ON my way back I found a cottage at Kobi for next summer. It is made of stone and has two rooms. A sparkling rivulet comes past, washing, as it were, the toes of the cottage. It will be empty if I come and claim it in the spring, and I think I shall. Now my summer draws to a close. Already the procession of autumn has commenced: the trees at the summits of the mountains have turned from green to golden. The messenger has come to Proserpine. Presently, where I used to count five snowy peaks, I shall find seven and then ten, till at last the little Sphinx mountain that squats outside Vladikavkaz will also be a peak and glisten like the rest. The thorn-apples have already burst and thrown out their crimson seed, and like dusty yellow balls the Cape gooseberries have appeared on the mountains. The glories of gold and brown have spread downwards like fire into the valleys. The leaves are falling from the trees on the hills where the wind roars, from the trees in the valleys, even from the trees in the town, where there is no wind at all, and the snow is descending in the valleys. The sleet falls in Vladikavkaz, and then snow, and then in November even Vladikavkaz is, as Moscow and St Petersburg and the whole wintry north, a snow-clad town. The cycle of seasons has gone round; winter turned to slush on Palm Sunday at Moscow, it changed to laughing spring on the hill-slopes at Vladikavkaz. Summer followed the plough over the fields and blushed in a myriad flowers. The maize fields waved, the sunflowers gazed. Then autumn was seen in the streets, whilst all the village folk threshed the corn with flails. The priest blessed the first fruits and autumn was past. Once more it became the turn of winter, the most Russian of all seasons. Quick pace the winter came just as it had passed away. As in the spring sledges gave way to wheels in a day, so now did the wheels give way and the sledge ruled the road.

A wave of intense longing came and I must see England again. So one day found me once more in the city of fog and rain. As I walked down Fleet Street in Russian attire I heard someone say, “There goes a Pole.” But when I came into the city people were not deceived, and despite my shabby soft black hat, unclipped hair, and furry overcoat, a young man in Throgmorton Street persisted in whistling behind me that Gilbert and Sullivan air:—

Yes, he was.

The time comes to draw a line and strike a balance, and that is not an easy thing to do. Life to me has meant love, and, as Antony says, “there’s beggary in love that can be measured.” My gains are not to be set down. Many things are true until they are set down in words. A pressed flower is not a flower at all.

I went to Russia to see the world, to see new life, to breathe in new life. In truth it was like escaping from a prison, and now when I take a walk in London streets it seems as if I am taking the regulation exercise in a prison yard. And the dirty rags of London sky look like a tramp’s washing spread on the roots to dry. Still, it is given that we live even in prisons and under such skies for certain purposes. The towns have their beauties and mysteries even as the mountains have. I, least of all, have reason to be despondent there, for, like the companion of Christian, I have in my bosom that key which is called Promise.

At my room in the mill at Vladikavkaz I commonly looked out upon three pictures. In the foreground was a row of trembling poplars, and beyond these was a beautiful soft green hill, and beyond all a great grey mystic range of mountains. I call them the Present, the Future and the Eternal. The pleasant waving poplars were very real, very clear, and every leaf stood out distinctly, but on the green hill the trees were so many that I could not pick one out and see it clearly. It tempted me to go there and explore. The hill was full of allurement and charm, as it were, of the deep eyes of a woman as yet unknown but destined to be loved. It betrayed a mystery which it did not reveal.

Moreover, the green hill seemed to be the best standing place for looking into that vision of the eternal, of the ever-present mystery of Man and his Life. The mountains seemed to be the Ikon in God’s open-air room, His vast chamber of Nature.

Here then is the story of my life and of its gains written in the terms of these symbols. It was written at the Mill, it is a flower wreath gathered on the mountains.

The Horizon

A youth steps forward on the road and a horizon goes forward. Sometimes slowly the horizon moves, sometimes in leaps and bounds. Slowly while mountains are approached, or when cities and markets crowd the skies to heaven, but suddenly and instantaneously when summits are achieved or when the outskirts dust of town or fair is passed. One day, at a highest point on that road of his, a view will be disclosed and lie before him—the furthest and most magical glance into the Future. Away, away in the far-distant grey will lie his newest and last horizon, in a place more fantastic and mystical than the dissolving city, which the eye builds out of sunset clouds.

Time was when the youth played carelessly in a meadow and knew not of the upward road and mountainous track. The destiny which was his had spoken not from bee or flower; and if it came to him, came only as a dream-whisper in the soft breeze that now and then fluttered in his ears. The sun was then his, the blue sky and the field below, and flower and leaf and tree and the glad air. As these belonged to him, so he also belonged to them, and neither knew nor cared of the having or the losing. Life was joy, and joy was life. But mornings pass, and every noon is a turning-point. One afternoon found him wending from the meadow and bending steps towards a green slope that lay before him, cool and fresh and tempting. By a foot-path over the hill he went to the great high road. The grasses waved farewell to him as the evening breeze ruffled them in the sunlight. The green slope parted with him, and he left its sunlight and freshness, and his eyes looked on the road. What was there in the road that he should leave the hill for her—that he should take its dust for her? He knew not, neither questioned he, but moved ahead towards the highway which stretched out over the undulating plain far up into the west; towards the highway which led to the land of the setting sun, and which lost itself in a region of crimson and gold. For the sun went down to the level of the plain, and for a moment appeared as the very gateway through which at last the great road gave into enchanted regions. Onward the youth sped gaily, light in his face, life in his steps, the songs of the meadow-birds in his heart. Some spell in the road drew him onward, or some meaning wrought in him impelled him forward. Onward he sped on the long upward road, and gained its first incline as the sunset faded away. Then had the horizon faded inward near him, and all became grey and lonely as he gained the next incline, and then a summit gained, the first summit giving view to further slope and further crest. He now left the land of plains and upward made his path, and only seldom descended into valleys; but as night came on, and with night wistfulness and loneliness, he looked about him where he should find rest. He lay down in the grass by the roadside, and the fresh odour in the grass brought back the meadow thoughts, and a certain staleness and dustiness came as sadness upon his heart. And as he lay watching the starlight growing brighter in the grey sky, he dreamed uneasily of the gay meadow and its flies and bees, and of the red sunset-gate, and of something appalling, though mysterious, there.

Many days followed this day, and the youth had lain on many banks of the same long dusty road, when one afternoon a change came over him. He had tired early, for the noonday sun had been terrible, and the hot road hard to his way-weary feet. He had lain among the long fresh grasses beside a bush of the wild rose, and had fallen asleep. Weary had he been, and the world had seemed dull to him, the road ever the same, the sky the same, village and town the same, and nowhere was there beauty and freshness and new delight. Not seven days a week were there for him but to-day, name it what one would, eternally recurred. He fell asleep among the grasses. But when he woke it was in a surprise, for the world had changed. Away in the west the sun had set mildly and a little moon had risen; a tender night breeze was on the wing, and earliest moths flitted from bush to tree. He awakened, or rather he and himself awakened, a self below himself had awakened, as if the soul had drawn curtains from two windows after a long custom of drawing from only one. A new being waking, blinked uneasily to find itself in the swing and motion of life. “Who set me going?” it asked, for it had power to ask questions that the first being could not answer. The road stretched out an eternity before and an eternity behind, but he knew not why, and could give no answer to the questions: What is the road? Whither leads the road? Whence comes the road? Where did you begin to march upon it? Why did you leave the meadow? To all these questions answer such as could be given was forthcoming, and was unsatisfactory enough withal. Long into night brooded the two beings together, and then for weariness forgot and slept. And the next morn both awoke and took this road, upon which his steps had become a habit. Now all was thought and question, and the youth found a new use for the wayfarers he met, and not a tradesman or pilgrim or petty trafficker upon the road but he put to him his questions concerning the destiny which was at the end of the way. To most these questions were too difficult. Not a few said there was no answer, not a few said there was no question. Many would have persuaded him that he sought a mere shadow, a phantom, an illusion. Many bade him give up the quest and settle upon the roadside in some town or village. “Then I should be lost!” said the youth. “For I have left a home which I can never find again, in order that I may find a home which my heart tells me shall be mine, and there is no rest for me till my mind agrees with my heart.” Then on one occasion an old pilgrim answered, “Knowest thou not, my son, that this road leads eternally round the world? So long is it, and so hard, that by old age thou canst only win back to the sight of the land where thou wast once a child. Be advised, quit the road where thou must always be a seeker. Abandon thy quest, and settle here where the pleasant stream gently flows under the red stone bridge of the village. Thou wilt be lost, but thou wilt sleep and forget, and one morning will find thee once more the happiness lost in leaving the meadow.”

Yet the youth pressed on, and the seasons passed by, and the years rolled over with whites and greens and reds and browns. Years passed, and still upon the road the young man moved, and at length fewer people appeared—fewer communities—less used and worn the road appeared. One night he came to a hermit’s hut. His old question he put to the hermit, but the latter was a mocker. “Why is this road here; did not God make it? Oh, my very young man, this road wasn’t made by God—man made it; this is the beaten track, the way man has followed man and sheep has followed sheep through all time. This is the safest road round the road and back again. The wheel of sunlight rolls evenly along it, down over it in the west in the evening, and up again in the east in the morning. To the sun every inch of its road is known, and there are no discoveries to be made upon it, no new things to be found. Thou mightst have in the meadow learnt all its secrets from the sun. But men find happiness along the road, some in the hope of finding the new, others in foot-measuring its miles, and some become happy resting by the road, and settling there, and again others have their joy in the nourishment of a secret hope of finding the goal of the road. The sun provides the best happiness, and does all the work that needs to be done, and from mankind he has no need of help to rule the world. Be not over anxious, my son, about goals and aims and objects; they are only the vessels of happiness. And I counsel you, bethink you, now that the road becomes more solitary, that your hope may become a burden or may become too small. I also was of your spirit, and persevered far along the road till I lost my hope and had no means of happiness. In the hermit’s hut one learns the art of being happy. One fashions the soul to the deepest of all cups....”

But the youth interrupted: “You have been along the road, father! Tell me of that, for it is my road, and nought can discourage me from my wish to know its end and meaning.” The hermit smiled. “Soon you come to a land of towers,” he said. “The towers were set up by happy seekers; much time they spent in building, and much secret happiness they gained thereby. Watch-towers they are, and places of survey, besides many league-stones and markers of progress. But really, now, there are no more towers to be built, I think. Far as I went along the road I found towers, and, indeed, nought but towers at last. And ever as thou comest to a new tower, thou, like myself long since, wilt climb the stairs and take survey, and see a next tower—watch-towers both—and from either only barren road and watch-tower visible. These are not the profitable reaches of the road of wisdom.”

The morning after this the wanderer rose after calm sleep. New hope was in his eyes, and a new thought in his heart. “This is the beaten track,” he said, as he stamped in the dust, and he was gay, though he knew not the reason of his gaiety. Light of heart was he, and happiness danced in his steps. But about noon clouds came over the sky, and his gaiety gave way to a new questioning and a new seriousness. He began to see that he was coming to a more desolate country. Naught was there before the eye but sky and road, and then at length a first tower. Then he mounted to the highest look-out and searched the land to the new horizon, but the View was blank; only as a speck far onward on the road he dimly made out the form of a second tower. “I am weary of the road,” he said, as he turned to descend the stairs, and when he had got to the foot a confession was on his lips that the hermit was right. Progress along the road was but vanity and vexation of spirit. Now from sunset to dawn was a desolate land of road and dust and towers all the way from west to east. A strange weariness and anger possessed his soul, and it happened that he saw a bank, and feeling that all wish to go on had vanished he threw himself down upon it. So he lay beside the road and fought with despair and weariness. Far over the wide country his eye wandered, but found no resting-place. As the sun set stormily and angrily he looked away to the north and scanned the sombre plain, and then restlessly turned to the south. His heart brooded over some wrong, and his mind sought some object to provoke it to thought. His eye wandered over the desert to the south, and settled on a soft purple line that lay the horizon. No window of the tower faced south, or he might have been tempted to mount its steps once more; for of a sudden the wrong was gone from his heart, the seeking from his mind, and the restlessness from his spirit. In place of these had come a new energy, a new longing, a new love. Still he sat hesitating by the bank, and suddenly new thoughts flooded his mind as joy suffused his heart. “This was my road; this is my road no longer. My heart brought me so far, but I am no further tempted along its dust; now towards the desert my heart yearneth. This is the beaten track, and beyond this point I, too, would be merely following, heartlessly helpless, like a loose stone down the steep slope of time.” For awhile he dwelt in the peace of his own heart. Then a sunbeam flashed from beyond a cloud, and like a searchlight lit up the way about him, and he saw what he had not discerned before, that the road, though apparently one and continuous away to the west, branched by an ill-defined track away to the south also. Then the old magic came back, and he knew that for him the true road was this one diverging to the south, this unworn way, this little-traversed path to the purple mountains.

A youth steps forward on a new road and a horizon goes forward. Sometimes slowly the horizon moves, sometimes in leaps and bounds; slowly while mountain is neared, suddenly when crests are achieved. The enchantment which of old drew him from the meadow to the hill, and from hill to highway, still goes before him, enticing him forward. Life loves him and flees before him, and as with the eyes of a woman looks out and beckons him. She is the secret mistress of his heart; as yet she is unknown, her love unrevealed, her mystery and meaning unexplored.

Over brown moors and mountains green the wanderer clambers, and sighs his soul to the goal that for the present stands before all others in the sky. Over the ridges he passes and surmounts the rocks and passes with light steps along the higher slopes, and then arduously battles among crag and boulder, abyss and great rock....

And the conqueror is at last ascending the final darkest, highest crag of all; only blackness is before him, and adamantine rock. All horizon is gone; there is no future but the future in his heart. Then suddenly the worst becomes the best; the darkest the brightest; the narrowest the widest; the shortest the furthest. The conqueror stands with his foot upon the mountain’s brow, and all the kingdoms of the world lie beneath him. He has risen as a sun upon his own world, the dawn whereby he sees his life has come. Now dwells he in the eternal blue of ether, and looks down with pity to the clouds below and the mists of fields and fogs of cities, to the places where those live who did not believe in their quests or in his. Now he learns the utmost limit of the meaning of human life, and he can renounce beyond knowledge in his sufficiency. In nothing more shall he ever be surprised. Life is revealed, the woman who fled is won. Now is the horizon removed to its utmost possibility—further than that grey-blue line he cannot pass. He may descend the mountain, but the horizon will narrow on—narrow in, and even though it widen out again, and although he run his life’s journey along the way, he will win no further than these, for that is the shore of life itself, on which rolls the grey sea of Death.

As he descends into the plains, happiness remains his, and the mountain vision remains in his heart. Life has been revealed; now it shall be explored. Now he shall learn in detail the mystery in each contribution of each little plot to that grand mountain harmony that flashed before his vision as he reaches his topmost peak. He shall learn in detail the meaning of those distant greys and blues. He may take what path he chooses—north or east, or south or west; one path is his and he will choose it. He may meet his old acquaintances of the road, but will have no problems for them to solve. He may see the old villages and cities, but without impatience will he dwell in them, for he has the satisfaction required.

The youth stands and gazes, and all sinks into him. Softly his eyes rest on the herds grazing in the valley, on the great highway, on church and village, on many a green and brown and golden acre lying open to the full kiss of the sky, and many a misty moor and jagged sultry headland—looks over a long grey ridge marked with steeples here and there, and beyond these, to new blues and greys and purples. He measures life; the present to the ultimate future, “the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself,” all these to the insubstantial pageant fading in the sleep of dreams.