IX

Such is the mood which comes over me at times when the pettiness of

the past starts up in the presence of these immensities of sea and

sky. M., you know, when he would come back to his studio from some

yachting cruise in the Channel, and find me in his armchair, would

drag me out to look at the ceaselessly changing glories of the river

at sunset, and tell me how the vastness of the sea always communicated

to him an overwhelming sense of the Power of God.

"You can't get away from it, old man," he would say. "Out there

alone, man is nothing, God is everything." Why could I never assent

to that? Why, when people ask me if I love the sea, am I silent? Well,

have you ever heard the sudden yapping of a puppy at night? Imagine

it, then, at sea. The two Immensities between which we creep: the sea

flashing with her own secret glory of phosphorescent fire, the sky

emblazoned with her countless diadems, and then--yap-yap-yap! That

is how the pestilent cackle of many people affects me when they

rave about the sea. Why do they not keep silent, like the stars?

God! These fools, I think, would clatter up the steps of the Great

White Throne, talking, talking, talking! When the pearly gates swing

wide to let us in, when we pace the burnished vistas towards the

Presence, when the measureless music of the Most High God fills our

hearts--_yap-yap-yap!_

Music, I said! I think I stand towards music as I stand towards sea

and sky. Oh, I could squirm when I think of the bickerings I have

had with music-lovers. And yet with you, my friend, prince of

music-lovers, I have had no quarrel. Because, I think, you let me

alone. When you feel in the mood, when the moon is on the river, and

the warm breeze gently sways the curtains by the open window, you will

sit down and improvise, and I will lie in my deep chair, and smoke and

dream. You cease, and say "Do you like it?" and I am silent.

Then you laugh and go on again. You understand. But what maniacal

frenzy is this which demands a vociferous "passionate love of music"

from everyone? Watch the current dish-water fiction. Every character,

male and female, is "passionately fond of music." Which means? That

the readers of this stuff consider a passionate love of music to be

fashionable. It is so easy, you see, to possess it. There is no need

to study either musical theory, practice, history, or biography. An

inane expression of vacuous content when music is being rendered, a

quantity of rhapsodical rubbish about Chopin and Beethoven without any

knowledge of either, and behold! a lover of music. _Yap-yap-yap!_

With all this, I know, you agree, but you ask yourself, as you read,

what has this to do with a marine engineer's working day? It has

everything to do with it. It has everything to do with the working day

of every man. For this indiscriminate belauding of the love of music

leads to an almost unimaginable hypocrisy among those who do not

think. Certainly, Music is the highest of the Arts, and the oldest,

just (I presume) as Astronomy is the highest and most ancient

science. One is pure form, the other pure mathematics. And so, I may

conclude, the "Music of the Spheres" comprises all that is highest

and purest and truest within our comprehension. But this fashionable,

open-mouthed delirium is no more a worship of music than star-gazing

is serious astronomy. These hypocrites are sailing under false

colours. I noticed, when I once suggested at a dinner-table the

cultivation of the tin whistle, amusement among the men, and titters

among the women. When I asked why old Pan's instrument should be so

bespattered with ridicule, they were instantly serious, as is their

habit when you mention any one who has passed away. You see my point?

I protest against this nasty slime of hypocrisy which is befouling

every part of our intellectual and national life. We love the sea,

we old sea-dogs, descendants (we proudly think) of the mighty

Norsemen--we love it from Brighton Beach. We love Sport, do we who

sneer at Frenchmen because they cannot play football--we love it from

the closely packed amphitheatres of the race-course and footer-field,

as spectators. We love War--with a penny flag and a yell in front of

the Mansion House. We love Children, for we leave them to dwell in

slums. And we love Music with all our hearts, because we were told

that we did, and the wise repeat that it elevates and refines the

soul.

X

I am disappointed with the meagre letter my friend sends me, "in

haste"! Disappointed and surprised withal, inasmuch as he finds time

to say, hastily enough, "Give me of your best; describe, _toujours_,

describe!" To which I can only reply, "Humph!" _Mon ami_, I do not

write for the sake of showing off my penmanship, nor my authorship.

When I have time, I lie down, on my stuffed-seaweed bed, and write my

thoughts leisurely and enjoyably. A letter is something which would

not be set down if the two persons concerned were within speaking

distance. The mere fact that I endeavour to give my jottings some rude

literary finish proves nothing to the contrary. When we are gathered

together round the fire or the tea-table, the same thing obtains. The

difference between conversation and tittle-tattle lies in the

participants of the former giving a finish to their contributions,

watching for points, keeping the main channel of conversation clear of

the lumber of extraneous witticism and personalities, gradually

leading the timid to think and, later, to express their thoughts,

using the learning which they have acquired in secret for the

_edification_ or building-up of us all.

I remember how, when young H---- visited our anchorage, he sat silent

and abashed while we thundered and declaimed about his bewildered

head. And then, when the conversation moved, naturally enough, from

education to religion, from religion to science, and from science to

evolution, I noticed how, so to speak, he pricked up his ears. He was

thinking then, trying to realize, however faintly, that inside him was

something different to anything inside us. His Catholic training, his

sequestered up-bringing, his entomological studies, his _intellectual

resiliency_, so deftly utilized by the Society of Jesus--all these

came gradually into view, and we found truth, which is perfected

praise, emanating from the babe by whom, I had been assured, we were

to be bored to distraction.

We realize only too little what has been lost through the decay of

conversation. "_Come, let us reason together._" And "letters" are only

a form of reasoning together adapted to our special needs, gaining

perhaps some added pathos from the implied separation of kindred

souls, and a further value from the permanence and potential artistry

of the form itself. It is not incumbent upon us to be very deep in the

eighteenth century to remark that, with conversation, letter-writing

dwindles and dies before the rush of mechanism and trade. It is easy

to see the reason of this. Mechanism and trade are expressions of

dissatisfaction with one's circumstances. Men used machines to make

and carry commodities, not because they felt the exquisite joy of

making, or the still higher joy of giving, but because they, or their

wives, wanted larger houses, more splendid equipages, more sumptuous

provender. Conversation, on the other hand, implies leisure and

contentment of mind. I do not mean idlers and persons of no ambition.

Neither of these classes ever wrote letters or shone in conversations.

So, musing upon my friend's hasty screed, I wonder how I am, in very

truth, to give him of my best. True, I know from that hint that he is

fighting with beasts at Ephesus to get his play into working, or

rather playing order. This is sufficient to make me forgive my friend.

But consider in future, _mon ami_, that your letters are the only

conversation I can enjoy out here, for the heroes with whom I toil

know not the art.