Bones and I: The Skeleton at Home
9781465683755
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Long ago, visiting the monastery of La Trappe, I was struck with the very discontented appearance of its inmates. In some of their faces, indeed, I detected no expression whatever, but on none could I perceive the slightest gleam of satisfaction with their lot. No wonder: few men are of the stuff that makes a good recluse. The human animal is naturally gregarious, like the solan goose, the buffalo, the monkey, or the mackerel. Put him by himself, he pines for lack of mental aliment, just as a flower fades for want ofdaylight in the dark. A multitude of fools forms an inspiriting spectacle, a solitary specimen becomes a sad and solemn warning. If the Trappists, who are not entirely isolated from their kind, thus wither under the rigour of those repressive rules enjoined by the Order, what must have been the condition of such hermits and anchorites as passed whole months, and even years together, in the wilderness, unvisited by anything more human than the distempered phantoms of their dreams? No shave, no wash, no morning greeting, and no evening wine. How many, I wonder, preserved their sanity in the ordeal? How many, returning dazed and bewildered to the haunts of men, tottered about in helpless, wandering, maundering imbecility? Were there not some hard, boisterous natures who plunged wildly into the excesses of a world so long forsworn, with all the appetite of abstinence, all the reckless self abandonment of the paid off man of war’s man on a spree? No; few people are qualified for recluses. I am proud to be amongst the number. I live in a desert, but my desert is in the very heart of London. The waste is all round me though; I have taken good care of that. Once, indeed, it blossomed like the rose, for a thousand fertilising streams trickled through its bright expanse. Do not you as I did. I turned all the streams into one channel, “in the sweet summer time long ago,” and “sat by the river,” like those poor fools in the song, and said, “Go to! Now I shall never thirst again!” But in the night there came a landslip from the upper level, and choked the river, turning its course through my neighbour’s pastures, so that the meadows, once so green and fresh, are bare and barren now for evermore. I speak in parables, of course; and the value of “this here observation,” like those of Captain Bunsby, “lies in the application of it.” I need not observe, the street in which I hide myself is a cul de sac. A man who sells chickweed, perhaps I should say, who would sell chickweed if he could, is the only passenger. Of the houses on each side of me, one is unfinished, the other untenanted. Over the way, I confront the dead wall at the back of an hospital. Towards dusk in the late autumn, when the weather is breaking, I must admit the situation is little calculated to generate over exuberance of animal spirits. Sequestered, no doubt, shady too, particularly in the short days, and as remote from the noise or traffic of the town as John o’ Groat’s house, but enlivening—No.
