by Lord Dunsany
The Lord of Cities
I came one day upon a road that wandered so aimlessly that it wassuited to my mood, so I followed it, and it led me presently amongdeep woods. Somewhere in the midst of them Autumn held his court,sitting wreathed with gorgeous garlands; and it was the day beforehis annual festival of the Dance of Leaves, the courtly festivalupon which hungry Winter rushes mob-like, and there arise thefurious cries of the North Wind triumphing, and all the splendourand grace of the woods is gone, and Autumn flees away, discrownedand forgotten, and never again returns. Other Autumns arise, otherAutumns, and fall before other Winters. A road led away to the left,but my road went straight on. The road to the left had a troddenappearance; there were wheel tracks on it, and it seemed the correctway to take. It looked as if no one could have any business with theroad that led straight on and up the hill. Therefore I went straighton and up the hill; and here and there on the road grew blades ofgrass undisturbed in the repose and hush that the road had earnedfrom going up and down the world; for you can go by this road, asyou can go by all roads, to London, to Lincoln, to the North ofScotland, to the West of Wales, and to Wrellisford where roads end.Presently the woods ended, and I came to the open fields and at thesame moment to the top of the hill, and saw the high places ofSomerset and the downs of Wilts spread out along the horizon.Suddenly I saw underneath me the village of Wrellisford, with nosound in its street but the voice of the Wrellis roaring as hetumbled over a weir above the village. So I followed my road downover the crest of the hill, and the road became more languid as Idescended, and less and less concerned with the cares of a highway.Here a spring broke out in the middle of it, and here another. Theroad never heeded. A stream ran right across it, still it straggledon. Suddenly it gave up the minimum property that a road shouldpossess, and, renouncing its connection with High Streets, itslineage of Piccadilly, shrank to one side and became anunpretentious footpath. Then it led me to the old bridge over thestream, and thus I came to Wrellisford, and found after travellingin many lands a village with no wheel tracks in its street. On theother side of the bridge, my friend the road struggled a few yardsup a grassy slope, and there ceased. Over all the village hung agreat stillness, with the roar of the Wrellis cutting right acrossit, and there came occasionally the bark of a dog that kept watchover the broken stillness and over the sanctity of that untravelledroad. That terrible and wasting fever that, unlike so many plagues,comes not from the East but from the West, the fever of hurry, hadnot come here--only the Wrellis hurried on his eternal quest, but itwas a calm and placid hurry that gave one time for song. It was inthe early afternoon, and nobody was about. Either they worked beyondthe mysterious valley that nursed Wrellisford and hid it from theworld, or else they secluded themselves within their old-time housesthat were roofed with tiles of stone. I sat down upon the old stonebridge and watched the Wrellis, who seemed to me to be the onlytraveller that came from far away into this village where roads end,and passed on beyond it. And yet the Wrellis comes singing out ofeternity, and tarries for a very little while in the village whereroads end, and passes on into eternity again; and so surely do allthat dwell in Wrellisford. I wondered as I leaned upon the bridge inwhat place the Wrellis would first find the sea, whether as hewound idly through meadows on his long quest he would suddenlybehold him, and, leaping down over some rocky cliff, take to him atonce the message of the hills. Or whether, widening slowly into somegrand and tidal estuary, he would take his waste of waters tothe sea and the might of the river should meet with the might of thewaves, like to two Emperors clad in gleaming mail meeting midwaybetween two hosts of war; and the little Wrellis would become ahaven for returning ships and a setting-out place for adventurousmen.
A little beyond the bridge there stood an old mill with a ruinedroof, and a small branch of the Wrellis rushed through its emptinessshouting, like a boy playing alone in a corridor of some desolatehouse. The mill-wheel was gone, but there lay there still great barsand wheels and cogs, the bones of some dead industry. I know notwhat industry was once lord in that house, I know not what retinueof workers mourns him now; I only know who is lord there today inall those empty chambers. For as soon as I entered, I saw a wholewall draped with his marvellous black tapestry, without pricebecause inimitable and too delicate to pass from hand to hand amongmerchants. I looked at the wonderful complexity of its infinitethreads, my finger sank into it for more than an inch withoutfeeling the touch; so black it was and so carefully wrought,sombrely covering the whole of the wall, that it might have beenworked to commemorate the deaths of all that ever lived there, asindeed it was. I looked through a hole in the wall into an innerchamber where a worn-out driving band went among many wheels, andthere this priceless inimitable stuff not merely clothed the wallsbut hung from bars and ceiling in beautiful draperies, in marvellousfestoons. Nothing was ugly in this desolate house, for the busyartist's soul of its present lord had beautified everything in itsdesolation. It was the unmistakable work of the spider, in whosehouse I was, and the house was utterly desolate but for him, andsilent but for the roar of the Wrellis and the shout of the littlestream. Then I turned homewards; and as I went up and over the hilland lost the sight of the village, I saw the road whiten and hardenand gradually broaden out till the tracks of wheels appeared; and itwent afar to take the young men of Wrellisford into the wide ways ofthe earth--to the new West and the mysterious East, and into thetroubled South.
And that night, when the house was still and sleepwas far off, hushing hamlets and giving ease to cities, my fancywandered up that aimless road and came suddenly to Wrellisford. Andit seemed to me that the travelling of so many people for so manyyears between Wrellisford and John o' Groat's, talking to oneanother as they went or muttering alone, had given the road a voice.And it seemed to me that night that the road spoke to the river byWrellisford bridge, speaking with the voice of many pilgrims. Andthe road said to the river: 'I rest here. How is it with you?'
And the river, who is always speaking, said: 'I rest nowhere fromdoing the Work of the World. I carry the murmur of inner lands tothe sea, and to the abysses voices of the hills.'
'It is I,' said the road, 'that do the Work of the World, and takefrom city to city the rumour of each. There is nothing higher thanMan and the making of cities. What do you do for Man?'
And the river said: 'Beauty and song are higher than Man. I carrythe news seaward of the first song of the thrush after the furiousretreat of winter northward, and the first timid anemone learns fromme that she is safe and that spring has truly come. Oh but the songof all the birds in spring is more beautiful than Man, and the firstcoming of the hyacinth more delectable than his face! When spring isfallen upon the days of summer, I carry away with mournful joy atnight petal by petal the rhododendron's bloom. No lit procession ofpurple kings is nigh so fair as that. No beautiful death ofwell-beloved men hath such a glory of forlornness. And I bear faraway the pink and white petals of the apple-blossom's youth when thelaborious time comes for his work in the world and for the bearingof apples. And I am robed each day and every night anew with thebeauty of heaven, and I make lovely visions of the trees. But Man!What is Man? In the ancient parliament of the elder hills, when thegrey ones speak together, they say nought of Man, but concernthemselves only with their brethren the stars. Or when they wrapthemselves in purple cloaks at evening, they lament some oldirreparable wrong, or, uttering some mountain hymn, all mourn theset of sun.'
'Your beauty,' said the road, 'and the beauty of the sky, and of therhododendron blossom and of spring, live only in the mind of Man,and except in the mind of Man the mountains have no voices. Nothingis beautiful that has not been seen by Man's eye. Or if yourrhododendron blossom was beautiful for a moment, it soon witheredand was drowned, and spring soon passes away; beauty can only liveon in the mind of Man. I bring thought into the mind of Man swiftlyfrom distant places every day. I know the Telegraph--I know himwell; he and I have walked for hundreds of miles together.
There isno work in the world except for Man and the making of his cities. Itake wares to and fro from city to city.'
'My little stream in the field there,' said the river, 'used to makewares in that house for awhile once.'
'Ah,' said the road, 'I remember, but I brought cheaper ones fromdistant cities. Nothing is of any importance but making cities forMan.'
'I know so little about him,' said the river, 'but I have a greatdeal of work to do--I have all this water to send down to the sea;and then tomorrow or next day all the leaves of Autumn will becoming this way. It will be very beautiful. The sea is a very, verywonderful place. I know all about it; I have heard shepherd boyssinging of it, and sometimes before a storm the gulls come up. It isa place all blue and shining and full of pearls, and has in it coralislands and isles of spice, and storms and galleons and the bones ofDrake. The sea is much greater than Man. When I come to the sea, hewill know that I have worked well for him. But I must hurry, for Ihave much to do. This bridge delays me a little; some day I willcarry it away.'
'Oh, you must not do that,' said the road.
'Oh, not for a long time,' said the river. 'Some centuriesperhaps--and I have much to do besides. There is my song to sing, forinstance, and that alone is more beautiful than any noise that Manmakes.'
'All work is for Man,' said the road, 'and for the building ofcities. There is no beauty or romance or mystery in the sea exceptfor the men that sail abroad upon it, and for those that stay athome and dream of them. As for your song, it rings night andmorning, year in, year out, in the ears of men that are born inWrellisford; at night it is part of their dreams, at morning it isthe voice of day, and so it becomes part of their souls. But thesong is not beautiful in itself. I take these men with your song intheir souls up over the edge of the valley and a long way offbeyond, and I am a strong and dusty road up there, and they go withyour song in their souls and turn it into music and gladden cities.But nothing is the Work of the World except work for Man.'
'I wish I was quite sure about the Work of the World,' said thestream; 'I wish I knew for certain for whom we work. I feel almostsure that it is for the sea. He is very great and beautiful. I thinkthat there can be no greater master than the sea. I think that someday he may be so full of romance and mystery and sound of sheepbells and murmur of mist-hidden hills, which we streams shall havebrought him, that there will be no more music or beauty left in theworld, and all the world will end; and perhaps the streams shallgather at the last, we all together, to the sea. Or perhaps the seawill give us at the last unto each one his own again, giving backall that he has garnered in the years--the little petals of theapple-blossom and the mourned ones of the rhododendron, and our oldvisions of the trees and sky; so many memories have left the hills.But who may say? For who knows the tides of the sea?'
'Be sure that it is all for Man,' said the road. 'For Man and themaking of cities.'
Something had come near on utterly silent feet.
'Peace, peace!' it said. 'You disturb the queenly night, who, havingcome into this valley, is a guest in my dark halls. Let us have anend to this discussion.'
It was the spider who spoke.
'The Work of the World is the making of cities and palaces. But itis not for Man. What is Man? He only prepares my cities for me, andmellows them. All his works are ugly, his richest tapestries arecoarse and clumsy. He is a noisy idler. He only protects me frommine enemy the wind; and the beautiful work in my cities, thecurving outlines and the delicate weavings, is all mine. Ten yearsto a hundred it takes to build a city, for five or six hundred moreit mellows, and is prepared for me; then I inhabit it, and hide awayall that is ugly, and draw beautiful lines about it to and fro.There is nothing so beautiful as cities and palaces; they are theloveliest places in the world, because they are the stillest, and somost like the stars. They are noisy at first, for a little, before Icome to them; they have ugly corners not yet rounded off, and coarsetapestries, and then they become ready for me and my exquisite work,and are quite silent and beautiful. And there I entertain the regalnights when they come there jewelled with stars, and all their trainof silence, and regale them with costly dust. Already nods, in acity that I wot of, a lonely sentinel whose lords are dead, whogrows too old and sleepy to drive away the gathering silence thatinfests the streets; tomorrow I go to see if he be still at hispost. For me Babylon was built, and rocky Tyre; and still men buildmy cities! All the Work of the World is the making of cities, andall of them I inherit.'