‘I ducked him once,’ he said, ‘in Mercury.’
‘Good boy! Did you, then? Good for you, sir!’
‘This scenery,’ said Albert to Jane, ‘is really most amusing. It is curious how often natural scenery belongs to one particular era. The Apennines, for instance, are purely Renaissance: Savernake was made for the age of chivalry: Chantilly and Fontainebleau for the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: the Rhine for the Middle Ages, and so on. At other times these landscapes seem beautiful, but unreal. Scotland, as you will no doubt have noticed, was invented by the Almighty for the delectation of Victoria and Albert. Foreseeing their existence, He arranged really suitable surroundings for them, and these purple mountains and mauve streams will stand as a reminder of the Victorian age long after the Albert Memorial has turned to dust.’
‘What,’ asked Jane, ‘would you call the landscape of today?’
Albert did not answer, but said faintly:
‘Aren’t we nearly there; I’m most dreadfully tired?’
Sally jumped off her pony.
‘Do ride instead of me for a bit, Albert; I wanted a walk.’
General Murgatroyd could hardly contain himself when he saw Albert, his graceful figure swaying slightly from the hips, seated upon Sally’s pony. He was tired himself, though nothing would have induced him to say so; if Prague could still walk so could he. Lord Prague, it may be noted, was to all intents and purposes dead, except on shooting days when he would come to life in the most astonishing manner, walking and shooting with the best. At other times he would sit in an arm-chair with his eyes shut and his hands folded, evidently keeping his strength for the next shoot. He hardly appeared able even to walk from his drawing-room to the dining-room and was always helped upstairs by his valet.
At about half a mile from their destination the horses were left behind and the party began to climb a fairly steep hill. When they reached the first butt Albert declared that he could go no farther and would stay where he was.
‘That,’ remarked Lord Alfred, who was passing it, ‘is General Murgatroyd’s butt.’
‘Splendid!’ And Albert, swinging himself on to the edge of it, sat there in a graceful position, his legs crossed, pretending to look through his telescope.
‘Well, you’d better put on this mackintosh, Gates, that shirt would scare all the birds for miles.’
Lord Alfred went on his way feeling like the Good Samaritan.
Presently General Murgatroyd appeared with his loader. When he saw Albert he glared and muttered, but took no further notice of him and began to make his own arrangements for the drive.
‘May I let off your gun, sir?’ said Albert, pointing it straight into the general’s face.
‘Put that gun down this instant. My God! young man, I’m sure I don’t know where you were brought up. When I was a kid I was sent to bed for a week because I pointed my toy pistol at the nurse.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Albert, rather taken aback by his manner. ‘I didn’t know it was full.’
The general wiped his brow and looked round helplessly.
‘You can sit on that stone,’ he said, indicating one at the bottom of the butt.
‘Oh, sir, please, must I sit there? I wanted to watch you. I shan’t see anything from down here. Oh, please, may I stand up?’
Receiving no answer beyond a frigid stare, Albert, with a deep sigh, disposed himself upon the stone, sitting cross-legged like an idol. He then produced a slim volume from his pocket. ‘I presume that you have read “The Testament of Beauty”, sir?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Oh, sir, you must have heard of it. A very great poem by our Poet Laureate.’
‘No, I haven’t; I expect it’s immoral stuff, anyway. Kipling ought to be the Poet Laureate, to my mind.’
‘Alas! Philistine that I am, I must disagree with you. I cannot appreciate Sir Rudyard’s writings as no doubt I should. “Lest we forget, lest we forget,”’ he chanted. ‘Have you a favourite poem, sir?’
The general remained silent, his eye on the horizon. As a matter of fact he had a favourite poem, but could not quite remember how it went –
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig my grave and let me lie.
Home is the hunter home from the hill,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Something more or less like that.
‘You care for T. S. Eliot, sir? But no, of course, I heard you cut off the wireless last night when Mrs Nicolson was about to read us some of his poems. How I wish I could be the one to convert you!’ And he began to declaim in a loud and tragic voice:
‘We are the stuffed men, the hollow men …’
‘Oh, will you be quiet? Can’t you see the birds are settling?’
‘I can see nothing from down here except the very séant pattern of your exquisite tweeds. But no matter.’
Albert read for a time in silence.
The general was breathing hard. Presently he stiffened:
‘Over you! – over you, sir!’ he shouted.
Albert dropped his book in a puddle and leapt to his feet, knocking the general’s arm by mistake. The gun went off with a roar and a large number of birds flew over their heads unscathed.
‘You blasted idiot! Why can’t you sit still where I told you? Of all the damned fools I ever met –’
‘I regret that I cannot stay here to be insulted,’ said Albert; and he strolled out of the butt.
‘Come back, will you? Blast you! Can’t you see the bloody drive is beginning?’
Albert paid no attention, but walked gracefully away over the heather, telescope in hand, towards the next butt. Its occupant luckily happened to be Mr Buggins, who was rather amused by and inclined to tolerate Albert, so there were no further contretemps. Meanwhile, the general, infuriated beyond control, was seen to fall upon his loader and shake him violently.
When this eventful drive was over, Jane, Sally and Albert, finding themselves
