LIVE too much alone, and my mind feeds upon itself. It might have been wholesomer to plunge into the present life of London, enter into the thoughts and feelings of the people, keep my ears alert for the alarm of Zeppelin attacks, read the daily accounts in the newspapers of vicissitudes at the front, accept opportunities to attend sessions of Parliament, make myself a sympathetic and informed part of this greatest crisis of known history. I might have lived thus, had Joan remained with me—and I have more than once considered seeking out her and my brother-in-law in France, and seeing actual passages of the terrible struggle. But I've done nothing of all this.
It may be want of resolution to obey what any common sensible person would call the dictates of common sense. But it may be that I am governed by the injunctions of a sense that is not common, or at least is not commonly heeded. In animals, it is called instinct; in man, intuition. In either case, it is a spiritual leading. The simple structure of the animal mind disables them from rejecting this leading; but men's minds have become so sophisticated by inferences, deductions, doubts, by all the subtle jugglery of cause and effect, that they mistrust the hints and guidance of the spirit, and laboriously reason their way through life as tropical explorers chop their path through the jungle with a machete. They are confirmed in this procedure by the Pucklike suggestions of all manner of anomalous impulses, often of physiological origin, or the fruit of idle and selfish propensity. Having been misled or betrayed by these, they shake their heads at the fine call of the inner voice; they can no longer discriminate between the authentic and the bogus!
Common sense tempts me, at times; but intuition holds me still. I will see this adventure through to the end. And though I am still groping in the mists of perplexity and conjecture, the results which I have attained warrant me in persevering.
For a time, indeed, after my last writing here, I turned my back on Mrs. Blodgett's rooms and the British Museum alike, and went exploring in London neighborhoods. One sunny morning I took a taxi out to Richmond on the Thames, dismissed it there, and proceeded on foot. The principal street of the town conveys a pleasant antique impression, and some of the ivy-grown mansions and precincts had a familiar aspect, which disappeared, however, upon a more categorical examination. Consciousness has a sort of penumbra, made up, I suppose, of anticipation, or of remembered information, which, if left undisturbed in its harmless function, plays pretty tricks of this kind.
I lingered on the hog-backed bridge, and could fancy that I had leaned on that gray stone parapet before, and enjoyed the soft mirror which the river held beneath the dense, overhanging foliage of the winding margin toward the north. On the other side of the bridge I saw the oak-covered acclivity of Richmond Hill come down to the water on the left and on the right, green lawns of private villas, bordered by the foot-path. There is a quality in cultivated country loveliness which, given similar elements, renders one scene reminiscent of what one has seen before. Nature, in her infinite variety, pretends to repeat herself.
I passed on to the Twickenham side, walking slowly and enjoyingly, as if with a beloved hand in mine. It might be about a mile to the ancient church, with its graveyard, that stands as the outpost of the village, at the turn of the road.
Before reaching this, however, I paused before the gate of a villa, itself invisible behind its environing trees and shrubbery. When had I been accustomed to enter this gateway and pace up that curving drive to the villa's door?
The gate stood open, and I went in. In a moment or two the villa was revealed, built of gray stone, with pointed gables and projecting lower windows; on the right was outspread a down of silken turf, a couple of acres in extent, protected from the road by a hedge and a row of trees. When, and with what companion, had I known this place?
I advanced toward the house, which seemed to be unoccupied; but at this juncture an elderly man, with a stoop in his gait, came round the corner of the building—a gardener, apparently, and eyed me narrowly, suspecting me perhaps of being a German spy! "Is the house to let?" I asked him, by way of accounting for my intrusion. But before he could answer me, I found myself, to my own surprise, continuing: "I used to live here, a good many years ago," I said, "and if you have the keys, I should like to look over the place again!"
