Here fortunately for us (and our bread and
cheese) there was nothing interesting - ab-so-lute-ly.
But in the end, when the work was finished, the image that had been
formed could no longer be thrust away and forgotten. It was there, an
entity as well as an image - an intelligent masterful being who said to
me not in words but very plainly: Try to ignore me and it will be
worse for you: a secret want will continually disquiet you: recognize
my existence and right to dwell in and possess your soul, as you dwell
in mine, and there will be a pleasant union and peace between us.
To resist, to argue the matter like some miserable metaphysician would
have been useless.
The persistent image was of the old deep road, the green bank on each
side, on which stood thatched cottages, whitewashed or of the pale red
of old weathered bricks; each with its plot of ground or garden with,
in some cases, a few fruit trees. Here and there stood a large shade
tree - oak or pine or yew; then a vacant space, succeeded by a hedge,
gapped and ragged and bare, or of evergreen holly or yew, smoothly
trimmed; then a ploughed field, and again cottages, looking up or down
the road, or placed obliquely, or facing it: and looking at one
cottage and its surrounding, there would perhaps be a water-butt
standing beside it; a spade and fork leaning against the wall; a
white cat sitting in the shelter idly regarding three or four fowls
moving about at a distance of a few yards, their red feathers ruffled
by the wind; further away a wood-pile; behind it a pigsty sheltered
by bushes, and on the ground, among the dead weeds, a chopping-block,
some broken bricks, little heaps of rusty iron, and other litter. Each
plot had its own litter and objects and animals.
On the steeply sloping sides of the road the young grass was springing
up everywhere among the old rubbish of dead grass and leaves and sticks
and stems. More conspicuous than the grass blades, green as verdigris,
were the arrow-shaped leaves of the arum or cuckoo-pint. But there were
no flowers yet except the wild strawberry, and these so few and small
that only the eager eyes of the little children, seeking for spring,
might find them.
Nor was the village less attractive in its sounds than in the natural
pleasing disorder of its aspect and the sheltering warmth of its
street. In the fields and by the skimpy hedges perfect silence reigned;
only the wind blowing in your face filled your ears with a rushing
aerial sound like that which lives in a seashell.
