V—IN FRANCEJean Guettard

Who knows the name of Jean Guettard to-day?I wrestled with oblivion all night long.At times a curtain on a lighted stageWould lift a moment, and fall back again.Once, in the dark, a sunlit row of vinesGleamed through grey mists on his invisible hill.The mists rolled down. Then, like a miser, NightCaught the brief glory in her blind cloak anew.At dawn I heard the voice of Shadow-of-a-LeafBreathing a quiet song. It seemed remoteAnd yet was near, as when the listener’s heartFills a cold shell with its remembered waves.“When I was young,” said Jean Guettard,“My comrades and myself would hideBeneath a tall and shadowy RockIn summer, on the mountain-side.The wind and rain had sculptured it—Such tricks the rain and wind will play,—To likeness of a Mother and Child;But wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,“Have worn the rocks for many a day.”“The peasants in that quiet valley,Among their vineyards bending there,Called it the Rock of the Good Virgin,And breathed it many an evening prayer.When I grew up I left my homeFor dark Auvergne, to seek and knowHow all this wondrous world was made;And I have learned,” said Jean Guettard,“How rains can beat, and winds can blow.”“When I came home,” said Jean Guettard,“Not fifty years had fleeted by.I looked to see the Form I lovedWith arms outstretched against the sky.Flesh and blood as a wraith might go.This, at least, was enduring stone.I lifted heart and eyes aglow,Over the vines,” said Jean Guettard....“The rain had beaten, the wind had blown,The hill was bare as the sky that day.Mother and Child from the height had gone.The wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,“Had crumbled even the Rock away.”“Shadow-of-a-Leaf,” I whispered, for I sawThe crosier of a fern against the grey;And, as the voice died, he stood dark before me.“You sang as though you loved him. Let the mistsUnfold.”He smiled. “See, first, that Rock,” he said,“Dividing them.”At once, through drifting wreathsI saw a hill emerging, a green hillClothed with the dying rainbow of those tearsThe mist had left there. From the rugged crestSlowly the last thin veils dissolved away.I saw the Rock upstanding on the heightSo closely, and so near me, that I knewIts kinship with the rocks of Fontainebleau;The sandstone whose red grains for many an ageHad been laid down, under a vanished sea;A Rock, upthrust from darkness into light,By buried powers, as power upthrust it nowIn the strong soul, with those remembering hills,Till, graven by frost and beaten by wind and rain,It slowly assumed the semblance of that FormOf Love, the Mother, holding in her armsThe Child of Earth and Heaven; a shape of stone;An image; but it was not made by hands.Footsteps drew near. I heard an eager voiceNaming a flower in Latin.Up they came—Each with a bunch of wild flowers in his hand,—A lean old man, with snowy wind-blown hair,Panting a little; and, lightly at his side,Offering a strong young arm, a sun-burnt boy,Of eighteen years, with darkly shining eyes.It was those eyes, deep, scornful, tender, gay,Dark fires at which all falsehood must consume,That told me who they were—the young Guettard,And his old grandsire.Under the Rock they stood.“Good-bye. I’ll leave you here,” the old man said.“We’ve had good luck. These are fine specimens.The last, perhaps, that we shall find together;For when you leave your home to-morrow, Jean,I think you are going on a longer journeyEven than you know. Perhaps, when you are famous,You will not be so proud as I should be,Were I still living, to recall the daysWhen even I, the old apothecary,Could teach you something.”Jean caught a wrinkled hand,Held it between his own, and laughed awayThat shadow, but old Descurain looked at him,Proudly and sadly. “It will not rest with you,Or your affection, Jean. The world will see to it.The world that knows as much of you and me,As you and I of how that creeper grewAround your bedroom window.”As he spoke,Along the lower slopes the mists beganTo blow away like smoke. The patch of vinesCrept out again; and, far below I saw,Sparkling with sun, the valley of the Juine,The shining river, and the small clear townÉtampes, the grey old church, the clustering roofs,The cobbled square, the gardens, wet and brightWith blots of colour.“I have lived my lifeOut of the world, down there,” Descurain said,“Compounding simples out of herbs and flowers;Reading my Virgil in the quiet evenings,Alone, for all those years; and, then, with you.O fortunatos—Do we ever knowOur happiness till we lose it? You’ll rememberThose Georgics—the great praise of Science, Jean!And that immortal picture of the bees!No doubt you have chosen rightly. For myself,I know, at least, where healing dittany grows,And where earth’s beauty hides in its dark heartAn anodyne, at last, for all our pain.And one thing more I have learned, and see with aweOn every side, more clearly, that on earthThere’s not one stone, one leaf, one creeping thing,No; nor one act or thought, but plays its partIn the universal drama.You’ll look backOne day on this lost bee-like life of mine;And find, perhaps, in its obscurest hourAnd lowliest task, the moment when a lightBegan to dawn upon a child’s dark mind.The old pestle and mortar, and the shining jars,The smell of the grey bunches of dried herbs,The little bedroom over the market-square,The thrifty little house where you were born,The life that all earth’s great ones would despise—All these, perhaps, were needed, as the handThat led you, first, in childhood to the hills.You’ll see strange links, threads of effect and cause,In complicated patterns, growing clearAnd binding all these memories, each to each,And all in one; how one thing led to another,My simples to your love of plants and flowers,And this to your new interest in the hauntsThat please them best—the kinds of earth, the rocks,And minerals that determine where they grow,Foster them, or reject them. You’ll discoverThat all these indirections are not ruledBy chance, but by dark predetermined laws.You’ll grope to find what Power, what Thought, what Will,Determined them; till, after many a year,At one swift clue, one new-found link, one touch,They are flooded with a new transfiguring light,Deep as the light our kneeling peasants knowWhen, dumbly, at the ringing of a bellThey adore the sacred elements; a lightThat shows all Nature, of which your life is part,Bound to that harmony which alone sets free;And every grain of dust upon its wayAs punctual to its purpose as a star.This Rock has played its part in many a life.We know it, for we see it every day.No angelus ever rang, but some one’s eyesWere lifted to it; and, returning home,The wanderer strains to see it from the road.What is it, then? It plays no greater partThan any grain of dust beneath our feet,Could we discern it. A dumb block of stone,A shadow in the mind, a thought of God,A little fragment of the eternal order,That postulates the whole.If we could seeThe universal Temple in which it standsWe, too, should bow our heads; for if this FormWere shaped by Chance, it was the selfsame ChanceThat gave us love and death. In this the foolDescries a reason for denying allTo which our peasants kneel. The years to come(And you will speed them, Jean) will rather makeThis dust the floor of heaven.”The old man laidHis bunch of herbs and flowers below the Rock,Smiled, nodded, and went his way.“Was it by chance,”Thought Jean Guettard, “that grandad laid them so;Or by design; or by some vaster artTranscending, yet including, all our thoughts,And memories, with those flowers and that dumb stone,As chords in its world-music? Why should flowersLaid thus”—he laid his own at the feet of the Rock—“Transfigure it with such beauty that it stoodBlessing him, from its arch of soft blue skyAbove him, like a Figure in a shrine?”He touched its glistening grains. “I think that RayWas right,” he murmured. “This was surely madeUnder the sea; sifted and drifted downFrom vanished hills and spread in level beds,Under deep waters; compressed by the sea’s weight;Upheaved again by fire; and now, once more,Wears down by way of the rain and brook and river,Back to the sea; but all by roads of law.”Then, looking round him furtively, to make sureNo one was near, he dropped upon his knees.The mist closed over him. Rock and hill were lostIn greyness once again.

Who knows the name of Jean Guettard to-day?

I wrestled with oblivion all night long.

At times a curtain on a lighted stage

Would lift a moment, and fall back again.

Once, in the dark, a sunlit row of vines

Gleamed through grey mists on his invisible hill.

The mists rolled down. Then, like a miser, Night

Caught the brief glory in her blind cloak anew.

At dawn I heard the voice of Shadow-of-a-Leaf

Breathing a quiet song. It seemed remote

And yet was near, as when the listener’s heart

Fills a cold shell with its remembered waves.

“When I was young,” said Jean Guettard,“My comrades and myself would hideBeneath a tall and shadowy RockIn summer, on the mountain-side.The wind and rain had sculptured it—Such tricks the rain and wind will play,—To likeness of a Mother and Child;But wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,“Have worn the rocks for many a day.”

“When I was young,” said Jean Guettard,

“My comrades and myself would hide

Beneath a tall and shadowy Rock

In summer, on the mountain-side.

The wind and rain had sculptured it—

Such tricks the rain and wind will play,—

To likeness of a Mother and Child;

But wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,

“Have worn the rocks for many a day.”

“The peasants in that quiet valley,Among their vineyards bending there,Called it the Rock of the Good Virgin,And breathed it many an evening prayer.When I grew up I left my homeFor dark Auvergne, to seek and knowHow all this wondrous world was made;And I have learned,” said Jean Guettard,“How rains can beat, and winds can blow.”

“The peasants in that quiet valley,

Among their vineyards bending there,

Called it the Rock of the Good Virgin,

And breathed it many an evening prayer.

When I grew up I left my home

For dark Auvergne, to seek and know

How all this wondrous world was made;

And I have learned,” said Jean Guettard,

“How rains can beat, and winds can blow.”

“When I came home,” said Jean Guettard,“Not fifty years had fleeted by.I looked to see the Form I lovedWith arms outstretched against the sky.Flesh and blood as a wraith might go.This, at least, was enduring stone.I lifted heart and eyes aglow,Over the vines,” said Jean Guettard....

“When I came home,” said Jean Guettard,

“Not fifty years had fleeted by.

I looked to see the Form I loved

With arms outstretched against the sky.

Flesh and blood as a wraith might go.

This, at least, was enduring stone.

I lifted heart and eyes aglow,

Over the vines,” said Jean Guettard....

“The rain had beaten, the wind had blown,The hill was bare as the sky that day.Mother and Child from the height had gone.The wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,“Had crumbled even the Rock away.”

“The rain had beaten, the wind had blown,

The hill was bare as the sky that day.

Mother and Child from the height had gone.

The wind and rain,” said Jean Guettard,

“Had crumbled even the Rock away.”

“Shadow-of-a-Leaf,” I whispered, for I sawThe crosier of a fern against the grey;And, as the voice died, he stood dark before me.“You sang as though you loved him. Let the mistsUnfold.”He smiled. “See, first, that Rock,” he said,“Dividing them.”At once, through drifting wreathsI saw a hill emerging, a green hillClothed with the dying rainbow of those tearsThe mist had left there. From the rugged crestSlowly the last thin veils dissolved away.I saw the Rock upstanding on the heightSo closely, and so near me, that I knewIts kinship with the rocks of Fontainebleau;The sandstone whose red grains for many an ageHad been laid down, under a vanished sea;A Rock, upthrust from darkness into light,By buried powers, as power upthrust it nowIn the strong soul, with those remembering hills,Till, graven by frost and beaten by wind and rain,It slowly assumed the semblance of that FormOf Love, the Mother, holding in her armsThe Child of Earth and Heaven; a shape of stone;An image; but it was not made by hands.Footsteps drew near. I heard an eager voiceNaming a flower in Latin.Up they came—Each with a bunch of wild flowers in his hand,—A lean old man, with snowy wind-blown hair,Panting a little; and, lightly at his side,Offering a strong young arm, a sun-burnt boy,Of eighteen years, with darkly shining eyes.It was those eyes, deep, scornful, tender, gay,Dark fires at which all falsehood must consume,That told me who they were—the young Guettard,And his old grandsire.Under the Rock they stood.“Good-bye. I’ll leave you here,” the old man said.“We’ve had good luck. These are fine specimens.The last, perhaps, that we shall find together;For when you leave your home to-morrow, Jean,I think you are going on a longer journeyEven than you know. Perhaps, when you are famous,You will not be so proud as I should be,Were I still living, to recall the daysWhen even I, the old apothecary,Could teach you something.”Jean caught a wrinkled hand,Held it between his own, and laughed awayThat shadow, but old Descurain looked at him,Proudly and sadly. “It will not rest with you,Or your affection, Jean. The world will see to it.The world that knows as much of you and me,As you and I of how that creeper grewAround your bedroom window.”As he spoke,Along the lower slopes the mists beganTo blow away like smoke. The patch of vinesCrept out again; and, far below I saw,Sparkling with sun, the valley of the Juine,The shining river, and the small clear townÉtampes, the grey old church, the clustering roofs,The cobbled square, the gardens, wet and brightWith blots of colour.“I have lived my lifeOut of the world, down there,” Descurain said,“Compounding simples out of herbs and flowers;Reading my Virgil in the quiet evenings,Alone, for all those years; and, then, with you.O fortunatos—Do we ever knowOur happiness till we lose it? You’ll rememberThose Georgics—the great praise of Science, Jean!And that immortal picture of the bees!No doubt you have chosen rightly. For myself,I know, at least, where healing dittany grows,And where earth’s beauty hides in its dark heartAn anodyne, at last, for all our pain.And one thing more I have learned, and see with aweOn every side, more clearly, that on earthThere’s not one stone, one leaf, one creeping thing,No; nor one act or thought, but plays its partIn the universal drama.You’ll look backOne day on this lost bee-like life of mine;And find, perhaps, in its obscurest hourAnd lowliest task, the moment when a lightBegan to dawn upon a child’s dark mind.The old pestle and mortar, and the shining jars,The smell of the grey bunches of dried herbs,The little bedroom over the market-square,The thrifty little house where you were born,The life that all earth’s great ones would despise—All these, perhaps, were needed, as the handThat led you, first, in childhood to the hills.You’ll see strange links, threads of effect and cause,In complicated patterns, growing clearAnd binding all these memories, each to each,And all in one; how one thing led to another,My simples to your love of plants and flowers,And this to your new interest in the hauntsThat please them best—the kinds of earth, the rocks,And minerals that determine where they grow,Foster them, or reject them. You’ll discoverThat all these indirections are not ruledBy chance, but by dark predetermined laws.You’ll grope to find what Power, what Thought, what Will,Determined them; till, after many a year,At one swift clue, one new-found link, one touch,They are flooded with a new transfiguring light,Deep as the light our kneeling peasants knowWhen, dumbly, at the ringing of a bellThey adore the sacred elements; a lightThat shows all Nature, of which your life is part,Bound to that harmony which alone sets free;And every grain of dust upon its wayAs punctual to its purpose as a star.

“Shadow-of-a-Leaf,” I whispered, for I saw

The crosier of a fern against the grey;

And, as the voice died, he stood dark before me.

“You sang as though you loved him. Let the mists

Unfold.”

He smiled. “See, first, that Rock,” he said,

“Dividing them.”

At once, through drifting wreaths

I saw a hill emerging, a green hill

Clothed with the dying rainbow of those tears

The mist had left there. From the rugged crest

Slowly the last thin veils dissolved away.

I saw the Rock upstanding on the height

So closely, and so near me, that I knew

Its kinship with the rocks of Fontainebleau;

The sandstone whose red grains for many an age

Had been laid down, under a vanished sea;

A Rock, upthrust from darkness into light,

By buried powers, as power upthrust it now

In the strong soul, with those remembering hills,

Till, graven by frost and beaten by wind and rain,

It slowly assumed the semblance of that Form

Of Love, the Mother, holding in her arms

The Child of Earth and Heaven; a shape of stone;

An image; but it was not made by hands.

Footsteps drew near. I heard an eager voice

Naming a flower in Latin.

Up they came—

Each with a bunch of wild flowers in his hand,—

A lean old man, with snowy wind-blown hair,

Panting a little; and, lightly at his side,

Offering a strong young arm, a sun-burnt boy,

Of eighteen years, with darkly shining eyes.

It was those eyes, deep, scornful, tender, gay,

Dark fires at which all falsehood must consume,

That told me who they were—the young Guettard,

And his old grandsire.

Under the Rock they stood.

“Good-bye. I’ll leave you here,” the old man said.

“We’ve had good luck. These are fine specimens.

The last, perhaps, that we shall find together;

For when you leave your home to-morrow, Jean,

I think you are going on a longer journey

Even than you know. Perhaps, when you are famous,

You will not be so proud as I should be,

Were I still living, to recall the days

When even I, the old apothecary,

Could teach you something.”

Jean caught a wrinkled hand,

Held it between his own, and laughed away

That shadow, but old Descurain looked at him,

Proudly and sadly. “It will not rest with you,

Or your affection, Jean. The world will see to it.

The world that knows as much of you and me,

As you and I of how that creeper grew

Around your bedroom window.”

As he spoke,

Along the lower slopes the mists began

To blow away like smoke. The patch of vines

Crept out again; and, far below I saw,

Sparkling with sun, the valley of the Juine,

The shining river, and the small clear town

Étampes, the grey old church, the clustering roofs,

The cobbled square, the gardens, wet and bright

With blots of colour.

“I have lived my life

Out of the world, down there,” Descurain said,

“Compounding simples out of herbs and flowers;

Reading my Virgil in the quiet evenings,

Alone, for all those years; and, then, with you.

O fortunatos—Do we ever know

Our happiness till we lose it? You’ll remember

Those Georgics—the great praise of Science, Jean!

And that immortal picture of the bees!

No doubt you have chosen rightly. For myself,

I know, at least, where healing dittany grows,

And where earth’s beauty hides in its dark heart

An anodyne, at last, for all our pain.

And one thing more I have learned, and see with awe

On every side, more clearly, that on earth

There’s not one stone, one leaf, one creeping thing,

No; nor one act or thought, but plays its part

In the universal drama.

You’ll look back

One day on this lost bee-like life of mine;

And find, perhaps, in its obscurest hour

And lowliest task, the moment when a light

Began to dawn upon a child’s dark mind.

The old pestle and mortar, and the shining jars,

The smell of the grey bunches of dried herbs,

The little bedroom over the market-square,

The thrifty little house where you were born,

The life that all earth’s great ones would despise—

All these, perhaps, were needed, as the hand

That led you, first, in childhood to the hills.

You’ll see strange links, threads of effect and cause,

In complicated patterns, growing clear

And binding all these memories, each to each,

And all in one; how one thing led to another,

My simples to your love of plants and flowers,

And this to your new interest in the haunts

That please them best—the kinds of earth, the rocks,

And minerals that determine where they grow,

Foster them, or reject them. You’ll discover

That all these indirections are not ruled

By chance, but by dark predetermined laws.

You’ll grope to find what Power, what Thought, what Will,

Determined them; till, after many a year,

At one swift clue, one new-found link, one touch,

They are flooded with a new transfiguring light,

Deep as the light our kneeling peasants know

When, dumbly, at the ringing of a bell

They adore the sacred elements; a light

That shows all Nature, of which your life is part,

Bound to that harmony which alone sets free;

And every grain of dust upon its way

As punctual to its purpose as a star.

This Rock has played its part in many a life.We know it, for we see it every day.No angelus ever rang, but some one’s eyesWere lifted to it; and, returning home,The wanderer strains to see it from the road.What is it, then? It plays no greater partThan any grain of dust beneath our feet,Could we discern it. A dumb block of stone,A shadow in the mind, a thought of God,A little fragment of the eternal order,That postulates the whole.If we could seeThe universal Temple in which it standsWe, too, should bow our heads; for if this FormWere shaped by Chance, it was the selfsame ChanceThat gave us love and death. In this the foolDescries a reason for denying allTo which our peasants kneel. The years to come(And you will speed them, Jean) will rather makeThis dust the floor of heaven.”The old man laidHis bunch of herbs and flowers below the Rock,Smiled, nodded, and went his way.“Was it by chance,”Thought Jean Guettard, “that grandad laid them so;Or by design; or by some vaster artTranscending, yet including, all our thoughts,And memories, with those flowers and that dumb stone,As chords in its world-music? Why should flowersLaid thus”—he laid his own at the feet of the Rock—“Transfigure it with such beauty that it stoodBlessing him, from its arch of soft blue skyAbove him, like a Figure in a shrine?”

This Rock has played its part in many a life.

We know it, for we see it every day.

No angelus ever rang, but some one’s eyes

Were lifted to it; and, returning home,

The wanderer strains to see it from the road.

What is it, then? It plays no greater part

Than any grain of dust beneath our feet,

Could we discern it. A dumb block of stone,

A shadow in the mind, a thought of God,

A little fragment of the eternal order,

That postulates the whole.

If we could see

The universal Temple in which it stands

We, too, should bow our heads; for if this Form

Were shaped by Chance, it was the selfsame Chance

That gave us love and death. In this the fool

Descries a reason for denying all

To which our peasants kneel. The years to come

(And you will speed them, Jean) will rather make

This dust the floor of heaven.”

The old man laid

His bunch of herbs and flowers below the Rock,

Smiled, nodded, and went his way.

“Was it by chance,”

Thought Jean Guettard, “that grandad laid them so;

Or by design; or by some vaster art

Transcending, yet including, all our thoughts,

And memories, with those flowers and that dumb stone,

As chords in its world-music? Why should flowers

Laid thus”—he laid his own at the feet of the Rock—

“Transfigure it with such beauty that it stood

Blessing him, from its arch of soft blue sky

Above him, like a Figure in a shrine?”

He touched its glistening grains. “I think that RayWas right,” he murmured. “This was surely madeUnder the sea; sifted and drifted downFrom vanished hills and spread in level beds,Under deep waters; compressed by the sea’s weight;Upheaved again by fire; and now, once more,Wears down by way of the rain and brook and river,Back to the sea; but all by roads of law.”Then, looking round him furtively, to make sureNo one was near, he dropped upon his knees.The mist closed over him. Rock and hill were lostIn greyness once again.

He touched its glistening grains. “I think that Ray

Was right,” he murmured. “This was surely made

Under the sea; sifted and drifted down

From vanished hills and spread in level beds,

Under deep waters; compressed by the sea’s weight;

Upheaved again by fire; and now, once more,

Wears down by way of the rain and brook and river,

Back to the sea; but all by roads of law.”

Then, looking round him furtively, to make sure

No one was near, he dropped upon his knees.

The mist closed over him. Rock and hill were lost

In greyness once again.

Moments were years,Till, at the quiet whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,Those veils withdrew, and showed another scene.I saw two dusty travellers, blithely walkingWith staffs and knapsacks, on a straight white roadLined with tall sentinel poplars as to awaitA king’s return; but scarce a bird took heedOf those two travel-stained wanderers—Jean GuettardAnd Malesherbes, his old school-friend.Larks might seeTwo wingless dots that crept along the road.The Duke rode by and saw two vagabondsWith keenly searching eyes, as they jogged onTo Moulins. Birds and Duke and horse could see,Against the sky, that old square prison-tower,The tall cathedral, the dark gabled roofs,Thronging together behind its moated wall;But not one eye in all that wide green landSaw what those two could see; and not one soulEspied the pilgrim thought upon its wayTo change the world for man.The pilgrim thought!Say rather the swift hunter, tracking downMore subtly than an Indian the dark spoorOf his gigantic prey.I saw them haltWhere, at the white road’s edge, a milestone roseOut of the long grass, like a strange black gnome,A gnome that had been dragged from his dark caveUnder the mountains, and now stood there dumb,Striving to speak. But what?“There! There! Again!”Cried Jean Guettard. They stood and stared at it,But not to read as other travellers useHow far themselves must journey.They knelt downAnd looked at it, and felt it with their hands.A farmer passed, and wondered were they mad.For, when they hailed him, and his tongue preparedTo talk of that short cut across the fieldsBeside the mill-stream, they desired to knowWhence the black milestone came. It was the fourthThat they had passed since noon.He grinned at them.“Black stones?” he said, “you’ll find them all the wayTo Volvic now!”“To Volvic,” cried Guettard,“Volcani vicus!”They seized their staffs again;Halted at Moulins, only to break a crustOf bread and cheese, and drink one bottle of wine,Then hastened on, following the giant trail,Milestone by milestone, till the scent grew hot;For now they saw, in the wayside cottages,The black stone under the jasmine’s clustering stars;And children, at the half-doors, wondered whyThose two strange travellers pushed the leaves awayAnd tapped upon their walls.At last they saw,Black as a thundercloud anchored to its hill,Above the golden orchards of Limagne,The town of Riom. All its walls were black.Its turreted heights with leering gargoyles crawledAbove them, like that fortress of old NightTo which Childe Roland came.No slughorn’s noteChallenged it, and they set no lance in rest,But dusty and lame, with strangely burning eyes,Those footpads, quietly as the ancient Word,Stole into that dark lair and sought their prey.Surely, they thought, the secret must be knownTo some that live, eat, sleep, in this grim den.Have they not guessed what monster lurks behindThis blackness?In the chattering streets they sawThe throng around the fruit-stalls, and the priestEntering the Sainte Chapelle. With eyes of stoneThe statue of that lover of libertyThe chancellor, L’Hôpital, from his great dark throneGazed, and saw less than the indifferent sparrowThat perched upon his hand. Barefooted boysRan shouting round the fountain in the square.It was no dream. Along the cobbled street,Clattering like ponies in their wooden shoes,Three girls went by with baskets full of apples.The princely butcher, standing at his door,Rosily breathing sawdust and fresh blood,Sleeked his moustache and rolled an amorous eye.It was no dream. They lived their light-winged livesIn this prodigious fabric of black stone,Slept between walls of lava, drank their wineIn taverns whose black walls had risen in fire;Prayed on the slag of the furnace; roofed their tombsWith slabs of that slaked wrath; and saw no moreThan any flock of birds that nightly roostOn the still quivering Etna.It was late,Ere the two travellers found a wise old hostWho knew the quarries where that stone was hewn;Too far for them that night. His inn could lodge them.A young roast fowl? Also he had a wine,The Duc de Berry, once.... Enough! they suppedAnd talked. Gods, how they talked and questioned him,—The strangest guests his inn had ever seen.They wished to know the shape of all the hillsAround those quarries. “There were many,” he said,“Shaped at the top like this.” He lifted upAn old round-bellied wine-cup.At the wordHe wellnigh lost his guests. They leapt to their feet.They wished to pay their quittance and press onTo see those hills. But, while they raved, the fowlWas laid before them, luscious, fragrant, brown.He pointed, speechless, to the gathering dusk,And poured their wine, and conquered.“The Bon DieuWho made the sensual part of man be praised,”He said to his wife; “for if He had made a worldOf pure philosophers, every tavern in FranceMight close its shutters, and take down its sign.”So Jean Guettard and Malesherbes stayed and supped;And, ere they slept, being restless, they went outAnd rambled through the sombre streets again.They passed that haunted palace of Auvergne,Brooding on its wild memories and grim birth;And from the Sainte Chapelle, uplifting allThat monstrous darkness in one lean black spireTo heaven, they heard an organ muttering lowAs though the stones once more were stirred to lifeBy the deep soul within. Then, arched and tall,In the sheer blackness of that lava, shoneOne rich stained window, where the Mother stood,In gold and blue and crimson, with the Child.They looked at it as men who see the lifeAnd light of heaven through the Plutonian wallsOf this material universe. They heardThe young-voiced choir, in silver-throated peals,Filling the night with ecstasy. They stoodBareheaded in the dark deserted street,Outcasts from all that innocence within,And silent; till the last celestial cry,Like one great flight of angels, ebbed away.

Moments were years,

Till, at the quiet whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf,

Those veils withdrew, and showed another scene.

I saw two dusty travellers, blithely walking

With staffs and knapsacks, on a straight white road

Lined with tall sentinel poplars as to await

A king’s return; but scarce a bird took heed

Of those two travel-stained wanderers—Jean Guettard

And Malesherbes, his old school-friend.

Larks might see

Two wingless dots that crept along the road.

The Duke rode by and saw two vagabonds

With keenly searching eyes, as they jogged on

To Moulins. Birds and Duke and horse could see,

Against the sky, that old square prison-tower,

The tall cathedral, the dark gabled roofs,

Thronging together behind its moated wall;

But not one eye in all that wide green land

Saw what those two could see; and not one soul

Espied the pilgrim thought upon its way

To change the world for man.

The pilgrim thought!

Say rather the swift hunter, tracking down

More subtly than an Indian the dark spoor

Of his gigantic prey.

I saw them halt

Where, at the white road’s edge, a milestone rose

Out of the long grass, like a strange black gnome,

A gnome that had been dragged from his dark cave

Under the mountains, and now stood there dumb,

Striving to speak. But what?

“There! There! Again!”

Cried Jean Guettard. They stood and stared at it,

But not to read as other travellers use

How far themselves must journey.

They knelt down

And looked at it, and felt it with their hands.

A farmer passed, and wondered were they mad.

For, when they hailed him, and his tongue prepared

To talk of that short cut across the fields

Beside the mill-stream, they desired to know

Whence the black milestone came. It was the fourth

That they had passed since noon.

He grinned at them.

“Black stones?” he said, “you’ll find them all the way

To Volvic now!”

“To Volvic,” cried Guettard,

“Volcani vicus!”

They seized their staffs again;

Halted at Moulins, only to break a crust

Of bread and cheese, and drink one bottle of wine,

Then hastened on, following the giant trail,

Milestone by milestone, till the scent grew hot;

For now they saw, in the wayside cottages,

The black stone under the jasmine’s clustering stars;

And children, at the half-doors, wondered why

Those two strange travellers pushed the leaves away

And tapped upon their walls.

At last they saw,

Black as a thundercloud anchored to its hill,

Above the golden orchards of Limagne,

The town of Riom. All its walls were black.

Its turreted heights with leering gargoyles crawled

Above them, like that fortress of old Night

To which Childe Roland came.

No slughorn’s note

Challenged it, and they set no lance in rest,

But dusty and lame, with strangely burning eyes,

Those footpads, quietly as the ancient Word,

Stole into that dark lair and sought their prey.

Surely, they thought, the secret must be known

To some that live, eat, sleep, in this grim den.

Have they not guessed what monster lurks behind

This blackness?

In the chattering streets they saw

The throng around the fruit-stalls, and the priest

Entering the Sainte Chapelle. With eyes of stone

The statue of that lover of liberty

The chancellor, L’Hôpital, from his great dark throne

Gazed, and saw less than the indifferent sparrow

That perched upon his hand. Barefooted boys

Ran shouting round the fountain in the square.

It was no dream. Along the cobbled street,

Clattering like ponies in their wooden shoes,

Three girls went by with baskets full of apples.

The princely butcher, standing at his door,

Rosily breathing sawdust and fresh blood,

Sleeked his moustache and rolled an amorous eye.

It was no dream. They lived their light-winged lives

In this prodigious fabric of black stone,

Slept between walls of lava, drank their wine

In taverns whose black walls had risen in fire;

Prayed on the slag of the furnace; roofed their tombs

With slabs of that slaked wrath; and saw no more

Than any flock of birds that nightly roost

On the still quivering Etna.

It was late,

Ere the two travellers found a wise old host

Who knew the quarries where that stone was hewn;

Too far for them that night. His inn could lodge them.

A young roast fowl? Also he had a wine,

The Duc de Berry, once.... Enough! they supped

And talked. Gods, how they talked and questioned him,—

The strangest guests his inn had ever seen.

They wished to know the shape of all the hills

Around those quarries. “There were many,” he said,

“Shaped at the top like this.” He lifted up

An old round-bellied wine-cup.

At the word

He wellnigh lost his guests. They leapt to their feet.

They wished to pay their quittance and press on

To see those hills. But, while they raved, the fowl

Was laid before them, luscious, fragrant, brown.

He pointed, speechless, to the gathering dusk,

And poured their wine, and conquered.

“The Bon Dieu

Who made the sensual part of man be praised,”

He said to his wife; “for if He had made a world

Of pure philosophers, every tavern in France

Might close its shutters, and take down its sign.”

So Jean Guettard and Malesherbes stayed and supped;And, ere they slept, being restless, they went outAnd rambled through the sombre streets again.They passed that haunted palace of Auvergne,Brooding on its wild memories and grim birth;And from the Sainte Chapelle, uplifting allThat monstrous darkness in one lean black spireTo heaven, they heard an organ muttering lowAs though the stones once more were stirred to lifeBy the deep soul within. Then, arched and tall,In the sheer blackness of that lava, shoneOne rich stained window, where the Mother stood,In gold and blue and crimson, with the Child.They looked at it as men who see the lifeAnd light of heaven through the Plutonian wallsOf this material universe. They heardThe young-voiced choir, in silver-throated peals,Filling the night with ecstasy. They stoodBareheaded in the dark deserted street,Outcasts from all that innocence within,And silent; till the last celestial cry,Like one great flight of angels, ebbed away.

So Jean Guettard and Malesherbes stayed and supped;

And, ere they slept, being restless, they went out

And rambled through the sombre streets again.

They passed that haunted palace of Auvergne,

Brooding on its wild memories and grim birth;

And from the Sainte Chapelle, uplifting all

That monstrous darkness in one lean black spire

To heaven, they heard an organ muttering low

As though the stones once more were stirred to life

By the deep soul within. Then, arched and tall,

In the sheer blackness of that lava, shone

One rich stained window, where the Mother stood,

In gold and blue and crimson, with the Child.

They looked at it as men who see the life

And light of heaven through the Plutonian walls

Of this material universe. They heard

The young-voiced choir, in silver-throated peals,

Filling the night with ecstasy. They stood

Bareheaded in the dark deserted street,

Outcasts from all that innocence within,

And silent; till the last celestial cry,

Like one great flight of angels, ebbed away.

At daybreak they pressed on. Strange hills aroseClustering before them, hills whose fragrant turf,Softer than velvet, hid what savage hearts!At noon they saw, beside the road, a gashRending the sunlit skin of that green peace;An old abandoned quarry, half overgrownWith ferns, and masked by boughs.They left the roadAnd looked at it. Volcanic rock! A floodOf frozen lava!They marked its glossy blackness, the rough cordsAnd wrinkles where, as the fiery waves congealed,It had crept on a little; and strangely thereNew beauty, like the smile on truth’s hard face,Gleamed on them. Never did bracken and hart’s tongue fernsWhisper a tale like those whose dauntless rootsWere creviced in that grim rock. They tracked it upThrough heather and thyme. They saw what human eyesHad seen for ages, yet had never seen,—The tall green hill, a great truncated cone,Robed in wild summer and haunted by the bee,But shaped like grey engravings that they knewOf Etna and Vesuvius.Near its crestThey saw the sunlight on a shepherd’s crook,Bright as a star. A flock of nibbling sheepFlowed round it like a cloud, a rambling cloudWith drifting edges that broke and formed againBefore one small black barking speck that flewSwift as a bird about a cloud in heaven.Thyme underfoot, wild honey in the thyme;But, under the thyme and honey, if eyes could see,In every runnel and crevice and slip and patch,A powdery rubble of pumice, black and red,Flakes of cooled lava and stones congealed from fire.It was no dream. A butterfly spread its fansWhite, veined with green, on a rock of sunlit slag,Slag of the seething furnaces below.They reached the summit; and, under them, beheldThe hollow cup, the crater, whence that floodOut of the dreadful molten heart of the earthPoured in red fury to create Auvergne.But now, instead of smoke and fire, they sawRed of the heather in that deep grassy hollow,And heard, instead of the hissing of the abyss,The small grey locust, stridulent in the sun.They came to Clermont. All its dark old streetsWere built of lava. By thePlace de Jaude,O, strangely in their own swift race for truth,They met the phantom of an earlier fire!They found the house where Pascal first beheldThe sunlight, through a window in lava-stone;And many a time had passed, a brooding child,With all his deep celestial thoughts to come,Through that volcanic porch, but never sawThe wonder of the walls wherein he slept.They saw, through mists, as I through mists discernedTheir own strange drama, that scene within the scene.They climbed the very hill that Pascal madeA beacon-height of truth—the Puy de Dôme,Where Florin Périer, at his bidding, tookHis tubes of soft quicksilver; and, at the base,And, at the summit, tested, proved, and weighedThe pressure of that lovely body of light,Our globe-engirdling air. On one swift hint,One flash of truth that Torricelli caughtFrom Galileo, and Pascal caught in turn,He weighed that glory.Ever the drama grew.The vital fire, in yet more intricate ways(As life itself, enkindling point by pointIn the dark formless embryo, grows to power),Coursed on, from mind to mind, each working outIts separate purpose, yet all linked in one.For those two pilgrims, on the cone-shaped hillThat Pascal knew, and yet had never known,Met his great spirit among the scoriac flakes,And found themselves, in vision, on that pure heightWhere all the paths to truth shall one day meet.They met his brooding spirit as they climbed.They passed the dead man’s words from mouth to mouth,With new significance, deeper and more strangeEven than they knew.“We are on fire to exploreThe universe, and build our tower of truthInto the Infinite. Then the firm earth laughs,Opens, under its cracked walls, an abyss.”—Lavoisier! Malesherbes! Friends of Jean Guettard.Was it only the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf that showed meGleams of the Terror approaching, a wild stormOf fiercer, hell-hot lava, and that far soundOf tumbrils.... The Republic has no needOf savants!This dream went by, with the dead man’s words.They reached the highest crest. Before their eyesThe hill-scape opened like a mighty visionThat, quietly, has come true.They stood there, dumb,To see what they foresaw, the invisible thoughtGrown firm as granite; for, as a man might dieIn faith, yet wake amazed in his new world,They saw those chains of dead volcanoes rise,Cone behind cone, with green truncated crowns,And smokeless craters, on the dazzling blue.There, in the very sunlit heart of France,They saw what human eyes had daily seenYet never seen till now. They stood and gazed,More lonely in that loneliness of thoughtThan wingèd men, alighting on the moon.Old as the moon’s own craters were those hills;And all their wrath had cooled so long agoThat as the explorers on their downward pathPassed by a cup-shaped crater, smooth and green,Three hundred feet in depth and breadth, they saw,Within it, an old shepherd and his flockQuietly wandering over its gentle slopesOf short sweet grass, through clumps of saffron broom.They asked him by what name that hill was known.He answered,The Hen’s Nest!“Hen’s Nest,” cried Jean Guettard, “the good God grantThis fowl be not a phœnix and renewIts feathers in Auvergne.”They chuckled aloud,And left the shepherd wondering, many a day,What secret knowledge in the stranger’s eyeCast that uncanny light upon the hill,A moment, and no more; and yet enoughTo make him feel, even when the north wind blew,Less at his ease in that green windless cup;And, once or twice, although he knew not why,He turned, and drove his flock another way.

At daybreak they pressed on. Strange hills arose

Clustering before them, hills whose fragrant turf,

Softer than velvet, hid what savage hearts!

At noon they saw, beside the road, a gash

Rending the sunlit skin of that green peace;

An old abandoned quarry, half overgrown

With ferns, and masked by boughs.

They left the road

And looked at it. Volcanic rock! A flood

Of frozen lava!

They marked its glossy blackness, the rough cords

And wrinkles where, as the fiery waves congealed,

It had crept on a little; and strangely there

New beauty, like the smile on truth’s hard face,

Gleamed on them. Never did bracken and hart’s tongue ferns

Whisper a tale like those whose dauntless roots

Were creviced in that grim rock. They tracked it up

Through heather and thyme. They saw what human eyes

Had seen for ages, yet had never seen,—

The tall green hill, a great truncated cone,

Robed in wild summer and haunted by the bee,

But shaped like grey engravings that they knew

Of Etna and Vesuvius.

Near its crest

They saw the sunlight on a shepherd’s crook,

Bright as a star. A flock of nibbling sheep

Flowed round it like a cloud, a rambling cloud

With drifting edges that broke and formed again

Before one small black barking speck that flew

Swift as a bird about a cloud in heaven.

Thyme underfoot, wild honey in the thyme;

But, under the thyme and honey, if eyes could see,

In every runnel and crevice and slip and patch,

A powdery rubble of pumice, black and red,

Flakes of cooled lava and stones congealed from fire.

It was no dream. A butterfly spread its fans

White, veined with green, on a rock of sunlit slag,

Slag of the seething furnaces below.

They reached the summit; and, under them, beheld

The hollow cup, the crater, whence that flood

Out of the dreadful molten heart of the earth

Poured in red fury to create Auvergne.

But now, instead of smoke and fire, they saw

Red of the heather in that deep grassy hollow,

And heard, instead of the hissing of the abyss,

The small grey locust, stridulent in the sun.

They came to Clermont. All its dark old streets

Were built of lava. By thePlace de Jaude,

O, strangely in their own swift race for truth,

They met the phantom of an earlier fire!

They found the house where Pascal first beheld

The sunlight, through a window in lava-stone;

And many a time had passed, a brooding child,

With all his deep celestial thoughts to come,

Through that volcanic porch, but never saw

The wonder of the walls wherein he slept.

They saw, through mists, as I through mists discerned

Their own strange drama, that scene within the scene.

They climbed the very hill that Pascal made

A beacon-height of truth—the Puy de Dôme,

Where Florin Périer, at his bidding, took

His tubes of soft quicksilver; and, at the base,

And, at the summit, tested, proved, and weighed

The pressure of that lovely body of light,

Our globe-engirdling air. On one swift hint,

One flash of truth that Torricelli caught

From Galileo, and Pascal caught in turn,

He weighed that glory.

Ever the drama grew.

The vital fire, in yet more intricate ways

(As life itself, enkindling point by point

In the dark formless embryo, grows to power),

Coursed on, from mind to mind, each working out

Its separate purpose, yet all linked in one.

For those two pilgrims, on the cone-shaped hill

That Pascal knew, and yet had never known,

Met his great spirit among the scoriac flakes,

And found themselves, in vision, on that pure height

Where all the paths to truth shall one day meet.

They met his brooding spirit as they climbed.

They passed the dead man’s words from mouth to mouth,

With new significance, deeper and more strange

Even than they knew.“We are on fire to explore

The universe, and build our tower of truth

Into the Infinite. Then the firm earth laughs,

Opens, under its cracked walls, an abyss.”—

Lavoisier! Malesherbes! Friends of Jean Guettard.

Was it only the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf that showed me

Gleams of the Terror approaching, a wild storm

Of fiercer, hell-hot lava, and that far sound

Of tumbrils.... The Republic has no need

Of savants!

This dream went by, with the dead man’s words.

They reached the highest crest. Before their eyes

The hill-scape opened like a mighty vision

That, quietly, has come true.

They stood there, dumb,

To see what they foresaw, the invisible thought

Grown firm as granite; for, as a man might die

In faith, yet wake amazed in his new world,

They saw those chains of dead volcanoes rise,

Cone behind cone, with green truncated crowns,

And smokeless craters, on the dazzling blue.

There, in the very sunlit heart of France,

They saw what human eyes had daily seen

Yet never seen till now. They stood and gazed,

More lonely in that loneliness of thought

Than wingèd men, alighting on the moon.

Old as the moon’s own craters were those hills;And all their wrath had cooled so long agoThat as the explorers on their downward pathPassed by a cup-shaped crater, smooth and green,Three hundred feet in depth and breadth, they saw,Within it, an old shepherd and his flockQuietly wandering over its gentle slopesOf short sweet grass, through clumps of saffron broom.They asked him by what name that hill was known.He answered,The Hen’s Nest!“Hen’s Nest,” cried Jean Guettard, “the good God grantThis fowl be not a phœnix and renewIts feathers in Auvergne.”They chuckled aloud,And left the shepherd wondering, many a day,What secret knowledge in the stranger’s eyeCast that uncanny light upon the hill,A moment, and no more; and yet enoughTo make him feel, even when the north wind blew,Less at his ease in that green windless cup;And, once or twice, although he knew not why,He turned, and drove his flock another way.

Old as the moon’s own craters were those hills;

And all their wrath had cooled so long ago

That as the explorers on their downward path

Passed by a cup-shaped crater, smooth and green,

Three hundred feet in depth and breadth, they saw,

Within it, an old shepherd and his flock

Quietly wandering over its gentle slopes

Of short sweet grass, through clumps of saffron broom.

They asked him by what name that hill was known.

He answered,The Hen’s Nest!

“Hen’s Nest,” cried Jean Guettard, “the good God grant

This fowl be not a phœnix and renew

Its feathers in Auvergne.”

They chuckled aloud,

And left the shepherd wondering, many a day,

What secret knowledge in the stranger’s eye

Cast that uncanny light upon the hill,

A moment, and no more; and yet enough

To make him feel, even when the north wind blew,

Less at his ease in that green windless cup;

And, once or twice, although he knew not why,

He turned, and drove his flock another way.

“Few know the name of Jean Guettard to-day,”Said Shadow-of-a-Leaf; for now the mists concealedAll that clear vision. “I often visited him,Between the lights, in after years. He livedAlone at Paris then, in two lean rooms,A sad old prisoner, at the Palais Royal;And many a time, beside a dying fire,We talked together. I was only a shadow,A creature flickering on the fire-lit wall;But, while he bowed his head upon his handsAnd gazed into the flame with misted eyes,I could steal nearer and whisper time away.And sometimes he would breathe his thoughts aloud;And when at night his faithful servant, Claire,Stole into the room to lay his frugal meal,She’d glance at him with big brown troubled eyesTo find him talking to himself alone.And sometimes when the masters of the hourWon easy victories in the light world’s fashion,With fables, easily spun in light quick minds,He’d leave the Academy thundering its applause,And there, in his bare room, with none to seeBut Shadow-of-a-Leaf, he would unfold again—Smiling a little grimly to himself—Those curious beautiful tinted maps he drew,The very first that any man had madeTo show, beneath the kingdoms made by man,The truth, that hidden structure, ribbed with rock,And track the vanished ages by the livesAnd deaths imprinted there.They had made him richIn nothing but the truth.He had mapped the rocks.“The time is not yet come,” he used to say,“When we can clothe them with a radiant SpringOf happy meanings. I have never madeA theory. That’s for happier men to come;It will be time to answer the great riddleWhen we have read the question.Here and thereAlready, I note, they use this work of mineAnd shuffle the old forerunner out of sight.No matter. Let the truth live. I shall watchIts progress, proudly, from the outer dark;More happily, I believe, thus free from self,Than if my soul went whoring after fame.One thing alone I’ll claim. It is not goodTo let all lies go dancing by on flowers.This—what’s his name?—who claims to be the firstTo find a dead volcano in Auvergne,And sees, in that, only an easy roadTo glory for himself, shall find, ere long,One live volcano in old Jean Guettard.The fool has forced me to it; for he thinksThat I’ll claim nothing. I prefer my peace;But truth compels me here. I’ll set my heelOn him, at least. Malesherbes will bear me out.As for the rest—no theory of the earthCan live without these rock-ribbed facts of mine,The facts that I first mapped, I claim no more.These rocks, these bones, these fossil ferns and shells,Of which the grinning moon-calf makes a jest,A byword for all dotage and decay,Shall yet be touched with beauty, and revealThe secrets of the book of earth to man.”“He made no theory,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,“And yet, I think, he looked on all these thingsDevoutly; on a sea-shell turned to stoneAs on a sacred relic, at whose touchTime opened like a gate, and let him passOut of this mocking and ephemeral worldThrough the eternal ages, home to God.And so I watched him, growing old and grey,In seeking truth; a man with enemies,Ten enemies for every truth he told;And friends that still, despite his caustic tongue,Loved him for his true heart.Yet even theseNever quite reached it; never quite discernedThat even his gruffest words were but the pledgeOf his own passionate truth; the harsh pained cryFor truth, for truth, of one who saw the throngBewildered and astray, the ways of loveGrown tortuous, and the path to heaven grown dimThrough man’s unheed for truth.I saw him greetCondorcet, at the Academy. “We have lostTwo members. I condole with you, my friend.It is their lastélogesyou’ll speak to-day!How will you bury their false theories?In irony, or in academic robes?No matter. There’ll be only one or twoWho really know; and I shall not be thereTo vex you, from my corner, with one smile.Lord, what a pack of lies you’ll have to tell!It is the custom. When my turn arrives—’Twill not be long,—remember, please, I wantTruth, the whole truth, or nothing.”I saw one nightA member walking home with him—to thank himFor his support that morning. Jean GuettardTurned on his threshold, growling like a bear.“You owe me nothing. I believed my voteWas right, or else you never should have had it.Pray do not think I liked you.”A grim doorOpened and closed like iron in the faceOf his late friend and now indignant foe;To whom no less, if he had needed it,Guettard would still have given his own last sou.He came into his lonely room that night,And sat and stared into the fluttering fire.I, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, was there; and I could seeMore in his eyes than even Condorcet saw,Condorcet, who of all his friends remainedMost faithful to the end.But, at the hourWhen Claire would lay his supper, a light hand tappedTimidly on his door. He sat uprightAnd turned with startled eyes.“Enter,” he called.A wide-eyed, pale-faced child came creeping in.“What! Little Claire!” he cried.“Your mother is not better!”She stood before him,The fire-light faintly colouring her thin face,—“M’sieur, she is very ill. You are a doctor.Come, quickly.”Through the narrow, ill-lighted streetsOld Jean Guettard went hobbling, a small handClutching his own, and two small wooden shoesClattering beside him, till the child beganTo droop. He lifted her gently in his armsAnd hobbled on. The thin, white, tear-stained face,Pressing against his old grey-bristled cheek,Directed him, now to left and now to right.“O, quick, M’sieur!” Then, into an alley, darkAs pitch, they plunged. The third door on the right!Into the small sad house they went, and sawBy the faint guttering candle-light—the mother,Shivering and burning on her tattered bed.Two smaller children knelt on either sideWorn out with fear and weeping.All that nightGuettard, of all true kings of science then,Obscure, yet first in France and all the world,Watched, laboured, bathed the brow and raised the head,Moistened the thirsting lips, and knew it vain;Knew, as I knew, that in a hundred yearsKnowledge might conquer this; but he must fightA losing battle, and fight it in the darkNo better armed than Galen.He closed her eyesAt dawn. He took the children to his house;Prayed with them; dried their tears; and, while they slept,Shed tears himself, remembering—a green hill,A Rock against the sky.He cared for them, as though they were his own.Guettard, the founder of two worlds of thought,Taught them their letters. “None can tell,” he said,“What harvests are enfolded for the worldIn one small grain of this immortal wheat.But I, who owe so much to little thingsIn childhood; and have seen, among the rocks,What vast results may wait upon the pathOf one blind life, under a vanished sea,Bow down in awe before this human life.”

“Few know the name of Jean Guettard to-day,”

Said Shadow-of-a-Leaf; for now the mists concealed

All that clear vision. “I often visited him,

Between the lights, in after years. He lived

Alone at Paris then, in two lean rooms,

A sad old prisoner, at the Palais Royal;

And many a time, beside a dying fire,

We talked together. I was only a shadow,

A creature flickering on the fire-lit wall;

But, while he bowed his head upon his hands

And gazed into the flame with misted eyes,

I could steal nearer and whisper time away.

And sometimes he would breathe his thoughts aloud;

And when at night his faithful servant, Claire,

Stole into the room to lay his frugal meal,

She’d glance at him with big brown troubled eyes

To find him talking to himself alone.

And sometimes when the masters of the hourWon easy victories in the light world’s fashion,With fables, easily spun in light quick minds,He’d leave the Academy thundering its applause,And there, in his bare room, with none to seeBut Shadow-of-a-Leaf, he would unfold again—Smiling a little grimly to himself—Those curious beautiful tinted maps he drew,The very first that any man had madeTo show, beneath the kingdoms made by man,The truth, that hidden structure, ribbed with rock,And track the vanished ages by the livesAnd deaths imprinted there.They had made him richIn nothing but the truth.He had mapped the rocks.“The time is not yet come,” he used to say,“When we can clothe them with a radiant SpringOf happy meanings. I have never madeA theory. That’s for happier men to come;It will be time to answer the great riddleWhen we have read the question.Here and thereAlready, I note, they use this work of mineAnd shuffle the old forerunner out of sight.No matter. Let the truth live. I shall watchIts progress, proudly, from the outer dark;More happily, I believe, thus free from self,Than if my soul went whoring after fame.One thing alone I’ll claim. It is not goodTo let all lies go dancing by on flowers.This—what’s his name?—who claims to be the firstTo find a dead volcano in Auvergne,And sees, in that, only an easy roadTo glory for himself, shall find, ere long,One live volcano in old Jean Guettard.The fool has forced me to it; for he thinksThat I’ll claim nothing. I prefer my peace;But truth compels me here. I’ll set my heelOn him, at least. Malesherbes will bear me out.As for the rest—no theory of the earthCan live without these rock-ribbed facts of mine,The facts that I first mapped, I claim no more.These rocks, these bones, these fossil ferns and shells,Of which the grinning moon-calf makes a jest,A byword for all dotage and decay,Shall yet be touched with beauty, and revealThe secrets of the book of earth to man.”

And sometimes when the masters of the hour

Won easy victories in the light world’s fashion,

With fables, easily spun in light quick minds,

He’d leave the Academy thundering its applause,

And there, in his bare room, with none to see

But Shadow-of-a-Leaf, he would unfold again

—Smiling a little grimly to himself—

Those curious beautiful tinted maps he drew,

The very first that any man had made

To show, beneath the kingdoms made by man,

The truth, that hidden structure, ribbed with rock,

And track the vanished ages by the lives

And deaths imprinted there.

They had made him rich

In nothing but the truth.

He had mapped the rocks.

“The time is not yet come,” he used to say,

“When we can clothe them with a radiant Spring

Of happy meanings. I have never made

A theory. That’s for happier men to come;

It will be time to answer the great riddle

When we have read the question.

Here and there

Already, I note, they use this work of mine

And shuffle the old forerunner out of sight.

No matter. Let the truth live. I shall watch

Its progress, proudly, from the outer dark;

More happily, I believe, thus free from self,

Than if my soul went whoring after fame.

One thing alone I’ll claim. It is not good

To let all lies go dancing by on flowers.

This—what’s his name?—who claims to be the first

To find a dead volcano in Auvergne,

And sees, in that, only an easy road

To glory for himself, shall find, ere long,

One live volcano in old Jean Guettard.

The fool has forced me to it; for he thinks

That I’ll claim nothing. I prefer my peace;

But truth compels me here. I’ll set my heel

On him, at least. Malesherbes will bear me out.

As for the rest—no theory of the earth

Can live without these rock-ribbed facts of mine,

The facts that I first mapped, I claim no more.

These rocks, these bones, these fossil ferns and shells,

Of which the grinning moon-calf makes a jest,

A byword for all dotage and decay,

Shall yet be touched with beauty, and reveal

The secrets of the book of earth to man.”

“He made no theory,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,“And yet, I think, he looked on all these thingsDevoutly; on a sea-shell turned to stoneAs on a sacred relic, at whose touchTime opened like a gate, and let him passOut of this mocking and ephemeral worldThrough the eternal ages, home to God.And so I watched him, growing old and grey,In seeking truth; a man with enemies,Ten enemies for every truth he told;And friends that still, despite his caustic tongue,Loved him for his true heart.Yet even theseNever quite reached it; never quite discernedThat even his gruffest words were but the pledgeOf his own passionate truth; the harsh pained cryFor truth, for truth, of one who saw the throngBewildered and astray, the ways of loveGrown tortuous, and the path to heaven grown dimThrough man’s unheed for truth.I saw him greetCondorcet, at the Academy. “We have lostTwo members. I condole with you, my friend.It is their lastélogesyou’ll speak to-day!How will you bury their false theories?In irony, or in academic robes?No matter. There’ll be only one or twoWho really know; and I shall not be thereTo vex you, from my corner, with one smile.Lord, what a pack of lies you’ll have to tell!It is the custom. When my turn arrives—’Twill not be long,—remember, please, I wantTruth, the whole truth, or nothing.”I saw one nightA member walking home with him—to thank himFor his support that morning. Jean GuettardTurned on his threshold, growling like a bear.“You owe me nothing. I believed my voteWas right, or else you never should have had it.Pray do not think I liked you.”A grim doorOpened and closed like iron in the faceOf his late friend and now indignant foe;To whom no less, if he had needed it,Guettard would still have given his own last sou.He came into his lonely room that night,And sat and stared into the fluttering fire.I, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, was there; and I could seeMore in his eyes than even Condorcet saw,Condorcet, who of all his friends remainedMost faithful to the end.But, at the hourWhen Claire would lay his supper, a light hand tappedTimidly on his door. He sat uprightAnd turned with startled eyes.“Enter,” he called.A wide-eyed, pale-faced child came creeping in.“What! Little Claire!” he cried.“Your mother is not better!”She stood before him,The fire-light faintly colouring her thin face,—“M’sieur, she is very ill. You are a doctor.Come, quickly.”Through the narrow, ill-lighted streetsOld Jean Guettard went hobbling, a small handClutching his own, and two small wooden shoesClattering beside him, till the child beganTo droop. He lifted her gently in his armsAnd hobbled on. The thin, white, tear-stained face,Pressing against his old grey-bristled cheek,Directed him, now to left and now to right.“O, quick, M’sieur!” Then, into an alley, darkAs pitch, they plunged. The third door on the right!Into the small sad house they went, and sawBy the faint guttering candle-light—the mother,Shivering and burning on her tattered bed.Two smaller children knelt on either sideWorn out with fear and weeping.All that nightGuettard, of all true kings of science then,Obscure, yet first in France and all the world,Watched, laboured, bathed the brow and raised the head,Moistened the thirsting lips, and knew it vain;Knew, as I knew, that in a hundred yearsKnowledge might conquer this; but he must fightA losing battle, and fight it in the darkNo better armed than Galen.He closed her eyesAt dawn. He took the children to his house;Prayed with them; dried their tears; and, while they slept,Shed tears himself, remembering—a green hill,A Rock against the sky.

“He made no theory,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,

“And yet, I think, he looked on all these things

Devoutly; on a sea-shell turned to stone

As on a sacred relic, at whose touch

Time opened like a gate, and let him pass

Out of this mocking and ephemeral world

Through the eternal ages, home to God.

And so I watched him, growing old and grey,

In seeking truth; a man with enemies,

Ten enemies for every truth he told;

And friends that still, despite his caustic tongue,

Loved him for his true heart.

Yet even these

Never quite reached it; never quite discerned

That even his gruffest words were but the pledge

Of his own passionate truth; the harsh pained cry

For truth, for truth, of one who saw the throng

Bewildered and astray, the ways of love

Grown tortuous, and the path to heaven grown dim

Through man’s unheed for truth.

I saw him greet

Condorcet, at the Academy. “We have lost

Two members. I condole with you, my friend.

It is their lastélogesyou’ll speak to-day!

How will you bury their false theories?

In irony, or in academic robes?

No matter. There’ll be only one or two

Who really know; and I shall not be there

To vex you, from my corner, with one smile.

Lord, what a pack of lies you’ll have to tell!

It is the custom. When my turn arrives—

’Twill not be long,—remember, please, I want

Truth, the whole truth, or nothing.”

I saw one night

A member walking home with him—to thank him

For his support that morning. Jean Guettard

Turned on his threshold, growling like a bear.

“You owe me nothing. I believed my vote

Was right, or else you never should have had it.

Pray do not think I liked you.”

A grim door

Opened and closed like iron in the face

Of his late friend and now indignant foe;

To whom no less, if he had needed it,

Guettard would still have given his own last sou.

He came into his lonely room that night,

And sat and stared into the fluttering fire.

I, Shadow-of-a-Leaf, was there; and I could see

More in his eyes than even Condorcet saw,

Condorcet, who of all his friends remained

Most faithful to the end.

But, at the hour

When Claire would lay his supper, a light hand tapped

Timidly on his door. He sat upright

And turned with startled eyes.

“Enter,” he called.

A wide-eyed, pale-faced child came creeping in.

“What! Little Claire!” he cried.

“Your mother is not better!”

She stood before him,

The fire-light faintly colouring her thin face,—

“M’sieur, she is very ill. You are a doctor.

Come, quickly.”

Through the narrow, ill-lighted streets

Old Jean Guettard went hobbling, a small hand

Clutching his own, and two small wooden shoes

Clattering beside him, till the child began

To droop. He lifted her gently in his arms

And hobbled on. The thin, white, tear-stained face,

Pressing against his old grey-bristled cheek,

Directed him, now to left and now to right.

“O, quick, M’sieur!” Then, into an alley, dark

As pitch, they plunged. The third door on the right!

Into the small sad house they went, and saw

By the faint guttering candle-light—the mother,

Shivering and burning on her tattered bed.

Two smaller children knelt on either side

Worn out with fear and weeping.

All that night

Guettard, of all true kings of science then,

Obscure, yet first in France and all the world,

Watched, laboured, bathed the brow and raised the head,

Moistened the thirsting lips, and knew it vain;

Knew, as I knew, that in a hundred years

Knowledge might conquer this; but he must fight

A losing battle, and fight it in the dark

No better armed than Galen.

He closed her eyes

At dawn. He took the children to his house;

Prayed with them; dried their tears; and, while they slept,

Shed tears himself, remembering—a green hill,

A Rock against the sky.

He cared for them, as though they were his own.Guettard, the founder of two worlds of thought,Taught them their letters. “None can tell,” he said,“What harvests are enfolded for the worldIn one small grain of this immortal wheat.But I, who owe so much to little thingsIn childhood; and have seen, among the rocks,What vast results may wait upon the pathOf one blind life, under a vanished sea,Bow down in awe before this human life.”

He cared for them, as though they were his own.

Guettard, the founder of two worlds of thought,

Taught them their letters. “None can tell,” he said,

“What harvests are enfolded for the world

In one small grain of this immortal wheat.

But I, who owe so much to little things

In childhood; and have seen, among the rocks,

What vast results may wait upon the path

Of one blind life, under a vanished sea,

Bow down in awe before this human life.”

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