CHAPTER XVIIITHE SILENT FOREST[1]
Then Deborah, walking alone in the shade of evening, came on the outskirts of a dense forest. The foliage within was thick and feathery, the branches heavy and dark. Above there hung a cloud so black that it sent a dull shadow through the dull leaves, and made the ground below blacker than itself.
Just outside the cloud, where the sky was pale with the after-glow of clear evening, shone a star, a very large and bright one. But the cloud was so heavy that it hung over the whole forest like some dark curse. It looked like a thunder-cloud that could not burst, being held by iron chains covered with black rust. There was unutterable silence in the forest, so that you looked in with a strange fear, and then turned away, and yet again returned. Surely no living thing stirred or breathed in there!
[1]There are indications in the paging of this chapter in MS. that it was written separately from the previous chapters. It was afterwards added and the connection is obviously incomplete. To this state of incompletion may be referred the indefiniteness of the conclusion, though it may have been also part of the author’s deliberate intention.—Ed. Note.
[1]There are indications in the paging of this chapter in MS. that it was written separately from the previous chapters. It was afterwards added and the connection is obviously incomplete. To this state of incompletion may be referred the indefiniteness of the conclusion, though it may have been also part of the author’s deliberate intention.—Ed. Note.
A great dampness rose from the ground, a vapour in the gathering twilight, as it rises in the marshy districts near the sea. Now a bat whirled out from the gloom on to the lonely flats, and then came a sound like the hoot of an owl. But was it an owl? Oh, no. It was one more “exceeding bitter cry,” at the bitter end, you know.
Then, there is life in the breathless forest after all.
The cry was repeated, louder and clearer, and it died away, you know how, just as if it wanted somehow or other to cling on to life. You didn’t like to hear the end of that last cry; it was so inarticulate that it spoke.
But it ended at last, as all such end. What had happened to it? It had fallen among the black leaves.
It had touched the black water. There is a very still Deep in the Silent Forest, and its waters run slowly but surely. It’s part of the curse, you know, raindrops distilled from the Black Cloud.
It was only one of many deeps, but the silence had fallen again, even deeper it seemed than before, till a breeze swept over the tops of the trees, and here is what it sang as it passed:—
“This is the Forest of Failure. Here is the Humiliation Vale. It is filled with tears which are never seen, and sighs that are never heard. All mankind has to tread it—now or then—now or then—willy-nilly—each man treads it, and alone, now or then.”
Deborah saw a gate and passed in. And over the gate there was a prayer written, just as we see writing through a looking-glass.
“I ought to know that prayer,” she thought.
“It is the Lord’s Prayer,” said a voice.
“No. I think it is too short,” and the gate clanged to with a horrible grate.
“I want to go out.” It was too late—too late. But what pretty flowers grew along the path! White ones with yellow eyes, and jessamine, and even pink wild roses, and honeysuckle too. Yet when you picked them they fell like dust.
“This is very strange,” thought Deborah. “I thought they were real.”
But no one answered, unless silence answered—no one at all.
And, looking on the ground, she saw that it was all covered with soft black dust, before and after.
“It is easy to walk upon,” said she. “And the flowers look pretty as they grow, but the silence and the gloom frighten me just a little.”
And then suddenly black rocks rose in the path with little jagged edges. They cut into your shoes and hurt you ever so much, and instead of getting better the road became worse.
Presently from between two black rocks shot out a crimson fountain across the path.
Deborah stood still.
“It looks like blood,” she said, and shuddered. “And it kills all the flowers as it passes on. I don’t like this wood, I think I’ll go back.”
But when you looked behind briars had grown across the path, and the silence was so terrible that it seemed to say “Go on.” And there was only one way to tread, and that was through the path of blood.
So Deborah went on, and the red stream soaked through the thin shoes, and sent a strange kind of pain to her heart.
“It’s just like having toothache very badly, only I never knew of a dentist who could pull out hearts.” But the pain became so bad that for the time she was silent too, like everything else round about. And then the stream flowed into a deep chasm that seemed to lead underground, only now and again you could hear the gurgling as it went, so that it never seemed to pass away, not quite.
After a time the road looked better again, for the rocks had vanished, but now and then in the gloom you put your foot down on a very sharp one, and when you drew it up quickly it gave you cramp, so that you almost feared to put it down.
This path made you very tired. You kept slipping because you could not see properly, and the worst of it was there was no path out, nor any back. You were forced forward by Silence, that cruel and most perfect teacher that sneers at heartaches and pain, and looks with a withering smile on self-pity.
You see it was a magical forest; to stand still was to fall, to fall was to be stifled by something. It is best to go on, therefore, as long as you can. And then, after a weary length of road had been travelled, the gloom turned to darkness, so gradually that at first you thought it was your eyes that were dim; and ever from the unseen channel came the gurgle of the stream, the only sound in the still forest.
Presently the darkness had turned to blackness, so that you groped the way along; and now the weird Silence and the gentle sound of the unseen stream led you between them in blind faith, till with a sudden bubble the stream shot up again and you slipped in the quagmire of leaves.
But the road was so black that you did not see the colour of the stream, and you thought it black too; and it softened the leaves and the black dust, and your feet slipped in it, and the pain was coming back to your heart as it had come at the fountain long since, only worse if anything, and perhaps different.
Then the road grew much worse, for this unseen fluid was covering it. Suddenly a light shone overhead, the first along the whole dark path, and soon it died away.
But to Deborah standing there uncertainly came a figure, a gliding spirit wearing a curious robe. At times it shone white as silver, and again black as dusky night.
“How familiar is this figure,” thought Deborah. “In some ways it is like the prayer. I ought to know it, and yet I don’t.”
But being extremely weary, for the road made you so, she had scarcely the strength to think at all.
This forest makes every mortal weary that passes through it. Oh! very, very weary. It teaches you so much too; more than the most brilliant ball-room or entertainment or anything that the gay world can give. It is a magical forest, you know. When the dust falls from the flowers Silence says, “Were not those pretty little baubles? Anywhere but in the Dark Path they would have won a first-class prize for brilliancy and colour.” And then Silence laughs as the dust flickers down. “The world would build a hot-house for one of these posies, and pay a thousand guineas down if it were fashion. Ah! but you are in the Dark Path and must travel on. We stand no whims, we who govern here. Though your feet ache and your ankles are weary you must still go on or the black leaves will stifle you. Do you hear the gurgle of the Stream? It’s Pain, you know. Silence and Pain. Twin sisters. Gurgle, gurgle. Your father has trod it all before. How his feet ached too! Poor father!”
Oh! this stream is a very teaching stream. It makes men feel to the very marrow of the bone. It stings to the core so that brilliant lights flash from your aching, feverish eyes, and the world laughs and says, “Ah! that was very good.” Not knowing what a sepulchre it laughs at.
Now let us go back to the Spirit, standing there in the forest.
It isn’t an angel, and not even a Spirit of Paradise, not in the accepted sense; but it is so familiar to Deborah that she rubs her eyes and looks again, and can make nothing of it.
“It’s Dante out of one of the pictures,” says she; but even that did not solve the riddle, not at all.
“It is that being who guided him.” But no.
It was indeed hard to describe this spirit, for it was so transparent and yet so real. You could see the trees through the graceful robe quite plainly, yea, and something more. You could see other black paths in the forest which had hitherto been hidden. For this place was all magical, and the spirit was magical too. It had the power of explaining the key to life, or rather lives, and no sooner did you look through it than the whole forest became peopled with poor drudges in the shape of men. And it made you irresistibly sad. Here you saw a man struggling on, his feet all drenched with the red stream that to him looked black. He had fallen, and the black leaves smirched with blood clung to his poor lean ribs. Now he staggered. Good God! Would he fall again? Oh, yes. Hark! The bitter cry! And outside in the world a shrill laugh went up, for as he fell he kicked out somewhat with his heels and the devil translated it onto a comic canvas, and made it appear too funny for words. He is still now. The black leaves cover him. What was his last living thought? God’s secret and his own.
And lo!Thereis another path, and along it crawls a woman, all alone—there are no pairs in the Forest of Failure, Silence will see to that. There is the red dye again, that to her looks black.
It is a very fragile woman, with a lovely face, which the gloom hides. She has very tender feet, and there are so many flinty stones along the path. The black leaves cling to her skirts like millstones.
There! Another fall! No upward struggle here. There is a golden hoop of a wedding-ring that slips off the skeleton finger into the thin stream. It is dyed blood red. And there is another little plaything in her hand, a baby’s rattle, red too. Why, you know, it is only the failure of domestic love; and when she falls there is no cry in the accepted sense; a childish sob that speaks more than words, and in the outside world the shout of drunken revelry has drowned it. That’s how it is the tears and sighs of the mighty forest are never heard.
And there were very many other paths, and many faces; and on all the faces suffering was written, so that there was a terrible beauty and refinement in the forest. You see it was not the Forest of Sin, or reckless Self-indulgence, but the Forest of Silence and Pain, that do not allow of them.
Now I said that the Spirit’s robes were transparent; they reflected, or rather revealed, things that were beyond. But all this Deborah took in vaguely, or perhaps it seemed to her she had been used to looking through that figure all her life, so there was nothing very wonderful in the sights it showed.
But the face Deborah was not so sure about. It was a face as perfectly moulded as if it were cut in marble. There was no trace of human passion or emotion on it. A broad brow, a calm eye, a straight nose with finely-cut nostrils, a mouth of exquisite beauty, if somewhat coldly drawn, and a well-shaped chin.
The whole figure was one of grace and calmness, strangely out of keeping with the human agony around. Why, even now, through the clear robe appeared a face of such exceeding torture that it sent a sickly feeling to the heart. Then suddenly the white robes turned to a dusky black and hid the pale, hopeless features.
“Don’t you know me, Deborah?”
“Well,” thought Deborah, “it’s just as if someone were playing the ‘Frühlingslied’ backwards. I know that voice, and yet I don’t.” But aloud she said,—
“I expect if you were to tell me who you are I should perhaps remember you.”
At this the Spirit laughed, and Deborah started, for of all places in which to hear such a sound that seemed the most unlikely, and moreover, the alteration in the face was so complete that it was almost dazzling.
“This is a very heartless Spirit,” thought she. “I could not have laughed in this wood, not for anything. The agony is too sacred.”
And, as if interpreting her thoughts, the Spirit answered, “Let us walk out of the Forest on to the Moors. They are lonely and cold, and the night wind is keen. We can hear, and see, and understand better there.”
And he led the way by some unknown path on to a high moorland dotted with crags, with hills rising black in the distance. Stars were shining bright in the clear sky, for it had deepened to that length of twilight which approaches night. A crescent moon rose over the irregular bank of mountains—the narrowest, clearest crescent, like a thin slit in the blue-grey heaven. Over there was the sound of running water. How different from the deep gurgle of the wood! And there the white splashing of a waterfall over a rocky bed. There was a clump of fir trees and the smell of the pine forest; and there—oh! what was that? Oh! only another bitter cry, and you thought it was the cry of a dog or wolf in the autumn’s frosty distance.
“One hears very plainly on this moorland,” observed the Spirit, and smiled again. “This is the sounding board and mirror of the world. One hears and sees. One pays a pretty dear price, but I think it is the one of the few things that returns full value.”
Deborah was silent. The moor was so unutterably lonely; a vaster loneliness than the forest; it did not stifle, it awed.
“Look over there,” pointed the Spirit, “where the sky is hidden by the black billows of cloud. That inky pile is always there. Below it you see the gloomy mass of the forest boundary. Black, black, always black. Now I will hold this wing of my robe with my hand, so. Look through it towards the Silent Wood. What do you see?”
“Bubbles of light floating here and there at intervals amongst the trees.”
“Will-o’-the-wisps. Here—there—up and down—now quick, now slow. Watch and listen earnestly.”
And Deborah, looking through the robe, saw the bubbles shining in the darkness; and listening, heard the sound of faintest music—harp strings and bells—and the lights kept time to them. Ting! ting! They danced in the branches, balls of clearest, transparent light. Oh! There was a beauty! Crimson and larger than most. The Spirit moved slightly, the scene became clearer. Why, it was another dark path, and the ball, moving airily, lit it up as it tossed gracefully forward to the magic sounds. Another figure in the path. This time a man. And he was running and stumbling forward in the darkness, grasping at the dazzling ball. But it always evaded him. The music quickened—his step quickened also. The shining globe danced forward. Then he, being weary, for the road had been long and dark, and he had stumbled often, leant back against a gnarled tree trunk, his chin sunk upon his breast. His was a very ashen face, with sunken eyes; blackened leaves smirched all with red stuck to him everywhere. The clear ball, swung by a backward motion, danced to where he leant with the weariness of death, and stood suspended in the air before him. He raised his eyes and looked at it for one second, then the lids fell again. It danced nearer, swung itself even till it grazed his hand. Stung to life by the touch he started quivering. The red light was reflected in his eyes. The ball rose in the air to the level of his head. With a sudden plunge forward he caught it in both hands. It burst and fell around him in crimson flames of blood. Over head, and face, and hands, and shoulders. Ugh! think of it. Hist! Ssh! The music is still. With both hands raised above his head in helpless agony, his face drawn back, he staggers sideways. Hark! ’Tis the bitter cry. Oh! but this is agony, exceeding agony, burning to the brain and heart. That bitter, bitter, bitter cry. To hear it sends the blood like icicles to the heart, and makes it run slower and colder for ever after. He doesn’t fall. His tattered coat has caught in the forked branch of a tree. He looks like a dancing puppet run down and left unstrung. His legs, and arms, and head hang limp and lifeless. He has gone. But there is something grotesque about him after all. Scarce has the last low wail died away before a roar of laughter rises. An excellent joke provided for the world, because the upnotes of his cry resembled somewhat the crowing of a cock.
Ah! There is another glimmering light—blue this time and purple. Another path—another figure. Only a woman now. Round! Round! in a giddy whirl the ball flies. Her feet are cut by briars and stones, and the red stream has dyed them.
Will-o’-the-wisp! Will-o’-the-wisp! What devil’s cruelty has put you there? Will you burst too and shower your death-pangs on her gentle head? Why, no. Suddenly, as by a puff of unfelt wind, the dancing flame goes out. The music stops. She stands still in the path that to her has turned to fatal blackness, her eyes wide open, staring into space. Then, terrified by the darkness and the hopeless failure, she gives one terrible scream. No soul could stay in a body after that; it would rend the very heart-strings. She falls down too; and because the road has been long and weary, and the rocks sharp, the scanty clothes have been badly torn, and in the fall they have slipped aside and show more of the human form than this world reckons decent. Very tender limbs, worn thin with pain and silent suffering. But again the Devil translates it. The Spirit’s robe has changed, and Deborah looks down on a different scene, one of the world’s own.
It is a company of women, dressed in the loveliest gossamer and jewels that money can provide. Arms and busts shine out in satiny smoothness, and the slight veiling discloses other charms. This is the lap of Luxury and Chastity—that ill-matched pair which the world pretends can grow abreast.
There is a very lovely woman in the midst, clothed all in white, and as the scream dies away these are the words she’s saying: “Alas! too true! and was it not disgusting?” And the other women yawn, and echo, with airy laughs, “Oh! terribly disgusting.”
And Deborah, looking round on the chill moor, sees it peopled with white Spirits all looking in the same direction, to that vision of fair women.
And then the curtain falls upon them, and Deborah, looking at the forms around her, sees a smile on every lip of scarcely veiled cynicism. “Oh! terribly disgusting,” they cry with the right accent and tone, and look at one another and laugh as Spirits will, and then disappear once more.
The Spirit turned to Deborah.
“The voice of that woman is as clear as a bell,” he remarked, with a cruel smile. “Think you it would echo well through the Silent Forest?”
“I cannot say,” answered Deborah.
He laughed.
“Some day we shall hear it,” he went on. “Now or then, willy-nilly, each man treads it, and alone—now or then.”
“But she seemed a wealthy woman of the world.”
“And she will die a success to the world,” he rejoined, kicking a pebble thoughtfully with his sandalled foot, so that flint sparks shot from it. “But we have all to reckon with eternity. It can canker and rust, and make harsh discord of one-time harmony. A rusty bell with a broken clapper is not very delightful to the ear at the best of times. Now let us sit down on this rock and talk. See, I will draw my mantle round you, and then we shall scarce feel the cold.”
So they sat down. And the crescent moon rose higher, and the stars shone brighter, and the waterfall splashed merrily near by.
“It is night now in the world,” said the Spirit. “Here we come to view the great theatre. Do you think it is worth the price?”
Deborah shivered.
“It is not for me to judge,” she replied. “Perhaps I’m a coward.”
The Spirit smiled.
“So you think the price paid to come to this chill dreary place too dear.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Left to myself I never would have come.”
For some minutes they waited in silence. Suddenly the middle of the Black Cloud changed to a dusky red, and took a shape—the old, timeworn shape, the Cross. And on it hung the sacred Figure. Great drops of blood dripped from hands and feet and brow, and trickled between the thick branches into the Silent Wood. The pale bloodless face hung low. Outside in the world the big clock at Westminster struck the midnight hour. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.” No more. There came then that bitter cry—the bitterest the still air has ever heard or the wide world ever known—the keynote from which every voice in the forest takes its pitch, and it was those words, which must strike a chill even to the heart of the most thoughtless—“My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?” And oh! the lingering moan on that last word! What father could ever thus torture his own beloved son, who had given up all and suffered all for him?
The gay streets of the world were rowdy and noisy—carriages, hansoms, ’buses driving everywhere. Laughter and songs and shouting.
But Deborah shuddered.
“Why did you bring me here for this?”
“To hear the bitterest cry of all. Do you wonder at the blackness of the Cloud now? It contains such mental agony and human pain. It’s the great curse, you know, that the world calls a blessing, and says can save it from the power of hell. Reckoned from the world’s storehouse that cramped Figure was a marvellous fool. He had brains enough to have won a kingdom, and He’d learnt no more from His early trade than to make use of two rough planks of wood.”
Then, as it had come, the pained vision melted away. But afterwards you never looked at the dark cloud without seeming to see the red drops flowing from it into the stifling groves below.
“That is the Baptism and the Cup He speaks of,” said the Spirit. “It is the Reservoir of the Gurgling Streams.”
“But is He suffering all the time?”
“No. No. It is the Reflection from the Forest. That Cross overhangs the Central part, where He of His own Free will fell down among the leaves, in Silence and in Desolation. The learned Jews shook their sides with laughing when He fell, but rather strangely He rose again the third day.”
“And the blood that flows, is it not real?”
“Oh, yes! very real,” replied the Spirit, smiling. “Having felt it I thought you would have known. It’s pain, you know. Just in the same way that the sun attracts the moisture from the earth and lets it drop again, so that cloud attracts the red-dyed dew and drops it every evening.
“Now we will walk on a little and turn our backs upon the forest and the cloud. Our moon is growing brighter. Every night after that wild cry has died away it rounds to fulness, and the stars, gaining brilliancy in the tingling air, glance and gleam with uncommon witchery. This is my natural home, Deborah; I love it, love it, with a wild, fierce love. I had rather hear that cry and laugh than any charm of music. I had rather see those scenes of agony and the world’s scenes of joy than any rose-bowered garden on the earth. Then when I sicken of both I turn to the moorland and the hill, the cold quietness that reckons naught of either pain or pleasure. I wander here on the ridge of hills and in the shadows of caves, and then with a sudden whimsical change of feeling I turn to social life again, and receive the courtesies of pretty women and the respect of men.”
There was a long silence—not broken for a long time—till Deborah said, “Why are you so silent?”
And the Spirit answered, “I am thinking—thinking—thinking—and why should I not think? Ting! Ting! Listen to the magic music in the wood. Will-o’-the-wisps are dancing everywhere. Harp strings and bells, neither of heaven or earth. Blue and purple. Red and yellow. Green and golden. Now in, now out. Ting! Ting! The magic music in the magic wood. Wild flowers and myrtle—black dust and dying leaves—stones smeared with blood—and the deep dull gurgle of the stream—raindrops distilled from the black cloud. Ting! Ting! Tinkle! Twinkle! Tired feet keep time to the magic sounds. Dull brains grow brilliant. Cold blood grows warm. Ting! Ting! Now in. Now out. Up and down. Unreal sounds in the Silent Forest. Unreal lights in the Blackened Paths. Ting! Ting! Silver bells, golden strings, and burning balls. Baubles for fools! What! Darkness and Silence! Silence and Darkness! Twin sisters. Grope! Grope! with trembling fingers and blinded eyes. Hark! The bitter cry! and the echo from the world. The worse the cry, the louder the laugh.”
And whilst he spoke those glorious eyes were shining with a gloomy, far-off light.
“He trusted in another man,” he said.
Deborah shuddered. “That is what poor father did.”
“I know. I know. God grant him a double blessing. God grant him a double blessing.”
“He went one autumn night to meet a man. I held his coat and got his hat, and shut the door behind him. And when he came back I said, ‘Father, did you see him?’ And he looked at me and answered, ‘He—he did not come.’”
“Poor father,” said the Spirit, softly.
And overhead the star shone, and the magic moon was still high in heaven, and the waterfall sparkled, and the stream ran lightly on, and the hills were clear and the moorland frosty and cold.
“I love this place too,” observed Deborah. “Even to the wind and the glittering frost crystals. But when we turn and look toward the Silent Forest I need to hold you very tight. It makes my heart ache, and the blackness sticks. Would God it could be turned to a garden of Summer Roses!” And then Plucritus, Prince of the Powers of Evil, turned and looked at her and laughed. And on his finger gleamed theopalring.
Ting! Ting! the magic music and the magic fire!
Then another bitter cry and all was still.
End of Part I
[The want of the author’s revising hand is here evident. There is no literary link between this part of the story and “Earth.” The reader will, however, perceive that it is Genius who is now telling his experiences to Deborah. Where Deborah is does not seem quite clear. The concluding passages of the last chapter in “Earth” suggest her death. Genius presently alludes to her “lost soul in the wilderness,” so that apparently she is in a kind of Purgatory, in close communication with Genius. The connection between Genius and Deborah is exceedingly intimate throughout, and as we have the author’s own word that Deborah goes to Heaven, it may be presumed that she is there entirely merged in Genius. At any rate she does not reappear in person after “Earth.”We have the author’s own word that Deborah represents herself. Deborah probably symbolises the human, Genius the mental and spiritual element in the personality of the author; some confirmation of which may be found in the clearly-expressed assertion of the dual personality of the Saviour (in “Heaven”)—namely, as Jesus in His human aspect, as Christ in His spiritual. With regard to Plucritus and Virginius, the conjecture may be hazarded that the former embodies Deborah’s lower tendencies, the latter her higher soul.—Ed. Note.]
[The want of the author’s revising hand is here evident. There is no literary link between this part of the story and “Earth.” The reader will, however, perceive that it is Genius who is now telling his experiences to Deborah. Where Deborah is does not seem quite clear. The concluding passages of the last chapter in “Earth” suggest her death. Genius presently alludes to her “lost soul in the wilderness,” so that apparently she is in a kind of Purgatory, in close communication with Genius. The connection between Genius and Deborah is exceedingly intimate throughout, and as we have the author’s own word that Deborah goes to Heaven, it may be presumed that she is there entirely merged in Genius. At any rate she does not reappear in person after “Earth.”
We have the author’s own word that Deborah represents herself. Deborah probably symbolises the human, Genius the mental and spiritual element in the personality of the author; some confirmation of which may be found in the clearly-expressed assertion of the dual personality of the Saviour (in “Heaven”)—namely, as Jesus in His human aspect, as Christ in His spiritual. With regard to Plucritus and Virginius, the conjecture may be hazarded that the former embodies Deborah’s lower tendencies, the latter her higher soul.—Ed. Note.]
You, Deborah, remember the summer evening when I left you. It was no more pleasure to me than you, though I cannot say that then the pain which I experienced equalled yours. The force which parted us, the first time for so many years, was stronger than my own. For I had made a bet upon the book, and by the bet I sacrificed my ring, the only safeguard I possessed.
Between two forces, Good and Evil, I had stood alone, leaning to one who ever faced me cold and silently. Time and again I tried to break the weary barrier down, and in you that generated feeble efforts unto prayer. I had followed your lost soul about the wilderness, sprinkling flowers upon the barren ground, and unripe fruit, which withered. But ever like the thirsty wanderer I looked in search of fruitful soil. Good and Evil stalked with me all the time side by side, the one laughing, jesting all the way, the other silent, almost wordless.
Mirage followed mirage, till at last the Angel said, “Dig for the well.”
Then, as in the olden times, like our first fathers, I set to work laboriously. Hindrance followed hindrance, and the task was slow and painful, more so to you because you could not understand the cause of pain.
But to return to the present and my going. The journey was long, yet short, and I took it alone. It led through a mighty forest dark as night, chilly and damp, with here and there the shining coils of a sleeping serpent lying prone across the path. This was the mighty vestibule to hell, that spread through space by regions infinite. Here the traveller may often lose himself and fall down starved and dead. Here the sinuous snake will coil its writhing body round him and drag him o’er the unresisting slimy soil right to the prison gates which he in life so feared—or, maybe, laughed at.
By the side of blackened pools and hideous precipice I passed far out into the wild. The darkness was as clear as light before me, for I saw with darkened sight. Crags, rocks and gurgling torrents, flowing through dreary chasms, met my eyes, and the further I went the lonelier I ever grew, for the pressure of intensity had fallen on to Silence and the power of Goodness no longer walked beside.
I saw the glorious bubbles floating round me—red, purple, golden-yellow, green—I heard the magic music as it tinkled, I saw the victim quiver when it stilled. I heard the helpless cry, and then the laugh of devils as it died; I heard the feeble, far-off echo of the world, and darker, drearier grew the scene.
One by one the bubbles burst and fainter grew, note by note the music died upon the ear, the mortal cry of pain was left behind, and Silence, born of all, closed round me as I trod.
Then before me in the distance gleamed the danger-lights of hell, bloody-red against the darkness, clear and piercing as they shone. As I drew nearer they shone still clearer, lighting up the shining bulwarks, polished and cut like myriads of gem-strewn columns in the night.
The heavy gates were open, no sound disturbed my thought, yet I stood still upon the threshold and looked behind. Far off in the distance through the darkness gleamed a gloomy, lurid light upon a leaden ball, and on the farther side, almost like giant shadows on a giant curtain, two giant forms were struggling for the ball.
But that to me had little interest. Why should it have? Who ever yet upon Hell’s threshold glanced back except to breathe the air that is not? For Misery had come, and Desolation, and Mistrust, that fiend of fiends which eats the hearts of kings and poisons homesteads, bringing one general curse to all.
Thus far I had come alone and unattended, but as I passed beneath the overwhelming shadow I became conscious of this other world.
And the thing that struck me most on entering was the deathly silence hanging over all. And the next thing that struck me was the weird, unnatural beauty of the scene. And the next that I was now no longer quite alone.
To a broad avenue, banked by sculptured terraces and crowned with towering mansions, I had come, yet in this city of the night no living form appeared, till, looking up above to some alabaster steps carved by some magic hand, I beheld a spirit woman watching me.
Even as I looked she moved toward me, with all the grace and lightness which spirits may possess.
“You are dull of seeing, dull of hearing, dull at recognising,” she said, and I heard the siren’s voice and remembered my lost ring. I had no voice to answer, till with an effort I had roused myself.
“And you, it seems, are duller at receiving.”
“How so?” she asked, and laughed and drew much nearer, so that I recognised the more this spirit beauty.
“I come like an unwelcome guest, finding no preparation at the end of travel.”
“Indeed,” she answered, “all has been prepared, but it was done in silence. We knew your hatred of display. And is it true that you are here without one bite, one ugly serpent twist to mar your strength or beauty? Then indeed you are welcome. Come this way.”
She led me by the steps of alabaster under the shade of heavy drooping trees. We passed along the margin of a river, by many statues of exceeding beauty, whose images were reflected in its bed. But to me, foreign to this nature, the gloom and heavy grandeur were oppressive. Even to my feet the hard, unbending marble brought weariness and pain.
“Lady,” I said at last, “this kingdom is in need of something. It lacks a joyful element of sound.”
At this she laughed, and there was beauty in it, maybe some merriment.
“You are dull of hearing,” she repeated, and looked back at me and stayed, then laughed again. She pointed toward the river.
“Come nearer,” she went on. “Now listen, listen.” And she raised a finger. “Does it not run so? Gurgle, gurgle! Is there no rhythm in that?” And as I listened I could hear the sound.
“There is no joyousness in it,” I said.
“You are dull of understanding,” she repeated, and laughed again and moved along.
Her dress, now that I came to see it more distinctly and follow it more closely in the unnoticeable haze, was of the clearest shade of twilight inlaid with many a shining gem.
And still we passed along, till on a sudden we lit on a great and glorious building among the trees and jewel-spraying fountains. From every window sparkled brilliant light.
“That is my home,” she said, and pointed to it.
At length, when I had looked some time and viewed its every pinnacle and spire, buttress and gable, tower and minaret, I turned to her.
“Is this a church or palace, pleasure house or prison?” I questioned.
“Oh, stranger, you are dull at seeing,” she replied, and shook her head.
And then, for the first time since coming there, I smiled; this creature’s fascination told on me, the only seeming-living thing about the place.
“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that? Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may expect my husband home.”
“Your husband?” I queried.
She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her eyes were laughing, and her voice.
She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.”
“That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined.
Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn.
“If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?”
“That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger here because I must.”
“Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost like a guest.”
We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance. Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems. I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt before cut to my heart.
“Stranger, how little courtesy you show! Silent and thankless even for a gift.”
“I remember another ring more beautiful than this,” I answered.
Her eyes lit up with that intensity which in its lesser forms mortals call greed.
“Be content with what you get,” she remarked. “Those stones are priceless—millions could scarcely buy them; your stones are the dross of that little planet, Earth—bought, perhaps, with trumpery silver.”
I was then silent, and together we went up the steps.
The entrance was barred with gates of gold. They were like the iron ones that protect churches. Inside these gates was a high arched door. It was like the door of some cathedral—covered with knobs. But they were not of rusted iron; they glowed like carbuncles in a carved setting, which was itself in substance like black oak.
At her touch the heavy gates drew back, the gloomy door flew open.
Beyond was an arched space like the central aisle of some large temple.
And as we stood upon the threshold I looked in upon the dim, dark grandeur. Blood-red lighted censers swung from the golden fluted roof. They lit up the fluted pillars that branched out into the most delicate arches eye could wish.
Here was the sound of organ music beautiful to hear, yet to my ears it came like a paining memory of long ago.
“Do you not like our music?” she asked.
“It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is joyousness.”
The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began again. I listened enraptured and entranced.
“What do you think of that?” she queried.
“That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.”
“You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I will say that you are dull.”
At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me.
I grasped the yielding arm beside me.
“What is that?” I questioned sharply.
“You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything. Whatever you will. Is it not like him?”
The airy mockery in her tone jarred on me.
“Go nearer,” she continued, “look at it closer. It is worth studying, and is of excellent workmanship. Everything in these places should be and is of the best.”
I went nearer as she bade me. It was indeed of exquisite workmanship.
“I had not thought to meet with that in Hell,” I said at length.
“I do not think you could get it better done in Heaven,” she observed, and laughed and turned away.
I too turned from it, with a horrible repugnance growing in me mixed with extreme pain. I saw this figure for the first time in an unexpected place, and something within me struggled for expression, yet found none. Beneath the Crucifix, which was exceeding highly placed, broad flights of steps led up to a crimson altar, and above the altar was a handsome doorway of gold, which reached just so high as the Saviour’s feet.
I noticed with some curiosity and surprise that she was ascending the steps before us. I followed with cold yet burning interest, for in this place white heat is only quenched with ice, and ice melted with white heat alone.
But when we reached the upper step the altar was invisible. It had vanished, and the door alone remained before us. It opened, as all things opened here, silent and swiftly.
She had been watching, and espied my look of evident astonishment, which amused her.
“The lights are thrown on in such a manner that when you are below you imagine you see an arrangement something like a table,” she said. “But that would be a very inconvenient, and at the same time undignified, way of approaching the doorway, and I should have thought your own common sense would tell you it was nothing but a sham—a myth rather, I might say.”
We stood upon the threshold and looked down the dim, grand aisle.
No painter ever yet imagined in his fondest, highest dream a scene of richer grandeur. In place of the straight-backed pews of churches, jewelled thrones ranged tier behind tier, meeting the eye with ever-gleaming, changing light. Over the font there hung by finest cords of diamond and ruby intermingled, a royal crown, its golden background hidden by gems. A great golden bird spread out its giant wings below us, every feather tipped with curious light, and on its back rested the mighty Bible opened at the Gospel according to St John. The twelve Apostles stood out in bold relief around the pulpit, and from the tasseled cushion on the desk a simple cross was hanging in needlework of gold.
Yet all this glittering, gleaming brilliancy was subdued by the dimness of the light, and the organ-loft shone out almost as from a mist of unreal glamour.
She paused beside the open door and looked behind. I stood and looked upon it too.
“What wealth! what countless millions have been spent on this,” I murmured.
She laughed; and when she laughed it seemed as if the jewels gleamed more magically.
“Yes,” she affirmed, “countless millions have been spent. It is the work of ages, and has been built to the glory and praise of God Eternal.”
Then she turned away, and I turned too and gazed within the doorway.
A large hall of great expanse met our eyes. From its sides many doors led off, and passages, and here and there on the right side high windows opened on the gardens we had left.
I had hoped on leaving the dim church to throw off the deep depression that hung round me, but it was hopeless.
From without there came the sound of singing birds, the splash of fountains, a gentle music, but I recognised they might as well be silent for all the joyousness they brought to me.
The beauties of the hall were lost except to my intellect. I regarded them calmly and with an interest that had dulled.
Exquisite workmanship in furniture met my eye at every turn. The painted ceilings, the polished floor of rich mosaic, the easeful chairs that were in themselves like flattering apologies for graceful broad-armed thrones, the squares of rich-coloured carpet, the inlaid tables with their fine carved legs, the couches piled with softest cushions, the massive fireplaces filled with living coal, met my eye and left merely the impression of a dream.
Yet I strove to find some pleasure, but could find none.
From this she led the way into an apartment which was smaller and more adaptable for private life.
Its beauty was like all the rest, on the richest, finest scale.
She beckoned me toward a sofa by the fireplace, in which the flames leapt lightly, and with a sudden feeling of weariness I threw myself down on it.
“You are tired, stranger,” she said softly. “Sleep, sleep, and wake refreshed. The journey has been long, longer than mortal thought can reckon.”
And then, overcome with weariness and exhaustion, I slept, and for the time remembered nothing more.