, as you hint, these fellows, no more than I, can forgethim. Nor you?" He turned to the other.
"Christian," he replied, "I remember him. We were friends a littlewhile. Faithful I knew also. Faithful was to the last my friend. Ah!Reverie, then--how many years ago!--there was a child we loved, allthree: do you remember? I see the low, green wall, cool from how manya summer's shadows, the clusters of green apples on the bough. And inthe early morning we would go, carrying torn-off branches, andshouting our songs through the fields, till we came to the shadow andthe hush of the woods. Ay, Reverie, and we would burst in on silence,each his heart beating, and play there. And perhaps it was Hopeful whowould steal away from us, and the others play on; or perhaps you intothe sunlight that maddened the sheltered bird to flit and sing in theorchard where the little child we loved played--not yet sad, but howmuch beloved; not yet weary of passing shadows, and simple creatures,and boy's rough gifts and cold hands. But I--with me it was everevening, when the blackbird bursts harshly away. Then it was so stillin the orchard, and in the curved bough so solitary, that thenightingale, cowering, would almost for fear begin to sing, and stoopto the bending of the bough, her sidelong eyes in shade; while thestars began to stand in the stations above us, ever bright, and allthe night was peace. Then would I dream on--dream of the face I loved,Innocence, O Innocence!"
It was a strange outburst. His voice rose almost to a chant, full of aforlorn music. But even as he ceased, we heard in the followingsilence, above the plashing of the restless fountains, beyond, far andfaint, a wild and stranger music welling. And I saw from the porchthat looks out from the house called Gloom, "La belle Dame sans Merci"pass riding with her train, who rides in beauty beneath the huntress,heedless of disguise. Across from far away, like leaves of autumn,skirred the dappled deer. The music grew, timbrel and pipe and tabor,as beneath the glances of the moon the little company sped, transientas a rainbow, elusive as a dream. I saw her maidens bound andsandalled, with all their everlasting flowers; and advancingsoundless, unreal, the silver wheels of that unearthly chariot amidthe Fauns. On, on they gamboled, hoof in yielding turf, blowing reedmelodies, mocking water, their lips laid sidelong, their eyes aleeralong the smoothness of their flutes.
And when I turned again to my companions, with I know not what oldfolly in my eyes, I know not what unanswerable cry in my heart,Reverie alone was at my side. I seemed to see the long fringes of thelake, the sedge withered, the grey waters restless in the bonds of thewind, tuneless and chill; all these happy gardens swept bare andflowerless; and the far hills silent in the unattainable dawn.
"She pipes, he follows," said Reverie; "she sets the tune, he dances.Yet, sir, on my soul, I believe it is the childish face of that sameInnocence we kept tryst with long ago he pursues on and on, throughwhat sad labyrinths we, who dream not so wildly, cannot by takingthought come to guess."
* * * * *
The next two days passed serenely and quietly at Reverie's. We readtogether, rode, walked, and talked together, and listened in theevening to music. For a sister of Reverie's lived not far distant, whovisited him while I was there, and took supper with us, delighting uswith her wit and spirit and her youthful voice.
But though Reverie more than once suggested it, I could not bringmyself to return to the "World's End" and its garrulous company.Whether it was the moist, grey face of Mr. Cruelty I most abhorred, orStubborn's slug-like eye, or the tongue-stump of my afflicted guide, Icannot say.
Moreover, I had begun to feel a very keen curiosity to see the waythat had lured Christian on with such graceless obstinacy. They hadspoken of remorse, poverty, pride, world-failure, even insanity, evenvice: but these appeared to me only such things as might fret a man toset violently out on, not to persist in such a course; or likelieryet, to abandon hope, to turn back from heights that trouble orconfusion set so far, and made seem dreams.
How could I help, too, being amused to think how vastly strange thesefellows considered a man's venturing whither his star beckoned; thoughthat star were only power, only fame, only beauty, only peace? Whatwonder they were many?
Not far from this place, Reverie informed me, were pitched the boothsof Vanity Fair. This, by his account, was a place one ought to visit,if only for the satisfaction of leaving it behind. But I have heardmore animated accounts of it elsewhere.
As fo
r Reverie himself, he seemed only desirous to contemplate; neverto taste, to win, or to handle. He needed but refuse reality to whatshocked or teased him, to find it harmless and entertaining. He was adreamer whom the heat and shout of battle could not offend.
Perhaps he perceived my restlessness to be gone, for he himselfsuggested that I should stay till the next morning, and then, if I sopleased, he would see me a mile or two on my way.
"For the Pitiless Lady," he said, smiling, "takes many disguises,sometimes of the sun, sometimes of evening, sometimes of night; and Iwould at least save you from the fate that has made my poor friend aphantom before he is a shade."