by Jesse Roarke
could not make him out. Presently he returned to hislong-standing provisional solution for all problems.
"Well, why don't you come back to the library with me? Tramping aroundout here is all right for a while, it relaxes you and keeps you in touchwith things; but meanwhile, time flies. Shall we go?"
"I think not," the bearded patriarch replied. "The usefulness of booksis all but exhausted for me. And even the greatest and fullest truth,set down in a book, I think must be inadequate. It's not an intellectualthing I seek."
* * * * *
The philosopher smiled tolerantly.
"You have found that the physical is deadly," he replied. "And you donot appear to be a man who enjoys emotional drunkenness. What is it youwant?"
"Perhaps if I knew, I would have it. I suppose it might be called thespiritual, if there is a word for it. But I know that it is calling me.If you care to come with me, perhaps I can begin to explain."
The philosopher almost laughed outright.
"No thank you," he said. "I do not care to take refuge in any vaguemysticism. What I know I want really to know, intelligibly and clearly.I am no dreamer."
"Are they irresponsible dreamers, who are behind these historicallyunparalleled phenomena? Surely there must be someone there. You haveseemed to think so yourself."
The philosopher smiled wryly, a little sheepishly.
"Sages in the mountains, eh? Yes, I'll admit having sought them. Butthey do not seem to want me to find them, and I am going back to thelibrary to follow some leads that I have thought up for myself.
"I do not care to let my mind abdicate its high position," he concluded,with a slight sneer.
"Goodbye, then. I wish you well."
"And so do I wish you," rejoined the philosopher, with an attempt atmocking irony, as he arose. "Goodbye, my friend."
He began briskly down the path, stopped, and called back, "I hear thatthere is an island rising, in the Pacific: maybe you can find some wisemermaids out there!"
He laughed maliciously, and strode quickly out of sight.
* * * * *
And so the abused budding mystic was left alone, as he desired it.
"Goethe was right," he thought to himself; "men are all toopredominantly wont to scorn what they do not understand. Goethe himselfillustrated the tendency very well.
"There are so many things that cannot be understood by the ordinaryintellectual-emotional-sensible mind, no matter how clever it may be, orhow brilliant and vigorous, and broad and deep and strong. It lacks toomuch: it is not self-existent, and self-sustaining. And the things thatit cannot understand are the only things of real, undying importance.
"May I soon find my teacher," he continued, "and be properly trained."
He stood up, restlessly. His last day among the artists was tumblingpiecemeal upon him. Was it Shakespeare that the theatrical group hadbeen performing? Yes, King Lear! Such magnificent art, and so futile. Hepaced about sadly, trying to remember a certain line--yes, this was it:
Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.
And that's true, too, he sighed with old Gloucester. And surely he wasripe now, if he was ever going to be. He was balanced in the midst ofhis various tendencies, and one-pointed for a great drive, a penetrationto the depths. He would know himself truly, as infinitely more than thatwhich comes and goes, and shines but briefly in the darkness.
He stood listening, and gazing into the distance. Yes! The call wasclear now, and there would be no further stopping along the way. Hestrode out strongly, and cut due east, heading for the really highmountains, and the farther shore.
THE END