THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEA.
It very often happens that the so-called equinoctial gales are behind
their time, and do not arrive until Night has undoubtedly made good
her victory over Day. When such is the case, we have a mild
November, with soft south-westerly breezes varying in strength
according to the lie of the land or the individual experience of
farmer or townsman. At sea it blows hard enough in all good sooth,
and there may be watery eyes at the wheel or on the forecastle; but
there are no frozen fingers aloft, which is in itself a mercy. There
is a good hearty roar through the shrouds, and certain parts of the
deck are always wet, but the clear horizon and rushing clouds
overhead are full of brave exhilaration.
On land, things are dirtier, more especially under foot, where the
leaves lose all their crackle and subside odorously into mud. Water
stands on the roadways, and in ruts elsewhere; and curled
beech-leaves float thereon in vague navigation, half waterlogged like
any foreign timber-ship. The tilled land, bearing in its bosom seed
for next year's crops, or merely waiting fallow, is damp and soft and
black; men walking thereon--rustic or sportsman--make huge
impressions, and carry quite a weight on either foot. The trees
stand bare and leafless, though rapid green mouldy growths relieve
the wet monochrome of bark or rind.
Here, again, as at sea, the atmosphere is singularly gay and
translucent. Things afar off seem near, and new details in the
landscape become apparent. Any little bit of colour seems to gleam,
almost to glow, and the greenness of the meadow is startling.
Although there is an autumnal odour on the breeze, it has no sense of
melancholy. The clouds may be gray, but they are fraught with life,
and one knows that there is brightness behind. With motion,
melancholy cannot live.
The effect of this soft breeziness upon different people is apparent
to the most casual of observers. It freshens sailors up, and they
pull on their oilskins with a cheery pugnacity; tillers of the land
are busy, and wonder how long it will last; and hunting-men (provided
only the land be not _too_ heavy) are wild with a joy which has no
rival in times of peace; timid riders grow bold, and bold men
reckless. It is only folks who stay indoors that complain of
depression. For myself, I confess it makes me long to be at sea, and
although I can see nothing but sky and chimney-pots over the
ink-stand, the very shades of colour, of dark and light, are before
me if I close my eyes. It is a long rolling sweep of greeny gray,
with here and there a tip of dirty white, and the line of horizon is
hard and clear enough to please the veriest novice with the sextant.
In November, 1876, there were a few days of such weather as I have
attempted to describe, and Brenda, who spent that time on the east
coast of England, in a manner learnt to associate soft winds and
clear airs with the much-maligned county of Suffolk. All through the
rest of her life, through the long aimless years during which she
learnt to love the verdant plains with their bare mud sea-walls, she
only thought of Suffolk as connected with and forming part of soft
autumnal melancholy. She never again listened to the wail of the
sea-gull without involuntarily waiting for the cheery cry of the
snipe. Never again did she look on a vast plain without experiencing
a sense of incompleteness which could only have been dispelled by the
murmurous voice of the sea breaking on to shingle.
The human mind is strangely inconsistent in its reception and
retention of impressions. As in modern photography, the length of
exposure seems to be of little consequence. Without any tangible
reason, and for no obvious use, certain incidents remain engraved
upon our memory, while the detail of other events infinitely more
important passes away, and only the result remains.
Brenda and Alice only passed four days in the little hamlet selected
for them by Theodore Trist as a safe hiding-place; but during that
time a great new influence came into Brenda's soul.
She had always been sensitive to the beauties of Nature. A glorious
landscape, a golden sunset, or the soft silver of moon-rise, had
spoken to her in that silent language of Nature which appeals to the
most prosaic heart at times; but never until now had one of earth's
great wonders established a longing in her soul--a longing for its
constant company which is naught else but passionate love. She had
hitherto looked upon the sea as an inconvenience to be overcome
before reaching other countries. Perhaps she was aware that this
inconvenience possessed at times a charm, but not until now had she
conceived it possible that she, Brenda Gilholme, should ever love it
with an insatiable longing such as the love of sailors. On board the
_Hermione_ she had passed her apprenticeship; had, as the admiral was
wont to say, learnt the ropes; but never had she loved the sea for
its own grand incomprehensible sake as she loved it now.
Its gray mournful humours seemed to sympathize with her own thoughts.
Its monotonous voice, rising and falling on the shingle shore, spoke
in unmistakable language, and told of other things than mere earthly
joys and sorrows.
I who write these lines learnt to love the sea many years ago, when I
had naught else but water to look upon--from day to day, from morning
till night, through the day and through the darkness, week after
week, month after month. The love crept into my heart slowly and
very surely, like the love of a boy, growing into manhood, for some
little maiden growing by his side. And now, whether on its bosom or
looking on it from the noisy shore, that love is as fresh as ever.
The noise of breaking water thrills the man as it thrilled the
boy--the smell of tar, even, makes me grave.
Men may love their own country, but the sea, with its ever-varying
humours, kind and cruel by turn, exacts a fuller devotion. A woman
once told me of her love for her native country. She happened to be
a practical, prosaic, middle-aged woman of the world. We were seated
on a gorgeous sofa in a blaze of artificial light, amidst artificial
smiles, listening to the murmurs of artificial conversation.
Something moved her; some word of mine fell into the well of her
memory and set the still pool all rippling. I listened in silence.
She spoke of Dartmoor, and I think I understood her. At the end I
said:
'What Dartmoor is to you, the sea is to me;' and she smiled in a
strange, sympathetic way.
That is the nearest approach that I have met of a love for land which
is akin to the love of sea.
In Brenda's case, as in all, this new-found passion influenced her
very nature. If love--love, I mean, of a woman--will alter a man's
whole mode of life, of action, and of thought, surely these lesser
passions leave their mark as well.
Undoubtedly the girl caught from the great sea some of its patient
contentment; for the ocean is always content, whether it be
glistening beneath a cloudless sky, or rolling, sweeping onwards
before the wind in broad gray curves. Those who work upon the great
waters are different from other men in the possession of a certain
calm equanimity, which is like no other condition of mind. It is the
philosophy of the sea.
At first Brenda had dreaded the thought of being imprisoned, as it
were, in this tiny east coast fishing village with her sister. This
was no outcome of a waning love, but rather a proof that her feelings
towards her sister were as true and loyal as ever. She feared that
Alice would lower herself in her sight. She dreaded the necessary
_tête-à-têtes_ because she felt that her sister's character had not
improved, and could not well bear the searching light of a close
familiarity.
After the first hour or two, however, the sisters appeared to settle
down into a routine of life which in no way savoured of familiarity.
The last two years had hopelessly severed them, and now that they
were alone together the gulf seemed to widen between them.
Brenda was aware that some great change had come over her life or
that of her sister. They no longer possessed a single taste or a
single interest in common. Whether the fault lay entirely at her own
door, or whether Alice were partially or wholly to blame, the girl
did not attempt to decide. She merely felt that it would be simple
hypocrisy to pretend a familiarity she did not feel. Yet she loved
her sister, despite all. The tie of blood is strangely strong in
some people; with others it is no link at all.
After an uncomfortable meal had been bravely sat out subsequent to
Brenda's arrival, the younger sister announced her intention of going
out for a long ramble down the coast. Alice complained that she had
no energy, predicted that the dismal flat land and muddy sea were
about to prove fatal to her health, and subsided into a yellow-backed
novel. This was a fair sample of their life in exile.
Alice deluged her weak intellect with fiction of no particular merit,
and Brenda learnt to love the sea. For her the bleak deserted shore,
the long, low waves rolling in continuously, the dirty sweeping of
sand-banks near the shore, and the endless fields of shingle,
acquired a mournful beauty which few can find in such things.
Only once was reference made to Theodore Trist, and then the subject
was tacitly tabooed, much to the relief of Brenda. This happened
during the first evening of their joint exile. Doubtless a sudden
fit of communicativeness came over Alice just as they come to the
rest of us--at odd moments, without any particular _raison d'être_.
The miserable shuffling waiter had removed all traces of their simple
evening meal, and Brenda was looking between the curtains across the
sea, which shimmered beneath the rays of a great yellow moon. Alice
had taken up her novel, but its pages had no interest for her just
then. She had appropriated the only easy-chair in the room, and was
leaning back against its worn leather stuffing with a discontented
look upon her lovely face. Her small red mouth had acquired of late
a peculiar 'set' expression, as if the lips were habitually pressed
close with an effort.
'Theo,' she said, without looking towards the tall, slim form by the
window, 'has changed.'
Brenda moved the curtain a little more to one side, so that the old
wooden rings rattled on the pole. Then she leant her shoulder
against the framework of the window, and turned her face towards the
firelight. Her gentle gaze rested on the beautiful form gracefully
reclining in the deep chair. She noted the easy repose of each limb,
the proud poise of the golden head, and the clearcut profile showing
white against the dingy background. There was no glamour in her
eyes, such as would have blinded the judgment of nine men out of ten;
but there was in its place the great tie of sisterly love.
Brenda, looking on that beauty, knew that it was the curse of her
sister's life. Instead of envying her, she was mentally meting out
pity and allowance.
'I suppose,' she said, without much encouragement in her manner,
'that we have all changed in one way or another.'
'But Theo has changed in more than one way.'
'Has he?'
'Yes. His manner is quite different from what it used to be; and he
seems self-absorbed--less energetic, less sympathetic.'
Brenda did not answer at once. She turned slightly, and looked out
of the window, resting her fingers upon the old wooden framework.
'You see,' she suggested, 'he has other interests in life now. He is
a great man, and has ambition. It is only natural that he should be
absorbed in his own affairs.'
Mrs. Huston raised her small foot, and rested the heel of her slipper
on the brass fender, while she contemplated the diminutive limb with
some satisfaction.
'I have met one or two great men,' she said meditatively, 'and I
invariably found them very much like ordinary beings, rather less
immersed in 'shop,' perhaps, and quite as interesting--not to say
polite.'
Brenda winced.
'Was Theo not polite?'
'Hardly, my dear.'
As Mrs. Huston delivered herself of this opinion, with a faint tinge
of bitterness in her manner, she turned and looked towards her
sister, as if challenging her to attempt a palliation of Trist's
conduct.
Brenda neither moved nor spoke. The moonlight, flooding through the
diamond panes of the window, made her face look pale and wan. There
were deep shadows about her lips. Without, upon the shingle, the sea
boomed continuously with a low, dreamlike hopelessness.
I wish I were a great artist, to be able to paint a picture of that
small parlour in an east coast village inn. But there would be a
greater skill required than the mere technicalities of art. These
would be needed to deal successfully with the cross-lights of utterly
different hues--the cold, green-tinted moonlight, the ruddy glow of
burning driftwood washed from the deck of some Baltic trader; and the
reflection of each in turn upon quaint old bureaux, bright with the
polish of half a dozen generations; gleaming upon Indian curio, and
shimmering over the glass of dim engravings. All this would require
infinite skill; but no brush or pencil could convey the old-day
mournfulness that seemed to hang in the atmosphere. Perhaps it found
birth in the murmuring rise and fall of restless waves, or in the
flicker of the fire, in the quick crackle of the sodden wood. My
picture should be called 'The Contrast,' and in the gloom of the low
ceiling I should bring out with loving care two graceful forms--two
lovely faces.
The one--the more beautiful--in all the rosiness of young life,
glowing in the firelight. The other, pale and wan, with an exquisite
beauty, delicate and yet strong, resolute and yet refined. Of two
working in the field, one is taken, the other remaineth. Around us
are many workers, and of every two we look upon, one seems to have
the preference. One has greater joy, the other greater sorrow; and,
strive as we will, think as we will, argue as we will, we can never
tell 'why.' We can never satisfy that great question of the human
mind. Life has been called many things: I can express it in less
than a word--in a mere symbol--?--a note of interrogation, the
largest at the compositor's command.
In this great field of ours, where we all work blindly, many are
taken, and many left. Moreover, those who would wish to go remain,
and those who cling to work are taken. She who grindeth best passeth
first.
Brenda never answered her sister's challenge. She turned her eyes
away, facing the cold moonlight, staring at the silver sea with eyes
that saw no beauty there.
'O God!' she whispered, glancing upwards into the glowing heavens
with that instinct which comes alike to pagan and Christian, 'send a
great war, so that Theo may go to it.'