The Altar Fire by Arthur Christopher Benson (golden son ebook txt) 📕

only enmeshed in conventionality. The dangers of the quiet life are indolence, morbidity, sloth, depression, unmanliness; but I think that it develops humility, and allows the daily and hourly message of God to sink into the soul. After all, the one supreme peril is that of self-satisfaction and finality. If a man is content with what he is, there is nothing to make him long for what is higher. Any one who looks around him with a candid gaze, becomes aware that our life is and must be a provisional one, that it has somehow fallen short of its possibilities. To better it is the best of all courses; but next to that it is more desirable that men should hope for and desire a greater harmony of things, than that they should acquiesce in what is so strangely and sadly amiss.


June 18, 1890.


I have made a new friend, whose contact and example help me so strangely and mysteriously, that it seems to me almost as though I had been led hither that I might know him. He is an old and lonely man, a great invalid, who lives at a little manor-house a mile or two away. Maud knew him by name, but had never seen him. He wrote me a courtly kind of note, apologising for being unable to call, and expressing a hope that we might be able to go and see him. The house stands on the edge of the village, looking out on the churchyard, a many-gabled building of grey stone, a long flagged terrace in front of it, terminated by posts with big stone balls; a garden behind, and a wood behind that--the whole scene unutterably peaceful and beautiful. We entered by a little hall, and a kindly, plain, middle-aged woman, with a Quaker-like precision of mien and dress, came out to greet us, with a fresh kindliness that had nothing conventional about it. She said that her uncle was not very well, but she thought he would be able to see us. She left us for a moment. There was a cleanness and a fragrance about the old house that was very characteristic. It was most simply, even barely furnished, but with a settled, ancient look about it, that gave one a sense of long association. She presently returned, and said, smiling, that her uncle would like to see us, but separately, as he was very far from strong. She took Maud away, and returning, walked with me round the garden, which had the same dainty and simple perfection about it. I could see that my hostess had the poetical passion for flowers; she knew the names of all, and spoke of them almost as one might of children. This was very wilful and impatient, and had to be kept in good order; that one required coaxing and tender usage. We went on to the wood, in all its summer foliage, and she showed us a little arbour where her uncle loved to sit, and where the birds would come at his whistle. "They are looking at us out of the trees everywhere," she said, "but they are shy of strangers"--and indeed we heard soft chirping and rustling everywhere. An old dog and a cat accompanied us. She drew my attention to the latter. "Look at Pippa," she said, "she is determined to walk with us, and equally determined not to seem to need our company, as if she had come out of her own accord, and was surprised to find us in her garden." Pippa, hearing her name mentioned, stalked off with an air of mystery and dignity into the bushes, and we could see her looking out at us; but when we continued our stroll, she flew out past us, and walked on stiffly ahead. "She gets a great deal of fun out of her little dramas," said Miss ----. "Now poor old Rufus has no sense of drama or mystery--he is frankly glad of our company in a very low and common way--there is nothing aristocratic about him." Old Rufus looked up and wagged his tail humbly. Presently she went on to talk about her uncle, and contrived to tell me a great deal in a very few words. I learnt that he was the last male representative of an old family, who had long held the small estate here; that after a distinguished Oxford career, he had met with a serious accident that had made him a permanent invalid. That he had settled down here, not expecting to live more than a few years, and that he was now over seventy; it had been the quietest of lives, she said, and a very happy one, too, in spite of his disabilities. He read a great deal, and interested himself in local affairs, but sometimes for weeks together could do nothing. I gathered that she was his only surviving relation, and had lived with him from her childhood. "You will think," she added, laughing, "that he is the kind of person who is shown by his friends as a wonderful old man, and who turns out to be a person like the patriarch Casby, in Little Dorrit, whose sanctity, like Samson's, depended entirely upon the length of his hair. But he is not in the least like that, and I will leave you to find out for yourself whether he is wonderful or not."

There was a touch of masculine irony and humour about this that took my fancy; and we went to the house, Miss ---- saying that two new persons in one afternoon would be rather a strain for her uncle, much as he would enjoy it, and that his enjoyment must be severely limited. "His illness," she said, "is an obscure one; it is a want of adequate nervous force: the doctors give it names, but don't seem to be able to cure or relieve it; he is strong, physically and mentally, but the least over-exertion or over-strain knocks him up; it is as if virtue went out of him; though a partial niece may say that he has a plentiful stock of the material."

We went in, and proceeded to a small library, full of books, with a big writing-table in the window. The room was somewhat dark, and the feet fell softly on a thick carpet. There was no sort of luxury about the room; a single portrait hung over the mantelpiece, and there was no trace of ornament anywhere, except a big bowl of roses on a table.

Here, with a low table beside him covered with books, and a little reading-desk pushed aside, I found Mr. ---- sitting. He was leaning forwards in his chair, and Maud was sitting opposite him. They appeared to be silent, but with the natural silence that comes of reflection, not the silence of embarrassment. Maud, I could see, was strangely moved. He rose up to greet me, a tall, thin figure, dressed in a rough grey suit. There was little sign of physical ill-health about him. He had a shock of thick, strong hair, perfectly white. His face was that of a man who lived much in the open air, clear and ascetic of complexion. He was not at all what would be called handsome; he had rather heavy features, big, white eyebrows, and a white moustache. His manner was sedate and extremely unaffected, not hearty, but kindly, and he gave me a quick glance, out of his blue eyes, which seemed to take swift stock of me. "It is very kind of you to come and see me," he said in a measured tone. "Of course I ought to have paid my respects first, but I ventured to take the privilege of age; and moreover I am the obedient property of a very vigilant guardian, whose orders I implicitly obey--'Do this, and he doeth it.'" He smiled at his niece as he said it, and she said, "Yes, you would hardly believe how peremptory I can be; and I am going to show it by taking Mrs. ---- away, to show her the garden; and in twenty minutes I must take Mr. ---- away too, if he will be so kind as help me to sustain my authority."

The old man sate down again, smiling, and pointed me to a chair. The other two left us; and there followed what was to me a very memorable conversation. "We must make the best use of our time, you see," he said, "though I hope that this will not be the last time we shall meet. You will confer a very great obligation on me, if you can sometimes come to see me--and perhaps we may get a walk together occasionally. So we won't waste our time in conventional remarks," he added; "I will only say that I am heartily glad you have come to live here, and I am sure you will find it a beautiful place--you are wise enough to prefer the country to the town, I gather." Then he went on: "I have read all your books--I did not read them," he added with a smile, "that I might talk to you about them, but because they have interested me. May I say that each book has been stronger and better than the last, except in one case"--he mentioned the name of a book of mine--"in which you seemed to me to be republishing earlier work." "Yes," I said, "you are quite right; I was tempted by a publisher and I fell." "Well," he said, "the book was a good one--and there is something that we lose as we grow older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a beautiful freedom of thought; but we can't have everything, and one's books must take their appropriate colours from the mind. May I say that I think your books have grown more and more mature, tolerant, artistic, wise?--and the last was simply admirable. It entirely engrossed me, and for a blessed day or two I lived in your mind, and saw out of your eyes. I am sure it was a great book--a noble and a large-hearted book, full of insight and faith--the best kind of book." I murmured something; and he said, "You may think it is arrogant of me to speak like this; but I have lived among books, and I am sure that I have a critical gift, mainly because I have no power of expression. You know the best kind of critics are the men who have tried to write books, and have failed, as long as their failure does not make them envious and ungenerous; I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work all the more for that. You are writing now?" "No," I said, "I am writing nothing." "Well, I am sorry to hear it," he said, "and may I venture to ask why?" "Simply because I cannot," I said; and now there came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that one has in answering the questions of a great and compassionate physician, who assumes the responsibility of one's case. Not only did I not resent these questions, as I should often have resented them, but it seemed to give me a sense of luxury and security to give an account of myself to this wise and unaffected old man. He bent his brows upon me: "You have had a great sorrow lately?" he said. "Yes," I said, "we have lost our only boy, nine years old." "Ah," he said, "a sore stroke, a sore stroke!" and there was a deep tenderness in his voice that made me feel that I should have liked to kneel down before him, and weep at his knee, with his hand laid in blessing on my head. We sate in silence for a few moments. "Is it