the country we always remember again.
What is beautiful is every little rite that reminds us of our
mysteries."

This is a most persistent experience, and Beauty thereby promises us
happiness, but in a strange way seems to tell of happiness past. It
lures not forward unless to the exploration of the "prison-house" once
more.

Even the beauty of woman is not always a lure. There is a beauty in
woman which makes one glad, but there is the beauty that haunts one
like a great sadness, besides the beauty that draws one nearer to her.
There is the seductive beauty of Cleopatra, but there is also the
almost repulsive beauty of Medea, and besides both there is the
mysterious beauty of Helen or of Eve.

Beauty is also a great possession, and that is another conception,
another mystery. We lie like a mirror in the presence of Beauty, and
it builds the very temple of our souls. Beauty is the gold of earthly
experience. It is essentially that which in looking round our eyes
like best, that which they say swiftly "Yes" to. We enter into
communion with the beautiful as with a beloved object. We make it
part of ourselves. We absorb it into that which is integral and
immortal--our very essence. "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: its
loveliness can never pass away" is a truth of experience, not the
idle fancy of the poet. For to have seen the beautiful is not
inconsequential, it is not even a responsibility entirely your own;
the beautiful thing has also seen you. Henceforth your life can never
be quite the same, and the beautiful thing looked upon has either
become less or more beautiful.

VII

A STILL-CREATION-DAY

The blue-green sea is living velvet, and full of light-rings; it
goes out to a distant mauve horizon, near which sea-gulls with white
gleaming wings are flying. Many gulls are fluttering on the red buoys
in the water.

It is late in a December afternoon on the south coast of the Crimea.
It is Yalta, beloved of all Russians, and I have come tramping to
it--which Russians never do--and I am intending to spend lazy days
looking with the gay town and all its white villas at the glorious
spectacle of the southern sea. All the rest of Russia is gripped by
winter, but here there is sanctuary and forgiveness. I have been
tramping on the cold, cold steppes, frozen, forced to get back into
myself and hide like the trees, and when I came here it seemed somehow
as if Nature herself had been angry with me, relente