And what were now my feelings towards the memory of my father? Can a man cherish in his heart at one and the same moment scorn of another man for believing in the efficacy of a curse, and bitter anger against him for having left a curse behind him? He can! On my return to London after my illness I had sent back to Wilderspin the copy of _The Veiled Queen_ he had lent me. But from the library of Raxton Hall I brought my father"s own copy, elaborately bound in the tooled black calf my father affected. The very sight of that black binding now irritated me; never did I pa.s.s it without experiencing a sensation that seemed a blending of scorn and fear: scorn of the ancestral superst.i.tions the book gave voice to: fear of them.
One day I took the book from the shelves and then hurled it across the room. Stumbling over it some days after this, a spasm of ungovernable rage came upon me, for terribly was my blood struggling with Fenella Stanley and Philip Aylwin, and thousands of ancestors, Romany and Gorgio, who for ages upon ages had been shaping my destiny. I began to tear out the leaves and throw them on the fire.
But suddenly I perceived the leaves to be covered with marginalia in my father"s ma.n.u.script, and with references to Fenella Stanley"s letters--letters which my father seemed to have studied as deeply as though they were the writings of a great philosopher instead of the scribblings of an ignorant Gypsy. My eye had caught certain written words which caused me to clutch at the sheets still burning on the fire. Too late!--I grasped nothing save a little paper-ash. Then I turned to the pages still left in my hand, and read these words of my father"s:
"These marginalia are written for the eyes of my dear son, into whose hands this copy of my book will come. Until he gave me his promise to bury the amulet with me, I felt alone in the world. But even he failed to understand what he called "my superst.i.tion." He did not know that by perpetually feeling on my bosom the facets of the beloved jewel which had long lain warm upon hers--the cross which had received the last kiss from her lips--I had been able to focus all the scattered rays of thought--I had been able to vitalise memory till it became an actual presence. He did not know that out of my sorrow had been born at last a strange kind of happiness--the happiness that springs from loving a memory--living with a memory--till it becomes a presence--an objective reality. He did not know that, by holding her continually in my thoughts, by means of the amulet, I achieved at last the miracle described by the Hindoo poets--the miracle of reshaping from the undulations of "the three regions of the universe the remembered object by the all-creative magic of love!""
Then followed some translations from the k.u.mara-sambhava and other Sanscrit poems, and then the well-known pa.s.sage in Lucretius about dreams, and then a pathetic account of the visions called up within him by the sensation caused by the lacerations of the facets of the cherished amulet upon his bosom--visions something akin, as I imagine, to those experienced by _convulsionnaires_. And then after all this learning came references to poor ignorant Fenella Stanley"s letters and extracts from them.
In one of these extracts I was startled to come upon the now familiar word "crwth."
"De Welch fok ses as de livin mullos only follow the crwth on Snowdon wen it is playde by a Welch Chavi, but dat is all a lie. Dey follows the crwth when a Romany Chi plays it as I nows very wel, but de chavi wot play on the crwth, shee must love the living mullo she want for to come, and de living mullo must love her."
And then followed my father"s comments on the extract.
"_N.B._--To see and hear a crwth, if possible, and ascertain the true nature of the vibrations. But there are said to be only a few crwths in existence; and very likely there is no musician who could play upon them."
Then followed a few sentences written at a later date.
"The crwth is now becoming obsolete; on inquiry I learn that it is a stringed instrument played with a bow like a violin; but as one of the feet of the bridge pa.s.ses through one of the sound-holes and rests on the inside of the back, the vibrations must be quite unique, if we remember how important a part is played by the back in all instruments of the violin kind. It must be far more subtle than the vibrations of the Welsh harp, and even more subtle (if also more nasal) than those of the violin.
"The reason why music has in all ages been called in to aid in evoking the spirits, the reason why it is as potent now as ever it was in aiding the spirits to manifest themselves, is simple enough: the rhythmic vibrations of music set in active motion the magnetic waves through whose means alone the two worlds, spiritual and material, can hold communication. The quality and the value of these vibrations depend mainly, no doubt, upon the magnetic power, conscious or other, of the musician, but partly also upon the kind of instrument used. The vibrations awakened by stringed instruments have been long known to be more subtle than any others: instruments of the violin kind are of course the most subtle of all. Doubtless this is why among the Welsh hills the old saying used to be "The spirits follow the crwth.""
"Which folly is the more besotted," I said, as I read and re-read the marginalia--"that of the scholar with his scientific nonsense about vibrations, or that of the ignorant Gypsy with her living mullos drawn through the air by music and love?"
But now my eyes fell upon a very different kind of marginal note which ran thus:--
"The one important fact of the twentieth century will be the growth and development of that great Renascence of Wonder which set in in Europe at the close of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth.
"The warring of the two impulses governing man (and probably not man only, but the entire world of conscious life)--the impulse of acceptance, the impulse to take unchallenged and for granted all the phenomena of the outer world as they are, and the impulse to confront these phenomena with eyes of inquiry and wonder--will occupy all the energies of the next century.
"The old impulse of wonder which came to the human race in its infancy has to come back--has to triumph--before the morning of the final emanc.i.p.ation of man can dawn.
"But the wonder will be exercised in very different fields from those in which it was exercised in the past. The materialism which at this moment seems to most thinkers inseparable from the idea of evolution will go. Against their own intentions certain scientists are showing that the spiritual force called life is the maker and not the creature of organism--is a something outside the material world, a something which uses the material world as a means of phenomenal expression.
"The materialist, with his primitive and confiding belief in the testimony of the senses, is beginning to be left out in the cold, when men like Sir W. R. Grove turn round on him and tell him that "the principle of all cert.i.tude" is not and cannot be the testimony of his own senses; that these senses, indeed, are no absolute tests of phenomena at all; that probably man is surrounded by beings he can neither see, feel, hear, nor smell; and that, notwithstanding the excellence of his own eyes, ears, and nose, the universe the materialist is mapping out so deftly is, and must be, monophysical, lightless, colourless, soundless--a phantasmagoric show--a deceptive series of undulations, which become colour, or sound, or what not, according to the organism upon which they fall."
These words were followed by a sequence of mystical sonnets about "the Omnipotence of Love," which showed, beyond doubt, that if my father was not a scientific thinker, he was, at least, a very original poet. And this made me perplexed as to what could have drawn Wilderspin, who scorned the art of poetry, into the meshes of _The Veiled Queen_. Perhaps, however, it was because Wilderspin"s ancestry was, notwithstanding his English name, largely, if not wholly, Welsh, as I learnt from Cyril. Welshmen, whether sensitive or not to the rhythmic expression of the English language, are almost all, I believe, of the poetic temperament.
But from this moment my mind began to run upon the picture of Fenella Stanley, surrounded by those Snowdonian spirits which her music was supposed to have evoked from the mountain air of the morning.
XIII
THE MAGIC OF SNOWDON
I
In a few days I left London and went to North Wales.
Opposite to me in the railway carriage sat an elderly lady, into whose face I occasionally felt myself to be staring in an unconscious way. But I was merely communing with myself: I was saying to myself, "My love of North Wales, and especially of Snowdon, is certainly very strong; but it is easily accounted for--it is a matter of temperament. Even had Wales not been a.s.sociated with Winnie, I still must have dearly loved it. Much has been said about the effect of scenery upon the minds and temperaments of those who are native to it. But temperament is a matter of ancestral conditions: the place of one"s birth is an accident. As some, like my cousin Percy, for instance are born with a pa.s.sion for the sea, and some with a pa.s.sion for forests, some with a pa.s.sion for mountains, and some with a pa.s.sion for rolling plains. The landscape amid which I was born had, no doubt, a charm for me, and could bring to me that nature-ecstacy which I inherited from Fenella Stanley. But with Wales I actually fell in love the moment I set foot in the country. This is why I am hurrying there now."
And I laughed at myself, and evidently frightened the old lady very much. She did not know that underneath the soul"s direst struggle--the struggle of personality with the tyranny of the ancestral blood--there is an awful sense of humour--a laughter (unconquerable, and yet intolerable) at the deepest of all incongruities, the incongruity of Fate"s game with man. I apologised to her, and told her that I had been absorbed in reading a droll story, in which a man believed that the Angel of Memory had refashioned for him his dead wife out of his own sorrow and unquenchable fountain of tears.
"What an extraordinary idea!" said the old lady, in the conciliatory tone she would have adopted towards a madman whom she found alone with her in a railway carriage. "I mean he was very eccentric, wasn"t he?"
"Who shall say, madam? "Bold is the donkey-driver and bold the ka"dee who dares say what he will believe, what disbelieve, not knowing in any wise the mind of Allah, not knowing in any wise his own heart and what it shall some day suffer.""
At the next station the old lady left the carriage and entered another, and I was left alone.
My intention was to take up my residence at the cottage where Winifred had lived with her aunt. Indeed, for a few days I did this, taking with me one of the Welsh peasants with whom I had previously made friends. But of course a lengthened stay in such a house was impossible. More than ever now I needed attendance, and good attendance, for I had pa.s.sed into a strange state of irritability--I had no command over my nerves, which were jarred by the most trifling thing. I went to the hotel at Peri y Gwryd, but there tourists and visitors made life more intolerable still to a man in my condition.
At first I thought of building a house as near to the cottage as possible; but this would take time, and I could not rest out of Wales. I decided at last to have a wooden bungalow built. By telling the builders that time was the first consideration with me, the cost a secondary one, I got a bungalow built in a few weeks. By the tradesmen of Chester I got it fitted up and furnished to my taste with equal rapidity. Attending to this business gave real relief.
When the bungalow was finished I removed into it the picture "Faith and Love." I also got in as much painting material as I might want and began to make sketches in the neighbourhood.
Time went on, and there I remained. In a great degree, however, the habit of grieving was conquered by my application to work. My moroseness of temper gradually left me.
Beautiful memories began to take the place of hideous ones--the picture of the mattress and the squalor gave place to pictures of Winifred on the sands of Raxton or on Snowdon. Yet so much of habit is there in grief that even at this time I was subject to recurrent waves of the old pain--waves which were sometimes as overmastering as ever.
I did not neglect the cottage, which was now my property, but kept it in exactly the same state as that in which it had been put by Sinfi after Winnie had wandered back to Wales.
By isolating myself from all society, by surrounding myself with mementos of Winifred, memory really did at last seem to be working a miracle such as was worked for the widowed Ja"afar.
Yet not entirely had memory pa.s.sed into an objective presence. I seemed to feel Winnie near me; but that was all. I felt that more necessary than anything else in perfecting the atmosphere of memory in which I would live was the society of her in whom alone I had found sympathy--Sinfi Lovell. Did I also remember the wild theories of my father and Fenella Stanley about the crwth? To obtain the company of Sinfi had now become very difficult--her att.i.tude towards me had so changed. When she allowed me to rejoin the Lovells at Kingston Vale she did so under the compulsion of my distress. But my leaving the Gypsies of my own accord left her free from this compulsion. She felt that she had now at last bidden me farewell for ever.
Still, opportunities of seeing her occasionally would, I knew, present themselves, and I now determined to avail myself of these.
Panuel Lovell and some of the Boswells were not unfrequently in the neighbourhood, and they were always accompanied by Sinfi and Videy.
II
On a certain occasion, when I learnt that the Lovells were in the neighbourhood, I sought them out. Sinfi at first was extremely shy, or distant, or proud, or scared, and it was not till after one or two interviews that she relaxed. She still was overshadowed by some mysterious feeling towards me that seemed at one moment anger, at another dread. However, I succeeded at last. I persuaded Panuel and his daughters to leave their friends at "the Place," and spend a few days with me at the bungalow. Great was the gaping and wide the grinning among the tourists to see me inarching along the Capel Curig road with three Gypsies. But to all human opinion I had become as indifferent as Wilderspin himself.
As we walked along the road, Sinfi slowly warmed into her old self, but Videy, as usual, was silent, preoccupied, and meditative. When we got within sight of the bungalow, however, the lights flashing from the windows made the long low building look very imposing. Pharaoh, the bantam c.o.c.k which Sinfi was carrying, began to crow, but silence again fell upon Sinfi.
Panuel, when we entered the bungalow, said he was very tired and would like to go to bed. I had perceived by the glossy appearance of his skin (which was of the colour of beeswaxed mahogany) and the benevolent dimple in his check that, although far from being intoxicated, he was "market-merry"; and as the two sisters also seemed tired, I took the party at once to their bedrooms.
"Dordi! what a gran" room," said Sinfi, in a hushed voice, as I opened the door of the one allotted to her. "Don"t you mind, Videy, when you an" me fust slep" like two kairengros?" [Footnote]