The Water Is Green - Or
Is It The Ferns, And The Moss, And The Oaks, And The Pale Ash Reflected?
This rock has a purple tint, dotted with moss spots almost black; the
green water laps at the purple stone,
And there is one place where a thin
line of scarlet is visible, though I do not know what causes it. Another
stone the spray does not touch has been dried to a bright white by the
sun. Inclosed, the green water slowly swirls round till it finds
crevices, and slips through. A few paces farther up there is a red
rapid - reddened stones, and reddened growths beneath the water, a light
that lets the red hues overcome the others - a wild rush of crowded waters
rotating as they go, shrill voices calling. This next bend upwards
dazzles the eyes, for every inclined surface and striving parallel, every
swirl, and bubble, and eddy, and rush around a rock chances to reflect
the sunlight. Not one long pathway of quiet sheen, such as stretches
across a rippled lake, each wavelet throwing back its ray in just
proportion, but a hundred separate mirrors vibrating, each inclined at a
different angle, each casting a tremulous flash into the face. The
eyelids involuntarily droop to shield the gaze from a hundred arrows;
they are too strong - nothing can be distinguished but a woven surface of
brilliance, a mesh of light, under which the water runs, itself
invisible. I will go back to the deep green pool, and walking now with
the sun behind, how the river has changed!
Soft, cool shadows reach over it, which I did not see before; green
surfaces are calm under trees; the rocks are less hard; the stream runs
more gently, and the oaks come down nearer; the delicious sound of the
rushing water almost quenches my thirst. My eyes have less work to do to
meet the changing features of the current which now seems smooth as my
glance accompanies its movement. The sky, which was not noticed before,
now appears reaching in rich azure across the deep hollow, from the oaks
on one side to the oaks on the other. These woods, which cover the steep
and rocky walls of the gorge from river to summit, are filled with the
June colour of oak. It is not green, nor russet, nor yellow; I think it
may be called a glow of yellow under green. It is warmer than green; the
glow is not on the outer leaves, but comes up beneath from the depth of
the branches. The rush of the river soothes the mind, the broad
descending surfaces of yellow-green oak carry the glance downwards from
the blue over to the stream in the hollow. Rush! rush! - it is the river,
like a mighty wind in the wood. A pheasant crows, and once and again
falls the tap, tap of woodmen's axes - scarce heard, for they are high
above. They strip the young oaks of their bark as far as they can while
the saplings stand, then fell them, and as they all lie downhill there
are parallel streaks of buff (where the sap has dried) drawn between the
yellow-green masses of living leaf. The pathway winds in among the trees
at the base of the rocky hill; light green whortleberries fill every
interstice, bearing tiny red globes of flower - flower-lamps - open at the
top. Wood-sorrel lifts its delicate veined petals; the leaf is rounded
like the shadow of a bubble on a stone under clear water. I like to stay
by the wood-sorrel a little while - it is so chastely beautiful; like the
purest verse, it speaks to the inmost heart. Staying, I hear
unconsciously - listen! Rush! rush! like a mighty wind in the wood.
It draws me on to the deep green pool inclosed about by rocks - a pool to
stand near and think into. The purple rock, dotted with black moss; the
white rock; the thin scarlet line; the green water; the overhanging tree;
the verdant moss upon the bank; the lady fern - are there still. But I see
also now a little pink somewhere in the water, much brown too, and shades
I know no name for. The water is not green, but holds in solution three
separate sets of colours. The confervae on the stones, the growths
beneath at the bottom waving a little as the water swirls like minute
seaweeds - these are brown and green and somewhat reddish too. Under water
the red rock is toned and paler, but has deep black cavities. Next, the
surface, continually changing as it rotates, throws back a different
light, and thirdly, the oaks' yellow-green high up, the pale ash, the
tender ferns drooping over low down confer their tints on the stream. So
from the floor of the pool, from the surface, and from the adjacent bank,
three sets of colours mingle. Washed together by the slow swirl, they
produce a shade - the brown of the Barle - lost in darkness where the bank
overhangs.
Following the current downwards at last the river for awhile flows in
quietness, broad and smooth. A trout leaps for a fly with his tail curved
in the air, full a foot out of water. Trout watch behind sunken stones,
and shoot to and fro as insects droop in their flight and appear about to
fall. So clear is the water and so brightly illuminated that the fish are
not easily seen - for vision depends on contrast - but in a minute I find a
way to discover them by their shadows. The black shadow of a trout is
distinct upon the bottom of the river, and guides the eye to the spot;
then looking higher in the transparent water there is the fish. It was
curious to see these black shadows darting to and fro as if themselves
animated and without bodies, for if the trout darted before being
observed the light concealed him in motion.
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