i must remind the indulgent reader, lest helen and i should appear tediously opulent, that our swiss trip in the winter was due to a windfall of a hundred pounds—a thing which may conceivably happen to anybody, and in this instance happened to us. consequently, the fact that we went abroad again in april does not, if it is considered fairly, argue aggressive riches. in any case, refuse to stoop to degrading justifications. we did not go because it was good for our healths, which were both excellent, nor because foreign travel improves and expands the mind. as a matter of fact, i do not believe it does, for the majority of travellers are always comparing the foreign scenes they visit with spots in their native land, vastly to the advantage of the latter, and the farther and more frequently they go, the more deep-rooted becomes their insularity. we went merely because we{320} enjoyed it, and had formed a careful plan of retrenchment afterwards, being about to let the sloane street house for the three summer months. that was rather a severe decision to come to, since we both hate the idea of strangers using ‘our things’ and sleeping in our beds; but by these means this expedition to greece became possible, and when once it was possible it had already become necessary.

so here we sat this morning on the steps of the little temple of wingless victory, wingless, as the old sunlit myth said, because, when the nymph lighted on the sacred rock of the acropolis, she stripped off her wings, which were henceforward useless to her, since she would abide here for ever, just below the great house of defence that the athenians had raised to the wisdom of god, athene, who was born full-grown and in panoply of shield, and helmet, and spear, from the head of zeus. out of his head she sprang in painless birth, with a cry that was heard by echo on hymettus, and rang back in echo’s voice across the plain, the shout of the wisdom of god incarnate.{321}

and then poseidon, the lord of the sea, who coveted these fair attic plains, challenged athene for the ownership thereof. each must produce a sign of godhead, and the most excellent should win for its manifestor all the plain of attica. there, high on the rock, where the great birth had taken place, were the lists set, and with his trident poseidon struck the mountain-top, and from the dent there flowed a stream of the salt sea, which was his kingdom; and then the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom laid aside her spear, and from the waving of her white hands there sprang an olive-tree, the sign of peace and of plenty. so poseidon went down to his realm again, where no man may gather the harvest; for none could question which was the more excellent sign.

it was after this, after the athenians had raised the great house to the wisdom of god, that wingless victory came to abide here. it was not fit, for all her greatness, to build her a house on the ground that had been given to athene, so just outside the gates they made this platform of stone, and raised on it the shrine that looks towards salamis.{322}

fables, so beautiful that they needed no further evidence of their truth, sprang from ancient greece, as flowers from a fruitful field. whether they were true or not, whether that peerless woman’s form that stands now in stone in the louvre, alighting with rush of windy draperies on the ship’s prow, ever was seen here by mortal eye, or whether the myth but grew from the brain of this wonderful people, matters not at all. beauty, according to their creed, was one with truth, just as ugliness was falsehood. they denied ugliness: they would have none of it, and it was from the practice of that conviction that there rose the flawless city of art. never, so we must believe, during that wonderful century and a half, when from the ground, maybe, of the lifeless hieratic egyptian art there shot up that transcendent flower of loveliness, of which even the fragments that remain to us now, battered and disfigured as they are, are in another zone of beauty compared to all that went before or has come afterwards, was anything ugly produced at all, except as deliberate caricature. it was no renaissance—it was naissance itself—the birth of the beautiful.{323} on every side shot out the rays of the miraculous many-coloured star: from the marble of pentelicus flowed that torrent of statues which make all others look coarse and unlovely, for the speed of the greek eye was such that they saw attitudes which pass before we of slower vision have perceived them. sometimes they saw things that were in themselves ungraceful, but how pheidias must have laughed with glee when, among the seventy horses of the great procession on the frieze, he put in one that, cantering, stood upon one leg, while the other three were bunched underneath it. taken by itself, it is a grotesque; taken with the others, it gives to the jubilant procession of youths and horses the one perfect touch. more than two thousand years ago a greek saw that; two thousand years later we with our focal planes in photography can say he was right.

in all arts the greeks were right; they cut through the onyx of the sardonyx, leaving the lucent image in the sard; in the less eternal clay they made the statuettes of tanagra—those sketches of attitudes so natural and momentary that, looking, we can scarcely believe that they{324} do not move: where a woman has already made up her mind to take a step forward, but has just not taken it; where she is in act of throwing the knuckle-bones, but has yet not thrown them; where a boy has determined to push back his chiton (for the day is hot), but has just not made the movement. you cannot hope to understand the greek genius, unless you realize that our eyes are snails as compared with theirs. they saw with the naked eye what our instantaneous photograph now tells us is the case.

and of their paintings! we have none left (and there’s the pity of it) which even reflect the greek master at his best. but corresponding to our english paintings on china, we have the greek vases of the fourth and fifth centuries. they were made by journeymen in potters’ shops, but there is not one that lacks the supremacy of knowledge and observation. it is as if a china-shop in the seven dials suddenly displayed in its window examples of the nude figure which showed a perfect knowledge not only of anatomy, but of the romance of movement. the sculptors and painters of greece saw perfectly. even our academicians{325} themselves appear to us to be not flawless. but in greece we are not dealing with these great lords of colour and drawing: we deal only, as far as drawing goes, with little people in back streets. the noble church of st. paul in the city of london, which so few people visit, was lately decorated. at this moment i look on a sketch of a fragment of pottery.... it is by one like whom there were thousands. it happens to be perfect in draughtsmanship.

to think of one day in ancient athens! in the morning i went up (i feel as if i must have done this) to see the new statue of athene promachos, which pheidias had just finished. we knew little then about his work, except that he had been chosen to decorate the parthenon, and those who had seen his sketches for the frieze (which we can see now in the british museum) said that they were ‘not bad.’ so after breakfast my friend and i strolled towards the acropolis, talking, as athenians talked, of ‘some new thing’—in fact, we talked of several new things, and, being athenians, we got quite hot about them, since we had (being athenians) that keenness of soul that never says ‘i do{326}n’t care about that,’ or ‘i take no interest in this.’ everything was intensely interesting. it was a hot morning, and the plane-trees by the ilyssus looked attractive, and there was a company of people there whose talk might be stimulating, but to-day we were too busy: we had to see the athene promachos, a bronze statue by pheidias, forty feet high, and after lunch (lunch was going to be rather grand, because a new play was coming out, and pericles was going to be there, and perhaps aspasia) we were going to ?schylus’s new tragedy, called the ‘agamemnon.’ and my friend, who was alcibiades, was giving a supper-party in the evening. socrates was coming, and a man who was really very pleasant, only he listened and made notes, but seldom talked. his name was plato.

alcibiades was rather profane sometimes, and spoke of the great gods as if he did not really believe in them. i, knowing him so well, knew that he did, and that it was only his puck-like spirit which made him in talk make light of what he believed. all up the steps of the propyl?a he was, though amusing, rather profane, and then we came through the central{327} gate, which was yet unfinished, and straight in front of us was the statue. and some jest—i know not what—died on my friend’s lips, and his great grey eyes suddenly became dim with tears at the sight of beauty, and his mouth quivered as he said:

‘mighty lady athene, my goddess!’

and with that he knelt down on the rock in front of where she stood, and prayed to the wisdom of god.

he refused to go to the grand lunch after this, and insisted on our remaining up here till it was time to get to the theatre, quoting something that socrates had said about the cleansing power of beauty; ‘so we will not soil ourselves just yet,’ quoth he, ‘with the intrigues we should hear about at lunch, but go straight from here to the theatre.’ so we bought from a peasant some cheese wrapped up in a vine-leaf, and a bottle of wine, and a loaf of bread and some grapes, and then went down the rock to the theatre. and still that divine vision had possession of alcibiades, for he paid no attention to the greeting of his friends, and bade them be silent. and soon{328} the actors were come, and the watchman went up to the tower, and looked east, and saw the beacons leap across the land, to show that the ten-year siege was over, and that troy had fallen. then slowly began to be unfolded the tale of the stupendous tragedy. home came agamemnon, with his captive, the princess cassandra, riding behind him in his chariot of triumph. clytemnestra, his wife, met him at the palace door, and with feigned obeisance and lying words of love welcomed him in, leaving cassandra outside. then there descended on the princess the spirit of prophecy, and in wild words she shrieked out the doom that was coming. quickly it came: from within we heard the death-cry of the king, and the palace doors swung open, and out came the queen, fondling the axe with which she had slain him.... the doom of the gods was accomplished.

then afterwards we went round to the green-room, and found ?schylus there, and alcibiades, in his impulsive way—i tell him he has the feelings of a woman—must kneel and kiss the hand that wrote this wonderful play. socrates{329} was there, too, putting absurd questions to everybody about the difference between the muse of tragedy and the muse of comedy; as if anybody cared, so long as ?schylus wrote plays like that! however, he got plato to listen to him, and soon made him contradict himself, which is what socrates chiefly cares about. pericles came in, too, with aspasia, to whom he kindly introduced me. certainly she is extraordinarily beautiful, and has great wit. but she called attention to her physical charms too much, which is silly, since they are quite capable of calling attention to themselves.

afterwards, since only alcibiades and i had seen the wonderful statue, we all strolled up to the acropolis again to look at it and the sunset. socrates came, too, and after we had examined and admired the bronze goddess again, we went and sat on the steps of the temple of athene. he tried his usual game of asking us questions till we contradicted ourselves, but before long all of us refused to answer him any more, saying that we were aware that we were totally ignorant of everything, and that there was{330} no longer any need for him to prove it to us. and then—exactly how it arose i don’t know, but i think it was from the questions and answers that had already passed—he began to weave us the most wonderful fable, showing us how all that we thought beautiful here on earth was but the reflection, the pale copy, of the beauty which was eternal. round the outer rim of the earth and the stars, he said, ran the living stream of a great river, which, indeed, was heaven, and everything that we thought beautiful here had its archetype there, and all day and all night the gods drove round and round on this river of beauty in their chariots. it was our business, then, here on earth, to look for beauty everywhere, and never falter in the quest of it, for so we prepared ourselves for the sight of that of which these things were but the shadow, so that the greater would be the initiation which would be ours after death. more especially we must seek for the beauty of spiritual things, which was the real beauty, and so order our bodies, our words, and actions, that they were all in tune with it, with the beauty of prudence, and temperance,{331} and kindness, and wisdom, for it was of these that heaven itself and the living stream was composed, and these shone from the eyes of the immortal gods.

‘so there is my prayer,’ said he, rising and stretching out his hands to the great statue, while we all rose with him. ‘o athene, give me inward beauty of soul, and let the inward and the outward man be at one.’

so the sun set, but on the violet crown of athens—the hills there, hymettus, pentelicus, and parnes—the light still lingered, and shone like the river of beauty socrates had told us about, till it faded also from the tops, and above the deep night was starry-kirtled.

helen is the most delightful person in the world to tell stories to. however lamely you tell them, she is absorbed in them, and never asks about the weak points, as other children do. she might, for instance, have asked if i was correct about my dates; did the ‘agamemnon’ come out in the year that the ‘promachos’ was made? instead——

‘and who was i?’ she asked. ‘don’t tell{332} me i was aspasia, because i don’t like what you told me about her.’

‘no; you were not aspasia,’ i said rather hurriedly; ‘and i rather think you had had your turn in greece at some other time. i didn’t know you then, except, perhaps, in the myths, for i am not sure that you were not electra.’

‘was she nice?’ asked helen.

‘she was very nice to orestes.’

‘oh, don’t! who was orestes? what a nice name!’

‘you were his sister. that’s all about mythology just now.’

the plain quivered under the sunlit haze of blue. to the south the dim sea was in tone like two skies poured together, and the isles of greece floated in it like swimmers asleep. below, to the left, lay the theatre where i had seen the ‘agamemnon,’ empty, but ready as if the play was just going to begin. who knew what ghosts of those supreme actors were there, what audience of the bright-eyed greeks followed the drama? and above us stood the{333} presiding genius of athens, the beautiful house built for the virgin who sprang from the brain of god. a little more, and it would be her birthday again, and we should hear the sound of horse-hoofs coming up the hill, and see the procession of the athenian youths, and the men with the bulls for sacrifice, and the wine-carriers, and the incense-bearer, and the priests of the great goddess. another company would be there, too—the hierarchy of olympus—come down on athene’s birthday to visit her in her beautiful home. with zeus would be the mother of the gods; and aphrodite would be there, the spirit of love that renews the earth; and apollo, who makes it bright with sunshine; and demeter, the mother of the cornfields; and persephone, radiant, and returned from the gate of death; and hermes, the swift messenger whose feet were winged; and iris, who was rainbow, the sign of the beneficent seasons.

and ... though we saw them not, there was not one missing. love was here, and below were the ripening cornfields, on which the sun shone; and beyond was the realm of{334} poseidon, and a squall of spring rain, that passed like a curtain in front of hymettus, showed us iris.

then it was time to go down townwards again, for the morning was passed; but helen paused at the doorway at the gate of the acropolis, and looked towards the temple.

‘best of all, i like socrates’ prayer,’ she said; ‘and i must say it to myself.’

spring had been rather late this year, and a week ago, when we drove out to the foot of pentelicus, to have a country ramble, the rubbish of last year’s autumn was still in evidence. then the spring began to stir, and two days ago, when we had gone out again, all the anemones except one kind were in full flower. they are heralds, those mauve and violet and pink and white chalices of blossom, to tell us that the great procession of primavera has begun. but last of all come the trumpeters, the scarlet anemones, and if the sun has been warm, and no north wind has delayed the procession, they blow their blasts over the land just two days after the heralds have appeared.{335} so to-day after lunch we went out to hear the trumpeters; to-morrow we shall see primavera herself.

spring herself, the goddess primavera, was very near to-day, for on thicket and brake and over the flank of the hill-side her trumpeters were blowing their shrill blasts of scarlet. two days before, the land was sober-coloured; now, wherever you looked, the wonderful anemone, last to flower, stood high with full-blown petals. the movement and stir of the new life was hurrying to its climax. to-morrow, instead of the myriad buds of the cistus and the pale stalks of orchid, the flowers would be unfurled at the final touch of the spring, at the advent of the goddess herself. to-day a myriad folded bells hung from the great bushes of southern heath, like stars still cloaked in mist; to-morrow, with one night more of warm wind and a morning of sun, they would blaze and peal together; for it is thus in this wonderful southern land that spring comes: a few heralds go before, and then the army of trumpeters. after this, she crosses the plain with the ardour of hot blood, so that{336} all flowers blossom together, and every bud and beast goes suddenly a-mating. here there is none of our limitative february, our pinched hopes of march; all is quiet till the heralding of the anemones and the trumpets of their scarlet brethren. then, in full panoply of blossom, primavera and summer, too, are there together. for a week or two the land is aflame with flower, and then already the maturing of fruit-trees has begun.

northerners though we are, both helen and i claimed some strain of southern blood in the ecstasy of those days. that for which we wait and watch for patient weeks in the shy approach of spring in england was here done with a flame and a shout. there was no hesitancy or delay; no weak snowdrop said that winter was coming to an end weeks before spring came, to die before the crocuses endorsed its message. here all was asleep together till all woke together. ten days ago there was no hint of spring save in the strong sunshine: the wilderness of winter still spread its icy hands. then faster than the melting of the snow on the top of parnes{337} came the heralds in the wilderness, and spring was there. it was like the winter of kundry’s soul, to whom one morning gurnemanz said: ‘auf! der winter floh, und lenz ist da.’ and on that day came parsifal and her redemption, and the ransomed of the lord returned with joy and singing.

i have no skill to tell of those days: for the past, all that i knew of the history of this wonderful land, and the present, all that love meant, and the future, the dear event that was coming closer, were so inextricably mingled that no coherence is possible. but if you love a place, and are there with your beloved, and know that she will bear a child to you before many weeks are over, you may make a paradise of clapham junction, and find the joy of it a thing incommunicable. and how much more difficult a material is the magic of this land to work in—this little attic plain, peopled with the ghosts of that wonderful age, which are not dead at all, but instinct with life to-day, at this moment when spring has come, so forcibly that even the slow tortoises on the side of pentelicus hurried{338} breathlessly about, with deep sighs (i assure you) till they found a congenial lady. then they ran—positively ran—round her in ever-narrowing circles, still sighing. there were grasshoppers, too—green gentlemen and brown ladies. the brown ladies genteelly ran away, but they never ran far. the great hawks sought each other in the sublime sky, and the young men and maidens of athens as we drove back were taking discreet walks together into the country. and from the acropolis the maiden goddess, who is the wisdom of god, looked down, and was well pleased.

for, thank heaven! the wisdom of god in no prude. to all has it given a soul, and to all souls is desire of some sort given—to one the perfection of form, to another the perfection of wit, to another the perfection of colour, to another the perfection of truth. for each there is a way; each has got to follow it; and for many there are various ways, and these many must follow them all. if a thing is lovely and of good report, we all have to hunt it home. it is no excuse to say you have no time, for you{339} have all the time there is. search, search: there is the way everywhere.

indeed, this is no mystical affair: it is the plainest sense. whatever happens, god is somehow revealed. but, being blind, we cannot always see the revelation.

to-night, as helen and i sit on deck of the steamer that takes us back again to marseilles, we wonder what gives greece its inalienable magic. we saw the fading of its shores in the dusk, and though the phosphorescence of the sea was a thing to marvel at, it was no longer the phosphorescence of greek waters. that little fig-leaf-fingered land has sentiment somehow in its soil; it cannot fail to move anybody. its history since the great age—it is no use to deny it—has been tawdry beyond description. it yielded to the romans, it scarcely resisted the albanians; and though some flickering spirit of its old grandeur flamed again when its people rose against the turkish rule in the early part of last century, what are we to say of the spirit of the people when, twelve{340} years ago, they again fought their ancient and ancestral enemy? the turks strolled slowly southwards from the north of thessaly, and only the intervention of the powers prevented greece again becoming a turkish province. the hellenic battle-cry went shrilly up to heaven, but the hellenic army trotted like a flock of sheep before the foe, until the powers said that the war must cease. only the year before there had been revival of the olympic games, and there had been a race from marathon to athens in memory of pheidippides, who bore the news of that stupendous victory, and died as he reached athens, saying, ‘greece has conquered the persians.’ a greek won that peaceful race from marathon; the same greek won the peaceful race home, and arrived back in attica in the very van and forefront of the retreating army. the ‘host of hares’ was the turkish name for the foes they never had occasion to meet, who started from their fortresses like hares from their forms, and galloped quietly away. meantime the greek fleet cruised in the adriatic, and sank a fishing-boat. when{341} the war was over, they came home with the spoils of their victory—a hat, a fish, a net. perhaps it is best to say that there was no war at all: the turkish armies made peaceful man?uvres over thessaly, until they came to volo. then the powers of europe said: ‘we think your man?uvres have extended far enough: kindly go home.’

yet, somehow, the tragic futility of all this does not really touch greece or the sentiment that the lovers of the lovely land feel for it. supposing a greek army, or a regiment of it, had met the turk, and died in the cause of patriotism, that could not have added to the compelling charm of greece, and so the fact that none of these patriotic events happened does not diminish it. in greece, whatever may be done or left undone, you are in the country where once beauty shot up like the aloe-flower, so that all else is inconsiderable beside that, since whatever the world has achieved afterwards, whether in painting, or sculpture, or drama, or poetry, or in that eagerness of life which is the true romance of existence, is{342} measured, if only it be fine enough, by the standard set then. that is the haunting, imperishable charm of this country, and, missing that, even the phosphorescence of waters by night, divided by the swift keel of the lonely ship, was for a time a soulless firework.

the magic of it—the magic of it!

thereafter we staggered across the adriatic, over the ridge and furrow of a grey and unquiet sea, till we found quiet below the heel of italy. soon to the south-west the horizon lay in skeins of smoke, and it was not for hours afterward that the cone of etna, uprearing itself, showed whence the trouble came. narrower grew the straits, till we passed out beside messina, and for the pillar of smoke which etna had raised all day we sighted stromboli, a pillar of fire by night. next morning we were in the narrows between corsica and sardinia, and saw the little villages, tiny and toy-like, in the island whence sprang the brain that was to light all europe with the devouring flame of its burning. if the dead return, i think it is not in elba of st.{343} helena, nor even in the pomp of paris, nor on the battle-field, that we must guess that napoleon wanders. he sees the impotence of his destructive and untiring genius. the lines of his new map of europe have been gently defaced again by time, and he sits quiet enough by the little house, where still the descendants of his old nurse dwell, and sees the innocent campaigning of her grandchildren in their childish games. and when the time comes for unflinching justice to be done to that unflinching spirit, who spared none, nor had pity so long as by any sacrifice the realization of his ruthless imaginings came true, will not the spirit of his old nurse stand advocate, and remind justice that, even in the midst of his gigantic schemes, he remembered her who had given him suck, and provided for her maintenance? somewhere in that iron soul was the soft touch of childish days: he was kind who was so terrible, and that pen so unfacile and so bungling that he hated to write at all put a little paragraph of scarcely decipherable words to his will that showed {344}(what would otherwise have been incredible) how a certain gentleness of heart underlay the iron.

though all these sights—the chimney of etna, the furnace of stromboli, the island of napoleon—were but milestones, passed before, to show us now how far we were travelling from the magic land, yet each brought us nearer in time and space to the magic of home, and of the day, yet unnamed, which must already, like some peak of an unknown range, be beginning to rear itself up in the foreground of the future.

then, as the magnet of greece grew more remote, the magnet of home gained potentiality, until there was no question which was the stronger. we had intended—that is to say, more than half intended—to stay a day or two in paris; instead, we fled through paris as if it had been a spot plague-ridden, meaning to pass the night in london. but even as we scurried from gare de lyon to gare du nord, so, too, we scurried from victoria to waterloo, with intention now fully declared to get down to the dear home without pause. as far as i remember, we sustained life on{345} thick brown tea and a sahara of currant-cake; but at the end there was the snorting motor waiting at the station, and a mile of sleeping streets, cheered by the vision of mr. holmes going somewhere in a neat inverness cape and buttoned boots, a mile of spring-scented country road, and then the little house, discreet behind its shrubbery, where was the rose-garden, among other things, and among other things the nursery.

the night was very warm, and lit by the full moon of april, so, after we had dined, and run like two children from room to room in the house, first to greet all the precious things of home, with fifi, like an animated corkscrew, performing prodigies of circular locomotion round us, we found that there was still a large part of home to greet, and so went out into the garden, to see what april had brought forth there. no sudden riot or conflagration of leaf and flower, like that which we had seen blaze over the lower slopes of pentelicus, was there, but april day by day had done his gentle work, so that where we had left a bed still winter-naked{346} it was now mapped out into the claims of the plants. to-morrow there would be disputes to be settled, for the day-lily had pegged out more than her share, and between her and the iris a delphinium would be crowded out of existence. but every plant—such is our rule—may claim all the ground it can get until the end of april; then come round the judges of the court of appeal, and if any plant distinctly says, ‘i have not room to grow, because of these encroachers,’ his appeal, if he promises at all well, is usually upheld, and the encroacher is shorn of his unreasonable encroachments. even by the moonlight it was quite certain that the court of appeal had a heavy day in front of it: there were lawsuits regarding land to settle, which would require most careful adjustment, for the court hates depriving a rightful possessor of that which his vigor has appropriated. on the other hand, the slender aristocracy of the bed (for the aristocrat grows upwards rather than sideways) must not be elbowed out of existence. one plant only is allowed to do exactly what it pleases and when it pleases{347}—the pansy, which is ‘for thoughts’ that are always sweet, and so may roam unchecked and welcome, for who would set limits to the wanderings of so kindly and humble a soul? it but touches the ground, too (to be absolutely honest, i must confess that this has something to do with the liberties we give it), as a moth still hovering and on the wing draws from the flower the sustenance it needs. it does not, so to speak, sit down to make a square meal, or burrow with searching roots deep into the earth, and drain it of all its treasure, but it is ever on the move, like some bright-eyed beggar-girl, to whom none but the churlish would grudge the wayside halfpenny. she will not linger and settle and sponge on your bounty, but be off again elsewhere next moment, just turning to you a smiling face, and whispering a murmured thanks in the bright language of flowers. so she is privileged to wander even in the sacred territory of the roses, where i hope she has already wandered wide. there, however, we did not penetrate to-night, for it and the meadow we kept for the morrow. but on the top margin{348} of the field against the sky i saw shapes that were unmistakable. to-morrow our hearts will go dancing with the daffodils.

but to-night we are content with the thoughts that the pansies have given us, and can even forgive milton for speaking of them as ‘freaked with jet.’ freaked with jet!—when ophelia had said that they were ‘for thoughts’! but, then, milton speaks of the ‘well-attired woodbine,’ which is almost as bad. imagine looking at pansies, and finding it incumbent on one to say: ‘i perceive they are freaked with jet’! but, as one who had the highest appreciation of milton remarked, to appreciate milton is the reward of consummate scholarship, which was certainly a very pleasant reflection for himself, and perhaps if i were a better scholar i should think with appreciation of the pansy ‘freaked with jet.’ as it is, i merely conclude that milton was flower-blind—a sad affliction.

helen is absolutely ultra-japanese in her observance of the flower-festivals, of which she marks some dozen of red-letter days in{349} the year. they cannot, of course, be celebrated on any fixed day, since, owing to the vagaries of climate, there might not be a single lily to be seen, for instance, this year on the actual day which was lily-day a year ago. she waits instead, like the japanese, until the particular flower is in the zenith of its blossoming, and then proclaims the festival. other flowers, naturally, sometimes are at their best on the red-letter day of another, but this, as she observes, is canonically correct, since st. simon and st. jude, and st. philip and st. james, are celebrated together. i was not, therefore, the least surprised next morning, when, after a short excursion to the garden, she came in to breakfast, saying:

‘it is daffodil-day, and the day of its sisters of the spring.’

‘but we had the sisters of the spring in greece,’ said i.

‘yes; that is the advantage of going to greece: the greek calendar is different to ours. we had easter day before we started, and another easter day when we got there. besides, it was anemone-day, and the day of{350} its sisters of the spring. the anemone’s sisters were not the same as the daffodil’s.’

this was convincing (even if i needed conviction, which i did not), and daffodil-day it was.

after the early heats of february the year had had a long set-back in march, and though april was nearly over, i doubt whether there had been any more gorgeous decoration in our absence than that which we found waiting this morning in the church of the daffodils and its sisters of the spring. it was not in vain that we had dug and delved last autumn with such strenuous patience, for that half-acre of field beside the rose-garden was a thing to make the blind see. a rainbow of blossom lay over it all: the early tulips had opened their great chalices of gold and damask; the blue mist of forget-me-nots seemed as if a piece of the sky had fallen, and lay mutely under the trees; brown-speckled fritillaries crouched shyly in the grass, and their white-belled sister nestled beside them; narcissus was there, all yellow, and narcissus with the eye of the pheasant; primroses still lingered, waiting for{351} helen’s proclamation to take part in the festival; while some bluebells had hurried to be here in time; crocuses in the grass were like the dancing of the sun on green waters, or purple as the deep-sea caves; and anemones, greedy for more festivals, had hurried overland from greece to be here before us; and clumps of iris were like banners carried in procession. these were the sisters of the spring. it was their day; but first it was daffodil-day. slender and single, tall and yellow, it was as if through the web of them, the golden net that they had laid over the field, that you perceived their sisters. and the sun shone on them, and the great blue sky was over them, and the warm wind made them dance together.

after a long time, helen spoke.

‘oh, oh!’ she said.

that about expressed it.

‘my heart with pleasure fills,’ she added.