Back Aa

Ceres’ Runaway & Other Essays

Close

<h2>THE DAFFODIL</h2> To travel eastwards and breast the sun, to sail towards the watershed and breast the floods, to go north and breast the winter—fresh and warm are the energies of such bracing action; but more animating still is it to live so as to breast the stress of time. Man and woman may, like the child, or almost like him, fill the time and enlarge the capacity of the day—our poor day that so easily shrinks and dwindles in the careless possession of idle minds.  The date, every first of March, for example, may sweep upon a large curve and come home annually after a swinging flight.  To the infinite variety of natural days may be entrusted half the work of strengthening the flight against time, but the other half must be the task of the vehement heart.  Nature assuredly does not fail.  Days, seasons, and years are as wide asunder as the unforeseen can set them, and a crowd of children is not more various.  But the resisting heart seems of late to be somewhat lacking.  We are inclined to turn our heel upon the East, upon the watershed, upon the gates of the wind, and to go the smooth road. We are even precipitate, and whip our way faster on the time-killing course than the natural event would take us.  It is not enough that we should run helplessly, we outstrip the breeze and outsail the current with the ease of our untimely luxuries.  Our daffodils are no longer to have the praise of their daring, for we no longer relate them to the lagging swallow.  By the time the barely budding woods give a poor man’s lodging to the cold daffodil—a scanty kind taking the wind with a short stalk and giving it but small petals to buffet—we have already said farewell to the tall and splendid green-house daffodil that never braved the cold.  We gave to this our untimely welcome long before the snowdrop came, and the golden name of daffodil has lost its vernal sound.  And when we part with the improved creature, lofty and enlarged, we hardly know or care whether the starveling is yet mustering in hollows of woodlands, or whether it is over or to come.  We are attending to a yellower tulip, no doubt, when the only daffodil that Shakespeare knew is opening in the chilly wood. The reproach is a commonplace, but perhaps we have generally accused ourselves of the impatience rather than of the listlessness, and have not noted how we shorten the disarranged seasons and lay up for ourselves memories confused and undefined.  Late springs and early, gentle and hard, are compelled to yield the same colours; haste has its way and its revenges.  If we are resolved to live quickly, why, nothing is easier.  There are no such brief days as those that are indistinct; and the sliding on the way of time is, of all habits, the most tyrannously careless.  It is first a laxity, then a habit, and next a folly; and when we keep neither Ash Wednesday nor the birthday of daffodils, and have hardly felt the cold, and do not know where the sun rises, we are already on the way of least resistance, the friction of life is gone; and in our last old age the past will seem to dwindle even like the dwindled present of our decline. There has been one unconscious operation of the love of life, one single grasp after variety, intended to save the year, to face it, to meet it, to compel it to show a unique face and bear a name of its own; and this is travel.  It is the finest and most effectual flight against time of all.  What elastic days are those wherein I make head against a travelling landscape, meet histories and boundaries, hail frontiers, face a new manner of building, cross the regions of silver roofs and of heavy Alpine stone, and bring with me the late light upon billowy gables and red eaves!  And how buoyant the week in which I anticipate the sun upon the roofless east!  How serried are the days with forests, how enlarged by plains, how thronged by cities, how singled by the pine, how newly audible by a new sea!  Far was the sunrise from the sunset, and noon is one memorable midday with shortened shadows upon some solitary road. Our fathers had friction of another kind: hardship at home, winters and nights that were dark with a darkness we have abolished; springs that brought an infinite releasing, illumination, and recolouring.  None of us has seen the sight, or breathed the air, or heard those emancipated voices.  The bloom, the birds, the ifted sky!  Bright nights and glowing houses have surely robbed us of that variety, and all these untimely fruits and flowers have suppressed even the small privations of a winter in disguise. In those days Englishmen had to breast the times as they were.  They had the privilege of their latitude—vigorous and rigorous seasons.  They had a year full of change—their time was stretched whether with impatience or with patience, with conflict or with felicity.  Their salt meats were not the worst of it; there was the siege of darkness, the captivity of cold, the threat of storm, and the labour to close with the closing enemy, to break ways and save animals alive, and keep the laws in force in the street in the long and secret nights.  From such a season of winter at home, winter well known, men broke free to hail their daffodils.  They found them, short, strong, and shivering, in the still open and undefended woods.  In the springs before Chaucer, and earlier than the day of the first spring lyric, in the same places grew the keen wild flowers as now; but they assuredly were marked with another welcome; they made memories; this year’s wild harvest was not confused with that of last year, or of half-a-score of years gone by.  Distance of vital time set the springs far apart, and made the daffodils strangers. They were greeted with the courtesy due to strangers, so fresh must have been the senses of the villager, and of the citizen of the village town.  Suburbs divide a city from the fields as walls did never.  He of old went from a little town, close and serried as a new box of toys, with one step into the unsmirched country, carrying an unsated heart.  Refreshed with the animating compulsion of changeful life were man and woman, and much like their child in a constant capacity for unique experiences, unique days, years that are separate, known, and distinguishable, and not only separate but long. Indeed, some of us who travel hardly know how to remedy our fugitive, resembling, hastening, and collapsing seasons, even by means of this sovereign remedy of travel.  It is to be feared that a modern journey is not always to us so bracing a manner of living as was the untravelled journey of hard days at home to the ancient islander.  To journey as he did, keeping his feet, with a moving heart against the moving seasons, to resist, to withstand, widened the hours; but his posterity are taking all means to narrow their own, even on the railway.  To go the same way every year, for instance, is to lose, when a few such years are gone, nearly all the gain to life.  To take no heed at all of the way, but merely to be by any means at the end of the travelling, to sleep or go by night, and to calculate Europe by hours, half-hours, junctions, and dining-cars, is but to close up the time as though you closed a telescope.  A long railway journey and a long motor journey may be taken with the flight of time as well as against it, and the habit of summaries can use these too to its own end.  Precipitate, unresisting, are the day in the train and the heedless night.  We love to reproach ourselves with living at too great a speed, having, perhaps, no sense of the second meaning of the phrase.  Medicine may, perhaps, fulfil her promise of giving us a few more years, but habit derides her by making each year a scanty gift. Much, too, of the spirit of time is lost to us because we will not let the sun rule the day.  He would see to it that our hours were various; but we have preferred to his various face the plain face of a clock, and the lights without vicissitudes of our nights without seasons. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2