Confessions of a book-lover

by E. Walter Walters

‘That is so very pleasingly and bravely expressed,’ the letter continued, ‘that I am hoping it will convert you to “the gentle pace.” But have no fear that my spirit will prove as slow as my legs. I am still in possession of my rose-coloured spectacles, and can take full share in joy derived from pleasing thoughts and impressions.’

This, too, was bravely expressed; for when I met my friend at the spot named, I was pained to find him considerably thinner and paler than at our last meeting. But his greeting was as cordial as on any previous occasion, and I was glad to find that his voice had lost none of its familiar ring of enjoyment.

‘What think you of this passage?’ he cried after an exchange of greetings. ‘It is from a comparatively modern book—from a novel, to be precise, by Henry Harland. I fancy it should put us in the right mood for our saunter. There is an open estate across the heath into which we may go and find much of the splendour mentioned.’

As we sauntered forward, he read the passage for my benefit in his rich, musical voice: ‘“Beyond the shade, the sunshine broke into a mosaic of merry colours, on larkspur and iris, pansies and pink geraniums, jessamine, sweet-peas, tulips shameless in their extravagance of green and crimson, red and white carnations, red, white, and yellow roses. The sunshine broke into colour, it laughed, it danced, it almost rioted, among the flowers; but in the prim alleys, and on the formal hedges of box, and the quaintly clipped yews, and the old purple brick walls, where fruit-trees were trellised, it lay fast, fast asleep. Without the walls, in the cool greenery of the park, there was a perpetual drip-drip of bird-notes. This was the web upon which a chosen handful of more accomplished birds were embroidering and cross-embroidering their bold, clear arabesques of song.”’

You will notice that this pleasing passage is in lighter vein than the style of writing that usually won my friend’s admiration. I think the reason lay in his desire to show that a man might suffer from indifferent health and still enjoy a bright and lively spirit. I wish you could have heard him give voice to the following passage, as we made our way over the heath, through a wealth of fresh green undergrowth. He looked up, as he recited the words, at the blue sky, and spoke half playfully, half seriously:

‘“The sky is an inverted bowl of blue Sèvres—that priceless bleu-royal. The air is full of gold like eau-de-vie de Dantzic; if we only had a liquefying apparatus, we could recapture the first fine careless nectar of the gods, the poor dead gods of Greece. The earth is as aromatic as an orange stuck with cloves; I can’t begin to tell you all the wondrous woody, mossy, racy things it smells of. And the birds, the robins and the throstles, the blackbirds and the blackcaps, the linnets and the little Jenny wrens, knowing the value of silence, are hoarding it like misers; but, like prodigals, they’re squandering sound. The ear of mortal never heard such a delirious, delicious, such a crystalline, argentine, ivory-smooth, velvety-soft, such a ravishing, such an enravished tumult of sweet voices. Showers, cascades of pearls and rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires.”’

He laughed aloud, after the last word had left his lips, out of pure lightness of heart, then went on to speak of the value of pure air as a health restorer: ‘Pure air and an unsophisticated spirit in the presence of Nature—these are the best medical appliances.’ Bright colour showed in his cheeks as he continued to speak in playful vein of the doctor and his pharmacopoeia. To his mind, Mother Nature was the best of doctors. Had not Stevenson and many others written in praise of the soothing influence of conditions such as we enjoyed that day, the happy impressions, the sense of peace and wellbeing?

Then the conversation drifted into other channels, and we fell to talking of the time spent together in my friend’s little room—of his books, his pictures, his china, and of the photographs he had shown me. And here our talk took on a serious complexion; but we were still conscious of the flood of sunlight, the happy surroundings. Therefore, our tone, though serious, had nothing of melancholy. I learnt that the photographs that had aroused my curiosity had been taken at an establishment in old Hampstead, now demolished. In those days my friend had lived in a large, well-appointed house overlooking the heath. His means had been ample, his position seemingly secure. But misfortune had come, business reverses, the failure of a company in which large interests were vested, the betrayal of a friend in whom confidence had been placed. Then followed the sickness and death of his wife and child.

I looked at my friend and marvelled at his courage in the face of such misfortunes. At our first meeting he had said that without his rose-coloured spectacles, his bright point of view, all seemed dark. The meaning of his words was now touchingly clear. How could he have continued to live had he not been blessed with an indomitable spirit?

I wish I could give a faithful idea of the inspiring manner in which he interwove his story with bright and consoling touches; but so much depended upon his manner, the inflexions of his voice, the expression in his eyes, that I cannot hope to convey an adequate impression. I can only say that no spark of hope or consolation escaped his gratitude; that his bright and cheerful spirit was as ‘pervasive as sweet lavender, unavoidable as the sunset before the westward-bound traveller.’ The blue sky above, the foliage around, the rich growth beneath our feet—all had their message. Nature was our ‘good host’ for the day, and he ‘looked through Nature up to Nature’s God.’