English
Theyear—whataneventfulyearithadbeenforme,—wasdrawingtoaclose,andthebriefwintrydayhardlygavelightenoughtorecognizetheoldfamiliarobjectsboundupwithsomanyhappymemories,asthetrainglidedroundthelastbendintothestation,andthehoarsecryof“Elveston!Elveston!”resoundedalongtheplatform.
Itwassadtoreturntotheplace,andtofeelthatIshouldneveragainseethegladsmileofwelcome,thathadawaitedmeheresofewmonthsago.
“Andyet,ifIweretofindhimhere,”Imuttered,asinsolitarystateIfollowedtheporter,whowaswheelingmyluggageonabarrow,“andifhewereto’strikeasuddenhandinmine,Andaskathousandthingsofhome,’Ishouldnot—no,’Ishouldnotfeelittobestrange’!”
Havinggivendirectionstohavemyluggagetakentomyoldlodgings,Istrolledoffalone,topayavisit,beforesettlingdowninmyownquarters,tomydearoldfriends—forsuchIindeedfeltthemtobe,thoughitwasbarelyhalfayearsincefirstwemet—theEarlandhiswidoweddaughter.
Theshortestway,asIwellremembered,wastocrossthroughthechurchyard.
Ipushedopenthelittlewicket-gateandslowlytookmywayamongthesolemnmemorialsofthequietdead,thinkingofthemanywhohadduringthepastyear,disappearedfromtheplace,andhadgoneto“jointhemajority”.
Averyfewstepsbroughtmeinsightoftheobjectofmysearch.
LadyMuriel,dressedinthedeepestmourning,herfacehiddenbyalongcrepeveil,waskneelingbeforealittlemarblecross,roundwhichshewasfasteningawreathofflowers.
Thecrossstoodonapieceoflevelturf,unbrokenbyanymound,andIknewthatitwassimplyamemorialcross,foronewhosedustreposedelsewhere,evenbeforereadingthesimpleinscription:
InlovingMemoryof
ARTHURFORESTER,M.D.
whosemortalremainslieburiedbythesea:
whosespirithasreturnedtoGodwhogaveit.
“GREATERLOVEHATHNOMANTHANTHIS,THAT
AMANLAYDOWNHISLIFEFORHISFRIENDS.”
Shethrewbackherveilonseeingmeapproach,andcameforwardstomeetme,withaquietsmile,andfarmoreself-possessedthanIcouldhaveexpected.
“Itisquitelikeoldtimes,seeingyouhereagain!”shesaid,intonesofgenuinepleasure.“Haveyoubeentoseemyfather?”
“No,”Isaid:“Iwasonmywaythere,andcamethroughhereastheshortestway.Ihopeheiswell,andyoualso?”
“Thanks,wearebothquitewell.Andyou?Areyouanybetteryet?”
“Notmuchbetter,Ifear:butnoworse,Iamthankfultosay.”
“Letussithereawhile,andhaveaquietchat,”shesaid.
Thecalmness—almostindifference—ofhermannerquitetookmebysurprise.
Ilittleguessedwhatafiercerestraintshewasputtinguponherself.
“Onecanbesoquiethere,”sheresumed.“Icomehereevery—everyday.”
“Itisverypeaceful,”Isaid.
“Yougotmyletter?”
“Yes,butIdelayedwriting.Itissohardtosay—onpaper“
“Iknow.Itwaskindofyou.
Youwerewithuswhenwesawthelastof—”Shepausedamoment,andwentonmorehurriedly.
“Iwentdowntotheharbourseveraltimes,butnooneknowswhichofthosevastgravesitis.
However,theyshowedmethehousehediedin:thatwassomecomfort.
Istoodintheveryroomwhere—where—”Shestruggledinvaintogoon.
Theflood-gateshadgivenwayatlast,andtheoutburstofgriefwasthemostterribleIhadeverwitnessed.
Totallyregardlessofmypresence,sheflungherselfdownontheturf,buryingherfaceinthegrass,andwithherhandsclaspedroundthelittlemarblecross.“Oh,mydarling,mydarling!”shesobbed.
“AndGodmeantyourlifetobesobeautiful!”
Iwasstartledtohear,thusrepeatedbyLadyMuriel,theverywordsofthedarlingchildwhomIhadseenweepingsobitterlyoverthedeadhare.
Hadsomemysteriousinfluencepassed,fromthatsweetfairy-spirit,ereshewentbacktoFairyland,intothehumanspiritthatlovedhersodearly?Theideaseemedtoowildforbelief.
Andyet,aretherenot“morethingsinheavenandearththanaredreamtofinourphilosophy”?
“Godmeantittobebeautiful,”Iwhispered,“andsurelyitwasbeautiful?God’spurposeneverfails!”
Idaredsaynomore,butroseandlefther.
Attheentrance-gatetotheEarl’shouseIwaited,leaningonthegateandwatchingthesunset,revolvingmanymemories—somehappy,somesorrowful—untilLadyMurieljoinedme.
Shewasquitecalmagainnow.“Docomein,”shesaid.“Myfatherwillbesopleasedtoseeyou!”
Theoldmanrosefromhischair,withasmile,towelcomeme;buthisself-commandwasfarlessthanhisdaughter’s,andthetearscourseddownhisfaceashegraspedbothmyhandsinhis,andpressedthemwarmly.
Myheartwastoofulltospeak;andweallsatsilentforaminuteortwo.ThenLadyMurielrangthebellfortea.“Youdotakefiveo’clocktea,Iknow!”
shesaidtome,withthesweetplayfulnessofmannerIrememberedsowell,“eventhoughyouca’n’tworkyourwickedwillontheLawofGravity,andmaketheteacupsdescendintoInfiniteSpace,alittlefasterthanthetea!”
Thisremarkgavethetonetoourconversation.
Byatacitmutualconsent,weavoided,duringthisourfirstmeetingafterhergreatsorrow,thepainfultopicsthatfilledourthoughts,andtalkedlikelight-heartedchildrenwhohadneverknownacare.
“Didyoueveraskyourselfthequestion,”LadyMurielbegan,àproposofnothing,“whatisthechiefadvantageofbeingaManinsteadofaDog?”
“No,indeed,”Isaid:“butIthinkthereareadvantagesontheDog’ssideofthequestionaswell.
“Nodoubt,”shereplied,withthatprettymock-gravitythatbecamehersowell:“but,onMan’sside,thechiefadvantageseemstometoconsistinhavingpockets!
Itwasborneinuponme—uponus,Ishouldsay;formyfatherandIwerereturningfromawalk—onlyyesterday.Wemetadogcarryinghomeabone.
Whatitwanteditfor,I’venoidea:certainlytherewasnomeatonit—”
Astrangesensationcameoverme,thatIhadheardallthis,orsomethingexactlylikeit,before:andIalmostexpectedhernextwordstobe“perhapshemeanttomakeacloakforthewinter?”
Howeverwhatshereallysaidwas“andmyfathertriedtoaccountforitbysomewretchedjokeaboutprobonopublico.
Well,thedoglaiddownthebone—notindisgustwiththepun,whichwouldhaveshownittobeadogoftastebutsimplytorestitsjaws,poorthing!Ididpityitso!
Won’tyoujoinmyCharitableAssociationforsupplyingdogswithpockets’Howwouldyouliketohavetocarryyourwalking-stickinyourmouth?”
Ignoringthedifficultquestionastotheraisond’êtreofawalking-stick,supposingonehadnohands,Imentionedacuriousinstance,Ihadoncewitnessed,ofreasoningbyadog.
Agentleman,withalady,andchild,andalargedog,weredownattheendofapieronwhichIwaswalking.
Toamusehischild,Isuppose,thegentlemanputdownonthegroundhisumbrellaandthelady’sparasol,andthenledthewaytotheotherendofthepier,fromwhichhesentthedogbackforthedesertedarticles.Iwaswatchingwithsomecuriosity.
ThedogcameracingbacktowhereIstood,butfoundanunexpecteddifficultyinpickingupthethingsithadcomefor.
Withtheumbrellainitsmouth,itsjawsweresofarapartthatitcouldgetnofirmgripontheparasol.
Aftertwoorthreefailures,itpausedandconsideredthematter.
Thenitputdowntheumbrellaandbeganwiththeparasol.
Ofcoursethatdidn’topenitsjawsnearlysowideanditwasabletogetagoodholdoftheumbrella,andgallopedoffintriumph.
Onecouldn’tdoubtthatithadgonethrougharealtrainoflogicalthought.
Ientirelyagreewithyou,”saidLadyMuriel.
“butdon’torthodoxwriterscondemnthatview,asputtingManontheleveloftheloweranimals?
Don’ttheydrawasharpboundary-linebetweenReasonandInstinct?”
“Thatcertainlywastheorthodoxview,agenerationago,”saidtheEarl.
“ThetruthofReligionseemedreadytostandorfallwiththeassertionthatManwastheonlyreasoninganimal.Butthatisatanendnow.
Mancanstillclaimcertainmonopolies—forinstance,suchauseoflanguageasenablesustoutilizetheworkofmany,bydivisionoflabour’.
Butthebelief,thatwehaveamonopolyofReason,haslongbeensweptaway.Yetnocatastrophehasfollowed.
Assomeoldpoetsays,’Godiswherehewas’.”
“MostreligiousbelieverswouldnowagreewithBishopButler,”saidI,“andnotrejectalineofargument,evenifitledstraighttotheconclusionthatanimalshavesomekindofsoul,whichsurvivestheirbodilydeath.”
“Iwouldliketoknowthattobetrue!”LadyMurielexclaimed.
“Ifonlyforthesakeofthepoorhorses.
SometimesI’vethoughtthat,ifanythingcouldmakemeceasetobelieveinaGodofperfectjustice,itwouldbethesufferingsofhorses—withoutguilttodeserveit,andwithoutanycompensation!”
“ItisonlypartofthegreatRiddle,”saidtheEarl,“whyinnocentbeingseversuffer.ItisagreatstrainonFaith—butnotabreakingstrain,Ithink.”
Thesufferingsofhorses”,Isaid,“arechieflycausedbyMan’scruelty.
SothatismerelyoneofthemanyinstancesofSincausingsufferingtoothersthantheSinnerhimself.
Butdon’tyoufindagreaterdifficultyinsufferingsinflictedbyanimalsuponeachother?
Forinstance,acatplayingwithamouse.
Assumingittohavenomoralresponsibility,isn’tthatagreatermysterythanamanover-drivingahorse?”
“Ithinkitis,”saidLadyMuriel,lookingamuteappealtoherfather.
“Whatrighthavewetomakethatassumption?”saidtheEarl.
“Manyofourreligiousdifficultiesaremerelydeductionsfromunwarrantedassumptions.
Thewisestanswertomostofthem,is,Ithink,’behold,weknownotanything’.”
“Youmentioned‘divisionoflabour’,justnow,”Isaid.“Surelyitiscarriedtoawonderfulperfectioninahiveofbees?”
“Sowonderful—soentirelysuper-human—”saidtheEarl,“andsoentirelyinconsistentwiththeintelligencetheyshowinotherways—thatIfeelnodoubtatallthatitispureInstinct,andnot,assomehold,averyhighorderofReason.
Lookattheutterstupidityofabee,tryingtofinditswayoutofanopenwindow!
Itdoesn’ttry,inanyreasonablesenseoftheword:itsimplybangsitselfabout!
Weshouldcallapuppyimbecile,thatbehavedso.
AndyetweareaskedtobelievethatitsintellectuallevelisaboveSirIsaacNewton!”
“ThenyouholdthatpureInstinctcontainsnoReasonatall?”
“Onthecontrary,”saidtheEarl,“Iholdthattheworkofabee-hiveinvolvesReasonofthehighestorder.ButnoneofitisdonebytheBee.
Godhasreasoneditallout,andhasputintothemindoftheBeetheconclusions,only,ofthereasoningprocess.”
“Buthowdotheirmindscometoworktogether?”Iasked.
“Whatrighthavewetoassumethattheyhaveminds?”
“Specialpleading,specialpleading!”LadyMurielcried,inamostunfilialtoneoftriumph.“Why,youyourselfsaid,justnow,‘themindoftheBee’!”
“ButIdidnotsay’minds’,mychild,”theEarlgentlyreplied.
“Ithasoccurredtome,asthemostprobablesolutionofthe‘Bee’-mystery,thataswarmofBeeshaveonlyonemindamongthem.
Weoftenseeonemindanimatingamostcomplexcollectionoflimbsandorgans,whenjoinedtogether.
Howdoweknowthatanymaterialconnectionisnecessary?Maynotmereneighbourhoodbeenough?
Ifso,aswarmofbeesissimplyasingleanimalwhosemanylimbsarenotquiteclosetogether!”
“Itisabewilderingthought,”Isaid,“andneedsanight’sresttograspitproperly.ReasonandInstinctbothtellmeIoughttogohome.So,good-night!”
“I’ll‘set’youpartoftheway,”saidLadyMuriel.“I’vehadnowalkto-day.
Itwilldomegood,andIhavemoretosaytoyou.Shallwegothroughthewood?
Itwillbepleasanterthanoverthecommon,eventhoughitisgettingalittledark.”
Weturnedasideintotheshadeofinterlacingboughs,whichformedanarchitectureofalmostperfectsymmetry,groupedintolovelygroinedarches,orrunningout,farastheeyecouldfollow,intoendlessaisles,andchancels,andnaves,likesomeghostlycathedral,fashionedoutofthedreamofamoon-struckpoet.
“Always,inthiswood,”shebeganafterapause(silenceseemednaturalinthisdimsolitude),“IbeginthinkingofFairies!MayIaskyouaquestion?”sheaddedhesitatingly.“DoyoubelieveinFairies?”
Themomentaryimpulsewassostrongtotellherofmyexperiencesinthisverywood,thatIhadtomakearealefforttokeepbackthewordsthatrushedtomylips.
“Ifyoumean,by‘believe’,‘believeintheirpossibleexistence’,Isay‘Yes’.
Fortheiractualexistence,ofcourse,onewouldneedevidence.”
“Youweresaying,theotherday”,shewenton,“thatyouwouldacceptanything,ongoodevidence,thatwasnotàprioriimpossible.
AndIthinkyounamedGhostsasaninstanceofaprovablephenomenon.WouldFairiesbeanotherinstance?”
“Yes,Ithinkso.”Andagainitwashardtocheckthewishtosaymore:butIwasnotyetsureofasympatheticlistener.
“AndhaveyouanytheoryastowhatsortofplacetheywouldoccupyinCreation?Dotellmewhatyouthinkaboutthem!
Wouldthey,forinstance(supposingsuchbeingstoexist),wouldtheyhaveanymoralresponsibility?
Imean”(andthelightbanteringtonesuddenlychangedtooneofdeepseriousness)“wouldtheybecapableofsin?”
“Theycanreason—onalowerlevel,perhaps,thanmenandwomen—neverrising,Ithink,abovethefacultiesofachild;andtheyhaveamoralsense,mostsurely.
Suchabeing,withoutfreewill,wouldbeanabsurdity.
SoIamdriventotheconclusionthattheyarecapableofsin.”
“Youbelieveinthem?”shecrieddelightedly,withasuddenmotionasifabouttoclapherhands.“Nowtellme,haveyouanyreasonforit?”
AndstillIstrovetokeepbacktherevelationIfeltsurewascoming.
“Ibelievethatthereislifeeverywhere—notmaterialonly,notmerelywhatispalpabletooursenses—butimmaterialandinvisibleaswell;Webelieveinourownimmaterialessence—callit‘soul,orspirit,orwhatyouwill.
Whyshouldnotothersimilaressencesexistaroundus,notlinkedontoavisibleandmaterialbody?
DidnotGodmakethisswarmofhappyinsects,todanceinthissunbeamforonehourofbliss,fornootherobject,thatwecanimagine,thantoswellthesumofconscioushappiness?
Andwhereshallwedaretodrawtheline,andsay‘Hehasmadealltheseandnomore’?”
“Yes,yes”!sheassented,watchingmewithsparklingeyes.“Buttheseareonlyreasonsfornotdenying.Youhavemorereasonsthanthis,haveyounot?”
“Well,yes,”Isaid,feelingImightsafelytellallnow.“AndIcouldnotfindafittertimeorplacetosayit.Ihaveseenthem—andinthisverywood!”
LadyMurielaskednomorequestions.Silentlyshepacedatmyside,withheadboweddownandhandsclaspedtightlytogether.
Only,asmytalewenton,shedrewalittleshortquickbreathnowandthen,likeachildpantingwithdelight.
AndItoldherwhatIhadneveryetbreathedtoanyotherlistener,ofmydoublelife,and,morethanthat(forminemighthavebeenbutanoonday-dream),ofthedoublelifeofthosetwodearchildren.
AndwhenItoldherofBruno’swildgambols,shelaughedmerrily;andwhenIspokeofSylvie’ssweetnessandherutterunselfishnessandtrustfullove,shedrewadeepbreath,likeonewhohearsatlastsomeprecioustidingsforwhichthehearthasachedforalongwhileandthehappytearschasedoneanotherdownhercheeks.
Ihaveoftenlongedtomeetanangel,”shewhisperedsolowthatIcouldhardlycatchthewords.“I’msogladI’veseenSylvie!
MyheartwentouttothechildthefirstmomentthatIsawher—Listen!”shebrokeoffsuddenly.That’sSylviesinging!I’msureofit!Don’tyouknowhervoice?”
“IhaveheardBrunosing,morethanonce,”Isaid:‘butIneverheardSylvie.”
“Ihaveonlyheardheronce,”saidLadyMuriel.
“Itwasthatdaywhenyoubroughtusthosemysteriousflowers.
Thechildrenhadrunoutintothegarden;andIsawEriccominginthatway,andwenttothewindowtomeethim:andSylviewassinging,underthetrees,asongIhadneverheardbefore.
Thewordsweresomethinglike‘IthinkitisLove,IfeelitisLove’.
Hervoicesoundedfaraway,likeadream,butitwasbeautifulbeyondallwords—assweetasaninfant’sfirstsmile,orthefirstgleamofthewhitecliffswhenoneiscominghomeafterwearyyears—avoicethatseemedtofillone’swholebeingwithpeaceandheavenlythoughts—Listen!”
shecried,breakingoffagaininherexcitement.
“Thatishervoice,andthat’stheverysong!”
Icoulddistinguishnowords,buttherewasadreamysenseofmusicintheairthatseemedtogroweverlouderandlouder,asifcomingnearertous.
Westoodquitesilent,andinanotherminutethetwochildrenappeared,comingstraighttowardsusthroughanarchedopeningamongthetrees.
Eachhadanarmroundtheother,andthesettingsunshedagoldenhaloroundtheirheads,likewhatoneseesinpicturesofsaints.
Theywerelookinginourdirection,butevidentlydidnotseeus,andIsoonmadeoutthatLadyMurielhadforoncepassedintoaconditionfamiliartome,thatwewerebothofus“eerie”,andthat,thoughwecouldseethechildrensoplainly,wewerequiteinvisibletothem.
Thesongceasedjustastheycameintosight:but,tomydelight,Brunoinstantlysaid“Let’ssingitallagain,Sylvie!Itdidsoundsopretty!”AndSylviereplied“Verywell.It’syoutobegin,youknow.”
SoBrunobegan,inthesweetchildishtrebleIknewsowell:
“Say,whatisthespell,whenherfledgelingsarecheeping,
Thatluresthebirdhometohernest?
Orwakesthetiredmother,whoseinfantisweeping,
Tocuddleandcroonittorest;
What’sthemagicthatcharmsthegladbabeinherarms,
Tillitcooeswiththevoiceofthedove?”
AndnowensuedquitethestrangestofallthestrangeexperiencesthatmarkedthewonderfulyearwhosehistoryIamwriting—theexperienceoffirsthearingSylvie’svoiceinsong.
Herpartwasaveryshortone—onlyafewwords—andshesangittimidly,andverylowindeed,scarcelyaudibly,butthesweetnessofhervoicewassimplyindescribable;Ihaveneverheardanyearthlymusiclikeit.
“’Tisasecret,andsoletuswhisperitlow
AndthenameofthesecretisLove!”
Onmethefirsteffectofhervoicewasasuddensharppangthatseemedtopiercethroughone’sveryheart.
(Ihadfeltsuchapangonlyoncebeforeinmylife,andithadbeenfromseeingwhat,atthemoment,realizedone’sideaofperfectbeauty—itwasinaLondonexhibitionwhere,inmakingmywaythroughacrowd,Isuddenlymet,facetoface,achildofquiteunearthlybeauty.)
Thencamearushofburningtearstotheeyes,asthoughonecouldweepone’ssoulawayforpuredelight.
Andlastlytherefellonmeasenseofawethatwasalmostterror—somesuchfeelingasMosesmusthavehadwhenheheardthewords“Putoffthyshoesfromoffthyfeet,fortheplacewhereonthoustandestisholyground”Thefiguresofthechildrenbecamevagueandshadowy,likeglimmeringmeteors:whiletheirvoicesrangtogetherinexquisiteharmonyastheysang:
“ForIthinkitisLove
ForIfeelitisLove,
ForI’msureitisnothingbutLove!”
BythistimeIcouldseethemclearlyoncemore.Brunoagainsangbyhimself:
“Say,whenceisthevoicethat,whenangerisburning,
Bidsthewhirlofthetempesttocease?
Thatstirsthevexedsoulwithanaching—ayearning
Forthebrotherlyhand-gripofpeace;
Whencethemusicthatfillsallourbeing—thatthrills
Aroundus,beneath,andabove?”
Sylviesangmorecourageously,thistime:thewordsseemedtocarryheraway,outofherself:
“’Tisasecret:noneknowshowitcomes,howitgoes
ButthenameofthesecretisLove!”
Andclearandstrongthechorusrangout:
“ForIthinkitisLove,
ForIfeelitisLove,
ForI’msureitisnothingbutLove!”
OncemoreweheardBruno’sdelicatelittlevoicealone:
“Saywhoseistheskillthatpaintsvalleyandhill,
Likeapicturesofairtothesight?
Thatpecksthegreenmeadowwithsunshineandshadow,
Tillthelittlelambsleapwithdelight?”
Andagainuprosethatsilveryvoice,whoseangelicsweetnessIcouldhardlybear:
“’Tisasecretuntoldtoheartscruelandcold,
Though’tissung,bytheangelsabove,
Innotesthatringclearfortheearsthatcanhear—
AndthenameofthesecretisLove!”
AndthenBrunojoinedinagainwith
“ForIthinkitisLove,
ForIfeelitisLove,
ForI’msureitisnothingbutLove!”
“Thatarepretty!”thelittlefellowexclaimed,asthechildrenpassedus—socloselythatwedrewbackalittletomakeroomforthem,anditseemedwehadonlytoreachoutahandtotouchthem:butthiswedidnotattempt.
“Nousetotryandstopthem!”Isaid,astheypassedawayintotheshadows.“Why,theycouldnotevenseeus!”
“Nouseatall,”LadyMurielechoedwithasigh.
“Onewouldliketomeetthemagain,inlivingform!ButIfeel,somehow,thatcanneverbe.Theyhavepassedoutofourlives!”
Shesighedagain;andnomorewassaid,tillwecameoutintothemainroad,atapointnearmylodgings.
“Well;Iwillleaveyouhere,”shesaid.
“Iwanttogetbackbeforedark:andIhaveacottage-friendtovisit,first.Goodnight,dearfriend!Letusseeyousoon—andoften!”
sheadded,withanaffectionatewarmththatwenttomyveryheart.“Forthosearefewweholdasdear!
“Goodnight!”Ianswered.“Tennysonsaidthatofaworthierfriendthanme.”
“Tennysondidn’tknowwhathewastalkingabout!”shesaucilyrejoined,withatouchofheroldchildishgaiety;andweparted.
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