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SELECTED WRITINGS 
 OF WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 UNIFORM EDITION 
 ARRANGED BY 
 Mrs. WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 VOLUME V 
 
VISTAS 
 
 THE GYPSY CHRIST AND 
 OTHER PROSE IMAGININGS 
 BY WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 MRS. WILLIAM SHARP 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY. 
 
 1921 
 

 Copyright, 1894, by 
 STONE & KIMBALL 
 
 Copyright, 1912, by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 
 Printed in U. S. A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 Vistas 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Foreword 3 
 
 Finis ii 
 
 The Passion of P^re Hilarion . ... 23 
 
 The Birth of a Soul 51 
 
 A Northern Night 63 
 
 The Black Madonna 93 
 
 The Last Quest 119 
 
 The Fallen God 1:29 
 
 The Coming of the Prince 137 
 
 The Passing of Lilith 151 
 
 The Lute-Player 169 
 
 The Whisperer 183 
 
 PART II 
 From Madge 0' the Pool 
 
 Madge o' the Pool: A Thames Etching . . 197 
 
 The Gypsy Christ 247 
 
 The Lady in Hosea 313 
 
 PART III 
 EccE Puella and Other Prose Imaginings 
 
 EccE Puella 333 
 
 Fragments from the Lost Journals of Piero 
 
 Di CosiMO 379 
 
 The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 413 
 
 The Hill-Wind 425 
 
 Love in a Mist 435 
 
 The Sister of Compassion 451 
 
 The Merchant of Dreams 459 
 
 Bibliographical Note 483 
 
PART I 
 
 Vistas 
 
FOREWORD 
 To H, M. Alden 
 
 In dedicating to you this American edition 
 of "" Vistas " I am in the position of one of 
 those islanders of old who offered their rude 
 iron in exchange for wrought gold. They, 
 however, bartered in all innocence: while I, for 
 my part, know too well that nothing you can 
 find herein can give you the same deep and 
 lasting pleasure I have had in your beautiful 
 and moving book, — the book of a lifelong 
 dream, of a lifetime reverie, full of strange 
 beauty, spiritual, wrought out of lovely 
 thoughts into lovely words. 
 
 How well I remember the day when I first 
 saw the Hudson in its autumnal glory! But 
 memorable as that day is, shared with you and 
 a dear common friend, poet and veteran 
 critic, — in the '' sixties " now, so far as years 
 go, but in the wonderful ''twenties" in all 
 else, — my most living memory is of those 
 proof-sheets of '^ The Following Love '' which 
 were entrusted to me, and made upon my mind 
 so indelible an impression} 
 
 1 Now, and so far less happily, surely, called " God 
 in his World" (Harpers'). 
 
 3 
 
Foreword 
 
 Two years later I was with you again, when 
 the shadow of ill lay almost more darkly upon 
 you yourself than upon the blithe, heroic suf- 
 ferer: and by that time I knew your book 
 intimately, and had learned much from it. 
 Then, too, I was able to show you one of these 
 " Vistas/' and to hear generous words in praise 
 of what at best was a passing breath of music, 
 as fugitive, and perhaps as meaningless to 
 most people, as those faint airs heard by my 
 charcoal-burner in the forest, as intangible as 
 that odour of white violets which came and 
 went with each delicate remote strain. 
 
 You asked me then what my aim was in 
 those '^dramatic interludes" which, collect- 
 ively, I call '' Vistas," I could not well ex- 
 plain: nor can I do so now. After all, I 
 could make only a redundant use of the title. 
 All are vistas into the inner life of the human 
 soul, psychic episodes. One or two are di- 
 rectly autopsychical, others are renderings of 
 dramatically conceived impressions of spiritual 
 emotion; to two or three no quotation could 
 be more apt than that of the Spanish novelist, 
 Emilia Par do Bazan: ''Enter with me into 
 the dark zone of the human soul." These 
 ''Vistas'' were written at intervals: the most 
 intimate, in the spiritual sense, so long ago as 
 the spring of 1886, when, during recovery 
 
Foreword 
 
 from a long and nearly fatal illness, " Lilith " 
 came to me as a vision and was withheld in 
 words as soon as I could put pen to paper. 
 Another was written in Rome, after a vain 
 effort to express adequately in a different 
 form the episode of death-menaced and death- 
 haunted love among those remote Scottish 
 wilds where so much of my childhood and 
 boyhood and early youth was spent. Some of 
 my critics say that " Vistas " is hut an English 
 reflection of the Maeterlinckian fire. Two of 
 the most Maeterlinckian are, by those critics, 
 held to be ''A Northern Night'' and ''The 
 Passing of Lilith," — creations, if such they 
 may be called, anterior to the fortunate hour 
 when I came for the first time upon "La 
 Princesse Maleine" and " L'lntruse." 
 
 I say '' the fortunate hour," for almost from 
 the first moment it seemed clear to me that the 
 Belgian poet-dramatist had introduced a new 
 and vital literary form. It is one that many 
 had been seeking, — stumblingly, among them, 
 the author of " Vistas," — but Maurice Mae- 
 terlinck wrought the crude material into a 
 form at for swift and dexterous use, at once 
 subtle and simple. The exaggerations of his 
 admirable method were obvious from the first; 
 in " Ulntruse " even, more markedly in " Les 
 Aveugles/' unmistakably in "La Princesse 
 
Foreword 
 
 Maleine:" and, it must be added, still more 
 prominently in his later productions. But he 
 saw that there was a borderland for the Im- 
 agination, between the realms of Prose and 
 Poetry. He discerned the need, even though 
 it should be but the occasional need, — for 
 after all it is only an addition to the old for- 
 mulas that we seek, — of a more elastic method 
 than any exercised in our day, one that would 
 not restrict the elusive imagination nor yet 
 burden it with verbal juggleries and license. 
 There is room for the Imagination in Prose: 
 there is room for the Imagination in Verse: 
 there is room, also, for the Imagination in the 
 vague, misty, beautiful borderlands. Of 
 course there is nothing radically new in M, 
 Maeterlinck's method. The Greek dramatists, 
 the French, and, among others, Calderon nota- 
 bly, have all preceded him: the miracle-plays 
 are " Maeterlinckian: '' the actual form as now 
 identified with his name was first used by his 
 contemporary, Charles Van Lerberghe, in 
 *' Les Flaireurs,'' Probably there is never any 
 quite new literary method. Certainly the 
 greatest writers were not creators of the form 
 or forms they adopted: Aeschylus, Sophocles, 
 Euripides, Shakespeare, Racine, Goethe, Hugo. 
 But after all, these things matter little. The 
 " form',' be it what it may, is open to all. Our 
 
 6 
 
Foreword 
 
 concern should be, not with the accident of 
 formal similitude, but with the living and con- 
 vincing reality behind the form, created or 
 adapted or frankly adopted. No one would 
 dream of an imputation upon a poefs original- 
 ity if he choose to express himself in the 
 sonnet form, the most hackneyed of all verse- 
 formulas and yet virginal to each new wooer 
 who is veritably son to Apollo. 
 
 A great creative period is at hand. Prob- 
 ably a great dramatic epoch. But what will 
 for one thing differentiate it from any prede- 
 cessor is the new complexity, the new subtlety, 
 in apprehension, in formative conception, in 
 imaginative rendering. 
 
 William Sharp. 
 
 1894. 
 
Enter with me into the dark 
 zone of the human soul. 
 
 — Emilia Pabuoo Bazan, 
 
Finis 
 
. . . Blood for blood. 
 
 Bitter requital on the dead is fallen, 
 
 Euripides: Electra, 
 
FINIS 
 
 [An obscure wood, at whose frontiers nei- 
 ther night nor day prevails, but only a 
 dread twilight, a brief way beyond the 
 portals of the Grave. In the vast vault 
 overhead no cloud moveth, no star 
 shineth.] 
 
 THE PHANTOM OF THE MAN 
 
 The shadows deepen. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 [Blind with the darkness of death.] On! 
 Onr 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 This way let us go. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Chill, chill, the breath from the Grave. 
 Would that I too were dead. 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 The wood is dark, and the shadows deepen. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Canst thou see nought f Dost thou see 
 nothingf 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 I see nought. I see no one. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 This awful silence! 
 
 II 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 Two shadows only — two shadows in the 
 Hollow Land that move. We are they. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Dost thou not hear ? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 What? 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Afar off, as in the heart of the wood, a 
 strange sighing. 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 Is it the wind of Death ? 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Is it the perishing lamentation of the dead .'• 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 I see vast avenues penetrating the darkness 
 of the wood. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 And there is no one there? There is 
 nought visible? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 No shadow moves. No branch stirs. But 
 always, always, leaves are falling: shadowless, 
 soundless. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Let us go back : let us go back ! It may be 
 that in the Grave there is a place of rest! 
 
 12 
 
Finis 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 I see the portals no more. A mist has risen. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 What lies behind us? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 Dim avenues. No shadow moves. No 
 branch stirs. But always, always, leaves are 
 falling: shadowless, soundless. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Which way came we? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 I know not. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Whither go we ? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 I know not. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Did we perish ere we entered the dark way 
 of the Grave? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 The body died. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 [Terrified,] Who art thou? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 Thou, 
 
 [The Soul of the Man staggers wildly 
 away, with outstretched arms, with lips 
 
 13 
 
William Sharp 
 
 moving in agony, but silent. The Phan- 
 tom of the Man stands motionless. In 
 a brief while the Soul has wandered in 
 a circle back to the place whence it 
 started.] 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 The shadows deepen. Let us go. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 [In the bitterness of anguish.] I am as a 
 leaf blown by the wind. 
 
 [They move through the gloom of a vast 
 avenue. There is no sound, no stir, no 
 shadow, though ever there are falling 
 leaves that fade into the under-dark- 
 ness. From afar, within the hollow of 
 the wood, there comes a faint sighing, 
 that is as the sea in calm or as a wind 
 that swoons upon the pastures, but is 
 not any wind that breathes on any sea.] 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Doth it grow more dark ? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 There is no change. It is neither day nor 
 night. But far away the avenues reach into 
 utter blackness. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Doth a wind blow in the Shadow of Death ? 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 No wind bloweth through the Hollow Land, 
 
 14 
 
Finis 
 
 though from the darkness beyond cometh a 
 faint sighing. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 Dead prayers — dead hopes — dead dreams ! 
 
 [A long silence: and still the twain move 
 
 down the sombre avenues of the wood. 
 
 There is no sound, no stir — only the 
 
 fall of leaves forever and ever.] 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 A great weakness is come upon me. I can 
 fare no further. 
 
 THE SOUL 
 
 [Terrified,] Leave me not alone! Leave 
 me not! Leave me not! 
 
 THE PHANTOM 
 
 Behold, another cometh. I perish. 
 
 [The soul stretched out its hands to its 
 fellow, but nought can stay the fading 
 and the falling of the leaf. From 
 another avenue come two figures, the 
 one leading the other.] 
 
 THE PHANTOM OF THE WOMAN 
 
 I am weary of the long quest. As a leaf 
 goeth before the wind, I go. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Leave me not alone ! Leave me not ! Leave 
 me not. 
 
 [The Soul of the Woman stretcheth out its 
 hands to its fellow, but nought can stay 
 the fading and the falling of the leaf.] 
 
 15 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 [ Whispering,] O Death, give me thy sting ! 
 O Grave, suffer me to be thy victim ! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Where art thou? Where art thou — thou 
 who wast myself? 
 
 [The Soul of the Man stops, trembles, lis- 
 tens intently. Through the profound 
 silence the leaves fall, but none seeth; 
 for the Soul of the Man is blind, and 
 blind the Soul of the Woman.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 [In deep awe.] Doth aught pass by? 
 
 [Profound silence.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 For the love of life, I beseech thee, art 
 thou, who art in the silence, even as I am ? 
 
 [Profound silence.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 {In terror.] It is Death. 
 
 [Profound silence.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 \_In a low whisper.] At last! At last! 
 
 [Slowly the Soul of the Woman advances. 
 The Soul of the Man listens intently, and 
 an awful fear is upon him.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Speak, thou that comest! 
 
 i6 
 
Finis 
 
 [There is a faint echo as of a rustling 
 sound.] 
 
 It IS leaves blown by the wind ! 
 
 [There is an echo as of a rustling sound, 
 nearer, and nearer, and nearer.] 
 
 What art thou? 
 
 [The faint rustling steps are close by. 
 With tremulous, groping hands the Soul 
 of the Man moves away, and then, par- 
 alyzed with terror, goes no further. He 
 hears the faint steps encircling him, 
 slowly, slowly. It is as of one groping 
 blindly.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 [Whispering.] It is he! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Who Spoke? Who comes? Oh, my God, 
 why hast Thou forsaken me? 
 
 [A low, thin sighing from afar in the dark- 
 ness of the wood, as though of all dead 
 prayers, dead hopes, dead dreams.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 [Crying shrilly in his terror,] Who comes? 
 Who comes? 
 
 [The Soul of the Woman draws nigh, till 
 it stands beside the other. Then with 
 outstretched arms she gropes for hint 
 whom she seeketh. The Soul of the 
 the Man cowers, sobbing in agony.] 
 
 17 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Thou knowest. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Yea, even so at the last, for death cometh 
 unto all. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Have pity upon me, Agatha! Hast thou 
 come to slay? 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Thou knowest. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Death! Death! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 I have waited long. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 My sin — my sin — is there no expiation? 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Yea, verily, at the last. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Oh, inner heart of hell ! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 There is no heaven and no hell but upon the 
 earth. And unto some is heaven, and unto 
 some is hell : but woe unto those by whom hell 
 
 18 
 
Finis 
 
 is wrought for another, for his end is undying 
 death and the horror of the grave. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Have mercy upon me! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Thou wert my hell. 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE MAN 
 
 Have mercy upon me! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Thou didst take the fresh life and pollute it 
 with evil — thou didst seek me out to defile me 
 — thou didst fling me into the mire and 
 trample upon me — thou didst laugh me to 
 scorn and drag me through the depths — and 
 at the last, when once, only once, one gleam of 
 brightness, one gleam of joy, came to me, thou 
 didst foul it as death corrupts the carrion of 
 the body, and didst work for me woe within 
 woe, and hell within hell. 
 
 [The Soul of the Man suddenly throws his 
 arms on high as though to ward a blow : 
 then stoops, and flees like the wind 
 down a sombre avenue of the obscure 
 wood. For minutes, for hours — he 
 knoweth not, he careth not — he goeth 
 thus. Then, all at once, he stops; for 
 nearer, nearer, he hears the sighing from 
 the midmost of the darkness, the sigh- 
 ing as of dead prayers, dead hopes, dead 
 
 19 
 

 William Sharp 
 
 dreams. Suddenly there is a faint sound 
 as of blown leaves. It draweth near.] 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 For thou hast wrought woe within woe for 
 me, and hell within hell. 
 
 [The Soul of the Man staggers dumbly, 
 stretches forth unavailing arms, and 
 knoweth the agony of the second death. 
 Then wildly, and with a triumphing 
 cry—] 
 
 At the least I slew him — at the least I 
 strangled him where he lay ! 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN 
 
 Was it thus ? 
 
 [With a strange perishing cry the Soul of 
 the Woman springs upon the other, and, 
 clasping with both hands, strangles the 
 Soul of the Man. 
 And in the sombre twilight of the vast ave- 
 nues of the wood there is no sound; and 
 in the darkness nought stirs, save the 
 leaves falling forever, forever. Only 
 from afar, in the uttermost darkness, 
 there is a low sighing, that passeth not, 
 that changeth not, and is as the vanish- 
 ing breath of dead prayers, dead hopes, 
 dead dreams.] 
 
 20 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
SiRIA 
 
 Voire amour lui serait Vorage. 
 
 NURH 
 
 Je Vaime, 
 
 SiRIA 
 
 Malheur a lui. 
 
 NURH 
 
 Je Vaime. 
 
 SiRIA 
 
 Malheur a vous, 
 
 Le Barbare. 
 
THE PASSION OF P£RE HILARION. 
 
 [A small, dark room, opening from the Sac- 
 risty of the Church of Notre Dame, in 
 the village of Haut-Pre, on the French 
 side of the Meuse. In the room, which 
 is windowless, there is no light save the 
 dull, yellow flicker from an iron cruse 
 suspended from the low roof. Nought 
 else is visible save a small iron bell jut- 
 ting out above the door, connected with 
 the outside by a string passing through 
 a hole in the highest panel, and, on the 
 further wall, a heavy metal crucifix. 
 On the floor a man, in a priest's robes, 
 lies at full length, face downward. 
 Every now and then a convulsive shud- 
 der passes over his frame. He has lain 
 thus for long, uttering no words, but 
 praying silently with a passion that rends 
 him. At last, with a low, sobbing sigh, 
 Hilarion the priest rises, stands passively 
 for a few moments, and then slowly 
 advances till he is close to the crucifix.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Wilt Thou not hearken to my cry, O Thou 
 
 who savest? 
 
 23 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [A faint, dull resonance of his voice haunts 
 the room for a few moments; then si- 
 lence as of the tomb.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [With broken, supplicating voice.] O Thou 
 who hast passioned, wilt Thou not have pity 
 upon me in this mine agony? Lord, Lord, 
 wilt Thou not save? Lo, I am younger than 
 Thou wert when Thy bloody sweat fell in 
 Gethsemane! Have compassion upon me, O 
 Christ compassionate! I am but a man, and 
 the burden of my manhood, the bitter burden 
 of my youth, is heavy upon me. 
 
 [The dull, fading echo of a human voice; 
 then silence as of the grave.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Speak, Lord. 
 
 Show me a sign! 
 
 O Thou who wast crucified for me, hearken ! 
 
 Friend, O Brother, O Heavenly Love, I 
 beseech Thee! 
 
 Jesus, Son of Mary, wilt Thou not hear? 
 
 1 cry to Thee, O Son of God ! 
 I cry to Thee, O Son of Man ! 
 
 [He bows his head, and waits for he knows 
 not what, his lips twitching, and hands 
 clasping and unclasping. Then, sud- 
 denly:] 
 
 24 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 What wilt Thou, O Son of Man? Am I 
 not Thy Brother? 
 
 [Leaning forward, and speaking slowly:] 
 
 x\rt Thou dead indeed, O Thou who was 
 crucified ? 
 
 [The dull beat of sound around the walls: 
 then silence as of deep night] 
 
 I perish! 
 
 Stretch forth Thy hand and save ! 
 
 I perish! 
 
 [Faintly round the tomb-like walls breathes 
 the echo of the word: Perish. Then 
 silence, chill and still as death.] 
 
 I am but a man, O God ! 
 I am but a man, O Christ ! 
 My sin is oversweet, and the world calls me, 
 and I die daily, hourly^ yea, every bitter mo- 
 ment! 
 
 [With a fierce cry, and wild gesture with 
 his arms:] 
 
 What wouldst Thou? Doth not my neck 
 break beneath the yoke? 
 
 [Suddenly he throws his priestly robe from 
 off him. Beneath he has but a garment 
 of hair and coarse serge, girt round the 
 waist by a long rope heavily knotted. 
 This also he removes, and then winds 
 one end of the rope round his right 
 
 25 
 
William Sharp 
 
 wrist. With swift sweep he swings the 
 knotted rope above his head, and brings 
 it down upon his quivering sides. 
 Slowly and steadily the knotted rope 
 rises, circles, falls; moment after mo- 
 ment, minute after minute. At the last, 
 one, two, three of the great weals along 
 the man's back and sides break, and the 
 flesh hangs purple-red, and the blood 
 runs in thin scarlet streams down his 
 thighs. Then, with a low cry, he throws 
 down the rope and sinks on his knees, 
 quivering with agony and exhaustion.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [With a low, choking sob.] "Come unto 
 Me, ye that are v^eary and heavy-laden, and I 
 will give you rest.'' 
 
 [The bell over the door clangs loudly. The 
 priest slowly rises, puts on his hair shirt 
 and stanches the blood as best he can, 
 girds the rope about his waist, and dons 
 again his long black robes. He is calm 
 now, and deathly pale. Before he leaves, 
 the Penitents* room he makes a grave 
 obeisance before the crucifix, but in si- 
 lence and with downcast eyes. He goes 
 forth, and through the Sacristy to a side 
 door, opening on to a wide, deserted vil- 
 lage street. He stands in the doorway, 
 looking out as in a dream. The day is 
 far spent, and the shadows gather and 
 lengthen. In an old inn, opposite, from 
 
 26 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 an open window, contes a woman's joy- 
 ous laughter. The priest does not move, 
 and seems neither to hear nor to see. 
 A little later, the deep voice of a man 
 slowly chants to a strange, monotonous 
 tune:] 
 
 '' Elle est retrouvee, 
 Quoi? V eternite, 
 Cest la met allee. 
 Avec le soleil/' ^ 
 
 [The priest Hilarion abruptly turns away, 
 muttering, as though in fierce pain, Oh, 
 God! Oh, God! He passes into the 
 Sacristy, and stands idly by a desk, 
 brooding on the thing that is in his 
 mind. A bell suddenly rings again. 
 The sacristan enters and says that a 
 woman is at the third confessional, and 
 asks for Father Hilarion. He slowly 
 leaves, and walks down the aisle toward 
 his place, with bent head and heavy 
 steps. As he reaches the box he looks 
 back through the church toward the 
 altar, where a young priest is leisurely 
 lighting the candles. Below his breath 
 he mutters:] 
 
 Avec le soleiL'^ 
 [He enters the box and seats himself. A 
 
 '" Cest la mer allee 
 1 ** Les Illuminations." 
 
 27 
 
William Sharp 
 
 woman — veiled — tall, young, and with 
 a figure of strange grace and beauty, is 
 on her knees.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Quietly.] My daughter. 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [Hurriedly.] My father, my heart is . . . 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Abruptly rising, but seating himself again.] 
 Anais ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Yes, Father Hilarion, it is I. No, no, I 
 cannot call you so! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Hush ! Anais, God is pitiful. We will praj 
 for His help, and that of His holy Son, and 
 that of the Blessed Mary. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 There is no help but in ourselves. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Here we are as shadows in a fevered dream. 
 The voice of Eternity. . . . 
 
 [Stops abruptly, as in his ears rises an echo 
 of the song:] 
 
 " L'eternite. . . . 
 28 
 
 I 1 1 ■ I I ITM^^TII 
 
The Passion of P^re Hilarion 
 
 C'est la mer allee 
 Avec le soleiL" 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 My heart breaks. The time has come: I 
 must speak — and you, Hilarion — No, no, 
 you must stay! Father Hilarion, I command 
 you, as my priest, as my spiritual director ! I 
 must confess. 
 
 [She removes her veil, and in Hilarion's 
 face a flush rises and fades as he looks 
 again upon a face of such rare, sur- 
 passing beauty that even in dreams, be- 
 fore he first saw it, he had never be- 
 held one lovelier, aught so lovely. 
 An acolyte, with a tall wax taper, passing 
 by again, hears the swift whispering, 
 the low, ardent tones of a woman's 
 voice: and, once or twice, the deep mur- 
 mur of Father Hilarion.] 
 
 ANAi'S 
 
 Better than the dream of heaven! He is 
 my paradise ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 My daughter, this love is madness. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Then better so. I am mad. Oh^ are you a 
 man ? Do you not understand ? I love him — 
 I love him — I love him ! 
 
 29 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HILARION 
 
 My daughter, you must tell me all. What 
 is this secret thing that lies betwixt you and — 
 and this man? 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Hilarion ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [^Troubled.] Anais, my daughter! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Hilarion ! 
 
 [Hilarion half rises, then seats himself 
 again. His face has grown paler, and 
 his hand trembles.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 Oh, my God, how I love him ! What is the 
 world to me? What is this paradise you 
 dream of, this heaven you preach ? He is my 
 heaven, my paradise, my heart's delight, my 
 life itself, my very soul! 
 
 [Anais bends forward, but hides her face 
 from Hilarion, and sobs convulsively. 
 The priest stares fixedly above her head 
 into the gloom of the church beyond 
 the uncurtained doorway.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [In a low voice.] Most Blessed Virgin- 
 Mother, have pity ! 
 
 [There is silence for some moments. 
 
 30 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 Anais slowly lifts her head and looks at 
 the priest, who still stares fixedly into 
 the gloom.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [In a faint whisper. '\ Beyond words ! Be- 
 yond thought ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Mary, Mother of Pity, hearken ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 {Quivering, as she clasps her hands to- 
 gether,] Life is a dream, and the dream is 
 brief. O Love, Love, Love! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Mater Consolatrix, save, oh, save! 
 
 [The grating, long loose, gives way, and 
 falls with a clang upon the stone floor. 
 Tremulously the priest lets his hand 
 fall upon the head of Anais. Suddenly 
 she takes his icy hand in hers, aflame 
 as with fever.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 My daughter, it is a sin to love so wildly. 
 Only to God. ... 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [In a loud, mocking voice,] Only to God! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Hush, my daughter. I . . . 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Hilarion ! 
 
 31 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Speaking low and hurriedly,] My daugh- 
 ter, I am a priest. Thou must speak to me as 
 to thy spiritual father. I . . . 
 
 ANAifS 
 
 Three years ago, Hilarion . . . 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Anais, Anais! 
 
 [Anais bows her head over the priest's 
 hand, and her lips are pressed against it. 
 His face is deathly pale, and on his fore- 
 head are drops of sweat. With a sud- 
 den movement he extricates his hand 
 from her grasp.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Murmuring,] It is killing me! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [With a great effort,] My daughter, there 
 is neither rest, nor peace, nor beauty, nor hap- 
 piness, nor content, nor any weal whatever in 
 this world, save in . . . 
 
 [Anais raises her head and looks at him. 
 He speaks no further. There is deep 
 silence in the church, save for the shuf- 
 fling step of an old beggar-woman, who 
 slowly moves through the dusk, and at 
 last sinks wearily on her knees.] 
 
 THE BEGGAR-WOMAN 
 
 [Repeating a prayer of the Church,] " For 
 
 32 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilanon 
 
 this is Thy Kingdom, and we are Thy children, 
 O heavenly King ! " 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Mechanically,] And we are Thy children ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [With a low, shuddering voice,] And this 
 is Thy Kingdom. 
 
 [Hilarion rises suddenly, as if about to go.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 My daughter, confess to the Blessed Mary 
 herself. She will give you peace. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 There is no peace for me. I love him with 
 all my heart and all my soul and all my life, 
 and I know that he loves me beyond all his 
 dreams of heaven and hell. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Hoarsely,] Who is this man? 
 
 ANA'iS 
 
 He is a priest. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Murmuring, half to himself,] " He who 
 transgresseth in this wise shall go down into 
 the pit, and his undying death shall be terror 
 beyond terror, and horror within horror." 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 And for one kiss from his lips I would 
 
 33 
 
William Sharp 
 
 barter this life ; for one hour of love I would 
 exchange this dream of a Paradise that shall 
 not be. He is my day of sunshine and joy, 
 he is my night of mystery and beatitude. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Trembling.] The curse shall lie heavy 
 upon him. . . . 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Oh, joy of life! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 And upon you! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Oh, the glad sunlight, the free air, the sing- 
 ing of birds; everywhere, everywhere, the 
 pulse of the world ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 All that live shall die. 
 
 ANAJiS 
 
 And the dead know not: and if perchance 
 they dream, it is Life. 
 
 [The voice of the Beggar-woman sounds 
 hoarsely in the deepening gloom:] 
 
 " For in this life nought availeth, and only 
 in the grave — " 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Whispering, as she draws closer to the 
 aperture,] Only in the grave! — O Heart of 
 Love! 
 
 34 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [In a strained voice.] And this man — 
 this priest? 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Thou knowest him. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Better for him that he had never been born. 
 Better — 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [In a low, thrilling voice,] Hilarion! 
 Hilarion ! 
 
 [The priest trembles as though in an ague. 
 Anais again whispers, '* Hilarion ! ''] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Hurriedly.] My daughter, I must go. I 
 have to officiate. 
 
 ANAiS 
 
 For the last time, Hilarion. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Go, woman ! We are in the hands of God. 
 I — 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 I die to-night. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Anais ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [With a passionate sob.] My darling, my 
 darling! O Love, Love, Love! 
 
 35 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [A bell clangs suddenly, and a young priest 
 enters the church from behind the altar, 
 bearing a light.] 
 
 THE BEGGAR-WOMAN 
 
 [Mumbling loudly, as she rises to her feet,] 
 " For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and 
 the Glory — " 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Whispering eagerly.] Where? Where? 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Slowly, and as if in a dream.] By the 
 bend of the river at Grand-Pre: where the 
 Calvary of the seven willows is : an hour after 
 moonrise. 
 
 [Anais hesitates a moment, then abruptly 
 turns away and leaves the church. Hila- 
 rion passes into the aisle: walking 
 slowly, with bent head, and lips moving 
 as though in prayer. The young priest 
 comes toward him.] 
 
 THE YOUNG PRIEST 
 
 Is it well with thee, Hilarion, my brother? 
 Thou seemest in the shadow of trouble. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Suddenly raising his head, and with a 
 clear, ringing voice,] It is well with me. 
 
 THE YOUNG PRIEST 
 
 And thou hast peace ? 
 
 36 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Yea, at the last I have found peace. 
 
 THE YOUNG PRIEST 
 
 May, too, the joy that likewise passeth un- 
 derstanding — 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Interrupting, in a strange voice.] Verily, 
 it also hath come unto me at the last. 
 
 [He passes on, with head erect and flashing 
 eyes. The young priest looks after him.] 
 
 THE YOUNG PRIEST 
 
 He is a dreamer — but a saint. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [To himself as he passes beyond the altar,~\ 
 Yea, the joy that likewise passeth under- 
 standing. 
 
 [The choristers are practising their chant of 
 the day.] 
 Mere celeste de la Pitie! 
 De toute Eternite. 
 
 HILARION (passes muttering), 
 '' Elle est retrouvee, 
 Quoi? U eternite — " 
 
 [The choristers singing:] 
 
 On a retrouve 
 O Mere bien-aimee. 
 Ton doux conseil — 
 HILARION {slowly, OS he passes from sight). 
 
 37 
 
William Sharp 
 
 '' C'est la mer allee 
 Avec le soleiH' 
 
 [Three hours later. The church is closed. 
 The village is swathed in darkness, save 
 for a few lights here and there. Across 
 the great meadow that divides the vil- 
 lage from the river moves a tall figure 
 clothed in priest's robes. The dew upon 
 the high grasses glistens with a faint 
 sheen where swept by his skirts. A few 
 emerald-green fireflies wander hither and 
 thither through the gloom. A breath of 
 wind comes and goes, bearing with it 
 a vague fragrance of hay and roses 
 and meadow-sweet. Once the priest 
 stops and listens; but he hears nothing 
 save the distant barking of a dog, and, 
 close by, the stealthy wash of flowing 
 water. Beyond the marshes of Haut-Pre 
 the moon has risen. The marsh-water 
 gleams like amber in torchlight. The 
 priest moves on. As he draws nearer 
 the river he sees, looming in a confused 
 mass through the obscurity, the group 
 of seven willows in the front of which 
 stands the great Calvary. A sudden 
 short essay of song thrills through the 
 dusk. Then the nightingale is still. As 
 the priest approaches the willows their 
 upper branches glow as with dull gold 
 in the welling wave of moon-rise. He 
 descries the high ash-gray mass of the 
 Calvary through their heavy boughs, 
 and, beyond, the moving blackness, shot 
 
 38 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 with furtive gleams and sudden spear- 
 like shafts of pale light, of the river. 
 He passes the willows and stops as he 
 nears the Calvary. He sees no one. 
 Slowly moving forward, he stands on 
 the bank of the river, and looks upon 
 the dull, obscure flow of the water. 
 Suddenly he turns and goes back to 
 the Calvary, which he faces. A long, 
 wavering shaft of moonlight illumes the 
 woe-wrought face of the carven Christ. 
 The priest stands with crossed arms, 
 staring fixedly at the moonlit features of 
 the God. The green fireflies wander fit- 
 fully betwixt him and the image: he 
 sees them not. The nightingale gives 
 three thrilling cries, passionate vibra- 
 tions of forlornest music: he hears theni 
 not. 
 Through the tall dew-drenched grasses be- 
 yond there is a soft susurrus. The 
 priest's ears are charmed, for still, with 
 crossed arms, he stands staring fixedly 
 at the tortured face of the dead God. 
 Suddenly he starts, as, from beyond the 
 mass of the Calvary, a fantastic shadow 
 moves toward him. He steps aside, and 
 through the thin, moon-illumined mist 
 behind he sees Anais approach, the moon- 
 shine turning her hair to pale bronze 
 and making her face as one of the water- 
 lilies in the river.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Eagerly advancing. ] Hilarion ! 
 
 39 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HILARION 
 
 I am here. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [With fierce fervor, ~\ Let the priest die! 
 It is you — it is you, Hilarion — whom I meet 
 here. At last ! At last ! 
 
 [Hilarion is silent, and neither advances nor 
 makes any gesture. Anais hesitates, then 
 comes close up to him and looks into his 
 eyes.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Hilarion, is it life or death? 
 
 [Abruptly the nightingale sends a low cres- 
 cendo note throbbing through the moon- 
 light] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Whispering and slowly, 1 Life — or — 
 death, 
 
 [With rapture swells the song of the nightin- 
 gale, intoxicated with a mad ecstasy.] 
 
 ANAIS 
 [/n a low voice.] Ah, Hilarion, have you 
 forgotten ? 
 
 [Suddenly, with rapid diminutions, the night- 
 ingale's song sinks to a thin, aerial music : 
 abruptly wells forth again : and then, in 
 a moment, ceases absolutely. There is a 
 faint beat of wings, a rustle, and then 
 the bird swoops in slanting flight from 
 the mid-foliage, circles twice round the 
 
 40 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 willow, and swiftly, as though an ar- 
 row, flies through the dusk across the 
 river. Hilarion starts as though awak- 
 ened from a trance.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Wildly,-] Anais! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Hilarion! O my darling, my darling! 
 
 [She springs to his open arnts, and, as he 
 bends over her, kissing her passionately, 
 she sees by the moongleam reflected from 
 the Calvary how deathly white he is.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [With a hoarse sob. Heart of my heart 
 — soul of my soul — my life — my joy — my 
 heaven — my hell ! Anais ! — Anais ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Extricating herself from his savage grasp,] 
 Is it life or — death — Hilarion ? 
 
 HILARION 
 
 They are the same : it matters not. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 The nightingale has gone to his mate — 
 yonder ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Dear, if only — 
 
 Anais 
 In the cottage, on the other side of the river 
 
 41 
 
William Sharp 
 
 — Hilarion, there is no one there: it waits 
 my brother Raoul's return: his clothes would 
 fit you — he will not need them for months 
 yet — he is still under arms. If they find 
 your priest's robes in the river, they will 
 know — 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Sst! What it that? 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 It is the night-wind coming over the hay- 
 fields from afar. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Did no one speak? 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 There is no one to speak. We are alone. 
 None sees us but God. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [With a swift shudder.] No one sees us 
 but God. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 And He — He is so far away. He speaks 
 not — He breathes not — He must be dead. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Wearily,] He speaks not — He breathes 
 not — He must be dead. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Is it not so? For — 
 42 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 HILARION 
 
 It is even so. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 And, dear, you have dreamed a long, bitter 
 dream. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Ay, a long dream. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 And the dawn is at hand. At last, at last! 
 Oh, Hilarion ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Thou sayest it. 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 [Suddenly sinking to her knees, sobbingly.] 
 My darling, forgive me ! Hilarion, kill me ! 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Sst! What is that? 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 It is the night-wind creeping over the 
 marshes of Haut-Pre. 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Suddenly, 1 Life! Life! beautiful Life! 
 Anais, let us go. 
 
 [He clasps her left hand in his right, and 
 both walk to the river's bank] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Can we reach the other side in this high 
 flood? 
 
 43 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Yes, by swimming. Hark ! there is no time 
 to lose. I hear, across the marshes, the bells 
 of Urle. The floods are rising. 
 
 [Hilar ion slowly discards his priest's robes, 
 and then, as by an afterthought, strips 
 himself also of his penitent's garment and 
 stands forth naked in the moonlight. He 
 looks broodingly into the dark flood of 
 water moving stealthily past. Anais 
 rapidly throws off her clothes. He turns 
 just as she stands forth in all her naked 
 beauty, like a vision of embodied moon- 
 light] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Anais ! 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Because I too am drowned. 
 
 [Hilaron hesitates a moment, then steps to 
 her, takes her in his arms, kisses her 
 wildly again and again. Then saying 
 simply, Come, he clasps her hand and 
 they both enter the water. When Anais 
 is breast-high they stop. Hilarion stoops 
 and kisses her long upon the lips.] 
 HILARION 
 
 If there be no morrow — 
 
 ANAIS 
 
 Dear, with you I fear neither life nor death. 
 Neither death nor life. 
 
 [They enter the black shadow of midstream, 
 and silently swim side by side, till at last 
 
 44 
 
The Passion of Pere Hilarion 
 
 they gain the opposite bank. There, hand 
 in hand, they stand a brief while, breath- 
 ing heavily, and looking back upon the 
 boundary they have crossed forever. As 
 the moonshine slowly waves northward, 
 Anais, turning, descries the vague outline 
 of her brother's unoccupied cottage. 
 Stealthily she withdraws her hand from 
 Hilarion's clasp and noiselessly slips 
 from his side, through the deep shadows, 
 toward the cottage. He stands alone, 
 white in the moonlight, passive as a 
 statue. Suddenly he gives a hoarse cry, 
 leaps down the bank and into the water 
 again. With swift, fierce strokes he 
 swims rapidly across the river, bearing 
 hard against the current, but swerving 
 neither to right nor to left. As he nears 
 the opposite bank he staggers, clutching 
 the reeds: then, stooping, half-climbs, 
 half-leaps up the bank, and, having 
 gained it, walks swiftly toward the Cal- 
 vary, The moonlight is now all about it, 
 except at the head of the crucified God, 
 which is in deep shadow. Hilarion the 
 priest stands in front of the Calvary, star- 
 ing fixedly upward. Slowly he advances, 
 and stands on the highest of the three 
 low steps of the pedestal of the cross, 
 and, straining every muscle, scrutinizes 
 the carven face of agony.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [In a hoarse whisper. ~\ Behold, the God is 
 verily dead. 
 
 45 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [Nothing stirs in the silence, in the moon- 
 light, in the darkness.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 Wilt Thou save, even now, O my Lord? 
 [Nothing stirs in the silence of the moon- 
 light, of the darkness.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [In a loud, vibrant voice.] Wilt Thou 
 save Thyself, Thou Lord without lordship. 
 Thou fallen God! 
 
 [In the darkness, in the moonlight, nothing 
 stirs.] 
 
 HILARION 
 
 [Furiously.] Ah, Thou dead God! 
 
 [Hilarion the priest leaps forward, and, with 
 wild gestures and savage violence, tears 
 the crucified figure from the cross and 
 hurls it to the ground. Then, in panting 
 silence, he sways to and fro with his arms 
 claspt round the cross, which at last 
 yields, breaks, and falls to the ground. 
 He seizes it and drags it to the bank 
 and thrusts it into the river, silently 
 watching it sink half way in the ooze 
 of the reeds. Then returning, with a 
 low, triumphing cry, he grasps the 
 carven figure, and, having reached the 
 bank again, lifts the image above his 
 head, poises it a moment, while the moon- 
 shine clothes him as with a garment, and 
 then, with desperate fury, hurls it with 
 a great effort far amid-stream. 
 
 46 
 
The Passion of Pbre Hilarion 
 
 [The moonlight lies like a white transparent 
 cloud along the bank, and along the 
 nearer half of the flood: on the further 
 side the darkness is now profound, and 
 the river seems narrowed to a stream. 
 Far off, in the marshes, the frogs croak: 
 the crickets in the distant meadows 
 shrill incessantly, over the pastures a fern- 
 owl hawks with a strange choking cry. 
 Otherwise, silence, and utter peace. The 
 man draws himself up to his full height, 
 turns toward the unseen village beyond 
 the great meadow, silver-white with 
 moonshine and dew, and raises his right 
 arm menacingly. But he lets it drop, 
 speaking no word. Then, turning again, 
 he moves slowly toward and into the 
 river. The moonlight turns the white 
 skin of his shoulder into amber, as he 
 swims across the flood. Then he passes 
 into the darkness. In profound dark- 
 ness he swim's toward the shore: in pro- 
 found darkness he ^scales the opposite 
 bank: through the profound darkness be- 
 yond, his voice, hoarse, yet vibrant and 
 echoing, calls with mad joy:] 
 
 Anais ! Anais ! 
 
 47 
 
Enter with me into the dark zone of the 
 human souL 
 Emilia Pardo Bazan. 
 
The Birth of a Soul 
 
THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 
 
 [A bedroom, austerely furnished, in an old 
 city of Flanders. To the left, a *' Span- 
 ish throne/' as such beds are called — 
 heavy with sombre woodwork and huge 
 all-length canopy; with tall, dark, thick 
 curtains at the top and at the bottom; 
 and approached by three low wooden 
 steps belonging to and running the whole 
 length of the bed. In the bed a woman, 
 about to give birth to a child. Kneeling 
 at a chair betwixt the head of the bed 
 and the bare table with dull green cloth, 
 on which is a low-shaded reading lamp, 
 is a man, the father of the unborn child. 
 To his left, a Sister of Mercy, also kneel- 
 ing, but at the lowest of the three steps 
 of the bed. To his right, kneeling at a 
 chair near the table, a priest. The door 
 of the room, to the right behind the bed, 
 conspicuous by its black-oak panelling. 
 At the opposite side of the room from 
 the bed: to the right, a tall, fantastically 
 carved black-oak clock, with clay-white 
 face, with hands broken and dangling 
 this way and that: beyond it, to the left, 
 in a deep-set recess, an old Flemish 
 window.] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Kneeling at a chair, praying aloudJ] O 
 
 SI 
 
William Sharp 
 
 God, may the child that cometh unto us from 
 Thee be blessed by Thee to purity and 
 strength. May he come as a scourge to the 
 wrong-doer, as a message of peace to the 
 righteous. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Kneeling at a chair near the head of the 
 bed, praying silently.'] O God, may the child 
 that is to be born to us not be a man-child. 
 Already^ already, O God, the curse that is 
 within me has descended into the third gen- 
 eration. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Praying aloud.] And if the child be a 
 woman-child, O Lord, may she be a lamp of 
 light in dark places, a godly presence among 
 the evil. 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [Praying in the silence.] O God, may the 
 child that is within me not be a woman-child, 
 so that she may never know the bitterness of 
 shame and all the heritage of woman's woe. 
 
 ANOTHER 
 
 [Unseen and unheard: in the deep shadow 
 at the end of the bed.] Thou living thing 
 within the womb, when thou art born I shall 
 dwell within thee as thy soul. And the sin of 
 the woman, the which I am, shall lie like a 
 canker-worm within thy heart : and the evil of 
 
 52 
 
The Birth of a Soul 
 
 the man, the which I am, shall eat into thy in- 
 most being. And thou shalt grov/ in corrup- 
 tion. And thy end shall be nothingness. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Aloiid.li Have mercy, O God, upon this 
 immortal soul! 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.'] For in the shadow of 
 hell wast thou conceived, and out of the hor- 
 ror of the grave I come. 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 [Aloud, kneeling betwixt the table and the 
 bed.] Amen! Hear, O Blessed Mary; hear, 
 oh, hear! 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Have pity upon us ! 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 O Christ, son of Mary, save me ! 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Aloud,] For it is Thine! 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 Thine ! 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 {In the shadow.] Mine ! 
 
 [Silence for some minutes. The clock ticks 
 loudly. A sound as of an opening and 
 closing door somewhere. The Priest 
 looks up for a moment, thinking he heard 
 
 S3 
 
William Sharp 
 
 someone rise from the deep-set window- 
 seat at the far end of the chamber and 
 come slowly across the room. But he 
 sees no one. He bends his head again, 
 and prays inaudibly.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [With his face buried in his hands. ^ If it 
 be possible, let this thing — 
 
 [Stops, as there comes from the bed a 
 sound of low, shaken sobs.] 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [Below her breath,'] • . . Even so. Virgin 
 Mother, Most Pure ! 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow,'] Yea, so. 
 
 [Again a prolonged silence. All wait, know- 
 ing the woman's agony is at hand. The 
 right hand of the father shakes as though 
 he were in an ague. The sweat on his 
 forehead moves slowly down his face in 
 large, heavy drops.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Suddenly,'] Who knocks? 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 No one knocked. 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [In a high, faint, perishing voice.] Who 
 knocks ? 
 
 [The Sister of Mercy rises and goes to the 
 
 54 
 
The Birth of a Soul 
 
 door. Opens and closes it, saying as 
 she returns to her post:] 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 There is no one there. 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [Shrilly.'] Who came in just now? 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 No one. It is I. 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [In a low sighing tone,] It is the end. 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow,] It is the beginning of 
 the end. 
 
 [A prolonged silence, save for the endless 
 moaning and occasional convulsive cries 
 of the woman. At last the Priest rises, 
 and sits by the table. He pulls the 
 shaded lamp towards him; and begins to 
 read from a book:] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 Unto us a child is born — 
 
 [The woman sits up convulsively in bed, 
 with her face turned almost round upon 
 her right shoulder, her eyes staring in 
 horror.] 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 Who touched me ? 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 [Rising, 1 Hush ! 
 
 55 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [She comes over to the bed, gently per- 
 suades the woman to lie back, and then 
 kneels beside the bed.] 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 There is no one here but those who love 
 you. There is no one here but those whom 
 you see. 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.] And I ! 
 
 [In the heavy curtains behind the bed a 
 current of air seems to move for a mo- 
 ment] 
 
 THE WOMAN 
 
 [White with fear, whispering.'] Who sighed 
 behind me? 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 There is no one here but those who love 
 you. There is no one here but those whom 
 you see. 
 
 [Again silence, butt for the monotonous 
 moaning of the wontan. The clock 
 strikes the quarter. The man rises, 
 goes to the window, stares forth steadily, 
 then returns.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 There is no one there. 
 
 [The woman's limbs move slowly beneath 
 the coverlet. Her breathing is high and 
 quick, though ever and again it stops 
 
 56 
 
The Birth of a Soul 
 
 abruptly. Her hands wander restlessly 
 to and fro, ceaslessly plucking at noth- 
 ing.] 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY (in G lOW Voice) . 
 
 Ave Maria! 
 
 [The woman's hands never cease their 
 pluck, pluck, plucking at nothing.] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Muttering to himself,'] It will soon be 
 over. 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.] It has begun. 
 
 [The man rises, goes to the window, stares 
 forth steadily, then returns.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 There is no one there. 
 
 [The woman's hands cease their wandering 
 sidelong pluck, pluck, pluck. She raises 
 both hands slowly, rigid, emaciated. 
 When they are above her head they 
 suddenly fall. The right strikes the 
 wooden edge of the bed, and hangs stiffly 
 by its side. The Sister of Mercy re- 
 places it, the woman watching her 
 fixedly.] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Starting up suddenly, and trembling,'] IVly 
 brethren, if so be — 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Pointing,] What — who — is that? 
 
 57 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 My son, there is nought there? 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who stirred in the deep shadow at the end 
 of the bed? 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 Hush ! for the love of God ! The woman is 
 in labour. 
 
 [There is a sound as of some one drowning 
 in a morass: a horrible struggling and 
 choking.] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Holding up a small crucifix.] O God, 
 have pity upon us ! 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 O Christ, have pity upon us! 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Peering into the shadowy gloom at the end 
 of the bed,} O Thou, have pity upon us ! 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Chanting.] O Death, where is thy sting! 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.li In thy birth, O Life ! 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Chanting.] O Grave, where is thy vic- 
 tory! 
 
 58 
 
The Birth of a Soul 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.'] I am come. 
 
 [There is a sudden cessation of sound. 
 The Sister of Mercy lifts something 
 from the bed. There is a low, thin wail. 
 The man does not see, and does not seem 
 to hear. He kneels at his chair, but his 
 head is turned away, and he stares 
 fixedly toward the window.] 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 She is dead. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 O God, receive her soul! O Christ, have 
 pity upon her ! O most Holy Mother of God, 
 have mercy upon her ! 
 
 THE OTHER 
 
 [In the shadow.] Woman, abide yet a lit- 
 tle. Give me thy life. 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 The child liveth. It is a man-child. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Touching the man.] It is a man-child. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [StUl staring fixedly at the window, re- 
 peats, in a slow, dull voice.] It is a man- 
 child. 
 
 [The man slowly rises, turns, and walks to 
 the bedside. He stares upon the dead 
 face.] 
 
 59 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Ending rapidly.l As it was in the begin- 
 ning — 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 Is now — 
 
 A VOICE 
 
 {Near the window,^ And ever shall be. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Trembling,'] Who spoke? 
 
 THE SISTER OF MERCY 
 
 No one. 
 
 [The Priest falls on his knees and, cover- 
 ing his eyes, prays fervently. The man 
 lifts the child from the Sister's arms. 
 Its eyes open upon him. As he looks 
 at it his face grows ashy pale. His 
 whole body trembles. His eyes seem as 
 though they would strain from their 
 sockets.] 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 [Rising, and in a loud, clear voice,] O 
 Death, where is thy sting! 
 
 [The man looks at what was the woman.) 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 O Grave, where is thy victory! 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Looking on the face of the child, who is 
 fixedly staring beyond him,] Here, 
 
 60 
 
A Northern Night 
 
That dark hour, obscurely minatory, in the 
 tide of two lives . . . when, unforeseen and 
 unrecognized, Love and Death come in at the 
 Hood together, 
 
 SlWAARMILL. 
 
A NORTHERN NIGHT 
 
 [An hour after midnight. A desolate dis- 
 trict of Northern Scotland, hentmed in 
 by mountains and innumerable lochs and 
 tarns and deep, narrow streams. In the 
 remotest part of it, miles from the near- 
 est hunt, a semi-ruinous "keep," lorsa 
 Tower, at the extreme north end of Loch 
 Malon. It is dead of winter. For weeks 
 the land has been ice-bound. The deer 
 and the hill-sheep are starving; only the 
 corbies and eagles gorge their full. lorsa 
 Keep stands out black against the snow- 
 covered wilderness. A dull, red light, 
 high up, like a staring eye, gleams under a 
 projecting ledge. There is no sound but 
 the occasional crack of the bitter frost, 
 and, at intervals, the wind pressing in 
 the frozen surface of the snow depths. 
 In the one habitable room sit two figures, 
 before a rude fire of pine-logs. Most of 
 the room; is in deep shadow. The flick- 
 ering flame-light discloses a small, deep- 
 set window to the left. Between it and 
 the hearth-place, and close to the wall, 
 a bed, startlingly white in the midst 
 of the gloom. Over it, on the wall, the 
 flying lights flash momently on old dis- 
 used weapons. 
 
 In all the wild lands around there is not a 
 
 63 
 
William Sharp 
 
 living soul except the twain who sit be- 
 fore the fire.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The black frost is about to break: I hear 
 the wind ruffling the snow. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Is it the snow ? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Go to the window and look out. You will 
 see the thin, frozen snow beginning to fly 
 along the loch like spray. The wind rises. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 No ; I am afraid. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 IRising,!^ Then I will go. . . . See, the 
 window is open, and you can now hear the 
 wind. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Oh, how cold it is. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The wind is blowing from behind: it did 
 not come in at the window. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes, yes, it did: and . . . 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Returning to Helda's side.] Is not the fire 
 comforting? The logs are red-hot, sparkling 
 and sputtering. 
 
 64 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 [Helda, slightly shivering, glances at him, 
 and then draws nearer to the fire.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Are you not glad we are no longer on the 
 ice? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes : oh, yes, yes. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 And that we are here at last, we two ! Oh, 
 Helda! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes, I am glad that we are no longer upon 
 the ice. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Why do you repeat yourself, Helda? 
 
 [Helda, in silence, looks straight before 
 her into the fire.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Why are you glad? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Because I feared that we were followed. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Who would have followed us? Who could 
 have followed us? 
 
 [Helda stares fixedly, and in silence, at the 
 glowing embers.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 No one followed us. 
 
 65 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Thrice, when I looked behind my shoulder, 
 I saw a shadow flying along the ice. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The half-moon was as ruddy as a torch- 
 flame. We should have seen any one who 
 followed us. And when we reached the 
 frozen loch we could see all around. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 It was there I saw the flying shadow 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I heard no one. I heard nothing. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Nor I, except the hiss of the wind blowing 
 the ice-spray over the loch. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There was no wind. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 The ice-spray flew before the blast. I saw 
 a little cloud of it behind. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There was no wind. And now, I have told 
 you, the wind is from behind the house. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Then it blew toward the house. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Well, it does not matter. " The wind com- 
 eth and goeth." 
 
 66 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Slowly, and as to her self. } It cometh — 
 and goeth. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I wonder what they are doing at the cas- 
 tle. The dancers will have gone now. Per- 
 haps they will be putting out the lights. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 If we have been missed ? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 No one will miss us. But, if so, what then ? 
 My father knows that those of us for whom 
 there is not room in the castle will sleep for 
 the night in some of the farm-houses near. 
 As for you, if you are missed they will think 
 you have skated back to Castle Urquhar. No 
 one can know. We are as safe here, my 
 beautiful Helda, as though we were in the 
 grave. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Hush! Do not say such things. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Darling, we are safe here. We are miles 
 from the nearest hut even. No one ever 
 comes here. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm, I wish — I wish — 
 
 67 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 What is it, Helda? Speak. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I wish we had not done this thing. He — 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Who? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 You know whom I mean : Archibald Graeme* 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Never mind that old man. You will have 
 more than enough of him soon. Is it still 
 fixed that the marriage is to take place ten 
 days hence? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 He is a good man. He has saved my 
 father from ruin. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Will he take you away? Will he take you 
 to the South-country? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 And he loved my mother. He loves me 
 because he loved her. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 He is soon to be so passing rich, Helda. 
 I am to starve, to famish for you, Helda. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Dear, I love you with all my heart and 
 with all my soul. You know it. I have 
 
 68 
 
/i Northern Night 
 
 given you my secret joy, my true life, my 
 whole love, myself. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Love like ours would redeem . . . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Hark! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 It is the wind. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 It blows again across the loch, against the 
 window. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 No, dear Helda, it is but an eddy. The 
 wind rises more and more, but from the 
 north. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Whispering,] Some white snow was 
 blown up against the window ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Dearest, you are imagining. No snow can 
 blow against this window with the wind as it 
 is, for the gable shuts us off. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Trembling, and with hands claspt.] I 
 saw a round drift of something pale as snow 
 pressed against the window. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I will convince you. 
 
 69 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [Rises, and opens the window. There is no 
 snow on the sill. The wind strikes the 
 Keep behind with a dull boom, and 
 rushes overhead with an incessant 
 screaming sound. But in front all is as 
 quiet as though it were a windless night] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 See, dear, there is no snow: and hark! the 
 wind blows steadily southward. 
 
 [Closes the window, and returns to Helda's 
 side.] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm, you will not be angry with me — 
 if I — if I . . . 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 What? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 If I pray. I have not prayed for a long 
 time from my heart. To-night I fear the 
 darkness without a prayer. I will say no 
 words, but I must pray. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Pray if you will, Helda. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes, . . • yes; ... I must pray! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Dear, as you will. You would be alone? 
 . . . See: I shall be in the corridor outside. 
 Call me when you wish me to return. But 
 
 70 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 have mercy on me, sweetheart! Remember 
 that there is no fire out there, and that the air 
 is chill along those stone flags. 
 
 [Rises and leaves the room. He has 
 
 scarcely closed the door ere Helda cries 
 
 loudly:] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm! Malcolm! Come at once! Mal- 
 colm ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Abruptly re-entering, 1^ What is it? . . . 
 what is it, Helda? Has anything frightened 
 you? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes, the whiteness at the window: the 
 snow at the window! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Oh, Helda, Helda, there is no snow at the 
 window. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm, are there any birds that fly by 
 night ? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The owls fly by night, but not at dead of 
 winter. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 No bats, no moths? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 No. 
 
 71 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HELDA 
 
 When I looked out at the window when 
 we came in here I saw that there were no 
 trees near, and that no ivy grows up this side 
 of lorsa. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There is none. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [In a low, strained voice.] Malcolm, it 
 was as though there were birds tapping at 
 the window. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 You are nervous, darling. Come, let us 
 forget the dark night, and the wind, and the 
 bitter cold. We are here, and the world is 
 ours to-night. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Hush! There it is again! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 That sound is in the room. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm ! Malcolm ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 My foolish Helda, how easy it would be 
 to frighten you. It is only a little insect in 
 the wall. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 The death-watch? 
 
 72 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Yes, the death-watch. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Shuddering,] It is a horrible name. 
 Sst! How the wind wails. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I hope . . . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 What? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I hope it does not bring too much snow. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Why? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 We are a long way from home, Helda. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Do you fear that we cannot get back if the 
 snow fall heavily? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 If it drifts we cannot skate. But there is 
 no snow yet. There will be none before 
 morning. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Darling, I have lost all fear. I am with 
 you. That is enough. If it were not for 
 my father's sake, I wish we could die to- 
 night ! 
 
 73 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 My beautiful Helda, my darling, my heart's 
 delight ! 
 
 [They stand awhile together by the fire, she 
 leaning against him', and his left arm 
 round her. A log falls in. Another 
 gives way with a crash. There is only 
 a red gulf of pulsating glow, with over 
 the last charred log pale blue frost- 
 flames flickering fantastically. Suddenly 
 they turn, and look into each other's 
 eyes. Malcolm's shine strangely in the 
 half-light, and his face has grown pale. 
 A tremulous flush wavers upon Helda's 
 face. His breathing comes quick and 
 hard. She gives a low, scarce-heard 
 sob.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 My darling! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm! 
 [An hour passes. . . . 
 
 The fire has fallen in, and smoulders be- 
 neath such a weight of ash and charred 
 wood that the room is in complete dark- 
 ness. Outside, utter silence. The wind 
 has suddenly lulled. Malcolm and Helda 
 lie in each other's arms, but neither has 
 spoken for some time.] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm ! 
 
 74 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 My darling! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 You will not go to sleep? I am so happy, 
 oh, I am so happy, here in your arms, Mal- 
 colm; but I should be afraid if you slept. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Do you think I would sleep, Helda, to- 
 night of all nights in my life? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 {After a long silence, ^ It is so still. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The wind has suddenly fallen. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Move your arm, dear. Malcolm, . . . 
 Malcolm, I wish it were not so dark! I 
 never knew such darkness. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The fire smoulders. It will not go out. 
 When we rise, I shall blow the flame into life 
 again. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I wish it were not so profoundly, so fear- 
 fully dark. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Sweetheart, if you are unhappy, I will stir 
 
 up the heart of it at once. I will do it now. 
 
 [Rises from the bed, and stirs the smoulder- 
 
 75 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ing fire. A flame shoots up and illu- 
 mines the room for a moment. Malcolm 
 places a fresh log in the glowing hollow 
 he has disclosed, and returns to Helda. 
 She is cowering against the wall, and 
 shivering with fear. As soon as he is 
 beside her she clings close to him, and 
 mioans faintly.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Helda, Helda, what ails you? What is it? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm, let us go ; let us go at once ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Dearest, do not be so frightened at noth- 
 ing. Are we to lose this precious night to- 
 gether because of a death-watch ticking in 
 the wall, or a blown leaf tapping against the 
 window ? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Oh, Malcolm, what was it? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 What? When? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 When you rose and stirred the logs, and 
 the flame shot up for a moment, I saw . . . 
 
 [Stops, shuddering.] 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Tell me, darling. . . . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I saw some one — a — a — something — 
 
 76 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 rise from the end of the bed and slip into the 
 darkness. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Oh, foolish Helda, to be so easily fright- 
 ened by my shadow. Of course my shadow 
 followed me, dear! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 It was when you were at the fire! The — 
 the — shadow was not yours. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Ah, there is a wild bird fluttering in that 
 little heart of yours ! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Dear, when you kiss me so I fear nothing 
 more. Nothing — nothing — nothing ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Nothing — nothing — nothing ! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Ah, yes, hold me close, close! My dar- 
 ling, I have given you all. Nothing now can 
 come between us! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Nothing, my beautiful Helda. And, dear 
 [whispering], you do not wish to go yet? 
 The morning is still far off. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Whispering lower still, and with a low, 
 glad cry,'] Not now, not now! 
 
 77 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [Profound silence, save for their sighs and 
 kisses.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [In a low voice,] And when old Archi- 
 bald Graeme . . . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Starting half up,} Hark! What was 
 that? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Listening.] It was nothing. Perhaps 
 the wind rose and fell. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [FearfullyKl If it was th€ wind, it is in 
 the house ! I hear it lifting faintly from step 
 to step. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Listening more intently.] There must be 
 v/ind behind the house. It is causing 
 draughts to play through the chinks and in 
 the bare rooms. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Sitting up in bed and staring through the 
 darkness.} It is in the corridor! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 In the corridor? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Yes; that low, ruffling sound. 
 
 78 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 The wind is rising. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Whispering,] Malcolm, don't move; 
 don't stir. It is at the door. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I hear it : it is a current of air swirling the 
 dust along the passage. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 {With a low cry.'] Oh, Malcolm, it is in 
 the room! What is it that is moving so 
 softly to and fro? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Springing from the bed,] Ah, I thought 
 so. The window is open: I must have left 
 the latch unfastened. There : it will not open 
 again ! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 The window was not open before, Mal- 
 colm. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Ha! there is the snow at last! I hear its 
 shovelling sound against the gable. Darling, 
 we must go soon. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Sobbing with fear.] It is in the room! 
 It is in the room! It is in the room! 
 
 79 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There is no one here but ourselves, Helda. 
 That sound is the shoving of the snow along 
 the walls. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 It is some one moving round the room. O 
 Christ, help us! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Listen ! 
 
 [They both sit up, listening intently. For 
 nearly three minutes there is profound 
 silence.] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Oh, my God! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Be still, for God's sake! Do not move. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Shudderingly,'] Ah-h-h-h ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [In a low voice,] Some one is at the door. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [In a dull echo.li Some one is at the door. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Whisperingly,] Quick, Helda! rise and 
 dress. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I cannot. Oh, my God, what is it that 
 moves about the room? What is within the 
 door? Oh, Malcolm, save me! 
 
 80 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Let me go! Do not be frightened: I shall 
 move that log, and then we shall see. 
 
 [Rises, and pulls the log back. A shower of 
 sparks ascends: and then a clear, yellow 
 flame shoots up and illumines the room. 
 There is a wild wail of wind in the 
 chimney, and then a long, querulous 
 sighing sound, culminating in a rising 
 moan. A handful of sleety snow is 
 dashed by a wind-eddy against the win- 
 dow.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Arise ! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Come to me. I — 
 
 [Helda cowers back in her bed with, lips 
 drawn taut with terror and eyes star- 
 ing wildly.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Suddenly, in a loud, imperative voice.'] 
 Who is there? 
 
 [Dead silence.] 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Who is there? 
 
 [Dead silence] 
 HELDA 
 
 [With a strange, sobbing cry.] It is 
 Death ! 
 
 [She falls back in a death-like swoon.] 
 
 8i 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Oh, my God. 
 
 [He takes Helda in his arms, kissing her 
 passionately. Slowly, at last, she opens 
 her eyes.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 My darling, my darling! Be frightened 
 no more, Helda! . . . Dearest, it is I. . . . 
 Malcolm! . . . There is no one there. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Whispering.] Oh, Malcolm, did you hear 
 what he said? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 You were frightened by the stillness; . . . 
 by the wind; . . . the wandering eddies of 
 air in this old place; ... by ... by .. . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 God grant it ! Dear, we have paid bitterly 
 for our joy. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Not too much, Helda! I would go 
 through Hell itself for such rapture as we 
 have known. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 My darling, I can never face him — I can 
 never face him, with his fierce, penetrating 
 eyes! Ah, would to God that we two could 
 go away together, and be man and wife, and 
 forget him — forget all ! 
 
 82 
 
 MBfl 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Even yet, Helda — 
 
 HELDA 
 
 No, no, no ! You know it cannot be. We 
 have sinned enough. Malcolm, are you sure 
 no one is there? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There is not a living soul in this place be« 
 sides ourselves. . . . But we had best go 
 now, dear. In another hour it will be day- 
 light. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Shall we go, Malcolm ? It is so dark. 
 
 [He kisses her tenderly, and then goes to 
 the fire and stirs it afresh, hurriedly puts 
 on his clothes, goes to the door, opens it, 
 and, staring into the dark corridor, lis- 
 tens intently. Helda dresses herself 
 rapidly, and erelong glides to his side.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 I will get the torch. 
 
 [Goes and returns with it litl 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Let us go. Take my hand. 
 
 [They descend the long, dark, winding stair- 
 way. The torch spurtles and goes out.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Suddenly,'] Who goes there? 
 
 [No answer.] 
 
 83 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Who goes there? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Clinging close,] Some one brushed past 
 me just now! . . . Oh, Malcolm! 
 
 [Holding each other's hands they stumble 
 on and, more by chance than foreknow- 
 ledge, reach the door that leads into the 
 court. They search awhile for the skates 
 they left there, but in the dark do not 
 find them. At last they are found. 
 They go out, across the stone court, 
 and as they go through the old ruined 
 gate they look up. A brilliant, red light 
 gleams through the window of the room 
 they had been in. 
 Hand in hand, they hasten along the snow- 
 banked track till they reach the loch. 
 There they hurriedly put on their skates. 
 In less than a minute thereafter they are 
 flying along the black ice, his left hand 
 holding her right.] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Quick, Malcolm! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 We cannot go quicker. The snow has 
 drifted a little here. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Is that the wind following us? 
 
 84 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 There is no wind. Make haste. We must 
 not stop. 
 
 [After a brief interval:] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Malcolm! Malcolm there is some one else 
 on the loch ! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Impossible. Come, Helda, be brave. It 
 will be daylight soon. In five minutes more 
 we'll have crossed the reach, and then have 
 only the Water of Sorrow to skate up till we 
 come to the Black Kyle. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 It is coming this way! He — he — the 
 skater — is coming this way! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 He must skate well if he overtake u^, 
 Helda! Come, the ice is clearer again. I 
 see it: it is blacker than the night. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Are we going in the right direction? 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Yes, yes; come on, come on! 
 
 [They fly along at their utmost speed. Sud- 
 denly Helda sways, and almost falls. 
 Malcolm supports her, and they skate 
 on, but more slowly.] 
 
 85 
 
William Sharp 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Faintly,] Some one passed us! 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Eagerly,} Look yonder! I can see the 
 shadowy ridge of Ben Malon! It is day! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I can go no further. Oh, hold me, Mal- 
 colm. 
 
 [He takes her in his arms. She slowly re- 
 covers. Gradually an ashy grey gloom 
 prevails to the eastward. They wait si- 
 lently. Erelong they see the whole mass 
 of Ben Malon looming through the dusk. 
 The ice gleams like white salt in a dark 
 cavern. Soon the loch is visible for some 
 distance; and, a short way beyond them', 
 the narrow mile-long reach of it known 
 as the Water of Sorrow.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Helda, dearest, can you go on nov^? The 
 night is over. . . . 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [With a low, choking sob,] Thank God, 
 thank God! 
 
 [They skate on. The dawn vaguely and 
 slowly advances. Soon they enter the 
 frozen Water of Sorrow. The few trees 
 along its banks are still blotches of 
 black. Neither speaks, but, hand in hand, 
 both sway onward as scythes tirelessly 
 
 86 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 sweeping through leagues of grass. At 
 last they reach the end of the Water 
 of Sorrow, and enter the Black Kyle.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 In ten minutes, Helda, we'll be on Urquhar 
 Water, and then you will be almost at home. 
 Look behind! A white mist is sweeping 
 along after us. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I dare not look behind. 
 
 [With strained eyes and white, rigid face, 
 Helda skates on, Malcolm still holding 
 her hand. The white wreath of mist 
 gains on them. Helda's breath comes 
 quick and hard, but she increases her 
 speed. Malcolm sways as he strives to 
 keep up with her. They swing out of 
 the Black Kyle and into Urquhar Water. 
 A small islet looms in front of them. 
 Dimly through the grey, chill gloom 
 rises the rugged outlines of Urquhar. 
 The loch forks, — one fork toward the 
 castle; the other, and longer, to the 
 right] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 Why? 
 
 HELDA 
 
 I dare not look behind. 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Gaspingly.li At last! 
 
William Sharp 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Sst! There is some one coming down the 
 Narrow Water! 
 
 HELDA 
 
 Quick! quick! Let us gain the islet! 
 
 [They reach it, and Helda sinks exhausted 
 among a bed of reeds which crackle 
 loudly. Malcolm has just time to re- 
 cover his balance and to swing round, 
 when a skater dashes from the hidden 
 Narrow and flies across the broad and 
 towards the islet. He sees Malcolm, 
 and hastes in his direction, but without 
 coming right for him. Malcolm recog- 
 nises him as Martin Brooks, a groom 
 from Urquhar.] 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 [Shouting.'] Ho! Martin! Martin! Stop 
 a moment! Where are you going? Is the 
 side- way open? 
 
 MARTIN 
 
 [Calling, as he swerves for a moment or 
 two,] I can't stop, sir! I am off across the 
 loch and through the Glen of Dusker to fetch 
 Dr. James Graeme. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 What is wrong? 
 
 MARTIN 
 
 [Shouting, with his hand to his mouth,] In 
 the dead o' night we heard a wild cry, but no 
 
 88 
 
A Northern Night 
 
 one knew what it was. An hour ago or less 
 the dogs were howling through the house. 
 . . . We found him, sitting straight up and 
 staring at us, with an awful look on his face, 
 stone dead. He must a' died at midnight. 
 
 MALCOLM 
 
 Who? Who? 
 
 MARTIN 
 
 [Poising a moment, ere he swings away 
 again,'] Archibald Graeme! 
 
 [His flying figure disappears in the gloom. 
 The mist-wreath comes rapidly out of 
 the kyle towards the islet. A thin snow 
 begins to fall] 
 
 HELDA 
 
 [Shaken with convulsive sohs.] Oh, God! 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 89 
 
Qu' horribles, ces heures nocturnes! 
 
 Le Barbare. 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [The fire of the setting sun turns the ex- 
 treme of the forest into a wave of 
 flame. A river of withdrawing light per- 
 vades the aisles of the ancient trees, and, 
 falling over the shoulder of a vast, 
 smooth slab of stone that rises solitary in 
 an open place, pours in a flood across 
 the glade and upon the broken columns 
 and inchoate ruins of what in immemo- 
 rial time had been a gigantic temple, the 
 fane of a perished god, or of many gods. 
 As the flaming disc rapidly descends, the 
 stream of red light narrows, till, quiver- 
 ing and palpitating, it rests as a bloody 
 sword upon a colossal statue of black 
 marble, facing westward. The statue is 
 that of a woman, and is as of a Titan of 
 old-time. 
 
 A great majesty is upon the face, with 
 its moveless yet seeing eyes; its faint, 
 inscrutable smile. Upon the triple- 
 ledged pedestal, worn at the edges like 
 tmto swords ground again and again, 
 lie masses of large white flowers, whose 
 heavy fragrance rises in a faint blue 
 vapor drawn forth with the sudden sus- 
 piration of the earth by the first twi- 
 light chill. 
 
 In the wide place beyond the white slab 
 of stone — hurled thither, or raised, 
 
 93 
 
William Sharp 
 
 none knows when or how — is gathered 
 a dark multitude, silent, expectant. 
 Many are Arab tribesmen, the remnant 
 of a strange sect driven southward; but 
 most are Nubians, or that unnamed, 
 swarthy race to whom both Arab and 
 Negro are as children. All, save the 
 priests, of whom the elder are clad in 
 white robes and the younger girt about 
 by scarlet sashes, are naked. Behind 
 the men, at a short distance apart, are 
 the women; each virgin with an ivory 
 circlet round the neck, each mother or 
 pregnant woman with a thin gold band 
 round the left arm. Between the long 
 double line of the priests and the silent 
 multitude stands a group of five youths 
 and five maidens; each victim crowned 
 with heavy, drooping, white flowers; 
 each motionless, morose; all with eyes 
 fixt on the trodden earth at their feet. 
 The younger priests suddenly strike 
 together square brazen cymbals, deeply 
 chased with signs and letters of a perished 
 tongue. A shrill, screaming cry goes up 
 from the people, followed by a prolonged 
 silence. Not a man moves, not a woman 
 sighs. Only a shiver contracts the skin 
 of the foremost girl in the small central 
 group. Then the elder priests advance 
 slowly, chanting monotonously:] 
 
 CHORUS OF THE PRIESTS 
 
 We are thy children, O mighty Mother! 
 We are the slain of thy spoil, O Slayer! 
 
 94 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 We are thy thoughts that are fulfilled, O 
 
 Thinker! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 [And front all the multitude comes as with 
 one shrill, screaming voice:] 
 
 Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Thou wast, before the first child came 
 through the dark gate of the womb! 
 
 Thou wast, before ever woman knew man! 
 
 Thou wast, before the shadow of man moved 
 athwart the grass! 
 
 Thou wast, and thou art! 
 
 THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Hail, thou who art more fair than the dawn, 
 
 more dark than night! 
 Hail, thou, white as ivory or veiled in 
 
 shadow! 
 Hail, thou of many names, and immortal! 
 Hail, Mother of God, Sister of the Christ, 
 
 Bride of the Prophet! 
 
 THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 95 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 O moon of night, O morning star! Con- 
 soler! Slayer! 
 
 Thou, who lovest shadow, and fear, and sad- 
 den death! 
 
 Who art the smile that looks upon women 
 and children! 
 
 Who hast the heart of man in thy grip as in 
 a vice; 
 
 Who hast his pride and strength in thy sigh 
 of yestereve; 
 
 Who hast his being in thy breath that goeth 
 forth, and is not! 
 
 THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 We know thee not, nor the way of the, O 
 
 Queen! 
 But we bring thee what thou lovedst of old, 
 
 and forever: 
 The white Aozvers of our forests and the red 
 
 flowers of our bodies! 
 Take them and slay not, O Slayer! 
 For we are thy slaves, O Mother of Life! 
 We are the dust of thy tireless feet, O 
 
 Mother of God! 
 
 [As the white-robed priests advance slowly 
 
 96 
 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 towards the Black Madonna, the younger 
 tear off their scarlet sashes, and, seizing 
 the five maidens, bind them together, left 
 arm to right and hand to hand : and then 
 in like fashion do they bind the five 
 youths. Thereafter the victims move 
 silently forward, till they pass through 
 the ranks of the priests and stand upon 
 the lowest edge of the pedestal of the 
 great statue. Toward each steps, and be- 
 hind each stands, a naked priest, each 
 holding a narrow, irregular sword of 
 antique fashion.] 
 
 THE ELDER PRIESTS 
 
 Mother of God! 
 
 THE YOUNGER PRIESTS 
 
 O Slayer, be pitiful! 
 
 THE VICTIMS 
 
 O Mother of God! Slayer! be merciful! 
 
 THE MULTITUDE 
 
 [In a loud, screaming voice.] Have pity 
 upon us! Have pity upon us!. Have pity 
 upon us! 
 
 [The last blood-red gleam fades from the 
 Black Madonna, and flashes this way and 
 that for a moment from the ten sword- 
 knives that cut the air and plunge be- 
 neath the shoulders and to the heart of 
 each victim. A wide spirt of blood rains 
 up on the white flowers at the base of 
 the colossal figure; where also speedily 
 
 97 
 
William Sharp 
 
 He, dark amidst welling crimson, the 
 motionless bodies of the slain.] 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Behold, Mother of God, 
 
 The white flowers of our forests and the red 
 
 flowers of our bodies! 
 Have pity, O Compassionate! 
 Be merciful, O Queen! 
 
 THE MULTITUDE 
 
 Have pity upon us! Have pity upon us! 
 Have pity upon us! 
 
 [But at the swift coming of the darkness, 
 the priests hastily cover the dead with 
 the masses of the white flowers; and 
 one by one, and group by group, the 
 multitude melts away. When all are 
 gone save the young chief Bihr, and a 
 few of his following, the priests pros- 
 trate themselves before the Black Ma- 
 donna, and pray to her to vouchsafe a 
 sign. 
 
 From the mouth of the carven figure comes 
 a hollow voice, muffled as the reverbera- 
 tion of thunder among distant hills:] 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I hearken. 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 [Prostrate.'] Wilt thou slay, O Slayer? 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Yea, verily. 
 
 98 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 [In a rising chant.] Wilt thou save, O 
 Mother of God? 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I save. 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Can one see thee and live ? 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 At the Gate of Death. 
 
 [Whereafter no sound comes from the 
 statue, already dim in the darkness that 
 has crept from the forest. The priests 
 rise, and disappear in silent groups under 
 the trees. 
 The thin crescent ntoon slowly wanes. A 
 phosphorescent glow from orchids and 
 parasitic growths shimmers intermit- 
 tently in the forest. A wavering beam of 
 starlight falls upon the right breast of 
 the Black Madonna; then slowly down- 
 ward to her feet; then upon the motion- 
 less figure of Bihr, the warrior-chief. 
 None saw him steal thither; none knows 
 that he has braved the wrath of the 
 slayer: for it is the sacred time, when 
 it is death to enter the glade.] 
 
 BIHR 
 [In a low voice,'] Speak, Spirit that dwell- 
 
 eth here from of old Speak, for I 
 
 would have word with thee. I fear thee not, 
 O Mother of God, for the priests of the 
 
 99 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Christ who is thy brother say that thou wert 
 
 but a woman. . . . And it may be — it may 
 
 be — what say the children of the Prophet? 
 
 — that there is but one God, and he is Allah. 
 
 [Deep silence. From the desert beyond the 
 
 forest comes the hollow roaring of 
 
 lions.] 
 
 BIHR 
 [/n a loud chant,] To the north and to 
 the east I have seen many figures like unto 
 thine, gods and goddesses: some mightier 
 than thou art — vast sphinxes by the flood of 
 Nilus, gigantic faces rising out of the sands 
 of the desert. And none spake, for silence 
 is come upon them; and none slays, for the 
 strength of the gods passes away even as the 
 strength of men. 
 
 [Deep silence. From the obscure waste of 
 the forest come snarling cries, long- 
 drawn howls, and the low, moaning sigh 
 of the wind.] 
 
 BIHR 
 [Mockingly,] For I will not be thrall to a 
 woman, and the priests shall not bend me to 
 their will as a slave unto the yoke. If thou 
 thyself art God, speak, and I shall be thy 
 slave to do thy will. . . . Thrice have I come 
 hither at the new moon, and thrice do I go 
 hence uncomforted. . . . What voice was 
 that which spoke ere the victims died? I 
 
 ICG 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 know not ; but it hath reached mine ears never 
 save when the priests are by. Nay [laughing 
 low], O Mother of God, I — 
 
 [Suddenly he trembles all over and falls on 
 his knees, for from the blackness above 
 him comes a voice:] 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 What would'st thou ? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Hoarsely,] Have mercy upon me, O 
 Queen ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 What would' St thou ? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 I worship thee, Mother of God! Slayer 
 and Saver! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 What would'st thou ? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Tremulously,] Show me thyself, thyself, 
 even for this one time, O Strength and Wis- 
 dom! 
 
 [Deep silence. The wind in the forest 
 passes away with a faint wailing sound. 
 The dull roaring of lions rises and falls 
 in the distance. A soft, yellow light il- 
 lumes the statue, as though another moon 
 were rising behind the temple. 
 A great terror comes upon Bihr the Qiief, 
 and he falls prostrate at the base of the 
 Black Madonna. 
 
 lOI 
 
William Sharp 
 
 His eyes are open, but they see naught save 
 the burnt spikes of trodden grass, sere 
 and stiff save where damp with newly 
 shed blood; and deaf are his ears, though 
 he waits for he knows not what sound 
 from above. 
 
 Suddenly he starts, and the sweat mats the 
 hair on his forehead when he feels a 
 touch on his right shoulder. Looking 
 slowly round he sees a wontan, tall and 
 of a lithe and noble body. He sees that 
 her skin is dark, yet not of the black- 
 ness of the South. Two spheres of 
 wrought gold cover her breasts; and 
 from the serpentine zone round her 
 waist is looped a dusky veil, spangled 
 with shining points. In her eyes, large 
 as those of the desert-antelope, is the 
 loveliness and the pathos and the pain 
 of twilight.] 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Trembling,] Art thou — art thou — 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am she whom thou worshippest. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Looking at the colossal statue, irradiated 
 by the strange light that comes he knows not 
 whence; and then at the beautiful apparition 
 by his side.'] Thou art the Black Madonna, 
 the Mother of God! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Thou sayest it. 
 
 102 
 
The Black Madcnna 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Slowly raising himself, and resting on one 
 knee,] Thou hast heard my prayer, O 
 Queen ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Even so. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Taking heart because of the sweet and 
 thrilling humanity of the goddess.'] O Slayer 
 and Saver, is the lightning thine and the fire 
 that is in the earth? Canst thou whirl the 
 stars as from a sling, and light the moun- 
 tainous lands to the South with falling me- 
 teors? O Queen, destroy me not, for I am 
 thy slave, and weaker than thy breath: but 
 canst thou stretch forth thine hand and say 
 yea to the lightning, and bid silence unto the 
 thunder ere it breed the bolts that smite? 
 For if — 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I make and I unmake. This cometh and 
 that goeth, and I am — 
 
 BIHR 
 
 And thou art — 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I was Ashtaroth of old. Men have called 
 me many names. All things change, but I 
 change not. Know me, O slave! I am the 
 
 103 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Mother of God. I am the Sister of the 
 Christ. I am the Bride of the Prophet. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [With awe.] And thou art the very- 
 Prophet, and the very Christ, and the very 
 God! Each speaketh in thee, who art older 
 than they are : each — 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am the Prophet. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Hail, O Lord of Deliverance! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am the Christ, the Son of God. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Hail, O most Patient, most Merciful ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am the Lord thy God. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Hail, Giver of Life and Death! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Yet here none is; for each goeth or each 
 Cometh as I will. I only am eternal. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Crawling forward and kissing her feet.] 
 Behold, I am thy slave to do thy will: thy 
 sword to slay : thy spear to follow : thy hound 
 to track to thine enemies. I am dust beneath 
 thy feet. Do with me as thou wilt. 
 
 104 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Slowly, and looking at hint strangely.] 
 Thou shalt be my High Priest. . . . Come 
 back to-morrow, an hour after the setting of 
 the sun. 
 
 [As Bihr the Chief rises and goes into the 
 shadow, she stares steadily after him; 
 and a deep fear dwells in the twilight 
 of her eyes. Then, turning, she stands 
 awhile by the slain bodies of the vic- 
 tims of the sacrifice; and, having lightly 
 brushed away with her foot the flow- 
 ers above each face, looks long on the 
 mystery of death. And when at last 
 she glides by the great statue and 
 passes into the ruins beyond, there is 
 no longer any glow of light, and a deep 
 darkness covers the glade. Froi^ the 
 deeper darkness beyond comes the howl- 
 ing of hyenas, the shrill screaming of a 
 furious beast of prey, and the sudden 
 bursting roar of lion answering lion. 
 
 When the dawn breaks, and a pale, waver- 
 ing light glimmers athwart the smooth, 
 white crag that, on the farther verge 
 of the glade, faces the Black Madonna, 
 there is nought upon the pedestal save 
 a ruin of bloodied, trampled flowers, 
 though the sere, yellow grass is stained 
 in long trails across the open. The 
 dawn withdraws again, but ere long 
 suddenly wells forth, and it is as though 
 the light wind were bearing over the 
 
 105 
 
William Sharp 
 
 forest a multitude of soft, grey fea- 
 thers from the breasts of doves. Then 
 the dim concourse of feathers is as 
 though innumerable leaves of wild roses 
 were falling, falling, petal by petal un- 
 curling into a rosy flame that wafts up- 
 ward and onward. The stars have 
 grown suddenly pale, and the fires of 
 Phosphor burn green in the midst of a 
 palpitating haze of pink. With a 
 mighty rush, the sun swings through the 
 gates of the East, tossing aside his 
 golden, fiery mane as he fronts the new 
 day. 
 
 And the going of the day is from morning 
 silence unto noon silence, and from the 
 silence of the afternoon unto the silence 
 of the eve. Once more, towards the set- 
 ting of the sun, the multitude comes out 
 of the forest, from the east and from the 
 west, and from the north and from the 
 south; once more the priests sing the sa- 
 cred hymns : once more the people sup- 
 plicate as with one shrill, screaming 
 voice. Have pity upon us! Have pity 
 upon us! Have pity upon us! Once 
 more the victims are slain : of little 
 children who might one day shake the 
 spear and slay, five; and of little chil- 
 dren who would one day bear and bring 
 forth, five. 
 
 Yet again an hour passes after the setting 
 of the sun. There is no moon to lighten 
 the darkness and the silence; but a soft 
 glow falleth from the temple, and upon 
 
 io6 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 the man who kneels before the Black 
 Madonna. But when Bihr, having no 
 sign vouchsafed, and hearing no sound, 
 and discerning nought upon the carven 
 face, neither tremor of the lips nor life 
 in the lifeless eyes, suddenly sees the 
 goddess, glorious in her beauty that is 
 as of the night, coming towards him 
 from out of the ruins, his heart leaps 
 within him in strange joy and dread. 
 Scarce knowing what he does, he springs 
 to his feet, trembling as a reed that 
 leans against the flank of a lioness by 
 the water-pool.] 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Yearning, with supplicating arms.] Hail, 
 God! . . . Goddess! Most Beautiful! 
 
 [She draws nigh to him, looking at hint the 
 while out of the deep twilight of her 
 eyes.] 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 What would'st thou? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Wildly, stepping close, but halting in 
 dread,] Thou art no Mother of God, O God- 
 dess, Queen, Most Beautiful! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 What would'st thou, O blind fool that art 
 so in love with death? 
 
 107 
 
William Sharp 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Hoarsely,] Make me like unto thyself, 
 for I love thee ! 
 
 [Deep silence. From afar on the desert 
 comes the dull roaring of lions by the 
 water-courses; from the forest, a mur- 
 murous sound as of baffled winds snared 
 among the thick-branched ancient trees.] 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Sobbing as one zvounded in flight by an 
 arrow.'] For I love thee! I — love — thee! 
 I — 
 
 [Deep silence. A shrill screaming of a bird 
 fascinated by a snake comes from the 
 forest. Beyond, from the desert, a long, 
 desolate moaning and howling, where the 
 hyenas prowl.] 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 When . . . did . . . thy folly, . . . this 
 madness, . . . come upon thee, . , . O fool? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Passionately.] O Most Beautiful! Most 
 Beautiful ! Thee — Thee — will I worship ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Go hence, lest I slay thee! 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Slay, O Slayer, for thou art Life and 
 Death ! . . , But I go not hence. I love thee ! 
 I love thee ! I love thee ! 
 
 io8 
 
 Dlfl 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am the Mother of God. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 I love thee ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 God dwelleth in me. I am thy God. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 I love thee ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 Go hence, lest I slay thee ! 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Thou tremblest, O Mother of God! Thy 
 lips twitch, thy breasts heave, O thou who 
 callest thyself God! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Raising her right arm menacingly,'] Go 
 hence, thou dog, lest thou look upon my face 
 no more. 
 
 [Then suddenly, with bowed head and shak- 
 ing limbs, Bihr the Chief turns and 
 passes into the forest. And as he fades 
 into the darkness, the Black Madonna 
 stares a long while after hint, and a deep 
 fear broods in the twilight of her eyes. 
 But by the bodies of the slain children 
 she passes at last, and with a shudder 
 looks not upon their faces, but strews 
 the heavy white flowers more thickly 
 upon them. 
 The darkness comes out of the darkness, 
 
 109 
 
William Sharp 
 
 billow welling forth from spent billow 
 on the tides of night. On the obscure 
 waste of the glade, nought moves save 
 the gaunt shadow of a hyena that crawls 
 from column to column. From the black- 
 ness beyond swells the long, thunderous 
 howl of a lioness, echoing the hollow 
 blasting roar of a lion standing, with 
 eyes of yellow flame, on the summit of 
 the mass of smooth rock that faces the 
 carven Madonna. 
 
 And when the dawn breaks, and long lines 
 of pearl-gray wavelets ripple in a flood 
 athwart the black-green sweep of the 
 forest, there is nought upon the pedestal 
 but red flowers that once were white, 
 rent and scattered this way and that. 
 The cool wind moving against the east 
 ruffles the opaline flood into a flying 
 foam of pink, wherefrom mists and va- 
 pors rise on wings like rosy flames; and 
 as they rise, their crests shine as with 
 blazing gold, and they fare forth after 
 the Morn that leaps towards the Sun. 
 
 And the going of the day is from morning 
 silence unto noon silence, and from the 
 silence of the afternoon unto the silence 
 of eve. Once more, towards the setting 
 of the sun, the multitude comes out of 
 the forest, from the east and from the 
 west, and from the north and from the 
 south. Once more the priests sing the 
 sacred hymns : once more the people sup- 
 plicate as with one shrill, screaming 
 voice, Have pity upon us! Have pity 
 
 1 10 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 upon us! Have pity upon us! Once 
 more the victims are slain: five chiefs of 
 captives taken in war; and unto each 
 chief two warriors in the glory of youth. 
 Yet an hour after the setting of the sun. 
 Lightless the silence and the dark save 
 for the soft, yellow gleam that falleth 
 from the temple, and upon the man who, 
 crested with an ostrich plume bound by 
 a heavy circlet of gold, with a tiger-skin 
 about his shoulders, and with a great 
 spear in his hand, stands beyond the 
 statue and nigh unto the ruins, where no 
 man has ventured and lived.] 
 
 BIHR 
 [With loud, triumphant voice,] Come forth 
 my Bride! 
 
 [Deep silence, save for the sighing of the 
 wind among the upper branches of the 
 trees, and the panting of the flying deer 
 beyond the glade.] 
 
 BIHR 
 
 {Striking his spear against the marble 
 steps,] Come forth, Glory of my eyes! 
 Come forth, Pride of my delight! 
 
 [Deep silence. Then there is a faint sound, 
 and the Black Madonna stands beside 
 Bihr the Chief. And the man is wrought 
 to madness by her beauty, and lusts after 
 her, and possesses her with the passion 
 of his eyes.] 
 
 Ill 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Trembling, and strangely troubled,] What 
 would'st thou? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Thee! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Slowly.] Young art thou, Bihr, in thy 
 comeliness and strength to be so in love with 
 death. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Who giveth life ? and who death ? It is not 
 thou, nor I. 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Shuddering,] It cometh. None can stay 
 it. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Not thou? Even thou canst not stay it. 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Whisperingly.] Nay, Bihr; and this thing 
 thou knowest in thy heart. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 [Mockingly.] O Mother of God ! O Sister 
 of Christ ! O Bride of the Prophet ! 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 [Putting her hand to her heart.] What 
 would'st thou? 
 
 BIHR 
 
 Thee! 
 
 112 
 
The Black Madonna 
 
 THE BLACK MADONNA 
 
 I am the Slayer, the Terrible, the Black 
 Madonna. 
 
 BIHR 
 
 And lo, thy God laugheth at thee, even as at 
 me and mine. And lo, I am come for thee; 
 for I have made myself his Prophet, and thou 
 art to be my Bride. 
 
 [As he finishes he turns towards the great 
 Statue of the Black Madonna and, laugh- 
 ing, hurls his spear against its breast, 
 whence the weapon rebounds with a loud 
 clang. Then, ere the woman knows what 
 he has done, he leaps to her and seizes 
 her in his grasp, and kisses her upon the 
 lips, and grips her with his hands till 
 the veins sting in her arms. And all the 
 sovereignty of her lonely godhood passes 
 from her like the dew before the hot 
 breath of the sun, and her heart throbs 
 against his side so that his ears ring as 
 with the clang of the gongs of battle. 
 He sobs low, as a man amidst baffling 
 waves; and in the hunger of his desire 
 she sinks as one who drowns. 
 Together they go up the long, flat marble 
 steps; together they pass into the dark- 
 ness of the ruins. From the deeper dark- 
 ness beyond comes no sound, for the 
 forest is strangely still. Not a beast of 
 prey comes nigh unto the slain victims 
 of the sacrifice, not a vulture falls like 
 a cloud through the night. Only, from 
 
William Sharp 
 
 afar, the dull roaring of the lions bil- 
 lows heavily from the water-courses on 
 the desert. 
 
 And the wind that blows in the night comes 
 with rain and storm', so that when the 
 dawn breaks it is as a sea of sullen waves 
 grey with sleet. But calm cometh out of 
 the blood-red splendor of the east. 
 
 And on this, the morning of the fourth and 
 last day of the Festival of the Black Ma- 
 donna, the multitude of her worshippers 
 come forth from the forest, singing a 
 glad song. In front go the warriors, the 
 young men brandishing spears, and with 
 their knives in their left hands cutting 
 the flesh upon their sides and upon their 
 thighs: the men of the North clad in 
 white garb and heavy burnous, the tribes- 
 men of the South naked save for their 
 loin-girths, but plumed as for war. 
 
 But as the priests defile beyond them upon 
 the glade, a strange, new song goes up 
 from' the shaven lips; and the people 
 tremble, for they know that some dire 
 thing has happened.] 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 [Chanting.] Lo, when the law of the 
 Queen is fulfilled, she passeth from her people 
 awhile. For the Mother of God loveth the 
 world, and would go in sacrifice. So loveth 
 us the Mother of God that she passeth in sac- 
 rifice. Behold, she perisheth, who dieth not! 
 Behold, she dieth, who is immortal! 
 
 114 
 
/ 
 
 The Black Madonna 
 
 [Whereupon a great awe comes on the mul- 
 titude, as they behold smoke, whirling and 
 darkly fulgurant, issuing from the mouth 
 and nostrils of the Black Madonna. But 
 this awe passes into horror, and horror 
 into wild fear, when great tongues of 
 flame shoot forth amidst the wreaths of 
 smoke, and when from forth of the Black 
 Madonna come strange and horrible cries, 
 as though a mortal woman were perishing 
 by the torture of fire. 
 
 With shrieks the women turn and fly: hurl- 
 ing their spears from them, the men dash 
 wildly to the forest, heedless whither 
 they flee. 
 
 But those that leap to the westward, where 
 the great white rock facing the Black Ma- 
 donna stands solitary, see for a moment, 
 in the glare of sunrise, a swarthy, naked 
 figure, with a tiger-skin about the shoul- 
 ders, crucified against the smooth white 
 slope. Down from the outspread hands 
 of Bihr the Chief trickle two long waver- 
 ing streamlets of blood : two long stream- 
 lets of blood drip, drip down the white, 
 glaring face of the rock from the pierced 
 feet] 
 
 IIS 
 
v 
 
The Last Quest 
 
^ 
 
 Death hath not yet come unto the man who 
 knoweth not that he is dead, 
 
 Johannes Arbiter: Myst. 
 
THE LAST QUEST 
 
 [As in a vision . . . the furious charge 
 through the smoke and across the corpse^ 
 strewn battlefield: the neighing and solx 
 bing of horses; the hoarse cries, the sudv 
 den screams of men : the clang and whis- 
 tle of swords: the shrill spurting of a 
 hail of bullets: the bursting crash and 
 roar of artillery: a wild rush, a wild on- 
 slaught, and — Victory! . . . and . . .] 
 
 And as I clomb the barren and difficult 
 steep, I yearned for a fellow-creature, for 
 but the hollow echo of a distant voice, even 
 more than for escape from the twilit solitudes 
 of this hill whereup I toiled, forgetful whence 
 I came and knowing not whither I went. 
 And it seemed to me as though years upon 
 years went over me in my long, ceaseless 
 effort ; but when, with a triumph that was yet 
 no triumph, at last I gained the crest, I still 
 heard in my ears the fanfare of the bugles, 
 the clash of swords, the mad rush and fury 
 and turmoil of the charge, while my lips 
 quivered still with the sudden scream of 
 Victory. 
 
 And when I stood upon the summit, I saw 
 that I was in a strange land. Behind me lay 
 
 119 
 
William Sharp 
 
 a vast plain, margined afar off in the direction 
 by which it seemed to me I had come, by 
 obscure, impenetrable forests. Immeasurably 
 upon this plain was ruin of ungarnered har- 
 vest. Leagues upon leagues to the east and 
 west without end, and everywhere the grain 
 ungathered ; and nought astir save a thin dust 
 of chaff, idly blown hither and thither by a 
 wind that was yet too light to move the dark 
 poppies that lay in the hollows, — too faint to 
 bend an ear of that unlifted grain. Veiled 
 moonlight shone upon the waste, so that even 
 through the gloom I could see that nought 
 moved, nought stirred : not even an owl swept 
 with stealthy wing above the forlorn lands, 
 not even a bat circled through the dusk, not 
 even a cloud trailed a deeper shadow from 
 solitude to solitude. But as I looked closer 
 and wonderingly, and now with a great weari- 
 ness of longing, I saw that every here and 
 there the sheaves had been brought together 
 as though the reapers had suddenly ceased 
 from their labour and had gone to make ready 
 for the harvesting. Yet, for the most part, 
 the sheaves were but loosely gathered, and all 
 untied, and with the ground near strewn with 
 the rich grain that had, as it were, been 
 abruptly dropped. And everywhere, far and 
 wide, were single sheaves or small gatherings, 
 
 1 20 
 
The Last Quest 
 
 as though the harvesters had been weary or 
 heedless; and often sheaves that seemed as 
 though they had been wittingly defiled or de- 
 stroyed. But now all the ungarnered harvest 
 lay silently there in the twilight; and no man 
 came unto that which was ready for the gath- 
 ering, and no man passed by that which had 
 been idly thrown aside or ruined in wanton- 
 ness. And amidst it all, this vast harvest 
 which stretched beyond sight to the uttermost 
 ends of the earth, there was nothing further 
 visible but the dark-red poppies of oblivion. 
 Of all this immeasurable toil, of all this ma- 
 jesty of desolation, there was nought save a 
 thin, vanishing dust of chaff, faint as a per- 
 ishing smoke over woodlands where a fire 
 has been, but is no more. 
 
 Then as one rousing from sleep into day- 
 light, I turned and looked beyond me. Be- 
 hold, here too was a vast plain that stretched 
 beyond the scan of mortal eyes. The sun- 
 light lay upon it, and it was glorious to look 
 upon. A sweet wind came out of the blue 
 hollows of the sky, where white clouds voy- 
 aged bearing soft rains and cool shadows : and 
 there was so wild and glad a music of birds 
 over the illimitable savannas of golden grain, 
 and of young corn green as the heart of a 
 shallow sea, that I felt as though all the joy 
 
 121 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of my youth was upon me, and my he. A 
 swelled, and the blood stung in my vein ly 
 But ere long I looked with amazement, foi- 
 in all that unf rontiered land beyond me I saw 
 neither man nor woman. Yet evermore, 
 from the east to the west, swept a gigantic 
 shadow like unto a scythe: and where the 
 shadow swept, the grain fell. And when I 
 looked again I beheld a mighty Shape, clothed 
 in the dusk of shadow as with a veil, and clad 
 with dropping decays as with a tattered robe 
 rent by the wind. Ever and forever the 
 Reaper strode, with blind, oblivious eyes, with 
 vast scythe furrowing the sunlit grain : and it 
 seemed to me, while I watched, as though the 
 minutes passed into hours, and the hours into 
 days, and the days into years, and the years 
 into the timeless wastes of eternity. Looking 
 suddenly back upon the twilit land which first 
 I had brooded upon, I saw that its margins 
 were as the moving tides of ocean, and that 
 the Reaper reaped where the grain grew by 
 the fallen grain. And there was no rest, no 
 end to the long sweep of the shadowy scythe. 
 Ever, forever, the scythe swept: ever, for- 
 ever, the grain fell. The sun shone, the birds 
 sang, the world smiled; and, by the margins 
 of the Hollow Land, where the grain rose the 
 grain fell. 
 
 122 
 
The Last Quest 
 
 Then a terror that was of life overmastered 
 the terror that was of death, and I strained 
 my eyes so that I might see some living thing 
 of my own kind. But only the rays of the 
 sun penetrated the womb of the earth, and 
 only the endless concourse of the grain was 
 delivered of the unwearying mother. It 
 seemed to me, then, as though the green corn 
 and the golden ears were but as the multitude 
 of lives that come forth at the rising of the 
 sun, and are no more at the setting. And as 
 I looked with awe and terror upon the Reaper, 
 who reaped forever and ever where the grain 
 rose and the grain fell, I turned and stared 
 beyond the westering sun. And lo, I beheld 
 yet Another, A glory of golden light he 
 seemed, clad with ever evanishing rainbows, 
 and crowned with the auroral flames of sum- 
 mer dawns. 
 
 Vast was he as the Reaper ; but as he fared 
 beyond the pathway of the sun, he was as the 
 glory and joy of eternal youth. He, too, 
 swayed an arm, even as the mighty scythe- 
 sweep of the Reaper, an arm of glowing light : 
 and therewith I saw that he sowed a living 
 seed forever and ever. As I watched the 
 Sower in the blinding splendour of the sun- 
 light, it seemed to me that he moved onward 
 as he sowed; and it was with me as though 
 
 123 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the minutes were like unto hours, and the 
 hours like unto days, and the days unto years, 
 and the years unto the immeasurable wastes 
 of eternity. 
 
 Then, with a great cry, I ran down the 
 slopes of the steep whereon I was; for my 
 heart was fain to follow the beautiful Sower, 
 and my soul full of dread of the Reaper that 
 reaped forever. But when I came unto the 
 base of the hill, and to the end of the gloomy 
 pass that issued thence, I went no further. 
 For over against me rose a vast wall of black 
 basalt, and upon it, in letters of white flame, 
 were the words of my agony. And when I 
 read TOO SOON, I turned me in my despair, 
 and with bitterness of grief clomb again the 
 perilous steep. 
 
 When once more I had gained the summit, 
 I had no heart to look where the glory of the 
 sun fell about the Sower, sowing his living 
 seed forever and ever. But when I looked 
 again upon the Reaper — with mighty scythe 
 laying low without end, without rest, where 
 the grain rose and the grain fell — I cried 
 aloud in my extremity of dread. 
 
 Thereafter, it seemed to me that in the 
 Hollow Land behind me was peace. So 
 passed I down the hill, and through the twilit 
 waste of all that ungarnered harvest. And 
 
 124 
 
 m 
 
The Last Quest 
 
 there was no sound there, and nought stirred, 
 save the slow, thin fall of the dust among the 
 hollows forever upon the dark-red poppies of 
 oblivion. 
 
 And I know not how long I fared, or 
 whither; but at last, weary — weary unto 
 death of that harvest that should never be 
 gathered — I came nigh unto the obscure 
 forest I had seen from the hill-summit from 
 afar. And I was glad, for I was weary of 
 the Hollow Land. 
 
 But when I would enter the wood, I saw 
 that the growths were intricately drawn 
 against yet another wall of black basalt. And 
 as I stood, pondering, I beheld two mighty 
 portals, and betwixt them a huge mass of 
 marble like unto the tomb. And in great let- 
 ters carven thereon were the words: TOO 
 LATE. 
 
 I2S 
 
The Fallen God 
 
Christian 
 . . . nay, but doth not God owe that which 
 He hath promised? 
 
 Pagan 
 He payeth in divers ways. 
 
 Christian 
 Is not His glory my glory, for lo He dwelleth 
 in me and I in Him? 
 Pagan 
 Even so. Thus hath it ever been, O wor- 
 shipper of thine own soul! 
 
 The Idolater. 
 
THE FALLEN GOD 
 
 [A vast hollow among barren hills, whereon 
 no living thing moves or has being, and 
 where no flower blooms, no grass or any 
 green thing grows ever. Above the sheer 
 slopes of the hills reaches the immense 
 empty void of the sky, wherein there is 
 no sun and no moon, wherein no stars 
 mark a change that never comes, no 
 clouds wander before the shepherd-wind 
 that blows never. 
 
 At the far rise of the hollow — so vast that 
 echoes from the gorge issuing at the 
 hither end wander idly into silence ere 
 their whispers faint midway — is a gigan- 
 tic fallen altar, ancient beyond the ken of 
 ntan, and prostrate as it lay even in dim 
 antiquity. Behind it stretches to the right 
 and to the left, and reaches upward into 
 the lifeless sky, a sheer smooth wall of 
 basalt, polished as ice and black as the 
 grave. And upon this ruined, ancient 
 altar, as upon a throne, sits the Prophet: 
 in his eyes a woe more terrible than the 
 desolation of the sky overhead — a terror 
 of loneliness more awful than that of the 
 barren hills. 
 All the valley — from the base of the gigantic 
 fallen altar even unto the hithermost end, 
 whereby all may come but none may go — 
 is filled with an innumerable throng, so 
 129 
 
William Sharp 
 
 dense that no man might pass through 
 these close ranks. In all the valley and 
 upon all the hills nothing stirs, nothing 
 moves. 
 In the forefront of this silent concourse 
 stand the dead kings; and behind them, 
 rows upon rows, the high priests of the 
 people. Even as though in one motion- 
 less stare, all look upon the Prophet, the 
 herald of their eternal joy. And in a low, 
 hollow voice, that yet is heard of all, as 
 though a rumour of earthquake and aw- 
 ful thunder were echoing from the deso- 
 late void, the Prophet speaks:] 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 What v^ould ye? 
 
 [As a sigh that goes before the autumnal 
 wind, the dead kings speak: and the woe 
 in the face of the Prophet passes under- 
 standing.] 
 
 THE KINGS 
 
 We are even as the dust upon the highway. 
 O Prophet, where is our God? We would 
 look upon him face to face. 
 
 [Looking upon them, with eyes wherein the 
 last hope flickers unto death, the Prophet 
 answers :] 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 There is no God. 
 
 [Terrible is the wail from the people, from 
 one and from all throughout that dense 
 throng; but silence comes upon them as 
 
 130 
 
The Fallen God 
 
 a wave, as the priests stretch forth their 
 arms and supplicate:] 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Far have we fared, and bitter has been the 
 way, O Prophet of God ! Lead us now to the 
 God whom we worship, lest we perish ere he 
 gather us to his fold. 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 What would ye, O blind leaders of the 
 blind? 
 
 THE PRIESTS 
 
 Our God! Our God! 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 There is no God. 
 
 [Terrible is the wail from the people, from 
 one and all throughout the dense con- 
 course; but, as the priests stand move- 
 less, like dumb things stricken unto the 
 death, the multitude cries as with one 
 voice, with arms stretched forth even as 
 one arm:] 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 We have endured to the end! We are 
 weary; we are weary: O God! 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 What would ye? 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Our God! Our God! 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 There is no God! 
 
 131 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [An awful whisper goes over the massed 
 multitude :] 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Have we suffered, endured, agonized, pas- 
 sioned, hoped against hope, and all in vain ? 
 
 [And till the Prophet speaks, a yet more 
 awful whisper passes like a shudder over 
 the multitude:] 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 There is no God! 
 
 [Then with one wild, despairing cry, all sup- 
 plicate as one ntan:] 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Have we wrought in vain? 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 Yea, so. 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 And there is no God? 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 There is no God. 
 
 [As a howl of a wild beast is the voice of 
 the multitude:] 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Liar, liar! O false Prophet, was it ever 
 SO? Did we worship nought? 
 
 [Then, with a long sigh, as if death had 
 come indeed, the Prophet answers:] 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 Nay, your God was. 
 132 
 
The Fallen God 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Where is he? Let us come unto him! 
 Our God! Our God! 
 
 THE PROPHET 
 
 Behold, he is here. 
 
 THE PEOPLE 
 
 Where? Where? 
 
 [And lo, prostrate at the feet of the dead 
 Prophet, whose eyes become as stone, and 
 whose body as the unhewn marble in the 
 heart of the hills, is the fallen God. 
 
 Then, as the last wave of a perishing sea, all 
 the multitude moves onward. One by 
 one each of that mighty company passes 
 before the fallen altar and looks upon the 
 dead God. And to each — kings and 
 priests, elders and youths, women and 
 maidens, the frail and little children — 
 it seems as though his own self lies there, 
 staring upward out of his own eyes. 
 
 But, at the last, none is left of all these 
 countless thousands. Each passes, and 
 fades as a mist against the black wall 
 beyond. 
 
 And a great darkness comes down, though 
 decrescent along the forefront is a dying 
 orb, the faint, vanishing gleam whereof 
 falls upon the stony wilderness, void as 
 the void sky. No voice speaks ; no breath 
 moves — save only at the base of the 
 fallen altar a perishing eddy of wind that 
 stirs a handful of dust.] 
 
 133 
 
The Coming of The Prince 
 
Amour! O vie! O reve des reves. 
 
 >» 
 
THE COMING OF THE PRINCE 
 
 [A great forest, at midwinter, in the North 
 of France. The snow hes heavy on the 
 boughs of the oaks and beeches, and upon 
 the pendulous branches of the larches and 
 firs. The afternoon sky is of a pale tur- 
 quoise blue, faintly dulled toward the 
 north into a vaporous grey. 
 
 In the depth of the wood, a charcoal-burner 
 is stooping over a pile of fagots which he 
 is binding. Suddenly he raises his head 
 and listens intently. Far off, there is a 
 faint strain of music. It mounts and 
 wavers and passes away, as a feather 
 blown from a bird in its flight sways this 
 way and that and then drifts out of sight. 
 The charcoal-burner resumes his labour; 
 but, later, he once more suddenly raises 
 his head and sniffs the chill woodland 
 air.] 
 THE CHARCOAL-BURNER 
 
 It is Strange. Midwinter . . . and there is 
 a smell as of violets . . . faint . . . like those 
 white violets in summer in the garden of the 
 cure ... or (still sniffing the air perplexedly) 
 like those in the woods of Belamor. . . . 
 Well, well, I know not. I have seen and 
 heard many things. . . . Ay, and so the Sieur 
 de Fontnoir is to have a great prince for his 
 guest, they say. I would he might pass this 
 
 137 
 
William Sharp 
 
 way, for I am poor — ah, so poor, and it is 
 bitter cold — and perhaps . . .. [again he 
 listens intently, as a faint sound of music 
 floats through the air and lingeringly dies'] 
 . . . It is strange! 
 
 [He gathers a few stray fagots, and then, 
 heavily and wearily, follows a path that 
 leads through the forest. A thin snow be- 
 gins to fall : large fringed feathers swiri 
 softly this way and that, dusking the up- 
 per air, and drawing a veil of fugitive 
 whiteness over the tangled undergrowth. 
 Silently, as the visionary thoughts that 
 drift through dreams, the snowflakes fall, 
 till the upper boughs of the firs are as 
 vast white plumes, and a dense carpet is 
 so thickly woven over the glades that the 
 hare does not leap from under the frozen 
 bracken, and under the arched roots of 
 the old oak the yellow eyes of the fox 
 blink drowsily. 
 At the northern march of the forest there 
 is a great avenue that leads to the Chateau 
 of Fontnoir; and at the far end of this, 
 and close to the manor, Gaspard the 
 Huntsman walks, stamping as he goes, 
 so as to shake the snow from him. As 
 he passes the many-gabled west wing of 
 Fontnoir, he is hailed from' an open win- 
 dow by Raoul, an old servitor.] 
 
 RAOUL 
 Gaspard! Gaspard! have you seen or 
 heard aught of the Prince? 
 
 138 
 
 i.aa 
 
The Coming of the Prince^ 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 What Prince? 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 Why, the Prince whom both our Lord and 
 the Lady Alaine have been expecting. I know 
 no more. He may come unannounced and 
 when unexpected, so says Father Fabien. 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 I have been in the forest all day. I met 
 no one. 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 You saw no one! You heard nothing? 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 I saw no one except old Pierre the char- 
 coal-burner. I heard nothing unusual — ex- 
 cept — except — 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 Except what? 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 Within the last hour I heard twice a faint 
 sound as of music. 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 Music? 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 Yes ; I think Sylvain, from St. Luc du Lys, 
 must be wandering hither again. I hope so: 
 that lute of his has magic in it, and he has a 
 voice as sweet as the spring wind. 
 
 139 
 
William Sharp 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 I care not for your lute-players and singers. 
 You are as bad as Sylvain, Gaspard. ... Is 
 it going to be a snowstorm? 
 
 GASPARD 
 
 No. This fall will soon cease. The night 
 will be clear. 
 
 [Raoul closes the window, and Gaspard 
 passes on and disappears into the east 
 wing. A great silence prevails. The 
 snowflakes fall softly, but grow thinner 
 and more thin, and at last only a few 
 wandering feathers drift hither and 
 thither. 
 At an oriel window stand Marcel and 
 Alaine. The room" beyond is in deep 
 shadow. To the left, a door opens on a 
 corridor: to the right another, leading to 
 a stone staircase that descends abruptly. 
 The first is closed; the second is ajar. 
 The waning afternoon light falls upon 
 Alaine's face as the dim glow of the 
 crescent moon on water lilies. She is 
 very beautiful, but pale as death. Mar- 
 cel is clad as though for a journey. 
 He, too, is pale; but in his dark eyes 
 there is a fierce flame of life.] 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 If my father knew that you were here, 
 Marcel — 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Let him know. I care not. 
 
 140 
 
The Coming of the Prince 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 He hates you and your house. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 He is an old man, who has Hved with 
 Shadows. 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Father Fabien — 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Alaine, what flowers have you there? It 
 is midwinter — and yet I seem to smell the 
 fragrance of violets. 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 There will be no violets for months yet. 
 There are no flowers here. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Yes . . . violets; . . . those faint, white 
 violets you love so well. 
 
 [The last rays of the sun stream through 
 the upper boughs of the forest, and all 
 the whiteness is as autumnal moonlight 
 The gleam illumes the face of Alaine, 
 which is transformed to a beauty as of 
 a summer sea. She laughs low, and in 
 a sweet, hushed voice sings:] 
 
 White dreams, 
 White thoughts, 
 White hopes! 
 Shy violets. 
 White violets, 
 
 141 
 
William Sharp 
 
 In woodland ways, by the brook-side, 
 on the hill-slopes! 
 
 Strange joy. 
 New thrills. 
 Vague fears: 
 Violets, 
 White violets, 
 
 White kisses from the lips of Spring, 
 white dewey tears. 
 
 White hands, 
 
 O lead me where 
 The white Spring strays 
 
 'Mid violets. 
 
 White violets. 
 
 On the hill-slopes, by the brook-side, 
 in woodland ways, 
 [A silence. The last glow of the sun passes. 
 
 A yellow light illumines the wood.] 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Why do you sing that song? 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 [Dreamily.'] Because they are the flowers, 
 the best-beloved flowers of the Prince. . . . 
 
 [^softly] 
 In woodland ways, by the brook-side, on the 
 
 hill-slopes! 
 
 142 
 
 ■^'-' 'mi'\i'\\T' 
 
The Coming of the Prince^ 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Alaine ! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Hush! Some one comes. If it should be 
 my father — or — or — Father Fabien! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 It cannot be your father: he is too ill to 
 move. It is Raoul : I know his heavy step. 
 
 [Raoul knocks and opens the door. He 
 glances, startled for a moment, at Mar- 
 cel; then bows. Then, looking towards 
 Alaine:] 
 
 RAOUL 
 Did you wish me? 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 No. Why do you come? 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 I heard a sound as of that little silver chime 
 of bells that Sylvain the minstrel brought you 
 last Noel. It was in the corridor. 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Impossible. You are dreaming, Raoul. 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 [To Marcel.] Monseigneur de St. Michel, 
 you face the great doorway of Fontnoir. Did 
 you see any one approach? Have you stood 
 here long? 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 No one has approached since the sun 
 dipped among the firs. 
 
 143 
 
William Sharp 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 It is strange. A loud peal at the door hap- 
 pened just as I was crossing the west gallery. 
 I answered the summons at once; but, see 
 you, my Lord Marcel, when I went to the 
 door it was open, and no one was there. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Some one must have opened it. 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 No one could have done so unseen by me. 
 It was not open before the summons. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Some one must have rung, and then 
 abruptly gone elsewhere. 
 
 RAOUL 
 
 I looked out upon the court. There was 
 not the faintest impress of a footstep upon the 
 white sheet of the snow. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Well, it has been an illusion, Raoul. 
 
 [He crosses to the old servitor, whispers 
 some directions in his ear, and then, as 
 Raoul leaves the room, closes the door 
 behind him. The yellow light over the 
 snow-clad woods grows more wan. Be- 
 yond are broad spaces of amber, and 
 then a vast receding' vault of dusky grey, 
 wherein three pale stars gleam icily: on 
 the snow in the foreground rests a fur- 
 tive green light.] 
 
 144 
 
The Coming of the Prince 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 [Dreamily.'] Ah, the sweet violets. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 You, too, smell the violets? 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 [Still as in a dream,'] And, said Sylvain 
 the poet, when the Prince had made a wreath 
 of white violets, gathered in the sunshine, but 
 each with the moonshine dew still cool within 
 it, he crowned himself therewith, and — 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Who is this Prince who is coming? Why 
 is he likely to come alone and disguised? 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 I know not. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Alaine, oh, my darling! I love you! 
 Alaine! Alaine! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Marcel ! 
 
 [Marcel sinks on his knees by her side, and 
 wildly kisses her hand.] 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Have pity upon me, have pity, Alaine! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Rise, Marcel. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Alaine ! Alaine ! 
 
 145 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Rise, heart of my heart, my darling, my 
 darling ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 [Springing to his feet, and holding her at 
 arm's length.] O my beautiful Alaine — My 
 joy — my dream! Do you indeed love me 
 even as I love you ? No — no — that cannot 
 be, for I worship you! O my darling, my 
 darling ! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 I have loved you always, Marcel. But you 
 know my father's vow — my father's hatred : 
 he would kill you rather than — 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 And now — and now? 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 I love you, and you only. Marcel. Do 
 with me as you will. I am a lost wave with- 
 out you — a lost wave on a great sea, dark 
 and shoreless. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 Then farewell all this long, troubled dream ! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Farewell this dream that is dreamt — this 
 weary dream! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 And you will come. 
 
 146 
 
The Coming of the Prince 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 I come. 
 
 [He takes her in his arm's and kisses her 
 passionately. Then, silent and sound- 
 lessly, they pass hand in hand from the 
 room by the eastward door, and descend 
 the narrow stairway. 
 
 And as they go, the room is full, as it were, 
 with the odour of white violets. And ere 
 they have reached the end of the wind- 
 ing stairway, they stop a moment, in- 
 tently listening to a faint, sweet music 
 as of lutes, that seems to come from the 
 room they have left.] 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 Ah, the sweet music ! 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 I have heard it in my dreams. 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 . . And I. 
 
 MARCEL 
 
 It was ever with thee, Alaine! 
 
 ALAINE 
 
 . . And thee! 
 
 [They pass along the low stone corridor, 
 and out behind the east wing, and into 
 the court where Marcel's sleigh awaits 
 thent. As they sweep across the snow 
 and into the forest, the green light passes 
 into yellow, and the yellow deepens into 
 orange. And, a little later, sitting by 
 the fire in his hut, the charcoal-burner 
 
 147 
 
William Sharp 
 
 lifts his head and smiles slowly; for he 
 thinks he hears Sylvain the minstrel, on 
 his way to the Chateau to make music 
 for the Prince.] 
 
 148 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
^^ ConnaiS'tu la Puissance tenebreuse qui 
 trame nos destinees? . . . Des vies ante- 
 rieures sont innombrablement presentes en 
 moi; et je suis oppresse de mes pensees fu- 
 tures: je sais VeternitL Ne suis-je Virrevo- 
 cable?'' 
 
THE PASSING OF LILITH 
 
 [The primal Eden, where the great rivers 
 from the East and the West converge; 
 where the winds bear abroad the rumour 
 of the music of the young world, strange 
 and passing sweet; where there is 
 neither strife nor fear; where Lilith, the 
 beautiful, soulless loveliness, reigneth 
 supreme. 
 And in the serene day come ever and again 
 the fairest of the Sons of God and do 
 homage to her; but only to Uluel doth 
 she yield herself. And in the serene 
 night Cometh the Spirit of this World, 
 ofttimes in the guise of a beautiful 
 Snake, and unto him Lilith is as flame 
 to flante.] 
 THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 
 
 From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of 
 the World! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Slowly moving through the Garden of 
 Eden, where the dusk falleth.] I v^ould be 
 alone this night. 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 [As the passing of the wind.] Thy thought 
 is my thought, and thy will is my will. 
 
 [Through the dim groves and shadowy ave- 
 nues of Paradise Lilith goeth slowly, as 
 
William Sharp 
 
 in a dream. She seeth not, she heedeth 
 not the beautiful denizens of Eden: the 
 white doe that moveth beside her awhile, 
 like moonlight ; the yellow panther, whose 
 eyes are as emerald flames in the dusk; 
 the green-gold cobra, languidly undulat- 
 ing from bough to bough; the filmy, oft- 
 evanishing creatures of the middle air, 
 strange and lovely shapes, opal-eyed, 
 faintly rainbow-hued ; and wandering 
 Spirits, passing fair, flowers of the un- 
 born fruit of the Human Soul. 
 
 And after awhile she passeth, still as in a 
 dream, by the margins of the great, un- 
 sailed waste of waters that stretcheth 
 westward from Paradise, vaguely heark- 
 ening, as she goeth, the prophetic mur- 
 murs of the deep. 
 
 But the sound of the waters persuadeth her 
 to a subtle sorrow, and she wandereth 
 inland till she cometh to the great cen- 
 tral fountain which riseth from the womb 
 of the earth. And looking into the heart 
 of it, Lilith is strangely troubled.] 
 
 LILITH 
 
 \_Slowly, and still as in a dream,'] Lo, in 
 the falling spray it seemeth that something 
 shadowy like unto myself taketh form. Be- 
 hold, now it towereth triumphantly. . . . 
 Now it is a menacing suppliant, writhing with 
 strange agonies. . . . Now it standeth pas- 
 sive, in sinister silence ! And now it goeth — 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 It passeth — is no more. Yet, see, in the 
 heart of the spray it cometh again! 
 
 [Then, as though aweary of the vision, Lilith 
 turneth away, and, going through the col- 
 onnades of the forest, cometh to the 
 great hill that is in the midst of Eden. 
 And having gained the summit of the 
 hill, she looketh long toward the North 
 and toward the East, where the volcanic 
 mountains are as a girdle of flame and 
 falling ashes. 
 And a strange trouble cometh upon her, and 
 she averteth her gaze, and descendeth the 
 great hill that is in the midst of Eden, 
 and passeth again into the forest; though 
 she goeth not by the fountain, but by the 
 starlit ways where the night-flowers ex- 
 hale exquisite odours that are as dreams.] 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 
 
 From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of the 
 World! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Moving her lips.] I v^otild be alone this 
 night. 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 [As the passing of the wind,] Even as thy 
 
 thought is my thought, so is thy v^ill my will. 
 
 [As the coming of moonlight through the 
 
 dusk is the voice — as from afar off — 
 
 of Uluel, the fairest of the Sons of 
 
 God. . . .] 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE VOICE OF ULUEL 
 
 Thou art as white fire in my heart, O 
 Beauty of the World! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Alow and at rest, upon a slope of white 
 violets, lying as surf round the cavernous 
 bases of vast trees.] For I am with thee as 
 a Dream ! But come not, for I — 
 
 [A wind ariseth, and passeth.] 
 THE VOICE OF ULUEL 
 
 But lo ! the time is at hand when — 
 
 [A wind Cometh and goeth, and the voice is 
 borne away. And there is utter silence 
 in Eden. And Lilith sleepeth. 
 Hour by hour the dark blue veil of night is 
 withdrawn, and star after star is left pale 
 and evanescent. And when none is left 
 to front the rose-light of the new day, 
 save the white fire of Phosphor, that is 
 the lamp of morning; and when a raptur- 
 ous glow hath bourgeoned like a flower 
 over the Garden of Eden; and when a 
 Breath of Joy gladdeneth the world; 
 Lilith awaketh. Then having listened 
 awhile to the song of life, and drunken 
 of the dew that lies in the chalices of the 
 white flowers, and eaten of the golden 
 manna that awaiteth her where she will, 
 she smileth, and with a wild, sweet song, 
 passeth like a dream of sunlight through 
 the glades of Eden. And ever as she 
 goeth, sh'adowy and beautiful forms like 
 unto the souls of men follow after her: 
 
 154 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 and as she passeth beneath the trees, she 
 ofttimes plucketh the fruit thereof, and, 
 kissing it, giveth of the fruit now unto 
 this one and now unto that.] 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Standing still, and as though listening in- 
 tently.] And if it so be — 
 
 FAINT VOICES FROM THE BEAUTIFUL SHADOWY 
 
 FORMS 
 
 Give us of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Throwing away the last fruit she pluckt.] 
 In the youth of the world I dreamt — 
 
 FAINT VOICES 
 
 Give US of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Sombrely.'] And the Vbice that I have 
 heard thrice, and know not — 
 
 FAINT VOICES 
 
 Give US of the fruit ! Give us of the fruit ! 
 Oh, give us of the fruit. 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Looking upon one of the Shadow-souls.] 
 What would'st thou ? 
 
 THE SHADOW-SOUL 
 
 The fruit! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 Thou art a dream that is undreamed. 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE SHADOW-SOUL 
 
 The fruit — oh, give us of the fruit. 
 
 [Slowly Lilith plucketh a fruit from off the 
 tree, and, kissing it, giveth it to the 
 suppliant] 
 
 THE SHADOW-SOUL 
 
 Ah, joy! joy! I am the Breath of Life! 
 Immortal Life — Immortal Joy ! 
 
 [As the Shadow- Soul eateth of the fruit, it 
 becometh like a rosy phantom', with eyes 
 as if filled with sunshine, and with a face 
 like unto a sunlit sea.] 
 
 THE SHADOW-SOUL 
 
 [Moving apart from its fellows.'] Farewell ! 
 Farewell! For I am: and ye are as dreams 
 that are undreamed. 
 
 [And as he goeth, the wild birds of Eden 
 hover above him, and under his feet red 
 and white flowers spring, and a low 
 music followeth his steps.] 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [As in a dream.~\ Farewell! Farewell! 
 For I am : and ye are as dreams that are un- 
 dreamed. 
 
 [But after the Shadow-Soul hath eaten of 
 the fruit, the low music changeth into a 
 mournful sighing, and the birds become 
 like unto bats, and small, writhing snakes 
 move where first were the red and white 
 flowers. Then the rosy phantom fadeth 
 
 156 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 into greyness, and is no more. And 
 nought of the Shadow- Soul remaineth, 
 save one drop of blood which is like unto 
 a bleeding heart, but speedily sinketh 
 into the ground. And Lilith knoweth 
 that before she pass that way again it 
 will be a plant, and thereafter a tree, 
 whereon will grow the mystic fruit 
 wherewith unto these her worshippers 
 she giveth life and death.] 
 LILITH 
 [Slowly reiterating,] Farewell! Farewell! 
 
 For I am: and ye are as dreams that are 
 
 undreamed. 
 
 [Slowly Lilith, passing from the trees of the 
 fruit, with a wave of her hand dismisseth 
 all those that follow her with the hunger 
 that is more than bodily hunger, and the 
 thirst that is more than bodily thirst. 
 Like a dream of the sunlight, she goeth 
 through the aisles of the forest. The 
 glory of the morning falling upon her 
 maketh her long hair as beaten gold — 
 as pale gold that is aflame with an inner 
 consuming lire. Her white body is as 
 the ivory-white lily that groweth in soli- 
 tary beauty in the heart of Eden: and 
 the going of her is as the wave that 
 moveth before the wind upon the deep: 
 and the light that is in her eyes of 
 fathomless blue is as that of the azure 
 heaven an hour before the setting of the 
 sun. 
 And as she goeth, she seeth down the vast 
 
 157 
 
William Sharp 
 
 vista of Eden the beautiful Uluel, the 
 fairest of the Sons of God. With him are 
 three others, each lovely as daybreak. 
 But Uluel is as the splendour of day. 
 And as they come nearer, the three vanish 
 into the golden glow, and Uluel is alone. 
 Then as a moving river of light he 
 draweth near unto Lilith, and she seeth 
 that the glory of his loveliness passeth 
 knowledge. Hand in hand, they go forth 
 together; and the innermost flower of 
 flowers rejoiceth, and each blade of 
 grass bendeth as with a wind. And 
 throughout Eden there is a sound as of 
 the laughter of life. 
 
 And while the moon prevaileth, Uluel, the 
 fairest of the Sons of God, and Lilith lie 
 among the lilies of the valley, where the 
 spray of the fountain cools the air, and 
 the shadows are deep from the great 
 boughs of ancient trees. The joy that is 
 their joy passeth knowledge, for Mortal- 
 ity is swallowed up in Immortality, as the 
 stars that perish lie in the heart of the 
 firmament. And Uluel, the Son of God, 
 trembleth because of the unspeakable sin, 
 and anon trembleth with the greatness of 
 unspeakable joy. And Lilith dreameth. 
 
 When the day waneth in its glory, and the 
 night, clothed with magnificence, is at 
 hand, Uluel riseth.] 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 Lilith, Heart of Beauty, wilt thou come? 
 
 158 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 LILITH 
 
 I perish yonder. 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 Thou canst not die. Thou art immortal. 
 
 LILITH 
 
 I dreamed that I should die daily, and a 
 thousand deaths. 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 Love scorneth fear. 
 
 LILITH 
 
 Fear warneth love. 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 Come! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 Show me the portals of thy golden house. 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 [Troubled.'] What wouldst thou? 
 
 LILITH 
 
 Thee! 
 
 ULUEL 
 
 I must go hence. Already — 
 
 [A wind riseth, and passeth; and Lilith, ly- 
 ing upon the lilies alone, dreameth hour 
 after hour. Slowly the day goeth 
 through the gold and purple gates of the 
 West : and the eve, with a crown of stars, 
 Cometh through the violet shadows. 
 Through velvety glooms of darkness the 
 night falleth, and the later splendour of 
 the moon doth not dim the glory of the 
 stars.] 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 
 
 From afar I sigh for thee, O Beauty of the 
 World! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [With outstretched arms,] Come unto me, 
 O Flame of Love ! 
 
 [Out of the dusk cometh a great Snake, 
 of a beauty beyond words, and girt with 
 a splendour like unto the wavelets of the 
 sea when the moonlight lies upon the 
 deep. 
 
 As he moveth, there is a sound as of a 
 multitude of sweet lutes; as he breatheth, 
 there is an echo of a myriad delicate 
 strains. His voice is as the voice of the 
 woods at sunrise, of the pastures when 
 the day is done, of the West wind in 
 valleys near the sea, of the rain after 
 long drought. And Lilith giveth a low 
 cry, and he passeth unto her. 
 
 And far away beyond the abysmal disc of 
 the sun, Uluel singeth before God: and 
 knoweth not that he is blind, and that 
 God seeth, and waiteth.] 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Whispering to the beautiful Snake coiled 
 about her, as the ivy is at one with the tree it 
 claspeth,'] Yet if dreams — 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THIS WORLD 
 
 Thou thyself art the Dream of the World. 
 [The moonlight spreadeth as a flood, and 
 
 1 60 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 the great beasts of Eden meet and re- 
 joice with one another. 
 
 And Lilith and the Spirit of the World are 
 at one, as two rivers that flow into one 
 sea. The mystery and the wonder and 
 the secret ecstasy of night enter into 
 them, and they know the unspeakable 
 fear and the unspeakable joy. 
 
 But toward the noon of night a strange, 
 wild chant, surpassing sweet, draweth 
 near. Then, with a low sigh, the Snake 
 uncoileth from the body of Lilith and 
 passeth into the darkness like unto the 
 going of a moonlit river. Awhile doth 
 Lilith list to the roaring of the wild 
 beasts of Eden, and rejoice in their joy: 
 but as the strange singing cometh nearer 
 she riseth in her place, and waiteth as 
 one who watcheth for her beloved. 
 
 Erelong issueth out of the green gloom a 
 white company of beautiful beings, love- 
 lier than aught else in Eden. Yet none 
 knoweth their song save Lilith, for of 
 all that pass by she is the mother. 
 
 And some are the offspring of her com- 
 merce with Uluel, the fairest of the Sons 
 of God: and some are born of her dal- 
 liance with the beautiful Earth- Spirit, 
 that is the Snake. 
 
 One by one she calleth unto them: unto the 
 children of Uluel — Hopes, Aspirations, 
 Fair Beliefs, Virtues, Glories, Joys, and 
 Raptures : and unto the children of the 
 Earth-Spirit equally fair to look upon — 
 Desires, Lusts, Agonies, Passions, Temp- 
 
 i6i 
 
William Sharp 
 
 tations. Sins, Shantes, Sorrows, and 
 Despairs. 
 
 But they, her offspring, will not abide; 
 singing their mystic chant, one and all 
 pass by. And when the white proces- 
 sion is no more, Lilith sinketh again upon 
 the ground, and, sleeping, dreameth a 
 dream. And in her dream she seeth how 
 all these offspring of her joys journey 
 unto a strange goal: and how the chil- 
 dren of the Snake, who are as males, 
 terribly woo the children of the Son of 
 God, who are as beautiful female spirits. 
 
 But, in the midst of her dream, she awaketh 
 trembling, for a Voice prevaileth through 
 the Gates of Death and Sleep.] 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 Arise, thou that are Lilith ! 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Trembling.'] It is He! 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 Arise, Lilith, Spirit of the Flesh, and go up 
 upon the mountain. 
 
 [Thereat Lilith, rising from her place, 
 passeth through the wood to the great 
 hill that is in the midst of Eden. And in 
 her heart there is the weight of the old- 
 world dreams. As she climbeth the 
 great hill by the light of the flaming 
 volcanoes, her face is pale as the light 
 on a moonless sea. And when she look- 
 
 162 
 
 1 
 
 liamm 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 eth forth from the summit upon the 
 girdle of mountains, belching forever 
 their spume of red flames and clouds 
 of molten ashes, her heart faileth her for 
 terror. For all the heavens — from the 
 verge of the world to the farthest of the 
 stars — are alive with thin spectral 
 flames: the vital essences, as Lilith 
 knoweth, of those innumerable worship- 
 pers of hers who through past ages have 
 eaten of her mystic fruit. Moreover, 
 each supplicateth wildly to the unknown 
 God ] 
 
 Give us life, that we triumph over this 
 beautiful Evil, which hath no soul, but who 
 is yet immortal ! 
 
 [And, much troubled, Lilith descendeth the 
 great hill that is in the midst of Eden. 
 And at the fountain which welleth from 
 the womb of the earth, and at the phan- 
 tasm of herself in the spray thereof, she 
 looketh long and broodingly. There- 
 after, with lips muttering, but without 
 words, and with downcast eyes, she 
 passeth onward toward the margin of 
 the great sea that covereth all the world 
 to the West. 
 There until the dawn lieth she, silent, mo- 
 tionless, as one dead. And at the out- 
 burst of the glory of the rising sun, there 
 cometh a terrible voice out of the hol- 
 low heaven:] 
 
 163 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 Behold, man shall be born upon the earth. 
 He shall inherit it. Unto the children of 
 man is delivered thine inheritance. Hence 
 pass thou, Lilith, even unto the great sea — 
 thou and thine. 
 
 LILITH 
 
 [Slowly risi^ig.'] Even so. For my time 
 is come upon me. 
 
 [Then knowing that her time is come upon 
 her, and that all things must be fulfilled, 
 she goeth forward, silent, and trembling 
 not, but with downcast eyes, and lieth by 
 the uttermost margin of the great sea. 
 All day long she abideth there; nor 
 weepeth, nor maketh any wail of sor- 
 row; but lieth ever with her breast 
 against the sand, and with fixed eyes star- 
 ing upon the sea. 
 
 And none cometh nigh her: neither Uluel, 
 the fairest of the Sons of God; nor the 
 fair Snake, which is the Spirit of this 
 World; nor any of her beautiful off- 
 spring; nor any of her shadow-worship- 
 pers, that are as the grains of sand in 
 numbers; nor any fond beast or shelter- 
 ing bird. 
 
 And at the noon of day, Lilith crieth aloud 
 once.] 
 
 Uluel ! 
 
 [And at the waning of the day, Lilith cries 
 aloud yet again:] 
 
 164 
 
 I 
 
The Passing of Lilith 
 
 Uluel ! 
 
 [Slowly the fan-flame of the sun waneth 
 above the great sea, and there is deep 
 peace in Eden. 
 But ere the passing of the sun, and when 
 all the ocean is red as with blood, the 
 company of the offspring of Lilith by the 
 Son of God and by the Spirit of the 
 Earth come unto her out of Eden : Hopes 
 and Despairs, Virtues and Sins, Glories 
 and Shames, Raptures and Agonies, , one 
 and all come they unto her, their 
 mother.] 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF LILITH 
 
 [Slowly chanting.} We are immortal, and 
 we cannot die ! 
 
 [There is no following sound, no answer, 
 but the moaning of the sea.] 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF LILITH 
 
 [With alien voices, passing away,] We are 
 immortal, and we cannot die! 
 
 [But Lilith, who hath stirred not for all 
 their advent, only smileth constrainedly, 
 and turneth not her staring eyes from off 
 the deep. And the faint voices of the 
 children of Lilith are lost in the moan- 
 ing voice of the waters.] 
 
 LILITH 
 
 Beautiful Spirit, I am thine. 
 
 [But only the night cometh. And the sea 
 moveth as though quickened into life, 
 
 165 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and advanceth upon the land. When the 
 moon riseth, there is nought upon the 
 shore save a little frothing foam. In the 
 silence of the night strange cries vibrate, 
 and shadows innumerable pass to and fro, 
 in the valleys of Eden. 
 And at sunrise God breatheth upon the 
 dust, and Adam is.] 
 
 (1886 and i8p3.) 
 
 166 
 
The Lute Player 
 
Les fibres de son coeur font les cordes d'un 
 
 luth 
 Qui rhythme les accords des splendeurs 
 
 eternelles. . . . 
 
 ISRAFEL. 
 
THE LUTE PLAYER 
 
 [In a long, high-vaulted room, looking out 
 upon a Roman garden where the cypresses 
 rise in narrowing shafts from thickets of 
 oleander and myrtle, is seated a cont- 
 pany of men and women, feasting. 
 Touched with the coolness of the eve that 
 has scarce come . , . though the last 
 floating cloudlets of crimson and pink, 
 like petals fallen from a late-gathered 
 rose, still linger beyond the garden- 
 fringe of ilex and pine . . . the soft, 
 warm air of early summer steals into the 
 room, laden with subtle odours, and re- 
 verberant as a hollow shell with vague 
 sounds — the hum of the bees in the 
 mignonette, of the gnats upon the wing, 
 of the dragon-flies as they dart to and 
 fro above the sunken fish-ponds.] 
 
 At the head of the table, facing the open 
 window, sits a Cardinal ; beyond him on either 
 side are men and women, for the most part 
 young. The dancing-girls have just gone, 
 and a sudden hush has come out of the twi- 
 light upon all assembled. A few look before 
 them pensively, or idle with the rose leaves 
 in the water in the crystal globes beside them ; 
 but most look towards the garden, where the 
 
 169 
 
William Sharp 
 
 shadows are fantastically long or merged in 
 a violet gloom. 
 
 The light in the west has become gold and 
 purple, with a wide stretch of pale, translu- 
 cent green, against which the cypresses stand 
 black and moveless: over all the sky is one 
 vast wave of daffodil. Out of the heart of a 
 myrtle-thicket comes the song of a nightin- 
 gale, so thrilling with exultant passion that no 
 one dares speak or move lest the charm be no 
 more. 
 
 When, abruptly, the song ceases, there is 
 still silence throughout the room. But sud- 
 denly a low, penetrating strain of music floats 
 in upon the evening air, so poignant and yet 
 so delicate, so rare and yet with touches of 
 such sweet familiarity, that tears come into 
 the eyes of many. Yet none knoweth who 
 the musician is: and if some think that the 
 subtle playing comes from the garden, others 
 believe that the Cardinal has secreted a lute- 
 player somewhere in the room, or behind the 
 tapestries or waving curtains. And to some 
 comes a sudden sense of peace, to others a 
 quick joy. But one youth, turning to the 
 fair woman beside him, is startled to see that 
 her eyes look toward him as through a veil, 
 and that her beauty shines upon him afar off, 
 as in a pool the fugitive light briefly lingers 
 
 170 
 
The Lute Player 
 
 while the moon rests on the mountain 
 shoulder. With a strange dread at his heart 
 he is about to lean forward, when he shrinks 
 in terror, for between him and her yawns a 
 black and bottomless gulf. 
 
 As a ripple of laughter and the sound of the 
 wind among the grasses, goes the eager ap- 
 plause of those sitting at the feast; and, low 
 and clear above all, the voice of the Cardinal, 
 bidding the musician enter and be one of his 
 company. But the youth shudders, for now 
 he hears, as it were, the echo of the music 
 floating up from the hollow blackness of the 
 gulf. Then, with a fear such as he has never 
 known before, he rises, and reaches forward 
 to gather to his arms the woman whom he 
 loves ; but, even while he still hears the blithe 
 voices of the guests, he knows that he is sink- 
 ing like a falling feather into the gulf. From 
 far beneath he hears the strange music of 
 the Lute-player: far above, the faint echo of 
 it among the revellers, of whom he was one 
 but a moment ago. As a swimmer sinks 
 down into a fathomless sea, so sinks he: and 
 in the waning gleam overhead, as of vanish- 
 ing moonlight, he sees the pale, mourning face 
 of her whom he loves. 
 With a light laugh, the Cardinal calls: — 
 " Ah ! there goes the Lute-player : I saw his 
 
 171 
 
 I 
 
William Sharp 
 
 shadow fall upon the floor near the window." 
 And a guest cries : — 
 " And the nightingale has heard him too ! " 
 
 Whereat there is again a profound stillness ; 
 for all sit entranced by the song of the unseen 
 bird, which is now sad beyond words, and as 
 though the little heart were breaking. The 
 silence following is full of the afterthought of 
 sweet music, as a calm sea is full of the moon- 
 light long after a cloud-film veils the hollow 
 sky. But suddenly, from the dusky avenues 
 at the far end of the garden, the vanishing 
 lilt of a lute falls upon the ears of all. So 
 sweet and blithe its music, that each smiles 
 as with sudden gladness and relief: none 
 knowing what silence has suddenly come unto 
 one of them, what horror of deep darkness, 
 what engulfing despair. 
 
 [And the Lute-player, passing unseen down 
 the dark ways, fares toward the city: 
 where the noise of falling waters is 
 sweet to tired ears, and the hot air cooled 
 with blown spray.] 
 
 As he silently goes on his way, none knows 
 of his presence. But as he passes by a house 
 in an obscure street, he hears a long, wailing 
 cry: whereat he stands stilly and listens in- 
 tently ere, unseen, he enters and goes towards 
 a room where, by the bed of a child, a mother 
 
 172 
 
The Lute Player 
 
 kneels, sobbing and crying to God. In the 
 shadow, unseen and unheard, he looks long at 
 the woman and at the child. Then, slowly 
 and softly, he begins to play ; and the room is 
 full of the delicate music of his lute, and upon 
 the face of the child is an exceeding joy. 
 And the child, with thin arms suddenly out- 
 stretched, cries eagerly: 
 
 '' Mother ! mother ! I see a beautiful stream, 
 all gold in the sunshine; and beyond it is a 
 meadow full of flowers; and everywhere, 
 everywhere, oh, the sweet songs! Oh, 
 mother ! mother ! the music, the sweet music ! '' 
 
 And the mother pitifully cries out : — 
 
 ^' Yes, yes, my little one : it is but a lute- 
 player in the street." 
 
 But as she would reach to her child, she 
 hearkens as it were to the lute-music, floating 
 far away above a mad rush and surge of 
 waters: and among the screams of drowning 
 wretches she hears a cry that goes to her 
 heart, and at the same moment sees her child 
 whirled on high and hurled through the swirl- 
 ing foam into the darkness beyond. Then, 
 with a wild cry, she falls forward un- 
 conscious. 
 
 [In the stillness and in the shadow, the 
 Lute-player goes forth into the street. 
 And passing hence into a lonely and evil 
 quarter, he plays upon his lute, but so 
 
William Sharp 
 
 softly that none hears him. It is as 
 though the blossoms on the fruit-trees 
 were whispering to the leaves, as though 
 the moonbeams were dancing with the 
 ripples on a stream, as though the wan- 
 dering white rays of the stars were 
 tangled in the long grasses and made a 
 sweet, bewildering music. 
 Thereafter, passing by foul places and dens 
 of loathsome evil, the low, haunting 
 strain wanders, wanders, drifting this 
 way and that, as though innumerable 
 winged spirits were floating earthward 
 with the falling dew, singing their thin 
 aerial song, surpassing sweet. Some 
 hear it for a moment, fleetingly faint, be- 
 hind a curtain, or in a dark passage, or 
 « betwixt the sudden opening and closing 
 of a door. Sometimes it is a vanishing 
 echo, sweet and joyous as of the dawn- 
 wind stirring among the upper branches 
 of the forest, as the rippling wash of the 
 sea when the sunglow streams upon it: 
 sometimes it is vague and far as the 
 fall of snow upon the woodlands when 
 there is no wind, as the whisper of the 
 last breath of air swooning upon the 
 pastures, as the faint falling music of 
 the wild hyacinths and lilies of the valley 
 in the hollow beyond the blown spray 
 of the waterfall.] 
 
 And passing down a narrow street, the 
 Lute-player comes upon a man going cau- 
 
 174 
 
The Lute Player 
 
 tiously in the shadow : who, fearful of follow- 
 ing steps, turns, muttering hoarsely: 
 
 "Who art thou?" 
 
 But hearing from the Lute-player that he 
 is only a wandering musician faring way- 
 wardly through the city, the man cries 
 blithely :— 
 
 " What do you sing ? For I know where 
 a good song will be welcome ! " 
 
 Whereupon the Lute-player answers sim- 
 ply: 
 
 " I sing of Life ... and Death/' 
 
 With a challenging voice the man says: — 
 
 " Come, a song for a song ! " 
 
 And he begins a carol of life and the many 
 joys thereof, and mocking at death: — 
 
 O Day come unto me, 
 Fair and so sweet! 
 Crown'd shalt thou be, 
 And with wingd feet, 
 Escape the invading sea, 
 Whose bitter line 
 
 Follows o'er fleet. 
 What joy thou would'st is thine: 
 Life is divine, 
 
 O Fair and Sweet! 
 
 Death is a paltry thought: 
 A little troublous thing — 
 
 175 
 
William Sharp 
 
 An insect's sting! 
 Beautiful Day, oh, heed it not! 
 Death is a vain, a — 
 
 But he ceases abruptly as the Lute-player 
 suddenly touches his lute : and so passing rare 
 is the music that the man stands entranced. 
 Nor does he speak any word or make any 
 gesture, as he hears it lessening and vanishing. 
 [In the deep shadow of the street the Lute- 
 player is seen no more, and the thrilling, 
 evanishing strain passes away at last, 
 sweet as faint inland echoes heard long- 
 ingly through the dusk at sea.] 
 
 With a low sigh the man turns, but sud- 
 denly reels with horror to see that he is in a 
 city of flame, and that the street before him 
 is a broad and fathomless river of blood. As, 
 with a terrible cry, he falls therein, he does 
 not see the figure of his enemy behind him, 
 nor feel the long knife of the assassin that 
 transfixes his heart. 
 
 [And the Lute-player, traversing the city, 
 crosses one of the bridges that span the 
 immemorial river whereon it is set. 
 Halting midway, he looks broodingly 
 upon the slow-moving flood whose gurg- 
 ling current washes the piers beneath him. 
 Once, smiling darkly, he raises his hand, 
 about to play a music so wild and strange 
 that the whole city should hearken: but, 
 
 176 
 
The Lute Player 
 
 with a sigh, he forbears. As he moves, 
 he descries in the opposite embrasure a 
 woman, young and fair but for the hag- 
 gard weariness of her face, stooping, and 
 staring steadily at the water in its dull, 
 monotonous flow. Softly he touches his 
 lute to a delicate, distant melody: ex- 
 quisite vibrations as though of long for- 
 gotten strains, of loved sounds and 
 voices.] 
 
 Once, with a strange, reluctant fear, the girl 
 turns ; but seeing him not in the shadow, and 
 thinking herself alone with the murmuring 
 water, looks no more. So subtly soft and 
 sweet is the music stealing upon her ears, that 
 it is as though it came from afar. Hearing it, 
 she smells again the wild roses and the honey- 
 suckle in the hedges ; listens to the bees lazily 
 fumbling among the red and white clover in 
 the hot pastures, to the faint wind astir 
 among the flowering beans, to the lowing of 
 distant cows, to the haunting call of the 
 cuckoo above the woodlands where a sleepy 
 murmur comes from the cushats' nests. But, 
 listening entranced, the haunting strains come 
 to her at last not from afar, but from below, 
 deep from the heart of the flood flowing on- 
 ward for ever and ever. Suddenly a great 
 trembling comes upon her: and in a low 
 voice she cries: — 
 
 177 
 
William Sharp 
 
 "Who IS there ?'^ 
 
 As from among the grasses she hears the 
 sound of small feet running, and of a soft, 
 low laughter. Springing downward with a 
 cry, she hearkens to the strange music, ringing 
 in her ears wildly sweet: but as the dark 
 waters overwhelm her, she knows nought 
 save a horrible choking as of a suffocating 
 child, the fierce execrations and blows of a 
 man, and a fearful, fathomless gulf into which 
 she is sinking as a stone into the abyss. 
 
 [For long, and as though wearily, the Lute- 
 player leans upon the bridge. The wash 
 of the water and the sough of the night- 
 wind alone break the stillness; yet it is 
 to him as though with their undertone are 
 wrought remoter harmonies of earth and 
 sky, wherein also the moonlight and the 
 far icy stars and the wandering clouds 
 have utterance. 
 When, at the last, veiled in shadow, he 
 passes on, the dawn breaks. Erelong the 
 opal of the east is haloed by great fan- 
 like streamers of gold and crimson : and 
 those looking upon the morning star see 
 beneath it the unfolding of the splendour 
 of the Flower of Day. The boatmen on 
 the long barges and moored sloops upon 
 the river hear for a moment the echo 
 of a sweet, a blithe sweet song: and the 
 peasants trooping through the fields lis- 
 ten intently to catch again the happy lilt 
 of delicate strains heard afar: and upon 
 
 178 
 
The Lute Player 
 
 the hills the shepherds look upward, with 
 hands shading their eyes, half startled by 
 faint vanishing cadences of joyous music. 
 The birds sing, and the flowers bloom, and 
 the winds unfold their wings and fare 
 forth in the sunshine. Everywhere, 
 everywhere, the joy and glory of life. 
 And the Lute-player, clothed with a ra- 
 diance of sunlight and with eyes of morn- 
 ing, moves onward through the glad 
 noon, playing ever his wild, sweet song: 
 for unto him' is no night and no day, 
 and unto him no morrow comes for 
 whom all morrows are but strains re- 
 membered from an antique song.] 
 
 179 
 
r 
 
 The Whisperer 
 
THE WHISPERER 
 
 I 
 
 [A summer noon, in a crowded thoroughfare 
 of London. The sunlight slants through 
 a thin veil of blue, and becomes a pale 
 gold on the street, where the endless 
 surge of the traffic is as the waters of 
 the sea caught in a narrow strait. 
 Among the hundreds who hurry this way 
 and that goes a man who looks beyond 
 him as though he descried somewhat 
 afar off for which he yearned. Some- 
 times he stops abruptly, and with startled 
 eyes stares at the man or woman at that 
 moment by his side: sometimes he 
 speaks, though none answers him.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 [Stopping abruptly, in his rapid walk east- 
 ward, while the light wanes from his 
 eyes.] 
 Who spoke? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 It is I. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who art thou? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Turning first to one person moving past 
 him, then to another.^ What is it? 
 
 183 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [Each stares for a moment, but none an- 
 swers. All whom he addresses hurry on 
 without regarding him: a few glance at 
 him and mutter irritably or scornfully. 
 Slowly he resumes his way. Again the 
 voice is in his ear.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who spoke? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 It is I. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who art thou? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am of Those who watch. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 For whom? 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 For what? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 [Silence.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Art thou here? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am here. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 I see thee not : where art thou ? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am in the rhythm of the whirling wheels 
 and the falling hoofs, in the noise of innu- 
 merous feet, and the murmur of myriad 
 
 184 
 
The Whisperer 
 
 breaths. The sparrows flicker in the light of 
 my footfall, and the high sunlight is in my 
 eyes. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 What would'st thou? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I have no will, O falling wave. It is I 
 who say: what wouldst thou? 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Where am I? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 In a vast maelstrom in a vaster sea. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Am I then a lost wave? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 A rising and a falling wave. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 {^Reiterating below his breath,'] A rising 
 and a falling wave ! 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 A falling and a rising wave. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Art thou a spirit? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 What art thou? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Turning desperately to an old man at his 
 side.] It is thou! Speak, speak! 
 
 185 
 
William Sharp 
 
 [The old man looks at him fearfully, shakes 
 off his grasp, and hurries onward.] 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am here. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 If I am of those for whom you watch tell 
 me to what end ? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 That, if thou wilt, when thou art ready, 
 thou may'st hear and see. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Thus be it. I would hear, and see. 
 
 [Even as he speaks, the Man sees the crowd 
 in the street become trebled: and in his 
 ears is a noise of crying and lamentation, 
 with vague remote shouts of victory and 
 defiance. Like unto the innumerable 
 falling of the waves upon the sea is the 
 dim, confused rumour of the strife of 
 human passions, embodied in shadowy 
 shapes, with wild eyes of hope, dread, 
 wrath, horror, and dismay. Beside each 
 man or woman moves two others, the 
 phantom of the soul and the phantom" of 
 the body. And ever the phantom of the 
 soul, with its eyes of morning glory, 
 looks through the veil of flesh into its 
 fellow, now dulled or sleeping, now 
 weary or heedless, now listening intently, 
 now alive and eager. And ever the phan- 
 tom of the body moves a little in ad- 
 vance of its fellow, and weaves a glamour 
 
 i86 
 
The Whisperer 
 
 before the eyes, and sings a wildering 
 song into the ears, and laughs low be- 
 cause the flames of Are that are its feet 
 seem like roses, and the dust and ashes 
 upon its head are as fragrant lilies, and 
 the dropping decays wherewith it is clad 
 wave like green branches that lure to the 
 woodland.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Shuddering.] Everywhere the Evil One 
 has his triumph. 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 There is no Evil One. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 But he — the phantom of the body, who 
 weaves his charm of the grave and his rune 
 of corruption — 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Look! 
 
 [And the Man, looking, sees only one figure 
 moving beside each human being of all 
 the hurrying myriad.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who — who is it? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 It is the phantom of the man or of the 
 woman. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Are they, then, one: the phantom of the 
 soul and the phantom of the body? 
 
 187 
 
William Sharp 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 They are one. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Terrified,] And thou? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 II 
 
 [Under a chestnut tree, on a grassy place, 
 near a cottage, in the remote country. 
 There is no moon, but its radiance comes 
 diffused through soft, filmy clouds. In 
 the darkness, the Man stands, listening 
 intently.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 I am not alone? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 I know thou art nigh. It is on the wind, 
 on the leaves, in the grass. 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am here. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 The time is come. Tell m.e that which thou 
 art — show me that which thou art. 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Look! 
 
 [And the Man, looking, beholds for the first 
 time the flowing of the wind. As he 
 looks, the heavens open, and the flowing 
 of the wind is from the starry depths, 
 and is filled with a myriad myriad aerial 
 
 1 88 
 
 J 
 
The Whisperer 
 
 beings, — souls coming and going, fair 
 spirits, shadows and shapes innumerable, 
 strange and sometimes terrible.] 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Awestruck.'] What are thou? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am the rhythm of the sap in the grass and 
 the trees, of the blood in all living things, of 
 the running of waters, of the falling of dews 
 and rains, of the equipoise of oceans, of the 
 four winds of the world, of the vast swing 
 of the Earth. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Thou art the God of this world ! Thou art 
 God! Lo, I worship thee! 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Behold! 
 
 [And the Man, looking, beholds through the 
 mist of stars a whirling grain of sand, 
 falling forever through the waste eternity 
 of Oblivion.] 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 That whirling grain of dust is the World of 
 which thou hast spoken. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Thou art no other than God, the God whom 
 all races have worshipped since Time was ! 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Behold! 
 
 [And the Man, looking, beholds amid the 
 
 189 
 
William Sharp 
 
 depths of the stars a vast Shape, seated 
 on a golden sun among the Pleiades, who 
 swings forever, as a lamp of incense, the 
 Seven Stars, and with them all the stars 
 and planets and suns and moons of the 
 universe: and as he swings this Lamp of 
 Incense, he sings a song of praise and 
 worship to the Most High] 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Behold, thou hast seen thy God, and the 
 
 God whom all the races of the world have 
 
 worshipped since time was. And now, turn 
 
 thine eyes upon the glory of Him yet again. 
 
 [And the Man, looking, beholds another 
 
 grain of sand whirling forever through 
 
 the waste infinities of Oblivion.] 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 That whirling grain of sand is the vast uni- 
 verse of the sun and moon and stars that thou 
 knowest, and all the suns and planets and 
 stars eye hath seen or the brain conceived. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 {^Scarce whispering.'] And God? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Thou canst not see the invisible speck that 
 was His throne. Behold the grain of sand 
 that was His universe. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who art thou ? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 190 
 
 M 
 
The Whisperer 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 [/n his soul.'] Is there nought beyond? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Verily: the nearer foam of the Sea of Life. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Doth God live? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Beyond the extreme horizon of the Sea of 
 Life, Gods and Powers and Dominions bow 
 down before the Most High. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 And then? 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 The Sea of Life begins. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 {^Despairingly.] Beyond all thoughts to 
 find Him — all prayer to reach Him! 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 Nay, He is here. 
 
 [The Man, bewildered, stares around him 
 as the moon sails from out the last films 
 of mist. In his hand is a blade of grass, 
 that he had not plucked.] 
 THE MAN 
 
 [Vaguely repeating.] Nay, He is here! 
 
 THE WHISPERER 
 
 I am thine to serve, O spirit that dieth not. 
 
 THE MAN 
 
 Who art thou? 
 
 [Silence.] 
 
 191 
 
William Sharp 
 
 And I remain thus, dreaming, listening to 
 that interminable dialogue between the heart 
 that desires and the reason that reprehends, 
 going from hypothesis to hypothesis, like a 
 blind bird casting itself incessantly against 
 the four walls of its cage, 
 
 L'Irremediable. 
 
 199 
 
 i 
 
PART II 
 
 Madge o' the Pool 
 The Gypsy Christ 
 The Lady in Hosea 
 
 ^ 
 
1 
 
 IB 
 
Madge o' the Pool 
 
MADGE O' THE POOL 
 A THAMES ETCHING 
 
 When the Januarj^ fog hangs heavy upon 
 London it comes down upon the Pool as 
 though it were sluiced there like a drain, or 
 as a mass of garbage shot over a declivity 
 in a waste place. The Pool is not a lovely 
 spot in winter, though it has a beauty of its 
 own on the rare days when the sun shines in 
 an unclouded frosty sky, or when a north- 
 wester comes down from the distant heights 
 of Highgate and Hampstead, and slaps the 
 incoming tide with short splashes of waves 
 washed up by the downward current, till the 
 whole reach of the Thames thereabouts is a 
 jumble of blue and white and of gleaming if 
 dirty greys and greens. On midwinter 
 nights, too, when the moon has swung up out 
 of the smoke, like a huge fire-balloon adrift 
 from the Lambeth furnaces, and when the 
 stars glint like javelin points, there is some- 
 thing worth seeing down there, where the 
 forest of masts rises sheer and black, and 
 where there is a constant cross-flash of red 
 
 197 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and green rays from innumerable bow lamps 
 and stern windows and tipsy lanterns trailed 
 awry through the rigging. A mile up- 
 stream, and it is wonderful what stillness pre- 
 vails. For ever, of course, the dull roar of 
 omnibuses and cabs on the bridges, the 
 muffled scraping sound of hundreds of 
 persons moving rapidljt afoot: from the 
 banks, the tumult of indiscriminate voices 
 and sounds of all kinds round and beyond 
 the crank-crank of the cranes on the grain- 
 wharves and the bashing of the brick and coal 
 barges against the wooden piers. But upon 
 the interspaces of the river, what compara- 
 tive silence! A disjointed passenger-boat, 
 with spelican funnel darting back to the 
 perpendicular, shoots from under a bridge, 
 and paddles swiftly down-stream like a 
 frightened duck; a few moments, and it is 
 out of sight, swallowed in the haze, or swung 
 round a bend. A trio of barges, chained to 
 each other like galley-slaves, passes up- 
 stream, drawn by what looks like a huge blue- 
 bottle-fly. The bluebottle is a tug-boat, a 
 " barge-bug '' in river parlance ; and as it 
 flaps the water with a swift spanking smash 
 of its screw, the current is churned into a 
 yeast of foam that is like snow against the 
 bows of the first barge, and thin as dirty 
 
 198 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 steam when washed from the sternmost into 
 a narrow vanishing wake. As likely as not, 
 the bargees are silent, pipely contemplative, 
 taciturn in view of always imminent need for 
 palaver of a kind almost unique in the scope 
 and vigour of its blasphemy. Perhaps, how- 
 ever, the boy at the caboose forward whistles 
 the tune of " O were I sodger gay,'' or that 
 perennial favourite which recounts the deeds 
 of Jack Do and Bob Didn't in the too familiar 
 groves of Pentonville; or the seedy man in 
 shirt-sleeves, who walks the starboard plank 
 with a pole and thinks he is busy, may yell 
 a ragged joke to a comrade similarly em- 
 ployed on one of the other barges. Or 
 even, and indeed very probably, the heavily 
 cravated, dogskin-capped helmsman may sud- 
 denly be moved to a hoarse volley of words 
 so saturated, dominated, upheld, overborne 
 by the epithet ''bloody," that the ''coal- 
 bunker " might almost be taken for a slaugh- 
 ter-house escaping in disguise. But even the 
 barges slump up-stream out of sight before 
 long: and then, how quiet the river is for a 
 space! The wharf-rats are so fat that they 
 make a stone-like splash when they plunge 
 through the grain-dollops; but only a prac- 
 tised ear could recognise the sound in the 
 rude wash of the current, or " spot " the 
 
 199 
 
William Sharp 
 
 shrill squeaks, as of a drowning and despair- 
 ing penny-whistle, when a batch of these 
 " Thames-chickens " scurries in sudden flight 
 down a granary-slide and goes flop into the 
 quagmires of mud left uncovered by the ebb. 
 But at the Pool there is never complete si- 
 lence. Even if there be no wind, the curses 
 of the Poolites (in at least twenty varieties 
 of human lingo) would cause enough current 
 of air to crease the river's dirty skin here 
 and there into a grim smile. 
 
 Like the rest of the world, the Pool has its 
 sociable seasons. Broadly there are two. 
 The shorter might be called that of the con- 
 certina and open-air " flings " ; the longer that 
 of the riverside singing-dens and dancing- 
 saloons. But the regular population has not 
 much time for systematic gaiety, not even in 
 the long summer nights: a bad season, in 
 fact, when there is little business to be done 
 and too much light to do it in. The stranger 
 visiting the neighbourhood — that is to say, 
 the stranger who carries in his aspect too 
 obvious credentials as to his respectability — 
 might laugh at the idea of there being a Pool 
 population at all, that is, of a permanent kind. 
 He will find the saloons in the locality 
 haunted by a motley gathering, where as a 
 rule the ladies show no insular partiality in 
 
 200 
 
 J 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 their acceptance of partners, whether in the 
 dancing-shops or other dens of more or less 
 repute; and where, without having had the 
 advantages of an excellent training at a 
 young ladies' academy, they seem quite at 
 ease with gentlemen of foreign parts, coloured 
 or otherwise, who talk no lingo but their 
 own. It is, in fact, a cosmopolitan society. 
 The civilisation of the West and the wisdom 
 of the East meet constantly ^n the inter- 
 course of the Irish dock-labourer and the 
 Chinese " grubber '' ; and the coolie or Malay 
 is as much at home as the Dutchman or 
 Portugee. 
 
 There is a clan of which almost nothing is 
 known. It is the people of the Pool. Ask 
 the river-police, and they will tell you some- 
 thing of the '' water-rats," though if your 
 informant be candid he will add that he can't 
 tell you much. Many unfortunate travellers 
 have met members of the fraternity; for one 
 of their favourite and most reputable pur- 
 suits is the ferrying at exorbitant prices (the 
 inevitable purloining skilfully carried on at a 
 certain stage is not charged for) of would-be 
 voyagers by the Hamburg and Baltic steam- 
 ers, when, on account of the tide, embarka- 
 tion has to take place at midstream. The 
 Poolites haunt Irongate and Horsleydown 
 
 201 
 
William Sharp 
 
 stairs, and are given to resenting active in- 
 terest in their vested rights. But their chief 
 means of life is otherwise obtained. They 
 are the vermin of the Thames, and they scour 
 its surface by night with irreproachable in- 
 dustry and thoroughness. It would not be 
 easy to describe what they do, particularly 
 under cover of mist or fog; it is simplest to 
 say that they will do anything, except speak to 
 a '' cat " or refuse a drink. A " cat," it may 
 be observed, is the name applied to a mem- 
 ber of the river police ; and as the " cats " 
 are always worrying, even when not directly 
 chasing the Poolites, or " rats," the result is 
 incompatability of temper. 
 
 Many of the Poolites haunt holes and cor- 
 ners in the neighbourhood of Horsleydown 
 stairs. Some have their lair in old boats, or 
 among rotten sheds or wood-piles; others 
 are as homeless, and as unpleasant and as 
 fierce, as dung-beetles. Among them there 
 are *' rats " of either sex who are practically 
 never ashore, whose knowledge of London is 
 confined to familiarity with the grim river 
 frontages, and whose sole concern in con- 
 nection with " the great name of England " 
 is a chronic uneasiness about her might and 
 majesty in the guise of the police. 
 
 A score or so of Poolites are marked men. 
 
 202 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 That is to say, either through length of ex- 
 perience in loafing and vagabondage, or ow- 
 ing to proved crime, their names are known 
 to the " cats/' and their persons occasionally 
 wanted. An invincible modesty character- 
 ises the Poolite. He sees no distinction in 
 public arrest, and the halo of a conviction 
 does not allure him. In a word, he is a 
 water-rat, and wishes to remain one. 
 
 The fact that he was so well known, and 
 could easily be found, was a chronic sore in 
 the drink-besotted mind of Dick Robins. He 
 loathed this distinction, and could he have 
 gained prolonged credit at any other gin-shop 
 than that of his brother Bill he would have 
 shifted his quarters. The fact that, as a 
 younger man, twenty years earlier, when he 
 was about thirty, he had thrice served his 
 term in jail, may have prejudiced him against 
 any radical change in his way of life. On 
 the second occasion he had appropriated in 
 too conspicuous a fashion the contents of a 
 pocket, that of the wife of a sea-captain with 
 whom he had found it difficult to come to an 
 exorbitant arrangement; and for this very 
 natural action he was condemned to three 
 years' imprisonment, with atrocious and ob- 
 jectionable hard labour. He would have 
 
 203 
 
William Sharp 
 
 been embittered against the law to the end of 
 his days, if he had not been so far mollified 
 by the light sentence on his third " go," one of 
 six weeks, — thus light, as the charge was 
 only of having brutally kicked his wife up 
 and down a barge and then into the 
 half-frozen Thames. As she died of rheu- 
 matic fever, Mr. Robins could not legally, of 
 course, be held accountable. For twenty 
 years or more Dick Robins had found gin so 
 pleasing a mistress that he had been unable 
 to give any but the most nominal attention — 
 it would be absurd to say to the education — 
 to the growth of his daughter. Her name 
 was *' girl '' : that is^ his name for her. Bap- 
 tized Margaret, she was com.monly called 
 Madge. He realised that she was a girl, and 
 comely, on account of various ideas of his 
 own, and suggestions from outside, all on 
 the same level of profound depravity. He 
 first regarded her as a woman when, having 
 lost eleven and fourpence at Wapping-euchre 
 to Ned Bull, that gentleman generously of- 
 fered to overlook the debt, and to spend the 
 remaining eight and eightpence of the broken 
 quid in two bottles of '' Jamaicy " and four 
 goes of "Aunt Maria," conditionally on re- 
 ceipt of Madge as the legal Mrs. Bull. The 
 offer would have been accepted right off, but 
 
 204 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 Mr. Robins found to his chagrin that the bot- 
 tles of rum and goes of proof-gin would not 
 be consumable till the marriage festival. 
 
 Madge was a dark, handsome girl, tall, 
 well-made though too thin, somewhat slat- 
 ternly in dress, though generally with a clean 
 face, and, stranger to say, with fairly clean 
 hands. Neither she nor any one else would 
 have dreamed of the application to her of 
 the term " beautiful." Only those who 
 caught a glimpse of her as she stood in a 
 statuesque pose, pole in hand, on some hay 
 barge or hoy in ballast, or as she sculled up 
 stream or down, deft as a duck in the fen- 
 tangle, noticed the beauty of her thick-clus- 
 tered, ample hair, and mayhap the splendour 
 of her large, dark, velvety eyes. Madge 
 knew very little of shore-life, even that of 
 the Horsleydown neighbourhood, and noth- 
 ing at all of the larger life of that vast me- 
 tropolis which represented the world to her: 
 though she was vaguely aware that beyond 
 the Isle of Dogs the Thames widened to that 
 sea which bore the foreign ships which came 
 to London, and brought so many mariners 
 of divers nationalities, all equally eager for 
 two things, strong drink and purchasable 
 wotnen. When ashore, she was generally at 
 the house of her uncle Bill the publican, or, 
 
 205 
 
William Sharp 
 
 more often, at that of her sister-in-law, Nell 
 Robins. For all her rough life, her rude 
 imaginings, uncouth surroundings, her igno- 
 rance of refinement in speech or manner, 
 Madge was pure of heart, honourable in all 
 her intimate dealings, and as upright gen- 
 erally as she had any call to be. 
 
 Dick Robins was coarse and brutal enough 
 in his talk when she had refused to desert 
 the river-life of the Pool in order to act as 
 barmaid at her uncle's public-house, the 
 "Jolly Rovers.'* With all her experience — 
 and she could have given points to most spec- 
 ialists in blasphemy — she learned the full vo- 
 cabulary of utter degradation when she told 
 her father that " Gawd hisself couldn't swop 
 her to that beast, Ned Bull, without her will, 
 which would never be till she was drownded, 
 and not then." 
 
 The drink-sodden brute went so far, even 
 before he violently struck her again and again, 
 that, though he confirmed her in her abhor- 
 rence of the proposed union, he was the first 
 great reforming force in her life. After that, 
 she realised, she might " dry up." Foulness of 
 speech could go no further. A disgust of it 
 all came upon the girl. She prayed an un- 
 wonted prayer to that mysterious abstraction 
 God, whose name she heard as often as that 
 
 206 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 of the police, that she might have strength to 
 refrain from all ugly horrors of speech, ex- 
 cept, of course, such acknowledged ornaments 
 of conversation as " bloody " and " damn/' 
 
 Yet no, not quite the first, if the most im- 
 mediate, reforming influence. She had already 
 incurred the wrath and contempt of the Hors- 
 leydown and Irongate mudswipes, by her at- 
 titude towards Jim Shaw, a despised and 
 hated " cat," a river policeman. He had saved 
 her from drowning, on an occasion when the 
 most obvious help lay with her own people, 
 not one of whom, boy or man, had bestirred 
 himself. '' Water-rat " though she was, and 
 acknowledged foe as was every '' cat," she 
 was so little at one with her kindred as to be 
 able to feel grateful towards her saviour, par- 
 ticularly as he was so good-looking a deliverer, 
 and possessed, in her eyes, a manner of ideal 
 grace and dignity. 
 
 It was on a dirty, foggy, December after- 
 noon that Dick Robins had tried, through a 
 flood of blasphemy and obscenity, to drift his 
 meaning alongside the wharf of the girl's 
 mind. When he found that she would have 
 none of it, was a rebel outright, he followed 
 curses with blows, till at last, wild with rage 
 and pain, Madge rushed from the low tavern 
 whither her father had inveigled her. Nat- 
 
 207 
 
William Sharp 
 
 urally she made straight for the river. Hav- 
 ing sprung into a dingy, she sculled rapidly 
 amid-stream. She had no idea what she was 
 going to do. To get quite away from that 
 horrible street, from that drink-den, from that 
 human beast who called himself her father — 
 that was her one overmastering wish. 
 
 An unpleasant fate might easily have been 
 hers that night, had she not fortunately broken 
 an oar. The swing of the current caught the 
 boat, and in a moment she was broadside on. 
 A wood-barge and a collier were coming down, 
 and a large steamer forging up-stream, and 
 there she jobbled helplessly, right in their way, 
 and almost certain to be crushed or swamped. 
 All the girl's usual resourcefulness suddenly 
 left her. She realised that she was done for, 
 a thought at which not she only but her youth 
 instinctively rebelled. 
 
 Suddenly, slump — slump — splash — came 
 the wood-barge almost upon her. She saw a 
 pole thrust forward to stave the dingy off from 
 too violent a concussion ; and the next moment 
 some one was over the low side and in the 
 boat beside her. She recognised Jim Shaw, 
 as in a dream. 
 
 " Here, I'll pull you right," he said roughly ; 
 '* hand me that oar." While sculling from 
 the stern-rollock, he told her that he had been 
 
 208 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 up-stream on duty, and had been given 
 a lift down again by his friend, the 
 owner of the barge '^ Pride of Wapping '' ; 
 that he had seen her predicament, and, as the 
 distance narrowed, recognised her face; and 
 that " there he was." 
 
 Madge thanked him earnestly, and re- 
 marked, incidently, that " it was a bloody near 
 squeak." She saw him look at her, and 
 glanced back with a new, vague apprehension. 
 
 " You're a pretty girl, Madge, and a good 
 girl, I believe, — too good to use that rot. 
 Wy, blast me, if I 'eard a sister o' mine use 
 that word ' bloody ' so free permiskuous, I'd 
 let her know — damme if I wouldn't ! " 
 
 ''Have you a sister, Mr. — Mr. — Shaw?" 
 asked Madge curiously, and not in the least 
 offended. 
 
 '' No, nor no mother, neither ; but I had 
 'em. Look here, Madge, I'm a lonely chap, 
 an' I've took a fancy to you — did that time I 
 hauled ye out o' the Pool — and I'll tell you 
 wot: you cut old Robins and all that gang 
 and be my gal ! " 
 
 Madge turned her great eyes upon him. He 
 thought she was scornful, or mayhap only 
 reckoning up the actual and possible advan- 
 tages of the connection. She, for her part, 
 was taken aback by what seemed to her his 
 
 209 
 
William Sharp 
 
 splendid chivalry and the refined charm of his 
 address. 
 
 " Now then, lass, say yes or no, for we'll be 
 along o' the Irongate in a jiffy, an' some o' 
 your lot's bound to be there." 
 
 " I'll be your gal, Jim Shaw," was all she 
 said, in a low voice. 
 
 Shaw thereupon gave the oar a twist, and 
 kept the boat mid-stream for a hundred yards 
 or so below Irongate wharf. When nearly 
 opposite a small floating quay marked No. 9, 
 he sculled alongside. Ten minutes later he 
 had obtained leave of absence for the night, 
 and then he and Madge went off together to 
 hunt for lodgings. 
 
 For the next few days Madge was fairly 
 happy. She would have been quite happy if 
 she and Jim could have seen much of each 
 other; but it was a busy time with the river 
 police, and he could not get away at night. 
 He returned to their room between six and 
 eight in the morning, but had to sleep till well 
 after midday; and as he had to be on duty 
 again by six, sometimes earlier, they had not 
 much time for going anywhere together. But, 
 in truths Madge cared little for the entertain- 
 ments they did go to. The painted, tawdry 
 women offended her in a way they had never 
 done before; the coarse jokes of the men did 
 
 210 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 not strike her as funny. She was dimly con- 
 scious of a great change in herself. Physi- 
 cally and mentally she was another woman 
 after that first night alone with Jim. She 
 was his " gal," and would be the mother of 
 their '' kid " if she had one ; but it was not 
 the obvious in wifehood or motherhood that 
 took possession of her dormant imagination, 
 but something mysterious, awful, even sacred. 
 The outward sign of this spiritual revolu- 
 tion, this new, solemnising, exquisite obses- 
 sion, was a complete cessation from even such 
 customary flowers of speech as those above 
 alluded to ; and, later, a more scrupulous tidi- 
 ness. What joy it was when Jim told her one 
 morning that he was to have Boxing-day as 
 a complete holiday! At last the heavens 
 seemed opened. He proposed all manner of 
 wild and extravagant trips : a visit to the in- 
 side of St. Paul's or the Tower, so familiar 
 externally to both — a visit to be followed 
 by an omnibus-trip through the great city to 
 that home of splendour, Madame Tussaud's, 
 or even to the Zoological Gardens^ the monkey- 
 house in which had made on Jim's boyhood- 
 mind an indelible impression of excruciating 
 humour. The wildest suggestion of all was 
 a triple glory : the Tower and St. Paul's, then 
 far away to the gorgeous delights of the 
 
 211 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Crystal Palace, and at night to the Pantomime 
 at Drury Lane. 
 
 But in great happiness the mind sometimes 
 resents superfluity of joys. In deep love, as 
 in deep water, says a great writer, there is a 
 gloom. The gloom, in the instance of Madge, 
 arose from her profound weariness of the 
 streets and the house-life, her overmastering 
 longing for the river. If an angel had of- 
 fered her a boon, she would have fulfilled a 
 passionate dream by becoming a female mem- 
 ber of the river police, and being ranked as 
 Jim Shaw's mate. 
 
 When Jim realised what was in the girl's 
 mind and heart, he good-naturedly, though 
 not without a sigh, gave up his projects, and 
 bestirred himself to please Madge. One sug- 
 gestion he did make: that they should get 
 '* spliced " ; but Madge thought this a waste 
 of time, money, and even welfare; for she 
 vaguely realised that she had, and probably 
 would continue to have, more hold over Jim 
 as her " man " than as her legal husband. 
 " It might be better,'' he remarked once medi- 
 tatively. 
 
 " But why ? don't I love you ? " was Madge's 
 naive and unanswerable reply. 
 
 By Christmas Day all was arranged. Jim 
 knew the captain of a river steamer who had 
 
 212 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 promised to take them as far as Kew. Thence 
 they were to go by rail to Windsor, to show 
 Madge those two marvels, where the Queen 
 lived, and " the real country " ; then they were 
 to leave in time to catch the ebb-tide below 
 Richmond, and go down- stream on a friend's 
 hoy, the Dancing Mary, all the way to Grave- 
 send. Madge v/ould thus see the country and 
 the ocean in one day, and yet all the time be 
 on the river. The project was a mental in- 
 toxication to her. She was in a dream by 
 day, a fever by night. Jim laughingly told 
 her that he would be blowed if he would ask 
 for another holiday soon. 
 
 A memorable day, indeed, it proved. 
 Madge's education received an almost peril- 
 ously rapid stimulus. Long before dusk she 
 had won for herself, besides a little rapture, 
 a new pain that would henceforth be a con- 
 stant ally, and perhaps a tyrant. 
 
 The beauty even of the winter riverscape 
 affected her painfully. That great stillness, 
 that indescribable calm, that w^hite peace, that 
 stainless purity of the vSnowy vicinage of the 
 Thames near Windsor, was an overwhelming 
 reproach upon life as she knew it, and upon 
 herself. She was conscious of three emo- 
 tions: horror of the past, gratitude to Jim, 
 her saviour and revealer, and a dumb sense 
 
 213 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of the glory of life as it might be. But at 
 first she was simply overcome. If she had 
 not feared how Jim would take such folly, 
 she would have screamed, if for nothing else 
 than to break the silence. He had his pipe, 
 merciful boon for the stagnant spirit and the 
 inactive mind; she had nothing to distract 
 her outer from her inner self, nothing to ease 
 her from the dull perplexity and pain of that 
 incessant if almost inarticulate soul-summons 
 of which she was dimly conscious. More 
 than once, even, a great home-sickness came 
 upon her; a bodily nostalgia for that dirty, 
 congested, often hideous, always squalid life, 
 to which she had been born, and in which 
 she had been bred. Once, at a lowly spot, 
 where the river curved through snow-clad 
 meadows, with an austere but exquisite 
 beauty, she was conscious of a certain relief 
 when she and her fellow-passengers were col- 
 lectively swept by a volcanic lava-flood of 
 abuse from an infuriated bargee, horrible 
 to most ears that heard, but to her com- 
 ing as inland odours to tired seamen, subtly 
 welcome as it was in its appealing home- 
 sound. 
 
 She was affected as profoundly, if not so 
 acutely, by the voyage down the lower reaches 
 of the Thames beyond the Pool. Windsor 
 
 214 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 itself had not greatly impressed her. It was 
 too remotely grand. 
 
 When, late that night, the hoy anchored off 
 Gravesend, and through the darkness came up 
 a moan, a sigh, a tumult as of muffled steps 
 and stifled whispers, the voice of the sea, 
 Madge, almost for the first time in her life, 
 was troubled by the thought of death. The 
 night was dark, without moon, and the stars 
 were obscured by drifted smoke and opaque 
 films of mist. An easterly wind worried the 
 waves as they came slap-slapping against the 
 current, and there was often a sound as of 
 irregular musketry. A steady swish-swish 
 accompanied the now flowing tide, or the way 
 of the wind. The salt chill that came with it 
 made the girl's blood tingle. She longed to 
 do something, she knew not what. 
 
 They had two berths to themselves, 
 screened so efficiently as to give them all the 
 privacy of a bedroom. They were very 
 happy after their long wonderful day; but 
 what with happiness, many pipefuls of to- 
 bacco, and liberal gin, Jim soon fell asleep. 
 Madge lay awake for hours. It was a 
 boisterous night seaward. The reach of the 
 Thames estuary thereabouts was all in a jum- 
 ble. The wind, surging overhead, had a cry 
 in it foreign to any inland wail or city scream. 
 
 215 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Madge listened and trembled. The sound of 
 the sea calling : it was a revelation, a memory, 
 a prophecy, a menace. 
 
 II 
 
 Next day, Madge learned what she had ex- 
 pected, that her voyage down-stream had 
 been duly noted by her kindred. She knew 
 them well enough to regret that she and Jim 
 had not kept out of sight, at any rate, from 
 London Bridge to the Isle of Dogs. Jim 
 laughed at her fears, but warned her to hold 
 her weather-eye open, and, in particular, to 
 avoid the Pool. 
 
 This, unfortunately, was just what Madge 
 could not do. She had the river-water in her 
 blood. Jim might as well have put a mouse 
 near a cheese and told it to stay beside the 
 empty bread-plate. 
 
 Gradually she became a more and more fre- 
 quent visitor to her old haunts. It was com- 
 monly understood, Irongate-way, that Madge 
 had gone off with some seafaring chap, but 
 was getting tired, or perhaps was not finding 
 the " rhino '' quite so free. On the other 
 hand, her secret was known where she would 
 fain have had it unguessed. She had a good 
 deal to put up with. The female Poolites had 
 nasty tongues ; the males of the species, whom 
 
 216 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 she had kept at bay before with comparative 
 ease, believed that they might now have a 
 turn. An unspoken but not less dreaded ban 
 lay upon her on the part of her own people. 
 Now and again she saw Ned Bull, and the 
 savage lust in the man's brutal face, gleaming 
 from its hatred and revengeful malice, sent 
 all her nature into revolt. He caught her one 
 day on Horsleydown stairs, and at once leered 
 at her in devlish fashion and taunted her. 
 She swung round and struck him full in the 
 face. 
 
 The next moment she was in the water. 
 When a sympathetic bystander had hauled 
 her out — sympathetic in the sense that he 
 wanted to see Bull '' give the gal her change " 
 in full — the man strode up and hissed in 
 her ear: 
 
 " ril knife that bully-rip o' yourn as sure's 
 I'm death on * cats ; ' ay, an' wot's more, I'll 
 'ave you as my gal yet." 
 
 "Ay, Ned Bull," answered Madge, in a 
 loud, clear voice, while her great eyes flashed 
 dauntless defiance, '' that you will when the 
 Pool's run dry, an' I'm squeaking like a rat in 
 the mud; but not afore that, s' 'elp me 
 Gawd!" 
 
 After this episode Madge knew that she 
 would have to be doubly on her guard. Ned 
 
 217 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Bull was not a man to have as an enemy, par- 
 ticularly as he knew well where to strike the 
 only blow she really feared. As it happened, 
 her fears ultimately proved to be only too 
 well-grounded; though some months passed 
 in apparent security. 
 
 The only one among all whom she knew 
 who had remained loyal to her was a girl 
 called Arabella Goodge, to whom she had once 
 done a prompt service. The girl had sworn 
 that she would never be content till she had 
 proved her gratitude, and she meant it. The 
 opportunity came at last. 
 
 Late one afternoon in June, just six months 
 after her union with Jim, Madge was aston- 
 ished to hear herself asked for at the door of 
 her lodging. " Is this wheer Jim Shaw's gal 
 lives ? '' was not tactful, perhaps, but it was 
 unmistakable. Madge recognised the voice, 
 and was eager to see one whom instinctively 
 she knew to be a herald of good or evil; yet 
 she could not but enjoy a delay which involved 
 so personal a passage of arms as that which 
 took place between Mrs. M'Corkoran, the 
 landlady, and Miss Goodge. Ultimately Miss 
 Goodge was announced into the presence of 
 " Mrs. Shaw, an' Mrs. James Shaw at that, 
 an' be damned t' ye ? " 
 
 The girl came — and at what risk to herself 
 
 218 
 
 ^■^.^ ... ^ 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 no one could better know than Madge — to 
 give warning of a plot. If the fog held, two 
 boats of " rats " were to lie in wait that very 
 night, and run down the Swiftsure, a par- 
 ticularly obnoxious " cat-boat/' Of course 
 Miss Goodge would not have troubled to track 
 down and visit Madge merely to tell her an 
 interesting item of news ; only it happened that 
 Jim Shaw was ^' stroke " in the Swiftsure. 
 
 Madge realised the peril at once. She 
 thanked Arabella cordially, and then set off 
 for Jim's station. The news was doubly wel- 
 come to Jim; it meant promotion probably, 
 as well as the excitement of a fight and of 
 turning the tables. 
 
 The upshot was, that a boat with three or 
 four dummy figures was at the right hour 
 set adrift through the fog just above the ap- 
 pointed spot. The bait took. The collision 
 took place, and Jim Shaw's dummy in par- 
 ticular suffered from concussion of the brain 
 from an iron crowbar as well as from sub- 
 mersion in the river. The " rats " had 
 scarcely realised how they had been befooled 
 when the Swiftsure was upon them. There 
 was a rush and a struggle. The Pool-boat 
 was upset, and each of the late occupants 
 speedily nabbed, with the exception of Ned 
 Bull — an exception which Jim Shaw regret- 
 
 219 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ted personally for obvious reasons, and offi- 
 cially because that individual was particularly 
 wanted at headquarters, and his capture meant 
 for the captor approval, and possibly promo- 
 tion by the powers that were. 
 
 Nevertheless, practical approval came. 
 True, the crew of the Swiftsure were indi- 
 vidually and collectively called "duffers" for 
 having let Bull escape, when at least they 
 might have hit him on the head with an oar: 
 though to this Jim Shaw replied, and of 
 course was backed up by his comrades, that 
 Ned Bull must have sunk and been carried 
 off in the undertow. A drowned Ned Bull 
 was not so satisfactory as a caught Ned Bull ; 
 but still the fact was one for congratulation. 
 
 What most concerned Shaw was his promo- 
 tion a grade higher. The superintendent 
 who informed him of this rise further 
 hinted that the young man was looked upon 
 favourably, and that he might expect to get 
 on, if he kept acting on the square and was 
 diligently alert for the wicked. 
 
 On his way home next morning, eager to 
 tel^ Madge the good news, Jim pondered on 
 how best to celebrate the occasion. Suddenly 
 an idea occurred to him. Promotion and pros- 
 pects have a stimulating effect on ethical 
 conceptions. Jim decided, firstly, that he 
 
 220 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 would make Madge his legal wife; secondly, 
 that he would forgive his enemies and invite 
 old Robins and Will of the '' Jolly Rovers," 
 and Bob Robins and his wife, and make a 
 day, or rather an evening, of it. This, he 
 was sure, would give Madge a position and 
 importance which she :could not otherwise 
 have, while it was almost the only way (ex- 
 cept the convenient if perilous one of double- 
 dealing) to remove, or at least to modify, the 
 resentment which Madge had incurred. 
 Madge was delighted with his news. It 
 meant another day, sometime, up the river; 
 another night, Gravesend way, within sound 
 of the sea; and, moreover, Jim could now 
 carry out his fascinating projects in connec- 
 tion with Madame Tussaud's and the Crystal 
 Palace. To the question of the marriage 
 ceremony she preserved an indifferent front. 
 If Jim really wished it, she, of course, was 
 willing; if he didn't, it was equally the same 
 to her. The girl, in fact, was one of those 
 rare natures to whom the thing was every- 
 thing and the symbol of no moment. But 
 she was seriously opposed to Jim's Christian 
 charity in the matter of the proposed wedding 
 party. She loved his sentimental weakness, 
 but, with her greater knowledge of ineradi- 
 cable depravity, she thought that the honour 
 
 221 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of her father's company might be dispensed 
 with. She yielded at last to the suggestion 
 as to her brother Bob and his wife, with a 
 stipulation as to Arabella Goodge, but dis- 
 paragingly combated the claims of her uncle. 
 Being a woman, however^ having begun yield- 
 ing, she yielded all. Before Jim went off to 
 the river that night, the marriage-day was 
 fixed, and it was decided that, at the subse- 
 quent party at the aristocratic river-side tav- 
 ern, the '^ Blue Boar," the company of Jim and 
 his groomsman, Ted Brown, and of Madge 
 and her bridesmaid, Arabella Goodge, was to 
 be further graced by Mr. Dick Robins (if 
 sufficiently sober), Mr. and Mrs. Robert Rob- 
 ins, and Mr. William Robins of the "Jolly 
 Rovers." 
 
 The marriage was to take place three weeks 
 hence, as Jim was to get his long-promised 
 holiday for a week, from the morning of Sat- 
 urday the 1 8th of July till the evening of Fri- 
 day the 24th. What a week this was to be! 
 Three days of it was to be spent in the re- 
 mote and wild country of Pinner, of which 
 suburban locality Jim was a native, though 
 he had not been there since he was a small 
 boy. His aunt owned a small sweet-shop and 
 general stationery business there, and would 
 receive him and his bride for the slack days, 
 
 222 
 
 iHll 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 Monday till Wednesday. As for the other 
 days, the proposals of Madge were wild, and 
 those of Jim fantastically extravagant. The 
 young man was more in love with Madge 
 than ever, having the sense to see that she 
 was one among a hundred or a thousand. 
 Their life together had been a happy one for 
 both. It was Jim, however, and not Madge, 
 who took a pleasurable interest in the fate 
 of the child whose birth was expected in Sep- 
 tember. 
 
 It was on the 15th of July, just three days 
 before the projected marriage, that Madge 
 was startled, or at least perturbed, by an ur- 
 gent message brought to her by a pot-boy 
 from the '' Jolly Rovers." Her father was ill, 
 dying, and wanted to se her at once. 
 
 Madge was neither hard-hearted nor a 
 cynic, but it was with perfect sincerity that 
 she remarked, sotto voce, '* Til be blowed if 
 I'll rise to that fake.'' Later, however, some- 
 thing troubled her. A new tenderness, if 
 also a new weariness, had come to her ever 
 since she became daily and hourly conscious 
 of the burden she bore within her. She was 
 so much an unsullied child of nature, despite 
 all her discoloured and distorted views of 
 life, that this mystery of motherhood had all 
 the astounding appeal of a new and extra- 
 
 223 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ordinary revelation. Jim's child and her's! 
 The thought was strange and quiet as that 
 winter landscape she had seen once and never 
 forgotten; though at times as strangely and 
 overmasteringly oppressive as the silence of 
 the starry sky, seen through the smoke or 
 lifting fog, or above the flare of the gas- 
 lamps in the street. 
 
 The result was that she set out for Plum 
 Alley, off Thompson's Court, the trans-river- 
 ine home of her father, when he was not at 
 the " Jolly Rovers " or elsewhere. On the 
 way she called at the station to see Jim, but 
 heard, to her surprise, that he was on special 
 duty Horseleydown-way. She muttered that 
 she might perhaps come across him, as she 
 was just going there herself, a remark which 
 the superintendent heard disapprovingly. 
 " Shaw's out on ticklish business, my girl," 
 he said, kindly enough ; '* and it would be bet- 
 ter if you were to keep out of his way : better 
 for us, better for him, and better for you." 
 All the same Madge, as she went on her way, 
 hoped she might at least get a glimpse of 
 Jim. Since the Swiftsure incident she had 
 never felt at ease when Shaw was on special 
 duty. She was aware that Ned Bull, even 
 if he was not drowned, had left a legacy of 
 hate and revenge. 
 
 224 
 
 ■MM 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 The July evening was heavy and sultry. 
 The air was as though it consisted of a poison- 
 ous cloud of gin-flavoured human breath, with 
 rank odours of divers kinds. In the narrow 
 courts and alleys near the river the heat was 
 stifling. The thunder, which all the after- 
 noon had growled menacingly round the met- 
 ropolitan skirts beyond Muswell Hill and 
 Highgate^ had stolen past the eastern heights 
 of Hampstead and crawled through the 
 murky gloom of the town till it rested, sulk- 
 ily brooding, from Pimlico to Blackfriars. 
 
 As Madge crossed the river, and stood 
 for a few minutes to look longingly at the 
 water, she noticed first that the tide was just 
 on the turn of the ebb, and next that a thick, 
 sultry fog, scarce less dense than a typical 
 ** London mixture," was crawling stealthily up- 
 stream from Shoreditch and Wapping. She 
 was thinking of Jim, and was rather glad 
 that he was on shore-duty. 
 
 When at last she reached Plum Alley, she 
 found, somewhat to her surprise, that her 
 father really awaited her. On the other hand 
 she saw at a glance that his " sudden illness '' 
 was a '' fake." 
 
 Dick Robins, however, did not give his 
 daughter time for an indignant retreat, much 
 less for reproaches. 
 
 225 
 
William Sharp 
 
 " Look 'ere, girl," he began hoarsely, " your 
 brother Bob's in trouble, an' you're the only 
 blarsted swipe as can 'elp 'im. S' 'elp me 
 Gawd^ this yere is true, ev'ry word on it, an' 
 no fake. Wot? eh? Were is 'ee? Wy, 
 'ee 's down China Run way. 'Ee's waitin' 
 there. Waitin' for wot? Wy, blarst — I 
 mean, 'ee's awaitin' fur the stranger. Wot 
 stranger? Wy, the stranger as you've to run 
 down through the fog to the Isle o' Dogs." 
 
 Hoarse explanations, with remonstrances 
 on the part of Madge, ensued, but at last she 
 both understood and agreed. She had been 
 brought up in full recognition of that cardinal 
 rule that many things have to be done in life 
 without knowing the why and the wherefore. 
 She believed in the present emergency, and 
 understood why the task of conveying the 
 stranger down-stream could be intrusted to 
 no Poolite under a cloud. She was to go 
 down to the sadly miscalled Larkwhistle 
 Wharf, where she would find a boat in charge 
 of a man. In the stern would be the "bun- 
 dle." She was not to speak to this 
 '' bundle " on any account, and was not to 
 worry " it " with curious looks. She was to 
 row down-stream till off Pig Point in the 
 Isle of Dogs, and wait off-shore till another 
 boat joined her, and relieved her of her 
 
 226 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 freight. The man, a friendly lighterman, 
 would act as look-out and bow-pilot. 
 
 "Wot about the weddin', father?" said 
 Madge, somewhat reluctantly, as she was 
 about to leave. 
 
 Mr. Robins put down the bottle of "Aunt 
 Maria," from which he had just taken a hoarse 
 gurgling, salival swig. 
 
 "Oh — ah — to be sure — wot about the 
 weddinM Ha, ha! Well, I'm blarsted if I 
 know if my noomerous parlyhairymentary 
 dooties " — hiccough and choke — " yes, by 
 Goramity, Tm bl . . ." 
 
 Madge did not wait to hear any more. She 
 had done her duty so far, and the sooner the 
 rest of it was fulfilled the better content 
 would she be. 
 
 She could not leave, however, without a 
 parting shot. Dick Robins heard her voice 
 as she vanished downstairs : " Remember, 
 father, if you and 'Aunt Maria' come to- 
 gether on Saturday, you won't be allowed 
 in!" 
 
 When she reached Larkwhistle Wharf she 
 was perspiring heavily. The brooding thun- 
 der overhead, the stagnant atmosphere, the 
 airless, suffocating fog, made existence a 
 burden and action a misery. Movement on 
 the water, however, promised some relief. 
 
 227 
 
William Sharp 
 
 There was no one on the wharf, nothing 
 beside it except a boat in which a muffled 
 figure crouched in the stern-sheets, with a 
 tall man seated upright in the bow. This 
 was her boat, clearly. 
 
 As she stepped across the gunwale, Madge 
 started and trembled. For a moment she 
 thought she recognized in the silent, surly 
 lighterman, no other than Ned Bull ; but when 
 she saw that he looked away, indifferent so 
 far as she was concerned, and noticed that 
 his hair was black and curly, and that he had 
 a long beard, her sudden suspicion and fear 
 lapsed into mere uneasiness. As for the 
 other passenger, he was evidently determined 
 to betray himself neither by word nor by 
 gesture. 
 
 In silence, save for the occasional splash 
 of an oar and the steady gurgling wash at the 
 bows, Madge rowed the boat down-stream. 
 Thrice she was unpleasantly conscious of the 
 hot breath of the lighterman upon her cheek ; 
 at the third time, and without looking round, 
 she quietly asked him to keep a steady look- 
 out in front of him, as in such a fog an ac- 
 cident might occur at any moment. 
 
 At last she guessed that she was off the 
 Isle of Dogs. She was glad. Not only was 
 she exhausted with the heat and labour, but 
 
 228 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 somewhat anxious now about the condition 
 of the boat, a rotten tub at the best. It had 
 begun to leak, and the chill, muddy water 
 clammed her ankles. Suddenly, through the 
 fog, she heard the lighterman give a peculiar 
 double-whistle. Almost immediately after- 
 wards a boat, rowed swiftly by two men, shot 
 alongside. 
 
 The next moment the lighterman was 
 aboard the new-comer. Once seated, he 
 leaned over, and, whispering hoarsely to 
 Madge to row straight on, after turning the 
 boat's bow shoreward, told her that as soon 
 as he came to a pier she was to let the other 
 passenger out. The man had scarce finished 
 speaking before he and his companions be- 
 came invisible in the mist. 
 
 Madge was again alarmed. The voice, 
 surely was the voice of Ned Bull. She 
 could have sworn to it, and yet — ? 
 
 Wiping the sweat from her forehead, and 
 pausing on her oars for a moment to listen 
 to the distant moan and billowy hollow roar 
 of the thunder, which had at last broken its 
 brooding silence, she noticed suddenly that 
 the leakage was rapidly becoming serious. 
 The water was high above her ankles, and 
 was swiftly rising. A gurgling sound be- 
 hind her betrayed where the danger lay. The 
 
 229 
 
William Sharp 
 
 boat had been plugged, and the plug had just 
 recently been removed ! 
 
 Barely had she realized this when the dingy 
 raked up against a jagged spike, and began 
 to settle down. 
 
 She knew it all now, all except the mystery 
 of this taciturn, moveless stranger. So, Ned 
 Bull was to have his revenge. But the need 
 of prompt action brought all her energies 
 into play. " Now then, you there," she cried 
 angrily to her mute fellow-passenger, " youVe 
 got ter move if you don't want to fill yer 
 boots wi' bottom-mud. We're sinkin', d'ye 
 'ear? . . . Drat the bloomin' cove, 'ee's 
 asleep! Hi!" 
 
 But here there was a lurch and a rush of 
 water. The boat collapsed, as though it 
 were a squeezed sponge. 
 
 No sooner had Madge found her breath 
 after her submersion than she struck out to- 
 wards and made a dive for her companion, 
 who was evidently unable to swim, and was 
 fast drowning. 
 
 A minute later she had grasped him by his 
 rags. She was conscious at the same mo- 
 ment of a red light piercing the gloom: the 
 bow-light of a barge-bug churning sputter- 
 ingly against the current and towing a half- 
 empty hoy up-stream. She gave a loud cry 
 
 230 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 for help, and then another that was more 
 like a shriek. The second was the result of 
 a discovery that she had just made. The 
 body in her grip was not that of a living man, 
 nor even of a man who had just died. It 
 was a corpse, stiff and chill. 
 
 The shock terrified her. For a moment she 
 believed that she had been made accessory 
 to some foul murder. She let go of the hid- 
 eous bundle of rag-clothed flesh she was up- 
 holding as best she could. Another moment, 
 and the corpse would have been sucked under 
 and swept down-stream: a vague instinct 
 made Madge suddenly reach forward and 
 grip the body again. 
 
 The lights of the tug and the green and red 
 lanterns of the hoy now streamed right upon 
 her. Weighted as she was with her soaked 
 clothes, and the burden of her close on seven 
 month's motherhood, she struggled not only 
 to withstay the current, which fortunately 
 was sweeping her steadily towards the hoy, 
 but to keep the corpse from sinking until at 
 least she could see it clear. Still, the strain 
 was too great, and she was just about to let 
 go, when a broad ray of light flashed full 
 athwart the dead face. 
 
 It was that of Jim Shaw, her husband. 
 
 For a moment the world reeled. Death 
 
 231 
 
William Sharp 
 
 called to her out of the windy darkness over- 
 head, out of the rushing river, out of the sea- 
 reaches beyond; Death sang in her ears, and 
 held her body and soul as in a vice; Death 
 was in her heart, in her brain, on her lips, in 
 the dull glaze of her staring eyes. 
 
 Suddenly a mad rage swept her back into 
 the tide of agony that was life. With a swift 
 gesture she raised the head of the corpse, and 
 stared wildly into the lightless, unrecognising 
 eyes. The wash of the water and her grasp 
 had loosened the rags in which Jim had been 
 disguised, and she saw the purple bruise and 
 gaping knife-thrust-wound through which 
 his young life had gone. 
 
 With a long, terrible cry of despair Madge 
 let go of the body of her beloved, and herself 
 sank back into the water as a dying woman, 
 after a last flicker of life, might fall back 
 into the pillows. If all had occurred a little 
 earlier or a little later, she would have been 
 drowned then and there, and have suffered no 
 more. 
 
 The man at the helm on the tug-boat caught 
 sight of her, and yelled to the man at the 
 bow of the hoy. The bargeman missed her, 
 owing to the rapid slush and surge of the 
 churned water alongside; but his comrade at 
 the stern caught at the swirling clothes with 
 
 232 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 a bill-hook, and in a few minutes Madge was 
 lying unconscious on the deck of The Golden 
 Hope. Her rescuers had seen nothing of the 
 row-boat, nor even of the body to which she 
 had clung; but they strained their eyes and 
 ears lest any other unfortunates should be 
 in need of succour. 
 
 It was fortunate for Madge that there 
 was a woman on board. The wife of the 
 master of The Golden Hope was not like so 
 many of the Poolites, merely a female, but a 
 woman. 
 
 In the middle of the night, just before the 
 break of dawn, a man-child was prematurely 
 born into the world, in the stuffy deck-house 
 of the barge. It was born dead: "an' a 
 precious good thing too, drat it for its imper- 
 tinence in a-coming where it wasn't wanted/' 
 as Mrs. Hawkins of The Golden Hope philo- 
 sophically remarked. She had understood at 
 once that the new-comer was not born in law- 
 ful wedlock. Had the little one lived, had it 
 even been born alive and breathed feebly for 
 a brief season, the good woman would not 
 only have lamented its decease, but would 
 have kept close to the letter of the law. As 
 it was, she had a hurried colloquy with her 
 husband, a circumlocutory argument to the 
 effect that the poor young mother might as 
 
 233 
 
William Sharp 
 
 well be saved all the shame and trouble, and 
 perhaps worse. 
 
 Mr. Peter Hawkins listened gravely, nod- 
 ded once or twice in an uninterested way, 
 spat once cautiously, then again meditatively, 
 and finally, emphatically. He left the deck- 
 house, and in a minute or two returned with 
 a large and heavy brick. 
 
 The dawn broke as The Golden Hope en- 
 tered and passed through the Pool. A soft, 
 tender wave of daffodil light blotted out the 
 eastern stars. The rigging and masts of the 
 vessels at the docks and in the river became 
 magically distinct, and the red and yellow 
 lanterns flared gaudily. Here and there a 
 green lantern-light danced along a narrow 
 surface of dark water fast turning into a hue 
 of slate. A dull noise came from the city 
 on either side, though London seemed asleep. 
 
 On the river there was silence, save for an 
 indiscriminate grinding noise from a large 
 Baltic screw steamer, timed to sail at sunrise ; 
 and, on a China tea-clipper, a Malay singing 
 shrilly, with fantastic choric variations of a 
 strange, uncanny savagery. 
 
 As the barge slump-slushed through the 
 deepest part of the Pool, a small package was 
 dropped overboard. It sank immediately. 
 This package was, in the view of Mr. and 
 
 234 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 Mrs. Hawkins, a cold little body with a heavy 
 brick tied round its feet; to its mother, who 
 had just returned to full consciousness, the 
 burial was as that of her own joy, her own 
 life. 
 
 Madge was much too weak to move, even 
 if kindly Mrs. Hawkins had hinted that her 
 absence would be preferable to her company. 
 The woman had taken a fancy to the poor 
 lass, with her great eyes filled with grief and 
 despair, with at times, too, a wild light which 
 looked like passionate hate. 
 
 She had had a talk with her husband, and 
 had decided to keep Madge w4th then till the 
 barge reached Sunbury, where she had a sis- 
 ter, who in the summer months kept a small 
 tea and ale house for her own benefit and 
 the refreshment of cheap trippers and way- 
 farers. There she would leave the girl for 
 a time, in the care of Polly 'Awkins. If 
 Madge could pay for her keep, so much the 
 better; if not, why then o' God's grace she 
 and Polly betwixt them would provide for 
 her for a bit till she could look round. 
 
 And at Sunbury in due course poor Madge 
 was left. She had become a different woman 
 in the few days which succeeded the death 
 of Jim and the premature birth and loss of 
 the child of their love. A frost had come 
 
 235 
 
William Sharp 
 
 over her youth. She was so still and strange 
 that, at first, good, kindly, superabundantly 
 stout Miss Hawkins was quite awed by her. 
 The woman's generous kindness at last broke 
 down the girl's reserve, and the whole story 
 was confided to her. There was something 
 so romantic in it to Polly Hawkins, the very 
 breath of wild romance indeed, that, for all 
 her disapproval and misapprehension of 
 Madge's action in the matter of a legalised 
 union, she was completely won over. Never, 
 even in the Family Astounder or the West 
 End Mirror, monthly parts or old bound vol- 
 umes of which she was wont to pore over in 
 the winter nights, had she come across any- 
 thing that stirred her so much. But she passed 
 from her high vicarious excitement into some- 
 thing resembling the emotional state of a 
 participant in a tragedy in real life, when, 
 one wild rain-swept evening late in August, 
 all the bitter pain and agony and passion of 
 Madge's ruined life broke out in revolt. 
 
 She had only one wish now, she declared, 
 only one object: to be revenged on her father, 
 and, above all, on Ned Bull. She was no 
 longer a girl with a heaven of happiness ahead ; 
 she was a wrecked woman, with a choice 
 between going to pieces on the breakers or 
 being engulfed in a quicksand. Since all was 
 
 236 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 ruin ahead, was she to surrender everything, 
 to go tamely hence, a victim with no will or 
 power of retribution? No, she swore, as 
 with flashing eyes and erect figure she moved 
 to and fro in the kitchen parlour, she would 
 not be content till she had made her father 
 pay her for his crime, pay with his life, and 
 till she saw Ned Bull swing on the gallows. 
 
 Miss Hawkins realised that Madge was in 
 earnest — passionately, insanely in earnest ; 
 and she trembled. She had come to love the 
 girl, and though her departure would be a 
 loss both to her and her pocket (for Madge 
 had communicated with Jim's comrades, who 
 had raised a handsome subscription for her 
 when they found that officially nothing could 
 be done), she would not otherwise be ill at 
 ease. But now — now it would be to let a 
 murderess loose. Why, some day it would 
 all be in the papers. A prospective persual 
 of certain headlines brought out a cold pers- 
 piration upon her neck and forehead : " 'Or- 
 rible Murder in the Docks," ".Last Confes- 
 sion," " Execution of Madge Robins," *' What 
 did the Bargee do with the Baby?" "Testi- 
 mony of Polly Hawkins," and so forth. 
 
 Miss Hawkins rose, looked at Madge in 
 fear and trembling and deep admiration, all 
 merged in a profound and loving pity. But 
 
 ^Z7 
 
William Sharp 
 
 she had not the gift of expression, and all 
 she could say was : " My dear, 'ave some 
 black-currant cordial." 
 
 Madge, however, understood. The tears 
 broke out in a flood from her eyes, and with 
 sobs and shaking frame she threw herself in 
 the arms of her friend. 
 
 The following day was Sunday. As much 
 for distraction as for any other reason. Miss 
 Hawkins persuaded Madge to go with her to 
 church. Madge had never been in a church, 
 and for the first part of the service she was 
 too shy and bewildered to understand, much 
 less to enjoy, what she saw and heard. The 
 singing soothed her, and some of the prayers 
 left haunting echoes in her brain. The clergy- 
 man was that rare individual, a fervent 
 Christian and a perfectly simple man, who did 
 not fulfil his priestly duties perfunctorily, but 
 as though he were a wise and loving gardener 
 watering the precious flowers of a strict but 
 beloved Master. She followed, or cared to 
 follow, very little of what he said; but his 
 earnestness impressed her. Through all his 
 discourse sounded, like a wild moan and wail 
 of the sea-wind, the words of his text : *' For- 
 give us our sins, as we forgive our enemies." 
 " Then shall we be together with the Lord," 
 were the last words she heard the vicar utter, 
 
 238 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 before the congregation rose at the benedic- 
 tion. 
 
 In discussing the matter later with Miss 
 Hawkins she did not gain much enlighten- 
 ment. Miss Hawkins said that religion was 
 meant to be took like gin, with a good allow- 
 ance of water. '' It didn't do to take things 
 just as they were spoke. Vicars an' sich- 
 like were paid same as other folks, an' their 
 business was to deal out salvation dashed wi' 
 hell-fire. 
 
 " My dear," she added, " there's nary a man 
 livin', be he a vicar or only a Ranting Johnny, 
 who doesn't promise us more of both one and 
 the other than there's any need for." 
 
 Madge did not sleep much that night. She 
 was vaguely troubled. The fire of her wrath 
 burned low; and though she heaped coals of 
 remembrance upon it, the flare-up was a fail- 
 ure. 
 
 At breakfast next morning she asked Miss 
 Hawkins abruptly if she had heard the vicar 
 say, ** Forgive us our sins, as we forgive our 
 enemies," and, if so, what she thought of it. 
 
 Miss Hawkins finished her tea. Medita- 
 tively she scooped out the sugar and slowly 
 refilled the cup. 
 
 *' Not much," she said. 
 
 The rest of the meal was taken in silence. 
 
 239 
 
William Sharp 
 
 The day was so glorious that Madge wan- 
 dered forth into a field near the river, unwit- 
 tingly elate with returning youth and strength, 
 and quick to answer to the sun's summons to 
 the blood and the spirit. 
 
 She lay for a long time through the noon 
 heat, instinctively revelling in the flood of 
 sunshine. The sky was a dome of deepen- 
 ing blue, flecked with a few scattered grey- 
 mare's-tails ; the meadows were flush with the 
 second hay and autumnal wild-flowers. Be- 
 yond her feet the river swept slowly by, the 
 golden light falling along its surface and at 
 once transmuted into silver and azure; while 
 at the margins the over-hanging trees threw 
 a cloud of flickering green shadows into the 
 moving movelessness below. 
 
 It was almost happiness to lie there so 
 quietly, and watch the swallows swooping to 
 and fro, the cows standing knee-deep in the 
 shallows and flapping lazily their long tails, 
 the purple dragon-fly shooting from reedy 
 pool to pool. For the time being, the agony 
 of remembrance was dulled. 
 
 More and more Madge perplexed herself 
 by pondering over what she had heard in 
 church. She had never felt as she had to- 
 day. There was a new peace, a new hope al- 
 most, in her troubled mind, though it had not 
 
 240 
 
 i 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 yet taken definite form. The strange and 
 baffling concourse of her thoughts, however, 
 left her weary. The whole ebb and flow 
 found expression, perhaps, in the sole words 
 she spoke aloud: 
 
 " No, that I can't : I can't make much of it. 
 But I do see that going back to that hell of 
 life at the Pool, even wi' letting my father 
 be, an' knockin' out the knifin' o' Ned Bull 
 an' leavin' 'im, as the parson says, to Gor- 
 amity, is not the way to get alongside o' Jim 
 again, let alone that babby wich he'll 'ave 'igh 
 an' dry sure as dixey." 
 
 It was nigh upon sundown before Madge 
 clearly saw her way of salvation. ** She'd 
 got to die somehow " ; but all her instincts 
 were in revolt against that inevitable trans- 
 ference to the earth which would be her fate 
 if death came upon her at Polly Hawkins's or 
 any other house. " She couldn't abide the 
 land: she knew that: not for all the blessed- 
 ness of it ten times over." 
 
 Shortly before sunset she descried a boy 
 going along the Sunbury towpath. She called 
 him, and for sixpence he readily agreed to 
 write a pencilled note at her dictation and 
 thereafter deliver it to Miss Hawkins. 
 
 When the boy was gone Madge waited a 
 little while. She watched the sun grow large 
 
 241 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and red, and fall through the river-haze into 
 the very middle of the river-reaches higher 
 up. Then she found herself listening intently 
 to a corncrake calling hoarsely close by 
 through the tall v^heat. 
 
 It seemed so little to do, and after all so 
 little even to say farewell to. 
 
 A brief v^hile after sunset a great red and 
 yellow hoy, with a tattered brown sail out- 
 spread aloft to catch what breeze there was 
 that would help the slow current, came heav- 
 ily down-stream. It was laden with rye, and 
 the man and boy on deck were drowsy with 
 the heat and labour of the day. Neither of 
 them felt the slight shock when the dilapi- 
 dated bow-keel caught upon some obstruction. 
 
 It was late that night when the Lively 
 Nancy, in tow of a fat, unwieldy little barge- 
 bug, slumped heavily through the jumble in 
 the Pool. There was a heavy slashing, criss- 
 cross of water above, and, below the surface, 
 a serpentine twisting and dovetailing, with 
 vicious downward suction. The tide was 
 running up like a mill-race; the river-current 
 and a high westerly wind tore their way sea- 
 ward. 
 
 In this fierce conflict the bent keel of the 
 Lively Nancy was at last cleared of its ob- 
 struction. 
 
 242 
 
Madge o' the Pool: a Thames Etching 
 
 For an hour or more thereafter, till the 
 river police discovered it, a woman's body 
 was tossed to and fro in the Pool, idly drift- 
 ing and bumping against the slimy piers, 
 along the gaunt, deserted wharves. 
 
 243 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
THE GYPSY CHRIST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 There are, among the remote uplands of the 
 Peak district, regions whose solitude is that 
 of a wilderness. Over much of the country 
 there is a frown. When fair weather pre- 
 vails, though these lofty plateaux are seldom 
 wholly free from cloud-shadow, this frown 
 is merely that of a stern man, preoccupied 
 with sombre thoughts. When there come 
 rain and wind, and still more the dull absorb- 
 ing gloom that floods out of the east and the 
 north-east, the frown is forbidding, mina- 
 tory even, at times almost tragic. Viewed 
 anywhere from High Peak to Sir William, 
 these uplands are like the sea. They reach on- 
 wards, lapse, merge into each other, in a simi- 
 lar succession of vast billows: grand as they, 
 as apparently limitless, and, at times, as over- 
 whelmingly depressing. 
 
 The villages are scattered, insignificant; 
 built of dull, grey stone: gardenless, flower- 
 less. The people are uncouth in speech and 
 manner : cold, too, as the stone of their houses, 
 and strangely quiet in the ordinary expression 
 of emotion, 
 
 247 
 
William Slmrp 
 
 In all regions where the wind is the para- 
 mount feature in the duel between man and 
 the powers of nature, as upon the seas and 
 great moorland tracts, it is noticeable that 
 human voices are pitched in an unusually low 
 key. In remote islands, upon mountains, on 
 the billows of hill-land that sweep up from 
 the plains and fall away in dales and valleys, 
 on long flats of grass, fen, or morass, and 
 upon the seas, the human voice takes to itself 
 in time a peculiar and, to those who know 
 the cause, a strangely impressive hush. Here, 
 it is as of men subdued, bitter even, for ever 
 gloomful. 
 
 No land is so dreary as to be without re- 
 deeming beauty. The hill region of the Peak, 
 that most visited, at any rate, has singular 
 charm. The dales are famous for their love- 
 liness, their picturesqueness ; the heather 
 slopes for their blithe air ; the high moors for 
 their wide perspectives, their clear windy 
 breath, their glory of light and shadow. 
 Nevertheless, there are vast districts where 
 nature, and man, and the near way and the 
 wide prospect, and the very immensity of the 
 environing sky are permeated with the inner 
 spirit of gloom, as the cloud-caravans of July 
 with their burden of thunder. 
 
 There are reasons why I do not wish to be 
 
 248 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 explicit topographically, in what I am about 
 to narrate: indeed, no one from what I write 
 could find the Wood o' Wendray, or the House 
 o' Fanshawe. It must suffice, that what I 
 have to tell occurred in the remotest, perhaps 
 the grandest, certainly to me the most impres- 
 sive region of the Peak-Land. 
 
 Far among these uplands — at the locality 
 alluded to, from twelve or fifteen hundred to 
 two thousand feet above the sea — there is an 
 almost trackless morass, called Grailph Moss. 
 
 The name is by some supposed to be a cor- 
 ruption of '' grey wolf " : for here, according 
 to rumour, the last wolf in England had its 
 lair, and might have been living still (for the 
 huntsmen aver that the grey wolf lives three 
 hundred years!) but for its audacity at the 
 time of the Great Plague. Packmen and 
 other wayfarers have alleged that on wild 
 nights of storm, or in even more perilous 
 seasons of mist or marsh-fog, they have seen 
 a gaunt shape leap towards them from a dense 
 clump of heather or from behind a juniper, or 
 have heard, behind or in stealthy circuit, ter- 
 rifying footfalls as of a huge dog. 
 
 Grailph Moss comes right upon an old dis- 
 used highway. Along this road, at far in- 
 tervals, are desolate hamlets: in all save the 
 
 249 
 
William Sharp 
 
 three summer months, apt to be isled in the 
 mist breathed from the myriad nostrils of the 
 great Fen. At these times, the most dread- 
 ful thing to endure is the silence. 
 
 Not far from one of these hamlets, and 
 somewhat more removed from the contagion 
 of the Moss : high set, indeed, and healthy, if 
 sombre of aspect save under the fugitive 
 bloom of the afterglow, or where redeemed 
 by the moonlight to an austere beauty, — is a 
 strange house, the strangest I have seen any- 
 where. 
 
 The House o' Fanshawe, it is called in the 
 neighbourhood: though what is perplexing is 
 that the name is centuries old, though for 
 generations no family of that name occupied 
 the Manor of Eastrigg: nor is there any lo- 
 cal legend concerning a Fanshawe, or record 
 of any kind to account for the persistency of 
 the designation. 
 
 Long before my friend, James Fanshawe, 
 took the Manor, ruin had come upon the 
 middle as well as the northern portion. In 
 fact, the southern end, which had been the 
 original Elizabethan house, was scarce better, 
 and had been preserved at all only because 
 of its fantastic, often beautiful, and always 
 extraordinary roof and wainscot carvings. 
 These were none the less striking from the 
 
 250 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 fact that they were whitewashed. Many 
 were in a fashion suggestive of the arabesques 
 of Barbary, such as are to be seen to this day 
 in the private houses of the rich Moors of 
 Tlemgen or Tunis. Others recalled the freaks 
 of the later Renaissance imagination: and 
 some were of Gothic rudeness and vigour. 
 But the most extraordinary room of all was 
 a small chamber opening from a large vaulted 
 apartment. All the panels on three sides of 
 the room, and the whole roof, were covered 
 with arabesques of the Crucifixion: no one 
 whitewashed carving quite like any other, 
 though all relentlessly realistic, sometimes 
 savagely, brutally so. The fourth side was of 
 varnished black oak. Against this, in star- 
 tling relief, was a tall white cross, set in a 
 black stand; with a drooping and terrible 
 figure of the crucified God, the more pain- 
 fully arresting from the fact that the sub- 
 stance of which it had been wrought had been 
 dyed a vivid scarlet, that, with time, had be- 
 come blood-red. 
 
 A word as to how I came to know this 
 house in this remote and desolate region. 
 
 Two or three years ago, when wandering 
 afoot through Croatia, I encountered James 
 Fanshawe. There is no need to narrate what 
 
 251 
 
William Sharp 
 
 led up to our strange meeting — for a strange 
 meeting, in strange circumstances, and in a 
 strange place, it was. It will suffice for me 
 to say that our encounter, our voluntary ac- 
 quaintanceship, and our subsequent friend- 
 ship, all arose from the circumstance that 
 each of us could, with more justice than some 
 who have done so, claim to be a Romany Rye 
 — which is not exactly " a gentleman-gypsy," 
 as commonly translated, but rather an ama- 
 teur-gypsy, or, as a " brother " once phrased 
 it to me, *' a sympathising, make-believe 
 gypsy." There are some who can talk the 
 dialects of " Little Egypt," or at least under- 
 stand them, and many who know something 
 of the folk-lore, habits and customs of the 
 wandering people: but there are few, I take 
 it, who have lived the gypsy-life, who have 
 undergone, or even heard of, the ordeal of 
 the Blue Smoke, the Two Fires, and the Run- 
 ning Water. 
 
 Thereafter we met on several occasions: 
 frequently in Italy, or the Tyrol, or southern 
 Germany : generally by pre-arrangement. 
 The last time I saw Fanshawe, until I met 
 him in Glory Woods, near Dorking, was in 
 the Hohenheim country, on the high plateau 
 to the southwest of Stuttgart. It was then he 
 told me he had been to England, and had 
 
 252 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 travelled afoot from Southampton to Hull: 
 and that he had at last decided to settle in 
 that country, probably in the New Forest re- 
 gion. I promised to visit him in England 
 when next there. I wanted to fare a while 
 with him there and then; but as it was clear 
 he did not at that juncture wish my company, 
 I forbore. 
 
 James Fanshawe was a noticeable man. 
 Tall, sinewy, ruddy, though with dark, lumi- 
 nous eyes and long, trailing, coal-black 
 moustache, he would not have seemed more 
 than thirty years old but for his iron-grey 
 hair, and the deep crow's-feet about his mouth, 
 eyes, and temples. As a matter of fact, he 
 was, at the time I first met him, at the Mid- 
 summer's-day of human life; for he had just 
 entered his fortieth year. 
 
 One early spring day, when, by the merest 
 hazard, we came across each other in Glory 
 Woods, he reminded me that nearly two years 
 had passed since my promise to visit him. 
 He had not, after all, settled in the south 
 country, but, he told me, in a strange old 
 house, in a remote and wild moorland tract 
 of Derbyshire. While he spoke, I was ob- 
 servant of the great change in him. He had 
 grown ten, fifteen years older in appearance. 
 The iron-grey hair had become white; the 
 
 253 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 strong face rigid; the swift, alert look now 
 that of a visionary, or of one who brooded 
 much. Perhaps the most marked change was 
 in the eyes. What had always struck me as 
 their dusky, velvety Czech beauty was no 
 longer noticeable. They were much lighter, 
 and had a strange, staring intensity. 
 
 But I was glad to see him again: glad to 
 pick up lost clues, and glad to be able to 
 promise to be with him at Eastrigg Manor by 
 the end of the sixth week from that date. 
 
 That is how I came to know the " House o' 
 Fanshawe." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Eastrigg itself is more than twenty miles 
 from the nearest station. The drive thence 
 seemed the longer and drearier because of 
 the wet mist which hung over the country. 
 Even sounds were soaked up by it. I never 
 passed through a drearier land. Mid-April, 
 and not a green thing visible, not a bird's 
 note audible! 
 
 The driver of the gig was taciturn, yet could 
 not quite restrain his curiosity. He was not 
 an Eastrigg man, but knew the place, and all 
 connected with it. He would fain have as- 
 certained somewhat about its owner ; perhaps, 
 
 2S4 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 too, about myself, or at any rate about my 
 object in coming to the reputed haunted, if 
 not accursed. House o' Fanshawe, where my 
 host-to-be lived alone, attended only by an 
 old man named Hoare, a *' foreigner " too, be- 
 cause come from the remote south country. 
 When, however, he found me more reserved 
 than himself, he desisted from further inquiry, 
 or indeed remarks of any kind. 
 
 It was in silence that we drove the last ten 
 miles; in silence that we jolted along a rude, 
 grassy highway of olden days, heavily rutted ; 
 in silence that we passed, first one, then an- 
 other gaunt ruin, — two of the many long- 
 deserted lead-mine chimneys which stand here 
 and there throughout that country, and add 
 unspeakably to its desolation. Finally, in si- 
 lence we reached the House o' Fanshawe. 
 
 A small side-door, under heavy beams, 
 opened. An elderly man stood, his right hand 
 over his eyes, and his left holding a lantern 
 which emitted a pale yellow glow, beneath 
 which his face was almost as wan and white 
 as his bleached hair. 
 
 He looked at me anxiously, questioningly, I 
 thought. Instinctively, I inquired if Mr. 
 Fanshawe were unwell. 
 
 *' Are you a doctor ? " he asked, almost in a 
 whisper ; adding, on my reply in the negative, 
 
 255 
 
William Sharp 
 
 *' I hoped you might be. I fear the master is 
 dying." 
 
 Startled, I unburdened myself of my wet 
 overcoat, and then followed the man along a 
 rambling passage. On the way, he confided 
 to me that though Mr. Fanshawe was up and 
 about, he had been very strange of late, and 
 that he ate little, slept little, and was some- 
 times away on the Moss or the higher moors 
 for ten or twelve hours at a time; further, 
 that within the last few days he had become 
 steadily worse. 
 
 Even this forewarning did not adequately 
 prepare me for the change in my friend. 
 When I saw him, he was sitting in the twi- 
 light before a peat fire on which a log, aflame 
 at one end though all charred at the other, 
 burned brightly. His hair was quite white: 
 so white that that of his man, Robert Hoare, 
 was of a yellow hue by comparison. It hung 
 long and lank about his cadaverous face, 
 which, in its wanness and rigid lines, was that 
 of a corpse, except for the dark luminous 
 eyes I remembered so well, once more like 
 what they were in the days I first knew him, 
 but now so intensely, passionately alive, that 
 it was as though the flame of his life were 
 concentrated there. He rose, stiffly and as 
 though with difficulty, and I saw how wo- 
 
 256 
 
William Sharp 
 
 fully thin he had become. It was with a shock 
 of surprise I realised what vitality the man 
 still had, when he took my hand in his, gripped 
 it almost as powerfully as of yore, and half 
 led, half pushed me into an arm-chair oppo- 
 site his own. 
 
 Yes, he admitted, he had been ill, but was 
 now better. Soon, he hoped, he would be 
 quite well again. The eyes contradicted the 
 lie of the lips. 
 
 After a time our constraint wore off; but 
 though I avoided the subject of his health and 
 recent way of life, he interrupted me again 
 and again to assure me that he would not have 
 let me come so far, to visit so dreary a house 
 and see so unentertaining an invalid, had he 
 known how to intercept me. 
 
 Suddenly he rose, and insisted on showing 
 me over the house. Room by room fascinated 
 me; but that small chamber of which I have 
 already spoken, that with the crucifix, gave 
 me nothing short of an uncontrollable re- 
 pugnance, something akin to horror. He no- 
 ticed this, though neither the lips offered nor 
 the eyes invited any remark. 
 
 No wonder that from the several ominous 
 circumstances of this meeting I was half pre- 
 pared for some unpleasant or even tragic 
 denouement. But, as a matter of fact, noth- 
 
 257 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ing happened to alarm or further perturb me ; 
 and long before I went to my room I had no- 
 ticed a marked improvement in Fanshawe, 
 that is, in his mental condition; physically, he 
 was still very distraught as well as frail, and 
 appeared to suffer extremely from what I took 
 to be nervous cold, though he said it was the 
 swamp-ague. *' The Moss Fiend had got 
 him," he declared. He wore a long frieze 
 overcoat, even as he sat by the fire; and all 
 the time, even at our frugal supper, kept his 
 hands half-covered in thick mittens. 
 
 Naturally enough, I did not sleep for long. 
 In the first place, sleep is always tardy with 
 me in absolutely windless or close, rainy 
 weather; then the absolute silence, the sense 
 of isolation^ affected me ; and, more effectually 
 still, I could hear Fanshawe monotonously 
 walking to and fro in the room to my right. 
 This room, moreover, was no other than the 
 fantastically decorated ante-chamber. I could 
 scarce bear to think of my distraught friend, 
 sleepless, and wearily active, in the company 
 of that terrifying crucifix, that chamber of 
 the myriad reduplications of the Passion. 
 But at last I slept, and slept well; nor did I 
 wake till the late sunlight streamed in upon 
 me through the unshuttered and Mindless win- 
 dow. 
 
 258 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 We spent most of that day in the open air. 
 The morning was so blithe and sweet, Fan- 
 shawe lost something of his air of tragic ill; 
 and I began to entertain hopes of his ultimate 
 recovery. But in the early afternoon, when 
 we had returned for the meal which had been 
 prepared for us an hour before, the weather 
 changed. It grew sultry and overclouded. 
 The glass, too, had fallen abruptly. The 
 change affected my friend in a marked degree. 
 He became less and less communicative, and 
 at last morose and almost sullen. 
 
 I proposed another walk. He agreed, with 
 an eagerness that surprised me. '' I will show 
 you one or two places where I often go," he 
 added : " places that the country people 
 about here avoid; for the moor- folk are su- 
 perstitious, as all who live in remote places 
 are." 
 
 The day, as I have said, had become dull 
 and heavy; and what with the atmospheric 
 change, and the saturnine mood of my com- 
 panion, I felt depressed. The two gaunt 
 chimneys which rose above their respective 
 mines were my skeletons at the feast. Other- 
 wise I could have enjoyed many things in, 
 and aspects of, that unfamiliar country; but 
 these tall, sombre, bat-haunted, wind-gnawed 
 " stacks," rising from dishevelled ruins, which, 
 
 259 
 
William Sharp 
 
 again, overlay the deserted lead-mines, op- 
 pressed me beyond all reason. 
 
 At one of these we stopped. Fanshawe 
 asked me to throw something into a hollow 
 place beyond one of the walls of a building. 
 I lifted a large stone, and threw it as di- 
 rected. I thought, at first, it had fallen on 
 soft grass, or among weeds and nettles, for no 
 sound was audible. Then, as it were under 
 foot, I heard a confused clamour, followed by 
 the faint echo of a splash. 
 
 ^' That will give you some idea of the depth 
 of the mine,'' my companion remarked quietly. 
 " But it is deeper than you imagine, even now. 
 There are sloping ledges under that water in 
 which the stone fell at last ; and beneath these 
 ledges are corridors leading far into the cav- 
 erns whence nothing ever comes again." 
 
 '' It is not a place for a nervous person to 
 come to," I answered, with as much indiffer- 
 ence as I could assume ; *' nor for any one 
 after sundown, and alone." 
 
 Fanshawe looked at me passively, then said 
 quietly that he often came there. 
 
 " I wonder," he added, '' how many dead 
 will arise from a place like this when the 
 trump of the Resurrection stirs the land?" 
 
 '* Has any one ever fallen into this mine, or 
 been murdered in it ? " 
 
 260 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 " They say so. It is very likely. But 
 come: I will show you a stranger thing.'' 
 
 So on we trudged again, for, I should think, 
 nearly a mile, and mostly through a thin wood. 
 I wondered what new unpleasant feature of 
 this unattractive country I was to see. It 
 was with half-angry surprise I was confronted 
 at last by a thick scrub of gorse, overhung by 
 three large birches, and told that there was 
 what we had come to see. Naturally, 
 there was nothing to arrest my attention. 
 When I said so, however, Fanshawe made 
 no reply. I saw, that he was powerfully 
 affected, though whether grief or some other 
 emotion wrought him, I could not deter- 
 mine. 
 
 Suddenly he turned, said harshly that he 
 was dead tired, and wished to go home 
 straightway. Beyond a statement about a 
 short cut by Dallaway Moor, he did not 
 vouchsafe another remark until we reached 
 the Manor. 
 
 At the entrance Hoare met us, and was 
 about to speak, when he saw that his master 
 was not listening, but, rigid, with moving jaw 
 and wild eyes, was staring at the panels of 
 the door. 
 
 " Who . . . who has been here ? " he 
 cried hoarsely ; but for answer the man merely 
 
 261 
 
William Sharp 
 
 shook his head stupidly, muttering at last that 
 not a soul had been near the place. 
 
 ** Who has been here ? Who has been here ? 
 Who did this ? " my friend gaspingly reiter- 
 ated, as he pointed to a small green cross, the 
 paint still wet, impressed a foot or more 
 above the latch. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Fanshawe was taciturn throughout the 
 first part of the evening. We ate our meal in 
 silence. Afterwards, in his study, he main- 
 tained the same self -absorption, and for a long 
 time seemed unaware that he was not alone. 
 The atmospherical oppression made this si- 
 lence still more obvious. Even the fire burned 
 dully, and the smoke that went up from the 
 mist-wet logs was thick and heavy. 
 
 It was with a sense of relief I heard an 
 abrupt, hollow, booming sound, as of distant 
 guns at sea. The long-expected thunder was 
 drawing near. For many minutes after this 
 the silence could be heard. Then there came 
 a blast of wind that struck the house heavily, 
 for all the world like an enormous billow 
 flooding down upon and all but engulfing a 
 dismasted ship. 
 
 Fanshawe raised his head, and listened in- 
 
 262 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 tently. A distant, remotely thin wail was 
 audible for a few seconds: the voice of the 
 wind-eddy far away upon the moors. Then, 
 once more, the same ominous silence. 
 
 *' I hope the storm will break soon/' I said 
 at last. 
 
 " Yes. We'll have one or two more blasts 
 like that, then a swift rain ; then the night will 
 become black as ink, and the thunderstorm 
 will rage for an hour or so, and suddenly 
 come back upon us again worse than before." 
 
 I looked at my friend surprisedly. 
 
 " How can you tell ? " 
 
 " I have seen many thunderstorms and gales 
 on these moorlands." 
 
 I was about to say something further, when 
 I saw a look upon my companion's face which 
 I took to be that of arrested thought or ar- 
 rested speech. 
 
 I was right in my surmise, for, in a low 
 voice, he resumed: 
 
 *' You will doubtless hear many another 
 storm such as this. As for me, it is the last 
 to which I shall ever listen: unless, as may 
 well be, the dead hear. After all, what 
 grander death-hymn could one have ? " 
 
 *' You are ill, Fanshawe, but not so ill as 
 you believe. In any case, you do not fear you 
 are going to die to-night?" 
 
 263 
 
William Sharp 
 
 He looked at me long and earnestly before 
 he answered. 
 
 "I — suppose — not,'' he said slowly, at 
 last, but in the meditative way of one revolv- 
 ing a dubious matter in his mind : " no, I sup- 
 pose not necessarily to-night/' 
 
 A long, discordant cry of the wind came 
 wailing across the Reach o' Dallaway. It was 
 scarce gone, when a ponderous distant crash- 
 ing betokened the onset of the elemental strife 
 to be fought out overhead. 
 
 The effect upon Fanshawe was electric. 
 He rose, moved to and fro, twice went to the 
 window, and drew up the blind. The second 
 time, he opened the latch. The window was 
 of the kind called half-French ; that is, it was 
 of a single sheet of glass, but came no further 
 than two-thirds of the way down, the lower 
 third being of solid wood, and could be 
 opened (drawn inward) only in its glazed 
 section. 
 
 He withdrew the fastening, stooped, and 
 peered into the yard. A stealthy, shuffling 
 sound was audible, followed by a low whine. 
 
 Fanshawe seemed satisfied, and, having 
 closed the latch, drew together the thick, 
 heavy curtains. 
 
 ** That was my bloodhound, Grailph," he 
 explained. " I always let him out at night 
 
 264 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 He keeps watch here. He is a huge beast, 
 cream-white in colour, and so is as rare and 
 remarkable as he is trustworthy. I brought 
 him, as a puppy, from Transylvania. The 
 people hereabouts hate and fear him : the more 
 so, because of his name. I have told you 
 about the legend of Grailph Moss? Yes? 
 Well, the rumour has filtered from mind to 
 mind that my Grailph is no other than the 
 original Grailph, or Grey Wolf; and that in 
 some way he, I, and the ' House o' Fan- 
 shawe ' are connected in an uncanny destiny." 
 
 " Are you quite sure you're not ? " I inter- 
 rupted, half in badinage, half in earnest. 
 
 He took my remark seriously, however. 
 
 " No ; I am not sure. But who can tell 
 what is the secret thing that lies hidden in 
 the shadow, in the wave, and in the brain?" 
 
 " Ah, you remember what old Mark Zen- 
 gro said that day by the cavern of the Jallu- 
 sietch, in Bohemia! How well I remember 
 that afternoon: how he called you brother 
 and '' 
 
 ^^Well?" 
 
 '* Oh, and what a strange talk we had after- 
 wards by the fire, when " 
 
 " No ; that was not what you were going to 
 say. You were about to add : ' How angry 
 you were when Zengro made zvith his fore- 
 
 265 
 
William Sharp 
 
 finger the sign of a circle about him; and how 
 you nearly left the camp then and there! Is 
 not that true?" 
 
 " Yes, it is true/' 
 
 *' I thought so. Well, I had good reason to 
 be angry." 
 
 ^' Oh, his action meant only that he took 
 you to be fey, as we say in the north." 
 
 " No, it meant more than that. But this 
 brings me to what I have wanted to say to 
 you : what must be told to-night." 
 
 He stopped, for the roar about the house 
 shook it to its foundations : one of those swift, 
 howling whirlwinds which sometimes precede 
 the steady march of the mighty host of the 
 thunder. 
 
 When it was over, he pulled away the smok- 
 ing logs from the fire and substituted three 
 or four of dry pine and larch, already dusted 
 with salt. The flame was so vivid and cheer- 
 ful that, when my host eclipsed the lamplight, 
 and left us in the pleasant firelit gloom, the 
 change was welcome, though the wildness of 
 the night without seemed to be enhanced. 
 
 For at least five minutes Fanshawe sat 
 silent, staring into the red glow over which the 
 blue and yellow tongues of flame wove an 
 endless weft. Then, abruptly, he began : ^ 
 
 ^His narrative, in its earlier stages, was much 
 
 266 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 "You know that I have Gypsy blood in 
 me. It is true. But I do not think you know 
 how strong in the present, how remote in the 
 past, the strain is. In the twelfth century my 
 parental ancestors were of what might be 
 called the blood-royal among the Children of 
 the Wind. One of them, head of a great 
 clan at that time dispersed, during the sum- 
 mer months, through the region of the New 
 Forest, was named John the Heron. Hunt- 
 ing one day in these woodlands, the king's 
 brother was set upon by outlaws. They 
 would have killed him, or at least withheld 
 him against a ransom, but for the bravery of 
 his unknown Gypsy ally. The royal duke was 
 grateful, and so in turn was the king. Wild 
 John the Heron became John Heron of Roe- 
 hurst and the lands round Elvwick. He had 
 seven sons, five of whom died tragic deaths 
 or mysteriously disappeared. The eldest in 
 due time succeeded his father; the youngest 
 travelled into Derbyshire in the train of a 
 great lord. In those days the most ancient, 
 
 longer than my partial reproduction of it; for some 
 of it dealt with irrelative matters, some of it was 
 merely reminiscent of our own meetings and experi- 
 ences in common, and some of it was abruptly dis- 
 cursive. Interwrought with it were the sudden 
 tumults, the tempestuous violence of that night of 
 storm: when, through it all, the thunder was to me 
 as the flying shuttle in the loom of Destiny. 
 
 267 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the proudest, but even then the most impov- 
 erished of the old families of that region, 
 was the house of Ravenshawe. Its head was 
 Sir Alured Ravenshawe, a man so haughty 
 that it was said he thought the king his in- 
 ferior. Gilbert Heron was able to do him 
 a great service; and ultimately, through his 
 influence, the young man succeeded to the 
 name and titles of a beggared and outlawed 
 knight, Sir Vane Fanshawe. Nevertheless, 
 there could have been no question of the mar- 
 riage of the young Sir Gilbert Fanshawe (for 
 the name of Heron was to be relinquished) 
 with the lady Frida, though the young people 
 had fallen in love with each other at their first 
 meeting; and, ultimately, it was permitted at 
 all, and then reluctantly, only because of two 
 further happenings. The first of these was 
 the undertaking of the great lord with whom 
 the young man was (a near kinsman and 
 friend of Sir Alured Ravenshawe), that the 
 king would speedily make Sir Gilbert Fan- 
 shawe of Roehurst in Hants and Eastrigg 
 in the shire of Derby a barono At that time 
 there was no actual village of Eastrigg, but 
 only a small hamlet called Fanshawe, or, as 
 it was then given. The Fan Shawe. These 
 lands belonged to Ravenshawe, and he gave 
 them to his daughter as a wedding gift, on 
 
 268 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 the condition that the king made her be- 
 trothed to a noble, and that he became known 
 as Baron Fanshawe of Fanshawe. 
 
 **A11 this was duly done, and yet there 
 seems to have been deception in the matter 
 of the Gypsy origin ; for about the time of the 
 birth of an heir to my lord of Fanshawe, Sir 
 Alured refused to hold any communication 
 with his son-in-law, or even to see his 
 daughter. A Ravenshawe, he declared, could 
 have nothing in common with a base-born 
 alien. 
 
 " It was some years after this that strange 
 rumours got about concerning not only Lord 
 Fanshawe but also The Chase, as his 
 castellated manor was called. A wild and 
 barbaric folk sojourned in its neighbourhood, 
 or in the adjacent forests. A contagion of 
 suspicion, of a vague dread, of a genuine ani- 
 mosity, spread abroad. Then it was com- 
 monly averred that my lord was mad, for had 
 he not been heard to proclaim himself the 
 Christ, or at any rate to speak and act as 
 though he were no other than at least the 
 second Christ, of whose coming men dreamed ? 
 
 " One day Sir Alured Ravenshawe ap- 
 peared in the camp of the Egyptians, as the 
 alien wandering folk were wont to be called. 
 What he learned from the patriarch infuriated 
 
 269 
 
William Sharp 
 
 him to frenzy. ' Let the dog of the race of 
 Kundry die the death he mocks/ he cried; 
 * and lo, herewith I give you my bond that 
 no harm shall come to you or your people's 
 goods, though you must sojourn here no 
 more.' 
 
 ** Then it was that the Egyptians waylaid 
 their kinsman^ the Lord Fanshawe of Fan- 
 shawe, and crowned and mocked him as the 
 Gypsy Christ, and crucified him upon a great 
 leafless tree in the forest now known as the 
 Wood o' Wendray. Thereafter, for a long 
 period, the place knew them no more. But 
 in going they took secretly with them the in- 
 fant Gabriel, only child of the House o' Fan- 
 shawe." 
 
 For a time after this Fanshawe ceased 
 speaking. We both sat, our gaze intent upon 
 the fire, listening to the growing savagery of 
 the storm without. Then, without preamble, 
 he resumed. He had a habit, when in the 
 least degree wrought by impatience or excite- 
 ment, of clasping and unclasping his hands; 
 and his doing so now was the more noticeable 
 because of the strange tapery look of the fin- 
 gers coming from the rough, close mittens he 
 wore. 
 
 " That Gabriel Fanshawe never saw Eng- 
 land again, nor yet did his son Gabriel. The 
 
 270 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 name was retained privily, though among his 
 blood-kin in Austria or Hungary he was 
 known simply as Gabriel Zengro, the kin- 
 name of the patriarch who had adopted him 
 after the crucifixion of his father. 
 
 " Long before his grandson was a man well 
 over forty years, — and it was not till then 
 that the third Gabriel visited England to see 
 if he could claim his heritage, — the lands of 
 Eastrigg, the house and hamlet of Fanshawe, 
 and Wester Dallaway, not only were ex- 
 empted from all claim upon them by any one 
 of the blood of Gilbert Fanshawe, the barony 
 in whose name was cancelled, but had, in turn, 
 passed from the hands of the old knight of 
 Ravenshawe into those of the family of Fran- 
 cis, with whom they remained until the fall 
 of the Jacobite dynasty, after which they were 
 held by the Hewsons, until (sadly diminished) 
 they came again into the ownership of a Fan- 
 shawe with my purchase of them. 
 
 " But though Gabriel Zengro the third 
 found that he had lost his title and northern 
 inheritance, he was able to recover possession 
 of Roehurst. There he settled, married, and 
 had two children — known only, of course, by 
 his English surname. In the fiftieth year of 
 his age he became markedly unpopular with 
 his fellows. He was seen at times to frequent 
 
 271 
 
William Sharp 
 
 a rtide and barbaric sect of vagrants, even to 
 live with them; and the rumour spread that 
 his foreign wife was really one of these very 
 aliens. Then he was heard to say wild and 
 outrageous things, such as might well hang a 
 man in those times. The upshot was that 
 one day he returned to his home no more. 
 His body was found transfixed to a leafless 
 tree in the forest beyond Grailph Moss." 
 
 "Beyond Roehurst, you mean?" I inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " No, I mean what I say. His crucified 
 body was found in the forest beyond Grailph 
 Moss, in that part of it called the Wood o' 
 Wendray." 
 
 " That is," I interrupted again, ** where the 
 same frightful tragedy had been enacted in 
 the instance of the victim's grandfather?" 
 
 " Even so. But though Gabriel Fanshawe 
 had been lured or persuaded or kidnapped out 
 of Hants, he was certainly alive after he 
 crossed the Derwent, for a huntsman recog- 
 nised him among his people one day, and spat 
 on the ground to the north, south, east, and 
 west. The lord of Roehurst disappeared in 
 this mysterious fashion; and none of his 
 neighbours of the south learned aught of his 
 doom, but only his wife knew, the tidings 
 having been conveyed to her I know not how. 
 
 272 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 But from the record she put in writing, it is 
 clear that with the message had come a sum- 
 mons, perhaps a menace; for, together with 
 her two children, she betook herself to the 
 greater safety of London. There the girl 
 died, calling vainly, and uttering strange 
 words in a tongue no one spake or under- 
 stood. But the boy lived, and in course of 
 years grew to manhood, and on the death of 
 his mother went to reside upon his own lands. 
 Nor was it till after his marriage, and the 
 birth of a son, that he read the record his 
 mother had caused to be writ, and so came 
 into the knowledge that has been the awe and 
 terror of those lineally descended from him. 
 *' But neither he nor his son came to any 
 harm, save the common doom of all. Of his 
 grandson wild things were said, but all that is 
 known certainly is that he hanged himself 
 upon the great oak in front of Roehurst. 
 He, too, however, had left a Gabriel behind 
 him as his successor, in due time a good 
 knight and learned man, who brought up his 
 only child worthily and steadfastly. Strange 
 that the heir of two such loyal and excellent 
 men should prove so feather-brained as to 
 love the woods better than the streets, and 
 the wild people of the woods better than 
 courtiers and scholars! Stranger still that 
 
 273 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the old omens should recur, till, at last, Ger- 
 vase Fanshawe, after an awful curse upon 
 all of his blood, and terrifying blasphemies, 
 openly set fire to his manor, and himself, 
 with his little daughter (though the young 
 Gabriel escaped), was consumed in the flames. 
 
 " Thus, with tragic alternations, went the 
 lives of my forbears, till, after many genera- 
 tions of English Fanshawes, the house of 
 Roehurst came to an end with Jasper Fan- 
 shawe." 
 
 At that moment so savage an onslaught of 
 wind and rain was made upon the house, so 
 violent a quake of thunder shook the walls, 
 that further speech was impossible for the 
 time. But, save by his silence, my companion 
 took no notice of the tumult. His eyes were 
 very large and wild, and stared spell-bound 
 upon the fire, as though they beheld there the 
 tragic issues to the many memories or 
 thoughts which tyrannised his brain. 
 
 " I said that the family of Roehurst," he 
 resumed, as soon as comparative quietude 
 had followed that wild outburst, though the 
 wind moaned and screamed round the gables 
 and among the old chimneys, and the rain 
 slashed against the window-pane in contin- 
 uous assault, ** I said that the family of Roe- 
 hurst came to an end with Jasper Fanshawe. 
 
 274 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 This was at the close of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury. Jasper was the last of his race, and, 
 the rumour ran, one of the wildest. Almost 
 on the eve of his wedding it transpired that 
 when, in his youth, he had gone away with 
 and lived among the Gypsy-people, he had, 
 as most, if not all, of his progenitors, mar- 
 ried a Romany girl. The union was not one 
 that would be recognised by the English law ; 
 but the authentic news of it, and the con- 
 firmed rumour that Squire Fanshawe had a 
 son and daughter living, brought about a duel 
 between him and the brother of his betrothed. 
 With rash folly this duel was fought in the 
 woods, and witnessed by no one save the 
 Gypsy * messenger,' who kept the squire al- 
 ways in view." 
 
 "The Gypsy-messenger, Fanshawe?" 
 "Yes. That is the name sometimes used. 
 The old word means the doom-watcher. The 
 latter is the better designation, but I did not 
 care to use it. 
 
 " Well, my ancestor killed the man Charles 
 Norton. The deed was the worse for the 
 survivor, in that Norton was the favourite 
 son of the most influential man in the country- 
 side. In a word, the slaying was called mur- 
 der, and Jasper Fanshawe was proclaimed. 
 His sole chance lay with his blood-folk. The 
 
 275 
 
William Sharp 
 
 doom-watcher came into Winchester, and 
 testified to what he had seen while hiding 
 among the bracken in the forest; but his evi- 
 dence was overborne, and, rightly or wrongly, 
 he was himself clapped into prison on a 
 charge of rick-burning. 
 
 " No trace could be found of the fugitive, 
 nor of the * Egyptians ' with whom he made 
 good his escape. The large encampment in 
 Elvwick Wood had broken into sections, 
 which had severally dispersed, and all had 
 vanished almost as swiftly and effectually as 
 the smoke of the camp-fires. 
 
 '' Whatever I may surmise, I do not know 
 for certain the manner of Jasper Fanshawe's 
 death. His son, James, lived for the most 
 part in Hungary ; at other times in the remote 
 lands between the Caspian and the Adriatic. 
 He took in preference the old kin-name of 
 Heme, which, indeed, his father had adopted 
 after his flight from England. 
 
 '' This James Heme lived to an old age, and 
 became one of the ' elder brothers ' of his 
 particular tribal branch. His son Gabriel, 
 however, left his kindred, and went to Vi- 
 enna, where he studied medicine. There, 
 while still relatively a young man, he gained 
 an important post at Prague, and in a year or 
 so became what would here be called a mag- 
 
 276 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 istrate. He was noted for his severity in 
 dealing witli all vagrants, but especially in the 
 instance of any Gypsy delinquent. At this 
 time, as from his early Vienna days, he was 
 known as Vansar, a Romany equivalent for 
 Fanshawe. On three separate occasions his 
 life was attempted, though each time the 
 would-be assassin escaped. Gabriel Vansar 
 was not the man to be intimidated; indeed, 
 he became only the more stringent and tyran- 
 nical, so that soon there was not a gypsy en- 
 campment within a twenty-mile radius of 
 Prague. In his thirty-sixth year he was of- 
 fered a medical professorship in Vienna. In 
 that city he met a Miss Winstane, a beautiful 
 English girl, the sole child of Edward Win- 
 stane, a justice of the peace for South Hants, 
 and squire of Roehurst Park and the greater 
 part of the parish of Elvwick. Miss Win- 
 stane loved her handsome wooer, and the 
 marriage was duly solemnised. Though he 
 spoke with a slight foreign accent, Mr. Van- 
 sar knew his paternal language thoroughly; 
 for though * James Heme ' had ceased to be 
 English in all else, he had been careful to 
 teach his son his native tongue, and indeed 
 always to speak it when alone with him. 
 
 " Neither Mr. Winstane nor Winifred Win- 
 stane ever knew that Gabriel Vansar was 
 
 277 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Gabriel Heme the Gypsy, or, in turn, that he 
 was the grandson of that Jasper Fanshawe 
 whose flight from Roehurst had been fol- 
 lowed by the confiscation of his property, and 
 its disposal to Edward Winstane the elder. 
 
 '' As a matter of fact, Mr. Winstane died a 
 few months after the marriage of his daugh- 
 ter. Gabriel Vansar now relinquished his 
 post, and went to England to live the life of 
 a country squire. There he had three chil- 
 dren born to him: two sons and a daughter. 
 Naomi was the youngest by several years, 
 and at her coming her mother went. Of the 
 two sons, Jasper was the elder, I the 
 younger/' 
 
 CHAPTER TV 
 
 Although not taken wholly by surprise, I 
 exclaimed, '' You, Fanshawe? " — adding that 
 indeed the chain of circumstances was re- 
 markable. 
 
 "Yes. . . . Well, when my brother was 
 twenty-one, and I nineteen, our father died. 
 He had changed much since our mother's 
 decease, and had become strangely depressed 
 and even morose. There was adequate ex- 
 planation of this in the sealed papers which he 
 left to Jasper. 
 
 '' But now I must diverge for a moment. I 
 
 278 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 have something very strange to confide to 
 you. . . . But first tell me : have you heard of 
 Kundry?'' 
 
 *' Of Kundry ! " I repeated, bewildered. 
 
 " You love music, I know ; and I thought 
 you might have heard of Kundry." 
 
 *' Ah, yes, I know now. You mean the 
 woman in Parsifal?" 
 
 " Yes. At the same time, Wagner does not 
 give the true legend. He did not even know 
 that the name is a Gypsy one, and very 
 ancient. I have heard that some people think 
 it imaginary; others, that it is old-time 
 Scandinavian. But our people, the Children 
 of the Wind, are far more ancient than any 
 one knows. We had earned that very name 
 long before the coming of the Christ. We 
 had, however, another name, which, were I 
 to translate literally, would be something like 
 ' the Spawn of Sheitan ' : given us because 
 we were godless, and without belief in any 
 after-life, and were kingless and homeless, 
 and, compared with other peoples, lawless. 
 As we were then, so in a sense we are now: 
 for though we do not deny God, we neither 
 worship Him nor propitiate Him nor fear 
 Him; nor have we any faith in a future, be- 
 lieving that with the death of the body that 
 which is the man is dead also; and kingless 
 
 279 
 
William Sharp 
 
 we are, save for the common overlords, Time 
 and Death; and homeless, except for the cur- 
 tains of the forest and the dome of the sky, 
 and the lamps of sun and moon; and, even 
 as the wind is lawless and the sea, so also are 
 we, who are more unstable than the one and 
 more vagrant than the other. 
 
 " Nearly nineteen hundred years ago a 
 tribe of our race — ^ the first tribe,' it was 
 called, because it claimed to be the original 
 stock — was in the hill-country beyond Jeru- 
 salem. 
 
 " It was in the year of the greatest moment 
 to the modern world : the year of the death of 
 Jesus of Nazareth. 
 
 " I need not repeat even in the briefest 
 way details which are universally familiar. 
 It is enough to say that some of our people 
 were on the Hill of Calvary on the Day of 
 Anguish; that among them was a beautiful 
 wanton called Kundry; and that as the Suf- 
 ferer passed to His martyrdom, she laughed in 
 bitter mockery. Turning upon her, and know- 
 ing the darkness of her unbelief and the evil 
 of which she was the embodiment, the Christ 
 stopped and looked at her. 
 
 " * Hail, O King ! ' she laughed mockingly. 
 * Vouchsafe to me, Thy Sister, a sign that 
 Thou art indeed Lord over Fate; but Thou 
 
 280 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 knowest Thou canst not do this thing, and 
 goest to Thy death ! ' 
 
 " Then the Christ spake. * Verily, thou 
 shalt have a sign. To thee and thine I be- 
 queath the signs of my Passion, to be a shame 
 and horror among thy people, for evermore/ 
 
 "Therewith He resumed His weary way. 
 And Kundry laughed, and followed. Again, 
 during the Agony on the Cross, she laughed, 
 and again at the last bitter cry of the Son of 
 God; but in the darkness that suddenly came 
 upon the land she laughed no more. 
 
 " From that day the woman Kundry, whom 
 some have held to be the sister of the Christ, 
 was accurst. Even among her own people 
 she went veiled. Two children she bore to 
 the man who had taken her to his tent: chil- 
 dren of one birth, a male child and a woman 
 child. 
 
 " They were in their seventh year, when, 
 in a wild Asian land, Kundry came out among 
 her people and told them that she, the Sister 
 of Christ, had come to deliver them this mes- 
 sage, that out of the offspring of her womb 
 soon or late would arise one who would be 
 their Redeemer, who would be the Gypsy 
 Christ. 
 
 '' When the young men and maidens of her 
 people mocked, the elders reprimanded them, 
 
 281 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and asked Kundry to give some proof that she 
 had not the sun-fever or the moon-madness, 
 or other distemper of the mind. Whereupon 
 the woman appalled them by showing upon 
 her hands and feet the stigmata of the Cruci- 
 fixion. 
 
 " But, after the first wonder, and even awe, 
 a great horror and anger arose among the 
 kindred. Three days they gave her within 
 which to take back that which she had said, 
 and to confess the trickery of which she had 
 been guilty, or at least to reveal the way in 
 which she had mutilated herself and so healed 
 the wounds. At sundown, on the third day, 
 the strange and awful signs were still there; 
 nor would the woman retract that which she 
 had said. So they scourged her with thorny 
 switches^ and put a rough crown of them 
 round her head, and led her to a place in the 
 forest where there was a blasted tree. And 
 as she went she stopped once, and looked to 
 see whose mocking laugh made her last hour 
 so bitter; and lo, it was the girl whom she 
 had borne in her womb. Then they crucified 
 her, and she gave up the ghost in the third 
 hour before the dawn. But because that the 
 children were so young, and bore no mark 
 of the Curse, and were of the First Lineage, 
 they were spared." 
 
 282 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 At tMs point my companion ceased. Lean- 
 ing forward, he stared into the fire as one in 
 a vision. A long silence prevailed. Outside, 
 the wind wailed wearily, rising at times into a 
 screaming violence. The heavy belching roar 
 of the thunder crashed upon us ever and 
 again, and even in the firelit room with its 
 closed curtains the lighting glare smote the 
 eyes. 
 
 Fanshawe apparently did not hear; perhaps 
 he did not see. I watched him intently, the 
 more curiously because of what he told me 
 and what I inferred. At last a strange, a 
 terrifying cry startled even his abstraction. 
 He sprang to his feet, and looked wildly at 
 the window. 
 
 " It was the wind," I said ; " I heard it like 
 that a little ago, though not so loudly, or with 
 so weird a scream." 
 
 Fanshawe made no reply. After a pro- 
 longed stare at the curtained window, and a 
 nervous twisting and untwisting of his fingers, 
 he seated himself again. Then, almost as 
 though he had not broken his narration, he 
 resumed : 
 
 " The son and daughter of Kundry were 
 spared by the enemies of the tribe as well as 
 by their kindred, or rather they escaped the 
 cruelty of the one as well as the fanaticism of 
 
 283 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the other; for the tribe was almost extermi- 
 nated by the shores of the Euphrates, and 
 only Michael and Olah, the son and daughter 
 of Kundry, with a few fellow-fugitives, 
 reached a section of their race temporarily 
 settled some fifty miles to the north. 
 
 *' There ' the laughing girl,' as Olah was 
 called, partly in memory of her mother, partly 
 because of her own laughter at her mother's 
 death-faring, and partly because of the musi- 
 cal mockery wherewith she angered and de- 
 lighted the tribesmen, brought unhappiness 
 and ruin among * the rulers/ There were 
 three brothers of the ancient race, and each 
 came to disaster and death through Olah. 
 But through their death Michael came to be 
 what you would call the Prince of the Chil- 
 dren of the Wind. There was but one evil 
 deed recorded against him — the murder of 
 his sister. But — so the ancient chronicle 
 goes — this act was not out of cowardice or 
 malice; it was to remove the curse of the 
 mother, not only from those of her blood, but 
 from the race. The deed was done in the 
 year when Michael's wife bore him their sec- 
 ond child, a girl. Before Olah's death — and 
 she died in the same way as her mother — she 
 took the little Sampa in her arms, and breathed 
 her life into it. On the day of the crucifixion 
 
 284 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 the child turned in her sleep in her mother's 
 arms, and laughed as child never laughed be- 
 fore. 
 
 '' The story thereafter is a long one. It is 
 •all in the secret record of our people, though 
 known to a few only. I could tell it all to 
 you, with every name and every happening, 
 but this would serve no purpose to-night. 
 Suffice it, that link by link the chain is un- 
 broken from Michael and Sampa, the children 
 of Michael, brother of Olah, the son and 
 daughter of Kundry who laughed at the Christ 
 on Calvary, even unto the three offspring of 
 Gabriel Fanshawe, who was called Vansar, 
 and was of the tribe of the Heron." 
 
 Could it be, I wondered, as I looked intently 
 at the speaker, that this man before me was 
 the lineal descendant of that Kundry who had 
 laughed at Christ; that he was the inheritor 
 of the Curse; and that for him, perhaps, as 
 for so many of his race, the ancestral doom 
 was imminent? With an effort I conquered 
 the superstitious awe which I realised had 
 come upon me. 
 
 '' Do you mean this thing," I said slowly — 
 " do you mean that you, James Fanshawe, are 
 the direct descendant of Kundry, and that the 
 Curse lives, and that you or some one of 
 your blood, whether of this or a later genera- 
 
 285 
 
William Sharp 
 
 tion, must ' dree the weird ' even as your for- 
 bears have done ? " 
 
 " Even so : I am as I say ; and the Curse 
 lives ; and no man can evade the doom that is 
 nigh two thousand years old." 
 
 I waited a few minutes, pondering what best 
 to say. Then I spoke: 
 
 *' The story is a strange and terrible one, 
 Fanshawe. But even if exactly as you have 
 told it, surely there is no logical necessity why 
 you or your brother or sister should inherit the 
 Curse. There has, by your own admission, 
 been frequent admixture of a foreign and 
 Christian strain in your lineage. Your father 
 was, to all practical intents, no more a Gypsy 
 than I am. He married an English girl, and 
 lived the life of a country squire, and was no- 
 wise different from his kind except in his 
 perhaps exaggerated bitterness against Gyp- 
 sies, though, by the way, not so different in 
 this respect either, for the country gentle- 
 man loveth not the vagrant. In a word, he 
 himself, with all his knowledge of the past, 
 would have laughed at your superstitious ap- 
 plication of the legend." 
 
 Fanshawe turned upon me, his great lumi- 
 nous eyes aflame with the fire of despair. I 
 could see that he was in passionate earnest. 
 
 '' My sister might have laughed/' he said in 
 
 286 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 a voice so low as almost to be a whisper, but 
 with significant emphasis: ''my sister might 
 have laughed, not my father." 
 
 '' Why, Fanshawe," I exclaimed, startled, 
 '* you do not mean to say that your sister 
 is — is— " 
 
 ''A daughter of Kundry." 
 
 I received the remark in silence. I did not 
 know what to think, much less what to say. 
 My nerves, too, were affected by the electric 
 air, the ever-recurrent surge and tumult of the 
 thunderstorm; and I felt bewildered by what 
 I heard, by what, despite its improbability, I 
 knew that I believed. At last I asked him to 
 resume, saying I knew he had not ended what 
 he had set himself to tell me. 
 
 " No, I have not ended. 
 
 " From what I have told you, will have 
 gathered that the Curse does not show itself in 
 every generation, but in the third. I cannot 
 say that the death record is unvarying, for I 
 do not know ; nor has it been possible to trace 
 every particular of a remote ancestry. But 
 here is a strange thing: that in all but three 
 instances, so far as known, no son nor daugh- 
 ter of Kundry has ever had more than two 
 children. From generation to generation that 
 bitter laugh has never lapsed. From genera- 
 tion to generation it has brought about dis- 
 
 287 
 
William Sharp 
 
 aster and shame. Many, even as I have done, 
 have dreamed that the Curse might be ex- 
 piated or outlived; but it may well be that 
 even as in every generation ' the laughing 
 girl ' who is of the race of Kundry mocks 
 God, so in every third generation, till the 
 Christ come again or the world be no more, 
 there may be the tragedy of my ancestral 
 woe. 
 
 " All this my father knew ere he died. He 
 had meant to carry the secret to the grave, 
 and by many precautions believed he had 
 safeguarded his children from contact with 
 the people he hated and dreaded, though he 
 was of them himself. 
 
 " About the time when my father's morose 
 and brooding manner was first noted, my 
 brother Jasper had fallen ill. It was a mys- 
 terious trouble, and no doctor could name the 
 malady. Once, only, I saw my father furious, 
 — on the day when he learned that there was 
 an encampment of Gypsies in Elvwick Woods, 
 and that Jasper who was as impassioned in 
 religion as Saint Francis himself, had been 
 among the wandering people, striving to win 
 them to the brotherhood of Christ. Our 
 father did not know that I and my sister 
 Naomi had already discovered the camp, and 
 had been fascinated by the dark people and 
 
 288 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 their way of life and the forest freedom, — 
 so that we could think of little else, and 
 yearned to be in the greenwood, even as a 
 bird to spread its wings beyond the bars of 
 its cage. 
 
 ** It must have been immediately after this 
 that my father made the discovery which 
 changed him from one man to another. 
 Neither Naomi nor I knew aught of it at the 
 time, though we were aware that something 
 dire had happened, something of awe, of 
 dread. 
 
 " For when Jasper rose from his bed of 
 sickness there were upon his feet and upon 
 his hands the purple bruise and ruddy cica- 
 trix of the great nails of the Crucifixion." 
 
 For a few moments Fanshawe paused, and 
 drew a painful, laboured breath, as of a man 
 in pain or a great weakness. 
 
 ** After our father's death, Jasper shut him- 
 self up in his room, and would see no one. I 
 used to creep along the passage at dusk, and 
 listen to the wild incoherences of his prayers. 
 We, Naomi and I, were very dismal, and it 
 was with relief that, one evening, we fled into 
 the forest and joined our friends, more 
 mysterious and alluring than ever because of 
 the terrifying things which had been said of 
 them by him who was now dead. 
 
 289 
 
William Sharp 
 
 " Our shortest way was by Elvwick church- 
 yard. Perhaps but for this we would not 
 have thought of looking at our father's grave 
 again : for we did not mean to return to Roe- 
 hurst. Hand in hand, however, we stole to 
 the spot we had already ceased to regard with 
 the first overwhelming awe. 
 
 " The shock was greater than even that of 
 his death had been, for we saw that the grave 
 had been rifled. The coffin was visible, but 
 the lid had been forced open. There was no 
 corpse within. Almost too dazed to be fright- 
 ened, it was some time before I realised that 
 the outrage must have been committed that 
 very night; for the upturned earth had re- 
 tained its fresh smell, an axe was lying near 
 the grave, and there were imprints of feet in 
 the damp soil. 
 
 " The idea flashed across my mind that our 
 father had somehow come to life again, — 
 perhaps, I thought, he knew of our intended 
 flight and had gone back to Roehurst to frus- 
 trate it, — and I could scarce move with terror. 
 Naomi laughed, a strange mirthless laugh that 
 made me turn as though to strike her. Then, 
 shivering and sobbing, we crawled away. I 
 think we were about to return home, when a 
 tall figure arose^ called us by our names, and 
 invited us to come and see the merry * Dance 
 
 290 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 of the Wolves ' around the camp-fire. I told 
 the man — Mat Lee, I remember his name 
 was — what had happened. To my surprise 
 he did not appear shocked or frightened. He 
 was silent for a little; then in a whisper he 
 urged us to run with him at once, lest we 
 should meet the dead man on his way back 
 from the house to the grave. 
 
 " That is how my sister and I went to live 
 among our unknown kindred. The very next 
 day, at dawn, the camp was lifted; a week 
 thence we were in Brittany. It was not till 
 long afterwards I learned that it was the 
 tribesmen who had desecrated my father's 
 grave. ' He had been a renegade, and the 
 enemy of his race,' they said, * and it was only 
 right that though he had lived in honour he 
 should afterwards be flung back to earth as a 
 dead dog is hurled among the bramble or 
 gorse.' 
 
 " Once, only, I saw my brother again. I 
 know that he did his best for us. He traced 
 our flight, and kept in touch with us. A 
 * commando ' was sent to him, forbidding him 
 to come near us, or even to go among his 
 kindred anywhere. I was told I was free to 
 go and come as I liked, and that I had money 
 always at my command. Naomi, however, 
 had to abide with the tribe. For three years 
 
 291 
 
William Sharp 
 
 I roamed throughout the lands east of Saxony 
 and Bavaria, and as far south as Dalmatia 
 and Roumania. I had been well educated, 
 and was a student; and I learned much, 
 though in my own desultory fashion. 
 
 " Then tidings reached me that Jasper had 
 disappeared. It was said that he had been 
 seen in the shore-woods of Lymington, on the 
 Solent; and that he had been drowned, 
 while bathing or boating. An upturned 
 boat had been discovered, in which he had 
 certainly been that forenoon, for he had 
 come in it from Yarmouth in the Isle of 
 Wight. 
 
 " I went to England, and in due time en- 
 tered into possession of the family property. 
 At first (and this was when we met in Surrey) 
 I thought of settling there, for a time. At 
 last, however, I decided to dispose of Roe- 
 hurst, and realise everything that had come to 
 me; and I had done this, and was about to 
 leave for eastern Europe, when a letter 
 reached me from Derbyshire. It was in my 
 brother's handwriting, 
 
 *' Bewildered, distraught, and angry, I read 
 this strange and unlooked-for communication. 
 The writer was alive, and begged me to come 
 and save him from the enmity of the kindred 
 with whom he had at the end cast in his lot. 
 
 292 
 
1905 
 
 new Tauchnitz vol. (The Sunset of Old 
 Tales) and expect to complete it (for May) 
 to-night. 
 
 '' 24th April. . . . Yes, I was sorry to leave 
 Lismore. It may be my last time in the Gaelic 
 West. (I don't say this 'down-ly' — but be- 
 cause I think it likely. There is much I want 
 to do, and now as much by W. S. as by F. 
 M. and that I realise must be done abroad 
 where alone can I keep well and mentally 
 even more than physically (How I hope 
 Fontainebleau may some day suit us.) Dear 
 MacC. was sorry to part to. He shook hands 
 (with both his) and when I said in Gaelic 
 * Good-bye, and Fare-well upon that, my 
 friend,' he said, ' No — no ' — and then sud- 
 denly said, ' My blessing on you — and good- 
 bye now ! ' and turned away and went down 
 the pier-side and hoisted the brown sail and 
 went away across the water, waving a last 
 farewell." 
 
 The cold proved so disastrous that my hus- 
 band was ordered to Neuenahr for special 
 treatment. Thence he wrote to the Hon. A. 
 Nelson Hood: 
 
 June, 1905. 
 My dear Julian, 
 Just a brief line, for I am still very re- 
 
 293 
 
William Sharp 
 
 "An hour before dawn, three of the kin- 
 dred entered the tent. They put a bandage 
 about my eyes, and secured my arms. I heard 
 them lift Jasper and put him upon a hurdle of 
 larch-boughs. In the chill air we went si- 
 lently forth. In about a quarter of an hour 
 we came to a standstill upon a rising ground. 
 I heard Jasper repeat in a husky voice that he 
 was not worthy to be the Christ ; that he was 
 not the Christ; and that he prayed that with 
 him might pass away forever the curse of 
 Kundry. 
 
 " There was a brief silence after that ; then 
 a rustling sound in the air; then, after an in- 
 terval, a thud, thud, thudding, followed by a 
 splash. 
 
 *^ ' No man ever comes back from the bowels 
 of the lead-mine, O James of the tribe of the 
 Heron, of the race of Kundry,' whispered a 
 voice in my ear. 
 
 " When, an hour later, the bandage was 
 taken from my eyes, I was on the moor just 
 above the House o' Fanshawe. A boy was 
 beside me, his face covered with a slouch hat. 
 In a few words, in our ancient language, he 
 told me that I was by the village of Eastrigg, 
 and that twenty miles south of me lay Father- 
 ing Dale, whence I could easily go in any di- 
 rection; anywhere, he added significantly, 
 
 294 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 where the tongue can be silent and the mem- 
 ory dead. 
 
 " I made no inquiries about the matter I 
 have told you. Fortunately I had informed 
 no one of the letter I had received. This let- 
 ter I burned. But I ran a great risk by re- 
 turning a few days later to Eastrigg. The 
 reason was this: I had learned, from the 
 papers to which my brother had alluded, the 
 whole story of our doomed race, the race of 
 Kundry; and I decided to try one more 
 desperate hazard against Fate, for I could not 
 be sure that Jasper's death would remove the 
 Curse. In a word, I decided to make my 
 home in this place where my ancestor and 
 brother suffered such cruel deaths, and to die 
 here; for I found in my papers an ancient 
 prophecy, both in English and Romany, to 
 the effect that when a woman of the race of 
 Kundry would voluntarily sacrifice herself at 
 the Hill of Calvary, or when a man of the race 
 of Kundry would live and die at the place 
 where one of his kindred had suffered for the 
 Curse, the doom might be removed. 
 
 " Thus it was that I became possessor of 
 this strange ' House o' Fanshawe.' But I had 
 something to do before I settled here. 
 
 *' When everything that had to be done was 
 done, I went abroad to seek my kindred, and 
 
 295 
 
William Sharp 
 
 more particularly my sister Naomi. Perhaps 
 you guess my object. I had more hope 
 of success, from the circumstance that 
 Naomi was of a passionately enthusiastic 
 nature; and that, of late, she had even 
 dreamed of leaving her people (for one strain 
 in her fought against the other) to enter a 
 Sisterhood of Mercy. 
 
 " But my people had gone, and the clues 
 were already old and complicated. I went 
 through Hungary, across Transylvania, hither 
 and thither in Roumania, and from end to end 
 in Dalmatia. Everywhere I was on their 
 track, but the trail was confused. It was not 
 till I had gained the Bavarian highlands that 
 the conclusion was forced upon me I was 
 being misled. This became a certainty after 
 I had followed a sure trail through Suabia and 
 so to the Lands of the Moselle. At Treves I 
 was directed southward, and went blindly on 
 a false track that led through southern France 
 towards the Basque provinces; but at last, at 
 a place in Provence called Aigues-Mortes, I 
 met a life-brother (that is, one whose life had 
 been saved when otherwise it would have been 
 lost, and who has vowed his life-service to his 
 saviour, whenever required), whom I put 
 upon his oath. He told me that the Zengri, 
 the Hemes, and two other tribes were not in 
 
 296 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 southern Europe at all, but in England. I 
 had hit upon the right trail between Heidel- 
 berg and the Mosel, but, when almost upon my 
 people at Treves, had been skilfully diverted. 
 And the reason for this was the extraordinary 
 ascendency of my sister. My heart sank as I 
 heard this tidings. I feared that the Curse 
 had already shown itself; but my informant 
 assured me I was wrong in this surmise. It 
 was merely that Naomi had fascinated the 
 tribes- folk, and, particularly since the death of 
 the old Peter Zengro, had become practically 
 a queen. Her word was law. 
 
 " Of course I could not tell the exact reason 
 why she wished to evade me. Possibly she 
 feared I might resent her ascendency, and 
 try to usurp her ; possibly she had some rea- 
 son to fear that the always latent enmity 
 against any of the race of Kundry would be 
 directed against me. As likely as not, she 
 had several schemes to fulfil, all or even one 
 of which might be frustrated by my appear- 
 ance on the scene. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I decided to travel straight 
 to England, and, as soon as practicable, gain 
 an interview with Naomi. 
 
 '' For some weeks after I reached this 
 country I was again purposely misled. Yet 
 from one thing and another I became more 
 
 297 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and more anxious to meet Naomi soon. 
 Strange rumours were abroad. At Ringwood 
 in the New Forest, I overheard some words 
 by the camp-fire (when I was supposed to be 
 asleep) which made my heart shrink. 
 
 *' Once again I lost all clue. Then it was 
 that I remembered Nathan Lee^ — an intimate 
 friend of yours as well as of mine, — who, 
 because of his great love for his wife, had 
 sworn never to leave the neighbourhood of 
 Glory Woods, where she was buried. I trav- 
 elled with all speed to Dorking. From Lee I 
 learned what I wanted to know. By a 
 strange fatality, Naomi had made her head- 
 quarters in the Wood o' Wendray, beyond 
 Eastrigg. But was it a blind fatality? That 
 was what troubled and perturbed me. Why 
 had she, why had our particular tribe, settled 
 at the accursed spot where Jasper Fanshawe 
 had met his fate? 
 
 *' It was at this time that I met you in 
 Glory Woods. The next day I was back in 
 the village of Elvwick, and had arranged with 
 Robert Hoare, the late gardener at Roehurst, 
 and his wife, to come and keep house and 
 generally look after me at Eastrigg Manor. 
 
 " Almost every day after I was settled I 
 rode over to the Wood o' Wendray; but the 
 ban was upon me, and I was warned not to 
 
 298 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 approach the camp. Thrice I set the ban at 
 defiance, and strode into the camp, but on no 
 occasion saw any sign of Naomi. This was 
 the more strange, as, on the third time, I 
 arrived at sunset, * the hour of the smoke,' 
 when the gypsies meet round the fire to talk 
 and smoke and break their long day-fast. It 
 was after this third visit I was formally 
 warned that my next defiance of the ban 
 would be my last. I knew this to be no idle 
 threat. Thereafter I had to be more cau- 
 tious. I no longer rode across the moor; 
 but, either in the morning twilight or in the 
 late afternoon, wandered here and there 
 across the uplands : sometimes by the deserted 
 lead-mines, sometimes by the Green Pool, 
 sometimes even within the outskirts of the 
 Wood o' Wendray. 
 
 " I met you in Glory Woods in the spring, 
 and now it is autumn. It was exactly mid- 
 way in this time that I learned a dreadful 
 thing. 
 
 " One day a message came to me, in Na- 
 omi's writing, to be at the Green Pool beyond 
 Dallaway mine at dawn on the morrow. 
 
 '* I was there, of course. The morning 
 was raw and misty. Even at the margin of 
 the Pool I could not see the further side. 
 Suddenly, however, I heard whispered voices 
 
 299 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and the trampling of feet. I called, and was 
 at once answered. I was bidden not to stir 
 from where I was. The voice was that of 
 Naomi, but with a note in it I had never 
 heard before. 
 
 " ' Is that you, James Fanshawe, of the 
 tribe of the Heron, of the race of Kundry? ' 
 
 " ' It is I, Naomi, daughter of Gabriel. It 
 is I, your blood-brother.' 
 
 ** * Then know this thing. She whom you 
 wedded secretly, Sanpriella Zengro, is dead.' 
 
 *' I gave a cry of pain. ... I have not told 
 you that, during my last year with my people, 
 I loved Sanpriella, the daughter of Alexander 
 Zengro, the brother of Peter Zengro, of the 
 First Tribe. But Alexander Zengro feared 
 and hated any of the race of Kundry; so we 
 loved secretly. This was one reason why I 
 was so eager to find my people again; for 
 Naomi was not, as you may have supposed, 
 my one quest. I knew that Sanpriella was 
 with child, and I longed to make her my wife 
 before all men. 
 
 " *Is it so ? ' I cried in a shaking voice, 
 because of my sore pain ; ' is it so, upon the 
 oath of the crossed sticks and the hidden 
 way ? ' 
 
 " * I say it. May tree fall on me, and 
 water gain upon me, and the falling star light 
 
 300 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 on me, if I speak not truth. Sanpriella is 
 dead. She lies in the wood of Heiligenberg, 
 beyond the Neckar. And now listen to the 
 doom, thou son of Kundry/ 
 
 " My heart leapt at these ominous words, 
 doubly ominous and strange coming from one 
 of my own blood. 
 
 " * Unto Sanpriella were born twin children, 
 a boy and a girl. The girl lives, though you 
 shall never see her. She is in a far land 
 from here, and the lines of her life are al- 
 ready known. The boy . . . the boy is . . . 
 dead. 
 
 " * But know this thing, James, my blood- 
 brother. The doom of Kundry was upon 
 him. His mother hid the thing, but after her 
 death the Curse was visible. Upon his hands 
 were the bruised wounds of the nails of the 
 Crucifixion.' 
 
 " With a shuddering cry I sank to my 
 knees. Wildly I prayed, implored Naomi to 
 say it was not true ; that it was hearsay ; that 
 some natural cause had been mistaken for 
 this horrible mystery. 
 
 " * Therefore,' she resumed unmoved, * the 
 ban is upon you also. Take heed lest a worse 
 thing befall you. It will be well if you leave 
 this place where you live, and for ever. Be a 
 wanderer upon the face of the earth; it will 
 
 301 
 
William Sharp 
 
 be for you safer so: but avoid the trail of 
 the Children of the Wind as you would the 
 pestilence. And now — farewell ! ' 
 
 " * My child lives — my daughter lives ! ' I 
 cried despairingly. 
 
 " There was a long silence. I called again 
 and again, but met with no response. Thick 
 as the mist was, I raced round the Pool like a 
 greyhound. There was no one near. I ran 
 out upon the moor, but there I was like a 
 derelict boat in wide ocean in a dense fog. I 
 could see nothing, hear nothing. All that day 
 the mist hung impermeable; all that day I 
 abode where I was." 
 
 Once more a long silence fell upon Fan- 
 shawe. Outside, the shrieking of the wind 
 was appalling. The rain slashed against the 
 house as though all the sluices of the thunder-- 
 storm were concentrated there. The thunder 
 was no longer overhead, but a raucous blast — 
 distinct from the blind, furious gale — moved 
 to and fro like a beast of prey. I was over- 
 come by the strange and terrible tale I had 
 listened to. Then and there, to that wild ac- 
 companiment, it all seemed deadly true, and 
 as inevitable as Destiny. 
 
 With an abrupt gesture, Fanshawe sud- 
 denly resumed: — 
 
 302 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 " On the eve of that day I walked swiftly 
 across the moor. The sun was almost on the 
 horizon as I reached the eastern edge of 
 Grailph Moss. Suddenly, I stopped as one 
 changed into stone. Black against the sunset- 
 light I saw a tall figure stand; with head 
 thrown back, and arms wide outstretched from 
 the sides. Was it a vision of the Christ? 
 That was the thought which came to me. 
 Then the figure disappeared, absorbed in the 
 mist over Grailph Moss. I turned and went 
 home. It was Naomi I had seen. 
 
 " The next evening I was in the same place, 
 at the same hour. 
 
 ** Again I saw Naomi, in that sunflame 
 Crucifixion. Once more she disappeared, and 
 across the Moss. I knew of no encampment 
 there, but unquestionably she had moved 
 swiftly westward. 
 
 " On the third afternoon I was there again, 
 earlier. This time I had with me my white 
 bloodhound. We crouched in good hiding 
 till Naomi passed. I made Grailph sniff her 
 track. When the sun set, she disappeared as 
 before. I held Grailph in leash, and followed 
 swiftly. In less than an hour I came upon 
 her. She was standing in a waste place, near 
 the centre of a broken circle of tall slabs. 
 These were the Druidic Stones, known almost 
 
 303 
 
William Sharp 
 
 to none save the most daring explorers of the 
 Moss, for they are in a region beset with 
 quagmires. 
 
 " She was speaking, with outstretched arms, 
 as if in prayer. There was no one visible. 
 She was, I saw, in a trance, or ecstacy. 
 
 " When, suddenly, she descried me, she 
 leapt like a deer on to a narrow dry path be- 
 yond the stones. She would certainly have 
 evaded me but for Grailph. The hound slid 
 beyond like running water in a rapid. In less 
 than a minute he had headed her off. 
 
 " When I came up with her, I expected 
 either furious denunciation, or at least a sum- 
 mary command that I should return straight- 
 way. She did no more than look at me in- 
 tently, however. She had already forgotten 
 what had lain between us. She was possessed. 
 
 '' ' Naomi' I said simply. 
 
 " * I am Naomi, blessed among women.' 
 
 " I stared, perplexed. 
 
 " ' Why do you follow me here to spy me 
 out? Beware lest God strike thee for thy 
 blasphemy.' 
 
 '* ' My blasphemy, Naomi ? ' 
 
 *' ' Even so. I come here to meet the spirit 
 of God.' 
 
 " ' Tell me, my sister, is this true what I 
 have heard: that you are with child?' 
 
 304 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 " Her eyes flamed upon me. But her voice 
 was cold and quiet as she replied, — 
 
 " ' It is true. The Lord hath wrought upon 
 me a miracle. I have immaculately con- 
 ceived, and the child I shall bear will be the 
 Gypsy Christ, — the long dreamed-of , the long 
 waited-for second Christ.' 
 
 " ' This is madness. Come with me ; come 
 home with me, Naomi.' 
 
 " * The green earth is my home ; and the 
 wind is my brother, and the dust my sister.' 
 
 "'Come!' 
 
 "Then in a moment her whole look and 
 mien changed. The flame that was in her 
 eyes seemed to come from her very body. 
 Her voice now was loud, raucous, imperious. 
 The hound whined, and sidled to my feet. 
 
 " ' I am the Sister of Jesus, I am no other 
 than Kundry, deathless in my woe until these 
 last days. I am the Mother of the Christ 
 that is to be. And you, you son of my 
 mother's womb, you are ordained to be my 
 prophet! Go forth even now: go unto our 
 people in the woods : declare, declare, declare, 
 to them, to all, that the Gypsy Christ cometh 
 at last!' 
 
 " I was shocked, terrified even. But after 
 a throbbing silence I spoke, and firmly : 
 
 *' ' This is madness, Naomi. Already the 
 
 305 
 
i6 i 
 
 William Sharp 
 
 Curse IS heavy enough upon us. Do you not 
 know that our brother Jasper was done to 
 death yonder because of this doom of ours; 
 that because of this awful malison on 
 the race of Kundry . . . that . . . my little 
 son. . . .' 
 
 " * I know all, — what has been, what is, 
 what shall be. Once more I ask you: will 
 you be the prophet of the Gypsy Christ ? ' 
 No, never, so help me God ! * 
 This is the fourth day of this Week of 
 the Miracle. To-morrow thou hast; and the 
 day after; and yet again, another day. Re- 
 pent while there is yet time. But if thou dost 
 not repent, thine end shall be as that of thy 
 dog. An awful sign shall be with thee this 
 very night; yet another shall be with thee on 
 the morrow; and on the third thou shalt re- 
 ceive the message of the Cross. Then thou 
 shalt waver no more, for whom all wavering 
 is for ever past. And now, begone ! ' 
 
 " Broken in spirit, I turned. When, a hun- 
 dred yards thence, I looked back, there was 
 no trace of Naomi anywhere. 
 
 " That night I had the first sign." 
 
 Here Fanshawe ceased for a moment, and 
 wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with a 
 hand tremulous as a reed. His voice had 
 sunk into a dull monotony, to me dreadful. 
 
 306 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 " On the day following, I had the second 
 sign. Drops of blood oozed from the red 
 figure of the Christ that you have seen in my 
 room. Then you came. To-day I have had 
 the message of the Cross. You saw it your- 
 self : a green cross on the portal of the house. 
 
 " Then at last my terror overmastered me. 
 Also, I yet hoped to prevail with Naomi. 
 Thus it was that when I left you abruptly this 
 afternoon I rode across the moor to the Wood 
 o' Wendray. I reached the camp, but only 
 the ashes of dead fires were there. Yet I 
 know my people wait, and Naomi has my life 
 in the hollow of her hand." 
 
 But here I broke in eagerly. 
 
 " Come^ Fanshawe, come with me at once, 
 the first thing to-morrow. You must not be 
 here another day. It is madness for you to 
 remain. Why, in another week you would 
 persuade yourself that you too had inherited 
 this so-called curse ! " 
 
 "Look!'' he shouted, springing to his feet, 
 tearing the coverings from his hands, and 
 holding forth the palms to me, rigid, testify- 
 ing, appalling: ''Look! Look! Look!'' 
 
 And, as I live, I saw upon the hands the 
 livid stigmata of the Passion! 
 
 With a cry, I repelled him. A great horror 
 seized me. But the next moment a greater 
 
 307 
 
William Sharp 
 
 pity vanquished my weakness. He had al- 
 ready fallen. I took him in my arms, and 
 laid him back on his chair. 
 
 James Fanshawe was dead. 
 
 For some minutes I stared, paralysed, upon 
 the still face that had just been so wrought 
 with a consuming frenzy. A deep awe came 
 upon me. I crossed the room, threw back 
 the window, and looked out. Grailph the 
 hound was not there. Nor could he have 
 been lurking near, for at that moment I saw 
 a man glide swiftly across the yard, and dis- 
 appear into the gloom. 
 
 The rain was over, the thunder rumbled far 
 across the moors; the wind, too, had veered, 
 and I heard it crying like a lost thing in the 
 deep ravine of the Gap. 
 
 I stayed quietly beside my friend, keeping 
 vigil till the dawn. While it was still dark, I 
 went again to the window, and looked out. 
 On the moor I could hear two larks singing 
 at a great altitude. Doubtless they had soared 
 to meet the dawnlight. 
 
 I thought of Naomi, whose madness would 
 surely bring upon her, and that soon, the 
 awful ancestral doom. Yet of this I knew I 
 should hear nothing. The Children of the 
 Wind have a saying: The dog barks by day, 
 and the fox by night ; but the Gypsy never lets 
 
 308 
 
The Gypsy Christ 
 
 any one know whence he comes, where he is, 
 or whither he goes. 
 
 Sometimes the horror of it all makes me 
 long to look upon it as an evil dream. Has 
 the dreadful Curse at last worked itself out? 
 With a sudden terror, I remember at times 
 that James Fanshawe had two children born 
 to him. What of the girl? Did she, too, 
 laugh when her kindred led Naomi to her 
 doom? Even now doth she move swift and 
 sure towards that day when she shall go quick 
 with child ; when she or the child or the child's 
 child shall arise and say, " Behold the Gypsy 
 Christ has come at last ! " 
 
 309 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
THE LADY IN HOSEA 
 
 " And she shall follow after her lover, but she 
 shall not overtake him; and she shall seek him, but 
 shall not find him; then shall she say, I will go and 
 return to my first husband; for then was it better 
 with me than now ! " — Hosea. 
 
 When John Dorian, with the help of the 
 poker and the flaming coals, had demolished 
 Dream No. liii. and last, he lit a cigar. Then 
 he lay back in a deep, padded arm-chair, in 
 order to enjoy to the full his evening paper. 
 
 The eflfort had been exhausting. He was a 
 sentimentalist, and had been wont to mark his 
 love-letters, after they had reached the 
 tenth, as '' Dream i.," " Dream ii.," and 
 so on. True, he had not gone through the 
 whole fifty-three that night. The little india- 
 rubber bands which had been round Claire's 
 letters lay beside the ash-tray on the mantel- 
 piece, like an angler's heap of worms, dis- 
 carded because of their premature death; but 
 the pile could not have consisted of more than 
 about a score and a half. As a matter of fact, 
 Dreams xv. to xxi. had escaped the ruthless 
 
 313 
 
William Sharp 
 
 poker. Covered witli kisses, warmed with 
 sighs, they had been cremated in the late days 
 of June. They were — I should say had 
 been — animated by aspirations of soul-union, 
 assurances concerning Immortality, and per- 
 fectly lucid and frank expositions of a vivid 
 passion. In a word, they were so explicit 
 that John Dorian had found himself forced 
 to submit them to a double committal: first, 
 to his heart (as he designated his memory), 
 and then to the fire. Again, Dreams xlv. to 
 LI. had, though autumnal, endured a like fate. 
 True, they were without any remarks about 
 Immortality; on the other hand, the union of 
 mind, soul, and body, particularly the third 
 partner in the trinity, was emphasised in them 
 with ardour, eloquence, and a pleading 
 yearning. 
 
 By an accident, five missives from another 
 lady had been tied up with those from Claire. 
 These had been discovered one Sunday when, 
 unwell with a chill, and brooding upon the 
 immortality of a great passion, Dorian had 
 permitted himself the dangerous luxury of a 
 reperusal of his love-letters. Only skilled 
 chefs should attempt pleasant surprises in the 
 way of rechauffes. 
 
 In the peaceful quiet of that Sabbath after- 
 noon thirteen epistles had been done to death : 
 
 314 
 
The Lady in Kosea 
 
 seven, too passionate, from Claire; five, too 
 financially exigent, from Mademoiselle Pha- 
 lene. 
 
 Thus it was that on this October night John 
 Dorian, on demolishing the discarded raiment 
 of his Dreams, confided to the appreciative se- 
 crecy of his fire no more than four-and-thirty 
 burning missives. The epithet is hyperbolical ; 
 but there is no doubt about its actuality in 
 the past participle. 
 
 A few weeks ago '' Dream liii." would 
 have meant to him no more than the fifty- 
 third kiss he had received from Claire. It 
 would have been simply a delightful link be- 
 tween Ffty-two and Fifty-four. But when 
 Liii. is indorsed '* and last,'' the number stands 
 forth from its fellow-figures, the elect of 
 Fate. 
 
 An effort? Yes; it had been an effort to 
 read through, latterly to glance at, those 
 thirty-four remnants of an undying passion. 
 Dorian had two small ivory figures by the 
 sculptor Dampt. They ornamented his twin 
 bookcases by the fireside; above the shelves 
 to the right, " Aspiration,'' with upraised arms 
 and trance-wrought face; above the shelves 
 to the left," Consummation," supine, satisfied, 
 with wearied eyes. 
 
 He looked at the little group to the left, 
 
 315 
 
William Sharp 
 
 while Dream liii. emitted the unpleasant 
 odour of waste paper aflame. He smiled un- 
 wittingly, then, wittingly, sighed. Then he 
 lit his cigar, seated himself, and leisurely un- 
 folded the news-sheet. 
 
 The " leader '* interested him. Half-way 
 down the column on the ensuing page, " The 
 Casket of Pandora," he read : ** The lover is 
 ever a sophisticator." 
 
 **True," he muttered indolently, while he 
 stretched his feet nearer the fire-glow ; '' how 
 true ! one sophisticates oneself with dreams of 
 impossible virtues and charms.'' 
 
 " Sophisticator ! " he resumed. " Let me 
 see what the dictionary has to say, if there is 
 such a word." 
 
 With a slight effort he obtained the volume 
 he sought from the swing-bookcase near his 
 chain 
 
 " Ah ! here we are : sophistical, sophisticate, 
 sophisticator, H'm. . . . 'Sophisticator: one 
 who adulterates, debases, or injures the purity 
 of anything.' '' 
 
 The dictionary must have become limp from 
 long disuse, for in a few seconds it slipped 
 to the floor, and lay there, unheeded, in a dead 
 faint. 
 
 A hunted look had come into John Dorian's 
 eyes, but it passed. For some time he stared 
 
 316 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
 blankly into the fire. Then suddenly he re- 
 sumed his perusal of the Quadrant Gazette, 
 
 With a yawn, he skipped the " Casket of 
 Pandora " column. " These paragraphists/* 
 he muttered, *' either talk rubbish, or bore one 
 with their rehashed hash." 
 
 There was wind without. It came down 
 the street, at times, blowing a loud clarion: a 
 minute later it would swirl away again, with 
 a rattling fanfaronade among the chimney- 
 tops. Now and again a flurry of rain slapped 
 the window-panes. 
 
 It was certainly comfortable by the fire. 
 Possibly it was sheer tampering with luxury 
 that made Dorian rise and wander restlessly 
 about the room. 
 
 The rumble of the Piccadilly omnibuses out- 
 side emphasised the cheerful quietude of the 
 room. 
 
 Its solitary occupant wavered between a 
 cabinet in one corner filled with blue china, 
 and in another corner, an escritoire. This 
 lured him. He seated himself in front of it, 
 opened a drawer, and, taking out and unfold- 
 ing a diary, glanced at page after page. An 
 entry in August arrested his attention. 
 
 "August 21. — Still here at Llandllnys. Did not 
 leave on Monday, as Cecil T. was summoned to 
 Chester on some magisterial matter. He expected 
 
 317 
 
William Sharp 
 
 to be back that night, but wired that he would be 
 detained two or three days, and hoped I would pro- 
 long my stay. I did. Claire brought me the mes- 
 sage. Her eyes were lovely. She knew I would 
 stop. What days these have been! Never, never, 
 shall I forget them! What a deep joy it is that 
 she and I are so absolutely one with the other! To 
 think of it: she, Claire; I, John Dorian, at one for 
 ever and ever! There can be no end to a passion 
 such as ours. It is the nobler, the stronger, be- 
 cause of our great renunciation. Neither she nor 
 I will leave Cecil Trevor a mourner. Indeed, it 
 would be cruel if, having by undreamed-of hazard 
 taken royal possession of his wife's heart, I should 
 also break up his home by removing her to another 
 clime as my wife. No, we will be strong. Love has 
 been compassionate, and given each unto each. 
 What need to go to the last extremity? — a bitter one 
 at the best. No; there will be no elopement. But 
 I am hers and she is mine in life and death. Ah, 
 Death! No! no! no death for us! For all eternity 
 our love shall endure. She and I, I and she, to- 
 gether for ever and ever." 
 
 Dorian closed the diary with a snap. 
 Rising, he replaced the book, and then walked 
 slowly to the window. He drew back the 
 blind. The cloud-rack was broken for an 
 interval; overhead, like dark frozen water 
 between ice-banks, he could see a width of 
 sky. A planet, a score or more of stars, 
 glistered icily. 
 
 '' For all eternity," he muttered ; " I and 
 
 318 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
 she, she and I, for ever and ever." For a 
 few minutes he was silent, motionless, pro- 
 foundly intent. Then he smiled. 
 
 '* Ah, I was always a star-gazer ! " 
 
 With that he went back to his chair in 
 front of the fire, took up a new magazine in 
 lieu of the newspaper, and made ready to 
 enjoy himself. 
 
 Doubtless he would have succeeded, but 
 fate willed otherwise. The tap of a postman 
 was the particular disguise taken by Nemesis. 
 
 " A letter for you, sir,'' said his man, hold- 
 ing out a salver on which lay a business-look- 
 ing envelope. 
 
 " H'm. Just wait a moment, George. Ah ! 
 — ah ! it's from Anderson and Anderson. . . . 
 George, are you there ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " George, if a lady should call for me to- 
 night or to-morrow, you are to tell her I am 
 not here. Say — oh ! let me see — that she is 
 just too late; that I left this morning for 
 Paris, en route for the East. Tell her I 
 won't be back again for years." 
 
 ** If she wants me to take or send you any 
 message ? " 
 
 " In that case tell her that you will cere- 
 tainly do so; only, add that it had better not 
 be urgent, as you don't expect to join me in 
 
 319 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the East till after I telegraph to you from — 
 let us say Egypt." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 The man hesitated, fidgeted, but thought 
 better of his intent, whatever it was. As soon 
 as he had gone Dorian eagerly scanned the 
 note he had received. It was from a firm of 
 solicitors, and was to the effect that it was 
 true Mrs. Cecil Trevor had left her home ; 
 that she had called to ask his, John Dorian's, 
 address ; and that to-morrow if not to-day, or 
 the day after if not to-morrow, she would 
 certainly obtain it from some one. 
 
 It is a common mistake to say that Nemesis 
 never blunders. That policeman of the gods 
 can, and does, sometimes appear on the scene 
 too soon, or too late, or otherwise inoppor- 
 tunely. He came down Piccadilly a second 
 time this evening, disguised this time as Claire 
 Trevor. 
 
 Dorian was half-way through his second 
 cigar when he heard a hansom stop beneath 
 his windows. This was followed by a tap at 
 the front door. To the tap succeeded the 
 opening of the door; then a sustained con- 
 versation. 
 
 " I am no coward," said John Dorian, " but 
 I will retire — ah ! — to the bathroom ! " 
 
 320 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
 II 
 
 Mrs. Trevor, as she sat before the fire in 
 her room in the Whitehall Hotel, did not 
 know whether to laugh or cry. This was not 
 because she was either amused or chagrined, 
 but because she believed her heart was broken. 
 There are women, as there are men, who, 
 fronting irredeemable disaster, with a heart 
 almost callous on account of its pain, scarce 
 know whether laughter or sobs shall best ease 
 them. 
 
 Claire Trevor had taken the step which ex- 
 perience tells should never be taken: that is, 
 she had burned the ship of her married life. 
 All manner of misadventure may be wrought 
 against that vessel, but it should never be 
 burned; at least, not until another has been 
 boarded by invitation, and a licence as first 
 mate duly obtained. In other words, she had 
 not only left her home and husband, but had 
 also been rash enough to leave a letter behind 
 her for Cecil Trevor. It told him that she 
 loved, and was loved by, John Dorian; that 
 she could not live without the said John, and 
 that it would be criminal on her part to re- 
 main a day longer with him, Cecil, as his wife. 
 Lest there should be any mistake, she had 
 added a few particulars. 
 
 321 
 
William Sharp 
 
 She had no children. She did not love 
 Cecil Trevor: but she had not suspected this 
 until — well ! The suspicion developed into a 
 fact when, after a few months' acquaintance- 
 ship, John Dorian read her his two-act play. 
 For Better, for Worse, At the moving senti- 
 mentality which did duty as a dramatic close, 
 he had informed her that she was the heroine, 
 Helen, and he Paris, the hero. 
 
 In the process she lost a few ideals. These 
 are seldom missed at first, and it was some 
 time before she realised that they were gone. 
 She sighed, with true feeling, but said to her- 
 self that she would be brave. 
 
 One idea, however, she did hold, not only 
 dear and intimate, but inviolate. This was 
 the chivalrous love, the unalterable devotion, 
 of John Dorian. 
 
 It had not been without difficulty that she 
 obtained his new address. Circumstances had 
 kept them apart for three months, and in that 
 time he had shifted his quarters more than 
 once. 
 
 For a woman without much intuition, it is 
 to her credit that she was not only unde- 
 ceived by the instructed lie of Dorian's valet, 
 but at once guessed that her lover wanted 
 " Finis " to be written to their romance. She 
 had little imagination, and she did not under- 
 
 322 
 
The Lady in Ho sea 
 
 stand how this finality could be ; but she felt 
 it in the very core of her heart. The tragi- 
 comedy had fizzled out while, having left 
 without an attempt to expostulate with, or 
 even force an interview upon, her lover, she 
 drove back to her hotel. 
 
 For a long time she had stared into the fire, 
 till her eyes ached. At last she rose, and took 
 two photographs from her leather-covered 
 desk. The insolent light of the gas flamed 
 upon her. By a vague instinct she turned it 
 lower, and also avoided a glimpse of herself 
 in the adjacent mirror. 
 
 There was ample light to see the photo- 
 graphs by. One was of a man about five-and- 
 thirty, tall, elegant, graceful even, evidently 
 dark, with oval dusky eyes, short hair with a 
 wave in it at the sides, clean contours, a 
 sensitive nose and mouth, a self-conscious 
 smile on the face, the hands artistic, but with 
 the thumbs noticeably lifted backward. A 
 good-looking man of the world, in most judg- 
 ments, no doubt. To a close and keen ob- 
 server everything, from the thumbs to the 
 pointed ears, betokened the refined and cul- 
 tured animal which had the arrogance to 
 believe that it was kin to Apollo, and the 
 blindness not to see that it was of the brother- 
 hood of Pan the Satyr. All the possibilities 
 
 323 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of the epileptic slept in that comely exterior. 
 The life in him was phosphorescent fungus in 
 a grave. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor took the ordinary view. The 
 photograph pained her by its tantalising truth. 
 Long and earnestly as she looked at it, she 
 stared longer and more intently at the other. 
 It represented a young woman who could not 
 have passed her twenty-seventh year; blonde, 
 with a graceful figure. That, really, was all 
 you or I might discern were we to come upon 
 the likeness in an album. Claire Trevor, 
 however, saw more. She evoked a woman 
 whose tender heart gave a lovely life to the 
 blue eyes, an exquisite, unwhispered whisper 
 to the lips. She saw the rippling fair hair 
 moving in the warm breath of her lover. 
 Within, she beheld a strong and heroic mind 
 fronting the Shadow of Fate — an undaunted, 
 unselfish, greatly daring Soul. As a matter 
 of fact, what she saw were merely some rain- 
 bow shimmerings from a land where she had 
 never fared. A great number of other peo- 
 ple's thoughts occupied almost every avail- 
 able cell in her brain, and the accommodation 
 for her own mind was almost as limited as 
 that dusty back-parlour wherein her soul 
 (without a capital) lay bedridden and blind. 
 
 The past tense should have been more em- 
 
 324 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
 phasised. Probably that evening a few more 
 cells had been opened, and others summarily 
 usurped by tyrannical new-comers. As for 
 the invalid in the back-parlour, it had doubt- 
 less risen, and was fumbling about in the 
 dark. 
 
 When Mrs. Trevor seated herself again, she 
 took Dorian's photograph and laid it between 
 two coals which glowed vehemently, despite 
 the corroding ash at their base. The card 
 crackled, shrivelled, and became a malodorous 
 nonentity. A minute or two elapsed before 
 Claire's photograph was likewise cremated. 
 It fell sideways, and in the spurt of redeeming 
 flame she read the date of the night when she 
 had given herself to John Dorian — a night 
 which had succeeded an evening of singular 
 beauty, wherein the stars moved with a polar 
 magnificence of light, and yielded in glory 
 only to the promise of eternity which the un- 
 controlled passion of two hearts discerned in 
 the frosty indifference of those remote lu- 
 minaries. 
 
 Even a cremated passion does not add fuel 
 to a fire. Perhaps the fire resents the in- 
 trusion of a quenclied flame, particularly if it, 
 too, has been slowly dying. At any rate, the 
 photographs of two aspirants for immortality 
 ended in smoke. To expedite the burial Mrs. 
 
 325 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Trevor stooped, to utilise the poker. As she 
 reached forward, a locket swung from her 
 bosom, struck the mantelpiece, and hung open, 
 its two sides outspread, as though it were a 
 metallic butterfly, the emblem of hope. 
 
 She relinquished her intention, though as a 
 matter of fact the service of the poker was 
 not now needed. 
 
 Instead, she sat back and stared at the 
 miniature in the locket. It was an excellent 
 likeness of Cecil Trevor. Looking at it, she 
 could see every feature of her husband: his 
 rather furrowed brow, fairly well marked; 
 his heavy eyebrows and calm hazel eyes; his 
 heavy, straight nose, with its rigid nostrils; 
 his slightly curly brown beard, unbroken from 
 the ear-level, and in the vogue of Henry VIII, 
 his large, ill- formed, but kindly mouth; his 
 coarse jowl and dogged chin. She knew that 
 he was taller than the broad squire suggested 
 in the miniature, and also that his voice was 
 softer than a stranger would infer. And as 
 she looked she believed she saw something in 
 the eyes she had never seen before. 
 
 With a cry she rose, then sank to her knees 
 and hid her face in her hands, while her hair 
 swept the chair like a creeper over a ruin. 
 
 The fire had almost subsided into ash when 
 she arose and slowly began to undress. She 
 pondered the advisability of a prayer, but, on 
 
 326 
 
The Lady in Hosea 
 
 second thoughts, decided not to intrude her- 
 self just then on an offended and probably 
 resentful Providence. There would be ample 
 time on the morrow, when she would feel 
 more purged of her sin. 
 
 *' I will go back," she whispered to herself. 
 She lay down in the vague discomfort of a 
 new loneliness. " I will go back. Perhaps 
 he will forgive ; perhaps he will let me atone ; 
 perhaps he loves me still." 
 
 The invalid inmate of the back-parlour 
 murmured indistinctly, ** Oh, what a fool, 
 what a fool you have been ! " 
 
 III 
 
 When Claire Trevor reached the station for 
 Llandllnys, it was to learn that she was a 
 widow. 
 
 During the long drive she wept sincerely 
 for her resurrected affection, so untimely 
 slain. 
 
 Did Cecil know all? Do the dead see, un- 
 derstand? The thought troubled her; but she 
 did not disguise from herself that she was 
 more anxious as to how much he knew when 
 he was alive. 
 
 *' Death, the result of an accident in the 
 hunting-field." That was what she had been 
 told. The accident had occurred in the after- 
 noon of the morning when she had taken her 
 
 327 
 
William Sharp 
 
 fatal step. There was just a chance Mr. 
 Trevor had not seen the insensate letter she 
 had written. 
 
 That drive aged Mrs. Trevor. She felt as 
 though she were driving away from her youth. 
 
 At the threshold of her home — if it still 
 was her home — she was met by the vicar. 
 His manner was deeply sympathetic and con- 
 siderate — so considerate that she inferred 
 safety so far. The vicar's profound respect 
 indicated her acceptance in his eyes as the 
 heiress of Llandllnys. 
 
 Claire Trevor never quite forgave herself 
 because when she looked upon the corpse of 
 her husband she saw only, thought of only, 
 dreaded only, the letter he held in his folded 
 hands. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " she whispered 
 hoarsely to Mr. Barnby. 
 
 '' Your last letter," the vicar replied with 
 tender unction. " It was brought to him be- 
 fore the end by the servant, who had forgot- 
 ten to deliver it before his master went out 
 riding. He was too weak to open it. He 
 kissed it just before he died. When he 
 pressed it against his heart, the heart had al- 
 ready stopped. Take it, my dear madam, 
 take it; it will be a lovely memento for you 
 for the rest of your life." 
 
 328 
 
PART III 
 
 Ecce Puella 
 
 and Other Prose 
 
 Imaginings 
 
To The Woman of Thirty 
 
ECCE PUELLA 
 
 "A Dream of Fair Women: Every man dreams 
 this dream. With some it happens early in the teens. 
 It fades, with some, during the twenties. With 
 others it endures, vivid and beautiful under grey 
 hairs, till it glorifies the grave."— H. P. Siwaarmill. 
 
 The beauty of women: could there be any 
 theme more inspiring? There is fire in the 
 phrase even. But, as with Love, Life, Death, 
 the subject at once allures and evades one. It 
 would be easier to write concerning it a bulky 
 tome than a small volume, and that again 
 would be less difficult than a sketch of this 
 kind. Who can say much about love, with- 
 out vain repetitions? Only the poet — 
 whether he use pigments or clay, words or 
 music — can flash upon us some new light, or 
 thrill us with some new note, or delight us 
 with some new vision. There is nothing be- 
 tween this quintessential revelation and that 
 unaccomplished and for ever to be unaccom- 
 plished History of Love which Charles No- 
 dier said would be the history of humanity 
 and the most beautiful book to write. 
 
 333 
 
William Sharp 
 
 What mortal can say enough about the 
 beauty of woman to satisfy himself? How 
 much less can he say enough to satisfy others ? 
 
 '' For several virtues have I liked several 
 women " : and we may adapt Shakespeare's 
 line, and say that for several kinds of beauty 
 have men admired women as different from 
 each other as a contadina of the Campagna 
 and an Eskimo Squaw. 
 
 I realise my inadequacy. I would have 
 my readers understand that if I were to 
 write as I feel, I would speak not wisely but 
 too well! Fortunately, I cannot rhapsodise: 
 but for this, I might win honour in the eyes 
 of ladies, and concurrently a very natural out- 
 pouring of envy and all uncharitableness on 
 the part of my fellow-men. Personally, I 
 would have no hard-and-fast dogmas. Fair 
 women, be they tall or short, dark or 
 fair, vivacious or languorous, active or in- 
 dolent, plump or fragile, if all are beautiful 
 all are welcome. You, camerado, may in- 
 cline towards a blonde, with hair touched 
 with gold and eyes haunted by a living 
 memory of the sky, small of stature, and 
 with hands seductively white and delicate: I, 
 on the other hand, may prefer a brunette, 
 with hair lovely with the dusk and fragrance 
 of twilight, with eyes filled with strange 
 
 334 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 lights and depths of shadow, tall, lissom, and 
 with the nut-brown kisses of the sun just 
 visible on cheek and neck, and bonnie deft 
 hands. Or, it may be^ I find Ideala in a sweet 
 comeliness: a face and figure and mien and 
 manner which together allure a male mind 
 searching for the quietudes rather than for 
 the exaltations of passionate life. You, how- 
 ever, may worship at another shrine, and seek 
 your joy in austere beauty, or in that which 
 seems wedded to a tragic significance, or that 
 whose very remoteness lays upon you an irre- 
 sistible spell. There be those who prefer 
 Diana to Venus, who would live with 
 Minerva rather than Juno : who would rather 
 espouse Syrinx than Semele, and prefer the 
 shy Arethusa to the somewhat heedless Leda. 
 Who shall blame a man if he would rather 
 take to wife Lucy Desborough than Helen of 
 Troy: and has any one among us right to 
 lift a stone against him who would bestow 
 the " Mrs." at his disposal upon Dolly Var- 
 den rather than upon Cleopatra? 
 
 After all, are the poets and painters the 
 right people to go to for instruction as to 
 beauty? Most of them are disappointed mar- 
 ried men. Every man loves three females: 
 woman (that is, his particular woman), as he 
 imagines her to be; woman, as he finds her; 
 
 335 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and woman, carefully revised for an improb- 
 able new edition. 
 
 II 
 
 In the beginning, said a Persian poet, Allah 
 took a rose, a lily, a dove, a serpent, a little 
 honey, a Dead Sea apple, and a handful of 
 clay. When He looked at the amalgam it 
 was Woman. Then He thought He would 
 resolve these constituents. But it was too 
 late. Adam had taken her to wife, and hu- 
 manity had begun. Woman, moreover, had 
 learned her first lesson: conveyed in the 
 parable of the rib. Thus early did the male 
 imagination begin to weave a delightful web 
 for its own delectation and advantage. 
 When, after a time, the daughters of Eve con- 
 vinced the sons of Adam that a system of 
 Dual Control would have to be put into effect, 
 there was much questioning and heartburn- 
 ing. Satan availed himself of the oppor- 
 tunity. He took man aside, and explained to 
 him that woman had been reasonless and pre- 
 cipitate, that she had tempted him before she 
 was ripe, and that he was a genial innocent 
 and very much to be pitied. Further, he 
 demonstrated that if she had only waited a 
 little, all would have been well. But, as it 
 was, the rose had a thorn, the lily had a ten- 
 
 336 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 dency to be fragile, the dove had not lost its 
 timidity, the serpent had retained its guile, its 
 fangs, and its poison, the honey was apt to 
 dog, the Dead Sea apple was almost entirely 
 filled with dust, and the clay was of the tough, 
 primeval kind, difficult to blend with advan- 
 tage, and impossible to eliminate. 
 
 From that day, says the Persian poet, 
 whose name I have forgotten, man has been 
 haunted by the idea that he was wheedled 
 into a copartnery. In a word, having taken 
 woman to wife, he now regrets that he com- 
 mitted himself quite so early to a formal 
 union. From his vague regrets and un- 
 satisfied longings, and a profound egotism 
 which got into his system during his bachelor 
 days in Eden, he evolved the idea of Beauty. 
 This idea would have remained a dream if 
 Satan had not interfered with the sugges- 
 tion that it was too good to be wasted as an 
 abstraction. So the idea came to be realised. 
 There was much hearty laughter in conse- 
 quence, in *' another place." Seeing what a 
 perilous state man had brought himself into, 
 Allah had pity. He took man's conception 
 of Beauty — which to His surprise was in 
 several respects much superior to Eve — and, 
 having dissipated it with a breath, rewove it 
 into a hundred lovely ideals. Then, making 
 
 337 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of the residue a many-coloured span in the 
 heavens, He sent these back to Earth, each to 
 gleam thenceforth with the glory of that first 
 rainbow. 
 
 It is a fantasy. But let us thank that 
 Eastern poet. Perhaps^ poor dreamer, he 
 went home to learn that unpunctual spouses 
 must expect reproaches in lieu of dinner, or 
 even, it may be, to find that his soul's Sul- 
 tana had eloped with a more worldly admirer 
 of Eve. Zuleika, if he found her, perhaps he 
 convinced. For us he has put into words, 
 with some prolixity and awkwardness no 
 doubt, what in a vague way we all feel about 
 the beauty of women. 
 
 For in truth there is no such abstraction 
 as Womanly Beauty. Instead, there is the 
 beauty of women. 
 
 Every man can pick and choose. There 
 are as many kinds of women as there are of 
 flowers: and all are beautiful, for some 
 quality, or by association. It is well to ad- 
 mire every type. Companionship with the in- 
 dividual will thus be rendered more pleasing! 
 As the late Maxime du Camp said some- 
 where : " In the matter of admiration, it is 
 not bad to have several maladies." There are 
 men who, in this way, are chronic invalids. 
 Women are very patient with them. 
 
 338 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 I do not agree with an acquaintance of 
 mine who avers that his predilections are 
 climatic in their nature. If he is in Italy he 
 loves the Roman contadina, or the Sicilian 
 with the lissom Greek figure; if in Spain, he 
 thinks flashing black eyes and coarse hair finer 
 than the flax and sky-blue he admired so 
 much in Germany; if in Japan, he vows with 
 Pierre Loti that Madame Chrysantheme is 
 more winsome than the daintiest Parisienne; 
 if in Barbary, he forgets the wild-rose bloom 
 and hillwind freshness of the English girl, 
 whom, when he roams through Britain, he 
 makes the Helen to his Paris, forgets for the 
 sake of shadowy gazelle-eyes, for languorous 
 beauty like that of the lotus on warm 
 moonlight nights. I wonder where he is 
 now. He has been in many lands. I know 
 he has loved a Lithuanian, and passioned for 
 a Swede: and when I last saw him, less than 
 a year ago, he said his ideal was a Celtic 
 maighdeann. Perhaps he is far distant, in 
 that very Cathay which I remember his say- 
 ing was a country to be taken on trust, as 
 one accepts the actuality of the North Pole: 
 if so, I am convinced he is humming blithely 
 
 " She whom I love at present is in China 
 She dwells, with her aged parents, 
 
 339 
 
William Sharp 
 
 In a tower of fine porcelain, 
 
 By the yellow stream where the cormorants are." * 
 
 This is too generously eclectic for me, who 
 am a lover of moderation, and a monogamist 
 by instinct. Nevertheless, I can appreciate 
 this climatic variability. I am no stickler for 
 the supremacy of any one type, of the civilised 
 over the barbaric, of the deftly arrayed over 
 the austerely ungarbed ! With one of the au- 
 thors of Le Croix de Berny I can say: 
 ** Dress has very little weight with me. I 
 once admired a Granada gipsy whose sole cos- 
 tume consisted of blue slippers and a neck- 
 lace of amber beads." 
 
 Nowadays, we have to admire the nude only 
 in sculpture, and that antique. M. Berenger 
 in Paris, Mr. Horsley, R. A., and a Glasgow 
 bailie have said so. 
 
 Well, well, it may be so. But there are un- 
 regenerate men among us. Perhaps this new 
 madness of blindness will supersede the old 
 intoxication. Truly, I am 
 
 " Oft in doubt whether at all 
 I shall again see Phoebus in the morning, 
 Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream — *' 
 
 * '' Celle que faime a present, est en Chine; 
 Elle demeiire, avec ses vieux parents, 
 Dans une tour de porcelaine Une, 
 Au iieuve jaune ou sont les cormorans" 
 
 (Theophile Gautier.) 
 
 340 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 but I have no doubt whatever that others will. 
 Meanwhile we can dream of youth : the youth 
 of the past, the eternal youth, and the hour- 
 long youth we have known ourselves. It is 
 one of the sunbright words. These five let- 
 ters have an alchemy that can transmute dust 
 and ashes into blossoms and fruit. For those 
 who know this, the beauty of the past is 
 linked to the present tense: the most ancient 
 things live again, and the more keenly. Anti^ 
 qiiitas scBCiili inventus miindi. 
 
 Well, sufficient unto this present is the ques- 
 tion of the nude ! Let those who will, ignore 
 it. Whatever these may say, there is always 
 this conviction for loyal Pagans to fall back 
 upon — in the words of George Meredith — 
 " the visible fair form of a woman is heredi- 
 tary queen of us." 
 
 Ill 
 
 What a blight upon ordered sequence in 
 narrative, phrase dear to the grammarian, dis- 
 cursiveness is! Yet I cannot help it: to bor- 
 row from George Meredith on the subject of 
 fair women, from Lucy Desborough and 
 Rhoda Fleming to Clotilde von Riidiger and 
 Diana Warwick and Aminta Ormont, is as 
 seductive as the sound of the sea when one 
 
 341 
 
William Sharp 
 
 is panting on the inland side of a sand-dune. 
 In sheer self-defence I must find an apothegm 
 so good that it would be superfluous to go 
 further. This is irrational perhaps : but then 
 with Diana I find that " to be pointedly ra- 
 tional is a greater difficulty to me than a fine 
 delirium." There are Fair Women, and fair 
 sayings about fair women, in each of these 
 ever delightful twelve novels. Epigram- 
 matically^ The Egoist and Beauchamp's Ca- 
 reer would probably afford most spoil to the 
 hunter: but here in Richard Feverel is the 
 quintessential phrase for which we wait. 
 *' Each woman is Eve throughout the ages/' 
 
 This might be the motto for every Passion- 
 ate Pilgrim. For, truly, to every lover the 
 woman of his choice is another Eve. He sees 
 in her the ideal prototype. It is well that this 
 is so: otherwise there would be no poetry, no 
 fiction, and scarce any emotional literature 
 save passionate Malthusian tractates ! 
 
 But now let me be frank. Out of all the 
 pictured fair women I have ever seen is there 
 one who has embodied my ideal of womanly 
 beauty? This is a question that most of us 
 put to ourselves, with the same apparent ar- 
 rogance, as if any one individual's opinion 
 had the least value for others, or had any- 
 thing to do with the Beauty of Woman. 
 
 342 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 No. Though, in pictures, I have seen a 
 few beautiful, and many lovely, and scores of 
 comely and handsome women, in no instance 
 did I encounter one of whom in any conceiv- 
 able circumstances I could say '" There: she is 
 my Eve, p?,st, oresent, and for ever ! " 
 
 ''- 1 am always waiting," wrote Amiel, " for 
 the woman and the work which shall be 
 capable of taking entire possession of my 
 soul, and of becoming my end and aim.'* 
 Yes, with Stendhal, we all wait : and one man 
 in a million is rewarded with " the woman," 
 to one man in a generation comes " the work." 
 
 What is wanting? Must the glow of per- 
 sonal romance be present before a beautiful 
 woman can embody for us the Beauty of 
 Woman ? 
 
 "Araminta's grand and shrili, 
 Delia's passionate and fra?l, 
 Doris drives an earnest quill, 
 Athanasia takes the veil; 
 Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail, 
 At the heart of all romance 
 Reading, sings to Strephon's flail, 
 ' Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.' " 
 
 Cannot Araminta and Delia be beautiful, 
 though Strephon may prefer Phyllis? Or is 
 beauty in women as incalculable a quantity as 
 the delight men take in women's names? 
 
 343 
 
William Sharp 
 
 There are names that stir one like a trumpet, 
 or like the sound of the sea, or like the ripple 
 of leaves: names that have the magic of 
 moonlight in them, that are sirens whose 
 witchery can in a moment enslave us. What 
 good to give here this or that sweet name: 
 each man has in him his own necromancy 
 wherewith to conjure up vague but haunting- 
 sweet visions. Equally, if all Fair Women 
 of the Imagination or of Life have names we 
 love, there are designations that seem like 
 sacrilege^ that grate, that excruciate. There 
 is a deep truth in Balzac's insistence on the 
 correspondence between character and no- 
 menclature. Still, there are many debatable 
 names. " Anna," for example, is not offen- 
 sive, yet I " cannot away with it," though 
 tolerant of " Annie." But hear what Mr. 
 Henley has to say: — 
 
 '* Brown is for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, 
 
 Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, 
 
 Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. 
 
 The glamour stays if the reason goes: 
 
 Every lover the years disclose 
 
 Is of a beautiful name made free. 
 
 One befriends, and all others are foes : 
 
 Anna's the name of names for me ! " 
 ♦ * * * 
 
 "Fie upon Caroline, Jane, Amelia — 
 These I reckon the essence of prose ! — 
 
 344 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 Mystical Magdalen, cold Cornelia, 
 Adelaide's attitudes, Mopsa's mowes, 
 Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes. 
 Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, 
 Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! 
 Anna's the name of names for me. 
 
 But to return: everywhere pictured Ideala 
 has evaded me. It has been a vain quest, 
 though again and again I have caught just a 
 glimpse of her, a vanishing gleam, a fugitive 
 glance. The other day I was startled by the 
 sudden light in the face of Hoppner's '\ Mir- 
 anda,'' though when I looked again I was 
 no more than haunted by an impalpable sug- 
 gestion. In the beauty of the flowing dra- 
 pery, in the breadth of that sea frothing at 
 her feet, somewhere there was an evanescent 
 grace which belonged to Ideala. Yet it was 
 not quite hers after all, any more than the 
 indwelling beauty, seen perhaps only for a 
 moment, in the eyes, or revealed in a momen- 
 tary light upon the face, was hers — the 
 beauty, the momentary light in Miranda, in 
 the gipsy-beauty of her of the Snake in the 
 Grass J in one or two other portraits of a more 
 delicately refined loveliness, or of the higher 
 beauty, that of the beautiful mind visible 
 through the fair mask of the flesh. Long 
 ago, says Thoreau in Walden, " I lost a 
 
 345 
 
William Sharp 
 
 hound, a bay-horse, and a turtle dove, and am 
 still on their trail." I think She whom we 
 seek rides afar on that fleet horse, espied 
 for ever by that flying dove, for ever pur- 
 sued by that tireless hound. 
 
 No doubt it is absurd to expect to find 
 Ideala, even among portraits of women who 
 may have been her kindred in the eyes of 
 one or two persons, who could discern not 
 only the outward beauty, but the inner radi- 
 ance. Moreover, the company is commonly 
 not that amid which one would pursue one's 
 quest. Diane de Poitiers, Nell Gwynne, Mrs. 
 Jane Middleton, the Countess of Grammont, 
 the Comtesse de Parabere, ** Perdita,'' Lady 
 Hamilton^ Mile. Hillsberg, Lady Ellenbor- 
 ough, Mrs. Grace Dalrymple Elliot, and 
 Elizabeth Foster, Duchess of Devonshire, 
 were one and all charming as well as beauti- 
 ful women. But presumably Charles did not 
 discern his soul's counterpart in Nell Gwynne, 
 nor the Regent Philippe in " la belle Para- 
 bere," nor the amorous George in " Perdita," 
 nor either Prince Schwartzenberg or the 
 Arab Sheik in Lady Ellenborough. 
 
 In order to judge, one must know. We, 
 who do not know these Fair Women of the 
 past, cannot judge. We must each seek an 
 Ideala of our own. After all, as some one 
 
 346 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 has said, women are like melons: it is only 
 after having tasted them that we know 
 whether they are good or not. 
 
 We must be content with some one short 
 of Perfecta. Unequal unions are deplorable. 
 Moreover, it is very unsatisfactory to emulate 
 the example of the celebrated Parisian hon- 
 quineur, who worried through life without a 
 copy of Virgil, because he could not succeed 
 in finding the ideal Virgil of his dreams. 
 Ideala is as the wind that cometh and goeth 
 where it listeth. Rather, she may be likened 
 to the Wind for ever fleeting along " that 
 nameless but always discoverable road which 
 leads the wayfarer to the forest of beautiful 
 dreams." 
 
 Moreover, She may appear anywhere, at 
 any time. Remember Campion's *' She's not 
 to one form tied." Possibly, even, she may 
 be called Nell Gwynne; for to every Nell 
 there will be a lover to whom she will be 
 Helen. 
 
 " Helen, thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore, 
 That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
 The weary, wayworn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 "Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, 
 How statue-like I see thee stand, 
 
 347 
 
William Sharp 
 
 The agate lamp within thy hand! 
 Ah, Psyche, from the regions whiclr 
 Are Holy Land ! " 
 
 It is a pity that where a Helen is so evident 
 to one passionate pilgrim, she should be 
 merely Nell to the world in general. But so 
 it is; and, alas! the very last person to per- 
 ceive the connection with Psyche is often 
 Nell herself. Poets get little gratitude, as 
 a rule, for the glorification they effect. Poor 
 bards ! they are apt to address as Ideala those 
 who would rather be called Nell, and dedicate 
 their deepest life-music to a mistress who, 
 while flattered, really understands neither 
 the poetry nor the poet, and can be more 
 eloquent over a gift of gloves than over a 
 work of genius. Thus hath it ever been; 
 doubtless thus it shall continue. As long as 
 there are fair women, there will be strong 
 men ready to lose their highest heritage for 
 a mess of pottage. As among the innumer- 
 able kinds of flowers where the bee may roam 
 and gather honey there is that flower of 
 Trebizond whose fatal blooms allure the un- 
 witting insect to madness or death, so among 
 women there are some who irresponsibly lure 
 men to sure calamity. Who was the man 
 who said that fair women are fair demons 
 
 348 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 who make us enter hell through the door of 
 paradise? Doubtless he loved a flower of 
 Trebizond. Idealists, ponder! 
 
 Nevertheless, though we would not nat- 
 urally seek Ideala among the Nell Gwynnes, 
 it would be a mistake to rise to the high 
 remote air where dwell the saints who have 
 not yet transcended mortality. A touch of 
 sin must be in that man whom we hail as 
 brother, that women we greet as sister. 
 There was shrewd worldly wisdom in the re- 
 mark of a French prince, that, however 
 virtuous a woman may be, a compliment on 
 her virtue is what gives her the least pleas- 
 ure. Concurrently we may take that in- 
 structive passage in Cunningham's British 
 Painters where we learn how Hoppner com- 
 plained of the painted ladies of Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence ; that they showed " a gaudy dis- 
 soluteness of taste, and sometimes trespassed 
 on moral as well as professional chastity," 
 while by implication he claimed for his own 
 portraits purity of look as well as purity of 
 style : with this result — " Nor is it the least 
 curious part of this story, that the ladies, 
 from the moment of the sarcasm of Hopp- 
 ner, instead of crowding to the easel of him 
 who dealt in the loveliness of virtue, showed 
 a growing preference for the rival who 
 
 349 
 
William Sharp 
 
 * trespassed on moral as well as on profes- 
 sional chastity.' '' 
 
 Women should not be wroth with men be- 
 cause that each male, sound of heart and 
 brain, is a Ponce de Leon. Parenthetically, 
 let me add — on the authority of Arsene 
 Houssaye ! — that all the energies of Crea- 
 tion do not succeed in producing throughout 
 the whole world one hundred grandes dames 
 yearly. And how many of these die as little 
 girls — how few attain to "la beaute souv- 
 eraine du corps et de Tame ? " " Voila," he 
 adds — ** voila pourquoi la grande dame est 
 une oiseau rare. Ou est le merle blanc ? '' 
 "The Quest of the White Blackbird'': fair 
 women, ponder this significant phrase. We 
 all seek the Fountain of Youth, the Golden 
 Isles, Avalon, Woman (as distinct from the 
 fairest of women), Ideala, or whatever sun- 
 bright word or words we cap our quest with. 
 If wives could but know it, they have more 
 cause to be jealous of women who have never 
 lived than of any rival "young i' the white 
 and red." Yet, paradoxically, with a true 
 man, a wife, if she be a true woman, need 
 never turn her back upon the impalpable 
 Dream; for, after all, it is her counterpart, 
 a rainbow-phantom. 
 
 Fair women, all men are not travailing with 
 
 350 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 love of you! There are Galileos who would 
 say e pur se miiove, though Woman suddenly 
 became passee, nay, though she became a by 
 no means indispensable adjunct. It is even 
 possible there are base ones among us who 
 may envy the Australian god Pundjel, who 
 has a wife whom he may not see! 
 
 Alas, Fair Women only laugh when they 
 behold Man going solitary to the tune of 
 
 " O ! were there an island. 
 Though ever so wild, 
 Where women might smile, and 
 No man be beguiled ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 It is not often that picture-gallery cata- 
 logues contain either humour or philosophy. 
 There is a naive humour, a genial philosophy, 
 in the prefatory note to that of a recent Ex- 
 hibition. '' As,'' so the note runs, " there are 
 indeed certain pictures of Women, possibly 
 more celebrated for their historical interest, 
 their influence, or their wit, than for their 
 beauty, some exception has been taken to the 
 title of the Exhibition. The directors, how- 
 ever, do not know of any fixed standard by 
 which such pictures can be judged, and, 
 further, they believe that in the eyes of some 
 
 351 
 
William Sharp 
 
 one person^ at least, every woman has been 
 considered fair/' 
 
 Whereupon I hum to myself the quatrain 
 from the old north-country nursery-ballad of 
 ** Rashin Coatie '' — 
 
 "There was a king and a queen, 
 As mony ane's been; 
 Few have we seen, 
 As few may we see." 
 
 Alas! there are so many queens of beauty on 
 the walls of picture galleries, and yet one's 
 heart stays secure from any one of them! 
 But, suddenly, I remember a favourite coup- 
 let, by Campion, 
 
 "Beauty must be scorned in none, 
 Though but truly served in one" — 
 
 and, having thought of and quoted that sweet 
 singer, must needs go right through three 
 stanzas of his, memorable even in the ever- 
 new wealth of Elizabethan love-songs. 
 
 "Give beauty all her right! 
 She's not to one form' tied; 
 Each shape yields fair delight, 
 Where her perfections bide: 
 Helen, I grant, might pleasing be, 
 And Ros'mond was as sweet as she. 
 
 352 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 " Some the quick eye commends. 
 
 Some swelling lips and red; 
 Pale looks have many friends, 
 
 Through sacred sweetness bred : 
 Meadows have flowers that pleasures move. 
 Though roses are the flower of love. 
 
 "Free beauty is not bound 
 
 To one unmoved clime; 
 She visits every ground, 
 
 And favours every time. 
 Let the old lords with mine compare; 
 My Sovereign is as sweet and fair." 
 
 There; all that is to be said about Fair 
 Women, or the Beauty of Women, is com- 
 pressed into six short lines. This intangible 
 beauty is a citizen of the world, and has her 
 home in Cathay as well as Europe. No one 
 age claims her, and Helen of Troy takes 
 hands with Aspasia, and they smile across the 
 years to Lucrezia Borgia and Diane de 
 Poitiers, who, looking forward, see the lovely 
 light reflected in la belle Hamilton; and so 
 down to our own day. And then, once more, 
 Eve individualised for ever and ever; a 
 challenge to all the world to bring forward 
 one sweeter and fairer than '' my Sovereign." 
 
 In other words, " each woman is Eve 
 throughout the ages." There are many 
 Audreys, alas — indeed sometimes, within a 
 
 353 
 
William Sharp 
 
 square mile even, there seems to be an epi- 
 demic of Audreys! — but a far-seeing Provi- 
 dence has created many Touchstones. So v^^ 
 will believe that in the eyes of at least one 
 person each woman has been considered fair ; 
 though, to be truthful, *' a man may, if he 
 were of a fearful heart, stagger in this at- 
 tempt,'' as saith the blithe-fool of Arden 
 himself. 
 
 After all, these clowns and wenches in As : 
 
 You Like It are nearer the poetry of cruth \ 
 
 than that cynical prose of Hn-de-siecle senti- I 
 
 ment, of which this is an example : — 
 
 Lady {looking at a sketchy then at the 
 Artist), " So: — this is your ideal woman? " 
 
 Artist. " It was." 
 
 Lady. *'Then you have changed?" 
 
 Artist. "Yes. I met her." ' 
 
 As a matter of fact, men who have nothing 
 of the ideal in them are, in the eyes of true 
 women, as a sunless summer. These women, 
 like Glara Middleton of " the fine-pointed 
 brain," have a contempt for the male brain 
 " chewing the cud in the happy pastures of 
 unawakedness." 
 
 Women, plain or fair, do not readily for- 
 give. Man should remember this, when he 
 acts upon what he considers his hereditary 
 right to joke upon the frailties of his enslaved 
 
 354 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 goddess. He is apt to think that they are 
 reasonless in the matter of their looks, for- 
 getful that marriage is a salve to all pre- 
 nuptial display! They do not mind back- 
 handed compliments: they will smile at Vic- 
 tor Hugo when he says that woman is a 
 perfected devil; they have a caress in their 
 heart for Gavarni when he whispers that one 
 of the sweetest pleasures of a woman is to 
 cause regret; and they take a malicious en- 
 tertainment in the declaration of a man of 
 the world like Langree, that modesty in a 
 woman is a virtue most deserving, since we 
 men do all we can to cure her of it. But 
 they will not forgive Montaigne himself 
 when he affirms that there is no torture a 
 woman would not suffer to enhance her 
 beauty. 
 
 "Unfolded only out of the illimitable poem of 
 Woman can come the poems of man." 
 
 Thus Walt Whitman. But he does not tell 
 us how variously the poets scan that Poem. 
 What would be the result of a plebiscite 
 among civilised women themselves: if they 
 were given by the Powers that Be the option 
 to be beautiful, to be fascinating, or to be 
 winsome? The woman who believes herself 
 predestined to be a wife and a mother will 
 
 355 
 
William Sharp 
 
 prefer the third: the born adventuress will 
 choose the second: the least domestic will 
 select the first. On the other hand, it might 
 be the other way round. Who can tell? 
 Woman is still the Dark Continent of man. 
 If one were to live to the age of Methuselah, 
 and act on the principle of nulla dies sine 
 linea, with every line devoted to the chronicle 
 of woman's nature, the volume would be be- 
 hindhand even on the day of publication. A 
 copiously margined and footnoted edition 
 would be called for immediately. Even if by 
 that time only one woman were left, there 
 would be prompt need of an appendix. 
 There would also, as a matter of fact, always 
 be a St. Bernard to grumble : " Woman is the 
 organ of the Devil " — a Michelet to say with 
 a smile that she is the Sunday of man — a 
 cynic to hint that love of her might be the 
 dawn of marriage, but that marriage with her 
 would be sunset of love — a poet to exclaim 
 that she was the last priestess of the un- 
 known. 
 
 " Feed me with metaphors," says a poet in 
 a recent romance ; '* and above all with 
 metaphors of Woman. I know none that do 
 not make me love women more and more.'' 
 
 Did he know his Balzac? Somewhere in 
 that vast repository of thoughts on men and 
 
 356 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 women I recollect this : " La Mort est f emme, 
 — mariee au genre humain, et fidele. Ou est 
 rhomme qu'elle a trompe?" 
 
 Some day a woman will compile a little 
 volume of women's thoughts about men. 
 These will be interesting. Men will read 
 some of them with the same amazed pain 
 wherewith recently ennobled brewers and the 
 like peruse articles on the abolition of hered- 
 itary aristocracy. 
 
 Here, for example, is one — 
 
 "The greatest merit of some men is their 
 wife." 
 
 It was Poincelot, a man, who said this : but 
 let a woman speak — 
 
 " Physical beauty in man has become as 
 rare as his moral beauty has always been/' 
 
 Once more — 
 
 " It is not the weathercock that changes : 
 it is the wind." 
 
 Since the days of Troy — or of Lilith — 
 men have delighted in calling women weather- 
 cocks. 
 
 After all, we have been told many times 
 that one of the principal occupations of men 
 is to divine women: but it was a wise 
 philosopher who added that women prefer 
 us to say a little evil of them rather than say 
 nothing of them at all. 
 
 357 
 
William Sharp 
 
 We are all agreed now, let us say, that 
 there is no such thing as an universally ac- 
 cepted standard of beauty. There is not 
 even an accepted standard of beauty among 
 those who admire the same type. To the 
 most favoured dreamer Ideala will still come 
 in at least three-fold guise, as those three 
 lovely sisters of the Rushout family whom, 
 not Cosway, but, like him, one of the finest 
 of miniaturists has preserved for our delight. 
 There are a million villages as fair as the one 
 in which we were born, but for us there is 
 only one village. When we quote " Sweet 
 Auburn, loveliest village of the plain," we 
 have one particular locality in our mental 
 vision, as no doubt the poet of the Song of 
 Solomon had when he sang, '^ Come, my be- 
 loved, let us go forth into the fields; let us 
 lodge in the villages." Doubtless, too, he 
 had one particular beloved in view, veiled 
 behind his bardic rhapsody. Each of us has 
 a particular Eve behind the phantom of an 
 ideal type. 
 
 Of course there are both *' villages " and 
 " Eves " that exist only in the mind. There 
 are dreamers who prefer either when most 
 unsubstantial. " Ma contree de dilection/' 
 
 358 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 says the Flemish novelist Eekhoiid, "n'existe 
 pour aucun touriste, et jamais guide ou 
 medecin ne la recommendera." Some, too, 
 having found an Eve, will crave for her isola- 
 tion from the rough usage of the common 
 day, lest she fall from her high estate. They 
 are not altogether foolish who can do so, and 
 can say with a young living poet : — 
 
 *' I fear lest time or toil should mar — 
 I fear lest passion should debase 
 The delicacy of thy grace. 
 Depart; and I will throne thee far, 
 Will hide thee in a halcyon place 
 That hath an angel populace; 
 And ever in dreams will find thy face, 
 Where all things pure and perfect are, 
 Smiling upon me like a star." 
 
 This is a temper beyond most of us, who 
 are all hedonists by instinct, and in the bodily 
 not the spirtual sense. Flaubert the man was 
 not representative of us, his weaker fellows. 
 " Je n'ai jamais pu emboiter Venus avec- 
 Apollon," as he wrote to George Sand, when 
 she advised him to try domestic happiness or 
 at least a little flirtation. 
 
 Besides, there are men to whom the ele- 
 ment of strangeness, of something bizarre 
 perhaps, even of something barbaric, is of 
 primary appeal. The very quintessence, the 
 
 359 
 
William Sharp 
 
 crown, the aloebloom of this kind of art, is 
 it not Leonardo's Monna Lisa del' Gioconda? 
 Perhaps, even more convincingly, in that 
 drawing of his in the Academia della Belle 
 Arti, in Venice, of a beautiful girl, with side- 
 long rippling hair, delicately crowned with 
 vine leaves, with that enigmatical smile on 
 her face and still more enigmatical smile in 
 her eyes — a type finer even than this 
 Milanese beauty? It is a type that does not 
 appeal to many men, but, where its appeal 
 is felt at all, it is irresistible. There is all 
 the seduction of nameless peril in these mys- 
 terious faces which apparently tell nothing 
 and yet are so full of subtle meaning and re- 
 pressed intensity. How else, again, are we 
 to account for the fascination of such an one 
 as Lady Ellenborough, for instance, " the 
 imperious Jane," immortalised by Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence ? 
 
 Surely it must be admitted that even his 
 art does not bestow beauty upon " that 
 witch." Doubtless she had a smile that 
 could unlock prison doors, eyes that could 
 melt a Marat or Danton, a mien and manner, 
 an expression and charm, that made her irre- 
 sistible to most men. But, on canvas, one 
 can see no more than that she looks like a 
 woman who had immense vitality. The 
 
 360 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 lady's story is certainly a remarkable one. 
 Miss Jane Elizabeth Digby must have been a 
 vivacious damsel, even while still a school- 
 girl, and, in the manner of her time, learning 
 to spell execrably. She was one of the for- 
 tunate women born with the invisible sceptre. 
 If she had been an actress, she would have 
 been the empress of the stage; if she had 
 been a demimondaine, she would have been 
 the Aspasia of her day; if she had been a 
 queen, she would have been a Catherine of 
 Russia. Again, she was one of those impet- 
 uous people who have no time to be virtuous. 
 We know next to nothing of her girlhood, 
 yet we may be sure that she set her nurse- 
 maid a bad example in flirtation, and shocked 
 her governess, if she had one, by many abor- 
 tive intrigues. No doubt her friends thought 
 that she would settle down and be good when 
 she became the wife of the Earl of Ellen- 
 borough. They argued that what a high- 
 spirited Miss Digby would do, a proud- 
 spirited Countess of Ellenborough would dis- 
 dain. But Miss Jane Elizabeth had, she con- 
 sidered, come into the world to enjoy herself 
 in her own way. Not long after her mar- 
 riage she permitted the too marked attention 
 of Prince Schwartzenberg, and this brought 
 about a duel between that gentleman and 
 
 361 
 
William Sharp 
 
 Lord Ellenborough. Neither duellist was 
 killed: and the only result was that not long 
 afterwards the lady made up her mind to go 
 oflf with Prince Schwartzenberg. After a 
 time Lord Ellenborough died, and then his 
 widow married the Prime Minister of 
 Bavaria. That a genuine passion for this 
 strange woman animated the Bavarian noble 
 is clear, not only from his having offered 
 marriage to a lady of such doubtful reputa- 
 tion, but from the tragic circumstance that, 
 when she tired of him in turn, and set forth 
 once more on her dauntless quest of man, he 
 committed suicide. She had several episodes 
 between this date and that when she found 
 herself in Syria, and espoused to an Arab 
 Sheik of Damascus. It would be incredible 
 that she died in his arms in the desert, were 
 it not for the additional fact that she was 
 at that moment contemplating an elopement 
 with her handsome dragoman. Miss Digby 
 was, certainly, not one of those " beauties " 
 towards whom — as Gautier advises — one 
 should go straight as a bullet. Instead of 
 our seizing "her by the tip of the wing, 
 politely but firmly like a gendarme," she 
 would be much more likely to seize us. She 
 was unreasonable, we will admit, but then, 
 with Mme. de Girardin, she might exclaim 
 
 362 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 " Be reasonable ! which means : No longer 
 hope to be happy." Obviously she was of 
 those essentially feline women of whom Ed- 
 gar de Meilhan speaks when he says that 
 " tigers, whatever you may say, are bad com- 
 panions." " With regard to tigers," he adds, 
 " we tolerate only cats, and then they must 
 have velvet paws." Neither Lord Ellen- 
 borough, nor the Bavarian Prime Minister, 
 nor the Arab Sheik, nor any other of her 
 special friends, would deny that a little more 
 velvet on the paws of the sprightly Jane 
 Elizabeth would have been an advantage. 
 
 There are always women of this kind, who 
 exercise an imperious and inexplicable sway 
 over the male imagination, or, to be more 
 exact, over the imagination of certain males. 
 It is no use to reason with the bondagen 
 With the King in Loves Labour's Lost he 
 can but reply 
 
 "Yet still is the moon, and I the man. 
 The music plays . . ." 
 
 We are fortunate, possibly, who never hear 
 this music, a bewildering strain from the 
 heart of the Venusberg. Rather that " silver 
 chiming," which is '* the music of the bells 
 of wedded love." Poets are terrible romanti- 
 cists in the matter of the affections. They are 
 
 363 
 
William Sharp 
 
 the most faithful of lovers to some impossible 
 She : but they are apt to have wandering eyes 
 in the ordinary way of life. Too many be- 
 have, even on the threshold of the Ideal, in 
 the reprehensible manner of Samuel Pepys 
 when that famous chronicler and incurable 
 old pagan found himself in church one fine 
 day. " Being wearied," he writes, " turned 
 into St. Dunstan's Church, where I heard an 
 able sermon of the minister of the place ; and 
 stood by a pretty modest maid, whom I did 
 labour to take by the hand; but she would 
 not, but got further and further from me; 
 and, at last, I could perceive her to take pins 
 out of her pocket to prick me if I should 
 touch her again — which, seeing, I did for- 
 bear, and. was glad I did spy her design. 
 And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty 
 maid in a pew close to me, and she on me; 
 and I did go about to take her by the hand, 
 which she suffered a little and then withdrew. 
 So the sermon ended." It is to be feared 
 that Pepys had not realised that counsel of 
 perfection, which may be given in the guise 
 of a phrase remembered from Evan Harring- 
 ton, — '' Both Ale and Eve seem to speak im- 
 periously to the love of man. See that they 
 be good, see that they come in season.' 
 
 364 
 
 » 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 VI 
 
 " But how to know beauty in woman when 
 one sees it, that is the question," said to me 
 a disappointed bachelor friend the other day. 
 " If there is no absolute beauty, and if the 
 type is so much distributed in various guises, 
 how is a man who cares only for dark women 
 to see the insignia of beauty in those who 
 have red hair or yellow, and blue eyes, and 
 in the matter of complexion are like curds 
 and cream stained with roses ? " 
 
 Alas for these uncertain ones, there is 
 nothing for it but a steady course of gratify- 
 ing and educating the Appreciative Faculties ! 
 To my querist I replied in the words of Gau- 
 tier as Edgar de Meilhan : " Go straight as a 
 bullet towards your beauty; seize her by the 
 tip of her wing, politely but firmly, like a 
 gendarme/' 
 
 But is there for you, for me, a fundamental 
 charm? That charm, surely, must be dis- 
 tinction. With the Egoist, " my thoughts 
 come to this conclusion, that, especially in 
 women, distinction is the thing to be aimed 
 at/' This, alone, is what survives, perhaps 
 all that ever lived, in the portraits of the 
 " beauties " of a bygone day. Then, too, it 
 must be kept in mind that the painter, even 
 
 365 
 
William Sharp 
 
 more than the poet, is a born sycophant. He 
 loves the sweet insincerities of the plausibly 
 impossible. Most of us are apt to be de- 
 ceived by the innuendoes of anecdote, the 
 flatteries of rumour, the glamour of the Past, 
 the mirage of history. Take, for example, 
 Botticelli's well-known '' La Bella Simonetta," 
 the lady whom Giuliano de Medici made his 
 mistress because of her winsome beauty. 
 " La Bella Simonetta : " there is magic in the 
 name: it is a sweet sound echoing down the 
 corridors of memory. Alessandro Filipepi 
 painted her before the greater name of San- 
 dro Botticelli became a mockery among the 
 ungodly who railed at Savonarola and his 
 teachings. Angelo Politian and Pulci 
 wedded her loveliness to lovely words, 
 and . . . whose pulse, now, would 
 quicken because of la bella Simonetta? Even 
 through the ingenuity of Sandro's art, a 
 quite ordinary damsel confronts us. 
 
 Again, take the acknowledged Fair Women 
 of our own country and of a time nearer our 
 own : two types so popular as Lely's Countess 
 of Grammont and Van Dyck's Countess of 
 Sutherland. 
 
 While it is easy to understand how Eliza- 
 beth Hamilton became " la belle Hamilton " 
 at the Court of Charles II., and had more 
 
 366 
 
Ecce Pnella 
 
 oflfers of marriage than the number of years 
 she had lived, till, in the third year of the 
 Restoration, she gave her hand to the cele- 
 brated wit and courtier, the Comte Philiberte 
 de Grammont, most of us doubtless would find 
 it difficult to discover that " fundamental 
 charm '' we hoped to see. I could believe all 
 that her brother Anthony could tell of her 
 beauty and winsomeness, and have no doubt 
 that Count Philibert was a very lucky man. 
 But, for myself, I realise that even had I been 
 a member of that wicked, laughing, delightful, 
 reprehensible Cavalier Court, and a favourite 
 of fortune in the matter of advantages, I 
 doubt if I would have been one of the five- 
 and-twenty suitors of "la belle Hamilton." 
 Certainly, as things are, one might be Japhet 
 in search of a wife and still not be allured, 
 even in random fancy, by this particular Fair 
 Woman.* Alas, there is yet another charm 
 which allures men when Beauty is only an im- 
 possible star; in the words of the anonymous 
 poet of " Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen," 
 
 "Gin a lass be e*er sae black 
 An' she hae the pennysiller, 
 Set her up on Tinto tap, 
 The win'll blaw a man 'till her." 
 
 *Marryat's Japhet sought a father, but this is not 
 a misapplication to boggle at! 
 
 367 
 
William Sharp 
 
 It was not the fair Elizabeth's " pennysiller," 
 however, that was the attraction, though she 
 did have what the Scots slyly call " advan- 
 tages/' 
 
 Nevertheless, it is clear she must have in her 
 beauty something that appeals to many minds 
 and in different epochs. The fastidious nobles 
 and wits of the Restoration admired her; Sir 
 Peter Lely expended his highest powers in 
 painting her ; his portrait of her has long been 
 the gem of the famous series known as the 
 " Windsor Beauties," and at Hampton Court 
 she is ever one of the most popular of the 
 ladies of the Stuart regime. 
 
 Probably the Countess of Sutherland, of 
 whom Van Dyck, it is thought, so much en- 
 joyed the painting, must have been more 
 winsome in looks, as she was certainly superior 
 in graces of mind and spirit. This is the 
 famous Lady Dorothy Sidney, daughter of the 
 second Earl of Leicester and wife of that 
 Lord Sunderland, the first of his title, who fell 
 fighting under the Royalist flag at the Battle 
 of Newbury; not to be remembered for this 
 now, however, but as the " Sacharissa " of 
 Edmund Waller's love-poems. True, Waller, 
 who was for generations one of the most pop- 
 ular, and for a few decades the most popular 
 of all English poets, is now almost as little 
 
 368 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 read as the least notable of his contemporaries. 
 He aspired to be England's Petrarch, and like 
 Lovelace with one flawless lyric, or like 
 Blanco White, or the French poet, Felix 
 Arvers, with a single sonnet, is now among 
 the immortals by virtue only of one little song. 
 Possibly Laura had as good reason for dis- 
 counting the passion of her Petrarco as Dor- 
 othy Sidney had for qualification of the pro- 
 longed homage of Waller. Both " My death- 
 less Laura '' and ** My divine Sacharissa *' 
 married another person than the lover who 
 gave immortality in verse ; married, and had 
 children, and occasionally perhaps glanced at 
 the Sonnets to Laura, or the Poems addressed 
 to Sacharissa. Not only, indeed, did Lady 
 Dorothy choose Lord Sunderland in prefer- 
 ence to Waller, but as a widow she even pre- 
 ferred the practical poetry of a Mr. Robert 
 Smythe's wooing to that which in her youth 
 she had had so much experience of in verse. 
 Fair and comely she seems in Van Dyck's 
 portrait of her, though not the Sacharissa of 
 whom one had dreamed. Was it this at- 
 tractive English lady who was the inspirer of 
 " Go, lovely Rose ? " The thought suggests 
 the strange revelation it would be, if we were 
 to be entertained with a series of authentic 
 likenesses of all the beautiful women we have 
 
 369 
 
William Sharp 
 
 loved or dreamed of across the ages. *'A 
 Dream of Fair Women *' ; what would Helen 
 say to it, or Cleopatra, or Guenevere, or, for 
 that matter. Eve herself? What a desert of 
 disillusion would exist between the catalogue- 
 entry, '' Helen, daughter of Leda queen to 
 King Tyndarus, who became the wife of 
 Menelaus, and subsequently went abroad with 
 Paris: commonly known as Helen of Troy," 
 and the quoted motto-lines from Marlowe: — 
 
 "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships 
 And burned the topless towers of Ilium?" 
 
 Again, fancy the astonishment and chagrin of 
 Mr. Swinburne, if he passed one by one the 
 actual counterparts of the ladies of the 
 " Masque of Queen Bersabe," from Herodias 
 to that Alaciel whose eyes "were as a grey- 
 green sea," and found that he could not recog- 
 nise one of those vignettes in red or white 
 flame which he wrought so wondrously in the 
 days of his youth ! Semiramis, in truth, may 
 have been but a handsome woman with a 
 temper, the Queen of Sheba nothing more 
 than distinctly pretty, and Sappho passionate 
 but plain. 
 
 But there is a difference between the prais- 
 ers of Royal beauty and those who hymn ladies 
 whom they can also approach when the lyre is 
 
 370 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 laid aside. We believe in Laura and Sacha- 
 rissa and Castara, and many other fair dames 
 beloved of the sons of Apollo. If for noth- 
 ing else than because she inspired the loveliest 
 of all Waller's songs, we would look with 
 ho Mage at this Fair Woman whom the genius 
 o'^ Van Dyck has given us a glimpse of: — 
 
 "Go, lovely Rose, 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 That now she knows 
 When I resemble her to thee 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 'Tell her that's young, 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 That hadst thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide. 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 'Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired; 
 Bid her come forth. 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 "Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 May read in thee. 
 
 How small a part of time they share 
 Who are so wondrous sweet and fair." 
 
 After all, perhaps the secret of our delight in 
 
 271 
 
William Sharp 
 
 these Ladies of "the glowing picture and the 
 living word " is this : that, even of the fairest, 
 the true lover can say, with the poet of " The 
 Moonstar " — 
 
 "Lady, I thank thee for thy loveliness, 
 Because my lady is more lovely still." 
 
 VII 
 
 To return to the Fair Women of Painting. 
 Here, alas, there remain always one or two 
 unforgivable disillusions. To begin with, 
 there is the inevitable Eve; generally either a 
 matronly person discomfortably garbless, or a 
 self-conscious studio model. There is Helen 
 of Troy, gloriously immortal in the hexameters 
 of Homer and the heroics of Marlowe, but 
 made ridiculous by innumerable painters. 
 And, to come home, there is our own Helen: 
 Mary of Scotland. Is there indeed a portrait 
 of the Queen of Scots in existence which any 
 Mariolater could have pleasure in looking at? 
 There are certain women we never wish to see 
 except in mental vision. Some readers may 
 recollect the Sapphic fragment preserved by 
 Hephaestion, which tells us simply that 
 " Mnasidica is more shapely than the tender 
 Gyrinno." Fortunate Mnasidica, who has 
 haunted the minds of men ever since, through 
 
 372 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 never once having been enslaved by sculptor 
 or painter of any period ! Beautiful Shapeli- 
 ness, that none can gainsay! Painters who 
 give us Helens and Cleopatras and Queen 
 Maries seem to be quite unaware of the heavy 
 handicap they put upon their productions. 
 And so it goes without saying, that all por- 
 •traits of Mary of Scotland are disappointing, 
 from that of the earliest anonymous limner to 
 that of Mr. Lavery. There is not one of us 
 blase enough to withstand the cruel disillusion 
 of what, by way of adding insult to injury, is 
 called " authentic likeness." Poor Mary! She 
 has paid bitterly in innumerable portraits for 
 the wonderful rumour of her beauty in her 
 own day. No man who respects himself 
 should commit lese majeste by ungracious 
 comment before any canvas of this pictorially 
 much misrepresented Queen. It does indeed 
 make one glad that a few others world-famous 
 for their beauty were spared the ignominy of 
 pictorial immortality. 
 
 If all Fair Women of Picture-world were 
 brought together, it would be made quite clear 
 that the one thing which in a thousand in- 
 stances escapes the painter is expression. Ex- 
 pression is the morning glory of beauty. A 
 few men in all ages have understood this, 
 Leonardo and the great Italians pre-eminently. 
 
 373 
 
William Sharp 
 
 It IS to the credit of many of the most eccen- 
 tric " impressionists '' that they have wearied 
 of conventional similitude, and striven to give 
 something of the real self of the person whose 
 likeness is being transferred to canvas. 
 These, with Bastien Lepage, have realised that 
 " we must change our ways if any of our work 
 is to live." " We must try," adds that notable 
 artist of whom Mrs. Julia Cartwright has 
 given us so excellent a biography, " we 
 must try to see and reproduce that inmost radi- 
 ance which lies at the heart of things, and is 
 the only true beauty, because it is the life." 
 
 That inmost radiance! To discern it, to 
 apprehend it, to reveal it to others, that is in- 
 deed the quintessential thing in all art. 
 
 But the spectator must not only make al- 
 lowances for the painter of a portrait ; he must 
 himself exercise a certain effort. In a word, 
 he must bring the glow of imagination into 
 play, he must let his mental atmosphere be 
 nimble and keenly receptive. He must re- 
 member that while portraiture may have veri- 
 similitude of a kind, it can very rarely simu- 
 late that loveliest thing in a woman's beauty — 
 expression. He must discern in the canvas a 
 light that is not there. He must see the 
 colour come and go upon the face, must see 
 ^he eyes darken or gleam, the lips move, the 
 
 374 
 
Ecce Puella 
 
 smile just about to come forth: and, if possi- 
 ble, the inner radiance that, in many vivid and 
 fine natures, seems to dwell upon the fore- 
 head, though too fugitive ever to be caught, 
 save as it were for a moment unawares. 
 
 375 
 
Fragments From the Lost 
 Journals of Piero 
 Di Cosimo 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM THE LOST JOUR- 
 NALS OF PIERO DI COSIMO * 
 
 Before I went to Rome with my master 
 Cosimo many strange things happened. No 
 perilous or untoward incidents befell me, it 
 is true, but I was ever so curious in the by- 
 ways of life that each day brought me some- 
 thing whereat to marvel greatly. It was ever 
 so with me. Life itself is the supreme mys- 
 tery : whoso fathoms that will solve the whole 
 secret that has puzzled the wisest men of all 
 time. Yet the more I think (and what a 
 strain this endless thinking is — thinking, 
 thinking, thinking!) the more I realise that 
 there can be no discovery for any man save 
 the revelation that the world exists for him 
 only. What I mean is clear, though perad- 
 venture to some it might seem either a sport 
 in words, an untimely folly, or to others a 
 dark saying, such as the occult wisdom of 
 those soothsayers and astrologers who, I am 
 well assured, play upon the ignorance of the 
 
 ♦Doubtless the Journal of Piero di Cosimo, or 
 certain portions of it, must have been known to 
 Vasari. His description, certainly, of the Car of 
 Death, closely tallies with Piero's own. 
 
 379 
 
William Sharp 
 
 uneducated. It is this: that whatsoever this 
 world has, behind its veil, as it were; such 
 hidden beauty or strangeness or terror is only 
 to be seen of those eyes which bring their own 
 power of seeing. Children and many ignorant 
 country-people believe, that the fogs and rains 
 which the autumnal equinox bringeth do in- 
 deed obliterate the stars from the obscured 
 heavens: not knowing that their shining is a 
 thing apart, and as far removed from the 
 vanities of this earth as the virtues of the most 
 Blessed Virgin Mother are from the petty 
 goodnesses and shortcomings of womankind 
 in this world — and most certainly from those 
 of the ladies of Florence, who seem to me to 
 have much resemblance to those flighty insects 
 which hover in still noons and at sundown by 
 Arno-side, having all the characteristics of 
 these, but lacking in the most welcome, that 
 they perish speedily, even if they survive their 
 long day from starsetting to moonrise. But 
 wiser persons, to whom the processes of na- 
 ture are, in their superficial aspects, not in any 
 wise strange, know well the foolishness of 
 such surmises about the disappearance of 
 heavenly bodies because of the rising of 
 earthly mists and vapours. And so is it with 
 the more occult world of thought. One must 
 have the eye of faith as well as the eye of the 
 
 380 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 body. One must know that there is light be- 
 yond darkness, life beyond death, spirit 
 beyond clay, just as the educated know that 
 the same stars which we saw yesternight still 
 whirl their silver spheres through the upper 
 spaces, whether mists and darkness intervene 
 or the equally obscuring splendour of the sun. 
 But over and above this there is a further 
 vision which a few have. This sight brings 
 to the mind and thence to the soul what is be- 
 yond the extremest visual ken. Men so gifted 
 are the world's philosophers. They see not 
 merely the fixity of the stars and the mutabil- 
 ity of the mists and darkness, but the causes 
 of these obscurities: and they apprehend also 
 the laws whereby the stars exist and scatter 
 their remote influences upon the tides of life, 
 whether these be of the waters of ocean, or of 
 the sap in trees and plants, or of the hot or 
 gelid blood in the living things of the world, 
 from the lizard and the callous newt to man 
 himself. And yet again there are some who 
 have a still deeper sight. These are they who 
 are the passionate students of life. But of 
 what avail is it that one telleth unto another 
 his interpretation, if the other understand not 
 also something of the occult meanings, the 
 lost language, of which it is the halting trans- 
 lation? There is no salve to our undying 
 
 381 
 
William Sharp 
 
 curiosity save that which is found of our- 
 selves. Therefore is it why I, for one, have 
 long sought diligently of her, Madonna 
 Natura — Natura Benigna or Natura Ma- 
 ligna? — my one mistress; and how I shall 
 ever so continue, even as I have done from 
 my youth onward. 
 
 My youth ! Ah ! I was young then when I 
 started with good Master Cosimo for the 
 court of Pope Sixtus in that near and yet far- 
 off Rome. I have already, earlier in these 
 journals, written of my lonely but not unhappy 
 boyhood, but now I cannot help recalling those 
 bygone days. Here is a letter which Cosimo 
 Rosselli, my good master, my very father, 
 wrote to me, now years agone. It is already 
 stained with some chemic dissolution: as the 
 world is with the stain of mortality: as / am, 
 now that I am sere as one of those October 
 chestnut-leaves I brought home with me the 
 other day from that deep glade of Vallom- 
 brosa I love so well. 
 
 " My ever-beloved Piero," so runs the dear 
 familiar hand, " the tears are in my eyes to- 
 day, and for two causes. This afternoon, 
 after I had finished painting — and, alas! my 
 craft is not what it was — I went forth to sun 
 myself in the gardens of the Medici, having at 
 all times the entry thereto. There, just as I 
 
 382 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 was about to leave, owing to a twilight wind, 
 somewhat premature and cold, coming out of 
 the greenness of the cypress boughs, I heard a 
 sound as of some one sobbing. It had such 
 bitter distress in it that my heart ached. After 
 a brief time of uncertainty I beheld, quite 
 close, and leaning against a very ancient yew, 
 an old man, so wearily a wreck of life that 
 he seemed rather a human-like excrescence of 
 the tree than a fellow creature. But the 
 crackling of a cone or twig beneath my feet 
 aroused him, and he passed at once from the 
 semblance of dismal death to the reality of a 
 yet more dismal life. He was about to make 
 haste away, as speedily as his age and infirmi- 
 ties would permit, and not without an angry 
 and half-defiant irritation at my unwitting in- 
 trusion, such as, I bethought me, betokened 
 some rankling memory of better days, when he 
 stumbled over one of the two sticks whereby 
 he aided his feeble gait. I ran forward to 
 assist him, and who think you, Piero, I recog- 
 nised? None other than that true and great 
 painter whom you have so often admired, 
 Sandro Botticelli ! Ah, how it made my tears 
 well to my eyes. But though he knew me, he 
 would have none of me. I besought him by 
 old friendship, by the memory of our com- 
 radeship at Rome, when he and I and Domen- 
 
 383 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ico Ghirlandajo, and Luca of Cortona, and 
 Piero Perugino, all wrought together for the 
 Papal award. He laughed once, but bitterly ; 
 and taunted me, by asking if I had yet turned 
 my pictures into a jeweller's stock; alluding 
 therein to the method whereby I gained the 
 Pope's prime favour, by the excessive gilding 
 of my work, which made his Holiness believe 
 it to be superior to the productions of better 
 men — (a matter, Piero, I once took pride in, 
 but am now ashamed of) : but, on my silence, 
 he turned away as though penitent before an 
 old friend. ' Mio caro amico, mio maestro 
 carissimo' I began, when he brusquely inter- 
 rupted me, and cried ' Ecco! Cosimo Rosselli, 
 I am Alessandro Filipepi, the son of Mariano 
 Filipepi, of Florence, and have nought to do 
 with the vain dabbler in painted follies whom 
 men call Botticelli. You knew me of old, and 
 may call me Sandro if you will, but not that 
 other name. Shall my tears and my bitter re- 
 pentance never wash out those days of sinful 
 vanity ! ' To the which heart-wrung cry I re- 
 plied : ' I knew you had thrown away brush 
 and pencil, Sandro mio, and that you had be- 
 come a Piagnone,* but I never believed, I can- 
 not now believe, that you, you, the master Bot- 
 
 *That is, of the bigoted sect of Fra Girolamo 
 Savonarola. 
 
 384 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 ticelli — nay, you must let me say it — can 
 forget your art. How well I remember your 
 saying to Ghirlandajo, that work was good but 
 beauty was better, as the soul is lovelier than 
 even the most fair body. You cannot have 
 forgotten that, nor how you once told Luca 
 Signorelli that pure colour was like God, for 
 the very being of God is pure music, and pure 
 colour is but the visible and beautiful tranced 
 body of music' Whereupon he sighed, looked 
 at me long and earnestly ; then, muttering only, 
 ' I am well, I am well, I want for nought/ 
 made me sign of farewell, and went on his 
 way. But for hours afterward, ay and oft 
 since, methought I heard that bitter, miser- 
 able sob where the yew and cypress shadows 
 were. 
 
 " And the other cause of my weeping to-day, 
 though rather a soft summer rain, such as falls 
 from my white lilac (where the young thrush 
 revolves his song oftentimes leisurely, but 
 again with such a marvellous swift joy and 
 sweetness as to make me wonder at God's 
 grace to these creatures of a springtide), 
 rather such a rain I say than the sterner tears 
 which I shed earlier over my unhappy Botti- 
 celli. 
 
 " For I came by chance, dear son, upon an 
 early and a strange letter of thine, when thou 
 
 385 
 
William Sharp 
 
 wert not yet in thy fifteenth year. How 
 keenly it recalled those bygone days! I 
 seemed once again to see thee, ever studious, 
 and apart from thy fellows, and oftentimes 
 rapt in strange imaginings. Fond, indeed, 
 thou wert then as now of remote places, and 
 of all things fantastic, and of solitude; a 
 dreamy youth, moreover, wont to reply 
 vaguely to questions of common import. And 
 in this letter of thine, writ as I say when thou 
 were not yet in thy fifteenth year, thou speak- 
 est strangely for a youth. * The bale of life is 
 so bitter that one hath perforce to occupy 
 one's-self with such diversion as is offered by 
 the strange, fantastic, the terrible.' What 
 manner of boy is it who writeth thus ? Again : 
 * I saw to-day a cloud of those smoke-like balls 
 of seed blown from a field of dandelions : how 
 beautiful they were, how exquisite their dal- 
 liance with the light wind, how perfect each 
 delicate part — nothing out of heaven more 
 wondrous light and aerial ! All were blown 
 upon a rotting dunghill, amid whose indis- 
 criminate filth and stench were perishing but- 
 terflies, and some stained apple-blossoms, and 
 voracious beetles and centipedes and other 
 horrible insects, with worms, unwieldy and 
 overgorged, rejoicing in corruption. And 
 when I went home and fell into a dream, I 
 
 386 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 was sore perplexed whether I had seen all this, 
 or had been but deliberating upon dear am- 
 bitions, and fair hopes, and human life, and 
 the end thereof, and the immortality of the 
 worm/ Ah, Piero, Piero, as thou were then, 
 so art thou now; men say strange things of 
 thy wayward life, though they praise thy 
 genius. And the ending of thy letter, how sad 
 it is ! * But thee, Cosimo Rosselli, my master, 
 whom I love, can deep affection save thee from 
 the ills of life? If so, thou art saved indeed ! ' 
 
 " And now, dear Piero, though I have seen 
 nought of thee for long, we seem to be closelier 
 drawn one to the other. Wilt thou not come 
 and visit one who, whatsoever men idly say 
 against thee, will ever love thy person as he 
 reveres thy genius. Thou knowest that I am 
 thine in comradeship and love, Cosimo 
 Rosselli.'^ 
 
 • «••••• 
 
 They say that I live more as a wild beast 
 than as a man : because I bar my doors against 
 the idle and the over curious ; eat, only when 
 I am an-hungered; will not have my garden 
 digged, nor the fruit-trees pruned; will not 
 haunt the streets, or the taverns, or the guest- 
 rooms, nor talk much and eagerly of matters 
 that concern me not at all. So be it. Per- 
 haps the wild beast is none the less beloved of 
 
 387 
 
William Sharp 
 
 nature than the foolish human babbler. Why 
 should I eat save when I would? Why not be 
 solitary, when solitude is my festival? Why 
 have my garden digged or my fruit-trees 
 pruned, when to me the pleasure is greater to 
 see the branches trail upon the ground, to be- 
 hold the vines grow in their own way (as the 
 human fool will not do, but persuadeth him- 
 self to ancestral follies, and conventions of 
 outworn usage). Nature hath heed of her 
 offspring. She hath birds to feed off these 
 grape clusters, whether they be high and wind- 
 swayed, or lie all ruined in the mould ; butter- 
 flies, too, and moths, that haunt the sugared 
 ooze upon over-ripe fruit ; and flame-like wasps 
 darting hither and thither, with keen knives 
 cutting the purple skins; and the larvae of 
 many insects, and caterpillars and grey slugs 
 and worms — these hath she all to feed, from 
 my vines, as well as me. I am but one of 
 these: but not so happy, because I think; not 
 so wise, because I hope. 
 
 • • • • • • • 
 
 Last night, very late (how white the 
 shining of the moon upon the flood or Arno, 
 and how deathlike the city in its silence, though 
 joys and woes, and passionate hopes and more 
 passionate despairs quivered, like exposed 
 nerves, beneath the cold, calm exterior), on 
 
 388 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 my homeward way from Vallombrosa, I 
 stopped at the house of Antonio del Monte, 
 the naturalist. Walking along the chestnut 
 glades, hours before, and wondering if ever 
 painter would be born who would be able to 
 paint living nature, and not but our dull dream 
 of her (yet, in my vanity, thinking of that 
 landscape which I painted for Pope Sixtus, 
 when I went to Rome with Cosimo Rosselli, 
 the one which gained me so much praise and 
 so many commissions) : wondering also, in my 
 strange uplifted ecstasy, if in any other 
 world — if such there be, as I shrewdly sus- 
 pect, among all those stars and planets over- 
 head, despite what the Prior said to me about 
 the evil and perilous thoughts of the excom- 
 municated and already damned — wondering 
 then if there be any more beautiful than this, 
 with such infinities of mercy and delight for 
 us, and indeed for all living things, I beheld 
 somewhat that struck me as with a chill of 
 fever. Overhead I saw a hawk, motionless as 
 though painted against a dome of blue. It fell 
 suddenly, many a score of paces — how many 
 I could not say: then hung hovering; and all 
 in a moment crashed upon a hen-partridge 
 cowering over her chicks, and spilt the blood 
 from the cleft head upon the wheat-stacks 
 close by. And further, scarce fifty yards away 
 
 389 
 
 / 
 
William Sharp 
 
 from where I stood, a fierce stoat crept nigher 
 and nigher to a rabbit, which crouched trem- 
 bling, giving forth a strange choking sob at 
 times, and at the last sprang upon it and drove 
 its teeth into the rabbit's skull. And further, 
 I saw a sparrow-hawk on a fir-bough, tearing 
 a young thrush to pieces, and scattering the 
 bloodied feathers to right and left. And 
 further, I saw a dead and rotten branch fall 
 and crush a white bloom of lilies on the sward 
 underneath. And further, I saw at my feet a 
 small but agile insect, striped like a wasp, that 
 ran backward and sideward as easily as for- 
 ward, and it waylaid a tender yellow moth and 
 nipped its head off and devoured it. Then a 
 passion came into my heart, and I went away 
 with my soul sick within me. I laughed at the 
 beauty of the world, and cursed the mercy 
 thereof. And as I passed the village at the 
 foot of the hill I heard a man, blaspheming, 
 strike his wife with savage cruelty; and the 
 cry somewhere of a child wailing in pain. 
 And when I told all to Antonio del Monte, he 
 laughed. He said Nature was a beast of prey. 
 And I — I — have loved Nature, have wor- 
 shipped her! The end of idolaters is death 
 within death. 
 
 I remember well — it was after my first car- 
 390 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 nival in Rome — that an idea of a new and 
 striking, albeit fantastic, masquerade, came 
 into my mind. Yet it was not there but in 
 Florence that I fulfilled it; and many years 
 later. I was in great favour then with the gay 
 Florentine youth, ever alert to novelties as to 
 fierce deeds : they prized me for my invention 
 in designing pleasurable surprises. Of a truth, 
 the masquerades became new things altogether, 
 after my dispositions were approved and car- 
 ried into eflfect. Thenceforth they became tri- 
 umphal processions, with men and horses 
 gorgeously and strangely apparelled, and with 
 wild or joyous music. It was a fine sight in- 
 deed, when, along the flower-strewn streets, 
 young men (nude, or with leopard or tiger 
 skins thrown about them, and garlanded with 
 roses and lilies) rode upon foam- white stal- 
 lions, these snorting through blood-red nostrils 
 or neighing with hoarse clangours that rang 
 against the black marble and basalt of the 
 Florentine palaces! The sun shone upon the 
 ivory skins of the men and the blanched milk- 
 white steeds, and upon the trodden flowers, all 
 red and white and yellow (that gave up an in- 
 describable languorous and most sweet smell, 
 as though the very soul of spring were dying 
 there and passing away in forlorn fragrances), 
 and upon the gay crowd, so brightly 
 
 391 
 
William Sharp 
 
 and variously clad, and upon the beauti- 
 ful fair women — many with wind-lifted 
 hair and loosened bodices, and breasts 
 that gleamed like globed water-lilies: the 
 froth and foam, these, of the carnival- 
 tide — laughing, and throwing those deep 
 blood-red roses which are called Hearts 
 o' Love, and wearing cream-hued and scarlet 
 scarfs, twined round and trailing from the 
 whitest of arms. And not less striking the 
 processional array by night. Down the dark 
 streets tramped the white horses, their riders 
 now in gleaming armour, or fantastically 
 garbed like chieftains of the Magyars or of the 
 barbaric East. Two by two the riders went, 
 and betwixt each couple not fewer than two- 
 score ten stalwart men on foot, each waving 
 a burning torch in one hand and carrying an 
 unsheathed sword in the other, so that it 
 caught and flashed forth a hundred lights. 
 The horses themselves were a sight to see, in 
 their rich accoutrements! Thereafter came a 
 high car, garlanded with flowers and draperies 
 and many rare devices. And all this to the 
 laughter of men and women, the neighing of 
 the stallions, the clanking of weapons, the 
 sputtering of the torches, the shrill shrieks of 
 Greek fifes, and the furious challenging blare 
 of fivescore brazen trumpets ! Ay, these were 
 
 392 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 goodly sights, though none equalled my Mas- 
 querade of Death, which is none other than 
 the idea whereof I wrote a little ago: and of 
 which men speak eagerly to this day, some 
 with pleasant awe and dainty shudderings, 
 others crossing themselves and muttering of 
 devilish imaginations and Anti-Christ and 
 papal maledictions. 
 
 I made my Car of Death in such secrecy in 
 the Hall of the Pope^ that none — no! not 
 one — saw it af orehand. Then I made all ar- 
 rangements, not only in mine own privacy, but 
 wheresoever the procession should pass by; 
 and these arrangements included the way it- 
 self, for I had special purpose to fulfil. And 
 all who gave me of their service did so under a 
 bond of secrecy, for after a while it became 
 impossible to hide, from some at least of my 
 assistants, either the parts or the whole of my 
 scheme. There were two of my pupils who 
 were of special service to me, both named 
 Andrea. The one is still called Andrea di 
 Cosimo: the other, a greater than his master, 
 is known throughout all the lands northward 
 of Rome, and even to France, as Andrea del 
 Sarto. He was brought to me by my friend 
 Gian' Barile, the Florentine painter, as a youth 
 of exceeding promise ; and I came to love him, 
 almost as the good Cosimo Rosselli loved me. 
 
 393 
 
William Sharp 
 
 He was ever a Passionate of art, from the 
 days when he spent his leisure hours staring 
 at the frescoes by Leonardo and Michel- 
 Angelo in this very Hall of the Pope where I 
 made my Car of Death. Rumours have 
 reached me in mine old age that Andrea del 
 Sarto, whom I see no more (whom do I see, I, 
 Piero di Cosimo, ** the mad painter,'' lonely as 
 the falling star that last night swept the circuit 
 of the heavens, and flashed into an oblivion of 
 darkness beyond human ken?) — rumours, I 
 say, have reached me that Andrea declareth 
 my Procession of Death symbolised the return 
 of the Medici. This is false. It is one to me 
 whether the Medici feed upon the taxes of the 
 Florentines, or upon those of any alien city. 
 My device was of fantastical delight and a 
 brooding imagination ; and I have thought of 
 stranger things still, but have scarce dared 
 even to suggest them. 
 
 Thus was it, then, in the height of the Car- 
 nival. My great triumphal car, instead of 
 being drawn by prancing horses and gaily 
 decorated, was yoked to black buffaloes, each 
 of sombre and terrible seeming, with horns 
 overlaid with whitest plaster, and with eyes 
 made hollowly red and burning with virulent 
 pigments. The car itself was all hung in 
 black sweeping draperies, gloomful as a star- 
 
 394 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 less and moonless night with imminence of 
 rain ; very dolorous to look upon ; and yet not 
 the less so because, every here and there, 
 painted with whitely gleaming dead men's 
 bones and broad crosses. High up on the car 
 sat the gigantic figure of Death himself, dread- 
 ful of aspect, and holding in one outstretched 
 hand his ever thirsting and hungering scythe. 
 Beneath him, huddled round the huge throne 
 whereon he sat^ were dismal tombs, blank and 
 awful. Before the slow-moving car and low- 
 ering buffaloes, and after it likewise, rode a 
 great number of the dead on horseback, all 
 singing in a trembling voice the Miserere. 
 The sight made many quake, and some who 
 laughed broke into sobs. And at those places 
 where, in former carnivals, the triumphal pro- 
 cession was wont to stop for a sweet and joy- 
 ous singing, and for the interchange of blythe 
 and happy mockeries and good fortunes, it 
 now stopped also ; but, instead, the tombs upon 
 the huge car opened, and thence crawled, or 
 glided, or sprang forth figures garbed in close- 
 fitting black, all painted over with the insignia 
 of death, the grinning skull, the long- jointed 
 arms and legs, and all the bones of the human 
 skeleton. These dreadful things moved close 
 one to another ; and then, to the drear accom- 
 paniments of muffled strains, sang, in a most 
 
 395 
 
William Sharp 
 
 melancholy music, that solemn chant begin- 
 ning— 
 
 ''Dolor, pianfo e penitenzal* etc. 
 
 It was a strange sight. Many, it is said, 
 dream of it still. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 After a still evening, and a sunsetting sky of 
 the most marvellous delicate green, with pale 
 lemon-yellow spaces beyond, the weather has 
 changed. I noted how low the fireflies flit- 
 tered among the under-branches of the 
 guelder-rose and around the bole of my old 
 yew, and how sultry their wandering lights. 
 The voices of the dogs barking in the gardens 
 of Fiesole came down the slopes no more clear 
 and sharp, but as though from afar, and 
 muffled, as in a dense snowing. Nothing 
 crackled in the garden. That strange beast 
 out of Araby or Cathay, which Messer 
 Antonio gave me in exchange for my portrait 
 of him, made a mewing noise, very weird, yet 
 not like any cat or other animal I have 
 known — rather like a mad person mouthing 
 in vague fear. Methought it might be a lost 
 soul. If — if I 
 
 The rain at last ! Streaming, rushing, pour- 
 ing down ; the garden-ways aflood ; the house- 
 vents spouting forth upon the streets! Most 
 
 396 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 joyous of sounds! Oh, would I were strid- 
 ing along, singing my Song of Death, amid 
 the now wind-furied glades, in tempestuous 
 Vallombrosa ! 
 
 II * 
 
 Yesterday I completed a series of drawings 
 of strange animals, similar to those of dragons, 
 and other rare creatures, which I made for 
 Giuliano de' Medici. I have often wondered 
 if, in some far country, a fortunate traveller 
 will not unexpectedly come upon those half- 
 human creatures of which legends tell us. 
 How well I remember going to a wild rocky 
 place on the Pisan shore, in hope to see the 
 golden hair and white breasts and waving 
 arms of those Ladies of the Deep of whom I 
 heard oft in my boyhood : or, at the very least, 
 to catch the delicate sweet forlornness of their 
 alien singing! One night — it seems but 
 yester eve as I recall it — I lay in a heathy 
 dingle, watching the moonlight resting like the 
 
 * The following excerpts, all that remain of Piero's 
 Journal, are plainly of a considerably later date than 
 those just given. The postscript by Antonio del 
 Monte is written on the page immediately succeed- 
 ing that containing Piero's latest entry. There is 
 some further writing below the '' Requiescat/* ap- 
 parently in Latin, but, save for a few letters, in- 
 decipherable. 
 
 397 
 
William Sharp 
 
 caressing hand of God upon the tired earth: 
 and listening to the deep undertone of the 
 ancient Sea, as he laid his lips against the 
 shore and murmured, in a tongue unknown to 
 men, secrets of Oblivion, and dull, remote 
 prophecies. There was an absolute hush in 
 the air. Now and again the pinging sound of 
 a gnat deepened the profound stillness. Al- 
 most I fancied that I heard the serene aerial 
 chiming of the stars. While I lay there 
 adream, mine ears caught the sound of a faint 
 splashing. I thought it was a fish, leaping in 
 silver upon a moongold wave to snap at a 
 wandering firefly. Then as the sound waxed 
 more distinct and without intermission, I con- 
 ceived the idea that the sirens were swimming 
 landward, and I caught myself listening 
 eagerly for that wild fantastic music which 
 lures mariners to the doom of which no man 
 knoweth the manner or fulness. Suddenly I 
 heard a low laugh. The sweet humanity of it 
 acted upon me like the dawn after a night of 
 gloom. As silently as the doe lifts her head 
 from the fern-covert when she scents from 
 afar off the prowling wolf, I raised myself. 
 Per Bacco! was I still adream? ... I won- 
 dered. A beautiful girl ran to and fro along 
 the sea-marge, her ivory limbs splashing far 
 and wide the foam of each long, low, wave. 
 
 398 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 Her hair drifted behind her like the tresses 
 of a wind-blown larch. Her beautiful naked 
 body gleamed in the moonlight, and as she 
 moved hither and thither, now swiftly as 
 though pursued, now with dainty listlessness, 
 I thought that I had never seen aught lovelier. 
 A little cape ran out from the shore, and as she 
 neared it she laughed low again and again: 
 low, and yet so that I heard it easily. It 
 thrilled me unspeakably. There was in it such 
 unfathomable pain, and yet with — oh, such a 
 subtle rare magic of delight! I felt that I 
 could — nay, that I would — follow that low- 
 haunting laugh, and that ideal beauty, even to 
 the ends of the earth, even though I were led 
 into places of death, unspeakable because of 
 their terror. Suddenly she — this thing of 
 beauty and grace — disappeared as in a wave, 
 and I saw her no more. With the speed of a 
 man fleeing for his life I raced towards the 
 beach. Strange that I should notice, and for a 
 second or two halt, because of the shrill sud- 
 den cry of an aziola. It mocked me, I thought. 
 But when I reached the shore, nought was 
 there. There was the same vast stretch of the 
 moonlit deep: the same long low wave, for 
 ever breaking in foam out of stillness, like the 
 froth upon a dying man's lips: the same in- 
 scrutable silence on sea and land, save for the 
 
 399 
 
William Sharp 
 
 pinging of the gnats below the cystus-bushes, 
 and the low thrilling monotone out of the heart 
 of the waters. Hastily I ran out upon the 
 little cape : but no, nought could I see beyond 
 it nor close under. Had I, then, beheld one of 
 those mysterious creatures who live in Ocean, 
 and lament a lost humanity? I wandered all 
 night long by the margin of the sea, but heard 
 no unwonted sound, save the crying of a 
 strange bird far waveward: saw no unusual 
 sight, save a furtive phosphorescence which 
 came and went upon the dark surface of the 
 waters, like an evil smile upon the face of an 
 Oriental satrap dreaming of cruel delights. 
 But about dawn I met a haggard fisherman, 
 who stared at me blankly and muttered some 
 foolishness. From him, in reply to my eager 
 questions, I learned that one Mariana, the 
 daughter of a gentleman of Pisa, had recently 
 become distraught because of the exceeding 
 beauty of a youth of whom she had dreamt — 
 because of his surpassing loveliness, but still 
 more because of his visionary immortality, 
 which could not mate with her earthliness. 
 She had passed through Pisa as one dazed, 
 and had been seen at sundown watching the 
 inward-moving tide, and laughing strangely 
 to herself the while. None had seen or heard 
 of her since. But this had occurred many 
 
 400 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 days — ay, weeks — before mine own adven- 
 ture. To this day, in all verity, I know not 
 whether 'twas Mariana of Pisa whom I saw 
 passing like a dream through the wave, or 
 some Donna Ignota born of the moonshine and 
 the sea. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 To-night, as I walked in my wilderness (so 
 I lovingly call my garden), filled full as it is 
 with all manner of strange things and desolate 
 growths, I noticed an unwonted flashing of 
 red lights. Ever and again it happened, and 
 once so that I was almost dazzled. At first I 
 thought some rare creature, a lizard or sala- 
 mander from afar, or it might be some gem 
 or old-time weapon, lay amid the mould; but 
 at the last I found to my surprise that this 
 flashing of light was caused by two or three 
 blooms among a cluster of nasturtiums. One, 
 in particular, glowed like the lantern of a 
 monk in a dark wine-vault. I knew not till 
 then that flowers gave off this mysterious 
 effulgence, though, now I think of it, Sulei- 
 man has told me that he has seen something 
 of the kind in the region beyond Nilus. It has 
 made me think. Perhaps all created things 
 give off some coloured emanation. I should 
 like to paint the people going to and fro in 
 the streets of Florence, with all their hidden 
 
 401 
 
William Sharp 
 
 sins and made visible in furtive flashes of 
 scarlet and purple, and wan green and yellow, 
 and bloodied red! Crista, how the Medici 
 would reward me for my pains if I painted 
 them ! Twould be a short shrift then for the 
 hermit-painter, Piero di Cosimo! Nay, but 
 seriously, what if some of us have this quality? 
 'Twould account for the divers strange and 
 terrifying apparitions of the dead, of which 
 rumour is oft, in the dark hours, so garrulous. 
 (On the morrow.) 
 I slept little last night, for a deep brooding 
 over the thing of which I have writ above. I 
 have decided to tell Alessandro Bardi that I 
 shall paint him and his Caterina after all. 
 How I hate old Luigi Bardi! The insolence 
 of the purse-proud man! How dared he in- 
 sult me that day on the Ponte Vecchio? — 
 sneering at me as a madman because I had 
 stood staring for an hour or more upon the 
 marvellous violet lights in the shallow flood 
 of Arno, laughing loudly while I told him that 
 that violet had to be waited for for weeks at 
 a time; mocking with his twisted mouth, 
 " Violet ! violet ! Corpo di Cristo, hark to the 
 man ! He cannot even see aright ! " Fool 
 that he was ! Howsoever, it is true that paint- 
 ers see deeper into colour, as falconers see 
 further than goldsmiths. And yet, because of 
 
 402 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 his ducats, he thought he could obtain a 
 portrait of his son and his mistress from me! 
 No doubt — si, si amico mio — you shall have 
 the portrait — ecco! Piero di Cosimo shall 
 paint your son and the twilight-eyed Caterina. 
 • ••••■• 
 
 'Tis a month since I have writ aught in 
 these pages. Alessandro and Caterina are 
 both dead: died o' the plague, it is said. I 
 know better. 
 
 They came to me. I made that a condition. 
 I painted both upon one canvas. A comely 
 youth, Alessandro: Caterina's beauty, melan- 
 choly, exquisite, like an autumnal eve on the 
 maremma. How they loved each other ! Oft- 
 times I laid down my brush, and once I burst 
 into laughter so loud and so long that Bardi, 
 the good youth, hesitatingly came towards me, 
 as a stag might approach a hyena. But I 
 waved him back, with muttered execrations. 
 Had he gained but one glimpse of my canvas 
 he would have slain me forthwith. Oftener, 
 I simulated great abstraction in labour, and 
 watched them furtively. Her favourite atti- 
 tude was to lean her head against his breast, 
 and then, many a time, she sang a wondrous 
 sweet song of the Trevisan (whereof she was 
 a native), so that my tawdry workroom be- 
 came glorified, I know not how. His pleasure 
 
 403 
 
William Sharp 
 
 was to stroke her long lustrous hair, and to 
 look dreamily into those shadowy eyes of hers, 
 where immortality seemed to brood amid 
 depths of death. She was with child, and oft 
 looked suddenly at naught, in a wild trouble, 
 as I have seen a white hart do at the falling 
 echo of a far-off baying hound. Ah! this 
 terrible brutality of motherhood. It is a de- 
 vice of nature to humiliate the soul, of which 
 she is jealous unto death. She has disguised 
 it in a rainbow, as a Borgia might convey a 
 debilitating, slow-killing poison in an exquisite 
 rose. . . . Well, I watched them oft. The 
 other eventide I was sitting alone, brooding 
 upon the frightful thing before me, all but fin- 
 ished it was, when Suleiman entered. I did 
 not hear him knock, nor do I believe he did, 
 though he so averred. He is a dark and evil 
 spirit. He stared at my canvas, and an awful 
 look lurked about his eyes and mouth. Then 
 he laughed. Thereafter he told me that he, 
 too, bore a bitter grudge against Luigi Bardi. 
 Dio mio, how it thrilled me when the swart 
 Oriental — Suleiman el Moro, he calls him- 
 self, though hell knows his accursed name — 
 confessed that he had woven a spell upon my 
 brushes, so that demons had entered into them. 
 " To what end ? " I asked, with my tongue 
 moving like a wounded thing in time o' 
 
 404 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 drought. " So that when Luigi Bardi's son 
 and his love look upon your painting they shall 
 become what you have depicted them." In 
 horror I rose, thrust the grim saturnine Sulei- 
 man aside, and ran from the house, as one 
 pursued by a demon. For I had painted Ales- 
 sandro as the Lust of a Devil, and Caterina 
 as the Desire of a Beast. Twas a wild re- 
 venge upon Bardi : but now God had turned it 
 against me. I stayed all the night with An- 
 tonio del Monte, moaning so, at times, that he 
 cried to me at last a wolf were fitter company. 
 On the morrow, filled with remorse, and re- 
 solved to end my folly, I hastened back to my 
 house. xA.s I passed under the shadow of the 
 Duomo I met Pietro Avante, who asked me if 
 I had heard that Sandro Bardi and Caterina 
 Da Ru had gone secretly from Florence — so 
 it was said, at the least, for nowhere were they 
 to be found. My heart sank deep, deep, 
 though I put a brave front against dis- 
 astrous fate. At the end of the Borgo di San 
 Sepolcro my late pupil, Giraldo da Signa, 
 stopped me, and asked me if I knew whither 
 Suleiman el Moro was bound. " Where- 
 fore ? " I asked. ** Because, as I was going 
 home, an hour before dawn — having been at 
 the carousal of Berto Danoli, who is returning 
 to Venice as the heir of his old uncle Bene- 
 
 405 
 
William Sharp 
 
 detto — curse him for a miser! — I descried 
 El Moro riding upon a white horse, and me- 
 thought he had the face of a corpse as he 
 stared, in his swift passing, towards the way of 
 the Pisan Gate." '* I know not, fool," I mut- 
 tered ; *' think you the accursed Egyptian, or 
 whatever he be, is my son ? " But thereafter 
 I hurried with trembling limbs to my house. 
 When I entered the workroom I thought my 
 heart-strings would break : 'twas as though my 
 heart were a wet cloth wrung by a woman on 
 Arno-side. There lay Alessandro Bardi and 
 Caterina^ not only dead, but horrible in death : 
 with a likeness, appalling, frightful, to their 
 ghastly phantasma on the canvas. I know not 
 how they died : whether she shrieked and fell 
 (they must have come earlier than their wont, 
 and seized the opportunity to look at my can- 
 vas), or whether he turned and slew her and 
 then strangled himself, or whether demons 
 wrought their death, I know not. They looked 
 as though they had died of the Black Pest. 
 Hastily I dashed paint this way and that 
 across my accursed picture, and scraped the 
 distorted features with the palette knife, till it 
 was as ghastly a ruin as the love of Sandro 
 and Caterina. Then again I rushed out, cry- 
 ing, ''The Pest! the Pest!'' At first I was 
 taken for mad. I know not how it might have 
 
 406 
 
From the Lost Journals of Piero di Cosimo 
 
 gone with me; but the authorities, fearing to 
 have even the name of the plague mentioned, 
 sent for, and privily removed, the two dead 
 bodies, and had them burned on a waste spot 
 half a league behind the wester slope of 
 Fiesole. And now it is all over — all gone — 
 all done. It might be a horror of the night, 
 but for this letter from Luigi Bardi, with its 
 awful curse; but for this oily, dull-savoured, 
 blood-red pebble, come to me this morning, 
 whence I know not, without word of any kind, 
 without indication, save the word '' Suleiman " 
 cried hollowly behind me by — by — some- 
 thing. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Old age is terrible when manhood is prosti- 
 tuted in it. It ought to be as full of peace and 
 beauty as a snow-covered landscape in sun- 
 light, as happy as a child's laughter among un- 
 folding blossoms. To be a derelict upon the 
 ocean of life is worse than any sudden wreck- 
 age. Death itself can never be truly abject: 
 living death is the grave : corruption. 
 
 Sorely distraught have I been of late. No 
 sound could I withstand. The very sight of 
 priests, monks, councillors, any one almost, of 
 flies and shadows even, has made me quiver 
 like an aspen. Oftentimes I have thrown 
 
 407 
 
William Sharp 
 
 down my brushes, cursing, because of my im- 
 potent hands. They would give me medicine. 
 There is but one potion for me. They would 
 poison me, no doubt. But I am already dead. 
 
 God, the beauty of the world! 
 
 • ••.••« 
 
 'Tis all one ravening horror. And I have 
 worshipped Nature ! Fool — fool — fool that 
 
 1 was! It is a Monster with a passion for 
 Death. It is a Creature, devouring, insatiable. 
 We are but the froth blown for a moment 
 above its churning jaws. 
 
 Is there anything more beautiful than a 
 windless midsummer eve, within the hour of 
 moonrise? Nothing stirs, save the flittering 
 bats. The slow-circling fireflies swing their 
 flames among the cypress boughs. Nature is 
 dead, or asleep. God leans downward wist- 
 fully, and looks betwixt the stars of His azure 
 veil upon the world the foolish priests say is 
 His. Somewhere in the unsunned gyres of 
 infinity, the unknown God, the third and con- 
 quering Protagonist, looks upward, with dim. 
 prevision, beyond the twin Portals of his 
 Rest — Oblivion and Chaos. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 (Appended in the Script of Messer Antonio 
 
 408 
 
William Sharp 
 
 del Monte, Chemist and Naturalist, of 
 
 Florence.) 
 
 Yester-morn, not having seen the maestro 
 for many days, and knowing how his madness 
 has been growing upon him, I went through 
 his desolate garden, strewn with the hones of 
 the many rare beasts and what not he hath 
 purchased from me, and ruinous with decay 
 and damp vicious glooms, and then up the 
 broken marble stairs to his door. There was 
 a weight against it, I pushed it to, and lo, 
 the corpse of Piero, with a most awful horror 
 on its face, lying head towards me, with the 
 feet still upon the stairway, I note this here 
 at once, lest any questioning should arise. 
 Here, also, I record his own wish, told me but 
 a half-month ago, that he was to be buried in 
 his garden, betwixt a great heavy iron crucifix 
 that woidd cover him, and an equally huge and 
 heavy iron cross. Upon the former was to be 
 engraved the single word, SPES, upon the 
 latter, NATURA, 
 
 (Requiescat in Pace: Antonio Barili del 
 Monte.) 
 
 409 
 
The Birth, Death and Resur 
 rection of a Tear 
 
THE BIRTH, DEATH AND RESURREC- 
 TION OF A TEAR 
 
 It is not only the haschisch eater who can, in 
 a moment, pass from the exigent life of the 
 commonplace to the dear tyranny of dreams. 
 How trivial, how laboriously methodical, is 
 that vulgar approach to pleasure — the pipe of 
 the opium-smoker, or the drugged coffee of the 
 slave of Indian hemp. 
 
 There is another avenue to the gate of 
 dreams. Those who have the secret may 
 enter at any moment from the maze of life 
 and move swiftly to the goal : more swift than 
 the desert mare, the fleetfoot wind. 
 
 Thus it was, that to-day, when amid ordi- 
 nary surroundings, and alone with a dear 
 friend to whom I had come to say farewell — 
 a word unsaid after all, and this because of a 
 dream — I was suaded from myself by one of 
 those unexpected visionary reveries which re- 
 lieve even the weariest days of the dreamer. 
 
 It was not willingly I had gone to see my 
 friend. My love for her had grown too bit- 
 ter, and at last I had come to believe that she 
 was of a hard and cynical spirit. But for my 
 own sake, as well as for what lay beyond, I 
 determined to make an end of what was be- 
 
 413 
 
William Sharp 
 
 come intolerable. Nor was I allured from my 
 purpose by her beauty, her grace, her ex- 
 quisitely restrained cordiality. The bitterness 
 of renunciation, the greater bitterness of a con- 
 viction that she felt only with the brain and the 
 nerves, and not with the heart, restrained me. 
 
 We had talked of many things of no real 
 moment, and yet I was no nearer what I had 
 to say. I remembered the words of a friend 
 who also had loved her, and loved vainly: 
 '' She is beautiful as the sea, and as cold, as 
 emotionless, as deadly cruel." 
 
 I know not by what accident it was that, as 
 she stooped over the silver tea-tray, which 
 caught the vagrant glow of the fire — all of 
 light and sound there was in that quietude of 
 dusk — a sparkle as of a diamond came from 
 behind the long dark eyelashes which so 
 greatly enhanced her beauty. It was an un- 
 shed tear ; for I saw it glimmer like a dewdrop 
 amid twilight shadows, then suspend tremu- 
 lously. Yet it did not fall at last down that 
 lovely sunbrown cheek no bloom of any " sun'd 
 September apricock " could outvie : as dew 
 it came and was absorbed again. 
 
 Whether the dear surprise, or the mere 
 white glimmer of that errant herald from the 
 heart, fascinated me, I know not ; but suddenly 
 my mind was in that motionless suspension 
 
 414 
 
The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 
 
 which the windhover has when she lifts her 
 breast against a sudden tide of air. 
 
 I saw before me, and far behind, a lustrous 
 expanse of waters. The sun-dazzle was upon 
 those nearest to me, and the wind, frothing the 
 little gold and silver cups tossed continuously 
 by the blue wavelets, made a sunny laughter 
 for leagues amid the yellow-meaded prairies of 
 azure. Beyond, the saffron shimmer lay upon 
 hyacinthine hollows deepening to limitless 
 spaces of purple. Then the sky-line and the 
 sea-line met, and blue within blue was lost. 
 
 I had scarce apprehended the vast extent, 
 the near witching beauty, when I realised that 
 I was submerged in fathomless depths. I had 
 not fallen, and had no sense of falling: rather, 
 without sound or motion, the depths had in- 
 visibly expanded, and now enfolded me. 
 
 So wrought by wonder was I, that when I 
 saw a green lawn stretching before me I did 
 not know whether to advance or to look upon 
 it as one of the fluid lawns of the sea. Then 
 I reflected that in the depths of the sea-water 
 would not be of a sunlit green. The next 
 moment I was walking swiftly across it, and 
 I remember how soft and springy was the turf 
 beneath my feet. 
 
 All sense of the marvellous had now left me. 
 When, overhead, I heard the rapturous song 
 
 415 
 
William Sharp 
 
 of lark after lark, I was no more astonished. 
 Why should I be, when my eyes were filled 
 with the beauty of the wild-roses which fell 
 in veils over the wilding hedges and almost hid 
 the honeysuckle and fragrant briar: when 
 every sense was charmed by the loveliness of 
 each garth and copse I passed on my way into 
 a woodland, in whose recesses I could hear the 
 cooing of doves and the windy chimes of cas- 
 cades and singing brooks ? 
 
 Never had I seen any forest so beautiful. 
 As I advanced, the trees had an aspect of 
 ancient grandeur, or of a loveliness which 
 went to my heart. Avenue after avenue, vista 
 after vista, disclosed innumerable perspectives 
 of green foliage and the hues of a myrild flow- 
 ers, with golden sunlight breaking everywhere, 
 and overhead and between the high boughs a 
 sky of a deep joy-giving blue. White birds, 
 and others rainbow-hued, drifted through the 
 sun-warm spaces or flashed from branch to 
 branch. The fern quivered every here and 
 there with the leaping of the fawns, the bleat- 
 ing of the does audible the while by some un- 
 seen watercourse. Some of the flowers were 
 familiar: wild hyacinth and windflowers, 
 orchis and the purple anemone, kingcups and 
 daffodils, and many others, all children of the 
 Spring, but otherwise without heed of their 
 
 416 
 
The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 
 
 wonted season, so that the primrose and the 
 wild-rose were neighbours, and snowdrops and 
 aconites clustered under the red hawthorn. 
 
 But there were also others which were 
 strange. Many of these seemed to me as 
 though rubies and emeralds and rainbow-hued 
 opals had risen from their rocky beds in the 
 depths of the earth, and stolen to the surface, 
 and bared their breasts to the kisses of the 
 sunflame which gave them life and joy even 
 while it consumed them with its passionate 
 ardour. 
 
 The birds, too, were wonderful to behold. 
 There were among them what seemed blooms 
 of pink or azure fire with wings of waving 
 light : and the song of these was so wilderingly 
 sweet that Ecstacy and Silence, walking hand 
 in hand through that Eden of Dream, knew 
 not when they became one, the Joy that cannot 
 be seen nor uttered nor divined. 
 
 Through all this loveliness I went as one 
 wrought by the gladness of death. Some such 
 rapture as this must oftentimes allure the lib- 
 erated soul when, the veil rent, the air of a 
 new and stronger delight is inhaled at every 
 breath. 
 
 Then, all at once, I knew I was not alone in 
 that lovely Avalon. Voices of surpassing 
 sweetness prevailed through the green 
 
 417 
 
William Sharp 
 
 branches. I thought at first that the whisper- 
 ing leaves were the sighs and laughter of the 
 happy dead. One haunting sweet voice I fol- 
 lowed, a delicate, remote, exquisite ululation, 
 faint as dream-music across the dark sea of 
 sleep. Like one winged I went, for the trees 
 slid motionlessly by, as, to the wind, they must 
 seem to recede from his lifting pinions. 
 
 In the very inmost Eden of that paradise I 
 stood at last, silent, intent. Beside a fount, 
 whose crystalline wave was filled with sun- 
 gold and frothed with sun-dazzle, bent a spirit 
 of a loveliness of which I cannot speak. She 
 was as though she were a beam of light from 
 the places, east of the sun and west of the 
 moon, where the young seraphim for joy re- 
 weave the perishing rainbows. 
 
 About her were beautiful tremulous phan- 
 toms, coming and going, appearing and vanish- 
 ing. These were joys and hopes, aspirations 
 and unspoken prayers, dear desires and long- 
 ings and wistful yearnings, fair thoughts and 
 delicate dreams. 
 
 From her I looked into that halcyon water. 
 The sparkle, the shine of it, entranced me. 
 
 At last I spoke. She turned, glanced at 
 me with a shy, sweet serenity, and, after a 
 brief incertitude, beckoned to me to ap- 
 proach. 
 
 418 
 
The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 
 
 I knew that I had never looked upon any 
 one so lovely; yet, her face was vaguely fa- 
 miliar. Doubtless it was Ideala, long sought, 
 long dreamed of. 
 
 '' Look," she whispered, as soon as she had 
 slipped her hand into mine. Together we 
 bent over the sunlit fount. It was like an 
 opal in its lovely hues. In the very core of it 
 I saw what seemed the most exquisite pearl. 
 This appeared to me to be forming, for every 
 moment it grew lovelier. Suddenly it rose, 
 came to the surface, and, for a few seconds, 
 was filled with sunlight, before it welled into 
 one of the many golden conduits which, I now 
 noticed, led from the fountain. 
 
 A few seconds: yet in that single pulse of 
 time I learned a wonderful thing. '' Do you 
 see this fount ? " said Ideala again, in the same 
 low thrilling whisper : '' it is the heart of my 
 heart." 
 
 " Of your heart, O beautiful Dream?" 
 
 " Yes. Do you not know that you are now 
 in my heart? All this fair Eden you have 
 traversed, since you came from the deep wave 
 that brought you hither, is my heart. You 
 saw the flowers, you heard the songs of the 
 birds, the voice of cool waters, the murmur of 
 strange winds : Did none interpret to you ? " 
 
 " And all these lovely phantoms, these 
 
 419 
 
William Sharp 
 
 beautiful Hopes and Aspirations and tender 
 Sympathies and brave Heroisms ? " 
 
 *' They are my helpers and servers ; but I 
 do not see them." 
 
 "' And this fount, this sunlit water? " 
 
 *' It is the Fount of Tears that is in every 
 woman's heart. Now it is warmed with flood- 
 ing sunshine, because I love. Thus it is that 
 the tears that rise are single just now : and are 
 so beautiful, wrought as they are of rainbow- 
 hope." 
 
 *' And who are you ? " I cried, a sudden, 
 wild, passionate hope coming upon me like a 
 tempest, making me as a leaf before the wind. 
 
 She looked at me amazedly. 
 
 Her lips moved, but I caught no sound. A 
 swift mist was rising between us. She had 
 withdrawn her hand, and though eagerly I 
 stretched my arms I could not reach her. 
 
 A name, the dearest of all names, burst 
 from my lips. I saw a wonderful light in the 
 beautiful face. The eyes, the eyes told me all. 
 Lamps of home, sweet lamps of home! 
 
 There was a rush of waters. The tear I 
 had seen welling from her heart was the same 
 as that which died on her eyes, and had in its 
 death borne me to the lovely sanctuaries of her 
 heart. Again, it expanded into a great wave ; 
 again a limitless ocean stretched beyond me; 
 
 420 
 
The Birth, Death and Resurrection of a Tear 
 
 again I was enveloped and borne swiftly from 
 depth below to depth above, till the senses for 
 one flashing second reeled as the soul returned 
 from its moment's flight. 
 
 Did I say an unshed tear gleamed upon me 
 from behind the dark eyelashes of her whom I 
 loved, and so little understood, so scarcely 
 knew? 
 
 Truly, I saw it glimmer like a dewdrop amid 
 twilight shadows: then suspend tremulously: 
 but now — how long ago, or but the breath of 
 a moment? — that which had been born in 
 longing and had died in pain, knew, now, a 
 lovely resurrection. 
 
 My heart was full of a great joy, a great 
 reverence. I rose, trembled, and at that mo- 
 ment the tear fell down the lovely sunbrown 
 cheek no bloom of any '' sun'd September apri- 
 cock '* could outvie. 
 
 421 
 
The Hill- Wind 
 
THE HILL-WIND 
 
 When the Hill-Wind awoke by the tarn the 
 noontide heats were over. The blithe mountain- 
 air, fragrant with thyme and honey-ooze, with 
 odours of pine and fir, flowed softly across the 
 uplands. The sky was of a deep, lustrous, 
 wind-washed azure, turquoise-tint where it 
 caught the sun-flood southerly and westerly. 
 A few snowy wisps of vapour appeared here 
 and there, curled like fantastic sleighs or 
 sweeping aloft as the tails of wild horses ; then 
 quickly became attenuated, or even all at once 
 and mysteriously disappeared. Far and near 
 the grouse called, or rose from the cranberry- 
 patches in the ling in their abrupt flurries of 
 flight, beating the hot air with their pinions 
 till it was vibrant with the echoing whirr. The 
 curlews wheeled about the water-courses, cry- 
 ing plaintively. Faint but haunting sweet as 
 remote chimes, the belling of the deer was 
 audible in the mountain-hollows. 
 
 A myriad life thrilled the vast purple up- 
 land. The air palpitated with the innumer- 
 able suspirations of plant and flower, insect 
 and bird and beast. Curious in the tarn the 
 speckled trout caught the glint of the wander- 
 
 425 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ing sunray ; far upon the heights the fleeces of 
 the small hill-sheep seemed like patches of 
 snow in the sunlight; remote on the scaur 
 beyond the highest pines, the eagle, as he 
 stared unwaveringly upon the wilderness be- 
 neath him, shone resplendent as though com- 
 pact of polished bronze set with gems. 
 
 Every sound, every sight, was part of the 
 intimate life of the Hill-Wind. All was 
 beautiful : real. The remote attenuated scream 
 of the eagle: the high thin cry of the kestrel 
 when doubling upon herself in hawking the 
 moorland ; the floating lilt of the yellow-ham- 
 mer : the air-eddies sliding through the honey- 
 laden spires of heather, or whispering among 
 the canna and gale : the myriad murmur from 
 the leagues of sunswept ling and from the dim 
 grassy savannahs which underlay that purple 
 roof: each and all were to her as innate 
 voices. 
 
 For a long time she lay in a happy suspen- 
 sion of all thought or activity, fascinated by 
 the reflection of herself in the tarn. Lovely 
 was the image. The soft, delicately-rounded 
 white limbs, the flower-like body, seemed 
 doubly white against the wine-dark purple of 
 the bell-heather and the paler amethyst of the 
 ling. The large shadowy eyes, like purple-blue 
 pansies, dreamed upward from the face in the 
 
 426 
 
The Hill-Wind 
 
 water. Beautiful as was the sun-dazzle in 
 the hair that was about her head as a glory 
 of morning, even more beautiful was the 
 shimmer of gold and fleeting amber shot 
 through the rippled surface and clear-brown 
 undercalm of the tarn; where also was mir- 
 rored, with a subtler beauty than above, the 
 tremulous sulphur-butterfly, poising its yellow 
 wings as it clung to her left breast, ivory- 
 white, small, and firm. 
 
 Dim inarticulate thoughts passed through 
 the mind of the Oread — for an Oread the 
 Hill-Wind had been, long, long ago, beyond 
 many lovely transformations — as she lay 
 dreaming by the mountain-pool. Down what 
 remote avenues of life fared her pilgrim eyes, 
 seeking ancestral goals; from what imme- 
 morial past arose, like flying shadows at 
 dawn, recollections of the fires of sunrise 
 kindling along the mountain-summits, of the 
 flames of sunset burning slowly upward from 
 the beech-forests to the extreme pines, sombre 
 torches erelong against the remotest snows; 
 vague remembrances of bygone pageants of 
 day and night, of the voicing of old-world 
 winds and the surpassing wonder of the inter- 
 change and outgrowth of the seasons, from 
 the Spring Chant of the Equinox to the dirge 
 Euroclydon. Ever and again drifted through 
 
 427 
 
William Sharp 
 
 her mind fleeting phantoms of life still nearer 
 to herself: white figures, seen in vanishing 
 glimpses of unpondered, all-unconscious 
 reverie — figures which slipt from tree to tree 
 in the high hill-groves, or leaped before the 
 wind, with flying banners of sunlit hair, or 
 stooped to drink from the mountain-pools 
 which the deer forsook not at their approach. 
 Who, what, was this white shape, upon whose 
 milky skin the ruddy light shone, as he stood 
 on a high ledge at sundown and looked medi- 
 tatively upon the twilit valleys and gloomsome 
 underworld far below? Whose were these 
 unremembered yet familiar sisters, flowerlike 
 in their naked beauty, gathering moonflowers 
 for garlands, while their straying feet amid 
 the dew made a silver shimmer as of gossa- 
 mer-webs by the waterfalls? Who was the 
 lovely vision, so like that mirrored in the tarn 
 before her, who, stooping in the evergreen- 
 glade to drink the moonshine-dew, suddenly 
 lifted her head, listened intently, and smiled 
 with such wild shy joy? 
 
 What meant those vague half -glimpses, 
 those haunting illusive reminiscences of a past 
 that was yet unrememberable? 
 
 Troubled, though she knew it not, uncon- 
 sciously perplexed, vaguely yearning with that 
 nostalgia for her ancestral kind which had 
 
 428 
 
The Hill-Wind 
 
 been born afresh and deeply by the contempla- 
 tion of her second self in the mountain pool, 
 the Hill-Wind slowly rose, stretched her 
 white arms, with her hands spraying out her 
 golden hair, and gazed longingly into the blue 
 haze beyond. 
 
 Suddenly she started, at the irruption of an 
 unfamiliar sound that was as it were caught 
 up by the wind and flung from corrie to corrie. 
 It was not like the fall of a boulder, and it 
 sounded strangely near. Stooping, she 
 plucked a sprig of gale: then, idly twisting it 
 to and fro, walked slowly to where a moun- 
 tain-ash, ablaze with scarlet berries, leaned 
 forward from a high heathery bank overlook- 
 ing a wide hollow in the moors. A great 
 dragon-fly spun past her like an elf's javelin. 
 The small yellow-brown bees circled round 
 and brushed against her hair, excited by this 
 new and strange flower that moved about like 
 the hill-sheep or the red deer. As she stood 
 under the shadow of the rowan and leaned 
 against its gnarled trunk, two small blue but- 
 terflies wavered up from the heather and 
 danced fantastically over the sun-sprent gold 
 above her brow. She laughed, but frovvmed 
 as a swift swept past and snapt up one of the 
 azure dancers. With a quick gesture she 
 broke off a branch of the rowan, but by this 
 
 429 
 
William Sharp 
 
 time the other little blue butterfly had wavered 
 off into the sunlight. 
 
 Holding the branch downward she smiled 
 as she saw the whiteness of her limbs beneath 
 the tremulous arrowy leaves and the thick 
 clusters of scarlet and vermilion berries. 
 Whenever the gnats, whirling in aerial maze, 
 came too near, she raised the rowan branch 
 and slowly waved them back. Suddenly . . . 
 her arm stiffened, and she stood motionless, 
 rigid, intent. It was the Voice of the Sea, the 
 dull, obscure, summoning voice that whispered 
 to the ancient Gods, and called and calls to all 
 Powers and Dominions that have been and 
 are ; the same that is in the ears of Man as an 
 echo; and in the House of the Soul as a ru- 
 mour of a coming hour. 
 
 Motionless herself, her eyes travelled 
 through the long haze-blue vistas of the hills. 
 The scythe-swift Shadow of a mighty pinion 
 moved from slope to slope. The Hill- Wind 
 sighed. Then, smiling under some new im- 
 pulse of joy, she leaped forward, but only in- 
 dolently to throw herself upon a flood of sun- 
 light streaming by. 
 
 The wide reach of harebell-waters, beyond 
 where the heather broke down to the sea, 
 shimmered suddenly into a dazzle of gold 
 flame. A few waves swung aloft their coro- 
 
 430 
 
The Hill-Wind 
 
 nals of foam, laughing joyously to the chant 
 of their sweet sea-tune. They had gained a 
 sister: the Sea-wind, a bride: and Ocean a 
 breath, a suspiration, an ended sigh. 
 
 431 
 
Love in A Mist 
 
LOVE IN A MIST 
 
 In a green hollow in the woodlands, Love, a 
 mere child, with sunny golden curls and large 
 blue eyes, stood whimpering. A round tear 
 had fallen on his breast and trickled slowly 
 down his white skin, till it lay like a dewdrop 
 on his thigh : another was in pursuit, but had 
 reached no further than a dimple in the 
 chubby cheek, into which it had heedlessly 
 rolled and could not get out again. Beside 
 Love was a thicket of white wild roses, so 
 innumerable that they seemed like a cloud of 
 butterflies alit on a hedge for a moment and 
 about to take wing — so white that the little 
 wanderer looked as though he were made of 
 rose-stained ivory. Here was the cause of 
 the boy's whimpering. A thorn-point had 
 slightly scratched his right arm, barely tearing 
 the skin but puncturing it sufficiently to let 
 a tiny drop of blood, like a baby rowan-berry, 
 slowly well forth. 
 
 Love looked long and earnestly at the 
 wound. Then he whimpered, but stopped to 
 smile at a squirrel who pretended to be exam- 
 ining the state of its tail, but was really watch- 
 ing him. When the little drop of blood would 
 
 435 
 
William Sharp 
 
 neither roll away nor go back, Love grew 
 angry, and began to cry. 
 
 " Ah, I am so weak," he sighed ; '' perhaps I 
 shall die ! Ah, wretched little soul that I am, 
 to lie here in this horrible thorny wood. 
 No — no — I will drag myself out into the | 
 
 sunshine, and die there. Perhaps — p'raps — | 
 
 (sniiHe) — 'aps — (sniffle) — a kind lark will " I 
 
 — (sniffle). 
 
 Sobbing bitterly. Love crept through a 
 beech-hedge, and so into the open sunlit 
 meadow beyond. He was so unhappy that he 
 quite forgot to knock off from a grey thistle 
 a huge snail, although its shell shone tempt- 
 ingly many-hued; and even a cricket that 
 jumped on to his foot and then off again 
 hardly brought to his face a wan smile. 
 
 But after sitting awhile by a heavy bur- 
 dock, and sobbing at gradually lengthening 
 intervals, he stopped abruptly. Out of a garth 
 of red clover and white campions he saw two 
 round black eyes staring at him with such 
 unmitigated astonishment that he could do 
 nothing else but stare back with equal rigidity 
 and silence. 
 
 " Why, it is only a brown hare," exclaimed 
 Love below his breath. ** How it smiles ! " — 
 and therewith he broke into so hearty a laugh 
 that the hare sprang round as if on a pivot, 
 
 436 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 and went leaping away through the meadow. 
 Beyond the puffed campions were a cluster of 
 tall ox-eye daisies, and they moved so tempt- 
 ingly towards him in the breeze that Love ran 
 as it were to meet them. 
 
 No sooner, however, was he in their midst 
 than he pluckt them one by one, and then ran 
 back with them towards the wood, in whose 
 cool shadow, he thought, it would be delight- 
 ful to weave of them a starry wreath. 
 
 But by the time the wreath was woven, 
 Love was both thirsty and aweary of being 
 still. So, having sipped the dew from a bed 
 of green mosses among the surface-roots of 
 a vast oak, he ran into a little wilderness of 
 wild hyacinths, and danced therein with mad- 
 dest glee, while the sunlight splashed upon 
 him through the dappling shadows of the oak 
 boughs. 
 
 A fat bumble-bee and two white butterflies 
 joined him for a time, but at last the bee grew 
 hot and breathless, and the butterflies were 
 frightened by his joyous laughter and the 
 clapping of his little hands. Scarce, however, 
 was he left alone once more than he descried 
 a young fawn among the fern. It took him 
 but a moment to snatch his wreath of ox-eye 
 daisies and but another to spring to the side 
 of the startled fawn and place the wreath 
 
 437 
 
William Sharp 
 
 round its neck. The great brown eyes looked 
 fearfully at Love, who, little rascal, pretended 
 to be caressing when he was really making 
 ready for a leap. In a second he was on the 
 fawn's back — but, ah ! poor Love, he had not 
 calculated for such a flight. Away sped the 
 fawn, athwart the glade, through the hollow, 
 and out across the meadow towards the sand- 
 dune. Gradually Love's hold became more 
 and more insecure, and at last off he came 
 right into a mass of yellow irises and a tad- 
 pole-haunted little pool. 
 
 Love might have stopped to cry, or at least 
 to chase the tadpoles, but he happened to see 
 a sea-gull flying low beyond him across the 
 dunes. With a shout he pursued it, forgetful 
 alike of the fawn and his lost wreath. 
 
 But when he came to the break in the 
 dunes he could not see the ocean because of the 
 haze that lay upon it, and in which the sea- 
 gull was soon lost to sight. But at least the 
 sands were there. For a time he wandered 
 disconsolately along the shore. Then, when 
 he saw the tide slowly advancing, he frowned. 
 '' Ha ! ha ! " he laughed, '' I shall build a castle 
 of sand, and then the sea will not know what 
 to do, and the white gull will come back 
 again." 
 
 But having built his sand-castle, Love was 
 
 438 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 so weary that he curled himself up behind the 
 shallow barrier, and, having wearily but lov- 
 ingly placed beside him three pink half-shells, 
 a pearly willie-winkie, a piece of wave-worn 
 chalk, and a hermit-crab (which soon crawled 
 away), he was speedily asleep. 
 
 Before long the ripple of the water against 
 the very frontier of his small domain aroused 
 the brine-bred things that live by the sea- 
 marge. A few cockles gaped thirstily, and 
 one or two whistle-fish sent their jets of water 
 up into the air and then protruded their shelly 
 snouts as if to scan the tardy advance of the 
 tide. The sand-lice bestirred themselves, 
 creeping, leaping, confusedly eager not to be 
 overtaken by that rapid ooze which would 
 quicksand them in a moment. 
 
 Then a piece of dulse was washed right on 
 to the castle-wall. On the salt-smelling wrack 
 was a crab, and this startled voyager saw dry 
 land and mayhap new food to sample in the 
 white foot of Love that lay temptingly near. 
 Just then a flying shrimp, a mad aeronaut, a 
 reckless enthusiast among its kind, took the 
 fortress at a leap and alighted on Love's white 
 and crinkled belly. The boy's body instinct- 
 ively shivered. Still, he might not have 
 awaked, had not the crab at that moment joy- 
 ously gripped, as succulent prey, his little 
 
 439 
 
William Sharp 
 
 toe, curled as it was like a small and dainty 
 mollusc. 
 
 Love sat up, and with indignant eyes re- 
 monstrated with the crab, who had at once 
 given way and retreated with haphazard as- 
 siduity to the shelter of a convenient pebble 
 partially embedded in the sand. 
 
 As for the shrimp, it had come and gone 
 like the very ghost of a tickle, like the dream- 
 fly of sleepland. 
 
 But suddenly Love heard a voice, a low 
 whisper, coming he knew not whence, and yet 
 so strangely familiar. Was it borne upon the 
 white lips of the tide, or did it come from 
 the curving billow that swept shoreward, or 
 from the deep beyond ? Who can guess what 
 the voice said, since Love himself knew not 
 the sweet strange word, but was comforted: 
 knowing only that he was to return to the 
 wood again. Fragments he caught, though 
 little comprehensible : " My child, my little 
 wandering Love, who art born daily, and art 
 ever young," and then the words of which he 
 knew nothing, or but vaguely apprehended. 
 
 Yet ever petulant. Love would rather have 
 stayed by the sea, even to the undoing of his 
 castle-walls, already toppling with the upward 
 reaching damp of the stealthy underooze, had 
 he not descried a white wild-goat standing on 
 
 440 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 the dune and looking at him with mild eyes 
 like sunlit sardonyx. With a glad cry he ran 
 towards the goat, who made no play of 
 caprice but seemed to invite, for all the 
 strangeness of the essay, this young rider with 
 the child's smile and the emperor's eyes. 
 
 The yellow-hammers and ousels, the whin- 
 chats and sea-larks sent abroad long thrilling 
 notes in their excitement, as the white goat, 
 with Love laughingly astride, raced across the 
 dunes and over the meadows towards the 
 wood. But as the too-impulsive steed took a 
 fallen oak at a bound, its feet caught in the 
 loose bark, and poor Love was shot forward 
 into a hollow of green moss. Alas, in the 
 comet-like passage thither, a nettle slightly 
 stung the sole of one foot ; so that the moment 
 he had recovered from his somersault he 
 snatched a broken oak-branch, and turned to 
 chastise the too heedless goat. But, to his as- 
 tonishment, no goat was to be seen. It had 
 disappeared as though it were a blossom 
 blown by the wind. 
 
 Rubbing his eyes. Love looked again and 
 again. No goat; no sound, even, save the 
 ruffling of the low wind among the lofty 
 domes of the forest, the tap-tapping of a 
 woodpecker, the shrill cry of a jay and indis- 
 criminate warbling undertone of a myriad 
 
 441 
 
William Sharp 
 
 birds, with, below all, the chirp of the grass- 
 hopper and the drone of the small wood-wasp 
 and the foraging bee. 
 
 Beyond the last copse the sun was slowly 
 moving in a whirl of golden fire. 
 
 Hark! what was that? Love started, and 
 then slipped cautiously from tree to tree, find- 
 ing his way into the woodland like a gliding 
 sunray. He heard voices, and a snatch of a 
 song : — 
 
 " The wild bird called to me ' Follow ! ' 
 The nightingale whispered ' Stay ! ' 
 When lost in the hawthorn-hollow 
 We" 
 
 The next moment he descried a lovely girl 
 lying on the moss below an oak, with her face 
 towards the setting sun, whose warm flood 
 soaked through the wide green flame of the 
 irradiated leaves. A little way beyond her 
 was a young man, no other than the singer, 
 standing by an easel, and putting the last 
 touches to the canvas upon which he was at 
 work. 
 
 Love was curious. He had never seen a 
 picture, and, in fact, he thought the man 
 was probably spreading out something to eat. 
 He, child though he was, was so fearless, that 
 no one could have daunted him, and so na- 
 
 442 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 lively royal, that no idea even of his being 
 gainsaid troubled his brain. 
 
 With great interest he stole alongside the 
 painter. He looked at the canvas dubiously; 
 sniffed it; and then turned away with a ges- 
 ture of disapproval. He liked the look of 
 the pigments on a palette that lay on the 
 ground, and thought that the man was per- 
 haps no other than he who painted the king- 
 cups and violets and the bells of the hya- 
 cinths. But the smell made him sick, and so 
 he stole towards the girl to see what she was 
 doing. 
 
 It vaguely puzzled him that neither the man 
 nor the girl seemed to be aware of his pres- 
 ence; yet, as Love never troubled to think, 
 the bewilderment was but a shadow of a 
 passing cloud. The girl was beautiful. He 
 loved better to look at her than at any other 
 flower of the forest. Even the blue corn- 
 flower, even the hedge-speedwell, had not so 
 exquisite a blue as the dream-wrought eyes 
 into whose unconscious depths he looked long, 
 and saw at last his own image, clear as in 
 deep water. " I wish she would sing," said 
 Love to himself ; " that man yonder is no 
 better than a huge bumble-bee." With a rnis- 
 chievous glance he pluckt a tall wind-flower, 
 and gently tickled her with it. 
 
 443 
 
William Sharp 
 
 A faint smile, a delicate wave of colour, 
 came into her face. ''Ah, Love! Love!" she 
 whispered below her breath. 
 
 How sweet the words were! With a 
 happy sigh Love cuddled up close to the 
 beautiful girl, and, tired and drowsy, would 
 soon have fallen asleep, had not the heaving 
 of her bosom disturbed him. 
 
 " Ah, what a tiresome world it is,'' ex- 
 claimed Love fretfully, as he crawled indo- 
 lently away, and then rested again among 
 some blue flowers. There he sat for some 
 time, sulkily tying a periwinkle round each 
 toe. Suddenly, with a cry of joy, he descried 
 among the flowers his lost bow and sheaf of 
 arrows. With a merry laugh he reached for 
 them, and in mere wantonness began to fray 
 the petals with an arrow, and to tangle them 
 into an intricate net of blue blossom and 
 green fibre. 
 
 But in the midst of his glee came retribu- 
 tion. He heard a rustling sound, a quick ex- 
 clamation, and the next moment an easel fell 
 right atop of him, and, but for his soft, mossy 
 carpet, might have flattened him, for all his 
 white plumpness. True, the easel was picked 
 up "again immediately, but Love felt the in- 
 sult as well as the blow. With a yell of 
 anger, that very nearly startled a neighbour- 
 
 444 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 ing caterpillar, he fitted an arrow to his 
 bow, and shot it straight at the clumsy owner 
 of the easel. "Aha," he thought, ''I have 
 paid you back, you see," for he saw the young 
 man stop, grow pale, hesitate, and then sud- 
 denly fall on his knees. *' Ah ! he is wounded 
 to death," and Love's tender heart got the 
 better of his resentment, and he would fain 
 have recalled that deadly arrow. But to his 
 astonishment the youth seemed more eager to 
 seize and kiss the girl's hand than to save his 
 life, if that were still possible ! 
 
 As for the girl, the sunset was upon her 
 face as a flame. She tried to rise, and in 
 doing so trampled upon one of Love's toes. 
 Poor little Love danced about furiously on 
 one foot, holding his wounded toe with one 
 hand; but alas! again his hasty anger over- 
 came him, and, before he realised what he had 
 done, he shot another arrow, this time straight 
 at the heart of the lovely girl. 
 
 Alas, how it weakened her at once ! In the 
 agony of death, no doubt^ she fell forward 
 into the man's arms and laid her head upon 
 his breast. 
 
 But speedily Love saw that they were not 
 dead or even dying, but merely kissing and 
 fondling each other, and this too in the most 
 insensate fashion. 
 
 445 
 
William Sharp 
 
 " Oh, how funny ! how funny ! " laughed 
 Love, and rolled about in an ecstasy among 
 the blue flowers, making the tangle worse 
 than ever. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 (Twilight) 
 She. Darling — darling — let me go now 
 
 — let me go. It will soon be dark. 
 He. Sweetheart, wait! 
 
 She. Hush! What is that? 
 
 (A low tiny snore comes from amidst the 
 blue flowers.) 
 
 He. Oh, it is only a bettle rubbing its 
 shards, or a mole burrowing through the 
 grass. 
 
 She. Ah, look; we are trampling under 
 foot such beautiful flowers. These must be 
 our flowers, dear, must they not? What are 
 they? 
 
 He. I don't know — ah, yes, to be sure 
 
 — they must be the flower called ** Love in a 
 Mist." 
 
 She (dreamily). I wonder if we could see 
 Love himself if we searched below all this 
 blue tangle ? 
 
 . . . She leans down, and peers through 
 the blue veil of the flowers. Love wakes 
 with the fragrance of her warm breath play- 
 ing upon his cheek, but does not stir, for he is 
 
 446 
 
Love in a Mist 
 
 remorseful at having shot an arrow at so 
 lovely a thing. With loving caressing touch 
 he gently lays a dew-drop into each blue' 
 flower of her eyes. . . . 
 
 She {whispering as she rises). How beau- 
 tiful, how wonderful it all is! 
 
 He, Ah, darling, tears in those beautiful 
 eyes! Come, let me kiss them away. 
 
 Love (below his breath). Greedy wretch 
 — I gave them to her! Ah, she shall have 
 many more, and you, mayhap, none ! 
 
 Hand in hand, the lovers go away, and, 
 well content, Love turns over on his side and 
 is soon sound asleep. The moon rises, full 
 and golden yellow. From a beech-covert a 
 nightingale sings with intermittent snatches 
 of joy. Above the blue flowers two white 
 night-moths flicker in a slow fantastic way- 
 ward dance. A glowworm, hanging on a 
 lock of Love's curly hair, shines as though it 
 were the child of a moonbeam and a flower. 
 
 But at last the glowworm, crawling from 
 its high place and adown the white sweetness 
 of Love's face, tickled his small nose, and 
 caused him to sit up, startled, and wide 
 awake. " What — who ? " muttered Love 
 confusedly. 
 
 The Nightjar. 
 
 Quir-rr-rr-o 1 . . . Quir-rr-rr-o I 
 
 447 
 
William Sharp 
 
 The Nightingale. 
 Kew-u-ee, kwee ! Kwee-kwee-tchug ! tchug! 
 tchug! kwee-kwilloh! 
 
 A Restless Magpie {mockingly), 
 
 kwollow- 
 
 Kwilloh 
 
 . . . kwollow, ohee 
 
 kwan! 
 
 
 
 Echo. 
 
 Follow 
 
 . . . oh, follow them! 
 
 
 Further Echo. 
 
 Follow! 
 
 . . . Fol . . . low! 
 
 
 Love (rising). 
 
 I come, 
 
 I come ! who calls ? 
 
 
 Distant Echo (faintly) 
 
 Fol . . 
 
 . low. 
 
 448 
 
The Sister of Compassion 
 
THE SISTER OF COMPASSION 
 
 (To Mrs. Mona Caird) 
 The June sunshine moved upon me like a 
 flood. In my sleep, or drowsy reverie, as I 
 lay in the hollow of the tamarisk-fringed 
 dunes which formed the frontier between the 
 forest and the sea, I could hear the two most 
 thrilling voices of Nature — the murmur of a 
 slow wind meshed among green branches, and 
 the confused whispered tumult of great wa- 
 ters. 
 
 The unwontedly sustained crying of a gull 
 caused me to stir, turn, and lean on my el- 
 bows, with my face against the near waving 
 of the birches which ran out from the wood- 
 land. A score of yards to the right, a boul- 
 der rose from a garth of fern. Its forehead 
 was white with bleached sea-moss, its sides 
 golden with lichen ; and like a white magnolia- 
 bloom upon it was a snowy fulmar, crouch- 
 ing in pain. I saw that the poor bird had 
 been wounded, and as it attempted to rise, at 
 the moment I stirred, I could see that it had 
 been shot, for the left wing was helplessly 
 adroop. 
 
 If the fulmar would let me approach, I be- 
 
 451 
 
William Sharp 
 
 lieved I could ease its agony; but, alas, man 
 is the apparition of Death to his weaker com- 
 rades in the common heritage of life. By his 
 own madness of wrong and cruelty he has 
 forfeited that elder brotherhood which should 
 be his pride as it is natively his right. 
 
 How, indeed, as it was through the wanton 
 act of a man that the bird had been given over 
 to prolonged agony and sure death, could it 
 have been otherwise; yet it was with deep 
 disappointment that, after I had been allowed 
 to approach within a few yards' distance, the 
 fulmar suddenly hurled itself into the fern. 
 There, like a wounded duck among sedge and 
 bulrush, it floundered heavily in a wild and 
 despairing panic. 
 
 From the sky, a living blue, came the songs 
 of unseen larks : from the woodland, the coo- 
 ing of cushats, the sweet chitter of small 
 birds, the blithe notes of throstle and mavis: 
 from the sea, the chime of green wavelets 
 running up foamy channels or leaping along 
 among the shallows, and, beyond, that deep 
 mysterious rhythm that contains the pulse of 
 Time. Peace brooded upon sky, and sea, and 
 land ; but, like a laugh from hell heard among 
 the alleys of paradise, the screaming of the 
 wounded gull turned the sweet savour of life 
 into bitterness. 
 
 452 
 
The Sister of Compassion 
 
 It was at this moment I became aware of a 
 rumour in the forest. From beech and chest- 
 nut, from lime and tall elm, from sycamore 
 and hazel, came a ripple of sweet notes, a rus- 
 tle of wings. The beech-mast crackled with 
 the scurrying of rabbits. Young foxes, 
 wood-hares, squirrels, stirred through the 
 bracken round the great-rooted oaks. Across 
 the dry water-course the shrew-mice pattered. 
 
 It was not consternation, for there were no 
 startled cries, no reckless flight. The jay 
 screamed no warning; the single snapping 
 bark of the fox was unheard. 
 
 Suddenly I stood as though entranced. I 
 saw a woman, clothed in white, moving 
 through the sun-splashed woodland. So ra- 
 diant was the warm-white of her robe, that 
 the leaf and branch-shadows, trailing on the 
 golden light that overlay the moss, seemed 
 pale blue. 
 
 Through the branches over her head a 
 myriad company of birds hovered, from the 
 wandering cuckoo to the sky ringdove, from 
 the missel-thrush to the wren. I saw the fal- 
 con flying harmlessly among the chaffinches, 
 and a wind-hover moving unheeded among 
 the crowd of fluttering sparrows. 
 
 Around, and behind her, were animals of 
 all kinds. By her side, wild fawns, stretching 
 
 453 
 
William Sharp 
 
 their long necks towards her, blessed her with 
 the unconscious benediction of their eyes. 
 One small fawn was dappled red as with 
 autumnal leaves, or as with blood. It 
 moved by her right, and seemed to live only 
 by the love and pity wherewith she sustained 
 it, by healing hand or caressing touch. In 
 her breast was a spot of dull red. I thought 
 it was blood, but it was only a wounded robin 
 which she had rescued from the snare of the 
 bird-trapper. It slept against the warmth of 
 her bosom: its tiny pulse of life lifting the 
 small ruddy breast in rhythm with the larger 
 rise and fall. 
 
 The woman was young, in the beautiful 
 youth of those who are not of this world. 
 On her face, fair with charity, sweet with lov- 
 ing kindness, there was the trouble of some- 
 thing unfulfilled. Her eyes, which mirrored 
 the passionate tenderness of her heart, were 
 intent upon somewhat I could not see: some 
 goal within the sunlit greenery, beyond the 
 dim vistas of mysty light, of verdurous 
 gloom ; or, perhaps, upon horizons I could not 
 discern. 
 
 I should have taken her for a vision, a 
 spirit, but that I saw how womanly sweet she 
 was. The white soul within her was known 
 of every dumb or dwarfed soul among those 
 
 454 
 
The Sister of Compassion 
 
 glad bondagers of her spell, from the falcon 
 to the timid rabbits which leaped before her 
 v/ay like living surf. Moreover, she could 
 see and hear what mortal eyes and ears could ; 
 for suddenly she caught sight of the dying 
 gull. Swift as a wave she was beside it. 
 With deft hands she eased the broken wing: 
 with gentle touch she stilled the fierce pulsa- 
 tion. The bird looked upon her as he might 
 have scanned a sunlit sea. A new light came 
 into his eyes: a thrill shook his now elastic 
 body; and though death darkened his life, 
 the spirit which had animated him was set 
 free, and was borne seaward by the wind. 
 
 As she rose, for she had kneeled to lay the 
 white body where the swift chemistry of air 
 and light would work the wise corruption of 
 the lifeless into new life, I recognised the 
 face. 
 
 She was one whom I had loved and hon- 
 oured, whom I love and honour: a woman so 
 wrought by the tragic pain of the weak and 
 helpless, that, like one whom she followed 
 blindly from afar, she daily laid down her 
 life in order that she might be as balm here, 
 and here might save, and at all times and in 
 all places be a messenger of that tardy re- 
 demption which man must make in spirit and 
 deed for the incalculable wrong which he has 
 
 455 
 
William Sharp 
 
 done to that sacred thing he most values — 
 Life. 
 
 I know not now what that sea was, where 
 that forest is. But I dream, O Sister of 
 Compassion, what was the mysterious voice 
 of the one whispered in your ears, what the 
 confused murmur of the other echoed in 
 your heart. 
 
 I know not, but I dream; and I think the 
 forest is that dark wood of human life, that 
 silva oscura of living death or dying life 
 which Dante saw with deep awe : and the sea, 
 that ocean of mystery which involves us with 
 a regenerating air, with a life that is not our 
 own, with horizons of promise, and dim per- 
 spectives of inalienable hope. 
 
 And you, dear friend, are you one whom I 
 and others have known and loved; or had I 
 but a vision of the elect of the Following 
 Love? Where is the goal you hungered for 
 with those intent eyes, O Sister of Compas- 
 sion: what the end, and whither the way? 
 
 456 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
THE MERCHANT OF DREAMS 
 (A Fragment) 
 
 There is a squalid little street, in the swarm- 
 ing region of the Seven Dials, called World's 
 End. I came upon it by mere hazard, one wet 
 gloomy afternoon in midwinter, while on the 
 quest of a friend, who, after many vicissi- 
 tudes, had sunk in his last dissolute days to 
 the position of a " super '' at Drury Lane 
 Theatre. Traces of him were not wholly in- 
 discoverable : a confused trail, lost among dis- 
 reputable public-houses. It was at one of 
 those, the Whistling Snipe, that a man, whose 
 accent belied the evidence of his sordid ap- 
 pearance, followed me to the door: and, for 
 a small sum, volunteered to put me on the 
 track of him whom I sought. 
 
 At first I thought the bargain was a one- 
 sided one; for, having pocketed the money, 
 my would-be informant told me frankly that 
 he could not be explicit. All he could do was 
 to put me on the track, if any track were now 
 discoverable at all. 
 
 " No, sir," he reiterated, *' I don't myself 
 know where he is. He may be dead, or dy- 
 
 459 
 
William Sharp 
 
 ing. He's not a ' super ' now. I haven't 
 seen kim in the Lane for weeks. But if any 
 one can help you, it will be old Father Am- 
 brose." 
 
 " Father Ambrose ? " I asked interroga- 
 tively : *' is he a priest ? " 
 
 " Oh, I forgot. Of course you don't know. 
 That's what I'm here for just now. No, he's 
 not a priest. No one knows anything about 
 him: who he is, where he comes from, what 
 he does. He must have a little o' the need- 
 ful, for I've always heard his rooms are clean 
 and well looked after: not that I know him 
 or them, never having crossed the doorway o' 
 the White Poppy." 
 
 ''The White Poppy?" 
 
 " That's what old Ambrose, Father Am- 
 brose, calls the little place he has: a bit of a 
 bookshop, with clean windows, and no books 
 behind 'em : got some inside. I know a man 
 who knows him, and says the old philosopher 
 (that's what they call him in the Lane) 
 doesn't sell more than a book in a week, and, 
 when he does, it's as often as not given right 
 off just because asked for." 
 
 "And will he know where James Linton 
 is?" 
 
 "Yes, if anybody does." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 460 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 *' Because Linton used to go there often, 
 after he ' pulled up'." 
 
 "Pulled up?" 
 
 " After he threw over the drink. He'd 
 got consumption, an' wanted to die decent." 
 
 '* Well, show me the way," I added : and 
 with that we passed into a maze of little 
 squalid streets, lanes, and passages. 
 
 It was in one of these that, in a few min- 
 utes, I read the legend at the corner: World's 
 End. Here my companion left me, with a 
 parting injunction to pass a score of houses, 
 till I came to one, set back somewhat on the 
 right, distinguished by a board swinging from 
 an old iron bracket. On the board would be 
 visible the words The White Poppy. 
 
 " You can't go wrong," he added : *' every 
 one here knows the Sign of the White Poppy." 
 
 It was with some curiosity that, a few min- 
 utes later, I stood under the Sign of the 
 White Poppy. The signboard swung in that 
 dismal air, poignantly significant. What 
 other, there, in that dread locality, could have 
 had a more subtle allure. 
 
 White Poppies! There was magic in the 
 words. Forgetfulness, rest, quietude, obliv- 
 ion, every sweet and longed-for nepenthe, lay 
 hid therein : like the fragrance in an unfolded 
 rose. 
 
 461 
 
William Sharp 
 
 The first thing that arrested my attention 
 was the absence of books, or indeed of any 
 saleable commodity, from the blank wooden 
 space beyond the window. This was the 
 more surprising, as the windows were clean 
 and well-kept, as clean, at any rate, as was 
 possible in that haunt of fog and squalor. 
 
 Every here and there half sheets of note- 
 paper were affixed to the window by red 
 wafers. Advertisements^ I thought. Out of 
 curiosity to know more of '^ Father Ambrose " 
 and his avocations — for obviously his voca- 
 tion as a bookseller was only nominal — I 
 scrutinised these notices. 
 
 It was to be an hour of surprises. Of the 
 ten or twelve slips, not one was an advertise- 
 ment or business notice of any kind. Each 
 was some fair or noble thought: without pre- 
 amble or appendical name or note: self-con- 
 tained. All had quotation-marks: so, doubt- 
 less, were excerpts from some book of col- 
 lected sayings. This I surmised, as I glanced 
 from one to the other. They were a strange 
 mixture. Some were from ancient writers, 
 some from modern: one or two from con- 
 temporary poets. A few I failed to recog- 
 nise. But I remember that the central one 
 was that noble saying of Plato: ''Honour 
 the Soul ; for according as a man's deeds are, 
 
 462 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 so will the nature of his soul change for bet- 
 ter or for worse/' Below this were two, one 
 of which I could not identify : " The Beauty 
 of the World is the divine Veil between that 
 morning-shadow, Humanity, and the Sun- 
 rise of God." Its companion I knew as Ba- 
 con's : ** The souls of the living are the 
 Beauty of the World." Another, long fa- 
 miliar, was from the Ajax of Euripides — 
 
 **A11 human things 
 A day lays low, a day lifts up again: 
 But still the Gods love those of ordered soul." 
 
 No lover of Amiel could fail to recognise 
 a sentiment so characteristic of the author of 
 the Journal Intime as " Like the rain of night, 
 Reverie restores colour and force to thoughts 
 which have been blanched and wearied by the 
 heat of the day." 
 
 Of the three or four unmistakably contem- 
 porary excerpts, I identified two only: this 
 from Matthew Arnold: — 
 
 " But tasks in hours of insight wilFd 
 Can be through hours of gloom fulfiird," — 
 
 And this from a poet of singular distinc- 
 tion, though unknown of the crowd who jostle 
 each other at the base of Parnassus-Slope: — 
 
 463 
 
William Sharp 
 
 " Seclusion, quiet, silence, slumber, dreams : 
 No murmur of a breath: 
 The same still image in the same still dreams, 
 Of Love caressing Death." 
 
 What did it all mean, I wondered? Had 
 " Father Ambrose " settled himself in Seven 
 Dials for the purpose of cultivating among 
 the inhabitants a love of literature? The 
 idea was absurd : but, then, what could be his 
 aim? 
 
 Thereupon I did the wisest thing: I en- 
 tered beneath the Sign of the White Poppy. 
 
 A tall man, who would have appeared 
 taller but for his stoop ; with long, thick, wavy- 
 white hair; eyes of a dark blue, extraordi- 
 narily vivid, giving to his whole physiognomy 
 an aspect of youthful energy; and with thin 
 white hands, long-fingered and delicate; ad- 
 vanced from an inner room, the glazed door 
 of which he closed behind him. 
 
 " Are you . . . have you any books for 
 sale, that I can look at ? '' I began awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 He smiled, and I admit that I was won 
 straightway. 
 
 " I have a few books. They are on these 
 shelves here to your left. You will see they 
 are of all kinds: but all, in some degree, books 
 of dreamers." 
 
 464 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 '* Books of dreamers? " 
 
 ** Yes. A book, a history, a romance, an 
 essay, a poem, is of value to me only when it 
 creates an atmosphere of dream/' 
 
 " You are, forgive me, a strange book- 
 seller/' 
 
 *' I am not a bookseller. I am a book-giver. 
 Any one may come here who will. If a book 
 be sought genuinely for its own sake, the 
 seeker is welcome to it." 
 
 *' Then those quotations you have affixed 
 to your window are not meant to direct at- 
 tention to the literary wares within ? " 
 
 '' If so, I should surely take the trouble to 
 mention the sources whence they come. 
 These sentences that you have read are there 
 for their own beauty and significance: and 
 stand or fall by their inherent truth. Of 
 what avail to the weary creatures who live in 
 this neighbourhood the names of Plato and 
 Euripides ? " 
 
 '' Then the excerpts are meant for the 
 passers-by of this region?'' 
 
 " Yes : for the passers-by." 
 
 "To what end?" 
 
 " Every morning I change these beautiful 
 and helpful sayings. Sometimes they are 
 similar to those you have just scanned: some- 
 times they are keen, vivid reminders of the 
 
 46i; 
 
William Sharp 
 
 beauty of earth and sky, of woodland or 
 shore, of the mountains or the sea. 
 
 "Again, and not infrequently, they are 
 nothing but haunting rhythms: some lovely 
 falling cadence, some exquisite strain. 
 
 " On these occasions you would see nothing 
 in my window but a single excerpt." 
 
 " And they are read : they are noted : they 
 are carried away in a few grateful mem- 
 ories ? " 
 
 " It is rare indeed they are not closely 
 scanned by at least a score of persons in a 
 day. Generally, this would be too moderate 
 an estimate. I daresay fifty out of a hun- 
 dred passers do not glance at them at all. 
 Another twenty, will, after an amused, or 
 contemptuous, or puzzled, or blankly incuri- 
 ous scrutiny, resume their way, with or 
 without mockery, with or without a second 
 thought, with or without bewilderment, each 
 in his own kind. Of the remaining tkirty or 
 twenty, some will read over and over again: 
 some will take one quotation, and with the 
 avidity of starvation make it theirs, and pass 
 on with a new light on their faces or a new 
 depth of emotion in their weary eyes: a few 
 will even return: now and again, a man or 
 woman will enter, and speak with me." 
 
 466 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 " What I have said to you," resumed my 
 new acquaintance, after a pause, " would be 
 more exact in the past tense. For now, I am 
 glad to be able to tell you, many poor souls 
 whose hunger and thirst are not only the 
 hunger and thirst of the body, come this way 
 regularly. My window-lore has become to 
 some as a well of pure-water, as the shadow 
 of a green tree in a parched land, as, after 
 long voyaging, the dear fragrance of inland 
 odours blown seaward. Many now come to 
 me for the only advice, the only help, it is in 
 my power to give." 
 
 Again there was a pause; but, as I did not 
 speak, '' Father Ambrose " resumed. 
 
 " Then, too, there are the few who come to 
 me, as, perhaps, you have done: namely, to 
 learn, if it may be, something of the secret 
 of creating beautiful dreams, or, at least, to 
 obtain from me a fair dream to leaven the 
 pain, or drear commonplace, or tragic pathos 
 of your day." 
 
 I looked at the speaker in astonishment. 
 There could be no question that he spoke in 
 earnest. Was he mad, I wondered : or did he 
 in truth mean what he said. If, perchance, 
 he could accomplish what he hinted, then 
 truly the chance which led me to him was a 
 golden one. 
 
 467 
 
William Sharp 
 
 " I do not understand/' I remarked quietly : 
 " Who and what are you ? " 
 
 " My name is Gabriel Ambrose. Few, 
 however, know this. Here I am generally 
 known as ' Father Ambrose.' I think the 
 designation has been given me partly because 
 of my grey hairs and my solitude, or rather 
 isolation, partly because I and my doings, or 
 avoidance of ' doings,' make me mysterious in 
 the eyes of my fellows. For the rest, I am 
 known as * The Merchant of Dreams.' " 
 
 " Do you mean that you actually sell 
 dreams ? " 
 
 " I barter dreams. Show me some fair 
 thought, some fair aspiration, some fair hope, 
 show me the yearning in your heart, the pain 
 of your bruised spirit, and I will give you 
 some lovely dream wherewith to make a 
 music behind the passing hours and a glad 
 rapture in the inmost courts of the spirit." 
 
 "But how can you do this thing?" 
 
 " Have you come to try ? " 
 
 " No. But now, gladly, would I put you to 
 the test." 
 
 " Come in here, to my room." 
 
 He opened the glass door, bowed courte- 
 ously as I passed, and then followed in. I 
 found myself in a small room, which afforded 
 me a sense of surprise. It was not that there 
 
 468 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 was anything particularly rare or striking in 
 its furnishing: for its contents were har- 
 moniously but almost austerely simple. What 
 delighted and refreshed the eyes was the radi- 
 ance without artificial light which filled the 
 room as with the breath of summer. There 
 was no fire, though I saw that the wood and 
 coal in the grate were ready to be lit. Out- 
 side, the grimy day was already dark, and yet 
 a soft light lingered, or appeared to me to 
 linger, over the few book-shelves, over a 
 quaint old spinet-shaped piano, and over a 
 low dark oak-table whereon a vase of flowers 
 stood. The only sign of luxury was in the 
 flowers in this vase, and in others, smaller, on 
 the book-shelves and by the dull ground-glass 
 window at the end of the room. These were 
 not only beautiful but rare: delicate orchids, 
 late roses of an exquisite bloom and a yet 
 more exquisite fragrance, sweet smelling 
 autumnal violets. 
 
 " You are not cold? No? The fire would 
 have been lit : but I had to be out most of to- 
 day, and had returned only a few minutes be- 
 fore good fortune brought you here." 
 
 '' If indeed you are a merchant of dreams 
 the good fortune for me is something more 
 than a mere happy chance." 
 
 " I will tell you," he began simply : when, 
 
 469 
 
William Sharp 
 
 as he paused, I interrupted him to ask if he 
 would inform me how it was his room was so 
 full of a soft radiance, fugitive when stead- 
 fastly regarded, but always resting with a 
 lovely light somewhere. 
 
 He smiled gravely, but did not answer at 
 first. At last, pointing to the blooms, he 
 asked if I did not think that flowers gave a 
 lovely efifulgence. 
 
 '* I have heard that nasturtiums give oflf a 
 flashing light at times, but surely flowers do 
 not ordinarily emit a radiance as some phos- 
 phorescent fungi do?'' 
 
 '' So most people would say, no doubt. 
 But flowers do. Only, they need an atmos- 
 phere. These pale roses you see in that bowl 
 in the corner yonder: can you not see an ef- 
 fulgence from them like a faint flame? It is 
 gone, because your eyes have already ab- 
 sorbed their just barely visible and, to our 
 eyes, evanescent glow: but it is there all the 
 same. If our eyes were trained to discern 
 these subtle sidelights of nature we should 
 know more both of the chemic and psychic 
 influences in human life. For just as these 
 frail and exquisite Clarimondes yonder will 
 not grow in a clay soil, so they would swiftly 
 fade in the still more fatal atmosphere cre- 
 ated by the distempered body, the distempered 
 
 470 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 mind, the distempered souL Flowers are as 
 susceptible to adverse human influences as a 
 mirror is to the breath of confined vapours. 
 Have you never noticed, for example, how 
 some people can wear flowers for a whole 
 day, even for two days or more, without the 
 blooms losing their freshness and sweetness: 
 while with others flowers of the same kind, 
 however newly pluckt, will fade and die in a 
 quarter of the time, even in an hour. It is 
 possible, in this instance, that this may be due 
 to the amount, or quality, of animal magnet- 
 ism given oflf by the wearer. But otherwise 
 there is something more than this. I do not 
 hesitate to say that the atmosphere of a man's 
 impure heart and body, perhaps I might even 
 say a man's corrupt soul, will kill a flower as 
 surely as any noxious gas could do. Let the 
 life be clean, the inner life be fair with fair 
 hopes and fair thoughts, the brain be haunted 
 by lovely images, processions, dreams, rev- 
 erieSj and nature becomes man's ally in a 
 deeper sense than we imagine as possible. 
 There are conspiracies to aid as well as to 
 baffle us. A room may, at times, become as 
 though filled with the loveliest subdued sun- 
 glow, and yet be without illumination from 
 any fire or lamp. I say * at times,' for it is 
 not often, even with the happiest dreamers, 
 
 471 
 
William Sharp 
 
 that one can know that balanced serenity 
 wherein the body and the mind and the soul 
 are in perfect harmony/' 
 
 '* Then you would place health before every- 
 thing?" 
 
 *' Yes : in the deep sense. Health is every- 
 thing: just as those who talk for and 
 against a rigorous ideal of Form in poetry 
 are commonly oblivious of the fact that, in 
 a deep sense, Poetry is Form. But the same 
 mind has even more influence upon the indi- 
 vidual life than the sane body has. Properly, 
 one is the outgrowth of the other: but there 
 is a serenity, a sanity, which can exist with a 
 weak or frail body. The spirit is the domi- 
 nant factor: not the stomach." 
 
 " You say you are called ' The Merchant of 
 Dreams.' How would you give me a dream? 
 Let me be explicit. I am not an unhappy 
 man, as the common weal goes : but I am not 
 happy. Life for me moves in narrow cir- 
 cumstances. I try to keep many avenues 
 open: to have as wide and alluring perspec- 
 tives as possible. But, for the most part, 
 those * hours of insight ' are in sadly infre- 
 quent proportion to the 'hours of gloom,' as 
 Matthew Arnold says in those ever memorable 
 lines of his which you have affixed to your 
 window. To-day I left my lonely bachelor 
 
 472 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 lodging in deep depression, partly physical, 
 partly mental. A northerner, and bred to the 
 hills and the sea, my heart sickened for the 
 loved places of my childhood and youth and 
 best years. But stronger than this was my 
 longing for some relief from the diurnal com- 
 monplace of my life. Unable to work, I came 
 to seek an old acquaintance, who, I fear, has 
 sunk from depth to depth till submerged in 
 the deep waters of degradation. It was in 
 striving to find some trace of the present 
 whereabouts of James Linton that I was di- 
 rected to you. Now, if you can, tell me not 
 only where Linton may be found: but give 
 me, I pray of you, some dream that will ease 
 my pain : that will irradiate what is left of this 
 day, and will enable me to fall asleep fanned 
 by the wings of some new joy, or peace, or 
 hope." 
 
 ** James Linton is dead." 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 " Yes. He died about a week ago. I knew 
 him slightly. He had sunk deep in those 
 waters you speak of. He was a brilliant and 
 able youth when I knew him first, when he 
 was in the Embassy at Constantinople. His 
 step-brother, Lord Ravelston, was my most 
 intimate friend: and when Ravelston was 
 mortally wounded in a wretched duel, some 
 
 473 
 
William Sharp 
 
 twenty years ago now, he begged me, on his 
 death-bed, to look after Linton/' 
 
 For a moment I was puzzled. I knew the 
 story of Lord Ravelston's tragic end, and of 
 his strange wanderings throughout all civilised 
 and uncivilised countries. His companion 
 had been a man of even higher rank than his 
 own: a man of European repute for his in- 
 tellectual as well as for his social qualities: 
 at one time a brilliant diplomatist: but who 
 had suddenly disappeared from the ken of 
 men while still in the prime of life, and was 
 supposed either to have been murdered or to 
 have followed the example of his younger 
 brother (now a Cardinal) and entered a mon- 
 astery in Rome. 
 
 " You must be the Marquis of-^ ? '' I ex- 
 claimed: an inconsiderate as well as a rude 
 remark, escaped from me before I realised 
 what I had said. 
 
 '* My name is Gabriel Ambrose,'' replied my 
 companion gravely. 
 
 " I have no past that concerns you or any 
 one. As for your friend, James Linton, of 
 whom I had seen nothing for many years, the 
 best thing that could happen to him happened. 
 If you wish to know more about him I can 
 give you the name and address of a dear friend 
 of mine who attended him at the last: a de- 
 
 474 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 voted Anglican priest who has given his whole 
 life to the unrewarded and apparently thank- 
 less task of alleviating the human misery in 
 this part of London. I call him ' the Forlorn 
 Hope/ '' 
 
 I thanked him, with assurances that I would 
 take advantage of his suggestion. But^ I ad- 
 mit, I was now more interested in what he had 
 to tell me concerning dreams and dream life, 
 than in my poor friend; who had already ex- 
 perienced that last of human dreams, which is 
 for ever dusked with the gloom of the grave. 
 
 I feared I was intruding too much on his 
 time: but he would not allow this. Frankly, 
 I told him all I could about myself: my past, 
 my present, my hopes, my more or less vague 
 aspirations. In return, he told me somewhat 
 concerning his method in the bestowal of 
 dreams. Much I understood: much, again, 
 was beyond my apprehension. But of one 
 thing I came to feel sure : that, whatever the 
 Merchant of Dreams himself thought, none 
 could emulate him without being in some de- 
 gree like him. Something of his welcome lore 
 he could explain : but it was as though a healer 
 of the sick were to expound some of the 
 mysteries of his hypnotic powers, mysteries 
 dependent, for their realisation, upon the in- 
 nate, trained, and concentrated faculty which 
 
 475 
 
William Sharp 
 
 produced them. Such an one might explain 
 to you or me how to cure many a bitter ill, 
 how to heal many a wound of mind or soul 
 or body: but, when we came to emulate his 
 example, should we not find that our will was 
 a feeble autocrat over circumstance, our in- 
 sight inadequate, our cherished, imagined fac- 
 ulty impotent to fulfil the empty authority of 
 the will? 
 
 "Elsewhere," said my companion, vaguely 
 indicating a box of papers, on a shelf where 
 many portfolios and manuscript cases lay, " I 
 have said in detail what at present I explain 
 somewhat cursorily. In due time, many, I 
 hope, will not only be able to accomplish what 
 I have the great hapipness of doing, but will 
 have a wider scope, a far more profound in- 
 fluence. You, my dear friend, will, I trust, 
 live to see, in place of one old visionary, vol- 
 untarily residing — and, I may truly say, hap- 
 pily expiatively his misspent past — in this 
 dreary district of a dreary region in one of 
 the dreariest cities in the world: scores of 
 men and women who, for rare qualities of 
 mind and heart and out of deep knowledge 
 of life and all the potentialities of good and 
 evil, will be known among their fellows as, 
 each in his own degree, a Merchant of 
 Dreams.'* 
 
 476 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 Of what avail to repeat the mere extraneous 
 mechanism wherewith my friend — for a dear 
 and true friend he became from that day — 
 conveyed to the mind of another the germ of 
 some lovely vision of fair dream: a germ to 
 expand and bloom forth either at once or 
 speedily, and be as welcome as summer-rain 
 in a time of drought, or the quietudes of wind- 
 less sunshine after long days of storm and 
 gloom. Rejoice! That was his magic word, 
 his creed. Yet to none did he ever say quite 
 the same things : for each he had a particular 
 Sesame that none could apply but himself. 
 
 I was about to rise, after that first memor- 
 able visit, eager, yet reluctant to demand the 
 favour I craved. But he saw, and anticipated 
 my wish. 
 
 " Look," he said, as a fugitive ray of light, 
 I know not whence, stole through the room: 
 ^'Look, here is one of my messengers of joy." 
 
 I looked and looked again. The golden ray 
 had vanished: but my eyes rested against a 
 bloom of light everywhere, and my heart was 
 eased with a new, strange gladness. 
 
 Out of that gladness, out of the vague 
 trouble which followed, out of a sweet counsel 
 given me, was born, a few hours later, this 
 lyric. 
 
 477 
 
William Sharp 
 
 In the heart a bird of sunshine 
 Singe th a sweet song: 
 
 None can do it wrong 
 Sweet breath of sunshine! 
 
 What is this sunny bird 
 
 With the rainbow-wings^ 
 
 That singeth of secret things 
 The heart only hath heard? 
 
 I know not: but to 
 
 The sun shines, and far 
 
 In the blue sky a star 
 
 Leapeth white as snow. 
 And when the night-tides How 
 
 And the stars glisten 
 
 In the darkj I listen 
 And the bird of moonshine 
 
 Sings, where erst 
 
 The sun-song burst 
 From the bird of sunshine. 
 
 It was a week later before I was able to re- 
 visit the Merchant of Dreams. But in that 
 week I learned secrets of a new life. The 
 hours had all some rainbow-tint, seen if for a 
 moment only, or as half convincingly as the 
 levin-light when it lifts from cloud to cloud 
 but does not penetrate the dense vapours. 
 
 I would have been happy, but for a sick 
 longing to be in my own land, beside the sea, 
 the isles, the mountains, where as child and 
 boy I had been so happy, and had so lately re- 
 
 478 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 visited, only to come back to London with a 
 deeper, a more insatiate nostalgia. 
 
 Something of this trouble I meant to ex- 
 plain to my friend, but I found it easier simply 
 to hand to him these few quatrains, written at 
 one of the rare times when the mind had 
 triumphed, and the longed-for had become real 
 and near. 
 
 I hear the murmur of rivers, 
 
 I hear the ripple of streams: 
 Sweet is the sound as the music 
 Of dreams. 
 
 I hear the wind in the pinewoods. 
 
 The wind on valley and hill, 
 Its voice in the upland heather 
 Whistling shrill. 
 
 I hear the green waves lapping 
 
 Against the flute-voiced shore: 
 Dear seas that lave the headlands 
 Of Eilanmohr. 
 
 These summoning voices call me 
 
 Here in the dense-throng d street: 
 And I feel the hill-wind round me. 
 And the sea at my feet. 
 
 These streets, these crowds, these houses — 
 
 These fade in the murky day; 
 But the wind and the waves and the sunlight 
 Stay. 
 
 479 
 
William Sharp 
 
 He understood at once, all I had felt, all I 
 would fain say. He smiled when I added that 
 the worst sorrow was, that now, while the 
 ache of longing was not dulled, all power of 
 dream, of inward realisation, had gone. As 
 for the relief of expression, that seemed an 
 impossible thing. 
 
 But he began to talk of other things: first 
 about my doings and projects, then about the 
 friend I had come to that neighbourhood to 
 seek; and thereafter about yet another friend 
 whom we had ascertained we knew in com- 
 mon. This man, John Derwent by name, had 
 renounced everything for the sake of a life of 
 passionate devotion to the most poor and 
 needy of a region that was not only poor and 
 needy beyond common understanding, but was 
 in a most literal sense feted with an atmos- 
 phere of squalid misery, or sordid vice, of 
 abiding horror. We called our heroic en- 
 thusiast " The Forlorn Hope," though never 
 to his face: for already he staggered under 
 that bitter cross of martyrdom, knowledge of 
 the fact that the battle, so long and strenu- 
 ously fought, was, and had been from the first, 
 and must needs be, a losing battle. 
 
 Then he showed me the MSS. on which 
 he worked intermittently. These contained, 
 he told me, all his store of dreams, which he 
 
 480 
 
The Merchant of Dreams 
 
 hoped to bequeath as a heritage to innumer- 
 able men and women. " My book is not only 
 entitled ' The Art of Weaving and of Realis- 
 ing Dreams/ but tells how, and when, and 
 where, this golden secret of one may be made 
 a common joy. For it is a true saying, * Life 
 is a dream.' Calderon, as you know, wrote a 
 play with that title, and the Japanese have a 
 lyric drama so-called, and doubtless divers 
 writers in divers lands have made a similar 
 use of the phrase. But the truer reading 
 should be : ' Life is a dream within a dream.' 
 For happiness is only for the dreamer: 
 though there be many dreamers, and many 
 dreams, and many ways whereby dreams are 
 entertained, or can be fashioned, or may be 
 allured. You remember what I have before 
 said to you? Let no awaking be without its 
 rainbow-shimmer, let no sleep-faring be with- 
 out its moonshine glamour. This, surely, we 
 can all do: all who would have it so. But 
 more than this is needful. The spaces of the 
 noontide must be filled. The wide, featureless 
 expanses in every diurnal span must be 
 peopled, coloured, transformed. No hour 
 should come, unattended by its dream, though 
 that be fugitive as sum.mer-lightning, shadowy 
 as a tall aspen in mist, intangible as the falling 
 of the dew. For, truly, the dreamless hours 
 
 481 
 
William Sharp 
 
 are dead-sea-apples: surely, mayhap, but of 
 dust and ashes within. Yet I would not have 
 you, or any one, what is called 'a mere 
 dreamer.' It is easy to make a fetish of a 
 god, and in every worshipper the idolater is 
 dormant. Dream while you act: act while you 
 dream. What a little sentence in which to 
 sum up all the long que^t, the long travail, the 
 whole store of wisdom of three score years! " 
 
 When I rose to say goodnight, the room was 
 already charged with the fog, which had 
 filtered through every possible crevice. Out- 
 side, there was the sound of sodden rain. 
 Dull cries fell against the permeable, dis- 
 coloured walls of vapour. The dreary squalid 
 street was half deserted, and was the silenter 
 for the painful absence of the wind, not an 
 eddy, not a breath of which penetrated that 
 dismal region. 
 
 But I left, radiant. A golden dream had 
 been given to me by my friend: a dream to 
 keep that night, and many days to follow, 
 sweet and beautiful with a glad serenity. 
 
 48a 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 The volume of " Dramatic Interludes/' entitled 
 Vistas, was originally published by Frank Murray in 
 his Regent Series (The Moray Press, Derbyshire) 
 in 1894. A few months later, the succeeding vol- 
 ume in the series was Pharais: a Romance of the 
 Isles, the first of the writings issued by William 
 Sharp over the signature ** Fiona Macleod " ; and Vis- 
 tas is considered by some of his readers to be a link 
 between the two methods of his thought and work. 
 In the dedicatory Foreword written for the Amer- 
 ican edition (Stone & Kimball, Chicago, 1894) the 
 author has explained his intention in these "dramatic 
 interludes." Of the contents " The Black Madonna " 
 appeared originally under the pseudonymn W. S. 
 Fanshawe, in the one number of The Pagan Review 
 (August, 1892) which was written entirely by Wil- 
 liam Sharp, as editor and contributors; "The Birth 
 of a Soul" was printed in The Chapbook (Chicago, 
 Sept. 15, 1894) ; " The Whisperer '' appeared first in 
 the American edition of Vistas, and was printed sep- 
 arately in The Theosophical Review (London, Feb- 
 ruary, 1908) and is now for the first time issued in 
 book form in England. 
 
 The three Tales in Part II were published in 1896 
 by Messrs. A. Constable & Co., in a volume entitled 
 " Madge o' the Pool,'* together with one other tale, 
 "The Coward." The American edition, under the 
 title of "The Gypsy Christ" (Stone & Kimball) was 
 published a year earlier, and contained other three 
 tales: "A Venetian Idyll," "The Graven Image," 
 
 483 
 
William Sharp 
 
 *'Fr6ken Bergliot." It is in accordance with the 
 wishes of the author that these four tales are not 
 included in the present volume. 
 
 The " Prose Imaginings " in Part III, with the ex- 
 ception of the fragment " The Merchant of Dreams/' 
 formed the contents of the volume entitled Ecce 
 Puella, published in 1896 (by Elkin Matthew) in 
 which year also appeared The Washer of the Ford, 
 Green Fire, and From the Hills of Dream, by " Fiona 
 Macleod." In a note to Ecce Puella William Sharp 
 explained that: 
 
 ** Ecce Puella " comprises all that the author cares 
 to disengage from Fair Women in Painting and 
 Poetry, an illustrated monograph which he under- 
 took at the instance of the late P. G. Hamerton, 
 for the Portfolio Series. It has, of course, been 
 reworked into this, its essential form. "Love in a 
 Mist" originally was published with illustrations in 
 Good Words. "Fragments from the Lost Journals 
 of Piero di Cosimo " appeared some years ago (1890) 
 in two consecutive numbers of The Scottish Art 
 Review. 
 
 484 
 
 29 W 
 
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