IV

by Arthur Machen

　　In the course of the week Lucian again visited Caermaen. He wished toview the amphitheatre more precisely, to note the exact position of theancient walls, to gaze up the valley from certain points within thetown, to imprint minutely and clearly on his mind the surge of the hillsabout the city, and the dark tapestry of the hanging woods. And helingered in the museum where the relics of the Roman occupation had beenstored; he was interested in the fragments of tessellated floors, in theglowing gold of drinking cups, the curious beads of fused and coloredglass, the carved amber-work, the scent-flagons that still retained thememory of unctuous odors, the necklaces, brooches, hair-pins of gold andsilver, and other intimate objects which had once belonged to Romanladies. One of the glass flagons, buried in damp earth for many hundredyears, had gathered in its dark grave all the splendors of the light, andnow shone like an opal with a moonlight glamour and gleams of gold andpale sunset green, and imperial purple. Then there were the wine jars ofred earthenware, the memorial stones from graves, and the heads of brokengods, with fragments of occult things used in the secret rites ofMithras. Lucian read on the labels where all these objects were found: inthe churchyard, beneath the turf of the meadow, and in the old cemeterynear the forest; and whenever it was possible he would make his way tothe spot of discovery, and imagine the long darkness that had hidden goldand stone and amber. All these investigations were necessary for thescheme he had in view, so he became for some time quite a familiar figurein the dusty deserted streets and in the meadows by the river. Hiscontinual visits to Caermaen were a tortuous puzzle to the inhabitants,who flew to their windows at the sound of a step on the uneven pavements.They were at a loss in their conjectures; his motive for coming downthree times a week must of course be bad, but it seemed undiscoverable.And Lucian on his side was at first a good deal put out by occasionalencounters with members of the Gervase or Dixon or Colley tribes; he hadoften to stop and exchange a few conventional expressions, and suchmeetings, casual as they were, annoyed and distracted him. He was nolonger infuriated or wounded by sneers of contempt or by the cacklinglaughter of the young people when they passed him on the road (his hatwas a shocking one and his untidiness terrible), but such incidents wereunpleasant just as the smell of a drain was unpleasant, and threw thestrange mechanism of his thoughts out of fear for the time. Then he hadbeen disgusted by the affair of the boys and the little dog; theloathsomeness of it had quite broken up his fancies. He had read books ofmodern occultism, and remembered some of the experiments described. Theadept, it was alleged, could transfer the sense of consciousness from hisbrain to the foot or hand, he could annihilate the world around him andpass into another sphere. Lucian wondered whether he could not performsome such operation for his own benefit. Human beings were constantlyannoying him and getting in his way, was it not possible to annihilatethe race, or at all events to reduce them to wholly insignificant forms?A certain process suggested itself to his mind, a work partly mental andpartly physical, and after two or three experiments he found to hisastonishment and delight that it was successful. Here, he thought, he haddiscovered one of the secrets of true magic; this was the key to thesymbolic transmutations of the Eastern tales. The adept could, in truth,change those who were obnoxious to him into harmless and unimportantshapes, not as in the letter of the old stories, by transforming theenemy, but by transforming himself. The magician puts men below him bygoing up higher, as one looks down on a mountain city from a loftiercrag. The stones on the road and such petty obstacles do not trouble thewise man on the great journey, and so Lucian, when obliged to stop andconverse with his fellow-creatures, to listen to their poor pretences andinanities, was no more inconvenienced than when he had to climb anawkward stile in the course of a walk. As for the more unpleasantmanifestations of humanity; after all they no longer concerned him. Menintent on the great purpose did not suffer the current of their thoughtsto be broken by the buzzing of a fly caught in a spider's web, so whyshould he be perturbed by the misery of a puppy in the hands of villageboys? The fly, no doubt, endured its tortures; lying helpless and boundin those slimy bands, it cried out in its thin voice when the claws ofthe horrible monster fastened on it; but its dying agonies had nevervexed the reverie of a lover. Lucian saw no reason why the boys shouldoffend him more than the spider, or why he should pity the dog more thanhe pitied the fly. The talk of the men and women might be wearisome andinept and often malignant; but he could not imagine an alchemist at themoment of success, a general in the hour of victory, or a financier witha gigantic scheme of swindling well on the market being annoyed by thebuzz of insects. The spider is, no doubt, a very terrible brute with ahideous mouth and hairy tiger-like claws when seen through themicroscope; but Lucian had taken away the microscope from his eyes. Hecould now walk the streets of Caermaen confident and secure, without anydread of interruption, for at a moment's notice the transformation couldbe effected. Once Dr. Burrows caught him and made him promise to attenda bazaar that was to be held in aid of the Hungarian Protestants; Lucianassented the more willingly as he wished to pay a visit to certaincurious mounds on a hill a little way out of the town, and he calculatedon slinking off from the bazaar early in the afternoon. Lord Beamys wasvisiting Sir Vivian Ponsonby, a local magnate, and had kindly promisedto drive over and declare the bazaar open. It was a solemn moment whenthe carriage drew up and the great man alighted. He was rather anevil-looking old nobleman, but the clergy and gentry, their wives andsons and daughters welcomed him with great and unctuous joy.Conversations were broken off in mid-sentence, slow people gaped, notrealizing why their friends had so suddenly left them, the Meyricks cameup hot and perspiring in fear lest they should be too late, Miss Colley,a yellow virgin of austere regard, smiled largely, Mrs. Dixon beckonedwildly with her parasol to the "girls" who were idly strolling in adistant part of the field, and the archdeacon ran at full speed. The airgrew dark with bows, and resonant with the genial laugh of thearchdeacon, the cackle of the younger ladies, and the shrill parrot-likevoices of the matrons; those smiled who had never smiled before, and onsome maiden faces there hovered that look of adoring ecstasy with whichthe old maidens graced their angels. Then, when all the due rites hadbeen performed, the company turned and began to walk towards the boothsof their small Vanity Fair. Lord Beamys led the way with Mrs. Gervase,Mrs. Dixon followed with Sir Vivian Ponsonby, and the multitudes thatfollowed cried, saying, "What a dear old man!"—"Isn't it kind ofhim to come all this way?"—"What a sweet expression, isn't it?"—"Ithink he's an old love"—"One of the good old sort"—"Real Englishnobleman"—"Oh most correct, I assure you; if a girl gets into trouble,notice to quit at once"—"Always stands by the Church"—"Twenty livingsin his gift"—"Voted for the Public Worship Regulation Act"—"Tenthousand acres strictly preserved." The old lord was leering pleasantlyand muttering to himself: "Some fine gals here. Like the looks of thatfilly with the pink hat. Ought to see more of her. She'd give Lottypoints."

　　The pomp swept slowly across the grass: the archdeacon had got hold ofMr. Dixon, and they were discussing the misdeeds of some clergyman in therural deanery.

　　"I can scarce credit it," said Mr. Dixon.

　　"Oh, I assure you, there can be no doubt. We have witnesses. There can beno question that there was a procession at Llanfihangel on the Sundaybefore Easter; the choir and minister went round the church, carryingpalm branches in their hands."

　　"Very shocking."

　　"It has distressed the bishop. Martin is a hard-working man enough, andall that, but those sort of things can't be tolerated. The bishop told methat he had set his face against processions."

　　"Quite right: the bishop is perfectly right. Processions areunscriptural."

　　"It's the thin end of the wedge, you know, Dixon."

　　"Exactly. I have always resisted anything of the kind here."

　　"Right. Principiis obsta, you know. Martin is so imprudent.

　　There's a way of doing things."

　　The "scriptural" procession led by Lord Beamys broke up when the stallswere reached, and gathered round the nobleman as he declared the bazaaropen.

　　Lucian was sitting on a garden-seat, a little distance off, lookingdreamily before him. And all that he saw was a swarm of flies clusteringand buzzing about a lump of tainted meat that lay on the grass. Thespectacle in no way interrupted the harmony of his thoughts, and soonafter the opening of the bazaar he went quietly away, walking across thefields in the direction of the ancient mounds he desired to inspect.

　　All these journeys of his to Caermaen and its neighborhood had a peculiarobject; he was gradually leveling to the dust the squalid kraals ofmodern times, and rebuilding the splendid and golden city of Siluria. Allthis mystic town was for the delight of his sweetheart and himself; forher the wonderful villas, the shady courts, the magic of tessellatedpavements, and the hangings of rich stuffs with their intricate andglowing patterns. Lucian wandered all day through the shining streets,taking shelter sometimes in the gardens beneath the dense and gloomy ilextrees, and listening to the plash and trickle of the fountains. Sometimeshe would look out of a window and watch the crowd and color of themarket-place, and now and again a ship came up the river bringingexquisite silks and the merchandise of unknown lands in the Far East. Hehad made a curious and accurate map of the town he proposed to inhabit,in which every villa was set down and named. He drew his lines to scalewith the gravity of a surveyor, and studied the plan till he was able tofind his way from house to house on the darkest summer night. On thesouthern slopes about the town there were vineyards, always under aglowing sun, and sometimes he ventured to the furthest ridge of theforest, where the wild people still lingered, that he might catch thegolden gleam of the city far away, as the light quivered and scintillatedon the glittering tiles. And there were gardens outside the city gateswhere strange and brilliant flowers grew, filling the hot air with theirodor, and scenting the breeze that blew along the streets. The dullmodern life was far away, and people who saw him at this period wonderedwhat was amiss; the abstraction of his glance was obvious, even to eyesnot over-sharp. But men and women had lost all their power of annoyanceand vexation; they could no longer even interrupt his thought for amoment. He could listen to Mr. Dixon with apparent attention, while hewas in reality enraptured by the entreating music of the double flute,played by a girl in the garden of Avallaunius, for that was the name hehad taken. Mr. Dixon was innocently discoursing archeology, giving abrief résumé of the view expressed by Mr. Wyndham at the last meetingof the antiquarian society.

　　"There can be no doubt that the temple of Diana stood there in pagantimes," he concluded, and Lucian assented to the opinion, and asked a fewquestions which seemed pertinent enough. But all the time the flute noteswere sounding in his ears, and the ilex threw a purple shadow on thewhite pavement before his villa. A boy came forward from the garden; hehad been walking amongst the vines and plucking the ripe grapes, and thejuice had trickled down over his breast. Standing beside the girl,unashamed in the sunlight, he began to sing one of Sappho's love songs.His voice was as full and rich as a woman's, but purged of all emotion;he was an instrument of music in the flesh. Lucian looked at himsteadily; the white perfect body shone against the roses and the blue ofthe sky, clear and gleaming as marble in the glare of the sun. Thewords he sang burned and flamed with passion, and he was as unconsciousof their meaning as the twin pipes of the flute. And the girl wassmiling. The vicar shook hands and went on, well pleased with his remarkson the temple of Diana, and also with Lucian's polite interest.

　　"He is by no means wanting in intelligence," he said to his family. "Alittle curious in manner, perhaps, but not stupid."

　　"Oh, papa," said Henrietta, "don't you think he is rather silly? He can'ttalk about anything—anything interesting, I mean. And he pretends toknow a lot about books, but I heard him say the other day he had neverread The Prince of the House of David or Ben-Hur. Fancy!"

　　The vicar had not interrupted Lucian. The sun still beat upon the roses,and a little breeze bore the scent of them to his nostrils together withthe smell of grapes and vine-leaves. He had become curious in sensation,and as he leant back upon the cushions covered with glistening yellowsilk, he was trying to analyze a strange ingredient in the perfume ofthe air. He had penetrated far beyond the crude distinctions of moderntimes, beyond the rough: "there's a smell of roses," "there must besweetbriar somewhere." Modern perceptions of odor were, he knew, farbelow those of the savage in delicacy. The degraded black fellow ofAustralia could distinguish odors in a way that made the consumer of"damper" stare in amazement, but the savage's sensations were allstrictly utilitarian. To Lucian as he sat in the cool porch, his feet onthe marble, the air came laden with scents as subtly and wonderfullyinterwoven and contrasted as the harmonica of a great master. Thestained marble of the pavement gave a cool reminiscence of the Italianmountain, the blood-red roses palpitating in the sunlight sent out anodor mystical as passion itself, and there was the hint of inebriationin the perfume of the trellised vines. Besides these, the girl's desireand the unripe innocence of the boy were as distinct as benzoin andmyrrh, both delicious and exquisite, and exhaled as freely as the scentof the roses. But there was another element that puzzled him, anaromatic suggestion of the forest. He understood it at last; it was thevapor of the great red pines that grew beyond the garden; their spicyneedles were burning in the sun, and the smell was as fragrant as thefume of incense blown from far. The soft entreaty of the flute and theswelling rapture of the boy's voice beat on the air together, and Lucianwondered whether there were in the nature of things any true distinctionbetween the impressions of sound and scent and color. The violent blueof the sky, the song, and the odours seemed rather varied symbols of onemystery than distinct entities. He could almost imagine that the boy'sinnocence was indeed a perfume, and that the palpitating roses hadbecome a sonorous chant.

　　In the curious silence which followed the last notes, when the boy andgirl had passed under the purple ilex shadow, he fell into a reverie. Thefancy that sensations are symbols and not realities hovered in his mind,and led him to speculate as to whether they could not actually betransmuted one into another. It was possible, he thought, that a wholecontinent of knowledge had been undiscovered; the energies of men havingbeen expended in unimportant and foolish directions. Modern ingenuity hadbeen employed on such trifles as locomotive engines, electric cables, andcantilever bridges; on elaborate devices for bringing uninterestingpeople nearer together; the ancients had been almost as foolish, becausethey had mistaken the symbol for the thing signified. It was not thematerial banquet which really mattered, but the thought of it; it wasalmost as futile to eat and take emetics and eat again as to inventtelephones and high-pressure boilers. As for some other ancient methodsof enjoying life, one might as well set oneself to improve calicoprinting at once.

　　"Only in the garden of Avallaunius," said Lucian to himself, "is the trueand exquisite science to be found."

　　He could imagine a man who was able to live in one sense while hepleased; to whom, for example, every impression of touch, taste, hearing,or seeing should be translated into odor; who at the desired kiss shouldbe ravished with the scent of dark violets, to whom music should be theperfume of a rose-garden at dawn.

　　When, now and again, he voluntarily resumed the experience of commonlife, it was that he might return with greater delight to the garden inthe city of refuge. In the actual world the talk was of Nonconformists,the lodger franchise, and the Stock Exchange; people were constantlyreading newspapers, drinking Australian Burgundy, and doing other thingsequally absurd. They either looked shocked when the fine art of pleasurewas mentioned, or confused it with going to musical comedies, drinkingbad whisky, and keeping late hours in disreputable and vulgar company. Hefound to his amusement that the profligate were by many degrees dullerthan the pious, but that the most tedious of all were the persons whopreached promiscuity, and called their system of "pigging" the "NewMorality."

　　He went back to the city lovingly, because it was built and adorned forhis love. As the metaphysicians insist on the consciousness of the ego asthe implied basis of all thought, so he knew that it was she in whom hehad found himself, and through whom and for whom all the true lifeexisted. He felt that Annie had taught him the rare magic which hadcreated the garden of Avallaunius. It was for her that he sought strangesecrets and tried to penetrate the mysteries of sensation, for he couldonly give her wonderful thoughts and a wonderful life, and a poor bodystained with the scars of his worship.

　　It was with this object, that of making the offering of himself a worthyone, that he continually searched for new and exquisite experiences. Hemade lovers come before him and confess their secrets; he priedinto the inmost mysteries of innocence and shame, noting how passion andreluctance strive together for the mastery. In the amphitheatre hesometimes witnessed strange entertainments in which such tales asDaphnis and Chloe and The Golden Ass were performed before him. Theseshows were always given at nighttime; a circle of torch-bearerssurrounded the stage in the center, and above, all the tiers of seatswere dark. He would look up at the soft blue of the summer sky, and atthe vast dim mountain hovering like a cloud in the west, and then at thescene illumined by a flaring light, and contrasted with violent shadows.The subdued mutter of conversation in a strange language rising frombench after bench, swift hissing whispers of explanation, now and then ashout or a cry as the interest deepened, the restless tossing of thepeople as the end drew near, an arm lifted, a cloak thrown back, thesudden blaze of a torch lighting up purple or white or the gleam ofgold in the black serried ranks; these were impressions that seemedalways amazing. And above, the dusky light of the stars, around, thesweet-scented meadows, and the twinkle of lamps from the still city, thecry of the sentries about the walls, the wash of the tide filling theriver, and the salt savor of the sea. With such a scenic ornament he sawthe tale of Apuleius represented, heard the names of Fotis and Byrrhaenaand Lucius proclaimed, and the deep intonation of such sentences as EcceVeneris hortator et armiger Liber advenit ultro. The tale went onthrough all its marvelous adventures, and Lucian left the amphitheatreand walked beside the river where he could hear indistinctly the noise ofvoices and the singing Latin, and note how the rumor of the stage mingledwith the murmur of the shuddering reeds and the cool lapping of the tide.Then came the farewell of the cantor, the thunder of applause, the crashof cymbals, the calling of the flutes, and the surge of the wind in thegreat dark wood.

　　At other times it was his chief pleasure to spend a whole day in avineyard planted on the steep slope beyond the bridge. A grey stone seathad been placed beneath a shady laurel, and here he often sat withoutmotion or gesture for many hours. Below him the tawny river swept roundthe town in a half circle; he could see the swirl of the yellow water,its eddies and miniature whirlpools, as the tide poured up from thesouth. And beyond the river the strong circuit of the walls, and within,the city glittered like a charming piece of mosaic. He freed himself fromthe obtuse modern view of towns as places where human beings live andmake money and rejoice or suffer, for from the standpoint of the momentsuch facts were wholly impertinent. He knew perfectly well that for hispresent purpose the tawny sheen and shimmer of the tide was the only factof importance about the river, and so he regarded the city as a curiouswork in jewelry. Its radiant marble porticoes, the white walls of thevillas, a dome of burning copper, the flash and scintillation of tiledroofs, the quiet red of brickwork, dark groves of ilex, and cypress, andlaurel, glowing rose-gardens, and here and there the silver of afountain, seemed arranged and contrasted with a wonderful art, and thetown appeared a delicious ornament, every cube of color owing its placeto the thought and inspiration of the artificer. Lucian, as he gazed fromhis arbour amongst the trellised vines, lost none of the subtle pleasuresof the sight; noting every nuance of color, he let his eyes dwell for amoment on the scarlet flash of poppies, and then on a glazed roof whichin the glance of the sun seemed to spout white fire. A square of vineswas like some rare green stone; the grapes were massed so richly amongstthe vivid leaves, that even from far off there was a sense of irregularflecks and stains of purple running through the green. The laurel garthswere like cool jade; the gardens, where red, yellow, blue and whitegleamed together in a mist of heat, had the radiance of opal; the riverwas a band of dull gold. On every side, as if to enhance the preciousnessof the city, the woods hung dark on the hills; above, the sky was violet,specked with minute feathery clouds, white as snowflakes. It reminded himof a beautiful bowl in his villa; the ground was of that same brilliantblue, and the artist had fused into the work, when it was hot, particlesof pure white glass.

　　For Lucian this was a spectacle that enchanted many hours; leaning on onehand, he would gaze at the city glowing in the sunlight till the purpleshadows grew down the slopes and the long melodious trumpet sounded forthe evening watch. Then, as he strolled beneath the trellises, he wouldsee all the radiant facets glimmering out, and the city faded into haze,a white wall shining here and there, and the gardens veiled in a dim glowof color. On such an evening he would go home with the sense that he hadtruly lived a day, having received for many hours the most acuteimpressions of beautiful color.

　　Often he spent the night in the cool court of his villa, lying amidstsoft cushions heaped upon the marble bench. A lamp stood on the table athis elbow, its light making the water in the cistern twinkle. There wasno sound in the court except the soft continual plashing of the fountain.Throughout these still hours he would meditate, and he became more thanever convinced that man could, if he pleased, become lord of his ownsensations. This, surely, was the true meaning concealed under thebeautiful symbolism of alchemy. Some years before he had read many of thewonderful alchemical books of the later Middle Ages, and had suspectedthat something other than the turning of lead into gold was intended.This impression was deepened when he looked into Lumen de Lumineby Vaughan, the brother of the Silurist, and he had long puzzled himselfin the endeavor to find a reasonable interpretation of the hermeticmystery, and of the red powder, "glistening and glorious in the sun." Andthe solution shone out at last, bright and amazing, as he lay quiet inthe court of Avallaunius. He knew that he himself had solved the riddle,that he held in his hand the powder of projection, the philosopher'sstone transmuting all it touched to fine gold; the gold of exquisiteimpressions. He understood now something of the alchemical symbolism; thecrucible and the furnace, the "Green Dragon," and the "Son Blessed of theFire" had, he saw, a peculiar meaning. He understood, too, why theuninitiated were warned of the terror and danger through which they mustpass; and the vehemence with which the adepts disclaimed all desire formaterial riches no longer struck him as singular. The wise man does notendure the torture of the furnace in order that he may be able to competewith operators in pork and company promoters; neither a steam yacht, nora grouse-moor, nor three liveried footmen would add at all to hisgratifications. Again Lucian said to himself:

　　"Only in the court of Avallaunius is the true science of the exquisite tobe found."

　　He saw the true gold into which the beggarly matter of existence may betransmuted by spagyric art; a succession of delicious moments, all therare flavors of life concentrated, purged of their lees, and preservedin a beautiful vessel. The moonlight fell green on the fountain and onthe curious pavements, and in the long sweet silence of the night he laystill and felt that thought itself was an acute pleasure, to be expressedperhaps in terms of odor or color by the true artist.

　　And he gave himself other and even stranger gratifications. Outside thecity walls, between the baths and the amphitheatre, was a tavern, a placewhere wonderful people met to drink wonderful wine. There he saw priestsof Mithras and Isis and of more occult rites from the East, men who worerobes of bright colours, and grotesque ornaments, symbolizing secretthings. They spoke amongst themselves in a rich jargon of colored words,full of hidden meanings and the sense of matters unintelligible to theuninitiated, alluding to what was concealed beneath roses, and callingeach other by strange names. And there were actors who gave the shows inthe amphitheatre, officers of the legion who had served in wild places,singers, and dancing girls, and heroes of strange adventure.

　　The walls of the tavern were covered with pictures painted in violenthues; blues and reds and greens jarring against one another and lightingup the gloom of the place. The stone benches were always crowded, thesunlight came in through the door in a long bright beam, casting adancing shadow of vine leaves on the further wall. There a painter hadmade a joyous figure of the young Bacchus driving the leopards before himwith his ivy-staff, and the quivering shadow seemed a part of thepicture. The room was cool and dark and cavernous, but the scent and heatof the summer gushed in through the open door. There was ever a fullsound, with noise and vehemence, there, and the rolling music of theLatin tongue never ceased.

　　"The wine of the siege, the wine that we saved," cried one.

　　"Look for the jar marked Faunus; you will be glad."

　　"Bring me the wine of the Owl's Face."

　　"Let us have the wine of Saturn's Bridge."

　　The boys who served brought the wine in dull red jars that struck acharming note against their white robes. They poured out the violet andpurple and golden wine with calm sweet faces as if they were assisting inthe mysteries, without any sign that they heard the strange words thatflashed from side to side. The cups were all of glass; some were of deepgreen, of the color of the sea near the land, flawed and specked with thebubbles of the furnace. Others were of brilliant scarlet, streaked withirregular bands of white, and having the appearance of white globules inthe molded stem. There were cups of dark glowing blue, deeper and moreshining than the blue of the sky, and running through the substance ofthe glass were veins of rich gamboge yellow, twining from the brim to thefoot. Some cups were of a troubled and clotted red, with alternatingblotches of dark and light, some were variegated with white and yellowstains, some wore a film of rainbow colours, some glittered, shot withgold threads through the clear crystal, some were as if sapphires hungsuspended in running water, some sparkled with the glint of stars, somewere black and golden like tortoiseshell.

　　A strange feature was the constant and fluttering motion of hands andarms. Gesture made a constant commentary on speech; white fingers, whiterarms, and sleeves of all colours, hovered restlessly, appeared anddisappeared with an effect of threads crossing and re-crossing on theloom. And the odor of the place was both curious and memorable; somethingof the damp cold breath of the cave meeting the hot blast of summer,the strangely mingled aromas of rare wines as they fell plashing andringing into the cups, the drugged vapor of the East that the priests ofMithras and Isis bore from their steaming temples; these were alwaysstrong and dominant. And the women were scented, sometimes with unctuousand overpowering perfumes, and to the artist the experiences of thosepresent were hinted in subtle and delicate nuances of odor.

　　They drank their wine and caressed all day in the tavern. The women threwtheir round white arms about their lover's necks, they intoxicated themwith the scent of their hair, the priests muttered their fantasticjargon of Theurgy. And through the sonorous clash of voices there alwaysseemed the ring of the cry:

　　"Look for the jar marked Faunus; you will be glad."

　　Outside, the vine tendrils shook on the white walls glaring in thesunshine; the breeze swept up from the yellow river, pungent with thesalt sea savor.

　　These tavern scenes were often the subject of Lucian's meditation as hesat amongst the cushions on the marble seat. The rich sound of the voicesimpressed him above all things, and he saw that words have a far higherreason than the utilitarian office of imparting a man's thought. Thecommon notion that language and linked words are important only as ameans of expression he found a little ridiculous; as if electricitywere to be studied solely with the view of "wiring" to people, and allits other properties left unexplored, neglected. Language, he understood,was chiefly important for the beauty of its sounds, by its possession ofwords resonant, glorious to the ear, by its capacity, when exquisitelyarranged, of suggesting wonderful and indefinable impressions, perhapsmore ravishing and farther removed from the domain of strict thought thanthe impressions excited by music itself. Here lay hidden the secret ofthe sensuous art of literature; it was the secret of suggestion, the artof causing delicious sensation by the use of words. In a way, therefore,literature was independent of thought; the mere English listener, if hehad an ear attuned, could recognize the beauty of a splendid Latinphrase.

　　Here was the explanation of the magic of Lycidas. From the standpointof the formal understanding it was an affected lament over some whollyuninteresting and unimportant Mr. King; it was full of nonsense about"shepherds" and "flocks" and "muses" and such stale stock of poetry; theintroduction of St Peter on a stage thronged with nymphs and river godswas blasphemous, absurd, and, in the worst taste; there were touches ofgreasy Puritanism, the twang of the conventicle was only too apparent.And Lycidas was probably the most perfect piece of pure literature inexistence; because every word and phrase and line were sonorous, ringingand echoing with music.

　　"Literature," he re-enunciated in his mind, "is the sensuous art ofcausing exquisite impressions by means of words."

　　And yet there was something more; besides the logical thought, which wasoften a hindrance, a troublesome though inseparable accident, besides thesensation, always a pleasure and a delight, besides these there were theindefinable inexpressible images which all fine literature summons to themind. As the chemist in his experiments is sometimes astonished to findunknown, unexpected elements in the crucible or the receiver, as theworld of material things is considered by some a thin veil of theimmaterial universe, so he who reads wonderful prose or verse isconscious of suggestions that cannot be put into words, which do not risefrom the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected withthe sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world ofdreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantlyappearing, and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression oranalysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses. He called thesefancies of his "Meditations of a Tavern," and was amused to think that atheory of letters should have risen from the eloquent noise that rang allday about the violet and golden wine.

　　"Let us seek for more exquisite things," said Lucian to himself. He couldalmost imagine the magic transmutation of the senses accomplished, thestrong sunlight was an odor in his nostrils; it poured down on the whitemarble and the palpitating roses like a flood. The sky was a gloriousblue, making the heart joyous, and the eyes could rest in the dark greenleaves and purple shadow of the ilex. The earth seemed to burn and leapbeneath the sun, he fancied he could see the vine tendrils stir andquiver in the heat, and the faint fume of the scorching pine needles wasblown across the gleaming garden to the seat beneath the porch. Winewas before him in a cup of carved amber; a wine of the color of a darkrose, with a glint as of a star or of a jet of flame deep beneath thebrim; and the cup was twined about with a delicate wreath of ivy. He wasoften loath to turn away from the still contemplation of such things,from the mere joy of the violent sun, and the responsive earth. He lovedhis garden and the view of the tessellated city from the vineyard on thehill, the strange clamor of the tavern, and white Fotis appearing on thetorch-lit stage. And there were shops in the town in which he delighted,the shops of the perfume makers, and jewelers, and dealers in curiousware. He loved to see all things made for ladies' use, to touch thegossamer silks that were to touch their bodies, to finger the beads ofamber and the gold chains which would stir above their hearts, to handlethe carved hairpins and brooches, to smell odors which were alreadydedicated to love.

　　But though these were sweet and delicious gratifications, he knew thatthere were more exquisite things of which he might be a spectator. He hadseen the folly of regarding fine literature from the standpoint of thelogical intellect, and he now began to question the wisdom of looking atlife as if it were a moral representation. Literature, he knew, could notexist without some meaning, and considerations of right and wrong were toa certain extent inseparable from the conception of life, but to insiston ethics as the chief interest of the human pageant was surely absurd.One might as well read Lycidas for the sake of its denunciation of"our corrupted Clergy," or Homer for "manners and customs." An artistentranced by a beautiful landscape did not greatly concern himself withthe geological formation of the hills, nor did the lover of a wild seainquire as to the chemical analysis of the water. Lucian saw a coloredand complex life displayed before him, and he sat enraptured at thespectacle, not concerned to know whether actions were good or bad, butcontent if they were curious.

　　In this spirit he made a singular study of corruption. Beneath his feet,as he sat in the garden porch, was a block of marble through which thereran a scarlet stain. It began with a faint line, thin as a hair, and grewas it advanced, sending out offshoots to right and left, and broadeningto a pool of brilliant red. There were strange lives into which he lookedthat were like the block of marble; women with grave sweet faces told himthe astounding tale of their adventures, and how, they said, they had metthe faun when they were little children. They told him how they hadplayed and watched by the vines and the fountains, and dallied with thenymphs, and gazed at images reflected in the water pools, till theauthentic face appeared from the wood. He heard others tell how they hadloved the satyrs for many years before they knew their race; and therewere strange stories of those who had longed to speak but knew not theword of the enigma, and searched in all strange paths and ways beforethey found it.

　　He heard the history of the woman who fell in love with her slave-boy,and tempted him for three years in vain. He heard the tale from thewoman's full red lips, and watched her face, full of the ineffablesadness of lust, as she described her curious stratagems in mellowphrases. She was drinking a sweet yellow wine from a gold cup as shespoke, and the odor in her hair and the aroma of the precious wine seemedto mingle with the soft strange words that flowed like an unguent froma carven jar. She told how she bought the boy in the market of an Asiancity, and had him carried to her house in the grove of fig-trees. "Then,"she went on, "he was led into my presence as I sat between the columns ofmy court. A blue veil was spread above to shut out the heat of the sun,and rather twilight than light shone on the painted walls, and thewonderful colours of the pavement, and the images of Love and the Motherof Love. The men who brought the boy gave him over to my girls, whoundressed him before me, one drawing gently away his robe, anotherstroking his brown and flowing hair, another praising the whiteness ofhis limbs, and another caressing him, and speaking loving words in hishear. But the boy looked sullenly at them all, striking away their hands,and pouting with his lovely and splendid lips, and I saw a blush, likethe rosy veil of dawn, reddening his body and his cheeks. Then I madethem bathe him, and anoint him with scented oils from head to foot, tillhis limbs shone and glistened with the gentle and mellow glow of an ivorystatue. Then I said: 'You are bashful, because you shine alone amongst usall; see, we too will be your fellows.' The girls began first of all,fondling and kissing one another, and doing for each other the offices ofwaiting-maids. They drew out the pins and loosened the bands of theirhair, and I never knew before that they were so lovely. The soft andshining tresses flowed down, rippling like sea-waves; some had hairgolden and radiant as this wine in my cup, the faces of others appearedamidst the blackness of ebony; there were locks that seemed of burnishedand scintillating copper, some glowed with hair of tawny splendor, andothers were crowned with the brightness of the sardonyx. Then, laughing,and without the appearance of shame, they unfastened the brooches andbands which sustained their robes, and so allowed silk and linen to flowswiftly to the stained floor, so that one would have said there was asudden apparition of the fairest nymphs. With many festive and jocosewords they began to incite each other to mirth, praising the beautiesthat shone on every side, and calling the boy by a girl's name, theyinvited him to be their playmate. But he refused, shaking his head, andstill standing dumb-founded and abashed, as if he saw a forbidden andterrible spectacle. Then I ordered the women to undo my hair and myclothes, making them caress me with the tenderness of the fondest lover,but without avail, for the foolish boy still scowled and pouted out hislips, stained with an imperial and glorious scarlet."

　　She poured out more of the topaz-colored wine in her cup, and Lucian sawit glitter as it rose to the brim and mirrored the gleam of the lamps.The tale went on, recounting a hundred strange devices. The woman toldhow she had tempted the boy by idleness and ease, giving him long hoursof sleep, and allowing him to recline all day on soft cushions, thatswelled about him, enclosing his body. She tried the experiment ofcurious odors: causing him to smell always about him the oil of roses,and burning in his presence rare gums from the East. He was allured bysoft dresses, being clothed in silks that caressed the skin with thesense of a fondling touch. Three times a day they spread before him adelicious banquet, full of savor and odor and color; three times a daythey endeavored to intoxicate him with delicate wine.

　　"And so," the lady continued, "I spared nothing to catch him in theglistening nets of love; taking only sour and contemptuous glances inreturn. And at last in an incredible shape I won the victory, and then,having gained a green crown, fighting in agony against his green andcrude immaturity, I devoted him to the theatre, where he amused thepeople by the splendor of his death."

　　On another evening he heard the history of the man who dwelt alone,refusing all allurements, and was at last discovered to be the lover of ablack statue. And there were tales of strange cruelties, of men taken bymountain robbers, and curiously maimed and disfigured, so that when theyescaped and returned to the town, they were thought to be monsters andkilled at their own doors. Lucian left no dark or secret nook of lifeunvisited; he sat down, as he said, at the banquet, resolved to taste allthe savors, and to leave no flagon unvisited.

　　His relations grew seriously alarmed about him at this period. While heheard with some inner ear the suave and eloquent phrases of singulartales, and watched the lamp-light in amber and purple wine, his fathersaw a lean pale boy, with black eyes that burnt in hollows, and sad andsunken cheeks.

　　"You ought to try and eat more, Lucian," said the parson; "and why don'tyou have some beer?"

　　He was looking feebly at the roast mutton and sipping a little water; buthe would not have eaten or drunk with more relish if the choicest meatand drink had been before him.

　　His bones seemed, as Miss Deacon said, to be growing through his skin; hehad all the appearance of an ascetic whose body has been reduced tomisery by long and grievous penance. People who chanced to see him couldnot help saying to one another: "How ill and wretched that Lucian Taylorlooks!" They were of course quite unaware of the joy and luxury in whichhis real life was spent, and some of them began to pity him, and to speakto him kindly.

　　It was too late for that. The friendly words had as much lost theirmeaning as the words of contempt. Edward Dixon hailed him cheerfully inthe street one day:

　　"Come in to my den, won't you, old fellow?" he said. "You won't see thepater. I've managed to bag a bottle of his old port. I know you smokelike a furnace, and I've got some ripping cigars. You will come, won'tyou! I can tell you the pater's booze is first rate."

　　He gently declined and went on. Kindness and unkindness, pity andcontempt had become for him mere phrases; he could not have distinguishedone from the other. Hebrew and Chinese, Hungarian and Pushtu would bepretty much alike to an agricultural laborer; if he cared to listen hemight detect some general differences in sound, but all four tongueswould be equally devoid of significance.

　　To Lucian, entranced in the garden of Avallaunius, it seemed very strangethat he had once been so ignorant of all the exquisite meanings of life.Now, beneath the violet sky, looking through the brilliant trellis of thevines, he saw the picture; before, he had gazed in sad astonishment atthe squalid rag which was wrapped about it.