This place has beauty and charm; these piled-up woods behind which
my Lords Astor and Desborough keep their state, this shining mirror
of the water, brown and green and sky blue, this fringe of reeds and
scented rushes and forget-me-not and lilies, and these perpetually
posing white swans: they make a picture. A little artificial it is true;
one feels the presence of a Conservancy Board, planting the rushes and
industriously nicking the swans; but none the less delightful. And this
setting has appealed to a number of people as an invitation, as, in a
way, a promise. They come here, responsive to that promise of beauty
and happiness. They conceive of themselves here, rowing swiftly and
gracefully, punting beautifully, brandishing boat-hooks with ease and
charm. They look to meet, under pleasant or romantic circumstances,
other possessors and worshippers of grace and beauty here. There will
be glowing evenings, warm moonlight, distant voices singing....There is
your desire, doctor, the desire you say is the driving force of life.
But reality mocks it. Boats bump and lead to coarse ungracious
quarrels; rowing can be curiously fatiguing; punting involves dreadful
indignities. The romance here tarnishes very quickly. Romantic
encounters fail to occur; in our impatience we resort to--accosting.
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