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Commentator: Edward N. Hooker

No. 2

With an Introduction by Edward N. Hooker

Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is .50. Address subscriptions and communications to the Augustan Reprint Society, in care of one of the General Editors.

INTRODUCTION

His literary criticism is small in bulk. But though it is neither brilliant nor well written , it is not without interest. Pope observed in 1730 that he was a "learned" man . The observation was correct, but it should be added that Wesley matured at the end of an age famous for its great learning, an age whose most distinguished poet was so much the scholar that he appeared more the pedant than the gentleman to critics of the succeeding era; Wesley was not singular for erudition among his seventeenth-century contemporaries.

He loved the quietness. He loved being shut in on the top of his hill, and would have been only the better pleased if there had been thirty barriers about him instead of three. This was the time when the place was wholly his, before his staff stirred in the bothy or climbed the hill from the park. The men, when they came, had an air of possession even in their tread, and in the way they handled things and struck spades into the soil. It was natural, of course, but he felt that it robbed him a little. He had to share the gardens with them. His employers had the possessive air, too, although not so much as the men, both because they knew their place better and because they did not strike tools into the ground. But he had to share the gardens with them, all the same. They said: "What are you going to grow just here, Kirkby?" Or: "Don't you think we might have so-and-so, this year, instead of this-and-that?" So they robbed him, too.

He was old and gentle, like an English garden, but he was hale, too, and not by any means run to seed. His clothes, good clothes, now pleasantly shabby, had a mellow tone which blended softly with their setting. His fresh complexion and faded but clear eyes had the pale tints of some of his own blossoms. The very droop of his shoulders was less like the slow curve which comes with age than the gentle stoop of a flower.

Especially he loved the quietness because it was at this hour that he had a vision of the gardens as he planned them for the year. This was his creative time, these few moments before the men came and broke and scattered his thoughts. It was then that he saw the long succession of colours and kinds with which the gardens would sum up their rich total before the winter came again. He would lose some of it later, of course, owing to other people's follies and fancies, and the stolid frustration of concrete facts. But some of it would persist, even through worries and contradictions and the hard blows of the northern weather; so that, by the time the resting-months for the gardens came round once more, he would always in some measure have fulfilled his dream.

He was not always able to snatch these god-like moments in which he controlled the future. Often enough, Mattie was downstairs first, and he could not call up his pictures while she was working and talking. Husbands and wives were so near to each other that they got in each other's way over things like those,--things that had to have you all to themselves, or they would not come. But he always took his moments when he could get them, because he needed them. His days were poorer without them and the assurance they brought him, as days are poorer without a prayer.

And just now was the time when the vision was strongest and clearest, when there was promise of new life all around, and still it was only promise. Like all artists, he saw his creation best when there was still nothing but a blank page in front of him. It had then a clarity, a sweep, a combined passion and restraint which it never achieved again after he had once begun to work upon it. It altered, no matter how he tried to preserve it. Alien ideas crept in, upsetting the balance of his scheme. Beautiful ideas they were, too, sometimes, but they were alien, nevertheless. Often he had tried to convince himself that the altered plan was all for the best; but as soon as the springtime both of the gardens and of his inspiration came round again, he knew that the thing which he saw then was the finer and purer.

The whole panorama of the seasons passed in colour and shape before his inward eye, running at the same time through his brain like a well-known piece of music. Familiar as it was, however, it was also highly intricate, with its many different parts overlapping and intertwining. Not only was there the kitchen garden to think of, but there were the glass-houses as well, fruit grown inside and out, tomatoes, orchids, carnations, violets. Then down at the Hall there were the rose-gardens and lawns, tennis-courts and flower-borders, and the long yew and beech-hedges to be kept trim and close. And besides all these there was the big rock-garden across the river, full of plants which, however much you might suppress them, grew as giants grow in a single night.

He saw the vegetables he would grow with the warm, homely thrill with which the farmer sees his crops, and the housewife her stores of linen and jam. The fruit he saw as an artist sees his finished task,--as gleaming jewels of price which you can hold and weigh in your hand. But the flowers he saw as the mystic and the dreamer see Heaven,--not in concrete form, but as sheer colour and light, and an ecstasy of shaded tones.

He had, too, the knowledge which enabled him to see under the soil, as the geologist sees the strata under his feet, and the drainer sees where the streams run under the apparently dry surface. Beneath the quiet beds and the still grass he saw the forces of life already waking to work, sending the spring-urge through the seeds which had slept there during the winter, or conserving their energies for those which should be given into their charge later.

But for that insight and knowledge there would have seemed little enough encouragement from the brown waste lying before him, and curving away behind potting-sheds and glass to come back to him again along empty borders. The gardens were not actually empty, of course, for there were evergreen climbers and shrubs, patches of colour made by the remains of the winter greens, jasmine in flower, and the wing-like flashes of snowdrops and crocuses. But by comparison with his vision it was altogether desolate and barren, for in that he saw all the miracle of each season at once, smiled upon by a cloudless heaven.

Not every other gardener, he found, had the passion for blue to anything like the extent that he had. All of them grew blue flowers, of course, filling their borders with them, and flinging them profusely about their rockeries. But they did not worship them, as he did,--did not wait and watch for them, feeling, as they looked at them, that what they looked at was pure spirit. Mostly they preferred deep-coloured roses and rich carnations, the tawny hues of chrysanthemums or the flaming shades of rhododendrons and dahlias. They did not seem to see the wistfulness of blue against a northern landscape, and how it was answered by the smoke-blue of far-off mountains and the steel-blue of frozen tarns.

This year, however, they were to have a new blue flower which had attracted quite a lot of attention at a northern show, last summer. It had been brought into being by a north-country horticulturist, and so naturally the northern papers had made a great to-do about it. One of them had said that the new "dawnbell," as it was called, had a certain quality which only a northern mind could have infused into it; and another said that it seemed to contain all the fundamental blues of the world, as the rose seemed to contain all the fundamental pinks. Kirkby had not quite understood what either of the papers was talking about, but it did not matter. All that he knew, as he paid his homage to the dawnbell in its airless tent, was that, set against the background of his fells at home, it would have the exquisiteness and the appeal of a little child.

But not only did he see the glory of the garden unrolled before him; he saw the daily work, the infinite pains which led to the production of it. He saw the trenching, the sowing, the thinning, the potting and pruning, the staking and tying, the watering and weeding. He saw the daily fight with the myriad living creatures which strive to share the results of man's labours with him. And when he had finished with the growing, there was still the cropping, the gathering for the Hall, the London house, the shooting-box, the market. And when the heaviest work in that way was beginning to get over, there was the layering and manuring and dividing; and always the continual battle for order with the leaf-storms flung upon him by the autumn gales.

He was so still during the few minutes in which his vision passed before him that the very bushes and trees, chained and weighted with heavy drops, seemed by comparison to be full of animation. It was as if the actual life were being drained out of him in order to supply vitality to the temporarily vivid picture. The light had brightened a little, and the mist was lifting. Far below, from the direction of the park, a sweet-whistled snatch swam up to him through the mist as the faint chimes of sunk church-bells are said to swim up through the sea. The men were coming to work. Behind him the kettle boiled over with a sudden angry hiss, and at the same moment he heard the bed creak in the room above.

Turning, he saw the letter....

Once again, however, he shut it out, firmly refusing to look at it as he stepped across to the kettle. Yet again his awareness of it was apparent in his every movement. His hand shook as he made the tea; and when the bed upstairs creaked again, with that sharp, emphatic creak which he had come to regard as actually emanating from his wife rather than as the mere protest of a piece of furniture, he hurried out of the room as if thankful to get away from it.

Cup in hand, he went upstairs, and entered the low bedroom, with its window looking out on to the little plot of ground which was private to the house, separated from the rest of the gardens by a privet hedge which he had planted forty years ago, and which had now grown thick and high. He had never ceased to feel surprised when he looked at that hedge, not because it had done so well, but because it was there at all. He would never have thought of planting it but for his wife, because it would never have occurred to him to feel the need of it. Either the whole place was his, or else none of it was,--that was how he looked at it. Nevertheless, he had planted the hedge to please her, because she wanted a spot where she could "get away." In the same way she had chosen the bedroom which looked out on that particular side, because it made her feel that she "wasn't there." He had had some difficulty in understanding either of these rather puzzling statements, but he had made no bones about them. He himself had never wanted either to get away or to feel that he wasn't there; but of course it wasn't to be expected that he and Mattie should always feel the same.

She was sitting up in bed when he went in, and leaning forward a little, as if some eagerness in her had sent her spirit before her to unburden itself to him. The paralysis which had seemed to afflict her on the previous night,--the result, perhaps, of over-emotion or fatigue--had completely dropped from her. This morning, indeed, she looked alive to her very finger-tips. Her strong, buxom figure looked hale and wholesome in its good longcloth nightgown. Her plaited hair, run through with silver, was still silky and thick. Her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. She took the cup from him in a grasp that was as firm and capable as when he had first known her.

"Eh, but I've slept sound!" she announced, yawning and smiling in a breath, while the vibrant tones of her voice, running through the room, seemed to stir up the atmosphere of the house, and even to assist at the awakening of the world outside. "I don't know that I ever remember sleeping like that before."

He nodded, looking at her affectionately as he stood beside the bed in one of those still attitudes of his which suggested the poise of a flower on a windless day.

"Yes. You've slept grand. You were tired, likely, with all that settling and such-like."

She laughed at that, showing teeth that were still fine, and stirring her tea with a steady hand.

"Nay, not I!" she said in the same voice, the very strength of which was an added denial. "It'd take a deal more than that to knock me out." Then suddenly she sobered, staring thoughtfully at the cup before her. "I was just sort of--satisfied--I suppose."

He said: "That's right! That'll be it," in his quiet tones, nodding at her again, although this time she wasn't looking at him; the little action and the repeated phrase seeming to warn off something inside him that was making him feel guilty.

"I was dreaming a deal, although I was so sound...." She lifted her eyes to him once more in their shining eagerness. "I dreamt I was There!"

He grew, if possible, a trifle more still. So far, he had evaded the letter successfully, but he could not evade this. In another minute, and in spite of himself, he, too, would be There....

"I saw the whole spot as plain as plain!" Mattie went on rapidly. "There was Luke's house, first of all, and then Joe's, and then Maggie's and her husband's,--all nearabouts together, just as they've always said."

He murmured, "Yes, yes! Yes, yes!" trying to hold himself back, but feeling that he was going, all the same.

"Ellen was there, too, though she lives a good bit off...." She ruminated a little, as if trying to work out in her mind how Ellen had managed it. "It was all just as they said, only a deal bigger. All of 'em together, just as they used to be, and things as snug as snug!"

"Yes, yes! Yes, yes!"

She paused a moment, contentedly sipping her tea, and staring at the knitted quilt on the bed as though she saw the whole pattern of her dream laid out there before her.

"There was another house as well," she said presently, still staring,--"a house you and me know of, as isn't built yet, but will be, before long...."

"Yes, yes! Yes, yes!"

"And between the houses there was that garden they talk so much about,--a great big stretch of a place as seemed to go on for ever and ever."

He did not say anything to that, for the simple reason that he was no longer present to say it. He was There now, just as she had been There, all during those night-hours when he had lain awake and she had slept so sweetly. The garden had taken him, as he had known it would take him, if she began to speak of it. He could fight against all the rest,--the houses and their occupants, even that other house which was going to be so important, although it was not yet even built; but he could not fight the garden. The very mention of it was sufficient to drag him out of the safe place in which he had lived so long, and to carry him overseas.

"It was only a dream," he tried to console her, speaking with an effort as if from a great distance.

He came back then from his leap across the ocean, and, reaching out his hand, patted her on the shoulder.

"It'll be real enough soon," he reminded her gently. "It's only a matter of being patient a few weeks more."

"Only a few weeks, that's all," she repeated after him in a curiously childlike fashion, heartening herself both with the words and with a sip of the cooling tea. "But it's a long while, all the same.... Seems strange, doesn't it, you should feel as if you couldn't wait a few more weeks, when you've waited for years and years?"

"You won't notice you're waiting," he pointed out. "You'll be too busy. There'll be a deal to do."

She brightened at that, her vitality mounting at the very thought of the approaching period of activity. "Ay, and I'm keen to be at it!" she retorted briskly. "I shan't feel it's really real until I begin to pack!"

She was launched now upon a subject of which the possibilities were endless, and was already deep in its details when the same whistled snatch reached them which Kirkby had heard earlier from the park. He moved automatically. "There's the men. I must be off," he said, turning towards the door.

Mattie nodded, her mind still full of delightful problems.

"It's time we were both moving," she agreed, though vaguely. "I'm late this morning.... It's that dream, I suppose," she added, passing her hand over her eyes as if to remove something which still lingered before them, "but I don't rightly feel as if I was back!"

"Oh, you're back, right enough!" he smiled at her from the door; and at the words the thing which had stayed in front of her eyes fled, and she looked across at him.

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