Mother, I realized, could not have said even what

the old coachman had said to save her life, and I remember wondering

what would move her into the expression of natural joy. All that

half-hour, as the hoofs echoed along the silence of the country road,

and the old familiar woods and fields slid past, no sign of deep

emotion had escaped her. She had asked if I was hungry….

And then the smells! The sweet, faint garden smell in

the English twilight:—of laurels and laurestinus, of lilac, pinks, and

the heavy scent of May, wall-flowers and sweet william too—these, with

the poignant aroma of the old childhood house, were the background of

familiar loveliness against which my subsequent disillusion of the

homeland set itself in such afflicting contrast. I remember, as we

entered the dim hall, the carriage lamps fell on, the flowering

horse-chestnut by the door; the bats were flitting; a big white moth

whirred softly against the brilliant glass as though you and I were

after it again with nets and killing-bottles… and, helping mother

out, I noticed, besides her smallness, how slow and aged her movements

were.

“Mother, let me help you. That’s what I’ve come home

for,” I said, feeling for her little hand. And she replied so quietly,

so calmly it was almost frigid, “Thank you, dear boy; your arm,

perhaps—a moment. They are so stupid about the lamps in the

hall, I’ve had to speak so often. There, now! It is an awkward

step.” I felt myself a giant beside her. She seemed so tiny now. There

was something very strong in her silence and her calm; and though a

portion of me liked it, another portion resented it and felt afraid.

Her attitude was like a refusal, a denial, a refusal to live, a denial

of life almost. A tinge of depression, not far removed from melancholy,

stole over my spirit. The change in me, I realized then, indeed, was

radical.

Now, lest this narrative should seem confused, you

must understand that my disillusions with regard to England were

realized subsequently, when I had moved about the counties, paid many

solid visits, and tasted the land and people in some detail. And the

disappointment was the keener owing to the fact that very soon after my

arrival in the old Home Place, the “thrill” came to me with a direct

appeal that was disconcerting. For coming unexpectedly, as it did, in

this familiar scene where yet previously I had never known it, it had

the effect of marking the change in me with a certainty from which

there was no withdrawal possible. It standardized this change. The new

judgment was made uncompromisingly clear; people and places must

inevitably stand or fall by it. And the first to fall—since the test

lies beyond all control of affection or respect—was our own dear,

faithful mother.

You share my reverence and devotion, so you will feel

no pain that I would dishonour a tie that is sacred to us both in the

old Bible sense. But, also, you know what a sturdy and typical soul of

England she has proved herself, and that a sense of beauty is not,

alas, by any stretch of kindliest allowance, a national characteristic.

Culture and knowledge we may fairly claim, no doubt, but the

imaginative sense of beauty is so rare among us that its possession is

a peculiarity good form would suppress. It is a pose, an affectation,

it is unmanly—it is not English. We are too strong to thrill. And that

one so near and dear to me, so honoured and so deeply loved, should

prove herself to my new standard thus typically English, while it came

as sharpest pain, ought not, I suppose, to have caused me the surprise

it did. It made me aware, however, of the importance of my new

criterion, while at the same time aware of a lack of sympathy between

us that amounted to disenchantment. It was a shock, to put it plainly.

A breath of solitude, of isolation, stole on me and, close behind it,

melancholy.

From the smallest clue imaginable the truth came into

me, from a clue so small, indeed, that you may smile to think I dared

draw such big deductions from premises so insignificant. You will

probably deny me a sense of humour even when you hear. So let me say at

once, before you judge me hastily, that the words, and the incident

which drew them forth, were admittedly inadequate to the deduction.

Only, mark this, please—I drew no deduction. Reason played no part.