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Updated: May 21, 2025
Scogan strolled back together from the gates of the courtyard, whence they had bidden their last farewells; on the writing-table in the hall they found the visitor's book, open, and Ivor's composition scarcely dry. Mr. Scogan read it aloud: "The magic of those immemorial kings, Who webbed enchantment on the bowls of night.
"I for one should like to see, mingled with this scientific ardour, a little more of the jovial spirit of Rabelais and Chaucer." "I entirely disagree with you," said Mary. "Sex isn't a laughing matter; it's serious." "Perhaps," answered Mr. Scogan, "perhaps I'm an obscene old man. For I must confess that I cannot always regard it as wholly serious." "But I tell you..." began Mary furiously.
It was here, thought Denis, here that Anne had fallen, here that he had kissed her, here and he blushed with retrospective shame at the memory here that he had tried to carry her and failed. Life was awful! "Sanity!" said Mr. Scogan, suddenly breaking a long silence.
Carlyle would say, "dim to us." Besides these, if he was still among the living, the philosophical Strode in his Dominican habit, on a visit to London from one of his monasteries; or more probably the youthful Lydgate, not yet a Benedictine monk, but pausing, on his return from his travels in divers lands, to sit awhile, as it were, at the feet of the master in whose poetic example he took pride; the courtly Scogan; and Occleve, already learned, who was to cherish the memory of Chaucer's outward features as well as of his fruitful intellect: all these may in his closing days have gathered around their friend; and perhaps one or the other may have been present to close the watchful eyes for ever.
Scogan, "till I've refilled my pipe." Mr. Wimbush waited. Seated apart in a corner of the room, Ivor was showing Mary his sketches of Spirit Life. They spoke together in whispers. Mr. Scogan had lighted his pipe again. "Fire away," he said. Henry Wimbush fired away.
"The great thing about Crome," said Mr. Scogan, seizing the opportunity to speak, "is the fact that it's so unmistakably and aggressively a work of art. It makes no compromise with nature, but affronts it and rebels against it. It has no likeness to Shelley's tower, in the 'Epipsychidion, which, if I remember rightly
He paused, cleared his throat, and coughed once or twice, evoking in Denis's mind the vision of a table with a glass and water-bottle, and, lying across one corner, a long white pointer for the lantern pictures. "The three main species," Mr. Scogan went on, "will be these: the Directing Intelligences, the Men of Faith, and the Herd.
"I mean as an occupation. One can go on with it without ever getting bored." "I see," said Mr. Scogan. "Perfectly." "One can occupy oneself with it," Ivor continued, "always and everywhere. Women are always wonderfully the same. Shapes vary a little, that's all. In Spain" with his free hand he described a series of ample curves "one can't pass them on the stairs.
No holiday is ever anything but a disappointment." "Come, come," protested Gombauld. "My holiday at Crome isn't being a disappointment." "Isn't it?" Anne turned an ingenuous mask towards him. "No, it isn't," he answered. "I'm delighted to hear it." "It's in the very nature of things," Mr. Scogan went on; "our holidays can't help being disappointments. Reflect for a moment. What is a holiday?
Scogan sighed. "But always without success," he added, "always without success. In my youth I was always striving how hard! to feel religiously and aesthetically. Here, said I to myself, are two tremendously important and exciting emotions. Life would be richer, warmer, brighter, altogether more amusing, if I could feel them. I try to feel them. I read the works of the mystics.
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