THE WALNUT TREE
The immense, solitary, half-veiled autumn land is hissing with the
kisses of rain in elms and hedgerows and grass, and underfoot the
tunnelled soil gurgles and croaks. Secret and content, as if enjoying a
blessed interval of life, are the small reedy pools where the moorhens
hoot and nod in the grey water; beautiful the hundred pewits rising
in ordered flight as they bereave the grey field and, wheeling over
the leagues that seem all their own, presently make another field all
a-flower by their alighting; almost happy once more is the tall, weedy
mill by the broken water-gates, dying because no man inhabits it, its
smooth wooden wheels and shoots and pillars fair and clean still under
the red roof, though the wall is half fallen.
And in the heart of this, set in the dense rain, is a farm-house far
from any road; and round it the fields meet with many angles, and the
hedges wind to make way, here, for a pond, deep underneath alders;
there, for some scattered parcels of hayrick, on a grassy plot,
encircling a large walnut tree; and for another pond, beside an apple
orchard, whose trunks are lean and old and bent like the ribs of a
wreck. A quadrangle of stalls, red tiled, of grey timber--trampled
straw in their midst--adjoins the house, which is a red-grey cube,
white-windowed, with tall, stout chimneys and steep, auburn roof, and
green stonecrop frothing over its porch. In and out goes a rutted,
grassy track, lined by decapitated and still-living remains of many
ancient elms.
In the overhanging elm branches flicker the straws of the long-past
harvest, and the spirits of summers and autumns long-past cling to
grass and ponds and trees.
The walnut tree among the ricks is dead. Against its craggy bole rest
the shafts of a noble, blue waggon that seems coeval with it; long
ladders are thrust up among its branches; deep in the brittle herbage
underneath it lean or lie broken wheels, a rude wooden roller, the
lovely timber of an antique plough, a knotted and rusted chain harrow,
and the vast wooden wedge of the snow-plough that cleared the roads
when winters were still grim. In the soft, straight rain these things
are a buried world, the skeletons of a fair-seeming old life mingled
with a sort of pleasant tranquillity as on the calm dim floor of a
perilous main.
Half of the fruit trees are dead, save for their lichen and moss and
their nests in fork and niche and the robin musing in the branches.
The duck pond, deep below, is all in shadow. The alders lean over it.
Some have fallen, and the moorhens have built on them, and the round
vole sits there or drops off with the suddenness of fruit; but he
cannot dive, for a million dead leaves are sunk or floating in the
purple shallows.
Over all is the stillness of after harvest. Long ago the gleaners
went home under the frosty moon, and the last wain left its memorial
wisps in the elms. The rain possesses all, and a strange, funereal
evocation calls up the bronzed corn again, and the heavy waggon and
the grim, knitted chests of the bowing horses as they reach the
bright-fruited walnut tree. The children laugh and run--who remember it
in the workhouse now--and in a corner of the field the reaper slashes
hatefully at the last standing rows. The harvest-queen sits on the
topmost sheaves. They dance in the barn. Their voices are blithe and
sweet; for the rain has washed away their flesh and quieted them now
and recalls only golden hours, which linger in this idle autumn place
and do not die but only hide themselves as sunlight hides itself in
yellow apples, in red roses, in crystal water, in a woman’s eyes.