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poem.”
“I was thinking of earth art—you know, those designs miles long that you can only appreciate from an aeroplane.”
“Well, it’s also a sun poem and a moon poem, because the sun melted the snow in my footprints, and the moon lit them up for you to see.”
“How bright the moon is tonight,” Angelica murmured. She had not withdrawn her hand from his.
“Have you ever thought, Angelica,” said Persse, “what a remarkable thing it is that the moon and the sun look to our eyes approximately the same size?”
“No,” said Angelica, “I’ve never thought about it.”
“So much mythology and symbolism depends on the equivalence of those two round disc-shapes in our sky, one presiding over the day and the other over the night, as if they were twins. Yet it’s just a trick of perspective, the product of the relative size of the moon and the sun, and their distance from us and from each other. The odds against its happening like that by chance must be billions to one.”
“You don’t think it was chance?”
“I think it’s one of the great proofs of a divine creator,” said Persse. “I think He had an eye for symmetry.”
“Like Blake,” Angelica smiled. “Have you read Frye’s Fearful Symmetry , by the way? An excellent book, I think.”
“I don’t want to talk about literary criticism,” said Persse, squeezing her hand, and drawing closer. “Not alone with you, up here, in the moonlight. I want to talk about us.”
“Us?”
“Will you marry me, Angelica?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and laughing incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Well, for a hundred reasons. I’ve only just met you, and I don’t want to get married anyway.”
“Never?”
“I don’t say never, but first I want a career of my own, and that means I must be free to go anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Persse. “I’d go with you.”
“What, and give up your own job?”
“If necessary,” he said.
Angelica shook her head. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Persse,” she said. “Why do you want to marry me, anyway?”
“Because I love you,” he said, “and I believe in premarital chastity.”
“Perhaps I don’t,” she said archly.
“Oh, Angelica, don’t torment me! If you’ve had other lovers, I don’t want to hear about them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Angelica.
“I don’t mind if you’re not a virgin,” said Persse. He added, “Of course, I’d prefer it if you were.”
“Ah, virginity,” mused Angelica. “What is it? A presence or an absence? The presence of a hymen, or the absence of a penis?”
“God forbid it’s either,” said Persse, blushing, “for I’m a virgin myself.”
“Are you?” Angelica looked at him with interest. “But nowadays people usually sleep together before they get married. Or so I understand.”
“It’s against my principles,” said Persse. “But if you promised to marry me eventually, I might stretch a point.”
Angelica tittered. “Don’t forget that this is entirely your idea.” She suddenly prodded the glass. “Oh, look, there’s a little creature in the snow down there—can it be a rabbit, or a hare?”
” ‘The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass’,” he quoted. “What’s that? Oh yes, ‘The Eve of St Agnes’.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
I love that phrase, ‘woolly fold’, don’t you? It makes one think of being snuggled up in a blanket, but it could also be a metaphor for a snowdrift, so that it sort of epitomizes the forcing together of the extremes of heat and cold, sensuousness and austerity, life and death, that runs through the whole poem.”
“Oh, Angelica!” Persse exclaimed. “Never mind the verbal texture. Remember how the poem ends: And they are gone: ay, ages long ago Those lovers fled away into the storm.
Be my Madeline, and let me be your Porphyro!”
“What, and miss the rest of the conference?”
“I can wait
“I was thinking of earth art—you know, those designs miles long that you can only appreciate from an aeroplane.”
“Well, it’s also a sun poem and a moon poem, because the sun melted the snow in my footprints, and the moon lit them up for you to see.”
“How bright the moon is tonight,” Angelica murmured. She had not withdrawn her hand from his.
“Have you ever thought, Angelica,” said Persse, “what a remarkable thing it is that the moon and the sun look to our eyes approximately the same size?”
“No,” said Angelica, “I’ve never thought about it.”
“So much mythology and symbolism depends on the equivalence of those two round disc-shapes in our sky, one presiding over the day and the other over the night, as if they were twins. Yet it’s just a trick of perspective, the product of the relative size of the moon and the sun, and their distance from us and from each other. The odds against its happening like that by chance must be billions to one.”
“You don’t think it was chance?”
“I think it’s one of the great proofs of a divine creator,” said Persse. “I think He had an eye for symmetry.”
“Like Blake,” Angelica smiled. “Have you read Frye’s Fearful Symmetry , by the way? An excellent book, I think.”
“I don’t want to talk about literary criticism,” said Persse, squeezing her hand, and drawing closer. “Not alone with you, up here, in the moonlight. I want to talk about us.”
“Us?”
“Will you marry me, Angelica?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and laughing incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Well, for a hundred reasons. I’ve only just met you, and I don’t want to get married anyway.”
“Never?”
“I don’t say never, but first I want a career of my own, and that means I must be free to go anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Persse. “I’d go with you.”
“What, and give up your own job?”
“If necessary,” he said.
Angelica shook her head. “You’re a hopeless romantic, Persse,” she said. “Why do you want to marry me, anyway?”
“Because I love you,” he said, “and I believe in premarital chastity.”
“Perhaps I don’t,” she said archly.
“Oh, Angelica, don’t torment me! If you’ve had other lovers, I don’t want to hear about them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Angelica.
“I don’t mind if you’re not a virgin,” said Persse. He added, “Of course, I’d prefer it if you were.”
“Ah, virginity,” mused Angelica. “What is it? A presence or an absence? The presence of a hymen, or the absence of a penis?”
“God forbid it’s either,” said Persse, blushing, “for I’m a virgin myself.”
“Are you?” Angelica looked at him with interest. “But nowadays people usually sleep together before they get married. Or so I understand.”
“It’s against my principles,” said Persse. “But if you promised to marry me eventually, I might stretch a point.”
Angelica tittered. “Don’t forget that this is entirely your idea.” She suddenly prodded the glass. “Oh, look, there’s a little creature in the snow down there—can it be a rabbit, or a hare?”
” ‘The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass’,” he quoted. “What’s that? Oh yes, ‘The Eve of St Agnes’.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
I love that phrase, ‘woolly fold’, don’t you? It makes one think of being snuggled up in a blanket, but it could also be a metaphor for a snowdrift, so that it sort of epitomizes the forcing together of the extremes of heat and cold, sensuousness and austerity, life and death, that runs through the whole poem.”
“Oh, Angelica!” Persse exclaimed. “Never mind the verbal texture. Remember how the poem ends: And they are gone: ay, ages long ago Those lovers fled away into the storm.
Be my Madeline, and let me be your Porphyro!”
“What, and miss the rest of the conference?”
“I can wait
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