The Seeds of Enchantment | Page 9

poetry and Love Love especially became mere instruments of pleasure, selfish toys for body and mind...
Suddenly, Beamish began to envy. How happy these two must be! How wonderful to feel free, as they seemed free, from all the constraining stupidities; to live solely for pleasure; to know neither jealousy nor hatred. Thus, men would be in the millennium. Besides, as a medico, it was surely his duty to test this new drug... The drug might be of enormous value, of curative value... In mental cases, for instance hysteria, neurasthenia... Drugs, properly prescribed, were not harmful... On the contrary... Look at opium, codein, heroin, cannabis indica, cocaine... Benefits to the human race... Pity that weak people abused them!...
Cyprian Beamish, M.D., Glasgow, dipped finger and thumb into the snuff-box, extracted a bean, paused with it halfway to his mouth and ate.
For about thirty seconds the doctor's scientific mind took accurate notes. "Dissolves in the mouth on mastication," "Cool in taste," " Slightly sucrose." Then he forgot science. Science, after all, was rather a bore: science contributed nothing to the Art of Life: the world would be much jollier without science... But what a jolly place the world was!
Outside, rain ceased abruptly. Twilight came; and on twilight's heels, night.
"To love," said de Gys, "passionately but not overpossessively;to love as the flowers love; to love without grudging; to be free of all superstitions--"
"Yes" Dicky's voice took up the tale "to be free! To feel the magic of moonlight in one's veins! To feel the youth of the world pulsing and throbbing through one's heart! To know that all constraint is vile, an outrage to the gods and goddesses, to Dionysus and Aphrodite and Pan who is greater than all. Old friend, we have eaten of the Tree of Life, you and I, of all men on earth to-day, we alone know Truth."
"And truth," Beamish spoke raptly, "truth is Beauty, especially the Beauty of Woman..."
Silence fell on them. They sat a-dream, quiet as the pale girl beyond the door; the girl whom they had momentarily forgotten. They were fully conscious of each other's bodies, of the light above their heads, and the whirling fan, and the open snuff-box on the table. Only, in their minds, visions shimmered: unto each his desire.
"Qa passe" announced the Frenchman suddenly; and he looked at Dicky, a little flash as of jealousy in his eyes.
"Oui. Ca passe." The Long'un rose from his chair, stared down puzzled into Cyprian's face. "De Gys, what happened? Were we drugged? Look at old Beamish he's fast asleep."
But the Frenchman had relapsed into vision-land, and Cyprian's voice answered:
"I'm not asleep, Long'un, only rather happy. I'm sorry I made such a fuss about that death-certificate. One mustn't be suspicious of people, must one? You understand that."
"Yes," said Dicky, "I understand."
He did not understand, not in the least. He only realized that for the space of a whole hour life had become utterly exquisite, a glory. And now life was itself again drab.
"Somebody will have to see about the funeral," thought Dicky...
Meanwhile, Beamish dreamed. In that dream all the subconscious hopes of Beamish's mind took unto themselves visible shape, became realities. He saw the second country of his desire, no longer nebulous but actually in being a vision accomplished. Such a country it was: sunshine glowing on its flower-studded lawns, on its great trees heavy with bloom, on its glassy water-courses: a country of infinite peace, of infinite leisure... For all among the lawns and the trees, all adown the banks of the glassy water-courses, Beamish could see young men and maidens dancing to soft music, dancing and singing and making love in the sunshine. "It is real," he said, aloud. "Real! I shall never doubt again."
"What is real?" asked Dicky's voice.
"The land of heart's desire."
"Yes" de Gys rose abruptly from his chair "one sees that when one eats of Melie's little purple seeds." He took the snuff-box from the table; snapped-to the catch; slipped it into his pocket. The old lines of sorrow were back in his face; he eyed the closed doors wistfully, hungrily. "You do not suspect the drug, doctor? You will sign those papers?"
Cyprian Beamish nodded assent.
CHAPTER THE
THIRD
"White women beyond the mountains"
THE Mother of all Churches is very wise: to her, East and West, saint and sinner, are one; always, her ministers wait, loins girded, for the call. Two nuns watched out the night with Melie; and when sunrise dimmed the tall candles about her curtained bed Phu-nan crept in on noiseless feet to announce that Mother Church was prepared. Brown men, converts of Mother Church, carried away the husk of Melie; and the Jesuits said masses for her soul in their cool chapel among the odorous Malayan trees. Red frangipane and redder hibiscus decked the white head-stone whereon brown fingers carved the