In looking over the preceding chapter it occurred to me that I had
omitted something, or rather that it would have been well to drop a word
of warning to those who have the desire to revisit a place where they
have experienced a delightful surprise. Alas! they cannot have that
sensation a second time, and on this account alone the mental image
must always be better than its reality. Let the image--the first sharp
impression--content us. Many a beautiful picture is spoilt by the artist
who cannot be satisfied that he has made the best of his subject, and
retouching his canvas to bring out some subtle charm which made the
work a success loses it altogether. So in going back, the result of
the inevitable disillusionment is that the early mental picture loses
something of its original freshness. The very fact that the delightful
place or scene was discovered by us made it the shining place it is in
memory. And again, the charm we found in it may have been in a measure
due to the mood we were in, or to the peculiar aspect in which it came
before us at the first, due to the season, to atmospheric and sunlight
effects, to some human interest, or to a conjunction of several
favourable circumstances; we know we can never see it again in that
aspect and with that precise feeling.
On this account I am shy of revisiting the places where I have
experienced the keenest delight. For example, I have no desire to
revisit that small ancient town among the hills, described in the last
chapter; to go on a Sunday evening through that narrow gorge, filled
with the musical roar of the church bells; to leave that great sound
behind and stand again listening to the marvellous echo from the wooded
hill on the other side of the valley. Nor would I care to go again in
search of that small ancient lost church in the forest. It would not
be early April with the clear sunbeams shining through the old leafless
oaks on the floor of fallen yellow leaves with the cuckoo fluting before
his time; nor would that straggling procession of villagers appear,
headed by an old man in a smock frock with a big book in his hand; nor
would I hear for the first time the strange history of the church which
so enchanted me.
I will here give an account of yet another of the many well-remembered
delightful spots which I would not revisit, nor even look upon again if
I could avoid doing so by going several miles out of my way.
It was green open country in the west of England--very far west,
although on the east side of the Tamar--in a beautiful spot remote from
railroads and large towns, and the road by which I was travelling (on
this occasion on a bicycle) ran or serpentined along the foot of a range
of low round hills on my right hand, while on my left I had a green
valley with other low round green hills beyond it. The valley had a
marshy stream with sedgy margins and occasional clumps of alder and
willow trees. It was the end of a hot midsummer day; the sun went down
a vast globe of crimson fire in a crystal clear sky; and as I was going
east I was obliged to dismount and stand still to watch its setting.
When the great red disc had gone down behind the green world I resumed
my way but went slowly, then slower still, the better to enjoy the
delicious coolness which came from the moist valley and the beauty of
the evening in that solitary place which I had never looked on before.
Nor was there any need to hurry; I had but three or four miles to go
to the small old town where I intended passing the night. By and by
the winding road led me down close to the stream at a point where it
broadened to a large still pool. This was the ford, and on the other
side was a small rustic village, consisting of a church, two or three
farm-houses with their barns and outbuildings, and a few ancient-looking
stone cottages with thatched roofs. But the church was the main thing;
it was a noble building with a very fine tower, and from its size and
beauty I concluded that it was an ancient church dating back to the
time when there was a passion in the West Country and in many parts
of England of building these great fanes even in the remotest and most
thinly populated parishes. In this I was mistaken through having seen it
at a distance from the other side of the ford after the sun had set.
Never, I thought, had I seen a lovelier village with its old picturesque
cottages shaded by ancient oaks and elms, and the great church with its
stately tower looking dark against the luminous western sky. Dismounting
again I stood for some time admiring the scene, wishing that I could
make that village my home for the rest of my life, conscious at the same
time that is was the mood, the season, the magical hour which made it
seem so enchanting. Presently a young man, the first human figure that
presented itself to my sight, appeared, mounted on a big carthorse and
leading a second horse by a halter, and rode down into the pool to bathe
the animals' legs and give them a drink. He was a sturdy-looking young
fellow with a sun-browned face, in earth-coloured, working clothes,
with a small cap stuck on the back of his round curly head; he probably
imagined himself not a bad-looking young man, for while his horses were
drinking he laid over on the broad bare backs and bending down studied
his own reflection in the bright water. Then an old woman came out of a
cottage close by, and began talking to him in her West Country dialect
in a thin high-pitched cracked voice. Their talking was the only sound
in the village; so silent was it that all the rest of its inhabitants
might have been in bed and fast asleep; then, the conversation ended,
the young man rode out with a great splashing and the old woman turned
into her cottage again, and I was left in solitude.
Still I lingered: I could not go just yet; the chances were that I
should never again see that sweet village in that beautiful aspect at
the twilight hour.
For now it came into my mind that I could not very well settle there
for the rest of my life; I could not, in fact, tie myself to any place
without sacrificing certain other advantages I possessed; and the main
thing was that by taking root I should deprive myself of the chance of
looking on still other beautiful scenes and experiencing other sweet
surprises. I was wishing that I had come a little earlier on the scene
to have had time to borrow the key of the church and get a sight of the
interior, when all at once I heard a shrill voice and a boy appeared
running across the wide green space of the churchyard. A second boy
followed, then another, then still others, and I saw that they were
going into the church by the side door. They were choir-boys going to
practice. The church was open then, and late as it was I could have
half an hour inside before it was dark! The stream was spanned by an old
stone bridge above the ford, and going over it I at once made my way
to the great building, but even before entering it I discovered that
it possessed an organ of extraordinary power and that someone was
performing on it with a vengeance. Inside the noise was tremendous--a
bigger noise from an organ, it seemed to me, than I had ever heard
before, even at the Albert Hall and the Crystal Palace, but even more
astonishing than the uproar was the sight that met my eyes. The boys,
nine or ten sturdy little rustics with round sunburnt West Country
faces, were playing the roughest game ever witnessed in a church. Some
were engaged in a sort of flying fight, madly pursuing one another up
and down the aisles and over the pews, and whenever one overtook another
he would seize hold of him and they would struggle together until
one was thrown and received a vigorous pommelling. Those who were not
fighting were dancing to the music. It was great fun to them, and they
were shouting and laughing their loudest only not a sound of it all
could be heard on account of the thunderous roar of the organ which
filled and seemed to make the whole building tremble. The boys took no
notice of me, and seeing that there was a singularly fine west window, I
went to it and stood there some time with my back to the game which
was going on at the other end of the building, admiring the beautiful
colours and trying to make out the subjects depicted. In the centre
part, lit by the after-glow in the sky to a wonderful brilliance, was
the figure of a saint, a lovely young woman in a blue robe with an
abundance of loose golden-red hair and an aureole about her head. Her
pale face wore a sweet and placid expression, and her eyes of a pure
forget-me-not blue were looking straight into mine. As I stood there
the music, or noise, ceased and a very profound silence followed--not
a giggle, not a whisper from the outrageous young barbarians, and not a
sound of the organist or of anyone speaking to them. Presently I became
conscious of some person standing almost but not quite abreast of me,
and turning sharply I found a clergyman at my side. He was the vicar,
the person who had been letting himself go on the organ; a slight man
with a handsome, pale, ascetic face, clean-shaven, very dark-eyed,
looking more like an Italian monk or priest than an English clergyman.
But although rigidly ecclesiastic in his appearance and dress, there was
something curiously engaging in him, along with a subtle look which
it was not easy to fathom. There was a light in his dark eyes which
reminded me of a flame seen through a smoked glass or a thin black veil,
and a slight restless movement about the corners of his mouth as if a
smile was just on the point of breaking out. But it never quite came;
he kept his gravity even when he said things which would have gone very
well with a smile.
"I see," he spoke, and his penetrating musical voice had, too, like his
eyes and mouth, an expression of mystery in it, "that you are admiring
our beautiful west window, especially the figure in the centre. It is
quite new--everything is new here--the church itself was only built a
few years ago. This window is its chief glory: it was done by a good
artist--he has done some of the most admired windows of recent years;
and the centre figure is supposed to be a portrait of our generous
patroness. At all events she sat for it to him. You have probably heard
of Lady Y--?"
"What!" I exclaimed. "Lady Y--: that funny old woman!"
"No--middle-aged," he corrected, a little frigidly and perhaps a little
mockingly at the same time.
"Very well, middle-aged if you like; I don't know her personally. One
hears about her; but I did not know she had a place in these parts."
"She owns most of this parish and has done so much for us that we can
very well look leniently on a little weakness--her wish that the future
inhabitants of the place shall not remember her as a middle-aged woman
not remarkable for good looks--'funny,' as you just now said."
He was wonderfully candid, I thought. But what extraordinary benefits
had she bestowed on them, I asked, to enable them to regard, or to say,
that this picture of a very beautiful young female was her likeness!
"Why," he said, "the church would not have been built but for her. We
were astonished at the sum she offered to contribute towards the work,
and at once set about pulling the small old church down so as to rebuild
on the exact site."
"Do you know," I returned, "I can't help saying something you will not
like to hear. It is a very fine church, no doubt, but it always angers
me to hear of a case like this where some ancient church is pulled down
and a grand new one raised in its place to the honour and glory of some
rich parvenu with or without a brand new title."
"You are not hurting me in the least," he replied, with that change
which came from time to time in his eyes as if the flame behind the
screen had suddenly grown brighter. "I agree with every word you say;
the meanest church in the land should be cherished as long as it will
hold together. But unfortunately ours had to come down. It was very old
and decayed past mending. The floor was six feet below the level of the
surrounding ground and frightfully damp. It had been examined over and
over again by experts during the past forty or fifty years, and from the
first they pronounced it a hopeless case, so that it was never restored.
The interior, right down to the time of demolition, was like that of
most country churches of a century ago, with the old black worm-eaten
pews, in which the worshippers shut themselves up as if in their own
houses or castles. On account of the damp we were haunted by toads. You
smile, sir, but it was no smiling matter for me during my first year as
vicar, when I discovered that it was the custom here to keep pet toads
in the church. It sounds strange and funny, no doubt, but it is a fact
that all the best people in the parish had one of these creatures,
and it was customary for the ladies to bring it a weekly supply of
provisions--bits of meat, hard-boiled eggs chopped up, and earth-worms,
and whatever else they fancied it would like--in their reticules. The
toads, I suppose, knew when it was Sunday--their feeding day; at all
events they would crawl out of their holes in the floor under the pews
to receive their rations--and caresses. The toads got on my nerves with
rather unpleasant consequences. I preached in a way which my listeners
did not appreciate or properly understand, particularly when I took for
my subject our duty towards the lower animals, including reptiles."
"Batrachians," I interposed, echoing as well as I could the tone in
which he had rebuked me before.
"Very well, batrachians--I am not a naturalist. But the impression
created on their minds appeared to be that I was rather an odd person
in the pulpit. When the time came to pull the old church down the
toad-keepers were bidden to remove their pets, which they did with
considerable reluctance. What became of them I do not know--I never
inquired. I used to have a careful inspection made of the floor to make
sure that these creatures were not put back in the new building, and I
am happy to think it is not suited to their habits. The floors are very
well cemented, and are dry and clean."
Having finished his story he invited me to go to the parsonage and get
some refreshment. "I daresay you are thirsty," he said.
But it was getting late; it was almost dark in the church by now,
although the figure of the golden-haired saint still glowed in the
window and gazed at us out of her blue eyes. "I must not waste more of
your time," I added. "There are your boys still patiently waiting to
begin their practice--such nice quiet fellows!"
"Yes, they are," he returned a little bitterly, a sudden accent of
weariness in his voice and no trace now of what I had seen in his
countenance a little while ago--the light that shone and brightened
behind the dark eye and the little play about the corners of the mouth
as of dimpling motions on the surface of a pool.
And in that new guise, or disguise, I left him, the austere priest with
nothing to suggest the whimsical or grotesque in his cold ascetic face.
Recrossing the bridge I stood a little time and looked once more at the
noble church tower standing dark against the clear amber-coloured sky,
and said to myself: "Why, this is one of the oddest incidents of my
life! Not that I have seen or heard anything very wonderful--just a
small rustic village, one of a thousand in the land; a big new church in
which some person was playing rather madly on the organ, a set of unruly
choir-boys; a handsome stained-glass west window, and, finally, a nice
little chat with the vicar." It was not in these things; it was a sense
of something strange in the mind, of something in some way unlike all
other places and people and experiences. The sensation was like that of
the reader who becomes absorbed in Henry Newbolt's romance of The Old
Country, who identifies himself with the hero and unconsciously, or
without quite knowing how, slips back out of this modern world into
that of half a thousand years ago. It is the same familiar green land in
which he finds himself--the same old country and the same sort of people
with feelings and habits of life and thought unchangeable as the colour
of grass and flowers, the songs of birds and the smell of the earth, yet
with a difference. I recognized it chiefly in the parish priest I had
been conversing with; for one thing, his mediaeval mind evidently did
not regard a sense of humour and of the grotesque as out of place in or
on a sacred building. If it had been lighter I should have looked at
the roof for an effigy of a semi-human toad-like creature smiling down
mockingly at the worshippers as they came and went.
On departing it struck me that it would assuredly be a mistake to return
to this village and look at it again by the common lights of day. No,
it was better to keep the impressions I had gathered unspoilt; even to
believe, if I could, that no such place existed, but that it had
existed exactly as I had found it, even to the unruly choir-boys,
the ascetic-looking priest with a strange light in his eyes, and the
worshippers who kept pet toads in the church. They were not precisely
like people of the twentieth century. As for the eccentric middle-aged
or elderly person whose portrait adorned the west window, she was
not the lady I knew something about, but another older Lady Y--, who
flourished some six or seven centuries ago.