"Agriculture and Æsthetics.
"It has been wittily observed that for a man to start farming because——"
But there the adverb began to worry me. After all, perhaps it wasn't quite so witty as I had hoped, or at least others might not think it so. And in any case I got no personal credit. Subsequent pages recorded other attempts, as—"Who was the cynical philosopher who——?" or "It may perhaps be objected by the prudent that for a man to start——"
After this I must have decided against starting at all, for nothing more came of the causerie.
My next attempt took the form of fiction. I resolved to enshrine the masterpiece in a short story. "The Farm that Failed" seemed to me, and does still, an attractive title. You see the idea of it? Pastoral humour; George, as an amateur husbandman, scored off by sheep and confused by cows. Arrival of town friend, Amber Dextrius, on visit. Some sort of love interest. And finally the Epigram. "Ah, my dear fellow," said Dextrius, as he flung away his cigarette, "after all you have only proved the great truth that——" And so on.
It looked promising. I hardly know why I abandoned it. Perhaps the love interest proved an obstacle. Perhaps I feared lest George (that good sort) should detect himself and be hurt. Anyhow it got no further.
The inspiration that followed had even less fortune. It is represented by a sheet headed:—
"The Bucolics.
(A Fantastic Comedy in Five Acts.)
[Act I.—Morning-room of Lord Amber Dextrius' house in Hill Street, W. A large luxuriously-furnished apartment. Doors in right and left wall. Two doors in back wall. Three windows also in back wall. The light is that of a brilliant morning in May.]
Enter Lord Amber, a handsome faultlessly-dressed man of about five-and-thirty. He walks towards the door L."
But he never reached it. Perhaps an entire ignorance of what he should do when he got there paralysed him, as it did his creator. After all, you can hardly run a five-Act comedy on stage directions and a single epigram, though I admit that the attempt has been made.
So there the thing rested. From time to time I had wild ideas of advertising it in the literary papers: "For sale, original epigram, mint condition, wide application, never been used. Cheap; or would accept typewriter, or workable film-plots." But even then I might have no offers. I began to think that my little property was going to prove unrealisable.
But only yesterday something happened.
"I'm awfully sorry, dear," said Ursula, entering the study with an air of contrition. "It isn't my fault; but the Carter girls are here having tea, and the eldest one has brought her birthday-book." She held out the detestable little volume as she spoke.
"You know perfectly well that I never—— Is the eldest the one with dark eyes?"
"Yes, that's the girl. She's going to be a lady-gardener."
It was like a voice from heaven. "For this once," I said benevolently, "I will make an exception." I took the book, already open at some absurd date in April, and wrote in a clear hand:—
"The professional horticulturist should beware lest he (or she) make that a master which should remain a mistress."
Ursula read it twice. "It's awfully clever," she said, "and on the spur of the moment too! I can't imagine how you think of these things."
"Oh, they just come," I said. So it was not wholly wasted, though I own I should have preferred cash on delivery. Still we can't have everything.