WIE ES IHNEN GEFAELLT
The fresh morning air comes startling after a central
heated house. So Aaron found it. He felt
himself dashing up the steps into the garden like
a bird dashing out of a trap where it has been caught:
that warm and luxurious house. Heaven bless us,
we who want to save civilisation. We had better
make up our minds what of it we want to save.
The kernel may be all well and good. But there
is precious little kernel, to a lot of woolly stuffing
and poisonous rind.
The gardens to Sir William’s place were not
imposing, and still rather war-neglected. But
the pools of water lay smooth in the bright air, the
flowers showed their colour beside the walks.
Many birds dashed about, rather bewildered, having
crossed the Alps in their migration southwards.
Aaron noted with gratification a certain big magnificence,
a certain reckless powerfulness in the still-blossoming,
harsh-coloured, autumn flowers. Distinct satisfaction
he derived from it.
He wandered upwards, up the succeeding flights of
step; till he came to the upper rough hedge, and saw
the wild copse on the hill-crest just above.
Passing through a space in the hedge, he climbed the
steep last bit of Sir William’s lane.
It was a little vineyard, with small vines and yellowing
leaves. Everywhere the place looked neglected—but
as if man had just begun to tackle it once more.
At the very top, by the wild hedge where spindle-berries
hung pink, seats were placed, and from here the view
was very beautiful. The hill dropped steep beneath
him. A river wound on the near side of the city,
crossed by a white bridge. The city lay close
clustered, ruddy on the plains, glittering in the
clear air with its flat roofs and domes and square
towers, strangely naked-seeming in the clear, clean
air. And massive in the further nearness, snow-streaked
mountains, the tiger-like Alps. Tigers prowling
between the north and the south. And this beautiful
city lying nearest exposed. The snow-wind brushed
her this morning like the icy whiskers of a tiger.
And clear in the light lay Novara, wide, fearless,
violent Novara. Beautiful the perfect air, the
perfect and unblemished Alp-sky. And like the
first southern flower, Novara.
Aaron sat watching in silence. Only the uneasy
birds rustled. He watched the city and the winding
river, the bridges, and the imminent Alps. He
was on the south side. On the other side of the
time barrier. His old, sleepy English nature
was startled in its sleep. He felt like a man
who knows it is time to wake up, and who doesn’t
want to wake up, to face the responsibility of another
sort of day.
To open his darkest eyes and wake up to a new responsibility.
Wake up and enter on the responsibility of a new
self in himself. Ach, the horror of responsibility!
He had all his life slept and shelved the burden.
And he wanted to go on sleeping. It was so hateful
to have to get a new grip on his own bowels, a new
hard recklessness into his heart, a new and responsible
consciousness into his mind and soul. He felt
some finger prodding, prodding, prodding him awake
out of the sleep of pathos and tragedy and spasmodic
passion, and he wriggled, unwilling, oh, most unwilling
to undertake the new business.
