A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell Read Free Book Online Page A

came up the slope at my leisure, behind the other two, and, reaching the crest, saw them at the foot of the bank. There was an unexpectedly deep drop to the ground. In the field below, Stringham and Templerwere talking to Le Bas, who was reclining on the ground, leaning on one elbow.
    Stringham was bending forward a little, talking hard. Templer had managed to get his pipe back into his pocket, or was concealing it in his hand, because, when I reached the level of the field, it had disappeared: although the rank, musty odour of the shag which he was affecting at that period swept from time to time through the warm air, indicating that the tobacco was still alight in the neighbourhood. Le Bas had in his hand a small blue book. It was open. I saw from the type face that it contained verse. His hat hung from the top of his walking stick, which he had thrust into the ground, and his bald head was sweating a bit on top. He crouched there in the manner of a large animal—some beast alien to the English countryside, a yak or sea-lion—taking its ease: marring, as Stringham said later, the beauty of the summer afternoon. However, Le Bas appeared to be in a moderately good humour. He was saying to Stringham: ‘I don’t know why I should tolerate this invasion of my favourite spot. Cannot you all understand that I come here to get away from people like you and Jenkins and Templer? I want peace and quiet for once: not to be surrounded by my pupils.’
    ‘It is a nice place, sir,’ said Stringham, smiling, though not in the least committing himself by too much friendliness all at once.
    Le Bas turned without warning to his book, and, picking it up from the ground, began to read aloud in his guttural, controlled voice:
    ‘ “Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar
Of London, and the bustling street,
For still, by the Sicilian shore,
The murmur of the Muse is sweet,
Still, still, the suns of summer greet
The mountain-grave of Helikê,
And shepherds still their songs repeat,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
    ‘ “Theocritus! thou canst restore
The pleasant years, and over-fleet;
With thee we live as men of yore,
We rest where running waters meet:
And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world—so must it be—
We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!” ’
    He shut the book with a snap, and said: ‘Now can any one of you tell me who wrote that?’
    We made various suggestions—Templer characteristically opting for Shakespeare—and then Stringham said: ‘Matthew Arnold.’
    ‘Not a bad shot,’ said Le Bas. ‘It is Andrew Lang as a matter of fact. Fine lines, you know.’
    Another fetid whiff of Templer’s shag puffed its way through the ether. It seemed impossible that Le Bas should remain much longer unaware that a pipe was smoking somewhere near him. However, he seemed to be getting into his stride on the subject of poetry. He said: ‘There are descriptive verses by Arnold somewhat similar in metre that may have run in your head, Stringham. Things like:
    ‘“The clouds are on the Oberland,
The Jungfrau’s snows look faint and far;
But bright are those green fields at hand,
And through those fields comes down the Aar.”
    ‘Rather a different geographical situation, it is true, but the same mood of invoking melancholy by graphic description of natural features of the landscape.’
    Stringham said: ‘The Andrew Lang made me think of:
    ‘ “O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?”
    ‘Do you know that, sir? I don’t know how it goes on, but the lines keep on repeating.’
    Le Bas looked a little uneasy at this. It was evident that Stringham had displeased him in some way. He said rather gruffly: ‘It is a villanelle. I believe Oscar Wilde wrote it, didn’t he? Not a very distinguished versifier.’
    Quickly abandoning what had apparently been taken as a hostile standpoint, Stringham went on: ‘And then Heraclitus——’
    The words had