Part 5

Flaxius mused and said, ‘I knew thy grandfather, and though he was not far advanced as a magian, yet he had fairy blood from distant strain, and he was, above all things, a good and honest man. And it is among us a duty to aid the descendants of all such men, when they are deserving. Now I will help thee to help thyself; but note well, Eadward, never in thy life didst thou so need every virtue as thou wilt need them now to succeed. For this is the usual secret of rising to Fortune. Some friend puts our feet on the first step of the ladder, or guides us to it, but we must climb the rest ourselves.’

‘Something like this,’ said Eadward, ‘did I once hear from my grandfather:

‘“Look well round thee with thine eyes, Where’er thou art, if thou wouldst rise; It is not by a single flight, But step by step we gain the height. So up the tree the emmet goes, Even as Rolf the Giver rose.”’

‘Well sung,’ quoth Flaxius, ‘and pass the cup! Now take this dried leaf.’ He gave to the youth a doubled strip of parchment, like a thin book, in which was indeed a leaf.

‘To-night or to-morrow go, bathed and fasting, to bed. Then eat this leaf and note what thou shalt dream. Do exactly to a hair what thou mayst be told to do--nothing more nor less. After that all will depend on thy own good sense, courage, and kindness. And when one year shall have passed by thou wilt see me again, to render count of all that thou hast done.’

So they parted with kind words, the youth to try his fortune, and Flaxius, like Odin, ever onwards to the North.

* * * * *

A year had passed, and the Immortal Sage sat in a wild and adventurous-looking place, deep buried amid lonely woods and cliffs, by a headlong torrent, before the Odin-stone, a strangely shaped rock, seeming like a Druidic megalith, through which there was a hole of a foot in diameter. It was a striking object, and Flaxius well knew it had a tale. For he had been there and then.

He heard the trampling of a horse in the woods. He looked up and saw a magnificent steed, on which sat a knight in splendid attire. The rider dismounted; it was Eadward; and the two embraced.

‘Yea, I have the flask, and it has never run dry,’ said the youth, producing it.

‘That tells a good tale,’ replied Flaxius. So they filled and drank. ‘And now let me hear the details.’

‘Make spede is a good rede,’ replied the knight. ‘This is the story which I set before ye.

‘As you bade, I ate the leaf, and went to bed. And in a dream there came to me a white lady or a _Norna_. Such beauty did I never see before. And she said, “Eadward, grandson of Aeolfric, go to-morrow to the Odin-stone, even where we now are, and watch for one hour. Then do as thou wilt.” Word no more spake she, but vanished, and I awoke.

‘So I went with my cross-bow and knife to the stone. And here I watched for one hour, yet I saw nothing. Then, as I was about to go, I saw a strange thing. For there came creeping through the hole in the stone a fox. And such a fox I never saw before, for it was of a beautiful tawny, soft, golden colour; and on it was a large black cross. And though I was in awe, something--it seemed like a voice--bade me slay it. I did so, and skinned it, and wrapped the skin and put it in my bag, and went my way.

‘Now there is--it may be half a day’s walk from here--a rock on which Ulf the Dane, in olden time after a great battle, had carved the image of a wolf, with runic knots and letters, very curious to behold, and there I paused a while to rest. And, anon, there came to me a man, an outlander, as I weened; but he pleased me, and we held discourse. He was not rich of apparel, but he had this horse here, and a better I never saw; for truly, by Sleipnir!--I mean by the White Steed of Death seen by Saint John!--there is not its like in all the land.

‘So we talked, and I gave him of my wine. And we spake of elves and wizards and dreams. And then he said, “I will tell thee a strange tale; for indeed it was a dream which brought me hither, but, I fear, to little purpose and no good, as the troll said of the long talk which ended by his being turned to stone.

‘“And this,” he said, “is sooth and truth.” And he sang:

‘“Unto King Ulfbrand Thus spake the wise man, He the deep learned Servant of Frey: ‘Danger is over thee, Wild screaming war eagle On the moss-grown tree, By the white cataract, Calleth on death to thee! And the claw of the bear Has scratched runes on the beech-tree; And thy realm will be lost Unless thou winnest The skin of a fox Of colour pale golden, With a black cross.’

‘“Now the king was sore afraid, and offered his daughter to any of his nobles who could win him the prize. And I, with small hope, asked a witch, one whom I had greatly befriended--yea, saved her life and given her shelter. And she studied her spells seven days and nights with great pain, and then bid me obey my first dream. And I dreamed that I should trust in and abide by a wolf for three days. And coming here by chance I heard this rock called the Wolf; and so at hap-hazard here I have remained, but nothing has come of it, and I fear me that nothing will.”

‘Then it came into my mind,’ said Eadward, ‘hearing this, that I myself should go to King Ulfbrand and win a great reward. And yet again that this would be foul play to the man before me, and that thou, Flaxius, didst bid me to be generous and true. So I prayed in my soul to all the gods.’

(‘And a sweetly-mixed mythology thou hast, my dear boy!’ reflected Flaxius.)

‘And then said to the man, taking the skin from my bag: “Is not this what thou seekest? Take it in God’s name, for I believe it should be thine.”

‘Then he turned white and red for joy and amazement, and said:

‘“I will not haggle and cheapen with thee like a pedler, for ill fate befalls the man who is mean in buying such things. All that I have in this world, save my land, is this horse and ten gold pieces and I give them to thee, and I would I had more.” So I took his horse, but I gave him two gold pieces for his journey as fare-gold, and so he went his way.

‘But I rode on, unthinking and wondering whether I had done wisely, yet hoping hard as did Gautrek when he fought the bear. When, following a road, I came upon a horse which had been hard ridden, with bloody sides. It seemed to be dying, and yet anon, a furlong further in the woods, I found a noble knight, lying by a brook, who seemed in as evil case as the horse, for he was sore-bruised and could hardly move, and barely speak.

‘Then I asked him what it meant and he replied in pain:

‘“For two days I have fled before a band of foemen who will be here anon. And they seek my life.”

‘Then I gave him to drink from thy flask, O master, and verily it was a marvellous thing to behold how it revived him. For he rose up and said:

‘“Had I thy horse I might even yet escape. There are men who would fight thee for it, but thou hast, I think, saved me with thy wine and I will do naught in dishonour. But if thou lovest God and hast man’s faith in truth, I pray thee lend me thy steed, and it will be no loss to thee.”

‘As he spoke I heard far away a sound as of a mountain brook, and I knew it was men riding at full speed, and as it became like a clatter of hail and wind, I cried:

‘“Take another drink of wine and mount my horse in the names of Odin and Christ, and ride for thy life!”

‘And he did, but paused to draw a ring from his finger and say:

‘“Three days’ ride to the west lies the castle of my father the Earl of Ellaborne. If thou canst, carry to him what is in the mail on my horse. Show him this ring, and repeat the word Truth three times.”

‘And with that he was off like an arrow and he had good cause to ride, for ere I could have counted a hundred, there came a band of riders fierce as wolves, who asked me if I had seen a knight pass that way. Now they had not seen the foundered horse, for they came by another path. And not being minded that they should slay the knight, I delayed them while I could, giving them to drink, and then showed them the wrong road, for between a lie and a die, or a man’s life, there’s short choice.

‘Now when I returned to the horse, I, being somewhat learned in such matters, found him in better case than I deemed. And having poured wine down his throat, and cared for him, and given him rest, he was soon in good case to ride. And there was in the mails much gold, and certain parchments which I had lore enough to discern were great state matters for the king, and I saw that I had come into affairs of life and death for all the land.

‘And minding the proverb: “He must be a thin blade who would slip between great stones,” I went by the loneliest ways, in dark valleys and woodlands wild, till I got to Ellaborne Castle. And there was mourning and all were in dire distress, weeping and heart-sunken, because the old lord had heard his son was slain. But when I arrived with the horse, which was known to all, there was mighty to-do, and great questioning, but I spoke word to none, till I was brought before the great earl, and it was pitiful to see how broken and sorrowful he seemed.

‘“And thou hast come to prove to me that my son was truly slain, hast thou not,” he inquired, “since thou hast brought his horse?”

‘“Nay,” I replied, “by Odin and Frey who brings fortune! I know he escaped alive and well, for when I last saw him he was galloping away on a safe road, mounted on the best steed in Northumbria, with his pursuers on the wrong track.

‘“Man!” cried the earl, “if what thou sayest be sooth, and if thou didst aid him to escape, and saved his life, then, by God’s glory, thou shalt have castle and lands--if thou canst prove it.”

‘“For the proof, O my lord,” I answered, “here are the papers and gold.”

‘“Ah, the papers!” cried the earl. “By the splendour of the Virgin, though I love my son better than my own life, I had liefer he had died than that those papers had been found by the enemy. What is thy name?--Eadward--know that this day thou hast saved England!”

“‘The proof, my lord,” I said, as I gave him the ring, “is this--and the words, _Truth, Truth, Truth_! And know of a truth, for I will swear it in any shrine, that I did not save thy son’s life for gold, or fee, or aught promised or hoped for, save the price of my horse, nor would I have stuck at that to keep a goodly knight from being murdered.”

‘“True as gold art thou,” said the old lord, “and of good blood, for now I know thou art the grandson of Aeolfric, who was noble, but poor as he was learned.”

‘Then he heard the whole tale from me and said:

‘“Thou hast this day built up the fortune of thy house. And if the king do not raise thee to honour, I will.”

‘But the king treated me nobly, and the end thereof was that I am a belted knight, and lord of castles and broad lands, for I went into the war, and fate favoured me, and now I have wealth and fame. And I have wedded a niece of the Earl of Ellaborne, whom I love better for herself than for her possessions. All of which, Master, I owe to thee; and thanks are all I can give to such a mighty master of fate as thou art, but if I could give thee my life I would.’

‘I believe thee, my son,’ replied Flaxius. ‘But what became of the young earl?’

‘He saved himself, and we are now as brothers. Yea,’ he continued with a smile, ‘to him alone have I confided the holy secret of the Miraculous Bottle.’

‘God-a-mercy,’ exclaimed Flaxius; ‘’tis well there’s not a headache in a hogshead of it, else I trow ye had toped yourselves into Hela, or up to Valhall. To fancy two young Norse-Saxons with an unlimited well of wine is terrible!

‘But, let us drink!’

* * * * *

‘_Hæc fabula docet_--this fable teaches,’ annotated the master, ‘a marked moral lesson, which is greatly needed at this present day, and which no man has as yet taught. It befell about thirty years ago, when people began to doubt the ancient doctrine of so much pudding here on earth for so much piety, always punctually paid, that divers young scape-graces of the press, who wished to appear, as Verdant Greens always do, interestingly wicked and sceptical, began to write _comicas fabulas_ or merry tales, wherein the little good boys all came to grief; as, for instance, how Master Benjamin Benevolence gave his penny to an old nigger and earned a whipping from his mother for so doing.’

These writers left out of sight the great fact, that, because there may not be a Moral Providence which keeps a book account to a farthing with all mortals, it still by no means follows that there is no decency, honour, or honesty, or moral retribution left among mankind, as their immensely funny tales would lead the heedless to believe. For, bad as this world may be, there are still gentlemen extant, in dealing with whom the current moral standards of Mark Lane, Houndsditch, Wall Street, the Stock Exchange, and similar dens of sharps and sharks may well be laid aside. There are still men who reciprocate generosity with generosity, and the ‘devilish shrewd’ fellow is to them a natural object of aversion. Because they know that he who cannot be _done_ will infallibly _do_ his best friend in the long run; and the man who is cheat-proof is a miraculous exception if he be not a cheat himself. In short, that it is more creditable to be taken in than to take others in, the which statement, when made by me to a young lady from Toronto, was received with the astonished remark, ‘Well, that _is_ a new idea!’

Now it befell the young hero of this tale, or Eadward, to have to deal with only honest or honourable men, and he did exactly what was right under every circumstance, the result being that he was promptly rewarded, showing that virtue is not always punished, as current literature inculcates. And if there were one hundredth part of the pains taken to teach youth the vast superiority of honour to wealth, which there is to stimulate them to acquire the latter, then we should indeed find far more gentlemen in the world, and, in due proportion, due reward for decency. And there is many a millionaire who would give half his money to be a gentleman, a man of true honesty and nobility of soul; but there was never yet one who was truly of the latter who would exchange aught with the former. For whatever the vast multitude of howling cads may think, the gentleman is the superior in that in which he _ought_ to excel; and this superiority or moral mastery is better worth having than carriages, opera-box, and a fashionable family,--who wish you were dead for your money.

And this lesson--that there may be circumstances in life when the sharp game is not the best, and when the very shrewdest would come to grief, unless guided by natural generosity and nobility--deserves to be deeply studied by the world in general, and sharp Americans in particular, to judge by my personal experiences of both.

And I would that the novelist and literary man, and all who write for the public, would teach this thing in spirit and in truth, if they can with real sympathy, and not go on for ever as most--ay, the very utmost of the most do--preaching it in a formal, listless, ‘be virtuous and you will be happy’ way, while they depict the advantages of wealth and the merest mammon varnished with fashion and style, with all the gush and fire and power of art which they possess. But a book written with earnestness, setting forth _genially_ that _honneur passe richesse_, is as yet among the curiosities, yea, the _rariora_ of literature. There is indeed no lack of authors who say this thing, and who think perhaps they mean it; but they do not send it home to the heart, nor prove it, nor illustrate it, so as to awaken in the mind of the reader a deep sympathy for honour as compared to wealth. No, not one, as they should and perhaps could do.

For it does not occur to you, O dearly beloved, that all these infinite scenes of flirtation in Belgravia or Cameliadom, showing how She would, and then wouldn’t, and then was _incomprise_, and anon capricious or top-lofty-minded, or interesting and mysterious-miserable, and how He, _pauvre malheureux_! with his gnawed moustachios and dreadful devotion, are all nothing but the direct results of too much money and its consequent idleness or _ennui_. And the other ways of plot-making, and interesting the reader, are, with few exceptions indeed, all cakes from the same dough. Therefore am I reminded of the French author’s recipe for a novel: ‘_Commencez toujours avec un million_.’

And as it seems to me that literature for the multitude can hardly sink lower than it has done into this swamp of wealth of late years, I have hope that it will ere long begin to rise.

FLAXIUS AND ASMODEUS

Out of mere mischief and mockery grew evil, even as Loki from playing boyish tricks became the devil. To do evil is one thing, to study and understand it is another, but in all ages men have confused the two.

’TWAS on a Syrian summer afternoon, therefore a warm one, that Flaxius sat in the silent solitude of a ruined city of most ancient days, in Midian, a place wherein the satyr has not even yet met the English tourist, nor the Egipani, or demons of the lonely wildnesses, been called to stand and deliver statistics to the German _savant_.

He sat on a wedge-inscripted stone, about a young bird’s flight from what had been of yore a purple-lined palace of sweet sin, but so tremendous in its majesty, even in decay and decency, that the sternest Puritan who ever iconoclasted a cathedral would have thought twice ere ravishing this House of Baal.

‘Beauty,’ said Flaxius, ‘may be its own excuse for being--very naughty--but grandeur, even when touching in its old decay, is more than an excuse; it is a vindication for the sins, however great, of all who are possessed of it. And they were great in glory and splendour! How great the men were who dwelt here in the olden golden time! and how little idea has any man on earth in this age of small things, of what it was to live in greatness, though it were in great delusions.’

As he said this--’twas in the first dimness of twilight--a breeze began to stir the palms and he heard the hoot of an owl, which was re-echoed far and far away by the monotonous and much more unmusical song of some Arab peasant at his plough.

‘I would like to know,’ quoth Flaxius, ‘whether the song of the owl portends the death of that _peasant_ or the song of the peasant the death of the owl? Methinks the owl has the worst of it, for the ploughman hoots fifty per cent. more horribly. Now, of the nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine divinations invented by Kai Umarat, the first of the Magi, and first born of Adam, can I not find one here at hand to settle the weighty question?’

As he said this, while idly digging in the sand with his staff, he struck something hard, which shining, seemed to be of bronze. The sage picked it up and found he had unearthed an axe of the richest and deepest green _patina_.

‘Just the thing,’ thought Flaxius. ‘Thou comest, as Germans say, “unto the call.” It was by Axiomancy or the balanced axe that the ancients were wont to decide a question--halfpence to toss not having been then invented; and I can bear Pliny out in his assertion that the game was extremely fashionable. In neolithic days they drew a circle, bisected it with a line, put the _kelt_ in the middle, and made it spin, inferring from the way it pointed when at rest whether Yes or No had been vouchsafed. The thing still exists as a little game among American Red Indians. They spun on their axes, _unde nomen derivatur_. The Romans hung the hatchet with a cord; and if I remember aright, Francesco della Torre Biana[2] declares that the fall of Jerusalem was thus predicted. I wonder who predicted it?’

Whether it was from the ground, or the tombs, or the ruins, or the great palm-tree was not apparent, but there was heard a hollow sound like no earthly voice, but a sound as of wings. There was a mocking tone in it which said:

‘_I_, with that axe which thou holdest in thy hand.’

‘And who in the name of Desolation art _thou_ who dwellest here in solitude?’ inquired Flaxius.

And the voice replied:

‘Aschmodai.’

‘What! Asmodeus, the Devil on two Sticks! Well, old friend, I was a fool to put the question, for I now remember (and Wierus has said it) that thou art the demon of all games and gambling. I would fain see thee again. What ho, _Chammadai!_ _Sidonai!_ _Aschmodai_, appear! In the name of thy master Am-oimon!’

‘Thou forgettest,’ replied the Voice, more mockingly than before, ‘that according to the _Pseudomonarchia Dæmonum_, he who invokes Asmodeus must stand firmly on his legs and call loudly.’

‘Well,’ replied the Magian, ‘I am seated firmly _sur mon séant_, which will do just as well, _sans cérémonie_ among old friends, and since thou hearest me it is loud enough. Come forth, I say!’

And, lo! there came forth from the doorway of the ruined temple an unearthly form, in appearance awful and appalling, but so strangely mingled with the grotesque, a demon with the laughing nightmare, that the wisdom of this our age, and all its art of pen or pencil would have failed to depict it.

It paused in silence, seeming like a statue, and when the Magian himself spoke, it was not in words but with Thought to the arch-demon of delusion and of mockery:

‘I see thee as thou art, O Spirit, who wert once mighty to impose on man in so many forms, O stupendous scarecrow of the past, and its jester withal, for the day is well-nigh gone by when mankind at large can grasp thy paradoxes! Yea, they are rapidly becoming a vexation, or a bore, or a trifle, as the idol of the past becomes the nursery toy of the present.

‘Truly, there was a time when Dante and Milton and many more were, to every word, living truths for all who read them, and the form was animated with the idea. Now, the Inferno burns no more, Pandemonium and Theism and Satan are all mere senile fables. What remains is the art of the poet--nothing more--a beautiful, petrified figure--very beautiful--but--dead. And thy spirit, O Daemon, in its best meaning, still lives in Aristophanes and Shakespeare and Chaucer, and Rabelais and Villon; but the comprehension of it is dying--dying fast, O Daemon!--and ere long they too will be petrifactions, wearing indeed the outward semblance of what they were, but from them life will be gone. Men think that they still enjoy the poet in spirit and in truth, but what they really enjoy is only their own criticisms and sense of vain intelligence--and with _that_ the signs of death begin. For where intelligence and self-knowledge awaken, feeling for that which is without us ceases. It was never meant that man should enjoy at once the two extremes of pleasure--even as the Catholic moral casuist determined that man could not combine the extreme of passionate love with the holy sweetness of relationship. Yes, the humour and absurdity, and wild contrast which was the deepest problem in human nature, become before criticism a poor shadowy thing. And thus endeth the first lesson. Let me look a while longer into thy eyes, O Daemon, and find a second.’