When he woke, all was silent and still; he made his way back; the
goats were gone, and it was the early morning, all misty and dewy
among the ruins, when he squeezed out of the hole.
He felt strangely haggard and tired, and reached the village only
to find that seventy years had elapsed, and that he was an old and
forgotten man, with no place for him. He had lost his home, and
though there were one or two old grandfathers, spent and dying, who
remembered the day when he was lost, and the search made for him,
yet now there was no room for the old man. The gap had filled up,
life had flowed on. They had grieved for him, but they did not want
him back. He disturbed their arrangements; he was another useless
mouth to feed.
The pretty old story is full of parables, sad and sweet. But the
kernel of the tale is a warning to all who, for any wilfulness or
curiosity, however romantic or alluring the quest, forfeit their
place for an instant in the world. You cannot return. Life
accommodates itself to its losses, and however sincerely a man may
be lamented, yet if he returns, if he tries to claim his place, he
is in the way, de trop. No one has need of him.
An artist has most need of this warning, because he of all men is
tempted to enter the dark place in the hill, to see wonderful
things and to drink the oblivious wine.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96