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Page 35
"Well, sir," said Reverie rather deliberately, "I have met him and
talked with him. I often think of him, in spite of myself. Yet he was
a man of little charm. He certainly had a remarkable gift for
estranging 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 forget
him. Nor you?" He turned to the other.
"Christian," he replied, "I remember him. We were friends a little
while. Faithful I knew also. Faithful was to the last my friend. Ah!
Reverie, then--how many years ago!--there was a child we loved, all
three: do you remember? I see the low, green wall, cool from how many
a summer's shadows, the clusters of green apples on the bough. And in
the early morning we would go, carrying torn-off branches, and
shouting our songs through the fields, till we came to the shadow and
the 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 who
would steal away from us, and the others play on; or perhaps you into
the sunlight that maddened the sheltered bird to flit and sing in the
orchard where the little child we loved played--not yet sad, but how
much beloved; not yet weary of passing shadows, and simple creatures,
and boy's rough gifts and cold hands. But I--with me it was ever
evening, when the blackbird bursts harshly away. Then it was so still
in the orchard, and in the curved bough so solitary, that the
nightingale, cowering, would almost for fear begin to sing, and stoop
to the bending of the bough, her sidelong eyes in shade; while the
stars began to stand in the stations above us, ever bright, and all
the 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 a
forlorn music. But even as he ceased, we heard in the following
silence, above the plashing of the restless fountains, beyond, far and
faint, a wild and stranger music welling. And I saw from the porch
that 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, transient
as a rainbow, elusive as a dream. I saw her maidens bound and
sandalled, with all their everlasting flowers; and advancing
soundless, unreal, the silver wheels of that unearthly chariot amid
the Fauns. On, on they gamboled, hoof in yielding turf, blowing reed
melodies, mocking water, their lips laid sidelong, their eyes aleer
along the smoothness of their flutes.
And when I turned again to my companions, with I know not what old
folly 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 the
lake, the sedge withered, the grey waters restless in the bonds of the
wind, tuneless and chill; all these happy gardens swept bare and
flowerless; 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 same
Innocence we kept tryst with long ago he pursues on and on, through
what sad labyrinths we, who dream not so wildly, cannot by taking
thought come to guess."
* * * * *
The next two days passed serenely and quietly at Reverie's. We read
together, rode, walked, and talked together, and listened in the
evening to music. For a sister of Reverie's lived not far distant, who
visited him while I was there, and took supper with us, delighting us
with her wit and spirit and her youthful voice.
But though Reverie more than once suggested it, I could not bring
myself to return to the "World's End" and its garrulous company.
Whether it was the moist, grey face of Mr. Cruelty I most abhorred, or
Stubborn's slug-like eye, or the tongue-stump of my afflicted guide, I
cannot say.
Moreover, I had begun to feel a very keen curiosity to see the way
that had lured Christian on with such graceless obstinacy. They had
spoken of remorse, poverty, pride, world-failure, even insanity, even
vice: but these appeared to me only such things as might fret a man to
set violently out on, not to persist in such a course; or likelier
yet, to abandon hope, to turn back from heights that trouble or
confusion set so far, and made seem dreams.
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