CYPRESSES AND OLIVES: AN INTERLUDEAmice, quisquis es, dummodo honestum, vitae taedet.Theroad was parched and burning. I was sad, so sad, at my heart’s heart. The sun seemed to laugh me to scorn, and the passers to sneer as they went by. My soul was sore, sore to its inmost fibres, and I hated the very beauty of Nature.So I turned aside among the cypresses. They will calm me, I thought. Their whisperings are so grave. They flaunt not their joy at the sun’s kisses, like the shameless trees along the roadside. They keep their hearts unmoved in sun and in storm; they are the true stoics of Nature. And their calm is sympathetic; it comes not of a soul immovable; it comes of strength in trial.And the cypresses wrapped me round in their scent—the grave, penetrating odour in which the battered spirit folds its wings to rest, andthe heart-beats grow quieter, and the brow smooths itself out in peace. In long, long lines they stretched away before me, and I walked under their guidance, conversing with them familiarly, searching the height and depth of their thoughts. And I was no longer sore with my fellow-men. I could tolerate the thought of the flaunting trees and flowers, of the exuberant life evermore renewing itself away out there along the road I had left. But still I walked among the cypresses, and with them I held communion.And lo! they took leave of me. At the edge of a grassy path they left me. And beyond the path I saw freshly-ploughed brown earth, and the quiver and strain of a yoke of white oxen as they pulled the plough through some harder spot; and two workers with brown aprons, arms and faces like glowing bronze, and soft felt hats weather-stained into harmony with the earth and the tree-trunks. They bent to their labour; and the soil laid bare its breast, rich in promise, before their eyes; and the vines around whose roots the plough passed encompassed them with luxuriant clusters, purple and white; and the olives bent close down around their heads, embowering them under a low roof of silver. So I passed through the toil of those workers, toil calm and regular, blest in its fulfilling and in its ending; and I carried in my heart the picture of those bendingmen, the slow-moving oxen, the rich soil and the embracing trees.Suddenly a spell was woven round me; a spell as of moonbeams. I was in a wood of olive trees. Their sharp, narrow leaves, of a sheen like frosted silver, pointed with rigid grace into the luminous grey of the sky. No shadow, no darker spot of black or green fruit broke the wondrous diffused splendour. The very branches, as they spread and bent outwards from the low trunks, had softened the harshness of their scaly bark and were as softly radiant as the foliage and the sky above them. Only the trunks and the under-sides of the branches were in shadow; rugged and brown, they were like a rough shell which had opened to give life to an Aphrodite of new and chastened beauty. No flowers jarred with bright tints the harmonious hush of colour; but here and there delicate campions raised slender stems that bent with the weight of grey-green calyx and pallid, wide-eyed blossom.And I walked, in the exquisite suavity of the wood. Surely, I thought, the moonbeams have become tangible. Surely I am in an enchanted land and should meet its mistress; a maiden slim and grave, with wealth of olive-black hair, with deep dark eyes, with clinging gown of grey girdled with a zone of cold blue-green. How sweet to stay here for ever with soulattuned to the melody that mutely breathes from the living silver of boughs and leaves, and falls graciously from the pearl-like sky.But onward and ever onward must I go; and the olives left me as the cypresses had done.They left me at the edge of the highway; and I passed out again into the glare of the sunshine, the gaze of the passers, the laughter, the bustle, the pushing, on the parched and burning road.And behold! a change had come over my soul. The stoicism of the cypresses, the calm of the toilers, the suave quiet strength of that harmonious olive wood—these things had permeated the fibres of my being. The indifference of the passers-by found no way open to my heart; the unheeding joy of trees and flowers no longer jarred me. I was clothed upon with a vesture woven of the enduring calm that broods ever at the unchanging heart of Nature; like armour it encompassed me about, and I possessed my soul in peace.
CYPRESSES AND OLIVES: AN INTERLUDEAmice, quisquis es, dummodo honestum, vitae taedet.Theroad was parched and burning. I was sad, so sad, at my heart’s heart. The sun seemed to laugh me to scorn, and the passers to sneer as they went by. My soul was sore, sore to its inmost fibres, and I hated the very beauty of Nature.So I turned aside among the cypresses. They will calm me, I thought. Their whisperings are so grave. They flaunt not their joy at the sun’s kisses, like the shameless trees along the roadside. They keep their hearts unmoved in sun and in storm; they are the true stoics of Nature. And their calm is sympathetic; it comes not of a soul immovable; it comes of strength in trial.And the cypresses wrapped me round in their scent—the grave, penetrating odour in which the battered spirit folds its wings to rest, andthe heart-beats grow quieter, and the brow smooths itself out in peace. In long, long lines they stretched away before me, and I walked under their guidance, conversing with them familiarly, searching the height and depth of their thoughts. And I was no longer sore with my fellow-men. I could tolerate the thought of the flaunting trees and flowers, of the exuberant life evermore renewing itself away out there along the road I had left. But still I walked among the cypresses, and with them I held communion.And lo! they took leave of me. At the edge of a grassy path they left me. And beyond the path I saw freshly-ploughed brown earth, and the quiver and strain of a yoke of white oxen as they pulled the plough through some harder spot; and two workers with brown aprons, arms and faces like glowing bronze, and soft felt hats weather-stained into harmony with the earth and the tree-trunks. They bent to their labour; and the soil laid bare its breast, rich in promise, before their eyes; and the vines around whose roots the plough passed encompassed them with luxuriant clusters, purple and white; and the olives bent close down around their heads, embowering them under a low roof of silver. So I passed through the toil of those workers, toil calm and regular, blest in its fulfilling and in its ending; and I carried in my heart the picture of those bendingmen, the slow-moving oxen, the rich soil and the embracing trees.Suddenly a spell was woven round me; a spell as of moonbeams. I was in a wood of olive trees. Their sharp, narrow leaves, of a sheen like frosted silver, pointed with rigid grace into the luminous grey of the sky. No shadow, no darker spot of black or green fruit broke the wondrous diffused splendour. The very branches, as they spread and bent outwards from the low trunks, had softened the harshness of their scaly bark and were as softly radiant as the foliage and the sky above them. Only the trunks and the under-sides of the branches were in shadow; rugged and brown, they were like a rough shell which had opened to give life to an Aphrodite of new and chastened beauty. No flowers jarred with bright tints the harmonious hush of colour; but here and there delicate campions raised slender stems that bent with the weight of grey-green calyx and pallid, wide-eyed blossom.And I walked, in the exquisite suavity of the wood. Surely, I thought, the moonbeams have become tangible. Surely I am in an enchanted land and should meet its mistress; a maiden slim and grave, with wealth of olive-black hair, with deep dark eyes, with clinging gown of grey girdled with a zone of cold blue-green. How sweet to stay here for ever with soulattuned to the melody that mutely breathes from the living silver of boughs and leaves, and falls graciously from the pearl-like sky.But onward and ever onward must I go; and the olives left me as the cypresses had done.They left me at the edge of the highway; and I passed out again into the glare of the sunshine, the gaze of the passers, the laughter, the bustle, the pushing, on the parched and burning road.And behold! a change had come over my soul. The stoicism of the cypresses, the calm of the toilers, the suave quiet strength of that harmonious olive wood—these things had permeated the fibres of my being. The indifference of the passers-by found no way open to my heart; the unheeding joy of trees and flowers no longer jarred me. I was clothed upon with a vesture woven of the enduring calm that broods ever at the unchanging heart of Nature; like armour it encompassed me about, and I possessed my soul in peace.
Amice, quisquis es, dummodo honestum, vitae taedet.
Theroad was parched and burning. I was sad, so sad, at my heart’s heart. The sun seemed to laugh me to scorn, and the passers to sneer as they went by. My soul was sore, sore to its inmost fibres, and I hated the very beauty of Nature.
So I turned aside among the cypresses. They will calm me, I thought. Their whisperings are so grave. They flaunt not their joy at the sun’s kisses, like the shameless trees along the roadside. They keep their hearts unmoved in sun and in storm; they are the true stoics of Nature. And their calm is sympathetic; it comes not of a soul immovable; it comes of strength in trial.
And the cypresses wrapped me round in their scent—the grave, penetrating odour in which the battered spirit folds its wings to rest, andthe heart-beats grow quieter, and the brow smooths itself out in peace. In long, long lines they stretched away before me, and I walked under their guidance, conversing with them familiarly, searching the height and depth of their thoughts. And I was no longer sore with my fellow-men. I could tolerate the thought of the flaunting trees and flowers, of the exuberant life evermore renewing itself away out there along the road I had left. But still I walked among the cypresses, and with them I held communion.
And lo! they took leave of me. At the edge of a grassy path they left me. And beyond the path I saw freshly-ploughed brown earth, and the quiver and strain of a yoke of white oxen as they pulled the plough through some harder spot; and two workers with brown aprons, arms and faces like glowing bronze, and soft felt hats weather-stained into harmony with the earth and the tree-trunks. They bent to their labour; and the soil laid bare its breast, rich in promise, before their eyes; and the vines around whose roots the plough passed encompassed them with luxuriant clusters, purple and white; and the olives bent close down around their heads, embowering them under a low roof of silver. So I passed through the toil of those workers, toil calm and regular, blest in its fulfilling and in its ending; and I carried in my heart the picture of those bendingmen, the slow-moving oxen, the rich soil and the embracing trees.
Suddenly a spell was woven round me; a spell as of moonbeams. I was in a wood of olive trees. Their sharp, narrow leaves, of a sheen like frosted silver, pointed with rigid grace into the luminous grey of the sky. No shadow, no darker spot of black or green fruit broke the wondrous diffused splendour. The very branches, as they spread and bent outwards from the low trunks, had softened the harshness of their scaly bark and were as softly radiant as the foliage and the sky above them. Only the trunks and the under-sides of the branches were in shadow; rugged and brown, they were like a rough shell which had opened to give life to an Aphrodite of new and chastened beauty. No flowers jarred with bright tints the harmonious hush of colour; but here and there delicate campions raised slender stems that bent with the weight of grey-green calyx and pallid, wide-eyed blossom.
And I walked, in the exquisite suavity of the wood. Surely, I thought, the moonbeams have become tangible. Surely I am in an enchanted land and should meet its mistress; a maiden slim and grave, with wealth of olive-black hair, with deep dark eyes, with clinging gown of grey girdled with a zone of cold blue-green. How sweet to stay here for ever with soulattuned to the melody that mutely breathes from the living silver of boughs and leaves, and falls graciously from the pearl-like sky.
But onward and ever onward must I go; and the olives left me as the cypresses had done.
They left me at the edge of the highway; and I passed out again into the glare of the sunshine, the gaze of the passers, the laughter, the bustle, the pushing, on the parched and burning road.
And behold! a change had come over my soul. The stoicism of the cypresses, the calm of the toilers, the suave quiet strength of that harmonious olive wood—these things had permeated the fibres of my being. The indifference of the passers-by found no way open to my heart; the unheeding joy of trees and flowers no longer jarred me. I was clothed upon with a vesture woven of the enduring calm that broods ever at the unchanging heart of Nature; like armour it encompassed me about, and I possessed my soul in peace.