“You should read Spanish,” he said.
“It is a noble tongue. It has not the mellifluousness
of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and
organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not
ripple like a brook in a garden, but it surges tumultuous
like a mighty river in flood.”
His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive
to rhetoric; and he listened with pleasure while Athelny,
with picturesque expressions and the fire of a real
enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading
Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic,
limpid, passionate, of the enchanting Calderon.
“I must get on with my work,” said Philip
presently.
“Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell
my wife to bring me a photograph of Toledo, and I
will show it you. Come and talk to me when you
have the chance. You don’t know what a
pleasure it gives me.”
During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever
there was opportunity, Philip’s acquaintance
with the journalist increased. Thorpe Athelny
was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things,
but he talked inspiringly, with an eager vividness
which fired the imagination; Philip, living so much
in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming
with new pictures. Athelny had very good manners.
He knew much more than Philip, both of the world and
of books; he was a much older man; and the readiness
of his conversation gave him a certain superiority;
but he was in the hospital a recipient of charity,
subject to strict rules; and he held himself between
the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip
asked him why he had come to the hospital.
“Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits
that society provides. I take advantage of the
age I live in. When I’m ill I get myself
patched up in a hospital and I have no false shame,
and I send my children to be educated at the board-school.”
“Do you really?” said Philip.
“And a capital education they get too, much
better than I got at Winchester. How else do
you think I could educate them at all? I’ve
got nine. You must come and see them all when
I get home again. Will you?”
“I’d like to very much,” said Philip.
Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave
the hospital. He gave Philip his address, and
Philip promised to dine with him at one o’clock
on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him
that he lived in a house built by Inigo Jones; he
had raved, as he raved over everything, over the balustrade
of old oak; and when he came down to open the door
for Philip he made him at once admire the elegant
carving of the lintel. It was a shabby house,
badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity
of its period, in a little street between Chancery
Lane and Holborn, which had once been fashionable
but was now little better than a slum: there was
a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome
