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diff --git a/75826-0.txt b/75826-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1b7786 --- /dev/null +++ b/75826-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5309 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75826 *** + + +GIFTS OF FORTUNE + + + + +_Other Books by the Same Author_ + + + THE SEA AND THE JUNGLE + OLD JUNK + LONDON RIVER + WAITING FOR DAYLIGHT + TIDEMARKS + + + + +[Illustration: + + _The tall ship--standing out into windy space_-- +] + + + + + GIFTS OF FORTUNE + + AND HINTS FOR THOSE + ABOUT TO TRAVEL + + BY + + H. M. TOMLINSON + + _With Woodcuts by_ + HARRY CIMINO + + [Illustration] + + + “_Giftës of fortune, + That passen as a shadow on the wall._” + + CHAUCER, The Merchant’s Tale. + + HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS + NEW YORK AND LONDON + MCMXXVI + + + + + GIFTS OF FORTUNE + + Copyright, 1926, by + Harper & Brothers + Printed in U. S. A. + + _First Edition_ + + H-A + + + + + _To + The Caliph and his Lady + for placing the unripened pages + of this book in the sun + of the Côte d’Or + at their + Chateau de Missery_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + + SOME HINTS FOR THOSE ABOUT TO TRAVEL 1 + + OUT OF TOUCH 100 + + ELYSIUM 110 + + THE RAJAH 116 + + THE STORM PETREL 123 + + ON THE CHESIL BANK 131 + + THE PLACE WE KNOW BEST 186 + + DROUGHT 194 + + A RIDE ON A COMET 200 + + REGENT’S PARK 206 + + A DEVON ESTUARY 212 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + THE TALL SHIP--STANDING OUT INTO + WINDY SPACE _Frontispiece_ + + _Facing Page_ + TO SEE THE GLOW OF SUNRISE ABOVE THE PALISADE + OF THE JUNGLE 8 + + I MET A CHEERFUL GOATHERD 56 + + AFTER A LONG AND FAITHFUL ADHERENCE TO + THE BEATEN TRACKS YOU REACH SOME DISTANT + COASTAL OUTPOST 74 + + SOME NAME IT EDEN OR ELYSIUM 84 + + THE BUFFALOES STARED AT US AS WE WENT + ALONG, AS MOTIONLESS AS FIGURES IN METAL 120 + + AS TO THE SEA, IT HAS NO HUMAN ATTRIBUTES + WHATEVER 158 + + AT LOW TIDE THESE STONE STAIRS GO DOWN TO + A SHINGLE BEACH 226 + + + + +GIFTS OF FORTUNE + + + + +I. SOME HINTS FOR THOSE ABOUT TO TRAVEL + + +I + +A year or two ago a lively book was published called _The Happy +Traveller_. 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.” + +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 _hump_. 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 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.) + +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, one is +necessarily absent from Fleet Street. I should have remembered that. + +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 +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. + +I do not know how one plans a long voyage, and 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’! + +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 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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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 in his eye that +nothing much was left about which to argue. He prided himself on his +swift and unreasonable decisions. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: + + _To see the glow of sunrise above the palisade of + the jungle._ +] + +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 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. + +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 of the waters had +become a significant utterance--gave an abiding content to the shadows. + + +II + +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 _Memories of Travel_ 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 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. + +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. + +It may also happen that when at last your ship 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. + +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 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. + +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,” he remarked coldly, “you are not an ethnologist.” No; +and I can see now, after these _Memories of Travel_, that I have other +defects as a traveller. + +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. + + +III + +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 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 + + With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, + And a drunken Dago crew, + And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + From Cadiz, south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.” + +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 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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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! + +I have often wondered what people see who travel round the world in a +liner furnished with the 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. + +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 a +car-load of other passengers. Unless the car skids into a ditch the +game is up. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + + +IV + +The reader of travellers’ tales is a cautious fellow, not easily +fooled. He is never misled by facts 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 +_parang_ which some Dyak never used except for agricultural purposes, +that will be enough to rouse surprise at her daring. + +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. + +Even I have discovered that there are readers of travellers’ tales +who decline anything to which there is no reference in _Whitaker’s +Almanac_. 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. + +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 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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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, +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. + + +V + +A friend who lives on Long Island says in a letter: “A tall Cunarder +putting out to sea gives 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. + +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 golden +shore, or fleece, of which they will continue to dream, as they dream +irrationally of peace while never ceasing to fashion war. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + + +VI + +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.” + +Well, not exactly that. I fear my readiness for the challenge would not +pass the test. All that 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: + + Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast, + The storms all weathered and the ocean crost, + Sinks into port in some well-favoured isle, + Where billows never roar, and brighter seasons smile. + +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: + + 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. + +Then there followed, for over three hundred closely printed pages, +references to many outlandish 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 +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. + + +VII + +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 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. + +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. + +Those first impressions! Quite often our first impression of a place is +also our last, and it depends 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 telling how and in what place the happy incidence of +light and understanding will come. + +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. + +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 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. + + +VIII + +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, +as though to show them that superior man has taken their place. + +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. + +Our steamer gave the assurance of that astronomical certitude which +is inherent in great and impersonal affairs. She held on immensely +and with 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. + +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, 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. + +“Not six yet, surely?” + +“Not quite four, sir. But there’s not enough water for her to get in. +Better get up now. A tug is expected.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +I was leaning over the port side, and the port 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. + +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. + +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 asleep, and +his children were playing about a coil of rope with a kitten. + + +IX + +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. + +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. +There were ourselves and luck. That night a great gale blew. + +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 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? + +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 +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. + +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. + +Those guide books were more interesting on the 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. + +[Illustration: _I met a cheerful goatherd._] + +So once, when hunting near Syracuse for “the famous _Latonie_, 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 stared at us; and +not, I believe, without some understanding of their master’s stories. + +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 _hôtels +des étrangers_. 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 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 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 is the fringe of the Great +Sahara.” I caught that glimpse, too, the next week. + +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. + + +X + +Mayne Reid once persuaded us that to have a full life we should kill +grizzly bears, bison and Indians. 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. + +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 +slum. He must have had a happy feeling when skinning the child. + +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. + +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 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 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 _Times_ 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. + +But the ethics of the hunt are not to be defined 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 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? + + +XI + +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 +exposure to a furnace, the coast in sight was but the filmy stuff of +an hallucination. + +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. + +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 the ship. It was astonishing that she could be so +quiet. + +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. + +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 could make as good an exhibit of +me as ever man made of a gorilla. + +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 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. + +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.) + +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 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. + +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. + +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 and some +flies which would have been unbelievable even by day. + +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. + +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. + +I took out the cork of the bottle, looked again 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. + + +XII + +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 +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. + +[Illustration: + + _After a long and faithful adherence to the + beaten tracks you reach some distant coastal + outpost_-- +] + +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.... +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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +In weeks of toil you get far beyond the last echo of the coast. You can +imagine you have reached, 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. + +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. + +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 +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. + +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? + +You cannot journey to any unusual quarter 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. + + +XIII + +There was an island, which must have evaporated with the morning +mists like other promising 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.” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: _Some name it Eden or Elysium._] + +“To reach felicity,” says Mr. Firestone in his _Coasts of Illusion_, +“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 of the +_Hispaniola_ 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 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. + +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. + + +XIV + +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 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 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.” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 _Arabia +Deserta_--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.” + +I sing with him, Hosanna! A great region of 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. + + +XV + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 +him as the acts of children. He would know all about it, and the end +to which it was destined. + +The face of the little Cockney steward was at his elbow, with its +sardonic smile. “Your tea, sir. We’re nearly in.” + +“Where are we?” + +“Just orf Southend. Fine morning, sir. The pier’s plain.” + +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.” + +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 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. + +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? + +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?” + +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 that funny +smell, like spice? I wish I’d been with you.” + +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. + +“Here, my lad. Time we were off. There’s a special train for the +passengers. Come along, and talk afterwards.” + +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. + + + + +II. OUT OF TOUCH + + +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. + +There we anchored. Both anchors were out, because two were necessary. +It was doubted that two were enough. Mr. Bullock, the mate, was +complaining 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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“That’s a new job for a sailor,” commented Mr. Bullock. “Clearing away +a copse from a ship’s bows. I shall have to get a boat away to see to +that.” + +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. + +“There you are,” exclaimed the excited mate. “What did I tell you? +Pigs, mister. We’ll get the whole farmyard in a minute.” + +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 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. + +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, and the three of us peered down into +the twilight below. + +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. + +“All right, sir, we’ve done him in. Took some doin’, though.” + +“What the hell do you mean? What’s this row about?” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +The surgeon chuckled. “You’ll hear all right, captain, when the men +find out.” + +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 too much about it. A good time now to get some of that +work done.” + +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. + +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 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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“Pardon me,” he said, as he stood up before our gaping company of +seamen still smiling, and his fine body glistening. “Anybody lend me a +pair of pants?” + +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. + +The stranger, that night, came with the chief to my cabin. He inspected +our books with evident enjoyment. “Books!” he said. “Books, eh!” + +“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!” + +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?” + +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.” + +Where had he come from? “Mollendo,” he replied, rolling a cigarette. + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + + + + +III. ELYSIUM + + +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. + +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 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? + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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.” + +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. + +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 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.” + +“But you suggest that you have when you tell me they are still pagans.” + +The missionary did not answer. He recrossed his legs carefully. “I like +them,” he said simply. “They are good-hearted.” + +“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.” + +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 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. + +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?” + +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. + +He turned to me and shook his head. He touched his forehead +significantly. + +“She sits there all day,” he said. “She sits there, and when she sees a +ship going home, she weeps.” + + + + +IV. THE RAJAH + + +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. + +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. +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. + +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. + +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 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 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. + +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. + +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.” + +He was communicative. He was not like the Malays, who will travel +with you all day and use 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. + +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. + +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 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.” + +[Illustration: + + _The buffaloes stared at us as we went along, as + motionless as figures in metal._ +] + +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. + +My English friend knew him well. He greeted the Malay cheerfully, and +bestowed on him another decoration, a silverplated monogram he had +found. 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. + +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.” + + + + +V. THE STORM PETREL + + +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.” + +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. + +“Well, I’m off at midnight,” he said, still with a grip on my arm. “You +come along with me.” + +“Not to Glasgow,” I said in alarm. + +“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. + +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. + +“That was a nasty passage down,” he was saying. + +“It was? But I don’t remember a blow this week.” + +“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 the old girl could stand it. Aye. Most of the way from the +Broomielaw. Mind that rope.” + +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. + +The skipper was shaking his head. “God forbid that I ever see the Storm +Petrel again.” + +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 _The Golden +Bough_ in his cabin, with Burns, Shelley, _The Evolution of the Idea +of God_, an encyclopædia, and other incongruous 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. + +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.” + +“I thought it was a bird,” I said. + +“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 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?” + +“And you got it?” + +“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. + +“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 him. He was all right. +I wished he’d gone overside.” + +“Who is he? What’s his caper?” I asked. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Any other passengers?” + +“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.” + +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? + +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 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.” + +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. + +“Has that man brought his bag, Jones?” + +“Yes, sir. He’s in his oilskins, sir.” + + + + +VI. ON THE CHESIL BANK + + +I + +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. + +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, 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.” + +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?” + +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. + +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 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 _Meddlers_, 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 +_Humanitarians_ 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 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. + +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 _Nigger_, and began +it in the cab on the way to Euston. That was a great surprise. The +_Narcissus_ 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 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. + +There could be no doubt about it. The _Nigger_ was the thing itself, +and I had never expected to see it. Next I read _Typhoon_; and the +_Nan-Shan_ 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 +_Youth_ 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. + +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 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 _English Review_ 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?” + +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, 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 _Youth_ to his +credit, and _Typhoon_ and _Lord Jim_, touched the arm of his junior and +was pleased to say “You do think I am genuine, don’t you?” + +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. + +I must say there is one of the company of the _Narcissus_ 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 _Narcissus_, 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. + +Mr. Cunninghame Graham, in his preface to Joseph Conrad’s posthumous +_Tales of Hearsay_, 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. + +No matter. “There is a fountain in Marrakesh,” says Mr. Cunninghame +Graham, “with a palm tree 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. + + +II + +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. + +One such tiny combe is a short walk above the 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. + +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 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. + +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 wonder it takes some time to get over it, this wall! +Lizards whisk into its crevices, the flickering of shadows where all is +still. + +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 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. + + +III + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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.” + +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. + +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. 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. + +And how little one knows of such a gathering from the gardens of the +pulse! A red gurnard, 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 _chimæra mirabilis_, the angel +fish, Darkie Charlie, and the oar-fish or sea-serpent. + + +IV + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + + +V + +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 he is sure to ask +himself why with the wind in that quarter the good ship “leaves old +England on the lee.” + +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 comfort of the nearest railway station’s lamps. +There is but little suggestion of this, however, in the anthologies. +They brave it out. “_High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_,” or “_The +Sands of Dee_”--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 +_Bolivar_, “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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 _Cutty Sark_. 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. + +[Illustration: + + _As to the sea, it has no human attributes whatever_-- +] + +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. + +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 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. + +Let us examine more cautiously, for example, that favourite book of the +sea of ours, _The Nigger_. Remember that the barque _Narcissus_ 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 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 _Nigger_ is,--are obscured by our admiration +for Conrad’s noble tribute to Singleton, and for his pictures of a ship +fighting the Southern Ocean. + +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. + +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 _Moby Dick_ know well enough. It +is the 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 _Pequod_ sank. + +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 _Moby Dick_. Talk! He 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 _Typee_ and _Omoo_, 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 _Typee_ 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 _Typee_ 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 +works, need not bother himself about this White Whale, for hardly a +doubt it was just a whale. + +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 _Moby Dick_ 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, +_Gargantua and Pantagruel_, _Don Quixote_, _Gulliver’s Travels_, +_Tristram Shandy_, and the _Pickwick Papers_. That is where _Moby Dick_ +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 _Moby +Dick_. 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. + +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. 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 _Pequod_ there +is determined, as by chance, a purpose for which her men did not sign, +and which is not in her charter. + +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 _Moby Dick_ +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 the plain and verifiable noises in +everybody’s language. + +But who has resolved poetry into its elements? Who knows what +_Christabel_ 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 _Moby Dick_ 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 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? + + +VI + +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 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +The lady with the dark lips left her dog and came to look seaward. “Are +they really warships? How thrilling. What are they doing?” + +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. + +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. + +“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 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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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 mask, which was as +solid and placid as that of an animal. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +I saw him again some miles from the hotel, where he stood at the end of +a path that led up to his farm, beside a patch of lusty hog-weed which +was as tall as himself. He nodded, and grinned. + +“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. + +“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.” + + +VII + +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 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. + +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. + +Yet, as the visitor from London said to me: “What markets are you +talking about? Don’t be 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. + +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? + +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 +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + + +VIII + +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 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. + +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. Yet I could not +collect my treasure. I had to leave it where I found it. Is treasure +always like that? + +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 +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.” + +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 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. + +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. + +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. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 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. + + + + +VII. THE PLACE WE KNOW BEST + + +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 unprovoked, a surmise +which abruptly checks our well-ordered activities. + +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 _The Listeners_, 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 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. + +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 _Listeners_, but not the pair of evil souls who appear in +Henry James’ _Turn of the Screw_. 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! + +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. + +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 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? + +Our suburb seems so raw. It has been reduced to figures on a chart, +which the Town Hall will 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. + +For this unreasonable certainty I can offer no evidence more +substantial than the last train home, 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. + +I think I can guess a little of what is behind that imp’s grimace. +Opposite to my house is a wall. 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? + + + + +VIII. DROUGHT + + +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. + +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. + +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 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.” + +“It never was very far, was it?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. Sometimes I +fancy the motors have served them like the taters.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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, 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. + +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. + + + + +IX. A RIDE ON A COMET + + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +“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. + +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 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. + +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 +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.... + +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? + +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 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. + + + + +X. REGENT’S PARK + + +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, _agents-provocateurs_, 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 +in an inhuman privacy which might have been the antechamber to the +unspeakable. + +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. + +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 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! + +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, 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. + + + + +XI. A DEVON ESTUARY + + +I + +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. + +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 awake. But I was not going +to begin by showing docile haste when a creature named _Brunhilda_ +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. + +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 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. + +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. 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +There drifted into the space between the boat 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.... + +There was a shout above me. The crew had returned. It demanded to know +whether I was tired of waiting. + + +II + +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. + +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 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 _Girls from Ko-ko_ 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 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’ _Naturalist_ +again, while the crew of the _Brunhilda_ 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 +_Pageant of Summer_. 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 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. + + +III + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: + + _At low tide these stone stairs go down to a + shingle beach_-- +] + +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. + +I don’t know what he wanted to happen there. It gives me enough to +think about. I always feel 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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + + +IV + +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. + +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 continent has more +than suggested its magnitude we see the bus we want, or go down a +side-turning. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +One afternoon the wind had been cool, for it came from the north of +north-west; then, long before 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. + + +V + +On the shore of the dunes, which are across the Estuary from Burra, +few boats ever ground. 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. + +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, 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. + +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 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. + +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 wireless set will remain. There will +be only corks and bottles. + +“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. + +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 earnest investigator living in an ameliorated clime +and time. + +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. + + +VI + +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 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. + +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. + +That cape is the western horn to the bay, and 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 itself, which is always +distant, and then is gone. + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +In the long swell of the bay our movements became 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +The ocean was exploding on steeples and tables of rock. It formed domes +green and shining over 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. + +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? + + +THE END + + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber’s note + + +Hyphenation was standardized where appropriate. + +Spelling has been retained as originally published except for the +changes below: + + Page 63: “recruitment of orang-utans” “recruitment of orangutans” + Page 91: “draws its toils tighter” “draws its coils tighter” + Page 162: “whose volatile enthusiams” “whose volatile enthusiasms” + Page 243: “space, uncreate, unlighted” “space, uncreated, unlighted” + Page 245: “hung like curtains befor” “hung like curtains before” + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75826 *** |