Sophia; and with irony she amused herself by taking the old man to the conservatory and picking him a bouquet of her gaudiest and most delicate tropical plants. “I am afraid these are all I can offer you,” she said. “There are no violets left.” But, delighted and admiring, he did not perceive the insinuation.
With the same shortsighted partisanship all the household set themselves to match one boy against the other. And Caspar was always the readier, the more agile, the more daring. Each new feat increased their bile against him. They seemed bent on calling out his best in order to trample on it.
But Damian showed only the purest delight in the successes of the elder boy, and if Caspar had had no other gifts his music would have been enough to birdlime the English child. He had brought a small beribboned guitar on which he accompanied his ditties, singing in a thrilling oversweet treble, forgetful of himself, as a bird sings, his slender fingers clawing the wires with the pattering agility of a bird’s footing. He sang every evening, sitting on the terrace, his head leaning against the balustrade, his eyes half-closed, singing hymns and love-songs and melancholy negro rants, his fingers pattering over the dry wires. And Damian, like an entranced dog, would sit as close as possible, his lips moving with the singer’s, his whole being rapt and intent. Sophia lacked the instinct of music, Caspar’s songs were apt to be particularly irritating to her since she could not understand the words. But she was glad to make one of the music party, soothed by the sight of her child’s pleasure, caressed by the outer wave-lengths of a world into which she could not enter; and while the music lasted she would stay, gazing at the picture the children made — the picture of two white cherubs and a black.
Often she told herself that it was impossible to dismiss this being to the Trebennick Academy. Yet she did nothing. With Caspar’s coming something came into her life which supplanted all her disciplined and voluntary efficiency, a kind of unbinding spell which worked upon her lullingly as the scent of some opiate flower. His beauty — a bloom of youth and of youth only — his character, so pliable, sweet and shallow, and the wide-open flattery which he gave to her, all worked her into a holiday frame of mind. It was not possible, while Caspar was in the house, to do anything but enjoy: enjoy the ample summer weather, the smooth striped lawns over which they strolled, the waving of the full-flourished boughs, the baskets of warm raspberries, the clematis pattern of stars, the smooth-running gait of her household, the sweet cry of one crystal dish jarred against another, the duskier bloom coming upon the outdoor peaches along the south wall, her children’s laughter, the cool amethysts she clasped about her neck. Seeing Caspar unharmed by slights and snubs, she troubled herself no more about them; and the sense of being superior to such foolish things heightened her pleasure, seeming to make her move more grandly and freely above their pettiness, as though she were invulnerable as one of those vast white clouds that ambled so nobly overhead. It was all a dream, it could not last, soon her anxious days would repossess her — and surely Augusta had a little snuffle, one sneeze would bring down this enchanted world about her ears; but till the sneeze, till the crash, she would lie basking, trouble herself about that place in Cornwall no more than Caspar troubled himself.
So, doing nothing, too deep in living for action, she swam through the week of the visit until its last day. Then her warm world was rent away from her by a sudden outcry of anger from Damian. The three were playing on the lawn, and she jumped up and ran through the opened french window, alert with anger at this threat to her content, furious and ready to pounce. Like a hawk she was on them. Augusta was in tears, Damian was pulling her hair. She heard the
With the same shortsighted partisanship all the household set themselves to match one boy against the other. And Caspar was always the readier, the more agile, the more daring. Each new feat increased their bile against him. They seemed bent on calling out his best in order to trample on it.
But Damian showed only the purest delight in the successes of the elder boy, and if Caspar had had no other gifts his music would have been enough to birdlime the English child. He had brought a small beribboned guitar on which he accompanied his ditties, singing in a thrilling oversweet treble, forgetful of himself, as a bird sings, his slender fingers clawing the wires with the pattering agility of a bird’s footing. He sang every evening, sitting on the terrace, his head leaning against the balustrade, his eyes half-closed, singing hymns and love-songs and melancholy negro rants, his fingers pattering over the dry wires. And Damian, like an entranced dog, would sit as close as possible, his lips moving with the singer’s, his whole being rapt and intent. Sophia lacked the instinct of music, Caspar’s songs were apt to be particularly irritating to her since she could not understand the words. But she was glad to make one of the music party, soothed by the sight of her child’s pleasure, caressed by the outer wave-lengths of a world into which she could not enter; and while the music lasted she would stay, gazing at the picture the children made — the picture of two white cherubs and a black.
Often she told herself that it was impossible to dismiss this being to the Trebennick Academy. Yet she did nothing. With Caspar’s coming something came into her life which supplanted all her disciplined and voluntary efficiency, a kind of unbinding spell which worked upon her lullingly as the scent of some opiate flower. His beauty — a bloom of youth and of youth only — his character, so pliable, sweet and shallow, and the wide-open flattery which he gave to her, all worked her into a holiday frame of mind. It was not possible, while Caspar was in the house, to do anything but enjoy: enjoy the ample summer weather, the smooth striped lawns over which they strolled, the waving of the full-flourished boughs, the baskets of warm raspberries, the clematis pattern of stars, the smooth-running gait of her household, the sweet cry of one crystal dish jarred against another, the duskier bloom coming upon the outdoor peaches along the south wall, her children’s laughter, the cool amethysts she clasped about her neck. Seeing Caspar unharmed by slights and snubs, she troubled herself no more about them; and the sense of being superior to such foolish things heightened her pleasure, seeming to make her move more grandly and freely above their pettiness, as though she were invulnerable as one of those vast white clouds that ambled so nobly overhead. It was all a dream, it could not last, soon her anxious days would repossess her — and surely Augusta had a little snuffle, one sneeze would bring down this enchanted world about her ears; but till the sneeze, till the crash, she would lie basking, trouble herself about that place in Cornwall no more than Caspar troubled himself.
So, doing nothing, too deep in living for action, she swam through the week of the visit until its last day. Then her warm world was rent away from her by a sudden outcry of anger from Damian. The three were playing on the lawn, and she jumped up and ran through the opened french window, alert with anger at this threat to her content, furious and ready to pounce. Like a hawk she was on them. Augusta was in tears, Damian was pulling her hair. She heard the
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