thought, to get his blood up. He chose a small blue volume that he’d used a time or two in marital counseling, and opened it at random.
“ ‘I feel sad when I don’t see you,’ ” he read aloud from a letter by a nineteenth-century American suitor. “‘Be married, why won’t you? And come to live with me. I will make you as happy as I can. You shall not be obliged to work hard, and when you are tired, you may lie in my lap and I will sing you to rest . . .’ ”
There’s a good fellow! he thought.
“ ‘. . . because I love you so well, I will not make you bring in wood and water, or feed the pig, or milk the cow, or go to the neighbors to borrow milk. Will you be married? ’ ”
He shoved the book upon the shelf, took down another, and thumbed through the section on all things marital.
“ ‘I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you . . .’ ” Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine, wrong section.
Ah, well, here was one for the books, something Evelyn Waugh had trotted out in a letter of proposal. “ ‘I can’t advise you in my favour because I think it would be beastly for you, but think how nice it would be for me!’ ”
Would it be beastly for Cynthia? Living with him, an old stick in the mud? He shook the thought away and licked his right forefinger and turned to another page.
“ ‘You have set a crown of roses on my youth and fortified me against the disaster of our days. Your courageous gaiety has inspired me with joy. Your tender faithfulness has been a rock of security and comfort. I have felt for you all kinds of love at once. I have asked much of you and you have never failed me. You have intensified all colours, heightened all beauty, deepened all delight. . . .’” Duff Cooper, writing to his future wife in the war-dark year of 1918, had known how to get down to brass tacks, all right. Maybe he could do something with the idea of courageous gaiety; he had always thought Cynthia courageous.
He sighed deeply. In truth, this was going nowhere. It was a waste of precious time to try and glean from another man’s brain. There’d be no more lollygagging.
He dashed again to the kitchen and poured a mug of tea, then added a little milk and stirred it well, and returned to his desk and sat, gazing at the mug, the pad, and the pen, and the nightfall dark against his window.
He considered that he had written hymns to God, several in his time, but he’d never done anything like this, never! He knew that God was familiar with his very innards and that He perceived the passion of his heart full well; thus he had not sweated greatly over lines that were awkward here or a tad sophomoric there, but this . . .
“Write!” he bellowed aloud.
Barnabas bolted from the rug by the sofa and trotted to his master and stood by the desk. The rector turned his head slowly, and for a moment each looked soulfully into the other’s eyes.
Dearest love . . . , he wrote at last, tender one . . . my heart’s joy . . .
He drew a line through the feeble words and began again:
Loveliest angel of light and life . . .
What about something from the Song of Solomon? On second thought, scratch that. The Song still made him blush. Whoever drummed up the notion that it was about Christ and the church . . .
He nibbled his right forefinger and mused upon lines from Shakespeare; he chewed his lower lip and called to mind Keats; he sank his head onto his arms on the desktop and contemplated Robert Browning’s fervent avowal, “All my soul follows you, love . . . and I live in being yours.”
Blast and double blast. The good stuff had already been written.
He talked to himself with some animation as he trotted up Main Street from Lord’s Chapel. What if Shakespeare had never put pen to paper because the good stuff had already been written? In truth, what if he refused one morning to preach because all the good sermons had already been preached?
Ha!
On the other side of the Irish Shop’s display window,
“ ‘I feel sad when I don’t see you,’ ” he read aloud from a letter by a nineteenth-century American suitor. “‘Be married, why won’t you? And come to live with me. I will make you as happy as I can. You shall not be obliged to work hard, and when you are tired, you may lie in my lap and I will sing you to rest . . .’ ”
There’s a good fellow! he thought.
“ ‘. . . because I love you so well, I will not make you bring in wood and water, or feed the pig, or milk the cow, or go to the neighbors to borrow milk. Will you be married? ’ ”
He shoved the book upon the shelf, took down another, and thumbed through the section on all things marital.
“ ‘I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you . . .’ ” Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine, wrong section.
Ah, well, here was one for the books, something Evelyn Waugh had trotted out in a letter of proposal. “ ‘I can’t advise you in my favour because I think it would be beastly for you, but think how nice it would be for me!’ ”
Would it be beastly for Cynthia? Living with him, an old stick in the mud? He shook the thought away and licked his right forefinger and turned to another page.
“ ‘You have set a crown of roses on my youth and fortified me against the disaster of our days. Your courageous gaiety has inspired me with joy. Your tender faithfulness has been a rock of security and comfort. I have felt for you all kinds of love at once. I have asked much of you and you have never failed me. You have intensified all colours, heightened all beauty, deepened all delight. . . .’” Duff Cooper, writing to his future wife in the war-dark year of 1918, had known how to get down to brass tacks, all right. Maybe he could do something with the idea of courageous gaiety; he had always thought Cynthia courageous.
He sighed deeply. In truth, this was going nowhere. It was a waste of precious time to try and glean from another man’s brain. There’d be no more lollygagging.
He dashed again to the kitchen and poured a mug of tea, then added a little milk and stirred it well, and returned to his desk and sat, gazing at the mug, the pad, and the pen, and the nightfall dark against his window.
He considered that he had written hymns to God, several in his time, but he’d never done anything like this, never! He knew that God was familiar with his very innards and that He perceived the passion of his heart full well; thus he had not sweated greatly over lines that were awkward here or a tad sophomoric there, but this . . .
“Write!” he bellowed aloud.
Barnabas bolted from the rug by the sofa and trotted to his master and stood by the desk. The rector turned his head slowly, and for a moment each looked soulfully into the other’s eyes.
Dearest love . . . , he wrote at last, tender one . . . my heart’s joy . . .
He drew a line through the feeble words and began again:
Loveliest angel of light and life . . .
What about something from the Song of Solomon? On second thought, scratch that. The Song still made him blush. Whoever drummed up the notion that it was about Christ and the church . . .
He nibbled his right forefinger and mused upon lines from Shakespeare; he chewed his lower lip and called to mind Keats; he sank his head onto his arms on the desktop and contemplated Robert Browning’s fervent avowal, “All my soul follows you, love . . . and I live in being yours.”
Blast and double blast. The good stuff had already been written.
He talked to himself with some animation as he trotted up Main Street from Lord’s Chapel. What if Shakespeare had never put pen to paper because the good stuff had already been written? In truth, what if he refused one morning to preach because all the good sermons had already been preached?
Ha!
On the other side of the Irish Shop’s display window,
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