Not George Washington | Page 4

a sense of
bathos, "People have made it pay. Of course, they work very hard."
"M'yes," said James without much enthusiasm.
"But I fancy," I added, "the life is not at all unpleasant."
At this point embarrassment seemed to engulf James. He blushed,
swallowed once or twice in a somewhat convulsive manner, and
stammered.
Then he made his confession guiltily.
I was not to suppose that his aims ceased with the attainment of a
tomato-farm. The nurture of a wholesome vegetable occupied neither
the whole of his ambitions nor even the greater part of them. To
write--the agony with which he throatily confessed it!--to be swept into
the maelstrom of literary journalism, to be en rapport with the
unslumbering forces of Fleet Street--those were the real objectives of
James Orlebar Cloyster.
"Of course, I mean," he said, "I suppose it would be a bit of a struggle
at first, if you see what I mean. What I mean to say is, rejected
manuscripts, and so on. But still, after a bit, once get a footing, you
know--I should like to have a dash at it. I mean, I think I could do
something, you know."
"Of course you could," I said.

"I mean, lots of men have, don't you know."
"There's plenty of room at the top," I said.
He seemed struck with this remark. It encouraged him.
He had had his opportunity of talking thus of himself during our long
rambles out of doors. They were a series of excursions which he was
accustomed to describe as hunting expeditions for the stocking of our
larder.
Thus James would announce at breakfast that prawns were the day's
quarry, and the foreshore round Cobo Bay the hunting-ground. And to
Cobo, accordingly, we would set out. This prawn-yielding area extends
along the coast on the other side of St. Peter's Port, where two halts had
to be made, one at Madame Garnier's, the confectioners, the other at the
library, to get fiction, which I never read. Then came a journey on the
top of the antediluvian horse-tram, a sort of diligence on rails; and then
a whole summer's afternoon among the prawns. Cobo is an expanse of
shingle, dotted with seaweed and rocks; and Guernsey is a place where
one can take off one's shoes and stockings on the slightest pretext. We
waded hither and thither with the warm brine lapping unchecked over
our bare legs. We did not use our nets very industriously, it is true; but
our tongues were seldom still. The slow walk home was a thing to be
looked forward to. Ah! those memorable homecomings in the quiet
solemnity of that hour, when a weary sun stoops, one can fancy with a
sigh of pleasure, to sink into the bosom of the sea!
Prawn-hunting was agreeably varied by fish-snaring, mussel-stalking,
and mushroom-trapping--sports which James, in his capacity of Head
Forester, included in his venery.
For mushroom-trapping an early start had to be made--usually between
six and seven. The chase took us inland, until, after walking through
the fragrant, earthy lanes, we turned aside into dewy meadows, where
each blade of grass sparkled with a gem of purest water. Again the
necessity of going barefoot. Breakfast was late on these mornings, my
mother whiling away the hours of waiting with a volume of Diogenes

Laertius in the bow-window. She would generally open the meal with
the remark that Anaximander held the primary cause of all things to be
the Infinite, or that it was a favourite expression of Theophrastus that
time was the most valuable thing a man could spend. When breakfast
was announced, one of the covers concealed the mushrooms, which,
under my superintendence, James had done his best to devil. A quiet
day followed, devoted to sedentary recreation after the labours of the
run.
The period which I have tried to sketch above may be called the period
of good-fellowship. Whatever else love does for a woman, it makes her
an actress. So we were merely excellent friends till James's eyes were
opened. When that happened, he abruptly discarded good-fellowship. I,
on the other hand, played it the more vigorously. The situation was
mine.
Our day's run became the merest shadow of a formality. The office of
Head Forester lapsed into an absolute sinecure. Love was with
us--triumphant, and no longer to be skirted round by me; fresh, electric,
glorious in James.
We talked--we must have talked. We moved. Our limbs performed
their ordinary, daily movements. But a golden haze hangs over that
second period. When, by the strongest effort of will, I can let my mind
stand by those perfect moments, I seem to hear our voices, low and
measured. And there are silences, fond in themselves and yet more
fondly interrupted by unspoken messages from our eyes.