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veneered mahogany pieces。 My mother had an equal dread of 〃blacks〃
by day and the 〃night air；〃 so that our brightly clean windows were
rarely open。
She took a morning paper； and she would open it and glance at the
headlines； but she did not read it until the afternoon and then； I
think； she was interested only in the more violent crimes； and in
railway and mine disasters and in the minutest domesticities of the
Royal Family。 Most of the books at home were my father's； and I do
not think she opened any of them。 She had one or two volumes that
dated from her own youth； and she tried in vain to interest me in
them； there was Miss Strickland's QUEENS OF ENGLAND； a book I
remember with particular animosity； and QUEECHY and the WIDE WIDE
WORLD。 She made these books of hers into a class apart by sewing
outer covers upon them of calico and figured muslin。 To me in these
habiliments they seemed not so much books as confederated old
ladies。
My mother was also very punctual with her religious duties； and
rejoiced to watch me in the choir。
On winter evenings she occupied an armchair on the other side of the
table at which I sat； head on hand reading； and she would be darning
stockings or socks or the like。 We achieved an effect of rather
stuffy comfortableness that was soporific； and in a passive way I
think she found these among her happy times。 On such occasions she
was wont to put her work down on her knees and fall into a sort of
thoughtless musing that would last for long intervals and rouse my
curiosity。 For like most young people I could not imagine mental
states without definite forms。
She carried on a correspondence with a number of cousins and
friends； writing letters in a slanting Italian hand and dealing
mainly with births； marriages and deaths； business starts （in the
vaguest terms） and the distresses of bankruptcy。
And yet； you know； she did have a curious intimate life of her own
that I suspected nothing of at the time； that only now becomes
credible to me。 She kept a diary that is still in my possession； a
diary of fragmentary entries in a miscellaneous collection of pocket
books。 She put down the texts of the sermons she heard； and queer
stiff little comments on casual visitors；〃 Miss G。 and much noisy
shrieking talk about games and such frivolities and CROQUAY。 A。
delighted and VERY ATTENTIVE。〃 Such little human entries abound。
She had an odd way of never writing a name； only an initial； my
father is always 〃A。；〃 and I am always 〃D。〃 It is manifest she
followed the domestic events in the life of the Princess of Wales；
who is now Queen Mother； with peculiar interest and sympathy。 〃Pray
G。 all may be well；〃 she writes in one such crisis。
But there are things about myself that I still find too poignant to
tell easily； certain painful and clumsy circumstances of my birth in
very great detail； the distresses of my infantile ailments。 Then
later I find such things as this： 〃Heard D。 s。〃 The 〃s〃 is
evidently 〃swear 〃〃 G。 bless and keep my boy from evil。〃 And
again； with the thin handwriting shaken by distress： 〃D。 would not
go to church； and hardened his heart and said wicked infidel things；
much disrespect of the clergy。 The anthem is tiresome！！！ That men
should set up to be wiser than their maker！！！〃 Then trebly
underlined： 〃I FEAR HIS FATHER'S TEACHING。〃 Dreadful little tangle
of misapprehensions and false judgments！ More comforting for me to
read； 〃D。 very kind and good。 He grows more thoughtful every day。〃
I suspect myself of forgotten hypocrisies。
At just one point my mother's papers seem to dip deeper。 I think
the death of my father must have stirred her for the first time for
many years to think for herself。 Even she could not go on living in
any peace at all； believing that he had indeed been flung headlong
into hell。 Of this gnawing solicitude she never spoke to me； never；
and for her diary also she could find no phrases。 But on a loose
half…sheet of notepaper between its pages I find this passage that
follows； written very carefully。 I do not know whose lines they are
nor how she came upon them。 They run：
〃And if there be no meeting past the grave；
If all is darkness； silence； yet 'tis rest。
Be not afraid ye waiting hearts that weep；
For God still giveth His beloved sleep；
And if an endless sleep He wills； so best。〃
That scrap of verse amazed me when I read it。 I could even wonder
if my mother really grasped the import of what she had copied out。
It affected me as if a stone…deaf person had suddenly turned and
joined in a whispered conversation。 It set me thinking how far a
mind in its general effect quite hopelessly limited； might range。
After that I went through all her diaries； trying to find something
more than a conventional term of tenderness for my father。 But I
found nothing。 And yet somehow there grew upon me the realisation
that there had been love。 。 。 。 Her love for me； on the other hand；
was abundantly expressed。
I knew nothing of that secret life of feeling at the time； such
expression as it found was all beyond my schoolboy range。 I did not
know when I pleased her and I did not know when I distressed her。
Chiefly I was aware of my mother as rather dull company； as a mind
thorny with irrational conclusions and incapable of explication； as
one believing quite wilfully and irritatingly in impossible things。
So I suppose it had to be； life was coming to me in new forms and
with new requirements。 It was essential to our situation that we
should fail to understand。 After this space of years I have come to
realisations and attitudes that dissolve my estrangement from her； I
can pierce these barriers； I can see her and feel her as a loving
and feeling and desiring and muddle…headed person。 There are times
when I would have her alive again； if only that I might be kind to
her for a little while and give her some return for the narrow
intense affection； the tender desires； she evidently lavished so
abundantly on me。 But then again I ask how I could make that
return？ And I realise the futility of such dreaming。 Her demand
was rigid； and to meet it I should need to act and lie。
So she whose blood fed me； whose body made me； lies in my memory as
I saw her last； fixed； still； infinitely intimate； infinitely
remote。 。 。 。
My own case with my mother； however； does not awaken the same regret
I feel when I think of how she misjudged and irked my father； and
turned his weaknesses into thorns for her own tormenting。 I wish I
could look back without that little twinge to two people who were
both in their different quality so good。 But goodness that is
narrow is a pedestrian and ineffectual goodness。 Her attitude to my
father seems to me one of the essentially tragic things that have
come to me personally； one of those things that nothing can
transfigure； that REMAIN sorrowful； that I cannot soothe with any
explanation； for as I remember him he was indeed the most lovable of
weak spasmodic men。 But my mother had been trained in a hard and
narrow system that made evil out of many things not in the least
evil； and inculcated neither kindliness nor charity。 All their
estrangement followed from that。
These cramping cults do indeed take an enormous toll of human love
and happiness； and not only that but what we Machiavellians must
needs consider； they make frightful breaches in human solidarity。 I
suppose I am a deeply religious man； as men of my quality go； but I
hate more and more； as I grow older； the shadow of intolerance cast
by religious organisations。 All my life has been darkened by
irrational intolerance； by arbitrary irrational prohibitions and
exclusions。 Mahometanism with its fierce proselytism； has； I
suppose； the bl