"Was it you," I said, "that have been showing me all this? I thought I was alone."
At which Amroth laughed again, a laugh full of content. "Yes," he said, "the crags and the sunset—do you not remember? I came down with you, carrying you like a child in my arms, while you slept; and then I saw you awake. You had to rest a long time at first; you had had much to bear—uncertainty—that is what tires one, even more than pain. And I have been telling you things ever since, when you could listen."
"Oh," I said, "I have a hundred things to ask you; how strange it is to see so much and understand so little!"
"Ask away," said Amroth, putting an arm through mine.
"I was afraid," I said, "that it would all be so different—like a catechism 'Dost thou believe—is this thy desire?' But instead it seems so entirely natural and simple!"
"Ah," he said, "that is how we bewilder ourselves on earth. Why, it is hard to say! But all the real things remain. It is all just as surprising and interesting and amusing and curious as it ever was: the only things that are gone—for a time, that is—are the things that are ugly and sad. But they are useful too in their way, though you have no need to think of them now. Those are just the discipline, the training."
"But," I said, "what makes people so different from each other down there—so many people who are sordid, grubby, quarrelsome, cruel, selfish, spiteful? Only a few who are bold and kind—like you, for instance?"
"No," he said, answering the thought that rose in my mind, "of course I don't mind—I like compliments as well as ever, if they come naturally! But don't you see that all the little poky, sensual, mean, disgusting lives are simply those of spirits struggling to be free; we begin by being enchained by matter at first, and then the stream runs clearer. The divine things are imagination and sympathy. That is the secret."
IV
Once I said: