reputed wise, are against me; and that pretty hard words have been
applied in the literature of all countries and ages to persons who are
of my way of thinking, as, for instance, _gross, thoughtless, without
soul_, and _Epicurean Swine_. And some of the people I like most to
read about, the heroes of Tolstoi, André, Levine, Pierre, and, of
course, Tolstoi himself, are for ever repeating that they can not
live, let alone enjoy life, unless some one tell them why they should
live at all.
The demand, at first sight, does not seem unreasonable, and it is hard
lines that just those who will ask about such matters should be the very
ones for ever denied an answer. But so it is. The secret of _why we
should live_ can be whispered only by a divinity; and, like the
divinity who spoke to the Prophet, its small, still voice is heard only
in ourselves. What it says there is neither couched in a logical form
nor articulated in very definite language; and, I am bound to admit, is
in no way of the nature of _pure reason_. Indeed, it is for the most
part ejaculatory, and such that the veriest infant and simpleton, and I
fear even animals (which is a dreadful admission), can follow its
meaning. For to that unceasing question _Why_? the tiny voice within us
answers with imperturbable irrelevance, "I want," "I do," "I think," and
occasionally "I love." Very crass little statements, and not at all
satisfactory to persons like Levine, André, and Tolstoi, who, for the
most part, know them only second-hand; but wonderfully satisfying, thank
goodness, to the great majority which hears them for ever humming and
beating with the sound of its own lungs and heart. And one might even
suspect that they are merely a personal paraphrase of the words which
the spheres are singing and the heavens are telling.
So, if we have no ampler places to cultivate with reverence and love,
let us betake ourselves to the hanging gardens on our roof. The suns
will cake the insufficient earth and parch the delicate roots; the
storms will batter and tear the frail creepers. No doubt. But at this
present moment all is fair and fragrant. And when the storms have done
their wicked worst, and the sun and the frosts--nay, when that roof on
which we perch is pulled to pieces, tiles and bricks, and the whole
block goes--may there not be, for those caring enough, the chance of
growing another garden, there or elsewhere?
Be this as it may, one thing is certain, that no solid plot of earth
between its walls or hedges allows us such intricate and unexpected
bird's-eye views of streets and squares, of the bustling or resting
city; none gives us such a vault of heaven, pure and sunny, or creeping
with clouds, or serenely starlit, as do these hanging gardens of our
life.
THE END
HORTUS VITAE;
OR, THE HANGING GARDENS:
MORALIZING ESSAYS.
BY
VERNON LEE.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Hortus Vitae, by Violet Paget, AKA Vernon Lee