Our Family Affairs, 1867-1896Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
Our Family Affairs, 1867-1896
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
Benson family
Oh, unforgettable morning when for the first time I awoke in the new
house, and saw on the ceiling the light of the early sun that shone in
through the copse outside, making a green and yellow dapple on the
whitewash! The house was still silent; opposite me was Hugh’s bed with
his head half-hidden in the sheet, and I dressed stealthily and went
downstairs and out. From the lawn I could see the viaduct over which we
had come, and below it the misty roofs of the town, with one steeple
piercing the vapour into sunlight. Then the mist faded like a frosty
breath and beyond the town there stretched broad and shining the estuary
of the Fal. Instead of the sorry serge of ivy, the house was clad with
tree-fuchsias, and magnolia, and climbing roses and japonica: never was
there such a bower of a habitation. On that April morning no doubt the
fuchsia and the roses were not in flower, but looking back now, that
moment seems to have sucked into itself the decorations of all the
months, making in my mind a composite picture, from which I cannot now
disentangle the true component parts. But surely there was a gorse bush
at the corner of the house, on the edge of the copse through which the
sun had shone, and surely it was on that morning that I found a mossy
feathery little football of a tit’s nest, woven inextricably among the
spines of the gorse, and a virago of an infinitesimal bird peeped out of
the circular door, when I drew too near, and scolded me well for my
intrusion. I passed up the winding path that led through the shrubbery,
and found a circular pleasance with a summer-house. I went cautiously
past a row of beehives; I came through a door into a lane below the
churchyard, where ferns (the sort of things not known before to exist in
other localities than greenhouses and tables laid for dinner-parties)
grew quite carelessly in the crevices, and so back, now breathlessly
scampering and surfeited with impressions past woodshed and haystack and
stable, and upstairs again with heart and shoes alike drenched with the
spring-dew.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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