in hand, a look of innocent happiness on his face.
Phillip felt shame that he had thought of dear old Jack as a bit of a bounder. The following afternoon, a Sunday, they went down the lane to the sea, making for Malandine sands. There to his apprehension he saw in front two girls walking slowly, side by side. They overtook them; the elder girl was not pretty, but the younger one had a small sweet face, and a pigtail tied with green riband. Jack stopped, and raised his awful old Homburg with its band stained by hair grease. Phillip made the best of it as they sauntered beside a reedy lake dammed by sand-hills, and sat down. Jack and the elder girl were soon laughing and kissing; it was embarrassing, so Phillip got up and said to the girl beside him that he wanted to see the burnet roses, mulleins, and plants of viper’s bugloss which grew on level sandy ground behind the outfall of the lake, where it cut its way through the sands to the sea. She walked beside him, telling him that teacher used to learn them about wildflowers at school, but she did not remember any names.
They waited for the others beside the canyons of sand above the watercourse, while he thought that it was a pity Jack could not enjoy the wild scene, the exhilaration of walking and exploring. If he went on like this it would spoil the holiday. Where were the poetical thoughts and understanding of writers and composers which had drawn them together in the gods—for Jack knew the works of Hardy, Jefferies, Hudson, Galsworthy—particularlythe plays, giving high praise to The Silver Box ? In London, Jack had longed for the country; in the country, he clung to the rootless pattern of town life.
“Nothing doing,” Jack said, when they met again, and Phillip had said goodbye to the quiet girl. “She was only a teaser.” Then seeing Phillip’s face he said, “Don’t take any notice of me, I’m only an old has-been, or rather, never-was. I’ve spoiled your afternoon, haven’t I?”
“Oh, not at all. I’m rather a dull dog, Jack.”
“Don’t you believe it! You could have all the girls you want, if you tried. You seduce them spiritually.” Then seeing Phillip’s face he said, “Don’t listen to me! I’m blasé, that’s my trouble. Let’s go for a real walk, old lad! You don’t want to find a girl, do you? You’re a poet, all sublimation. I used to be like that once,” he said, with a short laugh. “It was very sporting of you to ask an unknown quantity, or rather quality, down here. Where shall it be? I’m with you, old lad!”
June 7. I am in the West Country, light of foot and purse. Jack and I have walked many miles. So much have I seen; so much thought. How can one write while the sun glints in the dusty lanes, soaks into the sea, directs the winds and the clouds?
June 11. Jack O’Donovan has gone home, and I am remorseful that I was a poor companion, striding on in front, while he sauntered along behind, I constantly going back to him, like Don Quixote to Panza, he said.
I cannot write. It is useless, nothing will come. My mind seems to be a blank, a fire that has gone out. Spica is in Cambridge—she has written me a brief pencilled note, headed 6.30 a.m. after the ball.
She says she is having ‘a ripping time.’ I suppose it is so ripping that she has neither time nor wish to write a real letter to me. That, of course, is how it should be. Eventually I shall no doubt learn that the number of true poets in the world is so small that the chance of meeting one of them is nil … I know I am, as her mother said, unbalanced, but sometimes I think it is because this foolish heart is so heavy. Poor little Spica, I am not good for you. It is not fair to distress your heart. I must learn to stand by myself, and not rely on others, for happiness. Also, I begin to suspect that she is rather like Sue Bridehead in Jude the Obscure. Afar the summer wavelets murmur against three or four miles of broken gneiss and schist masses
Phillip felt shame that he had thought of dear old Jack as a bit of a bounder. The following afternoon, a Sunday, they went down the lane to the sea, making for Malandine sands. There to his apprehension he saw in front two girls walking slowly, side by side. They overtook them; the elder girl was not pretty, but the younger one had a small sweet face, and a pigtail tied with green riband. Jack stopped, and raised his awful old Homburg with its band stained by hair grease. Phillip made the best of it as they sauntered beside a reedy lake dammed by sand-hills, and sat down. Jack and the elder girl were soon laughing and kissing; it was embarrassing, so Phillip got up and said to the girl beside him that he wanted to see the burnet roses, mulleins, and plants of viper’s bugloss which grew on level sandy ground behind the outfall of the lake, where it cut its way through the sands to the sea. She walked beside him, telling him that teacher used to learn them about wildflowers at school, but she did not remember any names.
They waited for the others beside the canyons of sand above the watercourse, while he thought that it was a pity Jack could not enjoy the wild scene, the exhilaration of walking and exploring. If he went on like this it would spoil the holiday. Where were the poetical thoughts and understanding of writers and composers which had drawn them together in the gods—for Jack knew the works of Hardy, Jefferies, Hudson, Galsworthy—particularlythe plays, giving high praise to The Silver Box ? In London, Jack had longed for the country; in the country, he clung to the rootless pattern of town life.
“Nothing doing,” Jack said, when they met again, and Phillip had said goodbye to the quiet girl. “She was only a teaser.” Then seeing Phillip’s face he said, “Don’t take any notice of me, I’m only an old has-been, or rather, never-was. I’ve spoiled your afternoon, haven’t I?”
“Oh, not at all. I’m rather a dull dog, Jack.”
“Don’t you believe it! You could have all the girls you want, if you tried. You seduce them spiritually.” Then seeing Phillip’s face he said, “Don’t listen to me! I’m blasé, that’s my trouble. Let’s go for a real walk, old lad! You don’t want to find a girl, do you? You’re a poet, all sublimation. I used to be like that once,” he said, with a short laugh. “It was very sporting of you to ask an unknown quantity, or rather quality, down here. Where shall it be? I’m with you, old lad!”
June 7. I am in the West Country, light of foot and purse. Jack and I have walked many miles. So much have I seen; so much thought. How can one write while the sun glints in the dusty lanes, soaks into the sea, directs the winds and the clouds?
June 11. Jack O’Donovan has gone home, and I am remorseful that I was a poor companion, striding on in front, while he sauntered along behind, I constantly going back to him, like Don Quixote to Panza, he said.
I cannot write. It is useless, nothing will come. My mind seems to be a blank, a fire that has gone out. Spica is in Cambridge—she has written me a brief pencilled note, headed 6.30 a.m. after the ball.
She says she is having ‘a ripping time.’ I suppose it is so ripping that she has neither time nor wish to write a real letter to me. That, of course, is how it should be. Eventually I shall no doubt learn that the number of true poets in the world is so small that the chance of meeting one of them is nil … I know I am, as her mother said, unbalanced, but sometimes I think it is because this foolish heart is so heavy. Poor little Spica, I am not good for you. It is not fair to distress your heart. I must learn to stand by myself, and not rely on others, for happiness. Also, I begin to suspect that she is rather like Sue Bridehead in Jude the Obscure. Afar the summer wavelets murmur against three or four miles of broken gneiss and schist masses
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