It turned my thoughts, as I went along, to Brahms and led me to
understand why no man, who cares only for his fellow-creatures, will
ever relish that music. It is an alien tongue, full of deeps and
rippling shallows uncomprehended of those who know nothing of lonely
places; full of thrills and silences such as are not encountered among
the habitations of men. It echoes the multitudinous voice of nature, and
distils the smiles and tears of things non-human. This man listened, all
alone; he overheard things to which other ears are deaf - things terrible
and sweet; the sigh of some wet Naiad by a reedy lake, the pleadings and
furies of the genii - of those that whisper in woodlands and caverns by
the sea, and ride wailing on thunder-laden clouds, and rock with ripe
laughter in sunny wildernesses. Brahms is the test. Whoso dreads
solitude will likewise dread his elemental humour.
It kept me company, this melodious and endearing fairy, till where a
path, diverging to the right, led up to the ruins already visible. There
the ethereal comrade took flight, scared, maybe, because my senses took
on a grossly mundane complexion - it is a way they have, thank
God - became absorbed, that is, in the contemplation of certain
blackberries wherewith the hedge was loaded. I thought: the tons of
blackberries that fall to earth in Italy, unheeded! And not even a
Scotsman knows what blackberries are, until he has tasted these. I am no
gourmet of such wild things; I rather agree with Goethe when he says:
"How berries taste, you must ask children." But I can sympathise with
the predilections of others, having certain predilections of my own.
Once, at a miserable place in North Ireland, region of bad whisky and
porter, they brought me at dinner some wine of which they knew
nothing - they had got it from a shipwreck or some local sale. I am
rather fond of hock. And this particular bottle bore on its label the
magic imprint of a falcon sitting on a hilltop. Connoisseurs will know
that falcon. They will understand how it came about that I remained in
the inn till the last bottle of nectar was cracked. What a shame to
leave a drop for anybody else! Once again, on a bicycle trip from Paris
to the Mediterranean, I came upon a broad, smiling meadow somewhere in
the Auvergne, thickly besprinkled with mushrooms. There was a village
hard by. In that village I remained till the meadow was close cropped.
Half a ton of mushrooms - gone. Some people are rather fond of mushrooms.
And that is the right spirit: to leave nothing but a tabula rasa for
those that come after. It hurt me to think that anybody else should have
a single one of those particular mushrooms. Let them find new ones, in
another field; not in mine.
Now what would your amateur of blackberries do in Italy?
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