The Heart of Monadnock/Chapter 3
On his first visit to Monadnock years ago, the Mountain-Lover had learned its first concrete lesson. Not yet wholly familiar with the winding trails that seemed innumerable, he delighted in wandering here and there to discover them and their many connections by himself. On a June morning of vivid blue and green and gold, crisp as only mountain air is ever crisp, he found himself loitering along one enticing little sun-spattered path after another under the Black Precipice. He had gotten onto the Tenderfoot trail and then in some fashion his meandering way had brought him to the Fairy Spring. It was a little emerald-lined grotto formed by a deep shelf at about the level of his eyes, with a roof of overhanging rock, uptipped and moss-covered; over this fell the gauziest sheet of silver water, glinting against the richly cushioning moss, veiling the elfin depths within. At the back of the grotto, which is hardly two feet deep, lies a minute pool in which Titania and all her fairy troop disport themselves in the moonlight—we are all entirely sure—to the music of the silver tinkling of the sparkling water as it falls, in cadences all too fine for mortal ears, into the soft emerald velvet of this tiny dell of enchantment.
The delight of the bit of magic beauty held the explorer breathless. He had caught the scene at its fairest and he hung over it enchanted, for he had come upon it unexpectedly. He had it in mind to find a trail that he had been told wandered up from this spot towards the Sweet-Water Spring and then on around a little-used path, skirting Monte Rosa until one reached the northwest side of that friendly little peak which rises abruptly from the southwest shoulder of Monadnock. Having feasted his eyes on the fairy nook, the climber betook himself therefore up a steep, obscure little path that creeps up the ledge back of it and there pursued something that looked vaguely like a trail. Soon, however, it faded away altogether, and the direction was marked only by half-overgrown blazes on the tree trunks. At last he seemed to come to the end of these also; he could see no blaze beyond the one by which he stood, peering forward.
He went back to see if he had mistaken the last marks; no, plainly they were old blazes though hardly discernible from mere knot-holes till he stood close to them. Clearly the trail had led to this point though here it seemed to have dropped into the earth. On the left the ground fell sharply into sun-dappled hollows under great trees which reared noble heads high. There was little underbrush here, but the slope fell with such suddenness that the desired trail certainly could not be down below. On the right towards the mountain was a thick tangle of spruces on broken cliffs for he was just at the line where the deciduous trees change quite abruptly to evergreens. No trail to be seen up through them. The last blaze was just here at the foot of a rough little precipice, which was irregularly backed by a higher one at a ledge covered with gray-green moss. Scrubby little spruces grew thickly; the whole side of Monte Rosa to the right lifted itself level after level. Where could the little path have betaken itself? How could it have wandered off so completely that every trace of it was lost? The explorer peered more intently around. It was not particularly important, yet he was set on finding that trail. There was that ledge just above at the level of his head, the first step so to speak on the ascent; was that a tiny cairn on it? No, mere accident. Two moss-covered stones casually lying against each other. But this mark by which he stood was surely a blaze? Oh, yes, though the rough lips had nearly grown together.
It was a delicious spot; a wilderness of entrancing bits lay below him, open vistas through the stately trees. A minute and saucy brook danced near him. The general slope descended by roughly-dropping, brown-needled shelves, all sun-freckled and spicy-smelling. At last the Mountain-Lover threw himself on the ground with his face half towards the heights, for, just visible through the sweep of thinning growth above, was to be seen a veiled glimpse of the west side of Monadnock gleaming pinkly through the green screen. He was warm with his climb and with his search, for the place was entirely sheltered from any breeze. For a time he lay there relaxed against a tree, with its springing roots like an arm chair, reflecting with lazy satisfaction that every spot into which one casually dropped seemed to fit itself as if with premeditated design to the comfort of the tired human frame. His cushion of dry needles seemed peculiarly elastic; the trunk was just the right slope. Juncoes called through the woods; purple finches winged their flight here and there. A veery swung near inquisitively. Placidly he let himself drift away out on the silence that was broken only by woodland sounds. He half forgot the path for which he had searched. After all, what matter? . . .
Presently something seemed playing with his consciousness and he idly turned his head to see if by chance someone had crept near unobserved and unheard. No one was visible; only the gray-brown tree trunks and swaying branches and slender moosewood and out-cropping rocks were about him. Yet after a moment of listening, a voice—or rather a mere consciousness of words—seemed to sift into his ears, and the words were a long-forgotten fragment of an old Latin sentence. He found himself haltingly repeating a line he had not thought of since his schoolhood days.
"Perge, qua via ducat." "Go on, where the way will lead you."
What was its connection? Who whispered this to him, bringing the words up out of long-submerged layers of life? Vague, baffling recollections assailed him as he dropped back against the trunk, steadfastly looking far above into tree-veiled heights which were now darkly blue with drifting shadow from some floating cloud-mass in the heavens. Who said that—"Go on, where the way will lead you?" Where? When? What teasing memory played with him, bringing those apropos words with their elusive setting?
He looked dreamily upwards and slowly he seemed to be floating backwards through the centuries, drifting across the seas to the sapphire Mediterranean. No, not sapphire, as he visioned it at this instant, but black-gray with one of its wild tornadoes, raging with a mad blast of whirling fury. He had seen it thus once, and had himself nearly been a victim to its brief, terrific rage. Why did that aspect come up rather than the smiling, misty, azure beauty he knew far better? . . . He seemed to see a shipwreck,—not the one in which he had been somewhat intimately concerned—but a shipwreck of quaint, archaic galleys, whose high decks swarmed with oddly cloaked men, wearing high, peaked caps; feet and legs were bound with queer, sandal-like affairs nearly to the knee. He perceived struggling bodies in the swirling, boiling waters—one picture swiftly flashing over the next—and then he saw straggling ones beating a difficult way to a rocky, inhospitable coast. What were all these kaleidoscopic pictures? He seemed to see deep curving shores between stern promontories, with woods growing to the waters' edge, and a recessed harbor guarded by the jutting cliffs . . . Where did this all take place?—this queer phastasmagoria? Where? Where? He struggled for recollection . . .
He seemed to see a camp made by these drenched, half-drowned mariners; he saw fire kindled—by what agency, he had no idea. He saw one of the band, who seemed to be the leader, detaching himself and standing out before the others, with ringing words of encouragment and cheer. He even heard a dim sentence in his ears. "Oh, ye, who have suffered heavier things, the gods will give an end to this also!" It was—it was—what? Of course! He knew. The picture had been etched for all time by that vivid word-artist, Virgil of the golden stylus. And the leader of the shipwrecked band was no other than his old friend, Aeneas—Aeneas of the inexhaustible tears! It was the moment when the shipwreck had been induced by the crafty machinations of the mighty Juno—her bribe to old Aeolus, of the "fairest of women to have and to hold" having bereft the Keeper of the Winds of his allegiance to his rightful over-lord, with the consequent unloosing of the tempestuous elements and the devastation that ensued on this wild African shore.
The observer saw at the moment no significance in the vision but amusedly wondered what had recalled these dim memories from deeply submerged fields. He traced their lines as they grew clearer, emerging from long hidden recesses. Apparently the quest of much-hindered Aeneas for ever-fleeing Italy was now definitely over and he himself was at the mercy of the three Grim Sisters. Most of his storm-tossed fleet was nowhere visible, having been surely engulfed by the raging tempests from which he and the few battered, dripping followers had rescued themselves—with what difficulty! They alone seemed to survive universal wreckage on a wild and uninhabited coast.
The watcher, beneath his quiet trees, as if under some spell, absorbedly regarded Aeneas as he went forth later with his Faithful Achates to explore the hostile region, by which his supposed destiny—to found the Roman Race—seemed to be now definitely blocked. There was no way out. His long trail had come to a hopeless end . . . At the words the climber glanced up smiling at the thwarting little ascent where his own trail ended.
Desolately Aeneas and Faithful Achates mounted the first steep places and stood peering eagerly through the wild forest scene where no human being seemed to have stood before. That dim track yonder must have been made by some wild beast of the forest. Plainly there was no way out. The trail ended. But suddenly, behold! down from the wooded heights above them came running lightly a radiant huntress, her raiment girt to her knee, and on her back a quiver of arrows while in her hand she held a slender bow; her shining hair was caught up under her pointed hunting-cap of green. In this human guise came Aphrodite, his goddess-mother, to the rescue of her son, unknown, to guide him in his despair. She answered his eager questions. No, the way was not blocked. Yes, there was a way out. This was not the unhabited wilderness which he thought it. That dim track was really a path and not made by prowling creatures of the night. Try it! Take the path he saw indicated, follow it, and when he reached the top of the obscuring ridge, he would see suddenly beyond him a wonderful and welcome sight; a rising city fair and mighty, the work of the daring, far-visioned Dido; at the hands of the mighty Queen, who was at once pioneer, leader, ruler and wholly woman, he would find succor and assistance, for she having known sorrow herself had learned its divinest lesson—how to pity others. For how were pity learned except by pain? The huntress points again to the slender, hardly-seen trail leading upwards.
"Do not say this leads nowhere," finished Aphrodite smiling, "Perge, qua via ducat. Take the next step!"
The Mountain-Lover sprang to his feet; he shaded his eyes with his hand, peering down the long golden lanes between the ranks of trees . . . Surely he caught a glimpse of the radiant goddess-mother, disappearing in the rosy glowing mist which veiled her as her garments flowed to her feet He seemed to follow her as she rose like a cloud among the tree-tops out of sight. Aeneas and Faithful Achates staring after her, turned when she had vanished in the ethereal blue and obediently pursued the path she had pointed out Surely he himself saw them as they grew smaller among the trees till they were lost in the shadows.
Across his eyes the gazer drew his hand confusedly. So vivid had the vision been that he almost heard the shouts, as the two had gained the imaged height and saw rescue beyond. He looked up at the Wise Old Giant benignly gazing back at him through the trees.
"Your magic!" he cried accusingly. "You whispered to me 'Perge'! Well—I follow." He looked at the ledges and at the mossy stones, but he held his steps a moment musingly. "There is more in this than merely finding that particular path! Let me see. 'Perge, qua via ducat.' I will have another look at that possible cairn. At any rate I will take the next step, whether it apparently leads anywhere or not. That is what the mountain tells me."
In a moment he climbed on the little ledge beside the stones that had attracted his eye. Yes, he could now see they had been purposely put together but so long ago that on them lay the deceiving moss; and a few steps beyond, but where he could not see them from below, lay another little pile of stones pointing out the way around a slight curve—all hidden from one standing below. It was the little trail he had been seeking, now showing plainly with well-marked blazes again, as he went on; it had all depended on that little obscure cairn, pointing the way from below . . . He stopped a moment to put another stone on it, and then went meditatively on his loitering way, his thoughts drifting over many things.
How constantly life arrived at some blind place and seemed to stop abruptly with a sharp "No Thoroughfare." It would not be a question of getting lost and going astray; not a choice of right or wrong; or of right and not-quite-right. Simply blankness where there should have been an indication; a point where one stood bewildered, since in looking back each step of the way seemed to bring one steadily to just that place. Such experiences as he had in mind did not involve the question of shirking an issue, however hard; on the contrary, nothing had been more desired than to go straight ahead, let the difficulties be what they might. How intently he had at such times searched for the clue! Sometimes with long effort he had succeeded in finding it—but often enough he could discern no clue to the path at all—nothing at any rate that looked in the least like one. Not even as likely as the mossy stones that had deceived him below. At such times he had reluctantly abandoned the quest. No Thoroughfare. No use taking that simple step. It could lead nowhere. Yet—had he not sometimes had the mortification of seeing others come to the same spot in the lost trail—and find the way through? With keener eyes—or with more faith—accepting the unlikely indication? Had Robert Louis meant something like this when he prayed that fervent prayer which seemed to well up from the depths of life, "Oh, Lord! Give me to see my opportunities!" That is, to see the not always obvious cairns on the track of life, none too plainly marked at the best.
The Mountain-Lover began to think more and more concretely. He soon came to the Sweet Water Spring and knelt to drink of the tiny icy pool, protected by the loving care of other mountain-lovers. He went on his way to the left, still slowly winding around Monte Rosa, following the dim little path as it twisted around the out-jutting cliffs and through the woods till the maples and birches gave way as ever to the stunted and gnarled little spruces, leading with the usual suddenness out on the broad open rocks to the west. Onward swept beckoning cairns, leading across to where the Upper Trail to the Great Pasture dipped again into the woods, the path which drops with romantic abruptness down ledge after ledge, till it reaches at last the Great Pasture lying far below, tapestried with its blueberry bushes and grassy tufts. But the climber kept to the upland, twisting his way up and up, scrambling across the rock-faces as best he might. He could not now see the Giant for he was hidden for the moment behind the nearer height of Monte Rosa, but it was beyond and ever beckoning.
At a high point he dropped again on a mossy spot, leaning back against a rock. He often said that his wanderings on the mountain consisted of progressive sitting-down. Not that he was tired but simply to absorb the beauty and the wonder that flowed from the everlasting heights, and to think out his thoughts. For this reason he was more often than not, alone in his idle roaming, for to grow intimate with the mountain-spirit one must seek him in solitude and must be willing to sit still and listen. He never insists on being heard and he never interrupts conversations. But trust him and he never fails you.
"Perge, qua via ducat." He repeated the words musingly. "Yes. A law of life. Simple—like all laws. I wonder if there is ever a real No Thoroughfare if one faithfully keeps to the path as he sees it through life? Is it that one, going with dulled eyes, fixed only on some preconceived notion of where he thinks the path should go at some given point, simply misses the clue? Which may be there if he could see it? Take the next step—no matter if for the moment it seems to lead nowhere. Make sure you have been right, of course, up to that point. As sure as you can . . . Lord! Give me to see my opportunities! Not to miss my cairns! Give me, O Lord, the seeing eyes!"
His flowing thoughts were apt to form themselves unconsciously into the breath of a prayer. On the mountain one prayed instinctively whether or not one did so at other times. The Unseen lay very close to one's heart.