XII
The Philosophy of the Sea
It very often happens that the so-called equinoctial gales are behind their time, and do not arrive until Night has undoubtedly made good her victory over Day. When such is the case, we have a mild November, with soft southwesterly breezes varying in strength according to the lie of the land or the individual experience of farmer or townsman. At sea it blows hard enough in all good sooth, and there may be watery eyes at the wheel or on the forecastle; but there are no frozen fingers aloft, which is in itself a mercy. There is a good hearty roar through the shrouds, and certain parts of the deck are always wet, but the clear horizon and rushing clouds overhead are full of brave exhilaration.
On land, things are dirtier, more especially under foot, where the leaves lose all their crackle and subside odorously into mud. Water stands on the roadways, and in ruts elsewhere; and curled beech-leaves float thereon in vague navigation, half waterlogged like any foreign timber-ship. The tilled land, bearing in its bosom seed for next year’s crops, or merely waiting fallow, is damp and soft and black; men walking thereon—rustic or sportsman—make huge impressions, and carry quite a weight on either foot. The trees stand bare and leafless, though rapid green mouldy growths relieve the wet monochrome of bark or rind.
Here, again, as at sea, the atmosphere is singularly gay and translucent. Things afar off seem near, and new details in the landscape become apparent. Any little bit of colour seems to gleam, almost to glow, and the greenness of the meadow is startling. Although there is an autumnal odour on the breeze, it has no sense of melancholy. The clouds may be gray, but they are fraught with life, and one knows that there is brightness behind. With motion, melancholy cannot live.
The effect of this soft breeziness upon different people is apparent to the most casual of observers. It freshens sailors up, and they pull on their oilskins with a cheery pugnacity; tillers of the land are busy, and wonder how long it will last; and hunting-men (provided only the land be not too heavy) are wild with a joy which has no rival in times of peace; timid riders grow bold, and bold men reckless. It is only folks who stay indoors that complain of depression. For myself, I confess it makes me long to be at sea, and although I can see nothing but sky and chimney-pots over the inkstand, the very shades of colour, of dark and light, are before me if I close my eyes. It is a long rolling sweep of greeny gray, with here and there a tip of dirty white, and the line of horizon is hard and clear enough to please the veriest novice with the sextant.
In November, 1876, there were a few days of such weather as I have attempted to describe, and Brenda, who spent that time on the east coast of England, in a manner learnt to associate soft winds and clear airs with the much-maligned county of Suffolk. All through the rest of her life, through the long aimless years during which she learnt to love the verdant plains with their bare mud seawalls, she only thought of Suffolk as connected with and forming part of soft autumnal melancholy. She never again listened to the wail of the seagull without involuntarily waiting for the cheery cry of the snipe. Never again did she look on a vast plain without experiencing a sense of incompleteness which could only have been dispelled by the murmurous voice of the sea breaking on to shingle.
The human mind is strangely inconsistent in its reception and retention of impressions. As in modern photography, the length of exposure seems to be of little consequence. Without any tangible reason, and for no obvious use, certain incidents remain engraved upon our memory, while the detail of other events infinitely more important passes away, and only the result remains.
Brenda and Alice only passed four days in the little hamlet selected for them by Theodore Trist as a safe hiding-place; but during that time a great new influence came into Brenda’s soul.
She had always been sensitive to the beauties of Nature. A glorious landscape, a golden sunset, or the soft silver of moon-rise, had spoken to her in that silent language of Nature which appeals to the most prosaic heart at times; but never until now had one of earth’s great wonders established a longing in her soul—a longing for its constant company which is naught else but passionate love. She had hitherto looked upon the sea as an inconvenience to be overcome before reaching other countries. Perhaps she was aware that this inconvenience possessed at times a charm, but not until now had she conceived it possible that she, Brenda Gilholme, should ever love it with an insatiable longing such as the love of sailors. On board the Hermione she had passed her apprenticeship; had, as the admiral was wont to say, learnt the ropes; but never had she loved the sea for its own grand incomprehensible sake as she loved it now.
Its gray mournful humours seemed to sympathize with her own thoughts. Its monotonous voice, rising and falling on the shingle shore, spoke in unmistakable language, and told of other things than mere earthly joys and sorrows.
I who write these lines learnt to love the sea many years ago, when I had naught else but water to look upon—from day to day, from morning till night, through the day and through the darkness, week after week, month after month. The love crept into my heart slowly and very surely, like the love of a boy, growing into manhood, for some little maiden growing by his side. And now, whether on its bosom or looking on it from the noisy shore, that love
