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Page 6
At which Amroth laughed again, a laugh full of content. "Yes," he said,
"the crags and the sunset--do you not remember? I came down with you,
carrying you like a child in my arms, while you slept; and then I saw
you awake. You had to rest a long time at first; you had had much to
bear--uncertainty--that is what tires one, even more than pain. And I
have been telling you things ever since, when you could listen."
"Oh," I said, "I have a hundred things to ask you; how strange it is to
see so much and understand so little!"
"Ask away," said Amroth, putting an arm through mine.
"I was afraid," I said, "that it would all be so different--like a
catechism 'Dost thou believe--is this thy desire?' But instead it seems
so entirely natural and simple!"
"Ah," he said, "that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it is
hard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just as
surprising and interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: the
only things that are gone--for a time, that is--are the things that are
ugly and sad. But they are useful too in their way, though you have no
need to think of them now. Those are just the discipline, the training."
"But," I said, "what makes people so different from each other down
there--so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel,
selfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind--like you, for
instance?"
"No," he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, "of course I
don't mind--I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally!
But don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgusting
lives are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin by
being enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer.
The divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret."
IV
Once I said:
"Which kind of people do you find it hardest to help along?"
"The young people," said Amroth, with a smile.
"Youth!" I said. "Why, down below, we think of youth as being so
generous and ardent and imitative! We speak of youth as the time to
learn, and form fine habits; if a man is wilful and selfish in
after-life, we say that it was because he was too much indulged in
childhood--and we attach great importance to the impressions of youth."
"That is quite right," said Amroth, "because the impressions of youth
are swift and keen; but of course, here, age is not a question of years
or failing powers. The old, here, are the wise and gracious and patient
and gentle; the youth of the spirit is stupidity and unimaginativeness.
On the one hand are the stolid and placid, and on the other are the
brutal and cruel and selfish and unrestrained."
"You confuse me greatly," I said; "surely you do not mean that spiritual
life and progress are a matter of intellectual energy?"
"No, not at all," said he; "the so-called intellectual people are often
the most stupid and youngest of all. The intellect counts for nothing:
that is only a kind of dexterity, a pretty game. The imagination is what
matters."
"Worse and worse!" I said. "Does salvation belong to poets and
novelists?"
"No, no," said Amroth, "that is a game too! The imagination I speak of
is the power of entering into other people's minds and hearts, of
putting yourself in their place--of loving them, in fact. The more you
know of people, the better chance there is of loving them; and you can
only find your way into their minds by imaginative sympathy. I will
tell you a story which will show you what I mean. There was once a
famous writer on earth, of whose wisdom people spoke with bated breath.
Men went to see him with fear and reverence, and came away, saying, 'How
wonderful!' And this man, in his age, was waited upon by a little maid,
an ugly, tired, tiny creature. People used to say that they wondered he
had not a better servant. But she knew all that he liked and wanted,
where his books and papers were, what was good for him to do. She did
not understand a word of what he said, but she knew both when he had
talked too much, and when he had not talked enough, so that his mind was
pent up in itself, and he became cross and fractious. Now, in reality,
the little maid was one of the oldest and most beautiful of spirits. She
had lived many lives, each apparently humbler than the last. She never
grumbled about her work, or wanted to amuse herself. She loved the silly
flies that darted about her kitchen, or brushed their black heads on
the ceiling; she loved the ivy tendrils that tapped on her window in the
breeze. She did not go to church, she had no time for that; or if she
had gone, she would not have understood what was said, though she would
have loved all the people there, and noticed how they looked and sang.
But the wise man himself was one of the youngest and stupidest of
spirits, so young and stupid that he had to have a very old and wise
spirit to look after him. He was eaten up with ideas and vanity, so that
he had no time to look at any one or think of anybody, unless they
praised him. He has a very long pilgrimage before him, though he wrote
pretty songs enough, and his mortal body, or one of them, lies in the
Poets' Corner of the Abbey, and people come and put wreaths there with
tears in their eyes."
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