A Tramps Sketches | Page 7

me, once
I had lain down. But whether evil was connected with the house or no,
it was innocuous for me. Nothing happened; only the moon looked
through the open doorway; winds wandered among the broken rafters,
and far away owls shrieked.
Again, on the way to Otchemchiri I came upon a beautiful cottage in
the forest and went to ask hospitality, but found no one there. The front
door was bolted but the back door was open. I walked in and took a
seat. As there were red-hot embers in the fire some one had lately been
there, and would no doubt come back--so I thought. But no one came:
twilight grew to night in loneliness and I lay down on the long sleeping
bench and slept. It was like the house of the three bears but that there
was no hot porridge on the table. But no bears came; only next morning
I was confronted by a half-dressed savage, a veritable Caliban by
appearance but quite harmless, an idiot and deaf and dumb. I made
signs to him and he went out and brought in wood, and we remade the
fire together.
I have slept out in many places--in England, in the Caucasus where it
was amongst the most lawless people in Europe, in North Russian
forests where the bear is something to be reckoned with--but I have
never come to harm. The most glorious and wonderful nights I ever had
were almost sleepless ones, spent looking at the stars and tasting the
new sensations. Yet even in respect of rest it seems to me I have thriven

better out of doors. There is a real tranquillity on a mountain side after
the sun has gone down, and a silence, even though the crickets whistle
and owls cry, though the wind murmurs in the trees above or the waves
on the shore below. The noises in houses are often intolerable and one
has to wait all every noise in the house and in the street has died away.
It is marvellous how easily one recuperates in the open air. Even the
cold untires and refreshes. Then, even if one lies awake, the night
passes with extraordinary rapidity. It is always a marvel to me how
long the day seems by comparison with the night when I sleep out of
doors. A sleepless night in a house is an eternity, but it is only a brief
interlude under the stars. I believe the animal creation that sleeps in the
field is so in harmony with nature and so unself-conscious that night
does not seem more than a quarter of an hour and a little cloudy
weather. Perhaps the butterflies do not even realise that night endures;
darkness comes--they sleep; darkness flees--they wake again. I think
they have no dreams.
VII
It is peculiar, the tramp's feeling about night. When the sun goes down
he begins to have an awkward feeling, a sort of shame; he wants to hide
himself, to put his head somewhere out of sight. He finds his night
place, and even begins to fall asleep as he arranges it. He feels heavy,
dull. The thoughts that were bright and shapely by day become dark
and ill-proportioned like shadows. He tosses a while, and stares at the
stars. At last the stars stare at him; his eyes close; he sleeps. Three
hours pass--it is always a critical time, three hours after sunset; many
sleeping things stir at that time. His thoughts are bright for a moment,
but then fall heavy again. He wonders at the moon, and the moon
wonders. She is hunting on a dark mountain side.
The next sleep is a long one, a deep one, and ghosts may pass over the
sleeper, imps dance on his head, rats nibble at his provisions; he wakes
not. He is under a charm--nought of evil can affect him, for he has
prayed. Encompassed with dangers, the tramp always prays "Our
Father," and that he may be kept for the one who loves him. Prayers are
strong out of doors at night, for they are made at heaven's gate in the
presence of the stars.
An hour before dawn a new awakening. Oh dear, night not gone! The
tramp is vexed. The moon has finished her hunting, and is going out of

the night with her dark huntsmen; she passes through the gate. Peerless
hunter!
The sky is full of light, a sort of dull, paper-lantern light. In an hour it
will be morning. The side on which I have been lying is sore. I turn
over and reflect joyfully that when next I wake it will be day. Moths are
flitting in the dawn twilight: yes, in an hour it will be day.
Ah, ha, ha! The sleeper yawns