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Page 15
And then, too, I perceived another strange thing; that the landscape in
which we walked was very plain to me, but that she did not see the same
things that I saw. With me, the landscape was such as I had loved most
in my last experience of life; it was a land to me like the English
hill-country which I loved the best; little fields of pasture mostly,
with hedgerow ashes and sycamores, and here and there a clear stream of
water running by the wood-ends. There were buildings, too, low
white-walled farms, roughly slated, much-weathered, with evidences of
homely life, byre and barn and granary, all about them. These sloping
fields ran up into high moorlands and little grey crags, with the trees
and thickets growing in the rock fronts. I could not think that people
lived in these houses and practised agriculture, though I saw with
surprise and pleasure that there were animals about, horses and sheep
grazing, and dogs that frisked in and out. I had always believed and
hoped that animals had their share in the inheritance of light, and now
I thought that this was a proof that it was indeed so, though I could
not be sure of it, because I realised that it might be but the thoughts
of my mind taking shape, for, as I say, I was gradually aware that the
girl did not see what I saw. To her it was a different scene, of some
southern country, because she seemed to see vineyards, and high-walled
lanes, hill-crests crowded with houses and crowned with churches, such
as one sees at a distance in the Campagna, where the plain breaks into
chestnut-clad hills. But this difference of sight did not make me feel
that the scene was in any degree unreal; it was the idea of the
landscape which we loved, its pretty associations and familiar features,
and the mind did the rest, translating it all into a vision of scenes
which had given us joy on earth, just as we do in dreams when we are in
the body, when the sleeping mind creates sights which give us pleasure,
and yet we have no knowledge that we are ourselves creating them. So we
walked together, until I perceived that we were drawing near to the town
which we had discerned.
And now we became aware of people going to and fro. Sometimes they
stopped and looked upon us with smiles, and even greetings; and
sometimes they went past absorbed in thought.
Houses appeared, both small wayside abodes and larger mansions with
sheltered gardens. What it all meant I hardly knew; but just as we have
perfectly decided tastes on earth as to what sort of a house we like and
why we like it, whether we prefer high, bright rooms, or rooms low and
with subdued light, so in that other country the mind creates what it
desires.
Presently the houses grew thicker, and soon we were in a street--the
town to my eyes was like the little towns one sees in the Cotswold
country, of a beautiful golden stone, with deep plinths and cornices,
with older and simpler buildings interspersed. My companion became
strangely excited, glancing this way and that. And presently, as if we
were certainly expected, there came up to us a kindly and grave person,
who welcomed us formally to the place, and said a few courteous words
about his pleasure that we should have chosen to visit it.
I do not know how it was, but I did not wholly trust our host. His mind
was hidden from me; and indeed I began to have a sense, not of evil,
indeed, or of oppression, but a feeling that it was not the place
appointed for me, but only where my business was to lie for a season. A
group of people came up to us and welcomed my companion with great
cheerfulness, and she was soon absorbed in talk.
X
Now before I come to tell this next part of my story, there are several
things which seem in want of explanation. I speak of people as looking
old and young, and of there being relations between them such as
fatherly and motherly, son-like and lover-like. It bewildered me at
first, but I came to guess at the truth. It would seem that in the
further world spirits do preserve for a long time the characteristics of
the age at which they last left the earth; but I saw no very young
children anywhere at first, though I came afterwards to know what befell
them. It seemed to me that, in the first place I visited, the only
spirits I saw were of those who had been able to make a deliberate
choice of how they would live in the world and which kind of desires
they would serve; it is very hard to say when this choice takes place
in the world below, but I came to believe that, early or late, there
does come a time when there is an opening out of two paths before each
human soul, and when it realises that a choice must be made. Sometimes
this is made early in life; but sometimes a soul drifts on, guileless in
a sense, though its life may be evil and purposeless, not looking
backwards or forwards, but simply acting as its nature bids it act. What
it is that decides the awakening of the will I hardly know; it is all a
secret growth, I think; but the older that the spirit is, in the sense
of spiritual experience, the earlier in mortal life that choice is made;
and this is only another proof of one of the things which Amroth showed
me, that it is, after all, imagination which really makes the difference
between souls, and not intellect or shrewdness or energy; all the real
things of life--sympathy, the power of entering into fine relations,
however simple they may be, with others, loyalty, patience, devotion,
goodness--seem to grow out of this power of imagination; and the reason
why the souls of whom I am going to speak were so content to dwell where
they were, was simply that they had no imagination beyond, but dwelt
happily among the delights which upon earth are represented by sound and
colour and scent and comeliness and comfort. This was a perpetual
surprise to me, because I saw in these fine creatures such a faculty of
delicate perception, that I could not help believing again and again
that their emotions were as deep and varied too; but I found little by
little, that they were all bent, not on loving, and therefore on giving
themselves away to what they loved, but in gathering in perceptions and
sensations, and finding their delight in them; and I realised that what
lies at the root of the artistic nature is its deep and vital
indifference to anything except what can directly give it delight, and
that these souls, for all their amazing subtlety and discrimination, had
very little hold on life at all, except on its outer details and
superficial harmonies; and that they were all very young in experience,
and like shallow waters, easily troubled and easily appeased; and that
therefore they were being dealt with like children, and allowed full
scope for all their little sensitive fancies, until the time should come
for them to go further yet. Of course they were one degree older than
the people who in the world had been really immersed in what may be
called solid interests and serious pursuits--science, politics,
organisation, warfare, commerce--all these spirits were very youthful
indeed, and they were, I suppose, in some very childish nursery of God.
But what first bewildered me was the finding of the earthly proportions
of things so strangely reversed, the serious matters of life so utterly
set aside, and so much made of the things which many people take no sort
of trouble about, as companionships and affections, which are so often
turned into a matter of mere propinquity and circumstance. But of this
I shall have to speak later in its place.
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