The Lakes - On the Fell - Peace

It was in the later weeks of a hot, still midsummer that Hugh escaped from Cambridge to the Lakes.  He did not realise, until he found himself driving in the cool of the evening beside Windermere, how parched and dry his very mind had become in the long heats of the sun-dried flats.  Sometimes the road wound down to the very edge of the water, lapping deliciously among the stones; sometimes it skirted the pleasaunces of a cool sheltered villa which lay embowered in trees, blinking contentedly across the lake.  The sight of the great green hills with their skirts clothed with wood, with trees straggling upwards along the water-courses, the miniature crags escaping from oak-coppices, the black heads of bleak mountains, filled him with an exquisite and speechless delight.

It was sunset before he reached his destination, which was a large house of rough stone, much festooned with creepers, which crowned a little height at the base of the fells, in the centre of a wild wood.  The house was that of a very old man, hard on his ninetieth year, a relative of Hugh’s, and an old friend of his family.  There was a short cut to the house among the woods, and Hugh left the carriage to go round by the drive, while he himself walked up.  The path was a little track among copses, roofed over by interlacing boughs, and giving an abundance of pretty glimpses to right and left of the unvisited places of the wood; old brown boulders covered with moss, with ash-suckers shooting out among the stones, little streams rippling downwards, small green lawns fringed with low trees.  The western valley was full of a rich golden light, and the wooded ridges rose quietly one after another, with the dark solemn forms of mountains on the horizon.  A few dappled clouds, fringed with fire, floated high in the green sky.  It all seemed to him to be screening some sacred and mysterious pageant, which was, as it were, being celebrated out in the west, where the orange sunset lay dying.  He thought of the lonely valleys among the hills, slowly filling with twilight gloom, the high ridges from which one could discern the sun sinking in glory over the far-spread flashing sea with its misty rim.  The house loomed up suddenly over the thickets, with a light or two burning in the windows which pierced the thick wall.

Within, all was as it had been for many a year; it was a house in which everything seemed to stand still, the day passing smoothly in a simple and pleasant routine.  He received a very kindly and gentle welcome from his host, and was pleased to find that the party was of the quietest - an old friend or two, a widowed daughter of the house, one or two youthful cousins.  Hugh slipped into his place in the household as if he had never been absent; he established his books in a corner of the dark library full of old volumes.  It was always a pleasure to him to see his host, a courtly, silent old man, with snow-white hair and beard, who sate smiling, eating so little that Hugh wondered how he sustained life, reading for an hour or two, walking a little about the garden, sitting long in contented meditation, never seeming to be weary or melancholy.  Hugh remembered that, some years before, he had wondered that any one could live so, neither looking backwards nor forwards, with no designs or cares or purposes, simply taking each day as it came with a perfect tranquillity, not overshadowed by the thought of how few years of life were left him.  But now he seemed to understand it better; it was just the soft close of a kindly and innocent life, dying like a tree or a flower.  The old man liked to have Hugh as the companion of his morning ramble, showed him many curious plants and flowers, and spoke often of the reminiscences of his departed youth with no shadow of desire or regret.  At first the grateful coolness of the place revived Hugh; but the soft, moist climate brought with it a fatigue of its own, an indolent dejection, which made him averse to work and even to bodily activity.  He took, however, one or two lonely walks among the mountains.  In his listless mood, he was vexed and disquieted by the contrast between the utter peace and beauty of the hills, which seemed to uplift themselves, half in majesty and half in appeal, into the still sky, as though they had struggled out of the world, and yet desired a further blessing, - the contrast between their meek and rugged patience, and the noisy, dusty crowd of shameless and indifferent tourists, that circulated among the green valleys, like a poisonous fluid in the veins of the wholesome mountains.  They brought a kind of blight upon the place; and yet they were harmless, inquisitive people, tempted thither, most of them by fashion, a few perhaps by a feeble love of beauty, and only desirous to bring their own standard of comforts with them.  The world seemed out of joint; the radical ugliness and baseness of man an insult to the purity and sweetness of nature.

Hugh walked back, in a close and heavy afternoon, across the fell, with these thoughts struggling together in his heart.  The valley was breathlessly still, and the flies buzzed round him as he disturbed them from the bracken.  The whole world looked so sweet and noble, that it was impossible not to think that it was moulded and designed by a Will of unutterable graciousness and beauty.  From the top, beside a little crag full of clinging trees, that held on tenaciously to the crevices and ledges, with so perfect an accommodation to their precarious situation, Hugh surveyed the wide valleys, and saw the smoke ascend from hamlets and houses, the lake as still as a mirror, while the shadows lengthened on the hills, which seemed indeed to change their very shapes by delicate gradations.  It looked perfectly peaceful and serene.  Yet in how many houses were there unquiet and suffering hearts, waiting in vain for respite or release!  The pain of the world pressed heavily upon Hugh; it seemed that if he could have breathed out his life there upon the hill-top among the fern, to mingle with the incense of the evening, that would be best; and yet even while he thought it, there seemed to contend with his sadness an immense desire for joy, for life; how many beautiful things there were to see, to hear, to feel, to say; to be loved, to be needed - how Hugh craved for that!  While he sate, there alighted on his knee, with much deliberation, a dry, varnished-looking, orange-banded fly, which might have almost been turned out of a manufactory a moment before.  It sent out a thin and musical buzzing, as it cleaned its brown, large-eyed head industriously with its long legs.  It seemed to wish to sit with Hugh; and again and again, after a short flight, it returned to the same place.  What was the meaning of this tiny, definite life, with its short space of sun and shade, made with so curious and elaborate an art, so whimsically adorned and glorified?  Here again he was touched close by the impenetrable mystery of things.  But presently the cheerful and complacent creature flew off on some secret errand, and Hugh was left alone again.

He descended swiftly into the valley; the road was full of dust.  The vehicles, full of chattering, smoking, vacuous persons were speeding home.  The hands of many were full of poor fading flowers, torn from lawn and ledge to please a momentary whim.  Yet beside the road slid the clear stream over its shingle, passing from brisk cascades into dark and silent pools, fringed with rich water-plants, the trees bowing over the water.  How swiftly one passed from disgust and ugliness into unimagined peace!  It was all going forwards, all changing, all tending to some unknown goal.

Hugh found his host sitting on the terrace, under a leafy sycamore, a perfect picture of holy age and serenity.  He listened to the recital of Hugh’s little adventures with a smile, and said that he had often walked over the fell in the old days, but did not suppose he would ever see it again.  “I am just waiting for my release,” he said, with a little nod of his head; “every time that I sit here, I think it may very likely be the last.”  Hugh longed to ask him the secret of this contented and passionless peace, but he knew there could be no answer; it was the kindly gift of God.

The sunset died away among the blue hill-ranges, and a soft breeze began to stir among the leaves of the sycamore overhead.  A nightjar sent out its liquid, reiterated note from the heather, and a star climbed above the edge of the dark hill.  Here was peace enough, if he could but reach it and seize it.  Yet it softly eluded his grasp, and seemed only to mock him as unattainable.  Should he ever grasp it?  There was no answer possible; yet a message seemed to come wistfully and timidly, flying like a night-bird out of the wild woodland, as though it would have settled near him; but it left him with the same inextinguishable hunger of the heart, that seemed to be increased rather than fed by the fragrant incense of the garden, the sight of the cool, glimmering paths, the pale rock rising from the turf, the silent pool.