“That he is a tyrant, yes; but I am going to see Ruy.”
“Ruy?”
“Oh, I mean the horse. I heard his name just now. He is a beautiful horse, isn’t he?”
XIX
Is it best to have a strong imagination, or to be entirely without it? An imaginative mind creates for itself a beautiful world; but upon entering into practical life, at every step, first one and then another portion of the structure is shattered till the entire fabric falls to pieces. Dust under foot and bitterness to the taste are all that remain; a void heart, a hopeless future, a weary present. The commonplace crushes the ideal as a cannonball might a statue.
The world, therefore, has long since decided that the imaginative is to be avoided. Have nothing to do with books, pictures, sculpture, with thought or dream. Above all things be practical.
Those who do not possess an imagination are clearly the gainers in this life; horses, carriages, money, expensive wines, or, if they prefer it, the solid applause of well-to-do folk, are given to them. The imaginative dream of flowers, but the practical possess a garden. The infinite superiority of the non-imaginative is established.
Robert Godwin had never any difficulty in choosing between these two courses—the imaginative and the practical—because he had not even imagination enough to see that there were two courses. By nature he was absolutely devoid of imagination. He took things as he saw them, and the idea of there being anything beyond never occurred to him.
There were the hills visible from his window; he knew by experience that hills were steep, and that a horse had to pull against the collar to draw him over them. The higher they were the thinner the soil, the smaller the crops, and the less rent to be obtained. Occasionally he glanced at them to see if the descending or ascending mist, the clearness or dimness of outline, promised rain or sunshine—and so much for the hills. This practical knowledge completed his concern in these mounds of chalk.
The depth of the rich blue sky, the sweep of the clouds, the sunrise, the colours of sunset, the stars so clear seen at an altitude—these mere imaginative things were invisible to him altogether. He simply did not see them, any more than if a thick curtain had been drawn before his eyes.
The thoughts which flow from the contemplation of the azure, the noble hope of sunrise, the godlike promise of the stars, were to him nonexistent; as he could not see the things that suggested the thought, so his mind was blind to the thought itself.
Yet further, that scarce definable culture—that idea which exists in the heart and soul independent of outward appearances—the sense of a beautiful inner life—so delicate a music was soundless to his ears.
The ground was solid under his feet; the sky afar off a mere translucent roof; the sun a round ball of heat, never seen unless he chanced to be driving westwards towards sunset. He measured trees, and put a red mark against those to be felled, so many every year; they were timber—wood; they were hard, oak some of them; he could tell the cubical contents, and how many feet of planking they would saw up into. The shape of the oak, the shadow, the birds who came to it, all its varied associations—its dream—had no meaning to him. Sometimes he saw the sea, its green plain, from the higher ground; but it did not attract him to the shore.
Through the woods in springtime his feet waded among pools, broad lakes of azure-purple, acres upon acres of bluebells, so crowded they could not swing; he crushed the tender anemone; he passed the white June rose.
Robert Godwin never walked by the sea, nor gathered a flower.
The old books which had accumulated in the house of his forefathers remained upon the shelves untouched. Since his schooldays, when it was compulsory, he had never opened any other book than the almanac.
He handled cattle and sheep, he inspected horses, he visited men at plough, at harrow, at harvest, at building, at sawing, smith’s work, every kind of labour. He attended markets and fairs, he drove and rode to and fro; he kept his accounts; he looked to every detail of the estate and of his own farm. He was always in action; when he returned from a long day’s round, so soon as he alighted he walked briskly down into the garden to see if the gardener had fulfilled a full day’s task.
Robert Godwin drove men as cattle are never driven. For cattle are let linger by the roadside that they may crop the clover which likes to grow in trodden places; cattle are permitted to drink at the pond, and to rest in the shade of the elm-trees. The evening comes and they are turned into a field to graze, and chew the cud, and consider, as it were, till the morning.
No man rested that Robert Godwin could get at to drive. His own farm labourers, the men who did the estate work, the woodcutters, the drain-diggers, the masons and smiths, the very messengers to and fro the Squire’s house and his farm—he drove them all. He would waylay the rural postman at six in the morning, and bully him for not coming at half-past five: what business had he to waste time taking a draught of milk at the farmhouse yonder? He should be reported. Robert Godwin stood at the stile and shouted to the children, and threatened them with the stick if they did not hasten on to school.
Yet when Robert Godwin’s back was turned and the hedge had hidden him from view, the ploughman relaxed his hold on the stilts of his plough, and the team stayed as he listened to the peaceful caw of the rooks. But Godwin’s back was never turned upon himself. He drove himself forever. He was always up at six, often at five; from then till dusk he
