Winter XII. Comfort in the roaring dark

Intro & Preface & Contents

Previous: Winter XI. The decline of English butter

The good S----- writes me a kindly letter. He is troubled by the thought of my loneliness. That I should choose to live in such a place as this through the summer, he can understand; but surely I should do better to come to town for the winter? How on earth do I spend the dark days and the long evenings?

I chuckle over the good S----’s sympathy. Dark days are few in happy Devon, and such as befall have never brought me a moment’s tedium. The long, wild winter of the north would try my spirits; but here, the season that follows autumn is merely one of rest, Nature’s annual slumber. And I share in the restful influence. Often enough I pass an hour in mere drowsing by the fireside; frequently I let my book drop, satisfied to muse. But more often than not the winter day is blest with sunshine -- the soft beam which is Nature’s smile in dreaming. I go forth and wander far. It pleases me to note changes of landscape when the leaves have fallen; I see streams and ponds which during summer were hidden; my favorite lanes have an unfamiliar aspect, and I become better acquainted with them. Then, there is a rare beauty in the structure of trees ungarmented; and if perchance snow or frost have silvered their tracery against the sober sky, it becomes a marvel which never tires...

In the middle years of my life -- those years that were the worst of all -- I used to dread the sound of a winter storm which woke me in the night... The wind’s wail seemed to me the voice of a world in anguish; rain was the weeping of the feeble and the oppressed. But nowadays I can lie and listen to a night-storm with no intolerable thoughts; at worst, I fall into a compassionate sadness as I remember those I loved and whom I shall see no more. For myself, there is even comfort in the roaring dark; for I feel the strength of the good walls about me, and my safety from squalid peril such as pursued me through all my labouring life. “Blow, blow, thou winter wind!” Thou canst not blow away the modest wealth which makes my security. Nor can any “rain upon the roof” put my soul to question; for life has given me all I ever asked -- infinitely more than I ever hoped -- and in no corner of my mind does there lurk a coward fear of death.

Alpha.

For the most part, I’m with Ryecroft here. I’ve always loved a good storm -- summer or winter -- and being bored by solitude has never been one of my fears. It has struck me, however, that prior to the days of TV, radio, and even recorded music, many people went to considerable trouble to be amused. Reading Lost Time, the last time, I was struck by the degree to which the various salons Marcel attended (or describes) were motivated, even more than by a desire for status, by an overwhelming need to escape boredom. I have known enough people who could not stand a moment of conversational silence -- or even an hour, much less an evening, of their own company -- to appreciate that not everyone is like me in craving undisturbed time to myself. I’m not, however, quite as sanguine about my “safety from peril.” I am as secure as possible, and the modesty of my requirements accentuates this security, but we are all vulnerable. An earthquake could bring down my building or even my entire neighborhood. A plane could crash down on everything I own, or a simple fire could as easily turn it all to ash and smoke. Disease or injury could turn my world upside down in a day or an hour. Security is an illusion. And this is all the more true for people, unlike myself and the written Henry Ryecroft, with actual families -- which are always dangerously exposed hostages to fate. But this is not a criticism of George Gissing. Henry Ryecroft’s total security is another important element of the divine fantasy Gissing has crafted of a bucolic, literary retirement. To have realistic concerns about such things would be as inappropriate here as concerns about Erectile Disfunction would be in a pornographic novel. In real life, however, I try to do everything I can to secure my health and my comfort in life. But I believe it is even more important to come to terms with the idea that ultimately we have no control over any of this. The best we can hope for is that we not embarrass ourselves as the thing plays out how it will. As for death, I don’t fear it either... when I’m well and the sun is out. At other times I’m not so confident. I’m curious about the other side -- it is the great unknown, the “undiscovered country” -- and I think I’m not going to mind being dead (whatever that turns out to mean), but I can’t say I’m looking forward to dying.

For several years I lived on the 29th floor of a commercial-residential tower. I was making more money than normal and could afford the highest rent I would ever pay. Living there was a mixed bag of convenience and inconvenience, amenities and too thin party walls. What I most enjoyed there were winter storms when I was safe and warm in my snug little aerie while rain lashed the streets far below. I'm sad to say I understood all to well the words of Lady Montdore in Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate, “ 'I love being so dry in here [they are in her chauffeured car],’ as Lady Montdore put it, 'and seeing all those poor people so wet.’ ”

Brevity, next to Godliness.

Given the recent Foucault ordeal, I’m guessing the reader will not mind a short post or two. Think of it as a seasonal thing. The blog is semi-hibernating, resting prior to the next period of renewal and rebirth. And the alternative is a bunch more about Faust.

Next: Winter XIII. English comfort.