Saturday's Good Reading: Speech for the closing session of the IV National Eucaristic Congress by Plínio Corrêa de Oliveira (in Portuguese).

 

SAUDAÇÃO ÀS AUTORIDADES CIVIS E MILITARES

 

Contemplando por vários dias os esplendores desta cena que hoje se desenrola pela última vez diante de vossos olhos como diante dos olhos deslumbrados de nossa piedade, e pensando por certo nas emoções que sentiria o coração paternal do Sumo Pontífice se aqui estivesse, é possível que por uma natural associação de idéias vossa imaginação, vagueando, conduzida pelas saudades através dos salões do Vaticano tivesse estabelecido uma analogia entre a imortal obra prima de Rafael, na Stanza della Signatura, em que o grande pintor figurou a "Disputa do Santíssimo Sacramento", e o quadro esplêndido, que, não em pintura, nem em imaginação, mas em realidade e vida, agora se contempla neste local.

O certo é que a analogia é frisante e as diferenças de personagens passam quase despercebidas ante a identidade do ato místico e sobrenatural que naquela pintura e nesta hora de glória e de vida se celebra.

Figurou Rafael uma larga esplanada de mármore tendo ao fundo um panorama risonho da Itália, e ao centro sobre alguns degraus, um altar com a Sagrada Eucaristia. De um e de outro lado, em afetuosa e animada porfia os maiores potentados da Cristandade: papas, imperadores, reis, cardeais e doutores, contendem entre si, louvando cada qual o Diviníssimo Sacramento segundo toda a medida de seu fervor. Pairando sobre nuvens, as figuras mais excelsas da Igreja Gloriosa, no Antigo e Novo Testamento, coros inumeráveis de anjos, o próprio Padre Eterno, e o Espírito Paráclito figuram de forma a atribuir o lugar central ao Divino Redentor. É a glorificação do Sacramento do amor por todos os filhos de Deus, isto é, por todos aqueles que souberam ouvir o apelo austero e divinamente suave das bem-aventuranças.

Que importa que as figuras terrenas que aqui temos não sejam as mesmas que as da Stanza della Signatura? É sempre a mesma Igreja de Deus, é o mesmo o Sacramento que adoramos, e do mais alto dos Céus, são o Padre, o Filho e o Espírito Santo, a Rainha do Céu, as incontáveis multidões angélicas, os mártires, as virgens, os confessores e os doutores que nos contemplam. E como os atos de piedade praticados pelos fiéis sob o bafejo do Espírito Santo valem infinitamente mais do que a melhor das obras de arte produzidas pelo engenho humano, força é reconhecer, que há algo de mais e infinitamente mais precioso do que o inestimável quadro de Rafael que aqui temos.

Estes grandes dias que estão prestes a se escoar foram luminosos instantes de Tabor na história brasileira. E se no Tabor o tempo correu tão rápido que os apóstolos entenderam de poder apreciar plenamente suas delícias ali fixando morada, mandaria a lógica que também aqui aproveitássemos avidamente os minutos, na tarefa santamente silenciosa, da adoração. Entretanto, ordena a sagrada autoridade do Exmo. Revmo. Sr. Arcebispo Metropolitano que as nossas atenções se desviem por alguns minutos da Custódia Sagrada e, cessados por instantes os louvores eucarísticos, se faça uma saudação ao Chefe da Nação, e demais representantes do poder temporal aqui presentes. E fez bem. Não são apenas aqueles que dizem "Senhor, Senhor" que tem o reino de Deus, mas ainda os que ouvem a vontade de Deus e a cumprem. E é tão velho quanto o Catolicismo o preceito da obediência sobrenaturalmente respeitosa e filial, não apenas àqueles que tem o poder e o encargo de reger os interesses temporais da Cristandade.

Permita pois, Excelentíssimo e Reverendíssimo Senhor Legado Pontifício que as homenagens e as saudações de toda esta multidão subam agora, até àqueles que, encarnando a autoridade natural do Estado, aqui representam a venerável soberania do poder temporal, e, com ela o próprio Brasil.

Exmo. Sr. Dr. Fernando Costa, DD. Interventor Federal; Exmo. Sr. General Maurício Cardoso, DD. Comandante da II Região Militar; Exmos. Srs. Presidente do Departamento Administrativo e Secretários do Governo; Exmo. Sr. Prefeito Municipal.

Não seria preciso que ouvísseis estas palavras, para que notásseis que, no curso já quatro vezes secular, da história do Brasil, jamais se reuniu assembléia mais solene e ilustre que esta. No momento em que a vida nacional caminha para rumos definitivos, quis a Divina Providência reunir em pleno coração de São Paulo, os elementos representativos de tudo quanto fomos e somos, de todas as glórias de nosso passado e de nossas melhores esperanças para o futuro como uma afirmação brilhante dos altos e amorosos desígnios que tem sobre nós.

Aqui está a Santa Igreja Católica. Em outros termos aqui está a própria alma do Brasil. Aqui estão sob a augusta presidência do Legado Pontifício aquele Episcopado e aquele clero que desde os nossos primeiros dias, ministrando os Sacramentos, e ensinando a palavra de Deus, conservaram o Brasil verdadeiramente brasileiro, conservando-o fundamentalmente católico. Há quanto tempo, a conjuração de todos os meios de descristianização desde os mais poderosos aos mais sutis, se estabeleceu nesta Terra de Santa Cruz, afim de arrancá-la ao regaço da Igreja. Mas enquanto quase tudo que no sentido humano da palavra pode chamar-se glória, poder, riquezas, se mobilizou no sentido de assim cometer esse estranho e tenebroso crime de matar a fogo lento a alma de um país inteiro – enquanto isto a Igreja estava vigilante, e, depois de perto de 40 anos de um agnosticismo desdenhoso e de uma luta insana, de norte a sul do país soprava uma verdadeira primavera, e o renascimento religioso provoca a estruturação de um apostolado tão vigoroso e tão coeso, tão sedento de ortodoxia de doutrina e pureza de vida que, hoje já o podemos afirmar, o movimento de leigos católicos, coesos e disciplinados, militantes e valorosos, já constitui por si uma vitória de imensas conseqüências e um penhor de que a Providência nos está armando para triunfos ainda maiores.

 

Aspectos da realização do 4º Congresso Eucarístico Nacional

Digamos tudo em uma só palavra: a Ação Católica, na solidez de suas organizações fundamentais e na sábia e justa policromia de suas associações auxiliares, é hoje uma potência ideológica de primeiro valor, que conta, na realização de suas finalidades, não só com o concurso apaixonado de quanto nela se inscreveram, mas ainda da própria massa do povo brasileiro.

Vós o sentistes, Senhores representantes do Poder Temporal, e vossa gratíssima presença entre nós constitui a afirmação tangível de que cessou para o Brasil a era do laicismo desdenhoso e artificial. Para explicardes vosso comparecimento em caráter oficial nestas solenidades, não vos seria necessário alegar convicções particulares nem pendores pessoais. Todo o mundo sentiria que direis uma grande verdade, afirmando que é hoje tal a pujança do movimento católico no Brasil, que governo algum o poderia ignorar, apegando-se às fórmulas decrépitas de um laicismo formalista.

Pois este magnífico reerguimento da alma nacional, no que ela tem de mais genuíno, isto é na Fé, é obra desse Episcopado e desse Clero que, pobre embora de todos os dons que devem fazer grandes as obras dos homens, soube vencer o deslumbramento de todos os artifícios com que se costuma fascinar as multidões.

Como não bastasse, para completar esse quadro tão evocativo das lutas passadas ou recentes de nossa História aqui se encontra também, cercado de nosso respeitoso carinho, o representante de uma família cujo nome não se pode pronunciar sem fazer vibrar todas as páginas de nossa História: é Dom Pedro de Orleans e Bragança, cuja presença lembra o heroísmo do brado do Ipiranga, a sabedoria do governo de Dom Pedro II, os louros da guerra do Paraguai e a figura radiante de piedade da Princesa que soube quebrar as algemas da raça negra.

Se alongarmos mais nossos olhares, veremos os vultos claros e alguns tanto indecisos, dos arranha-céus que a Paulicéia construiu. Moldura esplêndida deste quadro, ela nos fala das possibilidades de nossa grandeza temporal e nos traz a garantia de que por mais que o Brasil cresça no sentido espiritual, terá riquezas suficientes para crescer proporcionalmente no sentido material.

E, neste momento, os olhares de todos estes Prelados, as vistas de todas estas multidões, a atenção dos milhares de espectadores que para além do vale, do alto dos arranha-céus ou até onde as ondas do rádio puderem chegar em terras brasileiras acompanham esta solenidade, se volta para vós. Para vós cuja presença, como acabamos de ver, tanto significa e tanto realce dá a estas glorificações de Cristo-Eucarístico. Para vós, cujo comparecimento constitui a homenagem oficial do Brasil ao seu Divino Rei, que é Cristo, para vós que recebeis a demonstração inequívoca da satisfação que vossa presença nos causa.

Os aplausos que neste momento chegam até vós, são o de todo apoio que em todos os tempos a Igreja sempre tributou aos detentores da autoridade temporal.

A magnífica cena que tendes diante dos olhos, está longe de ser inédita nos fastos da Cristandade. Ela não tira seu valor do fato de ser uma novidade sensacional, mas, pelo contrário, da extraordinária continuidade com que se tem repetido.

Às margens do Jordão como do Nilo, à sombra das colunas clássicas de Atenas como nos esplendores da grande metrópole de Cartago, no fastígio do poder da Idade Média como nas lutas tormentosas contra o proto-totalitarismo josefista ou pombalino, sempre que assembléias como esta se tem reunido, a Igreja repete ao Poder Temporal com uma constância e uma uniformidade impressionante, a mesma mensagem de paz e aliança, em que para si reserva tão somente o reino do espiritual, ciosa de respeitar a plena soberania do Poder Temporal em todos os outros terrenos, dele pedindo tão somente que ajuste suas atividades aos preceitos evangélicos, ou seja aos princípios que constituem o fundamento da civilização cristã católica.

Essa mensagem é eco fiel do divino preceito: "Daí a César o que é de César e a Deus o que é de Deus". Pelos aplausos dessa multidão, a vossos ouvidos chega agora esse eco, poderosa afirmação de princípios que as vicissitudes dos tempos, em todas as épocas não puderam aluir.

Poucas vezes, no curso de História Brasileira, se tem erguido em torno de uma figura, concerto tão generalizado, de louvores e admiração, do que em torno de S. Excia., o Sr. Presidente da República, Dr. Getúlio Vargas. Será supérfluo, neste momento, acrescentarmos a tantos louros, mais um. A situação de beligerância em que nos encontramos fez erguer-se em torno de S. Excia., todos os brasileiros, de todos os quadrantes geográficos e ideológicos do país. Esse apoio unânime ao governo de S. Excia., é hoje um imperativo patriótico, em cujo cumprimento os católicos reclamam para si a primeira linha, no terreno do devotamento e da disciplina.

Mas há uma afirmação sobremaneira importante a fazer aqui. Mil e mil vezes tem sido ditos a S. Excia. os motivos pessoais que em torno de sua figura tem congregado tanta solidariedade. É preciso que o intérprete da opinião católica afirme que a disciplina dos católicos ao Poder Temporal firma suas raízes mais no fundo, e que, abstração feita das considerações de ordem pessoal, sua obediência aos poderes públicos se baseia na convicção de que obedecem assim à vontade do próprio Deus, conhecida pela luz da razão natural e pelos esplendores da revelação cristã.

Católicos, não somos nem podemos ser partidários da doutrina da soberania popular, e por isto mesmo recusamo-nos a ver a augusta autoridade do Poder Temporal firmada sobre a areia movediça entre todas, da popularidade. Ela se crava na rocha firme das nossas consciências cristãs, e faz, de nossa submissão e de nossos propósitos de ardente colaboração convosco, nas sendas da civilização cristã e na realização da grandeza da Terra de Santa Cruz, um fundamento inabalável que as tempestades da adversidade contra as quais ninguém está garantido – jamais poderão destruir.

Isto não impede, entretanto, que depois de termos prestado homenagem ao Chefe da Nação, símbolo em tempo de guerra mais do que nunca, da unidade e grandeza pátrias, de público agradeçamos também a V.Excia. Sr. Interventor Fernando Costa, toda a cooperação que V.Excia. prestou para o êxito desse grande congresso. Essa vossa conduta simpaticíssima, de que as homenagens ao Cristo Eucarístico receberam tanto esplendor, foi seguida também por vosso ilustre secretariado, que aqui associamos o preito de reconhecimento que nesse momento prestamos a V.Excia. Na mesma homenagem de reconhecimento envolvemos a figura respeitável do Sr. Comandante da 2a. Região Militar, General Maurício Cardoso, no qual comprazemos em aplaudir neste momento todas as glórias do Exército Nacional; o Exmo. Sr. Dr. Godofredo da Silva Telles, Presidente do Departamento Administrativo do Estado, figura característica e brilhante do patriciado paulista; o Exmo. Sr. Dr. Prestes Maia, Prefeito Municipal, e todos quanto, mostrando compreender admiravelmente com isto o significado que para o povo católico do Brasil tem este Congresso, tanto concorreram para seu esplendor e grandeza.

Senhores, é hoje o dia 7 de setembro, a data é expressiva, e estou absolutamente certo de que um imenso clamor se levantará neste glorioso dia, transpondo os limites do Estado e do País para notificar ao mundo inteiro que como um só homem, o Brasil se ergue ao lado do Exmo. Sr. Presidente da República, Dr. Getúlio Vargas, contra o imperialismo nazista pagão que trama sua ruína e parece ter chamado a si, exatamente como seu sósia vermelho de Moscou, a diabólica empreitada de destruir a Igreja em todo o mundo.

Contra os inimigos da Pátria que estremecemos, e de Cristo que adoramos, os católicos brasileiros saberão mostrar sempre uma invencível resistência. Loucos e temerários! Mais fácil vos seria arrancar de nosso céu o Cruzeiro do Sul, do que arrancar a soberania e a Fé a um povo fiel a Cristo, e que colocará sempre seu mais alto título de ufania em uma adesão filialmente obediente e entusiasticamente vigorosa à Cátedra de São Pedro.

*    *    *

Mas esta saudação por demais longa não seria completa se não lhe acrescentássemos uma última palavra. É próprio do feitio que Deus deu ao brasileiro, que a suavidade de um ambiente de família impregne todos os atos de nossa vida e perfume sem os deslustrar até mesmo os mais solenes. A despeito dos esplendores desta noite, estamos pois em família, e o ambiente é propício para que se desatem em confidências as esperanças que abrigamos em nós.

Produto da cultura latina valorizada e como que transubstanciada pela influência sobrenatural da Igreja, a alma brasileira resulta da transplantação, para novos climas e novos quadros, destes valores eternos e definitivos que, precisamente porque definitivos e eternos, podem ajustar-se a todas as circunstâncias contingentes, sem perderem a identidade substancial consigo mesmo. A perfeita formação da alma brasileira comporta, pois, duas tarefas essenciais, uma que mantenha sempre intactos os fundamentos de nossa civilização cristã e ocidental e outra que ajuste esses fundamentos às condições peculiares a este hemisfério.

Nossos maiores executaram com evidente êxito e indomável valentia a primeira parte dessa ingente tarefa. Depois de quatrocentos anos de luta, de trabalho, aqui floresce este Brasil que é para a civilização ocidental um motivo de esperança, e para a Santa Igreja de Deus uma causa de júbilo. Mas esse esforço de conservação, que ainda é e continuará a ser sempre necessário, foi até aqui tão observante que relegou para o segundo plano o problema da adaptação.

Esmagava-nos a desproporção entre nossos recursos materiais que do seio da terra desafiavam nossa capacidade de produção, e a insuficiência de nossos braços, de nosso dinheiro e de nossas energias para os explorar. A terra brasileira apresentava-se cheia de possibilidades fabulosamente vastas, de riquezas inesgotávelmente fecundas, que se adivinhavam e se sentiam mesmo antes de qualquer demonstração técnica e científica. E o mesmo se poderia dizer de nossa história, toda tecida até aqui de acontecimentos políticos de alcance meramente ocidental e transcorrida quase toda ela em um tempo em que não estava na América o centro da gravidade do mundo. Bem estudada e despida das versões oficiais de um liberalismo anacrônico, aí podemos ver claramente, na fidelidade de Amador Bueno como no espírito de Cruzadas dos heróis da reconquista pernambucana, na fibra de ferro deste grande martelo da pior das heresias, que foi Dom Vital Maria Gonçalves de Oliveira, como no coração maternal e suave da princesa Isabel, as expressões rútilas de um grande povo que, ainda nos primeiros passos de sua História, já dava mostras de ser um povo que Deus criou para grandes feitos.

Esta predestinação se afirma na própria configuração de nossos panoramas.

Talvez não fosse ousado afirmar que Deus colocou os povos de sua eleição em panoramas adequados à realização dos grandes destinos a que os chama. E não há quem, viajando por nosso Brasil, não experimente a confusa impressão de que Deus destinou para teatro de grandes feitos esse País cujas montanhas trágicas e misteriosas penedias parecem convidar o homem às supremas afoitezas do heroísmo cristão, cujas verdejantes planícies parecem querer inspirar o surto de novas escolas artísticas e literárias, de novas formas e tipos de belezas, e na orla de cujo litoral os mares parecem cantar a glória futura de um dos maiores povos da Terra.

Quando nosso poeta cantava que "nossa terra tem palmeiras onde canta o sabiá, e que as aves que aqui gorjeiam não gorjeiam como lá", percebeu, talvez confusamente, que a Providência depositou na natureza brasileira a promessa de um porvir igual ao dos maiores povos da Terra.

E hoje, que o Brasil emerge de sua adolescência para a maturidade, e titubeia nas mãos da velha Europa o cetro da cultura cristã, que o totalitarismo quereria destruir, aos olhos de todos se patenteia que os países católicos da América são na realidade o grande celeiro da Igreja e da Civilização, o terreno fecundo onde poderão reflorir com brilho maior do que nunca as plantas que a barbárie devasta no velho mundo. A América inteira é uma constelação de povos irmãos. Nessa constelação, inútil é dizer que as dimensões materiais do Brasil não são uma figura de magnitude de seu papel providencial.

Tempo houve em que a História do mundo se pôde intitular "Gesta Dei per Francos". Dia virá em que se escreverá "Gesta Dei per brasilienses" (As ações de Deus pelos brasileiros).

A missão providencial do Brasil consiste em crescer dentro de suas próprias fronteiras, em desdobrar aqui os esplendores de uma civilização genuinamente Católica, Apostólica Romana, e em iluminar amorosamente todo o mundo com o facho desta grande luz, que será verdadeiramente o "lumen Christi" que a Igreja irradia. Nossa índole meiga e hospitaleira, a pluralidade das raças que aqui vivem em fraternal harmonia, o concurso providencial dos imigrantes que tão intimamente se inseriram na vida nacional, e mais do que tudo as normas do Santo Evangelho, jamais farão de nossos anseios de grandeza um pretexto para jacobinismos tacanhos, para racismos estultos, para imperialismos criminosos. Se algum dia o Brasil for grande, sê-lo-á para bem do mundo inteiro.

"Sejam entre Vós os que governam como os que obedecem", diz o Redentor. O Brasil não será grande pela conquista, mas pela Fé; não será rico pelo dinheiro tanto quanto pela generosidade. Realmente, se soubermos ser fiéis à Roma dos Papas, poderá nossa cidade ser uma nova Jerusalém, de beleza perfeita, honra, glória e gáudio do mundo inteiro.

Aqui mesmo encontrais disto, Senhores, um formoso símbolo. Pela primeira vez arderá em uma cerimônia pública o incenso nacional. Pela primeira vez órgão inteiramente nacional tem deliciado nossos ouvidos. Mas esse incenso queimará nos altares de uma Religião que é Universal, e esse órgão fará ecoar as melodias da Igreja na língua-mater de toda a cultura do mundo. Nada poderia dizer melhor do verdadeiro sentido de nosso nacionalismo, ou, posta de lado essa palavra tantas vezes mal empregada, de nosso patriotismo.

"Dai a César o que é de César e a Deus o que é de Deus". Explorai, Senhores do Poder Temporal, as riquezas de nossa terra; estruturai segundo as máximas da Igreja, que são a essência da civilização cristã, todas as nossas instituições civis. Auxiliai quanto em Vós estiver, a Santa Igreja de Deus e que plasme a alma nacional na vida da graça, para a glória do céu. Fazei do Brasil uma pátria próspera, organizada e pujante, enquanto a Igreja fará do povo brasileiro um dos maiores povos da História. Na harmonia desta mesma obra está a predestinação de uma íntima cooperação entre dois poderes. Deus jamais é tão bem servido, quanto se César se porta como seu filho. E, Senhores, em nome dos católicos do Brasil, eu vo-lo afianço, César jamais é tão grande, como quanto é filho de Deus.

Nessa colaboração está o segredo de nosso progresso e nela vossa parte é verdadeiramente magnífica.

Trabalhai, senhores, trabalhai neste sentido. Tereis a cooperação entusiástica de todos os nossos recursos, de todos os nossos corações, de todo o nosso fervor. E quando algum dia Deus Vos chamar à vida eterna, tereis a suprema ventura de contemplar um Brasil imensamente grande e profundamente cristão, sobre o qual o Cristo do Corcovado, com seus braços abertos, poderá dizer aquilo que é o supremo título de glória de um povo cristão. Executai o programa de Governo que consiste em procurar antes o reino de Deus e sua justiça, que todas as coisas lhes serão dadas por acréscimo.

Em um Brasil imensamente rico, vereis florescer um povo imensamente rico, vereis florescer um povo imensamente grande, porque dele se poderá dizer:

Bem-aventurado este povo sóbrio e desapegado, no esplendor embora de sua riqueza, porque dele é o reino dos céus.

Bem-aventurado este povo generoso e acolhedor, que ama a paz mais do que as riquezas, porque ele possui a terra.

Bem-aventurado este povo de coração sensível ao amor e às dores do Homem-Deus, às dores e ao amor de seu próximo, porque nisto mesmo encontrará sua consolação.

Bem-aventurado este povo varonil e forte, intrépido e corajoso, faminto e sedento das virtudes heróicas e totais, porque será saciado em seu apetite de santidade e grandeza sobrenatural.

Bem-aventurado este povo misericordioso, porque ele alcançará misericórdia.

Bem-aventurado este povo casto e limpo de coração, bem aventurada a inviolável pureza de suas famílias cristãs, porque verá a Deus.

Bem-aventurado este povo pacífico, de idealismo limpo de jacobismos e racismos, porque será chamado filho de Deus.

Bem-aventurado este povo que leva seu amor à Igreja a ponto de lutar e sofrer por ele, porque dele é o reino dos céus".

7 de Setembro, 1942. 

Friday's Sung Word: "Oi, Iá-Iá Baiana" by Georges Moran and J.G. de Araújo Jorge (in Portuguese)

Esta noite inteirinha
eu sonhei com você
oi,iaiá, oi iaiá baiana
sua linda boquinha
eu beijei como que
oi iaiá, oi iaiá baiana

Que gosto de amor
nessa boca achei
que cheiro de flor
sensual provei !
esta noite inteirinha
eu sonhei com voce
oi iaiá , oi iaiá baiana

Salve Bahia, terra de sonho !
minha saudade já não tem mais fim
lembro-me sempre dos meus  amores
da proteção do Senhor do Bonfim.

 

You can listen "Oi, Iá-Iá Baiana" sung by Francisco Alves with Mdestro Fom-Fom Orchestra here.
 

Thursday's Serial: “The Centaur” by Algernon Blackwood (in English) - XII

 

CHAPTER XXVVIII

"Seasons and times; Life and Fate--all are remarkably rhythmic, metric, regular throughout. In all crafts and arts, in all machines, in organic bodies, in our daily occupations everywhere there is rhythm, meter, accent, melody. All that we do with a certain skill unnoticed, we do rhythmically. There is rhythm everywhere; it insinuates itself everywhere. All mechanism is metric, rhythmic. There must be more in it than this. Is it merely the influence of inertia?"

--NOVALIS, Translated by U.C.B.

 

Notwithstanding the extent and loneliness of this wild country, coincidence seemed in no way stretched by the abrupt appearance; for in a sense it was not wholly unexpected. There had been certain indications that the meeting again of these two was imminent. The Irishman had never doubted they would meet. But something more than mere hints or warnings, it seemed, had prepared him.

The nature of these warnings, however, O'Malley never fully disclosed. Two of them he told to me by word of mouth, but there were others he could not bring himself to speak about at all. Even the two he mentioned do not appear in his written account. His hesitation is not easy to explain, unless it be that language collapsed in the attempt to describe occurrences so remote from common experience. This may be so, although he grappled not unsuccessfully with the rest of the amazing adventure. At any rate I could never coax from him more than the confession that there were other things that had brought him hints. Then came a laugh, a shrug of the shoulders, an expression of confused bewilderment in eyes and manner and--silence.

The two he spoke of I report as best I can. On the roof of that London apartment-house where so many of our talks took place beneath the stars and to the tune of bustling modern traffic, he told them to me. Both were consistent with his theory that he was becoming daily more active in some outlying portion of his personality--knowing experiences in a region of extended consciousness stimulated so powerfully by his strange new friend.

Both, moreover, brought him one and the same conviction that he was no longer--alone. For some days past he had realized this. More than his peasant guide accompanied him. He was both companioned and--observed.

"A dozen times," he said, "I thought I saw him, and a dozen times I was mistaken. But my mind looked for him. I knew that he was somewhere close." He compared the feeling to that common experience of the streets when a friend, not known to be near, or even expected, comes abruptly into the thoughts, so that numberless individuals may trick the sight with his appearance before he himself comes suddenly down the pavement. His approach has reached the mind before his mere body turns the corner. "Something in me was aware of his approach," he added, "as though his being were sending out feelers in advance to find me. They reached me first, I think"--he hesitated briefly, hunting for a more accurate term he could not find--"in dream."

"You dreamed that he was coming, then?"

"It came first in dream," he answered; "only when I woke the dream did not fade; it passed over into waking consciousness, so that I could hardly tell where the threshold lay between the two. And, meanwhile, I was always expecting to see him at every turn of the trail almost; a little higher up the mountain, behind a rock, or standing beside a tree, just as in the end I actually did see him. Long before he emerged in this way, he had been close about me, guiding, waiting, watching."

He told it as a true thing he did not quite expect me to believe. Yet, in a sense, his sense, I could and did believe it. It was so wholly consistent with the tenor of his adventure and the condition of abnormal receptivity of mind. For his stretched consciousness was in a state of white sensitiveness whereon the tenderest mental force of another's thought might well record its signature. Acutely impressionable he was all over. Physical distance was of as little, or even of less, account to such forces as it is to electricity.

"But it was more than the Russian who was close," he added quietly with one of those sentences that startled me into keen attention. "He was there--with others--of his kind."

And then, hardly pausing to take breath, he plunged, as his manner was, full tilt into the details of this first experience that thrilled my hedging soul with an astonishing power of conviction. As always when his heart was in the words, the scenery about us faded and I lived the adventure with him. The cowled and hooded chimneys turned to trees, the stretch of dim star-lit London Park became a deep Caucasian vale, the thunder of the traffic was the roaring of the snow-fed torrents. The very perfume of strange flowers floated in the air.

They had been in their blankets, he and his peasant guide, for hours, and a moon approaching the full still concealed all signs of dawn, when he woke out of deep sleep with the odd sensation that it was only a part of him that woke. One portion of him was in the body, while another portion was elsewhere, manifesting with ease and freedom in some state or region whither he had traveled in his sleep--where, moreover, he had not been alone.

And close about him in the trees was--movement. Yes! Through and between the scattered trunks he saw it still.

With eyes a little dazed, the active portion of his brain perceived this processing movement passing to and fro across the glades of moonlight beneath the steady trees. For there was no wind. The shadows of the branches did not stir. He saw swift running shapes, vigorous yet silent, hurrying across the network of splashed silver and pools of black in some kind of organized movement that was circular and seemed not due to chance. Arranged it seemed and ordered; like the regulated revolutions of a set and whirling measure.

Perhaps twenty feet from where he lay was the outer fringe of what he discerned to be this fragment of some grand gamboling dance or frolic; yet discerned but dimly, for the darkness combined with his uncertain vision to obscure it.

And the shapes, as they sped across the silvery patchwork of the moon, seemed curiously familiar. Beyond question he recognized and knew them. For they were akin to those shadowy emanations seen weeks ago upon the steamer's after-deck, to that "messenger" who climbed from out the sea and sky, and to that form the spirit of the boy assumed, set free in death. They were the flying outlines of Wind and Cloud he had so often glimpsed in vision, racing over the long, bare, open hills--at last come near.

In the moment of first waking, when he saw them clearest, he declares with emphasis that he knew the father and the boy were among them. Not so much that he saw them actually for recognition, but rather that he felt their rushing presences; for the first sensation on opening his eyes was the conviction that both had passed him close, had almost touched and called him. Afterwards he searched in vain among the flying forms that swept in the swift succession of their leaping dance across the silvery pathways. While varying in size all were so similar.

His description of them is confused a little, for he admits that he could never properly focus them in steady sight. They slipped with a melting swiftness under the eye; the moment one seemed caught in vision it passed on further and the next was in its place. It was like following a running wave-form on the sea. He says, moreover, that while erect and splendid, their backs and shoulders seemed prolonged in hugeness as though they often crouched to spring; they seemed to paw the air; and that a faint delicious sound to which they kept obedient time and rhythm, held that same sweetness which had issued from the hills of Greece, blown down now among the trees from very far away. And when he says "blown down among the trees," he qualifies this phrase as well, because at the same time it came to him that the sound also rose up from underneath the earth, as if the very surface of the ground ran shaking with a soft vibration of its own. Some marvelous dream it might have been in which the forms, the movement, and the sound were all thrown up and outwards from the quivering surface of the Earth itself.

Yet, almost simultaneously with the first instant of waking, the body issued its call of warning. For, while he gazed, and before time for the least reflection came, the Irishman experienced this dislocating conviction that he himself was taking part in the whirling gambol even while he lay and watched it, and that in this way the sense of division in his personality was explained. The fragment of himself within the brain watched some other more vital fragment--some projection of his consciousness detached and separate--playing yonder with its kind beneath the moon.

This sense of a divided self was not new to him, but never before had he known it so distinct and overwhelming. The definiteness of the division, as well as the importance and vitality of the separated portion, were arrestingly novel. It felt as though he were completely out, or to such a degree, at least, that the fraction left behind with the brain was at first only just sufficient for him to recognize his body at all.

Yonder with these others he felt the wind of movement pass along his back, he saw the trees slip by, and knew the very contact of the ground between the leaps. His movements were natural and easy, light as air and fast as wind; they seemed automatic, impelled by something mighty that directed and contained them. He knew, too, the sensation that others pressed behind him and passed before, slipped in and out, and that through the whole wild urgency of it he yet could never make an error. More--he knew that these shifting forms had been close and dancing about him for a time not measurable merely by the hours of a single night, that in a sense they were always there though he had but just discovered them. His earlier glimpses had been a very partial divination of a truth, immense and beautiful, that now dawned quite gorgeously upon him all complete.

The whole world danced. The Universe was rhythmical as well as metrical.

For this amazing splendor showed itself in a flash-like revelation to the freed portion of his consciousness, and he knew it irresistibly because he himself shared it. Here was an infinite joy, naked and unashamed, born of the mighty Mother's heart and life, a joy which, in its feebler, lesser manifestations, trickles down into human conditions, though still spontaneously even then, so pure its primal urgency, as--dancing.

The entire experience, the entire revelation, he thinks, can have occupied but a fraction of a second, but it seemed to smite the whole of his being at once with the conviction of a supreme authority. And close behind it came, too, that other sister expression of a spontaneous and natural expression, equally rhythmical--the impulse to sing. He could have sung aloud. For this puissant and mysterious rhythm to which all moved was greater than any little measure of their own. Surging through them, it came from outside and beyond, infinitely greater than themselves, springing from something of which they were, nevertheless, a living portion. From the body of the Earth it came direct--it was in fact a manifestation of her own vibrating life. The currents of the Earth pulsed through them.

"And then," he says, "I caught this flaming thought of wonder, though so much of it faded instantly upon my full awakening that I can only give you the merest suggestion of what it was."

He stood up beside me as he said it, spreading his arms, as so often when he was excited, to the sky. I caught the glow of his eyes, and in his voice was passion. He spoke unquestionably of something he had intimately known, not as men speak of even the vividest dreams, but of realities that have burned the heart and left their trails of glory.

"Science has guessed some inkling of the truth," he cried, "when it declares that the ultimate molecules of matter are in constant vibratory movement one about another, even upon the point of a needle. But I saw--knew, rather, as if I had always known it, sweet as summer rain, and close in me as love--that the whole Earth with all her myriad expressions of life moved to this primal rhythm as of some divine dancing."

"Dancing?" I asked, puzzled.

"Rhythmical movement call it then," he replied. "To share the life of the Earth is to dance and sing in a huge abundant joy! And the nearer to her great heart, the more natural and spontaneous the impulse--the instinctive dancing of primitive races, of savages and children, still artless and untamed; the gamboling of animals, of rabbits in the meadows and of deer unwatched in forest clearings--you know naturalists have sometimes seen it; of birds in the air--rooks, gulls, and swallows; of the life within the sea; even of gnats in the haze of summer afternoons. All life simple enough to touch and share the enormous happiness of her deep, streaming, personal Being, dances instinctively for very joy--obedient to a greater measure than they know.... The natural movement of the great Earth-Soul is rhythmical. The very winds, the swaying of trees and flowers and grasses, the movement of the sea, of water running through the fields with silver feet, of the clouds and edges of the mist, even the trembling of the earthquakes,--all, all respond in sympathetic motions to this huge vibratory movement of her great central pulse. Ay, and the mountains too, though so vastly scaled their measure that perhaps we only know the pauses in between, and think them motionless.... The mountains rise and fall and change; our very breathing, first sign of stirring life, even the circulation of our blood, bring testimony; our speech as well--inspired words are ever rhythmical, language that pours into the poet's mind from something greater than himself. And not unwisely, but in obedience to a deep instinctive knowledge was dancing once--in earlier, simpler days--a form of worship. You know, at least, how rhythm in music and ceremonial uplifts and cleans and simplifies the heart toward the greater life.... You know, perhaps, the Dance of Jesus...."

The words poured from him with passion, yet always uttered gently with a smile of joy upon the face. I saw his figure standing over me, outlined against the starry sky; and, deeply stirred, I listened with delight and wonder. Rhythm surely lies behind all expression of life. He was on the heels of some simple, dazzling verity though he phrased it wildly. But not a tenth part of all he said could I recapture afterwards for writing down. The steady, gentle swaying of his body I remember clearly, and that somewhere or other in the stream of language, he made apt reference to the rhythmical swaying of those who speak in trance, or know some strange, possessing gust of inspiration.

The first and natural expression of the Earth's vitality lies in a dancing movement of purest joy and happiness--that for me is the gist of what remains. Those near enough to Nature feel it. I myself remembered days in spring ... my thoughts, borne upon some sweet emotion, traveled far....

"And not of the Earth alone," he interrupted my dreaming in a voice like singing, "but of the entire Universe. The spheres and constellations weave across the fields of ether the immense old rhythm of their divine, eternal dance...!"

Then, with a disconcerting abruptness, and a strange little wayward laugh as of apology for having let himself so freely go, he sat down beside me with his back against the chimney-stack. He resumed more quietly the account of this particular adventure that lay 'twixt dream and waking:

All that he described had happened in a few seconds. It flashed, complete, authoritative and vivid, then passed away. He knew again the call and warning of his body--to return. For this consciousness of being in two places at once, divided as it were against himself, brought with it the necessity for decision. With which portion should he identify himself? By an act of will, it seemed, a choice was possible.

And with it, then, came the knowledge that to remain "out" was easier than to return. This time, to come back into himself would be difficult.

The very possibility seemed to provide the shock of energy necessary for overcoming it; the experience alarmed him; it was like holding an option upon living--like a foretaste of death. Automatically, as it were, these loosened forces in him answered to the body's summons. The result was immediate and singular; one of these Dancing outlines separated itself from the main herd, approached with a sudden silent rush, enveloped him for a second of darkness and confusion, losing its shape completely on the way, and then merged into his being as smoke slips in and merges with the structure of a tree.

The projected portion of his personality had returned. The sense of division was gone. There remained behind only the little terror of the weak flesh whose summons had thus brought it back.

The same instant he was fully awake--the night about him empty of all but the silver dreaming of the moon among the shadows. Beside him lay the sleeping figure of his companion, the bashlik of lamb's wool drawn closely down about the ears and neck, and the voluminous black burka shrouding him from feet to shoulders. A little distance away the horse stood, munching grass. Again he noted that there was no wind, and the shadows of the trees lay motionless upon the ground. The air smelt sweet of forest, soil, and dew.

The experience--it seemed now--belonged to dreaming rather than to waking consciousness, for there was nothing about him to confirm it outwardly. Only the memory remained--that, and a vast, deep-coursing, subtle happiness. The smaller terror that he felt was of the flesh alone, for the flesh ever instinctively fought against such separation. The happiness, though, contained and overwhelmed the fear.

Yes, only the memory remained, and even that fast fading. But the substance of what had been, passed into his inmost being: the splendor of that would remain forever, incorporated with his life. He had shared in this brief moment of extended consciousness some measure of the Mother's cosmic being, simple as sunshine, unrestrained as wind, complete and satisfying. Its natural expression was rhythmical, a deep, pure joy that drove outwards even into little human conditions as dancing and singing. He had known it, too, with companions of his kind...

Moreover, though no longer visible or audible, it still continued somewhere close. He was blessedly companioned all the time--and watched. They knew him one of themselves--these brother expressions of her cosmic life--these Urwelt beings that Today had no external, bodily forms. They waited, knowing well that he would come. Fulfillment beckoned surely just beyond...

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX

"... And then suddenly,--: While perhaps twice my heart was dutiful

To send my blood upon its little race--

I was exalted above surety,

 

And out of Time did fall."

--LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE, Poems and Interludes

 

This, then, was one of the "hints" by which O'Malley knew that he was not alone and that the mind of his companion was stretched out to find him. He became aware after it of a distinct guidance, even of direction as to his route of travel. The "impulse came," as one says, to turn northwards, and he obeyed it without more ado. For this "dream" had come to him when camped upon the slopes of Ararat, further south toward the Turkish frontier, and though all prepared to climb the sixteen-thousand foot summit, he changed his plans, dismissed the local guide, and turned back for Tiflis and the Central Range. In the wilder, lonelier mountains, he felt strongly, was where he ought to be.

Another man, of course, would have dismissed the dream or forgotten it while cooking his morning coffee; but, rightly or wrongly, this divining Celt accepted it as real. He held an instinctive belief, that in dreams of a certain order the forces that drive behind the soul at a given moment, may reveal themselves to the subconscious self, becoming authoritative in proportion as they are sanely encouraged and interpreted. They dramatize themselves in scenes that are open to intuitive interpretation. And O'Malley, it seems, possessed, like the Hebrew prophets of old, just that measure of judgment and divination which go to the making of a true clear-vision.

Packing up kit and dunnage, he crossed the Georgian Military Route on foot to Vladikavkaz, and thence with another horse and a Mohammedan Georgian as guide, Rostom by name, journeyed via Alighir and Oni up a side valley of unforgettable splendor toward an Imerethian hamlet where they meant to lay-in supplies for a prolonged expedition into the uninhabited wilderness.

And here, the second occurrence he told me of took place. It was more direct than the first, yet equally strange; also it brought a similar authority--coming first along the deep mysterious underpaths of sleep--sleep, that short cut into the subconscious.

They were camped among low boxwood trees, a hot dry night, wind soft and stars very brilliant, when the Irishman turned in his sleeping-bag and abruptly woke. This time there was no dream--only the certainty that something had wakened him deliberately. He sat up, almost with a cry. It was exactly as though he heard himself called by name and recognized the voice that spoke it. He looked quickly round. Nothing but the crowding army of the box-trees was visible, some bushy and round, others straggling in their outline, all whispering gently together in the night. Beyond ran the immense slopes, and far overhead he saw the gleaming snow on peaks that brushed the stars.

No one was visible. This time no flying figures danced beneath the moon. There was, indeed, no moon. Something, however, he knew had come up close and touched him, calling him from the depths of a profound and tired slumber. It had withdrawn again, vanished into the night. The strong certainty remained, though, that it lingered near about him still, trying to press forwards and outwards into some kind of objective visible expression that included himself. He had responded with an effort in his sleep, but the effort had been unsuccessful. He had merely waked ... and lost it.

The horse, tethered a few feet away, was astir and troubled, straining at the rope, whinnying faintly, and Rostom, the Georgian peasant, he saw, was already up to quiet it. A curious perfume passed him through the air--once, then vanished; unforgettable, however, for he had known it already weeks ago upon the steamer. And before the gardened woods about him smothered it with their richer smells of a million flowers and weeds, he recognized in it that peculiar pungent whiff of horse that had reached him from the haunted cabin. This time it was less fleeting--a fine, clean odor that he liked even while it strangely troubled him.

Kicking out of his blankets, he joined the man and helped to straighten out the tangled rope. Rostom spoke little Russian, and O'Malley's knowledge of Georgian lay in a single phrase, "Look sharp!" but with the aid of French the man had learned from shooting-parties, he gathered that some one had approached during the night and camped, it seemed, not far away above them.

Though unusual enough in so unfrequented a region, this was not necessarily alarming, and the first proof O'Malley had that the man experienced no ordinary physical fear was the fact that he had left both knife and rifle in his blankets. Hitherto, at the least sign of danger, he changed into a perfect arsenal; he invariably slept "in his weapons"; but now, even in the darkness, the other noted that he was unarmed, and therefore it was no attempt at horse-stealing or of assault upon themselves he feared.

"Who is it? What is it?" he asked, stumbling over the tangle of string-like roots that netted the ground. "Natives, travelers like ourselves, or--something else?" He spoke very low, as though aware that what had waked him still hovered close enough to overhear. "Why do you fear?"

And Rostom looked up a moment from stooping over the rope. He stepped a little nearer, avoiding the animal's hoofs. In a confused whisper of French and Russian, making at the same time the protective signs of his religion, he muttered a sentence of which the other caught little more than the unassuring word that something was about them close--something "méchant." This curious, significant word he used.

The whispered utterance, the manner that went with it, surely the dark and lonely setting of the little scene as well, served to convey the full suggestion of the adjective with a force the man himself could scarcely have intended. Something had passed by, not so much evil, wicked, or malign as strange and alien--uncanny. Rostom, a man utterly careless of physical danger, rising to it, rather, with delight, was frightened--in his soul.

"What do you mean?" O'Malley asked louder, with an air of impatience assumed. The man was on his knees, but whether praying, or merely struggling with the rope, was hard to see. "What is it you're talking about so foolishly?" He spoke with a confidence he hardly felt himself.

And the involved reply, spoken with lips against the earth, the head but slightly turned as he knelt, again smothered the words. Only the curious phrase came to him--"de l'ancien monde--quelque-chose--"

The Irishman took him by the shoulders. Not meaning actually to shake him, he yet must have used some violence, for the fact was that he did not like the answers and sought to deny some strong emotion in himself. The man stood up abruptly with a kind of sudden spring. The expression of his face was not easily divined in the darkness, but a gleam of the eyes was clearly visible. It may have been anger, it may have been terror; vivid excitement it certainly was.

"Something--old as the stones, old as the stones," he whispered, thrusting his dark bearded face unpleasantly close. "Such things are in these mountains.... Mais oui! C'est moi qui vous le dis! Old as the stones, I tell you. And sometimes they come out close--with sudden wind. We know!"

He stepped back again sharply and dropped upon his knees, bowing to the ground with flattened palms. He made a repelling gesture as though it was O'Malley's presence that brought the experience.

"And to see them is--to die!" he heard, muttered against the ground thickly. "To see them is to die!"

The Irishman went back to his sleeping-bag. Some strange passion of the man was deeply stirred; he did not wish to offend his violent beliefs and turn it against himself in a stupid, scrambling fight. He lay and waited. He heard the muttering of the deep voice behind him in the darkness. Presently it ceased. Rostom came softly back to bed.

"He knows; he warned me!" he whispered, jerking one hand toward the horse significantly, as they at length lay again side by side in their blankets and the stars shone down upon them from a deep black sky. "But, for the moment, they have passed, not finding us. No wind has come."

"Another--horse?" asked O'Malley suggestively, with a sympathy meant to quiet him.

But the peasant shook his head; and this time it was not difficult to divine the expression on his face even in the darkness. At the same moment the tethered animal again uttered a long whinnying cry, plaintive, yet of pleasure rather than alarm it seemed, which instantly brought the man again with a leap from the blankets to his knees. O'Malley did not go to help him; he stuffed the clothes against his ears and waited; he did not wish to hear the peasant's sentences.

And this pantomime went on at intervals for an hour or more, when at length the horse grew quiet and O'Malley snatched moments of unrefreshing sleep. The night lay thick about them with a silence like the silence of the sky. The boxwood bushes ran together into a single sheet of black, the far peaks faded out of sight, the air grew keen and sharp toward the dawn on the wave of wind the sunrise drives before it round the world. But to and fro across the Irishman's mind as he lay between sleep and dozing ran the feeling that his friends were close, and that those dancing forms of cosmic life to which all three approximated had come near once more to summon him. He also knew that what the horse had felt was something far from terror. The animal instinctively had divined the presence of something to which it, too, was remotely kin.

Rostom, however, remained keenly on the alert, much of the time apparently praying. Not once did he touch the weapons that lay ready to hand upon the folded burka ... and when at last the dawn came, pale and yellow, through the trees, showing the outlines of the individual box and azalea bushes, he got up earlier than usual and began to make the fire for coffee. In the fuller light which soon poured swiftly over the eastern summits and dropped gold and silver into the tremendous valley at their feet, the men made a systematic search of the immediate surroundings, and then of the clearings and more open stretches beyond. In silence they made it. They found, however, no traces of another camping-party. And it was clear from the way they went about the search that neither expected to find anything. The ground was unbroken, the bushes undisturbed.

Yet still, both knew. That "something" which the night had brought and kept concealed, still hovered close about them.

And it was at this scattered hamlet, consisting of little more than a farm of sorts and a few shepherds' huts of stone, where they stopped two hours later for provisions, that O'Malley looked up thus suddenly and recognized the figure of his friend. He stood among the trees a hundred yards away. At first the other thought he was a tree--his stalwart form the stem, his hair and beard the branches--so big and motionless he stood between the other trunks. O'Malley saw him for a full minute before he understood. The man seemed so absolutely a part of the landscape, a giant detail in keeping with the rest--a detail that had suddenly emerged.

The same moment a great draught of wind, rising from depths of the valley below, swept overhead with a roaring sound, shaking the beech and box trees and setting all the golden azalea heads in a sudden agitation. It passed as swiftly as it came. The peace of the June morning again descended on the mountains.

It was broken by a wild, half-smothered cry,--a cry of genuine terror.

For O'Malley had turned to Rostom with some word that here, in this figure, lay the explanation of the animal's excitement in the night, when he saw that the peasant, white as chalk beneath the tangle of black hair that covered his face, had stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth was open, his arms upraised to shield; he was staring fixedly in the same direction as himself. The next instant he was on his knees, bowing and scraping toward Mecca, groaning, hiding his eyes with both hands. The sack he held had toppled over; the cheese and flour rolled upon the ground; and from the horse came that long-drawn whinnying of the night.

There was a momentary impression--entirely in the Irishman's mind, of course,--that the whole landscape veiled a giant, rushing movement that passed across it like a wave. The surface of the earth, it seemed, ran softly quivering, as though that wind had stirred response together with the trembling of the million leaves ... before it settled back again to stillness. It passed in the flash of an eyelid. The earth lay tranquil in repose.

But, though the suddenness of the stranger's arrival might conceivably have startled the ignorant peasant, with nerves already overwrought from the occurrence of the night, O'Malley was not prepared for the violence of the man's terror as shown by the immediate sequel. For after several moments' prayer and prostration, with groans half smothered against the very ground, he sprang impetuously to his feet again, turned to his employer with eyes that gleamed wildly in that face of chalk, cried out--the voice thick with the confusion of his fear--"It is the Wind! They come; from the mountains they come! Older than the stones they are. Save yourself.... Hide your eyes ... fly...!"--and was gone. Like a deer he went. He waited neither for food nor payment, but flung the great black burka round his face--and ran.

And to O'Malley, bereft of all power of movement as he watched in complete bewilderment, one thing seemed clear: the man went in this extraordinary fashion because he was afraid of something he had felt, not seen. For as he ran with wild and leaping strides, he did not run away from the figure. He took the direction straight toward the spot where the stranger still stood motionless as a tree. So close he passed him that he must almost have brushed his very shoulder. He did not see him.

The last thing the Irishman noted was that in his violence the man had dropped the yellow bashlik from his head. O'Malley saw him stoop with a flying rush to pick it up. He seemed to catch it as it fell.

And then the big figure moved. He came slowly forward from among the trees, his hands outstretched in greeting, on his great visage a shining smile of welcome that seemed to share the sunrise. In that moment for the Irishman all was forgotten as though unknown, unseen, save the feelings of extraordinary happiness that filled him to the brim.