P.S.--By the way, I want you to do something for me; I want a MAP of
your house and of the sitting-rooms. I want to see where you usually
sit, to read or write. And more than that, I want a map of the roads
and paths round about, with your ordinary walks and strolls marked in
red. I don't feel I quite realise the details enough.
SENNICOTTS,
HONEY HILL,
EAST GRINSTEAD,
Aug. 9, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--I am making holiday, with the voice of praise and
thanksgiving, like the people in the Psalm, and working, oh! how
gratefully, at one of my eternal books. Depend upon it, for simple
pleasure, there is nothing like writing. I am staying with Bradby, who
has taken a cottage in Sussex. He has had his holiday, so that he goes
up to town every day; it does not sound very friendly to say that this
arrangement exactly suits me, but so it is. I work and write in the
morning, walk or bicycle in the afternoon, and then we dine together,
and spend peaceful evenings, reading or talking.
But this is not the point. I came in yesterday to tea, saw an
unfamiliar hat in the hall, and found to my surprise James Cooper, whom
you remember at Eton as a boy. I knew him a little there, and saw a
good deal of him at Cambridge; and we have kept up a very fitful
correspondence at long intervals ever since.
I am ashamed to confess that I was bored, though I trust to Heaven I
did not show it; I had come back from my ride brimming over with ideas,
and was in the condition of a person who is holding his breath, dying
to blow it all out. Cooper said that he had heard that I was in the
neighbourhood, and he had accordingly come over, a considerable
distance, to see me. He is in business, and appears to be prospering.
We had tea, and there was a good deal to talk about; but Cooper showed
no signs of moving, and said at last that he thought he would stay and
see Bradby--perhaps dine with us. So we walked about the garden, and I
gradually became aware, with regret and misery, that I was in the
presence of a bore. Yes, James Cooper is a bore! He had a great deal to
say, mostly on subjects with which I was not acquainted. He has become
a botanist, and seemed full to the brim of uninteresting information.
He stayed till Bradby came, he dined, he talked. At last he decided he
must go; but he talked in the hall, he talked in the porch. He pressed
us to come over and see him, and it was evidently a great pleasure to
him to meet us again. Since his visit I have been pondering deeply.
What is one's duty in these matters? How far ought loyalty to old
friends to go? I confess that I am somewhat vexed and dissatisfied with
myself for not being more simply pleased to see an old comrade--actae
non alio rege puertiae, and all that. But what if the old comrade is a
bore? What are the claims of friendship on busy men? I have a good many
old friends in all parts of England--ought I to use my holidays in
touring about to see them? I am inclined to think that I am not bound
to do so. But suppose that Cooper goes away, and says to another friend
that I am a man who forgets old ties; that he took some trouble to see
me, and found me absorbed, and not particularly glad to see him? I
hope, indeed, that this was not his impression; but boredom is a subtle
thing, and it is difficult to keep it out of one's manner, however
religiously one tries to be cheerful. Well, if he DOES feel thus, is he
right and am I wrong? His whole life lies on different lines to my own,
and though we had much in common in the old pleasant days, we have not
much in common now. It is quite possible that he thinks I am a bore;
and it is even possible that he is right there too. But, que faire? que
penser? I can honestly say that if Cooper wanted my help, my advice, my
sympathy, I would give it him without grudging. But is it a part of
loyalty that I must desire to see him, and even to be bored by him? I
am inclined to think that if I had a simpler, more affectionate nature,
I should probably NOT be bored, but that in my gladness at the sight of
an old friend and the reviving of old memories, the idea of criticism
would die a natural death.
What I have suffered from all my life is making friends too easily. It
is so painful to me being with a person who seems to be dull, that I
have always instinctively tried to be interested in, and to interest my
companion. The result has been--I am making a very barefaced
confession--that I have been often supposed to be more friendly than I
really am, and to allow a certain claim of loyalty to be established
which I could not sincerely sustain.--Ever yours,