CHAPTER THE SECOND
Madame Pratolungo makes a Voyage on Land
A WELL-FED boy, with yellow Saxon hair; a little shabby green chaise; anda rough brown pony--these objects confronted me at the Lewes Station. Isaid to the boy, "Are you Reverend Finch's servant?" And the boyanswered, "I be he."
We drove through the town--a hilly town of desolate clean houses. Noliving creatures visible behind the jealously-shut windows. No livingcreatures entering or departing through the sad-colored closed doors. Notheater; no place of amusement except an empty town-hall, with a sadpoliceman meditating on its spruce white steps. No customers in theshops, and nobody to serve them behind the counter, even if they hadturned up. Here and there on the pavements, an inhabitant with a capacityfor staring, and (apparently) a capacity for nothing else. I said toReverend Finch's boy, "Is this a rich place?" Reverend Finch's boybrightened and answered, "That it be!" Good. At any rate, they don'tenjoy themselves here--the infamous rich!
Leaving this town of unamused citizens immured in domestic tombs, we goton a fine high road--still ascending--with a spacious open country oneither side of it.
A spacious open country is a country soon exhausted by a sight-seer'seye. I have learnt from my poor Pratolungo the habit of searching for thepolitical convictions of my fellow-creatures, when I find myself incontact with them in strange places. Having nothing else to do, Isearched Finch's boy. His political programme, I found to be:--As muchmeat and beer as I can contain; and as little work to do for it aspossible. In return for this, to touch my hat when I meet the Squire, andto be content with the station to which it has pleased God to call me.Miserable Finch's boy!
We reached the highest point of the road. On our right hand, the groundsloped away gently into a fertile valley--with a village and a church init; and beyond, an abominable privileged enclosure of grass and treestorn from the community by a tyrant, and called a Park; with the palacein which this enemy of mankind caroused and fattened, standing in themidst. On our left hand, spread the open country--a magnificent prospectof grand grassy hills, rolling away to the horizon; bounded only by thesky. To my surprise, Finch's boy descended; took the pony by the head;and deliberately led him off the high road, and on to the wilderness ofgrassy hills, on which not so much as a footpath was discernibleanywhere, far or near. The chaise began to heave and roll like a ship onthe sea. It became necessary to hold with both hands to keep my place. Ithought first of my luggage--then of myself.
"How much is there of this?" I asked.
"Three mile on't," answered Finch's boy.
I insisted on stopping the ship--I mean the chaise--and on getting out.We tied my luggage fast with a rope; and then we went on again, the boyat the pony's head, and I after them on foot.
Ah, what a walk it was! What air over my head; what grass under my feet!The sweetness of the inner land, and the crisp saltness of the distantsea, were mixed in that delicious breeze. The short turf, fragrant withodorous herbs, rose and fell elastic, underfoot. The mountain-piles ofwhite cloud moved in sublime procession along the blue field of heaven,overhead. The wild growth of prickly bushes, spread in great patches overthe grass, was in a glory of yellow bloom. On we went; now up, now down;now bending to the right, and now turning to the left. I looked about me.No house; no road; no paths, fences, hedges, walls; no land-marks of anysort. All round us, turn which way we might, nothing was to be seen butthe majestic solitude of the hills. No living creatures appeared but thewhite dots of sheep scattered over the soft green distance, and theskylark singing his hymn of happiness, a speck above my head. Truly awonderful place! Distant not more than a morning's drive from noisy andpopulous Brighton--a stranger to this neighborhood could only have foundhis way by the compass, exactly as if he had been sailing on the sea! Thefarther we penetrated on our land-voyage, the more wild and the morebeautiful the solitary landscape grew. The boy picked his way as hechose--there were no barriers here. Plodding behind, I saw nothing, atone time, but the back of the chaise, tilted up in the air, both boy andpony being invisibly buried in the steep descent of the hill. At othertimes, the pitch was all the contrary way; the whole interior of theascending chaise was disclosed to my view, and above the chaise the pony,and above the pony the boy--and, ah, my luggage swaying and rocking inthe frail embraces of the rope that held it. Twenty times did Iconfidently expect to see baggage, chaise, pony, boy, all rolling downinto the bottom of a valley together. But no! Not the least littleaccident happened to spoil my enjoyment of the day. Politicallycontemptible, Finch's boy had his merit--he was master of his subject asguide and pony-leader among the South Down Hills.
Arrived at the top of (as it seemed to me) our fiftieth grassy summit, Ibegan to look about for signs of the village.
Behind me, rolled back the long undulations of the hills, with thecloud-shadows moving over the solitudes that we had left. Before me, at abreak in the purple distance, I saw the soft white line of the sea.Beneath me, at my feet, opened the deepest valley I had noticed yet--withone first sign of the presence of Man scored hideously on the face ofNature, in the shape of a square brown patch of cleared and ploughed landon the grassy slope. I asked if we were getting near the village now.Finch's boy winked, and answered, "Yes, we be."
Astonishing Finch's boy! Ask him what questions I might, the resources ofhis vocabulary remained invariably the same. Still this youthful Oracleanswered always in three monosyllabic words!
We plunged into the valley.
Arrived at the bottom, I discovered another sign of Man. Behold the firstroad I had seen yet--a rough wagon-road ploughed deep in the chalky soil!We crossed this, and turned a corner of a hill. More signs of human life.Two small boys started up out of a ditch--apparently posted as scouts togive notice of our approach. They yelled, and set off running before us,by some short cut, known only to themselves. We turned again, roundanother winding of the valley, and crossed a brook. I considered it myduty to make myself acquainted with the local names. What was the brookcalled? It was called "The Cockshoot"! And the great hill, here, on myright? It was called "The Overblow"! Five minutes more, and we saw ourfirst house--lonely and little--built of mortar and flint from the hills.A name to this also? Certainly. Name of "Browndown." Another ten minutesof walking, involving us more and more deeply in the mysterious greenwindings of the valley--and the great event of the day happened at last.Finch's boy pointed before him with his whip, and said (even at thissupreme moment, still in three monosyllabic words):--
"Here we be!"
So this is Dimchurch! I shake out the chalk-dust from the skirts of mydress. I long (quite vainly) for the least bit of looking-glass to seemyself in. Here is the population (to the number of at least five orsix), gathered together, informed by the scouts--and it is my woman'sbusiness to produce the best impression of myself that I can. We advancealong the little road. I smile upon the population. The population staresat me in return. On one side, I remark three or four cottages, and a bitof open ground; also an inn named "The Cross-Hands," and a bit more ofopen ground; also a tiny, tiny butcher's shop, with sanguinary insides ofsheep on one blue pie-dish in the window, and no other meat than that,and nothing to see beyond, but again the open ground, and again thehills; indicating the end of the village this side. On the other sidethere appears, for some distance, nothing but a long flint wall guardingthe outhouses of a farm. Beyond this, comes another little group ofcottages, with the seal of civilization set on them, in the form of apost-office. The post-office deals in general commodities--in boots andbacon, biscuits and flannel, crinoline petticoats and religious tracts.Farther on, behold another flint wall, a garden, and a privatedwelling-house; proclaiming itself as the rectory. Farther yet, on risingground, a little desolate church, with a tiny white circular steeple,topped by an extinguisher in red tiles. Beyond this, the hills and theheavens once more. And there is Dimchurch!
As for the inhabitants--what am I to say? I suppose I must tell thetruth.
I remarked one born gentleman among th
e inhabitants, and he was asheep-dog. He alone did the honors of the place. He had a stump of atail, which he wagged at me with extreme difficulty, and a good honestwhite and black face which he poked companionably into my hand. "Welcome,Madame Pratolungo, to Dimchurch; and excuse these male and femalelaborers who stand and stare at you. The good God who makes us all hasmade them too, but has not succeeded so well as with you and me." Ihappen to be one of the few people who can read dogs' language as writtenin dogs' faces. I correctly report the language of the gentlemansheep-dog on this occasion.
We opened the gate of the rectory, and passed in. So my Land-Voyage overthe South Down Hills came prosperously to its end.