Wherever a man is, there will be a lie.
TOILS AND PLEASURES
I must try to convey some notion of our life, of how the days
passed and what pleasure we took in them, of what there was to do
and how we set about doing it, in our mountain hermitage. The
house, after we had repaired the worst of the damages, and filled
in some of the doors and windows with white cotton cloth, became a
healthy and a pleasant dwelling-place, always airy and dry, and
haunted by the outdoor perfumes of the glen. Within, it had the
look of habitation, the human look. You had only to go into the
third room, which we did not use, and see its stones, its sifting
earth, its tumbled litter; and then return to our lodging, with the
beds made, the plates on the rack, the pail of bright water behind
the door, the stove crackling in a corner, and perhaps the table
roughly laid against a meal,--and man's order, the little clean
spots that he creates to dwell in, were at once contrasted with the
rich passivity of nature. And yet our house was everywhere so
wrecked and shattered, the air came and went so freely, the sun
found so many portholes, the golden outdoor glow shone in so many
open chinks, that we enjoyed, at the same time, some of the
comforts of a roof and much of the gaiety and brightness of al
fresco life. A single shower of rain, to be sure, and we should
have been drowned out like mice.
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