XXXIII
I came to myself very gradually and dimly, with no recollection at firstof what had happened. I was lying on my back on some soft grassy place,with the air blowing cool over me. I thought I saw Amroth bending overme with a look of extraordinary happiness, and felt his arm about me;but again I became unconscious, yet all the time with a blissfulness ofrepose and joy, far beyond what I had experienced at my first waking onthe sunlit sea. Again life dawned upon me. I was there, I was myself.What had happened to me? I could not tell. So I lay for a long time halfdreaming and half swooning; till at last life seemed to come backsuddenly to me, and I sat up. Amroth was holding me in his arms close tothe spot from which I had sprung.
"Have I been dreaming?" I said. "Was it here? and when? I cannotremember. It seems impossible, but was I told to jump down? What hashappened to me? I am confused."
"You will know presently," said Amroth, in a tone from which all thefear seemed to have vanished. "It is all over, and I am thankful. Do nottry to recollect; it will come back to you presently. Just rest now; youhave been through strange things."
Suddenly a thought began to shape itself in my mind, a thought ofperfect and irresistible joy.
"Yes," I said, "I remember now. We were afraid, both of us, and you toldme to leap down. But what was it that I saw, and what was it that wastold me? I cannot recall it. Oh," I said at last, "I know now; it comesback to me. I fell, in hideous cowardice and misery. The wind blewshrill. I saw the cliffs stream past; then I was unconscious, I think.I seem to have died; but part of me was not dead. My flight was stayed,and I floated out somewhere. I was joined to something that was likeboth fire and water in one. I was seen and known and understood andloved, perfectly and unutterably and for ever. But there was pain,somewhere, Amroth! How was that? I am sure there was pain."
"Of course, dear child," said Amroth, "there was pain, because there waseverything."
"But," I said, "I cannot understand yet; why was that terrible leapdemanded of me? And why did I confront it with such abject cowardice anddismay? Surely one need not go stumbling and cowed into the presence ofGod?"
"There is no other way," said Amroth; "you do not understand howterrible perfect love is. It is because it is perfect that it isterrible. Our own imperfect love has some weakness in it. It is mixedwith pleasure, and then it is not a sacrifice; one gives as much ofoneself as one chooses; one is known just so far as one wishes to beknown. But here with God there must be no concealment--though even therea man can withhold his heart from God--God never uses compulsion; andthe will can prevail even against Him. But the reason of the leap thatmust be taken is this: it is the last surrender, and it cannot be madeon our terms and conditions; it must be absolute. And what I feared foryou was not anything that would happen if you did commit yourself toGod, but what would happen if you did not; for, of course, you couldhave resisted, and then you would have had to begin again."
I was silent for a little, and then I said: "I remember now moreclearly, but did I really see Him? It seems so absolutely simple.Nothing happened. I just became one with the heart and life of theworld; I came home at last. Yet how am I here? How is it I was notmerged in light and life?"
"Ah," said Amroth, "it is the new birth. You can never be the sameagain. But you are not yet lost in Him. The time for that is not yet.It is a mystery; but as yet God works outward, radiates energy and forceand love; the time will come when all will draw inward again, and bemerged in Him. But the world is as yet in its dawning. The rising sunscatters light and heat, and the hot and silent noon is yet to come;then the shadows move eastward, and after that comes the waning sunsetand the evening light, and last of all the huge and starlit peace of thenight."
"But," I said, "if this is really so, if I have been gathered close toGod's heart, why is it that instead of feeling stronger, I only feelweak and unstrung? I have indeed an inner sense of peace and happiness,but I have no will or purpose of my own that I can discern."
"That," said Amroth, "is because you have given up all. The sense ofstrength is part of our weakness. Our plans, our schemes, our ambitions,all the things that make us enjoy and hope and arrange, are but signsof our incompleteness. Your will is still as molten metal, it has bornethe fierce heat of inner love; and this has taken all that is hard andstubborn and complacent out of you--for a time. But when you return tothe life of the body, as you will return, there will be this greatdifference in you. You will have to toil and suffer, and even sin. Butthere will be one thing that you will not do: you will never becomplacent or self-righteous, you will not judge others hardly. You willbe able to forgive and to make allowances; you will concern yourselfwith loving others, not with trying to improve them up to your ownstandard. You will wish them to be different, but you will not condemnthem for being different; and hereafter the lives you live on earth willbe of the humblest. You will have none of the temptations of authority,or influence, or ambition again--all that will be far behind you. Youwill live among the poor, you will do the most menial and commonplacedrudgery, you will have none of the delights of life. You will bedespised and contemned for being ugly and humble and serviceable andmeek. You will be one of those who will be thought to have no spirit torise, no power of making men serve your turn. You will miss what arecalled your chances, you will be a failure; but you will be trusted andloved by children and simple people; they will depend upon you, and youwill make the atmosphere in which you live one of peace and joy. Youwill have selfish employers, tyrannical masters, thankless childrenperhaps, for whom you will slave lovingly. They will slight you and evendespise you, but their hearts will turn to you again and again, andyours will be the face that they will remember when they come to die, asthat of the one person who loved them truly and unquestioningly. Thatwill be your destiny; one of utter obscurity and nothingness upon earth.Yet each time, when you return hither, your work will be higher andholier, and nearer to the heart of God. And now I have said enough; foryou have seen God, as I too saw Him long ago; and our hope ishenceforward the same."
"Yes," I said to Amroth, "I am content. I had thought that I should beexalted and elated by my privileges; but I have no thought or dream ofthat. I only desire to go where I am sent, to do what is desired of me.I have laid my burden down."