Worshipper of the Image, by 
Richard Le Gallienne 
 
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Title: The Worshipper of the Image 
Author: Richard Le Gallienne 
Release Date: January 23, 2004 [EBook #10812] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 
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WORSHIPPER OF THE IMAGE *** 
 
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The Worshipper of the Image 
By RICHARD LE GALLIENNE
JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD LONDON AND NEW YORK 
1900 
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
TO SILENCIEUX 
THIS TRAGIC FAIRY-TALE 
 
Contents 
CHAPTER 
I. 
SMILING SILENCE 
II. THE COMING OF SILENCIEUX 
III. THE NORTHERN SPHINX 
IV. AT THE RISING OF THE MOON 
V. SILENCIEUX SPEAKS 
VI. THE THREE BLACK PONDS 
VII. THE LOVERS OF SILENCIEUX 
VIII. A STRANGE KISS FOR SILENCIEUX 
IX. THE WONDERFUL WEEK 
X. SILENCIEUX WHISPERS 
XI. WONDER IN THE WOOD 
XII. AUTUMN IN THE VALLEY
XIII. THE HUMAN SACRIFICE 
XIV. A SONG OF THE LITTLE DEAD 
XV. SILENCIEUX ALONE IN THE WOOD 
XVI. THE FIRST TALK ON THE HILLS 
XVII. ANTONY ALONE ON THE HILLS 
XVIII. THE SECOND TALK ON THE HILLS 
XIX. LAST TALK ON THE HILLS 
XX. ANTONY'S JUDGMENT UPON SILENCIEUX 
XXI. "RESURGAM!" 
XXII. THE STRANGENESS OF ANTONY 
XXIII. BEATRICE FULFILS HER DESTINY 
 
The Worshipper of the Image 
CHAPTER I 
SMILING SILENCE 
Evening was in the wood, still as the dreaming bracken, secretive, 
moving softly among the pines as a young witch gathering simples. She 
wore a hood of finely woven shadows, yet, though she drew it close, 
sunbeams trooping westward flashed strange lights across her haunted 
face. 
The birds that lived in the wood had broken out into sudden singing as 
she stole in, hungry for silence, passionate to be alone; and at the foot 
of every tree she cried "Hush! Hush!" to the bedtime nests. When all
but one were still, she slipped the hood from her face and listened to 
her own bird, the night-jar, toiling at his hopeless love from a bough on 
which already hung a little star. 
Then it was that a young man, with a face shining with sorrow, vaulted 
lightly over the mossed fence and dipped down the green path, among 
the shadows and the toadstools and the silence. 
"Silencieux," he said over to himself--"I love you, Silencieux." 
Far down the wood came and went through the trees the black and 
white gable of a little châlet to which he was dreaming his way. 
Suddenly a small bronze object caught his eye moving across the 
mossy path. It was a beautiful beetle, very slim and graceful in shape, 
with singularly long and fine antennae. Antony had loved these things 
since he was a child,--dragonflies with their lamp-like eyes of luminous 
horn, moths with pall-like wings that filled the world with silence as 
you looked at them, sleepy as death--loved them with the passion of a 
Japanese artist who delights to carve them on quaint nuggets of metal. 
Perhaps it was that they were so like words--words to which he had 
given all the love and worship of his life. Surely he had loved 
Silencieux[1] more since he had found for her that beautiful name. 
He held the beetle in his hand a long while, loving it. Then he said to 
himself, with a smile in which was the delight of a success: "A 
vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns." 
The phrase delighted him. He set the insect down on the path, tenderly. 
He had done with it. He had carved it in seven words. The little model 
might now touch its delicate way among the ferns at peace. 
"A vase-shaped beetle with deer's horns," he repeated as he walked on, 
and then the gathering gloom of the wood suggested an addition: "And 
some day I shall find in the wood that moth of which I have dreamed 
since childhood--the dark moth with the face of death between his 
wings."
The châlet stood on a little clearing, in a little circle of pines. From it 
the ground sloped down towards the valley, and at some distance 
beneath smoke curled from a house lost amid clouds of foliage, the 
abounding green life of this damp and brooding hollow. A great 
window looking down the woodside filled one side of the châlet, and 
the others were dark with books, an occasional picture or figured jar 
lighting up the shadow. A small fire flickered beneath a quaintly 
devised mantel, though it was summer--for the mists crept up the hill at 
night and chilled the    
    
		
	
	
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