waiter and the cloakroom woman a half-crown apiece. His lunch had cost him something, after all. He was well satisfied, all the same. He glanced at his watch, and was surprised at the time. But then – as was remarked by a Shakespearean character whom he greatly admired – pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
8
The afternoon was fine, and he decided to take a turn in the mild London sunshine. His living quarters, as it happened, were not at the present time commodious, and spaciousness was in consequence a sensation that he had to seek en plein air . On this occasion he decided for St James’s Park. It had frequently – he remembered – proved particularly propitious for the smooth functioning of his intellectual faculties. He was inclined, indeed, to indulge the fancy that, at either end, its vistas closed at precisely the distance most congenial to what might be called the range of his own mind. Moreover the route thither was not without sundry associative and nostalgic charms. He would pass a club from which, through a misunderstanding, he had been obliged to resign some years before, but for which he preserved nevertheless (such was the refinement of his spirit) a benign and wholly unresentful regard. He would pass another club which – again because of a stupid misunderstanding – had a couple of years later simply refused to let him in. The incident saved him a certain amount of money that he hadn’t possessed. Finally he would cross the Mall. There, of course, Royalty might drive by – and Royalty so utterly royal that it would be proper to halt and turn respectfully roadwards as one swept off one’s hat. Mervyn Cheel, who was eminently well-affected to the Crown, could rely upon an encounter like this to make his day.
The Mall, in fact, was void. St James’s Park, on the other hand was crowded enough – and in the main with persons demonstrably from the simpler classes of society. Cheel found nothing disagreeable about this, since his social tolerance was such that the spectacle of his inferiors always held something gratifying to him. He did however draw the line at sharing a bench with a prole, and his fastidiousness for a time made it difficult to call a halt to his perambulation and seat himself in meditative ease. This, since he had a good deal to meditate, was vexatious, and he was glad when he did eventually find an unencumbered resting place. It was in full sunshine, and Buckingham Palace (always referred to by Cheel as Buck House) was cheerfully in view, with the Royal Standard flying above its roof. Cheel felt as pleased by this token of the sovereign presence as if it had been a private signal instructing him to drop in there for a drink.
But – he told himself – to work! His encounter with Hedda Holine had not – at least in any clearly analysable terms –brought him very much. Yet it had been abundantly worthwhile, since it had brought him that moment of cloudy but indubitable inspiration. How was he to clarify this? Not perhaps by taking, here and now, too anxious thought about the affair. For the higher reaches of imaginative achievement were, after all, intuitive territory. He would do best to cultivate a wise passiveness; to expose his mind, vacant and unemployed, to some seminal percolation from its own abundant inner recesses.
Coming down Piccadilly, he had bought an early edition of some evening paper. Pursuing his design of mental relaxation, he opened it and idly scanned its columns. There was, he found – as was to be expected – a notice of the Holme exhibition at the Da Vinci. Needless to say, it was a grossly incompetent affair – but at least the scribbler had caught the trick of shouting with what was going to be the crowd. It was what journalists call a rave notice. He read it through, and found himself wondering whether Sebastian Holme himself had read it yet. He too might have bought a copy of the paper in Piccadilly – if indeed he hadn’t been
8
The afternoon was fine, and he decided to take a turn in the mild London sunshine. His living quarters, as it happened, were not at the present time commodious, and spaciousness was in consequence a sensation that he had to seek en plein air . On this occasion he decided for St James’s Park. It had frequently – he remembered – proved particularly propitious for the smooth functioning of his intellectual faculties. He was inclined, indeed, to indulge the fancy that, at either end, its vistas closed at precisely the distance most congenial to what might be called the range of his own mind. Moreover the route thither was not without sundry associative and nostalgic charms. He would pass a club from which, through a misunderstanding, he had been obliged to resign some years before, but for which he preserved nevertheless (such was the refinement of his spirit) a benign and wholly unresentful regard. He would pass another club which – again because of a stupid misunderstanding – had a couple of years later simply refused to let him in. The incident saved him a certain amount of money that he hadn’t possessed. Finally he would cross the Mall. There, of course, Royalty might drive by – and Royalty so utterly royal that it would be proper to halt and turn respectfully roadwards as one swept off one’s hat. Mervyn Cheel, who was eminently well-affected to the Crown, could rely upon an encounter like this to make his day.
The Mall, in fact, was void. St James’s Park, on the other hand was crowded enough – and in the main with persons demonstrably from the simpler classes of society. Cheel found nothing disagreeable about this, since his social tolerance was such that the spectacle of his inferiors always held something gratifying to him. He did however draw the line at sharing a bench with a prole, and his fastidiousness for a time made it difficult to call a halt to his perambulation and seat himself in meditative ease. This, since he had a good deal to meditate, was vexatious, and he was glad when he did eventually find an unencumbered resting place. It was in full sunshine, and Buckingham Palace (always referred to by Cheel as Buck House) was cheerfully in view, with the Royal Standard flying above its roof. Cheel felt as pleased by this token of the sovereign presence as if it had been a private signal instructing him to drop in there for a drink.
But – he told himself – to work! His encounter with Hedda Holine had not – at least in any clearly analysable terms –brought him very much. Yet it had been abundantly worthwhile, since it had brought him that moment of cloudy but indubitable inspiration. How was he to clarify this? Not perhaps by taking, here and now, too anxious thought about the affair. For the higher reaches of imaginative achievement were, after all, intuitive territory. He would do best to cultivate a wise passiveness; to expose his mind, vacant and unemployed, to some seminal percolation from its own abundant inner recesses.
Coming down Piccadilly, he had bought an early edition of some evening paper. Pursuing his design of mental relaxation, he opened it and idly scanned its columns. There was, he found – as was to be expected – a notice of the Holme exhibition at the Da Vinci. Needless to say, it was a grossly incompetent affair – but at least the scribbler had caught the trick of shouting with what was going to be the crowd. It was what journalists call a rave notice. He read it through, and found himself wondering whether Sebastian Holme himself had read it yet. He too might have bought a copy of the paper in Piccadilly – if indeed he hadn’t been
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