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Henry Brocken, a novel by Walter De la Mare |
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Chapter 4 |
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_ CHAPTER IV Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo. --THOMAS NASH.
It was about the hour when birds seek shade and leave but few among their fellows to sing, that at a stone's throw from the foot of the hill I came to where a faint bridle-path diverged. And since it was smooth with moss, and Rosinante haply tired of pebbles; since any but the direct road seems ever the more delectable, I too turned aside, and broke into the woods through which this path meandered. Maybe it is because all woods are enchanted that the path seemed more than many miles long. Often too we loitered, or stood, head by head, to listen, or to watch what might be after all only wings, mere sunbeams. Shall I say, then, that it began to be thorny, and, where the thorns were, pale with roses, when at length the knitted boughs gradually drew asunder, and I looked down between twitching, hairy ears upon a glade so green and tranquil, I deemed it must be the Garden of the Hesperides? And because there ran a very welcome brook of water through this glade, I left Rosinante to follow whithersoever a sweet tooth might dictate, and climbed down into the weedy coolness at the waterbrink. I confess I laughed to see so puckered a face as mine in the clear blue of the flowing water. But I dipped my hands and my head into the cold shallows none the less pleasantly, and was casting about for a deeper pool where I might bathe unscorned of the noonday, when I heard a light laughter behind me, and, turning cautiously, perceived under the further shadow of the glade three ladies sitting. Not even vanity could persuade me that they were laughing at anything more grotesque than myself, so, putting a bold face on matters so humiliating, I sauntered as carelessly and loftily as I dared in their direction. My courage seemed to abash them a little; they gathered back their petticoats like birds about to fly. But at hint of a titter, they all three began gaily laughing again till their eyes sparkled brighter than ever, and their cheeks seemed shadows of the roses above their heads. "Ladies," I began gravely, "I have left my horse, that is very old and very thirsty, above in the wood. Is there any path I may discover by which she may reach the water without offence?" "Is she very old?" said one. "She is very old," I said. "But is she very thirsty?" said another. "She is perhaps very thirsty," I said. "Perhaps!" cried they all. "Because, ladies," I replied, "being by nature of a timid tongue, and compelled to say something, and having nothing apt to say, I remembered my old Rosinante above in the wood." They glanced each at each, and glanced again at me. "But there is no path down that is not steep," said the fairest of the three. "There never was a path, not even, we fear, for a traveller on foot," continued the second. I waited in silence a moment. "Forgive me, then," I said; "I will offend no longer." But this seemed far from their design. "You see, being come," began the fairest again, "Julia thinks Fortune must have brought you. Are we not all between Fortune's finger and thumb?" "If pinching is to prove anything," said the other. "And Fortune is fickle, too," added Julia--"that's early wisdom; but not quite so fickle as you would wish to show her. Here we have sat in these mortal glades ever since our poor Herrick died. And here it seems we are like to sit till he rises again. It is all so--dubious. But since Electra has invited you to rest awhile, will you not really rest? There is shade as deep, and fruit to refresh you, in a little arbour yonder. Perhaps even Anthea will dip out of her weeping awhile if she hears that ... a poor old thirsty horse is tethered in the woods." They rose up together with a prolonged rustling as of a peacock displaying his plumes; and I found myself irretrievably their captive. Moreover, even if they were but sylphs and fantasies of the morning, they were fantasies lovely as even their master had portrayed; while the dells through which they led me were green and deep and white and golden with buds. It was now, I suppose, about the middle of the morning, yet though the sun was high, his heat was that of dawn. Dawn lingered in the shadows, as snow when winter is over and gone, and dwelt among the sunbeams. Dew lay heavy on the grass, as the dainty heels of my captresses testified, yet they trod lightly upon daisies wide-open to the blue sky, while daffadowndillies stooped in a silence broken only by their laughter. We came presently to a little stone summerhouse or arbour, enclustered with leaves and flowers of ivy and convolvulus, wherein two great dishes of cherries stood and bowls of honeycomb and sillabub. There we sat down; but they kept me close too in the midst of the arbour, where perhaps I was not so ill-content to be as I should like to profess. How then could I else than bob for cherries as often as I dared, and prove my wit to conceal my hunger? "And now, Sir Traveller," said she of the sparkling eyes, named Dianeme, "since we have got you safe, tell us of all we have never heard or seen!" "And oh! are we forgot?" cried Electra, laying a lip upon a cherry. "There's not a poet in his teens but warbles of you morn, noon, and night," I answered. "There's not a lover mad, young, true, and tender, but borrows your azure, and your rubies, and your roses, and your stars, to deck his sweetheart's name with." "Boys perhaps," cried Julia softly, "but _men_ soon forget." "Youth never," I replied. "Why 'Youth'?" said Dianeme. "Herrick was not always young." "Ay, but all men once were young, please God," I said, "and youth is the only 'once' that's worth remembrance. Youth with the heart of youth adores you, ladies; because, when dreams come thick upon them, they catch your flying laughter in the woods. When the sun is sunk, and the stars kindle in the sky, then your eyes haunt the twilight. You come in dreams, and mock the waking. You the mystery; you the bravery and danger; you the long-sought; you the never-won; memories, hopes, songs ere the earth is mute. You will always be loved, believe me, O bright ladies, till youth fades, turns, and loves no more." And I gazed amazed on cherries of such potency as these. "But once, sir," said Julia timidly, "we were not only loved but _told_ we were loved." "Where is the pleasure else?" cried Dianeme. "Besides," said Electra, "Anthea says if we might but find where Styx flows one draught--my mere palmful--would be sweeter than all the poetry ever writ, save some." "It is idle," cried Dianeme; "Herrick himself admired us most on paper." "And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known," said Julia. "Ah!" said I, "all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues: there is but one Robin Herrick." "I will tell you a secret," said Dianeme. And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hush fell on sky and greenery. "We are but fairy-money all," she said, "an envy to see. Take us!--'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and the bees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames--and dies." "I heard once," said Electra, with but a thought of pride, "that had I lived a little, little earlier, I might have been the Duchess of Malfi." "I too, Flatterer," cried Julia, "I too--Desdemona slain by a blackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green and sad,' and the sea-birds' wailing," she continued in a low, strange voice, "and to some the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, and the rowans. But, come to an end, what are we all? This man's eyes will tell ye! I would give white and red, nectar and snow and roses, and all the similes that ever were for--" "For what?" said I. "I think, for Robin Herrick," she said. It was a lamentable confession, for that said, gravity fled away; and Electra fetched out a lute from a low cupboard in the arbour, and while she played Julia sang to a sober little melody I seemed to know of old: Gaze if thou will, Oh! 'tis my silence Haste thou then by!
All I had-- Take thy stars,
Would that I could remember much else! But I confess it is the heart remembers, not the poor, pestered brain that has so many thoughts and but one troubled thinker. Indeed, were I now to be asked--Were the fingers cold of these bright ladies? Were their eyes blue, or hazel, or brown? or, haply, were Dianeme's that incomparable, dark, sparkling grey? Wore Julia azure, and Electra white? And was that our poet wrote our poet's only, or truly theirs, and so even more lovely?--I fear I could not tell. I fell asleep; and when I awoke no lute was sounding. I was alone; and the arbour a little house of gloom on the borders of evening. I caught up yet one more handful of cherries, and stumbled out, heavy and dim, into a pale-green firmanent of buds and glow-worms, to seek the poor Rosinante I had so heedlessly deserted. But I was gone but a little way when I was brought suddenly to a standstill by another sound that in the hush of the garden, in the bright languor after sleep, went to my heart: it was as if a child were crying. I pushed through a thick and aromatic clump of myrtles, and peering between the narrow leaves, perceived the cold, bright face of a little marble god beneath willows; and, seated upon a starry bank near by, one whom by the serpentry of her hair and the shadow of her lips I knew to be Anthea. "Why are you weeping?" I said. "I was imitating a little brook," she said. "It is late; the bat is up; yet you are alone," I said. "Pan will protect me," she said. "And nought else?" She turned her face away. "None," she said. "I live among shadows. There was a world, I dreamed, where autumn follows summer, and after autumn, winter. Here it is always June, despite us both." "What, then, would you have?" I said. "Ask him," she replied. But the little god looking sidelong was mute in his grey regard. "Why do you not run away? What keeps you here?" "You ask many questions, stranger! Who can escape? To live is to remember. To die--oh, who would forget! Even had I been weeping, and not merely mocking time away, would my tears be of Lethe at my mouth's corners? No," said Anthea, "why feign and lie? All I am is but a memory lovely with regret." She rose, and the myrtles concealed her from me. And I, in the midst of the dusk where the tiny torches burned sadly--I turned to the sightless eyes of that smiling god. What he knew, being blind, yet smiling, I seemed to know then. But that also I have forgotten. I whistled softly and clearly into the air, and a querulous voice answered me from afar--the voice of a grasshopper--Rosinante's. _ |
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