The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  He hurried into the girls’ third-class compartment, waving the newspaper, crying, “There you are! Westy was right! My God, why did I ever leave the Gaultshires? The attack of July the First failed practically everywhere else, but not where dear old ‘Spectre’ was allowed to use his napper! You won’t understand what I am talking about, so goodbye!”

  The train rushed on under the sun shining down upon the green fields and stubbles of Dorset, Somerset, and at last Devon. Here was the River Taw again, the thunder of carriages over iron bridges, with the brown shrunken waters of the river winding through the meadows, and then the marshes before Barnstaple. There they changed into the little light-gauge railway. Phillip started off in the first-class coach, as befitted his status; the girls in the yellow wooden third-class coach. Then, after Snapper Halt, he joined the girls. At Chelfham they all went into the glass coach. At Blackmoor Gate he rode beside the driver, and worked the throttle to Wooda Bay station. Then back into the glass coach, with its blue upholstery, for the arrival at Lynton. For an hour and a half the squat, tank-square engine with the brass funnel had puffed on and up, rising above oakwoods and steep coombe sides to the moor; now it was running down to its destination, the little wooden platform at the very end of the line, whereon a thin, tall Aunt Dora was waiting, smiling with her teeth protruding, her eyes pale and her hair grey but her voice soft and musical as ever.

  “How good to see you all! And how kind of you to come all this way to see an old woman. You must be tired, Phillip, after all your adventures. And you are little Polly, how you have grown! And Doris, you have grown too! We will go down the cliff railway, it is only a step or two away. And we shall be seeing you, Boy, when you are rested, no doubt. You know the cottage, don’t you? Was it only two years since you were here? Well, here is Buzzacott with the jingle to take you up the steep hill to Hollerday.”

  Phillip wondered which was Buzzacott and which was the Jingle. Was the pony, between the shafts of a small tub-like cart, called Buzzacott? Probably, by its appearance. Then the groom, or driver, must be Jingle. Beside the pony stood a foal. Amid exclamations by the girls, who tried to stroke the leggy young animal, small enough to be carried under a man’s arm, Phillip got into the tub on wheels, to be taken forward at little more than a snail’s pace, while the driver, a man as shaggy about the head as the pony, talked a language less comprehensible than that of the animal; for at least a whinney was a whinney. Dressed in corded coat and trousers, and old bowler hat, he sported mutton-chop whiskers, shaggy brows, and teeth that were but brown stumps; even so, Jingle was evidently a privileged person, for as they crept out of the station yard he put a clay pipe, with a horrible dark brown stain half way up the bowl, between his blue lips. The bowl, gurgling and faintly screeching, gave forth an acrid smell so strong that, when the procession, in silence save for the repeated breaking of wind by Buzzacott, left the high street of the town and turned up a steep slope to a lodge beside iron gates, Phillip decided to get out and walk.

  He saw before him a stony lane leading up into a gloom of trees, so steeply set that the pony could hardly pull the tub, let alone Jingle. Very slow, clack by clack, the pony went on and up, past a row of monkey-puzzle trees, coming to a gorge, where the way had apparently been blasted through rocks. Slower and slower stepped the pony, issuing forth more and more salvoes of wind, shaking the whiskers of the driver, who sat and sucked his pipe for comfort and occasionally flipped the reins and squeaked something, in odd contrast to other expressions of a peaty, brac-keny voice. After the next bend the way got so steep that the pony, with a final detonation, stopped altogether.

  “What does it work on, compressed air?” enquired Phillip. “Seriously though, don’t you think it’s too much for such a small mare? And she’s in milk, too.”

  “Ooh, ’er’s used to’n maydeer. Sot yew doon in yurr beesade me,” as he opened the small door at the back.

  “God’s teeth, Buzzacott can’t pull us both!”

  The groom rattled and squeaked with laughter. “A’y, tes a lazy ’oss what zweats vor zee th’zaddle!” he cackled. “Yesmye! Come yew in maydeer, sot yew beesade me, yew’m zo thenza dashel.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t understand what you say, Jingle. Anyway, I’ll help poor old Buzzacott by giving a shove behind.”

  This offer produced a throaty cackle, a hand like a root slapping a knee, a head held back and brown teeth stumps visible. When the pony stopped again a tangle of vocal chords issued past the gurgling pipe.

  “Blarm’d if I c’n unnerstan’ a bliddy word on what you’m telling maydeer! G’wan, g’wan!” The last two noises were directed towards the pony, who pecked slowly onwards, while Phillip pushed, and the driver sat still, except for an occasional shake of the reins.

  The way became steeper. Phillip felt his heart thudding. As soon as he stopped pushing, the pony stopped.

  “Yurr! Why don’t ee ride upalong me, maydeer? There be plenty room voor two in this yurr jingle. Come yew in and sot yew down.”

  “I thought your name was Jingle!”

  More laughter, and “Noomye! My name be Buzzacott.”

  “Really? I thought it was a case of the pony being buzzacott by name and buzzacott by nature.”

  Again the cackle, slap, and hawhawhaw of stringy laughter. Phillip went on, followed slowly by the little cart. He saw a stone house with a red-tiled roof through the thin pines. Breathing deep to steady his heart, he went to the oak door and pulled the bell. He thought it must be the matron who came, for she said, looking at his face, “Have you walked all the way up? And you only just out of hospital with a leg wound? Where is Buzzacott? Didn’t you see him at the station?”

  “Yes, but I walked up for exercise.”

  “Well, I like that! We take the trouble to send the jingle down, and you walk up! Now straight to bed you go! And there you’ll remain until Dr. Minstrel comes tomorrow and gives you permission to get up!”

  “But I am up already, Matron,” protested Phillip. “I’ve been up for weeks!”

  “Not here, you haven’t! Come now, orders were made to be obeyed.”

  “I quite agree, Matron, but might I be allowed to go down to Lynmouth and see a relation there, for a minute or two? I know the way down by the water lift, so I shan’t strain my leg by too much walking.”

  “You can go tomorrow. You’ve had a tiring journey. Now I want you to take a hot bath. Dinner is at seven. You can have it on a tray in bed.”

  “I am used to having cold tubs in the morning, Matron, and a hot bath might open my pores too wide, and allow influenza germs in, perhaps?”

  “Aren’t you awkward! You’re the second devil we’ve had back from France. The first one who came last week is enough of a handful, what with his fire-pail filled with flotsam, and his plans to attack the Germans every night. Now be a good boy, and try and help us, will you, and do what you are told without argument. It’s my evening out tonight, and I’ve got a lot to do before then.”

  “What time does Dr. Minstrel show up? Before or after dinner?”

  “Dr. Minstrel will be here at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Your room is number eight, at the end of the passage on the first floor.”

  He went upstairs and sat on his bed. Through the window could be seen vast levels of the Severn Sea turning purple in the westering sun. Tidal races ripped white around the feet of the Foreland precipice. The scene was one of lonely emptiness, in tune with the desolation of his life. What was life for, anyway? A mild terror of the great rocks and the sea and the sky possessed him. He must get out of the new prison as soon as he could, change into mufti, and have a few drinks. The girls and the cottage were dimmed in the feeling of universal desolation.

  He looked at some books. They were by Ethel M. Dell, Elinor Glyn, Charles Garvice, and Marie Corelli; nothing he wanted to read. Matron’s footfalls came along the passage. He was relieved to see her face again.

  “You look properly tired out! And wanting to exhaust yourself further! Now b
e a good boy and have a bath. You’ll find a dressing-gown in the cupboard, and also a bath-robe, for if you want to go sea bathing. Dr. Minstrel’s permission must first be sought, of course.”

  “Thank you, Matron. By the way, do you know when another officer of the same name as myself is coming?”

  “William Beare Maddison? He’s our third wounded case, and is due next week.”

  “What’s the other chap from France like?”

  “Piston? Oh, he’s a mad devil.”

  “I see. Are there any more patients here?”

  “Certainly! But they’re all home service, thank goodness. What you need is a nice quiet time, and you’ll get it here at Hollerday.”

  He felt more depressed than ever.

  “Now I’ll run your bath. The smell you’ll smell will be Sanitas. It’s bracing, as well as antiseptic.”

  When he had bathed he felt better. A nurse brought with his dinner tray a Late Extra copy of The Globe evening newspaper, which had come all the way from London by the same train as himself. It contained a violent attack on Asquith, blaming him for the “virtual failure of the Battle of the Somme”.

  At eleven o’clock next morning the doctor, who arrived on a pony, gave Phillip leave to get up, with orders to take things easily for the first week or two. As soon as he could he got out of the gloomy house and went down the cliff railway to the village below, to stroll around with the two girls until it was time to return up the watery cliff, green with ferns, for luncheon. Down again afterwards, and back in time for dinner; one more visit, up again by nine o’clock, and bed; a few pages of Only a Girl until, feeling sleepy, he turned the ivory button of the shaded lamp by his bed, and snuggled down to sleep. One more day, and Willie would be coming, and then Percy Pickering. Life could not be better.

  *

  Theodora Maddison had been using her cottage during the spring and summer months as a rest home in connexion with the “Mothers’ Arms”, the old public house turned into a crêche in the East End, where babies could be looked after while the mothers were out to work. During the early summer she had invited some of the mothers down for a change of scenery; but this had been a mistake. They missed the familiar streets and faces which helped them to bear grief, the suspense of their men being at the front. One of her visitors had heard that her husband had been killed on the Somme; for her the green glooms of the valley had been the very loneliness of death, the sea was grief itself, with no children to give consoling warmth. So back trooped the resting mothers, to find relief in known factory smells, dolman capes, black bonnets and lined faces, by which hope flowed back again.

  So let Ionian Cottage be for the young people; and here they were, five young faces around her table, Percy and Willie having arrived the evening before, Percy for but three days. As soon as he arrived Dora saw by the bright eyes of Doris, and the bloom upon her cheeks, that the two young people were in love. She felt warm liking for Percy: an honest, rosy-faced country boy, a little slow perhaps, and with an ordinary mind, but that was all to the good; there was enough nervous tautness already in the family. How little Doris, stout defender of her mother against the paternal irascibilities, had come on! How glad she was that she had invited them all, these young people with their fresh young faces, in the very springtime of life. The continuity of a family was so important: all members of a family should come together at least once a year. Let them differ, by all means; but let them hold together, let them know the feeling of belonging to a family. Could she not persuade Dicky and John and Hetty to visit her also, as they had twenty-one years ago? Twenty-one years—it seemed little more than yesterday, that summer of 1895, when Phillip had been a baby, and Willie still in the aetherial world. They should, of course, meet in the old home at Rookhurst: but brother John was hopeless, with no feeling of responsibility as head of the family.

  *

  It had rained almost without break for a week; the mouth of the valley was overhung darkly, the river in spate, salmon running. Then the clouds lifted; but rain fell again, and in the dark of the valley Dora lost some of her feeling of hopefulness, and relapsed into her reflective mind, which had given up the struggle for a fairer world, and accepted the literature of the Ancients as a revelation of the inevitable fate of European civilisation. In this mood the happiness of the young people was poignant, so gay and care-free were they, regarding the war as something entirely apart from their lives. They appeared to accept it without question.

  In Dora’s mind the war had entered upon its most terrible phase; she realised now that it would be a long and bitter struggle. Once single-minded in opposing the war, her mind was now cleft: the run of her thoughts went in two directions; that no military tyranny must be allowed to dominate the world of Christendom; that the cousin nations of Europe were likely to bleed themselves to death. What new world could come, as many were saying, out of the chaos that so titanic a struggle must leave behind it? This lonely woman reflected upon the rivalries of the Hellenic City states, which had destroyed one another until the fairest and clearest light of the ancient world was extinguished. No, not wholly extinguished: Pallas Athene had survived, flying in the twilight from the sad ruins of Athens, to settle for awhile with the white bird of the Khristos, uneasily in the kingdoms of the West.

  If only she could feel sure about the sole responsibility of Germany for bringing about the war! Surely in both cousin countries hubris had been long growing; materialism, based on coal and iron, had dulled and despoiled the plumage of owl and dove. Was Christendom, surely arising from the spirit of Hellenism, to sink forever under the machines of Armageddon, above the valley of Desolation, which history might well decide to have been the valley of the Somme? Where, even in one year’s time, would be the faces around the cottage table, laughing now over games of rummy and nap, snakes-and-ladders, ludo, tiddlywinks and halma—bought at the village shop which was also the post-office—while it rained and rained outside. Would they be lost in the flames—that innocent, guileless country boy Percy, with his rosy cheeks, his slow speech? Phillip with his ready smile, his wit, his startling resemblance to the bust of Alcibiades in the Vatican at Rome, his look of trying to resolve some problem which he did not fully understand—his mind still clouded, an effect, perhaps, of having been the unhappiest small boy she had ever known? Willie with his warm, brown-eyed eagerness, his quick, intelligent movements? Were these faces fated to vanish in their generation, with the singers, the poets, the splendid young men who had already fallen, voices of a generation doomed before it could come fully to flower—Rupert Brooke, Julian Grenfell, and unknown others whose deathless verses would, in Time, be all that remained of a generation lost in the holocaust?

  “Have you still got the copy of Rupert Brooke’s poems I sent you, Boy?”

  “Oh yes, Aunt Dora.”

  “What do you think of the 1914 sonnets?”

  “I think they are very fine, but—— Well—it’s only my opinion, of course—probably quite wrong——” He looked uncertainly at her. “Yes, I think they are very fine.”

  “What are?” asked Willie. Dora told him and he said promptly, “Yes, but they could only have been written before Gallipoli and the Somme.”

  “I think he’s right,” said Phillip. “Also Julian Grenfell’s Into Battle.”

  “I am glad you are not afraid to speak your minds,” said Dora, coming between them, and taking an arm of each. “I am most interested to hear what your generation has to say. So far I know you only by what your poets have said. Won’t you tell me more? What do you think about it all, Phillip?”

  His mind winced; imagination fluttered hopeless into the void. Dora sensed this. “I expect the thought of die war is too overwhelming—it will take years to see it in perspective. And why should you have to think about what you have passed through, to satisfy an old woman’s curiosity? Now I do declare,” she said, going to the window, “I see the sun coming out! That is one of the virtues of our West Country weather; one moment a sky bla
ck as your hat, as they say in the village, and then the clouds lift, their tails drag, and lo! suddenly it might be the Aegean!”

  “Well, with all due respect the Aegean is one place I don’t want to see again,” said Willie.

  When he had gone away Dora, who felt herself rebuffed by her younger nephew’s manner, said to Phillip, “I wonder if you can spare a moment to glance at a book I have here, before you go for your walk.”

  She put a large book on the table, containing photographs of sculptures ranging from the ancient to the modern world, beginning in Greece, continuing past the Dark Ages to the Renaissance, and ending in a Paris garden. She hoped he would be interested; he was more composed than Willie, who was too restless, too taut. She was happy to see Phillip settle down to the book, apparently finding it interesting. When he had come to the end she asked him which period he liked best. He said that he preferred the last statues, then the ones in the middle, and the early ones last of all—Rodin, Donatello, Phidias.

  “Now that is most interesting! You are for the romantic, rather than the classic. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so. It was explained to me by my colonel, Jasper Kingsman. He said that the classic is the hard, objective line, the romantic the tender, subjective line.”

  “Well, can you see the difference between Rodin and Phidias?”

  “One is beautiful; the other is beyond the beautiful. But both dream, you know.”

  “How well you express yourself! In saying that you reveal the classic basis of your mind! You understand both subjective and objective attitudes.”

  “I like both Rodin and Phidias.”

  “Phidias, to me, is perfection. He was responsible for the temple of Athena in the Acropolis—you have heard of the Parthenon?”

  “Only just.”

  “Such genius of course caused jealousy, and Phidias eventually was accused of impiety, in having put both his own likeness, and that of his patron Pericles, on the shield of Athena the goddess—what in a later age would be called blasphemy. So he was cast into prison, where he died of disease—the greatest sculptor of the ancient world. But that is the idiom of history, of all the poets and the great men, in any age. We have to accept it. It is the spirit of man at its highest expression, confronted by ordinary men. But you will be wanting to join the others in their bathe. I must not ride my hobby horse.”