Dearest: I am particularly homesick for you to-night, because it's my birthday eve. Twenty-one to-morrow, but passing for nineteen. And isn't it annoying, I went and blurted out in Winchester two days ago that I had a birthday hanging over me. I'm awfully afraid Sir Lionel thinks himself bound to give me a present. If he does, and I can't get out of taking it, I shall have to pass it on to Ellaline, of course, when I'm passing everything else on--including myself.
I know you're thinking of me to-night, as you walk after dinner under the glorious chestnut trees you describe in the park at Champel-les-Bains. I wish you had an astral body! It wouldn't take up any room, or have to pay railway fares, or wait for invitations to visit, and it could easily be one of the party in Sir Lionel's car. So nice to have it sitting between me and Dick Burden!
I wanted you dreadfully at Winchester, as I wrote you in the note I scribbled after seeing the cathedral. I wish I'd told you more about Winchester then, for now it's too late. All Stonehenge is lying on top of my Winchester impressions, and it will take them a little time to squeeze from underneath. They will come out, though, I know, none the worse for wear. And how I shall talk this trip over with you, when we're together again, and I know the end that's hiding behind the motor-veil of the future!
Mother, dear, when I shut my eyes to-night, I see Barrows, billowing prehistorically along the horizon, and I see Stonehenge, black against a red sunset, and silver in the moonlight. Also, I have begun to think architecturally, I find, through seeing so much architecture, and trying to talk about it intelligently, as Mrs. Senter contrives to do. (I believe she fags it up at night, with a wet towel over her hair wavers!)
Do you know what it is to think architecturally? Well, for me (not apropos of Mrs. S. at all), a made-up woman is "well restored," or "repaired." An intellectual-looking man, with a fine head, has Norman bumps and Gothic ears. A puppy with big feet is an early Perp., with Norman foundations, and so on. It gives a new interest to life and the creatures we meet. Emily is late Georgian, with Victorian elevations.
I hated leaving Winchester; but oh, those Barrows we saw, when we were coming away! They made most antique things seem as new as a china cup with "For a Good Girl" outlined on it in gold letters. So many stupendous events have scattered themselves along this road of ours, as the centuries rolled, that it makes the brain reel, trying to gather them up, and sort them into some kind of sequence. Often I wish I could sit and admire calmly, as Mrs. Senter can, and not get boiling with excitement over the past. But one is so uncomfortably intelligent, one can't stop thinking, thinking every minute. Every tiny thing I see has its little "thought sting," ready like a mosquito; and a fancy that has lately stabbed me is the striking resemblance between English scenery, or its features, and English character. The best bits in both are shy of showing themselves, and never flaunt. They are so reserved that to find them out you must search. All the loveliest nooks in English country and in English souls are hidden from strangers. Why, the very cottages try to hide under veils of clematis and roses, as the cottage children hide their thoughts behind long eyelashes.
We came to Salisbury by way of Romsey, and got out to see the splendid old church which almost ranks with Winchester Cathedral as a monument of England. And Romsey Abbey, too, very beautiful, even thrilling; still more ancient Hursley, with its earthworks, about which, for once, Sir Lionel and Dick Burden were congenial. Of course, men who have been soldiers like Sir Lionel, or tried to be soldiers and couldn't, like Dick, must know something about the formation of such things; but anyone may be interested--except a Mrs. Norton.
You and I had no motoring when we were travellers, so we didn't see Europe as I am seeing England; still, I don't believe any other country has this individuality of vast, billowing downs. As you bowl smoothly from one to another, over perfect roads, you have a series of surprises, new beauties opening suddenly to your eyes. It is exciting, yet soothing; and that mingling of emotions is part of the joy of the car. For motorists, the downs of Hampshire and Wiltshire are like a goddess's beautiful breasts; and Nature is a goddess, isn't she?--the greatest of all, combining all their best qualities.
This White Hart was a nice hotel, but I rather resent the foreign waiters, as out of the picture, in such an essentially old-fashioned, English place. I like the animal names of the hotels in England. Already we have seen a lot; and they form into a quaint, colourful, Noah's Ark and heraldic procession across the country. The Black Bull; The Golden Unicorn; The Blue Boar; The Red Lion; The Piebald Horse; The Green Dragon; The White Hart. I am still longing for a Purple Bear.
The first thing we did after getting settled (which I always like, as I haven't enough luggage to make much bother) was to walk out and see the town. I kept Dick with me, not because I wanted him, you may be sure, but because I can see he is a blot on the 'scutcheon for Sir Lionel, and I feel so guilty, having forced him into the party, that I try to attract the Blot to myself. If I mention the Blot in future, you'll know what it is. When I'm very desperate, I may just fling a drop of ink on the paper to relieve my feelings, and that will mean the same thing. The Blot puts on an air of the most exaggerated respect for Sir Lionel. You'd fancy he was talking to a centenarian. Horrid, pert little pig! (I think pigs run in their family.) I know he does it on purpose to be nasty, and make Sir Lionel feel an old stager. Do you remember the pig-baby in "Alice's Adventures"?
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.
Not that it need, for Sir Lionel looks about thirty-four. Nobody would give him forty unless they saw it in books; and he is like a knight of romance. There! Now you have the opinion I have come to hold of Ellaline's dragon. For me, the Dragon has turned into a Knight. But, of course, I may be mistaken. Mrs. Senter says that no girl can ever possibly understand a man, and that a man is really much more complicated than a woman, though the novelists tell you it's the other way round.
We started out, all of us, except Emily, who lies down after tea, to walk to John Halle's Hall, a most interesting banqueting room, which is now a china-shop, but was built by a rich wool-stapler (such a nice word!) in 1470, as you can see on the oak carvings. But there was so much to do on the way, that we saw the Hall, and the old George Inn--where Pepys lay "in a silk bed and had very good diet"--last of all.
The antique furniture shops were simply enthralling, and I wanted nearly everything I saw. Travelling is good for the mind, but it develops one or two of the worst passions, such as Greed of Possession. We went into several shops, and I could have purred with joy when Sir Lionel asked me to help him choose several things for Graylees, which he would have sent on there, direct. He seemed to care more for my advice than for Mrs. Senter's, and I don't think she quite liked that, for she really knows a good deal about old English furniture, whereas I know nothing--only a little about French and Italian things.
The streets of Salisbury, with their mediæval houses, look exactly as if they had been originally planned to give the most delightful effects possible when their pictures were taken. Every corner is a gem; and Sir Lionel told us that the old rectangular part of the town was planned more or less at one time. Of course, the people who did the planning had plenty of time to think it all over, before moving down from Old Sarum, which was so high and bleak they couldn't hear the priest saying mass in the cathedral, because of the wind. Fancy! Salisbury used to be called the "Venice of England"; but I must say, if one can judge now, the simile was far-fetched.
Lots of martyrs were burnt in Salisbury, it seems, when that sort of thing was in fashion, so no wonder they have to keep Bloody Queen Mary's chair in Winchester instead of Salisbury, where they've a right to feel a grudge against the wretched little, bilious bigot of a lovesick woman. Sir Lionel has several well-known martyrs on his family tree, Mrs. Norton says; and she is as proud of them as most people are of royal bar-sinisters. I never thought martyrs particularly interesting myself, though perhaps that's an uneasy jealousy, as we've none in our family that I know of--only a witch or so on father's side. Poor dears, what a pity they couldn't have waited till now to be born, when, instead of burning or drowning them, people would have paid them to tell nice things about the past and predict lovers for the future!
Witches were fascinating; but many martyrs probably marted out of sheer obstinacy, don't you think? Of course, it was different when they executed you without giving you a chance to recant, as they did with political prisoners; and do you know, they cut off poor witty Buckingham's head in Salisbury market-place? "So much for Buckingham!" Where it came off, there's an inn, now, called the Saracen's Head. I wonder if it was chopped off in the neighbourhood, too, or if it's only a pleasant fancy, to cover up the Buckingham stain in the yard? Anyhow, they tell you there that in 1838 Buckingham's skeleton was dug up under the kitchen of what used to be the Blue Boar Inn. But even that isn't as ghastly a tale as another one of Salisbury: how one of Jack Cade's "quarters" was sent to the town when he'd been executed. I should have liked to know if it's still to be seen, but I thought it would be hardly nice to ask.
We saved the cathedral for the last, and just as we were in the midst of sight-seeing there, it was time for service, so we sat down and listened to music which seemed to fall from heaven. There's nothing more glorious than music in a cathedral, is there? Usually it makes me feel good; but this time it made me feel so sinful, on account of Ellaline, and Sir Lionel and Dick, that I almost cried. Do you think, dear, that if I were in a novel they would have me for a heroine or a wicked adventuress? I hae me doots; but my one hope is, that you can't be an adventuress if you really mean well at heart, and are under twenty-two.
Maybe I'd expected too much of Salisbury Cathedral, because I'd always heard more about it than others in England, but it wasn't quite so glorious to me as Winchester. It's far more harmonious, because it was planned all at one time, like the town, and there's singularly little foreign influence to be traced in the architecture, which makes it different from most others, and extraordinarily interesting in its way. It's very, very old, too, but it is so white and clean that it looks new. And one great beauty it has: its whiteness seems always flooded with moonlight, even when sunshine is streaming over the noble pillars and lovely tombs.
This morning I went back, with Emily, to service, and wandered from chapel to chapel, till nearly luncheon time. Then Sir Lionel came, and took me up strange, hidden, winding stairs, to the den of the librarian. It was like stealing into an enchanted castle, where all save the librarian slept, and had slept for centuries. When it was time to go away, I was afraid that Sir Lionel might have forgotten the magic spell which would open the door and let us escape. There were interesting things there, but we weren't allowed to look at the ones we wanted to see most, till we were too tired to enjoy them, after seeing the ones we didn't want to see at all. But you know, in another enchanted castle, that of the Sleeping Beauty, there was only one lovely princess, and goodness knows how many snorey bores.
At three, we started to motor out to Stonehenge; and Sir Lionel chose to be late, because he wanted to be there at sunset, which he knew--from memory--to be the most thrilling picture for us to carry away in our heads.
Nobody ever told me what an imposing sight Old Sarum remains, to this day, so I was surprised and impressed by the giant conical knoll standing up out of the plain and its own intrenchments. I'd just been reading about it in the guide-book, how important it used to be to England, when it was still a city, and how it was a fortress of the Celts when the Romans came and snatched it from them; but I had no idea of its appearance. I would have liked to go with Sir Lionel to walk round the intrenchments, but he asked only Dick. However, Mrs. Senter volunteered to go, at the last moment, just as they were starting, and Emily and I were left, flotsam and jetsam, in the car, to wait till they came back.
I wasn't bored, however, because Emily read a religious novel by Marie Corelli, and didn't worry to talk. So I could sit in peace, seeing with my mind's eye the pageant of William the Conqueror reviewing his troops in the plain over which Old Sarum gloomily towers. Such a lurid plain it is, this month of poppies, red as if its arid slopes were stained with the blood of ghostly armies slain in battle.
But it was going back further into history to come to Amesbury. You know, dear, Queen Guinevere's Amesbury, where she repented in the nunnery she'd founded, and the little novice sang to her "Too late! Too late!" When she was buried, King Arthur had "a hundred torches ever burning about the corpse of the queen." Can't you see the beautiful picture? And when her nunnery was gone in 980, another queen, far, far more wicked than Guinevere, built on the same spot a convent to expiate the murder of her stepson at Corfe Castle. We are going to Corfe, by and by, so I shall send my thoughts back to Amesbury from there, in spite of the fact that Elfreda's nuns became so naughty they had to be banished. Nor shall I forget a lover who loved at Amesbury--Sir George Rodney, who adored the fascinating Countess of Hertford so desperately, that after her marriage he composed some verses in her honour, and fell then upon his sword. Why don't men do such things for us nowadays? Were the "dear, dead women" so much more desirable than we?
Wasn't Amesbury a beautiful "leading up" to Stonehenge? It's quite near, you know. It doesn't seem as if anything ought to be near, but a good many things are--such as farms. Yet they don't spoil it. You never even think of them, or of anything except Stonehenge itself, once you have seen the first great, dark finger of stone, pointing mysteriously skyward out of the vast plain.
That is the way Stonehenge breaks on you, suddenly, startlingly, like a cry in the night.
I was very glad we had the luck to arrive alone, for not long after we'd entered the charmed, magic circle of the giant plinths, a procession of other motor-cars poured up to the gates. Droves of chauffeurs, and bevies of pretty ladies in motor hats swarmed like living anachronisms among the monuments of the past. Of course, we didn't seem to ourselves to be anachronisms, because what is horrid in other people is always quite different and excusable, or even piquant, in oneself; and I hastily argued that our motor, Apollo, the Sun God, was really appropriate in this place of fire worship. Even the Druids couldn't have objected to him, although they would probably have sacrificed all of us in a bunch, unless we could have hastily proved that we were a new kind of god and goddess, driving chariots of fire. (Anyhow, motor-cars are making history just as much as the Druids did, so they ought to be welcome anywhere, in any scene, and they seem to have more right to be at Stonehenge than patronizing little Pepys.)
You remember Rolde, in Holland, don't you, with its miniature Stonehenge? Well, it might have been made for Druids' children to play dolls with, compared to this.
If the Phoenicians raised Stonehenge in worship of their fiery god, they had good reason to flatter themselves that it would attract his attention. And I do think it was sensible to choose the sun for a god. Next to our own true religion, that seems the most comforting. There was your deity, in full sight, looking after one side or the other of his world, all through the twenty-four hours.
I never felt more awe-stricken than I did passing under the shadow of those great sentinel plinths, guarding their sunken altar, hiding their own impenetrable mysteries. The winds seemed to blow more chill, and to whisper strangely, as if trying to tell secrets we could never understand. I love the legend of the Friar's Heel, but, after all, it's only a mediæval legend, and it's more interesting to think that, from the middle of the sacrificial altar, the priest could see the sun rise (at the summer solstice) just above that stupendous stone. I stood there, imagining a white-robed Druid looking up, his knife suspended over a fair girl victim, waiting to strike until his eye should meet the red eye of the sun. Oh, I shall have bad dreams about Stonehenge, I know! But I shan't mind, if I can dream about the Duke of Buckingham digging for treasure there at midnight. And if I were like Du Maurier's dear Peter Ibbetson, I could "dream back," and see at what far distance the builders of Stonehenge got their mysterious syenite, and that one black sandstone so different from the rest. I could dream who were the builders; whether Phoenicians, or mourning Britons of Arthur's day--as Geoffrey of Monmouth tells.
Sir Lionel and I like to think it was the Britons, for that gives him a family feeling for the place, since he read out of a book Warton's sonnet:
"Thou noblest monument of Albion's Isle,
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
Huge frame of giants' hands, the mighty pile
To entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile,
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught 'mid the massy maze their mystic lore."
Next time, I want to see Stonehenge from an airship, or, at a pinch, a balloon, because I can judge better of the original form, the two circles and the two ellipses, which the handsomest policeman I ever saw out of a Christmas Annual explained to me, pacing the rough grass. He lives at Stonehenge all day, with a dog, and they are both guardians. I asked him if he had not beautiful thoughts, but he said, not in winter, Miss, it was too cold to think then, except about hot soup. Stonehenge is very becoming to this young man, especially at sunset. And, dearest, you can hardly imagine the glory of those piled stones as you look back at them, going slowly, slowly away, and seeing them purple-black against a crimson streak of sunset like a smoking torch.
We got lost, trying to find the river road, going home, and had great fun, straying into meadows, and onto ploughed ground, which poor Apollo resented. The way was beautiful, past some lovely old houses and exquisite cottages; and the Avon was idyllic in its pretty windings. But the villages of Wiltshire I don't find as poetical as those in Surrey and Sussex or Hampshire.
You would never guess what I'm going to do to-morrow morning? I'm not sure you'd let me, if you knew. But a ward doesn't need a chaperon with a guardian. He plays both parts. I'm to get up early--before the sun is awake--and Sir Lionel is to motor me out to Stonehenge, so that I can see it by sunrise as well as sunset. It is a beautiful idea, and the handsome policeman has promised to be there and let us in.
Seeing a sunrise is like a glorified Private View, I think. I expect to feel as Louis of Bavaria must have felt when he had a Wagner opera all to himself.
Now I am going down to post this, so that it can leave for London by the last train, and start for Switzerland in the morning--of my birthday. I shall count the sunrise a birthday present from heaven if it's fine; and if it isn't I shall know, what I suspect already, that I don't deserve one.
