Robert Falconer Part 91

Andrew complained that the ceaseless sound wearied him, and Robert that he felt the aimless endlessness of it more than was good for him.

I confess it irritated me like an anodyne unable to soothe. We were clearly all in want of something different. The air between the hills clung to them, hot and moveless. We would climb those hills, and breathe the air that flitted about over their craggy tops.

As soon as we had breakfasted, we set out. It was soon evident that Andrew could not ascend the steep road. We returned and got a carriage.

When we reached the top, it was like a resurrection, like a dawning of hope out of despair. The cool friendly wind blew on our faces, and breathed strength into our frames. Before us lay the ocean, the visible type of the invisible, and the vessels with their white sails moved about over it like the thoughts of men feebly searching the unknown.

Even Andrew Falconer spread out his arms to the wind, and breathed deep, filling his great chest full.

'I feel like a boy again,' he said.

His son strode to his side, and laid his arm over his shoulders.

'So do I, father,' he returned; 'but it is because I have got you.'

The old man turned and looked at him with a tenderness I had never seen on his face before. As soon as I saw that, I no longer doubted that he could be saved.

We found rooms in a farm-house on the topmost height.

'These are poor little hills, Falconer,' I said. 'Yet they help one like mountains.'

'The whole question is,' he returned, 'whether they are high enough to lift you out of the dirt. Here we are in the airs of heaven--that is all we need.'

'They make me think how often, amongst the country people of Scotland, I have wondered at the clay-feet upon which a golden head of wisdom stood!

What poor needs, what humble aims, what a narrow bas.e.m.e.nt generally, was sufficient to support the statues of pure-eyed Faith and white-handed Hope.'

'Yes,' said Falconer: 'he who is faithful over a few things is a lord of cities. It does not matter whether you preach in Westminster Abbey, or teach a ragged cla.s.s, so you be faithful. The faithfulness is all.'

After an early dinner we went out for a walk, but we did not go far before we sat down upon the gra.s.s. Falconer laid himself at full length and gazed upwards.

'When I look like this into the blue sky,' he said, after a moment's silence, 'it seems so deep, so peaceful, so full of a mysterious tenderness, that I could lie for centuries, and wait for the dawning of the face of G.o.d out of the awful loving-kindness.'

I had never heard Falconer talk of his own present feelings in this manner; but glancing at the face of his father with a sense of his unfitness to hear such a lofty utterance, I saw at once that it was for his sake that he had thus spoken. The old man had thrown himself back too, and was gazing into the sky, puzzling himself, I could see, to comprehend what his son could mean. I fear he concluded, for the time, that Robert was not gifted with the amount of common-sense belonging of right to the Falconer family, and that much religion had made him a dreamer. Still, I thought I could see a kind of awe pa.s.s like a spiritual shadow across his face as he gazed into the blue gulfs over him. No one can detect the first beginnings of any life, and those of spiritual emotion must more than any lie beyond our ken: there is infinite room for hope. Falconer said no more. We betook ourselves early within doors, and he read King Lear to us, expounding the spiritual history of the poor old king after a fas.h.i.+on I had never conceived--showing us how the said history was all compressed, as far as human eye could see of it, into the few months that elapsed between his abdication and his death; how in that short time he had to learn everything that he ought to have been learning all his life; and how, because he had put it off so long, the lessons that had then to be given him were awfully severe.

I thought what a change it was for the old man to lift his head into the air of thought and life, out of the sloughs of misery in which he had been wallowing for years.

CHAPTER XVII. IN THE COUNTRY.

The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took us out for a drive. We pa.s.sed through lanes and gates out upon all open moor, where he stopped the carriage, and led us a few yards on one side. Suddenly, hundreds of feet below us, down what seemed an almost precipitous descent, we saw the wood-embosomed, stream-trodden valley we had left the day before. Enough had been cleft and scooped seawards out of the lofty table-land to give room for a few little conical hills with curious peaks of bare rock. At the bases of these hills flowed noisily two or three streams, which joined in one, and trotted out to sea over rocks and stones. The hills and the sides of the great cleft were half of them green with gra.s.s, and half of them robed in the autumnal foliage of thick woods. By the streams and in the woods nestled pretty houses; and away at the mouth of the valley and the stream lay the village. All around, on our level, stretched farm and moorland.

When Andrew Falconer stood so unexpectedly on the verge of the steep descent, he trembled and started back with fright. His son made him sit down a little way off, where yet we could see into the valley. The sun was hot, the air clear and mild, and the sea broke its blue floor into innumerable sparkles of radiance. We sat for a while in silence.

'Are you sure,' I said, in the hope of setting my friend talking, 'that there is no horrid pool down there? no half-trampled thicket, with broken pottery and shreds of tin lying about? no dead carca.s.s, or dirty cottage, with miserable wife and greedy children? When I was a child, I knew a lovely place that I could not half enjoy, because, although hidden from my view, an ugly stagnation, half mud, half water, lay in a certain spot below me. When I had to pa.s.s it, I used to creep by with a kind of dull terror, mingled with hopeless disgust, and I have never got over the feeling.'

'You remind me much of a friend of mine of whom I have spoken to you before,' said Falconer, 'Eric Ericson. I have shown you many of his verses, but I don't think I ever showed you one little poem containing an expression of the same feeling. I think I can repeat it.

'Some men there are who cannot spare A single tear until they feel The last cold pressure, and the heel Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think The clouds have borrowed winter's wing-- Sad winter when the gra.s.ses spring No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward-fool: I lay a claim to better blood; But yet a heap of idle mud Hath power to make me sorrowful.

I sat thinking over the verses, for I found the feeling a little difficult to follow, although the last stanza was plain enough. Falconer resumed.

'I think this is as likely as any place,' he said, 'to be free of such physical blots. For the moral I cannot say. But I have learned, I hope, not to be too fastidious--I mean so as to be unjust to the whole because of the part. The impression made by a whole is just as true as the result of an a.n.a.lysis, and is greater and more valuable in every respect. If we rejoice in the beauty of the whole, the other is sufficiently forgotten. For moral ugliness, it ceases to distress in proportion as we labour to remove it, and regard it in its true relations to all that surrounds it. There is an old legend which I dare say you know. The Saviour and his disciples were walking along the way, when they came upon a dead dog. The disciples did not conceal their disgust. The Saviour said: "How white its teeth are!"'

'That is very beautiful,' I rejoined. 'Thank G.o.d for that. It is true, whether invented or not. But,' I added, 'it does not quite answer to the question about which we have been talking. The Lord got rid of the pain of the ugliness by finding the beautiful in it.'

'It does correspond, however, I think, in principle,' returned Falconer; 'only it goes much farther, making the exceptional beauty hallow the general ugliness--which is the true way, for beauty is life, and therefore infinitely deeper and more powerful than ugliness which is death. "A dram of sweet," says Spenser, "is worth a pound of sour."'

It was so delightful to hear him talk--for what he said was not only far finer than my record of it, but the whole man spoke as well as his mouth--that I sought to start him again.

'I wish,' I said, 'that I could see things as you do--in great ma.s.ses of harmonious unity. I am only able to see a truth sparkling here and there, and to try to lay hold of it. When I aim at more, I am like Noah's dove, without a place to rest the sole of my foot.'

'That is the only way to begin. Leave the large vision to itself, and look well after your sparkles. You will find them grow and gather and unite, until you are afloat on a sea of radiance--with cloud shadows no doubt.'

'And yet,' I resumed, 'I never seem to have room.'

'That is just why.'

'But I feel that I cannot find it. I know that if I fly to that bounding cape on the far horizon there, I shall only find a place--a place to want another in. There is no fortunate island out on that sea.'

'I fancy,' said Falconer, 'that until a man loves s.p.a.ce, he will never be at peace in a place. At least so I have found it. I am content if you but give me room. All s.p.a.ce to me throbs with being and life; and the loveliest spot on the earth seems but the compression of s.p.a.ce till the meaning s.h.i.+nes out of it, as the fire flies out of the air when you drive it close together. To seek place after place for freedom, is a constant effort to flee from s.p.a.ce, and a vain one, for you are ever haunted by the need of it, and therefore when you seek most to escape it, fancy that you love it and want it.'

'You are getting too mystical for me now,' I said. 'I am not able to follow you.'

'I fear I was on the point of losing myself. At all events I can go no further now. And indeed I fear I have been but skirting the Limbo of Vanities.'

He rose, for we could both see that this talk was not in the least interesting to our companion. We got again into the carriage, which, by Falconer's orders, was turned and driven in the opposite direction, still at no great distance from the lofty edge of the heights that rose above the sh.o.r.e.

We came at length to a lane bounded with stone walls, every stone of which had its moss and every c.h.i.n.k its fern. The lane grew more and more gra.s.sy; the walls vanished; and the track faded away into a narrow winding valley, formed by the many meeting curves of opposing hills.

They were green to the top with sheep-gra.s.s, and spotted here and there with patches of fern, great stones, and tall withered foxgloves. The air was sweet and healthful, and Andrew evidently enjoyed it because it reminded him again of his boyhood. The only sound we heard was the tinkle of a few tender sheep-bells, and now and then the tremulous bleating of a sheep. With a gentle winding, the valley led us into a more open portion of itself, where the old man paused with a look of astonished pleasure.

Before us, seaward, rose a rampart against the sky, like the turreted and embattled wall of a huge eastern city, built of loose stones piled high, and divided by great peaky rocks. In the centre rose above them all one solitary curiously-shaped ma.s.s, one of the oddest peaks of the Himmalays in miniature. From its top on the further side was a sheer descent to the waters far below the level of the valley from which it immediately rose. It was altogether a strange freaky fantastic place, not without its grandeur. It looked like the remains of a frolic of the t.i.tans, or rather as if reared by the boys and girls, while their fathers and mothers 'lay stretched out huge in length,' and in breadth too, upon the slopes around, and laughed thunderously at the sportive invention of their sons and daughters. Falconer helped his father up to the edge of the rampart that he might look over. Again he started back, 'afraid of that which was high,' for the lowly valley was yet at a great height above the diminished waves. On the outside of the rampart ran a narrow path whence the green hill-side went down steep to the sea.

The gulls were screaming far below us; we could see the little flying streaks of white. Beyond was the great ocean. A murmurous sound came up from its sh.o.r.e.

We descended and seated ourselves on the short springy gra.s.s of a little mound at the foot of one of the hills, where it sank slowly, like the dying gush of a wave, into the hollowest centre of the little vale.

'Everything tends to the cone-shape here,' said Falconer,--'the oddest and at the same time most wonderful of mathematical figures.'

'Is it not strange,' I said, 'that oddity and wonder should come so near?'

'They often do in the human world as well,' returned he. 'Therefore it is not strange that Sh.e.l.ley should have been so fond of this place.

It is told of him that repeated sketches of the spot were found on the covers of his letters. I know nothing more like Sh.e.l.ley's poetry than this valley--wildly fantastic and yet beautiful--as if a huge genius were playing at grandeur, and producing little models of great things.

But there is one grand thing I want to show you a little further on.'

We rose, and walked out of the valley on the other side, along the lofty coast. When we reached a certain point, Falconer stood and requested us to look as far as we could, along the cliffs to the face of the last of them.

'What do you see?' he asked.