No More Learning

V

I awoke suddenly as though something had awakened me, and saw that I
was lying on a roughly painted floor, and that on the ceiling, which
was at no great distance, was a roughly painted rose, and about me on
the walls half-finished paintings. The pillars and the censers had
gone; and near me a score of sleepers lay wrapped in disordered robes,
their upturned faces looking to my imagination like hollow masks; and
a chill dawn was shining down upon them from a long window I had not
noticed before; and outside the sea roared. I saw Michael Robartes
lying at a little distance and beside him an overset bowl of wrought
bronze which looked as though it had once held incense. As I sat thus,
I heard a sudden tumult of angry men and women's voices mix with the
roaring of the sea; and leaping to my feet, I went quickly to Michael
Robartes, and tried to shake him out of his sleep. I then seized him
by the shoulder and tried to lift him, but he fell backwards, and
sighed faintly; and the voices became louder and angrier; and there
was a sound of heavy blows upon the door, which opened on to the pier.
Suddenly I heard a sound of rending wood, and I knew it had begun to
give, and I ran to the door of the room. I pushed it open and came out
upon a passage whose bare boards clattered under my feet, and found
in the passage another door which led into an empty kitchen; and as I
passed through the door I heard two crashes in quick succession, and
knew by the sudden noise of feet and the shouts that the door which
opened on to the pier had fallen inwards. I ran from the kitchen and
out into a small yard, and from this down some steps which descended
the seaward and sloping side of the pier, and from the steps clambered
along the water's edge, with the angry voices ringing in my ears. This
part of the pier had been but lately refaced with blocks of granite,
so that it was almost clear of seaweed; but when I came to the old
part, I found it so slippery with green weed that I had to climb up
on to the roadway. I looked towards the Temple of the Alchemical Rose,
where the fishermen and the women were still shouting, but somewhat
more faintly, and saw that there was no one about the door or upon the
pier; but as I looked, a little crowd hurried out of the door and began
gathering large stones from where they were heaped up in readiness for
the next time a storm shattered the pier, when they would be laid under
blocks of granite. While I stood watching the crowd, an old man, who
was, I think, the voteen, pointed to me, and screamed out something,
and the crowd whitened, for all the faces had turned towards me. I ran,
and it was well for me that pullers of the oar are poorer men with
their feet than with their arms and their bodies; and yet while I ran I
scarcely heard the following feet or the angry voices, for many voices
of exultation and lamentation, which were forgotten as a dream is
forgotten the moment they were heard, seemed to be ringing in the air
over my head.

There are moments even now when I seem to hear those voices of
exultation and lamentation, and when the indefinite world, which has
but half lost its mastery over my heart and my intellect, seems about
to claim a perfect mastery; but I carry the rosary about my neck, and
when I hear, or seem to hear them, I press it to my heart and say: 'He
whose name is Legion is at our doors deceiving our intellects with
subtlety and flattering our hearts with beauty, and we have no trust
but in Thee'; and then the war that rages within me at other times is
still, and I am at peace.




THE TABLES OF THE LAW


I

'WILL you permit me, Aherne,' I said, 'to ask you a question, which I
have wanted to ask you for years, and have not asked because we have
grown nearly strangers? Why did you refuse the berretta, and almost
at the last moment?
When you and I lived together, you cared neither
for wine, women, nor money, and had thoughts for nothing but theology
and mysticism. ' I had watched through dinner for a moment to put my
question, and ventured now, because he had thrown off a little of
the reserve and indifference which, ever since his last return from
Italy, had taken the place of our once close friendship. He had just
questioned me, too, about certain private and almost sacred things, and
my frankness had earned, I thought, a like frankness from him.

When I began to speak he was lifting to his lips a glass of that old
wine which he could choose so well and valued so little; and while
I spoke, he set it slowly and meditatively upon the table and held
it there, its deep red light dyeing his long delicate fingers. The
impression of his face and form, as they were then, is still vivid
with me, and is inseparable from another and fanciful impression:
the impression of a man holding a flame in his naked hand. He was to
me, at that moment, the supreme type of our race, which, when it has
risen above, or is sunken below, the formalisms of half-education and
the rationalisms of conventional affirmation and denial, turns away,
unless my hopes for the world and for the Church have made me blind,
from practicable desires and intuitions towards desires so unbounded
that no human vessel can contain them, intuitions so immaterial that
their sudden and far-off fire leaves heavy darkness about hand and
foot. He had the nature, which is half monk, half soldier of fortune,
and must needs turn action into dreaming, and dreaming into action;
and for such there is no order, no finality, no contentment in this
world. When he and I had been students in Paris, we had belonged to a
little group which devoted itself to speculations about alchemy and
mysticism. More orthodox in most of his beliefs than Michael Robartes,
he had surpassed him in a fanciful hatred of all life, and this hatred
had found expression in the curious paradox--half borrowed from some
fanatical monk, half invented by himself--that the beautiful arts were
sent into the world to overthrow nations, and finally life herself, by
sowing everywhere unlimited desires, like torches thrown into a burning
city. This idea was not at the time, I believe, more than a paradox,
a plume of the pride of youth; and it was only after his return to
Ireland that he endured the fermentation of belief which is coming upon
our people with the reawakening of their imaginative life.

Presently he stood up, saying: 'Come, and I will show you, for you at
any rate will understand,' and taking candles from the table, he lit
the way into the long paved passage that led to his private chapel. We
passed between the portraits of the Jesuits and priests--some of no
little fame--his family had given to the Church; and engravings and
photographs of pictures that had especially moved him; and the few
paintings his small fortune, eked out by an almost penurious abstinence
from the things most men desire, had enabled him to buy in his travels.
The pictures that I knew best, for they had hung there longest,
whether reproductions or originals, were of the Sienese School, which
he had studied for a long time, claiming that it alone of the schools
of the world pictured not the world but what is revealed to saints in
their dreams and visions. The Sienese alone among Italians, he would
say, could not or would not represent the pride of life, the pleasure
in swift movement or sustaining strength, or voluptuous flesh. They
were so little interested in these things that there often seemed to
be no human body at all under the robe of the saint, but they could
represent by a bowed head, or uplifted face, man's reverence before
Eternity as no others could, and they were at their happiest when
mankind had dwindled to a little group silhouetted upon a golden abyss,
as if they saw the world habitually from far off. When I had praised
some school that had dipped deeper into life, he would profess to
discover a more intense emotion than life knew in those dark outlines.