The Child of the Dawn | Page 7

will call him Amroth. Him, I say, because
though there was no thought of sex left in my consciousness, his was a
courageous, inventive, masterful spirit, which gave rather than received,
and was withal of a perfect kindness and directness, love undefiled and
strong. The moment I became aware of his presence, I felt him to be
like one of those wonderful, pure youths of an Italian picture, whose
whole mind is set on manful things, untroubled by the love of woman,
and yet finding all the world intensely gracious and beautiful, full of
eager frankness, even impatience, with long, slim, straight limbs and
close-curled hair. I knew him to be the sort of being that painters and
poets had been feeling after when they represented or spoke of angels.
And I could not help laughing outright at the thought of the meek, mild,
statuesque draped figures, with absurd wings and depressing smiles,
that encumbered pictures and churches, with whom no human
communication would be possible, and whose grave and discomfiting
glance would be fatal to all ease or merriment. I recognised in Amroth
a mirthful soul, full of humour and laughter, who could not be shocked
by any truth, or hold anything uncomfortably sacred--though indeed he
held all things sacred with a kind of eagerness that charmed me. Instead
of meeting him in dolorous pietistic mood, I met him, I remember, as at
school or college one suddenly met a frank, smiling, high-spirited
youth or boy, who was ready at once to take comradeship for granted,
and walked away with one from a gathering, with an outrush of talk
and plans for further meetings. It was all so utterly unlike the subdued
and cautious and sensitive atmosphere of devotion that it stirred us both,
I was aware, to a delicious kind of laughter. And then came a swift
interchange of thought, which I must try to represent by speech, though

speech was none.
"I am glad to find you, Amroth," I said. "I was just beginning to
wonder if I was not going to be lonely."
"Ah," he said, "one has what one desires here; you had too much to see
and learn at first to want my company. And yet I have been with you,
pointing out a thousand things, ever since you came here."
"Was it you," I said, "that have been showing me all this? I thought I
was alone."
At which Amroth laughed again, a laugh full of content. "Yes," he said,
"the crags and the sunset--do you not remember? I came down with you,
carrying you like a child in my arms, while you slept; and then I saw
you awake. You had to rest a long time at first; you had had much to
bear--uncertainty--that is what tires one, even more than pain. And I
have been telling you things ever since, when you could listen."
"Oh," I said, "I have a hundred things to ask you; how strange it is to
see so much and understand so little!"
"Ask away," said Amroth, putting an arm through mine.
"I was afraid," I said, "that it would all be so different--like a catechism
'Dost thou believe--is this thy desire?' But instead it seems so entirely
natural and simple!"
"Ah," he said, "that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it is
hard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just as surprising and
interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: the only things that
are gone--for a time, that is--are the things that are ugly and sad. But
they are useful too in their way, though you have no need to think of
them now. Those are just the discipline, the training."
"But," I said, "what makes people so different from each other down
there--so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel,
selfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind--like you, for

instance?"
"No," he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, "of course I
don't mind--I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally!
But don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgusting lives
are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin by being
enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer. The
divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret."

IV
Once I said:
"Which kind of people do you find it hardest to help along?"
"The young people," said Amroth, with a smile.
"Youth!" I said. "Why, down below, we think of youth as being so
generous and ardent and imitative! We speak of youth as the time to
learn, and form fine habits; if a man is wilful and selfish in after-life,
we say that it