_ Chapter XXIV. The Romance of Life--The Renewal of Youth--Youth
There were some days when the whole air of the place, the houses, the fields, the gardens, even the very people that Hugh met in the streets, seemed to be full of romance and poetry. There was no particular quality about the days themselves, that Hugh could ever divine, that produced this impression. Perhaps such moods came oftener and more poignantly when the air was cool and fresh, when the temperate sun filled his low rooms from end to end, lay serene upon the pastures, or danced in the ripples of the stream. But the mood came just as inevitably on dull days, when the sky was roofed with high grey clouds, or even on raw days of winter, when fitful gusts whirled round corners, and when the spouts and cornices dripped with slow rains. In these hours the whole world seemed possessed by some gracious and sweet mystery; everything was in the secret, everything was included in the eager and high-hearted conspiracy. It was all the same, on such days, whether Hugh was alone or with company; if he was among friends or even strangers, they seemed to look upon him, to speak, to move, with a blithe significance; he seemed to intercept tender messages in a casual glance, to experience the sense of a delighted goodwill, such as reigns among a party of friends on an expedition of pleasure. This mood did not produce in Hugh the sense of merriment or high spirits; it was not an excited frame of mind; it was rather a feeling of widespread tenderness, a sort of brotherly admiration. At such moments, the most crabbed and peevish person seemed to be transfigured, to be acting a delightful part for the pleasure of a spectator, and an inner benevolence, a desire to contribute zest and amusement to the banquet of life, seemed to underlie the most fractious gestures or irritable speech. On such days, one seemed to have an affectionate understanding with even slight acquaintances, an understanding which seemed to say, "We are all comrades in heart, and nothing but circumstance and bodily limitation prevents us from being comrades in life." Hugh used to fancy that this mood was like an earnest of the bodiless joy, the free companionship of heaven, if such a place there were, where one should know even as one was known, and be able to enter in and possess, in a flash of thought, the whole fabric of a fellow-creature's soul.
And then if Hugh spent such a day alone, his thoughts seemed to have the same enlightening and invigorating quality. He did not fumble among dreary details, but saw swiftly into the essence of things, so that he smiled as he sate. A book would, on such occasions, touch into life a whole train of pretty thoughts, as a spark leaps along a scattered line of gunpowder. A few remembered lines of poetry, a few notes played by unseen hands on a musical instrument, from a window that he passed in the street, would give a sense of completed happiness; so that one said, "Yes, it is like that!" The palings of gardens, the screen of shrubs through which the pleasaunce could be dimly discerned within, the high trees holding up their branches to the air, all half guarded, half revealed the same jocund secret. Here, by a hedgerow, in a lane, Hugh would discern the beady eye of a fat thrush which hopped in the tall grass, or plied some tiny business among the stems, lifting his head at intervals to look briskly round. "I see you!" said Hugh, as he used to say long ago to the birds in the Rectory garden, and the bird seemed almost to nod his head in reply.
And then, too, the houses that he passed all breathed the same air of romance. There, perhaps, behind the wall or at the open window, sat or moved the one friend of whom he was ever in search; but on these days it mattered little that he had not found him; he could wait, he could be faithful, and Hugh could wait too, until the day when all things should be made new. If he walked on days like these through some college court, the thought of the happy, careless, cheerful lives, lived there in strength and brightness, by generation after generation of merry young men, filled Hugh's heart with content; he liked to think that all the world over, in busy offices, in grave parlours, in pleasant parsonages, there were serious, commonplace, well-occupied men, who perhaps, in a tiny flash of memory, sent back a wistful thought to the old walls and gables, the towns with their chiming bells, and remembered tenderly the days of their blithe youth, the old companions, the lively hours. The whole world seemed knit together by sweet and gentle ties: labour and strife mattered little; it was but a cloud upon the path, and would melt into the sunlit air at last.
Hugh used to feel half amused at the irrepressible sense of youth which thrilled him still. As a boy, he had little suspected that the serious elderly men, of settled habits and close-shaved chins, had any such thoughts as these under their battered exteriors. He had thought that such persons were necessarily stolid and comfortable persons, believing in committees and correspondence, fond of food and drink, careful of their balance at the bank, and rather disgusted at than tolerant of the irrepressible levity and flightiness of youth. Yet now that he himself was approaching middle age, he was conscious, not indeed of increased levity or high spirits, but of undiminished vigour, wider sympathy, larger joy. Life was not only not less interesting, but it seemed rather to thrill and pulsate with fresh and delightful emotion. If he could not taste it with the same insouciance, it was only because he perceived its quality more poignantly. If life were less full of laughter, it was only because there were sweeter and more joyful things to enjoy. What was best of all about this later delight, was that it left no bitter taste behind it; in youth, a day of abandonment to elation, a day of breezy talk, hearty laughter, active pleasure, would often leave a sense of flatness and dissatisfaction behind it; but the later joy had no sort of weariness as its shadow; it left one invigorated and hopeful.
The most marked difference of all was in one's relations with others. In youth a new friendship had been a kind of excited capture; it had been shadowed by jealousy; it had been a desire for possession. One had not been content unless one had been sure that one's friend had the same sort of unique regard that one experienced oneself. One had resented his other friendships, and wished to supersede them. But now Hugh had no such feeling. He had no desire to make a relationship, because the relationship seemed already there. If one met a sympathetic and congenial person, one made, as it were, a sort of sunlit excursion in a new and pleasing country. One admired the prospects, surveyed the contours. In old days, one had desired to establish a kind of fortress in the centre, and claim the fruitful land for one's own.
Of course, in Hugh's dealings with the youthful persons whom he encountered in his Cambridge life, he became aware of the existence of the subtle barrier which is erected between youth and middle age; he was conscious often that the delightful egotism of youth has, as a rule, very little deference for, or interest in, the opinions of older persons. Youth is so profoundly absorbed in its own visions, that it is very rarely curious about the duller reveries of older people. It regards them as necessarily dreary, grey, wise, and prudent. The only thing it values is sympathy for itself, just as a child is far more interested in the few chords which it can strum on a piano than in the richest performance of a maestro. But Hugh did not find this to be disagreeable, because he was less and less concerned about the effect he produced. He had found out that the joys of perception are at least equal to the joys of expression. Youth cannot wait, it must utter its half-formed wishes, put out its crude fruits; and it used to seem to Hugh that one of the most pathetic and beautiful things in the world was the intensity of feeling, the limitless dreams, that rose shadowily in a boy's mind side by side with the inarticulateness, the failure to command any medium of expression. One of the reasons why young and clever men are so desperately anxious to be amusing and humorous, is because they desire above all things to see the effect of their words, and long to convulse an audience; while they lack, as a rule, the practised delicacy, the finished economy in which humour, to be effective, must be clothed.
But, after all, what brought Hugh the best comfort, was the discovery that advancing years did not bring with them any lack of sensitiveness, any dreariness, any sense of dulness. It was indeed rather the reverse. The whole fabric of life was richer, more impassioned, more desirable than he had ever supposed. In youth, emotion and feeling had seemed to him like oases in a desert, oases which one had to quit, when one crossed the threshold of life, to plod wearily among endless sands. But now he had found that the desert had a life, an emotion, a beauty of its own, and the oases of youthful fancy seemed to be tame and limited by comparison. Hugh still thought with a shudder of old age, which lay ahead of him; but even as he shuddered, he began to wonder whether that too would not open up to him a whole range of experiences and emotions, of which to-day he had no inkling at all. Would life perhaps seem richer still? That was what he dared to hope. Meanwhile he would neither linger nor make haste: he would not catch at the past as containing a lost and faded sweetness; neither would he anticipate, so far as he could help it, the closing of the windows of the soul. _