July 30
The other day R⸺ and I were sitting on a stile on the uplands in perfect summer weather and talking of happy days before the War—he was in khaki and I was resting my “gammy” leg. … As we talked, we let our eyes roam, resting luxuriously wherever we pleased and occasionally interrupting the conversation with “Look at that cow scratching herself against the Oak,” or “Do you see the oats waving?” In the distance we saw a man and a boy walking up towards us along the path through the corn, but the eye having momentarily scrutinised them wandered away and the conversation never paused. When next I looked, they were much nearer—crossing the furrows in the potato field in fact, and we both stopped talking to watch—idly. The boy seemed to be about 10 years old, and it amused us to see his great difficulty in stepping across the furrows.
“Poor little chap,” R⸺ said, and we laughed.
Then the boy stumbled badly and all at once the man lifted his walking-stick and beat him, saying ill-naturedly, “Step between the furrows,” and again, “Step between the furrows.” Our enchanting little picture was transfigured in an instant. The “charming little boy” was a natural idiot—a gross, hefty creature perhaps 30 years of age, very short and very thick, dressed in a little sailor suit. I said, “Heavens,” and R⸺ looked positively scared. We stood aside for them to get over the stile, the “boy” still suffering from his over exertion, breathing stertorously like a horse pulling uphill and still evidently fearful of the big stick behind. He scrambled over the stile as best he could, rolling a wild eye at us as he did so—a large, bulgy eye with the lower lid swollen and sore, like the eye of a terrified ox on the way to the slaughter house. So much then for our little picture of charming childhood! The man followed close at his heels and looked at me with stern defiant eyes. “Yes, that is my son,” his eyes declaimed, “and I’ll thank you to avert your gaze or by the Lord I’ll beat you too.”
Last week, I saw a yellow cat perched up quite high on a window ledge at the S⸺ Underground Station in celestial detachment from the crowd of serious, black-coated gentlemen hustling along to and from the trains. He had his back turned to us, but as I swept past in the stream, I was forced to look back a moment, and caught the outline of his whiskers—it made me smile intensely to myself and secretly I gave the palm to the cat for wisdom.