about this, at which Phillip tried to look amused as he said, “Right, I’ll light a fire, and put on a saucepan for the eggs.”
The drift-wood fire soon had the little pan bubbling; milk from the dairy lower down in the village, butter pats on home-made bread with eggs, then honey—this was the life! Afterwards, while washing up, Jack began to hum an aria from Bôheme through his nose, interposing with lips and throat a queer imitation of an orchestral accompaniment, while beating time with a tea-cup. He was conductor, orchestra, and singers in one, whilehis eyes beamed with happinesss. Then looking round the cottage, “This is grand, old lad, much better than I hoped for! All it wants is a couple of Musettas to join us. We ought to hire a car in the town, and go after them.”
“Well, I’m not awfully keen on getting-off, Jack. My idea is to walk, and explore the country.”
“But if we can get a couple of birds as well, the more the merrier! Oh, I forgot, you’re in love with your Mimi, aren’t you? Nice girl, just a little too spirituelle for me. I’m sex-mad, of course. Almost anything in skirts. Time I had a nice wife to keep me from roaming.”
They went for a walk, Phillip hatless, Jack sauntering along, wearing at an angle his pre-war Homburg grey hat, with its white-braided brim upcurled, a little frayed from much fingering. He was a short, sturdy man, his amiable red face showing the blue of shaven beard. He picked a campion flower for his button-hole, and walked along, swinging his stick; an obvious townee, thought Phillip, with his manner between the bland and the cocky, and—he winced from thinking it—a little bit of a bounder. He hoped he would not get off with any village girls if they met any. But there were none on the cliff path, to Phillip’s relief.
They returned for tea, by which time Phillip was glad that he had Jack with him, he gave out humour and a sort of innocent kindness. He was also considerate; he got up in the morning and prepared the breakfast; before this he had brought up two cups of tea, drinking his while sitting on the end of Phillip’s bed. “I’ve always wanted a real pal, you know, Phil. Someone I could help, in my crude way. I’ve even dreamed of writing an opera libretto with some unknown musical genius, and finding fame with him. But I’ve got no real power of expression. You have, Phil. What you read me last night was the real thing.”
“Do you really think so, Jack?”
“Sure of it, old man. I’m only an old penny-a-liner in my spare time, but I know quality when I find it. Your story reminds me of Village Romeo and Juliet —remember Delius’s opera we saw together? And your description of the nightingale singing, and that lonely chap listening to it has something in common with Stravinsky.”
“That’s what I felt, when I first heard his opera!”
“Every great artist recognises his own sort. What they have in common is extreme simplicity. That’s what beauty is—simple. At base, I mean. Decoration can be complicated, butstill be simple, if you know what I mean, like a fugue of Bach.”
“You mean the whole work is made up of genuine parts, like varied flowers and birds in a jungle?”
“That’s a good description of Stravinsky’s Sacre de Printemps .”
“I wish I could hear it. I suppose a jungle is really very sinister, all the bright birds and flowers high up on top, striving to live above the lower darkness.”
“You’ve got it, old lad. One day you’ll get up among the flowers in the sun.”
That was the Jack he warmed to, who, as they prepared supper that evening, waved his arms as though he were conducting an orchestra, humming Parsifal through his nose—then breaking off, as his primary nature asserted itself through the stimulation of imagined music, to examine his face carefully in the one small-looking glass in the cottage and pluck hairs from his nostrils; then with a sigh, to return to his humming, imagined baton
The drift-wood fire soon had the little pan bubbling; milk from the dairy lower down in the village, butter pats on home-made bread with eggs, then honey—this was the life! Afterwards, while washing up, Jack began to hum an aria from Bôheme through his nose, interposing with lips and throat a queer imitation of an orchestral accompaniment, while beating time with a tea-cup. He was conductor, orchestra, and singers in one, whilehis eyes beamed with happinesss. Then looking round the cottage, “This is grand, old lad, much better than I hoped for! All it wants is a couple of Musettas to join us. We ought to hire a car in the town, and go after them.”
“Well, I’m not awfully keen on getting-off, Jack. My idea is to walk, and explore the country.”
“But if we can get a couple of birds as well, the more the merrier! Oh, I forgot, you’re in love with your Mimi, aren’t you? Nice girl, just a little too spirituelle for me. I’m sex-mad, of course. Almost anything in skirts. Time I had a nice wife to keep me from roaming.”
They went for a walk, Phillip hatless, Jack sauntering along, wearing at an angle his pre-war Homburg grey hat, with its white-braided brim upcurled, a little frayed from much fingering. He was a short, sturdy man, his amiable red face showing the blue of shaven beard. He picked a campion flower for his button-hole, and walked along, swinging his stick; an obvious townee, thought Phillip, with his manner between the bland and the cocky, and—he winced from thinking it—a little bit of a bounder. He hoped he would not get off with any village girls if they met any. But there were none on the cliff path, to Phillip’s relief.
They returned for tea, by which time Phillip was glad that he had Jack with him, he gave out humour and a sort of innocent kindness. He was also considerate; he got up in the morning and prepared the breakfast; before this he had brought up two cups of tea, drinking his while sitting on the end of Phillip’s bed. “I’ve always wanted a real pal, you know, Phil. Someone I could help, in my crude way. I’ve even dreamed of writing an opera libretto with some unknown musical genius, and finding fame with him. But I’ve got no real power of expression. You have, Phil. What you read me last night was the real thing.”
“Do you really think so, Jack?”
“Sure of it, old man. I’m only an old penny-a-liner in my spare time, but I know quality when I find it. Your story reminds me of Village Romeo and Juliet —remember Delius’s opera we saw together? And your description of the nightingale singing, and that lonely chap listening to it has something in common with Stravinsky.”
“That’s what I felt, when I first heard his opera!”
“Every great artist recognises his own sort. What they have in common is extreme simplicity. That’s what beauty is—simple. At base, I mean. Decoration can be complicated, butstill be simple, if you know what I mean, like a fugue of Bach.”
“You mean the whole work is made up of genuine parts, like varied flowers and birds in a jungle?”
“That’s a good description of Stravinsky’s Sacre de Printemps .”
“I wish I could hear it. I suppose a jungle is really very sinister, all the bright birds and flowers high up on top, striving to live above the lower darkness.”
“You’ve got it, old lad. One day you’ll get up among the flowers in the sun.”
That was the Jack he warmed to, who, as they prepared supper that evening, waved his arms as though he were conducting an orchestra, humming Parsifal through his nose—then breaking off, as his primary nature asserted itself through the stimulation of imagined music, to examine his face carefully in the one small-looking glass in the cottage and pluck hairs from his nostrils; then with a sigh, to return to his humming, imagined baton
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