Speaker 1: Cool Zone Media book Club. Book Club book Club. It's
Speaker 1: the Cool Zone Media book Club, the only book club
Speaker 1: where you don't have to do the reading because I'm
Speaker 1: going to do the reading for you. There's probably other
Speaker 1: book clubs where you don't have to do the reading,
Speaker 1: but they're not going to be ones where I do
Speaker 1: the reading for you, unless you find like audiobooks I've
Speaker 1: read or something, in which case I guess you can
Speaker 1: find one like that. Well, I can't promise this is
Speaker 1: the only book club where you don't have to do
Speaker 1: the reading because I do it for you. But it's
Speaker 1: one of them, maybe the only one. This week's story
Speaker 1: is by someone I've admired for a long time because
Speaker 1: he's an anti state socialist jack of all trades from
Speaker 1: the nineteenth century who made invaluable contributions to politics, visual art, literature,
Speaker 1: and is mostly famous as a wallpaper designer. How could
Speaker 1: I not love him? He was custom made to be
Speaker 1: someone I like. His name is William Morris. William Morris
Speaker 1: is on my short list of people I want to
Speaker 1: cover on cool People did cool stuff, So I don't
Speaker 1: know as much about him as I will by the
Speaker 1: time I researched a whole episode about him. Maybe he's terrible,
Speaker 1: I don't know. He seemed to be really good to
Speaker 1: his family and that's usually how he judged people. But
Speaker 1: in short, William Morris today's author, there was this upper
Speaker 1: middle class guy named William Morris. He was born in
Speaker 1: eighteen thirty four in England. He went to Oxford and shit,
Speaker 1: he got really into art and he wound up basically
Speaker 1: revolutionizing interior decoration, and he like designed wallpaper and textiles
Speaker 1: and shit for the rich, whom he wound up despising.
Speaker 1: He did a ton of medievalism and worked to translate
Speaker 1: old Norse epics and shit into English and seen through
Speaker 1: his fiction as one of the fathers of modern fantasy fiction.
Speaker 1: He became a socialist, burning his bridges with rich clientele
Speaker 1: and financing radical publishing mark alongside workers. He was arrested
Speaker 1: for assaulting an officer in like his early fifties or
Speaker 1: late forties or some shit. His socialism was basically Marxist
Speaker 1: theoretical underpinnings, with strong anarchist sympathies and ties. He was
Speaker 1: friends with friend of the Pod Peter Kropotkin, for example,
Speaker 1: and he opposed state socialism, but he also didn't become
Speaker 1: an anarchist or something like that. He was caught up
Speaker 1: in all the factional infighting, but he basically tried not
Speaker 1: to be. He spent all of his last days trying
Speaker 1: to fight for unity among all the socialists. This story
Speaker 1: is the first story he ever published, when he was
Speaker 1: probably twenty one or so and in Oxford. It was
Speaker 1: inspired by his time touring churches in France. This story
Speaker 1: is not a nail biter, It is not action packed.
Speaker 1: It's a story of a kind we don't see much anymore,
Speaker 1: and it shows his commitment to craftsmanship and beauty in
Speaker 1: how it develops its themes. It also, to me shows
Speaker 1: how much he owes the Romantics, who were all like
Speaker 1: proto socialists and interesting as hell. I've read some of
Speaker 1: their stuff on this podcast and talked about some of
Speaker 1: their lives on cool people who did cool stuff. As
Speaker 1: for this story, I remember once during a writing workshop,
Speaker 1: the instructor, who might have been Tobias Buckel, but I'm
Speaker 1: not certain. I don't remember who said it was like
Speaker 1: talking about how look in your first novel, your publisher
Speaker 1: isn't going to let you get away with spending eight
Speaker 1: pages describing the stained glass windows in a church, or
Speaker 1: whatever your interest is. But once you've earned your audience's trust,
Speaker 1: publishers will trust you to go down those sorts of paths.
Speaker 1: And this story is just about the most perfect and
Speaker 1: essentially literal version of that I've ever read, although it
Speaker 1: is his first story, and maybe the reason it's trusted
Speaker 1: is because he later earned everyone's respect. But I think
Speaker 1: he earns it in this story. I think that he
Speaker 1: makes these pages describing the literal beauty of churches. He
Speaker 1: makes it what the story is about in a really
Speaker 1: interesting way. But I'll talk about that afterwards. I hope
Speaker 1: you like this story. It's called the Story of the
Speaker 1: Unknown Church by William Morris. I was the master mason
Speaker 1: of a church that was built more than six hundred
Speaker 1: years ago. It is now two hundred years since that
Speaker 1: church vanished from the face of the earth. It was
Speaker 1: destroyed utterly. No fragment of it was left, not even
Speaker 1: the great pillars that bore up the tower at the
Speaker 1: cross where the choir used to join the nave. No
Speaker 1: one knows even where it stood. Only in this very
Speaker 1: autumn tide. If you knew the place, you would see
Speaker 1: the heaps made by the earth covered ruins, heaving the
Speaker 1: yellow corn into glorious waves, so that the place where
Speaker 1: my church used to be is as beautiful now as
Speaker 1: when it stood in all its splendor. I do not
Speaker 1: remember very much about the land where my church was.
Speaker 1: I have quite forgotten the name of it, but I
Speaker 1: know it was very beautiful. And even now, while I
Speaker 1: am thinking of it, comes a flood of old memories,
Speaker 1: and I almost seem to see it again, that old
Speaker 1: beautiful land. Only dimly do I see it in spring
Speaker 1: and summer and winter. But I see it in autumn
Speaker 1: tide clearly now, yes, clearer, clearer, oh so bright and glorious.
Speaker 1: Yet it was beautiful too in spring, when the brown
Speaker 1: earth began to grow green, Beautiful in summer, when the
Speaker 1: blue sky looked so much bluer if you could ham
Speaker 1: a piece of it between the new white carving, Beautiful
Speaker 1: in solemn starry nights, so solemn that it almost reached agony,
Speaker 1: the awe and joy one had in their great beauty.
Speaker 1: But of all these beautiful times, I remember the whole
Speaker 1: only of autumn tide. The others come in bits to me.
Speaker 1: I can only think of parts of them, but all
Speaker 1: of autumn, and of all days and nights in autumn,
Speaker 1: I remember one more particularly that autumn day. The church
Speaker 1: was nearly finished, and the monks for whom we were
Speaker 1: building the church, and the people who lived in the
Speaker 1: town hard By, crowded round us, oftentimes to watch us carving.
Speaker 1: Now the great church and the buildings of the abbey
Speaker 1: where the monks lived, were about three miles from the town,
Speaker 1: and the town stood on a hill overlooking the rich
Speaker 1: autumn country. It was girt about with great walls that
Speaker 1: had overhanging battlements and towers at certain places all along
Speaker 1: the walls, and often we could see from the churchyard
Speaker 1: or the abbey garden the flash of helmets and spears,
Speaker 1: and the dim shadowy wavings of banners as the knights
Speaker 1: and lords and men at arms passed to and fro
Speaker 1: along the battlements. And we could see too, in the
Speaker 1: town the three spires of the three churches, and the
Speaker 1: spire of the cathedral, which was the tallest of the three,
Speaker 1: was gilt all over with gold, and always at night
Speaker 1: time a great lamp shone from it that hung in
Speaker 1: the spire midway between the roof of the church and
Speaker 1: the at the top of the spire. The abbey where
Speaker 1: we built the church was not girt by stone walls,
Speaker 1: but by a circle of poplar trees. And whenever a
Speaker 1: wind passed over them, were it ever so little a breath,
Speaker 1: it set them all a ripple. And when the wind
Speaker 1: was high, they bowed and swayed very low. And the wind,
Speaker 1: as it lifted the leaves and showed their silvery white sides,
Speaker 1: or as again in the lulls of it it let
Speaker 1: them drop, kept on, changing the trees from green to white,
Speaker 1: and white to green. Moreover, through the boughs and trunks
Speaker 1: of the poplars we caught glimpses of the great golden
Speaker 1: corn sea, waving, waving, waving for leagues and leagues. And
Speaker 1: among the corn grew burning scarlet poppies and blue corn flowers.
Speaker 1: And the corn flowers were so blue that they gleamed,
Speaker 1: and they seemed to burn with a steady light, and
Speaker 1: they grew beside the poppies among the gold of the wheat.
Speaker 1: Through the corn sea ran a blue river, and always
Speaker 1: green meadows and lines of tall poplars followed its windings.
Speaker 1: The old church had been burned, and that was the
Speaker 1: reason why the monks caused me to build the new one.
Speaker 1: The buildings of the abbey were built at the same
Speaker 1: time as the burned down church, more than one hundred
Speaker 1: years before I was born. And they were on the
Speaker 1: north side of the church and joined to it by
Speaker 1: a cloister of round arches. And in the midst of
Speaker 1: the cloister was a lawn, and in the midst of
Speaker 1: that lawn a fountain of marble carved round about with
Speaker 1: flowers and strange beasts. And at the edge of the lawn,
Speaker 1: near the round arches, were a great many sunflowers that
Speaker 1: were all in blossom on that autumn day, and up
Speaker 1: many of the pillars of the cloister crept passion flowers
Speaker 1: and roses. Then farther from the church and past the
Speaker 1: cloister and its buildings were many detached buildings, and a
Speaker 1: great garden round them. All within the circle of the
Speaker 1: poplar trees. In the garden were trellises covered over with
Speaker 1: roses and convolvolus, and the great leaved fairiness durium, And
Speaker 1: especially all around by the poplar trees that were their trellises,
Speaker 1: but on these grew nothing but deep crimson roses, the
Speaker 1: hollyhocks too, were all out in blossom at that time,
Speaker 1: great spires of pink and orange, and red and white,
Speaker 1: with their soft, downy leaves. I said that nothing grew
Speaker 1: on the trellises by the poplars but crimson roses. But
Speaker 1: I was not quite right, for in many places the
Speaker 1: wild roses had crept into the garden from without. Lush
Speaker 1: green brioni and green white blossoms that grow so fast
Speaker 1: one could almost think that we see it grow. And
Speaker 1: deadly night shade la belladonna, oh so beautiful red berry,
Speaker 1: and purple yellow spiked flower, and deadly, cruel looking dark
Speaker 1: green leaf, all growing together in the glorious days of
Speaker 1: early autumn. In the midst of the great garden was
Speaker 1: a conduit, with its sides carved with the histories of
Speaker 1: the Bible. And there on it too, as on the
Speaker 1: fountain in the cloister, much carving of flowers and strange beasts.
Speaker 1: Now the church itself was surrounded on every side but
Speaker 1: the north by the cemetery, and there were many graves there,
Speaker 1: both of monks and of laymen, And often the friends
Speaker 1: of those whose bodies lay there had planted flowers about
Speaker 1: the graves of those They loved. I remember one such particularly,
Speaker 1: for at the head of it was a cross of
Speaker 1: carved wood, and at the foot of it, facing the cross,
Speaker 1: three tall sunflowers. Then in the midst of the cemetery
Speaker 1: was a cross of stone carved on one side with
Speaker 1: the crucifixion of our Lord Jesus Christ, and on the
Speaker 1: other with our Lady holding the Divine Child. So that
Speaker 1: day that I specially remember, in autumn tide, when the
Speaker 1: church was nearly finished, I was carving in that central
Speaker 1: porch of the west front where I carved all those
Speaker 1: base reliefs in the west front with my own hand.
Speaker 1: Beneath me, my sister Margaret was carving at the flower
Speaker 1: work and the little quatrefoils that carry the sign of
Speaker 1: the zone podiacs and emblems of the months. Now, my
Speaker 1: sister Margaret was rather more than twenty years old at
Speaker 1: that time, and she was very beautiful, with dark brown
Speaker 1: hair and deep, calm violet eyes. I had lived with
Speaker 1: her all my life, lived with her almost alone latterly,
Speaker 1: for our father and mother died when she was quite young,
Speaker 1: and I loved her very much, though I was not
Speaker 1: thinking of her just then as she stood beneath me carving. Now,
Speaker 1: the central porch was carved with a base relief of
Speaker 1: the last Judgment, and it was divided into three parts
Speaker 1: by horizontal bands of deep flower work. In the lowest division,
Speaker 1: just over the doors, was carved the Rising of the Dead.
Speaker 1: Above were angels blowing long trumpets, and Michael, the archangel
Speaker 1: weighing the souls and the blessed lead into heaven by angels,
Speaker 1: and the lost into hell by the devil. And in
Speaker 1: the topmost division was the Judge of the World. And
Speaker 1: much like William Morris, was conflicted by doing the work
Speaker 1: of the rich while being a dedicated socialist, I too
Speaker 1: feel that way every time I interrupt everything I do
Speaker 1: to transition to ads like these ones. Enjoy them, we
Speaker 1: all do. And Rebecca, all the figures in the porch
Speaker 1: were finished except one. And I remember when I woke
Speaker 1: that morning my exultation at the thought of my church
Speaker 1: being so nearly finished. I remember too, how kind of
Speaker 1: misgiving mingled with the exultation, which, try all I could,
Speaker 1: it was unable to shake off. I thought then it
Speaker 1: was a rebuke for my pride. What perhaps it was?
Speaker 1: The figure I had to carve was Abraham sitting with
Speaker 1: a blossoming tree on each side of him, holding in
Speaker 1: his two hands the corners of his great robe, so
Speaker 1: that it made a mighty fold. Wherein their hands, crossed
Speaker 1: over their breasts were the souls of the faithful, of
Speaker 1: whom he was called Father. I stood on the scaffolding
Speaker 1: for some time, while Margaret's chisel worked on bravely down below.
Speaker 1: I took mine in my hand and stood so listening
Speaker 1: to the noise of the masons inside. And two monks
Speaker 1: of the abbey came and stood below me, and a
Speaker 1: knight holding his little daughter by the hand, who every
Speaker 1: now and then looked up at him and asked him
Speaker 1: strange questions. I did not think of these long, but
Speaker 1: began to think of Abraham. Yet I could not think
Speaker 1: of him sitting there, quiet and solemn while the judgment
Speaker 1: trumpet was being blown. I rather thought of him as
Speaker 1: he looked when he chased those kings, so far, riding
Speaker 1: far ahead of any of his company, with his mail
Speaker 1: hood off his head and lying in grim folds down
Speaker 1: his back, with the strong west wind blowing his wild
Speaker 1: black hair far out behind him, with the wind rippling
Speaker 1: the long scarlet pennon of his lance, riding there amid
Speaker 1: the rocks and the sands alone, with the last gleam
Speaker 1: of the armor of the beaten Kings, disappearing behind the
Speaker 1: winding of the pass, with his company a long long
Speaker 1: way behind, quite out of sight, though their trumpets sounded
Speaker 1: faintly among the clefts of the rocks. And so I
Speaker 1: thought of him till in his fierce chase he leapt
Speaker 1: horse and man into a deep river, quiet, swift and smooth.
Speaker 1: And there was something in the moving of the water lilies,
Speaker 1: as the breast of the horse swept them aside, that
Speaker 1: suddenly took away the thought of Abraham, and brought a
Speaker 1: strange dream of lands I have never seen. And the
Speaker 1: first was of a place where I was quite alone,
Speaker 1: standing by the side of the river, and there was
Speaker 1: the sound of singing a very long way off, but
Speaker 1: no living thing of any kind could be seen. And
Speaker 1: the land was quite flat, quite without hills, quite without trees, too,
Speaker 1: and the river wound very much, making all kinds of
Speaker 1: quaint curves. And on the side where I stood there
Speaker 1: grew nothing but long grass, But on the other side,
Speaker 1: quite on to the horizon, a great sea of red
Speaker 1: corn poppies, only paths of white lilies wound all among them,
Speaker 1: with here and there a great golden sunflower. So I
Speaker 1: looked down at the river by my feet, and I
Speaker 1: saw how blue it was, and how as the stream
Speaker 1: went swiftly by it swayed to and fro the long
Speaker 1: green weeds. And I stood and looked at the river
Speaker 1: for long till at last I felt someone touch me
Speaker 1: on the shoulder, and looking round, I saw standing by
Speaker 1: me my friend, Am youu whom I love better than
Speaker 1: anyone else in the world. But I thought in my
Speaker 1: dream that I was frightened when I saw him, for
Speaker 1: his face had changed so it was so bright and
Speaker 1: almost transparent, and his eyes gleamed and shone as I
Speaker 1: had never seen them do before. Oh, he was so
Speaker 1: wondrously beautiful, so fearfully beautiful. And as I looked at him,
Speaker 1: the distant music swelled and seemed to come close up
Speaker 1: to me, and then swept by us, and fainted away,
Speaker 1: and at last died off entirely. And then I felt
Speaker 1: sick at heart and faint and parched, and I stooped
Speaker 1: up to drink the water of the river, And as
Speaker 1: soon as the water touched my lips low, the river vanished,
Speaker 1: and the flat country with its poppies and lilies, and
Speaker 1: I dreamed that I was in a boat by my sofa, again,
Speaker 1: floating in an almost landlocked bay of the Northern Sea,
Speaker 1: under a cliff of dark basalt. I was lying on
Speaker 1: my back in the boat, looking up at the intensely
Speaker 1: blue sky, and a long low swell from the outer
Speaker 1: sea lifted the boat up and let it fall again,
Speaker 1: and carried it gradually nearer and nearer towards the dark cliff.
Speaker 1: And as I moved on, I saw it last on
Speaker 1: the top of the cliff, a castle with many towers,
Speaker 1: and on the highest tower of the castle there was
Speaker 1: a great white banner floating with a red chevron on it,
Speaker 1: and three golden stars on the chevron. Presently I saw
Speaker 1: two on one of the towers, growing in a cranny
Speaker 1: of the worn stones, a great bunch of golden and
Speaker 1: blood red wallflowers. And I watched the wallflowers and banner
Speaker 1: for long, when I suddenly heard a trumpet blow from
Speaker 1: the castle, and saw a rush of armed men on
Speaker 1: to the battlements, and there was a fierce fight till
Speaker 1: at last it was ended and one went to the
Speaker 1: banner and pulled it down and cast it over the
Speaker 1: cliff into the sea, and it came down in long sweeps,
Speaker 1: with the wind making little ripples in it. Slowly, slowly
Speaker 1: it came till at last it fell over me and
Speaker 1: covered me from my feet till over my breast. And
Speaker 1: I let it stay there and looked again at the castle.
Speaker 1: And then I saw that there was an amber colored
Speaker 1: banner floating over the castle in place of the red chevron,
Speaker 1: and it was much larger than the other. Also, now
Speaker 1: a man stood on the battlements, looking towards me. He
Speaker 1: had a tilting helmet on with the visor down, and
Speaker 1: an amber colored surcoat over his armor. His right hand
Speaker 1: was ungauntleted, and he held it high above his head,
Speaker 1: and in his hand was the bunch of wallflowers I
Speaker 1: had seen growing on the wall. And his hand was
Speaker 1: white and small, like a woman's. For in my dream
Speaker 1: I could see very far off things that much clearer
Speaker 1: than we see real material things on earth. Presently, he
Speaker 1: threw the wallflowers over the cliff, and they fell in
Speaker 1: the boat just behind my head. And then I saw
Speaker 1: looking down from the battlements of the castle, and you.
Speaker 1: He looked down towards me, very sorrowfully, I thought. But
Speaker 1: even as the other dream said nothing, so I thought
Speaker 1: in my dream that I wept for very pity and
Speaker 1: for love of him. For he looked as a man
Speaker 1: just risen from long illness, and who will carry till
Speaker 1: he dies a dull pain about with him. He was
Speaker 1: very thin, and his long black hair drooped all about
Speaker 1: his face. And as he leaned over the battlements looking
Speaker 1: at me, he was quite pale, and his cheeks were hollow,
Speaker 1: but page his eyes large and soft and sad. So
Speaker 1: I reached out my arms to him, and suddenly I
Speaker 1: was walking with him in a lovely garden, and we
Speaker 1: said nothing, for the music which I had heard at
Speaker 1: first was sounding close to us now. And there were
Speaker 1: many birds in the boughs of the trees, oh, such birds,
Speaker 1: gold and ruby and emerald. But they sung not at all,
Speaker 1: but were quite silent, as though they too were listening
Speaker 1: to the music. Now. All this time, m You and
Speaker 1: I had been looking at each other. But just when
Speaker 1: I turned my head away from him, and as soon
Speaker 1: as I did so, the music ended with a long wail.
Speaker 1: And when I turned again, em You was gone. Then
Speaker 1: I felt even more sad and sick at heart than
Speaker 1: I had before. When I was by the river, and
Speaker 1: I leaned against a tree and put my hands before
Speaker 1: my eyes. When I looked again, the garden was gone,
Speaker 1: and I knew not where I was. Presently, all my
Speaker 1: dreams were gone. The chips were flying bravely from the
Speaker 1: stone under my chisel at last, and all my thoughts
Speaker 1: now were in my carving. When I heard my name,
Speaker 1: Walter called, and when I looked down, I saw one
Speaker 1: standing below me whom I had seen in my dreams
Speaker 1: just before, am you. I had no hopes of seeing
Speaker 1: him for a long time. Perhaps I might never see
Speaker 1: him again, I thought, for he was away, as I thought,
Speaker 1: fighting in the Holy Wars. And it made me almost
Speaker 1: beside myself to think him standing close by me in
Speaker 1: the flesh. I got down from the scaffolding as soon
Speaker 1: as I could, and all thoughts else were soon drowned
Speaker 1: in the joy of having him by me. Margaret too,
Speaker 1: how glad she must have been, for she had been
Speaker 1: betrothed to him for some time before he went to
Speaker 1: the Wars, and he had been five years away, five years,
Speaker 1: And how we had thought of him through those many
Speaker 1: weary days, how often his face had come before me,
Speaker 1: his brave, honest face, the most beautiful among all the
Speaker 1: faces of men and women I have ever seen. Yes,
Speaker 1: I remember how five years ago I held his hand
Speaker 1: as we came together out of the cathedral of that great,
Speaker 1: far off city whose name I forget now. And then
Speaker 1: I remember the stamping of the horses feet. I remember
Speaker 1: how his hand left mine at last, and then someone
Speaker 1: looking back at me earnestly, as they all rode on together,
Speaker 1: looking back with his hand on the saddle behind him,
Speaker 1: while the trumpets sang in long, solemn peals, and they
Speaker 1: all rode on together, with the glimmer of arms and
Speaker 1: the fluttering of banners, and the clinking of the rings
Speaker 1: of the mail that sounded like the falling of many
Speaker 1: drops of water into the deep still waters of some
Speaker 1: pond that the rocks nearly meet over, And the gleam
Speaker 1: and flash of the swords, and the glimmer of the
Speaker 1: land's heads, and the flutter of the rippled banners that
Speaker 1: streamed out from them swept past me and were gone,
Speaker 1: And they seemed like a pageant in a dream whose
Speaker 1: meaning we know not, And those sounds too, the trumpets
Speaker 1: and the clink of the mail, and the thunder of
Speaker 1: the horse hoofs. They seemed dream like too, And it
Speaker 1: was all like a dream that he should leave me,
Speaker 1: for we had said we should always be together. But
Speaker 1: he went away. And now he has come back again,
Speaker 1: much like ads come back again. Well, kind of the opposite,
Speaker 1: because we want Amu to come back. But I guess
Speaker 1: we're grateful for the ads that provide us, the money
Speaker 1: that feed us. Sort of whatever, here's ads, and we're back.
Speaker 1: We were by his bedside, Margaret and I. I stood
Speaker 1: and leaned over him, and my hair fell sideways over
Speaker 1: my face and touched his face. Margaret kneeled beside me,
Speaker 1: quivering in every limb, not with pain, I think, but
Speaker 1: rather shaken by a passion of earnest prayer. After some time,
Speaker 1: I know not how long, I stood up from his
Speaker 1: face to the window underneath which he lay. I do
Speaker 1: not know what time of the day it was, but
Speaker 1: I know that it was a glorious autumn day, a
Speaker 1: day soft with melting golden haze. A vine and a
Speaker 1: rose grew together and trailed half cross the window, so
Speaker 1: that I could not see much of the beautiful blue sky,
Speaker 1: and nothing of town or country beyond. The vine leaves
Speaker 1: were touched with red here and there, and three overblown roses,
Speaker 1: light pink roses hung amongst them. I remember dwelling on
Speaker 1: the strange lines the autumn had made, and read on
Speaker 1: one of the gold green vine leaves, watching one leaf
Speaker 1: of one of the overblown roses, expecting it to fall
Speaker 1: every minute. But as I gazed and felt disappointed that
Speaker 1: the rose leaf had not fallen yet, I felt my
Speaker 1: pain suddenly shoot through me, and I remembered what I
Speaker 1: had lost. And then came bitter, bitter dreams, dreams which
Speaker 1: had once made me happy, dreams of the things I
Speaker 1: hoped would be, of the things that would never be.
Speaker 1: Now they came between the fair vine leaves and rose
Speaker 1: and that which lay before the window. They came, as before,
Speaker 1: perfect in color and form, sweet sounds and shapes, but
Speaker 1: now in every one was something utterably miserable. They would
Speaker 1: not go away. They put out the steady glow of
Speaker 1: the golden haze, the sweet light of the sun through
Speaker 1: the vine leaves, the soft leaning of the full blown roses.
Speaker 1: I wandered in them for a long time. At last
Speaker 1: I felt a hand put me aside gently, for I
Speaker 1: was standing at the head of the bed. And then
Speaker 1: someone kissed my forehead, and words were spoken. I know
Speaker 1: not what words. The bitter dreams left me for the
Speaker 1: bitterer reality at last, For I had found him that morning,
Speaker 1: lying dead, only the morning after I had seen him,
Speaker 1: when he had come back from his long absence. I
Speaker 1: had found him lying dead, with his hands crossed downwards,
Speaker 1: with his eyes closed, as though the angels had done
Speaker 1: that for him. And now when I looked at him,
Speaker 1: he still lay there, and Margaret knelt by him, with
Speaker 1: her face touching his. She was not quivering now, her
Speaker 1: lips moved not at all as they had done just before.
Speaker 1: And so suddenly those words came to my mind, which
Speaker 1: she had spoken when she kissed me, and which at
Speaker 1: the time I had only heard with my outward hearing.
Speaker 1: For she had said, Walter, farewell, and Christ keep you,
Speaker 1: but for me, I must be with him. For so
Speaker 1: I promised him last night that I would never leave
Speaker 1: him anymore, and God will let me go. And verily, Margaret,
Speaker 1: and am YOUU did go and left me very lonely
Speaker 1: and sad. It was just beneath the westernmost arch of
Speaker 1: the knave. There I carved their tomb. I was a
Speaker 1: long time carving it. I did not think I should
Speaker 1: be so long at first, and I said I shall
Speaker 1: die when I have finished carving it, thinking that would
Speaker 1: be a very short time. But it so happened after
Speaker 1: I had carved those two whom I had loved, lying
Speaker 1: with their clasped hands like husband and wife above their tomb,
Speaker 1: that I could not yet leave carving it, and so
Speaker 1: that I might be near them, I became a monk
Speaker 1: and used to sit in the choir and sing, thinking
Speaker 1: of the time when we should all be together again.
Speaker 1: And as I had time, I used to go to
Speaker 1: the westernmost arch of the nave and work at the
Speaker 1: tomb that was there under the great sweeping arch. And
Speaker 1: in the process of time I raised a marble canopy
Speaker 1: that reached quite up to the top of the arch,
Speaker 1: and I painted it too, as fair as I could,
Speaker 1: and carved it all about with many flowers and histories,
Speaker 1: and in them I carved the faces of those I
Speaker 1: had known on earth, for I was not as one
Speaker 1: on earth now, but seemed quite far away out of
Speaker 1: the world. And as I carved, sometimes the monks and
Speaker 1: other people too would come and gaze and watch how
Speaker 1: the flowers grew. And sometimes too, as they gazed, they
Speaker 1: would weep for pity, knowing how all had been. My
Speaker 1: life passed, and I lived in that abbey for twenty
Speaker 1: years after he died, till one morning, quite early when
Speaker 1: they came into the church for matins, they found me
Speaker 1: lying dead with my chisel in my hand, underneath the
Speaker 1: last lily of the tomb. The end. There is so
Speaker 1: much I like in this story. First of all, I
Speaker 1: love that it's obvious he loves decoration, right. This is
Speaker 1: the story of a man who is going to go
Speaker 1: on to revolutionize wallpaper, you know, and like dyeing silks
Speaker 1: and stuff like that. And there's this art movement in
Speaker 1: the late nineteenth century, the arts and crafts movement that
Speaker 1: had Mores as its primary inspiration. He actually didn't like
Speaker 1: join it at first. He ended up in it kind of.
Speaker 1: This is a movement that basically holds up decoration as art,
Speaker 1: which was a reaction to the removal of artisanship that
Speaker 1: was happening because of the industrial Revolution. So like decorating
Speaker 1: your shit as anti industrial this practice. Hell yeah. And
Speaker 1: also I feel like that ties into the romanticism, like
Speaker 1: romanticism was an early kind of response to growing industrialization
Speaker 1: as well. But it's also this story about how we
Speaker 1: put our entire lives into making beautiful things and then
Speaker 1: one day those things will fall apart, right Because at
Speaker 1: the very beginning of this, when he's talking about how
Speaker 1: much he loves autumn and he's been dead for six
Speaker 1: hundred years or whatever, how as beautiful as this church
Speaker 1: that he built and carved with his own hands with
Speaker 1: his sister, How beautiful that was. The undulating fields of
Speaker 1: corn that roll over the ruins of that great church
Speaker 1: are just as beautiful. That the trees are just as beautiful.
Speaker 1: And that handsome man, Phew, that handsome man was beautiful also.
Speaker 1: I love when I first read this, I didn't realize
Speaker 1: that the name Mu is pronounced m you. It's a
Speaker 1: French last name. It's spelled like amyacht to my English
Speaker 1: speaking eyes, and I like wonder whether it was intentional,
Speaker 1: the like am you. You know, there's like something I
Speaker 1: don't know, there's symbolism there. This is a man who
Speaker 1: is not afraid of symbolism, you know, like waiting for
Speaker 1: the last leaf to drop, just being like, please just
Speaker 1: drop already, like while he's waiting for his friend to die,
Speaker 1: and how kind of tragical that is. I don't know,
Speaker 1: I liked it. I hope you liked it. I'll probably
Speaker 1: read you more William Morris, honestly, but we'll see have
Speaker 1: a good week and we'll see you next week on
Speaker 1: cool Zone Media Book Club. In the meantime, check out
Speaker 1: me on tour. I'm going to be on tour. I'm
Speaker 1: going to be reading from my novel Thesapling Cage and
Speaker 1: maybe some fables that were inspired by it on my
Speaker 1: book tour, which you can find out more information by
Speaker 1: going to my substack Margert Kildoy at substack dot com,
Speaker 1: or just kind of googling where's Margaret Kiljoy talking. I
Speaker 1: don't know if that'll work. Google sucks now, but whatever,
Speaker 1: I'll talk to you seon. It Could Happen Here is
Speaker 1: a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from
Speaker 1: cool Zone Media, visit our website Coolzonemedia dot com, or
Speaker 1: check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or
Speaker 1: wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for
Speaker 1: It Could Happen Here, Updated monthly at coolzonemedia, dot com,
Speaker 1: slash sources, Thanks for listening.