Winter I. In praise of living flame + Sea-coal

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Interlude LII. Foucault - part 29

Blasts from the Channel, with raining scud, and spumes of mist breaking upon the hills, have kept me indoors all day. Yet not for a moment have I been dull or idle, and now, by the latter end of a sea-coal fire, I feel such enjoyment of my ease and tranquillity that I must needs word it before going up to bed.

Of course one ought to be able to breast weather such as this of to-day, and to find one’s pleasure in the strife with it. For the man sound in body and serene of mind there is no such thing as bad weather; every sky has its beauty, and storms which whip the blood do but make it pulse more vigorously. I remember the time when I could have set out with gusto for a tramp along the wind-swept and rain-beaten roads; nowaday, I should perhaps pay for the experiment with my life. All the more do I prize the shelter of these good walls, the honest workmanship which makes my doors and windows proof against the assailing blast. In all England, the land of comfort, there is no room more comfortable that this in which I sit.  Comfortable in the good old sense of the word, giving solace to the mind no less that ease to the body. And never does it look more homely, more a refuge and a sanctuary, than on winter nights.

In my first winter here, I tried fires of wood, having had my hearth arranged for the purpose; but that was a mistake. One cannot burn logs successfully in a small room; either the fire, being kept moderate, needs constant attention, or its triumphant blaze makes the room too hot. A fire is a delightful thing, a  companion and an inspiration. If my room were kept warm by some wretched modern contrivance of water-pipes or heated air, would it be the same to me as the beautiful core of glowing fuel, which, if I sit and gaze into it, becomes a world of wonders? Let science warm the heaven-forsaken inhabitants of flats and hotels as effectually and economically as it may; if the choice were forced upon me, I had rather sit, like an Italian, wrapped in my mantle, softly stirring with a key the silver-grey surface of the brasier’s charcoal. They tell me we are burning all our coal, and with wicked wastefulness. I am sorry for it, but I cannot on that account make cheerless perhaps the last winter of my life... Use common sense, by all means, in the construction of grates; that more than half of the heat of the kindly coal should be blown up the chimney is desired by no one; but hold by the open fire as you hold by whatever else is best in England. Because, in the course of nature, it will be some day a thing of the past (like most other things that are worth living for), is that a reason why it should not be enjoyed as long as possible?...

See how friendly together are the fire and the shaded lamp; both have their part alike in the illuminating and warming of the room. As the fire purrs and softly crackles, so does my lamp at intervals utter a little gurgling sound when the oil flows to the wick, and custom has made this a pleasure to me. Another sound, blending with both, is the gentle ticking of the clock... mine hums very slowly, as though it savoured the minutes no less than I do; and when it strikes, the little voice is silver-sweet, telling me without sadness that another hour of life is reckoned, another of the priceless hours --

“Quae nobis pereunt et imputantur.”

[TEMPORA LABUNTUR QUAE NOBIS PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR. Time glides by which for us perishes and is reckoned. Source.]

After extinguishing the lamp, and when I have reached the door, I always turn to look back; my room is so cosily alluring in the light of the last gleeds, that I do not easily move away. The warm glow is reflected on shining wood, on my chair, my writing-table, on the bookcases, and from the guilt title of some stately volume; it illumes this picture, it half disperses the gloom on that. I could imagine that, as in a fairy tale, the books do but await my departure to begin talking among themselves. A little tongue of flame shoots up from a dying ember; shadows shift upon the ceiling and the walls. With a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth, and shut the door softly.

Storm.

It has been raining steadily, and occasionally pouring, all day today. Almost all the colorful leaves have been blown off the Japanese Maple in the garden. An explosion at the local electrical substation caused our electricity to go off for several hours, though it’s back on now. Just to get out of the house, I walked the four blocks to the Other Cafe, only to find it over-crowded with people also keen to be out on a bleak day. So I came back home and made my own tea.

Two centuries is either a very long time or a surprisingly short time, depending on how you chose to look at it. When you think of the history of man, it’s amazing how much damage we’ve been able to do to our atmosphere and oceans in so short a period. And, historically, Goethe is a comparatively modern figure. Yet the idea of a “power failure” would be so strange for Henry Ryecroft, much less Goethe. Would Ryecroft’s cottage have had any utilities? I think not. If my power had not come back on, I would be down to candles and flashlights. After a day or two, especially if it were to get cold, I might find myself envying HR’s coal fire and oil lamps. Could even Edison or Tesla have imagined the continental electrical grids we have today? To think of it, just in terms of the amount of copper, the quantity of glass insulators, the number of transformers, is to be amazed. And that doesn’t even touch on the generation of the power that goes into these grids. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole system was gone in another hundred years -- replaced by either individual, off-grid systems or a variety of mini-grids.

Sea-coal.

In parts of Scotland, sea-coal means coal that washes up on beaches, presumably from exposed veins of coal under the sea. But in the south of England, or so I’m informed by the Interwebs, sea-coal is the name for mineral coal (shipped in by boat) as opposed to charcoal (which would arrive overland). I suppose there are many people today who have never really experienced fire in the way Ryecroft describes, as I have never experienced coal fire. My only experience is with wood fires while camping, or as a rare event -- often a holiday tradition -- in suburban or country houses. Only rarely have I had to depend on fire for warmth. But the hypnotic quality of fire is undeniable. I never complained when I was the one left to sleep on the floor, before the fireplace, when all the beds in the house were taken. The glow, the smell, the sound of a wood fire, just before, and even after, it collapses to mere embers, is one of life's charms. My apartment is furnished with a gas heater, but I’ve had the gas disconnected and only use an electric space-heater. It doesn’t even have those cheery glowing coils of wire, or maybe it does, but they are hidden inside the machine and not readily visible. There are people in my building with working fireplaces, but they are little better off than me in this regard, as it seems most cold nights here are on “Spare the Air” days, when it is prohibited to burn anything because of the resulting pollution. My first thought when I read that Gissing died of emphysema was to recall his passionate words about smoking, but I wonder what role the space heating he so loved played in this condition? It also occurs to me that he didn’t mention anything about the smell of burning coal or lamp oil. Even candles, depending on what they’re made of, can smell good, and the smell of wood fires is one of their chief attractions. Perhaps the smells were so common that he wouldn’t really notice them, or perhaps, like other smokers, he had lost or compromised his ability to smell. Some years ago, I tried to interest a manufacturer of gas space heaters in the concept of a wall mounted unit that would have a glass combustion chamber, so that you would be able to see the gas swirling and burning. I imagined it as being every bit as hypnotic as a blazing wood fire, though I don’t think there’s any way you could match the beauty of the glowing coals after a log has been mostly consumed. I suppose an actual coal, or sea-coal, fire would have a similar look.

Winter update.

By the calendar it isn’t quite winter here, but this is as close to real winter as we get, so I’m jumping back in. And what perfect prose from Gissing to welcome us back. It's well worth a second reading.

I have discovered 3 TV series where contemporary people try living the way people did a hundred years ago: The Coal House, Turn Back Time, and The 1900 House (removed from YouTube). And here’s a great documentary about Britain in 1900.

Finally, I’ve published enough in the past to know that the worst aspect of the process is reading, months later, what you’ve previously published only to find innumerable errors and generally sloppy prose. The prose here goes through a three step process with some time between to clear the literary palate, as it were. All to no avail, I discovered as I went back and reread this blog from the beginning. I have cleaned up (somewhat) behind myself, but I apologize in advance for the messes that follow. This is like walking around town knowing that most of the time your fly is going to be open... and there’s nothing you can do about it. Again I am grateful for a lack of readers -- or so I assume, I don’t bother to check the information Blogger provides on such things. And, yes, I am violating the spirit of blogging (in so many ways) but... sue me.

Next: Winter II. Ways of seeing.