nov. 6, 1890.
to-day the gale had blown itself out; all yesterday it blustered round corners, shook casements, thundered in the chimneys, and roared in the pines. now it is bright and fresh, and the steady wind is routing one by one the few clouds that hang in the sky. i came in yesterday at dusk, and the whole heaven was full of great ragged, lowering storm-wreaths, weeping wildly and sadly; now the rain is over, though in the morning a sudden dash of great drops mingled with hail made the windows patter; but the sun shone out very low and white from the clouds, even while the hail leapt on the window-sill.
i took the field-path that wanders aimlessly away below the house; the water lay in the grass, and the sodden leaves had a bitter smell. the copses were very bare, and the stream ran hoarse and turbid. the way wound by fallows and hedges—now threading a steep copse, now along the silent water-meadows, now[162] through an open forest space, with faggots tied and piled, or by a cattle byre. here and there i turned into a country lane, till at last the village of spyfield lay before me, with the ancient church of dark sandstone and the little street of handsome georgian houses, very neat and prim—a place, you would think, where every one went to bed at ten, and where no murmurs of wars ever penetrated.
just beyond the village, my friend, mr. campden, the great artist, has built himself a palace. it is somewhat rococo, no doubt, with its marble terrace and its gilded cupolas. but it gleams in the dark hanging wood with an exotic beauty of its own, as if a genie had uprooted it from a tuscan slope, and planted it swiftly, in an unfamiliar world, in an hour of breathless labour between the twilight and the dawn. still, fantastic as it is, it is an agreeable contrast to the brick-built mansions, with their slated turrets, that have lately, alas, begun to alight in our woodlands.
mr. campden
mr. campden is a real prince, a lorenzo the magnificent; not only is he the painter of pictures which command a high price, though to me they are little more than harmonious wallpaper; but he binds books, makes furniture,[163] weaves tapestry, and even bakes tiles and pottery; and the slender minaret that rises from a plain, windowless building on the right, is nothing but a concealed chimney. moreover, he inherited through a relative’s death an immense fortune, so that he is a millionaire as well. to-day i followed the little steep lane that skirts his domain, and halted for a moment at a great grille of ironwork, which gives the passer-by a romantic and generous glimpse of a pleached alley, terminated by a mysterious leaden statue. i peeped in cautiously, and saw the great man in a blue suit, with a fur cloak thrown round his shoulders, a slouched hat set back from his forehead, and a loose red tie gleaming from his low-cut collar. i was near enough to see his wavy white hair and beard, his keen eyes, his thin hands, as he paced delicately about, breathing the air, and looking critically at the exquisite house beyond him. i am sure of a welcome from mr. campden—indeed, he has a princely welcome for all the world—but to-day i felt a certain simple schoolboy shyness, which ill accords with mr. campden’s venetian manner. it is delightful after long rusticity to be with him, but it is like taking a part in some solemn and affected[164] dance; to mr. campden i am the student-recluse, and to be gracefully bantered accordingly, and asked a series of questions on matters with which i am wholly unacquainted, but which are all part of the setting with which his pictorial mind has dowered me. on my first visit to him i spoke of the field-names of the neighbourhood, and so mr. campden speaks to me of domesday book, which i have never seen. i happened to express—in sheer wantonness—an interest in strange birds, and i have ever since to mr. campden been a man who, in the intervals of reading domesday book, stands in all weathers on hilltops, or by reedy stream-ends, watching for eagles and swans, like a roman augur—indeed augur is the name he gives me—our dear augur—when i am introduced to his great friends.
mr. campden has an infinite contempt for the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, whom he treats with splendid courtesy, and the kind of patronising amusement with which one listens to the prattle of a rustic child. it is a matter of unceasing merriment to me to see him with a young squire of the neighbourhood, an intelligent young fellow who has travelled a good deal, and is a considerable reader. he[165] has a certain superficial shyness, and consequently has never been able to secure enough of the talk for himself to show mr. campden what he is thinking of; and mr. campden at once boards him with questions about the price of eggs and the rotation of crops, calling him, “will honeycomb” from the spectator; and when plied with nervous questions as to perugino or carlo dolce, saying grandiloquently, “my dear young man, i know nothing whatever about it; i leave that to the critics. i am a republican in art, a red indeed, ha, ha! and you and i must not concern ourselves with such things. here we are in the country, and we must talk of bullocks. tell me now, in lorton market last week, what price did a tegg fetch?”
mr. campden is extraordinarily ignorant of all country matters, and has a small stock of ancient provincial words, not indigenous to the neighbourhood, but gathered from local histories, that he produces with complacent pride. indeed, i do not know that i ever saw a more ludicrous scene than mr. campden talking agriculture to a distinguished scientific man, whom a neighbouring squire had brought over to tea with him, and whom he took for a landowner.[166] to hear mr. campden explaining a subject with which he was not acquainted to a courteous scientist, who did not even know to what he was alluding, was a sight to make angels laugh.
but to-day i let mr. campden pace like a peacock up and down his pleasaunces, with his greyhound following him, and threaded the water-meadows homewards. i gave myself up to the luxurious influences of solitude and cool airs, and walked slowly, indifferent where i went, by sandstone pits, by brimming streams, through dripping coverts, till the day declined. what did i think of? i hardly dare confess. there are two or three ludicrous, pitiful ambitions that lurk in the corners of my mind, which, when i am alone and aimless, i take out and hold, as a child holds a doll, while fancy invests them with radiant hues. these and no other were my mental pabulum. i know they cannot be realised—indeed, i do not desire them—but these odd and dusty fancies remain with me from far-off boyish days; and many a time have i thus paraded them in all their silliness.
home
but the hedgerow grasses grew indistinguishably grey; the cattle splashed home along[167] the road; the sharp smell of wood smoke from cottage fires, piled for the long evenings, stole down the woodways; pheasants muttered and crowed in the coverts, and sprang clanging to their roosts. the murmur of the stream became louder and more insistent; and as i turned the corner of the wood, it was with a glow of pleasure that i saw the sober gables of golden end, and the hall window, like a red solemn eye, gaze cheerily upon the misty valley.
