That, in fact, was the outcome of our argument. No theory about him would really hold water. He was probably a conversational gambit, which might lead to much. For instance, in answer to your question, your interlocutor might reply in five obvious ways:
1. ‘I once saw a clergyman, but he was not sitting in the snow.’
2. ‘I have seen snow, but I never saw a clergyman sitting in it.’
3. ‘I once saw a clergyman being snowballed.’
4. ‘Yes. What are your views about the best treatment for the insane?’
5. ‘Such strange things happen at Grindelwald. Did you know——’
Yes; he was probably a conversational opening made manifest to mortal eyes. Anyhow, when we returned he was not sitting there. If he had been real, he probably would have been—at least, if you once sit in the snow there is no reason why you should ever get up. Obviously it is your métier.
Now, everybody who lives in fogs and rainy places will fail to understand anything of these last deplorable pages. But if they go to the thin clear air of Alps in winter, they will know that this sort of thing (given you have the luck to see a clergyman sitting in the snow) is invested with supreme importance. When the hot sun shines on ice, it produces some kindly confusion of the brain; there is no longer any point in trying to be clever or well-informed, or witty, or any of those things that are supposed to convey distinction down below to their fortunate possessors: you go back to mere existence and joy of life. It is a trouble to be consecutive or conduct a reasonable argument; instead, you open your mouth and say anything that happens to come out of it. Most frequently what issues is laughter, but apart from that, the only conversation you can indulge in is preposterous and the only behaviour possible is childish. That is why I love these roofs of the world. The intoxication of interstellar space is in the air. Everything is so light—you, your body, your mind, your tongue, your aims and objects. The only things that you take seriously are the things that do not matter: the snow-sitter was one, the cache was another. But as we got nearer the cache, we became even more solemn than on the question of the snow-sitter. There was no telling what we should find there, even if we found the place at all. The tree might have been cut down since last year; the whole cache might have been rifled by some imperceptive hand. There was no end to the list of untoward circumstances that might have despoiled us.
And so we went through the wood: we came to the end of it, and there was a tree—‘of many one,’ as Mr. Wordsworth prophetically remarked. On its roots were cut my humble initials: it was certainly The Tree.
‘Oh, quick, quick!’ said Helen; ‘let us know the worst!’