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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-09 10:21:06 -0700 |
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diff --git a/75826-h/75826-h.htm b/75826-h/75826-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8d621f --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/75826-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7341 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Gifts of fortune | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +figcaption {font-weight: bold; + text-align: right; +} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +.author { + text-align: right; + margin-right: 30% + } + +.x-ebookmaker body {margin: 0;} +.x-ebookmaker-drop {color: inherit;} + +.ph2, .ph3, .ph4 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } +.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } +.ph4 { font-size: medium; margin: 1.12em auto; } + +.tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; +padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; padding-left: .5em; +padding-right: .5em;} + + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2.0em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp51 {width: 51%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp51 {width: 100%;} +.illowp67 {width: 67%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp67 {width: 100%;} +.illowp50 {width: 50%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp50 {width: 100%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75826 ***</div> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>GIFTS OF FORTUNE</h1> +</div> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph3"> +<i>Other Books by the Same Author</i></p></div> + + +<p class="center"> +THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE<br> +OLD JUNK<br> +LONDON RIVER<br> +WAITING FOR DAYLIGHT<br> +TIDEMARKS<br> +</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="frontispiece" style="max-width: 50.0em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>The tall ship—standing out into windy space</i>— + </figcaption> +</figure> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph2"> +GIFTS OF FORTUNE<br> +</p> +<p class="ph3">AND HINTS FOR THOSE<br> +ABOUT TO TRAVEL</p> +<p class="ph4"> +BY</p> +<p class="ph2"> +H. M. TOMLINSON<br> +</p> +<p class="ph4"> +<i>With Woodcuts by</i></p> +<p class="ph3"> +HARRY CIMINO<br> +</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp67" id="title_logo" style="width: 6.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/title_logo.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent10">“<i>Giftës of fortune,</i></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><i>That passen as a shadow on the wall.</i>”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p class="author"> +<span class="smcap">Chaucer</span>, The Merchant’s Tale. +</p> + +<p class="ph2"> +HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS<br> +NEW YORK AND LONDON<br> +MCMXXVI<br> +</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph4"> +GIFTS OF FORTUNE<br> +<br> +Copyright, 1926, by<br> +Harper & Brothers<br> +Printed in U. S. A.<br> +<br> +<i>First Edition</i><br> +<br> +H-A<br> +</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph4"> +<i>To</i><br> +<i>The Caliph and his Lady</i><br> +<i>for placing the unripened pages</i><br> +<i>of this book in the sun</i><br> +<i>of the Côte d’Or</i><br> +<i>at their</i><br> +<i>Chateau de Missery</i><br> +</p> +</div> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2></div> + + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">SOME HINTS FOR THOSE ABOUT TO TRAVEL</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">OUT OF TOUCH</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">ELYSIUM</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">THE RAJAH</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">THE STORM PETREL</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">ON THE CHESIL BANK</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">THE PLACE WE KNOW BEST</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">DROUGHT</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A RIDE ON A COMET</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">REGENT’S PARK</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A DEVON ESTUARY</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_212">212</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div> + + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">THE TALL SHIP—STANDING OUT INTO WINDY SPACE</td> +<td class="tdr"><i><a href="#frontispiece">Frontispiece</a></i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td></td> +<td class="tdr"><i>Facing Page</i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">TO SEE THE GLOW OF SUNRISE ABOVE THE PALISADE OF THE JUNGLE</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">I MET A CHEERFUL GOATHERD</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">AFTER A LONG AND FAITHFUL ADHERENCE TO THE BEATEN TRACKS YOU REACH SOME DISTANT COASTAL OUTPOST</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">SOME NAME IT EDEN OR ELYSIUM</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">THE BUFFALOES STARED AT US AS WE WENT ALONG, AS MOTIONLESS AS FIGURES IN METAL</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">AS TO THE SEA, IT HAS NO HUMAN ATTRIBUTES WHATEVER</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">AT LOW TIDE THESE STONE STAIRS GO DOWN TO A SHINGLE BEACH</td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_226">226</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="GIFTS_OF_FORTUNE">GIFTS OF FORTUNE</h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="I_SOME_HINTS_FOR_THOSE_ABOUT">I. SOME HINTS FOR THOSE ABOUT +TO TRAVEL</h2></div> + + +<p class="ph3">I</p> + +<p>A year or two ago a lively book was published +called <i>The Happy Traveller</i>. It is not an indispensable +work if you have booked your passage, +or are on a ship’s articles, for only Providence can +help you then, yet it is a cheerful guide if you +would know what long journeys are like, in parts, +without making them. Its author, the Rev. Frank +Tatchell, proves he has seen enough of the world +to satisfy a crew of able seamen. He has seen it +from the byroads, the highroads, the decks of local +trading ships, and the windows of third-class railway +carriages. He has seen it because, apparently, +he wanted to; and he has enjoyed it all, or most of +it. He has some heroic advice for those whom he +judges may be infected by his own enthusiasm, +and indeed his book would induce many young men +to pull on their boots forthwith: “Be cheerful and +interested in everything,” he tells us; and, “Do not +bother too much about your inside.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span></p> +<p>But what I sought in his volume was not the +Malay for Thank you—which he gave me—but +what set him going. Why did he do it? There is a +word, frequently seen in glossy narrative, “Wanderlust.” +The very lemmings must know it. It excuses +almost anything in the way of travel lunacy, +even to herding with Russian emigrants for fun. It +is used as a flourish by those who hope we will fail +to notice that they are uncertain what to do with +themselves. Mr. Tatchell, however, does not use it +once. Yet you see him hustling through the bazaar +at Bhamo, where you do not meet many tourists; +and he discovers that the half-castes of the Society +Isles are especially charming, though he does not +pretend that it is worth while voyaging to the South +Seas to confirm that; or he peeps into the Malayan +forest long enough to note “myriads of leeches in +all directions humping and hastening towards the +traveller.” He certainly saw those leeches. He +saw them <i>hump</i>. But why did he foregather +with them, and go to smell Bhamo? For out of so +varied an experience he returns but to assure +romantic youth sitting on the bollards of our quays +and gazing seaward wistfully, “Elephants dislike +having white men approach them from behind.” +Or of this: “If you should become infested with +fleas, sleep out on a bed of bracken one night, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>in the morning you will be free from the pests.” +Such fruits of travel seem hardly enough. Mr. +Tatchell himself was decidedly a happy traveller, +and the cause of happiness in others—his book can +be commended in confidence—for he admits that +his method of enjoying himself in a strange bed is +to sing aloud the aria, “Why do the Nations?” But +he does not tell us what sent him roving, nor does +he produce any collection of treasures, except +oddities such as the warning to white men about +approaching the behinds of elephants, and Vinakka +vinnakka! (Fijian for Bravo.)</p> + +<p>Perhaps those little curiosities are enough. We +are pleased to hear of them. What else was there +to get? It would be very hard for most voyagers to +explain convincingly why they became restless, and +went to sea. Some do it to get away from us, some +to get away from themselves, and some because +they cannot help it. I shall not forget the silliness +which gave me my first sight of Africa. The office +telephone rang. “Oh, is that you? Well, we want +you to go to Algeria at once.” I went downstairs +hurriedly to disperse this absurdity. But it was no +good. I had to go. And because I was argumentative +about it they added Tripoli and Sicily, +which served me right. After all, while in Africa, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>one is necessarily absent from Fleet Street. I +should have remembered that.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tatchell tells us that even a poor man, if he +does not leave it till he is in bondage to the income-tax +collector or the Poor Law officials, may see all +the world. I suppose he may. With sufficient +health, enterprise, and impudence, a young fellow +could inveigle himself overseas without paying a +lot of money to the P. & O. Company; though it +wants some doing nowadays, under the present +rules of the Mercantile Marine Board and the seafarers’ +unions. Shipowners do not lightly engage +to pay compensation for accidents to inexperienced +hands whose sole recommendation is that they want +to see the world so wide. As for getting a berth for +the voyage cheaply, it would be foolish to suppose +that agents for passenger ships are willing to forgive +the fact that you are poor, and will shake +Cornucopia about freely. Why should they? You +have to pay across the counter in exchange for a +ticket, and at the post-war rates. If anyone doubts +that this is a hard world, let him cut the painter at +Port Said, with a shilling in his pocket, and note +what will happen. In some difficult regions you +must travel on foot with the natives, and live with +them; and that costs very little, even in a land otherwise +expensive, but those unsophisticated coasts +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>must first be reached. That simple way of a nomad +is all very well in the wilderness, but I think any +reasonable man, however thirsty he may be for a +draught of primitive Life, would hesitate before +sequestering himself in native cities like Calcutta +and Singapore, counting cannily the lesser coins, +and traveling about in third-class carriages. I +noticed that even Mr. Tatchell shrank from the +prospect of getting from island to island of Indonesia +with the deck passengers. I am not surprised. +One is easily satisfied with an occasional +hour on the lower deck, in converse with a +picturesque native elder. But to eat and sleep +there for weeks, among the crowing cocks, the +banana skins, the babies, the dried fish, and men and +women spitting red stuff after chewing betel nut! +It has been done, I believe, but the shipping companies +and all their officers set their faces against +it. They do not encourage Europeans to travel +even second class in those seas, though there is +hardly any difference between the cabins of the two +classes. Of course, if one were anything of an +Orientalist, it would be ridiculous to keep to the +first saloon with the Europeans when there were +Arab and Chinese merchants in an inferior saloon +of the ship.</p> + +<p>I do not know how one plans a long voyage, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>maintains the excellent plan scientifically through +all its difficulties. I have never done any planning. +A ship seems to have drifted my way at last by +chance, and then, if I did not hesitate too long +about it, I went in her, though always for a reason +very inadequate. One bitter and northerly Easter +I read, because gardening was impossible, Bates’ +“Naturalist on the River Amazons.” The famous +illustration of that spectacled entomologist in +trousers and a check shirt, standing with an insect +net in a tropical forest surrounded by infuriated +toucans, fixed me when casually I pulled the +volume off a library shelf. The book had not been +specially commended to me, but its effect was instant. +And the picture that artful naturalist drew +of the pleasures of Santa Belem de Para, when +contrasted with the sleet of an English spring, +made me pensive over a fire. I had never seen the +tropics. And what a name it is, the Amazons! +And what a delightful book is Bates’!</p> + +<p>Yet when I enquired into this enticement, Para +might as well have been in another star. One may +go cheaply to Canada, and risk it. That trick cannot +be played on the tropics with impunity. I had +the propriety to guess that. Then, one night, a +sailor came home from sea, and just before he left +he spoke of his next voyage. They were going to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>Para, and up the Amazon; and up a tributary of +that river never before navigated by an ocean-going +steamer. “Nonsense,” I said, “it cannot be done—not +if you draw, as you say you do, nearly twenty-four +feet. And it means rising about six hundred +feet above sea level.”</p> + +<p>“You can talk,” the sailor replied, “but I’ve seen +the charter. We’re going, and I wish we weren’t. +Sure to be fevers. Besides, a ship has no right inside +a continent.”</p> + +<p>I began thinking of Bates. My friend turned up +the collar of his coat before going into the rain. +“Look here,” he said, “if you have any doubt about +it, you may take the trip. There’s a cabin we don’t +use.”</p> + +<p>I never gave that preposterous suggestion a second +thought, but I did write, for a lively morning +newspaper, my sailor’s mocking summary of what +that strange voyage might have in store. The +editor, a day later, met me on the office stairs. +“That was an amusing lie of yours this morning,” +he said. I answered him that it was written solely +in the cause of science and navigation. What was +more, I assured him earnestly, I had been offered a +berth on the ship for the proof of doubters. +“Well,” said the editor, “you shall go and prove it.” +He meant that. I could see by the challenging look +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>in his eye that nothing much was left about which +to argue. He prided himself on his swift and unreasonable +decisions.</p> + +<p>Somehow, as that editor descended the stairs, +showing me the finality of his back, the attractive +old naturalist of the Amazon with his palms at +Para, toucans, spectacles, butterflies, and everlasting +afternoon of tranquillity in the forest of the +tropics, was the less alluring. This meant packing +up; and for what? Even the master of the steamer +could not tell me that.</p> + +<p>It is better to obey the mysterious index, without +any fuss, when it points a new road, however +strange that road may be. There is probably as +much reason for it, if the truth were known, as for +anything else. It would be absurd, in the manner +of Browning and Mr. Tatchell, to greet the unseen +with a cheer, and thus flatter it, yet when circumstances +begin to look as though they intend something +different for us, perhaps the proper thing to +do is to get into accord with them, to see what will +happen.</p> + +<p>There was no doubt about that voyage, either. I +take this opportunity to thank an autocratic editor +for his cruel decision one morning on the office +stairs, a trivial episode he has completely forgotten. +It is worth the break, and the discomfort of a winter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>dock, and the drive out in the face of hard westerly +weather, to come up a ship’s companion one +morning, and to see for the first time the glow of +sunrise above the palisade of the jungle. You +never forget the warm smell of it, and its light; +though that simple wonder might not be thought +worth a hard fight with gales in the western ocean. +Yet later, when by every reasonable estimate of a +visitor accustomed to the assumption of man’s control +of nature the forest should have ended, yet +continues as though it were eternal—savage, flamboyant, +yet silent and desolate—the voyager begins +to feel vaguely uneasy. He cannot meet that lofty +and sombre regard with the cheerful curiosity of +the early part of the voyage. He feels lost. St. +Paul’s cathedral does not seem so influential as +once it did, nor man so important. And perhaps +it is not an unhealthful surmise either that man +may be only a slightly disturbing episode on earth +after all, and had better look out; a hindering and +humbling notion of that sort would have done him +no harm, if of late years it had given him pause.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="p0081_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p0081_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>To see the glow of sunrise above the palisade of</i><br> + <i>the jungle.</i><br> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Well, something of that sort is about as much as +one should expect to get out of the experience, that +and the ability to call for a porter in Fijian or +Chinese. But is it not sufficient? It is hardly as +tangible as hearing earlier than the people at home +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>of the wealth of oil at Balik-papan, or what comes +of getting in at the Rand on the ground floor. +Even as book material it is not so sparkling as +Lady Hester Stanhope, or as exciting as sword-fish +angling off the Bermudas. Nor does it provide any +inspiration, once you are home again, to get to work +to plant the British flag where it will do the lucky +ones most good. There seems hardly anything in +it, and yet you feel that you could not have done +any better, and are not sorry it turned out just so.</p> + +<p>Besides, there were the men one met. It would +not be easy to analyse the impulse which sent one +travelling, an impulse strong enough, if vague, to +overcome one’s natural desire to be let alone. What +did one want, or expect to learn? It would be hard +to say. But you are aware, in rare moments, that +you have got something almost as good as a word +about a new oil-field, through some chance converse +with a stranger, about nothing in particular. For +it might have been night in the Malacca Strait, with +little to give reasonable conviction of the realities +except the stars, the tremor of the ship’s rail, and +the glow of a shipmate’s cigar; and the other man +might not have said much. You had previously +noticed he was not that kind. But his casual relation +of an obscure adventure—rather as if the droning +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>of the waters had become a significant utterance—gave +an abiding content to the shadows.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">II</p> + +<p>What right have we to travel, when better men +have to stay at home? But it would be unwise to +attempt an answer to that question, for certainly +it would lead, as did the uncorking of the bottle +that imprisoned the Genie, to much smoke and +confusion. We should not poke about with a naked +light amid the props which uphold the august and +many-storied edifice of society, even to make sure +of our rightful place there. It was a reading of +Lord Bryce’s <i>Memories of Travel</i> that started so +odd a doubt in my mind. When I had finished it +I did not begin to think of packing a bag. I felt +instead that I had no title to do that. Lord Bryce, +that learned man, had been remembering casually +Iceland and the tropics, Poland, the Mountains of +Moab, and the scenery of North America. But he +did not make me feel that those places should be +mine. He, that great scholar, made them desirable, +yet infinitely remote, and reservations for wiser +men, among whom, if I were bold enough to intrude, +my inconsequence would be detected instantly. +After reading his book of travel I felt that it would +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>be as wrong in me to possess and privily to treasure +priceless Oriental manuscripts as to claim the right +to see coral atolls in the Pacific or prospects of the +Altai.</p> + +<p>We may lack the warrant to travel, even if we +have the means. Lord Bryce made it coldly clear +that few of us are competent to venture abroad. +He made me feel that much that would come my +way would be wasted on me, for I have little in +common with the encyclopædias. The wonders +would loom ahead, would draw abeam, would pass +astern, and I should not see them; they would not +be there. The pleasures of travel, when we are +candid about them, are separated by very wide +deserts and tedious, where there is nothing but +sand and the dreary howling of wild dogs. An +Eastern city may grow stale in a night. “‘Dear +City of Cecrops’ saith the poet; but shall we not +say, ‘Dear City of Zeus?’” There are days when +the ocean is a pond. Its relative importance then +appears to be that of a newspaper of last week. +Sometimes, too, you do not want to hear that there +are three miles of water under you; no less. What +of it? In nasty weather the end so far below you +of the last two miles is of less importance than the +beginning of the first.</p> + +<p>It may also happen that when at last your ship +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>reaches that far place whose name is as troubling +as the name of the star to which you look in solitude, +that—what is it you do there? You gaze +overside at it from your trite anchorage, unbelievingly. +The first mate comes aft, leisurely, rubbing +his hands. You do not go ashore. What has become +of the magic of a name? You go below with +the mate, who has finished his job, for a pipe. To-morrow +will do for Paradise, or the day after. One +morning I reached Naples by sea, and I well remember +my first sight of it. The stories I had +heard of that wonderful bay! The ecstatic letters +in my pocket from those who were instructing me +how nothing of my luck should be missed! But it +was raining. It was cold. I had been travelling +for an age. There was hardly any bay, and what I +could see of it was as glum as a bad mistake. There +was a wet quay, some house fronts that were house-fronts, +and a few cabs. I took a cab. That was +better than walking to the railway station, and +quicker. It is quite easy for me to describe my first +sight of Naples and its bay.</p> + +<p>But Lord Bryce was not an incompetent traveller. +He could see through any amount of rain and +dirt. He was competent indeed; fully, lightly, and +with grace. To other tourists he may have appeared +to be one of the crowd, trying hard to get +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>some enjoyment out of a lucky deal in rubber or +real estate, and not knowing how to do it. But he +was not bored. He was quiet merely because he +knew what he was looking at. What to us would +have been opaque he could see through; yet I doubt +whether he would have said anything about it, unless +he had been asked. And why should we ask +a fellow-traveller whether he can see through what +is opaque? We never do it, because our own intelligence +tells us that what is dark cannot be light. +What we do not see is not there.</p> + +<p>Yet how much we miss, when on a journey, Lord +Bryce reveals. There was not often a language +difficulty for him. When he looked at the wilderness +of central Iceland he knew the cause of it, and +could explain why tuffs and basalts make different +landscapes. When he was in Hungary and +Poland the problems we should have brushed +aside as matters no Englishman ought to be expected +to understand, became, in the light of his +political and historical lore, simple and relevant. +Among the islands of the South Seas, with their +unsolved puzzles of an old continental land mass +and of race migrations, so learned a traveller was +just as much at ease. Once I remarked to an old +voyager, who in some ways resembled Lord Bryce, +that it was in my dreams to visit Celebes. “But,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>he remarked coldly, “you are not an ethnologist.” +No; and I can see now, after these <i>Memories of +Travel</i>, that I have other defects as a traveller.</p> + +<p>Yet I cannot deny that a craving for knowledge, +when abroad, may sometimes come over me, with a +dim resemblance to the craving for food or sleep. +But if I go to my note-books in later years and +discover that though I had forgotten them I had +many interesting facts stored away, nevertheless it +is evident the valuable information does very well +where it is. It will never be missed. Its importance +has faded. There are other things, however, +one never entered in a notebook, and never tried to +remember, for they were of no seeming importance +then or now, things seen for an instant only, or +smelt, or heard in the distance, which are never forgotten. +They will recur from the past, often irrelevantly, +even when the memory is not turned +that way, as though something in us knew better +what to look for in life than our trained eyes.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">III</p> + +<p>Travel, we are often told, gives light to the mind. +I have wondered whether it does. Consider the +sailors. They are supposed to travel widely. They +see the cities of the world, and the works of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>Lord and His wonders in the deep. And—well, do +you know any sailors? If you do, then you may +have noticed that not infrequently their opinions +seem hardly more valuable than yours and mine. +Yet it must be said for them that they rarely claim +an additional value for their opinions because they +have anchored off Colombo. They know better +than that. They know, very likely, that all the +cities of the world can no more give us what was +withheld at our birth than our unaided suburb. As +much convincing folly may be heard at Penang as +at Peckham. The sad truth is, one is as likely to +grow wiser during a week-end at Brighton as in a +“black Bilbao tramp</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And a drunken Dago crew,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">From Cadiz, south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>The fascination and illusion of that Out Trail! +The other day, a man, a wise and experienced +traveller, who knows deep water better than most +of us, who has hunted whales, and even enjoyed +being out of soundings in literature, overheard a +voice near us on a dock-head exclaim in delight +at the sight of a ship outward bound: “I wish I +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>were aboard her.” He said to me quietly, “I felt +like that, too, but really, you know, I don’t want +to be aboard. I’m a little bit afraid of the sea.”</p> + +<p>So am I. That is one thing, at least, I have +learned in travel. I do not love the sea. The look +of it is disquieting. There is something in the very +sound of it that stirs the apprehension we feel when +we listen to noble music; we became inexplicably +troubled. It is not the fear of mishap, though that +may not be absent. It is more than that, for after +all one is much safer in a good ship than when +crossing the road at Charing Cross.</p> + +<p>It may be a surmise of one’s inconsequence in +that immensity of sky and water. And our inconsequence +has not been always obvious to us. The +ministrations of a city nourish the pride of the +social animal and yet make him a dependable +creature. Turn him into the open and he shrinks +from all that light. The dread problems that our +energetic fellow-men create in the cities of the plain +make us myopic through the intensity of our peering +alarm. We become sure that even the empyrean +must watch our activities with grave interest. +Yet we may be deceived in that; for on blue water +one cannot help noting that the sky does not appear +to act with any regard for our interest, and the sea +itself is so inscrutable, so vast, and moves with a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>rhythm that so diminishes one’s own scope and +measure, that a voyager may imagine he is confronted +by majesty, though an impersonal majesty, +without ears or eyes or ruth. That is not comfortable +to a sense of self-importance.</p> + +<p>Do we travel to learn such things? Of course +not. The promise to diminish a feeling of self-importance +in a traveller is not one of Messrs. Cook’s +happy inducements. We do not travel for that. If +we get it at all, we are welcome to it, without extra +charge. You must pay more if you want to have a +cabin to yourself. There are additional charges, +too, if you would deviate from the schedule of +your voyage. Should you put off at Penang for a +week, and continue by the next ship, that fun must +be paid for. Eager still for the end of the rainbow—which, +so far on a long voyage, you have not +reached, to your surprise and disappointment—you +leave your ship at Barbadoes, consult the chart, +and judge that what you really want is at Yucatan, +at Surinam, at Trinidad, or some other place where +you are not; and at a great expense of time and +money you go. No use. There again you find that +you have taken yourself with you. No rainbow’s +end!</p> + +<p>I have often wondered what people see who +travel round the world in a liner furnished with the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>borrowings of a city’s club-life and other occasions +for idling; Panama, San Francisco, Honolulu, +Yokohama, Hong-Kong, Batavia, and Rangoon, +all those variations of scenery for the club windows; +and so home again. What do they see? The +anchorage of Sourabaya is no more revealing than +that of Havre, if warmer: a mole, ships at rest, +some straight miles of ferro-concrete quays in the +distance, flat grey acres of the galvanised roofs of +sheds, and a tower or two beyond. True, there are +the clouds of the tropics to watch, and a Malay +polishing the ship’s brass. Only the mate and the +captain are at lunch, for the others have gone +ashore. You may make what romance you can out +of that.</p> + +<p>The others have gone ashore? All the great seaports +I have seen have been very much alike; and +these liners rarely stay at one long enough to make +easy the discovery of a difference. You have no +time to get lost. You arrive, and then an inexorable +notice is chalked on the blackboard at the head +of the ship’s gangway, to which a quartermaster +draws your attention as you leave the ship. The +old city is two miles away, and the ship sails in two +hours. No chance, you see, to get comfortably +mislaid and forgotten. Besides, you run off with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>a car-load of other passengers. Unless the car +skids into a ditch the game is up.</p> + +<p>Well, after all, that grudging sense of disappointment +comes of intemperance with fascinating +place-names and illusions. We expect to have +romance displayed for us, as though it were a +greater Wembley, and it is not. Travellers who +“dash” round the world, as the febrile interviewers +tell us, who dash across the Sahara or the Atlantic, +then get into other speedy engines and dash again, +expectant of a full life and their money’s worth, +might as well dash to Southend and back till they +run over a dog; or dash their brains out, and thus +fulfil their destiny. But I am not decrying travel, +though sailors, I have been made painfully aware, +are much amused by the expectations of those to +whom a ship is an interlude of variegated enchantment +between the serious affairs of life. I enjoy +travel, and a little of it now and then is good for +us, if we do not make demands which only lucky +chance may fulfil.</p> + +<p>The best things in travel are all undesigned, and +perhaps even undeserved. I had never seen a +whale, for instance, and recently was watching the +very waters of the Java Sea where one of them +might have been good enough to reward me. +Nothing like a whale appeared. Too late for that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>sort of thing, perhaps. This is the day of the submarine. +Or perhaps I stared from the ship listlessly, +and with no faith, not caring much whether +there were whales and wonders in these days or +not. Anyhow, my last chance went. On my way +home, while just to the south of Finisterre, I came +out of my cabin a little after sunrise merely to look +at the weather (which was fine) and a tiny cloud, +rounded and defined, was dispersing over the +waves, less than a mile away. Shrapnelling? Then +a number of those faint rounded clouds of vapour +shaped intermittently. The ship was in the midst +of a school of whales. There was a sigh—like the +exhaust of a locomotive—and a body which seemed +to rival the steamer in bulk appeared alongside; +we barely missed that shadow of a submerged +island. The officer of the watch told me afterwards +that the ship’s stem nearly ran over it.</p> + +<p>That was a bare incident, however, and perhaps +not worth counting. Yet all the significant things +in travel come that way. Once in heavy weather I +saw a derelict sailing ship; our steamer left its +course to inspect her. But she was dead. There +was no movement aboard her, except the loose door +of a deckhouse. It flung open as we drew near, +but nobody came out. The seas ran as they pleased +about her deck fixtures. It was sunset, and just +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>when we thought she had gone, for she had slipped +over the summit of an upheaval, her skeleton appeared +again in that waste, far astern, against the +bleak western light. I felt in that moment that +only then had the sea shown itself to me.</p> + +<p>It is the chance things in travel that appear to +be significant. The light comes unexpectedly and +obliquely. Perhaps the gods try us. They want +to see whether we are asleep. If we are watchful +we may get a bewildering hint, but placed where +nobody would have expected to find it. We may +spend the rest of the voyage wondering what that +meant. A casual coast suddenly fixed by so +strange a glow that one looks to the opposite sky +fearfully; the careless word which makes you +glance at a stranger, and doubt your fixed opinion; +an ugly city, which you are glad to leave, transfigured +and jubilant as you pass out of its harbour; +these are the incidents that give a sense of discovery +to a voyage. We are on more than one +voyage at a time. We never know where Manoa +may be. There are no fixed bearings for the City +of Gold.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">IV</p> + +<p>The reader of travellers’ tales is a cautious fellow, +not easily fooled. He is never misled by facts +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>which do not assort with his knowledge. But he +does love wonders. His faith in dragons, dog-headed +men, bearded women, and mermaids, is not +what it used to be, but he will accept good substitutes. +The market is still open to the ingenious. +Any lady who is careful to advise her return from +the sheikhs is sure to have the interviewers surprise +her at the dock-side. She need only come back +from Borneo, by the normal liner, and whisper +“head-hunters” to the ever-ready note-books; and +if she displays a <i>parang</i> which some Dyak never +used except for agricultural purposes, that will be +enough to rouse surprise at her daring.</p> + +<p>But what are facts? There are limits, as we +know, to the credulity of our fellows, as once Mr. +Darwin, who considered exact evidence so important, +discovered with a shock. What we really want +is evidence we can understand, like that most discreet +and wary old critic, the aunt of the young +sailor. She quizzed him humorously about his flying +fish, but was serious at once over that chariot +wheel which was brought up on a fluke of his +ship’s anchor in the Red Sea. She knew well +enough where it was Pharaoh got what he asked +for. Give us evidence in accord with our habits of +thought, and we know where we are.</p> + +<p>Even I have discovered that there are readers of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>travellers’ tales who decline anything to which +there is no reference in <i>Whitaker’s Almanac</i>. A +very prudent attitude of mind. I cannot find fault +with it because it does not accept mermaids from +us, but I do suggest there may be things in the +world which have not yet come under Mr. Whitaker’s +eye. A little scepticism preserves the soul, +though infertility would result if the soul were encased +in it; which it rarely is, because luckily sceptics +only disbelieve what is foreign to them, and +accept in unquestioning faith whatever accords +with their philosophy. It is true that more scepticism +in the past might have saved us from many +dragons and visiting angels, which in its absence +spawned and flourished with impunity. On the +other hand it would have shut out Mount Zion for +ever. It must be said, too, that the good readers +who repudiate with blighting amusement those +narratives of travel which do not accord with Mr. +Whitaker’s valuable index, will yet take, and with +their eyes shut, much that compels seasoned travellers +to smile bitterly.</p> + +<p>If you refer to Mr. Whitaker for the Spice +Islands, or the Moluccas, for instance, you will fail +to find concerning them one little fact: it is not +advertised by Mr. Whitaker; not important +enough, perhaps. I should never have known it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span>myself, only I was there, once. I am not at all sure +the fact is so insignificant that it should pass without +notice, so I will record it here. At Ternate, an +island which has been forgotten since white men +ceased to kill each other for its cloves, it is easy to +believe that you have really escaped from the +world. Great gulfs of space and light separate +you at Ternate from all the agitations by which +civilized communities know that they are the buds, +full of growing pains, on the tree of life. They are +excellent gulfs of light. There are no agitations. +Even the typhoons which herald the changes of the +seasons, and not so far away, leave Ternate alone. +Its volcano—the volcano is all the island—may +blow up some day; but we should not expect earthly +felicity to shine tranquilly for ever. Therefore +while the isle persists it is delightful to walk the +strands and by-paths of that oceanic garden of the +tropics, and to feel the mind, so recently numbed +by the uproar caused in the building of the Perfect +State, revive in quietude. One day, on Ternate, I +passed through the shade of a nutmeg grove, and +came upon a lane at the back of the village. I +could smell vanilla, and looked about for that +orchid, and presently found it growing against a +sugar palm. Behind that odorous shrubbery was +a native house, and beyond the house, and far below +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>it, the blue of the sea. Nobody was about. It +was noon. It was hot. The high peak of Tidore +across the water had athwart its cone a cloud which +was as bright as an impaled moon. I saw no reason +why this earth should not be a good place for us, +and, thanking my fortune, idled along that lane +till I saw another house, set back among hibiscus. +It was a Malay home, but larger and better than is +usual, for it had more timber in it. Along the front +of the verandah was a board with a legend in Malay, +the Communist Party of India. This confused +me, so I strolled in to look closer, and saw hanging +within the verandah portraits of Lenin, Trotsky, +and Radek; there were others, though I was not +communist enough to recognise them; but there +they were in my lonely tropical garden, isolated by +those gulfs of light and space from Moscow. The +Dutch Resident, on hearing later of my extraordinary +discovery, merely shot out his lower lip and +spread his hands. Why yes, those little meeting +houses were all over the East Indies. Such places, +as well as the cinematograph.</p> + +<p>It is possible that that little fact, as a minor +incident of travel, even if it is unknown to Mr. +Whitaker, yet may qualify in its own time a number +of those facts which are quite well-known to +him and to us.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> +<p>When we are gazing about us in a strange land +it is not easy to distinguish what is of importance +from what is of no account. You can never tell +whether the words of deepest significance are whispered +at Government House or in some low haunt +near the docks. It is a matter of luck. Time will +show. In any case, even if you feel sure you have +been vouchsafed a peep into the Book of Doom, +and there saw, in the veritable script of an archangel, +what you are at once anxious to announce to +your fellows for their good, you may save yourself +the trouble. If it is not already known, nobody +will bother. There is precious little information of +importance in the newspapers that has not been +long matured in the wood. It is already as old as +sin before the man in the street, poor fellow, gapes +at it as news.</p> + +<p>It may be possible that the hunters of big game +miss much while looking for lions, though their +thrilling adventures naturally attract most of our +attention. And how their records surprise into +envy those shy travellers who think lions are quite +all right as they are and where they are! The luck +of some well-provided travellers is astonishing. +They are never bored. They are never still. Only +recently I was reading the book of a traveller back +from the wilds, whose time had been occupied, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>while away, in leaping into the jaws of death and +out again, which most of us would have found very +trying in that heat. Some exercise is good for us, +even in the tropics, but cutting that caper too often +might do a man serious harm. That equatorial +journey appears to have been a long series of frantic +but jolly leaps from one threat of extinction to +another—the crocodiles, lethal floods, gigantic fish, +venomous snakes, and unarmed savages, were +everywhere. It was a land where you have to wear +top-boots to keep off the anacondas, as one might +wear a steel helmet when meteors are about. But +such a story is not so surprising as the serious delight +with which it is received on publication, and +perhaps with entire belief in its ordinary character +for a land of that sort. I well understand it; for I +can guess from the eager questions that have been +put to me about the ubiquity of leopards by night, +the serpents which festoon the forest, and the other +noticeable wayside affairs of the wilderness, what +could be done with a cheerful and fertile fancifulness. +It would never do to disclose the plain truth, +which is that one can grow as weary of the sameness +of Borneo as of that of Islington. I know of +one intrepid sojourner on far beaches, a novelist, +who fascinates a multitude of readers with livid and +staccato fiction in which figure island princesses +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>whose breasts are dangerous with hidden daggers. +Head-hunters and dissolute whites move there in a +darkness which means Winchesters, but no sleep; +even the intense beauty of those beaches is so like +evil that only reckless men could face it. Yet in +reality those islands are as placid as though laved +by the waters of the Serpentine. A migration from +Piccadilly to their shores would make the lovely +but tigrish princesses show for what they are, no +more dangerous than the young ladies peeling the +potatoes at Cadby Hall. Indeed, their bold chronicler, +who stimulates feverish longing in the dreary +lassitude of England’s wage earners with a violent +drug distilled from the beach refuse of that distant +archipelago, does most of his work in the bed of a +rest-house, which is never approached by a danger +worse than a falling coconut.</p> + +<p>It seems possible for a romanticist, if he is cynical +enough, and if he injects his stimulant with a +syringe of about the measure of a foot-pump, to +have a nice success with those who suffer from the +speed and distraction of our homeland; for though +the sufferers will take any stimulant, yet their +nerves respond to very little that is not as coarse as +a weed-killer. This should not be regretted. It +would be dismal, indeed, if they were completely +insensitive. The high speed of our weeks driven +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span>by machinery, the clangour of engines, crime, and +politics, the fear which never leaves the poor victims, +for they have been parted from the quiet +earth which gives shelter and food, have depraved +their bodies and starved their natural appetites. It +is a wonder that they feel anything, or care for anything. +They are left with but a vague yearning +for some life, for any life different from their own; +but they are so far gone that they cannot conceive +that it might be a life of peace and goodwill. Their +very sunrises must be bloody, like their familiar +news, or they would not know it for the dayspring; +yet the full measure of their fall from grace, which +only an alienist could rightly gauge, is that they +are not satisfied with a dusky bosom unless it conceals +a knife.</p> + +<p>But when you are out in these barbarous lands +you find that princesses, unluckily, are even less +noticeable than the leopards, and when seen are less +beautiful. They do not wear knives in their bosoms +for the same reason that other charmers dispense +with them. Indeed, there is no end to the difference +between what you have been led to expect in a +place, and what is there. Compare the reality of a +tropical forest with its popular picture. That popular +notion of it did not grow in the tropics, but in +the pages of imaginative fiction and poetry. Truth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span>may be stranger than fiction, but it is not so easy to +read. One may see more orchids in Kew Gardens +in a day than in a year of the tropical woods. If +the Garden of Eden had been anything like the +Amazon jungle, then our first parents would never +have been evicted; they would have moved fairly +soon on their own account, without giving notice. +A few coloured snakes, on some days, would break +the brooding monotony of that forest. They are, +however, rarely seen. The animals of these fastnesses +seldom show themselves. When they do, it +is done inadvertently, and they are off at once. If +you meet a tiger when on a ramble by daylight, +you may consider yourself lucky if his sudden departure +gives you two seconds of him before he is +gone for ever. After dark, of course, you would +take care that he could not meet you alone, for that +place is not yours after sunset, and he knows it.</p> + +<p>Tigers, snakes, lovely but malignant nymphs, +and head-hunters, are not the dangers. What kills +men in the outer wilderness is anxiety, undernourishment, +and mosquitoes. The mosquito, the +little carrier of malaria, is a more exacting enemy +of the adventurer than the harpies and dragons of +the fairy tales ever were to knights-errant. He is +worse than all the cannibal tribes. Head-hunters, +it must be confessed, are far better for conveying +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>liveliness to the pages of a travel book, if it is to be +worth the great price usually charged for it. +Naturally, a reader wants his money’s worth. A +mosquito will not go far, if you are an author, and +are writing high romance. When, however, you +are dealing personally with the realities of the +Congo, you will discover a tendency to feel more +concern over the small flies which carry fevers and +sleeping sickness than for all the lions and cannibals +in Africa. A statue to St. George killing a +mosquito instead of a dragon would look ridiculous. +But it was lucky for the saint he had only a +dragon to overcome.</p> + +<p>Now the travellers who accompany cinema operators +to the outer dangers are always careful to +explain to their eager interviewers, for the lucrative +object of a publicity as wide as it can be got, +the horrific perils of human flesh-pots, poisoned arrows, +giant reptiles, and the other theatrical properties +which are recognised instantly by everybody +with the requisite awe. On the other hand, we +learn from the Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine +that the young men who go to Africa to hunt +down that elusive creature the trypanosome of +sleeping sickness, venture out unannounced, though +they have spent years, and not weeks, in preparing +themselves for their perilous quest. They go unannounced, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>are granted but £100 a year as a reward, +and return—if they have that luck—less +recognisable than the firemen of their ships; for +the very firemen, as we know, have been the subject +of happy verse. Yet compared with the skill and +enterprise and courage needed for the hunting of +that trypanosome, the killing of lions is no more +than the handing of milk to kittens. The threats and +terrors of the mythologies, the cynocephali, anthropophagi, +gorgons, and krakens, were but coarse +grimaces to the premonition which would make a +modern traveller scuttle home, if he allowed it to +numb his heart when he is alone, and hungry and +fatigued, in the place where the tiny harbingers of +fevers and dissolution are at their liveliest. St. +George, with all the sacred incantations of the +Church, could not fight such a dragon. But there +the difficulty is. It cannot be made into a dramatic +picture. It is merely an invisible presence, a haunting +diffusion, like doom itself. It cannot be fought. +There can be no heroics. There can be no escape. +It is one with the sly hush of the wilderness.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">V</p> + +<p>A friend who lives on Long Island says in a +letter: “A tall Cunarder putting out to sea gives +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>me a keener thrill than anything the Polo Grounds +or the Metropolitan Opera can show.” No doubt; +for he is not a sailor but a man of letters. It is +proper that to him the sight of a distant ship, outward +bound, should be more appealing than anything +he would see at the Opera House. He knows +those operas, which are like nothing on earth +except operas; but the tall ship, as he calls it, standing +out into windy space, rarefied by overwhelming +light, to him is Argo; but to a sailor Argo is a legend +and nothing on earth, for he is moved by that +sort of thing only when he sees it in opera. The +ship may look as unsubstantial and legendary as +she likes; she may, because she is outward bound, +suggest to a man of letters the happy release he will +never get from all his contracts with publishers and +house-agents; but she is as hard, and is conditioned +by as much that is inexorable, as a money-lender’s +mortgage.</p> + +<p>But what a poster an artist can make of her! +No artist, however gifted, could do that with a publisher’s +contract or a mortgage. So a ship, after all, +whatever nautical and engineering science may +do with her, aided by the tastes and habits of millionaires, +and the rules and regulations of many +committees of exacting experts, must be a symbol +which still suggests to men in bondage an undiscovered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>golden shore, or fleece, of which they will +continue to dream, as they dream irrationally of +peace while never ceasing to fashion war.</p> + +<p>So long as men who must stay ashore are thrilled +when they see a liner going out, or do no more on +a half-holiday than idle about the docks and speculate +around the queer foreign names and ports of +registry that show on steamers’ counters, or sit on +a beach and throw stones into the water, we may +still hope to change the ugly look of things. There +is precious little sustenance of hope in whatever +keeps us industrious, but there is a chance for us +whenever we cease work and sink into idle stargazing.</p> + +<p>Stuck on a corner of the morning railway station, +where we cannot miss it though usually we have not +the time to stop and look at it, is a large poster +inviting us to See the Midnight Sun. It shows a +liner, and she is heading towards an Arctic glory +as bright as any boy’s dream of a great achievement. +But it is not stuck there for boys to look at +it, though they do. It is meant for those who have +been so practical and level-headed in a longish life +that they can afford a yachting cruise to the Arctic +Circle. Doubtless, therefore, they make those +cruises. I can account for that poster in no other +way. It is one of the strangest and most significant +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span>facts in industrial society. All very well for some +of us to read—wasting time as wantonly as if we +had a dozen lives to play with—every volume on +Arctic travel we can reach, knowing as we read +that we shall never even cross the Pentland Firth.</p> + +<p>But that station poster is addressed to those who +are supposed never to dream, for they have attained +to Threadneedle Street. What do they want with +the Midnight Sun? Haven’t they got the “Morning +Post”? But there you are. Even now they +feel they have missed something, and whatever it +is they will go to the Arctic to look for it. Cannot +they find it in Threadneedle Street? Apparently +not. That poster on a suburban station, though I +cannot afford to miss the train to examine it for +useful details, is like a faint promising hail from a +time not yet come. Man is still in his early youth. +He may come back from an Arctic holiday some +day, or a recreation in China, push over Threadneedle +Street with a laugh, and begin anew.</p> + +<p>Men of letters who gaze longingly after departing +ships, and men of business who are in those +ships without the excuse of business, are proof +enough that their many inventions, so far, have not +got them what they wanted. For London is not +quite the loveliness we meant to make it, and we +know it. The ruthless place dismays us. In our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>repulsion from it we say it ought to be called Dementia, +and invent golf and the week-end cottage +to revive the soul it deadens without recompense. +All to no purpose. There is nothing for it but to +destroy London and rebuild it nearer to the heart’s +desire or else to escape from it, if we can; though +no guarding dragon of a grim prison was ever +such a sleepless, cunning, and ugly-tempered brute +as the machine we have made with our own hands. +No wonder it pays to decorate the walls of the +capital with romantic but seditious pictures of +palms, midnight suns, coasts of illusion and ships +outward bound. Nothing could so plainly indicate +our revolt from the affairs we must somehow +pretend to venerate.</p> + +<p>It is not the sea itself, not all that salt water, +which we find attractive. Most of us, I suppose, +are a little nervous of the sea. No matter what its +smiles may be like, we doubt its friendliness. It is +about as friendly as the volcano which is benign +because it does not feel like blowing up. What +draws us to the sea is the light over it. Try listening, +in perfect safety, to combers breaking among +the reefs on a dark night, and then say whether you +enjoy the voice of great waters. No, it is the +wonder of light without bounds which draws us to +the docks to overcome the distractions and discomforts +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>of departure. We see there is wide freedom +in the world, after all, if only we had the will to +take it. And unfailingly we make strange landfalls +during an escape, coasts of illusion if you like, +and under incredible skies, but sufficient to shake +our old conviction of those realities we had supposed +we were obliged to accept. There are other +worlds.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VI</p> + +<p>My journeys have all been the fault of books, +though Lamb would never have called them that. +They were volumes which were a substitute for +literature when the season was dry. A reader once +complained to me, and with justice, that as a literary +feuilletonist I betrayed no pure literary predilections. +“You never devote your page,” he said +fretfully, “to the influence of the Pleiades. You +never refer to 18th century literature. You never +look back on names familiar to all who read Latin. +What is interesting to truly curious and bookish +people might not exist for you. I wonder, for example, +if Nahum Tate were mentioned in a conversation, +whether you would be able to say what it +meant.”</p> + +<p>Well, not exactly that. I fear my readiness for +the challenge would not pass the test. All that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>would happen to me would be a recollection of +white walls, bright but severe, on which are scattered +black memorial tablets, one of them with a +ship over it carved in alabaster. An interior as +cool and quiet as a mausoleum. There are shadows +moving on the luminous white; June trees are murmuring +outside. There is a smell of clothes preserved +till Sunday in camphor and in sandalwood +boxes. A big venerable man is perched high in a +rich and glowing mahogany box, whose lifted chin, +jutting saliently from white sideboard whiskers, +has a dent in its centre; he is talking, with his eyes +shut, to one he calls Gard, and I listen to him with +deep interest, for once that old man served with +John Company, which to a minor figure in his congregation +seems miraculous. Then we all stand, +and sing the words of a poet strangely named Tate +& Brady. Would anyone wish me to quote the +words, in proof? Certainly not. There is no need. +When we come out of that building there is a stone +awry on the grass by the door, commemorating one +who was a “Master-Mariner, of Plymouth,” and a +verse can be just deciphered on it, which reads:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">The storms all weathered and the ocean crost,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Sinks into port in some well-favoured isle,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Where billows never roar, and brighter seasons smile.</div></div> +</div></div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> +<p>The learned literary critics may be as wise as they +please, but there is no undoing the early circumstances +which have made some names in literature +of significance to us, and have put other names, perhaps +even greater, forever in the dark. Our +literary predilections were cast at our birth. So +much depends, too, on where we heard a name first, +and what was about the book when we read it. +That is the reason why my correspondent’s letter +is not irrelevant here, for it caught me out. It gave +away the game. It showed me that I could never +be a critic of letters. When his complaint came to +me, some books for review were beside me. But +what was I doing? Sitting in the shade, looking +absently at a dazzling summer afternoon just beyond +the chair, for I had just read with close attention +this fragment in English:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>From three to nine miles north-eastward of the northern +part of Sangi is a group of islands named Nipa, Bukit, Poa, +and Liang, respectively, and about nine miles farther eastward +is a chain of six islets and two detached reefs, which +extend about nine miles in a north-northeast and opposite +directions. From Inis islet, the southernmost of this chain, a +reef of rocks extends some distance southward, and it should +be given a good berth. All the above islets are covered with +coconut trees, but very little is known about them.</p> +</div> + +<p>Then there followed, for over three hundred +closely printed pages, references to many outlandish +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>names, probably occult, such as Busu Busu +(“good drinking water may be obtained from a +spring at the foot of the hill behind the missionary’s +house”), Berri Berri Road, Rau Strait (“it has not +been surveyed and is dangerous”), Tanjong Salawai, +Pulo Gunong Api (I know enough to say that +that means the island of the mountain of fire), Gisi +and Pakal, Ceram Laut (“is high and hilly, and +had on it, in 1898, a remarkable tree, 428 feet over +the sea, which makes a good mark”), Suruake of +the Goram Islands (“the inhabitants are quarrelsome +and warlike ... anchorage off Wiseleat village, +on the north side, in 24 fathoms, at over one +mile from the shore and 130 yards from the steep +to reef, with a hawser to the latter to prevent driving”). +I had been idling with that book, with the +work of the latest enterprising novelists waiting +beside me for my immediate attention, all the morning, +and still could not let it go. Then came the +querulous letter pointing out my indifference to the +English literature of the 18th century; which in +one respect was unjust, for if once I got going on +Gulliver I might soon be in prison for sedition. +Yet the rebuke was well merited. I would sooner +read any volume of Directions for Pilots than the +Latin poets. (And I should like to ask whether +Ceram Laut has not been sighted since 1898). On +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>the whole, I would much rather sit in a cabin of a +ship which had just made fast again, and listen to +the men who had brought her home, than read the +best modern fiction. I should feel nearer to the +centre of life. Never mind the name of the book +which had made that a finer day for me. You will +not find it in the circulating libraries; but it has an +official rote, initialled, and is guaranteed by the +Hydrographic Office, Admiralty; so there must be +something in it. The volume, in fact, is mysterious +only in the queer effect it has upon me. I dare not +commend it for general reading, but I myself would +sooner peruse it than the essays of Addison because +I get more out of it. I should like to describe, in +some detail, the place where I bought it, the man +who sold it to me, what he said about it, and the +seclusions of the Java and Arafura Seas where, far +from all contact with English literature, I afterwards +examined it. One sunrise, by the aid of this +very book, I knew what I saw ahead on the horizon +was Pulo Gunong Api.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VII</p> + +<p>Someone stumbled down the bridge ladder for +which I was making. I could see nothing, but I +heard the voice of the chief mate. He was annoyed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>with himself. Since nightfall our steamer had been +without body, except the place where one stood. +With a steady look it was just possible to find faith +in the substance of the alleyway where the two of +us paused to gossip, for its white paint might have +been the adherence to the ship of the faintest trace +of the day which had gone. Somewhere ahead of +us a promontory of Africa reached almost to our +course. Our course was laid just to miss it. We +were keeping watch for its light. But if the void +at the world’s end had been under our prow we +should not have known it. It was a dark night. +An iron door in the alleyway clanged open with an +explosion of light. The light projected solidly +overside, with an Arab fireman brightly encased in +it, who was emptying sacks of ash.</p> + +<p>Before daybreak the roar of our cable woke me. +When I peered through the cabin port I thought +we had anchored in the midst of a cluster of stars. +That was Oran. I should see Africa in the morning. +When we left Barry Dock with coal the +weather was like the punishment for sin; but tomorrow +we should see a white town in the sun, the +descendants of the Salee rovers, and Africa—Africa +for the first time.</p> + +<p>Those first impressions! Quite often our first +impression of a place is also our last, and it depends +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>solely upon the weather and the food. This is not +doing justice to the world. We shall never learn +enough to do justice to our world unless there is +something in this talk of transmigration and metamorphosis. +I might, for instance, have written +down Oran as a mere continuation of the coast of +Wales, because next morning the captain and I +landed at a jetty, wearing oilskins. This was +Africa’s coral strand—how quaint it is, the way +the romantic use the facts!—and the grandchildren +of the Sallee rovers were carrying coal in baskets, +from which black liquid poured down their bodies. +To judge by their appearance of bowed and complete +submission, every drop of pirate blood had +been washed out of them long ago.</p> + +<p>There might have been mountains behind the +town, though it was hard to see them. Something +seemed to be there, but it was thin and smeared. +Africa, so far as I could see it that morning, was +the office of a shipping agent, where we gossiped of +steamers and men we knew, looked at maps on the +walls, and wondered what the agent’s fading photographs +represented. Then we caught an electric +tram, which took us to an hotel in a French town, +a town well-ordered and righteously commercial, +and garrisoned by French soldiers in cherry-colored +bloomers; for this was years ago. The bedroom +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>had a tiled floor, but no fireplace, because the house +was built on the theory that we were in Africa, and +by getting under a red bale of eiderdown one managed +to keep from perishing.</p> + +<p>Well, Oran chose to show itself the next morning. +You could see then that Wales was very far +to the north. Winter, perhaps, had found out in +the night that it was in the wrong place. It had +gone home. It was not worth while returning to +the ship, so I stayed ashore.</p> + +<p>The best moments of a traveller are not likely to +be divined from the list of the ship’s ports of call. +They are inconsequential. It is no good looking +for them. They do not seem to be native to any +particular spot on earth. They have no relation to +the chart. It is impossible to define every one of +their elements, and, worse luck, they are not rewards +for endurance and patience. You do not go +to them. They surprise you as you pass. Nor +should they serve as material for travel narrative +unless you would make your report delusive, for +they have no geographical bearings. Nobody is +likely to find them again. It is no good talking +about them. Yet without them travel would be +worse than the job of the urban dust collector. +The wind bloweth where it listeth, and there is no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>telling how and in what place the happy incidence +of light and understanding will come.</p> + +<p>Last summer, when walking through a sunken +Dorsetshire lane, there was the ghost of an odour I +knew, though I could not name it; and at that moment +I began to think of a man I met in France +early in the war. I climbed the bank to see what +was growing above. Bean flowers! Any survivor +of the First Hundred Thousand will remember that +odour while he lives. The memory of Hesketh +Prichard and the smell of bean flowers make for +me the same apparition: the white bones of Ypres +in the first June of it. Smell is likely to have much +to do with a first impression. The Somme battleground, +once you were under its threat, I think, +was raw marl and smoking rubbish. It doesn’t do, +to-day, to walk unexpectedly into the whiff of a +place where old rubbish is mouldering in a field on +a moist day, not if you are with friends; they may +think you are mad; they would not be far wrong, +either.</p> + +<p>Yes, smell has a lot to do with it. It recalls what +the eye registered, put away, and forgot. I shall +never forget my first voyage, not while steam tractors +are allowed to poison and destroy the streets +of London. The gust of hot grease from one of +them, as it thunders past, pictures for me what +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>could be seen of the North Sea (December, too!) +from the companion hatch of a trawler; a world +black and ghast upset out of the sunrise and running +down to founder us. The breath of the +engine-room puffed up the hatch as she rolled. She +had an over-heated bearing somewhere, for the engines +had been racing all night; it had been one of +those nights at sea. The coaming of the hatch was +wet and cold, and the hard wind tasted of iron and +salt. The steward was knocking about the coffee +cups at the foot of the ladder; but I did not +want any. For some unreasonable cause now I +do not object to the greasy smell and thunder of +steam tractors.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VIII</p> + +<p>There should be no itinerary but the course of +things. The plan of a journey is made to be +broken. Only famous travellers who make daring +flights by air to remote coasts to provide aeroplane +builders, or manufacturers of synthetic nourishment, +with bold advertisements, ever dare to say +when we may watch for their return. Let us never +challenge the gods, who do not exist, as to-day +we all know, yet who may grow peevish if we not +only deny their existence, but behave with arrogance, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>as though to show them that superior man +has taken their place.</p> + +<p>Reason was only given to us that we might comfort +ourselves with it. I remember the smoke-room +of a steamer, which was almost deserted, for it was +near midnight. Three fellow passengers sat near +me, and they were estimating the hour of our arrival +in the morning. Their discourse was leisurely and +casual, but they were confident; they knew; and +with the elaborate and solid worth of that saloon +to accommodate even our tobacco smoke, what +doubt could there be about human judgments? As +to our arrival, we could tell you within about fifteen +minutes. I think my fellow-travellers were men of +commerce, for they were familiar with the habits +of our line and of many other lines; they could +judge the hour when we should be home; and they +were assured that to relieve humankind of poverty +and war would be to invite God’s punishment for +unfaithfulness. Then they emptied their glasses +and left the place to me and a huge American negro +pugilist, who had a fur-lined overcoat and many +diamonds, and who spoke to the steward as a gruff +man would to a dog.</p> + +<p>Our steamer gave the assurance of that astronomical +certitude which is inherent in great and impersonal +affairs. She held on immensely and with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>celerity. Sometimes, when one of the screws came +out of the water, a loose metal ash-tray on the table +forgot itself, became alive and danced, like an +escape of the amusement felt by the ship over some +secret knowledge she had; hilarity she at once suppressed. +The ash-tray became still and apparently +ashamed of what it had done. The slow rolling of +the steamer was only the maintenance of her poise +in a wonderful speed. If your head leaned against +the woodwork you could hear the profound murmuring +of her energy. We were doing well. No +doubt the men who had just gone out were right—at +least, about the time of our arrival.</p> + +<p>Outside, the promenade deck was vacant. Most +of its lights were out. The portal to the room which +accommodated our tobacco pipes announced itself +to the darkness with a bright red bulb and black +lettering. There was an infinity of night. One +could not see far into it, but it poured over us in +an unending flood. The red bulb seemed rather +small after all. There was no sea. There was only +an occasional sound and an illusion of fleeting +spectres. Going down the muffled stairway to my +cabin I met my steward. He warned me that we +should be in by seven o’clock. The corridor below +was silent, its doors all shut, and another steward +was at the end of the empty lane, contemplative, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>reposeful, the unnecessary watchman of a secure +city. The accustomed sounds of the ship, far away +and subdued, were the earnest of an inevitable +routine and predestination. Almost home now! I +switched off the light; began planning the morrow +into a well-earned holiday.... And then someone +was shaking me with insistence. It was only the +steward. The electric light was bright in my eyes.</p> + +<p>“Not six yet, surely?”</p> + +<p>“Not quite four, sir. But there’s not enough +water for her to get in. Better get up now. A tug +is expected.”</p> + +<p>Here we were then. The engines had done their +work. They had stopped. Though it was so early, +I could hear people constantly passing along the +corridor, and not with their usual leisure. Fussy +folk! Plenty of time to shave and put things away! +No need to hurry when this was the end of it.</p> + +<p>On deck it was still dark. Nothing could be +heard but the running of the tide along the body of +our stationary ship. The note of the water was +pitched curiously high. It was something like the +sound of a tide running out quickly over shallows. +An officer hurried through a loose group of passengers, +politely disengaging himself from their +inquiries, and vanished into the darkness of the +after-deck. There were only a few lights. They +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>seemed to be irrelevant. Only odd fragments of the +ship could be seen. She was but a lump, and was +doing nothing, and her people wandered about her +busily but without aim. I could hear an officer’s +voice loudly directing some business by the poop; +there was that sound, and the thin hissing of a +steam-pipe.</p> + +<p>A big man in an ulster, whom I recognised as one +of the fellows who, the night before, had decided at +what hour we should arrive, began telling me +rapidly how necessary it was for him to catch some +train “absolutely without fail.” I think he said he +had an important engagement. I was not listening +to him very intently. The ship was aground.</p> + +<p>But he did not appear to know it. Like the other +passengers, he moved to and fro, all ready to start +for home, within a few paces of his suit-case. These +people waited in confident groups for the tender, +guarding their possessions. Some of them were +annoyed because the tender was dilatory.</p> + +<p>There was no sign of any tender. Beyond us +was only the murmuring of the running waters, and +the darkness. Through the night a distant sea-lamp +stared at us so intently that it winked but once +a minute. Its eye slowly closed then, as if tired, +but at once became fixed and intent again.</p> + +<p>I was leaning over the port side, and the port +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span>side was leaning, too. She had a decided list. A +seaman came near me and dropped the lead overside. +He gave the result to someone behind me, +and I turned. Two fathoms! The mate grinned +and left us.</p> + +<p>The darkness, as we waited for the tender which +did not come, was thinned gradually by light from +nowhere. I could now see the creature with one +yellow eye. It was a skeleton standing in the sea +on many legs. Some leaden clouds formed on the +roof of night. The waters expanded. Low in the +east, where the dawn was a pale streak, as if day +had got a bright wedge into the bulk of chaos, was +the minute black serration of a town. The guardian +lamp at sea grew longer legs as the water fell, +and when at last the sun looked at us the skeleton +was standing on wide yellow sands. The ship was +heeling over considerably now, for she was on the +edge of the sands; the engineers put over a ladder +and went to look at the propellers.</p> + +<p>It was hours past the time of our arrival. There +was no tender. There was no water. The distant +town was indifferent. It made no sign. Perhaps +it did not know we were there. The lady passengers, +careless of their appearance, slept in deck +chairs, grey and unkempt. The man who had to +be in London before noon “without fail” was also +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span>asleep, and his children were playing about a coil +of rope with a kitten.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">IX</p> + +<p>My first attempt to read at sea was a dreary +failure. Yet how I desired a way to salvation. We +were over the Dogger Bank. It was mid-winter. +It was my first experience of deep water. A sailor +would not call fifteen fathoms deep water; I know +that now; yet if you suppose the North Sea is not +the real thing when your ship is a trawler, and the +time is Christmas, then do not go to find out. Do +not look for the pleasure of travel in that form.</p> + +<p>That morning, hanging to the guide rope of a +perpendicular ladder, and twice thrown off to +dangle free in a ship which seemed to be turning +over, I mounted to watch the coming of the sun. +It was a moment of stark revelation, and I was +shocked by it. I could see I was alone with my +planet. We faced each other. The size of my own +globe—the coldness of its grandeur—the ease with +which swinging shadows lifted us out of a lower +twilight to glimpse the dawn, an arc of sun across +whose bright face black shapes were moving, and +then plunged us into gloom again—its daunting indifference! +Where was God? No friend was there. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>There were ourselves and luck. That night a great +gale blew.</p> + +<p>So I tried Omar Khayyam, which was an act of +folly. I could not resign myself even to the ship’s +Bible, the only other book aboard. Printed matter +is unnecessary when life is acutely conscious +of itself, and is aware, without the nudge of poetry, +of its fragility and briefness. I tried to read the +Christmas number of a magazine, but that was +worse than noughts and crosses. “You come into +the wheel-house,” said the mate, “and stand the +middle watch with me. It’s all right when you face +it.” In the still seclusion of the wheel-house after +midnight, where the sharpest sound was the occasional +abrupt clatter of the rudder chains in their +pipes, where the loosened stars shot across the windows +and back again, where the faint glow of the +binnacle lamp showed, for me, but my companion’s +priestly face, and where chaos occasionally hissed +and crashed on our walls, I found what books could +not give me. The mate sometimes mumbled, or +put his face close to the glass to peer ahead. They +had a youngster one voyage, he told me, who was +put aboard another trawler going home. The +youngster was ill. That night it blew like hell out +of the north-west. In the morning, so the hands +advised the mate, “the youngster’s bunk had been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span>slept in, so they said the other trawler would never +get to port, and she didn’t.” I listened to the mate, +and the sweep of the waves. The ship trembled +when we were struck. But it seemed to me that all +was well, though I don’t know why. What has +reason to do with it? Is the sea rational?</p> + +<p>After that voyage there were others, and sometimes +a desert of time to give to books. Yet if to-night +we were crossing the Bay, going out, and she +was a wet ship, I should have a dim reminder of the +sensations of my first voyage, and much prefer the +voice of a shipmate to a book. The books then +would not be out of the trunk. They would do well +where they were, for a time. The first week, uncertain +and strange, the ship unfamiliar and not at +all like the good ships you used to know so well; +her company not yet a community, and the old man +annoyed with his owners, his men, his coal, and his +mistaken choice of a profession—the first week +never sees the barometer set fair for reading. Some +minds indeed will never hold tight to a book when +at sea. Mine will not. What is literature when +you have a trade wind behind you? I have tried a +classical author then, but it was easier to keep the +eye on the quivering light from the seas reflected +on the bright wall of my cabin. It might have been +the very spirit of life dancing in my own little +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>place. It was joyous. It danced lightly till I was +hypnotised, and slept in full repose on a certitude +of the virtue of the world.</p> + +<p>But recently there was an attempt, the time +being spring, to cut out the dead books from my +shelves, the books in which there was no longer any +sign of life. Then I took that classical author, rejected +one memorable voyage, and looked at his +covers. When he was on the ship with me I found +him meagre and incommunicative. Something has +happened to him in the meantime, however. He is +all right now. His covers, I notice, have been +nibbled by exotic cockroaches, and their cryptic +message adds a value to the classic which I find new +and good. Scattered on the floor, too, I see a number +of guide books. They are soiled. They are +ragged. Their maps are hanging out. When I +really needed them I was shy of being seen in their +company, and they were left in the ship’s cabin during +the day, or in the hotel bedroom. The maps +and plans were studied. Sometimes they were torn +out of a book and pocketed; I could never find the +courage to walk about Rome or Palermo with a +Baedeker. It always seemed to me like the wearing +of a little Union Jack or the Stars and Stripes +on the coat collar.</p> + +<p>Those guide books were more interesting on the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>wet days of a journey, when it was impossible, or +undesirable, to go roaming. They were full of +descriptions of those things one must on no account +overlook when in a country. Yet in the fine morning +after a wet day, when I went out without a +guide book, the little living peculiarities of the +town, which the book had not even mentioned—because +everybody ought to be aware of them, of +course—were so remarkable that the place where +Ariadne was turned into a fountain, and where +Aphrodite tried to seduce another handsome young +mortal, were forgotten.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="p0561_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p0561_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>I met a cheerful goatherd.</i> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>So once, when hunting near Syracuse for “the +famous <i>Latonie</i>, or stone quarries, in certain of +which the Athenian prisoners were confined,” and +several of whom were spared, so the book said, because +they could repeat choruses of Euripides, I +met a cheerful goatherd, an old man, with a newly +fallen kid under his arm, who told me, in an American +language so modern that I hardly knew it, that +he used to sell peanuts in Chicago. He did not repeat +choruses from Euripides, but even the great +dramatist, I am sure, would have been surprised by +the fables of the peanut merchant. I forgot the +quarries, while listening to them. The fabulist and +I sat with our backs against a boulder over which +leaned an olive tree. The goats stood around, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>stared at us; and not, I believe, without some understanding +of their master’s stories.</p> + +<p>I am reminded of this because a map of southeastern +Sicily is hanging out of a book, the banner +of a red-letter day. I rescued the volume from the +mass of discarded lumber, and found that inside +the cover of the book I had drawn a plan of the +harbour of Tunis. Why? I’ve forgotten the reason. +But I remember Tunis, for I had been drawn +thither by this very book, which had said that nobody +should leave the Mediterranean without seeing +Tunis. There it was, one day. From the deck +of my French ship I saw electric trams and the +familiar <i>hôtels des étrangers</i>. A galley with pirates +at its sweeps was pulling almost alongside us, and +desperately I hailed it, threw in my bag, and directed +them to take me to a steamer flying the +Italian flag, for that steamer, clearly enough, was +leaving Tunis at once. That was the ship for me. +There was some difficulty with the dark ruffians +who manned the galley, who followed me aboard +the steamer. There they closed round me, a motley +and savage crew. They demanded gold in some +quantity, and with menacing flourishes, shattering +voices, and hot eager eyes. Their leader was a huge +negro in a white robe and a turban, whose expressive +gargoyle, with a loose red gash across its +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>lower part, had been pitted by smallpox. I did +not like the look of him. He towered over me, and +leaned down to bring his ferocity closer to my face. +Some Italian sailors stopped to watch the scene, +and I thought they were pitying this Englishman. +But the latter was weary of Roman ruins, of hotels, +of other thoughtful provision for strangers surprising +in its open and obvious accessibility, and of +guides and thieves—especially of thieves, shameless, +insatiable, and arrogant in their demands for +doing nothing whatever. At first he had paid them, +for he was a weak and silly stranger who did not +know the land; but now, sick of it all, he turned +wearily on that black and threatening gargoyle +while it was still in full spate of Arabic, shook his +fist at it, and cried suddenly what chief mates bawl +when things are in a desperate plight and constraint +is useless. To his astonishment and relief the negro +stepped back, turned to his crew and said to them +sadly, in plain English, “Come on, it’s no bloody +good.” The gang left that ship as modestly as +carol singers who find they have been chanting +“Christians Awake” to an empty house. Now, evidently +guide books cannot lead you to such pleasing +interludes, and may even beguile you away +from them. I mean that books cannot guide you to +those best rewards for travel, unless, of course, they +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span>are old and stained. They are full then of interesting +addenda of which their editors know nothing, +and of symbols with an import only one traveller +may read. So when the days come in which, as +guide books, they will not be wanted, you may read +in them what is not there. This very guide book to +the Mediterranean, for example, under the heading +of “Oran,” describes it as “the capital of a province, +military division, 60,000 inhabitants. It is not +certain that Oran existed in the time of the Romans.” +Some people would like us to believe that +no place on earth can be of much interest unless +the Romans once flattened it into meekness. But +we have heard far too much of these Romans. They +bore us. To-day we call them captains of industry +and company promoters. Oran, or what I could +see of it in the dark when we arrived, was as rich +in promise as though it were thoroughly impeded +with classical ruins. There were lights that were +a concourse of planets, and as I lay reading in my +bunk the ship was so quiet that you could hear the +paint crack on a bulkhead rivet. I was reading this +very guide book then, and it told me that beyond +those calm and mysterious planets were Tlemçen, +and Ein Sefra, “an oasis 1,110 metres above the +sea level belonging to the Duled Sidi Sheikh. Here +one catches a glimpse of the Algerian desert, which +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span>is the fringe of the Great Sahara.” I caught that +glimpse, too, the next week.</p> + +<p>These guide books, when you are home again, +are as good as great literature. There, for another +instance, is Baedeker’s “Switzerland.” Now the +truth is, that book, bought for the first journey to +the Alps, was among the things I forgot to pack. +It was never missed. It is only to-day that we find +it is indispensable. For it was bought in the winter +of 1913. Again it was night, when we arrived. A +sleigh met us, and took us noiselessly into the +vaguely white unknown. Pontresina is a good +name. In the morning there were the shutters of +a bedroom to be opened, and a child who was with +me gazed with wide eyes when the morning light +discovered to him a field of ice poised ethereally on +clouds, though the night had not gone from the valley +below us; above the ice was a tincture of rose on +far peaks. Is it likely that he will forget it? Or +I? In any case, there is a diorama of those peaks +in our guide book, and what rosy light is absent +from that picture we can give to it.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">X</p> + +<p>Mayne Reid once persuaded us that to have a +full life we should kill grizzly bears, bison and Indians. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span>We were so sure he was right that school +and work in London were then the proof of our +reduction to pallor in servitude. We have been, +since then, near enough to a bison to try it with a +biscuit, but have never seen the smoke of a wigwam +even in the distance. There remains with us a faint +hope that a day will come when we shall see that +smoke, for such a name as Athabasca is still in the +world of the topless towers of Ilium; but some records +of modern hunters of big game, published +exultingly, have cured us of an old affliction of the +mind. So far as we are concerned the lives of lions +and bears are secure.</p> + +<p>We now open a new volume on sport with an +antipathy increased to a repugnance we never felt +for Pawnees, through the reading of a recent narrative +by an American writer, who had been collecting +in Africa for a museum. He confessed that if +he had not been a scientist he would have felt remorse +when he saw the infant still clinging to the +breast of its mother, a gorilla, whom he had just +murdered; so he shot the infant, without remorse, +because he was acting scientifically. As a corpse, +the child added to the value of its dead mother; a +nice group. That tableau, at that moment when the +job was neatly finished, must have looked rather +like good luck when collecting types in a foreign +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>slum. He must have had a happy feeling when +skinning the child.</p> + +<p>The heroic big-game hunter, with his picturesque +gear, narrow escapes, and dreadful hardships, is a +joke it is easy to understand since our so very recent +experience of man himself as a dangerous +animal. The sabre-toothed tiger of the past was +a dove compared with the creature who is pleased +to suppose that he was created in the likeness of +his Maker. No predatory dinosaur ever equalled +man’s praiseworthy understudy of the Angel of +Death. Some years ago, on the arrival of fresh +news at Headquarters in France of another most +ingenious and successful atrocity, I remarked to a +staff officer of the Intelligence Department that if +this sort of thing developed progressively it would +end in the enforced recruitment of orangutans. +But that officer happened to be a naturalist. “No +good,” he replied. “They wouldn’t do these +things.” Such acts are the prerogative of man, +who won the privilege in his upward progress.</p> + +<p>With his modern weapons and ammunition, an +experienced sportsman challenging a lion stands +in little more danger than if he were buying a rug. +The shock of his bullet would stagger a warehouse. +It pulps the vitals of the animal. There is a friend +of mine whose pastime it is to shoot big game, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>we should pity any tiger he meets. It is not a tiger +to him. It is only a target, which he regards with +the composure into which he settles when someone +brings him a long drink on a salver; and his common +habit with a target is to group his shots till +they blot out the bull’s eye. What chance has a +tiger against so tender a creature? A rabbit would +have more, for it is smaller. But at least it can be +said for my friend that it merely happens that he +prefers such fun to golf; he attaches no importance +to it. Though he has shot an unfortunate example +of every large mammal Asia has to offer, he does +not plead that he has done so in the name of +Science. Man himself, with appliances that reduce +the craft of the tiger to a few interesting tricks, +and an arm which paralyses a whale with one blow, +is the most terrible animal in the world. He is the +Gorgon. It is his glance which turns life to stone. +Science, as stuffed animals are often called, excuses +the abomination of any holocaust. If a nightingale +were dilated with cotton-wool instead of music, +that would be “science,” supposing it were the last +of the nightingales. The reason given for the +slaughter of so many harmless gorillas in the neighbourhood +of Lake Kivu by several travellers was +that those rare animals are dying out, and museums +required them. Yet it may be said for us that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>these sportsmen find it necessary to excuse their +behaviour to-day. They must explain at least why +they feel no remorse. No longer may one destroy +a family of apes and boast of it afterwards. If +the crime is mentioned publicly, its author is careful +to observe that he so acted as a naturalist, no +doubt that we may thus distinguish him from a man +who would have done the same in the name of +religion. We are sometimes advised that the value +of a training in science is that it makes honesty of +thought more usual than we find it in the ordinary +man, who merely rationalises his desires; and for +guidance we are directed to examine the sad mental +results which come of a purely literary or a political +training. We should like to believe this, yet when +we find a zoölogist writing to the <i>Times</i> to confess +that he would have flinched from the slaughter of +a certain rare and fragile creature had he not +known that his deed was excused because it was +committed in the name of a museum, then a confusion +of thought, probably literary, compels us to +suggest that science may be no better an apology +for a blackguardly act than is rum-running; and +we are not forgetting that some of the worst of +man’s ferocities have been performed solemnly and +with full ritual in the name of God.</p> + +<p>But the ethics of the hunt are not to be defined +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>by men whose own boyhood was in the period when +the rapid growth of factories and railways was +causing a first wholesale clearance of wild life, both +human and bestial, from the earth. We are too +near to the raw trophies and benefits. That becomes +clear, when, as we read in the news not long +ago, American warships used live whales as targets +for gun-practice. Makers of soap, too, would +protest that it is right for commerce to send explosive +harpoons into the same creatures, because +the supply of fat is thereby increased. The matter +is very difficult. Obviously if we want the land the +buffaloes cannot have it, and if we want their oil +the whales must part with it. The stage which +Thoreau reached when he gave up fishing is several +centuries ahead for most of us. My own notions +about hunting would not bear a close inspection by +either humanitarians or sportsmen. If one has +heard only a rat whimper when an owl clutched it, +and heard it continue to cry as the bird, with talons +set vice-like, sat blinking leisurely in deep and complacent +thought, then the scheme of things does +seem a little sorry, though rats with their fleas are +what they are. The scheme, too, includes liver-flukes +and ticks. There are forms of life as deadly +to man as he is to other animals. One’s right to kill +is no more than one’s need and ability to kill. But +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>if man brought compassion into the world, and bestows +it on creatures other than his fellows, how did +he come by it, and what may be its value in the +evolution of life? Is it useless, like saintliness?</p> + + +<p class="ph3">XI</p> + +<p>The first officer, the only man in the ship who +could converse freely with me in English, waved +his hand as he went overside. He was going ashore +to some friends. The shore of the island was just +out of hailing distance. The setting sun was below +the height of the land. The huts among the columns +of the palms along the beach were becoming +formless. Even by day our steamer, among those +islands of Indonesia, gave me the idea that she was +a vagrant from another and a coarser world. Land +was nearly always in sight, but whether distant or +close to our beam it might have been a vagary, the +vaporous show of a kingdom with which we could +have no contact. It would have no name. It had +not been seen before. We were the first to see it, +and the last. To-morrow some other shape would +be there, or nothing. The only reality was our +steamer and its Dutchman, chance blunderers into +a region which was not for us. Even when the sun +was over the ship, and the blaze on the deck was like +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>exposure to a furnace, the coast in sight was but the +filmy stuff of an hallucination.</p> + +<p>But now the sun was going, and in those seas +that spectacle was always strangely disturbing. It +was a celestial display which should have been accompanied +by the rolling of thunder and the shaking +of the earth. One watched for the sudden peopling +of those far off and luminous battlements +of the sky. But there was no sound. There was +no movement. It was an empty display; we might +have been surprised by the beginning of a rehearsal +which was postponed. One could not help feeling +the immanence of a revelation to men who now, +open-mouthed, had paused in their foolish activities, +and were waiting; and so it was astonishing, +after that warning prelude, that only darkness +should fall. We were reprieved. Perhaps Heaven +did not know what to do with us.</p> + +<p>The pale huts receded into nothing. The black +filigree of palm fronds above them dissolved in +night. The smooth water of the anchorage vanished +without a whisper. The day was done. In +the alleyway on which my cabin opened a few electric +sconces made solid a short walk, which was suspended +with vague ends in the dark. The weight +of a heated silence, in which there was no more to +be discerned than that short promenade, fell over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>the ship. It was astonishing that she could be so +quiet.</p> + +<p>In my cabin even an electric fan would have been +a companion, but it would not work; it was dumb. +The cabin was only a recess in solitude. Every +book there had been read, and the advertisements +in the newspapers, which were two months old, and +had been used for packing. When I left London +I took with me some clear and scientific advice +about the collecting of insects. “Not butterflies +and moths.” My instructions were specific. “Only +diptera, hymenoptera, and bugs like these.” The +bugs called “these” were exhibited and demonstrated +in their British counterparts.</p> + +<p>It appeared that I might be of aid to a new study, +which now is earnestly seeking an answer to the +growing challenge of the insect world to man’s +dominion of this earth. This quest was urged on +me with cool insistence, careless of any suspicion I +might have had that there may be, to an overseeing +and directing mind unknown, worse pests than bugs +on earth. I accepted the job, the tins, the pins, the +forceps, the bottles, chemicals, nets and all, and +submitted to a series of elementary lessons. I began +with the feeling of a Jain in the matter; but at +last was persuaded that I should be performing a +social service, for I was reminded that a tse-tse fly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span>could make as good an exhibit of me as ever man +made of a gorilla.</p> + +<p>With some little entomological routine to be got +through daily I began to understand why it was +the Victorian naturalists showed a fortitude in +adversity which, had they resolved, not on beetles +but on something nobler, might have got them to +Truth itself. On tropical days so searching that +nothing but a sudden threat would have moved a +man from where he happened to be resting, I +picked up my net with alacrity, filled a little bag +with bottles, and toiled to some place which, so the +sun and wind told me, would make the shade of old +Wallace eagerly readjust his ghostly spectacles as +he watched me; and I saw clearly enough then that +at an earlier age and with a stouter nerve I should +have found fun in collecting record horns and tusks. +It was usually in a secluded corner where I was +alone; though once, near a Malay village in Celebes, +in a clearing which had already become a tangled +shrubbery again, I noticed at last a native, his krise +in his sarong, sternly watching me. He stood like +a threatening image, and whenever I glanced casually +in his direction, which I did as often as dignity +allowed, he still had that severe look. Presently I +found that this area was a Mohammedan graveyard, +for I tripped over one of the hidden stones +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>while stealthily following the eccentric course of a +fly which looked attractively malignant. The Malay +stood over me as I pulled out some thorns with +forced deliberation. He did not speak. He picked +up a spare net, and spent the rest of the morning +adding industriously to my collection.</p> + +<p>The close scrutiny of one patch of forest, into +which direct sunlight fell, with the eye watchful +for the slightest movement, gave one a notion of the +density with which that apparently empty jungle +was peopled. A biologist once said that most of +the world’s protoplasm is locked up in the bodies +of insects. You would think so when, having +missed a miniature bogie with the net, you scrutinised +the place where it had so miraculously disappeared. +(Sometimes it was in a fold of the net all +the time, discovered when it nailed a careless hand.)</p> + +<p>Nothing appears to be there but fronds and +branches, yet as soon as the image of the object you +missed begins to fade from your recollection, you +see, sitting under a leaf, a robber fly eating a victim +as large as itself. Near it is a big grasshopper so +closely resembling the leaves and stem with which it +is aligned that your sight is apt to take it in as a +slow transmutation of the foliage. Touch him, and +he shoots off like a projectile. His noisy flight +betrays a number of things. They move, and then +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>there they are. A shield bug, whose homeland +cousins are hated by fruit-growers, moves uneasily +in its place. You had supposed it was a coloured +leaf-scar. Spiders and mantids run and drop. You +mark the fall of one creature, and then are aware +that a column of ants is marching through the dead +leaves at your feet. Every inch appears to be occupied, +where a casual glance would have seen +nothing in the whole front of the woods.</p> + +<p>The mere collecting of these creatures is but a +pastime, though it is easy enough to find species +that are unknown to entomologists; yet of very +few of those innumerable forms is the life-history +known, though some of the little items of the forest +prove disastrous, with acquired habits, in the plantations. +Man quite easily displaces the tigers and +their lairs, but it is more than likely that the little +things, of which he has been contemptuous, may +put up a more remarkable fight for a place in the +sun than he will enjoy.</p> + +<p>When the ship was quiet at night, that was the +time when the bottles were emptied, and the creatures +were put into paper envelopes, with a place +and date. The electric sconces outside at night +made good hunting ground. Moths like translucent +jewels reposed on them; but the luminous plaques +were chiefly valuable as attractions for mosquitoes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>and some flies which would have been unbelievable +even by day.</p> + +<p>One night, unable for a time to do more work because +my hands were wet with sweat caused by my +concentration on small and delicate objects, I +looked up at some books facing me on the table. A +creature with eyes like tiny orange glow lamps was +sitting there watching me, its wings tremulous with +energy.</p> + +<p>It was a moth, demi-octavo in size, and I became +at once a little nervous in its presence. I assured +it earnestly that moths were quite outside my instructions. +Nevertheless, when I rose gently to +inspect it, so desirable a beauty I had never seen +before. It was jet black, body and wings, though +its wings were marked sparsely with hieroglyphics +in gold. Was it real? I got the net, and secured +it neatly as it rose; brought a killing bottle—might +I not have one such creature when Bates and Wallace +slew their thousands?—and watched the captive +where it quivered, though not in alarm, in a +loose fold of the muslin. It was quiet, making a +haze of its wings, at times checking them so that I +could attempt a translation of its golden message. +It had a face ... rather a large black face, in +which those glowing eyes were very conspicuous.</p> + +<p>I took out the cork of the bottle, looked again +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>at the quivering and fearsome beauty, and put back +the cork and shoved the bottle away. It was impossible. +It would have been worse than murder. +They who destroy beauty are damned. I felt I did +not want to be damned. That wonderful form, and +the stillness, and the silence, overcame me. This +creature was not mine. I freed the prisoner. It +shot round the cabin, settled again on a book, and +watched me, with its wings vibrating, until I had +finished. A dim suspicion that it was more than +a moth was inconsequential, but natural.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">XII</p> + +<p>The men who are under an infernal spell, a spell +which our best political economists have proved +cannot be and ought not to be broken, and who +therefore must run to and fro between London and +Croydon all their wretched lives, are astonished +when an infant shows more initiative and ventures +to New York. But why shouldn’t it? Its journey +proved as easy as a perambulator and a nurse. +There is nothing in being carried about. Where +steamships and railways go anyone may go. You +have only to take a seat, and wait. A child could +travel in independence from here to Macassar, +which is a mere name through distance, and it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>would but add interest to a long voyage for doting +seamen. The trouble for a restless soul begins only +when he would turn aside, and go where other +people do not. Then he finds that the herd has no +sympathy for one of its members who would leave +the farmer’s field; no sympathy, no advice, no help; +nothing but curt warnings and mocking prophecies.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="p0741_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p0741_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>After a long and faithful adherence to the</i><br> + <i>beaten tracks you reach some distant coastal</i><br> + <i>outpost</i>—<br> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>After a long and faithful adherence to the beaten +tracks you reach some distant coastal outpost, and, +enforced, there you pause. There is nothing else +to do, so you look inland to the hills. What do they +hide? The exiles on the spot, through envy and +jealousy—for it would be absurd to suppose that +they do not want to lose you—deny all access to +those hills. That outpost is touched by a steamer +at least once a fortnight, and while waiting for it, +each evening, when the other men are as idle as +yourself, you ask disturbing questions about the +land beyond, The men reclining about the room +murmur that nobody ever goes. Some day, of +course, before they return home, they intend to +stand on those hills. Just once. Wants a bit of +doing, though. Pretty bad, the fevers. Can’t trust +the natives. Last year a young fellow, just out, he +tried it. Thought we didn’t know. Wouldn’t listen +to us. Said he would be back in a week. He isn’t +back yet. And there was a Dutchman once.... +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>Heard about him? Well. The sagacious informant +here glances round to see who is present, and +leans over to whisper, ending his story with a malignant +chuckle. “And served him right, too.”</p> + +<p>If you listened to those fellows in complete social +credulity you would merely stay at the rest-house +till the next ship anchored, and when she departed +so would you, still gazing at the unknown over her +taffrail. But she has not arrived yet, and therefore +every day, as you look to the hills, you explore a +path which leads, so it seems, to those ramparts of +cobalt. You have not the cheerful idea, of course, +of continuing long enough. That would show courage +instead of sociability. You merely wish to +gratify, as much as a quiet creature dare, an intolerable +desire to approach the forbidden.</p> + +<p>Then, in some manner, those hills vanish. After +five minutes on that track they go. An illusion? +You continue till you reach a secluded valley, a +steep and narrow place about which nobody has +warned you, though to warn a friend of it, in case +he should stray that way by chance, seems at a +glance to be a positive duty. You watch a river +come down turbulently through woods as dark and +still as night. It goes over rocks, but with hardly +a sound, as though it were muffled. A native +crouches on the coiled roots of a tree on the opposite +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>shore, and eyes you. But he does not move +his head. He says nothing. He continues to watch +you, and he does not move. Is it possible to get +beyond that point? Very likely not. The very +hills have disappeared. That dark forest, if it is +not impenetrable, would be better if it were. The +land is only a dream, and that native is the warning +figure in it. You shout over to the figure, but it +does not answer. It looks away. So you turn back, +listen to more stories for a few more nights in the +rest-house, and leave with the next ship.</p> + +<p>There is the island of Celebes. Ships go to it +direct from England. A child could manage the +journey thither. I could not count the number of +villages of its coast off which anchored my local +trading steamer; we stood in and out of Celebes for +weeks. I sought for a man who could tell me about +the interior of that island—which has about the +same area as Ireland, but a coastline long enough +for an archipelago—but never found him. Picture +post-cards may be obtained at Macassar and +Menado, and trips by motor-car bought for as far +as the roads go. But Brighton has the same advantages. +Yet when it came to the question of a +journey into the interior, then you might as well +have been in a London post-office appealing +through the wire netting, to a young lady counting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>insurance stamps, for a way to send a message to +Joanna Southcott about that box. Yet there cannot +be another large island anywhere in the world +with shores so inviting, because those of Celebes +are uninhabited, except for short lengths; and the +mountains of the interior of that island, which is +crossed by the equator, are so fantastic that they +might be hiding the wonders of all outlandish +legends. No matter. There is no approach, apparently, +to the heights. A spell is on the place. +You must be content to watch that coast and those +hills pass, unless you are more daring than this +deponent in flaunting the settled ways and opinions +of your fellow-men.</p> + +<p>The time does come, it does come, when you +can stand the charted paths no longer. It is all +very well for the people at home, misled by the narratives +of flamboyant tourists, to suppose that the +track you are following is one only for the stout +of heart. By the map, doubtless, it looks as though +it were. But you know better. The chief difficulty +on that track, however devious and far it may seem +from London, is that you cannot get away from it. +While this is strictly true, it must be remembered +that it is not altogether a simple excursion for a +wayfarer to leave the highways and cross alone and +in safety some of the moors of England. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>warnings of the friends with whom you consort for +a few days at a rest-house in the tropics merit attention. +There is something in what they say.</p> + +<p>At last you are in no doubt about it. If the +warning fables were only half as bad as the reality +still the common path could hold you no longer. +Boredom with the ways of Labuan is no different +from boredom in Highgate. With deliberation you +cast your luggage into a godown, careless whether +or not you ever see it again, and set out light-foot +for the unknown quarter where health is the only +fortune, and where all the money in the world cannot +buy refreshment when it does not exist, nor +goodwill from creatures who do not like your face. +If your good luck or common sense prove inadequate, +then you are aware you won’t return; but +there is satisfaction to be found in the certain +knowledge that if you have to pay the ultimate +forfeit it will be because you ought to pay it. You +cannot find that satisfaction in London, which is in +many ways worse than the jungle. If you prove +good enough, the wild will reward you with a safe +passage; but the city will even punish qualities +which make men honest citizens and pleasant +neighbours.</p> + +<p>In weeks of toil you get far beyond the last echo +of the coast. You can imagine you have reached, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span>not another place, but another time, and have entered +an earlier age of the earth. Soon after the +beginning of the journey up country there was a +suspicion, when another silent reach of the river +opened, where immense trees overhung and were +motionless, and were doubled in the mirror, that +now you were about to wake up. This would go. +In reality you were not there.</p> + +<p>The paddlers ceased. A buffalo, a bronze statue +on a strip of sand in the water, stared at the lot of +you as you rounded the point. Then he erupted +that scene. It did exist; it was alive. The first ripple +from the outer world had come to stir into +protest that timeless peace.</p> + +<p>The river is left, and a traverse made of the forest. +Ranges are crossed. You become a little +doubtful of your whereabouts. The map treasured +in a rubber bag now abandons you to an indeterminate +land. The natives are shy, food is scarce +and a little queer, and exposure and wounds recall +to the memory the unfriendly yarns of the settlement +far away. About time to turn back? But +the inclination is to go on, for the days seem +brighter and more innocent than you have ever +known them to be. Even food has become an enjoyable +way to continue life; and the camp at sundown, +when, offering grace for the pleasure of conscious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>continuance in fatigue, you look upwards to +a fading stratum of gold on the roof of the jungle +across the stream, and the cicadas begin their pæan, +is richer than success. The very smell of the wood +smoke is a luxury. Only at night, when the darkness +is so well established that it could be the irrevocable +end of all the days, and the distant sounds +in the forest are inexplicable if they are not menacing, +do the thoughts turn backward. It would be +easier, you think then, to be safe.</p> + +<p>But the next day you discover that you are not +alone in that unknown country. A man meets you, +and says that he has heard you were about. He has +been trying to find you. He would like to hear a +bit of news. He behaves to you as though you were +the best friend he had. You learn that he has been +there for nearly a year. He came to that corner +of the continent from the other side. He says this +as though he were merely remarking that it rained +yesterday; and the extraordinary character of such +a journey causes you to glance at him for some +clue to the reason for so obvious a lie. Yet no, that +fellow is not a liar—not in such a small matter, anyhow. +What is he doing there? Oh, just looking +round for gold, or tin, or a job. Have you heard a +word, he asks, of a railway coming along?</p> + +<p>You cannot journey to any unusual quarter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>without surprising there one of these wanderers. +He is looking a country over, and has lived with +the chief’s daughter, and improved the chief’s importance +with neighbouring tribes, and has kept +open a wary eye for gold or anything else which +might be lying about, long before regular communication +was made with the sea, and years ahead +of the bold explorers about whom the newspapers +make such a fuss; he saw the land before the missionaries. +These wanderers make rough maps of +their own, they are familiar with the most unlikely +recesses of the land—which they reached, by the +way, from China, or Uganda, or Bogota, or wherever +they were last. If one of them tells you his +name you need not believe him. The place of his +birth is not the place of his confidence. It is no +good asking him what he is going to do next, for he +does not know. While you are with him, you feel +that a better companion for such a country was +never born; and when you leave him you know you +will never see him again, nor even hear of him. But +he is a man you will never forget.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">XIII</p> + +<p>There was an island, which must have evaporated +with the morning mists like other promising +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>things, called Bragman. It is recorded by Maundeville, +and he had positive knowledge that on +Bragman was “no Thief, nor Murderer, nor common +Woman, nor poor Beggar, nor ever was Man +slain in that Country. And because they be so true +and so righteous, and so full of good conditions, +they were never grieved with Tempests, nor with +Thunder, nor with Lightning, nor with Hail, nor +with Pestilence, nor with War, nor with Hunger, +nor with any other Tribulation, as we be, many +Times, amongst us, for our Sins.”</p> + +<p>The fascination of islands is felt by all of us, but +Bragman might not be to everybody’s taste. Some +people might say it would have no taste. They +would prefer an infested attic in Rotherhithe or +Ostend, or any mean refuge with sufficient sin +about it to prove they were alive and in danger of +hell fire. Yet for others it would certainly give a +sense of rest from the many advantages of Europe. +They might feel that for the sake of peace they +could endure it. What is more, we know that the +pleasures of sin can be ridiculously overrated. +The most doleful places in the world, where youth +seeking joy in bright-eyed recklessness is sure to +be soused in ancient and unexpected gloom, are +what are known to the feeble-minded and to writers +of moral tracts as “haunts of pleasure.” Nobody +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span>points out to the eager and guileless, who have +been misled by the glamour which literature can +cast over even a bath-room, and by the lush reminiscences +of dodderers, that for gaiety of atmosphere +the red lights of the places of pleasure are +quite extinguished by the attractions of a temperance +hotel on a wet night. The haunts of pleasure +take their place in the museum of mankind’s mistakes +alongside the glories of war.</p> + +<p>That island of Maundeville’s, which is called +Bragman, is only a curious name for one of the +Hesperides, or the Fortunate Isles, or the Isles of +the Blessed. Some name it Eden or Elysium. We +place it where we will, and give it the name of our +choice. But naturally it must be an island, uncontaminated +by the proximity of a mainland. +Every man has his dream of such a sanctuary, and +every community its legend, because in our hearts +we are sure the world is not good enough for us. +Even the South Sea Islanders have word of a better +place, the asylum they have never reached in all +their thousand years of wandering from east to +west about the Pacific. Perhaps man goes to war, +or seeks pleasure with abandonment, merely because +at intervals he becomes desperately disappointed +in his search for what is not of this earth. +What does that suggest? But we will leave the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span>suggestion to the metaphysicians, who are as interesting +when at such speculations as the fourteenth +century cartographers were at geography. It may +mean something highly important, but what that +is we are never likely to see as we see daylight +when the generalization of a mathematical genius +illuminates and relates the apparently irrelevant +speculations of his arduous but unimaginative fellows. +If we would see the turrets of the Holy City, +then a stroll round the corner to the Dog and +Duck before closing-time may do as well as a +longer journey. We only know that all the supreme +artists appear to have been privileged, as +was Moses, with a sight of a coast, glorious but remote, +and that the memory of that unattainable +vision gives to their music and verse the melancholy +and the golden sonority which to us, and we do not +know why, are the indisputable sigil of their +greatness.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="p0841_ill" style="max-width: 50.0em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p0841_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>Some name it Eden or Elysium.</i> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“To reach felicity,” says Mr. Firestone in his +<i>Coasts of Illusion</i>, “we must cross the water.” +There is no reason for this, but we know it is true, +for felicity is where we are not. We must cross +it to an island, and a small one. A large island +would be useless. It ought to be uninhabited, too, +or at the worst it should be very rarely boarded by +other wanderers. What account could the company +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>of the <i>Hispaniola</i> have rendered of the pirates’ +hoard if they had sought it on a mainland? +Where would Robinson Crusoe be now if his island +had been Australia? Lost among the dry records +of geographical discovery. A large island could +not hold the treasure we are after. I remember +a shape on the horizon, which often was visible from +a Devonshire vantage, though sometimes it had +gone. Its nature depended, I thought, on the way +of the sun and wind. It was a cloud. It was very +distant. It was a whale. It was my imagination. +But one morning at sunrise I put my head out of +the scuttle of a little cutter, and the material universe +had broken loose. The tiny ship was heaving +on a groundswell, vast undulations of glass, and +over us titanic masonry was toppling in ruin—I +feared the explosions of surf would give a last +touch to a collapsing island, and Lundy would fall +on us. We landed on a beach no larger than a few +bushels of shingle. It was enclosed by green slopes +and high walls of rock; and we climbed a track +from the beach that mounted amid sunlight and +shadow. The heat of the upper shimmering platform +of granite and heath above the smooth sea, +and its smell and look of antiquity, suggested that +it had been abandoned and forgotten, and had remained +apart from the affairs of a greater and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>more important world since the creation. We were +sundered from everybody. That was my first +island, and I still think its one disadvantage is that +it is only twelve miles offshore.</p> + +<p>For perhaps an island landfall should come only +after a long and uncertain voyage. Its coast must +appear in a way which suggests as an absurdity that +the captain could have performed a miracle with +such casual exactitude. This landfall is a virgin +gift to us by chance. Indeed most small islands, +when lifted by a ship, have that suggestion about +them. That is why they are the origin of the better +legends of man, and the promise of earthly felicity. +They are the dream surprised in daylight on the +ocean by the voyager, caught napping in the sun, +and we know that a foot set on those impalpable +colours would wake the gods to their forgetfulness, +and away the spectre would go. Not for us. That +is why the ship always sails past.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">XIV</p> + +<p>Let something survive on earth, if it be only the +record of Maundeville’s island, which humanity +cannot violate. I am glad Amundsen returned +safely, but I am glad also because the North Pole +compelled even our wonderful aeroplanes to treat +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>it with respect. Without guessing what our trouble +is, we may be growing too clever. Our very boldness +may hide that fact from us. It would be a pity +if the earth became tired of us, as once it grew +weary of the dinosaurs, who appear to have overdone +their part. They grew too big. A traveller +who recently returned from the upper Amazon +asks, for instance, what the future of that region is +to be. “Unless oil,” says this gentleman, “renews +interest in this part of the world, large sections may +revert to savagery, as for instance in the Upper +Napo, where already the rubber gatherers have +withdrawn, and the Indian tribes who once occupied +the territory have returned to their original +haunts.” Clearly then the Indian tribes must +once have deserted their original haunts. Was +that because of the rubber gatherers? However, +these savages may be compelled again to leave their +original haunts. The explorer suggests that the +forest trees could be readily converted into alcohol; +though he adds that not much can be done without +better transport, and his idea is that the use of flying +boats, or hydroplanes, a use he describes as “intelligent,” +would in that wasted region “make +things possible which otherwise would be out of the +question.” And then, to show that this beneficent +development is really in the air, and may blossom +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>soon, he reports that the Murato Indians of the +Pastazo River have a curious saying. They say, +“When the white man comes with wings we are +going to die.”</p> + +<p>We never doubt that what has been revealed +only to the superior race of whites—or as Mr. E. +M. Forster describes us, the “pinko-greys”—is +better than any idea of an inferior colour. Alcohol +and pulp, to our mind, are the better forms for +trees, their spiritual transmutation as it were, and +death in flying machines more desirable than what +we call savagery. The white man with his burden +feels that he has not reconciled himself to his god +unless he has converted a mountain or a wood into +something like Widnes or Dowlais. When the +mountain is a mass of slag on which a community +crowds into back-to-back hovels, living there in the +sure and certain hope of the Poor Law as the crown +to its labours, the man of western culture looks at +the figures in a Blue-Book, and knows that he has +fulfilled the divine injunction. He never suspects +that he may be wrong in that. Impossible that the +Murato Indians in their forest may be as pleasing +as his flying machines and alcohol! Yet perhaps +the firs and pines of Newfoundland are not necessarily +worse than the rolls of paper into which they +are converted. The conversion of a forest into a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span>popular press may be inevitable, like war, but we +should not deride the trees which help us to our enlightenment +by calling them savage. That seems +hardly fair. Let the Murato and all other Indians +perish, if there is no other way of getting our alcohol, +but to say they are uncivilized as we extinguish +them seems a little priggish.</p> + +<p>And so our regret is not moved as easily as it +ought to be when we remember that the pioneer +heroes who will venture to convert that Amazon +solitude into oil and other commodities may, nay +will, die in numbers of various fevers, along with +the Indians who will die because of other things. +That is not unjust. For we feel that the transformation +of all the world into the likeness of the +industrious Black Country need not be hastened +on our account. There is a tributary of the Amazon +I know, which once rewarded my admiration +for it with some fever, but I do not want it to be +punished into the likeness of the factories and slime +of the Lea at Stratford-by-Bow. I shall never +again see that river and its forest, but it is a pleasure +to remember that, beyond Whitehall and Versailles, +there still it flows between its cliffs of +foliage, for whoever would like a complete change +from the best that man has thought and done, and +is willing to pay the price for it. The explorer of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>the Amazon who wondered whether it could be +translated into a favourable balance sheet, says, +“Alone in these dense green solitudes, harmless as +they may appear, it is the unknown, the unseen, +that terrifies. Man feels that he is battling with +an invisible monster more horrible than the river, +because the latter attacks in the open and its death +stroke is relatively quick, whereas the forest ensnares +its victim in the dark, and slowly draws its +coils tighter, till death comes as a merciful relief.” +But that, of course, is only the impression of a +human creature in such a land who is not a forest +Indian, and finds himself unable to call up a taxicab +at the moment he needs it. To alcohol with the +place! The truth is the forest was not meant for +him. Whatever its design, it was not that. It does +not wish to do him any harm; and though its countenance +has the appearance of it, yet it was not +composed as a look of doom. If he cannot survive, +however, then he must die, and while he is dying it +will maintain its aloofness and silence.</p> + +<p>So I am glad when the North Pole turns back +our aeroplanes. The day will come when they will +land there, no doubt. A quantity of black grease, +our mark of trade, will be left on the snow, as evidence +that man at last has come. But it is just as +certain that he will not stay there. Nothing can be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>done with that place, and it will be left to stare in +white emptiness at the stars. We find some comfort, +which need not be pure misanthropic lunacy, +in the thought of unprofitable deserts and waste +lands. Some parts of earth, we are assured, will +remain exempt forever from the blight of our appalling +activities. Let us pray for more power to +the mosquito’s elbow on the Amazon and such +places. It is pleasant to remember that he is +guarding those regions against saw mills and plant +for distilling alcohol from the pulp of the forest. +Another sort of traveller, Mr. Norman Douglas, +made this confession in a review he wrote of that +noble travel narrative, Doughty’s <i>Arabia Deserta</i>—for +I would prefer a little society in this misanthropy. +I do not want to be solitary in my desert. +Says Mr. Douglas, with feeling, “I recall my first +view of the Chott country, that sterile salt depression +in Tunisia, and my feelings of relief at the +idea that this little speck of the globe, at least, was +irreclaimable for all time; never to be converted +into arable land, or even pasture; safe from the intrusion +of potato planters and what not; the despair +of the politician, the delight of any dreamer who +might care to people its melancholy surface with +phantoms, mere illusions, of his own.”</p> + +<p>I sing with him, Hosanna! A great region of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>South Africa is sinking into a like melancholy surface, +for which we may thank whatever desiccating +Power there may be. It is returning to the dust. +Its water is leaving it. Its stones are now unturned. +Its prospect is the deceptive mirage. So +kingdoms of Central Asia, once the arenas for the +battle glories of turbulent Huns and Tartars, have +got tired of us, and now turn to the moon her own +aspect of parched and shining dunes. And there is +that part of Arabia known as the Empty Quarter—the +Great Red Desert. What a name that is, +the Empty Quarter! It is as satisfying to the mind +as the Canadian Barren Grounds, a name so much +more moving in its implications than all the statistics +of the Wheat Belt.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">XV</p> + +<p>The traveller was homeward bound, and his +liner made its landfall, and turned for Portland +and its London pilot. There was no welcome in +that look of the coast of home. The shadow of land +to port might have been the end of all the headlands +of the seas. It was as desolate as antiquity by twilight. +There was no rain, but the chill cut to the +bone. The sky was old and dark. This frown of +the north-land subdued the comfortable life of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>ship; it fled below. The little cheerful groups +dissolved without a word. The decks were deserted, +except for two odd figures, muffled like +mummies in a shelter on the lee side. He could find +nobody who would face it with him. He strolled +aft to the shelter where some men who knew the +East used to meet, before dinner, to smoke and +yarn, but only a steward was there, a disillusioned +familiar who was brusquely piling the unwanted +wicker chairs—throwing them at each other.</p> + +<p>Somehow even the satin-wood panelling of the +stairway to the saloon, with its bronze balustrade, +appeared now to be out of place. It did not accord +with cold draughts. The glow lamps shone +in emptiness, the palms in the corners were dingy. +He suspected the life of the ship had suddenly +absented itself, and was behind closed doors, whispering +of a crisis to which he could get no clue. +As he descended to his cabin he paused to watch an +officer, muffled in a greatcoat, pass from one side +of the ship to the other on a deck above him, but +the man was pre-occupied and hurried, and did not +notice that the ship had another lonely ghost wandering +about her.</p> + +<p>In his cabin the little gilt image of a Buddha, +Putai Ho-Shang, the god of children and earthly +joys, passive and happy, regarded him cheerfully +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>from the clothes chest. That token of the East had +more sun in it than all the world into which the +steamer had now come. The image was old, perhaps +as old as that fading recollection of a land +along which the ship was now cruising for haven. +Might not that recollection fade utterly before the +haven was reached? Was that image cheerful with +tidings that were nearer to the springs of life than +anything known under the skies of the north? Was +it that knowledge which made it confident? There +was a suggestion of derision about its happy smile, +as though it had a word which made it invulnerable +to this bleak air, and to the driving darkness that +was the headlong confusion of a region which had +lost its light and faith.</p> + +<p>The bugle called to dinner. He took no notice +of it. He thought he would sooner pack up; at +least he could then confirm, putting away some +good things he had found in Brunei, Palembang, +and Canton, that somewhere life was ardent and +young, and was light-hearted while making beautiful +things. He placed a porcelain bowl beside +Buddha. The two were worth looking at. If you +stood in a certain way a golden dragon was hinted +in the azure of the bowl. The man who made that +did not work in a north-east wind. When he +opened his camphorwood chest it filled his cabin +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>with a suggestion of warm nights, of a still sea in +which the reflections of the stars were comets rising +from the deeps, of the figures of motionless palms +drowsing with their heads above a beach. Well, +that was over. But he had seen it. Time, now, to +put it away, except as a private thought.</p> + +<p>But, as he packed away his silks and porcelain +the image steadfastly quizzed him. That token of +another order of things reclined luxuriously, as if +asking him what he was going to do about it, +though knowing he could give no answer. He put +away everything but the image. He left that in the +seat it had occupied all the voyage. He would not +touch that yet. The voyage was not quite over. +That idol was like an assurance of good. It might +be the sign of a wisdom which understood all that +he knew, and yet still could contemplate affairs +with equanimity, though the sun and the lotus were +far away. The image was completely foreign, as +incongruous in a ship as he himself would be in a +temple; yet you could believe that Putai Ho-Shang +was in a place his philosophy comprehended, +though that place was chill and cold to him; that +in his cheerful mind every extension of the mechanics +of industrial progress was provided for, and all +the important devices of the busy men who motived +that machinery. It would appear as simple to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>him as the acts of children. He would know all +about it, and the end to which it was destined.</p> + +<p>The face of the little Cockney steward was at +his elbow, with its sardonic smile. “Your tea, sir. +We’re nearly in.”</p> + +<p>“Where are we?”</p> + +<p>“Just orf Southend. Fine morning, sir. The +pier’s plain.”</p> + +<p>It certainly was a fine morning. The captain +passed him on the deck. “Hullo, here we are again. +Looks good, doesn’t it? We’ve done nicely, too. +She came along last night like a scalded cat, though +there was just an off-chance we missed the tide. +We’re going up on top of it all right.”</p> + +<p>Was that Essex? No land in the East ever had +a brighter sparkle. This place was not only alive, +but boisterous. It was as young as a star. Their +liner was slipping past a collier with a noise of +brisk waters which was startling to one who had +just left the quiet seclusion of a cabin. The river +and its men were about their business. Great ships +were moving quickly on a river that was spacious +and resplendent. The very sunlight seemed dangerous, +with its swift gleaming in a lively breeze. +That challenging shouting from a sailing barge was +the voice of a young and vigorous land. To that +land morning was native; and full tide, pouring +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>with bustling winds and floods of sudden light, +made merely the pulse of it. He got the impression +that the globe was spinning almost too buoyantly. +Gravesend was soon ahead of them, a touch +of smoking rose. He dived below, at something +like a speed proper to this newly discovered land, +to see whether or not his baggage had gone out for +the Customs inspection. It had gone. No time +had been lost, and even while he looked round his +cabin he saw from his port light that the liner was +slowing ... she had anchored.</p> + +<p>No hurry. Nobody would be waiting for him; +not at that hour of the morning. He idled outside. +The long vista of the lower deck was vacant. Eh? +As he looked aft a tall figure turned into it, leisurely +and confident, glancing in curiosity about the +ship, a figure that was familiar, yet changed by +time. Was that his own boy?</p> + +<p>The stranger strolled along and saw him. +“Hullo, dad!” And then flushed, and was shy. +“She’s a topping ship, isn’t she? I watched her +coming up the river. She looked fine. Where’s +your cabin?”</p> + +<p>They went into it. “The luggage is all set out +on the other end of the ship. I came over in the tug +with the Customs Officers. They tried to turn me +out. What a jolly cabin. I like this. And what’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>that funny smell, like spice? I wish I’d been with +you.”</p> + +<p>They stood looking at each other intently, asking +questions, forgetful of time. The boy, smiling +and confident, like an assurance of good, regarded +him cheerfully from a superior height.</p> + +<p>“Here, my lad. Time we were off. There’s a +special train for the passengers. Come along, and +talk afterwards.”</p> + +<p>The boy gave a quiet look round. “Here, is this +yours?” He grinned, and picked up the image of +Putai Ho-Shang. “What a comic little chap! Is +he yours? Righto!” He put Buddha in his pocket.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="II_OUT_OF_TOUCH">II. OUT OF TOUCH</h2></div> + + +<p>We could go no further. Our steamer had +left the sea weeks before, and had slowly serpentined +her way into the heart of a continent. She +had been persuaded over bars, she had waited +patiently till floods gave her a chance to insinuate +herself against the river current still deeper into +that forest of the tropics. She had rounded +bends so narrowly that her crew cheered derisively +when her gear brought down showers of leaves and +twigs from the overhanging front of the forest. +When the monkeys answered our syren the bo’sun +gave me a look, half appealing, half startled. But +now we could go no further. We were nearly two +thousand miles from the sea, and just ahead of us +was an incline of foaming water. No ship had +intruded into that solitude before; beyond the +cataracts ahead of us, up into the unexplored +wilderness, that river had its origin somewhere in +the Andes of Bolivia.</p> + +<p>There we anchored. Both anchors were out, +because two were necessary. It was doubted that +two were enough. Mr. Bullock, the mate, was complaining +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>bitterly. I was standing with him on the +forecastle head, and we were both watching the taut +cables, which at times were tremulous in the strain +of the current. “A nice thing,” he said, “a nice +thing. Ever see anything like it before? It isn’t +right.”</p> + +<p>What he was pointing to was certainly unusual. +It is not right, or at least it is most irregular, for +forest rubbish to gather in such a mass against a +ship’s cables that the danger of something coming +adrift is evident. “Ever see anything like it? Eh? +I bet you haven’t, mister. It isn’t right. Trees +and bamboos and meadows—a whole raft of it, like +a day in the country. All it wants is a few cows. +And what’s going to happen if she drags, in this +place? No steam and the damned jungle under +our counter. We should have to rot here, mister, +for we’d never get her off. We’re out of touch of +everything civilised.”</p> + +<p>So it seemed. Not only were great trees caught +against the cables, but the trees were in green leaf. +They were clouds of leaves, and perhaps birds were +still perched in them. A few acres of top-heavy +forest had collapsed into the river the night before, +and there it was, or what was left of it, verdant and +dense. No doubt more of it was to come.</p> + +<p>“That’s a new job for a sailor,” commented Mr. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>Bullock. “Clearing away a copse from a ship’s +bows. I shall have to get a boat away to see to +that.”</p> + +<p>An area of the tangle, a stretch of meadow and a +height of foliage, became agitated, and detached +itself in the pull of the stream as we watched. It +foundered a little, uplifted again, pivoted in a half-circle, +came free, and went swiftly by the length of +the ship, a travelling island. Behind it swam a +peccary.</p> + +<p>“There you are,” exclaimed the excited mate. +“What did I tell you? Pigs, mister. We’ll get +the whole farmyard in a minute.”</p> + +<p>Next morning the surrounding forest seemed to +have gone. We had nothing but an opaque silence +about us. The vapours of the miasmic solitude +shrouded the high palisades of trees and leaves. +Somewhere the sun had just risen, and the mist was +luminous. Imperceptibly the white steam rose, till +the bottom of the forest across the water was plain. +The jungle looked as though it were sheered off a +few feet above the bank in a straight line. But +the curtain rose quickly as I watched. To starboard +again was the towering and ominous barrier +of still leaves and fronds, the place where no man +had ever landed. The sun looked at us. Languor +fell over the ship. The parrots and the monkeys +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>cried aloud for a minute or two, and then the day +became silent. It was no place for a ship. That +was an unpleasant word of the mate’s, that we +should rot. The sensation in that heated stillness, +where there was nothing for us to do but to wait, +was certainly of ferment and stagnation. The +ironwork of the steamer felt like the plates of an +oven.</p> + +<p>On the poop, under an awning, the steward was +spreading our breakfast. The captain appeared, a +slim and stooping figure in white linen and a Panama +hat, and walked towards me, fingering his +grey beard as he eyed things about him. He did +not wear the expression of a man who would respond +to a hearty “good-morning.” He rested his +hands on the bulwark, and looked overside, contemplating +the stream. He stopped by the open +door of the chief’s cabin, and wondered to the engineer +whether it might not be wise to rig a dam +round the rudder, so that wreckage might not get +entangled with the propeller. It was at that moment +that pandemonium broke out in the bunkers. +The noise rose through a bunker hatch, which was +open for ventilation; yells, clanging of shovels, +crow-bars ringing on bulkheads, shouts, and hysterical +laughter. The chief came out in his pyjamas, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>and the three of us peered down into the twilight +below.</p> + +<p>The chief bawled commands to his men. There +was no answer. The infernal scuffling and clanging +below went on. Then as suddenly it stopped. The +chief cried down peremptorily, and the stokers +heard him. One of them appeared below us, a +blackened gnome, his dirty mask veined with pink +where the sweat ran. He was panting. When he +saw the stern faces above him he showed a broad +white smile.</p> + +<p>“All right, sir, we’ve done him in. Took some +doin’, though.”</p> + +<p>“What the hell do you mean? What’s this row +about?”</p> + +<p>The man vanished. Some whispering went on +under the deck. Then several stokers appeared, +hauling on a rope. It had a great snake at the end +of it, its head limp, its body gashed. The hilarious +stokers kicked and shoved the dead twelve feet of it +into coils which we could inspect from above.</p> + +<p>“There you are, sir,” said one of the showmen. +“That’s it. All right to find that in the coal, ain’t +it? You ought to have seen the way he scrapped.... And +don’t forget we didn’t sign on to kill +boa-constrictors, sir,” added a quiet voice, from the +dark.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> +<p>“I don’t wonder at it,” said the mate at breakfast. +“Crawled in by a hawse pipe, of course. The +ship will get full of ’em, with that green stuff about +the cables.”</p> + +<p>“Glad to hear it. That will give us some occupation, +captain,” our surgeon commented. +“Otherwise, we should be dull here.” The surgeon’s +mind was inclined to curiosity in wayward +things, and he always kept a butterfly-net handy. +“One of the men this morning showed me a wound +on his elbow. It was hard to stop the bleeding. +He didn’t know how he got it, and I didn’t tell him. +But there are vampire bats in the fo’cas’le.”</p> + +<p>The captain gave an impatient exclamation, and +blamed the surgeon for frivolity. “Bats! Vampire +bats! You talk like a novelist, doctor. Never +heard of bats in a fo’cas’le. You’re thinking of +belfries.”</p> + +<p>The surgeon chuckled. “You’ll hear all right, +captain, when the men find out.”</p> + +<p>The captain grumbled through all the meal. +Place didn’t smell like a ship, smelt like a hothouse. +Nice place to be in. In all his years at sea, +nothing like it. Another charter like this, and the +owner could look after his boa-constrictors himself. +“Mr. Mate, just keep the men from thinking +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>too much about it. A good time now to get some +of that work done.”</p> + +<p>For me after breakfast, with the decorative office +of supercargo, there was no work. There was only +the forest to look at, the yellow flood with its flotsam, +and the river ahead tumultuous and gleaming +in the rapids. The heat increased. The silence +was a heavy weight. One felt a little fearful because +so much forest made no sound whatever, no +more sound than if it had been a dream, not a murmur +nor the rustle of a leaf. It was quite still, like +an illusion of trees. We might have made a ridiculous +escape to the world’s end, and now were a +little scared, not knowing what to make of it.</p> + +<p>The only movement was the tumult of the cataracts, +a glittering and flashing about a mass of +black rocks. But that gave no sense that water +was falling, but only that it was inclined, for its +pour never ended. Beyond those rapids there was +nothing; only trees and the sun. Nobody had ever +been there. There was no reason why a man should +go. The parapet of the cataracts, where black +triangles of waves above our heads continually +leaped but never seemed to descend, was the edge +of the world. While I was gazing at that line of +leaping waves, which stretched between the high +barriers of the forest, the figure of a man appeared +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>there. He poised for an instant on the verge, in the +centre of the line, against the sky, arms stretched +out as if in appeal, and then vanished in the spray +below.</p> + +<p>“See that?” exclaimed the chief. He hurried +along to me. “See him? That must have been an +Indian. Couldn’t stop himself, there. Can you see +him now?”</p> + +<p>We could not. We could see only the incline +of heaving water. We must have been mistaken, +and were beginning to argue about it when an object +came slowly away from the foot of the falls. +It was an overturned canoe. A swimmer righted +it, got in, and began to paddle towards us.</p> + +<p>The man came alongside, standing up in his scallop, +stark naked, a paddle in his hand, grinning. I +thought he must be of some unnamed tribe. He +was a little lighter in colour than an Indian, but his +curly black hair and beard made him remarkably +different. The natives never have beards, though +that difference was not so astonishing as his light-hearted +grin, which was absurdly familiar in that +laughless and inhuman wild. He did not speak, +but airily waved his hand as he came alongside, and +grabbed our Jacob’s ladder. Up he came, in leisured +nonchalance.</p> + +<p>“Pardon me,” he said, as he stood up before our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>gaping company of seamen still smiling, and his +fine body glistening. “Anybody lend me a pair +of pants?”</p> + +<p>Our captain was frowning at him in wonder, but +at that he grimaced. “Come aft,” he said. The +brown figure nodded to us in good humour, and +followed the captain, stepping like a god. He +turned, as he was about to descend the companion, +and gazed at our house-flag. You may see profiles +like his in any collection of Greek antiquities. +When he had gone we leaned overside to stare at +his dug-out canoe, hitched to our ladder. There +was nothing in it but some arrows and a bow, and +a machete, all lashed to a peg.</p> + +<p>The stranger, that night, came with the chief to +my cabin. He inspected our books with evident +enjoyment. “Books!” he said. “Books, eh!”</p> + +<p>“You know,” he continued looking round at us, +“I thought I’d gone light-headed when I saw your +ship below the falls. I was so surprised that a jerk +sent me over side, and I came down the rapids with +an arm over the canoe. I was sure I was going to +miss meeting you after all. Too bad!”</p> + +<p>He gave us his name. It was that of a learned +English judge. I reminded him of that. “Oh, yes. +My father. He’d have been amused if he’d seen +me this morning. Is he all right?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> +<p>He was quite cool about it. This sort of thing, +I gathered from his manner, might happen to anybody. +“Never expected to meet Christians at a +place like this.”</p> + +<p>Where had he come from? “Mollendo,” he replied, +rolling a cigarette.</p> + +<p>Was the man a liar? Mollendo was a thousand +miles away on the Pacific side. The Andes were +between us. The youngster saw our doubt, and +smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Mollendo. And I +crossed the Andes, though don’t you do it unless +you want to. This side of them I lost my gun. +Lost everything. Got a canoe and some arrows +and a bow, and here I am. You know,” he went +on, “you can shoot fish with an arrow. I’ll show +you in the morning. That’s how I lived, when I +wasn’t with the natives.”</p> + +<p>“Is that all?” I asked. I thought of the rumours +of cannibals and head-hunters, and the stories of +what was in store for those who ventured alone into +the region beyond us.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, taking down a book to see what +it was, “well ... it took some months. It’s a bad +country. But I say! Fancy your knowing my +dad. I thought I was quite out of touch here.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="III_ELYSIUM">III. ELYSIUM</h2></div> + + +<p>That garden, which sloped seaward to three +areca palms, was a place which I felt might vanish, +if I moved, or changed my thoughts. The daylight +was the private illumination of an imagined +land, and the strange fronds were a capricious revolt +from the conventions of avenues and parks. +Then a butterfly, immense in green and black, +broke into the picture from above, and fanned his +colours slowly over a white trumpet that was upheld +noiselessly by an unseen hand from a shrub. +He touched it, and the trumpet swayed. The picture +was solid.</p> + +<p>A tall, stiff figure came out of the rest-house +and sat with me on the verandah. That elderly +missionary’s white linen suit, neatly creased, and +his collar and black bow, which would have been +unremarked in Oxford Street, made me conscious +of my own careless and limp attire. I always felt +that that man might, as a reasonable and friendly +neighbour—for we had the rest-house to ourselves—concede +something in his dress. But he never relented. +The Malay servants could be in no doubt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>as to which of us was the important Tuan. One of +those silent familiars now shaped near us. He +brought tea and two queer little cakes. I liked the +look of those cakes, but the missionary whistled for +the dog, and gave away the cakes perfunctorily. +He rubbed his fingers with a handkerchief, and +then turned his signet-ring into its right position. +He inclined his head kindly to me in a little cross-examination. +What had I seen to-day?</p> + +<p>He stirred his tea, and shook his head in depreciation +over some native wares I had bought. Poor +stuff, he said. No good. Better bring it to him +in future, before buying it. But it was very hard +now to get the genuine old material. He had been +collecting it all over the islands for years. He +enumerated what rare treasure he had been able +to acquire from time to time. The European collectors +were willing to pay highly for it. But it +was getting very scarce.</p> + +<p>He carefully crossed his legs, for to keep neat +an ironed linen suit for an hour or two in a moist +heat demands the unremitting attention of a man +whose self-control is automatic. Why, in the past, +he continued, when he visited one of the islands of +an isolated group, with some tact and wholesale +baptism he could persuade a village to surrender all +its totems, idols, carvings and copper drums. Not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>to-day, though. The whole region has been swept +clean. Everybody is converted, or has no God, or +is a Mohammedan. But you could buy plenty of +English and American stuff. After a pause, which +was like an interval for silent regret over good +things lost in the past, he spoke, dispassionately, +and with the forgiving voice of an ethnologist, who +understood the deep springs of astonishing human +conduct, of the immoralities of the islanders. He +was no bigot. He did not tell me that, but I was +sure he forgave irregularities in all but Europeans, +and he understood even those.</p> + +<p>He had spent fifteen years among the islands. +The natives had the minds of children. I learned +from him how they should be treated by any benefactor. +I was looking at his moustache, for it was +interesting to see how little his lips moved as he +spoke. There was firmness even in those short +iron-grey bristles. His eyes, under those shaggy +brows, looked on me from a rectitude which now he +could trust without bothering about it. The tropics +had made no difference to him. His skin was fresh, +and looked hard. He offered me one of his excellent +Dutch cigars. He became grimly amused over +the instructions left by a white trader for him to +carry out. He had buried that man the week before +last. That fellow had begged the missionary—because +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>he knew his Malay mistress with her +four half-caste children would be careless about +it—to have erected a sort of shrine over his grave, +with pictures from the Scriptures to hang in it, and +this text in a principal place: “I am the resurrection +and the life.”</p> + +<p>A group of women, their bright gowns as noticeable +in the quiet as a burst of gay music, idled +slowly past the foot of the garden, and one of them +turned her dark face shyly to look at the missionary, +but very sternly he did not look at her. The +tropics were outside his heart. He could not be +invaded. His stiff figure could at any time assume +its winter dress in Europe, and he could begin +again as though sly but inviting glances across +a tropical shrubbery, and sunny islands where life +is different, were only like the phases of the moon, +which may be observed, if the almanac is watched, +and you are sufficiently interested.</p> + +<p>The crowns of the areca palms changed, as the +sun went down, into three high fountains of gold, +which quickly sank into the shades. There were +burning films of rose in the sky. Then their light, +too, went out. A firefly began to glint in zigzags +before the verandah, and a cricket shrilled. A +servant brought a lamp. “These islanders come to +my church, when I am here, or they go to the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>mosque,” said the missionary gravely, “but they +are all pagans at heart. A man and woman will +live together for years, and then come and be married +for luck, and bring their children with them. +They are baptised for luck. They try to be on the +right side all round. I know them. I haven’t +given them fifteen years of my life for nothing.”</p> + +<p>“But you suggest that you have when you tell +me they are still pagans.”</p> + +<p>The missionary did not answer. He recrossed +his legs carefully. “I like them,” he said simply. +“They are good-hearted.”</p> + +<p>“If ever you are on the main island come and see +me,” he said late that night. “My home is there. +You may like to look at my collection.”</p> + +<p>The next day he had gone to another congregation +across the water. When presently a ship came +for me, and I left that beach, she touched on her +way home at the village the missionary had named, +and there was time to visit his home. The afternoon +was almost done. The sun was setting over +Borneo, across the water, in a clear saffron sky. I +waited for the evangelist on his verandah, and could +see through his dwelling of timber to the bright +light in the west. The interior of the house was in +darkness, but that further doorway was a shape of +gold, in which distant coconut palms formed a design +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>in black. I felt I had discovered in that home +its resident and privy dream. I spoke of this to the +missionary. He did not look at it. “It is very +beautiful,” he said gravely.</p> + +<p>He led me through that further door of gold to +the garden that we might watch the sunset. “I +have an arbour on the beach,” he said. A frail little +woman was seated within that arbour. She wore +an old-fashioned shape of crochet work on her grey +hair. She smiled at me but did not speak. “My +wife,” the missionary explained. I thanked her for +lending me so beautiful an outlook on the world. +There could be no nobler place anywhere from +which to see the sun go down. She nodded, and +smiled sadly, and said “Yes, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>The missionary interrupted my attempt to come +to an understanding with my hostess. He had a +request that I should take his mail with me. “You +can take the letters with you when you board your +ship to-night.” We both walked back to the house, +leaving his wife in the arbour. She was still looking +over the sea to the western light.</p> + +<p>He turned to me and shook his head. He +touched his forehead significantly.</p> + +<p>“She sits there all day,” he said. “She sits there, +and when she sees a ship going home, she weeps.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV_THE_RAJAH">IV. THE RAJAH</h2></div> + + +<p>We were told that if we followed the track +through the forest for three more days we should +reach the River Golok, by Nipong. Then, supposing +we could find a prahu and men, another day’s +journey would bring us down stream to Rantau +Panjang. There we should see so unlikely an object +as a railway station, on a branch of the Malay +States Railways. With further luck we should +catch one of the rare trains, and so reach Tumpat +at our ease.</p> + +<p>There was no hurry. I did not wish to catch a +train again before I was compelled. Just then +there were no days of the week. We had morning +and night, and sun or rain. At night, the rain +drumming on the leaves was always on the same +leaves, and it was the same rain. We were nowhere, +and I suspected that the real calendar might +dispute with my diary over three missing days. +What had we done with them? But three days +mislaid in that forest might look like three dead +leaves. Wherever we camped the place looked like +the spot where we halted the evening before. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>Nothing had changed. The cicadas struck up the +same song at the moment when day became exalted, +that moment before its light went out. Those still +trees suggested our exemption from what concerned +an outer world; we were held by the very +spell which kept the jungle from progress.</p> + +<p>But one afternoon our canoe shot out of the +solitude. While watching glide past us what I +thought was the same forest, I saw a woman on the +bank glance up in surprise from her water-pot as +our shadow went by her. A little later there was +an incredible modern bridge of iron across the river +ahead of us. It was as surprising as coconut +palms would be at Charing Cross. We landed, +and found bottled beer could be had by asking for +it. To the Chinese shopkeeper those English +labels were as familiar as his own symbols. I +thought, for a moment, that a London excursionist +could be at home in that remote Malay village in +five minutes.</p> + +<p>By the light of morning this surprising homeliness +appeared the less secure. It was no more than +a little cheerful bravado. The railway bridge, the +big Sikh policemen with their rifles, and the array +of bottles of European drinks on the shelves of the +Chinaman’s store, were not triumphantly significant. +The wilderness was not far away. It almost +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>reached the bridge. It stood, patient and dark, +waiting just across the padi marshes, with the blue +untraversed hills of the interior above it. The sun +was that of the dry monsoon. Sauntering leisurely +across the iron railway bridge were figures which +could have been assembling for the rehearsal of a +strange drama, for the costumes of those women +coming from Siam into Kelantan to market would +make the ballet of a musical comedy look tawdry +and unreal. They followed the railway track to the +station buildings, where they sat by their wares, +which mostly were fruits, scarlet and emerald chillies, +yellow lansats, mangosteens the colour and +size of new cricket-balls, and crimson rambutans. +The natives were as quiet and passive as images. +Only their eyes moved; and when a girl whose +father was a Chinaman and her mother a Siamese +villager looks at you, then you understand that the +art of coquetry has been nothing but a Western +phrase. The quiet folk of the country, whose life +showed ardent only in the audacious colours of +their dress, which betrayed their silence and langour; +the strange houses under a weight of sun, +and the palms and bamboos jetting from the +ground like fountains, made that railway track, +neat and direct as Western logic, as queer as such +logic often appears in the East. The station clock +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>bore the name of a famous London maker. But +perhaps it gave only the London hour, and the +palms knew better. This also was bravado. The +track, so much like commercial orderliness and +promptitude, was empty in both directions. Its +ballast and sleepers were as arid, hot, and hopeless, +as a trail in the desert. A buzzard was floating +overhead. Two Chinamen were quarrelling outside +the waiting-room.</p> + +<p>The unbelievable train came as a sudden shadow +and an uproar. Confidence was restored. The +order and progress of a Western notion cut +straight into the East, and at almost the appointed +minute. And presently the cluster of huts and the +groups of people by the station began to recede. +More progress was being made.</p> + +<p>I found myself beside an Englishman in an +otherwise empty carriage. He was a stout young +man in a despondent suit of Shantung silk. His +white sun hat was beside him. He held a handkerchief +in his hand, which frequently he passed across +his moist face, blowing as he did it. He was reclining +his heavy body on one elbow, but his eyes were +alert and cheerful. “Morning,” he said loudly. +“Didn’t expect to see anyone at that station.”</p> + +<p>He was communicative. He was not like the +Malays, who will travel with you all day and use +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>only a few words when necessary, reserving their +quiet gossip for the evening. I soon knew that he +was not like the East, which, however, he understood +very well. He thought trade was reviving. +He himself was not doing so badly. Only leave +alone the people who knew what to do, and no nonsense, +and believe him ... and so on. These natives +liked being governed and ordered about. +They’d never do anything unless they were made +to. Lazy swine. Look at him! Fat! Yet he got +through enough work, hot as it was.</p> + +<p>What was more, there was gold in that country. +Only wanted developing. A little organisation, sir. +The Malays didn’t know. The Siamese didn’t +know. Nor care. The people who knew would +have to see that it was done. He hoped to make +enough in another five years to get home for good. +Then, a little place in the country, and a seat on the +local bench, and he would be happy.</p> + +<p>The buffaloes stared at us as we went along, as +motionless as figures in metal. My fellow passenger +was telling me that he had been given a rotten +O. B. E. for what he did during the war, but it +ought to have been a K. B. E. He reckoned he had +earned it. As he told me this I was looking at a +Malay child, holding a big deer by a cord. They +stared at us intently without moving, and might +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>have been trying to catch a word or two about the +O. B. E. as we went slowly past those huts. I +heard more then about the rewards for industrious +men who would attend strictly to their business in +that land, and of what fellows he knew, knew quite +well, had been given for their war services. +“Though, dammit, sir, they had made enough +without that.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="p1201_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p1201_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>The buffaloes stared at us as we went along, as</i><br> + <i>motionless as figures in metal.</i><br> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>We ran into our last station. I looked from my +carriage window on the strangest figure of a Malay +I had seen. He was an old man, but as stout as my +English fellow-traveller. He wore a yellow +sarong, and yellow is the royal colour. But his +tunic was the old scarlet affair, with yellow facings, +of an English infantryman. Instead of the hat of +a Mohammedan, he wore a white regimental helmet. +He had a blue sash. On his breast were displayed +a number of ornate decorations, brass regimental +badges, and medals won by other people in +the past for the most diverse things—for swimming +at Plymouth and running at Stamford Bridge. +And central on his breast, hanging by a cord, was +a conspicuous red reflector from the rear lamp of +a bicycle.</p> + +<p>My English friend knew him well. He greeted +the Malay cheerfully, and bestowed on him another +decoration, a silverplated monogram he had found. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>The old man was so delighted that he regarded my +contribution of a dollar with no joy whatever. He +continued his conversation with my friend, in +Malay, while he crumpled my currency note in his +hand.</p> + +<p>The Englishman turned to me, as we left the +ancient, and chuckled. “See his battle honours and +decorations, and all that? Quite mad, you know. +Used to be a rajah till we turned him out, and +thinks he’s one still. Just as well to humour the +poor old thing.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="V_THE_STORM_PETREL">V. THE STORM PETREL</h2></div> + + +<p>I paused on the bridge in Old Gravel Lane, +that surprising lapse in the walls of Wapping, because +water was on either side of it. The street +lamps were just lit, but the sky was still high and +yellow. The forms of the ships under the dock +warehouses were plain, like dim creatures asleep +in the shadows at the base of cliffs. It did not look +like the present, that silent scene, but the past. I +was peering into the past, a vista down the London +Dock which evening was quickly closing, when +Captain McLachlan took hold of me and brought +me back to Old Gravel Lane. I didn’t know his +ship was in port. “Don’t lie,” he jollied me. +“Don’t pretend you knew I was in, and that you +were looking for me.”</p> + +<p>As if anyone would lie to McLachlan! No +need. He is too good-natured, too sagacious. So +judicious and deliberate that he would see through +almost any neat and nicely polished artifice. “You +never told me you would be here to-day,” I reminded +him.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> +<p>“Well, I’m off at midnight,” he said, still with +a grip on my arm. “You come along with me.”</p> + +<p>“Not to Glasgow,” I said in alarm.</p> + +<p>“No. Just as far as she is now. There she is.” +The skipper pointed to a misty confusion of funnels +and masts up the dock.</p> + +<p>It seemed easy to get to her. She was not far +off. But in fact, at that hour, which was neither +day nor night, our little journey through streets +and sheds, and by quaysides where lower lights +were burning though day was in the sky, and the +shapes of things were queer, was like an excursion +into an inverted world. It was confused. What +were streets doing there, and ships? They had been +jumbled in an antipodean upset. The lights were +not in the right places. The shadows were all +wrong. Funnels were in the streets, apparently, +and houses in the water. But the skipper kept on +talking, stepping over mooring ropes and children +on kerbstones.</p> + +<p>“That was a nasty passage down,” he was +saying.</p> + +<p>“It was? But I don’t remember a blow this +week.”</p> + +<p>“I do; but you wouldn’t have noticed it. I didn’t +like it. Here’s me, with forty years of it, but I +didn’t like it. Once or twice I wondered whether +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>the old girl could stand it. Aye. Most of the way +from the Broomielaw. Mind that rope.”</p> + +<p>We were standing now on concrete, looking up +at a steamer’s counter. This was McLachlan’s +charge. She was not a liner, but an aristocrat compared +with the usual coaster. She looked quite big +in that place and in that light.</p> + +<p>The skipper was shaking his head. “God forbid +that I ever see the Storm Petrel again.”</p> + +<p>This was a little ridiculous, and not at all like +my friend. Almost superstitious of him. I +thought it was his fun, but then he turned to mount +the gangway of his ship. His face, downcast to +his footing, was serious enough. His short, hard +moustache looked even grim. It was amusing to +discover that the skipper, among the orderly and +scientific sequence of his experiences and thoughts, +should allow an old myth about a bird to interrupt +Scotch logic so irrelevantly. I chuckled as I followed +the elderly seaman to his ship, and to divert +his attention asked his opinion about the derivation +and uses of the word cleat. That gangway reminded +me of it. There had been a dispute ashore +about it, and McLachlan was the man who would +know. He keeps even <i>The Golden Bough</i> in his +cabin, with Burns, Shelley, <i>The Evolution of the +Idea of God</i>, an encyclopædia, and other incongruous +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>companions. He is the unknown but harsh +enemy of all hurried journalists. His untiring +exactitude over trifles is awe-inspiring, and even +tedious to casual and indifferent men. He paused +on deck, gave me the root of the word, and assured +me of all its uses, with qualifications; then turned +into a door and descended to the saloon.</p> + +<p>His steward stood at attention as we squirmed +into those seats which will not push back from +saloon tables, and then the man went, as the captain +made a perfunctory sign for what we wanted. The +skipper sat without speaking till he had the glass +in his hand. “Ye see, I knew we were in for it as +soon as I clapped eyes on yon lunatic,” he remarked. +He had not been at all cautious with what +he measured into the glasses. “As soon as the +Storm Petrel came aboard, two firemen went +ashore. He was enough for them. No good talking +to the fellows. They were scared. They knew +what that warning meant, and it happened they +saw him coming up the gangway.”</p> + +<p>“I thought it was a bird,” I said.</p> + +<p>“No. It’s a parson. You’d know him fine if +you were coasting. A wee man. I can’t leave the +ship myself, but I wished the fellow to the devil. +He didn’t look like a man of God to me that night +for all his clericals. And he was so damn jolly when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>he saw me. He always is. ‘There’s something +brewing, captain,’ says he, rubbing his hands. +‘You’re going to get a dusting.’ He was in his +oilskins then. A good beginning, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“And you got it?”</p> + +<p>“And we did. Anyhow, the sight of that man +made me give a good look to everything.” He +paused for a spell, with his service cap pushed well +back, so that I could see the unweathered top of his +forehead. He began talking to the clock at the end +of the saloon very deliberately. “I’ve seen too much +to be easily scared. Perhaps I’m too old to be +scared at all. No. I wouldn’t call it fear, at my +age. It’s not that. Y’see, you can watch heavy +weather without worry, when you know your ship. +That’s just it—knowing her. It isn’t a matter of +calculation. You know, but you don’t quite know +why. So I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid of big +waters—not often—not to call it that. But it’s +happened at times that I’ve had a sort of white feeling +inside me while gripping a stanchion. You +could tell it then. The little ship herself was +frightened. She’d got more than she could do.</p> + +<p>“So it was that night, and all the next day. I +had the feeling twice. But that blackbird was enjoying +it. He always does, though I hoped then +he’d got more than he’d bargained for. But not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>him. He was all right. I wished he’d gone overside.”</p> + +<p>“Who is he? What’s his caper?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“He’s a parson. Got a quiet vicarage somewhere, +I suppose. I’ve thought about him a lot. +Church too peaceful for him, maybe. He mustn’t +sin, not in a small country parish, and he needs +excitement. It’s as good as drink to him. Better, +perhaps. Anyhow, he looks for trouble. He comes +and has it with us. ‘Sir,’ says the steward, ‘Mr. +Jenkins has just come aboard.’ ‘The hell he has,’ I +say, and look at the glass. Sure enough, down it +goes. And there the wee man is. ‘Hullo, captain,’ +he says, ‘good evening. But it won’t be good for +long. I’ve been watching the barometer, and I’ve +just had this telegram from the Meteorological +Office. There’s going to be a snorter.’ He always +seems as pleased as though he’d come into a legacy. +Rubs his hands. Looks round. ‘I’m coming along +with you,’ says the blackbird.</p> + +<p>“And a snorter it is, for sure. All the coasters +know him. You ought to hear the men when they +see him hurrying along the quay, just before we +cast off. They’d tip him overside, give him all the +trouble there is, if he wasn’t always so grateful +afterwards for the good time he’s had with us. +He’s free with his tips. He pays for his fun.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> +<p>“Well, anyway, that’s over,” said the skipper. +He poured out some more. “I deserve this,” he +went on. “That last was a voyage and a half. +Now look here. There’s four hours to midnight. +I haven’t seen you to talk to you yet. You run +home and get your bag. Come round with us. +You know you can. So don’t argue. I want to +hear about things. It’ll be a quiet trip this time.”</p> + +<p>“Any other passengers?”</p> + +<p>“Not one. It’s not the season. We’ll have it to +ourselves. Likely we’ll have spring weather all +the way. That last blow must have emptied the +sky. What’s this I hear about the American astronomer +who is denying Einstein? Come and tell +me.”</p> + +<p>I rose to go. It was tempting. I had got to +like the smell of the ship. She looked good. And +McLachlan’s reliable face, with its taut mouth +and moustache, and mocking and contemplative +eyes—a talk with him would be more than a holiday. +Could I do it?</p> + +<p>We mounted the companion to the deck. It +was a still night, with an audience of placid little +clouds about a full moon. The dock was asleep. +I went with the captain to his cabin, for he had a +book of mine, and he wished to return it. That +peaceful cabin, with its library, and the broad back +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>of the sailor as he peered into his bookcase, settled +it. I would hurry home and get my bag. Then +there was a voice behind me: “Sir, Mr. Jenkins +has come back. He’s just come aboard.”</p> + +<p>The skipper turned slowly round to stare at his +steward, dragging his spectacles from his eyes as +he did so. His mouth was partly open. He only +stared for some seconds.</p> + +<p>“Has that man brought his bag, Jones?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir. He’s in his oilskins, sir.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI_ON_THE_CHESIL_BANK">VI. ON THE CHESIL BANK</h2></div> + + +<p class="ph3">I</p> + +<p>The Chesil Bank was new to me, and it had no +message. It was pleasing, but it was strange, +though it was England. It was but a whitewashed +wall topped by a tamarisk hedge. Below +the wall was a deserted ridge and beach of shingle, +tawny and glowing, and a wide sea without a +ship in sight. The white wall, the pale and shimmering +stones, and the bright sea, were as far from +my own interests as a West Indian cay.</p> + +<p>A figure appeared in the distance, so unusual a +blot on the shingle that I watched it two miles +away. There was nothing else to do. It moved +with briskness and determination, but appeared to +be unconcerned with anything I could see on that +strand. It came straight towards me as though it +knew I was there, and at length handed me a telegram. +It was a smiling and rosy-cheeked little +messenger from the post-office, three miles away. +The child waited, like the eternal figure of Eros in +a British uniform, as though it had been doing this, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span>off and on, in some form or other, since the gods +began to sport with the affairs of earth. “What’s +all this about?” I asked Eros. But he only +smiled. I wondered who was in such a hurry to +announce something, and opened the envelope. +“Conrad is dead.”</p> + +<p>I stared at the messenger for a space, as though +there must be something more to come. But nothing +more came. Then the messenger spoke. “Anything +to go back?”</p> + +<p>Anything to go back? No, nothing to go back. +Somehow, life seems justified only by some proved +friends and the achievements of good men who are +still with us. Once we were so assured of the opulence +and spiritual vitality of mankind that the +loss of a notable figure did not seem to leave us any +the poorer. But to-day, when it happens, we feel +a distinct diminution of our light. That has been +dimmed of late years by lusty barbarians, and +we look now to the few manifestly superior minds +in our midst to keep our faith in humanity sustained. +The certainty that Joseph Conrad was +somewhere in Kent was an assurance of solace in +years that have not been easily borne.</p> + +<p>Yet I cannot pretend to intimacy with him, nor +to complete absorption in his work. There was +something in him not to be clearly discerned. It +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span>was sought in his books with curiosity, but it did +not appear to be there. The man was only partly +seen, as through a veil. Sometimes his face +peered through the filmy obscurity, massively, in +still and overlooking scrutiny, his eyes remote but +intent, kindly but dangerous, a face in a seclusion +one could approach but never enter. Most of us +are aware, of course, that we are secluded, and that +our friends can never find out where we are. We +wish they could. It is not a joy to us that, in the +nature of things, we must be alone. But Conrad, +perhaps, was more accustomed to exile and a solitary +watch under the silent stars. Occasionally he would +vouchsafe a closer glimpse of himself, something to +make us alert, but at once fade into his own place. +He would utter such a word as <i>Meddlers</i>, meaning +you and me, meaning all those Englishmen, who, +for example, are restive under the constraint of +foolish men and statutes, and plainly show it. He +would exclaim <i>Humanitarians</i> in a way that implied, +merely implied, that pitiful men are a nuisance. +My own guess is that he desired to take part +in English affairs, for he had strong antipathies, +but that he repressed himself, doubting his right +to—well, to meddle. Perhaps it is as well he kept +out. He would have proved a formidable opponent. +But mainly he was silent about the affairs +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>that provoked the prejudices of the English, giving +no more than an appraising and ironic glance. Or +he would, when we talked with emphasis about our +national concerns, make an enigmatic gesture. He +was an aristocrat. Yet what does that mean? Of +course he was. Aristocrat and democrat are tokens +that to-day look much alike, and appear to have no +relevance even to a money-lender. We may throw +them away. Everybody has forgotten what they +mean.</p> + +<p>I suppose it is about eighteen years ago since I +began to read Conrad. I knew of him, but mistrusted +the evidence of the critics. The literature +of the sea did not interest me, for I had had some +experience with that rollicking stuff; the stories +which, we are told, have something called “tang” +in them, the stories that represent seamen as good-natured +imbeciles, with a violent bully here and +there among them altogether too ingenious and +foul-mouthed for comfort. Hearty yarns! But I +happened to know several seamen, and a few ships. +However, one day, in a hurry for a train, I +snatched up the <i>Nigger</i>, and began it in the cab +on the way to Euston. That was a great surprise. +The <i>Narcissus</i> was certainly the kind of craft which +made fast in the South-West India Dock; and old +man Singleton was the embodiment of the virtues +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>and faults of a race of mariners which, in the year +in which I read the book, had all but gone. Singleton +was of the clippers. I had known some of those +men, and I recognised Singleton at once. This +novelist had made a picture of a type of British +seaman which, but for his genius, would have been +lost to us and forgotten.</p> + +<p>There could be no doubt about it. The <i>Nigger</i> +was the thing itself, and I had never expected to +see it. Next I read <i>Typhoon</i>; and the <i>Nan-Shan</i> +and her men were exactly what even now you may +meet any day somewhere east of Tower Hill, if you +care to look, and know what to look for. I was not +certain whether the critics knew it, but to me it was +plain that this worker, who was a Pole, I was told, +had added to the body of English literature testimony +to a period of British ships and seamen which +otherwise would have passed as unmarked as the +voyages of the men of Tyre and Sidon. Its very +atmosphere was there. As for <i>Youth</i> it is, without +doubt, one of the finest short narratives in the language, +and there will never be again such a yarn +of such a voyage in such a ship.</p> + +<p>Conrad told me that not seldom seamen wrote +to him to say that they knew Singleton well, though +“that was not his name.” Of course they knew +Singleton. The novelist was very pleased that he +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>could say Singleton had been recognised. It was +the kind of assurance he needed then. It is all very +well for us to make a fuss now, but Conrad had +given the public his best work years before he received +from us any worthy signal. He was an extremely +sensitive man, and shy and modest, and not +so long ago he desired to learn from Englishmen +that his addition to our literature of the sea was +just, and the kind that we approved. We were in +no hurry to give it. I met him first in the company +of Norman Douglas and Austin Harrison, in the +office of the <i>English Review</i> in its earlier days. +Because I knew he was a noteworthy man, and because +he looked distinguished and a little haughty, +and because only a few weeks before I had reviewed +one of his books of the sea, I was nervous +and merely looked on. Presently Douglas and +Harrison began to talk of the affairs of their Review; +Conrad then came over, and stood beside me. +He touched my arm, apparently as nervous as I +was myself. “Thank you very much for what you +said about my book. You do think I am genuine, +don’t you?”</p> + +<p>I was then a journalist on the staff of a daily +newspaper. I was at Sidney Street and elsewhere. +But Conrad’s first words to me gave me one of the +shocks of my life. Here was a man, whose work, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>however neglected by the public, was manifestly +an admirable achievement. It would be living +when much of what was being done in London, and +many of the great men whose names were in the +headlines daily, would be forgotten. It did not +want much knowledge to divine that. And hardly +a robust young writer who had a column to fill +somewhere every other day but was assured of his +place in the handsome scheme of things, and expected +one to know his work. Yet this man, who +had <i>Youth</i> to his credit, and <i>Typhoon</i> and <i>Lord +Jim</i>, touched the arm of his junior and was pleased +to say “You do think I am genuine, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>A remark of that kind might go far to wreck +one’s own career, if it sank properly in. Yet it is +as well to point out that, though modest, Conrad +could be quick enough in attack when folly or presumption +was about. He was not the man to suffer +gladly the more ruinous absurdities of his fellows. +It was heartening to see that graciousness and diffidence +suddenly go, and those dark eyes become +lambent at the naming of an arrogant crudity.</p> + +<p>I must say there is one of the company of the +<i>Narcissus</i> that I deplore. Conrad should never +have shipped that man Donkin. He is not a man, +but an unresolved dislike, a blot in a good book. +Donkin does a little to spoil the voyage of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span><i>Narcissus</i>, for Conrad imagined that he had +shipped a Cockney; yet Donkin, whenever he +speaks, distresses the ear of a Londoner. We do +not know his dialect. I fear that Donkin may be, +if examined, queer evidence of what was behind +that veil which Conrad preferred to keep between +himself and his readers.</p> + +<p>Mr. Cunninghame Graham, in his preface to +Joseph Conrad’s posthumous <i>Tales of Hearsay</i>, +quotes with evident pleasure from one of the tales: +“It requires a certain greatness of soul to interpret +patriotism worthily—or else a sincerity of feeling +denied to the vulgar refinement of modern thought +which cannot understand the august simplicity of a +sentiment proceeding from the very nature of +things and men.” Vulgar refinement! A shining +epithet. And how it would be quoted with unction +by one group of ardent patriots, who would cheerfully +shoot another group, with admirable sincerity +of feeling, because the patriotism of their opponents, +just as sincere if less admirable, stood in +their way! Patriotism doubtless is like true religion. +It may be entirely an expression of faith, +and so need not be reasonable. And we know who +have true religion. We have it.</p> + +<p>No matter. “There is a fountain in Marrakesh,” +says Mr. Cunninghame Graham, “with a palm tree +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>near it, a gem of Moorish art, with tiles as iridescent +as the scales upon a lizard’s back. Written +in Cufic characters, there is this legend ‘Drink and +admire.’ Read and admire; then return thanks to +Allah who gives water to the thirsty and at long intervals +sends us refreshment for the soul.” And +we return thanks to Allah. There is that to go +back.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">II</p> + +<p>When I return to a London suburb I think I +shall try to cultivate something resembling one of +the drains which occur here and there on the lower +slopes of the Wessex moorland above the Chesil +Bank. These ditches make our best horticultural +efforts as vulgar as excessive begonias. The effect +achieved by a ditch comes, apparently, without intent +and labour. When a drain is constant over +shelves of limestone from an upper spring, and +then gathers into a shallow basin before losing itself +in the porous desert near the sea; when it +occurs so in a narrow combe with a southerly descent +and is sheltered from the hard drive of westerly +weather, then the still lower air is tropical, and +English weeds flourish with an extravagance which +hints at a fearful vitality suppressed by cultivation.</p> + +<p>One such tiny combe is a short walk above the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>tamarisks and the white wall of my house. It is +easy and even pleasant to carry thither those books +some wilful editors consider that I ought to read, +unluckily for the books and for them; because if I +get well above the ditch then the smell of thyme +makes the synthetic odours of a modern novel, as +from a dressing table, seem a little queer. No getting +round that criticism. And if I stay by the +ditch then I waste all the morning standing about +in that luxuriant tangle, as fascinated by it as the +hover-flies appear to be. No good then to try to +read any book. Foolish to expect the wit of recent +prose to prove like a dragon-fly, or a lyric to soar +and poise like a red admiral. On a hot day, too, the +smell of the water mint would make the strongest +inducement of Mille Fleurs seem very silly. Besides, +one has first to get to the ditch. It is quite +near, but the time one takes to reach it is ridiculous. +The ditch lies on the other side of an old wall, which +is built—or created, for the wall bears no evidence +of design—of loose slabs of a limestone of the Lias.</p> + +<p>That wall is the trouble. It is hard to get over +it, and impossible to get round it. Most of it is +hidden in a torrent of bramble, which pours headlong +downhill. That wild of bramble is itself a +domain in its own right. I have discovered that it +is an inhabited tunnel, and the waves of hooked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>branches form its roof. One morning a stoat, which +was leaping about in a game that needs but one +player, saw me coming, and dived into a lower door +of the mass. Out of other doors, till then unknown, +rabbits shot at once, as by magic. It was as though +this earth could erupt all the life it needs, at any +moment. I suspect these hills could do very well +without us, and if Downing Street were to become +permanently untenanted perhaps our island would +not look any the worse, from one point of view.</p> + +<p>A good length of the wall is exposed, at one +place. That part of it is, as an orderly mind would +say, in need of repair. I hope it will never get it. +It is a delightful ruin. Slabs of limestone are +scattered about the foot of a ruin of loose rock. +They vary in colour. They may be a pale buff, or a +bluish grey. The surface of a slab is frequently +water-worn, and then it is smooth and silky to the +touch, and is lustrous. It looks warm and rich, as +though the bones of earth had an unctuous marrow. +And any chance fragment makes the age of the +tumuli on the hill-top as recent as yesterday, for it +will be loaded with fossils, the relics of a sea in +which the dinosaurs lived. The chance cross-sections +of many nacreous shells give such a tablet of +rock the appearance of being marked with shining +hieroglyphics; what reading matter for us! No +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>wonder it takes some time to get over it, this wall! +Lizards whisk into its crevices, the flickering of +shadows where all is still.</p> + +<p>Below the overturned wall is the combe in which +runs the ditch. There is a dark screen of stunted +Scotch firs on the edge of its far side to keep any +of the Channel gusts from spilling over. The +weeds below have no need to adjust themselves to +the draughts. They grow as they please. Teazle +and hemp-agrimony flourish into small trees. Once +you begin to climb uphill through that jungle, +out of the lower fringe of mint and flea-bane—it +is time a better name was found for that pleasant +little yellow herb of the waste and damp lands—you +feel that the heat of the sun is really a direct +and incessant burning. The air is humid, and +strongly aromatic. The growth in that hollow +might be the work of a spell. It does not move. It +seems theatrical and even a little threatening in its +absolute quietude and stillness. Some resolution is +needed for an advance into it. The pinkish murk +of the crowns of hemp-agrimony rises above the +cream plumes of the meadow-sweet, and though +one knows of no attraction in its flower-heads, the +butterflies do. I suppose it gives them an upper +platform in the light. Out in the wind you may not +see a butterfly all day, but here it is usual on a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>sunny morning to find a gathering of scores of +tortoise-shells, peacocks, and red admirals. Perhaps +it is a tradition with them that this is the best +retreat on the coast. It is a good tradition and +should be preserved. I am not sure which of those +insects is the most handsome, but I think whichever +one of them happens to be arranging itself on the +nearest crown, heliotropically, really presenting to +the sun its coloured design, yet behaving—if I remain +as still as the garden itself—as though it +were doing its best to get into the right light for my +benefit. Well, it is for my benefit, as well as for my +humiliation, because I realise that such a design, +though worked to no useful purpose that I can +guess, being in that respect inferior to my own designs, +yet still might be considered superior to the +art of my own well-directed efforts. In any case, +while that assembly of useless living colours is +winged and convulsive above the weeds, on a good +morning, it seems a sort of idleness to make the +usual notes of a critic of books.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">III</p> + +<p>There is no harbour on the curved sweep of this +bank of shingle for many miles in either direction. +The line of the beach in the north curves so imperceptibly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>that to the eye it looks straight; +towards the southern end it sweeps round like the +blade of a sickle, and is as sharp in the run. The +five-fathom mark is close inshore, so the first line +of breakers is direct upon the shingle. The usual +weather, of course, is westerly; nearly always south +of west. And in that direction I suppose the next +land would be the Bahamas, but I have only local +maps, and can lay no exact course to what landfall +is in the eye of the wind. Anyhow, there is so much +ocean between us and the next land that the waves +come in, with any seaward breeze, in regular and +massed attacks. They growl as they charge. In +summer weather like this it is a cheerful noise, for +they are only playing roughly. Then they break +and make the shingle fly, with a roar; and a myriad +little stones, as a wave draws back, follow it with +thin cries.</p> + +<p>Both the sea and the coast look bare and barren. +Terns in couples patrol up and down, and so close +to me that I can see their black caps. Occasionally +one will dive—two seconds under water—and it +comes up with something which glitters for an instant. +On the ridge of the shingle bank a little +vegetation is recumbent, forming close mats and +cushions, with sere stalks that quiver in the wind, +as though apprehensive of their footing. The sea +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>looks even more infertile than the desert of stones. +You feel that you and your book, and the terns +which now and then find something which glitters, +are all the intruding life there is. But some distance +away there are a few boats drawn up high +and dry—they make good shelters to leeward of +sun and wind, and they have a strong but pleasing +smell—and at odd times, usually towards evening, +a crew of six men will come along to get one out. +She is launched down the slope on wooden rollers, +in short runs. Half the crew go in her, and one of +them throws a seine net steadily overside. The +other fellows have the shore end of the seine. The +boat goes round a considerable bight, and then +lands the other end of the net. If you imagine that +hauling in that net and its floats, when any tide is +running, is nothing but fun, the men will not object +if you put on your weight. That way there is +much to be learned.</p> + +<p>The gradient of the shingle is steep, and when +climbing it with a line in tow the feet slip back into +the polished stones at every step. What has this +to do, you ask, with a reader of books? Well, what +do you suppose a bookman learns at a study table +about life? Make him sail a boat now and then, or +haul on a net, or herd cows, or dig clay, or weed a +field instead of new novels; make him work, if not +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>for a living, then just for a change. What does he +imagine keeps London’s chimneys smoking? Once +I heard a rude fellow interrupt a famous political +economist, who was deploring the sad ways of coal +miners. “If you,” he said, “could keep warm in +winter only by hewing your own coal out of the +rock, you know very well you’d sooner buy a pair +of dumb-bells.”</p> + +<p>The feet crunch and slip, steadily, while the floats +of the net seem to bob no nearer the shore. The +weight comes with a rush just about when you feel +it is better to read books than to handle seine nets. +There is a heaving and a slapping on the stones. +To most of us, of course, fish is fish. There is only +fish. Yet one haul of the net is almost sure to bring +in forms that are fishes, certainly, but which demand +to be named. They are so challenging that +they stick in the memory, and must be exorcised +with names, as we resolve, by putting names to +them, all the mysteries that trouble us.</p> + +<p>I love fish markets. I enjoy even Billingsgate, +though one does get pushed about there, early +mornings, and its rain of slobber is bad for neat +raiment. One of the most beautiful and terrifying +scenes on this earth is a fish market of the tropics. +When next you are in Tanjong Priok, do not forget, +as you did last time, to go to its fish market. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>But this English shingle beach, barren as its stones +look, is a good substitute for the Tanjong, when +the seine net is fruitful. For occasionally it is +fruitful, though a deal of wet and heavy labour +may be wasted on six mackerel and some squids. +The fishermen have no use for the squids, nor have +I, but they may be enjoyed. You need only look +at them, for they are like odd Chinese shapes in +polished and transparent quartz, but magically illuminated +from within by the principle of life. +Life flushes each hyaline figure. And though, to +one way of thinking, six mackerel are not so good +as six thousand, yet from another they are just as +good. A wonderful family, that of the mackerel! +You no sooner begin to remember tunny, albacore, +and bonito, than you are translated to a distant +sea. There is something else, too. We never see +mackerel—or, for that matter, any other fish, in +London. We see only provender there. On the +stones of this beach, when the red globe of the sun +sits almost a-top of the western headland, and the +air grows bleak, a mackerel fresh from the sea +might be a big fire-opal lost to the ocean’s enchantment. +Yes, you may feel a shudder of fear when +overlooking the heaving pocket of the seine net.</p> + +<p>And how little one knows of such a gathering +from the gardens of the pulse! A red gurnard, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>with its staring eyes of violet, and the livid violet +margin to its pectorals, never suggests anything +for the pot. Those steady eyes look at you with +disconcerting interest. There are red mullet and +grey, gar-fish like green snakes, horse mackerel, +herring, plaice and dabs, and fry that might be +leaping shavings of bright metal. The other afternoon +a salmon came in with the rest, a very king, +a resplendent silver torpedo of a fellow, who scattered +the shingle before he was overcome. And +now, because I have been warned that I may look +for even stranger messengers from the world we do +not know, I am waiting for the opah, the <i>chimæra +mirabilis</i>, the angel fish, Darkie Charlie, and the +oar-fish or sea-serpent.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">IV</p> + +<p>That overcrowding of which we complain—declaring +first that our cities are much too great, and +then blaming our officials because the buildings do +not spread quickly enough—is something we really +enjoy, I suppose. We could not live without the +support of the multitude. We love to walk down +Fleet Street, jostling each other on the inadequate +sidewalks, pressed together between the motor-buses +and the shop fronts. We find the crowd, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>keep with it on instinct. The fruits of solitude are +astringent and we do not like them. Nothing else +will explain why we would sooner sit uncomfortably +with fifty strangers in a charabanc, for a +journey through a land we cannot see, to a place +which is exactly like the one from which we started, +than stroll across country in peace at our own gait.</p> + +<p>Yesterday I had to go to town again. It ought +to have been a pleasure trip, because the town nearest +to me is described on the posters, with coloured +illustrations, as the kind of place for which men +forsake even their London employment. When I +remembered its many advertised attractions I felt +almost glad that I was out of tobacco. At last I +should see this notable pleasure resort with its +golden sands and its joyous throng. The change +would be interesting, because nothing had happened +in my neighbourhood for some time, except +weather. True, the tamarisk pennants had begun +to rust, and in the next field there was stubble instead +of oats. But, except the admonitions of a +few selected books, the only sounds at an isolated +cottage had been the occasional mewing of the gulls +and the mourning of the sea. I had an idea, too, +that the wind, as it came ashore, was glad to find +our key-hole, for it desired a local habitation and a +voice. The voice of the wind, I noticed, was in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>keeping with the monody of the sea. It is rare for +any stranger to pass this house, though some porpoises +went by the other afternoon. Just beyond +a most individual sea-stock, which somehow is +rooted and exalted on the wall at the foot of the +garden, daring the light of the ocean, I saw the +black forms of the little whales arch past, close in. +And the other day a float, from one of the submarine +nets of the days that were, drifted ashore, +to have a chat with me about old times. It was the +only distinguished stranger on the beach.</p> + +<p>The pleasure resort, therefore, I expect to bring +me back to a conscious existence. Not far from +its station there is a magnificent hotel, with a glass +verandah and palms, under which I saw men in +golfing dress sitting in wicker chairs brooding appreciatively +across a broad asphalted road to the +gathering ground of the charabancs; and, just beyond +the motor vehicles, multitudes of red and +yellow and blue air-balloons were swaying aloft, +though their attachment to earth was out of sight. +I threaded the charabancs, pushed aside men in +white ulsters who shouted at me that it was only +two bob, and brought up against some iron railings. +I leaned on the iron railings for support; +they were providential. The beach was below; I +mean that I suppose it was, for it all was out of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>sight except a pailful of it immediately under my +eyes, which a child was treasuring. A man was +beside the child, in a canvas chair. How he got +there it was impossible to see, but he looked worried +about it, though resigned. Rank on rank of +deck chairs stood between him and the sea, all occupied +by people reading newspapers, or asleep, or +dead; the intermediate spaces were filled with children. +The very sea was invaded. It was impossible +to discern where it reached the land. The +crowds went out to meet it. They slurred its margin. +And on either side of that holiday-maker below +me, for miles apparently, the deck chairs extended +and shut him in; the sea wall rose behind +him. Would he starve to death? Nobody seemed +to care. Nobody lowered a rope. When I left him +he had fallen asleep, luckily; perhaps to dream of +freedom.</p> + +<p>Whoever that man was, he was a voluntary +prisoner. He must have sought it. If that had +been the only beach on that coast, the only view of +the sea to be got in the neighbourhood, it would be +fair to guess that he had gambled with his hour, +and had drawn a blank. Such an accident might +happen to anybody, even in the desperate matter +of catching the only train of the day, which one +had hoped was late. Yet that will not explain his +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>wretched position, because, whether he knew it or +not, there is a beach not a great distance from +where he was a prisoner on which could be lost the +population of a city; but, as I happened to know, +no life was there that morning except a few fishermen +and some parties of sea-birds. Moreover, the +views from that untenanted strand are incomparably +finer and wider. It is possible to see from +there what a desirable island we have, an island +very far from being as overcrowded as we imagine.</p> + +<p>Indeed, if the country about that imprisoned +holiday-maker has a fault, it is that it is largely as +it was when the folk who built its hut-circles and +cromlechs occupied it; though I myself do not find +that fault with it. For most of a long day on its +uplands a traveller will see more tumuli about him +than warm and smoking homesteads. Within a +morning’s walk of that crowded holiday beach, a +fox dropped his rabbit, which he was carrying +home, as I came round a prehistoric earthwork, and +trotted off reluctantly, in broad daylight. He +must have been greatly surprised to find a stranger +was trespassing on his hill. On another morning +we startled a weasel, which at that moment had +worse than startled a short-tailed field mouse. He +was more reluctant to go than the fox, but he did +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span>retire into a tangle. Not for long, though. His +tiny snake-like head was out in a few moments, inspecting +us. Then he stole out to look for his abandoned +dinner. He became very peevish when he +could not find it, for we had hidden it, and explored +all the ruts and tussocks in the neighbourhood in +impulsive leaps and gallops. We had a leisured +view of his cream and chestnut figure, darting and +writhing about a roadway which has long been obsolete. +Once or twice he seemed as though he were +on the point of attacking us.</p> + +<p>The land about that holiday resort has been loved +by many great artists. The men who first tried to +convert the English barbarians to Christianity saw +its fruitfulness and settled there; but you might +suppose, in spite of its colour, the nobility of its +form, and the wealth of its tradition, that there was +something wrong with it, for if you keep away from +the tarred roads which connect the towns, and that +is easy enough, you are in the England that was +before the coming of the machines. Its contrast +with that near holiday beach where the golden +strand is invisible through pleasure-seekers suggests +that the machines have so disordered our +minds that we shall never again feel happy in independent +contact with the earth.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">V</p> + +<p>The breakers are towering to-day. They explode +above the tops of the tamarisks, which are +tormented by a south-wester. If a door is opened, +pandemonium enters the house. So I have been +reading the poets when their subject is the sea. +Byron when in a kindly mood once counselled the +sea to “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, +roll.” Man, especially man the poet, with his conscious +understanding of the universe, is inclined to +haughtiness. He is a conqueror. He feels that he +is one with the powers that roll and are blue. +When he is not haughty and sombre in the presence +of these powers, he includes them with those embracing +thoughts which fondly gather in little children, +fawns, and daisies. I do not speak with certain +knowledge, but I should guess that any anthology +of what poets have written about the sea must +cause a mariner a little astonishment. Are they +the waters he knows? Then he must be a rude and +careless fellow. Now and then when turning the +leaves of the book it may occur to him that perhaps +the poet did not know what he was talking about. +He may set out with “a wet sheet and a flowing sea +and a wind that follows fast,” and bound along at +the rate of knots for some stanzas; but presently +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>he is sure to ask himself why with the wind in that +quarter the good ship “leaves old England on the +lee.”</p> + +<p>Yet that is a minor difficulty. We can see that a +slip of that sort might happen even to a sailor who +attempted poetry, especially when one remembers +the exigencies of metre and rhyming. No; what +would give the mariner most surprise would be the +love the poets feel for the sea, their delight in it, +their robust faith in its blueness and its rolling and +in its beneficent and healing qualities. It might be +a public garden, maintained by a highly capable +Gardener. I have a number of those special anthologies, +and a re-reading of them helps me to +understand why it is that the people who, as they +say, love the sea, prefer to show their love only at +certain favoured points of our coasts, and to leave +most of the shore line to the wind and the gulls. +These anthologies are not together for their assuagement; +for the most part, the poems concern an +ocean which can be enjoyably contemplated on a +warm day, in choice company, with light thoughts +hovering about, vague but gleaming, like the birds. +We must have the moral support of society when +loving the sea. What would happen if we were left +alone with it? One lonely evening by its margin +might be enough to scare most of us towards the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>comfort of the nearest railway station’s lamps. +There is but little suggestion of this, however, in +the anthologies. They brave it out. “<i>High Tide +on the Coast of Lincolnshire</i>,” or “<i>The Sands of +Dee</i>”—such unexpected chill shadows may at times +intervene, and change the look of the sea. The +brightness goes. Yet only as the sun goes when +a trifling cloud blows across its light and warmth. +The waves soon sparkle once more according to +their poetic wont, and the deep and dark blue ocean +rolls on, the ships are brave and free, and jovial +sailors look out on their world like happy imbeciles +whose function it is to provide matter for our superior +amusement. At the worst they saunter +through Ratcliffe, as did the crew of the steamer +<i>Bolivar</i>, “drunk and raising Cain,” but maintaining +even then, we see, their reputation for imbecility. +If they survive a dangerous voyage in a +steamer, which was only a pack of “rotten plates +puttied up with tar,” and meant to founder, their +sailor-like protest shows merely in a riotous booze. +“Euchred God Almighty’s storm, bluffed the eternal +sea!” So let us adjourn to a tavern.</p> + +<p>We appear to be incorrigibly romantic. We +prefer to give the reality any name but the one +which shows we have surmised its nature. It is +impolite in Malay society, and even unlucky at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>night, to mention the dreaded tiger by name. You +must refer to him in an allusive and friendly way. +With a maritime people the sea is lovely, and sailors +are “salts” who provide some comic relief. The +more absurd we find those fellows, then the more +certain it is that they are genuine “old shellbacks.” +How curious it is, then, that sea-lovers are so careful +about encountering the object of their affections +that they abstain from it except with the support of +a multitude! What we mean is, I suppose, that we +enjoy leisure when in the midst of our fellow +creatures, in a place where everything is done to +prevent our coming under those shadows cast by +matters which puzzle or distress us, and therefore +should be ignored or misnamed.</p> + +<p>The sea is such a shadow, whatever the light +upon it. The soul of the sea, if it has one, is like +that fabulous “soul of the war,” something from +which no joy can come by brooding upon it. The +sea fascinates me, I admit. I should not enjoy an +English holiday away from the coast, and I should +be glad if some wise person could explain exactly +why. I have felt the same attraction, though then +it was more acute, in the aspect of a desolate village +which was under the ruthless eye of the +enemy’s guns. I did not want to go there, but I +went. At sunset alone on a beach where there is +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>nothing but sea and sky and the forsaken shore, the +look of the running waters, their harsh and melancholy +voices, and the bleak wind which shivers the +very herbage, make you feel that you are a homeless +stranger. Is this your place? It does not look +like it. If verses from the poets then come to your +mind, it is only in an ironic way. Absurd to +apostrophise that scene! Much effect upon it loving +it would have. Perhaps the mere effort encourages +the fearful and doubting heart of man, +and for that reason we may welcome the poets and +the romanticists, who give us the sensation of conquerors, +which is something towards the conquest +of mind over matter.</p> + +<p>The romance of the sea, the sea that inspired +exultant lyric and stately prose, the sea wonderful +with the old clippers to which we have looked back +wistfully, is not quite the sea, we are beginning to +feel, that we used to picture. Does that sea exist? +It may be ungracious to question it at this moment, +so soon after our recent rapture, sincerely felt, over +the <i>Cutty Sark</i>. Yet there it is. We are living in +an age of revolt. We are interrogating much that +once was never questioned. Things must prove +themselves anew. What we used to value may be +lumber, and must go if it is, even when it is lumber +of the mind.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="p1581_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p1581_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>As to the sea, it has no human attributes whatever</i>—<br> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> +<p>As to the sea, it has no human attributes whatever, +though it will absorb anything the poet will +give it. It is as alien as the stars, which are bright +over lovers, but were just as friendly to Scott’s +little party when the blizzard stopped. We may +feel what we like when we witness, from a ship off +Sumatra, a tropical sunset. The spectacle of the +billows of the uplifted Western ocean, in a winter +twilight, is enough to make a man feel that he +ought to have a religion; but that is only a confession +of man’s wondering and questioning mind. +There is more pertaining to man in a kitchen midden +than in the spacious ocean when it most attracts +us. Man, fronting the sea, the sea which is, inexplicably, +both hostile and friendly to him because it +knows nothing of his existence and his noble aims, +is saddened, and is driven to meet its impersonal +indifference with fine phrases, that his sense of his +worth and his dignity may be rehabilitated. He +knows it is absurd to pretend to any love for the +sea.</p> + +<p>Then why does the sea attract us? For it does, +even though we feel now that our lyrical exultation +over its moods has been oddly irrelevant. It +attracted in the same way the good seamen who +were so ill-rewarded for their skill and endurance +when making for us what is now the wistful memory +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>of the clippers. They were ill-used, those men. +We may make their times romantic in retrospective +brooding, and with a sombre imagining of the soul +of man fronting the hostile elements in stoic endurance. +But it will not do. So much of their heroic +endurance was necessitated by facts which any +sensible dog would have avoided once he knew what +they were like. To live in such quarters, on such +food, while doing such work, when there was no +need for it, when so easily it could have been +ordered otherwise, may afford matter for an Iliad, +if we choose to ignore the critical intelligence, but +we cannot get credit for common sense on the score +of it. And that kind of sense should be the beginning +of the literature of the sea, as of all literature.</p> + +<p>Let us examine more cautiously, for example, +that favourite book of the sea of ours, <i>The Nigger</i>. +Remember that the barque <i>Narcissus</i> was property, +just as is a farm, and might never have been +on her beam ends but for an eagerness for more +money. Now consider the attitude of her master +and his officers to their charge, as Conrad posed +them for our approval; regard the fortitude and +skill of the men in circumstances which Conrad pictures +so vividly that we shrink as from a physical +contact; and then observe Donkin, that Cockney +guy set up for the contempt of all stout and virtuous +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>lovers of duty; and own up! Is it just? Do +we know Donkin the Cockney as at once we know +Singleton, the old man of the sea? We know we +do not. Such treatment ashore drove agricultural +labourers to the penal settlements of Australia. +These facts, so important in any examination of the +problem of conduct—and that, we know, is what +the <i>Nigger</i> is,—are obscured by our admiration for +Conrad’s noble tribute to Singleton, and for his +pictures of a ship fighting the Southern Ocean.</p> + +<p>No doubt it would suit some ship-owners if the +sea could be accepted as a cheap and providential +means of testing the fundamental quality of the +souls of men; and obviously some men would stand +the test well. But beyond noting that this would +ease the labours of the Recording Angel, I can see +nothing in its favour. There is a need in literature, +as in politics, to clear the mind of cant. Men +intrinsically may be of less importance than good +ships and the august spectacle of the sea; but they +ought not to be so to us.</p> + +<p>But one could go on for a long time on such a +subject as the sea in English literature, if one +named merely the books and poems which to us +seem to be right. There is, however, no need. One +great sea story comprehends them all, as all who +know <i>Moby Dick</i> know well enough. It is the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>greatest book in the language on ships and the sea, +because it is more than that. For the White Whale, +that mythical monster, is as elusive as the motive +of a symphony of Beethoven’s. Did the whale ever +exist? There is the music to prove it. The harpooners +followed it, a shadow among the very stars. +That is something like a whaling voyage, when the +boats leave the seas to hurl a lance at the Great +Bear. Other voyages must end. But the quest of +Captain Ahab’s ship is without end; and what +would we expect of a craft whose master soliloquises +like Macbeth? Outside the epistles of St. +Paul, is there a sermon in any book which is like +Father Mapple’s to the folk in his chapel at New +Bedford? The cross-bearings taken by Captain +Ahab to find his ship’s position, to set, if he can, +the right course for her, would bring his ship to a +harbour no man has ever reached. And he did not +reach it. Destiny sank him and his companions in +the waste. Yet we know the high adventure of his +phantom whaler continues in the hearts of men. +That is where the <i>Pequod</i> sank.</p> + +<p>Many years ago I was discussing the literature +of the sea with a Fleet Street colleague, a clever +and versatile man against whose volatile enthusiasms +experience had taught me to guard myself +well. He began to talk of <i>Moby Dick</i>. Talk! He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>soon became incoherent. He swept aside all other +books of the sea with a free, contemptuous gesture. +There was only one book of the sea, and there never +would be another. I fear that a native caution has +shut me from many good things in life, so I smiled +at my friend; yet, in the way of a cautious man, I +smiled at him with sound reason. I had not read +the White Whale; I had only heard rumours of it. +But I had read <i>Typee</i> and <i>Omoo</i>, and I knew +them even better than my colleague; about whom I +may point out that a brief experience on the Somme +battlefield unbalanced his mind at last, and he died +insane. Now <i>Typee</i> and its mate are brisk and attractive +narratives of travel and adventure, exuberantly +descriptive, lively with their honey-coloured +girls and palm groves, jolly with the talk +of seamen in forecastles of ships sailing waters few +of us know, though we all wish we did, and full of +the observation of an original mind in a tropic +world that is no more. But they are not great literature. +I knew perfectly well that the author of +<i>Typee</i> was not the man to rise to that stellar altitude +which moved my colleague to rapture and +wonder. That was not Melville’s plane, and having +read the American writer’s first two books, I +thought a busy man, amid a wilderness of unread +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span>works, need not bother himself about this White +Whale, for hardly a doubt it was just a whale.</p> + +<p>I was wrong. My friend who was unbalanced +by the war was right. I find it difficult now to +speak of Melville’s book within measure, for I have +no doubt <i>Moby Dick</i> goes into that small company +of extravagant and generative works which have +made other writers fertile, the books we cannot +classify, but which must be read by every man who +writes, <i>Gargantua and Pantagruel</i>, <i>Don Quixote</i>, +<i>Gulliver’s Travels</i>, <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, and the <i>Pickwick +Papers</i>. That is where <i>Moby Dick</i> is, and it +is therefore as important a creative effort as America +has made in her history. I would sing the “Star +Spangled Banner,” if that is the proper hymn, with +fervour, with the deepest sense of debt and gratitude, +at any patriotic service of thanksgiving over +<i>Moby Dick</i>. That book is one of the best things +America has done since the Declaration of Independence. +It justifies her revolution. I would +assist another body of Pilgrim Fathers to any place +on earth if on their venture depended the vitality of +the seed of such a book as that. The indeterminate +jungle of humanity flowers and is justified in its +bibles, which carry in microcosm the fortunate future +of mankind, or if there be no fortune for it in +its future, then in its tragic but godlike story.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> +<p>If a reader of books desires to know the truth +about his understanding of English prose, whether +it is natural and proper, or whether his interest in +it has been but suggested by the critics and the conventions +of the more popular reading of his time, +like the habit of going to Church or voting at elections, +there is a positive test. Let him read the +book by Herman Melville about a whale. If he +does not like it he should not read it. As soon as +imagination begins to sport with our language, then +our words, that were familiar, become strange; +their import seems different; you cannot see quite +through them. They suggest that they are mocking +us. They seem a trifle mad. They break free +from our rules and behave indecorously. They are +transmuted from the solid currency into invalid +hints and shadows with shifting lights and implications. +They startle with suggestions of deeps +around us the existence of which we had not suspected. +They hover too perilously near the horizon +of sanity and proved things, beyond which we +venture at our peril. They become alive and opalescent, +and can be terrifying with the foreshadowing +of powers beyond the range of what has been explored +and is understood. As in all great art, +something is suggested in Melville’s book that is +above and greater than the matter of the story. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>Upon the figures in Melville’s drama and their +circumstances there fall lights and glooms from +what is ulterior, tremendous, and undivulged. +Through the design made by the voyage of the +<i>Pequod</i> there is determined, as by chance, a purpose +for which her men did not sign, and which +is not in her charter.</p> + +<p>But if we wish to criticize the book then we +might as well try to analyse the precession of the +equinoxes. The book defies the literary critics, who +are not used to sperm whales. While reading +<i>Moby Dick</i> you often feel that the author is possessed, +that what he is doing is dictated by something +not himself which compels him to use our accepted +symbols with obliquity. You fear, now and +then, that the sad and steady eye of the Ancient +Mariner is on the point of flaring into a mania that +may prophesy, or rave. His words go to the limit +of their hold on the polite and reasonable. Yet +they do not break loose. It is possible that we have +not sufficient intelligence to rise to the height at +which Melville was considered to be mad. After +all, what is common sense? The commonest sense, +Thoreau tells us, is that of men asleep, which they +express by snoring; and we know that we ourselves +might be thought a little queer if we went beyond +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>the plain and verifiable noises in everybody’s +language.</p> + +<p>But who has resolved poetry into its elements? +Who knows what <i>Christabel</i> means? And who +knows why a book, which was neglected for seventy +years, should be accepted to-day as though light +had only just come through it? I suppose our +thoughts have veered. Certainly of late years +much has happened to change them; and when our +thoughts change, then the apparitions change about +us. We change our thoughts and change our world. +We see even in <i>Moby Dick</i> what was invisible to +the people to whom the book was first given. On a +winter’s night, only a year or two ago, I was intrigued +into a drawing-room in a London suburb to +hear a group of neighbours, who were men of commerce, +discuss this book of Melville’s. They did +so with animation, and the symptoms of wonder. +It could not have happened before the war. Was +some unseen door now open? Were we in communication +with influences that had been unknown +to us? I was greatly surprised, for I knew well +enough that I and they would not have been found +there, ten years before, discussing such a book. +The polite discussion of accepted books is all very +well; but this book was dangerous. One ought not, +without due consideration, to set out at night from +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>a suburban villa to hunt a shadowy monster in the +sky. Heaven alone knows where they may lead us. +And my wonder was the greater when a shy +stranger there, who looked more like a bank manager +than a South Sea Whaler, confessed during +the discussion, quite casually, that Melville’s book +reminded him of Macbeth. Of course, those +knocks on the castle door! That was the very +thought which had struck me. I looked at that +man with awe, as though I was in the wake of the +White Whale itself. I left that gathering much too +late of a winter’s night for comfort, and a blizzard +struck us. But what is a blizzard at midnight to a +wayfarer who has just had happy confirmation, an +unexpected signal amid the bewildering chaos and +disasters of his time and culture, that he is in the +dawn of another age, and that other watchers of +the sky know of more light?</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VI</p> + +<p>The home-sick palm that was dying on the hotel +verandah touched with a dry finger the coat sleeve +of the man next to me. He picked up the leaf and +idly rolled it like a cigarette. “Pleasant here, isn’t +it?” he said. His eyes wandered kindly round the +assembly of wicker chairs in that glasshouse. We +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>were nearest to the door, and could feel what little +air was stirring. A woman remarkable because her +lips were a crimson imposition which did not restore +youth to the seamed pallor of her face, and who +wore a necklace of great lumps of amber, was giving +chocolates to a spaniel at the next table.</p> + +<p>“Rum little face that dog’s got,” said the man. +“Wonder what the next fad in dogs for ladies will +be. That one can hardly breathe, and can’t walk.”</p> + +<p>He was amused, and touched his fair hair very +lightly, for it was as accurately paraded as—I +merely guess—his own platoon would be. His +moustache was neat. His chin was in good taste. +His eyes went seaward, where a turquoise space +faded into a haze between two vague headlands, +and at once he became alert and sat upright. He +lifted his binoculars and scanned the Channel. +“They’re destroyers out there, aren’t they?” he +asked, as interested as though he hoped that truth +had appeared in the offing. He carefully focussed +his glasses. “And that’s a Dreadnought, I’m sure.” +Yes, they seemed to be destroyers, and the other a +battle cruiser.</p> + +<p>The saturnine yachtsman, the best bridge-player +in the hotel, in white duck trousers and a reefer +jacket, whose yacht had not yet arrived, joined us. +He said gravely, as though confirming news that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>was important, but till he spoke was improbable, +that they were destroyers and a battle cruiser. +They were, he remarked, of the latest type of destroyer. +The French had nothing so good.</p> + +<p>The lady with the dark lips left her dog and +came to look seaward. “Are they really warships? +How thrilling. What are they doing?”</p> + +<p>We did not tell her. We did not know. But +that cheerful and irrepressible fellow, who often +intrudes an unfortunate comment which is always +followed by his own laughter, though we never +speak to him, blithely answered the lady. “What +are they doing? Wasting taxes,” he said, and +laughed, of course.</p> + +<p>The yachtsman, whose ship was late, turned +wearily and left us, the young man with the disciplined +hair wound the strap round his glasses as +though he had heard nothing, and the lady went to +stop the noise her dog was making, for the old +fellow sitting with his nurse was glaring malignantly +at the spaniel over his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Only thing against this place is, one can’t get +any golf,” my young friend complained, and began +to hum a tune that was popular about the bandstand. +He continued to look out to sea; his eyes +avoided the asphalted promenade where the charabancs +assembled. The beach was out of sight, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span>it must have been crowded, for a multitude of air-balloons +swayed above it. Shrill far-off cries came +from there. “Sounds as if the sea-serpent were +among the girls,” said the young man. “Let’s go +and look.”</p> + +<p>We strolled over. We leaned on the iron rails +of the concrete wall and looked down on the holiday-makers. +The beach was sunk beneath deck chairs +and recumbent forms. The incoming tide +was compressing the multitude against the sea wall, +and two more pleasure-seekers could have found no +place down there.</p> + +<p>“That nipper—that one in the red varnished +breeches—he seems to have all the sand there is.” +My friend pointed to a child with a toy bucket beneath. +“Doesn’t look too golden, does it?”</p> + +<p>Our eyes roved. “I say, look at this fellow,” +pleaded my companion and nudged me. A man +stood near us leaning on the rail. He was surveying +the people from the cities taking their pleasure. +It was a lumpy figure, in rough clothes, in old velveteen +riding breeches, and leggings that were almost +globular. His cap, perched well forward on +a tousled black head, gave him a look of crafty +loutishness. His jowl was purplish and enormous, +and that morning’s razor had polished it. The +light actually glinted on the health of that broad +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>mask, which was as solid and placid as that of an +animal.</p> + +<p>“Pretty bovine, that fellow. Genuine bit of local +clay all right,” my friend whispered. “Shouldn’t +like to upset him, though. Look at his blessed +arms!”</p> + +<p>But I had, when they were bare. They are chestnut +in colour, and swell in an extraordinary way +when they haul on a seine net or a bogged wagon.</p> + +<p>“If I knew how long it would take him to think +about it I’d ask him what he thinks of this crowd. +Anyhow, the poor fellow wouldn’t last five minutes +in the place where these people come from.” Some +joyous screams from the water appeared to confirm +this. Perhaps the quick wits of the merry folk +below had divined even our thoughts. The bovine +face stared on, its chin projecting a pipe.</p> + +<p>“He looks healthy enough,” commented my +friend, “but the clay has got into his system. Do +you think he has a rational opinion about anything? +What makes him move about?” At that moment +the man slowly raised his bulk, looked steadily at +his pipe for some moments, then peered seawards, +and went away, without a glance at us.</p> + +<p>I saw him again some miles from the hotel, where +he stood at the end of a path that led up to his farm, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>beside a patch of lusty hog-weed which was as tall +as himself. He nodded, and grinned.</p> + +<p>“Had enough of that place? I been back some +time. Thought the wind was shifting.” He +glanced up at the cirrus with his piggy eyes. +“Ought to be mackerel in the bay this evening. +Think I can smell ’em. Water looks like mackerel.... +Are you passing Jimmy Higgs? Tell him to +get the crew. Pretty good catch, unless I’m mistaken, +and we’ll be the first boat.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be along by the time you’re ready,” he said, +turning away. “Got the cows to see to now.” He +jerked his thumb towards the distant holiday-makers. +“Nothing for them to eat unless we see +to it.”</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VII</p> + +<p>The farmhouse with its outbuildings, all built of +a mellowed limestone, from a little distance could +have been only an exposure of the bare bones of +the hillside. The group of grey structures were +formless till the sun was through the mist that +morning and touched the lichened roof of the house +into a rectangle of orange light. That was the sign +that it was a human habitation, for weathered +buttresses and grey hummocks of rock are not infrequent +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>on the slope above our walled garden by +the shingle. The gaunt ribs of the earth show +through its thin turf and shaggy tufts of furze and +bracken. It surprises a visitor that England should +look so abandoned and desolate, yet so bright and +tranquil.</p> + +<p>But desolation is not the same as darkness. The +life on those steep and barren uplands is abundant; +and, though useless, it evidently springs from the +original fount, which seems to be as full as at the +beginning. Nothing, we discovered, as we climbed +to the moor, had been withheld from the bracken +because it is an unprofitable crop. It was a maze, +too, of the dry tracks of wild creatures, as though +it were a busy metropolis the citizens of which were +all absent for the day. The day now was radiant. +The furze, which made vivid islands of new green +and gold in wide lakes of purple, for the heather +was in bloom, suggested that we have yet to learn +the full meaning of profit. It was tough as well as +effulgent, and hinted of staple crops for uses beyond +any that figured in the news of the day. +Those crops are not quoted. Perhaps we know less +about markets than we thought. The morning was +so good that one felt nonsensical.</p> + +<p>Yet, as the visitor from London said to me: +“What markets are you talking about? Don’t be +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>absurd. And what good would they be to us if we +knew them?” He wanted no transcendental nonsense, +which was only a lazy trick to escape from the +facts. Bracken and furze, in modern society, were +enemies to be abolished. They were in the way. +They ought to be mutton and butter. He regarded +any other view of them as a fantasy, which had no +validity except to the sentimental. “Of course,” +he said, pausing, as we reached the height, at the +surprise of broad valleys and hills beyond, “I enjoy +this as much as you do. It’s a fine day, so far—though +something is working up in the southwest, +by the look of it.” He swept an arm of happy +understanding over the peace and splendour of the +earth. “All that is lovely merely because we have +agreed to call it so. That’s its full title to loveliness. +It does not exist in its own right. When we +choose to change it into something different we +shall. That right belongs to us. The dyes of those +flowers come of fortuitous chemistry, and the forms +of those hills of the chance of upheaval, the textures +of the rocks, and the weather. We call the colours +lovely and the forms of the hills noble. That is only +our view of it. They are promoted to the titles we +give them.” We strode on, the gods of the earth +to which we could give any shape we chose. It +certainly was a fine day.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> +<p>He thought, indeed, this visitor, that the fact +that we enjoyed a fine day was its sole justification. +As to the gold of the furze, those bushes would as +soon see us perish of exposure under their thorns +as exhilarate us with their new gold. And we could +please ourselves about it. It did not matter to the +furze bushes whether we perished or admired. And +those cushions of rosy heath, pendant in half-circles +over a scar in the ground where white flints were +set in buff-coloured earth which seemed self-luminous, +what were they but an aesthetic arrangement +of our own? In themselves they were nothing. +They were not related to anything, except to what +was in our own minds. We made them rational because +we preferred them so. But the moor was +not anything in reason at all. Perhaps that lovely +arrangement had never been noticed before, and +the chance brush-work of the next storm might +obliterate the beautiful irrelevancy for ever. Then +where would it be?</p> + +<p>I had no answer to make. There is no answer to +be made that is valid for all of us. The arrangement +of rose, white and buff continued its irrelevant +appeal, without any additional emphasis to assist +its dumb case. The sun was warm. The air, when +it stirred, smelt of herbs. The critic’s little daughter, +who might have been listening to her seniors +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>giving this world the reasons for its existence, she, +too, made no sign. She was merely unquestionably +bright and good, like the rose and gold, and smiled +like the sun, without a word.</p> + +<p>Possibly the critic was right. There was no sense +in it all. Only our own well-being assured us the +moorland was good; the coincidence was happy. +“Wait and see what the place is like when the +weather changes,” he said.</p> + +<p>It changed. A fog drifted in from the sea. +One hill-slope would be shining and its neighbour +expunged. The time came when all the +distant view had dissolved. The light went out of +the colours. As we tried to find our way home in +the growing murk it was noticeable that there were +more thorns than gold to the furze. The tracks +confused us. They were not made by creatures having +our rational impulses. They lead nowhere. As +we came round an old tumulus an object moved +ahead of us. It vanished, unrecognised, in the mist. +It left behind a dead rabbit. We were sorry to +have missed a sight of that fox.</p> + +<p>Its victim had only just died. Its moist eye +looked up at us, apparently in bright understanding. +We examined it, admired its soft, warm fur, +and then we left it, in an unattractive huddle, on +the turf. “We could continue our little discussion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>on nature,” he said, “with that murdered rabbit as +a text, couldn’t we? Not so pretty as the purple +heather?” He smiled while waiting for my answer.</p> + +<p>I looked back at the victim. The critic’s little +daughter was stooping over it, tenderly setting +bunny in comfort under the shelter of a bush. Her +compassionate figure was all I could see in the fog +behind us.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VIII</p> + +<p>What particularly attracted me, this autumn +morning, was a blade of grass under the tamarisk +hedge. There are not many such mornings, even +in the best of years. It was as though the earth +were trying to restore one’s faith completely for +the winter, so that the soul should hibernate in +security and repose—live through hard times, as +it were, on the bounty of this gift of fat. The +branches of the tamarisk, usually troubled, for they +face the Atlantic, were in complete repose. Their +green feathers were on young stems of shining +coral. The sea was as placid as a lower sky. On +some days here, even a modern destroyer, making +for shelter, looks a poor little thing, utterly insignificant, +an item of pathetic flotsam in a world which +treats it with violent derision; indeed, the treatment +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>is greatly worse than that, for it comes obviously of +magnificent indifference to man the disturber and +destroyer. It is as much as you can do to keep your +glasses fixed in concern on that warship, which now +and then is cruelly effaced. For our English +seas are as fickle as is faith in the winds of doctrine.</p> + +<p>But on this morning a sheldrake, diving about in +five fathoms just off shore, was more noticeable +than a fleet of ships would be on other days. When +he dived he sent rings over the blue glass. The +sea was like that. The distant cliffs were only +something about which you were quite sure, yet +but faintly remembered. It was easy to believe +news had arrived that morning which we should all +be glad to hear, and that somehow the sheldrake had +heard the word already. And there was that blade +of grass under the tamarisk. There were many +blades of grass there, of course, but this one stood +out. It topped the rest. It was arched above its +fellows. Its blade, of bluish green, was set with +minute beads of dew, and the angle of the sunlight +was lucky. The blade was iridescent. It glittered +from many minute suns. It flashed at times in a +way to which grass has no right, and the flashes +were of ruby and emerald. You may search up and +down Bond Street with the ready money in your +pocket, and you will not find anything so good. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>Yet I could not collect my treasure. I had to leave +it where I found it. Is treasure always like that?</p> + +<p>I abandoned it, feeling much more confident and +refreshed than ever I do when a book of philosophy +confirms, with irrefragable arguments, some of my +private prejudices, and sat on a hummock of thyme +to watch the sheldrake. Then a man of letters came +and sat beside me. I did not tell him about my +feast of grass. What would have been the good? +I did not recall that that kind of refreshment is +down in any book; for Nebuchadnezzar’s attempt +on grass, we may recall, was somewhat different. +We began, instead, to talk of Bond Street, or +rather, of literary criticism, about which I know +nothing but my prejudices; and they, possibly, were +found somewhere in the neighbourhood of that +street, and therefore have no relationship to the +morning dew. I noticed that the critic himself +seemed unsettled that morning, though whether the +blue of the sky had got into his head to change the +Oxford blue, or whether he, too, had been feeding +on honeydew, it is not for me to say. One should +never, except with a full sense of the awful implication, +call another person mad; for the improvident +beauty of the world, placed where we either miss it, +or destroy it, might serve as evidence of the madness +of God. It is possible that we may even lightly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span>blaspheme when we call a strange fellow a little +mad. Nevertheless, the critic’s words at least +startled me. He was tying a knot in a stalk of +thrift, and he remarked casually: “It seems to me +you can bring all art down to one test.” He gave +me that test, which is a passage beginning “Consider +the lilies of the field.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps we had better not. Perhaps a consideration +which began with a lily might tarnish, if it +were allowed, more than the glory of wise kings. +To begin with such a challenge to one’s opinions is +unwise, because it would not allow the consequent +argument a chance to find approval for the things +we most admire. But evidently those lilies of the +field were of importance to the commentator who +once begged his fellow-men to consider them, or objects +so common by the wayside could not have been +marked by him in favour. He so exalted +those common weeds that they diminished, though +that was not their aim, the cherished national tradition +of a great monarch. Is that an approach to +a just criticism of art? It may be so. After that +accidental discovery of the wasted treasure behind +me it was impossible to reject at once so disastrous +a theory. I am almost prepared to believe there +may be something in it. It is possible that scientific +critics, who judge by fixed criteria of analysis +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>and comparison, and who are startled as much by +a show of life in a book as an anatomist would be if +the corpse moved under his knife, had better regard +it; unless, like the girl in melodrama, they would +prefer to take the wrong turning. I heard a farmer +the other day calling this a bad year. But what +did he want? If he had climbed out of his fields to +where the young green and gold of the furze was +among the purple heather he would have seen that +the fount of life was just as full as ever.</p> + +<p>Seaward there is only light, and the smoke of a +distant steamer low down. The westerly gales have +ceased at last, as if there were no more reason to +bring ships home to a land that not long ago was +populous, but now is not. The smoke of that +steamer in the southwest remains as a dark blur, +the slowly fading memory of a busy past, long after +she must have lifted another landmark. In all the +wide world, from the beach as it is to-day, that +distant trace of smoke is the only sign of human +activity.</p> + +<p>In the frail shine of this autumn morning, reminiscent +and tranquil, the broad ridge of shingle, +miles long, the product of centuries of storms, appears +unsubstantial. There are, on its summit and +terraces, mirages of blue pools and lakes where no +water can be. No breakers explode on it to-day. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>The sea is a rigid mirror. The high downs behind +the shingle, that have been dark with an antiquity +of heather, tumuli, and frowning weather, are +happily released to the sky, and are buoyant as +though raised by an inner glow.</p> + +<p>Not many days in the year are like this. Two, +or three? And the resemblance of our own coast +to a southern shore is now remarkable. The old +wall of the steading behind the beach is not merely +whitewashed. That wall’s brightness this morning +might be, like moonshine, the assurance of what +once stood there. Only the dark feathers of tamarisk +above it pretend to substance, and they are +drowsy after the buffeting of a wild summer, and +bend asleep over the wall. That secluded place has +grown familiar to me, but on a day like this, with +the strong smell of decaying sea litter—long cables +of pulse have been laid along the shingle by continual +hard weather—and my footsteps the only +sound, I approach that wall as if it were an undiscovered +secret on an unfrequented strand of the +Tortugas. No need to go out of England for +adventure. Adventure is never anywhere unless +we make it. Chance releases it; some unexpected +incidence of little things. The trouble is to know +it in time, when we see it. If we are not ready for +it, then it is not there.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> +<p>This morning I had the feeling that I was much +nearer that fellow in the round barrow above the +steading, whoever he used to be, than ever I felt on +a glum day. Such autumn light as this is mocking. +When the weather is overcast the tumulus is deeply +sundered by time, but a September sun makes yesterday +of it. Almost hidden in the fig-wort and +hemp-agrimony of a dry ditch behind the shingle +is a rusty globe, a dead mine of the war, and from +an embankment above it I picked out a flint arrowhead; +or rather, to-day’s odd and revealing shine +betrayed it to me there. But in the gay and mocking +light of such a morning both weapons belong +to the same time in man’s short history. They were +used in the same war. They will be separate from +us, and both will become equally ancient, when we +are of another mind and temper. When will that +be? We may have to maintain ourselves in such +light as this, regardless of the weather.</p> + +<p>For what this oblique light makes clear is that +there is a life and a tendency which goes on outside +our own, and is indifferent to our most important +crises. It is not affected by them. No doubt it +affects us; but we do not often surmise that. It is +lusty and valid, and we may suppose that it knows +exactly what it is about. We may be too proud +in our assurance that this other life has a less +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>authentic word about its destiny than has been +given to us. At sunrise to-day, on the high ridge +of the shingle which rose between me and the sea, +six herons stood motionless in a row, like immense +figures of bronze. They were gigantic and ominous +in that light. They stood in another world. They +were like a warning of what once was, and could +be again, huge and threatening, magnified out of +all resemblance to birds, legendary figures which +closed vast gulfs of time at a glance and put the +familiar shingle in another geological epoch. When +they rose and slowly beat the air with concave pinions +I thought the very Heaven was undulating. +With those grotesque black monsters shaking the +sky, it looked as though man had not yet arrived. +Anyhow, he was a mere circumstance—he could +come and go—but a life not his persisted, and was in +closer accord with whatever power it is that has no +need to reckon time and space, but alters seas and +continents at leisure.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII_THE_PLACE_WE_KNOW_BEST">VII. THE PLACE WE KNOW BEST</h2></div> + + +<p>It is an ancient notion that the earth never forgets +any of our thoughts and acts. When we leave +home not to return, it bears us in mind. Man has +long entertained this strange and disturbing +thought. The old metaphysicians, who could always +come to any conclusion they desired, hinted +the same opinion, that we leave an impress on the +air; or something as substantial as that. And why +should we deny it? It would be unreasonable to +expect a seal upon the invisible to be discernible, +and just as unreasonable to deny its existence because +it could not be seen. We cannot declare our +record is not there; but it will never be apprehended +by insensitive souls, we may safely assume, any +more than the Absolute, or the other unseen abstractions +which seem to shrink from the coarse contact +of our senses. We may not expect a memory haunting +a place to reveal itself even when our mood is +right, and the hour. It may not be sought, we are +told. Like Truth, it cannot be proved. It comes +when we are not looking for it. It is never more +precise than a sudden doubt, a wonder apparently +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span>unprovoked, a surmise which abruptly checks our +well-ordered activities.</p> + +<p>Well, it is a novel kind of ghost story, and perhaps +it has as much in it as most ghost stories, for +it was a sceptic who declared sadly that the trouble +with a ghost is that there is no ghost. We know +there are many people who do not rejoice in the +thought that we leave no lasting impression on our +circumstances. They do not consider the greater +responsibility a certainty of this memory of earth +for its children would put upon us. How we should +have to sublimate even our emotions, if we would +give an admirable impression! The nascent terror +at the bare suggestion of it reminds us that the +experience is not uncommon, on entering a strange +room, or looking at an empty landscape, to feel +there the shadow of an abiding but inexplicable +remembering. We never know why. Mr. de la +Mare, in his poem <i>The Listeners</i>, has given this +sense of the memory of an old and abandoned +house; and it would be as wrong to smile at the +delicate intuitions of a poet because they are too +subtle as to deny the revolutionary reasoning of +Einstein because his argument moves on a plane +beyond our attainment. It is unfortunately natural +for us to limit the possibilities of the universe, the +depth of its mystery, to what we are able to make +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>of it; for the things we do not know can exist for +us only when we do know them and so may admit +they are there. When we declare we see clearly all +there is to be seen it seldom occurs to us that, even +then, we may be but confessing to a partial blindness.</p> + +<p>It is true that the real mystery of the ghosts is +not that they startle us but that they do not. Not +worth the trouble? Perhaps they are aware we +will maintain a vague belief in their presence only +so long as they do not show themselves. I myself +find it easy to accept Mr. de la Mare’s <i>Listeners</i>, +but not the pair of evil souls who appear in Henry +James’ <i>Turn of the Screw</i>. I have always felt that +we ought not to have been allowed to see those +maleficent spirits, and that it was a defect in the +story, a concession to our crudity, that they were +ever produced by their author as substance for his +case. For we may suppose that anything so imponderable +as a memory the impassive earth retains +of the past will suggest itself only to the lucky, who +may make of their luck what they will. Most probably +they will give their good fortune a false interpretation. +But what opportunities the notion +offers! What entertaining history could be made +of it, if there were anyone to write it! What poetry, +if we were poets!</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> +<p>There is my own London suburb. After a walk +round it, which would take too much time, and +would be very wearying, we might estimate that, +counting even its invisible shadows, it is not more +than fifty years old. The taxpayers there have +some right to suppose that they know the best and +worst of it. It is an uproar of trams and motor-traffic +in the midst of hotels, restaurants, and ornate +drapers’ shops. An alien might suppose we devoted +our whole lives to the buttoning and unbuttoning +of clothes and getting something to eat, until he +saw the gilded stucco in an Oriental style of architecture, +the minarets and domes, of our many picture +palaces; for, after all, we have our intellectual +excitements, and the newsboys at the street-corners +are anxious that we should never grow listless.</p> + +<p>It would be foolish to deny it. Our suburb seems +raw and loud. Yet in recent years it acquired an +area where a shower of bombs fell from an airship. +History at last? No, we have some history which +is earlier than the airship, though less remarkable. +We have some scholarly local insistence on Clive, +who went to school near, and on Ruskin, whose +grandmother kept a public-house near the High +Street. We have a Fellmongers’ Yard, and a Coldharbour +Lane, a tavern which can claim a Tudor +reference, and a building, mainly of the fourteenth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>and fifteenth centuries, and known to us as the Old +Palace. Naturally, Queen Elizabeth slept there. +She did in most places. Here, however, she really +did sleep, and her most unqueenly ingratitude to +her anxious host, expressed when she departed, is +on record. We delight in the irregular mass of the +Old Palace, with its little colony of rooks in the +trees beside it; yet our delight in it comes, I think, +because its memories of Tudor archbishops are associated, +as we pass it, with the singing and the play +of our neighbours’ children, for the Palace to-day +is a school of theirs. We think more fondly of the +children than of the old ecclesiasts. They give us +something more beautiful to think about. Yet—the +doubt is insistent—though we know well enough +our libraries are full of the solemn nonsense which +historians have made of their illusions and prejudices, +is there a phantom more misleading than the +visible Fata Morgana of our own day, our own +illusion, which men of affairs call Things as They +Are? For what are they? Dare we say we know +more about them than we know of the Pyramids, +the Cretans, and the wanderings of the Polynesians? +Is the last comment on it all the laughter of +children?</p> + +<p>Our suburb seems so raw. It has been reduced +to figures on a chart, which the Town Hall will +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>supply. But I have long had a suspicion that it has +secrets which it is not sharing with such latecomers +as we are. This feeling has come over me, with +chilling irrelevance, when I have been passing our +parish church late at night. Nobody knows when +a church first stood here, but it had a priest in 986. +Late at night, our own suburb suggests oddly that +it is not ours, that its real existence is in a dimension +unknown to its sleeping citizens. I have wondered +then whether it was possible to write the history of +any place, of any time. Can we ever do more than +make a few suggestive speculations? Perhaps the +most important happenings are always omitted; +the words with which we record an air-raid may not +touch them. I know that the history of my own +little street, during the few years of the war, could +never be written, and if it were written it would be +unbelievable. For no man could so translate my +street of those years for all to see its significance, +unless his imagination were like a morning sun +which rose to reveal the earth that night had obscured. +Our street doors are closed forever upon +what happened behind them in those years. Unless +their history is written on the invisible air, +then it is lost.</p> + +<p>For this unreasonable certainty I can offer no +evidence more substantial than the last train home, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>and moonlight on the trees and battlements of the +church, and the silence, and a gargoyle leering down +at me from a porch. He might have been caught +in the act of sardonic comment on what was passing +below, out of a fuller knowledge, and a longer life. +I can bring myself to believe that the gargoyle does +not grin at me at night without reason. He knows +something. He always did. But what is it? Why +should he make me wonder whether I really know +my own street? One comes home at midnight, with +the mind revolving round London’s latest crisis; +and for a wonder my suburb does not share the +excitement of the city. It is sunk in an immemorial +quiet. The church and the Old Palace might be the +apparition of what was beyond us and above the +anxieties which make our time spin so fast. It is +not their time. Our contemporary bricks and +mortar have assumed a startling look of venerable +and meditative dignity. Our familiar place is free +to compose itself in solitude, for we have withdrawn +from it, noisy children who have gone to bed. It +looks superior to me, when I surprise it at such a +time, but it does not betray its knowledge. It +spares no more than the ironic comment of the gargoyle.</p> + +<p>I think I can guess a little of what is behind that +imp’s grimace. Opposite to my house is a wall. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>It has no history. It is but a matured wall, and its +top is hoary with lichens and moss. This year’s +leaves are now littering the ground below. But I +have seen our young men assemble there, and march +off for the Yser. This year’s leaves are damp and +sere on the path by the wall where the young men +shuffled off in the ominous quiet of that forgotten +winter dawn. But what do the new people in our +street see when they gaze across to that old red +brickwork on a bright autumn morning? There the +dead leaves are. What is history? One may guess +why the ancient imp by the church porch has that +grin when chance wayfarers late at night look up, +and find he is watching them pass. Does he know +where they are going, and why, and is he grinning +over his secret?</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII_DROUGHT">VIII. DROUGHT</h2></div> + + +<p>The pond at the end of the row of cottages was +reduced to little more than a margin of yellow mud, +tough as putty. The mud framed an oval of green +slime, which might have been solid, for several tin +cans were resting on it, unable to sink. The cottages +were hoary with the dust of constant motor-traffic, +and the small strip of paled ground in front +of each was a desert in which nothing but a few +tall hollyhocks survived.</p> + +<p>The market-gardener, whose tanned face made +his beard as delicate as snow, and gave his pale blue +eyes a disconcerting beauty, stood at the gate to the +gardens just beyond the pond. Over the gardens, +held aloft so that the passengers on the motor-buses +from London could see it, was a new notice-board +announcing that freehold building plots were for +sale.</p> + +<p>A stack of bricks was dumped on the potatoes +near the notice-board. The gardener saw that I +had observed this novelty in the village, and turned +his head and glanced that way. He crinkled his +eyes at the bricks in ironical disfavour. “That’s the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>first lot,” he said. “Can’t be stopped now. Better +look round if you want to remember us. Wonderful +how things move, once they start. One time, +nothing much along here but farm wagons. Now +you must hurry, crossing this here road. Specially +Sundays. London ain’t far away now.”</p> + +<p>“It never was very far, was it?”</p> + +<p>“It was all right where it was. I never thought,” +he mumbled, “that anyone ’ud want to live here, except +us folks. I almost wish I’d guessed it long +ago. Might have bought this field. Never gave it +a thought. Rent was cheap. I could only think of +the green stuff, and that’s how we get caught, attending +to one thing. You city folks are too quick.”</p> + +<p>“No, we’re not. It’s the years that are quick. +We get hurried along and pushed out, and most of +the time we don’t know where we are.”</p> + +<p>“Well. Maybe. But here you are. Seems as +though them motor-buses blasted even the taters. +’Tisn’t only the dry summer. Everything lost +heart after they put up that notice-board there. +This place is different.”</p> + +<p>The old man took off his cap and put it on again. +“Well, you come in and have a cup of tea, on the +way down. Don’t go to the village hall and ask +the young ’uns whether they like the difference. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>Sometimes I fancy the motors have served them +like the taters.”</p> + +<p>At the end of the market gardens, where the contractors +are assembling their material, a footpath +passes some recent villas built in the Tudor style, +with black planks, to represent timber work, embedded +in cement, and begins a long ascent of the +open downs. Above the last house you can see +the upward track dwindle in the distance to a white +thread, which is occasionally lost to sight. And, +beyond, where that thread vanishes, a wood is a +dark crown to the downs, but so remote, so near to +the glaring sky, that the eye says it is inaccessible.</p> + +<p>The lower slopes of the upland have been worn +by the holiday-makers. The relics of the last week-end +picnic littered the dry grass. Nobody was in +sight then. Nothing moved, except the air over the +warm ground in the distance: the down, a light inflation +of chalk, vast and still, might have been +quivering under its spell. At least there was a +hint of its eager and tremulous spirit under the +iron control of its enchantment. You thought, +when watching it, that you might presently see the +earth change more rapidly, and that dilation increase +or collapse. For the chalk country, with its +faint hues and its clean rondures, gives a curious +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>sense of buoyancy and volatility. That high and +distant clump, that dark raft of trees, could be +sweeping forward on an immense green billow. It +might slither over and vanish.</p> + +<p>Above the litter of the picnic-makers the hill rose +at a sharper angle. The dry herbage was as slippery +as ice. That sharp slope appeared to be a +barrier to the holiday folk. Their tide does not rise +above it. Above that escarpment the life of the +valley never flows; and, looking down from it, the +market gardens in the valley bottom, with the tiny +mark which was a notice-board adding insult to the +injury of the potatoes in a dry season, were seen +to be the less significant. They were of no extent. +The village itself, even with the bright red rectangles +of the villas which betrayed its growth, was +obviously incidental. Above the escarpment, too, +the wild crops on the down were superior to anything +which afflicts cabbages. They knew nothing +of a drought. As a cooling breeze passed over the +body of the hill the silky herbage stirred like long +brown fur. The skin of the earth was soft and +healthy. It smelt of thyme and marjoram.</p> + +<p>And the wood, that raft on the crest of the billow +of chalk, was reached at last. No drought was +there. There was an outer wild of the smaller trees, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>guelder, wayfarer’s tree, white beam, holly, cornel +and alder buckthorn, bound together with wild +clematis, and brambles that sounded like dynamos +with a multitude of bees. Inside the wood, wherever +there was a clearing in the timber on a slope, the +colours of the wild flowers fell away in a cascade. +That seclusion might have been tranquil +and confident with a knowledge kept secret from +the fearful and anxious. Its life sang and hummed +in innumerable tiny voices. It will last a long time, +and it will not need to change. A yew kept a +space for itself, a twilight area through which fell +rods of light. One side of the yew was splashed by +the sun, and then the sooty trunk was seen to be of +madder and myrtle green. Its life, though ancient, +could not have been more robust. In the shade of it +a company of hover-flies were at play, as though +they had been doing that from the beginning, and +would do it forever. They poised motionless or +slightly undulated, and gyrated sideways and vanished, +to reappear instantly in the same place, +atoms joyous and sure in a changeless world. +Sometimes one of them was caught in a beam of +light and then that morsel of life became a bubble +of gold in the air. It went out. It appeared again. +It could shine when it pleased.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span></p> +<p>The ship of trees was actually afloat. Its course +was set high in the tides of the ether. It only +seemed motionless. The murmuring of its secret +power could be heard, if you listened for it.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX_A_RIDE_ON_A_COMET">IX. A RIDE ON A COMET</h2></div> + + +<p>In the beginning, I know there was nothing +more unusual in the things about me than a motor-car +standing by the entrance to a dull, palatial, and +expensive hotel on the Devon coast. The time was +near midnight. The world was only the hotel lights +and the moan of the sea. I had been to an enthusiastic +political meeting; so my complete adhesion, +at first, to common clay, is proved. There was another +town, thirty miles away in the dark of the +moors, and thither would we go, if it could be done. +I did not think it could, though I did not think +much about it, being too tired.</p> + +<p>Standing near the car, which had a nose like a +torpedo, was a young man; what resembled a +young man. I must be careful, for I had never +seen the fellow by daylight, and am now uncertain +whether or not he could be seen by daylight. He +was pulling on great fur gloves and, speaking +quietly with suspicious modesty, he stinted nothing +of his ability to get to any old place in these islands +before the next dawn. He spoke with the calm certitude +of a god who takes the sunward hemisphere +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>of this earth in one glance, and takes that side of it +which is lost to mortals sleeping there at night as +but a span of his thumb in the stars.</p> + +<p>I asked him if he had ever been on this road before, +for a doubt of the omnipresence of this dubious +man prompted me. I knew what hills and +bad places, even by day, lay between me and the +town where I fain would be. “I expect so,” he +murmured, as though disguising his voice; “I expect +so, some time or another.” The matter then +dropped. I asked no more questions. There were +no more to ask, except concerning those exactions +of time and space which mortals never question. +With the soft indifference of the sleepy mind, I was +willing to believe that some time or another, in +eternity, the timeless being beside me had included +in his planetary orbits this bit of country. His +wheels had taken this ugly length of night road, +which awed a pedestrian mortal like me, in a single +revolution, while belated wayfarers there, horror-stricken, +had listened open-mouthed (backs up +against the hedge-banks) to the swift diminuendo +of earthquake and eclipse.</p> + +<p>Yet I lifted my tired eyes for a glance at this +young man to catch, if it were there, an unguarded +hint of his inhuman origin. There was but a half-smile +on his lean face, which should have warned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>me, but did not. He stood by the black bulk of his +impassive chariot. A tremor did come over me; +and so, while my homely feet were still planted indubitably +on good mother earth, I looked about +me there for the last time. Nothing stirred. There +was nothing unusual; no omen, no portent. Earth +was deeply embedded and asleep in night. It +seemed so certain (and here I turned to my charioteer +again to see his face) that, from where I +stood, the other town was as sundered from me as +one of the asteroids. Its glint was too remote in +the void to be seen. Suddenly then I became +awake and afraid, and would have pushed the +Tempter from me, saying that I’d find a bed where +I was for the night. But I was given no time to +speak.</p> + +<p>“Get in,” said the uncertain smile; and I +dropped into the soft cloud of his immaterial car. +What had only looked like a dim carriage instantly +shook with the suppressed dynamics of many +horses, and shot a vast ray into the night, as might +have been expected from a comet. The smile +slipped in beside me. He moved his hand swiftly. +We got off the earth.</p> + +<p>If any abroad there at that late hour saw a +meteor falling, tail first, athwart the North Devon +hills, they would have been surprised to know there +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>was one mortal man astride that flying light, conscious, +too, of his mortality, and wondering how +deep his bones would be found when the aerolite +was dug out afterwards by the curious. From my +stellar seat—we flew low down over the earth—what +I saw on my right hand was the huge shadow +of a hill, with the thin bright rind of the new moon +just above it. Very little below us was the shine +of our comet, revealing a pale road pouring past, +a road which made flying leaps upward at us, but +never touched us. There was also a luminous, pale-green +haze, streaming in the wind which roared +past. I think it was hedges. It went by in never-ceasing +undulations. We were always about to +tear through it, but miraculously it avoided us. +The paring of moon remained above the high +shadow on the right. Sometimes the transparent +apparitions of trees shaped before us; we were +skimming the dark planet too close. Sometimes we +were so low in our flight that we had to dive, roaring, +under their lower ghostly branches, and soared +when through them into the silence of the outer +dark again.</p> + +<p>Once we alighted on earth, just brushing it in a +swoop on the upslope of a hill, and then rolled up +gently in a great light. It was then that, instead +of flying luminous streaks, I could see stones and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>clods, rooted trees and hedges growing where they +stood, and they all looked like handpainted scenery +by limelight. We reached the hill-top, the smile +beside me gave a demoniac hoot, and we shot out +into space like a projectile, falling sheer to the +nether stars. My hair rose on end in the upward +rush of wind. I had had about enough of it. If +we hit another body in the sky larger than ourselves....</p> + +<p>It seems to me someone on the meteor gave a +loud cry—probably it was this deponent—for by +our light I saw we were rushing at the earth again. +So close did we go that we almost struck a cluster +of white houses. It was a near thing. We missed +them all, luckily, for we hit the place at the open +end of a street, and so shot through and out, just +below the roofs. I heard a scream there as the pallid +walls reeled past us. The thing beside me +hooted in derision. What did that smile care for +the fears of mortals at awful portents in their village +at night?</p> + +<p>At last I did not care, but in a mad and lawless +mood, giving my soul to anarchy, began to enjoy +it. Far ahead and below us in the dark sky there +was a constant group of delicate stars, like the +Pleiades, and I noticed that they grew in brightness +and increased in numbers; and presently, beyond +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>doubt, they were rushing at us. In a few seconds +our meteor was in the cluster of them, missing +them all again—our luck was astonishing—but before +we got through them the motor stopped. +There was a policeman standing under a hotel sign, +and that hotel was mine. I got out of the car, +crossed myself reverently, and turned to see what +had brought me there. But the road was empty.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="X_REGENTS_PARK">X. REGENT’S PARK</h2></div> + + +<p>It is not so amusing as it used to be to watch +lions and tigers in cages. We are beginning to feel +that it is an unlucky plight for a respectable tiger +to be pent within boards and iron bars while kind +ladies throw biscuits and the gentleman with them +smiles; for we know what would happen to the +smile and the biscuits if the tiger were in the woods +and coughed slightly not far away. There would +be less beauty in the entertainment, it is true, if the +Zoölogical Gardens maintained choice examples in +cages of vitriol-throwers, child-beaters, market +riggers, war-makers, spies, <i>agents-provocateurs</i>, +and so on. Regent’s Park would have to be extended +to hold so large and varied an exhibition of +wild beasts. The most beautiful of murderers +could never be compared for shape and grace with +a good lion or jaguar. It may be said, therefore, +that there is a subtle flattery in our caging of the +finer and more dignified creatures.</p> + +<p>We should find no pleasure in looking upon a +caged sneak-thief, though certainly we keep them +in cages, when we catch them; but the lion, I have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>been assured, is almost invariably a perfect gentleman +who prefers not to quarrel and fight, and +will leave the presence of the other animal with a +gun if he can do so with delicacy and honour. Perhaps +it is excusable in us that we should enjoy +looking upon so noble a creature in safety. I +have heard him, when he was in a cage, quietly +swearing while gazing into the distance and a Bank +Holiday crowd was staring at him; and even the +most uncharitable of Christians could forgive him +his bad language in such circumstances. And I +have heard the tiger, when he was not in a cage, +cough in the place where there was no Bank Holiday +crowd, and at night; and I learned then that +the mind of man does not feel so proud as it does +at other times.</p> + +<p>The lion, of course, knows nothing of the quantum +theory; but perhaps most of our Privy +Councillors are as innocent. If the test were made +of most of us; if we were removed from the benefit +of the accumulated knowledge of humanity, our +knowledge which is kept growing, for love usually, +by a few superior minds, we should not know how +to make a fire without the matches of which we had +been deprived. On the whole, probably we flatter +the depth of that abyss between ourselves and the +lower animals; and for the wolf who runs up and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>down his cage sullenly ignoring our overtures, and +behaving as though we do not exist, we are beginning +to feel there is something to be said.</p> + +<p>I suppose it is too soon to say that for the dogfish +and the conger eel. The darkened corridors +and the silence of the New Aquarium at the +Zoölogical Gardens, and the eerie light there of an +existence beyond us in which undulating forms +suggest that life may have meanings outside our +understanding, are so salutary that you hear hardly +a sound from the visitors. They move about, +speaking in whispers, as though in the presence of +the awful. I heard a boy laugh there, but even +that was subdued; and we may expect, of course, +to hear the chuckle of a boy on the Judgment Day. +The boy laughed while he was watching a crab +with claws like grappling irons walk on the sea floor +of the Aquarium. It went craftily, on its +toes, and not straightforwardly, but sideways, as +though its aim were evil. A turbot was flat on the +sand, pretending to be the floor, but the crab put a +hook on him. The turbot started; but the crab +went straight on to the back of the fish. The boy +laughed at the obvious surprise of both of them, +which showed in a frantic eruption. But even the +laugh was uncanny, for it broke out unexpectedly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span>in an inhuman privacy which might have been the +antechamber to the unspeakable.</p> + +<p>Only an irreverent boy would find anything +funny in such a place. There is no comic element, +that we know of, under water. It is not surprising +that visitors to the Aquarium are subdued, or that +they feel pity for the few sea-birds which happen +to be exiled there from the day. That pity shows +the difference. Pity for birds in a great aviary is +rare, and maybe it is unnecessary. That is a matter +in which we should consult the birds, if ever we +doubt our own generous hearts. But sorrow for +birds confined to a dungeon in the dim light and +silence where eels and octopuses are at home is instant +and right. In a reverse way that sorrow +proves that the theatrical effect of the new Aquarium +is good. It is good. It is marred only by +the presence of those birds, which is forced and +unnatural.</p> + +<p>The recesses of the tanks, where antennæ are +seen vibrating or exploring in the shadows, when +the eye is accustomed to the hyaline indistinction, +where sinuous figures are seen in apparition, or a +pair of jaws that picture soulless destiny itself +gulp spasmodically and incessantly, somehow challenge +the soul in a way impossible to the most terrible +lion. With what respect one stares at that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>inert and leathery length, the lungfish, for he is the +link between the sea-bottom dark from which came +all life, and those hill-tops which life now regards +as suitable for select villas. It was fortunate for +our speculative builders that somehow, when it was +left stranded in drying mud, the ancestor of the +lungfish was able to fashion his swimming bladder +into an organ which made him independent of gills, +and equipped him for a life in the sun, though it +was only a suspended life. See what has come of it!</p> + +<p>It is not only the silence and the twilight of the +Aquarium which are impressive, but the sense that +no more than plate glass separates us from a +frightful gulf of time. And consider the fascination +of the octopus! Could there be anything more +sinister than the cold stare of the eyes surmounting +that bulging stomach? Yet watch it shoot +through the water and alight upon a rock, tentacles +and all, with a flowing grace never equalled by a +young lady practising a courtesy for the Court. +That, however, only adds to its attraction, curiously +enough; because attractive it is, for a reason so +natural in mankind, and yet so obscure and difficult +to define, that to look for it might take us into the +Antarctic of philosophy. I found the largest audience +of the Aquarium at the tank of the octopus, +patiently waiting for what satisfaction, joy, terror, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>horror, consternation, or what not, it could bestow. +It is useless for the ladies to protest that they love +the Angel fish better, or any of the banded and +prismatic tropical forms of the Amazon or the coral +reefs. I saw very few people at the tanks where +those opalescent or enamelled creatures were proving +that our finest artists in the fantasies of decoration +are bunglers. No. The superior audiences +were for the octopus, for the grotesque and carnivorous +spinosities, and for the conger eel.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI_A_DEVON_ESTUARY">XI. A DEVON ESTUARY</h2></div> + + +<p class="ph3">I</p> + +<p>It was decided that someone must stand by the +boat. There was an uncertainty about the tide, and +there might be a need to moor her elsewhere. The +other two members of the crew did not propose a +gamble to decide which one of the three of us +should stay with her while the other two went into +the town. I was told off as watchman, at once and +unanimously, and it was clear that in this the rest +of the crew knew they were doing the orderly thing. +Their decision was just. It was I who was to be +left. It is the lot of the irresolute to get left, +though sometimes the process is called the will of +God. The boat, with me in it, was abandoned. +The two of us had to make the most of each other +for an indefinite time.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the boat, being a boat of character and +experience, had no confidence in her protector, because +after a spell of perfect quietude, in which I +thought she slept, without warning she began to +butt the quay wall impatiently. She was irritably +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span>awake. But I was not going to begin by showing +docile haste when a creature named <i>Brunhilda</i> demanded +my attention so insistently. Instead, I +leisurely filled my pipe and lit it, took half-a-dozen +absent-minded draws at it, and then went forward +idly and lengthened the mooring-line. The boat +fell asleep again at once.</p> + +<p>Our line was fast to a ring-bolt which possibly +was in the old stonework of that quay wall when +the ships which moored there were those that made +of a voyage to America a new and grand adventure. +That ring-bolt was rust, chiefly. Its colour +was deep and rich. With the sun on it, the iron +circle on its stem might have been a strange crimson +sea-flower pendent from the rock over the tide. +A precipitous flight of unequal steps ran from the +top of the quay down its face to the water. The +steps continued under the water, but I don’t know +how far. They dissolved. Of the submerged steps +I could not count below the sixth, and even the +fourth and fifth were dim in a submarine twilight. +The tread of the midway step, which was near my +face and just below it, was uncertain whether it +ought to be above water or sunk. Sometimes, when +I looked that way, it was under a few inches of +glass, but as I looked the glass would become fluid +and pour noiselessly from it. Once when the glass +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>covered it I noticed an olive-green crab was on the +step, set there, as it were in crystal. When he +darted sideways it seemed unnatural, and as if he +were alive and free. It was when he moved that I +began to suspect that many affairs, an incessant +but silent business of life, were going on around +me and under the boat.</p> + +<p>The water was as still and clear as the air. It +seemed but little denser. It was only the apparition +of water. It was tinted so faint a beryl that I +know when my fingers touched it only because it +was cold, and the air was hot. When first I glanced +overside it was like peering into nothing, or at least +at something just substantial enough to embody +shadows. So I enjoyed the boat, which was tangible. +The bleached woodwork of the little craft +had stored the sun’s heat. Perhaps, though, it was +full of the heat of past summers, even of the +tropics, and its curious smells were memories of +many creeks and harbours. It had been a ship’s +boat. In its time it may have been moored to +mangrove roots. It had travelled far. I don’t +know when I enjoyed a pipe so much. The water +was talking to itself under the boat. We were sunk +three fathoms below the top of the quay, out of +sight of the world. I could see nothing living but +a scattered area of sea-birds resting on the tide. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>One of the birds, detached from his fellows, a black-headed +gull, was so close that the pencilled lines of +his plumage were plain. He cocked an eye at me +enquiringly. He came still closer, of his own will +or through the will of the tide—there was no telling—and +we stared frankly at each other; and I +think I may believe he admitted me as a member +of whatever society he knows. Not a word was +said, nor a sign made, but something passed between +us which gave everything a value unfamiliar +but, I am confident, more nearly a right value. +This made me uncertain as to what might happen +next. I felt I was the discoverer of this place. It +was doubtful whether it had ever been seen before. +I had accidentally chanced upon its reality. As to +those stone steps, I had been up and down them +often enough in other years, but I had the feeling +they were new to me this morning, that they turned +to me another and an unsuspected aspect. It was +in such a moment that I first saw the crab at my +elbow, and when he darted sideways it was as if he +were moved by a secret impulse outside himself, +the same power which moved the gull towards me, +and which pulled the water off the step.</p> + +<p>I looked overside to see whether this power were +visible, and what it was like. There were six feet +of water between me and the wall, and its surface +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>was in the shadow of the boat; but the sunlight, at +the same time, passed under the keel of the boat, so +between my craft and the wall I could see to a surprising +illuminated depth. The steps that were +submarine were hung with algæ; near the surface +of the water their fronds were individual and +bright, but they descended and faded into mystery +and the half-seen. Some of the larger shapes far +below, whatever they were, seemed to be in ambush +under the boat, and what they were waiting for in +a world so dim, removed, and strange, I preferred +not to consider, on a fine day. Those lurking +forms, which might have been nether darkness itself +becoming arborescent wherever sunlight could sink +down to it and touch its unfashioned murk into +what was lifelike, were eternally patient and still, +as confident as things may be which wait in the +place where we are told all life began. Midway +between the keel of the boat and that lower gloom +a glittering little cloud was suspensory. Each atom +of it in turn caught a glint of sunlight, and became +for an instant an emerald point, a star in the +fathoms. But I was not the first to detect that +shoal of embryonic life. A pale arrow shot upwards +from the shadows at the cloud, which instantly +dispersed. That quick sand-eel missed his +shot.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> +<p>That cloud was alive; the water and the dark +forest below were populated. The impulse which +kept the water moving on and off the step—by now +it was using another step for its play, for the tide +was falling—continued to shoot flights of those +silver arrows into the upper transparency. They +flew out of the shadows into the light and were back +again quicker than the eye could follow them; and +as casually as though they had known this sort +of thing for æons, the morsels of life suspended in +the upper light parted and vanished, to let the arrows +through; then, as by magic, the glittering +morsels reformed their company in the same place. +No number of darting arrows could destroy their +faith in whatever original word they once had been +and the quay wall a vitreous hemisphere, a foot +across. It had a pattern of violent hieroglyphics in +the centre of its body. Its rim was flexible, and +in regular spasms it contracted and expanded, rolling +the medusa along. The creature darkened as +it rolled into the shadow of the boat. It sank under +me and was suddenly illuminated, like a moon, as +it entered the radiance beneath. It was while +watching it that I noticed in the water some tinted +gold.</p> + +<p>There drifted into the space between the boat +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>sparks which I was ready to believe came of the +quality of the sea itself, for I could see the water +was charged with a virtue of immense power. +When the jellyfish had gone I watched one of +those glims, for it was not doused at once, but +merely changed its colour. It moved close to the +boat. The sparkling came from a globe of pure +crystal, which was poised in the current on two filaments. +The scintillating globe, no larger than a +robin’s egg, floated along in abandon in the world +below my boat, sometimes bright in elfish emerald, +and then changing to shimmering topaz. Scores of +these tiny lamps were burning below, now that my +eyes were opened and were sensible of them. They +had been suddenly filled, I suppose, by the power +which pulsed the algæ, which had turned the +medusa into a bright planet, shot the arrows, +opened my own intelligence, and given sentience +to the other atoms of drifting life. The water was +constellated with these little globes changing their +hues, and I remembered then that Barbellion once +said a ctenophore in sunlight was the most beautiful +thing in the world....</p> + +<p>There was a shout above me. The crew had returned. +It demanded to know whether I was tired +of waiting.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">II</p> + +<p>We pushed out the boat, and four oars shattered +the mirror and the revelation. Above the quay the +white houses appeared, mounting a quick incline in +chalk-like strata. They did not reach the ridge of +the hill. The ridge was a wood dark against a +cloud. Downstream, at the end of the ridge, our +river is met by another. They merge and turn to +go to sea. They become a gulf of confused currents +and shoals in an exposed region of sandy +desert, salting, and marsh, which ends seaward in +the usual form of a hooked pebble bank. Beyond +the bank and the breakers is a bay enclosed by two +great horns of rock, thirty miles apart. The next +land westward, straight out between the headlands, +is America. A white stalk of a lighthouse stands +amid the dunes, forlorn and fragile in that bright +wilderness, a lamp at our door for travellers.</p> + +<p>But we went upstream. The tide here, however, +penetrates into the very hills. The exposed coils +of roots and the lower overhanging branches of +oaks in precipitous valleys, which in aspect are remote +from the coast, are submerged daily, and +shelter marine crustacea; the fox-gloves and ferns +are just above the crabs. Yet where we grounded +our boat, six miles from the lighthouse, the western +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>ocean was as distant a thought as Siberia. On this +still midsummer afternoon our lonely creek was the +conventional picture of the tropics, silent, vivid, +and far. The creek—or pill, as the natives of the +west country call it in their Anglo-Saxon—is, like +all the best corners of the Estuary, uninhabited and +unvisited. Perhaps the common notion of the +tropics, a place of superb colours, with gracious +palms, tree-ferns, and vines haunted by the birds +of a milliner’s dream, originated in the stage +scenery of the <i>Girls from Ko-ko</i> and other equatorial +musical comedies, to which sailors have always +given their hearty assent. That picture has +seldom been denied. What traveller would have +the heart to do it? The sons of Adam continue to +hope that one day they may return to the garden, +and it would be cruel to warn them that this garden +cannot be entered through the Malay Straits +or by the Amazon or Congo. We ought to be allowed, +I think, to keep a few odd illusions in a +world grown so inimical to idle dreaming. For the +jungle in reality is rather like mid-ocean where +there is no help. The sea is monstrously active, but +the jungle is no less fearful because it is quiet and +still. It is not variously coloured. It has few +graces. Once within its green wall, that metallic +and monotonous wall, the traveller becomes +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>daunted by a foreboding gloom, and a silence older +than the memories of Rheims and Canterbury. +The picture is not of Paradise, but of eld and ruin. +You see no flowers, and hear no nightingales. +Sometimes there is a distant cry, prompted, it +might be guessed, by one of the miseries which +Dante witnessed in a similar place. Yet whatever +beings use equatorial forests for their purgatory, +they remain discreetly hidden; Dante there could +but peer into the shadows and listen to the agony +of creatures unknown. The grotesque shapes +about him would mock him with aloof immobility, +and Dante presently would go mad. He would +never write a poem about his experiences. I saw +this when reading Bates’ <i>Naturalist</i> again, while +the crew of the <i>Brunhilda</i> gathered driftwood in a +Devon creek to make a fire for tea. Bates does +little to warn a reader that the forest of the Amazon +is not a simple exaggeration of Jefferies +<i>Pageant of Summer</i>. And what a book, I saw +then, a man like Bates could have made of such a +varied world as our Estuary. The range of life in +this littoral, from the heather of the moors to the +edge of the pelagic shelf where the continental mass +of Europe drops to the abyss—a range, in places, +of no more than ten miles—has not yet had its explorer +and its chronicler. Yet I never saw in days +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>of travel in the equatorial forest such hues and +variety of form as were held in the vase formed +by the steep sides of our little west-country combe. +A cascade of rose, purple, yellow, white and green, +was held narrowly by those converging slopes of +bracken and oak scrub. That descent of colour +was in movement, too, as a tumult would be, with +the abrupt and ceaseless leaping and soaring of +numberless red admiral, clouded yellow, peacock, +fritillary and white butterflies. On the foreshore, +where a tiny stream emerged from this silent riot, +a cormorant on a pile was black and sentinel. +Kingfishers passed occasionally, streaks of blue +light. It was the picture of the tropics, as popularly +imaged, but it was what travellers seldom see +there.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">III</p> + +<p>If there is a better window in the world than my +portlight in Burra I do not know it. I look out on +space from that opening in the topworks of a village +which at night is amid the stars and in daylight +is at sea. My cubicle is shady, but the light outside +may be bright enough to be startling when of a +morning it wakes me. I sit up in bed, wondering +whether our ship is safe. The portlight seems too +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>high and bright. The eyes are dazzled by the very +chariot-spokes of Apollo, and ocean can be heard +beneath me, vast and sonorous. The senses shrink, +for they feel exposed and in danger. But all is +well. Our ship that is between the sky and the +deep has weathered more than two thousand years, +and no more has happened to it than another fine +day. Burra has not run into the sun.</p> + +<p>From my bed to-day the first thing I saw was a +meteor flaming alongside us. But my window kept +pace with it. The speed of the streaming meteor +was terrific, but it could not pass us. Soon the +meteor was resolved into the gilded vane of a topmast; +I understood that a strange ship had come +in. Nothing but time was passing my window. +Yet still I had no doubt that the light in the east +beyond the ship’s vane, ascending splendid terraces +of cloud to a choir which, if empty, was so monitory +that one felt trivial and unprepared beneath it for +any announcement by an awful clarion, was a light +to test the worth of a dark and ancient craft like +Burra. I listened for sounds of my fellow-travellers. +They were silent. There was an ominous +quiet, as if I were the first to know of this new day.</p> + +<p>Then I just heard some subdued talk below, and +the sounds of a boat moving away. As the speakers +drew apart they called aloud. Yeo was off to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span>fish by the Middle Ridge. The shipyard began its +monody. One hears the shipyard only when its +work begins. That means we are all awake. Those +distant mallets continue in a level, confident chant, +the recognised voice of our village. But by the +time breakfast is over the fact that Burra is still +building ships is no more remarkable than the other +features of the Estuary; the ears forget the sound. +Only if it ceased should we know that anything +was wrong. For a minute or two no doubt we +should wonder what part of our life had stopped. +But the hammering has not ceased here since the +first galley was built, which was before even the +Danes began to raid us. The Danes found here, +we have been told, seafarers as stout as themselves, +with ships as good as their own, and got the lesson +that, if quiet folk always acted with such fierce +promptitude and resolution when interfered with, +then this would be an unlucky world for pirates.</p> + +<p>Yet have no fear. I am not going to write a history +of Burra. There was a time when I would +have begun that history with no more dubiety than +would a man an exposition of true morality. But +the more we learn of a place the less is our confidence +in what we know of it. We understand at +last that the very stones mock our knowledge. +They have been there much longer. I do feel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span>fairly certain, however, that absolute truth is not at +the bottom of any particular well of ours. This +village, which stands round the base of the hill +where the moors decline to the sea and two rivers +merge to form a gulf of light, is one I used to think +was easily charted. But what do I know of it? +The only certainty about it to-day is that it has +a window which saves the trouble of searching for +a better. Beyond that window the clouds are over +the sea. The clouds are on their way. The waters +are passing us. So, when I look out from my portlight +to learn where we are, I can see for myself +there may be something in that old legend of a great +stone ship on an endless voyage. I think I may be +one of its passengers. For where is Burra? I +never know. The world I see beyond the window is +always different. We reach every hour a region of +the sky where man has never been before, so the +astronomers tell us, and my window confirms it. +Ours is a celestial voyage, and God knows where. +So I dare not assume that I have the knowledge +to write up the log-book of Burra. I should very +much like to meet the man who could do it. We +certainly have a latitude and longitude for the aid +of commercial travellers and navigators who want +our address, and it is clear that they too, as they +seem able to find us so easily, must be keeping pace +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>with us; that they are on the same journey as ourselves +to the same distant and unknown star; but +when one night I ventured to hint this surmise, as +a joke, to an experienced sailor who came in for a +pipe with me, he said he had never heard of that +particular star; all the stars he knew were named. +He said it was easy for him to lay a course for +Burra, anyhow, and to keep it, just by dead reckoning. +Besides—he pointed out—how could a man +learn his whereabouts from a star he didn’t know +and couldn’t see? Yes; how could he? But it +is no joke. That old mariner had never heard +of the perilous bark which some men have to keep +pumped watertight, and to steer in seas beyond all +soundings by a star whose right ascension can be +judged only by inference, and by faith that is sometimes +as curiously deflected as is any compass.</p> + +<p>When taking bearings from my window, merely +to get the time of day, I can see the edge of the +quay below and a short length of it. That gives +promise enough that Burra is of stout substance, +and rides well. A landing-stage, a sort of stone +gangway, is immediately under the window. Whoever +comes aboard or leaves us, I can see them. +At low tide these stone stairs go down to a shingle +beach where ketches and schooners rest on their +bilges, their masts at all angles. Corroded anchors +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>and chains lie littered about. In summer-time I +smell tar and marine dissolution. Morning and +those stairs connect us with the fine things that the +important people are doing everywhere. Open +boats with lug sails bring gossips and the news +from the other side of the water, and on market-day +bring farmers and their wives with baskets of +eggs, chickens, butter, and vegetables, and perhaps +a party of tourists to gaze at us curiously and +sometimes with disparagement. Few objects look +so pleasant as a market-basket nearly full of +apples, and with some eggs on top. Yet it is well +to admit, and here I do it, that there are visitors +who call Burra a dull and dirty little hole.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="p2261_ill" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/p2261_ill.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <i>At low tide these stone stairs go down to a</i><br> + <i>shingle beach</i>—<br> + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Indeed, there is no telling how even my window +in Burra will take a man. Once I brought a friend +to sit with me, so that he could watch the ferry and +the boats, the dunes on the far sides, and the clouds. +I thought, with him as look-out astern, he could tell +me when a ship came down river, and I could warn +him when I saw a vessel appear at the headland +(out of nowhere, apparently), and stand in for the +anchorage. What more could he want? But he +said the place was dead. He complained that nothing +happened there.</p> + +<p>I don’t know what he wanted to happen there. +It gives me enough to think about. I always feel +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span>that plenty is happening to me as I watch those +open boats. When a Greek vase is the equal of +one of them in grace it is the treasure of a national +museum. But our men can build such craft in their +spare hours. The human mind, confused still and +thick with the dregs of the original mud, has clarified +itself to that extent. It would not be easy to +prove that man has made anything more beautiful +than one of our boats. Its lines are as delicate and +taut as a dove’s. It is quick and strong, and it is so +poised that it will change, when going about, as +though taken by a sudden temerarious thought; +and then in confidence it will lift and undulate on +a new flight. The balance and proportions of its +body accord with all one desires greatly to express, +but cannot. In that it is something like music. +The deep satisfaction to be got from watching a +huddle of these common craft, vivacious but with +wings folded, and tethered by their heads to the +landing-stairs, each as though eagerly looking for +the man it knows, will send me to sleep in a profound +assurance that all is well. For they seem +proper in that world beyond my window, where +there is the light and space of freedom. The tide +is bright with its own virtue. The range of sandhills +across the Estuary is not land, nothing that +could be called soil, but is a promise, faint but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>golden, far in the future. You know that some day +you will land there. But there is plenty of time for +that. There is no need to hurry. It is certain the +promise is for you. One may sleep.</p> + +<p>After dark, like a fabulous creature, Burra +vanishes. There is little here then, except an occasional +and melancholy sound. I have for companionship +at the window at night only a delicate +star-cluster, low in the sky, which is another village +on the opposite shore. Maybe Burra too, is a +star-cluster, when seen from the other stars, and +from that distance perhaps appears so delicate as +to make its indomitable twinkling wonderful on a +windy night. There are a few yellow panes here +after sunset, and they project beams across the +quay, one to make a hovering ghost of a ship’s +figure-head, and another to create a lonely bollard—the +last relic of the quay—and another to touch +a tiny patch of water which is lively, but never +flows away, perhaps because the Estuary has vanished +and it has nowhere to go. It prefers to stay +in the security of the beam till morning.</p> + +<p>Now it is curious, but after dark, when our place +has disappeared except for such chance fragments, +and when to others we can be but a few unrelated +glints among the other stars, that Burra is most +populous, warm, and intimate. I see it then for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>what it is, a vantage for a few of us who know +each other, and who are isolated but feel secure in +the unseen and hitherto untravelled region of space +where the sun has abandoned us. All around us is +bottomless night. Our nearest neighbour is another +constellation.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">IV</p> + +<p>I have learned at Burra that we townsfolk know +nothing of the heavens. There are only wet days +in the city, and fine. The clouds merely pass over +London. They cross the street, and are gone. +They cast shadows on us, they make the place dark, +they suggest, with a chill, that there are powers beyond +our borders over which even the elders of the +city have no jurisdiction. The day is fine again +and we forget our premonition; it was only the +weather.</p> + +<p>The motor-buses are all numbered and their +routes are known, but the clouds are visitations, unannounced +and inexplicable; warnings, which we +disregard, that in truth we do not know where our +city is. We cannot distinguish one cloud from another, +because the narrow measure of heaven for +each street allows us but an arc of a celestial coast, +or one summit of a white range; before that high +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>continent has more than suggested its magnitude +we see the bus we want, or go down a side-turning.</p> + +<p>Doubtless the meagre outlook of this imprisonment +from the heavens must have its effect upon +us. Our eyes go no more to the sky than they do to +the hills. We have acquired, if we have not inherited, +the characteristic of downcast eyes. Where +there is no horizon there may be work, but no hope, +and so we begin to see the way to account for the +cynical humour of the Cockney. We say, in +friendly derision, that they who look upwards more +than can be justified by the rules of our busy community +are star-gazers. When we look up, it is not +to the hills, but to a post-office clock or the name of +a street. The city has length and breadth, but no +height, for the greater the elevation of its buildings, +the lower its inhabitants sink.</p> + +<p>But in this Estuary I have changed that view of +the world for one that is flooded with light. The +earth, I can see, is a planet, a vast reflector. We +look up and out from Burra, in the morning, to +learn what is stored in the sky; and if there is a +moon we look to the heavens at night to judge how +the men at sea will fare, while we sleep. For the +clouds here plainly rule our affairs; or they are the +heralds of the powers which rule us. The clouds +take the light of the sun, and translate it into the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>character of our luck. On a bright morning over +this bay, when the happy and careless imagine that +all is well, the wind will begin to back. We are +not at once aware of the reason for it, but the +colours fade from the earth and from one’s spirit. +The light dims. The uplands, which had been of +umber and purple, become that shadow of desolation +from which men seek refuge. Scud like gusts +of livid smoke blows in swiftly from the southwest +over the hills. The clouds which follow it are dark +and heavy, and so low that they take the ground, +roll over and burst. The uplands vanish. The sea +grows bleak and forbidding, and the cliffs, with +their crags and screes, turn into a prospect of +downfall and ruin.</p> + +<p>Yet when the wind is easterly, then the polish of +the bay is hardly tarnished, the clouds are high and +diaphanous veils, and there is no horizon, for sea +and sky are merged as one concavity of turquoise. +When the morning is of easterly weather and still, +the sea floor about the boat is distinct in several +fathoms, and the mind floats so buoyantly and confidently +midway in space that it feels there is no +human problem which could not be solved by a +happy thought.</p> + +<p>One afternoon the wind had been cool, for it +came from the north of north-west; then, long before +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>its hour, the sun vanished behind a veil. The +wind fell with the sun. The world was without a +movement, except for the languid and distant +glinting of the breakers on the bar. The sea had +the burnish of dull metal. The distant headlands +were but faint outlines, and they might have been +poised aloft, for there was as much light under +them as above them. A steamer was passing from +one headland to another, but whether it was sailing +the heavens to another planet, or was going to +America, it was hard to say. There were no +clouds. There was only a vague light which was +both sea and sky. In this indeterminate west, +where the sun would then have been setting, was a +group of small islands of pearl, not marked on the +chart, where no islands ought to have been seen. +They were too lofty and softly luminous to be of +this earth; they floated in a threatening cobalt +darkness. The day was a discernible presence, but +it was ghostly; and I wish I could guess its origin, +and why it stood over us, pale and silent, while we +waited fearfully for a word that did not come.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">V</p> + +<p>On the shore of the dunes, which are across the +Estuary from Burra, few boats ever ground. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>There are shoals, and a conflict of tides and currents, +and then the surf. And why should a boat +put over? Nothing is there but the lighthouse and +the sand. Nor is it easy to approach it from the +habitable land to the east, for after a long and +devious journey by ferry and road to avoid the arm +of the sea, you come first to a difficulty of marsh +and dyke, and then to the region of the dunes. +That journey takes all the best of the daylight, for +you could not hurry if you knew every yard of the +way, which nobody does; and then, once caught in +the brightness and silence of the desert of sandhills, +the need to hurry is forgotten.</p> + +<p>It is one of the days with a better light when +your boat grounds on that shore. You may begin +to walk the beach along the firm wet sand by the +breakers, but you cannot keep to it. Something +which calls, some strange lump among the flotsam +stranded on the upper beach, draws you +towards the sandhills. It looked, you imagined, +like a man asleep, with a dark blanket over him; +but it proved to be only a short length of a ship’s +spar covered with bladder-wrack. There is no returning +then. Once you reach that line of rubbish +it is the track you follow, the message you try to +read. A baffling story, though, made of words +from many stories, separated, partly erased, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>muddled by the interruption of storms, and woven +irrelevantly into one long serpentining sentence +which extends to the point where the shore goes +round a corner; and from there, when you reach +that point, continues to the next. It is made of +shells, derelict trees, bushes which have drifted +from shores only a botanist could guess, boards and +fragments of wrecks, yarn and rope, bottles, +feathers, carapaces of crabs and sea-urchins, and +corks, all tangled with pulse into an interminable +cable. Sometimes it runs through the black ribs of +an old wreck.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, after the seaweed, there are more corks +in its composition than anything else. The abundance +of corks on this desert shore, for they are to be +found at the head of every miniature combe of the +sandhills, most of them old and bleached, but some +so fresh that it is easy to read the impress of the +vintners on their seals, suggests that man’s most +marked characteristic is thirst. If one went by the +evidence on this beach, then thirst is the chief human +attribute. In this life we might be occupied +most of the time in drinking from bottles. Examples +of the bottles are here, too. The archæologists +of the future will find our enduring bottles +and corks in association, and they will discover, by +experiment, that the corks often fit the bottles, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span>they will deduce that both were used, in all probability, +in conjunction. But for what reason? +Nothing will have been left in the bottles for the +archæologists but dirt. We occasionally look on +to-day while a learned man, from fragmentary evidence, +creates a surprising picture of the past. I +feel I should enjoy coming back, several thousand +years hence, to hear another learned creature, a +table before him covered with the shards and corks +of our years—one almost perfect example has the +mysterious word BOLS cast on it—explain to his +fascinated audience what he feels sure, from the +relics before him, on which he has spent the best +years of his life, the mysterious folk of our own +age were like.</p> + +<p>We can be fairly sure not much evidence of our +own age will remain by then. What will survive +us will be the oddest assortment of rubbish; but the +pertinacious corks will be there. The British +Museum will have gone. It will be impossible to +refer to the London Directory. No Burke will +exist. All the files of our newspapers, with their +lists of honours, will have perished. What will our +age be called? Not the Age of Invention, of the +Great War, of Reconstruction, or anything else +that is noble and inspiriting; for not a vestige of a +democratic press, an aeroplane, a motor-car, or a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>wireless set will remain. There will be only corks +and bottles.</p> + +<p>“For the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth +her poppy....” Yet it does seem unfair that of +all the proud memories of these resounding days, +nothing may persist but our corks and bottles. +Another interruption of ice may creep down from +the Pole, as has happened before; as indeed happened +once to the undoing of a previous race of +men. Its rigours increase, but so gradually that +men are hardly aware that anything is happening. +They say to each other at last, “The summers seem +very short.” The cheerful Press of that day, true +to its function of maintaining the spirit of the +people, never mentions Winter, never speaks of the +cold, but always turns its pages to the south, where +most of the sun is.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless that does not thaw the ice. It still +creeps south. The habit of a week-end at a cottage +is presently forgotten. Unalienable rights and +privileges become buried under inexorable glaciers +that know nothing of our sounder economic arguments. +And, in the end, maybe the ball of St. +Paul’s is dropped as an erratic block from the +bottom of an iceberg to form a fossil in the ooze of +a southern sea, to puzzle we may not guess what +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>earnest investigator living in an ameliorated clime +and time.</p> + +<p>That ice retreats again, and the haunts and +works of our age are exposed, as were those of +Magdalenian man. And what have we been able +to guess about him? Very little; but he did, we are +sure, use implements having enduring parts of flint +and bone. It is fairly certain that if he were aware +that we judged him by his flints, he would be a +little grieved. And it would be too bad if the trifles, +which our butlers discarded with a flourish during +our dinners were all that survived for the future to +see of us. Why, that archaeologist of a time to +come may not even deduce that we employed +butlers.</p> + + +<p class="ph3">VI</p> + +<p>The rain had ceased, but the quay of Burra +offered no other benefit. I was down there before +dawn. Morning had not come, but I suppose the +downpour had washed some of the dark out of the +night, for all the quay was plain. It was not the +quay I knew, but its wan spirit; and the vessels +moored to it were ghosts, the faint impress of dead +ships on a world that now just retained a memory +of them. There was no sound. There were only +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>phantoms in a pallor. Perhaps it had ceased to +rain because rain would be too substantial for a +bodyless world. The irregular pools on the quay +were not water, but descents to the profound. +Rain would at once enlarge them till the quay dissolved +and became as the Estuary, and as the sky, +for both sea and sky were nothing. They were the +depth of the future, in which were hints of what +some day might see the sun.</p> + +<p>I felt I ought not to be there. There was no +telling whether I was too soon or too late, whether +I was the first man, or the last. I doubted that +hush, and that dim appearance about me. When +the air did stir, it was as if it were the breath of +death, and the earth were the body of death. Then +I made up my mind. It was no use going to sea, +as I had intended. I would go back to bed. At +that moment there were footsteps, and the quay at +once became solid. Two black figures approached, +the size of men. One of them put his foot into a +great hole in the quay, and he did not vanish instantly, +but made a splash and an exclamation. +That voice certainly was something I knew. The +other man laughed quietly, the familiar satiric comment +which comes of resignation to fate. We were +all going to sea, as far as the Foreland.</p> + +<p>That cape is the western horn to the bay, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>nobody goes there, except sailors who die because +they see the loom of it, or hear its warning, too +late. The Foreland to the people of Burra is like +the clouds. It is part of their own place, but it is +unapproachable. At times it is missing. In some +winds it will evaporate; though usually at sunset +it shapes again, high, black, and fantastic, the end +of the land to the west, and as distant and sombre +as the world of the sagas. Is it likely, then, that +one would ever think of a voyage to it? That cape, +which one sees either because the light is at the +right incidence, or because one is dreaming, might +be no more than a thought turned backward to +vague antiquity; to Ultima Thule, where the sun +never rises now, but where it is always evening twilight. +It would have no trees. It would be a desolation +of granitic crags, mossed and lichened, and +the seas below would be sounding doom, knowing +that even the old gods were dead. It was not likely +that we could credit such a voyage; yet the truth +is we had assembled for it, and because of a promise +made carelessly with an ancient mariner in a +tavern on the previous afternoon. What, on such +a morning, and in such a place, was such a promise? +As intangible as was our quay when I first saw it +that morning, and no more matter than the Foreland +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>itself, which is always distant, and then is +gone.</p> + +<p>Yet here we were. We had met before dawn, +for that very voyage, because of an indifferent +word spoken yesterday. The bar, too, would have +to be crossed. The bar! Besides, we were getting +most unreasonably hungry, and so could not +smoke; and this induced the early morning temper, +which is vile, and would be worse than the early +morning courage but for the fact that that sort of +courage is unknown in man, never rising to more +than a bleak and miserable fortitude.</p> + +<p>Charon hailed us from below the quay. He had +with him a nondescript attendant. We embarked +for his craft, which he said was anchored in midstream. +We recognised him as our sailor of yesterday, +though now there was something glum and +ominous about him. He had no other word for us, +but rowed steadily, and looked down his beard. +His bark was like himself, when, still in resignation +to what we had asked for, we boarded her. +She was flush-decked, her freeboard was about +eighteen inches, she had no bulwarks—to tell the +truth, she was but a very barge, with that look of +stricken poverty which is the sure mark of the usefulness +of the merely industrious. She would float, +I guessed, if not kept too long in seas that washed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>her imperfect hatch-covers. She would sail her distance, +if the wind did not force her over till the +water reached the rent in her deck. She could +carry thirty tons of stone; and, in fair weather, +with reckless men, thirty-five tons. She had a +freeboard, I repeat, of one foot six inches, now she +was light, and peering through the interstices of +her hatch-boards I could see her kelson, and note +that though she did not leak like a basket she was +doing her best. We were going to the Foreland +to gather stones for the ballast of ships. Absurd +and desperate enterprise! We could hear faint +moaning, when attentive. That was the voice of +the bar, three miles away.</p> + +<p>The skipper and his man hoisted the mainsail, +and we three manned the windlass, working in link +by link a cable without end, till we were automata +going up and down indifferent to both this life and +the life to come. The barge gave a little leap as +the anchor cleared.</p> + +<p>The foresail was set. We drifted sideways +round the hill. The silent houses, with white faces, +looked at us one by one. We found a little wind, +and the barge walked off past the lighthouse, which +still was winking at us. There came a weighty +gust; the gear shook and banged, but held taut. +Off she went.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p> +<p>Burra was behind us. Before us was a morose +grey void. The bay apparently was only space, +uncreated, unlighted; though in the neighbourhood +of our barge we noticed there was the beginning +of form in that dim and neutral world. Long +leaden mounds of water out of nowhere moved inwards +past us, slow and heavy, lifting the barge +and dropping her into hollows where her sails +shook, and spilled their draught. We three +grasped stays, and peered outwards into the icy +vacancy, wondering whether this was the free life, +whether we were enjoying it, whether we wanted to +go to the Foreland, and how long this would last. +In the east there formed a low stratum of gold. +Some of the leaden mounds were now burnished, +or they glinted with precious ore. When the light +broadened the air seemed to grow colder, as though +day had sharpened the arrows of the wind.</p> + +<p>The hollow murmur from the bar increased to +an intermittent plunging roar, and presently we +fell into that noise. The smother stood the barge +up, and stood her down, and drenched the mainsail +to the peak. But it was only in play. We were +worth nothing worse. We were allowed to go by, +and one of us pumped the wash out of her, for the +play had been somewhat rough.</p> + +<p>In the long swell of the bay our movements became +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>rhythmic, and we settled down quietly in a +long reach. A vault of blue had shaped over us. +The Foreland was born into the world. It looked +towards the new day, and was of amber; but over +the moors to the north-east the rain-clouds, a gathering +of sullen battalions, challenged the dawn with +an entrenched region of gloom. Yet when the sun +arose and looked straight at them, they went. It +was a good morning. Now we could see all the +bay, coloured and defined in every hanging field, +steep, and combe. The waters danced. The head +of the skipper appeared at the scuttle—only one +at a time could get into our cabin—and he had a +large communal basin of tea, and a loaf speared +on a long knife.</p> + +<p>The Foreland, to which for hours our work +seemed to bring us no nearer, which had been +mocking the efforts to approach it of an obstinate +little ship with a crew too stupid to realise that efforts +to reach an enchanted coast were futile, suddenly +relented. It grew higher and tangible. At +last we felt that it was drawing us, rather too intimately, +towards its overshadowing eminence. The +nearer it got, the greater grew my surprise that in +a time long past man had found the heart to put off +in a galley, to leave what he knew, and to stand in +to an unknown shore, if it offered no more than our +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>cape. The apparition of the Foreland was as chill as +the shadow in the soul of man. It appeared to have +some affinity with that shadow. Though monstrous +and towering, it seemed buoyant and without +gravity, an image of original and sombre doubt. +Above our mast, when I looked up, earthquakes +and landslides were impending, arrested in collapse. +But I thought they were quivering, as +though the arrest were momentary. That vast +mass seemed based on rumblings, shouts, and +hollow shadows. Our craft still moved in, projected +forward on vehement billows, past black +jags in blusters of foam, and then anchored with +calamity suspended above. Our ship heaved and +fell on submarine displacements. The skipper +and his man went below.</p> + +<p>When they reappeared they were naked. It was +a good and even necessary hint. We got into the +boat, and pulled towards a beach which was a narrow +shelf at the base of a drenched wall. The +rocks which flanked that little beach were festooned +with weeds, and sea growths hung like curtains before +the night of caves. Somehow there the water +was stilled, and all but one of us leaped into it. +One man remained in the boat.</p> + +<p>The ocean was exploding on steeples and tables +of rock. It formed domes green and shining over +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>submerged crags. The midday sun gave the foam +the brilliance of an unearthly light. The shore +looked timeless, but it smelt young. The sun was +new in heaven.</p> + +<p>And what were those ivory figures leaping and +shouting in the surf? As I watched them in that +light a doubt shook me. I began to wonder whether +I knew that little ship, and those laughing figures, +and that sea. Who were they? Where was it? +When was it?</p> + + +<p class="ph3">THE END</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="tnote"> +<div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_note">Transcriber’s note</h2> + + +<p>Hyphenation was standardized where appropriate.</p> + +<p>In this version, page numbers in the List of Illustrations reflect the position of the illustration in the +original text, but links point to current position of illustrations.</p> + +<p>Spelling has been retained as originally published except +for the changes below:</p> + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_63">63</a>: “recruitment of orang-utans”</td> +<td class="tdl">“recruitment of orangutans”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_91">91</a>: “draws its toils tighter”</td> +<td class="tdl">“draws its coils tighter”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_162">162</a>: “whose volatile enthusiams”</td> +<td class="tdl">“whose volatile enthusiasms”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_243">243</a>: “space, uncreate, unlighted”</td> +<td class="tdl">“space, uncreated, unlighted”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_245">245</a>: “hung like curtains befor”</td> +<td class="tdl">“hung like curtains before”</td> +</tr> +</table> + + +</div> +</div> + + + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75826 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75826-h/images/cover.jpg b/75826-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0cf40c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/frontispiece.jpg b/75826-h/images/frontispiece.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..40217f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/frontispiece.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p0081_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p0081_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..effaebb --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p0081_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p0561_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p0561_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c29d3a9 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p0561_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p0741_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p0741_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..10d9dfb --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p0741_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p0841_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p0841_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9794f92 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p0841_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p1201_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p1201_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..69a1dbe --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p1201_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p1581_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p1581_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3bfc893 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p1581_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/p2261_ill.jpg b/75826-h/images/p2261_ill.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..81cb3b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/p2261_ill.jpg diff --git a/75826-h/images/title_logo.jpg b/75826-h/images/title_logo.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a697175 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-h/images/title_logo.jpg |
