IN THE COUNTRY.
The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took us out for a drive.We passed through lanes and gates out upon all open moor, where he stopped the carriage, and led us a few yards on one side.
Suddenly, hundreds of feet below us, down what seemed an almost precipitous descent, we saw the wood-embosomed, stream-trodden valley we had left the day before.Enough had been cleft and scooped seawards out of the lofty table-land to give room for a few little conical hills with curious peaks of bare rock.At the bases of these hills flowed noisily two or three streams, which joined in one, and trotted out to sea over rocks and stones.The hills and the sides of the great cleft were half of them green with grass, and half of them robed in the autumnal foliage of thick woods.By the streams and in the woods nestled pretty houses; and away at the mouth of the valley and the stream lay the village.All around, on our level, stretched farm and moorland.
When Andrew Falconer stood so unexpectedly on the verge of the steep descent, he trembled and started back with fright.His son made him sit down a little way off, where yet we could see into the valley.
The sun was hot, the air clear and mild, and the sea broke its blue floor into innumerable sparkles of radiance.We sat for a while in silence.
'Are you sure,' I said, in the hope of setting my friend talking, 'that there is no horrid pool down there? no half-trampled thicket, with broken pottery and shreds of tin lying about? no dead carcass, or dirty cottage, with miserable wife and greedy children? When Iwas a child, I knew a lovely place that I could not half enjoy, because, although hidden from my view, an ugly stagnation, half mud, half water, lay in a certain spot below me.When I had to pass it, I used to creep by with a kind of dull terror, mingled with hopeless disgust, and I have never got over the feeling.'
'You remind me much of a friend of mine of whom I have spoken to you before,' said Falconer, 'Eric Ericson.I have shown you many of his verses, but I don't think I ever showed you one little poem containing an expression of the same feeling.I think I can repeat it.
'Some men there are who cannot spare A single tear until they feel The last cold pressure, and the heel Is stamped upon the outmost layer.
And, waking, some will sigh to think The clouds have borrowed winter's wing--Sad winter when the grasses spring No more about the fountain's brink.
And some would call me coward-fool:
I lay a claim to better blood;
But yet a heap of idle mud Hath power to make me sorrowful.
I sat thinking over the verses, for I found the feeling a little difficult to follow, although the last stanza was plain enough.
Falconer resumed.
'I think this is as likely as any place,' he said, 'to be free of such physical blots.For the moral I cannot say.But I have learned, I hope, not to be too fastidious--I mean so as to be unjust to the whole because of the part.The impression made by a whole is just as true as the result of an analysis, and is greater and more valuable in every respect.If we rejoice in the beauty of the whole, the other is sufficiently forgotten.For moral ugliness, it ceases to distress in proportion as we labour to remove it, and regard it in its true relations to all that surrounds it.There is an old legend which I dare say you know.The Saviour and his disciples were walking along the way, when they came upon a dead dog.The disciples did not conceal their disgust.The Saviour said: "How white its teeth are!"'
'That is very beautiful,' I rejoined.'Thank God for that.It is true, whether invented or not.But,' I added, 'it does not quite answer to the question about which we have been talking.The Lord got rid of the pain of the ugliness by finding the beautiful in it.'
'It does correspond, however, I think, in principle,' returned Falconer; 'only it goes much farther, making the exceptional beauty hallow the general ugliness--which is the true way, for beauty is life, and therefore infinitely deeper and more powerful than ugliness which is death."A dram of sweet," says Spenser, 'is worth a pound of sour."'
It was so delightful to hear him talk--for what he said was not only far finer than my record of it, but the whole man spoke as well as his mouth--that I sought to start him again.
'I wish,' I said, 'that I could see things as you do--in great masses of harmonious unity.I am only able to see a truth sparkling here and there, and to try to lay hold of it.When I aim at more, Iam like Noah's dove, without a place to rest the sole of my foot.'
'That is the only way to begin.Leave the large vision to itself, and look well after your sparkles.You will find them grow and gather and unite, until you are afloat on a sea of radiance--with cloud shadows no doubt.'
'And yet,' I resumed, 'I never seem to have room.'
'That is just why.'
'But I feel that I cannot find it.I know that if I fly to that bounding cape on the far horizon there, I shall only find a place--a place to want another in.There is no fortunate island out on that sea.'
'I fancy,' said Falconer, 'that until a man loves space, he will never be at peace in a place.At least so I have found it.I am content if you but give me room.All space to me throbs with being and life; and the loveliest spot on the earth seems but the compression of space till the meaning shines out of it, as the fire flies out of the air when you drive it close together.To seek place after place for freedom, is a constant effort to flee from space, and a vain one, for you are ever haunted by the need of it, and therefore when you seek most to escape it, fancy that you love it and want it.'
'You are getting too mystical for me now,' I said.'I am not able to follow you.'
'I fear I was on the point of losing myself.At all events I can go no further now.And indeed I fear I have been but skirting the Limbo of Vanities.'
