HOLIDAYS
I HAVE said that Ellen had a child by her first husband. Marie, for that
was her name, was now ten years old. She was like neither her mother nor
father, and yet was _shot_ as it were with strange gleams which reminded
me of her paternal grandmother for a moment, and then disappeared. She
had rather coarse dark hair, small black eyes, round face, and features
somewhat blunt or blurred, the nose in particular being so. She had a
tendency to be stout. For books she did not care, and it was with the
greatest difficulty we taught her to read. She was not orderly or
careful about her person, and in this respect was a sore
disappointment—not that she was positively careless, but she took no
pride in dress, nor in keeping her room and her wardrobe neat. She was
fond of bright colours, which was another trial to Ellen, who disliked
any approach to gaudiness. She was not by any means a fool, and she had
a peculiarly swift mode of expressing herself upon persons and things. A
stranger looking at her would perhaps have adjudged her inclined to
sensuousness, and dull. She was neither one nor the other. She ate
little, although she was fond of sweets. Her rather heavy face, with no
clearly cut outline in it, was not the typical face for passion; but she
was capable of passion to an extraordinary degree, and what is more
remarkable, it was not explosive passion, or rather it was not passion
which she suffered to explode. I remember once when she was a little
mite she was asked out somewhere to tea. She was dressed and ready, but
it began to rain fast, and she was told she could not go. She besought,
but it was in vain. We could not afford cabs, and there was no omnibus.
Marie, finding all her entreaties were useless, quietly walked out of the
room; and after some little time her mother, calling her and finding she
did not come, went to look for her. She had gone into the back-yard, and
was sitting there in the rain by the side of the water-butt. She was
soaked, and her best clothes were spoiled. I must confess that I did not
take very kindly to her. I was irritated at her slowness in learning; it
was, in fact, painful to be obliged to teach her. I thought that perhaps
she might have some undeveloped taste for music, but she showed none, and
our attempts to get her to sing ordinary melodies were a failure. She
was more or less of a locked cabinet to me. I tried her with the two or
three keys which I had, but finding that none of them fitted, I took no
more pains about her.
One Sunday we determined upon a holiday. It was a bold adventure for us,
but we had made up our minds. There was an excursion train to Hastings,
and accordingly Ellen, Marie, and myself were at London Bridge Station
early in the morning. It was a lovely summer’s day in mid-July. The
journey down was uncomfortable enough in consequence of the heat and
dust, but we heeded neither one nor the other in the hope of seeing the
sea. We reached Hastings at about eleven o’clock, and strolled westwards
towards Bexhill. Our pleasure was exquisite. Who can tell, save the
imprisoned Londoner, the joy of walking on the clean sea-sand! What a
delight that was, to say nothing of the beauty of the scenery! To be
free of the litter and filth of a London suburb, of its broken hedges,
its brickbats, its torn advertisements, its worn and trampled grass in
fields half given over to the speculative builder: in place of this, to
tread the immaculate shore over which breathed a wind not charged with
soot; to replace the dull, shrouding obscurity of the smoke by a distance
so distinct that the masts of the ships whose hulls were buried below the
horizon were visible—all this was perfect bliss. It was not very poetic
bliss, perhaps; but nevertheless it is a fact that the cleanness of the
sea and the sea air was as attractive to us as any of the sea attributes.
We had a wonderful time. Only in the country is it possible to note the
change of morning into mid-day, of mid-day into afternoon, and of
afternoon into evening; and it is only in the country, therefore, that a
day seems stretched out into its proper length. We had brought all our
food with us, and sat upon the shore in the shadow of a piece of the
cliff. A row of heavy white clouds lay along the horizon almost
unchangeable and immovable, with their summit-lines and the part of the
mass just below them steeped in sunlight. The level opaline water
differed only from a floor by a scarcely perceptible heaving motion,
which broke into the faintest of ripples at our feet. So still was the
great ocean, so quietly did everything lie in it, that the wavelets which
licked the beach were as pure and bright as if they were a part of the
mid-ocean depths. About a mile from us, at one o’clock, a long row of
porpoises appeared, showing themselves in graceful curves for
half-an-hour or so, till they went out farther to sea off Fairlight.
Some fishing-boats were becalmed just in front of us. Their shadows
slept, or almost slept, upon the water, a gentle quivering alone showing
that it was not complete sleep, or if sleep, that it was sleep with
dreams. The intensity of the sunlight sharpened the outlines of every
little piece of rock, and of the pebbles, in a manner which seemed
supernatural to us Londoners. In London we get the heat of the sun, but
not his light, and the separation of individual parts into such vivid
isolation was so surprising that even Marie noticed it, and said it “all
seemed as if she were looking through a glass.” It was perfect—perfect
in its beauty—and perfect because, from the sun in the heavens down to
the fly with burnished wings on the hot rock, there was nothing out of
harmony. Everything breathed one spirit. Marie played near us; Ellen
and I sat still, doing nothing. We wanted nothing, we had nothing to
achieve; there were no curiosities to be seen, there was no particular
place to be reached, no “plan of operations,” and London was forgotten
for the time. It lay behind us in the north-west, and the cliff was at
the back of us shutting out all thought of it. No reminiscences and no
anticipations disturbed us; the present was sufficient, and occupied us
totally.
I should like, if I could, to write an essay upon the art of enjoying a
holiday. It is sad to think how few people know how to enjoy one,
although they are so precious. We do not sufficiently consider that
enjoyment of every kind is an art carefully to be learnt, and specially
the art of making the most of a brief space set apart for pleasure. It
is foolish, for example, if a man, city bred, has but twelve hours before
him, to spend more of it in eating and drinking than is necessary.
Eating and drinking produce stupidity, at least in some degree, which may
just as well be reserved for town. It is foolish also to load the twelve
hours with a task—so much to be done. The sick person may perhaps want
exercise, but to the tolerably healthy the best of all recreation is the
freedom from fetters even when they are self-imposed.
Our train homewards was due at Bexhill a little after seven. By five
o’clock a change gradual but swift was observed. The clouds which had
charmed us all through the morning and afternoon were in reality
thunder-clouds, which woke up like a surprised army under perfect
discipline, and moved magnificently towards us. Already afar off we
heard the softened echoing roll of the thunder. Every now and then we
saw a sharp thrust of lightning down into the water, and shuddered when
we thought that perhaps underneath that stab there might be a ship with
living men. The battle at first was at such a distance that we watched
it with intense and solemn delight. As yet not a breath of air stirred,
but presently, over in the south-east, a dark ruffled patch appeared on
the horizon, and we agreed that it was time to go. The indistinguishable
continuous growl now became articulated into distinct crashes. I had
miscalculated the distance to the station, and before we got there the
rain, skirmishing in advance, was upon us. We took shelter in a cottage
for a moment in order that Ellen might get a glass of water—bad-looking
stuff it was, but she was very thirsty—and put on her cloak. We then
started again on our way. We reached the station at about half-past six,
before the thunder was overhead, but not before Ellen had got wet,
despite all my efforts to protect her. She was also very hot from
hurrying, and yet there was nothing to be done but to sit in a kind of
covered shed till the train came up. The thunder and lightning were,
however, so tremendous, that we thought of nothing else. When they were
at their worst, the lightning looked like the upset of a cauldron of
white glowing metal—with such strength, breadth, and volume did it
descend. Just as the train arrived, the roar began to abate, and in
about half-an-hour it had passed over to the north, leaving behind the
rain, cold and continuous, which fell all round us from a dark, heavy,
grey sky. The carnage in which we were was a third-class, with seats
arranged parallel to the sides. It was crowded, and we were obliged to
sit in the middle, exposed to the draught which the tobacco smoke made
necessary. Some of the company were noisy, and before we got to Red Hill
became noisier, as the brandy-flasks which had been well filled at
Hastings began to work. Many were drenched, and this was an excuse for
much of the drinking; although for that matter, any excuse or none is
generally sufficient. At Red Hill we were stopped by other trains, and
before we came to Croydon we were an hour late. We had now become
intolerably weary. The songs were disgusting, and some of the women who
were with the men had also been drinking, and behaved in a manner which
it was not pleasant that Ellen and Marie should see. The carriage was
lighted fortunately by one dim lamp only which hung in the middle, and I
succeeded at last in getting seats at the further end, where there was a
knot of more decent persons who had huddled up there away from the
others. All the glory of the morning was forgotten. Instead of three
happy, exalted creatures, we were three dejected, shivering mortals, half
poisoned with foul air and the smell of spirits. We crawled up to London
Bridge at the slowest pace, and, finally, the railway company discharged
us on the platform at ten minutes past eleven. Not a place in any
omnibus could be secured, and we therefore walked for a mile or so till I
saw a cab, which—unheard-of expense for me—I engaged, and we were landed
at our own house exactly at half-past twelve. The first thing to be done
was to get Marie to bed. She was instantly asleep, and was none the
worse for her journey. With Ellen the case was different. She could not
sleep, and the next morning was feverish. She insisted that it was
nothing more than a bad cold, and would on no account permit me even to
give her any medicine. She would get up presently, and she and Marie
could get on well enough together. But when I reached home on Monday
evening, Ellen was worse, and was still in bed.
I sent at once for the doctor, who would give no opinion for a day or
two, but meanwhile directed that she was to remain where she was, and
take nothing but the lightest food. Tuesday night passed, and the fever
still increased. I had become very anxious, but I dared not stay with
her, for I knew not what might happen if I were absent from my work. I
was obliged to try and think of somebody who would come and help us. Our
friend Taylor, who once was the coal-porter at Somerset House, came into
my mind. He, as I have said when talking about him, was married, but had
no children. To him accordingly I went. I never shall forget the
alacrity with which he prompted his wife to go, and with which she
consented. I was shut up in my own sufferings, but I remember a flash of
joy that all our efforts in our room had not been in vain. I was
delighted that I had secured assistance, but I do believe the uppermost
thought was delight that we had been able to develop gratitude and
affection. Mrs. Taylor was an “ordinary woman.” She was about fifty,
rather stout, and entirely uneducated. But when she took charge at our
house, all her best qualities found expression. It is true enough,
_omnium consensu capax imperii nisi imperasset_, but it is equally true
that under the pressure of trial and responsibility we are often stronger
than when there is no pressure. Many a man will acknowledge that in
difficulty he has surprised himself by a resource and coolness which he
never suspected before. Mrs. Taylor I always thought to be rather weak
and untrustworthy, but I found that when _weight_ was placed upon her,
she was steady as a rock, a systematic and a perfect manager. There was
no doubt in a very short time as to the nature of the disease. It was
typhoid fever, the cause probably being the impure water drunk as we were
coming home. I have no mind to describe what Ellen suffered. Suffice it
to say, that her treatment was soon reduced to watching her every minute
night and day, and administering small quantities of milk. Her
prostration and emaciation were excessive, and without the most constant
attention she might at any moment have slipped out of our hands. I was
like a man shipwrecked and alone in a polar country, whose existence
depends upon one spark of fire, which he tries to cherish, left
glimmering in a handful of ashes. Oh those days, prolonged to weeks,
during which that dreadful struggle lasted—days swallowed up with one
sole, intense, hungry desire that her life might be spared!—days filled
with a forecast of the blackness and despair before me if she should
depart. I tried to obtain release from the office. The answer was that
nobody could of course prevent my being away, but that it was not usual
for a clerk to be absent merely because his wife was not well. The brute
added with a sneer that a wife was “a luxury” which he should have
thought I could hardly afford. We divided between us, however, at home
the twenty-four hours during which we stood sentinels against death, and
occasionally we were relieved by one or two friends. I went on duty from
about eight in the evening till one in the morning, and was then relieved
by Mrs. Taylor, who remained till ten or eleven. She then went to bed,
and was replaced by little Marie. What a change came over that child! I
was amazed at her. All at once she seemed to have found what she was
born to do. The key had been discovered, which unlocked and revealed
what there was in her, of which hitherto I had been altogether unaware.
Although she was so little, she became a perfect nurse. Her levity
disappeared; she was grave as a matron, moved about as if shod in felt,
never forgot a single direction, and gave proper and womanly answers to
strangers who called. Faculties unsuspected grew almost to full height
in a single day. Never did she relax during the whole of that dreadful
time, or show the slightest sign of discontent. She sat by her mother’s
side, intent, vigilant; and she had her little dinner prepared and taken
up into the sickroom by Mrs. Taylor before she went to bed. I remember
once going to her cot in the night, as she lay asleep, and almost
breaking my heart over her with remorse and thankfulness—remorse, that I,
with blundering stupidity, had judged her so superficially; and
thankfulness, that it had pleased God to present to me so much of His own
divinest grace. Fool that I was, not to be aware that messages from Him
are not to be read through the envelope in which they are enclosed. I
never should have believed, if it had not been for Marie, that any
grown-up man could so love a child. Such love, I should have said, was
only possible between man and woman, or, perhaps, between man and man.
But now I doubt whether a love of that particular kind could be felt
towards any grown-up human being, love so pure, so imperious, so awful.
My love to Marie was love of God Himself as He is—an unrestrained
adoration of an efflux from Him, adoration transfigured into love,
because the revelation had clothed itself with a child’s form. It was,
as I say, the love of God as He is. It was not necessary, as it so often
is necessary, to qualify, to subtract, to consider the other side, to
deplore the obscurity or the earthly contamination with which the Word is
delivered to us. This was the Word itself, without even consciousness on
the part of the instrument selected for its vocalisation. I may appear
extravagant, but I can only put down what I felt and still feel. I
appeal, moreover, to Jesus Himself for justification. I had seen the
kingdom of God through a little child. I, in fact, have done nothing
more than beat out over a page in my own words what passed through His
mind when He called a little child and set him in the midst of His
disciples. How I see the meaning of those words now! and so it is that a
text will be with us for half a lifetime, recognised as great and good,
but not penetrated till the experience comes round to us in which it was
born.
Six weeks passed before the faint blue point of light which flickered on
the wick began to turn white and show some strength. At last, however,
day by day, we marked a slight accession of vitality which increased with
change of diet. Every evening when I came home I was gladdened by the
tidings which showed advance, and Ellen, I believe, was as much pleased
to see how others rejoiced over her recovery as she was pleased for her
own sake. She, too, was one of those creatures who always generously
admit improvement. For my own part, I have often noticed that when I
have been ill, and have been getting better, I have refused to
acknowledge it, and that it has been an effort to me to say that things
were not at their worst. She, however, had none of this niggardly
baseness, and always, if only for the sake of her friends, took the
cheerful side. Mrs. Taylor now left us. She left us a friend whose
friendship will last, I hope, as long as life lasts. She had seen all
our troubles and our poverty: we knew that she knew all about us: she had
helped us with the most precious help—what more was there necessary to
knit her to us?—and it is worth noting that the assistance which she
rendered, and her noble self-sacrifice, so far from putting us, in her
opinion, in her debt, only seemed to her a reason why she should be more
deeply attached to us.
It was late in the autumn before Ellen had thoroughly recovered, but at
last we said that she was as strong as she was before, and we determined
to celebrate our deliverance by one more holiday before the cold weather
came. It was again Sunday—a perfectly still, warm, autumnal day, with a
high barometer and the gentlest of airs from the west. The morning in
London was foggy, so much so that we doubted at first whether we should
go; but my long experience of London fog told me that we should escape
from it with that wind if we got to the chalk downs away out by
Letherhead and Guildford. We took the early train to a point at the base
of the hills, and wound our way up into the woods at the top. We were
beyond the smoke, which rested like a low black cloud over the city in
the north-east, reaching a third of the way up to the zenith. The beech
had changed colour, and glowed with reddish-brown fire. We sat down on a
floor made of the leaves of last year. At mid-day the stillness was
profound, broken only by the softest of whispers descending from the
great trees which spread over us their protecting arms. Every now and
then it died down almost to nothing, and then slowly swelled and died
again, as if the Gods of the place were engaged in divine and harmonious
talk. By moving a little towards the external edge of our canopy we
beheld the plain all spread out before us, bounded by the heights of
Sussex and Hampshire. It was veiled with the most tender blue, and above
it was spread a sky which was white on the horizon and deepened by
degrees into azure over our heads. The exhilaration of the air satisfied
Marie, although she had no playmate, and there was nothing special with
which she could amuse herself. She wandered about looking for flowers
and ferns, and was content. We were all completely happy. We strained
our eyes to see the furthest point before us, and we tried to find it on
the map we had brought with us. The season of the year, which is usually
supposed to make men pensive, had no such effect upon us. Everything in
the future, even the winter in London, was painted by Hope, and the death
of the summer brought no sadness. Rather did summer dying in such
fashion fill our hearts with repose, and even more than repose—with
actual joy.
* * * * *
Here ends the autobiography. A month after this last holiday my friend
was dead and buried. He had unsuspected disease of the heart, and one
day his master, of whom we have heard something, was more than usually
violent. Mark, as his custom was, was silent, but evidently greatly
excited. His tyrant left the room; and in a few minutes afterwards Mark
was seen to turn white and fall forward in his chair. It was all over!
His body was taken to a hospital and thence sent home. The next morning
his salary up to the day of his death came in an envelope to his widow,
without a single word from his employers save a request for
acknowledgment. Towards mid-day, his office coat, and a book found in
his drawer, arrived in a brown paper parcel, carriage unpaid.
On looking over his papers, I found the sketch of his life and a mass of
odds and ends, some apparently written for publication. Many of these
had evidently been in envelopes, and had most likely, therefore, been
offered to editors or publishers, but all, I am sure, had been refused.
I add one or two by way of appendix, and hope they will be thought worth
saving.
R. S.
* * * * *
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON, 1913.
FOOTNOTES
{7} This was written many years ago, but is curiously pertinent to the
discussions of this year.—EDITOR, 1884.
{31} Not exactly untrue, but it sounds strangely now when socialism,
nationalisation of the land, and other projects have renewed in men the
hope of regeneration by political processes. The reader will, however,
please remember the date of these memoirs.—EDITOR, 1884.