“Then I _will_ have some more, thank you,” and she heaved a sigh of
deep contentment.
Perhaps it was as well Abigail didn’t come!
* * * * *
The drive from the station to my cottage seemed to be through one long
vista of sweet odours.
Up to Monmouth the Wye is a tidal river, and the water was rushing up,
backed by a strong wind, bringing with it, faint but unmistakable, the
salt tang of the sea, that seems all the more delicious when it has
swept over woods and meadows and ploughed fields.
As we left the river bank and started the long uphill climb, the scent
of the newly-turned earth became more and more insistent as one passed
stray farms and cottages, where the most was being made of the little
bright sunshine.
Although it was only the end of February, the brave bit of sunshine had
stirred in the larches thoughts of coming spring, and already there was
a suspicion of the resinous odour that is one of their many delightful
characteristics.
But it would be impossible to name even a fraction of the perfumes
that were floating about that day: everything in Nature had responded
to the welcome sun-warmth; and incense was rising from myriads of
leaf-buds, closely sheathed as yet; from uncountable armies of grass
blades; from flowering moss, and uncurling ferns, and bursting acorns;
from the hundreds of thousands of catkins swinging on the hazels;
from primroses pushing up pink stems and yellow blossoms in sheltered
corners, where they had been protected by drifts of dead leaves. And
probably the leaves of the wild hyacinths, now an inch or so above
ground, had brought up some of the sweet earth-scents from below;
likewise the blue-green leaves of the daffodils just poking through
the soil, and the snowdrop spears, whose white flowers were nodding in
big patches in orchards and front gardens. And it is certain that some
early violets were hiding under their leaves.
It is noticeable that while the scents of autumn are often strong and
bitter, the scents of spring are usually delicate and sweet.
* * * * *
It seems to me that in time we town-dwellers will lose our sense
of smell! The odours that pervade our cities are so surpassingly
abominable, that in sheer self-defence we have to “turn off our nose,”
if you know what I mean by that; we are getting to smell as little as
possible, just as we are getting to breathe as little as possible,
owing to the vitiated air of the great crowded centres; with the result
that we seem to be losing our power to smell sensitively and keenly, as
well as our power to breathe deeply.
In town, the winds and the seasons seem only distinguishable by the
grade of one’s underwear. Outer garments are no guide, for in December
and January one meets bare chests in the public thoroughfares and
transparent gowns indoors; while in August, with equal suitability, we
trim a chiffon blouse with fur! (and, by the way, it is instructive to
recall the fact that it was a German Court dressmaker who first set
going the inappropriate, vulgar, inartistic fashion of trimming frail
transparent dress materials with fur).
If you live in clean fresh air, however, you know the seasons by their
odours, and it is possible to distinguish with absolute certainty the
four winds of heaven by their scent, just as at sea you can smell land,
or an iceberg, before it is anywhere within sight.
The scent of the east wind is entirely different from the scent of the
north wind, though both are cold and penetrating. In the same way, the
scent of growing bracken—for instance—is entirely different from the
scent of moss. But it takes time for the town-dweller to be able to
distinguish between the more subtle of the thousand fragrances that
Nature flings broadcast about the countryside, so blunted is the sense
of smell by the coarse reek of dirt, and petrol, and chemicals, and
smoke, and over-breathed poisoned atmosphere that does duty for “air”
in the modern centres of civilisation.
* * * * *
Virginia was vowing that she could actually smell the salmon in the
river, when we entered the village; at the same time, the fish cart
that makes a weekly tour of these hills was standing outside the “New
Inn” (dated 1724). I omitted to draw her attention to the coincidence,
because at that moment the lady of the post-office stepped out into the
road and waved a telegram at our approaching steed.
It was from the Head of Affairs, briefly stating that he had returned
home, safe and sound, that he would soon have the little mess cleared
up, and that I need not worry.
Naturally, my inclination was to turn round there and then, get back
home as soon as possible, and fall on his overcoat; but Virginia
reminded me that there was no train returning that day, and if there
were, we should probably only cross one another on the road—in
accordance with my usual method of meeting people.
So I went on, a huge load having been lifted from my brain. I
am sufficiently out-of-date and weak-minded to be profoundly
thankful when the Head of Affairs steps in and re-adjusts my
always-very-much-in-a-tangle affairs, and sets them on a business-like
basis again: and knowing his capability to deal both with mind and
matter, I didn’t worry another moment, though I was sceptical about any
speedy clearing up of the mess!
And because my heart was lighter, I seemed to see so many things I had
not noticed before. In every sheltered corner shoots were showing, and
green things starting from the earth—and every shoot set one’s mind
running on ahead to the things that were yet to be. I have heard people
deplore the fact that human nature is so prone to anticipate events; I
have been told that the reason animals live such a placid, contented
life, is because they only concentrate on the present. It may be so;
but personally, I wouldn’t be without my anticipations, even though it
may mean a loss of placidity.
The commandment is to take no _anxious_ thought for the morrow; there
is nothing said against looking ahead for happiness.
And a wander among our hills and along our lanes on a mild February
day, means that in addition to the loveliness of early spring, you
sense the beauty of summer—and much more besides.
Every soft, grey-green shoot on the tangled honeysuckle stems sets
you thinking of the yellow, rosy-tinged blossoms that will fill the
long summer evenings with fragrance; every crimson thorn and bursting
leaf on the wild rose, tells of far-flung branches that will arch the
hedges and flush them with pale-pink flowers later on; the rosettes of
foxglove leaves on the roadside banks remind you of the bells that will
be ringing all along the lanes when summer sets in.
And although the fresh green of all the courageous little things that
have braved the winds and peeped forth, is exquisite enough in itself
to satisfy that eternal craving of the human heart for something fresh
from the Hand of God, yet the promise that each proclaims carries one
into further realms of loveliness, and conjures up visions that can
never be put down in black and white.
One dimly understands how impossible was the task St. John set himself
when he tried to describe the glimpse that was permitted him of the
City not made with hands. He wrote of gold, and pearls, and crystal,
and inexhaustible gems—yet these are but cold, lifeless things, and the
list of them leaves us unmoved. With all the words at his command, with
all the similes he could muster, nothing brings us so near a conception
of that vision as his indication of the Divine understanding of poor
human needs, and the promise of a fuller, richer life, freed from
earthly disadvantages and with nothing to sever us from God.
At a time like the present, when souls innumerable are bearing silent
sorrows, and the whole earth is scarred with the iron hoof of the
Prussian beast, how much more to us than all the radiance of topaz,
jacinth, sapphire and amethyst is the assurance—“There shall be no more
death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain
. . . and there shall be no more curse: but the Throne of God and of the
Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall serve Him: and they shall
see His Face.”
* * * * *
At this season of new-bursting life we, too, catch a glimpse of the
Beyond, and underlying all our delight in the material beauty of
spring, is there not the still deeper joy arising from the promise
it brings of greater beauty yet unfulfilled—beauty that transcends
all earthly imaginings? The heart, whether conscious of it or not,
assuredly finds comfort in the reminder of the Resurrection that Nature
whispers wheresoever we may turn.
It is no mere haphazard chance that Easter falls about the time of the
blossoming of the bare blackthorn bough.
* * * * *
One very satisfying feature of the landscape, about this part of the
river side, is the sight of the cottages, yellow-washed or white, that
seem literally to nestle in the hollows on the hillside. While crowded
streets hold no charm for me, and modern mansions leave me unmoved,
there is something very appealing about a little homestead standing in
its own bit of garden, with its couple of beehives beside a towering
sunflower, its few gnarled apple trees, its cow and hayrick maybe, if
there is a bit of pasture land about the cottage that has been redeemed
by the hardest of labour from the rocky hillside, its fowls clucking
about on the fringe of the small holding, its wood pile, its cabbages
and marrows and rhubarb and black currants, all according to the
season, its hedge draped with washing—too white ever to have come into
touch with that modern improvement the steam laundry. In looking at all
this, you are looking for the most part at the total worldly wealth
of the cottager, wealth, too, that has often been acquired by the
genuine sweat of his (and her) brow. It may not seem much to you when
you run your eye over it; but it speaks of home in a way that no city
dwelling has ever yet attained to. Here is not merely shelter, or just
a place wherein to spend the night; it is the very centre of life to
the inmates; the major portion of their food is either growing in, or
running about, the garden. The side of bacon on the rack in the kitchen
came from their own pigsty; the potatoes, the onions, the swedes in the
outhouse grew from their own planting; the big yellow vegetable marrows
hanging up in the kitchen, and the pots of black currant and plum
jam in the cupboard, originated in their garden. The little plot is
endeared to them because it provides them with the necessities of life,
and the dwellers in the cottages live very close to the fundamental
things that really matter, even though they may lack some of the items
that over-civilization has ticketed the refinements of life.
And after a winter in town spent in a stern wrestle for coal, potatoes,
butter and milk and bacon and many of the other necessities of life,
it is bliss indeed to land in this haven of sufficiency, where queues
are unknown, and where the cow and the hen do their duty in life each
according to her station, and the garden and the forests do much of the
rest!
Even then, one has not gone to the root of the matter. Many of these
cottages are the ancestral homes of the people who live in them, homes
that were literally wrested from the hillside by the forefathers of
those who are now living in them. And in such cases the roots go far
deeper than the surface soil. An ancestral home, no matter how small,
can mean more to the inmates than the most gorgeous pile that the
newly-rich millionaire can raise.
And to my mind, by no means the least of the many hideous sins for
which the Germans will ultimately be called to account at the world’s
Bar of Justice, will be the violation of the homes, the landmarks, and
the ancient birthrights of unoffending peoples, while they themselves
sat smug and sanctimonious under their own vines and fig trees,
self-complacent in the knowledge that they were protected from deserved
retribution by their devil-driven guns.
* * * * *
When at last we reached the little white gate, leading into the cottage
garden, we stood for a moment, as we always do, and looked at the peak
beyond peak, and the deep lying valleys.
Sloping away from our very feet were our own orchards and coppices,
the bright lichen on the twisted old apple trees showing almost a
blue-green against the purple of the bare birch tree branches still
lower down.
The sun was dropping behind the larches that ridged the opposite
hills. Birds everywhere were explaining to each other that they
must—they really _must_—set about house-hunting the very first thing in
the morning.
Out in the lane, the mountain spring was over-full and singing a
riotous song of jubilation as it tumbled out of the little wooden
trough into the pool below, and tore away down into the valley.
“It’s a marvellous world,” said Virginia as we gazed at the vast
panorama that stretched before us; and then she added, “Do you know,
I’ve come to the conclusion that I prefer a spring of water outside the
gate to all the stop-cocks and water-mains in the world.”
* * * * *
Next morning a letter from the Head of Affairs skipped airily over the
episode of his meeting with the builder, concentrating on the point
that I was to stay where I was, as he would join me in a few days. But
Ursula supplied the missing details.
“After I saw you off at Paddington,” she wrote, “I hurried back as
fast as I could; I felt that I should at least like to see if the four
outside walls remained of what was once your happy home. Because,
though we didn’t let you know, the builder confided to me, as you were
leaving, that he had discovered the whole front of the house was in a
most shocking condition, necessitating prompt ‘shoring-up’ (whatever
that may mean), and requiring to be underpinned immediately. But by
the time I reached the place where your gates ought to have been—but
weren’t—I found the Head of Affairs (he’d sent a wire as soon as he
landed in England, but it evidently never reached you) bestowing as
much gratuitous eloquence on the builder and the Water Company as
would have run an election. What did he say? Why, everything that is
in the English language, and in a hundred different keys! Sometimes he
singled out some separate ‘official,’ and gave it him, personally, in
considerable detail.
“His analysis of the private character of the builder was nothing short
of an epic; and as for the turncock!—what he said about turncocks was a
revelation to an unsuspecting ratepayer like myself—No, it might be as
well not to repeat it; but I feel sure that turncock won’t call, with
a long double knock, for a Christmas-box next December. Indeed, his
remarks on the mental capacity of every single person employed by the
Water Company lead me to think that your family won’t be really popular
with the Metropolitan Water Board for some time to come!
“And then, when he had said everything that could possibly be said
about each man standing there, and about water and pipes and stop-cocks
and gravel and pavement and suchlike things, he announced his intention
of going on the roof to inspect where the builder proposed to put the
pile of new slates.
“Now it’s a funny thing, but that builder was not nearly so pressing
that he should go up and see for himself, as he was when talking to
you. But he insisted, and once up, he started all over again, and made
such forceful comments on the subject of slates—and more especially the
men who put on the slates—that I was afraid they would come through the
roof.
“Well, I don’t think I ever saw a more wilted-looking blossom
than that builder when he was finally had inside and given his
marching orders. Even before the two had descended from the roof,
the embroidered men were hurriedly toppling the earth back into the
trenches. I believe they’ve had twenty-four hours allowed them to get
things put to rights again. And I think they will hurry, for they
don’t seem anxious for more of the master’s society than is absolutely
necessary. At any rate, he seemed quite able to manage matters without
any assistance from me, and so I left it in his hands, and I’m coming
down by the next train.”
V