The Skull and | ||
The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit ofthe white skull which lies upon the table next to the volume ofShakespeare. It reached down a tiny pink paw and touched a leaf of thebrave red rose which every day lies before the skull. It plucked theleaf, which made a buckler for its small throbbing breast. It spoke: “The rose is bold and red,” said the Singing Mouse.“Blood is red. A skull is white. The rose and the skull loveone another. They understand. We do not understand. “As I sat by the skull I saw a dreamof the past go by. It was as you see it now. “Do you see the waving grasses of the valleys? Do you see theunmoving front of the white old mountains? Do you see the red rosesgrowing down among the grasses? “It is peace upon the land. I can see one who has seen thelands. He smiles, but he is sad. He crosses the wide sea, but cares not.He travels upon rails of iron, and he smiles, but still is sad, becausehe thinks; and he who thinks must weep. He leaves the ship and the ironrail, and his road is narrower and slower, for he travels now by wheelsof wood. He sees the valleys, and his smile has more of peace. His trailbecomes narrower yet. He goes by saddle, and the mountains hem him in,but now he smiles the more. Now he must leave even thesaddle, and the trail is dim and hard. See, the trail is gone! Here,where no foot has trod, where the mountains close about, where the treeswhisper, he sits and looks about him. Do you see the red rose on hisbreast? Always the rose is there. Do you see him look up at themountains, about him at the trees? Do you see him lay his head upon theearth? Do you still see his smile, the smile which is weary and yet notafraid? Do you hear him sigh? And what is this he whispers, here at theend of the long and narrowing way—’I know not if this be theend or the beginning!’ Ah, what does this man mean who whispers tohimself in riddles? |
“Look! It is the time of war. There is music. The blood stings. The heart leaps. The eye flames. The soul exults. Flickering of light on steel, the flash of servant forces used to slay, the reverberant growl of engines made for death, the passing of men in cloth and men in blankets, the tramp of hurrying hoofs, the falling of men who die—can you see this—can you catch the horror, the exultation, the joy of this, I say? They come, they go; they run their race, and it is all.
“Here are those who ride against those who slay. Do you know this one who rides at the head, smiling, swinging his sword well and smiling all the time? It is he who said in the mountains that riddle of the end and the beginning—who knew that to the heart of nature we must come, for either the end or the beginning of this, our life. Do you see upon his breast the red rose? I think he rides to battle with the rose, knowing what fate will come.
“You know of this biting whistle in the air—this small thing that smites unseen? Do you know the mowing of the death scythes? Hark! I hear the singing of this unseen thing. See! he of the rose is bitten. He has fallen. Ay! ay! He was so brave and strong! His horse has gone. He is alone. The grass here was so green. It is red. The rose upon his breast is red. His face is white, but still the smile is there; and now it is calmer and more sweet, though still he whispers, ‘I know not if it be the end or the beginning!’
“He is alone with Nature again. The heavens weep for him. The grasses and leaves begin with busy fingers to cover him up. The earth pillows him. He sleeps. It is all. It is done. It is the way of life. It is the end and the beginning.
“He loved the valley, the mountain, the grass, the rose. Now, since he cherished the rose so well, see, the rose will not leave him. Out of the dust it rises, it grows, it blooms. Against his lips it presses. It is the beginning! He loved, he thought, he knew. He is not dead He is with Nature. It is but the beginning!