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aesthetically。 Here； said I to myself； are two tremendously important and
exciting emotions。 Life would be richer； warmer； brighter； altogether
more amusing； if I could feel them。 I try to feel them。 I read the works
of the mystics。 They seemed to me nothing but the most deplorable
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claptrapas indeed they always must to anyone who does not feel the
same emotion as the authors felt when they were writing。 For it is the
emotion that matters。 The written work is simply an attempt to express
emotion； which is in itself inexpressible； in terms of intellect and logic。
The mystic objectifies a rich feeling in the pit of the stomach into a
cosmology。 For other mystics that cosmology is a symbol of the rich
feeling。 For the unreligious it is a symbol of nothing； and so appears
merely grotesque。 A melancholy fact！ But I divagate。〃 Mr。 Scogan
checked himself。 〃So much for the religious emotion。 As for the
aestheticI was at even greater pains to cultivate that。 I have looked at
all the right works of art in every part of Europe。 There was a time when；
I venture to believe； I knew more about Taddeo da Poggibonsi； more about
the cryptic Amico di Taddeo； even than Henry does。 To…day； I am happy
to say； I have forgotten most of the knowledge I then so laboriously
acquired； but without vanity I can assert that it was prodigious。 I don't
pretend； of course； to know anything about nigger sculpture or the later
seventeenth century in Italy； but about all the periods that were
fashionable before 1900 I am； or was； omniscient。 Yes； I repeat it；
omniscient。 But did that fact make me any more appreciative of art in
general？ It did not。 Confronted by a picture； of which I could tell you
all the known and presumed historythe date when it was painted； the
character of the painter； the influences that had gone to make it what it
wasI felt none of that strange excitement and exaltation which is； as I am
informed by those who do feel it； the true aesthetic emotion。 I felt
nothing but a certain interest in the subject of the picture； or more often；
when the subject was hackneyed and religious； I felt nothing but a great
weariness of spirit。 Nevertheless； I must have gone on looking at
pictures for ten years before I would honestly admit to myself that they
merely bored me。 Since then I have given up all attempts to take a
holiday。 I go on cultivating my old stale daily self in the resigned spirit
with which a bank clerk performs from ten till six his daily task。 A
holiday； indeed！ I'm sorry for you； Gombauld； if you still look forward to
having a holiday。〃
Gombauld shrugged his shoulders。 〃Perhaps；〃 he said； 〃my standards
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aren't as elevated as yours。 But personally I found the war quite as
thorough a holiday from all the ordinary decencies and sanities； all the
common emotions and preoccupations； as I ever want to have。〃
〃Yes；〃 Mr。 Scogan thoughtfully agreed。 〃Yes； the war was certainly
something of a holiday。 It was a step beyond Southend； it was Weston…
super…Mare； it was almost Ilfracombe。〃
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CHAPTER XXVI。
A little canvas village of tents and booths had sprung up； just beyond
the boundaries of the garden； in the green expanse of the park。 A crowd
thronged its streets； the men dressed mostly in blackholiday best； funeral
bestthe women in pale muslins。 Here and there tricolour bunting hung
inert。 In the midst of the canvas town； scarlet and gold and crystal； the
merry…go…round glittered in the sun。 The balloon…man walked among the
crowd； and above his head； like a huge； inverted bunch of many…coloured
grapes； the balloons strained upwards。 With a scythe…like motion the
boat…swings reaped the air； and from the funnel of the engine which
worked the roundabout rose a thin； scarcely wavering column of black
smoke。
Denis had climbed to the top of one of Sir Ferdinando's towers； and
there； standing on the sun…baked leads； his elbows resting on the parapet；
he surveyed the scene。 The steam…organ sent up prodigious music。 The
clashing of automatic cymbals beat out with inexorable precision the
rhythm of piercingly sounded melodies。 The harmonies were like a
musical shattering of glass and brass。 Far down in the bass the Last
Trump was hugely blowing； and with such persistence； such resonance；
that its alternate tonic and dominant detached themselves from the rest of
the music and made a tune of their own； a loud； monotonous see… saw。
Denis leaned over the gulf of swirling noise。 If he threw himself over
the parapet； the noise would surely buoy him up； keep him suspended；
bobbing； as a fountain balances a ball on its breaking crest。 Another
fancy came to him； this time in metrical form。
〃My soul is a thin white sheet of parchment stretched Over a bubbling
cauldron。〃
Bad； bad。 But he liked the idea of something thin and distended
being blown up from underneath。
〃My soul is a thin tent of gut。。。〃
or better
〃My soul is a pale； tenuous membrane。。。〃
That was pleasing： a thin； tenuous membrane。 It had the right
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anatomical quality。 Tight blown； quivering in the blast of noisy life。 It
was time for him to descend from the serene empyrean of words into the
actual vortex。 He went down slowly。 〃My soul is a t