AN OLD WOOD
The chestnut blossom is raining steadily and noiselessly down upon
a path whose naked pebbles receive mosaic of emerald light from the
interlacing boughs. At intervals, once or twice an hour, the wings of
a lonely swallow pass that way, when alone the shower stirs from its
perpendicular fall. Cool and moist, the perfumed air flows, without
lifting the most nervous leaf or letting fall a suspended bead of the
night’s rain from a honeysuckle bud. In an indefinite sky of grey,
through which one ponderous cloud billows into sight and is lost again,
no sun shines: yet there is light--I know not whence; for the brass
trappings of the horses beam so as to be extinguished in their own
fire. There is no song in wood or sky. Some one of summer’s wandering
voices--bullfinch or willow-wren--might be singing, but unheard, at
least unrealised. From the dead nettle spires, with dull green leaves
stained by purple and becoming more and more purple towards the crest,
which is of a sombre uniform purple, to the elms reposing at the
horizon, all things have bowed the head, hushed, settled into a perfect
sleep. Those elms are just visible, no more. The path has no sooner
emerged from one shade than another succeeds, and so, on and on, the
eye wins no broad dominion.
It is a land that uses a soft compulsion upon the passer-by, a
compulsion to meditation, which is necessary before he is attached
to a scene rather featureless, to a land that hence owes much of its
power to a mood of generous reverie which it bestows. And yet it is a
land that gives much. Companionable it is, reassuring to the solitary;
he soon has a feeling of ease and seclusion there. The cool-leaved
wood! The limitless, unoccupied fields of marsh marigold, seen through
the trees, most beautiful when the evening rain falls slowly, dimming
and almost putting out the lustrous bloom! Gold of the minute willows
underfoot! Leagues of lonely grass where the slow herds tread the
daisies and spare them yet!
Towards night, under the sweet rain, at this warm, skyless close of the
day, the trees, far off in an indolent, rolling landscape, stand as if
disengaged from the world, in a reticent and pensive repose.
But suddenly the rain has ceased. In an old, dense wood the last
horizontal beams of the sun embrace the trunks of the trees and they
glow red under their moist ceiling of green. A stile to be crossed at
its edge, where a little stream, unseen, sways the stiff exuberant
angelica that grows from it, gives the word to pause, and with a rush
the silence and the solitude fill the brain. The wood is of uncounted
age; the ground on which it stands is more ancient than the surrounding
fields, for it rises and falls stormily, with huge boulders here and
there; not a path intrudes upon it; the undergrowth is impenetrable to
all but fox and bird and this cool red light about the trunks of the
trees. Far away a gate is loudly shut, and the rich blue evening comes
on and severs me irrevocably from all but the light in the old wood
and the ghostly white cow-parsley flowers suspended on unseen stalks.
And there, among the trees and their shadows, not understood, speaking
a forgotten tongue, old dreads and formless awes and fascinations
discover themselves and address the comfortable soul, troubling it,
recalling to it unremembered years not so long past but that in the end
it settles down into a gloomy tranquillity and satisfied discontent, as
when we see the place where we were unhappy as children once. Druid and
devilish deity and lean wild beast, harmless now, are revolving many
memories with me under the strange, sudden red light in the old wood,
and not more remote is the league-deep emerald sea-cave from the storm
above than I am from the world.