THE FIRE

If I were 'seeing over' a house, and found in every room an iron cage

let into the wall, and were told by the caretaker that these cages were

for me to keep lions in, I think I should open my eyes rather wide. Yet

nothing seems to me more natural than a fire in the grate.

Doubtless, when I began to walk, one of my first excursions was to the

fender, that I might gaze more nearly at the live thing roaring and

raging behind it; and I dare say I dimly wondered by what blessed

dispensation this creature was allowed in a domain so peaceful as my

nursery. I do not think I ever needed to be warned against scaling the

fender. I knew by instinct that the creature within it was

dangerous--fiercer still than the cat which had once strayed into the

room and scratched me for my advances. As I grew older, I ceased to

wonder at the creature's presence and learned to call it 'the fire,'

quite lightly. There are so many queer things in the world that we have

no time to go on wondering at the queerness of the things we see

habitually. It is not that these things are in themselves less queer

than they at first seemed to us. It is that our vision of them has been

dimmed. We are lucky when by some chance we see again, for a fleeting

moment, this thing or that as we saw it when it first came within our

ken. We are in the habit of saying that 'first impressions are best,'

and that we must approach every question 'with an open mind'; but we

shirk the logical conclusion that we were wiser in our infancy than we

are now. 'Make yourself even as a little child' we often say, but

recommending the process on moral rather than on intellectual grounds,

and inwardly preening ourselves all the while on having 'put away

childish things,' as though clarity of vision were not one of them.

I look around the room I am writing in--a pleasant room, and my own,

yet how irresponsive, how smug and lifeless! The pattern of the

wallpaper blamelessly repeats itself from wainscote to cornice; and the

pictures are immobile and changeless within their glazed frames--faint,

flat mimicries of life. The chairs and tables are just as their

carpenter fashioned them, and stand with stiff obedience just where

they have been posted. On one side of the room, encased in coverings of

cloth and leather, are myriads of words, which to some people, but not

to me, are a fair substitute for human company. All around me, in fact,

are the products of modern civilisation. But in the whole room there

are but three things living: myself, my dog, and the fire in my grate.

And of these lives the third is very much the most intensely vivid. My

dog is descended, doubtless, from prehistoric wolves; but you could

hardly decipher his pedigree on his mild, domesticated face. My dog is

as tame as his master (in whose veins flows the blood of the old

cavemen). But time has not tamed fire. Fire is as wild a thing as when

Prometheus snatched it from the empyrean. Fire in my grate is as fierce

and terrible a thing as when it was lit by my ancestors, night after

night, at the mouths of their caves, to scare away the ancestors of my

dog. And my dog regards it with the old wonder and misgiving. Even in

his sleep he opens ever and again one eye to see that we are in no

danger. And the fire glowers and roars through its bars at him with the

scorn that a wild beast must needs have for a tame one. 'You are free,'

it rages, 'and yet you do not spring at that man's throat and tear him

limb from limb and make a meal of him! 'and, gazing at me, it licks its

red lips; and I, laughing good-humouredly, rise and give the monster a

shovelful of its proper food, which it leaps at and noisily devours.

Fire is the only one of the elements that inspires awe. We breathe air,

tread earth, bathe in water. Fire alone we approach with deference. And

it is the only one of the elements that is always alert, always good to

watch. We do not see the air we breathe--except sometimes in London,

and who shall say that the sight is pleasant? We do not see the earth

revolving; and the trees and other vegetables that are put forth by it

come up so slowly that there is no fun in watching them. One is apt to

lose patience with the good earth, and to hanker after a sight of those

multitudinous fires whereover it is, after all, but a thin and

comparatively recent crust. Water, when we get it in the form of a

river, is pleasant to watch for a minute or so, after which period the

regularity of its movement becomes as tedious as stagnation. It is only

a whole seaful of water that can rival fire in variety and in

loveliness. But even the spectacle of sea at its very best--say in an

Atlantic storm--is less thrilling than the spectacle of one building

ablaze. And for the rest, the sea has its hours of dulness and

monotony, even when it is not wholly calm. Whereas in the grate even a

quite little fire never ceases to be amusing and inspiring until you

let it out. As much fire as would correspond with a handful of earth or

a tumblerful of water is yet a joy to the eyes, and a lively suggestion

of grandeur. The other elements, even as presented in huge samples,

impress us as less august than fire. Fire alone, according to the

legend, was brought down from Heaven: the rest were here from the dim

outset. When we call a thing earthy we impute cloddishness; by 'watery'

we imply insipidness; 'airy' is for something trivial. 'Fiery' has

always a noble significance. It denotes such things as faith, courage,

genius. Earth lies heavy, and air is void, and water flows down; but

flames aspire, flying back towards the heaven they came from. They

typify for us the spirit of man, as apart from aught that is gross in

him. They are the symbol of purity, of triumph over corruption. Water,

air, earth, can all harbour corruption; but where flames are, or have

been, there is innocence. Our love of fire comes partly, doubtless,

from our natural love of destruction for destruction's sake. Fire is

savage, and so, even after all these centuries, are we, at heart. Our

civilisation is but as the aforesaid crust that encloses the old

planetary flames. To destroy is still the strongest instinct of our

nature. Nature is still 'red in tooth and claw,' though she has begun

to make fine flourishes with tooth-brush and nail-scissors. Even the

mild dog on my hearth-rug has been known to behave like a wolf to his

own species. Scratch his master and you will find the caveman. But the

scratch must be a sharp one: I am thickly veneered. Outwardly, I am as

gentle as you, gentle reader. And one reason for our delight in fire is

that there is no humbug about flames: they are frankly, primaevally

savage. But this is not, I am glad to say, the sole reason. We have a

sense of good and evil. I do not pretend that it carries us very far.

It is but the tooth-brush and nail-scissors that we flourish. Our

innate instincts, not this acquired sense, are what the world really

hinges on. But this acquired sense is an integral part of our minds.

And we revere fire because we have come to regard it as especially the

foe of evil--as a means for destroying weeds, not flowers; a destroyer

of wicked cities, not of good ones.

The idea of hell, as inculcated in the books given to me when I was a

child, never really frightened me at all. I conceived the possibility

of a hell in which were eternal flames to destroy every one who had not

been good. But a hell whose flames were eternally impotent to destroy

these people, a hell where evil was to go on writhing yet thriving for

ever and ever, seemed to me, even at that age, too patently absurd to

be appalling. Nor indeed do I think that to the more credulous children

in England can the idea of eternal burning have ever been quite so

forbidding as their nurses meant it to be. Credulity is but a form of

incaution. I, as I have said, never had any wish to play with fire; but

most English children are strongly attracted, and are much less afraid

of fire than of the dark. Eternal darkness, with a biting east-wind,

were to the English fancy a far more fearful prospect than eternal

flames. The notion of these flames arose in Italy, where heat is no

luxury, and shadows are lurked in, and breezes prayed for. In England

the sun, even at its strongest, is a weak vessel. True, we grumble

whenever its radiance is a trifle less watery than usual. But that is

precisely because we are a people whose nature the sun has not

mellowed--a dour people, like all northerners, ever ready to make the

worst of things. Inwardly, we love the sun, and long for it to come

nearer to us, and to come more often. And it is partly because this

craving is unsatisfied that we cower so fondly over our open hearths.

Our fires are makeshifts for sunshine. Autumn after autumn, 'we see the

swallows gathering in the sky, and in the osier-isle we hear their

noise,' and our hearts sink. Happy, selfish little birds, gathering so

lightly to fly whither we cannot follow you, will you not, this once,

forgo the lands of your desire? 'Shall not the grief of the old time

follow?' Do winter with us, this once! We will strew all England, every

morning, with bread-crumbs for you, will you but stay and help us to

play at summer! But the delicate cruel rogues pay no heed to us,

skimming sharplier than ever in pursuit of gnats, as the hour draws

near for their long flight over gnatless seas.

Only one swallow have I ever known to relent. It had built its nest

under the eaves of a cottage that belonged to a friend of mine, a man

who loved birds. He had a power of making birds trust him. They would

come at his call, circling round him, perching on his shoulders, eating

from his hand. One of the swallows would come too, from his nest under

the eaves. As the summer wore on, he grew quite tame. And when summer

waned, and the other swallows flew away, this one lingered, day after

day, fluttering dubiously over the threshold of the cottage. Presently,

as the air grew chilly, he built a new nest for himself, under the

mantelpiece in my friend's study. And every morning, so soon as the

fire burned brightly, he would flutter down to perch on the fender and

bask in the light and warmth of the coals. But after a few weeks he

began to ail; possibly because the study was a small one, and he could

not get in it the exercise that he needed; more probably because of the

draughts. My friend's wife, who was very clever with her needle, made

for the swallow a little jacket of red flannel, and sought to divert

his mind by teaching him to perform a few simple tricks. For a while he

seemed to regain his spirits. But presently he moped more than ever,

crouching nearer than ever to the fire, and, sidelong, blinking dim

weak reproaches at his disappointed master and mistress. One swallow,

as the adage truly says, does not make a summer. So this one's mistress

hurriedly made for him a little overcoat of sealskin, wearing which, in

a muffled cage, he was personally conducted by his master straight

through to Sicily. There he was nursed back to health, and liberated on

a sunny plain. He never returned to his English home; but the nest he

built under the mantelpiece is still preserved in case he should come

at last.

When the sun's rays slant down upon your grate, then the fire blanches

and blenches, cowers, crumbles, and collapses. It cannot compete with

its archetype. It cannot suffice a sun-steeped swallow, or ripen a

plum, or parch the carpet. Yet, in its modest way, it is to your room

what the sun is to the world; and where, during the greater part of the

year, would you be without it? I do not wonder that the poor, when they

have to choose between fuel and food, choose fuel. Food nourishes the

body; but fuel, warming the body, warms the soul too. I do not wonder

that the hearth has been regarded from time immemorial as the centre,

and used as the symbol, of the home. I like the social tradition that

we must not poke a fire in a friend's drawing-room unless our

friendship dates back full seven years. It rests evidently, this

tradition, on the sentiment that a fire is a thing sacred to the

members of the household in which it burns. I dare say the fender has a

meaning, as well as a use, and is as the rail round an altar. In 'The

New Utopia' these hearths will all have been rased, of course, as

demoralising relics of an age when people went in for privacy and were

not always thinking exclusively about the State. Such heat as may be

needed to prevent us from catching colds (whereby our vitality would be

lowered, and our usefulness to the State impaired) will be supplied

through hot-water pipes (white-enamelled), the supply being strictly

regulated from the municipal water-works. Or has Mr. Wells arranged

that the sun shall always be shining on us? I have mislaid my copy of

the book. Anyhow, fires and hearths will have to go. Let us make the

most of them while we may.

Personally, though I appreciate the radiance of a family fire, I give

preference to a fire that burns for myself alone. And dearest of all to

me is a fire that burns thus in the house of another. I find an

inalienable magic in my bedroom fire when I am staying with friends;

and it is at bedtime that the spell is strongest. 'Good night,' says my

host, shaking my hand warmly on the threshold; you've everything you

want?' 'Everything,' I assure him; 'good night.' 'Good night.' 'Good

night,' and I close my door, close my eyes, heave a long sigh, open my

eyes, set down the candle, draw the armchair close to the fire (my

fire), sink down, and am at peace, with nothing to mar my happiness

except the feeling that it is too good to be true.

At such moments I never see in my fire any likeness to a wild beast. It

roars me as gently as a sucking dove, and is as kind and cordial as my

host and hostess and the other people in the house. And yet I do not

have to say anything to it, I do not have to make myself agreeable to

it. It lavishes its warmth on me, asking nothing in return. For fifteen

mortal hours or so, with few and brief intervals, I have been making

myself agreeable, saying the right thing, asking the apt question,

exhibiting the proper shade of mild or acute surprise, smiling the

appropriate smile or laughing just so long and just so loud as the

occasion seemed to demand. If I were naturally a brilliant and copious

talker, I suppose that to stay in another's house would be no strain on

me. I should be able to impose myself on my host and hostess and their

guests without any effort, and at the end of the day retire quite

unfatigued, pleasantly flushed with the effect of my own magnetism.

Alas, there is no question of my imposing myself. I can repay

hospitality only by strict attention to the humble, arduous process of

making myself agreeable. When I go up to dress for dinner, I have

always a strong impulse to go to bed and sleep off my fatigue; and it

is only by exerting all my will-power that I can array myself for the

final labours: to wit, making myself agreeable to some man or woman for

a minute or two before dinner, to two women during dinner, to men after

dinner, then again to women in the drawing-room, and then once more to

men in the smoking-room. It is a dog's life. But one has to have

suffered before one gets the full savour out of joy. And I do not

grumble at the price I have to pay for the sensation of basking, at

length, in solitude and the glow of my own fireside.

Too tired to undress, too tired to think, I am more than content to

watch the noble and ever-changing pageant of the fire. The finest part

of this spectacle is surely when the flames sink, and gradually the

red-gold caverns are revealed, gorgeous, mysterious, with inmost

recesses of white heat. It is often thus that my fire welcomes me when

the long day's task is done. After I have gazed long into its depths, I

close my eyes to rest them, opening them again, with a start, whenever

a coal shifts its place, or some belated little tongue of flame spurts

forth with a hiss.... Vaguely I liken myself to the watchman one sees

by night in London, wherever a road is up, huddled half-awake in his

tiny cabin of wood, with a cresset of live coal before him.... I have

come down in the world, and am a night-watchman, and I find the life as

pleasant as I had always thought it must be, except when I let the fire

out, and awake shivering.... Shivering I awake, in the twilight of

dawn. Ashes, white and grey, some rusty cinders, a crag or so of coal,

are all that is left over from last night's splendour. Grey is the lawn

beneath my window, and little ghosts of rabbits are nibbling and

hobbling there. But anon the east will be red, and, ere I wake, the sky

will be blue, and the grass quite green again, and my fire will have

arisen from its ashes, a cackling and comfortable phoenix.