Blasts from the Channel, with raining scud, and spume of mist breaking
upon the hills, have kept me indoors all day. Yet not for a moment have
I been dull or idle, and now, by the latter end of a sea-coal fire, I
feel such enjoyment of my ease and tranquillity that I must needs word it
before going up to bed.
Of course one ought to be able to breast weather such as this of to-day,
and to find one's pleasure in the strife with it. For the man sound in
body and serene of mind there is no such thing as bad weather; every sky
has its beauty, and storms which whip the blood do but make it pulse more
vigorously. I remember the time when I would have set out with gusto for
a tramp along the wind-swept and rain-beaten roads; nowadays, I should
perhaps pay for the experiment with my life. All the more do I prize the
shelter of these good walls, the honest workmanship which makes my doors
and windows proof against the assailing blast. In all England, the land
of comfort, there is no room more comfortable than this in which I sit.
Comfortable in the good old sense of the word, giving solace to the mind
no less than ease to the body. And never does it look more homely, more
a refuge and a sanctuary, than on winter nights.
In my first winter here, I tried fires of wood, having had my hearth
arranged for the purpose; but that was a mistake. One cannot burn logs
successfully in a small room; either the fire, being kept moderate, needs
constant attention, or its triumphant blaze makes the room too hot. A
fire is a delightful thing, a companion and an inspiration. If my room
were kept warm by some wretched modern contrivance of water-pipes or
heated air, would it be the same to me as that beautiful core of glowing
fuel, which, if I sit and gaze into it, becomes a world of wonders? Let
science warm the heaven-forsaken inhabitants of flats and hotels as
effectually and economically as it may; if the choice were forced upon
me, I had rather sit, like an Italian, wrapped in my mantle, softly
stirring with a key the silver-grey surface of the brasier's charcoal.
They tell me we are burning all our coal, and with wicked wastefulness. I
am sorry for it, but I cannot on that account make cheerless perhaps the
last winter of my life. There may be waste on domestic hearths, but the
wickedness is elsewhere--too blatant to call for indication. Use common
sense, by all means, in the construction of grates; that more than half
the heat of the kindly coal should be blown up the chimney is desired by
no one; but hold by the open fire as you hold by whatever else is best in
England. Because, in the course of nature, it will be some day a thing
of the past (like most other things that are worth living for), is that a
reason why it should not be enjoyed as long as possible? Human beings
may ere long take their nourishment in the form of pills; the prevision
of that happy economy causes me no reproach when I sit down to a joint of
meat.
See how friendly together are the fire and the shaded lamp; both have
their part alike in the illumining and warming of the room. As the fire
purrs and softly crackles, so does my lamp at intervals utter a little
gurgling sound when the oil flows to the wick, and custom has made this a
pleasure to me. Another sound, blending with both, is the gentle ticking
of the clock. I could not endure one of those bustling little clocks
which tick like a fever pulse, and are only fit for a stockbroker's
office; mine hums very slowly, as though it savoured the minutes no less
than I do; and when it strikes, the little voice is silver-sweet, telling
me without sadness that another hour of life is reckoned, another of the
priceless hours--
"Quae nobis pereunt et imputantur."
After extinguishing the lamp, and when I have reached the door, I always
turn to look back; my room is so cosily alluring in the light of the last
gleeds, that I do not easily move away. The warm glow is reflected on
shining wood, on my chair, my writing-table, on the bookcases, and from
the gilt title of some stately volume; it illumes this picture, it half
disperses the gloom on that. I could imagine that, as in a fairy tale,
the books do but await my departure to begin talking among themselves. A
little tongue of flame shoots up from a dying ember; shadows shift upon
the ceiling and the walls. With a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth,
and shut the door softly.