ed back into the house to see if
the streak hadn't dried yet; but no! it loomed in tell-tale
ghastliness, a sort of writing on the wall announcing the wrath and
visitation of heaven. I went outside again and smoked miserably on the
little bench. Gradually I began to feel warmer, the mists seemed
clearing. I rose and stretched myself with an ache of luxurious
languor. Encouraged, I stole within again to peep at the streak. It
was dry--a virgin wall, innocently white, met my delighted gaze. I
opened the window; the draggling vapors were still rising, rising, the
bleakness was merging in a mild warmth. I refilled my pipe, and
plunged down the yet gray hill. I strode past the old saw-mill,
skirted the swampy border of the lake, came out on the firm green,
when bing! zim! br-r-r! a heavenly bolt of sunshine smashed through
the raw mists, scattering them like a bomb to the horizon's rim; then
with sovereign calm the sun came out full, flooding hill and dale with
luminous joy; the lake shimmered and flashed into radiant life, and
gave back a great white cloud-island on a stretch of glorious blue,
and all that golden warmth stole into my veins like wine. A little
goat came skipping along with tinkling bell, a horse at grass threw up
its heels in ecstasy, an ox lowed, a dog barked. Tears of exquisite
emotion came into my eyes; the beautiful soft warm light that lay over
all the happy valley seemed to get into them and melt something. How
unlike those tears of yesterday, wrung out of me as by some serpent
coiled round my ribs! Now my ribs seemed expanding--to hold my
heart--and all the divine joy of existence thrilled me to a religious
rapture. And with the lifting of the mists all that ghastly mediaeval
nightmare was lifted from my soul; in that sacred moment all the lurid
tragedy of the crucified Christ vanished, and only Christ was left,
the simple fellowship with man and beast and nature, the love of life,
the love of love, the love of God. And in that yearning ecstasy my
picture came to me--The Joyous Comrade. Christ--not the tortured God,
but the joyous comrade, the friend of all simple souls; the joyous
comrade, with the children clinging to him, and peasants and fishers
listening to his chat; not the theologian spinning barren subtleties,
but the man of genius protesting against all forms and dogmas that
would replace the direct vision and the living ecstasy; not the man of
sorrows loving the blankness of underground cells