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diff --git a/1605-0.txt b/1605-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55de94c --- /dev/null +++ b/1605-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6850 @@ + + + + +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The crock of gold, by James Stephens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The crock of gold + +Author: James Stephens + +Release Date: January 1, 1999 [eBook #1605] + +[Most recently updated: January 12, 2023] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CROCK OF GOLD *** + + + + +[Illustration: The Philosophers were able to hear each other +thinking all day long (page 5)] + + + + + THE + CROCK OF GOLD + + + By + James Stephens + + + WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR + BY + THOMAS MACKENZIE + + + + +CONTENTS + + + BOOK I + THE COMING OF PAN 1 + + BOOK II + THE PHILOSOPHER’S JOURNEY 91 + + BOOK III + THE TWO GODS 135 + + BOOK IV + THE PHILOSOPHER’S RETURN 151 + + BOOK V + THE POLICEMEN 185 + + BOOK VI + THE THIN WOMAN’S JOURNEY AND THE HAPPY MARCH 253 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + +IN COLOUR + + + The Philosophers were able to hear each other + thinking all day long (page 5) _Frontispiece_ + + FACE PAGE + + “Will you never be done talking?” shouted the Thin + Woman passionately 26 + + He stood waist-deep in greenery fronting her squarely 42 + + “Do you remember,” said Seumas, “the way he hopped and + waggled his leg the last time he was here?” 58 + + He saw Caitilin Ni Murrachu walking a little way in front + with a small vessel in her hand 74 + + At that moment the Philosopher’s cake lost all its savour 97 + + A swift shadow darkened the passage 109 + + A young woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly + at this house 129 + + “Tell me where the money is?” he hissed 166 + + He . . . wept in so loud a voice that his comrades swarmed + up to see what had happened to him 200 + + When they topped a slight incline they saw a light shining + some distance away 212 + + Caitilin danced in uncontrollable gaiety 222 + + + + +BOOK I. THE COMING OF PAN + + +CHAPTER I + +In the centre of the pine wood called Coilla Doraca there lived +not long ago two Philosophers. They were wiser than anything else +in the world except the Salmon who lies in the pool of Glyn Cagny +into which the nuts of knowledge fall from the hazel bush on its +bank. He, of course, is the most profound of living creatures, but +the two Philosophers are next to him in wisdom. Their faces looked +as though they were made of parchment, there was ink under their +nails, and every difficulty that was submitted to them, even by +women, they were able to instantly resolve. The Grey Woman of Dun +Gortin and the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath asked them the three +questions which nobody had ever been able to answer, and they were +able to answer them. That was how they obtained the enmity of these +two women which is more valuable than the friendship of angels. The +Grey Woman and the Thin Woman were so incensed at being answered +that they married the two Philosophers in order to be able to +pinch them in bed, but the skins of the Philosophers were so thick +that they did not know they were being pinched. They repaid the +fury of the women with such tender affection that these vicious +creatures almost expired of chagrin, and once, in a very ecstasy +of exasperation, after having been kissed by their husbands, they +uttered the fourteen hundred maledictions which comprised their +wisdom, and these were learned by the Philosophers who thus became +even wiser than before. + +In due process of time two children were born of these marriages. +They were born on the same day and in the same hour, and they were +only different in this, that one of them was a boy and the other +one was a girl. Nobody was able to tell how this had happened, and, +for the first time in their lives, the Philosophers were forced +to admire an event which they had been unable to prognosticate; +but having proved by many different methods that the children were +really children, that what must be must be, that a fact cannot be +controverted, and that what has happened once may happen twice, +they described the occurrence as extraordinary but not unnatural, +and submitted peacefully to a Providence even wiser than they were. + +The Philosopher who had the boy was very pleased because, he said, +there were too many women in the world, and the Philosopher who +had the girl was very pleased also because, he said, you cannot +have too much of a good thing: the Grey Woman and the Thin Woman, +however, were not in the least softened by maternity-they said +that they had not bargained for it, that the children were gotten +under false presences, that they were respectable married women, +and that, as a protest against their wrongs, they would not cook +any more food for the Philosophers. This was pleasant news for +their husbands, who disliked the women’s cooking very much, but +they did not say so, for the women would certainly have insisted +on their rights to cook had they imagined their husbands disliked +the results: therefore, the Philosophers besought their wives every +day to cook one of their lovely dinners again, and this the women +always refused to do. + +They all lived together in a small house in the very centre of a +dark pine wood. Into this place the sun never shone because the +shade was too deep, and no wind ever came there either, because +the boughs were too thick, so that it was the most solitary and +quiet place in the world, and the Philosophers were able to hear +each other thinking all day long, or making speeches to each other, +and these were the pleasantest sounds they knew of. To them there +were only two kinds of sounds anywhere—these were conversation and +noise: they liked the first very much indeed, but they spoke of +the second with stern disapproval, and, even when it was made by a +bird, a breeze, or a shower of rain, they grew angry and demanded +that it should be abolished. Their wives seldom spoke at all and +yet they were never silent: they communicated with each other by +a kind of physical telegraphy which they had learned among the +Shee-they cracked their finger-joints quickly or slowly and so were +able to communicate with each other over immense distances, for by +dint of long practice they could make great explosive sounds which +were nearly like thunder, and gentler sounds like the tapping of +grey ashes on a hearthstone. The Thin Woman hated her own child, +but she loved the Grey Woman’s baby, and the Grey Woman loved the +Thin Woman’s infant but could not abide her own. A compromise may +put an end to the most perplexing of situations, and, consequently, +the two women swapped children, and at once became the most tender +and amiable mothers imaginable, and the families were able to live +together in a more perfect amity than could be found anywhere else. + +The children grew in grace and comeliness. At first the little boy +was short and fat and the little girl was long and thin, then the +little girl became round and chubby while the little boy grew lanky +and wiry. This was because the little girl used to sit very quiet +and be good and the little boy used not. + +They lived for many years in the deep seclusion of the pine wood +wherein a perpetual twilight reigned, and here they were wont +to play their childish games, flitting among the shadowy trees +like little quick shadows. At times their mothers, the Grey Woman +and the Thin Woman, played with them, but this was seldom, and +sometimes their fathers, the two Philosophers, came out and looked +at them through spectacles which were very round and very glassy, +and had immense circles of horn all round the edges. They had, +however, other playmates with whom they could romp all day long. +There were hundreds of rabbits running about in the brushwood; they +were full of fun and were very fond of playing with the children. +There were squirrels who joined cheerfully in their games, and some +goats, having one day strayed in from the big world, were made so +welcome that they always came again whenever they got the chance. +There were birds also, crows and blackbirds and willy-wagtails, +who were well acquainted with the youngsters, and visited them as +frequently as their busy lives permitted. + +At a short distance from their home there was a clearing in the +wood about ten feet square; through this clearing, as through a +funnel, the sun for a few hours in the summer time blazed down. +It was the boy who first discovered the strange radiant shaft in +the wood. One day he had been sent out to collect pine cones for +the fire. As these were gathered daily the supply immediately near +the house was scanty, therefore he had, while searching for more, +wandered further from his home than usual. The first sight of the +extraordinary blaze astonished him. He had never seen anything +like it before, and the steady, unwinking glare aroused his fear +and curiosity equally. Curiosity will conquer fear even more than +bravery will; indeed, it has led many people into dangers which +mere physical courage would shudder away from, for hunger and love +and curiosity are the great impelling forces of life. When the +little boy found that the light did not move he drew closer to it, +and at last, emboldened by curiosity, he stepped right into it and +found that it was not a thing at all. The instant that he stepped +into the light he found it was hot, and this so frightened him that +he jumped out of it again and ran behind a tree. Then he jumped +into it for a moment and out of it again, and for nearly half an +hour he played a splendid game of tip and tig with the sunlight. +At last he grew quite bold and stood in it and found that it did +not burn him at all, but he did not like to remain in it, fearing +that he might be cooked. When he went home with the pine cones he +said nothing to the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin or to the Thin Woman +of Inis Magrath or to the two Philosophers, but he told the little +girl all about it when they went to bed, and every day afterwards +they used to go and play with the sunlight, and the rabbits and +the squirrels would follow them there and join in their games with +twice the interest they had shown before. + + +CHAPTER II + +To the lonely house in the pine wood people sometimes came for +advice on subjects too recondite for even those extremes of +elucidation, the parish priest and the tavern. These people were +always well received, and their perplexities were attended to +instantly, for the Philosophers liked being wise and they were not +ashamed to put their learning to the proof, nor were they, as so +many wise people are, fearful lest they should become poor or less +respected by giving away their knowledge. These were favourite +maxims with them: + +You must be fit to give before you can be fit to receive. + +Knowledge becomes lumber in a week, therefore, get rid of it. + +The box must be emptied before it can be refilled. + +Refilling is progress. + +A sword, a spade, and a thought should never be allowed to rust. + +The Grey Woman and the Thin Woman, however, held opinions quite +contrary to these, and their maxims also were different: + +A secret is a weapon and a friend. + +Man is God’s secret, Power is man’s secret, Sex is woman’s secret. + +By having much you are fitted to have more. + +There is always room in the box. + +The art of packing is the last lecture of wisdom. + +The scalp of your enemy is progress. + +Holding these opposed views it seemed likely that visitors seeking +for advice from the Philosophers might be astonished and captured +by their wives; but the women were true to their own doctrines and +refused to part with information to any persons saving only those +of high rank, such as policemen, gombeen men, and district and +county councillors; but even to these they charged high prices for +their information, and a bonus on any gains which accrued through +the following of their advices. It is unnecessary to state that +their following was small when compared with those who sought the +assistance of their husbands, for scarcely a week passed but some +person came through the pine wood with his brows in a tangle of +perplexity. + +In these people the children were deeply interested. They used +to go apart afterwards and talk about them, and would try to +remember what they looked like, how they talked, and their manner +of walking or taking snuff. After a time they became interested in +the problems which these people submitted to their parents and the +replies or instructions wherewith the latter relieved them. Long +training had made the children able to sit perfectly quiet, so +that when the talk came to the interesting part they were entirely +forgotten, and ideas which might otherwise have been spared their +youth became the commonplaces of their conversation. + +When the children were ten years of age one of the Philosophers +died. He called the household together and announced that the +time had come when he must bid them all good-bye, and that his +intention was to die as quickly as might be. It was, he continued, +an unfortunate thing that his health was at the moment more +robust than it had been for a long time, but that, of course, +was no obstacle to his resolution, for death did not depend upon +ill-health but upon a multitude of other factors with the details +whereof he would not trouble them. + +His wife, the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin, applauded this resolution +and added as an amendment that it was high time he did something, +that the life he had been leading was an arid and unprofitable one, +that he had stolen her fourteen hundred maledictions for which he +had no use and presented her with a child for which she had none, +and that, all things concerned, the sooner he did die and stop +talking the sooner everybody concerned would be made happy. + +The other Philosopher replied mildly as he lit his pipe: “Brother, +the greatest of all virtues is curiosity, and the end of all desire +is wisdom; tell us, therefore, by what steps you have arrived at +this commendable resolution.” + +To this the Philosopher replied: “I have attained to all the wisdom +which I am fitted to bear. In the space of one week no new truth +has come to me. All that I have read lately I knew before; all that +I have thought has been but a recapitulation of old and wearisome +ideas. There is no longer an horizon before my eves. Space has +narrowed to the petty dimensions of my thumb. Time is the tick of +a clock. Good and evil are two peas in the one pod. My wife’s face +is the same for ever. I want to play with the children, and yet I +do not want to. Your conversation with me, brother, is like the +droning of a bee in a dark cell. The pine trees take root and grow +and die.—It’s all bosh. Good-bye.” + +His friend replied: + +“Brother, these are weighty reflections, and I do clearly perceive +that the time has come for you to stop. I might observe, not in +order to combat your views, but merely to continue an interesting +conversation, that there are still some knowledges which you have +not assimilated—you do not yet know how to play the tambourine, nor +how to be nice to your wife, nor how to get up first in the morning +and cook the breakfast. Have you learned how to smoke strong +tobacco as I do? or can you dance in the moonlight with a woman of +the Shee? To understand the theory which underlies all things is +not sufficient. It has occurred to me, brother, that wisdom may not +be the end of everything. Goodness and kindliness are, perhaps, +beyond wisdom. Is it not possible that the ultimate end is gaiety +and music and a dance of joy? Wisdom is the oldest of all things. +Wisdom is all head and no heart. Behold, brother, you are being +crushed under the weight of your head. You are dying of old age +while you are yet a child.” + +“Brother,” replied the other Philosopher, “your voice is like +the droning of a bee in a dark cell. If in my latter days I am +reduced to playing on the tambourine and running after a hag in the +moonlight, and cooking your breakfast in the grey morning, then it +is indeed time that I should die. Good-bye, brother.” + +So saying, the Philosopher arose and removed all the furniture to +the sides of the room so that there was a clear space left in the +centre. He then took off his boots and his coat, and standing on +his toes he commenced to gyrate with extraordinary rapidity. In a +few moments his movements became steady and swift, and a sound came +from him like the humming of a swift saw; this sound grew deeper +and deeper, and at last continuous, so that the room was filled +with a thrilling noise. In a quarter of an hour the movement began +to noticeably slacken. In another three minutes it was quite slow. +In two more minutes he grew visible again as a body, and then he +wobbled to and fro, and at last dropped in a heap on the floor. +He was quite dead, and on his face was an expression of serene +beatitude. + +“God be with you, brother,” said the remaining Philosopher, and he +lit his pipe, focused his vision on the extreme tip of his nose, +and began to meditate profoundly on the aphorism whether the good +is the all or the all is the good. In another moment he would have +become oblivious of the room, the company, and the corpse, but the +Grey Woman of Dun Gortin shattered his meditation by a demand for +advice as to what should next be done. The Philosopher, with an +effort, detached his eyes from his nose and his mind from his maxim. + +“Chaos,” said he, “is the first condition. Order is the first +law. Continuity is the first reflection. Quietude is the +first happiness. Our brother is dead—bury him.” So saying, he +returned his eyes to his nose, and his mind to his maxim, and +lapsed to a profound reflection wherein nothing sat perched on +insubstantiality, and the Spirit of Artifice goggled at the puzzle. + +The Grey Woman of Dun Gortin took a pinch of snuff from her box and +raised the keen over her husband: + + + “You were my husband and you are dead. + + It is wisdom that has killed you. + + If you had listened to my wisdom instead of to your own you + would still be a trouble to me and I would still be happy. + + Women are stronger than men—they do not die of wisdom. + + They are better than men because they do not seek wisdom. + + They are wiser than men because they know less and + understand more. + + I had fourteen hundred maledictions, my little store, and + by a trick you stole them and left me empty. + + You stole my wisdom and it has broken your neck. + + I lost my knowledge and I am yet alive raising the keen + over your body, but it was too heavy for you, my little + knowledge. + + You will never go out into the pine wood in the morning, or + wander abroad on a night of stars. + + You will not sit in the chimney-corner on the hard nights, + or go to bed, or rise again, or do anything at all from + this day out. + + Who will gather pine cones now when the fire is going down, + or call my name in the empty house, or be angry when the + kettle is not boiling? + + Now I am desolate indeed. I have no knowledge, I have no + husband, I have no more to say.” + + +“If I had anything better you should have it,” said she politely to +the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath. + +“Thank you,” said the Thin Woman, “it was very nice. Shall I begin +now? My husband is meditating and we may be able to annoy him.” + +“Don’t trouble yourself,” replied the other, “I am past enjoyment +and am, moreover, a respectable woman.” + +“That is no more than the truth, indeed.” + +“I have always done the right thing at the right time.” + +“I’d be the last body in the world to deny that,” was the warm +response. + +“Very well, then,” said the Grey Woman, and she commenced to take +off her boots. She stood in the centre of the room and balanced +herself on her toe. + +“You are a decent, respectable lady,” said the Thin Woman of +Inis Magrath, and then the Grey Woman began to gyrate rapidly +and more rapidly until she was a very fervour of motion, and in +three-quarters of an hour (for she was very tough) she began to +slacken, grew visible, wobbled, and fell beside her dead husband, +and on her face was a beatitude almost surpassing his. + +The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath smacked the children and put them +to bed, next she buried the two bodies under the hearthstone, and +then, with some trouble, detached her husband from his meditations. +When he became capable of ordinary occurrences she detailed all +that had happened, and said that he alone was to blame for the sad +bereavement. He replied: + +“The toxin generates the anti-toxin. The end lies concealed in the +beginning. All bodies grow around a skeleton. Life is a petticoat +about death. I will not go to bed.” + + +CHAPTER III + +On the day following this melancholy occurrence Meehawl MacMurrachu, +a small farmer in the neighbourhood, came through the pine trees +with tangled brows. At the door of the little house he said, “God +be with all here,” and marched in. + +The Philosopher removed his pipe from his lips— + +“God be with yourself,” said he, and he replaced his pipe. + +Meehawl MacMurrachu crooked his thumb at space, “Where is the other +one?” said he. + +“Ah!” said the Philosopher. + +“He might be outside, maybe?” + +“He might, indeed,” said the Philosopher gravely. + +“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the visitor, “for you have +enough knowledge by yourself to stock a shop. The reason I came +here to-day was to ask your honoured advice about my wife’s +washing-board. She only has it a couple of years, and the last time +she used it was when she washed out my Sunday shirt and her black +skirt with the red things on it—you know the one?” + +“I do not,” said the Philosopher. + +“Well, anyhow, the washboard is gone, and my wife says it was +either taken by the fairies or by Bessie Hannigan—you know Bessie +Hannigan? She has whiskers like a goat and a lame leg!” “I do not,” +said the Philosopher. + +“No matter,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. “She didn’t take it, because +my wife got her out yesterday and kept her talking for two hours +while I went through everything in her bit of a house—the washboard +wasn’t there.” + +“It wouldn’t be,” said the Philosopher. + +“Maybe your honour could tell a body where it is then?” + +“Maybe I could,” said the Philosopher; “are you listening?” + +“I am,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. + +The Philosopher drew his chair closer to the visitor until their +knees were jammed together. He laid both his hands on Meehawl +MacMurrachu’s knees “Washing is an extraordinary custom,” said he. +“We are washed both on coming into the world and on going out of +it, and we take no pleasure from the first washing nor any profit +from the last.” + +“True for you, sir,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. + +“Many people consider that scourings supplementary to these are +only due to habit. Now, habit is continuity of action, it is a most +detestable thing and is very difficult to get away from. A proverb +will run where a writ will not, and the follies of our forefathers +are of greater importance to us than is the well-being of our +posterity.” + +“I wouldn’t say a word against that, sir,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. + +“Cats are a philosophic and thoughtful race, but they do not +admit the efficacy of either water or soap, and yet it is usually +conceded that they are cleanly folk. There are exceptions to every +rule, and I once knew a cat who lusted after water and bathed +daily: he was an unnatural brute and died ultimately of the head +staggers. Children are nearly as wise as cats. It is true that +they will utilize water in a variety of ways, for instance, the +destruction of a tablecloth or a pinafore, and I have observed +them greasing a ladder with soap, showing in the process a great +knowledge of the properties of this material.” + +“Why shouldn’t they, to be sure?” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. “Have +you got a match, sir?” + +“I have not,” said the Philosopher. “Sparrows, again, are a highly +acute and reasonable folk. They use water to quench thirst, but +when they are dirty they take a dust bath and are at once cleansed. +Of course, birds are often seen in the water, but they go there to +catch fish and not to wash. I have often fancied that fish are a +dirty, sly, and unintelligent people—this is due to their staying +so much in the water, and it has been observed that on being +removed from this element they at once expire through sheer ecstasy +at escaping from their prolonged washing.” + +“I have seen them doing it myself,” said Meehawl. “Did you ever +hear, sir, about the fish that Paudeen MacLoughlin caught in the +policeman’s hat.” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “The first person who washed +was possibly a person seeking a cheap notoriety. Any fool can +wash himself, but every wise man knows that it is an unnecessary +labour, for nature will quickly reduce him to a natural and +healthy dirtiness again. We should seek, therefore, not how to +make ourselves clean, but how to attain a more unique and splendid +dirtiness, and perhaps the accumulated layers of matter might, by +ordinary geologic compulsion, become incorporated with the human +cuticle and so render clothing unnecessary—” + +“About that washboard,” said Meehawl, “I was just going to say—” + +“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “In its proper place I +admit the necessity for water. As a thing to sail a ship on it can +scarcely be surpassed (not, you will understand, that I entirely +approve of ships, they tend to create and perpetuate international +curiosity and the smaller vermin of different latitudes). As an +element wherewith to put out a fire, or brew tea, or make a slide +in winter it is useful, but in a tin basin it has a repulsive and +meagre aspect.—Now as to your wife’s washboard—” + +“Good luck to your honour,” said Meehawl. + +“Your wife says that either the fairies or a woman with a goat’s +leg has it.” + +“It’s her whiskers,” said Meehawl. + +“They are lame,” said the Philosopher sternly. + +“Have it your own way, sir, I’m not certain now how the creature is +afflicted.” + +“You say that this unhealthy woman has not got your wife’s +washboard. It remains, therefore, that the fairies have it.” + +“It looks that way,” said Meehawl. + +“There are six clans of fairies living in this neighbourhood; +but the process of elimination, which has shaped the world to a +globe, the ant to its environment, and man to the captaincy of the +vertebrates, will not fail in this instance either.” + +“Did you ever see anything like the way wasps have increased this +season?” said Meehawl; “faith, you can’t sit down anywhere but your +breeches—” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Did you leave out a pan of milk +on last Tuesday?” + +“I did then.” + +“Do you take off your hat when you meet a dust twirl?” + +“I wouldn’t neglect that,” said Meehawl. + +“Did you cut down a thorn bush recently?” + +“I’d sooner cut my eye out,” said Meehawl, “and go about as +wall-eyed as Lorcan O’Nualain’s ass: I would that. Did you ever see +his ass, sir? It—” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Did you kill a robin redbreast?” + +“Never,” said Meehawl. “By the pipers,” he added, “that old skinny +cat of mine caught a bird on the roof yesterday.” + +“Hah!” cried the Philosopher, moving, if it were possible, even +closer to his client, “now we have it. It is the Leprecauns of Gort +na Cloca Mora took your washboard. Go to the Gort at once. There +is a hole under a tree in the southeast of the field. Try what you +will find in that hole.” + +“I’ll do that,” said Meehawl. “Did you ever—” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. + +So Meehawl MacMurrachu went away and did as he had been bidden, and +underneath the tree of Gort na Cloca Mora he found a little crock +of gold. + +“There’s a power of washboards in that,” said he. + +By reason of this incident the fame of the Philosopher became even +greater than it had been before, and also by reason of it many +singular events were to happen with which you shall duly become +acquainted. + + +CHAPTER IV + +It so happened that the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora were not +thankful to the Philosopher for having sent Meehawl MacMurrachu +to their field. In stealing Meehawl’s property they were quite +within their rights because their bird had undoubtedly been slain +by his cat. Not alone, therefore, was their righteous vengeance +nullified, but the crock of gold which had taken their community +many thousands of years to amass was stolen. A Leprecaun without +a pot of gold is like a rose without perfume, a bird without a +wing, or an inside without an outside. They considered that the +Philosopher had treated them badly, that his action was mischievous +and unneighbourly, and that until they were adequately compensated +for their loss both of treasure and dignity, no conditions other +than those of enmity could exist between their people and the +little house in the pine wood. Furthermore, for them the situation +was cruelly complicated. They were unable to organise a direct, +personal hostility against their new enemy, because the Thin Woman +of Inis Magrath would certainly protect her husband. She belonged +to the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, who had relatives in every fairy +fort in Ireland, and were also strongly represented in the forts +and duns of their immediate neighbours. They could, of course, +have called an extraordinary meeting of the Sheogs, Leprecauns, +and Cluricauns, and presented their case with a claim for damages +against the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, but that Clann would +assuredly repudiate any liability on the ground that no member of +their fraternity was responsible for the outrage, as it was the +Philosopher, and not the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, who had done +the deed. Notwithstanding this they were unwilling to let the +matter rest, and the fact that justice was out of reach only added +fury to their anger. + +One of their number was sent to interview the Thin Woman of Inis +Magrath, and the others concentrated nightly about the dwelling +of Meehawl MacMurrachu in an endeavour to recapture the treasure +which they were quite satisfied was hopeless. They found that +Meehawl, who understood the customs of the Earth Folk very well, +had buried the crock of gold beneath a thorn bush, thereby placing +it under the protection of every fairy in the world—the Leprecauns +themselves included, and until it was removed from this place by +human hands they were bound to respect its hiding-place, and even +guarantee its safety with their blood. + +They afflicted Meehawl with an extraordinary attack of rheumatism +and his wife with an equally virulent sciatica, but they got no +lasting pleasure from their groans. + +The Leprecaun, who had been detailed to visit the Thin Woman of +Inis Magrath, duly arrived at the cottage in the pine wood and made +his complaint. The little man wept as he told the story, and the +two children wept out of sympathy for him. The Thin Woman said she +was desperately grieved by the whole unpleasant transaction, and +that all her sympathies were with Gort na Cloca Mora, but that she +must disassociate herself from any responsibility in the matter as +it was her husband who was the culpable person, and that she had no +control over his mental processes, which, she concluded, was one of +the seven curious things in the world. + +As her husband was away in a distant part of the wood nothing +further could be done at that time, so the Leprecaun returned again +to his fellows without any good news, but he promised to come back +early on the following day. When the Philosopher come home late +that night the Thin Woman was waiting up for him. + +“Woman,” said the Philosopher, “you ought to be in bed.” + +“Ought I indeed?” said the Thin Woman. “I’d have you know that I’ll +go to bed when I like and get up when I like without asking your or +any one else’s permission.” + +“That is not true,” said the Philosopher. “You get sleepy whether +you like it or not, and you awaken again without your permission +being asked. Like many other customs such as singing, dancing, +music, and acting, sleep has crept into popular favour as part of a +religious ceremonial. Nowhere can one go to sleep more easily than +in a church.” + +“Do you know,” said the Thin Woman, “that a Leprecaun came here +to-day?” + +“I do not,” said the Philosopher, “and notwithstanding the +innumerable centuries which have elapsed since that first sleeper +(probably with extreme difficulty) sank into his religious trance, +we can to-day sleep through a religious ceremony with an ease which +would have been a source of wealth and fame to that prehistoric +worshipper and his acolytes.” + +“Are you going to listen to what I am telling you about the +Leprecaun?” said the Thin Woman. + +“I am not,” said the Philosopher. “It has been suggested that we go +to sleep at night because it is then too dark to do anything else; +but owls, who are a venerably sagacious folk, do not sleep in the +night time. Bats, also, are a very clear-minded race; they sleep in +the broadest day, and they do it in a charming manner. They clutch +the branch of a tree with their toes and hang head downwards—a +position which I consider singularly happy, for the rush of blood +to the head consequent on this inverted position should engender a +drowsiness and a certain imbecility of mind which must either sleep +or explode.” + +[Illustration: “Will you never be done talking?” shouted the Thin +Woman passionately] + +“Will you never be done talking?” shouted the Thin Woman +passionately. + +“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “In certain ways sleep is +useful. It is an excellent way of listening to an opera or seeing +pictures on a bioscope. As a medium for day-dreams I know of +nothing that can equal it. As an accomplishment it is graceful, but +as a means of spending a night it is intolerably ridiculous. If you +were going to say anything, my love, please say it now, but you +should always remember to think before you speak. A woman should +be seen seldom but never heard. Quietness is the beginning of +virtue. To be silent is to be beautiful. Stars do not make a noise. +Children should always be in bed. These are serious truths, which +cannot be controverted; therefore, silence is fitting as regards +them.” + +“Your stirabout is on the hob,” said the Thin Woman. “You can get +it for yourself. I would not move the breadth of my nail if you +were dying of hunger. I hope there’s lumps in it. A Leprecaun +from Gort na Cloca Mora was here to-day. They’ll give it to you +for robbing their pot of gold. You old thief, you! you lobeared, +crock-kneed fat-eye!” + +The Thin Woman whizzed suddenly from where she stood and leaped +into bed. From beneath the blanket she turned a vivid, furious +eye on her husband. She was trying to give him rheumatism and +toothache and lockjaw all at once. If she had been satisfied to +concentrate her attention on one only of these torments she might +have succeeded in afflicting her husband according to her wish, but +she was not able to do that. + +“Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. +There are lumps in it,” said the Philosopher. + + +CHAPTER V + +When the Leprecaun came through the pine wood on the following day +he met two children at a little distance from the house. He raised +his open right hand above his head (this is both the fairy and the +Gaelic form of salutation), and would have passed on but that a +thought brought him to a halt. Sitting down before the two children +he stared at them for a long time, and they stared back at him. At +last he said to the boy: + +“What is your name, a vic vig O?” + +“Seumas Beg, sir,” the boy replied. + +“It’s a little name,” said the Leprecaun. + +“It’s what my mother calls me, sir,” returned the boy. + +“What does your father call you,” was the next question. + +“Seumas Roghan Maelduin O’Carbhail Mac an Droid.” + +“It’s a big name,” said the Leprecaun, and he turned to the little +girl. “What is your name, a cailin vig O?” + +“Brigid Beg, sir.” + +“And what does your father call you?” + +“He never calls me at all, sir.” + +“Well, Seumaseen and Breedeen, you are good little children, and +I like you very much. Health be with you until I come to see you +again.” + +And then the Leprecaun went back the way he had come. As he went he +made little jumps and cracked his fingers, and sometimes he rubbed +one leg against the other. + +“That’s a nice Leprecaun,” said Seumas. + +“I like him too,” said Brigid. + +“Listen,” said Seumas, “let me be the Leprecaun, and you be the two +children, and I will ask you our names.” + +So they did that. + +The next day the Leprecaun came again. He sat down beside the +children and, as before, he was silent for a little time. + +“Are you not going to ask us our names, sir?” said Seumas. + +His sister smoothed out her dress shyly. “My name, sir, is Brigid +Beg,” said she. + +“Did you ever play Jackstones?” said the Leprecaun. + +“No, sir,” replied Seumas. + +“I’ll teach you how to play Jackstones,” said the Leprecaun, and he +picked up some pine cones and taught the children that game. + +“Did you ever play Ball in the Decker?” + +“No, sir,” said Seumas. + +“Did you ever play ‘I can make a nail with my ree-ro-raddy-O, I can +make a nail with my ree-ro-ray’?” + +“No, sir,” replied Seumas. + +“It’s a nice game,” said the Leprecaun, “and so is Capon-the-back, +and Twenty-four yards on the Billy-goat’s Tail, and Towns, and +Relievo, and Leap-frog. I’ll teach you all these games,” said +the Leprecaun, “and I’ll teach you how to play Knifey, and +Hole-and-taw, and Horneys and Robbers. + +“Leap-frog is the best one to start with, so I’ll teach it to you +at once. Let you bend down like this, Breedeen, and you bend down +like that a good distance away, Seumas. Now I jump over Breedeen’s +back, and then I run and jump over Seumaseen’s back like this, and +then I run ahead again and I bend down. Now, Breedeen, you jump +over your brother, and then you jump over me, and run a good bit on +and bend down again. Now, Seumas, it’s your turn; you jump over me +and then over your sister, and then you run on and bend down again +and I jump.” + +“This is a fine game, sir,” said Seumas. + +“It is, a vic vig,—keep in your head,” said the Leprecaun. “That’s +a good jump, you couldn’t beat that jump, Seumas.” + +“I can jump better than Brigid already,” replied Seumas, “and I’ll +jump as well as you do when I get more practice—keep in your head, +sir.” + +Almost without noticing it they had passed through the edge of the +wood, and were playing into a rough field which was cumbered with +big, grey rocks. It was the very last field in sight, and behind +it the rough, heather-packed mountain sloped distantly away to +the skyline. There was a raggedy blackberry hedge all round the +field, and there were long, tough, haggard-looking plants growing +in clumps here and there. Near a corner of this field there was +a broad, low tree, and as they played they came near and nearer +to it. The Leprecaun gave a back very close to the tree. Seumas +ran and jumped and slid down a hole at the side of the tree. Then +Brigid ran and jumped and slid down the same hole. + +“Dear me!” said Brigid, and she flashed out of sight. + +The Leprecaun cracked his fingers and rubbed one leg against the +other, and then he also dived into the hole and disappeared from +view. + +When the time at which the children usually went home had passed, +the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath became a little anxious. She had +never known them to be late for dinner before. There was one of +the children whom she hated; it was her own child, but as she +had forgotten which of them was hers, and as she loved one of +them, she was compelled to love both for fear of making a mistake +and chastising the child for whom her heart secretly yearned. +Therefore, she was equally concerned about both of them. + +Dinner time passed and supper time arrived, but the children did +not. Again and again the Thin Woman went out through the dark pine +trees and called until she was so hoarse that she could not even +hear herself when she roared. The evening wore on to the night, and +while she waited for the Philosopher to come in she reviewed the +situation. Her husband had not come in, the children had not come +in, the Leprecaun had not returned as arranged.... A light flashed +upon her. The Leprecaun had kidnapped her children! She announced +a vengeance against the Leprecauns which would stagger humanity. +While in the extreme centre of her ecstasy the Philosopher came +through the trees and entered the house. + +The Thin Woman flew to him— + +“Husband,” said she, “the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora have +kidnapped our children.” + +The Philosopher gazed at her for a moment. + +“Kidnapping,” said he, “has been for many centuries a favourite +occupation of fairies, gypsies, and the brigands of the East. The +usual procedure is to attach a person and hold it to ransom. If the +ransom is not paid an ear or a finger may be cut from the captive +and despatched to those interested, with the statement that an arm +or a leg will follow in a week unless suitable arrangements are +entered into.” + +“Do you understand,” said the Thin Woman passionately, “that it is +your own children who have been kidnapped?” + +“I do not,” said the Philosopher. “This course, however, is rarely +followed by the fairy people: they do not ordinarily steal for +ransom, but for love of thieving, or from some other obscure and +possibly functional causes, and the victim is retained in their +forts or duns until by the effluxion of time they forget their +origin and become peaceable citizens of the fairy state. Kidnapping +is not by any means confined to either humanity or the fairy +people.” + +“Monster,” said the Thin Woman in a deep voice, “will you listen to +me?” + +“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “Many of the insectivora +also practice this custom. Ants, for example, are a respectable +race living in well-ordered communities. They have attained to +a most complex and artificial civilization, and will frequently +adventure far afield on colonising or other expeditions from +whence they return with a rich booty of aphides and other stock, +who thenceforward become the servants and domestic creatures of +the republic. As they neither kill nor eat their captives, this +practice will be termed kidnapping. The same may be said of bees, +a hardy and industrious race living in hexagonal cells which are +very difficult to make. Sometimes, on lacking a queen of their +own, they have been observed to abduct one from a less powerful +neighbour, and use her for their own purposes without shame, mercy, +or remorse.” + +“Will you not understand?” screamed the Thin Woman. + +“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “Semi-tropical apes have been +rumoured to kidnap children, and are reported to use them very +tenderly indeed, sharing their coconuts, yams, plantains, and other +equatorial provender with the largest generosity, and conveying +their delicate captives from tree to tree (often at great distances +from each other and from the ground) with the most guarded +solicitude and benevolence.” + +“I am going to bed,” said the Thin Woman, “your stirabout is on the +hob.” + +“Are there lumps in it, my dear?” said the Philosopher. + +“I hope there are,” replied the Thin Woman, and she leaped into bed. + +That night the Philosopher was afflicted with the most extraordinary +attack of rheumatism he had ever known, nor did he get any ease +until the grey morning wearied his lady into a reluctant slumber. + + +CHAPTER VI + +The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath slept very late that morning, but +when she did awaken her impatience was so urgent that she could +scarcely delay to eat her breakfast. Immediately after she had +eaten she put on her bonnet and shawl and went through the pine +wood in the direction of Gort na Cloca Mora. In a short time she +reached the rocky field, and, walking over to the tree in the +southeast corner, she picked up a small stone and hammered loudly +against the trunk of the tree. She hammered in a peculiar fashion, +giving two knocks and then three knocks, and then one knock. A +voice came up from the hole. + +“Who is that, please?” said the voice. + +“Ban na Droid of Inis Magrath, and well you know it,” was her reply. + +“I am coming up, Noble Woman,” said the voice, and in another +moment the Leprecaun leaped out of the hole. + +“Where are Seumas and Brigid Beg?” said the Thin Woman sternly. + +“How would I know where they are?” replied the Leprecaun. “Wouldn’t +they be at home now?” + +“If they were at home I wouldn’t have come here looking for them,” +was her reply. “It is my belief that you have them.” + +“Search me,” said the Leprecaun, opening his waistcoat. + +“They are down there in your little house,” said the Thin Woman +angrily, “and the sooner you let them up the better it will be for +yourself and your five brothers.” + +“Noble Woman,” said the Leprecaun, “you can go down yourself into +our little house and look. I can’t say fairer than that.” + +“I wouldn’t fit down there,” said she. “I’m too big.” + +“You know the way for making yourself little,” replied the +Leprecaun. + +“But I mightn’t be able to make myself big again,” said the Thin +Woman, “and then you and your dirty brothers would have it all your +own way. If you don’t let the children up,” she continued, “I’ll +raise the Shee of Croghan Conghaile against you. You know what +happened to the Cluricauns of Oilean na Glas when they stole the +Queen’s baby—It will be a worse thing than that for you. If the +children are not back in my house before moonrise this night, I’ll +go round to my people. Just tell that to your five ugly brothers. +Health with you,” she added, and strode away. + +“Health with yourself, Noble Woman,” said the Leprecaun, and he +stood on one leg until she was out of sight and then he slid down +into the hole again. + +When the Thin Woman was going back through the pine wood she saw +Meehawl MacMurrachu travelling in the same direction and his brows +were in a tangle of perplexity. + +“God be with you, Meehawl MacMurrachu,” said she. + +“God and Mary be with you, ma’am,” he replied, “I am in great +trouble this day.” + +“Why wouldn’t you be?” said the Thin Woman. + +“I came up to have a talk with your husband about a particular +thing.” + +“If it’s talk you want you have come to a good house, Meehawl.” + +“He’s a powerful man right enough,” said Meehawl. + +After a few minutes the Thin Woman spoke again. “I can get the reek +of his pipe from here. Let you go right in to him now and I’ll stay +outside for a while, for the sound of your two voices would give me +a pain in my head.” + +“Whatever will please you will please me, ma’am,” said her +companion, and he went into the little house. + +Meehawl MacMurrachu had good reason to be perplexed. He was the +father of one child only, and she was the most beautiful girl in +the whole world. The pity of it was that no one at all knew she +was beautiful, and she did not even know it herself. At times when +she bathed in the eddy of a mountain stream and saw her reflection +looking up from the placid water she thought that she looked very +nice, and then a great sadness would come upon her, for what is the +use of looking nice if there is nobody to see one’s beauty? Beauty, +also, is usefulness. The arts as well as the crafts, the graces +equally with the utilities must stand up in the marketplace and be +judged by the gombeen men. + +The only house near to her father’s was that occupied by Bessie +Hannigan. The other few houses were scattered widely with long, +quiet miles of hill and bog between them, so that she had hardly +seen more than a couple of men beside her father since she was +born. She helped her father and mother in all the small businesses +of their house, and every day also she drove their three cows and +two goats to pasture on the mountain slopes. Here through the sunny +days the years had passed in a slow, warm thoughtlessness wherein, +without thinking, many thoughts had entered into her mind and many +pictures hung for a moment like birds in the thin air. At first, +and for a long time, she had been happy enough; there were many +things in which a child might be interested: the spacious heavens +which never wore the same beauty on any day; the innumerable little +creatures living among the grasses or in the heather; the steep +swing of a bird down from the mountain to the infinite plains +below; the little flowers which were so contented each in its +peaceful place; the bees gathering food for their houses, and the +stout beetles who are always losing their way in the dusk. These +things, and many others, interested her. The three cows after they +had grazed for a long time would come and lie by her side and look +at her as they chewed their cud, and the goats would prance from +the bracken to push their heads against her breast because they +loved her. + +Indeed, everything in her quiet world loved this girl: but very +slowly there was growing in her consciousness an unrest, a +disquietude to which she had hitherto been a stranger. Sometimes an +infinite weariness oppressed her to the earth. A thought was born +in her mind and it had no name. It was growing and could not be +expressed. She had no words wherewith to meet it, to exorcise or +greet this stranger who, more and more insistently and pleadingly, +tapped upon her doors and begged to be spoken to, admitted and +caressed and nourished. A thought is a real thing and words are +only its raiment, but a thought is as shy as a virgin; unless it +is fittingly apparelled we may not look on its shadowy nakedness: +it will fly from us and only return again in the darkness crying +in a thin, childish voice which we may not comprehend until, with +aching minds, listening and divining, we at last fashion for it +those symbols which are its protection and its banner. So she could +not understand the touch that came to her from afar and yet how +intimately, the whisper so aloof and yet so thrillingly personal. +The standard of either language or experience was not hers; she +could listen but not think, she could feel but not know, her eyes +looked forward and did not see, her hands groped in the sunlight +and felt nothing. It was like the edge of a little wind which +stirred her tresses but could not lift them, or the first white +peep of the dawn which is neither light nor darkness. But she +listened, not with her ears but with her blood. The fingers of her +soul stretched out to clasp a stranger’s hand, and her disquietude +was quickened through with an eagerness which was neither physical +nor mental, for neither her body nor her mind was definitely +interested. Some dim region between these grew alarmed and watched +and waited and did not sleep or grow weary at all. + +One morning she lay among the long, warm grasses. She watched +a bird who soared and sang for a little time, and then it sped +swiftly away down the steep air and out of sight in the blue +distance. Even when it was gone the song seemed to ring in her +ears. It seemed to linger with her as a faint, sweet echo, coming +fitfully, with little pauses as though a wind disturbed it, and +careless, distant eddies. After a few moments she knew it was not a +bird. No bird’s song had that consecutive melody, for their themes +are as careless as their wings. She sat up and looked about her, +but there was nothing in sight: the mountains sloped gently above +her and away to the clear sky; around her the scattered clumps of +heather were drowsing in the sunlight; far below she could see her +father’s house, a little grey patch near some trees—and then the +music stopped and left her wondering. + +She could not find her goats anywhere although for a long time she +searched. They came to her at last of their own accord from behind +a fold in the hills, and they were more wildly excited than she +had ever seen them before. Even the cows forsook their solemnity +and broke into awkward gambols around her. As she walked home that +evening a strange elation taught her feet to dance. Hither and +thither she flitted in front of the beasts and behind them. Her +feet tripped to a wayward measure. There was a tune in her ears +and she danced to it, throwing her arms out and above her head +and swaying and bending as she went. The full freedom of her body +was hers now: the lightness and poise and certainty of her limbs +delighted her, and the strength that did not tire delighted her +also. The evening was full of peace and quietude, the mellow, dusky +sunlight made a path for her feet, and everywhere through the wide +fields birds were flashing and singing, and she sang with them a +song that had no words and wanted none. + +The following day she heard the music again, faint and thin, +wonderfully sweet and as wild as the song of a bird, but it was a +melody which no bird would adhere to. A theme was repeated again +and again. In the middle of trills, grace-notes, runs and catches +it recurred with a strange, almost holy, solemnity,—a hushing, +slender melody full of austerity and aloofness. There was something +in it to set her heart beating. She yearned to it with her ears and +her lips. Was it joy, menace, carelessness? She did not know, but +this she did know, that however terrible it was personal to her. +It was her unborn thought strangely audible and felt rather than +understood. + +On that day she did not see anybody either. She drove her charges +home in the evening listlessly and the beasts also were very quiet. + +When the music came again she made no effort to discover where it +came from. She only listened, and when the tune was ended she saw +a figure rise from the fold of a little hill. The sunlight was +gleaming from his arms and shoulders but the rest of his body was +hidden by the bracken, and he did not look at her as he went away +playing softly on a double pipe. + +[Illustration: He stood waist-deep in greenery fronting her +squarely] + +The next day he did look at her. He stood waist-deep in greenery +fronting her squarely. She had never seen so strange a face before. +Her eyes almost died on him as she gazed and he returned her look +for a long minute with an intent, expressionless regard. His hair +was a cluster of brown curls, his nose was little and straight, and +his wide mouth drooped sadly at the corners. His eyes were wide and +most mournful, and his forehead was very broad and white. His sad +eyes and mouth almost made her weep. + +When he turned away he smiled at her, and it was as though the +sun had shone suddenly in a dark place, banishing all sadness +and gloom. Then he went mincingly away. As he went he lifted the +slender double reed to his lips and blew a few careless notes. + +The next day he fronted her as before, looking down to her eyes +from a short distance. He played for only a few moments, and +fitfully, and then he came to her. When he left the bracken the +girl suddenly clapped her hands against her eyes affrighted. +There was something different, terrible about him. The upper part +of his body was beautiful, but the lower part.... She dared not +look at him again. She would have risen and fled away but she +feared he might pursue her, and the thought of such a chase and +the inevitable capture froze her blood. The thought of anything +behind us is always terrible. The sound of pursuing feet is worse +than the murder from which we fly—So she sat still and waited but +nothing happened. At last, desperately, she dropped her hands. He +was sitting on the ground a few paces from her. He was not looking +at her but far away sidewards across the spreading hill. His legs +were crossed; they were shaggy and hoofed like the legs of a goat: +but she would not look at these because of his wonderful, sad, +grotesque face. Gaiety is good to look upon and an innocent face +is delightful to our souls, but no woman can resist sadness or +weakness, and ugliness she dare not resist. Her nature leaps to +be the comforter. It is her reason. It exalts her to an ecstasy +wherein nothing but the sacrifice of herself has any proportion. +Men are not fathers by instinct but by chance, but women are +mothers beyond thought, beyond instinct which is the father of +thought. Motherliness, pity, self-sacrifice—these are the charges +of her primal cell, and not even the discovery that men are +comedians, liars, and egotists will wean her from this. As she +looked at the pathos of his face she repudiated the hideousness of +his body. The beast which is in all men is glossed by women; it is +his childishness, the destructive energy inseparable from youth and +high spirits, and it is always forgiven by women, often forgotten, +sometimes, and not rarely, cherished and fostered. + +After a few moments of this silence he placed the reed to his lips +and played a plaintive little air, and then he spoke to her in a +strange voice, coming like a wind from distant places. + +“What is your name, Shepherd Girl?” said he. + +“Caitilin, Ingin Ni Murrachu,” she whispered. + +“Daughter of Murrachu,” said he, “I have come from a far place +where there are high hills. The men and maidens who follow their +flocks in that place know me and love me for I am the Master of +the Shepherds. They sing and dance and are glad when I come to +them in the sunlight; but in this country no people have done any +reverence to me. The shepherds fly away when they hear my pipes in +the pastures; the maidens scream in fear when I dance to them in +the meadows. I am very lonely in this strange country. You also, +although you danced to the music of my pipes, have covered your +face against me and made no reverence.” + +“I will do whatever you say if it is right,” said she. + +“You must not do anything because it is right, but because it is +your wish. Right is a word and Wrong is a word, but the sun shines +in the morning and the dew falls in the dusk without thinking of +these words which have no meaning. The bee flies to the flower and +the seed goes abroad and is happy. Is that right, Shepherd Girl?—it +is wrong also. I come to you because the bee goes to the flower—it +is wrong! If I did not come to you to whom would I go? There is no +right and no wrong but only the will of the gods.” + +“I am afraid of you,” said the girl. + +“You fear me because my legs are shaggy like the legs of a goat. +Look at them well, O Maiden, and know that they are indeed the +legs of a beast and then you will not be afraid any more. Do you +not love beasts? Surely you should love them for they yearn to you +humbly or fiercely, craving your hand upon their heads as I do. If +I were not fashioned thus I would not come to you because I would +not need you. Man is a god and a brute. He aspires to the stars +with his head but his feet are contented in the grasses of the +field, and when he forsakes the brute upon which he stands then +there will be no more men and no more women and the immortal gods +will blow this world away like smoke.” + +“I don’t know what you want me to do,” said the girl. + +“I want you to want me. I want you to forget right and wrong; to be +as happy as the beasts, as careless as the flowers and the birds. +To live to the depths of your nature as well as to the heights. +Truly there are stars in the heights and they will be a garland for +your forehead. But the depths are equal to the heights. Wondrous +deep are the depths, very fertile is the lowest deep. There are +stars there also, brighter than the stars on high. The name of the +heights is Wisdom and the name of the depths is Love. How shall +they come together and be fruitful if you do not plunge deeply +and fearlessly? Wisdom is the spirit and the wings of the spirit, +Love is the shaggy beast that goes down. Gallantly he dives, below +thought, beyond Wisdom, to rise again as high above these as he had +first descended. Wisdom is righteous and clean, but Love is unclean +and holy. I sing of the beast and the descent: the great unclean +purging itself in fire: the thought that is not born in the measure +or the ice or the head, but in the feet and the hot blood and the +pulse of fury. The Crown of Life is not lodged in the sun: the wise +gods have buried it deeply where the thoughtful will not find it, +nor the good: but the Gay Ones, the Adventurous Ones, the Careless +Plungers, they will bring it to the wise and astonish them. All +things are seen in the light—How shall we value that which is easy +to see? But the precious things which are hidden, they will be more +precious for our search: they will be beautiful with our sorrow: +they will be noble because of our desire for them. Come away with +me, Shepherd Girl, through the fields, and we will be careless and +happy, and we will leave thought to find us when it can, for that +is the duty of thought, and it is more anxious to discover us than +we are to be found.” + +So Caitilin Ni Murrachu arose and went with him through the fields, +and she did not go with him because of love, nor because his words +had been understood by her, but only because he was naked and +unashamed. + + +CHAPTER VII + +It was on account of his daughter that Meehawl MacMurrachu had come +to visit the Philosopher. He did not know what had become of her, +and the facts he had to lay before his adviser were very few. + +He left the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath taking snuff under a pine +tree and went into the house. + +“God be with all here,” said he as he entered. + +“God be with yourself, Meehawl MacMurrachu,” said the Philosopher. + +“I am in great trouble this day, sir,” said Meehawl, “and if you +would give me an advice I’d be greatly beholden to you.” + +“I can give you that,” replied the Philosopher. + +“None better than your honour and no trouble to you either. It was +a powerful advice you gave me about the washboard, and if I didn’t +come here to thank you before this it was not because I didn’t want +to come, but that I couldn’t move hand or foot by dint of the cruel +rheumatism put upon me by the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora, bad +cess to them for ever: twisted I was the way you’d get a squint in +your eye if you only looked at me, and the pain I suffered would +astonish you.” + +“It would not,” said the Philosopher. + +“No matter,” said Meehawl. “What I came about was my young daughter +Caitilin. Sight or light of her I haven’t had for three days. My +wife said first, that it was the fairies had taken her, and then +she said it was a travelling man that had a musical instrument she +went away with, and after that she said, that maybe the girl was +lying dead in the butt of a ditch with her eyes wide open, and she +staring broadly at the moon in the night time and the sun in the +day until the crows would be finding her out.” + +The Philosopher drew his chair closer to Meehawl. + +“Daughters,” said he, “have been a cause of anxiety to their +parents ever since they were instituted. The flightiness of the +female temperament is very evident in those who have not arrived +at the years which teach how to hide faults and frailties, and, +therefore, indiscretions bristle from a young girl the way branches +do from a bush.” + +“The person who would deny that—” said Meehawl. + +“Female children, however, have the particular sanction of +nature. They are produced in astonishing excess over males, and +may, accordingly, be admitted as dominant to the male; but the +well-proven law that the minority shall always control the majority +will relieve our minds from a fear which might otherwise become +intolerable.” + +“It’s true enough,” said Meehawl. “Have you noticed, sir, that in a +litter of pups—” + +“I have not,” said the Philosopher. “Certain trades and professions, +it is curious to note, tend to be perpetuated in the female line. +The sovereign profession among bees and ants is always female, and +publicans also descend on the distaff side. You will have noticed +that every publican has three daughters of extraordinary charms. +Lacking these signs we would do well to look askance at such a man’s +liquor, divining that in his brew there will be an undue percentage +of water, for if his primogeniture is infected how shall his honesty +escape?” + +“It would take a wise head to answer that,” said Meehawl. + +“It would not,” said the Philosopher. “Throughout nature the female +tends to polygamy.” + +“If,” said Meehawl, “that unfortunate daughter of mine is lying +dead in a ditch—” + +“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “Many races have +endeavoured to place some limits to this increase in females. +Certain Oriental peoples have conferred the titles of divinity +on crocodiles, serpents, and tigers of the jungle, and have fed +these with their surplusage of daughters. In China, likewise, such +sacrifices are defended as honourable and economic practices. +But, broadly speaking, if daughters have to be curtailed I prefer +your method of losing them rather than the religio-hysterical +compromises of the Orient.” + +“I give you my word, sir,” said Meehawl, “that I don’t know what +you are talking about at all.” + +“That,” said the Philosopher, “may be accounted for in three +ways—firstly, there is a lack of cerebral continuity: that is, +faulty attention; secondly, it might be due to a local peculiarity +in the conformation of the skull, or, perhaps, a superficial +instead of a deep indenting of the cerebral coil; and thirdly—” + +“Did you ever hear,” said Meehawl, “of the man that had the scalp +of his head blown off by a gun, and they soldered the bottom of a +tin dish to the top of his skull the way you could hear his brains +ticking inside of it for all the world like a Waterbury watch?” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Thirdly, it may—” + +“It’s my daughter, Caitilin, sir,” said Meehawl humbly. “Maybe she +is lying in the butt of a ditch and the crows picking her eyes out.” + +“What did she die of?” said the Philosopher. + +“My wife only put it that maybe she was dead, and that maybe she +was taken by the fairies, and that maybe she went away with the +travelling man that had the musical instrument. She said it was a +concertina, but I think myself it was a flute he had.” + +“Who was this traveller?” + +“I never saw him,” said Meehawl, “but one day I went a few perches +up the hill and I heard him playing—thin, squeaky music it was +like you’d be blowing out of a tin whistle. I looked about for him +everywhere, but not a bit of him could I see.” + +“Eh?” said the Philosopher. + +“I looked about—” said Meehawl. + +“I know,” said the Philosopher. “Did you happen to look at your +goats?” + +“I couldn’t well help doing that,” said Meehawl. + +“What were they doing?” said the Philosopher eagerly. + +“They were bucking each other across the field, and standing on +their hind legs and cutting such capers that I laughed till I had a +pain in my stomach at the gait of them.” + +“This is very interesting,” said the Philosopher. + +“Do you tell me so?” said Meehawl. + +“I do,” said the Philosopher, “and for this reason-most of the +races of the world have at one time or another—” + +“It’s my little daughter, Caitilin, sir,” said Meehawl. + +“I’m attending to her,” the Philosopher replied. + +“I thank you kindly,” returned Meehawl. + +The Philosopher continued “Most of the races of the world have at +one time or another been visited by this deity, whose title is +the ‘Great God Pan,’ but there is no record of his ever having +journeyed to Ireland, and, certainly within historic times, he has +not set foot on these shores. He lived for a great number of years +in Egypt, Persia, and Greece, and although his empire is supposed +to be world-wide, this universal sway has always been, and always +will be, contested; but nevertheless, however sharply his empire +may be curtailed, he will never be without a kingdom wherein his +exercise of sovereign rights will be gladly and passionately +acclaimed.” + +“Is he one of the old gods, sir?” said Meehawl. + +“He is,” replied the Philosopher, “and his coming intends no good +to this country. Have you any idea why he should have captured your +daughter?” + +“Not an idea in the world.” + +“Is your daughter beautiful?” + +“I couldn’t tell you, because I never thought of looking at her +that way. But she is a good milker, and as strong as a man. She can +lift a bag of meal under her arm easier than I can; but she’s a +timid creature for all that.” + +“Whatever the reason is I am certain that he has the girl, and I am +inclined to think that he was directed to her by the Leprecauns of +the Gort. You know they are at feud with you ever since their bird +was killed?” + +“I am not likely to forget it, and they racking me day and night +with torments.” + +“You may be sure,” said the Philosopher, “that if he’s anywhere at +all it’s at Gort na Cloca Mora he is, for, being a stranger, he +wouldn’t know where to go unless he was directed, and they know +every hole and corner of this countryside since ancient times. I’d +go up myself and have a talk with him, but it wouldn’t be a bit of +good, and it wouldn’t be any use your going either. He has power +over all grown people so that they either go and get drunk or else +they fall in love with every person they meet, and commit assaults +and things I wouldn’t like to be telling you about. The only folk +who can go near him at all are little children, because he has no +power over them until they grow to the sensual age, and then he +exercises lordship over them as over every one else. I’ll send my +two children with a message to him to say that he isn’t doing the +decent thing, and that if he doesn’t let the girl alone and go back +to his own country we’ll send for Angus Óg.” + +“He’d make short work of him, I’m thinking.” + +“He might surely; but he may take the girl for himself all the +same.” + +“Well, I’d sooner he had her than the other one, for he’s one of +ourselves anyhow, and the devil you know is better than the devil +you don’t know.” + +“Angus Óg is a god,” said the Philosopher severely. + +“I know that, sir,” replied Meehawl; “it’s only a way of talking I +have. But how will your honour get at Angus? for I heard say that +he hadn’t been seen for a hundred years, except one night only when +he talked to a man for half an hour on Kilmasheogue.” + +“I’ll find him, sure enough,” replied the Philosopher. + +“I’ll warrant you will,” replied Meehawl heartily as he stood up. +“Long life and good health to your honour,” said he as he turned +away. + +The Philosopher lit his pipe. + +“We live as long as we are let,” said he, “and we get the health we +deserve. Your salutation embodies a reflection on death which is +not philosophic. We must acquiesce in all logical progressions. The +merging of opposites is completion. Life runs to death as to its +goal, and we should go towards that next stage of experience either +carelessly as to what must be, or with a good, honest curiosity as +to what may be.” + +“There’s not much fun in being dead, sir,” said Meehawl. + +“How do you know?” said the Philosopher. + +“I know well enough,” replied Meehawl. + + +CHAPTER VIII + +When the children leaped into the hole at the foot of the tree they +found themselves sliding down a dark, narrow slant which dropped +them softly enough into a little room. This room was hollowed out +immediately under the tree, and great care had been taken not to +disturb any of the roots which ran here and there through the +chamber in the strangest criss-cross, twisted fashion. To get +across such a place one had to walk round, and jump over, and +duck under perpetually. Some of the roots had formed themselves +very conveniently into low seats and narrow, uneven tables, and +at the bottom all the roots ran into the floor and away again in +the direction required by their business. After the clear air +outside this place was very dark to the children’s eyes, so that +they could not see anything for a few minutes, but after a little +time their eyes became accustomed to the semiobscurity and they +were able to see quite well. The first things they became aware +of were six small men who were seated on low roots. They were all +dressed in tight green clothes and little leathern aprons, and they +wore tall green hats which wobbled when they moved. They were all +busily engaged making shoes. One was drawing out wax ends on his +knee, another was softening pieces of leather in a bucket of water, +another was polishing the instep of a shoe with a piece of curved +bone, another was paring down a heel with a short broad-bladed +knife, and another was hammering wooden pegs into a sole. He had +all the pegs in his mouth, which gave him a widefaced, jolly +expression, and according as a peg was wanted he blew it into his +hand and hit it twice with his hammer, and then he blew another +peg, and he always blew the peg with the right end uppermost, and +never had to hit it more than twice. He was a person well worth +watching. + +The children had slid down so unexpectedly that they almost forgot +their good manners, but as soon as Seumas Beg discovered that he +was really in a room he removed his cap and stood up. + +“God be with all here,” said he. + +The Leprecaun who had brought them lifted Brigid from the floor to +which amazement still constrained her. + +“Sit down on that little root, child of my heart,” said he, “and +you can knit stockings for us.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Brigid meekly. + +The Leprecaun took four knitting needles and a ball of green wool +from the top of a high, horizontal root. He had to climb over one, +go round three and climb up two roots to get at it, and he did +this so easily that it did not seem a bit of trouble. He gave the +needles and wool to Brigid Beg. + +“Do you know how to turn the heel, Brigid Beg?” said he. + +“No, sir,” said Brigid. + +“Well, I’ll show you how when you come to it.” + +The other six Leprecauns had ceased work and were looking at the +children. Seumas turned to them. + +“God bless the work,” said he politely. + +One of the Leprecauns, who had a grey, puckered face and a thin +fringe of grey whisker very far under his chin, then spoke. + +“Come over here, Seumas Beg,” said he, “and I’ll measure you for a +pair of shoes. Put your foot up on that root.” + +The boy did so, and the Leprecaun took the measure of his foot with +a wooden rule. + +“Now, Brigid Beg, show me your foot,” and he measured her also. +“They’ll be ready for you in the morning.” + +“Do you never do anything else but make shoes, sir?” said Seumas. + +“We do not,” replied the Leprecaun, “except when we want new +clothes, and then we have to make them, but we grudge every minute +spent making anything else except shoes, because that is the proper +work for a Leprecaun. In the night time we go about the country +into people’s houses and we clip little pieces off their money, +and so, bit by bit, we get a crock of gold together, because, do +you see, a Leprecaun has to have a crock of gold so that if he’s +captured by men folk he may be able to ransom himself. But that +seldom happens, because it’s a great disgrace altogether to be +captured by a man, and we’ve practiced so long dodging among the +roots here that we can easily get away from them. Of course, now +and again we are caught; but men are fools, and we always escape +without having to pay the ransom at all. We wear green clothes +because it’s the colour of the grass and the leaves, and when we +sit down under a bush or lie in the grass they just walk by without +noticing us.” + +“Will you let me see your crock of gold?” said Seumas. + +The Leprecaun looked at him fixedly for a moment. + +“Do you like griddle bread and milk?” said he. + +“I like it well,” Seumas answered. + +“Then you had better have some,” and the Leprecaun took a piece of +griddle bread from the shelf and filled two saucers with milk. + +While the children were eating the Leprecauns asked them many +questions “What time do you get up in the morning?” + +“Seven o’clock,” replied Seumas. + +“And what do you have for breakfast?” + +“Stirabout and milk,” he replied. + +“It’s good food,” said the Leprecaun. “What do you have for dinner?” + +“Potatoes and milk,” said Seumas. + +“It’s not bad at all,” said the Leprecaun. “And what do you have +for supper?” + +Brigid answered this time because her brother’s mouth was full. + +“Bread and milk, sir,” said she. + +“There’s nothing better,” said the Leprecaun. + +“And then we go to bed,” continued Brigid. + +“Why wouldn’t you?” said the Leprecaun. + +It was at this point the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath knocked on the +tree trunk and demanded that the children should be returned to her. + +When she had gone away the Leprecauns held a consultation, whereat +it was decided that they could not afford to anger the Thin Woman +and the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, so they shook hands with the +children and bade them good-bye. The Leprecaun who had enticed +them away from home brought them back again, and on parting he +begged the children to visit Gort na Cloca Mora whenever they felt +inclined. + +“There’s always a bit of griddle bread or potato cake, and a noggin +of milk for a friend,” said he. + +“You are very kind, sir,” replied Seumas, and his sister said the +same words. + +As the Leprecaun walked away they stood watching him. + +[Illustration: “Do you remember,” said Seumas, “the way he hopped +and waggled his leg the last time he was here?”] + +“Do you remember,” said Seumas, “the way he hopped and waggled his +leg the last time he was here?” + +“I do so,” replied Brigid. + +“Well, he isn’t hopping or doing anything at all this time,” said +Seumas. + +“He’s not in good humour to-night,” said Brigid, “but I like him.” + +“So do I,” said Seumas. + +When they went into the house the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath was +very glad to see them, and she baked a cake with currants in it, +and also gave them both stirabout and potatoes; but the Philosopher +did not notice that they had been away at all. He said at last that +“talking was bad wit, that women were always making a fuss, that +children should be fed, but not fattened, and that beds were meant +to be slept in.” The Thin Woman replied “that he was a grisly old +man without bowels, that she did not know what she had married him +for, that he was three times her age, and that no one would believe +what she had to put up with.” + + +CHAPTER IX + +Pursuant to his arrangement with Meehawl MacMurrachu, the +Philosopher sent the children in search of Pan. He gave them the +fullest instructions as to how they should address the Sylvan +Deity, and then, having received the admonishments of the Thin +Woman of Inis Magrath, the children departed in the early morning. + +When they reached the clearing in the pine wood, through which the +sun was blazing, they sat down for a little while to rest in the +heat. Birds were continually darting down this leafy shaft, and +diving away into the dark wood. These birds always had something in +their beaks. One would have a worm, or a snail, or a grasshopper, +or a little piece of wool torn off a sheep, or a scrap of cloth, +or a piece of hay; and when they had put these things in a certain +place they flew up the sun-shaft again and looked for something +else to bring home. On seeing the children each of the birds +waggled his wings, and made a particular sound. They said “caw” and +“chip” and “twit” and “tut” and “what” and “pit”; and one, whom the +youngsters liked very much, always said “tit-tittit-tit-tit.” The +children were fond of him because he was so all-of-asudden. They +never knew where he was going to fly next, and they did not believe +he knew himself. He would fly backwards and forwards, and up and +down, and sideways and bawways—all, so to speak, in the one breath. +He did this because he was curious to see what was happening +everywhere, and, as something is always happening everywhere, he +was never able to fly in a straight line for more than the littlest +distance. He was a cowardly bird too, and continually fancied that +some person was going to throw a stone at him from behind a bush, +or a wall, or a tree, and these imaginary dangers tended to make +his journeyings still more wayward and erratic. He never flew where +he wanted to go himself, but only where God directed him, and so he +did not fare at all badly. + +The children knew each of the birds by their sounds, and always +said these words to them when they came near. For a little time +they had difficulty in saying the right word to the right bird, and +sometimes said “chip” when the salutation should have been “tut.” +The birds always resented this, and would scold them angrily, but +after a little practice they never made any mistakes at all. There +was one bird, a big, black fellow, who loved to be talked to. He +used to sit on the ground beside the children, and say “caw” as +long as they would repeat it after him. He often wasted a whole +morning in talk, but none of the other birds remained for more than +a few minutes at a time. They were always busy in the morning, but +in the evening they had more leisure, and would stay and chat as +long as the children wanted them. The awkward thing was that in the +evening all the birds wanted to talk at the same moment, so that +the youngsters never knew which of them to answer. Seumas Beg got +out of that difficulty for a while by learning to whistle their +notes, but, even so, they spoke with such rapidity that he could +not by any means keep pace with them. Brigid could only whistle +one note; it was a little flat “whoo” sound, which the birds all +laughed at, and after a few trials she refused to whistle any more. + +While they were sitting two rabbits came to play about in the +brush. They ran round and round in a circle, and all their +movements were very quick and twisty. Sometimes they jumped over +each other six or seven times in succession, and every now and then +they sat upright on their hind legs, and washed their faces with +their paws. At other times they picked up a blade of grass, which +they ate with great deliberation, pretending all the time that it +was a complicated banquet of cabbage leaves and lettuce. + +While the children were playing with the rabbits an ancient, +stalwart he-goat came prancing through the bracken. He was an +old acquaintance of theirs, and he enjoyed lying beside them to +have his forehead scratched with a piece of sharp stick. His +forehead was hard as rock, and the hair grew there as sparse as +grass does on a wall, or rather the way moss grows on a wall—it +was a mat instead of a crop. His horns were long and very sharp, +and brilliantly polished. On this day the he-goat had two chains +around his neck—one was made of butter-cups and the other was made +of daisies, and the children wondered to each other who it was +could have woven these so carefully. They asked the he-goat this +question, but he only looked at them and did not say a word. The +children liked examining this goat’s eyes; they were very big, and +of the queerest light-gray colour. They had a strange steadfast +look, and had also at times a look of queer, deep intelligence, and +at other times they had a fatherly and benevolent expression, and +at other times again, especially when he looked sidewards, they +had a mischievous, light-and-airy, daring, mocking, inviting and +terrifying look; but he always looked brave and unconcerned. When +the he-goat’s forehead had been scratched as much as he desired +he arose from between the children and went pacing away lightly +through the wood. The children ran after him and each caught hold +of one of his horns, and he ambled and reared between them while +they danced along on his either side singing snatches of bird +songs, and scraps of old tunes which the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath +had learned among the people of the Shee. + +In a little time they came to Gort na Cloca Mora, but here +the he-goat did not stop. They went past the big tree of the +Leprecauns, through a broken part of the hedge and into another +rough field. The sun was shining gloriously. There was scarcely a +wind at all to stir the harsh grasses. Far and near was silence +and warmth, an immense, cheerful peace. Across the sky a few light +clouds sailed gently on a blue so vast that the eye failed before +that horizon. A few bees sounded their deep chant, and now and +again a wasp rasped hastily on his journey. Than these there was no +sound of any kind. So peaceful, innocent and safe did everything +appear that it might have been the childhood of the world as it was +of the morning. + +The children, still clinging to the friendly goat, came near the +edge of the field, which here sloped more steeply to the mountain +top. Great boulders, slightly covered with lichen and moss, were +strewn about, and around them the bracken and gorse were growing, +and in every crevice of these rocks there were plants whose little, +tight-fisted roots gripped a desperate, adventurous habitation in +a soil scarcely more than half an inch deep. At some time these +rocks had been smitten so fiercely that the solid granite surfaces +had shattered into fragments. At one place a sheer wall of stone, +ragged and battered, looked harshly out from the thin vegetation. +To this rocky wall the he-goat danced. At one place there was a +hole in the wall covered by a thick brush. The goat pushed his way +behind this growth and disappeared. Then the children, curious +to see where he had gone, pushed through also. Behind the bush +they found a high, narrow opening, and when they had rubbed their +legs, which smarted from the stings of nettles, thistles and gorse +prickles, they went into the hole which they thought was a place +the goat had for sleeping in on cold, wet nights. After a few paces +they found the passage was quite comfortably big, and then they saw +a light, and in another moment they were blinking at the god Pan +and Caitilin Ni Murrachu. + +Caitilin knew them at once and came forward with welcome. + +“O, Seumas Beg,” she cried reproachfully, “how dirty you have let +your feet get. Why don’t you walk in the grassy places? And you, +Brigid, have a right to be ashamed of yourself to have your hands +the way they are. Come over here at once.” + +Every child knows that every grown female person in the world +has authority to wash children and to give them food; that is +what grown people were made for, consequently Seumas and Brigid +Beg submitted to the scouring for which Caitilin made instant +preparation. When they were cleaned she pointed to a couple of flat +stones against the wall of the cave and bade them sit down and be +good, and this the children did, fixing their eyes on Pan with the +cheerful gravity and curiosity which good-natured youngsters always +give to a stranger. + +Pan, who had been lying on a couch of dried grass, sat up and bent +an equally cheerful regard on the children. + +“Shepherd Girl,” said he, “who are those children?” + +“They are the children of the Philosophers of Coilla Doraca; the +Grey Woman of Dun Gortin and the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath are +their mothers, and they are decent, poor children, God bless them.” + +“What have they come here for?” + +“You will have to ask themselves that.” + +Pan looked at them smilingly. + +“What have you come here for, little children?” said he. + +The children questioned one another with their eyes to see which of +them would reply, and then Seumas Beg answered: + +“My father sent me to see you, sir, and to say that you were not +doing a good thing in keeping Caitilin Ni Murrachu away from her +own place.” + +Brigid Beg turned to Caitilin— + +“Your father came to see our father, and he said that he didn’t know +what had become of you at all, and that maybe you were lying flat in +a ditch with the black crows picking at your flesh.” + +“And what,” said Pan, “did your father say to that?” + +“He told us to come and ask her to go home.” + +“Do you love your father, little child?” said Pan. + +Brigid Beg thought for a moment. “I don’t know, sir,” she replied. + +“He doesn’t mind us at all,” broke in Seumas Beg, “and so we don’t +know whether we love him or not.” + +“I like Caitilin,” said Brigid, “and I like you.” + +“So do I,” said Seumas. + +“I like you also, little children,” said Pan. “Come over here and +sit beside me, and we will talk.” + +So the two children went over to Pan and sat down one each side of +him, and he put his arms about them. “Daughter of Murrachu,” said +he, “is there no food in the house for guests?” + +“There is a cake of bread, a little goat’s milk and some cheese,” +she replied, and she set about getting these things. + +“I never ate cheese,” said Seumas. “Is it good?” + +“Surely it is,” replied Pan. “The cheese that is made from goat’s +milk is rather strong, and it is good to be eaten by people who +live in the open air, but not by those who live in houses, for such +people do not have any appetite. They are poor creatures whom I do +not like.” + +“I like eating,” said Seumas. + +“So do I,” said Pan. “All good people like eating. Every person who +is hungry is a good person, and every person who is not hungry is a +bad person. It is better to be hungry than rich.” + +Caitilin having supplied the children with food, seated herself in +front of them. “I don’t think that is right,” said she. “I have +always been hungry, and it was never good.” + +“If you had always been full you would like it even less,” he +replied, “because when you are hungry you are alive, and when you +are not hungry you are only half alive.” + +“One has to be poor to be hungry,” replied Caitilin. “My father is +poor and gets no good of it but to work from morning to night and +never to stop doing that.” + +“It is bad for a wise person to be poor,” said Pan, “and it is bad +for a fool to be rich. A rich fool will think of nothing else at +first but to find a dark house wherein to hide away, and there he +will satisfy his hunger, and he will continue to do that until his +hunger is dead and he is no better than dead but a wise person who +is rich will carefully preserve his appetite. All people who have +been rich for a long time, or who are rich from birth, live a great +deal outside of their houses, and so they are always hungry and +healthy.” + +“Poor people have no time to be wise,” said Caitilin. + +“They have time to be hungry,” said Pan. “I ask no more of them.” + +“My father is very wise,” said Seumas Beg. + +“How do you know that, little boy?” said Pan. + +“Because he is always talking,” replied Seumas. “Do you always +listen, my dear?” + +“No, sir,” said Seumas; “I go to sleep when he talks.” + +“That is very clever of you,” said Pan. + +“I go to sleep too,” said Brigid. + +“It is clever of you also, my darling. Do you go to sleep when your +mother talks?” + +“Oh, no,” she answered. “If we went to sleep then our mother would +pinch us and say that we were a bad breed.” + +“I think your mother is wise,” said Pan. “What do you like best in +the world, Seumas Beg?” + +The boy thought for a moment and replied: “I don’t know, sir.” + +Pan also thought for a little time. + +“I don’t know what I like best either,” said he. “What do you like +best in the world, Shepherd Girl?” + +Caitilin’s eyes were fixed on his. + +“I don’t know yet,” she answered slowly. + +“May the gods keep you safe from that knowledge,” said Pan gravely. + +“Why would you say that?” she replied. “One must find out all +things, and when we find out a thing we know if it is good or bad.” + +“That is the beginning of knowledge,” said Pan, “but it is not the +beginning of wisdom.” + +“What is the beginning of wisdom?” + +“It is carelessness,” replied Pan. + +“And what is the end of wisdom?” said she. + +“I do not know,” he answered, after a little pause. + +“Is it greater carelessness?” she enquired. + +“I do not know, I do not know,” said he sharply. “I am tired of +talking,” and, so saying, he turned his face away from them and lay +down on the couch. + +Caitilin in great concern hurried the children to the door of the +cave and kissed them good-bye. + +“Pan is sick,” said the boy gravely. + +“I hope he will be well soon again,” the girl murmured. + +“Yes, yes,” said Caitilin, and she ran back quickly to her lord. + + + + +BOOK II. THE PHILOSOPHER’S JOURNEY + + +CHAPTER X + +When the children reached home they told the Philosopher-the result +of their visit. He questioned them minutely as to the appearance +of Pan, how he had received them, and what he had said in defence +of his iniquities; but when he found that Pan had not returned any +answer to his message he became very angry. He tried to persuade +his wife to undertake another embassy setting forth his abhorrence +and defiance of the god, but the Thin Woman replied sourly that +she was a respectable married woman, that having been already +bereaved of her wisdom she had no desire to be further curtailed +of her virtue, that a husband would go any length to asperse his +wife’s reputation, and that although she was married to a fool +her self-respect had survived even that calamity. The Philosopher +pointed out that her age, her appearance, and her tongue were +sufficient guarantees of immunity against the machinations of +either Pan or slander, and that he had no personal feelings in the +matter beyond a scientific and benevolent interest in the troubles +of Meehawl MacMurrachu; but this was discounted by his wife as the +malignant and subtle tactics customary to all husbands. + +Matters appeared to be thus at a deadlock so far as they were +immediately concerned, and the Philosopher decided that he +would lay the case before Angus Óg and implore his protection +and assistance on behalf of the Clann MacMurrachu. He therefore +directed the Thin Woman to bake him two cakes of bread, and set +about preparations for a journey. + +The Thin Woman baked the cakes, and put them in a bag, and early +on the following morning the Philosopher swung this bag over his +shoulder, and went forth on his quest. + +[Illustration: He saw Caitilin Ni Murrachu walking a little way in +front with a small vessel in her hand] + +When he came to the edge of the pine wood he halted for a few +moments, not being quite certain of his bearings, and then went +forward again in the direction of Gort na Cloca Mora. It came +into his mind as he crossed the Gort that he ought to call on the +Leprecauns and have a talk with them, but a remembrance of Meehawl +MacMurrachu and the troubles under which he laboured (all directly +to be traced to the Leprecauns) hardened his heart against his +neighbours, so that he passed by the yew tree without any stay. In +a short time he came to the rough, heather-clumped field wherein +the children had found Pan, and as he was proceeding up the hill, +he saw Caitilin Ni Murrachu walking a little way in front with a +small vessel in her hand. The she-goat which she had just milked +was bending again to the herbage, and as Caitilin trod lightly in +front of him the Philosopher closed his eyes in virtuous anger and +opened them again in a not unnatural curiosity, for the girl had no +clothes on. He watched her going behind the brush and disappearing +in the cleft of the rock, and his anger, both with her and Pan, +mastering him he forsook the path of prudence which soared to the +mountain top, and followed that leading to the cave. The sound of +his feet brought Caitilin out hastily, but he pushed her by with a +harsh word. “Hussy,” said he, and he went into the cave where Pan +was. + +As he went in he already repented of his harshness and said “The +human body is an aggregation of flesh and sinew, around a central +bony structure. The use of clothing is primarily to protect this +organism from rain and cold, and it may not be regarded as the +banner of morality without danger to this fundamental premise. +If a person does not desire to be so protected who will quarrel +with an honourable liberty? Decency is not clothing but Mind. +Morality is behaviour. Virtue is thought; I have often fancied,” +he continued to Pan, whom he was now confronting, “that the effect +of clothing on mind must be very considerable, and that it must +have a modifying rather than an expanding effect, or, even, an +intensifying as against an exuberant effect. With clothing the +whole environment is immediately affected. The air, which is our +proper medium, is only filtered to our bodies in an abated and +niggardly fashion which can scarcely be as beneficial as the +generous and unintermitted elemental play. The question naturally +arises whether clothing is as unknown to nature as we have fancied? +Viewed as a protective measure against atmospheric rigour we find +that many creatures grow, by their own central impulse, some +kind of exterior panoply which may be regarded as their proper +clothing. Bears, cats, dogs, mice, sheep and beavers are wrapped +in fur, hair, fell, fleece or pelt, so these creatures cannot by +any means be regarded as being naked. Crabs, cockroaches, snails +and cockles have ordered around them a crusty habiliment, wherein +their original nakedness is only to be discovered by force, and +other creatures have similarly provided themselves with some +species of covering. Clothing, therefore, is not an art, but an +instinct, and the fact that man is born naked and does not grow +his clothing upon himself from within but collects it from various +distant and haphazard sources is not any reason to call this +necessity an instinct for decency. These, you will admit, are +weighty reflections and worthy of consideration before we proceed +to the wide and thorny subject of moral and immoral action. Now, +what is virtue?” Pan, who had listened with great courtesy to these +remarks, here broke in on the Philosopher. + +“Virtue,” said he, “is the performance of pleasant actions.” + +The Philosopher held the statement for a moment on his forefinger. + +“And what, then, is vice?” said he. + +“It is vicious,” said Pan, “to neglect the performance of pleasant +actions.” + +“If this be so,” the other commented, “philosophy has up to the +present been on the wrong track.” + +“That is so,” said Pan. “Philosophy is an immoral practice because +it suggests a standard of practice impossible of being followed, +and which, if it could be followed, would lead to the great sin of +sterility.” + +“The idea of virtue,” said the Philosopher, with some indignation, +“has animated the noblest intellects of the world.” + +“It has not animated them,” replied Pan; “it has hypnotised them so +that they have conceived virtue as repression and self-sacrifice as +an honourable thing instead of the suicide which it is.” + +“Indeed,” said the Philosopher; “this is very interesting, and if +it is true the whole conduct of life will have to be very much +simplified.” + +“Life is already very simple,” said Pan; “it is to be born and to +die, and in the interval to eat and drink, to dance and sing, to +marry and beget children.” + +“But it is simply materialism,” cried the Philosopher. + +“Why do you say ‘but’?” replied Pan. + +“It is sheer, unredeemed animalism,” continued his visitor. + +“It is any name you please to call it,” replied Pan. + +“You have proved nothing,” the Philosopher shouted. + +“What can be sensed requires no proof.” + +“You leave out the new thing,” said the Philosopher. “You leave +out brains. I believe in mind above matter. Thought above emotion. +Spirit above flesh.” + +“Of course you do,” said Pan, and he reached for his oaten pipe. + +The Philosopher ran to the opening of the passage and thrust +Caitilin aside. “Hussy,” said he fiercely to her, and he darted out. + +As he went up the rugged path he could hear the pipes of Pan, +calling and sobbing and making high merriment on the air. + + +CHAPTER XI + +“She does not deserve to be rescued,” said the Philosopher, “but I +will rescue her. Indeed,” he thought a moment later, “she does not +want to be rescued, and, _therefore_, I will rescue her.” + +As he went down the road her shapely figure floated before his +eyes as beautiful and simple as an old statue. He wagged his head +angrily at the apparition, but it would not go away. He tried +to concentrate his mind on a deep, philosophical maxim, but her +disturbing image came between him and his thought, blotting out the +latter so completely that a moment after he had stated his aphorism +he could not remember what it had been. Such a condition of mind +was so unusual that it bewildered him. + +“Is a mind, then, so unstable,” said he, “that a mere figure, an +animated geometrical arrangement can shake it from its foundations?” + +The idea horrified him: he saw civilisation building its temples +over a volcano.... + +“A puff,” said he, “and it is gone. Beneath all is chaos and red +anarchy, over all a devouring and insistent appetite. Our eyes tell +us what to think about, and our wisdom is no more than a catalogue +of sensual stimuli.” + +He would have been in a state of deep dejection were it not that +through his perturbation there bubbled a stream of such amazing +well-being as he had not felt since childhood. Years had toppled +from his shoulders. He left one pound of solid matter behind at +every stride. His very skin grew flexuous, and he found a pleasure +in taking long steps such as he could not have accounted for by +thought. Indeed, thought was the one thing he felt unequal to, +and it was not precisely that he could not think but that he did +not want to. All the importance and authority of his mind seemed +to have faded away, and the activity which had once belonged to +that organ was now transferred to his eyes. He saw, amazedly, the +sunshine bathing the hills and the valleys. A bird in the hedge +held him—beak, head, eyes, legs, and the wings that tapered widely +at angles to the wind. For the first time in his life he really +saw a bird, and one minute after it had flown away he could have +reproduced its strident note. With every step along the curving +road the landscape was changing. He saw and noted it almost in an +ecstasy. A sharp hill jutted out into the road, it dissolved into a +sloping meadow, rolled down into a valley and then climbed easily +and peacefully into a hill again. On this side a clump of trees +nodded together in the friendliest fashion. Yonder a solitary tree, +well-grown and clean, was contented with its own bright company. A +bush crouched tightly on the ground as though, at a word, it would +scamper from its place and chase rabbits across the sward with +shouts and laughter. Great spaces of sunshine were everywhere, and +everywhere there were deep wells of shadow; and the one did not +seem more beautiful than the other. That sunshine! Oh, the glory +of it, the goodness and bravery of it, how broadly and grandly +it shone, without stint, without care; he saw its measureless +generosity and gloried in it as though himself had been the flinger +of that largesse. And was he not? Did the sunlight not stream from +his head and life from his finger-tips? Surely the well-being that +was in him did bubble out to an activity beyond the universe. +Thought! Oh! the petty thing! but motion! emotion! these were the +realities. To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation chanting a +paean of triumphant life! + +After a time he felt hungry, and thrusting his hand into his wallet +he broke off a piece of one of his cakes and looked about for a +place where he might happily eat it. By the side of the road there +was a well; just a little corner filled with water. Over it was a +rough stone coping, and around, hugging it on three sides almost +from sight, were thick, quiet bushes. He would not have noticed the +well at all but for a thin stream, the breadth of two hands, which +tiptoed away from it through a field. By this well he sat down and +scooped the water in his hand and it tasted good. + +He was eating his cake when a sound touched his ear from some +distance, and shortly a woman came down the path carrying a vessel +in her hand to draw water. + +She was a big, comely woman, and she walked as one who had no +misfortunes and no misgivings. When she saw the Philosopher sitting +by the well she halted a moment in surprise and then came forward +with a good-humoured smile. + +“Good morrow to you, sir,” said she. + +“Good morrow to you too, ma’am,” replied the Philosopher. “Sit down +beside me here and eat some of my cake.” + +“Why wouldn’t I, indeed,” said the woman, and she did sit beside +him. + +The Philosopher cracked a large piece off his cake and gave it to +her and she ate some. + +“There’s a taste on that cake,” said she. “Who made it?” + +“My wife did,” he replied. + +“Well, now!” said she, looking at him. “Do you know, you don’t look +a bit like a married man.” + +“No?” said the Philosopher. + +“Not a bit. A married man looks comfortable and settled: he looks +finished, if you understand me, and a bachelor looks unsettled and +funny, and he always wants to be running round seeing things. I’d +know a married man from a bachelor any day.” + +“How would you know that?” said the Philosopher. + +“Easily,” said she, with a nod. “It’s the way they look at a woman. +A married man looks at you quietly as if he knew all about you. +There isn’t any strangeness about him with a woman at all; but a +bachelor man looks at you very sharp and looks away and then looks +back again, the way you’d know he was thinking about you and didn’t +know what you were thinking about him; and so they are always +strange, and that’s why women like them.” + +“Why!” said the Philosopher, astonished, “do women like bachelors +better than married men?” + +“Of course they do,” she replied heartily. “They wouldn’t look at +the side of the road a married man was on if there was a bachelor +man on the other side.” + +“This,” said the Philosopher earnestly, “is very interesting.” + +“And the queer thing is,” she continued, “that when I came up the +road and saw you I said to myself ‘it’s a bachelor man.’ How long +have you been married, now?” + +“I don’t know,” said the Philosopher. “Maybe it’s ten years.” + +“And how many children would you have, mister?” + +“Two,” he replied, and then corrected himself, “No, I have only +one.” + +“Is the other one dead?” + +“I never had more than one.” + +“Ten years married and only one child,” said she. “Why, man dear, +you’re not a married man. What were you doing at all, at all! I +wouldn’t like to be telling you the children I have living and +dead. But what I say is that married or not you’re a bachelor man. +I knew it the minute I looked at you. What sort of a woman is +herself?” + +“She’s a thin sort of woman,” cried the Philosopher, biting into +his cake. + +“Is she now?” + +“And,” the Philosopher continued, “the reason I talked to you is +because you are a fat woman.” + +“I am not fat,” was her angry response. + +“You are fat,” insisted the Philosopher, “and that’s the reason I +like you.” + +“Oh, if you mean it that way . . .” she chuckled. + +“I think,” he continued, looking at her admiringly, “that women +ought to be fat.” + +“Tell you the truth,” said she eagerly, “I think that myself. I +never met a thin woman but she was a sour one, and I never met a +fat man but he was a fool. Fat women and thin men; it’s nature,” +said she. + +“It is,” said he, and he leaned forward and kissed her eye. + +“Oh, you villain!” said the woman, putting out her hands against +him. + +The Philosopher drew back abashed. “Forgive me,” he began, “if I +have alarmed your virtue—” + +“It’s the married man’s word,” said she, rising hastily: “now I +know you; but there’s a lot of the bachelor in you all the same, +God help you! I’m going home.” And, so saying, she dipped her +vessel in the well and turned away. + +“Maybe,” said the Philosopher, “I ought to wait until your husband +comes home and ask his forgiveness for the wrong I’ve done him.” + +The woman turned round on him and each of her eyes was as big as a +plate. + +“What do you say?” said she. “Follow me if you dare and I’ll set +the dog on you; I will so,” and she strode viciously homewards. + +After a moment’s hesitation the Philosopher took his own path +across the hill. + +The day was now well advanced, and as he trudged forward the happy +quietude of his surroundings stole into his heart again and so +toned down his recollection of the fat woman that in a little time +she was no more than a pleasant and curious memory. His mind was +exercised superficially, not in thinking, but in wondering how it +was he had come to kiss a strange woman. He said to himself that +such conduct was not right; but this statement was no more than the +automatic working of a mind long exercised in the distinctions of +right and wrong, for, almost in the same breath, he assured himself +that what he had done did not matter in the least. His opinions +were undergoing a curious change. Right and wrong were meeting and +blending together so closely that it became difficult to dissever +them, and the obloquy attaching to the one seemed out of proportion +altogether to its importance, while the other by no means justified +the eulogy wherewith it was connected. Was there any immediate or +even distant, effect on life caused by evil which was not instantly +swung into equipoise by goodness? But these slender reflections +troubled him only for a little time. He had little desire for any +introspective quarryings. To feel so well was sufficient in itself. +Why should thought be so apparent to us, so insistent? We do not +know we have digestive or circulatory organs until these go out of +order, and then the knowledge torments us. Should not the labours +of a healthy brain be equally subterranean and equally competent? +Why have we to think aloud and travel laboriously from syllogism +to ergo, chary of our conclusions and distrustful of our premises? +Thought, as we know it, is a disease and no more. The healthy +mentality should register its convictions and not its labours. Our +ears should not hear the clamour of its doubts nor be forced to +listen to the pro and con wherewith we are eternally badgered and +perplexed. + +The road was winding like a ribbon in and out of the mountains. On +either side there were hedges and bushes,—little, stiff trees which +held their foliage in their hands and dared the winds snatch a leaf +from that grip. The hills were swelling and sinking, folding and +soaring on every view. Now the silence was startled by the falling +tinkle of a stream. Far away a cow lowed, a long, deep monotone, or +a goat’s call trembled from nowhere to nowhere. But mostly there +was a silence which buzzed with a multitude of small winged life. +Going up the hills the Philosopher bent forward to the gradient, +stamping vigorously as he trod, almost snorting like a bull in the +pride of successful energy. Coming down the slope he braced back +and let his legs loose to do as they pleased. Didn’t they know +their business—Good luck to them, and away! + +As he walked along he saw an old woman hobbling in front of him. +She was leaning on a stick and her hand was red and swollen with +rheumatism. She hobbled by reason of the fact that there were +stones in her shapeless boots. She was draped in the sorriest +miscellaneous rags that could be imagined, and these were knotted +together so intricately that her clothing, having once been +attached to her body, could never again be detached from it. As she +walked she was mumbling and grumbling to herself, so that her mouth +moved round and round in an india-rubber fashion. + +The Philosopher soon caught up on her. + +“Good morrow, ma’am,” said he. + +But she did not hear him: she seemed to be listening to the pain +which the stones in her boots gave her. + +“Good morrow, ma’am,” said the Philosopher again. + +This time she heard him and replied, turning her old, bleared eyes +slowly in his direction— + +“Good morrow to yourself, sir,” said she, and the Philosopher +thought her old face was a very kindly one. + +“What is it that is wrong with you, ma’am?” said he. + +“It’s my boots, sir,” she replied. “Full of stones they are, the +way I can hardly walk at all, God help me!” + +“Why don’t you shake them out?” + +“Ah, sure, I couldn’t be bothered, sir, for there are so many holes +in the boots that more would get in before I could take two steps, +and an old woman can’t be always fidgeting, God help her!” + +There was a little house on one side of the road, and when the old +woman saw this place she brightened up a little. + +“Do you know who lives in that house?” said the Philosopher. + +“I do not,” she replied, “but it’s a real nice house with clean +windows and a shiny knocker on the door, and smoke in the chimney—I +wonder would herself give me a cup of tea now if I asked her—A poor +old woman walking the roads on a stick! and maybe a bit of meat, or +an egg perhaps....” + +“You could ask,” suggested the Philosopher gently. + +“Maybe I will, too,” said she, and she sat down by the road just +outside the house and the Philosopher also sat down. + +A little puppy dog came from behind the house and approached them +cautiously. Its intentions were friendly but it had already found +that amicable advances are sometimes indifferently received, for, +as it drew near, it wagged its dubious tail and rolled humbly on +the ground. But very soon the dog discovered that here there was no +evil, for it trotted over to the old woman, and without any more +preparation jumped into her lap. + +The old woman grinned at the dog “Ah, you thing you!” said she, +and she gave it her finger to bite. The delighted puppy chewed her +bony finger, and then instituted a mimic warfare against a piece of +rag that fluttered from her breast, barking and growling in joyous +excitement, while the old woman fondled and hugged it. + +The door of the house opposite opened quickly, and a woman with a +frost-bitten face came out. + +“Leave that dog down,” said she. + +The old woman grinned humbly at her. + +“Sure, ma’am, I wouldn’t hurt the little dog, the thing!” + +“Put down that dog,” said the woman, “and go about your business—the +likes of you ought to be arrested.” + +A man in shirt sleeves appeared behind her, and at him the old +woman grinned even more humbly. + +“Let me sit here for a while and play with the little dog, sir,” +said she; “sure the roads do be lonesome—” + +The man stalked close and grabbed the dog by the scruff of the +neck. It hung between his finger and thumb with its tail tucked +between its legs and its eyes screwed round on one side in +amazement. + +“Be off with you out of that, you old strap!” said the man in a +terrible voice. + +So the old woman rose painfully to her feet again, and as she went +hobbling along the dusty road she began to cry. + +The Philosopher also arose; he was very indignant but did not +know what to do. A singular lassitude also prevented him from +interfering. As they paced along his companion began mumbling, +more to herself than to him “Ah, God be with me,” said she, “an +old woman on a stick, that hasn’t a place in the wide world to go +to or a neighbour itself.... I wish I could get a cup of tea, so I +do. I wish to God I could get a cup of tea.... Me sitting down in +my own little house, with the white tablecloth on the table, and +the butter in the dish, and the strong, red tea in the tea-cup; +and me pouring cream into it, and, maybe, telling the children +not to be wasting the sugar, the things! and himself saying he’d +got to mow the big field to-day, or that the red cow was going to +calve, the poor thing, and that if the boys went to school, who was +going to weed the turnips—and me sitting drinking my strong cup of +tea, and telling him where that old trapesing hen was laying.... +Ah, God be with me! an old creature hobbling along the roads on +a stick. I wish I was a young girl again, so I do, and himself +coming courting me, and him saying that I was a real nice little +girl surely, and that nothing would make him happy or easy at all +but me to be loving him.—Ah, the kind man that he was, to be sure, +the kind, decent man.... And Sorca Reilly to be trying to get +him from me, and Kate Finnegan with her bold eyes looking after +him in the Chapel; and him to be saying that along with me they +were only a pair of old nanny goats.... And then me to be getting +married and going home to my own little house with my man—ah, God +be with me! and him kissing me, and laughing, and frightening me +with his goings-on. Ah, the kind man, with his soft eyes, and his +nice voice, and his jokes and laughing, and him thinking the world +and all of me—ay, indeed.... And the neighbours to be coming in +and sitting round the fire in the night time, putting the world +through each other, and talking about France and Russia and them +other queer places, and him holding up the discourse like a learned +man, and them all listening to him and nodding their heads at each +other, and wondering at his education and all: or, maybe, the +neighbours to be singing, or him making me sing the Coulin, and him +to be proud of me . . . and then him to be killed on me with a cold +on his chest.... Ah, then, God be with me, a lone, old creature on +a stick, and the sun shining into her eyes and she thirsty—I wish +I had a cup of tea, so I do. I wish to God I had a cup of tea and +a bit of meat . . . or, maybe, an egg. A nice fresh egg laid by +the speckeldy hen that used to be giving me all the trouble, the +thing!... Sixteen hens I had, and they were the ones for laying, +surely.... It’s the queer world, so it is, the queer world—and the +things that do happen for no reason at all.... Ah, God be with me! +I wish there weren’t stones in my boots, so I do, and I wish to +God I had a cup of tea and a fresh egg. Ah, glory be, my old legs +are getting tireder every day, so they are. Wisha, one time—when +himself was in it—I could go about the house all day long, cleaning +the place, and feeding the pigs, and the hens and all, and then +dance half the night, so I could: and himself proud of me....” + +The old woman turned up a little rambling road and went on still +talking to herself, and the Philosopher watched her go up that +road for a long time. He was very glad she had gone away, and as +he tramped forward he banished her sad image so that in a little +time he was happy again. The sun was still shining, the birds were +flying on every side, and the wide hillside above him smiled gaily. + +A small, narrow road cut at right angles into his path, and as he +approached this he heard the bustle and movement of a host, the +trample of feet, the rolling and creaking of wheels, and the long +unwearied drone of voices. In a few minutes he came abreast of this +small road, and saw an ass and cart piled with pots and pans, and +walking beside this there were two men and a woman. The men and the +woman were talking together loudly, even fiercely, and the ass was +drawing his cart along the road without requiring assistance or +direction. While there was a road he walked on it: when he might +come to a cross road he would turn to the right: when a man said +“whoh” he would stop: when he said “hike” he would go backwards, +and when he said “yep” he would go on again. That was life, and if +one questioned it, one was hit with a stick, or a boot, or a lump +of rock: if one continued walking nothing happened, and that was +happiness. + +The Philosopher saluted this cavalcade. + +“God be with you,” said he. + +“God and Mary be with you,” said the first man. + +“God, and Mary, and Patrick be with you,” said the second man. + +“God, and Mary, and Patrick, and Brigid be with you,” said the +woman. + +The ass, however, did not say a thing. As the word “whoh” had not +entered into the conversation he knew it was none of his business, +and so he turned to the right on the new path and continued his +journey. + +“Where are you going to, stranger,” said the first man. + +“I am going to visit Angus Óg,” replied the Philosopher. + +The man gave him a quick look. + +“Well,” said he, “that’s the queerest story I ever heard. Listen +here,” he called to the others, “this man is looking for Angus Óg.” + +The other man and woman came closer. + +“What would you be wanting with Angus Óg, Mister Honey?” said the +woman. + +“Oh,” replied the Philosopher, “it’s a particular thing, a family +matter.” + +There was silence for a few minutes, and they all stepped onwards +behind the ass and cart. + +“How do you know where to look for himself?” said the first man +again: “maybe you got the place where he lives written down in an +old book or on a carved stone?” + +“Or did you find the staff of Amergin or of Ossian in a bog and it +written from the top to the bottom with signs?” said the second man. + +“No,” said the Philosopher, “it isn’t that way you’d go visiting a +god. What you do is, you go out from your house and walk straight +away in any direction with your shadow behind you so long as it +is towards a mountain, for the gods will not stay in a valley +or a level plain, but only in high places; and then, if the god +wants you to see him, you will go to his rath as direct as if you +knew where it was, for he will be leading you with an airy thread +reaching from his own place to wherever you are, and if he doesn’t +want to see you, you will never find out where he is, not if you +were to walk for a year or twenty years.” + +“How do you know he wants to see you?” said the second man. + +“Why wouldn’t he want?” said the Philosopher. + +“Maybe, Mister Honey,” said the woman, “you are a holy sort of a +man that a god would like well.” + +“Why would I be that?” said the Philosopher. “The gods like a man +whether he’s holy or not if he’s only decent.” + +“Ah, well, there’s plenty of that sort,” said the first man. “What +do you happen to have in your bag, stranger?” + +“Nothing,” replied the Philosopher, “but a cake and a half that was +baked for my journey.” + +“Give me a bit of your cake, Mister Honey,” said the woman. “I like +to have a taste of everybody’s cake.” + +“I will, and welcome,” said the Philosopher. + +“You may as well give us all a bit while you are about it,” said +the second man. “That woman hasn’t got all the hunger of the world.” + +“Why not,” said the Philosopher, and he divided the cake. + +“There’s a sup of water up yonder,” said the first man, “and it +will do to moisten the cake—Whoh, you devil,” he roared at the ass, +and the ass stood stock still on the minute. + +There was a thin fringe of grass along the road near a wall, and +towards this the ass began to edge very gently. + +“Hike, you beast, you,” shouted the man, and the ass at once hiked, +but he did it in a way that brought him close to the grass. The +first man took a tin can out of the cart and climbed over the +little wall for water. Before he went he gave the ass three kicks +on the nose, but the ass did not say a word, he only hiked still +more which brought him directly on to the grass, and when the man +climbed over the wall the ass commenced to crop the grass. There +was a spider sitting on a hot stone in the grass. He had a small +body and wide legs, and he wasn’t doing anything. + +“Does anybody ever kick you in the nose?” said the ass to him. + +“Ay does there,” said the spider; “you and your like that are +always walking on me, or lying down on me, or running over me with +the wheels of a cart.” + +“Well, why don’t you stay on the wall?” said the ass. + +“Sure, my wife is there,” replied the spider. + +“What’s the harm in that?” said the ass. + +“She’d eat me,” said the spider, “and, anyhow, the competition on +the wall is dreadful, and the flies are getting wiser and timider +every season. Have you got a wife yourself, now?” + +“I have not,” said the ass; “I wish I had.” + +“You like your wife for the first while,” said the spider, “and +after that you hate her.” + +“If I had the first while I’d chance the second while,” replied the +ass. + +“It’s bachelor’s talk,” said the spider; “all the same, we can’t +keep away from them,” and so saying he began to move all his legs +at once in the direction of the wall. “You can only die once,” said +he. + +“If your wife was an ass she wouldn’t eat you,” said the ass. + +“She’d be doing something else then,” replied the spider, and he +climbed up the wall. + +The first man came back with the can of water and they sat down on +the grass and ate the cake and drank the water. All the time the +woman kept her eyes fixed on the Philosopher. + +“Mister Honey,” said she, “I think you met us just at the right +moment.” + +The other two men sat upright and looked at each other and then +with equal intentness they looked at the woman. + +“Why do you say that?” said the Philosopher. + +“We were having a great argument along the road, and if we were to +be talking from now to the day of doom that argument would never be +finished.” + +“It must have been a great argument. Was it about predestination or +where consciousness comes from?” + +“It was not; it was which of these two men was to marry me.” + +“That’s not a great argument,” said the Philosopher. + +“Isn’t it,” said the woman. “For seven days and six nights we +didn’t talk about anything else, and that’s a great argument or I’d +like to know what is.” + +“But where is the trouble, ma’am?” said the Philosopher. + +“It’s this,” she replied, “that I can’t make up my mind which of +the men I’ll take, for I like one as well as the other and better, +and I’d as soon have one as the other and rather.” + +“It’s a hard case,” said the Philosopher. + +“It is,” said the woman, “and I’m sick and sorry with the trouble +of it.” + +“And why did you say that I had come up in a good minute?” + +“Because, Mister Honey, when a woman has two men to choose from she +doesn’t know what to do, for two men always become like brothers +so that you wouldn’t know which of them was which: there isn’t any +more difference between two men than there is between a couple +of hares. But when there’s three men to choose from, there’s no +trouble at all; and so I say that it’s yourself I’ll marry this +night and no one else—and let you two men be sitting quiet in your +places, for I’m telling you what I’ll do and that’s the end of it.” + +“I’ll give you my word,” said the first man, “that I’m just as glad +as you are to have it over and done with.” + +“Moidered I was,” said the second man, “with the whole argument, +and the this and that of it, and you not able to say a word +but—maybe I will and maybe I won’t, and this is true and that is +true, and why not to me and why not to him—I’ll get a sleep this +night.” + +The Philosopher was perplexed. + +“You cannot marry me, ma’am,” said he, “because I’m married +already.” + +The woman turned round on him angrily. + +“Don’t be making any argument with me now,” said she, “for I won’t +stand it.” + +The first man looked fiercely at the Philosopher, and then motioned +to his companion. + +“Give that man a clout in the jaw,” said he. + +The second man was preparing to do this when the woman intervened +angrily. + +“Keep your hands to yourself,” said she, “or it’ll be the worse for +you. I’m well able to take care of my own husband,” and she drew +nearer and sat between the Philosopher and the men. + +[Illustration: At that moment the Philosopher’s cake lost all its +savour] + +At that moment the Philosopher’s cake lost all its savour, and he +packed the remnant into his wallet. They all sat silently looking +at their feet and thinking each one according to his nature. The +Philosopher’s mind, which for the past day had been in eclipse, +stirred faintly to meet these new circumstances, but without much +result. There was a flutter at his heart which was terrifying, +but not unpleasant. Quickening through his apprehension was an +expectancy which stirred his pulses into speed. So rapidly did his +blood flow, so quickly were an hundred impressions visualized and +recorded, so violent was the surface movement of his brain that he +did not realize he was unable to think and that he was only seeing +and feeling. + +The first man stood up. + +“The night will be coming on soon,” said he, “and we had better +be walking on if we want to get a good place to sleep. Yep, you +devil,” he roared at the ass, and the ass began to move almost +before he lifted his head from the grass. The two men walked one on +either side of the cart, and the woman and the Philosopher walked +behind at the tail-board. + +“If you were feeling tired, or anything like that, Mister Honey,” +said the woman, “you could climb up into the little cart, and +nobody would say a word to you, for I can see that you are not used +to travelling.” + +“I am not indeed, ma’am,” he replied; “this is the first time I +ever came on a journey, and if it wasn’t for Angus Óg I wouldn’t +put a foot out of my own place for ever.” + +“Put Angus Óg out of your head, my dear,” she replied, “for what +would the likes of you and me be saying to a god. He might put a +curse on us would sink us into the ground or burn us up like a grip +of straw. Be contented now, I’m saying, for if there is a woman in +the world who knows all things I am that woman myself, and if you +tell your trouble to me I’ll tell you the thing to do just as good +as Angus himself, and better perhaps.” + +“That is very interesting,” said the Philosopher. “What kind of +things do you know best?” + +“If you were to ask one of them two men walking beside the ass +they’d tell you plenty of things they saw me do when they could +do nothing themselves. When there wasn’t a road to take anywhere +I showed them a road, and when there wasn’t a bit of food in the +world I gave them food, and when they were bet to the last I put +shillings in their hands, and that’s the reason they wanted to +marry me.” + +“Do you call that kind of thing wisdom?” said the Philosopher. + +“Why wouldn’t I?” said she. “Isn’t it wisdom to go through the +world without fear and not to be hungry in a hungry hour?” + +“I suppose it is,” he replied, “but I never thought of it that way +myself.” + +“And what would you call wisdom?” + +“I couldn’t rightly say now,” he replied, “but I think it was not +to mind about the world, and not to care whether you were hungry or +not, and not to live in the world at all but only in your own head, +for the world is a tyrannous place. You have to raise yourself +above things instead of letting things raise themselves above you. +We must not be slaves to each other, and we must not be slaves to +our necessities either. That is the problem of existence. There +is no dignity in life at all if hunger can shout ‘stop’ at every +turn of the road and the day’s journey is measured by the distance +between one sleep and the next sleep. Life is all slavery, and +Nature is driving us with the whips of appetite and weariness; but +when a slave rebels he ceases to be a slave, and when we are too +hungry to live we can die and have our laugh. I believe that Nature +is just as alive as we are, and that she is as much frightened of +us as we are of her, and, mind you this, mankind has declared war +against Nature and we will win. She does not understand yet that +her geologic periods won’t do any longer, and that while she is +pattering along the line of least resistance we are going to travel +fast and far until we find her, and then, being a female, she is +bound to give in when she is challenged.” + +“It’s good talk,” said the woman, “but it’s foolishness. Women +never give in unless they get what they want, and where’s the harm +to them then? You have to live in the world, my dear, whether you +like it or not, and, believe me now, that there isn’t any wisdom +but to keep clear of the hunger, for if that gets near enough it +will make a hare of you. Sure, listen to reason now like a good +man. What is Nature at all but a word that learned men have made +to talk about. There’s clay and gods and men, and they are good +friends enough.” + +The sun had long since gone down, and the grey evening was bowing +over the land, hiding the mountain peaks, and putting a shadow +round the scattered bushes and the wide clumps of heather. + +“I know a place up here where we can stop for the night,” said she, +“and there’s a little shebeen round the bend of the road where we +can get anything we want.” + +At the word “whoh” the ass stopped and one of the men took the +harness off him. When he was unyoked the man gave him two kicks: +“Be off with you, you devil, and see if you can get anything to +eat,” he roared. The ass trotted a few paces off and searched about +until he found some grass. He ate this, and when he had eaten as +much as he wanted he returned and lay down under a wall. He lay for +a long time looking in the one direction, and at last he put his +head down and went to sleep. While he was sleeping he kept one ear +up and the other ear down for about twenty minutes, and then he put +the first ear down and the other one up, and he kept on doing this +all the night. If he had anything to lose you wouldn’t mind him +setting up sentries, but he hadn’t a thing in the world except his +skin and his bones, and no one would be bothered stealing them. + +One of the men took a long bottle out of the cart and walked up +the road with it. The other man lifted out a tin bucket which was +punched all over with jagged holes. Then he took out some sods of +turf and lumps of wood and he put these in the bucket, and in a few +minutes he had a very nice fire lit. A pot of water was put on to +boil, and the woman cut up a great lump of bacon which she put into +the pot. She had eight eggs in a place in the cart, and a flat loaf +of bread, and some cold boiled potatoes, and she spread her apron +on the ground and arranged these things on it. + +The other man came down the road again with his big bottle filled +with porter, and he put this in a safe place. Then they emptied +everything out of the cart and hoisted it over the little wall. +They turned the cart on one side and pulled it near to the fire, +and they all sat inside the cart and ate their supper. When supper +was done they lit their pipes, and the woman lit a pipe also. The +bottle of porter was brought forward, and they took drinks in turn +out of the bottle, and smoked their pipes, and talked. + +There was no moon that night, and no stars, so that just beyond the +fire there was a thick darkness which one would not like to look +at, it was so cold and empty. While talking they all kept their +eyes fixed on the red fire, or watched the smoke from their pipes +drifting and curling away against the blackness, and disappearing +as suddenly as lightning. + +“I wonder,” said the first man, “what it was gave you the idea +of marrying this man instead of myself or my comrade, for we are +young, hardy men, and he is getting old, God help him!” + +“Aye, indeed,” said the second man; “he’s as grey as a badger, and +there’s no flesh on his bones.” + +“You have a right to ask that,” said she, “and I’ll tell you why I +didn’t marry either of you. You are only a pair of tinkers going +from one place to another, and not knowing anything at all of fine +things; but himself was walking along the road looking for strange, +high adventures, and it’s a man like that a woman would be wishing +to marry if he was twice as old as he is. When did either of you go +out in the daylight looking for a god and you not caring what might +happen to you or where you went?” + +“What I’m thinking,” said the second man, “is that if you leave the +gods alone they’ll leave you alone. It’s no trouble to them to do +whatever is right themselves, and what call would men like us have +to go mixing or meddling with their high affairs?” + +“I thought all along that you were a timid man,” said she, “and +now I know it.” She turned again to the Philosopher—“Take off your +boots, Mister Honey, the way you’ll rest easy, and I’ll be making +down a soft bed for you in the cart.” + +In order to take off his boots the Philosopher had to stand up, for +in the cart they were too cramped for freedom. He moved backwards +a space from the fire and took off his boots. He could see the +woman stretching sacks and clothes inside the cart, and the two men +smoking quietly and handing the big bottle from one to the other. +Then in his stockinged feet he stepped a little farther from the +fire, and, after another look, he turned and walked quietly away +into the blackness. In a few minutes he heard a shout from behind +him, and then a number of shouts and then these died away into a +plaintive murmur of voices, and next he was alone in the greatest +darkness he had ever known. + +He put on his boots and walked onwards. He had no idea where the +road lay, and every moment he stumbled into a patch of heather or +prickly furze. The ground was very uneven with unexpected mounds +and deep hollows: here and there were water-soaked, soggy places, +and into these cold ruins he sank ankle deep. There was no longer +an earth or a sky, but only a black void and a thin wind and a +fierce silence which seemed to listen to him as he went. Out of +that silence a thundering laugh might boom at an instant and stop +again while he stood appalled in the blind vacancy. + +The hill began to grow more steep and rocks were lying everywhere +in his path. He could not see an inch in front, and so he went with +his hands out-stretched like a blind man who stumbles painfully +along. After a time he was nearly worn out with cold and weariness, +but he dared not sit down anywhere; the darkness was so intense +that it frightened him, and the overwhelming, crafty silence +frightened him also. + +At last, and at a great distance, he saw a flickering, waving +light, and he went towards this through drifts of heather, and over +piled rocks and sodden bogland. When he came to the light he saw it +was a torch of thick branches, the flame whereof blew hither and +thither on the wind. The torch was fastened against a great cliff +of granite by an iron band. At one side there was a dark opening +in the rock, so he said: “I will go in there and sleep until the +morning comes,” and he went in. At a very short distance the cleft +turned again to the right, and here there was another torch fixed. +When he turned this corner he stood for an instant in speechless +astonishment, and then he covered his face and bowed down upon the +ground. + + + + +BOOK III. THE TWO GODS + + +CHAPTER XII + +Caitilin Ni Murrachu was sitting alone in the little cave behind +Gort na Cloca Mora. Her companion had gone out as was his custom +to walk in the sunny morning and to sound his pipe in desolate, +green spaces whence, perhaps, the wanderer of his desire might hear +the guiding sweetness. As she sat she was thinking. The last few +days had awakened her body, and had also awakened her mind, for +with the one awakening comes the other. The despondency which had +touched her previously when tending her father’s cattle came to her +again, but recognizably now. She knew the thing which the wind had +whispered in the sloping field and for which she had no name—it was +Happiness. Faintly she shadowed it forth, but yet she could not see +it. It was only a pearl-pale wraith, almost formless, too tenuous +to be touched by her hands, and too aloof to be spoken to. Pan had +told her that he was the giver of happiness, but he had given her +only unrest and fever and a longing which could not be satisfied. +Again there was a want, and she could not formulate, or even +realize it with any closeness. Her new-born Thought had promised +everything, even as Pan, and it had given—she could not say that +it had given her nothing or anything. Its limits were too quickly +divinable. She had found the Tree of Knowledge, but about on every +side a great wall soared blackly enclosing her in from the Tree of +Life—a wall which her thought was unable to surmount even while +instinct urged that it must topple before her advance; but instinct +may not advance when thought has schooled it in the science of +unbelief; and this wall will not be conquered until Thought and +Instinct are wed, and the first son of that bridal will be called +The Scaler of the Wall. + +So, after the quiet weariness of ignorance, the unquiet weariness +of thought had fallen upon her. That travail of mind which, through +countless generations, has throed to the birth of an ecstasy, the +prophecy which humanity has sworn must be fulfilled, seeing through +whatever mists and doubtings the vision of a gaiety wherein the +innocence of the morning will not any longer be strange to our +maturity. + +[Illustration: A swift shadow darkened the passage] + +While she was so thinking Pan returned, a little disheartened +that he had found no person to listen to his pipings. He had been +seated but a little time when suddenly, from without, a chorus of +birds burst into joyous singing. Limpid and liquid cadenzas, mellow +flutings, and the sweet treble of infancy met and danced and piped +in the airy soundings. A round, soft tenderness of song rose and +fell, broadened and soared, and then the high flight was snatched, +eddied a moment, and was borne away to a more slender and wonderful +loftiness, until, from afar, that thrilling song turned on the very +apex of sweetness, dipped steeply and flashed its joyous return +to the exultations of its mates below, rolling an ecstasy of song +which for one moment gladdened the whole world and the sad people +who moved thereon; then the singing ceased as suddenly as it began, +a swift shadow darkened the passage, and Angus Óg came into the +cave. + +Caitilin sprang from her seat Frighted, and Pan also made a half +movement towards rising, but instantly sank back again to his +negligent, easy posture. + +The god was slender and as swift as a wind. His hair swung about +his face like golden blossoms. His eyes were mild and dancing and +his lips smiled with quiet sweetness. About his head there flew +perpetually a ring of singing birds, and when he spoke his voice +came sweetly from a centre of sweetness. + +“Health to you, daughter of Murrachu,” said he, and he sat down. + +“I do not know you, sir,” the terrified girl whispered. + +“I cannot be known until I make myself known,” he replied. “I am +called Infinite Joy, O daughter of Murrachu, and I am called Love.” + +The girl gazed doubtfully from one to the other. + +Pan looked up from his pipes. + +“I also am called Love,” said he gently, “and I am called Joy.” + +Angus Óg looked for the first time at Pan. + +“Singer of the Vine,” said he, “I know your names-they are Desire +and Fever and Lust and Death. Why have you come from your own place +to spy upon my pastures and my quiet fields?” + +Pan replied mildly. + +“The mortal gods move by the Immortal Will, and, therefore, I am +here.” + +“And I am here,” said Angus. + +“Give me a sign,” said Pan, “that I must go.” + +Angus Óg lifted his hand and from without there came again the +triumphant music of the birds. + +“It is a sign,” said he, “the voice of Dana speaking in the air,” +and, saying so, he made obeisance to the great mother. + +Pan lifted his hand, and from afar there came the lowing of the +cattle and the thin voices of the goats. + +“It is a sign,” said he, “the voice of Demeter speaking from the +earth,” and he also bowed deeply to the mother of the world. + +Again Angus Óg lifted his hand, and in it there appeared a spear, +bright and very terrible. + +But Pan only said, “Can a spear divine the Eternal Will?” and Angus +Óg put his weapon aside, and he said: “The girl will choose between +us, for the Divine Mood shines in the heart of man.” + +Then Caitilin Ni Murrachu came forward and sat between the gods, +but Pan stretched out his hand and drew her to him, so that she sat +resting against his shoulder and his arm was about her body. + +“We will speak the truth to this girl,” said Angus Óg. + +“Can the gods speak otherwise?” said Pan, and he laughed with +delight. + +“It is the difference between us,” replied Angus Óg. “She will +judge.” + +“Shepherd Girl,” said Pan, pressing her with his arm, “you will +judge between us. Do you know what is the greatest thing in the +world?—because it is of that you will have to judge.” + +“I have heard,” the girl replied, “two things called the greatest +things. You,” she continued to Pan, “said it was Hunger, and long +ago my father said that Commonsense was the greatest thing in the +world.” + +“I have not told you,” said Angus Óg, “what I consider is the +greatest thing in the world.” + +“It is your right to speak,” said Pan. + +“The greatest thing in the world,” said Angus Óg, “is the Divine +Imagination.” + +“Now,” said Pan, “we know all the greatest things and we can talk +of them.” + +“The daughter of Murrachu,” continued Angus Óg, “has told us what +you think and what her father thinks, but she has not told us what +she thinks herself. Tell us, Caitilin Ni Murrachu, what you think +is the greatest thing in the world.” + +So Caitilin Ni Murrachu thought for a few moments and then replied +timidly. + +“I think that Happiness is the greatest thing in the world,” said +she. + +Hearing this they sat in silence for a little time, and then Angus +Óg spoke again “The Divine Imagination may only be known through +the thoughts of His creatures. A man has said Commonsense and a +woman has said Happiness are the greatest things in the world. +These things are male and female, for Commonsense is Thought and +Happiness is Emotion, and until they embrace in Love the will +of Immensity cannot be fruitful. For, behold, there has been no +marriage of humanity since time began. Men have but coupled with +their own shadows. The desire that sprang from their heads they +pursued, and no man has yet known the love of a woman. And women +have mated with the shadows of their own hearts, thinking fondly +that the arms of men were about them. I saw my son dancing with +an Idea, and I said to him, ‘With what do you dance, my son?’ and +he replied, ‘I make merry with the wife of my affection,’ and +truly she was shaped as a woman is shaped, but it was an Idea he +danced with and not a woman. And presently he went away to his +labours, and then his Idea arose and her humanity came upon her so +that she was clothed with beauty and terror, and she went apart +and danced with the servant of my son, and there was great joy of +that dancing—for a person in the wrong place is an Idea and not a +person. Man is Thought and woman is Intuition, and they have never +mated. There is a gulf between them and it is called Fear, and what +they fear is, that their strengths shall be taken from them and +they may no longer be tyrants. The Eternal has made love blind, +for it is not by science, but by intuition alone, that he may come +to his beloved; but desire, which is science, has many eyes and +sees so vastly that he passes his love in the press, saying there +is no love, and he propagates miserably on his own delusions. The +finger-tips are guided by God, but the devil looks through the +eyes of all creatures so that they may wander in the errors of +reason and justify themselves of their wanderings. The desire of a +man shall be Beauty, but he has fashioned a slave in his mind and +called it Virtue. The desire of a woman shall be Wisdom, but she +has formed a beast in her blood and called it Courage: but the real +virtue is courage, and the real courage is liberty, and the real +liberty is wisdom, and Wisdom is the son of Thought and Intuition; +and his names also are Innocence and Adoration and Happiness.” + +When Angus Óg had said these words he ceased, and for a time there +was silence in the little cave. Caitilin had covered her face with +her hands and would not look at him, but Pan drew the girl closer +to his side and peered sideways, laughing at Angus. + +“Has the time yet come for the girl to judge between us?” said he. + +“Daughter of Murrachu,” said Angus Óg, “will you come away with me +from this place?” + +Caitilin then looked at the god in great distress. “I do not know +what to do,” said she. “Why do you both want me? I have given +myself to Pan, and his arms are about me.” + +“I want you,” said Angus Óg, “because the world has forgotten me. +In all my nation there is no remembrance of me. I, wandering on +the hills of my country, am lonely indeed. I am the desolate god +forbidden to utter my happy laughter. I hide the silver of my +speech and the gold of my merriment. I live in the holes of the +rocks and the dark caves of the sea. I weep in the morning because +I may not laugh, and in the evening I go abroad and am not happy. +Where I have kissed a bird has flown; where I have trod a flower +has sprung. But Thought has snared my birds in his nets and sold +them in the market-places. Who will deliver me from Thought, from +the base holiness of Intellect, the maker of chains and traps? Who +will save me from the holy impurity of Emotion, whose daughters are +Envy and Jealousy and Hatred, who plucks my flowers to ornament +her lusts and my little leaves to shrivel on the breasts of +infamy? Lo, I am sealed in the caves of nonentity until the head +and the heart shall come together in fruitfulness, until Thought +has wept for Love, and Emotion has purified herself to meet her +lover. Tir-na-nÓg is the heart of a man and the head of a woman. +Widely they are separated. Self-centred they stand, and between +them the seas of space are flooding desolately. No voice can shout +across those shores. No eye can bridge them, nor any desire bring +them together until the blind god shall find them on the wavering +stream—not as an arrow searches straightly from a bow, but gently, +imperceptibly as a feather on the wind reaches the ground on a +hundred starts; not with the compass and the chart, but by the +breath of the Almighty which blows from all quarters without care +and without ceasing. Night and day it urges from the outside to +the inside. It gathers ever to the centre. From the far without +to the deep within, trembling from the body to the soul until the +head of a woman and the heart of a man are filled with the Divine +Imagination. Hymen, Hymenæa! I sing to the ears that are stopped, +the eyes that are sealed, and the minds that do not labour. Sweetly +I sing on the hillside. The blind shall look within and not +without; the deaf shall hearken to the murmur of their own veins, +and be enchanted with the wisdom of sweetness; the thoughtless +shall think without effort as the lightning flashes, that the hand +of Innocence may reach to the stars, that the feet of Adoration may +dance to the Father of Joy, and the laugh of Happiness be answered +by the Voice of Benediction.” + +Thus Angus Óg sang in the cave, and ere he had ceased Caitilin Ni +Murrachu withdrew herself from the arms of her desires. But so +strong was the hold of Pan upon her that when she was free her body +bore the marks of his grip, and many days passed away before these +marks faded. + +Then Pan arose in silence, taking his double reed in his hand, and +the girl wept, beseeching him to stay to be her brother and the +brother of her beloved, but Pan smiled and said: “Your beloved is +my father and my son. He is yesterday and to-morrow. He is the +nether and the upper millstone, and I am crushed between until I +kneel again before the throne from whence I came,” and, saying so, +he embraced Angus Óg most tenderly and went his way to the quiet +fields, and across the slopes of the mountains, and beyond the blue +distances of space. + +And in a little time Caitilin Ni Murrachu went with her companion +across the brow of the hill, and she did not go with him because +she had understood his words, nor because he was naked and +unashamed, but only because his need of her was very great, and, +therefore, she loved him, and stayed his feet in the way, and was +concerned lest he should stumble. + + + + +BOOK IV. THE PHILOSOPHER’S RETURN + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Which is, the Earth or the creatures that move upon it, the more +important? This is a question prompted solely by intellectual +arrogance, for in life there is no greater and no less. The thing +that _is_ has justified its own importance by mere existence, for +that is the great and equal achievement. If life were arranged +for us from without such a question of supremacy would assume +importance, but life is always from within, and is modified or +extended by our own appetites, aspirations, and central activities. +From without we get pollen and the refreshment of space and +quietude—it is sufficient. We might ask, is the Earth anything more +than an extension of our human consciousness, or are we, moving +creatures, only projections of the Earth’s antennæ? But these +matters have no value save as a field wherein Thought, like a wise +lamb, may frolic merrily. And all would be very well if Thought +would but continue to frolic, instead of setting up first as _locum +tenens_ for Intuition and sticking to the job, and afterwards as +the counsel and critic of Omnipotence. Everything has two names, +and everything is twofold. The name of male Thought as it faces +the world is Philosophy, but the name it bears in Tir-na-nÓg is +Delusion. Female Thought is called Socialism on earth, but in +Eternity it is known as Illusion; and this is so because there has +been no matrimony of minds, but only an hermaphroditic propagation +of automatic ideas, which in their due rotation assume dominance +and reign severely. To the world this system of thought, because +it is consecutive, is known as Logic, but Eternity has written +it down in the Book of Errors as Mechanism: for life may not be +consecutive, but explosive and variable, else it is a shackled and +timorous slave. + +One of the great troubles of life is that Reason has taken charge +of the administration of Justice, and by mere identification it has +achieved the crown and sceptre of its master. But the imperceptible +usurpation was recorded, and discriminating minds understand +the chasm which still divides the pretender Law from the exiled +King. In a like manner, and with feigned humility, the Cold Demon +advanced to serve Religion, and by guile and violence usurped +her throne; but the pure in heart still fly from the spectre +Theology to dance in ecstasy before the starry and eternal goddess. +Statecraft, also, that tender Shepherd of the Flocks, has been +despoiled of his crook and bell, and wanders in unknown desolation +while, beneath the banner of Politics, Reason sits howling over an +intellectual chaos. + +Justice is the maintaining of equilibrium. The blood of Cain must +cry, not from the lips of the Avenger, but from the aggrieved Earth +herself who demands that atonement shall be made for a disturbance +of her consciousness. All justice is, therefore, readjustment. A +thwarted consciousness has every right to clamour for assistance, +but not for punishment. This latter can only be sought by timorous +and egotistic Intellect, which sees the Earth from which it has +emerged and into which it must return again in its own despite, +and so, being self-centred and envious and a renegade from life, +Reason is more cruelly unjust, and more timorous than any other +manifestation of the divinely erratic energy—erratic, because, as +has been said, “the crooked roads are the roads of genius.” Nature +grants to all her creatures an unrestricted liberty, quickened by +competitive appetite, to succeed or to fail; save only to Reason, +her Demon of Order, which can do neither, and whose wings she has +clipped for some reason with which I am not yet acquainted. It may +be that an unrestricted mentality would endanger her own intuitive +perceptions by shackling all her other organs of perception, or +annoy her by vexatious efforts at creative rivalry. + +It will, therefore, be understood that when the Leprecauns of Gort +na Cloca Mora acted in the manner about to be recorded, they were +not prompted by any lewd passion for revenge, but were merely +striving to reconstruct a rhythm which was their very existence, +and which must have been of direct importance to the Earth. Revenge +is the vilest passion known to life. It has made Law possible, and +by doing so it gave to Intellect the first grip at that universal +dominion which is its ambition. A Leprecaun is of more value to +the Earth than is a Prime Minister or a stockbroker, because a +Leprecaun dances and makes merry, while a Prime Minister knows +nothing of these natural virtues—consequently, an injury done to a +Leprecaun afflicts the Earth with misery, and justice is, for these +reasons, an imperative and momentous necessity. + +A community of Leprecauns without a crock of gold is a blighted +and merriless community, and they are certainly justified in +seeking sympathy and assistance for the recovery of so essential +a treasure. But the steps whereby the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca +Mora sought to regain their property must for ever brand their +memory with a certain odium. It should be remembered in their +favour that they were cunningly and cruelly encompassed. Not only +was their gold stolen, but it was buried in such a position as +placed it under the protection of their own communal honour, and +the household of their enemy was secured against their active and +righteous malice, because the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath belonged +to the most powerful Shee of Ireland. It is in circumstances such +as these that dangerous alliances are made, and, for the first time +in history, the elemental beings invoked bourgeois assistance. + +They were loath to do it, and justice must record the fact. They +were angry when they did it, and anger is both mental and intuitive +blindness. It is not the beneficent blindness which prevents one +from seeing without, but it is that desperate darkness which +cloaks the within, and hides the heart and the brain from each +other’s husbandry and wifely recognition. But even those mitigating +circumstances cannot justify the course they adopted, and the wider +idea must be sought for, that out of evil good must ultimately +come, or else evil is vitiated beyond even the redemption of usage. +When they were able to realize of what they had been guilty, +they were very sorry indeed, and endeavoured to publish their +repentance in many ways; but, lacking atonement, repentance is only +a post-mortem virtue which is good for nothing but burial. + +When the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora found they were unable +to regain their crock of gold by any means they laid an anonymous +information at the nearest Police Station showing that two dead +bodies would be found under the hearthstone in the hut of Coille +Doraca, and the inference to be drawn from their crafty missive was +that these bodies had been murdered by the Philosopher for reasons +very discreditable to him. + +The Philosopher had been scarcely more than three hours on his +journey to Angus Óg when four policemen approached the little +house from as many different directions, and without any trouble +they effected an entrance. The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath and the +two children heard from afar their badly muffled advance, and +on discovering the character of their visitors they concealed +themselves among the thickly clustering trees. Shortly after the +men had entered the hut loud and sustained noises began to issue +therefrom, and in about twenty minutes the invaders emerged again +bearing the bodies of the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin and her husband. +They wrenched the door off its hinges, and, placing the bodies +on the door, proceeded at a rapid pace through the trees and +disappeared in a short time. When they had departed the Thin Woman +and the children returned to their home and over the yawning hearth +the Thin Woman pronounced a long and fervid malediction wherein +policemen were exhibited naked before the blushes of Eternity.... + +With your goodwill let us now return to the Philosopher. + +Following his interview with Angus Óg the Philosopher received the +blessing of the god and returned on his homeward journey. When +he left the cave he had no knowledge where he was nor whether he +should turn to the right hand or to the left. This alone was his +guiding idea, that as he had come up the mountain on his first +journey his home-going must, by mere opposition, be down the +mountain, and, accordingly, he set his face downhill and trod +lustily forward. He had stamped up the hill with vigour, he strode +down it in ecstasy. He tossed his voice on every wind that went +by. From the wells of forgetfulness he regained the shining words +and gay melodies which his childhood had delighted in, and these +he sang loudly and unceasingly as he marched. The sun had not yet +risen but, far away, a quiet brightness was creeping over the sky. +The daylight, however, was near the full, one slender veil only +remaining of the shadows, and a calm, unmoving quietude brooded +from the grey sky to the whispering earth. The birds had begun to +bestir themselves but not to sing. Now and again a solitary wing +feathered the chill air; but for the most part the birds huddled +closer in the swinging nests, or under the bracken, or in the +tufty grass. Here a faint twitter was heard and ceased. A little +farther a drowsy voice called “cheep-cheep” and turned again to +the warmth of its wing. The very grasshoppers were silent. The +creatures who range in the night time had returned to their cells +and were setting their households in order, and those who belonged +to the day hugged their comfort for but one minute longer. Then the +first level beam stepped like a mild angel to the mountain top. The +slender radiance brightened and grew strong. The grey veil faded +away. The birds leaped from their nests. The grasshoppers awakened +and were busy at a stroke. Voice called to voice without ceasing, +and, momently, a song thrilled for a few wide seconds. But for +the most part it was chatter-chatter they went as they soared and +plunged and swept, each bird eager for its breakfast. + +The Philosopher thrust his hand into his wallet and found there the +last broken remnants of his cake, and the instant his hand touched +the food he was seized by a hunger so furious that he sat down +where he stopped and prepared to eat. + +The place where he sat was a raised bank under a hedge, and this +place directly fronted a clumsy wooden gate leading into a great +field. When the Philosopher had seated himself he raised his eyes +and saw through the gate a small company approaching. There were +four men and three women, and each of them carried a metal pail. +The Philosopher with a sigh returned the cake to his wallet, saying: + +“All men are brothers, and it may be that these people are as +hungry as I am.” + +In a short time the strangers came near. The foremost of them was a +huge man who was bearded to the eyelids and who moved like a strong +wind. He opened the gate by removing a piece of wood wherewith it +was jammed, and he and his companions passed through, whereupon he +closed the gate and secured it. To this man, as being the eldest, +the Philosopher approached. + +“I am about to breakfast,” said he, “and if you are hungry perhaps +you would like to eat with me.” + +“Why not,” said the man, “for the person who would refuse a kind +invitation is a dog. These are my three sons and three of my +daughters, and we are all thankful to you.” + +Saying this he sat down on the bank and his companions, placing +their pails behind them, did likewise. The Philosopher divided his +cake into eight pieces and gave one to each person. + +“I am sorry it is so little,” said he. + +“A gift,” said the bearded man, “is never little,” and he +courteously ate his piece in three bites although he could have +easily eaten it in one, and his children also. + +“That was a good, satisfying cake,” said he when he had finished; +“it was well baked and well shared, but,” he continued, “I am in a +difficulty and maybe you could advise me what to do, sir?” + +“What might be your trouble?” said the Philosopher. + +“It is this,” said the man. “Every morning when we go out to milk +the cows the mother of my clann gives to each of us a parcel of +food so that we need not be any hungrier than we like; but now +we have had a good breakfast with you, what shall we do with the +food that we brought with us? The woman of the house would not be +pleased if we carried it back to her, and if we threw food away it +would be a sin. If it was not disrespectful to your breakfast the +boys and girls here might be able to get rid of it by eating it, +for, as you know, young people can always eat a bit more, no matter +how much they have already eaten.” + +“It would surely be better to eat it than to waste it,” said the +Philosopher wistfully. + +The young people produced large parcels of food from their pockets +and opened them, and the bearded man said, “I have a little one +myself also, and it would not be wasted if you were kind enough to +help me to eat it,” and he pulled out his parcel, which was twice +as big as any of the others. + +He opened the parcel and handed the larger part of its contents to +the Philosopher; he then plunged a tin vessel into one of the milk +pails and set this also by the Philosopher, and, instantly, they +all began to eat with furious appetite. + +When the meal was finished the Philosopher filled his tobacco pipe +and the bearded man and his three sons did likewise. + +“Sir,” said the bearded man, “I would be glad to know why you are +travelling abroad so early in the morning, for, at this hour, +no one stirs but the sun and the birds and the folk who, like +ourselves, follow the cattle?” + +“I will tell you that gladly,” said the Philosopher, “if you will +tell me your name.” + +“My name,” said the bearded man, “is Mac Cúl.” + +“Last night,” said the Philosopher, “when I came from the house of +Angus Óg in the Caves of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to +a man named Mac Cúl—that the horses had trampled in their sleep and +the sleepers had turned on their sides.” + +“Sir,” said the bearded man, “your words thrill in my heart like +music, but my head does not understand them.” + +“I have learned,” said the Philosopher, “that the head does not +hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart +knows to-day the head will understand to-morrow.” + +“All the birds of the world are singing in my soul,” said the +bearded man, “and I bless you because you have filled me with hope +and pride.” + +So the Philosopher shook him by the hand, and he shook the hands +of his sons and daughters who bowed before him at the mild command +of their father, and when he had gone a little way he looked +around again and he saw that group of people standing where he had +left them, and the bearded man was embracing his children on the +highroad. + +A bend in the path soon shut them from view, and then the +Philosopher, fortified by food and the freshness of the morning, +strode onwards singing for very joy. It was still early, but now +the birds had eaten their breakfasts and were devoting themselves +to each other. They rested side by side on the branches of +the trees and on the hedges, they danced in the air in happy +brotherhoods and they sang to one another amiable and pleasant +ditties. + +[Illustration: A young woman came along the road and stood gazing +earnestly at this house] + +When the Philosopher had walked for a long time he felt a little +weary and sat down to refresh himself in the shadow of a great +tree. Hard by there was a house of rugged stone. Long years ago +it had been a castle, and, even now, though patched by time and +misfortune its front was warlike and frowning. While he sat a young +woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly at this house. +Her hair was as black as night and as smooth as still water, but +her face came so stormily forward that her quiet attitude had yet +no quietness in it. To her, after a few moments, the Philosopher +spoke. + +“Girl,” said he, “why do you look so earnestly at the house?” + +The girl turned her pale face and stared at him. + +“I did not notice you sitting under the tree,” said she, and she +came slowly forward. + +“Sit down by me,” said the Philosopher, “and we will talk. If you +are in any trouble tell it to me, and perhaps you will talk the +heaviest part away.” + +“I will sit beside you willingly,” said the girl, and she did so. + +“It is good to talk trouble over,” he continued. “Do you know that +talk is a real thing? There is more power in speech than many +people conceive. Thoughts come from God, they are born through the +marriage of the head and the lungs. The head moulds the thought +into the form of words, then it is borne and sounded on the air +which has been already in the secret kingdoms of the body, which +goes in bearing life and come out freighted with wisdom. For +this reason a lie is very terrible, because it is turning mighty +and incomprehensible things to base uses, and is burdening the +life-giving element with a foul return for its goodness; but those +who speak the truth and whose words are the symbols of wisdom and +beauty, these purify the whole world and daunt contagion. The only +trouble the body can know is disease. All other miseries come from +the brain, and, as these belong to thought, they can be driven +out by their master as unruly and unpleasant vagabonds; for a +mental trouble should be spoken to, confronted, reprimanded and +so dismissed. The brain cannot afford to harbour any but pleasant +and eager citizens who will do their part in making laughter and +holiness for the world, for that is the duty of thought.” + +While the Philosopher spoke the girl had been regarding him +steadfastly. + +“Sir,” said she, “we tell our hearts to a young man and our heads +to an old man, and when the heart is a fool the head is bound to +be a liar. I can tell you the things I know, but how will I tell +you the things I feel when I myself do not understand them? If I +say these words to you ‘I love a man’ I do not say anything at all, +and you do not hear one of the words which my heart is repeating +over and over to itself in the silence of my body. Young people are +fools in their heads and old people are fools in their hearts, and +they can only look at each other and pass by in wonder.” + +“You are wrong,” said the Philosopher. “An old person can take +your hand like this and say, ‘May every good thing come to you, my +daughter.’ For all trouble there is sympathy, and for love there +is memory, and these are the head and the heart talking to each +other in quiet friendship. What the heart knows to-day the head +will understand to-morrow, and as the head must be the scholar of +the heart it is necessary that our hearts be purified and free from +every false thing, else we are tainted beyond personal redemption.” + +“Sir,” said the girl, “I know of two great follies-they are love +and speech, for when these are given they can never be taken back +again, and the person to whom these are given is not any richer, +but the giver is made poor and abashed. I gave my love to a man who +did not want it. I told him of my love, and he lifted his eyelids +at me; that is my trouble.” + +For a moment the Philosopher sat in stricken silence looking on +the ground. He had a strange disinclination to look at the girl +although he felt her eyes fixed steadily on him. But in a little +while he did look at her and spoke again. + +“To carry gifts to an ungrateful person cannot be justified and +need not be mourned for. If your love is noble why do you treat it +meanly? If it is lewd the man was right to reject it.” + +“We love as the wind blows,” she replied. + +“There is a thing,” said the Philosopher, “and it is both the +biggest and the littlest thing in the world.” + +“What is that?” said the girl. + +“It is pride,” he answered. “It lives in an empty house. The head +which has never been visited by the heart is the house pride lives +in. You are in error, my dear, and not in love. Drive out the knave +pride, put a flower in your hair and walk freely again.” + +The girl laughed, and suddenly her pale face became rosy as the +dawn and as radiant and lovely as a cloud. She shed warmth and +beauty about her as she leaned forward. + +“You are wrong,” she whispered, “because he does love me; but he +does not know it yet. He is young and full of fury, and has no +time to look at women, but he looked at me. My heart knows it and +my head knows it, but I am impatient and yearn for him to look at +me again. His heart will remember me to-morrow, and he will come +searching for me with prayers and tears, with shouts and threats. +I will be very hard to find to-morrow when he holds out his arms +to the air and the sky, and is astonished and frightened to find +me nowhere. I will hide from him to-morrow, and frown at him when +he speaks, and turn aside when he follows me: until the day after +to-morrow when he will frighten me with his anger, and hold me with +his furious hands, and make me look at him.” + +Saying this the girl arose and prepared to go away. + +“He is in that house,” said she, “and I would not let him see me +here for anything in the world.” + +“You have wasted all my time,” said the Philosopher, smiling. + +“What else is time for?” said the girl, and she kissed the +Philosopher and ran swiftly down the road. + +She had been gone but a few moments when a man came out of the +grey house and walked quickly across the grass. When he reached +the hedge separating the field from the road he tossed his two +arms in the air, swung them down, and jumped over the hedge into +the roadway. He was a short, dark youth, and so swift and sudden +were his movements that he seemed to look on every side at the one +moment although he bore furiously to his own direction. + +The Philosopher addressed him mildly. + +“That was a good jump,” said he. + +The young man spun around from where he stood, and was by the +Philosopher’s side in an instant. + +“It would be a good jump for other men,” said he, “but it is only +a little jump for me. You are very dusty, sir; you must have +travelled a long distance to-day.” + +“A long distance,” replied the Philosopher. “Sit down here, my +friend, and keep me company for a little time.” + +“I do not like sitting down,” said the young man, “but I always +consent to a request, and I always accept friendship.” And, so +saying, he threw himself down on the grass. + +“Do you work in that big house?” said the Philosopher. + +“I do,” he replied. “I train the hounds for a fat, jovial man, full +of laughter and insolence.” + +“I think you do not like your master.” + +“Believe, sir, that I do not like any master; but this man I hate. +I have been a week in his service, and he has not once looked on +me as on a friend. This very day, in the kennel, he passed me as +though I were a tree or a stone. I almost leaped to catch him by +the throat and say: ‘Dog, do you not salute your fellow-man?’ But +I looked after him and let him go, for it would be an unpleasant +thing to strangle a fat person.” + +“If you are displeased with your master should you not look for +another occupation?” said the Philosopher. + +“I was thinking of that, and I was thinking whether I ought to +kill him or marry his daughter. She would have passed me by as +her father did, but I would not let a woman do that to me: no man +would.” + +“What did you do to her?” said the Philosopher. + +The young man chuckled “I did not look at her the first time, and +when she came near me the second time I looked another way, and on +the third day she spoke to me, and while she stood I looked over +her shoulder distantly. She said she hoped I would be happy in my +new home, and she made her voice sound pleasant while she said it; +but I thanked her and turned away carelessly.” + +“Is the girl beautiful?” said the Philosopher. + +“I do not know,” he replied; “I have not looked at her yet, +although now I see her everywhere. I think she is a woman who would +annoy me if I married her.” + +“If you haven’t seen her, how can you think that?” + +“She has tame feet,” said the youth. “I looked at them and they got +frightened. Where have you travelled from, sir?” + +“I will tell you that,” said the Philosopher, “if you will tell me +your name.” + +“It is easily told,” he answered; “my name is MacCulain.” + +“When I came last night,” said the Philosopher, “from the place of +Angus Óg in the cave of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a +man named MacCulain that The Grey of Macha had neighed in his sleep +and the sword of Laeg clashed on the floor as he turned in his +slumber.” + +The young man leaped from the grass. + +“Sir,” said he in a strained voice, “I do not understand your +words, but they make my heart to dance and sing within me like a +bird.” + +“If you listen to your heart,” said the Philosopher, “you will +learn every good thing, for the heart is the fountain of wisdom +tossing its thoughts up to the brain which gives them form,”—and, +so saying, he saluted the youth and went again on his way by the +curving road. + +Now the day had advanced, noon was long past, and the strong +sunlight blazed ceaselessly on the world. His path was still on +the high mountains, running on for a short distance and twisting +perpetually to the right hand and to the left. One might scarcely +call it a path, it grew so narrow. Sometimes, indeed, it almost +ceased to be a path, for the grass had stolen forward inch by inch +to cover up the tracks of man. There were no hedges but rough, +tumbled ground only, which was patched by trailing bushes and +stretched away in mounds and hummocks beyond the far horizon. There +was a deep silence everywhere, not painful, for where the sun +shines there is no sorrow: the only sound to be heard was the swish +of long grasses against his feet as he trod, and the buzz of an +occasional bee that came and was gone in an instant. + +The Philosopher was very hungry, and he looked about on all sides +to see if there was anything he might eat. “If I were a goat or a +cow,” said he, “I could eat this grass and be nourished. If I were +a donkey I could crop the hard thistles which are growing on every +hand, or if I were a bird I could feed on the caterpillars and +creeping things which stir innumerably everywhere. But a man may +not eat even in the midst of plenty, because he has departed from +nature, and lives by crafty and twisted thought.” + +Speaking in this manner he chanced to lift his eyes from the ground +and saw, far away, a solitary figure which melted into the folding +earth and reappeared again in a different place. So peculiar and +erratic were the movements of this figure that the Philosopher had +great difficulty in following it, and, indeed, would have been +unable to follow, but that the other chanced in his direction. When +they came nearer he saw it was a young boy, who was dancing hither +and thither in any and every direction. A bushy mound hid him for +an instant, and the next they were standing face to face staring +at each other. After a moment’s silence the boy, who was about +twelve years of age, and as beautiful as the morning, saluted the +Philosopher. + +“Have you lost your way, sir?” said he. + +“All paths,” the Philosopher replied, “are on the earth, and so one +can never be lost—but I have lost my dinner.” + +The boy commenced to laugh. + +“What are you laughing at, my son?” said the Philosopher. + +“Because,” he replied, “I am bringing you your dinner. I wondered +what sent me out in this direction, for I generally go more to the +east.” + +“Have you got my dinner?” said the Philosopher anxiously. + +“I have,” said the boy: “I ate my own dinner at home, and I put +your dinner in my pocket. I thought,” he explained, “that I might +be hungry if I went far away.” + +“The gods directed you,” said the Philosopher. + +“They often do,” said the boy, and he pulled a small parcel from +his pocket. + +The Philosopher instantly sat down, and the boy handed him the +parcel. He opened this and found bread and cheese. + +“It’s a good dinner,” said he, and commenced to eat. + +“Would you not like a piece also, my son?” + +“I would like a little piece,” said the boy, and he sat down before +the Philosopher, and they ate together happily. + +When they had finished the Philosopher praised the gods, and then +said, more to himself than to the boy: + +“If I had a little drink of water I would want nothing else.” + +“There is a stream four paces from here,” said his companion. “I +will get some water in my cap,” and he leaped away. + +In a few moments he came back holding his cap tenderly, and the +Philosopher took this and drank the water. + +“I want nothing more in the world,” said he, “except to talk with +you. The sun is shining, the wind is pleasant, and the grass is +soft. Sit down beside me again for a little time.” + +So the boy sat down, and the Philosopher lit his pipe. + +“Do you live far from here?” said he. + +“Not far,” said the boy. “You could see my mother’s house from this +place if you were as tall as a tree, and even from the ground you +can see a shape of smoke yonder that floats over our cottage.” + +The Philosopher looked but could see nothing. + +“My eyes are not as good as yours are,” said he, “because I am +getting old.” + +“What does it feel like to be old?” said the boy. + +“It feels stiff like,” said the Philosopher. + +“Is that all?” said the boy. + +“I don’t know,” the Philosopher replied after a few moments’ +silence. “Can you tell me what it looks like to be young?” + +“Why not?” said the boy, and then a slight look of perplexity +crossed his face, and he continued, “I don’t think I can.” + +“Young people,” said the Philosopher, “do not know what age is, and +old people forget what youth was. When you begin to grow old always +think deeply of your youth, for an old man without memories is a +wasted life, and nothing is worth remembering but our childhood. I +will tell you some of the differences between being old and young, +and then you can ask me questions, and so we will get at both sides +of the matter. First, an old man gets tired quicker than a boy.” + +The boy thought for a moment, and then replied: + +“That is not a great difference, for a boy does get very tired.” + +The Philosopher continued: + +“An old man does not want to eat as often as a boy.” + +“That is not a great difference either,” the boy replied, “for they +both do eat. Tell me the big difference.” + +“I do not know it, my son; but I have always thought there was +a big difference. Perhaps it is that an old man has memories of +things which a boy cannot even guess at.” + +“But they both have memories,” said the boy, laughing, “and so it +is not a big difference.” + +“That is true,” said the Philosopher. “Maybe there is not so much +difference after all. Tell me things you do, and we will see if I +can do them also.” + +“But I don’t know what I do,” he replied. + +“You must know the things you do,” said the Philosopher, “but you +may not understand how to put them in order. The great trouble +about any kind of examination is to know where to begin, but there +are always two places in everything with which we can commence—they +are the beginning and the end. From either of these points a view +may be had which comprehends the entire period. So we will begin +with the things you did this morning.” + +“I am satisfied with that,” said the boy. + +The Philosopher then continued: + +“When you awakened this morning and went out of the house what was +the first thing you did?” + +The boy thought “I went out, then I picked up a stone and threw it +into the field as far as I could.” + +“What then?” said the Philosopher. + +“Then I ran after the stone to see could I catch up on it before it +hit the ground.” + +“Yes,” said the Philosopher. + +“I ran so fast that I tumbled over myself into the grass.” + +“What did you do after that?” + +“I lay where I fell and plucked handfuls of the grass with both +hands and threw them on my back.” + +“Did you get up then?” + +“No, I pressed my face into the grass and shouted a lot of times +with my mouth against the ground, and then I sat up and did not +move for a long time.” + +“Were you thinking?” said the Philosopher. + +“No, I was not thinking or doing anything.” + +“Why did you do all these things?” said the Philosopher. + +“For no reason at all,” said the boy. + +“That,” said the Philosopher triumphantly, “is the difference +between age and youth. Boys do things for no reason, and old people +do not. I wonder do we get old because we do things by reason +instead of instinct?” + +“I don’t know,” said the boy, “everything gets old. Have you +travelled very far to-day, sir?” + +“I will tell you that if you will tell me your name.” + +“My name,” said the boy, “is MacCushin.” + +“When I came last night,” said the Philosopher, “from the place +of Angus Óg in the Caste of the Sleepers I was bidden say to one +named MacCushin that a son would be born to Angus Óg and his wife, +Caitilin, and that the sleepers of Erinn had turned in their +slumbers.” + +The boy regarded him steadfastly. + +“I know,” said he, “why Angus Óg sent me that message. He wants me +to make a poem to the people of Erinn, so that when the Sleepers +arise they will meet with friends.” + +“The Sleepers have arisen,” said the Philosopher. “They are about +us on every side. They are walking now, but they have forgotten +their names and the meanings of their names. You are to tell them +their names and their lineage, for I am an old man, and my work is +done.” + +“I will make a poem some day,” said the boy, “and every man will +shout when he hears it.” + +“God be with you, my son,” said the Philosopher, and he embraced +the boy and went forward on his journey. + +About half an hour’s easy travelling brought him to a point from +which he could see far down below to the pine trees of Coille +Doraca. The shadowy evening had crept over the world ere he reached +the wood, and when he entered the little house the darkness had +already descended. + +The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath met him as he entered, and was about +to speak harshly of his long absence, but the Philosopher kissed +her with such unaccustomed tenderness, and spoke so mildly to her, +that, first, astonishment enchained her tongue, and then delight +set it free in a direction to which it had long been a stranger. + +“Wife,” said the Philosopher, “I cannot say how joyful I am to see +your good face again.” + +The Thin Woman was unable at first to reply to this salutation, +but, with incredible speed, she put on a pot of stirabout, began +to bake a cake, and tried to roast potatoes. After a little while +she wept loudly, and proclaimed that the world did not contain the +equal of her husband for comeliness and goodness, and that she was +herself a sinful person unworthy of the kindness of the gods or of +such a mate. + +But while the Philosopher was embracing Seumas and Brigid Beg, the +door was suddenly burst open with a great noise, four policemen +entered the little room, and after one dumbfoundered minute they +retreated again bearing the Philosopher with them to answer a +charge of murder. + + + + +BOOK V. THE POLICEMEN + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Some distance down the road the policemen halted. The night +had fallen before they effected their capture, and now, in the +gathering darkness, they were not at ease. In the first place, they +knew that the occupation upon which they were employed was not a +creditable one to a man whatever it might be to a policeman. The +seizure of a criminal may be justified by certain arguments as to +the health of society and the preservation of property, but no +person wishes under any circumstances to hale a wise man to prison. +They were further distressed by the knowledge that they were in the +very centre of a populous fairy country, and that on every side the +elemental hosts might be ranging, ready to fall upon them with the +terrors of war or the still more awful scourge of their humour. The +path leading to their station was a long one, winding through great +alleys of trees, which in some places overhung the road so thickly +that even the full moon could not search out that deep blackness. +In the daylight these men would have arrested an Archangel and, if +necessary, bludgeoned him, but in the night time a thousand fears +afflicted and a multitude of sounds shocked them from every quarter. + +Two men were holding the Philosopher, one on either side; the other +two walked one before and one behind him. In this order they were +proceeding when just in front through the dim light they saw the +road swallowed up by one of these groves already spoken of. When +they came nigh they halted irresolutely: the man who was in front +(a silent and perturbed sergeant) turned fiercely to the others +“Come on, can’t you?” said he; “what the devil are you waiting +for?” and he strode forward into the black gape. + +“Keep a good hold of that man,” said the one behind. + +“Don’t be talking out of you,” replied he on the right. “Haven’t we +got a good grip of him, and isn’t he an old man into the bargain?” + +“Well, keep a good tight grip of him, anyhow, for if he gave you +the slip in there he’d vanish like a weasel in a bush. Them old +fellows do be slippery customers. Look here, mister,” said he to +the Philosopher, “if you try to run away from us I’ll give you a +clout on the head with my baton; do you mind me now!” + +They had taken only a few paces forward when the sound of hasty +footsteps brought them again to a halt, and in a moment the +sergeant came striding back. He was angry. + +“Are you going to stay there the whole night, or what are you going +to do at all?” said he. + +“Let you be quiet now,” said another; “we were only settling with +the man here the way he wouldn’t try to give us the slip in a dark +place.” + +“Is it thinking of giving us the slip he is?” said the sergeant. +“Take your baton in your hand, Shawn, and if he turns his head to +one side of him hit him on that side.” + +“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he pulled out his truncheon. + +The Philosopher had been dazed by the suddenness of these +occurrences, and the enforced rapidity of his movements prevented +him from either thinking or speaking, but during this brief +stoppage his scattered wits began to return to their allegiance. +First, bewilderment at his enforcement had seized him, and the four +men, who were continually running round him and speaking all at +once, and each pulling him in a different direction, gave him the +impression that he was surrounded by a great rabble of people, but +he could not discover what they wanted. After a time he found that +there were only four men, and gathered from their remarks that he +was being arrested for murder—this precipitated him into another +and a deeper gulf of bewilderment. He was unable to conceive why +they should arrest him for murder when he had not committed any; +and, following this, he became indignant. + +“I will not go another step,” said he, “unless you tell me where +you are bringing me and what I am accused of.” + +“Tell me,” said the sergeant, “what did you kill them with? for +it’s a miracle how they came to their ends without as much as a +mark on their skins or a broken tooth itself.” + +“Who are you talking about?” the Philosopher demanded. + +“It’s mighty innocent you are,” he replied. “Who would I be talking +about but the man and woman that used to be living with you beyond +in the little house? Is it poison you gave them now, or what was +it? Take a hold of your note-book, Shawn.” + +“Can’t you have sense, man?” said Shawn. “How would I be writing in +the middle of a dark place and me without as much as a pencil, let +alone a book?” + +“Well, we’ll take it down at the station, and himself can tell us +all about it as we go along. Move on now, for this is no place to +be conversing in.” + +They paced on again, and in another moment they were swallowed up +by the darkness. When they had proceeded for a little distance +there came a peculiar sound in front like the breathing of some +enormous animal, and also a kind of shuffling noise, and so they +again halted. + +“There’s a queer kind of a thing in front of us,” said one of the +men in a low voice. + +“If I had a match itself,” said another. + +The sergeant had also halted. + +“Draw well into the side of the road,” said he, “and poke your +batons in front of you. Keep a tight hold of that man, Shawn.” + +“I’ll do that,” said Shawn. + +Just then one of them found a few matches in his pocket, and he +struck a light; there was no wind, so that it blazed easily enough, +and they all peered in front. A big black cart-horse was lying in +the middle of the road having a gentle sleep, and when the light +shone it scrambled to its feet and went thundering away in a panic. + +“Isn’t that enough to put the heart crossways in you?” said one of +the men, with a great sigh. + +“Ay,” said another; “if you stepped on that beast in the darkness +you wouldn’t know what to be thinking.” + +“I don’t quite remember the way about here,” said the sergeant +after a while, “but I think we should take the first turn to the +right. I wonder have we passed the turn yet; these criss-cross +kinds of roads are the devil, and it dark as well. Do any of you +men know the way?” + +“I don’t,” said one voice; “I’m a Cavan man myself.” + +“Roscommon,” said another, “is my country, and I wish I was there +now, so I do.” + +“Well, if we walk straight on we’re bound to get somewhere, so step +it out. Have you got a good hold of that man, Shawn?” + +“I have so,” said Shawn. + +The Philosopher’s voice came pealing through the darkness. + +“There is no need to pinch me, sir,” said he. + +“I’m not pinching you at all,” said the man. + +“You are so,” returned the Philosopher. “You have a big lump of +skin doubled up in the sleeve of my coat, and unless you instantly +release it I will sit down in the road.” + +“Is that any better?” said the man, relaxing his hold a little. + +“You have only let out half of it,” replied the Philosopher. +“That’s better now,” he continued, and they resumed their journey. + +After a few minutes of silence the Philosopher began to speak. + +“I do not see any necessity in nature for policemen,” said he, +“nor do I understand how the custom first originated. Dogs and +cats do not employ these extraordinary mercenaries, and yet their +polity is progressive and orderly. Crows are a gregarious race with +settled habitations and an organized commonwealth. They usually +congregate in a ruined tower or on the top of a church, and their +civilization is based on mutual aid and tolerance for each other’s +idiosyncrasies. Their exceeding mobility and hardiness renders them +dangerous to attack, and thus they are free to devote themselves to +the development of their domestic laws and customs. If policemen +were necessary to a civilization crows would certainly have +evolved them, but I triumphantly insist that they have not got any +policemen in their republic—” + +“I don’t understand a word you are saying,” said the sergeant. + +“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “Ants and bees also live +in specialized communities and have an extreme complexity both of +function and occupation. Their experience in governmental matters +is enormous, and yet they have never discovered that a police force +is at all essential to their well-being—” + +“Do you know,” said the sergeant, “that whatever you say now will +be used in evidence against you later on?” + +“I do not,” said the Philosopher. “It may be said that these races +are free from crime, that such vices as they have are organized +and communal instead of individual and anarchistic, and that, +consequently, there is no necessity for policecraft, but I cannot +believe that these large aggregations of people could have attained +their present high culture without an interval of both national and +individual dishonesty—” + +“Tell me now, as you are talking,” said the sergeant, “did you buy +the poison at a chemist’s shop, or did you smother the pair of them +with a pillow?” + +“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “If crime is a condition +precedent to the evolution of policemen, then I will submit that +jackdaws are a very thievish clan—they are somewhat larger than a +blackbird, and will steal wool off a sheep’s back to line their +nests with; they have, furthermore, been known to abstract one +shilling in copper and secrete this booty so ingeniously that it +has never since been recovered—” + +“I had a jackdaw myself,” said one of the men. “I got it from a +woman that came to the door with a basket for fourpence. My mother +stood on its back one day, and she getting out of bed. I split its +tongue with a threepenny bit the way it would talk, but devil the +word it ever said for me. It used to hop around letting on it had a +lame leg, and then it would steal your socks.” + +“Shut up!” roared the sergeant. + +“If,” said the Philosopher, “these people steal both from sheep and +from men, if their peculations range from wool to money, I do not +see how they can avoid stealing from each other, and consequently, +if anywhere, it is amongst jackdaws one should look for the growth +of a police force, but there is no such force in existence. The +real reason is that they are a witty and thoughtful race who look +temperately on what is known as crime and evil—one eats, one +steals; it is all in the order of things, and therefore not to be +quarrelled with. There is no other view possible to a philosophical +people—” + +“What the devil is he talking about?” said the sergeant. + +“Monkeys are gregarious and thievish and semi-human. They inhabit +the equatorial latitudes and eat nuts—” + +“Do you know what he is saying, Shawn?” + +“I do not,” said Shawn. + +“—they ought to have evolved professional thief-takers, but it is +common knowledge that they have not done so. Fishes, squirrels, +rats, beavers, and bison have also abstained from this singular +growth—therefore, when I insist that I see no necessity for +policemen and object to their presence, I base that objection on +logic and facts, and not on any immediate petty prejudice.” + +“Shawn,” said the sergeant, “have you got a good grip on that man?” + +“I have,” said Shawn. + +“Well, if he talks any more hit him with your baton.” + +“I will so,” said Shawn. + +“There’s a speck of light down yonder, and, maybe, it’s a candle in +a window—we’ll ask the way at that place.” + +In about three minutes they came to a small house which was +overhung by trees. If the light had not been visible they would +undoubtedly have passed it in the darkness. As they approached the +door the sound of a female voice came to them scoldingly. + +“There’s somebody up anyhow,” said the sergeant, and he tapped at +the door. + +The scolding voice ceased instantly. After a few seconds he tapped +again; then a voice was heard from just behind the door. + +“Tomas,” said the voice, “go and bring up the two dogs with you +before I take the door off the chain.” + +The door was then opened a few inches and a face peered out “What +would you be wanting at this hour of the night?” said the woman. + +“Not much, ma’am,” said the sergeant; “only a little direction +about the road, for we are not sure whether we’ve gone too far or +not far enough.” + +The woman noticed their uniforms. + +“Is it policemen ye are? There’s no harm in your coming in, I +suppose, and if a drink of milk is any good to ye I have plenty of +it.” + +“Milk’s better than nothing,” said the sergeant with a sigh. + +“I’ve a little sup of spirits,” said she, “but it wouldn’t be +enough to go around.” + +“Ah, well,” said he, looking sternly at his comrades, “everybody +has to take their chance in this world,” and he stepped into the +house followed by his men. + +The women gave him a little sup of whisky from a bottle, and to +each of the other men she gave a cup of milk. + +“It’ll wash the dust out of our gullets, anyhow,” said one of them. + +There were two chairs, a bed, and a table in the room. The +Philosopher and his attendants sat on the bed. The sergeant sat +on the table, the fourth man took a chair, and the woman dropped +wearily into the remaining chair from which she looked with pity at +the prisoner. + +“What are you taking the poor man away for?” she asked. + +“He’s a bad one, ma’am,” said the sergeant. “He killed a man and +a woman that were staying with him and he buried their corpses +underneath the hearthstone of his house. He’s a real malefactor, +mind you.” + +“Is it hanging him you’ll be, God help us?” + +“You never know, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it came to +that. But you were in trouble yourself, ma’am, for we heard your +voice lamenting about something as we came along the road.” + +“I was, indeed,” she replied, “for the person that has a son in her +house has a trouble in her heart.” + +“Do you tell me now—What did he do on you?” and the sergeant bent a +look of grave reprobation on a young lad who was standing against +the wall between two dogs. + +“He’s a good boy enough in some ways,” said she, “but he’s too fond +of beasts. He’ll go and lie in the kennel along with them two dogs +for hours at a time, petting them and making a lot of them, but if +I try to give him a kiss, or to hug him for a couple of minutes +when I do be tired after the work, he’ll wriggle like an eel till +I let him out—it would make a body hate him, so it would. Sure, +there’s no nature in him, sir, and I’m his mother.” + +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you young whelp,” said the +sergeant very severely. + +“And then there’s the horse,” she continued. “Maybe you met it down +the road a while ago?” + +“We did, ma’am,” said the sergeant. + +“Well, when he came in Tomas went to tie him up, for he’s a caution +at getting out and wandering about the road, the way you’d break +your neck over him if you weren’t minding. After a while I told the +boy to come in, but he didn’t come, so I went out myself, and there +was himself and the horse with their arms round each other’s necks +looking as if they were moonstruck.” + +“Faith, he’s the queer lad!” said the sergeant. “What do you be +making love to the horse for, Tomas?” + +“It was all I could do to make him come in,” she continued, “and +then I said to him, ‘Sit down alongside of me here, Tomas, and +keep me company for a little while’—for I do be lonely in the +night time—but he wouldn’t stay quiet at all. One minute he’d +say, ‘Mother, there’s a moth flying round the candle and it’ll be +burnt,’ and then, ‘There was a fly going into the spider’s web in +the corner,’ and he’d have to save it, and after that, ‘There’s a +daddy-long-legs hurting himself on the window-pane,’ and he’d have +to let it out; but when I try to kiss him he pushes me away. My +heart is tormented, so it is, for what have I in the world but him?” + +“Is his father dead, ma’am?” said the sergeant kindly. + +“I’ll tell the truth,” said she. “I don’t know whether he is or +not, for a long time ago, when we used to live in the city of +Bla’ Cliah, he lost his work one time and he never came back to +me again. He was ashamed to come home I’m thinking, the poor man, +because he had no money; as if I would have minded whether he had +any money or not—sure, he was very fond of me, sir, and we could +have pulled along somehow. After that I came back to my father’s +place here; the rest of the children died on me, and then my father +died, and I’m doing the best I can by myself. It’s only that I’m a +little bit troubled with the boy now and again.” + +“It’s a hard case, ma’am,” said the sergeant, “but maybe the boy is +only a bit wild not having his father over him, and maybe it’s just +that he’s used to yourself, for there isn’t a child at all that +doesn’t love his mother. Let you behave yourself now, Tomas; attend +to your mother, and leave the beasts and the insects alone, like a +decent boy, for there’s no insect in the world will ever like you +as well as she does. Could you tell me, ma’am, if we have passed +the first turn on this road, or is it in front of us still, for we +are lost altogether in the darkness?” + +“It’s in front of you still,” she replied, “about ten minutes down +the road; you can’t miss it, for you’ll see the sky where there is +a gap in the trees, and that gap is the turn you want.” + +“Thank you, ma’am,” said the sergeant; “we’d better be moving on, +for there’s a long tramp in front of us before we get to sleep this +night.” + +He stood up and the men rose to follow him when, suddenly, the boy +spoke in a whisper. + +“Mother,” said he, “they are going to hang the man,” and he burst +into tears. + +“Oh, hush, hush,” said the woman, “sure, the men can’t help it.” +She dropped quickly on her knees and opened her arms, “Come over to +your mother, my darling.” + +The boy ran to her. + +“They are going to hang him,” he cried in a high, thin voice, and +he plucked at her arm violently. + +“Now, then, my young boy-o,” said the sergeant, “none of that +violence.” + +The boy turned suddenly and flew at him with astonishing ferocity. +He hurled himself against the sergeant’s legs and bit, and kicked, +and struck at him. So furiously sudden was his attack that the +man went staggering back against the wall, then he plucked at the +boy and whirled him across the room. In an instant the two dogs +leaped at him snarling with rage—one of these he kicked into a +corner, from which it rebounded again bristling and red-eyed; the +other dog was caught by the woman, and after a few frantic seconds +she gripped the first dog also. To a horrible chorus of howls and +snapping teeth the men hustled outside and slammed the door. + +“Shawn,” the sergeant bawled, “have you got a good grip of that +man?” + +“I have so,” said Shawn. + +“If he gets away I’ll kick the belly out of you; mind that now! +Come along with you and no more of your slouching.” + +They marched down the road in a tingling silence. + +“Dogs,” said the Philosopher, “are a most intelligent race of +people—” + +“People, my granny!” said the sergeant. + +“From the earliest ages their intelligence has been observed and +recorded, so that ancient literatures are bulky with references to +their sagacity and fidelity—” + +“Will you shut your old jaw?” said the sergeant. + +“I will not,” said the Philosopher. “Elephants also are credited +with an extreme intelligence and devotion to their masters, and +they will build a wall or nurse a baby with equal skill and +happiness. Horses have received high recommendations in this +respect, but crocodiles, hens, beetles, armadillos, and fish do not +evince any remarkable partiality for man—” + +“I wish,” said the sergeant bitterly, “that all them beasts were +stuffed down your throttle the way you’d have to hold your prate.” + +“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “I do not know why these +animals should attach themselves to men with gentleness and love +and yet be able to preserve intact their initial bloodthirstiness, +so that while they will allow their masters to misuse them in +any way they will yet fight most willingly with each other, and +are never really happy saving in the conduct of some private and +nonsensical battle of their own. I do not believe that it is fear +which tames these creatures into mildness, but that the most savage +animal has a capacity for love which has not been sufficiently +noted, and which, if more intelligent attention had been directed +upon it, would have raised them to the status of intellectual +animals as against intelligent ones, and, perhaps, have opened +to us a correspondence which could not have been other than +beneficial.” + +“Keep your eyes out for that gap in the trees, Shawn,” said the +sergeant. + +“I’m doing that,” said Shawn. + +The Philosopher continued: + +“Why can I not exchange ideas with a cow? I am amazed at the +incompleteness of my growth when I and a fellow-creature stand +dumbly before each other without one glimmer of comprehension, +locked and barred from all friendship and intercourse—” + +“Shawn,” cried the sergeant. + +“Don’t interrupt,” said the Philosopher; “you are always +talking.—The lower animals, as they are foolishly called, have +abilities at which we can only wonder. The mind of an ant is one +to which I would readily go to school. Birds have atmospheric and +levitational information which millions of years will not render +accessible to us; who that has seen a spider weaving his labyrinth, +or a bee voyaging safely in the trackless air, can refuse to credit +that a vivid, trained intelligence animates these small enigmas? +and the commonest earthworm is the heir to a culture before which I +bow with the profoundest veneration—” + +“Shawn,” said the sergeant, “say something for goodness’ sake to +take the sound of that man’s clack out of my ear.” + +“I wouldn’t know what to be talking about,” said Shawn, “for I +never was much of a hand at conversation, and, barring my prayers, +I got no education—I think myself that he was making a remark about +a dog. Did you ever own a dog, sergeant?” + +“You are doing very well, Shawn,” said the sergeant, “keep it up +now.” + +“I knew a man had a dog would count up to a hundred for you. He won +lots of money in bets about it, and he’d have made a fortune, only +that I noticed one day he used to be winking at the dog, and when +he’d stop winking the dog would stop counting. We made him turn his +back after that, and got the dog to count sixpence, but he barked +for more than five shillings, he did so, and he would have counted +up to a pound, maybe, only that his master turned round and hit +him a kick. Every person that ever paid him a bet said they wanted +their money back, but the man went away to America in the night, +and I expect he’s doing well there for he took the dog with him. It +was a wire-haired terrier bitch, and it was the devil for having +pups.” + +“It is astonishing,” said the Philosopher, “on what slender +compulsion people will go to America—” + +“Keep it up, Shawn,” said the sergeant, “you are doing me a favour.” + +“I will so,” said Shawn. “I had a cat one time and it used to have +kittens every two months.” + +The Philosopher’s voice arose: + +“If there was any periodicity about these migrations one could +understand them. Birds, for example, migrate from their homes in +the late autumn and seek abroad the sustenance and warmth which +the winter would withhold if they remained in their native lands. +The salmon also, a dignified fish with a pink skin, emigrates from +the Atlantic Ocean, and betakes himself inland to the streams and +lakes, where he recuperates for a season, and is often surprised by +net, angle, or spear—” + +“Cut in now, Shawn,” said the sergeant anxiously. + +Shawn began to gabble with amazing speed and in a mighty voice: + +“Cats sometimes eat their kittens, and sometimes they don’t. A cat +that eats its kittens is a heartless brute. I knew a cat used to +eat its kittens—it had four legs and a long tail, and it used to +get the head-staggers every time it had eaten its kittens. I killed +it myself one day with a hammer for I couldn’t stand the smell it +made, so I couldn’t—” + +“Shawn,” said the sergeant, “can’t you talk about something else +besides cats and dogs?” + +“Sure, I don’t know what to talk about,” said Shawn. “I’m sweating +this minute trying to please you, so I arm. If you’ll tell me what +to talk about I’ll do my endeavours.” + +“You’re a fool,” said the sergeant sorrowfully; “you’ll never make +a constable. I’m thinking that I would sooner listen to the man +himself than to you. Have you got a good hold of him now?” + +“I have so,” said Shawn. + +“Well, step out and maybe we’ll reach the barracks this night, +unless this is a road that there isn’t any end to at all. What was +that? Did you hear a noise?” + +“I didn’t hear a thing,” said Shawn. + +“I thought,” said another man, “that I heard something moving in +the hedge at the side of the road.” + +“That’s what I heard,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it was a weasel. +I wish to the devil that we were out of this place where you can’t +see as much as your own nose. Now did you hear it, Shawn?” + +“I did so,” said Shawn; “there’s some one in the hedge, for a +weasel would make a different kind of a noise if it made any at +all.” + +“Keep together, men,” said the sergeant, “and march on; if there’s +anybody about they’ve no business with us.” + +He had scarcely spoken when there came a sudden pattering of feet, +and immediately the four men were surrounded and were being struck +at on every side with sticks and hands and feet. + +“Draw your batons,” the sergeant roared; “keep a good grip of that +man, Shawn.” + +“I will so,” said Shawn. + +“Stand round him, you other men, and hit anything that comes near +you.” + +There was no sound of voices from the assailants, only a rapid +scuffle of feet, the whistle of sticks as they swung through the +air or slapped smartly against a body or clashed upon each other, +and the quick breathing of many people; but from the four policemen +there came noise and to spare as they struck wildly on every side, +cursing the darkness and their opposers with fierce enthusiasm. + +“Let out,” cried Shawn suddenly. “Let out or I’ll smash your nut +for you. There’s some one pulling at the prisoner, and I’ve dropped +my baton.” + +The truncheons of the policemen had been so ferociously exercised +that their antagonists departed as swiftly and as mysteriously as +they came. It was just two minutes of frantic, aimless conflict, +and then the silent night was round them again, without any sound +but the slow creaking of branches, the swish of leaves as they +swung and poised, and the quiet croon of the wind along the road. + +“Come on, men,” said the sergeant, “we’d better be getting out of +this place as quick as we can. Are any of ye hurted?” + +“I’ve got one of the enemy,” said Shawn, panting. + +“You’ve got what?” said the sergeant. + +“I’ve got one of them, and he is wriggling like an eel on a pan.” + +“Hold him tight,” said the sergeant excitedly. + +“I will so,” said Shawn. “It’s a little one by the feel of it. If +one of ye would hold the prisoner, I’d get a better grip on this +one. Aren’t they dangerous villains now?” + +Another man took hold of the Philosopher’s arm, and Shawn got both +hands on his captive. + +“Keep quiet, I’m telling you,” said he, “or I’ll throttle you, I +will so. Faith, it seems like a little boy by the feel of it!” + +“A little boy!” said the sergeant. + +“Yes, he doesn’t reach up to my waist.” + +“It must be the young brat from the cottage that set the dogs on +us, the one that loves beasts. Now then, boy, what do you mean by +this kind of thing? You’ll find yourself in gaol for this, my young +buck-o. Who was with you, eh? Tell me that now?” and the sergeant +bent forward. + +“Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,” said Shawn. +“Oh!” he roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. “I’ve +got him,” he gasped; “he nearly got away. It isn’t a boy at all, +sergeant; there’s whiskers on it!” + +“What do you say?” said the sergeant. + +“I put my hand under its chin and there’s whiskers on it. I nearly +let him out with the surprise, I did so.” + +“Try again,” said the sergeant in a low voice; “you are making a +mistake.” + +“I don’t like touching them,” said Shawn. “It’s a soft whisker like +a billy-goat’s. Maybe you’d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you +I’m frightened of it.” + +“Hold him over here,” said the sergeant, “and keep a good grip of +him.” + +“I’ll do that,” said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object +towards his superior. + +The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head. + +“It’s only a boy’s size to be sure,” said he, then he slid his hand +down the face and withdrew it quickly. + +“There are whiskers on it,” said he soberly. “What the devil can +it be? I never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they +are false ones, and it’s just the boy yonder trying to disguise +himself.” He put out his hand again with an effort, felt his way to +the chin, and tugged. + +Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of +them jumped in a panic. + +“They are real whiskers,” said the sergeant with a sigh. “I wish I +knew what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that’s a +fact. Have you got another match on you?” + +“I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,” said one of the men. + +“Give me one of them,” said the sergeant; “I’ll strike it myself.” + +He groped about until he found the hand with the match. + +“Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look +at him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.” + +“I’m holding him by the two arms,” said Shawn, “he can’t stir +anything but his head, and I’ve got my chest on that.” + +The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his +hand, then he turned it on their new prisoner. + +They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a +broad pale face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of +grey whisker under his chin—then the match went out. + +“It’s a Leprecaun,” said the sergeant. + +The men were silent for a full couple of minutes—at last Shawn +spoke. + +“Do you tell me so?” said he in a musing voice; “that’s a queer +miracle altogether.” + +“I do,” said the sergeant. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that it +can’t be anything else? You saw it yourself.” + +Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive. + +[Illustration: “Tell me where the money is?” he hissed] + +“Tell me where the money is?” he hissed. “Tell me where the money +is or I’ll twist your neck off.” + +The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and +commands at the Leprecaun. + +“Hold your whist,” said Shawn fiercely to them. “He can’t answer +the lot of you, can he?” and he turned again to the Leprecaun and +shook him until his teeth chattered. + +“If you don’t tell me where the money is at once I’ll kill you, I +will so.” + +“I haven’t got any money at all, sir,” said the Leprecaun. + +“None of your lies,” roared Shawn. “Tell the truth now or it’ll be +worse for you.” + +“I haven’t got any money,” said the Leprecaun, “for Meehawl +MacMurrachu of the Hill stole our crock a while back, and he buried +it under a thorn bush. I can bring you to the place if you don’t +believe me.” + +“Very good,” said Shawn. “Come on with me now, and I’ll clout you +if you as much as wriggle; do you mind me?” + +“What would I wriggle for?” said the Leprecaun: “sure I like being +with you.” + +Hereupon the sergeant roared at the top of his voice. + +“Attention,” said he, and the men leaped to position like automata. + +“What is it you are going to do with your prisoner, Shawn?” said he +sarcastically. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough tramping of these +roads for one night, now? Bring up that Leprecaun to the barracks +or it’ll be the worse for you—do you hear me talking to you?” + +“But the gold, sergeant,” said Shawn sulkily. + +“If there’s any gold it’ll be treasure trove, and belong to the +Crown. What kind of a constable are you at all, Shawn? Mind what +you are about now, my man, and no back answers. Step along there. +Bring that murderer up at once, whichever of you has him.” + +There came a gasp from the darkness. + +“Oh, Oh, Oh!” said a voice of horror. + +“What’s wrong with you?” said the sergeant: “are you hurted?” + +“The prisoner!” he gasped, “he, he’s got away!” + +“Got away?” and the sergeant’s voice was a blare of fury. + +“While we were looking at the Leprecaun,” said the voice of woe, “I +must have forgotten about the other one—I, I haven’t got him—” + +“You gawm!” gritted the sergeant. + +“Is it my prisoner that’s gone?” said Shawn in a deep voice. He +leaped forward with a curse and smote his negligent comrade so +terrible a blow in the face, that the man went flying backwards, +and the thud of his head on the road could have been heard anywhere. + +“Get up,” said Shawn, “get up till I give you another one.” + +“That will do,” said the sergeant, “we’ll go home. We’re the +laughing-stock of the world. I’ll pay you out for this some time, +every damn man of ye. Bring that Leprecaun along with you, and +quick march.” + +“Oh!” said Shawn in a strangled tone. + +“What is it now?” said the sergeant testily. + +“Nothing,” replied Shawn. + +“What did you say ‘Oh!’ for then, you block-head?” + +“It’s the Leprecaun, sergeant,” said Shawn in a whisper—“he’s +got away—when I was hitting the man there I forgot all about the +Leprecaun: he must have run into the hedge. Oh, sergeant, dear, +don’t say anything to me now—!” + +“Quick march,” said the sergeant, and the four men moved on through +the darkness in a silence, which was only skin deep. + + +CHAPTER XV + +By reason of the many years which he had spent in the gloomy pine +wood, the Philosopher could see a little in the darkness, and when +he found there was no longer any hold on his coat he continued his +journey quietly, marching along with his head sunken on his breast +in a deep abstraction. He was meditating on the word “Me,” and +endeavouring to pursue it through all its changes and adventures. +The fact of “me-ness” was one which startled him. He was amazed at +his own being. He knew that the hand which he held up and pinched +with another hand was not him and the endeavour to find out what +was him was one which had frequently exercised his leisure. He had +not gone far when there came a tug at his sleeve and looking down +he found one of the Leprecauns of the Gort trotting by his side. + +“Noble Sir,” said the Leprecaun, “you are terrible hard to get into +conversation with. I have been talking to you for the last long +time and you won’t listen.” + +“I am listening now,” replied the Philosopher. + +“You are, indeed,” said the Leprecaun heartily. “My brothers are on +the other side of the road over there beyond the hedge, and they +want to talk to you: will you come with me, Noble Sir?” + +“Why wouldn’t I go with you?” said the Philosopher, and he turned +aside with the Leprecaun. + +They pushed softly through a gap in the hedge and into a field +beyond. + +“Come this way, sir,” said his guide, and the Philosopher followed +him across the field. In a few minutes they came to a thick bush +among the leaves of which the other Leprecauns were hiding. They +thronged out to meet the Philosopher’s approach and welcomed him +with every appearance of joy. With them was the Thin Woman of Inis +Magrath, who embraced her husband tenderly and gave thanks for his +escape. + +“The night is young yet,” remarked one of the Leprecauns. “Let us +sit down here and talk about what should be done.” + +“I am tired enough,” said the Philosopher, “for I have been +travelling all yesterday, and all this day and the whole of this +night I have been going also, so I would be glad to sit down +anywhere.” + +They sat down under the bush and the Philosopher lit his pipe. In +the open space where they were there was just light enough to see +the smoke coming from his pipe, but scarcely more. One recognized +a figure as a deeper shadow than the surrounding darkness; but as +the ground was dry and the air just touched with a pleasant chill, +there was no discomfort. After the Philosopher had drawn a few +mouthfuls of smoke he passed his pipe on to the next person, and in +this way his pipe made the circuit of the party. + +“When I put the children to bed,” said the Thin Woman, “I came down +the road in your wake with a basin of stirabout, for you had no +time to take your food, God help you! and I was thinking you must +have been hungry.” + +“That is so,” said the Philosopher in a very anxious voice: “but I +don’t blame you, my dear, for letting the basin fall on the road—” + +“While I was going along,” she continued, “I met these good people +and when I told them what happened they came with me to see if +anything could be done. The time they ran out of the hedge to +fight the policemen I wanted to go with them, but I was afraid the +stirabout would be spilt.” + +The Philosopher licked his lips. + +“I am listening to you, my love,” said he. + +“So I had to stay where I was with the stirabout under my shawl—” + +“Did you slip then, dear wife?” + +“I did not, indeed,” she replied: “I have the stirabout with me +this minute. It’s rather cold, I’m thinking, but it is better than +nothing at all,” and she placed the bowl in his hands. + +“I put sugar in it,” said she shyly, “and currants, and I have a +spoon in my pocket.” + +“It tastes well,” said the Philosopher, and he cleaned the basin so +speedily that his wife wept because of his hunger. + +By this time the pipe had come round to him again and it was +welcomed. + +“Now we can talk,” said he, and he blew a great cloud of smoke into +the darkness and sighed happily. + +“We were thinking,” said the Thin Woman, “that you won’t be able +to come back to our house for a while yet: the policemen will +be peeping about Coille Doraca for a long time, to be sure; for +isn’t it true that if there is a good thing coming to a person, +nobody takes much trouble to find him, but if there is a bad thing +or a punishment in store for a man, then the whole world will be +searched until he be found?” + +“It is a true statement,” said the Philosopher. + +“So what we arranged was this—that you should go to live with these +little men in their house under the yew tree of the Gort. There is +not a policeman in the world would find you there; or if you went +by night to the Brugh of the Boyne, Angus Óg himself would give you +a refuge.” + +One of the Leprecauns here interposed. + +“Noble Sir,” said he, “there isn’t much room in our house but +there’s no stint of welcome in it. You would have a good time with +us travelling on moonlit nights and seeing strange things, for we +often go to visit the Shee of the Hills and they come to see us; +there is always something to talk about, and we have dances in the +caves and on the tops of the hills. Don’t be imagining now that we +have a poor life for there is fun and plenty with us and the Brugh +of Angus Mac an Óg is hard to be got at.” + +“I would like to dance, indeed,” returned the Philosopher, “for I +do believe that dancing is the first and last duty of man. If we +cannot be gay what can we be? Life is not any use at all unless we +find a laugh here and there—but this time, decent men of the Gort, +I cannot go with you, for it is laid on me to give myself up to the +police.” + +“You would not do that,” exclaimed the Thin Woman pitifully: “You +wouldn’t think of doing that now!” + +“An innocent man,” said he, “cannot be oppressed, for he is +fortified by his mind and his heart cheers him. It is only on +a guilty person that the rigour of punishment can fall, for he +punishes himself. This is what I think, that a man should always +obey the law with his body and always disobey it with his mind. I +have been arrested, the men of the law had me in their hands, and I +will have to go back to them so that they may do whatever they have +to do.” + +The Philosopher resumed his pipe, and although the others reasoned +with him for a long time they could not by any means remove him +from his purpose. So, when the pale glimmer of dawn had stolen over +the sky, they arose and went downwards to the cross-roads and so to +the Police Station. + +Outside the village the Leprecauns bade him farewell and the Thin +Woman also took her leave of him, saying she would visit Angus Óg +and implore his assistance on behalf of her husband, and then the +Leprecauns and the Thin Woman returned again the way they came, and +the Philosopher walked on to the barracks. + + +CHAPTER XVI + +When he knocked at the barracks door it was opened by a man with +tousled, red hair, who looked as though he had just awakened from +sleep. + +“What do you want at this hour of the night?” said he. + +“I want to give myself up,” said the Philosopher. The policeman +looked at him “A man as old as you are,” said he, “oughtn’t to be +a fool. Go home now, I advise you, and don’t say a word to any one +whether you did it or not. Tell me this now, was it found out, or +are you only making a clean breast of it?” + +“Sure I must give myself up,” said the Philosopher. + +“If you must, you must, and that’s an end of it. Wipe your feet on +the rail there and come in—I’ll take your deposition.” + +“I have no deposition for you,” said the Philosopher, “for I didn’t +do a thing at all.” + +The policeman stared at him again. + +“If that’s so,” said he, “you needn’t come in at all, and you +needn’t have wakened me out of my sleep either. Maybe, tho’, you +are the man that fought the badger on the Naas Road—Eh?” + +“I am not,” replied the Philosopher: “but I was arrested for +killing my brother and his wife, although I never touched them.” + +“Is that who you are?” said the policeman; and then, briskly, +“You’re as welcome as the cuckoo, you are so. Come in and make +yourself comfortable till the men awaken, and they are the lads +that’ll be glad to see you. I couldn’t make head or tail of what +they said when they came in last night, and no one else either, for +they did nothing but fight each other and curse the banshees and +cluricauns of Leinster. Sit down there on the settle by the fire +and, maybe, you’ll be able to get a sleep; you look as if you were +tired, and the mud of every county in Ireland is on your boots.” + +The Philosopher thanked him and stretched out on the settle. In a +short time, for he was very weary, he fell asleep. + +Many hours later he was awakened by the sound of voices, and found +on rising, that the men who had captured him on the previous +evening were standing by the bed. The sergeant’s face beamed with +joy. He was dressed only in his trousers and shirt. His hair was +sticking up in some places and sticking out in others which gave +a certain wild look to him, and his feet were bare. He took the +Philosopher’s two hands in his own and swore if ever there was +anything he could do to comfort him he would do that and more. +Shawn, in a similar state of unclothedness, greeted the Philosopher +and proclaimed himself his friend and follower for ever. Shawn +further announced that he did not believe the Philosopher had +killed the two people, that if he had killed them they must have +richly deserved it, and that if he was hung he would plant flowers +on his grave; for a decenter, quieter, and wiser man he had never +met and never would meet in the world. + +These professions of esteem comforted the Philosopher, and he +replied to them in terms which made the red-haired policeman gape +in astonishment and approval. + +He was given a breakfast of bread and cocoa which he ate with his +guardians, and then, as they had to take up their outdoor duties, +he was conducted to the backyard and informed he could walk about +there and that he might smoke until he was black in the face. The +policemen severally presented him with a pipe, a tin of tobacco, +two boxes of matches and a dictionary, and then they withdrew, +leaving him to his own devices. + +The garden was about twelve feet square, having high, smooth walls +on every side, and into it there came neither sun nor wind. In +one corner a clump of rusty-looking sweet-pea was climbing up +the wall—every leaf of this plant was riddled with holes, and +there were no flowers on it. Another corner was occupied by dwarf +nasturtiums, and on this plant, in despite of every discouragement, +two flowers were blooming, but its leaves also were tattered and +dejected. A mass of ivy clung to the third corner, its leaves were +big and glossy at the top, but near the ground there was only grey, +naked stalks laced together by cobwebs. The fourth wall was clothed +in a loose Virginia creeper every leaf of which looked like an +insect that could crawl if it wanted to. The centre of this small +plot had used every possible artifice to cover itself with grass, +and in some places it had wonderfully succeeded, but the pieces of +broken bottles, shattered jampots, and sections of crockery were so +numerous that no attempt at growth could be other than tentative +and unpassioned. + +Here, for a long time, the Philosopher marched up and down. At one +moment he examined the sweet-pea and mourned with it on a wretched +existence. Again he congratulated the nasturtium on its two +bright children; but he thought of the gardens wherein they might +have bloomed and the remembrance of that spacious, sunny freedom +saddened him. + +“Indeed, poor creatures!” said he, “ye also are in gaol.” + +The blank, soundless yard troubled him so much that at last he +called to the red-haired policeman and begged to be put into a +cell in preference; and to the common cell he was, accordingly, +conducted. + +This place was a small cellar built beneath the level of the +ground. An iron grating at the top of the wall admitted one +blanched wink of light, but the place was bathed in obscurity. A +wooden ladder led down to the cell from a hole in the ceiling, and +this hole also gave a spark of brightness and some little air to +the room. The walls were of stone covered with plaster, but the +plaster had fallen away in many places leaving the rough stones +visible at every turn of the eye. + +There were two men in the cell, and these the Philosopher saluted; +but they did not reply, nor did they speak to each other. There was +a low, wooden form fixed to the wall, running quite round the room, +and on this, far apart from each other, the two men were seated, +with their elbows resting on their knees, their heads propped upon +their hands, and each of them with an unwavering gaze fixed on the +floor between his feet. + +The Philosopher walked for a time up and down the little cell, but +soon he also sat down on the low form, propped his head on his +hands and lapsed to a melancholy dream. + +So the day passed. Twice a policeman came down the ladder bearing +three portions of food, bread and cocoa; and by imperceptible +gradations the light faded away from the grating and the darkness +came. After a great interval the policeman again approached +carrying three mattresses and three rough blankets, and these he +bundled through the hole. Each of the men took a mattress and a +blanket and spread them on the floor, and the Philosopher took his +share also. + +By this time they could not see each other and all their operations +were conducted by the sense of touch alone. They laid themselves +down on the beds and a terrible, dark silence brooded over the room. + +But the Philosopher could not sleep, he kept his eyes shut, for +the darkness under his eyelids was not so dense as that which +surrounded him; indeed, he could at will illuminate his own +darkness and order around him the sunny roads or the sparkling +sky. While his eyes were closed he had the mastery of all pictures +of light and colour and warmth, but an irresistible fascination +compelled him every few minutes to reopen them, and in the sad +space around he could not create any happiness. The darkness +weighed very sadly upon him so that in a short time it did creep +under his eyelids and drowned his happy pictures until a blackness +possessed him both within and without “Can one’s mind go to prison +as well as one’s body?” said he. + +He strove desperately to regain his intellectual freedom, but he +could not. He could conjure up no visions but those of fear. The +creatures of the dark invaded him, fantastic terrors were thronging +on every side: they came from the darkness into his eyes and beyond +into himself, so that his mind as well as his fancy was captured, +and he knew he was, indeed, in gaol. + +It was with a great start that he heard a voice speaking from the +silence—a harsh, yet cultivated voice, but he could not imagine +which of his companions was speaking. He had a vision of that man +tormented by the mental imprisonment of the darkness, trying to get +away from his ghosts and slimy enemies, goaded into speech in his +own despite lest he should be submerged and finally possessed by +the abysmal demons. For a while the voice spoke of the strangeness +of life and the cruelty of men to each other—disconnected +sentences, odd words of selfpity and self-encouragement, and then +the matter became more connected and a story grew in the dark cell +“I knew a man,” said the voice, “and he was a clerk. He had thirty +shillings a week, and for five years he had never missed a day +going to his work. He was a careful man, but a person with a wife +and four children cannot save much out of thirty shillings a week. +The rent of a house is high, a wife and children must be fed, and +they have to get boots and clothes, so that at the end of each week +that man’s thirty shillings used to be all gone. But they managed +to get along somehow—the man and his wife and the four children +were fed and clothed and educated, and the man often wondered how +so much could be done with so little money; but the reason was +that his wife was a careful woman . . . and then the man got sick. +A poor person cannot afford to get sick, and a married man cannot +leave his work. If he is sick he has to be sick; but he must go +to his work all the same, for if he stayed away who would pay the +wages and feed his family? and when he went back to work he might +find that there was nothing for him to do. This man fell sick, but +he made no change in his way of life: he got up at the same time +and went to the office as usual, and he got through the day somehow +without attracting his employer’s attention. He didn’t know what +was wrong with him: he only knew that he was sick. Sometimes he had +sharp, swift pains in his head, and again there would be long hours +of languor when he could scarcely bear to change his position or +lift a pen. He would commence a letter with the words ‘Dear Sir,’ +forming the letter ‘D’ with painful, accurate slowness, elaborating +and thickening the up and down strokes, and being troubled when he +had to leave that letter for the next one; he built the next letter +by hair strokes and would start on the third with hatred. The end +of a word seemed to that man like the conclusion of an event—it was +a surprising, isolated, individual thing, having no reference to +anything else in the world, and on starting a new word he seemed +bound, in order to preserve its individuality, to write it in a +different handwriting. He would sit with his shoulders hunched up +and his pen resting on the paper, staring at a letter until he +was nearly mesmerized, and then come to himself with a sense of +fear, which started him working like a madman, so that he might +not be behind with his business. The day seemed to be so long. It +rolled on rusty hinges that could scarcely move. Each hour was like +a great circle swollen with heavy air, and it droned and buzzed +into an eternity. It seemed to the man that his hand in particular +wanted to rest. It was luxury not to work with it. It was good to +lay it down on a sheet of paper with the pen sloping against his +finger, and then watch his hand going to sleep—it seemed to the +man that it was his hand and not himself wanted to sleep, but it +always awakened when the pen slipped. There was an instinct in him +somewhere not to let the pen slip, and every time the pen moved +his hand awakened, and began to work languidly. When he went home +at night he lay down at once and stared for hours at a fly on the +wall or a crack on the ceiling. When his wife spoke to him he heard +her speaking as from a great distance, and he answered her dully as +though he was replying through a cloud. He only wanted to be let +alone, to be allowed to stare at the fly on the wall, or the crack +on the ceiling. + +“One morning he found that he couldn’t get up, or rather, that +he didn’t want to get up. When his wife called him he made no +reply, and she seemed to call him every ten seconds—the words, +‘get up, get up,’ were crackling all round him; they were bursting +like bombs on the right hand and on the left of him: they were +scattering from above and all around him, bursting upwards from the +floor, swirling, swaying, and jostling each other. Then the sounds +ceased, and one voice only said to him ‘You are late!’ He saw these +words like a blur hanging in the air, just beyond his eyelids, and +he stared at the blur until he fell asleep.” + +The voice in the cell ceased speaking for a few minutes, and then +it went on again. + +“For three weeks the man did not leave his bed—he lived faintly +in a kind of trance, wherein great forms moved about slowly and +immense words were drumming gently for ever. When he began to +take notice again everything in the house was different. Most of +the furniture, paid for so hardly, was gone. He missed a thing +everywhere—chairs, a mirror, a table: wherever he looked he missed +something; and downstairs was worse—there, everything was gone. His +wife had sold all her furniture to pay for doctors, for medicine, +for food and rent. And she was changed too: good things had gone +from her face; she was gaunt, sharp-featured, miserable—but she was +comforted to think he was going back to work soon. + +“There was a flurry in his head when he went to his office. He +didn’t know what his employer would say for stopping away. He +might blame him for being sick—he wondered would his employer pay +him for the weeks he was absent. When he stood at the door he was +frightened. Suddenly the thought of his master’s eye grew terrible +to him: it was a steady, cold, glassy eye; but he opened the door +and went in. His master was there with another man and he tried to +say ‘Good morning, sir,’ in a natural and calm voice; but he knew +that the strange man had been engaged instead of himself, and this +knowledge posted itself between his tongue and his thought. He +heard himself stammering, he felt that his whole bearing had become +drooping and abject. His master was talking swiftly and the other +man was looking at him in an embarrassed, stealthy, and pleading +manner: his eyes seemed to be apologising for having supplanted +him—so he mumbled ‘Good day, sir,’ and stumbled out. + +“When he got outside he could not think where to go. After a while +he went in the direction of the little park in the centre of the +city. It was quite near and he sat down on an iron bench facing +a pond. There were children walking up and down by the water +giving pieces of bread to the swans. Now and again a labouring +man or a messenger went by quickly; now and again a middleaged, +slovenly-dressed man drooped past aimlessly: sometimes a tattered, +self-intent woman with a badgered face flopped by him. When he +looked at these dull people the thought came to him that they +were not walking there at all; they were trailing through hell, +and their desperate eyes saw none but devils around them. He saw +himself joining these battered strollers . . . and he could not +think what he would tell his wife when he went home. He rehearsed +to himself the terms of his dismissal a hundred times. How his +master looked, what he had said: and then the fine, ironical things +he had said to his master. He sat in the park all day, and when +evening fell he went home at his accustomed hour. + +“His wife asked him questions as to how he had got on, and wanted +to know was there any chance of being paid for the weeks of +absence; the man answered her volubly, ate his supper and went to +bed: but he did not tell his wife that he had been dismissed and +that there would be no money at the end of the week. He tried to +tell her, but when he met her eye he found that he could not say +the words—he was afraid of the look that might come into her face +when she heard it—she, standing terrified in those dismantled +rooms...! + +“In the morning he ate his breakfast and went out again—to work, +his wife thought. She bid him ask the master about the three weeks’ +wages, or to try and get an advance on the present week’s wages, +for they were hardly put to it to buy food. He said he would do his +best, but he went straight to the park and sat looking at the pond, +looking at the passers-by and dreaming. In the middle of the day he +started up in a panic and went about the city asking for work in +offices, shops, warehouses, everywhere, but he could not get any. +He trailed back heavy-footed again to the park and sat down. + +“He told his wife more lies about his work that night and what his +master had said when he asked for an advance. He couldn’t bear the +children to touch him. After a little time he sneaked away to his +bed. + +“A week went that way. He didn’t look for work any more. He sat in +the park, dreaming, with his head bowed into his hands. The next +day would be the day he should have been paid his wages. The next +day! What would his wife say when he told her he had no money? She +would stare at him and flush and say—’Didn’t you go out every day +to work?’—How would he tell her then so that she could understand +quickly and spare him words? + +“Morning came and the man ate his breakfast silently. There was no +butter on the bread, and his wife seemed to be apologising to him +for not having any. She said, ‘We’ll be able to start fair from +to-morrow,’ and when he snapped at her angrily she thought it was +because he had to eat dry bread. + +“He went to the park and sat there for hours. Now and again he got +up and walked into a neighbouring street, but always, after half an +hour or so, he came back. Six o’clock in the evening was his hour +for going home. When six o’clock came he did not move, he still sat +opposite the pond with his head bowed down into his arms. Seven +o’clock passed. At nine o’clock a bell was rung and every one had +to leave. He went also. He stood outside the gates looking on this +side and on that. Which way would he go? All roads were alike to +him, so he turned at last and walked somewhere. He did not go home +that night. He never went home again. He never was heard of again +anywhere in the wide world.” + +The voice ceased speaking and silence swung down again upon the +little cell. The Philosopher had been listening intently to this +story, and after a few minutes he spoke “When you go up this road +there is a turn to the left and all the path along is bordered with +trees—there are birds in the trees, Glory be to God! There is only +one house on that road, and the woman in it gave us milk to drink. +She has but one son, a good boy, and she said the other children +were dead; she was speaking of a husband who went away and left +her—‘Why should he have been afraid to come home?’ said she—‘sure, +I loved him.’” + +After a little interval the voice spoke again “I don’t know what +became of the man I was speaking of. I am a thief, and I’m well +known to the police everywhere. I don’t think that man would get a +welcome at the house up here, for why should he?” + +Another, a different, querulous kind of voice came from the +silence “If I knew a place where there was a welcome I’d go there +as quickly as I could, but I don’t know a place and I never will, +for what good would a man of my age be to any person? I am a thief +also. The first thing I stole was a hen out of a little yard. I +roasted it in a ditch and ate it, and then I stole another one and +ate it, and after that I stole everything I could lay my hands on. +I suppose I will steal as long as I live, and I’ll die in a ditch +at the heel of the hunt. There was a time, not long ago, and if +any one had told me then that I would rob, even for hunger, I’d +have been insulted: but what does it matter now? And the reason I +am a thief is because I got old without noticing it. Other people +noticed it, but I did not. I suppose age comes on one so gradually +that it is seldom observed. If there are wrinkles on one’s face we +do not remember when they were not there: we put down all kind of +little infirmities to sedentary living, and you will see plenty of +young people bald. If a man has no occasion to tell any one his +age, and if he never thinks of it himself, he won’t see ten years’ +difference between his youth and his age, for we live in slow, +quiet times, and nothing ever happens to mark the years as they go +by, one after the other, and all the same. + +“I lodged in a house for a great many years, and a little girl grew +up there, the daughter of my landlady. She used to slide down the +bannisters very well, and she used to play the piano very badly. +These two things worried me many a time. She used to bring me my +meals in the morning and the evening, and often enough she’d stop +to talk with me while I was eating. She was a very chatty girl and +I was a talkative person myself. When she was about eighteen years +of age I got so used to her that if her mother came with the food +I would be worried for the rest of the day. Her face was as bright +as a sunbeam, and her lazy, careless ways, big, free movements, +and girlish chatter were pleasant to a man whose loneliness was +only beginning to be apparent to him through her company. I’ve +thought of it often since, and I suppose that’s how it began. She +used to listen to all my opinions and she’d agree with them because +she had none of her own yet. She was a good girl, but lazy in her +mind and body; childish, in fact. Her talk was as involved as her +actions: she always seemed to be sliding down mental bannisters; +she thought in kinks and spoke in spasms, hopped mentally from one +subject to another without the slightest difficulty, and could use +a lot of language in saying nothing at all. I could see all that +at the time, but I suppose I was too pleased with my own sharp +business brains, and sick enough, although I did not know it, of my +sharp-brained, business companions—dear Lord! I remember them well. +It’s easy enough to have brains as they call it, but it is not so +easy to have a little gaiety or carelessness or childishness or +whatever it was she had. It is good, too, to feel superior to some +one, even a girl. + +“One day this thought came to me—‘It is time that I settled down.’ +I don’t know where the idea came from; one hears it often enough +and it always seems to apply to some one else, but I don’t know +what brought it to roost with me. I was foolish, too: I bought ties +and differently shaped collars, and took to creasing my trousers +by folding them under the bed and lying on them all night—It never +struck me that I was more than three times her age. I brought home +sweets for her and she was delighted. She said she adored sweets, +and she used to insist on my eating some of them with her; she +liked to compare notes as to how they tasted while eating them. +I used to get a toothache from them, but I bore with it although +at that time I hated toothache almost as much as I hated sweets. +Then I asked her to come out with me for a walk. She was willing +enough and it was a novel experience for me. Indeed, it was rather +exciting. We went out together often after that, and sometimes we’d +meet people I knew, young men from my office or from other offices. +I used to be shy when some of these people winked at me as they +saluted. It was pleasant, too, telling the girl who they were, +their business and their salaries: for there was little I didn’t +know. I used to tell her of my own position in the office and what +the chief said to me through the day. Sometimes we talked of the +things that had appeared in the evening papers. A murder perhaps, +some phase of a divorce case, the speech a political person had +made, or the price of stock. She was interested in anything so long +as it was talk. And her own share in the conversation was good +to hear. Every lady that passed us had a hat that stirred her to +the top of rapture or the other pinnacle of disgust. She told me +what ladies were frights and what were ducks. Under her scampering +tongue I began to learn something of humanity, even though she saw +most people as delightfully funny clowns or superb, majestical +princes, but I noticed that she never said a bad word of a man, +although many of the men she looked after were ordinary enough. +Until I went walking with her I never knew what a shop window was. +A jeweller’s window especially: there were curious things in it. +She told me how a tiara should be worn, and a pendant, and she +explained the kind of studs I should wear myself; they were made of +gold and had red stones in them; she showed me the ropes of pearl +or diamonds that she thought would look pretty on herself: and one +day she said that she liked me very much. I was pleased and excited +that day, but I was a business man and I said very little in reply. +I never liked a pig in a poke. + +“She used to go out two nights in the week, Monday and Thursday, +dressed in her best clothes. I didn’t know where she went, and I +didn’t ask—I thought she visited an acquaintance, a girl friend or +some such. The time went by and I made up my mind to ask her to +marry me. I had watched her long enough and she was always kind +and bright. I liked the way she smiled, and I liked her obedient, +mannerly bearing. There was something else I liked, which I did +not recognise then, something surrounding all her movements, a +graciousness, a spaciousness: I did not analyse it; but I know now +that it was her youth. I remember that when we were out together +she walked slowly, but in the house she would leap up and down the +stairs—she moved furiously, but I didn’t. + +“One evening she dressed to go out as usual, and she called at my +door to know had I everything I wanted. I said I had something to +tell her when she came home, something important. She promised to +come in early to hear it, and I laughed at her and she laughed back +and went sliding down the bannisters. I don’t think I have had any +reason to laugh since that night. A letter came for me after she +had gone, and I knew by the shape and the handwriting that it was +from the office. It puzzled me to think why I should be written to. +I didn’t like opening it somehow.... It was my dismissal on account +of advancing age, and it hoped for my future welfare politely +enough. It was signed by the Senior. I didn’t grip it at first, and +then I thought it was a hoax. For a long time I sat in my room with +an empty mind. I was watching my mind: there were immense distances +in it that drowsed and buzzed; large, soft movements seemed to be +made in my mind, and although I was looking at the letter in my +hand I was really trying to focus those great, swinging spaces +in my brain, and my ears were listening for a movement of some +kind. I can see back to that time plainly. I went walking up and +down the room. There was a dull, subterranean anger in me. I +remember muttering once or twice, ‘Shameful!’ and again I said, +‘Ridiculous!’ At the idea of age I looked at my face in the glass, +but I was looking at my mind, and it seemed to go grey, there was a +heaviness there also. I seemed to be peering from beneath a weight +at something strange. I had a feeling that I had let go a grip +which I had held tightly for a long time, and I had a feeling that +the letting go was a grave disaster . . . that strange face in the +glass! how wrinkled it was! there were only a few hairs on the head +and they were grey ones. There was a constant twitching of the lips +and the eyes were deep-set, little and dull. I left the glass and +sat down by the window, looking out. I saw nothing in the street: I +just looked into a blackness. My mind was as blank as the night and +as soundless. There was a swirl outside the window, rain tossed by +the wind; without noticing, I saw it, and my brain swung with the +rain until it heaved in circles, and then a feeling of faintness +awakened me to myself. I did not allow my mind to think, but now +and again a word swooped from immense distances through my brain, +swinging like a comet across a sky and jarring terribly when it +struck: ‘Sacked’ was one word, ‘Old’ was another word. + +“I don’t know how long I sat watching the flight of these dreadful +words and listening to their clanking impact, but a movement in +the street aroused me. Two people, the girl and a young, slender +man, were coming slowly up to the house. The rain was falling +heavily, but they did not seem to mind it. There was a big puddle +of water close to the kerb, and the girl, stepping daintily as a +cat, went round this, but the young man stood for a moment beyond +it. He raised both arms, clenched his fists, swung them, and jumped +over the puddle. Then he and the girl stood looking at the water, +apparently measuring the jump. I could see them plainly by a street +lamp. They were bidding each other good-bye. The girl put her hand +to his neck and settled the collar of his coat, and while her hand +rested on him the young man suddenly and violently flung his arms +about her and hugged her; then they kissed and moved apart. The +man walked to the rain puddle and stood there with his face turned +back laughing at her, and then he jumped straight into the middle +of the puddle and began to dance up and down in it, the muddy +water splashing up to his knees. She ran over to him crying ‘Stop, +silly!’ When she came into the house, I bolted my door and I gave +no answer to her knock. + +“In a few months the money I had saved was spent. I couldn’t get +any work, I was too old; they put it that they wanted a younger +man. I couldn’t pay my rent. I went out into the world again, +like a baby, an old baby in a new world. I stole food, food, food +anywhere and everywhere. At first I was always caught. Often I was +sent to gaol; sometimes I was let go; sometimes I was kicked; but I +learned to live like a wolf at last. I am not often caught now when +I steal food. But there is something happening every day, whether +it is going to gaol or planning how to steal a hen or a loaf of +bread. I find that it is a good life, much better than the one I +lived for nearly sixty years, and I have time to think over every +sort of thing....” + +When the morning came the Philosopher was taken on a car to the big +City in order that he might be put on his trial and hanged. It was +the custom. + + + + +BOOK VI. THE THIN WOMAN’S JOURNEY AND THE HAPPY MARCH + + +CHAPTER XVII + +The ability of the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath for anger was +unbounded. She was not one of those limited creatures who are swept +clean by a gust of wrath and left placid and smiling after its +passing. She could store her anger in those caverns of eternity +which open into every soul, and which are filled with rage and +violence until the time comes when they may be stored with wisdom +and love; for, in the genesis of life, love is at the beginning +and the end of things. First, like a laughing child, love came to +labour minutely in the rocks and sands of the heart, opening the +first of those roads which lead inwards for ever, and then, the +labour of his day being done, love fled away and was forgotten. +Following came the fierce winds of hate to work like giants and +gnomes among the prodigious debris, quarrying the rocks and +levelling the roads which soar inwards; but when that work is +completed love will come radiantly again to live for ever in the +human heart, which is Eternity. + +Before the Thin Woman could undertake the redemption of her husband +by wrath, it was necessary that she should be purified by the +performance of that sacrifice which is called the Forgiveness of +Enemies, and this she did by embracing the Leprecauns of the Gort +and in the presence of the sun and the wind remitting their crime +against her husband. Thus she became free to devote her malice +against the State of Punishment, while forgiving the individuals +who had but acted in obedience to the pressure of their infernal +environment, which pressure is Sin. + +This done she set about baking the three cakes against her journey +to Angus Óg. + +While she was baking the cakes, the children, Seumas and Brigid +Beg, slipped away into the wood to speak to each other and to +wonder over this extraordinary occurrence. + +At first their movements were very careful, for they could not be +quite sure that the policemen had really gone away, or whether they +were hiding in dark places waiting to pounce on them and carry +them away to captivity. The word “murder” was almost unknown to +them, and its strangeness was rendered still more strange by reason +of the nearness of their father to the term. It was a terrible +word and its terror was magnified by their father’s unthinkable +implication. What had he done? Almost all his actions and habits +were so familiar to them as to be commonplace, and yet, there was a +dark something to which he was a party and which dashed before them +as terrible and ungraspable as a lightning-flash. They understood +that it had something to do with that other father and mother whose +bodies had been snatched from beneath the hearthstone, but they +knew the Philosopher had done nothing in that instance, and, so, +they saw murder as a terrible, occult affair which was quite beyond +their mental horizons. + +No one jumped out on them from behind the trees, so in a little +time their confidence returned and they walked less carefully. +When they reached the edge of the pine wood the brilliant sunshine +invited them to go farther, and after a little hesitation they did +so. The good spaces and the sweet air dissipated their melancholy +thoughts, and very soon they were racing each other to this +point and to that. Their wayward flights had carried them in the +direction of Meehawl MacMurrachu’s cottage, and here, breathlessly, +they threw themselves under a small tree to rest. It was a thorn +bush, and as they sat beneath it the cessation of movement gave +them opportunity to again consider the terrible position of their +father. With children thought cannot be separated from action for +very long. They think as much with their hands as with their heads. +They have to do the thing they speak of in order to visualise the +idea, and, consequently, Seumas Beg was soon reconstructing the +earlier visit of the policemen to their house in grand pantomime. +The ground beneath the thorn bush became the hearthstone of their +cottage; he and Brigid became four policemen, and in a moment he +was digging furiously with a broad piece of wood to find the two +hidden bodies. He had digged for only a few minutes when the piece +of wood struck against something hard. A very little time sufficed +to throw the soil off this, and their delight was great when they +unearthed a beautiful little earthen crock filled to the brim with +shining, yellow dust. When they lifted this they were astonished +at its great weight. They played for a long time with it, letting +the heavy, yellow shower slip through their fingers and watching +it glisten in the sunshine. After they tired of this they decided +to bring the crock home, but by the time they reached the Gort +na Cloca Mora they were so tired that they could not carry it +any farther, and they decided to leave it with their friends the +Leprecauns. Seumas Beg gave the taps on the tree trunk which they +had learned, and in a moment the Leprecaun whom they knew came up. + +[Illustration: He . . . wept in so loud a voice that his comrades +swarmed up to see what had happened to him] + +“We have brought this, sir,” said Seumas. But he got no further, +for the instant the Leprecaun saw the crock he threw his arms +around it and wept in so loud a voice that his comrades swarmed +up to see what had happened to him, and they added their laughter +and tears to his, to which chorus the children subjoined their +sympathetic clamour, so that a noise of great complexity rang +through all the Gort. + +But the Leprecauns’ surrender to this happy passion was short. +Hard on their gladness came remembrance and consternation; and +then repentance, that dismal virtue, wailed in their ears and +their hearts. How could they thank the children whose father and +protector they had delivered to the unilluminated justice of +humanity? that justice which demands not atonement but punishment; +which is learned in the Book of Enmity but not in the Book of +Friendship; which calls hatred Nature, and Love a conspiracy; whose +law is an iron chain and whose mercy is debility and chagrin; the +blind fiend who would impose his own blindness; that unfruitful +loin which curses fertility; that stony heart which would petrify +the generations of man; before whom life withers away appalled and +death would shudder again to its tomb. Repentance! they wiped the +inadequate ooze from their eyes and danced joyfully for spite. They +could do no more, so they fed the children lovingly and carried +them home. + +The Thin Woman had baked three cakes. One of these she gave to each +of the children and one she kept herself, whereupon they set out +upon their journey to Angus Óg. + +It was well after midday when they started. The fresh gaiety of the +morning was gone, and a tyrannous sun, whose majesty was almost +insupportable, lorded it over the world. There was but little shade +for the travellers, and, after a time, they became hot and weary +and thirsty—that is, the children did, but the Thin Woman, by +reason of her thinness, was proof against every elemental rigour, +except hunger, from which no creature is free. + +She strode in the centre of the road, a very volcano of silence, +thinking twenty different thoughts at the one moment, so that +the urgency of her desire for utterance kept her terribly quiet; +but against this crust of quietude there was accumulating a mass +of speech which must at the last explode or petrify. From this +congestion of thought there arose the first deep rumblings, +precursors of uproar, and another moment would have heard the +thunder of her varied malediction, but that Brigid Beg began to +cry: for, indeed, the poor child was both tired and parched to +distraction, and Seumas had no barrier against a similar surrender, +but two minutes’ worth of boyish pride. This discovery withdrew the +Thin Woman from her fiery contemplations, and in comforting the +children she forgot her own hardships. + +It became necessary to find water quickly: no difficult thing, +for the Thin Woman, being a Natural, was like all other creatures +able to sense the whereabouts of water, and so she at once led the +children in a slightly different direction. In a few minutes they +reached a well by the road-side, and here the children drank deeply +and were comforted. There was a wide, leafy tree growing hard by +the well, and in the shade of this tree they sat down and ate their +cakes. + +While they rested the Thin Woman advised the children on many +important matters. She never addressed her discourse to both of +them at once, but spoke first to Seumas on one subject and then +to Brigid on another subject; for, as she said, the things which +a boy must learn are not those which are necessary to a girl. It +is particularly important that a man should understand how to +circumvent women, for this and the capture of food forms the basis +of masculine wisdom, and on this subject she spoke to Seumas. It +is, however, equally urgent that a woman should be skilled to +keep a man in his proper place, and to this thesis Brigid gave an +undivided attention. + +She taught that a man must hate all women before he is able to +love a woman, but that he is at liberty, or rather he is under +express command, to love all men because they are of his kind. +Women also should love all other women as themselves, and they +should hate all men but one man only, and him they should seek to +turn into a woman, because women, by the order of their beings, +must be either tyrants or slaves, and it is better they should +be tyrants than slaves. She explained that between men and women +there exists a state of unremitting warfare, and that the endeavour +of each sex is to bring the other to subjection; but that women +are possessed by a demon called Pity which severely handicaps +their battle and perpetually gives victory to the male, who is +thus constantly rescued on the very ridges of defeat. She said +to Seumas that his fatal day would dawn when he loved a woman, +because he would sacrifice his destiny to her caprice, and she +begged him for love of her to beware of all that twisty sex. To +Brigid she revealed that a woman’s terrible day is upon her when +she knows that a man loves her, for a man in love submits only to +a woman, a partial, individual and temporary submission, but a +woman who is loved surrenders more fully to the very god of love +himself, and so she becomes a slave, and is not alone deprived of +her personal liberty, but is even infected in her mental processes +by this crafty obsession. The fates work for man, and therefore, +she averred, woman must be victorious, for those who dare to war +against the gods are already assured of victory: this being the law +of life, that only the weak shall conquer. The limit of strength +is petrifaction and immobility, but there is no limit to weakness, +and cunning or fluidity is its counsellor. For these reasons, and +in order that life might not cease, women should seek to turn their +husbands into women; then they would be tyrants and their husbands +would be slaves, and life would be renewed for a further period. + +As the Thin Woman proceeded with this lesson it became at last so +extremely complicated that she was brought to a stand by the knots, +so she decided to resume their journey and disentangle her argument +when the weather became cooler. + +They were repacking the cakes in their wallets when they observed a +stout, comely female coming towards the well. This woman, when she +drew near, saluted the Thin Woman, and her the Thin Woman saluted +again, whereupon the stranger sat down. + +“It’s hot weather, surely,” said she, “and I’m thinking it’s as +much as a body’s life is worth to be travelling this day and the +sun the way it is. Did you come far, now, ma’am, or is it that you +are used to going the roads and don’t mind it?” + +“Not far,” said the Thin Woman. + +“Far or near,” said the stranger, “a perch is as much as I’d like +to travel this time of the year. That’s a fine pair of children you +have with you now, ma’am.” + +“They are,” said the Thin Woman. + +“I’ve ten of them myself,” the other continued, “and I often +wondered where they came from. It’s queer to think of one woman +making ten new creatures and she not getting a penny for it, nor +any thanks itself.” + +“It is,” said the Thin Woman. + +“Do you ever talk more than two words at the one time, ma’am?” said +the stranger. + +“I do,” said the Thin Woman. + +“I’d give a penny to hear you,” replied the other angrily, “for a +more bad-natured, cross-grained, cantankerous person than yourself +I never met among womankind. It’s what I said to a man only +yesterday, that thin ones are bad ones, and there isn’t any one +could be thinner than you are yourself.” + +“The reason you say that,” said the Thin Woman calmly, “is because +you are fat and you have to tell lies to yourself to hide your +misfortune, and let on that you like it. There is no one in the +world could like to be fat, and there I leave you, ma’am. You can +poke your finger in your own eye, but you may keep it out of mine +if you please, and, so, good-bye to you; and if I wasn’t a quiet +woman I’d pull you by the hair of the head up a hill and down a +hill for two hours, and now there’s an end of it. I’ve given you +more than two words; let you take care or I’ll give you two more +that will put blisters on your body for ever. Come along with me +now, children, and if ever you see a woman like that woman you’ll +know that she eats until she can’t stand, and drinks until she +can’t sit, and sleeps until she is stupid; and if that sort of +person ever talks to you remember that two words are all that’s due +to her, and let them be short ones, for a woman like that would be +a traitor and a thief, only that she’s too lazy to be anything but +a sot, God help her I and, so, good-bye.” + +Thereupon the Thin Woman and the children arose, and having saluted +the stranger they went down the wide path; but the other woman +stayed where she was sitting, and she did not say a word even to +herself. + +As she strode along the Thin Woman lapsed again to her anger, and +became so distant in her aspect that the children could get no +companionship from her; so, after a while, they ceased to consider +her at all and addressed themselves to their play. They danced +before and behind and around her. They ran and doubled, shouted +and laughed and sang. Sometimes they pretended they were husband +and wife, and then they plodded quietly side by side, making wise, +occasional remarks on the weather, or the condition of their +health, or the state of the fields of rye. Sometimes one was a +horse and the other was a driver, and then they stamped along the +road with loud, fierce snortings and louder and fiercer commands. +At another moment one was a cow being driven with great difficulty +to market by a driver whose temper had given way hours before; or +they both became goats and with their heads jammed together they +pushed and squealed viciously; and these changes lapsed into one +another so easily that at no moment were they unoccupied. But +as the day wore on to evening the immense surrounding quietude +began to weigh heavily upon them. Saving for their own shrill +voices there was no sound, and this unending, wide silence at last +commanded them to a corresponding quietness. Little by little they +ceased their play. The scamper became a trot, each run was more and +more curtailed in its length, the race back became swifter than the +run forth, and, shortly, they were pacing soberly enough one on +either side of the Thin Woman sending back and forth a few quiet +sentences. Soon even these sentences trailed away into the vast +surrounding stillness. Then Brigid Beg clutched the Thin Woman’s +right hand, and not long after Seumas gently clasped her left hand, +and these mute appeals for protection and comfort again released +her from the valleys of fury through which she had been so fiercely +careering. + +As they went gently along they saw a cow lying in a field, and, +seeing this animal, the Thin Woman stopped thoughtfully. + +“Everything,” said she, “belongs to the wayfarer,” and she crossed +into the field and milked the cow into a vessel which she had. + +“I wonder,” said Seumas, “who owns that cow.” + +“Maybe,” said Brigid Beg, “nobody owns her at all.” + +“The cow owns herself,” said the Thin Woman, “for nobody can own a +thing that is alive. I am sure she gives her milk to us with great +goodwill, for we are modest, temperate people without greed or +pretension.” + +On being released the cow lay down again in the grass and resumed +its interrupted cud. As the evening had grown chill the Thin Woman +and the children huddled close to the warm animal. They drew pieces +of cake from their wallets, and ate these and drank happily from +the vessel of milk. Now and then the cow looked benignantly over +its shoulder bidding them a welcome to its hospitable flanks. It +had a mild, motherly eye, and it was very fond of children. The +youngsters continually deserted their meal in order to put their +arms about the cow’s neck to thank and praise her for her goodness, +and to draw each other’s attention to various excellences in its +appearance. + +“Cow,” said Brigid Beg in an ecstasy, “I love you.” + +“So do I,” said Seumas. “Do you notice the kind of eyes it has?” + +“Why does a cow have horns?” said Brigid. + +So they asked the cow that question, but it only smiled and said +nothing. + +“If a cow talked to you,” said Brigid, “what would it say?” + +“Let us be cows,” replied Seumas, “and then, maybe, we will find +out.” + +So they became cows and ate a few blades of grass, but they found +that when they were cows they did not want to say anything but +“moo,” and they decided that cows did not want to say anything more +than that either, and they became interested in the reflection +that, perhaps, nothing else was worth saying. + +A long, thin, yellow-coloured fly was going in that direction on a +journey, and he stopped to rest himself on the cow’s nose. + +“You are welcome,” said the cow. + +“It’s a great night for travelling,” said the fly, “but one gets +tired alone. Have you seen any of my people about?” + +“No,” replied the cow, “no one but beetles to-night, and they +seldom stop for a talk. You’ve rather a good kind of life, I +suppose, flying about and enjoying yourself.” + +“We all have our troubles,” said the fly in a melancholy voice, and +he commenced to clean his right wing with his leg. + +“Does any one ever lie against your back the way these people are +lying against mine, or do they steal your milk?” + +“There are too many spiders about,” said the fly. + +“No corner is safe from them; they squat in the grass and pounce on +you. I’ve got a twist, my eye trying to watch them. They are ugly, +voracious people without manners or neighbourliness, terrible, +terrible creatures.” + +“I have seen them,” said the cow, “but they never done me any harm. +Move up a little bit please, I want to lick my nose: it’s queer +how itchy my nose gets”—the fly moved up a bit. “If,” the cow +continued, “you had stayed there, and if my tongue had hit you, I +don’t suppose you would ever have recovered.” + +“Your tongue couldn’t have hit me,” said the by. “I move very +quickly you know.” + +Hereupon the cow slily whacked her tongue across her nose. She did +not see the fly move, but it was hovering safely half an inch over +her nose. + +“You see,” said the fly. + +“I do,” replied the cow, and she bellowed so sudden and furious a +snort of laughter that the fly was blown far away by that gust and +never came back again. + +This amused the cow exceedingly, and she chuckled and sniggered +to herself for a long time. The children had listened with great +interest to the conversation, and they also laughed delightedly, +and the Thin Woman admitted that the fly had got the worse of +it; but, after a while, she said that the part of the cow’s back +against which she was resting was bonier than anything she had ever +leaned upon before, and that while thinness was a virtue no one had +any right to be thin in lumps, and that on this count the cow was +not to be commended. On hearing this the cow arose, and without +another look at them it walked away into the dusky field. The Thin +Woman told the children afterwards that she was sorry she had said +anything, but she was unable to bring her self to apologise to the +cow, and so they were forced to resume their journey in order to +keep themselves warm. + +There was a sickle moon in the sky, a tender sword whose radiance +stayed in its own high places and did not at all illumine the heavy +world below; the glimmer of infrequent stars could also be seen +with spacious, dark solitudes between them; but on the earth the +darkness gathered in fold on fold of misty veiling, through which +the trees uttered an earnest whisper, and the grasses lifted their +little voices, and the wind crooned its thrilling, stern lament. + +As the travellers walked on, their eyes, flinching from the +darkness, rested joyfully on the gracious moon, but that joy lasted +only for a little time. The Thin Woman spoke to them curiously +about the moon, and, indeed, she might speak with assurance on that +subject, for her ancestors had sported in the cold beam through +countless dim generations. + +“It is not known,” said she, “that the fairies seldom dance for +joy, but for sadness that they have been expelled from the sweet +dawn, and therefore their midnight revels are only ceremonies +to remind them of their happy state in the morning of the world +before thoughtful curiosity and self-righteous moralities drove +them from the kind face of the sun to the dark exile of midnight. +It is strange that we may not be angry while looking on the moon. +Indeed, no mere appetite or passion of any kind dare become +imperative in the presence of the Shining One; and this, in a more +limited degree, is true also of every form of beauty; for there +is something in an absolute beauty to chide away the desires of +materiality and yet to dissolve the spirit in ecstasies of fear and +sadness. Beauty has no liking for Thought, but will send terror +and sorrow on those who look upon her with intelligent eyes. We +may neither be angry nor gay in the presence of the moon, nor may +we dare to think in her bailiwick, or the Jealous One will surely +afflict us. I think that she is not benevolent but malign, and +that her mildness is a cloak for many shy infamies. I think that +beauty tends to become frightful as it becomes perfect, and that, +if we could see it comprehendingly, the extreme of beauty is a +desolating hideousness, and that the name of ultimate, absolute +beauty is Madness. Therefore men should seek loveliness rather +than beauty, and so they would always have a friend to go beside +them, to understand and to comfort them, for that is the business +of loveliness: but the business of beauty—there is no person +at all knows what that is. Beauty is the extreme which has not +yet swung to and become merged in its opposite. The poets have +sung of this beauty and the philosophers have prophesied of it, +thinking that the beauty which passes all understanding is also +the peace which passeth understanding; but I think that whatever +passes understanding, which is imagination, is terrible, standing +aloof from humanity and from kindness, and that this is the sin +against the Holy Ghost, the great Artist. An isolated perfection +is a symbol of terror and pride, and it is followed only by the +head of man, but the heart winces from it aghast, cleaving to +that loveliness which is modesty and righteousness. Every extreme +is bad, in order that it may swing to and fertilize its equally +horrible opposite.” + +Thus, speaking more to herself than to the children, the Thin Woman +beguiled the way. The moon had brightened as she spoke, and on +either side of the path, wherever there was a tree or a rise in the +ground, a black shadow was crouching tensely watchful, seeming as +if it might spring into terrible life at a bound. Of these shadows +the children became so fearful that the Thin Woman forsook the path +and adventured on the open hillside, so that in a short time the +road was left behind and around them stretched the quiet slopes in +the full shining of the moon. + +When they had walked for a long time the children became sleepy; +they were unused to being awake in the night, and as there was no +place where they could rest, and as it was evident that they could +not walk much further, the Thin Woman grew anxious. Already Brigid +had made a tiny, whimpering sound, and Seumas had followed this +with a sigh, the slightest prolongation of which might have trailed +into a sob, and when children are overtaken by tears they do not +understand how to escape from them until they are simply bored by +much weeping. + +[Illustration: When they topped a slight incline they saw a light +shining some distance away] + +When they topped a slight incline they saw a light shining some +distance away, and toward this the Thin Woman hurried. As they drew +near she saw it was a small fire, and around this some figures were +seated. In a few minutes she came into the circle of the firelight, +and here she halted suddenly. She would have turned and fled, but +fear loosened her knees so that they would not obey her will; +also the people by the fire had observed her, and a great voice +commanded that she should draw near. + +The fire was made of branches of heather, and beside it three +figures sat. The Thin Woman, hiding her perturbation as well as +she could, came nigh and sat down by the fire. After a low word of +greeting she gave some of her cake to the children, drew them close +to her, wrapped her shawl about their heads and bade them sleep. +Then, shrinkingly, she looked at her hosts. + +They were quite naked, and each of them gazed on her with intent +earnestness. The first was so beautiful that the eye failed upon +him, flinching aside as from a great brightness. He was of mighty +stature, and yet so nobly proportioned, so exquisitely slender and +graceful, that no idea of gravity or bulk went with his height. +His face was kingly and youthful and of a terrifying serenity. The +second man was of equal height, but broad to wonderment. So broad +was he that his great height seemed diminished. The tense arm on +which he leaned was knotted and ridged with muscle, and his hand +gripped deeply into the ground. His face seemed as though it had +been hammered from hard rock, a massive, blunt face as rigid as +his arm. The third man can scarcely be described. He was neither +short nor tall. He was muscled as heavily as the second man. As he +sat he looked like a colossal toad squatting with his arms about +his knees, and upon these his chin rested. He had no shape nor +swiftness, and his head was flattened down and was scarcely wider +than his neck. He had a protruding dog-like mouth that twitched +occasionally, and from his little eyes there glinted a horrible +intelligence. Before this man the soul of the Thin Woman grovelled. +She felt herself crawling to him. The last terrible abasement of +which humanity is capable came upon her: a fascination which would +have drawn her to him in screaming adoration. Hardly could she look +away from him, but her arms were about the children, and love, +mightiest of the powers, stirred fiercely in her heart. + +The first man spoke to her. + +“Woman,” said he, “for what purpose do you go abroad on this night +and on this hill?” + +“I travel, sir,” said the Thin Woman, “searching for the Brugh of +Angus the son of the Dagda Mór.” + +“We are all children of the Great Father,” said he. “Do you know +who we are?” + +“I do not know that,” said she. + +“We are the Three Absolutes, the Three Redeemers, the three +Alembics—the Most Beautiful Man, the Strongest Man and the Ugliest +Man. In the midst of every strife we go unhurt. We count the slain +and the victors and pass on laughing, and to us in the eternal +order come all the peoples of the world to be regenerated for ever. +Why have you called to us?” + +“I did not call to you, indeed,” said the Thin Woman; “but why do +you sit in the path so that travellers to the House of the Dagda +are halted on their journey?” + +“There are no paths closed to us,” he replied; “even the gods seek +us, for they grow weary in their splendid desolation—saving Him who +liveth in all things and in us; Him we serve and before His awful +front we abase ourselves. You, O Woman, who are walking in the +valleys of anger, have called to us in your heart, therefore we are +waiting for you on the side of the hill. Choose now one of us to be +your mate, and do not fear to choose, for our kingdoms are equal +and our powers are equal.” + +“Why would I choose one of you,” replied the Thin Woman, “when I am +well married already to the best man in the world?” + +“Beyond us there is no best man,” said he, “for we are the best in +beauty, and the best in strength, and the best in ugliness; there +is no excellence which is not contained in us three. If you are +married what does that matter to us who are free from the pettiness +of jealousy and fear, being at one with ourselves and with every +manifestation of nature.” + +“If,” she replied, “you are the Absolute and are above all +pettiness, can you not be superior to me also and let me pass +quietly on my road to the Dagda!” + +“We are what all humanity desire,” quoth he, “and we desire all +humanity. There is nothing, small or great, disdained by our +immortal appetites. It is not lawful, even for the Absolute, to +outgrow Desire, which is the breath of God quick in his creatures +and not to be bounded or surmounted by any perfection.” + +During this conversation the other great figures had leaned forward +listening intently but saying nothing. The Thin Woman could feel +the children like little, terrified birds pressing closely and very +quietly to her sides. + +“Sir,” said she, “tell me what is Beauty and what is Strength and +what is Ugliness? for, although I can see these things, I do not +know what they are.” + +“I will tell you that,” he replied—“Beauty is Thought and Strength +is Love and Ugliness is Generation. The home of Beauty is the head +of man. The home of Strength is the heart of man, and in the loins +Ugliness keeps his dreadful state. If you come with me you shall +know all delight. You shall live unharmed in the flame of the +spirit, and nothing that is gross shall bind your limbs or hinder +your thought. You shall move as a queen amongst all raging passions +without torment or despair. Never shall you be driven or ashamed, +but always you will choose your own paths and walk with me in +freedom and contentment and beauty.” + +“All things,” said the Thin Woman, “must act according to the order +of their being, and so I say to Thought, if you hold me against my +will presently I will bind you against your will, for the holder +of an unwilling mate becomes the guardian and the slave of his +captive.” + +“That is true,” said he, “and against a thing that is true I cannot +contend; therefore, you are free from me, but from my brethren you +are not free.” + +The Thin Woman turned to the second man. + +“You are Strength?” said she. + +“I am Strength and Love,” he boomed, “and with me there is safety +and peace; my days have honour and my nights quietness. There is +no evil thing walks near my lands, nor is any sound heard but the +lowing of my cattle, the songs of my birds and the laughter of my +happy children. Come then to me who gives protection and happiness +and peace, and does not fail or grow weary at any time.” + +“I will not go with you,” said the Thin Woman, “for I am a mother +and my strength cannot be increased; I am a mother and my love +cannot be added to. What have I further to desire from thee, thou +great man?” + +“You are free of me,” said the second man, “but from my brother you +are not free.” + +Then to the third man the Thin Woman addressed herself in terror, +for to that hideous one something cringed within her in an ecstasy +of loathing. That repulsion which at its strongest becomes +attraction gripped her. A shiver, a plunge, and she had gone, but +the hands of the children withheld her while in woe she abased +herself before him. + +He spoke, and his voice came clogged and painful as though it urged +from the matted pores of the earth itself. + +“There is none left to whom you may go but me only. Do not be +afraid, but come to me and I will give you these wild delights +which have been long forgotten. All things which are crude and +riotous, all that is gross and without limit is mine. You shall +not think and suffer any longer; but you shall feel so surely that +the heat of the sun will be happiness: the taste of food, the wind +that blows upon you, the ripe ease of your body—these things will +amaze you who have forgotten them. My great arms about you will +make you furious and young again; you shall leap on the hillside +like a young goat and sing for joy as the birds sing. Leave this +crabbed humanity that is barred and chained away from joy and come +with me, to whose ancient quietude at the last both Strength and +Beauty will come like children tired in the evening, returning to +the freedom of the brutes and the birds, with bodies sufficient for +their pleasure and with no care for Thought or foolish curiosity.” + +But the Thin Woman drew back from his hand, saying “It is not +lawful to turn again when the journey is commenced, but to go +forward to whatever is appointed; nor may we return to your meadows +and trees and sunny places who have once departed from them. The +torments of the mind may not be renounced for any easement of +the body until the smoke that blinds us is blown away, and the +tormenting flame has fitted us for that immortal ecstasy which is +the bosom of God. Nor is it lawful that ye great ones should beset +the path of travellers, seeking to lure them away with cunning +promises. It is only at the cross-roads ye may sit where the +traveller will hesitate and be in doubt, but on the highway ye have +no power.” + +“You are free of me,” said the third man, “until you are ready +to come to me again, for I only of all things am steadfast +and patient, and to me all return in their seasons. There are +brightnesses in my secret places in the woods, and lamps in my +gardens beneath the hills, tended by the angels of God, and behind +my face there is another face not hated by the Bright Ones.” + +So the three Absolutes arose and strode mightily away; and as they +went their thunderous speech to each other boomed against the +clouds and the earth like a gusty wind, and, even when they had +disappeared, that great rumble could be heard dying gently away in +the moonlit distances. + +The Thin Woman and the children went slowly forward on the rugged, +sloping way. Far beyond, near the distant summit of the hill there +was a light gleaming. + +“Yonder,” said the Thin Woman, “is the Brugh of Angus Mac an Óg, +the son of the Dagda Mór,” and toward this light she assisted the +weary children. + +In a little she was in the presence of the god and by him refreshed +and comforted. She told him all that had happened to her husband +and implored his assistance. This was readily accorded, for the +chief business of the gods is to give protection and assistance +to such of their people as require it; but (and this is their +limitation) they cannot give any help until it is demanded, the +freewill of mankind being the most jealously guarded and holy +principle in life; therefore, the interference of the loving gods +comes only on an equally loving summons. + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +Caitilin Ni Murrachu sat alone in the Brugh of Angus much as she +had sat on the hillside and in the cave of Pan, and again she was +thinking. She was happy now. There was nothing more she could +desire, for all that the earth contained or the mind could describe +was hers. Her thoughts were no longer those shy, subterranean +gropings which elude the hand and the understanding. Each thought +was a thing or a person, visible in its own radiant personal life, +and to be seen or felt, welcomed or repulsed, as was its due. But +she had discovered that happiness is not laughter or satisfaction, +and that no person can be happy for themselves alone. So she had +come to understand the terrible sadness of the gods, and why Angus +wept in secret; for often in the night she had heard him weeping, +and she knew that his tears were for those others who were unhappy, +and that he could not be comforted while there was a woeful person +or an evil deed hiding in the world. Her own happiness also had +become infected with this alien misery, until she knew that nothing +was alien to her, and that in truth all persons and all things were +her brothers and sisters and that they were living and dying in +distress; and at the last she knew that there was not any man but +mankind, nor any human being but only humanity. Never again could +the gratification of a desire give her pleasure for her sense of +oneness was destroyed—she was not an individual only; she was also +part of a mighty organism ordained, through whatever stress, to +achieve its oneness, and this great being was threefold, comprising +in its mighty units God and Man and Nature—the immortal trinity. +The duty of life is the sacrifice of self: it is to renounce the +little ego that the mighty ego may be freed; and, knowing this, +she found at last that she knew Happiness, that divine discontent +which cannot rest nor be at ease until its bourne is attained and +the knowledge of a man is added to the gaiety of a child. Angus +had told her that beyond this there lay the great ecstasy which +is Love and God and the beginning and the end of all things; for +everything must come from the Liberty into the Bondage, that it may +return again to the Liberty comprehending all things and fitted for +that fiery enjoyment. This cannot be until there are no more fools +living, for until the last fool has grown wise wisdom will totter +and freedom will still be invisible. Growth is not by years but by +multitudes, and until there is a common eye no one person can see +God, for the eye of all nature will scarcely be great enough to +look upon that majesty. We shall greet Happiness by multitudes, but +we can only greet Him by starry systems and a universal love. + +She was so thinking when Angus Óg came to her from the fields. The +god was very radiant, smiling like the young morn when the buds +awake, and to his lips song came instead of speech. + +“My beloved,” said he, “we will go on a journey to-day.” + +“My delight is where you go,” said Caitilin. + +“We will go down to the world of men—from our quiet dwelling among +the hills to the noisy city and the multitude of people. This will +be our first journey, but on a time not distant we will go to them +again, and we will not return from that journey, for we will live +among our people and be at peace.” + +“May the day come soon,” said she. + +“When thy son is a man he will go before us on that journey,” said +Angus, and Caitilin shivered with a great delight, knowing that a +son would be born to her. + +[Illustration: Caitilin danced in uncontrollable gaiety] + +Then Angus Óg put upon his bride glorious raiment, and they went +out to the sunlight. It was the early morning, the sun had just +risen and the dew was sparkling on the heather and the grass. There +was a keen stir in the air that stung the blood to joy, so that +Caitilin danced in uncontrollable gaiety, and Angus, with a merry +voice, chanted to the sky and danced also. About his shining head +the birds were flying; for every kiss he gave to Caitilin became a +bird, the messengers of love and wisdom, and they also burst into +triumphant melody, so that the quiet place rang with their glee. +Constantly from the circling birds one would go flying with great +speed to all quarters of space. These were his messengers flying to +every fort and dún, every rath and glen and valley of Eiré to raise +the Sluaige Shee (the Fairy Host). They were birds of love that +flew, for this was a hosting of happiness, and, therefore the Shee +would not bring weapons with them. + +It was towards Kilmasheogue their happy steps were directed, and +soon they came to the mountain. + +After the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath had left the god she visited +all the fairy forts of Kilmasheogue, and directed the Shee who +lived there to be in waiting at the dawn on the summit of the +mountain; consequently, when Angus and Caitilin came up the hill, +they found the six clans coming to receive them, and with these +were the people of the younger Shee, members of the Tuatha da +Danaan, tall and beautiful men and women who had descended to the +quiet underworld when the pressure of the sons of Milith forced +them with their kind enchantments and invincible valour to the +country of the gods. + +Of those who came were Aine Ni Eogáil of Cnoc Aine and Ivil of +Craglea, the queens of North and South Munster, and Una the queen +of Ormond; these, with their hosts, sang upon the summit of the +hill welcoming the god. There came the five guardians of Ulster, +the fomentors of combat:—Brier Mac Belgan of Dromona Breg, Redg +Rotbill from the slopes of Magh-Itar, Tinnel the son of Boclacthna +of Slieve Edlicon, Grici of Cruachán-Aigle, a goodly name, and +Gulban Glas Mac Grici, whose dún is in the Ben of Gulban. These +five, matchless in combat, marched up the hill with their tribes, +shouting as they went. From north and south they came, and from +east and west, bright and happy beings, a multitude, without fear, +without distraction, so that soon the hill was gay with their +voices and their noble raiment. + +Among them came the people of the Lupra, the ancient Leprecauns +of the world, leaping like goats among the knees of the heroes. +They were headed by their king Udán Mac Audain and Beg Mac Beg his +tanist, and, following behind, was Glomhar O’Glomrach of the sea, +the strongest man of their people, dressed in the skin of a weasel; +and there were also the chief men of that clan, well known of old, +Conan Mac Rihid, Gaerku Mac Gairid, Mether Mac Mintan and Esirt +Mac Beg, the son of Bueyen, born in a victory. This king was that +same Udán the chief of the Lupra who had been placed under bonds +to taste the porridge in the great cauldron of Emania, into which +pot he fell, and was taken captive with his wife, and held for five +weary years, until he surrendered that which he most valued in the +world, even his boots: the people of the hills laugh still at the +story, and the Leprecauns may still be mortified by it. + +There came Bove Derg, the Fiery, seldom seen, and his harper the +son of Trogain, whose music heals the sick and makes the sad heart +merry; Rochy Mac Elathan, Dagda Mór, the Father of Stars, and his +daughter from the Cave of Cruachán; Credh Mac Aedh of Raghery and +Cas Corach son of the great Ollav; Mananaan Mac Lir came from his +wide waters shouting louder than the wind, with his daughters +Cliona and Aoife and Etain Fair-Hair; and Coll and Cecht and Mac +Greina, the Plough, the Hazel, and the Sun came with their wives, +whose names are not forgotten, even Banba and Fodla and Eiré, names +of glory. Lugh of the Long-Hand, filled with mysterious wisdom, +was not absent, whose father was sadly avenged on the sons of +Turann—these with their hosts. + +And one came also to whom the hosts shouted with mighty love, even +the Serene One, Dana, the Mother of the gods, steadfast for ever. +Her breath is on the morning, her smile is summer. From her hand +the birds of the air take their food. The mild ox is her friend, +and the wolf trots by her friendly side; at her voice the daisy +peeps from her cave and the nettle couches his lance. The rose +arrays herself in innocence, scattering abroad her sweetness with +the dew, and the oak tree laughs to her in the air. Thou beautiful! +the lambs follow thy footsteps, they crop thy bounty in the meadows +and are not thwarted: the weary men cling to thy bosom everlasting. +Through thee all actions and the deeds of men, through thee all +voices come to us, even the Divine Promise and the breath of the +Almighty from afar laden with goodness. + +With wonder, with delight, the daughter of Murrachu watched the +hosting of the Shee. Sometimes her eyes were dazzled as a jewelled +forehead blazed in the sun, or a shoulder-torque of broad gold +flamed like a torch. On fair hair and dark the sun gleamed: white +arms tossed and glanced a moment and sank and reappeared. The eyes +of those who did not hesitate nor compute looked into her eyes, +not appraising, not questioning, but mild and unafraid. The voices +of free people spoke in her ears and the laughter of happy hearts, +unthoughtful of sin or shame, released from the hard bondage of +selfhood. For these people, though many, were one. Each spoke to +the other as to himself, without reservation or subterfuge. They +moved freely each in his personal whim, and they moved also with +the unity of one being: for when they shouted to the Mother of the +gods they shouted with one voice, and they bowed to her as one man +bows. Through the many minds there went also one mind, correcting, +commanding, so that in a moment the interchangeable and fluid +became locked, and organic with a simultaneous understanding, a +collective action-which was freedom. + +While she looked the dancing ceased, and they turned their faces +with one accord down the mountain. Those in the front leaped +forward, and behind them the others went leaping in orderly +progression. + +Then Angus Óg ran to where she stood, his bride of Beauty “Come, my +beloved,” said he, and hand in hand they raced among the others, +laughing as they ran. + +Here there was no green thing growing; a carpet of brown turf +spread to the edge of sight on the sloping plain and away to +where another mountain soared in the air. They came to this and +descended. In the distance, groves of trees could be seen, and, +very far away, the roofs and towers and spires of the Town of the +Ford of Hurdles, and the little roads that wandered everywhere; but +on this height there was only prickly furze growing softly in the +sunlight; the bee droned his loud song, the birds flew and sang +occasionally, and the little streams grew heavy with their falling +waters. A little further and the bushes were green and beautiful, +waving their gentle leaves in the quietude, and beyond again, +wrapped in sunshine and peace, the trees looked on the world from +their calm heights, having no complaint to make of anything. + +In a little they reached the grass land and the dance began. Hand +sought for hand, feet moved companionably as though they loved each +other; quietly intimate they tripped without faltering, and, then, +the loud song arose—they sang to the lovers of gaiety and peace, +long defrauded “Come to us, ye who do not know where ye are—ye who +live among strangers in the house of dismay and self-righteousness. +Poor, awkward ones! How bewildered and bedevilled ye go! Amazed ye +look and do not comprehend, for your eyes are set upon a star and +your feet move in the blessed kingdoms of the Shee Innocents! in +what prisons are ye flung? To what lowliness are ye bowed? How are +ye ground between the laws and the customs? The dark people of the +Fomor have ye in thrall; and upon your minds they have fastened a +band of lead, your hearts are hung with iron, and about your loins +a cincture of brass impressed, woeful! Believe it, that the sun +does shine, the flowers grow, and the birds sing pleasantly in the +trees. The free winds are everywhere, the water tumbles on the +hills, the eagle calls aloud through the solitude, and his mate +comes speedily. The bees are gathering honey in the sunlight, the +midges dance together, and the great bull bellows across the river. +The crow says a word to his brethren, and the wren snuggles her +young in the hedge.... Come to us, ye lovers of life and happiness. +Hold out thy hand—a brother shall seize it from afar. Leave the +plough and the cart for a little time: put aside the needle and the +awl—Is leather thy brother, O man?... Come away! come away! from +the loom and the desk, from the shop where the carcasses are hung, +from the place where raiment is sold and the place where it is sewn +in darkness: O bad treachery! Is it for joy you sit in the broker’s +den, thou pale man? Has the attorney enchanted thee?... Come away! +for the dance has begun lightly, the wind is sounding over the +hill, the sun laughs down into the valley, and the sea leaps upon +the shingle, panting for joy, dancing, dancing, dancing for joy....” + +They swept through the goat tracks and the little boreens and the +curving roads. Down to the city they went dancing and singing; +among the streets and the shops telling their sunny tale; not +heeding the malignant eyes and the cold brows as the sons of Balor +looked sidewards. And they took the Philosopher from his prison, +even the Intellect of Man they took from the hands of the doctors +and lawyers, from the sly priests, from the professors whose mouths +are gorged with sawdust, and the merchants who sell blades of +grass—the awful people of the Fomor . . . and then they returned +again, dancing and singing, to the country of the gods.... + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CROCK OF GOLD *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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