A friend of mine who was visiting a poor woman in bereavement
and casting about for some phrase of consolation that should
not be either insolent or weak, said at last, "I think one can
live through these great sorrows and even be the better.
What wears one is the little worries." "That's quite right, mum,"
answered the old woman with emphasis, "and I ought to know,
seeing I've had ten of 'em." It is, perhaps, in this sense
that it is most true that little worries are most wearing.
In its vaguer significance the phrase, though it contains a truth,
contains also some possibilities of self-deception and error.
People who have both small troubles and big ones have the
right to say that they find the small ones the most bitter;
and it is undoubtedly true that the back which is bowed under
loads incredible can feel a faint addition to those loads;
a giant holding up the earth and all its animal creation might
still find the grasshopper a burden. But I am afraid that the
maxim that the smallest worries are the worst is sometimes used
or abused by people, because they have nothing but the very
smallest worries. The lady may excuse herself for reviling the
crumpled rose leaf by reflecting with what extraordinary dignity
she would wear the crown of thorns--if she had to. The gentleman
may permit himself to curse the dinner and tell himself that he
would behave much better if it were a mere matter of starvation.
We need not deny that the grasshopper on man's shoulder is
a burden; but we need not pay much respect to the gentleman
who is always calling out that he would rather have an elephant
when he knows there are no elephants in the country.
We may concede that a straw may break the camel's back,
but we like to know that it really is the last straw and
not the first.
I grant that those who have serious wrongs have a real right
to grumble, so long as they grumble about something else.
It is a singular fact that if they are sane they almost always
do grumble about something else. To talk quite reasonably about
your own quite real wrongs is the quickest way to go off your head.
But people with great troubles talk about little ones,
and the man who complains of the crumpled rose leaf very often
has his flesh full of the thorns. But if a man has commonly
a very clear and happy daily life then I think we are justified
in asking that he shall not make mountains out of molehills.
I do no deny that molehills can sometimes be important.
Small annoyances have this evil about them, that they can be more
abrupt because they are more invisible; they cast no shadow before,
they have no atmosphere. No one ever had a mystical premonition
that he was going to tumble over a hassock. William III.
died by falling over a molehill; I do not suppose that with all his
varied abilities he could have managed to fall over a mountain.
But when all this is allowed for, I repeat that we may ask a happy man
(not William III.) to put up with pure inconveniences, and even make
them part of his happiness. Of positive pain or positive poverty
I do not here speak. I speak of those innumerable accidental
limitations that are always falling across our path--bad weather,
confinement to this or that house or room, failure of appointments
or arrangements, waiting at railway stations, missing posts,
finding unpunctuality when we want punctuality, or, what is worse,
finding punctuality when we don't. It is of the poetic pleasures
to be drawn from all these that I sing--I sing with confidence
because I have recently been experimenting in the poetic pleasures
which arise from having to sit in one chair with a sprained foot,
with the only alternative course of standing on one leg like a stork--
a stork is a poetic simile; therefore I eagerly adopted it.
To appreciate anything we must always isolate it, even if
the thing itself symbolise something other than isolation.
If we wish to see what a house is it must be a house in some
uninhabited landscape. If we wish to depict what a man really
is we must depict a man alone in a desert or on a dark sea sand.
So long as he is a single figure he means all that humanity means;
so long as he is solitary he means human society; so long
as he is solitary he means sociability and comradeship.
Add another figure and the picture is less human--not more so.
One is company, two is none. If you wish to symbolise
human building draw one dark tower on the horizon; if you
wish to symbolise light let there be no star in the sky.
Indeed, all through that strangely lit season which we
call our day there is but one star in the sky--a large,
fierce star which we call the sun. One sun is splendid;
six suns would be only vulgar. One Tower Of Giotto is sublime;
a row of Towers of Giotto would be only like a row of white posts.
The poetry of art is in beholding the single tower; the poetry
of nature in seeing the single tree; the poetry of love in
following the single woman; the poetry of religion in worshipping
the single star. And so, in the same pensive lucidity, I find
the poetry of all human anatomy in standing on a single leg.
To express complete and perfect leggishness the leg must stand
in sublime isolation, like the tower in the wilderness.
As Ibsen so finely says, the strongest leg is that which
stands most alone.
This lonely leg on which I rest has all the simplicity
of some Doric column. The students of architecture tell us
that the only legitimate use of a column is to support weight.
This column of mine fulfils its legitimate function.
It supports weight. Being of an animal and organic consistency,
it may even improve by the process, and during these few
days that I am thus unequally balanced, the helplessness
or dislocation of the one leg may find compensation in the
astonishing strength and classic beauty of the other leg.
Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson in Mr. George Meredith's novel might
pass by at any moment, and seeing me in the stork-like attitude
would exclaim, with equal admiration and a more literal exactitude,
"He has a leg." Notice how this famous literary phrase supports
my contention touching this isolation of any admirable thing.
Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, wishing to make a clear and perfect
picture of human grace, said that Sir Willoughby Patterne had a leg.
She delicately glossed over and concealed the clumsy and offensive
fact that he had really two legs. Two legs were superfluous
and irrelevant, a reflection, and a confusion. Two legs would have
confused Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson like two Monuments in London.
That having had one good leg he should have another--
this would be to use vain repetitions as the Gentiles do.
She would have been as much bewildered by him as if he had
been a centipede.
All pessimism has a secret optimism for its object. All surrender
of life, all denial of pleasure, all darkness, all austerity,
all desolation has for its real aim this separation of something
so that it may be poignantly and perfectly enjoyed. I feel
grateful for the slight sprain which has introduced this mysterious
and fascinating division between one of my feet and the other.
The way to love anything is to realise that it might be lost.
In one of my feet I can feel how strong and splendid a foot is;
in the other I can realise how very much otherwise it might
have been. The moral of the thing is wholly exhilarating.
This world and all our powers in it are far more awful and
beautiful than even we know until some accident reminds us.
If you wish to perceive that limitless felicity, limit yourself
if only for a moment. If you wish to realise how fearfully
and wonderfully God's image is made, stand on one leg.
If you want to realise the splendid vision of all visible things--
wink the other eye.
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