Collected Works (Vol. II)

60 ALICE: AN ADULTERY He sank back contented. ‘‘I have prayed to my God for many days,” he said, ‘‘and by one of the least of my life’s miracles you are here; worthy to receive my trust. For when I knew that I was to die, I destroyed all the papers which held the story of my life—all save one. That I saved; the only noble passage, perhaps—among the many notable. Men will say that it is stained; you, I think, should be wiser. It is the story of how the Israelites crossed the Red Sea. They were not drowned, you know (he seemed to lapse into a day-dream), and they came out on the Land of Promise side. But they had to descend therein.” ‘* They all died in the wilderness,” I said, feeling as if I understood this mystical talk, which, indeed, I did not. But I felt in- spired. ‘* Ay me, they died—as I am dying now.” He turned to the wall and sought a bundle of old writing on a shelf. ‘‘ Take this,” he said. ‘‘ Edit it as if it were your own: let the world know how wonderful it was.” I took the manuscript from the frail, white hand. He seemed to forget me altogether. ‘* Namo tassa Bhagavato arahato samma- sambuddhasa,”’' he murmured, turning to his little black Buddha-rupa. There was a calm like unto—might I say, an afterwards? : ‘ There is an end of joy and sorrow, Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,” he began drowsily. A shrill voice rose in a great curse. The hoarse anger of drunken harlotry snarled back. ‘*Not a drop more,” shouted my friend, adding many things. It was time for my return. ‘“‘T will let them know,” I whispered. ‘* Good-bye.” ‘¢« There is not one thing with another; But Evil saith toGood: ‘‘ My brother—"’"’ 2 he went on unheeding. I left him to his peace. My re-appearance restored harmony. The 1 ‘*Glory to the Blessed One, the Perfected One, the Enlightened One.” It is the common Buddhist salute to their Master. 2 These quotations. are from Swinburne’s ‘* Tlicet.”’ fulvous and fulgurous lady grew compara- tively tranquil; the pair withdrew. The old woman lay sprawled along the divan sunk in a drunken torpor. I unrolled the manuscript and read. Brutal truth-telling humour, at times per- haps too Rabelaisian; lyrics, some of en- chanting beauty, others painfully imitative; sonnets of exceedingly unequal power, a perfectly heartless introduction (some fools would call it pathetic),! and, as a synthesis of the whole, an impression of profound sad- ness and, perhaps, still deeper joy, were my reward. Together with a feeling that the writer must have been a philosopher of the widest and deepest learning and penetration, and a recret that he showed no more of it in his poetry. First and last, I stood amazed, stupefied; so stand [I still. Dramatic propriety forbade me seeing him again; he was alone when he started. Let us not too bitterly lament! He would hate him who would ‘‘ upon the rack of this tough world stretch him out longer.” To the best of my poor ability I have executed his wishes, omitting, however, his name and all references sufficiently precise to give pain to any person still living.? His handwriting was abominably difficult, some words quite indecipherable. I have spent long and laborious hours in conjecture, and have, I hope, restored his meaning in almost every case. But in the Sonnets of the 12th, 18th, 23rd, 24th, 29th, 35th, 41st, 43rd, and 48th days, also in ‘‘ At Last,” ‘* Love and Fear,” and ‘‘ Lethe,” -one or more whole lines have been almost impossible to read. The literary student will be able readily to detect my patchwork emendations. These I have dared to make because his whole pattern (may I use the word ?) is so elaborate and perfect that I fear to annoy the reader by leaving any blanks, feeling that my own poverty of diction will be less noticeable than any actual hiatus in the sense or rhythm. I attempt neither eulogy nor criti- cism here. Indeed, it seems to me entirely uncalled for. His words were: ‘‘ Let the world know how wonderful it was,” that is, his love and hers; not ‘‘ how wonderful it is,’ that is, his poem. The poem is simple, understandable, direct, not verbose. More I demand not, 1 The MS. has been lost.—Eb. © 2 The essential facts are, of course, imaginary.