The Record of Nicholas Freydon Part 35

But this mention of Hardy reminds me of a curious literary coincidence which I stumbled upon a few months ago. For me, at all events, it was a discovery. I was reading, quite idly, the story which should long since have been dramatised for the stage, _The Trumpet Major_, written, if I mistake not, in the early 'nineties. I came to chapter xxiii., which opens in this wise:

_Christmas had pa.s.sed. Dreary winter with dark evenings had given place to more dreary winter with light evenings. Rapid thaws had ended in rain, rain in wind, wind in dust. Showery days had come--the season of pink dawns and white sunsets...._

This reading was part of my Hardy debauch. A week or two earlier I had been reading what I think was his first book, written a quarter of a century before _The Trumpet Major_. I refer to _Desperate Remedies_; with all its faults, an extraordinarily full and finished production for a first book. Now, with curiosity in my very finger-tips, I turned over the pages of this volume, reread no more than a week previously.

I came presently upon chapter xii., and, following upon its first sentence, read these words:

_Christmas had pa.s.sed; dreary winter with dark evenings had given place to more dreary winter with light evenings. Thaws had ended in rain, rain in wind, wind in dust. Showery days had come--the period of pink dawns and white sunsets...._

That (with a quarter of a century, the writing of many books, and the building up of a justly great and world-wide reputation between the two writings) strikes me as a singular, and, in a way, pleasing literary coincidence; singular, as a freak of subconscious memory for words, pleasing, as a verification in mature life of the writer's comparatively youthful observations of natural phenomena. I wonder if the author, or any others among his almost innumerable readers, have chanced to light upon this particular coincidence!

Another writer of fiction, whose bent of mind, if sombre, was far from devoid of ironical humour, has occupied a deal of my leisure here--George Gissing. I rank him very high among the Victorian novelists.

His work deserves a higher place than it is usually accorded by the critics. He was a fine story-teller, and for me (though their topographical appeal is not, perhaps, very obvious) his books are very closely packed with living human interest. But again, for such an one as myself, so situated, I would not say that a course of Gissing formed particularly wholesome or digestible reading. Here, for example, is a pa.s.sage a.s.sociated in my recollection with a night which was among the worst I have spent in this place:

_He thought of the wretched millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave.

For that he neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that this world might be a sufficing Paradise to him, if only he could clutch a poor little share of current coin...._

No, for such folk as I, that was not good reading. But--and let this be my tribute to an author who won my very sincere esteem and respect--when morning had come, after a bad night, and I had had my dawn lesson from Nature, and my converse with Punch, I turned me to another volume of Gissing, and with a quieter mind read this:

_Below me, but far off, is the summer sea, still, silent, its ever changing blue and green dimmed at the long limit with luminous noon-tide mist. Inland spreads the undulant vastness of the sheep-spotted downs; beyond them the tillage and the woods of Suss.e.x weald, coloured like to the pure sky above them, but in deeper tint. Near by, all but hidden among trees in yon lovely hollow, lies an old, old hamlet, its brown roofs decked with golden lichen; I see the low church tower, and the little graveyard about it. Meanwhile, high in the heaven, a lark is singing. It descends, it drops to its nest, and I could dream that half the happiness of its exultant song was love of England...._

That is his little picture of a recollection of summer. And then, returning to his realities of the moment, this miscalled 'savage'

pessimist and 'pitiless realist' continues thus:

_It is all but dark. For a quarter of an hour I must have been writing by a glow of firelight reflected on my desk; it seemed to me the sun of summer. Snow is still falling. I can see its ghostly glimmer against the vanishing sky. To-morrow it will be thick upon my garden, and perchance for several days. But when it melts, when it melts, it will leave the snow-drop. The crocus, too, is waiting, down there under the white mantle which warms the earth._

But I would not say that even this was well-chosen reading for me--here in my bush hermitage--any more than is that masterpiece of Kipling's later concentration, _An Habitation Enforced_, followed by its inimitable _Recall_:

_I am the land of their fathers, In me the virtue stays; I will bring back my children After certain days.

Till I make plain the meaning Of all my thousand years-- Till I fill their hearts with knowledge, While I fill their eyes with tears._

No, nor yet, despite its healing potency in its own place, the same master craftsman's counsel to the whole restless, uneasy, sedentary brood among his countrymen:

_Take of English earth as much As either hand may rightly clutch, In the taking of it breathe Prayer for all who lie beneath-- Lay that earth upon your heart, And your sickness shall depart!

It shall mightily restrain Over busy hand and brain, Till thyself restored shall prove By what grace the heavens do move._

None of these good things are wholly good for me, here and now, because--because, for example, they recall a prophecy of Mrs.

Oldcastle's, and the grounds upon which she based it.

Who should know better than I, that if my life-long mental restlessness chances, when I am less well than usual, or darkness is upon me, to take the form of nostalgia, with clinging, pulling thoughts of England--never of the London I knew so well, but always of the rural England I knew so little, from actual personal experience, yet loved so well--who should know better than I (sinning against the light in the writing of this unpardonably involved sentence) that such restlessness, such nostalgia, are no more based upon reason than is a bilious headache. The philosopher should, and does, scorn such an itch of the mind, well knowing that were he foolish enough to let it affect his actions or guide his conduct he would straightway cease to be a philosopher, and become instead a sort of human shuttlec.o.c.k, for ever tossing here and there, from pillar to post, under the unreasoning blows of that battledore which had been his mind. Nay, rather the strappado for me, at any time, than abandonment to foolishness so cra.s.s as this would be.

Over and above all this I deliberately chose my 'way out,' and it is good. I am a.s.sured the life of this my hermitage is one better suited to the man I am to-day than any other life I could hope to lead elsewhere. The mere thought of such a fate as a return to the maelstrom of London journalism--is it not a terror to me, and a thing to chill the heart like ice? Here is peace all about me, at all events, and never a semblance of pretence or sham. And if I, my inner self, cannot find peace here, where peace so clearly is, what should it profit me to go seeking it where peace is not visible at all, and where all that is visible is turmoil, hurry, and fret?

Australia is a good land. Its bush is beautiful; its men and women are sterling and kindly, and its children more blessed (even though, perhaps, rather more indulged) than the children of most other lands.

For the wage-earner who earns his living by his hands, and purposes always to do so, I deliberately think this is probably the best country in all the world. It is his own country. He rules it in every sense of the word; and there is no cla.s.s, inst.i.tution, or individual exercising any mastery over him. Millionaires are scarce here, and so perhaps are men brilliant in any direction. But really poor folk, hungry folk, folk who must fight for bare sustenance, are not merely scarce--they are unknown in this land.

That is a great thing to be able to say for any country, and surely one which should materially affect the peace of mind of every thinking creature in it. Whilst very human, and hence by no means perfect, the people of this country have about them a pervasive kindliness, which is something finer than simple good nature and hospitality. The people as a whole are sincerely possessed by guiding ideals of kindness and justice. The means by which they endeavour to bring about realisation of their ideals are, I believe, fundamentally wrong and mistaken in a number of cases. Their 'ruling' cla.s.s is naturally new to the task of ruling, recruited as it is from trade union ranks. But they truly desire, as a people, that every person in their midst should be given a fair, sporting chance in life. 'A fair thing!' In three words one has the national ideal, and who shall say that it is not an admirable one, remembering that its foundation and mainspring are kindness, and if not justice, then desire for justice?

'All this is very worthy, no doubt, but deadly dull. Does it not make for desperate attenuation on the artistic and intellectual side?

Beautifully level and even, I dare say; like a paving stone, and about as interesting.'

Thus, my old friend Heron in a recent letter. The dear fellow would smile if I told him he was a member of England's privileged cla.s.ses.

But it is true, of course. Well, Australia has no privileged cla.s.ses--and no submerged cla.s.s. I admit that the highest artistic and intellectual levels of the New World are greatly lower than the highest artistic and intellectual levels of the Old World. But what of the average level, speaking of the populace as a whole? How infinitely higher are Australia's lowest levels than the depths, the ultimate pit in Merry England!

I am an uneasy, restless creature, mentally and bodily. I have not quite finished as yet the task, deliberation upon which, when it is completed, is to bring me rest and self-understanding. Vague hungers by the way are incidents of no more permanent importance than one's periodical colds in the head. To complain of intellectual barrenness in any given environment must surely be to confess intellectual barrenness in the complainant. I am well placed here in my bush hermitage. And, in short, _Je suis, je reste!_

IX

It is just thirteen days since I sat down before these papers, pen in hand; thirteen days since I wrote a word. A few months ago I suppose such delay would have worried me a good deal. To-day, for some reason, the fact seems quite unimportant, and does not distress me in the least. Have I then advanced so far towards self-comprehension as to have attained content of mind? Or is this merely the mental lethargy which follows bodily weakness and exhaustion? I do not know.

I have been ill again. It is a nuisance having to send for a doctor, because his fees are extremely high, and he has to come a good long way. Also, I do not think the good man's visits are of the slightest service to me. I have been living for twelve days exclusively upon milk; a healing diet, I dare say, but I have come to weary of the taste and sight of it, and its effect upon me is the reverse of stimulation. But I am in no wise inclined to cavil, for I am entirely free from pain at the moment; the weather is perfectly glorious, and my neighbours, Blades and his wife, are in their homely fashion extremely kind to me.

My one source of embarra.s.sment is that Ash, the timber-getter in the camp across the creek, is continually bringing me expensive bottles of Simpkins's Red Marvel, his genuine kindness necessitating not only elaborate pretences of regularly consuming his pernicious specific for every human ill, from consumption and 'bad legs' to snake-bites, but also periodical discussions with him of all my confounded symptoms--a topic which wearies me almost to tears. Indeed, I prefer the symptoms of Ash's friend in Newtown--or was it Balmain?--who was 'all et up with sores, something horrible.'

Notwithstanding the brilliant sunshine and cloudless skies of this month, the weather has been exquisitely fresh and cool, and my log fire has never once been allowed to go out, Blades, with the kindness of a man who can respect another's fads, having kept me richly supplied with logs. Mrs. Blades has been feeding Punch for me, and at least twice each day that genial rascal has neighed long and loudly at the slip-rails by the stable, as I believe in friendly greeting to me.

I shall, no doubt, presently feel strong enough to walk out and have a talk with Punch.

My last letter from Mrs. Oldcastle, written no more than a month ago--the mail service to Australia is improving--tells me that the park in London is looking lovely, all gay with spring foliage and blooms. She says that unless I intend being rude enough to falsify her prophecy, I must now be preparing to pack my bags and book my pa.s.sage home. Home!

Well, Ash, whose father like himself was born here, calls England 'Home,' I find. This is one of the most lovable habits of the children of our race all over the world.

But obviously it would be a foolish and stultifying thing for me to think of leaving my hermitage. I am not rich enough to indulge in what folk here call 'A trip Home.' And as for finally withdrawing from my 'way out,' and returning to settle in England, how could such a step possibly be justified upon practical grounds? The circ.u.mstances which led me to leave England are fundamentally as they were. Mrs.

Oldcastle-- But all that was thoroughly thought out before she left the _Oronta_ at Adelaide; and to-day I am less--less able, shall I say, than I was then?

It is singular that these few days in bed should have stolen so much of my strength. The mere exertion, if that it may be called, of writing these few lines leaves me curiously exhausted; yet they have been written extraordinarily slowly for me. My London life made me a quick writer. I wonder if leisure and ease of mind would have made me a good one!

I shall lay these papers aside for another day. Perhaps even for two or three days. Blades has kindly moved my bed for me to the side of the best window, which faces north-east; in the Antipodes, a very pleasant aspect. I shall not actually 'go to bed' again in the day-time, but I think I will lie on the bed beside that open window.

Sitting upright at the table here I feel, not pain, but a kind of aching weakness which I escape when lying down.

And yet, though not worried about it, I am rather sorry still farther to neglect this desultory task of mine, even for a day or two. The tree-tops are tossing bravely in the westerly wind this morning, and it is well that my banana clump has all the shelter of the gunyah, or its graceful leaves would suffer. The big cabbage palm outside the verandah makes a curious, dry, parchment-like crackling in the wind. But the three silver tree-ferns have a cool, swishing note, very pleasing to the ear; while for the bush trees beyond, theirs is the steady music of the sea on a sandy beach. I fancy this wind must be a shade too boisterous to be good for Blades's orange orchard. At all events it brings a strong citrus scent this way, after bustling across the side of Blades's hill.

There can be no doubt about it that this mine hermitage is very beautifully situated. Any man of discernment should be well content here to bide. The air about me is full of a nimble sweetness, and as utterly free from impurity as the air one breathes in mid-ocean. More, it is impregnated by the tonic perfumes of all the myriad aromatic growths that surround my cottage. Men say the Australian bush is singularly soulless; starkly devoid of the elements of interest and romance which so strongly endear to the hearts of those dwelling there the countryside in such Old World lands as the England of my birth.

Maybe. Yet I have met men, both native-born and alien-born, who have dearly loved Australia; loved the land so well as to return to it, even after many days.

England! Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world has known, was ever one so simply magic as this--England? Surely not.

How the tongue caresses it! In the past it has always seemed to me that the question of a man's place of birth was infinitely more significant and important than the mere matter of where he died, of where his bones were laid. And yet, even that matter of the resting-place for a man's bones.... Undoubtedly, there is magic in English earth. England! Thank G.o.d I was born in England!

EDITOR'S NOTE

Here the written record of my friend's life ends, though it clearly was not part of his design that this should be its end. Thanks to Mrs.

Blades, I have a record of the date of Freydon's last writing. It came two days before his own end. He died alone, and, by the estimate of the doctor from Peterborough, at about daybreak. The doctor thought it likely that he pa.s.sed away in his sleep; of all ends, the one he would have chosen.