A
little boy may be excused for not realising that Hans Andersen's
story is only the prelude to a sadder story that he had not the heart
to write.
My new freedom of spirit gave me courage to re-examine the emotional
and aeesthetic values of my environment. I could not persuade myself
that I liked the sound of bells, and the greyness of the country in
winter-time still revolted me, as though I had not yet forgotten the
cheerful reds and greens and blues of the picture-books that filled
my mind as a child with dreams of a delightful world. But now that I
was wise enough to make the best of my unboyish emotionalism, I began
to take pleasure in certain phases of school-life. Though I was
devoid of any recognisable religious sense I liked the wide words in
the Psalms that we read at night in the school chapel. This was not
due to any precocious recognition of their poetry, but to the fact
that their intense imagery conjured up all sorts of precious visions
in my mind, I could see the hart panting after the water-brooks, in
the valleys of Exmoor, where I had once spent an enchanted holiday. I
could see the men going down to the sea in ships, and the stormy
waves, and the staggering, fearful mariners, for I had witnessed a
great tempest off Flamborough Head. Even such vague phrases as "the
hills" gave me an intense joy. I could see them so clearly, those
hills, chalky hills covered with wild pansies, and with an all-blue
sky overhead, like the lid of a chocolate-box.
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