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The Floating Press - Christopher Benson Arthur

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142 pages

English

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This epistolary novel from writer A. C. Benson explores the friendship between a schoolmaster, T. B. (whom many critics regard as a stand-in for Benson), and his old friend Herbert. Over the course of dozens of letters, the details of both correspondents' lives and pasts are revealed, as are their opinions and beliefs on a wide range of topics.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776596539
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE UPTON LETTERS
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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

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The Upton Letters First published in 1908 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-653-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-654-6 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Monk's Orchard, Upton, Jan. 23, 1904 Upton, Jan. 26, 1904 Upton, Feb. 3, 1904 Upton, Feb. 9, 1904 Upton, Shrove Tuesday, Feb. 16, 1904 Upton, Feb. 25, 1904 Upton, March 5, 1904 Upton, March 15, 1904 Upton, March 25, 1904 The Red Dragon, Compton Fereday, April 10, 1904 The Crossfoxes Inn, Bourton-on-the-Wold, April 16, 1904 The Blue Boar, Stanton Hardwick, April 21, 1904 The Blue Boar, Stanton Hardwick, April 25, 1904 Upton, May 2, 1904 Upton, May 9, 1904 Upton, May 15, 1904 Upton, May 21, 1904 Upton, May 28, 1904 Upton, June 4, 1904 Upton, June 11, 1904 Upton, June 18, 1904 Upton, June 25, 1904 Upton, July 1, 1904 Monk's Orchard, Upton, July 11, 1904 Upton, July 16, 1904 Upton, July 22, 1904 Upton, July 29, 1904 Upton, Aug. 4, 1904 Sennicotts, Honey Hill, East Grinstead, Aug. 9, 1904 Knapstead Vicarage, Baldock, Aug. 14, 1904 Greenhowe, Sedbergh, Aug. 21, 1904 Ashfield, Settle, Aug. 27, 1904 Ashfield, Settle, Sept. 4, 1904 Monk's Orchard, Upton, Sept. 13, 1904 Upton, Sept. 20, 1904 Upton, Sept. 26, 1904 Upton, Oct. 5, 1904 Monk's Orchard, Upton, Oct. 12, 1904 Upton, Oct. 19, 1904 Upton, Oct. 25, 1904 Upton, Nov. 1, 1904 Monk's Orchard, Upton, Nov. 8, 1904 Upton, Nov. 15, 1904 Upton, Nov. 22, 1904 Upton, Nov. 29, 1904 Upton, Dec. 5, 1904 Upton, Dec. 12, 1904 Oxford, Dec. 23, 1904 Pelham House, Hammersmith, Dec. 28, 1904 Sibthorpe Vicarage, Wells, Dec. 31, 1904 (and Jan. 1, 1905) Sibthorpe Vicarage, Wells, Jan. 7, 1905 Sibthorpe Vicarage, Wells, Jan. 7, 1905 I Add an Extract from My Diary—T. B.
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Aedae muri' eseidon oneirata, koudepo aos.
Preface
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These letters were returned to me, shortly after the death of thefriend to whom they were written, by his widow. It seems that he hadbeen sorting and destroying letters and papers a few days before hiswholly unexpected end. "We won't destroy these," he had said to her,holding the bulky packet of my letters in his hand; "we will keep themtogether. T— ought to publish them, and, some day, I hope he will."This was not, of course, a deliberate judgement; but his sudden death,a few days later, gives the unconsidered wish a certain sanctity, and Ihave determined to obey it. Moreover, she who has the best right todecide, desires it. A few merely personal matters and casual detailshave been omitted; but the main substance is there, and the letters arejust as they were written. Such hurried compositions, of course, aboundin literary shortcomings, but perhaps they have a certain spontaneitywhich more deliberate writings do not always possess. I wrote my best,frankest, and liveliest in the letters, because I knew that Herbertwould value both the thought and the expression of the thought. And,further, if it is necessary to excuse so speedy a publication, I feelthat they are not letters which would gain by being kept. Theirinterest arises from the time, the circumstance, the occasion that gavethem birth, from the books read and criticised, the educationalproblems discussed; and thus they may form a species of comment on acertain aspect of modern life, and from a definite point of view. But,after all, it is enough for me that he appreciated them, and, if hewished that they should go out to the world, well, let them go! Inpublishing them I am but obeying a last message of love.
T. B. MONK'S ORCHARD, UPTON, Feb. 20, 1905.
Monk's Orchard, Upton, Jan. 23, 1904
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MY DEAR HERBERT,—I have just heard the disheartening news, and I writeto say that I am sorry toto corde. I don't yet know the full extent ofthe calamity, the length of your exile, the place, or the conditionsunder which you will have to live. Perhaps you or Nelly can find timeto let me have a few lines about it all? But I suppose there is a goodside to it. I imagine that when the place is once fixed, you will beable to live a much freer life than you have of late been obliged tolive in England, with less risk and less overshadowing of anxiety. Ifyou can find the right region, renovabitur ut acquila juventus tua; andyou will be able to carry out some of the plans which have been sooften interrupted here. Of course there will be drawbacks. Books,society, equal talk, the English countryside which you love so well,and, if I may use the expression, so intelligently; they will all haveto be foregone in a measure. But fortunately there is no difficultyabout money, and money will give you back some of these delights. Youwill still see your real friends; and they will come to you with theintention of giving and getting the best of themselves and of you, notin the purposeless way in which one drifts into a visit here. You willbe able, too, to view things with a certain detachment—and that is areal advantage; for I have sometimes thought that your literary workhas suffered from the variety of your interests, and from your beingrather too close to them to form a philosophical view. Your love ofcharacteristic points of natural scenery will help you. When you haveonce grown familiar with the new surroundings, you will penetrate thesecret of their charm, as you have done here. You will be able, too, tolive a more undisturbed life, not fretted by all the cross-currentswhich distract a man in his own land, when he has a large variety ofties. I declare I did not know I was so good a rhetorician; I shall endby convincing myself that there is no real happiness to be found exceptin expatriation!
Seriously, my dear Herbert, I do understand the sadness of the change;but one gets no good by dwelling on the darker side; there are and willbe times, I know, of depression. When one lies awake in the morning,before the nerves are braced by contact with the wholesome day; whenone has done a tiring piece of work, and is alone, and in that frame ofmind when one needs occupation but yet is not brisk enough to turn tothe work one loves; in those dreary intervals between one's work, whenone is off with the old and not yet on with the new—well I know allthe corners of the road, the shadowy cavernous places where the demonslie in wait for one, as they do for the wayfarer (do you remember?), inBewick, who, desiring to rest by the roadside, finds the dingle allalive with ambushed fiends, horned and heavy-limbed, swollen with theoppressive clumsiness of nightmare. But you are not inexperienced orweak. You have enough philosophy to wait until the frozen mood thaws,and the old thrill comes back. That is one of the real compensations ofmiddle age. When one is young, one imagines that any depression will becontinuous; and one sees the dreary, uncomforted road winding aheadover bare hills, till it falls to the dark valley. But later on one canbelieve that "the roadside dells of rest" are there, even if one cannotsee them; and, after all, you have a home which goes with you; and itwould seem to be fortunate, or to speak more truly, tenderly prepared,that you have only daughters—a son, who would have to go back toEngland to be educated, would be a source of anxiety. Yet I find myselfeven wishing that you had a son, that I might have the care of him overhere. You don't know the heart-hunger I sometimes have for young thingsof my own to watch over; to try to guard their happiness. You would saythat I had plenty of opportunities in my profession; it is true in asense, and I think I am perhaps a better schoolmaster for beingunmarried. But these boys are not one's own; they drift away; they comeback dutifully and affectionately to talk to their old tutor; and weare both of us painfully conscious that we have lost hold of thethread, and that the nearness of the tie that once existed exists nomore.
Well, I did not mean in this letter to begin bemoaning my own sorrows,but rather to try and help you to bear your own. Tell me as soon as youcan what your plans are, and I will come down and see you for the lasttime under the old conditions; perhaps the new will be happier. Godbless you, my old friend! Perhaps the light which has hitherto shone(though fitfully) ON your life will now begin to shine THROUGH itinstead; and let me add one word. My assurance grows firmer, from dayto day, that we are in stronger hands than our own. It is true that Isee things in other lives which look as if those hands were wantonlycruel, hard, unloving; but I reflect that I cannot see all theconditions; I can only humbly fall back upon my own experience, andtestify that even the most daunting and humiliating things have apurifying effect; and I can perceive enough at all events to encourageme to send my heart a little farther than my eyes, and to believe thata deep and urgent love is there.—Ever affectionately yours,
T. B.
Upton, Jan. 26, 1904
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DEAR HERBERT,—So it is to be Madeira at present? Well, I know Madeiraa little, and I can honestly congratulate you. I had feared it might beSwitzerland. I could not LIVE in Switzerland. It does me good to gothere, to be iced and baked and washed clean with pure air. But theterrible mountains, so cold and unchanged, with their immemorialpatience, their frozen tranquillity; the high hamlets, perched on theirlonely shelves; the bleak pine-trees, with their indomitablestrength—all these depress me. Of course there is much homely beautyamong the lower slopes; the thickets, the fallin