were very kind to me, and I was thus introduced to what is a far more
interesting circle of society than the circle which would rank itself
highest, and which spends an amount of serious toil in the search of
amusement, with results which to an outsider appear to be unsatisfactory.
The circle to which I gained admittance was the official set—men who
had definite and interesting work in the world—barristers, government
officials, politicians and the like, men versed in affairs, and with a
hard and definite knowledge of what was really going on. Here I learnt
how different is the actual movement of politics from the reflection of
it which appears in the papers, which often definitely conceals the truth
from the public.
[Sidenote: DIVERSIONS]
My amusements at this period were of the mildest character; I spent
Sundays in the summer months at Golden End; Sundays in the winter as a
rule at my lodgings; and devoted the afternoons on which I was free, to
long aimless rambles in London, or even farther afield. I have an absurd
pleasure in observing the details of domestic architecture; and there is
a variety of entertainment to be derived, for a person with this low and
feeble taste, from the exploration of London, which would probably be
inconceivable to persons of a more conscientious artistic standard.
[Sidenote: A RUDE SHOCK]
At this period I had few intimates; and sociable as I had been at school
and college, I was now thrown far more on my own resources; I sometimes
think it was a wise and kindly preparation for what was coming; and I
certainly learnt the pleasures to be derived from reading and lonely
contemplation and solitary reflection, pleasures which have stood me
in good stead in later days. I used indeed to think that the enforced
spending of so many hours of the day with other human beings gave a
peculiar zest to these solitary hours. Whether this was wholesome or
natural I know not, but I certainly enjoyed it, and lived for several
years a life of interior speculation which was neither sluggish nor
morbid. I learnt my business thoroughly, and in all probability I should
have settled down quietly and comfortably to the life of a bachelor
official, rotating from chambers to office and from office to club, had
it not been that just at the moment when I was beginning to crystallise
into sluggish, comfortable habits, I was flung by a rude shock into a
very different kind of atmosphere.
14
[Sidenote: THE DOCTOR]
I must now relate, however briefly, the event which once for all
determined the conditions of my present life. For the last six months
of my professional work I had been feeling indefinitely though not
decidedly unwell. I found myself disinclined to exertion, bodily or
mental, easily elated, easily depressed, at times strangely somnolent,
at others irritably wakeful; at last some troublesome symptoms warned me
that I had better put myself in the hands of a doctor. I went to a local
practitioner whose account disquieted me; he advised me to apply to an
eminent specialist, which I accordingly did.
[Sidenote: THE VERDICT]
I am not likely to forget the incidents of that day. I went up to London,
and made my way to the specialist’s house. After a dreary period of
waiting, in a dark room looking out on a blank wall, the table abundantly
furnished with periodicals whose creased and battered aspect betokened
the nervous handling to which they had been subjected, I was at last
summoned to the presence of the great man himself. He presented an
appearance of imperturbable good-nature; his rosy cheeks, his little
snub nose, his neatly groomed appearance, his gold-rimmed spectacles,
wore an air of commonplace prosperity that was at once reassuring. He
asked me a number of questions, made a thorough examination, writing
down certain details in a huge volume, and finally threw himself back
in his chair with a deliberate air that somewhat disconcerted me. At
last my sentence came. I was undoubtedly suffering from the premonitory
symptoms of a serious, indeed dangerous complaint, and I must at once
submit myself to the condition of an invalid life. He drew out a table
diet, and told me to live a healthy, quiet life under the most restful
conditions attainable. He asked me about my circumstances, and I told
him with as much calmness as I could muster. He replied that I was very
fortunate, that I must at once give up professional work and be content
to _vegetate_. “Mind,” he said, “I don’t want you to be _bored_—that will
be as bad for you as to be overworked. But you must avoid all kinds of
worry and fatigue—all extremes. I should not advise you to travel at
present, if you _like_ a country life—in fact I should say, live the
life that attracts you, apart from any professional exertions; don’t do
anything you don’t like. Now, Mr. ——,” he continued, “I have told you
the worst—the very worst. I can’t say whether your constitution will
triumph over this complaint: to be candid, I do not think it will; but
there is no question of any immediate risk whatever. Indeed, if you were
dependent on your own exertions for a livelihood, I could promise you
some years of work—though that would render it almost impossible for you
ever to recover. As it is, you may consider that you have a chance of
entire recovery, and if you can follow my directions, and no unforeseen
complications intervene, I think you may look forward to a fairly long
life; but mind that any work you do must be of the nature of amusement.
Once and for all, _strain_ of any sort is out of the question, and if
you indulge in any excessive or exciting exertions, you will inevitably
shorten your life. There, I have told you a disagreeable truth—make the
best of it—remember that I see many people every week who have to bear
far more distressing communications. You had better come to see me
every three months, unless you have any marked symptoms, such as”—(there
followed medical details with which I need not trouble the reader)—“in
that case come to me at once; but I tell you plainly that I do not
anticipate them. You seem to have what I call the patient temperament—to
have a vocation, if I may say so,” (here he smiled benevolently) “for the
invalid life.” He rose as he spoke, shook hands kindly, and opened the
door.
15
[Sidenote: NEW PERCEPTIONS]
I will confess that at first this communication was a great shock to
me; I was for a time bewildered and plunged into a deep dejection. To
say farewell to the bustle and activity of life—to be laid aside on a
shelf, like a cracked vase, turning as far as possible my ornamental
front to the world, spoilt for homely service. To be relegated to
the failures; to be regarded and spoken of as an invalid—to live the
shadowed life, a creature of rules and hours, fretting over drugs and
beef tea—a degrading, a humiliating rôle. I admit that the first weeks
of my enforced retirement were bitter indeed. The perpetual fret of
small restrictions had at first the effect of making me feel physically
and mentally incapable. Only very gradually did the sad cloud lift. The
first thing that came to my help was a totally unexpected feeling. When
I had got used to the altered conditions of life, when I found that the
regulated existence had become to a large extent mechanical, when I had
learnt to decide instinctively what I could attempt and what I must leave
alone, I found my perceptions curiously heightened and intensified by the
shadowy background which enveloped me. Sounds and sights thrilled me in
an unaccustomed way—the very thought, hardly defined, but existing like
a quiet subconsciousness, that my tenure of life was certainly frail,
and might be brief, seemed to bring out into sharp relief the simple
and unnoticed sensations of ordinary life. The pure gush of morning air
through the opened casement, the delicious coolness of water on the
languid body, the liquid song of birds, the sprouting of green buds
upon the hedge, the sharp and aromatic scent of rosy larch tassels, the
monotonous babble of the stream beneath its high water plants, the pearly
laminæ of the morning cloudland, the glowing wrack of sunset with the
liquid bays of intenser green—all these stirred my spirit with an added
value of beauty, an enjoyment at once passionate and tranquil, as though
they held some whispered secret for the soul.
The same quickening effect passed, I noticed, over intellectual
perceptions. Pictures in which there was some latent quality, some
hidden brooding, some mystery lying beneath and beyond superficial
effect, gave up their secrets to my eye. Music came home to me with an
intensity of pathos and passion which I had before never even suspected,
and even here the same subtle power of appreciation seemed to have been
granted me. It seemed that I was no longer taken in by technical art or
mechanical perfection. The hard rippling cascades which had formerly
attracted me, where a musician was merely working out, if I may use the
word, some subject with a mathematical precision, seemed to me hollow
and vain; all that was pompous and violent followed suit, and what I now
seemed to be able to discern was all that endeavoured, however faultily,
to express some ardour of the spirit, some indefinable delicacy of
feeling.
Something of the same power seemed to be mine in dealing with literature.
All hard brilliance, all exaggerated display, all literary agility and
diplomacy that might have once deceived me, appeared to ring cracked and
thin; _mere_ style, style that concealed rather than expressed thought,
fell as it were in glassy tingling showers on my initiated spirit;
while, on the other hand, all that was truthfully felt, sincerely
conceived or intensely desired, drew me as with a magical compulsion.
It was then that I first perceived what the sympathy, the perception
born of suffering might be, when that suffering was not so intrusive,
so severe, as to throw the sick spirit back upon itself—then that I
learnt what detachment, what spectatorial power might be conferred by a
catastrophe not violent, but sure, by a presage of distant doom. I felt
like a man who has long stumbled among intricate lanes, his view obscured
by the deep-cut earth-walls of his prison, and by the sordid lower slopes
with their paltry details, when the road leads out upon the open moor,
and when at last he climbs freely and exultingly upon the broad grassy
shoulders of the hill. The true perspective—the map of life opened out
before me; I learnt that all art is only valuable when it is the sedulous
flowering of the sweet and gracious spirit, and that beyond all power of
human expression lies a province where the deepest thoughts, the highest
mysteries of the spirit sleep—only guessed at, wrestled with, hankered
after by the most skilled master of all the arts of mortal subtlety.
Perhaps the very thing that made these fleeting impressions so perilously
sweet, was the sense of their evanescence.
But oh, the very reason why
I love them, is because they die.
[Sidenote: THE SHADOW]
In this exalted mood, with this sense of heightened perception all
about me, I began for awhile to luxuriate. I imagined that I had learnt
a permanent lesson, gained a higher level of philosophy, escaped from
the grip of material things. Alas! it was but transitory. I had not
triumphed. What I did gain, what did stay with me, was a more deliberate
intention of enjoying simple things, a greater expectation of beauty
in homely life. This remained, but in a diminished degree. I suppose
that the mood was one of intense nervous tension, for by degrees it was
shadowed and blotted, until I fell into a profound depression. At best
what could I hope for?—a shadowed life, an inglorious gloom? The dull
waste years stretched before me—days, weeks, months of wearisome little
duties; dreary tending of the lamp of life; and what a life! life without
service, joy, brightness, or usefulness. I was to be stranded like a
hulk on an oozy shore, only thankful for every month that the sodden
timbers still held together. I saw that something larger and deeper was
required; I saw that religion and philosophy must unite to form some
definite theory of life, to build a foundation on which I could securely
rest.
16
The service of others, in some form or another, must sustain me.
Philosophy pointed out that to narrow my circle every year, to turn the
microscope of thought closer and closer upon my frail self, would be to
sink month by month deeper into egotism and self-pity. Religion gave a
more generous impulse still.
[Sidenote: BEGINNINGS]
What is our duty with respect to philanthropy? It is obviously absurd
to think that every one is bound to tie themselves hand and foot to
some thoroughly uncongenial task. Fitness and vocation must come in.
Clergy, doctors, teachers are perhaps the most obvious professional
philanthropists; for either of the two latter professions I was
incapacitated. Some hovering thought of attempting to take orders,
and to become a kind of amateur, unprofessional curate, visited me;
but my religious views made that difficult, and the position of a man
who preaches what he does not wholly believe is inconsistent with
self-respect. Christianity as taught by the sects seemed to me to
have drifted hopelessly away from the detached simplicity inculcated
by Christ; to have become a mere part of the social system, fearfully
invaded and overlaid by centuries of unintelligent tradition. To work,
for instance, even with Mr. Woodward, at his orders, on his system, would
have been an impossibility both for him and for myself. I had, besides, a
strong feeling that work, to be of use, must be done, not in a spirit of
complacent self-satisfaction, but at least with some energy of enjoyment,
some conviction. It seemed moreover clear that, for a time at all events,
my place and position in the world was settled: I must live a quiet home
life, and endeavour, at all events, to restore some measure of effective
health. How could I serve my neighbours best? They were mostly quiet
country people—a few squires and clergy, a few farmers, and many farm
labourers. Should I accept a country life as my sphere, or was I bound to
try and find some other outlet for whatever effectiveness I possessed?
I came deliberately to the conclusion that I was not only not bound to
go elsewhere, but that it was the most sensible, wisest, and Christian
solution to stay where I was and make some experiments.
[Sidenote: MY SCHEMES]
The next practical difficulty was _how_ I could help. English people
have a strong sense of independence. They would neither understand nor
value a fussy, dragooning philanthropist, who bustled about among them,
finding fault with their domestic arrangements, lecturing, dictating.
I determined that I would try to give them the help they wanted; not
the help I thought they ought to want. That I would go among them with
no idea of _improving_, but of doing, if possible, neighbourly and
unobtrusive kindnesses, and that under no circumstances would I diminish
their sense of independence by weak generosity.
About this time, my mother at luncheon happened to mention that the widow
of a small farmer, who was living in a cottage not fifty yards from our
gate, was in trouble about her eldest boy, who was disobedient, idle,
and unsatisfactory. He had been employed by more than one neighbour in
garden work, but had lost two places by laziness and impertinence. Here
was a _point d’appui_. In the afternoon I strolled across; nervous and
shy, I confess, to a ridiculous degree. I knew the woman by sight, and
little more. I felt thoroughly unfitted for my rôle, and feared that
patronage would be resented. However, I went and found Mrs. Dewhurst
at home. I was received with real geniality and something of delicate
sympathy—the news of my illness had got about. I determined I would ask
no leading questions, but bit by bit her anxieties were revealed: the
boy was a trouble to her. “What did he want?” She didn’t know; but he
was discontented and naughty, had got into bad company. I asked if it
would be any good my seeing the boy, and found that it would evidently
be a relief. I asked her to send the boy to me that evening, and went
away with a real and friendly handshake, and an invitation to come again.
In the evening Master Dewhurst turned up—a shy, uninteresting, rather
insolent boy, strong and well-built, and with a world of energy in his
black eyes. I asked him what he wanted to do, and after a little talk
it all came out: he was sick of the place; he did not want garden work.
“What would he do? What _did_ he like?” I found that he wanted to see
something of the world. Would he go to sea? The boy brightened up at
once, and then said he didn’t want to leave his mother. Our interview
closed, and this necessitated my paying a further call on the mother,
who was most sensible, and evidently felt that what the boy wanted was a
thorough change.
To make a long story short, it cost me a few letters and a very little
money, defined as a loan; the boy went off to a training ship, and
after a few weeks found that he had the very life he wanted; indeed,
he is now a promising young sailor, who never fails to write to me at
intervals, and who comes to see me whenever he comes home. The mother is
a firm friend. Now that I am at my ease with her, I am astonished at the
shrewdness and sense of her talk.
It would be tedious to recount, as I could, fifty similar adventures; my
enterprises include a village band, a cricket club, a co-operative store;
but the personal work, such as it is, has broadened every year: I am an
informal adviser to thirty or forty families, and the correspondence
entailed, to say nothing of my visits, gives me much pleasant occupation.
The circle now insensibly widens; I do not pretend that there are not
times of weariness, and even disagreeable experiences connected with it.
I am a poor hand in a sick-room, I confess it with shame; my mother,
who is not particularly interested in her neighbours, is ten times as
effective.
[Sidenote: THE REWARD]
But what I feel most strongly about the whole, is the intense interest
which has grown up about it. The trust which these simple folk repose
in me is the factor which rescues me from the indolent impulse to leave
matters alone; even if I desired to do so, I could not for very shame
disappoint them. Moreover, I cannot pretend that it takes up very much
time. The institutions run themselves for the most part. I don’t overdo
my visits; indeed, I seldom go to call on my friends unless there is
something specific to be done. But I am always at home for them between
seven and eight. My downstairs smoking-room, once an office, has a
door which opens on the drive, so that it is not necessary for these
Nicodemite visitors to come through the house. Sometimes for days
together I have no one; sometimes I have three or four callers in the
evening. I don’t talk religion as a rule, unless I am asked; but we
discuss politics and local matters with avidity. I have persistently
refused to take any office, and I fear that our neighbours think me
a very lazy kind of dilettante, who happens to be interested in the
small-talk of rustics. I will not be a Guardian, as I have little turn
for business; and when it was suggested to me that I might be a J. P.,
I threw cold water on the scheme. Any official position would alter my
relation to my friends, and I should often be put in a difficulty; but by
being absolutely unattached, I find that confidential dealings are made
easy.
I fear that this will sound a very shabby, unromantic, and gelatinous
form of philanthropy, and I am quite unable to defend it on utilitarian
principles. I can only say that it is deeply absorbing; that it pays, so
to speak, a large interest on a small investment of trouble, and that it
has given me a sense of perspective in human things which I never had
before. The difficulty in writing about it is to abstain from platitudes;
I can only say that it has revealed to me how much more emotion and
experience go to make up a platitude than I ever suspected before in my
ambitious days.
17
Ennui is, after all, the one foe that we all fear; and in arranging our
life, the most serious preoccupation is how to escape it. The obvious
reply is, of course, “plenty of cheerful society.” But is not general
society to a man with a taste for seclusion the most irritating,
wearing, _ennuyeux_ method of filling the time? It is not the actual
presence of people that is distressing, though that in some moods is
unbearable, but it is the consciousness of duties towards them, whether
as host or guest, that sits, like the Old Man of the Sea, upon one’s
shoulders. A considerable degree of seclusion can be attained by a
solitary-minded man at a large hotel. The only time of the day when you
are compelled to be gregarious is the table d’hôte dinner; and then,
even if you desire to talk, it is often made impossible by the presence
of foreigners among whom one is sandwiched. But take a visit at a large
English country-house; a mixed party with possibly little in common; the
protracted meals, the vacuous sessions, the interminable promenades. Men
are better off than women in this respect, as at most periods of the year
they are swept off in the early forenoon to some vigorous employment,
and are not expected to return till tea-time. But take such a period in
August, a month in which many busy men are compelled to pay visits if
they pay them at all. Think of the desultory cricket matches, the futile
gabble of garden parties.
Of course the desire of solitude, or rather, the nervous aversion to
company, may become so intense as to fall under the head of monomania;
doctors give it an ugly name, I know not exactly what it is, like the
agoraphobia, which is one of the subsections of a certain form of
madness. Agoraphobia is the nervous horror of crowds, which causes
persons afflicted by it to swoon away at the prospect of having to pass
through a square or street crowded with people.
But the dislike of visitors is a distinct, but quite as specific form
of nervous mania. One lady of whom I have heard was in the habit of
darting to the window and involving herself in the window-curtain the
moment she heard a ring at the bell; another, more secretive still,
crept under the sofa. Not so very long ago I went over a great house in
the North; my host took me to a suite of upper rooms with a charming
view. “These,” he said, “were inhabited by my old aunt Susan till her
death some months ago; she was somewhat eccentric in her habits”—here he
thrust his foot under a roomy settee which stood in the window, and to
my intense surprise a bell rang loudly underneath—“Ah,” he said, rather
shamefacedly, “they haven’t taken it off.” I begged for an explanation,
and he said that the old lady had formed an inveterate habit of creeping
under the settee the moment she heard a knock at the door; to cure her of
it, they hung a bell on a spring beneath it, so that she gave warning of
her whereabouts.
[Sidenote: SOLITUDE]
Society is good for most of us; but solitude is equally good, as a tonic
medicine, granted that sociability is accepted as a factor in our life.
A certain deliberate solitude, like the fast days in the Roman Church,
is useful, even if only by way of contrast, and that we may return with
fresh zest to ordinary intercourse.
People who are used to sociable life find the smallest gap, the
smallest touch of solitude oppressive and _ennuyeux_; and it may be
taken for granted that the avoidance of ennui, in whatever form that
whimsical complaint makes itself felt, is one of the most instinctive
prepossessions of the human race; but it does not follow that solitude
should not be resolutely practised; and any sociable person who has
strength of mind to devote, say, one day of the week to absolute and
unbroken loneliness would find not only that such times would come
to have a positive value of their own, but that they would enhance
infinitely the pleasures of social life.
It is a curious thing how fast the instinct for solitude grows. A friend
of mine, a clergyman, a man of an inveterately sociable disposition, was
compelled by the exigencies of his position to take charge of a lonely
sea-coast parish, the incumbent of which had fallen desperately ill.
The parish was not very populous, and extremely scattered; the nearest
houses, inhabited by educated people were respectively four and five
miles away—my friend was poor, an indifferent walker, and had no vehicle
at his command.