From The Four Winds/The Demi-Gods



Into the garden of rest had come trouble and pain, for the end was at hand.

HE sat in the sun, on the stone wall that divided the garden from the great lake, and swung his legs, silently gazing with his soul in his eyes, and SHE, in a long wicker chair, sideways to him, shaded her face with her hand and looked down. The soul went out of him, and hovering over the waving hair, and the dimple at the corner of the drooping mouth, peeped through the fingers of the dear hand at its true and only resting places—those brown pools over whose depths lay the clouding shadow of the morrow.

But another twenty-four hours, and then back to prison—to prison—to prison. The thought beat through both hearts, with the level monotony of a tolling for the dead, for the glorious dead, for the month past of a sweet and lovely life together in the garden of rest.

To-morrow was the ending of all life and light, bringing with it for her a separation from the true self, a return behind the triumphant car of a mocking and over-riding fate, to a caged existence, a loathed companionship, a weary, weary beating of the breast against the bars; for him—a legion of mind-devils, torturing, twisting, lying in wait at every turn and corner of life, ever alert and ever cruel, and a dreary, craving ache.

To-morrow was the farewell of their love, perhaps till the grave—who knows? their great and burning love, that had given all and taken all, that had cared with an exceeding tenderness for every thought and movement, that was old, yet had not tired, that had known and understood, having no depths left to sound, no heights to win; that tree which, planted in the moist, cool earth of comradeship, had grown steadily and grandly till it rejoiced in the sweet foliage of a perfect trust, and the glorious flowers of passion. The day looked on, and laughed in slanting rays of heat and light, and presently on a snow-cooled breeze wafted between two towering heights came a chime of far-off Italian bells.

She looked up into his face, and smiled.

'Shall I sing my Love a little song?' she said. And as he knelt beside her, she held his head in her two hands, and sang shyly into his ear, in time to the drifting cadence.

Out of his eyes fled hunger and pain, and he leaned his forehead on her breast, and so they drank of the merciful well of peace. The chime floated faintly past them with a note of invitation.

'The bells have got into my head, darling. I'm mad, I think,—I can't feel anything—Child of mine, come for a drive, and find the bells; we'll get drunk on sun, and air, and sky, and mountains, and—kisses, and forget there is a to-morrow and an ending.'

He stood up straight and strong, and drew her to him.

So they waited, and the chime floated once more past, while they looked life again into each other's eyes.

Then, with his arm around her shoulder, and hers drawn round his waist, they walked through the garden of rest to the gate where the angel of Publicity threatened such proceeding with a flaming and respectable sword.

'The sun is very yellow and hot here by the side of the water, and the flies are like to a hundred devils on my good Nicolas—Ugh! Pighead, what good to shake thy bell! It is not good sitting here, for I have only money for one—two—three—yes, for four drinkings, in my pouch, and the last a little one, and the day is hot. Eleven of the clock, for there begins the morning tolling from San Felice. Where be these fools of strangers? There be many things to see, also my chariot is very strong, and beautiful exceedingly, and my good grey Nicolas, is he not a most willing puller, being still young and lusty? Yet, forsooth, because it is the Sabbath, they will not stir forth—these fools—but sit at home in sad garments, and eat, thinking to make the day holy.

'Ai! What are these? Can it be they are coming? Ai—Ai—si signore, si, si, signora, si, si, si.... This is several drinkings; moreover they appear to be English. A very curious peoples, the English—for some reason known only of God they speak to me in French, as if I, Pietro, understood French, forsooth. However, it is all the same thing; the he waves his hat to the West, and says—"San Feiice;"—now San Felice is in the South;—the she says "Campenella," and does not wave anythings,—decidedly she is the more intelligent; and I, Pietro, the most intelligent of all, for I nod my top once, twice, three times strongly, and say "San Felice, si, si," and beat my grey, and lo! we are off, and they have forgotten to bargain. Ho! A very curious peoples!

'And yet, now that I regard, perhaps I have done to the English an injustice. These are no doubt mad, they have a very queer look, their eyes are all shiny, and they sit very close together, though even I, Pietro, am hot, sitting up here alone on the head of my chariot.

'Ting-a-ling, ting- a-ling, sighs my old friend the bell, as Nicolas shakes his ears at the road; si, si, amico, it is long, and it is white, and—pouff—dusty, and in places even steep.

'Yes, now I know for a certainty they are mad; it is not for them the road either too long or too steep or too dusty; they only sit like coo-doves, and the he sighs, and every now and then he starts upon his feet, greatly endangering his neck, and points with his fist, and says, "Look, Carissima, how grand, how beautiful!"

'I think he talks foolishness, for it is always the same whether we come to a pool or a mountain, or even where the trees grow thickly, or there are flowers on the ground. And then what does the she but uprise also, ah! She is "bella," the she! And puts her hand on his shoulder, ah! The lucky shoulder! and before she has looked, Nicolas gives a big pull so that both sit down on a sudden, upon their ends, and laugh greatly.

'They laugh always, these—when they do not sigh, and when they sigh sometimes there comes also to my ears another sound, very gentle, like the end of a good drinking. Can they already, then, be thirsty? Why, even I, Pietro, am not yet thirsty, but soon shall be.

'Yet no, when I turn, saying-"Il Signore—ha parlato?" is he not always tying on his boot—very curious must be the boots of the English—and she hooking her glove, and both laughing, yes, always laughing? nor can I see any bottle.

'Overhead the sky is quite blue, and the sun very yellow, and there be no shade, but the he throws off his hat, and says, "Grand, glorious, 'twill make to grow the hair, Carissima;" this he says many times, so that I learn it by stomach, and the she strokes his top, where the hairs did no longer kiss one another, and purrs—all these things I know through the back of my hat where the brim is broad, and a man half-turning can see with the corner of his eyeball.

'Now, in a good time we come to where the valley runs away down from the road, and Nicolas, as is the habit of this pighead, when the sun is hot even to the winking of his master's eye, walks over till he hangs above the valley by the hairs of his tail and the strength of my right arms, and presently with much thanking of God and cursings of that pighead, I pull him up again; at the which what does the he but cast himself back laughing, and say, "Do it again, do it again," which I am supposing is of great wit, for the she laughs also greatly.

'Do they think, perchance, that I, Pietro, cannot drive? Chickenheads! it is now of a surety they are mad—I, Pietro, who am a celebration! I too laugh, and so we laugh all three, until we come to where there is good drinking.

' "Goutez un petit peu," I speak to them in that fool's tongue—this much knowing, and that quite enough.

' "Si, si," they say, and nod their tops, yet do not descend. Certainly they have drunk upon the voyage, for the day is hot. Well, well, I, Pietro, am thirsty and so inwards; Nicolas also will drink, but not of the Asti that bubbles sweet and yellow. Ai! Good! Very good drinking; is it not so, my pighead? And what of these? they have not drunk, yet are their eyes shinier than even before, and surely they are very near together.

'So we go down into the valley from whence on both hands the big hills roll up their limbs, and I, coming to that place where it is of the custom to show where the man from the market was bereft of his goods, and where his body was cut off, turn on my head, and tell them in usual words the story.

'Chickenheads! never yet did any understand, and my Italian is very pure, very—always in great estimation.

'These only say, "Si, si!" and presently many times: "How far San Felice? How far? How far?" What shall this mean? I know not, yet surely I must to tell them—being of great intelligence, so I stop my Nicolas and speak of the country and how many peoples live in the town, and the name of the mayor; and then, for greater satisfaction of these, because they will pay largely—turning a little to think the better, and outspit once, twice, very skilfully on two hairs of Nicolas' back-tail—again to them, concerning the other road, and the number of horses my master has, and how I, Pietro, have a wife (whom God plant!) and several offsprings.

'But these only laugh, and point in many ways, having no intelligence, and say, "How far, how far? More?"

'Chickenheads! and do? What to do? But nod my top, and on again where the brown water runs swiftly down from the hills towards its Mother, the great blue lake. Ai—so it runs busily from the hills where the snow cloak lies shining in the sun. And now these are quiet, quiet as the deep Mother herself, or as the tall Father with his white head. Perhaps they are frightened; well, I was frightened once; that was many years ago, being but a whipperling; for the Mother is very blue and still and deep, and the Father is of a giantness strong as the death itself.

'So the little brown Son runs over between them, and carries messages and greeting.

'Yet not always, for in the great heat comes the Fiery One and licks him up for a space, and tears off the Father's white hairs that get thinner and thinner with every golden dawning. Surely the he with the hat, upon which he sits, should regard and understand of this, taking warning lest the same befall; yet perchance there is a difference, his hair being of a fair mud, as is that of all the English.

'Now the she is "bella," with many hairs running in billows like waves on the shore of the lake, only not white-topped, and her face is like unto a violet and a star. Yet also is she like unto something that springs swiftly and far, or unto that which waves its wings in the sunlight, making many colours, and floats past like the twinkling of an eyebrow. Also have I seen in shops figures of porcelain of a delicate transparence, so that a man can look at things through them, that are greatly like her; so it seems also the he finds her, for whenever she points and bids him to be looking at the things around, he regards straightly and without winking at her eyeballs, or—so often as I am observing at her eyelashes, which she then, it seems, wears long upon her cheeks.

'Ai! I have seen one or two fairer amongst my own race; but never amongst these strangers, wearing nets on their faces, with blue looking-glasses for their eyes, and very thick garments of a sad colour.

'And so on and on past the great Mother, Nicolas drawing with a good stomach to where rises the long hill to San Felice, and ever comes clearer the great chime, it being now the second pulling of it.

'Then the he—mad, as I have said—descends and marches with me, patting my Nicolas and saying, "Good, good, how old?" With that he regards his teeth. Now I know well what I must be saying, when one of these regards where once were Nicolas' teeth, and says, "How old?" For I am of great intelligence and have learnt it by stomach,—so "Eightee" I say. "What?" says the he, and his eyes grow of a roundness, then he laughs and wheels his toes to the she, and says something of a great wit, and both laugh again. Then a curious thing passes, for the she says, "Ah! Eightine but impossible!" and like to a shot gun rolls from the chariot moving, and both run and look at Nicolas' knees, and again at his teeth. Do they think then that he eats his knees?

'Then again both say Eightine! but impossible! and I say Eightine, si, si! and nod myself so that they shall not think small of Nicolas, or that he is too young a horse and fiery, as I was of a fear they might. Yet they wag their tops very often and as I think, sadly, and the she looks at Nicolas softly and timidly, and smites him very gently, and they walk up all that great hill—both—even "la bella."

'But then it is all same thing, they are English and mad; who knows what is in them?

'Now am I thirsty again; but at the end we have become in San Felice, and after much questioning of the peoples walking in the streets—who know nothing—I find at the end the place where they wish to drink, the bells being quite at hand, and very full of noise.

'So I leave them for mine own drinking. Yet they do not hurry to their drinking, but go slowly, and as it were without eagerness, looking at each other, and the "bella's" eyes shine like two stars in a heaven of violets.

'What did they, while for three hours I and Nicolas ate bravely and drank much, is of a supposition. But now we are again to returning ready, and see! they come, the "bella" with many flowers in her hands; and still their eyes shine, and their noses smell the flowers, and they say, "Allez, Pietro, allez!"

'So, with a crackling of the whip-stick, we roll through the streets, and down to the other road leading through the valley of the fair view to the bridge that cuts in two the great Mother, and so home again. Now I have a liking for this road, and so has Nicolas; it is of a gentle sloping, with many spots where he that is intelligent can ' goutez un peu,' and so we go pleasantly.

'The Fiery One is hiding him behind the tall Father and his brethren, and there comes over the earth a great sweet colour as of the sparkling Asti in this my glass, and all things drink deeply of the flushing light—even those lying back with eyes very serene, and arms invisible cunningly—and I, Pietro, even more deeply, for have I not also of the light inside me?

'Only Nicolas goes like the pighead he is, without reason, now on one side, now on the other, and jumps as does the flea when you catch his tail.

'Well—well—he is a sure beast, and the way is very long—and safe—and aww—drowsy, and the light has got into my eyes, and also, I think a little into my top—aw—w—w—well, I will perchance sleep a little—'tis a sure—beast—and the way—a—w—w....'

The champagne light faded slowly from the snow-crowned tops, and from the green and grey sides of the hills, and the violet shadows crept on over the great blue lake below; the shining in her eyes was fading too, giving place to a look of great rest and faith, and his face turned to hers was the face of a man gazing at the Holy Grail.

So, obliviously, unconsciously onwards, the cup of a perfect joy full to overflowing.

The carriage rolled slowly along the white and dusty road by the lake-side, the tired horse picking his own way, the pleasantly drunken Pietro heavily asleep on his box.

In the fast gathering dusk they came to the iron railway bridge that carved the lake into two halves. The carriage road and railway track lay parallel across the bridge, divided only by a high partition of iron-work running its entire length. The gates of each lay open, and a level crossing tempted the unguided horse past the gate of the road on to the lines of the railway.

Perhaps some sting of a dormant yet uneasy conscience, or the jolt of the wheel, caused his slumbering driver to awaken suddenly; the reins, jerked sharply and mechanically to the left, brought the horse's head round into and through the wrong gate. In a minute the carriage was being dragged along the single railway track with no room to turn.

A frightened cry from the driver, and the grey, terrified by the jerking at his mouth, and the unwonted nature of the road, plunged forward wildly. Losing his balance, Pietro fell over to the side of the line with a groan of terror, and crawled, shrinking, to an iron girder at the side, to which he clung with trembling arms.

'Sit still, my darling, it's a fair course and no favour; can't go wrong. Sweet, there isn't room to upset; we shall be all right at the end.'

She gave a little shiver and clasped her hands tightly round his neck.

'Courage, sweetheart; we've laughed the day through, and we'll laugh it through to the finish; is it not so, O my love?'

The darkness closed in, the horse plunged and snorted in his mad career, the carriage rocked and rattled fearfully. He strained her close to him with a laugh, looking with eyes of love into her face,—and the same sweet look of rest and faith was upon it.

'Hast thou been happy all this long day, child?' he said.

'Ay—ah! How happy!! There is no telling.'

Then suddenly her face changed; over it closed the grim shadow of the morning, and even in that moment of fear and excitement a black reaction was upon her. With a low moan she whispered:

'My own, I want to die now, now, with thee in my arms, thy face to me, thy lips to mine, and no one to see but the sky and the lake; I can't face to-morrow and the ending—I can't—I can't!'

The passionate whisper rose into a cry, the breathing choked in a sob, and the calm of her face broke, and vanished suddenly, as the calm of the great lake breaks and vanishes before the icy blast sweeping down the mountain gully.

For answer he held her closer and closer in his arms.

'Gold help me! neither can I, thy wish is mine.'...

From out of the darkness in front, swelling gradually above the rattling of the carriage and the snorting of the horse, came a muttering sound.

'The gods are merciful,' he said; 'a train's on us; it's all over—there will be no ending.'

Nearer and nearer came the terrible roar, stunning all the faculties of heart and brain, and still the maddened horse sprang forward to his doom.

With a supreme effort HE tore himself free from the bond of numbness and cried to HER fast in his arms; and through her eyes in that one last look her soul crept to his.

'Demi-gods to-day! better this ending than to-morrow's;—if there be a future life, darling, it is ours together—body to body, soul to soul.... One kiss, my darling—closer, closer—ah'

With a stagger the greedy roar fled past into the purple night, its hungering stilled—and from over the shadowy lake under the watchful and silent stars a requiem chime came floating: