The Green Child

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ROCKEFELLER FOUNDATION

1949

Jveroert IKeaa

THE GREEN CHILD

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY KENNETH REXROTH

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS

New Directions Books are published by James Laughlin
NEW YORK OFFICE 5OO FIFTH AVENUE

INTRODUCTION

r I rHERE has been a great proliferation of fiction in our day.

I There has been an even greater decline in quality. Since
Ulysses, if you accept Ulysses as a great novel, there have been
very few really great novels in English. Lady Chatterly, The
Rainbow and Women in Love; Ford Madox Ford's Tietjens
series, really one novel; some of Sherwood Anderson; the un-
finished promise of William Carlos Williams' First Act; a few
others. The Green Child is fully the equal of any of these, al-
though it is of a rather more special kind. Graham Greene
speaks of it as surcharged with a sense of glory gloire that
special lustre and effulgence which Aquinas marks out as the
sign manifest of great works of art. Certainly The Green Child
has it an unearthly, hypnotic radiance. Partly this is clue to
style as well as to the temper and depth of the mind and sensi-
bility. (Or is this a definition of style?) Anyway, it is hard to be-
lieve your eyes as you read. The sheer perfection of the writing
is very rare in English since the loosening of standards in Nine-
teenth Century fiction.

Landor wrote this way, and Bagehot, and Mill, and Clerk
Maxwell, and various explorers and scientists, but the novel-
ists mostly have forgotten how. Read has, in addition, some-
thing that Pilgrim's Progress has, or Walton's Compleat
Angler, or Gilbert White's Natural History of Selbourne, or,
on a different plane, Robinson Crusoe. These books are in
some sense allegories, archetypes. They have, scaled down,
what you find in Homer, Le Morte D' Arthur, Rabelais mytho-
poeia. And they have something else, something that maybe is
essential to myth, and which you have to have if you are go-
ing to capture the mythic quality of the past, and which, for
all their chatter about Le Mythe et Le Verbe, the muggy sur-
realists never had clarite. I have never gone with Walton
along flowery banks by calm rivers after the gallant trout with-
out feeling as though I were walking into Blake's Crystal Cab-
inet, into a visionary world where the grass and flowers were
like gems and the water like lambent aether, where the air
contained something better, more noble, than oxygen and
nitrogen.

In The Green Child reality is again entranced and trans-
lucent with the light of a natural glory behind it. What is more
remarkable, one gradually comes to realize that it is about this
state of being as such that Read is writing. It is impossible

5

INTRODUCTION

to believe that he sat down and did it deliberately. One can-
not be deliberately glorious. But certainly the book is one of
the most sustained products of conscious rapture in our litera-
ture. It is really "gripping." You slip deeper and deeper into
the soft clench of Read's rapture. This vise-like grip of vision,
so soft and unobtrusive, but so inescapable, is so powerful be-
cause it is, finally, the vision of reality. There are no raptures
in hallucination, only the tawdry residues of somebody else's
frustrations and crippled libido.

All of the books I have mentioned have a conspicuous fea-
ture in common. They are all written with full respect for
Blake's minute particulars, for Sam Johnson's ineluctable
modality of the visible. They are all "action fiction" first of
all. They are sheer narrative. In recent years psychological-
allegorical fiction has become very popular, but most of it has
suffered from the worst possible faults that such writing can
have imprecision, subjectivity, and psychologizing. It is not
enough to describe the situation realistically, like Gregor's sen-
sations on that dreadful morning he found himself a bug.
Realism is not enough. Apelles' flowers drew bees and butter-
flies to them, but the flowers of allegory must give off perfume
and be sweet with honey. This is why Hawthorne's retellings
of Greek myths for children are so much his best work. Baucis
and Philemon live outside of Salem in a brighter and cleaner
West Peabody, Hester only in his own troubled mind.

I am not going to tell you the meaning of Read's allegory
the secret of his myth. At Eleusis the priestess rose from the
subterranean marriage bed of the heirosgamos and exhibited
an ear of barley, and today, scholars in their ivied halls by the
Cam and Thames and Charles dispute about what she meant.
Sink into his developing vision, led on by the careful loving
delineation of reality the village where he was born, the
pampas and plateaux of dream, the caves he explored as a boy,
finally the vision will crystallize around you and shut you in
and the story end in an equivocation that seems to undo all
that has gone before. What does it mean? What does the Tao
Te Ching mean? What does the Book of Changes, that im-
memoriably subtile document, mean? All myth, all deep in-
sight, means the same as and no more than the falling of the
solar system on its long parabola through space.

Kenneth Rexroth

CONTENTS

PART I
11

PART II
59

PART III
158

THE GREEN CHILD

THE assassination of President Olivero, which took
place in the autumn of 1861, was for the world at
large one of those innumerable incidents of a violent
nature which characterise the politics of the South
American continent. For twenty-four hours it loomed
large in the headlines of the newspapers; but beyond an
intimation, the next day, that General Iturbide had
formed a provisional government with the full approval
of the military party, the event had no further reverbera-
tions in the outer world. President Olivero, who had
arranged his own assassination, made his way in a
leisurely fashion to Europe. On the way he allowed his
beard to grow.

When he disembarked in Spain, he seemed unremark-
able enough, for the return of the emigrant, swarthy and
bearded from a life on the pampas, was a common event
in that country. But Spain was not where he designed
to stay; for though the Spanish language had become
natural to him, so that he habitually used it in thought
and speech, his real nationality was English, and the
ruling desire in all his present conduct was to return to
his native land and particularly to the scenes of his
childhood. Thirty years had elapsed since his precipitate
departure thirty long years during which those scenes
had withdrawn to a fantastic distance, bright and exqui-
site and miniature, like a landscape seen through the
wrong end of a telescope. But though the sentimental
nostalgia which consumed his being was so strong, his
rational fear of disillusionment was also considerable,
and it was only with many haltings and invented delays

1 1

THE GREEN CHILD

that he approached England. In Spain, in Provence, in
Switzerland, in Paris wherever he stopped on his slow
progress northwards he lingered to test his sense of
reality. Reality? That may not be the right word to
describe the contrast between two states of mind, one of
which is drinking in the bright charm of tangible things,
of picturesque towns and people, of hill and sky, of food
and wine, of books and papers casually bought, of music
overheard; the other occupied by a landscape distant and
withdrawn in the long dark tunnel of time, but bright in
its crystal setting. He who had practised so successfully
the art of forgetting, now sought to revive in himself the
art of remembering. He found that the first essential was
to resign all conscious attempts at recalling the past.
Events and places in their individuality demand a place
in time, and after thirty years, how can one reconstitute
a sense of time? To escape from the sense of time, to live
in the eternity of what he was accustomed to call "the
divine essence of things" that was his only desire. But
it was this very essence that now impelled him to return
to the place where his personality had first been liber-
ated, in circumstances extraordinary enough to make
them the enduring reality of his life.

Once in England he no longer delayed, but made
straight for his native village. He had left it on foot, and
had walked nearly forty miles to the nearest railway; but
now a new line carried him to the village itself. From a
junction on the main line, the train took a meandering
course among the hills, stopping at every station and
sometimes waiting for a considerable time to allow cattle
or goods to be loaded. Olivero in England his name
had been Oliver still retained the black cloak and wide-
brimmed hat in which he had left South America, and
he was therefore a conspicuous figure among the country

12

THE GREEN CHILD

farmers and their wives who, from time to time, shared
the carriage with him. He remained silent and reserved
in his corner, gazing out on the countryside and noticing
the signs of change which thirty years had inevitably
produced. Late in the afternoon he found himself in
familiar country: the outline of the hills, the wooded
slopes, the church towers and an isolated house or two
were recognised with an unexpected access of emotion;
but the towns, with their stations and accompanying
sheds, were seen from a strange aspect. He was v relieved
to find that his own station was some distance from the
village : he was not prepared to plunge too suddenly into
the heart of his past. He left his bag at the station, and
waited until the last of the passengers who had descended
with him had disappeared down the lane which led to
the village. Then he followed them slowly, his head bent,
as if afraid that to look up and around would disturb
him too much. When he reached the first houses it was
nearly dusk.

The village consisted of two streets, crossing at the
market-place. A stream ran along the road he was taking,
with houses beyond it, approached sometimes by only a
broad plank, sometimes by a wooden bridge with hand-
rails, and in a few cases by a stone culvert. When it
reached the market-place the river bent round to the
right, still accompanying the road which went in that
direction. Here it was separated from the road by a line
of sycamore trees, and the prospect, as one looked along
the street, with the old almshouses on one side, the
sycamores and the river with the high wall of the Hall
beyond it on the other side, was one of the prettiest in
England. Beyond noticing that the trees were bigger and
the shade denser than he had remembered, Olivero
looked neither to the right nor the left, but made

'3

THE GREEN CHILD

straight across the market-place to the inn, where he
found a room and arranged to have his bag brought
from the station.

These preliminaries settled, he came out into the
market-place again, and sat for a moment on a bench by
the market cross. Lights were beginning to appear in the
cottage windows, but except for an occasional figure
going from house to house, there was scarcely anyone
about. He sat listening to intimate sounds voices in the
soft dialect he had once spoken, the click of a raised
latch, the rattle of a milk-pail, the chiming of clocks in
the houses; and underneath all these occasional sounds,
the persistent lapping of the stream in its pebbly bed. A
white railing opposite him ran along the edge of the
stream, and presently he got up and went across to this
railing, and leant against it as he gazed down into the
rippling water.

It was then that he noticed, or thought he noticed, an
extraordinary fact. The stream as he remembered it
and he could remember the pressure of its current against
his bare legs as he waded among its smooth flat pebbles
ran in the direction of the station from which he had
just come. But now, indubitably, it was flowing in the
opposite direction, towards the church. The reflection of
the moon, which had now risen placidly above the syca-
mores, made this clear in the fluctuating ripple of the
stream; whilst here and there a stone projecting above
the surface curled the water back against the force of the
current. For something like an hour Olivero remained as
if transfixed to the white railing; for the whole structure
of his memory was challenged. He recalled detail after
detail of his early experience in relation to the stream :
the trout suspended with their heads upstream which he
had often observed from the stone bridge by the church

'4

THE GREEN CHILD

it had been one of his favourite amusements to try
and drop a stone on the unsuspecting fish, but of course
the fish always shot away before ever the stone had
touched the surface of the water; the pool below the mill
where they used to bathe and here he distinctly re-
membered the sagging branches of the willows with long
beards of faded weed, and how yes, positively these
wisps when caught by the bank of the stream inclined
towards the village; besides, the mill itself was a mile's
distance upstream, beyond the church, and beyond the
mill the stream made its way which is a manner of
speaking, because it had made its way in the opposite
direction made its way through the meadows and the
woods until it came to the open fells, and there, among
the slopes, it had its source. He had oftQn followed the
bed of the stream on a long day's excursion right up to
this source, a bog scented with low bushes of myrtle and
bright with yellow-green patches of butterwort. There
could be no doubt that the stream rose out yonder
beyond the church and flowed through the village in
the direction of the railway-station. But yet unless his
eyes deceived him there before him was positive evi-
dence that the stream now flowed in the opposite direc-
tion, towards the church.

His first impulse was to seek for some physical ex-
planation of the phenomenon he had observed. The
meanderings of a stream, for example, can be very
deceptive. All kinds of obstacles divert the natural flow
of water towards the lower level of the sea inequalities
in the height and hardness of the ground, not to mention
the deliberate interference of man so that a stream
which is flowing from the north to the south at one
point can easily be flowing from the south to the north
at another point not so far away. Ask any man in what

THE GREEN CHILD

direction he would be travelling when he passes through
the Panama Canal from the Atlantic to the Pacific
Ocean, and if he deigned to answer at all he would say,
most often, from east to west; or if he suspected a catch,
he might say, from north to south; he would never sus-
pect the truth, which is that owing to the contortions of
that strange isthmus, his actual direction would be from
west to east. It is not to be expected, therefore, that a
stream should always keep to the same direction in its
progress towards the sea : in reality it may move through
all the points of the compass. But from where Olivero
stood in the market-place, to the bridge near the church
where he had watched the trout, the stream ran straight;
there was no possibility of a deflecting meander. He
came to the conclusion, therefore, that the direction of
the stream, if changed it had been, must have been
changed by human agency he dismissed, incidentally,
the thought that did for a moment flash through his
brain, that possibly an earthquake had shifted the levels
of the land in some way and so caused a contrary flow;
for earthquakes, of course, never occur in England.

He decided, late as it was, to proceed upstream to
solve the problem. The moonlight was sufficiently strong
to show the way, and who knows but that in the dark
his early instincts might the easier revive and reveal to
him the paths which he had known as a boy fisher-
men's paths along the banks of the stream, difficult paths
for any stranger. But before actually setting out, he bent
over the stream by a stone step where the villagers
brought their pails to fill, and drawing back his cloak
and sleeve, he dipped his hand in the stream, right up
to his sensitive wrist, and felt the flow of the cold water,
thus confirming by an independent sense the impression
which he had received from his eyes. While like most

16

THE GREEN CHILD

men he was content to be guided by the superior sense
of sight, yet there was no harm indeed, some consider-
able comfort in adding yet another sensual witness to
such a rationally incomprehensible fact.

It was now about eight o'clock. He had had tea at the
junction where he had changed for the branch line, and
in this part of the country tea is the last meal of the day.
There was no reason, therefore, why he should return to
the inn, and the innkeeper might naturally suppose that
he had gone out to visit friends. The main street was
now quite deserted in an hour most of the lights would
be out, for already people were going to bed. He walked
slowly along until he came to the stone bridge; here the
street went straight on, whilst the stream, still accom-
panied by a smaller road, turned to the ..left. There was
not much point in lingering on the bridge: it arched
itself high above the bed of the stream, and at night
there were no fish to be seen. But as if only to repeat an
earlier habit, Olivero went and looked over the stone
cresting, down to where the water looked black and
sullen in the shadow of the arch. Nothing, however, was
to be gained by staying there, and he soon left the bridge
and took the road to the mill.

There was still no perceptible incline in the ground, so
Olivero did not stop to consider whether there was yet a
contradiction in that elementary law of physics which
decrees that water can never flow uphill. That law, as he
now recalled, Olivero had had some difficulty in believ-
ing when it was first enunciated to him at school. He
knew long stretches of the stream, which when seen from
a neighbouring hill, had all the appearance of sloping
upwards in the direction of the flow. Besides, water was
not a powerless element; it had cohesion, as you might
observe in a drop of rain, clinging like a crystal bead to

17 B

THE GREEN CHILD

the edge of a cabbage-leaf, mirroring the whole world on
its hard surface. Again, it had always seemed possible
to his boyish reasoning that the force which impelled
water downwards should be capable of impelling the
same water upwards and when it was explained to him
that this force was the force of gravity, it still seemed a
reasonable calculation to allow that a stream of water
which had fallen for x number of feet over a distance of
y miles, should be capable of rising x n number of feet
over a distance of y n l miles. The factor n might, of
course, be considerable, owing to the regrettable tendency
of water to slip backwards; but still, on any reasonable
basis of probability, one might expect a stream to flow
up a gentle incline of say five hundred yards.

He remembered these childish calculations as he pro-
ceeded along the road to the mill. He was now on
exceedingly familiar ground so familiar that years ago
he had known the colour and shape of every stone em-
bedded in the footpath, every variation in the shape and
composition of the hedge which presently bordered the
right side of the road, now that the last cottages were
passed. For the greater part of his childhood the mill
had been his home, and this path he had taken daily
between the house and the school. The other side of the
stream was here bordered by a high hedge of ragged

tree s elderberry, willow, ash and blackthorn; under

their overhanging branches the water-hens used to dart
in and out. Soon he could see the long white front of
the mill shining in the moonlight, and to the right, half
buried in a huge copper-beech tree, the mill-house. But
as he approached he became aware, with a trepidation
he could not justify, of changes changes in the atmo-
sphere, the sound of the water, the vague outline of trees
and hedges. His pace grew slower and he finally stopped,

18

THE GREEN CHILD

to try and assess, in the moonlight, the evidences of the
changes confronting him. He stood at a point where, in
former days, there should have been a shallow ford in
front of him and a footbridge to the right; for at this
point the river divided into a loop, one arm, the one on
his left as he stood, being the water which had passed
through the mill from the dam beyond, the other, on
the right, being the natural course of the stream. But the
ford and the white footbridge had now disappeared, and
the road to the mill ran fair and level over a brick
culvert. Advancing slowly to this new bridge, he dis-
covered an unexpected flow of water beneath him; but
this phenomenon was explained almost at once by his
further discovery that the water which had formerly
flowed in rather noisy force from the diverted mill-race,
had now entirely ceased, the bed of this side of the loop
being quite overgrown with grasses and willow-herb.
This surely implied that the mill had ceased to function,
or perhaps was now run by some power other than
water. But the blank deserted look of everything, even
in the moonlight, pointed all too surely to the former
explanation, and when Olivero approaching nearer, this
explanation was confirmed by the broken unglazed win-
dows, in which one or two old sacks flapped desolately.
There was no light in the house itself, but the garden
was tidy and a cat sprang from the acacia tree by the
garden-gate and came to rub its sleek body against his leg.
Olivero returned to the stream. He was now quite
certain that his memory had not deceived him, and that
the direction of the current had actually changed. The
reason was still to seek. He recrossed the culvert and
took the path which led round to the back of the mill,
to the dam and the weir. Here little had changed, but
the supporting bank between the weir and the dam had

'9

THE GREEN CHILD

been partially washed away or destroyed, thus allowing
the stream to resume its natural direction, along a bed
which he remembered as the beginning of a cart-track
leading from the mill to a disused tannery half a mile
upstream. Intent on solving his mystery, he pursued his
way along the side of the stream, stumbling for a time
through a rank growth of nettles and hemlock, but
eventually gaining the ruins of the tannery, where once
more he was on familiar ground. A clearly-defined path
now led along the side of the stream; on his right was a
wood, but over the stream were the meadows which be-
longed to the mill, and beyond them, parallel to the
stream, would be the road which led to the moors. For a
few moments he deliberated : it was getting late and he
was uncertain how long the moonlight would last. He
might perhaps cross the stream and make across the
meadows for the road, which rejoined the stream two
miles farther up the valley : the going would be easier in
the dark, and surely there could be no intervening cause
to explain the stream's change of direction. But the
events of the last hour, especially the discovery of the
deserted mill, had so thoroughly imbued him with a
sense of uncertainty, that he determined to take no
chances, and with an occasional glance at the stream,
made his way as quickly as he could along the difficult
path before him.

Nothing occurred to interrupt his progress the stream
flowed on before him; he could both see and hear the
direction o the water. It went laughing over the stones
in its bed, mocking him, luring him onwards. Then
suddenly he perceived lights in front of him, and he
reckoned that they must come from a house known as
the Cauldron, which stood at the point where the moor-
land road from the village crossed the stream. He re-

20

THE GREEN CHILD

membered, with a sudden intuition of the possible ex-
planation of the deserted mill, that the Cauldron too
had been a mill of a sort a small affair with a couple of
rough millstones suitable for grinding rough grain, such
as rye, into meal for cattle a mill used by the few out-
lying moorland farmers to save them the extra cartage
involved in bringing their grain to the village. What if
this mill had expanded, grown grander and more
efficient, until it had finally superseded the village mill?
There was no knowing what an ambitious man might
do, once the possibility had come into his mind for
power, the only necessary means, was at hand. He re-
membered, about the time he left the village, some talk
of modern machinery that could grind flour finer and
whiter than any ever produced before. It was likely
enough that the miller at the Cauldron had stolen a
march on his conservative rival, installed the new plant
and gained all the trade.

As he drew nearer, his supposition was confirmed by
the discovery that the several lights in front of him be-
longed to one building, or group of buildings, and when
nearer still he heard the steady hum of machinery. The
mill, rebuilt and enlarged, was working through the night.
He saw now the flicker of wheels and the flurry of straps
through an open window. The path brought him up
against a garden fence, and he realised that he would
have to make his way through the mill-yard, past the
house. He was a little loth to do this, for fear of being
stopped and questioned not that he had a guilty con-
science about the investigation he was making, but still,
it would be difficult to explain his business to people who
might not see the importance it had for him, who might
even consider him a little mad, wandering about at mid-
night on such an apparently unimportant errand. In-

21

THE GREEN CHILD

stead, therefore, of passing through the yard gate, he
made his way round the back of the house, on the side
overlooking the fields, intending to rejoin the stream
beyond the mill.

At this side of the house a single window threw its
bright light across the field an open window on the
ground floor, quite near to the level of the ground.
Olivero's instinct was to avoid the fan of light by making
a wide detour in the field, but he was deflected from this
intention by the unexpected appearance of a figure, that
of a man, who loomed out of the darkness beyond the
light, carrying a burden in his arms. As this figure drew
nearer the light, the burden was clearly to be recognised
as a lamb, quite still and perhaps dead, which the man
proceeded to pass through the open window, and then
to follow himself, first thrusting in his legs, and turning
to draw his body after them, for the window was low
and inconvenient. The whole procedure took place with
the quickness and certainty of an act deliberately done,
and naturally aroused the curiosity of the unsuspected
onlooker. Olivero realised that at the time of year it was
perhaps not unusual for a lamb to die of exposure, but
the weather was exceptionally fine; and why, in any case,
should the lamb be rescued at midnight, and taken into
the house with such obvious secrecy? It occurred to him,
that as most people have a repugnance for the flesh of
animals that have died naturally (that is to say, from
the act of God, and not in a slaughter-house), and as
most cattle-owners resent the loss incurred in this way,
the man might be smuggling in the dead animal to pass
it off, later, as a slaughtered one. But the lamb appeared
to be too small for the table, and in such a lonely place
it would not be difficult to do the smuggling by light of
day. Some other explanation seemed necessary, and for

22

THE GREEN CHILD

the moment the problem of the stream ceased to pre-
occupy his mind.

He stood for a few minutes in the shadow of the wall
and then began to sidle slowly towards the light. He was
perhaps ten feet away when he drew up petrified by a
shrill scream that issued from the open window. But his
rigidity only lasted a second; he darted to the window,
and acting now instinctively, fell flat on the ground and
slowly raised his head to the level of the sill. There once
again he was held transfixed.

On a bare table to the right lay the lamb; its throat
had been cut and was bleeding into a large bowl, over
the edge of which its head hung pathetically. In the
middle of the room the man stood, drawing back the
head of a woman by the hair and compelling her to
drink from a cup which he held in his hand. So much
was clear at a glance; then Olivero noticed that the
woman, who was extraordinarily frail and pallid, was
bound by a rope to the chair in which she was seated,
and that her expression was one of concentrated terror
as she struggled to refuse the proffered cup. The blood
which she was being forced to drink dribbled down each
side of her mouth and fell in bright stains down the
front of her white dress. The light came from a paraffin
lamp, whose golden globe swung impassively above this
scene of terror.

In such circumstances a man does not act consciously;
he is suddenly presented with a situation to which he can-
not be a passive onlooker, but in which he must partici-
pate. Strange fluids pass into his blood-stream, his eyes
dilate, his hair bristles on his scalp, his nostrils distend.
For thirty years, much against his natural inclinations,
Olivero had been a man of action. On many occasions he
had been compelled to act violently and suddenly, and

THE GREEN CHILD

though after the event it was invariably difficult for him
to reconstruct the timeless elements of his actions, and
impossible to explain to himself their motivation, yet he
had always acquitted himself well gaining without con-
scious effort a reputation for courage and even for reckless
bravado little in consonance with the ordinary mood of
his existence. And so now, without hesitation, he hurled
himself into the room, legs foremost as he had observed
the man do; but, unfortunately, as he clung to the sash
of the window to raise himself and twist his body round,
the sash descended and left him in an incongruous posi-
tion, the upper half of his body outside the window, his
legs waving wildly inside the room. This mishap, which
in any normal circumstances would have been merely
comic, gave a still further fantastic turn to the scene of
horror inside the room, but it also served to dispel the
instinctive defences which a man might be expected to
put up when suddenly confronted by the complete figure
of an opponent. As it was, the man in the room, when
he turned and saw the waving legs, merely put the cup
he was holding on the table, releasing at the same time
the head of the woman. He stood nonplussed whilst
Olivero quickly regained his balance, struggled to lift
the sash imprisoning him, and finally emerged, hatless
and rufHed, but impressive and massive against the low
frame of the window.

For a moment the two men remained confronting
each other in silence.

Olivero was completely shaken out of the instinctive
mode of action. His thoughts raced quickly through his
brain. He knew that properly he ought to cry : 'Release
that woman,' or words to that effect. The woman, mean-
while, had dropped her head on her breast, softly moan-
ing to herself, not even curious to follow the drama

24

THE GREEN CHILD

taking place before her. Perhaps it was something in her
attitude or appearance which made Olivero realise that
anything conventionally dramatic or violent would be
useless in the present situation. So making a gesture
altogether Spanish in its politeness, he merely said:
'Perhaps I can help?'

The man did not reply, but retreated behind the chair
in which the woman was tied. From this point of vantage
he continued to eye the intruder with wild but helpless
animosity. Keeping his gaze fixed on the man, Olivero
advanced into the room a step or two, and in this very
act he perceived that his opponent was cowed, and
would retreat rather than offer any opposition. Olivero
therefore, but still slowly, advanced farther into the
room, until close by the woman, and then quietly began
to unloosen the cords which bound her.

She remained limp and passive. Her released arms fell
like pendulums on each side of the chair; her head re-
mained sunk on her breast. Feeling infinitely tender
towards such a helpless victim of man's malice, Olivero
lifted one arm and began to chafe the bruised wrist. It
was then that he noticed a peculiarity in her flesh which
explained her strange pallor. The skin was not white,
but a faint green shade, the colour of a duck's egg. It
was, moreover, an unusually transparent tegument, and
through its pallor the branches of her veins and arteries
spread, not blue and scarlet, but vivid green and golden.
The nails were pale blue, very like a blackbird's eggshell.
The faint emanation of odour from her flesh was sweet
and a little heavy, like the scent of violets.

Olivero looked up at the man, who stood glowering
against the wall. 'It is the Green Child!' he cried. The
man merely stared fixedly, but Olivero knew that his
guess was right.

THE GREEN CHILD

For as he chafed the chill wrist, his mind carried him
back to that strange event which had caused a sensation,
not only in the village, but throughout the whole world
of newspapers, the very day he had left home thirty
years ago. The news had overtaken him as he pursued
his way, and had for long days filled his mind with a
sense of wonder, even with a sort of rage that he should
no longer be capable of investigating the phenomenon
on the spot he who, in the whole village, would have
been the natural person to take charge of such an affair.

Anyone who cares to look up the records will discover
that in a certain year the curious may deduce from
what has already been said that it was about the year
1830, but for reasons which will be obvious when this
narrative has been read, it was necessary to disguise the
time and place of these events well, in a certain year

there appeared in the village of in the county of

two children, apparently about four years old, who

could not speak any known language, or explain their
origin, or relate themselves in any way to the district
indeed, even the world in which they were found.
Moreover, these children, who were lightly clothed in a
green web-like material of obscure manufacture, were
further distinguished by the extraordinary quality of
their flesh, which was of a green, semi-translucent tex-
ture, perhaps more like the flesh of a cactus plant than
anything else, but of course much more delicate and
sensitive. These children were adopted by a widow
(Woman in the village, in order that they might be edu-
cated and civilised though for that matter they were
gentle enough in their manners, indeed timid as fallow
deer; but they had no notions of God or of even such
morality as an English child of that age has usually
acquired. Now, Olivero had never forgotten this strange

26

THE GREEN CHILD

event in his mind it had the significance of an un-
resolved symbol, obscurely connected with his departure,
and connected, too, with the inevitability of his return.

It is not therefore surprising that he should have
jumped so quickly to the explanation of the strange
appearance of the woman before him. No sooner had he
realised her identity than a new state of calmness
descended on him. His mind was still extremely active,
images of a diverse nature emerging and sinking in rapid
succession; but this mental activity resembled the con-
tained and poised revolutions of a gyroscope, resting, at
one point, in nis brain, but otherwise distant, and un-
related to the cool element of his flesh.

With his handkerchief he wiped away the traces of
blood on the woman's face and then folded her arms
across her lap. She was breathing gently, without agita-
tion; her eyes had opened, but her fixed gaze was directed
to the floor. Olivero looked towards her companion,
whose attitude had become less tense and defensive. His
head was now turned slightly aside, and something in
the sly side-long glance with which he observed Olivero,
struck the latter with a sudden sense of recognition.

'You are Kneeshaw/ he said, and then went towards
him.

The only effect of this recognition was to deepen the
man's fear. To the physical reaction was now added a
sense of the mysterious divination possessed by the
stranger. But now his fear so possessed him that his body
became limp and powerless, and with a moan he fell
down at Olivero's feet.

It was far from Olivero's intention to do the man any
harm. He was afraid of the feeling of contempt which
threatened to possess him; moreover he was now so
anxious to solve the mystery of the scene he had wit-
ay

THE GREEN CHILD

nessed, and so convinced of the special destiny which
had brought him to this place and to these people, that
he knew he must at any cost restore a relation of confi-
dence. He bent down and took the man by the arm,
raised him and led him into a chair at the end of the
table. He then went and seated himself at the other end
of the table. But he had no sooner done this than he
observed the lamb on the dish between them, and felt
embarrassed by its presence. So he picked it up and
carried it across to the window, and there deposited it
outside on the ground, closing the window afterwards.
He then returned to the table.

'Kneeshaw/ he began, 'carry your mind back thirty
years. You were a schoolboy. Your last days at school
do you remember them? Do you remember one day, one
afternoon, your master had spread on the schoolroom
table a model railway with a clockwork engine. It was a
great novelty in those days not the kind of toy which
now can be bought in any toyshop, but a miniature train
carefully constructed by an engineer. That engineer was
my uncle, one of the first great railway engineers. He
gave me this model railway when I was a boy. Because I
had certain ideas about the inadequacy of knowledge I
still remain faithful to them I was in the habit of
allowing you boys to play to become absorbed in your
phantasy and imagination. Whilst you played I watched
you, and learnt much about the nature of your minds.
Sometimes I watched you unobserved, and on one occa-
sion I saw a boy, whose character was in general sullen
and unimpressive, seize the engine and begin winding it
up with an evil intensity. You had all been warned not
to overwind the engine. This boy suddenly decided to
disobey this instruction to destroy this ingenious toy
which he knew was valued by the master and a source

28

THE GREEN CHILD

of endless delight to his companions. I saw him wind the
spring swiftly and strongly, exerting all his strength as
the spring grew tight. Then, of course, it snapped; the
released coil of metal unrolled and the engine fell from
the boy's hand and lay on the table like a disembowelled
animal. You, Kneeshaw, were that boy, and I was the
master. When that spring snapped, something snapped
in my mind. I left the village the next day, and until
this day now, thirty years later, I have never returned/

Kneeshaw sat very still whilst Olivero spoke. His gaze
lifted sharply when Olivero revealed his identity, but the
feeling that had been roused in him was one of curiosity
rather than of amazement. Those past events which had
so much significance for Olivero, controlling his person-
ality for years by their steady persistence in his mind,
were evoked from the forgotten records of Kneeshaw's
past only by the accident of this meeting. The young
schoolmaster who had struggled for two years with an
intractable group of seven or eight boys had passed en-
tirely out of Kneeshaw's life before he had reached the
age of twelve. Kneeshaw remembered him as tall and
dark, his face very pale beneath his lank hair. He remem-
bered the classroom the round table at which they all
sat, the black marble mantelpiece with an arm-chair
before the fire from which Olivero did most of his teach-
ingrecitation, dictation, spelling and a little arithmetic.
The house was still standing the schoolroom was now
the office of Mr. Coverdale, the solicitor, and the first
floor was used by the Conservative Club an ugly town
house, out of character with the rest of the village. It
stood much farther back from the street than the rest of
the houses, and what had once been a garden was now a
dreary paved yard, Mr. Coverdale's brass plate being the
only bright thing in it. It was as though the village, so

29

THE GREEN CHILD

harmonious and beautiful in itself, had refused to asso-
ciate with this hard square block, had pushed it into the
background to dilapidate and decay.

The school had come to a sudden end, and the master
had left the village; his father at the mill died a few
years later and there had been no one left why should
Kneeshaw have remembered anything about him? He
remembered the toy engine, but he did not remember his
own act of vandalism; he had never known that it had
had any connection with Mr. Oliver's sudden departure.

The schoolmaster was speaking again : It was a little
thing, but it broke a tension in me. My mother was
dead; I disliked my father. I had never planned to spend
my life as a village schoolmaster, a calling for which I
had neither the physical nor the mental aptitude. I
thought I might become a poet, but my poetry was
gloomy and obscure, and nobody would publish it. I felt
impotent and defeated, and longed for external circum-
stances to force action upon me. I struggled feebly with
the ignorance and stupidity of you and your com-
panions, but as I had no faith in knowledge, my only
desire was to leave you in possession of innocence and
happiness. This was interpreted as weakness or laziness,
and gradually parents took away their children, till only
a handful was left, a handful of neglected children, the
children of parents who did not place any value on
education, but merely wished to be rid of an incon-
venient burden for a few hours every day. Some of
these boys I loved they were like young animals, like
calves or foals, with clumsy limbs and bright eyes and
sudden senseless movements. I thought they were with-
out evil until the day I watched you playing with the
engine, until the day a spring snapped and the tension
was ended. I left you all/

3

THE GREEN CHILD

The woman moaned softly in her chair. Olivero
looked into her face. She was breathing softly, and
seemed near to sleep.

'Tell me about her/ Olivero cried, turning once more
towards Kneeshaw, 'the Green Child/

The Green Child.' Kneeshaw repeated the words in
a low voice. He spoke the words and remained gazing
at Olivero. There was nothing in the circumstances to
make contact easy between the two men. For fifteen
years, since the day he brought the Green Child to this
mill as his wife, Kneeshaw had lived a life of isolation.
He was unread and almost inarticulate, facing the prob-
lems of life with direct instincts, acting from day to day
as these instincts dictated. He was now faced by a man
who obviously belonged to another world a world of
easy speech, of ideas and sentiments, of complicated ex-
perience. There was no natural impulse to communicate
with such a man. But tragedy drives us beyond natural
behaviour, on to a level where imagination and phan-
tasy rule.

'The Green Child/ he said, 'came to me fifteen years
ago.

'There were two/ said Olivero.

'One died/ replied Kneeshaw. 'He did not live more
than a few months in this world. He would not eat he
wasted away. And now this one is tired of this world,
and wants to go back to the world they came from/

'And that is why you were forcing her to drink blood?*

'Yes. For many weeks now she has eaten nothing
solid she drinks water and milk, but even milk she
does not willingly take. She is wasting away and will die,
because she never eats meat, and has no desire to live/

Tell me all. I have heard nothing since the day I left
the village/

3'

THE GREEN CHILD

Kneeshaw then told the story of The Green Children,
told it dispiritedly and with many interruptions and
cross-questionings from Olivero. Meanwhile the Green
Child herself had fallen into an unconscious state which
might be sleep, for she breathed deeply and regularly.

Kneeshaw told how two strange children had one day
appeared walking towards the village from the direction
of the moors. He repeated some of the facts about their
appearance and behaviour which Olivero already knew,
and went on to relate how the woman who had first seen
them, old Mrs. Hardie who had once been Olivero's
nurse, had taken the children into her cottage, and
clothed them and fed them as if they were her own
children. She was a widow and her only son, Tom
Hardie, was a sailor at sea. In those days, before news-
papers existed in their present nature, before there were
reporters and press-photographers, an event like the ap-
pearance of the green children soon ceased to be a
matter of more than local interest. It is true that there
were many enquiries, and for a long time the green
children were pointed out as an object of curiosity to
visitors. A doctor from a neighbouring town made an
attempt to examine the children in a scientific manner :
he wished to take their pulses, sound their lungs, listen
to the beat of their hearts, even to do much more scien-
tific things, such as analyse their water and take a speci-
men of their blood. But Mrs. Hardie was a jealous step-
mother, and kept the green children inviolate from such
investigations. It was through the action of this dis-
appointed doctor that the legal position was enquired
into; but it was found that there was no treasure trove
in green children, that the law did not in any way pro-
vide for such an eventuality as the appearance of two
such extraordinary beings; so possession being nine

3*

THE GREEN CHILD

points of the law, Mrs. Hardie was allowed to keep the
children de jure as well as de facto. The only other
trouble was with the village parson, who insisted on bap-
tising the children; but the younger child, or the one
who was apparently younger (for there was no distinc-
tion in their behaviour or degree of knowledge) died as
he was being taken to the church, and this so scared the
parson and all who had any desire to interfere, that Mrs.
Hardie was left in future severely alone. It is true the
dead child could not be given Christian burial, but no
one raised any objection when Mrs. Hardie decided to
bury it on the triangular patch of ground which was to
be found where the road from the moors split in two,
one half to go direct to the village, the other half to
the mill. It was rumoured that a highwayman had once,
in the eighteenth century, been buried on this waste
land.

The other green child, whom Mrs. Hardie began to
call by the prosaic name Sally, grew up in a normal way
that is to say, she took proper nourishment and in-
creased in size. It was always a matter of speculation to
say how old the children were at the moment of their
appearance. By their physical development you would
have said about four or five years; but in spite of the fact
that they could not speak and apparently had no natural
thoughts, there was an ageless look in their fully formed
but miniature faces which defied all such speculations.
And though Sally increased in size of stature, the ex-
pression and character of her face did not alter at all; so
that now, thirty years later, she had the same ageless
innocent features which she had when she first ap-
peared. One could only say that everything was on a
slightly larger scale.

There were not wanting those who, at the time of the

33 c

THE GREEN CHILD

first appearance of the green children, saw in the whole
matter a portent of witchcraft, and some of the more
credulous and suspicious of the villagers would gladly
have seen the green children destroyed. But this was a
time when enlightenment was spreading very rapidly
through the country, and with enlightenment comes
toleration. Besides, the Green Child did no one any
harm: she lived almost unobserved in Mrs. Hardie's
cottage a cottage that stood some way out of the vil-
lage, with its back to a wood. It is quite possible that
for the greater part of the year the Green Child might
have wandered about the woods and the fields totally un-
observed, because of her protective colouring.

The road between Kneeshaw's home and the village
led past Mrs. Hardie's cottage, and every time he passed
that way, Kneeshaw thought of the strange child who
lived there. Sometimes he would see her, suddenly stir-
ring out of the immobile green background, like a
startled moth. But she was so timid that she never spoke
to him and it was only sometimes when he met her
walking along the road with Mrs. Hardie coming back
from the woods with a bundle of kindling-sticks on her
back that he could ever get a nearer view of her. Then
he would sometimes stop Mrs. Hardie to ask if she had
heard from her son Tom lately and in what foreign
parts he might be then. And because before he went to
sea Tom had been a sort of elder brother to Kneeshaw,
Mrs. Hardie would stop for a minute or two and talk to
the queer sullen lad. For several years nothing more
happened; but then one year, perhaps ten years after the
first appearance of the green children, Mrs. Hardie fell
in a faint, and she began to feel that her end was not far
off. She knew that she must provide for the future of
the Green Child, and the only person to whom her

34

THE GREEN CHILD

thoughts turned was Kneeshaw. Kneeshaw was now a
young man of twenty-two; he was sober and energetic,
and the little mill kept by his father was often busy
night as well as day, grinding corn for the up-dale
farmers. Though a woman was greatly to be desired in
that household (for Kneeshaw's mother had died when
he was born), Kneeshaw had apparently no interest in
women, and in spite of the importunity of his father,
showed no inclination to take a wife.

The casual meetings on the road became more fre-
quent, and the conversations about Tom much longer.
One day as they passed near the cottage it was raining,
so Mrs. Hardie asked Kneeshaw to shelter for a while.
He went in with them, and the Green Child made them
tea. As he watched her silent movements about the
room, her shy and delicate flutterings against the fire-
light, Kneeshaw knew for the first time the anguish and
longing for the presence of a woman in his own home,
above all, a longing for this creature who belonged to
another world a world so delicate and subdued. He
carried her image back to the bleak mill, to the great
bare kitchen with its open fireplace and high smoke-
blackened rafters.

Mrs. Hardie soon knew from the bashful look in his
eyes and the agitated movements of his body, that
Kneeshaw was in love, and she smiled on him and en-
couraged him. But the Green Child herself made no re-
sponse. Actually she knew nothing of the nature of
love, and felt none of the fleshly promptings which ac-
company the emotions of love in ordinary mortals.
Though she had by now learned how to speak in the
English language, her knowledge of it was conditioned
by the circumstances under which she lived by the
daily life of an old widow woman, with no interests

35

THE GREEN CHILD

beyond the rather isolated existence she led in the
village. There were no books in the house, and Mrs.
Hardie did not even read her Bible, from which the
Green Child might have learned so much of the history
of the world and the passions of men. To tell the truth,
Mrs. Hardie could not read, and when one of Tom's rare
letters came from the outer world, she had to ask the
postman to step in and read it for her, for which ser-
vice he was always rewarded with a glass of elderberry
wine. About every two years Tom came home for a
week, but though after a fashion he was an affectionate
son, he was only at ease in the company of men, and
spent most of his holiday in the village, drinking with
old friends at the inn; or perhaps he would walk up the
valley to see Kneeshaw. He was glad to think that his
old mother had someone in the house to help her and
look after her in case of illness, but the girl, to be sure,
was a queer fish, and he could make nothing of her.
Once he had told his mates in the foc's'le the strange
story of the green children, but they had laughed at him
for a credulous fool, so he never mentioned it again;
and when he came home, he acted as though he knew
nothing of Sally's history. He completely ignored her,
and she on her part did not find such behaviour un-
natural.

Matters had been brought to a precipitate conclusion
by the final illness of Mrs. Hardie. One morning she
fainted as she rose from her pillow, and remained for a
long time unconscious. She was still unconscious when
Sally, wondering why she was so long appearing, went
up to her bedroom and found her still and white on the
bed. Sally did not know anything about death, or its
symptoms, so she sat down to wait for the old woman to
awake. Presently her eyelids did flicker a little, and a

36

THE GREEN CHILD

few minutes later she was fully conscious. But she was
very scared at what had happened and sent Sally, not
for the doctor, whom she despised, but for Kneeshaw.
She remained in bed, and when Kneeshaw came, re-
quested him to come up and sit down by her side. She
asked him to take a box from a ledge in the chimney,
and to open it. Inside were ninety golden sovereigns, a
gold filigree brooch and a locket with a wisp of Tom's
hair enclosed in it. The brooch was to be Sally's and the
locket was to be sent to Tom, but the money, she said,
was to be Kneeshaw's if he would go down on his knees
and solemnly swear that he would take Sally and marry
her, and be good and kind to her all her life. The clock
downstairs was striking the hour of twelve whilst Knee-
shaw was on his knees, and when he came downstairs
the Green Child was standing against the light of the
kitchen window, peeling potatoes, and the light shone
through her bare arms and fingers and her delicate
neck, and her flesh was like flesh seen in a hand that
shelters a candle against the air, or the radiance seen
when we look at the sun through the fine web of shut
eyelids. Kneeshaw carried the box back to the mill and
showed the golden sovereigns to his father, and his
father readily agreed to the marriage. With so much
money they could buy one of the new roller-machines, and
so make flour finer than any the village mill could make.
Mrs. Hardie never rose from her bed again, but died
one night in her sleep. The Green Child, when she could
not wake her, came to fetch Kneeshaw, and he, knowing
what had happened, made4rher stay behind with his
father. Then he went to the village and brought the
doctor to Mrs. Hardie's cottage, and it was quite true
that she was dead of heart failure, as the doctor certi-
fied in due course. She was buried in a pauper's grave,

37

THE GREEN CHILD

for no money was found in the house; but later her few
bits of furniture were sold by the auctioneer, and with
the money that they brought, the rent was paid and
there were no more questions about her estate. Nor was
there anyone to question Kneeshaw's action in taking
the Green Child for a wife; for though the parson could
not marry them because the Green Child had never been
baptised, there was no one who would bother to inter-
fere with them; they might live together, isolated in an
indifferent world.

Kneeshaw's father lived perhaps five years after the
coming of the Green Child to his house, but he does not
enter any more into the story. He was a very fat old
man, and spent most of his time sleeping in the arm-
chair in a dark corner of the immense kitchen. The only
other occupant of the house was a kitchen-maid. When
the Green Child came, the maid was sent away, but then
Kneeshaw found that the Green Child was so 'gawm-
less,' as he called it, so inapt in domestic affairs, that the
maid had to be engaged again, to do the cooking and
the cleaning. Among the first peculiarities Kneeshaw
discovered in Sally were an inability to go close to a fire,
and a violent distaste for any form of animal flesh. She
was much more susceptible than a normal person to
extremes of heat and cold, and would shrink as if
scalded from a fire two feet away; she could not bear
her hands in hot water, and she even shrank from the
heat of a human body. Her distaste for meat was con-
stitutional; she turned in disgust from the sight of raw
flesh. Trout from the stream she would eat, but always
as a cold dish. She would drink a little milk, but was avid
only of hazel-nuts, sweet-briar and water-cress, and of
all kinds of mushrooms and toadstools.

When it came to describing their personal relations,

38

THE GREEN CHILD

Kneeshaw was naturally very diffident: he spoke in
phrases that implied more than they stated. His animal
instincts were of the same sullen but strong nature ex-
hibited in all his outward behaviour. He was without ex-
perience and therefore without the art necessary to edu-
cate his companion in the pleasures and duties of mar-
riage. The Green Child was not merely ignorant of nor-
mal sexual cravings she was entirely devoid of them.
She fled from Kneeshaw's embraces as from a hot-
breathed faun. She fled out into the night, into the
woods, into the branches of the acacia tree which
strangely existed in this lonely spot, and there the
feathery leaves held her in a safe retreat. She liked the
cold water of the mill-race, and without shame or hesi-
tation would throw off her frock and float like a mer-
maid, almost invisible, in the watery element. She did
not seem to have any affection for human beings or
animals; she never mentioned Mrs. Hardie from the
day of her death; she never paid the slightest attention
to the retriever dog, the poultry, or the cattle. Only
sometimes she would be seen observing intently little
birds, especially those which lived near the ground, such
as wrens and linnets; she listened to the earth like a
blackbird. She did not sing or whistle, or amuse herself
with any sounds. Only the sound of rippling water in-
terested her, and she would play for whole days in the
pebbly bed of the stream. She was not capable of much
physical exercise, and when she had walked two or three
miles, was quite exhausted. If she went out, she always
walked in the direction of the moors, away from the vil-
lage. At first Kneeshaw was alarmed when she did not
return by nightfall, and would set out with a lantern to
find her finding her always by the side of the stream.
She would follow him obediently back to the mill, but

39

THE GREEN CHILD

as time went by, Kneeshaw would sometimes fall asleep
before he had become aware of Sally's absence, and not
once, but many times thereafter, she was out the whole
night, sitting by the side of the stream. This was less
strange than might appear, since she very rarely slept
like a normal human being. It is true that for long hours
she would sit in a kind of trance, unaware of what was
passing before her, but with eyes open. At night-time,
when she lay on her bed in the dark, she might have
slept; but Kneeshaw had never observed her in a sound
slumber, and if she slept at all, slept so lightly that his
very approach was sufficient to wake her.

Two events drew Kneeshaw's attention away from the
Green Child. One was the death of his father, together
with the expanding trade of the mill the mill absorbed
more and more of his time and energy. The other event
was less creditable. One summer day he discovered the
kitchenmaid asleep in the barn where the hay was kept.
She was lying on her back, her limbs open and aban-
doned. The sudden lust that swept over Kneeshaw met
with no resistance, and from that time onwards Knee-
shaw's natural desires were completely satisfied by this
subordinate member of the household.

This did not, however, leave Kneeshaw completely in-
different to the Green Child. She continued to attract
him in a way and for reasons he would have found diffi-
cult to analyse. It was perhaps the mystery of her flesh,
the possibility of discovering in her a different mode of
love; it was partly the simple charm of her behaviour.
Olivero, in all his questionings, could not discover how
long a state of veneration had lasted; Kneeshaw, natur-
ally, did not wish to expose himself too much, and
though Olivero had profited by his long experience of
behaviour in all kinds of men, he was somewhat baffled

40

THE GREEN CHILD

by a character at once so elementary and so complex as
Kneeshaw. In Kneeshaw primitive instincts were much
stronger than the conventions of civilised life; but this
does not mean that he was necessarily crude. One has
only to think of the complicated taboos of savage races
to realise that the progress of civilisation has not been
entirely a change from simplicity to complexity, from
roughness to polish, from natural to artificial manners.
The degree of humbug, as some might call it, seems to
have remained fairly constant; it is only the component
details that have changed. A progress from complexity
to simplicity would no doubt require a non-human
world, as Olivero was to discover.

This attitude of respect may have been maintained by
Kneeshaw for as long as ten years. But by that time
daily intercourse would have reduced the man's in-
stinctive fear (for that is what his veneration would
really amount to) to a minimum; and meanwhile his
relations with the kitchenmaid may have become stale
and ungrateful. Certainly, at some period several years
before Olivero's return, Kneeshaw had begun to torment
the Green Child. He began by shutting her up in her
room, in the hope of reducing her movements to some
regularity. If only, he had felt, he could make her sleep
and eat at the normal hours, perhaps she would grow
more human and tractable. At first she escaped again
and again either through the window, or, when that had
been barred, by the chimney, which was wide enough to
admit her slight and sinuous body. On these occasions
she would disappear for many days at a time, but some
fear kept her from venturing too far from the district,
and her body, wild and exhausted, was always recovered
by Kneeshaw from the moors, where in the side of a hill
she would have made a bed of heather and bracken.

THE GREEN CHILD

Even when she had been successfully caught, difficul-
ties arose. Kneeshaw turned the attic into a prison.
There, though she drank water and milk and a portion
of such herbs and salads and cold fish as they brought
to her, she visibly wasted. One day they found her in
the semi-darkness battering with her delicate fists
against the boards which Kneeshaw had nailed across
the window. She had fainted in the attempt, and
alarmed, Kneeshaw had carried her frail body down-
stairs, and laid her on the sofa in the room they called
the parlour. He was alarmed to see the change that had
taken place in her; her flesh had turned from its green
translucent colour to a waxen yellow, the colour of ripe
golden plums. Her eyes had darkened: her breathing
was scarcely perceptible. For a long time she lay there,
and in the strong light which flooded in upon her,
seemed to revive a little. Kneeshaw left her there to
sleep on the sofa that night, and when he came down
the next morning, very early, he found her standing in
the embrasure of the window, in the first rays of the
sun. Her natural tint had returned, and that day she
ate again and so gradually regained her strength. She
never returned to the dark room upstairs.

When she was strong enough, Kneeshaw took her out
into the fields and along the banks of the stream. They
spent many long hours in this way, not happy together,
because the Green Child had almost ceased to speak and
wandered about self-contained, whilst Kneeshaw was
suspicious and vigilant. But such excursions were diffi-
cult for him, and became increasingly so with the con-
tinued expansion of his business. About this time the
old mill in the village closed down; Olivero's father's
successors were unenterprising and had finally suc-
cumbed to the competition of Kneeshaw's mill. Knee-

42

THE GREEN CHILD

shaw installed a foreman, but the mill had to work such
long hours, often through the night, that Kneeshaw
himself had to take his share of the day in the mill;
and, besides, there was now so much else to do the
markets to visit, the farmers to interview, books and ac-
counts to make up. In none of these operations could
the Green Child assist him; her very presence at most
times would be embarrassing. There was an increasing
number of people about the place labourers, carters,
farmers from up the dale and down the dale. The his-
tory of the Green Child was known to all these people;
perhaps every man, woman and child within a radius
of thirty miles knew of her presence in this world. She
was therefore the object of much curiosity and enquiry,
all of which Kneeshaw deeply resented. It became
known that the miller was touchy on the matter, but
still there were always facetious or ignorant people who
would not let it rest.

When the routine of life carries a man through the
days and months and years, it is surprising how long a
state of mental tension may persist. People who are not
occupied, whose minds are not, as we say, 'taken off'
their troubles, must quickly come to the climax of their
emotional experience. But a man like Kneeshaw could
let years pass in a state of psychological futility, simply
because his mind was so occupied with practical activi-
ties, that it automatically excluded personal adjustments.
The psychology of the Green Child was a different
matter; in a sense, it did not exist. There was no evi-
dence that she possessed any ordinary human affection;
at the death of Mrs. Hardie, as already mentioned, she
had betrayed no grief she had not even mourned for
the brother she lost. Her reactions in more habitual
emotional situations were obvious, but physically odd.

43

THE GREEN CHILD

Anger and astonishment she did not show by any vocal
or facial expression, but in a trembling of the limbs and
a clouding of her translucent flesh; joy was expressed by
an increased radiance of flesh, by a bright onyx flame in
her eyes, and by a laughter which was a soft crooning
sound at the base of her throat. Sorrow, like affection,
she did not seem to know, but fear and repugnance pro-
duced that blanching or etiolation of the flesh which was
the effect of depriving her of the sunlight, but produced
it suddenly, like an inverse blush. This leaves the emo-
tion of love still unaccounted for, and that, of course,
was the emotion which Kneeshaw had sought vainly to
arouse in her. He could not conceive that anything so
feminine (and therefore so strongly attractive to his
masculinity) could be without what we in the learned
world call sexual characteristics, and the blind motive of
all the attention he devoted to the Green Child had no
other origin. It was a research into the mystery of the
Green Child's heart.

But pursued in a dumb instinctive fashion.

Kneeshaw did not convey all these details to Olivero
that night, as they sat with the Green Child unconscious
in the chair beside them. But as the situation that must
have existed for the last five or even ten years became
clearer, Olivero grew sick with anxiety. The man who
spoke to him, who answered his questions in a sullen
unwilling manner, was the boy who thirty years ago had
symbolised for Olivero the evil destructive instinct which
lurks beneath the civilised conventions of society. In
his mood of youthful despair, the sight of this boy
deliberately breaking the spring of an intricate toy had
precipitated the final crisis of his disillusionment, and
with that image burnt into his mind, he had left the
scenes of his childhood. Though his subsequent experi-

44

THE GREEN CHILD

ence had taught him to moderate his despair, even to
accept evil as a necessary agent of good, an irritant to
stir the slothful soul to action, yet nothing had diminished
his sense of the actuality and power of evil. As Knee-
shaw spoke, he began to realise, with almost unbearable
anguish, that once again the instinctively evil boy had
had an intricate machine in his hands, and as he turned
to the frail figure in the chair, he feared that once again
the spring had been deliberately overwound.

When he had finished questioning Kneeshaw or
rather, when he could no longer bear the pitiful sight of
the frail figure lying exhausted in the lamplight he pro-
posed that they should carry her to her room. Kneeshaw
suggested that they should put her on the couch in the
parlour, since she liked that room the best, where she
would wake in the morning with the sunlight streaming
in upon her. So telling Kneeshaw to precede him with
the lamp, Olivero went over to the chair and picked up
the Green Child in his arms. He was amazed at the
lightness of her body, much lighter than the body of a
child, lighter than a sheaf of corn. The parlour was on
the other side of the vestibule, to the right of the window
through which Olivero had made his entrance. It was
full of a musty fragrance that came from the unused
furniture, the jars of dried rose-petals on the mantel-
piece, the bleached sprays of honesty. Inside the shining
brass fender were two large and convoluted shells, from
whose pink lips a very distant sea murmured con-
tinually. Kneeshaw placed the lamp on the circular table
in the middle of the room, and Olivero came in with his
burden and placed her on the couch, which was already
drawn across the window embrasure. He took cushions
from the chairs and very gently disposed her head and
arms. Olivero looked out into the bright night and won-

45

THE GREEN CHILD

dered whether he should draw the shutters, hut, remem-
bering her love of the sunlight, thought that perhaps
even the moon's weaker rays might be of some comfort
to her, so left them. She was now lying stretched between
the lamplight and the moonlight, breathing gently, the
fair tresses of her hair catching the light about a waxen
face whose peaked misery went straight to Olivero's
heart. He stood watching her, something of the fierce-
ness and unrest of his life suddenly quenched in this
unearthly coolness.

When he looked up it was to see Kneeshaw's face
glaring at him from the space beyond the lamp. He had
remained standing there ever since he placed the lamp
on the table; his hand still rested loosely on the table-
edge. He watched Olivero intently and jealously. The
suspicion and resentment that had mounted in his sullen
nature all during the questioning to which Olivero had
submitted him were now resolved into hatred of the
intruder. Olivero's assurance, the mastery with which
his mind moved among complexities of character and
motive only dimly apprehended by the simpler man,
angered Kneeshaw. He foresaw that Olivero would
quickly acquire an ascendancy over the Green Child,
that he would know how to deal with her, how to speak
to her, how to make her human. What he had striven to
do through the fruitless years, this man would accom-
plish in a night.

'Let us go back,' suggested Olivero. 'Bring the lamp/
He walked out of the room, and Kneeshaw followed
obediently enough. They returned to the living-room,
and then stood facing each other, Olivero with lowered
head, his hands clasped behind his back, quietened by
the obvious fatality of the situation; Kneeshaw waiting
and watchful.

THE GREEN CHILD

Presently Olivero jerked himself out of his reverie and
addressed Kneeshaw.

It is now too late to return to the village. If I may, I
will stay here until morning/

There is no spare bed/ returned the other man.

It does not matter. I can rest in one of these chairs/

Kneeshaw moved uneasily. Olivero's persistence had
inflamed his temper. He wished to be rid of this man
who threatened to disturb the sheltered plan of his life
threatened, even, to take the Green Child from him.
'You must go/ he cried, his clenched fists working up
and down like hammers.

Olivero realised that he must keep calm, must appear
to yield to the other's persistence. At the same time, he
would not leave the Green Child. He had come too far
and endured too much to be thwarted of his destiny at
this hour of fulfilment.

'Very well/ he said. 1 will go/

But he did not intend to go. He did not know exactly
what he should do. He glanced at the window, but
shuddered inwardly. He decided to seek the stream
again, beyond the mill. It could not be, of course, that
any machinations of Kneeshaw's could have diverted
the current, but he would like to have the mental satis-
faction of knowing that the stream continued its per-
verse course beyond the mill. He passed out through the
door at the back of the room, Kneeshaw standing sul-
lenly aside. He went through the kitchen and found
himself in a paved yard, with dim shadows of trees in
the distance before him. But to the left stood the mill, a
narrow building three storeys high, its windows dimly
lit. The hum of the machinery came softly across the
darkness, with the more distant sound of swirling water
behind it.

47

THE GREEN CHILD

Olivero walked past the end of the mill, past the door
through which he saw a twinkle of wheels and a swing
of belts, and came to the other end. Here the stream
was dammed, and the water sank swiftly and almost
silently under the road at his feet. It emerged on the
other side of the road, in a sluice down which it ran like
a swift bolt of steel, and was shot with force into the
pockets of the great mill-wheel. Olivero passed through
a small wicket-gate that led on to a platform above the
mill-wheel; on his right was a door into the mill. The
mill-wheel seemed to move slowly under the great weight
of descending water, which broke into angry spray
against the dull resistance of the cumbrous wheel.
Down below the surplus water from the dam escaped
along a steep chute. Beyond the wheel all the waters
united again in a tormented whirlpool, from which a
roar came up that deadened all other sounds.

Olivero went to the far end of the small platform and
looked down into the confused waters. The moon was
still sufficient to cast an oily sheen on the water, but
Olivero could see no direction in the whirlpool: the
falling water had in many years gouged out a deep pool,
and one might look into this pool for a whole day with-
out seeing its hundreds of cross-currents repeat a single
pattern. It was a continual interweaving of irregular
ribbons of water, gushing and spouting in every direc-
tion. The final drift of the stream was now lost in the
darkness.

Into the darkness Olivero peered, but it was all so
hopeless. If for a moment he might stop the mill-wheel,
it might be possible to see what happened to the water
in the pool. Olivero knew, from his own childhood spent
at a mill, that it was the easiest thing in the world to
stop a mill-wheel. You had either to move the wooden

48

THE GREEN CHILD

trough down which the water descended to the wheel,
so that its stream fell free of the wheel; or you could
close the sluice itself and so cut off the stream of water.
After some deliberation, Olivero decided that the latter
method would be the better; it would leave the pool less
agitated. He therefore returned to the bridge, where the
lock controlling the sluice was placed. He was now once
more so intent on the solution of his original problem,
that he did not realise his action would stop the mill and
so betray him.

He screwed down the lock until it would screw no
farther, and then rushed back to the platform. The
wheel was slowly coming to a standstill, the water drip-
ping from its sodden moss-hung rungs and staves. To
get a better view of the pool, Olivero lay flat on his belly,
shading his eyes from the rays of the moon. He gazed
down into the waters, concentratedly. The waters below
still made so much noise, that he was not aware of the
cessation of the mill's machinery, and did not even hear
the door behind him open. But whilst Olivero was
making his researches, Kneeshaw had returned to the
mill, and was presently amazed to find his machinery
coming to a standstill. The foreman had now left, and
therefore no one could have disengaged the mill-wheel.
The flow of water must have been diverted, and he there-
fore made his way to the platform to investigate. When
he opened the door, at first he could see nothing, but he
noticed that the water from the sluice was not running.
He therefore stepped out on to the platform, and in
doing so stepped on Olivero's foot. He pitched forward
and fell, and since the platform was narrow, and had
no hand-railing, he only saved himself from falling
headlong over the side of the wheel by clutching at the
wooden chute. When he recovered himself and turned,

49 i>

THE GREEN CHILD

and stood up again, he found himself confronted by
Olivero, who had risen in surprise. Olivero was just pre-
paring to shout an explanation above the seething of the
water when he saw Kneeshaw's face advance in the light
from the open mill door. It was distorted with intense
fury and hate, and in a flash Olivero realised that he was
going to be attacked. He sprang for the space between
Kneeshaw and the open door, but Kneeshaw sprang too,
and they closed in a grip on the platform. Kneeshaw had
clasped his arms round Olivero's body and was attempt-
ing to lift him off his feet and carry him to the edge of
the platform. Olivero struggled and succeeded in getting
his right arm free and this he pressed palm upwards,
with all his force against Kneeshaw's chin, hoping to
make him release his grip. But he felt himself being
lifted off the ground in spite of all his efforts. Kneeshaw
tried to turn with his burden, and Olivero seized the
opportunity, when his opponent's balance was all on one
leg, of suddenly hurling his weight forward, kicking
backwards against the wall of the mill. Kneeshaw stag-
gered and fell across the platform. His head hung over
the pit, but he still gripped Olivero like a snake. Olivero
spread out his legs to guard against being turned over,
and found a buttress for each foot, one against the wall
of the mill, the other against the chute. It would be
practically impossible for the strongest man to overturn
him. With his disengaged hand he was still pressing
back the hard foul chin of Kneeshaw, and now he
pressed with all his force. He knew that in this way he
could break his neck, but he did not wish to go to such
an extremity.

'Give in/ he cried, using the phrase he had used as a
boy. 'Give inP

He could not see Kneeshaw's face, which was fore-

5

THE GREEN CHILD

shortened, but he took a relaxing of his grip to mean
that he had no wish to struggle any longer. Olivero got
up and stood leaning against the open doorway to re-
cover his breath. For a moment or two Kneeshaw did
not move, but then he lifted his head up and drew him-
self into a crouching attitude on the platform. He was
breathing heavily like a doomed bull, Olivero thought
as he turned away into the mill. He sat down on a bin
near the door, uncertain what to do, but resolved above
all things not to leave the Green Child to the mercy of
this madman. Presently he saw the dark figure of Knee-
shaw cross the open doorway in the direction of the
sluice; he had gone, with a kind of animal simplicity, to
complete his original intention to set the mill going
again. Olivero heard the water swish down the chute
and break over the wheel; but since the gear had not
been disengaged, the wheel would not move. It had to
be released first, and gather momentum before the
machinery would engage. Kneeshaw reappeared at the
door with this purpose in mind. The lever and gear were
directly behind the bin on which Olivero was seated,
and at first Kneeshaw hesitated to pass him. But Olivero,
understanding his intention, signalled to him to go past.
Kneeshaw pulled the lever and his hand remained
resting on it. It was a bar of iron about three feet long,
with a square socket at the end which fitted on to the
wheel-gear. It lifted off. Outside the mill-wheel gathered
momentum. Kneeshaw turned rapidly, the lever lifted
above his head. But Olivero had heard the intent inter-
val during which Kneeshaw stood transfixed by the
sudden temptation the iron in his hand presented to
him, and just as Kneeshaw lifted the lever he turned.
Kneeshaw had no time to divert the blow, which fell
aimlessly through the air. Olivero sprang back. The

5'

THE GREEN CHILD

lunge of the blow carried Kneeshaw's body staggering
forward and for a moment it seemed that his head
would butt into the pit of Olivero's stomach. But
Olivero had lifted his right foot to ward off the collision
and kicking with force, sent Kneeshaw ricocheting
through the open door. He saw him tottering backwards
on his heels and was about to bang the door in his face
when a wild cry rose above the sound of the rushing
water and he saw Kneeshaw's body fall backwards into
the well beyond the wheel. Olivero dashed out and
peered down into the swirling waters. He could see no-
thing for the spray of the chute, and therefore ran to cut
off the flow at the sluice. This done he ran back. The
wheel was coming to a standstill again, but as it rose the
face of Kneeshaw suddenly emerged out of the obscurity
of the well into the moonlight. He was clinging to one
of the rungs of the wheel, and rose as the wheel turned.
But when he was within three feet of the top of the
platform, the wheel finally stopped. He lifted his face
to Olivero and cursed him. For now the wheel, being
disengaged from the gears and revolving freely on its
axis, began slowly to be borne down in the reverse direc-
tion by the weight of Kneeshaw's body. Kneeshaw
realised that this would happen, and imagined that
Olivero knew too, and had stopped the water deliber-
ately. He tried to stop the wheel by wedging his foot
against the wall of the platform, but this was all slimy
with water weeds and offered no resistance. The wheel
suddenly lurched downwards and Kneeshaw fell back-
wards into the whirlpool. Olivero, who had fallen flat
on his stomach in an effort to catch hold of Kneeshaw,
saw him fall, and heard his cry, but then the darkness
of the well and the tossing water hid everything from
his view. He ran back over the bridge, through the stack-

THE GREEN CHILD

yard, round to a point where the waters emerged from
the wheel-pit. But it was some distance round, for the
river at this point ran through a built-up cutting. Olivero
waded into mid-stream. The water still swirled round
him in tormented coils, but all was dark and invisible in
the direction of the mill-wheel. He waded upwards be-
tween the black walls, till the water beat against his
breast and he felt himself sinking quickly beyond his
depth. The roar of water was deafening and nothing
could be seen except the dim phosphorescence of the
foam. He desisted and made his way back to the low
bank. He crouched low, gazing across the surface of the
water, to catch sight of any floating object that passed
him. But nothing came. He began to shudder violently
from the icy cold wet clothes that clung to his skin.

When he could no longer endure the icy agony of
the cold, he returned to the house. In the kitchen he
found the embers of a fire, before which he stripped and
dried and warmed himself. He wrung out his dripping
clothes and hung them to dry. In the passage he found
an overcoat of Kneeshaw's, and wrapping this round
himself, he sank into a chair by the fireside.

He felt sure that Kneeshaw was drowned. It was very
unlikely that he could swim, and the pool below the
wheel was deep, the currents strong. The mill had
stopped; the lights in the lamps would burn low. It
must now be two or three o'clock in the morning. At
six or earlier the servant girl would come down and find
him there. It would be difficult to explain his presence
to her; more difficult still to explain Kneeshaw's absence.

But actually he never saw the servant girl. About six
o'clock he awoke with a start. It was already daylight,
but not a sound was to be heard in the house. He quietly
put on his dry clothes and went through to the front

53

THE GREEN CHILD

vestibule and tapped on the parlour door. There was no
sound, so he gently opened the door. The Green Child
was up and standing, as Kneeshaw had described her,
in the embrasure of the window, as if to catch the first
feeble rays of the rising sun.

She looked up without betraying any surprise or
emotion. Olivero advanced and took her hand; it was
very cold. 'Let us go out into the sun/ he said. She re-
laxed in her attitude and prepared to follow him. He
did not return through the kitchen, but unbarred the
disused front door, which led directly to the paddock.
The sun was not far risen, but shone warmly above the
low meadow mists, the grass heavily laden with dew,
the delicate gossamer webs in the hedges. They went*
across the paddock in the direction of the river. The
rabbits scampered away before them, and a few old'
crows rose croaking from their morning meal.

The green girl walked like a fairy. Her feet were bare
and wet with the dew; she looked always up to the sun.
A soft cool breeze rippled across her tresses, and agitated
the folds of her skirt.

'Kneeshaw has gone/ said Olivero, after some time
had passed, and as they approached the river-bank.

She turned an unmoved and perhaps uncomprehend-
ing face towards him.

'Kneeshaw has gone/ he repeated. 'He fell into the
mill dam, into the water below the wheel. I think he is
drowned/

She said nothing. They were by the side of the stream
now, at a point about two hundred yards below the
mill. The stream, noticed Olivero, still ran in the direc-
tion of the moors.

A grassy path led alongside the stream, which here
ran rather deeply between earthy banks. At intervals

54

THE GREEN CHILD

willow trees grew into the bank; their branches often
combed the water.

At the end of the paddock a pole from which was
suspended a loose wire grid ran across the stream, to
prevent cattle straying up the stream from the field
beyond.

In the hedge there was a stile, which they must cross.

Olivero helped the Green Child over the stile. As she
turned to cross the top bar, she looked down into the
stream, and started.

Olivero followed her startled glance.

In the angle made by the bank and the pole across
the stream, in a backwater thick with dried stalks and
withered sedge, floated the body of Kneeshaw.

It was face upward, and seemed to look towards them
as they stood transfixed by the stile. His black hair, wet
and matted, fell over his pale forehead, but did not hide
the wide and staring eyes.

Olivero, in spite of all his experience of death and
terror, was deeply horrified. He had already concluded
that Kneeshaw was drowned, but the sudden sight of his
dead body actualised, in one acute instant, all the mental
distress of the last twelve hours.

But the Green Child was already moving on. She
had, before he had realised it, descended from the stile
and taken a few steps in apparent unconcern. She did
not look back, but went slowly on.

With one last look at the corpse swinging in the cur-
rent of the stream, Olivero leapt over the stile and fol-
lowed the Green Child. They walked several miles, past
the outlying farms, and at last left the fields and fol-
lowed the stream, now diminished, across the moorland.

But how can the stream grow narrow and yet flow
onwards? Olivero asked himself. He explained his

55

THE GREEN CHILD

perplexity to the Green Child, but she merely walked on.
Olivero was now exhausted with lack of sleep and hun-
ger, but the Green Child had revived as the sun rose.
They drank water from the stream, and at a place on
the moor where the stream forked, and three pine trees
cast some shade, they rested for two hours, and during
that time Olivero told the Green Child the story of his
life.

Then in the afternoon they followed the stream into
the heart of the moor. About four o'clock they came
into a small valley, near the highest point of the moor-
land. It had an entrance, but no exit. At the farther end
it curved round, and there in the basin at the foot of
this slope, the stream had its beginning, or its end.

Olivero's heart beat with excitement as he approached
the end of his long research. It seemed so long, a whole
lifetime, since he had left the village the evening before on
this errand of investigation. Here he was at the solution
of his perplexity. The stream came to an end here, not
in the all-gathering sea, but far inland, in the embrace
of the hills.

Olivero took off his shoes and socks, and rolling up
his trousers, waded out into mid-stream. The bed of the
stream was warm and sandy; his feet sank into the
warm sand. The Green Child followed him, and side by
side they walked towards the basin. The stream ex-
panded into a bog, thick with rushes and myrtle. Soon
they saw before them a round pool. The stream flowed
into this pool, and seemingly round it, in a complete
circle. But the middle of the pool was very still, no
vortex. There were even lilies and kingcups floating on
the surface. It must be shallow, thought Olivero, but
where, then, does the water go? They advanced slowly.
The water moved softly against their limbs. It was

56

THE GREEN CHILD

slightly warm, like the sandy bed. They were now near
the point at which the current, having described its
circle, met itself. A bed of clear silvery sand stretched
before them. Olivero bent down and looked closely.
The sand, though it seemed solid, was vibrating, each
grain dancing like a tiny silver ball on a stretched drum.
The water, thought Olivero, must sink here.

And as he thought this, he saw the green naiad figure
of Sally step forward. She walked swiftly through the
water on to the silvery sand. She was sinking, and as
she sank she turned towards Olivero. Her face was trans-
figured, radiant as an angel's. She stretched out an arm
towards Olivero. With a cry of happiness, as if a secret
joy had suddenly been revealed to him, he raced for-
ward and hand in hand they sank below the surface of
the pool.

57

THE story that Olivero related to the Green Child
when they rested under the pine trees died on the
moorland air. The narrative that follows is based on the
papers which were discovered afterwards in the baggage
he had left at the inn, reinforced by the archives of the
Hispanic Association of South America. Naturally it
lacks the simplicity of style which Olivero must have
used on that unique occasion; for he would realise, as
he spoke to the Green Child, that she came from a
world of which he had no knowledge. She had never
been able to describe that world to anyone, because
there were no earthly words to exchange for her
memories. If he had asked her if trees like those above
them grew in that world, or if any trees at all grew
there, she would only have shaken her head and said:
'Everything was different.'

For thirty years Olivero, too, had lived in a world
where everything differed strangely from the peaceful
scene before them. Trees grew in that country, of
course, as in England, but their green leaves were often
covered with white dust, and hung in the glaring sun
like leaves of clay. Olivero had words like these to de-
scribe his world, too many words, words the Green
Child had never heard and could not understand. But
he had to use those words, because words and things
grow together in the mind, grow like a skin over the
tender images of things until words and things cannot
be separated. The words the Green Child did not un-
derstand fell like music on her ears, and the music had
a meaning for her, so that none of Olivero's words was
altogether lost on the moorland air.

When I left our village thirty years ago, he began, I

59

THE GREEN CHILD

made my way first to London, because London was the
centre of the world, and I thought that among all its
wonders, in the variety o its ways, I should find my ap-
pointed place. I had faith in certain of my talents. I
was ambitious that is to say, I was anxious to win com-
mand over men by the exercise of those talents talents
for writing, for expressing ideas, for using words. Words
can be bright and glittering, can attract men's eyes and
fascinate their minds even when they mean little or
nothing. But I did not realise how difficult it would be
to make one's voice heard, to lift one's self above the
crowd, to gain any little eminence from which the words
might attract attention. I wandered from one newspaper
office to another, but nowhere was it possible to gain
entrance, to make a beginning, I had nothing to offer
them a young country schoolmaster, who had never
published a line, who had no experience of newspaper
work.

The twenty pounds I had brought with me were soon
exhausted. At first I allowed myself a pound a week to
live on, but when ten weeks had passed, with no work
in sight, I then allowed myself only ten shillings a week.
And when another ten weeks had passed, and still no
work found, then I allowed myself five shillings a week,
sleeping in beds that cost sixpence a night and spending
the rest on bread. I was in this unhappy condition when
one day I saw a notice in a tailor's shop window, which
read: 'SMART YOUTH WANTED. APPLY WITHIN/ It was a
raw November day. I was cold and hungry : I entered the
shop. Facing me was a counter, and behind it a room
stacked with rolls of cloth down one side; on the other
side was a staircase leading to an upper floor, and under-
neath the staircase an office separated from the room by
a wood and glass partition. The door of this office opened

6b

THE GREEN CHILD

with a click, and a man advanced towards me Mr.
Klein, the owner of the shop. He was a small man with
a big head sunk low in his shoulders; his skin was grey
and loose on his rounded jaws; the lids of his eyes were
lashless. There was something like a snake in his general
appearance a squat reptile, a tortoise. I drew myself up
as he approached me. I was tall in comparison, and was
then very thin and emaciated; my hair had grown long
and fell in a shock over my forehead and ears.

I explained that I was an applicant for the post adver-
tised in his window. He looked at me sharply and asked
my age. I said nineteen, because a man already twenty
is perhaps no longer to be called a youth. 'Oh, too oldP
Mr. Klein exclaimed, waving his fat wrinkled hands im-
patiently.

'But no!' I cried, and there must have been some-
thing compelling enough in my desperate voice to make
Mr. Klein check the backward turn which he had
already given to his body, and raise his eyebrows in
surprise.

1 am young, I am starving, I can work hard/ I began
to explain.

'Are you clever with figures?' he asked, in a voice
which I then recognised as foreign.

'Yes. I was at a good school. I have studied mathe-
matics,' I explained, not wishing to put my claims too high.

'Mathematics, eh? Mathematics!' cried Mr. Klein,
and that was, I think, the first time I had exercised the
magic power of words, of one word ! 'So you have studied
mathematics. Well, perhaps we can do business.' And
then he asked several other questions, and finally agreed
to give me a trial. I was to return at eight o'clock the
next morning.

That night I gave myself a good meal, and next morn-

61

THE GREEN CHILD

ing, in a clean collar which I had bought, I reported
myself to Mr. Klein. I had pretended to know how to
keep books, but my only knowledge was a dim remem-
brance from my school days. But I trusted to my general
intelligence to pull me through, and in the end I was
justified. Mr. Klein was a Jew from Poland, who had
fled to England several years before this time. At first he
had worked as a tailor's cutter, but being of a capable
and independent nature, had quickly saved enough
money to begin on his own account. When I walked into
his shop, he had been in business for only six months,
and during that time had attempted to keep his own
books. But the English money system gave him great
trouble, and many hours were spent in fruitless en-
deavour to make his accounts balance. So finally he
decided to employ a clerk, and had put a notice in his
window only an hour or two before I had seen it. I was
the first applicant for the post, and was, after my first
day's trial, engaged at a salary of one pound a week.

The first day I spent checking Mr. Klein's books, and
he was so impressed with the rapidity and sureness with
which my eye added up the columns of pounds, shillings
and pence, that he made no further enquiry into my
capabilities. For myself I found that my school know-
ledge sufficed for the simple business of balancing the
credit and debit sides of Mr. Klein's cash-book and
ledger, and with this he was perfectly satisfied. When
he further asked for an analysis of his costs, I was able
to give him this without difficulty. In a week or two I
had established a relationship of complete confidence
and was even given control of the cash-box.

I shall not trouble you with any further details of this
part of my life. I grew to like Mr. Klein, to understand
his simple commercial mind, to sympathise with the

62

THE GREEN CHILD

background of racial persecution which explained his
presence in London and was the motive for his desire to
justify himself in the world. I discovered, for example,
his intense family loyalty. He had left behind in Poland
an old mother and two sisters. It was his ambition to
make a home for them in England; but it must be a
good home, a place of comfort which would give them a
standing in the world, where the family could be re-
established with himself as the patriarchal head. But I
did not stay with him long enough to see his ambition
realised. Actually I had loathed the dingy shop, the
smell of cloth, the pervading greasy odour of the district,
the dull unimaginative work I was compelled to do, the
general poverty of my circumstances. Poverty is de-
grading for any human being; but for one born with
those instincts and senses which cry out for beauty and
sensitive pleasures, for music and poetry and romance,
it is a slow torture, a torture of the mind rather than of
the body, and so all the more acute. There were mo-
ments, passing before a bookshop or a theatre, when the
gall seemed to rise in floods of bitterness within me. I
envied the people who could afford to indulge their
senses to satiation people who could take these things
for granted, as part of their routine and heritage, and
without the real need that consumed me. I did not cry
so much against the society in which this unjust distri-
bution of goods was normal, but rather saw the problem
as an individual one, and longed myself to possess the
power to command such things. Perhaps in this I was
no better than my employer, Mr. Klein; but I was less
practical. Mr. Klein knew that possession is only given
in exchange for the tokens of wealth, which are earned
by industry; and therefore set himself single-mindedly
to accumulate these tokens. I wished to possess myself of

63

THE GREEN CHILD

power directly, by virtue of my personality and intelli-
gence, and therefore I was restless and unhappy. I
wished to escape.

I had entered into a bond to serve Mr. Klein for three
years, and in virtue of this bond he had increased my
salary, first to thirty shillings a week, and finally to two
pounds. During the last two years of my service with
him I managed to save altogether I saved forty pounds,
and with this sum I determined, at the end of my
bondage, to venture out into the world.

At first my thoughts turned to America, where so
many young men in my situation had ventured with
success. But my longings, though romantic, had definite
limitations; they were not of the kind that finds a satis-
faction in struggling with natural forces. I was not a
pioneer by instinct, but sought rather to dwell in those
countries and cities where the longest human experience
had left the richest deposit of beauty and wisdom.
Greece, Italy, Spain were the scenes of my most frequent
fancies, and if my thoughts ranged farther, it was to the
remote and mystical East, to India and China. Actually
it was Mr. Klein himself who set me off on my wander-
ings. I think he realised the deep-seatedness of my un-
rest, and when I confided to him that I intended to seek
my fortune abroad, he was not merely sympathetic, but
entrusted me with a mission which took me to the heart
of Europe. Though the letters he received from his
sisters gave him no cause for alarm, he wished to be
assured of the well-being of his mother, who could not
herself write. He wished also to transmit to her a sum of
money, about a hundred English pounds, but would not
trust the post with such a sum. His mother lived in a
small town to the south of Warsaw, and thither Mr.
Klein proposed to send me, paying the expenses of my

64

THE GREEN CHILD

outward journey and giving me ten pounds in addition,
to carry me farther if I wished. I accepted his offer with-
out hesitation; during my three years in London I had
made no friends I particularly cared for, and there was
nothing, nothing at all, to keep me in England. It was
already Octoher when we began to discuss this plan, and
at first Mr. Klein suggested that I should wait for the
next spring, when travelling would be pleasanter. But so
eager was I to be away on such an adventure, that I
would not hear of such a delay, and one day in Novem-
ber, almost exactly three years after I had first entered
Mr. Klein's shop, I left London for Warsaw.

I did not delay on the outward journey. The money,
in gold coins, was strapped round my middle in a belt
which Mr. Klein himself had made. The trains in those
days were few, slow and uncomfortable, and I was
travelling in the cheapest possible manner. Nevertheless,
no words could convey the interest and excitement with
which I followed every stage of the journey the coast
of England receding as we set out to sea, the sense of
being at sea, the first impact of foreign voices and foreign
faces at Hamburg, where I left the ship, the strange
habits of my companions in the coach which I took to
Lubeck, the bustle and renewal of interest at every stage.
I sat still and silent in a corner of the coach. I was con-
scious of the belt under my shirt. I slept fitfully. At
Lubeck*! took a small coasting vessel to Danzig, from
whence I proceeded by boat up the River Vistula, until
the ice made navigation impossible. The last part of my
journey was accomplished in a sleigh, drawn by small
shaggy ponies. When we reached Warsaw it was in-
tensely cold; snow had fallen and under its white cover-
ing the houses and streets looked like pictures in a book
of fairy-tales. But the reality was grimmer. In the large

65 E

THE GREEN CHILD

square where I went to find the coach for N , the

town where Mr. Klein's mother lived, a large crowd was
gathered. I joined one of their ranks and waited. Pres-
ently a stir and a murmur swept across the waiting
people, and from one side of the square a group of
mounted soldiers approached, holding long spears in
their right hands, with rifles slung across their backs.
They were followed by a cart drawn by four horses,
escorted on each side by another mounted soldier; two
other soldiers followed on foot, with rifles only. The cart
was boarded across to make a platform, and on this plat-
form, seated on a bench, was a poor dejected wretch of
a man. He was clad in a cap and greatcoat, and round
his neck was hung a board, inscribed with two lines of
black lettering. I could not read this notice, and could
not make enquiries from those about me; but there was
no need. It was only too evident that the man was a
condemned criminal on his way to the gallows. Some of
the crowd near me shouted out angry jeering words, but
the prisoner paid no attention. A few flakes fell out of a
cold grey sky; the procession passed, oddly silent on the
fallen snow.

I could not speak the Polish language, but Mr. Klein
had given me a letter which I could show to anyone who
looked kindly and sympathetic, explaining that I was an
Englishman who wished to proceed to the town of

N , and requesting the kind stranger to assist me.

With this letter, and a few words which I had learnt, I
found the coach without difficulty and eventually reached

N . The house of the Kleins was in an obscure side

street, but this, too, I found without great difficulty, and
for the situation I now had to face the letters I carried
with me were sufficiently explanatory. I was welcomed
at the door by one of Klein's sisters, and led through

66

THE GREEN CHILD

into a dark kitchen where a very old wrinkled woman
was seated in the corner of an immense pottery stove.
She was deaf, and muttered unintelligibly; but I was
presently shown to a bedroom, which I gathered would
be put at my disposal for as long as I cared to stay.
When I had washed myself, I returned to the kitchen
and laid the belt of money on the table, not a little re-
lieved to have reached my destination and fulfilled my
mission. The old woman turned her chair to the table,
and without a moment's hesitation began to unpick the
belt with a knife. The gold coins were revealed one by
one, and piled up in neat order. Only when the last coin
had been recovered did the old woman again become
aware of my presence, and then, to my alarm, she rose
from her chair and stumbled across to where I was
seated, pressed her hands on my head and kissed my
brow in gratitude. She then took a silk cloth, gathered
the money into it, and disappeared upstairs. Meanwhile
the sister (only one ever appeared, and I concluded that
the other was married and had left the house) had pre-
pared a meal. Whilst we ate, the two women talked to
each other in happy excited voices, almost ignoring my
presence except when they turned with smiles to press
more food on me. I stayed three days with them, resting
all the time, deliberating much, not yet determined
what my next step should be.

The only foreign language I knew at that time was
French, but I had no particular desire to go to France.
I decided to make my way back to Hamburg and there
consider what next to do. I said good-bye to the Klein
family, returned to Warsaw, and from there retraced my
path without any untoward incident. On the way I
thought of every means of earning a living, but I could
think of no other way than the one my abilities, coupled

THE GREEN CHILD

with my intention to stay abroad, fitted me namely,
the teaching of my own language to foreigners. At Ham-
burg, however, an unexpected chance presented itself. I
decided to seek the advice of the English consul, on how
best to work my way to some cosmopolitan city like
Paris. I found a sympathetic man, who after some con-
versation took interest in my plans, and invited me to
sup with him. Eventually, through his kind intervention,
I was taken on a vessel trading with Bordeaux and
Morocco. It was agreed that I should deposit two hundred
and fifty marks, half of all that remained to me, with
the captain of the vessel, to be forfeited should I not
make the return passage. I was to assist the captain, who
was English, as purser and steward.

In spite of my lack of experience, I managed to dis-
charge these duties to the satisfaction of the captain. Be-
sides the first mate, he was the only Englishman on
board, the crew consisting of a miscellaneous collection
of Poles, Lascars, and Germans. At first I was so pleased
with my post, that in spite of the discomfort of such a
life, I thought I might endure it for a year or two, whilst
I improved my command of the two or three principal
languages of Europe. I still thought so when we reached
Bordeaux, in spite of the rough seas we encountered in
the Bay of Biscay. But when, three or four days later,
we reached the port of Cadiz, my resolution suddenly
changed. The foul weather we had experienced in the
Atlantic Ocean was left behind when we turned Cape
St. Vincent; when we entered Cadiz harbour, the air
was warm and sweet, the city glittering beyond the blue
water, its snow-white turrets rising majestically into the
clear sky. I was enchanted by the sight, and when I went
on shore, still further delighted by all I saw the marble
streets, the massive ramparts, the wide promenades. At

68

THE GREEN CHILD

that time the memory of bitter wars was still alive, and
the inhabitants of Cadiz in particular had no reason to
welcome an Englishman. But I had conceived a roman-
tic affection for our ancient enemies and was therefore
overcome with joy to find no resentment among them,
but everywhere a carefree gaiety and a manner of life
which struck me as ideal. Suddenly I had no desire to
travel further. Here I would disembark with my small
capital, and seek my fortune.

The captain was furious at my desertion, and natur-
ally I forfeited my bond money. But when I left the
ship with my few belongings, he bade me farewell with
a good grace, and even gave me a letter of introduction
to some merchants in Seville, with whom I might find
employment.

Actually, however, I was not destined to leave Cadiz
for many months. Ignorant as I was, both of the lan-
guage of the country and the state of its affairs, I
strayed into a trap which perhaps in any case I should
not have avoided. On leaving the ship, I had gone to a
lodging-house frequented by sailors. I had spent the
evening wandering about the town, accustoming myself
to its atmosphere, enjoying the strange sights and
sounds. Towards midnight I returned to my lodging,
and on entering was immediately accosted by three men
in uniform. One of them, who appeared to be of some
subordinate rank, poured out a torrent of harsh words,
not one of which had any meaning for me. But by his
gestures I gathered that I was under arrest, and must
accompany them.

It was useless to resist. The keeper of the lodging-
house, a fat and disagreeable old sailor, looked at me
with displeasure. My kitbag, which I had left in an
upper room, was in the possession of one of the soldiers.

69

THE GREEN CHILD

Bewildered, I turned towards the door, and was then
marched through the deserted streets, until we finally
arrived at a dark and forbidding building. It was some
kind of citadel or barracks, and here I was thrust into a
bare room, obviously a prison cell. There was no bed
or chair; the floor was of stone. Most of the night I
spent pacing up and down, in an endeavour to keep
warm. Occasionally I crouched in a corner and dozed
until the cold and the cramp forced me to my feet
again.

There I stayed, unvisited, until about the midday fol-
lowing. Then I was fetched from my cell, and brought
before an officer. He looked at me indifferently and
spoke to me in Spanish. Perhaps he asked me whether
I could speak Spanish; at any rate, I replied in French
that I could not understand that language, and begged
him to explain in French the reason of my arrest.

He turned to another officer seated by his side and
made some humorous remark in Spanish. Then 'Vous
etes franc^ais?' he asked, in an accent I hardly recog-
nised as French. I protested that I was English. 'Et
Jacobin,' he added. He then held up a book which I re-
cognised as my property. It was a book by a French
writer, Voltaire, a book of great wit and wisdom, which
I valued almost above all other books, and constantly
read.

In a flash the situation was clearly revealed to me. For
many years, Cadiz had been the revolutionary centre of
Spain. Here, in 1812, the Cortes met and proclaimed the
first Liberal constitution; here, in 1820, to renew that
constitution, the citizens revolted, and the revolution
had spread throughout Spain. That revolution had later
been suppressed by a French army under the due
d'Angouleme, and ever since a state of anarchy and mili-

70

THE GREEN CHILD

tary oppression had existed. So much I knew, but in my
innocence I had not realised the state of vigilance and
espionage which still persisted, nor the incriminating
character of the few books I carried with me.

Though never actively concerned with political affairs,
my sympathies were decidedly Liberal. Voltaire, Rous-
seau and Diderot were authors who appealed to me both
by the enlightened nature of their philosophy and the
literary graces of their style. I had read other writings of
a revolutionary flavour, such as Volney and Montes-
quieu. When, therefore, this question 'Etes-vous Jaco-
bin?' was suddenly hurled at me, I could not instinct-
ively repudiate the name. I began to explain that I had
no connection with the Jacobins, that I had no political
beliefs of any kind. But the more voluble I grew, the
less convinced the officer became, and he soon cut me
short with the further question: 'Ce livre est a vous? 1

I could not deny it. Nor could I protest against the
flimsy nature of the evidence. I knew that everywhere,
particularly among the clergy and the reactionary forces,
Voltaire was regarded as the arch-fiend who had first
propagated Jacobin doctrines. I stood perplexed and
angry. 'Basta!' the officer cried, and gave further orders
in his language. I was hurried out of the room and re-
turned to my cell. From there, later on in the day, I was
moved to a common prison, where I found myself in
the company of about a hundred others, some ordinary
rogues, some political prisoners. We were herded to-
gether in indescribable filth and squalor; soldiers were
scarce and in such circumstances a few armed men could
guard a hundred prisoners with ease.

There I remained for the best part of two years. I
made many efforts to make myself understood, and to
get the injustice of my lot redressed. But until I had

7'

THE GREEN CHILD

learned sufficient of their language to communicate with
my gaolers, it was impossible to present my case; and
when, after several months' assiduous exercise with my
fellow prisoners, I could at last express myself clearly
and forcibly, my guilt was regarded as confirmed by
time and my acquiescence.

Those dreadful months were to determine my future
life. Not only did I become an adept of the Spanish
language, but I met, among my fellow prisoners, a num-
ber of so-called Jacobins, some of whom had in the past
been followers of the famous revolutionary general,
Rafael del Riego. As I have already confessed, I began
with a certain general sympathy for their point of view;
when ambition and poverty are joined in an individual,
such a tendency is almost inevitable. But now I came
into contact with political realities. I learned of the
struggle that had taken place to establish justice in
Spain of Riego's abortive revolt and of Ferdinand's
hateful reign. We talked often of the liberated colonies
in America, of their democratic constitutions and the
possibilities of establishing there a new world free from
the oppression and injustice of the old world. The men
I talked with were not by any means disinterested
idealists; some, indeed, were no better than military ad-
venturers, and though they had acquired, for the pur-
pose they had in view, a certain familiarity with Jacobin
doctrines, I had no reason to believe that their rule,
should they ever come to power, would be any less
tyrannous than that of the existing monarchy. But
there were among my acquaintances two or three men
of a different cast, men who had been youths at the
time of the French Revolution, and who had then be-
come imbued with enthusiasm for the cause of liberty,
equality and fraternity. These men gave force and direc-

72

THE GREEN CHILD

tion to my vague sympathies; in short, they converted
me to their cause.

The death of Ferdinand, and the proclamation of the
new Queen, was made the occasion of a partial amnesty,
from which I benefited. Whilst still in prison I had de-
termined, when once released, to make my way to the
free colonies, to seek my fortune in whatever way pre-
sented itself. I still had in my possession twenty English
guineas, sewn, after my former employer's example, into
the lining of my waistcoat. With these I hoped to pro-
cure a passage to Buenos Ayres or Rio de Janeiro, fail-
ing any method of working my way. On my release, I at
once carried out this intention.

The story of my voyage would take too long to tell in
full. At Cadiz I enlisted on one of those ships, which
under cover of the Spanish flag, intercepted the English
trading vessels on their way from the revolted Colonies.
In all but name we were pirates, our crew partially re-
cruited from the prison I had just left. At sea, after we
had successfully accosted two homeward bound vessels,
and deprived them of the best of their cargoes, we were
surprised by an outward bound vessel, which gave us
chase, and being unburdened and of larger sail, quickly
overtook us. We surrendered after the exchange of a
futile shot or two, and I should have shared the fate of
the rest of the crew, and been put into chains, had I not
revealed my nationality and explained my unhappy fate.
As it was, I was accepted in good faith by the English
captain, and made the go-between and interpreter in all
his dealings with the captive vessel. Another English
vessel having been sighted, a convoy was formed and the
captives conducted to Buenos Ayres, and there handed
over to the authorities. I carried out the necessary nego-
tiations for the English captain, and then asked him for

73

THE GREEN CHILD

my release. He replied by offering me a place with his
crew, but I was determined to seek my fortune in the
Colonies; and when I had explained my intention to
him, I was dismissed with a friendly handshake.

It was late in the day when I left the English ship. I
decided to find a lodging near the shore. Avoiding the
main thoroughfare as likely to be above my fortune and
appearance, I took a parallel but less frequented street,
leading from the river bank in the direction of what I
judged to be the centre of the town. After Cadiz, I was
depressed by the flat and monotonous appearance of the
place, and suddenly felt forlorn and helpless. The streets
were deserted, and I had to walk for a long time past
sheds and quays before reaching the inhabited quarters.
Most of the houses were of the familiar Spanish type
presenting blank walls and iron grilles to the street
front, occasionally offering, through an open doorway,
a glimpse of the bright and flowery patio within. I saw
nothing in the nature of a lodging-house, so decided to
enter a coffee-house, and whilst having some food and
drink, make enquiries from the owner.

No sooner had I made this decision, than I came by
a house which differed from the usual type; instead of
a patio, the open door led directly to a room, which was
lit from a lamp suspended from the ceiling. It was a
bare room, but seated round a rough table were several
men, drinking wine. In later days, when I thought back
on this scene, it occurred to me that several things, but
principally the solemn and intent mien of the whole
company, should have deterred me; but at the time,
tired and hungry, and very uncertain of my surround-
ings, I took the place for a modest wine-house, such as
I had seen in Cadiz and in other parts of Europe. I
therefore entered. If you are to understand what fol-

74

THE GREEN CHILD

lowed, you should have some notion of my appearance
at that time. My long incarceration had left me with a
lean frame, hollow cheeks, and eyes that seemed un-
naturally large and dark. On leaving the prison I had
acquired a Spanish hat, wide of brim and high in the
crown. I wore a dark brown shirt and a red neckerchief,
and instead of a coat, carried across my shoulder my
sailor's blanket; the few possessions I was left with were
tied in a bundle which I carried in my hand. Until I
reached the threshold of the room I was unperceived.

I stood there, looking for someone I might address.
But no sooner was I noticed than there was a general
movement, the men at the table rising to their feet.
They greeted me with expressions of welcome, and
made a place for me at the head of the table. I was
still under the impression that I had entered a public
room, and was not a little astonished at the general
courtesy and respect shown to me. A glass was placed
before me and filled with wine.

I was conscious of a certain expectancy among my
companions, but sipped my wine with as much uncon-
cern as 1 could muster. For a period that seemed an
eternity no one spoke. Then a voice from across the
table addressed me : The Sefior has had a good voyage?'

I lifted my gaze slowly, determined to be cautious.

'Yes/ I replied, 'by the grace of God I arrived safely/

'You came by the English ship that anchored in the
estuary this morning?'

'By the same.'

'We expected you yesterday, direct from Cadiz/

'From Cadiz I came, but the ways of the sea are not
direct/

I answered blindly, at first with the desire to be com-
plaisant. But I had not taken these three steps before I

75

THE GREEN CHILD

perceived that I had entered on a strange path, which led
I knew not whither. Never had I been more conscious of
my destiny, that obscure force which drives us to imper-
sonal action, to the surrender of the self to the event.

It is well/ added the same speaker. And then, as if
to echo my thoughts: 'The man of destiny cannot be
defeated, not even by the elements/

We drank in silence again for some time. Then the
same man spoke again :

'We have arranged that you shall rest in this house
for two days. By the end of that time the guides from
Roncador will be here. If you proceed by river the journey
will take you many weeks; we therefore advise you to
travel on horseback, and then in about twenty days you
will reach your destination. You will wait in the hills for
the revolutionary forces under General Santos. The rest
is unknown/

By then I was in possession of the facts essential to an
understanding of the maze into which the obscure work-
ings of destiny had directed me. The general situation in
South America was well known to me from my conver-
sations with my fellow-prisoners in Cadiz. The corrup-
tion of the mother country had for many years been
reflected, even exaggerated, in her colonial dependen-
cies, ruled for the most part by tyrannous viceroys and
captains-general. As a result, a spirit of unrest had grown
up among the settlers and natives, against which Spain,
distracted by foreign invasion and domestic strife, was
powerless to assert herself. Buonaparte's invasion of the
Peninsula had been the final act in the fall of an Empire,
warning the outer provinces that the time had come for
them to assert their independence, and bring into being
a new world. Though the doctrines of the French Revo-
lution had penetrated into the American Colonies, in

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most cases the decisive action was taken by the native
militia, and in effect the new republics were ruled by
military juntas, to which the Spanish troops hastened to
ally themselves. Though the revolutions were in nearly
all cases bloodless, there was no continuous peace. The
juntas assembled by the various dictators proved ignorant
and intractable, and there was not a single colony that
was not involved in a period of hopeless discord. But in
every colony a few idealists existed, men imbued with
the true republican principles, desirous to govern their
countries for the benefit of the inhabitants. For the most
part small traders, Creoles and peasants, they lacked the
necessary qualities for political leadership, and were
everywhere dependent on somewhat unscrupulous adven-
turers, generally lawyers who envied the power of the
military dictators, and who therefore professed revolu-
tionary principles in the hope of commanding sufficient
force to displace them.

The group of men I met in Buenos Ayres was, as I was
to learn later, of a somewhat different character. Formed
on the model of the Jacobin Club, it had as its object
the conversion of the whole of South America to the
principles of the Revolution, and the eventual federation
of all the former colonies into one Republic. For that
purpose it was in communication with the revolution-
aries in Spain, from whom it expected to receive
accredited agents ready to act as political leaders in the
endeavour. By what particular chain of coincidence my
own arrival answered to their immediate expectations, I
was never to learn. I accepted my fate, and they on their
part had no cause to question my good faith.

The spokesman of the group, whom the others
addressed as Don Gregorio, asked me many questions
relating to the affairs in Spain, more especially those of

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Cadiz, from which city he had emigrated on the failure
of del Riego's rebellion, and all these questions I was
able to answer fully. I discovered, for example, that
among my late fellow-prisoners were several who had
been Don Gregorio's associates in the past, and of these
friends we talked for some time. Then, perceiving that I
was weary, Don Gregorio suggested that I should retire
to the room that was prepared for me, which I did pres-
ently, glad to be alone to consider my position and my
future action.

I fell asleep, too exhausted to come to anv decision
that night, my mind full of doubt and perplexity. I slept
long, but often waking in fright and anxiety. My dreams
were full of terror, but towards dawn I fell into a deeper
slumber, and when I awoke, late in the morning, all this
terror was forgotten; my mind was clear and a deeision
soon made. To retire from the part I was playing seemed
to me not only a base desertion of the Providence that
had guided me to this spot, but, in sober truth, a dan-
gerous course. If I revealed myself, I should have to con-
fess to the deception I had practised the previous night,
with unknown consequences. If I attempted to escape, I
should have to reckon with the vengeance of men who
had dedicated themselves to desperate measures, and
who were not likely to tolerate the existence of a traitor
at large. In addition, my actual chances of escape were
remote, considering the fact that I was a stranger in the
city, with no definite plans and no knowledge of where
best to hide or in what way to extricate myself.

I therefore decided to risk the possibility of discovery,
and to continue to play the part for which destiny had
cast me. I rose, and, when I had washed and dressed,
made my way downstairs. In the room where the meet-
ing had been held the previous night I found only an

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old woman, who helped me to a bowl of coffee and a
loaf of bread. I decided not to question her, but to await
events. About midday a young Spaniard appeared, whom
I recognised as one of the revolutionaries, followed by a
native gaucho. The latter was introduced to me as the
guide who was to accompany me to Roncador, and with
whom I might discuss the plans for the journey, the
purchase of necessary equipment and food, and any other
details.

This man was an old post-rider, perfectly familiar
with the method of travelling in that country, depend-
able, but not above arranging matters to his personal
advantage. I foresaw that I might have to take him into
my confidence, and therefore entrusted him with a
liberal amount of gold with which to purchase a saddle,
pistols and other necessaries, informing him that if he
made a good purchase he might have the surplus as a
reward. I was still discussing the journey with him when
Don Gregorio appeared, and, after adding his advice on
some particulars, invited me to dine with him. We went
some distance through the streets till we came to a pretty
house with a patio or quadrangle, and there we joined
Don Gregorio's family (his wife and two small children)
at a copious and well-cooked meal, the best food, in fact,
that I had tasted for more than two years. During the
meal neither my mission nor any other serious affairs
were discussed; but afterwards, when the rest of the
family had retired to their siesta, Don Gregorio showed
me his library, a cool room furnished with a table and a
couch, a terrestrial globe and a collection of two or three
hundred books, mostly of a political or legal character.
We exchanged opinions about some of the volumes he
picked from the shelves, and then I was left to take my
siesta on the library couch.

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It was four or five o'clock before I was again disturbed.
Don Gregorio came and told me that I should have to
leave Buenos Ayres at dawn the next day, and should
now make any further preparations I felt necessary
before retiring to my room for all the rest I could obtain.
He offered to accompany me to the best stores, and to
lend me money should I require any. But there was little
that I could think of as appropriate to my adventure. I
purchased a pocket compass, some pencils and paper,
and various articles of clothing. Don Gregorio accom-
panied me back to my original lodging, and there said
good-bye to me. He gave me messages of fraternal good-
will for General Santos, and instructed me in a simple
code by means of which I might transmit messages to
himself or to any members of the Society in Buenos
Ayres.

At four o'clock the next morning the gaucho came to
wake me. He had a post horse at the door, with my
saddle and equipment already in place. I filled the saddle-
bags with my few possessions and mounted with some
trepidation. Although from boyhood used to riding
horseback, it was three or four years since I had been in
the saddle, and never had I ridden the long distances
before us. Dawn was just breaking as we clattered
through the deserted streets of Buenos Ayres. From my
guide I learned that we might expect to cover from sixty
to eighty miles a day, but I confided to him that I could
not contemplate so much the first day or two. When we
reached the first post-house, about twenty miles from the
city, I still felt tolerably fresh, and agreed to press on to
the next stage. Altogether we rode forty-three miles that
day, and put up at the post-house, a miserable thatched
hut, with no provision for the traveller beyond a ham-
mock of dried hide, some roasted or boiled beef, and the

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insipid tea of that country. At each post-house we found
a relay of horses, taken from the large herds which are
everywhere reared on the pampas. The horses were fresh
and almost wild, and covered the ground at a pace far
swifter than the horses of this country.

The memory of that journey is still vivid in my mind.
It was a new country for me, and I observed everything
with interest and excitement. The wide grassy pampas
are devoid of natural features, but their level immensity
was itself most impressive, even awesome. The grasses
and plants that grew by the side of our road were of
gigantic size the thistles in particular rearing their
crowns and jagged branches like fantastic trees above
our heads. Great herds of cattle moved like migrations
over the plain; deer and ostriches bounded from our
path, and smaller animals, the bearded biscachas and
the mailed armadillo, met our onset with sudden sur-
prise; whilst every few hundred yards a covey of part-
ridges would rise whirring from under our feet.

The people I met on my journey are less distinct,
eclipsed in my memory by the more remarkable events
of later years. But everywhere I found hospitable men
post-house keepers, farmers, sometimes a priest. My pas-
sage was unimpeded everyone assumed I was a trader,
or perhaps a prospector and for my part I adopted a
pleasant but reserved attitude. At two of the larger towns
we rested for a day, but at the end of twenty days I
reckoned we had come about 1,200 miles, and were
within a day's ride of our destination. We were at the
foot of a mountain range that stretched as far as the eye
could see on either side. The village we had reached, in-
habited entirely by Indians, was at the end of the road.
To the east the great river, that at a distance of never
more than fifty miles had been our constant companion,

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descended through the mountains in a series of rapids
and immense waterfalls, the booming sound of which
could be heard in our village. The pass into Roncador
was merely a rocky and precipitous track, crossing the
ridge about fifty miles to the west of the falls.

On our journey I had had much opportunity to com-
mune with myself, for the gaucho, though agreeable
enough as a travelling companion, resourceful and faith-
ful, had no great powers of conversation. He knew that
I was bound on a political mission, but I doubt whether
this meant anything to him. He had a fixed loathing of
the Old Spaniards, as the foreign oppressors were called,
and his political sympathies were racial rather than
idealistic. Nor was his knowledge of the country to which
we were bound very extensive; he had been there often
as a courier and guide, but he had never lived there. He
could add nothing essential to the information given to
me by Don Gregorio.

My fund of knowledge amounted to this : The country
of Roncador was one of the smallest of the former Spanish
provinces. It consisted of a high upland plateau, about
the same size as Ireland. It was entirely pastoral in
character, and only its geographical frontiers preserved
its economic and political identity. That identity would
never have existed but for the activities of the Jesuits,
who early in the seventeenth century had penetrated
into this fertile district, established a mission there, con-
verted and organised the Guarani Indians who had pre-
viously led a more or less nomadic existence, taught them
the principles of agriculture and trading, and some of
the mechanical arts, such as shoe-making, carpentry and
building. For a hundred and fifty years they had guided
the destinies of the community they had been instru-

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mental in creating, and, though there is no doubt that
they had exploited the Indians for the worldly glory of
their priesthood, yet the system was designed for the
general good, and if they had not made themselves
objects of envy to the temporal powers, they might have
succeeded in establishing a rational and truly Christian
order of society which would have been an example to
the whole world. But not content with supervising the
spiritual and economic welfare of the communities they
had founded, they sought to make themselves indepen-
dent of the Spanish King, even in political matters (and,
some say, of the Pope in theological matters). They
carried their intrigues and pretensions to such a length
that finally the King resolved to expel them from all his
domains, and prepared his plans with such thoroughness
and secrecy that in one night every Jesuit in the Spanish
colonies was surprised and arrested by the civil and
military authorities, sent to Buenos Ayres under escort,
and from thence shipped off for Spain.

This event had taken place between sixty and seventy
years before my arrival in America. The rule of the
Jesuits had lasted for a century and a half, and though
it had been stern, and had kept the Indians in strict sub-
ordination, it had been stable and efficient. After the
expulsion of the Jesuits, the missions either fell into utter
decay, the Indians reverting to their primitive mode of
existence, or they fell, as was more often the case, into
the hands of unscrupulous Spaniards and Creoles. A
Spanish governor and three lieutenants were appointed
to each colony; to each town a civil administrator for
temporal affairs and two curates for spiritual affairs.
Actually such government was a cloak for a system of
spoliation and robbery; it is reckoned that in the four
years following the expulsion of the Jesuits the wealth of

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most of the missions in cattle, horses and sheep declined
by more than half its former worth,

I was later to learn much more about the government
of the Jesuits, but for the moment I will not burden my
narrative with further facts. Sufficient to say that for the
past sixty odd years the colonies and missions had con-
tinued to decline in wealth, in population, and in all the
outward signs of civilisation. When at the break-up of
the Spanish empire the colonies had declared their inde-
pendence, all the inhabitants looked forward to an im-
provement in their condition; and certainly, from the
point of view of the settlers and traders who had adopted
the country as their own, everything was to be gained by
the rejection of the Spanish dominion. The power fell
into the hands of the officers of the local militia (forces
formerly recruited by the Spanish garrisons), assisted in
some cases by a lawyer and a merchant or two. In most
cases a military dictatorship was established, but since
such governments had no purpose beyond the self-
aggrandisement of the dictator, they only served to
attract the cupidity of other potential dictators. Political
intrigues invariably ending in bloodshed were further
complicated by the action of the new priests, who, find-
ing themselves in conflict with every dictatorship in turn,
did all in their power to impede administration. Mean-
while the unfortunate Indians found themselves worse
off than ever; not only did they lack the political organ-
isation and arms to make a revolt possible; they were
even devoid of the necessary initiative. Utterly demoral-
ised, they became the helpless victims of whoever pos-
sessed the authority to oppress them.

Against this system of oppression the Society of
Patriots in Buenos Ayres was endeavouring to set the
principles of the French Revolution. Their task was

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hopeless, and destined to failure. For though they could
convert the Indians, and though oppression had en-
gendered the spirit of rebellion, yet the agents necessary
to organise and lead such a popular movement were
completely lacking. In the whole breadth of the con-
tinent there was scarcely a man of political inclinations
whose conduct was above the suspicion of venality, and
who was free to devote himself to the cause of the op-
pressed people. The committee in Buenos Ayres con-
sisted for the most part of men attached by affairs and
families to that city, and fully occupied with their own
political future. It was for this reason that they had
besought their comrades in Cadiz to send out approved
agents, one of whom I had unwittingly become.

The efforts of such agents would have been quite futile
but for the existence within most of the colonies of dis-
satisfied elements among the military forces. These forces,
as I have already said, were not purely Spanish; in fact,
if by Spanish is meant 'born in Spain/ the purely Spanish
element, especially in the remoter colonies, was but a
minority. At the time of the secession of the colonies
many even of the purely Spanish elements had gone over
to the service of the new government, and these formed
the nucleus of the military dictatorships. Apart from
these, the greater number of the soldiers consisted of men
born in the colonies, generally of a Spanish father and
an Indian mother. But there was no strict racial barrier,
and even pure Indians were enrolled in the lower ranks.

There existed, therefore, the possibility of making a
division between the Spanish-born and the American-
born military elements. The former, who had nothing
but their military bravado to recommend them, were
often intolerable in their bearing, as well as idle and
corrupt in their manners; the latter, with families and

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property in their vicinity, had interests beyond the
barrack-room and parade-ground, and were consequently
more sober in their behaviour and more sympathetic
towards the natives. The possible strategy for a revolu-
tionary party, therefore, was to enlist the aid of these
more sympathetic elements in the army, and so to over-
come the dictatorship by the very means by which it
maintained itself.

You should realise that what I have dignified by the
name of an army was often a force of a few hundred
men, indifferently armed with old carbines. In excep-
tional cases they might possess one or two pieces of
artillery. Naturally all the men were mounted, or mount-
able, for horses were everywhere plentiful. In Roncador
the army consisted of four companies, each of something
less than two hundred men. But the staff of officers was,
as usual, out of all proportion to the size of the army,
including five generals, a dozen colonels, and twenty or
thirty officers of lower rank.

Such, so far as I can now recollect, was the extent of
my knowledge before I came to Roncador. But it had
already been established by the Society of Patriots that a
sufficient support for a new government could be found,
not only among the Indians, but even in the army, and
secret negotiations had taken place between the com-
mittee in Buenos Ayores and Chrisanto Santos, the
general to whom I was to report. Santos, although he
had risen to the highest rank in the army, belonged to a
family long established in the colonies, whose blood was
not unmixed with that of the Indians with whom he
sympathised. But though eager to change the existing
state of things, and to establish order and justice in the
place of chaos and oppression, there was no one of
sufficient education or experience in the country with

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whom he could co-operate. He could, he felt, establish
order, but he had no stomach for the details of political
administration, without which it is impossible to govern
a community.

When we had rested for twenty-four hours, we left for
the last short but arduous stage of our journey. We hired
four mules, and an extra man to act as guide. The path
wound upwards through a rocky and precipitous valley,
sometimes following the bed of the stream, sometimes
climbing high above the banks across thickly wooded
slopes. About midday we reached the summit of the
pass, and there we rested four hours. Though we were at
least four thousand feet above the sea level, the autumn
day was still and warm. My gaucho and the guide slept
in the shade; the mules were busy stamping their feet
and twitching their hides to keep off the tiresome insects
which infested them. I was now too excited to sleep, at
once eager and apprehensive, on tiptoe, as it were, at the
threshold of a country which held my destiny. The
grassy track at my feet, the vista of wooded hills, the
vast open sky above me, all invited me forward with a
secret promise.

I roused my companions towards four o'clock, and
even cursed them for their sluggishness. Our destination
was only six miles away, and the descent of a thousand
feet more gradual. But the woodland paths were often
impeded with new undergrowth and fallen branches, so
that it was nearly seven o'clock when we finally reached
a clearing and saw before us a low estancia or farmhouse,
built of wood and clay-filled wattles. We halted on the
edge of the clearing whilst our guide went forward to
warn the owner of our approach.

He presently came back, signalling us to approach*

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The house did not differ much from many I had seen on
my journey from the coast. It consisted of two long
rooms, the first furnished with a table and a few rough
chairs, the second with a couple of beds. An old man,
his broad brown wrinkled face wreathed in silky white
hair, came forward to greet us. This was Borja Yrabuye,
the Indian in whose cottage I was to await the instruc-
tions of General Santos. He spoke a little Spanish, and
was infinitely polite, indeed servile. In an incredibly short
time he had ready an excellent meal of roast beef and
yucca root, followed by yerba tea and cigars. Afterwards
I amused myself by attempting to talk with Yrabuye in
the Guarani dialect and before bedtime had made some
progress.

The next morning the gaucho left early for Roncador,
to warn General Santos of my arrival, and to receive
instructions. Roncador (the principal town having the
same name as the country) was a full day's ride away, so
I could not expect Pedro's return for forty-eight hours. I
sent the guide back with the mules, and spent the follow-
ing two days in the excellent company of Yrabuye, from
whom, in spite of difficulties of communication, I learned
much of the customs of the country, the state of affairs
among the Indians, their complaints against the
Spaniards and their desire for a settled government.
Incidentally, I continued to improve my knowledge of
the dialect.

Pedro did not return the evening of the second day of
his absence, as I expected, but on the third day he re-
appeared, accompanied by General Santos himself. Of
exceptionally low stature, the General made up for his
physical deficiencies by a fiery but good-humoured
appearance, the effect mainly of his dark restless eyes
and a black beard, streaked with grey, which radiated

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from his face like the bristles of a sweep's brush. He
talked rapidly and effusively, greeting me with such a
torrent of words that I was relieved of the necessity of
making any adequate response. Yrabuye, who was a
dependant of the General's, and had often accompanied
him on shooting expeditions, soon welcomed his master
with a meal to his liking, which we all shared. After-
wards the General and I drew apart and held a long
interchange of views. I call it an interchange of views,
but my part of the conversation was mostly in the form
of questions, which General Santos answered without
reserve. Actually he was old enough to be my father,
but he treated me without the least condescension,
attributing to me a political wisdom and wide experi-
ence of affairs which I assumed without protest. In
dealing with men of action I have always found that
in matters which they regard as intellectual they have
no perception nor possibility of judgment, and will
readily accept the most superficial display of know-
ledge as a profound mystery beyond their grasp, pro-
vided always that the display is made with calmness and
confidence.

The General had let it be assumed that he had gone
to the mountains for a day's shooting, so we had the
whole of the following day to discuss and elaborate our
plans. The General was of the opinion that surprise must
be the principle of our strategy. Once the city was occu-
pied, and the Spanish officers under arrest, we need fear
no further opposition from the people of Roncador. We
should, indeed, proclaim a popular government and in-
vite their assent to the new constitution, a constitution
which would follow the model indicated by the most
enlightened philosophers of Europe.

The General could count on the fidelity of his own

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company, but it would be difficult to assemble them
without the knowledge of the other officers. Anything
in the nature of a company parade, which I suggested,
or a company field-day, was unknown to the Roncadoi-
army. The only parades indulged in took place on fes-
tival occasions, and then involved the whole army. There
seemed to be no simple or straightforward solution of
the problem. I then asked the General to give me some
precise idea of the layout of the city and the land sur-
rounding it. The city was simplicity itself, consisting of
a central square, from each corner of which two streets
branched off at right angles. There were some minor
streets or lanes intersecting these at irregular intervals.
All was situated on the slopes and top of a semi-
circular mound (actually the escarpment of a plain)
round the foot of which a river flowed. The river, itself
of no considerable dimensions, ran through a stony
bed, and was crossed by a single bridge of three arches
span. The street to the bridge ran off from the north-
west corner of the square, and was the principal
thoroughfare.

The town itself consisted for the most part of huts,
except on the east side of the square. There, more than
a hundred years ago, the Jesuits had constructed their
cathedral, flanked by two lower stone buildings, one
formerly the college of the Jesuits and now used as a
barracks and military headquarters, the other a ware-
house and seat of the civil administration. The whole of
the army staff occupied quarters in the college, which
was built round a large quadrangle, with a covered
cloister extending all the way round.

The only entrances to the cloisters were two: one
direct from the square, a covered way capable of admit-
ting a cart, or four men abreast; the other from the

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north transept of the cathedral, a doorway of normal
dimensions.

It is useless to describe the several alternative plans we
elaborated during the day; most of the obvious ones were
discarded owing to the nature of the human material at
our command. Though he could trust his men to follow
him in person whenever and wherever he led them,
General Santos despaired of even communicating to
them a secret plan of operations; nor could he answer
for their reliability, because the very simplicity of their
characters prevented many of them understanding the
subtle nature of an intrigue, or the necessity of silence.
We therefore finally dismissed any plan which involved
mass action, and resolved on a swift operation employ-
ing very few men. Such action would have to be drastic
and spectacular, and I, who had hitherto considered
myself among the most humane and tender-hearted of
men, found myself considering, and even urging, the
method of assassination. Merely to arrest the Dictator
and his immediate associates might provoke desperate
opposition among the remaining officers; and however
loyal our forces, and however favourable the populace, a
victory would not be assured without a struggle involv-
ing untold bloodshed.

We decided that our plan should contemplate, in the
first instance, the assassination of the Dictator alone;
other executions would only be carried out if the event
provoked definite opposition. But the General was fairly
confident that the death of the Dictator would not be
regretted even among his associates, for those who were
not inspired by fear or personal antipathy were probably
envious.

We decided next that the assassination should be
spectacular. A private assassination would involve the

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further problem of publicity, the endless repetition of
explanations; and explanations are only effective in such
circumstances if accompanied by a display of force. This
decision implied in effect that the assassination should
take place in the square, at an hour when a considerable
number of people would be about.

The assassination should be followed by the immediate
declaration of a republic, the abolition of the military
dictatorship, and the establishment of the rule of the
people by free election of representatives.

So much determined, the problem resolved itself into
settling on the most suitable occasion. The General, after
some thought, recalled that on the first Sunday of April
(which was late autumn in the latitude) there took place
the ceremony of the presentation of the tithes. Origin-
ally introduced by the Jesuits, this method of supporting
the clergy had been continued under the Spanish rule,
but owing to the rivalry of Church and State which had
then developed, it had become difficult for the priests to
enforce this tribute. Recently, under the military dic-
tatorship, the whole system had been revised, the tithes
reduced to reasonable proportions, and their collection
enforced by arms. To mark this new agreement between
the Church and the Government, the Dictator had
established the custom of attending in state the ceremony
of blessing the tithes. By great good fortune, General
Santos had been entrusted with the necessary arrange-
ments for the military participation, this year as on
former occasions. Our task seemed therefore to be enor-
mously simplified.

It occurred to me then that we should be risking
the success of the plot if in any way the assassination
interfered with the ceremony in the cathedral, or if
blood were shed in the immediate vicinity of a build-

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ing held sacred by the people. It would be easy, for
example, to plant assassins in the porch of the church,
who would fall on the Dictator as he emerged at the
head of the procession. We might even plant other
men inside the church who, as soon as the shot was
fired, would close the doors of the church and prevent
the exit of the Dictator's bodyguard. Nothing could
be neater than such a plan, but the General confirmed
my fear that the deed might in that event distress the
religious susceptibilities of the people, and end by
making a martyr of the Dictator.

We did not make any further progress with our plans
that day, but as there were still three weeks to elapse
before the Sunday in question, it was decided that on the
morrow I should accompany the General to his farm,
which was situated about five miles to the west of the
city. There we could elaborate the details of our plan of
action carefully and patiently. That my presence at the
farm might be noticed and reported in Roncador did
not seem to the General to be a matter of great import-
ance; he would never be suspected by his fellow-officers
of harbouring a political agent, and among the people
the knowledge of my existence, and perhaps the general
diffusion of a certain atmosphere of wonder and mystery,
would be to the advantage of our plans.

Accordingly the next day we were early in the saddle.
I said farewell to the gentle Yrabuye, and promised to
return and shoot partridges with him before many weeks
were past. My gaucho, who might at this stage have
returned to Buenos Ayres, begged me to retain him as a
body-servant in this country of savages, and, the General
consenting, I willingly engaged him, for he was the
image of fidelity.

The country we passed through was of a delicious

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freshness. Green pastures alternated with groves of trees,
and everywhere ran pleasant streams. The shrubs and
trees were of great variety, many unknown to me; but I
recognised the lime, the orange and the fig tree. Smaller
plants, some of them fragrant, hung down from the
branches of the larger trees, and in this aerial garden
lived a whole world of creatures squirrels, monkeys,
parrots, and other birds of gorgeous plumage. But most
attractive of all were the myriads of humming-birds
which darted from tree to tree, or hovered suspended in
the air about us. I had often seen these little creatures
some of them were no larger than insects on my way
up from the coast, but never in such quantities, nor in
such dazzling variety. Some of them seemed actually to
gleam like precious stones or bright metals, at once
translucent and iridescent; their hues ran from cinnamon
to crimson, purple, violet, indigo and green. In flight,
their wings vibrate so quickly as to become invisible, and
then they emit that low murmur which gives them their
name, The General was pleased to see my delight in
these 'angels/ as he called them, and explained that he
loved them so much himself, that he had peopled his
house with them.

Here and there the land became more marshy, and
we passed one or two lakes, covered with ducks, water-
hens and snipe. Partridge and quail ran about the grassy
clearings. Sometimes among the trees I spied a white-
washed cottage or farmhouse, and signs of cultivation
were frequent strips of cotton-plant, yucca, and tobacco-
plant, and sometimes, near the farmhouses, a fenced field
of Indian corn or sugar-cane. The inhabitants, such as
we saw, were natives, living in extreme simplicity. At
one cottage we stopped for water, which was brought to
us in a rough earthenware jug by the master of the

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house. He stood uncovered while we drank, his wife and
children standing respectfully in the background, their
hands crossed over their bosoms. The General told me
that this was their custom with all strangers, and was in
no way a special tribute to him.

We rode easily and arrived at the General's farm about
five o'clock in the evening. The country was now less
wooded, but still fertile. Large herds of cattle and horses
roamed about the open prairies. The farmhouse stood in
the shelter of a group of trees a long low building, with
an open verandah. Our arrival was the signal for a great
barking of dogs and fluttering of fowl. Young gauchos
sprang from the shade to take our horses, and the
General led me into his estancia. He lived here with a
native wife and nine children, the eldest of whom was a
young woman of twenty-two. He kissed them all in turn,
and then introduced me as Doctor Olivero a name we
had agreed on as suitable for the country. We did not
stay, however, with the family, but made our way to the
General's own room, at one end of the house. Here I was
introduced to the rest the most numerous part of the
General's family : his humming-birds that lived in half
a dozen cages hung round the walls of his room. There
he fed them, and there they bred. He opened the cages
and they flew out with shrill little cries, fluttering round
the General, who had furnished himself with quills
filled with syrup, into which the hovering birds dipped
their tongues. Others flew about his ears, hovered round
his mouth, buzzed and fluttered about his head and
hands. When tired of playing with them, he put the
quills away; and then he gently waved his hands in the
midst of them, at which signal they all returned to their
respective cages.

In an alcove I noticed a few books, but except for a

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table and two chairs, there was no other furniture in the
room. Almost the whole of one side was open to the
verandah, from which the open landscape sloped into a
distant view of wooded hills, suffused with the first
golden flush of autumn, Here, on the verandah, as I
was presently to discover, the whole family slept in ham-
mocks. But before we had reached that restful stage our
hunger had been satisfied by a well-cooked meal, served
to us by the General's daughters.

The next day the General returned to Roncador, and
left me to meditate among his books and humming-
birds. It was long before I could establish any intimate
relationship with the latter, for no doubt my lean
features and tall figure, compared with the General's
short and shaggy frame, had all the strangeness of a
new species. Among the books I found several of a
political nature, calculated to inspire a liberal and
sympathetic outlook among them Volney's great
work, which had so much influenced my own youthful
mind.

In these surroundings I spent three of the most
pleasant weeks of my whole life. The climate was so
bright and temperate, the life of the household so gay
and simple, so devoid of ceremony or conventions of any
kind. I rose early and bathed in a near stream; I spent
the morning shooting wild ducks and partridges, or
riding with one of the General's sons about the estate; I
spent the long shaded siestas in the General's room; I
read slowly and thoughtfully, refreshed occasionally by
cups of yerba tea, my senses lulled by fragrant and
freshly-made cigars. I found it very difficult to realise
that I was the same being who a few years ago had been
eating out his heart in an English village; who had lived
through varied scenes in London, Warsaw and Cadiz.

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My mind utterly refused to believe in the concurrent
existence of such diverse places; my memory was a long
thread, stained with these multi-coloured experiences,
now coiled up in my brain. Beyond the present, no other
reality could exist for me.

General Santos came home every few days, and some-
times stayed for two days at a time. We spent many
hours in conference, elaborating our plans. Two develop-
ments were in our favour. The Dictator had difficulty
in finding sufficient ready money to pay the army he
kept mobilised, and a spirit of dissatisfaction was evident
among them; and as the time for the paying of the
tithes drew near, a section of the people were murmur-
ing, as usual, against this imposition. Roncador did not
differ from other countries in this respect, that the
churches were filled with women and children, whilst
the men, their days occupied by physical labour and
their nights by necessary sleep, found little time, and
indeed had little need, for the consolations of religion.
This division was further accentuated by the priests and
friars, who, to buttress their authority, sought every
means of acquiring a dominating influence over the
womenfolk.

As the day of action drew nearer, although we were in
fuller command of all the factors in the situation, the
inspiration for the actual stroke was lacking. I therefore
resolved to accompany the General to Roncador, there
to survey as closely as possible the actual spot chosen for
the act of liberation. For this purpose I exchanged clothes
with my gaucho, and rode in as the General's attendant.
The General was to make some purchases in the market,
and send me back with them. We arrived at the city
without incident. I was interested to see how the reality
of its situation compared with the mental image I had

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formed from the General's description. The plan and
situation were not to be mistaken; it was all of such sim-
plicity. But I had imagined a city of greater regularity
and more imposing appearance. Actually it was a pitiful
collection of huts and sheds, the sandy streets unpaved
and unclean. The streets sloping towards the river were
worn by rains and by water from open springs, and were
more like the bed of a ravine. The plaza or central square
presented a different appearance. The houses round three
sides of it, mostly belonging to merchants and shop-
keepers, were of larger dimensions, and generally two
storeys high. The ground floor was recessed, to form an
open arcade which ran round the square after the fashion
of a cloister. Here and there booths were erected on the
other side of this covered way. The open square, about
four acres of bare earth, was deserted when we arrived.
The most remarkable feature of the place, however, was
the eastern side of the square, occupied by the cathedral
and two other buildings the barracks and the ayuntia-
mento, or the administrative offices. These three struc-
tures completely dwarfed the rest of the town. The
church was only to be judged by its facade, which was a
perversion of the baroque style, an enormous baldaquin
in stone and stucco, to which was attached a wooden
portico flanked by spirally twisted columns and sur-
mounted, in a niche which was a veritable crow's-nest of
fantastic metal ornament, by a life-sized figure of the
Virgin of the Assumption. A flight of about a dozen
wide steps led down to the level of the square. The other
two buildings, each two storeys high, were by contrast
severe and prison-like; built of roughly hewn granite,
their windows were defended by iron grilles.

We rode up to the building on the left of the cathedral
and, passing a sentry, entered the courtyard, where we

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left our horses in the charge o the General's groom. It
was the hour of the siesta, and there were few people
about, I have already mentioned the door from this
courtyard which gave access to the cathedral. Using this
entrance, we made our way into the dark interior. The
smell of dampness and decay was my first impression of
the general ruin which I soon discovered everywhere
about me. The roof was in places open to the sky, and
long streaks of greenish stain trailed down the once
whitewashed walls. The droppings of birds disfigured the
cornices, the pillars, and even the saints whose statues
presided over the melancholy scene. The high altar was
stripped and obviously not in use, but in the side chapels
a few candles were burning, and here and there an old
woman was kneeling in prayer.

The General explained that for the Blessing of the
Tithes the high altar would be temporarily refitted. The
church would be filled with worshippers, the women on
one side, the men on the other side separated by a wide
aisle. Down this aisle would pass, first the Bishop and
priests, the choristers, the neophytes, and the virgins
bearing the symbolic fruits. The Dictator would follow
with his staff and the officers of the city, the judges and
magistrates. They would take their places in front of the
people, and then the tithes would be blessed. The pro-
cession would then re-form, the priests proceeding to the
sacristy, the secular officers and their followers going out
by the great western porch, down the steps to the Square.
In the Square the Dictator would review his miniature
army, drawn up there in parade formation. Standing at
the foot of the steps, he would take the salute as the
troops marched past on their way to the barracks, and
then he would follow them. Afterwards, various eques-
trian sports, including a sortija and a bull-fight, would

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be held in the Square not the true Spanish bull-fight,
but a scuffle of untrained Indian toreros and tame
bulls.

I questioned the General closely about the procedure.
Standing at the foot of the cathedral steps, where the
Dictator himself would stand five days later, two
thoughts occurred to me: i, a dictator should never
venture before his people on foot; 2, a dictator should
never march at the rear of his army.

There was little more we could do in the way of sight-
seeing without attracting undue attention, so when we
had made some purchases we left the city, still somnolent
in the evening sun. We were silent as we rode back,
meditating on the desperate action now so near perform-
ance.

Slowly a plan was taking shape in my mind a plan
which appealed to me because it seemed to promise to
possess the fantasy of a natural event. Man is always so
clumsy and direct in his self-willed deeds; the knife, a
bullet, poison there is no play between the intention
and the crude act. When the ancient gods wished to kill
^Eschylus, they sent an eagle into the sky, carrying a
tortoise in its claws an insecure and heavy burden,
which presently slipping from its grasp, fell like a bolt
through the air and crushed the skull of the aged poet.
In such a way I would have liked to bring about the
death of the Dictator.

My plan was to stage the assassination as part of the
festivities. In the Square a circular palisading would be
erected, a temporary ring to hold back the spectators.
On the south side of the Square a special box would be
fitted up for the Dictator and his friends. Though I had
never seen a bull-fight, I was familiar enough with its
procedure from the conversation of my fellow-prisoners

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in Cadiz, and the first plan I outlined to General Santos
was this: that at some stage in the fight the torero
should entice the bull towards the Dictator's box, incite
it so that he was compelled to take sudden refuge in the
box itself, and there plunge his sword into the Dictator
instead of into the bull. The General commended my
ingenuity, but raised these objections: he doubted
whether there existed in Roncador an espada skilful
enough to entice the bull in the required direction; and,
moreover, by the time the fight had reached its final
stage, the suerte de malar, the bull was generally too
dazed and exhausted to spring forward in a manner
sufficiently surprising to make a resort to the Dictator's
box feasible.

I immediately saw the force of these objections, and
turned my thoughts towards the other sport indulged in
on such occasions. The sortija is a much simpler and
more innocent amusement. A frame, like that of a door,
and wide enough to allow a horse and rider to pass
through it with ease, is erected in an open space. From
the middle of the horizontal bar of the frame a ring is
suspended by a slender cord. The horseman, taking his
stand about two hundred yards away, gallops towards
the frame at full speed and attempts to carry away the
ring on the point of a dagger or spear. Usually a success-
ful rider receives a great ovation, and at Roncador would
prance round the arena, saluting the Dictator as he
passed his box.

The frame would be erected in the middle of the
Square, opposite the cathedral porch. The riders would
take their stand at the north end, so that the Dictator
would have a clear view of the event from his box, and
would therefore, I perceived, be in the direct line of the
onrushing horse. A rider could, before anyone realised

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what was happening, spur on his horse, leap the pali-
sading, and there find a target less elusive than a sus-
pended ring.

All that was lacking was a man daring enough and
skilful enough to risk his life in this action.

At first General Santos distrusted the elaborate nature
of my plan; he would honestly have preferred some
straight shooting, but when I pointed out the immense
psychological effect of such a swift and surprising blow,
he was slowly convinced, and ended by adopting the
idea with enthusiasm. That evening we discussed every
aspect of the plan -every possible eventuality; and de-
cided on the consequential steps to be taken. We agreed
that as soon as the deed was accomplished, the barracks,
the cathedral and the ayuntiamento should be occupied
by armed men of the General's company; that a re-
public should be at once declared and a proclamation
issued; that the Spanish officers should all be arrested
and any resistance met by death.

Once our plan was settled, we acted with resolution
and intensity. Five days only were left for the comple-
tion of all the necessary arrangements. I anticipated
that the most difficult part would be the provision of
the actual assassin, but the General assured me that he
knew a dozen men who would welcome the opportunity
of revenge men who had been insulted or ill-treated by
the military dictatorship. The General himself was most
concerned for the details of the proclamation, but this I
offered to draft within twenty-four hours, and draft it in
such a way that all the classical dogmas of democratic
government should be clearly embodied. The principles,
I assured him, had long been settled by the Fathers of
the Revolution (by which general title I designated such
philosophers as Rousseau, Raynal and Volney); all that

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was necessary was to apply these universal principles to
the particular case of Roncador.

The General submitted very humbly to my display of
intellectual arrogance, and with a wave of his hands, the
gesture with which he had dismissed his humming-
birds, he turned to those animated companions of his,
and began to feed them from the quills of syrup.

He left for Roncador at an early hour the next morn-
ing. The mental excitement of our last conversation had
kept me long awake, and before I fell asleep the outlines
of a new constitution seemed to be clear in my mind.
But when I awoke I felt dull and heavy, and it was only
after several cups of yerba tea, and frequent recourse to
Rousseau and Volney, that my phrases began to take
form once again. Then I wrote swiftly and clearly, and
was able to spend the second day merely in reviewing
and correcting the periods of our proclamation.

[Here follows a translation of the printed proclama-
tion, found among Olivero's papers.

PROVISIONAL ORDINANCE OF
GOVERNMENT

To be submitted to an Electoral Convention
of the Republic of Roncador

Preamble

All men being endowed by Universal Providence with
the same faculties, the same sensations, and the same
needs, by this very fact it was intended by Providence
that they should have a right to an equal share of the
earth's bounty. Since the bounty is sufficient for all
needs, it follows that all men can exist in equal liberty,
each the master of his own destiny.

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Equality and liberty are the essential attributes of
man, two laws of his being, elements of his very nature.
Men unite to cultivate the earth and live on its fruits,
and for this purpose they enter into mutual contracts;
for every service freely rendered a just share of wealth Js
given. Liberty and equality are guaranteed by justice,
which is the principle of government in a society of free
men.

Articles of Government

Article i. The province of Roncador is free and inde-
pendent; its government is elective; its laws shall be
published by the authority of a popular assembly, and
administered without fear or favour.

Article 2. The authority to govern in the name of
the people shall be given for a term of three years to a
council of three persons, elected by the vote of the whole
people; it shall deal with all the affairs of the state,
military, economic and administrative. There shall be a
secretary (appointed by the Council) with power to act
for any member of the Council in the case of his dis-
ability.

Article 3. The province of Roncador adheres to the
one Catholic religion; but the Church has authority in
spiritual matters only. It will elect its own bishops and
conduct the education and administration of its own
priesthood. Its revenues shall be provided by the willing
charity of the worshippers in each parish. All com-
pulsory tithes are abolished.

Article 4. Besides the usual attributes of government,
the Council shall possess the following powers: i, to
provide all the civil and military forces; 2, to levy taxes;
3, to form treaties of amity and commerce; 4, to under-
take public works; 5, to make regulations for buying and

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selling the produce of the country, both internally and
externally.

Article 5. Each month there shall be published a
general account of the revenues, the expenditures, and
the balance in the treasury. Every three months there
shall be published a detailed account of the public
revenues and expenditures.

Article 6. The arrangement of the troops, the order
of the promotions, plans of defence and everything that
relates to military affairs, appertain to the commander-
in-chief , who shall be one of the three members of the
Council.

Article 7. Every male above the age of sixteen shall
be ready to defend his country when required.

Article 8. Justice shall be administered by a court of
judges, who shall be paid a fixed salary by the State,
but shall be otherwise independent of all political con-
trol, being appointed by their own college, and removed
by a petition of the people. In each parish there shall be
a justice of the peace, appointed by the bench of judges
and answerable to them for the administration of local
justice.

Article 9. In each town or district there shall be a
mayor, elected by the people, and responsible for the
local administration of economic affairs. The mayor
may, if the people so wish it, be a justice of the peace,
but whilst a justice of the peace holds office at the
pleasure of the bench of judges, a mayor is elected by
the people for a term of two years.

Article 10. The electors consist of every married
man, and of widows who act as head of a household.
The priests shall not vote, nor in any way take part in
political or judicial affairs.

Article n. All commerce with other countries shall

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be conducted under the supervision of the govern-
ment.

Article 12. The practice of usury is abolished.

This constitution is proclaimed by the provisional
government of General Santos. He has appointed as
Secretary to the provincial government the illustrious
Doctor Olivero, recently arrived from that classic land
of liberty, England, and learned in her universally
admired laws and institutions. The provisional govern-
ment will be submitted to the approval of the people at
a general assembly to be held this day four weeks hence.

Dated at Roncador, ist May, 183-.]

After an absence of thirty-six hours, General Santos
returned for an evening and a night. His plans had met
with every success. That is to say, under the guise of
making the usual arrangements for the festival, he had
interviewed twelve men of his company, Creoles or
Indians, who had all, upon being sworn to secrecy, pro-
fessed a willingness to carry out any commands the
General might give them. To each of these men he had
separately revealed our intention to proclaim a republic
on the following Sunday, and he had brought them to-
gether and asked them to select from the roll of the
Company the names of as many companions as they
each could rely on in the event of necessity. To these
companions they were not to reveal our plan, but on
the morning of the Festival each group was to be per-
suaded to meet on the east side of the Square to watch
the sports. The General himself, as officer in charge
of the festivities, would be on duty and mounted. The
leader of each group should keep a close watch, for at
a given moment he proposed to draw his sword and lift
it above his head. At this signal they should all with-

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draw to the guardroom of the barracks and arm them-
selves. They should immediately reappear on the
Square, where he would take charge of them and direct
further operations.

To a query I raised, the General replied that the guard
on duty at the barracks would be supplied by his own
Company, and would offer no resistance to their friends.

He proposed to give the signal immediately the
assassin had set out on his fatal ride. The few seconds
that would elapse would not be sufficient for the con-
certed movement to be noticed before the deed had been
accomplished, especially as the general attention would
be on the rider; and it was essential to set the movement
going before the deed had been accomplished, because
otherwise the sudden general confusion might distract
the soldiers from their purpose.

For the assassin the General had selected an Indian
named Iturbide, who had recently been degraded by the
Dictator. This man's magnificent physique and his skill
on horseback had formerly made him a favourite with
the officers, and he had actually been given the rank of
lieutenant. Some of the Spanish officers, resenting the
presence of a native among their ranks, had induced
him under the influence of wine to make bold and in-
cautious comments on the Dictator's personal conduct,
and had then reported these remarks to the Dictator
himself. Furious at the thought that anyone to whom he
had shown special favour should thus abuse his position,
the Dictator without further enquiry had ordered a
parade of the whole army, and had then publicly
stripped off the lieutenant's badges of rank. Dismissed
from the army, Iturbide had sunk into abject beggary
and despair, in which condition he thought only of
revenging himself for this unjust humiliation.

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To treat openly with such a man would have been an
extreme risk. Nor was he easily accessible through any
of the men in the Company, for in becoming an officer
Iturbide had forfeited his social integrity, and his dis-
grace had not been of a nature to reinstate him in the
regard of his companions. The man was therefore a
social outcast, though still respected by the civilian youth
of the place for his strength and ingenuity. Santos, how-
ever, had sent his groom to seek out Iturbide, and per-
suaded him to be on the bridge when they passed on
their way back to the farm. Knowing that the General
had always been sympathetic towards him, Iturbide had
readily agreed to the rendezvous. There they had met
this very morning, and Iturbide had taken the groom's
horse and ridden by the General's side. The plan was
unfolded to him, and step by step the Indian pledged
himself to secrecy, and finally to his own implication in
the plot. The General, on his part, had promised him
full protection after the execution of the deed, and the
rank of Captain in the republican army. Other details,
such as the provision of a horse and a tilting spear, had
also been arranged, and Iturbide had then returned
quickly to the city.

We reviewed our plan of operations until late in the
night. We covered many possible eventualities which I
cannot now recollect, but on only one point did we feel
at a loss. We could imagine no means of having our
proclamation printed in advance of the event. There
existed only one printing press in the whole of Roncador,
and this was subservient to the Dictator's government.
Our despair might have led us to a modification of our
plans had not General Santos observed, late in the night,
that not one citizen in a thousand could read a procla-
mation even if it were printed, and that therefore we

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might as well not print it at all, but have it proclaimed
in a loud voice.

With the terms of the proclamation which I had
drafted the General professed himself perfectly satisfied.
He only doubted whether the Indians would understand
a word of the preamble; he admitted, however, that elo-
quence was an essential instrument of government, and
therefore allowed me to retain my phrases. The actual
details of the constitution he found admirably adapted
to the country and its people, and he was obviously im-
pressed by my grasp of political affairs. Since I had been
sent to him in such a capacity, I allowed this impression
to remain undisturbed by any modest protestations.

The time that was left to us was spent by me in a state
of affected calmness; I was silent and to all appearance
bemused, but I felt that the impetuous beating of my
heart was only restrained by an effort of my will. I
made several copies of the proclamation, but otherwise
I could do nothing but wait. General Santos was kept in
Roncador, but he returned on the eve of the Festival.
All was in train. He had made certain more detailed
provisions, and certain men had been given definite
stations in the barracks and the cathedral. All else must
wait on the event.

The next day I left the farm early in the morning to
be present at the ceremony of the Blessing of the Tithes.
The dilapidated church had been decorated with a few
tawdry banners, and the high altar was set out with
bright vessels and lighted candles. The nave was filled
with a crowd of country people, timid and pious in their
demeanour. The ritual I have already described; it was
carried out in a perfunctory and hasty manner; the sing-
ing was execrable and the whole atmosphere listless. I
took my place in the dark shadow behind the shaft of

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light that entered the main porch, and was interested
chiefly to see the features of the man whose life was so
soon to be forfeited. Presently I heard the regular tramp-
ing of feet and a harsh command. The march was halted,
and then there entered, without music, a tall and solid
figure, dressed in the uniform of a general. He was
followed by five or six other officers, among whom was
my friend Santos. When the service was finished I had
a better opportunity to observe the Dictator, for he came
directly towards the open doors, his face full in the bril-
liant light a face so heavy and dull, so devoid of gentle-
ness and intelligence, that I looked on it without pity.

The Dictator stayed on the steps of the cathedral and
there received a salute from the four companies that is
to say, the whole army which were drawn up in parade
formation inside the improvised bull-ring, still unen-
closed on the side towards the cathedral. A bugle-call
then pierced the expectant air, there was a roll of drums,
followed by the usual words of command. The com-
panies formed into column of march, wheeled round the
ring, passed the Dictator, who again took their separate
salutes, and so filed into the barracks. The Dictator and
his staff were left alone on the steps; they abandoned
their formal attitudes and walked leisurely away to the
ayuntiamento, where refreshments were waiting for
them.

Meanwhile the ring was closed in and preparations
made for the bull-fight. This was due to begin at eleven
o'clock, and people began immediately to file into the
benches. They were dressed in all kinds of antique finery,
and the scene was soon very animated. Myself, I had
resolved to stay on the cathedral steps, where I could
obtain some shade from the fierce sun, and where the
whole proceedings would be perfectly visible.

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About a quarter-past the hour the Dictator and his
staff emerged again. There were no cries of "Viva," no
demonstration of any kind. Two soldiers guarded the
box reserved for the Dictator's party, which was entered
from behind, at the south end of the Square.

None of the bright ritual which accompanies a bull-
fight in Spain was practised at Roncador. The espadas
were clad in their ordinary riding-costumes, and a
poncho, or everyday cloak, served as a muleta. A young
bull was driven into the ring from a pen in the north-
west corner of the Square; a picador on horseback
appeared from the opposite corner. The bull was hardly
to be tempted into action; only when goaded by the
banderilleros did it display any anger. But in its timid
hesitations and frustrated assaults it provided the spec-
tators with sufficient cause for excited cries of execration
and delight.

In spite of the general air of excitement, this part of
the day seemed to me, and perhaps to everyone engaged
in the conspiracy, to drag on interminably. In reality it
did not last an hour, during which time three bulls were
dispatched. It was now midday, and I began to fear that
the rest of the sports would be abandoned. But the
people of Roncador have little sense of the passage of
time, and in any case the sortija was far too popular a
contest to suffer such a fate. The last bull had not yet
been dragged off the ring before men were erecting the
framework in front of where I stood, whilst to the right
the mounted contestants gathered in order of entry. I
was at a disadvantage in that I did not know which
figure was Iturbide There were about a dozen entrants,
and their appearance was so various as not to lend par-
ticular distinction to any one of them.

It was perhaps ten minutes before the course was

in

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ready. An incessant level chattering rose from the
assembled spectators, pierced by the sudden cries of
children, the shrill laughter of women, and above, in the
high clear sky, the swerving scream of swallows. The
heat of the sun sent up the smell of dust, sweat and
blood. The sleek horses pawed the ground and pranced
impatiently under their riders. I looked towards the
Dictator's box. It was in the shade, a calm oasis; a group
of four or five people smoking cigars, hatless, their
swords stiffly projecting from their huddled bodies, the
Dictator himself bulky in the middle of them. I looked
round the Square, and noticed Santos seated on his horse,
at the side of the other horses, but a little apart.

Then the men fixing up the frame picked up their
spades and mallets and ran out of the ring. A trumpet
was blown and the chatter and the cries of the crowd
died down. Only the swallows continued to scream.

The first rider came galloping down the ring, his body
pitched forward, his lance levelled past the horse's head.
He thundered through the frame, but left the ring oscil-
lating behind him.

Another rider came and then another. The third horse
stumbled and pitched its rider, and was led ignominiously
off. In the pause, whilst all eyes were occupied by this
lucky accident, I noticed a movement among the soldiers
standing on my side of the ring. They were gathering,
trickling casually together. No one else would notice.
Santos had taken advantage of the interruption to raise
his sword.

Iturbide's horse was restless, rearing on its hind legs.
Flakes of lathery foam flew off from its mouth. Then it
was suddenly quiet and lurched forward. Its flanks
rippled like silk in the sunlight.

Horse and rider crashed through the frame, the ring

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swinging idly behind them. But on they went unswerv-
ingly, swift, swift; till there was an indrawn cry, a con-
fused rising of men. The body of the rider was very low,
one with the horse and its lashing hooves.

A flash of sunlight caught the point of the lance. The
horse upreared, high against the palisading. Then there
was a downward lunge.

Men fell together in confusion, uttering aimless and
astonished cries. People were running across the ring
from all sides.

Behind, unobserved, Santos and his soldiers were
already emerging from the barracks, armed, in order.

From the confusion the horse emerged, unattended,
riderless.

The cry now, out of the confusion. The cry taking
shape, sounds becoming articulate. 'The Dictator! The
Dictator! The Dictator is dead!'

The crowd swayed, its outer rim broke. Three figures
emerged two soldiers with Iturbide between them.
Iturbide was alive.

The crowd swarmed round them, crying out, question-
ing. Excited voices, burying everything in their con-
fusion.

Then above it all a blare of trumpets, an order ringing
out clear.

The crowd turned towards the new diversion, saw the
armed men facing them, a solid phalanx. In front of
them, a General mounted. General Santos.

'To your homes. On pain of death, to your homes/
the General cried. The order was taken up and cried
across the whole Square.

At the same time a detachment of soldiers was march-
ing past the cathedral towards the south end of the ring.
The crowd gave way before them as they advanced to-

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wards the Dictator's box. Here they found the Spanish
officers, some bending over the mortally wounded Dic-
tator, others arguing excitedly about the event. Arrived
before these officers, the squad halted and brought their
rifles to the ready position. The corporal in charge called
upon the officers to surrender their swords and return to
the barracks under escort.

Confused by the assassination of the Dictator, without
any resource in the emergency, the officers thus addressed
prepared to obey the order without protest. At that
moment General Santos rode up to the group.

'Gentlemen/ he said, addressing the Spanish officers,
'in the name of the people of Roncador I have assumed
command of the army of the Republic. The deed you
have just witnessed is an act of justice, rendered neces-
sary by tyranny and oppression. Henceforth the people
of this land propose to govern themselves in liberty and
equality, freed for ever from the yoke of military dic-
tators. Gentlemen, you are under arrest. You shall come
before a tribunal without delay, and your fate will there
be decided with justice and clemency/'

The astonished officers were not given a chance to
protest. At a word from the General the detachment
surrounded the officers, and the order was given to
march. The equally astonished people, who had re-
treated like startled jackals to the shelter of their
verandahs, looked out and saw the men who had for so
long terrorised them led like criminals towards the
barracks.

Guards had meanwhile taken up their positions at all
important stations. The arena was empty, except for the
body of the Dictator, which lay on the ground beyond
the broken palisading. General Santos now rode into the
middle of the arena, and cried out in a loud voice :

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The people of Roncador are henceforth free. The
tyranny is at an end. Long live the republic 1'

But such as heard him were too dazed by the events
to respond. The General turned his horse and rode back
towards the barracks. As he passed the cathedral steps
he saw me standing there, and summoned me to follow
him.

My first business was to attend to the printing of the
proclamation. The printing press was immediately requi-
sitioned, and by evening a large number of sheets were
printed and freely distributed. Meanwhile ^the chief
representatives of the law, certain magistrates and alder-
men, were summoned to the barracks and asked to swear
fealty to the provisional government. Without exception,
everyone welcomed the new dispensation. It was decided
to have the body of the Dictator buried immediately,
and without any kind of public ceremony. Two friars
were instructed to carry out the necessary arrangements.
Finally, the treasurer of the Dictator's government was
summoned before us and asked to present an account of
the state's finances. All moneys in his possession, and
found among the effects of the Dictator, were confis-
cated, and late that evening a month's wages were issued
to the troops.

We worked continuously all that day, but towards
dark we relaxed our efforts and had food brought to the
headquarters we had established in the barracks. From
time to time messengers came in to report the reception
of the event among the people. After the first amaze-
ment there was general rejoicing, and late that evening,
when a majority of the soldiers had been dismissed,
there was great gaiety in the Square, the people dancing
and singing until long past midnight.

Thus the revolution was accomplished. It lacked many

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of the usual features of a revolution. There was only one
death, that of the tyrant, a death which, so far as we
knew, none regretted. There were no extraordinary
demonstrations of joy. The dancing that went on in the
Square was such as would in any case have taken place
at the conclusion of a festival. There was no popular
hero. General Santos had remained scrupulously modest
in his demeanour, and the actual assassin, Iturbide, was
satisfied to have escaped with his life. He did not even
seek out his companions, but at the General's invitation
stayed in the orderly-room, content to be a passive
witness to the results of his decisive act.

We all slept in the barracks that night. The next day
the business of reviewing the personnel of government
and appointing provisional military and civil officers was
rapidly concluded. I was nominated secretary to the
government and given an office with sleeping quarters,
both within the barracks. Beyond the conduct of imme-
diate affairs, little could be done until a general assembly
had given their approval to the articles of the ordinance
of government, as set forth in the proclamation; and had
elected a governing council. The payment of tithes, how-
ever, was suspended, an unauthorised act bitterly re-
sented by the Bishop. This ecclesiastic was early in con-
ference with General Santos, but his protests were with-
out avail; everything, he was told, would be submitted
to the judgment of the people or their representatives.
The Bishop, who was utterly devoid of the dignity
usually associated with persons holding his rank, poured
scorn on our liberal principles, and told us that the
people were too simple and ignorant to be capable of
self-government, that they were children who must be
taught obedience to their masters, who without compul-
sion would lapse into the savagery from which the

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Church had rescued them. To this the General answered
that he was determined the people should have the
government they desired, even if it meant their ultimate
ruin; but in his opinion that fate was not to be expected,
for the people were by nature peaceful and reasonably
industrious, and if protected from the exploitation of
envious foreigners, would live in contentment.

General Santos asked me to make a review of the
economic resources of the country, to draw up proposals
for revenue and a budget of expenditure, and to estimate
the minimum number and the nature of public offices
required for the conduct of the nation's affairs. All my
conclusions should be reduced to a simple form, capable
of being presented to an assembly of the people's repre-
sentatives.

Messengers were sent to every village and district,
inviting them to send a delegate to the conference an-
nounced in the proclamation. Arrangements for the
accommodation of these caciques, as they were called,
who would probably arrive with their wives and children,
were made in the city. Most of them would have to
camp in the open square, or in the river valley and the
slopes leading down to it.

I shall pass over the detailed history of this provisional
period. I found myself involved in an ever-increasing
multiplicity of functions, for nobody yet pretended to
authority, and in such circumstances the decision is in-
variably left to the chief executive officer. Somewhat to
my own surprise, I found myself enjoying the duties
that devolved upon me. There is no joy comparable to
the joy of government, especially in circumstances of
virgin chaos. Not only inanimate things money, equip-
ment, goods of every kind but even human beings, are
so much plastic material for creative design. A sense of

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order is the principle of government as well as of art,
and I found myself applying to my task all those
instincts and ambitions which had been inhibited by
my precipitate flight from England. I began to wonder
whether all great administrators a Solon, a Caesar, a
Charlemagne, a Napoleon were not at bottom artists
seeking a mode of expression. Certainly there is a pro-
found difference between the man of action whose only
end is action, a self-indulgent exercise of powerful
muscles, and the man of action who moves towards some
intellectual notion of order. There is also the man of
action who only moves as the immediate circumstances
dictate, jumping from one floating island to another as
he is borne down the rapids.

My first business was to estimate the economic re-
sources of the country. The area of Roncador was com-
puted to be some 30,000 square miles, but the boundaries
to the north and east were somewhat indefinite. In spite
of its considerable area, the population was very sparse;
apart from the uninhabited mountain ranges which
formed its borders on the east and west, the central
plains or pampas supported little human life. The villages
were confined to the river basin; many streams had their
source in the western ranges, spread over the marshy
region in the north, and then gathered together as they
turned south under the eastern watershed, eventually to
join the powerful river which formed the southern
boundary of the state. Under the Spanish rule, the
province had been divided for administrative purposes
into thirty districts, many of them not containing even
the semblance of a village. Roncador itself was the only
town of any size. The census I immediately had made
revealed a population of 754 families, 3,064 souls, pos-
sessing an aggregate of 4,632 tame cattle, 1,780 oxen,

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1,510 horses, 3,791 mares, 501 mules, 198 asses, 4,648
sheep and a few goats. After numerous enquiries, I com-
puted the whole population of the state as about 14,000
families, totalling between 50,000 and 60,000 souls, with
tame cattle in proportion, and wild cattle innumerable.

The country was entirely agricultural, and alitiost en-
tirely self-supporting. This naturally simplified the
problem of government. The only necessary imports
were salt, carbines and uniforms for the army, paper,
various tools and instruments, and a miscellaneous
quantity of things which might be described as articles
of luxury. The exports consisted of hides, yerba mate,
sugar and tobacco, and were more than sufficient to
balance the value of the imports. I at once decided that
the simplest policy would be one which kept the in-
habitants of the country content with an agricultural
status, which held in strict control the mercantile exploi-
tation of their products, and which so far as possible
met the expenses of government from the surplus of
export production. In other words, the imports might be
taxed up to the limit of the value of the exports. Luckily
I was not under the necessity of considering an adverse
balance of exchange, and was of the opinion that such
an eventuality should not be allowed to arise, even if it
meant the exclusion of Roncador from all commerce
with the outer world.

The administration of an economic policy presented
no difficulties, since all buying and selling was done in
the city of Roncador, and virtually the only exit for
commerce was by way of the pass which circumvented
the rapids already mentioned. The river itself was the
only highway for commerce.

Whilst I cogitated these matters, General Santos re-
viewed the personnel of the administration. All pure

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Spaniards were incontinently dismissed, and given one
month to wind up their affairs and depart from the
country. But such as were married to native women
were allowed to stay, on condition that they took an
oath of fealty to the new government, and undertook to
devote themselves to private enterprise, preferably farm-
ing. The same proposal was made to the Spanish military
officers, but they were not given their liberty until after
the convention.

This took place on the appointed day. For two days
before the caciques and their families were riding in
from all points of the compass. Altogether about a
hundred families arrived, and were accommodated in
the manner described. The convention itself was held in
the cathedral. It was a motley assembly. For the most
part the delegates were clad in a jacket of white dimity,
very short, and exceedingly tight; a bespangled waist-
coat, still shorter than the jacket; knee-breeches of
crimson velveteen, with highly-embroidered drawers
hanging down to the ankle; a blue silk sash; potro-boots
open at the toes; large silver spurs on the heels; a very
small hat of hide half-covering the head, from under
which hung a long queue of plaited black hair. Few of
them could read or write, and fewer still understood the
questions which they were called upon to decide. But
two things were very clear to them: the difference
between a Spaniard and an Indian, and the incidence of
all tithes and taxes.

Most of them sat on the floor or lounged against the
pillars and walls. They treated the sacred building with
scant ceremony, smoking, spitting and talking freely. A
dais had been erected in the transept, and punctually at
the hour announced the de facto government entered
through the cloister doorway and took their places on

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this platform. Besides Santos and myself, there appeared
the remainder of the non-Spanish officers, including
Iturbide, now once more restored to his commission and
raised to the rank of captain, and the chief cacique or
mayor of the city of Roncador. For the Council of Three
laid down in the provisional ordinance, it had been
agreed to propose, in addition to General Santos, Pasqual
Arapati, the owner of one of the largest estancias near
Roncador, and Hermanegildo Chora, a retired judge.
Our difficulty had been to find men of sufficient emi-
nence, with time to devote to the affairs of government,
who were not in any way compromised by Spanish
nationality or professional interests. We particularly
wished to exclude the mercantile interests, who were in
any case of no numerical strength, and that more con-
siderable body of lawyers which, by reason of its claim
to superiority in education, might in time usurp the
authority we had wrested from the military party.

The proceedings were simple. In my capacity as clerk
to the Council I first of all recited the Proclamation, and
then announced that in accordance with its provisions
the assembly had been called together for the purpose
of electing a governing council. Three citizens of dis-
tinction, men renowned for their honesty and patriotism,
had agreed to submit their names to the approval of the
assembly, but it would be in order for the assembly to
suggest alternative names, in which case a vote would be
taken.

I finished my statement and looked up at my audience.
Not a soul moved; none ventured to speak. I held the
silence for perhaps two minutes, and then raising my
voice to its most impressive pitch, cried :

Tatriots of the free province of Roncador, assembled
here in the name of the people, is it your will that for a

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period of three years you should be governed by your
faithful servants, the General Chrisanto Santos, Don
Pasqual Arapati and Don Hermanegildo Chora? If yes,
cry yes ! '

That answer came sharp and spontaneous, some cry-
ing out in Spanish, others in their dialects, but all signi-
fying their assent.

'Furthermore, is it your will that I, Don Olivero, dele-
gate of the Society of Patriots, should act as Secretary to
the Supreme Council?"

Again they assented, and our revolution was thus
legalised. General Santos rose to speak, and spoke simply
and well. He described how once the country of Ron-
cador had been a peaceful and fruitful land, cultivated
by an American people; how centuries ago the Spaniards
had come and brought this people into subjection; how
this tyranny had given place to the tyranny of un-
scrupulous and predatory dictators; how the people had
groaned under this oppression; how their possessions
had dwindled and their homes decayed. He then spoke
of the new spirit of liberty and equality, which, born in
Europe and there becoming established in every land,
had now spread to America; in every province the do-
minion of Old Spain was at an end, and the people them-
selves, those who were born in the land, had now deter-
mined to be the guardians of their own destinies, to live
in peace with each other and enjoy the bounty of the
earth in common happiness.

General Santos's speech concluded the proceedings. A
festival lasting until the end of the following day was
declared. By evening flares were lit in the square, and to
the music of three or four guitarreros the caciques and
their wives and daughters danced with the citizens of
Roncador. Another corrida was held, and this time six

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bulls were slain; the sortija which followed was without
fatal consequences.

In a few days' time the last visitor had left, and a
stranger then arriving in Roncador would have found it
difficult to realise that the peaceful life of the place had
ever been disturbed. Here, he would have said, is a civil-
isation, not elevated among the civilisations of the world,
but founded on two eternal principles : the dignity of
work and the fear of God.

But I, in my office, had no grounds for such com-
placency. General Santos had returned to his humming-
birds, Arapati to the cares of his estancia, and Judge
Chora to the shade of his verandah. Iturbide had been
made chief staff officer, or adjutant, and on him I could
count for the conduct of military routine, whilst I
applied myself to the problems of economics and
administration.

To tell the truth, I did not meet with any practical
difficulties. Salt was made a government monopoly, and
promised to provide a steady and substantial revenue.
The taxes on imports were first fixed at thirty per cent.
ad valorem, but within three months this was reduced
to twenty per cent. It would be wearisome to recount all
the acts of administration which I devised, and to which
the Council gave their willing consent. Under their
operation prosperity quickly returned to the country and
the people lived in great contentment.

Much more difficult to determine were the principles
of government. If the inhabitant of Roncador had been
a purely rational being, dependent for his happiness on
his material prosperity, an efficient administration would
have provided for all his needs. Ideally his spiritual well-
being should have been the sole care of the Church, and
the articles of the Constitution had been drawn up in

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this sense. But the Church as it existed was not so much
corrupt as thoroughly decayed. The priests and friars
were men of little education, in no way removed in their
manners and morals from the bulk of their congrega-
tions. The head of the Church, the Bishop Andres Vel-
asco, was old and now apathetic. Since the secession of
the colonies from the mother country, communications
with the sovereign Pontiff of Rome had almost ceased.

In this aspect of affairs I received no help from the
members of the Council. Though all three were upright
men, professing the Catholic faith, they utterly despised
the clergy, both secular and regular. The friars especially
were distrusted, not only because of the open profligacy
of their lives, but also because of the undue influence
they exercised on the people. The people of Roncador
were simple-minded, and carried over into their Chris-
tianity the superstitious force of a primitive religion. A
pai or holy father they reverenced as the immediate
representative of God; they blindly followed the simple
instructions given to them, and did whatever was re-
quired with willing hearts. Many of the more licentious
members of the brotherhood took advantage of this
superstitious confidence placed in them by the people,
not only to feed their own moral depravity, but to create
a general atmosphere of espionage and intrigue, from
which they continually profited. Apart from authorising
me to prepare measures to destroy the power of these
conventicles, and to reform the hierarchical government
of the Church, the Council remained indifferent to the
problems involved; they were content to legislate from
day to day in the light of the immediate circumstances.

My plans for a more enlightened policy would have
taken much longer to formulate but for the acquaint-
ance I soon made with a certain Pai Lorenzo. I had

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made enquiries for any books of the history of the
Church in South America, and one night this friar, who
was attached to the cathedral in some capacity resem-
bling that of a sacristan, paid me a visit, bringing with
him a manuscript work which he thought might interest
me. It was entitled Memoria sobra las Misiones, and was
in effect an account of the Jesuit colonies and missions
written a few years after their expulsion from the
country. Pai Lorenzo was in appearance no better than
the rest of the friars; he was, moreover, fat in figure and
dirty in dress. But there were signs of intelligence in his
broad and bland features, and his gaze was straight and
honest. I discovered that he had a lazy and somewhat
cynical mind, but that he was interested in questions of
history and had a fair knowledge of profane literature.
He commended the manuscript to me, saying that he
had found it full of interest, and a corrective of the
traditional view of the Jesuit missions.

During the next few days I followed his advice, read-
ing the clear Spanish writing without difficulty. My
previous knowledge of the Jesuits did not go beyond
mere generalities I knew that they were a society
founded in the sixteenth century by a Spaniard, Ignatius
Loyola, with the express purpose of evangelising the
heathen. I knew that the members of the society sub-
mitted to a rigorous education and discipline. I knew
that their emissaries had penetrated into the remotest
countries of Asia, Africa and America, and that in
America they had converted many tribes of wandering
Indians, to whom they represented themselves as descen-
dants of St. Thomas, come with a message of eternal
peace and happiness to the Indian race. I knew that in
America, as in many other parts of the world, they had
acquired great wealth and extensive powers; that they

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had interfered freely in political affairs, and had finally
so provoked the resentment, and perhaps the jealousy, of
the secular powers, that they had been expelled, the
sovereign Pontiff himself concurring.

I now discovered that their system of government and
their general policy had been of a kind far exceeding in
idealism and disinterestedness any other kind of rule
which the unhappy Indians had experienced. I discovered
that they came to a country whose peaceful natives were
at the mercy of marauding bands of Portuguese settlers,
who by fire and sword had spread terror over all the
land; that in spite of these perils they preached to the
Indians, established them in colonies, instructed them in
agriculture and the mechanical arts, as well as in the art
of self-defence. Time and again these colonies were raided
and destroyed, but there were always new Jesuits ready
to replace those who had perished, gather together the
scattered remnants of the missions, and begin again the
task of colonisation.

In founding these colonies, the Jesuits acted upon the
principle that they were a body distinct from either the
civil or ecclesiastical powers of the community. Natur-
ally, they professed allegiance to the Pope as their
spiritual father, and to the King, who ruled by divine
right; but in practice their institutions were completely
independent of all external authority, a paradoxical posi-
tion which could only be maintained in the remote
regions where their colonies were founded.

The discipline of the Society within its own orders was
unfaltering. They were governed by a superior who had
his residence at Candelaria, a central point from which
he could readily visit the other establishments. This
superior had two lieutenants who lived, one on the banks
of the Parana, and the other on the Uruguay. In addi-

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tion to these functionaries, who conducted the more im-
portant business of the community, each town or colony
had its curate, assisted by one or more priests according
to its extent and population. One curate was responsible
for the spiritual well-being of the community, ministered
at the altar, and taught scanty elements of reading and
writing. Another attended to temporal affairs, superin-
tending the development of agriculture and the teaching
of mechanical arts.

The Indians were instructed in the art of self-govern-
ment. They had their mayor, judges and aldermen, who
conducted courts and councils; but naturally a people so
innocent of political traditions would be dependent to a
great extent on the advice of the curates, to whom they
deferred their authority. The Jesuits insisted above all
upon the principle of absolute equality, in social station,
in hours of work, and even in matters of dress. Those
elected to offices were expected to set a good example to
those not so honoured, and apparently earned nothing
by way of reward beyond the respect of their fellows.

In economic matters the establishments were con-
ducted upon the principle of community of goods. The
herds of cattle and horses were the common property of
the people; all agricultural produce was equally shared,
or stored for common use. The profits of any sales were
put into 'the fund of the community,' to be used for the
building and adorning of their churches, and for the
provision of common services, such as a hospital for the
sick and a school.

Within this egalitarian community the curates no
doubt exercised an autocratic power. They insisted on
regular attendance at mass and maintained the strictest
moral discipline. They even took steps to correct the
conjugal apathy o the Indians. At various hours during

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the night they caused drums to be beaten in the villages;
for the Indians, not lustful by nature and preferring,
after a day's work in the fields, the bliss of sleep above
all other pleasures, had to be awakened in this manner
to a sense of their marital responsibilities.

There can be no doubt that in the course of two cen-
turies the Jesuits accumulated considerable wealth in
South America, in lands, in herds of livestock, and in
gold and silver vessels. As a result of this wealth they
became a power too obvious and extensive to escape the
jealousy of the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, who
were directed from Europe and who in any case regarded
the colonies as legitimate sources of plunder. The story
of the expulsion of the Jesuits is common history. The
consequences for the Indians were disastrous. They once
more became victims of spoliation, robbery and mal-
administration; their numbers and possessions decreased
rapidly, and they gradually sank into a state of poverty
and indifference. For many years they resented the
priests and friars sent to replace the Jesuit brothers, and
were quite unable to understand the system of dual
authority forced upon them. They had been accustomed
to the single authority of the Society, which through its
curates directed both spiritual and temporal affairs. Now
they were asked to accept the authority of a priest in
one sphere, and that of a layman in the other; and since
these individuals represented a continuous conflict of
interests, the Indians were left in a state of hopeless con-
fusion. The priests might want them, for example, to
attend mass at a prescribed hour, which hour might be
inconvenient for the lay administrator. Neither authority
would give way, with the result that the poor Indians
suffered punishment whatever they did,

Reduced to poverty or slavery by economic exploita-

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tion, thoroughly demoralised by indecisive government,
dwindling by natural propensities, the original colonies
or missions founded by the Jesuits gradually disap-
peared. The whole country would probably have drifted
back to some form of barbarism but for the rise of the
Creoles. Despised by their blood relatives, the Spaniards,
they were gradually made race-conscious by this an-
tagonism, and eventually aspired to the control of the
land of their birth. They became advocates of liberty
and emancipation, in opposition to the Spanish do-
minion. Without their aid, as was already so obvious to
rne in Roncador, the formation of independent republics
would never have been possible.

From my study of Pai Lorenzo's manuscript I was led
to several convictions which remained with me all
through my life in Roncador. It is possible that the
picture of the Jesuit colonies given by the unknown
chronicler was too favourable. It is possible, too, that I
read into his bare descriptions a conception of society
already latent in my mind. Not many years before I had
read Plato's Republic with extraordinary enthusiasm;
unconsciously I may have imagined the Jesuit colonies
as a fulfilment of the ideals I then acquired. But only
the conjunction of theory and history, and the possi-
bility of action in those particular circumstances, could
have given rise to the spirit of determination which from
that moment was born in me.

I saw clearly that a stable government would only be
possible given certain conditions which I began to for-
mulate to myself in precise phrases. Authority must be
single. By single I did not mean necessarily resident in
one person; the Jesuits, it is true, ultimately relied on
the single authority of the Superior of their Society, but
the government of each colony was entrusted to two

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curates, one for spiritual and the other for temporal
affairs. But both curates were animated by the same
moral purpose, and that is the sufficient and effective
unity. The state must be self-contained. This principle
follows from the previous one, for if a state is dependent
on an external state for any of its necessities, to that
extent the authority within the state will be diminished.
Its influence will leak out in bales of goods and bills of
exchange, and a competing authority, all the more dan-
gerous for being invisible and impalpable, will become
established. The state must be armed against invasion.
Again a dependent principle, for an unarmed state will
provoke the envy of predatory neighbours. The state
must be incorruptible, or, as we might say, armed against
sedition. Sedition is only provoked by injustice, but in-
justice implies not only the failure to administer the
laws established for the common good, but also the
existence of unimpeachable injustices, chief of which is
the inequality of wealth.

The more I studied their history, the more firmly 1
became convinced that the Jesuits had only failed for
one reason : they had provoked the envy of princes and
marauders, first by their accumulation of wealth, and
then by their inability to defend themselves against
invasion.

I had no difficulty in securing the consent of the
Council to certain measures designed to enforce these
principles of government. My own salary, and the pay
of all officers and officials, was fixed at low but adequate
figures, sufficient to support a decent household, but not
enough to leave an unused surplus. The professional
army, except for a cadre of officers, was abolished, but
each family was required to supply one able-bodied male,
who should be liable to remain under arms until a relief

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was provided. To secure the homogeneity of the state,
marriage between Spaniards was forbidden the assimi-
lation of all foreign elements was thereby automatically
secured. No foreigner was to be allowed entry into the
state except under licence; he could only settle in the
state by taking a native wife. All inequalities of status
were abolished every human being had equal rights in
law. The freehold of all land was assumed by the state,
and all landowners or estancerias were required to con-
duct their estates for the common benefit, on pain of
forfeiture. The only distinction remaining would arise
from the division of labour: one man must govern a
farm, as one authority a state; but inasmuch as the capa-
bilities of men vary, so their functions should vary; yet
not their rewards.

Though the laws securing these principles were enacted
in the first year of our government, it naturally took
many years for all the necessary adjustments to be made.
Certain rebel elements, Spaniards all, had to be deported.
Certain merchants declared themselves bankrupt; they
were offered estates in the prairie-lands, or given the
alternative of leaving the country. Certain estancerias
resented the impounding of their surplus produce, but
again the only alternative offered to them was emigra-
tion. In general, the difficulties were not such as would
be anticipated in an older civilisation. Though slavery
had not been unknown in Roncador, and though the
lowest grades of peasants were ignorant and impover-
ished, there existed no social barriers. It was, the
Spaniards apart, a classless society, and our only problem
was to devise means of equalising the wealth of all the
members of this society.

Briefly, our method, introduced gradually, was to set
apart a certain number of days' labour for the benefit of

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the individual labourer, another portion for the benefit
of the state. That portion set aside for the state was
supervised by the estanceria, who collected the produce
and from it took enough for his own needs. The surplus
for the state was collected in barns and warehouses in
each town and district, and there exchanged against the
produce of the mechanical arts. Thus a shoemaker in
the town would exchange, at a fixed rate, a pair of shoes
for so much tea, tobacco, beef, or corn. The surplus of
this local barter was collected in the capital, and there
bartered with merchants against imports of foreign
manufacture. Such imports were of various classes
those for distribution, such as salt and articles of adorn-
ment; and those for the direct use of the state, such as
equipment for the army. The excess of exports over
imports might accumulate as a reserve of credit in the
accounts of the foreign importers; an excess of imports
was not under any circumstances permitted.

Such was our simple economy, and I do not flatter
myself by imagining that its design is one to be imitated
in more complicated civilisations. But its suitability to
the State of Roncador was never in doubt; at the end of
the first three years of government there was a general
air of peace and contentment. Men and women lived in
a relationship of mutual confidence, cultivating the earth
and living happily on the abundance of its fruits.

One unforeseen result followed. At the end of three
years it was necessary, under the terms of the Constitu-
tion, to summon a General Assembly and re-elect a
Council of Government. As the time for this event came
near, I visited in turn each of the three Governors. I first
went to Hermanegildo Chora. He had continually ex-
cused himself from attending meetings of the Council
on the grounds of his age and infirmity. I found him

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seated on his verandah, his silvery white hair shining
against the darkened interior. He had reached the age
of eighty-three and begged that he might now be left in
peace. He was confident that the conduct of affairs was
in competent hands, and for his part he was content
to leave the government of the state to its executive
officers.

I then went to see Don Pasqual Arapati. I found him
busy watching over the gathering of the yerba plants
an operation requiring skill in one of its processes, when
the leaves are scorched over an open fire before being
stripped from the branches. He kept me out in the open
fields until the end of the day's labour, and then insisted
on my company at dinner, which was held in the es-
tancia, master and men all sitting together at one table
and eating from the same dishes. It was a scene of great
animation, overpowering in its gusto and its sweaty re-
pletion. It was not until we had reached the final stage
of cigars that I found an opportunity of explaining my
mission. Don Pasqual would scarcely listen to me.
'When you return,' he said, 'tell the Assembly that
they have the best government in the world, and that
only fools will interfere with it/ For himself, he added,
he was too busy to meddle further in the affairs of the
state. It was work for learned men, such as Don Her-
manegildo and General Santos.

You will see, therefore, that by the time I reached the
farm of General Santos I was not a little perplexed. I
found my friend as I always remembered him, with
humming-birds fluttering round his quills of syrup, in
odd community with these tamed creatures. When I
had told him of the attitude of his two fellow-councillors
towards the question of re-election, he smiled philoso-
phically, and seemed in no way disturbed. He promised,

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however, to consider the matter, and to come to the
Assembly with new proposals.

I therefore summoned the caciques on the appointed
day. But first one and then another messenger came
back, with a request that the cacique should be excused
from attending the General Assembly : there was much
to be done on his estate and he could not afford to leave
it for the several days required for a visit to the capital.
Altogether more than two hundred caciques sent mes-
sages to this effect, many adding that they were content
to be governed by Don Olivero and his Council.

I naturally sent alarmed messages to General Santos,
but he made no comments. The day of the election
arrived, but there was no more stir in Roncador than on
an ordinary market day. Perhaps eighty caciques came
with their families, but not all of these deigned to attend
the meeting in the cathedral. At the appointed hour
General Santos and I entered from the cloister, accom-
panied by Iturbide. I spoke to the small gathering and
explained the necessity, under the terms of the Consti-
tution, of now electing a new Council, to replace the
Council which had served its legal term of three years.
Don Hermanegildo Chora and Don Pasqual Arapati, I
announced, felt constrained to retire from their onerous
duties, the one on account of his great age, the other
because he wished to devote himself entirely to the culti-
vation of his estate. It was therefore the duty of the
Assembly to propose two new members for the honour
of serving on the Council.

General Santos then spoke to the Assembly. He too,
he said, would like to retire from active participation in
the government of the country. He had served Roncador
all his life, and now wished to devote his last years to
the pleasures of a country life. He had come to the

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Assembly for the last time, not to accept re-election, not
to propose a successor, but merely to transfer the
authority of the existing Council to the Council to be
elected.

I then called for the names of the new candidates for
election, but there was no response. Here and there
groups of caciques began to talk animatedly to each
other, without, however, making any proposals to the
meeting. We waited for ten minutes or so, and then after
a consultation with General Santos, we decided to
adjourn the meeting for one hour to enable the dele-
gates to come to some decision. I made an announce-
ment accordingly, and then retired with the General and
Iturbide to the barracks. There we had a consultation
among ourselves, and decided that if no nominations
were forthcoming, a proposal should be made to con-
tinue a provisional government under my direction, with
the existing Council as a consultative committee.

We duly returned to the Assembly, and found it very
much dispersed; many delegates had departed for their
dinners, and the rest were arguing in groups, but judg-
ing from the few words I overheard, mainly on matters
of cattle and crops, they were not exercised about the
affairs of government. Called to silence, and asked for
their decision, a tall and commanding Creole stepped
forward. 'Gentlemen/ he said, 'why should we waste our
time here? We are well governed by Don Olivero; he is
learned in the art of government; let him therefore con-
tinue to rule us without hindrance. When we are dis-
satisfied, we can meet here again/ This proposal was
received with acclamation, and the Assembly broke up
without leaving me time to protest, or to make even a
pretence of modesty.

In this manner I became sole governor of the state of

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Roncador, a position I was to occupy for twenty-five
years. When I look back I find it very difficult to convey
even to myself any sense of the sequence of events which
filled such a long stretch of time. Most of my early
difficulties were practical ones, but in the two spheres
where most trouble was to be anticipated, the Church
and the Army, I was aided by subordinates who had no
ambitions of their own, and who were pleased to exer-
cise obediently and with understanding the authority I
delegated to them. Iturbide was made General and Com-
mander-in-Chief of the military forces. He administered
the system of compulsory service with tact and efficiency,
and on the rare occasions on which the forces were called
into action to deal with raiders or threats of invasion,
he displayed a cunning and bravery which in the battle-
fields of Europe would have earned him immortal re-
nown. But events in Roncador were not normally re-
ported to the outside world, so Iturbide had to be satis-
fied with the gratitude of his Governor and the love of
his people.

The Church proved a far more difficult problem, but
the Pai Lorenzo had continued to win my confidence
and respect, so that when at last the old and feeble-
minded Bishop died, I insisted on the translation of this
worthy father. I told him that the Church would be
allowed full liberty and authority in all spiritual matters,
so long as it conducted itself according to the principles
of its Founder, teaching men to love each other, adopt-
ing for its priesthood a rule of poverty and chastity,
attending to the sick and the dying, and performing all
other corporal acts of mercy. Bishop Lorenzo had no
other wish, but the task of cleansing the priesthood was
one of great difficulty. To have unfrocked all that were
corrupt would have left half the parishes in Roncador

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without a curate. A seminary was established for the
training of new priests, and as soon as new priests were
fit and ordained they took the place of the corrupted. In
a very few years the example made of the worst offenders
had a very sobering effect on the rest, but it was a long
time before the process of purification was complete.

The art of government is the art of delegating
authority. It is essential that the authority delegated
should be held like a ball on an elastic string : it does
not matter how large the ball, or how far the string is
stretched, provided authority returns to its source at the
inflection of a finger. The ideal governor is one who has
dispossessed himself of all authority, remaining merely
as the mathematical centre in whom a thousand lines
converge: the invisible, perhaps only the potential,
manipulator of a host of efficient marionettes. In more
complex states the system of delegation will be divided
and subdivided, but such was the simplicity of the
economy of Roncador that I myself was able to control
directly every post of administration.

When finally the machine of government was working
without friction of any kind, I began to employ my
energies in the supervision of communal improvements.
The funds in our treasury grew year by year, but I was
determined to expend them as quickly as they accumu-
lated, for idle money is money wasted. I therefore devised
plans for the improvement of the capital, and of the
communications leading to it. Arming myself with theo-
dolite and chains, I surveyed the streets and surrounding
spaces, decreed orientations and elevations, ordered
demolitions and rebuilding. I had the quarry from which
the Jesuits extracted granite for their buildings re-
opened, and with this stone repaved the principal streets
of Roncador, built a hospital for the sick, and gradually

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replaced the miserable huts in which most of the in-
habitants lived by structures of a more solid nature. At
first some of these works were looked upon with disap-
proval, especially as they involved the compulsory use of
private vehicles and the organisation of free service. But
once the improvements began to assume a visible reality
the citizens of Roncador took pride and pleasure in the
enterprise, and yearly the city increased its beauty and
practical convenience.

I lavished a good deal of the state's income on the
improvement of the army. The latest rifles were im-
ported, and all our military equipment was of the
fashions prevalent in Europe. I myself designed a new
uniform, brighter and more elegant than any known in
South America. My principle here was to give the
greatest grandeur to the lower ranks. Except for certain
details, the army was entirely a corps of mounted rifles.
The privates wore a scarlet tunic, with a plastron and
girdle of gold braid, and peach-yellow trousers of
cuirassier cut. The collars and cuffs of the tunics were
peach-yellow, with dove-grey piping; the shoulder-straps
dove-grey with yellow piping. Boots and head-dress were
of black hide, the latter adorned on the left side with a
silver cockade. The officers, whose numbers and ranks
had been drastically reduced, wore uniforms which were
of severe cut, devoid of facings, differing between each
rank only in the colour of the tunics. The Commander-
in-Chief wore the uniform trousers, with a tunic of
black, epaulettes and cockade of gold.

For myself, I took care to avoid any form of ostenta-
tion. I was seen invariably in a cloak, knee-breeches, and
sombrero, all of black. In Roncador I lived simply in
two rooms on the first floor of the barracks; I was
attended by one personal servant. Nevertheless I recog-

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nised that a people is not happy without ritual, and that
a government must avoid at all costs an effect of drab-
ness and dull passivity. I therefore had guards mounted
daily with ceremony in front of the Government House
(as the barracks were now called), and on all festivals
and holidays the whole army appeared in the splendour
of parade order. On these occasions I appeared in public,
mounted on a white horse, and received the full cere-
monial salute of the assembled troops. Usually, how-
ever, I maintained an impenetrable reserve. I relaxed
before none of my subordinates, and was never seen in-
dulging in any popular pleasures. My only recreations
were those I shared with General Santos, and after his
death with his son, who succeeded to his estate. There I
would often resort for the pleasures of the country, for
shooting and bathing, and there eventually I built a
small lodge, where I might keep a few possessions my
rifles, my fishing-rods, and a small library of books.

So the years passed, undisturbed by war or rebellion.
In all this time only one incident of a violent nature ever
took place, and this was partly of my own seeking. It
occurred in the fourth year of my dictatorship, and in
this manner :

In the great pampas to the south and east of Roncador,
vast tracts of country beyond the control of the govern-
ments to which they nominally belonged, there arose
from time to time bands of freebooters who existed by
raiding on land and by piracy on the river. They were
the terror of all the native settlements, and interfered
seriously with the establishment of commercial relations
between the interior and Buenos Ay res. The political
uncertainty of the situation gave them every encourage-
ment, especially in the form of recruits, experienced in
arms and desperate in deeds. Among these marauders a

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leader had arisen, Vargas by name, to which he added
the indispensable title of General. He gathered under
his command about a thousand followers, mainly
Indians, and all admirable horsemen. Their chief needs
pasture for their horses and cattle to slaughter for
food were satisfied without much danger or difficulty
on the wide and fertile plains on which they made their
home. But for other essentials, of which the most im-
portant was ammunition, and for luxuries like wine and
clothing, they were dependent on the river traffic.

At the time of which I speak, General Vargas had
established a camp about a hundred miles to the south
of the rapids which marked the boundary of Roncador.
It was a well-chosen spot, for the river there opened out
into a wide and sluggish reach, in the middle of which
stretched a low but luxuriantly wooded island. Vargas
would hold up a vessel from the shore, which thus engaged
would then be taken by surprise by a boatful of ruffians
advancing swiftly from under the cover of the island.

At first he made no attempt to interfere with vessels
bound for Roncador, but eventually, made bold by the
general immunity he seemed to enjoy, he rifled a cargo
of arms and uniforms, and held the trader in charge of
it a prisoner in the camp. This insolence was not to be
tolerated, and knowing that any protests to the govern-
ment nominally responsible for Vargas would be useless,
I determined to act in the interests of the general
security of the country. I decided, moreover, to lead this
punitive expedition myself. For although I enjoyed the
respect of all the citizens as an administrator, I had
never taken part in any military action, and my pride
suffered a little from the suspicion that my courage
might be doubted. Experience had already led me to the
conclusion that though the distinction between men of

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action and men of imagination is a fundamental one, it
by no means follows that courage is the exclusive pos-
session of the former class. Indeed, I was rather of the
opinion, which further experience was to confirm, that
the physically forceful type of man is often at heart a
coward, ready to crumble up in situations of extreme
danger; whilst the feebler introspective type, by virtue of
the transforming power of his imagination, is much
more capable of decisive action. Courage is the ability to
act as if death were a fantasy.

I elaborated the plans for our expedition with the help
of Iturbide. Surprise was to be the determining factor,
for I had no desire to engage our whole army in the
affair. We decided to attack Vargas's camp from the
river and from land, simultaneously, and judged that a
force of about 150 men would be sufficient. Iturbide with
a company of a hundred mounted men was to proceed
overland to an agreed point, where he would await a
signal from the river party. For the river our plans were
more elaborate. They consisted in fitting out two vessels
of the kind known as piraguas, which were much in use
for heavy transport on the river. In shape these vessels
were like a huge box, square and flat at the bottom, with
sloping sides which met a square deck of about twice
the area of the bottom. Round the rim of this decapi-
tated and inverted pyramid a gallery or gangway was
built, sufficiently broad to allow rowers to stand con-
veniently upon it. The piragua was usually loaded with
bales, square with the top of it, and on the top of the
bales a deck of loose boards was laid, on which other
cargo could be loaded, leaving a space for a cabin roofed
with hides. Such a vessel, capable of carrying a load of
200 tons, is floated down the river, steered as well as may
be by means of the oars.

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We constructed two of these vessels, but instead of
bales of yerba and hides we put on bales of sand of about
the same size and appearance, but leaving a hollow
space within the middle of the vessel, and loopholes
between the bales. We built, in fact, two floating fort-
resses, each garrisoned by twenty-four rifles.

The piragua travels slowly, at not more than four
miles an hour. I calculated, therefore, that it would take
us almost exactly twenty-four hours to reach a point
near Vargas's camp. We decided to attack soon after
dawn, when most of Vargas's followers would still be
sunk in the heavy sleep which followed their nightly
debauch.

We waited for a full moon, to enable us to negotiate
the river by night, and early one morning I departed
with the two piraguas. Iturbide was to follow later with
the horsemen, who would travel more quickly to the
agreed point. I placed myself on the top of one of the
great tubs, and all that day we travelled pleasantly
enough, our main difficulty being to keep the two vessels
within reasonable distance of each other, for every now
and then one of us would get taken up in an eddy, which
kept us spinning on our own axis for a considerable time.

The night was still and clear, the sky brilliant. The
wooded banks were silent, and our clumsy and log-like
motion seemed an intrusion on the placid elements
around us. The men took turns at steering and sleeping,
but I was far too excited by the event, and far too
exalted by the beauty of the night, to do aught but stare
ahead. The point where we were to concert with Iturbide
was marked by a bend in the river, and a sandy beach,
not easy to miss. We reached it about an hour before
dawn, and steered our vessels against the opposite bank,
where we fastened them to the trunks of stout trees.

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The forest behind us began to stir with life; a choir of
birds filled the air with liquid or piercing notes; monkeys
began to chatter in the overhanging branches. The light
came suddenly and hushed this overture, and then I
saw a rider come down to the opposite beach and give
the signal : a white handkerchief waved three times in a
semicircle. This meant that all was well with Iturbide,
and that the attack could proceed. I gave the agreed
response, and ordered the vessels to unmoor, and the
unoccupied men to stand to their arms. It was still about
three miles to the camp, but our progress was un-
hindered, and in half an hour we were at the opening of
the broad reach, with the island in front of us. As soon
as we were well within the current that ran to the left of
the island, and therefore nearest the camp, I had a rope
thrown between the vessels, to keep them together, and
except for four men with oars to act as rudder, all were
alert at their loopholes.

We were now within four hundred yards of the land-
ing-stage, and it was necessary, in accordance with our
plan, to create an immediate diversion. But there was
not a human being in sight, and the actual tents and
huts of Vargas's camp were in dead ground. I had no
alternative, therefore, but to send a volley aimlessly
shorewards. It had its effect, however, for a stray bullet
wounded a tethered horse, which began to scream in its
pain. Two or three figures now appeared, and gazed in
the direction of our shots. I now ordered three men with
rifles to appear on deck, and then to kneel and take aim,
as if they constituted our firing party. We drifted closer,
and then took a single shot at the figures on the shore.
They retired, and angry shouts were heard in the dis-
tance. We had drifted perhaps a hundred yards nearer
when a considerable body of men appeared with rifles

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and cried out across the river, presumably threatening
us or calling on us to pull in to shore. I ordered everyone
on board to take shelter behind the sandbags, and opened
fire again on the shore. We were now so close, and they
so dense, that several men were hit and fell. The rest
retreated to the edge of the beach, where there was a
ridge of high grass and bushes, and from this vantage-
point they opened fire on the vessels, which, deprived of
their steering oars, drifted somewhat aimlessly in the
slow current. But here the advantage of the piragua
became evident, for whichever way we swerved we pre-
sented a broadside towards the shore. We now kept up a
continuous fire, which was answered by an increasing
volume from the river bank; but their bullets for the
most part buried themselves harmlessly in the sandbags,
or went astray. Only occasionally a chance shot pene-
trated a loophole, and in this manner two of the men in
my piragua were wounded, and another, in the second
vessel, killed.

We were now so near the critical moment that I was
sick with suspense and excitement. The current had
carried us midstream, which was as I had hoped; for by
the time we were opposite the small landing-stage which
Vargas had built, our rifles were getting hot, and the
acrid stench of powder almost stifled us in our confined
space; to have drifted into the shallows near the shore
would have delayed our progress and prolonged the
fighting. But this was the concerted moment for Iturbide
to ride down on the camp from the opposite direction.
It was impossible to hear anything above the sound of
our own firing, but the sudden cessation of firing from
the shore was the only indication we needed. I rushed
up to the deck, and at first could see nothing; but the
hubbub told me that Iturbide was there with his men.

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THE GREEN CHILD

Presently, away to the south, I saw a scattered troop of
men riding like furies across a bare slope, obviously in
flight. 7

The rowers had now resumed their positions, and
directed the vessels towards the bank, which we reached
about half a mile below the landing-stage. I sent a man
on shore to find a vantage-point and report the situation.
He returned almost immediately, accompanied by a
scout on horseback, sent to meet us by Iturbide. Our
plan had been more successful than we had believed
possible. Iturbide and his troops had swept on the camp
unperceived. Already alarmed by the attack from the
river, the whole camp was in a state of confusion. Here
and there a desperate man had fired from behind a hut
or a tent. Many had dashed half clothed to the horse
ranks and ridden away without stopping to harness. The
rest were being disarmed and driven on to the beach.

Taking the scout's horse, I galloped towards the camp.
Our plan would not be completely successful unless
Vargas himself was taken, dead or alive. Desultory firing
was still to be heard, coming from the direction of the
camp. I kept to the river bank and in a few minutes came
upon some of our own men, guarding a crowd of about
two hundred prisoners, who had been driven like sheep
on to the crescent-shaped beach. Iturbide was with the
party still clearing up the camp, so I hastened off in that
direction.

The camp was a straggling assemblage of hovels,
mostly constructed of hides. In the centre a space was
cleared round a wooden hut of a more substantial kind,
which was Vargas's headquarters. Here a party still kept
up resistance, firing from windows and loopholes. A shot
greeted me as I came within range, grazing my right
shoulder. I hastily dismounted, and then approached

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THE GREEN CHILD

gradually, availing myself of the plentiful cover afforded
by the hovels. In this manner I reached the position
from which Iturbide with about twenty men was cover-
ing the hut. Iturbide himself was there, but it was no
occasion for greetings. I indicated that he was to retain
charge of the situation, and myself took up a firing posi-
tion behind a heap of hides.

The party in the hut could not number more than six
or seven men, and their position was quite a hopeless
one. Iturbide had given instructions to his men to cover
the hut, but only to fire in answer to shots from the hut.
After two hours of this slow duel, and after a silence of
half an hour, we decided to rush the hut and batter in
the door with a tree trunk. But whilst we were preparing
this manoeuvre the door of the hut was suddenly flung
open, and an unarmed man came towards us. He walked
slowly and deliberately, and when within speaking dis-
tance of us, lifted up his hand with a gesture of resigna-
tion and cried: 'It is all over. The General is dying.'
There was no reason to doubt such a dispirited hostage.
We went forward and found the mud floor of the hut
strewn with the bodies of wounded and dead men. An
additional grimness was lent to the scene by the bullocks'
skulls against which some of the wounded were leaning.
These objects were often used as stools in a camp of this
kind, but now, embraced by these desperate men, they
seemed like symbols of death.

Vargas was shot through the throat, and died speech-
less. There were altogether about forty dead, including
seven of our own men. We laid their bodies against the
wooden hut and built a vast pyre of the camp material,
and then set fire to it all. The stores of ammunition were
taken to the beach, to await a vessel proceeding to Ron-
cador. There still remained the prisoners to dispose of;

146

THE GREEN CHILD

the actual number of them was an embarrassment. We
had no desire to keep them as prisoners, nor even to
punish them for the misdemeanours of Vargas. We
decided to load them on the piraguas and set them drift-
ing down the river without oars. This involved a certain
amount of reconstruction of the vessels, and it was nearly
nightfall before we had accomplished everything. We
then took a number of captured horses and rode away
into the night. The funeral pyre still burned with a lurid
light in the darkness behind us; before us the stars hung
above Roncador. In spite of our victory, we were silent;
only the creaking of our saddles, and the jingle of our
equipment, rose above the soft thunder of hooves.

I had played a comparatively inactive part in the
attack; the greatest danger had fallen to Iturbide, and on
Iturbide I laid the formal honours of rank and reward.
But a people, once it has made an individual the apex of
its authority, is anxious to gild him like an idol with all
the virtues in its code. By this one brief and insignificant
episode I became for the citizens of Roncador the em-
bodiment of their national glory.

My public works, extending over many years and cost-
ing me much thought and anxiety, had no such epic
value. They were the tyrannical and absolute aspect of
my dictatorship, and were accepted with appreciation or
respect, but never with jubilation. They depended en-
tirely for their accomplishment on the singular energy of
my own mind, which drove me restlessly from one task
to another. When I was reasonably satisfied with the plan
of the capital, with its public buildings and its streets;
when the army had been reformed and refitted then I
turned to smaller improvements: to the laying out of
public gardens, to the design of tokens of exchange and
currency-notes and to devising a national flag: a black

'47

THE GREEN CHILD

phoenix rising against a yellow ground, with a red ball
for the sun above its head. But soon even these tasks
came to an end, and I was forced more and more to
employ myself with my own thoughts, to conduct a
philosophical examination of all I had achieved, to
weigh the present against the future.

I perceived that my course had led me far away from
the guiding principles of the revolutionary writers who
had been my first inspiration. I could feel satisfied that I
had adhered to the fundamental ideas on which any
humane society must be based the central dogmas of
equality, fraternity and justice. But these ideas are vague
enough to admit of very diverse interpretations. In de-
creeing the isolation of Roncador from the other free
republics of America I had ensured the success of our
experiment; but I had affirmed our indifference to the
lot of the rest of the world, and our fraternal spirit, for
example, had not extended beyond our boundaries. This
had led to an early breach with the Society of Patriots
in Buenos Ayres a breach I deeply regretted. I was not
prepared, however, to sacrifice the tangible freedom of
our own republic for the doubtful fruits of a grand
alliance with others less firmly established. I feared that
our liberty of action might be compromised by inter-
national commitments.

The whole course of my dictatorship was marked by
a complete indifference to what my pattern, Napoleon
Buonaparte, had called ideological projects; by the com-
plete absence, that is to say, of any desire to uplift the
state to the level of visionary speculations. If we had
created an Utopia, it was a worldly and actual Utopia,
made out of existing materials. I did not step beyond
the aspirations of the simple peasantry which was the
bulk of our population. I could not regard any other

148

THE GREEN CHILD

function in the state as more honourable or more desir-
able than the cultivation of the earth; and since this is
an occupation which employs all the energy and facul-
ties of a normal man, it would have been a treason to
the state to educate men above that station. Even the
simple elements of reading and writing did not seem to
be of much moment in our policy; for what little clerical
work was necessary in a community could be done by
the priests, who were excellently trained in the seminary
established at Roncador.

I acted from day to day, always on the principle of
removing any causes of friction, of making equality and
fraternity realities, and justice the normal procedure.
Against such a policy there is no possibility of revolt;
for any immoral and anti-social tendencies will be indi-
vidual and self -proclaimed, powerless against the general
will for good.

Such being the stability and happiness of our state, it
may seein incredible that doubts should have entered my
mind. At first the doubts were not formulated as such;
I was merely seized by an uncontrollable depression,
which I vainly tried to trace to climatic or physical con-
ditions. But it soon became clear to me that the causes
were mental, that I was enveloped in a spiritual lassitude
for which profouncler explanations were necessary. No
form of activity, neither my hunting-lodge nor my
library, could assuage my restless and dissatisfied mind.

This condition lasted for several years, until finally I
could no longer evade the truth. My spiritual complaint
was produced by the very stagnation around me which I
regarded as the triumph of my policy. In the absence of
conflict, of contending interests, of anguish and agita-
tion, I had induced into my environment a moral flac-
cidity, a fatness of living, an ease and a torpor which

149

THE GREEN CHILD

had now produced in me an inevitable ferment. I knew
that such a mental disease had afflicted the monasteries
in the Middle Ages, when they attempted to draw away
from the world of action and live a life of contempla-
tion. It is true that mine was not a life of contemplation,
but it was becoming one of intellectual abstraction. So
long as the republic was unformed, I was occupied in
practical affairs. My ideas were immediately translated
into action. But now no action was called for; my
mind felt no resistance in facts, no tension in circum-
stance.

In my speculations at this time I began to suspect that
the Golden Age, of which such strong traditions exist in
many parts of the world, may indeed have existed, but
that it decayed for the very reasons which were now
becoming apparent to me. Without eccentric elements,
no progress is possible; not even that simple progress
which consists in whipping a spinning top from one
place to another.

Try as I would, I could not solve my personal problem
in social terms, I might have introduced a system of
education, and thus have created a society of intellectual
beings. I might in that way have put an end to my
boredom, but I should have disrupted the peace of the
state by creating a class absorbed in visionary specula-
tions, eager to translate their ideological projects into
action. As I watched the Indians peacefully going about
their work in the estancias, or the inhabitants of Ron-
cador walking in the gardens, sitting in the shade by
the fountains, everywhere mirthful and contented, I dis-
missed such ideas. Better that I myself should perish
than that their serenity should be shattered.

Along with this spiritual development, another change
took place in my mental life which was to influence the

'5

THE GREEN CHILD

decision I eventually made. I found my thoughts more
and more reverting to the period of my childhood and
youth. Again, rny lack of an active occupation may have
been the cause; and perhaps in any case we all become
more reminiscent as we grow older, especially if we are
exiles in a foreign land. But year by year these recollec-
tions grew more vivid, rose up from depths I had never
realised, crowded in upon my daily thoughts. I de-
veloped an extreme longing or nostalgia for my native
country. I lived over again all my childish experiences,
my days at school and college, my humiliation as a
schoolmaster. But vivid as all these actual recollections
were, I was most haunted by the thought of an experi-
ence missed the appearance in my village of the green
children. I longed to know how that mystery had been
solved, what had become of them in the course of the
years. I began to create an ideal image of them as they
had grown up in our alien world: beings half -human
and half-angel, intermediate between the grossness of
earth and the purity of heaven.

I resolved to escape. But I could not simply take leave
of a country that had been so long identified with my
life, the creation of my mind. Let alone the sentimental
difficulties of such a step, any such deliberate action on
my part would have a debilitating effect on the morale
of the country. I should have to nominate a successor,
and to reinitiate all the obsolete machinery of popular
assembly and election. In my state of mind, such pro-
ceedings would have been an impossibility. I must there-
fore disappear suddenly, but without the effect of deser-
tion. My leaving must have the contrary effect of moral
and political stimulus. I must depart in a cloud of glory.

At length I conceived that the only method which
would give all the desirable results would be that of

THE GREEN CHILD

assassination; but since I desired to survive and escape
to England, it must be a mock assassination.

So much decided, certain principles then determined
the elaboration of my plans. The motive for assassina-
tion must be one that would bind the people together
more firmly than ever. It must not be attributable to
any dissatisfaction or revolt within the state. It must
therefore be the work of an alien; it must represent an
attempt on the integrity and independence of Roncador
itself.

I elaborated my plans slowly, with infinite precaution.
It was some time before the heaven-sent opportunity
occurred, but I felt the promise of solution one day when
I received a visit from a North American prospector.
He asked my permission to make a survey of the moun-
tains on the eastern boundaries of Roncador. An old
tradition of the Indians spoke of former gold-mines in
this region, though no gold had been discovered there
by the Spaniards.

In ordinary circumstances I should have dismissed
this adventurer at once, for the exploitation of such
a commodity would completely upset the balanced
economy of the state, lead to the external envy which
had ruined the establishments of the Jesuits, and gener-
ally introduce a commercial spirit into our midst which
would be disruptive of our harmony and modest con-
tentment. But I stifled my reaction to the proposal, and
gave the man permission to make a preliminary survey,
on condition that he acted with discretion and that his
reports were delivered direct to me, and that no further
action in the matter should be taken without my consent.

In about two months* time the prospector returned.
His survey had been successful beyond any expectations.
Not only did rich veins exist in the hills, but the river

152

IHE GREEN CHILD

which ran parallel to them for so great a distance was
rich in deposits of ore. This suited my plan. I told the
prospector that I would now consider his application for
a concession to mine the gold, and meanwhile asked him
to take up his residence in Roncador.

There I kept him waiting for several weeks, without
giving a decision. He was a man of unscrupulous
character, and before long I was informed by spies that
he had begun a correspondence with his principals in
Buenos Ayres, and that a plot of the usual kind was
hatching. A neighbouring state was to be enlisted by the
financial corruption of its government, induced to pick a
quarrel with Roncador, and then to invade us with all
the forces which the prospect of gold can command.

I now took Iturbide into my confidence. I did not
reveal to him my final aim, which he would, in his sim-
plicity, have found incomprehensible. But I showed him
the prospector's report, and gave him full details of the
intrigue that was hatching. I confessed to a stupidity in
ever allowing the prospector to enter Roncador, and
asked his aid in countering the plot.

To dismiss the prospector, I explained, was out of the
question. That would merely facilitate his plans. To im-
prison him, or execute him on a vague charge of con-
spiracy, would involve us in a quarrel with a powerful
nation. We must wait and watch until we had sufficient
evidence to convince the world that we had acted in
accordance with the precepts of international justice,
and in self-defence. Iturbide promised to keep a strict
watch on all movements on the frontier, and to be ready
to act swiftly in an emergency.

I then completed the personal part of my plans. I
wrote a political testament, very simple and short, setting
forth the principles on which I had governed Roncador

153

THE GREEN CHILD

for more than twenty years. I indicated that I had done
this as a general precaution, in the spirit of a wise father
who provides for his children; and I recommended
Iturbide to the country as my successor. This document
I deposited with the Clerk of the Archives, with instruc-
tions that it was only to be opened in the event of my
death.

I then, in the privacy of my hunting-lodge, made a
blasting charge of considerable power. I had, of course,
a free supply o powder for my shooting cartridges, and
the military handbooks in my possession gave detailed
instructions for the blowing up of bridges, railways and
fortifications.

I have already described the bridge of three arches
which crossed the river on the west of Roncador. This
bridge I crossed whenever I went to my country retreat,
and here in prospect I staged my mock assassination. In
the course of my building activities I had at one time
made a thorough examination of the structure, and had
then decided to leave it standing, for the Jesuits who
had built it had built well. Though supported by two
piers, the bridge was a single arch ring springing from
the rocky banks of the river; the points of highest pres-
sure were therefore situated at the crown and springings,
and a charge, to be effective, must be placed within the
stress of the arch, and not in the piers. I decided that
the most effective point of all would be near the actual
crown.

The road-bed of the bridge was constructed of granite
sets, about nine inches square, and was slightly cam-
bered. Centuries of use had worn ruts at each side, and
the intermediate blocks had become loosened in some
cases. Returning from my lodge early one morning, I
sent my servant on ahead with the horses, and, lingering

154

THE GREEN CHILD

on the bridge, perceived that it would be a simple matter
to lift one of the blocks near the crown. I reckoned that
if I placed the charge under one of these blocks, firmly
wedging it in, 1 should have sufficient tamping to make
the explosion effective. The whole operation could be
completed in five or ten minutes.

When my materials, which included ten feet of fuse,
were ready, I waited for a favourable occasion. I required
two conditions: a river in spate and a moonlit night.
I counted also on finding a canoe beached on the river
bank, at a point just below the bridge where the Indians
had a primitive landing-stage.

Finally, towards the middle of July, such conditions
were promised, and I determined to act. I announced
my intention of spending a week at my hunting-lodge,
and asked Iturbide to deal with any minor affairs that
arose during my absence. I then departed, accompanied
by my servant alone.

The second night of my absence, I waited until two
o'clock in the morning, and then awoke my servant,
showing him a letter I had myself prepared. I told him
that I had been summoned to Roncador and must depart
at once. Ordering him to saddle my horse, I packed my
materials and was ready as soon as the horse. I told my
servant to wait until dawn, and then follow me with my
usual baggage. I then rode away, the path clear before
me in the moonlight.

When I arrived within a hundred yards of the bridge,
I left my horse untethered, and approached the bridge
on foot. The moon was high in the sky above me; in
front of me I could see the outlines of Roncador, huddled
and silent on the hill, the white walls of a few buildings
glimmering out of the darker mass. I looked over the
parapet and saw the long black outlines of three canoes

'55

THE GREEN CHILD

on the bank below. The river ran swiftly, its currents
coiling together in the oily glaze o the moonlight.

I had brought with me a cold chisel, and had no diffi-
culty in dislodging one of the granite blocks. The
masonry below was broken and loose, so that without
difficulty I scratched a hollow in the fabric of the arch.
There I placed my charge of gunpowder, with the fuse
ready fixed. I tamped it in with paper I had brought,
and then with the dislodged rubble, finally replacing the
granite block which I firmly prised against its neigh-
bours with wooden wedges.

I worked rapidly and in ten minutes all was ready.
My horse had wandered down towards the bridge, but
I must move him out of danger. I led him back along
the road a hundred yards or so, and there said good-bye
to an animal that was more dear to me than any human
being. He did not comprehend my actions, but stayed
where I bid him stay; his presence there, riderless after
the explosion, was an essential detail of my plot.

I returned to the bridge and took a final look round.
As a last precaution I went down to the bank and drew
one of the canoes down to the water's edge. There was
nothing else to detain me. I hastened back to the crown
of the bridge, and under the shelter of the parados lit
the fuse. I watched it splutter for an inch or two, and
then ran back to the canoe. I pushed out into the cur-
rent and floated away on its flood.

It seemed an age before a loud detonation rent the
air. I was far away by then, but presently I saw a cloud
of dusty smoke drift across the face of the moon, and
still later my boat rocked in the swell caused by the ex-
plosion.

156

water had no sooner closed over them than it
A seemed to be sucked away from their bodies, to
curve upwards at their feet, to arch over their heads,
until it formed a perfect spheroid. They were standing
within an immense bubble, against which the water
pressed in vain, the sandy particles quivering rapidly
against its glassy inner wall. At first they were aware of
a motion of descent, but soon this ceased, and they
would not have known that they were moving but for
the agitation of the water outside their bubble.

Olivero still held the hand of the Green Child, but
they did not look at each other; they felt indifferently.
Time and its anguish were abolished; they felt a little
sleepy.

Then the water broke above their heads and without
having experienced any sense of reversal they ascended
in the middle of a pool. They found themselves in a
large grotto, filled with an aqueous light, blue in the
darker reaches, pale green towards the apparent outlet.
A rocky basin, rising in many green and mossy ledges,
filled the floor of the grotto. The walls were irregular,
and from the roof hung long glassy icicles, sometimes so
long that they touched the floor and made round
columns, tapering inwards towards their axes.

Full self-awareness returned to them as soon as they
were free of the water; they instantly struggled towards
the rocky shore, which they reached without difficulty.
The air about them was extremely warm, about equal to
that of a glasshouse in summer; so that they did not
feel incommoded by their clothes, which had become
wet as they waded to the shore. But whether from the

158

THE GREEN CHILD

closeness of the air, or the mental agitation of the ex-
perience he had just passed through, Olivero began to
feel faint, and sank to the ground. There he rested until
he became accustomed to the atmosphere, the Green
Child sitting by his side. When he had recovered, she
told him that this was surely her native country, from
which she and her brother had strayed thirty years ago.

When they had rested there about an hour, they got
up and made for that end of the grotto which seemed
to admit light. The grotto gradually contracted, and the
entrance, when they reached it, was not above four feet
high. They proceeded in a crouching attitude and soon
came out, but not into what we should call the open;
for though the space that they now gazed into was
much larger than that of the grotto they had left, never-
theless a roof arched wide over them, higher and of
greater span than the interior of any cathedral. The
light in this space was still dim, like the summer twi-
light in England, but of a distinct greenish tinge. Olivero
now perceived that it was emitted from the walls of the
vast cavern, and must be of a phosphorescent nature. The
rock itself was of a crystalline formation.

Another phenomenon that immediately struck him
was a sound of faint bells, which seemed to come from
every direction. When he turned to the Green Child for
an explanation, she pointed to an overhanging ledge,
from which hung, suspended on strings, a series of rods
varying in length from eighteen inches to about three
feet. Agitated in the gentle breezes which circulated
round the cavern, the rods struck against each other
and gave off the bell-like tones which Olivero heard.
Later he discovered that these rods were of innumerable
dimensions, the smallest being prismatic needles of crys-
talline rock two or three inches long, which tinkled like

'59

THE GREEN CHILD

a child's musical box, the largest being long rods of
rock as much as twenty feet long, which emitted notes
as deep and sombre as any metal bell. These larger rods
were in fact stalagmites whose formation had been con-
trolled over a long period of time, to ensure regularity
of mass and consequent purity of tone. Special caverns,
which might be regarded as workshops or factories, were
set apart for this purpose.

The Green Child told Olivero that these bells or gongs
were hung everywhere about the country to guide people
from one part to another; for each direction had its
particular note or chime and only by listening for this
sound could an inhabitant of a country without sun or
stars tell which way to go. All notes, or chimes, could
be traced back to the centre of this underground world;
but if ever anyone strayed out of range of the bells, into
uninhabited caverns or grottoes, they would lose all
sense of direction, and might never find their way back
again. It was in this manner that she had strayed into
the cavern whose pool sank to the outer world.

Listening now to the bells, they followed where the
sound led, which was from one cavern to another, some
of which were wide and immensely high, others long
and narrow like a tunnel, others like a honeycomb of
fissures. The same luminescence pervaded them all. The
majority were dry at least the majority of those they
walked through; but in others water dripped from the
roofs or ran down the walls to the rock bed, where it
collected in pools. Here and there clear streams ran
along channels cut in the floor, very narrow and in some
cases obviously chiselled out by hand. The water was
slightly cooler than the air, and though somewhat sul-
phurous, pleasant to drink.

The only kind of growth that could be compared to

160

THE GREEN CHILD

vegetation were various kinds of fungus-like plants grow-
ing from the walls of the caves. In the larger grottoes
these were often of a coral-like structure, attaining a
maximum height of about three feet. Their texture was
like that of the white part of a cauliflower, though with
a tougher integument. In the damper grottoes, the
growths had more the appearance of our tree-agaricus,
and were often partially or wholly petrified. An alto-
gether different type of vegetable growth hung down
from the ceilings of the drier caverns, in the form of
tangled and withered roots; which were, however, not
roots, but hollow stems of even diameter, about as thick
as a common pencil, divided into nodules or cells which
contained a kernel. As soon as they came across this
subterranean plant, the Green Child seized a section of
it, and breaking open its dry and flimsy sheath, offered
Olivero the kernels to eat. They were sweet and agree-
able, and formed, the Green Child explained, the bread
of her people.

The first living thing they encountered was a bird, not
much bigger than a skylark, but more like an owl in ap-
pearance; for it was grey in colour, its downy feathers
like fur at a distance, and each eye was surrounded by
a ruff, or several rows of stiff concentric feathers. It dif-
fered from an owl, however, in having a straight beak;
and differed from any bird on earth in the manner of
its flight. Pointing its beak vertically upwards, it rose
as straight as a stone sinks, and when it had reached a
point about two-thirds the height of the grotto, gyrated
swiftly on its own axis. It descended in a corkscrew
motion and invariably took up its perch on a ledge about
six feet from the ground. Another peculiarity was that
it showed not the slightest sign of fear at the approach
of Olivero and the Green Child, and would, indeed.

161 L

THE GREEN CHILD

freely allow itself to be touched and fondled. It was
comparatively rare in distribution, and except during
the mating season, solitary in its habits.

When they had traversed eight caverns, the Green
Child suddenly stopped and laid a hand on Olivero's
arm. They were near the entrance to a smaller grotto,
an opening about the size of an ordinary doorway. As
they listened, they heard a music of a distinct kind
coming from within. Signalling Olivero to follow her,
the Green Child went up to the entrance, and fell on her
knees. Olivero did likewise, and then gazed upwards. He
was looking into a grotto of small dimensions, perhaps
twenty feet deep and thirty feet high. But it was a grotto
of fairly regular proportions, rising in a conical forma-
tion, the walls a glittering mass of luminous crystals.
At the back of the grotto was a human figure, a man
with a high conical head, luminous green flesh like the
Green Child's, and beard the colour of pale sea- weed. He
was wearing a single diaphanous robe, and was seated on
a low rock. Before him was a wide slab of rock, on
which a few objects were standing. Most of these ap-
peared to be polished crystals of various structure, some
black like obsidian, some colourless like rock crystal.
But the object which was engaging the attention of the
inhabitant of the grotto was a miniature gong of the
kind already described, consisting of a frame from
which were suspended nine crystal rods. Each rod
when struck emitted a different note, and the man be-
fore them was ringing the changes on this crystal caril-
lon that is to say, eveiy time he struck the notes, he
struck them in a different order, until all the possible
orders were exhausted. On a carillon of nine notes, such
a peal would not be complete until 362,880 changes
had been rung.

162

THE GREEN CHILD

Such cave-dwellers, the Green Child explained, were
the wise men of her country, who lived in solitude en-
gaged in these holy practices, and in the contemplation
of polished stones.

After they had gazed at the cave-dweller for some
minutes, they left him undisturbed, and continued their
journey. From time to time they passed other grottoes,
from which came the music of invisible bells, but they
did not stop at any of these, but hastened onwards,
guided by the chimes. After travelling for what seemed
about six terrestrial hours, they came into a wide round
space in which they saw a few figures moving about,
carrying burdens. They emerged from grottoes on their
right, proceeded across the hall and disappeared through
an exit facing Olivero and the Green Child.

The chime conducted them round the walls of the
great hall, past the grottoes on the right. Into one of
these they ventured to look. It was thick as a forest with
stalactites and stalagmites, but a wide pathway had been
cleared down the middle, and on each side were blocks
of stone which proved to be moulds, made of alabaster
or steatite, into which the petrous moisture dripped. In
some cases the influx was increased by moisture from
the walls of the caverns, carried to the moulds in stone
spouts.

In coming out of such a grotto, Olivero and the Green
Child found themselves face to face with a group of
five men. They were not dissimilar in appearance to the
sage of the grotto; they wore the same diaphanous gown,
their flesh was green, and they wore whitish wispy
beards. They stared in goggle-eyed amazement at the two
intruders, but made no sound or movement.

It was the Green Child who made the first approach.
She had entirely forgotten the speech of her native

THE GREEN CHILD

country, but running up to the nearest of the group, she
bared her arm and pointed to her green flesh, and then
to his. She gesticulated excitedly, trying to indicate that
she wished to accompany them. But they continued to
stare at Olivero, who felt impelled to make some motion,
some sign of friendly intention. But the moment he
moved towards them, they started back in horror, as
though they had been confronted with a ghost. And
indeed, as such or worse than such, Olivero appeared to
them; for actually the people of this country had no
belief in disembodied spirits, and no knowledge of the
different races of the world. In Olivero they suddenly
saw a totally new species of human being; but only if
you imagine a world in which there are no species, but
only a single genus of mankind, can you get the measure
of their surprise.

They fled precipitately; Olivero and the Green Child
followed them leisurely, so as not to give the impression
of pursuit. The cave through which they had disap-
peared was a short corridor leading into the vastest hall
they had yet encountered; a large underground lake of
space, perhaps three miles long and half as wide. Its
ceiling was so high that its luminous expanse might
have been taken for a sky by aifyone not habituated to
the solid structure of the earth. The light, however, was
perfectly even, and continued without the variations of
terrestrial light : an everlasting light, a summer evening
fixed at the moment birds suddenly cease to sing.

The scene before them was too complex to be taken
in at a single glance. The floor of the hall was a shallow
oval basin, but the natural declivity of its sides had been
interrupted by three wide terraces. The terraces were
cut across by flights of steps, occurring at irregular in-
tervals and apparently leading to the various exits one

164

THE GREEN CHILD

such flight was at their feet. Above the terraces were
many ledges, protruding at various levels, and on these
ledges could be seen caves, either natural or perhaps
hollowed out by human agency. The arena was even
and unencumbered. To Olivero it seemed as though he
were in the interior of an immense beehive or pigeon-
cote.

The figures of the five men whom they had followed
could be seen at the bottom of the steps, making straight
across the arena at a running pace. They were approach-
ing a dense group of people in the middle of the arena.
Detached smaller groups could be distinguished on the
three ledges.

The Green Child did not hesitate; and because he saw
no other course, Olivero followed her down the steps,
which were broad and long, and took about five minutes
to descend. The floor of the hall, of greyish rock, was
covered by an elaborate network of tunnels, designed to
carry away excess moisture: they radiated towards the
middle of the arena. There was no sign of any kind of
vegetation, but occasionally a bird of the type they had
already seen would rise gyrating in the air.

When they had advanced about half a mile, they
were within hailing distance of the crowd they had seen
from the top of the steps. The five men had disappeared
into their mass. The crowd was standing perfectly still,
facing the intruders.

Olivero and the Green Child halted when they came
within fifty yards, but although they stayed still for a
long time, nobody moved in the crowd, or gave any
sign of their intention. They were like a flock of sheep
watching the movements of some stranger, alert but un-
certain what action to take. Olivero would have still
waited, but the Green Child promised that there was no

165

THE GREEN CHILD

harm in her people; so, linking their arms together,
they proceeded shyly forward.

They could now see that the crowd was composed en-
tirely of young men and women, but the distinction be-
tween the sexes was not very evident, since all wore the
same diaphanous robe, and on some of the youths a
beard was not yet very obvious. All wore their blond
hair long, and had unshod feet. Their bodies were ex-
cessively slender, their heads egg-shaped; they had no
perceptible eyebrows, their eyes were tiny, but bright
like a ferret's.

The nearest gave way before the approaching
strangers, but turned when they had passed; there
seemed to be about a hundred people in the group, and
when Olivero and the Green Child went on, they all
followed. It was then that Olivero noticed that they, too,
walked in pairs, with arms interlinked.

Here and there on the plain other groups could be
seen moving about, but the Green Child made for the
middle point, perhaps guided by some obscure memory.
At first the crowd followed in silence, but after a while
they began to talk to each other in quick low voices.

In this manner they came to the middle of the plain,
where there was a bubbling lake of warm water. The
basin, which was perhaps two hundred feet across, had
been made into a regular ellipse and was surrounded by
a low wall, cut out of rock. Round the basin was an
annular trough, some ten feet wide, of semi-circular sec-
tion, and in this trough a number of naked men and
women were bathing, all apparently of the same age as
the crowd already encountered.

Seeing some of those accompanying them prepare to
bathe, the Green Child divested herself of her terrestrial
clothes and stepped into the basin. She was then in no

1 66

THE GREEN CHILD

way different from the other women there, except in
age; and perhaps her flesh was of a slightly duskier
shade of green. Olivero was now left feeling very incon-
gruous in his black cloak and pantaloons, not to men-
tion his shoes and other vestments. Many who were
about continued to stare at him; so suppressing all feel-
ings of shame or embarrassment, he threw off his cloak
and other clothes and stepped with his white body into
the chalybeate water.

It stung his flesh as from excessive saltiness, but pres-
ently the sensation became one of glowing warmth,
which penetrated his whole flesh. He turned to where
the Green Child reclined against the side of the trough;
her head had fallen against her shoulder, and she
seemed almost asleep.

If you go to sleep, he said, you might slip into the
water and drown. He watched over her until he too
began to feel overpowered by a desire to sleep. He
therefore got out on to the ledge of the trough and
pulled the Green Child after him. The rock there was
warm, smooth as jade to the flesh. They lay there and
sank into a profound slumber.

Since there was no measurement of time in this
country, nor any consciousness of its passage, sensations
could only be judged by their own intensity. Sleep
which took all sensation away, took away the sense of
duration. They might have slept there five minutes or
five days or even five years; the same young people were
about them when they awoke, but since these had never
experienced a consciousness of time, none could tell
them how long they had slept. Their terrestrial clothes
had gone; at their feet they found each a diaphanous
robe of the kind worn by the Green People.

In her sleep, perhaps because in such a state the mind

THE GREEN CHILD

is accessible to influences which revive past memories,
the Green Child had recovered her native speech. When
she was fully conscious, she rose up crying Si Siloen, Si
Siloen; which meant, I am Siloen. For that was her
name before she was lost, and perhaps, when she was
given the name of Sally on earth, it was because she
had uttered this word often and Mrs. Hardie had hit
upon the nearest English name known to her.

With the memory of her language, other memories
had returned too, but only such as a child of ten or
eleven would have. She remembered that certain of the
wise men who dwelt in the caves governed the country
and decided all matters in dispute. Turning then to the
nearest inhabitants, she enquired for the cave of the
wise men who governed. 'Many years ago/ she ex-
plained, 'I wandered away into the grottoes where there
is no music and lost myself. Now I have returned with
one who comes from another country, but was lost too,
and now wishes to dwell among us."

Those to whom she spoke listened to her with grave
innocent faces, and then pointed to a grotto beyond the
third terrace, towards which a broad flight of steps led.
When they had put on their robes, they climbed the
steps and came to this grotto, which was like the others
they had seen on their journey, though somewhat larger.
Here, at equal intervals on five benches against the wall
of the grotto, five bearded men were seated. The space
before them was a bare space and into this stepped
Siloen and Olivero.

The five figures did not move or betray any aware-
ness of the interruption. But presently the one in the
middle, seated opposite the entrance, spoke in a calm
voice, and asked them what brought them into the
presence of the Judges.

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THE GREEN CHILD

Siloen answered, and told them her strange story.
Once or twice she stopped, as if to make sure that the
mute immovable figures before her were actually listen-
ing, but on each occasion the Judge in the middle
uttered one word, which meant: Proceed.

When she had come to an end of her story, Siloen
was told to take Olivero with her and wait outside the
cave until she heard a bell sounding within. So they
went outside and sat there on a rock and looked down
into the arena. They saw the same groups wandering
about. On the three ledges were other groups, but pro-
gressively smaller. Those on the lowest ledge seemed to
to be about fifty strong; those on the upper ledge only
five strong. Other figures, sometimes in twos or threes,
sometimes in stronger companies, moved up and down
the flights of steps, disappearing occasionally into the
mouths of the remoter caverns.

Whilst they waited outside the cave of the Judges,
sitting together on a rock, they saw a group of five men
approaching them along the upper ledge. They were
dressed in the same uniform robe, their conical heads
were bald except for a fringe of hair above the ears,
their beards were whitish and wispy. The one in the
middle, who was speaking, walked with head erect; the
others looked downwards and meditated on what he
said. When he came to the end of his discourse, he too
adopted the meditative attitude, and the next of the
group who wished to speak assumed the upright atti-
tude. They paid no attention to anything about them,
and passed Olivero and Siloen without a sign.

Presently from the cave came a sound like a xylo-
phone being slowly struck. When Olivero and Siloen
reappeared before the Judges, the one in the middle
spoke again and told them to descend to the lowest

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THE GREEN CHILD

ledge, and to stay there until they were satiated with
the pleasures of youth; then they must separate and join
with others who were passing into the second ledge,
where they would enjoy the pleasures of manual work;
and then, since his age already entitled him to pass be-
yond the second ledge, Olivero might proceed to the
upper ledge, where he would enjoy the pleasures of
opinion and argument. In that state he would stay a
long time, until he was fit for the highest pleasure,
which is solitary thought; and then he might retire to
a distant grotto.

These instructions were delivered in an impassive
voice, unaccompanied by any gestures. When it was
evident that the Judge had no more to say to them,
Olivero and Siloen retreated slowly, and descended the
steps outside the grotto until they came to the lowest
ledge. There they joined the first group they came
across, and were accepted as companions without wonder
or question.

Most of the time, the people within the group were
paired off, male and female. They walked together, arm
in arm, but with no appearance of excessively mutual
devotion. Often, that is to say, when for any reason the
group broken up into single units, they would reassemble
in different pairs, without comment. The groups them-
selves were not rigidly constant; for when they de-
scended into the arena, where they bathed and played
games, the groups might become confused together,
and on separating again, they would be composed of
different units. There was no leadership within the
group broke up into single units, they would reassemble
limited to about fifty members.

They spent much time bathing, and in playing
games which reminded Olivero of kiss-in-the-ring,

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THE GREEN CHILD

rounders, and such like terrestrial games, in which
many people could take part. The ledge was used as a
promenade, and as a place for sleeping and copulating,
both functions being performed with the same sense of
naturalness. Since there was no measurement of time,
they no doubt waited for the natural processes of their
bodies to indicate the need for these functional acts;
the one usually being the prelude to the other. But
measured in terrestrial time, there is no knowing the
frequency or the duration of these events. Time, it can-
not be too often repeated, did not exist for these people.

When one of the maidens became pregnant, she left
the group and lived in another large grotto, where she
was attended by matrons. When she had given birth to
a child, she returned to the group and did not leave the
group until she was satiated with its pleasures, which
happened when she had borne perhaps three children.
But as the chances of conception were uncertain, and the
period of gestation slow, this period was not necessarily
short.

The Green Child at once assumed the habits and
emotions of her people, but Olivero went through severe
discipleship. He could take part with a good grace in
all the games of these young people, but it was a long
time before he could regard the pleasures of the flesh
with the same innocence. He was angry and jealous
when he saw Siloen walking arm in arm with one of
the youths, and hid his convulsed face when he saw her
making love with others. But gradually he grew ashamed
of these terrestrial sentiments and finally they no longer
disturbed him.

Olivero gradually learnt the simple language of these
people; it was not difficult in itself, for it had no irregu-
lar inflexions and was devoid of abstract concepts. Its

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THE GREEN CHILD

difficulty consisted entirely of its unfamiliarity; it had
no Aryan roots, no relations with any language he had
known on earth; and it was entirely a spoken language.
This people had never conceived the idea o writing,
and no alphabet, no letters, no books of any kind existed
among them.

As was natural, Olivero exhausted the pleasures of the
third ledge much more quickly than Siloen, and by the
time he had learnt the language of the Green People,
and incidentally, was fully disintoxicated of all his
earthly sentiments, he was eager to proceed to the next
stage, and learn more of the customs of this strange
country. He therefore bade farewell to the group and
climbed the steps to the second ledge. He and Siloen
had already so merged themselves into the perfect
communion of the group, that it never occurred to
them to make any eccentric display of feeling on this
occasion.

Here Olivero had to wait until he found a gang (for
such the smaller groups on this ledge might be called)
with a vacancy caused by the promotion of a member
to the superior ledge; for on the second ledge, a much
stricter discipline prevailed, definite work being assumed
by each gang, and each gang proceeding from task to
task in a certain rotation. Olivero was lucky and fell in
with a gang of food-gatherers almost immediately.

It was an appropriate gang for a beginner, because
their task was the simplest of all. It was their duty to
search the caverns and grottoes for the earth-nuts and
fungi on which the inhabitants lived; to replenish the
stores of food which existed on each ledge; and to de-
liver rations to the solitary sages in their caves. In this
way Olivero became familiar with the immense range
of caverns and grottoes which constituted this under-

172

THE GREEN CHILD

ground world. He never explored the farthest confines,
because the gangs never went out of sound of the tink-
ling pendants, whose sound guided them through all
the hollow intricacies. The fungi they collected in bas-
kets woven from the dry roots of the earth-nuts; the
earth-nuts were gathered with their pod-like stems com-
plete, for when they had been shelled, the stems were
not only used for making baskets, but their pulverised
fibre was the raw material from which the diaphanous
clothing worn by everybody was manufactured.

From the food-gatherers, after an indeterminate time,
Olivero passed to the spinners and weavers. Their
spindles were made of finely carved and polished crystal
a thin rod tapering towards each end, weighted in the
middle with a disc of obsidian or chalcedony which
served to give momentum and steadiness to the rota-
tion. The fibres, having been separated in a stone mortar
and pestle, were twisted into a thread, which was then
attached to a notch at one end of the spindle. A rota-
tory motion was given to the spindle by twirling it be-
tween the thumb and fingers of the right hand, and
then the fibres were drawn out in a fine uniform strand
and so converted into yarn. Weaving was the simple in-
terlacing of standard yarn, the woof being threaded by
hand through a warp of about a hundred strands, fixed
on a vertical frame of notched stone. The fabric made
in this way was a loose gauze, silky in texture, but of
broken surface.

Some of the occupations followed by Olivero were not
of sufficient interest to be worth describing (works of
irrigation, sanitation, stone-polishing and such like), but
two of the higher grades of employment deserve men-
tion. The first was the manufacture of gongs and crystals.
It is perhaps not necessary to add anything to what has

173

THE GREEN CHILD

already been said of the gongs. They were made of in-
numerable sizes and of materials varying from fine
needles of rock crystal to thick columns of stalactitic
origin. The latter type were naturally rarer, on account
of the long time required for their formation. The pen-
dulums, as we might call them, when finished were
passed on to another gang, whose business it was to
arrange them in musical series now a regular scale for
ringing changes, now a number of notes which, striking
against each other in succession, would make a recog-
nisable melody.

The highest type of workman, however, was engaged
on the polishing of crystals. For this purpose various
kinds of rock were used opal, chalcedony, fluorspar,
limonite but rock crystal was prized most on account
of its purity. The science which we call crystallography
the study of the forms, properties and structure of
crystals was the most esteemed of all sciences in this
sub terrestrial country; indeed, it might be regarded as
science itself, for on it were based, not only all notions
of the structure of the universe, but equally all notions
of beauty, truth and destiny. These questions occupied
the sages on the uppermost ledge, and those who had
retired like hermits to their solitary grottoes.

It is important to realise that the knowledge of crystals
was of this formal nature, because upon it was built, like
a superstructure, the whole concept of beauty. To put
the matter briefly, their whole aim was to make crystals
which, while retaining the apparent structure of each
class, departed from the strict natural order in some
subtle way. -^Esthetic pleasure was a perception of the
degree of transgression between the artificial form and
its natural prototype, and the greatest aesthetic emotion
was aroused by those crystals which transgressed most

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THE GREEN CHILD

within the limits of probability. The six systems of
crystal formation the cubic, the tetragonal, the ortho-
rhombic, the monoclinic, the triclinic and the hexagonal
were recognised, and each system had its devotees.
Such preferences probably correspond to various phases
of art in the terrestrial world at one extreme the
baroque fantasy of the cubic system, at the other extreme
the classic simplicity of the hexagonal system.

The gangs whose duty it was to polish crystals began
their careers by a prolonged study of natural crystals.
Grottoes in which perfect specimens were ranged in
series existed for easy reference, but an apprentice was
not considered proficient until he had himself formed a
collection of the complete series. This was not so easy as
it might seem, for some of the classes were extremely
rare, and it was necessary to search in the remote caves
and grottoes beyond the zone of the musical guides.

When the education of an apprentice was complete,
he was allowed to experiment on some of the less
precious stones. The more he experimented, the more he
became aware of the difficulty of his task; for there was
no law but his own instinct to guide him beyond the
limits of natural forms. But when once he had become
sure of his instinct, then no joy could equal the discovery
of a form whose perfection was other than the perfection
of nature.

When he was satisfied that he had reached proficiency
in the polishing of crystals made of opaque stones, the
workman might then venture to use pure rock crystal.
Though there was no actual control of the supply of this
precious rock, it would have been regarded as a kind of
blasphemy to employ the material for an imperfect work.
When the workman was satisfied that he had succeeded
in creating a perfect form, he might then test the result

'75

THE GREEN CHILD

by offering the crystal to a solitary sage. If the sage
accepted the gift for contemplation, then the work was
judged perfect. When a workman had had five such
crystals accepted, he was judged worthy of becoming a
sage, and ascended to dwell on the uppermost ledge.

Many workmen were doomed to failure, either because
their minds were too feeble to understand the laws of
the natural world, or because, even granted that degree
of intelligence, they were yet devoid of the instinct
which can transgress the natural law in the interests of
absolute beauty.

When they had admitted to themselves their failure,
such workmen were invariably transferred to the other
occupation which remains to be mentioned the care of
the caves of the dead.

It must now be explained that the people of this
country had notions of immortality diametrically
opposed to those prevalent on earth. Perhaps because
instead of an open and impalpable sky they had solid
rock above them; because they believed their universe
to be limited in extent and human beings to be numer-
able for whatever cause, they regarded the organic and
vital elements of their bodies as disgusting and deplor-
able. Everything soft and labile filled them with a species
of horror, and above all the human breath was the
symptom of an original curse which could only be
eradicated after death. Death itself was no horror to
them, but nothing exceeded their dread of corruption
and decay : that, to them, was a return to the soft and
gaseous, to the very element of their weakness and dis-
grace. Their sole desire was to become solid as solid
and perdurable as the rocks about them. They therefore
practised the rites of petrifaction. When the hated breath
at last left the human body, that body was carried to

THE GREEN CHILD

special caves, and there laid in troughs filled with the
petrous water that dripped from roof and walls. There
it remained until the body turned white and hard, until
the eyes were glazed under their vitreous lids, and the
hair of the head became like crisp snail-shells, the beard
like a few jagged icicles. But this process was merely a
long purgatory, for when the body was finally petrified
it was removed from its watery trough and carried like
a recumbent statue to the halls of the dead caves in
which the alabaster bodies were stacked, one above the
other in dense rows, to wait for their final beatitude,
crystallisation. When the body, no longer recognisably
human, but rather a pillar of salt, took on the mathe-
matical precision and perfect structure of crystal, then it
was judged to have attained its final immortality.

Slowly the caves were filling with these solid wedges.
No man knew how far they extended into the infinite
mass of the earth; all they knew was that the space they
lived in was limited and that a time would come when
the dwindling race would inhabit the last grotto, when
the last of that race would plunge into the trough, and
so fulfil the purpose of life, which is to attain everlasting
perfection. For this people held that there was nothing
else more acceptable unto God, than to offer their body
wholly to the earth, and to unite it most inwardly with
that earth. Then, they said, all their inward parts would
rejoice, when their bodies were perfectly united with the
earth. That was their whole desire : to be one with the
physical harmony of the universe.

It will be easily imagined that the attendance on these
petrifying grottoes and halls of the dead occupied the
time of many men, but these duties never fell to Olivero,
because he became so fascinated by the work of polish-
ing crystals, and became so proficient in it, that before

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THE GREEN CHILD

long he had qualified for the next stage of existence, one
more appropriate to his age and experience. He there-
fore said good-bye to his fellow-workers, and climbing
the steps, seated himself on a rock at the top.

The people walked there in groups of five, or singly*
Those that walked singly had left a group to prepare
themselves for the perfect solitude of a grotto; but to
make the transition to such a state more gradual, they
were permitted to circulate for so long as they could
bear the sight of human beings on this upper ledge,
and for last companions they were permitted to adopt
a pet. Now the only living creatures in this under-
ground world, except the birds already mentioned,
were a species of blind-worm or snake, and an immense
beetle, about the size of a tortoise. Usually speaking,
a sage who liked beetles did not take to snakes, and
vice versa; the respective characters of these two animals
being rather similar to those of our dogs and cats.
The snakes, which were about three feet long, were
of a silver-grey colour, with faint gleams of phosphor-
escent blue in their scales. When domesticated (and it
was rare to find one in a wild state) they would live
about the person of their masters, for preference coiling
round his neck, the head on his breast, the tail down
his back. The beetles, on the other hand, did not
make themselves familiar with the persons of their
masters; they scuttled at their heels with the speed of
cockroaches. Their shell-like wing-cases, of a blue metallic
colour, were slightly striated in a longitudinal direction.
They ran on three pairs of triple-jointed legs; their
mandibles and antennae were not conspicuous, but the
females of the species (which did not greatly differ from
the males in other respects) emitted a luminous glow
from the hinder end of their bodies. They lived on dung,

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THE GREEN CHILD

and were much esteemed as scavengers as well as com-
panions.

It seemed an interminable time before Olivero saw a
group approaching him which consisted of four men
only. He rose when they were within speaking distance,
and asked if he might join them. They bowed gravely,
and made no objection; so Olivero took his place on the
extreme left, for this was the position of the novice. As
the leader of the group, who always occupied the middle
position, departed to solitariness, so the novice would
successively occupy the extreme right, the inner left and
the inner right positions, until he himself finally became
the leader.

It so happened that the group joined by Olivero was in
the midst of a discussion of the notion of Time. This
was not a problem that occupied the sages much, because
in a country where there were no heavenly bodies, no
succession of night and day, nor any variation of season,
the sense of time was very rudimentary. It had never
occurred to these people even to measure the passage of
time, and they had no devices such as clocks and
calendars. Nevertheless, they were sensible of change:
the dripping of water in the grottoes, the trickling of
streams, the ageing of the human body, and, above all,
the process of petrifaction, were all phenomena which
called for an explanation. Of one thing they all seemed
convinced: that time was of limited duration. They
pointed to the solidity and indestructibility of the rocks
about them, and compared this mass, which to them
was a more extensive element than space, with the
insignificance of the things that change. When the last
vital element had received its crystalline form, then the
sense of time would disappear. Time is change, they
said, and a mark of our transitional nature.

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THE GREEN CHILD

Olivero had been familiar on earth with the view that
time is independent of experience, a pure form unaffected
by all specific events; but this mode of reasoning was
quite beyond their understanding. He ventured to sug-
gest that the question should be judged from a stand-
point wider than that of their present existence. We
have no knowledge, he said, of the extent of the solid
rock on every side of us; other worlds might exist
hollowed out in its mass; and the solid universe itself
might float in some wider hollow. In this wider universe
there might be an endless process of change, and time,
therefore, would be real and infinite.

But they laughed at his notion of a solid floating in
space; it contradicted the law which makes all solid
things fall through the air and sink in water. It was
possible, they admitted, that other hollows existed in the
universe, and they had to admit that the appearance of
Olivero himself was a proof of this; but Olivero's des-
cription of the world he came from as one of boundless
space was received as a wild fantasy; it was not possible,
they held, to conceive of a space that was not bound in
evc.y direction by solids.

Olivero perceived that in his discussions he would
have to moderate his sense of superior knowledge.
Beyond a certain point, his experience would not be
accepted. His evidence was of no more value than that
of a man who had awoken from a vivid dream. His
dream was real, but it was unique. It was not long
before Olivero himself began to doubt the reality of his
past. He longed to find Siloen again, to confirm his past
impressions. But Siloen seemed to be for ever separated
from him; and she herself, for that matter, was now
firmly convinced that her whole earthly experience had
been a nightmare, which had visited her whilst she lay

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THE GREEN CHILD

exhausted and unconscious in the caves beyond the
music.

When the leader of the group perceived how ignorant
Olivero was of the basic principles of the universe, he
asked leave of the other three to expound them briefly.
The notion, he said, from which all our wisdom proceeds
is that of Order in contrast to Disorder. He understood
by Order not any abstract concept of an indeterminate
kind, but the space-filling Mass about them. Disorder is
empty space. Only Order exists; Disorder is not, and
cannot be, conceived. From this fundamental idea they
derived all their dogmas on the nature of the universe.
Order cannot be imagined as having a beginning or an
end; it cannot be created from Disorder or reduced to
Disorder; for what is not Order, is not. Order is con-
tinuous throughout the universe, and is of one kind. It
is indivisible, since it is everywhere the same, and there
is nothing by which it could be divided. It is motionless
and unchangeable, everywhere similar to itself. The
world has no centre, but every centre within the world
is a centre of Order. Thought itself is nothing other than
Order; for it is thought of Order. Thought without
Order is not thought, but nonsense. The senses are the
cause of all Disorder, for being confined to the body,
they create the illusion of self-hood. The only sensual
perception which is true is that which shows us in
everything an unchanging Order; other perceptions, as
of the manifold variety of things, creation, destruction
and change, tend to create a sense of Disorder, and are
the cause of all error.

When Olivero, in acknowledging the force and per-
fection of this philosophy, ventured to suggest that the
very concepts of Order and Disorder might be taken as
the polar opposites that together constituted a single

181

THE GREEN CHILD

harmonious whole; and that this polarity might be the
very principle of a universe constituted of space and
emptiness, darkness and light, attraction and repulsion,
life and death when he put forward this view, which
he did with difficulty for many of the images were
meaningless to this people who, for example, lived in
everlasting light and had no notion of darkness, they
only laughed at him again, and said that it was the
grossest of heresies to suppose the necessity of Disorder.
Stopping the group in their slow peregrination, the
leader turned outwards and pointed down into the wide
basin of the grotto. A slight cloud of steam hung as
usual above the warm waters of the spring; rose and
drifted away in the soft currents of air that circulated
through the caverns. Our life, he said, is like a cloud
that rises from the earth; it floats in the air until it
strikes the cooler surface of the rock, and there con-
denses, and becomes the more solid element of water.
The water in its turn changes its form, solidifying on
the surface of the rock. Everything solidifies : that is the
law of the universe.

The expression used by these sages, meaning the law
of the universe, was the nearest approach they had to
our conception of God. Not knowing fire, not being sub-
ject to inclement seasons, not afflicted with thunder,
lightning and all the terrors of the upper world, they
had never evolved the instinct of fear. The universe to
them was wholly passive, or only active in the gradual
and inevitable establishment of order out of chaos. One
people, without division of frontiers or language, they
had no need to invoke supernatural aid. Neither sacri-
fice nor propitiation entered into their lives, because they
had never endowed the law of the universe with per-
sonal attributes or human passions. Such a notion they

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THE GREEN CHILD

would have regarded as the most outrageous blasphemy.
It was only in their concept of beauty that they allowed
for the exercise of an arbitrary will. Perhaps it is wrong
to speak of beauty in this connection, for a system of
aesthetics does not necessarily imply beauty in our sense.
Their only fine arts were music and the construction
of crystals. Music, as we have already seen, was merely
a mathematical exercise a ringing out of all the pos-
sible permutations on a given number of notes; and as
such it was rather an exercise in the memory of order
than what we should call an art. The contemplation of
crystals was, however, a different matter; it was not a
contemplation of all the possible systems of crystallisa-
tion (though this was one of their studies), but a sensual
pleasure in the transgression of natural order. When
eventually Olivero insisted on the discussion of this
topic, the leader admitted that it was the most difficult
problem in their philosophy. The only absolute beauty,
the only beauty that was permanent and independent
of temporal things, was the order of the universe as re-
vealed in the structure of natural crystals. That was a
truth admitted by everyone. But from the beginning of
the world men had taken pleasure in making forms
which were not exact imitations of the forms found in
the rocks, but which were nevertheless suggested by
these. The usual explanation given for such an extrava-
gance was, that whilst the mind rejoiced in natural
forms, the senses found pleasure in departing from these
forms not, it is true, to the extent of creating dis-
orderly shapes, which would be a useless occupation;
but sufficiently far to give them the pleasure which ac-
companies the discovery of an unknown order. Such
orders outside nature did not really exist; but it amused
men to imagine that they did.

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THE GREEN CHILD

Was it possible, Olivero asked, that the opposite ex-
planation might be true : that actually it was the senses
which, measuring things, rejoiced in the perception of
the exact order of nature; and that it was the mind,
asserting its liberty, which rejoiced in the forms created
by man?

This question was discussed for many revolutions of
the ledge (for that was the normal way of measuring
the duration of their discussions); and was regarded as
a bold paradox. It led them to an examination of the
nature of the mind, and its relation to the senses: in
the course of which they traversed many of the argu-
ments long familiar to men of the upper world. The
general truth, that the mind was fed by the senses and
only formed by the process of sensual perception, was
admitted. But just as the formless water which drips
from the walls of a grotto turns into the perfect form
of a crystal, so, they held, the incoming perceptions of
the senses gradually formed an organ which had its
own inherent sense of order. But this did not solve the
problem posed by Olivero; for it was admitted that with-
out a sense of order, there could be no perception of
disorder.

They finally agreed to regard the forms of artificial
crystals as belonging to an intermediate state, half-way
between order and disorder. If this could be accepted
as a reasonable hypothesis, then it was possible that
some men, approaching the crystal from the side of
the senses, saw in it an order created by the senses, and
were pleased because such an experience gave them an
illusion of human power sufficient to quell disorder;
and that others, approaching the crystal from the side
of the mind, were made aware of the distinction which
exists between the order created by man and the order

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THE GREEN CHILD

of the universe, and rejoiced in the superior nature of
the order to which all flesh must eventually conform.

When this hypothesis had been made clear, and ac-
cepted by all the group, then Olivero suggested that
those who approached the crystals from the side of the
senses were those who actually made the crystals; whilst
those who approached them from the side of the mind
were the sages who accepted the crystals for contem-
plation.

To this proposition there was a general consent.
Olivero from that moment advanced rapidly in the es-
timation of the group. He found it advisable to sup-
press his knowledge of another world and all his other
worldly experience. But by keeping this knowledge to
himself, regarding it as a secret store of dream imagery,
he had a great advantage over his companions in their
discussions. They all marvelled at his eloquence and
wisdom, but Olivero was not aware of any special effort
on his part; for though thoughts were subtle in this
country, lives were simple; and a certain complexity of
experience is essential to eloquence. For the rest, his
curiosity was sufficient to provide continual scope for
argument and enquiry.

One by one the positions in the group were resigned
to him, until he was finally elected leader. In that con-
dition he might well have remained until his death, for
he found it very pleasant to circle round that even
ledge, in the steady luminous atmosphere of the grotto.
Such food as they required and it was infinitesimal
by the standards of the outer world was waiting for
them in baskets placed at intervals along the path.
Water for drinking was found in stoups cut out in the
surface of the rock. The temperature, now that Olivero
was acclimatised, was agreeable and constant. Illness,

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THE GREEN CHILD

even the least irregularities of health, was completely
unknown. Age came to the living body like petrifaction
to the dead body an infinitely slow process; and the
nearer the body approached to death, the more beauti-
ful appeared the state of solid and crystalline perfec-
tion. When, very old by our standards, they finally
died, the event was peaceful. Going on their rounds to
the solitary sages, the food-gatherers would at rare in-
tervals find a figure sitting rigid and silent in its grotto,
his hand no longer ringing changes on the bells. Com-
petently, without emotion, they would lay out the body
of the sage, placing his favourite crystal on his breast.
Then they would inform the attendants on the caves of
the dead, who went and fetched the body and brought
it to the petrifying-trough. So indifferent were these
people to death, that if such a procession passed a band
of youths and maidens playing, or a gang of workers
or even a group of sages in disputation, these went on
with their occupations : no more attention was paid to
the dead than if a breeze had passed, shaking notes
from the hanging bells.

The time came when Olivero felt that he should seek
the solitary state, and his mind being fully made up,
he announced his intention to the group. They accepted
his decision without demur, for it was not usual to
question the wisdom of a group leader. The only rule
of the community was that a sage seeking solitude
should first present himself to the five judges, not that
his decision should be questioned, but to give the lead-
ing judge himself an opportunity to retire. If he availed
himself of this opportunity, then the aspirant took the
place on the left of the judges, and resigned himself to
another cycle of promotion, one which might endure
much longer than the one he had just passed through.

1 86

THE GREEN CHILD

But actually the post of judge was not often vacated;
for though no special privileges attached to it, and
though rarely called upon to function, nevertheless a
special grace inhered in the notion of authority, one
which appealed strongly to a certain type of sage.

There was no thought of retaining Olivero, so he left
the cave of the judges feeling elated. He had now
reached the final stage of life, when nothing would be
of any concern to him but the freedom of his own mind.
He would willingly have dispensed with the solitary
promenades with a pet; but when he made such a pro-
posal to the judges, the leader strongly advised him not
to omit a ritual which had so much sound sense be-
hind it; for it was not merely a question of slowly dis-
sociating oneself from the community of men, but by
living for a time in the company of an insect or a rep-
tile, creatures unable to communicate their thoughts,
the mind was prepared for the process of communicat-
ing with inanimate things. For though these sages
sought solitariness, they were well aware of the dangers
of introspection, and therefore trained themselves to
direct their thoughts to an object outside themselves.
Without an object to contemplate, they would say, the
eyes roll inwards, and we become blind. This object, by
an ageless convention, was always a crystal.

Olivero therefore went in search of a beetle, for he
preferred their hard precise form to the sinuous and
sly snake. Young beetles awaiting a master were kept in
a special grotto, to which a sage might repair and make
his choice. There was little difference between any of
them, except in the matter of size, but Olivero selected
one which, from the way it waved its mandibles, he
judged to be of a lively disposition. For Olivero, in spite
of his acclimatisation, was still more vigorous and mus-

THE GREEN CHILD

cular than the other inhabitants, and apt to walk more
briskly than was usual. He therefore wanted a beetle
that could run quickly, and keep up with him.

Cypher, as he called his beetle, was an ideal pet. If
Olivero stopped to rest, Cypher moved to the side of
the track, and from an inconspicuous spot watched his
master. His mandibles and antennae might move play-
fully, but never for a second did his eyes, which pro-
truded like black glassy beads, shift their gaze, and the
moment Olivero rose, the beetle moved intelligently
into the middle of the path, ready to speed along at
his master's heels. Olivero was touched by such efficient
devotion, and although he felt no temptation to lavish
human sympathy on the beast, yet he found him
pleasant to talk at lively but dumb, patient but ever
eager to advance, never showing any symptoms of
tiredness, boredom or dislike.

It is impossible to say how long Olivero continued in
this state, but certainly he found it more enjoyable and
therefore more necessary than he had anticipated. But
finally he had become so accustomed to exteriorising
his thoughts in the direction of Cypher, that he felt he
could safely trust himself with the inanimate world,
and that he should delay no longer to seek his grotto.
He therefore took Cypher for a last walk, and left him
in the care of certain workers, who tended discarded
pets. Such pets were not given to strange masters, but
were kept in special caves where with females of the
species they propagated their kind.

The manner in which it was customary to seek a
grotto for final retirement was this : The sage perambu-
lated slowly round the upper ledge. As he came to every
cavern that led off from the central grotto, he listened
to the particular music of that cavern, and there were

1 88

THE GREEN CHILD

perhaps sixty of them. When he had traversed the
whole ledge in this way, he would repeat the perform-
ance, until he could carry the individual melodies of
the caverns in his mind, and from among them he
would finally select that which pleased him best. Then
he would set off down this cavern, and wherever he
came to a crossing, again he would make a choice, and
follow whither his ear dictated. As he went along, he
would glance into the grottoes he passed, and at any
point on his journey he might make his choice of an
empty grotto. But naturally the best grottoes within
near reach of the central grotto would be occupied, and
unless he came across one recently vacated by a dead
sage, he might have to wander a considerable distance.
If in this process he came to a place where the music
ceased, then he must wait in that place until the food-
gatherers came, and from that point take them with
him. His choice finally made, the food-gatherers re-
turned and instructed the bell-makers to prepare gongs
of the particular chime followed by the sage, which were
afterwards fixed as a guide for future food-gatherers.

After twice circling the ledge, Olivero selected a
cavern whose bells gave out a melody in the Lydian
mode. For a long time he had stood at the entrance of
this cavern, listening to the soft notes carried on the
sweet air that swept gently along the passage. Like
most of the melodies, it consisted of only seven notes,
but notes so delicately poised, so subtly modulated, that
they carried in their pitch and intervals the sublimest
sense of intellectual beauty. There could be no further
hesitation, but Olivero indulged in that intensest
pleasure which is ours when we prolong that last in-
stant of indecision, already aware of the joy awaiting
us, but anxious to observe it before making it irrevoc-

THE GREEN CHILD

ably ours. For when a pleasure such as this is made
habitual, it loses in acuteness what it gains in accumula-
tion and depth.

Olivero, in those moments, wondered what kind of
being he was who invented the melody, but there was
no knowing since melodies sufficient for all the caverns
had been composed by sages long ago, and were vener-
ated as intellectual heirlooms. It is possible, of course,
that sages of his own time might be capable of com-
posing melodies as beautiful, but no value was attached
to change in itself; a thing once beautiful, it was
thought, was always beautiful, and the work of art was
created only out of necessity.

When he had indulged this mood of sensuous antici-
pation, Olivero began his last journey. For some way,
enraptured by the music, he did not think to look into
the grottoes he passed. When finally he recollected his
mission, he had gone far, and found the first grotto he
entered vacant. It must have been occupied on some
previous occasion, for the seat of rock and the rock slab
in front of the seat were already prepared. It was a
grotto of medium size, oval in section, conical in eleva-
tion. Its walls were of a darker basic rock than any
Olivero had previously seen, a luminous obsidian, very
perfect in its crystalline formation. It was free from
stalactites, and from all trace of moisture; the entrance,
being high and wide, provided sufficient means of ven-
tilation.

Olivero stood at the threshold, still and intent for a
long time. The space of the grotto was growing round
him, becoming real in all directions. Before committing
himself to dwell for the rest of his mortal life in this
room, he wished to test its confines, to make sure that
its shape would continue to please him. He found it

190

THE GREEN CHILD

fully pleasing; the walls arched upwards shallowly con-
cave until they reached the high apex, which was
round and deep, glistening and bluish, like the freshly
exposed socket of a bone. To gaze upwards was like
gazing into the iris of an immense illuminated eye.

Olivero went over to the rocky bench, and seated
himself facing the entrance. Against the even glow of
the rock surface the aperture was hardly visible. It was,
however, the direction from which he could still hear
the chime of the bells.

He now waited in that timeless atmosphere, very still,
scarcely varying his posture. His body at first felt the
strain : the complete inactivity, the pressure of the hard
rock. But the mind coaxed the body into endurance,
into final contentment.

The food-gatherers found him eventually, and
brought him supplies of food and water. One day they
brought him a chime of nine bells, and a rod to strike
them. It was exquisitely tuned, and Olivero found great
pleasure in ringing the changes. To ring a full peal
would take as long as fourteen days, judged by terres-
trial time; but now Olivero had lost all consciousness
of terrestrial time, and judged all things by their in-
herent duration.

Occasionally he was disturbed by crystal-cutters, who
came with crystals to offer him. But the crystal he de-
sired was one which echoed in its proportions the
melody of the music outside his grotto. That is to say,
it should consist of seven planes without symmetry, but
with axes meeting in a single point. Though he accepted
other crystals which pleased him by their natural and
absolute beauty, he reserved the place of honour in the
middle of his slab for a crystal that should have the
particular harmony of the music that had brought him

191

THE GREEN CHILD

to this place. It was only because the crystal-makers
perceived in what direction his preference lay, that
finally they produced a crystal having these properties.
It was of large size, ten inches high, light entering and
emerging from its polished surfaces in a manner which
produced a series of vivid colours, varying between pale
gold and steely blue.

Olivero now had all that he required for the life of
contemplation, and for the preparation of his body for
the perfection of death. When not lost in the ecstasy of
objective proportions, crystals and bells, he found the
greatest pleasure in anticipating the objectivity of death.
He looked forward to that time when the body is re-
leased from the soul, and the soul from the body, and
the body exists in itself. He had acquired that final
wisdom, which sees in the soul a disturber of the peace
of the body. The soul it is that incites the senses to
seek spiritual satisfactions. But the only satisfactions are
physical, measured and immutable. The body knows no
real bliss until it has gathered into itself the wavering
antennae of sight and hearing, when nothing from the
outer world troubles its inner perfection, when it has
no sense or desire, but aspires after fixed and harmon-
ious being. All absolute things, absolute beauty and ab-
solute good, and the essence or true nature of every-
thing, these are not apprehended by the fickle senses,
but achieved by the body itself when it casts off the
worm that has devoured it and filled it with itches and
desires, and takes on a state of crystalline purity. Purest
knowledge itself is not a shifting process of perception,
but a final state of existence. Nothing can exist finally
but matter, and nothing can exist eternally but matter
in harmonious form. What is chaos but matter dis-
turbed by immaterial forces?

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THE GREEN CHILD

When Olivero considered all these things, he was led
to reflect in this manner: Have I not found a path of
action which brings me to the conclusion, that while we
are alive, and the body is infected by the soul, our de-
sires are never satisfied? For the soul is a source of
endless trouble to us by reason of its lust for power; and
is liable also to diseases which overtake us and impede
us in the search for true existence: it fills us full of
loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds, and
of pride; indeed, it often takes away from us the very
capacity of action. When it moves us to action, then
often as not the action is destructive of the body.
Whence come wars and rebellions? whence but from
the spirit and the lusts of the spirit? Wars are occa-
sioned by the love of power and power has to be
acquired by force to satisfy the demands of spiritual
pride. By reason of all these incitements and disturb-
ances, we have no time in life to give to philosophy.
Even if we find a moment's leisure, and give ourselves
to some speculation, the soul is always breaking in upon
us, causing turmoil and confusion in our enquiries, and
so amazing us that we are prevented from seeing the
truth. Experience has proved to me, that if we would
have pure knowledge of anything we must be quit of
the soul the body in itself must achieve a state of har-
mony and perfection. Then we attain the absolute
beauty that we desire, and of which we say that we
are lovers; not while we live, but after death. For then,
and not till then, the body will be parted from the soul,
and exist in itself alone. In this present life, we make
the nearest approach to perfection when we have the
least possible intercourse or communion with the soul,
and are not surfeited with the spiritual nature, but keep
ourselves pure until the hour when God is pleased to

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THE GREEN CHILD

release us. And thus having got rid of the fluctuations
o the spirit, we shall be pure and become part of the
universal harmony, and know in ourselves the law of
the physical universe, which is no other than the law
of truth. When my body shall have acquired this final
harmony, then I know that I shall have come to the end
of my journey, and attained that which has been the
pursuit of my life. All that is misty and fluid, all that
is soft and labile, falls, precipitates, returns to the chaos
of unformed matter; bi^t out of the same chaos is
slowly formed all that is finite and solid, all that is
hard and eternal, all that is fixed and harmonious. This
harmony exists before life and after life; in worlds that
are not yet fornaed and in worlds that are defunct,
cold and extinct. Suck harmony is the harmony of the
universe as well as the harmony of the crystal; my
only desire is to become a part of that harmony,
obeying in my frame its immutable laws and pro-
portions.

When death came to Olivero, he felt with peculiar joy
the gradual release of his limbs from the streams of
blood and the agents of pain that had for so long kept
possession. He died slowly, and calmly watched the
pallor spreading, the marmoreal stiffness gripping the
loose flesh, locking joints and ventricles. The beating of
his heart was like the jumping of a flame in an empty
lamp. Summoning his last vital effort, he stifled for all
time that anxious agitation.

The attendants on the caves of the dead who carried
his body to the petrifying-trough met on their way an-
other procession, coming from the grottoes where the
matrons lived. These were carrying the body of Siloen,
who had died at the same time. The two bodies were
laid side by side in the same trough, and these two who

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THE GREEN CHILD

had been separated in life grew together in death, and
became part of the same crystal harmony. The tresses
of Siloen's hair, floating in the liquid in which they
were immersed, spread like a tracery of stone across
Olivero's breast, twined inextricably in the coral intri-
cacy of his beard.

THE END