Amaryllis at the Fair

To
Charles Prestwich Scott.

Introduction1

“The book is not a novel” is a phrase often in the mouth of critics, who on second thoughts might, perhaps, add with less emphasis, “It does not conform to the common type of novel.” Fortified, however, with that sense of rectitude that dictates conformity to our neighbours and a safe acquiescence in the mysterious movements of public taste, the critics have exclaimed with touching unanimity—“What a pity Jefferies tried to write novels! Why didn’t he stick to essays in natural history!”

What a pity Jefferies should have given us Amaryllis at the Fair, and After London!—this opinion has been propagated with such fervency that it seems almost a pity to disturb it by inquiring into the nature of these his achievements. Certainly the critics, and their critical echoes, are united. “He wrote some later novels of indifferent merit,” says a critic in Chambers’ Encyclopædia. “Has anyone ever been able to write with free and genuine appreciation of even the later novels?” asks or echoes a lady, Miss Grace Toplis, writing on Jefferies. “In brief, he was an essayist and not a novelist at all,” says Mr. Henry Salt. “It is therefore certain that his importance for posterity will dwindle, if it has not already dwindled, to that given by a bundle of descriptive selections. But these will occupy a foremost place on their particular shelf, the shelf at the head of which stands Gilbert White and Gray,” says Mr. George Saintsbury. “He was a reporter of genius, and he never got beyond reporting. Mr. Besant has the vitalising imagination which Jefferies lacked,” says Mr. Henley in his review of Walter Besant’s Eulogy of Richard Jefferies; and again, “They are not novels as he (Walter Besant) admits, they are a series of pictures. … That is the way he takes Jefferies at Jefferies’ worst.” Yes, it is very touching this unanimity, and it is therefore a pleasure for this critic to say that in his judgment Amaryllis at the Fair is one of the very few later-day novels of English country life that are worth putting on one’s shelf, and that to make room for it he would turn out certain highly-praised novels by Hardy which do not ring quite true, novels which the critics and the public, again with touching unanimity, have voted to be of high rank. But what is a novel? the reader may ask. A novel, says the learned Charles Annandale, is “a fictitious prose narrative, involving some plot of greater or less intricacy, and professing to give a picture of real life, generally exhibiting the passions and sentiments, in a state of great activity, and especially the passion of love.” Well, Amaryllis at the Fair is a fictitious prose narrative professing to give a picture of real life, and involving a plot of little intricacy. Certainly it exhibits the passions and sentiments in a state of great activity. But Mr. Henry Salt, whose little book on Jefferies is the best yet published, further remarks: “Jefferies was quite unable to give any vivid dramatic life to his stories … his instinct was that of the naturalist who observes and moralizes rather than that of the novelist who penetrates and interprets; and consequently his rustic characters, though strongly and clearly drawn, do not live, as, for example, those of Thomas Hardy live. … Men and animals are alike mere figures in his landscapes.”

So far the critics. Jefferies being justly held to be “no ordinary novelist,” it is inferred by most that something is wrong with Amaryllis at the Fair, and the book has been passed over in silence. But we do not judge every novel by the same test. We do not judge Tristram Shandy, for example, by its intricate plot, or by its “vivid drama,” we judge it simply as an artistic revelation of human life and by its humorous insight into human character. And judged by the same simple test Amaryllis at the Fair, we contend, is a living picture of life, a creative work of imagination of a high order. Iden, the unsuccessful farmer who “built for all time, and not for the circumstances of the hour,” is a masterly piece of character drawing. But Iden is a personal portrait, the reader may object, Well, what about Uncle Toby? From what void did he spring? Iden, to our mind, is almost as masterly a conception, as broadly human a figure as Uncle Toby. And Mrs. Iden, where will you find this type of nervous, irritable wife, full of spiteful disillusioned love for her dilatory husband better painted than by Jefferies? But Mrs. Iden is a type, not an individual, the reader may say. Excellent reader! and what about the Widow Wadman? She is no less and no more of an individual than is Mrs. Iden. It was a great feat of Sterne to create so cunningly the atmosphere of the Shandy household, but Jefferies has accomplished an artistic feat also in drawing the relations of the Idens, father, mother, and daughter. How true, how unerringly true to human nature is this picture of the Iden household; how delicately felt and rendered to a hair is his picture of the father’s sluggish, masculine will, pricked ineffectually by the waspish tongue of feminine criticism. Further, we not only have the family’s idiosyncrasies, their habits, mental atmosphere, and domestic story brought before us in a hundred pages, easily and instinctively by the hand of the artist, but we have the whole book steeped in the breath of English spring, the restless ache of spring that thrills through the nerves, and stirs the sluggish winter blood; we have the spring feeling breaking from the March heavens and the March earth in copse, meadow, and ploughland, as it has scarcely been rendered before by English novelist. The description of Amaryllis running out into the March wind to call her father from his potato planting to see the daffodil; the picture of Iden pretending to sleep in his chair that he may watch the mice; the description of the girl Amaryllis watching the crowd of plain, ugly men of the countryside flocking along the road to the fair; the description of Amadis the invalid, in the old farm kitchen among the stalwart country folk—all these pictures and a dozen others in the book are painted with a masterly hand. Pictures! the critical reader may complain. Yes, pictures of living men and women. What does it matter whether a revelation of human life is conveyed to us by pictures or by action so long as it is conveyed? Mr. Saintsbury classes Jefferies with Gray, presumably because both writers have written of the English landscape. With Gray! Jefferies in his work as a naturalist and observer of wild life may be classed merely for convenience with Gilbert White. But this classification only applies to one half of Jefferies’ books. By his Wild Life in a Southern County he stands beside Gilbert White; by his Story of My Heart he stands by himself, a little apart from the poets, and by Amaryllis at the Fair he stands among the half-dozen country writers of the century whose work is racy of the English soil and of rural English human nature. We will name three of these writers, Barnes, Cobbett, Waugh, and our attentive readers can name the other three.

To come back to Amaryllis at the Fair, why is it so masterly, or, further, wherein is it so masterly, the curious reader may inquire? “Is it not full of digressions? Granted that the first half of the ‘novel’ is beautiful in style, does not Jefferies suddenly break his method, introduce his own personality, intersperse abrupt disquisitions on food, illness, and Fleet Street? Is not that description of Iden’s dinner a little—well, a little unusual? In short, is not the book a disquisition on life from the standpoint of Jefferies’ personal experiences? And if this is so, how can the book be so fine an achievement?” Oh, candid reader, with the voice of authority sounding in your ears (and have we not Mr. Henley and Mr. Saintsbury bound in critical amity against us), a book may break the formal rules, and yet it may yield to us just that salt of life which we may seek for vainly in the works of more faultless writers. The strength of Amaryllis at the Fair is that its beauty springs naturally from the prosaic earthly facts of life it narrates, and that, in the natural atmosphere breathed by its people, the prose and the poetry of their life are one. In the respect of the artistic naturalness of its homely picture, the book is very superior to, say The Mayor of Casterbridge, where we are conscious that the author has been at work arranging and rearranging his charming studies and impressions of the old-world people of Casterbridge into the pattern of an exciting plot. Now it is precisely in the artificed dramatic story of The Mayor of Casterbridge—and we cite this novel as characteristic, both in its strength and weakness, of its distinguished author—that we are brought to feel that we have not been shown the characters of Casterbridge going their way in life naturally, but that they have been moved about, kaleidoscopically, to suit the exigencies of the plot, and that the more this is so the less significance for us have their thoughts and actions. Watching the quick whirling changes of Farfrae and Lucetta, Henchard and Newson in the matrimonial mazes of the story, and listening to the chorus of the rustics in the wings, we perceive indeed whence comes that atmosphere of stage crisis and stage effect which suddenly introduces a disillusioning sense of unreality, and mars the artistic unity of this charming picture, so truthful in other respects to English rural life. Plot is Mr. Hardy’s weakness, and perfect indeed and convincing would have been his pictures, if he could have thrown his plots and his rustic choruses to the four winds. May we not be thankful, therefore, that Jefferies was no hand at elaborating a plot, and that in Amaryllis at the Fair, the scenes, the descriptions, the conversations are spontaneous as life, and that Jefferies’ commentary on them is like Fielding’s commentary, a medium by which he lives with his characters. The author’s imagination, memory, and instinctive perception are, indeed, all working together; and so his picture of human life in Amaryllis brings with it as convincing and as fresh a breath of life as we find in Cobbett’s, Waugh’s and Barnes’ country writings. When a writer arrives at being perfectly natural in his atmosphere, his style and his subject seem to become one. He moves easily and surely. Out of the splintered mass of ideas and emotions, out of the sensations, the observations and revelations of his youth, and the atmosphere familiar to him through long feeling, he builds up a subtle and cunning picture for us, a complete illusion of life more true than the reality. For what prosaic people call the reality is merely the coordination in their own minds of perhaps a thousandth part of aspects of the life around them; and only this thousandth part they have noticed. But the creative mind builds up a living picture out of the thousands of aspects most of us are congenitally blind to. This is what Jefferies has done in Amaryllis at the Fair. The book is rich in the contradictory forces of life, in its quick twists and turns: we feel in it there is nature working alike in the leaves of grass outside the Idens’ house, in the blustering winds round the walls, and in the minds of the characters indoors; and the style has the freshness of the April wind. Everything is growing, changing, breathing in the book. But the accomplished critics do not notice these trivial strengths. It is enough for them that Jefferies was not a novelist! Indeed, Mr. Saintsbury apparently thinks that Jefferies made a mistake in drawing his philosophy from an open-air study of nature, for he writes: “Unfortunately for Jefferies his philosophic background was not like Wordsworth’s clear and cheerful, but wholly vague and partly gloomy.” It was neither vague nor gloomy, we may remark, parenthetically, but we may admit that Jefferies saw too deeply into nature’s workings, and had too sensuous a joy in life to interpret all Nature’s doings, à la Wordsworth, and lend them a portentously moral significance.

The one charge that may with truth be brought against Amaryllis at the Fair is that its digressions damage the artistic illusion of the whole. The book shows the carelessness, the haste, the roughness of a sketch, a sketch, moreover, which Jefferies was not destined to carry to the end he had planned, but we repeat, let us be thankful that its artistic weaknesses are those of a sketch direct from nature, rather than those of an ambitious studio picture. And these digressions are an integral part of the book’s character, just as the face of a man has its own blemishes: they are one with the spirit of the whole, and so, if they break somewhat the illusion of the scenes, they do not damage its spiritual unity. It is this spiritual unity on which we must insist, because Amaryllis is indeed Jefferies’ last and complete testament on human life. He wrote it, or rather dictated it to his wife, as he lay in pain, slowly dying, and he has put into it the frankness of a dying man. How real, how solid, how deliciously sweet seemed those simple earthly joys, those human appetites of healthy, vigorous men to him! how intense is his passion and spiritual hunger for the beauty of earth! Like a flame shooting up from the log it is consuming, so this passion for the green earth, for the earth in wind and rain and sunshine, consumes the wasted, consumptive body of the dying man. The reality, the solidity of the homely farmhouse life he describes spring from the intensity with which he clings to all he loves, the cold March wind buffeting the face, the mating cries of the birds in the hot spring sunshine. Life is so terribly strong, so deliciously real, so full of man’s unsatisfied hungry ache for happiness; and sweet is the craving, bitter the knowledge of the unfulfilment. So, inspiring and vivifying the whole, in every line of Amaryllis is Jefferies’ philosophy of life. Jefferies “did not understand human nature,” say the accomplished critics. Did he not? Amaryllis at the Fair is one of the truest criticisms of human life, oh reader, you are likely to meet with. The mixedness of things, the old, old human muddle, the meanness and stupidity and shortsightedness of humanity, the good salty taste of life in the healthy mouth, the spirituality of love, the strong earthy roots of appetite, man’s lust of life, with circumstances awry, and the sharp wind blowing alike on the just and the unjust—all is there on the printed page of Amaryllis at the Fair. The song of the wind and the roar of London unite and mingle therein for those who do not bring the exacting eye of superiority to this most human book.

“Our day is but a finger: bring large cups.”

Alcæus

I

Amaryllis found the first daffodil flowering by the damask rose, and immediately ran to call her father to come and see it.

There are no damask roses now, like there used to be in summer at Coombe Oaks. I have never seen one since I last gathered one from that very bush. There are many grand roses, but no fragrance—the fragrance is gone out of life. Instinctively as I pass gardens in summer I look under the shade of the trees for the old roses, but they are not to be found. The dreary nurseries of evergreens and laurels—cemeteries they should be called, cemeteries in appearance and cemeteries of taste—are innocent of such roses. They show you an acre of what they call roses growing out of dirty straw, spindly things with a knob on the top, which even dew can hardly sweeten. “No call for damask roses—wouldn’t pay to grow they. Single they was, I thinks. No good. These be cut every morning and fetched by the flower-girls for gents’ buttonholes and ladies’ jackets. You won’t get no damask roses; they be died out.”

I think in despite of the nurseryman, or cemetery-keeper, that with patience I could get a damask rose even now by inquiring about from farmhouse to farmhouse. In time some old farmer, with a good old taste for old roses and pinks, would send me one; I have half a mind to try. But, alas! it is no use, I have nowhere to put it; I rent a house which is built in first-rate modern style, though small, of course, and there is a “garden” to it, but no place to put a damask rose. No place, because it is not “home,” and I cannot plant except round “home.” The plot or “patch” the landlord calls “the garden”—it is about as wide as the border round a patch, old style—is quite vacant, bare, and contains nothing but mould. It is nothing to me, and I cannot plant it.

Not only are there no damask roses, but there is no place for them nowadays, no “home,” only villas and rented houses. Anything rented in a town can never be “home.”

Farms that were practically taken on a hundred and twenty, or fifty, or perhaps two hundred years’ leases were “homes.” Consequently they had damask roses, bees, and birds about them.

There had been daffodils in that spot at least a century, opening every March to the dry winds that shrivel up the brown dead leaves of winter, and carry them out from the bushes under the trees, sending them across the meadow—fleeing like a routed army before the bayonets of the East. Every spring for a century at least the daffodils had bloomed there.

Amaryllis did not stay to think of the century, but ran round the corner of the house, and came face to face with the east wind, which took her with such force as to momentarily stay her progress. Her skirts were blown out horizontally, her ankles were exposed, and the front line of her shape (beginning to bud like spring) was sketched against the red brick wall. She laughed, but the strong gale filled her throat as if a hand had been thrust down it; the wind got its edge like a knife under her eyelids, between them and the eyeballs, and seemed as if it would scoop them out; her eyes were wet with involuntary tears; her lips dried up and parched in a moment. The wind went through her thick stockings as if the wool was nothing. She lifted her hand to defend her eyes, and the skin of her arm became “goosey” directly. Had she worn hat or bonnet it would have flown. Stooping forwards, she pushed step by step, and gradually reached the shelter of the high garden wall; there she could stand upright, and breathe again.

Her lips, which had been whitened by the keen blast, as if a storm of ice particles had been driven against them, now resumed their scarlet, but her ears were full of dust and reddened, and her curly dark hair was dry and rough and without gloss. Each separate hair separated itself from the next, and would not lie smooth—the natural unctuous essence which usually caused them to adhere was dried up.

The wind had blown thus round that corner every March for a century, and in no degree abated its bitter force because a beautiful human child, full of the happiness of a flower, came carelessly into its power. Nothing ever shows the least consideration for human creatures.

The moss on the ridge of the wall under which she stood to breathe looked shrivelled and thin, the green tint dried out of it. A sparrow with a straw tried hard to reach the eaves of the house to put it in his nest, but the depending straw was caught by the breeze as a sail, and carried him past.

Under the wall was a large patch recently dug, beside the patch a grass path, and on the path a wheelbarrow. A man was busy putting in potatoes; he wore the raggedest coat ever seen on a respectable back. As the wind lifted the tails it was apparent that the lining was loose and only hung by threads, the cuffs were worn through, there was a hole beneath each arm, and on each shoulder the nap of the cloth was gone; the colour, which had once been grey, was now a mixture of several soils and numerous kinds of grit. The hat he had on was no better; it might have been made of some hard pasteboard, it was so bare. Every now and then the wind brought a few handfuls of dust over the wall from the road, and dropped it on his stooping back.

The way in which he was planting potatoes was wonderful, every potato was placed at exactly the right distance apart, and a hole made for it in the general trench; before it was set it was looked at and turned over, and the thumb rubbed against it to be sure that it was sound, and when finally put in, a little mould was delicately adjusted round to keep it in its right position till the whole row was buried. He carried the potatoes in his coat pocket—those, that is, for the row—and took them out one by one; had he been planting his own children he could not have been more careful. The science, the skill, and the experience brought to this potato-planting you would hardly credit; for all this care was founded upon observation, and arose from very large abilities on the part of the planter, though directed to so humble a purpose at that moment.

So soon as Amaryllis had recovered breath, she ran down the grass path and stood by the wheelbarrow, but although her shadow fell across the potato row, he would not see her.

“Pa,” she said, not very loud. “Pa,” growing bolder. “Do come—there’s a daffodil out, the very, very first.”

“Oh,” a sound like a growl—“oh,” from the depth of a vast chest heaving out a doubtful note.

“It is such a beautiful colour!”

“Where is your mother?” looking at her askance and still stooping.

“Indoors—at least—I think—no—”

“Haven’t you got no sewing? Can’t you help her? What good be you on?”

“But this is such a lovely daffodil, and the very first—now do come!”

“Flowers bean’t no use on; such trumpery as that; what do’ee want a-messing about arter thaay? You’ll never be no good on; you ain’t never got a apron on.”

“But—just a minute now.”

“Go on in, and be some use on.”

Amaryllis’ lip fell; she turned and walked slowly away along the path, her head drooping forward.