with a splendid smash into the cucumber frame. Something of the awe

of that moment returns to me as I write of it.

Well, my boy," he said, approaching with an expression of beneficent

happiness, "I've done with gardening. Let's go for a walk like

reasonable beings. I've had enough of this"-his face was convulsed

for an instant withbitter resentment-" Pandering to cabbages."

4

That afternoon's walk sticks in mymemory for many reasons. One is

that we went further than I had ever been before; far beyond Keston

and nearly to Seven-oaks, coming back by train from Dunton Green,

and the other is that my father as he went along talked about

himself, not so much to me as tohimself, and about life and what he

had done with it. He monologued so that at times he produced an

effect of weird world-forgetfulness. I listened puzzled, and at

that time not upderstanding many things that afterwards became plain

to me. It is only in recent years that I have discovered the pathos

of that monologue; how friendless my father was and uncompanioned in

histhoughts andfeelings, and what a hunger he may havefelt for

the sympathy of the undeveloped youngster who trotted by his side.

"I'm no gardener," he said, "I'm no anything. Why the devil did I

start gardening?

"I suppose man was created tomind a garden… But the Fall let

us out of that! What was I created for? God! what was I created

for?…

"Slaves to matter!Minding inanimate things! It doesn't suit me,

youknow. I've got no hands and nopatience. I've mucked about

with life. Mucked about with life." He suddenly addressedhimself

to me, and for an instant I started like an eavesdropper discovered.

<<BackPagesTo menuForward>>