“I—I am afraid,” said Sylvester, “that Amelot’s devotion to Iris is rather unusual—the lot of the few. Dante is of course the eternal model, after which one can only labour.”
“A case in point, Syl,” said Mr Riddell, briskly. “Thousands of young men have fallen in love, like Dante, with unattainable young women. He knew how to tell the world of it. Besides, Dante was a prophet; he had another function to fulfil. But the simplest things are the greatest.”
Sylvester did not agree, he was not at all prepared to consider that the devotion of Amelot to Iris was usual; quite the contrary. It was an exceptional grace bestowed on such as could receive it.
The point was, however, rather too personal for comfortable argument. Besides, he did not know yet what his father thought about the poem.
“I gather,” he said, “that you think the sentiment of the poem rather too finespun.”
“Oh dear, no,” said Mr Riddell. “Not at all. I’ve often felt the sort of thing myself. I’m glad young men can still be honestly sentimental. Don’t get too mystical, and avoid unusual words—all sorts of aesthetic slang. The thing has a good deal of merit in its own way. I must go down and see old Tomkins.”
And while Sylvester hardly knew whether he was pleased or not, the Rector rammed on his shabby soft hat, stuck his walking-stick under his arm, and remarked—
“Glad you employ your leisure time so well Very pretty lines—many of them—excellent tone and feeling. Of course the genuine lilt of a perfect love-song only drops from the sky once in a generation.”
Sylvester had hardly expected that his father would tell him that, in Lucian’s language, he had made Tennyson take a back seat; but he felt ruffled and dissatisfied.
Sympathetic as Mr Riddell was, he did not quite know what his verdict was to his son. He had written many a smooth and graceful copy of verses in his own young days, reflecting more or less the style and taste of his generation, and he had long survived the discovery that they had not added much to what it had to tell the world. He had found quite enough to live for, without poetry.