The Children's Book

From under his armpits. He has well-developed armpits, you can see.”

“Hush,” said Julian.

The lecturer developed the Garden metaphor. He passed on to Blake and the Garden of Love, in which a Chapel was built, with

Thou shalt not, writ over the door

So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore

And I saw it was filled with graves

And tomb-stones where flowers should be

And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds

And binding with briars my joys and desires.

He said much of the distorting shamefastness of the world we lived in was the historical consequence of the centuries of celibate priesthood. He looked at Frank Mallett, who looked blandly back.

The novel had suffered. In England it was written to be read aloud round the fireside of a married vicar or curate, with his wife gravely listening. In France the priests took charge of the women and children, and novels were written for the separate—and often salacious—male readers.

It was not possible in a novel to describe most of the world as it really was.

It should be. We need honest novels much more than we need moralising tracts.

His own novel Mr. Wodehouse and the Wild Girl had been about a modern man of the woods, a Wodwose, who had loved a woman as men do love women.

He believed, he said, in a pagan unity of nature. We are all one life which began long before there were any gardens, or any men in black gowns. Our feelings developed subtly, over millions of years, from the feelings and stirrings of jelly in the marshes, of slow, cold-blooded reptiles in hot swamps, of beings who clambered in trees that were now coal. It was possible, he said, to make a strenuous attempt to rediscover the strong, primal joy in being. One must go back to the roots of things. He quoted Marvell

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than Empires, and more slow—

Gerald said “That’s rich. Is he doing it on purpose?”

“Oh, I think so. Do be quiet.”

Elsie’s arms were still tightly clutched around her. Her mouth was set firm. Charles/Karl wanted to pull her fingers, to unwind her, and knew he must not.

Herbert Methley’s eye wandered over the upturned faces like a bumble-bee over a flowerbed. He had a skill the younger men had not developed. He could tell which of the women were, as he put it to himself, in need, potential wild girls. Dorothy’s dark face was judging him and made him uncomfortable. Griselda, blonde and peaceful, was weighing up the arguments—there was something alive there, and the face was lovely, but not in need. Phyllis was prim and pretty and undeveloped. He did not look at Elsie, though he had glimpsed the red belt. The agitated one, the one who breathed fast, and shifted in her seat, and looked about her for something, was Florence Cain. He took note of her.

After he had finished, some people left rapidly. Others came to talk to him. Frank Mallett said

“You have not given enough attention to the remarkable persistence of shamefastness. Men must need it very much if it is so tenacious.”

“A good point.”

“Marvell also said

‘How happy was that Garden State

When Man there walked without a mate.’ ”

“Indeed. There is a time for mutual love, and a time for solitude. I myself am solitary and celibate when pursuing my calling.”

Out of the side of his eye he saw Florence leaving with Geraint. There would be another time. Or another woman.

Florence and Geraint walked along a footpath by the Military Canal. Dragonflies skimmed the water. Moorhens paddled, and a rat slid out of a hole and swam busily away. The sun was still bright, though going down. Footsteps hurried after them. Geraint turned, irritably. It was Frank Mallett.

“I won’t keep you, I just wanted to ask you—”

He joined them.

“Yes?” said Geraint.

“Have you spoken to your father recently?”

“Not for some days. He hasn’t been around since his lecture last week. He tends to go into hiding after things like that. I was going to Purchase House when I’ve walked Miss Cain back to Rye.”

There was a silence. Geraint said

“Have you seen him?”

“Not for some days, also.” He strode along, looking at the water, and seemed to come to a decision. “No matter. No matter. When you do see him, please tell him I was asking after him.”

He turned back. Geraint said to Florence

“Something is worrying that man. My father does worry people.”

“I know.”

There was a long silence. They moved on, companionably, walking at the same pace. Geraint said, not looking at Florence,

“I am probably an idiot to choose this moment. When we are going on calmly, that is. You needn’t answer this, now, yet. But—I want you to be my wife. Don’t speak. I have wanted it for years, you