Field and Hedgerow

R >> Richard Jefferies >> Field and Hedgerow

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Known of course to students, this wonderful work seems quite overlooked
by the mass of visitors to the Louvre, and its fame has not spread. Few
have even heard its name, for it has not been written and lectured into
the popular mind like the Venus de Medici. While I was studying it
several hundred visitors went straight past, without so much as a casual
glance, on their way direct to the Venus of Milo, of which they had read
in their guide-books, and of which they had seen splendid photographs in
every window. One came along, on the contrary, very slowly, carefully
examining the inscriptions upon the altars and various figures; he
appeared to understand the Latin and Greek, and it might have been
expected that he would stay to look at the Accroupie. He did not; he
worked all round the statue, reading every word legible on the base of
the insignificant figures against the wall, and so onwards down the
_salon_. One of the most complete of the guide-books dismisses the
Accroupie in a single line, so it is not surprising that people do not
seek it. But what is surprising is that in a city so artistic as Paris
there should be so few photographs of this statue. I could get but
two--these were duplicates, and were all the proprietor of the shop
possessed; there was some trouble to find them. I was told that, as they
were so seldom asked for, copies were not kept, and that there was only
this one particular view--a very bad one. Other shops had none. The Venus
of Milo is in every shop--in every size, and from every point of view; of
the Accroupie these two poor representations were hunted out from the
bottom of a portfolio. Of course, these remarks apply only to Paris as
the public know it; doubtless the studios have the Accroupie, and could
supply representations of every kind: casts, too, can be obtained at the
Louvre. But to those who, like myself, wander in the outer darkness of
common barbarian life, the Accroupie is unknown till we happily chance
upon it. Possibly the reason may be that this statue infinitely surpasses
those fixed ideals of art which the studios have for so many centuries
resolutely forced upon the world. It seems that after a certain length of
art study the natural eyesight is lost. But I hope and believe there are
thousands of people in the world in full possession of their natural
eyesight, and capable of appreciating the Accroupie when once their
attention is called to it.

I knew it was useless to search further among the galleries of the
Louvre, for there could not be two such works in existence anywhere, much
less in one collection. Therefore I did not go a step beyond, but sat
down to enjoy it, and when I had gazed enough for one morning I turned to
leave the place. There are never two works of equal beauty of any kind,
just as there are never two moments of equal pleasure: seize the one you
have, and make much of it, for such a moment will never return. In
walking away I frequently looked back--first at three or four yards',
then at ten yards' distance; gradually the proportions diminished, but
the great sweep of outline retained its power. At about thirty yards it
is remarkable how this noble work entirely overshadows the numerous
figures close to it. Upon each side of the gallery the wall is lined with
ranks of statuary, but they are quite lost as statuary, and seem nothing
more than wall decorations, merely curious castings put there to conceal
the monotony of the surface. Cleverly executed they may be, but there is
no other merit, and they appear commonplace. They have no meaning; the
eye glances along them without emotion. It always returns to, and rests
upon, the Accroupie--the living and the beautiful. Here is the difference
between genius and talent. Talent has lined the walls with a hundred
clever things, and could line miles of surface; genius gives us but one
example, and the clever things are silenced. Here is the difference
between that which expresses a noble idea, and that which is dexterously
conventional. The one single idea dominates the whole. Here is the
difference, again, between the secret of the heart, the aspiration of the
soul, and that which is only the workmanship of a studio ancient or
modern. The Accroupie is human, loving tender; how poor are goddesses
beside her! At forty, fifty, sixty yards, still looking back, though the
details now disappeared, the wonderful outline of the torso and hips was
as powerful as ever. Ascending the steps which lead from the gallery I
paused once more, standing close against the wall, for other figures
interfere with a distant view, and even at that distance (eighty yards or
more) the same beauty was recognisable. Yet there is no extended arm, no
attitude to force attention--nothing but the torso is visible; there is
no artificial background (as with the Venus of Milo) to throw it into
relief; the figure crouches, and the love expressed in the action is
conveyed by the marvel of the work as far as it can be seen.

Returning next morning I took the passage on the left (not as before on
the right), and so came at once to the top of the steps, and to a spot
whence a view can with little trouble be obtained. Perhaps it is more
than eighty yards away, but the effect is the same despite the distance.
The very best place to view the statue is exactly in front of it, two or
three yards away, or as close as you like, but precisely in front. It
requires no careful choice of position so as to give a limb more
prominence, or render the light more effective (the light just there is
bad, though it is near a window). The sculptor did not rely upon
'artistic' and selected attitudes--something made up for the occasion. No
meretricious aid whatever has been called in--no trick, no illusion of
the eye, nothing theatrical. He relied solely and simply upon a true
representation of the human body--the torso, the body itself--as he
really saw it in life. When we consider that the lines of the body seen
in front are gentle, and in no way prominent, it is apparent how
beautiful the original must have been, and how wonderfully the form has
been rendered in marble for this to be the best position to view it.

Three large folds, marked by deep lines, cross the lower part of the
torso, and it is these creases that give the work its life. They are but
just made in stooping, and will disappear as she rises from that
position. These three grooves cross the entire front of the torso; the
centre one is forked at its extremity near the right hip, and the fork of
this groove encloses a smaller crease. Immediately under the right breast
there is a short separate groove caused by the body leaning to the right;
this is a fold of the side, not of the front. Under these folds there
must be breath, there must be blood; they indicate a glowing life. The
immense vitality of the form appears in them, and even as an athlete's
muscles are exhibited in relief at his exercises, so exceeding strength
of life is evident in these grooves. A heart throbbing steadily and
strong, veins full of rich, pure blood, a warm touch, an eager wish to be
affectionate, and self lost in the desire to love--this is the expression
of the folds. Full of the energy of exceptional vitality, she gladly
gives that energy for the delight of the little one.

There are no grooves on the torso of the Venus de Medici or of the Venus
of Cnidus; they are sculptured in attitudes chosen to allow of the body
and the limbs presenting an unbroken smoothness. They have the roundness
of the polished column. They are ideals, but do not live. Here the deep
grooves and the large folds are life.

As we move slowly around the statue from left to right, after observing
it in front, the right breast gradually advances, and its outline
appears. The act of stooping and leaning to one side causes the right
breast to be lower than the left. By degrees the right breast recedes and
the left advances, and, standing at the full left of the figure, there
are three chief lines to notice--that of the back seen in profile, of the
torso, and of the left thigh. The thigh is raised, and, so stretched,
seems slightly compressed near the knee. It is more rotund than thick or
heavy; it is not so much size as roundness; it is not mere plumpness, but
form.

A step farther and the back begins to appear, and the outline of its
right edge. Standing exactly at the back, there is a remarkable flatness
at the lower end of the mesial groove. This flatness is somewhat in the
shape of an elongated diamond; it is rather below the loins, and is, I
think, caused by the commencement or upper part of the pelvis. In
stooping and at the same time leaning to one side, the flesh at this spot
is drawn tightly against the firm structure under the skin, so that the
flatness is almost, if not quite, hollow. Had the sculptor been
representing a goddess he would have concealed this flatness in some way
or other, or selected a position which did not cause it, for the
conventional art--beauty must be equally rounded everywhere. Had he been
poorer in conception he would have slurred it over, or not even observed
it. The presence of this flatness or slightly hollow surface demonstrates
how true the work is to reality. The statue is a personality, a living
thing. As the line of the horizon recedes at sea, and that which now
appears the edge or boundary is presently sailed over, so the edge or
outline of the body recedes as you move around it. Another step, and the
right thigh and the right breast are in sight, with the ends of the
grooves. Lines that look almost straight are changed, as you approach,
into curves. The action of the limbs is most apparent when viewed from
the right side of the statue; but its most beautiful aspect is exactly in
front. In moving round, it is very striking to observe how the least
change of position--if you do but move an inch--alters the outline and
curve of the work; the breast, not visible before, is now apparent as the
bust rises; another inch and it becomes a demi-lune, till it swells to
its full undulation. At every step the figure alters, but no matter at
how many angles it is looked at, it always has beautiful curves. They
adapt themselves, these curves, to the position of the eye, and wherever
the eye is placed they satisfy its demands for beauty. Examine any part,
and it is found perfect; for instance, the inside of the right knee
(visible from the left of the statue) slightly bulges, being pressed out
by the stooping position.

At a third visit it seemed to me that the statue had grown much more
beautiful in the few days which had elapsed since I first saw it.
Pondering upon the causes of this increasing interest, I began to see
that one reason was because it recalled to my memory the loveliness of
nature. Old days which I had spent wandering among deep meadows and by
green woods came back to me. In such days the fancy had often occurred to
me that, besides the loveliness of leaves and flowers, there must be some
secret influence drawing me on as a hand might beckon. The light and
colour suspended in the summer atmosphere, as colour is in stained but
translucent glass, were to me always on the point of becoming tangible in
some beautiful form. The hovering lines and shape never became
sufficiently defined for me to know what form it could be, yet the
colours and the light meant something which I was not able to fix. I was
now sitting in a gallery of stone, with cold marbles, cold floors, cold
light from the windows. Without there were only houses, the city of
Paris--a city above all other cities farthest from woods and meads. Here,
nevertheless, there came back to me this old thought born in the midst of
flowers and wind-rustled leaves, and I saw that with it the statue before
me was in concord. The living original of this work was the human
impersonation of the secret influence which had beckoned me on in the
forest and by running streams. She expressed in loveliness of form the
colour and light of sunny days; she expressed the deep aspiring desire of
the soul for the perfection of the frame in which it is encased, for the
perfection of its own existence.

The sun rolls on in the far dome of heaven, and now day and now night
sweeps with alternate bands over the surface of hill, and wood, and sea;
the sea beats in endless waves, which first began to undulate a thousand
thousand years ago, starting from the other rim of Time; the green leaves
repeat the beauty that gladdened man in ancient days. But for themselves
they are, and not for us. Their glory fills the mind with rapture but for
a while, and it learns that they are, like carven idols, wholly careless
and indifferent to our fate. Then is the valley incomplete, and the void
sad! Its hills speak of death as well as of life, and we know that for
man there is nothing on earth really but man; the human species owns and
possesses nothing but its species. When I saw this I turned with
threefold concentration of desire and love towards that expression of
hope which is called beauty, such as is worked in marble here. For I
think beauty is truthfully an expression of hope, and that is why it is
so enthralling--because while the heart is absorbed in its contemplation,
unconscious but powerful hope is filling the breast. So powerful is it as
to banish for the time all care, and to make this life seem the life of
the immortals.

Returning the next morning, my thoughts went on, and found that this
ideal of nature required of us something beyond good. The conception of
moral good did not satisfy one while contemplating it. The highest form
known to us at present is pure unselfishness, the doing of good, not for
any reward, now or hereafter, nor for the completion of an imaginary
scheme. This is the best we know. But how unsatisfactory! Filled with the
aspirations called forth by the ideal before me, it appeared as if even
the saving of life is a little work compared to what the heart would like
to do. An outlet is needed more fully satisfying to its inmost desires
than is afforded by any labour of self-abnegation. It must be something
in accord with the perception of beauty and of an ideal. Personal virtue
is not enough. The works called good are dry and jejune, soon
consummated, often of questionable value, and leaving behind them when
finished a sense of vacuity. You give a sum of money to a good object and
walk away, but it does not satisfy the craving of the heart. You deny
yourself pleasure to sit by the bedside of an invalid--a good deed; but
when it is done there remains an emptiness of the soul. It is not
enough--it is casuistry to say that it is. I often think the reason the
world is so cold and selfish, so stolid and indifferent, is because it
has never yet been shown how to be anything else. Listening to the
prophets of all times and climes, it has heard them proclaim their
ordinances, and has seen these observances punctually obeyed for hundreds
of years, and nothing has come of it all. To-day it listens to the
prophets of humanity, and it sees much real benevolence actually carried
out. But the result is infinitesimal. Nothing comes of it; it does not
satisfy the individual heart. The world at large continues untouched and
indifferent--first because its common sense is not convinced, and
secondly because its secret aspirations are in no degree satisfied. So
that it is not altogether the world's fault if it is stolid. Everything
has been tried and found wanting, Men rushed in crowds to the
gold-diggings of California, to the Australian 'finds;' and in like
manner, if any real spiritual or ideal good were proffered, crowds would
rush to participate in it. Nothing yet has been given but empty words,
and these so-called 'goods' have proved as tasteless, and as much Dead
Sea apples, as the apples of vice; perhaps even more bitter than the
regrets of vice. Though I cannot name the ideal good, it seems to me that
it will be in some way closely associated with the ideal beauty of
nature.

SUMMER IN SOMERSET.

The brown Barle River running over red rocks aslant its course is pushed
aside, and races round curving slopes. The first shoot of the rapid is
smooth and polished like a gem by the lapidary's art, rounded and smooth
as a fragment of torso, and this convex undulation maintains a solid
outline. Then the following scoop under is furrowed as if ploughed
across, and the ridge of each furrow, where the particles move a little
less swiftly than in the hollow of the groove, falls backwards as foam
blown from a wave. At the foot of the furrowed decline the current rises
over a rock in a broad white sheet--white because as it is dashed to
pieces the air mingles with it. After this furious haste the stream does
but just overtake those bubbles which have been carried along on another
division of the water flowing steadily but straight. Sometimes there are
two streams like this between the same banks, sometimes three or even
more, each running at a different rate, and each gliding above a floor
differently inclined. The surface of each of these streams slopes in a
separate direction, and though under the same light they reflect it at
varying angles. The river is animated and alive, rushing here, gliding
there, foaming yonder; its separate and yet component parallels striving
together, and talking loudly in incomplete sentences. Those rivers that
move through midland meads present a broad, calm surface, at the same
level from side to side; they flow without sound, and if you stood behind
a thick hedge you would not know that a river was near. They dream along
the meads, toying with their forget-me-nots, too idle even to make love
to their flowers vigorously. The brown Barle enjoys his life, and
splashes in the sunshine like boys bathing--like them he is sunburnt and
brown. He throws the wanton spray over the ferns that bow and bend as the
cool breeze his current brings sways them in the shade. He laughs and
talks, and sings louder than the wind in his woods.

Here is a pool by the bank under an ash--a deep green pool inclosed by
massive rocks, which the stream has to brim over. The water is green--or
is it the ferns, and the moss, and the oaks, and the pale ash reflected?
This rock has a purple tint, dotted with moss spots almost black; the
green water laps at the purple stone, and there is one place where a thin
line of scarlet is visible, though I do not know what causes it. Another
stone the spray does not touch has been dried to a bright white by the
sun. Inclosed, the green water slowly swirls round till it finds
crevices, and slips through. A few paces farther up there is a red
rapid--reddened stones, and reddened growths beneath the water, a light
that lets the red hues overcome the others--a wild rush of crowded waters
rotating as they go, shrill voices calling. This next bend upwards
dazzles the eyes, for every inclined surface and striving parallel, every
swirl, and bubble, and eddy, and rush around a rock chances to reflect
the sunlight. Not one long pathway of quiet sheen, such as stretches
across a rippled lake, each wavelet throwing back its ray in just
proportion, but a hundred separate mirrors vibrating, each inclined at a
different angle, each casting a tremulous flash into the face. The
eyelids involuntarily droop to shield the gaze from a hundred arrows;
they are too strong--nothing can be distinguished but a woven surface of
brilliance, a mesh of light, under which the water runs, itself
invisible. I will go back to the deep green pool, and walking now with
the sun behind, how the river has changed!

Soft, cool shadows reach over it, which I did not see before; green
surfaces are calm under trees; the rocks are less hard; the stream runs
more gently, and the oaks come down nearer; the delicious sound of the
rushing water almost quenches my thirst. My eyes have less work to do to
meet the changing features of the current which now seems smooth as my
glance accompanies its movement. The sky, which was not noticed before,
now appears reaching in rich azure across the deep hollow, from the oaks
on one side to the oaks on the other. These woods, which cover the steep
and rocky walls of the gorge from river to summit, are filled with the
June colour of oak. It is not green, nor russet, nor yellow; I think it
may be called a glow of yellow under green. It is warmer than green; the
glow is not on the outer leaves, but comes up beneath from the depth of
the branches. The rush of the river soothes the mind, the broad
descending surfaces of yellow-green oak carry the glance downwards from
the blue over to the stream in the hollow. Rush! rush!--it is the river,
like a mighty wind in the wood. A pheasant crows, and once and again
falls the tap, tap of woodmen's axes--scarce heard, for they are high
above. They strip the young oaks of their bark as far as they can while
the saplings stand, then fell them, and as they all lie downhill there
are parallel streaks of buff (where the sap has dried) drawn between the
yellow-green masses of living leaf. The pathway winds in among the trees
at the base of the rocky hill; light green whortleberries fill every
interstice, bearing tiny red globes of flower--flower-lamps--open at the
top. Wood-sorrel lifts its delicate veined petals; the leaf is rounded
like the shadow of a bubble on a stone under clear water. I like to stay
by the wood-sorrel a little while--it is so chastely beautiful; like the
purest verse, it speaks to the inmost heart. Staying, I hear
unconsciously--listen! Rush! rush! like a mighty wind in the wood.

It draws me on to the deep green pool inclosed about by rocks--a pool to
stand near and think into. The purple rock, dotted with black moss; the
white rock; the thin scarlet line; the green water; the overhanging tree;
the verdant moss upon the bank; the lady fern--are there still. But I see
also now a little pink somewhere in the water, much brown too, and shades
I know no name for. The water is not green, but holds in solution three
separate sets of colours. The confervae on the stones, the growths
beneath at the bottom waving a little as the water swirls like minute
seaweeds--these are brown and green and somewhat reddish too. Under water
the red rock is toned and paler, but has deep black cavities. Next, the
surface, continually changing as it rotates, throws back a different
light, and thirdly, the oaks' yellow-green high up, the pale ash, the
tender ferns drooping over low down confer their tints on the stream. So
from the floor of the pool, from the surface, and from the adjacent bank,
three sets of colours mingle. Washed together by the slow swirl, they
produce a shade--the brown of the Barle--lost in darkness where the bank
overhangs.

Following the current downwards at last the river for awhile flows in
quietness, broad and smooth. A trout leaps for a fly with his tail curved
in the air, full a foot out of water. Trout watch behind sunken stones,
and shoot to and fro as insects droop in their flight and appear about to
fall. So clear is the water and so brightly illuminated that the fish are
not easily seen--for vision depends on contrast--but in a minute I find a
way to discover them by their shadows. The black shadow of a trout is
distinct upon the bottom of the river, and guides the eye to the spot;
then looking higher in the transparent water there is the fish. It was
curious to see these black shadows darting to and fro as if themselves
animated and without bodies, for if the trout darted before being
observed the light concealed him in motion. Some of the trout came up
from under Torre-steps, a singular structure which here connects the
shores of the stream. Every one has seen a row of stepping-stones across
a shallow brook; now pile other stones on each of these, forming
buttresses, and lay flat stones like unhewn planks from buttress to
buttress, and you have the plan of this primitive bridge. It has a
megalithic appearance, as if associated with the age of rude stone
monuments. They say its origin is doubtful; there can be no doubt of the
loveliness of the spot. The Barle comes with his natural rush and
fierceness under the unhewn stone planking, then deepens, and there
overhanging a black pool--for the shadow was so deep as to be black--grew
a large bunch of marsh-marigolds in fullest flower, the broad golden cups
almost resting on the black water. The bridge is not intended for wheels,
and though it is as firm as the rock, foot passengers have to look at
their steps, as the great planks, flecked with lichen at the edges, are
not all level. The horned sheep and lambs go over it--where do they not
go? Like goats they wander everywhere.

In a cottage some way up the hill we ate clotted cream and whortleberry
jam. Through the open door came the ceaseless rush! rush! like a wind in
the wood. The floor was of concrete, lime and sand; on the open
hearth--pronounced 'airth'--sods of turf cut from the moor and oak
branches were smouldering under the chimney crook. Turf smoke from the
piled-up fires of winter had darkened the beams of the ceiling, but from
that rude room there was a view of the river, and the hill, and the oaks
in full June colour, which the rich would envy. Sometimes in early
morning the wild red deer are seen feeding on the slope opposite. As we
drove away in reckless Somerset style, along precipices above the river,
with nothing but a fringe of fern for parapet, the oak woods on the hills
under us were shading down into evening coolness of tint, the yellow less
warm, the green more to the surface. Upon the branches of the trees moss
grows, forming a level green top to the round bough like a narrow cushion
along it, with frayed edges drooping over each side. Though moss is
common on branches, it does not often make a raised cushion, thick, as if
green velvet pile were laid for the birds to run on. There were rooks'
nests in some tall ash trees; the scanty foliage left the nests exposed,
they were still occupied by late broods. Rooks' nests are not often seen
in ashes as in elms.

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