The Golden Drugget (1918)
Primitive and essential things have great power to touch the heart of
the beholder. I mean such things as a man ploughing a field, or sowing
or reaping; a girl filling a pitcher from a spring; a young mother
with her child; a fisherman mending his nets; a light from a lonely
hut on a dark night.
Things such as these are the best themes for poets and painters, and
appeal to aught that there may be of painter or poet in any one of us.
Strictly, they are not so old as the hills, but they are more
significant and eloquent than hills. Hills will outlast them; but
hills glacially surviving the life of man on this planet are of as
little account as hills tremulous and hot in ages before the life of
man had its beginning. Nature is interesting only because of us. And
the best symbols of us are such sights as I have just mentioned--
sights unalterable by fashion of time or place, sights that in all
countries always were and never will not be.
It is true that in many districts nowadays there are elaborate new
kinds of machinery for ploughing the fields and reaping the corn. In
the most progressive districts of all, I daresay, the very sowing of
the grain is done by means of some engine, with better results than
could be got by hand. For aught I know, there is a patented invention
for catching fish by electricity. It is natural that we should, in
some degree, pride ourselves on such triumphs. It is well that we
should have poems about them, and pictures of them. But such poems and
pictures cannot touch our hearts very deeply. They cannot stir in us
the sense of our kinship with the whole dim past and the whole dim
future. The ancient Egyptians were great at scientific dodges--very
great indeed, nearly as great as we, the archaeologists tell us. Sand
buried the memory of those dodges for a rather long time. How are we
to know that the glories of our present civilisation will never be
lost? The world's coal-mines and oil-fields are exhaustible; and it is
not, I am told, by any means certain that scientists will discover any
good substitutes for the materials which are necessary to mankind's
present pitch of glory. Mankind may, I infer, have to sink back into
slow and simple ways, continent be once more separated from continent,
nation from nation, village from village. And, even supposing that the
present rate of traction and communication and all the rest of it can
forever be maintained, is our modern way of life so great a success
that mankind will surely never be willing to let it lapse? Doubtless,
that present rate can be not only maintained, but also accelerated
immensely, in the near future. Will these greater glories be voted,
even by the biggest fools, an improvement? We smile already at the
people of the early nineteenth century who thought that the vistas
opened by applied science were very heavenly. We have travelled far
along those vistas. Light is not abundant in them, is it? We are proud
of having gone such a long way, but...peradventure, those who come
after us will turn back, sooner or later, of their own accord. This is
a humbling thought. If the wonders of our civilisation are doomed, we
should prefer them to cease through lack of the minerals and mineral
products that keep them going. Possibly they are not doomed at all.
But this chance counts for little as against the certainty that,
whatever happens, the primitive and essential things will never,
anywhere, wholly cease, while mankind lasts. And thus it is that
Brown's Ode to the Steam Plough, Jones' Sonnet Sequence on the
Automatic Reaping Machine, and Robinson's Epic of the Piscicidal
Dynamo, leave unstirred the deeper depths of emotion in us. The
subjects chosen by these three great poets do not much impress us when
we regard them sub specie aeternitatis. Smith has painted nothing more
masterly than his picture of a girl turning a hot-water tap. But has
he never seen a girl fill a pitcher from a spring? Smithers' picture
of a young mother seconding a resolution at a meeting of a Board of
Guardians is magnificent, as brushwork. But why not have cut out the
Board and put in the baby? I yield to no one in admiration of
Smithkins' `Fa‡ade of the Waldorf Hotel by Night, in Peace Time.' But
a single light from a lonely hut would have been a finer theme.
I should like to show Smithkins the thing that I call The Golden
Drugget. Or rather, as this thing is greatly romantic to me, and that
painter is so unfortunate in his surname, I should like Smithkins to
find it for himself.
These words are written in war time and in England. There are, I hear,
`lighting restrictions' even on the far Riviera di Levante. I take it
that the Golden Drugget is not outspread now-anights across the high
dark coast-road between Rapallo and Zoagli. But the lonely wayside inn
is still there, doubtless; and its narrow door will again stand open,
giving out for wayfarers its old span of brightness into darkness,
when peace comes.
It is nothing by daylight, that inn. If anything, it is rather an
offence. Steep behind it rise mountains that are grey all over with
olive trees, and beneath it, on the other side of the road, the cliff
falls sheer to the sea. The road is white, the sea and sky are usually
of a deep bright blue, there are many single cypresses among the
olives. It is a scene of good colour and noble form. It is a gay and a
grand scene, in which the inn, though unassuming, is unpleasing, if
you pay attention to it. An ugly little box-like inn. A stuffy-looking
and uninviting inn. Salt and tobacco, it announces in faint letters
above the door, may be bought there. But one would prefer to buy these
things elsewhere. There is a bench outside, and a rickety table with a
zinc top to it, and sometimes a peasant or two drinking a glass or two
of wine. The proprietress is very unkempt. To Don Quixote she would
have seemed a princess, and the inn a castle, and the peasants notable
magicians. Don Quixote would have paused here and done something. Not
so do I.
By daylight, on the way down from my little home to Rapallo, or up
from Rapallo home, I am indeed hardly conscious that this inn exists.
By moonlight, too, it is negligible. Stars are rather unbecoming to
it. But on a thoroughly dark night, when it is manifest as nothing but
a strip of yellow light cast across the road from an ever-open door,
great always is its magic for me. Is? I mean was. But then, I mean
also will be. And so I cleave to the present tense--the nostalgic
present, as grammarians might call it.
Likewise, when I say that thoroughly dark nights are rare here, I mean
that they are rare in the Gulf of Genoa. Clouds do not seem to like
our landscape. But it has often struck me that Italian nights,
whenever clouds do congregate, are somehow as much darker than English
nights as Italian days are brighter than days in England. They have a
heavier and thicker nigritude. They shut things out from you more
impenetrably. They enclose you as in a small pavilion of black velvet.
This tenement is not very comfortable in a strong gale. It makes you
feel rather helpless. And gales can be strong enough, in the late
autumn, on the Riviera di Levante.
It is on nights when the wind blows its hardest, but makes no rift
anywhere for a star to peep through, that the Golden Drugget, as I
approach it, gladdens my heart the most. The distance between Rapallo
and my home up yonder is rather more than two miles. The road curves
and zigzags sharply, for the most part; but at the end of the first
mile it runs straight for three or four hundred yards; and, as the inn
stands at a point midway on this straight course, the Golden Drugget
is visible to me long before I come to it. Even by starlight, it is
good to see. How much better, if I happen to be out on a black rough
night when nothing is disclosed but this one calm bright thing.
Nothing? Well, there has been descriable, all the way, a certain grey
glimmer immediately in front of my feet. This, in point of fact, is
the road, and by following it carefully I have managed to escape
collision with trees, bushes, stone walls. The continuous shrill
wailing of trees' branches writhing unseen but near, and the great
hoarse roar of the sea against the rocks far down below, are no
cheerful accompaniment for the buffeted pilgrim. He feels that he is
engaged in single combat with Nature at her unfriendliest. He isn't
sure that she hasn't supernatural allies working with her--witches on
broomsticks circling closely round him, demons in pursuit of him or
waiting to leap out on him. And how about mere robbers and cutthroats?
Suppose--but look! that streak, yonder, look!--the Golden Drugget.
There it is, familiar, serene, festal. That the pilgrim knew he would
see it in due time does not diminish for him the queer joy of seeing
it; nay, this emotion would be far less without that foreknowledge.
Some things are best at first sight. Others--and here is one of them--
do ever improve by recognition. I remember that when first I beheld
this steady strip of light, shed forth over a threshold level with the
road, it seemed to me conceivably sinister. It brought Stevenson to my
mind: the chink of doubloons and the clash of cutlasses; and I think I
quickened pace as I passed it. But now!--now it inspires in me a sense
of deep trust and gratitude; and such awe as I have for it is
altogether a loving awe, as for holy ground that should he trod
lightly. A drugget of crimson cloth across a London pavement is rather
resented by the casual passer-by, as saying to him `Step across me,
stranger, but not along me, not in!' and for answer he spurns it with
his heel. `Stranger, come in!' is the clear message of the Golden
Drugget. `This is but a humble and earthly hostel, yet you will find
here a radiant company of angels and archangels.' And always I cherish
the belief that if I obeyed the summons I should receive fulfilment of
the promise. Well, the beliefs that one most cherishes one is least
willing to test. I do not go in at that open door. But lingering, but
reluctant, is my tread as I pass by it; and I pause to bathe in the
light that is as the span of our human life, granted between one great
darkness and another.
-THE END-
Max Beerbohm's essay: The Golden Drugget (1918)
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