It was so embedded in foliage as to be hardly discernible from the
gate--a little square stone building, and stone-tiled. There had never
been a time when I was not familiar with it--its cold chimneys, its
abandoned little rooms, the growth, and development, and flight, and
renewal of the myriad insect life with which it swarmed. The dank
brooding little place had always had a curious attraction for me; and
now it was my own, my retreat, whose stagnant solitudes I could use to
whatever processes of thought and reflection they might inspire. They
surged formlessly in me the first time I stood to claim and regard my
acquisition. The place had been cleaned, ordered, furnished, of
course. All my scant belongings lay heaped within disorderly. But,
beyond necessary clearances, I had insisted that its green
surroundings should be respected. No ruthless loppings had disgraced
my advent. The lodge remained the undesecrated shrine to this haunt of
leaf-loving spirits--an old, old moss-grown temple to the eternal
antiquity of Nature.
The fantastic note which speaks in me here I felt throbbing in my
veins, soft but enchaining, from my first possession of the place. It
was to speak strange things to me before it was done. Already it was a
call, but at first far and faint, to a green resolution of
independence. At the outset I had no thought but to spend my days
here, as a good Catholic goes into retreat, and to return dutifully to
the house at night, like any other homing cattle. But that purpose
came early to dissolve. The arrival of the little stranger--which
happened in the second week of my self-exile--banished all thought and
consideration of me from the central _ménage_. I came to my resolve
instantly, procured a camp bedstead, food, drink, and cooking utensils
from Footover, and settled permanently into my hermitage. No one
observed or protested. My heart was justified of its utmost
bitterness, my will of its emancipation. Henceforth I would possess
myself--no profitable acquirement for one in my then condition of
mind.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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