15A, WHITTINGTON TERRACE, BAYSWATER
15th October, 1928
I knew it, Bungie—I knew it, I knew it! I knew we should be asked
downstairs to tea. And we’ve been! Down among the Liberty curtains and
the brass Benares ware! Three young women, two bright youths, the local
parson and the family. Crockery from Heal’s and everything too
conscientiously bright. Mrs. Harrison all radiance and very much the
centre of attraction.
No sooner had I got there than I was swept into a discussion about “this
wonderful man Einstein.” Extraordinarily interesting, wasn’t it, and
what did I make of it? Displaying all my social charm, I said I thought
it was a delightful idea. I liked thinking that all the straight lines
were really curly, and only wished I’d known all about it at school,
because it would have annoyed the geometry master so much.
“But you do think there’s something in it, don’t you? My husband says it
is all nonsense, but what do _you_ say?”
There was a little stir of triumph about this, and I somehow gathered
that the Einstein topic had been deliberately chosen for a purpose. I
said guardedly that I believed the theory was now generally accepted by
mathematicians, though with very many reserves.
“It really is, is it? Really true that nothing actually exists as we see
it? I do hope so, because I have always felt so strongly that
materialism is all wrong. There is something so deadening about
materialism, isn’t there? I do so wish I knew what life means and what
we really are. But I can’t understand these things, and, you know, I
should so like to, if only I had someone to explain them to me.”
“As far as I can make out,” I replied, “you are _really_ only made up of
large lumps of space, loosely tied together with electricity. It doesn’t
sound flattering, but there it is.”
She frowned attractively.
“But I can’t believe that.”
“Why do you want to believe it?” said Harrison. “It’s all words. When it
comes to doing anything practical you have to come back to common sense.
My friend Professor Alcock——”
“Yes, yes, I know.” She waved the interruption aside impatiently. “But
the idea is the real thing, isn’t it? Haven’t they come round to
thinking that poetry and imagination and the beautiful things of the
mind are the only true realities after all?”
“Of course beauty is the only true reality,” said Lathom eagerly. “But
it isn’t always what ordinary people think of as beauty. I mean, it’s
not pretty-pretty. When you think a thing, then you create it and it
exists. What’s the use of arguing what you make it _of_? That doesn’t
matter to the thing itself, any more than the stuff paints are made of
matter to the picture.”
“It matters a good deal in practice,” said Harrison. “Now the
Pre-Raphaelites understood that—though, mind you, I don’t think much of
the Pre-Raphaelite school myself. Some of their pictures are so
remarkably ugly, and so exaggerated in colour. Take that thing of Holman
Hunt’s, now——”
“Darling,” said Mrs. Harrison, with emphasis, “you’re sidetracking.”
“No, I’m not. I’m coming back to that. What I mean is that the
Pre-Raphaelites, especially William Morris, knew a great deal about the
material of their paints. They used to get the right stuff and grind it
themselves, so as to be sure it wasn’t adulterated. Now I’m all of their
opinion. I say they were quite right. I get my colours from a man up in
town, a wholesale dealer——”
“My husband is always so literal,” said Mrs. Harrison, taking the whole
company into a confederacy to condemn the unfortunate man. “But I didn’t
mean that at all. Mr. Lathom understands what I mean—don’t you, Mr.
Lathom?”
“Yes,” said Lathom, “and, of course, it’s true in a way. But you mustn’t
think that the form of the thing doesn’t matter, too. Whatever the world
is made of, there it is, and it’s ours to make something of.”
“It must be marvellous to paint great pictures!” said one of the young
women.
Lathom scowled frightfully, and, ostentatiously ignoring her, continued
his remarks to Mrs. Harrison in an undertone.
What a conversation, my God! Harrison faded out and I don’t blame him,
and I took the opportunity to tackle the parson, a fellow by the name of
Perry. He turned out to be an earnest and cultivated middle-aged spike
from Keble, and I took the opportunity to mention the _Life_ and the
difficulties about Victorian materialism.
“Yes,” he said, “we’ve rather got past that stage now, haven’t we? I’ve
got one or two books that I think might be useful to you, as giving the
point of view and all that. Shall I send them over?”
I said it was very good of him (not expecting much from it), and, by way
of a leg-pull, asked him what _he_ thought of relativity.
“Why, I’m rather grateful to it,” said he, “it makes my job much easier.
We’ll have a chat some day and go into it. I must be going now.”
He oozed competently away, and the party rambled on till I could stand
it no longer and rambled out into the passage, where I met Harrison.
“Hullo!” said he, “come and have a pipe in the studio. And a
whiskey-and-soda or something. Better than tea.”
I went in, expecting him to talk Art, but he didn’t. He just sat smoking
in silence and I did likewise. I had an idea I ought to say something to
him, but nothing presented itself. If I had said what I felt like
saying, he would have been angry with me.
So much for social life in Suburbia. I had a letter from Jim on
Wednesday. He is thoroughly enjoying himself in Germany, and begs to be
remembered to you. He is reading hard—or so he says—and he’d jolly
well better, the young cub, since if he fails in his tripos there’s no
money to give him another year there and he’ll have to go as an
apothecary’s apprentice or something. I haven’t looked up Cynthia or the
Brierleys yet, but I will pull myself together and do it before long.
Love to everybody. Wish I was up north with you among the burrns and
birrds. Give the Guv’nor my love. Has he had good sport? I suppose the
hills are beginning to look a bit grim again now, bless their granite
hearts. Remember me to all the artist fraternity.
Ever and ever yours, funny-face, old dear. I’d like to see your cheery
grin now and again. I must be damned fond of you—sometimes it
positively puts me off my stroke. Damned inconvenient. I shall really
have to see about this marriage business. I cannot have my work
interrupted in this way.
Yours deeply injured
JACK