Leithen's story had bored and puzzled me at the start, but now it had somehow gripped my fancy.Space a domain of endless corridors and Presences moving in them! The world was not quite the same as an hour ago.It was the hour, as the French say, "between dog and wolf," when the mind is disposed to marvels.Ithought of my stalking on the morrow, and was miserably conscious that I would miss my stag.Those airy forms would get in the way.Confound Leithen and his yarns!
"I want to hear the end of your story," I told him, as the lights of the Lodge showed half a mile distant.
"The end was a tragedy," he said slowly."I don't much care to talk about it.But how was I to know? I couldn't see the nerve going.You see I couldn't believe it was all nonsense.If Icould I might have seen.But I still think there was something in it--up to a point.Oh, I agree he went mad in the end.It is the only explanation.Something must have snapped in that fine brain, and he saw the little bit more which we call madness.
Thank God, you and I are prosaic fellows...
"I was going out to Chamonix myself a week later.But before Istarted I got a post-card from Hollond, the only word from him.
He had printed my name and address, and on the other side had scribbled six words--' I know at last--God's mercy.--H.G.H' The handwriting was like a sick man of ninety.I knew that things must be pretty bad with my friend.
"I got to Chamonix in time for his funeral.An ordinary climbing accident--you probably read about it in the papers.The Press talked about the toll which the Alps took from intellectuals--the usual rot.There was an inquiry, but the facts were quite ******.The body was only recognised by the clothes.He had fallen several thousand feet.
"It seems that he had climbed for a few days with one of the Kronigs and Dupont, and they had done some hair-raising things on the Aiguilles.Dupont told me that they had found a new route up the Montanvert side of the Charmoz.He said that Hollond climbed like a 'diable fou' and if you know Dupont's standard of madness you will see that the pace must have been pretty hot.'But monsieur was sick,' he added; 'his eyes were not good.And I and Franz, we were grieved for him and a little afraid.We were glad when he left us.'
"He dismissed the guides two days before his death.The next day he spent in the hotel, getting his affairs straight.He left everything in perfect order, but not a line to a soul, not even to his sister.The following day he set out alone about three in the morning for the Grepon.He took the road up the Nantillons glacier to the Col, and then he must have climbed the Mummery crack by himself.After that he left the ordinary route and tried a new traverse across the Mer de Glace face.Somewhere near the top he fell, and next day a party going to the Dent du Requin found him on the rocks thousands of feet below.
"He had slipped in attempting the most foolhardy course on earth, and there was a lot of talk about the dangers of guideless climbing.But I guessed the truth, and I am sure Dupont knew, though he held his tongue....
We were now on the gravel of the drive, and I was feeling better.
The thought of dinner warmed my heart and drove out the eeriness of the twilight glen.The hour between dog and wolf was passing.
After all, there was a gross and jolly earth at hand for wise men who had a mind to comfort.
Leithen, I saw, did not share my mood.He looked glum and puzzled, as if his tale had aroused grim memories.He finished it at the Lodge door.
"...For, of course, he had gone out that day to die.He had seen the something more, the little bit too much, which plucks a man from his moorings.He had gone so far into the land of pure spirit that he must needs go further and shed the fleshly envelope that cumbered him.God send that he found rest! Ibelieve that he chose the steepest cliff in the Alps for a purpose.He wanted to be unrecognisable.He was a brave man and a good citizen.I think he hoped that those who found him might not see the look in his eyes."STOCKS AND STONES
[The Chief Topaiwari replieth to Sir Walter Raleigh who upbraideth him for idol worship]
My gods, you say, are idols dumb, Which men have wrought from wood or clay, Carven with chisel, shaped with thumb, A morning's task, an evening's play.
You bid me turn my face on high Where the blue heaven the sun enthrones, And serve a viewless deity, Nor make my bow to stocks and stones.
My lord, I am not skilled in wit Nor wise in priestcraft, but I know That fear to man is spur and bit To jog and curb his fancies' flow.
He fears and loves, for love and awe In mortal souls may well unite To fashion forth the perfect law Where Duty takes to wife Delight.
But on each man one Fear awaits And chills his marrow like the dead.--He cannot worship what he hates Or make a god of naked Dread.
The homeless winds that twist and race, The heights of cloud that veer and roll, The unplumb'd Abyss, the drift of Space--These are the fears that drain the soul.
Ye dauntless ones from out the sea Fear nought.Perchance your gods are strong To rule the air where grim things be, And quell the deeps with all their throng.
For me, I dread not fire nor steel, Nor aught that walks in open light, But fend me from the endless Wheel, The voids of Space, the gulfs of Night.
Wherefore my brittle gods I make Of friendly clay and kindly stone,--Wrought with my hands, to serve or break, From crown to toe my work, my own.
My eyes can see, my nose can smell, My fingers touch their painted face, They weave their little homely spell To warm me from the cold of Space.
My gods are wrought of common stuff For human joys and mortal tears;Weakly, perchance, yet staunch enough To build a barrier 'gainst my fears, Where, lowly but secure, I wait And hear without the strange winds blow.--I cannot worship what I hate, Or serve a god I dare not know.
