THE HARMONY OF VIRTUE

I. 1. The Harmony of Virtue31the gaping antre, not the swelling breasts of the fruitfulmother.Very gaily he entered the cave singing wild ballads of thedeeds his fathers wrought, of Krishna and Arjun and Ram andRavan and their glory and their fall, but not so merrily did hejourney in its entrails, but rather in hunger and thirst gropedwearily with the unsleeping beak of the vulture Misery in hisheart, and only now and then caught glimpses of an elusivelight, yet did not realise his error but pursued with querulousreproaches the beautiful gods his happy imagination had mouldedor bitterly reviled the double-dealing he imputed to his lovelyand wise instructress — “for she it was,” he complained, “whotold me of the route through the cavern.” None the less hepersevered until he was warmed by the genuine smiles of daylightand joy blossoming in his heart, made his step firmer andhis body more erect.And he strode on until he arrived where the antre split intwo branches, the one seeming dark as Erebus to his eyes, thoughindeed it was white and glorious as a naked girl and suffused bythe light of the upper heaven with seas of billowing splendour,had not his eyes, grown dim from holding communion with thenight and blinded by the unaccustomed brilliance, believed thatthe light was darkness, through which if he had persevered, hehad arrived in brief space among the blooming gardens and thewavering tree-tops and the acres in their glorious golden garband all the imperishable beauty of Beulah. And the other branchhe thought the avenue of the sunlight, because the glimmer wasfeeble enough to be visible, like a white arm through a sleeve ofblack lace. And down this branch he went, for ever allured byunreal glimpses of a dawning glory, until he has descended intothe abysmal darkness and the throne of ancient night, where hewalks blindly like a machine, carrying the white ashes of hopein the funeral urn of youth, and knows not whence to expect arescue, seeing the only heaven above him is the terrible pillaredroof, the only horizon around him the antre with its hateful unendingcolumns and demogorgon veil of visible darkness, andthe beautiful gods he imagined are dead and his heart is no longersweetened with prayers, and his throat no longer bubbles with