fly.” It was like experiencing a compulsion to punch a baby’s stomach in the pram; or to use on someone standing next to you the carving knife you held.
He was only twenty-one.
But despite such unsettling irrelevancies I felt blest to have him there: somebody straight and vigorous and clean who might one day achieve eminence and who would certainly love widely and be widely loved, spin a web of mutual enrichment from the threads of many disparate existences: a beguiling web whose silken strands must soon make way for even me. Indeed, the process had by now begun. He was in the throes of creating my garden. The thread was indissoluble.
Perhaps all this was slightly fanciful but is there anything much wrong with that? The young man worked from a design of his own, so as to obtain, he said, the prettiest town garden imaginable; and I suggested a handful of refinements. What I wanted, I declared, was first and foremost my seclusion: my own small kingdom, where marvellous and curative things could happen: robins sing arias, neuroses go to seed, fear be altogether uprooted.
Then I wanted an air of mystery—and romance: you shouldn’t be able to see from one end to the other: it would be nice to have arches and
trompe-l’oeil
s and a path that enticed you with its possibilities. It would be nice to have a fountain, because I loved water, and a bird-table and some fruit trees and an arbour with a wrought-iron bench. It would be nice to have daisies in the grass—daisies, buttercups, dandelions—and lots of lovely things in flowerbeds, most cunningly variegated.
I’d also like a hint of wilderness.
In short—I asked him for the perfect garden: in thirty by a hundred.
“I’m afraid, Roger, it may be a bit of a tall order. Do you happen to work magic?” Our plotting had almost an air of conspiracy: the two of us pitting our wits against nature. It was as though for a fleeting period he belonged only to myself.
He claimed neither potions nor spells, however. “But even without them, Miss Waring, wouldn’t you say a tall order is sometimes the most interesting there is?”
“Do you think, then, we can pull it off?” There was even pleasure in the choice of pronoun.
“I’ve always wanted to find something just like this—and then to start from scratch—just like this—and... ”
I understood at once. “Make it your own?” I asked.
“Well, yes... in a manner of speaking.”
“The two of us are very similar, I think. We both want the world to be a better place for our having been here, don’t we?”
The world of Rachel Waring was certainly a better place for his having been there. He worked in it for ten days.
Naturally my garden wasn’t at once what we had visualized. But it would grow. It would grow towards perfection. And even in the meantime it made a worthy extension to the house itself, which if the garden was my kingdom should logically have been my palace.
Yet few palaces could ever have appeared so cosy—unless they came out of a picture book or animated cartoon. (In real life, for instance, could you imagine thorns and trees and brambles and creeper growing up fast and impenetrable around
Buckingham
Palace?) This one, like most of Disney’s, even if not quaintly turreted and gothic, was charming, intimate and friendly. In whichever part of it I found myself I never felt troubled or alone. I felt as if I had only to call out—perhaps I’d be downstairs in the basement—and someone would hear me in the sitting room two floors above and send me back a greeting. Elsewhere, of course, I had often felt anxious and unhappy and completely on my own.
This blessed serenity; this conviction of rightness and responsiveness... It was a nice feeling to have about one’s home.
14
And what had that spiteful and unhappy fairy brought to my own christening? Ah. She dealt in negatives and yet her gift was comprehensive: an inability to make the most out of my life.
But
The Sleeping Beauty
had
He was only twenty-one.
But despite such unsettling irrelevancies I felt blest to have him there: somebody straight and vigorous and clean who might one day achieve eminence and who would certainly love widely and be widely loved, spin a web of mutual enrichment from the threads of many disparate existences: a beguiling web whose silken strands must soon make way for even me. Indeed, the process had by now begun. He was in the throes of creating my garden. The thread was indissoluble.
Perhaps all this was slightly fanciful but is there anything much wrong with that? The young man worked from a design of his own, so as to obtain, he said, the prettiest town garden imaginable; and I suggested a handful of refinements. What I wanted, I declared, was first and foremost my seclusion: my own small kingdom, where marvellous and curative things could happen: robins sing arias, neuroses go to seed, fear be altogether uprooted.
Then I wanted an air of mystery—and romance: you shouldn’t be able to see from one end to the other: it would be nice to have arches and
trompe-l’oeil
s and a path that enticed you with its possibilities. It would be nice to have a fountain, because I loved water, and a bird-table and some fruit trees and an arbour with a wrought-iron bench. It would be nice to have daisies in the grass—daisies, buttercups, dandelions—and lots of lovely things in flowerbeds, most cunningly variegated.
I’d also like a hint of wilderness.
In short—I asked him for the perfect garden: in thirty by a hundred.
“I’m afraid, Roger, it may be a bit of a tall order. Do you happen to work magic?” Our plotting had almost an air of conspiracy: the two of us pitting our wits against nature. It was as though for a fleeting period he belonged only to myself.
He claimed neither potions nor spells, however. “But even without them, Miss Waring, wouldn’t you say a tall order is sometimes the most interesting there is?”
“Do you think, then, we can pull it off?” There was even pleasure in the choice of pronoun.
“I’ve always wanted to find something just like this—and then to start from scratch—just like this—and... ”
I understood at once. “Make it your own?” I asked.
“Well, yes... in a manner of speaking.”
“The two of us are very similar, I think. We both want the world to be a better place for our having been here, don’t we?”
The world of Rachel Waring was certainly a better place for his having been there. He worked in it for ten days.
Naturally my garden wasn’t at once what we had visualized. But it would grow. It would grow towards perfection. And even in the meantime it made a worthy extension to the house itself, which if the garden was my kingdom should logically have been my palace.
Yet few palaces could ever have appeared so cosy—unless they came out of a picture book or animated cartoon. (In real life, for instance, could you imagine thorns and trees and brambles and creeper growing up fast and impenetrable around
Buckingham
Palace?) This one, like most of Disney’s, even if not quaintly turreted and gothic, was charming, intimate and friendly. In whichever part of it I found myself I never felt troubled or alone. I felt as if I had only to call out—perhaps I’d be downstairs in the basement—and someone would hear me in the sitting room two floors above and send me back a greeting. Elsewhere, of course, I had often felt anxious and unhappy and completely on my own.
This blessed serenity; this conviction of rightness and responsiveness... It was a nice feeling to have about one’s home.
14
And what had that spiteful and unhappy fairy brought to my own christening? Ah. She dealt in negatives and yet her gift was comprehensive: an inability to make the most out of my life.
But
The Sleeping Beauty
had
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