for money at the time. Woolcombe was never so glorious a place as Simmon’s Lea, but I like it very well – surprising numbers of partridge and woodcock in the season – and when I saw it all cleared, flattened, drained, fenced and exploited to the last half-bushel of wheat, with many of the small encroachments ploughed up and the cottages destroyed, and the remaining commoners, with half of their living and all their joy quite gone, reduced to anxious cap-inhand casual labourers, it hurt my heart, Stephen, I do assure you. I was brought up rough when I was a little chap, after my mother’s death, sometimes at the village school, sometimes running wild; and I knew these men intimately as boys, and now to see them at the mercy of landlords, farmers, and God help us parish officers for poor relief, hurts me so that I can scarcely bring myself to go there again. And I am determined the same thing shall not happen to Simmon’s Lea, if ever I can prevent it. The old ways had disadvantages, of course, but here – and I speak only of what I know – it was a human life, and the people knew its ways and customs through and through.’
‘I am of your way of thinking entirely, my dear,’ said Stephen. He had rarely seen Jack so deeply moved and he said nothing for a furlong, when Jack cried, ‘There he is! There is your wariangle! Harding showed him to George only yesterday. I hoped we should see him.’
‘A very fine fowl indeed,’ said Stephen. ‘I have rarely seen so fine a specimen. Some people call him a butcher-bird. He has horrible ways. But who are we to be prating?’
The lane turned again, showing the house far to the left and another meadow – fine clover and grass – on the right, with a thatched shelter in the middle and a horse grazing by it in the company of a goat. He followed Jack’s gaze, cried, ‘Oh, oh,’ in an undertone, and then rather louder, ‘Lalla, Lalla, acuisle.’
Even before he called the mare had raised her head and brought her ears to bear, her nostrils flaring: now she moved towards them, and as surmises became certainty she whinnied, broke into a fine canter and cleared the rail as neatly as a deer, wheeled to Stephen’s side, blew upon him and put her head firmly on his shoulder, her face against his cheek, uttering a quick little panting whimper. The goat stood staring from the shelter. They all walked slowly towards the house, Lalla keeping close to Stephen’s side and looking into his face from time to time. She was one of a stud of Arabians that Diana had formed and then dispersed during one of Stephen’s interminable absences at sea, and she was the only one he had been able to recover, the most affectionate and intelligent horse he had known.
‘I did not know you had her here,’ he said.
‘Why, yes,’ said Jack. ‘We have let Ashgrove, as I think I told you; and Admiral Rodham, though a capital seaman, can be guaranteed to spoil a horse’s mouth and temper in a month, or even less.’ Then feeling that something more was due to so intimate a friend, he went on, ‘We left soon after the first case was decided against me. I live at free quarters here of course, with a good deal in the way of victuals coming from the farm, while the
Admiral pays a handsome rent, and his retinue looks after the garden. An admiral has a pretty numerous retinue, Stephen.’
‘I am sure of it,’ said Stephen, who was acquainted with admirals’ views on the number of servants required to keep up the dignities of a flag, but who at the same time wondered about the probable effects of the retinue’s zeal. ‘Come, Lalla, my dear, do not slobber, I beg.’ The little mare, nuzzling his collar, was making an already shabby coat unwearable.
She looked at him affectionately, and then suddenly away, right aft, her ears erect. It was her usual companion, the nameless goat, an unclaimed stray from some remote village, mincing delicately along behind them, distrustful of the men and the dog. Lalla whinnied again, encouraging her, and they all walked along together, larks rising on either hand.
‘May I revert to the sharing of the common?’ asked Stephen. ‘Surely the commoners have compensation for the loss of their rights?’
‘In theory they do,’ said Jack, ‘and where the com
missioners have any bowels of compassion they do in fact get something – almost invariably if they can produce legal proof of their claim. In that case they are given an allotment in freehold. With a fair-sized common like this a man with two shares might get as much as say three quarters of an acre by his cottage. Yet three quarters of an acre will not keep a cow, half a dozen sheep and a small flock of geese, whereas the free range of a common will. But an allotment as good as that is rare; quite often the land is in several pieces, sometimes far apart, and there may well be a provision in the act that each piece must be enclosed and sometimes drained. A poor man cannot afford it, so he sells his holding for five pounds or so, and then for the whole of his living he has to rely on wages, if he can get them – he is in the farmer’s hands.’
By the smell it was clear that the goat had joined them. ‘May I break off for a moment and tell you an anecdote of an Austrian medical man I knew in Catalonia?’
‘I should be happy to hear it,’ said Jack.
‘There was an English soldier, a Captain Smith, with me, and we were walking to the village to drink horchata when we met Dr von Liebig. I asked him to join us. Ordinarily he and I spoke Latin, his English being as indifferent as my German, but now Liebig had to use Smith’s language, and as he drank his horchata he told us that coming down the hill he met a ghost, a ghost with a beard. “A ghost in broad daylight?” cried Smith. “Yes. He was quite pale in the sun. A man was leading him with a string.” I wish I could convey something of the very beautiful contrast between Smith’s amazed solemnity, merging into deep suspicion, and Liebig’s cheerful face, casual tone and evident pleasure in his ice-cold drink.’
‘Ghost. Pale, bearded ghost: it must have been very rich indeed,’ said Jack with relish.
‘Did your soldier smoke it, in time?’
‘Never. Not until I told him, afterwards; and then he was angry. Jack, I beg pardon. This is the end of my parenthesis. Pray go back to your inclosure; a sad subject, I am afraid.’
‘Upon the whole, I think it is. There may be some good conscientious landowners who inclose, paying real attention to the commoners and making sure they are no worse off than they were – as far as that is possible. Men who appoint commissioners who have instructions not to take advantage of the cottagers’ ignorance, their lack of papers justifying their ancestors’ encroachments on the waste and the building of a cottage: men who do not put clauses in the bill insisting upon fencing, hedging, draining, paying part of the expense of the whole operation and that of fencing the tithe-owner’s piece. There may
be some such men, but Griffiths and his friends are not of that nature. They want all they can get and be damned to the means; and what they and the bigger farmers hate is the possibility of the labourers growing saucy, as they call it, asking for higher wages – for a wage that keeps up with the price of corn – refusing to work if they do not get it, and falling back on what they can wring from the common. No common, no sauciness.’
Here the lane grew so narrow that they were obliged to walk in file, Jack, Stephen, Lalla and the goat, and conversation languished. When at length they reached plough on the right hand and open pasture on the left Stephen said, ‘One of the advantages of life at sea, for men of our condition, is freedom of speech. In the cabin or on the balcony behind, we can say what we wish, when we wish. And if you come to reflect, this is a very rare state of affairs in ordinary circumstances, by land. There are almost always reasons for discretion – servants, loved ones, visitors, innocent but receptive ears or the possibility of their presence. In much the same way good sullen reading is rare in a house, unless one is blessed with an impregnable and sound-proof room of one’s own: interruptions, restless unnecessary movements, doors opening and closing, apologies, even whisperings, God forbid, and meal-times. For the right deep swimming in a book, give me the sea: I read Josephus through between Freetown and the Fastnet rock last voyage: the howling of the mariners, the motion of the sea and the elements (except perhaps in their utmost extremity) are nothing, compared