Dreams - Olive Schreiner (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

was a snow-white bird, with

dove’s eyes, and he sang a beautiful song—“A human-God! a human-God! a

human-God!” it sang. The second that came was black and mystical, with

dark, lovely eyes, that looked into the depths of your soul, and he sang

only this—“Immortality!”

 

And the hunter took them both in his arms, for he said—

 

“They are surely of the beautiful family of Truth.”

 

Then came another, green and gold, who sang in a shrill voice, like one

crying in the marketplace,—“Reward after Death! Reward after Death!”

 

And he said—

 

“You are not so fair; but you are fair too,” and he took it.

 

And others came, brightly coloured, singing pleasant songs, till all the

grains were finished. And the hunter gathered all his birds together, and

built a strong iron cage called a new creed, and put all his birds in it.

 

Then the people came about dancing and singing.

 

“Oh, happy hunter!” they cried. “Oh, wonderful man! Oh, delightful birds!

Oh, lovely songs!”

 

No one asked where the birds had come from, nor how they had been caught;

but they danced and sang before them. And the hunter too was glad, for he

said:

 

“Surely Truth is among them. In time she will moult her feathers, and I

shall see her snow-white form.”

 

But the time passed, and the people sang and danced; but the hunter’s heart

grew heavy. He crept alone, as of old, to weep; the terrible desire had

awakened again in his breast. One day, as he sat alone weeping, it chanced

that Wisdom met him. He told the old man what he had done.

 

And Wisdom smiled sadly.

 

“Many men,” he said, “have spread that net for Truth; but they have never

found her. On the grains of credulity she will not feed; in the net of

wishes her feet cannot be held; in the air of these valleys she will not

breathe. The birds you have caught are of the brood of Lies. Lovely and

beautiful, but still lies; Truth knows them not.”

 

And the hunter cried out in bitterness—

 

“And must I then sit still, to be devoured of this great burning?”

 

And the old man said,

 

“Listen, and in that you have suffered much and wept much, I will tell you

what I know. He who sets out to search for Truth must leave these valleys

of superstition forever, taking with him not one shred that has belonged to

them. Alone he must wander down into the Land of Absolute Negation and

Denial; he must abide there; he must resist temptation; when the light

breaks he must arise and follow it into the country of dry sunshine. The

mountains of stern reality will rise before him; he must climb them; beyond

them lies Truth.”

 

“And he will hold her fast! he will hold her in his hands!” the hunter

cried.

 

Wisdom shook his head.

 

“He will never see her, never hold her. The time is not yet.”

 

“Then there is no hope?” cried the hunter.

 

“There is this,” said Wisdom: “Some men have climbed on those mountains;

circle above circle of bare rock they have scaled; and, wandering there, in

those high regions, some have chanced to pick up on the ground one white

silver feather, dropped from the wing of Truth. And it shall come to

pass,” said the old man, raising himself prophetically and pointing with

his finger to the sky, “it shall come to pass, that when enough of those

silver feathers shall have been gathered by the hands of men, and shall

have been woven into a cord, and the cord into a net, that in that net

Truth may be captured. Nothing but Truth can hold Truth.”

 

The hunter arose. “I will go,” he said.

 

But wisdom detained him.

 

“Mark you well—who leaves these valleys never returns to them. Though he

should weep tears of blood seven days and nights upon the confines, he can

never put his foot across them. Left—they are left forever. Upon the

road which you would travel there is no reward offered. Who goes, goes

freely—for the great love that is in him. The work is his reward.”

 

“I go” said the hunter; “but upon the mountains, tell me, which path shall

I take?”

 

“I am the child of The-Accumulated-Knowledge-of-Ages,” said the man; “I can

walk only where many men have trodden. On these mountains few feet have

passed; each man strikes out a path for himself. He goes at his own peril:

my voice he hears no more. I may follow after him, but cannot go before

him.”

 

Then Knowledge vanished.

 

And the hunter turned. He went to his cage, and with his hands broke down

the bars, and the jagged iron tore his flesh. It is sometimes easier to

build than to break.

 

One by one he took his plumed birds and let them fly. But when he came to

his dark-plumed bird he held it, and looked into its beautiful eyes, and

the bird uttered its low, deep cry—“Immortality!”

 

And he said quickly: “I cannot part with it. It is not heavy; it eats no

food. I will hide it in my breast; I will take it with me.” And he buried

it there and covered it over with his cloak.

 

But the thing he had hidden grew heavier, heavier, heavier—till it lay on

his breast like lead. He could not move with it. He could not leave those

valleys with it. Then again he took it out and looked at it.

 

“Oh, my beautiful! my heart’s own!” he cried, “may I not keep you?”

 

He opened his hands sadly.

 

“Go!” he said. “It may happen that in Truth’s song one note is like yours;

but I shall never hear it.”

 

Sadly he opened his hand, and the bird flew from him forever.

 

Then from the shuttle of Imagination he took the thread of his wishes, and

threw it on the ground; and the empty shuttle he put into his breast, for

the thread was made in those valleys, but the shuttle came from an unknown

country. He turned to go, but now the people came about him, howling.

 

“Fool, hound, demented lunatic!” they cried. “How dared you break your

cage and let the birds fly?’

 

The hunter spoke; but they would not hear him.

 

“Truth! who is she? Can you eat her? can you drink her? Who has ever seen

her? Your birds were real: all could hear them sing! Oh, fool! vile

reptile! atheist!” they cried, “you pollute the air.”

 

“Come, let us take up stones and stone him,” cried some.

 

“What affair is it of ours?” said others. “Let the idiot go,” and went

away. But the rest gathered up stones and mud and threw at him. At last,

when he was bruised and cut, the hunter crept away into the woods. And it

was evening about him.

 

He wandered on and on, and the shade grew deeper. He was on the borders

now of the land where it is always night. Then he stepped into it, and

there was no light there. With his hands he groped; but each branch as he

touched it broke off, and the earth was covered with cinders. At every step

his foot sank in, and a fine cloud of impalpable ashes flew up into his

face; and it was dark. So he sat down upon a stone and buried his face in

his hands, to wait in the Land of Negation and Denial till the light came.

 

And it was night in his heart also.

 

Then from the marshes to his right and left cold mists arose and closed

about him. A fine, imperceptible rain fell in the dark, and great drops

gathered on his hair and clothes. His heart beat slowly, and a numbness

crept through all his limbs. Then, looking up, two merry wisp lights came

dancing. He lifted his head to look at them. Nearer, nearer they came.

So warm, so bright, they danced like stars of fire. They stood before him

at last. From the centre of the radiating flame in one looked out a

woman’s face, laughing, dimpled, with streaming yellow hair. In the centre

of the other were merry laughing ripples, like the bubbles on a glass of

wine. They danced before him.

 

“Who are you,” asked the hunter, “who alone come to me in my solitude and

darkness?”

 

“We are the twins Sensuality,” they cried. “Our father’s name is Human-Nature, and our mother’s name is Excess. We are as old as the hills and

rivers, as old as the first man; but we never die,” they laughed.

 

“Oh, let me wrap my arms about you!” cried the first; “they are soft and

warm. Your heart is frozen now, but I will make it beat. Oh, come to me!”

 

“I will pour my hot life into you,” said the second; “your brain is numb,

and your limbs are dead now; but they shall live with a fierce free life.

Oh, let me pour it in!”

 

“Oh, follow us,” they cried, “and live with us. Nobler hearts than yours

have sat here in this darkness to wait, and they have come to us and we to

them; and they have never left us, never. All else is a delusion, but we

are real, we are real, we are real. Truth is a shadow; the valleys of

superstition are a farce: the earth is of ashes, the trees all rotten; but

we—feel us—we live! You cannot doubt us. Feel us how warm we are! Oh,

come to us! Come with us!”

 

Nearer and nearer round his head they hovered, and the cold drops melted on

his forehead. The bright light shot into his eyes, dazzling him, and the

frozen blood began to run. And he said:

 

“Yes, why should I die here in this awful darkness? They are warm, they

melt my frozen blood!” and he stretched out his hands to take them.

 

Then in a moment there arose before him the image of the thing he had

loved, and his hand dropped to his side.

 

“Oh, come to us!” they cried.

 

But he buried his face.

 

“You dazzle my eyes,” he cried, “you make my heart warm; but you cannot

give me what I desire. I will wait here—wait till I die. Go!”

 

He covered his face with his hands and would not listen; and when he looked

up again they were two twinkling stars, that vanished in the distance.

 

And the long, long night rolled on.

 

All who leave the valley of superstition pass through that dark land; but

some go through it in a few days, some linger there for months, some for

years, and some die there.

 

At last for the hunter a faint light played along the horizon, and he rose

to follow it; and he reached that light at last, and stepped into the broad

sunshine. Then before him rose the almighty mountains of Dry-facts and

Realities. The clear sunshine played on them, and the tops were lost in

the clouds. At the foot many paths ran up. An exultant cry burst from the

hunter. He chose the straightest and began to climb; and the rocks and

ridges resounded with his song. They had exaggerated; after all, it was

not so high, nor was the road so steep! A few days, a few weeks, a few

months at most, and then the top! Not one feather only would he pick up;

he would gather all that other men had found—weave the net—capture Truth-

-hold her fast—touch