The landscape, like our literature, is apt to grow and to get itself
formed under too luxurious ideals. This is the evil work of that
_little more_ which makes its insensible but persistent additions to
styles, to the arts, to the ornaments of life--to nature, when unluckily
man becomes too explicitly conscious of her beauty, and too deliberate in
his arrangement of it. The landscape has need of moderation, of that
fast-disappearing grace of unconsciousness, and, in short, of a return
towards the ascetic temper. The English way of landowning, above all,
has made for luxury. Naturally the country is fat. The trees are thick
and round--a world of leaves; the hills are round; the forms are all
blunt; and the grass is so deep as to have almost the effect of snow in
smoothing off all points and curving away all abruptness. England is
almost as blunt as a machine-made moulding or a piece of Early-Victorian
cast-iron work. And on all this we have, of set purpose, improved by our
invention of the country park. There all is curves and masses. A little
more is added to the greenness and the softness of the forest glade, and
for increase of ornament the fat land is devoted to idleness. Not a tree
that is not impenetrable, inarticulate. Thick soil below and thick
growth above cover up all the bones of the land, which in more delicate
countries show brows and hollows resembling those of a fine face after
mental experience. By a very intelligible paradox, it is only in a
landscape made up for beauty that beauty is so ill achieved. Much beauty
there must needs be where there are vegetation and the seasons. But even
the seasons, in park scenery, are marred by the _little too much_:
too complete a winter, too emphatic a spring, an ostentatious summer, an
autumn too demonstrative.
'Seek to have less rather than more.' It is a counsel of perfection in
_The Imitation of Christ_. And here, undoubtedly, is the secret of
all that is virile and classic in the art of man, and of all in nature
that is most harmonious with that art. Moreover, this is the secret of
Italy. How little do the tourists and the poets grasp this latter truth,
by the way--and the artists! The legend of Italy is to be gorgeous, and
they have her legend by rote. But Italy is slim and all articulate; her
most characteristic trees are those that are distinct and distinguished,
with lines that suggest the etching-point rather than a brush loaded with
paint. Cypresses shaped like flames, tall pines with the abrupt flatness
of their tops, thin canes in the brakes, sharp aloes by the road-side,
and olives with the delicate acuteness of the leaf--these make keen lines
of slender vegetation. And they own the seasons by a gentle confession.
Rather than be overpowered by the clamorous proclamation of summer in the
English woods, we would follow June to this subtler South: even to the
Campagna, where the cycle of the seasons passes within such narrow
limitations that insensitive eyes scarcely recognise it. In early spring
there is a fresher touch of green on all the spaces of grass, the
distance grows less mellow and more radiant; by the coming of May the
green has been imperceptibly dimmed again; it blushes with the mingled
colours of minute and numberless flowers--a dust of flowers, in lines
longer than those of ocean billows. This is the desert blossoming like a
rose: not the obvious rose of gardens, but the multitudinous and various
flower that gathers once in the year in every hand's-breadth of the
wilderness. When June comes the sun has burnt all to leagues of
harmonious seed, coloured with a hint of the colour of harvest, which is
gradually changed to the lighter harmonies of winter. All this fine
chromatic scale passes within such modest boundaries that it is accused
as a monotony. But those who find its modesty delightful may have a
still more delicate pleasure in the blooming and blossoming of the sea.
The passing from the winter blue to the summer blue, from the cold colour
to the colour that has in it the fire of the sun, the kindling of the
sapphire of the Mediterranean--the significance of these sea-seasons, so
far from the pasture and the harvest, is imperceptible to ordinary
senses, as appears from the fact that so few stay to see it all
fulfilled. And if the tourist stayed, he would no doubt violate all that
is lovely and moderate by the insistence of his descriptions. He would
find adjectives for the blue sea, but probably he would refuse to search
for words for the white. A white Mediterranean is not in the legend.
Nevertheless it blooms, now and then, pale as an opal; the white sea is
the flower of the breathless midsummer. And in its clear, silent waters,
a few days, in the culmination of the heat, bring forth translucent
living creatures, many-shaped jelly-fish, coloured like mother-of-pearl.
But without going so far from the landscape of daily life, it is in
agricultural Italy that the _little less_ makes so undesignedly, and as
it were so inevitably, for beauty. The country that is formed for use
and purpose only is immeasurably the loveliest. What a lesson in
literature! How feelingly it persuades us that all except a very little
of the ornament of letters and of life makes the dulness of the world.
The tenderness of colour, the beauty of series and perspective, and the
variety of surface, produced by the small culture of vegetables, are
among the charms that come unsought, and that are not to be found by
seeking--are never to be achieved if they are sought for their own sake.
And another of the delights of the useful laborious land is its vitality.
The soil may be thin and dry, but man's life is added to its own. He has
embanked the hill to make little platforms for the growth of wheat in the
light shadows of olive leaves. Thanks to the metayer land-tenure, man's
heart, as well as his strength, is given to the ground, with his hope and
his honour. Louis Blanc's 'point of honour of industry' is a conscious
impulse--it is not too much to say--with most of the Tuscan contadini;
but as each effort they make for their master they make also for the
bread of their children, it is no wonder that the land they cultivate has
a look of life. But in all colour, in all luxury, and in all that gives
material for picturesque English, this lovely scenery for food and wine
and raiment has that _little less_ to which we desire to recall a
rhetorical world.