as i walked through arras from the spanish gate, gardens flashed as i went, one by one, through the houses.
i stepped in over the window-sill of one of the houses, attracted by the gleam of a garden dimly beyond: and went through the empty house, empty of people, empty of furniture, empty of plaster, and entered the garden through an empty doorway.
when i came near it seemed less like a garden. at first it had almost seemed to beckon to passers-by in the street, so rare are gardens now in this part of france, that it seemed to have more than a garden's share of mystery, all in the silence there at the back of the silent house; but when one entered it some of the mystery went, and seemed to hide in a further part of the garden amongst wild shrubs and innumerable weeds.
british aeroplanes frequently roared over, disturbing the congregation of arras cathedral a few hundred yards away, who rose cawing and wheeled over the garden; for only jackdaws come to arras cathedral now, besides a few pigeons.
unkempt beside me a bamboo flourished wildly, having no need of man. on the other side of the small wild track that had been the garden path the skeletons of hothouses stood, surrounded by nettles; their pipes lay all about, shattered and riddled through.
branches of rose break up through the myriad nettles, but only to be seized and choked by columbine. a late moth looks for flowers not quite in vain. it hovers on wing-beats that are invisibly swift by its lonely autumn flower, then darts away over the desolation which is no desolation to a moth: man has destroyed man; nature comes back; it is well: that must be the brief philosophy of myriads of tiny things whose way of life one seldom considered before; now that man's cities are down, now that ruin and misery confront us whichever way we turn, one notices more the small things that are left.
one of the greenhouses is almost all gone, a tumbled mass that might be a piece of babylon, if archæologists should come to study it. but it is too sad to study, too untidy to have any interest, and, alas, too common: there are hundreds of miles of this.
the other greenhouse, a sad, ungainly skeleton, is possessed by grass and weeds. on the raised centre many flower-pots were neatly arranged once: they stand in orderly lines, but each separate one is broken: none contain flowers any more, but only grass. and the glass of the greenhouse lies there in showers, all grey. no one has tidied anything up there for years.
a meadow-sweet had come into that greenhouse and dwelt there in that abode of fine tropical flowers, and one night an elder tree had entered and is now as high as the house, and at the end of the greenhouse grass has come in like a wave; for change and disaster are far-reaching and are only mirrored here. this desolate garden and its mined house are a part of hundreds of thousands such, or millions. mathematics will give you no picture of what france has suffered. if i tell you what one garden is like, one village, one house, one cathedral, after the german war has swept by, and if you read my words, i may help you perhaps to imagine more easily what france has suffered than if i spoke of millions. i speak of one garden in arras; and you might walk from there, south by east for weeks, and find no garden that has suffered less.
it is all weeds and elders. an apple-tree rises out of a mass of nettles, but it is quite dead. wild rose-trees show here and there, or roses that have ran wild like the cats of no-man's-land: and once i saw a rose-bush that had been planted in a pot and still grew there, as though it still remembered man, but the flower-pot was shattered, like all the pots in that garden, and the rose grew wild as any in any hedge.
the ivy alone grows on over a mighty wall, and seems to care not. the ivy alone seems not to mourn, but to have added the last four years to its growth as though they were ordinary years. that corner of the wall alone whispers not of disaster, it only seems to tell of the passing of years, which makes the ivy strong, and for which in peace as in war there is no cure. all the rest speaks of war, of war that comes to gardens, without banners or trumpets or splendour, and roots up everything, and turns round and smashes the house, and leaves it all desolate, and forgets and goes away. and when the histories of the war are written, attacks and counter-attacks and the doom of emperors, who will remember that garden?
saddest of all, as it seemed to me watching the garden paths, were spiders' webs that had been spun across them, so grey and stout and strong, fastened from weed to weed, with the spiders in their midst sitting in obvious ownership. you knew then as you looked at those webs across all the paths in the garden that any that you might fancy walking the small paths still, were but grey ghosts gone from thence, no more than dreams, hopes and imaginings, something altogether weaker than spiders webs.
and the old wall of the garden that divides it from its neighbour, of solid stone and brick, over fifteen feet high, it is that mighty old wall that held the romance of the garden. i do not tell the tale of that garden of arras, for that is conjecture, and i only tell what i saw, in order that someone perhaps in some far country may know what happened in thousands and thousands of gardens because an emperor sighed, and longed for the splendour of war. the tale is but conjecture, yet all the romance is there; for picture a wall over fifteen feet high built as they built long ago, standing for all those ages between two gardens. for would not the temptation arise to peer over the wall if a young man heard, perhaps songs, one evening the other side? and at first he would have some pretext and afterwards none at all, and the pretext would vary wonderfully little with the generations, while the ivy went on growing thicker and thicker. the thought might come of climbing the wall altogether and down the other side, and it might seem too daring and be utterly put away. and then one day, some wonderful summer evening, the west all red and a new moon in the sky, far voices heard clearly and white mists rising, one wonderful summer day, back would come that thought to climb the great old wall and go down the other side. why not go in next door from the street, you might say. that would be different, that would be calling; that would mean ceremony, black hats, and awkward new gloves, constrained talk and little scope for romance. it would all be the fault of the wall.
with what diffidence, as the generations passed, would each first peep over the wall be undertaken. in some years it would be scaled from one side, in some ages from the other. what a barrier that old red wall would have seemed! how new the adventure would have seemed in each age to those that dared it, and how old to the wall! and in all those years the elders never made a door, but kept that huge and haughty separation. and the ivy quietly grew greener. and then one day a shell came from the east, and, in a moment, without plan or diffidence or pretext, tumbled away some yards of the proud old wall, and the two gardens were divided no longer: but there was no one to walk in them any more.
wistfully round the edge of the huge breach in the wall, a michaelmas daisy peered into the garden, in whose mined paths i stood.
