the song of the invisible skylarks all round, and the blazing reflection
of the windows of our room in the valley; and there among the skylarks
it seemed that Legs joined me. It was of no use to deny he was there,
simply because it was silly to deny it. There is a French
word--_revenant_--to express his presence, but even the solidity of that
word failed to do justice. He had never gone away, and so he could never
have come back. He was with us all the time, and rejoiced in the
arrangement of the nursery, even as he had been so hopelessly amused at
the correctness of Mr. Holmes on the morning of his funeral.
And at the moment of this I expected the ‘open vision.’ Life, and death,
and birth, the three great facts, were so near realization. Again I
expected to see Pan peep over the brow of the Beacon, and to hear a
flute-like song that was not of skylarks. I was ready--dear God, I was
ready.
So I thought for the moment, but before the next had beaten I knew I was
not. I wanted more--more of this divine world, more of what the next few
months will bring. Should all be well when summer comes, I think I would
choose to die now. And the moment I thought that I knew its unreality. I
want to live through the beautiful years that will come. I want to have
a son at Eton or a daughter who turns the heads of eligible youths. I
want both, and more than both. Die! Who talked of that? I want to have a
full nursery. I want to see Helen old and grey-headed, with
grandchildren round her, and herself the youngest of them all. I want to
live through the whole of this beautiful life till old age; and though
that is called the winter of life, there is no need that it should be
so. The last day of a man of eighty should be the most luxuriant of
autumn, before the touch of winter has blackened the flowers; for it is
only the thought of death that makes us think of old age and winter
together, and the thought that does that conceives falsely of death.
So, anyhow, it seemed to me on this midsummer morning of March. I knew
that all that was was kind. Pan smiled without cruelty, and if he smiled
from the cross, it was from the throne of ineffable light that he smiled
also.
One by one the skylarks, sated with song, dropped down again to the
sunlit down. Dawn had passed, and day had come, and--oh, bathos of
bathos!--I was so hungry. If I had given but ten minutes to the ascent,
I made but five of the reversed journey, and designed an early
breakfast to make existence possible till Helen came down; for it was
yet not long after seven, and a Sahara of starvation lay between me and
bacon. Yet, though I have said that this was bathos, I do not know that
I really think so, since in this delightful muddle of life everything is
so inextricably intertwined that bathos of some kind invariably is the
sequel of all high adventure. The great scene is played, the sublime
thing said, and then you have tea or take a ticket for somewhere. So I
confess only to literary bathos, and to disarm the critic I may state
that these quiet chronicles are not supposed to be literary at all, but
merely the plain account of quiet things as they happened.
So I lingered for a moment after the knee-shaking descent was over to
talk for a little, but not for long, with the river. There was a great
trout just below the bridge, and I am sure he knew it was still March,
for he wagged his impudent head at me, saying: ‘I am perfectly safe. I
shall eat steadily till April, and then observe your silly flies with a
contemptuous eye.’ And though he was a three-pounder at least, I bore
him no grudge. I don’t think I wanted to kill anything that morning.
Then I crossed the further field, and came down into the rose-garden,
still meditating on the immediate assuagement of hunger. But then I saw
who stood there, and I meditated on this no more; for she was there.
‘I got up early,’ she said, ‘and found you had already gone. Oh,
good-morning! I forgot.’
‘I shall never forget the goodness of this morning,’ said I.
Then I saw that her eyes were brimming.
‘Ought I to have told you before?’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I ought.’
In that first hour of day we came closer to each other than ever before.
My beloved was mine, and the time of the singing-birds had come.
APRIL
I must remind the indulgent reader, lest Helen and I should appear
tediously opulent, that our Swiss trip in the winter was due to a
windfall of a hundred pounds--a thing which may conceivably happen to
anybody, and in this instance happened to us. Consequently, the fact
that we went abroad again in April does not, if it is considered fairly,
argue aggressive riches. In any case, refuse to stoop to degrading
justifications. We did not go because it was good for our healths, which
were both excellent, nor because foreign travel improves and expands the
mind. As a matter of fact, I do not believe it does, for the majority of
travellers are always comparing the foreign scenes they visit with spots
in their native land, vastly to the advantage of the latter, and the
farther and more frequently they go, the more deep-rooted becomes their
insularity. We went merely because we enjoyed it, and had formed a
careful plan of retrenchment afterwards, being about to let the Sloane
Street house for the three summer months. That was rather a severe
decision to come to, since we both hate the idea of strangers using ‘our
things’ and sleeping in our beds; but by these means this expedition to
Greece became possible, and when once it was possible it had already
become necessary.
* * * * *
So here we sat this morning on the steps of the little temple of
Wingless Victory, wingless, as the old sunlit myth said, because, when
the nymph lighted on the sacred rock of the Acropolis, she stripped off
her wings, which were henceforward useless to her, since she would abide
here for ever, just below the great house of defence that the Athenians
had raised to the Wisdom of God, Athene, who was born full-grown and in
panoply of shield, and helmet, and spear, from the head of Zeus. Out of
his head she sprang in painless birth, with a cry that was heard by Echo
on Hymettus, and rang back in Echo’s voice across the plain, the shout
of the wisdom of God incarnate.
And then Poseidon, the lord of the sea, who coveted these fair Attic
plains, challenged Athene for the ownership thereof. Each must produce a
sign of godhead, and the most excellent should win for its manifestor
all the plain of Attica. There, high on the rock, where the great birth
had taken place, were the lists set, and with his trident Poseidon
struck the mountain-top, and from the dent there flowed a stream of the
salt sea, which was his kingdom; and then the grey-eyed goddess of
wisdom laid aside her spear, and from the waving of her white hands
there sprang an olive-tree, the sign of peace and of plenty. So Poseidon
went down to his realm again, where no man may gather the harvest; for
none could question which was the more excellent sign.
It was after this, after the Athenians had raised the great house to the
Wisdom of God, that Wingless Victory came to abide here. It was not fit,
for all her greatness, to build her a house on the ground that had been
given to Athene, so just outside the gates they made this platform of
stone, and raised on it the shrine that looks towards Salamis.
Fables, so beautiful that they needed no further evidence of their
truth, sprang from ancient Greece, as flowers from a fruitful field.
Whether they were true or not, whether that peerless woman’s form that
stands now in stone in the Louvre, alighting with rush of windy
draperies on the ship’s prow, ever was seen here by mortal eye, or
whether the myth but grew from the brain of this wonderful people,
matters not at all. Beauty, according to their creed, was one with
truth, just as ugliness was falsehood. They denied ugliness: they would
have none of it, and it was from the practice of that conviction that
there rose the flawless city of art. Never, so we must believe, during
that wonderful century and a half, when from the ground, maybe, of the
lifeless hieratic Egyptian art there shot up that transcendent flower of
loveliness, of which even the fragments that remain to us now, battered
and disfigured as they are, are in another zone of beauty compared to
all that went before or has come afterwards, was anything ugly produced
at all, except as deliberate caricature. It was no Renaissance--it was
Naissance itself--the birth of the beautiful. On every side shot out
the rays of the miraculous many-coloured star: from the marble of
Pentelicus flowed that torrent of statues which make all others look
coarse and unlovely, for the speed of the Greek eye was such that they
saw attitudes which pass before we of slower vision have perceived them.
Sometimes they saw things that were in themselves ungraceful, but how
Pheidias must have laughed with glee when, among the seventy horses of
the great procession on the frieze, he put in one that, cantering, stood
upon one leg, while the other three were bunched underneath it. Taken by
itself, it is a grotesque; taken with the others, it gives to the
jubilant procession of youths and horses the one perfect touch. More
than two thousand years ago a Greek saw that; two thousand years later
we with our focal planes in photography can say he was right.
In all arts the Greeks were right; they cut through the onyx of the
sardonyx, leaving the lucent image in the sard; in the less eternal clay
they made the statuettes of Tanagra--those sketches of attitudes so
natural and momentary that, looking, we can scarcely believe that they
do not move: where a woman has already made up her mind to take a step
forward, but has just not taken it; where she is in act of throwing the
knuckle-bones, but has yet not thrown them; where a boy has determined
to push back his chiton (for the day is hot), but has just not made the
movement. You cannot hope to understand the Greek genius, unless you
realize that our eyes are snails as compared with theirs. They saw with
the naked eye what our instantaneous photograph now tells us is the
case.
And of their paintings! We have none left (and there’s the pity of it)
which even reflect the Greek master at his best. But corresponding to
our English paintings on china, we have the Greek vases of the fourth
and fifth centuries. They were made by journeymen in potters’ shops, but
there is not one that lacks the supremacy of knowledge and observation.
It is as if a china-shop in the Seven Dials suddenly displayed in its
window examples of the nude figure which showed a perfect knowledge not
only of anatomy, but of the romance of movement. The sculptors and
painters of Greece saw perfectly. Even our academicians themselves
appear to us to be not flawless. But in Greece we are not dealing with
these great lords of colour and drawing: we deal only, as far as drawing
goes, with little people in back streets. The noble church of St. Paul
in the City of London, which so few people visit, was lately decorated.
At this moment I look on a sketch of a fragment of pottery.... It is by
one like whom there were thousands. It happens to be perfect in
draughtsmanship.
To think of one day in ancient Athens! In the morning I went up (I feel
as if I must have done this) to see the new statue of Athene Promachos,
which Pheidias had just finished. We knew little then about his work,
except that he had been chosen to decorate the Parthenon, and those who
had seen his sketches for the frieze (which we can see now in the
British Museum) said that they were ‘not bad.’ So after breakfast my
friend and I strolled towards the Acropolis, talking, as Athenians
talked, of ‘some new thing’--in fact, we talked of several new things,
and, being Athenians, we got quite hot about them, since we had (being
Athenians) that keenness of soul that never says ‘I don’t care about
that,’ or ‘I take no interest in this.’ Everything was intensely
interesting. It was a hot morning, and the plane-trees by the Ilyssus
looked attractive, and there was a company of people there whose talk
might be stimulating, but to-day we were too busy: we had to see the
Athene Promachos, a bronze statue by Pheidias, forty feet high, and
after lunch (lunch was going to be rather grand, because a new play was
coming out, and Pericles was going to be there, and perhaps Aspasia) we
were going to Æschylus’s new tragedy, called the ‘Agamemnon.’ And my
friend, who was Alcibiades, was giving a supper-party in the evening.
Socrates was coming, and a man who was really very pleasant, only he
listened and made notes, but seldom talked. His name was Plato.
Alcibiades was rather profane sometimes, and spoke of the great gods as
if he did not really believe in them. I, knowing him so well, knew that
he did, and that it was only his Puck-like spirit which made him in talk
make light of what he believed. All up the steps of the Propylæa he was,
though amusing, rather profane, and then we came through the central
gate, which was yet unfinished, and straight in front of us was the
statue. And some jest--I know not what--died on my friend’s lips, and
his great grey eyes suddenly became dim with tears at the sight of
beauty, and his mouth quivered as he said:
‘Mighty Lady Athene, my goddess!’
And with that he knelt down on the rock in front of where she stood, and
prayed to the wisdom of God.
He refused to go to the grand lunch after this, and insisted on our
remaining up here till it was time to get to the theatre, quoting
something that Socrates had said about the cleansing power of beauty;
‘so we will not soil ourselves just yet,’ quoth he, ‘with the intrigues
we should hear about at lunch, but go straight from here to the
theatre.’ So we bought from a peasant some cheese wrapped up in a
vine-leaf, and a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread and some grapes,
and then went down the rock to the theatre. And still that divine vision
had possession of Alcibiades, for he paid no attention to the greeting
of his friends, and bade them be silent. And soon the actors were come,
and the watchman went up to the tower, and looked east, and saw the
beacons leap across the land, to show that the ten-year siege was over,
and that Troy had fallen. Then slowly began to be unfolded the tale of
the stupendous tragedy. Home came Agamemnon, with his captive, the
Princess Cassandra, riding behind him in his chariot of triumph.
Clytemnestra, his wife, met him at the palace door, and with feigned
obeisance and lying words of love welcomed him in, leaving Cassandra
outside. Then there descended on the Princess the spirit of prophecy,
and in wild words she shrieked out the doom that was coming. Quickly it
came: from within we heard the death-cry of the King, and the palace
doors swung open, and out came the Queen, fondling the axe with which
she had slain him.... The doom of the gods was accomplished.
Then afterwards we went round to the green-room, and found Æschylus
there, and Alcibiades, in his impulsive way--I tell him he has the
feelings of a woman--must kneel and kiss the hand that wrote this
wonderful play. Socrates was there, too, putting absurd questions to
everybody about the difference between the muse of tragedy and the muse
of comedy; as if anybody cared, so long as Æschylus wrote plays like
that! However, he got Plato to listen to him, and soon made him
contradict himself, which is what Socrates chiefly cares about. Pericles
came in, too, with Aspasia, to whom he kindly introduced me. Certainly
she is extraordinarily beautiful, and has great wit. But she called
attention to her physical charms too much, which is silly, since they
are quite capable of calling attention to themselves.
Afterwards, since only Alcibiades and I had seen the wonderful statue,
we all strolled up to the Acropolis again to look at it and the sunset.
Socrates came, too, and after we had examined and admired the bronze
goddess again, we went and sat on the steps of the temple of Athene. He
tried his usual game of asking us questions till we contradicted
ourselves, but before long all of us refused to answer him any more,
saying that we were aware that we were totally ignorant of everything,
and that there was no longer any need for him to prove it to us. And
then--exactly how it arose I don’t know, but I think it was from the
questions and answers that had already passed--he began to weave us the
most wonderful fable, showing us how all that we thought beautiful here
on earth was but the reflection, the pale copy, of the beauty which was
eternal. Round the outer rim of the earth and the stars, he said, ran
the living stream of a great river, which, indeed, was heaven, and
everything that we thought beautiful here had its archetype there, and
all day and all night the gods drove round and round on this river of
beauty in their chariots. It was our business, then, here on earth, to
look for beauty everywhere, and never falter in the quest of it, for so
we prepared ourselves for the sight of that of which these things were
but the shadow, so that the greater would be the initiation which would
be ours after death. More especially we must seek for the beauty of
spiritual things, which was the real beauty, and so order our bodies,
our words, and actions, that they were all in tune with it, with the
beauty of prudence, and temperance, and kindness, and wisdom, for it
was of these that heaven itself and the living stream was composed, and
these shone from the eyes of the immortal gods.
‘So there is my prayer,’ said he, rising and stretching out his hands to
the great statue, while we all rose with him. ‘O Athene, give me inward
beauty of soul, and let the inward and the outward man be at one.’
So the sun set, but on the violet crown of Athens--the hills there,
Hymettus, Pentelicus, and Parnes--the light still lingered, and shone
like the river of beauty Socrates had told us about, till it faded also
from the tops, and above the deep night was starry-kirtled.
* * * * *
Helen is the most delightful person in the world to tell stories to.
However lamely you tell them, she is absorbed in them, and never asks
about the weak points, as other children do. She might, for instance,
have asked if I was correct about my dates; did the ‘Agamemnon’ come out
in the year that the ‘Promachos’ was made? Instead----
‘And who was I?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell me I was Aspasia, because I
don’t like what you told me about her.’
‘No; you were not Aspasia,’ I said rather hurriedly; ‘and I rather think
you had had your turn in Greece at some other time. I didn’t know you
then, except, perhaps, in the myths, for I am not sure that you were not
Electra.’
‘Was she nice?’ asked Helen.
‘She was very nice to Orestes.’
‘Oh, don’t! Who was Orestes? What a nice name!’
‘You were his sister. That’s all about mythology just now.’
* * * * *
The plain quivered under the sunlit haze of blue. To the south the dim
sea was in tone like two skies poured together, and the isles of Greece
floated in it like swimmers asleep. Below, to the left, lay the theatre
where I had seen the ‘Agamemnon,’ empty, but ready as if the play was
just going to begin. Who knew what ghosts of those supreme actors were
there, what audience of the bright-eyed Greeks followed the drama? And
above us stood the presiding genius of Athens, the beautiful house
built for the virgin who sprang from the brain of God. A little more,
and it would be her birthday again, and we should hear the sound of
horse-hoofs coming up the hill, and see the procession of the Athenian
youths, and the men with the bulls for sacrifice, and the wine-carriers,
and the incense-bearer, and the priests of the great goddess. Another
company would be there, too--the hierarchy of Olympus--come down on
Athene’s birthday to visit her in her beautiful home. With Zeus would be
the mother of the gods; and Aphrodite would be there, the spirit of love
that renews the earth; and Apollo, who makes it bright with sunshine;
and Demeter, the mother of the cornfields; and Persephone, radiant, and
returned from the gate of death; and Hermes, the swift messenger whose
feet were winged; and Iris, who was rainbow, the sign of the beneficent
seasons.
And ... though we saw them not, there was not one missing. Love was
here, and below were the ripening cornfields, on which the sun shone;
and beyond was the realm of Poseidon, and a squall of spring rain, that
passed like a curtain in front of Hymettus, showed us Iris.
Then it was time to go down townwards again, for the morning was passed;
but Helen paused at the doorway at the gate of the Acropolis, and looked
towards the temple.
‘Best of all, I like Socrates’ prayer,’ she said; ‘and I must say it to
myself.’
* * * * *
Spring had been rather late this year, and a week ago, when we drove out
to the foot of Pentelicus, to have a country ramble, the rubbish of last
year’s autumn was still in evidence. Then the spring began to stir, and
two days ago, when we had gone out again, all the anemones except one
kind were in full flower. They are heralds, those mauve and violet and
pink and white chalices of blossom, to tell us that the great procession
of Primavera has begun. But last of all come the trumpeters, the scarlet
anemones, and if the sun has been warm, and no north wind has delayed
the procession, they blow their blasts over the land just two days after
the heralds have appeared. So to-day after lunch we went out to hear
the trumpeters; to-morrow we shall see Primavera herself.
Spring herself, the goddess Primavera, was very near to-day, for on
thicket and brake and over the flank of the hill-side her trumpeters
were blowing their shrill blasts of scarlet. Two days before, the land
was sober-coloured; now, wherever you looked, the wonderful anemone,
last to flower, stood high with full-blown petals. The movement and stir
of the new life was hurrying to its climax. To-morrow, instead of the
myriad buds of the cistus and the pale stalks of orchid, the flowers
would be unfurled at the final touch of the spring, at the advent of the
goddess herself. To-day a myriad folded bells hung from the great bushes
of southern heath, like stars still cloaked in mist; to-morrow, with one
night more of warm wind and a morning of sun, they would blaze and peal
together; for it is thus in this wonderful Southern land that spring
comes: a few heralds go before, and then the army of trumpeters. After
this, She crosses the plain with the ardour of hot blood, so that all
flowers blossom together, and every bud and beast goes suddenly
a-mating. Here there is none of our limitative February, our pinched
hopes of March; all is quiet till the heralding of the anemones and the
trumpets of their scarlet brethren. Then, in full panoply of blossom,
Primavera and summer, too, are there together. For a week or two the
land is aflame with flower, and then already the maturing of fruit-trees
has begun.
Northerners though we are, both Helen and I claimed some strain of
Southern blood in the ecstasy of those days. That for which we wait and
watch for patient weeks in the shy approach of spring in England was
here done with a flame and a shout. There was no hesitancy or delay; no
weak snowdrop said that winter was coming to an end weeks before spring
came, to die before the crocuses endorsed its message. Here all was
asleep together till all woke together. Ten days ago there was no hint
of spring save in the strong sunshine: the wilderness of winter still
spread its icy hands. Then faster than the melting of the snow on the
top of Parnes came the heralds in the wilderness, and spring was there.
It was like the winter of Kundry’s soul, to whom one morning Gurnemanz
said: ‘Auf! Der Winter floh, und Lenz ist da.’ And on that day came
Parsifal and her redemption, and the ransomed of the Lord returned with
joy and singing.