not prepared to offer one. I am met on every side by hopeless
difficulties. I am tempted to think that God is not at all what we
imagine him to be; that our conceptions of benevolence and justice and
love are not necessarily true of him at all. That he is not in the
least like our conceptions of him; that he has no particular tenderness
about suffering, no particular care for animal life. Nature would seem
to prove that at every turn; and yet, if it be true, it leaves me
struggling in a sad abyss of thought; it substitutes for our grave,
beautiful, and hopeful conceptions of God a kind of black mystery
which, I confess, lies very heavy on the heart, and seems to make
effort vain.
And thus I fall back again upon faith and hope. I know that I wish all
things well, that I desire with all my heart that everything that
breathes and moves should be happy and joyful; and I cannot believe in
my heart that it is different with God. And thus I rest in the trust
that there is somewhere, far-off, a beauty and a joy in suffering; and
that, perhaps, death itself is a fair and a desirable thing.
As I rode to-day in the summer sun, far off, through the haze, I could
see the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees.
Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage,
that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. That
gate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweep
along the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. But
shall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the dark
arches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cool
and secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoing
with melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever it
is; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in,
leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which the
spirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust.
XII
The Farm-yard
There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying just
now; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watch
the manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I am
ashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watch
the little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are an
altogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem to
me like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able,
intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from place
to place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who follow
the line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; he
is sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly for
his good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he never
seems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks at
you, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he would
live in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remind
me of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is a
dreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure their
base conditions philosophically, waiting for their release.
But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins,
their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, their
Epicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and make
one feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is the
dignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did not
bear so poor a name, a word so unsuitable for poetry; it is lamentable
that one has to take refuge in the archaism of _kine_, when the thing
itself is so gentle and pleasant.
But the true joy of the farm-yard is, undoubtedly, in the domestic
fowls. It is long since I was frightened of turkeys; but I confess
that there is still something awe-inspiring about an old turkey-cock,
with a proud and angry eye, holding his breath till his wattles are
blue and swollen, with his fan extended, like a galleon in full sail,
his wings held stiffly down, strutting a few rapid steps, and then
slowly revolving, like a king in royal robes. There is something
tremendous about his supremacy, his almost intolerable pride and glory.
And then we come to cocks and hens. The farm-yard cock is an
incredibly grotesque creature. His furious eye, his blood-red crest,
make him look as if he were seeking whom he might devour. But he is
the most craven of creatures. In spite of his air of just anger, he
has no dignity whatever. To hear him raise his voice, you would think
that he was challenging the whole world to combat. He screams
defiance, and when he has done, he looks round with an air of
satisfaction. "There! that is what you have to expect if you interfere
with me!" he seems to say. But an alarm is given; the poultry seek
refuge in a hurried flight. Where is the champion? You would expect
to see him guarding the rear, menacing his pursuer; but no, he has
headed the flight, he is far away, leading the van with a desperate
intentness.
This morning I was watching the behaviour of a party of fowls, who were
sitting together on a dusty ledge above the road, sheltering from the
wind. I do not know whether they meant to be as humorous as they were,
but I can hardly think they were not amused at each other. They stood
and lay very close together, with fierce glances, and quick, jerky
motions of the head. Now and then one, tired of inaction, raised a
deliberate claw, bowed its head, scratched with incredible rapidity,
shook its tumbled feathers, and looked round with angry
self-consciousness, as though to say: "I will ask any one to think me
absurd at his peril." Now and then one of them kicked diligently at
the soil, and then, turning round, scrutinised the place intently, and
picked delicately at some minute object. One examined the neck of her
neighbour with a fixed stare, and then pecked the spot sharply. One
settled down on the dust, and gave a few vigorous strokes with her legs
to make herself more comfortable. Occasionally they all crooned and
wailed together, and at the passing of a cart all stood up defiantly,
as if intending to hold their fort at all hazards. Presently a woman
came out of a house-door opposite, at which the whole party ran
furiously and breathlessly across the road, as if their lives depended
upon arriving in time. There was not a gesture or a motion that was
not admirably conceived, intensely dramatic.
Again, what is more delightfully absurd than to see a hen find a large
morsel which she cannot deal with at one gulp? She has no sense of
diplomacy or cunning; her friends, attracted by her motions, close in
about her; she picks up the treasured provender, she runs, bewildered
with anxiety, till she has distanced her pursuers; she puts the object
down and takes a couple of desperate pecks; but her kin are at her
heels; another flight follows, another wild attempt; for half an hour
the same tactics are pursued. At last she is at bay; she makes one
prodigious effort, and gets the treasure down with a convulsive
swallow; you see her neck bulge with the moving object; while she looks
at her baffled companions with an air of meek triumph.
Ducks, too, afford many simple joys to the contemplative mind. A slow
procession of white ducks, walking delicately, with heads lifted high
and timid eyes, in a long line, has the air of an ecclesiastical
procession. The singers go before, the minstrels follow after. There
is something liturgical, too, in the way in which, as if by a
preconcerted signal, they all cry out together, standing in a group,
with a burst of hoarse cheering, cut off suddenly by an intolerable
silence. The arrival of ducks upon the scene, when the fowls are fed,
is an impressive sight. They stamp wildly over the pasture, falling,
stumbling, rising again, arrive on the scene with a desperate
intentness, and eat as though they had not seen food for months.
The pleasure of these farm-yard sights is two-fold. It is partly the
sense of grave, unconscious importance about the whole business,
serious lives lived with such whole-hearted zeal. There is no sense of
divided endeavour; the discovery of food is the one thing in the world,
and the sense of repletion is also the sense of virtue. But there is
something pathetic, too, about the taming to our own ends of these
forest beasts, these woodland birds; they are so unconscious of the sad
reasons for which we desire their company, so unsuspicious, so serene!
Instead of learning by the sorrowful experience of generations what our
dark purposes are, they become more and more fraternal, more and more
dependent. And yet how little we really know what their thoughts are.
They are so unintelligent in some regions, so subtly wise in others.
We cannot share our thoughts with them; we cannot explain anything to
them. We can sympathise with them in their troubles, but cannot convey
our sympathy to them. There is a little bantam hen here, a great pet,
who comes up to the front door with the other bantams to be fed. She
has been suffering for some time from an obscure illness. She arrives
with the others, full of excitement, and begins to pick at the grain
thrown them; but the effort soon exhausts her; she goes sadly apart,
and sits with dim eye and ruffled plumage, in silent suffering,
wondering, perhaps, why she is not as brisk and joyful as ever, what is
the sad thing that has befallen her. And one can do nothing, express
nothing of the pathetic sorrow that fills one's mind. But, none the
less, one tries to believe, to feel, that this suffering is not
fortuitous, is not wasted--how could one endure the thought otherwise,
if one did not hope that "the earnest expectation of the creature
waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God!"
XIII
The Artist
I have been reading with much emotion the life of a great artist. It
is a tender, devoted record; and there is an atmosphere of delicate
beauty about the style. It is as though his wife, who wrote the book,
had gained through the years of companionship, a pale, pure reflection
of her husband's simple and impassioned style, just as the moon's
clear, cold light is drawn from the hot fountains of the sun. And yet,
there is an individuality about the style, and the reflection is rather
of the same nature as the patient likeness of expression which is to be
seen in the faces of an aged pair, who have travelled in love and unity
down the vale of years together.
In this artist's own writing, which has a pure and almost childlike
_naivete_ of phrasing, there is a glow, not of rhetoric or language,
but of emotion, an almost lover-like attitude towards his friends,
which is yet saved from sentimentality by an obvious sincerity of
feeling. In this he seems to me to be different from the majority of
artistic natures and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as a
rule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament,
that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit.
There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance of
sensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is not
generally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, to
make sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all,
impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist,
the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art are
the cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst for
beautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translate
these impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artist
has desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is not
the end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treated
by him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feed
the central flame. If one examines the records of great artistic
careers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and it
is, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a nature
which has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is not
always consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; he
tends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life as
ministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a great
master of musical art discussing the music of a young man of
extraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure;
he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it is
incomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love."
A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full of
vitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire for
self-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully as
eager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of the
earth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, the
lingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food,
with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them in
his own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point for
him is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there.
Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries of
human relationship; and he will so desire the happiness of those he
loves, that he will lose himself in efforts to remove obstacles, to
lighten burdens, to give rather than to receive joy. And this, I
think, is probably the reason why so few women, even those possessed of
the most sensitive perception and apprehension, achieve the highest
triumphs of art; because they cannot so subordinate life to art,
because they have a passionate desire for the happiness of others, and
find their deepest satisfaction in helping to further it. Who does not
know instances of women of high possibilities, who have quietly
sacrificed the pursuit of their own accomplishments to the tendance of
some brilliant self-absorbed artist? With such love is often mingled a
tender compassionateness, as of a mother for a high-spirited and eager
child, who throws herself with perfect sympathy into his aims and
tastes, while all the time there sits a gentle knowledge in the
background of her heart, of the essential unimportance of the things
that the child desires so eagerly, and which she yet desires so
whole-heartedly for him. Women who have made such a sacrifice do it
with no feeling that they are resigning the best for the second best,
but because they have a knowledge of mysteries that are even higher
than the mysteries of art; and they have their reward, not in the
contemplation of the sacrifice that they have made, but in having
desired and attained something that is more beautiful still than any
dream that the artist cherishes and follows.
Yet the fact remains that it is useless to preach to the artist the
mystery that there is a higher region than the region of art. A man
must aim at the best 'that he can conceive; and it is not possible to
give men higher motives, by removing the lower motives that they can
comprehend. Such an attempt is like building without foundations; and
those who have relations with artists should do all they can to
encourage them to aim at what they feel to be the highest.
But, on the other hand, it is a duty for the artist to keep his heart
open, if he can, to the higher influences. He must remember, that
though the eye can see certain colours, and hear certain vibrations of
sound, yet there is an infinite scale of colour, and an infinite
gradation of sound, both above and below what the eye and the ear can
apprehend, and that mortal apprehension can only appropriate to itself
but a tiny fragment of the huge gamut. He ought to believe that if he
is faithful to the best that he can apprehend, a door may be opened to
him which may lead him into regions which are at present closed to him.
To accept the artistic conscience, the artistic aim, as the highest
ideal of which the spirit is capable, is to be a Pharisee in art, to be
self-sufficient, arrogant, limited. It is a kind of spiritual pride, a
wilful deafness to more remote voices; and it is thus of all sins, the
one which the artist, who lives the life of perception, whose mind
must, above all things, be open and transparent, should be loth to
commit. He should rather keep his inner eye--for the artist is like
the great creatures that, in the prophet's vision, stood nearest to the
presence, who were full of eyes, without and within--open to the
unwonted apparition which may, suddenly, like a meteor of the night,
sail across the silent heaven. It may be that, in some moment of
fuller perception, he may even have to divorce the sweeter and more
subtle mistress in exchange for one who comes in a homelier guise, and
take the beggar girl for his queen. But the abnegation will be no
sacrifice; rather a richer and livelier hope.
XIV
Young Love
We had a charming idyll here to-day. A young husband and wife came to
stay with us in all the first flush of married happiness. One realised
all day long that other people merely made a pleasant background for
their love, and that for each there was but one real figure on the
scene. This was borne witness to by a whole armoury of gentle looks,
swift glances, silent gestures. They were both full to the brim of a
delicate laughter, of over-brimming wonder, of tranquil desire. And we
all took part in their gracious happiness. In the evening they sang
and played to us, the wife being an accomplished pianist, the husband a
fine singer. But though the glory of their art fell in rainbow showers
on the audience, it was for each other that they sang and played. We
sat in the dim light of a little panelled room, the lamps making a
circle of light about the happy pair; seldom have I felt the revelation
of personality more. The wife played to us a handful of beautiful
things; but I noticed that she could not interpret the sadder and
darker strains, into which the shadow and malady of a suffering spirit
had passed; but into little tripping minuets full of laughter and
light, and into melodies that spoke of a pure passion of sweetness and
human delight, her soul passed, till the room felt as though flooded
with the warmth of the sun. And he, too, sang with all his might some
joyful and brave utterances, with the lusty pride of manhood; and in a
gentler love-song too, that seemed to linger in a dream of delight by
crystal streams, the sweet passion of the heart rose clear and true.
But when he too essayed a song of sorrow and reluctant sadness, there
was no spirit in it; it seemed to him, I suppose, so unlike life, and
the joy of life,--so fantastic and unreal an outpouring of the heart.
We sat long in the panelled room, till it seemed all alive with soft
dreams and radiant shapes, that floated in a golden air. All that was
dark and difficult seemed cast out and exercised. But it was all so
sincere and contented a peace that the darker and more sombre shadows
had no jealous awakening; for the two were living to each other, not in
a selfish seclusion, but as though they gave of their joy in handfuls
to the whole world. The raptures of lovers sometimes take them back so
far into a kind of unashamed childishness that the spectacle rouses the
contempt and even the indignation of world-worn and cynical people.
But here it never deviated from dignity and seemliness; it only seemed
new and true, and the best gift of God. These two spirits seemed, with
hands intertwined, to have ascended gladly into the mountain, and to
have seen a transfiguration of life: which left them not in a blissful
eminence of isolation, but rather, as it were, beckoning others
upwards, and saying that the road was indeed easy and plain. And so
the sweet hour passed, and left a fragrance behind it; whatever might
befall, they had tasted of the holy wine of joy; they had blessed the
cup, and bidden us too to set our lips to it.
XV
A Strange Gathering
I was walking one summer day in the pleasant hilly country near my
home. There is a road which I often traverse, partly because it is a
very lonely one, partly because it leads out on a high brow or shoulder
of the uplands, and commands a wide view of the plain. Moreover, the
road is so deeply sunken between steep banks, overgrown with hazels,
that one is hardly aware how much one climbs, and the wide clear view
at the top always breaks upon the eye with a certain shock of agreeable
surprise. A little before the top of the hill a road turns off,
leading into a long disused quarry, surrounded by miniature cliffs,
full of grassy mounds and broken ground, overgrown with thickets and
floored with rough turf. It is a very enchanting place in spring, and
indeed at all times of the year; many flowers grow there, and the birds
sing securely among the bushes. I have always imagined that the Red
Deeps, in _The Mill on the Floss_, was just such a place, and the
scenes described as taking place there have always enacted themselves
for me in the quarry. I have always had a fancy too that if there are
any fairies hereabouts, which I very much doubt, for I fear that the
new villas which begin to be sprinkled about the countryside have
scared them all away, they would be found here. I visited the place
one moonlight night, and I am sure that the whole dingle was full of a
bright alert life which mocked my clumsy eyes and ears. If I could
have stolen upon the place unawares, I felt that I might have seen
strange businesses go forward, and tiny revels held.
That afternoon, as I drew near, I was displeased to see that my little
retreat was being profaned by company. Some brakes were drawn up in
the road, and I heard loud voices raised in untuneful mirth. As I came
nearer I was much bewildered to divine who the visitors were. They
seemed on the point of departing; two of the brakes were full, and into
another some men were clambering. As I came close to them I was still
more puzzled. The majority of the party were dressed all alike, in
rough brown clothes, with soft black felt hats; but in each of the
brakes that were tenanted sat a man as well, with a braided cap, in a
sort of uniform. Most of the other men were old or elderly; some had
white beards or whiskers, almost all were grizzled. They were talking,
too, in an odd, inconsequent, chirping kind of way, not listening to
each other; and moreover they were strangely adorned. Some had their
hats stuck full of flowers, others were wreathed with leaves. A few
had chains of daisies round their necks. They seemed as merry and as
obedient as children. Inside the gate, in the centre of the quarry,
was a still stranger scene. Here was a ring of elderly and aged men,
their hats wreathed with garlands, hand-in-hand, executing a slow and
solemn dance in a circle. One, who seemed the moving spirit, a small
wiry man with a fresh-coloured face and a long chin-beard, was leaping
high in the air, singing some rustic song, and dragging his less active
companions round and round. The others all entered into the spirit of
the dance. One very old and feeble man, with a smile on his face, was
executing little clumsy hops, deeply intent on the performance. A few
others stood round admiring the sport; a little apart was a tall grave
man, talking loudly to himself, with flowers stuck all over him, who
was spinning round and round in an ecstasy of delight. Becoming giddy,
he took a few rapid steps to the left, but fell to the ground, where he
lay laughing softly, and moving his hands in the air. Presently one of
the officials said a word to the leader of the dance; the ring broke
up, and the performers scattered, gathering up little bundles of leaves
and flowers that lay all about in some confusion, and then trooping out
to the brakes. The quarry was deserted. Several of the group waved
their hands to me, uttering unintelligible words, and holding out
flowers.
I was so much surprised at the odd scene that I asked one of the
officials what it all meant. He said politely that it was a picnic
party from the Pauper Lunatic Asylum at H----. The mystery was
explained. I said: "They seem to be enjoying themselves." "Yes,
indeed, sir," he said, "they are like children; they look forward to
this all the year; there is no greater punishment than to deprive a man
of his outing." He entered the last brake as he said these words, and
the carriages moved off, a shrill and aged cheer rising from thin and
piping voices on the air.