“But how beautiful! What colours! Where will it stop? It is more like the rainbows you can tread on. More like dreams.”
The colour and the sound grew together. The rainbow spanned an enormous gulf. Clouds rushed under it and were pierced by it, and still it grew, reaching forward, conquering the darkness, until it touched something that seemed more solid than a cloud.
The boy stood up. “What is that out there?” he called. “What does it rest on, out at that other end?”
In the morning sunshine a precipice shone forth beyond the gulf. A precipice—or was it a castle? The horses moved. They set their feet upon the rainbow.
“Oh, look!” the boy shouted. “Oh, listen! Those caves—or are they gateways? Oh, look between those cliffs at those ledges. I see people! I see trees!”
“Look also below,” whispered Sir Thomas. “Neglect not the diviner Acheron.”
The boy looked below, past the flames of the rainbow that licked against their wheels. The gulf also had cleared, and in its depths there flowed an everlasting river. One sunbeam entered and struck a green pool, and as they passed over he saw three maidens rise to the surface of the pool, singing, and playing with something that glistened like a ring.
“You down in the water—” he called.
They answered, “You up on the bridge—” There was a burst of music. “You up on the bridge, good luck to you. Truth in the depth, truth on the height.”
“You down in the water, what are you doing?”
Sir Thomas Browne replied: “They sport in the mancipiary possession of their gold”; and the omnibus arrived.
III
The boy was in disgrace. He sat locked up in the nursery of Agathox Lodge, learning poetry for a punishment. His father had said, “My boy! I can pardon anything but untruthfulness,” and had caned him, saying at each stroke, “There is no omnibus, no driver, no bridge, no mountain; you are a truant, guttersnipe, a liar.” His father could be very stern at times. His mother had begged him to say he was sorry. But he could not say that. It was the greatest day of his life, in spite of the caning, and the poetry at the end of it.
He had returned punctually at sunset—driven not by Sir Thomas Browne, but by a maiden lady who was full of quiet fun. They had talked of omnibuses and also of barouche landaus. How far away her gentle voice seemed now! Yet it was scarcely three hours since he had left her up the alley.
His mother called through the door. “Dear, you are to come down and to bring your poetry with you.”
He came down, and found that Mr. Bons was in the smoking-room with his father. It had been a dinner party.
“Here is the great traveller!” said his father grimly. “Here is the young gentleman who drives in an omnibus over rainbows, while young ladies sing to him.” Pleased with his wit, he laughed.
“After all,” said Mr. Bons, smiling, “there is something a little like it in Wagner. It is odd how, in quite illiterate minds, you will find glimmers of Artistic Truth. The case interests me. Let me plead for the culprit. We have all romanced in our time, haven’t we?”
“Hear how kind Mr. Bons is,” said his mother, while his father said, “Very well. Let him say his Poem, and that will do. He is going away to my sister on Tuesday, and she will cure him of this alley-slopering.” (Laughter.) “Say your Poem.”
The boy began. “ ‘Standing aloof in giant ignorance.’ ”
His father laughed again—roared. “One for you, my son! ‘Standing aloof in giant ignorance!’ I never knew these poets talked sense. Just describes you. Here, Bons, you go in for poetry. Put him through it, will you, while I fetch up the whisky?”
“Yes, give me the Keats,” said Mr. Bons. “Let him say his Keats to me.”
So for a few moments the wise man and the ignorant boy were left alone in the smoking-room.
“ ‘Standing aloof in giant ignorance, of thee I dream and of the Cyclades, as one who sits ashore and longs perchance to visit—’ ”
“Quite right. To visit what?”
“ ‘To visit dolphin coral in deep seas,’ ” said the boy, and burst into tears.
“Come, come! why do you cry?”
“Because—because all these words that only rhymed before, now that I’ve come back they’re me.”
Mr. Bons laid the Keats down. The case was more interesting than he had expected. “You?” he exclaimed, “This sonnet, you?”
“Yes—and look further on: ‘Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, and precipices show untrodden green.’ It is so, sir. All these things are true.”
“I never doubted it,” said Mr. Bons, with closed eyes.
“You—then you believe me? You believe in the omnibus and the driver and the storm and that return ticket I got for nothing and—”
“Tut, tut! No more of your yarns, my boy. I meant that I never doubted the essential truth of Poetry. Some day, when you read more, you will understand what I mean.”
“But Mr. Bons, it is so. There is light upon the shores of darkness. I have seen it coming. Light and a wind.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Bons.
“If I had stopped! They tempted me. They told me to give up my ticket—for you cannot come back if you lose your ticket. They called from the river for it, and indeed I was tempted, for I have never been so happy as among those precipices. But I thought of my mother and father, and that I must fetch them. Yet they will not come, though the road starts opposite our house. It has all happened as the people up there warned me, and Mr. Bons has disbelieved me like everyone else. I have been caned. I shall never see that mountain again.”
“What’s that about me?” said Mr. Bons, sitting up in
