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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4612-h.zip b/4612-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ddd746 --- /dev/null +++ b/4612-h.zip diff --git a/4612-h/4612-h.htm b/4612-h/4612-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f900e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/4612-h/4612-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9390 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Altar Fire, by Arthur Christopher Benson +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Altar Fire, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Altar Fire + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4612] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 19, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALTAR FIRE *** + + + + +Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo. HTML version +by Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE ALTAR FIRE +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +By +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON +</H2> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + Cecidit autem ignis Domini,<BR> + et voravit holocaustum<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +1907 +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +PREFACE +</H3> + +<P> +It will perhaps be said, and truly felt, that the following is a morbid +book. No doubt the subject is a morbid one, because the book +deliberately gives a picture of a diseased spirit. But a pathological +treatise, dealing with cancer or paralysis, is not necessarily morbid, +though it may be studied in a morbid mood. We have learnt of late +years, to our gain and profit, to think and speak of bodily ailments as +natural phenomena, not to slur over them and hide them away in attics +and bedrooms. We no longer think of insanity as demoniacal possession, +and we no longer immure people with diseased brains in the secluded +apartments of lovely houses. But we still tend to think of the +sufferings of the heart and soul as if they were unreal, imaginary, +hypochondriacal things, which could be cured by a little resolution and +by intercourse with cheerful society; and by this foolish and secretive +reticence we lose both sympathy and help. Mrs. Proctor, the friend of +Carlyle and Lamb, a brilliant and somewhat stoical lady, is recorded to +have said to a youthful relative of a sickly habit, with stern +emphasis, "Never tell people how you are! They don't want to know." Up +to a certain point this is shrewd and wholesome advice. One does +undoubtedly keep some kinds of suffering in check by resolutely +minimising them. But there is a significance in suffering too. It is +not all a clumsy error, a well-meaning blunder. It is a deliberate part +of the constitution of the world. +</P> + +<P> +Why should we wish to conceal the fact that we have suffered, that we +suffer, that we are likely to suffer to the end? There are abundance of +people in like case; the very confession of the fact may help others to +endure, because one of the darkest miseries of suffering is the +horrible sense of isolation that it brings. And if this book casts the +least ray upon the sad problem—a ray of the light that I have learned +to recognise is truly there—I shall be more than content. There is no +morbidity in suffering, or in confessing that one suffers. Morbidity +only begins when one acquiesces in suffering as being incurable and +inevitable; and the motive of this book is to show that it is at once +curative and curable, a very tender part of a wholly loving and +Fatherly design. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +A. C. B. +<BR> +Magdalene College, Cambridge, +<BR> +July 14, 1907. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +INTRODUCTION +</H3> + +<P> +I had intended to allow the records that follow—the records of a +pilgrimage sorely beset and hampered by sorrow and distress—to speak +for themselves. Let me only say that one who makes public a record so +intimate and outspoken incurs, as a rule, a certain responsibility. He +has to consider in the first place, or at least he cannot help +instinctively considering, what the wishes of the writer would have +been on the subject. I do not mean that one who has to decide such a +point is bound to be entirely guided by that. He must weigh the +possible value of the record to other spirits against what he thinks +that the writer himself would have personally desired. A far more +important consideration is what living people who play a part in such +records feel about their publication. But I cannot help thinking that +our whole standard in such matters is a very false and conventional +one. Supposing, for instance, that a very sacred and intimate record, +say, two hundred years old, were to be found among some family papers, +it is inconceivable that any one would object to its publication on the +ground that the writer of it, or the people mentioned in it, would not +have wished it to see the light. We show how weak our faith really is +in the continuance of personal identity after death, by allowing the +lapse of time to affect the question at all; just as we should consider +it a horrible profanation to exhume and exhibit the body of a man who +had been buried a few years ago, while we approve of the action of +archaeologists who explore Egyptian sepulchres, subscribe to their +operations, and should consider a man a mere sentimentalist who +suggested that the mummies exhibited in museums ought to be sent back +for interment in their original tombs. We think vaguely that a man who +died a few years ago would in some way be outraged if his body were to +be publicly displayed, while we do not for an instant regard the +possible feelings of delicate and highly-born Egyptian ladies, on whose +seemly sepulture such anxious and tender care was expended so many +centuries ago. +</P> + +<P> +But in this case there is no such responsibility. None of the persons +concerned have any objection to the publication of these records, and +as for the writer himself he was entirely free from any desire for a +fastidious seclusion. His life was a secluded one enough, and he felt +strongly that a man has a right to his own personal privacy. But his +own words sufficiently prove, if proof were needed, that he felt that +to deny the right of others to participate in thoughts and experiences, +which might uplift or help a mourner or a sufferer, was a selfish form +of individualism with which he had no sympathy whatever. He felt, and I +have heard him say, that one has no right to withhold from others any +reflections which can console and sustain, and he held it to be the +supreme duty of a man to ease, if he could, the burden of another. He +knew that there is no sympathy in the world so effective as the sharing +of similar experiences, as the power of assuring a sufferer that +another has indeed trodden the same dark path and emerged into the +light of Heaven. I will even venture to say that he deliberately +intended that his records should be so used, for purposes of +alleviation and consolation, and the bequest that he made of his papers +to myself, entrusting them to my absolute discretion, makes it clear to +me that I have divined his wishes in the matter. I think, indeed, that +his only doubt was a natural diffidence as to whether the record had +sufficient importance to justify its publication. In any case, my own +duty in the matter is to me absolutely clear. +</P> + +<P> +But I think that it will be as well for me to sketch a brief outline of +my friend's life and character. I would have preferred to have done +this, if it had been possible, by allowing him to speak for himself. +But the earlier Diaries which exist are nothing but the briefest +chronicle of events. He put his earlier confessions into his books, but +he was in many ways more interesting than his books, and so I will try +and draw a portrait of him as he appeared to one of his earliest +friends. I knew him first as an undergraduate, and our friendship was +unbroken after that. The Diary, written as it is under the shadow of a +series of calamities, gives an impression of almost wilful sadness +which is far from the truth. The requisite contrast can only be +attained by representing him as he appeared to those who knew him. +</P> + +<P> +He was the son of a moderately wealthy country solicitor, and was +brought up on normal lines. His mother died while he was a boy. He had +one brother, younger than himself, and a sister who was younger still. +He went to a leading public school, where he was in no way +distinguished either in work or athletics. I gathered, when I first +knew him, that he had been regarded as a clever, quiet, good-natured, +simple-minded boy, with a considerable charm of manner, but decidedly +retiring. He was not expected to distinguish himself in any way, and he +did not seem to have any particular ambitions. I went up to Cambridge +at the same time as he, and we formed a very close friendship. We had +kindred tastes, and we did not concern ourselves very much with the +social life of the place. We read, walked, talked, played games, idled, +and amused ourselves together. I was more attached to him, I think, +than he was to me; indeed, I do not think that he cared at that time to +form particularly close ties. He was frank, engaging, humorous, and +observant; but I do not think that he depended very much upon any one; +he rather tended to live an interior life of his own, of poetical and +fanciful reflection. I think he tended to be pensive rather than +high-spirited—at least, I do not often remember any particular +ebullition of youthful enthusiasm. He liked congenial company, but he +was always ready to be alone. He very seldom went to the rooms of other +men, except in response to definite invitations; but he was always +disposed to welcome any one who came spontaneously to see him. He was a +really diffident and modest fellow, and I do not think it even entered +into his head to imagine that he had any social gifts or personal +charm. But I gradually came to perceive that his mind was of a very +fine quality. He had a mature critical judgment, and, though I used to +think that his tastes were somewhat austere, I now see that he had a +very sure instinct for alighting upon what was best and finest in books +and art alike. He used to write poetry in those days, but he was shy of +confessing it, and very conscious of the demerits of what he wrote. I +have some of his youthful verses by me, and though they are very +unequal and full of lapses, yet he often strikes a firm note and +displays a subtle insight. I think that he was more ambitious than I +perhaps knew, and had that vague belief in his own powers which is +characteristic of able and unambitious men. His was certainly, on the +whole, a cold nature in those days. He could take up a friendship where +he laid it down, by virtue of an easy frankness and a sympathy that was +intellectual rather than emotional. But the suspension of intercourse +with a friend never troubled him. +</P> + +<P> +I became aware, in the course of a walking tour that I took with him in +those days, that he had a deep perception of the beauties of nature; it +was not a vague accessibility to picturesque impressions, but a +critical discernment of quality. He always said that he cared more for +little vignettes, which he could grasp entire, than for wide and +majestic prospects; and this was true of his whole mind. +</P> + +<P> +I suppose that I tended to idealise him; but he certainly seems to me, +in retrospect, to have then been invested with a singular charm. He was +pure-minded and fastidious to a fault. He had considerable personal +beauty, rather perhaps of expression than of feature. He was one of +those people with a natural grace of movement, gesture and speech. He +was wholly unembarrassed in manner, but he talked little in a mixed +company. No one had fewer enemies or fewer intimate friends. The +delightful ears soon came to an end, and one of the few times I ever +saw him exhibit strong emotion was on the evening before he left +Cambridge, when he altogether broke down. I remember his quoting a +verse from Omar Khayyam:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Yet ah! that spring should vanish with the rose,<BR> + That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close,"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +and breaking off in the middle with sudden tears. +</P> + +<P> +It was necessary for me to adopt a profession, and I remember envying +him greatly when he told me that his father, who, I gathered, rather +idolised him, was quite content that he should choose for himself at +his leisure. He went abroad for a time; and I met him next in London, +where he was proposing to read for the bar; but I discovered that he +had really found his metier. He had written a novel, which he showed +me, and though it was in some ways an immature performance, it had, I +felt, high and unmistakable literary qualities. It was published soon +afterwards and met with some success. He thereupon devoted himself to +writing, and I was astonished at his industry and eagerness. He had for +the first time found a congenial occupation. He lived mostly at home in +those days, but he was often in London, where he went a good deal into +society. I do not know very much about him at this time, but I gather +that he achieved something of a social reputation. He was never a +voluble talker; I do not suppose he ever set the table in a roar, but +he had a quiet, humorous and sympathetic manner. His physical health +was then, as always, perfect. He was never tired or peevish; he was +frank, kindly and companionable; he talked little about himself, and +had a genuine interest in the study of personality, so that people were +apt to feel at their best in his society. Meanwhile his books came out +one after another—not great books exactly, but full of humour and +perception, each an advance on the last. By the age of thirty he was +accepted as one of the most promising novelists of the day. +</P> + +<P> +Then he did what I never expected he would do; he fell wildly and +enthusiastically in love with the only daughter of a Gloucestershire +clergyman, a man of good family and position. She was the only child; +her mother had died some years before, and her father died shortly +after the marriage. She was a beautiful, vigorous girl, extraordinarily +ingenuous, simple-minded, and candid. She was not clever in the common +acceptance of the term, and was not the sort of person by whom I should +have imagined that my friend would have been attracted. They settled in +a pleasant house, which they built in Surrey, on the outskirts of a +village. Three children were born to them—a boy and a girl, and +another boy, who survived his birth only a few hours. From this time he +almost entirely deserted London, and became, I thought, almost +strangely content with a quiet domestic life. I was often with them in +those early days, and I do not think I ever saw a happier circle. It +was a large and comfortable house, very pleasantly furnished, with a +big garden. His father died in the early years of the marriage, and +left him a good income; with the proceeds of his books he was a +comparatively wealthy man. His wife was one of those people who have a +serene and unaffected interest in human beings. She was a religious +woman, but her relations with others were rather based on the purest +kindliness and sympathy. She knew every one in the place, and, having +no touch of shyness, she went in and out among their poorer neighbours, +the trusted friend and providence of numerous families; but she had not +in the least what is called a parochial mind. She had no touch of the +bustling and efficient Lady Bountiful. The simple people she visited +were her friends and neighbours, not her patients and dependents. She +was simply an overflowing fountain of goodness, and it was as natural to +her to hurry to a scene of sorrow and suffering as it is for most +people to desire to stay away. My friend himself had not the same +taste; it was always rather an effort to him to accommodate himself to +people in a different way of life; but it ought to be said that he was +universally liked and respected for his quiet courtesy and simplicity, +and fully as much for his own sake as for that of his wife. This fact +could hardly be inferred from his Diary, and indeed he was wholly +unconscious of it himself, because he never realised his natural charm, +and indeed was unduly afraid of boring people by his presence. +</P> + +<P> +He was not exactly a hard worker, but he was singularly regular; +indeed, though he sometimes took a brief holiday after writing a book, +he seldom missed a day without writing some few pages. One of the +reasons why they paid so few visits was that he tended, as he told me, +to feel so much bored away from his work. It was at once his occupation +and his recreation. He was not one of those who write fiercely and +feverishly, and then fall into exhaustion; he wrote cheerfully and +temperately, and never appeared to feel the strain. They lived quietly, +but a good many friends came and went. He much preferred to have a +single guest, or a husband and wife, at a time, and pursued his work +quietly all through. He used to see that one had all one could need, +and then withdrew after tea-time, not reappearing until dinner. His +wife, it was evident, was devoted to him with an almost passionate +adoration. The reason why life went so easily there was that she +studied unobtrusively his smallest desires and preferences; and thus +there was never any sense of special contrivance or consideration for +his wishes: the day was arranged exactly as he liked, without his ever +having to insist upon details. He probably did not realise this, for +though he liked settled ways, he was sensitively averse to feeling that +his own convenience was in any way superseding or overriding the +convenience of others. It used to be a great delight and refreshment to +stay there. He was fond of rambling about the country, and was an +enchanting companion in a tete-a-tete. In the evening he used to expand +very much into a genial humour which was very attractive; he had, too, +the art of making swift and subtle transitions into an emotional mood; +and here his poetical gift of seeing unexpected analogies and delicate +characteristics gave his talk a fragrant charm which I have seldom +heard equalled. +</P> + +<P> +It was indeed a picture of wonderful prosperity, happiness, and +delight. The children were engaging, clever, and devotedly +affectionate, and indeed the atmosphere of mutual affection seemed to +float over the circle like a fresh and scented summer air. One used to +feel, as one drove away, that though one's visit had been a pleasure, +there would be none of the flatness which sometimes follows the +departure of a guest, but that one was leaving them to a home life that +was better than sociability, a life that was both sacred and beautiful, +full to the brim of affection, yet without any softness or +sentimentality. +</P> + +<P> +Then came my friend's great success. He had written less since his +marriage, and his books, I thought, were beginning to flag a little. +There was a want of freshness about them; he tended to use the same +characters and similar situations; both thought and phraseology became +somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to the belief that life was +beginning to be more interesting to him than art. But there suddenly +appeared the book which made him famous, a book both masterly and +delicate, full of subtle analysis and perception, and with that +indescribable sense of actuality which is the best test of art. The +style at the same time seemed to have run clear; he had gained a +perfect command of his instrument, and I had about this book, what I +had never had about any other book of his, the sense that he was +producing exactly the effects he meant to produce. The extraordinary +merit of the book was instantly recognised by all, I think, but the +author. He went abroad for a time after the book was published, and +eventually returned; it was at that point of his life that the Diary +began. +</P> + +<P> +I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me +that something had happened to him. Instead of being radiant with +success, eager and contented, I found him depressed, anxious, haggard. +He told me that he felt unstrung and exhausted, and that his power of +writing had deserted him. But I must bear testimony at the same time to +the fact which does not emerge in the Diary, namely, the extraordinary +gallantry and patience of his conduct and demeanour. He struggled +visibly and pathetically, from hour to hour, against his depression. He +never complained; he never showed, at least in my presence, the +smallest touch of irritability. Indeed to myself, who had known him as +the most equable and good-humoured of men, he seemed to support the +trial with a courage little short of heroism. The trial was a sore one, +because it deprived him both of motive and occupation. But he made the +best of it; he read, he took long walks, and he threw himself with +great eagerness into the education of his children—a task for which he +was peculiarly qualified. Then a series of calamities fell upon him: he +lost his boy, a child of wonderful ability and sweetness; he lost his +fortune, or the greater part of it. The latter calamity he bore with +perfect imperturbability—they let their house and moved into +Gloucestershire. Here a certain measure of happiness seemed to return +to him. He made a new friend, as the Diary relates, in the person of +the Squire of the village, a man who, though an invalid, had a strong +and almost mystical hold upon life. Here he began to interest himself +in the people of the place, and tried all sorts of education and social +experiments. But his wife fell ill, and died very suddenly; and, not +long after, his daughter died too. He was for a time almost wholly +broken down. I went abroad with him at his request for a few weeks, but +I was myself obliged to return to England to my professional duties. I +can only say that I did not expect ever to see him again. He was like a +man, the spring of whose life was broken; but at the same time he bore +himself with a patience and a gentleness that fairly astonished me. We +were together day by day and hour by hour. He made no complaint, and he +used to force himself, with what sad effort was only too plain, to +converse on all sorts of topics. Some time after he drifted back to +England; but at first he appeared to be in a very listless and dejected +state. Then there arrived, almost suddenly, it seemed to me, a change. +He had made the sacrifice; he had accepted the situation. There came to +him a serenity which was only like his old serenity from the fact that +it seemed entirely unaffected; but it was based, I felt, on a very +different view of life. He was now content to wait and to believe. It +was at this time that the Squire died; and not long afterwards, the +Squire's niece, a woman of great strength and simplicity of character, +married a clergyman to whom she had been long attached, both being +middle-aged people; and the living soon afterwards falling vacant, her +husband accepted it, and the newly-married pair moved into the Rectory; +while my friend, who had been named as the Squire's ultimate heir, a +life-interest in the property being secured to the niece, went into the +Hall. Shortly afterwards he adopted a nephew—his sister's son—who, +with the consent of all concerned, was brought up as the heir to the +estate, and is its present proprietor. +</P> + +<P> +My friend lived some fifteen years after that, a quiet, active, and +obviously contented life. I was a frequent guest at the Hall, and I am +sure that I never saw a more attached circle. My friend became a +magistrate, and he did a good deal of county business; but his main +interest was in the place, where he was the trusted friend and +counsellor of every household in the parish. He took a great deal of +active exercise in the open air; he read much. He taught his nephew, +whom he did not send to school. He regained, in fuller measure than +ever, his old delightful charm of conversation, and his humour, which +had always been predominant in him, took on a deeper and a richer +tinge; but whereas in old days he had been brilliant and epigrammatic, +he was now rather poetical and suggestive; and whereas he had formerly +been reticent about his emotions and his religion, he now acquired what +is to my mind the profoundest conversational charm—the power of making +swift and natural transitions into matters of what, for want of a +better word, I will call spiritual experience. I remember his once +saying to me that he had learnt, from his intercourse with his village +neighbours, that the one thing in the world in which every one was +interested was religion; "even more," he added, with a smile, "than is +the one subject in which Sir Robert Walpole said that every one could +join." +</P> + +<P> +I do not suppose that his religion was of a particularly orthodox kind; +he was impatient of dogmatic definition and of ecclesiastical +tendencies; but he cared with all his heart for the vital principles of +religion, the love of God and the love of one's neighbour. +</P> + +<P> +He lived to see his adopted son grow up to maturity; and I do not think +I ever saw anything so beautiful as the confidence and affection that +subsisted between them; and then he died one day, as he had often told +me he desired to die. He had been ailing for a week, and on rising from +his chair in the morning he was seized by a sudden faintness and died +within half-an-hour, hardly knowing, I imagine, that he was in any +danger. +</P> + +<P> +It fell to me to deal with his papers. There was a certain amount of +scattered writing, but no completed work; it all dated from before the +publication of his great book. It was determined that this Diary should +eventually see the light, and circumstances into which I need not now +enter have rendered its appearance advisable at the present date. +</P> + +<P> +The interest of the document is its candour and outspokenness. If the +tone of the record, until near the end, is one of unrelieved sadness, +it must be borne in mind that all the time he bore himself in the +presence of others with a singular courage and simplicity. He said to +me once, in an hour of dark despair, that he had drunk the dregs of +self-abasement. That he believed that he had no sense of morality, no +loyal affection, no love of virtue, no patience or courage. That his +only motives had been timidity, personal ambition, love of +respectability, love of ease. He added that this had been slowly +revealed to him, and that the only way out was a way that he had not as +yet strength to tread; the way of utter submission, absolute +confidence, entire resignation. He said that there was one comfort, +which was, that he knew the worst about himself that it was possible to +know. I told him that his view of his character was unjust and +exaggerated, but he only shook his head with a smile that went to my +heart. It was on that day, I think, that he touched the lowest depth of +all; and after that he found the way out, along the path that he had +indicated. +</P> + +<P> +This is no place for eulogy and panegyric. My task has been just to +trace the portrait of my friend as he appeared to others; his own words +shall reveal the inner spirit. The beauty of the life to me was that he +attained, unconsciously and gradually, to the very virtues which he +most desired and in which he felt himself to be most deficient. He had +to bear a series of devastating calamities. He had loved the warmth and +nearness of his home circle more deeply than most men, and the whole of +it was swept away; he had depended for stimulus and occupation alike +upon his artistic work, and the power was taken from him at the moment +of his highest achievement. His loss of fortune is not to be reckoned +among his calamities, because it was no calamity to him. He ended by +finding a richer treasure than any that he had set out to obtain; and I +remember that he said to me once, not long before his end, that +whatever others might feel about their own lives, he could not for a +moment doubt that his own had been an education of a deliberate and +loving kind, and that the day when he realised that, when he saw that +there was not a single incident in his life that had not a deep and an +intentional value for him, was one of the happiest days of his whole +existence. I do not know that he expected anything or speculated on +what might await him hereafter; he put his future, just as he put his +past and his present, in the hands of God, to Whom he committed himself +"as unto a faithful Creator." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE ALTAR FIRE +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H4> +September 8, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +We came back yesterday, after a very prosperous time at Zermatt; we +have been there two entire months. Yes, it was certainly prosperous! We +had delicious weather, and I have seen a number of pleasant people. I +have done a great deal of walking, I have read a lot of novels and old +poetry, I have sate about a good deal in the open air; but I do not +really like Switzerland; there are of course an abundance of noble +wide-hung views, but there are few vignettes, little on which the mind +and heart dwell with an intimate and familiar satisfaction. Those airy +pinnacles of toppling rocks, those sheets of slanted snow, those +ice-bound crags—there is a sense of fear and mystery about them! One +does not know what is going on there, what they are waiting for; they +have no human meaning. They do not seem to have any relation to +humanity at all. Sunday after Sunday one used to have sermons in that +hot, trim little wooden church—some from quite famous preachers—about +the need of rest, the advantage of letting the mind and eye dwell in +awe upon the wonderful works of God. Of course the mountains are +wonderful enough; but they make me feel that humanity plays a very +trifling part in the mind and purpose of God. I do not think that if I +were a preacher of the Gospel, and had a speculative turn, I should +care to take a holiday among the mountains. I should be beset by a +dreary wonder whether the welfare of humanity was a thing very dear to +God at all. I should feel very strongly what the Psalmist said, "What +is man that Thou art mindful of him?" It would take the wind out of my +sails, when I came to preach about Redemption, because I should be +tempted to believe that, after all, human beings were only in the world +on sufferance, and that the aching, frozen, barren earth, so inimical +to life, was in even more urgent need of redemption. Day by day, among +the heights, I grew to feel that I wanted some explanation of why the +strange panorama of splintered crag and hanging ice-fall was there at +all. It certainly is not there with any reference to man—at least it +is hard to believe that it is all there that human beings may take a +refreshing holiday in the midst of it. When one penetrates Switzerland +by the green pine-clad valleys, passing through and beneath those +delicious upland villages, each clustering round a church with a +glittering cupola, the wooden houses with their brown fronts, their big +eaves, perched up aloft at such pleasant angles, one thinks of +Switzerland as an inhabited land of valleys, with screens and +backgrounds of peaks and snowfields; but when one goes up higher still, +and gets up to the top of one of the peaks, one sees that Switzerland +is really a region of barren ridges, millions of acres of cold stones +and ice, with a few little green cracks among the mountain bases, where +men have crept to live; and that man is only tolerated there. +</P> + +<P> +One day I was out with a guide on a peak at sunrise. Behind the bleak +and shadowy ridges there stole a flush of awakening dawn; then came a +line of the purest yellow light, touching the crags and snowfields with +sharp blue shadows; the lemon-coloured radiance passed into fiery gold, +the gold flushed to crimson, and then the sun leapt into sight, and +shed the light of day upon the troubled sea of mountains. It was more +than that—the hills made, as it were, the rim of a great cold shadowy +goblet; and the light was poured into it from the uprushing sun, as +bubbling and sparkling wine is poured into a beaker. I found myself +thrilled from head to foot with an intense and mysterious rapture. What +did it all mean, this awful and resplendent solemnity, full to brim of +a solitary and unapproachable holiness? What was the secret of the +thing? Perhaps every one of those stars that we had seen fade out of +the night was ringed round by planets such as ours, peopled by forms +undreamed of; doubtless on millions of globes, the daylight of some +central sun was coming in glory over the cold ridges, and waking into +life sentient beings, in lands outside our ken, each with civilisations +and histories and hopes and fears of their own. A stupendous, an +overwhelming thought! And yet, in the midst of it, here was I myself, a +little consciousness sharply divided from it all, permitted to be a +spectator, a partaker of the intolerable and gigantic mystery, and yet +so strangely made that the whole of that vast and prodigious complexity +of life and law counted for less to me than the touch of weariness that +hung, after my long vigil, over limbs and brain. The faculty, the +godlike power of knowing and imagining, all actually less to me than my +own tiny and fragile sensations. Such moods as these are strange +things, because they bring with them so intense a desire to know, to +perceive, and yet paralyse one with the horror of the darkness in which +one moves. One cannot conceive why it is that one is given the power of +realising the multiplicity of creation, and yet at the same time left +so wholly ignorant of its significance. One longs to leap into the arms +of God, to catch some whisper of His voice; and at the same time there +falls the shadow of the prison-house; one is driven relentlessly back +upon the old limited life, the duties, the labours, the round of meals +and sleep, the tiny relations with others as ignorant as ourselves, +and, still worse, with the petty spirits who have a complacent +explanation of it all. Even over love itself the shadow falls. I am as +near to my own dear and true Maud as it is possible to be; but I can +tell her nothing of the mystery, and she can tell me nothing. We are +allowed for a time to draw close to each other, to whisper to each +other our hopes and fears; but at any moment we can be separated. The +children, Alec and Maggie, dearer to me—I can say it honestly—than +life itself, to whom we have given being, whose voices I hear as I +write, what of them? They are each of them alone, though they hardly +know it yet. The little unnamed son, who opened his eyes upon the world +six years ago, to close them in a few hours, where and what is he now? +Is he somewhere, anywhere? Does he know of the joy and sorrow he has +brought into our lives? I would fain believe it . . . these are +profitless thoughts, of one staring into the abyss. Somehow these +bright weeks have been to me a dreary time. I am well in health; +nothing ails me. It is six months since my last book was published, and +I have taken a deliberate holiday; but always before, my mind, the +strain of a book once taken off it, has begun to sprout and burgeon +with new ideas and schemes: but now, for the first time in my life, my +mind and heart remain bare and arid. I seem to have drifted into a +dreary silence. It is not that things have been less beautiful, but +beauty seems to have had no message, no significance for me. The people +that I have seen have come and gone like ghosts and puppets. I have had +no curiosity about them, their occupations and thoughts, their hopes +and lives; it has not seemed worth while to be interested, in a life +which appears so short, and which leads nowhere. It seems morbid to +write thus, but I have not been either morbid or depressed. It has been +an easy life, the life of the last few months, without effort or +dissatisfaction, but without zest. It is a mental tiredness, I suppose. +I have written myself out, and the cistern must fill again. Yet I have +had no feeling of fatigue. It would have been almost better to have had +something to bear; but I am richer than I need be, Maud and the +children have been in perfect health and happiness, I have been well +and strong. I shall hope that the familiar scene, the pleasant +activities of home-life will bring the desire back. I realise how much +the fabric of my life is built upon my writing, and write I must. Well, +I have said enough; the pleasure of these entries is that one can look +back to them, and see the movement of the current of life in a bygone +day. I have an immense mass of arrears to make up, in the form of +letters and business, but I want to survey the ground; and the survey +is not a very happy one this morning; though if I made a list of my +benefits and the reverse, like Robinson Crusoe, the credit side would +be full of good things, and the debit side nearly empty. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 15, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +It is certainly very sweet to be at home again; to find oneself in +familiar scenes, with all the pretty homely comfortable things waiting +patiently for us to return—pictures, books, rooms, tree, kindly +people. Wright, my excellent gardener, with whom I spent an hour +strolling round the garden to-day, touched me by saying that he was +glad to see me back, and that it had seemed dull without me; he has +done fifty little simple things in our absence, in his tranquil and +faithful way, and is pleased to have them noticed. Alec, who was with +me to-day, delighted me by finding his stolid wooden horse in the +summer-house, rather damp and dishevelled, and almost bursting into +tears at the pathos of the neglect. "Did you think we had forgotten +you?" he said as he hugged it. I suggested that he should have a good +meal. "I don't think he would care about GRASS," said Alec +thoughtfully, "he shall have some leaves and berries for a treat." And +this was tenderly executed. Maud went off to see some of her old +pensioners, and came back glowing with pleasure, with twenty pleasant +stories of welcome. Two or three people came in to see me on business, +and I was glad to feel I was of use. In the afternoon we all went off +on a long ramble together, and we were quite surprised to see that +everything seemed to be in its place as usual. Summer is over, the +fields have been reaped; there is a comfortable row of stacks in the +rickyard; the pleasant humming of an engine came up the valley, as it +sang its homely monotone, now low, now loud. After tea—the evenings +have begun to close in—I went off to my study, took out my notebook +and looked over my subjects, but I could make nothing of any of them. I +could see that there were some good ideas among them; but none of them +took shape. Often I have found that to glance over my subjects thus, +after a holiday, is like blowing soap-bubbles. The idea comes out +swelling and eddying from the bowl; a globe swimming with lucent hues, +reflecting dim moving shapes of rooms and figures. Not so to-day. My +mind winked and flapped and rustled like a burnt-out fire; not in a +depressed or melancholy way, but phlegmatically and dully. Well, the +spirit bloweth as it listeth; but it is strange to find my mind so +unresponsive, with none of that pleasant stir, that excitement that has +a sort of fantastic terror about it, such as happens when a book +stretches itself dimly and mysteriously before the mind—when one has a +glimpse of a quiet room with people talking, a man riding fiercely on +lonely roads, two strolling together in a moonlit garden with the +shadows of the cypresses on the turf, and the fragrance of the sleeping +flowers blown abroad. They stop to listen to the nightingale in the +bush . . . turn to each other . . . the currents of life are +intermingled at the meeting of the lips, the warm shudder at the touch +of the floating tress of fragrant hair. To-day nothing comes to me; I +throw it all aside and go to see the children, am greeted delightfully, +and join in some pretty and absurd game. Then dinner comes; and I sit +afterwards reading, dropping the book to talk, Maud working in her +corner by the fire—all things moving so tranquilly and easily in this +pleasantly ordered home-like house of ours. It is good to be at home; +and how pitiful to be hankering thus for something else to fill the +mind, which should obliterate all the beloved things so tenderly +provided. Maud asks about the reception of the latest book, and +sparkles with pride at some of the things I tell her. She sees +somehow—how do women divine these things?—that there is a little +shadow of unrest over me, and she tells me all the comforting things +that I dare not say to myself—that it is only that the book took more +out of me than I knew, and that the resting-time is not over yet; but +that I shall soon settle down again. Then I go off to smoke awhile; and +then the haunting shadow comes back for a little; till at last I go +softly through the sleeping house; and presently lie listening to the +quiet breathing of my wife beside me, glad to be at home again, until +the thoughts grow blurred, take grotesque shapes, sinking softly into +repose. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 18, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +I have spent most of the morning in clearing up business, and dealing +with papers and letters. Among the accumulations was a big bundle of +press-cuttings, all dealing with my last book. It comes home to me that +the book has been a success; it began by slaying its thousands, like +Saul, and now it has slain its tens of thousands. It has brought me +hosts of letters, from all sorts of people, some of them very +delightful and encouraging, many very pleasant—just grateful and +simple letters of thanks—some vulgar and impertinent, some strangely +intimate. What is it, I wonder, that makes some people want to tell a +writer whom they have never seen all about themselves, their thoughts +and histories? In some cases it is an unaffected desire for sympathy +from a person whom they think perceptive and sympathetic; in some cases +it proceeds, I think, from a hysterical desire to be thought +interesting, with a faint hope, I fear, of being possibly put into a +book. Some of the letters have been simply unintelligible and +inconceivable on any hypothesis, except for the human instinct to +confess, to bare the heart, to display the secret sorrow. Many of these +letters are intensely pathetic, affecting, heart-rending; an invalid +lady writes to say that she would like to know me, and will I come to +the North of England to see her? A man writes a pretentious letter, to +ask me to go and stay with him for a week. He has nothing to offer, he +says, but plain fare and rather cramped quarters; but he has thought +deeply, he adds, on many of the problems on which I touch, and thinks +that he could throw light upon some of them. Imagine what reserves of +interest and wisdom he must consider that he possesses! Then there are +patronising letters from people who say that I have put into words +thoughts which they have always had, and which they never took the +trouble to write down; then there are requests for autographs, and +"sentiments," and suggestions for new books. A man writes to say that I +could do untold good if I would write a book with a purpose, and +ventures to propose that I should take up anti-vivisection. There are a +few letters worth their weight in gold, from good men and true, writers +and critics, who thank me for a book which fulfils its aim and artistic +purpose, while on the other hand there are some from people who find +fault with my book for not doing what I never even attempted to do. +Here is one that has given me deep and unmitigated pain; it is from an +old friend, who, I am told, is aggrieved because he thinks that I have +put him into my book, in the form of an unpleasant character. The worst +of it is that there is enough truth in it to make it difficult for me +to deny it. My character is, in some superficial ways, habits, and +tricks of speech, like Reginald. Well, on hearing what he felt, I wrote +him a letter of apology for my carelessness and thoughtlessness, +saying, as frankly as I could, that the character was not in any way +drawn from him, but that I undoubtedly had, almost unconsciously, taken +an external trait or two from him; adding that I was truly and heartily +sorry, and hoped that there would be no ill-feeling; and that I valued +his friendship even more than he probably imagined. Here is his reply: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +MY DEAR F——, +</P> + +<P> +—If you spit on the head of a man passing in the street, and then +write to him a few days after to say that all is forgiven, and that you +are sorry your aim was so accurate, you don't mend matters. +</P> + +<P> +You express a hope that after what has occurred there may be no +ill-feeling between us. Well, you have done me what I consider an +injury. I have no desire to repay it; if I had a chance of doing you a +good turn, I should do it; if I heard you abused, I should stick up for +you. I have no intention of making a grievance out of it. But if you +ask me to say that I do not feel a sense of wrong, or to express a wish +to meet you, or to trust you any longer as I have hitherto trusted you, +I must decline saying anything of the kind, because it would not be +true. +</P> + +<P> +Of course I know that there cannot be omelettes without breaking eggs; +and I suppose that there cannot be what are called psychological +novels, without violating confidences. But you cannot be surprised, +when you encourage an old friend to trust you and confide in you, and +then draw an ugly caricature of him in a book, if he thinks the worse +of you in consequence. I hear that the book is a great success; you +must be content with the fact that the yolks are as golden as they are. +Please do not write to me again on the subject. I will try to forget +it, and if I succeed, I will let you know. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +Yours —— +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That is the kind of letter that poisons life for a while. While I am +aware that I meant no treachery, I am none the less aware that I have +contrived to be a traitor. Of course one vows one will never write +another line; but I do not suppose I shall keep the vow. I reply +shortly, eating all the dirt I can collect; and I shall try to forget +it too; though it is a shabby end of an old friendship. +</P> + +<P> +Then I turn to the reviews. I find them gracious, respectful, +laudatory. They are to be taken cum grano, of course. When an +enthusiastic reviewer says that I have passed at one stride into the +very first class of contemporary writers, I do not feel particularly +elated, though I am undeniably pleased. I find my conception, my +structure, my style, my descriptions, my character-drawing, liberally +and generously praised. There is no doubt that the book has been really +successful beyond my wildest hopes. If I were in any doubt, the crop of +letters from editors and publishers asking me for articles and books of +every kind, and offering me incredible terms, would convince me. +</P> + +<P> +Now what do I honestly feel about all this? I will try for my own +benefit to say. Of course I am very much pleased, but the odd thing is +that I am not more pleased. I can say quite unaffectedly that it does +not turn my head in the least. I reflect that if this had happened when +I began to write, I should have been beside myself with delight, full +of self-confidence, blown out with wind, like the fog in the fable. +Even now there is a deep satisfaction in having done what one has tried +to do. But instead of raking in the credit, I am more inclined to be +grateful for my good fortune. I feel as if I had found something +valuable rather than made something beautiful; as if I had stumbled on +a nugget of gold or a pearl of price. I am very fatalistic about +writing; one is given a certain thing to say, and the power to say it; +it does not come by effort, but by a pleasant felicity. After all, I +reflect, the book is only a good story, well told. I do not feel like a +benefactor of the human race, but at the best like a skilful minstrel, +who has given some innocent pleasure. What, after all, does it amount +to? I have touched to life, perhaps a few gracious, tender, romantic +fancies—but, after all, the thoughts and emotions were there to start +with, just as the harmonies which the musician awakes are all dormant +in his throbbing strings. I have created nothing, only perceived and +represented phenomena. I have gained no sensibility, no patience, no +wisdom in the process. I know no more of the secret of life and love, +than before I wrote my book. I am only like a scientific investigator +who has discovered certain delicate processes, subtle laws at work. +They were there all the time; the temptation of the investigator and of +the writer alike is to yield to the delusion that he has made them, by +discerning and naming them. As for the style, which is highly praised, +it has not been made by effort. It is myself. I have never written for +any other reason than because I liked writing. It has been a pleasure +to overcome difficulties, to make my way round obstacles, to learn how +to express the vague an intangible thing. But I deserve no credit for +this; I should deserve credit if I had made myself a good writer out of +a bad one; but I could always write, and I am not a better writer, only +a more practised one. There is no satisfaction there. +</P> + +<P> +And then, too, I find myself overshadowed by the thought that I do not +want to do worse, to go downhill, to decline. I do not feel at all sure +that I can write a better book, or so good a one indeed. I should +dislike failing far more than I like having succeeded. To have reached +a certain standard makes it incumbent on one that one should not fall +below that standard; and no amount of taking pains will achieve that. +It can only be done through a sort of radiant felicity of mood, which +is really not in my power to count upon. I was happy, supremely happy, +when I was writing the book. I lighted upon a fine conception, and it +was the purest joy to see the metal trickle firmly from the furnace +into the mould. Can I make such a mould again? Can I count upon the +ingots piled in the fierce flame? Can I reckon upon the same +temperamental glow? I do not know—I fear not. +</P> + +<P> +Here is the net result—that I have become a sort of personage in the +world of letters. Do I desire it? Yes, in a sense I do, but in a sense +I do not. I do not want money, I do not wish for public appearances. I +have no social ambitions. To be pointed out as the distinguished +novelist is distinctly inconvenient. People will demand a certain +standard of talk, a certain brilliance, which I am not in the least +capable of giving them. I want to sit at my ease at the banquet of +life, not to be ushered to the highest rooms. I prefer interesting and +pleasant people to important and majestic persons. Perhaps if I were +more simple-minded, I should not care about the matter at all; just be +grateful for the increased warmth and amenity of life—but I am not +simple-minded, and I hate not fulfilling other people's expectations. I +am not a prodigal, full-blooded, royal sort of person at all. I am not +conscious of greatness, but far more of emptiness. I do not wish to +seem pretentious. I have got this one faculty; but it has outrun all +the rest of me, and I am aware that it has drained the rest of my +nature. The curious thing is that this sort of fame is the thing that +as a young man I used to covet. I used to think it would be so +sustaining and resplendent. Now that it has come to me, in far richer +measure, I will not say than I hoped, but at all events than I had +expected, it does not seem to be a wholly desirable thing. Fame is only +one of the sauces of life; it is not the food of the spirit at all. The +people that praise one are like the courtiers that bow in the anterooms +of a king, through whom he passes to the lonely study where his life is +lived. I am not feeling ungrateful or ungenerous; but I would give all +that I have gained for a new and inspiring friendship, or for the +certainty that I should write another book with the same happiness as I +wrote my last book. Perhaps I ought to feel the responsibility more! I +do feel it in a sense, but I have never estimated the moral +effectiveness of a writer of fiction very high; one comforts rather +than sustains; one diverts rather than feeds. If I could hear of one +self-sacrificing action, one generous deed, one tranquil surrender that +had been the result of my book, I should be more pleased than I am with +all the shower of compliments. Of course in a sense praise makes life +more interesting; but what I really desire to apprehend is the +significance and meaning of life, that strange mixture of pain and +pleasure, of commonplace events and raptures; and my book brings me no +nearer that. To feel God nearer me, to feel, not by evidence but by +instinct, that there is a Heart that cares for me, and moulded me from +the clay for a purpose—why, I would give all that I have in the world +for that! +</P> + +<P> +Of course Maud will be pleased; but that will be because she believes +that I deserve everything and anything, and is only surprised that the +world has not found out sooner what a marvellous person I am. God knows +I do not undervalue her belief in me; but it makes and keeps me humble +to feel how far she is from the truth, how far from realising the +pitiful weakness and emptiness of her lover and husband. +</P> + +<P> +Is this, I wonder, how all successful people feel about fame? The +greatest of all have often never enjoyed the least touch of it in their +lifetime; and they are happier so. Some few rich and generous natures, +like Scott and Browning, have neither craved for it nor valued it. Some +of the greatest have desired it, slaved for it, clung to it. Yet when +it comes, one realises how small a part of life and thought it +fills—unless indeed it brings other desirable things with it; and this +is not the case with me, because I have all I want. Well, if I can but +set to work at another book, all these idle thoughts will die away; but +my mind rattles like a shrunken kernel. I must kneel down and pray, as +Blake and his wife did, when the visions deserted them. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 25, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Here is a social instance of what it means to become "quite a little +man," as Stevenson used to say. Some county people near here, +good-natured, pushing persons, who have always been quite civil but +nothing more, invited themselves to luncheon here a day or two ago, +bringing with them a distinguished visitor. They throw in some nauseous +compliments to my book, and say that Lord Wilburton wishes to make my +acquaintance. I do not particularly want to make his, though he is a +man of some not. But there was no pretext for declining. Such an +incursion is a distinct bore; it clouds the morning—one cannot settle +down with a tranquil mind to one's work; it fills the afternoon. They +came, and it proved not uninteresting. They are pleasant people enough, +and Lord Wilburton is a man who has been everywhere and seen everybody. +The fact that he wished to make my acquaintance shows, no doubt, that I +have sailed into his ken, and that he wishes to add me to his +collection. I felt myself singularly unrewarding. I am not a talker at +the best of times, and to feel that I am expected to be witty and +suggestive is the last straw. Lord Wilburton discoursed fluently and +agreeably. Lady Harriet said that she envied me my powers of writing, +and asked how I came to think of my last brilliant book, which she had +so enjoyed. I did not know what to say, and could not invent anything. +They made a great deal of the children. They walked round the garden. +They praised everything ingeniously. They could not say the house was +big, and so they called in convenient. They could not say that the +garden was ample, but Lord Wilburton said that he had never seen so +much ground go to the acre. That was neat enough. They made a great +point of visiting my library, and carried away my autograph, written +with the very same pen with which I wrote my great book. This they +called a privilege. They made us promise to go over to the Castle, +which I have no great purpose of doing. We parted with mutual goodwill, +and with that increase of geniality on my own part which comes on me at +the end of a visit. Altogether I did not dislike it, though it did not +seem to me particularly worth while. To-day my wife tells me that they +told the Fitzpatricks that it was a great pleasure seeing me, because I +was so modest and unaffected. That is a courteous way of concealing +their disappointment that I was not more brilliant. But, good heavens, +what did they expect? I suppose, indeed I have no doubt, that if I had +talked mysteriously about my book, and had described the genesis of it, +and my method of working, they would have preferred that. Just as in +reminiscences of the Duke of Wellington, the people who saw him in +later life seem to have been struck dumb by a sort of tearful +admiration at the sight of the Duke condescending to eat his dinner, or +to light a guest's bedroom candle. Perhaps if I had been more +simple-minded I should have talked frankly about myself. I don't know; +it seems to me all rather vulgar. But my visitors are kindly and +courteous people, and felt, I am sure, that they were both receiving +and conferring benefits. They will like to describe me and my house, +and they will feel that I am pleased at being received on equal terms +into county society. I don't put this down at all cynically; but they +are not people with whom I have anything in common. I am not of their +monde at all. I belong to the middle class, and they are of the upper +class. I have a faint desire to indicate that I don't want to cross the +border-line, and that what I desire is the society of interesting and +congenial people, not the society of my social superior. This is not +unworldliness in the least, merely hedonism. Feudalism runs in the +blood of these people, and they feel, not consciously but quite +instinctively, that the confer a benefit by making my acquaintance. "No +doubt but ye are the people," as Job said, but I do not want to rise in +the social scale. It would be the earthen pot and the brazen pot at +best. I am quite content with my own class, and life is not long enough +to change it, and to learn the habits of another. I have no quarrel +with the aristocracy, and do not in the least wish to level them to the +ground. I am quite prepared to acknowledge them as the upper class. +They are, as a rule, public-spirited, courteous barbarians, with a +sense of honour and responsibility. But they take a great many things +as matters of course which are to me simply alien. I no more wish to +live with them than Wright, my self-respecting gardener, wishes to live +with me—though so deeply rooted are feudal ideas in the blood of the +race, that Wright treats me with a shade of increased deference because +I have been entertaining a party of Lords and Ladies; and the Vicar's +wife said to Maud that she heard we had been giving a very grand party, +and would soon be quite county people. The poor woman will think more +of my books than she has ever thought before. I don't think this is +snobbish, because it is so perfectly instinctive and natural. +</P> + +<P> +But what I wanted to say was that this is the kind of benefit which is +conferred by success; and for a quiet person, who likes familiar and +tranquil ways, it is no benefit at all; indeed, rather the reverse; +unless it is a benefit that the stationmaster touched his hat to me +to-day, which he has never done before. It is a funny little world. +Meanwhile I have no ideas, and my visitors to-day haven't given me any, +though Lord Wilburton might be a useful figure in a book; so perfectly +appointed, so quiet, so deferential, so humorous, so deliciously +insincere! +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 4, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +I have happened to read lately, in some magazines, certain illustrated +interviews with prominent people, which have given me a deep sense of +mental and moral nausea. I do not think I am afflicted with a strong +sense of the sacredness of a man's home life—at least, if it is sacred +at all, it seems to me to be just as much profaned by allowing visitors +or strangers to see it and share it as it is by allowing it to be +written about in a periodical. If it is sacred in a peculiar sense, +then only very intimate friends ought to be allowed to see it, and +there should be a tacit sense that they ought not to tell any one +outside what it is like; but if I am invited to luncheon with a +celebrated man whom I do not know, because I happen to be staying in +the neighbourhood, I do not think I violate his privacy by describing +my experience to other people. If a man has a beautiful house, a happy +interior, a gifted family circle, and if he is himself a remarkable +man, it is a privilege to be admitted to it, it does one good to see +it; and it seems to me that the more people who realise the beauty and +happiness of it the better. The question of numbers has nothing to do +with it. Suppose, for instance, that I am invited to stay with a great +man, and suppose that I have a talent for drawing; I may sketch his +house and his rooms, himself and his family, if he does not object—and +it seems to me that it would be churlish and affected of him to +object—I may write descriptive letters from the place, giving an +account of his domestic ways, his wife and family, his rooms, his +books, his garden, his talk. I do not see that there is any reasonable +objection to my showing those sketches to other people who are +interested in the great man, or to the descriptive letters or diary +that I write being shown or read to others who do not know him. Indeed +I think it is a perfectly natural and wholesome desire to know +something of the life and habits of great men; I would go further, and +say that it is an improving and inspiring sort of knowledge to be +acquainted with the pleasant details of the well-ordered, contented, +and happy life of a high-minded and effective man. Who, for instance, +considers it to be a sort of treachery for the world at large to know +something of the splendid and affectionate life of the Kingsley circle +at Eversley Rectory, or of the Tennyson circle at Freshwater? to look +at pictures of the scene, to hear how the great men looked and moved +and spoke? And if it is not profanation to hear and see this in the +pages of a biography, why is it a profanation to read and see it in the +pages of a magazine? To object to it seems to me to be a species of +prudish conventionality. +</P> + +<P> +Only you must be sure that you get a natural, simple, and unaffected +picture of it all; and what I object to in the interviews which I have +been reading is that one gets an unnatural, affected, self-conscious, +and pompous picture of it all. To go and pose in your favourite seat in +a shrubbery or a copse, where you think out your books or poems, in +order that an interviewer may take a snap-shot of you—especially if in +addition you assume a look of owlish solemnity as though you were the +prey of great thoughts—that seems to me to be an infernal piece of +posing. But still worse than that is the kind of conversation in which +people are tempted to indulge in the presence of an interviewer. A man +ought not to say to a wandering journalist whom he has never seen +before, in the presence of his own wife, that women are the inspirers +and magnetisers of the world, and that he owes all that has made him +what he is to the sweet presence and sympathetic tenderness of his +Bessy. This, it seems to me, is the lowest kind of melodrama. The thing +may be perfectly true, the thought may be often in his mind, but he +cannot be accustomed to say such things in ordinary life; and one feels +that when he says them to an interviewer he does it in a thoroughly +self-conscious mood, in order that he may make an impressive figure +before the public. The conversations in the interviews I have been +reading give me the uncomfortable sense that they have been thought out +beforehand from the dramatic point of view; and indeed one earnestly +hopes that this is the solution of the situation, because it would make +one feel very faint if one thought that remarks of this kind were the +habitual utterances of the circle—indeed, it would cure one very +effectually of the desire to know anything of the interiors of +celebrated people, if one thought that they habitually talked like the +heroes of a Sunday-school romance. That is why the reading of these +interviews is so painful, because, in the first place, one feels sure +that one is not realising the daily life of these people at all, but +only looking on at a tableau vivant prepared by them for the occasion; +and secondly, it makes one very unhappy to think that people of real +eminence and effectiveness can condescend to behave in this affected +way in order to win the applause of vulgar readers. One vaguely hopes, +indeed, that some of the dismal platitudes that they are represented as +uttering may have been addressed to them in the form of questions by +the interviewer, and that they have merely stammered a shamefaced +assent. It makes a real difference, for instance, whether as a matter +of fact a celebrated authoress leads her golden-haired children up to +an interviewer, and says, "These are my brightest jewels;" or whether, +when she tells her children to shake hands, the interviewer says, "No +doubt these are your brightest jewels?" A mother is hardly in a +position to return an indignant negative to such a question, and if she +utters an idiotic affirmative, she is probably credited with the +original remark in all its unctuousness! +</P> + +<P> +It is a difficult question to decide what is the most simple-minded +thing to do, if you are in the unhappy position of being requested to +grant an interview for journalistic purposes. My own feeling is that if +people really wish to know how I live, what I wear, what I eat and +drink, what books I read, what kind of a house I live in, they are +perfectly welcome to know. It does not seem to me that it would detract +from the sacredness of my home life, if a picture of my dining-room, +with the table laid for luncheon in a very cramped perspective, or if a +photogravure of the scrap of grass and shrubbery that I call my garden, +were to be published in a magazine. All that is to a certain extent +public already. I should not wish to have a photograph of myself in +bed, or shaving, published in a magazine, because those are not moments +when I am inclined to admit visitors. Neither do I particularly want my +private and informal conversation taken down and reproduced, because +that often consists of opinions which are not my deliberate and +thought-out utterances. But I hope that I should be able to talk simply +and courteously to an interviewer on ordinary topics, in a way that +would not discredit me it is was made public; and I hope, too, that +decency would restrain me from making inflated and pompous remarks +about my inner beliefs and motives, which were not in the least +characteristic of my usual method of conversation. +</P> + +<P> +The truth is that what spoils these records is the desire on the part +of worthy and active people to appear more impressive in ordinary life +than they actually are; it is a well-meant sort of hypocrisy, because +it is intended, in a way, to influence other people, and to make them +think that celebrated people live habitually on a higher tone of +intellect and emotion than they do actually live upon. My on experience +of meeting great people is that they are, as a rule, disappointingly +like ordinary people, both in their tastes and in their conversation. +Very few men or women, who are extremely effective in practical or +artistic lines, have the energy or the vitality to expend themselves +very freely in talk or social intercourse. They do not save themselves +up for their speeches or their books; but they give their best energies +to them, and have little current coin of high thought left for ordinary +life. The mischief is that these interviews are generally conducted by +inquisitive and rhetorical strangers, not distinguished for social tact +or overburdened with good taste; and so the whole occasion tends to +wear a melodramatic air, which is fatal both to artistic effect as well +as to simple propriety. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 9, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Let me set against my fashionable luncheon-party of a few weeks ago a +visit which I owe no less to my success, and which has been a true and +deep delight to me. I had a note yesterday from a man whom I hold in +great and deep reverence, a man who I have met two or three times, a +poet indeed, one of our true and authentic singers. He writes that he +is in the neighbourhood; may he come over for a few hours and renew our +acquaintance? +</P> + +<P> +He came, in the morning. One has only to set eyes upon him to know that +one is in the presence of a hero, to feel that his poetry just streams +from him like light from the sun; that it is not the central warmth, +but the flying rippling radiance of the outward-bound light, falling in +momentary beauty on the common things about his path. He is a great big +man, carelessly dressed, like a Homeric king. I liked everything about +him from head to foot, his big carelessly-worn clothes, the bright tie +thrust loosely through a cameo ring; his loose shaggy locks, his strong +beard. His face, with its delicate pallor, and purely moulded features, +had a youthful air of purity and health; yet there was a dim trouble of +thought on his brow, over the great, smiling, flashing grey eyes. He +came in with a sort of royal greeting, he flung his big limbs on a +sofa; he talked easily, quietly, lavishly, saying fine things with no +effort, dropping a subject quickly if he thought it did not interest +me; sometimes flashing out with a quick gesture of impatience or gusto, +enjoying life, every moment and every detail. His quick eyes, roving +about, took in each smallest point, not in the weary feverish way in +which I apprehend a new scene, but as though he liked everything new +and unfamiliar, like an unsated child. He greeted Maud and the children +with a kind of chivalrous tenderness and intimacy, as though he loved +all pretty and tender things, and took joy in their nearness. He held +Alec between his knees, and played with him while he talked. The +children took possession of him, as if they had known him all their +lives. And yet there was no touch of pose, no consciousness of +greatness or vigour about him. He was as humble, grateful, interested, +as though he were a poor stranger dependent on our bounty. I asked him +in a quiet moment about his work. "No, I am writing nothing," he said +with a smile, "I have said all I have got to say,"—and then with a +sudden humorous flash, "though I believe I should be able to write more +if I could get decent paper and respectable type to print my work." I +ventured to ask if he did not feel any desire to write? "No," he said, +"frankly I do not—the world is so full of pleasant things to do and +hear and see, that I sometimes think myself almost a fool for having +spent so much time in scribbling. Do you know," he went on, "a +delicious story I picked up the other day? A man was travelling in some +God-forsaken out-of-the-way place—I believe it was the Andes—and he +fell in with an old podgy Roman priest who was going everywhere, in a +state of perpetual fatigue, taking long expeditions every day, and +returning worn-out in the evening, but perfectly content. The man saw a +good deal of the priest, and asked him what he was doing. The priest +smiled and said, 'Well, I will tell you. I had an illness some time ago +and believed that I was going to die. One evening—I was half +unconscious—I thought I saw some one standing by my bed. I looked, and +it was a young man with a beautiful and rather severe face, whom I knew +to be an angel, who was gazing at me rather strangely. I thought it was +the messenger of death, and—for I was wishing to be gone and have done +with it all—I said something to him about being ready to depart—and +then added that I was waiting hopefully to see the joys of Paradise, +the glory of the saints in light. He looked at me rather fixedly, and +said, "I do not know why you should say that, and why you should expect +to take so much pleasure in the beauty of heaven, when you have taken +so little trouble to see anything of the beauty of earth;" and then he +left me; and I reflected that I had always been doing my work in a dull +humdrum way, in the same place all my life; and I determined that, if I +got well, I would go about and see something of the glory that IS +revealed to us, and not expect only the glory that SHALL BE revealed to +us.' It is a fine story," he went on, "and makes a parable for us +writers, who are inclined to think too much about our work, and +disposed to see that it is very good, like God brooding over the +world." He sate for a little, smiling to himself. And then I plied him +with questions about his writing, how his thoughts came to him how he +worked them out. He told me as if he was talking about some one else, +half wondering that there could be anything to care about. I have heard +many craftsmen talk about their work, but never one who talked with +such detachment. As a rule, writers talk with a secret glee, and with a +deprecating humility that deceives no one; but the great man talked, +not as if he cared to think about it, but because it happened to +interest me. He strolled with me, he lunched; and he thanked us when he +went away with an earnest and humble thankfulness, as though we had +extended our hospitality to an obscure and unworthy guest. And then his +praise of my own books—it was all so natural; not as if he had come +there with fine compliments prepared, with incense to burn; but +speaking about them as though they were in his mind, and he could not +help it. "I read all you write," he said; "ah, you go deep—you are a +lucky fellow, to be able to see so far and so minutely, and to bring it +all home to our blind souls. He must be a terrible fellow to live +with," he said, smiling at my wife. "It must be like being married to a +doctor, and feeling that he knows so much more about one than one knows +oneself—but he sees what is best and truest, thank God; and says it +with the voice of an angel, speaking softly out of his golden cloud." +</P> + +<P> +I can't say what words like these have meant to me; but the visit +itself, the sight of this strong, equable, good-humoured man, with no +feverish ambitions, no hankering after fame or recognition, has done +even more. I have heard it said that he is indolent, that he has not +sufficient sense of responsibility for his gifts. But the man has done +a great work for his generation; he has written poetry of the purest +and finest quality. Is not that enough? I cannot understand the mere +credit we give to work, without any reference to the object of the +work, or the spirit in which it is done. We think with respect of the +man who makes a fortune, or who fills an official post, the duties of +which do nothing in particular for any one. It is a kind of obsession +with us practical Westerners; of course a man ought to contribute to +the necessary work of the world; but many men spend their lives in work +which is not necessary; and, after all, we are sent into the world to +live, and work is only a part of life. We work to live, we do not live +to work. Even if we were all socialists, we should, I hope, have the +grace to dig the gardens and make the clothes of our poets and +prophets, so as to give them the leisure they need. +</P> + +<P> +I do not question the instinct of my hero in the matter; he lives +eagerly and peacefully; he touches into light the spirits of those who +draw near to him; and I admire a man who knows how to stop when he has +done his best work, and does not spur and whip his tired mind into +producing feebler, limper, duller work of the same kind; how few of our +great writers have known when to hold their hand! +</P> + +<P> +God be praised for great men! My poet to-day has made me feel that life +is a thing to be lived eagerly and high-heartedly; that the world is +full of beautiful, generous, kindly things, of free air and sunshine; +and that we ought to find leisure to drink it all in, and to send our +hearts out in search of love and beauty and God—for these things are +all about us, if we could but feel and hear and see them. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 12, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +How absurd it is to say that a writer could not write a large, wise, +beautiful book unless he had a great soul—is it almost like saying +that an artist could not paint a fine face unless he had a fine face +himself. It is all a question of seeing clearly, and having a skilled +hand. There is nothing to make one believe that Shakespeare had a +particularly noble or beautiful character; and some of our greatest +writers have been men of unbalanced, childish, immature temperaments, +full of vanity and pettiness. Of course a man must be interested in +what he is describing; but I think that a man of a naturally great, +wise, and lofty spirit is so disposed as a rule to feel that his +qualities are instinctive, and so ready to credit other people with +them, that it does not occur to him to depict those qualities. I am not +sure that the best equipment for an artist is not that he should see +and admire great and noble and beautiful things, and feel his own +deficiency in them acutely, desiring them with the desire of the moth +for the star. The best characters in my own books have been, I am sure, +the people least like myself, because the creation of a character that +one whole-heartedly admires, and that yet is far out of one's reach, is +the most restful and delightful thing in the world. If one is unready +in speech, thinking of one's epigrams three hours after the occasion +for them has arisen, how pleasant to draw the man who says the neat, +witty, appropriate, consoling thing! If one suffers from timidity, from +meanness, from selfishness, what a delight to depict the man who is +brave, generous, unselfish! Of course the quality of a man's mind flows +into and over his work, but that is rather like the varnish of the +picture than its tints—it is the medium rather than the design. The +artistic creation of ideal situations is often a sort of refuge to the +man who knows that he makes a mess of the beautiful and simple +relations of life. The artist is fastidious and moody, feeling the +pressure of strained nerves and tired faculties, easily discouraged, +disgusted by the superficial defect, the tiny blot that spoils alike +the noble character, the charming prospect, the attractive face. He +sees, let us say, a person with a beautiful face and an ugly hand. The +normal person thinks of the face and forgets the hand. The artist +thinks with pain of the hand and forgets the face. He desires an +impossible perfection, and flies for safety to the little world that he +can make and sway. That is why artists, as a rule, love twilight hours, +shaded rooms, half-tones, subdued hues, because what is common, +staring, tasteless, is blurred and hidden. Men of rich vitality are +generally too much occupied with life as it is, its richness, its +variety, its colour and fragrance, to think wistfully of life as it +might be. The unbridled, sensuous, luxurious strain, that one finds in +so many artists, comes from a lack of moral temperance, a snatching at +delights. They fear dreariness and ugliness so much that they welcome +any intoxication of pleasure. But after all, it is clearness of vision +that makes the artist, the power of disentangling the central feature +from the surrounding details, the power of subordinating accessories, +of seeing which minister to the innermost impression, and which +distract and blur. An artist who creates a great character need not +necessarily even desire to attain the great qualities which he +discerns; he sees them, as he sees the vertebrae of the mountain ridge +under pasture and woodland, as he sees the structure of the tree under +its mist of green; but to see beauty is not necessarily to desire it; +for, as in the mountain and the tree, it may have no ethical +significance at all, only a symbolical meaning. The best art is +inspired more by an intellectual force than by a vital sympathy. Of +course to succeed as a novelist in England to-day, one must have a dash +of the moralist, because an English audience is far more preoccupied +with moral ideals than with either intellectual or artistic ideals. The +reading public desires that love should be loyal rather than +passionate; it thinks ultimate success a more impressive thing than +ultimate failure; it loves sadness as a contrast and preface to +laughter. It prefers that the patriarch Job should end by having a nice +new family of children and abundant flocks, rather than that he should +sink into death among the ashes, refusing to curse God for his +reverses. Its view of existence after death is that Dives should join +Lazarus in Abraham's bosom. To succeed, one must compromise with this +comfortable feeing, sacrificing, if needs be, the artistic conscience, +because the place of the minstrel in England is after the banquet, when +the warriors are pleasantly tired, have put off the desire of meat and +drink, and the fire roars and crackles in the hearth. When Ruskin +deserted his clouds and peaks, his sunsets and sunrises, and devoured +his soul over the brutalities and uglinesses and sordid inequalities of +life, it was all put down to the obscure pressure of mental disease. +Ophelia does not sob and struggle in the current, but floats dreamily +to death in a bed of meadow-flowers. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 21, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Let me try to recollect for my own amusement how it was that my last +book grew up and took shape. How well I remember the day and the hour +when the first thought came to me! Some one was dining here, and told a +story about a friend of his, and an unhappy misunderstanding between +him and a girl whom he loved, or thought he loved. A figure, two +figures, a scene, a conversation, came into my head, absolutely and +perfectly life-like. I lay awake half the night, I remember, over it. +How did those people come to be in exactly that situation? how would it +develop? At first it was just the scene by itself, nothing more; a room +which filled itself with furniture. There were doors—where did they +lead to? There were windows—where did they look out? The house was +full, too, of other people, whose quiet movements I heard. One person +entered the room, and then another; and so the story opened out. I saw +the wrong word spoken, I saw the mist of doubt and distress that filled +the girl's mind; I felt that I would have given anything to intervene, +to explain; but instead of speaking out, the girl confided in the wrong +person, who had an old grudge against the man, so old that it had +become instinctive and irrational. So the thing evolved itself. Then at +one time the story got entangled and confused. I could go no further. +The characters were by this time upon the scene, but they could not +speak. I then saw that I had made a mistake somewhere. The scaffolding +was all taken down, spar by spar, and still the defect was not +revealed. I must go, I saw, backwards; and so I felt my way, like a man +groping in the dark, into what had gone before, and suddenly came out +into the light. It was a mistake far back in the conception. I righted +it, and the story began to evolve itself again; this time with a +delicate certainty, that made me feel I was on the track at last. An +impressive scene was sacrificed—it was there that my idea had gone +wrong! As to the writing of it, I cannot say it was an effort. It wrote +itself. I was not creating; I was describing and selecting. There was +one scene in particular, a scene which has been praised by all the +reviewers. How did I invent it? I do not know. I had no idea what the +characters were to say when I began to write it, but one remark grew +inevitably and surely out of the one before. I was never at a loss; I +never stuck fast; indeed the one temptation which I firmly and +constantly resisted was the temptation to write morning, noon, and +night. Sometimes I had a horrible fear that I might not live to set +down what was so clear in my mind; but there is a certain freshness +which comes of self-restraint. Day after day, as I strolled, and read, +and talked, I used to hug myself at the thought of the beloved evening +hours that were coming, when I should fling myself upon the book with a +passionate zest, and feel it grow under my hand. And then it was done! +I remember writing the last words, and the conviction came upon me that +it was the end. There was more to be told; the story stretched on into +the distance; but it was as though the frame of the picture had +suddenly fallen upon the canvas, and I knew that just so much and no +more was to be seen. And then, as though to show me plainly that the +work was over, the next day came an event which drew my mind off the +book. I had had a period of unclouded health and leisure, everything +had combined to help me, and then this event, of which I need not +speak, came and closed the book at the right moment. +</P> + +<P> +What wonder if one grows fatalistic about writing; that one feels that +one can only say what is given one to say! And now, dry and arid as my +mind is, I would give all I have for a renewal of that beautiful glow, +which I cannot recover. It is misery—I can conceive no greater—to be +bound hand and foot in this helpless silence. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +November 6, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +It is a joy to think of the way in which the best, most beautiful, most +permanent things have stolen unnoticed into life. I like to think of +Wordsworth, an obscure, poor, perverse, absurd man, living in the +corner of the great house at Alfoxden, walking in the moonlight with +Coleridge, living on milk and eggs, utterly unaccountable and puerile +to the sensible man of affairs, while the two planned the Lyrical +Ballads. I like to think of Keats, sitting lazily and discontentedly in +the villa garden at Hampstead, with his illness growing upon him and +his money melting away, scribbling the "Ode to the Nightingale," and +caring so little about the fate of it that it was only by chance, as it +were, that the pencil scraps were rescued from the book where he had +shut them. I love to think of Charlotte Bronte, in the bare kitchen of +the little house in the grey, wind-swept village on the edge of the +moorland, penning, in sickness and depression, the scenes of Jane Eyre, +without a thought that she was doing anything unusual or lasting. We +surround such scenes with a heavenly halo, born of the afterglow of +fame; we think them romantic, beautiful, thrilled and flushed by +passionate joy; but there was little that was delightful about them at +the time. +</P> + +<P> +The most beautiful of all such scenes is the tale of the maiden-wife in +the stable at Bethlehem, with the pain and horror and shame of the +tragic experience, in all its squalid publicity, told in those simple +words, which I never hear without a smile that is full of tears, +BECAUSE THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THEM IN THE INN. We poor human souls, +knowing what that event has meant for the race, make the bare, ugly +place seemly and lovely, surrounding the Babe with a tapestry of +heavenly forms, holy lights, rapturous sounds; taking the terror and +the meanness of the scene away, and thereby, by our clumsy handling, +losing the divine seal of the great mystery, the fact that hope can +spring, in unstained and sublime radiance, from the vilest, lowest, +meanest, noisiest conditions that can well be conceived. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +November 20, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +I wonder aimlessly what it is that makes a book, a picture, a piece of +music, a poem, great. When any of these things has become a part of +one's mind and soul, utterly and entirely familiar, one is tempted to +think that the precise form of them is inevitable. That is a great +mistake. +</P> + +<P> +Here is a tiny instance. I see that in the "Lycidas" Milton wrote:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Who would not sing for Lycidas? He WELL knew<BR> + Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The word "well" occurs in two MSS., and it seems to have been struck +out in the proof. The introduction of the word seems barbarous, +unmetrical, an outrage on the beauty of the line. Yet Milton must have +thought that it was needed, and have only decided by an after-thought +that it was better away. If it had been printed so, we should equally +have thought its omission barbarous and inartistic. +</P> + +<P> +And thus, to an artist, there must be many ways of working out a +conception. I do not believe in the theory that the form is so +inevitable, because what great artist was ever perfectly content with +the form? The greater the artist, the more conscious he probably is of +the imperfection of his work; and if it could be bettered, how is it +then inevitable? It is only our familiarity with it that gives it +inevitableness. A beautiful building gains its mellow outline by a +hundred accidents of wear and weather, never contemplated by the +designer's mind. We love it so, we would not have it otherwise; but we +should have loved it just as intensely if it had been otherwise. Only a +small part, then, of the greatness of artistic work is what we +ourselves bring to it; and it becomes great, not only from itself, but +from the fact that it fits our minds as the dagger fits the sheath. The +greatness of a conception depends largely upon its being near enough to +our own conceptions, and yet a little greater, just as the vault of a +great church gives one a larger sense of immensity than the sky with +its sailing clouds. Indeed it is often the very minuteness of a +conception rather than its vastness that makes it great. It must not be +outside our range. As to the form, it depends upon some curious +felicity of hand, and touch, and thought. Suppose that a great painter +gave a rough pencil-sketch of a picture to a hundred students, and told +them all to work it out in colour. Some few of the results would be +beautiful, the majority would be still uninteresting and tame. +</P> + +<P> +Thus I am somewhat of a fatalist about art, because it seems to depend +upon a lucky union of conception and technical instinct. The saddest +proof of which is that many good and even great artists have not +improved in greatness as their skill improved. The youthful works of +genius are generally the best, their very crudities and stiffnesses +adorable. +</P> + +<P> +The history of art and literature alike seems to point to the fact that +each artistic soul has a flowering period, which generally comes early, +rarely comes late; and therefore the supreme artist ought also to know +when the bloom is over, when his good work is done. And then, I think, +he ought to be ready to abjure his art, to drown his book, like +Prospero, and set himself to live rather than to produce. But what a +sacrifice to demand of a man, and how few attain it! Most men cannot do +without their work, and go on to the end producing more feeble, more +tired, more mannerised work, till they cloud the beauty of their prime +by masses of inferior and uninspired production. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +November 24, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Soft wintry skies, touched with faintest gleams of colour, like a +dove's wing, blue plains and heights, over the nearer woodland; +everywhere fallen rotting leaf and oozy water-channel; everything, tint +and form, restrained, austere, delicate; nature asleep and breathing +gently in the cool airs; a tranquil and sober hopefulness abroad. +</P> + +<P> +I walked alone in deep woodland lanes, content for once to rest and +dream. The country seemed absolutely deserted; such labour as was going +forward was being done in barn and byre; beasts being fed, hurdles made. +</P> + +<P> +I passed in a solitary road a draggled ugly woman, a tramp, wheeling an +old perambulator full of dingy clothes and sordid odds and ends; she +looked at me sullenly and suspiciously. Where she was going God knows: +to camp, I suppose, in some dingle, with ugly company; to beg, to lie, +to purloin, perhaps to drink; but by the perambulator walked a little +boy, seven or eight years old, grotesquely clothed in patched and +clumsy garments; he held on to the rim, dirty, unkempt; but he was +happy too; he was with his mother, of whom he had no fear; he had been +fed as the birds are fed; he had no anxious thoughts of the future, and +as he went, he crooned to himself a soft song, like the piping of a +finch in a wayside thicket. What was in his tiny mind and heart? I do +not know; but perhaps a little touch of the peace of God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +November 26, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Another visitor! I am not sure that his visit is not a more +distinguished testimonial than any I have yet received. He is a young +Don with a very brilliant record indeed. He wrote to ask if he might +have the honour of calling, and renewing a very slight acquaintance. He +came and conquered. I am still crushed and battered by his visit. I +feel like a land that has been harried by an invading army. Let me see +if, dizzy and unmanned as I am, I call recall some of the incidents of +his visit. He has only been gone an hour, yet I feel as though a month +had elapsed since he entered the room, since I was a moderately happy +man. He is a very pleasant fellow to look at, small, trim, +well-appointed, courteous, friendly, with a deferential air. His eyes +gleam brightly through his glasses, and he has brisk dexterous +gestures. He was genial enough till he settled down upon literature, +and since then what waves and storms have gone over me! I have or had a +grovelling taste for books; I possess a large number, and I thought I +had read them. But I feel now, not so much as if I had read the wrong +ones, but as if those I had read were only, so to speak, the anterooms +and corridors which led to the really important books—and of them, it +seems, I know nothing. Epigrams flowed from his tongue, brilliant +characterisations, admirable judgments. He had "placed" every one, and +literature to him seemed like a great mosaic in which he knew the +position of every cube. He knew all the movements and tendencies of +literature, and books seemed to him to be important, not because they +had a message for the mind and heart, but because they illustrated a +tendency, or were a connecting link in a chain. He quoted poems I had +never heard of, he named authors I had never read. He did it all +modestly and quietly enough, with no parade, (I want to do him full +justice) but with an evidently growing disappointment to find that he +had fallen among savages. I am sure that his conclusion was that +authors of popular novels were very shallow, ill-informed people, and I +am sure I wholly agreed with him. Good heavens, what a mind the man +had, how stored with knowledge! how admirably equipped! Nothing that he +had ever put away in his memory seemed to have lost its colour or +outline; and he knew, moreover, how to lay his hand upon everything. +Indeed, it seemed to me that his mind was like an emporium, with +everything in the world arranged on shelves, all new and varnished and +bright, and that he knew precisely the place of everything. I became +the prey of hopeless depression; when I tried to join in, I confused +writers and dates; he set me right, not patronisingly but paternally. +"Ah, but you will remember," he said, and "Yes, but we must not +overlook the fact that"—adding, with admirable humility, "Of course +these are small points, but it is my business to know them." Now I find +myself wondering why I disliked knowledge, communicated thus, so much +as I did. It may be envy and jealousy, it may be humiliation and +despair. But I do not honestly think that it is. I am quite sure I do +not want to possess that kind of knowledge. It is the very sharpness +and clearness of outline about it all that I dislike. The things that +he knows have not become part of his mind in any way: they are stored +away there, like walnuts; and I feel that I have been pelted with +walnuts, deluged and buried in walnuts. The things which my visitor +knows have undergone no change, they have not been fused and blended by +his personality; they have not affected his mind, nor has his mind +affected them. I don't wish to despise or to decry his knowledge; as a +lecturer, he must be invaluable; but he treats literature as a purveyor +might—it has not been food to him, but material and stock-in-trade. +Some of the poetry we talked about—Elizabethan lyrics—grow in my mind +like flowers in a copse; in his mind they are planted in rows, with +their botanical names on tickets. The worst of it is that I do not even +feel encouraged to fill up my gaps of knowledge, or to master the +history of tendency. I feel as if he had rather trampled down the +hyacinths and anemones in my wild and uncultivated woodlands. I should +like, in a dim way, to have his knowledge as well as my own +appreciation, but I would not exchange my knowledge for his. The value +of a lyric or a beautiful sentence, for me, is its melody, its charm, +its mysterious thrill; and there are many books and poems, which I know +to be excellent of their kind, but which have no meaning or message for +me. He seems to think that it is important to have complete texts of +old authors, and I do not think that he makes much distinction between +first-rate and second-rate work. In fact, I think that his view of +literature is the sociological view, and he seems to care more about +tendencies and influences than about the beauty and appeal of +literature. I do not go so far as to say or to think that literature +cannot be treated scientifically; but I feel as I feel about the doctor +in Balzac, I think, who, when his wife cried upon his shoulder, said, +"Hold, I have analysed tears," adding that they contained so much +chlorate of sodium and so much mucus. The truth is that he is a +philosopher, and that I am an individualist; but it leaves me with an +intense desire to be left alone in my woodland, or, at all events, not +to walk there with a ruthless botanist! +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +November 29, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +I have heard this morning of the suicide of an old friend. Is it +strange to say that I have heard the news with an unfeigned relief, +even gladness? He was formerly a charming and brilliant creature, full +of enthusiasm and artistic impulses, fitful, wayward, wilful. Somehow +he missed his footing; he fell into disreputable courses; he did +nothing, but drifted about, planning many things, executing nothing. +The last time I saw him was exquisitely painful; we met by appointment, +and I could see that he had tried to screw himself up for the interview +by stimulants. The ghastly feigning of cheerfulness, the bloated face, +the trembling hands, told the sad tale. And now that it is all over, +the shame and the decay, the horror of his having died by his own act +is a purely conventional one. One talks pompously about the selfishness +of it, but it is one of the most unselfish things poor Dick has ever +done; he was a burden and a misery to all those who cared for him. +Recovery was, I sincerely believe, impossible. His was a fine, +uplifted, even noble spirit in youth, but there were terrible +hereditary influences at work, and I cannot honestly say that I think +he was wholly responsible for his sins. If I could think that this act +was done reasonably, in a solemn and recollected spirit, and was not a +mere frightened scurrying out of life, I should be, I believe, wholly +glad. I do not see that any one had anything to gain by his continuing +to live; and if reason is given us to use, to guide our actions by, it +seems to me that we do right to obey it. Suicide may, of course, be a +selfish and a cowardly thing, but the instinct of self-preservation is +so strong that a man must always manifest a certain courage in making +such a decision. The sacrifice of one's own life is not necessarily and +absolutely an immoral thing, because it is always held to be justified +if one's motive is to save another. It is purely, I believe, a question +of motive; whatever poor Dick's motives were, it was certainly the +kindest and bravest thing that he could do; and I look upon his life as +having been as naturally ended as if he had died of disease or by an +accident. There is not a single one of his friends who would not have +been thankful if he had died in the course of nature; and I for one am +even more thankful as it is, because it seems to me that his act +testifies to some tenderness, some consideration for others, as well as +to a degree of resolution with which I had not credited him. +</P> + +<P> +Of course such a thing deepens the mystery of the world; but such an +act as this is not to me half as mysterious as the action of an +omnipotent Power which allowed so bright and gracious a creature as +Dick was long ago to drift into ugly, sordid, and irreparable misery. +Yet it seems to me now that Dick has at last trusted God completely, +made the last surrender, and put his miserable case in the Father's +hands. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 2, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +As I came home to-night, moving slowly westward along deserted roads, +among wide and solitary fields, in the frosty twilight, I passed a +great pale fallow, in the far corner of which, beside a willow-shaded +stream, a great heap of weeds was burning, tended by a single lonely +figure raking in the smouldering pile. A dense column of thick smoke +came volleying from the heap, that went softly and silently up into the +orange-tinted sky; some forty feet higher the smoke was caught by a +moving current of air; much of it ascended higher still, but the thin +streak of moving wind caught and drew out upon itself a long weft of +aerial vapour, that showed a delicate blue against the rose-flushed +west. The long lines of leafless trees, the faint outlines of the low +distant hills, seemed wrapped in meditative silence, dreaming +wistfully, as the earth turned her broad shoulder to the night, and as +the forlorn and chilly sunset faded by soft degrees on the horizon. As +the day thus died, the frost made itself felt, touching the hedgerows +with rime, and crisping the damp road beneath my feet. The end drew on +with a mournful solemnity; but the death of the light seemed a +perfectly natural and beautiful thing, not an event to be grieved over +or regretted, but all part of a sweet and grave progress, in which +silence and darkness seemed, not an interruption to the eager life of +the world, but a happy suspension of activity and life. I was haunted, +as I often am at sunset, by a sense that the dying light was trying to +show me some august secret, some gracious mystery, which would silence +and sustain the soul could it but capture it. Some great and wonderful +presence seemed to hold up a hand, with a gesture half of invitation, +half of compassion for my blindness. Down there, beyond the lines of +motionless trees, where the water gleamed golden in the reaches of the +stream, the secret brooded, withdrawing itself resistlessly into the +glowing west. A wistful yearning filled my soul to enter into that +incommunicable peace. Yet if one could take the wings of the morning, +and follow that flying zone of light, as swiftly as the air, one could +pursue the same sunset all the world over, and see the fiery face of +the sun ever sinking to his setting, over the broad furrows of moving +seas, over tangled tropic forests, out to the shapeless wintry land of +the south. Day by day has the same pageant enacted itself, for who can +tell what millions of years. And in that vast perspective of weltering +aeons has come the day when God has set me here, a tiny sentient point, +conscious, in a sense, of it all, and conscious too that, long after I +sleep in the dust, the same strange and beautiful thing will be +displayed age after age. And yet it is all outside of me, all without. +I am a part of it, yet with no sense of my unity with it. That is the +marvellous and bewildering thing, that each tiny being like myself has +the same sense of isolation, of distinctness, of the perfectly rounded +life, complete faculties, independent existence. Another day is done, +and leaves me as bewildered, as ignorant as ever, as aware of my small +limitations, as lonely and uncomforted. +</P> + +<P> +Who shall show me why I love, with this deep and thirsty intensity, the +array of gold and silver light, these mist-hung fields with their soft +tints, the glow that flies and fades, the cold veils of frosty vapour? +Thousands of men and women have seen the sunset pass, loving it even as +I love it. They have gone into the silence as I too shall go, and no +hint comes back as to whether they understand and are satisfied. +</P> + +<P> +And now I turn in at the well-known gate, and see the dark gables of my +house, with the high elms of the grove outlined against the pale sky. +The cheerful windows sparkle with warmth and light, welcoming me, fresh +from the chilly air, out of the homeless fields. With such array of +cheerful usages I beguile my wondering heart, and chase away the wild +insistent thoughts, the deep yearnings that thrill me. Thus am I bidden +to desire and to be unsatisfied, to rest and marvel not, to stay, on +this unsubstantial show of peace and security, the aching and wondering +will. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 4, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Writing, like music, ought to have two dimensions—a horizontal +movement of melody, a perpendicular depth of tone. A person unskilled +in music can only recognise a single horizontal movement, an air. One +who is a little more skilled can recognise the composition of a chord. +A real musician can read a score horizontally, with all its contrasting +and combining melodies. Sometimes one gets, in writing, a piece of +horizontal structure, a firm and majestic melody, with but little +harmony. Such are the great spare, strong stories of the old world. +Modern writing tends to lay much more emphasis upon depth of colour, +and the danger there is that such writing may become a mere +structureless modulation, The perfect combination is to get firm +structure, sparingly and economically enriched by colour, but colour +always subordinated to structure. When I was young I undervalued +structure and overvalued colour; but it was a good training in a way, +because I learned to appreciate the vital necessity of structure, and I +learnt the command of harmony. What is it that gives structure? It is +firm and clear intellectual conception, the grasp of form and +proportion; while colour is given by depth and richness of personality, +by power of perception, and still more by the power of fusing +perception with personality. The important thing here is that the thing +perceived and felt should not simply be registered and pigeon-holed, +but that it should become a cell of the writer's soul, respond to his +pulse, be animated by his vital forces. +</P> + +<P> +Now, in my present state, I have lost my hold on melody in some way or +other; my creative intellectual power has struck work; and when I try +to exercise it, I can only produce vague textures of modulated +thoughts—things melodious in themselves, but ineffective because they +are isolated effects, instead of effects emphasising points, crises, +climaxes. I have strained some mental muscle, I suppose; but the +unhappy part of the situation is that I have not lost the desire to use +it. +</P> + +<P> +It would be a piece of good fortune for me now if I could fall in with +some vigorous mind who could give me a lead, indicate a subject. But +then the work that resulted would miss unity, I think. What I ought to +be content to do is to garner more impressions; but I seem to be +surfeited of impressions. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 10, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +To-day I stumbled upon one of my old childish books—Grimm's Household +Stories. I am ashamed to say how long I read it. These old tales, which +I used to read as transcripts of marvellous and ancient facts, have, +many of them, gained for me, through experience of life, a beautiful +and symbolical value; one in particular, the tale of Karl Katz. +</P> + +<P> +Karl used to feed his goats in the ruins of an old castle, high up +above the stream. Day after day one of his herd used to disappear, +coming back in the evening to join the homeward procession, very fat +and well-liking. So Karl set himself to watch, and saw that the goat +slipped in at a hole in the masonry. He enlarged the hole, and +presently was able to creep into a dark passage. He made his way along, +and soon heard a sound like a falling hailstorm. He groped his way +thither, and found the goat, in the dim light, feeding on grains of +corn which came splashing down from above. He looked and listened, and, +from the sounds of stamping and neighing overhead, he became aware that +the grain was failing through the chinks of a paved floor from a stable +inside the hill. I forget at this moment what happened next—the story +is rich in inconsequent details—but Karl shortly heard a sound like +thunder, which he discerned at last to be persons laughing and shouting +and running in the vaulted passages. He stole on, and found, in an +open, grassy place, great merry men playing at bowls. He was welcomed +and set down in a chair, though he could not even lift one of the bowls +when invited to join in the game. A dwarf brought him wine in a cup, +which he drank, and presently he fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +When he woke, all was silent and still; he made his way back; the goats +were gone, and it was the early morning, all misty and dewy among the +ruins, when he squeezed out of the hole. +</P> + +<P> +He felt strangely haggard and tired, and reached the village only to +find that seventy years had elapsed, and that he was an old and +forgotten man, with no place for him. He had lost his home, and though +there were one or two old grandfathers, spent and dying, who remembered +the day when he was lost, and the search made for him, yet now there +was no room for the old man. The gap had filled up, life had flowed on. +They had grieved for him, but they did not want him back. He disturbed +their arrangements; he was another useless mouth to feed. +</P> + +<P> +The pretty old story is full of parables, sad and sweet. But the kernel +of the tale is a warning to all who, for any wilfulness or curiosity, +however romantic or alluring the quest, forfeit their place for an +instant in the world. You cannot return. Life accommodates itself to +its losses, and however sincerely a man may be lamented, yet if he +returns, if he tries to claim his place, he is in the way, de trop. No +one has need of him. +</P> + +<P> +An artist has most need of this warning, because he of all men is +tempted to enter the dark place in the hill, to see wonderful things +and to drink the oblivious wine. Let him rather keep his hold on the +world, at whatever sacrifice. Because by the time that he has explored +the home of the merry giants, and dreamed his dream, the world to which +he tries to tell the vision will heed it not, but treat it as a +fanciful tale. +</P> + +<P> +All depends on the artist being in league with his day; if he is born +too early or too late, he has no hold on the world, no message for it. +Either he is a voice out of the past, an echo of old joys, piping a +forgotten message, or he is fanciful, unreal, visionary, if he sees and +tries to utter what shall be. By the time that events confirm his +foresight, the vitality of his prophecy is gone, and he is only looked +at with a curious admiration, as one that had a certain clearness of +vision, but no more; he is called into court by the historian of +tendency, but he has had no hold on living men. +</P> + +<P> +One sees men of great artistic gifts who suffer from each of these +disadvantages. One sees poets, born in a prosaic age, who would have +won high fame if they had been born in an age of poets. And one sees, +too, men who seem to struggle with big, unintelligible thoughts, +thoughts which do not seem to fit on to anything existing. The happy +artist is the man who touches the note which awakens a responsive echo +in many hearts; the man who instinctively uses the medium of the time, +and who neither regrets the old nor portends the new. +</P> + +<P> +Karl Katz must content himself, if he can find a corner and a crust, +with the memory of the day when the sun lay hot among the ruins, with +the thought of the pleasant coolness of the vault, the leaping shower +of corn, the thunder of the imprisoned feet, the heroic players, the +heady wine. That must be enough for him. He has had a taste, let him +remember, of marvels hidden from common eyes and ears. Let it be for +him to muse in the sun, and to be grateful for the space of +recollection given him. If he had lived the life of the world, he would +but have had a treasure of simple memories, much that was sordid, much +that was sad. +</P> + +<P> +But now he has his own dreams, and he must pay the price in heaviness +and dreariness! +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 14, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +The danger of art as an occupation is that one uses life, looks at +life, as so much material for one's art. Life becomes a province of +art, instead of art being a province of life. That is all a sad +mistake, perhaps an irreparable mistake! I walked to-day on the crisp +frozen snow, down the valley, by field-paths, among leafless copses and +wood-ends. The stream ran dark and cold, between its brambly banks; the +snow lay pure and smooth on the high-sloping fields. It made a heart of +whiteness in the covert, the trees all delicately outlined, the hazels +weaving an intricate pattern. All perfectly and exquisitely beautiful. +Sight after sight of subtle and mysterious beauty, vignette after +vignette, picture after picture. If I could but sing it, or say it, +depict or record it, I thought to myself! Yet I could not analyse what +the desire was. I do not think I wished to interpret the sight to +others, or even to capture it for myself. No matter at what season of +the year I pass through the valley, it is always filled from end to end +with beauty, ever changing, perishing, ever renewing itself. In spring +the copse is full of tender points of green, uncrumpling and uncurling. +The hyacinths make a carpet of steely blue, the anemones weave their +starred tapestry. In the summer, the grove hides its secret, dense with +leaf, the heavy-seeded grass rises in the field, the tall flowering +plants make airy mounds of colour; in autumn, the woods blaze with +orange and gold, the air is heavy with the scent of the dying leaf. In +winter, the eye dwells with delight upon the spare low tints; and when +the snow falls and lies, as it does to-day, the whole scene has a still +and mournful beauty, a pure economy of contrasted light and gloom. Yet +the trained perception of the artist does not dwell upon the thought of +the place as upon a perpetual feast of beauty and delight. Rather, it +shames me to reflect, one dwells upon it as a quarry of effects, where +one can find and detach the note of background, the sweet symbol that +will lend point and significance to the scene that one is labouring at. +Instead of being content to gaze, to listen, to drink in, one thinks +only what one can carry away and make one's own. If one's art were +purely altruistic, if one's aim were to emphasise some sweet aspect of +nature which the careless might otherwise overlook or despise; or even +if the sight haunted one like a passion, and fed the heart with hope +and love, it would be well. But does one in reality feel either of +these purposes? Speaking candidly, I do not. I care very little for my +message to the world. It is true that I have a deep and tender love for +the gracious things of earth; but I cannot be content with that. One +thinks of Wordsworth, rapt in contemplation, sitting silent for a whole +morning, his eyes fixed upon the pool of the moorland stream, or the +precipice with the climbing ashes. It was like a religion to him, a +communion with something holy and august which in that moment drew near +to his soul. But with me it is different. To me the passion is to +express it, to embalm it, in phrase or word, not for my pride in my +art, not for any desire to give the treasure to others, but simply, so +it seems, in obedience to a tyrannous instinct to lend the thought, the +sight, another shape. I despair of defining the feeling. It is partly a +desire to arrest the fleeting moment, to give it permanence in the +ruinous lapse of things, the same feeling that made old Herrick say to +the daffodils, "We weep to see you haste away so soon." Partly the joy +of the craftsman in making something that shall please the eye and ear. +It is not the desire to create, as some say, but to record. For when +one writes an impassioned scene, it seems no more an act of creation +than one feels about one's dreams. The wonder of dreams is that one +does not make them; they come upon one with all the pleasure of +surprise and experience. They are there; and so, when one indulges +imagination, one does not make, one merely tells the dream. It is this +that makes art so strange and sad an occupation, that one lives in a +beautiful world, which does not seem to be of one's own designing, but +from which one is awakened, in terror and disgust, by bodily pain, +discomfort, anxiety, loss. Yet it seems useless to say that life is +real and imagination unreal. They are both there, both real. The danger +is to use life to feed the imagination, not to use imagination to feed +life. In these sad weeks I have been like a sleeper awakened. The world +of imagination, in which I have lived and moved, has crumbled into +pieces over my head; the wind and rain beat through the flimsy +dwelling, and I must arise and go. I have sported with life as though +it were a pretty plaything; and I find it turn upon me like a wild +beast, gaunt, hungry, angry. I am terrified by its evil motions, I +sicken at its odour. That is the deep mystery and horror of life, that +one yields unerringly to blind and imperious instincts, not knowing +which may lead us into green and fertile pastures of hope and happy +labour, and which may draw us into thorny wildernesses. The old fables +are true, that one must not trust the smiling presences, the beguiling +words. Yet how is one to know which of the forms that beckon us we may +trust. Must we learn the lesson by sad betrayals, by dark catastrophes? +I have wandered, it seems, along a flowery path—and yet I have not +gathered the poisonous herbs of sin; I have loved innocence and +goodness; but for all that I have followed a phantom, and now that it +is too late to retrace my steps, I find that I have been betrayed. I +feel +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "As some bold seer in a trance<BR> + Seeing all his own mischance."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Well, at least one may still be bold! +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 22, 1888. +</H4> + +<P> +Perhaps my trial comes to me that it may test my faith in art; perhaps +to show me that the artist's creed is a false and shallow one after +all. What is it that we artists do? In a happy hour I should have said +glibly that we discern and interpret beauty. But now it seems to me +that no man can ever live upon beauty. I think I have gone wrong in +busying myself so ardently in trying to discern the quality of beauty +in all things. I seem to have submitted everything—virtue, honour, +life itself—to that test. I appear to myself like an artist who has +devoted himself entirely to the appreciation of colour, who is suddenly +struck colour-blind; he sees the forms of things as clearly as ever, +but they are dreary and meaningless. I seem to have tried everything, +even conduct, by an artistic standard, and the quality which I have +devoted myself to discerning has passed suddenly out of life. And my +mistake has been all the more grievous, because I have always believed +that it was life of which I was in search. There are three great +writers—two of them artists as well—whose personality has always +interested me profoundly—Ruskin, Carlyle, Rossetti. But I have never +been able wholly to admire the formal and deliberate products of their +minds. Ruskin as an art-critic—how profoundly unfair, prejudiced, +unjust he is! He has made up his mind about the merit of an artist; he +will lay down a principle about accuracy in art, and to what extent +imagination may improve upon vision; and then he will abuse Claude for +modifying a scene, in the same breath, and for the same reasons, with +which he will praise Turner for exaggerating one. He will use the same +stick that he throws for one dog to fetch, to beat another dog that he +dislikes. Of course he says fine and suggestive things by the way, and +he did a great work in inspiring people to look for beauty, though he +misled many feeble spirits into substituting one convention for +another. I cannot read a page of his formal writings without anger and +disgust. Yet what a beautiful, pathetic, noble spirit he had! The +moment he writes, simply and tenderly, from his own harrowed heart, he +becomes a dear and honoured friend. In Praeterita, in his diaries and +letters, in his familiar and unconsidered utterances, he is perfectly +delightful, conscious of his own waywardness and whimsicality; but when +he lectures and dictates, he is like a man blowing wild blasts upon a +shrill trumpet. Then Carlyle—his big books, his great tawdry, smoky +pictures of scenes, his loud and clumsy moralisations, his perpetual +thrusting of himself into the foreground, like some obstreperous +showman; he wearies and dizzies my brain with his raucous clamour, his +uncouth convolutions. I saw the other day a little Japanese picture of +a boat in a stormy sea, the waves beating over it; three warriors in +the boat lie prostrate and rigid with terror and misery. Above, through +a rent in the clouds, is visible an ugly grotesque figure, with a +demoniacal leer on his face, beating upon a number of drums. The +picture is entitled "The Thunder-God beats his drums." Well, Carlyle +seems to me like that; he has no pity for humanity, he only likes to +add to its terrors and its bewilderment. He preached silence and +seclusion to men of activity, energy to men of contemplation. He was +furious, whatever humanity did, whether it slept or waked. His message +is the message of the booming gale, and the swollen cataract. Yet in +his diaries and letters, what splendid perception, what inimitable +humour, what rugged emotion! I declare that Carlyle's thumbnail +portraits of people and scenes are some of the most admirable things +ever set down on paper. I love and admire the old furious, +disconsolate, selfish fellow with all my heart; though he was a bad +husband, he was a true friend, for all his discordant cries and groans. +Then there is Rossetti—a man who wrote a few incredibly beautiful +poems, and in whom one seems to feel the inner fire and glow of art. +Yet many of his pictures are to me little but voluptuous and wicked +dreams; and his later sonnets are full of poisonous fragrance—poetry +embroidered and scented, not poetry felt. What a generous, royal +prodigal nature he had, till he sank into his drugged and indulgent +seclusion! Here then are three great souls. Ruskin, the pure lover of +things noble and beautiful, but shadowed by a prim perversity, an +old-maidish delicacy, a petulant despair. Carlyle, a great, rugged, and +tumultuous heart, brutalised by ill-health, morbidity, selfishness. +Rossetti, a sort of day-star in art, stepping forth like an angel, to +fall lower than Lucifer. What is the meaning of these strange +catastrophes, these noble natures so infamously hampered? In the three +cases, it seems to be that melancholy, brooding over a world, so +exquisitely designed and yet so unaccountably marred, drove one to +madness, one to gloom, one to sensuality. We believe or try to believe +that God is pure and loving and true, and that His Heart is with all +that is noble and hopeful and high. Yet the more generous the +character, the deeper is the fall! Can such things be meant to show us +that we have no concern with art at all; and that our only hope is to +cling to bare, austere, simple, uncomforted virtue? Ought we to try to +think of art only as an innocent amusement and diversion for our +leisure hours? As a quest to which no man may vow himself, save at the +cost of walking in a vain shadow all his days? Ought we to steel our +hearts against the temptation, which seems to be implanted as deep as +anything in my own nature—nay, deeper—to hold that what one calls +ugliness and bad taste is of the nature of sin? But what then is the +meaning of the tyrannous instinct to select and to represent, to +capture beauty? Ought it to be enough to see beauty in the things +around us, in flowers and light, to hear it in the bird's song and the +falling stream—to perceive it thus gratefully and thankfully, and to +go back to our simple lives? I do not know; it is all a great mystery; +it is so hard to believe that God should put these ardent, delicious, +sweet, and solemn instincts into our spirits, simply that we may learn +our error in following them. And yet I feel with a sad certainty to-day +that I have somehow missed the way, and that God cannot or will not +help me to find it. Are we then bidden and driven to wander? Or is +there indeed some deep and perfect secret of peace and tranquillity, +which we are meant to find? Does it perhaps lie open to our eyes—as +when one searches a table over and over for some familiar object, which +all the while is there before us, plain to touch or sight? +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +January 3, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +There is a tiny vignette of Blake's, a woodcut, I think, in which one +sees a ladder set up to the crescent moon from a bald and bare corner +of the globe. There are two figures that seem to be conversing +together; on the ladder itself, just setting his foot to the lowest +rung, is the figure of a man who is beginning to climb in a furious +hurry. "I want, I want," says the little legend beneath. The execution +is trivial enough; it is all done, and not very well done, in a space +not much bigger than a postage-stamp—but it is one of the many cases +in which Blake, by a minute symbol, expressed a large idea. One wonders +if he knew how large an idea it was. It is a symbol for me of all the +vague, eager, intense longing of the world, the desire of satisfaction, +of peace, of fulfilment, of perfection; the power that makes people +passionately religious, that makes souls so much greater and stronger +than they appear to themselves to be. It is the thought that makes us +at moments believe intensely and urgently in the justice, the mercy, +the perfect love of God, even at moments when everything round us +appears to contradict the idea. It is the outcome of that strange right +to happiness which we all feel, the instinct that makes us believe of +pain and grief that they are abnormal, and will be, must be, set right +and explained somewhere. The thought comes to me most poignantly at +sunset, when trees and chimneys stand up dark against the fiery glow, +and when the further landscape lies smiling, lapt in mist, on the verge +of dreams; that moment always seems to speak to me with a personal +voice. "Yes," it seems to say, "I am here and everywhere—larger, +sweeter, truer, more gracious than anything you have ever dreamed of or +hoped for—but the time to know all is not yet." I cannot explain the +feeling or interpret it; but it has sometimes seemed to me, in such +moments, that I am, in very truth, not a child of God, but a part of +Himself—separated from Him for a season, imprisoned, for some strange +and beautiful purpose, in the chains of matter, remembering faintly and +obscurely something that I have lost, as a man strives to recall a +beautiful dream that has visited him. It is then that one most desires +to be strong and free, to be infinitely patient and tender and loving, +to be different. And then one comes back to the world with a sense of +jar and shock, to broken purposes, and dull resentments, to unkindly +thoughts, and people who do not even pretend to wish one well. I have +been trying with all my might in these desolate weeks to be brave and +affectionate and tender, and I have not succeeded. It is easy enough, +when one is happily occupied for a part of the day, but when one is +restless, dissatisfied, impatient, ineffective, it is a constant and a +weary effort. And what is more, I dislike sympathy. I would rather bear +a thing in solitude and silence. I have no self-pity, and it is +humiliating and weakening to be pitied. Yet of course Maud knows that I +am unhappy; and the wretchedness of it is that it has introduced a +strain into our relations which I have never felt before. I sit +reading, trying to pass the hours, trying to stifle thought. I look up +and see her eyes fixed on me full of compassion and love—and I do not +want compassion. Maud knows it, divines it all; but she can no more +keep her compassion hidden than I can keep my unrest hidden. I have +grown irritable, suspicious, hard to live with. Yet with all my heart +and soul I desire to be patient, tolerant, kindly, sweet-tempered. +FitzGerald said somewhere that ill-health makes all of us villains. +This is the worst of it, that for all my efforts I get weaker, more +easily vexed, more discontented. I do not and cannot trace the smallest +benefit which results to me or any one else from my unhappiness. The +shadow of it has even fallen over my relations with the children, who +are angelically good. Maggie, with that divine instinct which women +possess—what a perfectly beautiful thing it is!—has somehow contrived +to discern that things are amiss with me, and I can perceive that she +tries all that her little heart and mind can devise to please, soothe, +interest me. But I do not want to be ministered to, exquisite as the +instinct is in the child; and all the time I am as far off my object as +ever. I cannot work, I cannot think. I have said fine things in my +books about the discipline of reluctant suffering; and now my feeling +is that I could bear any other kind of trial better. It seems to be +given to me with an almost demoniacal prescience of what should most +dishearten me. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "It would not school the shuddering will<BR> + To patience, were it sweet to bear,"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +says an old poet; and it is true, I have no doubt; but, good God, to +think that a man, so richly dowered as I am with every conceivable +blessing, should yet have so small a reserve of faith and patience! +Even now I can frame epigrams about it. "To learn to be content not to +be content"—that is the secret—but meanwhile I stumble in dark paths, +through the grove nullo penetrabilis astro, where men have wandered +before now. It seems fine and romantic enough, when one thinks of +another soul in torment. One remembers the old sage, reading quietly at +a sunset hour, who had a sudden vision of the fate that should befall +him. His book falls from his hands, he sits there, a beautiful and +venerable figure enough, staring heavily into the void. It makes me +feel that I shall never dare to draw the picture of a man in the grip +of suffering again; I have had so little of it in my life, and I have +drawn it with a luxurious artistic emotion. I remember once saying of a +friend that his work was light and trivial, because he had never +descended into hell. Now that I have myself set foot there, I feel art +and love, and life itself, shrivel in the relentless chill—for it is +icy cold and drearily bright in hell, not dark and fiery, as poets have +sung! I feel that I could wrestle better with the loss of health, of +wealth, of love, for there would be something to bear, some burden to +lift. Now there is nothing to bear, except a blank purposelessness +which eats the heart out of me. I am in the lowest place, in the +darkness and the deep. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +January 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Snow underfoot this morning; and a brown blink on the horizon which +shows that more is coming. I have the odd feeling that I have never +really seen my house before, the snow lights it all up so strangely, +tinting the ceilings a glowing white, touching up high lights on the +top of picture-frames, and throwing the lower part of the rooms into a +sort of pleasant dusk. +</P> + +<P> +Maud and the children went off this afternoon to an entertainment. I +accompanied them to the door; what a pretty effect the snow background +gives to young faces; it lends a pretty morbidezza to the colouring, a +sort of very delicate green tinge to the paler shades. That does not +sound as if it would be beautiful in a human face, but it is; the faces +look like the child-angels of Botticelli, and the pink and rose flush +of the cheeks is softly enriched and subdued; and then the soft warmth +of fair and curly hair is delicious. I was happy enough with them, in a +sort of surface happiness. The little waves at the top of the mind +broke in sunlight; but down below, the cold dark water sleeps still +enough. I left them, and took a long trudge among the valleys. Oh me! +how beautiful it all was; the snowy fields, with the dark copses and +leafless trees among them; the rich clean light everywhere, the world +seen as through a dusky crystal. Then the sun went down in state, and +the orange sky through the dark tree-stems brought me a thrill of that +strange yearning desire for something—I cannot tell what—that seems +so near and yet so far away. Yet I was sad enough too; my mind works +like a mill with no corn to grind. I can devise nothing, think of +nothing. There beats in my head a verse of a little old Latin poem, by +an unhappy man enough, in whose sorrowful soul the delight of the +beautiful moment was for ever poisoned by the thought that it was +passing, passing; and that the spirit, whatever joy might be in store +for it, could never again be at the same sweet point of its course. The +poem is about a woodcock, a belated bird that haunted the hanging +thickets of his Devonshire home. "Ah, hapless bird," he says, "for you +to-day King December is stripping these oaks; nor any hope of food do +the hazel-thickets afford." That is my case. I have lingered too late, +trusting to the ease and prodigal wealth of the summer, and now the +woods stand bare about me, while my comrades have taken wing for the +South. The beady eye, the puffed feathers grow sick and dulled with +hunger. Why cannot I rest a little in the beauty all about me? Take it +home to my shivering soul? Nay, I will not complain, even to myself. +</P> + +<P> +I came back at sundown, through the silent garden, all shrouded and +muffled with snow. The snow lay on the house, outlining the cornices, +cresting the roof-tiles, crusted sharply on the cupola, whitening the +tall chimney-stacks. The comfortable smoke went up into the still air, +and the firelight darted in the rooms. What a sense of beautiful +permanence, sweet hopefulness, fireside warmth it all gave; and it is +real as well. No life that I could have devised is so rich in love and +tranquillity as mine; everything to give me content, except the +contented mind. Why cannot I enter, seat myself in the warm firelight, +open a book, and let the old beautiful thoughts flow into my mind, till +the voices of wife and children return to gladden me, and I listen to +all that they have seen and done? Why should I rather sit, like a +disconsolate child among its bricks, feebly and sadly planning new +combinations and fantastic designs? I have done as much and more than +most of my contemporaries; what is this insensate hunger of the spirit +that urges me to work that I cannot do, for rewards that I do not want? +Why cannot I be content to dream and drowse a little? +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + "Rest, then, and rest<BR> + And think of the best,<BR> + 'Twixt summer and spring,<BR> + When no birds sing."<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +That is what I desire to do, and cannot. It is as though some creeper +that had enfolded and enringed a house with its tendrils, creeping +under window-ledges and across mellow brickwork, had been suddenly cut +off at the root, and hung faded and lustreless, not even daring to be +torn away. Yet I am alive and well, my mind is alert and vigorous, I +have no cares or anxieties, except that my heart seems hollow at the +core. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +January 12, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have had a very bad time of late. It seems futile to say anything +about it, and the plain man would rub his eyes, and wonder where the +misery lay. I have been perfectly well, and everything has gone +smoothly; but I cannot write. I have begun half-a-dozen books. I have +searched my notes through and through. I have sketched plots, written +scenes. I cannot go on with any of them. I have torn up chapters with +fierce disgust, or have laid them quietly aside. There is no vitality +in them. If I read them aloud to any one, he would wonder what was +wrong—they are as well written as my other books, as amusing, as +interesting. But it is all without energy or invention, it is all worse +than my best. The people are puppets, their words are pumped up out of +a stagnant reservoir. Everything I do reminds me of something I have +done before. If I could bring myself to finish one of these books, I +could get money and praise enough. Many people would not know the +difference. But the real and true critic would see through them; he +would discern that I had lost the secret. I think that perhaps I ought +to be content to work dully and faithfully on, to finish the poor dead +thing, to compose its dead limbs decently, to lay it out. But I cannot +do that, though it might be a moral discipline. I am not conscious of +the least mental fatigue, or loss of power—quite the reverse. I hunger +and thirst to write, but I have no invention. +</P> + +<P> +The worst of it is that it reveals to me how much the whole of my life +was built up round the hours I gave to writing. I used to read, write +letters, do business in the morning, holding myself back from the +beloved task, not thinking over it, not anticipating the pleasure, yet +aware that some secret germination was going on among the cells of the +brain. Then came the afternoon, the walk or ride, and then at last +after tea arrived the blessed hour. The chapter was all ready to be +written, and the thing flowed equably and clearly from the pen. The +passage written, I would turn to some previous chapter, which had been +type-written, smooth out the creases, enrich the dialogue, retouch the +descriptions, omit, correct, clarify. Perhaps in the evening I would +read a passage aloud, if we were alone; and how often would Maud, with +her perfect instinct, lay her finger on a weak place, show me that +something was abrupt or lengthy, expose an unreal emotion, or, best of +all, generously and whole-heartedly approve. It seems now, looking back +upon it, that it was all impossibly happy and delightful, too good to +be true. Yet I have everything that I had, except my unhappy writing; +and the want of it poisons life. I no longer seem to lie pleasantly in +ambush for pretty traits of character, humorous situations, delicate +nuances of talk. I look blankly at garden, field, and wood, because I +cannot draw from them the setting that I want. Even my close and +intimate companionship with Maud seems to have suffered, for I was like +a child, bringing the little wonders that it finds by the hedgerow to +be looked at by a loving eye. Maud is angelically tender, kind, sweet. +She tells me only to wait; she draws me on to talk; she surrounds me +with love and care. And in the midst of it all I sit, in dry misery, +hating myself for my feebleness and cowardice, keeping as far as +possible my pain to myself, brooding, feverishly straining, struggling +hopelessly to recover the clue. The savour has gone out of life; I feel +widowed, frozen, desolate. How often have I tranquilly and +good-humouredly contemplated the time when I need write no more, when +my work should be done, when I should have said all I had to say, and +could take life as it came, soberly and wisely. Now that the end has +come of itself, I feel like a hopeless prisoner, with death the only +escape from a bitter and disconsolate solitude. +</P> + +<P> +Can I not amuse myself with books, pictures, talk? No, because it is +all a purposeless passing of dreary hours. Before, there was always an +object ahead of me, a light to which I made my way; and all the +pleasant incidents of life were things to guide me, and to beguile the +plodding path. Now I am adrift; I need go neither forwards nor +backwards; and the things which before were gentle and quiet +occupations have become duties to be drearily fulfilled. +</P> + +<P> +I have put down here exactly what I feel. It is not cowardice that +makes me do it, but a desire to face the situation, exactly as it is. +Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit! And in any case nothing can be +done by blinking the truth. I shall need all my courage and all my +resolution to meet it, and I shall meet it as manfully as I can. Yet +the thought of meeting it thus has no inspiration in it. My only desire +is that the frozen mind may melt at the touch of some genial ray, and +that the buds may prick and unfold upon the shrunken bough. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +January 15, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +One of the miseries of my present situation is that it is all so +intangible, and to the outsider so incomprehensible. There is no +particular reason why I should write. I do not need the money; I +believe I do not desire fame. Let me try to be perfectly frank about +this; I do not at all desire the tangible results of fame, invitations +to banquets, requests to deliver lectures, the acquaintance of notable +people, laudatory reviews. I like a quiet life; I do not want monstrari +digito, as Horace says. I have had a taste of all of these things, and +they do not amuse me, though I confess that I thought they would. I +feel in this rather as Tennyson felt—that I dislike contemptuous +criticism, and do not value praise—except the praise of a very few, +the masters of the craft. And this one does not get, because the great +men are mostly too much occupied in producing their own masterpieces to +have the time or inclination to appraise others. Yet I am sure there is +a vile fibre of ambition lurking in me, interwoven with my nature, +which I cannot exactly disentangle. I very earnestly desire to do good +and fine work, to write great books. If I genuinely and critically +approved of my own work, I could go on writing for the mere pleasure of +it, in the face of universal neglect. But one may take it for granted +that unless one is working on very novel and original lines—and I am +not—the good qualities of one's work are not likely to escape +attention. The reason why Keats, and Shelley, and Tennyson, and +Wordsworth were decried, was because their work was so unusual, so new, +that conventional critics could not understand it. But I am using a +perfectly familiar medium, and there is a large and acute band of +critics who are looking out for interesting work in the region of +novels. Besides I have arrived at the point of having a vogue, so that +anything I write would be treated with a certain respect. Where my +ambition comes in is in the desire not to fall below my standard. I +suppose that while I feel that I do not rate the judgment of the +ordinary critic highly, I have an instinctive sense that my work is +worthy of his admiration. The pain I feel is the sort of pain that an +athlete feels who has established, say, a record in high-jumping, and +finds that he can no longer hurl his stiffening legs and portly frame +over the lath. Well, I have always held strongly that men ought to know +when to stop. There is nothing more melancholy and contemptible than to +see a successful man, who has brought out a brood of fine things, +sitting meekly on addled eggs, or, still worse, squatting complacently +among eggshells. It is like the story of the old tiresome Breton farmer +whose wife was so annoyed by his ineffective fussiness, that she clapt +him down to sit on a clutch of stone eggs for the rest of his life. How +often have I thought how deplorable it was to see a man issuing a +series of books, every one of which is feebler than its predecessor, +dishing up the old characters, the stale ideas, the used-up +backgrounds. I have always hoped that some one would be kind and brave +enough to tell me when I did that. But now that the end seems to have +come to me naturally and spontaneously, I cannot accept my defeat. I am +like the monkey of whom Frank Buckland wrote, who got into the kettle +when the water was lukewarm, and found the outer air so cold whenever +he attempted to leave it, that he was eventually very nearly boiled +alive. The fact that my occupation is gone leaves life hollow to the +core. Perhaps a wise man would content himself with composing some +placid literary essays, selecting some lesser figure in the world of +letters, collecting gossip, and what are called "side-lights," about +him, visiting his birthplace and early haunts, criticising his +writings. That would be a harmless way of filling the time. But any one +who has ever tried creative work gets filled with a nauseating disgust +for making books out of other people's writings, and constructing a +kind of resurrection-pie out of the shreds. Moreover I know nothing +except literature; I could only write a literary biography; and it has +always seemed to me a painful irony that men who have put into their +writings what other people put into deeds and acts should be the very +people whose lives are sedulously written and rewritten, generation +after generation. The instinct is natural enough. The vivid memories of +statesmen and generals fade; but as long as we have the fascinating and +adorable reveries of great spirits, we are consumed with a desire to +reconstruct their surroundings, that we may learn where they found +their inspiration. A great poet, a great imaginative writer, so +glorifies and irradiates the scene in which his mighty thoughts came to +him, that we cannot help fancying that the secret lies in crag and hill +and lake, rather than in the mind that gathered in the common joy. I +have a passion for visiting the haunts of genius, but rather because +they teach me that inspiration lies everywhere, if we can but perceive +it, than because I hope to detect where the particular charm lay. And +so I am driven back upon my own poor imagination. I say to myself, like +Samson, "I will go out as at other times before, and shake myself," and +then the end of the verse falls on me like a shadow—"and he wist not +that the Lord was departed from him." +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +January 18, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Nothing the matter, and yet everything the matter! I plough on drearily +enough, like a vessel forging slowly ahead against a strong, ugly, +muddy stream. I seem to gain nothing, neither hope, patience, nor +strength. My spirit revolted at first, but now I have lost the heart +even for that: I simply bear my burden and wait. One tends to think, at +such times, that no one has ever passed through a similar experience +before; and the isolation in which one moves is the hardest part of it +all. Alone, and cut off even from God! If one felt that one was +learning something, gaining power or courage, one could bear it +cheerfully; but I feel rather as though all my vitality and moral +strength was being pressed and drained from me. Yet I do not desire +death and silence. I rather crave for life and light. +</P> + +<P> +No, I am not describing my state fairly. At times I have a sense that +something, some power, some great influence, is trying to communicate +with me, to deliver me some message. There are many hours when it is +not so, when my nerveless brain seems losing its hold, slipping off +into some dark confusion of sense. Yet again there are other moments, +when sights and sounds have an overpowering and awful significance; +when the gleams of some tremendous secret seemed flashed upon my mind, +at the sight of the mist-hung valley with its leafless woods and level +water-meadows; the flaring pomp of sunset hung low in the west over the +bare ploughland or the wide-watered plain; the wailing of the wind +round the firelit house; the faint twitter of awakening birds in the +ivy; the voice and smile of my children; the music breaking the silence +of the house at evening. In a moment the sensation comes over me, that +the sound or sight is sent not vaguely or lightly, but deliberately +shown to me, for some great purpose, if I could but divine it; an +oracle of God, if I could but catch the words He utters in the darkness +and the silence. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 1, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +My dissatisfaction and depression begin to tell on me. I grow nervous +and strained; I am often sleepless, or my sleep is filled by vivid, +horrible, intolerable dreams. I wake early in the clutch of fear. I +wrestle at times with intolerable irritability; social gatherings +become unbearable; I have all sorts of unmanning sensations, +dizzinesses, tremors; I have that dreadful sensation that my +consciousness of things and people around me is slipping away from me, +and that only by a strong effort can one retain one's hold upon them. I +fall into a sort of dull reverie, and come back to the real world with +a shock of surprise and almost horror. I went the other day to consult +a great doctor about this. He reassured me; he laughed at my fears; he +told me that it was a kind of neurasthenia, not fanciful but real; that +my brain had been overworked, and was taking its revenge; that it was +insufficiently nourished, and so forth. He knew who I was, and treated +me with a respectful sympathy. I told him I had taken a prolonged +holiday since my last book, and he replied that it had not been long +enough. "You must take it easy," he said. "Don't do anything you don't +like." I replied that the difficulty was to find anything I did like. +He smiled at this, and said that I need not be afraid of breaking down; +he sounded me, and said that I was perfectly strong. "Indeed," he +added, "you might go to a dozen doctors to be examined for an insurance +policy, and you would be returned as absolutely robust." In the course +of his investigations, he applied a test, quite casually and as if he +were hardly interested, the point of which he thought (I suppose) that +I should not divine. Unfortunately I knew it, and I need only say that +it was a test for something very bad indeed. That was rather a horrible +moment, when a grim thing out of the shadow slipped forward for a +moment, and looked me in the face. But it was over in an instant, and +he went on to other things. He ended by saying: "Mr. ——, you are not +as bad as you feel, or even as you think. Just take it quietly; don't +overdo it, but don't be bored. You say that you can't write to please +yourself at present. Well, this experience is partly the cause, and +partly the result of your condition. You have used one particular part +of your brain too much, and you must give it time to recover. My +impression is that you will get better very gradually, and I can only +repeat that there is no sort of cause for anxiety. I can't help you +more than that, and I am saying exactly what I feel." +</P> + +<P> +I looked at the worn face and kind eyes of the man whose whole life is +spent in plumbing abysses of human suffering. What a terrible life, and +yet what a noble one! He spoke as though he had no other case in the +world to consider except my own; yet when I went back to the +waiting-room to get my hat, and looked round on the anxious-looking +crowd of patients waiting there, each with a secret burden, I felt how +heavy a load he must be carrying. +</P> + +<P> +There is a certain strength, after all, in having to live by rule; and +I have derived, I find, a certain comfort in having to abstain from +things that are likely to upset me, not because I wish it, but because +some one else has ordered it. So I struggle on. The worst of nerves is +that they are so whimsical; one never knows when to expect their +assaults; the temptation is to think that they attack one when it is +most inconvenient; but this is not quite the case. They spare one when +one expects discomfort; and again when one feels perfectly secure, they +leap upon one from their lair. The one secret of dealing with the +malady is to think of it as a definite ailment, not to regard the +attacks as the vagaries of a healthy mind, but as the symptoms of an +unhealthy one. So much of these obsessions appears to be purely mental; +one finds oneself the prey of a perfectly causeless depression, which +involves everything in its shadow. As soon as one realises that this is +not the result of the reflections that seem to cause it, but that one +is, so to speak, merely looking at normal conditions through coloured +glasses, it is a great help. But the perennial difficulty is to know +whether one needs repose and inaction, or whether one requires the +stimulus of work and activity. Sometimes an unexpected call on one's +faculties will encourage and gladden one; sometimes it will leave one +unstrung and limp. A definite illness is always with one, more or less; +but in nervous ailments, one has interludes of perfect and even buoyant +health, which delude one into hoping that the demon has gone out. +</P> + +<P> +It is a very elaborate form of torture anyhow; and I confess that I +find it difficult to discern where its educative effect comes in, +because it makes one shrink from effort, it makes one timid, +indecisive, suspicious. It seems to encourage all the weaknesses and +meannesses of the spirit; and, worst of all, it centres one's thoughts +upon oneself. Perhaps it enlarges one's sympathy for all secret +sufferers; and it makes me grateful for the fact that I have had so +little ill-health in my life. Yet I find myself, too, testing with some +curiosity the breezy maxims of optimists. A cheerful writer says +somewhere: "Will not the future be the better and the richer for +memories of past pleasure? So surely must the sane man feel." Well, he +must be very sane indeed. It takes a very burly philosopher to think of +the future as being enriched by past gladness, when one seems to have +forfeited it, and when one is by no means certain of getting it back. +One feels bitterly how little one appreciated it at the time; and to +rejoice in reflecting how much past happiness stands to one's credit, +is a very dispassionate attitude. I think Dante was nearer the truth +when he said that "a sorrow's crown of sorrow was remembering happier +things." +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 3, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +To amuse oneself—that is the difficulty. Amusements are or ought to be +the childish, irrational, savage things which a man goes on doing and +practising, in virtue, I suppose, of the noble privilege of reason, far +longer than any other animal—only YOUNG animals amuse themselves; a +dog perhaps retains the faculty longer than most animals, but he only +does it out of sympathy and companionship, to amuse his inscrutable +owner, not to amuse himself. Amusements ought to be things which one +wants to do, and which one is slightly ashamed of doing—enough +ashamed, I mean, to give rather elaborate reasons for continuing them. +If one shoots, for instance, one ought to say that it gets one out of +doors, and that what one really enjoys is the country, and so forth. +Personally I was never much amused by amusements, and gave them up as +soon as I decently could. I regret it now. I wish we were all taught a +handicraft as a regular part of education! I used to sketch, and strum +a piano once, but I cannot deliberately set to work on such things +again. I gave them all up when I became a writer, really, I suppose, +because I did not care for them, but nominally on the grounds of +"resolute limitation," as Lord Acton said—with the idea that if you +prune off the otiose boughs of a tree, you throw the strength of the +sap into the boughs you retain. I see now that it was a mistake. But it +is too late to begin again now; I was reading Kingsley's Life the other +day. He used to overwork himself periodically—use up the grey matter +at the base of his brain, as he described it; but he had a hundred +things that he wanted to do besides writing—fishing, entomologising, +botanising. Browning liked modelling in clay, Wordsworth liked long +walks, Byron had enough to do to keep himself thin, Tennyson had his +pipe, Morris made tapestry at a loom. Southey had no amusements, and he +died of softening of the brain. The happy people are those who have +work which they love, and a hobby of a totally different kind which +they love even better. But I doubt whether one can make a hobby for +oneself in middle age, unless one is a very resolute person indeed. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 7, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +The children went off yesterday to spend the inside of the day with a +parson hard by, who has three children of his own, about the same age. +They did not want to go, of course, and it was particularly terrible to +them, because neither I nor their mother were to go with them. But I +was anxious they should go: there is nothing better for children than +occasionally to visit a strange house, and to go by themselves without +an elder person to depend upon. It gives them independence and gets rid +of shyness. They end by enjoying themselves immensely, and perhaps +making some romantic friendship. As a child, I was almost tearfully +insistent that I should not have to go on such visits; but yet a few +days of the sort stand out in my childhood with a vividness and a +distinctness, which show what an effect they produced, and how they +quickened one's perceptive and inventive faculties. +</P> + +<P> +When they were gone I went out with Maud. I was at my very worst, I +fear; full of heaviness and deeply disquieted; desiring I knew well +what—some quickening of emotion, some hopeful impulse—but utterly +unable to attain it. We had a very sad talk. I tried to make it clear +to her how desolate I felt, and to win some kind of forgiveness for my +sterile and loveless mood. She tried to comfort me; she said that it +was only like passing through a tunnel; she made it clear to me, by +some unspoken communication, that I was dearer than ever to her in +these days of sorrow; but there was a shadow in her mind, the shadow +that fell from the loneliness in which I moved, the sense that she +could not share my misery with me. I tried to show her that the one +thing one could not share was emptiness. If one's cup is full of +interests, plans, happinesses, even tangible anxieties, it is easy and +natural to make them known to one whom one loves best. But one cannot +share the horror of the formless dark; the vacuous and tortured mind. +It is the dark absence of anything that is the source of my +wretchedness. If there were pain, grief, mournful energy of any kind, +one could put it into words; but how can one find expression for what +is a total eclipse? +</P> + +<P> +It was not, I said, that anything had come between her and me; but I +seemed to be remote, withdrawn, laid apart like some stiffening corpse +in the tomb. She tried to reassure me, to show me that it was mainly +physical, the overstrain of long and actively enjoyed work, and that +all I needed was rest. She did not say one word of reproach, or +anything to imply that I was unmanly and cowardly—indeed, she +contrived, I know not how, to lead me to think that my state was in +ordinary life hardly apparent. Once she asked pathetically if there was +no way in which she could help. I had not the heart to say what was in +my mind, that it would be better and easier for me if she ignored my +unhappiness altogether; and that sympathy and compassion only plunged +me deeper into gloom, as showing me that it was evident that there was +something amiss—but I said "No, there is nothing; and no one can help +me, unless God kindles the light He has quenched. Be your own dear self +as much as possible; think and speak as little of me as you can,"—and +then I added: "Dearest, my love for you is here, as strong and pure as +ever—don't doubt that—only I cannot find it or come near it—it is +hidden from me somewhere—I am like a man wandering in dark fields, who +sees the firelit window of his home; he cannot feel the warmth, but he +knows that it is there waiting for him. He cannot return till he has +found that of which he is in search." +</P> + +<P> +"Could he not give up the search?" said Maud, smiling tearfully. "Ah, +not yet," I said. "You do not know, Maud, what my work has been to +me—no man can ever explain that to any woman, I think: for women live +in life, but man lives in work. Man DOES, woman IS. There is the +difference." +</P> + +<P> +We drew near the village. The red sun was sinking over the plain, a +ball of fire; the mist was creeping up from the low-lying fields; the +moon hung, like a white nail-paring, high in the blue sky. We went to +the little inn, where we had been before. We ordered tea—we were to +return by train—and Maud being tired, I left her, while I took a turn +in the village, and explored the remains of an old manor-house, which I +had seen often from the road. I was intolerably restless. I found a +lane which led to the fields behind the manor. It was a beautiful +scene. To the left of me ran the great plain brimmed with mist; the +manor, with its high gables and chimney-stacks, stood up over an +orchard, surrounded by a high, ancient brick wall, with a gate between +tall gate-posts surmounted by stone balls. The old pasture lay round +the house, and there were many ancient elms and sycamores forming a +small park, in the boughs of which the rooks, who were now streaming +home from the fields, were clamorous. I found myself near a chain of +old fish-ponds, with thorn-thickets all about them; and here the old +house stood up against a pure evening sky, rusty red below, melting +into a pure green above. My heart went out in wonder at the thought of +the unknown lives lived in this place, the past joys, the forgotten +sorrows. What did it mean for me, the incredible and caressing beauty +of the scene? Not only did it not comfort me, but it seemed to darken +the gloom of my own unhappy mind. Suddenly, as with a surge of agony, +my misery flowed in upon me. I clutched the rail where I stood, and +bowed my head down in utter wretchedness. There came upon me, as with a +sort of ghastly hopefulness, the temptation to leave it all, to put my +case back into God's hands. Perhaps it was to this that I was moving? +There might be a new life waiting for me, but it could not well be as +intolerable as this. Perhaps nothing but silence and unconsciousness +awaited me, a sleep unstirred by any dream. Even Maud, I thought, in +her sorrow, would understand. How long I stood there I do not know, but +the air darkened about me and the mist rose in long veils about the +pasture with a deadly chill. But then there came back a sort of grim +courage into my mind, that not so could it be ended. The thought of +Maud and the children rose before me, and I knew I could not leave +them, unless I were withdrawn from them. I must face it, I must fight +it out; though I could and did pray with all my might that God might +take away my life: I thought with what an utter joy I should feel the +pang, the faintness, of death creep over me there in the dim pasture; +but I knew in my heart that it was not to be; and soon I went slowly +back through the thickening gloom. I found Maud awaiting me: and I know +in that moment that some touch of the dark conflict I had been through +had made itself felt in her mind; and indeed I think she read something +of it in my face, from the startled glance she turned upon me. Perhaps +it would have been better if in that quiet hour I could have told her +the thought which had been in my mind; but I could not do that; and +indeed it seemed to me as though some unseen light had sprung up for +me, shooting and broadening in the darkness. I apprehended that I was +no longer to suffer, I was to fight. Hitherto I had yielded to my +misery, but the time was come to row against the current, not to drift +with it. +</P> + +<P> +It was dark when we left the little inn; the moon had brightened to a +crescent of pale gold; the last dim orange stain of sunset still slept +above the mist. It seemed to me as though I had somehow touched the +bottom. How could I tell? Perhaps the same horrible temptation would +beset me, again and again, deepening into a despairing purpose; the +fertile mind built up rapidly a dreadful vista of possibilities, +terrible facts that might have to be faced. Even so the dark mood +beckoned me again; better to end it, said a hollow voice, better to let +your dear ones suffer the worst, with a sorrow that will lessen year by +year, than sink into a broken shadowed life of separation and +restraint—but again it passed; again a grim resolution came to my aid. +</P> + +<P> +Then, as we sped homewards in the speeding train, there came over me +another thought. Here was I, who had lightly trafficked with human +emotions, who had written with a romantic glow of the dark things of +life, despair, agony, thoughts of self-destruction, insane fears, here +was I at last confronted with them. I could never dare, I felt, to +speak of such things again; were such dark mysteries to be used to +heighten the sense of security and joy, to give a trivial reader a +thrill of pleasure, a sympathetic reader a thrill of luxurious emotion? +No, there was nothing uplifting or romantic about them when they came; +they were dark as the grave, cold as the underlying clay. What a vile +and loathsome profanation, deserving indeed of a grim punishment, to +make a picturesque background out of such things! At length I had had +my bitter taste of grief, and drew in to my trembling spirit the +shuddering chill of despair. I had stepped, like the light-hearted +maiden of the old story, within the forbidden door, and the ugly, the +ghastly reality of the place had burst upon me, the huddled bodies, the +basin filled with blood. One had read in books of men and women whose +life had been suddenly curdled into slow miseries. One had half blamed +them in one's thought; one had felt that any experience, however dark +and deep, must have its artistic value; and one had thought that they +should have emerged with new zest into life. I understood it now, how +life could be frozen at its very source, how one could cry out with Job +curses on the day that gave one birth, and how gladly one would turn +one's face away from the world and all its cheerful noise, awaiting the +last stroke of God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 20, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +There is a story of a Cornish farmer who, returning home one dark and +misty night, struck across the moorland, every yard of which he knew, +in order to avoid a long tramp by road. In one place there were a +number of disused mine-shafts; the railing which had once protected +them had rotted away, and it had been no one's business to see that it +was renewed—some few had been filled up, but many of them were +hundreds of feet deep, and entirely unguarded. The farmer first missed +the track, and after long wandering found himself at last among the +shafts. He sate down, knowing the extreme danger of his situation, and +resolved to wait till the morning; but it became so cold that he dared +stay no longer, for fear of being frozen alive, and with infinite +precautions he tried to make his way out of the dangerous region, +following the downward slope of the ground. In spite, however, of all +his care, he found suddenly, on putting his foot down, that he was on +the edge of a shaft, and that his foot was dangling in vacancy. He +threw himself backwards, but too late, and he slid down several feet, +grasping at the grass and heather; his foot fortunately struck against +a large stone, which though precariously poised, arrested his fall; and +he hung there for some hours in mortal anguish, not daring to move, +clinging to a tuft of heather, shouting at intervals, in the hope that, +when he did not return home, a search-party might be sent out to look +for him. At last he heard, to his intense relief, the sound of voices +hailing him, and presently the gleam of lanterns shot through the mist. +He uttered agonising cries, and the rescuers were soon at his side; +when he found that he had been lying in a shaft which had been filled +up, and that the firm ground was about a foot below him; and that, in +fact, if the stone that supported him had given way, he would have been +spared a long period of almost intolerable horror. +</P> + +<P> +It is a good parable of many of our disquieting fears and anxieties; as +Lord Beaconsfield said, the greatest tragedies of his life had been +things that never happened; Carlyle truly and beautifully said that the +reason why the past always appeared to be beautiful, in retrospect, was +that the element of fear was absent from it. William Morris said a +trenchant thing on the same subject. He attended a Socialist Meeting of +a very hostile kind, which he anticipated with much depression. When +some one asked him how the meeting had gone off he said, "Well, it was +fully as damnable as I had expected—a thing which seldom happens." A +good test of the happiness of anyone's life is to what extent he has +had trials to bear which are unbearable even to recollect. I am myself +of a highly imaginative and anxious temperament, and I have had many +hours of depression at the thought of some unpleasant anticipation or +disagreeable contingency, and I can honestly say that nothing has ever +been so bad, when it actually occurred, as it had represented itself to +me beforehand. There are a few incidents in my life, the recollection +of which I deliberately shun; but they have always been absolutely +unexpected and unanticipated calamities. Yet even these have never been +as bad as I should have expected them to be. The strange thing is that +experience never comes to one's aid, and that one never gets patience +or courage from the thought that the reality will be in all probability +less distressing than the anticipation; for the simple reason that the +fertile imagination is always careful to add that this time the +occasion will be intolerable, and that at all events it is better to be +prepared for the worst that may happen. Moreover, one wastes force in +anticipating perhaps half-a-dozen painful possibilities, when, after +all, they are alternatives, and only one of them can happen. That is +what makes my present situation so depressing, that I instinctively +clothe it in its worst horrors, and look forward to a long and dreary +life, in which my only occupation will be an attempt to pass the weary +hours. Faithless? yes, of course it is faithless! but the rational +philosophy, which says that it will all probably come right, does not +penetrate to the deeper region in which the mind says to itself that +there is no hope of amendment. +</P> + +<P> +Can one acquire, by any effort of the mind, this kind of patience? I do +not think one can. The most that one can do is to behave as far as +possible like one playing a heavy part upon the stage, to say with +trembling lips that one has hope, when the sick mind beneath cries out +that there is none. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps one can practise a sort of indifference, and hope that +advancing years may still the beating heart and numb the throbbing +nerve. But I do not even desire to live life on these terms. The one +great article of my creed has been that one ought not to lose zest and +spirit, or acquiesce slothfully in comfortable and material conditions, +but that life ought to be full of perception and emotion. Here again +lies my mistake; that it has not been perception or emotion that I have +practised, but the art of expressing what I have perceived and felt. Of +course, I wish with all my heart and soul that it were otherwise; but +it seems that I have drifted so far into these tepid, sun-warmed +shallows, the shallows of egoism and self-centred absorption, that +there is no possibility of my finding my way again to the wholesome +brine, to the fresh movement of the leaping wave. I am like one of +those who lingered so long in the enchanted isle of Circe, listening +luxuriously to the melting cadences of her magic song, that I have lost +all hope of extricating myself from the spell. The old free days, when +the heart beat light, and the breeze blew keen against my brow, have +become only a memory of delights, just enabling me to speak deftly and +artfully of the strong joys which I have forfeited. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 24, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been away for some days, paying a visit to an old friend, a +bachelor clergyman living in the country. The only other occupant of +the house, a comfortable vicarage, is his curate. I am better—ashamed +almost to think how much better—for the change. It is partly the new +place, the new surroundings, the new minds, no doubt. But it is also +the change of atmosphere. At home I am surrounded by sympathy and +compassion; however unobtrusive they are, I feel that they are there. I +feel that trivial things, words, actions, looks are noted, commented +upon, held to be significant. If I am silent, I must be depressed; if I +talk and smile, I am making an effort to overcome my depression. It +sounds unloving and ungracious to resent this: but I don't undervalue +the care and tenderness that cause it; at the same time it adds to the +strain by imposing upon me a sort of vigilance, a constant effort to +behave normally. It is infinitely and deeply touching to feel love all +about me; but in such a state of mind as mine, one is shy of emotion, +one dreads it, one shuns it. I suppose it argues a want of simplicity, +of perfect manfulness, to feel this; but few or no women can +instinctively feel the difference. In a real and deep affliction, one +that could be frankly confessed, the more affection and sympathy that +one can have the better; it is the one thing that sustains. But my +unhappiness is not a real thing altogether, not a FRANK thing; the best +medicine for it is to think as little about it; the only help one +desires is the evidence that one does not need sympathy; and sympathy +only turns one's thoughts inwards, and makes one feel that one is +forlorn and desolate, when the only hope is to feel neither. +</P> + +<P> +At Hapton it was just the reverse; neither Musgrave nor the curate, +Templeton, troubled their head about my fancies. I don't imagine that +Musgrave noticed that anything was the matter with me. If I was silent, +he merely thought I had nothing to say; he took for granted I was in my +normal state, and the result was that I temporarily recovered it. +</P> + +<P> +Then, too, the kind of talk I got was a relief. With women, the real +talk is intime talk; the world of politics, books, men, facts, +incidents, is merely a setting; and when they talk about them, it is +merely to pass the time, as a man turns to a game. At Hapton, Musgrave +chatted away about his neighbours, his boys' club, his new organ, his +bishop, his work. I used to think him rather a proser; how I blessed +his prosing now! I took long walks with him; he asked a few perfunctory +questions about my books, but otherwise he was quite content to prattle +on, like a little brook, about all that was in his mind, and he was +more than content if I asked an occasional question or assented +courteously. Then we had some good talks about the rural problems of +education—he is a sensible and intelligent man enough—and some +excellent arguments about the movement of religion, where I found him +unexpectedly liberal-minded. He left me to do very much what I liked. I +read in the mornings and before dinner; and after dinner we smoked or +even played a game of dummy whist. It is a pretty part of the country, +and when he was occupied in the afternoon, I walked about by myself. +From first to last not a single word fell from Musgrave to indicate +that he thought me in any way different, or suspected that I was not +perfectly content, with the blessed result that I immediately became +exactly what he thought me. +</P> + +<P> +I got on no better with my writing; my brain is as bare as a winter +wood; but I found that I did not rebel against that. Of course it does +not reveal a very dignified temperament, that one should so take colour +from one's surroundings. If I can be equable and good-humoured here, I +ought to be able to be equable and good-humoured at home; at the same +time I am conscious of an intense longing to see Maud and the children. +Probably I should do better to absent myself resolutely from home at +stated intervals; and I think it argued a fine degree of perception in +Maud, that she decided not to accompany me, though she was pressed to +come. I am going home to-morrow, delighted at the thought, grateful to +the good Musgrave, in a more normal frame of mind than I have been for +months. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 28, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +One of the most depressing things about my present condition is that I +feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so unlovable. Even +Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than ever, does not help me, +because I feel that she cannot love me for what I am, but for what she +remembers me as being, and hopes that I may be again. I know it is not +so, and that she would love me whatever I did or became; but I cannot +realise that now. +</P> + +<P> +A few days ago an old friend came to see me; and I was so futile, so +fractious, so dull, so melancholy with him that I wrote to him +afterwards to apologise for my condition, telling him that I knew that +I was not myself, and hoped he would forgive me for not making more of +an effort. To-day I have had one of the manliest, tenderest, most +beautiful letters I have ever had in my life. He says, "Of course I saw +that you were not in your usual mood, but if you had pretended to be, +if you had kept me at arm's length, if you had grimaced and made +pretence, we should have been no nearer in spirit. I was proud and +grateful that you should so have trusted me, as to let me see into your +heart and mind; and you must believe me when I say that I never loved +and honoured you more. I understood fully what a deep and insupportable +trial your present state of mind must be; and I will be frank—why +should I not be?—and say that I thought you were bearing it bravely, +and what is better still, simply and naturally. I seemed to come closer +to you in those hours than I have ever done before, and to realise +better what you were. 'To make oneself beloved,' says an old writer, +'is to make oneself useful to others'—and you helped me perhaps most, +when you knew it least yourself. I won't tell you not to brood upon or +exaggerate your trouble—you know that well enough yourself. But +believe me that such times are indeed times of growth and expansion, +even when one seems most beaten back upon oneself, most futile, most +unmanly. So take a little comfort, my old friend, and fare onwards +hopefully." +</P> + +<P> +That is a very beautiful and wise letter, and I cannot say how much it +has meant for me. It is a letter that forges an invisible chain, which +is yet stronger than the strongest tie that circumstance can forge; it +is a lantern for one's feet, and one treads a little more firmly in the +dark path, where the hillside looms formless through the shade. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 3, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Best of all the psalms I love the Hundred-and-nineteenth; yet as a +child what a weary thing I thought it. It was long, it was monotonous; +it dwelt with a tiresome persistency, I used to think, upon dull +things—laws, commandments, statutes. Now that I am older, it seems to +me one of the most human of all documents. It is tender, pensive, +personal; other psalms are that; but Psalm cxix. is intime and +autobiographical. One is brought very close to a human spirit; one +hears his prayers, his sighs, the dropping of his tears. Then, too, in +spite of its sadness, there is a deep hopefulness and faithfulness +about it, a firm belief in the ultimate triumph of what is good and +true, a certainty that what is pure and beautiful is worth holding on +to, whatever may happen; a nearness to God, a quiet confidence in Him. +It is all in a subdued and minor key, but swelling up at intervals into +a chord of ravishing sweetness. +</P> + +<P> +There is never the least note of loudness, none of that terrible +patriotism which defaces many of the psalms, the patriotism which makes +men believe that God is the friend of the chosen race, and the foe of +all other races, the ugly self-sufficiency that contemplates with +delight, not the salvation and inclusion of the heathen, but their +discomfiture and destruction. The worst side of the Puritan found +delight in those cruel and militant psalms, revelling in the thought +that God would rain upon the ungodly fire and brimstone, storm and +tempest, and exulting in the blasting of the breath of His displeasure. +Could anything be more alien to the spirit of Christ than all that? But +here, in this melancholy psalm, there breathes a spirit naturally +Christian, loving peace and contemplation, very weary of the strife. +</P> + +<P> +I have said it is autobiographical; but it must be remembered that it +was a fruitful literary device in those early days, to cast one's own +thought in the mould of some well-known character. In this psalm I have +sometimes thought that the writer had Daniel in mind—the surroundings +of the psalm suit the circumstances of Daniel with singular exactness. +But even so, it was the work of a man, I think, who had suffered the +sorrows of which he wrote. Let me try to disentangle what manner of man +he was. +</P> + +<P> +He was young and humble; he was rich, or had opportunities of becoming +so; he was an exile, or lived in an uncongenial society; he was the +member of a court where he was derided, disliked, slandered, plotted +against, and even persecuted. We can clearly discern his own character. +He was timid, and yet ambitious; he was tempted to use deceit and +hypocrisy, to acquiesce in the tone about him; he was inclined to be +covetous; he had sinned, and had learnt something of holiness from his +fall; he was given to solitude and prayer. He was sensitive, and his +sorrows had affected his health; he was sleepless, and had lost the +bloom of his youth. +</P> + +<P> +All this and more we can read of him; but what is the saddest touch of +all is the isolation in which he lived. There is not a word to show +that he met with any sympathy; indeed the misunderstanding, whatever it +was, that overshadowed him, had driven acquaintances, friends, and +lovers away from him; and yet his tender confidence in God never fails; +he feels that in his passionate worship of virtue and truth, his +intense love of purity and justice, he has got a treasure which is more +to him than riches or honour, or even than human love. He speaks as +though this passion for holiness had been the very thing that had cost +him so dear, and that exposed him to derision and dislike. Perhaps he +had refused to fall in with some customary form of evil, and his +resistance to temptation had led him to be regarded as a precisian and +a saint? I have little doubt myself that this was so. He speaks as one +might speak who had been so smitten with the desire for purity and +rightness of life, that he could no longer even seem to condone the +opposite. And yet he was evidently not one who dared to withstand and +rebuke evil; the most he could do was to abstain from it; and the +result was that he saw the careless and evil-minded people about him +prosperous, happy and light-hearted, while he was himself plunged by +his own act in misunderstanding and solitude and tears. +</P> + +<P> +And then how strange to see this beautiful and delicate confession put +into so narrow and constrained a shape! It is the most artificial by +far of all the psalms. The writer has chosen deliberately one of the +most cramping and confining forms that could be devised. Each of the +eight verses that form the separate stanzas begins with the same letter +of the alphabet, and each of the letters is used in turn. Think of +attempting to do the same in English—it could not be done at all. And +then in every single verse, except in one, where the word has probably +disappeared in translation, by a mistake, there is a mention of the law +of God. Infinite pains must have gone to the slow building of this +curious structure; stone by stone must have been carved and lifted to +its place. And yet the art is so great that I know no composition of +the same length that has so perfect a unity of mood and atmosphere. +There is never a false or alien note struck. It is never jubilant or +contentious or assertive—and, best of all, it is wholly free from any +touch of that complacency which is the shadow of virtue. The writer +never takes any credit to himself for his firm adherence to the truth; +he writes rather as one who has had a gift of immeasurable value +entrusted to unworthy hands, who hardly dares to believe that it has +been granted him, and who still speaks as though he might at any time +prove unfaithful, as though his weakness might suddenly betray him, and +who therefore has little temptation to exult in the possession of +anything which his own frail nature might at any moment forfeit. +</P> + +<P> +And thus, from its humility, its sense of weakness and weariness, its +consciousness of sin and failure, combined with its deep apprehension +of the stainless beauty of the moral law, this lyric has found its way +to the hearts of all who find the world and temptation and fear too +strong, all who through repeated failure have learned that they cannot +even be true to what they so pathetically desire and admire; who would +be brave and vigorous if they could, but, as it is, can only hope to be +just led step by step, helped over the immediate difficulty, past the +dreaded moment; whose heart often fails them, and who have little of +the joy of God; who can only trust that, if they go astray, the mercy +of God will yet go out to seek them; who cannot even hope to run in the +way of God's beloved commandments, till He has set their heart at +liberty. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I went to see Darell, my old schoolfellow, a few days ago; he wrote to +say that he would much like to see me, but that he was ill and unable +to leave home—could I possibly come to see him? +</P> + +<P> +I have never seen very much of him since I left Cambridge; but there I +was a good deal in his company—and we have kept up our friendship ever +since, in the quiet way in which Englishmen do keep up their +friendships, meeting perhaps two or three times in the year, exchanging +letters occasionally. He was not a very intimate friend—indeed, he was +not a man who formed intimacies; but he was a congenial companion +enough. He was a frankly ambitious man. He went to the bar, where he +has done well; he married a wife with some money; and I think his +ultimate ambition has been to enter Parliament. He told me, when I last +saw him, that he had now, he thought, made enough money for this, and +that he would probably stand at the next election. I have always liked +his wife, who is a sensible, good-natured woman, with social ambitions. +They live in a good house in London, in a wealthy sort of way. I +arrived to luncheon, and sate a little while with Mrs. Darell in the +drawing-room. I became aware, while I sate with her, that there was a +sense of anxiety in the air somehow, though she spoke cheerfully enough +of her husband, saying that he had overworked himself, and had to lie +up for a little. When he came into the room I understood. It was not +that he was physically much altered—he is a strongly-built fellow, +with a sanguine complexion and thick curly hair, now somewhat grizzled; +but I knew at the first sight of him that matters were serious. He was +quiet and even cheerful in manner, but he had a look on his face that I +had never seen before, the look of a man whose view of life has been +suddenly altered, and who is preparing himself for the last long +journey. I knew instinctively that he believed himself a doomed man. He +said very little about himself, and I did not ask him much; he talked +about my books, and a good deal about old friends; but all with a +sense, I thought, of detachment, as though he were viewing everything +over a sort of intangible fence. After luncheon, we adjourned to his +study and smoked. He then said a few words about his illness, and added +that it had altered his plans. "I am told," he said, "that I must take +a good long holiday—rather a difficult job for a man who cares a great +deal about his work and very little about anything else;" he added a +few medical details, from which I gathered the nature of his illness. +Then he went on to talk of casual matters; it seemed to interest him to +discuss what had been happening to our school and college friends; but +I knew, without being told, that he wished me to understand that he did +not expect to resume his place in the world—and indeed I divined, by +some dim communication of the spirit, that he thought my visit was +probably a farewell. But he talked with unabated courage and interest, +smiling where he would in old days have laughed, and speaking of our +friends with more tenderness than was his wont. Only once did he half +betray what was in his mind: "It is rather strange," he said, "to be +pushed aside like this, and to have to reconsider one's theories. I did +not expect to have to pull up—the path lay plain before me—and now it +seems to me as if there were a good many things I had lost sight of. +Well, one must take things as they come, and I don't think that if I +had it all to do again I should do otherwise." He changed the subject +rather hurriedly, and began to talk about my work. "You are quite a +great man now," he said with a smile; "I hear your books talked about +wherever I go—I used to wonder if you would have had the patience to +do anything—you were hampered by having no need to earn your living; +but you have come out on the top." I told him something about my own +late experiences and my difficulty in writing. He listened with +undisguised interest. "What do you make of it?" he said. "Well," I +said; "you will think I am talking transcendentally, but I have felt +often of late as if there were two strains in our life, two kinds of +experience; at one time we have to do our work with all our might, to +get absorbed in it, to do what little we can to enrich the world; and +then at another time it is all knocked out of our hands, and we have to +sit and meditate—to realise that we are here on sufferance, that what +we can do matters very little to any one—the same sort of feeling that +I once had when old Hoskyns, in whose class I was, threw an essay, over +which I had taken a lot of trouble, into his waste-paper basket before +my eyes without even looking it over. I see now that I had got all the +good I could out of the essay by writing it, and that the credit of it +mattered very little; but then I simply thought he was a very +disagreeable and idle old fellow." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, smiling, "there is something in that; but one wants the +marks as well—I have always liked to be marked for my work. I am glad +you told me that story, old man." +</P> + +<P> +We went on to talk of other things, and when I rose to go, he thanked +me rather effusively for my kindness in coming to see him. He told me +that he was shortly going abroad, and that if I could find time to +write he would be grateful for a letter; "and when I am on my legs +again," he said with a smile, "we will have another meeting." +</P> + +<P> +That was all that passed between us of actual speech. Yet how much more +seems to have been implied than was said. I knew, as well as if he had +told me in so many words, that he did not expect to see me again; that +he was in the valley of the shadow, and wanted help and comfort. Yet he +could not have described to me what was in his mind, and he would have +resented it, I think, if I had betrayed any consciousness of my +knowledge; and yet he knew that I knew, I am sure of that. +</P> + +<P> +The interview affected me deeply and poignantly. The man's patience and +courage are very great; but he has lived, frankly and laboriously, for +perfectly definite things. He never had the least sense of what is +technically called religion; he was strong and temperate by nature, +with a fine sense of honour; loving work and the rewards of work, +despising sentiment and emotion—indeed his respect for me, of which I +was fully conscious, is the respect he feels for a sentimental man who +has made sentiment pay. It is very hard to see what part the prospect +of suffering and death is meant to play in the life of such a man. It +must be, surely, that he has something even more real than what he has +held to be realities to learn from the sudden snapping off of life and +activity. I find myself filled with an immense pity for him; and yet if +my faith were a little stronger and purer, I should congratulate rather +than commiserate him. And yet the thought of him in his bewilderment +helps me too, for I see my own life as in a mirror. I have received a +message of truth, the message that the accomplishment of our plans and +cherished designs is not the best thing that can befall us. How easy to +see that in the case of another, how hard to see it in our own case! +But it has helped me too to throw myself outside the morbid +perplexities in which I am involved; to hold out open hands to the gift +of God, even though He seems to give me a stone for bread, a stinging +serpent for wholesome provender. It has taught me to pray—not only for +myself, but for all the poor souls who are in the grip of a sorrow that +they cannot understand or bear. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 14, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +The question that haunts me, the problem I cannot disentangle, is what +is or what ought our purpose to be? What is our duty in life? Ought we +to discern a duty which lies apart from our own desires and +inclinations? The moralist says that it ought to be to help other +people; but surely that is because the people, whom by some instinct we +deem the highest, have had the irresistible desire to help others? How +many people has one ever known who have taken up philanthropy merely +from a sense of rectitude? The people who have done most to help the +world along have been the people who have had an overwhelming natural +tenderness, an overflowing love for helpless, weak, and unhappy people. +That is a thing which cannot be simulated. One knows quite well, to put +the matter simply, the extent of one's own limitations. There are +courses of action which seem natural and easy; others which seem hard, +but just possible; others again which are frankly impossible. However +noble a life, for instance, I thought the life of a missionary or of a +doctor to be, I could not under any circumstances adopt the role of +either. There are certain things which I might force myself to do which +I do not do, and which I practically know I shall not do. And the +number of people is very small who, when circumstances suggest one +course, resolutely carry out another. The artistic life is a very hard +one to analyse, because at the outset it seems so frankly selfish a +life. One does what one most desires to do, one develops one's own +nature, its faculties and powers. If one is successful, the most one +can claim is that one has perhaps added a little to the sum of +happiness, of innocent enjoyment, that one has perhaps increased or fed +in a few people the perception of beauty. Of course the difficulty is +increased by the conventional belief that any career is justified by +success in that career. And as long as a man attains a certain measure +of renown we do not question very much the nature of his aims. +</P> + +<P> +Then, again, if we put that all aside, and look upon life as a thing +that is given us to teach us something, it is easy to think that it +does not matter very much what we do; we take the line of least +resistance, and think that we shall learn our lesson somehow. +</P> + +<P> +It is difficult to believe that our one object ought to be to thwart +all our own desires and impulses, to abstain from doing what we desire +to do, and to force ourselves continually to do what we have no impulse +to do. That is a philosophical and stoical business, and would end at +best in a patient and courteous dreariness of spirit. +</P> + +<P> +Neither does it seem a right solution to say: "I will parcel out my +energies—so much will I give to myself, so much to others." It ought +to be a larger, more generous business than that; yet the people who +give themselves most freely away too often end by having very little to +give; instead of having a store of ripe and wise reflection, they have +generally little more than an official smile, a kindly tolerance, a +voluble stream of commonplaces. +</P> + +<P> +And then, too, it is hard to see, to speak candidly, what God is doing +in the matter. One sees useful careers cut ruthlessly short, generous +qualities nullified by bad health or minute faults, promise +unfulfilled, men and women bound in narrow, petty, uncongenial spheres, +the whole matter in a sad disorder. One sees one man's influence spoilt +by over-confidence, by too strong a sense of his own significance, and +another man made ineffective by diffidence and self-distrust. The best +things of life, the most gracious opportunities, such as love and +marriage, cannot be entered upon from a sense of duty, but only from an +overpowering and instinctive impulse. +</P> + +<P> +Is it not possible to arrive at some tranquil harmony of life, some +self-evolution, which should at the same time be ardent and generous? +In my own sad unrest of spirit, I seem to be alike incapable of working +for the sake of others and working to please myself. Perhaps that is +but the symptom of a moral disease, a malady of the soul. Yet if that +is so, and if one once feels that disease and, suffering is not a part +of the great and gracious purpose of God—if it is but a failure in His +design—the struggle is hopeless. One sees all around one men and women +troubled by no misgivings, with no certain aim, just doing whatever the +tide of life impels them to do. My neighbour here is a man who for +years has gone up to town every day to his office. He is perfectly +contented, absolutely happy. He has made more money than he will ever +need or spend, and he will leave his children a considerable fortune. +He is kind, respectable, upright; he is considered a thoroughly +enviable man, and indeed, if prosperity and contentment are the sign +and seal of God's approbation, such a man is the highest work of God, +and has every reason to be an optimist. He would think my questionings +morbid and my desires moonshine. He is not necessarily right any more +than I; but his theory of life works out a good deal better for him +than mine for me. +</P> + +<P> +Well, we drift, we drift! Sometimes the sun shines bright on the wave, +and the wheeling birds dip and hover, and our heart is full of song. +But sometimes we plunge on rising billows, with the wind wailing, and +the rain pricking the surface with needle-points; we are weary and +uncomforted; and we do not know why we suffer, or why we are glad. +Sometimes I have a far-off hope that I shall know, that I shall +understand and be satisfied; but sometimes, alas, I fear that my soul +will flare out upon the darkness, and know no more either of weal or +woe. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 20, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I am reading a great deal now; but I find that I turn naturally to +books of a sad intimite—books in which are revealed the sorrowful +cares and troubles of sensitive people. Partly, I suppose, it is to get +the sense of comfort which comes from feeling that others have suffered +too; but partly to find, if I can, some medicine for my soul, in +learning how others struggled out of the mire. Thus I have been reading +Froude's Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle's Letters over again, and they have +moved me strangely and deeply. Perhaps it is mostly that I have felt, +in these dark months, drawn to the society of two brave people—she was +brave in her silences, he in the way in which he stuck doggedly to his +work—who each suffered so horribly, so imaginatively, so inexplicably, +and, alas, it would seem, so unnecessarily! Of course Carlyle indulged +his moods, while Mrs. Carlyle fought against hers; moreover, he had the +instinct for translating thoughts, instantaneously and volubly, into +vehement picturesque speech. How he could bite in a picture, an ugly, +ill-tempered one enough very often, as when he called Coleridge a +"weltering" man! Many of his sketches are mere Gillray caricatures of +people, seen through bile unutterable, exasperated by nervous +irritability. And Mrs. Carlyle had a mordant wit enough. But still both +of them had au fond a deep need of love, and a power of lavishing love. +It comes out in the old man's whimsical notes and prefaces; and indeed +it is true to say that if a person once actually penetrated into +Carlyle's inner circle, he found himself loved hungrily and devotedly, +and never forgotten or cast out. And as to Mrs. Carlyle, I suppose it +was impossible to be near her and not to love her! This comes out in +glimpses in her sad pathological letters. There is a scene she +describes, how she returned home after some long and serious bout of +illness, when her cook and housemaid rushed into the street, kissed +her, and wept on her neck; while two of her men friends, Mr. Cooke and +Lord Houghton, who called in the course of the evening, to her surprise +and obvious pleasure, did the very same. The result on myself, after +reading the books, is to feel myself one of the circle, to want to do +something for them, to wring the necks of the cocks who disturbed +Carlyle's sleep; and sometimes, alas, to rap the old man's fingers for +his blind inconsiderateness and selfishness. I came the other day upon +a passage in a former book of my own, where I said something sneering +and derisive about the pair, and I felt deep shame and contrition for +having written it—and, more than that, I felt a sort of disgust for +the fact that I have spent so much time in writing fiction. Books like +the Life of Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle's Letters take the wind out of +one's imaginative faculties altogether, because one is confronted with +the real stuff of life in them. Life, that hard, stubborn, +inconclusive, inconsistent, terrible thing! It is, of course, that very +hardness and inconclusiveness that makes one turn to fiction. In +fiction, one can round off the corners, repair mistakes, comfort, +idealise, smooth things down, make error and weakness bear good fruit, +choose, develop as one pleases. Not so with life, where things go from +bad to worse, misunderstandings grow and multiply, suffering does not +purge, sorrow does not uplift. That is the worst of fiction, that it +deludes one into thinking that one can deal gently with life, finish +off the picture, arrange things on one's own little principles; and +then, as in my own case, life brings one up against some monstrous, +grievous, intolerable fact, that one can neither look round or over, +and the scales fall from one's eyes. With what courage, tranquillity or +joy is one to meet a thoroughly disagreeable situation? The more one +leans on the hope that it may amend, the weaker one grows; the thing to +realise is that it is bad, that it is inevitable, that it has arrived, +and to let the terror and misery do their worst, soak into the soul and +not run off it. Only then can one hope to be different; only so can one +climb the weary ladder of patience and faith. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 28, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Low-hung ragged grey skies, heaven smeared with watery vapours +fleeting, broken and mournful, from the west—these above me, as I +stand by the old lichened gate of the high wind-swept field at the top +of the wold. In front a stretch of rough common, the dark-brown +heather, the young gorse, bluish-green, the rusty red of soaked +bracken, the pale ochre-coloured grass, all blent into a rich tint that +pleases the eye with its wild freshness. To the left, the wide flat +level of the plain, with low hills rising on its verge; to the right, a +pale pool of water at the bottom of a secret valley, reflecting the +leafless bushes that fringe it, catches the sunset gleam that rises in +the west; and then range after range of wolds, with pale-green +pastures, dark copses, fawn-coloured ploughland, here and there an +emerald patch of young wheat. The air is fresh, soft and fragrant, +laden with rain; the earth smells sweet; and the wild woodland scent +comes blowing to me out of the heart of the spinney. In front of me +glimmer the rough wheel-tracks of a grassy road that leads out on to +the heath, and two obscure figures move slowly nearer among the tufted +gorse. They seem to me, those two figures, charged with a grave +significance, as though they came to bear me tidings, messengers bidden +to seek and find me, like the men who visited Abraham at the close of +the day. +</P> + +<P> +As I linger, the day grows darker, the colour fading from leaf and +blade; bright points of light flash out among the dark ridges from +secluded farms, where the evening lamp is lit. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes on days like this, when the moisture hangs upon the hedges, +when the streams talk hoarsely to themselves in grassy channels, when +the road is full of pools, one is weary, unstrung and dissatisfied, +faint of purpose, tired of labour, desiring neither activity nor rest; +the soul sits brooding, like the black crows that I see in the leafless +wood beneath me, perched silent and draggled on the tree-tops, just +waiting for the sun and the dry keen airs to return; but to-day it is +not so; I am full of a quiet hope, an acquiescent tranquillity. My +heart talks gently to itself, as to an unseen friend, telling its +designs, its wishes, its activities. I think of those I hold dear, all +the world over; I am glad that they are alive, and believe that they +think of me. All the air seems full of messages, thoughts and +confidences and welcomes passing to and fro, binding souls to each +other, and all to God. There seems to be nothing that one needs to do +to-day except to live one's daily life; to be kind and joyful. To-day +the road of pilgrimage lies very straight and clear between its fences, +in an open ground, with neither valley nor hill, no by-path, no +turning. One can even see the gables and chimneys of some grave house +of welcome, "a roof for when the dark hours begin," full of pious +company and smiling maidens. And not, it seems, a false security; one +is not elated, confident, strong; one knows one's weakness; but I think +that the Lord of the land has lately passed by with a smile, and given +command that the pilgrims shall have a space of quiet. These birds, +these branching trees, have not yet lost the joy of His passing. There, +along the grassy tracks, His patient footsteps went, how short a time +ago! One does not hope that all the journey will be easy and +untroubled; there will be fresh burdens to be borne, dim valleys full +of sighs to creep through, dark waters to wade across; these feet will +stumble and bleed; these knees will be weary before the end; but to-day +there is no doubt about the pilgrimage, no question of the far-off +goal. The world is sad, perhaps, but sweet; sad as the homeless clouds +that drift endlessly across the sky from marge to marge; sweet as the +note of the hidden bird, that rises from moment to moment from the +copse beside me, again and yet again, telling of a little heart that is +content to wait, and not ill-pleased to be alone with its own soft +thoughts. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 4, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Down in the valley which runs below the house is a mill. I passed it +to-day at dusk, and I thought I had never seen so characteristically +English a scene. The wheel was silent, and the big boarded walls, +dusted with flour, loomed up solemnly in the evening light. The full +leat dashed merrily through the sluice, making holiday, like a child +released from school. Behind was the stack-yard, for it is a farm as +well as a mill; and in the byre I heard the grunting of comfortable +pigs, and the soft pulling of the hay from the big racks by the +bullocks. The fowls were going to roost, fluttering up every now and +then into the big elder-bushes; while high above, in the apple-trees, I +saw great turkeys settled precariously for the night. The orchard was +silent, except for the murmur of the stream that bounds it. In the +mill-house itself lights gleamed in the windows, and I saw a pleasant +family-party gathered at their evening meal. The whole scene with its +background of sloping meadows and budding woods so tranquil and +contented—a scene which William Morris would have loved—for there is +a pleasant grace of antiquity about the old house, a sense of homely +and solid life, and of all the family associations that have gone to +the making of it, generation after generation leaving its mark in the +little alterations and additions that have met a need, or even +satisfied a pleasant fancy. +</P> + +<P> +The miller is an elderly man now, fond of work, prosperous, +good-humoured. His son lives with him, and the house is full of +grandchildren. I do not say that it puzzles me to divine what is the +miller's view of life, because I think I know it. It is to make money +honestly, to bring up his grandchildren virtuously and comfortably, to +enjoy his daily work and his evening leisure. He is never idle, never +preoccupied. He enjoys getting the mill started, seeing the flour +stream into the sacks, he enjoys going to market, he enjoys going +prosperously to church on Sundays, he enjoys his paper and his pipe. He +has no exalted ideas, and he could not put a single emotion into words, +but he is thoroughly honest, upright, manly, kind, sensible. A perfect +life in many ways; and yet it is inconceivable to me that a man should +live thus, without an aim, without a hope, without an object. He would +think my own life even more inconceivable—that a man could +deliberately sit down day after day to construct a story about +imaginary people; and such respect as he feels for me, is mainly due to +the fact that my writings bring me in a larger income than he could +ever make from his mill. But of course he is a man who is normally +healthy, and such men as he are the props of rural life. He is a good +master, he sees that his men do their work, and are well housed. He is +not generous exactly, but he is neighbourly. The question is whether +such as he is the proper type of humanity. He represents the simple +virtues at their high-water mark. He is entirely contented, and his +desires are perfectly proportioned to their surroundings. He seems +indeed to be exactly what the human creature ought to be. And yet his +very virtues, his sense of justice and honesty, his sensible +kindliness, are the outcome of civilisation, and bear the stamp, in +reality, of the dreams of saints and sages and idealists—the men who +felt that things could be better, and who were made miserable by the +imperfections of the world. I cannot help wondering, in a whimsical +moment, what would have been the miller's thoughts of Christ, if he had +been confronted with Him in the flesh. He would have thought of Him +rather contemptuously, I think, as a bewildering, unpractical, +emotional man. The miller would not have felt the appeal of +unselfishness and unworldliness, because his ideal of life is tranquil +prosperity. He would have merely wondered why people could not hold +their tongues and mind their business: and yet he is a model citizen, +and would be deeply annoyed if he were told he were not a sincere +Christian. He accepts doctrinal statements as he would accept +mathematical formulae, and he takes exactly as much of the Christian +doctrine as suits him. Now when I compare myself with the miller, I +feel that, as far as human usefulness goes, I am far lower in the +scale. I am, when all is said and done, a drone in the hive, eating the +honey I did not make. I do not take my share in the necessary labour of +the world, I do not regulate a little community of labourers with +uprightness and kindness, as he does. But still I suppose that my more +sensitive organisation has a meaning in the scale of things. I cannot +have been made and developed as I am, outside of the purpose of God. +And yet my work in the world is not that of the passionate idealist, +that kindles men with the hope of bettering and amending the world. +What is it that my work does? It fills a vacant hour for leisurely +people, it gives agreeable distraction, it furnishes some pleasant +dreams. The most that I can say is that I have a wife whom I desire to +make happy, and children whom I desire to bring up innocently, purely, +vigorously. +</P> + +<P> +Must one's hopes and beliefs be thus tentative and provisional? Must +one walk through life, never fathoming the secret? I have myself +abundance of material comfort, health, leisure. I know that for one +like myself, there are hundreds less fortunate. Yet happiness in this +world depends very little upon circumstances; it depends far more upon +a certain mixture of selfishness, tranquillity, temperance, bodily +vigour, and unimaginativeness. To be happy, one must be good-humouredly +indifferent to the sufferings of others, and indisposed to forecast the +possibilities of disaster. The sadness which must shadow the path of +such as myself, is the sadness which comes of the power to see clearly +the imperfections of the world, coupled with the inability to see +through it, to discern the purpose of it all. One comforts oneself by +the dim hope that the desire will be satisfied and the dream fulfilled; +but has one any certainty of that? The temptation is to acquiesce in a +sort of gentle cynicism, to take what one can get, to avoid as far as +possible all deep attachments, all profound hopes, to steel oneself in +indifference. That is what such men as my miller do instinctively; +meanwhile one tries to believe that the melancholy that comes to such +as Hamlet, the sadness of finding the world unintelligible, and +painful, and full of shadows, is a noble melancholy, a superior sort of +madness. Yet one is not content to bear, to suffer, to wait; one +clutches desperately at light and warmth and joy, and alas, in joy and +sorrow alike, one is ever and insupportably alone. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 9, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been reading Rousseau lately, and find him a very +incomprehensible figure. The Confessions, it must be said, is a dingy +and sordid book. I cannot quite penetrate the motive which induced him +to write them. It cannot have been pure vanity, because he does not +spare himself; he might have made himself out a far more romantic and +attractive character, if he had suppressed the shadows and heightened +the lights. I am inclined to think that it was partly vanity and partly +honesty. Vanity was the motive force, and honesty the accompanying +mood. I do not suppose there is any document so transparently true in +existence, and we ought to be thankful for that. It is customary to say +that Rousseau had the soul of a lackey, by which I suppose is meant +that he had a gross and vulgar nature, a thievish taste for low +pleasures, and an ill-bred absence of consideration for others. He had +all these qualities certainly, but he had a great deal more. He was +upright and disinterested. He had a noble disregard of material +advantages; he had an enthusiasm for virtue, a passionate love of +humanity, a deep faith in God. He was not an intellectual man nor a +philosopher; and yet what a ridiculous criticism is that which is +generally made upon him, that his reasoning is bad, his knowledge +scanty, and that people had better read Hobbes! The very reason which +made Rousseau so tremendous an influence was that his point of view was +poetical rather than philosophical; he was not too far removed from the +souls to which he prophesied. What they needed was inspiration, +emotion, and sentimental dogma; these he could give, and so he saved +Europe from the philosophers and the cynics. Of course it is a +deplorable life, tormented by strong animal passion, ill-health, +insanity; but one tends to forget the prevalent coarseness of social +tone at that date, not because Rousseau made any secret of it, but +because none of his contemporaries dared to be so frank. If Rousseau +had struck out a dozen episodes from the Confessions the result would +have been a highly poetical, reflective, charming book. I can easily +conceive that it might have a very bad effect upon an ingenuous mind, +because it might be argued from what he says that moral lapses do not +very much matter, and that emotional experience is worth the price of +some animalism. Still more perniciously it might induce one to believe +that a man may have a deep sense of religion side by side with an +unbridled sensuality, and that one whose life is morally infamous may +yet be able to quicken the moral temperature of great nations. +</P> + +<P> +Some of the critics of Rousseau speak as though a man whose moral code +was so loose, and whose practice was so libidinous, ought almost to +have held his tongue on matters of high moral import. But this is a +very false line of argument. A man may see a truth clearly, even if he +cannot practise it; and an affirmation of a passionate belief in virtue +is emphasised and accentuated when it comes from the lips of one who +might be tempted rather to excuse his faults by preaching the +irresistible character of evil. +</P> + +<P> +To any one who reads wisely, and not in a censorious and Pharisaical +spirit, this sordid record, which is yet interspersed with things so +fragrant and beautiful, may have a sobering and uplifting effect. One +sees a man hampered by ill-health, by a temperament childishly greedy +of momentary pleasure, by irritability, suspicion, vanity and +luxuriousness, again and again expressing a deep belief in unselfish +emotion, a passionate desire to help struggling humanity onward, a +child-like confidence in the goodness and tenderness of the Father of +all. Disgust and admiration struggle strangely together. One cannot +sympathise and yet one dare not condemn. One feels a horrible suspicion +that there are dark and slimy corners, vile secrets, ugly memories, in +the minds of hundreds of seemingly respectable people; the book brings +one face to face with the mystery of evil; and yet through the gloom +there steals a silvery radiance, a far-off hope, an infinite compassion +for all weakness and imperfection. One can hardly love Rousseau, though +one does not wonder that there were many found to do so; and instead of +judging him, one cries out with horror at the slime of the pit where he +lay bound. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 14, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +A delusion of which we must beware is the delusion that we can have a +precise and accurate knowledge of spiritual things. This is a delusion +into which the exponents of settled religions are apt to fall. The +Roman Catholic, with his belief in the infallible Church, as the +interpreter of God's spirit, which is nothing more than a belief in the +inspiration of the majority, or even a belief in the inspiration of a +bureaucracy, is the prey of this delusion. The Protestant, too, with +his legal creed, built up of texts and precedents, in which the +argumentative dicta of Apostles and Evangelists are as weighty and +important as the words of the Saviour Himself, falls under this +delusion. I read the other day a passage from a printed sermon of an +orthodox type, an acrid outcry against Liberalism in religion, which +may illustrate what I mean. +</P> + +<P> +"To St. Paul and St. John," said the preacher, "the natural or carnal +man is hopelessly remote from God; the same Lord who came to make +possible for man this intimate communion with God is careful to make it +clear that this communion is only possible to redeemed, regenerate man; +prior to new birth into the Kingdom of God, far from being a son of +God, man is, according to the Lord Himself, a child of the devil, +however potentially capable of being translated from death into life." +</P> + +<P> +Such teaching is so horrible and abominable that it is hard to find +words to express one's sense of its shamefulness. To attribute it to +the Christ, who came to seek and save what is lost, is an act of +traitorous wickedness. If Christ had made it His business to thunder +into the ears of the outcasts, whom He preferred to the Scribes and +Pharisees, this appalling message, where would His teaching be? What +message of hope would it hold for the soul? Such a view of Christianity +as this insults alike the soul and the mind and the heart; it +deliberately insults God; the message of Christ to the vilest human +spirit is that it is indeed, in spite of all its corruption, its falls, +its shame, in very truth God's own child; it calls upon the sinner to +recognise it, it takes for granted that he feels it. The people whom +Christ denounced with indignation so fiery, so blasting, that it even +seems inconsistent with His perfect gentleness, were the people who +thus professed to know and interpret the mind of God, who bade the +sinner believe that He was a merciless judge, extreme to mark what is +done amiss, when the one secret was that He was the tenderest and most +loving of Fathers. But according to this preacher's terrible doctrine +God pours into the world a stream of millions of human beings, all +children of the devil, with instincts of a corrupt kind, hampered by +dreadful inheritances, doomed, from their helpless and reluctant birth, +to be sinful here and lost hereafter, and then prescribes to them a +hard and difficult path, beset by clamorous guides, pointing in a +hundred different directions, bidding them find the intricate way to +His Heart, or perish. The truth is the precise opposite. The divine +voice says to every man: "Hampered and sore hindered as you are, you +are yet My dearly beloved son and child; only turn to Me, only open +your heart to Me, only struggle, however faintly, to be what you can +desire to be, and I will guide and lead you to Myself; all that is +needed is that your heart should be on My side in the battle. Even your +sins matter little, provided that you can say sincerely, 'If it were +mine to choose and ordain, I would never willingly do evil again.' I +know, better even than you yourself know, your difficulties, your +temptations, your weaknesses; the sorrow they bring upon you is no +dreary and vindictive punishment, it is the loving correction of My +hand, and will bring you into peace yet, if only you will trust Me, and +not despair." +</P> + +<P> +The world is full of dreadful things, pains and sorrow and miseries, +but the worst of all are the dreary wretchednesses of our own devising. +The old detestable doctrine of Hell, the idea that the stubborn and +perverse spirit can defy God, and make its black choice, is simply an +attempt to glorify the strength of the human spirit and to belittle the +Love of God. It denies the truth that God, if He chose, could show the +darkest soul the beauty of holiness in so constraining a way that the +frail nature must yield to the appeal. To deny this, is to deny the +omnipotence of the Creator. No man would deliberately reject peace and +joy, if he could see how to find them, in favour of feverish evil and +ceaseless suffering. If we believe that God is perfect love, it is +inconceivable that He should make a creature capable of defying His +utmost tenderness, unless He had said to Himself, "I will make a poor +wretch who shall defy Me, and he shall suffer endlessly and mercilessly +in consequence." The truth is that God's Omnipotence is limited by His +Omnipotence; He could not, for instance, abolish Himself, nor create a +power that should be greater than He. But if He indeed can give to evil +such vitality that it can defy Him for ever, then He is creating a +power that is stronger than Himself. +</P> + +<P> +While the mystery of evil is unexplained, we must all be content to +know that we do not know; for the thing is insoluble by human thought. +If God be all-pervading, all-in-all, it is impossible to conceive +anything coming into being alien to Himself, within Himself. If He +created spirits able to choose evil, He must have created the evil for +them to choose, for a man could not choose what did not exist; if man +can defy God, God must have given him the thought of defiance, for no +thought can enter the mind of man not permitted by God. +</P> + +<P> +With this mystery unsolved, we cannot pretend to any knowledge of +spiritual things; all that we can do is to recognise that the principle +of Love is stronger than the principle of evil, and cling so far as we +can cling to the former. But to set ourselves up to guide and direct +other men, as the preacher did whose words I have quoted, is to set +oneself in the place of God, and is a detestable tyranny. Only by our +innate sense of Justice and Love can we apprehend God at all; and thus +we are safe in this, that whenever we find any doctrine preached by any +human being which insults our sense of justice and love, we may gladly +reject it, saying that at least we will not believe that God gives us +the power, on the one hand, to recognise our highest and truest +instincts, and on the other directs us to outrage them. Such teaching +as this we can infallibly recognise as a human perversion and not as a +divine message; and we may thankfully and gratefully believe that the +obstacles and difficulties, the temptations and troubles, which seem to +be strewn so thickly in our path, are to develop rather than to thwart +our strivings after good, and assuredly designed to minister to our +ultimate happiness, rather than to our ultimate despair. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 25, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I found to-day on a shelf a Manual of Preparation for Holy Communion, +which was given me when I was confirmed. I stood a long time reading +it, and little ghosts seemed to rustle in its pages. How well I +remember using it, diligently and carefully, trying to force myself +into the attitude of mind that it inculcated, and humbly and sincerely +believing myself wicked, reprobate, stony-hearted, because I could not +do it successfully. Shall I make a curious confession? From quite early +days, the time of first waking in the morning has been apt to be for me +a time of mental agitation; any unpleasant and humiliating incident, +any disagreeable prospect, have always tended to dart into my brain, +which, unstrung and weakened by sleep, has often been disposed to view +things with a certain poignancy of distress at that hour—a distress +which I always knew would vanish the moment I felt my feet on the +carpet. I used to take advantage of this to use my Manual at that hour, +because by that I secured a deeper intensity of repentance, and I have +often succeeded in inducing a kind of tearful condition by those means, +which I knew perfectly well to be artificial, but which yet seemed to +comply with the rules of the process. +</P> + +<P> +The kind of repentance indicated in the book as appropriate was a deep +abasement, a horror and hatred of one's sinful propensities; and the +language used seems to me now not only hollow and meaningless, but to +insult the dignity of the soul, and to be indeed a profound confession +of a want of confidence in the methods and purposes of God. Surely the +right attitude is rather a manly, frank, and hopeful co-operation with +God, than a degraded kind of humiliation. One was invited to +contemplate God's detestation of sin, His awful and stainless holiness. +How unreal, how utterly false! It is no more reasonable than to +inculcate in human beings a sense of His hatred of weakness, of +imperfection, of disease, of suffering. One might as well say that +God's courage and beauty were so perfect that He had an impatient +loathing for anything timid or ugly. If one said that being perfect He +had an infinite pity for imperfection, that would be nearer the +truth—but, even so, how far away! To believe in His perfect love and +benevolence, one must also believe that all shortcomings, all +temptations, all sufferings, somehow emanate from Him; that they are +educative, and have an intense and beautiful significance—that is what +one struggles, how hardly, to believe! Those childish sins, they were +but the expression of the nature one received from His hand, that +wilful, pleasure-loving, timid, fitful nature, which yet always desired +the better part, if only it could compass it, choose it, love it. To +hate one's nature and temperament and disposition, how impossible, +unless one also hated the God who had bestowed them! And then, too, how +inextricably intertwined! The very part of one's soul that made one +peace-loving, affectionate, trustful was the very thing that led one +into temptation. The very humility and diffidence that made one hate to +seem or to be superior to others was the occasion of falling. The +religion recommended was a religion of scrupulous saints and +self-torturing ascetics; and the result of it was to make one, as +experience widened and deepened, mournfully indifferent to an ideal +which seemed so utterly out of one's reach. It is very difficult to +make the right compromise. On the one hand, there is the sense of moral +responsibility and effort, which one desires to cultivate; on the other +hand, truth compels us to recognise our limitations, and to confess +boldly the fact that moral improvement is a very difficult thing. The +question is whether, in dealing with other people, we will declare what +we believe to be the truth, or whether we will tamper with the truth +for a good motive. Ought we to pretend that we think a person morally +responsible and morally culpable, when we believe that he is neither, +for the sake of trying to improve him? +</P> + +<P> +My own practice now is to waste as little time as possible in +ineffectual regrets, but to keep alive as far as I can in my heart a +hope, a desire, that God will help to bring me nearer to the ideal that +I can perceive and cannot reach. To-day, turning over the pages of the +old Manual, with its fantastic strained phrases staring at me from the +page, I cannot help wishing that some wise and tender person had been +able to explain to me the conditions as I now see them. Probably the +thing was incommunicable; one must learn for oneself both one's +bitterness and one's joy. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 2, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +It sometimes happens to me—I suppose it happens to every one—to hear +some well-meaning person play or sing at a party. Last night, at the +Simpsons', a worthy young man, who was staying there, sang some +Schubert songs in a perfectly correct, weak, inexpressive voice, +accompanying himself in a wooden and inanimate fashion—the whole thing +might have been turned out by a machine. I was, I suppose, in a fretful +mood. "Good God!" I thought to myself, "what is the meaning of this +woeful performance?—a party of absurd dressed-up people, who have +eaten and drunk too much, sitting in a circle in this hot room +listening gravely to this lugubrious performance! And this is the best +that Schubert can do! This is the real Schubert! Here have I been all +my life pouring pints of subjective emotion into this dreary writer of +songs, believing that I was stirred and moved, when it was my own hopes +and aspirations all along, which I was stuffing into this conventional +vehicle, just as an ecclesiastical person puts his emotion into the +grotesque repetitions of a liturgy." I thought to myself that I had +made a discovery, and that all was vanity. Well, we thanked the singer +gravely enough, and went on, smiling and grimacing, to talk local +gossip. A few minutes later, a young girl, very shy and painfully +ingenuous, was hauled protesting to the piano. I could see her hands +tremble as she arranged her music, and the first chords she struck were +halting and timid. Then she began to sing—it was some simple +old-fashioned song—what had happened? the world was somehow different; +she had one of those low thrilling voices, charged with utterly +inexplicable emotion, haunted with old mysterious echoes out of some +region of dreams, so near and yet so far away. I do not think that the +girl had any great intensity of mind, or even of soul, neither was she +a great performer; but there was some strange and beautiful quality +about the voice, that now rose clear and sustained, while the +accompaniment charged and tinged the pure notes with glad or mournful +visions, like wine poured into water; now the voice fell and lingered, +like a clear stream among rocks, pathetic, appealing, stirring a deep +hunger of the spirit, and at the same time hinting at a hope, at a +secret almost within one's grasp. How can one find words to express a +thing so magical, so inexpressible? But it left me feeling as though to +sing thus was the one thing worth doing in the world, because it seemed +to interpret, to reveal, to sustain, to console—it was as though one +opened a door in a noisy, dusty street, and saw through it a deep and +silent glen, with woodlands stooping to a glimmering stream, with a +blue stretch of plain beyond, and an expanse of sunny seas on the rim +of the sky. +</P> + +<P> +I have had similar experiences before. I have looked in a gallery at +picture after picture—bright, soulless, accomplished things—and asked +myself how it was possible for men and women to spend their time so +elaborately to no purpose; and then one catches sight of some little +sketch—a pool in the silence of high summer, the hot sun blazing on +tall trees full of leaf, and rich water-plants, with a single figure in +a moored boat, musing dreamily; and at once one is transported into a +region of thrilled wonder. What is it all about? What is this sudden +glimpse into a life so rich and strange? In what quiet country is it +all enacted, what land of sweet visions? What do the tall trees and the +sleeping pool hide from me, and in what romantic region of joy and +sadness does the dreamer muse for ever, in the long afternoon, so full +of warmth and fragrance and murmurous sound? That is the joy of art, of +the symbol—that it remains and rests within itself, in a world that +seems, for a moment, more real and true than the clamorous and +obtrusive world we move in. +</P> + +<P> +It is so all along the line—the hard and soulless art of technique and +rule, of tradition and precept, however accomplished, however perfect +it is, is worth nothing; it is only another dreary form of labour, +unless through some faculty of the spirit, some vital intensity, or +even some inexplicable felicity, not comprehended, not designed, not +intended by the artist, it has this remote and suggestive quality. And +thus suddenly, in the midst of this weary beating of instruments, this +dull laying of colour by colour, of word by word, there breaks in the +awful and holy presence; and then one feels, as I have said, that this +thrill, this message, this oracle, is the one thing in the world worth +striving after, and that indeed one may forgive all the dull efforts of +those who cannot attain it, because perhaps they too have felt the +call, and have thrown themselves into the eternal quest. +</P> + +<P> +And it is true too of life; one is brought near to many people, and one +asks oneself in a chilly discomfort what is the use of it all, living +thus in hard and futile habits, on dull and conventional lines; and +then again one is suddenly confronted by some personality, rich in hope +and greatness, touching the simplest acts of life with an unearthly +light, making them gracious and beautiful, and revealing them as the +symbols of some pure and high mystery. Sometimes this is revealed by a +word, sometimes by a glance; perfectly virtuous, capable, successful +people may miss it; humble, simple, quiet people may have it. One +cannot analyse it or describe it; but one has instantaneously a sense +that life is a thing of large issues and great hopes; that every action +and thought, however simple or commonplace, may be touched with this +large quality of interest, of significance. It is a great happiness to +meet such a person, because one goes in the strength of that heavenly +meat many days and nights, knowing that life is worth living to the +uttermost, and that it can all be beautiful and lofty and gracious; but +the way to miss it, to lose that fine sense, is to have some dull and +definite design of one's own, which makes one treat all the hours in +which one cannot pursue it, but as the dirt and debris of a quarry. One +must not, I see, wait for the golden moments of life, because there are +no moments that are not golden, if one can but pierce into their +essence. Yet how is one to realise this, to put it into practice? I +have of late, in my vacuous mood, fallen into the dark error of +thinking of the weary hours as of things that must be just lived +through, and endured, and beguiled, if possible, until the fire again +fall. But life is a larger and a nobler business than that; and one +learns the lesson sooner, if one takes the suffering home to one's +soul, not as a tedious interlude, but as the very melody and march of +life itself, even though it crash into discords, or falter in a sombre +monotony. +</P> + +<P> +The point is that when one seems to be playing a part to one's own +satisfaction, when one appears to oneself to be brilliant, suggestive, +inspiriting, and genial, one is not necessarily ministering to other +people; while, on the other hand, when one is dull, troubled, and +anxious, out of heart and discontented, one may have the chance of +making others happier. Here is a whimsical instance; in one of my +dreariest days—I was in London on business—I sate next to an old +friend, generally a very lively, brisk, and cheerful man, who appeared +to me strangely silent and depressed. I led him on to talk freely, and +he told me a long tale of anxieties and cares; his health was +unsatisfactory, his plans promised ill. In trying to paint a brighter +picture, to reassure and encourage him, I not only forgot my own +troubles, but put some hope into him. We had met, two tired and +dispirited men, we went away cheered and encouraged, aware that we were +not each of us the only sufferer in the world and that there were +possibilities still ahead of us all, nay, in our grip, if we only were +not blind and forgetful. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I saw the other day a great artist working on a picture in its initial +stages. There were a few lines of a design roughly traced, and there +was a little picture beside him, where the scheme was roughly worked +out; but the design itself was covered with strange wild smears of +flaring, furious colour, flung crudely upon the canvas. "I find it +impossible to believe," I said,—"forgive me for speaking thus—that +these ragged stains and splashes of colour can ever be subdued and +harmonised and co-ordinated." The great man smiled. "What would you +have said, I wonder," he replied, "if you had seen, as I did once, a +picture of Rossetti's in an early stage, with the face and arms of one +of his strange and mysterious figures roughly painted in in the +brightest ultramarine? Many of these fantastic scraps of colour will +disappear altogether from the eye, just lending tone to something which +is to be superimposed upon them." +</P> + +<P> +I have since reflected that this makes a beautiful parable of our +lives. Some element comes into our experience, some suffering, some +anxiety, and we tend to say impatiently: "Well, whatever happens, this +at least can never appear just or merciful." But God, like a wise and +perfect artist, foresees the end in the beginning. We, who live in time +and space, can merely see the rough, crude tints flung fiercely down, +till the thing seems nothing but a frantic patchwork of angry hues; but +God sees the blending and the softening; how the soft tints of face and +hand, of river and tree, will steal over the coarse background, and +gain their strength and glory from the hidden stains. Perhaps we have +sometimes the comfort of seeing how some old and ugly experience melted +into and strengthened some soft, bright quality of heart or mind. +Staring mournfully as we do upon the tiny circumscribed space of life, +we cannot conceive how the design will work itself out; but the day +will come when we shall see it too; and perhaps the best moments of +life are those when we have a secret inkling of the process that is +going so slowly and surely forward, as the harsh lines and hues become +the gracious lineaments of some sweet face, and from the glaring patch +of hot colour is revealed the remote and shining expanse of a sunlit +sea. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 14, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +There used to be a favourite subject for scholastic disputation: +WHETHER HERCULES IS IN THE MARBLE. The image is that of the sculptor, +who sees the statue lie, so to speak, imbedded in the marble block, and +whose duty is so to carve it, neither cutting too deep or too shallow, +so that the perfect form is revealed. The idea of the disputation is +the root-idea of idealistic philosophy. That each man is, as it were, a +block of marble in which the ideal man is buried. The purpose of the +educator ought to be to cut the form out, perikoptein, as Plato has it. +</P> + +<P> +What a lofty and beautiful thought! To feel about oneself that the +perfect form is there, and that the experience of life is the process +of cutting it out—a process full of pain, perhaps, as the great +splinters and flakes fly and drop—a rough, brutal business it seems at +first, the hewing off great masses of stone, so firmly compacted, fused +and concreted together. At first it seems unintelligible enough; but +the dints become minuter and minuter, here a grain and there an atom, +till the smooth and shapely limbs begin to take shape. At first it +seems a mere bewildered loss, a sharp pang as one parts with what seems +one's very self. How long before the barest structure becomes visible! +but when one once gets a dim inkling of what is going on, as the +stubborn temper yields, as the face takes on its noble frankness, and +the shapely limbs emerge in all the glory of free line and curve, how +gratefully and vehemently one co-operates, how little a thing the +endurance of mere pain becomes by the side of the consciousness that +one is growing into the likeness of the divine. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 23, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +when Goethe was writing Werther he wrote to his friend Kestner, "I am +working out my own situation in art, for the consolation of gods and +men." That is a fine thing to have said, proceeding from so sublime an +egoism, so transcendent a pride, that it has hardly a disfiguring touch +of vanity about it. He did not add that he was also working in the +situation of his friend Kestner, and Kestner's wife, Charlotte; though +when they objected to having been thus used as material, Goethe +apologised profusely, and in the same breath told them, somewhat +royally, that they ought to be proud to have been thus honoured. But +that is the reason why one admires Goethe so much and worships him so +little. One admires him for the way in which he strode ahead, turning +corner after corner in the untravelled road of art, with such insight, +such certainty, interpreting and giving form to the thought of the +world; but one does not worship him, because he had no tenderness or +care for humanity. He knew whither he was bound, but he did not trouble +himself about his companions. The great leaders of the world are those +who have said to others, "Come with me—let us find light and peace +together!"—but Goethe said, "Follow me if you can!" Some one, writing +of that age, said that it was a time when men had immense and +far-reaching desires, but feeble wills. They lost themselves in the +melancholy of Hamlet, and luxuriated in their own sorrows. That was not +the case with Goethe himself; there never was an artist who was less +irresolute. +</P> + +<P> +One of the reasons, I think, why we are weak in art, at the present +time, is because we refer everything to conventional ethical standards. +We are always arraigning people at the bar of morality, and what we +judge them mainly by is their strength or weakness of will. Blake +thought differently. He always maintained that men would be judged for +their intellectual and artistic perception, by their good or bad taste. +</P> + +<P> +But surely it is all a deep-seated mistake; one might as well judge +people for being tall or short, ugly or beautiful. The only thing for +which I think most people would consent to be judged, which is after +all what matters, is whether they have yielded consciously to mean, +prudent, timid, conventional motives in life. It is not a question of +success or failure; it is rather whether one has acted largely, freely, +generously, or whether one has acted politely, timidly, prudently. +</P> + +<P> +In the Gospel, the two things for which it seems to be indicated that +men will be judged are, whether they have been kind, and whether they +have improved upon what has been given them. And therefore the judgment +seems to depend rather upon what men desire than upon what they effect, +upon attitude rather than upon performance. But it is all a great +mystery, because no amount of desiring seems to give us what we desire. +The two plain duties are to commit ourselves to the Power that made us, +and to desire to become what He would have us become; and one must also +abstain from any attempt to judge other people—that is the +unpardonable sin. +</P> + +<P> +In art, then, a man does his best if, like Goethe, he works his own +situation into art for the consolation of gods and men. His own +situation is the only thing he can come near to perceiving; and if he +draws it faithfully and beautifully, he consoles and he encourages. +That is the best and noblest thing he can do, if he can express or +depict anything which may make other men feel that they are not alone, +that others are treading the same path, in sunshine or cloud; anything +which may help others to persevere, to desire, to perceive. The worst +sorrows in life are not its losses and misfortunes, but its fears. And +when Goethe said that it was for the consolation of gods as well as of +men, he said a sublime thing, for if we believe that God made and loved +us, may we not sympathise with Him for our blindness and hopelessness, +for all the sad sense of injustice and perplexity that we feel as we +stumble on our way; all the accusing cries, all the despairing groans? +Do not such things wound the heart of God? And if a man can be brave +and patient, and trust Him utterly, and bid others trust Him, is He not +thereby consoled? +</P> + +<P> +In these dark months, in which I have suffered much, there rises at +times in my heart a strong intuition that it is not for nothing that I +suffer. I cannot divine whom it is to benefit, or how it is to benefit +any one. One thing indeed saddens me, and that is to reflect that I +have often allowed the record of old sadnesses to heighten my own sense +of luxurious tranquillity and security. Not so will I err again. I will +rather believe that a mighty price is being paid for a mightier joy, +that we are not astray in the wilderness out of the way, but that we +are rather a great and loving company, guided onward to some far-off +city of God, with infinite tenderness, and a love so great that we +cannot even comprehend its depth and its intensity. +</P> + +<P> +I sit, as I write, in my quiet room, the fragrant evening air floating +in, surrounded by all the beloved familiar things that have made my +life sweet, easy, and delightful—books and pictures, that have brought +me so many messages of beauty. I hear the voice of Maud overhead—she +is telling the children a story, and I hear their voices break out +every now and then into eager questions. Yet in the midst of all this +peace and sweetness, I walk in loneliness and gloom, hardly daring, so +faithless and despairing I am, to let my heart go out to the love and +goodness round me, for fear of losing it all, for fear that those souls +I love may be withdrawn from me or I from them. In this I know that I +am sadly and darkly wrong—the prudent coldness, the fear of sorrow +pulls me back; irresolute, cowardly, base! Yet even so I must trust the +Hand that moulded me, and the Will that bade me be, just so and not +otherwise. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 4, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +It is a melancholy reflection how very little the highest and most +elaborate culture effects in the direction of producing creative and +original writing. Very few indeed of our great writers have been +technically cultivated men. How little we look to the Universities, +where a lifetime devoted to the study of the nuances of classical +expression is considered well spent, for any literature which either +raises the intellectual temperature or enriches the blood of the world! +The fact is that the highly-cultivated man tends to find himself +mentally hampered by his cultivation, to wade in a sea of glue, as +Tennyson said. It is partly that highly-cultivated minds grow to be +subservient to authority, and to contemn experiment as rash and +obstreperous. Partly also the least movement of the mind dislodges such +a pile of precedents and phrases and aphorisms, stored and amassed by +diligent reading, that the mind is encumbered by the thought that most +things worth saying have been so beautifully said that repetition is +out of the question. Partly, too, a false and fastidious refinement +lays hold of the mind; and an intellect trained in the fine perception +of ancient expression is unable to pass through the earlier stages +through which a writer must pass, when the stream flows broken and +turbid, when it appears impossible to capture and define the idea which +seems so intangible and indefinable. +</P> + +<P> +What an original writer requires is to be able to see a subject for +himself, and then to express it for himself. The only cultivation he +needs is just enough to realise that there are differences of subject +and differences of expression, just enough to discern the general lines +upon which subjects can be evolved, and to perceive that lucidity, +grace, and force of expression are attainable. The overcultivated man, +after reading a masterpiece, is crushed and flattened under his +admiration; but the effect of a masterpiece upon an original spirit, is +to make him desire to say something else that rises in his soul, and to +say it in his own words; all he needs in the way of training is just +enough for him to master technique. The highly-cultivated man is as one +dazzled by gazing upon the sun; he has no eyes for anything else; a +bright disc, imprinted upon his eyes, floats between him and every +other object. +</P> + +<P> +The best illustration of this is the case of the great trio, +Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge. All three started as poets. +Coleridge was distracted from poetry into metaphysics, mainly, I +believe, by his indulgence in opium, and the torturing contemplation of +his own moral impotence. He turned to philosophy to see if he could +find some clue to the bewildering riddle of life, and he lost his way +among philosophical speculations. Southey, on the other hand, a man of +Spartan virtue, became a highly-cultivated writer; he sate in his +spacious library of well-selected books, arranged with a finical +preciseness, apportioning his day between various literary pursuits. He +made an income; he wrote excellent ephemeral volumes; he gained a +somewhat dreary reputation. But Wordsworth, with his tiny bookshelf of +odd tattered volumes, with pages of manuscript interleaved to supply +missing passages, alone kept his heart and imagination active, by +deliberate leisure, elaborate sauntering, unashamed idleness. +</P> + +<P> +The reason why very few uneducated persons have been writers of note, +is because they have been unable to take up the problem at the right +point. A writer cannot start absolutely afresh; he must have the +progress of thought behind him, and he must join the procession in due +order. Therefore the best outfit for a writer is to have just enough +cultivation to enable him to apprehend the drift and development of +thought, to discern the social and emotional problems that are in the +air, so that he can interpret—that is the secret—the thoughts that +are astir, but which have not yet been brought to the birth. He must +know enough and not too much; he must not dim his perception by +acquainting himself in detail with what has been said or thought; he +must not take off the freshness of his mind by too much intellectual +gymnastic. It is a race across country for which he is preparing, and +he will learn better what the practical difficulties are by daring +excursions of his own, than by acquiring a formal suppleness in +prescribed exercises. +</P> + +<P> +The originality and the output of the writer are conditioned by his +intellectual and vital energy. Most men require all their energy for +the ordinary pursuits of life; all creative work is the result of a +certain superabundance of mental force. If this force is used up in +social duties, in professional business, even in the pursuit of a high +degree of mental cultivation, originality must suffer; and therefore a +man whose aim is to write, ought resolutely to limit his activities. +What would be idleness in another is for him a storing of forces; what +in an ordinary man would be malingering and procrastination, is for the +writer the repose necessary to allow his energies to concentrate +themselves upon his chosen work. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been looking at a catalogue, this morning, of the publications +of a firm that is always bringing out new editions of old writers. I +suppose they find a certain sale for these books, or they would not +issue them; and yet I cannot conceive who buys them in their thousands, +and still less who reads them. Teachers, perhaps, of literature; or +people who are inspired by local lectures to go in search of culture? +It is a great problem, this accumulation of literature; and it seems to +me a very irrational thing to do to republish the complete works of old +authors, who perhaps, in the midst of a large mass of essentially +second-rate work, added half-a-dozen lyrics to the literature of the +world. But surely it is time that we began to select? Whatever else +there is time for in this world, there certainly is not time to read +old half-forgotten second-rate work. Of course people who are making a +special study of an age, a period, a school of writers, have to plough +through a good deal that is not intrinsically worth reading; but, as a +rule, when a man has done this, instead of saying boldly that the +greater part of an author's writings may be wisely neglected and left +alone, he loses himself in the critical discrimination and the +chronological arrangement of inferior compositions; perhaps he rescues +a few lines of merit out of a mass of writing; but there is hardly time +now to read long ponderous poems for the sake of a few fine flashes of +emotion and expression. What, as a rule, distinguishes the work of the +amateur from the work of the great writer is that an amateur will +retain a poem for the sake of a few good lines, whereas a great writer +will relentlessly sacrifice a few fine phrases, if the whole structure +and texture of the poem is loose and unsatisfactory. The only chance of +writing something that will live is to be sure that the whole +thing—book, essay, poem—is perfectly proportioned, firm, hammered, +definite. The sign and seal of a great writer is that he has either the +patience to improve loose work, or the courage to sacrifice it. +</P> + +<P> +But most readers are so irrational, so submissive, so deferential, that +they will swallow an author whole. They think dimly that they can +arrive at a certain kind of culture by knowledge; but knowledge has +nothing to do with it. The point is to have perception, emotion, +discrimination. This is where education fails so grievously, that +teachers of this independent and perceptive process are so rare, and +that teaching too often falls into the hands of conscientious people, +with good memories, who think that it benefits the mind to load it with +facts and dates, and forget, or do not know, that what is needed is a +sort of ardent inner fire, that consumes the debris and fuses the ore. +</P> + +<P> +In that dry, ugly, depressing book, Harry and Lucy, which I used to +read in my youth, there is a terrible father, kind, virtuous, +conscientious, whose one idea seems to be to encourage the children to +amass correct information. The party is driving in a chaise together, +and Lucy begins to tell a story of a little girl, Kitty Maples by name, +whom she has met at her Aunt Pierrepoint's; it seems as if the +conversation is for once to be enlightened by a ray of human interest, +but the name is hardly out of her lips, when the father directs her +attention to a building beside the road, and adds, "Let us talk of +things rather than of people." The building turns out to be a +sugar-refinery, or some equally depressing place, and the unhappy +children are initiated into its mysteries. What could be more cheerless +and dispiriting? Lucy is represented as a high-spirited and somewhat +giddy child, who is always being made aware of her moral deficiencies. +</P> + +<P> +One looks forward sadly to the time when nature has been resolutely +expelled by a knowledge of dynamics and statics, and when Lucy, with +children of her own, will be directing their attention away from +childish fancies, to the fact that the poker is a lever, and that curly +hair is a good hygrometer. +</P> + +<P> +Plenty of homely and simple virtues are inculcated in Harry and Lucy; +but the attitude of mind that must inevitably result from such an +education is hard, complacent, and superior. The children are scolded +out of superficial vanities, and their place is occupied by a satanical +sort of pride—the pride of possessing correct information. +</P> + +<P> +What does one want to make of one's own children? One wants them to be +generous, affectionate, simple-minded, just, temperate in the moral +region. In the intellectual region, one desires them to be alert, +eager, independent, perceptive, interested. I like them to ask a +hundred questions about what they see and hear. I want them to be +tender and compassionate to animals and insects. As for books, I want +them to follow their own taste, but I surround them only with the best; +but even so I wish them to have minds of their own, to have +preferences, and reasons for their preferences. I do not want them to +follow my taste, but to trust their own. I do not in the least care +about their amassing correct information. It is much better that they +should learn how to use books. It is very strange how theories of +education remain impervious to development. In the days when books were +scarce and expensive, when knowledge was not formulated and summarised, +men had to depend largely on their own stores. But now, what is the use +of books, if one is still to load one's memory with details? The +training of memory is a very unimportant part of education nowadays; +people with accurate memories are far too apt to trust them, and to +despise verification. Indeed, a well-filled memory is a great snare, +because it leads the possessor of it to believe, as I have said, that +knowledge is culture. A good digestion is more important to a man than +the possession of many sacks of corn; and what one ought rather to +cultivate nowadays is mental digestion. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 14, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +It is comforting to reflect how easy it is to abandon habits, and how +soon a new habit takes the place of the old. Some months ago I put +writing aside in despair, feeling that I was turning away from the most +stable thing in life; yet even now I have learned largely to acquiesce +in silence; the dreary and objectless mood visits me less and less +frequently. What have I found to fill the place of the old habit? I +have begun to read much more widely, and recognise how very +ill-educated I am. In my writing days, I used to read mainly for the +purposes of my books, or, if I turned aside to general reading at all, +it was to personal, intime, subjective books that I turned, books in +which one could see the development of character, analyse emotion, +acquire psychological experience; but now I find a growing interest in +sociological and historical ideas; a mist begins to roll away from my +mental horizon, and I realise how small was the circle in which I was +walking. I sometimes find myself hoping that this may mean the +possibility of a wider flight; but I do not, strange to say, care very +much about the prospect. Just at present, I appear to myself to have +been like a botanist walking in a great forest, looking out only for +small typical specimens of certain classes of ground-plants, without +any eyes for the luxurious vegetation, the beauty of the rich opening +glade, the fallen day of the dense underwood. +</P> + +<P> +Then too I have begun to read regularly with the children; I did it +formerly, but only fitfully, and I am sorry to say grudgingly. But now +it has become a matter of intense interest to me, to see how thoughts +strike on eager and ingenuous minds. I find my trained imagination a +great help here, because it gives me the power of clothing a bare scene +with detail, and of giving vitality to an austere figure. I have made +all sorts of discoveries, to me astonishing and delightful, about my +children. I recognise some of their qualities and modes of thought; but +there are whole ranges of qualities apparent, of which I cannot even +guess the origin. One thinks of a child as deriving its nature from its +parents, and its experience from its surroundings; but there is much +beside that, original views, unexpected curiosities, and, strangest of +all, things that seem almost like dim reminiscences floated out of +other far-off lives. They seem to infer so much that they have never +heard, to perceive so much that they have never seen, to know so much +that they have never been told. Bewildering as this is in the +intellectual region, it is still more marvellous in the moral region. +They scorn, they shudder at, they approve, they love, as by some +generous instinct, qualities of which they have had no experience. "I +don't know what it is, but there is something wrong about Cromwell," +said Maggie gravely, when we had been reading the history of the +Commonwealth. Now Cromwell is just one of those characters which, as a +rule, a child accepts as a model of rigid virtue and public spirit. +Alec, whose taste is all for soldiers and sailors just now, and who +might, one would have thought, have been dazzled by military glory, +pronounced Napoleon "rather a common man." This arose purely in the +boy's own mind, because I am very careful not to anticipate any +judgments; I think it of the highest importance that they should learn +to form their own opinions, so that we never attempt to criticise a +character until we have mastered the facts of his life. +</P> + +<P> +Another thing I am doing with them, which seems to me to develop +intelligence pleasurably and rapidly, is to read them a passage or an +episode, and then to require them to relate it or write it in their own +words. I don't remember that this was ever done for me in the whole +course of my elaborate education; and the speed with which they have +acquired the art of seizing on salient points is to me simply +marvellous. I have my reward in such remarks as these which Maud +repeated to me yesterday. "Lessons," said Alec gravely, "have become +ever so much more fun since we began to do them with father." "Fun!" +said Maggie, with indignant emotion; "they are not lessons at all now!" +I certainly do not observe any reluctance on their part to set to work, +and I do see a considerable reluctance to stop; yet I don't think there +is the least strain about it. But it is true that I save them all the +stupid and irksome work that made my own acquisition of knowledge so +bitter a thing. We read French together; my own early French lessons +were positively disgusting, partly from the abominable little books on +dirty paper and in bad type that we read, and partly from the absurd +character of the books chosen. The Cid and Voltaire's Charles XII.! I +used to wonder dimly how it was ever worth any one's while to string +such ugly and meaningless sentences together. Now I read with the +children Sans Famille and Colomba; and they acquire the language with +incredible rapidity. I tell them any word they do not know; and we have +a simple system of emulation, by which the one who recollects first a +word we have previously had, receives a mark; and the one who first +reaches a total of a hundred marks gets sixpence. The adorable nature +of women! Maggie, whose verbal memory is excellent, went rapidly ahead, +and spent her sixpence on a present to console Alec for the indignity +of having been beaten. Then, too, they write letters in French to their +mother, which are solemnly sent by post. It is not very idiomatic +French, but it is amazingly flexible; and it is delicious to see the +children at breakfast watching Maud as she opens the letters and smiles +over them. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps this is not a very exalted type of education; it certainly +seems to fulfil its purpose very wonderfully in making them alert, +inquisitive, eager, and without any shadow of priggishness. It is +established as a principle that it is stupid not to know things, and +still more stupid to try and make other people aware that you know +them; and the apologies with which Maggie translated a French menu at a +house where we stayed with the children the other day were delightful +to behold. +</P> + +<P> +I am very anxious that they should not be priggish, and I do not think +they are in any danger of becoming so. I suppose I rather skim the +cream of their education, and leave the duller part to the governess, a +nice, tranquil person, who lives in the village, the daughter of a +previous vicar, and comes in in the mornings. I don't mean that their +interest and alertness does not vary, but they are obedient and +active-minded children, and they prefer their lessons with me so much +that it has not occurred to them to be bored. If they flag, I don't +press them. I tell them a story, or show them pictures. While I write +these words in my armchair, they are sitting at the table, writing an +account of something I have told them. Maggie lays down her pen with a +sigh of satisfaction. "There, that is beautiful! But I dare say it is +not as good as yours, Alec." "Don't interrupt me," says Alec sternly, +"and don't push against me when I'm busy." Maggie looks round and +concludes that I am busy too. In a minute, Alec will have done, and +then I shall read the two pieces aloud; then we shall criticise them +respectfully. The aim is to make them frankly recognise the good points +of each other's compositions as well as the weak points, and this they +are very ready to do. +</P> + +<P> +In all this I do not neglect the physical side. They can ride and swim. +They go out in all weathers and get wholesomely wet, dirty, and tired. +Games are a difficulty, but I want them to be able, if necessary, to do +without games. We botanise, we look for nests, we geologise, we study +birds through glasses, we garden. It is all very unscientific, but they +observe, they perceive, they love the country. Moreover, Maud has a +passion for knowing all the village people, and takes the children with +her, so that they really know the village-folk all round; they are +certainly tremendously happy and interested in everything. Of course +they are volatile in their tastes, but I rather encourage that. I know +that in the little old moral books the idea was that nothing should be +taken up by children, unless it was done thoroughly and perseveringly; +but I had rather that they had a wide experience; the time to select +and settle down upon a pursuit is not yet, and I had rather that they +found out for themselves what they care about, than practise them in a +premature patience. The only thing I object to is their taking up +something which they have tried and dropped; then I do require a pledge +that they shall stick to it. I say to them, "I don't mind how many +things you try, and if you find you don't care about one, you may give +it up when you have given it a trial; but it is a bad thing to be +always changing, and everybody can't do everything; so don't take up +this particular thing again, unless you can give a good reason for +thinking you will keep to it." +</P> + +<P> +One of the things I insist upon their doing, whether they like it or +not, is learning to play the piano. There are innumerable people, I +find, who regret not having been made to overcome the initial +difficulties of music; and the only condition I make is, that they +shall be allowed to stop when they can play a simple piece of music at +sight correctly, and when they have learnt the simple rules of harmony. +</P> + +<P> +For teaching them geography, I have a simple plan; my own early +geography lessons were to my recollection singularly dismal. I used, as +far as I can remember, to learn lists of towns, rivers, capes, and +mountains. Then there were horrible lists of exports and imports, such +as hides, jute, and hardware. I did not know what any of the things +were, and no one explained them to me. What we do now is this. I read +up a book of travels, and then we travel in a country by means of +atlases, while I describe the sort of landscape we should see, the +inhabitants, their occupations, their religion, and show the children +pictures. I can only say that it seems to be a success. They learn +arithmetic with their governess, and what is aimed at is rapid and +accurate calculations. As for religious instruction, we read portions +of the Bible, striking scenes and stories, carefully selected, and the +Gospel story, with plenty of pictures. But here I own I find a +difficulty. With regard to the Old Testament, I have frankly told them +that many of the stories are legends and exaggerations, like the +legends of other nations. That is not difficult; I say that in old days +when people did not understand science, many things seemed possible +which we know now to be impossible; and that things which happened +naturally, were often thought to have happened supernaturally; +moreover, that both imagination and exaggeration crept in about famous +people. I am sure that there is a great danger in teaching intelligent +children that the Bible is all literally true. And then the difficulty +comes in, that they ask artlessly whether such a story as the miracle +of Cana, or the feeding of the five thousand, is true. I reply frankly +that we cannot be sure; that the people who wrote it down believed it +to be true, but that it came to them by hearsay; and the children seem +to have no difficulty about the matter. Then, too, I do not want them +to be too familiar, as children, with the words of Christ, because I am +sure that it is a fact that, for many people, a mechanical familiarity +with the Gospel language simply blurs and weakens the marvellous +significance and beauty of the thought. It becomes so crystallised that +they cannot penetrate it. I have treated some parts of the Gospel after +the fashion of Philochristus, telling them a story, as though seen by +some earnest spectator. I find that they take the deepest interest in +these stories, and that the figure of Christ is very real and august to +them. But I teach them no doctrine except the very simplest—the +Fatherhood of God, the Divinity of Christ, the indwelling voice of the +Spirit; and I am sure that religion is a pure, sweet, vital force in +their lives, not a harsh thing, a question of sin and punishment, but a +matter of Love, Strength, Forgiveness, Holiness. The one thing I try to +show them is that God was not, as I used to think, the property, so to +speak, of the Jews; but that He is behind and above every race and +nation, slowly leading them to the light. The two things I will not +allow them to think of are the Doctrines of the Fall and the Atonement; +the doctrine of the Fall is contrary to all true knowledge, the +doctrine of the Atonement is inconsistent with every idea of justice. +But it is a difficult matter. They will hear sermons, and Alec, at +school, may have dogmatic instruction given him; but I shall prepare +him for Confirmation here, and have him confirmed at home, and thus the +main difficulty will be avoided; neither do I conceal from them that +good people think very differently on these points. It is curious to +remember that, brought up as I was on strict Evangelical lines, I was +early inculcated into the sin of schism, with the result that I hurried +with my Puritan nurse swiftly and violently by a Roman Catholic chapel +and a Wesleyan meeting-house which we used to pass in our walks, with a +sense of horror and wickedness in the air. Indeed, I remember once +asking my mother why God did not rain down fire and brimstone on these +two places of worship, and received a very unsatisfactory answer. To +develop such a spirit was, it seems to me, a monstrous sin against +Christian charity, and my children shall be saved from that. +</P> + +<P> +Meantime my own hours are increasingly filled. It takes me a long time +to prepare for the children's lessons; and I have my reward abundantly +in the delight of seeing their intelligence, their perception, their +interest grow. I am determined that the beginnings of knowledge shall +be for them a primrose path; I suppose there will have to be some +stricter mental discipline later; but they shall begin by thinking and +expecting things to be interesting and delightful, before they realise +that things can also be hard and dull. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 20, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +When I read books on education, when I listen to the talk of +educational theorists, when I see syllabuses and schedules, schemes and +curricula, a great depression settles on my mind; I feel I have no +interest in education, and a deep distrust of theoretical methods. +These things seem to aim at missing the very thing of which we are in +search, and to lose themselves in a sort of childish game, a +marshalling of processions, a lust for organisation. I care so +intensely for what it all means, I loathe so deeply the motives that +seem at work. I suppose that the ordinary man considers a species of +success, a bettering of himself, the acquisition of money and position +and respectability, to be the end of life; and such as these look upon +education primarily as a means of arriving at their object. Such was +the old education given by the sophists, which aimed at turning out a +well-balanced, effective man. But all this, it seems to me, has the +wrong end in view. The success of it depends upon the fact that every +one is not so capable of rising, that the rank and file must be in the +background, forming the material out of which the successful man makes +his combinations, and whom he contrives to despoil. +</P> + +<P> +The result of it is that the well-educated man becomes hard, brisk, +complacent, contemptuous, knowing his own worth, using his equipment +for precise and definite ends. +</P> + +<P> +My idea would rather be that education should aim at teaching people +how to be happy without success; because the shadow of success is +vulgarity, and vulgarity is the one thing which education ought to +extinguish. What I desire is that men should learn to see what is +beautiful, to find pleasure in homely work, to fill leisure with +innocent enjoyment. If education, as the term is generally used, were +widely and universally successful, the whole fabric of a nation would +collapse, because no one thus educated would acquiesce in the +performance of humble work. It is commonly said that education ought to +make men dissatisfied, and teach them to desire to improve their +position. It is a pestilent heresy. It ought to teach them to be +satisfied with simple conditions, and to improve themselves rather than +their position—the end of it ought to be to produce content. Suppose, +for an instant—it sounds a fantastic hypothesis—that a man born in +the country, in the labouring class, were fond of field-work, a lover +of the sights of nature in all her aspects, fond of good literature, +why should he seek to change his conditions? But education tends to +make boys and girls fond of excitement, fond of town sociabilities and +amusements, till only the dull and unambitious are content to remain in +the country. And yet the country work will have to be done until the +end of time. +</P> + +<P> +It is a dark problem; but it seems to me that we are only saved from +disaster, in our well-meant efforts, by the simple fact that we cannot +make humanity what we so short-sightedly desire to make it; that the +dull, uninspired, unambitious element has an endurance and a permanence +which we cannot change if we would, and which it is well for us that we +cannot change; and that in spite of our curricula and schedules, +mankind marches quietly upon its way to its unknown goal. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 28, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +An old friend has been staying with us, a very interesting man for many +reasons, but principally for the fact that he combines two sets of +qualities that are rarely found together. He has strong artistic +instincts; he would like, I think, to have been a painter; he has a +deep love of nature, woodland places and quiet fields; he loves old and +beautiful buildings with a tenderness that makes it a real misery to +him to think of their destruction, and even their renovation; and he +has, too, the poetic passion for flowers; he is happiest in his garden. +But beside all this, he has the Puritan virtues strongly developed; he +loves work, and duty, and simplicity of life, with all his heart; he is +an almost rigid judge of conduct and character, and sometimes flashes +out in a half Pharisaical scorn against meanness, selfishness, and +weakness. He is naturally a pure Ruskinian; he would like to destroy +railways and machinery and manufactories; he would like working-men to +enjoy their work, and dance together on the village green in the +evenings; but he is not a faddist at all, and has the healthiest and +simplest power of enjoyment. His severity has mellowed with age, while +his love of beauty has, I think, increased; he does not care for +argument, and is apt to say pathetically that he knows that his +fellow-disputant is right, but that he cannot change his opinions, and +does not desire to. He is passing, it seems to me, into a very gracious +and soft twilight of life; he grows more patient, more tender, more +serene. His face, always beautiful, has taken on an added beauty of +faithful service and gracious sweetness. +</P> + +<P> +We began one evening to discuss a book that has lately been published, +a book of very sad, beautiful, wise, intimate letters, written by a +woman of great perception, high intellectual gifts and passionate +affections. These letters were published, not long after her death, by +her children, to whom many of them were addressed. +</P> + +<P> +He had read the book, I found, with deep emotion; but he said very +decidedly that it ought not to have been published, at all events so +soon after the writer's death. I am inclined to defer greatly to his +judgment, and still more to his taste, and I have therefore read the +book again to see if I am inclined to alter my mind. I find that my +feeling is the exact opposite of his in every way. I feel humbly and +deeply grateful to the children who have given the letters to the +world. Of course if there had been any idea in the mind of the writer +that they would be published, she would probably have been far more +reticent; but, as it was, she spoke with a perfect openness and +simplicity of all that was in her mind. It is curious to reflect that I +met the writer more than once, and thought her a cold, hard, +unsympathetic woman. She had to endure many sorrows and bereavements, +losing, by untimely death, those whom she most loved; but the +revelation of her pain and bewilderment, and the sublime and loving +resignation with which she bore it, has been to me a deep, holy, and +reviving experience. Here was one who felt grief acutely, rebelliously, +and passionately, yet whom sorrow did not sear or harden, suffering did +not make self-absorbed or morbid, or pain make callous. Her love flowed +out more richly and tenderly than ever to those who were left, even +though the loss of those whom she loved remained an unfading grief, an +open wound. She did not even shun the scenes and houses that reminded +her of her bereavements; she did not withdraw from life, she made no +parade of her sorrows. The whole thing is so wholesome, so patient, so +devoted, that it has shown me, I venture to say, a higher possibility +in human nature of bearing intolerable calamities with sweetness and +courage, than I had dared to believe. It seems to me that nothing more +wise or brave could have been done by the survivors than to make these +letters accessible to others. We English people make such a secret of +our feelings, are so stubbornly reticent about the wrong things, have +so false and stupid a sense of decorum, that I am infinitely grateful +for this glimpse of a pure, patient, and devoted heart. It seems to me +that the one thing worth knowing in this world is what other people +think and feel about the great experiences of life. The writers who +have helped the world most are those who have gone deepest into the +heart; but the dullest part of our conventionality is that when a man +disguises the secrets of his soul in a play, a novel, a lyric, he is +supposed to have helped us and ministered to our deepest needs; but if +he speaks directly, in his own voice and person, of these things, he is +at once accused of egotism and indecorum. It is not that we dislike +sentiment and feeling; we value it as much as any nation; but we think +that it must be spoken of symbolically and indirectly. We do not +consider a man egotistical, if he will only give himself a feigned +name, and write of his experiences in the third person. But if he uses +the personal pronoun, he is thought to be shameless. There are even +people who consider it more decent to say "one feels and one thinks," +than to say "I feel and I think." The thing that I most desire, in +intercourse with other men and women, is that they should talk frankly +of themselves, their hopes and fears, their beliefs and uncertainties. +Yet how many people can do that? Part of our English shyness is shown +by the fact that people are often curiously cautious about what they +say, but entirely indiscreet in what they write. The only books which +possess a real and abiding vitality are those in which personality is +freely and frankly revealed. Of course there are one or two authors +like Shakespeare who seem to have had a power of penetrating and +getting inside any personality, but, apart from them, the books that go +on being read and re-read are the books in which one seems to clasp +hands with a human soul. +</P> + +<P> +I said many of these things to my friend, and he replied that he +thought I was probably right, but that he could not change his opinion. +He would not have had these letters published until all the survivors +were dead. He did not think that the people who liked the book were +actuated by good motives, but had merely a desire to penetrate behind +the due and decent privacies of life; and he would have stopped the +publication of such letters if he could, because even if people liked +them, it was not good for them to read them. He said that he himself +felt on reading the book as if he had been listening at keyholes, or +peeping in at windows, and seeing the natural endearments of husband +and wife, mother and children. +</P> + +<P> +I said that what seemed to me to make a difference was whether the +people thus espied were conscious of the espionage or not; and that it +was no more improper to have such things revealed IN A BOOK, than to +have them described in a novel or shown upon the stage. Moreover, it +seemed to me, I said, as though to reveal such things in a book was the +perfect compromise. I feel strongly that each home, each circle has a +right to its own privacy; but I am not ashamed of my natural feelings +and affections, and, by allowing them to appear in a book, I feel that +I am just speaking of them simply to those who will understand. I +desire communion with all sympathetic and like-minded persons; but +one's actual circle of friends is limited by time and space and +physical conditions. People talk of books as if every one in the world +was compelled to read them. My own idea of a book is that it provides a +medium by which one may commune confidentially with people whom one may +never see, but whom one is glad to know to be alive. One can make +friends through one's books with people with whom one agrees in spirit, +but whose bodily presence, modes of life, reticences, habits, would +erect a barrier to social intercourse. It is so much easier to love and +understand people through their books than through their conversation. +In books they put down their best, truest, most deliberate thoughts; in +talk, they are at the mercy of a thousand accidents and sensations. +There were people who objected to the publication of the Browning +love-letters. To me they were the sacred and beautiful record of an +intensely holy and passionate relation between two great souls; and I +can afford to disregard and to contemn the people who thought the book +strained, unconventional and shameless, for the sake of those whose +faith in love and beauty was richly and generously nurtured by it. +</P> + +<P> +It seems to me that the whole progress of life and thought, of love and +charity, depends upon our coming to understand each other. The hostile +seclusion which some desire is really a savage and almost animal +inheritance; and the best part of civilisation has sprung from the +generous self-revelation of kindly and honourable souls. +</P> + +<P> +I am not even deterred, in a case of this kind, by wondering whether +the person concerned would have liked or disliked the publication of +these letters. I feel no sort of doubt that, as far as I am concerned, +she would be only too willing that I should thus have read and loved +them, and I cannot believe that the disapprobation of a few austere +people, or the curiosity of a few vulgar people, would weigh in the +balance for a moment against the joy of like-minded spirits. +</P> + +<P> +The worst dissatisfaction of life is the difficulty one has in drawing +near to others, the foolish hardness, often only superficial, which +makes one hold back from and repudiate intimacies. If I had known and +loved a great and worthy spirit, and had been the recipient of his +confidences, I should hold it a solemn duty to tell the world what I +knew. I should care nothing for the carping of the cold and +unsympathetic, but I should base my decision on the approval of all +loving and generous souls. This seems to me the highest service that +art can render, and if it be said that no question of art comes in, in +the publication of such records as these letters, I would reply that +they are themselves works of the highest and most instinctive art, +because the world, its relations and affections, its loss and grief, +its pain and suffering, are here seen patiently mirrored and perfectly +expressed by a most perceptive personality. The moment that emotions +are depicted and represented, that moment they have felt the holy and +transfiguring power of art; and then they pass out of the region of +stuffy conventions and commonplace decorums into a finer and freer air. +I do not deny that there is much vulgar inquisitiveness abroad, but +that matters little; and, for myself, I am glad to think that the world +is moving in the direction of a greater frankness. I do not mean that a +man has not a right to live his life privately, in his own house and +his own circle, if he wills. But if that life is lived simply, +generously and bravely, I welcome any ripple or ray from it that breaks +in light and fragrance upon the harsher and uglier world. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 1, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have just read an interesting sentence. I don't know where it comes +from—I saw it in a book of extracts. +</P> + +<P> +"I am more and more convinced that the cure for sentiment, as for all +weakened forms of strong things, is not to refuse to feel it, but to +feel more in it. This seems to me to make the whole difference between +a true and a false asceticism. The false goes for getting rid of what +it is afraid of; the true goes for using and making it serve, the one +empties, the other fills; the one abstracts, the other concentrates." +</P> + +<P> +There is a great deal of truth in this, and it is manfully put. Where +it fails is, I think, in assuming an amount of will-power and +resolution in human character, which I suspect is not there. The system +the writer recommends is a system that a strong character instinctively +practises, moving through sentiment to emotion, naturally, and by a +sturdy growth. But to tell a man to feel more in a thing, is like +telling a man to be intelligent, benevolent, wise. It is just what no +one can do. The various grades of emotion are not things like +examinations, in which one can successively graduate. They are +expressions of temperament. The sentimental man is the man who can go +thus far and no farther. How shall one acquire vigour and generosity? +By behaving as if one was vigorous and generous, when one is neither? I +do not think it can be done in that way. One can do something to check +a tendency, very little to deepen it. What the writer calls false +asceticism is the only brave and wholesome refuge of people, who know +themselves well enough to know that they cannot trust themselves. Take +the case of one's relations with other people. If a man drifts into +sentimental relations with other people, attracted by charm of any +kind, and knowing quite well that the relation is built on charm, and +that he will not be able to follow it into truer regions, I think he +had probably better try to keep himself in check, not embrace a +sentimental relation with a mild hope that it may develop into a real +devotion. The strong man may try experiments, even though he burns his +fingers. The weak man had better not meddle with the instruments and +fiery fluids at all. +</P> + +<P> +I am myself just strong enough to dislike sentiment, to turn faint in +the sickly, mawkish air. But I am not strong enough to charge it with +vivid life. Moreover, the danger of a strong character taking up the +anti-ascetic position is that he is apt to degenerate into a man like +Goethe, who plucked the fragrant blooms on every side, and threw them +relentlessly away when he had inhaled their sweetness. That is a cruel +business, unless there is a very wise and tender heart behind. +</P> + +<P> +Yet again, reconsidering the whole problem, I am not sure that the +whole suggestion, taken as advice, is not at fault. I think it is +making a melancholy, casuistical, ethical business out of what ought to +be a natural process. I think it is vitiated by a principle which +vitiates so much of the advice of moralists, the principle that one +ought to aim at completeness and perfection. I don't believe that is +the secret of life—indeed I think it is all the other way. One must of +course do one's best to resist immoral, low, sensuous tendencies; but +otherwise I believe that one ought to drink as much as one's glass can +hold of pure and beautiful influences. If sentiment is the nearest that +a man can come to emotion, I think he had better take it thankfully. It +is this ethical prudence which is always weighing issues, and pulling +up the plant to see how it grows, which is the weakening and the +stunting thing. Of course any principle can be used sophistically; but +I think that many people commit a kind of idolatry by worshipping their +rules and principles rather than by trusting God. It develops a larger +and freer life, if one is not too cautious, too precise. Of course one +must follow what light one has, and all lights are lit from God; but if +one watches the lanterns of moralists too anxiously, one may forget the +stars. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I lose myself sometimes in a dream of misery in thinking of the +baseness and meanness and squalor that condition the lives of so many +of the poor. Not that it is not possible under those conditions to live +lives of simplicity and dignity and beauty. It is perfectly possible, +but only, I think, for strong natures possessing a combination of +qualities—virtue, industry, sense, prudence, and above all good +physical health. There must still be thousands of lives which could be +happy and simple and virtuous under more secure conditions, which are +marred and degraded by the influences under which they are nurtured. +Yet what can the more fortunate individual do in the matter? If all the +rich men in England were to resign to-morrow all the wealth they +possessed, reserving only a bare modicum of subsistence, the matter +could not be amended. Even that wealth could not be wisely applied; +and, if equally divided, it would hardly make any appreciable +difference. What is worse, it would not alter the baneful influences in +the least; it would give no increased security of material conditions, +and it would not affect the point at issue, namely, the tone and +quality of thought and feeling, where the only hope of real +amelioration lies, and which is really the source and root of our +social evils. +</P> + +<P> +Moreover, the real difficulty is not to see what the classes on whom +the problem presses most grimly NEED, but what they WANT. It is no use +theorising about it, and providing elegant remedies which will not +touch the evil. What one requires to know is what those natures, who +lie buried in this weltering tide, and are dissatisfied and tormented +by it, really desire. It is no use trying to provide a paradise on the +farther bank of the river, till we have constructed bridges to cross +the gulf. What one wants is that some one from the darkness of the +other side should speak articulately and boldly what they claim, what +they could use. It is not enough to have a wistful cry for help ringing +in our ears; one wants a philosophical or statesmanlike demand—just +the very thing which from the nature of the case we cannot get. It may +be that education will make this possible; but at present education +seems merely to be a ladder let down into the abyss, by which a few +stronger natures can climb out of it, with horror and contempt in their +hearts of what they have left behind. The question that stares one in +the face is, is there honest work for all to do, if all were strong and +virtuous? The answer at present seems to be in the negative; and the +problem seems to be solved only by the fact that all are not capable of +honest work, and that the weaklings give the strong their opportunity. +What, again, one asks oneself, is the use of contriving more leisure +for those who could not use it well? Then, too, under present +conditions, the survival of the unfittest seems to be assured. Those +breed most freely and recklessly of whom it may be said that, for the +interests of civilisation, it is least desirable that they should +perpetuate their kind. The problem too is so complicated, that it +requires a gigantic faith in a reformer to suggest the sowing of seed +of which he can never hope to see the fruit. The situation is one which +tends to develop vehement and passionate prophets, dealing in vague and +remote generalisations, when what one needs is practical prudence, and +the effective power of foreseeing contingencies. One who like myself +loves security, leisure, beauty and peace, and is actuated by a vague +and benevolent wish that all should have the same opportunities as +myself, feels himself a mere sentimentalist in the matter, without a +single effective quality. I can see the problem, I can grieve over it, +I can feel my faith in God totter under the weight of it, but that is +all. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 15, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +One of the hardest things to face in the world is the grim fact that +our power of self-improvement is limited. Of some qualities we do not +even possess the germs. Some qualities we have in minute quantities, +but hardly capable of development; some few qualities we possess in +fuller measure, and they are capable of development; but even so, our +total capacity of growth is limited, conditioned by our vital energy, +and we have to face the fact that if we develop one set of qualities we +must neglect another set. +</P> + +<P> +I think of it in a whimsical and fantastic image, the best I can find. +Imagine a box in which there are a number of objects like puff-balls, +each with a certain life of its own, half-filling the box. Some of the +puff-balls are small, hard, sterile; others are soft and expansive; +some grow quickly in warmth and light, others fare better in cold and +darkness. The process of growth begins: some of them increase in size +and press themselves into every crevice, enclosing and enfolding the +others; even so the growth of the whole mass is conditioned by the size +of the box, and when the box is full, the power of increase is at an +end. +</P> + +<P> +The box, to interpret the fable, is our character with its +possibilities. The conditions which develop the various qualities are +the conditions of our lives, our health, our income, our education, the +people who surround us; but even the qualities themselves have their +limitations. Two people may grow up under almost precisely similar +influences, and yet remain different to the end; two characters may be +placed in difficult and bracing circumstances; the effect upon one +character is to train the quality of self-reliance, on the other to +produce a moral collapse. Some people do their growing early and then +stop altogether, becoming impervious to new opinions and new +influences. Some people go on growing to the end. +</P> + +<P> +If one develops one side of one's nature, as the intellectual or +artistic, one probably suffers on the emotional or moral side. The pain +which the perceptive man feels in surveying this process is apt to be +very acute. He may see that he lacks certain qualities altogether and +yet be unable to develop them. He may find in himself some patent and +even gross fault, and be unable to cure it. The only hope for any of us +is that we do not know the expansive force of our qualities, nor the +size of the box; and therefore it is reasonable to go on trying and +desiring; and as long as one can do that, it is clear that there is +still room for growth. The worst shadow of all is to find, as one goes +on, a certain indifference creeping over one. One accepts a fault as a +part of one's nature; one ceases to care about what appears +unattainable. +</P> + +<P> +It may be said that this is a fatalistic theory, and leads to a mild +inactivity; but the question rather is whether it is true, whether it +is attested by experience. One improves, not by overlooking facts, in +however generous and enthusiastic a spirit, but by facing facts, and +making the best use one can of them. One must resolutely try to submit +oneself to favourable conditions, fertilising influences. And much more +must one do that in the case of those for whom one is responsible. In +the case of my own two children, for instance, my one desire is to +surround them with the best influences I can. Even there one makes +mistakes, no doubt, because one cannot test the expansive power of +their qualities; but one can observe the conditions under which they +seem to develop best, and apply them. To lavish love and tenderness on +some children serves to concentrate their thoughts upon themselves, and +makes them expect to find all difficulties smoothed away; on other more +generous natures, it produces a glow of responsive gratitude and +affection, a desire to fulfil the hopes formed of them by those who +love them. The most difficult cases of all are the cases of +temperaments without loyal affection, but with much natural charm. +Those are the people who get what is called 'spoilt,' because it is so +much easier to believe in the existence of qualities which are +superficially displayed than in qualities which lie too deep for facile +expression. One comes across cases of children of intense emotional +natures, and very little power of expressing their feelings, or of +showing their affection. Of course, too, example is far more potent +than precept, and it is very difficult for parents to simulate a +high-mindedness and an affectionateness that they do not themselves +possess, even if they are sincerely anxious that their children should +grow up high-minded and affectionate. One of the darkest shadows of my +present condition is the fear that any revelation of my own weakness +and emptiness may discourage and distort my children's characters; and +the watchfulness which this requires increases the strain under which I +suffer, because it is a hard fact that an example set for a noble and +an unselfish motive is not nearly so potent as an example set +naturally, sweetly, and generously, with no particular consciousness of +motive behind it at all. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 18, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have just heard of the sudden death of an old friend. Francis Willett +was a writer of some distinction, whose acquaintance I made in my first +years in London. He was a tall, slim man, dark of complexion, who would +have been called very handsome, if it had not been for a rather +burdened air that he wore. As it was, people tended rather to pity him, +and to speak of him as somewhat of a mystery. I never knew anything +about the background of his life. He must have had some small means of +his own, and he lived in rooms, in rather an out-of-the-way street near +Regent's Park. One used to see him occasionally in London, walking +rapidly, almost always alone, and very rarely I encountered him at +parties, always wearing a slightly regretful air, as though he were +wishing himself away. He wrote a good deal, reviewed books, and, I +suppose, contrived to make enough to live on by his pen. He once spoke +of himself as being in the happy position of being able to exist +without writing, but forced to purchase all small luxuries by work. He +published two or three books of short stories and sketches of travel, +delicate pieces of work, which had no great sale, but gave him a +recognised position among men of letters. I drifted into a kind of +friendship with him; we were members of the same club, and he sometimes +used to flutter shyly into my rooms like a great moth; but he never +asked me to his quarters. +</P> + +<P> +I discovered that he had done well at Oxford, and also that he had +once, at all events, had considerable ambitions; but his health was not +strong, he was extremely sensitive, and very fastidious about the +quality of his work. I realised this on an occasion when he once +entrusted me with a MS., and asked me if I would give him an opinion, +as it was an experiment, and he did not feel sure of his ground; he +added that there was no hurry about it. I put the MS. away in a +despatch-box, and having at the time a press of work, I forgot about +it. He never asked me for it, and I did not happen to open the box +where it lay. Some months after I came upon it. I read it through, and +thought it a fine and delicate piece of work. I wrote to him, +apologising for my delay and speaking warmly of the piece, which was +one of those rather uncomfortable stories, which is not quite long +enough to make a book, and yet rather too long to put in a volume with +other pieces. He wrote at once, thanking me for my opinion, and it was +only by accident at a later date, when I happened to ask him what he +was doing with the story, that he told me he had destroyed it. I +expressed deep regret that he had done so; and he said with a smile +that it was probably rather a foolish impulse that had decided him to +make away with it. "The fact is," he said, "that you wrote very kindly +about it, but you had had it in your hands so long, that I felt somehow +that it could not have interested you—it really doesn't matter," he +added, "I don't think it was at all successful." I apologised very +humbly, and explained the circumstances. "Oh, please don't blame +yourself in any way," he said, "I have not the least shadow of +resentment in my mind about it. There is something wrong about my work; +it doesn't interest people. I suppose it is that I can't let myself +go." An interesting conversation followed, and he told me more than he +ever told me before or since about himself. He confessed to being so +critical of his own work, that his table-drawers were full of +unfinished MSS. His usual experience was to begin a piece of work +enthusiastically; to plan it all out, and to work at first with zest. +"Then it begins to get all out of shape," he said, "there is no go +about it; it all loses itself in subtleties and complexities of motive; +one thing trips up another, and at last it all gets so tangled that I +put it aside; if I could follow the track of one strong and definite +emotion, it would be all right—but I am like the man in the story who +changes the cow for the horse, and the horse for the pig, and the pig +for the grindstone; and then the grindstone rolls into the river." He +seemed to take it all very philosophically, and I ventured to say so. +"Yes," he said, "I have learnt at last that that is how I am made; but +I have been through a good many agonies of disgust and discouragement +about it in old days—it is the same with everything I have touched. +The bits of work that I have completed have all been done in a rush—if +the mood lasts long enough, I am all right—and once or twice it has +just lasted. I am like a swimmer," he went on, "who can only swim a +certain distance; and if I judge the distance rightly, I can reach the +point I desire to reach; but I generally judge the distance wrong; and +half-way across I am seized with a sudden fright, and struggle back in +terror." +</P> + +<P> +By one of the strange coincidences that sometimes happen in this world, +I took an unknown lady in to dinner a few days afterwards, and happened +to mention Willett's name. "Do you know him?" she said. "Oh yes, of +course you do!" she went on; "you are the Mr. S—— of whom he has +spoken to me." I found that my neighbour was a distant relation of +Willett's, and she told me a good deal about him. He was absolutely +alone in the world; he had been left an orphan at an early age, and had +spent his holidays with guardians and relations, with any one who would +take pity on him. "He was a clever kind of boy," she said, "melancholy +and diffident, always thinking that people disliked him. He used to +give me the air of a person who was trying to find something, and who +did not quite know where to look for it. He had a time of expansion at +Oxford, where he made friends and did well; and then he came to London, +and began to write. But the real tragedy of his life is this," she +said. "He really fell in love, or as nearly as he could, with a very +pretty and high-spirited girl, who took a great fancy to him, and +pitied him from the bottom of her heart. For five years the thing went +on. She would have married him at any time if he had asked her. But he +did not. I suppose he could not face the idea of being married. He +always seemed to be on the point of proposing to her, and then he would +lose heart at the last minute. At last she got tired of waiting, and, I +suppose, began to care for some one else; but she was very good to +Francis, and never lost patience with him. At last she told him one day +quietly that she was engaged, and hoped that they would always remain +friends. I think, do you know, that it was almost more a relief to him +than otherwise. I did my best to help him—marriage was the one thing +he wanted; if he could only have been pushed into it, he would have +made a perfect husband, because not only is he very much of a +gentleman, but he could never bear to fail any one who depended on him; +but he has got the unhappiest mind I know; the moment that he has +formed a plan, and sees his way clear, he at once begins to think of +all the reasons against it—not the selfish reasons, by any means; in +this case he reflected, I am sure, how little he had to offer; he could +not bring himself to feel that any one could really care for him; and +then, too, he never really cared for anything quite enough himself. Or +if he did, he found all sorts of refined reasons why he ought not to do +so. If only he had been a little more selfish, it would have been all +right. Indeed," said Mrs. T——, with a smile, "he is the only person +of whom I could truthfully say that if he had only been a little more +vulgar, he would have been a much happier person." +</P> + +<P> +I saw a good deal of Willett after that, and he interested me +increasingly. I verified Mrs. T——'s judgment about him, and found it +true in every particular. I suppose there was some lack of vitality +about him, because the more I knew of him the more I found to admire. +He was an exquisitely delicate person, affectionate, responsive, with a +fine sense of humour—indeed, the most disconcerting thing was that he +saw to the full the humour of his own position. But none of the robust +motives that spur men to action affected him. He was ambitious, but he +would not make any sacrifices to gain the objects of his ambition. He +could not use his powers on conventional lines. He was, I think, deeply +desirous of confidence and affection, but he could never believe that +he deserved either, or that it was possible for him to be interesting +to others. He was laborious, pure-minded, transparently honest, and had +a shrewd and penetrating judgment of other people; but he seemed to +labour under a sense of shame at his deficiencies, and to feel that he +had no claims or rights in the world. He existed on sufferance. The +smallest shadow of disapproval caused him to abandon any design, not +resentfully but eagerly, as though he was fully aware of his own +incompetence. +</P> + +<P> +I grew to feel a strong affection for him, and tried in many ways to +help and encourage him. But he always discounted encouragement, and it +is a clumsy business trying to help a man who does not demand or desire +help. +</P> + +<P> +He seemed to me to have schooled himself into a kind of tender +patience; and this attitude, I am ashamed to say, used to irritate me +considerably, because it seemed to me to be so much power wasted on +accepting defeat, which might have ensured victory. +</P> + +<P> +He was with me a few weeks ago. I was up in town, and he dined with me +by appointment. He told me, with a gentle philosophy, a story which +made my blood boil. He had been asked to write a book by a publisher, +and the lines had been laid down for him. "It was such a comfort to +me," he said, "because it supplied just the stimulus I could not myself +originate. My book was really rather a good piece of work; but a week +ago I sent it to the publisher, and he returned it, saying it was not +the least what he wanted—he suggested my retaining about a third of +it, and rewriting the rest. Of course I could do nothing of the kind." +"What have you done with it?" I asked. "Oh, I have destroyed it." "But +didn't you see him," I said, "or do something—or at all events insist +on payment?" "Oh no," he said, "I could not do that—the man was +probably right—he wanted a particular kind of book, and mine was not +what he wanted. I did say that I wished he had explained to me more +clearly what he wanted—but after all it doesn't very much matter. I +can get along all right, if I am careful." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," I said, "you are really a very aggravating person. If I could +not have got my book published elsewhere, I would certainly have had a +row—I would have taken out my money's worth in vituperation." +</P> + +<P> +Willett smiled; "I dare say you would have had some fun," he said, "but +that is not my line. I have told you before that I can't interest +people—I don't think it is wholly my fault." +</P> + +<P> +We sate late, talking; and for the only time in his life he spoke to +me, with a depth of emotion of which I should hardly have suspected +him, of the value he set upon my friendship, and his gratitude for my +sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +And now this morning I have heard of his sudden death. He was found +dead in his room, bent over his papers. He must have been writing late +at night, as his custom was; and it proved on examination that he must +have long suffered from an unsuspected disease of the heart. Perhaps +that may explain his failure, if it can be called a failure. There is +something to me almost insupportably pathetic to think of his lonely +and uncomforted life, his isolation, his sensitiveness. And yet I do +not feel sure that it is pathetic, because his life somehow seems to me +to have been one of the most beautiful I have ever known. He did +nothing much for others, he achieved nothing for himself; but it is +only our miserable habit of weighing every one's life, in a hard way, +by a standard of performance and success, which makes one sigh over +Francis Willett's life. It is very difficult at times to see what it is +that life is exactly meant to do for us. Most of the men and women I +know—I say this sadly but frankly—seem to me to leave the world +worse, in essential respects, than they entered it. There is generally +something ingenuous, responsive, eager, sweet, hopeful about a +child—but though I admit that one does encounter beautiful natures +that seem to flower very generously in the light of experience, yet +most people grow dull, dreary, conventional, grasping, +commonplace—they grow to think rather contemptuously of emotion and +generosity—they think it weak to be amiable, unselfish, kind. They +become fond of comfort and position and respect and money. They think +such things the serious concerns of life, and sentiment a kind of +relaxation. But with Willett it was the precise reverse. He claimed +nothing for himself, he never profited at the expense of another; he +was utterly humble, gentle, unpretentious, kind, sincere. An hour ago I +should have called him "poor fellow," and wished that he had had a more +robust kind of fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in +my heart to wish him any such qualities. His life appears to me utterly +beautiful and fragrant. He never incurred any taint of grossness from +prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and in the +light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one thing worth +achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and rich with +possibilities of blessing and glory. He would hardly have called +himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he could not have +attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful certainty; but the +only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about him, echoing sweetly +and softly through the ages, are the words in which Christ described +the tender spirits of those who were nearest to the Father's heart, and +to whom it is given to see God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 28, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely. I have given +up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for plots or +situations. I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects beside me, +and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely indifferent to +the whole thing. Meanwhile the flood of letters about my book, +invitations from editors, offers from publishers, continues to flow. I +reply to these benignantly and courteously, but undertake nothing, +promise nothing. I seem to have recovered my balance. I think no more +about my bodily complaints, and my nerves no longer sting and thrill. +The day is hardly long enough for all I have to do. It may be that when +the novelty of the experiment in education wears off, I shall begin to +hanker after authorship again. Alec will have to go to school in a year +or two, I suppose; but it shall be a day-school at first, if I can find +one. As to the question of a public school, I am much exercised. Of +course there are nightmare terrors about tone and morals; but I am not +really very anxious about the boy, because he is sensible and +independent, and has no lack of moral courage. The vigorous +barrack-life is good for a boy, the give-and-take, the splendid +equality, the manly code, the absence of affectation. But the +intellectual tone of schools is low, and the conventionality is great. +I don't want Alec to be a conventional man, and yet I want him to +accept current conventions instinctively about matters of indifference. +I have a horror of the sporting public-school type, the good-humoured, +robust fellow, who does his work and fills his spare time with games, +and thinks intellectual things, and artistic interests, and emotion, +and sympathy, moonshine and rot. Such people live a wholesome enough +life; they make good soldiers, good officials, good men of business. +But they are woefully complacent and self-satisfied. The schools +develop a Spartan type, and I want Alec to be an Athenian. But the +experiment will have to be made, because a man is at a disadvantage in +ordinary life if he has not the public school bonhomie, courtesy, and +common sense. I must try to keep the other side alive, and I don't +despair of doing it. +</P> + +<P> +Meantime we are a very contented household, in spite of the fact that +now, if ever, is the time for me to make my mark as a writer, and I +have to pass all the opportunities that offer. On the other hand, this +is the point at which one sees, in the history of letters, so many +writers go to pieces. They suddenly find, after their first great +success, that they have arrived, by a tortuous and secret path, at +being a sort of public man. They are dazzled by contact with the world. +They go into society, they make speeches, they write twaddle, they +drain their energy, already depleted by creation, in fifty different +ways. Now I am strongly of Ruskin's opinion that the duty of the artist +is to make himself fit for the best society, and then to abstain from +it. Very fortunately I have no sort of taste for these things, beyond +the simple human satisfaction in enjoying consideration. That is +natural and inevitable. But I don't value it unduly, and I dislike its +penalties more than I love its rewards. +</P> + +<P> +And then, too, I reflect that it is, after all, life that we are here +to taste, and life that so many of us pass by. Work is a part of life, +perhaps the essence of life; but to be absorbed in work is to be like a +man who is absorbed in collecting specimens, and never has time to sort +them. I knew of a man who determined, early in life, to write the +history of political institutions. He had a great library, and he +devoted himself to study. He put in his books, as he read them, slips +of paper to indicate passages and chapters that he would have to +consult, and as he finished with a book, he put it in a certain place +on a certain shelf. He made no other notes or references—he was a man +with a colossal memory, and he knew exactly what his markers meant. In +the middle of this life of acquisition, while he bored like a worm in a +cheese, he died. His library was sold. The markers meant nothing to any +one else; and the book-buyers merely took the markers out and threw +them away, and that was the end of the history of political +institutions. +</P> + +<P> +I feel that, apart from our work, we ought to try and arrive at some +solution, to draw some sort of conclusions—to reflect, to theorise; we +may not draw nearer to the secret, but our only hope of doing so, the +only hope that humanity will do so, is for some at least to try. And +thus I think that I have perhaps been saved from a great delusion. I +was spending my time in spinning romances, in elaborating plots, in +manoeuvring life as I would; and it is not like that! Life is not run +on physical lines, nor on emotional, nor social, nor even moral lines. +It is not managed in the least as we should manage it; it is a +resultant of innumerable forces, or perhaps the same force running in +intricate currents. Of course the strange thing is that we men should +find ourselves thrust into it, with strong intuitions, vehement +preconceptions, as to how it ought to be directed; our happiness seems +to depend upon our being, or learning to be, in harmony with it, but it +baffles us, it resists us, it contradicts us, it opposes us to the end; +sometimes it crushes us; and yet we believe that it means good; and +even if we do not so believe, we have to acquiesce, we have to endure; +and one thing is certain, we cannot learn the lesson of life by +practising indifference or stoical fortitude, or by abandoning +ourselves to despair; only by believing that our sufferings are +fruitful, our mistakes educative, our sins significant, our sorrows +gracious, can we hope to triumph. We go on, many of us, relying on +useless defences, beguiling ourselves with fantastic diversions, +overlooking, as far as we can, stern realities; stopping our ears, +turning away our gaze, shrinking and crying out like children at the +prospect of experiences to which we are led by loving presences, that +smile as they draw us to the wholesome and bracing incidents that we so +weakly dread. We pray for courage, but we know in our souls that +courage can only be won by enduring what we fear; and thus preoccupied +by hopes and plans and fears, we miss the wholesome sweet and simple +stuff of life, its quiet relationships, its tranquil occupations, its +beautiful and tender surprises. +</P> + +<P> +And then perhaps, at long intervals, we have a deep and splendid flash +of insight, when we can thank God that things have not been as we +should have willed and ordered them. We should have lingered, perhaps, +in the low rich meadows, the sheltered woodlands of our desire; we +should never have set our feet to the hill. In terror and reluctance we +have wandered upwards among the steep mountain tracks, by high green +slopes, by grim crag-buttresses, through fields of desolate stones. Yet +we are aware of a finer, purer air, of wide prospects of hill and +plain; we feel that we have gained in strength and vigour, that our +perceptions are keener, our very enjoyment nobler; and at last, it may +be, we have sight, from some Pisgah-top of hope, of fairer lands yet to +which we are surely bound. And then, too, though we have fared on in +loneliness and isolation, we see moving forms of friends and comrades +converging on our track. It is no dream; it is but a parable of what +has happened to many a soul, what is daily happening. What does the +sad, stained, weary, fitful past concern us at such a moment as this? +It concerns us nothing, save that only through its pains and shadows +was it possible for us to climb where we have climbed. +</P> + +<P> +To-day it seems that I have been blessed with such a vision. The mist +will close in again, doubtless, wild with wind, chill with rain, sad +with the cry of hoarse streams. But I have seen! I shall be weary and +regretful and despairing many times; but I shall never wholly doubt +again. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 8, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Alec is ill to-day. He was restless, flushed, feverish, yesterday +evening, and I thought he must have caught cold; we put him to bed, and +this morning we sent for the doctor. He says there is no need for +anxiety, but he does not know as yet what is the matter; his +temperature is high, and we must just keep him quietly in bed, and +wait. I tell myself that it is foolish to be anxious, but I cannot keep +a certain dread out of my mind; there is a weight upon my heart, which +seems unduly heavy. Perhaps it is only that it seems unusual, for he +has never had an illness of any kind. He is not to be disturbed, and +Maggie is not allowed to see him. Maud sate with him this morning, and +he slept most of the time. I looked in once or twice, but people coming +and going tend to make him restless. Maud herself is a marvel to me. +She must be even more anxious than I am, but she is serene, smiling, +strong, with a cheerfulness that has no effort about it. She laughed +tenderly at my fears, and sent me out for a walk with Maggie. I fear I +was a gloomy companion. In the evening I went to sit with Alec a +little. He was wakeful, large-eyed, and restless. He lay with a book of +stories from Homer, of which he is very fond, in one hand, the other +clasping his black kitten, which slept peacefully on the counterpane. +He wanted to talk, but to keep him quiet I told him a long trivial +story, full of unexciting incidents. He lay musing, his head on his +hand; then he seemed inclined to sleep, so I sate beside him, watching +and wondering at the nearness and the dearness of the child to me, +almost amazed at the revelation which this shadow of fear gives me of +the place which he fills in my heart and life. He tossed about for some +time, and when I asked him if he wanted anything, he only put his hand +in mine; a gesture not quite like him, as he is a boy who is averse to +personal caresses or signs of emotion. So I drew my chair up to the +bed, and sate there with the little hot hand in my own. Maud came up +presently; but as he now seemed sound asleep, we left him in the care +of the old nurse, and went down to dinner. If we only knew what was the +matter! I argue with myself how much unnecessary misery I give myself +by anticipating evil; but I cannot help it; and the weight on my mind +grew heavier; half the night I lay awake, till at last, from sheer +weariness, I fell into a sort of stupor of the senses, which fled from +me in the dismal dawn, and the unmanning hideous fear leapt on me out +of the dark, like a beast leaping upon its prey. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 11, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I cannot and dare not write of these days. The child is very ill; it is +some obscure inflammation of the brain-tissue. I had an insupportable +fear that it might have resulted in some way from being over-pressed in +the matter of work, over-stimulated. I asked the doctor. If he lied to +me, and I do not think he did, he lied like a man, or an angel. "Not in +the least," he said, "it is a constitutional thing; in fact, I may say +that the rational and healthy life the child has lived will help more +than anything to pull him through." +</P> + +<P> +But I can't write of the days. I sleep, half-conscious of my misery. I +suppose I eat, walk, read. But waking is like the waking of a prisoner +who awakes up to be put on the rack, who hears doors open and feet +approach, and sickens with dread as he lies. God's hand is heavy upon +me day and night. Surely nothing, in the world or out of it, can +obliterate the memory of this suffering; perhaps, if Alec is given back +to us, I shall smile at this time of suffering. But, if not— +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 12, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +He is losing ground, he is hardly ever conscious now; he sleeps a good +deal, but often he talks quietly to himself of all that we have done +and said; he often supposes himself to be with me, and, thank God, he +never says a word to show that he has ever feared or misunderstood me. +I could not bear that. Yesterday when I was with him, he opened his +eyes on me; I could see that he knew me, and that he was frightened. I +could not speak, but Maud, who was with me, just took his hand and with +her own tranquil smile, said, "It is all right, Alec; there is nothing +to be frightened about; we are here, and you will soon be well again." +The child closed his eyes and lay smiling to himself. I could not have +done that. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 13, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +He died this morning, just at the dawn. I knew last night that all hope +was over. I was with him half the night, and prayed, knowing my prayers +were in vain. That I could save him no suffering, could not keep him, +could not draw him back. Maud took my place at midnight; I slept, and +in the grey dawn, I woke to find her standing with a candle by my bed; +I knew in a moment, by a glance, that the end was near. No word passed +between us; I found Maggie by the bed; and we three together waited for +the end. I had never seen any one die. He was quite unconscious, +breathing slowly, looking just like himself, as though flushed with +slumber. At last he stirred, gave a long sigh, and seemed to settle +himself for the last sleep. I do not know when he died, but I became +aware that life had passed, and that the little spirit that we loved +had fled, God knows whither. Maggie sate with her hand in mine; and in +my dumb and frozen grief, almost without a thought of anything but a +deep and cold resentment, a hatred of death and the maker of love and +death alike, I became aware that both she and Maud had me in their +thoughts, that my sorrow was even more to them than their own—while I +was cut off from them; from life and hope alike, in a place of darkness +and in the deep. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 19, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I saw Alec no more; I would remember him as he was in life, not the +stiffened waxen mask of my beloved. The days passed in a dull stupor of +grief, mechanically, grimly, in a sort of ghastly greyness. And I who +thought that I had sounded the depths of pain! I could not realise it, +could not believe that all would not somehow be as before. Maud and +Maggie speak of him to each other and to me . . . it is inconceivable. +With a dull heartache I have collected and put away all the child's +things—his books, his toys, his little possessions. I followed the +little coffin to the grave. The uncontrollable throb of emotion came +over me at the words, "I am the resurrection and the life." It was a +grey, gusty day; a silent crowd waited to see us pass. The great +churchyard elms roared and swayed, and I found myself watching idly how +the clergyman's hood was blown sideways by the wind. I looked into the +deep, dark pit, and saw the little coffin lying there, all in a dumb +dream. The holy words fell vacuously on my ears. "Man walketh in a vain +shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain"—that was all I felt. I seem +to believe nothing, to hope nothing. I do not believe I shall ever see +or draw near to the child again, and yet the thought of him alone, +apart, uncomforted, lies cold on my heart. Maud is wonderful to me; her +love does not seem to suffer eclipse; she does everything, she smiles, +she speaks; she feels, she says, the presence of the child near her and +about her; that means nothing to me; the soul appears to me to have +gone out utterly like a blown flame, mingling with the unseen life, as +the little body we loved will be mingled with the dust. +</P> + +<P> +I cannot say that I endure agony; it is rather as if I had received a +blow so fierce that it drove sensation away; I seem to see the bruise, +watch the blood flow, and wonder why I do not suffer. The suffering +will come, I doubt not; but meanwhile I am only mutely grateful that I +do not feel more, suffer more. It does not even seem to me to have +drawn me nearer to Maud, to Maggie; my power of loving seems +extinguished, like my power of suffering. I do not know why I write in +this book, why I record my blank apathy. It is a habit, it passes the +time; the only thing that gives me any comfort is the thought that I +shall die, too, and close my eyes at last upon this terrible world, +made so sweet and beautiful, and then slashed and scored across with +such cruel stripes, where we pay so grievous a penalty for feeling and +loving. Tennyson found consolation "when he sorrowed most." But I say +deliberately that I would rather not have loved my child, than lose him +thus. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 28, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +We are to go away. Maggie droops like a faded flower, and for the first +time I realise, in trying to comfort and distract her, that I have not +lost everything. We are much together, and seeing her thus pine and +fade stirs a dread, in the heart that had been so cold, that I may lose +her too. At last we are drawn together. She came to say good-night to +me last night, and a gush of love passed through me, like the wind +stirring the strings of a harp to music. "My precious darling, my +comfort," I said; the words put, it seemed, on my lips, by some deeper +power. She clung to me, crying softly. Yet, is it strange to say it, +that simple utterance seems almost to have revived her, to have given +her pride and courage? But Maud is still almost a mystery to me. Who +can tell how she suffers—I cannot—it seems to have quickened and +enriched her love and tenderness; she seems to have a secret that I +cannot come near to sharing; she does not repine, rebel, resist; she +lives in some region of unapproachable patience and love. She goes +daily to the grave, but I cannot visit it or think of it. The sight of +the church-tower on my walks gives me a throb of dismay. But now we are +going away. We have been lent a little house in a quiet seaside place; +I suppose I am ill—at least, I am aware of a deep and unutterable +fatigue at times, when I can rouse myself to nothing, but sit +unoccupied, musing, glad to be alone, and only dreading the slightest +interruption, the smallest duty. I know by some subtle sense that I am +seldom absent from Maud's thoughts; but, with her incredible courage +and patience, she betrays nothing by word or glance. She is absolutely +patient, entirely self-forgetful; she quietly relieves me of anything I +have to do; she alters arrangements a dozen times a day, with a ready +smile; and yet it almost seems to me as if I had lost her too. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 30, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Our route lay through Cambridge; we had to change there and wait; so we +drove down to the town to look at my old college. There it lay, the +charming, pretty, quiet place, blinking lazily out of its deep-set +barred windows in the bright sun, just the same, it seemed, as ever, +though perhaps a touch more mellow and more settled; every corner and +staircase haunted with old ghosts for me. I could put a name to every +set of rooms, flash an incident to every door and window. In my heavy, +apathetic mood the memory of my life there seemed like a memory of some +one else, moving in golden light, talking and laughing in firelit +rooms, lingering in moonlit nights by the bridge, wondering what life +was going to bring. It seemed like turning the pages of some old +illuminated book with bright pictures, where the very sunlight is the +purest and stiffest gold. The men I knew, the friends I lived with, +admired, loved—where are they? scattered to all parts of the earth, +parted utterly from me, some of them dead, alas! and silent. It came +over me with a thrill of sharpest pain to think how I had pictured Alec +here, living the same free and beautiful life, tasting the same +innocent pleasures, with the bright, sweet world opening upon him. In +that calm, sunny afternoon, life seemed a strange phantasmal business, +and I myself a revenant from some thin, unsubstantial world. A door +opened, and an old Don, well known to me in those days, hardly altered, +it seemed, came out and trotted across the court, looking suspiciously +to left and right as he used to do. Had he been doing the same thing +ever since, reading the same books, talking the same innocent gossip? I +had not the heart to greet him, and he passed me by unrecognising. We +peeped into the hall through the screen. I could see where I used to +sit, the same dark pictures looking down. We went to the chapel, with +its noble classical woodwork, the great carved panels, the angels' +heads, the huge, stately reredos. Some one, thank God, was playing +softly on the organ, and we sate to listen. The sweet music flowed over +my sad heart in a healing tide. Yes, it was not meaningless, after all, +this strange life, with the good years shining in their rainbow halo, +even though the path led into darkness and formless shadow. I seemed to +look back on it all, as the traveller on the hill looks out from the +skirts of the cloud upon the sunny valley beneath him. It all worked +together, said the delicate rising strain, outlining itself above the +soft thunder of the pedals, into something high and grave and +beautiful; it all ended in the peace of God. I sate there, with wife +and child, a pilgrim faring onwards, tasting of love and life and +sorrow, weary of the way, but still—yes, I could say that—still +hopeful. In that moment even my bitter loss had something beautiful +about it. It was THERE, the bright episode of my dear Alec's life, the +memory of the beloved years together. Maggie, seeing something in my +face that she was glad to see, put her hand in mine, and the tears rose +to my eyes, while I smiled at Maud; the burden fell off my shoulder for +a moment, and something seemed as it were to touch me and point +onwards. The music with a dying fall came to a soft close; the rich +light fell on desk and canopy; the old tombs glimmered in the dusty +air. We went out in silence; and then there came back to me, in the old +dark court, with its ivied corners, its trim grass plots, the sense +that I was still a part of it all, that the old life was not dead, but +stored up like a garnered treasure in the rich and guarded past. Not by +detachment or aloofness from happiness and warmth and life are our +victories won. That had been the dark temptation, the shadow of my +loss, to believe that in so sad and strange an existence the only hope +was to stand apart from it all, not to care too much, not to love too +closely. That was false, utterly false; a bare and grim philosophy, a +timid sauntering. Rather it was better to clasp all things close, to +love passionately, to desire infinitely, to yield oneself gladly and +joyfully to every deep and true emotion; not greedily and luxuriously, +flinging aside the crumpled husk that had given up its sweetness; but +tenderly and gently, holding out one's arms to everything pure and +noble, trusting that behind all there did indeed beat a great and +fatherly heart, that loved one better than one dreamed. +</P> + +<P> +That was a strange experience, that sunlit afternoon, a mingling of +deepest pain and softest hope, a touch of fire from the very altar of +faith, linking the beautiful past with the dark present, and showing me +that the future held a promise of perfect graciousness and radiant +strength. Did other lives hold the same rich secrets? I felt that they +did; for that day, at least, all mankind, young and old alike, seemed +indeed my brothers and sisters. In the young men that went lightly in +and out, finding life so full of zest, thinking each other so +interesting and wonderful; in the tired face of the old Professor, +limping along the street; in the prosperous, comfortable contentment of +robust men, full of little affairs and schemes—I saw in all of them +the same hope, the same unity of purpose, the same significance; and we +three in the midst, united by love and loss alike, we were at the +centre, as it were, of a great drama of life and love, in which even +death could only shift the scene and enrich the intensity of the secret +hope. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 5, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +The rapt and exalted mood that I carried away from Cambridge could not +last; I did not hope that it could. We have had a dark and sad time, +yet with gleams of sweetness in it, because we have realised how +closely we are drawn together, how much we depend on each other. Maud's +brave spirit has seemed for a time broken utterly; and this has done +more than anything to bring us nearer, because I have felt the +stronger, realising how much she leant upon me. She has been filled +with self-reproach, I know not for what shadowy causes. She blames +herself for a thousand things, for not having been more to Alec, for +having followed her own interests and activities, for not having +understood him better. It is all unreal, morbid, overstrained, of +course, but none the less terribly there. I have tried to persuade her +that it is but weariness and grief trying to attach itself to definite +causes, but she cannot be comforted. Meanwhile we walk, stroll, drive, +read, and talk together—mostly of him, for I can do that now; we can +even smile together over little memories, though it is perilous +walking, and a step brings us to the verge of tears. But, thank God, +there is not a single painful memory, not a thing we would have had +otherwise in the whole of that little beautiful life; and I wonder now +wretchedly, whether its very beauty and brightness ought not to have +prepared me more to lose him; it was too good to be true, too perfectly +pure and brave. Yet I never even dreamed that he would leave us; I +should have treasured the bright days better if I had. There are times +of sharpest sorrow, days when I wake and have forgotten; when I think +of him as with us, and then the horror of my loss comes curdling and +weltering back upon me; when I thrill from head to foot with hopeless +agony, rebelling, desiring, hating the death that parts us. +</P> + +<P> +Maggie seems to feel it differently. A child accepts a changed +condition with perhaps a sharper pang, but with a swift accustoming to +what irreparably IS. She weeps at the thought of him sometimes, but +without the bitter resistance, the futile despair which makes me +agonise. That she can be interested, distracted, amused, is a great +help to me; but nothing seems to minister to my dear Maud, except the +impassioned revival, for it is so, of our earliest first love. It has +come back to bless us, that deep and intimate absorption that had moved +into a gentler comradeship. The old mysterious yearning to mingle life +and dreams, and almost identities, has returned in fullest force; the +years have rolled away, and in the loss of her calm strength and +patience, we are as lovers again. The touch of her hand, the glance of +her eye, thrill through me as of old. It is a devout service, an eager +anticipation of her lightest wish that possesses me. I am no longer +tended; I tend and serve. There is something soft, appealing, wistful +about her that seems to give her back an almost childlike dependence, +till my grief almost goes from me in joy that I can sustain and aid her. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 7, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Another trouble has fallen upon us. I have had a very grievous letter +from my cousin, who succeeded by arrangement, on my father's death, to +the business. He has been unfortunate in his affairs; he has thrown +money away in speculation. The greater part of my income came from the +business. I suppose the arrangement was a bad one, but the practice was +so sound and secure in my father's life that it never occurred to me to +doubt its stability. The chief part of my income, some nine hundred a +year, came to me from this source. Apart from that, I have some three +or four hundreds from invested money of my own, and Maud has upwards of +two hundred a year. I am going off to-morrow to L—— to meet my +cousin, and go into the matter. I don't at present understand how +things are. His letter is full of protestations and self-recrimination. +We can live, I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, but in a very +different way. Perhaps we may even have to sell our pleasant house. The +strange thing is that I don't feel this all more acutely, but I seem to +have lost the power of suffering for any other reason than because Alec +is dead. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 12, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have come back to-night from some weary nightmare days with my poor +cousin. The thing is as bad as it can be. The business will be acquired +by Messrs. F——, the next most leading solicitors. With the price they +will give, and with the sacrifice of my cousin's savings, and the +assets of the firm, the money can just be paid. We shall have some six +hundred a year to live upon; my cousin is to enter the office of the +F—— firm as an ordinary clerk. The origin of the disaster is a +melancholy one; it was not that he himself might profit, but to +increase the income of some clients who had lost money and desired a +higher rate of interest for funds left in the hands of the firm. If my +cousin had resisted the demand, there would have been some +unpleasantness, because the money lost had been invested on his advice; +he could not face this, and proceeded to speculate with other money, of +which he was trustee, to fill the gap. Good-nature, imprudence, +credulousness, a faulty grasp of the conditions, and not any deliberate +dishonesty, have been the cause of his ruin. It is a fearful blow to +him, but he is fortunate, perhaps, in being unmarried; I have urged him +to try and get employment elsewhere, but he insists upon facing the +situation in the place where he is known, with a fantastic idea, which +is at the same time noble and chivalrous, of doing penance. Of course +he has no prospects whatever; but I am sure of this, that he grieves +over my lost inheritance far more than he grieves over his own ruin. +His great misery is that some years ago he refused an offer from +Messrs. F—— to amalgamate the two firms. +</P> + +<P> +I feared at first that I might have to sacrifice the rest of my money +as well—money slowly accumulated out of my own labours. And the relief +of finding that this will not be necessary is immense. We must sell our +house at once, and find a smaller one. At present I am not afraid of +the changed circumstances; indeed, if I could only recover my power of +writing, we need not leave our home. The temptation is to get a book +written somehow, because I could make money by any stuff just now. On +the other hand, it will almost be to me a relief to part from the home +so haunted with the memory of Alec—though that will be a dreadful pain +to Maud and Maggie. As far as living more simply goes, that does not +trouble me in the least. I have always been slightly uncomfortable +about the ease and luxury in which we lived. I only wish we had lived +more simply all along, so that I could have put by a little more. I +have told Maud exactly how matters stand, and she acquiesces, though I +can see that, just at this time, the thought of handing over to +strangers the house where we have lived all our married life, the rooms +where Alec and the baby died, is a deep grief to her. To me that is +almost a relief. I have dreaded going back there. To-night I told +Maggie, and she broke out into long weeping. But even so there is +something about the idea of being poor, strange to say, which touches a +sense of romance in the child. She does not realise the poky +restrictions of the new life. +</P> + +<P> +And still stranger to me is the way in which this solid, tangible +trouble seems to have restored my energy and calm. I found myself +clear-headed, able to grasp the business questions which arose, gifted +with a hard lucidity of mind that I did not know I possessed. It is a +relief to get one's teeth into something, to have hard, definite +occupation to distract one; indeed, it hardly seems to me in the light +of a misfortune at present, so much as a blessed tangible problem to be +grappled with and solved. What I should have felt if all had been lost, +and if I had had to resign my liberty, and take up some practical +occupation, I hardly know. I do not think I should even have dreaded +that in my present frame of mind. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 15, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been thinking all day long of my last walk with Alec, the day +before he was taken ill. Maud had gone out with Maggie; and the little +sturdy figure came to my room to ask if I was going out. I was +finishing a book that I was reading for the evening's work; I had been +out in the morning, and I had not intended to go out again, as it was +cold and drizzling. I very nearly said that I could not go, and I had a +shadow of vexation at being interrupted. But I looked up at him, as he +stood by the door, and there was a tiny shadow of loneliness upon his +face; and I thank God now that I put my book down at once, and +consented cheerfully. He brightened up at this; he fetched my cap and +stick, and we went off together. I am glad to think that I had him to +myself that day. He was in a more confidential mood than usual. +Perhaps—who knows?—there was some shadow of death upon him, some +instinct to clasp hands closer before the end. He asked me to tell him +some stories of my schooldays, and what I used to do as a boy—but he +was full of alertness and life, breaking into my narratives to point +out a nest that we had seen in the spring, and that now hung, +wind-dried and ruinous, among the boughs. Coming back, he flagged a +little, and did what he seldom did, put his arm in my own; how tenderly +the touch of the little hand, the restless fingers on my arm thrilled +me—the hand that lies cold and folded and shrivelled in the dark +ground! He was proud that evening of having had me all to himself, and +said to Maggie that we had talked secrets, "such as MEN talk when there +are no women to ask questions." But thinking that this had wounded +Maggie a little, he went and put his arm round her, and I heard him say +something about its being all nonsense, and that we had wished for her +all the time. . . . +</P> + +<P> +Ah, how can I endure it, the silence, the absence, the lost smile, the +child of my own whom I loved from head to foot, body soul and spirit +all alike! I keep coming across signs of his presence everywhere, his +books, his garden tools in the summerhouse, the little presents he gave +me, on my study chimney-piece, his cap and coat hanging in the +cupboard—it is these little trifling things, signs of life and joyful +days, that sting the heart and pierce the brain with sorrow. If I could +but have one sight of him, one word with him, one smile, to show that +he is, that he remembers, that he waits for us, I could endure it; but +I look into the dark and no answer comes; I send my wild entreaties +pulsating through the worlds of space, crying, "Are you there, my +child?" That his life is there, hidden with God, I do not doubt; but is +it he himself, or has he fallen back, like the drop of water in the +fountain, into the great tide of life? That is no comfort to me; it is +he that I want, that union of body and mind, of life and love, that was +called my child and is mine no more. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 20, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Such a loss as mine passes over the soul like a plough cleaving a +pasture line by line. The true stuff of the spirit is revealed and laid +out in all its bareness. That customary outline, that surface growth of +herb and blade, is all pared away. I have been accustomed to think +myself a religious man—I have never been without the sense of God over +and about me. But when an experience like this comes, it shows me what +my religion is worth. I do not turn to God in love and hope; I do not +know Him, I do not understand Him. I feel that He must have forgotten +me, or that He is indifferent to me, or that He is incapable of love, +and works blindly and sternly. My reason in vain says that the great +and beautiful gift itself of the child's life and the child's love came +from Him. I do not question His power or His right to take my child +from me. But I endure only because I must, not willingly or loyally or +lovingly. It is not that I feel the injustice of His taking the boy +away; it is a far deeper sense of injustice than that. The injustice +lies in the fact that He made the child so utterly dear and desired; +that He set him so firmly in my heart; this on the one hand; and on the +other, that He does not, if He must rend the little life away and leave +the bleeding gap, send at the same time some love, some strength, some +patience to make the pain bearable. I cannot believe that the love I +bore my boy was anything but a sweet and holy influence. It gave me the +one thing of which I am in hourly need—something outside of myself and +my own interests, to love better than I loved even myself. It seems +indeed a pure and simple loss, unless the lesson God would have us +learn is the stoical lesson of detachment, indifference, cold +self-sufficiency. It is like taking the crutches away from a lame man, +knocking the props away from a tottering building. An optimistic +moralist would say that I loved Alec too selfishly, and even that the +love of the child turned away my heart from the jealous Heart of God, +who demands a perfect surrender, a perfect love. But how can one love +that which one does not know or understand, a Power that walks in +darkness and that gives us on the one hand sweet, beautiful, and +desirable things, and on the other strikes them from us when we need +them most? It is not as if I did not desire to trust and love God +utterly. I should think even this sorrow a light price to pay, if it +gave me a pure and deep trust in the mercy and goodness of God. But +instead of that it fills me with dismay, blank suspicion, fretful +resistance. I do not feel that there is anything which God could send +me or reveal to me, which would enable me to acquit Him of hardness or +injustice. I will not, though He slay me, say that I trust Him and love +Him when I do not. He may crush me with repeated blows of His hand, but +He has given me the divine power of judging, of testing, of balancing; +and I must use it even in His despite. He does not require, I think, a +dull and broken submissiveness, the submissiveness of the creature that +is ready to admit anything, if only he can be spared another blow. What +He requires, so my spirit tells me, is an eager co-operation, a brave +approval, a generous belief in His goodness and His justice; and this I +cannot give, and it is He that has made me unable to give it. The wound +may heal, the dull pain may die away, I may forget, the child may +become a golden memory—but I cannot again believe that this is the +surrender God desires. What I think He must desire, is that I should +love the child, miss him as bitterly as ever, feel my day darkened by +his loss, and yet turn to Him gratefully and bravely in perfect love +and trust. It may be that I may be drawn closer to those whom I love, +but the loss must still remain irreparable, because I might have +learned to love my dear ones better through Alec's presence, and not +through his absence. It is His will, I do not doubt it; but I cannot +see the goodness or the justice of the act, and I will not pretend to +myself that I acquiesce. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 25, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +Yesterday was a warm, delicious, soft day, full of a gentle languor, +the air balmy and sweet, the sunshine like the purest gold; we sate out +all the morning under the cliff, in the warm dry sand. To the right and +left of us lay the blue bay, the waves breaking with short, crisp +sparkles on the shore. We saw headland after headland sinking into the +haze; a few fishing-boats moved slowly about, and far down on the +horizon we watched the smoke of a great ocean-steamer. We talked, Maud +and I, for the first time, I think, without reserve, without +bitterness, almost without grief, of Alec. What sustains her is the +certainty that he is as he was, somewhere, far off, as brave and loving +as ever, waiting for us, but waiting with a perfect understanding and +knowledge of why we are separated. She dreams of him thus, looking down +upon her, and seeming, in her dream, to wonder what there can be to +grieve about. I suppose that a mother has a sense of oneness with a +child that a father cannot have. It is a deep and marvellous faith, an +intuition that transcends all reason, a radiant certainty. I cannot +attain to it. But in the warmth and light of her belief, I grew to feel +that at least there was some explanation of it all. Not by chance is +the dear gift sent us, not by chance do we learn to love it, not by +chance is it rent from us. Lying thus, talking softly, in so gracious a +world, a world that satisfied every craving of the senses, I came to +realise that the Father must wish us well, and that if the shadow fell +upon our path, it was not to make us cold and bitter-hearted. Infinite +Love! it came near to me in that hour, and clasped me to a sorrowful, +tender, beating Heart. I read Maud, at her request, "Evelyn Hope," and +the strong and patient love, that dwells so serenely and softly upon +the incidents of death, yet without the least touch of morbidity and +gloom, treating death itself as a quiet slumber of the soul, taught me +for a moment how to be brave. +</P> + +<P> +"You will wake and remember, and understand,"—my voice broke and tears +came, unbidden tears which I did not even desire to conceal—and in +that moment the spirit of my wife came near to me, and soul looked into +the eyes of soul, with a perfect and bewildering joy, the very joy of +God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 10, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +We have had the kindest, dearest letters from our neighbours about our +last misfortune. But no one seems to anticipate that we shall be +obliged to leave the place. They naturally suppose that I shall be able +to make as large an income as I want by writing. And so I suppose I +could. I talked the whole matter over with Maud, and said I would abide +by her decision. I confessed that I had an extreme repugnance to the +thought of turning out books for money, books which I knew to be +inferior; but I also said that if she could not bear to leave the +place, I had little doubt that I could, for the present at all events, +make enough money to render it possible for us to continue to live +there. I said frankly that it would be a relief to me to leave a house +so sadly haunted by memory, and that I should myself prefer to live +elsewhere, framing our household on very simple lines—and to let the +power of writing come back if it would, not to try and force it. It +would be a dreadful prospect to me to live thus, overshadowed by +recollection, working dismally for money; but I suppose it would be +possible, even bracing. Maud did not hesitate: she spoke quite frankly; +on the one hand the very associations, which I dread most, were +evidently to her a source of sad delight; and the thought of strangers +living in rooms so hallowed by grief was like a profanation. Then there +was the fact of all her relations with our friends and neighbours; but +she said quite simply that my feeling outweighed it all, and that she +would far rather begin life afresh somewhere else, than put me in the +position I described. We determined to try and find a small house in +the neighbourhood of her own old home in Gloucestershire; and this +thought, I am sure, gave her real happiness. We determined at once what +we would do; we would let our house for a term of years, take what +furniture we needed, and dispose of the rest; we arranged to go off to +Gloucestershire, as soon as possible, to look for a house. We both +realise that we must learn to retrench at once. We shall have less than +half our former income, counting in what we hope to get from the old +house. I am not at all afraid of that. I always vaguely disliked living +as comfortably as we did—but it will not be agreeable to have to +calculate all our expenses—that may perhaps mend itself, if I can but +begin my writing again. +</P> + +<P> +All this helps me—I am ashamed to say how much—though sometimes the +thought of all the necessary arrangements weighs on me like a leaden +weight, on days when I fall back into a sad, idle, hopeless repining. +Sometimes it seems as if the old happy life was all broken up and gone +for ever; and, so strange a thing is memory and imagination, that even +the months overshadowed by the loss of my faculty of work seem to me +now impossibly fragrant and beautiful, my sufferings unreal and +unsubstantial. Real trouble, real grief, have at least the bracing +force of actuality, and sweep aside with a strong hand all artificial +self-made miseries and glooms. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +December 15, 1889. +</H4> + +<P> +I have kept no record of these weeks. They have been full of business, +sadness, and yet of hope. We went back home for a time; we made our +farewells, and it moved me strangely to see that our departure was +viewed almost with consternation. It is Maud's loss that will be felt. +I have lived very selfishly and dully myself, but even so I was +half-glad to find that even I should be missed. At such a time +everything is forgotten and forgiven, and such grudging, peaceful +neighbourliness as even I have shown seems appreciated and valued. It +was a heartrending business reviving our sorrow, and it plunged me for +a time into my old dry bitterness of spirit. But I hardened my heart as +best I could, and felt more deeply than ever, how far beyond my powers +of endurance it would have been to have taken up the old life, and Alec +not there. Again and again it was like a knife plunged into my heart +with an almost physical pain. Not so with Maud and Maggie—it was to +them a treasure of precious memories, and they could dare to indulge +their grief. I can't write of it, I can't think of it. Wherever I +turned, I saw him in a hundred guises—as a tiny child, as a small, +sturdy boy, as the son we lost. +</P> + +<P> +We have let the house to some very kind and reasonable people, who have +made things very easy to us; and to me at least it was a sort of heavy +joy to take the last meal in the old home, to drive away, to see the +landscape fade from sight. I shall never willingly return. It would +seem to me like a wilful rolling among the thorns of life, a +gathering-in of spears into one's breast. I seemed like a naked +creature that had lost its skin, that shrank and bled at every touch. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 10, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been house-hunting, and I do not pretend to dislike it. The +sight of unknown houses, high garden walls, windows looking into blind +courts, staircases leading to lofts, dark cupboards, old lumber, has a +very stimulating effect on my imagination. Perhaps, too, I sometimes +think, these old places are full of haunting spiritual presences, +clinging, half tearfully, half joyfully to the familiar scenes, half +sad, perhaps, that they did not make a finer thing of the little +confined life; half glad to be free—as a man, strong and well, might +look with a sense of security into a room where he had borne an +operation. But I have never believed much in haunted rooms. The +Father's many mansions can be hardly worth deserting for the little, +dark houses of our tiny life. +</P> + +<P> +I disliked some of the houses intensely—so ugly and pretentious, so +inconvenient and dull; but even so it is pleasant in fancy to plan the +life one would live there, the rooms one would use. One house touched +me inexpressibly. It was a house I knew from the outside in a little +town where I used to go and spend a few weeks every year with an old +aunt of mine. The name of the little town—I saw it in an agent's +list—had a sort of enchantment for me, a golden haze of memory. I was +allowed a freedom there I was allowed nowhere else, I was petted and +made much of, and I used to spend most of my time in sauntering about, +just looking, watching, scrutinising things, with the hard and +uncritical observation of childhood. When I got to the place, I was +surprised to find that I knew well the look of the house I went to see, +though I had not ever entered it. Two neat, contented, slightly absurd +old maiden ladies had lived there, who used to walk out together, +dressed exactly alike in some faded fashion. The laurels and yews still +grew thickly in the shrubbery, and shaded the windows of the ugly +little parlours. An old, quiet, respectable maid showed me round; she +had been in service there for twenty years, and she was tearfully +lamenting over the break-up of the home. The old ladies had lived there +for sixty years. One of them had died ten years before, the other had +lingered on to extreme old age. The house was like a museum, a specimen +of a house of the thirties, in which nothing had ever been touched or +changed. The strange wall-papers and chintzes, the crewel-work chairs, +the mirrors, the light maple furniture, the case of moth-eaten +humming-birds, the dull engravings of historical pictures, the old +books—the drawing-room table was covered with annuals and keepsakes, +Moore's poems, Mrs. Barbauld's works—all had a pathetic ugliness, +redeemed by a certain consistency of quality. And then the poky, +comfortable arrangements, the bath-chair in the coach-house, the +four-post bedsteads, the hand-rail on the stairs, the sandbags for the +doors, all spoke of a timid, invalid life, a dim backwater in the tide +of things. There had been children there at some time, for there were +broken toys, collections of dried plants, curious stones, in an attic. +The little drama of the house shaped itself for me, as I walked through +the frowsy, faded rooms, with a touching insistence. This bedroom had +never been used since Miss Eleanor died—and I could fancy the poor, +little, timid, precise life flitting away among the well-known +surroundings. This had been Miss Jackson's favourite room—it was so +quiet—she had died there, sitting in her chair, a few weeks before. +The leisurely, harmless routine of the quiet household rose before me. +I could imagine Miss Jackson writing her letters, reading her book, +eating her small meals, making the same humble and grateful remarks, +entertaining her old friends. Year after year it had gone on, just the +same, the clock ticking loud in the hall, the sun creeping round the +old rooms, the birds singing in the garden, the faint footsteps in the +road. It had begun, that gentle routine, long before I had been born +into the world; and it was strange to me to think that, as I passed +through the most stirring experiences of my life, nothing ever stirred +or moved or altered here. Miss Jackson had felt Miss Eleanor's death +very much; she had hardly ever left the house since, and they had had +no company. Yes, what a woefully bewildering thing death swooping down +into that quiet household, with all its tranquil security, must have +been! One wondered what Miss Eleanor had felt, when she knew she had to +die, to pass out into the unknown dark out of a world so tender, so +familiar, so peaceful; and what had poor Miss Jackson made of it, when +she was left alone? She must have found it all very puzzling, very +dreary. And yet, in the dim past, perhaps one or both of them, had had +dreams of a fuller life, had fancied that something more than +tenderness had looked out of the eyes of a man; well, it had come to +nothing, whatever it might have been; and the two old ladies had +settled down, perhaps with some natural repining, to their unexciting, +contented life, the day filled with little duties and pleasures, the +nights with innocent sleep. It had not been a selfish life—they had +been good to the poor, the maid told me; and in old days they had often +had their nephews and nieces to stay with them. But those children had +grown up and gone out into the world, and no longer cared to return to +the dull little house with its precise ways, and the fidgety love that +had once embraced them. +</P> + +<P> +The whole thing seemed a mysterious mixture of purposelessness and +contentment. Rumours of wars, social convulsions, patriotic hopes, +great ideas, had swept on their course outside, and had never stirred +the drowsy current of life behind the garden walls. The sisters had +lived, sweetly, perhaps, and softly, like trees in some sequestered +woodland, hardly recognising their own gentle lapse of strength and +activity. +</P> + +<P> +And now the whole thing was over for good. Curious and indifferent +people came, tramped about the house, pronounced it old-fashioned and +inconvenient. I could not do that myself; the place was brimful of the +pathetic evidences of what had been. Soon, no doubt, the old house +would wear a different guise—it would be renovated and restored, the +furniture would drift away to second-hand shops, the litter would be +thrown out upon the rubbish-heap. New lives, new relationships would +spring up; children would be born, boys would play, lovers would +embrace, sufferers would lie musing, men and women would die in those +refurbished rooms. Everything would drift onwards, and the lives to +whom each corner, each stair, each piece of furniture had meant so +much, would become a memory first, and then fade into nothingness. +Where and what were the two old ladies now? Were they gone out utterly, +like an extinguished flame? were they in some new home of tranquil +peace? Were they adjusting themselves with a sense of timid +impotence—those slender, tired spirits—to new and bewildering +conditions? +</P> + +<P> +The old, dull house called to me that day with a hundred faint voices +and tremulous echoes. I could make nothing of it; for though it swept +the strings of my heart with a ghostly music, it seemed to have no +certain message for me, but the message of oblivion and silence. +</P> + +<P> +I was sorry, as I went away, to leave the poor maidservant to her +lonely and desolate memories. She had to leave her comfortable kitchen +and her easy routine, for new duties and new faces, and I could see +that she anticipated the change with sad dismay. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to me in that hour as though the cruelty and the tenderness +of the world were very mysteriously blended—there was no lack of +tenderness in the old house with its innumerable small associations, +its sheltered calm. And then suddenly the stroke must fall, and fall +upon lives whose very security and gentleness seemed to have been so +ill a preparation for sterner and darker things. It would have been +more loving, one thought, either to have made the whole fabric more +austere, more precarious from the first; or else to have bestowed a +deep courage and a fertile hope, a firmer endurance, rather than to +have confronted lives so frail and delicate with the terrors of the +vast unknown. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 8, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +Our new house is charming, beautiful, homelike. It is an old stone +building, formerly a farm; it has a quaint garden and orchard, and the +wooded hill runs up steeply behind, with a stream in front. It is on +the outskirts of a village, and we are within three miles of Maud's old +home, so that she knows all the country round. We have got two of our +old servants, and a solid comfortable gardener, a native of the place. +The house within is quaint and comfortable. We have a spare bedroom; I +have no study, but shall use the little panelled dining-room. We have +had much to do in settling in, and I have done a great deal of hard +physical work myself, in the way of moving furniture and hanging +pictures, inducing much wholesome fatigue. Maggie, who broke down +dreadfully on leaving the old home, with the wonderful spring that +children have, is full of excitement and even delight in the new house. +I rather dread the time when all our occupations shall be over, and +when we shall settle down to the routine of life. I begin to wonder how +I shall occupy myself. I mean to do a good many odd jobs—we have no +trap, and there will be a good deal of fetching and carrying to be +done. We shall resume our lessons, Maggie and I; there will be reading, +gardening, walking. One ought to be able to live philosophically +enough. What would I not give to be able to write now! but the instinct +seems wholly and utterly dead and gone. I cannot even conceive that I +ever used, solemnly and gravely, to write about imaginary people, their +jests and epigrams, their sorrows and cares. Life and Art! I used to +suppose that it was all a softly moulded, rhythmic, sonorous affair, +strophe and antistrophe; but the griefs and sorrows of art are so much +nearer each other, like major and minor keys, than the griefs and +sorrows of life. In art, the musician smiles and sighs alternately, but +his sighing is a balanced, an ordered mood; the inner heart is content, +as the pool is content, whether it mirrors the sunlight or the lonely +star; but in life, joy is to grief what music is to aching silence, +dumbness, inarticulate pain—though perhaps in that silence one hears a +deeper, stranger sound, the buzz of the whirring atom, the soft thunder +of worlds plunging through the void, joyless, gigantic, oblivious +forces. +</P> + +<P> +Is it good thus to have the veils of life rent asunder? If life, the +world's life, activity, work, be the end of existence, then it is not +good. It breaks the spring of energy, so that one goes heavily and +sorely. But what if that be not the end? What then? +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 16, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +At present the new countryside is a great resource. I walk far among +the wolds; I find exquisite villages, where every stone-built house +seems to have style and quality; I come down upon green water-meadows, +with clear streams flowing by banks set with thorn-bushes and alders. +The churches, the manor-houses, of grey rubble smeared with plaster, +with stone roof-tiles, are a feast for eye and heart. Long days in the +open air bring me a dull equable health of body, a pleasant weariness, +a good-humoured indifference. My mind becomes grass-grown, full of +weeds, ruinous; but I welcome it as at least a respite from suffering. +It is strange to think of myself at what ought, I suppose, to be the +busiest and fullest time of my life, living here like a tree in lonely +fields. What would be the normal life? A little house in a London +street, I suppose, with a lot of white paint and bookshelves. +Luncheons, dinners, plays, music, clubs, week-end visits to lively +houses, a rush abroad, a few country visits in the winter. Very +harmless and pleasant if one enjoyed it, but to me inconceivable and +insupportable. Perhaps I should be happier and brisker, perhaps the +time would go quicker. Ought one to make up one's mind that this would +be the normal life, and that therefore one had better learn to +accommodate oneself to it? Does one pay penalties for not submitting +oneself to the ordinary laws of human intercourse? Doubtless one does. +But then, made as I am, I should have to pay penalties which would seem +to be even heavier for the submission. It is there that the puzzle +lies; that a man should be created with the strong instinct that I feel +for liberty and independence and solitude and the quiet of the country, +and then that he should discover that the life he so desires should be +the one that develops all the worst side of him—morbidity, +fastidiousness, gloom, discontent. This is the shadow of civilisation; +that it makes people intellectual, alert, craving for stimulus, and yet +sucks their nerves dry of the strength that makes such things enjoyable. +</P> + +<P> +And still, as I go in and out, the death of Alec seems the one +absolutely unintelligible and inexplicable thing, a gloom penetrated by +no star. It was the one thing that might have made me unselfish, +tender-hearted, the anxious care of some other than myself. "Perhaps," +says an old friend writing to me with a clumsy attempt at comfort, +"perhaps he was taken mercifully away from some evil to come." A good +many people say that, and feel it quite honestly. But what an +insupportable idea of the ways of Providence, that God had planned a +prospect for the child so dreadful that even his swift removal should +be tolerable by comparison! What a helpless, hopeless confession of +failure! No; either the whole short life, closed by the premature +death, must have been designed, planned, executed deliberately; or else +God is at the mercy of blank cross-currents, opposing forces, +tendencies even stronger than Himself; and then the very idea of God +crumbles away, and God becomes the blank and inscrutable force working +behind a gentle, good-humoured will, which would be kind and gracious +if it could, but is trammelled and bound by something stronger; that +was the Greek view, of course—God above man, and Fate above God. The +worst of it is that it has a horrible vraisemblance, and seems to lie +even nearer to the facts of life than our own tender-hearted and +sentimental theories and schemes of religion. +</P> + +<P> +But whether it be God or fate, the burden has to be borne. And my one +endeavour must be to bear it myself, consciously and courageously, and +to shift it so far as I can from the gentler and tenderer shoulders of +those whose life is so strangely linked with mine. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 25, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +One sees a house, like the house we now live in, from a road as one +passes, from the windows of a train. It seems to be set at the end of +the world, with the earth's sunset distance behind it—it seems a +fortress of quiet, a place of infinite peace; and then one lives in it, +and behold, it is a centre of a little active life, with all sorts of +cross-currents darting to and fro, over it, past it. +</P> + +<P> +Or again one thinks, as one sees such a house in passing, that there at +least one could live in meditation and cloistered calm; that there +would be neither cares nor anxieties; that one would be content to sit, +just looking out at the quiet fields, pacing to and fro, receiving +impressions, musing, selecting, apprehending—and then one lives there, +and the stream of life is as turbid, as fretful as ever. The strange +thing is that such delusions survive any amount of experience; that one +cannot read into other lives the things that trouble one's own. +</P> + +<P> +A little definite scheme opens before us here; old friends of Maud's +find us out, simple, kindly, tiresome people. There is an exchange of +small civilities, there are duties, activities, relationships. To Maud +these things come by the light of nature; to her the simplest +interchange of definite thoughts is as natural as to breathe. I hear +her calm, sweet, full voice answering, asking. To me these things are +utterly wearisome and profitless. I want only to speak of the things +for which I care, and to people attuned to the same key of thought; a +basis of sympathy and temperamental differences—that is the perfect +union of qualities for a friend. But these stolid, kindly parsons, with +brisk, active wives, ingenuous daughters, heavy sons—I want either to +know them better, or not to know them at all. I want to enter the +house, the furnished chambers of people's minds; and I am willing +enough to throw my own open to a cordial guest; but I do not want to +stand and chatter in some debatable land of social conventionality. I +have no store of simple geniality. The other night we went to dine +quietly with a parson near here, a worthy fellow, happy and useful. +Afterwards, in the drawing-room, I sate beside my host. I saw Maud +listening, with rapt interest, to the chronicles of all the village +families, robustly and unimaginatively told by the parson's wife; +meanwhile I, tortured by intolerable ennui, pumped up questions, tried +a hundred subjects with my worthy host. He told me long and prolix +stories, he discoursed on rural needs. At last I said that we must be +going; he replied with genuine disappointment that the night was still +young, and that it was a pity to break up our pleasant confabulation. I +saw with a shock of wonder that he had evidently been enjoying himself +hugely; that it was a pleasure to him, for some unaccountable reason, +not to hear a new person talk, but to say the same things that he had +said for years, to a new person. It is not ideas that most people want; +they are satisfied with mere gregariousness, the sight and sound of +other figures. They like to produce the same stock of ideas, the same +conclusions. "As I always say," was a phrase that was for ever on my +entertainer's lips. I suppose that probably my own range is just as +limited, but I have an Athenian hankering after novelty of thought, the +new mintage of the mind. I loathe the old obliterated coinage, with the +stamp all rounded and faint. Dulness, sameness, triteness, are they +essential parts of life? I suppose it is really that my nervous energy +is low, and requires stimulus: if it were strong and full, the current +would flow into the trivial things. I derive a certain pleasure from +the sight of other people's rooms, the familiar, uncomfortable, shabby +furniture, the drift of pictures, the debris of ornament—all that +stands for difference and individuality. But one can't get inside most +people's minds; they only admit one to the public rooms. A crushing +fatigue and depression settles down upon me in such hours, and then the +old blank sense of grief and loss comes flowing back—it is old +already, because it seems to have stained all the backward pages of +life; then follows the weary, restless night; and the breaking of the +grey, pitiless dawn. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 3, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +I do not want, even in my thoughts, to put the contemplative life above +the practical life. Highest of all I would put a combination of the +two—a man of high and clear ideals, in a position where he was able to +give them shape—a great constructive statesman, a great educator, a +great man of business, who was also keenly alive to social problems, a +great philanthropist. Next to these I would put great thinkers, +moralists, poets—all who inspire. Then I would put the absolutely +effective instruments of great designs—legislators, lawyers, teachers, +priests, doctors, writers—men without originality, but with a firm +conception of civic and human duty. And then I would put all those who, +in a small sphere, exercise a direct, quiet, simple influence—and then +come the large mass of mankind; people who work faithfully, from +instinct and necessity, but without any particular design or desire, +except to live honestly, honourably, and respectably, with no urgent +sense of the duty of serving others, taking life as it comes, practical +individualists, in fact. No higher than these, but certainly no lower, +I should put quiet, contemplative, reflective people, who are +theoretical individualists. They are not very effective people +generally, and they have a certain poetical quality; they cannot +originate, but they can appreciate. I look upon all these +individualists, whether practical or theoretical, as the average mass +of humanity, the common soldiers, so to speak, as distinguished from +the officers. Life is for them a discipline, and their raison d'etre is +that of the learner, as opposed to that of the teacher. To all of them, +experience is the main point; they are all in the school of God; they +are being prepared for something. The object is that they should +apprehend something, and the channel through which it comes matters +little. They do the necessary work of the world; they support +themselves, and they support those who from infirmity, weakness, age, +or youth cannot support themselves. There is room, I think, in the +world for both kinds of individualist, though the contemplative +individualists are in the minority; and perhaps it must be so, because +a certain lassitude is characteristic of them. If they were in the +majority in any nation, one would have a simple, patient, unambitious +race, who would tend to become the subjects of other more vigorous +nations: our Indian empire is a case in point. Probably China is a +similar nation, preserved from conquest by its inaccessibility and its +numerical force. Japan is an instance of the strange process of a +contemplative nation becoming a practical one. The curious thing is +that Christianity, which is essentially a contemplative, unmilitant, +unpatriotic, unambitious force, decidedly oriental in type, should have +become, by a mysterious transmutation, the religion of active, +inventive, conquering nations. I have no doubt that the essence of +Christianity lies in a contemplative simplicity, and that it is in +strong opposition to what is commonly called civilisation. It aims at +improving society through the uplifting of the individual, not at +uplifting the individual through social agencies. We have improved upon +that in our latter-day wisdom, for the Christian ought to be inherently +unpatriotic, or rather his patriotism ought to be of an all-embracing +rather than of an antagonistic kind. I do not want to make lofty +excuses for myself; my own unworldliness is not an abnegation at all, +but a deliberate preference for obscurity. Still I should maintain that +the vital and spiritual strength of a nation is measured, not by the +activity of its organisations, but by the number of quiet, simple, +virtuous, and high-minded persons that it contains. And thus, in my own +case, though the choice is made for me by temperament and +circumstances, I have no pricking of conscience on the subject of my +scanty activities. It is not mere activity that makes the difference. +The danger of mere activity is that it tends to make men complacent, to +lead them to think that they are following the paths of virtue, when +they are only enmeshed in conventionality. The dangers of the quiet +life are indolence, morbidity, sloth, depression, unmanliness; but I +think that it develops humility, and allows the daily and hourly +message of God to sink into the soul. After all, the one supreme peril +is that of self-satisfaction and finality. If a man is content with +what he is, there is nothing to make him long for what is higher. Any +one who looks around him with a candid gaze, becomes aware that our +life is and must be a provisional one, that it has somehow fallen short +of its possibilities. To better it is the best of all courses; but next +to that it is more desirable that men should hope for and desire a +greater harmony of things, than that they should acquiesce in what is +so strangely and sadly amiss. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 18, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +I have made a new friend, whose contact and example help me so +strangely and mysteriously, that it seems to me almost as though I had +been led hither that I might know him. He is an old and lonely man, a +great invalid, who lives at a little manor-house a mile or two away. +Maud knew him by name, but had never seen him. He wrote me a courtly +kind of note, apologising for being unable to call, and expressing a +hope that we might be able to go and see him. The house stands on the +edge of the village, looking out on the churchyard, a many-gabled +building of grey stone, a long flagged terrace in front of it, +terminated by posts with big stone balls; a garden behind, and a wood +behind that—the whole scene unutterably peaceful and beautiful. We +entered by a little hall, and a kindly, plain, middle-aged woman, with +a Quaker-like precision of mien and dress, came out to greet us, with a +fresh kindliness that had nothing conventional about it. She said that +her uncle was not very well, but she thought he would be able to see +us. She left us for a moment. There was a cleanness and a fragrance +about the old house that was very characteristic. It was most simply, +even barely furnished, but with a settled, ancient look about it, that +gave one a sense of long association. She presently returned, and said, +smiling, that her uncle would like to see us, but separately, as he was +very far from strong. She took Maud away, and returning, walked with me +round the garden, which had the same dainty and simple perfection about +it. I could see that my hostess had the poetical passion for flowers; +she knew the names of all, and spoke of them almost as one might of +children. This was very wilful and impatient, and had to be kept in +good order; that one required coaxing and tender usage. We went on to +the wood, in all its summer foliage, and she showed us a little arbour +where her uncle loved to sit, and where the birds would come at his +whistle. "They are looking at us out of the trees everywhere," she +said, "but they are shy of strangers"—and indeed we heard soft +chirping and rustling everywhere. An old dog and a cat accompanied us. +She drew my attention to the latter. "Look at Pippa," she said, "she is +determined to walk with us, and equally determined not to seem to need +our company, as if she had come out of her own accord, and was +surprised to find us in her garden." Pippa, hearing her name mentioned, +stalked off with an air of mystery and dignity into the bushes, and we +could see her looking out at us; but when we continued our stroll, she +flew out past us, and walked on stiffly ahead. "She gets a great deal +of fun out of her little dramas," said Miss ——. "Now poor old Rufus +has no sense of drama or mystery—he is frankly glad of our company in +a very low and common way—there is nothing aristocratic about him." +Old Rufus looked up and wagged his tail humbly. Presently she went on +to talk about her uncle, and contrived to tell me a great deal in a +very few words. I learnt that he was the last male representative of an +old family, who had long held the small estate here; that after a +distinguished Oxford career, he had met with a serious accident that +had made him a permanent invalid. That he had settled down here, not +expecting to live more than a few years, and that he was now over +seventy; it had been the quietest of lives, she said, and a very happy +one, too, in spite of his disabilities. He read a great deal, and +interested himself in local affairs, but sometimes for weeks together +could do nothing. I gathered that she was his only surviving relation, +and had lived with him from her childhood. "You will think," she added, +laughing, "that he is the kind of person who is shown by his friends as +a wonderful old man, and who turns out to be a person like the +patriarch Casby, in Little Dorrit, whose sanctity, like Samson's, +depended entirely upon the length of his hair. But he is not in the +least like that, and I will leave you to find out for yourself whether +he is wonderful or not." +</P> + +<P> +There was a touch of masculine irony and humour about this that took my +fancy; and we went to the house, Miss —— saying that two new persons +in one afternoon would be rather a strain for her uncle, much as he +would enjoy it, and that his enjoyment must be severely limited. "His +illness," she said, "is an obscure one; it is a want of adequate +nervous force: the doctors give it names, but don't seem to be able to +cure or relieve it; he is strong, physically and mentally, but the +least over-exertion or over-strain knocks him up; it is as if virtue +went out of him; though a partial niece may say that he has a plentiful +stock of the material." +</P> + +<P> +We went in, and proceeded to a small library, full of books, with a big +writing-table in the window. The room was somewhat dark, and the feet +fell softly on a thick carpet. There was no sort of luxury about the +room; a single portrait hung over the mantelpiece, and there was no +trace of ornament anywhere, except a big bowl of roses on a table. +</P> + +<P> +Here, with a low table beside him covered with books, and a little +reading-desk pushed aside, I found Mr. —— sitting. He was leaning +forwards in his chair, and Maud was sitting opposite him. They appeared +to be silent, but with the natural silence that comes of reflection, +not the silence of embarrassment. Maud, I could see, was strangely +moved. He rose up to greet me, a tall, thin figure, dressed in a rough +grey suit. There was little sign of physical ill-health about him. He +had a shock of thick, strong hair, perfectly white. His face was that +of a man who lived much in the open air, clear and ascetic of +complexion. He was not at all what would be called handsome; he had +rather heavy features, big, white eyebrows, and a white moustache. His +manner was sedate and extremely unaffected, not hearty, but kindly, and +he gave me a quick glance, out of his blue eyes, which seemed to take +swift stock of me. "It is very kind of you to come and see me," he said +in a measured tone. "Of course I ought to have paid my respects first, +but I ventured to take the privilege of age; and moreover I am the +obedient property of a very vigilant guardian, whose orders I +implicitly obey—'Do this, and he doeth it.'" He smiled at his niece as +he said it, and she said, "Yes, you would hardly believe how peremptory +I can be; and I am going to show it by taking Mrs. —— away, to show +her the garden; and in twenty minutes I must take Mr. —— away too, if +he will be so kind as help me to sustain my authority." +</P> + +<P> +The old man sate down again, smiling, and pointed me to a chair. The +other two left us; and there followed what was to me a very memorable +conversation. "We must make the best use of our time, you see," he +said, "though I hope that this will not be the last time we shall meet. +You will confer a very great obligation on me, if you can sometimes +come to see me—and perhaps we may get a walk together occasionally. So +we won't waste our time in conventional remarks," he added; "I will +only say that I am heartily glad you have come to live here, and I am +sure you will find it a beautiful place—you are wise enough to prefer +the country to the town, I gather." Then he went on: "I have read all +your books—I did not read them," he added with a smile, "that I might +talk to you about them, but because they have interested me. May I say +that each book has been stronger and better than the last, except in +one case"—he mentioned the name of a book of mine—"in which you +seemed to me to be republishing earlier work." "Yes," I said, "you are +quite right; I was tempted by a publisher and I fell." "Well," he said, +"the book was a good one—and there is something that we lose as we +grow older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a +beautiful freedom of thought; but we can't have everything, and one's +books must take their appropriate colours from the mind. May I say that +I think your books have grown more and more mature, tolerant, artistic, +wise?—and the last was simply admirable. It entirely engrossed me, and +for a blessed day or two I lived in your mind, and saw out of your +eyes. I am sure it was a great book—a noble and a large-hearted book, +full of insight and faith—the best kind of book." I murmured +something; and he said, "You may think it is arrogant of me to speak +like this; but I have lived among books, and I am sure that I have a +critical gift, mainly because I have no power of expression. You know +the best kind of critics are the men who have tried to write books, and +have failed, as long as their failure does not make them envious and +ungenerous; I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work +all the more for that. You are writing now?" "No," I said, "I am +writing nothing." "Well, I am sorry to hear it," he said, "and may I +venture to ask why?" "Simply because I cannot," I said; and now there +came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that one has +in answering the questions of a great and compassionate physician, who +assumes the responsibility of one's case. Not only did I not resent +these questions, as I should often have resented them, but it seemed to +give me a sense of luxury and security to give an account of myself to +this wise and unaffected old man. He bent his brows upon me: "You have +had a great sorrow lately?" he said. "Yes," I said, "we have lost our +only boy, nine years old." "Ah," he said, "a sore stroke, a sore +stroke!" and there was a deep tenderness in his voice that made me feel +that I should have liked to kneel down before him, and weep at his +knee, with his hand laid in blessing on my head. We sate in silence for +a few moments. "Is it this that has stopped your writing?" he said. +"No," I said, "the power had gone from me before—I could not +originate, I could only do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality +than before." "Well," he said, "I don't wonder; the last book must have +been a great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it. +I remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a +marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak—without any sense +of fatigue, he told me, all pure enjoyment—but he had a heart-attack +the next day, and paid the penalty of his enjoyment. He could not climb +for some years after that." "Yes," I said, "I think that has been my +case—but my fear is that if I lose the habit—and I seem to have lost +it—I shall never be able to take it up again." "No, you need not fear +that," he replied; "if something is given you to say, you will be able +to say it, and say it better than ever—but no doubt you feel very much +lost without it. How do you fill the time?" "I hardly know," I said, +"not very profitably—I read, I teach my daughter, I muddle along." +"Well," he said, smiling, "the hours in which we muddle along are not +our worst hours. You believe in God?" The suddenness of this question +surprised me. "Yes," I said, "I believe in God. I cannot disbelieve. +Something has placed me where I am, something urges me along; there is +a will behind me, I am sure of that. But I do not know whether that +will is just or unjust, kind or unkind, benevolent or indifferent. I +have had much happiness and great prosperity, but I have had to bear +also things which are inconceivably repugnant to me, things which seem +almost satanically adapted to hurt and wound me in my tenderest and +innermost feelings, trials which seem to be concocted with an almost +infernal appropriateness, not things which I could hope to bear with +courage and faith, but things which I can only endure with rebellious +resistance." "Yes," he said, "I understand you perfectly; but does not +their very appropriateness, the satanical ingenuity of which you speak, +help you to feel that they are not fortuitous, but sent deliberately to +you yourself and to none other?" "Yes," I said, "I see that; but how +can I believe in the justice of a discipline which I could not inflict, +I will not say upon a dearly loved child, but upon the most relentless +and stubborn foe." "Ah," said he, "now I see your heart bare, the very +palpitating beat of the blood. Do you think you are alone in this? Let +me tell you my own story. Over fifty years ago I left Oxford with, I +really think I may say, almost everything before me—everything, that +is, which is open to an instinctively cheerful, temperate, capable, +active man—I was not rich, but I could afford to wait to earn money. I +was sociable and popular; I was endowed with an immense appetite for +variety of experience; I don't think that there was anything which +appeared to me to be uninteresting. But I could persevere too, I could +stick to work, I had taken a good degree. Then an accidental fall off a +chair, on which I was standing to get a book, laid me on my back for a +time. I fretted over it at first, but when I got about again, I found +that I was a man maimed for life. I don't know what the injury +was—some obscure lesion of the spinal marrow or brain, I believe—some +flaw about the size of a pin's head—the doctors have never made out. +But every time that I plunged into work, I broke down; for a long time +I thought I should struggle through; but at last I became aware that I +was on the shelf, with other cracked jars, for life—I can't tell you +what I went through, what agonies of despair and rebellion. I thought +that at least literature was left me. I had always been fond of books, +and was a good scholar, as it is called; but I soon became aware that I +had no gift of expression, and moreover that I could not hope to +acquire it, because any concentrated effort threw me into illness. I +was an ambitious fellow, and success was closed to me—I could not even +hope to be useful. I tried several things, but always with the same +result; and at last I fell into absolute despair, and just lived on, +praying daily and even hourly that I might die. But I did not die, and +then at last it dawned upon me, like a lightening sunrise, that THIS +was life for me; this was my problem, these my limitations; that I was +to make the best I could out of a dulled and shattered life; that I was +to learn to be happy, even useful, in spite of it—that just as other +people were given activity, practical energy, success, to learn from +them the right balance, the true proportion of life, and not to be +submerged and absorbed in them, so to me was given a simpler problem +still, to have all the temptations of activity removed—temptations to +which with my zest for experience I might have fallen an easy +victim—and to keep my courage high, my spirit pure and expectant, if I +could, waiting upon God. This little estate fell to me soon afterwards, +and I soon saw what a tender gift it was, because it gave me a home; +every other source of interest and pleasure was removed, because the +simplest visits, the wildest distractions were too much for me—the +jarring of any kind of vehicle upset me. By what slow degrees I +attained happiness I can hardly say. But now, looking back, I see +this—that whereas others have to learn by hard experience, that +detachment, self-purification, self-control are the only conditions of +happiness on earth, I was detached, purified, controlled by God +Himself. I was detached, because my life was utterly precarious, I was +taught purification and control, because whereas more robust people can +defer and even defy the penalties of luxury, comfort, gross desires, +material pleasures, I was forced, every day and hour, to deny myself +the smallest freedom—I was made ascetic by necessity. Then came a +greater happiness still; for years I was lost in a sort of +individualistic self-absorption, with no thoughts of anything but God +and His concern with myself—often hopeful and beautiful enough—when I +found myself drawn into nearer and dearer relationships with those +around me. That came through my niece, whom I adopted as an orphan +child, and who is one of those people who live naturally and +instinctively in the lives of other people. I got to know all the +inhabitants of this little place—simple country people, you will +say—but as interesting, as complex in emotion and intellect, as any +other circle in the world. The only reason why one ever thinks people +dull and limited, is because one does not know them; if one talks +directly and frankly to people, one passes through the closed doors at +once. Looking back, I can see that I have been used by God, not with +mere compassion and careless tenderness, but with an intent, exacting, +momentary love, of an almost awful intensity and intimacy. It is the +same with all of us, if we can only see it. Our faults, our weaknesses, +our qualities good or bad, are all bestowed with an anxious and +deliberate care. The reason why some of us make shipwreck—and even +that is mercifully and lovingly dispensed to us—is because we will not +throw ourselves on the side of God at every moment. Every time that the +voice says 'Do this,' or 'Leave that undone,' and we reply fretfully, +'Ah, but I have arranged otherwise,' we take a step backwards. He +knocks daily, hourly, momently, at the door, and when we have once +opened, and He is entered, we have no desire again but to do His will +to the uttermost." He was silent for a moment, his eyes in-dwelling +upon some secret thought; then he said, "Everything about you, your +books, your dear wife, your words, your face, tell me that you are very +near indeed to the way—a step or two, and you are free!" He sate back +for a moment, as though exhausted, and then said: "You will forgive me +for speaking so frankly, but I feel from hour to hour how short my time +may be; and I had no doubt when I saw you, even before I saw you, that +I should have some message to give you, some tidings of hope and +patience." +</P> + +<P> +I despair, as I write, of giving any idea of the impressiveness of the +old man; now that I have written down his talk, it seems abrupt and +even strained. It was neither. The perfect naturalness and tranquillity +of it all, the fatherly smile, the little gestures of his frail hand, +interpreted and filled up the gaps, till I felt as though I had known +him all my life, and that he was to me as a dear father, who saw my +needs, and even loved me for what I was not and for what I might be. +</P> + +<P> +At this point Miss —— came in, and led me away. As Maud and I walked +back, we spoke to each other of what we had seen and heard. He had +talked to her, she said, very simply about Alec. "I don't know how it +was," she added, "but I found myself telling him everything that was in +my mind and heart, and it seemed as though he knew it all before." +"Yes, indeed," I said, "he made me desire with all my heart to be +different—and yet that is not true either, because he made me wish not +to be something outside of myself, but something inside, something that +was there all the time: I seem never to have suspected what religion +was before; it had always seemed to me a thing that one put on and +wore, like a garment; but now it seems to me to be the most natural, +simple, and beautiful thing in the world; to consist in being oneself, +in fact." "Yes, that is exactly it," said Maud, "I could not have put +it into words, but that is how I feel." "Yes," I said, "I saw, in a +flash, that life is not a series of things that happen to us, but our +very selves. It is not a question of obeying, and doing, and acting, +but a question of being. Well, it has been a wonderful experience; and +yet he told me nothing that I did not know. God in us, not God with +us." And presently I added: "If I were never to see Mr. —— again, I +should feel he had somehow done more for me than a hundred +conversations and a thousand books. It was like the falling of the +spirit at Pentecost." +</P> + +<P> +That strange sense of an uplifted freedom, of willing co-operation has +dwelt with me, with us both, for many days. I dare not say that life +has become easy; that the cloud has rolled away; that there have not +been hours of dismay and dreariness and sorrow. But it is, I am sure, a +turning-point of my life; the way which has led me downwards, deepening +and darkening, seems to have reached its lowest point, and to be +ascending from the gloom; and all from the words of a simple, frail old +man, sitting among his books in a panelled parlour, in a soft, summer +afternoon. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 10, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +I have been sitting out, this hot, still afternoon, upon the lawn, +under the shade of an old lime-tree, with its sweet scent coming and +going in wafts, with the ceaseless murmur of the bees all about it; but +for that slumberous sound, the place was utterly still; the sun lay +warm on the old house, on the box hedges of the garden, on the rich +foliage of the orchard. I have been lost in a strange dream of peace +and thankfulness, only wishing the sweet hours could stay their course, +and abide with me thus for ever. Part of the time Maggie sate with me, +reading. We were both silent, but glad to be together; every now and +then she looked up and smiled at me. I was not even visited by the +sense that used to haunt me, that I must bestir myself, do something, +think of something. It is not that I am less active than formerly; it +is the reverse. I do a number of little things here, trifling things +they would seem, not worth mentioning, mostly connected with the +village or the parish. My writing has retired far into the past, like a +sort of dream. I never even plan to begin again. I teach a little, not +Maggie only, but some boys and girls of the place, who have left +school, but are glad to be taught in the evenings. I have plenty of +good easy friends here, and have the blessed sense of feeling myself +wanted. Best of all, a sense of poisonous hurry seems to have gone out +of my life. In the old days I was always stretching on to something, +the end of my book, the next book—never content with the present, +always hoping that the future would bring me the satisfaction I seemed +to miss. I did not always know it at the time, for I was often happy +when I was writing a book—but it was, at best, a rushing, tortured +sort of happiness. My great sorrow—what has that become to me? A +beautiful thing, full of patience and hope. What but that has taught me +to learn to live for the moment, to take the bitter experiences of life +as they come, not crushing out the sweetness and flinging the rind +aside, but soberly, desirously, only eager to get from the moment what +it is meant to bring. Even the very shrinking back from a bitter duty, +the indolent rejection of the thought that touches one's elbow, bidding +one again and again arise and go, means something; to defer one's +pleasure, to break the languid dream, to take up the tiny task, what +strength is there! Thus no burden seems too heavy, too awkward, too +slippery, too ill-shaped, but one can lift it. The yoke is easy, +because one bears it in quiet confidence, not overtaxing ability or +straining hope. Instead of watching life, as from high castle windows, +feeling it common and unclean, not to be mingled with, I am in it and +of it. And what is become of all my old dreams of art, of the secluded +worship, the lonely rapture! Well, it is all there, somehow, flowing +inside life, like a stream that is added to a river, not like a leat +drawn aside from the current. The force I spent on art has gone to +swell life and augment it; it heightens perception, it intensifies +joy—it was the fevered lust of expression that drained the vigour of +my days and hours. +</P> + +<P> +But am I then satisfied with the part I play? Do I feel that my +faculties are being used, that I am lending a hand to the great sum of +toil? I used to feel that, or thought I felt it, in the old days, but +now I see that I walked in a vain delusion, serving my own joy, my own +self-importance. Not that I think my old toil all ill-spent; that was +my work before, as surely as it is not now; but the old intentness, the +old watching for tone and gesture, for action and situation, that has +all shifted its gaze, and waits upon God. It may be, nay it is certain, +that I have far to go, much to learn; but now that I may perhaps +recover my strength, life spreads out into sunny shallows, moving slow +and clear. It is like a soft sweet interlude between two movements of +fire and glow; for I see now, what then I could not see, that something +in my life was burnt and shrivelled up in my enforced silence and in my +bitter loss—then, when I felt my energies at their lowest, when mind +and bodily frame alike flapped loose, like a flag of smut upon the bars +of a grate, I was living most intensely, and the soul's wings grew +fast, unfolding plume and feather. It was then that life burnt with its +fiercest heat, when it withdrew me, faintly struggling, away from all +that pleased and caressed the mind and the body, into the silent glow +of the furnace. Strange that I should not have perceived it! But now I +see in all maimed and broken lives, the lives that seem most idle and +helpless, most futile and vain, that the same fierce flame is burning +bright about them; that the reason why they cannot spread and flourish, +like flowers, into the free air, is because the strong roots are +piercing deep, entwining themselves firmly among the stones, piercing +the cold silent crevices of the earth. Ay, indeed! The coal in the +furnace, burning passively and hotly, is as much a force, though it but +lies and suffers, as the energy that throbs in the leaping piston-rod +or the rushing wheel. Not in success and noise and triumph does the +soul grow; when the body rejoices, when the mind is prodigal of seed, +the spirit sits within in a darkened chamber, like a folded chrysalis, +stiff as a corpse, in a faint dream. But when triumphs have no savour, +when the cheek grows pale and the eye darkens, then the dark chrysalis +opens, and the rainbow wings begin to spread and glow, uncrumpling to +the suns of paradise. My soul has taken wings, and sits poised and +delicate, faint with long travail, perhaps to hover awhile about the +garden blooms and the chalices of honied flowers, perhaps to take her +flight beyond the glade, over the forest, to the home of her desirous +heart. I know not! Yet in these sunlit hours, with the slow, strong +pulse of life beating round me, it seems that something is preparing +for one struck dumb and crushed with sorrow to the earth. How soft a +thrill of hope throbs in the summer air! How the bird-voices in the +thicket, and the rustle of burnished leaves, and the hum of insects, +blend into a secret harmony, a cadence half-heard! I wait in love and +confidence; and through the trees of the garden One seems ever to draw +nearer, walking in the cool of the day, at whose bright coming the +flowers look upwards unashamed. Shall I be bidden to meet Him! Will He +call me loud or low? +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 25, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +Maud has been ailing of late—how much it is impossible to say, because +she is always cheerful and indomitable. She never complains, she never +neglects a duty; but I have found her, several times of late, sitting +alone, unoccupied, musing—that is unlike her—and with a certain +shadow upon her face that I do not recognise; but the strange, new, +sweet companionship in which we live seems at the same time to have +heightened and deepened. I seem to have lived so close to her all these +years, and yet of late to have found a new and different personality in +her, which I never suspected. Perhaps we have both changed somewhat; I +do not feel the difference in myself. But there is something larger, +stronger, deeper about Maud now, as if she had ascended into a purer +air, and caught sight of some unexpected, undreamed-of distance; but +instead of giving her remoteness, she seems to be sharing her wider +outlook with me; she was never a great talker—perhaps it was that in +old days my own mind ran like an ebullient fountain, evoking no +definite response, needing no interchange; but she was always a sayer +of penetrating things. She has a wonderful gift of seeing the firm +issue through a cloud of mixed suggestions; but of late there has been +a richness, a generosity, a wisdom about her which I have never +recognised before. I think, with contrition, that I under-estimated, +not her judgment or instinct, but her intellect. I am sure I lived too +much in the intellectual region, and did not guess how little it really +solves, in what a limited region it disports itself. I see that this +wisdom was hers all along, and that I have been blind to it; but now +that I have travelled out of the intellectual region, I perceive what a +much greater thing that further wisdom is than I had thought. Living in +art and for art, I used to believe that the intellectual structure was +the one thing that mattered, but now I perceive dimly that the mind is +but on the threshold of the soul, and that the artist may, nay does, +often perceive, by virtue of his trained perception, what is going on +in the sanctuary; but he is as one who kneels in a church at some great +solemnity—he sees the movements and gestures of the priests; he sees +the holy rite proceeding, he hears the sacred words; something of the +inner spirit of it all flows out to him; but the viewless current of +prayer, the fiery ray streaming down from God, that smites itself into +the earthly symbol—all this is hidden from him. Those priests, intent +upon the sacred work, feel something that they not only do not care to +express, but which they would not if they could; it would be a +profanation of the awful mystery. The artist is not profane in +expressing what he perceives, because he can be the interpreter of the +symbol to others more remote; but he is not a real partaker of the +mystery; he is a seer of the word and not a doer. What now amazes me is +that Maud, to whom the heart of the matter, the inner emotion, has +always been so real, could fling herself, and all for love of me, into +the outer work of intellectual expression. I have always, God forgive +me, believed my work to be in some way superior to hers. I loved her +truly, but with a certain condescension of mind, as one loves a child +or a flower; and now I see that she has been serenely ahead of me all +the time, and it has been she that has helped me along; I have been as +the spoilt and wilful child, and she as the sweet and wise mother, who +has listened to its prattle, and thrown herself, with all the infinite +patience of love, into the tiny bounded dreams. I have told her all +this as simply as I could, and though she deprecated it all generously +and humbly, I feel the blessed sense of having caught her up upon the +way, of seeing—how dimly and imperfectly!—what I have owed her all +along. I am overwhelmed with a shame which it is a sweet pleasure to +confess to her; and now that I can spare her a little, anticipate her +wishes, save her trouble, it is an added joy; a service that I can +render and which she loves to receive. I never thought of these things +in the old days; she had always planned everything, arranged +everything, forestalled everything. +</P> + +<P> +I have at last persuaded her to come up to town and see a doctor. We +plan to go abroad for a time. I would earn the means if I could, but, +if not, we will sacrifice a little of our capital, and I will replace +it, if I can, by some hack-work; though I have a dislike of being paid +for my name and reputation, and not for my best work. +</P> + +<P> +I am not exactly anxious; it is all so slight, what they call a want of +tone, and she has been through so much; even so, my anxiety is +conquered by the joy of being able to serve her a little; and that joy +brings us together, hour by hour. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +September 6, 1890. +</H4> + +<P> +Again the shadow comes down over my life. The doctor says plainly that +Maud's heart is weak; but he adds that there is nothing organically +wrong, though she must be content to live the life of an invalid for a +time; he was reassuring and quiet; but I cannot keep a dread out of my +mind, though Maud herself is more serene than she has been for a long +time; she says that she was aware that she was somehow overtaxing +herself, and it is a comfort to be bidden, in so many words, to abstain +a little. We are to live quietly at home for a while, until she is +stronger, and then we shall go abroad. +</P> + +<P> +Maud does not come down in the mornings now, and she is forbidden to do +more than take the shortest stroll. I read to her a good deal in the +mornings; Maggie has proudly assumed the functions of housekeeper; the +womanly instinct for these things is astonishing. A man would far +sooner not have things comfortable, than have the trouble of providing +them and seeing about them. Women do not care about comforts for +themselves; they prefer haphazard meals, trays brought into rooms, +vague arrangements; and yet they seem to know by instinct what a man +likes, even though he does not express it, and though he would not take +any trouble to secure it. What centuries of trained instincts must have +gone to produce this. The new order has given me a great deal more of +Maggie's society. We are sent out in the afternoon, because Maud likes +to be quite alone to receive the neighbours, small and great, that come +to see her, now that she cannot go to see them. She tells me frankly +that my presence only embarrasses them. And thus another joy has come +to me, one of the most beautiful things that has ever happened to me in +my life, and which I can hardly find words to express—the contact +with, the free sight of the mind and soul of an absolutely pure, simple +and ingenuous girl. Maggie's mind has opened like a flower. She talks +to me with perfect openness of all she feels and thinks; to walk thus, +hour by hour, with my child's arm through my own, her wide-opened, +beautiful eyes looking in mine, her light step beside me, with all her +pretty caressing ways—it seems to me a taste of the purest and +sweetest love I have ever felt. It is like the rapture of a lover, but +without any shadow of the desirous element that mingles so fiercely and +thirstily with our mortal loves, to find myself dear to her. I have a +poignant hunger of the heart to save her from any touch of pain, to +smooth her path for her, to surround her with beauty and sweetness. I +did not guess that the world held any love quite like this; there seems +no touch of selfishness about it; my love lavishes itself, asking for +nothing in return, except that I may be dear to her as she to me. +</P> + +<P> +Her fancies, her hopes, her dreams—how inexplicable, how adorable! She +said to me to-day that she could never marry, and that it was a real +pity that she could not have children of her own without. "We don't +want any one else, do we, except just some little children to amuse +us." She is a highly imaginative child, and one of our amusements is to +tell each other long, interminable tales of the adventures of a family +we call the Pickfords. I have lost all count of their names and ages, +their comings and goings; but Maggie never makes a mistake about them, +and they seem to her like real people; and when I sometimes plunge them +into disaster, she is so deeply affected that the disasters have all to +be softly repaired. The Pickfords must have had a very happy life; the +kind of life that people created and watched over by a tender, patient +and detailed Providence might live. How different from the real world! +</P> + +<P> +But I don't want Maggie to live in the real world yet awhile. It will +all come pouring in upon her, sorrow, anxiety, weariness, no +doubt—alas that it should be so! Perhaps some people would blame me, +would say that more discipline would be bracing, wholesome, +preparatory. But I don't believe that. I had far rather that she learnt +that life was tender, gentle and sweet—and then if she has to face +trouble, she will have the strength of feeling that the tenderness, +gentleness and sweetness are the real stuff of life, waiting for her +behind the cloud. I don't want to disillusion her; I want to establish +her faith in happiness and love, so that it cannot be shaken. That is a +better philosophy, when all is said and done, than the stoical +fortitude that anticipates dreariness, that draws the shadow over the +sun, that overvalues endurance. One endures by instinct; but one must +be trained to love. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 6, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +It is months since I have opened this book; it has lain on my table all +through the dreadful hours—I write the word down conventionally, and +yet it is not the right word at all, because I have merely been stunned +and numbed. I simply could not suffer any more. I smiled to myself, as +the man in the story, who was broken on the wheel, smiled when they +struck the second and the third blow. I knew why he smiled; it was +because he had dreaded it so much, and when it came there was nothing +to dread, because he simply did not feel it. +</P> + +<P> +To-night I just pick up idly the dropped thread. Perhaps it is a sign, +this faint desire to make a little record, of the first tingling of +returning life. Something stirs in me, and I will not resist it; it may +be read by some one that comes after me, by some one perhaps who feels +that his own grief is supreme and unique, and that no one has ever +suffered so before. He may learn that there have been others in the +dark valley before him, that the mist is full of pilgrims stumbling on, +falling, rising again, falling again, lying stupefied in a silence +which is neither endurance nor patience. +</P> + +<P> +Maud was taken from me first; she went without a word or a sign. She +was better that day, she declared, than she had felt for some time; she +was on the upward grade. She walked a few hundred yards with Maggie and +myself, and then she went back; the last sight I had of her alive was +when she stood at the corner and waved her hand to us as we went out of +sight. I am glad I looked round and saw her smile. I had not the +smallest or faintest premonition of what was coming; indeed, I was +lighter of mood than I had been for some time. We came in; we were told +that she was tired and had gone up to lie down. As she did not come +down to tea, I went up and found her lying on her bed, her head upon +her hand—dead. The absolute peace and stillness of her attitude showed +us that she had herself felt no access of pain. She had lain down to +rest, and she had rested indeed. Even at my worst and loneliest, I have +been able to be glad that it was even so. If I could know that I should +die thus in joy and tranquillity, it would be a great load off my mind. +</P> + +<P> +But the grief, the shock to Maggie was too much for my dear, +love-nurtured child. A sort of awful and desperate strength came on me +after that; I felt somehow, day by day, that I must just put away my +own grief till a quiet hour, in order that I might sustain and guard +the child; but her heart was broken, I think, though they say that no +one dies of sorrow. She lay long ill—so utterly frail, so appealing in +her grief, that I could think of nothing but saving her. Was it a kind +of selfishness that needed to be broken down in me? Perhaps it was! +Every single tendril of my heart seemed to grow round the child and +clasp her close; she was all that I had left, and in some strange way +she seemed to be all that I had lost too. And then she faded out of +life, not knowing that she was fading, but simply too tired to live; +and my desire alone seemed to keep her with me. Till at last, seeing +her weariness and weakness, I let my desire go; I yielded, I gave her +to God, and He took her, as though He had waited for my consent. +</P> + +<P> +And now that I am alone, I will say, with such honesty as I can muster, +that I have no touch of self-pity, no rebellion. It is all too deep and +dark for that. I am not strong enough even to wish to die; I have no +wishes, no desires at all. The three seem for ever about me, in my +thoughts and in my dreams. When Alec died, I used to wake up to the +fact, day after day, with a trembling dismay. Now it is not like that. +I can give no account of what I do. The smallest things about me seem +to take up my mind. I can sit for an hour by the hearth, neither +reading nor thinking, just watching the flame flicker over the coals, +or the red heart of the fire eating its way upwards and outwards. I can +sit on a sunshiny morning in the garden, merely watching with a strange +intentness what goes on about me, the uncrumpling leaf, the snowdrop +pushing from the mould, the thrush searching the lawn, the robin +slipping from bough to bough, the shapes of the clouds, the dying ray. +I seem to have no motive either to live or to die. I retrace in memory +my walks with Maggie, I can see her floating hair, and how she leaned +to me; I can sit, as I used to sit reading by Maud's side, and see her +face changing as the book's mood changed, her clear eye, her strong +delicate hands. I seem as if I had awaked from a long and beautiful +dream. People sometimes come and see me, and I can see the pity in +their faces and voices; I can see it in the anxious care with which my +good servants surround me; but I feel that it is half disingenuous in +me to accept it, because I need no pity. Perhaps there is something +left for me to do in the world: there seems no reason otherwise why I +should linger here. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. —— has been very good to me; I have seen him almost daily. He +seems the only person who perfectly understands. He has hardly said a +word to me about my sorrow. He said once that he should not speak of +it; before, he said, I was like a boy learning a lesson with the help +of another boy, but that now I was being taught by the Master Himself. +That may be so; but the Master has a very scared and dull pupil, alas, +who cannot even discern the letters. I care nothing whether God be +pleased or displeased; I bear His will, without either pain or +resistance. I simply feel as if there had been some vast and +overwhelming mistake somewhere; a mistake so incredible and +inconceivable that nothing else mattered; as if—I do not speak +profanely—God Himself were appalled at what He had done, and dared not +smite further one whom He had stunned into silence and apathy. +</P> + +<P> +With Mr. —— I talk; he talks of simple, quiet things, of old books +and thoughts. He tells me, sometimes, when I am too weary to speak, +long, beautiful, quiet stories of his younger days, and I listen like a +child to his grave voice, only sorry when it comes to an end. So the +days pass, and I will not say I have no pleasure in them, because I +have won back a sort of odd childish pleasure in small incidents, +sights, and sounds. The part of me that can feel seems to have been +simply cut gently away, and I live in the hour, just glad when the sun +is out, sorry when it is dull and cheerless. +</P> + +<P> +I read the other day one of my old books, and I could not believe it +was mine. It seemed like the voice of some one I had once known long +ago, in a golden hour. I was amused and surprised at my own quickness +and inventiveness, at the confidence with which I interpreted +everything so glibly and easily. I cannot interpret any more, and I do +not seem to desire to do so. I seem to wait, with a half-amused smile, +to see if God can make anything out of the strange tangle of things, as +a child peers in within a scaffolding, and sees nothing but a forest of +poles, little rising walls of chambers, a crane swinging weights to and +fro. What can ever come, he thinks, out of such strange confusion, such +fruitless hurry? +</P> + +<P> +Well, I will not write any more; a sense of weariness and futility +comes over me. I will go back to my garden to see what I can see, only +dumbly and mutely thankful that it is not required of me to perform any +dull and monotonous task, which would interrupt my idle dreams. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 8, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +I tried this morning to look through some of the old letters and papers +in Maud's cabinet. There were my own letters, carefully tied up with a +ribbon; letters from her mother and father; from the children when we +were away from them. I began to read, and was seized with a sharp, +unreasoning pain, surprised by sudden tears. I seemed dumbly to resent +this, and I put them all away again. Why should I disturb myself to no +purpose? "There shall be no more sorrow nor crying, for the former +things are passed away"—so runs the old verse, and I had almost grown +to feel like that. Why distrust it? Yet I could not forbear. I got the +papers out again, and read late into the night, like one reading an old +and beautiful story. Suddenly the curtain lifted, and I saw myself +alone, I saw what I had lost. The ineffectual agony I endured, crying +out for very loneliness! "That was all mine," said the melting heart, +so long frozen and dumb. Grief, in waves and billows, began to beat +upon me like breakers on a rock-bound shore. A strange fever of the +spirit came on me, scenes and figures out of the years floating +fiercely and boldly past me. Was my strength and life sustained for +this, that I should just sleep awhile, and wake to fall into the pit of +suffering, far deeper than before? +</P> + +<P> +If they could but come back to me for a moment; if I could feel Maud's +cheek by mine, or Maggie's arms round my neck; if they could but stand +by me smiling, in robes of light! Yet as in a vision I seem to see them +leaning from a window, in a blank castle-wall rising from a misty +abyss, scanning a little stairway that rises out of the clinging fog, +built up through the rocks and ending in a postern gate in the +castle-wall. Upon that stairway, one by one emerging from the mist, +seem to stagger and climb the figures of men, entering in, one by one, +and the three, with smiles and arms interlaced, are watching eagerly. +Cannot I climb the stair? Perhaps even now I am close below them, where +the mist hangs damp on rock and blade? Cannot I set myself free? No, I +could not look them in the face, they would hide their eyes from me, if +I came in hurried flight, in passionate cowardice. Not so must I come +before them, if indeed they wait for me. +</P> + +<P> +The morning was coming in about the dewy garden, the birds piping faint +in thicket and bush, when I stumbled slowly, dizzied and helpless, to +my bed. Then a troubled sleep; and ah, the bitter waking; for at last I +knew what I had lost. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 10, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +"All things become plain to us," said the good vicar, pulling on his +gloves, "when we once realise that God is love—Perfect Love!" He said +good-bye; he trudged off to his tea, a trying visit manfully +accomplished, leaving me alone. +</P> + +<P> +He had sate with me, good, kindly man, for twenty minutes. There were +tears in his eyes, and I valued that little sign of human fellowship +more than all the commonplaces he courageously enunciated. He talked in +a soft, low tone, as if I was ill. He made no allusions to mundane +things; and I am grateful to him for coming. He had dreaded his call, I +am sure, and he had done it from a mixture of affection and duty, both +good things. +</P> + +<P> +"Perfect Love, yes—if we could feel that!" I sate musing in my chair. +</P> + +<P> +I saw, as in a picture, a child brought up in a beautiful and stately +house by a grave strong man, who lavished at first love and tenderness, +ease and beauty, on the child, laughing with him, and making much of +him; all of which the child took unconsciously, unthinkingly, knowing +nothing different; running to meet his guardian, glad to be with him, +sorry to leave him. +</P> + +<P> +Then I saw in my parable that one day, when the child played in the +garden, as he had often played before, he noticed a little green alley, +with a pleasant arch of foliage, that he had never seen before, leading +to some secluded place. The child was dimly aware that there were parts +of the garden where he was supposed not to go; he had been told he must +not go too far from the house, but it was all vague and indistinct in +his mind; he had never been shown anything precisely, or told the +limits of his wanderings. So he went in joy, with a sense of a sweet +mystery, down the alley, and presently found himself in a still +brighter and more beautiful garden, full of fruits growing on the +ground and on the trees, which he plucked and ate. There was a +building, like a pavilion, at the end, of two storeys; and while he +wandered thither with his hands full of fruits, he suddenly saw his +guardian watching him, with a look he had never seen on his face +before, from the upper windows of the garden-house. His first impulse +was to run to him, share his joy with him, and ask him why he had not +been shown the delicious place; but the fixed and inscrutable look on +his guardian's face, neither smiling nor frowning, the stillness of his +attitude, first chilled the child and then dismayed him; he flung the +fruits on the ground and shivered, and then ran out of the garden. In +the evening, when he was with his guardian, he found him as kind and +tender as ever. But his guardian said nothing to him about the inner +garden of fruits, and the child feared to ask him. +</P> + +<P> +But the next day he felt as though the fruits had given him a new +eagerness, a new strength; he hankered after them long, and at last +went down the green path again; this time the summer-house seemed +empty. So he ate his fill, and this he did for many days. Then one day, +when he was bending down to pluck a golden fruit, that lay gem-like on +the ground among green leaves, he heard a sudden step behind him, and +turning, saw his guardian draw swiftly near, with a look of anger on +his face; the next instant he was struck down, again and again; lifted +from the ground at last, as in a passion of rage, and flung down +bleeding on the earth; and then, without a word, his guardian left him; +at first he lay and moaned, but then he crawled away, and back to the +house. And there he found the old nurse that tended him, who greeted +him with tears and words of comfort, and cared for his hurts. And he +asked her the reason of his hard usage, but she could tell him nothing, +only saying that it was the master's will, and that he sometimes did +thus, though she thought he was merciful at heart. +</P> + +<P> +The child lay sick many days, his guardian still coming to him and +sitting with him, with gentle talk and tender offices, till the scene +in the garden was like an evil dream; but as his guardian spoke no word +of displeasure to the child, the child still feared to ask him, and +only strove to forget. And then at last he was well enough to go out a +little; but a few days after—he avoided the inner garden now out of a +sort of horror—he was sitting in the sun, near the house, feebly +trying to amuse himself with one of his old games—how poor they seemed +after the fruits of the inner paradise, how he hankered desirously +after the further place, with its hot, sweet, fragrant scents, its rich +juices!—when again his guardian came upon him in a sudden wrath, and +struck him many times, dashing him down to the ground; and again he +crept home, and lay long ill, and again his guardian was unwearyingly +kind; but now a sort of horror of the man grew up in the mind of the +child, and he feared that his strange anger might break out at any +moment in a storm of blows. +</P> + +<P> +And at last he was well again; and had half forgotten, in the constant +kindness, and even merriment, of his guardian, the horror of the two +assaults. He was out and about again; he still shunned the paradise of +fruits, but wearying of the accustomed pleasaunce, he went further and +passed into the wood; how cool and mysterious it was among the great +branching trees! the forest led him onwards; now the sun lay softly +upon it, and a stream bickered through a glade, and now the path lay +through thickets, which hid the further woodland from view; and now +passing out into a more open space, he had a thrill of joy and +excitement; there was a herd of strange living creatures grazing there, +great deer with branching horns; they moved slowly forwards, cropping +the grass, and the child was lost in wonder at the sight. Presently one +of them stopped feeding, began to sniff the air, and then looking +round, espied the child, and began slowly to approach him. The child +had no terror of the great dappled stag, and held out his hand to him, +when the great beast suddenly bent his head down, and was upon him with +one bound, striking him with his horns, lifting him up, smiting him +with his pointed hooves. Presently the child, in his terror and +faintness, became aware that the beast had left him, and he began to +drag himself, all bruised as he was, along the glade; then he suddenly +saw his guardian approaching, and cried out to him, holding out his +hands for help and comfort—and his guardian strode straight up to him, +and, with the same fierce anger in his face, struck at him again and +again, and spurned him with his feet. And then, when he left him, the +child at last, with accesses of deadly faintness and pain, crept back +home, to be again tended by the old nurse, who wept over him; and the +child found that his guardian came to visit him, as kind and gentle as +ever. And at last one day when he sate beside the child, holding his +hand, stroking his hair, and telling him an old tale to comfort him, +the child summoned up courage to ask him a question about the garden +and the wood; but at the first word his guardian dropped his hand, and +left him without a word. +</P> + +<P> +And then the child lay and mused with fierce and rebellious thoughts. +He said to himself, "If my guardian had told me where I might not go; +if he had said to me, 'in the inner garden are unwholesome fruits, and +in the wood are savage beasts; and though I am strong and powerful, yet +I have not strength to root up the poisonous plants and make the place +a wilderness; and I cannot put a fence about it, or a fence about the +wood, that no one should enter; but I warn you that you must not enter, +and I entreat you for the love I bear you not to go thither,'" then the +child thought that he would not have made question, but would have +obeyed him willingly; and again he thought that, if he had indeed +ventured in, and had eaten of the evil fruits, and been wounded by the +savage stag, yet if his guardian had comforted him, and prayed him +lovingly not to enter to his hurt, that then he would have loved his +guardian more abundantly and carefully. And he thought too that, if his +guardian had ever smitten him in wrath, and had then said to him with +tears that it had grieved him bitterly to hurt him, but that thus and +thus only could he learn the vileness of the place, then he would have +not only forgiven the ill-usage, but would even have loved to endure it +patiently. But what the child could not understand was that his +guardian should now be tender and gracious, and at another time hard +and cruel, explaining nothing to him. And thus the child said in +himself, "I am in his power, and he must do his will upon me; but I +neither trust nor love him, for I cannot see the reason of what he +does; though if he would but tell me the reason, I could obey him and +submit to him joyfully." These hard thoughts he nourished and fed upon; +and his guardian came no more to him for good or for evil; and the +child, much broken by his hard usage and his angry thoughts, crept +about neglected and spiritless, with nothing but fear and dismay in his +heart. +</P> + +<P> +So the imagination shaped itself in my mind, a parable of the sad, +strange life of man. +</P> + +<P> +"Perfect Love!" If it were indeed that? Yet God does many things to His +frail children, which if a man did, I could not believe him to be +loving; though if He would but give us the assurance that it was all +leading us to happiness, we could endure His fiercest stroke, His +bitterest decree. But He smites us, and departs; He turns away in a +rage, because we have broken a law that we knew not of. And again, when +we seem most tranquil and blest, most inclined to trust Him utterly, He +smites us down again without a word. I hope, I yearn to see that it all +comes from some great and perfect will, a will with qualities of which +what we know as mercy, justice, and love are but faint shadows—but +that is hidden from me. We cannot escape, we must bear what God lays +upon us. We may fling ourselves into bitter and dark rebellion; still +He spares us or strikes us, gives us sorrow or delight. My one hope is +to cooperate with Him, to accept the chastening joyfully and +courageously. Then He takes from me joy, and courage alike, till I know +not whom I serve, a Father or a tyrant. Can it indeed help us to doubt +whether He be tyrant or no? Again I know not, and again I sicken in +fruitless despair, like one caught in a great labyrinth of crags and +precipices. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 14, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +Then the Christian teacher says: "God has given you a will, an +independent will to act and choose; put it in unison with His will." +Alas, I know not how much of my seeming liberty is His or mine. He +seems to make me able to exert my will in some directions, able to make +it effective; and yet in other matters, even though I see that a course +is holy and beautiful, I have no power to follow it at all. I see men +some more, some less hampered than myself. Some seem to have no desire +for good, no dim perception of it. The outcast child, brought up +cruelly and foully, with vile inheritances, he is not free, as I use +the word; sometimes, by some inner purity and strength, he struggles +upwards; most often he is engulfed; yet it is all a free gift, to me +much, to another little, to some nothing at all. With all my heart do I +wish my will to be in harmony with His. I yield it up utterly to Him. I +have no strength or force, and He withholds them from me. I do not +blame, I only ask to understand; He has given me understanding, and has +put in my heart a high dream of justice and love; why will He not show +me that He satisfies the dream? I say with the old Psalmist, "Lo, I +come," but He comes not forth to meet me; He does not even seem to +discern me when I am yet a long way off, as the father in the parable +discerned his erring son. +</P> + +<P> +Then the Christian teacher says to me that all is revealed in Christ; +that He reconciles, not an angry God to a wilful world, but a grieved +and outraged world to a God who cannot show them He is love. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Christ said that God was all-merciful and all-loving, and that He +ordered the very falling of a single hair of our heads. But if God +ordered that, then He did not leave unordered the qualities of our +hearts and wills, and our very sins are of His devising. +</P> + +<P> +No, it is all dark and desperate; I do not know, I cannot know; I shall +stumble to my end in ignorance; sometimes glad when a gleam of sunshine +falls on my wearied limbs, sometimes wrapping my garments around me in +cold and drenching rain. I am in the hand of God; I know that; and I +hope that I may dare to trust Him; but my confidence is shaken as He +passes over me, as the reed in the river shakes in the wind. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +February 18, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +A still February day, with a warm, steady sun, which stole in and +caressed me, enveloping me in light and warmth, as I sate reading this +morning. If I could be ashamed of anything, I should be ashamed of the +fact that my body has all day long surprised me by a sort of indolent +contentment, repeating over and over that it is glad to be alive. The +mind and soul crave for death and silence. Yet all the while my +faithful and useful friend, the body, seems to croon a low song of +delight. That is the worst of it, that I seem built for many years of +life. Shall I learn to forget? +</P> + +<P> +I walked long and far among the fields, in the fresh, sun-warmed air. +Ah! the sweet world! Everything was at its barest and austerest—the +grass thin in the pastures, the copses leafless. But such a sense of +hidden life everywhere! I stood long beside the gate to watch the +new-born lambs, whose cries thrilled plaintively on the air, like the +notes of a violin. Little black-faced grey creatures, on their high, +stilt-like legs—a week or two old, and yet able to walk, to gambol, to +rejoice, in their way, to reflect. The bleating mothers moved about, +divided between a deep desire to eat, and the anxious care of their +younglings. One of them stood over her sleeping lamb, stamping her +feet, to dismay me, no doubt, while the little creature lay like a +folded door-mat on the pasture. Another brutally repelled the advances +of a strange lamb, butting it over whenever it drew near; another +chewed the cud, while its lamb sucked, its eyes half closed in +contented joy, just turning from time to time to sniff at the little +creature pressed close to its side. I felt as if I had never seen the +sight before, this wonderful and amazing drama of life, beginning again +year after year, the same, yet not the same. +</P> + +<P> +The old shepherd came out with his crook, said a few words to me, and +moved off, the ewes following him, the lambs skipping behind. "He shall +feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of +comfort." How perfectly beautiful and tender the image, a thing seen +how many hundred years ago on the hills of Bethlehem, and touching the +old heart just as it touches me to-day! +</P> + +<P> +And yet, alas, to me to-day the image seems to miss the one thing +needful; how all the images of guide and guardian and shepherd fail +when applied to God! For here the shepherd is but a little wiser, a +little stronger than his flock. He sees their difficulties, he feels +them himself. But with God, He is at once the Guide, and the Creator of +the very dangers past which He would lead us. If we felt that God +Himself were dismayed and sad in the presence of evils that He could +not touch or remedy, we should turn to Him to help us as He best could. +But while we feel that the very perplexities and sufferings come from +His hand, how can we sincerely ask Him to guard us from things which He +originates, or at least permits? Why should they be there at all, if +His concern is to help us past them; or how can we think that He will +lead us past them, when they are part of His wise and awful design? +</P> + +<P> +And thus one plunges again into the darkness. Can it indeed be that +God, if He be all-embracing, all-loving, all-powerful, can create or +allow to arise within Himself something that is not, Himself, alien to +Him, hostile to Him? How can we believe in Him and trust Him, if this +indeed be so? +</P> + +<P> +And yet, looking upon that little flock to-day, I did indeed feel the +presence of a kind and fatherly heart, of something that grieved for my +pain, and that laid a hand upon my shoulder, saying, "Son, endure for a +little; be not so disquieted!" +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +March 8, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +Something—far-off, faint, joyful—cried out suddenly in the depths of +my spirit to-day. I felt—I can but express it by images, for it was +too intangible for direct utterance—as a woman feels when her child's +life quickens within her; as a traveller's heart leaps up when, lost +among interminable hills, he is hailed by a friendly voice; as the +river-water, thrust up into creeks and estuaries by the incoming tide, +is suddenly freed by the ebb from that stealthy pressure, and flows +gladly downwards; as the dark garden-ground may feel when the frozen +soil melts under warm winds of spring, and the flower-roots begin to +swell and shoot. +</P> + +<P> +Some such thrill it was that moved in the silence of the soul, showing +that the darkness was alive. +</P> + +<P> +It came upon me as I walked among soft airs to-day. It was no bodily +lightness that moved me, for I was unstrung, listless, indolent; but it +was a sense that it was good to live, lonely and crushed as I was; that +there was something waiting for me which deserved to be approached with +a patient expectation—that life was enriched, rather than made +desolate by my grief and losses; that I had treasure laid up in heaven. +It came upon me as a fancy, but it was something better than that, that +one or other of my dear ones had perhaps awaked in the other world, and +had sent out a thought in search of me. I had often thought that if, +when we are born into this world of ours, our first years are so dumb +and unperceptive, it might be even so in the world beyond; that we are +there allowed to rest a little, to sleep; and that has seemed to me to +be perhaps the explanation why, in those first sad days of grief, when +the mourner aches to have some communication with the vanished soul, +and when the soul that has passed the bounds of life would be desiring +too, one would think, to send some message back, why, I say, there is +no voice nor hint nor sign. Perhaps the reason why our grief loses its +sting after a season is that the soul we have loved does contrive to +send some healing influence into the desolate heart. +</P> + +<P> +I know not; but as I stood upon the hill-top to-day at evening, the +setting sun gilding the cloud-edges, and touching the horizon with a +delicate misty azure, my spirit did indeed awake with a smile, with a +murmured word of hope. +</P> + +<P> +If I, who have lost everything that can enrich and gladden life, can +yet feel that inalienable residue of hope, which just turns the balance +on the side of desiring still to live, it must be that life has +something yet in store for me—I do not hope for love, I do not desire +the old gift of expression again; but there is something to learn, to +apprehend, to understand. I have learnt, I think, not to grasp at +anything, not to clasp anything close to my heart; the dream of +possession has fled from me; it will be enough if, as I learn the +lesson, I can ease a few burdens and help frail feet along the road. +Duty, pleasure, work—strange names which we give to life, perversely +separating the strands of the woven thread, they hold no meaning for me +now—I do not expect to be free from suffering or from grief; but I +will no more distinguish them from other experiences saying, this is +joyful, and I will take all I can, or this is sad, and I will fly from +it. I will take life whole, not divide it into pieces and choose. My +grief shall be like a silent chapel, lit with holy light, into which I +shall often enter, and bend, not to frame mechanical prayers, but to +submit myself to the still influence of the shrine. It is all my own +now, a place into which no other curious eye can penetrate, a guarded +sanctuary. My sorrow seems to have plucked me with a strong hand out of +the swirling drift of cares, anxieties, ambitions, hopes; and I see now +that I could not have rescued myself; that I should have gone on +battling with the current, catching at the river wrack, in the hopes of +saving something from the stream. Now I am face to face with God; He +saves me from myself, He strips my ragged vesture from me and I stand +naked as He made me, unashamed, nestling close to His heart. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 3, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +A truth which has come home to me of late with a growing intensity is +that we are sent into the world for the sake of experience, not +necessarily for the sake of immediate happiness. I feel that the +mistake we most of us make is in reaching out after a sense of +satisfaction; and even if we learn to do without that, we find it very +difficult to do without the sense of conscious growth. I say again that +what we need and profit by is experience, and sometimes that comes by +suffering, helpless, dreary, apparently meaningless suffering. Yet when +pain subsides, do we ever, does any one ever wish the suffering had not +befallen us? I think not. We feel better, stronger, more pure, more +serene for it. Sometimes we get experience by living what seems to be +an uncongenial life. One cannot solve the problem of happiness by +simply trying to turn out of one's life whatever is uncongenial. Life +cannot be made into an Earthly Paradise, and it injures one's soul even +to try. What we can turn out of our lives are the unfruitful, wasteful, +conventional things; and one can follow what seems the true life, +though one may mistake even that sometimes. One of the commonest +mistakes nowadays is that so many people are haunted with a vague sense +that they ought to DO GOOD, as they say. The best that most people can +do is to perform their work and their obvious duties well and +conscientiously. +</P> + +<P> +If we realise that experience is what we need, and not necessarily +happiness or contentment, the whole value of life is altered. We see +then that we can get as much or even more out of the futile hour when +we are held back from our chosen delightful work, even out of the +dreary or terrified hour, when the sense of some irrevocable neglect, +some base surrender that has marred our life, sinks burning into the +soul, as a hot ember sinks smoking into a carpet. Those are the hours +of life when we move and climb; not the hours when we work, and eat, +and laugh, and chat, and dine out with a sense of well-merited content. +</P> + +<P> +The value of life is not to be measured by length of days or success or +tranquillity, but by the quality of our experience, and the degree in +which we have profited by it. In the light of such a truth as this, art +seems to fade away as just a pleasant amusement contrived by leisurely +men for leisurely men. +</P> + +<P> +Then, further, one grows to feel that such easy happiness as comes to +us may be little more than the sweetening of the bitter medicine, just +enough to give us courage and heart to live on; that applies, of +course, only to the commoner sorts of happiness, when one is busy and +merry and self-satisfied. Some sorts of happiness, such as the best +kind of affection, are parts of the larger experience. +</P> + +<P> +Then, if we take hold of such experience in the right way, welcoming it +as far as possible, not resisting it or trying to beguile it or forget +it, we can get to the end of our probation quicker; if, that is, we let +the truth burn into us, instead of timidly shrinking away from it. +</P> + +<P> +This seems to me the essence of true religion; the people who cling +very close to particular creeds and particular beliefs seem to me to +lose robustness; it is like trying to go to heaven in a bath-chair! It +retards rather than hastens the apprehension of the truth. Here lies, +to my mind, the unreality of mystical books of devotion and piety, +where one is instructed to practise a servile sort of abasement, and to +beg forgiveness for all one's noblest efforts and aspirations. Neither +can I believe that the mystical absorption, inculcated by such books, +in the human personality, the human sufferings of Christ, is wholesome, +or natural, or even Christian. I cannot imagine that Christ Himself +ever recommended such a frame of mind for an instant. What we want is a +much simpler sort of Christianity. If a man had gone to Christ and +expressed a desire to follow Him, Christ, I believe, would have wanted +to know whether he loved others, whether he hated sin, whether he +trusted God. He would not have asked him to recite the articles of his +belief, and still less have suggested a mystical and emotional sort of +passion for His own Person. As least I cannot believe it, and I see +nothing in the Gospels which would lead me to believe it. +</P> + +<P> +In any case this belief in our experience being sent us for our far-off +ultimate benefit has helped me greatly of late, and will, I am sure, +help me still more. I do not practise it as I should, but I believe +with all my heart that the truth lies there. +</P> + +<P> +After all, the truth IS there; it matters little that we should know +it; it is just so and not otherwise, and what we believe or do not +believe about it, will not alter it; and that is a comfort too. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +April 24, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +After I had gone upstairs to bed last night, I found I had left a book +downstairs which I was reading, and I went down again to recover it. I +could not find any matches, and had some difficulty in getting hold of +the book; it is humiliating to think how much one depends on sight. +</P> + +<P> +A whimsical idea struck me. Imagine a creature, highly intellectual, +but without the power of sight, brought up in darkness, receiving +impressions solely by hearing and touch. Suppose him introduced into a +room such as mine, and endeavouring to form an impression of the kind +of creature who inhabited it. Chairs, tables, even a musical instrument +he could interpret; but what would he make of a writing-table and its +apparatus? How would he guess at the use of a picture? Strangest of +all, what would he think of books? He would find in my room hundreds of +curious oblong objects, opening with a sort of hinge, and containing a +series of laminae of paper, which he would discern by his delicacy of +touch to be oddly and obscurely dinted. Yet he would probably never be +able to frame a guess that such objects could be used for the +communication of intellectual ideas. What would he suppose them to be? +</P> + +<P> +The thought expanded before me. What if we ourselves, in this world of +ours, which seems to us so complete, may really be creatures lacking +some further sense, which would make all our difficulties plain? We +knock up against all sorts of unintelligible and inexplicable things, +injustice, disease, pain, evil, of which we cannot divine the meaning +or the use. Yet they are undoubtedly there! Perhaps it is only that we +cannot discern the simplicity and the completeness of the heavenly +house of which they are the furniture. Fanciful, of course; but I am +inclined to think not wholly fanciful. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +May 10, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +The question is this: Is there a kind of peace, of tranquillity, +attainable in this world, which is proof against all calamities, +sufferings, sorrows, losses, doubts? Is it attainable for one like +myself, who is sensitive, apprehensive, highly strung, at once +confident and timid, alive to impressions, liable to swift changes of +mood? Or is it a mere matter of mental, moral, and physical health, +depending on some balance of qualities, which may or may not belong to +a man, a balance which hundreds cannot attain to? +</P> + +<P> +By this peace, I do not mean a chilly indifference, or a stoical +fortitude. I do not mean the religious peace, such as I see in some +people, which consists in holding as a certainty a scheme of things +which I believe to be either untrue or uncertain—and about which, at +all events, no certainty is logically and rationally possible. +</P> + +<P> +The peace I mean is a frame of mind which a man would have, who loved +passionately, who suffered acutely, who desired intensely, who feared +greatly; and yet for whom, behind love and pain, desire and fear, there +existed a sort of inner citadel, in which his soul was entrenched and +impregnable. +</P> + +<P> +Such a security could not be a wholly rational thing, because reason +cannot solve the enigmas with which we are confronted; but it must not +be an irrational intuition either, because then it would be +unattainable by a man of high intellectual gifts; and the peace that I +speak of ought to be consistent with any and every +constitution—physical, moral, mental. It must be consistent with +physical weakness, with liability to strong temptations, with an +incisive and penetrating intellectual quality; its essence would be a +sort of vital faith, a unity of the individual heart with the heart of +the world. It would rise like a rock above the sea, like a lighthouse, +where a guarded flame would burn high and steady, however loudly the +surges thundered below upon the reefs, however fiercely the spray was +dashed against the glasses of the casements. +</P> + +<P> +If it is attainable, then it is worth while to do and to suffer +anything to attain it; if it is not attainable, then the best thing is +simply to be as insensible as possible, not to love, not to admire, not +to desire; for all these emotions are channels along which the bitter +streams of suffering can flow. +</P> + +<P> +Prudence bids one close these channels; meanwhile a fainter and remoter +voice, with sweet and thrilling accents, seems to cry to one not to be +afraid, urges one to fling open every avenue by which impassioned +experiences, uplifting thoughts, noble hopes, unselfish desires, may +flow into the soul. +</P> + +<P> +This peace I have seen, or dream that I have seen, in the faces and +voices of certain gracious spirits whom I have known. It seemed to +consist in an unbounded natural gratitude, a sweet simplicity, a +childlike affectionateness, that recognised in suffering the joy of +which it was the shadow, and in desperate catastrophes the hope that +lay behind them. +</P> + +<P> +Such a peace must not be a surrender of anything, a feeble +acquiescence; it must be a strong and eager energy, a thirst for +experience, a large tolerance, a desire to be convinced, a resolute +patience. +</P> + +<P> +It is this and no less that I ask of God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 6, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +I had a beautiful walk to-day. I went a short way by train, and +descending at a wayside station, found a little field-path, that led me +past an old, high-gabled, mullioned farmhouse, with all the pleasant +litter of country life about it. Then I passed along some low-lying +meadows, deep in grass, where the birds sang sweetly, muffled in +leaves. The fields there were all full of orchids, purple as wine, and +the gold of buttercups floated on the top of the rich meadow-grass. +Then I passed into a wood, and for a long time I walked in the green +glooms of copses, in a forest stillness, only the tall trees rustling +softly overhead, with doves cooing deep in the wood. Only once I passed +a house, a little cottage of grey stone, in a clearing, with an air of +settled peace about it, that reminded me of an old sweet book that I +used to read as a child, Phantastes, full of the mysterious romance of +deep forests and haunted glades. I was overshadowed that afternoon with +a sense of the ineffectiveness, the loneliness of my life, walking in a +vain shadow; but it melted out of my mind in the delicate beauty of the +woodland, with its wild fragrances and cool airs, as when one chafes +one's frozen hands before a leaping flame. They told me, those +whispering groves, of the patient and tender love of the Father, and I +drew very near His inmost heart in that gentle hour. The secret was to +bear, to endure, not stoically nor stolidly, but with a quiet +inclination of the will to sorrow and pain, that were not so bitter +after all, when one abode faithfully in them. I became aware, as I +walked, that my heart was with the future after all. The beautiful dead +past, I could be grateful for it, and not desire that it were mine +again. I felt as a man might feel who is making his way across a wide +moor. "Surely," he says to himself, "the way lies here; this ridge, +that dingle mark the track; it lies there by the rushy pool, and shows +greener among the heather." So he says, persuading himself in vain that +he has found the way; but at last the track, plain and unmistakable, +lies before him, and he loses no more time in imaginings, but goes +straight forward. It was my sorrow, after all, that had shown me that I +was in the true path. I had tried, in the old days, to fancy that I was +homeward bound; sometimes it was in the love of my dear ones, sometimes +in the joy of art, sometimes in my chosen work; and yet I knew in my +heart all the time that I was but a leisurely wanderer; but now at last +the destined road was clear; I was no longer astray; I was no longer +inventing duties and acts for myself, but I had in very truth a note of +the way. It was not the path I should have chosen in my blindness and +easiness. But there could no longer be any doubt about it. How the +false ambitions, the comfortable schemes, the trivial hopes melted away +for me in that serene certainty! What I had pursued before was the +phantom of delight; and though I still desired delight, with all the +passion of my poor frail nature, yet I saw that not thus could the real +joy of God be won. It was no longer a question of hope and +disappointment, of sin and punishment. It was something truer and +stronger than that. The sin and the suffering alike had been the Will +of God for me. I had never desired evil, though I had often fallen into +it; but there was never a moment when, if I could, I would not have +been pure and unselfish and strong. That was a blessed hour for me, +when, in place of the old luxurious delight, there came, flooding my +heart, an intense and passionate desire that I might accept with a +loving confidence whatever God might send; my wearied body, my tired, +anxious mind, were but a slender veil, rent and ruinous, that hung +between God and my soul, through which I could discern the glory of His +love. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 20, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +It was on a warm, bright summer afternoon that I woke to the sense both +of what I had lost and what I had gained. I had wandered out into the +country, for in those days I had a great desire to be alone. I stood +long beside a stile in the pastures, a little village below me, and the +gables and chimneys of an old farmhouse stood up over wide fields of +young waving wheat. A cuckoo fluted in an elm close by, and at the +sound there darted into my mind the memory, seen in an airy +perspective, of innumerable happy and careless days, spent in years +long past, with eager and light-hearted companions, in whose smiling +eyes and caressing motions was reflected one's own secret happiness. +How full the world seemed of sweet surprises then! To sit in an evening +hour in some quiet, scented garden in the gathering dusk, with the +sense of a delicious mystery flashing from the light movements, the +pensive eyes, the curve of arm or cheek of one's companion, how +beautiful that was! And yet how simple and natural it seemed. That was +all over and gone, and a gulf seemed fixed between those days and +these. And then there came first that sad and sweet regret, "the +passion of the past," as Tennyson called it, that suddenly brimmed the +eyes at the thought of the vanished days; and there followed an intense +desire to live in it once again, to have made more of it, a rebellious +longing to abandon oneself with a careless disregard to the old rapture. +</P> + +<P> +Then on that mood, rising like a star into the blue spaces of the +evening, came the thought that the old days were not dead after all. +That they were assuredly there, just as the future was there, a true +part of oneself, ineffaceable, eternal. And hard on the heels of that +came another and a deeper intuition still, that not in such delights +did the secret really rest; what then was the secret? It was surely +this: that one must advance, led onward like a tottering child by the +strong arm of God. That the new knowledge of suffering and sorrow was +as beautiful as the old, and more so, and that instead of repining over +the vanished joys, one might continue to rejoice in them and even +rejoice in having lost them, for I seemed to perceive that one's aim +was not, after all, to be lively, and joyful, and strong, but to be +wiser, and larger-minded, and more hopeful, even at the expense of +delight. And then I saw that I would not really for any price part with +the sad wisdom that I had reluctantly learnt, but that though the +burden galled my shoulder, it held within it precious things which I +could not throw away. And I had, too, the glad sense that even if in a +childish petulance I would have laid my burden down and run off among +the flowers, God was stronger than I, and would not suffer me to lose +what I had gained. I might, I assuredly should, wish to be more free, +more light of heart. But I seemed to myself like a woman that had borne +a child in suffering, and that no matter how restless and vexatious a +care that child might prove to be, under no conceivable circumstances +could she wish that she were barren and without the experience of love. +I felt indeed that I had fulfilled a part of my destiny, and that I +might be glad that the suffering was behind me, even though it +separated me from the careless days. +</P> + +<P> +I hope that in after days I may sometimes make a pilgrimage to the +place where that wonderful truth thus dawned upon me. I have made a +tabernacle there in my spirit, like the saints who saw the Lord +transfigured before their eyes; and to me it had been indeed a +transfiguration, in which Love and sorrow and hope had been touched +with an unearthly light of God. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +June 24, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +Yesterday I was walking in a field-path through the meadows; it was +just that time in early summer when the grass is rising, when flowers +appear in little groups and bevies. There was a patch of speedwell, +like a handful of sapphires cast down. Why does one's heart go out to +certain flowers, flowers which seem to have some message for us if we +could but read it? A little way from the path I saw a group of +absolutely unknown flower-buds; they were big, pale things, looking +more like pods than flowers, growing on tall stems. I hate crushing +down meadow-grass, but I could not resist my impulse of curiosity. I +walked up to them, and just as I was going to bend down and look at +them, lo and behold, all my flowers opened before my eyes as by a +concerted signal, spread wings of the richest blue, and fluttered away +before my eyes. They were nothing more than a company of butterflies +who, tired of play, had fallen asleep together with closed wings on the +high grass-stems. +</P> + +<P> +There they had sate, like folded promises, hiding their azure sheen. +Perhaps even now my hopes sit motionless and lifeless, in russet robes. +Perhaps as I draw dully near, they may spring suddenly to life, and +dance away in the sunshine, like fragments of the crystalline sky. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 8, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +I was in town last week for a few days on some necessary business, +staying with old friends. Two or three people came in to dine one +night, and afterwards, I hardly know how, I found myself talking with a +curious openness to one of the guests, a woman whom I only slightly +knew. She is a very able and cultivated woman indeed, and it was a +surprise to her friends when she lately became a Christian Scientist. +When I have met her before, I have thought her a curiously guarded +personality, appearing to live a secret and absorbing life of her own, +impenetrable, and holding up a shield of conventionality against the +world. To-night she laid down her shield, and I saw the beating of a +very pure and loving heart. The text of her talk was that we should +never allow ourselves to believe in our limitations, because they did +not really exist. I found her, to my surprise, intensely emotional, +with a passionate disbelief in and yet pity for all sorrow and +suffering. She appealed to me to take up Christian Science—"not to +read or talk about it," she said; "that is no use: it is a life, not a +theory; just accept it, and live by it, and you will find it true." +</P> + +<P> +But there is one part of me that rebels against the whole idea of +Christian Science—my reason. I found, or thought I found, this woman +to be wise both in head and heart, but not wise in mind. It seems to me +that pain and sorrow and suffering are phenomena, just as real as other +phenomena; and that one does no good by denying them, but only by +accepting them, and living in them and through them. One might as +truly, it seems, take upon oneself to deny that there was any such +colour as red in the world, and tell people that whenever they saw or +discerned any tinge of red, it was a delusion; one can only use one's +faculty of perception; and if sorrow and suffering are a delusion, how +do I know that love and joy are not delusions too? They must stand and +fall together. The reason why I believe that joy and love will in the +end triumph, is because I have, because we all have, an instinctive +desire for them, and a no less instinctive fear and dread of pain and +sorrow. We may, indeed I believe with all my heart that we shall, +emerge from them, but they are no less assuredly there. We triumph over +them, when we learn to live bravely and courageously in them, when we +do not seek to evade them or to hasten incredulously away from them. We +fail, if we spend our time in repining, in regretting, in wishing the +sweet and tranquil hours of untroubled joy back. We are not strong +enough to desire the cup of suffering, even though we may know that we +must drink it before we can discern the truth. But we may rejoice with +a deep-seated joy, in the dark hours, that the Hand of God is heavy +upon us. When our vital energies flag, when what we thought were our +effective powers languish and grow faint, then we may be glad because +the Father is showing us His Will; and then our sorrow is a fruitful +sorrow, and labours, as the swelling seed labours in the sombre earth +to thrust her slender hands up to the sun and air. . . . +</P> + +<P> +We two sate long in a corner of the quiet lamp-lit room, talking like +old friends—once or twice our conversation was suspended by music, +which fell like dew upon my parched heart; and though I could not +accept my fellow-pilgrim's thought, I could see in the glance of her +eyes, full of pity and wonder, that we were indeed faring along the +same strange road to the paradise of God. It did me good, that talk; it +helped me with a sense of sweet and tender fellowship; and I had no +doubt that God was teaching my friend in His own fatherly way, even as +He was teaching me, and all of us. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +July 19, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +In one of the great windows of King's College Chapel, Cambridge, there +is a panel the beauty of which used to strike me even as a boy. I used +to wonder what further thing it meant. +</P> + +<P> +It was, I believe—I may be wholly wrong—a picture of Reuben, looking +in an agony of unavailing sorrow into the pit from which his brothers +had drawn the boy they hated to sell him to the Midianites. I cannot +recollect the details plainly, and little remains but a memory of +dim-lit azure and glowing scarlet. Even though the pit was quaintly +depicted as a draw-well, with a solid stone coping, the pretty +absurdity of the thought only made one love the fancy better. But the +figure of Reuben!—even through an obscuring mist of crossing leads and +window-bars and weather stains, there was a poignant agony wrought into +the pose of the figure, with its clasped hands and strained gaze. +</P> + +<P> +I used to wonder, I say, what further thing it meant. For the deep +spell of art is that it holds an intenser, a wider significance beneath +its symbols than the mere figure, the mere action it displays. +</P> + +<P> +What was the remorse of Reuben? It was that through his weakness, his +complaisance, he had missed his chance of protecting what was secretly +dear to him. He loved the boy, I think, or at all events he loved his +father, and would not willingly have hurt the old man. And now, even in +his moment of yielding, of temporising, the worst had happened, the +child was gone, delivered over to what baseness of usage he could not +bear to think. He himself had been a traitor to love and justice and +light; and yet, in the fruitful designs of God, that very traitorous +deed was to blossom into the hope and glory of the race; the deed +itself was to be tenderly forgiven, and it was to open up, in the +fulness of days, a prospect of greatness and prosperity to the tribe, +to fling the seed of that mighty family in soil where it was to be +infinitely enriched; it was to open the door at last to a whole troop +of great influences, marvellous events, large manifestations of God. +</P> + +<P> +Even so, in a parable, the figure came insistently before me all day, +shining and fading upon the dark background of the mind. +</P> + +<P> +It was at the loss of my own soul that I had connived; not at its death +indeed—I had not plotted for that—but I had betrayed myself, I saw, +year by year. I had despised the dreams and visions of the frail and +ingenuous spirit; and when it had come out trustfully to me in the +wilderness, I had let it fall into the hands of the Midianites, the +purloining band that trafficked in all things, great and small, from +the beast of the desert to the bodies and souls of men. +</P> + +<P> +My soul had thus lain expiring before my eyes, and now God had taken it +away from my faithless hands; I saw at last that to save the soul one +must assuredly lose it; that if it was to grow strong and joyful and +wise, it must be sold into servitude and dark afflictions. I saw that +when I was too weak to save it, God had rent it from me, but that from +the darkness of the pit it should fare forth upon a mighty voyage, and +be made pure and faithful in a region undreamed of. +</P> + +<P> +To Reuben was left nothing but shame and sorrow of heart and deceit to +hide his sin; unlike him, to me was given to see, beyond the desert and +the dwindling line of camels, the groves and palaces of the land of +wisdom, whither my sad soul was bound, lonely and dismayed. My heart +went out to the day of reconciliation, when I should be forgiven with +tears of joy for my own faltering treachery, when my soul should be +even grateful for my weakness, because from that very faithlessness, +and from no other, should the new life be born. +</P> + +<P> +And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow alike, +as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the weary +mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father of All. He +was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting, enriching me. Not +hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet pealed, but walking +with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in the garden, at the cool +of the day. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +August 18, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +Mr. —— is dead. He died yesterday, holding my hand. The end was quite +sudden, though not unexpected. He had been much weaker of late, and he +knew he could only live a short time. I have been much with him these +last few days. He could not talk much, but there was a peaceful glory +on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in the Pilgrim's +Progress whose call was so joyful. I never suspected how little desire +he had to live; but when he knew that his days were numbered, he +allowed something of his delight to escape him, as a prisoner might who +has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees his release draw nigh. He +suffered a good deal, but each pang was to him only like the smiting +off of chains. "I have had a very happy life," he said to me once with +a smile. "Looking back, it seems as though my later happiness had +soaked backwards through the whole fabric, so that my joy in age has +linked itself as by a golden bridge to the old childish raptures." Then +he looked curiously at me, with a half-smile, and added, "But happy as +I have been, I find it in my heart to envy you. You hardly know how +much you are to be envied. You have no more partings to fear; your +beautiful past is all folded up, to be creased and tarnished no more. +You have had the love of wife and child—the one thing that I have +missed. You have had fame too; and you have drunk far deeper of the cup +of suffering than I. I look upon you," he said laughingly, "as an old +home-keeping captain, who has never done anything but garrison duty, +might look upon a young general who has carried through a great +campaign and is covered with signs of honour." +</P> + +<P> +A little while after he roused himself from a slumber to say, "You will +be surprised to find yourself named in my will; please don't have any +scruples about accepting the inheritance. I want my niece, of course, +to reign in my stead; but if you outlive her, all is to go to you. I +want you to live on in this place, to stand by her in her loneliness, +as a brother by a sister. I want you to help and work for my dear +people here, to be tender and careful for them. There are many things +that a man can do which a woman cannot; and your difficulty will be to +find a hem for your life. Remember that there is no one who is injured +by this—my niece is my only living relation; so accept this as your +post in life; it will not be a hard one. It is strange," he added, +"that one should cling to such trifles; but I should like you to take +my name, if you will; and you must find some one to succeed you; I wish +it could have been your own boy, whom I have learnt to love." +</P> + +<P> +Miss —— came in shortly after, and Mr. —— said to her, "Yes, I have +told him, and he consents. You do consent, do you not?" I said, "Yes, +dear friend, of course I consent; and consent gratefully, for you have +given me a work in the world." And then I took Miss ——'s hand across +the bed and kissed it; the old man laid his hands upon our heads very +tenderly and said, "Brother and sister to the end." +</P> + +<P> +I thought he was tired then, and made as if to leave him, but he said, +"Do not go, my son." He lay smiling to himself, as if well pleased. +Then a sudden change came over his face, and I saw that he was going; +we knelt beside him, and his last words were words of blessing. +</P> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4> +October 12, 1891. +</H4> + +<P> +This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad, +terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent friend, my +true confessor. I have felt the need of utterance, the imperative +instinct—the most primitive, the most childish of instincts—to tell +my pains and hopes and dreams. I could not utter them, at the time, to +another. I could not let the voice of my groaning reach the ears of any +human being. Perhaps it would have been better for us both, if I could +have said it all to my dearest Maud. But a sort of courtesy forbade my +redoubling my monotonous lamentations; her burden was heavy enough +without that. I can hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or +chivalry, because my frame of mind during those first months, when I +lost the power of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did +not want sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give +me; half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He +would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a +helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind. Well, He has sent +me strength—I recognise that now—not by lightening the load, but by +making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had the +strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I deserved so +sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the loneliness to which He +has condemned me is the help that is proportioned to my need. But I +walk no longer in a vain shadow. I have known affliction by the rod of +His wrath. But the darkness in which I walk is not the darkness of +thickening gloom, but the darkness of the breaking day. +</P> + +<P> +And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to day +just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts himself in +his bed. Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a record. +</P> + +<P> +But now I shall write no more. I shall slip gratefully and securely +into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast +majority, after all, of humanity. One who like myself has the +consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear +impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields, trees, +clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it all in words +and phrases. Why, I know not! It is the desire, I suppose, to make some +record of what seems so clear, so distinct, so beautiful, so +interesting. One cannot bear that one impression that seems so vivid +and strange should be lost and perish. It is the artistic instinct, no +doubt. And then one passes through the streets of a great city, and one +becomes aware that of the thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one +or two have the same instinct, and even they are bound to silence by +circumstance, by lack of opportunity. The rest—life is enough for +them; hunger and thirst, love and strife, hope and fear, that is their +daily meat. And life, I doubt not, is what we are set to taste. Of all +those thousands, some few have the desire, and fewer still the power, +to stand apart from the throng. These are not content with the humdrum +life of earning a livelihood, of forming ties, of passing the time as +pleasantly as they can. They desire rather to be felt, to exercise +influence, to mould others to their will, to use them for their +convenience. I have had little temptation to do that, but my life has +been poisoned at its source, I now discern, by the desire to +differentiate myself from others. I could not walk faithfully in the +procession; I was as one who likes to sit securely in his window above +the street, noting all that he sees, sketching all that strikes his +fancy, hugging his pleasure at being apart from and superior to the +ordinary run of mortals. Here lay my chiefest fault, that I could not +bear a humble hand, but looked upon my wealth, my loving circle, as +things that should fence me from the throng. I lived in a paradise of +my own devising. +</P> + +<P> +But now I have put that all aside for ever. I will live the life of a +learner; I will be docile if I can. I might indeed have been stripped +of everything, bidden to join the humblest tribe of workers for daily +bread. But God has spared my weakness, and I should be faithless +indeed, if, seeing how intently His will has dealt with me, I did not +recognise the clear guiding of His hand. He has given me a place and a +quiet work to do; these strange bereavements, one after another, have +not hardened me. I feel the bonds of love for those whom I have lost +drawn closer every hour. They are waiting for me, I am sure of that. It +is not reason, it is not faith which prompts me; it is a far deeper and +stronger instinct, which I could not doubt if I would. What wonder if I +look forward with an eager and an ardent hope to death. I can conceive +no more welcome tidings than the tidings that death was at hand. But I +do not expect to die. My health of body is almost miraculously +preserved. What I dare to hope is that I may learn by slow degrees to +set the happiness of others above my own. I will listen for any sound +of grief or discontent, and I will try to quiet it. I will spend my +time and strength as freely as I can. That is a far-off hope. One +cannot in a moment break through the self-consideration of a lifetime. +But whereas, before, my dim sense that happiness could not be found by +deliberately searching for ease made me half rebellious, half +uncomfortable, I know now that it is true, and I will turn my back if I +can upon that lonely and unsatisfied quest. I did indeed—I can +honestly say that—desire with a passionate intentness the happiness of +Maud and the children; but I think I desired it most in order that the +sunshine of their happiness should break in warmth and light upon +myself. It will be hard enough—I can see that—not to labour still for +the sake of the ultimate results upon my own peace of mind. But in my +deepest heart I do not desire to do that, and I will not, God helping +me. +</P> + +<P> +And so to-day, having read the whole record once again, with blinding +tears, tears of love, I think, not tears of self-pity, I will close the +book and write no more. But I will not destroy it, because it may help +some soul that may come after me, into whose hands it may fall, to +struggle on in the middle of sorrow and darkness. To him will I gladly +reveal all that God has done for my soul. That poor, pitiful, shrinking +soul, with all its faint desires after purity and nobleness and peace, +all its self-wrought misery, all its unhappy failures, all its secret +faults, its undiscerned weaknesses, I put humbly and confidently in the +hands of the God who made me. I cannot amend myself, but I can at least +co-operate with His loving Will. I can stumble onwards, with my hand in +His, like a timid child with a strong and loving father. I may wish to +be lifted in His arms, I may wonder why He does not have more pity on +my frailty. But I can believe that He is leading me home, and that His +way is the best and nearest. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Altar Fire, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALTAR FIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 4612-h.htm or 4612-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/1/4612/ + +Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Altar Fire + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Posting Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #4612] +Release Date: November, 2003 +First Posted: February 19, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALTAR FIRE *** + + + + +Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo. HTML version +by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +THE ALTAR FIRE + + +By + +ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON + + + + Cecidit autem ignis Domini, + et voravit holocaustum + + + +1907 + + + + + + +PREFACE + + +It will perhaps be said, and truly felt, that the following is a morbid +book. No doubt the subject is a morbid one, because the book +deliberately gives a picture of a diseased spirit. But a pathological +treatise, dealing with cancer or paralysis, is not necessarily morbid, +though it may be studied in a morbid mood. We have learnt of late +years, to our gain and profit, to think and speak of bodily ailments as +natural phenomena, not to slur over them and hide them away in attics +and bedrooms. We no longer think of insanity as demoniacal possession, +and we no longer immure people with diseased brains in the secluded +apartments of lovely houses. But we still tend to think of the +sufferings of the heart and soul as if they were unreal, imaginary, +hypochondriacal things, which could be cured by a little resolution and +by intercourse with cheerful society; and by this foolish and secretive +reticence we lose both sympathy and help. Mrs. Proctor, the friend of +Carlyle and Lamb, a brilliant and somewhat stoical lady, is recorded to +have said to a youthful relative of a sickly habit, with stern +emphasis, "Never tell people how you are! They don't want to know." Up +to a certain point this is shrewd and wholesome advice. One does +undoubtedly keep some kinds of suffering in check by resolutely +minimising them. But there is a significance in suffering too. It is +not all a clumsy error, a well-meaning blunder. It is a deliberate part +of the constitution of the world. + +Why should we wish to conceal the fact that we have suffered, that we +suffer, that we are likely to suffer to the end? There are abundance of +people in like case; the very confession of the fact may help others to +endure, because one of the darkest miseries of suffering is the +horrible sense of isolation that it brings. And if this book casts the +least ray upon the sad problem--a ray of the light that I have learned +to recognise is truly there--I shall be more than content. There is no +morbidity in suffering, or in confessing that one suffers. Morbidity +only begins when one acquiesces in suffering as being incurable and +inevitable; and the motive of this book is to show that it is at once +curative and curable, a very tender part of a wholly loving and +Fatherly design. + +A. C. B. + +Magdalene College, Cambridge, + +July 14, 1907. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +I had intended to allow the records that follow--the records of a +pilgrimage sorely beset and hampered by sorrow and distress--to speak +for themselves. Let me only say that one who makes public a record so +intimate and outspoken incurs, as a rule, a certain responsibility. He +has to consider in the first place, or at least he cannot help +instinctively considering, what the wishes of the writer would have +been on the subject. I do not mean that one who has to decide such a +point is bound to be entirely guided by that. He must weigh the +possible value of the record to other spirits against what he thinks +that the writer himself would have personally desired. A far more +important consideration is what living people who play a part in such +records feel about their publication. But I cannot help thinking that +our whole standard in such matters is a very false and conventional +one. Supposing, for instance, that a very sacred and intimate record, +say, two hundred years old, were to be found among some family papers, +it is inconceivable that any one would object to its publication on the +ground that the writer of it, or the people mentioned in it, would not +have wished it to see the light. We show how weak our faith really is +in the continuance of personal identity after death, by allowing the +lapse of time to affect the question at all; just as we should consider +it a horrible profanation to exhume and exhibit the body of a man who +had been buried a few years ago, while we approve of the action of +archaeologists who explore Egyptian sepulchres, subscribe to their +operations, and should consider a man a mere sentimentalist who +suggested that the mummies exhibited in museums ought to be sent back +for interment in their original tombs. We think vaguely that a man who +died a few years ago would in some way be outraged if his body were to +be publicly displayed, while we do not for an instant regard the +possible feelings of delicate and highly-born Egyptian ladies, on whose +seemly sepulture such anxious and tender care was expended so many +centuries ago. + +But in this case there is no such responsibility. None of the persons +concerned have any objection to the publication of these records, and +as for the writer himself he was entirely free from any desire for a +fastidious seclusion. His life was a secluded one enough, and he felt +strongly that a man has a right to his own personal privacy. But his +own words sufficiently prove, if proof were needed, that he felt that +to deny the right of others to participate in thoughts and experiences, +which might uplift or help a mourner or a sufferer, was a selfish form +of individualism with which he had no sympathy whatever. He felt, and I +have heard him say, that one has no right to withhold from others any +reflections which can console and sustain, and he held it to be the +supreme duty of a man to ease, if he could, the burden of another. He +knew that there is no sympathy in the world so effective as the sharing +of similar experiences, as the power of assuring a sufferer that +another has indeed trodden the same dark path and emerged into the +light of Heaven. I will even venture to say that he deliberately +intended that his records should be so used, for purposes of +alleviation and consolation, and the bequest that he made of his papers +to myself, entrusting them to my absolute discretion, makes it clear to +me that I have divined his wishes in the matter. I think, indeed, that +his only doubt was a natural diffidence as to whether the record had +sufficient importance to justify its publication. In any case, my own +duty in the matter is to me absolutely clear. + +But I think that it will be as well for me to sketch a brief outline of +my friend's life and character. I would have preferred to have done +this, if it had been possible, by allowing him to speak for himself. +But the earlier Diaries which exist are nothing but the briefest +chronicle of events. He put his earlier confessions into his books, but +he was in many ways more interesting than his books, and so I will try +and draw a portrait of him as he appeared to one of his earliest +friends. I knew him first as an undergraduate, and our friendship was +unbroken after that. The Diary, written as it is under the shadow of a +series of calamities, gives an impression of almost wilful sadness +which is far from the truth. The requisite contrast can only be +attained by representing him as he appeared to those who knew him. + +He was the son of a moderately wealthy country solicitor, and was +brought up on normal lines. His mother died while he was a boy. He had +one brother, younger than himself, and a sister who was younger still. +He went to a leading public school, where he was in no way +distinguished either in work or athletics. I gathered, when I first +knew him, that he had been regarded as a clever, quiet, good-natured, +simple-minded boy, with a considerable charm of manner, but decidedly +retiring. He was not expected to distinguish himself in any way, and he +did not seem to have any particular ambitions. I went up to Cambridge +at the same time as he, and we formed a very close friendship. We had +kindred tastes, and we did not concern ourselves very much with the +social life of the place. We read, walked, talked, played games, idled, +and amused ourselves together. I was more attached to him, I think, +than he was to me; indeed, I do not think that he cared at that time to +form particularly close ties. He was frank, engaging, humorous, and +observant; but I do not think that he depended very much upon any one; +he rather tended to live an interior life of his own, of poetical and +fanciful reflection. I think he tended to be pensive rather than +high-spirited--at least, I do not often remember any particular +ebullition of youthful enthusiasm. He liked congenial company, but he +was always ready to be alone. He very seldom went to the rooms of other +men, except in response to definite invitations; but he was always +disposed to welcome any one who came spontaneously to see him. He was a +really diffident and modest fellow, and I do not think it even entered +into his head to imagine that he had any social gifts or personal +charm. But I gradually came to perceive that his mind was of a very +fine quality. He had a mature critical judgment, and, though I used to +think that his tastes were somewhat austere, I now see that he had a +very sure instinct for alighting upon what was best and finest in books +and art alike. He used to write poetry in those days, but he was shy of +confessing it, and very conscious of the demerits of what he wrote. I +have some of his youthful verses by me, and though they are very +unequal and full of lapses, yet he often strikes a firm note and +displays a subtle insight. I think that he was more ambitious than I +perhaps knew, and had that vague belief in his own powers which is +characteristic of able and unambitious men. His was certainly, on the +whole, a cold nature in those days. He could take up a friendship where +he laid it down, by virtue of an easy frankness and a sympathy that was +intellectual rather than emotional. But the suspension of intercourse +with a friend never troubled him. + +I became aware, in the course of a walking tour that I took with him in +those days, that he had a deep perception of the beauties of nature; it +was not a vague accessibility to picturesque impressions, but a +critical discernment of quality. He always said that he cared more for +little vignettes, which he could grasp entire, than for wide and +majestic prospects; and this was true of his whole mind. + +I suppose that I tended to idealise him; but he certainly seems to me, +in retrospect, to have then been invested with a singular charm. He was +pure-minded and fastidious to a fault. He had considerable personal +beauty, rather perhaps of expression than of feature. He was one of +those people with a natural grace of movement, gesture and speech. He +was wholly unembarrassed in manner, but he talked little in a mixed +company. No one had fewer enemies or fewer intimate friends. The +delightful ears soon came to an end, and one of the few times I ever +saw him exhibit strong emotion was on the evening before he left +Cambridge, when he altogether broke down. I remember his quoting a +verse from Omar Khayyam:-- + + "Yet ah! that spring should vanish with the rose, + That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close," + +and breaking off in the middle with sudden tears. + +It was necessary for me to adopt a profession, and I remember envying +him greatly when he told me that his father, who, I gathered, rather +idolised him, was quite content that he should choose for himself at +his leisure. He went abroad for a time; and I met him next in London, +where he was proposing to read for the bar; but I discovered that he +had really found his metier. He had written a novel, which he showed +me, and though it was in some ways an immature performance, it had, I +felt, high and unmistakable literary qualities. It was published soon +afterwards and met with some success. He thereupon devoted himself to +writing, and I was astonished at his industry and eagerness. He had for +the first time found a congenial occupation. He lived mostly at home in +those days, but he was often in London, where he went a good deal into +society. I do not know very much about him at this time, but I gather +that he achieved something of a social reputation. He was never a +voluble talker; I do not suppose he ever set the table in a roar, but +he had a quiet, humorous and sympathetic manner. His physical health +was then, as always, perfect. He was never tired or peevish; he was +frank, kindly and companionable; he talked little about himself, and +had a genuine interest in the study of personality, so that people were +apt to feel at their best in his society. Meanwhile his books came out +one after another--not great books exactly, but full of humour and +perception, each an advance on the last. By the age of thirty he was +accepted as one of the most promising novelists of the day. + +Then he did what I never expected he would do; he fell wildly and +enthusiastically in love with the only daughter of a Gloucestershire +clergyman, a man of good family and position. She was the only child; +her mother had died some years before, and her father died shortly +after the marriage. She was a beautiful, vigorous girl, extraordinarily +ingenuous, simple-minded, and candid. She was not clever in the common +acceptance of the term, and was not the sort of person by whom I should +have imagined that my friend would have been attracted. They settled in +a pleasant house, which they built in Surrey, on the outskirts of a +village. Three children were born to them--a boy and a girl, and +another boy, who survived his birth only a few hours. From this time he +almost entirely deserted London, and became, I thought, almost +strangely content with a quiet domestic life. I was often with them in +those early days, and I do not think I ever saw a happier circle. It +was a large and comfortable house, very pleasantly furnished, with a +big garden. His father died in the early years of the marriage, and +left him a good income; with the proceeds of his books he was a +comparatively wealthy man. His wife was one of those people who have a +serene and unaffected interest in human beings. She was a religious +woman, but her relations with others were rather based on the purest +kindliness and sympathy. She knew every one in the place, and, having +no touch of shyness, she went in and out among their poorer neighbours, +the trusted friend and providence of numerous families; but she had not +in the least what is called a parochial mind. She had no touch of the +bustling and efficient Lady Bountiful. The simple people she visited +were her friends and neighbours, not her patients and dependents. She +was simply an overflowing fountain of goodness, and it was as natural to +her to hurry to a scene of sorrow and suffering as it is for most +people to desire to stay away. My friend himself had not the same +taste; it was always rather an effort to him to accommodate himself to +people in a different way of life; but it ought to be said that he was +universally liked and respected for his quiet courtesy and simplicity, +and fully as much for his own sake as for that of his wife. This fact +could hardly be inferred from his Diary, and indeed he was wholly +unconscious of it himself, because he never realised his natural charm, +and indeed was unduly afraid of boring people by his presence. + +He was not exactly a hard worker, but he was singularly regular; +indeed, though he sometimes took a brief holiday after writing a book, +he seldom missed a day without writing some few pages. One of the +reasons why they paid so few visits was that he tended, as he told me, +to feel so much bored away from his work. It was at once his occupation +and his recreation. He was not one of those who write fiercely and +feverishly, and then fall into exhaustion; he wrote cheerfully and +temperately, and never appeared to feel the strain. They lived quietly, +but a good many friends came and went. He much preferred to have a +single guest, or a husband and wife, at a time, and pursued his work +quietly all through. He used to see that one had all one could need, +and then withdrew after tea-time, not reappearing until dinner. His +wife, it was evident, was devoted to him with an almost passionate +adoration. The reason why life went so easily there was that she +studied unobtrusively his smallest desires and preferences; and thus +there was never any sense of special contrivance or consideration for +his wishes: the day was arranged exactly as he liked, without his ever +having to insist upon details. He probably did not realise this, for +though he liked settled ways, he was sensitively averse to feeling that +his own convenience was in any way superseding or overriding the +convenience of others. It used to be a great delight and refreshment to +stay there. He was fond of rambling about the country, and was an +enchanting companion in a tete-a-tete. In the evening he used to expand +very much into a genial humour which was very attractive; he had, too, +the art of making swift and subtle transitions into an emotional mood; +and here his poetical gift of seeing unexpected analogies and delicate +characteristics gave his talk a fragrant charm which I have seldom +heard equalled. + +It was indeed a picture of wonderful prosperity, happiness, and +delight. The children were engaging, clever, and devotedly +affectionate, and indeed the atmosphere of mutual affection seemed to +float over the circle like a fresh and scented summer air. One used to +feel, as one drove away, that though one's visit had been a pleasure, +there would be none of the flatness which sometimes follows the +departure of a guest, but that one was leaving them to a home life that +was better than sociability, a life that was both sacred and beautiful, +full to the brim of affection, yet without any softness or +sentimentality. + +Then came my friend's great success. He had written less since his +marriage, and his books, I thought, were beginning to flag a little. +There was a want of freshness about them; he tended to use the same +characters and similar situations; both thought and phraseology became +somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to the belief that life was +beginning to be more interesting to him than art. But there suddenly +appeared the book which made him famous, a book both masterly and +delicate, full of subtle analysis and perception, and with that +indescribable sense of actuality which is the best test of art. The +style at the same time seemed to have run clear; he had gained a +perfect command of his instrument, and I had about this book, what I +had never had about any other book of his, the sense that he was +producing exactly the effects he meant to produce. The extraordinary +merit of the book was instantly recognised by all, I think, but the +author. He went abroad for a time after the book was published, and +eventually returned; it was at that point of his life that the Diary +began. + +I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me +that something had happened to him. Instead of being radiant with +success, eager and contented, I found him depressed, anxious, haggard. +He told me that he felt unstrung and exhausted, and that his power of +writing had deserted him. But I must bear testimony at the same time to +the fact which does not emerge in the Diary, namely, the extraordinary +gallantry and patience of his conduct and demeanour. He struggled +visibly and pathetically, from hour to hour, against his depression. He +never complained; he never showed, at least in my presence, the +smallest touch of irritability. Indeed to myself, who had known him as +the most equable and good-humoured of men, he seemed to support the +trial with a courage little short of heroism. The trial was a sore one, +because it deprived him both of motive and occupation. But he made the +best of it; he read, he took long walks, and he threw himself with +great eagerness into the education of his children--a task for which he +was peculiarly qualified. Then a series of calamities fell upon him: he +lost his boy, a child of wonderful ability and sweetness; he lost his +fortune, or the greater part of it. The latter calamity he bore with +perfect imperturbability--they let their house and moved into +Gloucestershire. Here a certain measure of happiness seemed to return +to him. He made a new friend, as the Diary relates, in the person of +the Squire of the village, a man who, though an invalid, had a strong +and almost mystical hold upon life. Here he began to interest himself +in the people of the place, and tried all sorts of education and social +experiments. But his wife fell ill, and died very suddenly; and, not +long after, his daughter died too. He was for a time almost wholly +broken down. I went abroad with him at his request for a few weeks, but +I was myself obliged to return to England to my professional duties. I +can only say that I did not expect ever to see him again. He was like a +man, the spring of whose life was broken; but at the same time he bore +himself with a patience and a gentleness that fairly astonished me. We +were together day by day and hour by hour. He made no complaint, and he +used to force himself, with what sad effort was only too plain, to +converse on all sorts of topics. Some time after he drifted back to +England; but at first he appeared to be in a very listless and dejected +state. Then there arrived, almost suddenly, it seemed to me, a change. +He had made the sacrifice; he had accepted the situation. There came to +him a serenity which was only like his old serenity from the fact that +it seemed entirely unaffected; but it was based, I felt, on a very +different view of life. He was now content to wait and to believe. It +was at this time that the Squire died; and not long afterwards, the +Squire's niece, a woman of great strength and simplicity of character, +married a clergyman to whom she had been long attached, both being +middle-aged people; and the living soon afterwards falling vacant, her +husband accepted it, and the newly-married pair moved into the Rectory; +while my friend, who had been named as the Squire's ultimate heir, a +life-interest in the property being secured to the niece, went into the +Hall. Shortly afterwards he adopted a nephew--his sister's son--who, +with the consent of all concerned, was brought up as the heir to the +estate, and is its present proprietor. + +My friend lived some fifteen years after that, a quiet, active, and +obviously contented life. I was a frequent guest at the Hall, and I am +sure that I never saw a more attached circle. My friend became a +magistrate, and he did a good deal of county business; but his main +interest was in the place, where he was the trusted friend and +counsellor of every household in the parish. He took a great deal of +active exercise in the open air; he read much. He taught his nephew, +whom he did not send to school. He regained, in fuller measure than +ever, his old delightful charm of conversation, and his humour, which +had always been predominant in him, took on a deeper and a richer +tinge; but whereas in old days he had been brilliant and epigrammatic, +he was now rather poetical and suggestive; and whereas he had formerly +been reticent about his emotions and his religion, he now acquired what +is to my mind the profoundest conversational charm--the power of making +swift and natural transitions into matters of what, for want of a +better word, I will call spiritual experience. I remember his once +saying to me that he had learnt, from his intercourse with his village +neighbours, that the one thing in the world in which every one was +interested was religion; "even more," he added, with a smile, "than is +the one subject in which Sir Robert Walpole said that every one could +join." + +I do not suppose that his religion was of a particularly orthodox kind; +he was impatient of dogmatic definition and of ecclesiastical +tendencies; but he cared with all his heart for the vital principles of +religion, the love of God and the love of one's neighbour. + +He lived to see his adopted son grow up to maturity; and I do not think +I ever saw anything so beautiful as the confidence and affection that +subsisted between them; and then he died one day, as he had often told +me he desired to die. He had been ailing for a week, and on rising from +his chair in the morning he was seized by a sudden faintness and died +within half-an-hour, hardly knowing, I imagine, that he was in any +danger. + +It fell to me to deal with his papers. There was a certain amount of +scattered writing, but no completed work; it all dated from before the +publication of his great book. It was determined that this Diary should +eventually see the light, and circumstances into which I need not now +enter have rendered its appearance advisable at the present date. + +The interest of the document is its candour and outspokenness. If the +tone of the record, until near the end, is one of unrelieved sadness, +it must be borne in mind that all the time he bore himself in the +presence of others with a singular courage and simplicity. He said to +me once, in an hour of dark despair, that he had drunk the dregs of +self-abasement. That he believed that he had no sense of morality, no +loyal affection, no love of virtue, no patience or courage. That his +only motives had been timidity, personal ambition, love of +respectability, love of ease. He added that this had been slowly +revealed to him, and that the only way out was a way that he had not as +yet strength to tread; the way of utter submission, absolute +confidence, entire resignation. He said that there was one comfort, +which was, that he knew the worst about himself that it was possible to +know. I told him that his view of his character was unjust and +exaggerated, but he only shook his head with a smile that went to my +heart. It was on that day, I think, that he touched the lowest depth of +all; and after that he found the way out, along the path that he had +indicated. + +This is no place for eulogy and panegyric. My task has been just to +trace the portrait of my friend as he appeared to others; his own words +shall reveal the inner spirit. The beauty of the life to me was that he +attained, unconsciously and gradually, to the very virtues which he +most desired and in which he felt himself to be most deficient. He had +to bear a series of devastating calamities. He had loved the warmth and +nearness of his home circle more deeply than most men, and the whole of +it was swept away; he had depended for stimulus and occupation alike +upon his artistic work, and the power was taken from him at the moment +of his highest achievement. His loss of fortune is not to be reckoned +among his calamities, because it was no calamity to him. He ended by +finding a richer treasure than any that he had set out to obtain; and I +remember that he said to me once, not long before his end, that +whatever others might feel about their own lives, he could not for a +moment doubt that his own had been an education of a deliberate and +loving kind, and that the day when he realised that, when he saw that +there was not a single incident in his life that had not a deep and an +intentional value for him, was one of the happiest days of his whole +existence. I do not know that he expected anything or speculated on +what might await him hereafter; he put his future, just as he put his +past and his present, in the hands of God, to Whom he committed himself +"as unto a faithful Creator." + + + + +THE ALTAR FIRE + + +September 8, 1888. + +We came back yesterday, after a very prosperous time at Zermatt; we +have been there two entire months. Yes, it was certainly prosperous! We +had delicious weather, and I have seen a number of pleasant people. I +have done a great deal of walking, I have read a lot of novels and old +poetry, I have sate about a good deal in the open air; but I do not +really like Switzerland; there are of course an abundance of noble +wide-hung views, but there are few vignettes, little on which the mind +and heart dwell with an intimate and familiar satisfaction. Those airy +pinnacles of toppling rocks, those sheets of slanted snow, those +ice-bound crags--there is a sense of fear and mystery about them! One +does not know what is going on there, what they are waiting for; they +have no human meaning. They do not seem to have any relation to +humanity at all. Sunday after Sunday one used to have sermons in that +hot, trim little wooden church--some from quite famous preachers--about +the need of rest, the advantage of letting the mind and eye dwell in +awe upon the wonderful works of God. Of course the mountains are +wonderful enough; but they make me feel that humanity plays a very +trifling part in the mind and purpose of God. I do not think that if I +were a preacher of the Gospel, and had a speculative turn, I should +care to take a holiday among the mountains. I should be beset by a +dreary wonder whether the welfare of humanity was a thing very dear to +God at all. I should feel very strongly what the Psalmist said, "What +is man that Thou art mindful of him?" It would take the wind out of my +sails, when I came to preach about Redemption, because I should be +tempted to believe that, after all, human beings were only in the world +on sufferance, and that the aching, frozen, barren earth, so inimical +to life, was in even more urgent need of redemption. Day by day, among +the heights, I grew to feel that I wanted some explanation of why the +strange panorama of splintered crag and hanging ice-fall was there at +all. It certainly is not there with any reference to man--at least it +is hard to believe that it is all there that human beings may take a +refreshing holiday in the midst of it. When one penetrates Switzerland +by the green pine-clad valleys, passing through and beneath those +delicious upland villages, each clustering round a church with a +glittering cupola, the wooden houses with their brown fronts, their big +eaves, perched up aloft at such pleasant angles, one thinks of +Switzerland as an inhabited land of valleys, with screens and +backgrounds of peaks and snowfields; but when one goes up higher still, +and gets up to the top of one of the peaks, one sees that Switzerland +is really a region of barren ridges, millions of acres of cold stones +and ice, with a few little green cracks among the mountain bases, where +men have crept to live; and that man is only tolerated there. + +One day I was out with a guide on a peak at sunrise. Behind the bleak +and shadowy ridges there stole a flush of awakening dawn; then came a +line of the purest yellow light, touching the crags and snowfields with +sharp blue shadows; the lemon-coloured radiance passed into fiery gold, +the gold flushed to crimson, and then the sun leapt into sight, and +shed the light of day upon the troubled sea of mountains. It was more +than that--the hills made, as it were, the rim of a great cold shadowy +goblet; and the light was poured into it from the uprushing sun, as +bubbling and sparkling wine is poured into a beaker. I found myself +thrilled from head to foot with an intense and mysterious rapture. What +did it all mean, this awful and resplendent solemnity, full to brim of +a solitary and unapproachable holiness? What was the secret of the +thing? Perhaps every one of those stars that we had seen fade out of +the night was ringed round by planets such as ours, peopled by forms +undreamed of; doubtless on millions of globes, the daylight of some +central sun was coming in glory over the cold ridges, and waking into +life sentient beings, in lands outside our ken, each with civilisations +and histories and hopes and fears of their own. A stupendous, an +overwhelming thought! And yet, in the midst of it, here was I myself, a +little consciousness sharply divided from it all, permitted to be a +spectator, a partaker of the intolerable and gigantic mystery, and yet +so strangely made that the whole of that vast and prodigious complexity +of life and law counted for less to me than the touch of weariness that +hung, after my long vigil, over limbs and brain. The faculty, the +godlike power of knowing and imagining, all actually less to me than my +own tiny and fragile sensations. Such moods as these are strange +things, because they bring with them so intense a desire to know, to +perceive, and yet paralyse one with the horror of the darkness in which +one moves. One cannot conceive why it is that one is given the power of +realising the multiplicity of creation, and yet at the same time left +so wholly ignorant of its significance. One longs to leap into the arms +of God, to catch some whisper of His voice; and at the same time there +falls the shadow of the prison-house; one is driven relentlessly back +upon the old limited life, the duties, the labours, the round of meals +and sleep, the tiny relations with others as ignorant as ourselves, +and, still worse, with the petty spirits who have a complacent +explanation of it all. Even over love itself the shadow falls. I am as +near to my own dear and true Maud as it is possible to be; but I can +tell her nothing of the mystery, and she can tell me nothing. We are +allowed for a time to draw close to each other, to whisper to each +other our hopes and fears; but at any moment we can be separated. The +children, Alec and Maggie, dearer to me--I can say it honestly--than +life itself, to whom we have given being, whose voices I hear as I +write, what of them? They are each of them alone, though they hardly +know it yet. The little unnamed son, who opened his eyes upon the world +six years ago, to close them in a few hours, where and what is he now? +Is he somewhere, anywhere? Does he know of the joy and sorrow he has +brought into our lives? I would fain believe it . . . these are +profitless thoughts, of one staring into the abyss. Somehow these +bright weeks have been to me a dreary time. I am well in health; +nothing ails me. It is six months since my last book was published, and +I have taken a deliberate holiday; but always before, my mind, the +strain of a book once taken off it, has begun to sprout and burgeon +with new ideas and schemes: but now, for the first time in my life, my +mind and heart remain bare and arid. I seem to have drifted into a +dreary silence. It is not that things have been less beautiful, but +beauty seems to have had no message, no significance for me. The people +that I have seen have come and gone like ghosts and puppets. I have had +no curiosity about them, their occupations and thoughts, their hopes +and lives; it has not seemed worth while to be interested, in a life +which appears so short, and which leads nowhere. It seems morbid to +write thus, but I have not been either morbid or depressed. It has been +an easy life, the life of the last few months, without effort or +dissatisfaction, but without zest. It is a mental tiredness, I suppose. +I have written myself out, and the cistern must fill again. Yet I have +had no feeling of fatigue. It would have been almost better to have had +something to bear; but I am richer than I need be, Maud and the +children have been in perfect health and happiness, I have been well +and strong. I shall hope that the familiar scene, the pleasant +activities of home-life will bring the desire back. I realise how much +the fabric of my life is built upon my writing, and write I must. Well, +I have said enough; the pleasure of these entries is that one can look +back to them, and see the movement of the current of life in a bygone +day. I have an immense mass of arrears to make up, in the form of +letters and business, but I want to survey the ground; and the survey +is not a very happy one this morning; though if I made a list of my +benefits and the reverse, like Robinson Crusoe, the credit side would +be full of good things, and the debit side nearly empty. + + + +September 15, 1888. + +It is certainly very sweet to be at home again; to find oneself in +familiar scenes, with all the pretty homely comfortable things waiting +patiently for us to return--pictures, books, rooms, tree, kindly +people. Wright, my excellent gardener, with whom I spent an hour +strolling round the garden to-day, touched me by saying that he was +glad to see me back, and that it had seemed dull without me; he has +done fifty little simple things in our absence, in his tranquil and +faithful way, and is pleased to have them noticed. Alec, who was with +me to-day, delighted me by finding his stolid wooden horse in the +summer-house, rather damp and dishevelled, and almost bursting into +tears at the pathos of the neglect. "Did you think we had forgotten +you?" he said as he hugged it. I suggested that he should have a good +meal. "I don't think he would care about GRASS," said Alec +thoughtfully, "he shall have some leaves and berries for a treat." And +this was tenderly executed. Maud went off to see some of her old +pensioners, and came back glowing with pleasure, with twenty pleasant +stories of welcome. Two or three people came in to see me on business, +and I was glad to feel I was of use. In the afternoon we all went off +on a long ramble together, and we were quite surprised to see that +everything seemed to be in its place as usual. Summer is over, the +fields have been reaped; there is a comfortable row of stacks in the +rickyard; the pleasant humming of an engine came up the valley, as it +sang its homely monotone, now low, now loud. After tea--the evenings +have begun to close in--I went off to my study, took out my notebook +and looked over my subjects, but I could make nothing of any of them. I +could see that there were some good ideas among them; but none of them +took shape. Often I have found that to glance over my subjects thus, +after a holiday, is like blowing soap-bubbles. The idea comes out +swelling and eddying from the bowl; a globe swimming with lucent hues, +reflecting dim moving shapes of rooms and figures. Not so to-day. My +mind winked and flapped and rustled like a burnt-out fire; not in a +depressed or melancholy way, but phlegmatically and dully. Well, the +spirit bloweth as it listeth; but it is strange to find my mind so +unresponsive, with none of that pleasant stir, that excitement that has +a sort of fantastic terror about it, such as happens when a book +stretches itself dimly and mysteriously before the mind--when one has a +glimpse of a quiet room with people talking, a man riding fiercely on +lonely roads, two strolling together in a moonlit garden with the +shadows of the cypresses on the turf, and the fragrance of the sleeping +flowers blown abroad. They stop to listen to the nightingale in the +bush . . . turn to each other . . . the currents of life are +intermingled at the meeting of the lips, the warm shudder at the touch +of the floating tress of fragrant hair. To-day nothing comes to me; I +throw it all aside and go to see the children, am greeted delightfully, +and join in some pretty and absurd game. Then dinner comes; and I sit +afterwards reading, dropping the book to talk, Maud working in her +corner by the fire--all things moving so tranquilly and easily in this +pleasantly ordered home-like house of ours. It is good to be at home; +and how pitiful to be hankering thus for something else to fill the +mind, which should obliterate all the beloved things so tenderly +provided. Maud asks about the reception of the latest book, and +sparkles with pride at some of the things I tell her. She sees +somehow--how do women divine these things?--that there is a little +shadow of unrest over me, and she tells me all the comforting things +that I dare not say to myself--that it is only that the book took more +out of me than I knew, and that the resting-time is not over yet; but +that I shall soon settle down again. Then I go off to smoke awhile; and +then the haunting shadow comes back for a little; till at last I go +softly through the sleeping house; and presently lie listening to the +quiet breathing of my wife beside me, glad to be at home again, until +the thoughts grow blurred, take grotesque shapes, sinking softly into +repose. + + + +September 18, 1888. + + +I have spent most of the morning in clearing up business, and dealing +with papers and letters. Among the accumulations was a big bundle of +press-cuttings, all dealing with my last book. It comes home to me that +the book has been a success; it began by slaying its thousands, like +Saul, and now it has slain its tens of thousands. It has brought me +hosts of letters, from all sorts of people, some of them very +delightful and encouraging, many very pleasant--just grateful and +simple letters of thanks--some vulgar and impertinent, some strangely +intimate. What is it, I wonder, that makes some people want to tell a +writer whom they have never seen all about themselves, their thoughts +and histories? In some cases it is an unaffected desire for sympathy +from a person whom they think perceptive and sympathetic; in some cases +it proceeds, I think, from a hysterical desire to be thought +interesting, with a faint hope, I fear, of being possibly put into a +book. Some of the letters have been simply unintelligible and +inconceivable on any hypothesis, except for the human instinct to +confess, to bare the heart, to display the secret sorrow. Many of these +letters are intensely pathetic, affecting, heart-rending; an invalid +lady writes to say that she would like to know me, and will I come to +the North of England to see her? A man writes a pretentious letter, to +ask me to go and stay with him for a week. He has nothing to offer, he +says, but plain fare and rather cramped quarters; but he has thought +deeply, he adds, on many of the problems on which I touch, and thinks +that he could throw light upon some of them. Imagine what reserves of +interest and wisdom he must consider that he possesses! Then there are +patronising letters from people who say that I have put into words +thoughts which they have always had, and which they never took the +trouble to write down; then there are requests for autographs, and +"sentiments," and suggestions for new books. A man writes to say that I +could do untold good if I would write a book with a purpose, and +ventures to propose that I should take up anti-vivisection. There are a +few letters worth their weight in gold, from good men and true, writers +and critics, who thank me for a book which fulfils its aim and artistic +purpose, while on the other hand there are some from people who find +fault with my book for not doing what I never even attempted to do. +Here is one that has given me deep and unmitigated pain; it is from an +old friend, who, I am told, is aggrieved because he thinks that I have +put him into my book, in the form of an unpleasant character. The worst +of it is that there is enough truth in it to make it difficult for me +to deny it. My character is, in some superficial ways, habits, and +tricks of speech, like Reginald. Well, on hearing what he felt, I wrote +him a letter of apology for my carelessness and thoughtlessness, +saying, as frankly as I could, that the character was not in any way +drawn from him, but that I undoubtedly had, almost unconsciously, taken +an external trait or two from him; adding that I was truly and heartily +sorry, and hoped that there would be no ill-feeling; and that I valued +his friendship even more than he probably imagined. Here is his reply: + + +MY DEAR F----, + +--If you spit on the head of a man passing in the street, and then +write to him a few days after to say that all is forgiven, and that you +are sorry your aim was so accurate, you don't mend matters. + +You express a hope that after what has occurred there may be no +ill-feeling between us. Well, you have done me what I consider an +injury. I have no desire to repay it; if I had a chance of doing you a +good turn, I should do it; if I heard you abused, I should stick up for +you. I have no intention of making a grievance out of it. But if you +ask me to say that I do not feel a sense of wrong, or to express a wish +to meet you, or to trust you any longer as I have hitherto trusted you, +I must decline saying anything of the kind, because it would not be +true. + +Of course I know that there cannot be omelettes without breaking eggs; +and I suppose that there cannot be what are called psychological +novels, without violating confidences. But you cannot be surprised, +when you encourage an old friend to trust you and confide in you, and +then draw an ugly caricature of him in a book, if he thinks the worse +of you in consequence. I hear that the book is a great success; you +must be content with the fact that the yolks are as golden as they are. +Please do not write to me again on the subject. I will try to forget +it, and if I succeed, I will let you know. + +Yours ---- + + +That is the kind of letter that poisons life for a while. While I am +aware that I meant no treachery, I am none the less aware that I have +contrived to be a traitor. Of course one vows one will never write +another line; but I do not suppose I shall keep the vow. I reply +shortly, eating all the dirt I can collect; and I shall try to forget +it too; though it is a shabby end of an old friendship. + +Then I turn to the reviews. I find them gracious, respectful, +laudatory. They are to be taken cum grano, of course. When an +enthusiastic reviewer says that I have passed at one stride into the +very first class of contemporary writers, I do not feel particularly +elated, though I am undeniably pleased. I find my conception, my +structure, my style, my descriptions, my character-drawing, liberally +and generously praised. There is no doubt that the book has been really +successful beyond my wildest hopes. If I were in any doubt, the crop of +letters from editors and publishers asking me for articles and books of +every kind, and offering me incredible terms, would convince me. + +Now what do I honestly feel about all this? I will try for my own +benefit to say. Of course I am very much pleased, but the odd thing is +that I am not more pleased. I can say quite unaffectedly that it does +not turn my head in the least. I reflect that if this had happened when +I began to write, I should have been beside myself with delight, full +of self-confidence, blown out with wind, like the fog in the fable. +Even now there is a deep satisfaction in having done what one has tried +to do. But instead of raking in the credit, I am more inclined to be +grateful for my good fortune. I feel as if I had found something +valuable rather than made something beautiful; as if I had stumbled on +a nugget of gold or a pearl of price. I am very fatalistic about +writing; one is given a certain thing to say, and the power to say it; +it does not come by effort, but by a pleasant felicity. After all, I +reflect, the book is only a good story, well told. I do not feel like a +benefactor of the human race, but at the best like a skilful minstrel, +who has given some innocent pleasure. What, after all, does it amount +to? I have touched to life, perhaps a few gracious, tender, romantic +fancies--but, after all, the thoughts and emotions were there to start +with, just as the harmonies which the musician awakes are all dormant +in his throbbing strings. I have created nothing, only perceived and +represented phenomena. I have gained no sensibility, no patience, no +wisdom in the process. I know no more of the secret of life and love, +than before I wrote my book. I am only like a scientific investigator +who has discovered certain delicate processes, subtle laws at work. +They were there all the time; the temptation of the investigator and of +the writer alike is to yield to the delusion that he has made them, by +discerning and naming them. As for the style, which is highly praised, +it has not been made by effort. It is myself. I have never written for +any other reason than because I liked writing. It has been a pleasure +to overcome difficulties, to make my way round obstacles, to learn how +to express the vague an intangible thing. But I deserve no credit for +this; I should deserve credit if I had made myself a good writer out of +a bad one; but I could always write, and I am not a better writer, only +a more practised one. There is no satisfaction there. + +And then, too, I find myself overshadowed by the thought that I do not +want to do worse, to go downhill, to decline. I do not feel at all sure +that I can write a better book, or so good a one indeed. I should +dislike failing far more than I like having succeeded. To have reached +a certain standard makes it incumbent on one that one should not fall +below that standard; and no amount of taking pains will achieve that. +It can only be done through a sort of radiant felicity of mood, which +is really not in my power to count upon. I was happy, supremely happy, +when I was writing the book. I lighted upon a fine conception, and it +was the purest joy to see the metal trickle firmly from the furnace +into the mould. Can I make such a mould again? Can I count upon the +ingots piled in the fierce flame? Can I reckon upon the same +temperamental glow? I do not know--I fear not. + +Here is the net result--that I have become a sort of personage in the +world of letters. Do I desire it? Yes, in a sense I do, but in a sense +I do not. I do not want money, I do not wish for public appearances. I +have no social ambitions. To be pointed out as the distinguished +novelist is distinctly inconvenient. People will demand a certain +standard of talk, a certain brilliance, which I am not in the least +capable of giving them. I want to sit at my ease at the banquet of +life, not to be ushered to the highest rooms. I prefer interesting and +pleasant people to important and majestic persons. Perhaps if I were +more simple-minded, I should not care about the matter at all; just be +grateful for the increased warmth and amenity of life--but I am not +simple-minded, and I hate not fulfilling other people's expectations. I +am not a prodigal, full-blooded, royal sort of person at all. I am not +conscious of greatness, but far more of emptiness. I do not wish to +seem pretentious. I have got this one faculty; but it has outrun all +the rest of me, and I am aware that it has drained the rest of my +nature. The curious thing is that this sort of fame is the thing that +as a young man I used to covet. I used to think it would be so +sustaining and resplendent. Now that it has come to me, in far richer +measure, I will not say than I hoped, but at all events than I had +expected, it does not seem to be a wholly desirable thing. Fame is only +one of the sauces of life; it is not the food of the spirit at all. The +people that praise one are like the courtiers that bow in the anterooms +of a king, through whom he passes to the lonely study where his life is +lived. I am not feeling ungrateful or ungenerous; but I would give all +that I have gained for a new and inspiring friendship, or for the +certainty that I should write another book with the same happiness as I +wrote my last book. Perhaps I ought to feel the responsibility more! I +do feel it in a sense, but I have never estimated the moral +effectiveness of a writer of fiction very high; one comforts rather +than sustains; one diverts rather than feeds. If I could hear of one +self-sacrificing action, one generous deed, one tranquil surrender that +had been the result of my book, I should be more pleased than I am with +all the shower of compliments. Of course in a sense praise makes life +more interesting; but what I really desire to apprehend is the +significance and meaning of life, that strange mixture of pain and +pleasure, of commonplace events and raptures; and my book brings me no +nearer that. To feel God nearer me, to feel, not by evidence but by +instinct, that there is a Heart that cares for me, and moulded me from +the clay for a purpose--why, I would give all that I have in the world +for that! + +Of course Maud will be pleased; but that will be because she believes +that I deserve everything and anything, and is only surprised that the +world has not found out sooner what a marvellous person I am. God knows +I do not undervalue her belief in me; but it makes and keeps me humble +to feel how far she is from the truth, how far from realising the +pitiful weakness and emptiness of her lover and husband. + +Is this, I wonder, how all successful people feel about fame? The +greatest of all have often never enjoyed the least touch of it in their +lifetime; and they are happier so. Some few rich and generous natures, +like Scott and Browning, have neither craved for it nor valued it. Some +of the greatest have desired it, slaved for it, clung to it. Yet when +it comes, one realises how small a part of life and thought it +fills--unless indeed it brings other desirable things with it; and this +is not the case with me, because I have all I want. Well, if I can but +set to work at another book, all these idle thoughts will die away; but +my mind rattles like a shrunken kernel. I must kneel down and pray, as +Blake and his wife did, when the visions deserted them. + + + +September 25, 1888. + +Here is a social instance of what it means to become "quite a little +man," as Stevenson used to say. Some county people near here, +good-natured, pushing persons, who have always been quite civil but +nothing more, invited themselves to luncheon here a day or two ago, +bringing with them a distinguished visitor. They throw in some nauseous +compliments to my book, and say that Lord Wilburton wishes to make my +acquaintance. I do not particularly want to make his, though he is a +man of some not. But there was no pretext for declining. Such an +incursion is a distinct bore; it clouds the morning--one cannot settle +down with a tranquil mind to one's work; it fills the afternoon. They +came, and it proved not uninteresting. They are pleasant people enough, +and Lord Wilburton is a man who has been everywhere and seen everybody. +The fact that he wished to make my acquaintance shows, no doubt, that I +have sailed into his ken, and that he wishes to add me to his +collection. I felt myself singularly unrewarding. I am not a talker at +the best of times, and to feel that I am expected to be witty and +suggestive is the last straw. Lord Wilburton discoursed fluently and +agreeably. Lady Harriet said that she envied me my powers of writing, +and asked how I came to think of my last brilliant book, which she had +so enjoyed. I did not know what to say, and could not invent anything. +They made a great deal of the children. They walked round the garden. +They praised everything ingeniously. They could not say the house was +big, and so they called in convenient. They could not say that the +garden was ample, but Lord Wilburton said that he had never seen so +much ground go to the acre. That was neat enough. They made a great +point of visiting my library, and carried away my autograph, written +with the very same pen with which I wrote my great book. This they +called a privilege. They made us promise to go over to the Castle, +which I have no great purpose of doing. We parted with mutual goodwill, +and with that increase of geniality on my own part which comes on me at +the end of a visit. Altogether I did not dislike it, though it did not +seem to me particularly worth while. To-day my wife tells me that they +told the Fitzpatricks that it was a great pleasure seeing me, because I +was so modest and unaffected. That is a courteous way of concealing +their disappointment that I was not more brilliant. But, good heavens, +what did they expect? I suppose, indeed I have no doubt, that if I had +talked mysteriously about my book, and had described the genesis of it, +and my method of working, they would have preferred that. Just as in +reminiscences of the Duke of Wellington, the people who saw him in +later life seem to have been struck dumb by a sort of tearful +admiration at the sight of the Duke condescending to eat his dinner, or +to light a guest's bedroom candle. Perhaps if I had been more +simple-minded I should have talked frankly about myself. I don't know; +it seems to me all rather vulgar. But my visitors are kindly and +courteous people, and felt, I am sure, that they were both receiving +and conferring benefits. They will like to describe me and my house, +and they will feel that I am pleased at being received on equal terms +into county society. I don't put this down at all cynically; but they +are not people with whom I have anything in common. I am not of their +monde at all. I belong to the middle class, and they are of the upper +class. I have a faint desire to indicate that I don't want to cross the +border-line, and that what I desire is the society of interesting and +congenial people, not the society of my social superior. This is not +unworldliness in the least, merely hedonism. Feudalism runs in the +blood of these people, and they feel, not consciously but quite +instinctively, that the confer a benefit by making my acquaintance. "No +doubt but ye are the people," as Job said, but I do not want to rise in +the social scale. It would be the earthen pot and the brazen pot at +best. I am quite content with my own class, and life is not long enough +to change it, and to learn the habits of another. I have no quarrel +with the aristocracy, and do not in the least wish to level them to the +ground. I am quite prepared to acknowledge them as the upper class. +They are, as a rule, public-spirited, courteous barbarians, with a +sense of honour and responsibility. But they take a great many things +as matters of course which are to me simply alien. I no more wish to +live with them than Wright, my self-respecting gardener, wishes to live +with me--though so deeply rooted are feudal ideas in the blood of the +race, that Wright treats me with a shade of increased deference because +I have been entertaining a party of Lords and Ladies; and the Vicar's +wife said to Maud that she heard we had been giving a very grand party, +and would soon be quite county people. The poor woman will think more +of my books than she has ever thought before. I don't think this is +snobbish, because it is so perfectly instinctive and natural. + +But what I wanted to say was that this is the kind of benefit which is +conferred by success; and for a quiet person, who likes familiar and +tranquil ways, it is no benefit at all; indeed, rather the reverse; +unless it is a benefit that the stationmaster touched his hat to me +to-day, which he has never done before. It is a funny little world. +Meanwhile I have no ideas, and my visitors to-day haven't given me any, +though Lord Wilburton might be a useful figure in a book; so perfectly +appointed, so quiet, so deferential, so humorous, so deliciously +insincere! + + + +October 4, 1888. + +I have happened to read lately, in some magazines, certain illustrated +interviews with prominent people, which have given me a deep sense of +mental and moral nausea. I do not think I am afflicted with a strong +sense of the sacredness of a man's home life--at least, if it is sacred +at all, it seems to me to be just as much profaned by allowing visitors +or strangers to see it and share it as it is by allowing it to be +written about in a periodical. If it is sacred in a peculiar sense, +then only very intimate friends ought to be allowed to see it, and +there should be a tacit sense that they ought not to tell any one +outside what it is like; but if I am invited to luncheon with a +celebrated man whom I do not know, because I happen to be staying in +the neighbourhood, I do not think I violate his privacy by describing +my experience to other people. If a man has a beautiful house, a happy +interior, a gifted family circle, and if he is himself a remarkable +man, it is a privilege to be admitted to it, it does one good to see +it; and it seems to me that the more people who realise the beauty and +happiness of it the better. The question of numbers has nothing to do +with it. Suppose, for instance, that I am invited to stay with a great +man, and suppose that I have a talent for drawing; I may sketch his +house and his rooms, himself and his family, if he does not object--and +it seems to me that it would be churlish and affected of him to +object--I may write descriptive letters from the place, giving an +account of his domestic ways, his wife and family, his rooms, his +books, his garden, his talk. I do not see that there is any reasonable +objection to my showing those sketches to other people who are +interested in the great man, or to the descriptive letters or diary +that I write being shown or read to others who do not know him. Indeed +I think it is a perfectly natural and wholesome desire to know +something of the life and habits of great men; I would go further, and +say that it is an improving and inspiring sort of knowledge to be +acquainted with the pleasant details of the well-ordered, contented, +and happy life of a high-minded and effective man. Who, for instance, +considers it to be a sort of treachery for the world at large to know +something of the splendid and affectionate life of the Kingsley circle +at Eversley Rectory, or of the Tennyson circle at Freshwater? to look +at pictures of the scene, to hear how the great men looked and moved +and spoke? And if it is not profanation to hear and see this in the +pages of a biography, why is it a profanation to read and see it in the +pages of a magazine? To object to it seems to me to be a species of +prudish conventionality. + +Only you must be sure that you get a natural, simple, and unaffected +picture of it all; and what I object to in the interviews which I have +been reading is that one gets an unnatural, affected, self-conscious, +and pompous picture of it all. To go and pose in your favourite seat in +a shrubbery or a copse, where you think out your books or poems, in +order that an interviewer may take a snap-shot of you--especially if in +addition you assume a look of owlish solemnity as though you were the +prey of great thoughts--that seems to me to be an infernal piece of +posing. But still worse than that is the kind of conversation in which +people are tempted to indulge in the presence of an interviewer. A man +ought not to say to a wandering journalist whom he has never seen +before, in the presence of his own wife, that women are the inspirers +and magnetisers of the world, and that he owes all that has made him +what he is to the sweet presence and sympathetic tenderness of his +Bessy. This, it seems to me, is the lowest kind of melodrama. The thing +may be perfectly true, the thought may be often in his mind, but he +cannot be accustomed to say such things in ordinary life; and one feels +that when he says them to an interviewer he does it in a thoroughly +self-conscious mood, in order that he may make an impressive figure +before the public. The conversations in the interviews I have been +reading give me the uncomfortable sense that they have been thought out +beforehand from the dramatic point of view; and indeed one earnestly +hopes that this is the solution of the situation, because it would make +one feel very faint if one thought that remarks of this kind were the +habitual utterances of the circle--indeed, it would cure one very +effectually of the desire to know anything of the interiors of +celebrated people, if one thought that they habitually talked like the +heroes of a Sunday-school romance. That is why the reading of these +interviews is so painful, because, in the first place, one feels sure +that one is not realising the daily life of these people at all, but +only looking on at a tableau vivant prepared by them for the occasion; +and secondly, it makes one very unhappy to think that people of real +eminence and effectiveness can condescend to behave in this affected +way in order to win the applause of vulgar readers. One vaguely hopes, +indeed, that some of the dismal platitudes that they are represented as +uttering may have been addressed to them in the form of questions by +the interviewer, and that they have merely stammered a shamefaced +assent. It makes a real difference, for instance, whether as a matter +of fact a celebrated authoress leads her golden-haired children up to +an interviewer, and says, "These are my brightest jewels;" or whether, +when she tells her children to shake hands, the interviewer says, "No +doubt these are your brightest jewels?" A mother is hardly in a +position to return an indignant negative to such a question, and if she +utters an idiotic affirmative, she is probably credited with the +original remark in all its unctuousness! + +It is a difficult question to decide what is the most simple-minded +thing to do, if you are in the unhappy position of being requested to +grant an interview for journalistic purposes. My own feeling is that if +people really wish to know how I live, what I wear, what I eat and +drink, what books I read, what kind of a house I live in, they are +perfectly welcome to know. It does not seem to me that it would detract +from the sacredness of my home life, if a picture of my dining-room, +with the table laid for luncheon in a very cramped perspective, or if a +photogravure of the scrap of grass and shrubbery that I call my garden, +were to be published in a magazine. All that is to a certain extent +public already. I should not wish to have a photograph of myself in +bed, or shaving, published in a magazine, because those are not moments +when I am inclined to admit visitors. Neither do I particularly want my +private and informal conversation taken down and reproduced, because +that often consists of opinions which are not my deliberate and +thought-out utterances. But I hope that I should be able to talk simply +and courteously to an interviewer on ordinary topics, in a way that +would not discredit me it is was made public; and I hope, too, that +decency would restrain me from making inflated and pompous remarks +about my inner beliefs and motives, which were not in the least +characteristic of my usual method of conversation. + +The truth is that what spoils these records is the desire on the part +of worthy and active people to appear more impressive in ordinary life +than they actually are; it is a well-meant sort of hypocrisy, because +it is intended, in a way, to influence other people, and to make them +think that celebrated people live habitually on a higher tone of +intellect and emotion than they do actually live upon. My on experience +of meeting great people is that they are, as a rule, disappointingly +like ordinary people, both in their tastes and in their conversation. +Very few men or women, who are extremely effective in practical or +artistic lines, have the energy or the vitality to expend themselves +very freely in talk or social intercourse. They do not save themselves +up for their speeches or their books; but they give their best energies +to them, and have little current coin of high thought left for ordinary +life. The mischief is that these interviews are generally conducted by +inquisitive and rhetorical strangers, not distinguished for social tact +or overburdened with good taste; and so the whole occasion tends to +wear a melodramatic air, which is fatal both to artistic effect as well +as to simple propriety. + + + +October 9, 1888. + +Let me set against my fashionable luncheon-party of a few weeks ago a +visit which I owe no less to my success, and which has been a true and +deep delight to me. I had a note yesterday from a man whom I hold in +great and deep reverence, a man who I have met two or three times, a +poet indeed, one of our true and authentic singers. He writes that he +is in the neighbourhood; may he come over for a few hours and renew our +acquaintance? + +He came, in the morning. One has only to set eyes upon him to know that +one is in the presence of a hero, to feel that his poetry just streams +from him like light from the sun; that it is not the central warmth, +but the flying rippling radiance of the outward-bound light, falling in +momentary beauty on the common things about his path. He is a great big +man, carelessly dressed, like a Homeric king. I liked everything about +him from head to foot, his big carelessly-worn clothes, the bright tie +thrust loosely through a cameo ring; his loose shaggy locks, his strong +beard. His face, with its delicate pallor, and purely moulded features, +had a youthful air of purity and health; yet there was a dim trouble of +thought on his brow, over the great, smiling, flashing grey eyes. He +came in with a sort of royal greeting, he flung his big limbs on a +sofa; he talked easily, quietly, lavishly, saying fine things with no +effort, dropping a subject quickly if he thought it did not interest +me; sometimes flashing out with a quick gesture of impatience or gusto, +enjoying life, every moment and every detail. His quick eyes, roving +about, took in each smallest point, not in the weary feverish way in +which I apprehend a new scene, but as though he liked everything new +and unfamiliar, like an unsated child. He greeted Maud and the children +with a kind of chivalrous tenderness and intimacy, as though he loved +all pretty and tender things, and took joy in their nearness. He held +Alec between his knees, and played with him while he talked. The +children took possession of him, as if they had known him all their +lives. And yet there was no touch of pose, no consciousness of +greatness or vigour about him. He was as humble, grateful, interested, +as though he were a poor stranger dependent on our bounty. I asked him +in a quiet moment about his work. "No, I am writing nothing," he said +with a smile, "I have said all I have got to say,"--and then with a +sudden humorous flash, "though I believe I should be able to write more +if I could get decent paper and respectable type to print my work." I +ventured to ask if he did not feel any desire to write? "No," he said, +"frankly I do not--the world is so full of pleasant things to do and +hear and see, that I sometimes think myself almost a fool for having +spent so much time in scribbling. Do you know," he went on, "a +delicious story I picked up the other day? A man was travelling in some +God-forsaken out-of-the-way place--I believe it was the Andes--and he +fell in with an old podgy Roman priest who was going everywhere, in a +state of perpetual fatigue, taking long expeditions every day, and +returning worn-out in the evening, but perfectly content. The man saw a +good deal of the priest, and asked him what he was doing. The priest +smiled and said, 'Well, I will tell you. I had an illness some time ago +and believed that I was going to die. One evening--I was half +unconscious--I thought I saw some one standing by my bed. I looked, and +it was a young man with a beautiful and rather severe face, whom I knew +to be an angel, who was gazing at me rather strangely. I thought it was +the messenger of death, and--for I was wishing to be gone and have done +with it all--I said something to him about being ready to depart--and +then added that I was waiting hopefully to see the joys of Paradise, +the glory of the saints in light. He looked at me rather fixedly, and +said, "I do not know why you should say that, and why you should expect +to take so much pleasure in the beauty of heaven, when you have taken +so little trouble to see anything of the beauty of earth;" and then he +left me; and I reflected that I had always been doing my work in a dull +humdrum way, in the same place all my life; and I determined that, if I +got well, I would go about and see something of the glory that IS +revealed to us, and not expect only the glory that SHALL BE revealed to +us.' It is a fine story," he went on, "and makes a parable for us +writers, who are inclined to think too much about our work, and +disposed to see that it is very good, like God brooding over the +world." He sate for a little, smiling to himself. And then I plied him +with questions about his writing, how his thoughts came to him how he +worked them out. He told me as if he was talking about some one else, +half wondering that there could be anything to care about. I have heard +many craftsmen talk about their work, but never one who talked with +such detachment. As a rule, writers talk with a secret glee, and with a +deprecating humility that deceives no one; but the great man talked, +not as if he cared to think about it, but because it happened to +interest me. He strolled with me, he lunched; and he thanked us when he +went away with an earnest and humble thankfulness, as though we had +extended our hospitality to an obscure and unworthy guest. And then his +praise of my own books--it was all so natural; not as if he had come +there with fine compliments prepared, with incense to burn; but +speaking about them as though they were in his mind, and he could not +help it. "I read all you write," he said; "ah, you go deep--you are a +lucky fellow, to be able to see so far and so minutely, and to bring it +all home to our blind souls. He must be a terrible fellow to live +with," he said, smiling at my wife. "It must be like being married to a +doctor, and feeling that he knows so much more about one than one knows +oneself--but he sees what is best and truest, thank God; and says it +with the voice of an angel, speaking softly out of his golden cloud." + +I can't say what words like these have meant to me; but the visit +itself, the sight of this strong, equable, good-humoured man, with no +feverish ambitions, no hankering after fame or recognition, has done +even more. I have heard it said that he is indolent, that he has not +sufficient sense of responsibility for his gifts. But the man has done +a great work for his generation; he has written poetry of the purest +and finest quality. Is not that enough? I cannot understand the mere +credit we give to work, without any reference to the object of the +work, or the spirit in which it is done. We think with respect of the +man who makes a fortune, or who fills an official post, the duties of +which do nothing in particular for any one. It is a kind of obsession +with us practical Westerners; of course a man ought to contribute to +the necessary work of the world; but many men spend their lives in work +which is not necessary; and, after all, we are sent into the world to +live, and work is only a part of life. We work to live, we do not live +to work. Even if we were all socialists, we should, I hope, have the +grace to dig the gardens and make the clothes of our poets and +prophets, so as to give them the leisure they need. + +I do not question the instinct of my hero in the matter; he lives +eagerly and peacefully; he touches into light the spirits of those who +draw near to him; and I admire a man who knows how to stop when he has +done his best work, and does not spur and whip his tired mind into +producing feebler, limper, duller work of the same kind; how few of our +great writers have known when to hold their hand! + +God be praised for great men! My poet to-day has made me feel that life +is a thing to be lived eagerly and high-heartedly; that the world is +full of beautiful, generous, kindly things, of free air and sunshine; +and that we ought to find leisure to drink it all in, and to send our +hearts out in search of love and beauty and God--for these things are +all about us, if we could but feel and hear and see them. + + + +October 12, 1888. + +How absurd it is to say that a writer could not write a large, wise, +beautiful book unless he had a great soul--is it almost like saying +that an artist could not paint a fine face unless he had a fine face +himself. It is all a question of seeing clearly, and having a skilled +hand. There is nothing to make one believe that Shakespeare had a +particularly noble or beautiful character; and some of our greatest +writers have been men of unbalanced, childish, immature temperaments, +full of vanity and pettiness. Of course a man must be interested in +what he is describing; but I think that a man of a naturally great, +wise, and lofty spirit is so disposed as a rule to feel that his +qualities are instinctive, and so ready to credit other people with +them, that it does not occur to him to depict those qualities. I am not +sure that the best equipment for an artist is not that he should see +and admire great and noble and beautiful things, and feel his own +deficiency in them acutely, desiring them with the desire of the moth +for the star. The best characters in my own books have been, I am sure, +the people least like myself, because the creation of a character that +one whole-heartedly admires, and that yet is far out of one's reach, is +the most restful and delightful thing in the world. If one is unready +in speech, thinking of one's epigrams three hours after the occasion +for them has arisen, how pleasant to draw the man who says the neat, +witty, appropriate, consoling thing! If one suffers from timidity, from +meanness, from selfishness, what a delight to depict the man who is +brave, generous, unselfish! Of course the quality of a man's mind flows +into and over his work, but that is rather like the varnish of the +picture than its tints--it is the medium rather than the design. The +artistic creation of ideal situations is often a sort of refuge to the +man who knows that he makes a mess of the beautiful and simple +relations of life. The artist is fastidious and moody, feeling the +pressure of strained nerves and tired faculties, easily discouraged, +disgusted by the superficial defect, the tiny blot that spoils alike +the noble character, the charming prospect, the attractive face. He +sees, let us say, a person with a beautiful face and an ugly hand. The +normal person thinks of the face and forgets the hand. The artist +thinks with pain of the hand and forgets the face. He desires an +impossible perfection, and flies for safety to the little world that he +can make and sway. That is why artists, as a rule, love twilight hours, +shaded rooms, half-tones, subdued hues, because what is common, +staring, tasteless, is blurred and hidden. Men of rich vitality are +generally too much occupied with life as it is, its richness, its +variety, its colour and fragrance, to think wistfully of life as it +might be. The unbridled, sensuous, luxurious strain, that one finds in +so many artists, comes from a lack of moral temperance, a snatching at +delights. They fear dreariness and ugliness so much that they welcome +any intoxication of pleasure. But after all, it is clearness of vision +that makes the artist, the power of disentangling the central feature +from the surrounding details, the power of subordinating accessories, +of seeing which minister to the innermost impression, and which +distract and blur. An artist who creates a great character need not +necessarily even desire to attain the great qualities which he +discerns; he sees them, as he sees the vertebrae of the mountain ridge +under pasture and woodland, as he sees the structure of the tree under +its mist of green; but to see beauty is not necessarily to desire it; +for, as in the mountain and the tree, it may have no ethical +significance at all, only a symbolical meaning. The best art is +inspired more by an intellectual force than by a vital sympathy. Of +course to succeed as a novelist in England to-day, one must have a dash +of the moralist, because an English audience is far more preoccupied +with moral ideals than with either intellectual or artistic ideals. The +reading public desires that love should be loyal rather than +passionate; it thinks ultimate success a more impressive thing than +ultimate failure; it loves sadness as a contrast and preface to +laughter. It prefers that the patriarch Job should end by having a nice +new family of children and abundant flocks, rather than that he should +sink into death among the ashes, refusing to curse God for his +reverses. Its view of existence after death is that Dives should join +Lazarus in Abraham's bosom. To succeed, one must compromise with this +comfortable feeing, sacrificing, if needs be, the artistic conscience, +because the place of the minstrel in England is after the banquet, when +the warriors are pleasantly tired, have put off the desire of meat and +drink, and the fire roars and crackles in the hearth. When Ruskin +deserted his clouds and peaks, his sunsets and sunrises, and devoured +his soul over the brutalities and uglinesses and sordid inequalities of +life, it was all put down to the obscure pressure of mental disease. +Ophelia does not sob and struggle in the current, but floats dreamily +to death in a bed of meadow-flowers. + + + +October 21, 1888. + +Let me try to recollect for my own amusement how it was that my last +book grew up and took shape. How well I remember the day and the hour +when the first thought came to me! Some one was dining here, and told a +story about a friend of his, and an unhappy misunderstanding between +him and a girl whom he loved, or thought he loved. A figure, two +figures, a scene, a conversation, came into my head, absolutely and +perfectly life-like. I lay awake half the night, I remember, over it. +How did those people come to be in exactly that situation? how would it +develop? At first it was just the scene by itself, nothing more; a room +which filled itself with furniture. There were doors--where did they +lead to? There were windows--where did they look out? The house was +full, too, of other people, whose quiet movements I heard. One person +entered the room, and then another; and so the story opened out. I saw +the wrong word spoken, I saw the mist of doubt and distress that filled +the girl's mind; I felt that I would have given anything to intervene, +to explain; but instead of speaking out, the girl confided in the wrong +person, who had an old grudge against the man, so old that it had +become instinctive and irrational. So the thing evolved itself. Then at +one time the story got entangled and confused. I could go no further. +The characters were by this time upon the scene, but they could not +speak. I then saw that I had made a mistake somewhere. The scaffolding +was all taken down, spar by spar, and still the defect was not +revealed. I must go, I saw, backwards; and so I felt my way, like a man +groping in the dark, into what had gone before, and suddenly came out +into the light. It was a mistake far back in the conception. I righted +it, and the story began to evolve itself again; this time with a +delicate certainty, that made me feel I was on the track at last. An +impressive scene was sacrificed--it was there that my idea had gone +wrong! As to the writing of it, I cannot say it was an effort. It wrote +itself. I was not creating; I was describing and selecting. There was +one scene in particular, a scene which has been praised by all the +reviewers. How did I invent it? I do not know. I had no idea what the +characters were to say when I began to write it, but one remark grew +inevitably and surely out of the one before. I was never at a loss; I +never stuck fast; indeed the one temptation which I firmly and +constantly resisted was the temptation to write morning, noon, and +night. Sometimes I had a horrible fear that I might not live to set +down what was so clear in my mind; but there is a certain freshness +which comes of self-restraint. Day after day, as I strolled, and read, +and talked, I used to hug myself at the thought of the beloved evening +hours that were coming, when I should fling myself upon the book with a +passionate zest, and feel it grow under my hand. And then it was done! +I remember writing the last words, and the conviction came upon me that +it was the end. There was more to be told; the story stretched on into +the distance; but it was as though the frame of the picture had +suddenly fallen upon the canvas, and I knew that just so much and no +more was to be seen. And then, as though to show me plainly that the +work was over, the next day came an event which drew my mind off the +book. I had had a period of unclouded health and leisure, everything +had combined to help me, and then this event, of which I need not +speak, came and closed the book at the right moment. + +What wonder if one grows fatalistic about writing; that one feels that +one can only say what is given one to say! And now, dry and arid as my +mind is, I would give all I have for a renewal of that beautiful glow, +which I cannot recover. It is misery--I can conceive no greater--to be +bound hand and foot in this helpless silence. + + + +November 6, 1888. + +It is a joy to think of the way in which the best, most beautiful, most +permanent things have stolen unnoticed into life. I like to think of +Wordsworth, an obscure, poor, perverse, absurd man, living in the +corner of the great house at Alfoxden, walking in the moonlight with +Coleridge, living on milk and eggs, utterly unaccountable and puerile +to the sensible man of affairs, while the two planned the Lyrical +Ballads. I like to think of Keats, sitting lazily and discontentedly in +the villa garden at Hampstead, with his illness growing upon him and +his money melting away, scribbling the "Ode to the Nightingale," and +caring so little about the fate of it that it was only by chance, as it +were, that the pencil scraps were rescued from the book where he had +shut them. I love to think of Charlotte Bronte, in the bare kitchen of +the little house in the grey, wind-swept village on the edge of the +moorland, penning, in sickness and depression, the scenes of Jane Eyre, +without a thought that she was doing anything unusual or lasting. We +surround such scenes with a heavenly halo, born of the afterglow of +fame; we think them romantic, beautiful, thrilled and flushed by +passionate joy; but there was little that was delightful about them at +the time. + +The most beautiful of all such scenes is the tale of the maiden-wife in +the stable at Bethlehem, with the pain and horror and shame of the +tragic experience, in all its squalid publicity, told in those simple +words, which I never hear without a smile that is full of tears, +BECAUSE THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THEM IN THE INN. We poor human souls, +knowing what that event has meant for the race, make the bare, ugly +place seemly and lovely, surrounding the Babe with a tapestry of +heavenly forms, holy lights, rapturous sounds; taking the terror and +the meanness of the scene away, and thereby, by our clumsy handling, +losing the divine seal of the great mystery, the fact that hope can +spring, in unstained and sublime radiance, from the vilest, lowest, +meanest, noisiest conditions that can well be conceived. + + + +November 20, 1888. + +I wonder aimlessly what it is that makes a book, a picture, a piece of +music, a poem, great. When any of these things has become a part of +one's mind and soul, utterly and entirely familiar, one is tempted to +think that the precise form of them is inevitable. That is a great +mistake. + +Here is a tiny instance. I see that in the "Lycidas" Milton wrote:-- + + "Who would not sing for Lycidas? He WELL knew + Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme." + + +The word "well" occurs in two MSS., and it seems to have been struck +out in the proof. The introduction of the word seems barbarous, +unmetrical, an outrage on the beauty of the line. Yet Milton must have +thought that it was needed, and have only decided by an after-thought +that it was better away. If it had been printed so, we should equally +have thought its omission barbarous and inartistic. + +And thus, to an artist, there must be many ways of working out a +conception. I do not believe in the theory that the form is so +inevitable, because what great artist was ever perfectly content with +the form? The greater the artist, the more conscious he probably is of +the imperfection of his work; and if it could be bettered, how is it +then inevitable? It is only our familiarity with it that gives it +inevitableness. A beautiful building gains its mellow outline by a +hundred accidents of wear and weather, never contemplated by the +designer's mind. We love it so, we would not have it otherwise; but we +should have loved it just as intensely if it had been otherwise. Only a +small part, then, of the greatness of artistic work is what we +ourselves bring to it; and it becomes great, not only from itself, but +from the fact that it fits our minds as the dagger fits the sheath. The +greatness of a conception depends largely upon its being near enough to +our own conceptions, and yet a little greater, just as the vault of a +great church gives one a larger sense of immensity than the sky with +its sailing clouds. Indeed it is often the very minuteness of a +conception rather than its vastness that makes it great. It must not be +outside our range. As to the form, it depends upon some curious +felicity of hand, and touch, and thought. Suppose that a great painter +gave a rough pencil-sketch of a picture to a hundred students, and told +them all to work it out in colour. Some few of the results would be +beautiful, the majority would be still uninteresting and tame. + +Thus I am somewhat of a fatalist about art, because it seems to depend +upon a lucky union of conception and technical instinct. The saddest +proof of which is that many good and even great artists have not +improved in greatness as their skill improved. The youthful works of +genius are generally the best, their very crudities and stiffnesses +adorable. + +The history of art and literature alike seems to point to the fact that +each artistic soul has a flowering period, which generally comes early, +rarely comes late; and therefore the supreme artist ought also to know +when the bloom is over, when his good work is done. And then, I think, +he ought to be ready to abjure his art, to drown his book, like +Prospero, and set himself to live rather than to produce. But what a +sacrifice to demand of a man, and how few attain it! Most men cannot do +without their work, and go on to the end producing more feeble, more +tired, more mannerised work, till they cloud the beauty of their prime +by masses of inferior and uninspired production. + + + +November 24, 1888. + +Soft wintry skies, touched with faintest gleams of colour, like a +dove's wing, blue plains and heights, over the nearer woodland; +everywhere fallen rotting leaf and oozy water-channel; everything, tint +and form, restrained, austere, delicate; nature asleep and breathing +gently in the cool airs; a tranquil and sober hopefulness abroad. + +I walked alone in deep woodland lanes, content for once to rest and +dream. The country seemed absolutely deserted; such labour as was going +forward was being done in barn and byre; beasts being fed, hurdles made. + +I passed in a solitary road a draggled ugly woman, a tramp, wheeling an +old perambulator full of dingy clothes and sordid odds and ends; she +looked at me sullenly and suspiciously. Where she was going God knows: +to camp, I suppose, in some dingle, with ugly company; to beg, to lie, +to purloin, perhaps to drink; but by the perambulator walked a little +boy, seven or eight years old, grotesquely clothed in patched and +clumsy garments; he held on to the rim, dirty, unkempt; but he was +happy too; he was with his mother, of whom he had no fear; he had been +fed as the birds are fed; he had no anxious thoughts of the future, and +as he went, he crooned to himself a soft song, like the piping of a +finch in a wayside thicket. What was in his tiny mind and heart? I do +not know; but perhaps a little touch of the peace of God. + + + +November 26, 1888. + +Another visitor! I am not sure that his visit is not a more +distinguished testimonial than any I have yet received. He is a young +Don with a very brilliant record indeed. He wrote to ask if he might +have the honour of calling, and renewing a very slight acquaintance. He +came and conquered. I am still crushed and battered by his visit. I +feel like a land that has been harried by an invading army. Let me see +if, dizzy and unmanned as I am, I call recall some of the incidents of +his visit. He has only been gone an hour, yet I feel as though a month +had elapsed since he entered the room, since I was a moderately happy +man. He is a very pleasant fellow to look at, small, trim, +well-appointed, courteous, friendly, with a deferential air. His eyes +gleam brightly through his glasses, and he has brisk dexterous +gestures. He was genial enough till he settled down upon literature, +and since then what waves and storms have gone over me! I have or had a +grovelling taste for books; I possess a large number, and I thought I +had read them. But I feel now, not so much as if I had read the wrong +ones, but as if those I had read were only, so to speak, the anterooms +and corridors which led to the really important books--and of them, it +seems, I know nothing. Epigrams flowed from his tongue, brilliant +characterisations, admirable judgments. He had "placed" every one, and +literature to him seemed like a great mosaic in which he knew the +position of every cube. He knew all the movements and tendencies of +literature, and books seemed to him to be important, not because they +had a message for the mind and heart, but because they illustrated a +tendency, or were a connecting link in a chain. He quoted poems I had +never heard of, he named authors I had never read. He did it all +modestly and quietly enough, with no parade, (I want to do him full +justice) but with an evidently growing disappointment to find that he +had fallen among savages. I am sure that his conclusion was that +authors of popular novels were very shallow, ill-informed people, and I +am sure I wholly agreed with him. Good heavens, what a mind the man +had, how stored with knowledge! how admirably equipped! Nothing that he +had ever put away in his memory seemed to have lost its colour or +outline; and he knew, moreover, how to lay his hand upon everything. +Indeed, it seemed to me that his mind was like an emporium, with +everything in the world arranged on shelves, all new and varnished and +bright, and that he knew precisely the place of everything. I became +the prey of hopeless depression; when I tried to join in, I confused +writers and dates; he set me right, not patronisingly but paternally. +"Ah, but you will remember," he said, and "Yes, but we must not +overlook the fact that"--adding, with admirable humility, "Of course +these are small points, but it is my business to know them." Now I find +myself wondering why I disliked knowledge, communicated thus, so much +as I did. It may be envy and jealousy, it may be humiliation and +despair. But I do not honestly think that it is. I am quite sure I do +not want to possess that kind of knowledge. It is the very sharpness +and clearness of outline about it all that I dislike. The things that +he knows have not become part of his mind in any way: they are stored +away there, like walnuts; and I feel that I have been pelted with +walnuts, deluged and buried in walnuts. The things which my visitor +knows have undergone no change, they have not been fused and blended by +his personality; they have not affected his mind, nor has his mind +affected them. I don't wish to despise or to decry his knowledge; as a +lecturer, he must be invaluable; but he treats literature as a purveyor +might--it has not been food to him, but material and stock-in-trade. +Some of the poetry we talked about--Elizabethan lyrics--grow in my mind +like flowers in a copse; in his mind they are planted in rows, with +their botanical names on tickets. The worst of it is that I do not even +feel encouraged to fill up my gaps of knowledge, or to master the +history of tendency. I feel as if he had rather trampled down the +hyacinths and anemones in my wild and uncultivated woodlands. I should +like, in a dim way, to have his knowledge as well as my own +appreciation, but I would not exchange my knowledge for his. The value +of a lyric or a beautiful sentence, for me, is its melody, its charm, +its mysterious thrill; and there are many books and poems, which I know +to be excellent of their kind, but which have no meaning or message for +me. He seems to think that it is important to have complete texts of +old authors, and I do not think that he makes much distinction between +first-rate and second-rate work. In fact, I think that his view of +literature is the sociological view, and he seems to care more about +tendencies and influences than about the beauty and appeal of +literature. I do not go so far as to say or to think that literature +cannot be treated scientifically; but I feel as I feel about the doctor +in Balzac, I think, who, when his wife cried upon his shoulder, said, +"Hold, I have analysed tears," adding that they contained so much +chlorate of sodium and so much mucus. The truth is that he is a +philosopher, and that I am an individualist; but it leaves me with an +intense desire to be left alone in my woodland, or, at all events, not +to walk there with a ruthless botanist! + + + +November 29, 1888. + +I have heard this morning of the suicide of an old friend. Is it +strange to say that I have heard the news with an unfeigned relief, +even gladness? He was formerly a charming and brilliant creature, full +of enthusiasm and artistic impulses, fitful, wayward, wilful. Somehow +he missed his footing; he fell into disreputable courses; he did +nothing, but drifted about, planning many things, executing nothing. +The last time I saw him was exquisitely painful; we met by appointment, +and I could see that he had tried to screw himself up for the interview +by stimulants. The ghastly feigning of cheerfulness, the bloated face, +the trembling hands, told the sad tale. And now that it is all over, +the shame and the decay, the horror of his having died by his own act +is a purely conventional one. One talks pompously about the selfishness +of it, but it is one of the most unselfish things poor Dick has ever +done; he was a burden and a misery to all those who cared for him. +Recovery was, I sincerely believe, impossible. His was a fine, +uplifted, even noble spirit in youth, but there were terrible +hereditary influences at work, and I cannot honestly say that I think +he was wholly responsible for his sins. If I could think that this act +was done reasonably, in a solemn and recollected spirit, and was not a +mere frightened scurrying out of life, I should be, I believe, wholly +glad. I do not see that any one had anything to gain by his continuing +to live; and if reason is given us to use, to guide our actions by, it +seems to me that we do right to obey it. Suicide may, of course, be a +selfish and a cowardly thing, but the instinct of self-preservation is +so strong that a man must always manifest a certain courage in making +such a decision. The sacrifice of one's own life is not necessarily and +absolutely an immoral thing, because it is always held to be justified +if one's motive is to save another. It is purely, I believe, a question +of motive; whatever poor Dick's motives were, it was certainly the +kindest and bravest thing that he could do; and I look upon his life as +having been as naturally ended as if he had died of disease or by an +accident. There is not a single one of his friends who would not have +been thankful if he had died in the course of nature; and I for one am +even more thankful as it is, because it seems to me that his act +testifies to some tenderness, some consideration for others, as well as +to a degree of resolution with which I had not credited him. + +Of course such a thing deepens the mystery of the world; but such an +act as this is not to me half as mysterious as the action of an +omnipotent Power which allowed so bright and gracious a creature as +Dick was long ago to drift into ugly, sordid, and irreparable misery. +Yet it seems to me now that Dick has at last trusted God completely, +made the last surrender, and put his miserable case in the Father's +hands. + + + +December 2, 1888. + +As I came home to-night, moving slowly westward along deserted roads, +among wide and solitary fields, in the frosty twilight, I passed a +great pale fallow, in the far corner of which, beside a willow-shaded +stream, a great heap of weeds was burning, tended by a single lonely +figure raking in the smouldering pile. A dense column of thick smoke +came volleying from the heap, that went softly and silently up into the +orange-tinted sky; some forty feet higher the smoke was caught by a +moving current of air; much of it ascended higher still, but the thin +streak of moving wind caught and drew out upon itself a long weft of +aerial vapour, that showed a delicate blue against the rose-flushed +west. The long lines of leafless trees, the faint outlines of the low +distant hills, seemed wrapped in meditative silence, dreaming +wistfully, as the earth turned her broad shoulder to the night, and as +the forlorn and chilly sunset faded by soft degrees on the horizon. As +the day thus died, the frost made itself felt, touching the hedgerows +with rime, and crisping the damp road beneath my feet. The end drew on +with a mournful solemnity; but the death of the light seemed a +perfectly natural and beautiful thing, not an event to be grieved over +or regretted, but all part of a sweet and grave progress, in which +silence and darkness seemed, not an interruption to the eager life of +the world, but a happy suspension of activity and life. I was haunted, +as I often am at sunset, by a sense that the dying light was trying to +show me some august secret, some gracious mystery, which would silence +and sustain the soul could it but capture it. Some great and wonderful +presence seemed to hold up a hand, with a gesture half of invitation, +half of compassion for my blindness. Down there, beyond the lines of +motionless trees, where the water gleamed golden in the reaches of the +stream, the secret brooded, withdrawing itself resistlessly into the +glowing west. A wistful yearning filled my soul to enter into that +incommunicable peace. Yet if one could take the wings of the morning, +and follow that flying zone of light, as swiftly as the air, one could +pursue the same sunset all the world over, and see the fiery face of +the sun ever sinking to his setting, over the broad furrows of moving +seas, over tangled tropic forests, out to the shapeless wintry land of +the south. Day by day has the same pageant enacted itself, for who can +tell what millions of years. And in that vast perspective of weltering +aeons has come the day when God has set me here, a tiny sentient point, +conscious, in a sense, of it all, and conscious too that, long after I +sleep in the dust, the same strange and beautiful thing will be +displayed age after age. And yet it is all outside of me, all without. +I am a part of it, yet with no sense of my unity with it. That is the +marvellous and bewildering thing, that each tiny being like myself has +the same sense of isolation, of distinctness, of the perfectly rounded +life, complete faculties, independent existence. Another day is done, +and leaves me as bewildered, as ignorant as ever, as aware of my small +limitations, as lonely and uncomforted. + +Who shall show me why I love, with this deep and thirsty intensity, the +array of gold and silver light, these mist-hung fields with their soft +tints, the glow that flies and fades, the cold veils of frosty vapour? +Thousands of men and women have seen the sunset pass, loving it even as +I love it. They have gone into the silence as I too shall go, and no +hint comes back as to whether they understand and are satisfied. + +And now I turn in at the well-known gate, and see the dark gables of my +house, with the high elms of the grove outlined against the pale sky. +The cheerful windows sparkle with warmth and light, welcoming me, fresh +from the chilly air, out of the homeless fields. With such array of +cheerful usages I beguile my wondering heart, and chase away the wild +insistent thoughts, the deep yearnings that thrill me. Thus am I bidden +to desire and to be unsatisfied, to rest and marvel not, to stay, on +this unsubstantial show of peace and security, the aching and wondering +will. + + + +December 4, 1888. + +Writing, like music, ought to have two dimensions--a horizontal +movement of melody, a perpendicular depth of tone. A person unskilled +in music can only recognise a single horizontal movement, an air. One +who is a little more skilled can recognise the composition of a chord. +A real musician can read a score horizontally, with all its contrasting +and combining melodies. Sometimes one gets, in writing, a piece of +horizontal structure, a firm and majestic melody, with but little +harmony. Such are the great spare, strong stories of the old world. +Modern writing tends to lay much more emphasis upon depth of colour, +and the danger there is that such writing may become a mere +structureless modulation, The perfect combination is to get firm +structure, sparingly and economically enriched by colour, but colour +always subordinated to structure. When I was young I undervalued +structure and overvalued colour; but it was a good training in a way, +because I learned to appreciate the vital necessity of structure, and I +learnt the command of harmony. What is it that gives structure? It is +firm and clear intellectual conception, the grasp of form and +proportion; while colour is given by depth and richness of personality, +by power of perception, and still more by the power of fusing +perception with personality. The important thing here is that the thing +perceived and felt should not simply be registered and pigeon-holed, +but that it should become a cell of the writer's soul, respond to his +pulse, be animated by his vital forces. + +Now, in my present state, I have lost my hold on melody in some way or +other; my creative intellectual power has struck work; and when I try +to exercise it, I can only produce vague textures of modulated +thoughts--things melodious in themselves, but ineffective because they +are isolated effects, instead of effects emphasising points, crises, +climaxes. I have strained some mental muscle, I suppose; but the +unhappy part of the situation is that I have not lost the desire to use +it. + +It would be a piece of good fortune for me now if I could fall in with +some vigorous mind who could give me a lead, indicate a subject. But +then the work that resulted would miss unity, I think. What I ought to +be content to do is to garner more impressions; but I seem to be +surfeited of impressions. + + + +December 10, 1888. + +To-day I stumbled upon one of my old childish books--Grimm's Household +Stories. I am ashamed to say how long I read it. These old tales, which +I used to read as transcripts of marvellous and ancient facts, have, +many of them, gained for me, through experience of life, a beautiful +and symbolical value; one in particular, the tale of Karl Katz. + +Karl used to feed his goats in the ruins of an old castle, high up +above the stream. Day after day one of his herd used to disappear, +coming back in the evening to join the homeward procession, very fat +and well-liking. So Karl set himself to watch, and saw that the goat +slipped in at a hole in the masonry. He enlarged the hole, and +presently was able to creep into a dark passage. He made his way along, +and soon heard a sound like a falling hailstorm. He groped his way +thither, and found the goat, in the dim light, feeding on grains of +corn which came splashing down from above. He looked and listened, and, +from the sounds of stamping and neighing overhead, he became aware that +the grain was failing through the chinks of a paved floor from a stable +inside the hill. I forget at this moment what happened next--the story +is rich in inconsequent details--but Karl shortly heard a sound like +thunder, which he discerned at last to be persons laughing and shouting +and running in the vaulted passages. He stole on, and found, in an +open, grassy place, great merry men playing at bowls. He was welcomed +and set down in a chair, though he could not even lift one of the bowls +when invited to join in the game. A dwarf brought him wine in a cup, +which he drank, and presently he fell asleep. + +When he woke, all was silent and still; he made his way back; the goats +were gone, and it was the early morning, all misty and dewy among the +ruins, when he squeezed out of the hole. + +He felt strangely haggard and tired, and reached the village only to +find that seventy years had elapsed, and that he was an old and +forgotten man, with no place for him. He had lost his home, and though +there were one or two old grandfathers, spent and dying, who remembered +the day when he was lost, and the search made for him, yet now there +was no room for the old man. The gap had filled up, life had flowed on. +They had grieved for him, but they did not want him back. He disturbed +their arrangements; he was another useless mouth to feed. + +The pretty old story is full of parables, sad and sweet. But the kernel +of the tale is a warning to all who, for any wilfulness or curiosity, +however romantic or alluring the quest, forfeit their place for an +instant in the world. You cannot return. Life accommodates itself to +its losses, and however sincerely a man may be lamented, yet if he +returns, if he tries to claim his place, he is in the way, de trop. No +one has need of him. + +An artist has most need of this warning, because he of all men is +tempted to enter the dark place in the hill, to see wonderful things +and to drink the oblivious wine. Let him rather keep his hold on the +world, at whatever sacrifice. Because by the time that he has explored +the home of the merry giants, and dreamed his dream, the world to which +he tries to tell the vision will heed it not, but treat it as a +fanciful tale. + +All depends on the artist being in league with his day; if he is born +too early or too late, he has no hold on the world, no message for it. +Either he is a voice out of the past, an echo of old joys, piping a +forgotten message, or he is fanciful, unreal, visionary, if he sees and +tries to utter what shall be. By the time that events confirm his +foresight, the vitality of his prophecy is gone, and he is only looked +at with a curious admiration, as one that had a certain clearness of +vision, but no more; he is called into court by the historian of +tendency, but he has had no hold on living men. + +One sees men of great artistic gifts who suffer from each of these +disadvantages. One sees poets, born in a prosaic age, who would have +won high fame if they had been born in an age of poets. And one sees, +too, men who seem to struggle with big, unintelligible thoughts, +thoughts which do not seem to fit on to anything existing. The happy +artist is the man who touches the note which awakens a responsive echo +in many hearts; the man who instinctively uses the medium of the time, +and who neither regrets the old nor portends the new. + +Karl Katz must content himself, if he can find a corner and a crust, +with the memory of the day when the sun lay hot among the ruins, with +the thought of the pleasant coolness of the vault, the leaping shower +of corn, the thunder of the imprisoned feet, the heroic players, the +heady wine. That must be enough for him. He has had a taste, let him +remember, of marvels hidden from common eyes and ears. Let it be for +him to muse in the sun, and to be grateful for the space of +recollection given him. If he had lived the life of the world, he would +but have had a treasure of simple memories, much that was sordid, much +that was sad. + +But now he has his own dreams, and he must pay the price in heaviness +and dreariness! + + + +December 14, 1888. + +The danger of art as an occupation is that one uses life, looks at +life, as so much material for one's art. Life becomes a province of +art, instead of art being a province of life. That is all a sad +mistake, perhaps an irreparable mistake! I walked to-day on the crisp +frozen snow, down the valley, by field-paths, among leafless copses and +wood-ends. The stream ran dark and cold, between its brambly banks; the +snow lay pure and smooth on the high-sloping fields. It made a heart of +whiteness in the covert, the trees all delicately outlined, the hazels +weaving an intricate pattern. All perfectly and exquisitely beautiful. +Sight after sight of subtle and mysterious beauty, vignette after +vignette, picture after picture. If I could but sing it, or say it, +depict or record it, I thought to myself! Yet I could not analyse what +the desire was. I do not think I wished to interpret the sight to +others, or even to capture it for myself. No matter at what season of +the year I pass through the valley, it is always filled from end to end +with beauty, ever changing, perishing, ever renewing itself. In spring +the copse is full of tender points of green, uncrumpling and uncurling. +The hyacinths make a carpet of steely blue, the anemones weave their +starred tapestry. In the summer, the grove hides its secret, dense with +leaf, the heavy-seeded grass rises in the field, the tall flowering +plants make airy mounds of colour; in autumn, the woods blaze with +orange and gold, the air is heavy with the scent of the dying leaf. In +winter, the eye dwells with delight upon the spare low tints; and when +the snow falls and lies, as it does to-day, the whole scene has a still +and mournful beauty, a pure economy of contrasted light and gloom. Yet +the trained perception of the artist does not dwell upon the thought of +the place as upon a perpetual feast of beauty and delight. Rather, it +shames me to reflect, one dwells upon it as a quarry of effects, where +one can find and detach the note of background, the sweet symbol that +will lend point and significance to the scene that one is labouring at. +Instead of being content to gaze, to listen, to drink in, one thinks +only what one can carry away and make one's own. If one's art were +purely altruistic, if one's aim were to emphasise some sweet aspect of +nature which the careless might otherwise overlook or despise; or even +if the sight haunted one like a passion, and fed the heart with hope +and love, it would be well. But does one in reality feel either of +these purposes? Speaking candidly, I do not. I care very little for my +message to the world. It is true that I have a deep and tender love for +the gracious things of earth; but I cannot be content with that. One +thinks of Wordsworth, rapt in contemplation, sitting silent for a whole +morning, his eyes fixed upon the pool of the moorland stream, or the +precipice with the climbing ashes. It was like a religion to him, a +communion with something holy and august which in that moment drew near +to his soul. But with me it is different. To me the passion is to +express it, to embalm it, in phrase or word, not for my pride in my +art, not for any desire to give the treasure to others, but simply, so +it seems, in obedience to a tyrannous instinct to lend the thought, the +sight, another shape. I despair of defining the feeling. It is partly a +desire to arrest the fleeting moment, to give it permanence in the +ruinous lapse of things, the same feeling that made old Herrick say to +the daffodils, "We weep to see you haste away so soon." Partly the joy +of the craftsman in making something that shall please the eye and ear. +It is not the desire to create, as some say, but to record. For when +one writes an impassioned scene, it seems no more an act of creation +than one feels about one's dreams. The wonder of dreams is that one +does not make them; they come upon one with all the pleasure of +surprise and experience. They are there; and so, when one indulges +imagination, one does not make, one merely tells the dream. It is this +that makes art so strange and sad an occupation, that one lives in a +beautiful world, which does not seem to be of one's own designing, but +from which one is awakened, in terror and disgust, by bodily pain, +discomfort, anxiety, loss. Yet it seems useless to say that life is +real and imagination unreal. They are both there, both real. The danger +is to use life to feed the imagination, not to use imagination to feed +life. In these sad weeks I have been like a sleeper awakened. The world +of imagination, in which I have lived and moved, has crumbled into +pieces over my head; the wind and rain beat through the flimsy +dwelling, and I must arise and go. I have sported with life as though +it were a pretty plaything; and I find it turn upon me like a wild +beast, gaunt, hungry, angry. I am terrified by its evil motions, I +sicken at its odour. That is the deep mystery and horror of life, that +one yields unerringly to blind and imperious instincts, not knowing +which may lead us into green and fertile pastures of hope and happy +labour, and which may draw us into thorny wildernesses. The old fables +are true, that one must not trust the smiling presences, the beguiling +words. Yet how is one to know which of the forms that beckon us we may +trust. Must we learn the lesson by sad betrayals, by dark catastrophes? +I have wandered, it seems, along a flowery path--and yet I have not +gathered the poisonous herbs of sin; I have loved innocence and +goodness; but for all that I have followed a phantom, and now that it +is too late to retrace my steps, I find that I have been betrayed. I +feel + + "As some bold seer in a trance + Seeing all his own mischance." + + +Well, at least one may still be bold! + + + +December 22, 1888. + +Perhaps my trial comes to me that it may test my faith in art; perhaps +to show me that the artist's creed is a false and shallow one after +all. What is it that we artists do? In a happy hour I should have said +glibly that we discern and interpret beauty. But now it seems to me +that no man can ever live upon beauty. I think I have gone wrong in +busying myself so ardently in trying to discern the quality of beauty +in all things. I seem to have submitted everything--virtue, honour, +life itself--to that test. I appear to myself like an artist who has +devoted himself entirely to the appreciation of colour, who is suddenly +struck colour-blind; he sees the forms of things as clearly as ever, +but they are dreary and meaningless. I seem to have tried everything, +even conduct, by an artistic standard, and the quality which I have +devoted myself to discerning has passed suddenly out of life. And my +mistake has been all the more grievous, because I have always believed +that it was life of which I was in search. There are three great +writers--two of them artists as well--whose personality has always +interested me profoundly--Ruskin, Carlyle, Rossetti. But I have never +been able wholly to admire the formal and deliberate products of their +minds. Ruskin as an art-critic--how profoundly unfair, prejudiced, +unjust he is! He has made up his mind about the merit of an artist; he +will lay down a principle about accuracy in art, and to what extent +imagination may improve upon vision; and then he will abuse Claude for +modifying a scene, in the same breath, and for the same reasons, with +which he will praise Turner for exaggerating one. He will use the same +stick that he throws for one dog to fetch, to beat another dog that he +dislikes. Of course he says fine and suggestive things by the way, and +he did a great work in inspiring people to look for beauty, though he +misled many feeble spirits into substituting one convention for +another. I cannot read a page of his formal writings without anger and +disgust. Yet what a beautiful, pathetic, noble spirit he had! The +moment he writes, simply and tenderly, from his own harrowed heart, he +becomes a dear and honoured friend. In Praeterita, in his diaries and +letters, in his familiar and unconsidered utterances, he is perfectly +delightful, conscious of his own waywardness and whimsicality; but when +he lectures and dictates, he is like a man blowing wild blasts upon a +shrill trumpet. Then Carlyle--his big books, his great tawdry, smoky +pictures of scenes, his loud and clumsy moralisations, his perpetual +thrusting of himself into the foreground, like some obstreperous +showman; he wearies and dizzies my brain with his raucous clamour, his +uncouth convolutions. I saw the other day a little Japanese picture of +a boat in a stormy sea, the waves beating over it; three warriors in +the boat lie prostrate and rigid with terror and misery. Above, through +a rent in the clouds, is visible an ugly grotesque figure, with a +demoniacal leer on his face, beating upon a number of drums. The +picture is entitled "The Thunder-God beats his drums." Well, Carlyle +seems to me like that; he has no pity for humanity, he only likes to +add to its terrors and its bewilderment. He preached silence and +seclusion to men of activity, energy to men of contemplation. He was +furious, whatever humanity did, whether it slept or waked. His message +is the message of the booming gale, and the swollen cataract. Yet in +his diaries and letters, what splendid perception, what inimitable +humour, what rugged emotion! I declare that Carlyle's thumbnail +portraits of people and scenes are some of the most admirable things +ever set down on paper. I love and admire the old furious, +disconsolate, selfish fellow with all my heart; though he was a bad +husband, he was a true friend, for all his discordant cries and groans. +Then there is Rossetti--a man who wrote a few incredibly beautiful +poems, and in whom one seems to feel the inner fire and glow of art. +Yet many of his pictures are to me little but voluptuous and wicked +dreams; and his later sonnets are full of poisonous fragrance--poetry +embroidered and scented, not poetry felt. What a generous, royal +prodigal nature he had, till he sank into his drugged and indulgent +seclusion! Here then are three great souls. Ruskin, the pure lover of +things noble and beautiful, but shadowed by a prim perversity, an +old-maidish delicacy, a petulant despair. Carlyle, a great, rugged, and +tumultuous heart, brutalised by ill-health, morbidity, selfishness. +Rossetti, a sort of day-star in art, stepping forth like an angel, to +fall lower than Lucifer. What is the meaning of these strange +catastrophes, these noble natures so infamously hampered? In the three +cases, it seems to be that melancholy, brooding over a world, so +exquisitely designed and yet so unaccountably marred, drove one to +madness, one to gloom, one to sensuality. We believe or try to believe +that God is pure and loving and true, and that His Heart is with all +that is noble and hopeful and high. Yet the more generous the +character, the deeper is the fall! Can such things be meant to show us +that we have no concern with art at all; and that our only hope is to +cling to bare, austere, simple, uncomforted virtue? Ought we to try to +think of art only as an innocent amusement and diversion for our +leisure hours? As a quest to which no man may vow himself, save at the +cost of walking in a vain shadow all his days? Ought we to steel our +hearts against the temptation, which seems to be implanted as deep as +anything in my own nature--nay, deeper--to hold that what one calls +ugliness and bad taste is of the nature of sin? But what then is the +meaning of the tyrannous instinct to select and to represent, to +capture beauty? Ought it to be enough to see beauty in the things +around us, in flowers and light, to hear it in the bird's song and the +falling stream--to perceive it thus gratefully and thankfully, and to +go back to our simple lives? I do not know; it is all a great mystery; +it is so hard to believe that God should put these ardent, delicious, +sweet, and solemn instincts into our spirits, simply that we may learn +our error in following them. And yet I feel with a sad certainty to-day +that I have somehow missed the way, and that God cannot or will not +help me to find it. Are we then bidden and driven to wander? Or is +there indeed some deep and perfect secret of peace and tranquillity, +which we are meant to find? Does it perhaps lie open to our eyes--as +when one searches a table over and over for some familiar object, which +all the while is there before us, plain to touch or sight? + + + +January 3, 1889. + +There is a tiny vignette of Blake's, a woodcut, I think, in which one +sees a ladder set up to the crescent moon from a bald and bare corner +of the globe. There are two figures that seem to be conversing +together; on the ladder itself, just setting his foot to the lowest +rung, is the figure of a man who is beginning to climb in a furious +hurry. "I want, I want," says the little legend beneath. The execution +is trivial enough; it is all done, and not very well done, in a space +not much bigger than a postage-stamp--but it is one of the many cases +in which Blake, by a minute symbol, expressed a large idea. One wonders +if he knew how large an idea it was. It is a symbol for me of all the +vague, eager, intense longing of the world, the desire of satisfaction, +of peace, of fulfilment, of perfection; the power that makes people +passionately religious, that makes souls so much greater and stronger +than they appear to themselves to be. It is the thought that makes us +at moments believe intensely and urgently in the justice, the mercy, +the perfect love of God, even at moments when everything round us +appears to contradict the idea. It is the outcome of that strange right +to happiness which we all feel, the instinct that makes us believe of +pain and grief that they are abnormal, and will be, must be, set right +and explained somewhere. The thought comes to me most poignantly at +sunset, when trees and chimneys stand up dark against the fiery glow, +and when the further landscape lies smiling, lapt in mist, on the verge +of dreams; that moment always seems to speak to me with a personal +voice. "Yes," it seems to say, "I am here and everywhere--larger, +sweeter, truer, more gracious than anything you have ever dreamed of or +hoped for--but the time to know all is not yet." I cannot explain the +feeling or interpret it; but it has sometimes seemed to me, in such +moments, that I am, in very truth, not a child of God, but a part of +Himself--separated from Him for a season, imprisoned, for some strange +and beautiful purpose, in the chains of matter, remembering faintly and +obscurely something that I have lost, as a man strives to recall a +beautiful dream that has visited him. It is then that one most desires +to be strong and free, to be infinitely patient and tender and loving, +to be different. And then one comes back to the world with a sense of +jar and shock, to broken purposes, and dull resentments, to unkindly +thoughts, and people who do not even pretend to wish one well. I have +been trying with all my might in these desolate weeks to be brave and +affectionate and tender, and I have not succeeded. It is easy enough, +when one is happily occupied for a part of the day, but when one is +restless, dissatisfied, impatient, ineffective, it is a constant and a +weary effort. And what is more, I dislike sympathy. I would rather bear +a thing in solitude and silence. I have no self-pity, and it is +humiliating and weakening to be pitied. Yet of course Maud knows that I +am unhappy; and the wretchedness of it is that it has introduced a +strain into our relations which I have never felt before. I sit +reading, trying to pass the hours, trying to stifle thought. I look up +and see her eyes fixed on me full of compassion and love--and I do not +want compassion. Maud knows it, divines it all; but she can no more +keep her compassion hidden than I can keep my unrest hidden. I have +grown irritable, suspicious, hard to live with. Yet with all my heart +and soul I desire to be patient, tolerant, kindly, sweet-tempered. +FitzGerald said somewhere that ill-health makes all of us villains. +This is the worst of it, that for all my efforts I get weaker, more +easily vexed, more discontented. I do not and cannot trace the smallest +benefit which results to me or any one else from my unhappiness. The +shadow of it has even fallen over my relations with the children, who +are angelically good. Maggie, with that divine instinct which women +possess--what a perfectly beautiful thing it is!--has somehow contrived +to discern that things are amiss with me, and I can perceive that she +tries all that her little heart and mind can devise to please, soothe, +interest me. But I do not want to be ministered to, exquisite as the +instinct is in the child; and all the time I am as far off my object as +ever. I cannot work, I cannot think. I have said fine things in my +books about the discipline of reluctant suffering; and now my feeling +is that I could bear any other kind of trial better. It seems to be +given to me with an almost demoniacal prescience of what should most +dishearten me. + + + "It would not school the shuddering will + To patience, were it sweet to bear," + +says an old poet; and it is true, I have no doubt; but, good God, to +think that a man, so richly dowered as I am with every conceivable +blessing, should yet have so small a reserve of faith and patience! +Even now I can frame epigrams about it. "To learn to be content not to +be content"--that is the secret--but meanwhile I stumble in dark paths, +through the grove nullo penetrabilis astro, where men have wandered +before now. It seems fine and romantic enough, when one thinks of +another soul in torment. One remembers the old sage, reading quietly at +a sunset hour, who had a sudden vision of the fate that should befall +him. His book falls from his hands, he sits there, a beautiful and +venerable figure enough, staring heavily into the void. It makes me +feel that I shall never dare to draw the picture of a man in the grip +of suffering again; I have had so little of it in my life, and I have +drawn it with a luxurious artistic emotion. I remember once saying of a +friend that his work was light and trivial, because he had never +descended into hell. Now that I have myself set foot there, I feel art +and love, and life itself, shrivel in the relentless chill--for it is +icy cold and drearily bright in hell, not dark and fiery, as poets have +sung! I feel that I could wrestle better with the loss of health, of +wealth, of love, for there would be something to bear, some burden to +lift. Now there is nothing to bear, except a blank purposelessness +which eats the heart out of me. I am in the lowest place, in the +darkness and the deep. + + + +January 8, 1889. + +Snow underfoot this morning; and a brown blink on the horizon which +shows that more is coming. I have the odd feeling that I have never +really seen my house before, the snow lights it all up so strangely, +tinting the ceilings a glowing white, touching up high lights on the +top of picture-frames, and throwing the lower part of the rooms into a +sort of pleasant dusk. + +Maud and the children went off this afternoon to an entertainment. I +accompanied them to the door; what a pretty effect the snow background +gives to young faces; it lends a pretty morbidezza to the colouring, a +sort of very delicate green tinge to the paler shades. That does not +sound as if it would be beautiful in a human face, but it is; the faces +look like the child-angels of Botticelli, and the pink and rose flush +of the cheeks is softly enriched and subdued; and then the soft warmth +of fair and curly hair is delicious. I was happy enough with them, in a +sort of surface happiness. The little waves at the top of the mind +broke in sunlight; but down below, the cold dark water sleeps still +enough. I left them, and took a long trudge among the valleys. Oh me! +how beautiful it all was; the snowy fields, with the dark copses and +leafless trees among them; the rich clean light everywhere, the world +seen as through a dusky crystal. Then the sun went down in state, and +the orange sky through the dark tree-stems brought me a thrill of that +strange yearning desire for something--I cannot tell what--that seems +so near and yet so far away. Yet I was sad enough too; my mind works +like a mill with no corn to grind. I can devise nothing, think of +nothing. There beats in my head a verse of a little old Latin poem, by +an unhappy man enough, in whose sorrowful soul the delight of the +beautiful moment was for ever poisoned by the thought that it was +passing, passing; and that the spirit, whatever joy might be in store +for it, could never again be at the same sweet point of its course. The +poem is about a woodcock, a belated bird that haunted the hanging +thickets of his Devonshire home. "Ah, hapless bird," he says, "for you +to-day King December is stripping these oaks; nor any hope of food do +the hazel-thickets afford." That is my case. I have lingered too late, +trusting to the ease and prodigal wealth of the summer, and now the +woods stand bare about me, while my comrades have taken wing for the +South. The beady eye, the puffed feathers grow sick and dulled with +hunger. Why cannot I rest a little in the beauty all about me? Take it +home to my shivering soul? Nay, I will not complain, even to myself. + +I came back at sundown, through the silent garden, all shrouded and +muffled with snow. The snow lay on the house, outlining the cornices, +cresting the roof-tiles, crusted sharply on the cupola, whitening the +tall chimney-stacks. The comfortable smoke went up into the still air, +and the firelight darted in the rooms. What a sense of beautiful +permanence, sweet hopefulness, fireside warmth it all gave; and it is +real as well. No life that I could have devised is so rich in love and +tranquillity as mine; everything to give me content, except the +contented mind. Why cannot I enter, seat myself in the warm firelight, +open a book, and let the old beautiful thoughts flow into my mind, till +the voices of wife and children return to gladden me, and I listen to +all that they have seen and done? Why should I rather sit, like a +disconsolate child among its bricks, feebly and sadly planning new +combinations and fantastic designs? I have done as much and more than +most of my contemporaries; what is this insensate hunger of the spirit +that urges me to work that I cannot do, for rewards that I do not want? +Why cannot I be content to dream and drowse a little? + + + "Rest, then, and rest + And think of the best, + 'Twixt summer and spring, + When no birds sing." + + +That is what I desire to do, and cannot. It is as though some creeper +that had enfolded and enringed a house with its tendrils, creeping +under window-ledges and across mellow brickwork, had been suddenly cut +off at the root, and hung faded and lustreless, not even daring to be +torn away. Yet I am alive and well, my mind is alert and vigorous, I +have no cares or anxieties, except that my heart seems hollow at the +core. + + + +January 12, 1889. + +I have had a very bad time of late. It seems futile to say anything +about it, and the plain man would rub his eyes, and wonder where the +misery lay. I have been perfectly well, and everything has gone +smoothly; but I cannot write. I have begun half-a-dozen books. I have +searched my notes through and through. I have sketched plots, written +scenes. I cannot go on with any of them. I have torn up chapters with +fierce disgust, or have laid them quietly aside. There is no vitality +in them. If I read them aloud to any one, he would wonder what was +wrong--they are as well written as my other books, as amusing, as +interesting. But it is all without energy or invention, it is all worse +than my best. The people are puppets, their words are pumped up out of +a stagnant reservoir. Everything I do reminds me of something I have +done before. If I could bring myself to finish one of these books, I +could get money and praise enough. Many people would not know the +difference. But the real and true critic would see through them; he +would discern that I had lost the secret. I think that perhaps I ought +to be content to work dully and faithfully on, to finish the poor dead +thing, to compose its dead limbs decently, to lay it out. But I cannot +do that, though it might be a moral discipline. I am not conscious of +the least mental fatigue, or loss of power--quite the reverse. I hunger +and thirst to write, but I have no invention. + +The worst of it is that it reveals to me how much the whole of my life +was built up round the hours I gave to writing. I used to read, write +letters, do business in the morning, holding myself back from the +beloved task, not thinking over it, not anticipating the pleasure, yet +aware that some secret germination was going on among the cells of the +brain. Then came the afternoon, the walk or ride, and then at last +after tea arrived the blessed hour. The chapter was all ready to be +written, and the thing flowed equably and clearly from the pen. The +passage written, I would turn to some previous chapter, which had been +type-written, smooth out the creases, enrich the dialogue, retouch the +descriptions, omit, correct, clarify. Perhaps in the evening I would +read a passage aloud, if we were alone; and how often would Maud, with +her perfect instinct, lay her finger on a weak place, show me that +something was abrupt or lengthy, expose an unreal emotion, or, best of +all, generously and whole-heartedly approve. It seems now, looking back +upon it, that it was all impossibly happy and delightful, too good to +be true. Yet I have everything that I had, except my unhappy writing; +and the want of it poisons life. I no longer seem to lie pleasantly in +ambush for pretty traits of character, humorous situations, delicate +nuances of talk. I look blankly at garden, field, and wood, because I +cannot draw from them the setting that I want. Even my close and +intimate companionship with Maud seems to have suffered, for I was like +a child, bringing the little wonders that it finds by the hedgerow to +be looked at by a loving eye. Maud is angelically tender, kind, sweet. +She tells me only to wait; she draws me on to talk; she surrounds me +with love and care. And in the midst of it all I sit, in dry misery, +hating myself for my feebleness and cowardice, keeping as far as +possible my pain to myself, brooding, feverishly straining, struggling +hopelessly to recover the clue. The savour has gone out of life; I feel +widowed, frozen, desolate. How often have I tranquilly and +good-humouredly contemplated the time when I need write no more, when +my work should be done, when I should have said all I had to say, and +could take life as it came, soberly and wisely. Now that the end has +come of itself, I feel like a hopeless prisoner, with death the only +escape from a bitter and disconsolate solitude. + +Can I not amuse myself with books, pictures, talk? No, because it is +all a purposeless passing of dreary hours. Before, there was always an +object ahead of me, a light to which I made my way; and all the +pleasant incidents of life were things to guide me, and to beguile the +plodding path. Now I am adrift; I need go neither forwards nor +backwards; and the things which before were gentle and quiet +occupations have become duties to be drearily fulfilled. + +I have put down here exactly what I feel. It is not cowardice that +makes me do it, but a desire to face the situation, exactly as it is. +Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit! And in any case nothing can be +done by blinking the truth. I shall need all my courage and all my +resolution to meet it, and I shall meet it as manfully as I can. Yet +the thought of meeting it thus has no inspiration in it. My only desire +is that the frozen mind may melt at the touch of some genial ray, and +that the buds may prick and unfold upon the shrunken bough. + + + +January 15, 1889. + +One of the miseries of my present situation is that it is all so +intangible, and to the outsider so incomprehensible. There is no +particular reason why I should write. I do not need the money; I +believe I do not desire fame. Let me try to be perfectly frank about +this; I do not at all desire the tangible results of fame, invitations +to banquets, requests to deliver lectures, the acquaintance of notable +people, laudatory reviews. I like a quiet life; I do not want monstrari +digito, as Horace says. I have had a taste of all of these things, and +they do not amuse me, though I confess that I thought they would. I +feel in this rather as Tennyson felt--that I dislike contemptuous +criticism, and do not value praise--except the praise of a very few, +the masters of the craft. And this one does not get, because the great +men are mostly too much occupied in producing their own masterpieces to +have the time or inclination to appraise others. Yet I am sure there is +a vile fibre of ambition lurking in me, interwoven with my nature, +which I cannot exactly disentangle. I very earnestly desire to do good +and fine work, to write great books. If I genuinely and critically +approved of my own work, I could go on writing for the mere pleasure of +it, in the face of universal neglect. But one may take it for granted +that unless one is working on very novel and original lines--and I am +not--the good qualities of one's work are not likely to escape +attention. The reason why Keats, and Shelley, and Tennyson, and +Wordsworth were decried, was because their work was so unusual, so new, +that conventional critics could not understand it. But I am using a +perfectly familiar medium, and there is a large and acute band of +critics who are looking out for interesting work in the region of +novels. Besides I have arrived at the point of having a vogue, so that +anything I write would be treated with a certain respect. Where my +ambition comes in is in the desire not to fall below my standard. I +suppose that while I feel that I do not rate the judgment of the +ordinary critic highly, I have an instinctive sense that my work is +worthy of his admiration. The pain I feel is the sort of pain that an +athlete feels who has established, say, a record in high-jumping, and +finds that he can no longer hurl his stiffening legs and portly frame +over the lath. Well, I have always held strongly that men ought to know +when to stop. There is nothing more melancholy and contemptible than to +see a successful man, who has brought out a brood of fine things, +sitting meekly on addled eggs, or, still worse, squatting complacently +among eggshells. It is like the story of the old tiresome Breton farmer +whose wife was so annoyed by his ineffective fussiness, that she clapt +him down to sit on a clutch of stone eggs for the rest of his life. How +often have I thought how deplorable it was to see a man issuing a +series of books, every one of which is feebler than its predecessor, +dishing up the old characters, the stale ideas, the used-up +backgrounds. I have always hoped that some one would be kind and brave +enough to tell me when I did that. But now that the end seems to have +come to me naturally and spontaneously, I cannot accept my defeat. I am +like the monkey of whom Frank Buckland wrote, who got into the kettle +when the water was lukewarm, and found the outer air so cold whenever +he attempted to leave it, that he was eventually very nearly boiled +alive. The fact that my occupation is gone leaves life hollow to the +core. Perhaps a wise man would content himself with composing some +placid literary essays, selecting some lesser figure in the world of +letters, collecting gossip, and what are called "side-lights," about +him, visiting his birthplace and early haunts, criticising his +writings. That would be a harmless way of filling the time. But any one +who has ever tried creative work gets filled with a nauseating disgust +for making books out of other people's writings, and constructing a +kind of resurrection-pie out of the shreds. Moreover I know nothing +except literature; I could only write a literary biography; and it has +always seemed to me a painful irony that men who have put into their +writings what other people put into deeds and acts should be the very +people whose lives are sedulously written and rewritten, generation +after generation. The instinct is natural enough. The vivid memories of +statesmen and generals fade; but as long as we have the fascinating and +adorable reveries of great spirits, we are consumed with a desire to +reconstruct their surroundings, that we may learn where they found +their inspiration. A great poet, a great imaginative writer, so +glorifies and irradiates the scene in which his mighty thoughts came to +him, that we cannot help fancying that the secret lies in crag and hill +and lake, rather than in the mind that gathered in the common joy. I +have a passion for visiting the haunts of genius, but rather because +they teach me that inspiration lies everywhere, if we can but perceive +it, than because I hope to detect where the particular charm lay. And +so I am driven back upon my own poor imagination. I say to myself, like +Samson, "I will go out as at other times before, and shake myself," and +then the end of the verse falls on me like a shadow--"and he wist not +that the Lord was departed from him." + + + +January 18, 1889. + +Nothing the matter, and yet everything the matter! I plough on drearily +enough, like a vessel forging slowly ahead against a strong, ugly, +muddy stream. I seem to gain nothing, neither hope, patience, nor +strength. My spirit revolted at first, but now I have lost the heart +even for that: I simply bear my burden and wait. One tends to think, at +such times, that no one has ever passed through a similar experience +before; and the isolation in which one moves is the hardest part of it +all. Alone, and cut off even from God! If one felt that one was +learning something, gaining power or courage, one could bear it +cheerfully; but I feel rather as though all my vitality and moral +strength was being pressed and drained from me. Yet I do not desire +death and silence. I rather crave for life and light. + +No, I am not describing my state fairly. At times I have a sense that +something, some power, some great influence, is trying to communicate +with me, to deliver me some message. There are many hours when it is +not so, when my nerveless brain seems losing its hold, slipping off +into some dark confusion of sense. Yet again there are other moments, +when sights and sounds have an overpowering and awful significance; +when the gleams of some tremendous secret seemed flashed upon my mind, +at the sight of the mist-hung valley with its leafless woods and level +water-meadows; the flaring pomp of sunset hung low in the west over the +bare ploughland or the wide-watered plain; the wailing of the wind +round the firelit house; the faint twitter of awakening birds in the +ivy; the voice and smile of my children; the music breaking the silence +of the house at evening. In a moment the sensation comes over me, that +the sound or sight is sent not vaguely or lightly, but deliberately +shown to me, for some great purpose, if I could but divine it; an +oracle of God, if I could but catch the words He utters in the darkness +and the silence. + + + +February 1, 1889. + +My dissatisfaction and depression begin to tell on me. I grow nervous +and strained; I am often sleepless, or my sleep is filled by vivid, +horrible, intolerable dreams. I wake early in the clutch of fear. I +wrestle at times with intolerable irritability; social gatherings +become unbearable; I have all sorts of unmanning sensations, +dizzinesses, tremors; I have that dreadful sensation that my +consciousness of things and people around me is slipping away from me, +and that only by a strong effort can one retain one's hold upon them. I +fall into a sort of dull reverie, and come back to the real world with +a shock of surprise and almost horror. I went the other day to consult +a great doctor about this. He reassured me; he laughed at my fears; he +told me that it was a kind of neurasthenia, not fanciful but real; that +my brain had been overworked, and was taking its revenge; that it was +insufficiently nourished, and so forth. He knew who I was, and treated +me with a respectful sympathy. I told him I had taken a prolonged +holiday since my last book, and he replied that it had not been long +enough. "You must take it easy," he said. "Don't do anything you don't +like." I replied that the difficulty was to find anything I did like. +He smiled at this, and said that I need not be afraid of breaking down; +he sounded me, and said that I was perfectly strong. "Indeed," he +added, "you might go to a dozen doctors to be examined for an insurance +policy, and you would be returned as absolutely robust." In the course +of his investigations, he applied a test, quite casually and as if he +were hardly interested, the point of which he thought (I suppose) that +I should not divine. Unfortunately I knew it, and I need only say that +it was a test for something very bad indeed. That was rather a horrible +moment, when a grim thing out of the shadow slipped forward for a +moment, and looked me in the face. But it was over in an instant, and +he went on to other things. He ended by saying: "Mr. ----, you are not +as bad as you feel, or even as you think. Just take it quietly; don't +overdo it, but don't be bored. You say that you can't write to please +yourself at present. Well, this experience is partly the cause, and +partly the result of your condition. You have used one particular part +of your brain too much, and you must give it time to recover. My +impression is that you will get better very gradually, and I can only +repeat that there is no sort of cause for anxiety. I can't help you +more than that, and I am saying exactly what I feel." + +I looked at the worn face and kind eyes of the man whose whole life is +spent in plumbing abysses of human suffering. What a terrible life, and +yet what a noble one! He spoke as though he had no other case in the +world to consider except my own; yet when I went back to the +waiting-room to get my hat, and looked round on the anxious-looking +crowd of patients waiting there, each with a secret burden, I felt how +heavy a load he must be carrying. + +There is a certain strength, after all, in having to live by rule; and +I have derived, I find, a certain comfort in having to abstain from +things that are likely to upset me, not because I wish it, but because +some one else has ordered it. So I struggle on. The worst of nerves is +that they are so whimsical; one never knows when to expect their +assaults; the temptation is to think that they attack one when it is +most inconvenient; but this is not quite the case. They spare one when +one expects discomfort; and again when one feels perfectly secure, they +leap upon one from their lair. The one secret of dealing with the +malady is to think of it as a definite ailment, not to regard the +attacks as the vagaries of a healthy mind, but as the symptoms of an +unhealthy one. So much of these obsessions appears to be purely mental; +one finds oneself the prey of a perfectly causeless depression, which +involves everything in its shadow. As soon as one realises that this is +not the result of the reflections that seem to cause it, but that one +is, so to speak, merely looking at normal conditions through coloured +glasses, it is a great help. But the perennial difficulty is to know +whether one needs repose and inaction, or whether one requires the +stimulus of work and activity. Sometimes an unexpected call on one's +faculties will encourage and gladden one; sometimes it will leave one +unstrung and limp. A definite illness is always with one, more or less; +but in nervous ailments, one has interludes of perfect and even buoyant +health, which delude one into hoping that the demon has gone out. + +It is a very elaborate form of torture anyhow; and I confess that I +find it difficult to discern where its educative effect comes in, +because it makes one shrink from effort, it makes one timid, +indecisive, suspicious. It seems to encourage all the weaknesses and +meannesses of the spirit; and, worst of all, it centres one's thoughts +upon oneself. Perhaps it enlarges one's sympathy for all secret +sufferers; and it makes me grateful for the fact that I have had so +little ill-health in my life. Yet I find myself, too, testing with some +curiosity the breezy maxims of optimists. A cheerful writer says +somewhere: "Will not the future be the better and the richer for +memories of past pleasure? So surely must the sane man feel." Well, he +must be very sane indeed. It takes a very burly philosopher to think of +the future as being enriched by past gladness, when one seems to have +forfeited it, and when one is by no means certain of getting it back. +One feels bitterly how little one appreciated it at the time; and to +rejoice in reflecting how much past happiness stands to one's credit, +is a very dispassionate attitude. I think Dante was nearer the truth +when he said that "a sorrow's crown of sorrow was remembering happier +things." + + + +February 3, 1889. + +To amuse oneself--that is the difficulty. Amusements are or ought to be +the childish, irrational, savage things which a man goes on doing and +practising, in virtue, I suppose, of the noble privilege of reason, far +longer than any other animal--only YOUNG animals amuse themselves; a +dog perhaps retains the faculty longer than most animals, but he only +does it out of sympathy and companionship, to amuse his inscrutable +owner, not to amuse himself. Amusements ought to be things which one +wants to do, and which one is slightly ashamed of doing--enough +ashamed, I mean, to give rather elaborate reasons for continuing them. +If one shoots, for instance, one ought to say that it gets one out of +doors, and that what one really enjoys is the country, and so forth. +Personally I was never much amused by amusements, and gave them up as +soon as I decently could. I regret it now. I wish we were all taught a +handicraft as a regular part of education! I used to sketch, and strum +a piano once, but I cannot deliberately set to work on such things +again. I gave them all up when I became a writer, really, I suppose, +because I did not care for them, but nominally on the grounds of +"resolute limitation," as Lord Acton said--with the idea that if you +prune off the otiose boughs of a tree, you throw the strength of the +sap into the boughs you retain. I see now that it was a mistake. But it +is too late to begin again now; I was reading Kingsley's Life the other +day. He used to overwork himself periodically--use up the grey matter +at the base of his brain, as he described it; but he had a hundred +things that he wanted to do besides writing--fishing, entomologising, +botanising. Browning liked modelling in clay, Wordsworth liked long +walks, Byron had enough to do to keep himself thin, Tennyson had his +pipe, Morris made tapestry at a loom. Southey had no amusements, and he +died of softening of the brain. The happy people are those who have +work which they love, and a hobby of a totally different kind which +they love even better. But I doubt whether one can make a hobby for +oneself in middle age, unless one is a very resolute person indeed. + + + +February 7, 1889. + +The children went off yesterday to spend the inside of the day with a +parson hard by, who has three children of his own, about the same age. +They did not want to go, of course, and it was particularly terrible to +them, because neither I nor their mother were to go with them. But I +was anxious they should go: there is nothing better for children than +occasionally to visit a strange house, and to go by themselves without +an elder person to depend upon. It gives them independence and gets rid +of shyness. They end by enjoying themselves immensely, and perhaps +making some romantic friendship. As a child, I was almost tearfully +insistent that I should not have to go on such visits; but yet a few +days of the sort stand out in my childhood with a vividness and a +distinctness, which show what an effect they produced, and how they +quickened one's perceptive and inventive faculties. + +When they were gone I went out with Maud. I was at my very worst, I +fear; full of heaviness and deeply disquieted; desiring I knew well +what--some quickening of emotion, some hopeful impulse--but utterly +unable to attain it. We had a very sad talk. I tried to make it clear +to her how desolate I felt, and to win some kind of forgiveness for my +sterile and loveless mood. She tried to comfort me; she said that it +was only like passing through a tunnel; she made it clear to me, by +some unspoken communication, that I was dearer than ever to her in +these days of sorrow; but there was a shadow in her mind, the shadow +that fell from the loneliness in which I moved, the sense that she +could not share my misery with me. I tried to show her that the one +thing one could not share was emptiness. If one's cup is full of +interests, plans, happinesses, even tangible anxieties, it is easy and +natural to make them known to one whom one loves best. But one cannot +share the horror of the formless dark; the vacuous and tortured mind. +It is the dark absence of anything that is the source of my +wretchedness. If there were pain, grief, mournful energy of any kind, +one could put it into words; but how can one find expression for what +is a total eclipse? + +It was not, I said, that anything had come between her and me; but I +seemed to be remote, withdrawn, laid apart like some stiffening corpse +in the tomb. She tried to reassure me, to show me that it was mainly +physical, the overstrain of long and actively enjoyed work, and that +all I needed was rest. She did not say one word of reproach, or +anything to imply that I was unmanly and cowardly--indeed, she +contrived, I know not how, to lead me to think that my state was in +ordinary life hardly apparent. Once she asked pathetically if there was +no way in which she could help. I had not the heart to say what was in +my mind, that it would be better and easier for me if she ignored my +unhappiness altogether; and that sympathy and compassion only plunged +me deeper into gloom, as showing me that it was evident that there was +something amiss--but I said "No, there is nothing; and no one can help +me, unless God kindles the light He has quenched. Be your own dear self +as much as possible; think and speak as little of me as you can,"--and +then I added: "Dearest, my love for you is here, as strong and pure as +ever--don't doubt that--only I cannot find it or come near it--it is +hidden from me somewhere--I am like a man wandering in dark fields, who +sees the firelit window of his home; he cannot feel the warmth, but he +knows that it is there waiting for him. He cannot return till he has +found that of which he is in search." + +"Could he not give up the search?" said Maud, smiling tearfully. "Ah, +not yet," I said. "You do not know, Maud, what my work has been to +me--no man can ever explain that to any woman, I think: for women live +in life, but man lives in work. Man DOES, woman IS. There is the +difference." + +We drew near the village. The red sun was sinking over the plain, a +ball of fire; the mist was creeping up from the low-lying fields; the +moon hung, like a white nail-paring, high in the blue sky. We went to +the little inn, where we had been before. We ordered tea--we were to +return by train--and Maud being tired, I left her, while I took a turn +in the village, and explored the remains of an old manor-house, which I +had seen often from the road. I was intolerably restless. I found a +lane which led to the fields behind the manor. It was a beautiful +scene. To the left of me ran the great plain brimmed with mist; the +manor, with its high gables and chimney-stacks, stood up over an +orchard, surrounded by a high, ancient brick wall, with a gate between +tall gate-posts surmounted by stone balls. The old pasture lay round +the house, and there were many ancient elms and sycamores forming a +small park, in the boughs of which the rooks, who were now streaming +home from the fields, were clamorous. I found myself near a chain of +old fish-ponds, with thorn-thickets all about them; and here the old +house stood up against a pure evening sky, rusty red below, melting +into a pure green above. My heart went out in wonder at the thought of +the unknown lives lived in this place, the past joys, the forgotten +sorrows. What did it mean for me, the incredible and caressing beauty +of the scene? Not only did it not comfort me, but it seemed to darken +the gloom of my own unhappy mind. Suddenly, as with a surge of agony, +my misery flowed in upon me. I clutched the rail where I stood, and +bowed my head down in utter wretchedness. There came upon me, as with a +sort of ghastly hopefulness, the temptation to leave it all, to put my +case back into God's hands. Perhaps it was to this that I was moving? +There might be a new life waiting for me, but it could not well be as +intolerable as this. Perhaps nothing but silence and unconsciousness +awaited me, a sleep unstirred by any dream. Even Maud, I thought, in +her sorrow, would understand. How long I stood there I do not know, but +the air darkened about me and the mist rose in long veils about the +pasture with a deadly chill. But then there came back a sort of grim +courage into my mind, that not so could it be ended. The thought of +Maud and the children rose before me, and I knew I could not leave +them, unless I were withdrawn from them. I must face it, I must fight +it out; though I could and did pray with all my might that God might +take away my life: I thought with what an utter joy I should feel the +pang, the faintness, of death creep over me there in the dim pasture; +but I knew in my heart that it was not to be; and soon I went slowly +back through the thickening gloom. I found Maud awaiting me: and I know +in that moment that some touch of the dark conflict I had been through +had made itself felt in her mind; and indeed I think she read something +of it in my face, from the startled glance she turned upon me. Perhaps +it would have been better if in that quiet hour I could have told her +the thought which had been in my mind; but I could not do that; and +indeed it seemed to me as though some unseen light had sprung up for +me, shooting and broadening in the darkness. I apprehended that I was +no longer to suffer, I was to fight. Hitherto I had yielded to my +misery, but the time was come to row against the current, not to drift +with it. + +It was dark when we left the little inn; the moon had brightened to a +crescent of pale gold; the last dim orange stain of sunset still slept +above the mist. It seemed to me as though I had somehow touched the +bottom. How could I tell? Perhaps the same horrible temptation would +beset me, again and again, deepening into a despairing purpose; the +fertile mind built up rapidly a dreadful vista of possibilities, +terrible facts that might have to be faced. Even so the dark mood +beckoned me again; better to end it, said a hollow voice, better to let +your dear ones suffer the worst, with a sorrow that will lessen year by +year, than sink into a broken shadowed life of separation and +restraint--but again it passed; again a grim resolution came to my aid. + +Then, as we sped homewards in the speeding train, there came over me +another thought. Here was I, who had lightly trafficked with human +emotions, who had written with a romantic glow of the dark things of +life, despair, agony, thoughts of self-destruction, insane fears, here +was I at last confronted with them. I could never dare, I felt, to +speak of such things again; were such dark mysteries to be used to +heighten the sense of security and joy, to give a trivial reader a +thrill of pleasure, a sympathetic reader a thrill of luxurious emotion? +No, there was nothing uplifting or romantic about them when they came; +they were dark as the grave, cold as the underlying clay. What a vile +and loathsome profanation, deserving indeed of a grim punishment, to +make a picturesque background out of such things! At length I had had +my bitter taste of grief, and drew in to my trembling spirit the +shuddering chill of despair. I had stepped, like the light-hearted +maiden of the old story, within the forbidden door, and the ugly, the +ghastly reality of the place had burst upon me, the huddled bodies, the +basin filled with blood. One had read in books of men and women whose +life had been suddenly curdled into slow miseries. One had half blamed +them in one's thought; one had felt that any experience, however dark +and deep, must have its artistic value; and one had thought that they +should have emerged with new zest into life. I understood it now, how +life could be frozen at its very source, how one could cry out with Job +curses on the day that gave one birth, and how gladly one would turn +one's face away from the world and all its cheerful noise, awaiting the +last stroke of God. + + + +February 20, 1889. + +There is a story of a Cornish farmer who, returning home one dark and +misty night, struck across the moorland, every yard of which he knew, +in order to avoid a long tramp by road. In one place there were a +number of disused mine-shafts; the railing which had once protected +them had rotted away, and it had been no one's business to see that it +was renewed--some few had been filled up, but many of them were +hundreds of feet deep, and entirely unguarded. The farmer first missed +the track, and after long wandering found himself at last among the +shafts. He sate down, knowing the extreme danger of his situation, and +resolved to wait till the morning; but it became so cold that he dared +stay no longer, for fear of being frozen alive, and with infinite +precautions he tried to make his way out of the dangerous region, +following the downward slope of the ground. In spite, however, of all +his care, he found suddenly, on putting his foot down, that he was on +the edge of a shaft, and that his foot was dangling in vacancy. He +threw himself backwards, but too late, and he slid down several feet, +grasping at the grass and heather; his foot fortunately struck against +a large stone, which though precariously poised, arrested his fall; and +he hung there for some hours in mortal anguish, not daring to move, +clinging to a tuft of heather, shouting at intervals, in the hope that, +when he did not return home, a search-party might be sent out to look +for him. At last he heard, to his intense relief, the sound of voices +hailing him, and presently the gleam of lanterns shot through the mist. +He uttered agonising cries, and the rescuers were soon at his side; +when he found that he had been lying in a shaft which had been filled +up, and that the firm ground was about a foot below him; and that, in +fact, if the stone that supported him had given way, he would have been +spared a long period of almost intolerable horror. + +It is a good parable of many of our disquieting fears and anxieties; as +Lord Beaconsfield said, the greatest tragedies of his life had been +things that never happened; Carlyle truly and beautifully said that the +reason why the past always appeared to be beautiful, in retrospect, was +that the element of fear was absent from it. William Morris said a +trenchant thing on the same subject. He attended a Socialist Meeting of +a very hostile kind, which he anticipated with much depression. When +some one asked him how the meeting had gone off he said, "Well, it was +fully as damnable as I had expected--a thing which seldom happens." A +good test of the happiness of anyone's life is to what extent he has +had trials to bear which are unbearable even to recollect. I am myself +of a highly imaginative and anxious temperament, and I have had many +hours of depression at the thought of some unpleasant anticipation or +disagreeable contingency, and I can honestly say that nothing has ever +been so bad, when it actually occurred, as it had represented itself to +me beforehand. There are a few incidents in my life, the recollection +of which I deliberately shun; but they have always been absolutely +unexpected and unanticipated calamities. Yet even these have never been +as bad as I should have expected them to be. The strange thing is that +experience never comes to one's aid, and that one never gets patience +or courage from the thought that the reality will be in all probability +less distressing than the anticipation; for the simple reason that the +fertile imagination is always careful to add that this time the +occasion will be intolerable, and that at all events it is better to be +prepared for the worst that may happen. Moreover, one wastes force in +anticipating perhaps half-a-dozen painful possibilities, when, after +all, they are alternatives, and only one of them can happen. That is +what makes my present situation so depressing, that I instinctively +clothe it in its worst horrors, and look forward to a long and dreary +life, in which my only occupation will be an attempt to pass the weary +hours. Faithless? yes, of course it is faithless! but the rational +philosophy, which says that it will all probably come right, does not +penetrate to the deeper region in which the mind says to itself that +there is no hope of amendment. + +Can one acquire, by any effort of the mind, this kind of patience? I do +not think one can. The most that one can do is to behave as far as +possible like one playing a heavy part upon the stage, to say with +trembling lips that one has hope, when the sick mind beneath cries out +that there is none. + +Perhaps one can practise a sort of indifference, and hope that +advancing years may still the beating heart and numb the throbbing +nerve. But I do not even desire to live life on these terms. The one +great article of my creed has been that one ought not to lose zest and +spirit, or acquiesce slothfully in comfortable and material conditions, +but that life ought to be full of perception and emotion. Here again +lies my mistake; that it has not been perception or emotion that I have +practised, but the art of expressing what I have perceived and felt. Of +course, I wish with all my heart and soul that it were otherwise; but +it seems that I have drifted so far into these tepid, sun-warmed +shallows, the shallows of egoism and self-centred absorption, that +there is no possibility of my finding my way again to the wholesome +brine, to the fresh movement of the leaping wave. I am like one of +those who lingered so long in the enchanted isle of Circe, listening +luxuriously to the melting cadences of her magic song, that I have lost +all hope of extricating myself from the spell. The old free days, when +the heart beat light, and the breeze blew keen against my brow, have +become only a memory of delights, just enabling me to speak deftly and +artfully of the strong joys which I have forfeited. + + + +February 24, 1889. + +I have been away for some days, paying a visit to an old friend, a +bachelor clergyman living in the country. The only other occupant of +the house, a comfortable vicarage, is his curate. I am better--ashamed +almost to think how much better--for the change. It is partly the new +place, the new surroundings, the new minds, no doubt. But it is also +the change of atmosphere. At home I am surrounded by sympathy and +compassion; however unobtrusive they are, I feel that they are there. I +feel that trivial things, words, actions, looks are noted, commented +upon, held to be significant. If I am silent, I must be depressed; if I +talk and smile, I am making an effort to overcome my depression. It +sounds unloving and ungracious to resent this: but I don't undervalue +the care and tenderness that cause it; at the same time it adds to the +strain by imposing upon me a sort of vigilance, a constant effort to +behave normally. It is infinitely and deeply touching to feel love all +about me; but in such a state of mind as mine, one is shy of emotion, +one dreads it, one shuns it. I suppose it argues a want of simplicity, +of perfect manfulness, to feel this; but few or no women can +instinctively feel the difference. In a real and deep affliction, one +that could be frankly confessed, the more affection and sympathy that +one can have the better; it is the one thing that sustains. But my +unhappiness is not a real thing altogether, not a FRANK thing; the best +medicine for it is to think as little about it; the only help one +desires is the evidence that one does not need sympathy; and sympathy +only turns one's thoughts inwards, and makes one feel that one is +forlorn and desolate, when the only hope is to feel neither. + +At Hapton it was just the reverse; neither Musgrave nor the curate, +Templeton, troubled their head about my fancies. I don't imagine that +Musgrave noticed that anything was the matter with me. If I was silent, +he merely thought I had nothing to say; he took for granted I was in my +normal state, and the result was that I temporarily recovered it. + +Then, too, the kind of talk I got was a relief. With women, the real +talk is intime talk; the world of politics, books, men, facts, +incidents, is merely a setting; and when they talk about them, it is +merely to pass the time, as a man turns to a game. At Hapton, Musgrave +chatted away about his neighbours, his boys' club, his new organ, his +bishop, his work. I used to think him rather a proser; how I blessed +his prosing now! I took long walks with him; he asked a few perfunctory +questions about my books, but otherwise he was quite content to prattle +on, like a little brook, about all that was in his mind, and he was +more than content if I asked an occasional question or assented +courteously. Then we had some good talks about the rural problems of +education--he is a sensible and intelligent man enough--and some +excellent arguments about the movement of religion, where I found him +unexpectedly liberal-minded. He left me to do very much what I liked. I +read in the mornings and before dinner; and after dinner we smoked or +even played a game of dummy whist. It is a pretty part of the country, +and when he was occupied in the afternoon, I walked about by myself. +From first to last not a single word fell from Musgrave to indicate +that he thought me in any way different, or suspected that I was not +perfectly content, with the blessed result that I immediately became +exactly what he thought me. + +I got on no better with my writing; my brain is as bare as a winter +wood; but I found that I did not rebel against that. Of course it does +not reveal a very dignified temperament, that one should so take colour +from one's surroundings. If I can be equable and good-humoured here, I +ought to be able to be equable and good-humoured at home; at the same +time I am conscious of an intense longing to see Maud and the children. +Probably I should do better to absent myself resolutely from home at +stated intervals; and I think it argued a fine degree of perception in +Maud, that she decided not to accompany me, though she was pressed to +come. I am going home to-morrow, delighted at the thought, grateful to +the good Musgrave, in a more normal frame of mind than I have been for +months. + + + +February 28, 1889. + +One of the most depressing things about my present condition is that I +feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so unlovable. Even +Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than ever, does not help me, +because I feel that she cannot love me for what I am, but for what she +remembers me as being, and hopes that I may be again. I know it is not +so, and that she would love me whatever I did or became; but I cannot +realise that now. + +A few days ago an old friend came to see me; and I was so futile, so +fractious, so dull, so melancholy with him that I wrote to him +afterwards to apologise for my condition, telling him that I knew that +I was not myself, and hoped he would forgive me for not making more of +an effort. To-day I have had one of the manliest, tenderest, most +beautiful letters I have ever had in my life. He says, "Of course I saw +that you were not in your usual mood, but if you had pretended to be, +if you had kept me at arm's length, if you had grimaced and made +pretence, we should have been no nearer in spirit. I was proud and +grateful that you should so have trusted me, as to let me see into your +heart and mind; and you must believe me when I say that I never loved +and honoured you more. I understood fully what a deep and insupportable +trial your present state of mind must be; and I will be frank--why +should I not be?--and say that I thought you were bearing it bravely, +and what is better still, simply and naturally. I seemed to come closer +to you in those hours than I have ever done before, and to realise +better what you were. 'To make oneself beloved,' says an old writer, +'is to make oneself useful to others'--and you helped me perhaps most, +when you knew it least yourself. I won't tell you not to brood upon or +exaggerate your trouble--you know that well enough yourself. But +believe me that such times are indeed times of growth and expansion, +even when one seems most beaten back upon oneself, most futile, most +unmanly. So take a little comfort, my old friend, and fare onwards +hopefully." + +That is a very beautiful and wise letter, and I cannot say how much it +has meant for me. It is a letter that forges an invisible chain, which +is yet stronger than the strongest tie that circumstance can forge; it +is a lantern for one's feet, and one treads a little more firmly in the +dark path, where the hillside looms formless through the shade. + + + +March 3, 1889. + +Best of all the psalms I love the Hundred-and-nineteenth; yet as a +child what a weary thing I thought it. It was long, it was monotonous; +it dwelt with a tiresome persistency, I used to think, upon dull +things--laws, commandments, statutes. Now that I am older, it seems to +me one of the most human of all documents. It is tender, pensive, +personal; other psalms are that; but Psalm cxix. is intime and +autobiographical. One is brought very close to a human spirit; one +hears his prayers, his sighs, the dropping of his tears. Then, too, in +spite of its sadness, there is a deep hopefulness and faithfulness +about it, a firm belief in the ultimate triumph of what is good and +true, a certainty that what is pure and beautiful is worth holding on +to, whatever may happen; a nearness to God, a quiet confidence in Him. +It is all in a subdued and minor key, but swelling up at intervals into +a chord of ravishing sweetness. + +There is never the least note of loudness, none of that terrible +patriotism which defaces many of the psalms, the patriotism which makes +men believe that God is the friend of the chosen race, and the foe of +all other races, the ugly self-sufficiency that contemplates with +delight, not the salvation and inclusion of the heathen, but their +discomfiture and destruction. The worst side of the Puritan found +delight in those cruel and militant psalms, revelling in the thought +that God would rain upon the ungodly fire and brimstone, storm and +tempest, and exulting in the blasting of the breath of His displeasure. +Could anything be more alien to the spirit of Christ than all that? But +here, in this melancholy psalm, there breathes a spirit naturally +Christian, loving peace and contemplation, very weary of the strife. + +I have said it is autobiographical; but it must be remembered that it +was a fruitful literary device in those early days, to cast one's own +thought in the mould of some well-known character. In this psalm I have +sometimes thought that the writer had Daniel in mind--the surroundings +of the psalm suit the circumstances of Daniel with singular exactness. +But even so, it was the work of a man, I think, who had suffered the +sorrows of which he wrote. Let me try to disentangle what manner of man +he was. + +He was young and humble; he was rich, or had opportunities of becoming +so; he was an exile, or lived in an uncongenial society; he was the +member of a court where he was derided, disliked, slandered, plotted +against, and even persecuted. We can clearly discern his own character. +He was timid, and yet ambitious; he was tempted to use deceit and +hypocrisy, to acquiesce in the tone about him; he was inclined to be +covetous; he had sinned, and had learnt something of holiness from his +fall; he was given to solitude and prayer. He was sensitive, and his +sorrows had affected his health; he was sleepless, and had lost the +bloom of his youth. + +All this and more we can read of him; but what is the saddest touch of +all is the isolation in which he lived. There is not a word to show +that he met with any sympathy; indeed the misunderstanding, whatever it +was, that overshadowed him, had driven acquaintances, friends, and +lovers away from him; and yet his tender confidence in God never fails; +he feels that in his passionate worship of virtue and truth, his +intense love of purity and justice, he has got a treasure which is more +to him than riches or honour, or even than human love. He speaks as +though this passion for holiness had been the very thing that had cost +him so dear, and that exposed him to derision and dislike. Perhaps he +had refused to fall in with some customary form of evil, and his +resistance to temptation had led him to be regarded as a precisian and +a saint? I have little doubt myself that this was so. He speaks as one +might speak who had been so smitten with the desire for purity and +rightness of life, that he could no longer even seem to condone the +opposite. And yet he was evidently not one who dared to withstand and +rebuke evil; the most he could do was to abstain from it; and the +result was that he saw the careless and evil-minded people about him +prosperous, happy and light-hearted, while he was himself plunged by +his own act in misunderstanding and solitude and tears. + +And then how strange to see this beautiful and delicate confession put +into so narrow and constrained a shape! It is the most artificial by +far of all the psalms. The writer has chosen deliberately one of the +most cramping and confining forms that could be devised. Each of the +eight verses that form the separate stanzas begins with the same letter +of the alphabet, and each of the letters is used in turn. Think of +attempting to do the same in English--it could not be done at all. And +then in every single verse, except in one, where the word has probably +disappeared in translation, by a mistake, there is a mention of the law +of God. Infinite pains must have gone to the slow building of this +curious structure; stone by stone must have been carved and lifted to +its place. And yet the art is so great that I know no composition of +the same length that has so perfect a unity of mood and atmosphere. +There is never a false or alien note struck. It is never jubilant or +contentious or assertive--and, best of all, it is wholly free from any +touch of that complacency which is the shadow of virtue. The writer +never takes any credit to himself for his firm adherence to the truth; +he writes rather as one who has had a gift of immeasurable value +entrusted to unworthy hands, who hardly dares to believe that it has +been granted him, and who still speaks as though he might at any time +prove unfaithful, as though his weakness might suddenly betray him, and +who therefore has little temptation to exult in the possession of +anything which his own frail nature might at any moment forfeit. + +And thus, from its humility, its sense of weakness and weariness, its +consciousness of sin and failure, combined with its deep apprehension +of the stainless beauty of the moral law, this lyric has found its way +to the hearts of all who find the world and temptation and fear too +strong, all who through repeated failure have learned that they cannot +even be true to what they so pathetically desire and admire; who would +be brave and vigorous if they could, but, as it is, can only hope to be +just led step by step, helped over the immediate difficulty, past the +dreaded moment; whose heart often fails them, and who have little of +the joy of God; who can only trust that, if they go astray, the mercy +of God will yet go out to seek them; who cannot even hope to run in the +way of God's beloved commandments, till He has set their heart at +liberty. + + + +March 8, 1889. + +I went to see Darell, my old schoolfellow, a few days ago; he wrote to +say that he would much like to see me, but that he was ill and unable +to leave home--could I possibly come to see him? + +I have never seen very much of him since I left Cambridge; but there I +was a good deal in his company--and we have kept up our friendship ever +since, in the quiet way in which Englishmen do keep up their +friendships, meeting perhaps two or three times in the year, exchanging +letters occasionally. He was not a very intimate friend--indeed, he was +not a man who formed intimacies; but he was a congenial companion +enough. He was a frankly ambitious man. He went to the bar, where he +has done well; he married a wife with some money; and I think his +ultimate ambition has been to enter Parliament. He told me, when I last +saw him, that he had now, he thought, made enough money for this, and +that he would probably stand at the next election. I have always liked +his wife, who is a sensible, good-natured woman, with social ambitions. +They live in a good house in London, in a wealthy sort of way. I +arrived to luncheon, and sate a little while with Mrs. Darell in the +drawing-room. I became aware, while I sate with her, that there was a +sense of anxiety in the air somehow, though she spoke cheerfully enough +of her husband, saying that he had overworked himself, and had to lie +up for a little. When he came into the room I understood. It was not +that he was physically much altered--he is a strongly-built fellow, +with a sanguine complexion and thick curly hair, now somewhat grizzled; +but I knew at the first sight of him that matters were serious. He was +quiet and even cheerful in manner, but he had a look on his face that I +had never seen before, the look of a man whose view of life has been +suddenly altered, and who is preparing himself for the last long +journey. I knew instinctively that he believed himself a doomed man. He +said very little about himself, and I did not ask him much; he talked +about my books, and a good deal about old friends; but all with a +sense, I thought, of detachment, as though he were viewing everything +over a sort of intangible fence. After luncheon, we adjourned to his +study and smoked. He then said a few words about his illness, and added +that it had altered his plans. "I am told," he said, "that I must take +a good long holiday--rather a difficult job for a man who cares a great +deal about his work and very little about anything else;" he added a +few medical details, from which I gathered the nature of his illness. +Then he went on to talk of casual matters; it seemed to interest him to +discuss what had been happening to our school and college friends; but +I knew, without being told, that he wished me to understand that he did +not expect to resume his place in the world--and indeed I divined, by +some dim communication of the spirit, that he thought my visit was +probably a farewell. But he talked with unabated courage and interest, +smiling where he would in old days have laughed, and speaking of our +friends with more tenderness than was his wont. Only once did he half +betray what was in his mind: "It is rather strange," he said, "to be +pushed aside like this, and to have to reconsider one's theories. I did +not expect to have to pull up--the path lay plain before me--and now it +seems to me as if there were a good many things I had lost sight of. +Well, one must take things as they come, and I don't think that if I +had it all to do again I should do otherwise." He changed the subject +rather hurriedly, and began to talk about my work. "You are quite a +great man now," he said with a smile; "I hear your books talked about +wherever I go--I used to wonder if you would have had the patience to +do anything--you were hampered by having no need to earn your living; +but you have come out on the top." I told him something about my own +late experiences and my difficulty in writing. He listened with +undisguised interest. "What do you make of it?" he said. "Well," I +said; "you will think I am talking transcendentally, but I have felt +often of late as if there were two strains in our life, two kinds of +experience; at one time we have to do our work with all our might, to +get absorbed in it, to do what little we can to enrich the world; and +then at another time it is all knocked out of our hands, and we have to +sit and meditate--to realise that we are here on sufferance, that what +we can do matters very little to any one--the same sort of feeling that +I once had when old Hoskyns, in whose class I was, threw an essay, over +which I had taken a lot of trouble, into his waste-paper basket before +my eyes without even looking it over. I see now that I had got all the +good I could out of the essay by writing it, and that the credit of it +mattered very little; but then I simply thought he was a very +disagreeable and idle old fellow." + +"Yes," he said, smiling, "there is something in that; but one wants the +marks as well--I have always liked to be marked for my work. I am glad +you told me that story, old man." + +We went on to talk of other things, and when I rose to go, he thanked +me rather effusively for my kindness in coming to see him. He told me +that he was shortly going abroad, and that if I could find time to +write he would be grateful for a letter; "and when I am on my legs +again," he said with a smile, "we will have another meeting." + +That was all that passed between us of actual speech. Yet how much more +seems to have been implied than was said. I knew, as well as if he had +told me in so many words, that he did not expect to see me again; that +he was in the valley of the shadow, and wanted help and comfort. Yet he +could not have described to me what was in his mind, and he would have +resented it, I think, if I had betrayed any consciousness of my +knowledge; and yet he knew that I knew, I am sure of that. + +The interview affected me deeply and poignantly. The man's patience and +courage are very great; but he has lived, frankly and laboriously, for +perfectly definite things. He never had the least sense of what is +technically called religion; he was strong and temperate by nature, +with a fine sense of honour; loving work and the rewards of work, +despising sentiment and emotion--indeed his respect for me, of which I +was fully conscious, is the respect he feels for a sentimental man who +has made sentiment pay. It is very hard to see what part the prospect +of suffering and death is meant to play in the life of such a man. It +must be, surely, that he has something even more real than what he has +held to be realities to learn from the sudden snapping off of life and +activity. I find myself filled with an immense pity for him; and yet if +my faith were a little stronger and purer, I should congratulate rather +than commiserate him. And yet the thought of him in his bewilderment +helps me too, for I see my own life as in a mirror. I have received a +message of truth, the message that the accomplishment of our plans and +cherished designs is not the best thing that can befall us. How easy to +see that in the case of another, how hard to see it in our own case! +But it has helped me too to throw myself outside the morbid +perplexities in which I am involved; to hold out open hands to the gift +of God, even though He seems to give me a stone for bread, a stinging +serpent for wholesome provender. It has taught me to pray--not only for +myself, but for all the poor souls who are in the grip of a sorrow that +they cannot understand or bear. + + + +March 14, 1889. + +The question that haunts me, the problem I cannot disentangle, is what +is or what ought our purpose to be? What is our duty in life? Ought we +to discern a duty which lies apart from our own desires and +inclinations? The moralist says that it ought to be to help other +people; but surely that is because the people, whom by some instinct we +deem the highest, have had the irresistible desire to help others? How +many people has one ever known who have taken up philanthropy merely +from a sense of rectitude? The people who have done most to help the +world along have been the people who have had an overwhelming natural +tenderness, an overflowing love for helpless, weak, and unhappy people. +That is a thing which cannot be simulated. One knows quite well, to put +the matter simply, the extent of one's own limitations. There are +courses of action which seem natural and easy; others which seem hard, +but just possible; others again which are frankly impossible. However +noble a life, for instance, I thought the life of a missionary or of a +doctor to be, I could not under any circumstances adopt the role of +either. There are certain things which I might force myself to do which +I do not do, and which I practically know I shall not do. And the +number of people is very small who, when circumstances suggest one +course, resolutely carry out another. The artistic life is a very hard +one to analyse, because at the outset it seems so frankly selfish a +life. One does what one most desires to do, one develops one's own +nature, its faculties and powers. If one is successful, the most one +can claim is that one has perhaps added a little to the sum of +happiness, of innocent enjoyment, that one has perhaps increased or fed +in a few people the perception of beauty. Of course the difficulty is +increased by the conventional belief that any career is justified by +success in that career. And as long as a man attains a certain measure +of renown we do not question very much the nature of his aims. + +Then, again, if we put that all aside, and look upon life as a thing +that is given us to teach us something, it is easy to think that it +does not matter very much what we do; we take the line of least +resistance, and think that we shall learn our lesson somehow. + +It is difficult to believe that our one object ought to be to thwart +all our own desires and impulses, to abstain from doing what we desire +to do, and to force ourselves continually to do what we have no impulse +to do. That is a philosophical and stoical business, and would end at +best in a patient and courteous dreariness of spirit. + +Neither does it seem a right solution to say: "I will parcel out my +energies--so much will I give to myself, so much to others." It ought +to be a larger, more generous business than that; yet the people who +give themselves most freely away too often end by having very little to +give; instead of having a store of ripe and wise reflection, they have +generally little more than an official smile, a kindly tolerance, a +voluble stream of commonplaces. + +And then, too, it is hard to see, to speak candidly, what God is doing +in the matter. One sees useful careers cut ruthlessly short, generous +qualities nullified by bad health or minute faults, promise +unfulfilled, men and women bound in narrow, petty, uncongenial spheres, +the whole matter in a sad disorder. One sees one man's influence spoilt +by over-confidence, by too strong a sense of his own significance, and +another man made ineffective by diffidence and self-distrust. The best +things of life, the most gracious opportunities, such as love and +marriage, cannot be entered upon from a sense of duty, but only from an +overpowering and instinctive impulse. + +Is it not possible to arrive at some tranquil harmony of life, some +self-evolution, which should at the same time be ardent and generous? +In my own sad unrest of spirit, I seem to be alike incapable of working +for the sake of others and working to please myself. Perhaps that is +but the symptom of a moral disease, a malady of the soul. Yet if that +is so, and if one once feels that disease and, suffering is not a part +of the great and gracious purpose of God--if it is but a failure in His +design--the struggle is hopeless. One sees all around one men and women +troubled by no misgivings, with no certain aim, just doing whatever the +tide of life impels them to do. My neighbour here is a man who for +years has gone up to town every day to his office. He is perfectly +contented, absolutely happy. He has made more money than he will ever +need or spend, and he will leave his children a considerable fortune. +He is kind, respectable, upright; he is considered a thoroughly +enviable man, and indeed, if prosperity and contentment are the sign +and seal of God's approbation, such a man is the highest work of God, +and has every reason to be an optimist. He would think my questionings +morbid and my desires moonshine. He is not necessarily right any more +than I; but his theory of life works out a good deal better for him +than mine for me. + +Well, we drift, we drift! Sometimes the sun shines bright on the wave, +and the wheeling birds dip and hover, and our heart is full of song. +But sometimes we plunge on rising billows, with the wind wailing, and +the rain pricking the surface with needle-points; we are weary and +uncomforted; and we do not know why we suffer, or why we are glad. +Sometimes I have a far-off hope that I shall know, that I shall +understand and be satisfied; but sometimes, alas, I fear that my soul +will flare out upon the darkness, and know no more either of weal or +woe. + + + +March 20, 1889. + +I am reading a great deal now; but I find that I turn naturally to +books of a sad intimite--books in which are revealed the sorrowful +cares and troubles of sensitive people. Partly, I suppose, it is to get +the sense of comfort which comes from feeling that others have suffered +too; but partly to find, if I can, some medicine for my soul, in +learning how others struggled out of the mire. Thus I have been reading +Froude's Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle's Letters over again, and they have +moved me strangely and deeply. Perhaps it is mostly that I have felt, +in these dark months, drawn to the society of two brave people--she was +brave in her silences, he in the way in which he stuck doggedly to his +work--who each suffered so horribly, so imaginatively, so inexplicably, +and, alas, it would seem, so unnecessarily! Of course Carlyle indulged +his moods, while Mrs. Carlyle fought against hers; moreover, he had the +instinct for translating thoughts, instantaneously and volubly, into +vehement picturesque speech. How he could bite in a picture, an ugly, +ill-tempered one enough very often, as when he called Coleridge a +"weltering" man! Many of his sketches are mere Gillray caricatures of +people, seen through bile unutterable, exasperated by nervous +irritability. And Mrs. Carlyle had a mordant wit enough. But still both +of them had au fond a deep need of love, and a power of lavishing love. +It comes out in the old man's whimsical notes and prefaces; and indeed +it is true to say that if a person once actually penetrated into +Carlyle's inner circle, he found himself loved hungrily and devotedly, +and never forgotten or cast out. And as to Mrs. Carlyle, I suppose it +was impossible to be near her and not to love her! This comes out in +glimpses in her sad pathological letters. There is a scene she +describes, how she returned home after some long and serious bout of +illness, when her cook and housemaid rushed into the street, kissed +her, and wept on her neck; while two of her men friends, Mr. Cooke and +Lord Houghton, who called in the course of the evening, to her surprise +and obvious pleasure, did the very same. The result on myself, after +reading the books, is to feel myself one of the circle, to want to do +something for them, to wring the necks of the cocks who disturbed +Carlyle's sleep; and sometimes, alas, to rap the old man's fingers for +his blind inconsiderateness and selfishness. I came the other day upon +a passage in a former book of my own, where I said something sneering +and derisive about the pair, and I felt deep shame and contrition for +having written it--and, more than that, I felt a sort of disgust for +the fact that I have spent so much time in writing fiction. Books like +the Life of Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle's Letters take the wind out of +one's imaginative faculties altogether, because one is confronted with +the real stuff of life in them. Life, that hard, stubborn, +inconclusive, inconsistent, terrible thing! It is, of course, that very +hardness and inconclusiveness that makes one turn to fiction. In +fiction, one can round off the corners, repair mistakes, comfort, +idealise, smooth things down, make error and weakness bear good fruit, +choose, develop as one pleases. Not so with life, where things go from +bad to worse, misunderstandings grow and multiply, suffering does not +purge, sorrow does not uplift. That is the worst of fiction, that it +deludes one into thinking that one can deal gently with life, finish +off the picture, arrange things on one's own little principles; and +then, as in my own case, life brings one up against some monstrous, +grievous, intolerable fact, that one can neither look round or over, +and the scales fall from one's eyes. With what courage, tranquillity or +joy is one to meet a thoroughly disagreeable situation? The more one +leans on the hope that it may amend, the weaker one grows; the thing to +realise is that it is bad, that it is inevitable, that it has arrived, +and to let the terror and misery do their worst, soak into the soul and +not run off it. Only then can one hope to be different; only so can one +climb the weary ladder of patience and faith. + + + +March 28, 1889. + +Low-hung ragged grey skies, heaven smeared with watery vapours +fleeting, broken and mournful, from the west--these above me, as I +stand by the old lichened gate of the high wind-swept field at the top +of the wold. In front a stretch of rough common, the dark-brown +heather, the young gorse, bluish-green, the rusty red of soaked +bracken, the pale ochre-coloured grass, all blent into a rich tint that +pleases the eye with its wild freshness. To the left, the wide flat +level of the plain, with low hills rising on its verge; to the right, a +pale pool of water at the bottom of a secret valley, reflecting the +leafless bushes that fringe it, catches the sunset gleam that rises in +the west; and then range after range of wolds, with pale-green +pastures, dark copses, fawn-coloured ploughland, here and there an +emerald patch of young wheat. The air is fresh, soft and fragrant, +laden with rain; the earth smells sweet; and the wild woodland scent +comes blowing to me out of the heart of the spinney. In front of me +glimmer the rough wheel-tracks of a grassy road that leads out on to +the heath, and two obscure figures move slowly nearer among the tufted +gorse. They seem to me, those two figures, charged with a grave +significance, as though they came to bear me tidings, messengers bidden +to seek and find me, like the men who visited Abraham at the close of +the day. + +As I linger, the day grows darker, the colour fading from leaf and +blade; bright points of light flash out among the dark ridges from +secluded farms, where the evening lamp is lit. + +Sometimes on days like this, when the moisture hangs upon the hedges, +when the streams talk hoarsely to themselves in grassy channels, when +the road is full of pools, one is weary, unstrung and dissatisfied, +faint of purpose, tired of labour, desiring neither activity nor rest; +the soul sits brooding, like the black crows that I see in the leafless +wood beneath me, perched silent and draggled on the tree-tops, just +waiting for the sun and the dry keen airs to return; but to-day it is +not so; I am full of a quiet hope, an acquiescent tranquillity. My +heart talks gently to itself, as to an unseen friend, telling its +designs, its wishes, its activities. I think of those I hold dear, all +the world over; I am glad that they are alive, and believe that they +think of me. All the air seems full of messages, thoughts and +confidences and welcomes passing to and fro, binding souls to each +other, and all to God. There seems to be nothing that one needs to do +to-day except to live one's daily life; to be kind and joyful. To-day +the road of pilgrimage lies very straight and clear between its fences, +in an open ground, with neither valley nor hill, no by-path, no +turning. One can even see the gables and chimneys of some grave house +of welcome, "a roof for when the dark hours begin," full of pious +company and smiling maidens. And not, it seems, a false security; one +is not elated, confident, strong; one knows one's weakness; but I think +that the Lord of the land has lately passed by with a smile, and given +command that the pilgrims shall have a space of quiet. These birds, +these branching trees, have not yet lost the joy of His passing. There, +along the grassy tracks, His patient footsteps went, how short a time +ago! One does not hope that all the journey will be easy and +untroubled; there will be fresh burdens to be borne, dim valleys full +of sighs to creep through, dark waters to wade across; these feet will +stumble and bleed; these knees will be weary before the end; but to-day +there is no doubt about the pilgrimage, no question of the far-off +goal. The world is sad, perhaps, but sweet; sad as the homeless clouds +that drift endlessly across the sky from marge to marge; sweet as the +note of the hidden bird, that rises from moment to moment from the +copse beside me, again and yet again, telling of a little heart that is +content to wait, and not ill-pleased to be alone with its own soft +thoughts. + + + +April 4, 1889. + +Down in the valley which runs below the house is a mill. I passed it +to-day at dusk, and I thought I had never seen so characteristically +English a scene. The wheel was silent, and the big boarded walls, +dusted with flour, loomed up solemnly in the evening light. The full +leat dashed merrily through the sluice, making holiday, like a child +released from school. Behind was the stack-yard, for it is a farm as +well as a mill; and in the byre I heard the grunting of comfortable +pigs, and the soft pulling of the hay from the big racks by the +bullocks. The fowls were going to roost, fluttering up every now and +then into the big elder-bushes; while high above, in the apple-trees, I +saw great turkeys settled precariously for the night. The orchard was +silent, except for the murmur of the stream that bounds it. In the +mill-house itself lights gleamed in the windows, and I saw a pleasant +family-party gathered at their evening meal. The whole scene with its +background of sloping meadows and budding woods so tranquil and +contented--a scene which William Morris would have loved--for there is +a pleasant grace of antiquity about the old house, a sense of homely +and solid life, and of all the family associations that have gone to +the making of it, generation after generation leaving its mark in the +little alterations and additions that have met a need, or even +satisfied a pleasant fancy. + +The miller is an elderly man now, fond of work, prosperous, +good-humoured. His son lives with him, and the house is full of +grandchildren. I do not say that it puzzles me to divine what is the +miller's view of life, because I think I know it. It is to make money +honestly, to bring up his grandchildren virtuously and comfortably, to +enjoy his daily work and his evening leisure. He is never idle, never +preoccupied. He enjoys getting the mill started, seeing the flour +stream into the sacks, he enjoys going to market, he enjoys going +prosperously to church on Sundays, he enjoys his paper and his pipe. He +has no exalted ideas, and he could not put a single emotion into words, +but he is thoroughly honest, upright, manly, kind, sensible. A perfect +life in many ways; and yet it is inconceivable to me that a man should +live thus, without an aim, without a hope, without an object. He would +think my own life even more inconceivable--that a man could +deliberately sit down day after day to construct a story about +imaginary people; and such respect as he feels for me, is mainly due to +the fact that my writings bring me in a larger income than he could +ever make from his mill. But of course he is a man who is normally +healthy, and such men as he are the props of rural life. He is a good +master, he sees that his men do their work, and are well housed. He is +not generous exactly, but he is neighbourly. The question is whether +such as he is the proper type of humanity. He represents the simple +virtues at their high-water mark. He is entirely contented, and his +desires are perfectly proportioned to their surroundings. He seems +indeed to be exactly what the human creature ought to be. And yet his +very virtues, his sense of justice and honesty, his sensible +kindliness, are the outcome of civilisation, and bear the stamp, in +reality, of the dreams of saints and sages and idealists--the men who +felt that things could be better, and who were made miserable by the +imperfections of the world. I cannot help wondering, in a whimsical +moment, what would have been the miller's thoughts of Christ, if he had +been confronted with Him in the flesh. He would have thought of Him +rather contemptuously, I think, as a bewildering, unpractical, +emotional man. The miller would not have felt the appeal of +unselfishness and unworldliness, because his ideal of life is tranquil +prosperity. He would have merely wondered why people could not hold +their tongues and mind their business: and yet he is a model citizen, +and would be deeply annoyed if he were told he were not a sincere +Christian. He accepts doctrinal statements as he would accept +mathematical formulae, and he takes exactly as much of the Christian +doctrine as suits him. Now when I compare myself with the miller, I +feel that, as far as human usefulness goes, I am far lower in the +scale. I am, when all is said and done, a drone in the hive, eating the +honey I did not make. I do not take my share in the necessary labour of +the world, I do not regulate a little community of labourers with +uprightness and kindness, as he does. But still I suppose that my more +sensitive organisation has a meaning in the scale of things. I cannot +have been made and developed as I am, outside of the purpose of God. +And yet my work in the world is not that of the passionate idealist, +that kindles men with the hope of bettering and amending the world. +What is it that my work does? It fills a vacant hour for leisurely +people, it gives agreeable distraction, it furnishes some pleasant +dreams. The most that I can say is that I have a wife whom I desire to +make happy, and children whom I desire to bring up innocently, purely, +vigorously. + +Must one's hopes and beliefs be thus tentative and provisional? Must +one walk through life, never fathoming the secret? I have myself +abundance of material comfort, health, leisure. I know that for one +like myself, there are hundreds less fortunate. Yet happiness in this +world depends very little upon circumstances; it depends far more upon +a certain mixture of selfishness, tranquillity, temperance, bodily +vigour, and unimaginativeness. To be happy, one must be good-humouredly +indifferent to the sufferings of others, and indisposed to forecast the +possibilities of disaster. The sadness which must shadow the path of +such as myself, is the sadness which comes of the power to see clearly +the imperfections of the world, coupled with the inability to see +through it, to discern the purpose of it all. One comforts oneself by +the dim hope that the desire will be satisfied and the dream fulfilled; +but has one any certainty of that? The temptation is to acquiesce in a +sort of gentle cynicism, to take what one can get, to avoid as far as +possible all deep attachments, all profound hopes, to steel oneself in +indifference. That is what such men as my miller do instinctively; +meanwhile one tries to believe that the melancholy that comes to such +as Hamlet, the sadness of finding the world unintelligible, and +painful, and full of shadows, is a noble melancholy, a superior sort of +madness. Yet one is not content to bear, to suffer, to wait; one +clutches desperately at light and warmth and joy, and alas, in joy and +sorrow alike, one is ever and insupportably alone. + + + +April 9, 1889. + +I have been reading Rousseau lately, and find him a very +incomprehensible figure. The Confessions, it must be said, is a dingy +and sordid book. I cannot quite penetrate the motive which induced him +to write them. It cannot have been pure vanity, because he does not +spare himself; he might have made himself out a far more romantic and +attractive character, if he had suppressed the shadows and heightened +the lights. I am inclined to think that it was partly vanity and partly +honesty. Vanity was the motive force, and honesty the accompanying +mood. I do not suppose there is any document so transparently true in +existence, and we ought to be thankful for that. It is customary to say +that Rousseau had the soul of a lackey, by which I suppose is meant +that he had a gross and vulgar nature, a thievish taste for low +pleasures, and an ill-bred absence of consideration for others. He had +all these qualities certainly, but he had a great deal more. He was +upright and disinterested. He had a noble disregard of material +advantages; he had an enthusiasm for virtue, a passionate love of +humanity, a deep faith in God. He was not an intellectual man nor a +philosopher; and yet what a ridiculous criticism is that which is +generally made upon him, that his reasoning is bad, his knowledge +scanty, and that people had better read Hobbes! The very reason which +made Rousseau so tremendous an influence was that his point of view was +poetical rather than philosophical; he was not too far removed from the +souls to which he prophesied. What they needed was inspiration, +emotion, and sentimental dogma; these he could give, and so he saved +Europe from the philosophers and the cynics. Of course it is a +deplorable life, tormented by strong animal passion, ill-health, +insanity; but one tends to forget the prevalent coarseness of social +tone at that date, not because Rousseau made any secret of it, but +because none of his contemporaries dared to be so frank. If Rousseau +had struck out a dozen episodes from the Confessions the result would +have been a highly poetical, reflective, charming book. I can easily +conceive that it might have a very bad effect upon an ingenuous mind, +because it might be argued from what he says that moral lapses do not +very much matter, and that emotional experience is worth the price of +some animalism. Still more perniciously it might induce one to believe +that a man may have a deep sense of religion side by side with an +unbridled sensuality, and that one whose life is morally infamous may +yet be able to quicken the moral temperature of great nations. + +Some of the critics of Rousseau speak as though a man whose moral code +was so loose, and whose practice was so libidinous, ought almost to +have held his tongue on matters of high moral import. But this is a +very false line of argument. A man may see a truth clearly, even if he +cannot practise it; and an affirmation of a passionate belief in virtue +is emphasised and accentuated when it comes from the lips of one who +might be tempted rather to excuse his faults by preaching the +irresistible character of evil. + +To any one who reads wisely, and not in a censorious and Pharisaical +spirit, this sordid record, which is yet interspersed with things so +fragrant and beautiful, may have a sobering and uplifting effect. One +sees a man hampered by ill-health, by a temperament childishly greedy +of momentary pleasure, by irritability, suspicion, vanity and +luxuriousness, again and again expressing a deep belief in unselfish +emotion, a passionate desire to help struggling humanity onward, a +child-like confidence in the goodness and tenderness of the Father of +all. Disgust and admiration struggle strangely together. One cannot +sympathise and yet one dare not condemn. One feels a horrible suspicion +that there are dark and slimy corners, vile secrets, ugly memories, in +the minds of hundreds of seemingly respectable people; the book brings +one face to face with the mystery of evil; and yet through the gloom +there steals a silvery radiance, a far-off hope, an infinite compassion +for all weakness and imperfection. One can hardly love Rousseau, though +one does not wonder that there were many found to do so; and instead of +judging him, one cries out with horror at the slime of the pit where he +lay bound. + + + +April 14, 1889. + +A delusion of which we must beware is the delusion that we can have a +precise and accurate knowledge of spiritual things. This is a delusion +into which the exponents of settled religions are apt to fall. The +Roman Catholic, with his belief in the infallible Church, as the +interpreter of God's spirit, which is nothing more than a belief in the +inspiration of the majority, or even a belief in the inspiration of a +bureaucracy, is the prey of this delusion. The Protestant, too, with +his legal creed, built up of texts and precedents, in which the +argumentative dicta of Apostles and Evangelists are as weighty and +important as the words of the Saviour Himself, falls under this +delusion. I read the other day a passage from a printed sermon of an +orthodox type, an acrid outcry against Liberalism in religion, which +may illustrate what I mean. + +"To St. Paul and St. John," said the preacher, "the natural or carnal +man is hopelessly remote from God; the same Lord who came to make +possible for man this intimate communion with God is careful to make it +clear that this communion is only possible to redeemed, regenerate man; +prior to new birth into the Kingdom of God, far from being a son of +God, man is, according to the Lord Himself, a child of the devil, +however potentially capable of being translated from death into life." + +Such teaching is so horrible and abominable that it is hard to find +words to express one's sense of its shamefulness. To attribute it to +the Christ, who came to seek and save what is lost, is an act of +traitorous wickedness. If Christ had made it His business to thunder +into the ears of the outcasts, whom He preferred to the Scribes and +Pharisees, this appalling message, where would His teaching be? What +message of hope would it hold for the soul? Such a view of Christianity +as this insults alike the soul and the mind and the heart; it +deliberately insults God; the message of Christ to the vilest human +spirit is that it is indeed, in spite of all its corruption, its falls, +its shame, in very truth God's own child; it calls upon the sinner to +recognise it, it takes for granted that he feels it. The people whom +Christ denounced with indignation so fiery, so blasting, that it even +seems inconsistent with His perfect gentleness, were the people who +thus professed to know and interpret the mind of God, who bade the +sinner believe that He was a merciless judge, extreme to mark what is +done amiss, when the one secret was that He was the tenderest and most +loving of Fathers. But according to this preacher's terrible doctrine +God pours into the world a stream of millions of human beings, all +children of the devil, with instincts of a corrupt kind, hampered by +dreadful inheritances, doomed, from their helpless and reluctant birth, +to be sinful here and lost hereafter, and then prescribes to them a +hard and difficult path, beset by clamorous guides, pointing in a +hundred different directions, bidding them find the intricate way to +His Heart, or perish. The truth is the precise opposite. The divine +voice says to every man: "Hampered and sore hindered as you are, you +are yet My dearly beloved son and child; only turn to Me, only open +your heart to Me, only struggle, however faintly, to be what you can +desire to be, and I will guide and lead you to Myself; all that is +needed is that your heart should be on My side in the battle. Even your +sins matter little, provided that you can say sincerely, 'If it were +mine to choose and ordain, I would never willingly do evil again.' I +know, better even than you yourself know, your difficulties, your +temptations, your weaknesses; the sorrow they bring upon you is no +dreary and vindictive punishment, it is the loving correction of My +hand, and will bring you into peace yet, if only you will trust Me, and +not despair." + +The world is full of dreadful things, pains and sorrow and miseries, +but the worst of all are the dreary wretchednesses of our own devising. +The old detestable doctrine of Hell, the idea that the stubborn and +perverse spirit can defy God, and make its black choice, is simply an +attempt to glorify the strength of the human spirit and to belittle the +Love of God. It denies the truth that God, if He chose, could show the +darkest soul the beauty of holiness in so constraining a way that the +frail nature must yield to the appeal. To deny this, is to deny the +omnipotence of the Creator. No man would deliberately reject peace and +joy, if he could see how to find them, in favour of feverish evil and +ceaseless suffering. If we believe that God is perfect love, it is +inconceivable that He should make a creature capable of defying His +utmost tenderness, unless He had said to Himself, "I will make a poor +wretch who shall defy Me, and he shall suffer endlessly and mercilessly +in consequence." The truth is that God's Omnipotence is limited by His +Omnipotence; He could not, for instance, abolish Himself, nor create a +power that should be greater than He. But if He indeed can give to evil +such vitality that it can defy Him for ever, then He is creating a +power that is stronger than Himself. + +While the mystery of evil is unexplained, we must all be content to +know that we do not know; for the thing is insoluble by human thought. +If God be all-pervading, all-in-all, it is impossible to conceive +anything coming into being alien to Himself, within Himself. If He +created spirits able to choose evil, He must have created the evil for +them to choose, for a man could not choose what did not exist; if man +can defy God, God must have given him the thought of defiance, for no +thought can enter the mind of man not permitted by God. + +With this mystery unsolved, we cannot pretend to any knowledge of +spiritual things; all that we can do is to recognise that the principle +of Love is stronger than the principle of evil, and cling so far as we +can cling to the former. But to set ourselves up to guide and direct +other men, as the preacher did whose words I have quoted, is to set +oneself in the place of God, and is a detestable tyranny. Only by our +innate sense of Justice and Love can we apprehend God at all; and thus +we are safe in this, that whenever we find any doctrine preached by any +human being which insults our sense of justice and love, we may gladly +reject it, saying that at least we will not believe that God gives us +the power, on the one hand, to recognise our highest and truest +instincts, and on the other directs us to outrage them. Such teaching +as this we can infallibly recognise as a human perversion and not as a +divine message; and we may thankfully and gratefully believe that the +obstacles and difficulties, the temptations and troubles, which seem to +be strewn so thickly in our path, are to develop rather than to thwart +our strivings after good, and assuredly designed to minister to our +ultimate happiness, rather than to our ultimate despair. + + + +April 25, 1889. + +I found to-day on a shelf a Manual of Preparation for Holy Communion, +which was given me when I was confirmed. I stood a long time reading +it, and little ghosts seemed to rustle in its pages. How well I +remember using it, diligently and carefully, trying to force myself +into the attitude of mind that it inculcated, and humbly and sincerely +believing myself wicked, reprobate, stony-hearted, because I could not +do it successfully. Shall I make a curious confession? From quite early +days, the time of first waking in the morning has been apt to be for me +a time of mental agitation; any unpleasant and humiliating incident, +any disagreeable prospect, have always tended to dart into my brain, +which, unstrung and weakened by sleep, has often been disposed to view +things with a certain poignancy of distress at that hour--a distress +which I always knew would vanish the moment I felt my feet on the +carpet. I used to take advantage of this to use my Manual at that hour, +because by that I secured a deeper intensity of repentance, and I have +often succeeded in inducing a kind of tearful condition by those means, +which I knew perfectly well to be artificial, but which yet seemed to +comply with the rules of the process. + +The kind of repentance indicated in the book as appropriate was a deep +abasement, a horror and hatred of one's sinful propensities; and the +language used seems to me now not only hollow and meaningless, but to +insult the dignity of the soul, and to be indeed a profound confession +of a want of confidence in the methods and purposes of God. Surely the +right attitude is rather a manly, frank, and hopeful co-operation with +God, than a degraded kind of humiliation. One was invited to +contemplate God's detestation of sin, His awful and stainless holiness. +How unreal, how utterly false! It is no more reasonable than to +inculcate in human beings a sense of His hatred of weakness, of +imperfection, of disease, of suffering. One might as well say that +God's courage and beauty were so perfect that He had an impatient +loathing for anything timid or ugly. If one said that being perfect He +had an infinite pity for imperfection, that would be nearer the +truth--but, even so, how far away! To believe in His perfect love and +benevolence, one must also believe that all shortcomings, all +temptations, all sufferings, somehow emanate from Him; that they are +educative, and have an intense and beautiful significance--that is what +one struggles, how hardly, to believe! Those childish sins, they were +but the expression of the nature one received from His hand, that +wilful, pleasure-loving, timid, fitful nature, which yet always desired +the better part, if only it could compass it, choose it, love it. To +hate one's nature and temperament and disposition, how impossible, +unless one also hated the God who had bestowed them! And then, too, how +inextricably intertwined! The very part of one's soul that made one +peace-loving, affectionate, trustful was the very thing that led one +into temptation. The very humility and diffidence that made one hate to +seem or to be superior to others was the occasion of falling. The +religion recommended was a religion of scrupulous saints and +self-torturing ascetics; and the result of it was to make one, as +experience widened and deepened, mournfully indifferent to an ideal +which seemed so utterly out of one's reach. It is very difficult to +make the right compromise. On the one hand, there is the sense of moral +responsibility and effort, which one desires to cultivate; on the other +hand, truth compels us to recognise our limitations, and to confess +boldly the fact that moral improvement is a very difficult thing. The +question is whether, in dealing with other people, we will declare what +we believe to be the truth, or whether we will tamper with the truth +for a good motive. Ought we to pretend that we think a person morally +responsible and morally culpable, when we believe that he is neither, +for the sake of trying to improve him? + +My own practice now is to waste as little time as possible in +ineffectual regrets, but to keep alive as far as I can in my heart a +hope, a desire, that God will help to bring me nearer to the ideal that +I can perceive and cannot reach. To-day, turning over the pages of the +old Manual, with its fantastic strained phrases staring at me from the +page, I cannot help wishing that some wise and tender person had been +able to explain to me the conditions as I now see them. Probably the +thing was incommunicable; one must learn for oneself both one's +bitterness and one's joy. + + + +May 2, 1889. + +It sometimes happens to me--I suppose it happens to every one--to hear +some well-meaning person play or sing at a party. Last night, at the +Simpsons', a worthy young man, who was staying there, sang some +Schubert songs in a perfectly correct, weak, inexpressive voice, +accompanying himself in a wooden and inanimate fashion--the whole thing +might have been turned out by a machine. I was, I suppose, in a fretful +mood. "Good God!" I thought to myself, "what is the meaning of this +woeful performance?--a party of absurd dressed-up people, who have +eaten and drunk too much, sitting in a circle in this hot room +listening gravely to this lugubrious performance! And this is the best +that Schubert can do! This is the real Schubert! Here have I been all +my life pouring pints of subjective emotion into this dreary writer of +songs, believing that I was stirred and moved, when it was my own hopes +and aspirations all along, which I was stuffing into this conventional +vehicle, just as an ecclesiastical person puts his emotion into the +grotesque repetitions of a liturgy." I thought to myself that I had +made a discovery, and that all was vanity. Well, we thanked the singer +gravely enough, and went on, smiling and grimacing, to talk local +gossip. A few minutes later, a young girl, very shy and painfully +ingenuous, was hauled protesting to the piano. I could see her hands +tremble as she arranged her music, and the first chords she struck were +halting and timid. Then she began to sing--it was some simple +old-fashioned song--what had happened? the world was somehow different; +she had one of those low thrilling voices, charged with utterly +inexplicable emotion, haunted with old mysterious echoes out of some +region of dreams, so near and yet so far away. I do not think that the +girl had any great intensity of mind, or even of soul, neither was she +a great performer; but there was some strange and beautiful quality +about the voice, that now rose clear and sustained, while the +accompaniment charged and tinged the pure notes with glad or mournful +visions, like wine poured into water; now the voice fell and lingered, +like a clear stream among rocks, pathetic, appealing, stirring a deep +hunger of the spirit, and at the same time hinting at a hope, at a +secret almost within one's grasp. How can one find words to express a +thing so magical, so inexpressible? But it left me feeling as though to +sing thus was the one thing worth doing in the world, because it seemed +to interpret, to reveal, to sustain, to console--it was as though one +opened a door in a noisy, dusty street, and saw through it a deep and +silent glen, with woodlands stooping to a glimmering stream, with a +blue stretch of plain beyond, and an expanse of sunny seas on the rim +of the sky. + +I have had similar experiences before. I have looked in a gallery at +picture after picture--bright, soulless, accomplished things--and asked +myself how it was possible for men and women to spend their time so +elaborately to no purpose; and then one catches sight of some little +sketch--a pool in the silence of high summer, the hot sun blazing on +tall trees full of leaf, and rich water-plants, with a single figure in +a moored boat, musing dreamily; and at once one is transported into a +region of thrilled wonder. What is it all about? What is this sudden +glimpse into a life so rich and strange? In what quiet country is it +all enacted, what land of sweet visions? What do the tall trees and the +sleeping pool hide from me, and in what romantic region of joy and +sadness does the dreamer muse for ever, in the long afternoon, so full +of warmth and fragrance and murmurous sound? That is the joy of art, of +the symbol--that it remains and rests within itself, in a world that +seems, for a moment, more real and true than the clamorous and +obtrusive world we move in. + +It is so all along the line--the hard and soulless art of technique and +rule, of tradition and precept, however accomplished, however perfect +it is, is worth nothing; it is only another dreary form of labour, +unless through some faculty of the spirit, some vital intensity, or +even some inexplicable felicity, not comprehended, not designed, not +intended by the artist, it has this remote and suggestive quality. And +thus suddenly, in the midst of this weary beating of instruments, this +dull laying of colour by colour, of word by word, there breaks in the +awful and holy presence; and then one feels, as I have said, that this +thrill, this message, this oracle, is the one thing in the world worth +striving after, and that indeed one may forgive all the dull efforts of +those who cannot attain it, because perhaps they too have felt the +call, and have thrown themselves into the eternal quest. + +And it is true too of life; one is brought near to many people, and one +asks oneself in a chilly discomfort what is the use of it all, living +thus in hard and futile habits, on dull and conventional lines; and +then again one is suddenly confronted by some personality, rich in hope +and greatness, touching the simplest acts of life with an unearthly +light, making them gracious and beautiful, and revealing them as the +symbols of some pure and high mystery. Sometimes this is revealed by a +word, sometimes by a glance; perfectly virtuous, capable, successful +people may miss it; humble, simple, quiet people may have it. One +cannot analyse it or describe it; but one has instantaneously a sense +that life is a thing of large issues and great hopes; that every action +and thought, however simple or commonplace, may be touched with this +large quality of interest, of significance. It is a great happiness to +meet such a person, because one goes in the strength of that heavenly +meat many days and nights, knowing that life is worth living to the +uttermost, and that it can all be beautiful and lofty and gracious; but +the way to miss it, to lose that fine sense, is to have some dull and +definite design of one's own, which makes one treat all the hours in +which one cannot pursue it, but as the dirt and debris of a quarry. One +must not, I see, wait for the golden moments of life, because there are +no moments that are not golden, if one can but pierce into their +essence. Yet how is one to realise this, to put it into practice? I +have of late, in my vacuous mood, fallen into the dark error of +thinking of the weary hours as of things that must be just lived +through, and endured, and beguiled, if possible, until the fire again +fall. But life is a larger and a nobler business than that; and one +learns the lesson sooner, if one takes the suffering home to one's +soul, not as a tedious interlude, but as the very melody and march of +life itself, even though it crash into discords, or falter in a sombre +monotony. + +The point is that when one seems to be playing a part to one's own +satisfaction, when one appears to oneself to be brilliant, suggestive, +inspiriting, and genial, one is not necessarily ministering to other +people; while, on the other hand, when one is dull, troubled, and +anxious, out of heart and discontented, one may have the chance of +making others happier. Here is a whimsical instance; in one of my +dreariest days--I was in London on business--I sate next to an old +friend, generally a very lively, brisk, and cheerful man, who appeared +to me strangely silent and depressed. I led him on to talk freely, and +he told me a long tale of anxieties and cares; his health was +unsatisfactory, his plans promised ill. In trying to paint a brighter +picture, to reassure and encourage him, I not only forgot my own +troubles, but put some hope into him. We had met, two tired and +dispirited men, we went away cheered and encouraged, aware that we were +not each of us the only sufferer in the world and that there were +possibilities still ahead of us all, nay, in our grip, if we only were +not blind and forgetful. + + + +May 8, 1889. + +I saw the other day a great artist working on a picture in its initial +stages. There were a few lines of a design roughly traced, and there +was a little picture beside him, where the scheme was roughly worked +out; but the design itself was covered with strange wild smears of +flaring, furious colour, flung crudely upon the canvas. "I find it +impossible to believe," I said,--"forgive me for speaking thus--that +these ragged stains and splashes of colour can ever be subdued and +harmonised and co-ordinated." The great man smiled. "What would you +have said, I wonder," he replied, "if you had seen, as I did once, a +picture of Rossetti's in an early stage, with the face and arms of one +of his strange and mysterious figures roughly painted in in the +brightest ultramarine? Many of these fantastic scraps of colour will +disappear altogether from the eye, just lending tone to something which +is to be superimposed upon them." + +I have since reflected that this makes a beautiful parable of our +lives. Some element comes into our experience, some suffering, some +anxiety, and we tend to say impatiently: "Well, whatever happens, this +at least can never appear just or merciful." But God, like a wise and +perfect artist, foresees the end in the beginning. We, who live in time +and space, can merely see the rough, crude tints flung fiercely down, +till the thing seems nothing but a frantic patchwork of angry hues; but +God sees the blending and the softening; how the soft tints of face and +hand, of river and tree, will steal over the coarse background, and +gain their strength and glory from the hidden stains. Perhaps we have +sometimes the comfort of seeing how some old and ugly experience melted +into and strengthened some soft, bright quality of heart or mind. +Staring mournfully as we do upon the tiny circumscribed space of life, +we cannot conceive how the design will work itself out; but the day +will come when we shall see it too; and perhaps the best moments of +life are those when we have a secret inkling of the process that is +going so slowly and surely forward, as the harsh lines and hues become +the gracious lineaments of some sweet face, and from the glaring patch +of hot colour is revealed the remote and shining expanse of a sunlit +sea. + + + +May 14, 1889. + +There used to be a favourite subject for scholastic disputation: +WHETHER HERCULES IS IN THE MARBLE. The image is that of the sculptor, +who sees the statue lie, so to speak, imbedded in the marble block, and +whose duty is so to carve it, neither cutting too deep or too shallow, +so that the perfect form is revealed. The idea of the disputation is +the root-idea of idealistic philosophy. That each man is, as it were, a +block of marble in which the ideal man is buried. The purpose of the +educator ought to be to cut the form out, perikoptein, as Plato has it. + +What a lofty and beautiful thought! To feel about oneself that the +perfect form is there, and that the experience of life is the process +of cutting it out--a process full of pain, perhaps, as the great +splinters and flakes fly and drop--a rough, brutal business it seems at +first, the hewing off great masses of stone, so firmly compacted, fused +and concreted together. At first it seems unintelligible enough; but +the dints become minuter and minuter, here a grain and there an atom, +till the smooth and shapely limbs begin to take shape. At first it +seems a mere bewildered loss, a sharp pang as one parts with what seems +one's very self. How long before the barest structure becomes visible! +but when one once gets a dim inkling of what is going on, as the +stubborn temper yields, as the face takes on its noble frankness, and +the shapely limbs emerge in all the glory of free line and curve, how +gratefully and vehemently one co-operates, how little a thing the +endurance of mere pain becomes by the side of the consciousness that +one is growing into the likeness of the divine. + + + +May 23, 1889. + +when Goethe was writing Werther he wrote to his friend Kestner, "I am +working out my own situation in art, for the consolation of gods and +men." That is a fine thing to have said, proceeding from so sublime an +egoism, so transcendent a pride, that it has hardly a disfiguring touch +of vanity about it. He did not add that he was also working in the +situation of his friend Kestner, and Kestner's wife, Charlotte; though +when they objected to having been thus used as material, Goethe +apologised profusely, and in the same breath told them, somewhat +royally, that they ought to be proud to have been thus honoured. But +that is the reason why one admires Goethe so much and worships him so +little. One admires him for the way in which he strode ahead, turning +corner after corner in the untravelled road of art, with such insight, +such certainty, interpreting and giving form to the thought of the +world; but one does not worship him, because he had no tenderness or +care for humanity. He knew whither he was bound, but he did not trouble +himself about his companions. The great leaders of the world are those +who have said to others, "Come with me--let us find light and peace +together!"--but Goethe said, "Follow me if you can!" Some one, writing +of that age, said that it was a time when men had immense and +far-reaching desires, but feeble wills. They lost themselves in the +melancholy of Hamlet, and luxuriated in their own sorrows. That was not +the case with Goethe himself; there never was an artist who was less +irresolute. + +One of the reasons, I think, why we are weak in art, at the present +time, is because we refer everything to conventional ethical standards. +We are always arraigning people at the bar of morality, and what we +judge them mainly by is their strength or weakness of will. Blake +thought differently. He always maintained that men would be judged for +their intellectual and artistic perception, by their good or bad taste. + +But surely it is all a deep-seated mistake; one might as well judge +people for being tall or short, ugly or beautiful. The only thing for +which I think most people would consent to be judged, which is after +all what matters, is whether they have yielded consciously to mean, +prudent, timid, conventional motives in life. It is not a question of +success or failure; it is rather whether one has acted largely, freely, +generously, or whether one has acted politely, timidly, prudently. + +In the Gospel, the two things for which it seems to be indicated that +men will be judged are, whether they have been kind, and whether they +have improved upon what has been given them. And therefore the judgment +seems to depend rather upon what men desire than upon what they effect, +upon attitude rather than upon performance. But it is all a great +mystery, because no amount of desiring seems to give us what we desire. +The two plain duties are to commit ourselves to the Power that made us, +and to desire to become what He would have us become; and one must also +abstain from any attempt to judge other people--that is the +unpardonable sin. + +In art, then, a man does his best if, like Goethe, he works his own +situation into art for the consolation of gods and men. His own +situation is the only thing he can come near to perceiving; and if he +draws it faithfully and beautifully, he consoles and he encourages. +That is the best and noblest thing he can do, if he can express or +depict anything which may make other men feel that they are not alone, +that others are treading the same path, in sunshine or cloud; anything +which may help others to persevere, to desire, to perceive. The worst +sorrows in life are not its losses and misfortunes, but its fears. And +when Goethe said that it was for the consolation of gods as well as of +men, he said a sublime thing, for if we believe that God made and loved +us, may we not sympathise with Him for our blindness and hopelessness, +for all the sad sense of injustice and perplexity that we feel as we +stumble on our way; all the accusing cries, all the despairing groans? +Do not such things wound the heart of God? And if a man can be brave +and patient, and trust Him utterly, and bid others trust Him, is He not +thereby consoled? + +In these dark months, in which I have suffered much, there rises at +times in my heart a strong intuition that it is not for nothing that I +suffer. I cannot divine whom it is to benefit, or how it is to benefit +any one. One thing indeed saddens me, and that is to reflect that I +have often allowed the record of old sadnesses to heighten my own sense +of luxurious tranquillity and security. Not so will I err again. I will +rather believe that a mighty price is being paid for a mightier joy, +that we are not astray in the wilderness out of the way, but that we +are rather a great and loving company, guided onward to some far-off +city of God, with infinite tenderness, and a love so great that we +cannot even comprehend its depth and its intensity. + +I sit, as I write, in my quiet room, the fragrant evening air floating +in, surrounded by all the beloved familiar things that have made my +life sweet, easy, and delightful--books and pictures, that have brought +me so many messages of beauty. I hear the voice of Maud overhead--she +is telling the children a story, and I hear their voices break out +every now and then into eager questions. Yet in the midst of all this +peace and sweetness, I walk in loneliness and gloom, hardly daring, so +faithless and despairing I am, to let my heart go out to the love and +goodness round me, for fear of losing it all, for fear that those souls +I love may be withdrawn from me or I from them. In this I know that I +am sadly and darkly wrong--the prudent coldness, the fear of sorrow +pulls me back; irresolute, cowardly, base! Yet even so I must trust the +Hand that moulded me, and the Will that bade me be, just so and not +otherwise. + + + +June 4, 1889. + +It is a melancholy reflection how very little the highest and most +elaborate culture effects in the direction of producing creative and +original writing. Very few indeed of our great writers have been +technically cultivated men. How little we look to the Universities, +where a lifetime devoted to the study of the nuances of classical +expression is considered well spent, for any literature which either +raises the intellectual temperature or enriches the blood of the world! +The fact is that the highly-cultivated man tends to find himself +mentally hampered by his cultivation, to wade in a sea of glue, as +Tennyson said. It is partly that highly-cultivated minds grow to be +subservient to authority, and to contemn experiment as rash and +obstreperous. Partly also the least movement of the mind dislodges such +a pile of precedents and phrases and aphorisms, stored and amassed by +diligent reading, that the mind is encumbered by the thought that most +things worth saying have been so beautifully said that repetition is +out of the question. Partly, too, a false and fastidious refinement +lays hold of the mind; and an intellect trained in the fine perception +of ancient expression is unable to pass through the earlier stages +through which a writer must pass, when the stream flows broken and +turbid, when it appears impossible to capture and define the idea which +seems so intangible and indefinable. + +What an original writer requires is to be able to see a subject for +himself, and then to express it for himself. The only cultivation he +needs is just enough to realise that there are differences of subject +and differences of expression, just enough to discern the general lines +upon which subjects can be evolved, and to perceive that lucidity, +grace, and force of expression are attainable. The overcultivated man, +after reading a masterpiece, is crushed and flattened under his +admiration; but the effect of a masterpiece upon an original spirit, is +to make him desire to say something else that rises in his soul, and to +say it in his own words; all he needs in the way of training is just +enough for him to master technique. The highly-cultivated man is as one +dazzled by gazing upon the sun; he has no eyes for anything else; a +bright disc, imprinted upon his eyes, floats between him and every +other object. + +The best illustration of this is the case of the great trio, +Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge. All three started as poets. +Coleridge was distracted from poetry into metaphysics, mainly, I +believe, by his indulgence in opium, and the torturing contemplation of +his own moral impotence. He turned to philosophy to see if he could +find some clue to the bewildering riddle of life, and he lost his way +among philosophical speculations. Southey, on the other hand, a man of +Spartan virtue, became a highly-cultivated writer; he sate in his +spacious library of well-selected books, arranged with a finical +preciseness, apportioning his day between various literary pursuits. He +made an income; he wrote excellent ephemeral volumes; he gained a +somewhat dreary reputation. But Wordsworth, with his tiny bookshelf of +odd tattered volumes, with pages of manuscript interleaved to supply +missing passages, alone kept his heart and imagination active, by +deliberate leisure, elaborate sauntering, unashamed idleness. + +The reason why very few uneducated persons have been writers of note, +is because they have been unable to take up the problem at the right +point. A writer cannot start absolutely afresh; he must have the +progress of thought behind him, and he must join the procession in due +order. Therefore the best outfit for a writer is to have just enough +cultivation to enable him to apprehend the drift and development of +thought, to discern the social and emotional problems that are in the +air, so that he can interpret--that is the secret--the thoughts that +are astir, but which have not yet been brought to the birth. He must +know enough and not too much; he must not dim his perception by +acquainting himself in detail with what has been said or thought; he +must not take off the freshness of his mind by too much intellectual +gymnastic. It is a race across country for which he is preparing, and +he will learn better what the practical difficulties are by daring +excursions of his own, than by acquiring a formal suppleness in +prescribed exercises. + +The originality and the output of the writer are conditioned by his +intellectual and vital energy. Most men require all their energy for +the ordinary pursuits of life; all creative work is the result of a +certain superabundance of mental force. If this force is used up in +social duties, in professional business, even in the pursuit of a high +degree of mental cultivation, originality must suffer; and therefore a +man whose aim is to write, ought resolutely to limit his activities. +What would be idleness in another is for him a storing of forces; what +in an ordinary man would be malingering and procrastination, is for the +writer the repose necessary to allow his energies to concentrate +themselves upon his chosen work. + + + +June 8, 1889. + +I have been looking at a catalogue, this morning, of the publications +of a firm that is always bringing out new editions of old writers. I +suppose they find a certain sale for these books, or they would not +issue them; and yet I cannot conceive who buys them in their thousands, +and still less who reads them. Teachers, perhaps, of literature; or +people who are inspired by local lectures to go in search of culture? +It is a great problem, this accumulation of literature; and it seems to +me a very irrational thing to do to republish the complete works of old +authors, who perhaps, in the midst of a large mass of essentially +second-rate work, added half-a-dozen lyrics to the literature of the +world. But surely it is time that we began to select? Whatever else +there is time for in this world, there certainly is not time to read +old half-forgotten second-rate work. Of course people who are making a +special study of an age, a period, a school of writers, have to plough +through a good deal that is not intrinsically worth reading; but, as a +rule, when a man has done this, instead of saying boldly that the +greater part of an author's writings may be wisely neglected and left +alone, he loses himself in the critical discrimination and the +chronological arrangement of inferior compositions; perhaps he rescues +a few lines of merit out of a mass of writing; but there is hardly time +now to read long ponderous poems for the sake of a few fine flashes of +emotion and expression. What, as a rule, distinguishes the work of the +amateur from the work of the great writer is that an amateur will +retain a poem for the sake of a few good lines, whereas a great writer +will relentlessly sacrifice a few fine phrases, if the whole structure +and texture of the poem is loose and unsatisfactory. The only chance of +writing something that will live is to be sure that the whole +thing--book, essay, poem--is perfectly proportioned, firm, hammered, +definite. The sign and seal of a great writer is that he has either the +patience to improve loose work, or the courage to sacrifice it. + +But most readers are so irrational, so submissive, so deferential, that +they will swallow an author whole. They think dimly that they can +arrive at a certain kind of culture by knowledge; but knowledge has +nothing to do with it. The point is to have perception, emotion, +discrimination. This is where education fails so grievously, that +teachers of this independent and perceptive process are so rare, and +that teaching too often falls into the hands of conscientious people, +with good memories, who think that it benefits the mind to load it with +facts and dates, and forget, or do not know, that what is needed is a +sort of ardent inner fire, that consumes the debris and fuses the ore. + +In that dry, ugly, depressing book, Harry and Lucy, which I used to +read in my youth, there is a terrible father, kind, virtuous, +conscientious, whose one idea seems to be to encourage the children to +amass correct information. The party is driving in a chaise together, +and Lucy begins to tell a story of a little girl, Kitty Maples by name, +whom she has met at her Aunt Pierrepoint's; it seems as if the +conversation is for once to be enlightened by a ray of human interest, +but the name is hardly out of her lips, when the father directs her +attention to a building beside the road, and adds, "Let us talk of +things rather than of people." The building turns out to be a +sugar-refinery, or some equally depressing place, and the unhappy +children are initiated into its mysteries. What could be more cheerless +and dispiriting? Lucy is represented as a high-spirited and somewhat +giddy child, who is always being made aware of her moral deficiencies. + +One looks forward sadly to the time when nature has been resolutely +expelled by a knowledge of dynamics and statics, and when Lucy, with +children of her own, will be directing their attention away from +childish fancies, to the fact that the poker is a lever, and that curly +hair is a good hygrometer. + +Plenty of homely and simple virtues are inculcated in Harry and Lucy; +but the attitude of mind that must inevitably result from such an +education is hard, complacent, and superior. The children are scolded +out of superficial vanities, and their place is occupied by a satanical +sort of pride--the pride of possessing correct information. + +What does one want to make of one's own children? One wants them to be +generous, affectionate, simple-minded, just, temperate in the moral +region. In the intellectual region, one desires them to be alert, +eager, independent, perceptive, interested. I like them to ask a +hundred questions about what they see and hear. I want them to be +tender and compassionate to animals and insects. As for books, I want +them to follow their own taste, but I surround them only with the best; +but even so I wish them to have minds of their own, to have +preferences, and reasons for their preferences. I do not want them to +follow my taste, but to trust their own. I do not in the least care +about their amassing correct information. It is much better that they +should learn how to use books. It is very strange how theories of +education remain impervious to development. In the days when books were +scarce and expensive, when knowledge was not formulated and summarised, +men had to depend largely on their own stores. But now, what is the use +of books, if one is still to load one's memory with details? The +training of memory is a very unimportant part of education nowadays; +people with accurate memories are far too apt to trust them, and to +despise verification. Indeed, a well-filled memory is a great snare, +because it leads the possessor of it to believe, as I have said, that +knowledge is culture. A good digestion is more important to a man than +the possession of many sacks of corn; and what one ought rather to +cultivate nowadays is mental digestion. + + + +June 14, 1889. + +It is comforting to reflect how easy it is to abandon habits, and how +soon a new habit takes the place of the old. Some months ago I put +writing aside in despair, feeling that I was turning away from the most +stable thing in life; yet even now I have learned largely to acquiesce +in silence; the dreary and objectless mood visits me less and less +frequently. What have I found to fill the place of the old habit? I +have begun to read much more widely, and recognise how very +ill-educated I am. In my writing days, I used to read mainly for the +purposes of my books, or, if I turned aside to general reading at all, +it was to personal, intime, subjective books that I turned, books in +which one could see the development of character, analyse emotion, +acquire psychological experience; but now I find a growing interest in +sociological and historical ideas; a mist begins to roll away from my +mental horizon, and I realise how small was the circle in which I was +walking. I sometimes find myself hoping that this may mean the +possibility of a wider flight; but I do not, strange to say, care very +much about the prospect. Just at present, I appear to myself to have +been like a botanist walking in a great forest, looking out only for +small typical specimens of certain classes of ground-plants, without +any eyes for the luxurious vegetation, the beauty of the rich opening +glade, the fallen day of the dense underwood. + +Then too I have begun to read regularly with the children; I did it +formerly, but only fitfully, and I am sorry to say grudgingly. But now +it has become a matter of intense interest to me, to see how thoughts +strike on eager and ingenuous minds. I find my trained imagination a +great help here, because it gives me the power of clothing a bare scene +with detail, and of giving vitality to an austere figure. I have made +all sorts of discoveries, to me astonishing and delightful, about my +children. I recognise some of their qualities and modes of thought; but +there are whole ranges of qualities apparent, of which I cannot even +guess the origin. One thinks of a child as deriving its nature from its +parents, and its experience from its surroundings; but there is much +beside that, original views, unexpected curiosities, and, strangest of +all, things that seem almost like dim reminiscences floated out of +other far-off lives. They seem to infer so much that they have never +heard, to perceive so much that they have never seen, to know so much +that they have never been told. Bewildering as this is in the +intellectual region, it is still more marvellous in the moral region. +They scorn, they shudder at, they approve, they love, as by some +generous instinct, qualities of which they have had no experience. "I +don't know what it is, but there is something wrong about Cromwell," +said Maggie gravely, when we had been reading the history of the +Commonwealth. Now Cromwell is just one of those characters which, as a +rule, a child accepts as a model of rigid virtue and public spirit. +Alec, whose taste is all for soldiers and sailors just now, and who +might, one would have thought, have been dazzled by military glory, +pronounced Napoleon "rather a common man." This arose purely in the +boy's own mind, because I am very careful not to anticipate any +judgments; I think it of the highest importance that they should learn +to form their own opinions, so that we never attempt to criticise a +character until we have mastered the facts of his life. + +Another thing I am doing with them, which seems to me to develop +intelligence pleasurably and rapidly, is to read them a passage or an +episode, and then to require them to relate it or write it in their own +words. I don't remember that this was ever done for me in the whole +course of my elaborate education; and the speed with which they have +acquired the art of seizing on salient points is to me simply +marvellous. I have my reward in such remarks as these which Maud +repeated to me yesterday. "Lessons," said Alec gravely, "have become +ever so much more fun since we began to do them with father." "Fun!" +said Maggie, with indignant emotion; "they are not lessons at all now!" +I certainly do not observe any reluctance on their part to set to work, +and I do see a considerable reluctance to stop; yet I don't think there +is the least strain about it. But it is true that I save them all the +stupid and irksome work that made my own acquisition of knowledge so +bitter a thing. We read French together; my own early French lessons +were positively disgusting, partly from the abominable little books on +dirty paper and in bad type that we read, and partly from the absurd +character of the books chosen. The Cid and Voltaire's Charles XII.! I +used to wonder dimly how it was ever worth any one's while to string +such ugly and meaningless sentences together. Now I read with the +children Sans Famille and Colomba; and they acquire the language with +incredible rapidity. I tell them any word they do not know; and we have +a simple system of emulation, by which the one who recollects first a +word we have previously had, receives a mark; and the one who first +reaches a total of a hundred marks gets sixpence. The adorable nature +of women! Maggie, whose verbal memory is excellent, went rapidly ahead, +and spent her sixpence on a present to console Alec for the indignity +of having been beaten. Then, too, they write letters in French to their +mother, which are solemnly sent by post. It is not very idiomatic +French, but it is amazingly flexible; and it is delicious to see the +children at breakfast watching Maud as she opens the letters and smiles +over them. + +Perhaps this is not a very exalted type of education; it certainly +seems to fulfil its purpose very wonderfully in making them alert, +inquisitive, eager, and without any shadow of priggishness. It is +established as a principle that it is stupid not to know things, and +still more stupid to try and make other people aware that you know +them; and the apologies with which Maggie translated a French menu at a +house where we stayed with the children the other day were delightful +to behold. + +I am very anxious that they should not be priggish, and I do not think +they are in any danger of becoming so. I suppose I rather skim the +cream of their education, and leave the duller part to the governess, a +nice, tranquil person, who lives in the village, the daughter of a +previous vicar, and comes in in the mornings. I don't mean that their +interest and alertness does not vary, but they are obedient and +active-minded children, and they prefer their lessons with me so much +that it has not occurred to them to be bored. If they flag, I don't +press them. I tell them a story, or show them pictures. While I write +these words in my armchair, they are sitting at the table, writing an +account of something I have told them. Maggie lays down her pen with a +sigh of satisfaction. "There, that is beautiful! But I dare say it is +not as good as yours, Alec." "Don't interrupt me," says Alec sternly, +"and don't push against me when I'm busy." Maggie looks round and +concludes that I am busy too. In a minute, Alec will have done, and +then I shall read the two pieces aloud; then we shall criticise them +respectfully. The aim is to make them frankly recognise the good points +of each other's compositions as well as the weak points, and this they +are very ready to do. + +In all this I do not neglect the physical side. They can ride and swim. +They go out in all weathers and get wholesomely wet, dirty, and tired. +Games are a difficulty, but I want them to be able, if necessary, to do +without games. We botanise, we look for nests, we geologise, we study +birds through glasses, we garden. It is all very unscientific, but they +observe, they perceive, they love the country. Moreover, Maud has a +passion for knowing all the village people, and takes the children with +her, so that they really know the village-folk all round; they are +certainly tremendously happy and interested in everything. Of course +they are volatile in their tastes, but I rather encourage that. I know +that in the little old moral books the idea was that nothing should be +taken up by children, unless it was done thoroughly and perseveringly; +but I had rather that they had a wide experience; the time to select +and settle down upon a pursuit is not yet, and I had rather that they +found out for themselves what they care about, than practise them in a +premature patience. The only thing I object to is their taking up +something which they have tried and dropped; then I do require a pledge +that they shall stick to it. I say to them, "I don't mind how many +things you try, and if you find you don't care about one, you may give +it up when you have given it a trial; but it is a bad thing to be +always changing, and everybody can't do everything; so don't take up +this particular thing again, unless you can give a good reason for +thinking you will keep to it." + +One of the things I insist upon their doing, whether they like it or +not, is learning to play the piano. There are innumerable people, I +find, who regret not having been made to overcome the initial +difficulties of music; and the only condition I make is, that they +shall be allowed to stop when they can play a simple piece of music at +sight correctly, and when they have learnt the simple rules of harmony. + +For teaching them geography, I have a simple plan; my own early +geography lessons were to my recollection singularly dismal. I used, as +far as I can remember, to learn lists of towns, rivers, capes, and +mountains. Then there were horrible lists of exports and imports, such +as hides, jute, and hardware. I did not know what any of the things +were, and no one explained them to me. What we do now is this. I read +up a book of travels, and then we travel in a country by means of +atlases, while I describe the sort of landscape we should see, the +inhabitants, their occupations, their religion, and show the children +pictures. I can only say that it seems to be a success. They learn +arithmetic with their governess, and what is aimed at is rapid and +accurate calculations. As for religious instruction, we read portions +of the Bible, striking scenes and stories, carefully selected, and the +Gospel story, with plenty of pictures. But here I own I find a +difficulty. With regard to the Old Testament, I have frankly told them +that many of the stories are legends and exaggerations, like the +legends of other nations. That is not difficult; I say that in old days +when people did not understand science, many things seemed possible +which we know now to be impossible; and that things which happened +naturally, were often thought to have happened supernaturally; +moreover, that both imagination and exaggeration crept in about famous +people. I am sure that there is a great danger in teaching intelligent +children that the Bible is all literally true. And then the difficulty +comes in, that they ask artlessly whether such a story as the miracle +of Cana, or the feeding of the five thousand, is true. I reply frankly +that we cannot be sure; that the people who wrote it down believed it +to be true, but that it came to them by hearsay; and the children seem +to have no difficulty about the matter. Then, too, I do not want them +to be too familiar, as children, with the words of Christ, because I am +sure that it is a fact that, for many people, a mechanical familiarity +with the Gospel language simply blurs and weakens the marvellous +significance and beauty of the thought. It becomes so crystallised that +they cannot penetrate it. I have treated some parts of the Gospel after +the fashion of Philochristus, telling them a story, as though seen by +some earnest spectator. I find that they take the deepest interest in +these stories, and that the figure of Christ is very real and august to +them. But I teach them no doctrine except the very simplest--the +Fatherhood of God, the Divinity of Christ, the indwelling voice of the +Spirit; and I am sure that religion is a pure, sweet, vital force in +their lives, not a harsh thing, a question of sin and punishment, but a +matter of Love, Strength, Forgiveness, Holiness. The one thing I try to +show them is that God was not, as I used to think, the property, so to +speak, of the Jews; but that He is behind and above every race and +nation, slowly leading them to the light. The two things I will not +allow them to think of are the Doctrines of the Fall and the Atonement; +the doctrine of the Fall is contrary to all true knowledge, the +doctrine of the Atonement is inconsistent with every idea of justice. +But it is a difficult matter. They will hear sermons, and Alec, at +school, may have dogmatic instruction given him; but I shall prepare +him for Confirmation here, and have him confirmed at home, and thus the +main difficulty will be avoided; neither do I conceal from them that +good people think very differently on these points. It is curious to +remember that, brought up as I was on strict Evangelical lines, I was +early inculcated into the sin of schism, with the result that I hurried +with my Puritan nurse swiftly and violently by a Roman Catholic chapel +and a Wesleyan meeting-house which we used to pass in our walks, with a +sense of horror and wickedness in the air. Indeed, I remember once +asking my mother why God did not rain down fire and brimstone on these +two places of worship, and received a very unsatisfactory answer. To +develop such a spirit was, it seems to me, a monstrous sin against +Christian charity, and my children shall be saved from that. + +Meantime my own hours are increasingly filled. It takes me a long time +to prepare for the children's lessons; and I have my reward abundantly +in the delight of seeing their intelligence, their perception, their +interest grow. I am determined that the beginnings of knowledge shall +be for them a primrose path; I suppose there will have to be some +stricter mental discipline later; but they shall begin by thinking and +expecting things to be interesting and delightful, before they realise +that things can also be hard and dull. + + + +June 20, 1889. + +When I read books on education, when I listen to the talk of +educational theorists, when I see syllabuses and schedules, schemes and +curricula, a great depression settles on my mind; I feel I have no +interest in education, and a deep distrust of theoretical methods. +These things seem to aim at missing the very thing of which we are in +search, and to lose themselves in a sort of childish game, a +marshalling of processions, a lust for organisation. I care so +intensely for what it all means, I loathe so deeply the motives that +seem at work. I suppose that the ordinary man considers a species of +success, a bettering of himself, the acquisition of money and position +and respectability, to be the end of life; and such as these look upon +education primarily as a means of arriving at their object. Such was +the old education given by the sophists, which aimed at turning out a +well-balanced, effective man. But all this, it seems to me, has the +wrong end in view. The success of it depends upon the fact that every +one is not so capable of rising, that the rank and file must be in the +background, forming the material out of which the successful man makes +his combinations, and whom he contrives to despoil. + +The result of it is that the well-educated man becomes hard, brisk, +complacent, contemptuous, knowing his own worth, using his equipment +for precise and definite ends. + +My idea would rather be that education should aim at teaching people +how to be happy without success; because the shadow of success is +vulgarity, and vulgarity is the one thing which education ought to +extinguish. What I desire is that men should learn to see what is +beautiful, to find pleasure in homely work, to fill leisure with +innocent enjoyment. If education, as the term is generally used, were +widely and universally successful, the whole fabric of a nation would +collapse, because no one thus educated would acquiesce in the +performance of humble work. It is commonly said that education ought to +make men dissatisfied, and teach them to desire to improve their +position. It is a pestilent heresy. It ought to teach them to be +satisfied with simple conditions, and to improve themselves rather than +their position--the end of it ought to be to produce content. Suppose, +for an instant--it sounds a fantastic hypothesis--that a man born in +the country, in the labouring class, were fond of field-work, a lover +of the sights of nature in all her aspects, fond of good literature, +why should he seek to change his conditions? But education tends to +make boys and girls fond of excitement, fond of town sociabilities and +amusements, till only the dull and unambitious are content to remain in +the country. And yet the country work will have to be done until the +end of time. + +It is a dark problem; but it seems to me that we are only saved from +disaster, in our well-meant efforts, by the simple fact that we cannot +make humanity what we so short-sightedly desire to make it; that the +dull, uninspired, unambitious element has an endurance and a permanence +which we cannot change if we would, and which it is well for us that we +cannot change; and that in spite of our curricula and schedules, +mankind marches quietly upon its way to its unknown goal. + + + +June 28, 1889. + +An old friend has been staying with us, a very interesting man for many +reasons, but principally for the fact that he combines two sets of +qualities that are rarely found together. He has strong artistic +instincts; he would like, I think, to have been a painter; he has a +deep love of nature, woodland places and quiet fields; he loves old and +beautiful buildings with a tenderness that makes it a real misery to +him to think of their destruction, and even their renovation; and he +has, too, the poetic passion for flowers; he is happiest in his garden. +But beside all this, he has the Puritan virtues strongly developed; he +loves work, and duty, and simplicity of life, with all his heart; he is +an almost rigid judge of conduct and character, and sometimes flashes +out in a half Pharisaical scorn against meanness, selfishness, and +weakness. He is naturally a pure Ruskinian; he would like to destroy +railways and machinery and manufactories; he would like working-men to +enjoy their work, and dance together on the village green in the +evenings; but he is not a faddist at all, and has the healthiest and +simplest power of enjoyment. His severity has mellowed with age, while +his love of beauty has, I think, increased; he does not care for +argument, and is apt to say pathetically that he knows that his +fellow-disputant is right, but that he cannot change his opinions, and +does not desire to. He is passing, it seems to me, into a very gracious +and soft twilight of life; he grows more patient, more tender, more +serene. His face, always beautiful, has taken on an added beauty of +faithful service and gracious sweetness. + +We began one evening to discuss a book that has lately been published, +a book of very sad, beautiful, wise, intimate letters, written by a +woman of great perception, high intellectual gifts and passionate +affections. These letters were published, not long after her death, by +her children, to whom many of them were addressed. + +He had read the book, I found, with deep emotion; but he said very +decidedly that it ought not to have been published, at all events so +soon after the writer's death. I am inclined to defer greatly to his +judgment, and still more to his taste, and I have therefore read the +book again to see if I am inclined to alter my mind. I find that my +feeling is the exact opposite of his in every way. I feel humbly and +deeply grateful to the children who have given the letters to the +world. Of course if there had been any idea in the mind of the writer +that they would be published, she would probably have been far more +reticent; but, as it was, she spoke with a perfect openness and +simplicity of all that was in her mind. It is curious to reflect that I +met the writer more than once, and thought her a cold, hard, +unsympathetic woman. She had to endure many sorrows and bereavements, +losing, by untimely death, those whom she most loved; but the +revelation of her pain and bewilderment, and the sublime and loving +resignation with which she bore it, has been to me a deep, holy, and +reviving experience. Here was one who felt grief acutely, rebelliously, +and passionately, yet whom sorrow did not sear or harden, suffering did +not make self-absorbed or morbid, or pain make callous. Her love flowed +out more richly and tenderly than ever to those who were left, even +though the loss of those whom she loved remained an unfading grief, an +open wound. She did not even shun the scenes and houses that reminded +her of her bereavements; she did not withdraw from life, she made no +parade of her sorrows. The whole thing is so wholesome, so patient, so +devoted, that it has shown me, I venture to say, a higher possibility +in human nature of bearing intolerable calamities with sweetness and +courage, than I had dared to believe. It seems to me that nothing more +wise or brave could have been done by the survivors than to make these +letters accessible to others. We English people make such a secret of +our feelings, are so stubbornly reticent about the wrong things, have +so false and stupid a sense of decorum, that I am infinitely grateful +for this glimpse of a pure, patient, and devoted heart. It seems to me +that the one thing worth knowing in this world is what other people +think and feel about the great experiences of life. The writers who +have helped the world most are those who have gone deepest into the +heart; but the dullest part of our conventionality is that when a man +disguises the secrets of his soul in a play, a novel, a lyric, he is +supposed to have helped us and ministered to our deepest needs; but if +he speaks directly, in his own voice and person, of these things, he is +at once accused of egotism and indecorum. It is not that we dislike +sentiment and feeling; we value it as much as any nation; but we think +that it must be spoken of symbolically and indirectly. We do not +consider a man egotistical, if he will only give himself a feigned +name, and write of his experiences in the third person. But if he uses +the personal pronoun, he is thought to be shameless. There are even +people who consider it more decent to say "one feels and one thinks," +than to say "I feel and I think." The thing that I most desire, in +intercourse with other men and women, is that they should talk frankly +of themselves, their hopes and fears, their beliefs and uncertainties. +Yet how many people can do that? Part of our English shyness is shown +by the fact that people are often curiously cautious about what they +say, but entirely indiscreet in what they write. The only books which +possess a real and abiding vitality are those in which personality is +freely and frankly revealed. Of course there are one or two authors +like Shakespeare who seem to have had a power of penetrating and +getting inside any personality, but, apart from them, the books that go +on being read and re-read are the books in which one seems to clasp +hands with a human soul. + +I said many of these things to my friend, and he replied that he +thought I was probably right, but that he could not change his opinion. +He would not have had these letters published until all the survivors +were dead. He did not think that the people who liked the book were +actuated by good motives, but had merely a desire to penetrate behind +the due and decent privacies of life; and he would have stopped the +publication of such letters if he could, because even if people liked +them, it was not good for them to read them. He said that he himself +felt on reading the book as if he had been listening at keyholes, or +peeping in at windows, and seeing the natural endearments of husband +and wife, mother and children. + +I said that what seemed to me to make a difference was whether the +people thus espied were conscious of the espionage or not; and that it +was no more improper to have such things revealed IN A BOOK, than to +have them described in a novel or shown upon the stage. Moreover, it +seemed to me, I said, as though to reveal such things in a book was the +perfect compromise. I feel strongly that each home, each circle has a +right to its own privacy; but I am not ashamed of my natural feelings +and affections, and, by allowing them to appear in a book, I feel that +I am just speaking of them simply to those who will understand. I +desire communion with all sympathetic and like-minded persons; but +one's actual circle of friends is limited by time and space and +physical conditions. People talk of books as if every one in the world +was compelled to read them. My own idea of a book is that it provides a +medium by which one may commune confidentially with people whom one may +never see, but whom one is glad to know to be alive. One can make +friends through one's books with people with whom one agrees in spirit, +but whose bodily presence, modes of life, reticences, habits, would +erect a barrier to social intercourse. It is so much easier to love and +understand people through their books than through their conversation. +In books they put down their best, truest, most deliberate thoughts; in +talk, they are at the mercy of a thousand accidents and sensations. +There were people who objected to the publication of the Browning +love-letters. To me they were the sacred and beautiful record of an +intensely holy and passionate relation between two great souls; and I +can afford to disregard and to contemn the people who thought the book +strained, unconventional and shameless, for the sake of those whose +faith in love and beauty was richly and generously nurtured by it. + +It seems to me that the whole progress of life and thought, of love and +charity, depends upon our coming to understand each other. The hostile +seclusion which some desire is really a savage and almost animal +inheritance; and the best part of civilisation has sprung from the +generous self-revelation of kindly and honourable souls. + +I am not even deterred, in a case of this kind, by wondering whether +the person concerned would have liked or disliked the publication of +these letters. I feel no sort of doubt that, as far as I am concerned, +she would be only too willing that I should thus have read and loved +them, and I cannot believe that the disapprobation of a few austere +people, or the curiosity of a few vulgar people, would weigh in the +balance for a moment against the joy of like-minded spirits. + +The worst dissatisfaction of life is the difficulty one has in drawing +near to others, the foolish hardness, often only superficial, which +makes one hold back from and repudiate intimacies. If I had known and +loved a great and worthy spirit, and had been the recipient of his +confidences, I should hold it a solemn duty to tell the world what I +knew. I should care nothing for the carping of the cold and +unsympathetic, but I should base my decision on the approval of all +loving and generous souls. This seems to me the highest service that +art can render, and if it be said that no question of art comes in, in +the publication of such records as these letters, I would reply that +they are themselves works of the highest and most instinctive art, +because the world, its relations and affections, its loss and grief, +its pain and suffering, are here seen patiently mirrored and perfectly +expressed by a most perceptive personality. The moment that emotions +are depicted and represented, that moment they have felt the holy and +transfiguring power of art; and then they pass out of the region of +stuffy conventions and commonplace decorums into a finer and freer air. +I do not deny that there is much vulgar inquisitiveness abroad, but +that matters little; and, for myself, I am glad to think that the world +is moving in the direction of a greater frankness. I do not mean that a +man has not a right to live his life privately, in his own house and +his own circle, if he wills. But if that life is lived simply, +generously and bravely, I welcome any ripple or ray from it that breaks +in light and fragrance upon the harsher and uglier world. + + + +July 1, 1889. + +I have just read an interesting sentence. I don't know where it comes +from--I saw it in a book of extracts. + +"I am more and more convinced that the cure for sentiment, as for all +weakened forms of strong things, is not to refuse to feel it, but to +feel more in it. This seems to me to make the whole difference between +a true and a false asceticism. The false goes for getting rid of what +it is afraid of; the true goes for using and making it serve, the one +empties, the other fills; the one abstracts, the other concentrates." + +There is a great deal of truth in this, and it is manfully put. Where +it fails is, I think, in assuming an amount of will-power and +resolution in human character, which I suspect is not there. The system +the writer recommends is a system that a strong character instinctively +practises, moving through sentiment to emotion, naturally, and by a +sturdy growth. But to tell a man to feel more in a thing, is like +telling a man to be intelligent, benevolent, wise. It is just what no +one can do. The various grades of emotion are not things like +examinations, in which one can successively graduate. They are +expressions of temperament. The sentimental man is the man who can go +thus far and no farther. How shall one acquire vigour and generosity? +By behaving as if one was vigorous and generous, when one is neither? I +do not think it can be done in that way. One can do something to check +a tendency, very little to deepen it. What the writer calls false +asceticism is the only brave and wholesome refuge of people, who know +themselves well enough to know that they cannot trust themselves. Take +the case of one's relations with other people. If a man drifts into +sentimental relations with other people, attracted by charm of any +kind, and knowing quite well that the relation is built on charm, and +that he will not be able to follow it into truer regions, I think he +had probably better try to keep himself in check, not embrace a +sentimental relation with a mild hope that it may develop into a real +devotion. The strong man may try experiments, even though he burns his +fingers. The weak man had better not meddle with the instruments and +fiery fluids at all. + +I am myself just strong enough to dislike sentiment, to turn faint in +the sickly, mawkish air. But I am not strong enough to charge it with +vivid life. Moreover, the danger of a strong character taking up the +anti-ascetic position is that he is apt to degenerate into a man like +Goethe, who plucked the fragrant blooms on every side, and threw them +relentlessly away when he had inhaled their sweetness. That is a cruel +business, unless there is a very wise and tender heart behind. + +Yet again, reconsidering the whole problem, I am not sure that the +whole suggestion, taken as advice, is not at fault. I think it is +making a melancholy, casuistical, ethical business out of what ought to +be a natural process. I think it is vitiated by a principle which +vitiates so much of the advice of moralists, the principle that one +ought to aim at completeness and perfection. I don't believe that is +the secret of life--indeed I think it is all the other way. One must of +course do one's best to resist immoral, low, sensuous tendencies; but +otherwise I believe that one ought to drink as much as one's glass can +hold of pure and beautiful influences. If sentiment is the nearest that +a man can come to emotion, I think he had better take it thankfully. It +is this ethical prudence which is always weighing issues, and pulling +up the plant to see how it grows, which is the weakening and the +stunting thing. Of course any principle can be used sophistically; but +I think that many people commit a kind of idolatry by worshipping their +rules and principles rather than by trusting God. It develops a larger +and freer life, if one is not too cautious, too precise. Of course one +must follow what light one has, and all lights are lit from God; but if +one watches the lanterns of moralists too anxiously, one may forget the +stars. + + + +July 8, 1889. + +I lose myself sometimes in a dream of misery in thinking of the +baseness and meanness and squalor that condition the lives of so many +of the poor. Not that it is not possible under those conditions to live +lives of simplicity and dignity and beauty. It is perfectly possible, +but only, I think, for strong natures possessing a combination of +qualities--virtue, industry, sense, prudence, and above all good +physical health. There must still be thousands of lives which could be +happy and simple and virtuous under more secure conditions, which are +marred and degraded by the influences under which they are nurtured. +Yet what can the more fortunate individual do in the matter? If all the +rich men in England were to resign to-morrow all the wealth they +possessed, reserving only a bare modicum of subsistence, the matter +could not be amended. Even that wealth could not be wisely applied; +and, if equally divided, it would hardly make any appreciable +difference. What is worse, it would not alter the baneful influences in +the least; it would give no increased security of material conditions, +and it would not affect the point at issue, namely, the tone and +quality of thought and feeling, where the only hope of real +amelioration lies, and which is really the source and root of our +social evils. + +Moreover, the real difficulty is not to see what the classes on whom +the problem presses most grimly NEED, but what they WANT. It is no use +theorising about it, and providing elegant remedies which will not +touch the evil. What one requires to know is what those natures, who +lie buried in this weltering tide, and are dissatisfied and tormented +by it, really desire. It is no use trying to provide a paradise on the +farther bank of the river, till we have constructed bridges to cross +the gulf. What one wants is that some one from the darkness of the +other side should speak articulately and boldly what they claim, what +they could use. It is not enough to have a wistful cry for help ringing +in our ears; one wants a philosophical or statesmanlike demand--just +the very thing which from the nature of the case we cannot get. It may +be that education will make this possible; but at present education +seems merely to be a ladder let down into the abyss, by which a few +stronger natures can climb out of it, with horror and contempt in their +hearts of what they have left behind. The question that stares one in +the face is, is there honest work for all to do, if all were strong and +virtuous? The answer at present seems to be in the negative; and the +problem seems to be solved only by the fact that all are not capable of +honest work, and that the weaklings give the strong their opportunity. +What, again, one asks oneself, is the use of contriving more leisure +for those who could not use it well? Then, too, under present +conditions, the survival of the unfittest seems to be assured. Those +breed most freely and recklessly of whom it may be said that, for the +interests of civilisation, it is least desirable that they should +perpetuate their kind. The problem too is so complicated, that it +requires a gigantic faith in a reformer to suggest the sowing of seed +of which he can never hope to see the fruit. The situation is one which +tends to develop vehement and passionate prophets, dealing in vague and +remote generalisations, when what one needs is practical prudence, and +the effective power of foreseeing contingencies. One who like myself +loves security, leisure, beauty and peace, and is actuated by a vague +and benevolent wish that all should have the same opportunities as +myself, feels himself a mere sentimentalist in the matter, without a +single effective quality. I can see the problem, I can grieve over it, +I can feel my faith in God totter under the weight of it, but that is +all. + + + +July 15, 1889. + +One of the hardest things to face in the world is the grim fact that +our power of self-improvement is limited. Of some qualities we do not +even possess the germs. Some qualities we have in minute quantities, +but hardly capable of development; some few qualities we possess in +fuller measure, and they are capable of development; but even so, our +total capacity of growth is limited, conditioned by our vital energy, +and we have to face the fact that if we develop one set of qualities we +must neglect another set. + +I think of it in a whimsical and fantastic image, the best I can find. +Imagine a box in which there are a number of objects like puff-balls, +each with a certain life of its own, half-filling the box. Some of the +puff-balls are small, hard, sterile; others are soft and expansive; +some grow quickly in warmth and light, others fare better in cold and +darkness. The process of growth begins: some of them increase in size +and press themselves into every crevice, enclosing and enfolding the +others; even so the growth of the whole mass is conditioned by the size +of the box, and when the box is full, the power of increase is at an +end. + +The box, to interpret the fable, is our character with its +possibilities. The conditions which develop the various qualities are +the conditions of our lives, our health, our income, our education, the +people who surround us; but even the qualities themselves have their +limitations. Two people may grow up under almost precisely similar +influences, and yet remain different to the end; two characters may be +placed in difficult and bracing circumstances; the effect upon one +character is to train the quality of self-reliance, on the other to +produce a moral collapse. Some people do their growing early and then +stop altogether, becoming impervious to new opinions and new +influences. Some people go on growing to the end. + +If one develops one side of one's nature, as the intellectual or +artistic, one probably suffers on the emotional or moral side. The pain +which the perceptive man feels in surveying this process is apt to be +very acute. He may see that he lacks certain qualities altogether and +yet be unable to develop them. He may find in himself some patent and +even gross fault, and be unable to cure it. The only hope for any of us +is that we do not know the expansive force of our qualities, nor the +size of the box; and therefore it is reasonable to go on trying and +desiring; and as long as one can do that, it is clear that there is +still room for growth. The worst shadow of all is to find, as one goes +on, a certain indifference creeping over one. One accepts a fault as a +part of one's nature; one ceases to care about what appears +unattainable. + +It may be said that this is a fatalistic theory, and leads to a mild +inactivity; but the question rather is whether it is true, whether it +is attested by experience. One improves, not by overlooking facts, in +however generous and enthusiastic a spirit, but by facing facts, and +making the best use one can of them. One must resolutely try to submit +oneself to favourable conditions, fertilising influences. And much more +must one do that in the case of those for whom one is responsible. In +the case of my own two children, for instance, my one desire is to +surround them with the best influences I can. Even there one makes +mistakes, no doubt, because one cannot test the expansive power of +their qualities; but one can observe the conditions under which they +seem to develop best, and apply them. To lavish love and tenderness on +some children serves to concentrate their thoughts upon themselves, and +makes them expect to find all difficulties smoothed away; on other more +generous natures, it produces a glow of responsive gratitude and +affection, a desire to fulfil the hopes formed of them by those who +love them. The most difficult cases of all are the cases of +temperaments without loyal affection, but with much natural charm. +Those are the people who get what is called 'spoilt,' because it is so +much easier to believe in the existence of qualities which are +superficially displayed than in qualities which lie too deep for facile +expression. One comes across cases of children of intense emotional +natures, and very little power of expressing their feelings, or of +showing their affection. Of course, too, example is far more potent +than precept, and it is very difficult for parents to simulate a +high-mindedness and an affectionateness that they do not themselves +possess, even if they are sincerely anxious that their children should +grow up high-minded and affectionate. One of the darkest shadows of my +present condition is the fear that any revelation of my own weakness +and emptiness may discourage and distort my children's characters; and +the watchfulness which this requires increases the strain under which I +suffer, because it is a hard fact that an example set for a noble and +an unselfish motive is not nearly so potent as an example set +naturally, sweetly, and generously, with no particular consciousness of +motive behind it at all. + + + +July 18, 1889. + +I have just heard of the sudden death of an old friend. Francis Willett +was a writer of some distinction, whose acquaintance I made in my first +years in London. He was a tall, slim man, dark of complexion, who would +have been called very handsome, if it had not been for a rather +burdened air that he wore. As it was, people tended rather to pity him, +and to speak of him as somewhat of a mystery. I never knew anything +about the background of his life. He must have had some small means of +his own, and he lived in rooms, in rather an out-of-the-way street near +Regent's Park. One used to see him occasionally in London, walking +rapidly, almost always alone, and very rarely I encountered him at +parties, always wearing a slightly regretful air, as though he were +wishing himself away. He wrote a good deal, reviewed books, and, I +suppose, contrived to make enough to live on by his pen. He once spoke +of himself as being in the happy position of being able to exist +without writing, but forced to purchase all small luxuries by work. He +published two or three books of short stories and sketches of travel, +delicate pieces of work, which had no great sale, but gave him a +recognised position among men of letters. I drifted into a kind of +friendship with him; we were members of the same club, and he sometimes +used to flutter shyly into my rooms like a great moth; but he never +asked me to his quarters. + +I discovered that he had done well at Oxford, and also that he had +once, at all events, had considerable ambitions; but his health was not +strong, he was extremely sensitive, and very fastidious about the +quality of his work. I realised this on an occasion when he once +entrusted me with a MS., and asked me if I would give him an opinion, +as it was an experiment, and he did not feel sure of his ground; he +added that there was no hurry about it. I put the MS. away in a +despatch-box, and having at the time a press of work, I forgot about +it. He never asked me for it, and I did not happen to open the box +where it lay. Some months after I came upon it. I read it through, and +thought it a fine and delicate piece of work. I wrote to him, +apologising for my delay and speaking warmly of the piece, which was +one of those rather uncomfortable stories, which is not quite long +enough to make a book, and yet rather too long to put in a volume with +other pieces. He wrote at once, thanking me for my opinion, and it was +only by accident at a later date, when I happened to ask him what he +was doing with the story, that he told me he had destroyed it. I +expressed deep regret that he had done so; and he said with a smile +that it was probably rather a foolish impulse that had decided him to +make away with it. "The fact is," he said, "that you wrote very kindly +about it, but you had had it in your hands so long, that I felt somehow +that it could not have interested you--it really doesn't matter," he +added, "I don't think it was at all successful." I apologised very +humbly, and explained the circumstances. "Oh, please don't blame +yourself in any way," he said, "I have not the least shadow of +resentment in my mind about it. There is something wrong about my work; +it doesn't interest people. I suppose it is that I can't let myself +go." An interesting conversation followed, and he told me more than he +ever told me before or since about himself. He confessed to being so +critical of his own work, that his table-drawers were full of +unfinished MSS. His usual experience was to begin a piece of work +enthusiastically; to plan it all out, and to work at first with zest. +"Then it begins to get all out of shape," he said, "there is no go +about it; it all loses itself in subtleties and complexities of motive; +one thing trips up another, and at last it all gets so tangled that I +put it aside; if I could follow the track of one strong and definite +emotion, it would be all right--but I am like the man in the story who +changes the cow for the horse, and the horse for the pig, and the pig +for the grindstone; and then the grindstone rolls into the river." He +seemed to take it all very philosophically, and I ventured to say so. +"Yes," he said, "I have learnt at last that that is how I am made; but +I have been through a good many agonies of disgust and discouragement +about it in old days--it is the same with everything I have touched. +The bits of work that I have completed have all been done in a rush--if +the mood lasts long enough, I am all right--and once or twice it has +just lasted. I am like a swimmer," he went on, "who can only swim a +certain distance; and if I judge the distance rightly, I can reach the +point I desire to reach; but I generally judge the distance wrong; and +half-way across I am seized with a sudden fright, and struggle back in +terror." + +By one of the strange coincidences that sometimes happen in this world, +I took an unknown lady in to dinner a few days afterwards, and happened +to mention Willett's name. "Do you know him?" she said. "Oh yes, of +course you do!" she went on; "you are the Mr. S---- of whom he has +spoken to me." I found that my neighbour was a distant relation of +Willett's, and she told me a good deal about him. He was absolutely +alone in the world; he had been left an orphan at an early age, and had +spent his holidays with guardians and relations, with any one who would +take pity on him. "He was a clever kind of boy," she said, "melancholy +and diffident, always thinking that people disliked him. He used to +give me the air of a person who was trying to find something, and who +did not quite know where to look for it. He had a time of expansion at +Oxford, where he made friends and did well; and then he came to London, +and began to write. But the real tragedy of his life is this," she +said. "He really fell in love, or as nearly as he could, with a very +pretty and high-spirited girl, who took a great fancy to him, and +pitied him from the bottom of her heart. For five years the thing went +on. She would have married him at any time if he had asked her. But he +did not. I suppose he could not face the idea of being married. He +always seemed to be on the point of proposing to her, and then he would +lose heart at the last minute. At last she got tired of waiting, and, I +suppose, began to care for some one else; but she was very good to +Francis, and never lost patience with him. At last she told him one day +quietly that she was engaged, and hoped that they would always remain +friends. I think, do you know, that it was almost more a relief to him +than otherwise. I did my best to help him--marriage was the one thing +he wanted; if he could only have been pushed into it, he would have +made a perfect husband, because not only is he very much of a +gentleman, but he could never bear to fail any one who depended on him; +but he has got the unhappiest mind I know; the moment that he has +formed a plan, and sees his way clear, he at once begins to think of +all the reasons against it--not the selfish reasons, by any means; in +this case he reflected, I am sure, how little he had to offer; he could +not bring himself to feel that any one could really care for him; and +then, too, he never really cared for anything quite enough himself. Or +if he did, he found all sorts of refined reasons why he ought not to do +so. If only he had been a little more selfish, it would have been all +right. Indeed," said Mrs. T----, with a smile, "he is the only person +of whom I could truthfully say that if he had only been a little more +vulgar, he would have been a much happier person." + +I saw a good deal of Willett after that, and he interested me +increasingly. I verified Mrs. T----'s judgment about him, and found it +true in every particular. I suppose there was some lack of vitality +about him, because the more I knew of him the more I found to admire. +He was an exquisitely delicate person, affectionate, responsive, with a +fine sense of humour--indeed, the most disconcerting thing was that he +saw to the full the humour of his own position. But none of the robust +motives that spur men to action affected him. He was ambitious, but he +would not make any sacrifices to gain the objects of his ambition. He +could not use his powers on conventional lines. He was, I think, deeply +desirous of confidence and affection, but he could never believe that +he deserved either, or that it was possible for him to be interesting +to others. He was laborious, pure-minded, transparently honest, and had +a shrewd and penetrating judgment of other people; but he seemed to +labour under a sense of shame at his deficiencies, and to feel that he +had no claims or rights in the world. He existed on sufferance. The +smallest shadow of disapproval caused him to abandon any design, not +resentfully but eagerly, as though he was fully aware of his own +incompetence. + +I grew to feel a strong affection for him, and tried in many ways to +help and encourage him. But he always discounted encouragement, and it +is a clumsy business trying to help a man who does not demand or desire +help. + +He seemed to me to have schooled himself into a kind of tender +patience; and this attitude, I am ashamed to say, used to irritate me +considerably, because it seemed to me to be so much power wasted on +accepting defeat, which might have ensured victory. + +He was with me a few weeks ago. I was up in town, and he dined with me +by appointment. He told me, with a gentle philosophy, a story which +made my blood boil. He had been asked to write a book by a publisher, +and the lines had been laid down for him. "It was such a comfort to +me," he said, "because it supplied just the stimulus I could not myself +originate. My book was really rather a good piece of work; but a week +ago I sent it to the publisher, and he returned it, saying it was not +the least what he wanted--he suggested my retaining about a third of +it, and rewriting the rest. Of course I could do nothing of the kind." +"What have you done with it?" I asked. "Oh, I have destroyed it." "But +didn't you see him," I said, "or do something--or at all events insist +on payment?" "Oh no," he said, "I could not do that--the man was +probably right--he wanted a particular kind of book, and mine was not +what he wanted. I did say that I wished he had explained to me more +clearly what he wanted--but after all it doesn't very much matter. I +can get along all right, if I am careful." + +"Well," I said, "you are really a very aggravating person. If I could +not have got my book published elsewhere, I would certainly have had a +row--I would have taken out my money's worth in vituperation." + +Willett smiled; "I dare say you would have had some fun," he said, "but +that is not my line. I have told you before that I can't interest +people--I don't think it is wholly my fault." + +We sate late, talking; and for the only time in his life he spoke to +me, with a depth of emotion of which I should hardly have suspected +him, of the value he set upon my friendship, and his gratitude for my +sympathy. + +And now this morning I have heard of his sudden death. He was found +dead in his room, bent over his papers. He must have been writing late +at night, as his custom was; and it proved on examination that he must +have long suffered from an unsuspected disease of the heart. Perhaps +that may explain his failure, if it can be called a failure. There is +something to me almost insupportably pathetic to think of his lonely +and uncomforted life, his isolation, his sensitiveness. And yet I do +not feel sure that it is pathetic, because his life somehow seems to me +to have been one of the most beautiful I have ever known. He did +nothing much for others, he achieved nothing for himself; but it is +only our miserable habit of weighing every one's life, in a hard way, +by a standard of performance and success, which makes one sigh over +Francis Willett's life. It is very difficult at times to see what it is +that life is exactly meant to do for us. Most of the men and women I +know--I say this sadly but frankly--seem to me to leave the world +worse, in essential respects, than they entered it. There is generally +something ingenuous, responsive, eager, sweet, hopeful about a +child--but though I admit that one does encounter beautiful natures +that seem to flower very generously in the light of experience, yet +most people grow dull, dreary, conventional, grasping, +commonplace--they grow to think rather contemptuously of emotion and +generosity--they think it weak to be amiable, unselfish, kind. They +become fond of comfort and position and respect and money. They think +such things the serious concerns of life, and sentiment a kind of +relaxation. But with Willett it was the precise reverse. He claimed +nothing for himself, he never profited at the expense of another; he +was utterly humble, gentle, unpretentious, kind, sincere. An hour ago I +should have called him "poor fellow," and wished that he had had a more +robust kind of fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in +my heart to wish him any such qualities. His life appears to me utterly +beautiful and fragrant. He never incurred any taint of grossness from +prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and in the +light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one thing worth +achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and rich with +possibilities of blessing and glory. He would hardly have called +himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he could not have +attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful certainty; but the +only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about him, echoing sweetly +and softly through the ages, are the words in which Christ described +the tender spirits of those who were nearest to the Father's heart, and +to whom it is given to see God. + + + +July 28, 1889. + +Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely. I have given +up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for plots or +situations. I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects beside me, +and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely indifferent to +the whole thing. Meanwhile the flood of letters about my book, +invitations from editors, offers from publishers, continues to flow. I +reply to these benignantly and courteously, but undertake nothing, +promise nothing. I seem to have recovered my balance. I think no more +about my bodily complaints, and my nerves no longer sting and thrill. +The day is hardly long enough for all I have to do. It may be that when +the novelty of the experiment in education wears off, I shall begin to +hanker after authorship again. Alec will have to go to school in a year +or two, I suppose; but it shall be a day-school at first, if I can find +one. As to the question of a public school, I am much exercised. Of +course there are nightmare terrors about tone and morals; but I am not +really very anxious about the boy, because he is sensible and +independent, and has no lack of moral courage. The vigorous +barrack-life is good for a boy, the give-and-take, the splendid +equality, the manly code, the absence of affectation. But the +intellectual tone of schools is low, and the conventionality is great. +I don't want Alec to be a conventional man, and yet I want him to +accept current conventions instinctively about matters of indifference. +I have a horror of the sporting public-school type, the good-humoured, +robust fellow, who does his work and fills his spare time with games, +and thinks intellectual things, and artistic interests, and emotion, +and sympathy, moonshine and rot. Such people live a wholesome enough +life; they make good soldiers, good officials, good men of business. +But they are woefully complacent and self-satisfied. The schools +develop a Spartan type, and I want Alec to be an Athenian. But the +experiment will have to be made, because a man is at a disadvantage in +ordinary life if he has not the public school bonhomie, courtesy, and +common sense. I must try to keep the other side alive, and I don't +despair of doing it. + +Meantime we are a very contented household, in spite of the fact that +now, if ever, is the time for me to make my mark as a writer, and I +have to pass all the opportunities that offer. On the other hand, this +is the point at which one sees, in the history of letters, so many +writers go to pieces. They suddenly find, after their first great +success, that they have arrived, by a tortuous and secret path, at +being a sort of public man. They are dazzled by contact with the world. +They go into society, they make speeches, they write twaddle, they +drain their energy, already depleted by creation, in fifty different +ways. Now I am strongly of Ruskin's opinion that the duty of the artist +is to make himself fit for the best society, and then to abstain from +it. Very fortunately I have no sort of taste for these things, beyond +the simple human satisfaction in enjoying consideration. That is +natural and inevitable. But I don't value it unduly, and I dislike its +penalties more than I love its rewards. + +And then, too, I reflect that it is, after all, life that we are here +to taste, and life that so many of us pass by. Work is a part of life, +perhaps the essence of life; but to be absorbed in work is to be like a +man who is absorbed in collecting specimens, and never has time to sort +them. I knew of a man who determined, early in life, to write the +history of political institutions. He had a great library, and he +devoted himself to study. He put in his books, as he read them, slips +of paper to indicate passages and chapters that he would have to +consult, and as he finished with a book, he put it in a certain place +on a certain shelf. He made no other notes or references--he was a man +with a colossal memory, and he knew exactly what his markers meant. In +the middle of this life of acquisition, while he bored like a worm in a +cheese, he died. His library was sold. The markers meant nothing to any +one else; and the book-buyers merely took the markers out and threw +them away, and that was the end of the history of political +institutions. + +I feel that, apart from our work, we ought to try and arrive at some +solution, to draw some sort of conclusions--to reflect, to theorise; we +may not draw nearer to the secret, but our only hope of doing so, the +only hope that humanity will do so, is for some at least to try. And +thus I think that I have perhaps been saved from a great delusion. I +was spending my time in spinning romances, in elaborating plots, in +manoeuvring life as I would; and it is not like that! Life is not run +on physical lines, nor on emotional, nor social, nor even moral lines. +It is not managed in the least as we should manage it; it is a +resultant of innumerable forces, or perhaps the same force running in +intricate currents. Of course the strange thing is that we men should +find ourselves thrust into it, with strong intuitions, vehement +preconceptions, as to how it ought to be directed; our happiness seems +to depend upon our being, or learning to be, in harmony with it, but it +baffles us, it resists us, it contradicts us, it opposes us to the end; +sometimes it crushes us; and yet we believe that it means good; and +even if we do not so believe, we have to acquiesce, we have to endure; +and one thing is certain, we cannot learn the lesson of life by +practising indifference or stoical fortitude, or by abandoning +ourselves to despair; only by believing that our sufferings are +fruitful, our mistakes educative, our sins significant, our sorrows +gracious, can we hope to triumph. We go on, many of us, relying on +useless defences, beguiling ourselves with fantastic diversions, +overlooking, as far as we can, stern realities; stopping our ears, +turning away our gaze, shrinking and crying out like children at the +prospect of experiences to which we are led by loving presences, that +smile as they draw us to the wholesome and bracing incidents that we so +weakly dread. We pray for courage, but we know in our souls that +courage can only be won by enduring what we fear; and thus preoccupied +by hopes and plans and fears, we miss the wholesome sweet and simple +stuff of life, its quiet relationships, its tranquil occupations, its +beautiful and tender surprises. + +And then perhaps, at long intervals, we have a deep and splendid flash +of insight, when we can thank God that things have not been as we +should have willed and ordered them. We should have lingered, perhaps, +in the low rich meadows, the sheltered woodlands of our desire; we +should never have set our feet to the hill. In terror and reluctance we +have wandered upwards among the steep mountain tracks, by high green +slopes, by grim crag-buttresses, through fields of desolate stones. Yet +we are aware of a finer, purer air, of wide prospects of hill and +plain; we feel that we have gained in strength and vigour, that our +perceptions are keener, our very enjoyment nobler; and at last, it may +be, we have sight, from some Pisgah-top of hope, of fairer lands yet to +which we are surely bound. And then, too, though we have fared on in +loneliness and isolation, we see moving forms of friends and comrades +converging on our track. It is no dream; it is but a parable of what +has happened to many a soul, what is daily happening. What does the +sad, stained, weary, fitful past concern us at such a moment as this? +It concerns us nothing, save that only through its pains and shadows +was it possible for us to climb where we have climbed. + +To-day it seems that I have been blessed with such a vision. The mist +will close in again, doubtless, wild with wind, chill with rain, sad +with the cry of hoarse streams. But I have seen! I shall be weary and +regretful and despairing many times; but I shall never wholly doubt +again. + + + +August 8, 1889. + +Alec is ill to-day. He was restless, flushed, feverish, yesterday +evening, and I thought he must have caught cold; we put him to bed, and +this morning we sent for the doctor. He says there is no need for +anxiety, but he does not know as yet what is the matter; his +temperature is high, and we must just keep him quietly in bed, and +wait. I tell myself that it is foolish to be anxious, but I cannot keep +a certain dread out of my mind; there is a weight upon my heart, which +seems unduly heavy. Perhaps it is only that it seems unusual, for he +has never had an illness of any kind. He is not to be disturbed, and +Maggie is not allowed to see him. Maud sate with him this morning, and +he slept most of the time. I looked in once or twice, but people coming +and going tend to make him restless. Maud herself is a marvel to me. +She must be even more anxious than I am, but she is serene, smiling, +strong, with a cheerfulness that has no effort about it. She laughed +tenderly at my fears, and sent me out for a walk with Maggie. I fear I +was a gloomy companion. In the evening I went to sit with Alec a +little. He was wakeful, large-eyed, and restless. He lay with a book of +stories from Homer, of which he is very fond, in one hand, the other +clasping his black kitten, which slept peacefully on the counterpane. +He wanted to talk, but to keep him quiet I told him a long trivial +story, full of unexciting incidents. He lay musing, his head on his +hand; then he seemed inclined to sleep, so I sate beside him, watching +and wondering at the nearness and the dearness of the child to me, +almost amazed at the revelation which this shadow of fear gives me of +the place which he fills in my heart and life. He tossed about for some +time, and when I asked him if he wanted anything, he only put his hand +in mine; a gesture not quite like him, as he is a boy who is averse to +personal caresses or signs of emotion. So I drew my chair up to the +bed, and sate there with the little hot hand in my own. Maud came up +presently; but as he now seemed sound asleep, we left him in the care +of the old nurse, and went down to dinner. If we only knew what was the +matter! I argue with myself how much unnecessary misery I give myself +by anticipating evil; but I cannot help it; and the weight on my mind +grew heavier; half the night I lay awake, till at last, from sheer +weariness, I fell into a sort of stupor of the senses, which fled from +me in the dismal dawn, and the unmanning hideous fear leapt on me out +of the dark, like a beast leaping upon its prey. + + + +August 11, 1889. + +I cannot and dare not write of these days. The child is very ill; it is +some obscure inflammation of the brain-tissue. I had an insupportable +fear that it might have resulted in some way from being over-pressed in +the matter of work, over-stimulated. I asked the doctor. If he lied to +me, and I do not think he did, he lied like a man, or an angel. "Not in +the least," he said, "it is a constitutional thing; in fact, I may say +that the rational and healthy life the child has lived will help more +than anything to pull him through." + +But I can't write of the days. I sleep, half-conscious of my misery. I +suppose I eat, walk, read. But waking is like the waking of a prisoner +who awakes up to be put on the rack, who hears doors open and feet +approach, and sickens with dread as he lies. God's hand is heavy upon +me day and night. Surely nothing, in the world or out of it, can +obliterate the memory of this suffering; perhaps, if Alec is given back +to us, I shall smile at this time of suffering. But, if not-- + + + +August 12, 1889. + +He is losing ground, he is hardly ever conscious now; he sleeps a good +deal, but often he talks quietly to himself of all that we have done +and said; he often supposes himself to be with me, and, thank God, he +never says a word to show that he has ever feared or misunderstood me. +I could not bear that. Yesterday when I was with him, he opened his +eyes on me; I could see that he knew me, and that he was frightened. I +could not speak, but Maud, who was with me, just took his hand and with +her own tranquil smile, said, "It is all right, Alec; there is nothing +to be frightened about; we are here, and you will soon be well again." +The child closed his eyes and lay smiling to himself. I could not have +done that. + + + +August 13, 1889. + +He died this morning, just at the dawn. I knew last night that all hope +was over. I was with him half the night, and prayed, knowing my prayers +were in vain. That I could save him no suffering, could not keep him, +could not draw him back. Maud took my place at midnight; I slept, and +in the grey dawn, I woke to find her standing with a candle by my bed; +I knew in a moment, by a glance, that the end was near. No word passed +between us; I found Maggie by the bed; and we three together waited for +the end. I had never seen any one die. He was quite unconscious, +breathing slowly, looking just like himself, as though flushed with +slumber. At last he stirred, gave a long sigh, and seemed to settle +himself for the last sleep. I do not know when he died, but I became +aware that life had passed, and that the little spirit that we loved +had fled, God knows whither. Maggie sate with her hand in mine; and in +my dumb and frozen grief, almost without a thought of anything but a +deep and cold resentment, a hatred of death and the maker of love and +death alike, I became aware that both she and Maud had me in their +thoughts, that my sorrow was even more to them than their own--while I +was cut off from them; from life and hope alike, in a place of darkness +and in the deep. + + + +August 19, 1889. + +I saw Alec no more; I would remember him as he was in life, not the +stiffened waxen mask of my beloved. The days passed in a dull stupor of +grief, mechanically, grimly, in a sort of ghastly greyness. And I who +thought that I had sounded the depths of pain! I could not realise it, +could not believe that all would not somehow be as before. Maud and +Maggie speak of him to each other and to me . . . it is inconceivable. +With a dull heartache I have collected and put away all the child's +things--his books, his toys, his little possessions. I followed the +little coffin to the grave. The uncontrollable throb of emotion came +over me at the words, "I am the resurrection and the life." It was a +grey, gusty day; a silent crowd waited to see us pass. The great +churchyard elms roared and swayed, and I found myself watching idly how +the clergyman's hood was blown sideways by the wind. I looked into the +deep, dark pit, and saw the little coffin lying there, all in a dumb +dream. The holy words fell vacuously on my ears. "Man walketh in a vain +shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain"--that was all I felt. I seem +to believe nothing, to hope nothing. I do not believe I shall ever see +or draw near to the child again, and yet the thought of him alone, +apart, uncomforted, lies cold on my heart. Maud is wonderful to me; her +love does not seem to suffer eclipse; she does everything, she smiles, +she speaks; she feels, she says, the presence of the child near her and +about her; that means nothing to me; the soul appears to me to have +gone out utterly like a blown flame, mingling with the unseen life, as +the little body we loved will be mingled with the dust. + +I cannot say that I endure agony; it is rather as if I had received a +blow so fierce that it drove sensation away; I seem to see the bruise, +watch the blood flow, and wonder why I do not suffer. The suffering +will come, I doubt not; but meanwhile I am only mutely grateful that I +do not feel more, suffer more. It does not even seem to me to have +drawn me nearer to Maud, to Maggie; my power of loving seems +extinguished, like my power of suffering. I do not know why I write in +this book, why I record my blank apathy. It is a habit, it passes the +time; the only thing that gives me any comfort is the thought that I +shall die, too, and close my eyes at last upon this terrible world, +made so sweet and beautiful, and then slashed and scored across with +such cruel stripes, where we pay so grievous a penalty for feeling and +loving. Tennyson found consolation "when he sorrowed most." But I say +deliberately that I would rather not have loved my child, than lose him +thus. + + + +August 28, 1889. + +We are to go away. Maggie droops like a faded flower, and for the first +time I realise, in trying to comfort and distract her, that I have not +lost everything. We are much together, and seeing her thus pine and +fade stirs a dread, in the heart that had been so cold, that I may lose +her too. At last we are drawn together. She came to say good-night to +me last night, and a gush of love passed through me, like the wind +stirring the strings of a harp to music. "My precious darling, my +comfort," I said; the words put, it seemed, on my lips, by some deeper +power. She clung to me, crying softly. Yet, is it strange to say it, +that simple utterance seems almost to have revived her, to have given +her pride and courage? But Maud is still almost a mystery to me. Who +can tell how she suffers--I cannot--it seems to have quickened and +enriched her love and tenderness; she seems to have a secret that I +cannot come near to sharing; she does not repine, rebel, resist; she +lives in some region of unapproachable patience and love. She goes +daily to the grave, but I cannot visit it or think of it. The sight of +the church-tower on my walks gives me a throb of dismay. But now we are +going away. We have been lent a little house in a quiet seaside place; +I suppose I am ill--at least, I am aware of a deep and unutterable +fatigue at times, when I can rouse myself to nothing, but sit +unoccupied, musing, glad to be alone, and only dreading the slightest +interruption, the smallest duty. I know by some subtle sense that I am +seldom absent from Maud's thoughts; but, with her incredible courage +and patience, she betrays nothing by word or glance. She is absolutely +patient, entirely self-forgetful; she quietly relieves me of anything I +have to do; she alters arrangements a dozen times a day, with a ready +smile; and yet it almost seems to me as if I had lost her too. + + + +August 30, 1889. + +Our route lay through Cambridge; we had to change there and wait; so we +drove down to the town to look at my old college. There it lay, the +charming, pretty, quiet place, blinking lazily out of its deep-set +barred windows in the bright sun, just the same, it seemed, as ever, +though perhaps a touch more mellow and more settled; every corner and +staircase haunted with old ghosts for me. I could put a name to every +set of rooms, flash an incident to every door and window. In my heavy, +apathetic mood the memory of my life there seemed like a memory of some +one else, moving in golden light, talking and laughing in firelit +rooms, lingering in moonlit nights by the bridge, wondering what life +was going to bring. It seemed like turning the pages of some old +illuminated book with bright pictures, where the very sunlight is the +purest and stiffest gold. The men I knew, the friends I lived with, +admired, loved--where are they? scattered to all parts of the earth, +parted utterly from me, some of them dead, alas! and silent. It came +over me with a thrill of sharpest pain to think how I had pictured Alec +here, living the same free and beautiful life, tasting the same +innocent pleasures, with the bright, sweet world opening upon him. In +that calm, sunny afternoon, life seemed a strange phantasmal business, +and I myself a revenant from some thin, unsubstantial world. A door +opened, and an old Don, well known to me in those days, hardly altered, +it seemed, came out and trotted across the court, looking suspiciously +to left and right as he used to do. Had he been doing the same thing +ever since, reading the same books, talking the same innocent gossip? I +had not the heart to greet him, and he passed me by unrecognising. We +peeped into the hall through the screen. I could see where I used to +sit, the same dark pictures looking down. We went to the chapel, with +its noble classical woodwork, the great carved panels, the angels' +heads, the huge, stately reredos. Some one, thank God, was playing +softly on the organ, and we sate to listen. The sweet music flowed over +my sad heart in a healing tide. Yes, it was not meaningless, after all, +this strange life, with the good years shining in their rainbow halo, +even though the path led into darkness and formless shadow. I seemed to +look back on it all, as the traveller on the hill looks out from the +skirts of the cloud upon the sunny valley beneath him. It all worked +together, said the delicate rising strain, outlining itself above the +soft thunder of the pedals, into something high and grave and +beautiful; it all ended in the peace of God. I sate there, with wife +and child, a pilgrim faring onwards, tasting of love and life and +sorrow, weary of the way, but still--yes, I could say that--still +hopeful. In that moment even my bitter loss had something beautiful +about it. It was THERE, the bright episode of my dear Alec's life, the +memory of the beloved years together. Maggie, seeing something in my +face that she was glad to see, put her hand in mine, and the tears rose +to my eyes, while I smiled at Maud; the burden fell off my shoulder for +a moment, and something seemed as it were to touch me and point +onwards. The music with a dying fall came to a soft close; the rich +light fell on desk and canopy; the old tombs glimmered in the dusty +air. We went out in silence; and then there came back to me, in the old +dark court, with its ivied corners, its trim grass plots, the sense +that I was still a part of it all, that the old life was not dead, but +stored up like a garnered treasure in the rich and guarded past. Not by +detachment or aloofness from happiness and warmth and life are our +victories won. That had been the dark temptation, the shadow of my +loss, to believe that in so sad and strange an existence the only hope +was to stand apart from it all, not to care too much, not to love too +closely. That was false, utterly false; a bare and grim philosophy, a +timid sauntering. Rather it was better to clasp all things close, to +love passionately, to desire infinitely, to yield oneself gladly and +joyfully to every deep and true emotion; not greedily and luxuriously, +flinging aside the crumpled husk that had given up its sweetness; but +tenderly and gently, holding out one's arms to everything pure and +noble, trusting that behind all there did indeed beat a great and +fatherly heart, that loved one better than one dreamed. + +That was a strange experience, that sunlit afternoon, a mingling of +deepest pain and softest hope, a touch of fire from the very altar of +faith, linking the beautiful past with the dark present, and showing me +that the future held a promise of perfect graciousness and radiant +strength. Did other lives hold the same rich secrets? I felt that they +did; for that day, at least, all mankind, young and old alike, seemed +indeed my brothers and sisters. In the young men that went lightly in +and out, finding life so full of zest, thinking each other so +interesting and wonderful; in the tired face of the old Professor, +limping along the street; in the prosperous, comfortable contentment of +robust men, full of little affairs and schemes--I saw in all of them +the same hope, the same unity of purpose, the same significance; and we +three in the midst, united by love and loss alike, we were at the +centre, as it were, of a great drama of life and love, in which even +death could only shift the scene and enrich the intensity of the secret +hope. + + + +September 5, 1889. + +The rapt and exalted mood that I carried away from Cambridge could not +last; I did not hope that it could. We have had a dark and sad time, +yet with gleams of sweetness in it, because we have realised how +closely we are drawn together, how much we depend on each other. Maud's +brave spirit has seemed for a time broken utterly; and this has done +more than anything to bring us nearer, because I have felt the +stronger, realising how much she leant upon me. She has been filled +with self-reproach, I know not for what shadowy causes. She blames +herself for a thousand things, for not having been more to Alec, for +having followed her own interests and activities, for not having +understood him better. It is all unreal, morbid, overstrained, of +course, but none the less terribly there. I have tried to persuade her +that it is but weariness and grief trying to attach itself to definite +causes, but she cannot be comforted. Meanwhile we walk, stroll, drive, +read, and talk together--mostly of him, for I can do that now; we can +even smile together over little memories, though it is perilous +walking, and a step brings us to the verge of tears. But, thank God, +there is not a single painful memory, not a thing we would have had +otherwise in the whole of that little beautiful life; and I wonder now +wretchedly, whether its very beauty and brightness ought not to have +prepared me more to lose him; it was too good to be true, too perfectly +pure and brave. Yet I never even dreamed that he would leave us; I +should have treasured the bright days better if I had. There are times +of sharpest sorrow, days when I wake and have forgotten; when I think +of him as with us, and then the horror of my loss comes curdling and +weltering back upon me; when I thrill from head to foot with hopeless +agony, rebelling, desiring, hating the death that parts us. + +Maggie seems to feel it differently. A child accepts a changed +condition with perhaps a sharper pang, but with a swift accustoming to +what irreparably IS. She weeps at the thought of him sometimes, but +without the bitter resistance, the futile despair which makes me +agonise. That she can be interested, distracted, amused, is a great +help to me; but nothing seems to minister to my dear Maud, except the +impassioned revival, for it is so, of our earliest first love. It has +come back to bless us, that deep and intimate absorption that had moved +into a gentler comradeship. The old mysterious yearning to mingle life +and dreams, and almost identities, has returned in fullest force; the +years have rolled away, and in the loss of her calm strength and +patience, we are as lovers again. The touch of her hand, the glance of +her eye, thrill through me as of old. It is a devout service, an eager +anticipation of her lightest wish that possesses me. I am no longer +tended; I tend and serve. There is something soft, appealing, wistful +about her that seems to give her back an almost childlike dependence, +till my grief almost goes from me in joy that I can sustain and aid her. + + + +September 7, 1889. + +Another trouble has fallen upon us. I have had a very grievous letter +from my cousin, who succeeded by arrangement, on my father's death, to +the business. He has been unfortunate in his affairs; he has thrown +money away in speculation. The greater part of my income came from the +business. I suppose the arrangement was a bad one, but the practice was +so sound and secure in my father's life that it never occurred to me to +doubt its stability. The chief part of my income, some nine hundred a +year, came to me from this source. Apart from that, I have some three +or four hundreds from invested money of my own, and Maud has upwards of +two hundred a year. I am going off to-morrow to L---- to meet my +cousin, and go into the matter. I don't at present understand how +things are. His letter is full of protestations and self-recrimination. +We can live, I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, but in a very +different way. Perhaps we may even have to sell our pleasant house. The +strange thing is that I don't feel this all more acutely, but I seem to +have lost the power of suffering for any other reason than because Alec +is dead. + + + +September 12, 1889. + +I have come back to-night from some weary nightmare days with my poor +cousin. The thing is as bad as it can be. The business will be acquired +by Messrs. F----, the next most leading solicitors. With the price they +will give, and with the sacrifice of my cousin's savings, and the +assets of the firm, the money can just be paid. We shall have some six +hundred a year to live upon; my cousin is to enter the office of the +F---- firm as an ordinary clerk. The origin of the disaster is a +melancholy one; it was not that he himself might profit, but to +increase the income of some clients who had lost money and desired a +higher rate of interest for funds left in the hands of the firm. If my +cousin had resisted the demand, there would have been some +unpleasantness, because the money lost had been invested on his advice; +he could not face this, and proceeded to speculate with other money, of +which he was trustee, to fill the gap. Good-nature, imprudence, +credulousness, a faulty grasp of the conditions, and not any deliberate +dishonesty, have been the cause of his ruin. It is a fearful blow to +him, but he is fortunate, perhaps, in being unmarried; I have urged him +to try and get employment elsewhere, but he insists upon facing the +situation in the place where he is known, with a fantastic idea, which +is at the same time noble and chivalrous, of doing penance. Of course +he has no prospects whatever; but I am sure of this, that he grieves +over my lost inheritance far more than he grieves over his own ruin. +His great misery is that some years ago he refused an offer from +Messrs. F---- to amalgamate the two firms. + +I feared at first that I might have to sacrifice the rest of my money +as well--money slowly accumulated out of my own labours. And the relief +of finding that this will not be necessary is immense. We must sell our +house at once, and find a smaller one. At present I am not afraid of +the changed circumstances; indeed, if I could only recover my power of +writing, we need not leave our home. The temptation is to get a book +written somehow, because I could make money by any stuff just now. On +the other hand, it will almost be to me a relief to part from the home +so haunted with the memory of Alec--though that will be a dreadful pain +to Maud and Maggie. As far as living more simply goes, that does not +trouble me in the least. I have always been slightly uncomfortable +about the ease and luxury in which we lived. I only wish we had lived +more simply all along, so that I could have put by a little more. I +have told Maud exactly how matters stand, and she acquiesces, though I +can see that, just at this time, the thought of handing over to +strangers the house where we have lived all our married life, the rooms +where Alec and the baby died, is a deep grief to her. To me that is +almost a relief. I have dreaded going back there. To-night I told +Maggie, and she broke out into long weeping. But even so there is +something about the idea of being poor, strange to say, which touches a +sense of romance in the child. She does not realise the poky +restrictions of the new life. + +And still stranger to me is the way in which this solid, tangible +trouble seems to have restored my energy and calm. I found myself +clear-headed, able to grasp the business questions which arose, gifted +with a hard lucidity of mind that I did not know I possessed. It is a +relief to get one's teeth into something, to have hard, definite +occupation to distract one; indeed, it hardly seems to me in the light +of a misfortune at present, so much as a blessed tangible problem to be +grappled with and solved. What I should have felt if all had been lost, +and if I had had to resign my liberty, and take up some practical +occupation, I hardly know. I do not think I should even have dreaded +that in my present frame of mind. + + + +September 15, 1889. + +I have been thinking all day long of my last walk with Alec, the day +before he was taken ill. Maud had gone out with Maggie; and the little +sturdy figure came to my room to ask if I was going out. I was +finishing a book that I was reading for the evening's work; I had been +out in the morning, and I had not intended to go out again, as it was +cold and drizzling. I very nearly said that I could not go, and I had a +shadow of vexation at being interrupted. But I looked up at him, as he +stood by the door, and there was a tiny shadow of loneliness upon his +face; and I thank God now that I put my book down at once, and +consented cheerfully. He brightened up at this; he fetched my cap and +stick, and we went off together. I am glad to think that I had him to +myself that day. He was in a more confidential mood than usual. +Perhaps--who knows?--there was some shadow of death upon him, some +instinct to clasp hands closer before the end. He asked me to tell him +some stories of my schooldays, and what I used to do as a boy--but he +was full of alertness and life, breaking into my narratives to point +out a nest that we had seen in the spring, and that now hung, +wind-dried and ruinous, among the boughs. Coming back, he flagged a +little, and did what he seldom did, put his arm in my own; how tenderly +the touch of the little hand, the restless fingers on my arm thrilled +me--the hand that lies cold and folded and shrivelled in the dark +ground! He was proud that evening of having had me all to himself, and +said to Maggie that we had talked secrets, "such as MEN talk when there +are no women to ask questions." But thinking that this had wounded +Maggie a little, he went and put his arm round her, and I heard him say +something about its being all nonsense, and that we had wished for her +all the time. . . . + +Ah, how can I endure it, the silence, the absence, the lost smile, the +child of my own whom I loved from head to foot, body soul and spirit +all alike! I keep coming across signs of his presence everywhere, his +books, his garden tools in the summerhouse, the little presents he gave +me, on my study chimney-piece, his cap and coat hanging in the +cupboard--it is these little trifling things, signs of life and joyful +days, that sting the heart and pierce the brain with sorrow. If I could +but have one sight of him, one word with him, one smile, to show that +he is, that he remembers, that he waits for us, I could endure it; but +I look into the dark and no answer comes; I send my wild entreaties +pulsating through the worlds of space, crying, "Are you there, my +child?" That his life is there, hidden with God, I do not doubt; but is +it he himself, or has he fallen back, like the drop of water in the +fountain, into the great tide of life? That is no comfort to me; it is +he that I want, that union of body and mind, of life and love, that was +called my child and is mine no more. + + + +September 20, 1889. + +Such a loss as mine passes over the soul like a plough cleaving a +pasture line by line. The true stuff of the spirit is revealed and laid +out in all its bareness. That customary outline, that surface growth of +herb and blade, is all pared away. I have been accustomed to think +myself a religious man--I have never been without the sense of God over +and about me. But when an experience like this comes, it shows me what +my religion is worth. I do not turn to God in love and hope; I do not +know Him, I do not understand Him. I feel that He must have forgotten +me, or that He is indifferent to me, or that He is incapable of love, +and works blindly and sternly. My reason in vain says that the great +and beautiful gift itself of the child's life and the child's love came +from Him. I do not question His power or His right to take my child +from me. But I endure only because I must, not willingly or loyally or +lovingly. It is not that I feel the injustice of His taking the boy +away; it is a far deeper sense of injustice than that. The injustice +lies in the fact that He made the child so utterly dear and desired; +that He set him so firmly in my heart; this on the one hand; and on the +other, that He does not, if He must rend the little life away and leave +the bleeding gap, send at the same time some love, some strength, some +patience to make the pain bearable. I cannot believe that the love I +bore my boy was anything but a sweet and holy influence. It gave me the +one thing of which I am in hourly need--something outside of myself and +my own interests, to love better than I loved even myself. It seems +indeed a pure and simple loss, unless the lesson God would have us +learn is the stoical lesson of detachment, indifference, cold +self-sufficiency. It is like taking the crutches away from a lame man, +knocking the props away from a tottering building. An optimistic +moralist would say that I loved Alec too selfishly, and even that the +love of the child turned away my heart from the jealous Heart of God, +who demands a perfect surrender, a perfect love. But how can one love +that which one does not know or understand, a Power that walks in +darkness and that gives us on the one hand sweet, beautiful, and +desirable things, and on the other strikes them from us when we need +them most? It is not as if I did not desire to trust and love God +utterly. I should think even this sorrow a light price to pay, if it +gave me a pure and deep trust in the mercy and goodness of God. But +instead of that it fills me with dismay, blank suspicion, fretful +resistance. I do not feel that there is anything which God could send +me or reveal to me, which would enable me to acquit Him of hardness or +injustice. I will not, though He slay me, say that I trust Him and love +Him when I do not. He may crush me with repeated blows of His hand, but +He has given me the divine power of judging, of testing, of balancing; +and I must use it even in His despite. He does not require, I think, a +dull and broken submissiveness, the submissiveness of the creature that +is ready to admit anything, if only he can be spared another blow. What +He requires, so my spirit tells me, is an eager co-operation, a brave +approval, a generous belief in His goodness and His justice; and this I +cannot give, and it is He that has made me unable to give it. The wound +may heal, the dull pain may die away, I may forget, the child may +become a golden memory--but I cannot again believe that this is the +surrender God desires. What I think He must desire, is that I should +love the child, miss him as bitterly as ever, feel my day darkened by +his loss, and yet turn to Him gratefully and bravely in perfect love +and trust. It may be that I may be drawn closer to those whom I love, +but the loss must still remain irreparable, because I might have +learned to love my dear ones better through Alec's presence, and not +through his absence. It is His will, I do not doubt it; but I cannot +see the goodness or the justice of the act, and I will not pretend to +myself that I acquiesce. + + + +September 25, 1889. + +Yesterday was a warm, delicious, soft day, full of a gentle languor, +the air balmy and sweet, the sunshine like the purest gold; we sate out +all the morning under the cliff, in the warm dry sand. To the right and +left of us lay the blue bay, the waves breaking with short, crisp +sparkles on the shore. We saw headland after headland sinking into the +haze; a few fishing-boats moved slowly about, and far down on the +horizon we watched the smoke of a great ocean-steamer. We talked, Maud +and I, for the first time, I think, without reserve, without +bitterness, almost without grief, of Alec. What sustains her is the +certainty that he is as he was, somewhere, far off, as brave and loving +as ever, waiting for us, but waiting with a perfect understanding and +knowledge of why we are separated. She dreams of him thus, looking down +upon her, and seeming, in her dream, to wonder what there can be to +grieve about. I suppose that a mother has a sense of oneness with a +child that a father cannot have. It is a deep and marvellous faith, an +intuition that transcends all reason, a radiant certainty. I cannot +attain to it. But in the warmth and light of her belief, I grew to feel +that at least there was some explanation of it all. Not by chance is +the dear gift sent us, not by chance do we learn to love it, not by +chance is it rent from us. Lying thus, talking softly, in so gracious a +world, a world that satisfied every craving of the senses, I came to +realise that the Father must wish us well, and that if the shadow fell +upon our path, it was not to make us cold and bitter-hearted. Infinite +Love! it came near to me in that hour, and clasped me to a sorrowful, +tender, beating Heart. I read Maud, at her request, "Evelyn Hope," and +the strong and patient love, that dwells so serenely and softly upon +the incidents of death, yet without the least touch of morbidity and +gloom, treating death itself as a quiet slumber of the soul, taught me +for a moment how to be brave. + +"You will wake and remember, and understand,"--my voice broke and tears +came, unbidden tears which I did not even desire to conceal--and in +that moment the spirit of my wife came near to me, and soul looked into +the eyes of soul, with a perfect and bewildering joy, the very joy of +God. + + + +October 10, 1889. + +We have had the kindest, dearest letters from our neighbours about our +last misfortune. But no one seems to anticipate that we shall be +obliged to leave the place. They naturally suppose that I shall be able +to make as large an income as I want by writing. And so I suppose I +could. I talked the whole matter over with Maud, and said I would abide +by her decision. I confessed that I had an extreme repugnance to the +thought of turning out books for money, books which I knew to be +inferior; but I also said that if she could not bear to leave the +place, I had little doubt that I could, for the present at all events, +make enough money to render it possible for us to continue to live +there. I said frankly that it would be a relief to me to leave a house +so sadly haunted by memory, and that I should myself prefer to live +elsewhere, framing our household on very simple lines--and to let the +power of writing come back if it would, not to try and force it. It +would be a dreadful prospect to me to live thus, overshadowed by +recollection, working dismally for money; but I suppose it would be +possible, even bracing. Maud did not hesitate: she spoke quite frankly; +on the one hand the very associations, which I dread most, were +evidently to her a source of sad delight; and the thought of strangers +living in rooms so hallowed by grief was like a profanation. Then there +was the fact of all her relations with our friends and neighbours; but +she said quite simply that my feeling outweighed it all, and that she +would far rather begin life afresh somewhere else, than put me in the +position I described. We determined to try and find a small house in +the neighbourhood of her own old home in Gloucestershire; and this +thought, I am sure, gave her real happiness. We determined at once what +we would do; we would let our house for a term of years, take what +furniture we needed, and dispose of the rest; we arranged to go off to +Gloucestershire, as soon as possible, to look for a house. We both +realise that we must learn to retrench at once. We shall have less than +half our former income, counting in what we hope to get from the old +house. I am not at all afraid of that. I always vaguely disliked living +as comfortably as we did--but it will not be agreeable to have to +calculate all our expenses--that may perhaps mend itself, if I can but +begin my writing again. + +All this helps me--I am ashamed to say how much--though sometimes the +thought of all the necessary arrangements weighs on me like a leaden +weight, on days when I fall back into a sad, idle, hopeless repining. +Sometimes it seems as if the old happy life was all broken up and gone +for ever; and, so strange a thing is memory and imagination, that even +the months overshadowed by the loss of my faculty of work seem to me +now impossibly fragrant and beautiful, my sufferings unreal and +unsubstantial. Real trouble, real grief, have at least the bracing +force of actuality, and sweep aside with a strong hand all artificial +self-made miseries and glooms. + + + +December 15, 1889. + +I have kept no record of these weeks. They have been full of business, +sadness, and yet of hope. We went back home for a time; we made our +farewells, and it moved me strangely to see that our departure was +viewed almost with consternation. It is Maud's loss that will be felt. +I have lived very selfishly and dully myself, but even so I was +half-glad to find that even I should be missed. At such a time +everything is forgotten and forgiven, and such grudging, peaceful +neighbourliness as even I have shown seems appreciated and valued. It +was a heartrending business reviving our sorrow, and it plunged me for +a time into my old dry bitterness of spirit. But I hardened my heart as +best I could, and felt more deeply than ever, how far beyond my powers +of endurance it would have been to have taken up the old life, and Alec +not there. Again and again it was like a knife plunged into my heart +with an almost physical pain. Not so with Maud and Maggie--it was to +them a treasure of precious memories, and they could dare to indulge +their grief. I can't write of it, I can't think of it. Wherever I +turned, I saw him in a hundred guises--as a tiny child, as a small, +sturdy boy, as the son we lost. + +We have let the house to some very kind and reasonable people, who have +made things very easy to us; and to me at least it was a sort of heavy +joy to take the last meal in the old home, to drive away, to see the +landscape fade from sight. I shall never willingly return. It would +seem to me like a wilful rolling among the thorns of life, a +gathering-in of spears into one's breast. I seemed like a naked +creature that had lost its skin, that shrank and bled at every touch. + + + +February 10, 1890. + +I have been house-hunting, and I do not pretend to dislike it. The +sight of unknown houses, high garden walls, windows looking into blind +courts, staircases leading to lofts, dark cupboards, old lumber, has a +very stimulating effect on my imagination. Perhaps, too, I sometimes +think, these old places are full of haunting spiritual presences, +clinging, half tearfully, half joyfully to the familiar scenes, half +sad, perhaps, that they did not make a finer thing of the little +confined life; half glad to be free--as a man, strong and well, might +look with a sense of security into a room where he had borne an +operation. But I have never believed much in haunted rooms. The +Father's many mansions can be hardly worth deserting for the little, +dark houses of our tiny life. + +I disliked some of the houses intensely--so ugly and pretentious, so +inconvenient and dull; but even so it is pleasant in fancy to plan the +life one would live there, the rooms one would use. One house touched +me inexpressibly. It was a house I knew from the outside in a little +town where I used to go and spend a few weeks every year with an old +aunt of mine. The name of the little town--I saw it in an agent's +list--had a sort of enchantment for me, a golden haze of memory. I was +allowed a freedom there I was allowed nowhere else, I was petted and +made much of, and I used to spend most of my time in sauntering about, +just looking, watching, scrutinising things, with the hard and +uncritical observation of childhood. When I got to the place, I was +surprised to find that I knew well the look of the house I went to see, +though I had not ever entered it. Two neat, contented, slightly absurd +old maiden ladies had lived there, who used to walk out together, +dressed exactly alike in some faded fashion. The laurels and yews still +grew thickly in the shrubbery, and shaded the windows of the ugly +little parlours. An old, quiet, respectable maid showed me round; she +had been in service there for twenty years, and she was tearfully +lamenting over the break-up of the home. The old ladies had lived there +for sixty years. One of them had died ten years before, the other had +lingered on to extreme old age. The house was like a museum, a specimen +of a house of the thirties, in which nothing had ever been touched or +changed. The strange wall-papers and chintzes, the crewel-work chairs, +the mirrors, the light maple furniture, the case of moth-eaten +humming-birds, the dull engravings of historical pictures, the old +books--the drawing-room table was covered with annuals and keepsakes, +Moore's poems, Mrs. Barbauld's works--all had a pathetic ugliness, +redeemed by a certain consistency of quality. And then the poky, +comfortable arrangements, the bath-chair in the coach-house, the +four-post bedsteads, the hand-rail on the stairs, the sandbags for the +doors, all spoke of a timid, invalid life, a dim backwater in the tide +of things. There had been children there at some time, for there were +broken toys, collections of dried plants, curious stones, in an attic. +The little drama of the house shaped itself for me, as I walked through +the frowsy, faded rooms, with a touching insistence. This bedroom had +never been used since Miss Eleanor died--and I could fancy the poor, +little, timid, precise life flitting away among the well-known +surroundings. This had been Miss Jackson's favourite room--it was so +quiet--she had died there, sitting in her chair, a few weeks before. +The leisurely, harmless routine of the quiet household rose before me. +I could imagine Miss Jackson writing her letters, reading her book, +eating her small meals, making the same humble and grateful remarks, +entertaining her old friends. Year after year it had gone on, just the +same, the clock ticking loud in the hall, the sun creeping round the +old rooms, the birds singing in the garden, the faint footsteps in the +road. It had begun, that gentle routine, long before I had been born +into the world; and it was strange to me to think that, as I passed +through the most stirring experiences of my life, nothing ever stirred +or moved or altered here. Miss Jackson had felt Miss Eleanor's death +very much; she had hardly ever left the house since, and they had had +no company. Yes, what a woefully bewildering thing death swooping down +into that quiet household, with all its tranquil security, must have +been! One wondered what Miss Eleanor had felt, when she knew she had to +die, to pass out into the unknown dark out of a world so tender, so +familiar, so peaceful; and what had poor Miss Jackson made of it, when +she was left alone? She must have found it all very puzzling, very +dreary. And yet, in the dim past, perhaps one or both of them, had had +dreams of a fuller life, had fancied that something more than +tenderness had looked out of the eyes of a man; well, it had come to +nothing, whatever it might have been; and the two old ladies had +settled down, perhaps with some natural repining, to their unexciting, +contented life, the day filled with little duties and pleasures, the +nights with innocent sleep. It had not been a selfish life--they had +been good to the poor, the maid told me; and in old days they had often +had their nephews and nieces to stay with them. But those children had +grown up and gone out into the world, and no longer cared to return to +the dull little house with its precise ways, and the fidgety love that +had once embraced them. + +The whole thing seemed a mysterious mixture of purposelessness and +contentment. Rumours of wars, social convulsions, patriotic hopes, +great ideas, had swept on their course outside, and had never stirred +the drowsy current of life behind the garden walls. The sisters had +lived, sweetly, perhaps, and softly, like trees in some sequestered +woodland, hardly recognising their own gentle lapse of strength and +activity. + +And now the whole thing was over for good. Curious and indifferent +people came, tramped about the house, pronounced it old-fashioned and +inconvenient. I could not do that myself; the place was brimful of the +pathetic evidences of what had been. Soon, no doubt, the old house +would wear a different guise--it would be renovated and restored, the +furniture would drift away to second-hand shops, the litter would be +thrown out upon the rubbish-heap. New lives, new relationships would +spring up; children would be born, boys would play, lovers would +embrace, sufferers would lie musing, men and women would die in those +refurbished rooms. Everything would drift onwards, and the lives to +whom each corner, each stair, each piece of furniture had meant so +much, would become a memory first, and then fade into nothingness. +Where and what were the two old ladies now? Were they gone out utterly, +like an extinguished flame? were they in some new home of tranquil +peace? Were they adjusting themselves with a sense of timid +impotence--those slender, tired spirits--to new and bewildering +conditions? + +The old, dull house called to me that day with a hundred faint voices +and tremulous echoes. I could make nothing of it; for though it swept +the strings of my heart with a ghostly music, it seemed to have no +certain message for me, but the message of oblivion and silence. + +I was sorry, as I went away, to leave the poor maidservant to her +lonely and desolate memories. She had to leave her comfortable kitchen +and her easy routine, for new duties and new faces, and I could see +that she anticipated the change with sad dismay. + +It seemed to me in that hour as though the cruelty and the tenderness +of the world were very mysteriously blended--there was no lack of +tenderness in the old house with its innumerable small associations, +its sheltered calm. And then suddenly the stroke must fall, and fall +upon lives whose very security and gentleness seemed to have been so +ill a preparation for sterner and darker things. It would have been +more loving, one thought, either to have made the whole fabric more +austere, more precarious from the first; or else to have bestowed a +deep courage and a fertile hope, a firmer endurance, rather than to +have confronted lives so frail and delicate with the terrors of the +vast unknown. + + + +April 8, 1890. + +Our new house is charming, beautiful, homelike. It is an old stone +building, formerly a farm; it has a quaint garden and orchard, and the +wooded hill runs up steeply behind, with a stream in front. It is on +the outskirts of a village, and we are within three miles of Maud's old +home, so that she knows all the country round. We have got two of our +old servants, and a solid comfortable gardener, a native of the place. +The house within is quaint and comfortable. We have a spare bedroom; I +have no study, but shall use the little panelled dining-room. We have +had much to do in settling in, and I have done a great deal of hard +physical work myself, in the way of moving furniture and hanging +pictures, inducing much wholesome fatigue. Maggie, who broke down +dreadfully on leaving the old home, with the wonderful spring that +children have, is full of excitement and even delight in the new house. +I rather dread the time when all our occupations shall be over, and +when we shall settle down to the routine of life. I begin to wonder how +I shall occupy myself. I mean to do a good many odd jobs--we have no +trap, and there will be a good deal of fetching and carrying to be +done. We shall resume our lessons, Maggie and I; there will be reading, +gardening, walking. One ought to be able to live philosophically +enough. What would I not give to be able to write now! but the instinct +seems wholly and utterly dead and gone. I cannot even conceive that I +ever used, solemnly and gravely, to write about imaginary people, their +jests and epigrams, their sorrows and cares. Life and Art! I used to +suppose that it was all a softly moulded, rhythmic, sonorous affair, +strophe and antistrophe; but the griefs and sorrows of art are so much +nearer each other, like major and minor keys, than the griefs and +sorrows of life. In art, the musician smiles and sighs alternately, but +his sighing is a balanced, an ordered mood; the inner heart is content, +as the pool is content, whether it mirrors the sunlight or the lonely +star; but in life, joy is to grief what music is to aching silence, +dumbness, inarticulate pain--though perhaps in that silence one hears a +deeper, stranger sound, the buzz of the whirring atom, the soft thunder +of worlds plunging through the void, joyless, gigantic, oblivious +forces. + +Is it good thus to have the veils of life rent asunder? If life, the +world's life, activity, work, be the end of existence, then it is not +good. It breaks the spring of energy, so that one goes heavily and +sorely. But what if that be not the end? What then? + + + +May 16, 1890. + +At present the new countryside is a great resource. I walk far among +the wolds; I find exquisite villages, where every stone-built house +seems to have style and quality; I come down upon green water-meadows, +with clear streams flowing by banks set with thorn-bushes and alders. +The churches, the manor-houses, of grey rubble smeared with plaster, +with stone roof-tiles, are a feast for eye and heart. Long days in the +open air bring me a dull equable health of body, a pleasant weariness, +a good-humoured indifference. My mind becomes grass-grown, full of +weeds, ruinous; but I welcome it as at least a respite from suffering. +It is strange to think of myself at what ought, I suppose, to be the +busiest and fullest time of my life, living here like a tree in lonely +fields. What would be the normal life? A little house in a London +street, I suppose, with a lot of white paint and bookshelves. +Luncheons, dinners, plays, music, clubs, week-end visits to lively +houses, a rush abroad, a few country visits in the winter. Very +harmless and pleasant if one enjoyed it, but to me inconceivable and +insupportable. Perhaps I should be happier and brisker, perhaps the +time would go quicker. Ought one to make up one's mind that this would +be the normal life, and that therefore one had better learn to +accommodate oneself to it? Does one pay penalties for not submitting +oneself to the ordinary laws of human intercourse? Doubtless one does. +But then, made as I am, I should have to pay penalties which would seem +to be even heavier for the submission. It is there that the puzzle +lies; that a man should be created with the strong instinct that I feel +for liberty and independence and solitude and the quiet of the country, +and then that he should discover that the life he so desires should be +the one that develops all the worst side of him--morbidity, +fastidiousness, gloom, discontent. This is the shadow of civilisation; +that it makes people intellectual, alert, craving for stimulus, and yet +sucks their nerves dry of the strength that makes such things enjoyable. + +And still, as I go in and out, the death of Alec seems the one +absolutely unintelligible and inexplicable thing, a gloom penetrated by +no star. It was the one thing that might have made me unselfish, +tender-hearted, the anxious care of some other than myself. "Perhaps," +says an old friend writing to me with a clumsy attempt at comfort, +"perhaps he was taken mercifully away from some evil to come." A good +many people say that, and feel it quite honestly. But what an +insupportable idea of the ways of Providence, that God had planned a +prospect for the child so dreadful that even his swift removal should +be tolerable by comparison! What a helpless, hopeless confession of +failure! No; either the whole short life, closed by the premature +death, must have been designed, planned, executed deliberately; or else +God is at the mercy of blank cross-currents, opposing forces, +tendencies even stronger than Himself; and then the very idea of God +crumbles away, and God becomes the blank and inscrutable force working +behind a gentle, good-humoured will, which would be kind and gracious +if it could, but is trammelled and bound by something stronger; that +was the Greek view, of course--God above man, and Fate above God. The +worst of it is that it has a horrible vraisemblance, and seems to lie +even nearer to the facts of life than our own tender-hearted and +sentimental theories and schemes of religion. + +But whether it be God or fate, the burden has to be borne. And my one +endeavour must be to bear it myself, consciously and courageously, and +to shift it so far as I can from the gentler and tenderer shoulders of +those whose life is so strangely linked with mine. + + + +May 25, 1890. + +One sees a house, like the house we now live in, from a road as one +passes, from the windows of a train. It seems to be set at the end of +the world, with the earth's sunset distance behind it--it seems a +fortress of quiet, a place of infinite peace; and then one lives in it, +and behold, it is a centre of a little active life, with all sorts of +cross-currents darting to and fro, over it, past it. + +Or again one thinks, as one sees such a house in passing, that there at +least one could live in meditation and cloistered calm; that there +would be neither cares nor anxieties; that one would be content to sit, +just looking out at the quiet fields, pacing to and fro, receiving +impressions, musing, selecting, apprehending--and then one lives there, +and the stream of life is as turbid, as fretful as ever. The strange +thing is that such delusions survive any amount of experience; that one +cannot read into other lives the things that trouble one's own. + +A little definite scheme opens before us here; old friends of Maud's +find us out, simple, kindly, tiresome people. There is an exchange of +small civilities, there are duties, activities, relationships. To Maud +these things come by the light of nature; to her the simplest +interchange of definite thoughts is as natural as to breathe. I hear +her calm, sweet, full voice answering, asking. To me these things are +utterly wearisome and profitless. I want only to speak of the things +for which I care, and to people attuned to the same key of thought; a +basis of sympathy and temperamental differences--that is the perfect +union of qualities for a friend. But these stolid, kindly parsons, with +brisk, active wives, ingenuous daughters, heavy sons--I want either to +know them better, or not to know them at all. I want to enter the +house, the furnished chambers of people's minds; and I am willing +enough to throw my own open to a cordial guest; but I do not want to +stand and chatter in some debatable land of social conventionality. I +have no store of simple geniality. The other night we went to dine +quietly with a parson near here, a worthy fellow, happy and useful. +Afterwards, in the drawing-room, I sate beside my host. I saw Maud +listening, with rapt interest, to the chronicles of all the village +families, robustly and unimaginatively told by the parson's wife; +meanwhile I, tortured by intolerable ennui, pumped up questions, tried +a hundred subjects with my worthy host. He told me long and prolix +stories, he discoursed on rural needs. At last I said that we must be +going; he replied with genuine disappointment that the night was still +young, and that it was a pity to break up our pleasant confabulation. I +saw with a shock of wonder that he had evidently been enjoying himself +hugely; that it was a pleasure to him, for some unaccountable reason, +not to hear a new person talk, but to say the same things that he had +said for years, to a new person. It is not ideas that most people want; +they are satisfied with mere gregariousness, the sight and sound of +other figures. They like to produce the same stock of ideas, the same +conclusions. "As I always say," was a phrase that was for ever on my +entertainer's lips. I suppose that probably my own range is just as +limited, but I have an Athenian hankering after novelty of thought, the +new mintage of the mind. I loathe the old obliterated coinage, with the +stamp all rounded and faint. Dulness, sameness, triteness, are they +essential parts of life? I suppose it is really that my nervous energy +is low, and requires stimulus: if it were strong and full, the current +would flow into the trivial things. I derive a certain pleasure from +the sight of other people's rooms, the familiar, uncomfortable, shabby +furniture, the drift of pictures, the debris of ornament--all that +stands for difference and individuality. But one can't get inside most +people's minds; they only admit one to the public rooms. A crushing +fatigue and depression settles down upon me in such hours, and then the +old blank sense of grief and loss comes flowing back--it is old +already, because it seems to have stained all the backward pages of +life; then follows the weary, restless night; and the breaking of the +grey, pitiless dawn. + + + +June 3, 1890. + +I do not want, even in my thoughts, to put the contemplative life above +the practical life. Highest of all I would put a combination of the +two--a man of high and clear ideals, in a position where he was able to +give them shape--a great constructive statesman, a great educator, a +great man of business, who was also keenly alive to social problems, a +great philanthropist. Next to these I would put great thinkers, +moralists, poets--all who inspire. Then I would put the absolutely +effective instruments of great designs--legislators, lawyers, teachers, +priests, doctors, writers--men without originality, but with a firm +conception of civic and human duty. And then I would put all those who, +in a small sphere, exercise a direct, quiet, simple influence--and then +come the large mass of mankind; people who work faithfully, from +instinct and necessity, but without any particular design or desire, +except to live honestly, honourably, and respectably, with no urgent +sense of the duty of serving others, taking life as it comes, practical +individualists, in fact. No higher than these, but certainly no lower, +I should put quiet, contemplative, reflective people, who are +theoretical individualists. They are not very effective people +generally, and they have a certain poetical quality; they cannot +originate, but they can appreciate. I look upon all these +individualists, whether practical or theoretical, as the average mass +of humanity, the common soldiers, so to speak, as distinguished from +the officers. Life is for them a discipline, and their raison d'etre is +that of the learner, as opposed to that of the teacher. To all of them, +experience is the main point; they are all in the school of God; they +are being prepared for something. The object is that they should +apprehend something, and the channel through which it comes matters +little. They do the necessary work of the world; they support +themselves, and they support those who from infirmity, weakness, age, +or youth cannot support themselves. There is room, I think, in the +world for both kinds of individualist, though the contemplative +individualists are in the minority; and perhaps it must be so, because +a certain lassitude is characteristic of them. If they were in the +majority in any nation, one would have a simple, patient, unambitious +race, who would tend to become the subjects of other more vigorous +nations: our Indian empire is a case in point. Probably China is a +similar nation, preserved from conquest by its inaccessibility and its +numerical force. Japan is an instance of the strange process of a +contemplative nation becoming a practical one. The curious thing is +that Christianity, which is essentially a contemplative, unmilitant, +unpatriotic, unambitious force, decidedly oriental in type, should have +become, by a mysterious transmutation, the religion of active, +inventive, conquering nations. I have no doubt that the essence of +Christianity lies in a contemplative simplicity, and that it is in +strong opposition to what is commonly called civilisation. It aims at +improving society through the uplifting of the individual, not at +uplifting the individual through social agencies. We have improved upon +that in our latter-day wisdom, for the Christian ought to be inherently +unpatriotic, or rather his patriotism ought to be of an all-embracing +rather than of an antagonistic kind. I do not want to make lofty +excuses for myself; my own unworldliness is not an abnegation at all, +but a deliberate preference for obscurity. Still I should maintain that +the vital and spiritual strength of a nation is measured, not by the +activity of its organisations, but by the number of quiet, simple, +virtuous, and high-minded persons that it contains. And thus, in my own +case, though the choice is made for me by temperament and +circumstances, I have no pricking of conscience on the subject of my +scanty activities. It is not mere activity that makes the difference. +The danger of mere activity is that it tends to make men complacent, to +lead them to think that they are following the paths of virtue, when +they are only enmeshed in conventionality. The dangers of the quiet +life are indolence, morbidity, sloth, depression, unmanliness; but I +think that it develops humility, and allows the daily and hourly +message of God to sink into the soul. After all, the one supreme peril +is that of self-satisfaction and finality. If a man is content with +what he is, there is nothing to make him long for what is higher. Any +one who looks around him with a candid gaze, becomes aware that our +life is and must be a provisional one, that it has somehow fallen short +of its possibilities. To better it is the best of all courses; but next +to that it is more desirable that men should hope for and desire a +greater harmony of things, than that they should acquiesce in what is +so strangely and sadly amiss. + + + +June 18, 1890. + +I have made a new friend, whose contact and example help me so +strangely and mysteriously, that it seems to me almost as though I had +been led hither that I might know him. He is an old and lonely man, a +great invalid, who lives at a little manor-house a mile or two away. +Maud knew him by name, but had never seen him. He wrote me a courtly +kind of note, apologising for being unable to call, and expressing a +hope that we might be able to go and see him. The house stands on the +edge of the village, looking out on the churchyard, a many-gabled +building of grey stone, a long flagged terrace in front of it, +terminated by posts with big stone balls; a garden behind, and a wood +behind that--the whole scene unutterably peaceful and beautiful. We +entered by a little hall, and a kindly, plain, middle-aged woman, with +a Quaker-like precision of mien and dress, came out to greet us, with a +fresh kindliness that had nothing conventional about it. She said that +her uncle was not very well, but she thought he would be able to see +us. She left us for a moment. There was a cleanness and a fragrance +about the old house that was very characteristic. It was most simply, +even barely furnished, but with a settled, ancient look about it, that +gave one a sense of long association. She presently returned, and said, +smiling, that her uncle would like to see us, but separately, as he was +very far from strong. She took Maud away, and returning, walked with me +round the garden, which had the same dainty and simple perfection about +it. I could see that my hostess had the poetical passion for flowers; +she knew the names of all, and spoke of them almost as one might of +children. This was very wilful and impatient, and had to be kept in +good order; that one required coaxing and tender usage. We went on to +the wood, in all its summer foliage, and she showed us a little arbour +where her uncle loved to sit, and where the birds would come at his +whistle. "They are looking at us out of the trees everywhere," she +said, "but they are shy of strangers"--and indeed we heard soft +chirping and rustling everywhere. An old dog and a cat accompanied us. +She drew my attention to the latter. "Look at Pippa," she said, "she is +determined to walk with us, and equally determined not to seem to need +our company, as if she had come out of her own accord, and was +surprised to find us in her garden." Pippa, hearing her name mentioned, +stalked off with an air of mystery and dignity into the bushes, and we +could see her looking out at us; but when we continued our stroll, she +flew out past us, and walked on stiffly ahead. "She gets a great deal +of fun out of her little dramas," said Miss ----. "Now poor old Rufus +has no sense of drama or mystery--he is frankly glad of our company in +a very low and common way--there is nothing aristocratic about him." +Old Rufus looked up and wagged his tail humbly. Presently she went on +to talk about her uncle, and contrived to tell me a great deal in a +very few words. I learnt that he was the last male representative of an +old family, who had long held the small estate here; that after a +distinguished Oxford career, he had met with a serious accident that +had made him a permanent invalid. That he had settled down here, not +expecting to live more than a few years, and that he was now over +seventy; it had been the quietest of lives, she said, and a very happy +one, too, in spite of his disabilities. He read a great deal, and +interested himself in local affairs, but sometimes for weeks together +could do nothing. I gathered that she was his only surviving relation, +and had lived with him from her childhood. "You will think," she added, +laughing, "that he is the kind of person who is shown by his friends as +a wonderful old man, and who turns out to be a person like the +patriarch Casby, in Little Dorrit, whose sanctity, like Samson's, +depended entirely upon the length of his hair. But he is not in the +least like that, and I will leave you to find out for yourself whether +he is wonderful or not." + +There was a touch of masculine irony and humour about this that took my +fancy; and we went to the house, Miss ---- saying that two new persons +in one afternoon would be rather a strain for her uncle, much as he +would enjoy it, and that his enjoyment must be severely limited. "His +illness," she said, "is an obscure one; it is a want of adequate +nervous force: the doctors give it names, but don't seem to be able to +cure or relieve it; he is strong, physically and mentally, but the +least over-exertion or over-strain knocks him up; it is as if virtue +went out of him; though a partial niece may say that he has a plentiful +stock of the material." + +We went in, and proceeded to a small library, full of books, with a big +writing-table in the window. The room was somewhat dark, and the feet +fell softly on a thick carpet. There was no sort of luxury about the +room; a single portrait hung over the mantelpiece, and there was no +trace of ornament anywhere, except a big bowl of roses on a table. + +Here, with a low table beside him covered with books, and a little +reading-desk pushed aside, I found Mr. ---- sitting. He was leaning +forwards in his chair, and Maud was sitting opposite him. They appeared +to be silent, but with the natural silence that comes of reflection, +not the silence of embarrassment. Maud, I could see, was strangely +moved. He rose up to greet me, a tall, thin figure, dressed in a rough +grey suit. There was little sign of physical ill-health about him. He +had a shock of thick, strong hair, perfectly white. His face was that +of a man who lived much in the open air, clear and ascetic of +complexion. He was not at all what would be called handsome; he had +rather heavy features, big, white eyebrows, and a white moustache. His +manner was sedate and extremely unaffected, not hearty, but kindly, and +he gave me a quick glance, out of his blue eyes, which seemed to take +swift stock of me. "It is very kind of you to come and see me," he said +in a measured tone. "Of course I ought to have paid my respects first, +but I ventured to take the privilege of age; and moreover I am the +obedient property of a very vigilant guardian, whose orders I +implicitly obey--'Do this, and he doeth it.'" He smiled at his niece as +he said it, and she said, "Yes, you would hardly believe how peremptory +I can be; and I am going to show it by taking Mrs. ---- away, to show +her the garden; and in twenty minutes I must take Mr. ---- away too, if +he will be so kind as help me to sustain my authority." + +The old man sate down again, smiling, and pointed me to a chair. The +other two left us; and there followed what was to me a very memorable +conversation. "We must make the best use of our time, you see," he +said, "though I hope that this will not be the last time we shall meet. +You will confer a very great obligation on me, if you can sometimes +come to see me--and perhaps we may get a walk together occasionally. So +we won't waste our time in conventional remarks," he added; "I will +only say that I am heartily glad you have come to live here, and I am +sure you will find it a beautiful place--you are wise enough to prefer +the country to the town, I gather." Then he went on: "I have read all +your books--I did not read them," he added with a smile, "that I might +talk to you about them, but because they have interested me. May I say +that each book has been stronger and better than the last, except in +one case"--he mentioned the name of a book of mine--"in which you +seemed to me to be republishing earlier work." "Yes," I said, "you are +quite right; I was tempted by a publisher and I fell." "Well," he said, +"the book was a good one--and there is something that we lose as we +grow older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a +beautiful freedom of thought; but we can't have everything, and one's +books must take their appropriate colours from the mind. May I say that +I think your books have grown more and more mature, tolerant, artistic, +wise?--and the last was simply admirable. It entirely engrossed me, and +for a blessed day or two I lived in your mind, and saw out of your +eyes. I am sure it was a great book--a noble and a large-hearted book, +full of insight and faith--the best kind of book." I murmured +something; and he said, "You may think it is arrogant of me to speak +like this; but I have lived among books, and I am sure that I have a +critical gift, mainly because I have no power of expression. You know +the best kind of critics are the men who have tried to write books, and +have failed, as long as their failure does not make them envious and +ungenerous; I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work +all the more for that. You are writing now?" "No," I said, "I am +writing nothing." "Well, I am sorry to hear it," he said, "and may I +venture to ask why?" "Simply because I cannot," I said; and now there +came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that one has +in answering the questions of a great and compassionate physician, who +assumes the responsibility of one's case. Not only did I not resent +these questions, as I should often have resented them, but it seemed to +give me a sense of luxury and security to give an account of myself to +this wise and unaffected old man. He bent his brows upon me: "You have +had a great sorrow lately?" he said. "Yes," I said, "we have lost our +only boy, nine years old." "Ah," he said, "a sore stroke, a sore +stroke!" and there was a deep tenderness in his voice that made me feel +that I should have liked to kneel down before him, and weep at his +knee, with his hand laid in blessing on my head. We sate in silence for +a few moments. "Is it this that has stopped your writing?" he said. +"No," I said, "the power had gone from me before--I could not +originate, I could only do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality +than before." "Well," he said, "I don't wonder; the last book must have +been a great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it. +I remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a +marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak--without any sense +of fatigue, he told me, all pure enjoyment--but he had a heart-attack +the next day, and paid the penalty of his enjoyment. He could not climb +for some years after that." "Yes," I said, "I think that has been my +case--but my fear is that if I lose the habit--and I seem to have lost +it--I shall never be able to take it up again." "No, you need not fear +that," he replied; "if something is given you to say, you will be able +to say it, and say it better than ever--but no doubt you feel very much +lost without it. How do you fill the time?" "I hardly know," I said, +"not very profitably--I read, I teach my daughter, I muddle along." +"Well," he said, smiling, "the hours in which we muddle along are not +our worst hours. You believe in God?" The suddenness of this question +surprised me. "Yes," I said, "I believe in God. I cannot disbelieve. +Something has placed me where I am, something urges me along; there is +a will behind me, I am sure of that. But I do not know whether that +will is just or unjust, kind or unkind, benevolent or indifferent. I +have had much happiness and great prosperity, but I have had to bear +also things which are inconceivably repugnant to me, things which seem +almost satanically adapted to hurt and wound me in my tenderest and +innermost feelings, trials which seem to be concocted with an almost +infernal appropriateness, not things which I could hope to bear with +courage and faith, but things which I can only endure with rebellious +resistance." "Yes," he said, "I understand you perfectly; but does not +their very appropriateness, the satanical ingenuity of which you speak, +help you to feel that they are not fortuitous, but sent deliberately to +you yourself and to none other?" "Yes," I said, "I see that; but how +can I believe in the justice of a discipline which I could not inflict, +I will not say upon a dearly loved child, but upon the most relentless +and stubborn foe." "Ah," said he, "now I see your heart bare, the very +palpitating beat of the blood. Do you think you are alone in this? Let +me tell you my own story. Over fifty years ago I left Oxford with, I +really think I may say, almost everything before me--everything, that +is, which is open to an instinctively cheerful, temperate, capable, +active man--I was not rich, but I could afford to wait to earn money. I +was sociable and popular; I was endowed with an immense appetite for +variety of experience; I don't think that there was anything which +appeared to me to be uninteresting. But I could persevere too, I could +stick to work, I had taken a good degree. Then an accidental fall off a +chair, on which I was standing to get a book, laid me on my back for a +time. I fretted over it at first, but when I got about again, I found +that I was a man maimed for life. I don't know what the injury +was--some obscure lesion of the spinal marrow or brain, I believe--some +flaw about the size of a pin's head--the doctors have never made out. +But every time that I plunged into work, I broke down; for a long time +I thought I should struggle through; but at last I became aware that I +was on the shelf, with other cracked jars, for life--I can't tell you +what I went through, what agonies of despair and rebellion. I thought +that at least literature was left me. I had always been fond of books, +and was a good scholar, as it is called; but I soon became aware that I +had no gift of expression, and moreover that I could not hope to +acquire it, because any concentrated effort threw me into illness. I +was an ambitious fellow, and success was closed to me--I could not even +hope to be useful. I tried several things, but always with the same +result; and at last I fell into absolute despair, and just lived on, +praying daily and even hourly that I might die. But I did not die, and +then at last it dawned upon me, like a lightening sunrise, that THIS +was life for me; this was my problem, these my limitations; that I was +to make the best I could out of a dulled and shattered life; that I was +to learn to be happy, even useful, in spite of it--that just as other +people were given activity, practical energy, success, to learn from +them the right balance, the true proportion of life, and not to be +submerged and absorbed in them, so to me was given a simpler problem +still, to have all the temptations of activity removed--temptations to +which with my zest for experience I might have fallen an easy +victim--and to keep my courage high, my spirit pure and expectant, if I +could, waiting upon God. This little estate fell to me soon afterwards, +and I soon saw what a tender gift it was, because it gave me a home; +every other source of interest and pleasure was removed, because the +simplest visits, the wildest distractions were too much for me--the +jarring of any kind of vehicle upset me. By what slow degrees I +attained happiness I can hardly say. But now, looking back, I see +this--that whereas others have to learn by hard experience, that +detachment, self-purification, self-control are the only conditions of +happiness on earth, I was detached, purified, controlled by God +Himself. I was detached, because my life was utterly precarious, I was +taught purification and control, because whereas more robust people can +defer and even defy the penalties of luxury, comfort, gross desires, +material pleasures, I was forced, every day and hour, to deny myself +the smallest freedom--I was made ascetic by necessity. Then came a +greater happiness still; for years I was lost in a sort of +individualistic self-absorption, with no thoughts of anything but God +and His concern with myself--often hopeful and beautiful enough--when I +found myself drawn into nearer and dearer relationships with those +around me. That came through my niece, whom I adopted as an orphan +child, and who is one of those people who live naturally and +instinctively in the lives of other people. I got to know all the +inhabitants of this little place--simple country people, you will +say--but as interesting, as complex in emotion and intellect, as any +other circle in the world. The only reason why one ever thinks people +dull and limited, is because one does not know them; if one talks +directly and frankly to people, one passes through the closed doors at +once. Looking back, I can see that I have been used by God, not with +mere compassion and careless tenderness, but with an intent, exacting, +momentary love, of an almost awful intensity and intimacy. It is the +same with all of us, if we can only see it. Our faults, our weaknesses, +our qualities good or bad, are all bestowed with an anxious and +deliberate care. The reason why some of us make shipwreck--and even +that is mercifully and lovingly dispensed to us--is because we will not +throw ourselves on the side of God at every moment. Every time that the +voice says 'Do this,' or 'Leave that undone,' and we reply fretfully, +'Ah, but I have arranged otherwise,' we take a step backwards. He +knocks daily, hourly, momently, at the door, and when we have once +opened, and He is entered, we have no desire again but to do His will +to the uttermost." He was silent for a moment, his eyes in-dwelling +upon some secret thought; then he said, "Everything about you, your +books, your dear wife, your words, your face, tell me that you are very +near indeed to the way--a step or two, and you are free!" He sate back +for a moment, as though exhausted, and then said: "You will forgive me +for speaking so frankly, but I feel from hour to hour how short my time +may be; and I had no doubt when I saw you, even before I saw you, that +I should have some message to give you, some tidings of hope and +patience." + +I despair, as I write, of giving any idea of the impressiveness of the +old man; now that I have written down his talk, it seems abrupt and +even strained. It was neither. The perfect naturalness and tranquillity +of it all, the fatherly smile, the little gestures of his frail hand, +interpreted and filled up the gaps, till I felt as though I had known +him all my life, and that he was to me as a dear father, who saw my +needs, and even loved me for what I was not and for what I might be. + +At this point Miss ---- came in, and led me away. As Maud and I walked +back, we spoke to each other of what we had seen and heard. He had +talked to her, she said, very simply about Alec. "I don't know how it +was," she added, "but I found myself telling him everything that was in +my mind and heart, and it seemed as though he knew it all before." +"Yes, indeed," I said, "he made me desire with all my heart to be +different--and yet that is not true either, because he made me wish not +to be something outside of myself, but something inside, something that +was there all the time: I seem never to have suspected what religion +was before; it had always seemed to me a thing that one put on and +wore, like a garment; but now it seems to me to be the most natural, +simple, and beautiful thing in the world; to consist in being oneself, +in fact." "Yes, that is exactly it," said Maud, "I could not have put +it into words, but that is how I feel." "Yes," I said, "I saw, in a +flash, that life is not a series of things that happen to us, but our +very selves. It is not a question of obeying, and doing, and acting, +but a question of being. Well, it has been a wonderful experience; and +yet he told me nothing that I did not know. God in us, not God with +us." And presently I added: "If I were never to see Mr. ---- again, I +should feel he had somehow done more for me than a hundred +conversations and a thousand books. It was like the falling of the +spirit at Pentecost." + +That strange sense of an uplifted freedom, of willing co-operation has +dwelt with me, with us both, for many days. I dare not say that life +has become easy; that the cloud has rolled away; that there have not +been hours of dismay and dreariness and sorrow. But it is, I am sure, a +turning-point of my life; the way which has led me downwards, deepening +and darkening, seems to have reached its lowest point, and to be +ascending from the gloom; and all from the words of a simple, frail old +man, sitting among his books in a panelled parlour, in a soft, summer +afternoon. + + + +July 10, 1890. + +I have been sitting out, this hot, still afternoon, upon the lawn, +under the shade of an old lime-tree, with its sweet scent coming and +going in wafts, with the ceaseless murmur of the bees all about it; but +for that slumberous sound, the place was utterly still; the sun lay +warm on the old house, on the box hedges of the garden, on the rich +foliage of the orchard. I have been lost in a strange dream of peace +and thankfulness, only wishing the sweet hours could stay their course, +and abide with me thus for ever. Part of the time Maggie sate with me, +reading. We were both silent, but glad to be together; every now and +then she looked up and smiled at me. I was not even visited by the +sense that used to haunt me, that I must bestir myself, do something, +think of something. It is not that I am less active than formerly; it +is the reverse. I do a number of little things here, trifling things +they would seem, not worth mentioning, mostly connected with the +village or the parish. My writing has retired far into the past, like a +sort of dream. I never even plan to begin again. I teach a little, not +Maggie only, but some boys and girls of the place, who have left +school, but are glad to be taught in the evenings. I have plenty of +good easy friends here, and have the blessed sense of feeling myself +wanted. Best of all, a sense of poisonous hurry seems to have gone out +of my life. In the old days I was always stretching on to something, +the end of my book, the next book--never content with the present, +always hoping that the future would bring me the satisfaction I seemed +to miss. I did not always know it at the time, for I was often happy +when I was writing a book--but it was, at best, a rushing, tortured +sort of happiness. My great sorrow--what has that become to me? A +beautiful thing, full of patience and hope. What but that has taught me +to learn to live for the moment, to take the bitter experiences of life +as they come, not crushing out the sweetness and flinging the rind +aside, but soberly, desirously, only eager to get from the moment what +it is meant to bring. Even the very shrinking back from a bitter duty, +the indolent rejection of the thought that touches one's elbow, bidding +one again and again arise and go, means something; to defer one's +pleasure, to break the languid dream, to take up the tiny task, what +strength is there! Thus no burden seems too heavy, too awkward, too +slippery, too ill-shaped, but one can lift it. The yoke is easy, +because one bears it in quiet confidence, not overtaxing ability or +straining hope. Instead of watching life, as from high castle windows, +feeling it common and unclean, not to be mingled with, I am in it and +of it. And what is become of all my old dreams of art, of the secluded +worship, the lonely rapture! Well, it is all there, somehow, flowing +inside life, like a stream that is added to a river, not like a leat +drawn aside from the current. The force I spent on art has gone to +swell life and augment it; it heightens perception, it intensifies +joy--it was the fevered lust of expression that drained the vigour of +my days and hours. + +But am I then satisfied with the part I play? Do I feel that my +faculties are being used, that I am lending a hand to the great sum of +toil? I used to feel that, or thought I felt it, in the old days, but +now I see that I walked in a vain delusion, serving my own joy, my own +self-importance. Not that I think my old toil all ill-spent; that was +my work before, as surely as it is not now; but the old intentness, the +old watching for tone and gesture, for action and situation, that has +all shifted its gaze, and waits upon God. It may be, nay it is certain, +that I have far to go, much to learn; but now that I may perhaps +recover my strength, life spreads out into sunny shallows, moving slow +and clear. It is like a soft sweet interlude between two movements of +fire and glow; for I see now, what then I could not see, that something +in my life was burnt and shrivelled up in my enforced silence and in my +bitter loss--then, when I felt my energies at their lowest, when mind +and bodily frame alike flapped loose, like a flag of smut upon the bars +of a grate, I was living most intensely, and the soul's wings grew +fast, unfolding plume and feather. It was then that life burnt with its +fiercest heat, when it withdrew me, faintly struggling, away from all +that pleased and caressed the mind and the body, into the silent glow +of the furnace. Strange that I should not have perceived it! But now I +see in all maimed and broken lives, the lives that seem most idle and +helpless, most futile and vain, that the same fierce flame is burning +bright about them; that the reason why they cannot spread and flourish, +like flowers, into the free air, is because the strong roots are +piercing deep, entwining themselves firmly among the stones, piercing +the cold silent crevices of the earth. Ay, indeed! The coal in the +furnace, burning passively and hotly, is as much a force, though it but +lies and suffers, as the energy that throbs in the leaping piston-rod +or the rushing wheel. Not in success and noise and triumph does the +soul grow; when the body rejoices, when the mind is prodigal of seed, +the spirit sits within in a darkened chamber, like a folded chrysalis, +stiff as a corpse, in a faint dream. But when triumphs have no savour, +when the cheek grows pale and the eye darkens, then the dark chrysalis +opens, and the rainbow wings begin to spread and glow, uncrumpling to +the suns of paradise. My soul has taken wings, and sits poised and +delicate, faint with long travail, perhaps to hover awhile about the +garden blooms and the chalices of honied flowers, perhaps to take her +flight beyond the glade, over the forest, to the home of her desirous +heart. I know not! Yet in these sunlit hours, with the slow, strong +pulse of life beating round me, it seems that something is preparing +for one struck dumb and crushed with sorrow to the earth. How soft a +thrill of hope throbs in the summer air! How the bird-voices in the +thicket, and the rustle of burnished leaves, and the hum of insects, +blend into a secret harmony, a cadence half-heard! I wait in love and +confidence; and through the trees of the garden One seems ever to draw +nearer, walking in the cool of the day, at whose bright coming the +flowers look upwards unashamed. Shall I be bidden to meet Him! Will He +call me loud or low? + + + +August 25, 1890. + +Maud has been ailing of late--how much it is impossible to say, because +she is always cheerful and indomitable. She never complains, she never +neglects a duty; but I have found her, several times of late, sitting +alone, unoccupied, musing--that is unlike her--and with a certain +shadow upon her face that I do not recognise; but the strange, new, +sweet companionship in which we live seems at the same time to have +heightened and deepened. I seem to have lived so close to her all these +years, and yet of late to have found a new and different personality in +her, which I never suspected. Perhaps we have both changed somewhat; I +do not feel the difference in myself. But there is something larger, +stronger, deeper about Maud now, as if she had ascended into a purer +air, and caught sight of some unexpected, undreamed-of distance; but +instead of giving her remoteness, she seems to be sharing her wider +outlook with me; she was never a great talker--perhaps it was that in +old days my own mind ran like an ebullient fountain, evoking no +definite response, needing no interchange; but she was always a sayer +of penetrating things. She has a wonderful gift of seeing the firm +issue through a cloud of mixed suggestions; but of late there has been +a richness, a generosity, a wisdom about her which I have never +recognised before. I think, with contrition, that I under-estimated, +not her judgment or instinct, but her intellect. I am sure I lived too +much in the intellectual region, and did not guess how little it really +solves, in what a limited region it disports itself. I see that this +wisdom was hers all along, and that I have been blind to it; but now +that I have travelled out of the intellectual region, I perceive what a +much greater thing that further wisdom is than I had thought. Living in +art and for art, I used to believe that the intellectual structure was +the one thing that mattered, but now I perceive dimly that the mind is +but on the threshold of the soul, and that the artist may, nay does, +often perceive, by virtue of his trained perception, what is going on +in the sanctuary; but he is as one who kneels in a church at some great +solemnity--he sees the movements and gestures of the priests; he sees +the holy rite proceeding, he hears the sacred words; something of the +inner spirit of it all flows out to him; but the viewless current of +prayer, the fiery ray streaming down from God, that smites itself into +the earthly symbol--all this is hidden from him. Those priests, intent +upon the sacred work, feel something that they not only do not care to +express, but which they would not if they could; it would be a +profanation of the awful mystery. The artist is not profane in +expressing what he perceives, because he can be the interpreter of the +symbol to others more remote; but he is not a real partaker of the +mystery; he is a seer of the word and not a doer. What now amazes me is +that Maud, to whom the heart of the matter, the inner emotion, has +always been so real, could fling herself, and all for love of me, into +the outer work of intellectual expression. I have always, God forgive +me, believed my work to be in some way superior to hers. I loved her +truly, but with a certain condescension of mind, as one loves a child +or a flower; and now I see that she has been serenely ahead of me all +the time, and it has been she that has helped me along; I have been as +the spoilt and wilful child, and she as the sweet and wise mother, who +has listened to its prattle, and thrown herself, with all the infinite +patience of love, into the tiny bounded dreams. I have told her all +this as simply as I could, and though she deprecated it all generously +and humbly, I feel the blessed sense of having caught her up upon the +way, of seeing--how dimly and imperfectly!--what I have owed her all +along. I am overwhelmed with a shame which it is a sweet pleasure to +confess to her; and now that I can spare her a little, anticipate her +wishes, save her trouble, it is an added joy; a service that I can +render and which she loves to receive. I never thought of these things +in the old days; she had always planned everything, arranged +everything, forestalled everything. + +I have at last persuaded her to come up to town and see a doctor. We +plan to go abroad for a time. I would earn the means if I could, but, +if not, we will sacrifice a little of our capital, and I will replace +it, if I can, by some hack-work; though I have a dislike of being paid +for my name and reputation, and not for my best work. + +I am not exactly anxious; it is all so slight, what they call a want of +tone, and she has been through so much; even so, my anxiety is +conquered by the joy of being able to serve her a little; and that joy +brings us together, hour by hour. + + + +September 6, 1890. + +Again the shadow comes down over my life. The doctor says plainly that +Maud's heart is weak; but he adds that there is nothing organically +wrong, though she must be content to live the life of an invalid for a +time; he was reassuring and quiet; but I cannot keep a dread out of my +mind, though Maud herself is more serene than she has been for a long +time; she says that she was aware that she was somehow overtaxing +herself, and it is a comfort to be bidden, in so many words, to abstain +a little. We are to live quietly at home for a while, until she is +stronger, and then we shall go abroad. + +Maud does not come down in the mornings now, and she is forbidden to do +more than take the shortest stroll. I read to her a good deal in the +mornings; Maggie has proudly assumed the functions of housekeeper; the +womanly instinct for these things is astonishing. A man would far +sooner not have things comfortable, than have the trouble of providing +them and seeing about them. Women do not care about comforts for +themselves; they prefer haphazard meals, trays brought into rooms, +vague arrangements; and yet they seem to know by instinct what a man +likes, even though he does not express it, and though he would not take +any trouble to secure it. What centuries of trained instincts must have +gone to produce this. The new order has given me a great deal more of +Maggie's society. We are sent out in the afternoon, because Maud likes +to be quite alone to receive the neighbours, small and great, that come +to see her, now that she cannot go to see them. She tells me frankly +that my presence only embarrasses them. And thus another joy has come +to me, one of the most beautiful things that has ever happened to me in +my life, and which I can hardly find words to express--the contact +with, the free sight of the mind and soul of an absolutely pure, simple +and ingenuous girl. Maggie's mind has opened like a flower. She talks +to me with perfect openness of all she feels and thinks; to walk thus, +hour by hour, with my child's arm through my own, her wide-opened, +beautiful eyes looking in mine, her light step beside me, with all her +pretty caressing ways--it seems to me a taste of the purest and +sweetest love I have ever felt. It is like the rapture of a lover, but +without any shadow of the desirous element that mingles so fiercely and +thirstily with our mortal loves, to find myself dear to her. I have a +poignant hunger of the heart to save her from any touch of pain, to +smooth her path for her, to surround her with beauty and sweetness. I +did not guess that the world held any love quite like this; there seems +no touch of selfishness about it; my love lavishes itself, asking for +nothing in return, except that I may be dear to her as she to me. + +Her fancies, her hopes, her dreams--how inexplicable, how adorable! She +said to me to-day that she could never marry, and that it was a real +pity that she could not have children of her own without. "We don't +want any one else, do we, except just some little children to amuse +us." She is a highly imaginative child, and one of our amusements is to +tell each other long, interminable tales of the adventures of a family +we call the Pickfords. I have lost all count of their names and ages, +their comings and goings; but Maggie never makes a mistake about them, +and they seem to her like real people; and when I sometimes plunge them +into disaster, she is so deeply affected that the disasters have all to +be softly repaired. The Pickfords must have had a very happy life; the +kind of life that people created and watched over by a tender, patient +and detailed Providence might live. How different from the real world! + +But I don't want Maggie to live in the real world yet awhile. It will +all come pouring in upon her, sorrow, anxiety, weariness, no +doubt--alas that it should be so! Perhaps some people would blame me, +would say that more discipline would be bracing, wholesome, +preparatory. But I don't believe that. I had far rather that she learnt +that life was tender, gentle and sweet--and then if she has to face +trouble, she will have the strength of feeling that the tenderness, +gentleness and sweetness are the real stuff of life, waiting for her +behind the cloud. I don't want to disillusion her; I want to establish +her faith in happiness and love, so that it cannot be shaken. That is a +better philosophy, when all is said and done, than the stoical +fortitude that anticipates dreariness, that draws the shadow over the +sun, that overvalues endurance. One endures by instinct; but one must +be trained to love. + + + +February 6, 1891. + +It is months since I have opened this book; it has lain on my table all +through the dreadful hours--I write the word down conventionally, and +yet it is not the right word at all, because I have merely been stunned +and numbed. I simply could not suffer any more. I smiled to myself, as +the man in the story, who was broken on the wheel, smiled when they +struck the second and the third blow. I knew why he smiled; it was +because he had dreaded it so much, and when it came there was nothing +to dread, because he simply did not feel it. + +To-night I just pick up idly the dropped thread. Perhaps it is a sign, +this faint desire to make a little record, of the first tingling of +returning life. Something stirs in me, and I will not resist it; it may +be read by some one that comes after me, by some one perhaps who feels +that his own grief is supreme and unique, and that no one has ever +suffered so before. He may learn that there have been others in the +dark valley before him, that the mist is full of pilgrims stumbling on, +falling, rising again, falling again, lying stupefied in a silence +which is neither endurance nor patience. + +Maud was taken from me first; she went without a word or a sign. She +was better that day, she declared, than she had felt for some time; she +was on the upward grade. She walked a few hundred yards with Maggie and +myself, and then she went back; the last sight I had of her alive was +when she stood at the corner and waved her hand to us as we went out of +sight. I am glad I looked round and saw her smile. I had not the +smallest or faintest premonition of what was coming; indeed, I was +lighter of mood than I had been for some time. We came in; we were told +that she was tired and had gone up to lie down. As she did not come +down to tea, I went up and found her lying on her bed, her head upon +her hand--dead. The absolute peace and stillness of her attitude showed +us that she had herself felt no access of pain. She had lain down to +rest, and she had rested indeed. Even at my worst and loneliest, I have +been able to be glad that it was even so. If I could know that I should +die thus in joy and tranquillity, it would be a great load off my mind. + +But the grief, the shock to Maggie was too much for my dear, +love-nurtured child. A sort of awful and desperate strength came on me +after that; I felt somehow, day by day, that I must just put away my +own grief till a quiet hour, in order that I might sustain and guard +the child; but her heart was broken, I think, though they say that no +one dies of sorrow. She lay long ill--so utterly frail, so appealing in +her grief, that I could think of nothing but saving her. Was it a kind +of selfishness that needed to be broken down in me? Perhaps it was! +Every single tendril of my heart seemed to grow round the child and +clasp her close; she was all that I had left, and in some strange way +she seemed to be all that I had lost too. And then she faded out of +life, not knowing that she was fading, but simply too tired to live; +and my desire alone seemed to keep her with me. Till at last, seeing +her weariness and weakness, I let my desire go; I yielded, I gave her +to God, and He took her, as though He had waited for my consent. + +And now that I am alone, I will say, with such honesty as I can muster, +that I have no touch of self-pity, no rebellion. It is all too deep and +dark for that. I am not strong enough even to wish to die; I have no +wishes, no desires at all. The three seem for ever about me, in my +thoughts and in my dreams. When Alec died, I used to wake up to the +fact, day after day, with a trembling dismay. Now it is not like that. +I can give no account of what I do. The smallest things about me seem +to take up my mind. I can sit for an hour by the hearth, neither +reading nor thinking, just watching the flame flicker over the coals, +or the red heart of the fire eating its way upwards and outwards. I can +sit on a sunshiny morning in the garden, merely watching with a strange +intentness what goes on about me, the uncrumpling leaf, the snowdrop +pushing from the mould, the thrush searching the lawn, the robin +slipping from bough to bough, the shapes of the clouds, the dying ray. +I seem to have no motive either to live or to die. I retrace in memory +my walks with Maggie, I can see her floating hair, and how she leaned +to me; I can sit, as I used to sit reading by Maud's side, and see her +face changing as the book's mood changed, her clear eye, her strong +delicate hands. I seem as if I had awaked from a long and beautiful +dream. People sometimes come and see me, and I can see the pity in +their faces and voices; I can see it in the anxious care with which my +good servants surround me; but I feel that it is half disingenuous in +me to accept it, because I need no pity. Perhaps there is something +left for me to do in the world: there seems no reason otherwise why I +should linger here. + +Mr. ---- has been very good to me; I have seen him almost daily. He +seems the only person who perfectly understands. He has hardly said a +word to me about my sorrow. He said once that he should not speak of +it; before, he said, I was like a boy learning a lesson with the help +of another boy, but that now I was being taught by the Master Himself. +That may be so; but the Master has a very scared and dull pupil, alas, +who cannot even discern the letters. I care nothing whether God be +pleased or displeased; I bear His will, without either pain or +resistance. I simply feel as if there had been some vast and +overwhelming mistake somewhere; a mistake so incredible and +inconceivable that nothing else mattered; as if--I do not speak +profanely--God Himself were appalled at what He had done, and dared not +smite further one whom He had stunned into silence and apathy. + +With Mr. ---- I talk; he talks of simple, quiet things, of old books +and thoughts. He tells me, sometimes, when I am too weary to speak, +long, beautiful, quiet stories of his younger days, and I listen like a +child to his grave voice, only sorry when it comes to an end. So the +days pass, and I will not say I have no pleasure in them, because I +have won back a sort of odd childish pleasure in small incidents, +sights, and sounds. The part of me that can feel seems to have been +simply cut gently away, and I live in the hour, just glad when the sun +is out, sorry when it is dull and cheerless. + +I read the other day one of my old books, and I could not believe it +was mine. It seemed like the voice of some one I had once known long +ago, in a golden hour. I was amused and surprised at my own quickness +and inventiveness, at the confidence with which I interpreted +everything so glibly and easily. I cannot interpret any more, and I do +not seem to desire to do so. I seem to wait, with a half-amused smile, +to see if God can make anything out of the strange tangle of things, as +a child peers in within a scaffolding, and sees nothing but a forest of +poles, little rising walls of chambers, a crane swinging weights to and +fro. What can ever come, he thinks, out of such strange confusion, such +fruitless hurry? + +Well, I will not write any more; a sense of weariness and futility +comes over me. I will go back to my garden to see what I can see, only +dumbly and mutely thankful that it is not required of me to perform any +dull and monotonous task, which would interrupt my idle dreams. + + + +February 8, 1891. + +I tried this morning to look through some of the old letters and papers +in Maud's cabinet. There were my own letters, carefully tied up with a +ribbon; letters from her mother and father; from the children when we +were away from them. I began to read, and was seized with a sharp, +unreasoning pain, surprised by sudden tears. I seemed dumbly to resent +this, and I put them all away again. Why should I disturb myself to no +purpose? "There shall be no more sorrow nor crying, for the former +things are passed away"--so runs the old verse, and I had almost grown +to feel like that. Why distrust it? Yet I could not forbear. I got the +papers out again, and read late into the night, like one reading an old +and beautiful story. Suddenly the curtain lifted, and I saw myself +alone, I saw what I had lost. The ineffectual agony I endured, crying +out for very loneliness! "That was all mine," said the melting heart, +so long frozen and dumb. Grief, in waves and billows, began to beat +upon me like breakers on a rock-bound shore. A strange fever of the +spirit came on me, scenes and figures out of the years floating +fiercely and boldly past me. Was my strength and life sustained for +this, that I should just sleep awhile, and wake to fall into the pit of +suffering, far deeper than before? + +If they could but come back to me for a moment; if I could feel Maud's +cheek by mine, or Maggie's arms round my neck; if they could but stand +by me smiling, in robes of light! Yet as in a vision I seem to see them +leaning from a window, in a blank castle-wall rising from a misty +abyss, scanning a little stairway that rises out of the clinging fog, +built up through the rocks and ending in a postern gate in the +castle-wall. Upon that stairway, one by one emerging from the mist, +seem to stagger and climb the figures of men, entering in, one by one, +and the three, with smiles and arms interlaced, are watching eagerly. +Cannot I climb the stair? Perhaps even now I am close below them, where +the mist hangs damp on rock and blade? Cannot I set myself free? No, I +could not look them in the face, they would hide their eyes from me, if +I came in hurried flight, in passionate cowardice. Not so must I come +before them, if indeed they wait for me. + +The morning was coming in about the dewy garden, the birds piping faint +in thicket and bush, when I stumbled slowly, dizzied and helpless, to +my bed. Then a troubled sleep; and ah, the bitter waking; for at last I +knew what I had lost. + + + +February 10, 1891. + +"All things become plain to us," said the good vicar, pulling on his +gloves, "when we once realise that God is love--Perfect Love!" He said +good-bye; he trudged off to his tea, a trying visit manfully +accomplished, leaving me alone. + +He had sate with me, good, kindly man, for twenty minutes. There were +tears in his eyes, and I valued that little sign of human fellowship +more than all the commonplaces he courageously enunciated. He talked in +a soft, low tone, as if I was ill. He made no allusions to mundane +things; and I am grateful to him for coming. He had dreaded his call, I +am sure, and he had done it from a mixture of affection and duty, both +good things. + +"Perfect Love, yes--if we could feel that!" I sate musing in my chair. + +I saw, as in a picture, a child brought up in a beautiful and stately +house by a grave strong man, who lavished at first love and tenderness, +ease and beauty, on the child, laughing with him, and making much of +him; all of which the child took unconsciously, unthinkingly, knowing +nothing different; running to meet his guardian, glad to be with him, +sorry to leave him. + +Then I saw in my parable that one day, when the child played in the +garden, as he had often played before, he noticed a little green alley, +with a pleasant arch of foliage, that he had never seen before, leading +to some secluded place. The child was dimly aware that there were parts +of the garden where he was supposed not to go; he had been told he must +not go too far from the house, but it was all vague and indistinct in +his mind; he had never been shown anything precisely, or told the +limits of his wanderings. So he went in joy, with a sense of a sweet +mystery, down the alley, and presently found himself in a still +brighter and more beautiful garden, full of fruits growing on the +ground and on the trees, which he plucked and ate. There was a +building, like a pavilion, at the end, of two storeys; and while he +wandered thither with his hands full of fruits, he suddenly saw his +guardian watching him, with a look he had never seen on his face +before, from the upper windows of the garden-house. His first impulse +was to run to him, share his joy with him, and ask him why he had not +been shown the delicious place; but the fixed and inscrutable look on +his guardian's face, neither smiling nor frowning, the stillness of his +attitude, first chilled the child and then dismayed him; he flung the +fruits on the ground and shivered, and then ran out of the garden. In +the evening, when he was with his guardian, he found him as kind and +tender as ever. But his guardian said nothing to him about the inner +garden of fruits, and the child feared to ask him. + +But the next day he felt as though the fruits had given him a new +eagerness, a new strength; he hankered after them long, and at last +went down the green path again; this time the summer-house seemed +empty. So he ate his fill, and this he did for many days. Then one day, +when he was bending down to pluck a golden fruit, that lay gem-like on +the ground among green leaves, he heard a sudden step behind him, and +turning, saw his guardian draw swiftly near, with a look of anger on +his face; the next instant he was struck down, again and again; lifted +from the ground at last, as in a passion of rage, and flung down +bleeding on the earth; and then, without a word, his guardian left him; +at first he lay and moaned, but then he crawled away, and back to the +house. And there he found the old nurse that tended him, who greeted +him with tears and words of comfort, and cared for his hurts. And he +asked her the reason of his hard usage, but she could tell him nothing, +only saying that it was the master's will, and that he sometimes did +thus, though she thought he was merciful at heart. + +The child lay sick many days, his guardian still coming to him and +sitting with him, with gentle talk and tender offices, till the scene +in the garden was like an evil dream; but as his guardian spoke no word +of displeasure to the child, the child still feared to ask him, and +only strove to forget. And then at last he was well enough to go out a +little; but a few days after--he avoided the inner garden now out of a +sort of horror--he was sitting in the sun, near the house, feebly +trying to amuse himself with one of his old games--how poor they seemed +after the fruits of the inner paradise, how he hankered desirously +after the further place, with its hot, sweet, fragrant scents, its rich +juices!--when again his guardian came upon him in a sudden wrath, and +struck him many times, dashing him down to the ground; and again he +crept home, and lay long ill, and again his guardian was unwearyingly +kind; but now a sort of horror of the man grew up in the mind of the +child, and he feared that his strange anger might break out at any +moment in a storm of blows. + +And at last he was well again; and had half forgotten, in the constant +kindness, and even merriment, of his guardian, the horror of the two +assaults. He was out and about again; he still shunned the paradise of +fruits, but wearying of the accustomed pleasaunce, he went further and +passed into the wood; how cool and mysterious it was among the great +branching trees! the forest led him onwards; now the sun lay softly +upon it, and a stream bickered through a glade, and now the path lay +through thickets, which hid the further woodland from view; and now +passing out into a more open space, he had a thrill of joy and +excitement; there was a herd of strange living creatures grazing there, +great deer with branching horns; they moved slowly forwards, cropping +the grass, and the child was lost in wonder at the sight. Presently one +of them stopped feeding, began to sniff the air, and then looking +round, espied the child, and began slowly to approach him. The child +had no terror of the great dappled stag, and held out his hand to him, +when the great beast suddenly bent his head down, and was upon him with +one bound, striking him with his horns, lifting him up, smiting him +with his pointed hooves. Presently the child, in his terror and +faintness, became aware that the beast had left him, and he began to +drag himself, all bruised as he was, along the glade; then he suddenly +saw his guardian approaching, and cried out to him, holding out his +hands for help and comfort--and his guardian strode straight up to him, +and, with the same fierce anger in his face, struck at him again and +again, and spurned him with his feet. And then, when he left him, the +child at last, with accesses of deadly faintness and pain, crept back +home, to be again tended by the old nurse, who wept over him; and the +child found that his guardian came to visit him, as kind and gentle as +ever. And at last one day when he sate beside the child, holding his +hand, stroking his hair, and telling him an old tale to comfort him, +the child summoned up courage to ask him a question about the garden +and the wood; but at the first word his guardian dropped his hand, and +left him without a word. + +And then the child lay and mused with fierce and rebellious thoughts. +He said to himself, "If my guardian had told me where I might not go; +if he had said to me, 'in the inner garden are unwholesome fruits, and +in the wood are savage beasts; and though I am strong and powerful, yet +I have not strength to root up the poisonous plants and make the place +a wilderness; and I cannot put a fence about it, or a fence about the +wood, that no one should enter; but I warn you that you must not enter, +and I entreat you for the love I bear you not to go thither,'" then the +child thought that he would not have made question, but would have +obeyed him willingly; and again he thought that, if he had indeed +ventured in, and had eaten of the evil fruits, and been wounded by the +savage stag, yet if his guardian had comforted him, and prayed him +lovingly not to enter to his hurt, that then he would have loved his +guardian more abundantly and carefully. And he thought too that, if his +guardian had ever smitten him in wrath, and had then said to him with +tears that it had grieved him bitterly to hurt him, but that thus and +thus only could he learn the vileness of the place, then he would have +not only forgiven the ill-usage, but would even have loved to endure it +patiently. But what the child could not understand was that his +guardian should now be tender and gracious, and at another time hard +and cruel, explaining nothing to him. And thus the child said in +himself, "I am in his power, and he must do his will upon me; but I +neither trust nor love him, for I cannot see the reason of what he +does; though if he would but tell me the reason, I could obey him and +submit to him joyfully." These hard thoughts he nourished and fed upon; +and his guardian came no more to him for good or for evil; and the +child, much broken by his hard usage and his angry thoughts, crept +about neglected and spiritless, with nothing but fear and dismay in his +heart. + +So the imagination shaped itself in my mind, a parable of the sad, +strange life of man. + +"Perfect Love!" If it were indeed that? Yet God does many things to His +frail children, which if a man did, I could not believe him to be +loving; though if He would but give us the assurance that it was all +leading us to happiness, we could endure His fiercest stroke, His +bitterest decree. But He smites us, and departs; He turns away in a +rage, because we have broken a law that we knew not of. And again, when +we seem most tranquil and blest, most inclined to trust Him utterly, He +smites us down again without a word. I hope, I yearn to see that it all +comes from some great and perfect will, a will with qualities of which +what we know as mercy, justice, and love are but faint shadows--but +that is hidden from me. We cannot escape, we must bear what God lays +upon us. We may fling ourselves into bitter and dark rebellion; still +He spares us or strikes us, gives us sorrow or delight. My one hope is +to cooperate with Him, to accept the chastening joyfully and +courageously. Then He takes from me joy, and courage alike, till I know +not whom I serve, a Father or a tyrant. Can it indeed help us to doubt +whether He be tyrant or no? Again I know not, and again I sicken in +fruitless despair, like one caught in a great labyrinth of crags and +precipices. + + + +February 14, 1891. + +Then the Christian teacher says: "God has given you a will, an +independent will to act and choose; put it in unison with His will." +Alas, I know not how much of my seeming liberty is His or mine. He +seems to make me able to exert my will in some directions, able to make +it effective; and yet in other matters, even though I see that a course +is holy and beautiful, I have no power to follow it at all. I see men +some more, some less hampered than myself. Some seem to have no desire +for good, no dim perception of it. The outcast child, brought up +cruelly and foully, with vile inheritances, he is not free, as I use +the word; sometimes, by some inner purity and strength, he struggles +upwards; most often he is engulfed; yet it is all a free gift, to me +much, to another little, to some nothing at all. With all my heart do I +wish my will to be in harmony with His. I yield it up utterly to Him. I +have no strength or force, and He withholds them from me. I do not +blame, I only ask to understand; He has given me understanding, and has +put in my heart a high dream of justice and love; why will He not show +me that He satisfies the dream? I say with the old Psalmist, "Lo, I +come," but He comes not forth to meet me; He does not even seem to +discern me when I am yet a long way off, as the father in the parable +discerned his erring son. + +Then the Christian teacher says to me that all is revealed in Christ; +that He reconciles, not an angry God to a wilful world, but a grieved +and outraged world to a God who cannot show them He is love. + +Yet Christ said that God was all-merciful and all-loving, and that He +ordered the very falling of a single hair of our heads. But if God +ordered that, then He did not leave unordered the qualities of our +hearts and wills, and our very sins are of His devising. + +No, it is all dark and desperate; I do not know, I cannot know; I shall +stumble to my end in ignorance; sometimes glad when a gleam of sunshine +falls on my wearied limbs, sometimes wrapping my garments around me in +cold and drenching rain. I am in the hand of God; I know that; and I +hope that I may dare to trust Him; but my confidence is shaken as He +passes over me, as the reed in the river shakes in the wind. + + + +February 18, 1891. + +A still February day, with a warm, steady sun, which stole in and +caressed me, enveloping me in light and warmth, as I sate reading this +morning. If I could be ashamed of anything, I should be ashamed of the +fact that my body has all day long surprised me by a sort of indolent +contentment, repeating over and over that it is glad to be alive. The +mind and soul crave for death and silence. Yet all the while my +faithful and useful friend, the body, seems to croon a low song of +delight. That is the worst of it, that I seem built for many years of +life. Shall I learn to forget? + +I walked long and far among the fields, in the fresh, sun-warmed air. +Ah! the sweet world! Everything was at its barest and austerest--the +grass thin in the pastures, the copses leafless. But such a sense of +hidden life everywhere! I stood long beside the gate to watch the +new-born lambs, whose cries thrilled plaintively on the air, like the +notes of a violin. Little black-faced grey creatures, on their high, +stilt-like legs--a week or two old, and yet able to walk, to gambol, to +rejoice, in their way, to reflect. The bleating mothers moved about, +divided between a deep desire to eat, and the anxious care of their +younglings. One of them stood over her sleeping lamb, stamping her +feet, to dismay me, no doubt, while the little creature lay like a +folded door-mat on the pasture. Another brutally repelled the advances +of a strange lamb, butting it over whenever it drew near; another +chewed the cud, while its lamb sucked, its eyes half closed in +contented joy, just turning from time to time to sniff at the little +creature pressed close to its side. I felt as if I had never seen the +sight before, this wonderful and amazing drama of life, beginning again +year after year, the same, yet not the same. + +The old shepherd came out with his crook, said a few words to me, and +moved off, the ewes following him, the lambs skipping behind. "He shall +feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters of +comfort." How perfectly beautiful and tender the image, a thing seen +how many hundred years ago on the hills of Bethlehem, and touching the +old heart just as it touches me to-day! + +And yet, alas, to me to-day the image seems to miss the one thing +needful; how all the images of guide and guardian and shepherd fail +when applied to God! For here the shepherd is but a little wiser, a +little stronger than his flock. He sees their difficulties, he feels +them himself. But with God, He is at once the Guide, and the Creator of +the very dangers past which He would lead us. If we felt that God +Himself were dismayed and sad in the presence of evils that He could +not touch or remedy, we should turn to Him to help us as He best could. +But while we feel that the very perplexities and sufferings come from +His hand, how can we sincerely ask Him to guard us from things which He +originates, or at least permits? Why should they be there at all, if +His concern is to help us past them; or how can we think that He will +lead us past them, when they are part of His wise and awful design? + +And thus one plunges again into the darkness. Can it indeed be that +God, if He be all-embracing, all-loving, all-powerful, can create or +allow to arise within Himself something that is not, Himself, alien to +Him, hostile to Him? How can we believe in Him and trust Him, if this +indeed be so? + +And yet, looking upon that little flock to-day, I did indeed feel the +presence of a kind and fatherly heart, of something that grieved for my +pain, and that laid a hand upon my shoulder, saying, "Son, endure for a +little; be not so disquieted!" + + + +March 8, 1891. + +Something--far-off, faint, joyful--cried out suddenly in the depths of +my spirit to-day. I felt--I can but express it by images, for it was +too intangible for direct utterance--as a woman feels when her child's +life quickens within her; as a traveller's heart leaps up when, lost +among interminable hills, he is hailed by a friendly voice; as the +river-water, thrust up into creeks and estuaries by the incoming tide, +is suddenly freed by the ebb from that stealthy pressure, and flows +gladly downwards; as the dark garden-ground may feel when the frozen +soil melts under warm winds of spring, and the flower-roots begin to +swell and shoot. + +Some such thrill it was that moved in the silence of the soul, showing +that the darkness was alive. + +It came upon me as I walked among soft airs to-day. It was no bodily +lightness that moved me, for I was unstrung, listless, indolent; but it +was a sense that it was good to live, lonely and crushed as I was; that +there was something waiting for me which deserved to be approached with +a patient expectation--that life was enriched, rather than made +desolate by my grief and losses; that I had treasure laid up in heaven. +It came upon me as a fancy, but it was something better than that, that +one or other of my dear ones had perhaps awaked in the other world, and +had sent out a thought in search of me. I had often thought that if, +when we are born into this world of ours, our first years are so dumb +and unperceptive, it might be even so in the world beyond; that we are +there allowed to rest a little, to sleep; and that has seemed to me to +be perhaps the explanation why, in those first sad days of grief, when +the mourner aches to have some communication with the vanished soul, +and when the soul that has passed the bounds of life would be desiring +too, one would think, to send some message back, why, I say, there is +no voice nor hint nor sign. Perhaps the reason why our grief loses its +sting after a season is that the soul we have loved does contrive to +send some healing influence into the desolate heart. + +I know not; but as I stood upon the hill-top to-day at evening, the +setting sun gilding the cloud-edges, and touching the horizon with a +delicate misty azure, my spirit did indeed awake with a smile, with a +murmured word of hope. + +If I, who have lost everything that can enrich and gladden life, can +yet feel that inalienable residue of hope, which just turns the balance +on the side of desiring still to live, it must be that life has +something yet in store for me--I do not hope for love, I do not desire +the old gift of expression again; but there is something to learn, to +apprehend, to understand. I have learnt, I think, not to grasp at +anything, not to clasp anything close to my heart; the dream of +possession has fled from me; it will be enough if, as I learn the +lesson, I can ease a few burdens and help frail feet along the road. +Duty, pleasure, work--strange names which we give to life, perversely +separating the strands of the woven thread, they hold no meaning for me +now--I do not expect to be free from suffering or from grief; but I +will no more distinguish them from other experiences saying, this is +joyful, and I will take all I can, or this is sad, and I will fly from +it. I will take life whole, not divide it into pieces and choose. My +grief shall be like a silent chapel, lit with holy light, into which I +shall often enter, and bend, not to frame mechanical prayers, but to +submit myself to the still influence of the shrine. It is all my own +now, a place into which no other curious eye can penetrate, a guarded +sanctuary. My sorrow seems to have plucked me with a strong hand out of +the swirling drift of cares, anxieties, ambitions, hopes; and I see now +that I could not have rescued myself; that I should have gone on +battling with the current, catching at the river wrack, in the hopes of +saving something from the stream. Now I am face to face with God; He +saves me from myself, He strips my ragged vesture from me and I stand +naked as He made me, unashamed, nestling close to His heart. + + + +April 3, 1891. + +A truth which has come home to me of late with a growing intensity is +that we are sent into the world for the sake of experience, not +necessarily for the sake of immediate happiness. I feel that the +mistake we most of us make is in reaching out after a sense of +satisfaction; and even if we learn to do without that, we find it very +difficult to do without the sense of conscious growth. I say again that +what we need and profit by is experience, and sometimes that comes by +suffering, helpless, dreary, apparently meaningless suffering. Yet when +pain subsides, do we ever, does any one ever wish the suffering had not +befallen us? I think not. We feel better, stronger, more pure, more +serene for it. Sometimes we get experience by living what seems to be +an uncongenial life. One cannot solve the problem of happiness by +simply trying to turn out of one's life whatever is uncongenial. Life +cannot be made into an Earthly Paradise, and it injures one's soul even +to try. What we can turn out of our lives are the unfruitful, wasteful, +conventional things; and one can follow what seems the true life, +though one may mistake even that sometimes. One of the commonest +mistakes nowadays is that so many people are haunted with a vague sense +that they ought to DO GOOD, as they say. The best that most people can +do is to perform their work and their obvious duties well and +conscientiously. + +If we realise that experience is what we need, and not necessarily +happiness or contentment, the whole value of life is altered. We see +then that we can get as much or even more out of the futile hour when +we are held back from our chosen delightful work, even out of the +dreary or terrified hour, when the sense of some irrevocable neglect, +some base surrender that has marred our life, sinks burning into the +soul, as a hot ember sinks smoking into a carpet. Those are the hours +of life when we move and climb; not the hours when we work, and eat, +and laugh, and chat, and dine out with a sense of well-merited content. + +The value of life is not to be measured by length of days or success or +tranquillity, but by the quality of our experience, and the degree in +which we have profited by it. In the light of such a truth as this, art +seems to fade away as just a pleasant amusement contrived by leisurely +men for leisurely men. + +Then, further, one grows to feel that such easy happiness as comes to +us may be little more than the sweetening of the bitter medicine, just +enough to give us courage and heart to live on; that applies, of +course, only to the commoner sorts of happiness, when one is busy and +merry and self-satisfied. Some sorts of happiness, such as the best +kind of affection, are parts of the larger experience. + +Then, if we take hold of such experience in the right way, welcoming it +as far as possible, not resisting it or trying to beguile it or forget +it, we can get to the end of our probation quicker; if, that is, we let +the truth burn into us, instead of timidly shrinking away from it. + +This seems to me the essence of true religion; the people who cling +very close to particular creeds and particular beliefs seem to me to +lose robustness; it is like trying to go to heaven in a bath-chair! It +retards rather than hastens the apprehension of the truth. Here lies, +to my mind, the unreality of mystical books of devotion and piety, +where one is instructed to practise a servile sort of abasement, and to +beg forgiveness for all one's noblest efforts and aspirations. Neither +can I believe that the mystical absorption, inculcated by such books, +in the human personality, the human sufferings of Christ, is wholesome, +or natural, or even Christian. I cannot imagine that Christ Himself +ever recommended such a frame of mind for an instant. What we want is a +much simpler sort of Christianity. If a man had gone to Christ and +expressed a desire to follow Him, Christ, I believe, would have wanted +to know whether he loved others, whether he hated sin, whether he +trusted God. He would not have asked him to recite the articles of his +belief, and still less have suggested a mystical and emotional sort of +passion for His own Person. As least I cannot believe it, and I see +nothing in the Gospels which would lead me to believe it. + +In any case this belief in our experience being sent us for our far-off +ultimate benefit has helped me greatly of late, and will, I am sure, +help me still more. I do not practise it as I should, but I believe +with all my heart that the truth lies there. + +After all, the truth IS there; it matters little that we should know +it; it is just so and not otherwise, and what we believe or do not +believe about it, will not alter it; and that is a comfort too. + + + +April 24, 1891. + +After I had gone upstairs to bed last night, I found I had left a book +downstairs which I was reading, and I went down again to recover it. I +could not find any matches, and had some difficulty in getting hold of +the book; it is humiliating to think how much one depends on sight. + +A whimsical idea struck me. Imagine a creature, highly intellectual, +but without the power of sight, brought up in darkness, receiving +impressions solely by hearing and touch. Suppose him introduced into a +room such as mine, and endeavouring to form an impression of the kind +of creature who inhabited it. Chairs, tables, even a musical instrument +he could interpret; but what would he make of a writing-table and its +apparatus? How would he guess at the use of a picture? Strangest of +all, what would he think of books? He would find in my room hundreds of +curious oblong objects, opening with a sort of hinge, and containing a +series of laminae of paper, which he would discern by his delicacy of +touch to be oddly and obscurely dinted. Yet he would probably never be +able to frame a guess that such objects could be used for the +communication of intellectual ideas. What would he suppose them to be? + +The thought expanded before me. What if we ourselves, in this world of +ours, which seems to us so complete, may really be creatures lacking +some further sense, which would make all our difficulties plain? We +knock up against all sorts of unintelligible and inexplicable things, +injustice, disease, pain, evil, of which we cannot divine the meaning +or the use. Yet they are undoubtedly there! Perhaps it is only that we +cannot discern the simplicity and the completeness of the heavenly +house of which they are the furniture. Fanciful, of course; but I am +inclined to think not wholly fanciful. + + + +May 10, 1891. + +The question is this: Is there a kind of peace, of tranquillity, +attainable in this world, which is proof against all calamities, +sufferings, sorrows, losses, doubts? Is it attainable for one like +myself, who is sensitive, apprehensive, highly strung, at once +confident and timid, alive to impressions, liable to swift changes of +mood? Or is it a mere matter of mental, moral, and physical health, +depending on some balance of qualities, which may or may not belong to +a man, a balance which hundreds cannot attain to? + +By this peace, I do not mean a chilly indifference, or a stoical +fortitude. I do not mean the religious peace, such as I see in some +people, which consists in holding as a certainty a scheme of things +which I believe to be either untrue or uncertain--and about which, at +all events, no certainty is logically and rationally possible. + +The peace I mean is a frame of mind which a man would have, who loved +passionately, who suffered acutely, who desired intensely, who feared +greatly; and yet for whom, behind love and pain, desire and fear, there +existed a sort of inner citadel, in which his soul was entrenched and +impregnable. + +Such a security could not be a wholly rational thing, because reason +cannot solve the enigmas with which we are confronted; but it must not +be an irrational intuition either, because then it would be +unattainable by a man of high intellectual gifts; and the peace that I +speak of ought to be consistent with any and every +constitution--physical, moral, mental. It must be consistent with +physical weakness, with liability to strong temptations, with an +incisive and penetrating intellectual quality; its essence would be a +sort of vital faith, a unity of the individual heart with the heart of +the world. It would rise like a rock above the sea, like a lighthouse, +where a guarded flame would burn high and steady, however loudly the +surges thundered below upon the reefs, however fiercely the spray was +dashed against the glasses of the casements. + +If it is attainable, then it is worth while to do and to suffer +anything to attain it; if it is not attainable, then the best thing is +simply to be as insensible as possible, not to love, not to admire, not +to desire; for all these emotions are channels along which the bitter +streams of suffering can flow. + +Prudence bids one close these channels; meanwhile a fainter and remoter +voice, with sweet and thrilling accents, seems to cry to one not to be +afraid, urges one to fling open every avenue by which impassioned +experiences, uplifting thoughts, noble hopes, unselfish desires, may +flow into the soul. + +This peace I have seen, or dream that I have seen, in the faces and +voices of certain gracious spirits whom I have known. It seemed to +consist in an unbounded natural gratitude, a sweet simplicity, a +childlike affectionateness, that recognised in suffering the joy of +which it was the shadow, and in desperate catastrophes the hope that +lay behind them. + +Such a peace must not be a surrender of anything, a feeble +acquiescence; it must be a strong and eager energy, a thirst for +experience, a large tolerance, a desire to be convinced, a resolute +patience. + +It is this and no less that I ask of God. + + + +June 6, 1891. + +I had a beautiful walk to-day. I went a short way by train, and +descending at a wayside station, found a little field-path, that led me +past an old, high-gabled, mullioned farmhouse, with all the pleasant +litter of country life about it. Then I passed along some low-lying +meadows, deep in grass, where the birds sang sweetly, muffled in +leaves. The fields there were all full of orchids, purple as wine, and +the gold of buttercups floated on the top of the rich meadow-grass. +Then I passed into a wood, and for a long time I walked in the green +glooms of copses, in a forest stillness, only the tall trees rustling +softly overhead, with doves cooing deep in the wood. Only once I passed +a house, a little cottage of grey stone, in a clearing, with an air of +settled peace about it, that reminded me of an old sweet book that I +used to read as a child, Phantastes, full of the mysterious romance of +deep forests and haunted glades. I was overshadowed that afternoon with +a sense of the ineffectiveness, the loneliness of my life, walking in a +vain shadow; but it melted out of my mind in the delicate beauty of the +woodland, with its wild fragrances and cool airs, as when one chafes +one's frozen hands before a leaping flame. They told me, those +whispering groves, of the patient and tender love of the Father, and I +drew very near His inmost heart in that gentle hour. The secret was to +bear, to endure, not stoically nor stolidly, but with a quiet +inclination of the will to sorrow and pain, that were not so bitter +after all, when one abode faithfully in them. I became aware, as I +walked, that my heart was with the future after all. The beautiful dead +past, I could be grateful for it, and not desire that it were mine +again. I felt as a man might feel who is making his way across a wide +moor. "Surely," he says to himself, "the way lies here; this ridge, +that dingle mark the track; it lies there by the rushy pool, and shows +greener among the heather." So he says, persuading himself in vain that +he has found the way; but at last the track, plain and unmistakable, +lies before him, and he loses no more time in imaginings, but goes +straight forward. It was my sorrow, after all, that had shown me that I +was in the true path. I had tried, in the old days, to fancy that I was +homeward bound; sometimes it was in the love of my dear ones, sometimes +in the joy of art, sometimes in my chosen work; and yet I knew in my +heart all the time that I was but a leisurely wanderer; but now at last +the destined road was clear; I was no longer astray; I was no longer +inventing duties and acts for myself, but I had in very truth a note of +the way. It was not the path I should have chosen in my blindness and +easiness. But there could no longer be any doubt about it. How the +false ambitions, the comfortable schemes, the trivial hopes melted away +for me in that serene certainty! What I had pursued before was the +phantom of delight; and though I still desired delight, with all the +passion of my poor frail nature, yet I saw that not thus could the real +joy of God be won. It was no longer a question of hope and +disappointment, of sin and punishment. It was something truer and +stronger than that. The sin and the suffering alike had been the Will +of God for me. I had never desired evil, though I had often fallen into +it; but there was never a moment when, if I could, I would not have +been pure and unselfish and strong. That was a blessed hour for me, +when, in place of the old luxurious delight, there came, flooding my +heart, an intense and passionate desire that I might accept with a +loving confidence whatever God might send; my wearied body, my tired, +anxious mind, were but a slender veil, rent and ruinous, that hung +between God and my soul, through which I could discern the glory of His +love. + + + +June 20, 1891. + +It was on a warm, bright summer afternoon that I woke to the sense both +of what I had lost and what I had gained. I had wandered out into the +country, for in those days I had a great desire to be alone. I stood +long beside a stile in the pastures, a little village below me, and the +gables and chimneys of an old farmhouse stood up over wide fields of +young waving wheat. A cuckoo fluted in an elm close by, and at the +sound there darted into my mind the memory, seen in an airy +perspective, of innumerable happy and careless days, spent in years +long past, with eager and light-hearted companions, in whose smiling +eyes and caressing motions was reflected one's own secret happiness. +How full the world seemed of sweet surprises then! To sit in an evening +hour in some quiet, scented garden in the gathering dusk, with the +sense of a delicious mystery flashing from the light movements, the +pensive eyes, the curve of arm or cheek of one's companion, how +beautiful that was! And yet how simple and natural it seemed. That was +all over and gone, and a gulf seemed fixed between those days and +these. And then there came first that sad and sweet regret, "the +passion of the past," as Tennyson called it, that suddenly brimmed the +eyes at the thought of the vanished days; and there followed an intense +desire to live in it once again, to have made more of it, a rebellious +longing to abandon oneself with a careless disregard to the old rapture. + +Then on that mood, rising like a star into the blue spaces of the +evening, came the thought that the old days were not dead after all. +That they were assuredly there, just as the future was there, a true +part of oneself, ineffaceable, eternal. And hard on the heels of that +came another and a deeper intuition still, that not in such delights +did the secret really rest; what then was the secret? It was surely +this: that one must advance, led onward like a tottering child by the +strong arm of God. That the new knowledge of suffering and sorrow was +as beautiful as the old, and more so, and that instead of repining over +the vanished joys, one might continue to rejoice in them and even +rejoice in having lost them, for I seemed to perceive that one's aim +was not, after all, to be lively, and joyful, and strong, but to be +wiser, and larger-minded, and more hopeful, even at the expense of +delight. And then I saw that I would not really for any price part with +the sad wisdom that I had reluctantly learnt, but that though the +burden galled my shoulder, it held within it precious things which I +could not throw away. And I had, too, the glad sense that even if in a +childish petulance I would have laid my burden down and run off among +the flowers, God was stronger than I, and would not suffer me to lose +what I had gained. I might, I assuredly should, wish to be more free, +more light of heart. But I seemed to myself like a woman that had borne +a child in suffering, and that no matter how restless and vexatious a +care that child might prove to be, under no conceivable circumstances +could she wish that she were barren and without the experience of love. +I felt indeed that I had fulfilled a part of my destiny, and that I +might be glad that the suffering was behind me, even though it +separated me from the careless days. + +I hope that in after days I may sometimes make a pilgrimage to the +place where that wonderful truth thus dawned upon me. I have made a +tabernacle there in my spirit, like the saints who saw the Lord +transfigured before their eyes; and to me it had been indeed a +transfiguration, in which Love and sorrow and hope had been touched +with an unearthly light of God. + + + +June 24, 1891. + +Yesterday I was walking in a field-path through the meadows; it was +just that time in early summer when the grass is rising, when flowers +appear in little groups and bevies. There was a patch of speedwell, +like a handful of sapphires cast down. Why does one's heart go out to +certain flowers, flowers which seem to have some message for us if we +could but read it? A little way from the path I saw a group of +absolutely unknown flower-buds; they were big, pale things, looking +more like pods than flowers, growing on tall stems. I hate crushing +down meadow-grass, but I could not resist my impulse of curiosity. I +walked up to them, and just as I was going to bend down and look at +them, lo and behold, all my flowers opened before my eyes as by a +concerted signal, spread wings of the richest blue, and fluttered away +before my eyes. They were nothing more than a company of butterflies +who, tired of play, had fallen asleep together with closed wings on the +high grass-stems. + +There they had sate, like folded promises, hiding their azure sheen. +Perhaps even now my hopes sit motionless and lifeless, in russet robes. +Perhaps as I draw dully near, they may spring suddenly to life, and +dance away in the sunshine, like fragments of the crystalline sky. + + + +July 8, 1891. + +I was in town last week for a few days on some necessary business, +staying with old friends. Two or three people came in to dine one +night, and afterwards, I hardly know how, I found myself talking with a +curious openness to one of the guests, a woman whom I only slightly +knew. She is a very able and cultivated woman indeed, and it was a +surprise to her friends when she lately became a Christian Scientist. +When I have met her before, I have thought her a curiously guarded +personality, appearing to live a secret and absorbing life of her own, +impenetrable, and holding up a shield of conventionality against the +world. To-night she laid down her shield, and I saw the beating of a +very pure and loving heart. The text of her talk was that we should +never allow ourselves to believe in our limitations, because they did +not really exist. I found her, to my surprise, intensely emotional, +with a passionate disbelief in and yet pity for all sorrow and +suffering. She appealed to me to take up Christian Science--"not to +read or talk about it," she said; "that is no use: it is a life, not a +theory; just accept it, and live by it, and you will find it true." + +But there is one part of me that rebels against the whole idea of +Christian Science--my reason. I found, or thought I found, this woman +to be wise both in head and heart, but not wise in mind. It seems to me +that pain and sorrow and suffering are phenomena, just as real as other +phenomena; and that one does no good by denying them, but only by +accepting them, and living in them and through them. One might as +truly, it seems, take upon oneself to deny that there was any such +colour as red in the world, and tell people that whenever they saw or +discerned any tinge of red, it was a delusion; one can only use one's +faculty of perception; and if sorrow and suffering are a delusion, how +do I know that love and joy are not delusions too? They must stand and +fall together. The reason why I believe that joy and love will in the +end triumph, is because I have, because we all have, an instinctive +desire for them, and a no less instinctive fear and dread of pain and +sorrow. We may, indeed I believe with all my heart that we shall, +emerge from them, but they are no less assuredly there. We triumph over +them, when we learn to live bravely and courageously in them, when we +do not seek to evade them or to hasten incredulously away from them. We +fail, if we spend our time in repining, in regretting, in wishing the +sweet and tranquil hours of untroubled joy back. We are not strong +enough to desire the cup of suffering, even though we may know that we +must drink it before we can discern the truth. But we may rejoice with +a deep-seated joy, in the dark hours, that the Hand of God is heavy +upon us. When our vital energies flag, when what we thought were our +effective powers languish and grow faint, then we may be glad because +the Father is showing us His Will; and then our sorrow is a fruitful +sorrow, and labours, as the swelling seed labours in the sombre earth +to thrust her slender hands up to the sun and air. . . . + +We two sate long in a corner of the quiet lamp-lit room, talking like +old friends--once or twice our conversation was suspended by music, +which fell like dew upon my parched heart; and though I could not +accept my fellow-pilgrim's thought, I could see in the glance of her +eyes, full of pity and wonder, that we were indeed faring along the +same strange road to the paradise of God. It did me good, that talk; it +helped me with a sense of sweet and tender fellowship; and I had no +doubt that God was teaching my friend in His own fatherly way, even as +He was teaching me, and all of us. + + + +July 19, 1891. + +In one of the great windows of King's College Chapel, Cambridge, there +is a panel the beauty of which used to strike me even as a boy. I used +to wonder what further thing it meant. + +It was, I believe--I may be wholly wrong--a picture of Reuben, looking +in an agony of unavailing sorrow into the pit from which his brothers +had drawn the boy they hated to sell him to the Midianites. I cannot +recollect the details plainly, and little remains but a memory of +dim-lit azure and glowing scarlet. Even though the pit was quaintly +depicted as a draw-well, with a solid stone coping, the pretty +absurdity of the thought only made one love the fancy better. But the +figure of Reuben!--even through an obscuring mist of crossing leads and +window-bars and weather stains, there was a poignant agony wrought into +the pose of the figure, with its clasped hands and strained gaze. + +I used to wonder, I say, what further thing it meant. For the deep +spell of art is that it holds an intenser, a wider significance beneath +its symbols than the mere figure, the mere action it displays. + +What was the remorse of Reuben? It was that through his weakness, his +complaisance, he had missed his chance of protecting what was secretly +dear to him. He loved the boy, I think, or at all events he loved his +father, and would not willingly have hurt the old man. And now, even in +his moment of yielding, of temporising, the worst had happened, the +child was gone, delivered over to what baseness of usage he could not +bear to think. He himself had been a traitor to love and justice and +light; and yet, in the fruitful designs of God, that very traitorous +deed was to blossom into the hope and glory of the race; the deed +itself was to be tenderly forgiven, and it was to open up, in the +fulness of days, a prospect of greatness and prosperity to the tribe, +to fling the seed of that mighty family in soil where it was to be +infinitely enriched; it was to open the door at last to a whole troop +of great influences, marvellous events, large manifestations of God. + +Even so, in a parable, the figure came insistently before me all day, +shining and fading upon the dark background of the mind. + +It was at the loss of my own soul that I had connived; not at its death +indeed--I had not plotted for that--but I had betrayed myself, I saw, +year by year. I had despised the dreams and visions of the frail and +ingenuous spirit; and when it had come out trustfully to me in the +wilderness, I had let it fall into the hands of the Midianites, the +purloining band that trafficked in all things, great and small, from +the beast of the desert to the bodies and souls of men. + +My soul had thus lain expiring before my eyes, and now God had taken it +away from my faithless hands; I saw at last that to save the soul one +must assuredly lose it; that if it was to grow strong and joyful and +wise, it must be sold into servitude and dark afflictions. I saw that +when I was too weak to save it, God had rent it from me, but that from +the darkness of the pit it should fare forth upon a mighty voyage, and +be made pure and faithful in a region undreamed of. + +To Reuben was left nothing but shame and sorrow of heart and deceit to +hide his sin; unlike him, to me was given to see, beyond the desert and +the dwindling line of camels, the groves and palaces of the land of +wisdom, whither my sad soul was bound, lonely and dismayed. My heart +went out to the day of reconciliation, when I should be forgiven with +tears of joy for my own faltering treachery, when my soul should be +even grateful for my weakness, because from that very faithlessness, +and from no other, should the new life be born. + +And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow alike, +as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the weary +mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father of All. He +was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting, enriching me. Not +hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet pealed, but walking +with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in the garden, at the cool +of the day. + + + +August 18, 1891. + +Mr. ---- is dead. He died yesterday, holding my hand. The end was quite +sudden, though not unexpected. He had been much weaker of late, and he +knew he could only live a short time. I have been much with him these +last few days. He could not talk much, but there was a peaceful glory +on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in the Pilgrim's +Progress whose call was so joyful. I never suspected how little desire +he had to live; but when he knew that his days were numbered, he +allowed something of his delight to escape him, as a prisoner might who +has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees his release draw nigh. He +suffered a good deal, but each pang was to him only like the smiting +off of chains. "I have had a very happy life," he said to me once with +a smile. "Looking back, it seems as though my later happiness had +soaked backwards through the whole fabric, so that my joy in age has +linked itself as by a golden bridge to the old childish raptures." Then +he looked curiously at me, with a half-smile, and added, "But happy as +I have been, I find it in my heart to envy you. You hardly know how +much you are to be envied. You have no more partings to fear; your +beautiful past is all folded up, to be creased and tarnished no more. +You have had the love of wife and child--the one thing that I have +missed. You have had fame too; and you have drunk far deeper of the cup +of suffering than I. I look upon you," he said laughingly, "as an old +home-keeping captain, who has never done anything but garrison duty, +might look upon a young general who has carried through a great +campaign and is covered with signs of honour." + +A little while after he roused himself from a slumber to say, "You will +be surprised to find yourself named in my will; please don't have any +scruples about accepting the inheritance. I want my niece, of course, +to reign in my stead; but if you outlive her, all is to go to you. I +want you to live on in this place, to stand by her in her loneliness, +as a brother by a sister. I want you to help and work for my dear +people here, to be tender and careful for them. There are many things +that a man can do which a woman cannot; and your difficulty will be to +find a hem for your life. Remember that there is no one who is injured +by this--my niece is my only living relation; so accept this as your +post in life; it will not be a hard one. It is strange," he added, +"that one should cling to such trifles; but I should like you to take +my name, if you will; and you must find some one to succeed you; I wish +it could have been your own boy, whom I have learnt to love." + +Miss ---- came in shortly after, and Mr. ---- said to her, "Yes, I have +told him, and he consents. You do consent, do you not?" I said, "Yes, +dear friend, of course I consent; and consent gratefully, for you have +given me a work in the world." And then I took Miss ----'s hand across +the bed and kissed it; the old man laid his hands upon our heads very +tenderly and said, "Brother and sister to the end." + +I thought he was tired then, and made as if to leave him, but he said, +"Do not go, my son." He lay smiling to himself, as if well pleased. +Then a sudden change came over his face, and I saw that he was going; +we knelt beside him, and his last words were words of blessing. + + + +October 12, 1891. + +This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad, +terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent friend, my +true confessor. I have felt the need of utterance, the imperative +instinct--the most primitive, the most childish of instincts--to tell +my pains and hopes and dreams. I could not utter them, at the time, to +another. I could not let the voice of my groaning reach the ears of any +human being. Perhaps it would have been better for us both, if I could +have said it all to my dearest Maud. But a sort of courtesy forbade my +redoubling my monotonous lamentations; her burden was heavy enough +without that. I can hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or +chivalry, because my frame of mind during those first months, when I +lost the power of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did +not want sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give +me; half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He +would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a +helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind. Well, He has sent +me strength--I recognise that now--not by lightening the load, but by +making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had the +strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I deserved so +sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the loneliness to which He +has condemned me is the help that is proportioned to my need. But I +walk no longer in a vain shadow. I have known affliction by the rod of +His wrath. But the darkness in which I walk is not the darkness of +thickening gloom, but the darkness of the breaking day. + +And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to day +just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts himself in +his bed. Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a record. + +But now I shall write no more. I shall slip gratefully and securely +into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast +majority, after all, of humanity. One who like myself has the +consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear +impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields, trees, +clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it all in words +and phrases. Why, I know not! It is the desire, I suppose, to make some +record of what seems so clear, so distinct, so beautiful, so +interesting. One cannot bear that one impression that seems so vivid +and strange should be lost and perish. It is the artistic instinct, no +doubt. And then one passes through the streets of a great city, and one +becomes aware that of the thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one +or two have the same instinct, and even they are bound to silence by +circumstance, by lack of opportunity. The rest--life is enough for +them; hunger and thirst, love and strife, hope and fear, that is their +daily meat. And life, I doubt not, is what we are set to taste. Of all +those thousands, some few have the desire, and fewer still the power, +to stand apart from the throng. These are not content with the humdrum +life of earning a livelihood, of forming ties, of passing the time as +pleasantly as they can. They desire rather to be felt, to exercise +influence, to mould others to their will, to use them for their +convenience. I have had little temptation to do that, but my life has +been poisoned at its source, I now discern, by the desire to +differentiate myself from others. I could not walk faithfully in the +procession; I was as one who likes to sit securely in his window above +the street, noting all that he sees, sketching all that strikes his +fancy, hugging his pleasure at being apart from and superior to the +ordinary run of mortals. Here lay my chiefest fault, that I could not +bear a humble hand, but looked upon my wealth, my loving circle, as +things that should fence me from the throng. I lived in a paradise of +my own devising. + +But now I have put that all aside for ever. I will live the life of a +learner; I will be docile if I can. I might indeed have been stripped +of everything, bidden to join the humblest tribe of workers for daily +bread. But God has spared my weakness, and I should be faithless +indeed, if, seeing how intently His will has dealt with me, I did not +recognise the clear guiding of His hand. He has given me a place and a +quiet work to do; these strange bereavements, one after another, have +not hardened me. I feel the bonds of love for those whom I have lost +drawn closer every hour. They are waiting for me, I am sure of that. It +is not reason, it is not faith which prompts me; it is a far deeper and +stronger instinct, which I could not doubt if I would. What wonder if I +look forward with an eager and an ardent hope to death. I can conceive +no more welcome tidings than the tidings that death was at hand. But I +do not expect to die. My health of body is almost miraculously +preserved. What I dare to hope is that I may learn by slow degrees to +set the happiness of others above my own. I will listen for any sound +of grief or discontent, and I will try to quiet it. I will spend my +time and strength as freely as I can. That is a far-off hope. One +cannot in a moment break through the self-consideration of a lifetime. +But whereas, before, my dim sense that happiness could not be found by +deliberately searching for ease made me half rebellious, half +uncomfortable, I know now that it is true, and I will turn my back if I +can upon that lonely and unsatisfied quest. I did indeed--I can +honestly say that--desire with a passionate intentness the happiness of +Maud and the children; but I think I desired it most in order that the +sunshine of their happiness should break in warmth and light upon +myself. It will be hard enough--I can see that--not to labour still for +the sake of the ultimate results upon my own peace of mind. But in my +deepest heart I do not desire to do that, and I will not, God helping +me. + +And so to-day, having read the whole record once again, with blinding +tears, tears of love, I think, not tears of self-pity, I will close the +book and write no more. But I will not destroy it, because it may help +some soul that may come after me, into whose hands it may fall, to +struggle on in the middle of sorrow and darkness. To him will I gladly +reveal all that God has done for my soul. That poor, pitiful, shrinking +soul, with all its faint desires after purity and nobleness and peace, +all its self-wrought misery, all its unhappy failures, all its secret +faults, its undiscerned weaknesses, I put humbly and confidently in the +hands of the God who made me. I cannot amend myself, but I can at least +co-operate with His loving Will. I can stumble onwards, with my hand in +His, like a timid child with a strong and loving father. I may wish to +be lifted in His arms, I may wonder why He does not have more pity on +my frailty. But I can believe that He is leading me home, and that His +way is the best and nearest. + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Altar Fire, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALTAR FIRE *** + +***** This file should be named 4612.txt or 4612.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/1/4612/ + +Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo. HTML version +by Al Haines. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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We need your donations. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3) +organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541 +Find out about how to make a donation at the bottom of this file. + + +Title: The Altar Fire + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4612] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on February 19, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Altar Fire +by Arthur Christopher Benson +******This file should be named thltr10.txt or thltr10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, thltr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, thltr10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +The "legal small print" and other information about this book +may now be found at the end of this file. Please read this +important information, as it gives you specific rights and +tells you about restrictions in how the file may be used. + +*** +This etext was created by Don Lainson (dlainson@sympatico.ca) & Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com) + +THE ALTAR FIRE + + + +By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON + +Cecidit autem ignis Domini, +et voravit holocaustum + +1907 + + + + + + +PREFACE + + + + + +It will perhaps be said, and truly felt, that the following is a +morbid book. No doubt the subject is a morbid one, because the +book deliberately gives a picture of a diseased spirit. But a +pathological treatise, dealing with cancer or paralysis, is not +necessarily morbid, though it may be studied in a morbid mood. We +have learnt of late years, to our gain and profit, to think and +speak of bodily ailments as natural phenomena, not to slur over +them and hide them away in attics and bedrooms. We no longer think +of insanity as demoniacal possession, and we no longer immure +people with diseased brains in the secluded apartments of lovely +houses. But we still tend to think of the sufferings of the heart +and soul as if they were unreal, imaginary, hypochondriacal things, +which could be cured by a little resolution and by intercourse with +cheerful society; and by this foolish and secretive reticence we +lose both sympathy and help. Mrs. Proctor, the friend of Carlyle +and Lamb, a brilliant and somewhat stoical lady, is recorded to +have said to a youthful relative of a sickly habit, with stern +emphasis, "Never tell people how you are! They don't want to know." +Up to a certain point this is shrewd and wholesome advice. One does +undoubtedly keep some kinds of suffering in check by resolutely +minimising them. But there is a significance in suffering too. It +is not all a clumsy error, a well-meaning blunder. It is a +deliberate part of the constitution of the world. + +Why should we wish to conceal the fact that we have suffered, that +we suffer, that we are likely to suffer to the end? There are +abundance of people in like case; the very confession of the fact +may help others to endure, because one of the darkest miseries of +suffering is the horrible sense of isolation that it brings. And if +this book casts the least ray upon the sad problem--a ray of the +light that I have learned to recognise is truly there--I shall be +more than content. There is no morbidity in suffering, or in +confessing that one suffers. Morbidity only begins when one +acquiesces in suffering as being incurable and inevitable; and the +motive of this book is to show that it is at once curative and +curable, a very tender part of a wholly loving and Fatherly design. + +A. C. B. + +Magdalene College, Cambridge, + +July 14, 1907. + + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + + + +I had intended to allow the records that follow--the records of a +pilgrimage sorely beset and hampered by sorrow and distress--to +speak for themselves. Let me only say that one who makes public a +record so intimate and outspoken incurs, as a rule, a certain +responsibility. He has to consider in the first place, or at least +he cannot help instinctively considering, what the wishes of the +writer would have been on the subject. I do not mean that one who +has to decide such a point is bound to be entirely guided by that. +He must weigh the possible value of the record to other spirits +against what he thinks that the writer himself would have +personally desired. A far more important consideration is what +living people who play a part in such records feel about their +publication. But I cannot help thinking that our whole standard in +such matters is a very false and conventional one. Supposing, for +instance, that a very sacred and intimate record, say, two hundred +years old, were to be found among some family papers, it is +inconceivable that any one would object to its publication on the +ground that the writer of it, or the people mentioned in it, would +not have wished it to see the light. We show how weak our faith +really is in the continuance of personal identity after death, by +allowing the lapse of time to affect the question at all; just as +we should consider it a horrible profanation to exhume and exhibit +the body of a man who had been buried a few years ago, while we +approve of the action of archaeologists who explore Egyptian +sepulchres, subscribe to their operations, and should consider a +man a mere sentimentalist who suggested that the mummies exhibited +in museums ought to be sent back for interment in their original +tombs. We think vaguely that a man who died a few years ago would +in some way be outraged if his body were to be publicly displayed, +while we do not for an instant regard the possible feelings of +delicate and highly-born Egyptian ladies, on whose seemly sepulture +such anxious and tender care was expended so many centuries ago. + +But in this case there is no such responsibility. None of the +persons concerned have any objection to the publication of these +records, and as for the writer himself he was entirely free from +any desire for a fastidious seclusion. His life was a secluded one +enough, and he felt strongly that a man has a right to his own +personal privacy. But his own words sufficiently prove, if proof +were needed, that he felt that to deny the right of others to +participate in thoughts and experiences, which might uplift or help +a mourner or a sufferer, was a selfish form of individualism with +which he had no sympathy whatever. He felt, and I have heard him +say, that one has no right to withhold from others any reflections +which can console and sustain, and he held it to be the supreme +duty of a man to ease, if he could, the burden of another. He knew +that there is no sympathy in the world so effective as the sharing +of similar experiences, as the power of assuring a sufferer that +another has indeed trodden the same dark path and emerged into the +light of Heaven. I will even venture to say that he deliberately +intended that his records should be so used, for purposes of +alleviation and consolation, and the bequest that he made of his +papers to myself, entrusting them to my absolute discretion, makes +it clear to me that I have divined his wishes in the matter. I +think, indeed, that his only doubt was a natural diffidence as to +whether the record had sufficient importance to justify its +publication. In any case, my own duty in the matter is to me +absolutely clear. + +But I think that it will be as well for me to sketch a brief +outline of my friend's life and character. I would have preferred +to have done this, if it had been possible, by allowing him to +speak for himself. But the earlier Diaries which exist are nothing +but the briefest chronicle of events. He put his earlier +confessions into his books, but he was in many ways more +interesting than his books, and so I will try and draw a portrait +of him as he appeared to one of his earliest friends. I knew him +first as an undergraduate, and our friendship was unbroken after +that. The Diary, written as it is under the shadow of a series of +calamities, gives an impression of almost wilful sadness which is +far from the truth. The requisite contrast can only be attained by +representing him as he appeared to those who knew him. + +He was the son of a moderately wealthy country solicitor, and was +brought up on normal lines. His mother died while he was a boy. He +had one brother, younger than himself, and a sister who was younger +still. He went to a leading public school, where he was in no way +distinguished either in work or athletics. I gathered, when I first +knew him, that he had been regarded as a clever, quiet, good- +natured, simple-minded boy, with a considerable charm of manner, +but decidedly retiring. He was not expected to distinguish himself +in any way, and he did not seem to have any particular ambitions. I +went up to Cambridge at the same time as he, and we formed a very +close friendship. We had kindred tastes, and we did not concern +ourselves very much with the social life of the place. We read, +walked, talked, played games, idled, and amused ourselves together. +I was more attached to him, I think, than he was to me; indeed, I +do not think that he cared at that time to form particularly close +ties. He was frank, engaging, humorous, and observant; but I do not +think that he depended very much upon any one; he rather tended to +live an interior life of his own, of poetical and fanciful +reflection. I think he tended to be pensive rather than high- +spirited--at least, I do not often remember any particular +ebullition of youthful enthusiasm. He liked congenial company, but +he was always ready to be alone. He very seldom went to the rooms +of other men, except in response to definite invitations; but he +was always disposed to welcome any one who came spontaneously to +see him. He was a really diffident and modest fellow, and I do not +think it even entered into his head to imagine that he had any +social gifts or personal charm. But I gradually came to perceive +that his mind was of a very fine quality. He had a mature critical +judgment, and, though I used to think that his tastes were somewhat +austere, I now see that he had a very sure instinct for alighting +upon what was best and finest in books and art alike. He used to +write poetry in those days, but he was shy of confessing it, and +very conscious of the demerits of what he wrote. I have some of his +youthful verses by me, and though they are very unequal and full of +lapses, yet he often strikes a firm note and displays a subtle +insight. I think that he was more ambitious than I perhaps knew, +and had that vague belief in his own powers which is characteristic +of able and unambitious men. His was certainly, on the whole, a +cold nature in those days. He could take up a friendship where he +laid it down, by virtue of an easy frankness and a sympathy that +was intellectual rather than emotional. But the suspension of +intercourse with a friend never troubled him. + +I became aware, in the course of a walking tour that I took with +him in those days, that he had a deep perception of the beauties of +nature; it was not a vague accessibility to picturesque +impressions, but a critical discernment of quality. He always said +that he cared more for little vignettes, which he could grasp +entire, than for wide and majestic prospects; and this was true of +his whole mind. + +I suppose that I tended to idealise him; but he certainly seems to +me, in retrospect, to have then been invested with a singular +charm. He was pure-minded and fastidious to a fault. He had +considerable personal beauty, rather perhaps of expression than of +feature. He was one of those people with a natural grace of +movement, gesture and speech. He was wholly unembarrassed in +manner, but he talked little in a mixed company. No one had fewer +enemies or fewer intimate friends. The delightful ears soon came to +an end, and one of the few times I ever saw him exhibit strong +emotion was on the evening before he left Cambridge, when he +altogether broke down. I remember his quoting a verse from Omar +Khayyam:-- + + + "Yet ah! that spring should vanish with the rose, + That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close," + + +and breaking off in the middle with sudden tears. + +It was necessary for me to adopt a profession, and I remember +envying him greatly when he told me that his father, who, I +gathered, rather idolised him, was quite content that he should +choose for himself at his leisure. He went abroad for a time; and I +met him next in London, where he was proposing to read for the bar; +but I discovered that he had really found his metier. He had +written a novel, which he showed me, and though it was in some ways +an immature performance, it had, I felt, high and unmistakable +literary qualities. It was published soon afterwards and met with +some success. He thereupon devoted himself to writing, and I was +astonished at his industry and eagerness. He had for the first time +found a congenial occupation. He lived mostly at home in those +days, but he was often in London, where he went a good deal into +society. I do not know very much about him at this time, but I +gather that he achieved something of a social reputation. He was +never a voluble talker; I do not suppose he ever set the table in a +roar, but he had a quiet, humorous and sympathetic manner. His +physical health was then, as always, perfect. He was never tired or +peevish; he was frank, kindly and companionable; he talked little +about himself, and had a genuine interest in the study of +personality, so that people were apt to feel at their best in his +society. Meanwhile his books came out one after another--not great +books exactly, but full of humour and perception, each an advance +on the last. By the age of thirty he was accepted as one of the +most promising novelists of the day. + +Then he did what I never expected he would do; he fell wildly and +enthusiastically in love with the only daughter of a +Gloucestershire clergyman, a man of good family and position. She +was the only child; her mother had died some years before, and her +father died shortly after the marriage. She was a beautiful, +vigorous girl, extraordinarily ingenuous, simple-minded, and +candid. She was not clever in the common acceptance of the term, +and was not the sort of person by whom I should have imagined that +my friend would have been attracted. They settled in a pleasant +house, which they built in Surrey, on the outskirts of a village. +Three children were born to them--a boy and a girl, and another +boy, who survived his birth only a few hours. From this time he +almost entirely deserted London, and became, I thought, almost +strangely content with a quiet domestic life. I was often with them +in those early days, and I do not think I ever saw a happier +circle. It was a large and comfortable house, very pleasantly +furnished, with a big garden. His father died in the early years of +the marriage, and left him a good income; with the proceeds of his +books he was a comparatively wealthy man. His wife was one of those +people who have a serene and unaffected interest in human beings. +She was a religious woman, but her relations with others were +rather based on the purest kindliness and sympathy. She knew every +one in the place, and, having no touch of shyness, she went in and +out among their poorer neighbours, the trusted friend and +providence of numerous families; but she had not in the least what +is called a parochial mind. She had no touch of the bustling and +efficient Lady Bountiful. The simple people she visited were her +friends and neighbours, not her patients and dependents. She was +simply an overflowing fountain of goodness, and it was a natural to +her to hurry to a scene of sorrow and suffering as it is for most +people to desire to stay away. My friend himself had not the same +taste; it was always rather an effort to him to accommodate himself +to people in a different way of life; but it ought to be said that +he was universally liked and respected for his quiet courtesy and +simplicity, and fully as much for his own sake as for that of his +wife. This fact could hardly be inferred from his Diary, and indeed +he was wholly unconscious of it himself, because he never realised +his natural charm, and indeed was unduly afraid of boring people by +his presence. + +He was not exactly a hard worker, but he was singularly regular; +indeed, though he sometimes took a brief holiday after writing a +book, he seldom missed a day without writing some few pages. One of +the reasons why they paid so few visits was that he tended, as he +told me, to feel so much bored away from his work. It was at once +his occupation and his recreation. He was not one of those who +write fiercely and feverishly, and then fall into exhaustion; he +wrote cheerfully and temperately, and never appeared to feel the +strain. They lived quietly, but a good many friends came and went. +He much preferred to have a single quest, or a husband and wife, at +a time, and pursued his work quietly all through. He used to see +that one had all one could need, and then withdrew after tea-time, +not reappearing until dinner. His wife, it was evident, was devoted +to him with an almost passionate adoration. The reason why life +went so easily there was that she studied unobtrusively his +smallest desires and preferences; and thus there was never any +sense of special contrivance or consideration for his wishes: the +day was arranged exactly as he liked, without his ever having to +insist upon details. He probably did not realise this, for though +he liked settled ways, he was sensitively averse to feeling that +his own convenience was in any way superseding or overriding the +convenience of others. It used to be a great delight and +refreshment to stay there. He was fond of rambling about the +country, and was an enchanting companion in a tete-a-tete. In the +evening he used to expand very much into a genial humour which was +very attractive; he had, too, the art of making swift and subtle +transitions into an emotional mood; and here his poetical gift of +seeing unexpected analogies and delicate characteristics gave his +talk a fragrant charm which I have seldom heard equalled. + +It was indeed a picture of wonderful prosperity, happiness, and +delight. The children were engaging, clever, and devotedly +affectionate, and indeed the atmosphere of mutual affection seemed +to float over the circle like a fresh and scented summer air. One +used to feel, as one drove away, that though one's visit had been a +pleasure, there would be none of the flatness which sometimes +follows the departure of a guest, but that one was leaving them to +a home life that was better than sociability, a life that was both +sacred and beautiful, full to the brim of affection, yet without +any softness or sentimentality. + +Then came my friend's great success. He had written less since his +marriage, and his books, I thought, were beginning to flag a +little. There was a want of freshness about them; he tended to use +the same characters and similar situations; both thought and +phraseology became somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to +the belief that life was beginning to be more interesting to him +than art. But there suddenly appeared the book which made him +famous, a book both masterly and delicate, full of subtle analysis +and perception, and with that indescribable sense of actuality +which is the best test of art. The style at the same time seemed to +have run clear; he had gained a perfect command of his instrument, +and I had about this book, what I had never had about any other +book of his, the sense that he was producing exactly the effects he +meant to produce. The extraordinary merit of the book was instantly +recognised by all, I think, but the author. He went abroad for a +time after the book was published, and eventually returned; it was +at that point of his life that the Diary began. + +I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me +that something had happened to him. Instead of being radiant with +success, eager and contented, I found him depressed, anxious, +haggard. He told me that he felt unstrung and exhausted, and that +his power of writing had deserted him. But I must bear testimony at +the same time to the fact which does not emerge in the Diary, +namely, the extraordinary gallantry and patience of his conduct and +demeanour. He struggled visibly and pathetically, from hour to +hour, against his depression. He never complained; he never showed, +at least in my presence, the smallest touch of irritability. Indeed +to myself, who had known him as the most equable and good-humoured +of men, he seemed to support the trial with a courage little short +of heroism. The trial was a sore one, because it deprived him both +of motive and occupation. But he made the best of it; he read, he +took long walks, and he threw himself with great eagerness into the +education of his children--a task for which he was peculiarly +qualified. Then a series of calamities fell upon him: he lost his +boy, a child of wonderful ability and sweetness; he lost his +fortune, or the greater part of it. The latter calamity he bore +with perfect imperturbability--they let their house and moved into +Gloucestershire. Here a certain measure of happiness seemed to +return to him. He made a new friend, as the Diary relates, in the +person of the Squire of the village, a man who, though an invalid, +had a strong and almost mystical hold upon life. Here he began to +interest himself in the people of the place, and tried all sorts of +education and social experiments. But his wife fell ill, and died +very suddenly; and, not long after, his daughter died too. He was +for a time almost wholly broken down. I went abroad with him at his +request for a few weeks, but I was myself obliged to return to +England to my professional duties. I can only say that I did not +expect ever to see him again. He was like a man, the spring of +whose life was broken; but at the same time he bore himself with a +patience and a gentleness that fairly astonished me. We were +together day by day and hour by hour. He made no complaint, and he +used to force himself, with what sad effort was only too plain, to +converse on all sorts of topics. Some time after he drifted back to +England; but at first he appeared to be in a very listless and +dejected state. Then there arrived, almost suddenly, it seemed to +me, a change. He had made the sacrifice; he had accepted the +situation. There came to him a serenity which was only like his old +serenity from the fact that it seemed entirely unaffected; but it +was based, I felt, on a very different view of life. He was now +content to wait and to believe. It was at this time that the Squire +died; and not long afterwards, the Squire's niece, a woman of great +strength and simplicity of character, married a clergyman to whom +she had been long attached, both being middle-aged people; and the +living soon afterwards falling vacant, her husband accepted it, and +the newly-married pair moved into the Rectory; while my friend, who +had been named as the Squire's ultimate heir, a life-interest in +the property being secured to the niece, went into the Hall. +Shortly afterwards he adopted a nephew--his sister's son--who, with +the consent of all concerned, was brought up as the heir to the +estate, and is its present proprietor. + +My friend lived some fifteen years after that, a quiet, active, and +obviously contented life. I was a frequent guest at the Hall, and I +am sure that I never saw a more attached circle. My friend became a +magistrate, and he did a good deal of county business; but his main +interest was in the place, where he was the trusted friend and +counsellor of every household in the parish. He took a great deal +of active exercise in the open air; he read much. He taught his +nephew, whom he did not send to school. He regained, in fuller +measure than ever, his old delightful charm of conversation, and +his humour, which had always been predominant in him, took on a +deeper and a richer tinge; but whereas in old days he had been +brilliant and epigrammatic, he was now rather poetical and +suggestive; and whereas he had formerly been reticent about his +emotions and his religion, he now acquired what is to my mind the +profoundest conversational charm--the power of making swift and +natural transitions into matters of what, for want of a better +word, I will call spiritual experience. I remember his once saying +to me that he had learnt, from his intercourse with his village +neighbours, that the one thing in the world in which every one was +interested was religion; "even more," he added, with a smile, "than +is the one subject in which Sir Robert Walpole said that every one +could join." + +I do not suppose that his religion was of a particularly orthodox +kind; he was impatient of dogmatic definition and of ecclesiastical +tendencies; but he cared with all his heart for the vital +principles of religion, the love of God and the love of one's +neighbour. + +He lived to see his adopted son grow up to maturity; and I do not +think I ever saw anything so beautiful as the confidence and +affection that subsisted between them; and then he died one day, as +he had often told me he desired to die. He had been ailing for a +week, and on rising from his chair in the morning he was seized by +a sudden faintness and died within half-an-hour, hardly knowing, I +imagine, that he was in any danger. + +It fell to me to deal with his papers. There was a certain amount +of scattered writing, but no completed work; it all dated from +before the publication of his great book. It was determined that +this Diary should eventually see the light, and circumstances into +which I need not now enter have rendered its appearance advisable +at the present date. + +The interest of the document is its candour and outspokenness. If +the tone of the record, until near the end, is one of unrelieved +sadness, it must be borne in mind that all the time he bore himself +in the presence of others with a singular courage and simplicity. +He said to me once, in an hour of dark despair, that he had drunk +the dregs of self-abasement. That he believed that he had no sense +of morality, no loyal affection, no love of virtue, no patience or +courage. That his only motives had been timidity, personal +ambition, love of respectability, love of ease. He added that this +had been slowly revealed to him, and that the only way out was a +way that he had not as yet strength to tread; the way of utter +submission, absolute confidence, entire resignation. He said that +there was one comfort, which was, that he knew the worst about +himself that it was possible to know. I told him that his view of +his character was unjust and exaggerated, but he only shook his +head with a smile that went to my heart. It was on that day, I +think, that he touched the lowest depth of all; and after that he +found the way out, along the path that he had indicated. + +This is no place for eulogy and panegyric. My task has been just to +trace the portrait of my friend as he appeared to others; his own +words shall reveal the inner spirit. The beauty of the life to me +was that he attained, unconsciously and gradually, to the very +virtues which he most desired and in which he felt himself to he +most deficient. He had to bear a series of devastating calamities. +He had loved the warmth and nearness of his home circle more deeply +than most men, and the whole of it was swept away; he had depended +for stimulus and occupation alike upon his artistic work, and the +power was taken from him at the moment of his highest achievement. +His loss of fortune is not to be reckoned among his calamities, +because it was no calamity to him. He ended by finding a richer +treasure than any that he had set out to obtain; and I remember +that he said to me once, not long before his end, that whatever +others might feel about their own lives, he could not for a moment +doubt that his own had been an education of a deliberate and loving +kind, and that the day when he realised that, when he saw that +there was not a single incident in his life that had not a deep and +an intentional value for him, was one of the happiest days of his +whole existence. I do not know that he expected anything or +speculated on what might await him hereafter; he put his future, +just as he put his past and his present, in the hands of God, to +Whom he committed himself "as unto a faithful Creator." + + + + + + +THE ALTAR FIRE + + + + + +September 8, 1888. + + +We came back yesterday, after a very prosperous time at Zermatt; +we have been there two entire months. Yes, it was certainly +prosperous! We had delicious weather, and I have seen a number of +pleasant people. I have done a great deal of walking, I have read a +lot of novels and old poetry, I have sate about a good deal in the +open air; but I do not really like Switzerland; there are of course +an abundance of noble wide-hung views, but there are few vignettes, +little on which the mind and heart dwell with an intimate and +familiar satisfaction. Those airy pinnacles of toppling rocks, +those sheets of slanted snow, those ice-bound crags--there is a +sense of fear and mystery about them! One does not know what is +going on there, what they are waiting for; they have no human +meaning. They do not seem to have any relation to humanity at all. +Sunday after Sunday one used to have sermons in that hot, trim +little wooden church--some from quite famous preachers--about the +need of rest, the advantage of letting the mind and eye dwell in +awe upon the wonderful works of God. Of course the mountains are +wonderful enough; but they make me feel that humanity plays a very +trifling part in the mind and purpose of God. I do not think that +if I were a preacher of the Gospel, and had a speculative turn, I +should care to take a holiday among the mountains. I should be +beset by a dreary wonder whether the welfare of humanity was a +thing very dear to God at all. I should feel very strongly what the +Psalmist said, "What is man that Thou art mindful of him?" It would +take the wind out of my sails, when I came to preach about +Redemption, because I should be tempted to believe that, after all, +human beings were only in the world on sufferance, and that the +aching, frozen, barren earth, so inimical to life, was in even more +urgent need of redemption. Day by day, among the heights, I grew to +feel that I wanted some explanation of why the strange panorama of +splintered crag and hanging ice-fall was there at all. It certainly +is not there with any reference to man--at least it is hard to +believe that it is all there that human beings may take a +refreshing holiday in the midst of it. When one penetrates +Switzerland by the green pine-clad valleys, passing through and +beneath those delicious upland villages, each clustering round a +church with a glittering cupola, the wooden houses with their brown +fronts, their big eaves, perched up aloft at such pleasant angles, +one thinks of Switzerland as an inhabited land of valleys, with +screens and backgrounds of peaks and snowfields; but when one goes +up higher still, and gets up to the top of one of the peaks, one +sees that Switzerland is really a region of barren ridges, millions +of acres of cold stones and ice, with a few little green cracks +among the mountain bases, where men have crept to live; and that +man is only tolerated there. + +One day I was out with a guide on a peak at sunrise. Behind the +bleak and shadowy ridges there stole a flush of awakening dawn; +then came a line of the purest yellow light, touching the crags and +snowfields with sharp blue shadows; the lemon-coloured radiance +passed into fiery gold, the gold flushed to crimson, and then the +sun leapt into sight, and shed the light of day upon the troubled +sea of mountains. It was more than that--the hills made, as it +were, the rim of a great cold shadowy goblet; and the light was +poured into it from the uprushing sun, as bubbling and sparkling +wine is poured into a beaker. I found myself thrilled from head to +foot with an intense and mysterious rapture. What did it all mean, +this awful and resplendent solemnity, full to brim of a solitary +and unapproachable holiness? What was the secret of the thing? +Perhaps every one of those stars that we had seen fade out of the +night was ringed round by planets such as ours, peopled by forms +undreamed of; doubtless on millions of globes, the daylight of some +central sun was coming in glory over the cold ridges, and waking +into life sentient beings, in lands outside our ken, each with +civilisations and histories and hopes and fears of their own. A +stupendous, an overwhelming thought! And yet, in the midst of it, +here was I myself, a little consciousness sharply divided from it +all, permitted to be a spectator, a partaker of the intolerable and +gigantic mystery, and yet so strangely made that the whole of that +vast and prodigious complexity of life and law counted for less to +me than the touch of weariness that hung, after my long vigil, over +limbs and brain. The faculty, the godlike power of knowing and +imagining, all actually less to me than my own tiny and fragile +sensations. Such moods as these are strange things, because they +bring with them so intense a desire to know, to perceive, and yet +paralyse one with the horror of the darkness in which one moves. +One cannot conceive why it is that one is given the power of +realising the multiplicity of creation, and yet at the same time +left so wholly ignorant of its significance. One longs to leap into +the arms of God, to catch some whisper of His voice; and at the +same time there falls the shadow of the prison-house; one is driven +relentlessly back upon the old limited life, the duties, the +labours, the round of meals and sleep, the tiny relations with +others as ignorant as ourselves, and, still worse, with the petty +spirits who have a complacent explanation of it all. Even over love +itself the shadow falls. I am as near to my own dear and true Maud +as it is possible to be; but I can tell her nothing of the mystery, +and she can tell me nothing. We are allowed for a time to draw +close to each other, to whisper to each other our hopes and fears; +but at any moment we can be separated. The children, Alec and +Maggie, dearer to me--I can say it honestly--than life itself, to +whom we have given being, whose voices I hear as I write, what of +them? They are each of them alone, though they hardly know it yet. +The little unnamed son, who opened his eyes upon the world six +years ago, to close them in a few hours, where and what is he now? +Is he somewhere, anywhere? Does he know of the joy and sorrow he +has brought into our lives? I would fain believe it . . . these are +profitless thoughts, of one staring into the abyss. Somehow these +bright weeks have been to me a dreary time. I am well in health; +nothing ails me. It is six months since my last book was published, +and I have taken a deliberate holiday; but always before, my mind, +the strain of a book once taken off it, has begun to sprout and +burgeon with new ideas and schemes: but now, for the first time in +my life, my mind and heart remain bare and arid. I seem to have +drifted into a dreary silence. It is not that things have been less +beautiful, but beauty seems to have had no message, no significance +for me. The people that I have seen have come and gone like ghosts +and puppets. I have had no curiosity about them, their occupations +and thoughts, their hopes and lives; it has not seemed worth while +to be interested, in a life which appears so short, and which leads +nowhere. It seems morbid to write thus, but I have not been either +morbid or depressed. It has been an easy life, the life of the last +few months, without effort or dissatisfaction, but without zest. It +is a mental tiredness, I suppose. I have written myself out, and +the cistern must fill again. Yet I have had no feeling of fatigue. +It would have been almost better to have had something to bear; but +I am richer than I need be, Maud and the children have been in +perfect health and happiness, I have been well and strong. I shall +hope that the familiar scene, the pleasant activities of home-life +will bring the desire back. I realise how much the fabric of my +life is built upon my writing, and write I must. Well, I have said +enough; the pleasure of these entries is that one can look back to +them, and see the movement of the current of life in a bygone day. +I have an immense mass of arrears to make up, in the form of +letters and business, but I want to survey the ground; and the +survey is not a very happy one this morning; though if I made a +list of my benefits and the reverse, like Robinson Crusoe, the +credit side would be full of good things, and the debit side nearly +empty. + + + +September 15, 1888. + + +It is certainly very sweet to be at home again; to find oneself in +familiar scenes, with all the pretty homely comfortable things +waiting patiently for us to return--pictures, books, rooms, tree, +kindly people. Wright, my excellent gardener, with whom I spent an +hour strolling round the garden to-day, touched me by saying that +he was glad to see me back, and that it had seemed dull without me; +he has done fifty little simple things in our absence, in his +tranquil and faithful way, and is pleased to have them noticed. +Alec, who was with me to-day, delighted me by finding his stolid +wooden horse in the summer-house, rather damp and dishevelled, and +almost bursting into tears at the pathos of the neglect. "Did you +think we had forgotten you?" he said as he hugged it. I suggested +that he should have a good meal. "I don't think he would care about +GRASS," said Alec thoughtfully, "he shall have some leaves and +berries for a treat." And this was tenderly executed. Maud went off +to see some of her old pensioners, and came back glowing with +pleasure, with twenty pleasant stories of welcome. Two or three +people came in to see me on business, and I was glad to feel I was +of use. In the afternoon we all went off on a long ramble together, +and we were quite surprised to see that everything seemed to be in +its place as usual. Summer is over, the fields have been reaped; +there is a comfortable row of stacks in the rickyard; the pleasant +humming of an engine came up the valley, as it sang its homely +monotone, now low, now loud. After tea--the evenings have begun to +close in--I went off to my study, took out my notebook and looked +over my subjects, but I could make nothing of any of them. I could +see that there were some good ideas among them; but none of them +took shape. Often I have found that to glance over my subjects +thus, after a holiday, is like blowing soap-bubbles. The idea comes +out swelling and eddying from the bowl; a globe swimming with +lucent hues, reflecting dim moving shapes of rooms and figures. Not +so to-day. My mind winked and flapped and rustled like a burnt-out +fire; not in a depressed or melancholy way, but phlegmatically and +dully. Well, the spirit bloweth as it listeth; but it is strange to +find my mind so unresponsive, with none of that pleasant stir, that +excitement that has a sort of fantastic terror about it, such as +happens when a book stretches itself dimly and mysteriously before +the mind--when one has a glimpse of a quiet room with people +talking, a man riding fiercely on lonely roads, two strolling +together in a moonlit garden with the shadows of the cypresses on +the turf, and the fragrance of the sleeping flowers blown abroad. +They stop to listen to the nightingale in the bush . . . turn to +each other . . . the currents of life are intermingled at the +meeting of the lips, the warm shudder at the touch of the floating +tress of fragrant hair. To-day nothing comes to me; I throw it all +aside and go to see the children, am greeted delightfully, and join +in some pretty and absurd game. Then dinner comes; and I sit +afterwards reading, dropping the book to talk, Maud working in her +corner by the fire--all things moving so tranquilly and easily in +this pleasantly ordered home-like house of ours. It is good to be +at home; and how pitiful to be hankering thus for something else to +fill the mind, which should obliterate all the beloved things so +tenderly provided. Maud asks about the reception of the latest +book, and sparkles with pride at some of the things I tell her. She +sees somehow--how do women divine these things?--that there is a +little shadow of unrest over me, and she tells me all the +comforting things that I dare not say to myself--that it is only +that the book took more out of me than I knew, and that the +resting-time is not over yet; but that I shall soon settle down +again. Then I go off to smoke awhile; and then the haunting shadow +comes back for a little; till at last I go softly through the +sleeping house; and presently lie listening to the quiet breathing +of my wife beside me, glad to be at home again, until the thoughts +grow blurred, take grotesque shapes, sinking softly into repose. + + + +September 18, 1888. + + +I have spent most of the morning in clearing up business, and +dealing with papers and letters. Among the accumulations was a big +bundle of press-cuttings, all dealing with my last book. It comes +home to me that the book has been a success; it began by slaying +its thousands, like Saul, and now it has slain its tens of +thousands. It has brought me hosts of letters, from all sorts of +people, some of them very delightful and encouraging, many very +pleasant--just grateful and simple letters of thanks--some vulgar +and impertinent, some strangely intimate. What is it, I wonder, +that makes some people want to tell a writer whom they have never +seen all about themselves, their thoughts and histories? In some +cases it is an unaffected desire for sympathy from a person whom +they think perceptive and sympathetic; in some cases it proceeds, I +think, from a hysterical desire to be thought interesting, with a +faint hope, I fear, of being possibly put into a book. Some of the +letters have been simply unintelligible and inconceivable on any +hypothesis, except for the human instinct to confess, to bare the +heart, to display the secret sorrow. Many of these letters are +intensely pathetic, affecting, heart-rending; an invalid lady +writes to say that she would like to know me, and will I come to +the North of England to see her? A man writes a pretentious letter, +to ask me to go and stay with him for a week. He has nothing to +offer, he says, but plain fare and rather cramped quarters; but he +has thought deeply, he adds, on many of the problems on which I +touch, and thinks that he could throw light upon some of them. +Imagine what reserves of interest and wisdom he must consider that +he possesses! Then there are patronising letters from people who +say that I have put into words thoughts which they have always had, +and which they never took the trouble to write down; then there are +requests for autographs, and "sentiments," and suggestions for new +books. A man writes to say that I could do untold good if I would +write a book with a purpose, and ventures to propose that I should +take up anti-vivisection. There are a few letters worth their +weight in gold, from good men and true, writers and critics, who +thank me for a book which fulfils its aim and artistic purpose, +while on the other hand there are some from people who find fault +with my book for not doing what I never even attempted to do. Here +is one that has given me deep and unmitigated pain; it is from an +old friend, who, I am told, is aggrieved because he thinks that I +have put him into my book, in the form of an unpleasant character. +The worst of it is that there is enough truth in it to make it +difficult for me to deny it. My character is, in some superficial +ways, habits, and tricks of speech, like Reginald. Well, on hearing +what he felt, I wrote him a letter of apology for my carelessness +and thoughtlessness, saying, as frankly as I could, that the +character was not in any way drawn from him, but that I undoubtedly +had, almost unconsciously, taken an external trait or two from him; +adding that I was truly and heartily sorry, and hoped that there +would be no ill-feeling; and that I valued his friendship even more +than he probably imagined. Here is his reply: + + +MY DEAR F----, + +--If you spit on the head of a man passing in the street, and +then write to him a few days after to say that all is forgiven, and +that you are sorry your aim was so accurate, you don't mend +matters. + +You express a hope that after what has occurred there may be no +ill-feeling between us. Well, you have done me what I consider an +injury. I have no desire to repay it; if I had a chance of doing +you a good turn, I should do it; if I heard you abused, I should +stick up for you. I have no intention of making a grievance out of +it. But if you ask me to say that I do not feel a sense of wrong, +or to express a wish to meet you, or to trust you any longer as I +have hitherto trusted you, I must decline saying anything of the +kind, because it would not be true. + +Of course I know that there cannot be omelettes without breaking +eggs; and I suppose that there cannot be what are called +psychological novels, without violating confidences. But you cannot +be surprised, when you encourage an old friend to trust you and +confide in you, and then draw an ugly caricature of him in a book, +if he thinks the worse of you in consequence. I hear that the book +is a great success; you must be content with the fact that the +yolks are as golden as they are. Please do not write to me again on +the subject. I will try to forget it, and if I succeed, I will let +you know. + +Yours ---- + + +That is the kind of letter that poisons life for a while. While I +am aware that I meant no treachery, I am none the less aware that I +have contrived to be a traitor. Of course one vows one will never +write another line; but I do not suppose I shall keep the vow. I +reply shortly, eating all the dirt I can collect; and I shall try +to forget it too; though it is a shabby end of an old friendship. + +Then I turn to the reviews. I find them gracious, respectful, +laudatory. They are to be taken cum grano, of course. When an +enthusiastic reviewer says that I have passed at one stride into +the very first class of contemporary writers, I do not feel +particularly elated, though I am undeniably pleased. I find my +conception, my structure, my style, my descriptions, my character- +drawing, liberally and generously praised. There is no doubt that +the book has been really successful beyond my wildest hopes. If I +were in any doubt, the crop of letters from editors and publishers +asking me for articles and books of every kind, and offering me +incredible terms, would convince me. + +Now what do I honestly feel about all this? I will try for my own +benefit to say. Of course I am very much pleased, but the odd thing +is that I am not more pleased. I can say quite unaffectedly that it +does not turn my head in the least. I reflect that if this had +happened when I began to write, I should have been beside myself +with delight, full of self-confidence, blown out with wind, like +the fog in the fable. Even now there is a deep satisfaction in +having done what one has tried to do. But instead of raking in the +credit, I am more inclined to be grateful for my good fortune. I +feel as if I had found something valuable rather than made +something beautiful; as if I had stumbled on a nugget of gold or a +pearl of price. I am very fatalistic about writing; one is given a +certain thing to say, and the power to say it; it does not come by +effort, but by a pleasant felicity. After all, I reflect, the book +is only a good story, well told. I do not feel like a benefactor of +the human race, but at the best like a skilful minstrel, who has +given some innocent pleasure. What, after all, does it amount to? I +have touched to life, perhaps a few gracious, tender, romantic +fancies--but, after all, the thoughts and emotions were there to +start with, just as the harmonies which the musician awakes are all +dormant in his throbbing strings. I have created nothing, only +perceived and represented phenomena. I have gained no sensibility, +no patience, no wisdom in the process. I know no more of the secret +of life and love, than before I wrote my book. I am only like a +scientific investigator who has discovered certain delicate +processes, subtle laws at work. They were there all the time; the +temptation of the investigator and of the writer alike is to yield +to the delusion that he has made them, by discerning and naming +them. As for the style, which is highly praised, it has not been +made by effort. It is myself. I have never written for any other +reason than because I liked writing. It has been a pleasure to +overcome difficulties, to make my way round obstacles, to learn how +to express the vague an intangible thing. But I deserve no credit +for this; I should deserve credit if I had made myself a good +writer out of a bad one; but I could always write, and I am not a +better writer, only a more practised one. There is no satisfaction +there. + +And then, too, I find myself overshadowed by the thought that I do +not want to do worse, to go downhill, to decline. I do not feel at +all sure that I can write a better book, or so good a one indeed. I +should dislike failing far more than I like having succeeded. To +have reached a certain standard makes it incumbent on one that one +should not fall below that standard; and no amount of taking pains +will achieve that. It can only be done through a sort of radiant +felicity of mood, which is really not in my power to count upon. I +was happy, supremely happy, when I was writing the book. I lighted +upon a fine conception, and it was the purest joy to see the metal +trickle firmly from the furnace into the mould. Can I make such a +mould again? Can I count upon the ingots piled in the fierce flame? +Can I reckon upon the same temperamental glow? I do not know--I +fear not. + +Here is the net result--that I have become a sort of personage in +the world of letters. Do I desire it? Yes, in a sense I do, but in +a sense I do not. I do not want money, I do not wish for public +appearances. I have no social ambitions. To be pointed out as the +distinguished novelist is distinctly inconvenient. People will +demand a certain standard of talk, a certain brilliance, which I am +not in the least capable of giving them. I want to sit at my ease +at the banquet of life, not to be ushered to the highest rooms. I +prefer interesting and pleasant people to important and majestic +persons. Perhaps if I were more simple-minded, I should not care +about the matter at all; just be grateful for the increased warmth +and amenity of life--but I am not simple-minded, and I hate not +fulfilling other people's expectations. I am not a prodigal, full- +blooded, royal sort of person at all. I am not conscious of +greatness, but far more of emptiness. I do not wish to seem +pretentious. I have got this one faculty; but it has outrun all the +rest of me, and I am aware that it has drained the rest of my +nature. The curious thing is that this sort of fame is the thing +that as a young man I used to covet. I used to think it would be so +sustaining and resplendent. Now that it has come to me, in far +richer measure, I will not say than I hoped, but at all events than +I had expected, it does not seem to be a wholly desirable thing. +Fame is only one of the sauces of life; it is not the food of the +spirit at all. The people that praise one are like the courtiers +that bow in the anterooms of a king, through whom he passes to the +lonely study where his life is lived. I am not feeling ungrateful +or ungenerous; but I would give all that I have gained for a new +and inspiring friendship, or for the certainty that I should write +another book with the same happiness as I wrote my last book. +Perhaps I ought to feel the responsibility more! I do feel it in a +sense, but I have never estimated the moral effectiveness of a +writer of fiction very high; one comforts rather than sustains; one +diverts rather than feeds. If I could hear of one self-sacrificing +action, one generous deed, one tranquil surrender that had been the +result of my book, I should be more pleased than I am with all the +shower of compliments. Of course in a sense praise makes life more +interesting; but what I really desire to apprehend is the +significance and meaning of life, that strange mixture of pain and +pleasure, of commonplace events and raptures; and my book brings me +no nearer that. To feel God nearer me, to feel, not by evidence but +by instinct, that there is a Heart that cares for me, and moulded +me from the clay for a purpose--why, I would give all that I have +in the world for that! + +Of course Maud will be pleased; but that will be because she +believes that I deserve everything and anything, and is only +surprised that the world has not found out sooner what a marvellous +person I am. God knows I do not undervalue her belief in me; but it +makes and keeps me humble to feel how far she is from the truth, +how far from realising the pitiful weakness and emptiness of her +lover and husband. + +Is this, I wonder, how all successful people feel about fame? The +greatest of all have often never enjoyed the least touch of it in +their lifetime; and they are happier so. Some few rich and generous +natures, like Scott and Browning, have neither craved for it nor +valued it. Some of the greatest have desired it, slaved for it, +clung to it. Yet when it comes, one realises how small a part of +life and thought it fills--unless indeed it brings other desirable +things with it; and this is not the case with me, because I have +all I want. Well, if I can but set to work at another book, all +these idle thoughts will die away; but my mind rattles like a +shrunken kernel. I must kneel down and pray, as Blake and his wife +did, when the visions deserted them. + + + +September 25, 1888. + + +Here is a social instance of what it means to become "quite a +little man," as Stevenson used to say. Some county people near +here, good-natured, pushing persons, who have always been quite +civil but nothing more, invited themselves to luncheon here a day +or two ago, bringing with them a distinguished visitor. They throw +in some nauseous compliments to my book, and say that Lord +Wilburton wishes to make my acquaintance. I do not particularly +want to make his, though he is a man of some not. But there was no +pretext for declining. Such an incursion is a distinct bore; it +clouds the morning--one cannot settle down with a tranquil mind to +one's work; it fills the afternoon. They came, and it proved not +uninteresting. They are pleasant people enough, and Lord Wilburton +is a man who has been everywhere and seen everybody. The fact that +he wished to make my acquaintance shows, no doubt, that I have +sailed into his ken, and that he wishes to add me to his +collection. I felt myself singularly unrewarding. I am not a talker +at the best of times, and to feel that I am expected to be witty +and suggestive is the last straw. Lord Wilburton discoursed +fluently and agreeably. Lady Harriet said that she envied me my +powers of writing, and asked how I came to think of my last +brilliant book, which she had so enjoyed. I did not know what to +say, and could not invent anything. They made a great deal of the +children. They walked round the garden. They praised everything +ingeniously. They could not say the house was big, and so they +called in convenient. They could not say that the garden was ample, +but Lord Wilburton said that he had never seen so much ground go to +the acre. That was neat enough. They made a great point of visiting +my library, and carried away my autograph, written with the very +same pen with which I wrote my great book. This they called a +privilege. They made us promise to go over to the Castle, which I +have no great purpose of doing. We parted with mutual goodwill, and +with that increase of geniality on my own part which comes on me at +the end of a visit. Altogether I did not dislike it, though it did +not seem to me particularly worth while. To-day my wife tells me +that they told the Fitzpatricks that it was a great pleasure seeing +me, because I was so modest and unaffected. That is a courteous way +of concealing their disappointment that I was not more brilliant. +But, good heavens, what did they expect? I suppose, indeed I have +no doubt, that if I had talked mysteriously about my book, and had +described the genesis of it, and my method of working, they would +have preferred that. Just as in reminiscences of the Duke of +Wellington, the people who saw him in later life seem to have been +struck dumb by a sort of tearful admiration at the sight of the +Duke condescending to eat his dinner, or to light a guest's bedroom +candle. Perhaps if I had been more simple-minded I should have +talked frankly about myself. I don't know; it seems to me all +rather vulgar. But my visitors are kindly and courteous people, and +felt, I am sure, that they were both receiving and conferring +benefits. They will like to describe me and my house, and they will +feel that I am pleased at being received on equal terms into county +society. I don't put this down at all cynically; but they are not +people with whom I have anything in common. I am not of their monde +at all. I belong to the middle class, and they are of the upper +class. I have a faint desire to indicate that I don't want to cross +the border-line, and that what I desire is the society of +interesting and congenial people, not the society of my social +superior. This is not unworldliness in the least, merely hedonism. +Feudalism runs in the blood of these people, and they feel, not +consciously but quite instinctively, that the confer a benefit by +making my acquaintance. "No doubt but ye are the people," as Job +said, but I do not want to rise in the social scale. It would be +the earthen pot and the brazen pot at best. I am quite content with +my own class, and life is not long enough to change it, and to +learn the habits of another. I have no quarrel with the +aristocracy, and do not in the least wish to level them to the +ground. I am quite prepared to acknowledge them as the upper class. +They are, as a rule, public-spirited, courteous barbarians, with a +sense of honour and responsibility. But they take a great many +things as matters of course which are to me simply alien. I no more +wish to live with them than Wright, my self-respecting gardener, +wishes to live with me--though so deeply rooted are feudal ideas in +the blood of the race, that Wright treats me with a shade of +increased deference because I have been entertaining a party of +Lords and Ladies; and the Vicar's wife said to Maud that she heard +we had been giving a very grand party, and would soon be quite +county people. The poor woman will think more of my books than she +has ever thought before. I don't think this is snobbish, because it +is so perfectly instinctive and natural. + +But what I wanted to say was that this is the kind of benefit which +is conferred by success; and for a quiet person, who likes familiar +and tranquil ways, it is no benefit at all; indeed, rather the +reverse; unless it is a benefit that the stationmaster touched his +hat to me to-day, which he has never done before. It is a funny +little world. Meanwhile I have no ideas, and my visitors to-day +haven't given me any, though Lord Wilburton might be a useful +figure in a book; so perfectly appointed, so quiet, so deferential, +so humorous, so deliciously insincere! + + + +October 4, 1888. + + +I have happened to read lately, in some magazines, certain +illustrated interviews with prominent people, which have given me a +deep sense of mental and moral nausea. I do not think I am +afflicted with a strong sense of the sacredness of a man's home +life--at least, if it is sacred at all, it seems to me to be just +as much profaned by allowing visitors or strangers to see it and +share it as it is by allowing it to be written about in a +periodical. If it is sacred in a peculiar sense, then only very +intimate friends ought to be allowed to see it, and there should be +a tacit sense that they ought not to tell any one outside what it +is like; but if I am invited to luncheon with a celebrated man whom +I do not know, because I happen to be staying in the neighbourhood, +I do not think I violate his privacy by describing my experience to +other people. If a man has a beautiful house, a happy interior, a +gifted family circle, and if he is himself a remarkable man, it is +a privilege to be admitted to it, it does one good to see it; and +it seems to me that the more people who realise the beauty and +happiness of it the better. The question of numbers has nothing to +do with it. Suppose, for instance, that I am invited to stay with a +great man, and suppose that I have a talent for drawing; I may +sketch his house and his rooms, himself and his family, if he does +not object--and it seems to me that it would be churlish and +affected of him to object--I may write descriptive letters from the +place, giving an account of his domestic ways, his wife and family, +his rooms, his books, his garden, his talk. I do not see that there +is any reasonable objection to my showing those sketches to other +people who are interested in the great man, or to the descriptive +letters or diary that I write being shown or read to others who do +not know him. Indeed I think it is a perfectly natural and +wholesome desire to know something of the life and habits of great +men; I would go further, and say that it is an improving and +inspiring sort of knowledge to be acquainted with the pleasant +details of the well-ordered, contented, and happy life of a high- +minded and effective man. Who, for instance, considers it to be a +sort of treachery for the world at large to know something of the +splendid and affectionate life of the Kingsley circle at Eversley +Rectory, or of the Tennyson circle at Freshwater? to look at +pictures of the scene, to hear how the great men looked and moved +and spoke? And if it is not profanation to hear and see this in the +pages of a biography, why is it a profanation to read and see it in +the pages of a magazine? To object to it seems to me to be a +species of prudish conventionality. + +Only you must be sure that you get a natural, simple, and +unaffected picture of it all; and what I object to in the +interviews which I have been reading is that one gets an unnatural, +affected, self-conscious, and pompous picture of it all. To go and +pose in your favourite seat in a shrubbery or a copse, where you +think out your books or poems, in order that an interviewer may +take a snap-shot of you--especially if in addition you assume a +look of owlish solemnity as though you were the prey of great +thoughts--that seems to me to be an infernal piece of posing. But +still worse than that is the kind of conversation in which people +are tempted to indulge in the presence of an interviewer. A man +ought not to say to a wandering journalist whom he has never seen +before, in the presence of his own wife, that women are the +inspirers and magnetisers of the world, and that he owes all that +has made him what he is to the sweet presence and sympathetic +tenderness of his Bessy. This, it seems to me, is the lowest kind +of melodrama. The thing may be perfectly true, the thought may be +often in his mind, but he cannot be accustomed to say such things +in ordinary life; and one feels that when he says them to an +interviewer he does it in a thoroughly self-conscious mood, in +order that he may make an impressive figure before the public. The +conversations in the interviews I have been reading give me the +uncomfortable sense that they have been thought out beforehand from +the dramatic point of view; and indeed one earnestly hopes that +this is the solution of the situation, because it would make one +feel very faint if one thought that remarks of this kind were the +habitual utterances of the circle--indeed, it would cure one very +effectually of the desire to know anything of the interiors of +celebrated people, if one thought that they habitually talked like +the heroes of a Sunday-school romance. That is why the reading of +these interviews is so painful, because, in the first place, one +feels sure that one is not realising the daily life of these people +at all, but only looking on at a tableau vivant prepared by them +for the occasion; and secondly, it makes one very unhappy to think +that people of real eminence and effectiveness can condescend to +behave in this affected way in order to win the applause of vulgar +readers. One vaguely hopes, indeed, that some of the dismal +platitudes that they are represented as uttering may have been +addressed to them in the form of questions by the interviewer, and +that they have merely stammered a shamefaced assent. It makes a +real difference, for instance, whether as a matter of fact a +celebrated authoress leads her golden-haired children up to an +interviewer, and says, "These are my brightest jewels;" or whether, +when she tells her children to shake hands, the interviewer says, +"No doubt these are your brightest jewels?" A mother is hardly in a +position to return an indignant negative to such a question, and if +she utters an idiotic affirmative, she is probably credited with +the original remark in all its unctuousness! + +It is a difficult question to decide what is the most simple-minded +thing to do, if you are in the unhappy position of being requested +to grant an interview for journalistic purposes. My own feeling is +that if people really wish to know how I live, what I wear, what I +eat and drink, what books I read, what kind of a house I live in, +they are perfectly welcome to know. It does not seem to me that it +would detract from the sacredness of my home life, if a picture of +my dining-room, with the table laid for luncheon in a very cramped +perspective, or if a photogravure of the scrap of grass and +shrubbery that I call my garden, were to be published in a +magazine. All that is to a certain extent public already. I should +not wish to have a photograph of myself in bed, or shaving, +published in a magazine, because those are not moments when I am +inclined to admit visitors. Neither do I particularly want my +private and informal conversation taken down and reproduced, +because that often consists of opinions which are not my deliberate +and thought-out utterances. But I hope that I should be able to +talk simply and courteously to an interviewer on ordinary topics, +in a way that would not discredit me it is was made public; and I +hope, too, that decency would restrain me from making inflated and +pompous remarks about my inner beliefs and motives, which were not +in the least characteristic of my usual method of conversation. + +The truth is that what spoils these records is the desire on the +part of worthy and active people to appear more impressive in +ordinary life than they actually are; it is a well-meant sort of +hypocrisy, because it is intended, in a way, to influence other +people, and to make them think that celebrated people live +habitually on a higher tone of intellect and emotion than they do +actually live upon. My on experience of meeting great people is +that they are, as a rule, disappointingly like ordinary people, +both in their tastes and in their conversation. Very few men or +women, who are extremely effective in practical or artistic lines, +have the energy or the vitality to expend themselves very freely in +talk or social intercourse. They do not save themselves up for +their speeches or their books; but they give their best energies to +them, and have little current coin of high thought left for +ordinary life. The mischief is that these interviews are generally +conducted by inquisitive and rhetorical strangers, not distinguished +for social tact or overburdened with good taste; and so the whole +occasion tends to wear a melodramatic air, which is fatal both to +artistic effect as well as to simple propriety. + + + +October 9, 1888. + + +Let me set against my fashionable luncheon-party of a few weeks ago +a visit which I owe no less to my success, and which has been a +true and deep delight to me. I had a note yesterday from a man whom +I hold in great and deep reverence, a man who I have met two or +three times, a poet indeed, one of our true and authentic singers. +He writes that he is in the neighbourhood; may he come over for a +few hours and renew our acquaintance? + +He came, in the morning. One has only to set eyes upon him to know +that one is in the presence of a hero, to feel that his poetry just +streams from him like light from the sun; that it is not the +central warmth, but the flying rippling radiance of the outward- +bound light, falling in momentary beauty on the common things about +his path. He is a great big man, carelessly dressed, like a Homeric +king. I liked everything about him from head to foot, his big +carelessly-worn clothes, the bright tie thrust loosely through a +cameo ring; his loose shaggy locks, his strong beard. His face, +with its delicate pallor, and purely moulded features, had a +youthful air of purity and health; yet there was a dim trouble of +thought on his brow, over the great, smiling, flashing grey eyes. +He came in with a sort of royal greeting, he flung his big limbs on +a sofa; he talked easily, quietly, lavishly, saying fine things +with no effort, dropping a subject quickly if he thought it did not +interest me; sometimes flashing out with a quick gesture of +impatience or gusto, enjoying life, every moment and every detail. +His quick eyes, roving about, took in each smallest point, not in +the weary feverish way in which I apprehend a new scene, but as +though he liked everything new and unfamiliar, like an unsated +child. He greeted Maud and the children with a kind of chivalrous +tenderness and intimacy, as though he loved all pretty and tender +things, and took joy in their nearness. He held Alec between his +knees, and played with him while he talked. The children took +possession of him, as if they had known him all their lives. And +yet there was no touch of pose, no consciousness of greatness or +vigour about him. He was as humble, grateful, interested, as though +he were a poor stranger dependent on our bounty. I asked him in a +quiet moment about his work. "No, I am writing nothing," he said +with a smile, "I have said all I have got to say,"--and then with a +sudden humorous flash, "though I believe I should be able to write +more if I could get decent paper and respectable type to print my +work." I ventured to ask if he did not feel any desire to write? +"No," he said, "frankly I do not--the world is so full of pleasant +things to do and hear and see, that I sometimes think myself almost +a fool for having spent so much time in scribbling. Do you know," +he went on, "a delicious story I picked up the other day? A man was +travelling in some God-forsaken out-of-the-way place--I believe it +was the Andes--and he fell in with an old podgy Roman priest who +was going everywhere, in a state of perpetual fatigue, taking long +expeditions every day, and returning worn-out in the evening, but +perfectly content. The man saw a good deal of the priest, and asked +him what he was doing. The priest smiled and said, 'Well, I will +tell you. I had an illness some time ago and believed that I was +going to die. One evening--I was half unconscious--I thought I saw +some one standing by my bed. I looked, and it was a young man with +a beautiful and rather severe face, whom I knew to be an angel, who +was gazing at me rather strangely. I thought it was the messenger +of death, and--for I was wishing to be gone and have done with it +all--I said something to him about being ready to depart--and then +added that I was waiting hopefully to see the joys of Paradise, the +glory of the saints in light. He looked at me rather fixedly, and +said, "I do not know why you should say that, and why you should +expect to take so much pleasure in the beauty of heaven, when you +have taken so little trouble to see anything of the beauty of +earth;" and then he left me; and I reflected that I had always been +doing my work in a dull humdrum way, in the same place all my life; +and I determined that, if I got well, I would go about and see +something of the glory that IS revealed to us, and not expect only +the glory that SHALL BE revealed to us.' It is a fine story," he +went on, "and makes a parable for us writers, who are inclined to +think too much about our work, and disposed to see that it is very +good, like God brooding over the world." He sate for a little, +smiling to himself. And then I plied him with questions about his +writing, how his thoughts came to him how he worked them out. He +told me as if he was talking about some one else, half wondering +that there could be anything to care about. I have heard many +craftsmen talk about their work, but never one who talked with such +detachment. As a rule, writers talk with a secret glee, and with a +deprecating humility that deceives no one; but the great man +talked, not as if he cared to think about it, but because it +happened to interest me. He strolled with me, he lunched; and he +thanked us when he went away with an earnest and humble +thankfulness, as though we had extended our hospitality to an +obscure and unworthy guest. And then his praise of my own books--it +was all so natural; not as if he had come there with fine +compliments prepared, with incense to burn; but speaking about them +as though they were in his mind, and he could not help it. "I read +all you write," he said; "ah, you go deep--you are a lucky fellow, +to be able to see so far and so minutely, and to bring it all home +to our blind souls. He must be a terrible fellow to live with," he +said, smiling at my wife. "It must be like being married to a +doctor, and feeling that he knows so much more about one than one +knows oneself--but he sees what is best and truest, thank God; and +says it with the voice of an angel, speaking softly out of his +golden cloud." + +I can't say what words like these have meant to me; but the visit +itself, the sight of this strong, equable, good-humoured man, with +no feverish ambitions, no hankering after fame or recognition, has +done even more. I have heard it said that he is indolent, that he +has not sufficient sense of responsibility for his gifts. But the +man has done a great work for his generation; he has written poetry +of the purest and finest quality. Is not that enough? I cannot +understand the mere credit we give to work, without any reference +to the object of the work, or the spirit in which it is done. We +think with respect of the man who makes a fortune, or who fills an +official post, the duties of which do nothing in particular for any +one. It is a kind of obsession with us practical Westerners; of +course a man ought to contribute to the necessary work of the +world; but many men spend their lives in work which is not +necessary; and, after all, we are sent into the world to live, and +work is only a part of life. We work to live, we do not live to +work. Even if we were all socialists, we should, I hope, have the +grace to dig the gardens and make the clothes of our poets and +prophets, so as to give them the leisure they need. + +I do not question the instinct of my hero in the matter; he lives +eagerly and peacefully; he touches into light the spirits of those +who draw near to him; and I admire a man who knows how to stop when +he has done his best work, and does not spur and whip his tired +mind into producing feebler, limper, duller work of the same kind; +how few of our great writers have known when to hold their hand! + +God be praised for great men! My poet to-day has made me feel that +life is a thing to be lived eagerly and high-heartedly; that the +world is full of beautiful, generous, kindly things, of free air +and sunshine; and that we ought to find leisure to drink it all in, +and to send our hearts out in search of love and beauty and God-- +for these things are all about us, if we could but feel and hear +and see them. + + + +October 12, 1888. + + +How absurd it is to say that a writer could not write a large, wise, +beautiful book unless he had a great soul--is it almost like saying +that an artist could not paint a fine face unless he had a fine face +himself. It is all a question of seeing clearly, and having a +skilled hand. There is nothing to make one believe that Shakespeare +had a particularly noble or beautiful character; and some of our +greatest writers have been men of unbalanced, childish, immature +temperaments, full of vanity and pettiness. Of course a man must be +interested in what he is describing; but I think that a man of a +naturally great, wise, and lofty spirit is so disposed as a rule to +feel that his qualities are instinctive, and so ready to credit +other people with them, that it does not occur to him to depict +those qualities. I am not sure that the best equipment for an artist +is not that he should see and admire great and noble and beautiful +things, and feel his own deficiency in them acutely, desiring them +with the desire of the moth for the star. The best characters in my +own books have been, I am sure, the people least like myself, +because the creation of a character that one whole-heartedly +admires, and that yet is far out of one's reach, is the most restful +and delightful thing in the world. If one is unready in speech, +thinking of one's epigrams three hours after the occasion for them +has arisen, how pleasant to draw the man who says the neat, witty, +appropriate, consoling thing! If one suffers from timidity, from +meanness, from selfishness, what a delight to depict the man who is +brave, generous, unselfish! Of course the quality of a man's mind +flows into and over his work, but that is rather like the varnish of +the picture than its tints--it is the medium rather than the design. +The artistic creation of ideal situations is often a sort of refuge +to the man who knows that he makes a mess of the beautiful and +simple relations of life. The artist is fastidious and moody, +feeling the pressure of strained nerves and tired faculties, easily +discouraged, disgusted by the superficial defect, the tiny blot that +spoils alike the noble character, the charming prospect, the +attractive face. He sees, let us say, a person with a beautiful face +and an ugly hand. The normal person thinks of the face and forgets +the hand. The artist thinks with pain of the hand and forgets the +face. He desires an impossible perfection, and flies for safety to +the little world that he can make and sway. That is why artists, as +a rule, love twilight hours, shaded rooms, half-tones, subdued +hues, because what is common, staring, tasteless, is blurred and +hidden. Men of rich vitality are generally too much occupied with +life as it is, its richness, its variety, its colour and fragrance, +to think wistfully of life as it might be. The unbridled, sensuous, +luxurious strain, that one finds in so many artists, comes from a +lack of moral temperance, a snatching at delights. They fear +dreariness and ugliness so much that they welcome any intoxication +of pleasure. But after all, it is clearness of vision that makes the +artist, the power of disentangling the central feature from the +surrounding details, the power of subordinating accessories, of +seeing which minister to the innermost impression, and which +distract and blur. An artist who creates a great character need not +necessarily even desire to attain the great qualities which he +discerns; he sees them, as he sees the vertebrae of the mountain +ridge under pasture and woodland, as he sees the structure of the +tree under its mist of green; but to see beauty is not necessarily +to desire it; for, as in the mountain and the tree, it may have no +ethical significance at all, only a symbolical meaning. The best art +is inspired more by an intellectual force than by a vital sympathy. +Of course to succeed as a novelist in England to-day, one must have +a dash of the moralist, because an English audience is far more +preoccupied with moral ideals than with either intellectual or +artistic ideals. The reading public desires that love should be +loyal rather than passionate; it thinks ultimate success a more +impressive thing than ultimate failure; it loves sadness as a +contrast and preface to laughter. It prefers that the patriarch Job +should end by having a nice new family of children and abundant +flocks, rather than that he should sink into death among the ashes, +refusing to curse God for his reverses. Its view of existence after +death is that Dives should join Lazarus in Abraham's bosom. To +succeed, one must compromise with this comfortable feeing, +sacrificing, if needs be, the artistic conscience, because the place +of the minstrel in England is after the banquet, when the warriors +are pleasantly tired, have put off the desire of meat and drink, and +the fire roars and crackles in the hearth. When Ruskin deserted his +clouds and peaks, his sunsets and sunrises, and devoured his soul +over the brutalities and uglinesses and sordid inequalities of life, +it was all put down to the obscure pressure of mental disease. +Ophelia does not sob and struggle in the current, but floats +dreamily to death in a bed of meadow-flowers. + + + +October 21, 1888. + + +Let me try to recollect for my own amusement how it was that my +last book grew up and took shape. How well I remember the day and +the hour when the first thought came to me! Some one was dining +here, and told a story about a friend of his, and an unhappy +misunderstanding between him and a girl whom he loved, or thought +he loved. A figure, two figures, a scene, a conversation, came into +my head, absolutely and perfectly life-like. I lay awake half the +night, I remember, over it. How did those people come to be in +exactly that situation? how would it develop? At first it was just +the scene by itself, nothing more; a room which filled itself with +furniture. There were doors--where did they lead to? There were +windows--where did they look out? The house was full, too, of other +people, whose quiet movements I heard. One person entered the room, +and then another; and so the story opened out. I saw the wrong word +spoken, I saw the mist of doubt and distress that filled the girl's +mind; I felt that I would have given anything to intervene, to +explain; but instead of speaking out, the girl confided in the +wrong person, who had an old grudge against the man, so old that it +had become instinctive and irrational. So the thing evolved itself. +Then at one time the story got entangled and confused. I could go +no further. The characters were by this time upon the scene, but +they could not speak. I then saw that I had made a mistake +somewhere. The scaffolding was all taken down, spar by spar, and +still the defect was not revealed. I must go, I saw, backwards; and +so I felt my way, like a man groping in the dark, into what had +gone before, and suddenly came out into the light. It was a mistake +far back in the conception. I righted it, and the story began to +evolve itself again; this time with a delicate certainty, that made +me feel I was on the track at last. An impressive scene was +sacrificed--it was there that my idea had gone wrong! As to the +writing of it, I cannot say it was an effort. It wrote itself. I +was not creating; I was describing and selecting. There was one +scene in particular, a scene which has been praised by all the +reviewers. How did I invent it? I do not know. I had no idea what +the characters were to say when I began to write it, but one remark +grew inevitably and surely out of the one before. I was never at a +loss; I never stuck fast; indeed the one temptation which I firmly +and constantly resisted was the temptation to write morning, noon, +and night. Sometimes I had a horrible fear that I might not live to +set down what was so clear in my mind; but there is a certain +freshness which comes of self-restraint. Day after day, as I +strolled, and read, and talked, I used to hug myself at the thought +of the beloved evening hours that were coming, when I should fling +myself upon the book with a passionate zest, and feel it grow under +my hand. And then it was done! I remember writing the last words, +and the conviction came upon me that it was the end. There was more +to be told; the story stretched on into the distance; but it was as +though the frame of the picture had suddenly fallen upon the +canvas, and I knew that just so much and no more was to be seen. +And then, as though to show me plainly that the work was over, the +next day came an event which drew my mind off the book. I had had a +period of unclouded health and leisure, everything had combined to +help me, and then this event, of which I need not speak, came and +closed the book at the right moment. + +What wonder if one grows fatalistic about writing; that one feels +that one can only say what is given one to say! And now, dry and +arid as my mind is, I would give all I have for a renewal of that +beautiful glow, which I cannot recover. It is misery--I can +conceive no greater--to be bound hand and foot in this helpless +silence. + + + +November 6, 1888. + + +It is a joy to think of the way in which the best, most beautiful, +most permanent things have stolen unnoticed into life. I like to +think of Wordsworth, an obscure, poor, perverse, absurd man, living +in the corner of the great house at Alfoxden, walking in the +moonlight with Coleridge, living on milk and eggs, utterly +unaccountable and puerile to the sensible man of affairs, while the +two planned the Lyrical Ballads. I like to think of Keats, sitting +lazily and discontentedly in the villa garden at Hampstead, with +his illness growing upon him and his money melting away, scribbling +the "Ode to the Nightingale," and caring so little about the fate +of it that it was only by chance, as it were, that the pencil +scraps were rescued from the book where he had shut them. I love to +think of Charlotte Bronte, in the bare kitchen of the little house +in the grey, wind-swept village on the edge of the moorland, +penning, in sickness and depression, the scenes of Jane Eyre, +without a thought that she was doing anything unusual or lasting. +We surround such scenes with a heavenly halo, born of the afterglow +of fame; we think them romantic, beautiful, thrilled and flushed by +passionate joy; but there was little that was delightful about them +at the time. + +The most beautiful of all such scenes is the tale of the maiden- +wife in the stable at Bethlehem, with the pain and horror and shame +of the tragic experience, in all its squalid publicity, told in +those simple words, which I never hear without a smile that is full +of tears, BECAUSE THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR THEM IN THE INN. We poor +human souls, knowing what that event has meant for the race, make +the bare, ugly place seemly and lovely, surrounding the Babe with a +tapestry of heavenly forms, holy lights, rapturous sounds; taking +the terror and the meanness of the scene away, and thereby, by our +clumsy handling, losing the divine seal of the great mystery, the +fact that hope can spring, in unstained and sublime radiance, from +the vilest, lowest, meanest, noisiest conditions that can well be +conceived. + + + +November 20, 1888. + + +I wonder aimlessly what it is that makes a book, a picture, a piece +of music, a poem, great. When any of these things has become a part +of one's mind and soul, utterly and entirely familiar, one is +tempted to think that the precise form of them is inevitable. That +is a great mistake. + +Here is a tiny instance. I see that in the "Lycidas" Milton wrote:-- + + + "Who would not sing for Lycidas? He WELL knew + Himself to sing and build the lofty rhyme." + + +The word "well" occurs in two MSS., and it seems to have been +struck out in the proof. The introduction of the word seems +barbarous, unmetrical, an outrage on the beauty of the line. Yet +Milton must have thought that it was needed, and have only decided +by an after-thought that it was better away. If it had been printed +so, we should equally have thought its omission barbarous and +inartistic. + +And thus, to an artist, there must be many ways of working out a +conception. I do not believe in the theory that the form is so +inevitable, because what great artist was ever perfectly content +with the form? The greater the artist, the more conscious he +probably is of the imperfection of his work; and if it could be +bettered, how is it then inevitable? It is only our familiarity +with it that gives it inevitableness. A beautiful building gains +its mellow outline by a hundred accidents of wear and weather, +never contemplated by the designer's mind. We love it so, we would +not have it otherwise; but we should have loved it just as +intensely if it had been otherwise. Only a small part, then, of the +greatness of artistic work is what we ourselves bring to it; and it +becomes great, not only from itself, but from the fact that it fits +our minds as the dagger fits the sheath. The greatness of a +conception depends largely upon its being near enough to our own +conceptions, and yet a little greater, just as the vault of a great +church gives one a larger sense of immensity than the sky with its +sailing clouds. Indeed it is often the very minuteness of a +conception rather than its vastness that makes it great. It must +not be outside our range. As to the form, it depends upon some +curious felicity of hand, and touch, and thought. Suppose that a +great painter gave a rough pencil-sketch of a picture to a hundred +students, and told them all to work it out in colour. Some few of +the results would be beautiful, the majority would be still +uninteresting and tame. + +Thus I am somewhat of a fatalist about art, because it seems to +depend upon a lucky union of conception and technical instinct. The +saddest proof of which is that many good and even great artists +have not improved in greatness as their skill improved. The +youthful works of genius are generally the best, their very +crudities and stiffnesses adorable. + +The history of art and literature alike seems to point to the fact +that each artistic soul has a flowering period, which generally +comes early, rarely comes late; and therefore the supreme artist +ought also to know when the bloom is over, when his good work is +done. And then, I think, he ought to be ready to abjure his art, to +drown his book, like Prospero, and set himself to live rather than +to produce. But what a sacrifice to demand of a man, and how few +attain it! Most men cannot do without their work, and go on to the +end producing more feeble, more tired, more mannerised work, till +they cloud the beauty of their prime by masses of inferior and +uninspired production. + + + +November 24, 1888. + + +Soft wintry skies, touched with faintest gleams of colour, like a +dove's wing, blue plains and heights, over the nearer woodland; +everywhere fallen rotting leaf and oozy water-channel; everything, +tint and form, restrained, austere, delicate; nature asleep and +breathing gently in the cool airs; a tranquil and sober hopefulness +abroad. + +I walked alone in deep woodland lanes, content for once to rest and +dream. The country seemed absolutely deserted; such labour as was +going forward was being done in barn and byre; beasts being fed, +hurdles made. + +I passed in a solitary road a draggled ugly woman, a tramp, +wheeling an old perambulator full of dingy clothes and sordid odds +and ends; she looked at me sullenly and suspiciously. Where she was +going God knows: to camp, I suppose, in some dingle, with ugly +company; to beg, to lie, to purloin, perhaps to drink; but by the +perambulator walked a little boy, seven or eight years old, +grotesquely clothed in patched and clumsy garments; he held on to +the rim, dirty, unkempt; but he was happy too; he was with his +mother, of whom he had no fear; he had been fed as the birds are +fed; he had no anxious thoughts of the future, and as he went, he +crooned to himself a soft song, like the piping of a finch in a +wayside thicket. What was in his tiny mind and heart? I do not +know; but perhaps a little touch of the peace of God. + + + +November 26, 1888. + + +Another visitor! I am not sure that his visit is not a more +distinguished testimonial than any I have yet received. He is a +young Don with a very brilliant record indeed. He wrote to ask if +he might have the honour of calling, and renewing a very slight +acquaintance. He came and conquered. I am still crushed and +battered by his visit. I feel like a land that has been harried by +an invading army. Let me see if, dizzy and unmanned as I am, I call +recall some of the incidents of his visit. He has only been gone an +hour, yet I feel as though a month had elapsed since he entered the +room, since I was a moderately happy man. He is a very pleasant +fellow to look at, small, trim, well-appointed, courteous, +friendly, with a deferential air. His eyes gleam brightly through +his glasses, and he has brisk dexterous gestures. He was genial +enough till he settled down upon literature, and since then what +waves and storms have gone over me! I have or had a grovelling +taste for books; I possess a large number, and I thought I had read +them. But I feel now, not so much as if I had read the wrong ones, +but as if those I had read were only, so to speak, the anterooms +and corridors which led to the really important books--and of them, +it seems, I know nothing. Epigrams flowed from his tongue, +brilliant characterisations, admirable judgments. He had "placed" +every one, and literature to him seemed like a great mosaic in +which he knew the position of every cube. He knew all the movements +and tendencies of literature, and books seemed to him to be +important, not because they had a message for the mind and heart, +but because they illustrated a tendency, or were a connecting link +in a chain. He quoted poems I had never heard of, he named authors +I had never read. He did it all modestly and quietly enough, with +no parade, (I want to do him full justice) but with an evidently +growing disappointment to find that he had fallen among savages. I +am sure that his conclusion was that authors of popular novels were +very shallow, ill-informed people, and I am sure I wholly agreed +with him. Good heavens, what a mind the man had, how stored with +knowledge! how admirably equipped! Nothing that he had ever put +away in his memory seemed to have lost its colour or outline; and +he knew, moreover, how to lay his hand upon everything. Indeed, it +seemed to me that his mind was like an emporium, with everything in +the world arranged on shelves, all new and varnished and bright, +and that he knew precisely the place of everything. I became the +prey of hopeless depression; when I tried to join in, I confused +writers and dates; he set me right, not patronisingly but +paternally. "Ah, but you will remember," he said, and "Yes, but we +must not overlook the fact that"--adding, with admirable humility, +"Of course these are small points, but it is my business to know +them." Now I find myself wondering why I disliked knowledge, +communicated thus, so much as I did. It may be envy and jealousy, +it may be humiliation and despair. But I do not honestly think that +it is. I am quite sure I do not want to possess that kind of +knowledge. It is the very sharpness and clearness of outline about +it all that I dislike. The things that he knows have not become +part of his mind in any way: they are stored away there, like +walnuts; and I feel that I have been pelted with walnuts, deluged +and buried in walnuts. The things which my visitor knows have +undergone no change, they have not been fused and blended by his +personality; they have not affected his mind, nor has his mind +affected them. I don't wish to despise or to decry his knowledge; +as a lecturer, he must be invaluable; but he treats literature as a +purveyor might--it has not been food to him, but material and +stock-in-trade. Some of the poetry we talked about--Elizabethan +lyrics--grow in my mind like flowers in a copse; in his mind they +are planted in rows, with their botanical names on tickets. The +worst of it is that I do not even feel encouraged to fill up my +gaps of knowledge, or to master the history of tendency. I feel as +if he had rather trampled down the hyacinths and anemones in my +wild and uncultivated woodlands. I should like, in a dim way, to +have his knowledge as well as my own appreciation, but I would not +exchange my knowledge for his. The value of a lyric or a beautiful +sentence, for me, is its melody, its charm, its mysterious thrill; +and there are many books and poems, which I know to be excellent of +their kind, but which have no meaning or message for me. He seems +to think that it is important to have complete texts of old +authors, and I do not think that he makes much distinction between +first-rate and second-rate work. In fact, I think that his view of +literature is the sociological view, and he seems to care more +about tendencies and influences than about the beauty and appeal of +literature. I do not go so far as to say or to think that +literature cannot be treated scientifically; but I feel as I feel +about the doctor in Balzac, I think, who, when his wife cried upon +his shoulder, said, "Hold, I have analysed tears," adding that they +contained so much chlorate of sodium and so much mucus. The truth +is that he is a philosopher, and that I am an individualist; but it +leaves me with an intense desire to be left alone in my woodland, +or, at all events, not to walk there with a ruthless botanist! + + + +November 29, 1888. + + +I have heard this morning of the suicide of an old friend. Is it +strange to say that I have heard the news with an unfeigned relief, +even gladness? He was formerly a charming and brilliant creature, +full of enthusiasm and artistic impulses, fitful, wayward, wilful. +Somehow he missed his footing; he fell into disreputable courses; +he did nothing, but drifted about, planning many things, executing +nothing. The last time I saw him was exquisitely painful; we met by +appointment, and I could see that he had tried to screw himself up +for the interview by stimulants. The ghastly feigning of +cheerfulness, the bloated face, the trembling hands, told the sad +tale. And now that it is all over, the shame and the decay, the +horror of his having died by his own act is a purely conventional +one. One talks pompously about the selfishness of it, but it is one +of the most unselfish things poor Dick has ever done; he was a +burden and a misery to all those who cared for him. Recovery was, I +sincerely believe, impossible. His was a fine, uplifted, even noble +spirit in youth, but there were terrible hereditary influences at +work, and I cannot honestly say that I think he was wholly +responsible for his sins. If I could think that this act was done +reasonably, in a solemn and recollected spirit, and was not a mere +frightened scurrying out of life, I should be, I believe, wholly +glad. I do not see that any one had anything to gain by his +continuing to live; and if reason is given us to use, to guide our +actions by, it seems to me that we do right to obey it. Suicide +may, of course, be a selfish and a cowardly thing, but the instinct +of self-preservation is so strong that a man must always manifest a +certain courage in making such a decision. The sacrifice of one's +own life is not necessarily and absolutely an immoral thing, +because it is always held to be justified if one's motive is to +save another. It is purely, I believe, a question of motive; +whatever poor Dick's motives were, it was certainly the kindest and +bravest thing that he could do; and I look upon his life as having +been as naturally ended as if he had died of disease or by an +accident. There is not a single one of his friends who would not +have been thankful if he had died in the course of nature; and I +for one am even more thankful as it is, because it seems to me that +his act testifies to some tenderness, some consideration for +others, as well as to a degree of resolution with which I had not +credited him. + +Of course such a thing deepens the mystery of the world; but such +an act as this is not to me half as mysterious as the action of an +omnipotent Power which allowed so bright and gracious a creature as +Dick was long ago to drift into ugly, sordid, and irreparable +misery. Yet it seems to me now that Dick has at last trusted God +completely, made the last surrender, and put his miserable case in +the Father's hands. + + + +December 2, 1888. + + +As I came home to-night, moving slowly westward along deserted +roads, among wide and solitary fields, in the frosty twilight, I +passed a great pale fallow, in the far corner of which, beside a +willow-shaded stream, a great heap of weeds was burning, tended by +a single lonely figure raking in the smouldering pile. A dense +column of thick smoke came volleying from the heap, that went +softly and silently up into the orange-tinted sky; some forty feet +higher the smoke was caught by a moving current of air; much of it +ascended higher still, but the thin streak of moving wind caught +and drew out upon itself a long weft of aerial vapour, that showed +a delicate blue against the rose-flushed west. The long lines of +leafless trees, the faint outlines of the low distant hills, seemed +wrapped in meditative silence, dreaming wistfully, as the earth +turned her broad shoulder to the night, and as the forlorn and +chilly sunset faded by soft degrees on the horizon. As the day thus +died, the frost made itself felt, touching the hedgerows with rime, +and crisping the damp road beneath my feet. The end drew on with a +mournful solemnity; but the death of the light seemed a perfectly +natural and beautiful thing, not an event to be grieved over or +regretted, but all part of a sweet and grave progress, in which +silence and darkness seemed, not an interruption to the eager life +of the world, but a happy suspension of activity and life. I was +haunted, as I often am at sunset, by a sense that the dying light +was trying to show me some august secret, some gracious mystery, +which would silence and sustain the soul could it but capture it. +Some great and wonderful presence seemed to hold up a hand, with a +gesture half of invitation, half of compassion for my blindness. +Down there, beyond the lines of motionless trees, where the water +gleamed golden in the reaches of the stream, the secret brooded, +withdrawing itself resistlessly into the glowing west. A wistful +yearning filled my soul to enter into that incommunicable peace. +Yet if one could take the wings of the morning, and follow that +flying zone of light, as swiftly as the air, one could pursue the +same sunset all the world over, and see the fiery face of the sun +ever sinking to his setting, over the broad furrows of moving seas, +over tangled tropic forests, out to the shapeless wintry land of +the south. Day by day has the same pageant enacted itself, for who +can tell what millions of years. And in that vast perspective of +weltering aeons has come the day when God has set me here, a tiny +sentient point, conscious, in a sense, of it all, and conscious too +that, long after I sleep in the dust, the same strange and +beautiful thing will be displayed age after age. And yet it is all +outside of me, all without. I am a part of it, yet with no sense of +my unity with it. That is the marvellous and bewildering thing, +that each tiny being like myself has the same sense of isolation, +of distinctness, of the perfectly rounded life, complete faculties, +independent existence. Another day is done, and leaves me as +bewildered, as ignorant as ever, as aware of my small limitations, +as lonely and uncomforted. + +Who shall show me why I love, with this deep and thirsty intensity, +the array of gold and silver light, these mist-hung fields with +their soft tints, the glow that flies and fades, the cold veils of +frosty vapour? Thousands of men and women have seen the sunset +pass, loving it even as I love it. They have gone into the silence +as I too shall go, and no hint comes back as to whether they +understand and are satisfied. + +And now I turn in at the well-known gate, and see the dark gables +of my house, with the high elms of the grove outlined against the +pale sky. The cheerful windows sparkle with warmth and light, +welcoming me, fresh from the chilly air, out of the homeless +fields. With such array of cheerful usages I beguile my wondering +heart, and chase away the wild insistent thoughts, the deep +yearnings that thrill me. Thus am I bidden to desire and to be +unsatisfied, to rest and marvel not, to stay, on this unsubstantial +show of peace and security, the aching and wondering will. + + + +December 4, 1888. + + +Writing, like music, ought to have two dimensions--a horizontal +movement of melody, a perpendicular depth of tone. A person +unskilled in music can only recognise a single horizontal movement, +an air. One who is a little more skilled can recognise the +composition of a chord. A real musician can read a score +horizontally, with all its contrasting and combining melodies. +Sometimes one gets, in writing, a piece of horizontal structure, a +firm and majestic melody, with but little harmony. Such are the +great spare, strong stories of the old world. Modern writing tends +to lay much more emphasis upon depth of colour, and the danger +there is that such writing may become a mere structureless +modulation, The perfect combination is to get firm structure, +sparingly and economically enriched by colour, but colour always +subordinated to structure. When I was young I undervalued structure +and overvalued colour; but it was a good training in a way, because +I learned to appreciate the vital necessity of structure, and I +learnt the command of harmony. What is it that gives structure? It +is firm and clear intellectual conception, the grasp of form and +proportion; while colour is given by depth and richness of +personality, by power of perception, and still more by the power of +fusing perception with personality. The important thing here is +that the thing perceived and felt should not simply be registered +and pigeon-holed, but that it should become a cell of the writer's +soul, respond to his pulse, be animated by his vital forces. + +Now, in my present state, I have lost my hold on melody in some way +or other; my creative intellectual power has struck work; and when +I try to exercise it, I can only produce vague textures of +modulated thoughts--things melodious in themselves, but ineffective +because they are isolated effects, instead of effects emphasising +points, crises, climaxes. I have strained some mental muscle, I +suppose; but the unhappy part of the situation is that I have not +lost the desire to use it. + +It would be a piece of good fortune for me now if I could fall in +with some vigorous mind who could give me a lead, indicate a +subject. But then the work that resulted would miss unity, I think. +What I ought to be content to do is to garner more impressions; but +I seem to be surfeited of impressions. + + + +December 10, 1888. + + +To-day I stumbled upon one of my old childish books--Grimm's +Household Stories. I am ashamed to say how long I read it. These +old tales, which I used to read as transcripts of marvellous and +ancient facts, have, many of them, gained for me, through +experience of life, a beautiful and symbolical value; one in +particular, the tale of Karl Katz. + +Karl used to feed his goats in the ruins of an old castle, high up +above the stream. Day after day one of his herd used to disappear, +coming back in the evening to join the homeward procession, very +fat and well-liking. So Karl set himself to watch, and saw that the +goat slipped in at a hole in the masonry. He enlarged the hole, and +presently was able to creep into a dark passage. He made his way +along, and soon heard a sound like a falling hailstorm. He groped +his way thither, and found the goat, in the dim light, feeding on +grains of corn which came splashing down from above. He looked and +listened, and, from the sounds of stamping and neighing overhead, +he became aware that the grain was failing through the chinks of a +paved floor from a stable inside the hill. I forget at this moment +what happened next--the story is rich in inconsequent details--but +Karl shortly heard a sound like thunder, which he discerned at last +to be persons laughing and shouting and running in the vaulted +passages. He stole on, and found, in an open, grassy place, great +merry men playing at bowls. He was welcomed and set down in a +chair, though he could not even lift one of the bowls when invited +to join in the game. A dwarf brought him wine in a cup, which he +drank, and presently he fell asleep. + +When he woke, all was silent and still; he made his way back; the +goats were gone, and it was the early morning, all misty and dewy +among the ruins, when he squeezed out of the hole. + +He felt strangely haggard and tired, and reached the village only +to find that seventy years had elapsed, and that he was an old and +forgotten man, with no place for him. He had lost his home, and +though there were one or two old grandfathers, spent and dying, who +remembered the day when he was lost, and the search made for him, +yet now there was no room for the old man. The gap had filled up, +life had flowed on. They had grieved for him, but they did not want +him back. He disturbed their arrangements; he was another useless +mouth to feed. + +The pretty old story is full of parables, sad and sweet. But the +kernel of the tale is a warning to all who, for any wilfulness or +curiosity, however romantic or alluring the quest, forfeit their +place for an instant in the world. You cannot return. Life +accommodates itself to its losses, and however sincerely a man may +be lamented, yet if he returns, if he tries to claim his place, he +is in the way, de trop. No one has need of him. + +An artist has most need of this warning, because he of all men is +tempted to enter the dark place in the hill, to see wonderful +things and to drink the oblivious wine. Let him rather keep his +hold on the world, at whatever sacrifice. Because by the time that +he has explored the home of the merry giants, and dreamed his +dream, the world to which he tries to tell the vision will heed it +not, but treat it as a fanciful tale. + +All depends on the artist being in league with his day; if he is +born too early or too late, he has no hold on the world, no message +for it. Either he is a voice out of the past, an echo of old joys, +piping a forgotten message, or he is fanciful, unreal, visionary, +if he sees and tries to utter what shall be. By the time that +events confirm his foresight, the vitality of his prophecy is gone, +and he is only looked at with a curious admiration, as one that had +a certain clearness of vision, but no more; he is called into court +by the historian of tendency, but he has had no hold on living men. + +One sees men of great artistic gifts who suffer from each of these +disadvantages. One sees poets, born in a prosaic age, who would +have won high fame if they had been born in an age of poets. And +one sees, too, men who seem to struggle with big, unintelligible +thoughts, thoughts which do not seem to fit on to anything +existing. The happy artist is the man who touches the note which +awakens a responsive echo in many hearts; the man who instinctively +uses the medium of the time, and who neither regrets the old nor +portends the new. + +Karl Katz must content himself, if he can find a corner and a +crust, with the memory of the day when the sun lay hot among the +ruins, with the thought of the pleasant coolness of the vault, the +leaping shower of corn, the thunder of the imprisoned feet, the +heroic players, the heady wine. That must be enough for him. He has +had a taste, let him remember, of marvels hidden from common eyes +and ears. Let it be for him to muse in the sun, and to be grateful +for the space of recollection given him. If he had lived the life +of the world, he would but have had a treasure of simple memories, +much that was sordid, much that was sad. + +But now he has his own dreams, and he must pay the price in +heaviness and dreariness! + + + +December 14, 1888. + + +The danger of art as an occupation is that one uses life, looks at +life, as so much material for one's art. Life becomes a province of +art, instead of art being a province of life. That is all a sad +mistake, perhaps an irreparable mistake! I walked to-day on the +crisp frozen snow, down the valley, by field-paths, among leafless +copses and wood-ends. The stream ran dark and cold, between its +brambly banks; the snow lay pure and smooth on the high-sloping +fields. It made a heart of whiteness in the covert, the trees all +delicately outlined, the hazels weaving an intricate pattern. All +perfectly and exquisitely beautiful. Sight after sight of subtle +and mysterious beauty, vignette after vignette, picture after +picture. If I could but sing it, or say it, depict or record it, I +thought to myself! Yet I could not analyse what the desire was. I +do not think I wished to interpret the sight to others, or even to +capture it for myself. No matter at what season of the year I pass +through the valley, it is always filled from end to end with +beauty, ever changing, perishing, ever renewing itself. In spring +the copse is full of tender points of green, uncrumpling and +uncurling. The hyacinths make a carpet of steely blue, the anemones +weave their starred tapestry. In the summer, the grove hides its +secret, dense with leaf, the heavy-seeded grass rises in the field, +the tall flowering plants make airy mounds of colour; in autumn, +the woods blaze with orange and gold, the air is heavy with the +scent of the dying leaf. In winter, the eye dwells with delight +upon the spare low tints; and when the snow falls and lies, as it +does to-day, the whole scene has a still and mournful beauty, a +pure economy of contrasted light and gloom. Yet the trained +perception of the artist does not dwell upon the thought of the +place as upon a perpetual feast of beauty and delight. Rather, it +shames me to reflect, one dwells upon it as a quarry of effects, +where one can find and detach the note of background, the sweet +symbol that will lend point and significance to the scene that one +is labouring at. Instead of being content to gaze, to listen, to +drink in, one thinks only what one can carry away and make one's +own. If one's art were purely altruistic, if one's aim were to +emphasise some sweet aspect of nature which the careless might +otherwise overlook or despise; or even if the sight haunted one +like a passion, and fed the heart with hope and love, it would be +well. But does one in reality feel either of these purposes? +Speaking candidly, I do not. I care very little for my message to +the world. It is true that I have a deep and tender love for the +gracious things of earth; but I cannot be content with that. One +thinks of Wordsworth, rapt in contemplation, sitting silent for a +whole morning, his eyes fixed upon the pool of the moorland stream, +or the precipice with the climbing ashes. It was like a religion to +him, a communion with something holy and august which in that +moment drew near to his soul. But with me it is different. To me +the passion is to express it, to embalm it, in phrase or word, not +for my pride in my art, not for any desire to give the treasure to +others, but simply, so it seems, in obedience to a tyrannous +instinct to lend the thought, the sight, another shape. I despair +of defining the feeling. It is partly a desire to arrest the +fleeting moment, to give it permanence in the ruinous lapse of +things, the same feeling that made old Herrick say to the +daffodils, "We weep to see you haste away so soon." Partly the joy +of the craftsman in making something that shall please the eye and +ear. It is not the desire to create, as some say, but to record. +For when one writes an impassioned scene, it seems no more an act +of creation than one feels about one's dreams. The wonder of dreams +is that one does not make them; they come upon one with all the +pleasure of surprise and experience. They are there; and so, when +one indulges imagination, one does not make, one merely tells the +dream. It is this that makes art so strange and sad an occupation, +that one lives in a beautiful world, which does not seem to be of +one's own designing, but from which one is awakened, in terror and +disgust, by bodily pain, discomfort, anxiety, loss. Yet it seems +useless to say that life is real and imagination unreal. They are +both there, both real. The danger is to use life to feed the +imagination, not to use imagination to feed life. In these sad +weeks I have been like a sleeper awakened. The world of +imagination, in which I have lived and moved, has crumbled into +pieces over my head; the wind and rain beat through the flimsy +dwelling, and I must arise and go. I have sported with life as +though it were a pretty plaything; and I find it turn upon me like +a wild beast, gaunt, hungry, angry. I am terrified by its evil +motions, I sicken at its odour. That is the deep mystery and horror +of life, that one yields unerringly to blind and imperious +instincts, not knowing which may lead us into green and fertile +pastures of hope and happy labour, and which may draw us into +thorny wildernesses. The old fables are true, that one must not +trust the smiling presences, the beguiling words. Yet how is one to +know which of the forms that beckon us we may trust. Must we learn +the lesson by sad betrayals, by dark catastrophes? I have wandered, +it seems, along a flowery path--and yet I have not gathered the +poisonous herbs of sin; I have loved innocence and goodness; but +for all that I have followed a phantom, and now that it is too late +to retrace my steps, I find that I have been betrayed. I feel + + + "As some bold seer in a trance + Seeing all his own mischance." + + +Well, at least one may still be bold! + + + +December 22, 1888. + + +Perhaps my trial comes to me that it may test my faith in art; +perhaps to show me that the artist's creed is a false and shallow +one after all. What is it that we artists do? In a happy hour I +should have said glibly that we discern and interpret beauty. But +now it seems to me that no man can ever live upon beauty. I think I +have gone wrong in busying myself so ardently in trying to discern +the quality of beauty in all things. I seem to have submitted +everything--virtue, honour, life itself--to that test. I appear to +myself like an artist who has devoted himself entirely to the +appreciation of colour, who is suddenly struck colour-blind; he +sees the forms of things as clearly as ever, but they are dreary +and meaningless. I seem to have tried everything, even conduct, by +an artistic standard, and the quality which I have devoted myself +to discerning has passed suddenly out of life. And my mistake has +been all the more grievous, because I have always believed that it +was life of which I was in search. There are three great writers-- +two of them artists as well--whose personality has always +interested me profoundly--Ruskin, Carlyle, Rossetti. But I have +never been able wholly to admire the formal and deliberate products +of their minds. Ruskin as an art-critic--how profoundly unfair, +prejudiced, unjust he is! He has made up his mind about the merit +of an artist; he will lay down a principle about accuracy in art, +and to what extent imagination may improve upon vision; and then he +will abuse Claude for modifying a scene, in the same breath, and +for the same reasons, with which he will praise Turner for +exaggerating one. He will use the same stick that he throws for one +dog to fetch, to beat another dog that he dislikes. Of course he +says fine and suggestive things by the way, and he did a great work +in inspiring people to look for beauty, though he misled many +feeble spirits into substituting one convention for another. I +cannot read a page of his formal writings without anger and +disgust. Yet what a beautiful, pathetic, noble spirit he had! The +moment he writes, simply and tenderly, from his own harrowed heart, +he becomes a dear and honoured friend. In Praeterita, in his diaries +and letters, in his familiar and unconsidered utterances, he is +perfectly delightful, conscious of his own waywardness and +whimsicality; but when he lectures and dictates, he is like a man +blowing wild blasts upon a shrill trumpet. Then Carlyle--his big +books, his great tawdry, smoky pictures of scenes, his loud and +clumsy moralisations, his perpetual thrusting of himself into the +foreground, like some obstreperous showman; he wearies and dizzies +my brain with his raucous clamour, his uncouth convolutions. I saw +the other day a little Japanese picture of a boat in a stormy sea, +the waves beating over it; three warriors in the boat lie prostrate +and rigid with terror and misery. Above, through a rent in the +clouds, is visible an ugly grotesque figure, with a demoniacal leer +on his face, beating upon a number of drums. The picture is +entitled "The Thunder-God beats his drums." Well, Carlyle seems to +me like that; he has no pity for humanity, he only likes to add to +its terrors and its bewilderment. He preached silence and seclusion +to men of activity, energy to men of contemplation. He was furious, +whatever humanity did, whether it slept or waked. His message is +the message of the booming gale, and the swollen cataract. Yet in +his diaries and letters, what splendid perception, what inimitable +humour, what rugged emotion! I declare that Carlyle's thumbnail +portraits of people and scenes are some of the most admirable +things ever set down on paper. I love and admire the old furious, +disconsolate, selfish fellow with all my heart; though he was a bad +husband, he was a true friend, for all his discordant cries and +groans. Then there is Rossetti--a man who wrote a few incredibly +beautiful poems, and in whom one seems to feel the inner fire and +glow of art. Yet many of his pictures are to me little but +voluptuous and wicked dreams; and his later sonnets are full of +poisonous fragrance--poetry embroidered and scented, not poetry +felt. What a generous, royal prodigal nature he had, till he sank +into his drugged and indulgent seclusion! Here then are three great +souls. Ruskin, the pure lover of things noble and beautiful, but +shadowed by a prim perversity, an old-maidish delicacy, a petulant +despair. Carlyle, a great, rugged, and tumultuous heart, brutalised +by ill-health, morbidity, selfishness. Rossetti, a sort of day-star +in art, stepping forth like an angel, to fall lower than Lucifer. +What is the meaning of these strange catastrophes, these noble +natures so infamously hampered? In the three cases, it seems to be +that melancholy, brooding over a world, so exquisitely designed and +yet so unaccountably marred, drove one to madness, one to gloom, +one to sensuality. We believe or try to believe that God is pure +and loving and true, and that His Heart is with all that is noble +and hopeful and high. Yet the more generous the character, the +deeper is the fall! Can such things be meant to show us that we +have no concern with art at all; and that our only hope is to cling +to bare, austere, simple, uncomforted virtue? Ought we to try to +think of art only as an innocent amusement and diversion for our +leisure hours? As a quest to which no man may vow himself, save at +the cost of walking in a vain shadow all his days? Ought we to +steel our hearts against the temptation, which seems to be +implanted as deep as anything in my own nature--nay, deeper--to +hold that what one calls ugliness and bad taste is of the nature of +sin? But what then is the meaning of the tyrannous instinct to +select and to represent, to capture beauty? Ought it to be enough +to see beauty in the things around us, in flowers and light, to +hear it in the bird's song and the falling stream--to perceive it +thus gratefully and thankfully, and to go back to our simple lives? +I do not know; it is all a great mystery; it is so hard to believe +that God should put these ardent, delicious, sweet, and solemn +instincts into our spirits, simply that we may learn our error in +following them. And yet I feel with a sad certainty to-day that I +have somehow missed the way, and that God cannot or will not help +me to find it. Are we then bidden and driven to wander? Or is there +indeed some deep and perfect secret of peace and tranquillity, +which we are meant to find? Does it perhaps lie open to our eyes-- +as when one searches a table over and over for some familiar +object, which all the while is there before us, plain to touch or +sight? + + + +January 3, 1889. + + +There is a tiny vignette of Blake's, a woodcut, I think, in which +one sees a ladder set up to the crescent moon from a bald and bare +corner of the globe. There are two figures that seem to be +conversing together; on the ladder itself, just setting his foot to +the lowest rung, is the figure of a man who is beginning to climb +in a furious hurry. "I want, I want," says the little legend +beneath. The execution is trivial enough; it is all done, and not +very well done, in a space not much bigger than a postage-stamp-- +but it is one of the many cases in which Blake, by a minute symbol, +expressed a large idea. One wonders if he knew how large an idea it +was. It is a symbol for me of all the vague, eager, intense longing +of the world, the desire of satisfaction, of peace, of fulfilment, +of perfection; the power that makes people passionately religious, +that makes souls so much greater and stronger than they appear to +themselves to be. It is the thought that makes us at moments +believe intensely and urgently in the justice, the mercy, the +perfect love of God, even at moments when everything round us +appears to contradict the idea. It is the outcome of that strange +right to happiness which we all feel, the instinct that makes us +believe of pain and grief that they are abnormal, and will be, must +be, set right and explained somewhere. The thought comes to me most +poignantly at sunset, when trees and chimneys stand up dark against +the fiery glow, and when the further landscape lies smiling, lapt +in mist, on the verge of dreams; that moment always seems to speak +to me with a personal voice. "Yes," it seems to say, "I am here and +everywhere--larger, sweeter, truer, more gracious than anything you +have ever dreamed of or hoped for--but the time to know all is not +yet." I cannot explain the feeling or interpret it; but it has +sometimes seemed to me, in such moments, that I am, in very truth, +not a child of God, but a part of Himself--separated from Him for a +season, imprisoned, for some strange and beautiful purpose, in the +chains of matter, remembering faintly and obscurely something that +I have lost, as a man strives to recall a beautiful dream that has +visited him. It is then that one most desires to be strong and +free, to be infinitely patient and tender and loving, to be +different. And then one comes back to the world with a sense of jar +and shock, to broken purposes, and dull resentments, to unkindly +thoughts, and people who do not even pretend to wish one well. I +have been trying with all my might in these desolate weeks to be +brave and affectionate and tender, and I have not succeeded. It is +easy enough, when one is happily occupied for a part of the day, +but when one is restless, dissatisfied, impatient, ineffective, it +is a constant and a weary effort. And what is more, I dislike +sympathy. I would rather bear a thing in solitude and silence. I +have no self-pity, and it is humiliating and weakening to be +pitied. Yet of course Maud knows that I am unhappy; and the +wretchedness of it is that it has introduced a strain into our +relations which I have never felt before. I sit reading, trying to +pass the hours, trying to stifle thought. I look up and see her +eyes fixed on me full of compassion and love--and I do not want +compassion. Maud knows it, divines it all; but she can no more keep +her compassion hidden than I can keep my unrest hidden. I have +grown irritable, suspicious, hard to live with. Yet with all my +heart and soul I desire to be patient, tolerant, kindly, sweet- +tempered. FitzGerald said somewhere that ill-health makes all of us +villains. This is the worst of it, that for all my efforts I get +weaker, more easily vexed, more discontented. I do not and cannot +trace the smallest benefit which results to me or any one else from +my unhappiness. The shadow of it has even fallen over my relations +with the children, who are angelically good. Maggie, with that +divine instinct which women possess--what a perfectly beautiful +thing it is!--has somehow contrived to discern that things are +amiss with me, and I can perceive that she tries all that her +little heart and mind can devise to please, soothe, interest me. +But I do not want to be ministered to, exquisite as the instinct is +in the child; and all the time I am as far off my object as ever. I +cannot work, I cannot think. I have said fine things in my books +about the discipline of reluctant suffering; and now my feeling is +that I could bear any other kind of trial better. It seems to be +given to me with an almost demoniacal prescience of what should +most dishearten me. + + + "It would not school the shuddering will + To patience, were it sweet to bear," + + +says an old poet; and it is true, I have no doubt; but, good God, +to think that a man, so richly dowered as I am with every +conceivable blessing, should yet have so small a reserve of faith +and patience! Even now I can frame epigrams about it. "To learn to +be content not to be content"--that is the secret--but meanwhile I +stumble in dark paths, through the grove nullo penetrabilis astro, +where men have wandered before now. It seems fine and romantic +enough, when one thinks of another soul in torment. One remembers +the old sage, reading quietly at a sunset hour, who had a sudden +vision of the fate that should befall him. His book falls from his +hands, he sits there, a beautiful and venerable figure enough, +staring heavily into the void. It makes me feel that I shall never +dare to draw the picture of a man in the grip of suffering again; I +have had so little of it in my life, and I have drawn it with a +luxurious artistic emotion. I remember once saying of a friend that +his work was light and trivial, because he had never descended into +hell. Now that I have myself set foot there, I feel art and love, +and life itself, shrivel in the relentless chill--for it is icy +cold and drearily bright in hell, not dark and fiery, as poets have +sung! I feel that I could wrestle better with the loss of health, +of wealth, of love, for there would be something to bear, some +burden to lift. Now there is nothing to bear, except a blank +purposelessness which eats the heart out of me. I am in the lowest +place, in the darkness and the deep. + + + +January 8, 1889. + + +Snow underfoot this morning; and a brown blink on the horizon which +shows that more is coming. I have the odd feeling that I have never +really seen my house before, the snow lights it all up so +strangely, tinting the ceilings a glowing white, touching up high +lights on the top of picture-frames, and throwing the lower part of +the rooms into a sort of pleasant dusk. + +Maud and the children went off this afternoon to an entertainment. +I accompanied them to the door; what a pretty effect the snow +background gives to young faces; it lends a pretty morbidezza to +the colouring, a sort of very delicate green tinge to the paler +shades. That does not sound as if it would be beautiful in a human +face, but it is; the faces look like the child-angels of +Botticelli, and the pink and rose flush of the cheeks is softly +enriched and subdued; and then the soft warmth of fair and curly +hair is delicious. I was happy enough with them, in a sort of +surface happiness. The little waves at the top of the mind broke in +sunlight; but down below, the cold dark water sleeps still enough. +I left them, and took a long trudge among the valleys. Oh me! how +beautiful it all was; the snowy fields, with the dark copses and +leafless trees among them; the rich clean light everywhere, the +world seen as through a dusky crystal. Then the sun went down in +state, and the orange sky through the dark tree-stems brought me a +thrill of that strange yearning desire for something--I cannot tell +what--that seems so near and yet so far away. Yet I was sad enough +too; my mind works like a mill with no corn to grind. I can devise +nothing, think of nothing. There beats in my head a verse of a +little old Latin poem, by an unhappy man enough, in whose sorrowful +soul the delight of the beautiful moment was for ever poisoned by +the thought that it was passing, passing; and that the spirit, +whatever joy might be in store for it, could never again be at the +same sweet point of its course. The poem is about a woodcock, a +belated bird that haunted the hanging thickets of his Devonshire +home. "Ah, hapless bird," he says, "for you to-day King December is +stripping these oaks; nor any hope of food do the hazel-thickets +afford." That is my case. I have lingered too late, trusting to the +ease and prodigal wealth of the summer, and now the woods stand +bare about me, while my comrades have taken wing for the South. The +beady eye, the puffed feathers grow sick and dulled with hunger. +Why cannot I rest a little in the beauty all about me? Take it home +to my shivering soul? Nay, I will not complain, even to myself. + +I came back at sundown, through the silent garden, all shrouded and +muffled with snow. The snow lay on the house, outlining the +cornices, cresting the roof-tiles, crusted sharply on the cupola, +whitening the tall chimney-stacks. The comfortable smoke went up +into the still air, and the firelight darted in the rooms. What a +sense of beautiful permanence, sweet hopefulness, fireside warmth +it all gave; and it is real as well. No life that I could have +devised is so rich in love and tranquillity as mine; everything to +give me content, except the contented mind. Why cannot I enter, +seat myself in the warm firelight, open a book, and let the old +beautiful thoughts flow into my mind, till the voices of wife and +children return to gladden me, and I listen to all that they have +seen and done? Why should I rather sit, like a disconsolate child +among its bricks, feebly and sadly planning new combinations and +fantastic designs? I have done as much and more than most of my +contemporaries; what is this insensate hunger of the spirit that +urges me to work that I cannot do, for rewards that I do not want? +Why cannot I be content to dream and drowse a little? + + + "Rest, then, and rest + And think of the best, + 'Twixt summer and spring, + When no birds sing." + + +That is what I desire to do, and cannot. It is as though some +creeper that had enfolded and enringed a house with its tendrils, +creeping under window-ledges and across mellow brickwork, had been +suddenly cut off at the root, and hung faded and lustreless, not +even daring to be torn away. Yet I am alive and well, my mind is +alert and vigorous, I have no cares or anxieties, except that my +heart seems hollow at the core. + + + +January 12, 1889. + + +I have had a very bad time of late. It seems futile to say anything +about it, and the plain man would rub his eyes, and wonder where +the misery lay. I have been perfectly well, and everything has gone +smoothly; but I cannot write. I have begun half-a-dozen books. I +have searched my notes through and through. I have sketched plots, +written scenes. I cannot go on with any of them. I have torn up +chapters with fierce disgust, or have laid them quietly aside. +There is no vitality in them. If I read them aloud to any one, he +would wonder what was wrong--they are as well written as my other +books, as amusing, as interesting. But it is all without energy or +invention, it is all worse than my best. The people are puppets, +their words are pumped up out of a stagnant reservoir. Everything I +do reminds me of something I have done before. If I could bring +myself to finish one of these books, I could get money and praise +enough. Many people would not know the difference. But the real and +true critic would see through them; he would discern that I had +lost the secret. I think that perhaps I ought to be content to work +dully and faithfully on, to finish the poor dead thing, to compose +its dead limbs decently, to lay it out. But I cannot do that, +though it might be a moral discipline. I am not conscious of the +least mental fatigue, or loss of power--quite the reverse. I hunger +and thirst to write, but I have no invention. + +The worst of it is that it reveals to me how much the whole of my +life was built up round the hours I gave to writing. I used to +read, write letters, do business in the morning, holding myself +back from the beloved task, not thinking over it, not anticipating +the pleasure, yet aware that some secret germination was going on +among the cells of the brain. Then came the afternoon, the walk or +ride, and then at last after tea arrived the blessed hour. The +chapter was all ready to be written, and the thing flowed equably +and clearly from the pen. The passage written, I would turn to some +previous chapter, which had been type-written, smooth out the +creases, enrich the dialogue, retouch the descriptions, omit, +correct, clarify. Perhaps in the evening I would read a passage +aloud, if we were alone; and how often would Maud, with her perfect +instinct, lay her finger on a weak place, show me that something +was abrupt or lengthy, expose an unreal emotion, or, best of all, +generously and whole-heartedly approve. it seems now, looking back +upon it, that it was all impossibly happy and delightful, too good +to be true. Yet I have everything that I had, except my unhappy +writing; and the want of it poisons life. I no longer seem to lie +pleasantly in ambush for pretty traits of character, humorous +situations, delicate nuances of talk. I look blankly at garden, +field, and wood, because I cannot draw from them the setting that I +want. Even my close and intimate companionship with Maud seems to +have suffered, for I was like a child, bringing the little wonders +that it finds by the hedgerow to be looked at by a loving eye. Maud +is angelically tender, kind, sweet. She tells me only to wait; she +draws me on to talk; she surrounds me with love and care. And in +the midst of it all I sit, in dry misery, hating myself for my +feebleness and cowardice, keeping as far as possible my pain to +myself, brooding, feverishly straining, struggling hopelessly to +recover the clue. The savour has gone out of life; I feel widowed, +frozen, desolate. How often have I tranquilly and good-humouredly +contemplated the time when I need write no more, when my work +should be done, when I should have said all I had to say, and could +take life as it came, soberly and wisely. Now that the end has come +of itself, I feel like a hopeless prisoner, with death the only +escape from a bitter and disconsolate solitude. + +Can I not amuse myself with books, pictures, talk? No, because it +is all a purposeless passing of dreary hours. Before, there was +always an object ahead of me, a light to which I made my way; and +all the pleasant incidents of life were things to guide me, and to +beguile the plodding path. Now I am adrift; I need go neither +forwards nor backwards; and the things which before were gentle and +quiet occupations have become duties to be drearily fulfilled. + +I have put down here exactly what I feel. It is not cowardice that +makes me do it, but a desire to face the situation, exactly as it +is. Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit! And in any case nothing +can be done by blinking the truth. I shall need all my courage and +all my resolution to meet it, and I shall meet it as manfully as I +can. Yet the thought of meeting it thus has no inspiration in it. +My only desire is that the frozen mind may melt at the touch of +some genial ray, and that the buds may prick and unfold upon the +shrunken bough. + + + +January 15, 1889. + + +One of the miseries of my present situation is that it is all so +intangible, and to the outsider so incomprehensible. There is no +particular reason why I should write. I do not need the money; I +believe I do not desire fame. Let me try to be perfectly frank +about this; I do not at all desire the tangible results of fame, +invitations to banquets, requests to deliver lectures, the +acquaintance of notable people, laudatory reviews. I like a quiet +life; I do not want monstrari digito, as Horace says. I have had a +taste of all of these things, and they do not amuse me, though I +confess that I thought they would. I feel in this rather as +Tennyson felt--that I dislike contemptuous criticism, and do not +value praise--except the praise of a very few, the masters of the +craft. And this one does not get, because the great men are mostly +too much occupied in producing their own masterpieces to have the +time or inclination to appraise others. Yet I am sure there is a +vile fibre of ambition lurking in me, interwoven with my nature, +which I cannot exactly disentangle. I very earnestly desire to do +good and fine work, to write great books. If I genuinely and +critically approved of my own work, I could go on writing for the +mere pleasure of it, in the face of universal neglect. But one may +take it for granted that unless one is working on very novel and +original lines--and I am not--the good qualities of one's work are +not likely to escape attention. The reason why Keats, and Shelley, +and Tennyson, and Wordsworth were decried, was because their work +was so unusual, so new, that conventional critics could not +understand it. But I am using a perfectly familiar medium, and +there is a large and acute band of critics who are looking out for +interesting work in the region of novels. Besides I have arrived at +the point of having a vogue, so that anything I write would be +treated with a certain respect. Where my ambition comes in is in +the desire not to fall below my standard. I suppose that while I +feel that I do not rate the judgment of the ordinary critic highly, +I have an instinctive sense that my work is worthy of his +admiration. The pain I feel is the sort of pain that an athlete +feels who has established, say, a record in high-jumping, and finds +that he can no longer hurl his stiffening legs and portly frame +over the lath. Well, I have always held strongly that men ought to +know when to stop. There is nothing more melancholy and +contemptible than to see a successful man, who has brought out a +brood of fine things, sitting meekly on addled eggs, or, still +worse, squatting complacently among eggshells. It is like the story +of the old tiresome Breton farmer whose wife was so annoyed by his +ineffective fussiness, that she clapt him down to sit on a clutch +of stone eggs for the rest of his life. How often have I thought +how deplorable it was to see a man issuing a series of books, every +one of which is feebler than its predecessor, dishing up the old +characters, the stale ideas, the used-up backgrounds. I have always +hoped that some one would be kind and brave enough to tell me when +I did that. But now that the end seems to have come to me naturally +and spontaneously, I cannot accept my defeat. I am like the monkey +of whom Frank Buckland wrote, who got into the kettle when the +water was lukewarm, and found the outer air so cold whenever he +attempted to leave it, that he was eventually very nearly boiled +alive. The fact that my occupation is gone leaves life hollow to +the core. Perhaps a wise man would content himself with composing +some placid literary essays, selecting some lesser figure in the +world of letters, collecting gossip, and what are called "side- +lights," about him, visiting his birthplace and early haunts, +criticising his writings. That would be a harmless way of filling +the time. But any one who has ever tried creative work gets filled +with a nauseating disgust for making books out of other people's +writings, and constructing a kind of resurrection-pie out of the +shreds. Moreover I know nothing except literature; I could only +write a literary biography; and it has always seemed to me a +painful irony that men who have put into their writings what other +people put into deeds and acts should be the very people whose +lives are sedulously written and rewritten, generation after +generation. The instinct is natural enough. The vivid memories of +statesmen and generals fade; but as long as we have the fascinating +and adorable reveries of great spirits, we are consumed with a +desire to reconstruct their surroundings, that we may learn where +they found their inspiration. A great poet, a great imaginative +writer, so glorifies and irradiates the scene in which his mighty +thoughts came to him, that we cannot help fancying that the secret +lies in crag and hill and lake, rather than in the mind that +gathered in the common joy. I have a passion for visiting the +haunts of genius, but rather because they teach me that inspiration +lies everywhere, if we can but perceive it, than because I hope to +detect where the particular charm lay. And so I am driven back upon +my own poor imagination. I say to myself, like Samson, "I will go +out as at other times before, and shake myself," and then the end +of the verse falls on me like a shadow--"and he wist not that the +Lord was departed from him." + + + +January 18, 1889. + + +Nothing the matter, and yet everything the matter! I plough on +drearily enough, like a vessel forging slowly ahead against a +strong, ugly, muddy stream. I seem to gain nothing, neither hope, +patience, nor strength. My spirit revolted at first, but now I have +lost the heart even for that: I simply bear my burden and wait. One +tends to think, at such times, that no one has ever passed through +a similar experience before; and the isolation in which one moves +is the hardest part of it all. Alone, and cut off even from God! If +one felt that one was learning something, gaining power or courage, +one could bear it cheerfully; but I feel rather as though all my +vitality and moral strength was being pressed and drained from me. +Yet I do not desire death and silence. I rather crave for life and +light. + +No, I am not describing my state fairly. At times I have a sense +that something, some power, some great influence, is trying to +communicate with me, to deliver me some message. There are many +hours when it is not so, when my nerveless brain seems losing its +hold, slipping off into some dark confusion of sense. Yet again +there are other moments, when sights and sounds have an +overpowering and awful significance; when the gleams of some +tremendous secret seemed flashed upon my mind, at the sight of the +mist-hung valley with its leafless woods and level water-meadows; +the flaring pomp of sunset hung low in the west over the bare +ploughland or the wide-watered plain; the wailing of the wind round +the firelit house; the faint twitter of awakening birds in the ivy; +the voice and smile of my children; the music breaking the silence +of the house at evening. In a moment the sensation comes over me, +that the sound or sight is sent not vaguely or lightly, but +deliberately shown to me, for some great purpose, if I could but +divine it; an oracle of God, if I could but catch the words He +utters in the darkness and the silence. + + + +February 1, 1889. + + +My dissatisfaction and depression begin to tell on me. I grow +nervous and strained; I am often sleepless, or my sleep is filled +by vivid, horrible, intolerable dreams. I wake early in the clutch +of fear. I wrestle at times with intolerable irritability; social +gatherings become unbearable; I have all sorts of unmanning +sensations, dizzinesses, tremors; I have that dreadful sensation +that my consciousness of things and people around me is slipping +away from me, and that only by a strong effort can one retain one's +hold upon them. I fall into a sort of dull reverie, and come back +to the real world with a shock of surprise and almost horror. I +went the other day to consult a great doctor about this. He +reassured me; he laughed at my fears; he told me that it was a kind +of neurasthenia, not fanciful but real; that my brain had been +overworked, and was taking its revenge; that it was insufficiently +nourished, and so forth. He knew who I was, and treated me with a +respectful sympathy. I told him I had taken a prolonged holiday +since my last book, and he replied that it had not been long +enough. "You must take it easy," he said. "Don't do anything you +don't like." I replied that the difficulty was to find anything I +did like. He smiled at this, and said that I need not be afraid of +breaking down; he sounded me, and said that I was perfectly strong. +"Indeed," he added, "you might go to a dozen doctors to be examined +for an insurance policy, and you would be returned as absolutely +robust." In the course of his investigations, he applied a test, +quite casually and as if he were hardly interested, the point of +which he thought (I suppose) that I should not divine. +Unfortunately I knew it, and I need only say that it was a test for +something very bad indeed. That was rather a horrible moment, when +a grim thing out of the shadow slipped forward for a moment, and +looked me in the face. But it was over in an instant, and he went +on to other things. He ended by saying: "Mr. ----, you are not as +bad as you feel, or even as you think. Just take it quietly; don't +overdo it, but don't be bored. You say that you can't write to +please yourself at present. Well, this experience is partly the +cause, and partly the result of your condition. You have used one +particular part of your brain too much, and you must give it time +to recover. My impression is that you will get better very +gradually, and I can only repeat that there is no sort of cause for +anxiety. I can't help you more than that, and I am saying exactly +what I feel." + +I looked at the worn face and kind eyes of the man whose whole life +is spent in plumbing abysses of human suffering. What a terrible +life, and yet what a noble one! He spoke as though he had no other +case in the world to consider except my own; yet when I went back +to the waiting-room to get my hat, and looked round on the anxious- +looking crowd of patients waiting there, each with a secret burden, +I felt how heavy a load he must be carrying. + +There is a certain strength, after all, in having to live by rule; +and I have derived, I find, a certain comfort in having to abstain +from things that are likely to upset me, not because I wish it, but +because some one else has ordered it. So I struggle on. The worst +of nerves is that they are so whimsical; one never knows when to +expect their assaults; the temptation is to think that they attack +one when it is most inconvenient; but this is not quite the case. +They spare one when one expects discomfort; and again when one +feels perfectly secure, they leap upon one from their lair. The one +secret of dealing with the malady is to think of it as a definite +ailment, not to regard the attacks as the vagaries of a healthy +mind, but as the symptoms of an unhealthy one. So much of these +obsessions appears to be purely mental; one finds oneself the prey +of a perfectly causeless depression, which involves everything in +its shadow. As soon as one realises that this is not the result of +the reflections that seem to cause it, but that one is, so to +speak, merely looking at normal conditions through coloured +glasses, it is a great help. But the perennial difficulty is to +know whether one needs repose and inaction, or whether one requires +the stimulus of work and activity. Sometimes an unexpected call on +one's faculties will encourage and gladden one; sometimes it will +leave one unstrung and limp. A definite illness is always with one, +more or less; but in nervous ailments, one has interludes of +perfect and even buoyant health, which delude one into hoping that +the demon has gone out. + +It is a very elaborate form of torture anyhow; and I confess that I +find it difficult to discern where its educative effect comes in, +because it makes one shrink from effort, it makes one timid, +indecisive, suspicious. It seems to encourage all the weaknesses +and meannesses of the spirit; and, worst of all, it centres one's +thoughts upon oneself. Perhaps it enlarges one's sympathy for all +secret sufferers; and it makes me grateful for the fact that I have +had so little ill-health in my life. Yet I find myself, too, +testing with some curiosity the breezy maxims of optimists. A +cheerful writer says somewhere: "Will not the future be the better +and the richer for memories of past pleasure? So surely must the +sane man feel." Well, he must be very sane indeed. It takes a very +burly philosopher to think of the future as being enriched by past +gladness, when one seems to have forfeited it, and when one is by +no means certain of getting it back. One feels bitterly how little +one appreciated it at the time; and to rejoice in reflecting how +much past happiness stands to one's credit, is a very dispassionate +attitude. I think Dante was nearer the truth when he said that "a +sorrow's crown of sorrow was remembering happier things." + + + +February 3, 1889. + + +To amuse oneself--that is the difficulty. Amusements are or ought +to be the childish, irrational, savage things which a man goes on +doing and practising, in virtue, I suppose, of the noble privilege +of reason, far longer than any other animal--only YOUNG animals +amuse themselves; a dog perhaps retains the faculty longer than +most animals, but he only does it out of sympathy and +companionship, to amuse his inscrutable owner, not to amuse +himself. Amusements ought to be things which one wants to do, and +which one is slightly ashamed of doing--enough ashamed, I mean, to +give rather elaborate reasons for continuing them. If one shoots, +for instance, one ought to say that it gets one out of doors, and +that what one really enjoys is the country, and so forth. +Personally I was never much amused by amusements, and gave them up +as soon as I decently could. I regret it now. I wish we were all +taught a handicraft as a regular part of education! I used to +sketch, and strum a piano once, but I cannot deliberately set to +work on such things again. I gave them all up when I became a +writer, really, I suppose, because I did not care for them, but +nominally on the grounds of "resolute limitation," as Lord Acton +said--with the idea that if you prune off the otiose boughs of a +tree, you throw the strength of the sap into the boughs you retain. +I see now that it was a mistake. But it is too late to begin again +now; I was reading Kingsley's Life the other day. He used to +overwork himself periodically--use up the grey matter at the base +of his brain, as he described it; but he had a hundred things that +he wanted to do besides writing--fishing, entomologising, +botanising. Browning liked modelling in clay, Wordsworth liked long +walks, Byron had enough to do to keep himself thin, Tennyson had +his pipe, Morris made tapestry at a loom. Southey had no +amusements, and he died of softening of the brain. The happy people +are those who have work which they love, and a hobby of a totally +different kind which they love even better. But I doubt whether one +can make a hobby for oneself in middle age, unless one is a very +resolute person indeed. + + + +February 7, 1889. + + +The children went off yesterday to spend the inside of the day with +a parson hard by, who has three children of his own, about the same +age. They did not want to go, of course, and it was particularly +terrible to them, because neither I nor their mother were to go +with them. But I was anxious they should go: there is nothing +better for children than occasionally to visit a strange house, and +to go by themselves without an elder person to depend upon. It +gives them independence and gets rid of shyness. They end by +enjoying themselves immensely, and perhaps making some romantic +friendship. As a child, I was almost tearfully insistent that I +should not have to go on such visits; but yet a few days of the +sort stand out in my childhood with a vividness and a distinctness, +which show what an effect they produced, and how they quickened +one's perceptive and inventive faculties. + +When they were gone I went out with Maud. I was at my very worst, I +fear; full of heaviness and deeply disquieted; desiring I knew well +what--some quickening of emotion, some hopeful impulse--but utterly +unable to attain it. We had a very sad talk. I tried to make it +clear to her how desolate I felt, and to win some kind of +forgiveness for my sterile and loveless mood. She tried to comfort +me; she said that it was only like passing through a tunnel; she +made it clear to me, by some unspoken communication, that I was +dearer than ever to her in these days of sorrow; but there was a +shadow in her mind, the shadow that fell from the loneliness in +which I moved, the sense that she could not share my misery with +me. I tried to show her that the one thing one could not share was +emptiness. If one's cup is full of interests, plans, happinesses, +even tangible anxieties, it is easy and natural to make them known +to one whom one loves best. But one cannot share the horror of the +formless dark; the vacuous and tortured mind. It is the dark +absence of anything that is the source of my wretchedness. If there +were pain, grief, mournful energy of any kind, one could put it +into words; but how can one find expression for what is a total +eclipse? + +It was not, I said, that anything had come between her and me; but +I seemed to be remote, withdrawn, laid apart like some stiffening +corpse in the tomb. She tried to reassure me, to show me that it +was mainly physical, the overstrain of long and actively enjoyed +work, and that all I needed was rest. She did not say one word of +reproach, or anything to imply that I was unmanly and cowardly-- +indeed, she contrived, I know not how, to lead me to think that my +state was in ordinary life hardly apparent. Once she asked +pathetically if there was no way in which she could help. I had not +the heart to say what was in my mind, that it would be better and +easier for me if she ignored my unhappiness altogether; and that +sympathy and compassion only plunged me deeper into gloom, as +showing me that it was evident that there was something amiss--but +I said "No, there is nothing; and no one can help me, unless God +kindles the light He has quenched. Be your own dear self as much as +possible; think and speak as little of me as you can,"--and then I +added: "Dearest, my love for you is here, as strong and pure as +ever--don't doubt that--only I cannot find it or come near it--it +is hidden from me somewhere--I am like a man wandering in dark +fields, who sees the firelit window of his home; he cannot feel the +warmth, but he knows that it is there waiting for him. He cannot +return till he has found that of which he is in search." + +"Could he not give up the search?" said Maud, smiling tearfully. +"Ah, not yet," I said. "You do not know, Maud, what my work has +been to me--no man can ever explain that to any woman, I think: for +women live in life, but man lives in work. Man DOES, woman IS. +There is the difference." + +We drew near the village. The red sun was sinking over the plain, a +ball of fire; the mist was creeping up from the low-lying fields; +the moon hung, like a white nail-paring, high in the blue sky. We +went to the little inn, where we had been before. We ordered tea-- +we were to return by train--and Maud being tired, I left her, while +I took a turn in the village, and explored the remains of an old +manor-house, which I had seen often from the road. I was +intolerably restless. I found a lane which led to the fields behind +the manor. It was a beautiful scene. To the left of me ran the +great plain brimmed with mist; the manor, with its high gables and +chimney-stacks, stood up over an orchard, surrounded by a high, +ancient brick wall, with a gate between tall gate-posts surmounted +by stone balls. The old pasture lay round the house, and there were +many ancient elms and sycamores forming a small park, in the boughs +of which the rooks, who were now streaming home from the fields, +were clamorous. I found myself near a chain of old fish-ponds, with +thorn-thickets all about them; and here the old house stood up +against a pure evening sky, rusty red below, melting into a pure +green above. My heart went out in wonder at the thought of the +unknown lives lived in this place, the past joys, the forgotten +sorrows. What did it mean for me, the incredible and caressing +beauty of the scene? Not only did it not comfort me, but it seemed +to darken the gloom of my own unhappy mind. Suddenly, as with a +surge of agony, my misery flowed in upon me. I clutched the rail +where I stood, and bowed my head down in utter wretchedness. There +came upon me, as with a sort of ghastly hopefulness, the temptation +to leave it all, to put my case back into God's hands. Perhaps it +was to this that I was moving? There might be a new life waiting +for me, but it could not well be as intolerable as this. Perhaps +nothing but silence and unconsciousness awaited me, a sleep +unstirred by any dream. Even Maud, I thought, in her sorrow, would +understand. How long I stood there I do not know, but the air +darkened about me and the mist rose in long veils about the pasture +with a deadly chill. But then there came back a sort of grim +courage into my mind, that not so could it be ended. The thought of +Maud and the children rose before me, and I knew I could not leave +them, unless I were withdrawn from them. I must face it, I must +fight it out; though I could and did pray with all my might that +God might take away my life: I thought with what an utter joy I +should feel the pang, the faintness, of death creep over me there +in the dim pasture; but I knew in my heart that it was not to be; +and soon I went slowly back through the thickening gloom. I found +Maud awaiting me: and I know in that moment that some touch of the +dark conflict I had been through had made itself felt in her mind; +and indeed I think she read something of it in my face, from the +startled glance she turned upon me. Perhaps it would have been +better if in that quiet hour I could have told her the thought +which had been in my mind; but I could not do that; and indeed it +seemed to me as though some unseen light had sprung up for me, +shooting and broadening in the darkness. I apprehended that I was +no longer to suffer, I was to fight. Hitherto I had yielded to my +misery, but the time was come to row against the current, not to +drift with it. + +It was dark when we left the little inn; the moon had brightened to +a crescent of pale gold; the last dim orange stain of sunset still +slept above the mist. It seemed to me as though I had somehow +touched the bottom. How could I tell? Perhaps the same horrible +temptation would beset me, again and again, deepening into a +despairing purpose; the fertile mind built up rapidly a dreadful +vista of possibilities, terrible facts that might have to be faced. +Even so the dark mood beckoned me again; better to end it, said a +hollow voice, better to let your dear ones suffer the worst, with a +sorrow that will lessen year by year, than sink into a broken +shadowed life of separation and restraint--but again it passed; +again a grim resolution came to my aid. + +Then, as we sped homewards in the speeding train, there came over +me another thought. Here was I, who had lightly trafficked with +human emotions, who had written with a romantic glow of the dark +things of life, despair, agony, thoughts of self-destruction, +insane fears, here was I at last confronted with them. I could +never dare, I felt, to speak of such things again; were such dark +mysteries to be used to heighten the sense of security and joy, to +give a trivial reader a thrill of pleasure, a sympathetic reader a +thrill of luxurious emotion? No, there was nothing uplifting or +romantic about them when they came; they were dark as the grave, +cold as the underlying clay. What a vile and loathsome profanation, +deserving indeed of a grim punishment, to make a picturesque +background out of such things! At length I had had my bitter taste +of grief, and drew in to my trembling spirit the shuddering chill +of despair. I had stepped, like the light-hearted maiden of the old +story, within the forbidden door, and the ugly, the ghastly reality +of the place had burst upon me, the huddled bodies, the basin +filled with blood. One had read in books of men and women whose +life had been suddenly curdled into slow miseries. One had half +blamed them in one's thought; one had felt that any experience, +however dark and deep, must have its artistic value; and one had +thought that they should have emerged with new zest into life. I +understood it now, how life could be frozen at its very source, how +one could cry out with Job curses on the day that gave one birth, +and how gladly one would turn one's face away from the world and +all its cheerful noise, awaiting the last stroke of God. + + + +February 20, 1889. + + +There is a story of a Cornish farmer who, returning home one dark +and misty night, struck across the moorland, every yard of which he +knew, in order to avoid a long tramp by road. In one place there +were a number of disused mine-shafts; the railing which had once +protected them had rotted away, and it had been no one's business +to see that it was renewed--some few had been filled up, but many +of them were hundreds of feet deep, and entirely unguarded. The +farmer first missed the track, and after long wandering found +himself at last among the shafts. He sate down, knowing the extreme +danger of his situation, and resolved to wait till the morning; but +it became so cold that he dared stay no longer, for fear of being +frozen alive, and with infinite precautions he tried to make his +way out of the dangerous region, following the downward slope of +the ground. In spite, however, of all his care, he found suddenly, +on putting his foot down, that he was on the edge of a shaft, and +that his foot was dangling in vacancy. He threw himself backwards, +but too late, and he slid down several feet, grasping at the grass +and heather; his foot fortunately struck against a large stone, +which though precariously poised, arrested his fall; and he hung +there for some hours in mortal anguish, not daring to move, +clinging to a tuft of heather, shouting at intervals, in the hope +that, when he did not return home, a search-party might be sent out +to look for him. At last he heard, to his intense relief, the sound +of voices hailing him, and presently the gleam of lanterns shot +through the mist. He uttered agonising cries, and the rescuers were +soon at his side; when he found that he had been lying in a shaft +which had been filled up, and that the firm ground was about a foot +below him; and that, in fact, if the stone that supported him had +given way, he would have been spared a long period of almost +intolerable horror. + +It is a good parable of many of our disquieting fears and +anxieties; as Lord Beaconsfield said, the greatest tragedies of his +life had been things that never happened; Carlyle truly and +beautifully said that the reason why the past always appeared to be +beautiful, in retrospect, was that the element of fear was absent +from it. William Morris said a trenchant thing on the same subject. +He attended a Socialist Meeting of a very hostile kind, which he +anticipated with much depression. When some one asked him how the +meeting had gone off he said, "Well, it was fully as damnable as I +had expected--a thing which seldom happens." A good test of the +happiness of anyone's life is to what extent he has had trials to +bear which are unbearable even to recollect. I am myself of a +highly imaginative and anxious temperament, and I have had many +hours of depression at the thought of some unpleasant anticipation +or disagreeable contingency, and I can honestly say that nothing +has ever been so bad, when it actually occurred, as it had +represented itself to me beforehand. There are a few incidents in +my life, the recollection of which I deliberately shun; but they +have always been absolutely unexpected and unanticipated +calamities. Yet even these have never been as bad as I should have +expected them to be. The strange thing is that experience never +comes to one's aid, and that one never gets patience or courage +from the thought that the reality will be in all probability less +distressing than the anticipation; for the simple reason that the +fertile imagination is always careful to add that this time the +occasion will be intolerable, and that at all events it is better +to be prepared for the worst that may happen. Moreover, one wastes +force in anticipating perhaps half-a-dozen painful possibilities, +when, after all, they are alternatives, and only one of them can +happen. That is what makes my present situation so depressing, that +I instinctively clothe it in its worst horrors, and look forward to +a long and dreary life, in which my only occupation will be an +attempt to pass the weary hours. Faithless? yes, of course it is +faithless! but the rational philosophy, which says that it will all +probably come right, does not penetrate to the deeper region in +which the mind says to itself that there is no hope of amendment. + +Can one acquire, by any effort of the mind, this kind of patience? +I do not think one can. The most that one can do is to behave as +far as possible like one playing a heavy part upon the stage, to +say with trembling lips that one has hope, when the sick mind +beneath cries out that there is none. + +Perhaps one can practise a sort of indifference, and hope that +advancing years may still the beating heart and numb the throbbing +nerve. But I do not even desire to live life on these terms. The +one great article of my creed has been that one ought not to lose +zest and spirit, or acquiesce slothfully in comfortable and +material conditions, but that life ought to be full of perception +and emotion. Here again lies my mistake; that it has not been +perception or emotion that I have practised, but the art of +expressing what I have perceived and felt. Of course, I wish with +all my heart and soul that it were otherwise; but it seems that I +have drifted so far into these tepid, sun-warmed shallows, the +shallows of egoism and self-centred absorption, that there is no +possibility of my finding my way again to the wholesome brine, to +the fresh movement of the leaping wave. I am like one of those who +lingered so long in the enchanted isle of Circe, listening +luxuriously to the melting cadences of her magic song, that I have +lost all hope of extricating myself from the spell. The old free +days, when the heart beat light, and the breeze blew keen against +my brow, have become only a memory of delights, just enabling me to +speak deftly and artfully of the strong joys which I have +forfeited. + + + +February 24, 1889. + + +I have been away for some days, paying a visit to an old friend, a +bachelor clergyman living in the country. The only other occupant +of the house, a comfortable vicarage, is his curate. I am better-- +ashamed almost to think how much better--for the change. It is +partly the new place, the new surroundings, the new minds, no +doubt. But it is also the change of atmosphere. At home I am +surrounded by sympathy and compassion; however unobtrusive they +are, I feel that they are there. I feel that trivial things, words, +actions, looks are noted, commented upon, held to be significant. +If I am silent, I must be depressed; if I talk and smile, I am +making an effort to overcome my depression. It sounds unloving and +ungracious to resent this: but I don't undervalue the care and +tenderness that cause it; at the same time it adds to the strain by +imposing upon me a sort of vigilance, a constant effort to behave +normally. It is infinitely and deeply touching to feel love all +about me; but in such a state of mind as mine, one is shy of +emotion, one dreads it, one shuns it. I suppose it argues a want of +simplicity, of perfect manfulness, to feel this; but few or no +women can instinctively feel the difference. In a real and deep +affliction, one that could be frankly confessed, the more affection +and sympathy that one can have the better; it is the one thing that +sustains. But my unhappiness is not a real thing altogether, not a +FRANK thing; the best medicine for it is to think as little about +it; the only help one desires is the evidence that one does not +need sympathy; and sympathy only turns one's thoughts inwards, and +makes one feel that one is forlorn and desolate, when the only hope +is to feel neither. + +At Hapton it was just the reverse; neither Musgrave nor the curate, +Templeton, troubled their head about my fancies. I don't imagine +that Musgrave noticed that anything was the matter with me. If I +was silent, he merely thought I had nothing to say; he took for +granted I was in my normal state, and the result was that I +temporarily recovered it. + +Then, too, the kind of talk I got was a relief. With women, the +real talk is intime talk; the world of politics, books, men, facts, +incidents, is merely a setting; and when they talk about them, it +is merely to pass the time, as a man turns to a game. At Hapton, +Musgrave chatted away about his neighbours, his boys' club, his new +organ, his bishop, his work. I used to think him rather a proser; +how I blessed his prosing now! I took long walks with him; he asked +a few perfunctory questions about my books, but otherwise he was +quite content to prattle on, like a little brook, about all that +was in his mind, and he was more than content if I asked an +occasional question or assented courteously. Then we had some good +talks about the rural problems of education--he is a sensible and +intelligent man enough--and some excellent arguments about the +movement of religion, where I found him unexpectedly liberal- +minded. He left me to do very much what I liked. I read in the +mornings and before dinner; and after dinner we smoked or even +played a game of dummy whist. It is a pretty part of the country, +and when he was occupied in the afternoon, I walked about by +myself. From first to last not a single word fell from Musgrave to +indicate that he thought me in any way different, or suspected that +I was not perfectly content, with the blessed result that I +immediately became exactly what he thought me. + +I got on no better with my writing; my brain is as bare as a winter +wood; but I found that I did not rebel against that. Of course it +does not reveal a very dignified temperament, that one should so +take colour from one's surroundings. If I can be equable and good- +humoured here, I ought to be able to be equable and good-humoured +at home; at the same time I am conscious of an intense longing to +see Maud and the children. Probably I should do better to absent +myself resolutely from home at stated intervals; and I think it +argued a fine degree of perception in Maud, that she decided not to +accompany me, though she was pressed to come. I am going home to- +morrow, delighted at the thought, grateful to the good Musgrave, in +a more normal frame of mind than I have been for months. + + + +February 28, 1889. + + +One of the most depressing things about my present condition is +that I feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so +unlovable. Even Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than +ever, does not help me, because I feel that she cannot love me for +what I am, but for what she remembers me as being, and hopes that I +may be again. I know it is not so, and that she would love me +whatever I did or became; but I cannot realise that now. + +A few days ago an old friend came to see me; and I was so futile, +so fractious, so dull, so melancholy with him that I wrote to him +afterwards to apologise for my condition, telling him that I knew +that I was not myself, and hoped he would forgive me for not making +more of an effort. To-day I have had one of the manliest, +tenderest, most beautiful letters I have ever had in my life. He +says, "Of course I saw that you were not in your usual mood, but if +you had pretended to be, if you had kept me at arm's length, if you +had grimaced and made pretence, we should have been no nearer in +spirit. I was proud and grateful that you should so have trusted +me, as to let me see into your heart and mind; and you must believe +me when I say that I never loved and honoured you more. I +understood fully what a deep and insupportable trial your present +state of mind must be; and I will be frank--why should I not be?-- +and say that I thought you were bearing it bravely, and what is +better still, simply and naturally. I seemed to come closer to you +in those hours than I have ever done before, and to realise better +what you were. 'To make oneself beloved,' says an old writer, 'is +to make oneself useful to others'--and you helped me perhaps most, +when you knew it least yourself. I won't tell you not to brood upon +or exaggerate your trouble--you know that well enough yourself. But +believe me that such times are indeed times of growth and +expansion, even when one seems most beaten back upon oneself, most +futile, most unmanly. So take a little comfort, my old friend, and +fare onwards hopefully." + +That is a very beautiful and wise letter, and I cannot say how much +it has meant for me. It is a letter that forges an invisible chain, +which is yet stronger than the strongest tie that circumstance can +forge; it is a lantern for one's feet, and one treads a little more +firmly in the dark path, where the hillside looms formless through +the shade. + + + +March 3, 1889. + + +Best of all the psalms I love the Hundred-and-nineteenth; yet as a +child what a weary thing I thought it. It was long, it was +monotonous; it dwelt with a tiresome persistency, I used to think, +upon dull things--laws, commandments, statutes. Now that I am +older, it seems to me one of the most human of all documents. It is +tender, pensive, personal; other psalms are that; but Psalm cxix. +is intime and autobiographical. One is brought very close to a +human spirit; one hears his prayers, his sighs, the dropping of his +tears. Then, too, in spite of its sadness, there is a deep +hopefulness and faithfulness about it, a firm belief in the +ultimate triumph of what is good and true, a certainty that what is +pure and beautiful is worth holding on to, whatever may happen; a +nearness to God, a quiet confidence in Him. It is all in a subdued +and minor key, but swelling up at intervals into a chord of +ravishing sweetness. + +There is never the least note of loudness, none of that terrible +patriotism which defaces many of the psalms, the patriotism which +makes men believe that God is the friend of the chosen race, and +the foe of all other races, the ugly self-sufficiency that +contemplates with delight, not the salvation and inclusion of the +heathen, but their discomfiture and destruction. The worst side of +the Puritan found delight in those cruel and militant psalms, +revelling in the thought that God would rain upon the ungodly fire +and brimstone, storm and tempest, and exulting in the blasting of +the breath of His displeasure. Could anything be more alien to the +spirit of Christ than all that? But here, in this melancholy psalm, +there breathes a spirit naturally Christian, loving peace and +contemplation, very weary of the strife. + +I have said it is autobiographical; but it must be remembered that +it was a fruitful literary device in those early days, to cast +one's own thought in the mould of some well-known character. In +this psalm I have sometimes thought that the writer had Daniel in +mind--the surroundings of the psalm suit the circumstances of +Daniel with singular exactness. But even so, it was the work of a +man, I think, who had suffered the sorrows of which he wrote. Let +me try to disentangle what manner of man he was. + +He was young and humble; he was rich, or had opportunities of +becoming so; he was an exile, or lived in an uncongenial society; +he was the member of a court where he was derided, disliked, +slandered, plotted against, and even persecuted. We can clearly +discern his own character. He was timid, and yet ambitious; he was +tempted to use deceit and hypocrisy, to acquiesce in the tone about +him; he was inclined to be covetous; he had sinned, and had learnt +something of holiness from his fall; he was given to solitude and +prayer. He was sensitive, and his sorrows had affected his health; +he was sleepless, and had lost the bloom of his youth. + +All this and more we can read of him; but what is the saddest touch +of all is the isolation in which he lived. There is not a word to +show that he met with any sympathy; indeed the misunderstanding, +whatever it was, that overshadowed him, had driven acquaintances, +friends, and lovers away from him; and yet his tender confidence in +God never fails; he feels that in his passionate worship of virtue +and truth, his intense love of purity and justice, he has got a +treasure which is more to him than riches or honour, or even than +human love. He speaks as though this passion for holiness had been +the very thing that had cost him so dear, and that exposed him to +derision and dislike. Perhaps he had refused to fall in with some +customary form of evil, and his resistance to temptation had led +him to be regarded as a precisian and a saint? I have little doubt +myself that this was so. He speaks as one might speak who had been +so smitten with the desire for purity and rightness of life, that +he could no longer even seem to condone the opposite. And yet he +was evidently not one who dared to withstand and rebuke evil; the +most he could do was to abstain from it; and the result was that he +saw the careless and evil-minded people about him prosperous, happy +and light-hearted, while he was himself plunged by his own act in +misunderstanding and solitude and tears. + +And then how strange to see this beautiful and delicate confession +put into so narrow and constrained a shape! It is the most +artificial by far of all the psalms. The writer has chosen +deliberately one of the most cramping and confining forms that +could be devised. Each of the eight verses that form the separate +stanzas begins with the same letter of the alphabet, and each of +the letters is used in turn. Think of attempting to do the same in +English--it could not be done at all. And then in every single +verse, except in one, where the word has probably disappeared in +translation, by a mistake, there is a mention of the law of God. +Infinite pains must have gone to the slow building of this curious +structure; stone by stone must have been carved and lifted to its +place. And yet the art is so great that I know no composition of +the same length that has so perfect a unity of mood and atmosphere. +There is never a false or alien note struck. It is never jubilant +or contentious or assertive--and, best of all, it is wholly free +from any touch of that complacency which is the shadow of virtue. +The writer never takes any credit to himself for his firm adherence +to the truth; he writes rather as one who has had a gift of +immeasurable value entrusted to unworthy hands, who hardly dares to +believe that it has been granted him, and who still speaks as +though he might at any time prove unfaithful, as though his +weakness might suddenly betray him, and who therefore has little +temptation to exult in the possession of anything which his own +frail nature might at any moment forfeit. + +And thus, from its humility, its sense of weakness and weariness, +its consciousness of sin and failure, combined with its deep +apprehension of the stainless beauty of the moral law, this lyric +has found its way to the hearts of all who find the world and +temptation and fear too strong, all who through repeated failure +have learned that they cannot even be true to what they so +pathetically desire and admire; who would be brave and vigorous if +they could, but, as it is, can only hope to be just led step by +step, helped over the immediate difficulty, past the dreaded +moment; whose heart often fails them, and who have little of the +joy of God; who can only trust that, if they go astray, the mercy +of God will yet go out to seek them; who cannot even hope to run in +the way of God's beloved commandments, till He has set their heart +at liberty. + + + +March 8, 1889. + + +I went to see Darell, my old schoolfellow, a few days ago; he wrote +to say that he would much like to see me, but that he was ill and +unable to leave home--could I possibly come to see him? + +I have never seen very much of him since I left Cambridge; but +there I was a good deal in his company--and we have kept up our +friendship ever since, in the quiet way in which Englishmen do keep +up their friendships, meeting perhaps two or three times in the +year, exchanging letters occasionally. He was not a very intimate +friend--indeed, he was not a man who formed intimacies; but he was +a congenial companion enough. He was a frankly ambitious man. He +went to the bar, where he has done well; he married a wife with +some money; and I think his ultimate ambition has been to enter +Parliament. He told me, when I last saw him, that he had now, he +thought, made enough money for this, and that he would probably +stand at the next election. I have always liked his wife, who is a +sensible, good-natured woman, with social ambitions. They live in a +good house in London, in a wealthy sort of way. I arrived to +luncheon, and sate a little while with Mrs. Darell in the drawing- +room. I became aware, while I sate with her, that there was a sense +of anxiety in the air somehow, though she spoke cheerfully enough +of her husband, saying that he had overworked himself, and had to +lie up for a little. When he came into the room I understood. It +was not that he was physically much altered--he is a strongly-built +fellow, with a sanguine complexion and thick curly hair, now +somewhat grizzled; but I knew at the first sight of him that +matters were serious. He was quiet and even cheerful in manner, but +he had a look on his face that I had never seen before, the look of +a man whose view of life has been suddenly altered, and who is +preparing himself for the last long journey. I knew instinctively +that he believed himself a doomed man. He said very little about +himself, and I did not ask him much; he talked about my books, and +a good deal about old friends; but all with a sense, I thought, of +detachment, as though he were viewing everything over a sort of +intangible fence. After luncheon, we adjourned to his study and +smoked. He then said a few words about his illness, and added that +it had altered his plans. "I am told," he said, "that I must take a +good long holiday--rather a difficult job for a man who cares a +great deal about his work and very little about anything else;" he +added a few medical details, from which I gathered the nature of +his illness. Then he went on to talk of casual matters; it seemed +to interest him to discuss what had been happening to our school +and college friends; but I knew, without being told, that he wished +me to understand that he did not expect to resume his place in the +world--and indeed I divined, by some dim communication of the +spirit, that he thought my visit was probably a farewell. But he +talked with unabated courage and interest, smiling where he would +in old days have laughed, and speaking of our friends with more +tenderness than was his wont. Only once did he half betray what was +in his mind: "It is rather strange," he said, "to be pushed aside +like this, and to have to reconsider one's theories. I did not +expect to have to pull up--the path lay plain before me--and now it +seems to me as if there were a good many things I had lost sight +of. Well, one must take things as they come, and I don't think that +if I had it all to do again I should do otherwise." He changed the +subject rather hurriedly, and began to talk about my work. "You are +quite a great man now," he said with a smile; "I hear your books +talked about wherever I go--I used to wonder if you would have had +the patience to do anything--you were hampered by having no need to +earn your living; but you have come out on the top." I told him +something about my own late experiences and my difficulty in +writing. He listened with undisguised interest. "What do you make +of it?" he said. "Well," I said; "you will think I am talking +transcendentally, but I have felt often of late as if there were +two strains in our life, two kinds of experience; at one time we +have to do our work with all our might, to get absorbed in it, to +do what little we can to enrich the world; and then at another time +it is all knocked out of our hands, and we have to sit and +meditate--to realise that we are here on sufferance, that what we +can do matters very little to any one--the same sort of feeling +that I once had when old Hoskyns, in whose class I was, threw an +essay, over which I had taken a lot of trouble, into his waste- +paper basket before my eyes without even looking it over. I see now +that I had got all the good I could out of the essay by writing it, +and that the credit of it mattered very little; but then I simply +thought he was a very disagreeable and idle old fellow." + +"Yes," he said, smiling, "there is something in that; but one wants +the marks as well--I have always liked to be marked for my work. I +am glad you told me that story, old man." + +We went on to talk of other things, and when I rose to go, he +thanked me rather effusively for my kindness in coming to see him. +He told me that he was shortly going abroad, and that if I could +find time to write he would be grateful for a letter; "and when I +am on my legs again," he said with a smile, "we will have another +meeting." + +That was all that passed between us of actual speech. Yet how much +more seems to have been implied than was said. I knew, as well as +if he had told me in so many words, that he did not expect to see +me again; that he was in the valley of the shadow, and wanted help +and comfort. Yet he could not have described to me what was in his +mind, and he would have resented it, I think, if I had betrayed any +consciousness of my knowledge; and yet he knew that I knew, I am +sure of that. + +The interview affected me deeply and poignantly. The man's patience +and courage are very great; but he has lived, frankly and +laboriously, for perfectly definite things. He never had the least +sense of what is technically called religion; he was strong and +temperate by nature, with a fine sense of honour; loving work and +the rewards of work, despising sentiment and emotion--indeed his +respect for me, of which I was fully conscious, is the respect he +feels for a sentimental man who has made sentiment pay. It is very +hard to see what part the prospect of suffering and death is meant +to play in the life of such a man. It must be, surely, that he has +something even more real than what he has held to be realities to +learn from the sudden snapping off of life and activity. I find +myself filled with an immense pity for him; and yet if my faith +were a little stronger and purer, I should congratulate rather than +commiserate him. And yet the thought of him in his bewilderment +helps me too, for I see my own life as in a mirror. I have received +a message of truth, the message that the accomplishment of our +plans and cherished designs is not the best thing that can befall +us. How easy to see that in the case of another, how hard to see it +in our own case! But it has helped me too to throw myself outside +the morbid perplexities in which I am involved; to hold out open +hands to the gift of God, even though He seems to give me a stone +for bread, a stinging serpent for wholesome provender. It has +taught me to pray--not only for myself, but for all the poor souls +who are in the grip of a sorrow that they cannot understand or +bear. + + + +March 14, 1889. + + +The question that haunts me, the problem I cannot disentangle, is +what is or what ought our purpose to be? What is our duty in life? +Ought we to discern a duty which lies apart from our own desires +and inclinations? The moralist says that it ought to be to help +other people; but surely that is because the people, whom by some +instinct we deem the highest, have had the irresistible desire to +help others? How many people has one ever known who have taken up +philanthropy merely from a sense of rectitude? The people who have +done most to help the world along have been the people who have had +an overwhelming natural tenderness, an overflowing love for +helpless, weak, and unhappy people. That is a thing which cannot be +simulated. One knows quite well, to put the matter simply, the +extent of one's own limitations. There are courses of action which +seem natural and easy; others which seem hard, but just possible; +others again which are frankly impossible. However noble a life, +for instance, I thought the life of a missionary or of a doctor to +be, I could not under any circumstances adopt the role of either. +There are certain things which I might force myself to do which I +do not do, and which I practically know I shall not do. And the +number of people is very small who, when circumstances suggest one +course, resolutely carry out another. The artistic life is a very +hard one to analyse, because at the outset it seems so frankly +selfish a life. One does what one most desires to do, one develops +one's own nature, its faculties and powers. If one is successful, +the most one can claim is that one has perhaps added a little to +the sum of happiness, of innocent enjoyment, that one has perhaps +increased or fed in a few people the perception of beauty. Of +course the difficulty is increased by the conventional belief that +any career is justified by success in that career. And as long as a +man attains a certain measure of renown we do not question very +much the nature of his aims. + +Then, again, if we put that all aside, and look upon life as a +thing that is given us to teach us something, it is easy to think +that it does not matter very much what we do; we take the line of +least resistance, and think that we shall learn our lesson somehow. + +It is difficult to believe that our one object ought to be to +thwart all our own desires and impulses, to abstain from doing what +we desire to do, and to force ourselves continually to do what we +have no impulse to do. That is a philosophical and stoical +business, and would end at best in a patient and courteous +dreariness of spirit. + +Neither does it seem a right solution to say: "I will parcel out my +energies--so much will I give to myself, so much to others." It +ought to be a larger, more generous business than that; yet the +people who give themselves most freely away too often end by having +very little to give; instead of having a store of ripe and wise +reflection, they have generally little more than an official smile, +a kindly tolerance, a voluble stream of commonplaces. + +And then, too, it is hard to see, to speak candidly, what God is +doing in the matter. One sees useful careers cut ruthlessly short, +generous qualities nullified by bad health or minute faults, +promise unfulfilled, men and women bound in narrow, petty, +uncongenial spheres, the whole matter in a sad disorder. One sees +one man's influence spoilt by over-confidence, by too strong a +sense of his own significance, and another man made ineffective by +diffidence and self-distrust. The best things of life, the most +gracious opportunities, such as love and marriage, cannot be +entered upon from a sense of duty, but only from an overpowering +and instinctive impulse. + +Is it not possible to arrive at some tranquil harmony of life, some +self-evolution, which should at the same time be ardent and +generous? In my own sad unrest of spirit, I seem to be alike +incapable of working for the sake of others and working to please +myself. Perhaps that is but the symptom of a moral disease, a +malady of the soul. Yet if that is so, and if one once feels that +disease and, suffering is not a part of the great and gracious +purpose of God--if it is but a failure in His design--the struggle +is hopeless. One sees all around one men and women troubled by no +misgivings, with no certain aim, just doing whatever the tide of +life impels them to do. My neighbour here is a man who for years +has gone up to town every day to his office. He is perfectly +contented, absolutely happy. He has made more money than he will +ever need or spend, and he will leave his children a considerable +fortune. He is kind, respectable, upright; he is considered a +thoroughly enviable man, and indeed, if prosperity and contentment +are the sign and seal of God's approbation, such a man is the +highest work of God, and has every reason to be an optimist. He +would think my questionings morbid and my desires moonshine. He is +not necessarily right any more than I; but his theory of life works +out a good deal better for him than mine for me. + +Well, we drift, we drift! Sometimes the sun shines bright on the +wave, and the wheeling birds dip and hover, and our heart is full +of song. But sometimes we plunge on rising billows, with the wind +wailing, and the rain pricking the surface with needle-points; we +are weary and uncomforted; and we do not know why we suffer, or why +we are glad. Sometimes I have a far-off hope that I shall know, +that I shall understand and be satisfied; but sometimes, alas, I +fear that my soul will flare out upon the darkness, and know no +more either of weal or woe. + + + +March 20, 1889. + + +I am reading a great deal now; but I find that I turn naturally to +books of a sad intimite--books in which are revealed the sorrowful +cares and troubles of sensitive people. Partly, I suppose, it is to +get the sense of comfort which comes from feeling that others have +suffered too; but partly to find, if I can, some medicine for my +soul, in learning how others struggled out of the mire. Thus I have +been reading Froude's Carlyle and Mrs. Carlyle's Letters over +again, and they have moved me strangely and deeply. Perhaps it is +mostly that I have felt, in these dark months, drawn to the society +of two brave people--she was brave in her silences, he in the way +in which he stuck doggedly to his work--who each suffered so +horribly, so imaginatively, so inexplicably, and, alas, it would +seem, so unnecessarily! Of course Carlyle indulged his moods, while +Mrs. Carlyle fought against hers; moreover, he had the instinct for +translating thoughts, instantaneously and volubly, into vehement +picturesque speech. How he could bite in a picture, an ugly, ill- +tempered one enough very often, as when he called Coleridge a +"weltering" man! Many of his sketches are mere Gillray caricatures +of people, seen through bile unutterable, exasperated by nervous +irritability. And Mrs. Carlyle had a mordant wit enough. But still +both of them had au fond a deep need of love, and a power of +lavishing love. It comes out in the old man's whimsical notes and +prefaces; and indeed it is true to say that if a person once +actually penetrated into Carlyle's inner circle, he found himself +loved hungrily and devotedly, and never forgotten or cast out. And +as to Mrs. Carlyle, I suppose it was impossible to be near her and +not to love her! This comes out in glimpses in her sad pathological +letters. There is a scene she describes, how she returned home +after some long and serious bout of illness, when her cook and +housemaid rushed into the street, kissed her, and. wept on her +neck; while two of her men friends, Mr. Cooke and Lord Houghton, +who called in the course of the evening, to her surprise and +obvious pleasure, did the very same. The result on myself, after +reading the books, is to feel myself one of the circle, to want to +do something for them, to wring the necks of the cocks who +disturbed Carlyle's sleep; and sometimes, alas, to rap the old +man's fingers for his blind inconsiderateness and selfishness. I +came the other day upon a passage in a former book of my own, where +I said something sneering and derisive about the pair, and I felt +deep shame and contrition for having written it--and, more than +that, I felt a sort of disgust for the fact that I have spent so +much time in writing fiction. Books like the Life of Carlyle and +Mrs. Carlyle's Letters take the wind out of one's imaginative +faculties altogether, because one is confronted with the real stuff +of life in them. Life, that hard, stubborn, inconclusive, +inconsistent, terrible thing! It is, of course, that very hardness +and inconclusiveness that makes one turn to fiction. In fiction, +one can round off the corners, repair mistakes, comfort, idealise, +smooth things down, make error and weakness bear good fruit, +choose, develop as one pleases. Not so with life, where things go +from bad to worse, misunderstandings grow and multiply, suffering +does not purge, sorrow does not uplift. That is the worst of +fiction, that it deludes one into thinking that one can deal gently +with life, finish off the picture, arrange things on one's own +little principles; and then, as in my own case, life brings one up +against some monstrous, grievous, intolerable fact, that one can +neither look round or over, and the scales fall from one's eyes. +With what courage, tranquillity or joy is one to meet a thoroughly +disagreeable situation? The more one leans on the hope that it may +amend, the weaker one grows; the thing to realise is that it is +bad, that it is inevitable, that it has arrived, and to let the +terror and misery do their worst, soak into the soul and not run +off it. Only then can one hope to be different; only so can one +climb the weary ladder of patience and faith. + + + +March 28, 1889. + + +Low-hung ragged grey skies, heaven smeared with watery vapours +fleeting, broken and mournful, from the west--these above me, as I +stand by the old lichened gate of the high wind-swept field at the +top of the wold. In front a stretch of rough common, the dark-brown +heather, the young gorse, bluish-green, the rusty red of soaked +bracken, the pale ochre-coloured grass, all blent into a rich tint +that pleases the eye with its wild freshness. To the left, the wide +flat level of the plain, with low hills rising on its verge; to the +right, a pale pool of water at the bottom of a secret valley, +reflecting the leafless bushes that fringe it, catches the sunset +gleam that rises in the west; and then range after range of wolds, +with pale-green pastures, dark copses, fawn-coloured ploughland, +here and there an emerald patch of young wheat. The air is fresh, +soft and fragrant, laden with rain; the earth smells sweet; and the +wild woodland scent comes blowing to me out of the heart of the +spinney. In front of me glimmer the rough wheel-tracks of a grassy +road that leads out on to the heath, and two obscure figures move +slowly nearer among the tufted gorse. They seem to me, those two +figures, charged with a grave significance, as though they came to +bear me tidings, messengers bidden to seek and find me, like the +men who visited Abraham at the close of the day. + +As I linger, the day grows darker, the colour fading from leaf and +blade; bright points of light flash out among the dark ridges from +secluded farms, where the evening lamp is lit. + +Sometimes on days like this, when the moisture hangs upon the +hedges, when the streams talk hoarsely to themselves in grassy +channels, when the road is full of pools, one is weary, unstrung +and dissatisfied, faint of purpose, tired of labour, desiring +neither activity nor rest; the soul sits brooding, like the black +crows that I see in the leafless wood beneath me, perched silent +and draggled on the tree-tops, just waiting for the sun and the dry +keen airs to return; but to-day it is not so; I am full of a quiet +hope, an acquiescent tranquillity. My heart talks gently to itself, +as to an unseen friend, telling its designs, its wishes, its +activities. I think of those I hold dear, all the world over; I am +glad that they are alive, and believe that they think of me. All +the air seems full of messages, thoughts and confidences and +welcomes passing to and fro, binding souls to each other, and all +to God. There seems to be nothing that one needs to do to-day +except to live one's daily life; to be kind and joyful. To-day the +road of pilgrimage lies very straight and clear between its fences, +in an open ground, with neither valley nor hill, no by-path, no +turning. One can even see the gables and chimneys of some grave +house of welcome, "a roof for when the dark hours begin," full of +pious company and smiling maidens. And not, it seems, a false +security; one is not elated, confident, strong; one knows one's +weakness; but I think that the Lord of the land has lately passed +by with a smile, and given command that the pilgrims shall have a +space of quiet. These birds, these branching trees, have not yet +lost the joy of His passing. There, along the grassy tracks, His +patient footsteps went, how short a time ago! One does not hope +that all the journey will be easy and untroubled; there will be +fresh burdens to be borne, dim valleys full of sighs to creep +through, dark waters to wade across; these feet will stumble and +bleed; these knees will be weary before the end; but to-day there +is no doubt about the pilgrimage, no question of the far-off goal. +The world is sad, perhaps, but sweet; sad as the homeless clouds +that drift endlessly across the sky from marge to marge; sweet as +the note of the hidden bird, that rises from moment to moment from +the copse beside me, again and yet again, telling of a little heart +that is content to wait, and not ill-pleased to be alone with its +own soft thoughts. + + + +April 4, 1889. + + +Down in the valley which runs below the house is a mill. I passed +it to-day at dusk, and I thought I had never seen so +characteristically English a scene. The wheel was silent, and the +big boarded walls, dusted with flour, loomed up solemnly in the +evening light. The full leat dashed merrily through the sluice, +making holiday, like a child released from school. Behind was the +stack-yard, for it is a farm as well as a mill; and in the byre I +heard the grunting of comfortable pigs, and the soft pulling of the +hay from the big racks by the bullocks. The fowls were going to +roost, fluttering up every now and then into the big elder-bushes; +while high above, in the apple-trees, I saw great turkeys settled +precariously for the night. The orchard was silent, except for the +murmur of the stream that bounds it. In the mill-house itself +lights gleamed in the windows, and I saw a pleasant family-party +gathered at their evening meal. The whole scene with its background +of sloping meadows and budding woods so tranquil and contented--a +scene which William Morris would have loved--for there is a +pleasant grace of antiquity about the old house, a sense of homely +and solid life, and of all the family associations that have gone +to the making of it, generation after generation leaving its mark +in the little alterations and additions that have met a need, or +even satisfied a pleasant fancy. + +The miller is an elderly man now, fond of work, prosperous, good- +humoured. His son lives with him, and the house is full of +grandchildren. I do not say that it puzzles me to divine what is +the miller's view of life, because I think I know it. It is to make +money honestly, to bring up his grandchildren virtuously and +comfortably, to enjoy his daily work and his evening leisure. He is +never idle, never preoccupied. He enjoys getting the mill started, +seeing the flour stream into the sacks, he enjoys going to market, +he enjoys going prosperously to church on Sundays, he enjoys his +paper and his pipe. He has no exalted ideas, and he could not put a +single emotion into words, but he is thoroughly honest, upright, +manly, kind, sensible. A perfect life in many ways; and yet it is +inconceivable to me that a man should live thus, without an aim, +without a hope, without an object. He would think my own life even +more inconceivable--that a man could deliberately sit down day +after day to construct a story about imaginary people; and such +respect as he feels for me, is mainly due to the fact that my +writings bring me in a larger income than he could ever make from +his mill. But of course he is a man who is normally healthy, and +such men as he are the props of rural life. He is a good master, he +sees that his men do their work, and are well housed. He is not +generous exactly, but he is neighbourly. The question is whether +such as he is the proper type of humanity. He represents the simple +virtues at their high-water mark. He is entirely contented, and his +desires are perfectly proportioned to their surroundings. He seems +indeed to be exactly what the human creature ought to be. And yet +his very virtues, his sense of justice and honesty, his sensible +kindliness, are the outcome of civilisation, and bear the stamp, in +reality, of the dreams of saints and sages and idealists--the men +who felt that things could be better, and who were made miserable +by the imperfections of the world. I cannot help wondering, in a +whimsical moment, what would have been the miller's thoughts of +Christ, if he had been confronted with Him in the flesh. He would +have thought of Him rather contemptuously, I think, as a +bewildering, unpractical, emotional man. The miller would not have +felt the appeal of unselfishness and unworldliness, because his +ideal of life is tranquil prosperity. He would have merely wondered +why people could not hold their tongues and mind their business: +and yet he is a model citizen, and would be deeply annoyed if he +were told he were not a sincere Christian. He accepts doctrinal +statements as he would accept mathematical formulae, and he takes +exactly as much of the Christian doctrine as suits him. Now when I +compare myself with the miller, I feel that, as far as human +usefulness goes, I am far lower in the scale. I am, when all is +said and done, a drone in the hive, eating the honey I did not +make. I do not take my share in the necessary labour of the world, +I do not regulate a little community of labourers with uprightness +and kindness, as he does. But still I suppose that my more +sensitive organisation has a meaning in the scale of things. I +cannot have been made and developed as I am, outside of the purpose +of God. And yet my work in the world is not that of the passionate +idealist, that kindles men with the hope of bettering and amending +the world. What is it that my work does? It fills a vacant hour for +leisurely people, it gives agreeable distraction, it furnishes some +pleasant dreams. The most that I can say is that I have a wife whom +I desire to make happy, and children whom I desire to bring up +innocently, purely, vigorously. + +Must one's hopes and beliefs be thus tentative and provisional? +Must one walk through life, never fathoming the secret? I have +myself abundance of material comfort, health, leisure. I know that +for one like myself, there are hundreds less fortunate. Yet +happiness in this world depends very little upon circumstances; it +depends far more upon a certain mixture of selfishness, +tranquillity, temperance, bodily vigour, and unimaginativeness. To +be happy, one must be good-humouredly indifferent to the sufferings +of others, and indisposed to forecast the possibilities of +disaster. The sadness which must shadow the path of such as myself, +is the sadness which comes of the power to see clearly the +imperfections of the world, coupled with the inability to see +through it, to discern the purpose of it all. One comforts oneself +by the dim hope that the desire will be satisfied and the dream +fulfilled; but has one any certainty of that? The temptation is to +acquiesce in a sort of gentle cynicism, to take what one can get, +to avoid as far as possible all deep attachments, all profound +hopes, to steel oneself in indifference. That is what such men as +my miller do instinctively; meanwhile one tries to believe that the +melancholy that comes to such as Hamlet, the sadness of finding the +world unintelligible, and painful, and full of shadows, is a noble +melancholy, a superior sort of madness. Yet one is not content to +bear, to suffer, to wait; one clutches desperately at light and +warmth and joy, and alas, in joy and sorrow alike, one is ever and +insupportably alone. + + + +April 9, 1889. + + +I have been reading Rousseau lately, and find him a very +incomprehensible figure. The Confessions, it must be said, is a +dingy and sordid book. I cannot quite penetrate the motive which +induced him to write them. It cannot have been pure vanity, because +he does not spare himself; he might have made himself out a far +more romantic and attractive character, if he had suppressed the +shadows and heightened the lights. I am inclined to think that it +was partly vanity and partly honesty. Vanity was the motive force, +and honesty the accompanying mood. I do not suppose there is any +document so transparently true in existence, and we ought to be +thankful for that. It is customary to say that Rousseau had the +soul of a lackey, by which I suppose is meant that he had a gross +and vulgar nature, a thievish taste for low pleasures, and an ill- +bred absence of consideration for others. He had all these +qualities certainly, but he had a great deal more. He was upright +and disinterested. He had a noble disregard of material advantages; +he had an enthusiasm for virtue, a passionate love of humanity, a +deep faith in God. He was not an intellectual man nor a +philosopher; and yet what a ridiculous criticism is that which is +generally made upon him, that his reasoning is bad, his knowledge +scanty, and that people had better read Hobbes! The very reason +which made Rousseau so tremendous an influence was that his point +of view was poetical rather than philosophical; he was not too far +removed from the souls to which he prophesied. What they needed was +inspiration, emotion, and sentimental dogma; these he could give, +and so he saved Europe from the philosophers and the cynics. Of +course it is a deplorable life, tormented by strong animal passion, +ill-health, insanity; but one tends to forget the prevalent +coarseness of social tone at that date, not because Rousseau made +any secret of it, but because none of his contemporaries dared to +be so frank. If Rousseau had struck out a dozen episodes from the +Confessions the result would have been a highly poetical, +reflective, charming book. I can easily conceive that it might have +a very bad effect upon an ingenuous mind, because it might be +argued from what he says that moral lapses do not very much matter, +and that emotional experience is worth the price of some animalism. +Still more perniciously it might induce one to believe that a man +may have a deep sense of religion side by side with an unbridled +sensuality, and that one whose life is morally infamous may yet be +able to quicken the moral temperature of great nations. + +Some of the critics of Rousseau speak as though a man whose moral +code was so loose, and whose practice was so libidinous, ought +almost to have held his tongue on matters of high moral import. But +this is a very false line of argument. A man may see a truth +clearly, even if he cannot practise it; and an affirmation of a +passionate belief in virtue is emphasised and accentuated when it +comes from the lips of one who might be tempted rather to excuse +his faults by preaching the irresistible character of evil. + +To any one who reads wisely, and not in a censorious and +Pharisaical spirit, this sordid record, which is yet interspersed +with things so fragrant and beautiful, may have a sobering and +uplifting effect. One sees a man hampered by ill-health, by a +temperament childishly greedy of momentary pleasure, by +irritability, suspicion, vanity and luxuriousness, again and again +expressing a deep belief in unselfish emotion, a passionate desire +to help struggling humanity onward, a child-like confidence in the +goodness and tenderness of the Father of all. Disgust and +admiration struggle strangely together. One cannot sympathise and +yet one dare not condemn. One feels a horrible suspicion that there +are dark and slimy corners, vile secrets. ugly memories, in the +minds of hundreds of seemingly respectable people; the book brings +one face to face with the mystery of evil; and yet through the +gloom there steals a silvery radiance, a far-off hope, an infinite +compassion for all weakness and imperfection. One can hardly love +Rousseau, though one does not wonder that there were many found to +do so; and instead of judging him, one cries out with horror at the +slime of the pit where he lay bound. + + + +April 14, 1889. + + +A delusion of which we must beware is the delusion that we can have +a precise and accurate knowledge of spiritual things. This is a +delusion into which the exponents of settled religions are apt to +fall. The Roman Catholic, with his belief in the infallible Church, +as the interpreter of God's spirit, which is nothing more than a +belief in the inspiration of the majority, or even a belief in the +inspiration of a bureaucracy, is the prey of this delusion. The +Protestant, too, with his legal creed, built up of texts and +precedents, in which the argumentative dicta of Apostles and +Evangelists are as weighty and important as the words of the +Saviour Himself, falls under this delusion. I read the other day a +passage from a printed sermon of an orthodox type, an acrid outcry +against Liberalism in religion, which may illustrate what I mean. + +"To St. Paul and St. John," said the preacher, "the natural or +carnal man is hopelessly remote from God; the same Lord who came to +make possible for man this intimate communion with God is careful +to make it clear that this communion is only possible to redeemed, +regenerate man; prior to new birth into the Kingdom of God, far +from being a son of God, man is, according to the Lord Himself, a +child of the devil, however potentially capable of being translated +from death into life." + +Such teaching is so horrible and abominable that it is hard to find +words to express one's sense of its shamefulness. To attribute it +to the Christ, who came to seek and save what is lost, is an act of +traitorous wickedness. If Christ had made it His business to +thunder into the ears of the outcasts, whom He preferred to the +Scribes and Pharisees, this appalling message, where would His +teaching be? What message of hope would it hold for the soul? Such +a view of Christianity as this insults alike the soul and the mind +and the heart; it deliberately insults God; the message of Christ +to the vilest human spirit is that it is indeed, in spite of all +its corruption, its falls, its shame, in very truth God's own +child; it calls upon the sinner to recognise it, it takes for +granted that he feels it. The people whom Christ denounced with +indignation so fiery, so blasting, that it even seems inconsistent +with His perfect gentleness, were the people who thus professed to +know and interpret the mind of God, who bade the sinner believe +that He was a merciless judge, extreme to mark what is done amiss, +when the one secret was that He was the tenderest and most loving +of Fathers. But according to this preacher's terrible doctrine God +pours into the world a stream of millions of human beings, all +children of the devil, with instincts of a corrupt kind, hampered +by dreadful inheritances, doomed, from their helpless and reluctant +birth, to be sinful here and lost hereafter, and then prescribes to +them a hard and difficult path, beset by clamorous guides, pointing +in a hundred different directions, bidding them find the intricate +way to His Heart, or perish. The truth is the precise opposite. The +divine voice says to every man: "Hampered and sore hindered as you +are, you are yet My dearly beloved son and child; only turn to Me, +only open your heart to Me, only struggle, however faintly, to be +what you can desire to be, and I will guide and lead you to Myself; +all that is needed is that your heart should be on My side in the +battle. Even your sins matter little, provided that you can say +sincerely, 'If it were mine to choose and ordain, I would never +willingly do evil again.' I know, better even than you yourself +know, your difficulties, your temptations, your weaknesses; the +sorrow they bring upon you is no dreary and vindictive punishment, +it is the loving correction of My hand, and will bring you into +peace yet, if only you will trust Me, and not despair." + +The world is full of dreadful things, pains and sorrow and +miseries, but the worst of all are the dreary wretchednesses of our +own devising. The old detestable doctrine of Hell, the idea that +the stubborn and perverse spirit can defy God, and make its black +choice, is simply an attempt to glorify the strength of the human +spirit and to belittle the Love of God. It denies the truth that +God, if He chose, could show the darkest soul the beauty of +holiness in so constraining a way that the frail nature must yield +to the appeal. To deny this, is to deny the omnipotence of the +Creator. No man would deliberately reject peace and joy, if he +could see how to find them, in favour of feverish evil and +ceaseless suffering. If we believe that God is perfect love, it is +inconceivable that He should make a creature capable of defying His +utmost tenderness, unless He had said to Himself, "I will make a +poor wretch who shall defy Me, and he shall suffer endlessly and +mercilessly in consequence." The truth is that God's Omnipotence is +limited by His Omnipotence; He could not, for instance, abolish +Himself, nor create a power that should be greater than He. But if +He indeed can give to evil such vitality that it can defy Him for +ever, then He is creating a power that is stronger than Himself. + +While the mystery of evil is unexplained, we must all be content to +know that we do not know; for the thing is insoluble by human +thought. If God be all-pervading, all-in-all, it is impossible to +conceive anything coming into being alien to Himself, within +Himself. If He created spirits able to choose evil, He must have +created the evil for them to choose, for a man could not choose +what did not exist; if man can defy God, God must have given him +the thought of defiance, for no thought can enter the mind of man +not permitted by God. + +With this mystery unsolved, we cannot pretend to any knowledge of +spiritual things; all that we can do is to recognise that the +principle of Love is stronger than the principle of evil, and cling +so far as we can cling to the former. But to set ourselves up to +guide and direct other men, as the preacher did whose words I have +quoted, is to set oneself in the place of God, and is a detestable +tyranny. Only by our innate sense of Justice and Love can we +apprehend God at all; and thus we are safe in this, that whenever +we find any doctrine preached by any human being which insults our +sense of justice and love, we may gladly reject it, saying that at +least we will not believe that God gives us the power, on the one +hand, to recognise our highest and truest instincts, and on the +other directs us to outrage them. Such teaching as this we can +infallibly recognise as a human perversion and not as a divine +message; and we may thankfully and gratefully believe that the +obstacles and difficulties, the temptations and troubles, which +seem to be strewn so thickly in our path, are to develop rather +than to thwart our strivings after good, and assuredly designed to +minister to our ultimate happiness, rather than to our ultimate +despair. + + + +April 25, 1889. + + +I found to-day on a shelf a Manual of Preparation for Holy +Communion, which was given me when I was confirmed. I stood a long +time reading it, and little ghosts seemed to rustle in its pages. +How well I remember using it, diligently and carefully, trying to +force myself into the attitude of mind that it inculcated, and +humbly and sincerely believing myself wicked, reprobate, stony- +hearted, because I could not do it successfully. Shall I make a +curious confession? From quite early days, the time of first waking +in the morning has been apt to be for me a time of mental +agitation; any unpleasant and humiliating incident, any +disagreeable prospect, have always tended to dart into my brain, +which, unstrung and weakened by sleep, has often been disposed to +view things with a certain poignancy of distress at that hour--a +distress which I always knew would vanish the moment I felt my feet +on the carpet. I used to take advantage of this to use my Manual at +that hour, because by that I secured a deeper intensity of +repentance, and I have often succeeded in inducing a kind of +tearful condition by those means, which I knew perfectly well to be +artificial, but which yet seemed to comply with the rules of the +process. + +The kind of repentance indicated in the book as appropriate was a +deep abasement, a horror and hatred of one's sinful propensities; +and the language used seems to me now not only hollow and +meaningless, but to insult the dignity of the soul, and to be +indeed a profound confession of a want of confidence in the methods +and purposes of God. Surely the right attitude is rather a manly, +frank, and hopeful co-operation with God, than a degraded kind of +humiliation. One was invited to contemplate God's detestation of +sin, His awful and stainless holiness. How unreal, how utterly +false! It is no more reasonable than to inculcate in human beings a +sense of His hatred of weakness, of imperfection, of disease, of +suffering. One might as well say that God's courage and beauty were +so perfect that He had an impatient loathing for anything timid or +ugly. If one said that being perfect He had an infinite pity for +imperfection, that would be nearer the truth--but, even so, how far +away! To believe in His perfect love and benevolence, one must also +believe that all shortcomings, all temptations, all sufferings, +somehow emanate from Him; that they are educative, and have an +intense and beautiful significance--that is what one struggles, +how hardly, to believe! Those childish sins, they were but the +expression of the nature one received from His hand, that wilful, +pleasure-loving, timid, fitful nature, which yet always desired the +better part, if only it could compass it, choose it, love it. To +hate one's nature and temperament and disposition, how impossible, +unless one also hated the God who had bestowed them! And then, too, +how inextricably intertwined! The very part of one's soul that made +one peace-loving, affectionate, trustful was the very thing that +led one into temptation. The very humility and diffidence that made +one hate to seem or to be superior to others was the occasion of +falling. The religion recommended was a religion of scrupulous +saints and self-torturing ascetics; and the result of it was to +make one, as experience widened and deepened, mournfully +indifferent to an ideal which seemed so utterly out of one's reach. +It is very difficult to make the right compromise. On the one hand, +there is the sense of moral responsibility and effort, which one +desires to cultivate; on the other hand, truth compels us to +recognise our limitations, and to confess boldly the fact that +moral improvement is a very difficult thing. The question is +whether, in dealing with other people, we will declare what we +believe to be the truth, or whether we will tamper with the truth +for a good motive. Ought we to pretend that we think a person +morally responsible and morally culpable, when we believe that he +is neither, for the sake of trying to improve him? + +My own practice now is to waste as little time as possible in +ineffectual regrets, but to keep alive as far as I can in my heart +a hope, a desire, that God will help to bring me nearer to the +ideal that I can perceive and cannot reach. To-day, turning over +the pages of the old Manual, with its fantastic strained phrases +staring at me from the page, I cannot help wishing that some wise +and tender person had been able to explain to me the conditions as +I now see them. Probably the thing was incommunicable; one must +learn for oneself both one's bitterness and one's joy. + + + +May 2, 1889. + + +It sometimes happens to me--I suppose it happens to every one--to +hear some well-meaning person play or sing at a party. Last night, +at the Simpsons', a worthy young man, who was staying there, sang +some Schubert songs in a perfectly correct, weak, inexpressive +voice, accompanying himself in a wooden and inanimate fashion--the +whole thing might have been turned out by a machine. I was, I +suppose, in a fretful mood. "Good God!" I thought to myself, "what +is the meaning of this woeful performance?--a party of absurd +dressed-up people, who have eaten and drunk too much, sitting in a +circle in this hot room listening gravely to this lugubrious +performance! And this is the best that Schubert can do! This is the +real Schubert! Here have I been all my life pouring pints of +subjective emotion into this dreary writer of songs, believing that +I was stirred and moved, when it was my own hopes and aspirations +all along, which I was stuffing into this conventional vehicle, +just as an ecclesiastical person puts his emotion into the +grotesque repetitions of a liturgy." I thought to myself that I had +made a discovery, and that all was vanity. Well, we thanked the +singer gravely enough, and went on, smiling and grimacing, to talk +local gossip. A few minutes later, a young girl, very shy and +painfully ingenuous, was hauled protesting to the piano. I could +see her hands tremble as she arranged her music, and the first +chords she struck were halting and timid. Then she began to sing-- +it was some simple old-fashioned song--what had happened? the world +was somehow different; she had one of those low thrilling voices, +charged with utterly inexplicable emotion, haunted with old +mysterious echoes out of some region of dreams, so near and yet so +far away. I do not think that the girl had any great intensity of +mind, or even of soul, neither was she a great performer; but there +was some strange and beautiful quality about the voice, that now +rose clear and sustained, while the accompaniment charged and +tinged the pure notes with glad or mournful visions, like wine +poured into water; now the voice fell and lingered, like a clear +stream among rocks, pathetic, appealing, stirring a deep hunger of +the spirit, and at the same time hinting at a hope, at a secret +almost within one's grasp. How can one find words to express a +thing so magical, so inexpressible? But it left me feeling as +though to sing thus was the one thing worth doing in the world, +because it seemed to interpret, to reveal, to sustain, to console-- +it was as though one opened a door in a noisy, dusty street, and +saw through it a deep and silent glen, with woodlands stooping to a +glimmering stream, with a blue stretch of plain beyond, and an +expanse of sunny seas on the rim of the sky. + +I have had similar experiences before. I have looked in a gallery +at picture after picture--bright, soulless, accomplished things-- +and asked myself how it was possible for men and women to spend +their time so elaborately to no purpose; and then one catches sight +of some little sketch--a pool in the silence of high summer, the +hot sun blazing on tall trees full of leaf, and rich water-plants, +with a single figure in a moored boat, musing dreamily; and at once +one is transported into a region of thrilled wonder. What is it all +about? What is this sudden glimpse into a life so rich and strange? +In what quiet country is it all enacted, what land of sweet +visions? What do the tall trees and the sleeping pool hide from me, +and in what romantic region of joy and sadness does the dreamer +muse for ever, in the long afternoon, so full of warmth and +fragrance and murmurous sound? That is the joy of art, of the +symbol--that it remains and rests within itself, in a world that +seems, for a moment, more real and true than the clamorous and +obtrusive world we move in. + +It is so all along the line--the hard and soulless art of technique +and rule, of tradition and precept, however accomplished, however +perfect it is, is worth nothing; it is only another dreary form of +labour, unless through some faculty of the spirit, some vital +intensity, or even some inexplicable felicity, not comprehended, +not designed, not intended by the artist, it has this remote and +suggestive quality. And thus suddenly, in the midst of this weary +beating of instruments, this dull laying of colour by colour, of +word by word, there breaks in the awful and holy presence; and then +one feels, as I have said, that this thrill, this message, this +oracle, is the one thing in the world worth striving after, and +that indeed one may forgive all the dull efforts of those who +cannot attain it, because perhaps they too have felt the call, and +have thrown themselves into the eternal quest. + +And it is true too of life; one is brought near to many people, and +one asks oneself in a chilly discomfort what is the use of it all, +living thus in hard and futile habits, on dull and conventional +lines; and then again one is suddenly confronted by some +personality, rich in hope and greatness, touching the simplest acts +of life with an unearthly light, making them gracious and +beautiful, and revealing them as the symbols of some pure and high +mystery. Sometimes this is revealed by a word, sometimes by a +glance; perfectly virtuous, capable, successful people may miss it; +humble, simple, quiet people may have it. One cannot analyse it or +describe it; but one has instantaneously a sense that life is a +thing of large issues and great hopes; that every action and +thought, however simple or commonplace, may be touched with this +large quality of interest, of significance. It is a great happiness +to meet such a person, because one goes in the strength of that +heavenly meat many days and nights, knowing that life is worth +living to the uttermost, and that it can all be beautiful and lofty +and gracious; but the way to miss it, to lose that fine sense, is +to have some dull and definite design of one's own, which makes one +treat all the hours in which one cannot pursue it, but as the dirt +and debris of a quarry. One must not, I see, wait for the golden +moments of life, because there are no moments that are not golden, +if one can but pierce into their essence. Yet how is one to realise +this, to put it into practice? I have of late, in my vacuous mood, +fallen into the dark error of thinking of the weary hours as of +things that must be just lived through, and endured, and beguiled, +if possible, until the fire again fall. But life is a larger and a +nobler business than that; and one learns the lesson sooner, if one +takes the suffering home to one's soul, not as a tedious interlude, +but as the very melody and march of life itself, even though it +crash into discords, or falter in a sombre monotony. + +The point is that when one seems to be playing a part to one's own +satisfaction, when one appears to oneself to be brilliant, +suggestive, inspiriting, and genial, one is not necessarily +ministering to other people; while, on the other hand, when one is +dull, troubled, and anxious, out of heart and discontented, one may +have the chance of making others happier. Here is a whimsical +instance; in one of my dreariest days--I was in London on business-- +I sate next to an old friend, generally a very lively, brisk, and +cheerful man, who appeared to me strangely silent and depressed. I +led him on to talk freely, and he told me a long tale of anxieties +and cares; his health was unsatisfactory, his plans promised ill. +In trying to paint a brighter picture, to reassure and encourage +him, I not only forgot my own troubles, but put some hope into him. +We had met, two tired and dispirited men, we went away cheered and +encouraged, aware that we were not each of us the only sufferer in +the world and that there were possibilities still ahead of us all, +nay, in our grip, if we only were not blind and forgetful. + + + +May 8, 1889. + + +I saw the other day a great artist working on a picture in its +initial stages. There were a few lines of a design roughly traced, +and there was a little picture beside him, where the scheme was +roughly worked out; but the design itself was covered with strange +wild smears of flaring, furious colour, flung crudely upon the +canvas. "I find it impossible to believe," I said,--"forgive me for +speaking thus--that these ragged stains and splashes of colour can +ever be subdued and harmonised and co-ordinated." The great man +smiled. "What would you have said, I wonder," he replied, "if you +had seen, as I did once, a picture of Rossetti's in an early stage, +with the face and arms of one of his strange and mysterious figures +roughly painted in in the brightest ultramarine? Many of these +fantastic scraps of colour will disappear altogether from the eye, +just lending tone to something which is to be superimposed upon +them." + +I have since reflected that this makes a beautiful parable of our +lives. Some element comes into our experience, some suffering, some +anxiety, and we tend to say impatiently: "Well, whatever happens, +this at least can never appear just or merciful." But God, like a +wise and perfect artist, foresees the end in the beginning. We, who +live in time and space, can merely see the rough, crude tints flung +fiercely down, till the thing seems nothing but a frantic patchwork +of angry hues; but God sees the blending and the softening; how the +soft tints of face and hand, of river and tree, will steal over the +coarse background, and gain their strength and glory from the +hidden stains. Perhaps we have sometimes the comfort of seeing how +some old and ugly experience melted into and strengthened some +soft, bright quality of heart or mind. Staring mournfully as we do +upon the tiny circumscribed space of life, we cannot conceive how +the design will work itself out; but the day will come when we +shall see it too; and perhaps the best moments of life are those +when we have a secret inkling of the process that is going so +slowly and surely forward, as the harsh lines and hues become the +gracious lineaments of some sweet face, and from the glaring patch +of hot colour is revealed the remote and shining expanse of a +sunlit sea. + + + +May 14, 1889. + + +There used to be a favourite subject for scholastic disputation: +WHETHER HERCULES IS IN THE MARBLE. The image is that of the +sculptor, who sees the statue lie, so to speak, imbedded in the +marble block, and whose duty is so to carve it, neither cutting too +deep or too shallow, so that the perfect form is revealed. The idea +of the disputation is the root-idea of idealistic philosophy. That +each man is, as it were, a block of marble in which the ideal man +is buried. The purpose of the educator ought to be to cut the form +out, perikoptein, as Plato has it. + +What a lofty and beautiful thought! To feel about oneself that the +perfect form is there, and that the experience of life is the +process of cutting it out--a process full of pain, perhaps, as the +great splinters and flakes fly and drop--a rough, brutal business +it seems at first, the hewing off great masses of stone, so firmly +compacted, fused and concreted together. At first it seems +unintelligible enough; but the dints become minuter and minuter, +here a grain and there an atom, till the smooth and shapely limbs +begin to take shape. At first it seems a mere bewildered loss, a +sharp pang as one parts with what seems one's very self. How long +before the barest structure becomes visible! but when one once gets +a dim inkling of what is going on, as the stubborn temper yields, +as the face takes on its noble frankness, and the shapely limbs +emerge in all the glory of free line and curve, how gratefully and +vehemently one co-operates, how little a thing the endurance of +mere pain becomes by the side of the consciousness that one is +growing into the likeness of the divine. + + + +May 23, 1889. + + +when Goethe was writing Werther he wrote to his friend Kestner, "I +am working out my own situation in art, for the consolation of gods +and men." That is a fine thing to have said, proceeding from so +sublime an egoism, so transcendent a pride, that it has hardly a +disfiguring touch of vanity about it. He did not add that he was +also working in the situation of his friend Kestner, and Kestner's +wife, Charlotte; though when they objected to having been thus used +as material, Goethe apologised profusely, and in the same breath +told them, somewhat royally, that they ought to be proud to have +been thus honoured. But that is the reason why one admires Goethe +so much and worships him so little. One admires him for the way in +which he strode ahead, turning corner after corner in the +untravelled road of art, with such insight, such certainty, +interpreting and giving form to the thought of the world; but one +does not worship him, because he had no tenderness or care for +humanity. He knew whither he was bound, but he did not trouble +himself about his companions. The great leaders of the world are +those who have said to others, "Come with me--let us find light and +peace together!"--but Goethe said, "Follow me if you can!" Some +one, writing of that age, said that it was a time when men had +immense and far-reaching desires, but feeble wills. They lost +themselves in the melancholy of Hamlet, and luxuriated in their own +sorrows. That was not the case with Goethe himself; there never was +an artist who was less irresolute. + +One of the reasons, I think, why we are weak in art, at the present +time, is because we refer everything to conventional ethical +standards. We are always arraigning people at the bar of morality, +and what we judge them mainly by is their strength or weakness of +will. Blake thought differently. He always maintained that men +would be judged for their intellectual and artistic perception, by +their good or bad taste. + +But surely it is all a deep-seated mistake; one might as well judge +people for being tall or short, ugly or beautiful. The only thing +for which I think most people would consent to be judged, which is +after all what matters, is whether they have yielded consciously to +mean, prudent, timid, conventional motives in life. It is not a +question of success or failure; it is rather whether one has acted +largely, freely, generously, or whether one has acted politely, +timidly, prudently. + +In the Gospel, the two things for which it seems to be indicated +that men will be judged are, whether they have been kind, and +whether they have improved upon what has been given them. And +therefore the judgment seems to depend rather upon what men desire +than upon what they effect, upon attitude rather than upon +performance. But it is all a great mystery, because no amount of +desiring seems to give us what we desire. The two plain duties are +to commit ourselves to the Power that made us, and to desire to +become what He would have us become; and one must also abstain from +any attempt to judge other people--that is the unpardonable sin. + +In art, then, a man does his best if, like Goethe, he works his own +situation into art for the consolation of gods and men. His own +situation is the only thing he can come near to perceiving; and if +he draws it faithfully and beautifully, he consoles and he +encourages. That is the best and noblest thing he can do, if he can +express or depict anything which may make other men feel that they +are not alone, that others are treading the same path, in sunshine +or cloud; anything which may help others to persevere, to desire, +to perceive. The worst sorrows in life are not its losses and +misfortunes, but its fears. And when Goethe said that it was for +the consolation of gods as well as of men, he said a sublime thing, +for if we believe that God made and loved us, may we not sympathise +with Him for our blindness and hopelessness, for all the sad sense +of injustice and perplexity that we feel as we stumble on our way; +all the accusing cries, all the despairing groans? Do not such +things wound the heart of God? And if a man can be brave and +patient, and trust Him utterly, and bid others trust Him, is He not +thereby consoled? + +In these dark months, in which I have suffered much, there rises at +times in my heart a strong intuition that it is not for nothing +that I suffer. I cannot divine whom it is to benefit, or how it is +to benefit any one. One thing indeed saddens me, and that is to +reflect that I have often allowed the record of old sadnesses to +heighten my own sense of luxurious tranquillity and security. Not +so will I err again. I will rather believe that a mighty price is +being paid for a mightier joy, that we are not astray in the +wilderness out of the way, but that we are rather a great and +loving company, guided onward to some far-off city of God, with +infinite tenderness, and a love so great that we cannot even +comprehend its depth and its intensity. + +I sit, as I write, in my quiet room, the fragrant evening air +floating in, surrounded by all the beloved familiar things that +have made my life sweet, easy, and delightful--books and pictures, +that have brought me so many messages of beauty. I hear the voice +of Maud overhead--she is telling the children a story, and I hear +their voices break out every now and then into eager questions. Yet +in the midst of all this peace and sweetness, I walk in loneliness +and gloom, hardly daring, so faithless and despairing I am, to let +my heart go out to the love and goodness round me, for fear of +losing it all, for fear that those souls I love may be withdrawn +from me or I from them. In this I know that I am sadly and darkly +wrong--the prudent coldness, the fear of sorrow pulls me back; +irresolute, cowardly, base! Yet even so I must trust the Hand that +moulded me, and the Will that bade me be, just so and not +otherwise. + + + +June 4, 1889. + + +It is a melancholy reflection how very little the highest and most +elaborate culture effects in the direction of producing creative +and original writing. Very few indeed of our great writers have +been technically cultivated men. How little we look to the +Universities, where a lifetime devoted to the study of the nuances +of classical expression is considered well spent, for any +literature which either raises the intellectual temperature or +enriches the blood of the world! The fact is that the highly- +cultivated man tends to find himself mentally hampered by his +cultivation, to wade in a sea of glue, as Tennyson said. It is +partly that highly-cultivated minds grow to be subservient to +authority, and to contemn experiment as rash and obstreperous. +Partly also the least movement of the mind dislodges such a pile of +precedents and phrases and aphorisms, stored and amassed by +diligent reading, that the mind is encumbered by the thought that +most things worth saying have been so beautifully said that +repetition is out of the question. Partly, too, a false and +fastidious refinement lays hold of the mind; and an intellect +trained in the fine perception of ancient expression is unable to +pass through the earlier stages through which a writer must pass, +when the stream flows broken and turbid, when it appears impossible +to capture and define the idea which seems so intangible and +indefinable. + +What an original writer requires is to be able to see a subject for +himself, and then to express it for himself. The only cultivation +he needs is just enough to realise that there are differences of +subject and differences of expression, just enough to discern the +general lines upon which subjects can be evolved, and to perceive +that lucidity, grace, and force of expression are attainable. The +overcultivated man, after reading a masterpiece, is crushed and +flattened under his admiration; but the effect of a masterpiece +upon an original spirit, is to make him desire to say something +else that rises in his soul, and to say it in his own words; all he +needs in the way of training is just enough for him to master +technique. The highly-cultivated man is as one dazzled by gazing +upon the sun; he has no eyes for anything else; a bright disc, +imprinted upon his eyes, floats between him and every other object. + +The best illustration of this is the case of the great trio, +Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge. All three started as poets. +Coleridge was distracted from poetry into metaphysics, mainly, I +believe, by his indulgence in opium, and the torturing +contemplation of his own moral impotence. He turned to philosophy +to see if he could find some clue to the bewildering riddle of +life, and he lost his way among philosophical speculations. +Southey, on the other hand, a man of Spartan virtue, became a +highly-cultivated writer; he sate in his spacious library of well- +selected books, arranged with a finical preciseness, apportioning +his day between various literary pursuits. He made an income; he +wrote excellent ephemeral volumes; he gained a somewhat dreary +reputation. But Wordsworth, with his tiny bookshelf of odd tattered +volumes, with pages of manuscript interleaved to supply missing +passages, alone kept his heart and imagination active, by +deliberate leisure, elaborate sauntering, unashamed idleness. + +The reason why very few uneducated persons have been writers of +note, is because they have been unable to take up the problem at +the right point. A writer cannot start absolutely afresh; he must +have the progress of thought behind him, and he must join the +procession in due order. Therefore the best outfit for a writer is +to have just enough cultivation to enable him to apprehend the +drift and development of thought, to discern the social and +emotional problems that are in the air, so that he can interpret-- +that is the secret--the thoughts that are astir, but which have not +yet been brought to the birth. He must know enough and not too +much; he must not dim his perception by acquainting himself in +detail with what has been said or thought; he must not take off the +freshness of his mind by too much intellectual gymnastic. It is a +race across country for which he is preparing, and he will learn +better what the practical difficulties are by daring excursions of +his own, than by acquiring a formal suppleness in prescribed +exercises. + +The originality and the output of the writer are conditioned by his +intellectual and vital energy. Most men require all their energy +for the ordinary pursuits of life; all creative work is the result +of a certain superabundance of mental force. If this force is used +up in social duties, in professional business, even in the pursuit +of a high degree of mental cultivation, originality must suffer; +and therefore a man whose aim is to write, ought resolutely to +limit his activities. What would be idleness in another is for him +a storing of forces; what in an ordinary man would be malingering +and procrastination, is for the writer the repose necessary to +allow his energies to concentrate themselves upon his chosen work. + + + +June 8, 1889. + + +I have been looking at a catalogue, this morning, of the +publications of a firm that is always bringing out new editions of +old writers. I suppose they find a certain sale for these books, or +they would not issue them; and yet I cannot conceive who buys them +in their thousands, and still less who reads them. Teachers, +perhaps, of literature; or people who are inspired by local +lectures to go in search of culture? It is a great problem, this +accumulation of literature; and it seems to me a very irrational +thing to do to republish the complete works of old authors, who +perhaps, in the midst of a large mass of essentially second-rate +work, added half-a-dozen lyrics to the literature of the world. But +surely it is time that we began to select? Whatever else there is +time for in this world, there certainly is not time to read old +half-forgotten second-rate work. Of course people who are making a +special study of an age, a period, a school of writers, have to +plough through a good deal that is not intrinsically worth reading; +but, as a rule, when a man has done this, instead of saying boldly +that the greater part of an author's writings may be wisely +neglected and left alone, he loses himself in the critical +discrimination and the chronological arrangement of inferior +compositions; perhaps he rescues a few lines of merit out of a mass +of writing; but there is hardly time now to read long ponderous +poems for the sake of a few fine flashes of emotion and expression. +What, as a rule, distinguishes the work of the amateur from the +work of the great writer is that an amateur will retain a poem for +the sake of a few good lines, whereas a great writer will +relentlessly sacrifice a few fine phrases, if the whole structure +and texture of the poem is loose and unsatisfactory. The only +chance of writing something that will live is to be sure that the +whole thing--book, essay, poem--is perfectly proportioned, firm, +hammered, definite. The sign and seal of a great writer is that he +has either the patience to improve loose work, or the courage to +sacrifice it. + +But most readers are so irrational, so submissive, so deferential, +that they will swallow an author whole. They think dimly that they +can arrive at a certain kind of culture by knowledge; but knowledge +has nothing to do with it. The point is to have perception, +emotion, discrimination. This is where education fails so +grievously, that teachers of this independent and perceptive +process are so rare, and that teaching too often falls into the +hands of conscientious people, with good memories, who think that +it benefits the mind to load it with facts and dates, and forget, +or do not know, that what is needed is a sort of ardent inner fire, +that consumes the debris and fuses the ore. + +In that dry, ugly, depressing book, Harry and Lucy, which I used to +read in my youth, there is a terrible father, kind, virtuous, +conscientious, whose one idea seems to be to encourage the children +to amass correct information. The party is driving in a chaise +together, and Lucy begins to tell a story of a little girl, Kitty +Maples by name, whom she has met at her Aunt Pierrepoint's; it +seems as if the conversation is for once to be enlightened by a ray +of human interest, but the name is hardly out of her lips, when the +father directs her attention to a building beside the road, and +adds, "Let us talk of things rather than of people." The building +turns out to be a sugar-refinery, or some equally depressing +place, and the unhappy children are initiated into its mysteries. +What could be more cheerless and dispiriting? Lucy is represented +as a high-spirited and somewhat giddy child, who is always being +made aware of her moral deficiencies. + +One looks forward sadly to the time when nature has been resolutely +expelled by a knowledge of dynamics and statics, and when Lucy, +with children of her own, will be directing their attention away +from childish fancies, to the fact that the poker is a lever, and +that curly hair is a good hygrometer. + +Plenty of homely and simple virtues are inculcated in Harry and +Lucy; but the attitude of mind that must inevitably result from +such an education is hard, complacent, and superior. The children +are scolded out of superficial vanities, and their place is +occupied by a satanical sort of pride--the pride of possessing +correct information. + +What does one want to make of one's own children? One wants them to +be generous, affectionate, simple-minded, just, temperate in the +moral region. In the intellectual region, one desires them to be +alert, eager, independent, perceptive, interested. I like them to +ask a hundred questions about what they see and hear. I want them +to be tender and compassionate to animals and insects. As for +books, I want them to follow their own taste, but I surround them +only with the best; but even so I wish them to have minds of their +own, to have preferences, and reasons for their preferences. I do +not want them to follow my taste, but to trust their own. I do not +in the least care about their amassing correct information. It is +much better that they should learn how to use books. It is very +strange how theories of education remain impervious to development. +In the days when books were scarce and expensive, when knowledge +was not formulated and summarised, men had to depend largely on +their own stores. But now, what is the use of books, if one is +still to load one's memory with details? The training of memory is +a very unimportant part of education nowadays; people with accurate +memories are far too apt to trust them, and to despise +verification. Indeed, a well-filled memory is a great snare, +because it leads the possessor of it to believe, as I have said, +that knowledge is culture. A good digestion is more important to a +man than the possession of many sacks of corn; and what one ought +rather to cultivate nowadays is mental digestion. + + + +June 14, 1889. + + +It is comforting to reflect how easy it is to abandon habits, and +how soon a new habit takes the place of the old. Some months ago I +put writing aside in despair, feeling that I was turning away from +the most stable thing in life; yet even now I have learned largely +to acquiesce in silence; the dreary and objectless mood visits me +less and less frequently. What have I found to fill the place of +the old habit? I have begun to read much more widely, and recognise +how very ill-educated I am. In my writing days, I used to read +mainly for the purposes of my books, or, if I turned aside to +general reading at all, it was to personal, intime, subjective +books that I turned, books in which one could see the development +of character, analyse emotion, acquire psychological experience; +but now I find a growing interest in sociological and historical +ideas; a mist begins to roll away from my mental horizon, and I +realise how small was the circle in which I was walking. I +sometimes find myself hoping that this may mean the possibility of +a wider flight; but I do not, strange to say, care very much about +the prospect. Just at present, I appear to myself to have been like +a botanist walking in a great forest, looking out only for small +typical specimens of certain classes of ground-plants, without any +eyes for the luxurious vegetation, the beauty of the rich opening +glade, the fallen day of the dense underwood. + +Then too I have begun to read regularly with the children; I did it +formerly, but only fitfully, and I am sorry to say grudgingly. But +now it has become a matter of intense interest to me, to see how +thoughts strike on eager and ingenuous minds. I find my trained +imagination a great help here, because it gives me the power of +clothing a bare scene with detail, and of giving vitality to an +austere figure. I have made all sorts of discoveries, to me +astonishing and delightful, about my children. I recognise some of +their qualities and modes of thought; but there are whole ranges of +qualities apparent, of which I cannot even guess the origin. One +thinks of a child as deriving its nature from its parents, and its +experience from its surroundings; but there is much beside that, +original views, unexpected curiosities, and, strangest of all, +things that seem almost like dim reminiscences floated out of other +far-off lives. They seem to infer so much that they have never +heard, to perceive so much that they have never seen, to know so +much that they have never been told. Bewildering as this is in the +intellectual region, it is still more marvellous in the moral +region. They scorn, they shudder at, they approve, they love, as by +some generous instinct, qualities of which they have had no +experience. "I don't know what it is, but there is something wrong +about Cromwell," said Maggie gravely, when we had been reading the +history of the Commonwealth. Now Cromwell is just one of those +characters which, as a rule, a child accepts as a model of rigid +virtue and public spirit. Alec, whose taste is all for soldiers and +sailors just now, and who might, one would have thought, have been +dazzled by military glory, pronounced Napoleon "rather a common +man." This arose purely in the boy's own mind, because I am very +careful not to anticipate any judgments; I think it of the highest +importance that they should learn to form their own opinions, so +that we never attempt to criticise a character until we have +mastered the facts of his life. + +Another thing I am doing with them, which seems to me to develop +intelligence pleasurably and rapidly, is to read them a passage or +an episode, and then to require them to relate it or write it in +their own words. I don't remember that this was ever done for me in +the whole course of my elaborate education; and the speed with +which they have acquired the art of seizing on salient points is to +me simply marvellous. I have my reward in such remarks as these +which Maud repeated to me yesterday. "Lessons," said Alec gravely, +"have become ever so much more fun since we began to do them with +father." "Fun!" said Maggie, with indignant emotion; "they are not +lessons at all now!" I certainly do not observe any reluctance on +their part to set to work, and I do see a considerable reluctance +to stop; yet I don't think there is the least strain about it. But +it is true that I save them all the stupid and irksome work that +made my own acquisition of knowledge so bitter a thing. We read +French together; my own early French lessons were positively +disgusting, partly from the abominable little books on dirty paper +and in bad type that we read, and partly from the absurd character +of the books chosen. The Cid and Voltaire's Charles XII.! I used to +wonder dimly how it was ever worth any one's while to string such +ugly and meaningless sentences together. Now I read with the +children Sans Famille and Colomba; and they acquire the language +with incredible rapidity. I tell them any word they do not know; +and we have a simple system of emulation, by which the one who +recollects first a word we have previously had, receives a mark; +and the one who first reaches a total of a hundred marks gets +sixpence. The adorable nature of women! Maggie, whose verbal memory +is excellent, went rapidly ahead, and spent her sixpence on a +present to console Alec for the indignity of having been beaten. +Then, too, they write letters in French to their mother, which are +solemnly sent by post. It is not very idiomatic French, but it is +amazingly flexible; and it is delicious to see the children at +breakfast watching Maud as she opens the letters and smiles over +them. + +Perhaps this is not a very exalted type of education; it certainly +seems to fulfil its purpose very wonderfully in making them alert, +inquisitive, eager, and without any shadow of priggishness. It is +established as a principle that it is stupid not to know things, +and still more stupid to try and make other people aware that you +know them; and the apologies with which Maggie translated a French +menu at a house where we stayed with the children the other day +were delightful to behold. + +I am very anxious that they should not be priggish, and I do not +think they are in any danger of becoming so. I suppose I rather +skim the cream of their education, and leave the duller part to the +governess, a nice, tranquil person, who lives in the village, the +daughter of a previous vicar, and comes in in the mornings. I don't +mean that their interest and alertness does not vary, but they are +obedient and active-minded children, and they prefer their lessons +with me so much that it has not occurred to them to be bored. If +they flag, I don't press them. I tell them a story, or show them +pictures. While I write these words in my armchair, they are +sitting at the table, writing an account of something I have told +them. Maggie lays down her pen with a sigh of satisfaction. "There, +that is beautiful! But I dare say it is not as good as yours, +Alec." "Don't interrupt me," says Alec sternly, "and don't push +against me when I'm busy." Maggie looks round and concludes that I +am busy too. In a minute, Alec will have done, and then I shall +read the two pieces aloud; then we shall criticise them +respectfully. The aim is to make them frankly recognise the good +points of each other's compositions as well as the weak points, and +this they are very ready to do. + +In all this I do not neglect the physical side. They can ride and +swim. They go out in all weathers and get wholesomely wet, dirty, +and tired. Games are a difficulty, but I want them to be able, if +necessary, to do without games. We botanise, we look for nests, we +geologise, we study birds through glasses, we garden. It is all +very unscientific, but they observe, they perceive, they love the +country. Moreover, Maud has a passion for knowing all the village +people, and takes the children with her, so that they really know +the village-folk all round; they are certainly tremendously happy +and interested in everything. Of course they are volatile in their +tastes, but I rather encourage that. I know that in the little old +moral books the idea was that nothing should be taken up by +children, unless it was done thoroughly and perseveringly; but I +had rather that they had a wide experience; the time to select and +settle down upon a pursuit is not yet, and I had rather that they +found out for themselves what they care about, than practise them +in a premature patience. The only thing I object to is their taking +up something which they have tried and dropped; then I do require a +pledge that they shall stick to it. I say to them, "I don't mind +how many things you try, and if you find you don't care about one, +you may give it up when you have given it a trial; but it is a bad +thing to be always changing, and everybody can't do everything; so +don't take up this particular thing again, unless you can give a +good reason for thinking you will keep to it." + +One of the things I insist upon their doing, whether they like it +or not, is learning to play the piano. There are innumerable +people, I find, who regret not having been made to overcome the +initial difficulties of music; and the only condition I make is, +that they shall be allowed to stop when they can play a simple +piece of music at sight correctly, and when they have learnt the +simple rules of harmony. + +For teaching them geography, I have a simple plan; my own early +geography lessons were to my recollection singularly dismal. I +used, as far as I can remember, to learn lists of towns, rivers, +capes, and mountains. Then there were horrible lists of exports and +imports, such as hides, jute, and hardware. I did not know what any +of the things were, and no one explained them to me. What we do now +is this. I read up a book of travels, and then we travel in a +country by means of atlases, while I describe the sort of landscape +we should see, the inhabitants, their occupations, their religion, +and show the children pictures. I can only say that it seems to be +a success. They learn arithmetic with their governess, and what is +aimed at is rapid and accurate calculations. As for religious +instruction, we read portions of the Bible, striking scenes and +stories, carefully selected, and the Gospel story, with plenty of +pictures. But here I own I find a difficulty. With regard to the +Old Testament, I have frankly told them that many of the stories +are legends and exaggerations, like the legends of other nations. +That is not difficult; I say that in old days when people did not +understand science, many things seemed possible which we know now +to be impossible; and that things which happened naturally, were +often thought to have happened supernaturally; moreover, that both +imagination and exaggeration crept in about famous people. I am +sure that there is a great danger in teaching intelligent children +that the Bible is all literally true. And then the difficulty comes +in, that they ask artlessly whether such a story as the miracle of +Cana, or the feeding of the five thousand, is true. I reply frankly +that we cannot be sure; that the people who wrote it down believed +it to be true, but that it came to them by hearsay; and the +children seem to have no difficulty about the matter. Then, too, I +do not want them to be too familiar, as children, with the words of +Christ, because I am sure that it is a fact that, for many people, +a mechanical familiarity with the Gospel language simply blurs and +weakens the marvellous significance and beauty of the thought. It +becomes so crystallised that they cannot penetrate it. I have +treated some parts of the Gospel after the fashion of +Philochristus, telling them a story, as though seen by some earnest +spectator. I find that they take the deepest interest in these +stories, and that the figure of Christ is very real and august to +them. But I teach them no doctrine except the very simplest--the +Fatherhood of God, the Divinity of Christ, the indwelling voice of +the Spirit; and I am sure that religion is a pure, sweet, vital +force in their lives, not a harsh thing, a question of sin and +punishment, but a matter of Love, Strength, Forgiveness, Holiness. +The one thing I try to show them is that God was not, as I used to +think, the property, so to speak, of the Jews; but that He is +behind and above every race and nation, slowly leading them to the +light. The two things I will not allow them to think of are the +Doctrines of the Fall and the Atonement; the doctrine of the Fall +is contrary to all true knowledge, the doctrine of the Atonement is +inconsistent with every idea of justice. But it is a difficult +matter. They will hear sermons, and Alec, at school, may have +dogmatic instruction given him; but I shall prepare him for +Confirmation here, and have him confirmed at home, and thus the +main difficulty will be avoided; neither do I conceal from them +that good people think very differently on these points. It is +curious to remember that, brought up as I was on strict Evangelical +lines, I was early inculcated into the sin of schism, with the +result that I hurried with my Puritan nurse swiftly and violently +by a Roman Catholic chapel and a Wesleyan meeting-house which we +used to pass in our walks, with a sense of horror and wickedness in +the air. Indeed, I remember once asking my mother why God did not +rain down fire and brimstone on these two places of worship, and +received a very unsatisfactory answer. To develop such a spirit +was, it seems to me, a monstrous sin against Christian charity, and +my children shall be saved from that. + +Meantime my own hours are increasingly filled. It takes me a long +time to prepare for the children's lessons; and I have my reward +abundantly in the delight of seeing their intelligence, their +perception, their interest grow. I am determined that the +beginnings of knowledge shall be for them a primrose path; I +suppose there will have to be some stricter mental discipline +later; but they shall begin by thinking and expecting things to be +interesting and delightful, before they realise that things can +also be hard and dull. + + + +June 20, 1889. + + +When I read books on education, when I listen to the talk of +educational theorists, when I see syllabuses and schedules, schemes +and curricula, a great depression settles on my mind; I feel I have +no interest in education, and a deep distrust of theoretical +methods. These things seem to aim at missing the very thing of +which we are in search, and to lose themselves in a sort of +childish game, a marshalling of processions, a lust for +organisation. I care so intensely for what it all means, I loathe +so deeply the motives that seem at work. I suppose that the +ordinary man considers a species of success, a bettering of +himself, the acquisition of money and position and respectability, +to be the end of life; and such as these look upon education +primarily as a means of arriving at their object. Such was the old +education given by the sophists, which aimed at turning out a well- +balanced, effective man. But all this, it seems to me, has the +wrong end in view. The success of it depends upon the fact that +every one is not so capable of rising, that the rank and file must +be in the background, forming the material out of which the +successful man makes his combinations, and whom he contrives to +despoil. + +The result of it is that the well-educated man becomes hard, brisk, +complacent, contemptuous, knowing his own worth, using his +equipment for precise and definite ends. + +My idea would rather be that education should aim at teaching +people how to be happy without success; because the shadow of +success is vulgarity, and vulgarity is the one thing which +education ought to extinguish. What I desire is that men should +learn to see what is beautiful, to find pleasure in homely work, to +fill leisure with innocent enjoyment. If education, as the term is +generally used, were widely and universally successful, the whole +fabric of a nation would collapse, because no one thus educated +would acquiesce in the performance of humble work. It is commonly +said that education ought to make men dissatisfied, and teach them +to desire to improve their position. It is a pestilent heresy. It +ought to teach them to be satisfied with simple conditions, and to +improve themselves rather than their position--the end of it ought +to be to produce content. Suppose, for an instant--it sounds a +fantastic hypothesis--that a man born in the country, in the +labouring class, were fond of field-work, a lover of the sights of +nature in all her aspects, fond of good literature, why should he +seek to change his conditions? But education tends to make boys and +girls fond of excitement, fond of town sociabilities and +amusements, till only the dull and unambitious are content to +remain in the country. And yet the country work will have to be +done until the end of time. + +It is a dark problem; but it seems to me that we are only saved +from disaster, in our well-meant efforts, by the simple fact that +we cannot make humanity what we so short-sightedly desire to make +it; that the dull, uninspired, unambitious element has an endurance +and a permanence which we cannot change if we would, and which it +is well for us that we cannot change; and that in spite of our +curricula and schedules, mankind marches quietly upon its way to +its unknown goal. + + + +June 28, 1889. + + +An old friend has been staying with us, a very interesting man for +many reasons, but principally for the fact that he combines two +sets of qualities that are rarely found together. He has strong +artistic instincts; he would like, I think, to have been a painter; +he has a deep love of nature, woodland places and quiet fields; he +loves old and beautiful buildings with a tenderness that makes it a +real misery to him to think of their destruction, and even their +renovation; and he has, too, the poetic passion for flowers; he is +happiest in his garden. But beside all this, he has the Puritan +virtues strongly developed; he loves work, and duty, and simplicity +of life, with all his heart; he is an almost rigid judge of conduct +and character, and sometimes flashes out in a half Pharisaical +scorn against meanness, selfishness, and weakness. He is naturally +a pure Ruskinian; he would like to destroy railways and machinery +and manufactories; he would like working-men to enjoy their work, +and dance together on the village green in the evenings; but he is +not a faddist at all, and has the healthiest and simplest power of +enjoyment. His severity has mellowed with age, while his love of +beauty has, I think, increased; he does not care for argument, and +is apt to say pathetically that he knows that his fellow-disputant +is right, but that he cannot change his opinions, and does not +desire to. He is passing, it seems to me, into a very gracious and +soft twilight of life; he grows more patient, more tender, more +serene. His face, always beautiful, has taken on an added beauty of +faithful service and gracious sweetness. + +We began one evening to discuss a book that has lately been +published, a book of very sad, beautiful, wise, intimate letters, +written by a woman of great perception, high intellectual gifts and +passionate affections. These letters were published, not long after +her death, by her children, to whom many of them were addressed. + +He had read the book, I found, with deep emotion; but he said very +decidedly that it ought not to have been published, at all events +so soon after the writer's death. I am inclined to defer greatly to +his judgment, and still more to his taste, and I have therefore +read the book again to see if I am inclined to alter my mind. I +find that my feeling is the exact opposite of his in every way. I +feel humbly and deeply grateful to the children who have given the +letters to the world. Of course if there had been any idea in the +mind of the writer that they would be published, she would probably +have been far more reticent; but, as it was, she spoke with a +perfect openness and simplicity of all that was in her mind. It is +curious to reflect that I met the writer more than once, and +thought her a cold, hard, unsympathetic woman. She had to endure +many sorrows and bereavements, losing, by untimely death, those +whom she most loved; but the revelation of her pain and +bewilderment, and the sublime and loving resignation with which she +bore it, has been to me a deep, holy, and reviving experience. Here +was one who felt grief acutely, rebelliously, and passionately, yet +whom sorrow did not sear or harden, suffering did not make self- +absorbed or morbid, or pain make callous. Her love flowed out more +richly and tenderly than ever to those who were left, even though +the loss of those whom she loved remained an unfading grief, an +open wound. She did not even shun the scenes and houses that +reminded her of her bereavements; she did not withdraw from life, +she made no parade of her sorrows. The whole thing is so wholesome, +so patient, so devoted, that it has shown me, I venture to say, a +higher possibility in human nature of bearing intolerable +calamities with sweetness and courage, than I had dared to believe. +It seems to me that nothing more wise or brave could have been done +by the survivors than to make these letters accessible to others. +We English people make such a secret of our feelings, are so +stubbornly reticent about the wrong things, have so false and +stupid a sense of decorum, that I am infinitely grateful for this +glimpse of a pure, patient, and devoted heart. It seems to me that +the one thing worth knowing in this world is what other people +think and feel about the great experiences of life. The writers who +have helped the world most are those who have gone deepest into the +heart; but the dullest part of our conventionality is that when a +man disguises the secrets of his soul in a play, a novel, a lyric, +he is supposed to have helped us and ministered to our deepest +needs; but if he speaks directly, in his own voice and person, of +these things, he is at once accused of egotism and indecorum. It is +not that we dislike sentiment and feeling; we value it as much as +any nation; but we think that it must be spoken of symbolically and +indirectly. We do not consider a man egotistical, if he will only +give himself a feigned name, and write of his experiences in the +third person. But if he uses the personal pronoun, he is thought to +be shameless. There are even people who consider it more decent to +say "one feels and one thinks," than to say "I feel and I think." +The thing that I most desire, in intercourse with other men and +women, is that they should talk frankly of themselves, their hopes +and fears, their beliefs and uncertainties. Yet how many people can +do that? Part of our English shyness is shown by the fact that +people are often curiously cautious about what they say, but +entirely indiscreet in what they write. The only books which +possess a real and abiding vitality are those in which personality +is freely and frankly revealed. Of course there are one or two +authors like Shakespeare who seem to have had a power of +penetrating and getting inside any personality, but, apart from +them, the books that go on being read and re-read are the books in +which one seems to clasp hands with a human soul. + +I said many of these things to my friend, and he replied that he +thought I was probably right, but that he could not change his +opinion. He would not have had these letters published until all +the survivors were dead. He did not think that the people who liked +the book were actuated by good motives, but had merely a desire to +penetrate behind the due and decent privacies of life; and he would +have stopped the publication of such letters if he could, because +even if people liked them, it was not good for them to read them. +He said that he himself felt on reading the book as if he had been +listening at keyholes, or peeping in at windows, and seeing the +natural endearments of husband and wife, mother and children. + +I said that what seemed to me to make a difference was whether the +people thus espied were conscious of the espionage or not; and that +it was no more improper to have such things revealed IN A BOOK, +than to have them described in a novel or shown upon the stage. +Moreover, it seemed to me, I said, as though to reveal such things +in a book was the perfect compromise. I feel strongly that each +home, each circle has a right to its own privacy; but I am not +ashamed of my natural feelings and affections, and, by allowing +them to appear in a book, I feel that I am just speaking of them +simply to those who will understand. I desire communion with all +sympathetic and like-minded persons; but one's actual circle of +friends is limited by time and space and physical conditions. +People talk of books as if every one in the world was compelled to +read them. My own idea of a book is that it provides a medium by +which one may commune confidentially with people whom one may never +see, but whom one is glad to know to be alive. One can make friends +through one's books with people with whom one agrees in spirit, but +whose bodily presence, modes of life, reticences, habits, would +erect a barrier to social intercourse. It is so much easier to love +and understand people through their books than through their +conversation. In books they put down their best, truest, most +deliberate thoughts; in talk, they are at the mercy of a thousand +accidents and sensations. There were people who objected to the +publication of the Browning love-letters. To me they were the +sacred and beautiful record of an intensely holy and passionate +relation between two great souls; and I can afford to disregard and +to contemn the people who thought the book strained, unconventional +and shameless, for the sake of those whose faith in love and beauty +was richly and generously nurtured by it. + +It seems to me that the whole progress of life and thought, of love +and charity, depends upon our coming to understand each other. The +hostile seclusion which some desire is really a savage and almost +animal inheritance; and the best part of civilisation has sprung +from the generous self-revelation of kindly and honourable souls. + +I am not even deterred, in a case of this kind, by wondering +whether the person concerned would have liked or disliked the +publication of these letters. I feel no sort of doubt that, as far +as I am concerned, she would be only too willing that I should thus +have read and loved them, and I cannot believe that the +disapprobation of a few austere people, or the curiosity of a few +vulgar people, would weigh in the balance for a moment against the +joy of like-minded spirits. + +The worst dissatisfaction of life is the difficulty one has in +drawing near to others, the foolish hardness, often only +superficial, which makes one hold back from and repudiate +intimacies. If I had known and loved a great and worthy spirit, and +had been the recipient of his confidences, I should hold it a +solemn duty to tell the world what I knew. I should care nothing +for the carping of the cold and unsympathetic, but I should base my +decision on the approval of all loving and generous souls. This +seems to me the highest service that art can render, and if it be +said that no question of art comes in, in the publication of such +records as these letters, I would reply that they are themselves +works of the highest and most instinctive art, because the world, +its relations and affections, its loss and grief, its pain and +suffering, are here seen patiently mirrored and perfectly expressed +by a most perceptive personality. The moment that emotions are +depicted and represented, that moment they have felt the holy and +transfiguring power of art; and then they pass out of the region of +stuffy conventions and commonplace decorums into a finer and freer +air. I do not deny that there is much vulgar inquisitiveness +abroad, but that matters little; and, for myself, I am glad to +think that the world is moving in the direction of a greater +frankness. I do not mean that a man has not a right to live his +life privately, in his own house and his own circle, if he wills. +But if that life is lived simply, generously and bravely, I welcome +any ripple or ray from it that breaks in light and fragrance upon +the harsher and uglier world. + + + +July 1, 1889. + + +I have just read an interesting sentence. I don't know where it +comes from--I saw it in a book of extracts. + +"I am more and more convinced that the cure for sentiment, as for +all weakened forms of strong things, is not to refuse to feel it, +but to feel more in it. This seems to me to make the whole +difference between a true and a false asceticism. The false goes +for getting rid of what it is afraid of; the true goes for using +and making it serve, the one empties, the other fills; the one +abstracts, the other concentrates." + +There is a great deal of truth in this, and it is manfully put. +Where it fails is, I think, in assuming an amount of will-power and +resolution in human character, which I suspect is not there. The +system the writer recommends is a system that a strong character +instinctively practises, moving through sentiment to emotion, +naturally, and by a sturdy growth. But to tell a man to feel more +in a thing, is like telling a man to be intelligent, benevolent, +wise. It is just what no one can do. The various grades of emotion +are not things like examinations, in which one can successively +graduate. They are expressions of temperament. The sentimental man +is the man who can go thus far and no farther. How shall one +acquire vigour and generosity? By behaving as if one was vigorous +and generous, when one is neither? I do not think it can be done in +that way. One can do something to check a tendency, very little to +deepen it. What the writer calls false asceticism is the only brave +and wholesome refuge of people, who know themselves well enough to +know that they cannot trust themselves. Take the case of one's +relations with other people. If a man drifts into sentimental +relations with other people, attracted by charm of any kind, and +knowing quite well that the relation is built on charm, and that he +will not be able to follow it into truer regions, I think he had +probably better try to keep himself in check, not embrace a +sentimental relation with a mild hope that it may develop into a +real devotion. The strong man may try experiments, even though he +burns his fingers. The weak man had better not meddle with the +instruments and fiery fluids at all. + +I am myself just strong enough to dislike sentiment, to turn faint +in the sickly, mawkish air. But I am not strong enough to charge it +with vivid life. Moreover, the danger of a strong character taking +up the anti-ascetic position is that he is apt to degenerate into a +man like Goethe, who plucked the fragrant blooms on every side, and +threw them relentlessly away when he had inhaled their sweetness. +That is a cruel business, unless there is a very wise and tender +heart behind. + +Yet again, reconsidering the whole problem, I am not sure that the +whole suggestion, taken as advice, is not at fault. I think it is +making a melancholy, casuistical, ethical business out of what +ought to be a natural process. I think it is vitiated by a +principle which vitiates so much of the advice of moralists, the +principle that one ought to aim at completeness and perfection. I +don't believe that is the secret of life--indeed I think it is all +the other way. One must of course do one's best to resist immoral, +low, sensuous tendencies; but otherwise I believe that one ought to +drink as much as one's glass can hold of pure and beautiful +influences. If sentiment is the nearest that a man can come to +emotion, I think he had better take it thankfully. It is this +ethical prudence which is always weighing issues, and pulling up +the plant to see how it grows, which is the weakening and the +stunting thing. Of course any principle can be used sophistically; +but I think that many people commit a kind of idolatry by +worshipping their rules and principles rather than by trusting God. +It develops a larger and freer life, if one is not too cautious, +too precise. Of course one must follow what light one has, and all +lights are lit from God; but if one watches the lanterns of +moralists too anxiously, one may forget the stars. + + + +July 8, 1889. + + +I lose myself sometimes in a dream of misery in thinking of the +baseness and meanness and squalor that condition the lives of so +many of the poor. Not that it is not possible under those +conditions to live lives of simplicity and dignity and beauty. It +is perfectly possible, but only, I think, for strong natures +possessing a combination of qualities--virtue, industry, sense, +prudence, and above all good physical health. There must still be +thousands of lives which could be happy and simple and virtuous +under more secure conditions, which are marred and degraded by the +influences under which they are nurtured. Yet what can the more +fortunate individual do in the matter? If all the rich men in +England were to resign to-morrow all the wealth they possessed, +reserving only a bare modicum of subsistence, the matter could not +be amended. Even that wealth could not be wisely applied; and, if +equally divided, it would hardly make any appreciable difference. +What is worse, it would not alter the baneful influences in the +least; it would give no increased security of material conditions, +and it would not affect the point at issue, namely, the tone and +quality of thought and feeling, where the only hope of real +amelioration lies, and which is really the source and root of our +social evils. + +Moreover, the real difficulty is not to see what the classes on +whom the problem presses most grimly NEED, but what they WANT. It +is no use theorising about it, and providing elegant remedies which +will not touch the evil. What one requires to know is what those +natures, who lie buried in this weltering tide, and are +dissatisfied and tormented by it, really desire. It is no use +trying to provide a paradise on the farther bank of the river, till +we have constructed bridges to cross the gulf. What one wants is +that some one from the darkness of the other side should speak +articulately and boldly what they claim, what they could use. It is +not enough to have a wistful cry for help ringing in our ears; one +wants a philosophical or statesmanlike demand--just the very thing +which from the nature of the case we cannot get. It may be that +education will make this possible; but at present education seems +merely to be a ladder let down into the abyss, by which a few +stronger natures can climb out of it, with horror and contempt in +their hearts of what they have left behind. The question that +stares one in the face is, is there honest work for all to do, if +all were strong and virtuous? The answer at present seems to be in +the negative; and the problem seems to be solved only by the fact +that all are not capable of honest work, and that the weaklings +give the strong their opportunity. What, again, one asks oneself, +is the use of contriving more leisure for those who could not use +it well? Then, too, under present conditions, the survival of the +unfittest seems to be assured. Those breed most freely and +recklessly of whom it may be said that, for the interests of +civilisation, it is least desirable that they should perpetuate +their kind. The problem too is so complicated, that it requires a +gigantic faith in a reformer to suggest the sowing of seed of which +he can never hope to see the fruit. The situation is one which +tends to develop vehement and passionate prophets, dealing in vague +and remote generalisations, when what one needs is practical +prudence, and the effective power of foreseeing contingencies. One +who like myself loves security, leisure, beauty and peace, and is +actuated by a vague and benevolent wish that all should have the +same opportunities as myself, feels himself a mere sentimentalist +in the matter, without a single effective quality. I can see the +problem, I can grieve over it, I can feel my faith in God totter +under the weight of it, but that is all. + + + +July 15, 1889. + + +One of the hardest things to face in the world is the grim fact +that our power of self-improvement is limited. Of some qualities we +do not even possess the germs. Some qualities we have in minute +quantities, but hardly capable of development; some few qualities +we possess in fuller measure, and they are capable of development; +but even so, our total capacity of growth is limited, conditioned +by our vital energy, and we have to face the fact that if we +develop one set of qualities we must neglect another set. + +I think of it in a whimsical and fantastic image, the best I can +find. Imagine a box in which there are a number of objects like +puff-balls, each with a certain life of its own, half-filling the +box. Some of the puff-balls are small, hard, sterile; others are +soft and expansive; some grow quickly in warmth and light, others +fare better in cold and darkness. The process of growth begins: +some of them increase in size and press themselves into every +crevice, enclosing and enfolding the others; even so the growth of +the whole mass is conditioned by the size of the box, and when the +box is full, the power of increase is at an end. + +The box, to interpret the fable, is our character with its +possibilities. The conditions which develop the various qualities +are the conditions of our lives, our health, our income, our +education, the people who surround us; but even the qualities +themselves have their limitations. Two people may grow up under +almost precisely similar influences, and yet remain different to +the end; two characters may be placed in difficult and bracing +circumstances; the effect upon one character is to train the +quality of self-reliance, on the other to produce a moral collapse. +Some people do their growing early and then stop altogether, +becoming impervious to new opinions and new influences. Some people +go on growing to the end. + +If one develops one side of one's nature, as the intellectual or +artistic, one probably suffers on the emotional or moral side. The +pain which the perceptive man feels in surveying this process is +apt to be very acute. He may see that he lacks certain qualities +altogether and yet be unable to develop them. He may find in +himself some patent and even gross fault, and be unable to cure it. +The only hope for any of us is that we do not know the expansive +force of our qualities, nor the size of the box; and therefore it +is reasonable to go on trying and desiring; and as long as one can +do that, it is clear that there is still room for growth. The worst +shadow of all is to find, as one goes on, a certain indifference +creeping over one. One accepts a fault as a part of one's nature; +one ceases to care about what appears unattainable. + +It may be said that this is a fatalistic theory, and leads to a +mild inactivity; but the question rather is whether it is true, +whether it is attested by experience. One improves, not by +overlooking facts, in however generous and enthusiastic a spirit, +but by facing facts, and making the best use one can of them. One +must resolutely try to submit oneself to favourable conditions, +fertilising influences. And much more must one do that in the case +of those for whom one is responsible. In the case of my own two +children, for instance, my one desire is to surround them with the +best influences I can. Even there one makes mistakes, no doubt, +because one cannot test the expansive power of their qualities; but +one can observe the conditions under which they seem to develop +best, and apply them. To lavish love and tenderness on some +children serves to concentrate their thoughts upon themselves, and +makes them expect to find all difficulties smoothed away; on other +more generous natures, it produces a glow of responsive gratitude +and affection, a desire to fulfil the hopes formed of them by those +who love them. The most difficult cases of all are the cases of +temperaments without loyal affection, but with much natural charm. +Those are the people who get what is called 'spoilt,' because it is +so much easier to believe in the existence of qualities which are +superficially displayed than in qualities which lie too deep for +facile expression. One comes across cases of children of intense +emotional natures, and very little power of expressing their +feelings, or of showing their affection. Of course, too, example is +far more potent than precept, and it is very difficult for parents +to simulate a high-mindedness and an affectionateness that they do +not themselves possess, even if they are sincerely anxious that +their children should grow up high-minded and affectionate. One of +the darkest shadows of my present condition is the fear that any +revelation of my own weakness and emptiness may discourage and +distort my children's characters; and the watchfulness which this +requires increases the strain under which I suffer, because it is a +hard fact that an example set for a noble and an unselfish motive +is not nearly so potent as an example set naturally, sweetly, and +generously, with no particular consciousness of motive behind it at +all. + + + +July 18, 1889. + + +I have just heard of the sudden death of an old friend. Francis +Willett was a writer of some distinction, whose acquaintance I made +in my first years in London. He was a tall, slim man, dark of +complexion, who would have been called very handsome, if it had not +been for a rather burdened air that he wore. As it was, people +tended rather to pity him, and to speak of him as somewhat of a +mystery. I never knew anything about the background of his life. He +must have had some small means of his own, and he lived in rooms, +in rather an out-of-the-way street near Regent's Park. One used to +see him occasionally in London, walking rapidly, almost always +alone, and very rarely I encountered him at parties, always wearing +a slightly regretful air, as though he were wishing himself away. +He wrote a good deal, reviewed books, and, I suppose, contrived to +make enough to live on by his pen. He once spoke of himself as +being in the happy position of being able to exist without writing, +but forced to purchase all small luxuries by work. He published two +or three books of short stories and sketches of travel, delicate +pieces of work, which had no great sale, but gave him a recognised +position among men of letters. I drifted into a kind of friendship +with him; we were members of the same club, and he sometimes used +to flutter shyly into my rooms like a great moth; but he never +asked me to his quarters. + +I discovered that he had done well at Oxford, and also that he had +once, at all events, had considerable ambitions; but his health was +not strong, he was extremely sensitive, and very fastidious about +the quality of his work. I realised this on an occasion when he +once entrusted me with a MS., and asked me if I would give him an +opinion, as it was an experiment, and he did not feel sure of his +ground; he added that there was no hurry about it. I put the MS. +away in a despatch-box, and having at the time a press of work, I +forgot about it. He never asked me for it, and I did not happen to +open the box where it lay. Some months after I came upon it. I read +it through, and thought it a fine and delicate piece of work. I +wrote to him, apologising for my delay and speaking warmly of the +piece, which was one of those rather uncomfortable stories, which +is not quite long enough to make a book, and yet rather too long to +put in a volume with other pieces. He wrote at once, thanking me +for my opinion, and it was only by accident at a later date, when I +happened to ask him what he was doing with the story, that he told +me he had destroyed it. I expressed deep regret that he had done +so; and he said with a smile that it was probably rather a foolish +impulse that had decided him to make away with it. "The fact is," +he said, "that you wrote very kindly about it, but you had had it +in your hands so long, that I felt somehow that it could not have +interested you--it really doesn't matter," he added, "I don't think +it was at all successful." I apologised very humbly, and explained +the circumstances. "Oh, please don't blame yourself in any way," he +said, "I have not the least shadow of resentment in my mind about +it. There is something wrong about my work; it doesn't interest +people. I suppose it is that I can't let myself go." An interesting +conversation followed, and he told me more than he ever told me +before or since about himself. He confessed to being so critical of +his own work, that his table-drawers were full of unfinished MSS. +His usual experience was to begin a piece of work enthusiastically; +to plan it all out, and to work at first with zest. "Then it begins +to get all out of shape," he said, "there is no go about it; it all +loses itself in subtleties and complexities of motive; one thing +trips up another, and at last it all gets so tangled that I put it +aside; if I could follow the track of one strong and definite +emotion, it would be all right--but I am like the man in the story +who changes the cow for the horse, and the horse for the pig, and +the pig for the grindstone; and then the grindstone rolls into the +river." He seemed to take it all very philosophically, and I +ventured to say so. "Yes," he said, "I have learnt at last that +that is how I am made; but I have been through a good many agonies +of disgust and discouragement about it in old days--it is the same +with everything I have touched. The bits of work that I have +completed have all been done in a rush--if the mood lasts long +enough, I am all right--and once or twice it has just lasted. I am +like a swimmer," he went on, "who can only swim a certain distance; +and if I judge the distance rightly, I can reach the point I desire +to reach; but I generally judge the distance wrong; and half-way +across I am seized with a sudden fright, and struggle back in +terror." + +By one of the strange coincidences that sometimes happen in this +world, I took an unknown lady in to dinner a few days afterwards, +and happened to mention Willett's name. "Do you know him?" she +said. "Oh yes, of course you do!" she went on; "you are the Mr. +S---- of whom he has spoken to me." I found that my neighbour was +a distant relation of Willett's, and she told me a good deal about +him. He was absolutely alone in the world; he had been left an +orphan at an early age, and had spent his holidays with guardians +and relations, with any one who would take pity on him. "He was a +clever kind of boy," she said, "melancholy and diffident, always +thinking that people disliked him. He used to give me the air of a +person who was trying to find something, and who did not quite know +where to look for it. He had a time of expansion at Oxford, where +he made friends and did well; and then he came to London, and began +to write. But the real tragedy of his life is this," she said. "He +really fell in love, or as nearly as he could, with a very pretty +and high-spirited girl, who took a great fancy to him, and pitied +him from the bottom of her heart. For five years the thing went on. +She would have married him at any time if he had asked her. But he +did not. I suppose he could not face the idea of being married. He +always seemed to be on the point of proposing to her, and then he +would lose heart at the last minute. At last she got tired of +waiting, and, I suppose, began to care for some one else; but she +was very good to Francis, and never lost patience with him. At last +she told him one day quietly that she was engaged, and hoped that +they would always remain friends. I think, do you know, that it was +almost more a relief to him than otherwise. I did my best to help +him--marriage was the one thing he wanted; if he could only have +been pushed into it, he would have made a perfect husband, because +not only is he very much of a gentleman, but he could never bear to +fail any one who depended on him; but he has got the unhappiest +mind I know; the moment that he has formed a plan, and sees his way +clear, he at once begins to think of all the reasons against it-- +not the selfish reasons, by any means; in this case he reflected, I +am sure, how little he had to offer; he could not bring himself to +feel that any one could really care for him; and then, too, he +never really cared for anything quite enough himself. Or if he did, +he found all sorts of refined reasons why he ought not to do so. If +only he had been a little more selfish, it would have been all +right. Indeed," said Mrs. T----, with a smile, "he is the only +person of whom I could truthfully say that if he had only been a +little more vulgar, he would have been a much happier person." + +I saw a good deal of Willett after that, and he interested me +increasingly. I verified Mrs. T----'s judgment about him, and found +it true in every particular. I suppose there was some lack of +vitality about him, because the more I knew of him the more I found +to admire. He was an exquisitely delicate person, affectionate, +responsive, with a fine sense of humour--indeed, the most +disconcerting thing was that he saw to the full the humour of his +own position. But none of the robust motives that spur men to +action affected him. He was ambitious, but he would not make any +sacrifices to gain the objects of his ambition. He could not use +his powers on conventional lines. He was, I think, deeply desirous +of confidence and affection, but he could never believe that he +deserved either, or that it was possible for him to be interesting +to others. He was laborious, pure-minded, transparently honest, and +had a shrewd and penetrating judgment of other people; but he +seemed to labour under a sense of shame at his deficiencies, and to +feel that he had no claims or rights in the world. He existed on +sufferance. The smallest shadow of disapproval caused him to +abandon any design, not resentfully but eagerly, as though he was +fully aware of his own incompetence. + +I grew to feel a strong affection for him, and tried in many ways +to help and encourage him. But he always discounted encouragement, +and it is a clumsy business trying to help a man who does not +demand or desire help. + +He seemed to me to have schooled himself into a kind of tender +patience; and this attitude, I am ashamed to say, used to irritate +me considerably, because it seemed to me to be so much power wasted +on accepting defeat, which might have ensured victory. + +He was with me a few weeks ago. I was up in town, and he dined with +me by appointment. He told me, with a gentle philosophy, a story +which made my blood boil. He had been asked to write a book by a +publisher, and the lines had been laid down for him. "It was such a +comfort to me," he said, "because it supplied just the stimulus I +could not myself originate. My book was really rather a good piece +of work; but a week ago I sent it to the publisher, and he returned +it, saying it was not the least what he wanted--he suggested my +retaining about a third of it, and rewriting the rest. Of course I +could do nothing of the kind." "What have you done with it?" I +asked. "Oh, I have destroyed it." "But didn't you see him," I said, +"or do something--or at all events insist on payment?" "Oh no," he +said, "I could not do that--the man was probably right--he wanted a +particular kind of book, and mine was not what he wanted. I did say +that I wished he had explained to me more clearly what he wanted-- +but after all it doesn't very much matter. I can get along all +right, if I am careful." + +"Well," I said, "you are really a very aggravating person. If I +could not have got my book published elsewhere, I would certainly +have had a row--I would have taken out my money's worth in +vituperation." + +Willett smiled; "I dare say you would have had some fun," he said, +"but that is not my line. I have told you before that I can't +interest people--I don't think it is wholly my fault." + +We sate late, talking; and for the only time in his life he spoke +to me, with a depth of emotion of which I should hardly have +suspected him, of the value he set upon my friendship, and his +gratitude for my sympathy. + +And now this morning I have heard of his sudden death. He was found +dead in his room, bent over his papers. He must have been writing +late at night, as his custom was; and it proved on examination that +he must have long suffered from an unsuspected disease of the +heart. Perhaps that may explain his failure, if it can be called a +failure. There is something to me almost insupportably pathetic to +think of his lonely and uncomforted life, his isolation, his +sensitiveness. And yet I do not feel sure that it is pathetic, +because his life somehow seems to me to have been one of the most +beautiful I have ever known. He did nothing much for others, he +achieved nothing for himself; but it is only our miserable habit of +weighing every one's life, in a hard way, by a standard of +performance and success, which makes one sigh over Francis +Willett's life. It is very difficult at times to see what it is +that life is exactly meant to do for us. Most of the men and women +I know--I say this sadly but frankly--seem to me to leave the world +worse, in essential respects, than they entered it. There is +generally something ingenuous, responsive, eager, sweet, hopeful +about a child--but though I admit that one does encounter beautiful +natures that seem to flower very generously in the light of +experience, yet most people grow dull, dreary, conventional, +grasping, commonplace--they grow to think rather contemptuously of +emotion and generosity--they think it weak to be amiable, +unselfish, kind. They become fond of comfort and position and +respect and money. They think such things the serious concerns of +life, and sentiment a kind of relaxation. But with Willett it was +the precise reverse. He claimed nothing for himself, he never +profited at the expense of another; he was utterly humble, gentle, +unpretentious, kind, sincere. An hour ago I should have called him +"poor fellow," and wished that he had had a more robust kind of +fibre; now that I know he is dead, I cannot find it in my heart to +wish him any such qualities. His life appears to me utterly +beautiful and fragrant. He never incurred any taint of grossness +from prosperity or success; he never grew indifferent or hard; and +in the light of his last passage, such a failure seems the one +thing worth achieving, and to carry with it a hope all alive and +rich with possibilities of blessing and glory. He would hardly have +called himself a Christian, I think; he would have said that he +could not have attained to anything like a vital faith or a hopeful +certainty; but the only words and thoughts that haunt my mind about +him, echoing sweetly and softly through the ages, are the words in +which Christ described the tender spirits of those who were nearest +to the Father's heart, and to whom it is given to see God. + + + +July 28, 1889. + + +Health of body and mind return to me, slowly but surely. I have +given up all attempt at writing; I rack my brain no longer for +plots or situations. I keep, it is true, my note-book for subjects +beside me, and occasionally jot down a point; but I feel entirely +indifferent to the whole thing. Meanwhile the flood of letters +about my book, invitations from editors, offers from publishers, +continues to flow. I reply to these benignantly and courteously, +but undertake nothing, promise nothing. I seem to have recovered my +balance. I think no more about my bodily complaints, and my nerves +no longer sting and thrill. The day is hardly long enough for all I +have to do. It may be that when the novelty of the experiment in +education wears off, I shall begin to hanker after authorship +again. Alec will have to go to school in a year or two, I suppose; +but it shall be a day-school at first, if I can find one. As to the +question of a public school, I am much exercised. Of course there +are nightmare terrors about tone and morals; but I am not really +very anxious about the boy, because he is sensible and independent, +and has no lack of moral courage. The vigorous barrack-life is good +for a boy, the give-and-take, the splendid equality, the manly +code, the absence of affectation. But the intellectual tone of +schools is low, and the conventionality is great. I don't want Alec +to be a conventional man, and yet I want him to accept current +conventions instinctively about matters of indifference. I have a +horror of the sporting public-school type, the good-humoured, +robust fellow, who does his work and fills his spare time with +games, and thinks intellectual things, and artistic interests, and +emotion, and sympathy, moonshine and rot. Such people live a +wholesome enough life; they make good soldiers, good officials, +good men of business. But they are woefully complacent and self- +satisfied. The schools develop a Spartan type, and I want Alec to +be an Athenian. But the experiment will have to be made, because a +man is at a disadvantage in ordinary life if he has not the public +school bonhomie, courtesy, and common sense. I must try to keep the +other side alive, and I don't despair of doing it. + +Meantime we are a very contented household, in spite of the fact +that now, if ever, is the time for me to make my mark as a writer, +and I have to pass all the opportunities that offer. On the other +hand, this is the point at which one sees, in the history of +letters, so many writers go to pieces. They suddenly find, after +their first great success, that they have arrived, by a tortuous +and secret path, at being a sort of public man. They are dazzled by +contact with the world. They go into society, they make speeches, +they write twaddle, they drain their energy, already depleted by +creation, in fifty different ways. Now I am strongly of Ruskin's +opinion that the duty of the artist is to make himself fit for the +best society, and then to abstain from it. Very fortunately I have +no sort of taste for these things, beyond the simple human +satisfaction in enjoying consideration. That is natural and +inevitable. But I don't value it unduly, and I dislike its +penalties more than I love its rewards. + +And then, too, I reflect that it is, after all, life that we are +here to taste, and life that so many of us pass by. Work is a part +of life, perhaps the essence of life; but to be absorbed in work is +to be like a man who is absorbed in collecting specimens, and never +has time to sort them. I knew of a man who determined, early in +life, to write the history of political institutions. He had a +great library, and he devoted himself to study. He put in his +books, as he read them, slips of paper to indicate passages and +chapters that he would have to consult, and as he finished with a +book, he put it in a certain place on a certain shelf. He made no +other notes or references--he was a man with a colossal memory, +and he knew exactly what his markers meant. In the middle of this +life of acquisition, while he bored like a worm in a cheese, he +died. His library was sold. The markers meant nothing to any one +else; and the book-buyers merely took the markers out and threw +them away, and that was the end of the history of political +institutions. + +I feel that, apart from our work, we ought to try and arrive at +some solution, to draw some sort of conclusions--to reflect, to +theorise; we may not draw nearer to the secret, but our only hope +of doing so, the only hope that humanity will do so, is for some at +least to try. And thus I think that I have perhaps been saved from +a great delusion. I was spending my time in spinning romances, in +elaborating plots, in manoeuvring life as I would; and it is not +like that! Life is not run on physical lines, nor on emotional, nor +social, nor even moral lines. It is not managed in the least as we +should manage it; it is a resultant of innumerable forces, or +perhaps the same force running in intricate currents. Of course the +strange thing is that we men should find ourselves thrust into it, +with strong intuitions, vehement preconceptions, as to how it ought +to be directed; our happiness seems to depend upon our being, or +learning to be, in harmony with it, but it baffles us, it resists +us, it contradicts us, it opposes us to the end; sometimes it +crushes us; and yet we believe that it means good; and even if we +do not so believe, we have to acquiesce, we have to endure; and one +thing is certain, we cannot learn the lesson of life by practising +indifference or stoical fortitude, or by abandoning ourselves to +despair; only by believing that our sufferings are fruitful, our +mistakes educative, our sins significant, our sorrows gracious, can +we hope to triumph. We go on, many of us, relying on useless +defences, beguiling ourselves with fantastic diversions, +overlooking, as far as we can, stern realities; stopping our ears, +turning away our gaze, shrinking and crying out like children at +the prospect of experiences to which we are led by loving +presences, that smile as they draw us to the wholesome and bracing +incidents that we so weakly dread. We pray for courage, but we know +in our souls that courage can only be won by enduring what we fear; +and thus preoccupied by hopes and plans and fears, we miss the +wholesome sweet and simple stuff of life, its quiet relationships, +its tranquil occupations, its beautiful and tender surprises. + +And then perhaps, at long intervals, we have a deep and splendid +flash of insight, when we can thank God that things have not been +as we should have willed and ordered them. We should have lingered, +perhaps, in the low rich meadows, the sheltered woodlands of our +desire; we should never have set our feet to the hill. In terror +and reluctance we have wandered upwards among the steep mountain +tracks, by high green slopes, by grim crag-buttresses, through +fields of desolate stones. Yet we are aware of a finer, purer air, +of wide prospects of hill and plain; we feel that we have gained in +strength and vigour, that our perceptions are keener, our very +enjoyment nobler; and at last, it may be, we have sight, from some +Pisgah-top of hope, of fairer lands yet to which we are surely +bound. And then, too, though we have fared on in loneliness and +isolation, we see moving forms of friends and comrades converging +on our track. It is no dream; it is but a parable of what has +happened to many a soul, what is daily happening. What does the +sad, stained, weary, fitful past concern us at such a moment as +this? It concerns us nothing, save that only through its pains and +shadows was it possible for us to climb where we have climbed. + +To-day it seems that I have been blessed with such a vision. The +mist will close in again, doubtless, wild with wind, chill with +rain, sad with the cry of hoarse streams. But I have seen! I shall +be weary and regretful and despairing many times; but I shall never +wholly doubt again. + + + +August 8, 1889. + + +Alec is ill to-day. He was restless, flushed, feverish, yesterday +evening, and I thought he must have caught cold; we put him to bed, +and this morning we sent for the doctor. He says there is no need +for anxiety, but he does not know as yet what is the matter; his +temperature is high, and we must just keep him quietly in bed, and +wait. I tell myself that it is foolish to be anxious, but I cannot +keep a certain dread out of my mind; there is a weight upon my +heart, which seems unduly heavy. Perhaps it is only that it seems +unusual, for he has never had an illness of any kind. He is not to +be disturbed, and Maggie is not allowed to see him. Maud sate with +him this morning, and he slept most of the time. I looked in once +or twice, but people coming and going tend to make him restless. +Maud herself is a marvel to me. She must be even more anxious than +I am, but she is serene, smiling, strong, with a cheerfulness that +has no effort about it. She laughed tenderly at my fears, and sent +me out for a walk with Maggie. I fear I was a gloomy companion. In +the evening I went to sit with Alec a little. He was wakeful, +large-eyed, and restless. He lay with a book of stories from Homer, +of which he is very fond, in one hand, the other clasping his black +kitten, which slept peacefully on the counterpane. He wanted to +talk, but to keep him quiet I told him a long trivial story, full +of unexciting incidents. He lay musing, his head on his hand; then +he seemed inclined to sleep, so I sate beside him, watching and +wondering at the nearness and the dearness of the child to me, +almost amazed at the revelation which this shadow of fear gives me +of the place which he fills in my heart and life. He tossed about +for some time, and when I asked him if he wanted anything, he only +put his hand in mine; a gesture not quite like him, as he is a boy +who is averse to personal caresses or signs of emotion. So I drew +my chair up to the bed, and sate there with the little hot hand in +my own. Maud came up presently; but as he now seemed sound asleep, +we left him in the care of the old nurse, and went down to dinner. +If we only knew what was the matter! I argue with myself how much +unnecessary misery I give myself by anticipating evil; but I cannot +help it; and the weight on my mind grew heavier; half the night I +lay awake, till at last, from sheer weariness, I fell into a sort +of stupor of the senses, which fled from me in the dismal dawn, and +the unmanning hideous fear leapt on me out of the dark, like a +beast leaping upon its prey. + + + +August 11, 1889. + + +I cannot and dare not write of these days. The child is very ill; +it is some obscure inflammation of the brain-tissue. I had an +insupportable fear that it might have resulted in some way from +being over-pressed in the matter of work, over-stimulated. I asked +the doctor. If he lied to me, and I do not think he did, he lied +like a man, or an angel. "Not in the least," he said, "it is a +constitutional thing; in fact, I may say that the rational and +healthy life the child has lived will help more than anything to +pull him through." + +But I can't write of the days. I sleep, half-conscious of my +misery. I suppose I eat, walk, read. But waking is like the waking +of a prisoner who awakes up to be put on the rack, who hears doors +open and feet approach, and sickens with dread as he lies. God's +hand is heavy upon me day and night. Surely nothing, in the world +or out of it, can obliterate the memory of this suffering; perhaps, +if Alec is given back to us, I shall smile at this time of +suffering. But, if not-- + + + +August 12, 1889. + + +He is losing ground, he is hardly ever conscious now; he sleeps a +good deal, but often he talks quietly to himself of all that we +have done and said; he often supposes himself to be with me, and, +thank God, he never says a word to show that he has ever feared or +misunderstood me. I could not bear that. Yesterday when I was with +him, he opened his eyes on me; I could see that he knew me, and +that he was frightened. I could not speak, but Maud, who was with +me, just took his hand and with her own tranquil smile, said, "It +is all right, Alec; there is nothing to be frightened about; we are +here, and you will soon be well again." The child closed his eyes +and lay smiling to himself. I could not have done that. + + + +August 13, 1889. + + +He died this morning, just at the dawn. I knew last night that all +hope was over. I was with him half the night, and prayed, knowing +my prayers were in vain. That I could save him no suffering, could +not keep him, could not draw him back. Maud took my place at +midnight; I slept, and in the grey dawn, I woke to find her +standing with a candle by my bed; I knew in a moment, by a glance, +that the end was near. No word passed between us; I found Maggie by +the bed; and we three together waited for the end. I had never seen +any one die. He was quite unconscious, breathing slowly, looking +just like himself, as though flushed with slumber. At last he +stirred, gave a long sigh, and seemed to settle himself for the +last sleep. I do not know when he died, but I became aware that +life had passed, and that the little spirit that we loved had fled, +God knows whither. Maggie sate with her hand in mine; and in my +dumb and frozen grief, almost without a thought of anything but a +deep and cold resentment, a hatred of death and the maker of love +and death alike, I became aware that both she and Maud had me in +their thoughts, that my sorrow was even more to them than their +own--while I was cut off from them; from life and hope alike, in a +place of darkness and in the deep. + + + +August 19, 1889. + + +I saw Alec no more; I would remember him as he was in life, not the +stiffened waxen mask of my beloved. The days passed in a dull +stupor of grief, mechanically, grimly, in a sort of ghastly +greyness. And I who thought that I had sounded the depths of pain! +I could not realise it, could not believe that all would not +somehow be as before. Maud and Maggie speak of him to each other +and to me . . . it is inconceivable. With a dull heartache I have +collected and put away all the child's things--his books, his toys, +his little possessions. I followed the little coffin to the grave. +The uncontrollable throb of emotion came over me at the words, "I +am the resurrection and the life." It was a grey, gusty day; a +silent crowd waited to see us pass. The great churchyard elms +roared and swayed, and I found myself watching idly how the +clergyman's hood was blown sideways by the wind. I looked into the +deep, dark pit, and saw the little coffin lying there, all in a +dumb dream. The holy words fell vacuously on my ears. "Man walketh +in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain"--that was all I +felt. I seem to believe nothing, to hope nothing. I do not believe +I shall ever see or draw near to the child again, and yet the +thought of him alone, apart, uncomforted, lies cold on my heart. +Maud is wonderful to me; her love does not seem to suffer eclipse; +she does everything, she smiles, she speaks; she feels, she says, +the presence of the child near her and about her; that means +nothing to me; the soul appears to me to have gone out utterly like +a blown flame, mingling with the unseen life, as the little body we +loved will be mingled with the dust. + +I cannot say that I endure agony; it is rather as if I had received +a blow so fierce that it drove sensation away; I seem to see the +bruise, watch the blood flow, and wonder why I do not suffer. The +suffering will come, I doubt not; but meanwhile I am only mutely +grateful that I do not feel more, suffer more. It does not even +seem to me to have drawn me nearer to Maud, to Maggie; my power of +loving seems extinguished, like my power of suffering. I do not +know why I write in this book, why I record my blank apathy. It is +a habit, it passes the time; the only thing that gives me any +comfort is the thought that I shall die, too, and close my eyes at +last upon this terrible world, made so sweet and beautiful, and +then slashed and scored across with such cruel stripes, where we +pay so grievous a penalty for feeling and loving. Tennyson found +consolation "when he sorrowed most." But I say deliberately that I +would rather not have loved my child, than lose him thus. + + + +August 28, 1889. + + +We are to go away. Maggie droops like a faded flower, and for the +first time I realise, in trying to comfort and distract her, that I +have not lost everything. We are much together, and seeing her thus +pine and fade stirs a dread, in the heart that had been so cold, +that I may lose her too. At last we are drawn together. She came to +say good-night to me last night, and a gush of love passed through +me, like the wind stirring the strings of a harp to music. "My +precious darling, my comfort," I said; the words put, it seemed, on +my lips, by some deeper power. She clung to me, crying softly. Yet, +is it strange to say it, that simple utterance seems almost to have +revived her, to have given her pride and courage? But Maud is still +almost a mystery to me. Who can tell how she suffers--I cannot--it +seems to have quickened and enriched her love and tenderness; she +seems to have a secret that I cannot come near to sharing; she does +not repine, rebel, resist; she lives in some region of +unapproachable patience and love. She goes daily to the grave, but +I cannot visit it or think of it. The sight of the church-tower on +my walks gives me a throb of dismay. But now we are going away. We +have been lent a little house in a quiet seaside place; I suppose I +am ill--at least, I am aware of a deep and unutterable fatigue at +times, when I can rouse myself to nothing, but sit unoccupied, +musing, glad to be alone, and only dreading the slightest +interruption, the smallest duty. I know by some subtle sense that I +am seldom absent from Maud's thoughts; but, with her incredible +courage and patience, she betrays nothing by word or glance. She is +absolutely patient, entirely self-forgetful; she quietly relieves +me of anything I have to do; she alters arrangements a dozen times +a day, with a ready smile; and yet it almost seems to me as if I +had lost her too. + + + +August 30, 1889. + + +Our route lay through Cambridge; we had to change there and wait; +so we drove down to the town to look at my old college. There it +lay, the charming, pretty, quiet place, blinking lazily out of its +deep-set barred windows in the bright sun, just the same, it +seemed, as ever, though perhaps a touch more mellow and more +settled; every corner and staircase haunted with old ghosts for me. +I could put a name to every set of rooms, flash an incident to +every door and window. In my heavy, apathetic mood the memory of my +life there seemed like a memory of some one else, moving in golden +light, talking and laughing in firelit rooms, lingering in moonlit +nights by the bridge, wondering what life was going to bring. It +seemed like turning the pages of some old illuminated book with +bright pictures, where the very sunlight is the purest and stiffest +gold. The men I knew, the friends I lived with, admired, loved-- +where are they? scattered to all parts of the earth, parted utterly +from me, some of them dead, alas! and silent. It came over me with +a thrill of sharpest pain to think how I had pictured Alec here, +living the same free and beautiful life, tasting the same innocent +pleasures, with the bright, sweet world opening upon him. In that +calm, sunny afternoon, life seemed a strange phantasmal business, +and I myself a revenant from some thin, unsubstantial world. A door +opened, and an old Don, well known to me in those days, hardly +altered, it seemed, came out and trotted across the court, looking +suspiciously to left and right as he used to do. Had he been doing +the same thing ever since, reading the same books, talking the same +innocent gossip? I had not the heart to greet him, and he passed me +by unrecognising. We peeped into the hall through the screen. I +could see where I used to sit, the same dark pictures looking down. +We went to the chapel, with its noble classical woodwork, the great +carved panels, the angels' heads, the huge, stately reredos. Some +one, thank God, was playing softly on the organ, and we sate to +listen. The sweet music flowed over my sad heart in a healing tide. +Yes, it was not meaningless, after all, this strange life, with the +good years shining in their rainbow halo, even though the path led +into darkness and formless shadow. I seemed to look back on it all, +as the traveller on the hill looks out from the skirts of the cloud +upon the sunny valley beneath him. It all worked together, said the +delicate rising strain, outlining itself above the soft thunder of +the pedals, into something high and grave and beautiful; it all +ended in the peace of God. I sate there, with wife and child, a +pilgrim faring onwards, tasting of love and life and sorrow, weary +of the way, but still--yes, I could say that--still hopeful. In +that moment even my bitter loss had something beautiful about it. +It was THERE, the bright episode of my dear Alec's life, the memory +of the beloved years together. Maggie, seeing something in my face +that she was glad to see, put her hand in mine, and the tears rose +to my eyes, while I smiled at Maud; the burden fell off my shoulder +for a moment, and something seemed as it were to touch me and point +onwards. The music with a dying fall came to a soft close; the rich +light fell on desk and canopy; the old tombs glimmered in the dusty +air. We went out in silence; and then there came back to me, in the +old dark court, with its ivied corners, its trim grass plots, the +sense that I was still a part of it all, that the old life was not +dead, but stored up like a garnered treasure in the rich and +guarded past. Not by detachment or aloofness from happiness and +warmth and life are our victories won. That had been the dark +temptation, the shadow of my loss, to believe that in so sad and +strange an existence the only hope was to stand apart from it all, +not to care too much, not to love too closely. That was false, +utterly false; a bare and grim philosophy, a timid sauntering. +Rather it was better to clasp all things close, to love +passionately, to desire infinitely, to yield oneself gladly and +joyfully to every deep and true emotion; not greedily and +luxuriously, flinging aside the crumpled husk that had given up its +sweetness; but tenderly and gently, holding out one's arms to +everything pure and noble, trusting that behind all there did +indeed beat a great and fatherly heart, that loved one better than +one dreamed. + +That was a strange experience, that sunlit afternoon, a mingling of +deepest pain and softest hope, a touch of fire from the very altar +of faith, linking the beautiful past with the dark present, and +showing me that the future held a promise of perfect graciousness +and radiant strength. Did other lives hold the same rich secrets? I +felt that they did; for that day, at least, all mankind, young and +old alike, seemed indeed my brothers and sisters. In the young men +that went lightly in and out, finding life so full of zest, +thinking each other so interesting and wonderful; in the tired face +of the old Professor, limping along the street; in the prosperous, +comfortable contentment of robust men, full of little affairs and +schemes--I saw in all of them the same hope, the same unity of +purpose, the same significance; and we three in the midst, united +by love and loss alike, we were at the centre, as it were, of a +great drama of life and love, in which even death could only shift +the scene and enrich the intensity of the secret hope. + + + +September 5, 1889. + + +The rapt and exalted mood that I carried away from Cambridge could +not last; I did not hope that it could. We have had a dark and sad +time, yet with gleams of sweetness in it, because we have realised +how closely we are drawn together, how much we depend on each +other. Maud's brave spirit has seemed for a time broken utterly; +and this has done more than anything to bring us nearer, because I +have felt the stronger, realising how much she leant upon me. She +has been filled with self-reproach, I know not for what shadowy +causes. She blames herself for a thousand things, for not having +been more to Alec, for having followed her own interests and +activities, for not having understood him better. It is all unreal, +morbid, overstrained, of course, but none the less terribly there. +I have tried to persuade her that it is but weariness and grief +trying to attach itself to definite causes, but she cannot be +comforted. Meanwhile we walk, stroll, drive, read, and talk +together--mostly of him, for I can do that now; we can even smile +together over little memories, though it is perilous walking, and a +step brings us to the verge of tears. But, thank God, there is not +a single painful memory, not a thing we would have had otherwise in +the whole of that little beautiful life; and I wonder now +wretchedly, whether its very beauty and brightness ought not to +have prepared me more to lose him; it was too good to be true, too +perfectly pure and brave. Yet I never even dreamed that he would +leave us; I should have treasured the bright days better if I had. +There are times of sharpest sorrow, days when I wake and have +forgotten; when I think of him as with us, and then the horror of +my loss comes curdling and weltering back upon me; when I thrill +from head to foot with hopeless agony, rebelling, desiring, hating +the death that parts us. + +Maggie seems to feel it differently. A child accepts a changed +condition with perhaps a sharper pang, but with a swift accustoming +to what irreparably IS. She weeps at the thought of him sometimes, +but without the bitter resistance, the futile despair which makes +me agonise. That she can be interested, distracted, amused, is a +great help to me; but nothing seems to minister to my dear Maud, +except the impassioned revival, for it is so, of our earliest first +love. It has come back to bless us, that deep and intimate +absorption that had moved into a gentler comradeship. The old +mysterious yearning to mingle life and dreams, and almost +identities, has returned in fullest force; the years have rolled +away, and in the loss of her calm strength and patience, we are as +lovers again. The touch of her hand, the glance of her eye, thrill +through me as of old. It is a devout service, an eager anticipation +of her lightest wish that possesses me. I am no longer tended; I +tend and serve. There is something soft, appealing, wistful about +her that seems to give her back an almost childlike dependence, +till my grief almost goes from me in joy that I can sustain and aid +her. + + + +September 7, 1889. + + +Another trouble has fallen upon us. I have had a very grievous +letter from my cousin, who succeeded by arrangement, on my father's +death, to the business. He has been unfortunate in his affairs; he +has thrown money away in speculation. The greater part of my income +came from the business. I suppose the arrangement was a bad one, +but the practice was so sound and secure in my father's life that +it never occurred to me to doubt its stability. The chief part of +my income, some nine hundred a year, came to me from this source. +Apart from that, I have some three or four hundreds from invested +money of my own, and Maud has upwards of two hundred a year. I am +going off to-morrow to L---- to meet my cousin, and go into the +matter. I don't at present understand how things are. His letter is +full of protestations and self-recrimination. We can live, I +suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, but in a very different +way. Perhaps we may even have to sell our pleasant house. The +strange thing is that I don't feel this all more acutely, but I +seem to have lost the power of suffering for any other reason than +because Alec is dead. + + + +September 12, 1889. + + +I have come back to-night from some weary nightmare days with my +poor cousin. The thing is as bad as it can be. The business will be +acquired by Messrs. F----, the next most leading solicitors. With +the price they will give, and with the sacrifice of my cousin's +savings, and the assets of the firm, the money can just be paid. We +shall have some six hundred a year to live upon; my cousin is to +enter the office of the F---- firm as an ordinary clerk. The origin +of the disaster is a melancholy one; it was not that he himself +might profit, but to increase the income of some clients who had +lost money and desired a higher rate of interest for funds left in +the hands of the firm. If my cousin had resisted the demand, there +would have been some unpleasantness, because the money lost had +been invested on his advice; he could not face this, and proceeded +to speculate with other money, of which he was trustee, to fill the +gap. Good-nature, imprudence, credulousness, a faulty grasp of the +conditions, and not any deliberate dishonesty, have been the cause +of his ruin. It is a fearful blow to him, but he is fortunate, +perhaps, in being unmarried; I have urged him to try and get +employment elsewhere, but he insists upon facing the situation in +the place where he is known, with a fantastic idea, which is at the +same time noble and chivalrous, of doing penance. Of course he has +no prospects whatever; but I am sure of this, that he grieves over +my lost inheritance far more than he grieves over his own ruin. His +great misery is that some years ago he refused an offer from +Messrs. F---- to amalgamate the two firms. + +I feared at first that I might have to sacrifice the rest of my +money as well--money slowly accumulated out of my own labours. And +the relief of finding that this will not be necessary is immense. +We must sell our house at once, and find a smaller one. At present +I am not afraid of the changed circumstances; indeed, if I could +only recover my power of writing, we need not leave our home. The +temptation is to get a book written somehow, because I could make +money by any stuff just now. On the other hand, it will almost be +to me a relief to part from the home so haunted with the memory of +Alec--though that will be a dreadful pain to Maud and Maggie. As +far as living more simply goes, that does not trouble me in the +least. I have always been slightly uncomfortable about the ease and +luxury in which we lived. I only wish we had lived more simply all +along, so that I could have put by a little more. I have told Maud +exactly how matters stand, and she acquiesces, though I can see +that, just at this time, the thought of handing over to strangers +the house where we have lived all our married life, the rooms where +Alec and the baby died, is a deep grief to her. To me that is +almost a relief. I have dreaded going back there. To-night I told +Maggie, and she broke out into long weeping. But even so there is +something about the idea of being poor, strange to say, which +touches a sense of romance in the child. She does not realise the +poky restrictions of the new life. + +And still stranger to me is the way in which this solid, tangible +trouble seems to have restored my energy and calm. I found myself +clear-headed, able to grasp the business questions which arose, +gifted with a hard lucidity of mind that I did not know I +possessed. It is a relief to get one's teeth into something, to +have hard, definite occupation to distract one; indeed, it hardly +seems to me in the light of a misfortune at present, so much as a +blessed tangible problem to be grappled with and solved. What I +should have felt if all had been lost, and if I had had to resign +my liberty, and take up some practical occupation, I hardly know. I +do not think I should even have dreaded that in my present frame of +mind. + + + +September 15, 1889. + + +I have been thinking all day long of my last walk with Alec, the +day before he was taken ill. Maud had gone out with Maggie; and the +little sturdy figure came to my room to ask if I was going out. I +was finishing a book that I was reading for the evening's work; I +had been out in the morning, and I had not intended to go out +again, as it was cold and drizzling. I very nearly said that I +could not go, and I had a shadow of vexation at being interrupted. +But I looked up at him, as he stood by the door, and there was a +tiny shadow of loneliness upon his face; and I thank God now that I +put my book down at once, and consented cheerfully. He brightened +up at this; he fetched my cap and stick, and we went off together. +I am glad to think that I had him to myself that day. He was in a +more confidential mood than usual. Perhaps--who knows?--there was +some shadow of death upon him, some instinct to clasp hands closer +before the end. He asked me to tell him some stories of my +schooldays, and what I used to do as a boy--but he was full of +alertness and life, breaking into my narratives to point out a nest +that we had seen in the spring, and that now hung, wind-dried and +ruinous, among the boughs. Coming back, he flagged a little, and +did what he seldom did, put his arm in my own; how tenderly the +touch of the little hand, the restless fingers on my arm thrilled +me--the hand that lies cold and folded and shrivelled in the dark +ground! He was proud that evening of having had me all to himself, +and said to Maggie that we had talked secrets, "such as MEN talk +when there are no women to ask questions." But thinking that this +had wounded Maggie a little, he went and put his arm round her, and +I heard him say something about its being all nonsense, and that we +had wished for her all the time. . . . + +Ah, how can I endure it, the silence, the absence, the lost smile, +the child of my own whom I loved from head to foot, body soul and +spirit all alike! I keep coming across signs of his presence +everywhere, his books, his garden tools in the summerhouse, the +little presents he gave me, on my study chimney-piece, his cap and +coat hanging in the cupboard--it is these little trifling things, +signs of life and joyful days, that sting the heart and pierce the +brain with sorrow. If I could but have one sight of him, one word +with him, one smile, to show that he is, that he remembers, that he +waits for us, I could endure it; but I look into the dark and no +answer comes; I send my wild entreaties pulsating through the +worlds of space, crying, "Are you there, my child?" That his life +is there, hidden with God, I do not doubt; but is it he himself, or +has he fallen back, like the drop of water in the fountain, into +the great tide of life? That is no comfort to me; it is he that I +want, that union of body and mind, of life and love, that was +called my child and is mine no more. + + + +September 20, 1889. + + +Such a loss as mine passes over the soul like a plough cleaving a +pasture line by line. The true stuff of the spirit is revealed and +laid out in all its bareness. That customary outline, that surface +growth of herb and blade, is all pared away. I have been accustomed +to think myself a religious man--I have never been without the +sense of God over and about me. But when an experience like this +comes, it shows me what my religion is worth. I do not turn to God +in love and hope; I do not know Him, I do not understand Him. I +feel that He must have forgotten me, or that He is indifferent to +me, or that He is incapable of love, and works blindly and sternly. +My reason in vain says that the great and beautiful gift itself of +the child's life and the child's love came from Him. I do not +question His power or His right to take my child from me. But I +endure only because I must, not willingly or loyally or lovingly. +It is not that I feel the injustice of His taking the boy away; it +is a far deeper sense of injustice than that. The injustice lies in +the fact that He made the child so utterly dear and desired; that +He set him so firmly in my heart; this on the one hand; and on the +other, that He does not, if He must rend the little life away and +leave the bleeding gap, send at the same time some love, some +strength, some patience to make the pain bearable. I cannot believe +that the love I bore my boy was anything but a sweet and holy +influence. It gave me the one thing of which I am in hourly need-- +something outside of myself and my own interests, to love better +than I loved even myself. It seems indeed a pure and simple loss, +unless the lesson God would have us learn is the stoical lesson of +detachment, indifference, cold self-sufficiency. It is like taking +the crutches away from a lame man, knocking the props away from a +tottering building. An optimistic moralist would say that I loved +Alec too selfishly, and even that the love of the child turned away +my heart from the jealous Heart of God, who demands a perfect +surrender, a perfect love. But how can one love that which one does +not know or understand, a Power that walks in darkness and that +gives us on the one hand sweet, beautiful, and desirable things, +and on the other strikes them from us when we need them most? It is +not as if I did not desire to trust and love God utterly. I should +think even this sorrow a light price to pay, if it gave me a pure +and deep trust in the mercy and goodness of God. But instead of +that it fills me with dismay, blank suspicion, fretful resistance. +I do not feel that there is anything which God could send me or +reveal to me, which would enable me to acquit Him of hardness or +injustice. I will not, though He slay me, say that I trust Him and +love Him when I do not. He may crush me with repeated blows of His +hand, but He has given me the divine power of judging, of testing, +of balancing; and I must use it even in His despite. He does not +require, I think, a dull and broken submissiveness, the +submissiveness of the creature that is ready to admit anything, if +only he can be spared another blow. What He requires, so my spirit +tells me, is an eager co-operation, a brave approval, a generous +belief in His goodness and His justice; and this I cannot give, and +it is He that has made me unable to give it. The wound may heal, +the dull pain may die away, I may forget, the child may become a +golden memory--but I cannot again believe that this is the +surrender God desires. What I think He must desire, is that I +should love the child, miss him as bitterly as ever, feel my day +darkened by his loss, and yet turn to Him gratefully and bravely in +perfect love and trust. It may be that I may be drawn closer to +those whom I love, but the loss must still remain irreparable, +because I might have learned to love my dear ones better through +Alec's presence, and not through his absence. It is His will, I do +not doubt it; but I cannot see the goodness or the justice of the +act, and I will not pretend to myself that I acquiesce. + + + +September 25, 1889. + + +Yesterday was a warm, delicious, soft day, full of a gentle +languor, the air balmy and sweet, the sunshine like the purest +gold; we sate out all the morning under the cliff, in the warm dry +sand. To the right and left of us lay the blue bay, the waves +breaking with short, crisp sparkles on the shore. We saw headland +after headland sinking into the haze; a few fishing-boats moved +slowly about, and far down on the horizon we watched the smoke of a +great ocean-steamer. We talked, Maud and I, for the first time, I +think, without reserve, without bitterness, almost without grief, +of Alec. What sustains her is the certainty that he is as he was, +somewhere, far off, as brave and loving as ever, waiting for us, +but waiting with a perfect understanding and knowledge of why we +are separated. She dreams of him thus, looking down upon her, and +seeming, in her dream, to wonder what there can be to grieve about. +I suppose that a mother has a sense of oneness with a child that a +father cannot have. It is a deep and marvellous faith, an intuition +that transcends all reason, a radiant certainty. I cannot attain to +it. But in the warmth and light of her belief, I grew to feel that +at least there was some explanation of it all. Not by chance is the +dear gift sent us, not by chance do we learn to love it, not by +chance is it rent from us. Lying thus, talking softly, in so +gracious a world, a world that satisfied every craving of the +senses, I came to realise that the Father must wish us well, and +that if the shadow fell upon our path, it was not to make us cold +and bitter-hearted. Infinite Love! it came near to me in that hour, +and clasped me to a sorrowful, tender, beating Heart. I read Maud, +at her request, "Evelyn Hope," and the strong and patient love, +that dwells so serenely and softly upon the incidents of death, yet +without the least touch of morbidity and gloom, treating death +itself as a quiet slumber of the soul, taught me for a moment how +to be brave. + +"You will wake and remember, and understand,"--my voice broke and +tears came, unbidden tears which I did not even desire to conceal-- +and in that moment the spirit of my wife came near to me, and soul +looked into the eyes of soul, with a perfect and bewildering joy, +the very joy of God. + + + +October 10, 1889. + + +We have had the kindest, dearest letters from our neighbours about +our last misfortune. But no one seems to anticipate that we shall +be obliged to leave the place. They naturally suppose that I shall +be able to make as large an income as I want by writing. And so I +suppose I could. I talked the whole matter over with Maud, and said +I would abide by her decision. I confessed that I had an extreme +repugnance to the thought of turning out books for money, books +which I knew to be inferior; but I also said that if she could not +bear to leave the place, I had little doubt that I could, for the +present at all events, make enough money to render it possible for +us to continue to live there. I said frankly that it would be a +relief to me to leave a house so sadly haunted by memory, and that +I should myself prefer to live elsewhere, framing our household on +very simple lines--and to let the power of writing come back if it +would, not to try and force it. It would be a dreadful prospect to +me to live thus, overshadowed by recollection, working dismally for +money; but I suppose it would be possible, even bracing. Maud did +not hesitate: she spoke quite frankly; on the one hand the very +associations, which I dread most, were evidently to her a source of +sad delight; and the thought of strangers living in rooms so +hallowed by grief was like a profanation. Then there was the fact +of all her relations with our friends and neighbours; but she said +quite simply that my feeling outweighed it all, and that she would +far rather begin life afresh somewhere else, than put me in the +position I described. We determined to try and find a small house +in the neighbourhood of her own old home in Gloucestershire; and +this thought, I am sure, gave her real happiness. We determined at +once what we would do; we would let our house for a term of years, +take what furniture we needed, and dispose of the rest; we arranged +to go off to Gloucestershire, as soon as possible, to look for a +house. We both realise that we must learn to retrench at once. We +shall have less than half our former income, counting in what we +hope to get from the old house. I am not at all afraid of that. I +always vaguely disliked living as comfortably as we did--but it +will not be agreeable to have to calculate all our expenses--that +may perhaps mend itself, if I can but begin my writing again. + +All this helps me--I am ashamed to say how much--though sometimes +the thought of all the necessary arrangements weighs on me like a +leaden weight, on days when I fall back into a sad, idle, hopeless +repining. Sometimes it seems as if the old happy life was all +broken up and gone for ever; and, so strange a thing is memory and +imagination, that even the months overshadowed by the loss of my +faculty of work seem to me now impossibly fragrant and beautiful, +my sufferings unreal and unsubstantial. Real trouble, real grief, +have at least the bracing force of actuality, and sweep aside with +a strong hand all artificial self-made miseries and glooms. + + + +December 15, 1889. + + +I have kept no record of these weeks. They have been full of +business, sadness, and yet of hope. We went back home for a time; +we made our farewells, and it moved me strangely to see that our +departure was viewed almost with consternation. It is Maud's loss +that will be felt. I have lived very selfishly and dully myself, +but even so I was half-glad to find that even I should be missed. +At such a time everything is forgotten and forgiven, and such +grudging, peaceful neighbourliness as even I have shown seems +appreciated and valued. It was a heartrending business reviving our +sorrow, and it plunged me for a time into my old dry bitterness of +spirit. But I hardened my heart as best I could, and felt more +deeply than ever, how far beyond my powers of endurance it would +have been to have taken up the old life, and Alec not there. Again +and again it was like a knife plunged into my heart with an almost +physical pain. Not so with Maud and Maggie--it was to them a +treasure of precious memories, and they could dare to indulge their +grief. I can't write of it, I can't think of it. Wherever I turned, +I saw him in a hundred guises--as a tiny child, as a small, sturdy +boy, as the son we lost. + +We have let the house to some very kind and reasonable people, who +have made things very easy to us; and to me at least it was a sort +of heavy joy to take the last meal in the old home, to drive away, +to see the landscape fade from sight. I shall never willingly +return. It would seem to me like a wilful rolling among the thorns +of life, a gathering-in of spears into one's breast. I seemed like +a naked creature that had lost its skin, that shrank and bled at +every touch. + + + +February 10, 1890. + + +I have been house-hunting, and I do not pretend to dislike it. The +sight of unknown houses, high garden walls, windows looking into +blind courts, staircases leading to lofts, dark cupboards, old +lumber, has a very stimulating effect on my imagination. Perhaps, +too, I sometimes think, these old places are full of haunting +spiritual presences, clinging, half tearfully, half joyfully to the +familiar scenes, half sad, perhaps, that they did not make a finer +thing of the little confined life; half glad to be free--as a man, +strong and well, might look with a sense of security into a room +where he had borne an operation. But I have never believed much in +haunted rooms. The Father's many mansions can be hardly worth +deserting for the little, dark houses of our tiny life. + +I disliked some of the houses intensely--so ugly and pretentious, +so inconvenient and dull; but even so it is pleasant in fancy to +plan the life one would live there, the rooms one would use. One +house touched me inexpressibly. It was a house I knew from the +outside in a little town where I used to go and spend a few weeks +every year with an old aunt of mine. The name of the little town--I +saw it in an agent's list--had a sort of enchantment for me, a +golden haze of memory. I was allowed a freedom there I was allowed +nowhere else, I was petted and made much of, and I used to spend +most of my time in sauntering about, just looking, watching, +scrutinising things, with the hard and uncritical observation of +childhood. When I got to the place, I was surprised to find that I +knew well the look of the house I went to see, though I had not +ever entered it. Two neat, contented, slightly absurd old maiden +ladies had lived there, who used to walk out together, dressed +exactly alike in some faded fashion. The laurels and yews still +grew thickly in the shrubbery, and shaded the windows of the ugly +little parlours. An old, quiet, respectable maid showed me round; +she had been in service there for twenty years, and she was +tearfully lamenting over the break-up of the home. The old ladies +had lived there for sixty years. One of them had died ten years +before, the other had lingered on to extreme old age. The house was +like a museum, a specimen of a house of the thirties, in which +nothing had ever been touched or changed. The strange wall-papers +and chintzes, the crewel-work chairs, the mirrors, the light maple +furniture, the case of moth-eaten humming-birds, the dull +engravings of historical pictures, the old books--the drawing-room +table was covered with annuals and keepsakes, Moore's poems, Mrs. +Barbauld's works--all had a pathetic ugliness, redeemed by a +certain consistency of quality. And then the poky, comfortable +arrangements, the bath-chair in the coach-house, the four-post +bedsteads, the hand-rail on the stairs, the sandbags for the doors, +all spoke of a timid, invalid life, a dim backwater in the tide of +things. There had been children there at some time, for there were +broken toys, collections of dried plants, curious stones, in an +attic. The little drama of the house shaped itself for me, as I +walked through the frowsy, faded rooms, with a touching insistence. +This bedroom had never been used since Miss Eleanor died--and I +could fancy the poor, little, timid, precise life flitting away +among the well-known surroundings. This had been Miss Jackson's +favourite room--it was so quiet--she had died there, sitting in her +chair, a few weeks before. The leisurely, harmless routine of the +quiet household rose before me. I could imagine Miss Jackson +writing her letters, reading her book, eating her small meals, +making the same humble and grateful remarks, entertaining her old +friends. Year after year it had gone on, just the same, the clock +ticking loud in the hall, the sun creeping round the old rooms, the +birds singing in the garden, the faint footsteps in the road. It +had begun, that gentle routine, long before I had been born into +the world; and it was strange to me to think that, as I passed +through the most stirring experiences of my life, nothing ever +stirred or moved or altered here. Miss Jackson had felt Miss +Eleanor's death very much; she had hardly ever left the house +since, and they had had no company. Yes, what a woefully +bewildering thing death swooping down into that quiet household, +with all its tranquil security, must have been! One wondered what +Miss Eleanor had felt, when she knew she had to die, to pass out +into the unknown dark out of a world so tender, so familiar, so +peaceful; and what had poor Miss Jackson made of it, when she was +left alone? She must have found it all very puzzling, very dreary. +And yet, in the dim past, perhaps one or both of them, had had +dreams of a fuller life, had fancied that something more than +tenderness had looked out of the eyes of a man; well, it had come +to nothing, whatever it might have been; and the two old ladies had +settled down, perhaps with some natural repining, to their +unexciting, contented life, the day filled with little duties and +pleasures, the nights with innocent sleep. It had not been a +selfish life--they had been good to the poor, the maid told me; +and in old days they had often had their nephews and nieces to stay +with them. But those children had grown up and gone out into the +world, and no longer cared to return to the dull little house with +its precise ways, and the fidgety love that had once embraced them. + +The whole thing seemed a mysterious mixture of purposelessness and +contentment. Rumours of wars, social convulsions, patriotic hopes, +great ideas, had swept on their course outside, and had never +stirred the drowsy current of life behind the garden walls. The +sisters had lived, sweetly, perhaps, and softly, like trees in some +sequestered woodland, hardly recognising their own gentle lapse of +strength and activity. + +And now the whole thing was over for good. Curious and indifferent +people came, tramped about the house, pronounced it old-fashioned +and inconvenient. I could not do that myself; the place was brimful +of the pathetic evidences of what had been. Soon, no doubt, the old +house would wear a different guise--it would be renovated and +restored, the furniture would drift away to second-hand shops, the +litter would be thrown out upon the rubbish-heap. New lives, new +relationships would spring up; children would be born, boys would +play, lovers would embrace, sufferers would lie musing, men and +women would die in those refurbished rooms. Everything would drift +onwards, and the lives to whom each corner, each stair, each piece +of furniture had meant so much, would become a memory first, and +then fade into nothingness. Where and what were the two old ladies +now? Were they gone out utterly, like an extinguished flame? were +they in some new home of tranquil peace? Were they adjusting +themselves with a sense of timid impotence--those slender, tired +spirits--to new and bewildering conditions? + +The old, dull house called to me that day with a hundred faint +voices and tremulous echoes. I could make nothing of it; for though +it swept the strings of my heart with a ghostly music, it seemed to +have no certain message for me, but the message of oblivion and +silence. + +I was sorry, as I went away, to leave the poor maidservant to her +lonely and desolate memories. She had to leave her comfortable +kitchen and her easy routine, for new duties and new faces, and I +could see that she anticipated the change with sad dismay. + +It seemed to me in that hour as though the cruelty and the +tenderness of the world were very mysteriously blended--there was +no lack of tenderness in the old house with its innumerable small +associations, its sheltered calm. And then suddenly the stroke must +fall, and fall upon lives whose very security and gentleness seemed +to have been so ill a preparation for sterner and darker things. It +would have been more loving, one thought, either to have made the +whole fabric more austere, more precarious from the first; or else +to have bestowed a deep courage and a fertile hope, a firmer +endurance, rather than to have confronted lives so frail and +delicate with the terrors of the vast unknown. + + + +April 8, 1890. + + +Our new house is charming, beautiful, homelike. It is an old stone +building, formerly a farm; it has a quaint garden and orchard, and +the wooded hill runs up steeply behind, with a stream in front. It +is on the outskirts of a village, and we are within three miles of +Maud's old home, so that she knows all the country round. We have +got two of our old servants, and a solid comfortable gardener, a +native of the place. The house within is quaint and comfortable. We +have a spare bedroom; I have no study, but shall use the little +panelled dining-room. We have had much to do in settling in, and I +have done a great deal of hard physical work myself, in the way of +moving furniture and hanging pictures, inducing much wholesome +fatigue. Maggie, who broke down dreadfully on leaving the old home, +with the wonderful spring that children have, is full of excitement +and even delight in the new house. I rather dread the time when all +our occupations shall be over, and when we shall settle down to the +routine of life. I begin to wonder how I shall occupy myself. I +mean to do a good many odd jobs--we have no trap, and there will be +a good deal of fetching and carrying to be done. We shall resume +our lessons, Maggie and I; there will be reading, gardening, +walking. One ought to be able to live philosophically enough. What +would I not give to be able to write now! but the instinct seems +wholly and utterly dead and gone. I cannot even conceive that I +ever used, solemnly and gravely, to write about imaginary people, +their jests and epigrams, their sorrows and cares. Life and Art! I +used to suppose that it was all a softly moulded, rhythmic, +sonorous affair, strophe and antistrophe; but the griefs and +sorrows of art are so much nearer each other, like major and minor +keys, than the griefs and sorrows of life. In art, the musician +smiles and sighs alternately, but his sighing is a balanced, an +ordered mood; the inner heart is content, as the pool is content, +whether it mirrors the sunlight or the lonely star; but in life, +joy is to grief what music is to aching silence, dumbness, +inarticulate pain--though perhaps in that silence one hears a +deeper, stranger sound, the buzz of the whirring atom, the soft +thunder of worlds plunging through the void, joyless, gigantic, +oblivious forces. + +Is it good thus to have the veils of life rent asunder? If life, +the world's life, activity, work, be the end of existence, then it +is not good. It breaks the spring of energy, so that one goes +heavily and sorely. But what if that be not the end? What then? + + + +May 16, 1890. + + +At present the new countryside is a great resource. I walk far +among the wolds; I find exquisite villages, where every stone-built +house seems to have style and quality; I come down upon green +water-meadows, with clear streams flowing by banks set with thorn- +bushes and alders. The churches, the manor-houses, of grey rubble +smeared with plaster, with stone roof-tiles, are a feast for eye +and heart. Long days in the open air bring me a dull equable health +of body, a pleasant weariness, a good-humoured indifference. My +mind becomes grass-grown, full of weeds, ruinous; but I welcome it +as at least a respite from suffering. It is strange to think of +myself at what ought, I suppose, to be the busiest and fullest time +of my life, living here like a tree in lonely fields. What would be +the normal life? A little house in a London street, I suppose, with +a lot of white paint and bookshelves. Luncheons, dinners, plays, +music, clubs, week-end visits to lively houses, a rush abroad, a +few country visits in the winter. Very harmless and pleasant if one +enjoyed it, but to me inconceivable and insupportable. Perhaps I +should be happier and brisker, perhaps the time would go quicker. +Ought one to make up one's mind that this would be the normal life, +and that therefore one had better learn to accommodate oneself to +it? Does one pay penalties for not submitting oneself to the +ordinary laws of human intercourse? Doubtless one does. But then, +made as I am, I should have to pay penalties which would seem to be +even heavier for the submission. It is there that the puzzle lies; +that a man should be created with the strong instinct that I feel +for liberty and independence and solitude and the quiet of the +country, and then that he should discover that the life he so +desires should be the one that develops all the worst side of him-- +morbidity, fastidiousness, gloom, discontent. This is the shadow of +civilisation; that it makes people intellectual, alert, craving for +stimulus, and yet sucks their nerves dry of the strength that makes +such things enjoyable. + +And still, as I go in and out, the death of Alec seems the one +absolutely unintelligible and inexplicable thing, a gloom +penetrated by no star. It was the one thing that might have made me +unselfish, tender-hearted, the anxious care of some other than +myself. "Perhaps," says an old friend writing to me with a clumsy +attempt at comfort, "perhaps he was taken mercifully away from some +evil to come." A good many people say that, and feel it quite +honestly. But what an insupportable idea of the ways of Providence, +that God had planned a prospect for the child so dreadful that even +his swift removal should be tolerable by comparison! What a +helpless, hopeless confession of failure! No; either the whole +short life, closed by the premature death, must have been designed, +planned, executed deliberately; or else God is at the mercy of +blank cross-currents, opposing forces, tendencies even stronger +than Himself; and then the very idea of God crumbles away, and God +becomes the blank and inscrutable force working behind a gentle, +good-humoured will, which would be kind and gracious if it could, +but is trammelled and bound by something stronger; that was the +Greek view, of course--God above man, and Fate above God. The worst +of it is that it has a horrible vraisemblance, and seems to lie +even nearer to the facts of life than our own tender-hearted and +sentimental theories and schemes of religion. + +But whether it be God or fate, the burden has to be borne. And my +one endeavour must be to bear it myself, consciously and +courageously, and to shift it so far as I can from the gentler and +tenderer shoulders of those whose life is so strangely linked with +mine. + + + +May 25, 1890. + + +One sees a house, like the house we now live in, from a road as one +passes, from the windows of a train. It seems to be set at the end +of the world, with the earth's sunset distance behind it--it seems +a fortress of quiet, a place of infinite peace; and then one lives +in it, and behold, it is a centre of a little active life, with all +sorts of cross-currents darting to and fro, over it, past it. + +Or again one thinks, as one sees such a house in passing, that +there at least one could live in meditation and cloistered calm; +that there would be neither cares nor anxieties; that one would be +content to sit, just looking out at the quiet fields, pacing to and +fro, receiving impressions, musing, selecting, apprehending--and +then one lives there, and the stream of life is as turbid, as +fretful as ever. The strange thing is that such delusions survive +any amount of experience; that one cannot read into other lives the +things that trouble one's own. + +A little definite scheme opens before us here; old friends of +Maud's find us out, simple, kindly, tiresome people. There is an +exchange of small civilities, there are duties, activities, +relationships. To Maud these things come by the light of nature; to +her the simplest interchange of definite thoughts is as natural as +to breathe. I hear her calm, sweet, full voice answering, asking. +To me these things are utterly wearisome and profitless. I want +only to speak of the things for which I care, and to people attuned +to the same key of thought; a basis of sympathy and temperamental +differences--that is the perfect union of qualities for a friend. +But these stolid, kindly parsons, with brisk, active wives, +ingenuous daughters, heavy sons--I want either to know them better, +or not to know them at all. I want to enter the house, the +furnished chambers of people's minds; and I am willing enough to +throw my own open to a cordial guest; but I do not want to stand +and chatter in some debatable land of social conventionality. I +have no store of simple geniality. The other night we went to dine +quietly with a parson near here, a worthy fellow, happy and useful. +Afterwards, in the drawing-room, I sate beside my host. I saw Maud +listening, with rapt interest, to the chronicles of all the village +families, robustly and unimaginatively told by the parson's wife; +meanwhile I, tortured by intolerable ennui, pumped up questions, +tried a hundred subjects with my worthy host. He told me long and +prolix stories, he discoursed on rural needs. At last I said that +we must be going; he replied with genuine disappointment that the +night was still young, and that it was a pity to break up our +pleasant confabulation. I saw with a shock of wonder that he had +evidently been enjoying himself hugely; that it was a pleasure to +him, for some unaccountable reason, not to hear a new person talk, +but to say the same things that he had said for years, to a new +person. It is not ideas that most people want; they are satisfied +with mere gregariousness, the sight and sound of other figures. +They like to produce the same stock of ideas, the same conclusions. +"As I always say," was a phrase that was for ever on my +entertainer's lips. I suppose that probably my own range is just as +limited, but I have an Athenian hankering after novelty of thought, +the new mintage of the mind. I loathe the old obliterated coinage, +with the stamp all rounded and faint. Dulness, sameness, triteness, +are they essential parts of life? I suppose it is really that my +nervous energy is low, and requires stimulus: if it were strong and +full, the current would flow into the trivial things. I derive a +certain pleasure from the sight of other people's rooms, the +familiar, uncomfortable, shabby furniture, the drift of pictures, +the debris of ornament--all that stands for difference and +individuality. But one can't get inside most people's minds; they +only admit one to the public rooms. A crushing fatigue and +depression settles down upon me in such hours, and then the old +blank sense of grief and loss comes flowing back--it is old +already, because it seems to have stained all the backward pages of +life; then follows the weary, restless night; and the breaking of +the grey, pitiless dawn. + + + +June 3, 1890. + + +I do not want, even in my thoughts, to put the contemplative life +above the practical life. Highest of all I would put a combination +of the two--a man of high and clear ideals, in a position where he +was able to give them shape--a great constructive statesman, a +great educator, a great man of business, who was also keenly alive +to social problems, a great philanthropist. Next to these I would +put great thinkers, moralists, poets--all who inspire. Then I would +put the absolutely effective instruments of great designs-- +legislators, lawyers, teachers, priests, doctors, writers--men +without originality, but with a firm conception of civic and human +duty. And then I would put all those who, in a small sphere, +exercise a direct, quiet, simple influence--and then come the large +mass of mankind; people who work faithfully, from instinct and +necessity, but without any particular design or desire, except to +live honestly, honourably, and respectably, with no urgent sense of +the duty of serving others, taking life as it comes, practical +individualists, in fact. No higher than these, but certainly no +lower, I should put quiet, contemplative, reflective people, who +are theoretical individualists. They are not very effective people +generally, and they have a certain poetical quality; they cannot +originate, but they can appreciate. I look upon all these +individualists, whether practical or theoretical, as the average +mass of humanity, the common soldiers, so to speak, as +distinguished from the officers. Life is for them a discipline, and +their raison d'etre is that of the learner, as opposed to that of +the teacher. To all of them, experience is the main point; they are +all in the school of God; they are being prepared for something. +The object is that they should apprehend something, and the channel +through which it comes matters little. They do the necessary work +of the world; they support themselves, and they support those who +from infirmity, weakness, age, or youth cannot support themselves. +There is room, I think, in the world for both kinds of +individualist, though the contemplative individualists are in the +minority; and perhaps it must be so, because a certain lassitude is +characteristic of them. If they were in the majority in any nation, +one would have a simple, patient, unambitious race, who would tend +to become the subjects of other more vigorous nations: our Indian +empire is a case in point. Probably China is a similar nation, +preserved from conquest by its inaccessibility and its numerical +force. Japan is an instance of the strange process of a +contemplative nation becoming a practical one. The curious thing is +that Christianity, which is essentially a contemplative, +unmilitant, unpatriotic, unambitious force, decidedly oriental in +type, should have become, by a mysterious transmutation, the +religion of active, inventive, conquering nations. I have no doubt +that the essence of Christianity lies in a contemplative +simplicity, and that it is in strong opposition to what is commonly +called civilisation. It aims at improving society through the +uplifting of the individual, not at uplifting the individual +through social agencies. We have improved upon that in our latter- +day wisdom, for the Christian ought to be inherently unpatriotic, +or rather his patriotism ought to be of an all-embracing rather +than of an antagonistic kind. I do not want to make lofty excuses +for myself; my own unworldliness is not an abnegation at all, but a +deliberate preference for obscurity. Still I should maintain that +the vital and spiritual strength of a nation is measured, not by +the activity of its organisations, but by the number of quiet, +simple, virtuous, and high-minded persons that it contains. And +thus, in my own case, though the choice is made for me by +temperament and circumstances, I have no pricking of conscience on +the subject of my scanty activities. It is not mere activity that +makes the difference. The danger of mere activity is that it tends +to make men complacent, to lead them to think that they are +following the paths of virtue, when they are only enmeshed in +conventionality. The dangers of the quiet life are indolence, +morbidity, sloth, depression, unmanliness; but I think that it +develops humility, and allows the daily and hourly message of God +to sink into the soul. After all, the one supreme peril is that of +self-satisfaction and finality. If a man is content with what he +is, there is nothing to make him long for what is higher. Any one +who looks around him with a candid gaze, becomes aware that our +life is and must be a provisional one, that it has somehow fallen +short of its possibilities. To better it is the best of all +courses; but next to that it is more desirable that men should hope +for and desire a greater harmony of things, than that they should +acquiesce in what is so strangely and sadly amiss. + + + +June 18, 1890. + + +I have made a new friend, whose contact and example help me so +strangely and mysteriously, that it seems to me almost as though I +had been led hither that I might know him. He is an old and lonely +man, a great invalid, who lives at a little manor-house a mile or +two away. Maud knew him by name, but had never seen him. He wrote +me a courtly kind of note, apologising for being unable to call, +and expressing a hope that we might be able to go and see him. The +house stands on the edge of the village, looking out on the +churchyard, a many-gabled building of grey stone, a long flagged +terrace in front of it, terminated by posts with big stone balls; a +garden behind, and a wood behind that--the whole scene unutterably +peaceful and beautiful. We entered by a little hall, and a kindly, +plain, middle-aged woman, with a Quaker-like precision of mien and +dress, came out to greet us, with a fresh kindliness that had +nothing conventional about it. She said that her uncle was not very +well, but she thought he would be able to see us. She left us for a +moment. There was a cleanness and a fragrance about the old house +that was very characteristic. It was most simply, even barely +furnished, but with a settled, ancient look about it, that gave one +a sense of long association. She presently returned, and said, +smiling, that her uncle would like to see us, but separately, as he +was very far from strong. She took Maud away, and returning, walked +with me round the garden, which had the same dainty and simple +perfection about it. I could see that my hostess had the poetical +passion for flowers; she knew the names of all, and spoke of them +almost as one might of children. This was very wilful and +impatient, and had to be kept in good order; that one required +coaxing and tender usage. We went on to the wood, in all its summer +foliage, and she showed us a little arbour where her uncle loved to +sit, and where the birds would come at his whistle. "They are +looking at us out of the trees everywhere," she said, "but they are +shy of strangers"--and indeed we heard soft chirping and rustling +everywhere. An old dog and a cat accompanied us. She drew my +attention to the latter. "Look at Pippa," she said, "she is +determined to walk with us, and equally determined not to seem to +need our company, as if she had come out of her own accord, and was +surprised to find us in her garden." Pippa, hearing her name +mentioned, stalked off with an air of mystery and dignity into the +bushes, and we could see her looking out at us; but when we +continued our stroll, she flew out past us, and walked on stiffly +ahead. "She gets a great deal of fun out of her little dramas," +said Miss ----. "Now poor old Rufus has no sense of drama or +mystery--he is frankly glad of our company in a very low and +common way--there is nothing aristocratic about him." Old Rufus +looked up and wagged his tail humbly. Presently she went on to talk +about her uncle, and contrived to tell me a great deal in a very +few words. I learnt that he was the last male representative of an +old family, who had long held the small estate here; that after a +distinguished Oxford career, he had met with a serious accident +that had made him a permanent invalid. That he had settled down +here, not expecting to live more than a few years, and that he was +now over seventy; it had been the quietest of lives, she said, and +a very happy one, too, in spite of his disabilities. He read a +great deal, and interested himself in local affairs, but sometimes +for weeks together could do nothing. I gathered that she was his +only surviving relation, and had lived with him from her childhood. +"You will think," she added, laughing, "that he is the kind of +person who is shown by his friends as a wonderful old man, and who +turns out to be a person like the patriarch Casby, in Little +Dorrit, whose sanctity, like Samson's, depended entirely upon the +length of his hair. But he is not in the least like that, and I +will leave you to find out for yourself whether he is wonderful or +not." + +There was a touch of masculine irony and humour about this that +took my fancy; and we went to the house, Miss ---- saying that two +new persons in one afternoon would be rather a strain for her +uncle, much as he would enjoy it, and that his enjoyment must be +severely limited. "His illness," she said, "is an obscure one; it +is a want of adequate nervous force: the doctors give it names, but +don't seem to be able to cure or relieve it; he is strong, +physically and mentally, but the least over-exertion or over-strain +knocks him up; it is as if virtue went out of him; though a partial +niece may say that he has a plentiful stock of the material." + +We went in, and proceeded to a small library, full of books, with a +big writing-table in the window. The room was somewhat dark, and +the feet fell softly on a thick carpet. There was no sort of luxury +about the room; a single portrait hung over the mantelpiece, and +there was no trace of ornament anywhere, except a big bowl of roses +on a table. + +Here, with a low table beside him covered with books, and a little +reading-desk pushed aside, I found Mr. ---- sitting. He was +leaning forwards in his chair, and Maud was sitting opposite him. +They appeared to be silent, but with the natural silence that comes +of reflection, not the silence of embarrassment. Maud, I could see, +was strangely moved. He rose up to greet me, a tall, thin figure, +dressed in a rough grey suit. There was little sign of physical +ill-health about him. He had a shock of thick, strong hair, +perfectly white. His face was that of a man who lived much in the +open air, clear and ascetic of complexion. He was not at all what +would be called handsome; he had rather heavy features, big, white +eyebrows, and a white moustache. His manner was sedate and +extremely unaffected, not hearty, but kindly, and he gave me a +quick glance, out of his blue eyes, which seemed to take swift +stock of me. "It is very kind of you to come and see me," he said +in a measured tone. "Of course I ought to have paid my respects +first, but I ventured to take the privilege of age; and moreover I +am the obedient property of a very vigilant guardian, whose orders +I implicitly obey--'Do this, and he doeth it.'" He smiled at his +niece as he said it, and she said, "Yes, you would hardly believe +how peremptory I can be; and I am going to show it by taking +Mrs. ---- away, to show her the garden; and in twenty minutes +I must take Mr. ---- away too, if he will be so kind as help me +to sustain my authority." + +The old man sate down again, smiling, and pointed me to a chair. +The other two left us; and there followed what was to me a very +memorable conversation. "We must make the best use of our time, you +see," he said, "though I hope that this will not be the last time +we shall meet. You will confer a very great obligation on me, if +you can sometimes come to see me--and perhaps we may get a walk +together occasionally. So we won't waste our time in conventional +remarks," he added; "I will only say that I am heartily glad you +have come to live here, and I am sure you will find it a beautiful +place--you are wise enough to prefer the country to the town, I +gather." Then he went on: "I have read all your books--I did not +read them," he added with a smile, "that I might talk to you about +them, but because they have interested me. May I say that each book +has been stronger and better than the last, except in one case"--he +mentioned the name of a book of mine--"in which you seemed to me to +be republishing earlier work." "Yes," I said, "you are quite right; +I was tempted by a publisher and I fell." "Well," he said, "the +book was a good one--and there is something that we lose as we grow +older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a +beautiful freedom of thought; but we can't have everything, and +one's books must take their appropriate colours from the mind. May +I say that I think your books have grown more and more mature, +tolerant, artistic, wise?--and the last was simply admirable. It +entirely engrossed me, and for a blessed day or two I lived in your +mind, and saw out of your eyes. I am sure it was a great book--a +noble and a large-hearted book, full of insight and faith--the +best kind of book." I murmured something; and he said, "You may +think it is arrogant of me to speak like this; but I have lived +among books, and I am sure that I have a critical gift, mainly +because I have no power of expression. You know the best kind of +critics are the men who have tried to write books, and have failed, +as long as their failure does not make them envious and ungenerous; +I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work all the +more for that. You are writing now?" "No," I said, "I am writing +nothing." "Well, I am sorry to hear it," he said, "and may I +venture to ask why?" "Simply because I cannot," I said; and now +there came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that +one has in answering the questions of a great and compassionate +physician, who assumes the responsibility of one's case. Not only +did I not resent these questions, as I should often have resented +them, but it seemed to give me a sense of luxury and security to +give an account of myself to this wise and unaffected old man. He +bent his brows upon me: "You have had a great sorrow lately?" he +said. "Yes," I said, "we have lost our only boy, nine years old." +"Ah," he said, "a sore stroke, a sore stroke!" and there was a deep +tenderness in his voice that made me feel that I should have liked +to kneel down before him, and weep at his knee, with his hand laid +in blessing on my head. We sate in silence for a few moments. "Is +it this that has stopped your writing?" he said. "No," I said, "the +power had gone from me before--I could not originate, I could only +do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality than before." +"Well," he said, "I don't wonder; the last book must have been a +great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it. I +remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a +marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak--without any +sense of fatigue, he told me, all pure enjoyment--but he had a +heart-attack the next day, and paid the penalty of his enjoyment. +He could not climb for some years after that." "Yes," I said, "I +think that has been my case--but my fear is that if I lose the +habit--and I seem to have lost it--I shall never be able to take it +up again." "No, you need not fear that," he replied; "if something +is given you to say, you will be able to say it, and say it better +than ever--but no doubt you feel very much lost without it. How do +you fill the time?" "I hardly know," I said, "not very profitably-- +I read, I teach my daughter, I muddle along." "Well," he said, +smiling, "the hours in which we muddle along are not our worst +hours. You believe in God?" The suddenness of this question +surprised me. "Yes," I said, "I believe in God. I cannot +disbelieve. Something has placed me where I am, something urges me +along; there is a will behind me, I am sure of that. But I do not +know whether that will is just or unjust, kind or unkind, +benevolent or indifferent. I have had much happiness and great +prosperity, but I have had to bear also things which are +inconceivably repugnant to me, things which seem almost satanically +adapted to hurt and wound me in my tenderest and innermost +feelings, trials which seem to be concocted with an almost infernal +appropriateness, not things which I could hope to bear with courage +and faith, but things which I can only endure with rebellious +resistance." "Yes," he said, "I understand you perfectly; but does +not their very appropriateness, the satanical ingenuity of which +you speak, help you to feel that they are not fortuitous, but sent +deliberately to you yourself and to none other?" "Yes," I said, "I +see that; but how can I believe in the justice of a discipline +which I could not inflict, I will not say upon a dearly loved +child, but upon the most relentless and stubborn foe." "Ah," said +he, "now I see your heart bare, the very palpitating beat of the +blood. Do you think you are alone in this? Let me tell you my own +story. Over fifty years ago I left Oxford with, I really think I +may say, almost everything before me--everything, that is, which is +open to an instinctively cheerful, temperate, capable, active man-- +I was not rich, but I could afford to wait to earn money. I was +sociable and popular; I was endowed with an immense appetite for +variety of experience; I don't think that there was anything which +appeared to me to be uninteresting. But I could persevere too, I +could stick to work, I had taken a good degree. Then an accidental +fall off a chair, on which I was standing to get a book, laid me on +my back for a time. I fretted over it at first, but when I got +about again, I found that I was a man maimed for life. I don't know +what the injury was--some obscure lesion of the spinal marrow or +brain, I believe--some flaw about the size of a pin's head--the +doctors have never made out. But every time that I plunged into +work, I broke down; for a long time I thought I should struggle +through; but at last I became aware that I was on the shelf, with +other cracked jars, for life--I can't tell you what I went through, +what agonies of despair and rebellion. I thought that at least +literature was left me. I had always been fond of books, and was a +good scholar, as it is called; but I soon became aware that I had +no gift of expression, and moreover that I could not hope to +acquire it, because any concentrated effort threw me into illness. +I was an ambitious fellow, and success was closed to me--I could +not even hope to be useful. I tried several things, but always with +the same result; and at last I fell into absolute despair, and just +lived on, praying daily and even hourly that I might die. But I did +not die, and then at last it dawned upon me, like a lightening +sunrise, that THIS was life for me; this was my problem, these my +limitations; that I was to make the best I could out of a dulled +and shattered life; that I was to learn to be happy, even useful, +in spite of it--that just as other people were given activity, +practical energy, success, to learn from them the right balance, +the true proportion of life, and not to be submerged and absorbed +in them, so to me was given a simpler problem still, to have all +the temptations of activity removed--temptations to which with my +zest for experience I might have fallen an easy victim--and to keep +my courage high, my spirit pure and expectant, if I could, waiting +upon God. This little estate fell to me soon afterwards, and I soon +saw what a tender gift it was, because it gave me a home; every +other source of interest and pleasure was removed, because the +simplest visits, the wildest distractions were too much for me--the +jarring of any kind of vehicle upset me. By what slow degrees I +attained happiness I can hardly say. But now, looking back, I see +this--that whereas others have to learn by hard experience, that +detachment, self-purification, self-control are the only conditions +of happiness on earth, I was detached, purified, controlled by God +Himself. I was detached, because my life was utterly precarious, I +was taught purification and control, because whereas more robust +people can defer and even defy the penalties of luxury, comfort, +gross desires, material pleasures, I was forced, every day and +hour, to deny myself the smallest freedom--I was made ascetic by +necessity. Then came a greater happiness still; for years I was +lost in a sort of individualistic self-absorption, with no thoughts +of anything but God and His concern with myself--often hopeful and +beautiful enough--when I found myself drawn into nearer and dearer +relationships with those around me. That came through my niece, +whom I adopted as an orphan child, and who is one of those people +who live naturally and instinctively in the lives of other people. +I got to know all the inhabitants of this little place--simple +country people, you will say--but as interesting, as complex in +emotion and intellect, as any other circle in the world. The only +reason why one ever thinks people dull and limited, is because one +does not know them; if one talks directly and frankly to people, +one passes through the closed doors at once. Looking back, I can +see that I have been used by God, not with mere compassion and +careless tenderness, but with an intent, exacting, momentary love, +of an almost awful intensity and intimacy. It is the same with all +of us, if we can only see it. Our faults, our weaknesses, our +qualities good or bad, are all bestowed with an anxious and +deliberate care. The reason why some of us make shipwreck--and even +that is mercifully and lovingly dispensed to us--is because we will +not throw ourselves on the side of God at every moment. Every time +that the voice says 'Do this,' or 'Leave that undone,' and we reply +fretfully, 'Ah, but I have arranged otherwise,' we take a step +backwards. He knocks daily, hourly, momently, at the door, and when +we have once opened, and He is entered, we have no desire again but +to do His will to the uttermost." He was silent for a moment, his +eyes in-dwelling upon some secret thought; then he said, +"Everything about you, your books, your dear wife, your words, your +face, tell me that you are very near indeed to the way--a step or +two, and you are free!" He sate back for a moment, as though +exhausted, and then said: "You will forgive me for speaking so +frankly, but I feel from hour to hour how short my time may be; and +I had no doubt when I saw you, even before I saw you, that I should +have some message to give you, some tidings of hope and patience." + +I despair, as I write, of giving any idea of the impressiveness of +the old man; now that I have written down his talk, it seems abrupt +and even strained. It was neither. The perfect naturalness and +tranquillity of it all, the fatherly smile, the little gestures of +his frail hand, interpreted and filled up the gaps, till I felt as +though I had known him all my life, and that he was to me as a dear +father, who saw my needs, and even loved me for what I was not and +for what I might be. + +At this point Miss ---- came in, and led me away. As Maud and I +walked back, we spoke to each other of what we had seen and heard. +He had talked to her, she said, very simply about Alec. "I don't +know how it was," she added, "but I found myself telling him +everything that was in my mind and heart, and it seemed as though +he knew it all before." "Yes, indeed," I said, "he made me desire +with all my heart to be different--and yet that is not true either, +because he made me wish not to be something outside of myself, but +something inside, something that was there all the time: I seem +never to have suspected what religion was before; it had always +seemed to me a thing that one put on and wore, like a garment; but +now it seems to me to be the most natural, simple, and beautiful +thing in the world; to consist in being oneself, in fact." "Yes, +that is exactly it," said Maud, "I could not have put it into +words, but that is how I feel." "Yes," I said, "I saw, in a flash, +that life is not a series of things that happen to us, but our very +selves. It is not a question of obeying, and doing, and acting, but +a question of being. Well, it has been a wonderful experience; and +yet he told me nothing that I did not know. God in us, not God with +us." And presently I added: "If I were never to see Mr. ---- again, +I should feel he had somehow done more for me than a hundred +conversations and a thousand books. It was like the falling of the +spirit at Pentecost." + +That strange sense of an uplifted freedom, of willing co-operation +has dwelt with me, with us both, for many days. I dare not say that +life has become easy; that the cloud has rolled away; that there +have not been hours of dismay and dreariness and sorrow. But it is, +I am sure, a turning-point of my life; the way which has led me +downwards, deepening and darkening, seems to have reached its +lowest point, and to be ascending from the gloom; and all from the +words of a simple, frail old man, sitting among his books in a +panelled parlour, in a soft, summer afternoon. + + + +July 10, 1890. + + +I have been sitting out, this hot, still afternoon, upon the lawn, +under the shade of an old lime-tree, with its sweet scent coming +and going in wafts, with the ceaseless murmur of the bees all about +it; but for that slumberous sound, the place was utterly still; the +sun lay warm on the old house, on the box hedges of the garden, on +the rich foliage of the orchard. I have been lost in a strange +dream of peace and thankfulness, only wishing the sweet hours could +stay their course, and abide with me thus for ever. Part of the +time Maggie sate with me, reading. We were both silent, but glad to +be together; every now and then she looked up and smiled at me. I +was not even visited by the sense that used to haunt me, that I +must bestir myself, do something, think of something. It is not +that I am less active than formerly; it is the reverse. I do a +number of little things here, trifling things they would seem, not +worth mentioning, mostly connected with the village or the parish. +My writing has retired far into the past, like a sort of dream. I +never even plan to begin again. I teach a little, not Maggie only, +but some boys and girls of the place, who have left school, but are +glad to be taught in the evenings. I have plenty of good easy +friends here, and have the blessed sense of feeling myself wanted. +Best of all, a sense of poisonous hurry seems to have gone out of +my life. In the old days I was always stretching on to something, +the end of my book, the next book--never content with the present, +always hoping that the future would bring me the satisfaction I +seemed to miss. I did not always know it at the time, for I was +often happy when I was writing a book--but it was, at best, a +rushing, tortured sort of happiness. My great sorrow--what has that +become to me? A beautiful thing, full of patience and hope. What +but that has taught me to learn to live for the moment, to take the +bitter experiences of life as they come, not crushing out the +sweetness and flinging the rind aside, but soberly, desirously, +only eager to get from the moment what it is meant to bring. Even +the very shrinking back from a bitter duty, the indolent rejection +of the thought that touches one's elbow, bidding one again and +again arise and go, means something; to defer one's pleasure, to +break the languid dream, to take up the tiny task, what strength is +there! Thus no burden seems too heavy, too awkward, too slippery, +too ill-shaped, but one can lift it. The yoke is easy, because one +bears it in quiet confidence, not overtaxing ability or straining +hope. Instead of watching life, as from high castle windows, +feeling it common and unclean, not to be mingled with, I am in it +and of it. And what is become of all my old dreams of art, of the +secluded worship, the lonely rapture! Well, it is all there, +somehow, flowing inside life, like a stream that is added to a +river, not like a leat drawn aside from the current. The force I +spent on art has gone to swell life and augment it; it heightens +perception, it intensifies joy--it was the fevered lust of +expression that drained the vigour of my days and hours. + +But am I then satisfied with the part I play? Do I feel that my +faculties are being used, that I am lending a hand to the great sum +of toil? I used to feel that, or thought I felt it, in the old +days, but now I see that I walked in a vain delusion, serving my +own joy, my own self-importance. Not that I think my old toil all +ill-spent; that was my work before, as surely as it is not now; but +the old intentness, the old watching for tone and gesture, for +action and situation, that has all shifted its gaze, and waits upon +God. It may be, nay it is certain, that I have far to go, much to +learn; but now that I may perhaps recover my strength, life spreads +out into sunny shallows, moving slow and clear. It is like a soft +sweet interlude between two movements of fire and glow; for I see +now, what then I could not see, that something in my life was burnt +and shrivelled up in my enforced silence and in my bitter loss-- +then, when I felt my energies at their lowest, when mind and bodily +frame alike flapped loose, like a flag of smut upon the bars of a +grate, I was living most intensely, and the soul's wings grew fast, +unfolding plume and feather. It was then that life burnt with its +fiercest heat, when it withdrew me, faintly struggling, away from +all that pleased and caressed the mind and the body, into the +silent glow of the furnace. Strange that I should not have +perceived it! But now I see in all maimed and broken lives, the +lives that seem most idle and helpless, most futile and vain, that +the same fierce flame is burning bright about them; that the reason +why they cannot spread and flourish, like flowers, into the free +air, is because the strong roots are piercing deep, entwining +themselves firmly among the stones, piercing the cold silent +crevices of the earth. Ay, indeed! The coal in the furnace, burning +passively and hotly, is as much a force, though it but lies and +suffers, as the energy that throbs in the leaping piston-rod or the +rushing wheel. Not in success and noise and triumph does the soul +grow; when the body rejoices, when the mind is prodigal of seed, +the spirit sits within in a darkened chamber, like a folded +chrysalis, stiff as a corpse, in a faint dream. But when triumphs +have no savour, when the cheek grows pale and the eye darkens, then +the dark chrysalis opens, and the rainbow wings begin to spread and +glow, uncrumpling to the suns of paradise. My soul has taken wings, +and sits poised and delicate, faint with long travail, perhaps to +hover awhile about the garden blooms and the chalices of honied +flowers, perhaps to take her flight beyond the glade, over the +forest, to the home of her desirous heart. I know not! Yet in these +sunlit hours, with the slow, strong pulse of life beating round me, +it seems that something is preparing for one struck dumb and +crushed with sorrow to the earth. How soft a thrill of hope throbs +in the summer air! How the bird-voices in the thicket, and the +rustle of burnished leaves, and the hum of insects, blend into a +secret harmony, a cadence half-heard! I wait in love and +confidence; and through the trees of the garden One seems ever to +draw nearer, walking in the cool of the day, at whose bright coming +the flowers look upwards unashamed. Shall I be bidden to meet Him! +Will He call me loud or low? + + + +August 25, 1890. + + +Maud has been ailing of late--how much it is impossible to say, +because she is always cheerful and indomitable. She never +complains, she never neglects a duty; but I have found her, several +times of late, sitting alone, unoccupied, musing--that is unlike +her--and with a certain shadow upon her face that I do not +recognise; but the strange, new, sweet companionship in which we +live seems at the same time to have heightened and deepened. I seem +to have lived so close to her all these years, and yet of late to +have found a new and different personality in her, which I never +suspected. Perhaps we have both changed somewhat; I do not feel the +difference in myself. But there is something larger, stronger, +deeper about Maud now, as if she had ascended into a purer air, and +caught sight of some unexpected, undreamed-of distance; but instead +of giving her remoteness, she seems to be sharing her wider outlook +with me; she was never a great talker--perhaps it was that in old +days my own mind ran like an ebullient fountain, evoking no +definite response, needing no interchange; but she was always a +sayer of penetrating things. She has a wonderful gift of seeing the +firm issue through a cloud of mixed suggestions; but of late there +has been a richness, a generosity, a wisdom about her which I have +never recognised before. I think, with contrition, that I under- +estimated, not her judgment or instinct, but her intellect. I am +sure I lived too much in the intellectual region, and did not guess +how little it really solves, in what a limited region it disports +itself. I see that this wisdom was hers all along, and that I have +been blind to it; but now that I have travelled out of the +intellectual region, I perceive what a much greater thing that +further wisdom is than I had thought. Living in art and for art, I +used to believe that the intellectual structure was the one thing +that mattered, but now I perceive dimly that the mind is but on the +threshold of the soul, and that the artist may, nay does, often +perceive, by virtue of his trained perception, what is going on in +the sanctuary; but he is as one who kneels in a church at some +great solemnity--he sees the movements and gestures of the priests; +he sees the holy rite proceeding, he hears the sacred words; +something of the inner spirit of it all flows out to him; but the +viewless current of prayer, the fiery ray streaming down from God, +that smites itself into the earthly symbol--all this is hidden from +him. Those priests, intent upon the sacred work, feel something +that they not only do not care to express, but which they would not +if they could; it would be a profanation of the awful mystery. The +artist is not profane in expressing what he perceives, because he +can be the interpreter of the symbol to others more remote; but he +is not a real partaker of the mystery; he is a seer of the word and +not a doer. What now amazes me is that Maud, to whom the heart of +the matter, the inner emotion, has always been so real, could fling +herself, and all for love of me, into the outer work of +intellectual expression. I have always, God forgive me, believed my +work to be in some way superior to hers. I loved her truly, but +with a certain condescension of mind, as one loves a child or a +flower; and now I see that she has been serenely ahead of me all +the time, and it has been she that has helped me along; I have been +as the spoilt and wilful child, and she as the sweet and wise +mother, who has listened to its prattle, and thrown herself, with +all the infinite patience of love, into the tiny bounded dreams. I +have told her all this as simply as I could, and though she +deprecated it all generously and humbly, I feel the blessed sense +of having caught her up upon the way, of seeing--how dimly and +imperfectly!--what I have owed her all along. I am overwhelmed with +a shame which it is a sweet pleasure to confess to her; and now +that I can spare her a little, anticipate her wishes, save her +trouble, it is an added joy; a service that I can render and which +she loves to receive. I never thought of these things in the old +days; she had always planned everything, arranged everything, +forestalled everything. + +I have at last persuaded her to come up to town and see a doctor. +We plan to go abroad for a time. I would earn the means if I could, +but, if not, we will sacrifice a little of our capital, and I will +replace it, if I can, by some hack-work; though I have a dislike of +being paid for my name and reputation, and not for my best work. + +I am not exactly anxious; it is all so slight, what they call a +want of tone, and she has been through so much; even so, my anxiety +is conquered by the joy of being able to serve her a little; and +that joy brings us together, hour by hour. + + + +September 6, 1890. + + +Again the shadow comes down over my life. The doctor says plainly +that Maud's heart is weak; but he adds that there is nothing +organically wrong, though she must be content to live the life of +an invalid for a time; he was reassuring and quiet; but I cannot +keep a dread out of my mind, though Maud herself is more serene +than she has been for a long time; she says that she was aware that +she was somehow overtaxing herself, and it is a comfort to be +bidden, in so many words, to abstain a little. We are to live +quietly at home for a while, until she is stronger, and then we +shall go abroad. + +Maud does not come down in the mornings now, and she is forbidden +to do more than take the shortest stroll. I read to her a good deal +in the mornings; Maggie has proudly assumed the functions of +housekeeper; the womanly instinct for these things is astonishing. +A man would far sooner not have things comfortable, than have the +trouble of providing them and seeing about them. Women do not care +about comforts for themselves; they prefer haphazard meals, trays +brought into rooms, vague arrangements; and yet they seem to know +by instinct what a man likes, even though he does not express it, +and though he would not take any trouble to secure it. What +centuries of trained instincts must have gone to produce this. The +new order has given me a great deal more of Maggie's society. We +are sent out in the afternoon, because Maud likes to be quite alone +to receive the neighbours, small and great, that come to see her, +now that she cannot go to see them. She tells me frankly that my +presence only embarrasses them. And thus another joy has come to +me, one of the most beautiful things that has ever happened to me +in my life, and which I can hardly find words to express--the +contact with, the free sight of the mind and soul of an absolutely +pure, simple and ingenuous girl. Maggie's mind has opened like a +flower. She talks to me with perfect openness of all she feels and +thinks; to walk thus, hour by hour, with my child's arm through my +own, her wide-opened, beautiful eyes looking in mine, her light +step beside me, with all her pretty caressing ways--it seems to me +a taste of the purest and sweetest love I have ever felt. It is +like the rapture of a lover, but without any shadow of the desirous +element that mingles so fiercely and thirstily with our mortal +loves, to find myself dear to her. I have a poignant hunger of the +heart to save her from any touch of pain, to smooth her path for +her, to surround her with beauty and sweetness. I did not guess +that the world held any love quite like this; there seems no touch +of selfishness about it; my love lavishes itself, asking for +nothing in return, except that I may be dear to her as she to me. + +Her fancies, her hopes, her dreams--how inexplicable, how adorable! +She said to me to-day that she could never marry, and that it was a +real pity that she could not have children of her own without. "We +don't want any one else, do we, except just some little children to +amuse us." She is a highly imaginative child, and one of our +amusements is to tell each other long, interminable tales of the +adventures of a family we call the Pickfords. I have lost all count +of their names and ages, their comings and goings; but Maggie never +makes a mistake about them, and they seem to her like real people; +and when I sometimes plunge them into disaster, she is so deeply +affected that the disasters have all to be softly repaired. The +Pickfords must have had a very happy life; the kind of life that +people created and watched over by a tender, patient and detailed +Providence might live. How different from the real world! + +But I don't want Maggie to live in the real world yet awhile. It +will all come pouring in upon her, sorrow, anxiety, weariness, no +doubt--alas that it should be so! Perhaps some people would blame +me, would say that more discipline would be bracing, wholesome, +preparatory. But I don't believe that. I had far rather that she +learnt that life was tender, gentle and sweet--and then if she has +to face trouble, she will have the strength of feeling that the +tenderness, gentleness and sweetness are the real stuff of life, +waiting for her behind the cloud. I don't want to. disillusion her; +I want to establish her faith in happiness and love, so that it +cannot be shaken. That is a better philosophy, when all is said and +done, than the stoical fortitude that anticipates dreariness, that +draws the shadow over the sun, that overvalues endurance. One +endures by instinct; but one must be trained to love. + + + +February 6, 1891. + + +It is months since I have opened this book; it has lain on my table +all through the dreadful hours--I write the word down +conventionally, and yet it is not the right word at all, because I +have merely been stunned and numbed. I simply could not suffer any +more. I smiled to myself, as the man in the story, who was broken +on the wheel, smiled when they struck the second and the third +blow. I knew why he smiled; it was because he had dreaded it so +much, and when it came there was nothing to dread, because he +simply did not feel it. + +To-night I just pick up idly the dropped thread. Perhaps it is a +sign, this faint desire to make a little record, of the first +tingling of returning life. Something stirs in me, and I will not +resist it; it may be read by some one that comes after me, by some +one perhaps who feels that his own grief is supreme and unique, and +that no one has ever suffered so before. He may learn that there +have been others in the dark valley before him, that the mist is +full of pilgrims stumbling on, falling, rising again, falling +again, lying stupefied in a silence which is neither endurance nor +patience. + +Maud was taken from me first; she went without a word or a sign. +She was better that day, she declared, than she had felt for some +time; she was on the upward grade. She walked a few hundred yards +with Maggie and myself, and then she went back; the last sight I +had of her alive was when she stood at the corner and waved her +hand to us as we went out of sight. I am glad I looked round and +saw her smile. I had not the smallest or faintest premonition of +what was coming; indeed, I was lighter of mood than I had been for +some time. We came in; we were told that she was tired and had gone +up to lie down. As she did not come down to tea, I went up and +found her lying on her bed, her head upon her hand--dead. The +absolute peace and stillness of her attitude showed us that she had +herself felt no access of pain. She had lain down to rest, and she +had rested indeed. Even at my worst and loneliest, I have been able +to be glad that it was even so. If I could know that I should die +thus in joy and tranquillity, it would be a great load off my mind. + +But the grief, the shock to Maggie was too much for my dear, love- +nurtured child. A sort of awful and desperate strength came on me +after that; I felt somehow, day by day, that I must just put away +my own grief till a quiet hour, in order that I might sustain and +guard the child; but her heart was broken, I think, though they say +that no one dies of sorrow. She lay long ill--so utterly frail, so +appealing in her grief, that I could think of nothing but saving +her. Was it a kind of selfishness that needed to be broken down in +me? Perhaps it was! Every single tendril of my heart seemed to grow +round the child and clasp her close; she was all that I had left, +and in some strange way she seemed to be all that I had lost too. +And then she faded out of life, not knowing that she was fading, +but simply too tired to live; and my desire alone seemed to keep +her with me. Till at last, seeing her weariness and weakness, I let +my desire go; I yielded, I gave her to God, and He took her, as +though He had waited for my consent. + +And now that I am alone, I will say, with such honesty as I can +muster, that I have no touch of self-pity, no rebellion. It is all +too deep and dark for that. I am not strong enough even to wish to +die; I have no wishes, no desires at all. The three seem for ever +about me, in my thoughts and in my dreams. When Alec died, I used +to wake up to the fact, day after day, with a trembling dismay. Now +it is not like that. I can give no account of what I do. The +smallest things about me seem to take up my mind. I can sit for an +hour by the hearth, neither reading nor thinking, just watching the +flame flicker over the coals, or the red heart of the fire eating +its way upwards and outwards. I can sit on a sunshiny morning in +the garden, merely watching with a strange intentness what goes on +about me, the uncrumpling leaf, the snowdrop pushing from the +mould, the thrush searching the lawn, the robin slipping from bough +to bough, the shapes of the clouds, the dying ray. I seem to have +no motive either to live or to die. I retrace in memory my walks +with Maggie, I can see her floating hair, and how she leaned to me; +I can sit, as I used to sit reading. by Maud's side, and see her +face changing as the book's mood changed, her clear eye, her strong +delicate hands. I seem as if I had awaked from a long and beautiful +dream. People sometimes come and see me, and I can see the pity in +their faces and voices; I can see it in the anxious care with which +my good servants surround me; but I feel that it is half +disingenuous in me to accept it, because I need no pity. Perhaps +there is something left for me to do in the world: there seems no +reason otherwise why I should linger here. + +Mr. ---- has been very good to me; I have seen him almost daily. He +seems the only person who perfectly understands. He has hardly said +a word to me about my sorrow. He said once that he should not speak +of it; before, he said, I was like a boy learning a lesson with the +help of another boy, but that now I was being taught by the Master +Himself. That may be so; but the Master has a very scared and dull +pupil, alas, who cannot even discern the letters. I care nothing +whether God be pleased or displeased; I bear His will, without +either pain or resistance. I simply feel as if there had been some +vast and overwhelming mistake somewhere; a mistake so incredible +and inconceivable that nothing else mattered; as if--I do not speak +profanely--God Himself were appalled at what He had done, and dared +not smite further one whom He had stunned into silence and apathy. + +With Mr. ---- I talk; he talks of simple, quiet things, of old +books and thoughts. He tells me, sometimes, when I am too weary to +speak, long, beautiful, quiet stories of his younger days, and I +listen like a child to his grave voice, only sorry when it comes to +an end. So the days pass, and I will not say I have no pleasure in +them, because I have won back a sort of odd childish pleasure in +small incidents, sights, and sounds. The part of me that can feel +seems to have been simply cut gently away, and I live in the hour, +just glad when the sun is out, sorry when it is dull and cheerless. + +I read the other day one of my old books, and I could not believe +it was mine. It seemed like the voice of some one I had once known +long ago, in a golden hour. I was amused and surprised at my own +quickness and inventiveness, at the confidence with which I +interpreted everything so glibly and easily. I cannot interpret any +more, and I do not seem to desire to do so. I seem to wait, with a +half-amused smile, to see if God can make anything out of the +strange tangle of things, as a child peers in within a scaffolding, +and sees nothing but a forest of poles, little rising walls of +chambers, a crane swinging weights to and fro. What can ever come, +he thinks, out of such strange confusion, such fruitless hurry? + +Well, I will not write any more; a sense of weariness and futility +comes over me. I will go back to my garden to see what I can see, +only dumbly and mutely thankful that it is not required of me to +perform any dull and monotonous task, which would interrupt my idle +dreams. + + + +February 8, 1891. + + +I tried this morning to look through some of the old letters and +papers in Maud's cabinet. There were my own letters, carefully tied +up with a ribbon; letters from her mother and father; from the +children when we were away from them. I began to read, and was +seized with a sharp, unreasoning pain, surprised by sudden tears. I +seemed dumbly to resent this, and I put them all away again. Why +should I disturb myself to no purpose? "There shall be no more +sorrow nor crying, for the former things are passed away"--so runs +the old verse, and I had almost grown to feel like that. Why +distrust it? Yet I could not forbear. I got the papers out again, +and read late into the night, like one reading an old and beautiful +story. Suddenly the curtain lifted, and I saw myself alone, I saw +what I had lost. The ineffectual agony I endured, crying out for +very loneliness! "That was all mine," said the melting heart, so +long frozen and dumb. Grief, in waves and billows, began to beat +upon me like breakers on a rock-bound shore. A strange fever of the +spirit came on me, scenes and figures out of the years floating +fiercely and boldly past me. Was my strength and life sustained for +this, that I should just sleep awhile, and wake to fall into the +pit of suffering, far deeper than before? + +If they could but come back to me for a moment; if I could feel +Maud's cheek by mine, or Maggie's arms round my neck; if they could +but stand by me smiling, in robes of light! Yet as in a vision I +seem to see them leaning from a window, in a blank castle-wall +rising from a misty abyss, scanning a little stairway that rises +out of the clinging fog, built up through the rocks and ending in a +postern gate in the castle-wall. Upon that stairway, one by one +emerging from the mist, seem to stagger and climb the figures of +men, entering in, one by one, and the three, with smiles and arms +interlaced, are watching eagerly. Cannot I climb the stair? Perhaps +even now I am close below them, where the mist hangs damp on rock +and blade? Cannot I set myself free? No, I could not look them in +the face, they would hide their eyes from me, if I came in hurried +flight, in passionate cowardice. Not so must I come before them, if +indeed they wait for me. + +The morning was coming in about the dewy garden, the birds piping +faint in thicket and bush, when I stumbled slowly, dizzied and +helpless, to my bed. Then a troubled sleep; and ah, the bitter +waking; for at last I knew what I had lost. + + + +February 10, 1891. + + +"All things become plain to us," said the good vicar, pulling on +his gloves, "when we once realise that God is love--Perfect Love!" +He said good-bye; he trudged off to his tea, a trying visit +manfully accomplished, leaving me alone. + +He had sate with me, good, kindly man, for twenty minutes. There +were tears in his eyes, and I valued that little sign of human +fellowship more than all the commonplaces he courageously +enunciated. He talked in a soft, low tone, as if I was ill. He made +no allusions to mundane things; and I am grateful to him for +coming. He had dreaded his call, I am sure, and he had done it from +a mixture of affection and duty, both good things. + +"Perfect Love, yes--if we could feel that!" I sate musing in my +chair. + +I saw, as in a picture, a child brought up in a beautiful and +stately house by a grave strong man, who lavished at first love and +tenderness, ease and beauty, on the child, laughing with him, and +making much of him; all of which the child took unconsciously, +unthinkingly, knowing nothing different; running to meet his +guardian, glad to be with him, sorry to leave him. + +Then I saw in my parable that one day, when the child played in the +garden, as he had often played before, he noticed a little green +alley, with a pleasant arch of foliage, that he had never seen +before, leading to some secluded place. The child was dimly aware +that there were parts of the garden where he was supposed not to +go; he had been told he must not go too far from the house, but it +was all vague and indistinct in his mind; he had never been shown +anything precisely, or told the limits of his wanderings. So he +went in joy, with a sense of a sweet mystery, down the alley, and +presently found himself in a still brighter and more beautiful +garden, full of fruits growing on the ground and on the trees, +which he plucked and ate. There was a building, like a pavilion, at +the end, of two storeys; and while he wandered thither with his +hands full of fruits, he suddenly saw his guardian watching him, +with a look he had never seen on his face before, from the upper +windows of the garden-house. His first impulse was to run to him, +share his joy with him, and ask him why he had not been shown the +delicious place; but the fixed and inscrutable look on his +guardian's face, neither smiling nor frowning, the stillness of his +attitude, first chilled the child and then dismayed him; he flung +the fruits on the ground and shivered, and then ran out of the +garden. In the evening, when he was with his guardian, he found him +as kind and tender as ever. But his guardian said nothing to him +about the inner garden of fruits, and the child feared to ask him. + +But the next day he felt as though the fruits had given him a new +eagerness, a new strength; he hankered after them long, and at last +went down the green path again; this time the summer-house seemed +empty. So he ate his fill, and this he did for many days. Then one +day, when he was bending down to pluck a golden fruit, that lay +gem-like on the ground among green leaves, he heard a sudden step +behind him, and turning, saw his guardian draw swiftly near, with a +look of anger on his face; the next instant he was struck down, +again and again; lifted from the ground at last, as in a passion of +rage, and flung down bleeding on the earth; and then, without a +word, his guardian left him; at first he lay and moaned, but then +he crawled away, and back to the house. And there he found the old +nurse that tended him, who greeted him with tears and words of +comfort, and cared for his hurts. And he asked her the reason of +his hard usage, but she could tell him nothing, only saying that it +was the master's will, and that he sometimes did thus, though she +thought he was merciful at heart. + +The child lay sick many days, his guardian still coming to him and +sitting with him, with gentle talk and tender offices, till the +scene in the garden was like an evil dream; but as his guardian +spoke no word of displeasure to the child, the child still feared +to ask him, and only strove to forget. And then at last he was well +enough to go out a little; but a few days after--he avoided the +inner garden now out of a sort of horror--he was sitting in the +sun, near the house, feebly trying to amuse himself with one of his +old games--how poor they seemed after the fruits of the inner +paradise, how he hankered desirously after the further place, with +its hot, sweet, fragrant scents, its rich juices!--when again his +guardian came upon him in a sudden wrath, and struck him many +times, dashing him down to the ground; and again he crept home, and +lay long ill, and again his guardian was unwearyingly kind; but now +a sort of horror of the man grew up in the mind of the child, and +he feared that his strange anger might break out at any moment in a +storm of blows. + +And at last he was well again; and had half forgotten, in the +constant kindness, and even merriment, of his guardian, the horror +of the two assaults. He was out and about again; he still shunned +the paradise of fruits, but wearying of the accustomed pleasaunce, +he went further and passed into the wood; how cool and mysterious +it was among the great branching trees! the forest led him onwards; +now the sun lay softly upon it, and a stream bickered through a +glade, and now the path lay through thickets, which hid the further +woodland from view; and now passing out into a more open space, he +had a thrill of joy and excitement; there was a herd of strange +living creatures grazing there, great deer with branching horns; +they moved slowly forwards, cropping the grass, and the child was +lost in wonder at the sight. Presently one of them stopped feeding, +began to sniff the air, and then looking round, espied the child, +and began slowly to approach him. The child had no terror of the +great dappled stag, and held out his hand to him, when the great +beast suddenly bent his head down, and was upon him with one bound, +striking him with his horns, lifting him up, smiting him with his +pointed hooves. Presently the child, in his terror and faintness, +became aware that the beast had left him, and he began to drag +himself, all bruised as he was, along the glade; then he suddenly +saw his guardian approaching, and cried out to him, holding out his +hands for help and comfort--and his guardian strode straight up to +him, and, with the same fierce anger in his face, struck at him +again and again, and spurned him with his feet. And then, when he +left him, the child at last, with accesses of deadly faintness and +pain, crept back home, to be again tended by the old nurse, who +wept over him; and the child found that his guardian came to visit +him, as kind and gentle as ever. And at last one day when he sate +beside the child, holding his hand, stroking his hair, and telling +him an old tale to comfort him, the child summoned up courage to +ask him a question about the garden and the wood; but at the first +word his guardian dropped his hand, and left him without a word. + +And then the child lay and mused with fierce and rebellious +thoughts. He said to himself, "If my guardian had told me where I +might not go; if he had said to me, 'in the inner garden are +unwholesome fruits, and in the wood are savage beasts; and though I +am strong and powerful, yet I have not strength to root up the +poisonous plants and make the place a wilderness; and I cannot put +a fence about it, or a fence about the wood, that no one should +enter; but I warn you that you must not enter, and I entreat you +for the love I bear you not to go thither,'" then the child thought +that he would not have made question, but would have obeyed him +willingly; and again he thought that, if he had indeed ventured in, +and had eaten of the evil fruits, and been wounded by the savage +stag, yet if his guardian had comforted him, and prayed him +lovingly not to enter to his hurt, that then he would have loved +his guardian more abundantly and carefully. And he thought too +that, if his guardian had ever smitten him in wrath, and had then +said to him with tears that it had grieved him bitterly to hurt +him, but that thus and thus only could he learn the vileness of the +place, then he would have not only forgiven the ill-usage, but +would even have loved to endure it patiently. But what the child +could not understand was that his guardian should now be tender and +gracious, and at another time hard and cruel, explaining nothing to +him. And thus the child said in himself, "I am in his power, and he +must do his will upon me; but I neither trust nor love him, for I +cannot see the reason of what he does; though if he would but tell +me the reason, I could obey him and submit to him joyfully." These +hard thoughts he nourished and fed upon; and his guardian came no +more to him for good or for evil; and the child, much broken by his +hard usage and his angry thoughts, crept about neglected and +spiritless, with nothing but fear and dismay in his heart. + +So the imagination shaped itself in my mind, a parable of the sad, +strange life of man. + +"Perfect Love!" If it were indeed that? Yet God does many things to +His frail children, which if a man did, I could not believe him to +be loving; though if He would but give us the assurance that it was +all leading us to happiness, we could endure His fiercest stroke, +His bitterest decree. But He smites us, and departs; He turns away +in a rage, because we have broken a law that we knew not of. And +again, when we seem most tranquil and blest, most inclined to trust +Him utterly, He smites us down again without a word. I hope, I +yearn to see that it all comes from some great and perfect will, a +will with qualities of which what we know as mercy, justice, and +love are but faint shadows--but that is hidden from me. We cannot +escape, we must bear what God lays upon us. We may fling ourselves +into bitter and dark rebellion; still He spares us or strikes us, +gives us sorrow or delight. My one hope is to cooperate with Him, +to accept the chastening joyfully and courageously. Then He takes +from me joy, and courage alike, till I know not whom I serve, a +Father or a tyrant. Can it indeed help us to doubt whether He be +tyrant or no? Again I know not, and again I sicken in fruitless +despair, like one caught in a great labyrinth of crags and +precipices. + + + +February 14, 1891. + + +Then the Christian teacher says: "God has given you a will, an +independent will to act and choose; put it in unison with His +will." Alas, I know not how much of my seeming liberty is His or +mine. He seems to make me able to exert my will in some directions, +able to make it effective; and yet in other matters, even though I +see that a course is holy and beautiful, I have no power to follow +it at all. I see men some more, some less hampered than myself. +Some seem to have no desire for good, no dim perception of it. The +outcast child, brought up cruelly and foully, with vile +inheritances, he is not free, as I use the word; sometimes, by some +inner purity and strength, he struggles upwards; most often he is +engulfed; yet it is all a free gift, to me much, to another little, +to some nothing at all. With all my heart do I wish my will to be +in harmony with His. I yield it up utterly to Him. I have no +strength or force, and He withholds them from me. I do not blame, I +only ask to understand; He has given me understanding, and has put +in my heart a high dream of justice and love; why will He not show +me that He satisfies the dream? I say with the old Psalmist, "Lo, I +come," but He comes not forth to meet me; He does not even seem to +discern me when I am yet a long way off, as the father in the +parable discerned his erring son. + +Then the Christian teacher says to me that all is revealed in +Christ; that He reconciles, not an angry God to a wilful world, but +a grieved and outraged world to a God who cannot show them He is +love. + +Yet Christ said that God was all-merciful and all-loving, and that +He ordered the very falling of a single hair of our heads. But if +God ordered that, then He did not leave unordered the qualities of +our hearts and wills, and our very sins are of His devising. + +No, it is all dark and desperate; I do not know, I cannot know; I +shall stumble to my end in ignorance; sometimes glad when a gleam +of sunshine falls on my wearied limbs, sometimes wrapping my +garments around me in cold and drenching rain. I am in the hand of +God; I know that; and I hope that I may dare to trust Him; but my +confidence is shaken as He passes over me, as the reed in the river +shakes in the wind. + + + +February 18, 1891. + + +A still February day, with a warm, steady sun, which stole in and +caressed me, enveloping me in light and warmth, as I sate reading +this morning. If I could be ashamed of anything, I should be +ashamed of the fact that my body has all day long surprised me by a +sort of indolent contentment, repeating over and over that it is +glad to be alive. The mind and soul crave for death and silence. +Yet all the while my faithful and useful friend, the body, seems to +croon a low song of delight. That is the worst of it, that I seem +built for many years of life. Shall I learn to forget? + +I walked long and far among the fields, in the fresh, sun-warmed +air. Ah! the sweet world! Everything was at its barest and +austerest--the grass thin in the pastures, the copses leafless. But +such a sense of hidden life everywhere! I stood long beside the +gate to watch the new-born lambs, whose cries thrilled plaintively +on the air, like the notes of a violin. Little black-faced grey +creatures, on their high, stilt-like legs--a week or two old, and +yet able to walk, to gambol, to rejoice, in their way, to reflect. +The bleating mothers moved about, divided between a deep desire to +eat, and the anxious care of their younglings. One of them stood +over her sleeping lamb, stamping her feet, to dismay me, no doubt, +while the little creature lay like a folded door-mat on the +pasture. Another brutally repelled the advances of a strange lamb, +butting it over whenever it drew near; another chewed the cud, +while its lamb sucked, its eyes half closed in contented joy, just +turning from time to time to sniff at the little creature pressed +close to its side. I felt as if I had never seen the sight before, +this wonderful and amazing drama of life, beginning again year +after year, the same, yet not the same. + +The old shepherd came out with his crook, said a few words to me, +and moved off, the ewes following him, the lambs skipping behind. +"He shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the +waters of comfort." How perfectly beautiful and tender the image, a +thing seen how many hundred years ago on the hills of Bethlehem, +and touching the old heart just as it touches me to-day! + +And yet, alas, to me to-day the image seems to miss the one thing +needful; how all the images of guide and guardian and shepherd fail +when applied to God! For here the shepherd is but a little wiser, a +little stronger than his flock. He sees their difficulties, he +feels them himself. But with God, He is at once the Guide, and the +Creator of the very dangers past which He would lead us. If we felt +that God Himself were dismayed and sad in the presence of evils +that He could not touch or remedy, we should turn to Him to help us +as He best could. But while we feel that the very perplexities and +sufferings come from His hand, how can we sincerely ask Him to +guard us from things which He originates, or at least permits? Why +should they be there at all, if His concern is to help us past +them; or how can we think that He will lead us past them, when they +are part of His wise and awful design? + +And thus one plunges again into the darkness. Can it indeed be that +God, if He be all-embracing, all-loving, all-powerful, can create +or allow to arise within Himself something that is not, Himself, +alien to Him, hostile to Him? How can we believe in Him and trust +Him, if this indeed be so? + +And yet, looking upon that little flock to-day, I did indeed feel +the presence of a kind and fatherly heart, of something that +grieved for my pain, and that laid a hand upon my shoulder, saying, +"Son, endure for a little; be not so disquieted!" + + + +March 8, 1891. + + +Something--far-off, faint, joyful--cried out suddenly in the depths +of my spirit to-day. I felt--I can but express it by images, for it +was too intangible for direct utterance--as a woman feels when her +child's life quickens within her; as a traveller's heart leaps up +when, lost among interminable hills, he is hailed by a friendly +voice; as the river-water, thrust up into creeks and estuaries by +the incoming tide, is suddenly freed by the ebb from that stealthy +pressure, and flows gladly downwards; as the dark garden-ground may +feel when the frozen soil melts under warm winds of spring, and the +flower-roots begin to swell and shoot. + +Some such thrill it was that moved in the silence of the soul, +showing that the darkness was alive. + +It came upon me as I walked among soft airs to-day. It was no +bodily lightness that moved me, for I was unstrung, listless, +indolent; but it was a sense that it was good to live, lonely and +crushed as I was; that there was something waiting for me which +deserved to be approached with a patient expectation--that life was +enriched, rather than made desolate by my grief and losses; that I +had treasure laid up in heaven. It came upon me as a fancy, but it +was something better than that, that one or other of my dear ones +had perhaps awaked in the other world, and had sent out a thought +in search of me. I had often thought that if, when we are born into +this world of ours, our first years are so dumb and unperceptive, +it might be even so in the world beyond; that we are there allowed +to rest a little, to sleep; and that has seemed to me to be perhaps +the explanation why, in those first sad days of grief, when the +mourner aches to have some communication with the vanished soul, +and when the soul that has passed the bounds of life would be +desiring too, one would think, to send some message back, why, I +say, there is no voice nor hint nor sign. Perhaps the reason why +our grief loses its sting after a season is that the soul we have +loved does contrive to send some healing influence into the +desolate heart. + +I know not; but as I stood upon the hill-top to-day at evening, the +setting sun gilding the cloud-edges, and touching the horizon with +a delicate misty azure, my spirit did indeed awake with a smile, +with a murmured word of hope. + +If I, who have lost everything that can enrich and gladden life, +can yet feel that inalienable residue of hope, which just turns the +balance on the side of desiring still to live, it must be that life +has something yet in store for me--I do not hope for love, I do +not desire the old gift of expression again; but there is something +to learn, to apprehend, to understand. I have learnt, I think, not +to grasp at anything, not to clasp anything close to my heart; the +dream of possession has fled from me; it will be enough if, as I +learn the lesson, I can ease a few burdens and help frail feet +along the road. Duty, pleasure, work--strange names which we give +to life, perversely separating the strands of the woven thread, +they hold no meaning for me now--I do not expect to be free from +suffering or from grief; but I will no more distinguish them from +other experiences saying, this is joyful, and I will take all I +can, or this is sad, and I will fly from it. I will take life +whole, not divide it into pieces and choose. My grief shall be like +a silent chapel, lit with holy light, into which I shall often +enter, and bend, not to frame mechanical prayers, but to submit +myself to the still influence of the shrine. It is all my own now, +a place into which no other curious eye can penetrate, a guarded +sanctuary. My sorrow seems to have plucked me with a strong hand +out of the swirling drift of cares, anxieties, ambitions, hopes; +and I see now that I could not have rescued myself; that I should +have gone on battling with the current, catching at the river +wrack, in the hopes of saving something from the stream. Now I am +face to face with God; He saves me from myself, He strips my ragged +vesture from me and I stand naked as He made me, unashamed, +nestling close to His heart. + + + +April 3, 1891. + + +A truth which has come home to me of late with a growing intensity +is that we are sent into the world for the sake of experience, not +necessarily for the sake of immediate happiness. I feel that the +mistake we most of us make is in reaching out after a sense of +satisfaction; and even if we learn to do without that, we find it +very difficult to do without the sense of conscious growth. I say +again that what we need and profit by is experience, and sometimes +that comes by suffering, helpless, dreary, apparently meaningless +suffering. Yet when pain subsides, do we ever, does any one ever +wish the suffering had not befallen us? I think not. We feel +better, stronger, more pure, more serene for it. Sometimes we get +experience by living what seems to be an uncongenial life. One +cannot solve the problem of happiness by simply trying to turn out +of one's life whatever is uncongenial. Life cannot be made into an +Earthly Paradise, and it injures one's soul even to try. What we +can turn out of our lives are the unfruitful, wasteful, +conventional things; and one can follow what seems the true life, +though one may mistake even that sometimes. One of the commonest +mistakes nowadays is that so many people are haunted with a vague +sense that they ought to DO GOOD, as they say. The best that most +people can do is to perform their work and their obvious duties +well and conscientiously. + +If we realise that experience is what we need, and not necessarily +happiness or contentment, the whole value of life is altered. We +see then that we can get as much or even more out of the futile +hour when we are held back from our chosen delightful work, even +out of the dreary or terrified hour, when the sense of some +irrevocable neglect, some base surrender that has marred our life, +sinks burning into the soul, as a hot ember sinks smoking into a +carpet. Those are the hours of life when we move and climb; not the +hours when we work, and eat, and laugh, and chat, and dine out with +a sense of well-merited content. + +The value of life is not to be measured by length of days or +success or tranquillity, but by the quality of our experience, and +the degree in which we have profited by it. In the light of such a +truth as this, art seems to fade away as just a pleasant amusement +contrived by leisurely men for leisurely men. + +Then, further, one grows to feel that such easy happiness as comes +to us may be little more than the sweetening of the bitter +medicine, just enough to give us courage and heart to live on; that +applies, of course, only to the commoner sorts of happiness, when +one is busy and merry and self-satisfied. Some sorts of happiness, +such as the best kind of affection, are parts of the larger +experience. + +Then, if we take hold of such experience in the right way, +welcoming it as far as possible, not resisting it or trying to +beguile it or forget it, we can get to the end of our probation +quicker; if, that is, we let the truth burn into us, instead of +timidly shrinking away from it. + +This seems to me the essence of true religion; the people who cling +very close to particular creeds and particular beliefs seem to me +to lose robustness; it is like trying to go to heaven in a bath- +chair! It retards rather than hastens the apprehension of the +truth. Here lies, to my mind, the unreality of mystical books of +devotion and piety, where one is instructed to practise a servile +sort of abasement, and to beg forgiveness for all one's noblest +efforts and aspirations. Neither can I believe that the mystical +absorption, inculcated by such books, in the human personality, the +human sufferings of Christ, is wholesome, or natural, or even +Christian. I cannot imagine that Christ Himself ever recommended +such a frame of mind for an instant. What we want is a much simpler +sort of Christianity. If a man had gone to Christ and expressed a +desire to follow Him, Christ, I believe, would have wanted to know +whether he loved others, whether he hated sin, whether he trusted +God. He would not have asked him to recite the articles of his +belief, and still less have suggested a mystical and emotional sort +of passion for His own Person. As least I cannot believe it, and I +see nothing in the Gospels which would lead me to believe it. + +In any case this belief in our experience being sent us for our +far-off ultimate benefit has helped me greatly of late, and will, I +am sure, help me still more. I do not practise it as I should, but +I believe with all my heart that the truth lies there. + +After all, the truth IS there; it matters little that we should +know it; it is just so and not otherwise, and what we believe or do +not believe about it, will not alter it; and that is a comfort too. + + + +April 24, 1891. + + +After I had gone upstairs to bed last night, I found I had left a +book downstairs which I was reading, and I went down again to +recover it. I could not find any matches, and had some difficulty +in getting hold of the book; it is humiliating to think how much +one depends on sight. + +A whimsical idea struck me. Imagine a creature, highly intellectual, +but without the power of sight, brought up in darkness, receiving +impressions solely by hearing and touch. Suppose him introduced into +a room such as mine, and endeavouring to form an impression of the +kind of creature who inhabited it. Chairs, tables, even a musical +instrument he could interpret; but what would he make of a +writing-table and its apparatus? How would he guess at the use of a +picture? Strangest of all, what would he think of books? He would +find in my room hundreds of curious oblong objects, opening with a +sort of hinge, and containing a series of laminae of paper, which he +would discern by his delicacy of touch to be oddly and obscurely +dinted. Yet he would probably never be able to frame a guess that +such objects could be used for the communication of intellectual +ideas. What would he suppose them to be? + +The thought expanded before me. What if we ourselves, in this world +of ours, which seems to us so complete, may really be creatures +lacking some further sense, which would make all our difficulties +plain? We knock up against all sorts of unintelligible and +inexplicable things, injustice, disease, pain, evil, of which we +cannot divine the meaning or the use. Yet they are undoubtedly +there! Perhaps it is only that we cannot discern the simplicity and +the completeness of the heavenly house of which they are the +furniture. Fanciful, of course; but I am inclined to think not +wholly fanciful. + + + +May 10, 1891. + + +The question is this: Is there a kind of peace, of tranquillity, +attainable in this world, which is proof against all calamities, +sufferings, sorrows, losses, doubts? Is it attainable for one like +myself, who is sensitive, apprehensive, highly strung, at once +confident and timid, alive to impressions, liable to swift changes +of mood? Or is it a mere matter of mental, moral, and physical +health, depending on some balance of qualities, which may or may +not belong to a man, a balance which hundreds cannot attain to? + +By this peace, I do not mean a chilly indifference, or a stoical +fortitude. I do not mean the religious peace, such as I see in some +people, which consists in holding as a certainty a scheme of things +which I believe to be either untrue or uncertain--and about which, +at all events, no certainty is logically and rationally possible. + +The peace I mean is a frame of mind which a man would have, who +loved passionately, who suffered acutely, who desired intensely, +who feared greatly; and yet for whom, behind love and pain, desire +and fear, there existed a sort of inner citadel, in which his soul +was entrenched and impregnable. + +Such a security could not be a wholly rational thing, because +reason cannot solve the enigmas with which we are confronted; but +it must not be an irrational intuition either, because then it +would be unattainable by a man of high intellectual gifts; and the +peace that I speak of ought to be consistent with any and every +constitution--physical, moral, mental. It must be consistent with +physical weakness, with liability to strong temptations, with an +incisive and penetrating intellectual quality; its essence would be +a sort of vital faith, a unity of the individual heart with the +heart of the world. It would rise like a rock above the sea, like a +lighthouse, where a guarded flame would burn high and steady, +however loudly the surges thundered below upon the reefs, however +fiercely the spray was dashed against the glasses of the casements. + +If it is attainable, then it is worth while to do and to suffer +anything to attain it; if it is not attainable, then the best thing +is simply to be as insensible as possible, not to love, not to +admire, not to desire; for all these emotions are channels along +which the bitter streams of suffering can flow. + +Prudence bids one close these channels; meanwhile a fainter and +remoter voice, with sweet and thrilling accents, seems to cry to +one not to be afraid, urges one to fling open every avenue by which +impassioned experiences, uplifting thoughts, noble hopes, unselfish +desires, may flow into the soul. + +This peace I have seen, or dream that I have seen, in the faces and +voices of certain gracious spirits whom I have known. It seemed to +consist in an unbounded natural gratitude, a sweet simplicity, a +childlike affectionateness, that recognised in suffering the joy of +which it was the shadow, and in desperate catastrophes the hope +that lay behind them. + +Such a peace must not be a surrender of anything, a feeble +acquiescence; it must be a strong and eager energy, a thirst for +experience, a large tolerance, a desire to be convinced, a resolute +patience. + +It is this and no less that I ask of God. + + + +June 6, 1891. + + +I had a beautiful walk to-day. I went a short way by train, and +descending at a wayside station, found a little field-path, that +led me past an old, high-gabled, mullioned farmhouse, with all the +pleasant litter of country life about it. Then I passed along some +low-lying meadows, deep in grass, where the birds sang sweetly, +muffled in leaves. The fields there were all full of orchids, +purple as wine, and the gold of buttercups floated on the top of +the rich meadow-grass. Then I passed into a wood, and for a long +time I walked in the green glooms of copses, in a forest stillness, +only the tall trees rustling softly overhead, with doves cooing +deep in the wood. Only once I passed a house, a little cottage of +grey stone, in a clearing, with an air of settled peace about it, +that reminded me of an old sweet book that I used to read as a +child, Phantastes, full of the mysterious romance of deep forests +and haunted glades. I was overshadowed that afternoon with a sense +of the ineffectiveness, the loneliness of my life, walking in a +vain shadow; but it melted out of my mind in the delicate beauty of +the woodland, with its wild fragrances and cool airs, as when one +chafes one's frozen hands before a leaping flame. They told me, +those whispering groves, of the patient and tender love of the +Father, and I drew very near His inmost heart in that gentle hour. +The secret was to bear, to endure, not stoically nor stolidly, but +with a quiet inclination of the will to sorrow and pain, that were +not so bitter after all, when one abode faithfully in them. I +became aware, as I walked, that my heart was with the future after +all. The beautiful dead past, I could be grateful for it, and not +desire that it were mine again. I felt as a man might feel who is +making his way across a wide moor. "Surely," he says to himself, +"the way lies here; this ridge, that dingle mark the track; it lies +there by the rushy pool, and shows greener among the heather." So +he says, persuading himself in vain that he has found the way; but +at last the track, plain and unmistakable, lies before him, and he +loses no more time in imaginings, but goes straight forward. It was +my sorrow, after all, that had shown me that I was in the true +path. I had tried, in the old days, to fancy that I was homeward +bound; sometimes it was in the love of my dear ones, sometimes in +the joy of art, sometimes in my chosen work; and yet I knew in my +heart all the time that I was but a leisurely wanderer; but now at +last the destined road was clear; I was no longer astray; I was no +longer inventing duties and acts for myself, but I had in very +truth a note of the way. It was not the path I should have chosen +in my blindness and easiness. But there could no longer be any +doubt about it. How the false ambitions, the comfortable schemes, +the trivial hopes melted away for me in that serene certainty! What +I had pursued before was the phantom of delight; and though I still +desired delight, with all the passion of my poor frail nature, yet +I saw that not thus could the real joy of God be won. It was no +longer a question of hope and disappointment, of sin and +punishment. It was something truer and stronger than that. The sin +and the suffering alike had been the Will of God for me. I had +never desired evil, though I had often fallen into it; but there +was never a moment when, if I could, I would not have been pure and +unselfish and strong. That was a blessed hour for me, when, in +place of the old luxurious delight, there came, flooding my heart, +an intense and passionate desire that I might accept with a loving +confidence whatever God might send; my wearied body, my tired, +anxious mind, were but a slender veil, rent and ruinous, that hung +between God and my soul, through which I could discern the glory of +His love. + + + +June 20, 1891. + + +It was on a warm, bright summer afternoon that I woke to the sense +both of what I had lost and what I had gained. I had wandered out +into the country, for in those days I had a great desire to be +alone. I stood long beside a stile in the pastures, a little +village below me, and the gables and chimneys of an old farmhouse +stood up over wide fields of young waving wheat. A cuckoo fluted in +an elm close by, and at the sound there darted into my mind the +memory, seen in an airy perspective, of innumerable happy and +careless days, spent in years long past, with eager and light- +hearted companions, in whose smiling eyes and caressing motions was +reflected one's own secret happiness. How full the world seemed of +sweet surprises then! To sit in an evening hour in some quiet, +scented garden in the gathering dusk, with the sense of a delicious +mystery flashing from the light movements, the pensive eyes, the +curve of arm or cheek of one's companion, how beautiful that was! +And yet how simple and natural it seemed. That was all over and +gone, and a gulf seemed fixed between those days and these. And +then there came first that sad and sweet regret, "the passion of +the past," as Tennyson called it, that suddenly brimmed the eyes at +the thought of the vanished days; and there followed an intense +desire to live in it once again, to have made more of it, a +rebellious longing to abandon oneself with a careless disregard to +the old rapture. + +Then on that mood, rising like a star into the blue spaces of the +evening, came the thought that the old days were not dead after +all. That they were assuredly there, just as the future was there, +a true part of oneself, ineffaceable, eternal. And hard on the +heels of that came another and a deeper intuition still, that not +in such delights did the secret really rest; what then was the +secret? It was surely this: that one must advance, led onward like +a tottering child by the strong arm of God. That the new knowledge +of suffering and sorrow was as beautiful as the old, and more so, +and that instead of repining over the vanished joys, one might +continue to rejoice in them and even rejoice in having lost them, +for I seemed to perceive that one's aim was not, after all, to be +lively, and joyful, and strong, but to be wiser, and larger-minded, +and more hopeful, even at the expense of delight. And then I saw +that I would not really for any price part with the sad wisdom that +I had reluctantly learnt, but that though the burden galled my +shoulder, it held within it precious things which I could not throw +away. And I had, too, the glad sense that even if in a childish +petulance I would have laid my burden down and run off among the +flowers, God was stronger than I, and would not suffer me to lose +what I had gained. I might, I assuredly should, wish to be more +free, more light of heart. But I seemed to myself like a woman that +had borne a child in suffering, and that no matter how restless and +vexatious a care that child might prove to be, under no conceivable +circumstances could she wish that she were barren and without the +experience of love. I felt indeed that I had fulfilled a part of my +destiny, and that I might be glad that the suffering was behind me, +even though it separated me from the careless days. + +I hope that in after days I may sometimes make a pilgrimage to the +place where that wonderful truth thus dawned upon me. I have made a +tabernacle there in my spirit, like the saints who saw the Lord +transfigured before their eyes; and to me it had been indeed a +transfiguration, in which Love and sorrow and hope had been touched +with an unearthly light of God. + + + +June 24, 1891. + + +Yesterday I was walking in a field-path through the meadows; it was +just that time in early summer when the grass is rising, when +flowers appear in little groups and bevies. There was a patch of +speedwell, like a handful of sapphires cast down. Why does one's +heart go out to certain flowers, flowers which seem to have some +message for us if we could but read it? A little way from the path +I saw a group of absolutely unknown flower-buds; they were big, +pale things, looking more like pods than flowers, growing on tall +stems. I hate crushing down meadow-grass, but I could not resist my +impulse of curiosity. I walked up to them, and just as I was going +to bend down and look at them, lo and behold, all my flowers opened +before my eyes as by a concerted signal, spread wings of the +richest blue, and fluttered away before my eyes. They were nothing +more than a company of butterflies who, tired of play, had fallen +asleep together with closed wings on the high grass-stems. + +There they had sate, like folded promises, hiding their azure +sheen. Perhaps even now my hopes sit motionless and lifeless, in +russet robes. Perhaps as I draw dully near, they may spring +suddenly to life, and dance away in the sunshine, like fragments of +the crystalline sky. + + + +July 8, 1891. + + +I was in town last week for a few days on some necessary business, +staying with old friends. Two or three people came in to dine one +night, and afterwards, I hardly know how, I found myself talking +with a curious openness to one of the guests, a woman whom I only +slightly knew. She is a very able and cultivated woman indeed, and +it was a surprise to her friends when she lately became a Christian +Scientist. When I have met her before, I have thought her a +curiously guarded personality, appearing to live a secret and +absorbing life of her own, impenetrable, and holding up a shield of +conventionality against the world. To-night she laid down her +shield, and I saw the beating of a very pure and loving heart. The +text of her talk was that we should never allow ourselves to +believe in our limitations, because they did not really exist. I +found her, to my surprise, intensely emotional, with a passionate +disbelief in and yet pity for all sorrow and suffering. She +appealed to me to take up Christian Science--"not to read or talk +about it," she said; "that is no use: it is a life, not a theory; +just accept it, and live by it, and you will find it true." + +But there is one part of me that rebels against the whole idea of +Christian Science--my reason. I found, or thought I found, this +woman to be wise both in head and heart, but not wise in mind. it +seems to me that pain and sorrow and suffering are phenomena, just +as real as other phenomena; and that one does no good by denying +them, but only by accepting them, and living in them and through +them. One might as truly, it seems, take upon oneself to deny that +there was any such colour as red in the world, and tell people that +whenever they saw or discerned any tinge of red, it was a delusion; +one can only use one's faculty of perception; and if sorrow and +suffering are a delusion, how do I know that love and joy are not +delusions too? They must stand and fall together. The reason why I +believe that joy and love will in the end triumph, is because I +have, because we all have, an instinctive desire for them, and a no +less instinctive fear and dread of pain and sorrow. We may, indeed +I believe with all my heart that we shall, emerge from them, but +they are no less assuredly there. We triumph over them, when we +learn to live bravely and courageously in them, when we do not seek +to evade them or to hasten incredulously away from them. We fail, +if we spend our time in repining, in regretting, in wishing the +sweet and tranquil hours of untroubled joy back. We are not strong +enough to desire the cup of suffering, even though we may know that +we must drink it before we can discern the truth. But we may +rejoice with a deep-seated joy, in the dark hours, that the Hand of +God is heavy upon us. When our vital energies flag, when what we +thought were our effective powers languish and grow faint, then we +may be glad because the Father is showing us His Will; and then our +sorrow is a fruitful sorrow, and labours, as the swelling seed +labours in the sombre earth to thrust her slender hands up to the +sun and air. . . . + +We two sate long in a corner of the quiet lamp-lit room, talking +like old friends--once or twice our conversation was suspended by +music, which fell like dew upon my parched heart; and though I +could not accept my fellow-pilgrim's thought, I could see in the +glance of her eyes, full of pity and wonder, that we were indeed +faring along the same strange road to the paradise of God. It did +me good, that talk; it helped me with a sense of sweet and tender +fellowship; and I had no doubt that God was teaching my friend in +His own fatherly way, even as He was teaching me, and all of us. + + + +July 19, 1891. + + +In one of the great windows of King's College Chapel, Cambridge, +there is a panel the beauty of which used to strike me even as a +boy. I used to wonder what further thing it meant. + +It was, I believe--I may be wholly wrong--a picture of Reuben, +looking in an agony of unavailing sorrow into the pit from which +his brothers had drawn the boy they hated to sell him to the +Midianites. I cannot recollect the details plainly, and little +remains but a memory of dim-lit azure and glowing scarlet. Even +though the pit was quaintly depicted as a draw-well, with a solid +stone coping, the pretty absurdity of the thought only made one +love the fancy better. But the figure of Reuben!--even through an +obscuring mist of crossing leads and window-bars and weather +stains, there was a poignant agony wrought into the pose of the +figure, with its clasped hands and strained gaze. + +I used to wonder, I say, what further thing it meant. For the deep +spell of art is that it holds an intenser, a wider significance +beneath its symbols than the mere figure, the mere action it +displays. + +What was the remorse of Reuben? It was that through his weakness, +his complaisance, he had missed his chance of protecting what was +secretly dear to him. He loved the boy, I think, or at all events +he loved his father, and would not willingly have hurt the old man. +And now, even in his moment of yielding, of temporising, the worst +had happened, the child was gone, delivered over to what baseness +of usage he could not bear to think. He himself had been a traitor +to love and justice and light; and yet, in the fruitful designs of +God, that very traitorous deed was to blossom into the hope and +glory of the race; the deed itself was to be tenderly forgiven, and +it was to open up, in the fulness of days, a prospect of greatness +and prosperity to the tribe, to fling the seed of that mighty +family in soil where it was to be infinitely enriched; it was to +open the door at last to a whole troop of great influences, +marvellous events, large manifestations of God. + +Even so, in a parable, the figure came insistently before me all +day, shining and fading upon the dark background of the mind. + +It was at the loss of my own soul that I had connived; not at its +death indeed--I had not plotted for that--but I had betrayed +myself, I saw, year by year. I had despised the dreams and visions +of the frail and ingenuous spirit; and when it had come out +trustfully to me in the wilderness, I had let it fall into the +hands of the Midianites, the purloining band that trafficked in all +things, great and small, from the beast of the desert to the bodies +and souls of men. + +My soul had thus lain expiring before my eyes, and now God had +taken it away from my faithless hands; I saw at last that to save +the soul one must assuredly lose it; that if it was to grow strong +and joyful and wise, it must be sold into servitude and dark +afflictions. I saw that when I was too weak to save it, God had +rent it from me, but that from the darkness of the pit it should +fare forth upon a mighty voyage, and be made pure and faithful in a +region undreamed of. + +To Reuben was left nothing but shame and sorrow of heart and deceit +to hide his sin; unlike him, to me was given to see, beyond the +desert and the dwindling line of camels, the groves and palaces of +the land of wisdom, whither my sad soul was bound, lonely and +dismayed. My heart went out to the day of reconciliation, when I +should be forgiven with tears of joy for my own faltering +treachery, when my soul should be even grateful for my weakness, +because from that very faithlessness, and from no other, should the +new life be born. + +And thus with a peaceful hope that lay beyond shame and sorrow +alike, as the shining plain lies out beyond the broken crags of the +weary mountain, I gave myself utterly into the Hands of the Father +of All. He was close beside me that day, upholding, comforting, +enriching me. Not hidden in clouds from which the wrathful trumpet +pealed, but walking with a tender joy, in a fragrance of love, in +the garden, at the cool of the day. + + + +August 18, 1891. + + +Mr. ---- is dead. He died yesterday, holding my hand. The end was +quite sudden, though not unexpected. He had been much weaker of +late, and he knew he could only live a short time. I have been much +with him these last few days. He could not talk much, but there was +a peaceful glory on his face which made me think of the Pilgrims in +the Pilgrim's Progress whose call was so joyful. I never suspected +how little desire he had to live; but when he knew that his days +were numbered, he allowed something of his delight to escape him, +as a prisoner might who has borne his imprisonment bravely and sees +his release draw nigh. He suffered a good deal, but each pang was +to him only like the smiting off of chains. "I have had a very +happy life," he said to me once with a smile. "Looking back, it +seems as though my later happiness had soaked backwards through the +whole fabric, so that my joy in age has linked itself as by a +golden bridge to the old childish raptures." Then he looked +curiously at me, with a half-smile, and added, "But happy as I have +been, I find it in my heart to envy you. You hardly know how much +you are to be envied. You have no more partings to fear; your +beautiful past is all folded up, to be creased and tarnished no +more. You have had the love of wife and child--the one thing that I +have missed. You have had fame too; and you have drunk far deeper +of the cup of suffering than I. I look upon you," he said +laughingly, "as an old home-keeping captain, who has never done +anything but garrison duty, might look upon a young general who has +carried through a great campaign and is covered with signs of +honour." + +A little while after he roused himself from a slumber to say, "You +will be surprised to find yourself named in my will; please don't +have any scruples about accepting the inheritance. I want my niece, +of course, to reign in my stead; but if you outlive her, all is to +go to you. I want you to live on in this place, to stand by her in +her loneliness, as a brother by a sister. I want you to help and +work for my dear people here, to be tender and careful for them. +There are many things that a man can do which a woman cannot; and +your difficulty will be to find a hem for your life. Remember that +there is no one who is injured by this--my niece is my only living +relation; so accept this as your post in life; it will not be a +hard one. It is strange," he added, "that one should cling to such +trifles; but I should like you to take my name, if you will; and +you must find some one to succeed you; I wish it could have been +your own boy, whom I have learnt to love." + +Miss ---- came in shortly after, and Mr. ---- said to her, "Yes, I +have told him, and he consents. You do consent, do you not?" I +said, "Yes, dear friend, of course I consent; and consent +gratefully, for you have given me a work in the world." And then I +took Miss ----'s hand across the bed and kissed it; the old man +laid his hands upon our heads very tenderly and said, "Brother and +sister to the end." + +I thought he was tired then, and made as if to leave him, but he +said, "Do not go, my son." He lay smiling to himself, as if well +pleased. Then a sudden change came over his face, and I saw that he +was going; we knelt beside him, and his last words were words of +blessing. + + + +October 12, 1891. + + +This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad, +terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent +friend, my true confessor. I have felt the need of utterance, the +imperative instinct--the most primitive, the most childish of +instincts--to tell my pains and hopes and dreams. I could not utter +them, at the time, to another. I could not let the voice of my +groaning reach the ears of any human being. Perhaps it would have +been better for us both, if I could have said it all to my dearest +Maud. But a sort of courtesy forbade my redoubling my monotonous +lamentations; her burden was heavy enough without that. I can +hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or chivalry, because +my frame of mind during those first months, when I lost the power +of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did not want +sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give me; +half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He +would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a +helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind. Well, He has +sent me strength--I recognise that now--not by lightening the load, +but by making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had +the strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I +deserved so sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the +loneliness to which He has condemned me is the help that is +proportioned to my need. But I walk no longer in a vain shadow. I +have known affliction by the rod of His wrath. But the darkness in +which I walk is not the darkness of thickening gloom, but the +darkness of the breaking day. + +And then, too, I suppose that writing down my thoughts from day to +day just eased the dumb pain of inaction, as the sick man shifts +himself in his bed. Anyhow it is written, and it shall stand as a +record. + +But now I shall write no more. I shall slip gratefully and securely +into the crowd of inarticulate and silent men and women, the vast +majority, after all, of humanity. One who like myself has the +consciousness of receiving from moment to moment sharp and clear +impressions from everything on earth, people, houses, fields, +trees, clouds, is beset by a kind of torturing desire to shape it +all in words and phrases. Why, I know not! It is the desire, I +suppose, to make some record of what seems so clear, so distinct, +so beautiful, so interesting. One cannot bear that one impression +that seems so vivid and strange should be lost and perish. It is +the artistic instinct, no doubt. And then one passes through the +streets of a great city, and one becomes aware that of the +thousands that pass one by, perhaps only one or two have the same +instinct, and even they are bound to silence by circumstance, by +lack of opportunity. The rest--life is enough for them; hunger and +thirst, love and strife, hope and fear, that is their daily meat. +And life, I doubt not, is what we are set to taste. Of all those +thousands, some few have the desire, and fewer still the power, to +stand apart from the throng. These are not content with the humdrum +life of earning a livelihood, of forming ties, of passing the time +as pleasantly as they can. They desire rather to be felt, to +exercise influence, to mould others to their will, to use them for +their convenience. I have had little temptation to do that, but my +life has been poisoned at its source, I now discern, by the desire +to differentiate myself from others. I could not walk faithfully in +the procession; I was as one who likes to sit securely in his +window above the street, noting all that he sees, sketching all +that strikes his fancy, hugging his pleasure at being apart from +and superior to the ordinary run of mortals. Here lay my chiefest +fault, that I could not bear a humble hand, but looked upon my +wealth, my loving circle, as things that should fence me from the +throng. I lived in a paradise of my own devising. + +But now I have put that all aside for ever. I will live the life of +a learner; I will be docile if I can. I might indeed have been +stripped of everything, bidden to join the humblest tribe of +workers for daily bread. But God has spared my weakness, and I +should be faithless indeed, if, seeing how intently His will has +dealt with me, I did not recognise the clear guiding of His hand. +He has given me a place and a quiet work to do; these strange +bereavements, one after another, have not hardened me. I feel the +bonds of love for those whom I have lost drawn closer every hour. +They are waiting for me, I am sure of that. It is not reason, it is +not faith which prompts me; it is a far deeper and stronger +instinct, which I could not doubt if I would. What wonder if I look +forward with an eager and an ardent hope to death. I can conceive +no more welcome tidings than the tidings that death was at hand. +But I do not expect to die. My health of body is almost +miraculously preserved. What I dare to hope is that I may learn by +slow degrees to set the happiness of others above my own. I will +listen for any sound of grief or discontent, and I will try to +quiet it. I will spend my time and strength as freely as I can. +That is a far-off hope. One cannot in a moment break through the +self-consideration of a lifetime. But whereas, before, my dim +sense that happiness could not be found by deliberately searching +for ease made me half rebellious, half uncomfortable, I know now +that it is true, and I will turn my back if I can upon that lonely +and unsatisfied quest. I did indeed--I can honestly say that-- +desire with a passionate intentness the happiness of Maud and the +children; but I think I desired it most in order that the sunshine +of their happiness should break in warmth and light upon myself. It +will be hard enough--I can see that--not to labour still for the +sake of the ultimate results upon my own peace of mind. But in my +deepest heart I do not desire to do that, and I will not, God +helping me. + +And so to-day, having read the whole record once again, with +blinding tears, tears of love, I think, not tears of self-pity, I +will close the book and write no more. But I will not destroy it, +because it may help some soul that may come after me, into whose +hands it may fall, to struggle on in the middle of sorrow and +darkness. To him will I gladly reveal all that God has done for my +soul. That poor, pitiful, shrinking soul, with all its faint +desires after purity and nobleness and peace, all its self-wrought +misery, all its unhappy failures, all its secret faults, its +undiscerned weaknesses, I put humbly and confidently in the hands +of the God who made me. I cannot amend myself, but I can at least +co-operate with His loving Will. I can stumble onwards, with my +hand in His, like a timid child with a strong and loving father. I +may wish to be lifted in His arms, I may wonder why He does not +have more pity on my frailty. But I can believe that He is leading +me home, and that His way is the best and nearest. + + +THE END +The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Altar Fire +by Arthur Christopher Benson +******This file should be named thltr10.txt or thltr10.zip****** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, thltr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, thltr10a.txt + +This etext was created by Don Lainson (dlainson@sympatico.ca) & Charles Aldarondo (Aldarondo@yahoo.com) + +*** + +More information about this book is at the top of this file. + + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. 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