It is just thirteen days since I sat down before these papers, pen in
hand; thirteen days since I wrote a word. A few months ago I suppose
such delay would have worried me a good deal. To-day, for some reason,
the fact seems quite unimportant, and does not distress me in the
least. Have I then advanced so far towards self-comprehension as to
have attained content of mind? Or is this merely the mental lethargy
which follows bodily weakness and exhaustion? I do not know.
I have been ill again. It is a nuisance having to send for a doctor,
because his fees are extremely high, and he has to come a good long
way. Also, I do not think the good man's visits are of the slightest
service to me. I have been living for twelve days exclusively upon
milk; a healing diet, I dare say, but I have come to weary of the
taste and sight of it, and its effect upon me is the reverse of
stimulation. But I am in no wise inclined to cavil, for I am entirely
free from pain at the moment; the weather is perfectly glorious, and
my neighbours, Blades and his wife, are in their homely fashion
extremely kind to me.
My one source of embarrassment is that Ash, the timber-getter in the
camp across the creek, is continually bringing me expensive bottles of
Simpkins's Red Marvel, his genuine kindness necessitating not only
elaborate pretences of regularly consuming his pernicious specific for
every human ill, from consumption and 'bad legs' to snake-bites, but
also periodical discussions with him of all my confounded symptoms--a
topic which wearies me almost to tears. Indeed, I prefer the symptoms
of Ash's friend in Newtown--or was it Balmain?--who was 'all et up
with sores, something horrible.'
Notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and cloudless skies of this
month, the weather has been exquisitely fresh and cool, and my log
fire has never once been allowed to go out, Blades, with the kindness
of a man who can respect another's fads, having kept me richly
supplied with logs. Mrs. Blades has been feeding Punch for me, and at
least twice each day that genial rascal has neighed long and loudly at
the slip-rails by the stable, as I believe in friendly greeting to me.
I shall, no doubt, presently feel strong enough to walk out and have a
talk with Punch.
My last letter from Mrs. Oldcastle, written no more than a month ago--the
mail service to Australia is improving--tells me that the park in
London is looking lovely, all gay with spring foliage and blooms. She
says that unless I intend being rude enough to falsify her prophecy, I
must now be preparing to pack my bags and book my passage home. Home!
Well, Ash, whose father like himself was born here, calls England
'Home,' I find. This is one of the most lovable habits of the children
of our race all over the world.
But obviously it would be a foolish and stultifying thing for me to
think of leaving my hermitage. I am not rich enough to indulge in what
folk here call 'A trip Home.' And as for finally withdrawing from my
'way out,' and returning to settle in England, how could such a step
possibly be justified upon practical grounds? The circumstances which
led me to leave England are fundamentally as they were. Mrs.
Oldcastle-- But all that was thoroughly thought out before she left
the _Oronta_ at Adelaide; and to-day I am less--less able, shall I
say, than I was then?
It is singular that these few days in bed should have stolen so much
of my strength. The mere exertion, if that it may be called, of
writing these few lines leaves me curiously exhausted; yet they have
been written extraordinarily slowly for me. My London life made me a
quick writer. I wonder if leisure and ease of mind would have made me
a good one!
I shall lay these papers aside for another day. Perhaps even for two
or three days. Blades has kindly moved my bed for me to the side of
the best window, which faces north-east; in the Antipodes, a very
pleasant aspect. I shall not actually 'go to bed' again in the day-time,
but I think I will lie on the bed beside that open window.
Sitting upright at the table here I feel, not pain, but a kind of
aching weakness which I escape when lying down.
And yet, though not worried about it, I am rather sorry still farther to
neglect this desultory task of mine, even for a day or two. The tree-tops
are tossing bravely in the westerly wind this morning, and it is well
that my banana clump has all the shelter of the gunyah, or its graceful
leaves would suffer. The big cabbage palm outside the verandah makes a
curious, dry, parchment-like crackling in the wind. But the three
silver tree-ferns have a cool, swishing note, very pleasing to the
ear; while for the bush trees beyond, theirs is the steady music of
the sea on a sandy beach. I fancy this wind must be a shade too
boisterous to be good for Blades's orange orchard. At all events it
brings a strong citrus scent this way, after bustling across the side
of Blades's hill.
There can be no doubt about it that this mine hermitage is very
beautifully situated. Any man of discernment should be well content
here to bide. The air about me is full of a nimble sweetness, and as
utterly free from impurity as the air one breathes in mid-ocean. More,
it is impregnated by the tonic perfumes of all the myriad aromatic
growths that surround my cottage. Men say the Australian bush is
singularly soulless; starkly devoid of the elements of interest and
romance which so strongly endear to the hearts of those dwelling there
the countryside in such Old World lands as the England of my birth.
Maybe. Yet I have met men, both native-born and alien-born, who have
dearly loved Australia; loved the land so well as to return to it,
even after many days.
England! Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world
has known, was ever one so simply magic as this--England? Surely not.
How the tongue caresses it! In the past it has always seemed to me
that the question of a man's place of birth was infinitely more
significant and important than the mere matter of where he died, of
where his bones were laid. And yet, even that matter of the
resting-place for a man's bones.... Undoubtedly, there is magic in
English earth. England! Thank God I was born in England!