It was now far into June, and Madge and Frank extended their walks
and returned later. He had come down to spend his last Sunday with
the Hopgoods before starting with his father for Germany, and on the
Monday they were to leave London.
Wordsworth was one of the divinities at Stoke Newington, and just
before Frank visited Fenmarket that week, he had heard the
Intimations of Immortality read with great fervour. Thinking that
Madge would be pleased with him if she found that he knew something
about that famous Ode, and being really smitten with some of the
passages in it, he learnt it, and just as they were about to turn
homewards one sultry evening he suddenly began to repeat it, and
declaimed it to the end with much rhetorical power.
'Bravo!' said Madge, 'but, of all Wordsworth's poems, that is the one
for which I believe I care the least.' Frank's countenance fell.
'Oh, me! I thought it was just what would suit you.'
'No, not particularly. There are some noble lines in it; for example
"And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!"
But the very title--Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of
Early Childhood--is unmeaning to me, and as for the verse which is in
everybody's mouth "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;"
and still worse the vision of "that immortal sea," and of the
children who "sport upon the shore," they convey nothing whatever to
me. I find though they are much admired by the clergy of the better
sort, and by certain religiously-disposed people, to whom thinking is
distasteful or impossible. Because they cannot definitely believe,
they fling themselves with all the more fervour upon these cloudy
Wordsworthian phrases, and imagine they see something solid in the
coloured fog.'
It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall,
but in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary to his usual
wont, was silent. There was something undiscovered in Madge, a
region which he had not visited and perhaps could not enter. She
discerned in an instant what she had done, and in an instant
repented. He had taken so much pains with a long piece of poetry for
her sake: was not that better than agreement in a set of
propositions? Scores of persons might think as she thought about the
ode, who would not spend a moment in doing anything to gratify her.
It was delightful also to reflect that Frank imagined she would
sympathise with anything written in that temper. She recalled what
she herself had said when somebody gave Clara a copy in 'Parian' of a
Greek statue, a thing coarse in outline and vulgar. Clara was about
to put it in a cupboard in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so
pathetically that the donor had in a measure divined what her sister
loved, and had done her best, although she had made a mistake, that
finally the statue was placed on the bedroom mantelpiece. Madge's
heart overflowed, and Frank had never attracted her so powerfully as
at that moment. She took his hand softly in hers.