More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Darley’s Siren Chorus
https://frankzumbach.wordpress.com/2016/03/11/george-darley-dirge-siren-chorus/
Siren Chorus
Prayer unsaid, and Mass unsung,
Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!
Mermen chant his dirge around!
Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,
Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!
Mermen swing them to and fro!
In the wormless sand shall he
Feast for no foul glutton be:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!
Mermen keep the tone and time!
We must with a tombstone brave
Shut the shark out from his grave:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!
Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!
Such a slab will we lay o’er him,
All the dead shall rise before him:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!
Mermen lay him in his tomb.
000000
Troop home to silent grots and caves,
Troop home! and mimic as you go
The mournful winding of the waves
Which to their dark abysses flow.
At this sweet hour, all things beside
In amorous pairs to covert creep;
The swans that brush the evening tide
Homeward in snowy couples keep.
In his green den the murmuring seal
Close by his sleek companion lies;
While singly we to bedward steal,
And close in fruitless sleep our eyes.
In bowers of love men take their rest,
In loveless bowers we sigh alone,
With bosom-friends are others blest,—
But we have none! but we have none!
—George Darley
https://youtu.be/ghw91-Kybig
In bowers of love men take their rest, In loveless bowers we sigh alone; With bosom-friends are others blest, But we have none—but we have none.
The swans in snowy couples and the murmuring seal lying close to his sleek companion….Jane almost forgot where she was supposed to be going and came to herself just as she reached the stop for the bus that would take her to Prudence’s flat.
She enjoyed riding on the top of the bus, smoking a cigarette and looking into the lighted windows of the houses they passed, hoping that she might see something interesting. Mostly, however, the curtains were discreetly drawn, except occasion...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
(for his invalid wife or for himself? Jane wondered) or a woman laying the breakfast ready for the morning. Once they stopped outside a high, dark house and Jane found herself looking through the uncurtained window into an upper room, dimly lit, where a group of men and women were sitting round a large table covered by a dark green cloth. The glimpse was too fleeting to reveal whether it was a séance or a committee meeting. Would s...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
Prudence’s flat was in the kind of block where Jane imagined people might be found dead, though she had never said this to Prudence herself; it seemed rather a macabre fancy and not one...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
the whole place was so tidy that Jane felt out of place in it.
A married woman does feel in some way responsible for her unmarried friends, you know.’
‘No, it wasn’t that. I don’t seem to be putting it very clearly, what I was trying to ask was, are you Fabian’s mistress?’ As soon as she had said it, Jane found herself wanting to laugh. It was such a ridiculous word; it reminded her of full-blown Restoration comedy women or Nell Gwynn or Edwardian ladies kept in pretty little houses with wrought-iron balconies in St. John’s Wood. Prudence burst into laughter, in which Jane was able
Jane clasped her hot-water bottle to her bosom and went to her room. She felt out of touch with Prudence’s generation this evening.
Though she was really no wiser than before about the exact relationship between Prudence and Fabian, it seemed that things were going well; the position was satisfactory, and no doubt their engagement would be announced quite soon, perhaps when the real spring weather came. Jane began to imagine Prudence settled in the village as Fabian’s wife. It would be such a comfort to have her near and she would certainly make an admirable mistress—in the right sense, Jane told herself smilingly—of his house. She could give cultured little dinner parties with candles on the table and the right wines and
...more
‘I don’t intend to be a distressed gentlewoman,’ said Miss Morrow airily, ‘though I have been one for the first part of my life, certainly.’ ‘Well, Jessie, I don’t know that there is much that you can do about it,’ said Miss Doggett comfortably. ‘Of course, there may be something for you when I have passed on.’
‘She may make a good marriage,’ said Jane quickly, folding up a black wool dress rather badly. ‘People can do that at any age, it seems.’ Miss Morrow looked almost smug, but said nothing.
That nice Miss Lathbury has got married—what do you think of that?’
Excellent Women: Mildred Lathbury and Everard Bone.
‘Who has she married?’ asked Miss Morrow. ‘An anthropophagist,’ declared Miss Doggett in an authoritative tone. ‘He does some kind of scientific work, I believe.’
‘His name is Mr. Bone.’
‘but perhaps he is an anthropologist; that would be more likely.
‘He is a brilliant man,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘She helped him a good deal in his work, I think. Mrs. Bonner says that she even learned to type so that she could type his manuscripts for him.’ ‘Oh, then he had to marry her,’ said Miss Morrow sharply. ‘That kind of devotion is worse than blackmail—a man has no escape from that.’
‘We know that men are not like women,’ went on Miss Doggett firmly. ‘Men are very passionate,’ she said in a low tone. ‘I shouldn’t like Jessie to hear this conversation,’ she added, looking over her shoulder. ‘But you and I, Mrs. Cleveland—well, I am an old woman and you are married, so we can admit honestly what men are.’
If it is true that men only want one thing, Jane asked herself, is it perhaps just to be left to themselves with their soap animals or some other harmless little trifle?
Flora,’
Paradise Lost
She had been meeting a great many young men, as one still apparently did at Oxford; her favourite appeared to be somebody called Paul, of whom the letter was rather full. ‘He is reading Geography and is rather amusing….’
‘Just imagine,’ Jane called out to her husband. ‘Flora has a young man called Paul who is reading Geography. And yet he is rather amusing!’
Cleveland.
Creative work, that was the thing, if you could do that nothing else mattered.
Not one of all those ravenous hours, but thee devours…
She sat for a long time among the faded ink of her notebooks, brooding, until Nicholas came in with their Ovaltine on a tray and it was time to go to bed.
They rose to their feet and bowed their heads. Jane tried very hard to realise the Presence of God in the vicarage drawing-room, but failed as usual, hearing through the silence only Mrs. Glaze running water in the back kitchen to wash up the supper things.
It seemed that there was a particular kind of hat worn by ladies attending Parochial Church Council meetings—a large beret of neutral-coloured felt pulled well down to one side. Both Mrs. Crampton and Mrs. Mayhew wore hats of this type, as did Miss Doggett, though hers was of a superior material, a kind of plush decorated with a large jewelled pin. Indeed, there seemed to be little for the ladies to do but observe each other’s hats, for their voices were seldom heard. Occasionally Nicholas would interpose with some remark, such as ‘Now what do you feel, Miss Doggett? I am sure we should all
...more
Not for the first time he began to consider that there was, after all, something to be said for the celibacy of the clergy.
‘Well, it seemed a good idea,’ said Jane from the open doorway. ‘I always think when I’m listening to some of these tense, gloomy plays on the wireless, Ibsen and things like that, oh, if only somebody would think of making a cup of tea!’
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44479
Ode to a Nightingale
BY JOHN KEATS
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
She sat thus for several moments, trying to see how much of the Ode she could remember, but the few lines that came to her did not bring her comfort— Fade far away, dissolve, and
quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan…
‘My dear, I wish you had not said what you did,’ said Nicholas gravely. ‘I, say anything?’ Jane looked bewildered for a moment. ‘But I always say what I think, and it was ridiculous all that fuss about the magazine cover and Father Lomax.’
‘Oh, if I had known it would be like this…’ She ran from the room and into the downstairs cloakroom, where the sight of Nicholas’s soap animals reminded her of her love for him and she might have wept had she not been past the age when one considers that weeping can do good or bring relief.
‘If only you could have been a chaplain at an Oxford college,’ she lamented. ‘You’re wasted here.’ ‘But, darling, you always said you wanted to be in a country parish. You were so pleased.’ ‘I know, but I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought people in the country were somehow noble, through contact with the earth and Nature, I suppose,’ she smiled; ‘and all the time they’re just worrying about petty details like water-tanks and magazine covers!—like people in the suburbs do.’
And so they sat down on either side of the fire, two essentially good people, eating thick slices of bread spread with a paste made of ‘prawns (and other fish)’, Nicholas reading a book about tobacco-growing, and Jane wondering how
she could make up for her tactlessness this evening. Perhaps by going to see Mr. Oliver and trying to reason with him, perhaps by visiting Mr. Mortlake, though even she shrank from that. She began imagining herself being shown into the front parlour, waiting, examining the photographs and ornaments…No, she had better leave well alone and concentrate on the things she could do, whatever they might be.
As she sat at the dressing-table, she felt like a character in a novel, examining each feature, the sharp nose, the large grey eyes and rather too small mouth.
She was thirty-seven, older than Mrs. Cleveland’s friend, Prudence Bates, but younger than poor Constance and than Fabian himself. She had always loved him, but it had not occurred to her until that autumn day in the garden when she had seen him looking out of the window that anything could be done about it. She was not the person to cherish a hopeless romantic love for a man, especially if he were free and lived next door, and now that Prudence Bates had come into his life Jessie felt that she must act quickly. It seemed to her entirely appropriate that she should lay her plans while Miss
...more
she saw Fabian in a velvet smoking jacket, sitting by the fire with a glass of some amber-coloured liquid—whisky, perhaps—on a small table at his side. There was a blotter on his knees and he appeared to be writing a letter. Appeared to be writing was a correct impression, for he sat with his pen in his hand adding nothing to the few words he had already written. He did not find it easy to write to Prudence. To begin with, he had never been much of a letter-writer, and then her letters were of such a high literary standard, so much embellished with suitable quotations that he found it quite
...more
As he stood there he saw a figure move out of the shelter of a rhododendron bush—a woman whom he did not recognise stood there looking at him. For a moment he felt alarmed, and she smiled and he saw that it was Jessie Morrow.
in the gloaming?’
http://kellyrfineman.livejournal.com/288438.html
In the Gloaming
by Meta Orred
In the gloaming*, oh, my darling!
When the lights are dim and low,
And the quiet shadows falling,
Softly come and softly go;
When the winds are sobbing faintly
With a gentle unknown woe,
Will you think of me, and love me,
As you did once long ago?
In the gloaming, oh, my darling!
Think not bitterly of me!
Tho' I passed away in silence
Left you lonely, set you free;
For my heart was crush'd with longing,
What had been could never be;
It was best to leave you thus, dear,
Best for you, and best for me.
https://youtu.be/Lm4HMtb9ep8
He was conscious as he said it of the incongruity of Miss Doggett lurking in bushes.
‘No. I am alone this evening,’ she said, ‘and I wondered if you were too, and if I would have the courage to call on you. Well, I did have, so here I am.’ ‘Sit down,’ said Fabian, drawing up another chair to the fire. Now he could not possibly go on struggling with his letter to Prudence. ‘What would you like now, a cup of tea or a hot drink of some kind?’
‘Would you like whisky?’ Fabian’s eyes lighted up and he fetched another glass. ‘Somehow I didn’t imagine you as liking it.’ ‘What did you imagine that I liked?’ ‘I don’t know. I suppose I never thought.’ ‘You mean you never thought of me as a human being at all? As a person who could like anything?’ ‘Well, I don’t know…but you seem different to-night.’ Fabian looked at her, a little puzzled, appraising her. ‘Your dress is becoming.’ ‘Yes, I think it is, and I’m glad you think so.’ ‘Constance had a dress rather like that once. Velvet, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes—I think I remember it.’ But fancy him
...more
‘It seems sometimes that we must hurt people we love,’ said Fabian, stroking her hair. ‘Oscar Wilde said, didn’t he…?’
http://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/the-ballad-of-reading-gaol/
He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
‘That fellow’s got to swing.’
Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
—Oscar Wilde, from The Ballad of Readin Gaol
https://youtu.be/EKL2KY67Soo
‘Let’s not bother about him,’ said Jessie. ‘I always think he must have been such a bore, saying those witty things all the time. Just imagine seeing him open his mouth to speak and then waiting for it to come out. I couldn’t have endured it.’ Fabian smiled. He hadn’t been quite sure what it was that Oscar Wilde had said, anyway.
