XITHROUGH ROSE-COLOURED SPECTACLES
NOW let another occupy the printed page. I have promised to give the experiences of other book-lovers, to show how books influence their thoughts and ways; and I am anxious to introduce a short, slim gentleman of sixty odd summers, with a smiling face and an air of wellbeing, a retiring, peaceful book-lover, whom you would never suspect of playing any part in a mystery.
Nevertheless, my friend must plead guilty to practising the ‘art of make-believe’ to such a degree that one could never be certain how much was real concerning him and his affairs and how much was imaginary. Indeed, the only sure and unchanging thing about him was his spectacles and the manner in which he viewed life through them—hispoint of view.
‘My spectacles,’ he told me, over and over again, ‘are rose-coloured. You understand,rose-coloured. They and myself are inseparable. Without them I am as bad as stone-blind, and dare not take a step inany direction.’
Then he would smile in a manner that led one to suspect that he was merely drawing upon his imagination. But I learnt that my friend’s life had been lived under such peculiar difficulties, and that he had passed through so much sorrow and affliction, that without his rose-coloured spectacles he was, inonesense, stone-blind.
It pleased him to imagine that the lenses in his treasured spectacles, which were gold-rimmed and old-fashioned in shape, had been cut from rose-coloured pebbles, with the power of giving a rosy hue to life, and bringing all things into correct perspective.
‘Correct perspective and the right point of view,’ he remarked on a certain day, ‘are everything in life. My spectacles give me the correct vision. They bring men and affairs into proper focus, and, what is more, they give them a rose tint. Robert Louis Stevenson wore spectacles something like mine, but his were far and away more powerful. They enabled him to see farther and more clearly. They were of a deeper and purer tint.’
He drew from his pocket a small cloth-bound edition of passages from Stevenson’s works. The little volume did not measure more than, say,three by five inches, and was considerably soiled and worn; but he handled it as though it were worth its weight in precious stones.
It was clear, before he opened the volume, that he knew the greater part of the contents by heart; for he commenced to quote as he ran his fingers round the edge of the cover:
‘“When you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another bond on you thenceforward, binding you to life and to the love of virtue.”’
He accompanied the quotation with a pleasing smile, as who should say, ‘How true that is and how nobly expressed!’ Then he turned the leaves hastily as though looking for a favourite passage; but he abandoned the search a moment later, and glanced up.
‘I fancy I can give you the passage correctly. I should like you to hear it. It will throw light upon what I have said about my rose-coloured spectacles.’
He looked up, as he spoke, at the trees overhanging the lane through which we walked.
‘“Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than the thoughts affect the scenery. We see places through our humours as through differently-coloured glasses.”’
He paused a moment, then repeated the last line slowly and with emphasis: ‘We see places through our humours as through differently-coloured glasses.’
‘“We are ourselves,”’ he continued, ‘“a term in the quotation, a note of the chord, and make discord and harmony almost at will. There is no fear for the result, if we but surrender ourselves sufficiently to the country that surrounds and follows us, so that we are ever thinking suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort of story as we go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre of beauty; we are provocative of beauty, such as a gentle and sincere character is provocative of sincerity and gentleness in others....”’
Then he told me ‘some suitable sort of story’ about a certain man who built a castle upon dry land, a castle of stone, firm as a rock, and filled it with his heart’s desire. But no sooner had the man taken up his abode therein than the tide of circumstances turned. Misfortune followed misfortune; sorrow followed sorrow; first, the loss ofearthly possessions, then the loss of loved ones. All brightness and hope were taken out of the man’s life, and for many years he dwelt in darkness.
At this point my friend turned away, and slowly, thoughtfully, polished his spectacles. One could not help thinking that he was relating in a parable the story of his own past. This suspicion was strengthened, if not actually confirmed, when he readjusted his spectacles and continued:
‘Then this same man built a castle in the air partly out of the creations of his own mind, partly out of the creations of others, a castle of thought, a building without visible support. He found, however, that this castle in the air, built on lines he had been taught to smile at in his youth, was more enduring than his castle of stone. Moat and drawbridge were impassable, the gates impregnable. Changed circumstances could not affect it; misfortune and sorrow could not shake it; even death left it unmoved.’
‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what I am driving at? Listen to this from my little volume: “No man can find out the world, says Solomon, from beginning to end, because the world is in his own heart.” And this: “An inspiration is a joy for ever, a possession as solid as a landed estate, a fortune we can never exhaust, and which gives us year byyear a revenue of pleasurable activity. To have many of these is to be spiritually rich.”’
The next moment he drew from his pocket a worn leather case and showed me a portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson. He had it wrapped in two layers of paper, both yellow with age and stained from much handling. But the likeness was well preserved, as clear, perhaps, as on the day it was taken.
‘I number this likeness,’ he said, ‘amongst my treasures. They go everywhere with me—this portrait of Stevenson and this little volume of extracts from his works.’ He fingered the cover affectionately. ‘The case,’ he continued, ‘is worn with much handling, but the rose-coloured lenses have not lost their power. Listen to this: “It is in virtue of his own desires and curiosities that any man continues to exist with even patience, that he is charmed by the look of things and people, and that he awakens every morning with a renewed appetite for work and pleasure.” And this: “Noble disappointment, noble self-denial, are not to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself and stay outside.”’
He glanced up and handed me the volume. ‘Make your own selection,’ he suggested; ‘read something that condemns me.’
I acted on the suggestion, or, rather, thefirstpart of it; for my selection, contrary to his request, was in the form of commendation:
‘“His was, indeed, a good influence in life while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh; it did you good to see him; and, however sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of spring.”’
I was not aware how entirely this fitted my friend’s case until some months had passed. Our friendship was only in its infancy at that time, little more than an acquaintance. We had no formal introduction. He had asked the time of day, then gone on to talk of his rose-coloured spectacles. We had much to say concerning his spectacles in the days that followed—always in a light and pleasant vein. To be tedious or heavy was, to his mind, a grievous fault, particularly in books. In life and in letters he would always look for, and never fail to find, the brightest side, the happiest passages. And he would apply the one to the other—a passage from Stevenson, or some other author, to an incident in his own or some other life—in a manner that waswonderfully illuminating and helpful.
In brief, his was ‘the life that loves, that gives, that loses itself, that overflows; the warm, hearty, social, helpful life.’ From a sorrowful chapter in his history he would weave a story for the help of others, always from a rose-coloured standpoint; from a calamity he would make a fairy tale, showing that, in spite of adversity, theHouse Beautifulwas still upon its hill-top.
I remarked, in introducing him, that he was guilty of playing a part in a mystery. You will have seen through the mystery by now; at least, as regards his rose-coloured spectacles. But there is more to be said concerning his life and his love of books.