Under the Apple Boughs
For weeks past I have been conscious of some mystery in the air; there
have been fleeting signs of secret communication between earth and sky,
as if the hidden powers were in friendly league and some great
concerted movement were on foot. There have been soft lights playing
upon the tender grass on the lawn, and caressing those delicate hues
through which each individual tree and shrub searches for its summer
foliage; the mornings have slipped so quietly in through the eastern
gates, and the afternoons have vanished so softly across the western
hills, that one could not but suspect a plot to avert attention and
lull watchful eyes into negligence while all things were made ready for
the moment of revelation. At times a subdued light has filled the
broad arch of heaven, and, later, a fringe of rain has moved gently
across the low hills and fallow fields, rippling like a wave from that
upper sea which hangs invisible in golden weather, but becomes
portentous and vast as the nether seas when the clouds gather and the
celestial watercourses are unlocked. One day I thought I saw signs of
a falling out between the conspirators, and I set myself to watch for
some disclosure which might escape from one side or the other in the
frankness of anger. The earth was sullen and overcast, the sky dark
and forbidding, the clouds rolled together and grew black, and the
shadows deepened upon the grass. At last there was a vivid flash of
lightning, a crash of thunder, and the sudden roar of rain. "Now," I
said to myself, "I shall learn what all this secrecy has been about."
But I was doomed to disappointment; after a few minutes of angry
expostulation the sky suddenly uncovered itself, the clouds piled
themselves against the horizon and disclosed their silver linings, and
over the whole earth there spread a broad smile, as if the hypocritical
performance had been part of the original deception. I am confident
now that it was, for that brief drenching of trees and sward was almost
the last noticeable preparation before the curtain rose. The next day
there was a deep, unbroken quiet across our piece of world, as if a
fragment of eternity had been quietly slipped into the place of one of
our brief, noisy days. The trees stood motionless, as if awaiting some
signal, and I listened in vain for that inarticulate and half-heard
murmur of coming life which, day and night, had filled my thoughts
these past weeks, and set the march of the hours to a sublime rhythm.
The next morning a faint perfume stole into my room. I rose hastily,
ran to the window, and lo! the secret was out: the apple trees were in
bloom! Three days later, and the miracle so long in preparation was
accomplished; the slowly rising tide of life had broken into a foam of
blossoms and buried the world in a billowy sea. There will come days
of greater splendour than this, days of deeper foliage, of waving grain
and ripening fruit, but no later day will eclipse this vision of
paradise which lies outspread from my window; life touches to-day the
zenith of its earliest and freshest bloom; to-morrow the blossoms will
begin to sift down from the snowy branches, and the great movement of
summer will advance again; but for one brief day the year pauses and
waits, reluctant to break the spell of this perfect hour, to mar by the
stir of a single leaf the stainless loveliness of this revelation of
nature's unwasted youth.
I do not care to look through these great masses of bloom; it is enough
simply to live in an hour which brings such an overflow of beauty from
the ancient fountains; but Nature herself lures one to deeper thoughts,
and, through the vision which spreads like a mirage over the landscape,
hints at some hidden loveliness at the root of this riotous blossoming,
some diviner vision for the eye of the spirit alone. "Look," she seems
to say, as I stand and gaze with unappeased hunger of soul, "this is my
holiday. In the coming weeks I have a whole race to feed, and over the
length of the world men are imploring my help. They do their little
share of work, and while they wait, waking and sleeping, anxiously
watching winds and clouds, I vitalise their toil and turn all my forces
to their bidding. The labour of the year is at hand and on its
threshold I take this holiday. To-day I give you a glimpse of
paradise; a garden in which all manner of loveliness blooms simply from
the overflow of life, without thought, or care, or toil. This was my
life before men came with their cries of hunger and nakedness; this
shall be my life again when they have passed beyond. This which lies
before you like a dream is a glimpse of life as it is in me, and shall
be in you; immortal, inexhaustible fulness of power and beauty,
overflowing in frolic loveliness. This shall be to you a day out of
eternity, a moment out of the immortal youth to which all true life
comes at last, and in which it abides."
I cannot say that I heard these words, and yet they were as real to me
as if they had been audible; in all fellowship with Nature silence is
deeper and more real than speech. As I stood meditating on these deep
things that lie at the bottom of this sea of bloom, I understood why
men in all ages have connected the flowering of the apple with their
dreams of paradise; I saw at a glance the immortal symbolism of these
blossoming fields and hillsides. I did not need to lift my eyes to
look upon that garden of Hesperides, lying like a dream of heaven under
the golden western skies, whence Heracles brought back the fruit of
Juno; I asked no aid of Milton's imagination to see the mighty hero in
. . . the gardens fair
Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree;
and as I gazed, the vision of that other and nobler hero came before
me, whose purity is more to us than his prowess, and who waits in
Avilion, the "Isle of Apples," for the call that shall summon him back
from Paradise.
I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)--
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor even wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.