Little Rivers [31]
through those
clouds the Mistress of the Glen came to meet me--a stranger till
then, but an appointed friend, a minister of needed grace, an angel
of quiet comfort. The thick mists of rebellion, mistrust, and
despair have long since rolled away, and against the background of
the hills her figure stands out clearly, dressed in the fashion of
fifty years ago, with the snowy hair gathered close beneath her
widow's cap, and a spray of white heather in her outstretched hand.
There were no other guests in the house by the river during those
still days in the noontide hush of midsummer. Every morning, while
the Mistress was busied with her household cares and letters, I
would be out in the fields hearing the lark sing, and watching the
rabbits as they ran to and fro, scattering the dew from the grass
in a glittering spray. Or perhaps I would be angling down the
river, with the swift pressure of the water around my knees, and an
inarticulate current of cooling thoughts flowing on and on through
my brain like the murmur of the stream. Every afternoon there were
long walks with the Mistress in the old-fashioned garden, where
wonderful roses were blooming; or through the dark, fir-shaded den
where the wild burn dropped down to join the river; or out upon the
high moor under the waning orange sunset. Every night there were
luminous and restful talks beside the open fire in the library,
when the words came clear and calm from the heart, unperturbed by
the vain desire of saying brilliant things, which turns so much of
our conversation into a combat of wits instead of an interchange of
thoughts. Talk like this is possible only between two. The
arrival of a third person sets the lists for a tournament, and
offers the prize for a verbal victory. But where there are only
two, the armour is laid aside, and there is no call to thrust and
parry.
One of the two should be a good listener, sympathetic, but not
silent, giving confidence in order to attract it--and of this art a
woman is the best master. But its finest secrets do not come to
her until she has passed beyond the uncertain season of compliments
and conquests, and entered into the serenity of a tranquil age.
What is this foolish thing that men say about the impossibility of
true intimacy and converse between the young and the old?
Hamerton, for example, in his book on Human Intercourse, would have
us believe that a difference in years is a barrier between hearts.
For my part, I have more often found it an open door, and a
security of generous and tolerant welcome for the young soldier,
who comes in tired and dusty from the battle-field, to tell his
story of defeat or victory in the garden of still thoughts where
old age is resting in the peace of honourable discharge. I like
what Robert Louis Stevenson says about it in his essay on Talk and
Talkers.
"Not only is the presence of the aged in itself remedial, but their
minds are stored with antidotes, wisdom's simples, plain
considerations overlooked by youth. They have matter to
communicate, be they never so stupid. Their talk is not merely
literature, it is great literature; classic by virtue of the
speaker's detachment; studded, like a book of travel, with things
we should not otherwise have learnt. . . where youth agrees with
age, not where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when the young
disciple finds his heart to beat in tune with his gray-haired
teacher's that a lesson may be learned."
The conversation of the Mistress of the Glen shone like the light
and distilled like the dew, not only by virtue of what she said,
but still more by virtue of what she was. Her face was a good
counsel against discouragement; and the cheerful quietude of her
demeanour was a rebuke to all rebellious, cowardly, and
discontented thoughts. It was not the striking novelty or
profundity of her commentary on life that made it memorable,
clouds the Mistress of the Glen came to meet me--a stranger till
then, but an appointed friend, a minister of needed grace, an angel
of quiet comfort. The thick mists of rebellion, mistrust, and
despair have long since rolled away, and against the background of
the hills her figure stands out clearly, dressed in the fashion of
fifty years ago, with the snowy hair gathered close beneath her
widow's cap, and a spray of white heather in her outstretched hand.
There were no other guests in the house by the river during those
still days in the noontide hush of midsummer. Every morning, while
the Mistress was busied with her household cares and letters, I
would be out in the fields hearing the lark sing, and watching the
rabbits as they ran to and fro, scattering the dew from the grass
in a glittering spray. Or perhaps I would be angling down the
river, with the swift pressure of the water around my knees, and an
inarticulate current of cooling thoughts flowing on and on through
my brain like the murmur of the stream. Every afternoon there were
long walks with the Mistress in the old-fashioned garden, where
wonderful roses were blooming; or through the dark, fir-shaded den
where the wild burn dropped down to join the river; or out upon the
high moor under the waning orange sunset. Every night there were
luminous and restful talks beside the open fire in the library,
when the words came clear and calm from the heart, unperturbed by
the vain desire of saying brilliant things, which turns so much of
our conversation into a combat of wits instead of an interchange of
thoughts. Talk like this is possible only between two. The
arrival of a third person sets the lists for a tournament, and
offers the prize for a verbal victory. But where there are only
two, the armour is laid aside, and there is no call to thrust and
parry.
One of the two should be a good listener, sympathetic, but not
silent, giving confidence in order to attract it--and of this art a
woman is the best master. But its finest secrets do not come to
her until she has passed beyond the uncertain season of compliments
and conquests, and entered into the serenity of a tranquil age.
What is this foolish thing that men say about the impossibility of
true intimacy and converse between the young and the old?
Hamerton, for example, in his book on Human Intercourse, would have
us believe that a difference in years is a barrier between hearts.
For my part, I have more often found it an open door, and a
security of generous and tolerant welcome for the young soldier,
who comes in tired and dusty from the battle-field, to tell his
story of defeat or victory in the garden of still thoughts where
old age is resting in the peace of honourable discharge. I like
what Robert Louis Stevenson says about it in his essay on Talk and
Talkers.
"Not only is the presence of the aged in itself remedial, but their
minds are stored with antidotes, wisdom's simples, plain
considerations overlooked by youth. They have matter to
communicate, be they never so stupid. Their talk is not merely
literature, it is great literature; classic by virtue of the
speaker's detachment; studded, like a book of travel, with things
we should not otherwise have learnt. . . where youth agrees with
age, not where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when the young
disciple finds his heart to beat in tune with his gray-haired
teacher's that a lesson may be learned."
The conversation of the Mistress of the Glen shone like the light
and distilled like the dew, not only by virtue of what she said,
but still more by virtue of what she was. Her face was a good
counsel against discouragement; and the cheerful quietude of her
demeanour was a rebuke to all rebellious, cowardly, and
discontented thoughts. It was not the striking novelty or
profundity of her commentary on life that made it memorable,