I think it was "we" he said, but for some reason or other I didn't care
to ask. "Maybe," I answered shortly, trying uncomfortably to recall what
particular capers I had cut. "I guess that's right." And then I added
something about the loneliness, and how deserted all this slope of
mountain was. And he explained that the peasants were afraid of it and
called it No Man's Land. From one year's end to another no human foot
went up or down it; the hay was never cut; no cattle grazed along the
splendid pastures; no chalet had even been built within a mile of the
wood we slowly made for. "They're superstitious," he told me. "It was
just the same a hundred years ago when _he_ discovered it--there was a
little natural cave on the edge of the forest where he used to sleep
sometimes--I'll show it to you presently--but for generations this
entire mountain-side has been undisturbed. You'll never meet a living
soul in any part of it." He stopped and pointed above us to where the
pine wood hung in mid-air, like a dim blue carpet. "It's just the place
for Them, you see." And a thrill of power went smashing through me. I can't describe
it. It drenched me like a waterfall. I thought of Greece--Mount Ida
and a thousand songs! Something in me--it was like the click of a
shutter--announced that the "change" was suddenly complete. I was
another man; or rather a deeper part of me took command. My very
language showed it. The calm of halcyon weather lay over all. Overhead the peaks rose clear
as crystal; below us the village lay in a bluish smudge of smoke and
haze, as though a great finger had rubbed them softly into the earth. Absolute loneliness fell upon me like a clap. From the world of human
beings we seemed quite shut off. And there began to steal over me again
the strange elation of the night before.... We found ourselves almost
at once against the edge of the wood. It rose in front of us, a big wall of splendid trees, motionless as if
cut out of dark green metal, the branches hanging stiff, and the crowd
of trunks lost in the blue dimness underneath. I shaded my eyes with
one hand, trying to peer into the solemn gloom. The contrast between
the brilliant sunshine on the pastures and this region of heavy shadows
blurred my sight. "It's like the entrance to another world," I whispered. "It is," said Arthur, watching me. "We will go in. You shall pluck
asphodel...."

And, before I knew it, he had me by the hand. We were advancing. We
left the light behind us. The cool air dropped upon me like a sheet. There was a temple silence. The sun ran down behind the sky, leaving a
marvellous blue radiance everywhere. Nothing stirred. But through the
stillness there rose power, power that has no name, power that hides at
the foundations somewhere--foundations that are changeless, invisible,
everlasting. What do I mean? My mind grew to the dimensions of a
planet. We were among the roots of life--whence issues that _one thing_
in infinite guise that seeks so many temporary names from the protean
minds of men. "You shall pluck asphodel in the meadows this side of Erebus," Arthur
was chanting. "Hermes himself, the Psychopomp, shall lead, and Malahide
shall welcome us." Malahide...! To hear him use that name, the name of our scholar-ancestor, now dead
and buried close upon a century--the way he half chanted it--gave me
the goose-flesh. I stopped against a tree-stem, thinking of escape. No
words came to me at the moment, for I didn't know what to say; but, on
turning to find the bright green slopes just left behind, I saw only
a crowd of trees and shadows hanging thick as a curtain--as though we
had walked a mile. And it was a shock. The way out was lost. The trees
closed up behind us like a tide. "It's all right," said Arthur; "just keep an open mind and a heart
alive with love. It has a shattering effect at first, but that will
pass." He saw I was afraid, for I shrank visibly enough. He stood
beside me in his grey flannel suit, with his brilliant eyes and his
great shock of hair, looking more like a column of light than a human
being. "It's all quite right and natural," he repeated; "we have passed
the gateway, and Hecate, who presides over gateways, will let us out
again. Do not make discord by feeling fear. This is a pine wood, and
pines are the oldest, simplest trees; they are true primitives. They
are an open channel; and in a pine wood where no human life has ever
been you shall often find gateways where Hecate is kind to such as us." He took my hand--he must have felt mine trembling, but his own was
cool and strong and felt like silver--and led me forward into the
depths of a wood that seemed to me quite endless. It felt endless,
that is to say. I don't know what came over me. Fear slipped away, and
elation took its place.... As we advanced over ground that seemed
level, or slightly undulating, I saw bright pools of sunshine here
and there upon the forest floor. Great shafts of light dropped in
slantingly between the trunks. There was movement everywhere, though I
never could see what moved. A delicious, scented air stirred through
the lower branches. Running water sang not very far away. Figures
I did not actually see; yet there were limbs and flowing draperies
and flying hair from time to time, ever just beyond the pools of
sunlight.... Surprise went from me too. I was on air. The atmosphere
of dream came round me, but a dream of something just hovering outside
the world I knew--a dream wrought in gold and silver, with shining
eyes, with graceful beckoning hands, and with voices that rang like
bells of music.... And the pools of light grew larger, merging one
into another, until a delicate soft light shone equably throughout
the entire forest. Into this zone of light we passed together. Then
something fell abruptly at our feet, as though thrown down ... two
marvellous, shining sprays of blossom such as I had never seen in all
my days before! "Asphodel!" cried my companion, stooping to pick them up and handing
one to me. I took it from him with a delight I could not understand. "Keep it," he murmured; "it is the sign that we are welcome. For
Malahide has dropped these on our path." And at the use of that ancestral name it seemed that a spirit passed
before my face and the hair of my head stood up. There was a sense
of violent, unhappy contrast. A composite picture presented itself,
then rushed away. What was it? My youth in England, music and poetry
at Cambridge and my passionate love of Greek that lasted two terms at
most, when Malahide's great books formed part of the curriculum. Over
against this, then, the drag and smother of solid worldly business,
the sordid weight of modern ugliness, the bitterness of an ambitious,
over-striving life. And abruptly--beyond both pictures--a shining,
marvellous Beauty that scattered stars beneath my feet and scarved
the universe with gold. All this flashed before me with the utterance
of that old family name. An alternative sprang up.