Who'd Have Thought It?

 Thanks to an enterprising US publicist, my butterfly book has turned up on the Psychology Today website, with me apparently talking about it to a suitably qualified interviewer. In fact, the whole interview was conducted à la Nabokov, i.e. in writing (mercifully). Here's the link...

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/animal-emotions/202505/butterflies-their-fascinating-lives-and-how-to-protect-them

Something Defeasible

 I've been reading Max Beerbohm's And Even Now, a collection of essays published in 1920 and reissued several times. The earliest essay is dated 1910 and the latest 1920, and most are written in two particular years, 1914 and 1918 – two dates with inescapable historical resonance. And yet, reading this collection, you'd hardly know a world war was raging; references are few and fleeting. But then comes an extraordinary essay, dating from July, 1919, titled 'Something Defeasible'. 
  This begins with Max admiring a fine old-fashioned Sussex cottage – but it is a cottage 'built on sand, and of sand; and the tide was coming in.' He is at the seaside, watching the children building sand castles – and in this instance a beautifully made sand cottage, on which a boy of about nine, with the eyes of a dreamer, is working with uncommon care and attention to detail. Max watches him admiringly and chats to him briefly about his little masterpiece, then wanders off to read his morning paper. 'During the War [there it is!]', he writes, 'one felt it a duty to know the worst before breakfast; now that the English polity is threatened merely from within, one is apt to dally...' What is happening here? This is very unexpected, and the more so as Max goes on to question his own phrase: 'Merely from within? Is that the right phrase when the nerves of unrestful Labour in any one land are interplicated [a fine word!] with its nerves in any other, so vibrantly?' Here is Beerbohm for once showing himself very much aware of a wider, less pleasing world, one in which 'we are all at the mercy of Labour, certainly; and Labour does not love us; and Labour is not deeply versed in statecraft ... Labour is wise enough – surely? – not to will us destruction. Russia has been an awful example. Surely! And yet, Labour does not seem to think the example so awful as I do. Queer, this; queer and disquieting.' Indeed.
  Max returns to the beach and finds the tide coming in fast. The sand castles are engulfed and fall one by one, to the loud delight of the children – and then the waters lick around that lovingly made cottage. As he watches, the young architect becomes animated. 'He leapt, he waved his spade, he invited the waves with wild gestures and gleeful cries. His face had flushed bright, and now, as the garden walls crumbled, and the paths and lawns were mingled ... and the walls of the cottage began to totter, and the gables sank, and all, all was swallowed, his leaps were so high in air that they recalled to my memory those of a strange religious sect which once visited London; and the glare of his eyes was less indicative of a dreamer than of a triumphant fiend.' And Max finds himself feeling something of the same 'wild enthusiasm' as he watches the process of destruction. The boy's exultant behaviour 'made me feel, as never before, how deep-rooted in the human breast the love of destruction, for mere destruction, is. And I began to ask myself: 'Even if England as we know it, the English polity of which that cottage was a symbol to me, were the work of (say) Mr Robert Smillie's [a prominent trade unionist and Labour Party member] own unaided hands' – but I waived the question coming from that hypothesis, and other questions that might have followed; for I wished to be happy while I might.' 
  So, an essay that looked set to be a charmingly whimsical piece – Max is often whimsical, but he has, as Antony Powell said of Betjeman, 'a whim of iron'; he is never sloppy or sentimental – takes a most unexpected turn into territory where the great essayist seldom trod. But of course he does not stay there; he wished, like all of us in threatening times, to be happy while he might. 

Flight

 I've mentioned before my eldest grandson's love of aviation. This has even led him to poetry – specifically to the sonnet 'High Flight', written in 1941 by John Gillespie Magee, Jr, and inspired by his experience of flying Spitfires for the Royal Canadian Air Force...  

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air ....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew—

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Well, there is certainly poetry in flight. In being flown, however – as an airline passenger on an international flight – there is little but prose at its most prosaic. Such flight has been stripped of all poetry, all romance, all pleasure. Negotiating an airport is surely the most depressing, exhausting, humiliating and thoroughly miserable ordeal anyone ever voluntarily undertakes. And the low point, reliably, is the hellish process of getting through 'Security' – to paraphrase Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 
'For the miseries of the many
 Can be oftimes traced to few, 
 As the hand that plants explosives
 Starts an endless airport queue.'*

Some, however, have found a kind of poetry in flying as a passenger. The great Les Murray brilliantly evokes the experience of arrival in 'Touchdown' – 

The great airliner has been filled
all night with a huge sibilance
which would rhyme with FORTH
but now it banks, lets sunrise
in in freak lemon Kliegs,
eases down like a brushstroke 
into swift cement, and throws out
its hurricane of air anchors.
Soon we'll all be standing
encumbered and forbidding in the aisles
till the heads of those farthest forward
start rocking side to side, leaving,
and that will spread back:
we'll all start swaying along as
people do on planks but not on streets,
our heads tick-tocking with times
that are wrong everywhere. 

And here is Thom Gunn, 'Flying Over California' – 

Spread beneath me it lies—lean upland
sinewed and tawny in the sun, and
valley cool with mustard, or sweet with
loquat. I repeat under my breath
names of places I have not been to:
Crescent City, San Bernardino
—Mediterranean and Northern names.
Such richness can make you drunk. Sometimes
on fogless days by the Pacific,
there is a cold hard light without break
that reveals merely what is—no more
and no less. That limiting candour,
that accuracy of the beaches,
is part of the ultimate richness.

That too is a sonnet of a kind. 


* 'For the pleasures of the many/Can be oftimes traced to one, /As the hand that plants an acorn/Shelters armies from the sun.'

Link

 I have a piece about the Aurelians on that illustrious forum Engelsberg Ideas. Here's a link – 
https://engelsbergideas.com/notebook/the-first-butterfly-collectors/ 

Two Poets Went to Mow

 In these parts, where every house is surrounded by a sea of lawn, mowing is something between a religious observance and a civic duty – indeed, there are byelaws in force that limit the length to which grass is allowed to grow. At weekends especially, the air is loud with the roar of ride-on mowers, describing ever-diminishing squares until all is level and mown. Philip Larkin, with his love-hate relationship with his Qualcast mower, would have had plenty to grumble about here. His mowing activities famously gifted him two fine late poems: the perfect 'Cut Grass' –

Cut grass lies frail:
Short is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

They die in the white hours
Of young-leafed June 
With chestnut flowers,
With hedgerows snow-like strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace. 

And 'The Mower', with its to me unsatisfactorily glib ending – 

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found   

A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,   

Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.   

Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world   

Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.

The first day after a death, the new absence   

Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind   

While there is still time.

'The Mower' (as Larkin surely knew) echoes a stanza in 'Upon Appleton House' by Hull's other great poet, Andrew Marvell, describing mowers at work – 

With whistling Sithe, and Elbow strong,
These Massacre the Grass along:
While one, unknowing, carves the Rail,
Whose yet unfeather'd Quils her fail.
The Edge all bloody from its Breast
He draws, and does his stroke detest;
Fearing the Flesh untimely mow'd
To him a Fate as black forebode.

Marvell was as strangely obsessed with mowing as Larkin, and wrote four poems in which the mysterious figure of The Mower writes of his troubled relationship with one Juliana – and, in one the poems, inveighs against gardens: 

The Mower Against Gardens

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use,

Did after him the world seduce,

And from the fields the flowers and plants allure,

Where nature was most plain and pure.

He first enclosed within the gardens square

A dead and standing pool of air,

And a more luscious earth for them did knead,

Which stupefied them while it fed.

The pink grew then as double as his mind;

The nutriment did change the kind.

With strange perfumes he did the roses taint,

And flowers themselves were taught to paint.

The tulip, white, did for complexion seek,

And learned to interline its cheek:

Its onion root they then so high did hold,

That one was for a meadow sold.

Another world was searched, through oceans new,

To find the Marvel of Peru.

And yet these rarities might be allowed

To man, that sovereign thing and proud,

Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,

Forbidden mixtures there to see.

No plant now knew the stock from which it came;

He grafts upon the wild the tame:

That th’ uncertain and adulterate fruit

Might put the palate in dispute.

His green seraglio has its eunuchs too,

Lest any tyrant him outdo.

And in the cherry he does nature vex,

To procreate without a sex.

’Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,

While the sweet fields do lie forgot:

Where willing nature does to all dispense

A wild and fragrant innocence:

And fauns and fairies do the meadows till,

More by their presence than their skill.

Their statues, polished by some ancient hand,

May to adorn the gardens stand:

But howsoe’er the figures do excel,

The gods themselves with us do dwell.

Round here a fine abundance of wild flowers – bird vetch, lupins, bird's-foot trefoil, yarrow, clovers, wild thyme, dog daisies, bedstraw, loosestrife, pink bindweed, self-heal and more  – thrive where the mower doesn't go. Marvell's Mower had a point. 

Nymphs and Satyrs, etc.

 When it comes to giving butterflies English names, the Canadians have done rather better than us Brits. In England, the romance of butterfly naming (as recounted in this book) is largely buried in the Latin nomenclature, but in Canada it is more overt: we named the butterfly families Nymphalidae and Satyridae, but the Canadians have Nymphs and Satyrs – including the beautiful Common Wood Nymph, which I'm seeing every day around here, and the Little Wood Satyr – and there are even Elfins. The darker of the numerous Skippers are called Duskywings (a name that would suit our sadly named Dingy Skipper very well) and the smallest of the them (also abundant around here, and very small indeed) the Least Skipper or Skipperling. Some of the Blues are called Azures, Fritillaires included the Aphrodite and the Freija – and of course the Camberwell Beauty is much better named as the Mourning Cloak. 
  The birds are often well named too. Yesterday we saw a Piping Plover, a 'near endangered' species, trotting about on the beach near where a small protected colony lives (we didn't hear it piping though). At the same place we lunched in a restaurant with a live webcam feed from a nearby Osprey's nest, where a single chick and one or other of its parents were getting on with their rather uneventful lives. And the day before, just down the road, I saw a Bald Eagle at the top of a dead tree barely twenty yards away, being relentless harried by Bluejays until at last it had had enough, spread its huge wings and flew away. 

Green Gables Country

 Yesterday we paid a visit to the extensive heritage/retail complex that has grown up around the scenes that inspired Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables. It's easy to see why she loved the countryside hereabouts, but you can't help wondering what she would make of what has been done in celebration of her legacy. The huge visitor centre on the site of her cousins' farmstead tells the story of her life, but in a strangely patchy way, with much omitted and too little useful information: in particular, many photographs, mostly of men who presumably had a role in her life story, are left uncaptioned and unexplained. The farmhouse – which inspired Green Gables, but where Lucy never lived – has been quite convincingly restored as a typical house of the period, complete with green gables (and the booklet about the upper floor is full of good biographical information, supported by quotations from Montgomery's writings). The whole place was heaving with visitors, predictably enough, but the woodland walk the author knew as Lover's Lane was fairly peaceful – and a single blue butterfly (a Summer Azure?) was flying there. It was a hot day, and after this visit we headed for the local beach and had a refreshing swim, undeterred by a few jellyfish stings (nothing serious – a mild irritation, gone in ten minutes). 
   Later, I read the account of Montgomery's life on Wikipedia, and discovered just how much was missing from the story told on site. It's a sad, sad story, which you can read here if you wish. And I was struck by this sentence:  
'In 1920, the house where Montgomery grew up in Cavendish was torn down by her uncle, who complained that too many tourists were coming on to the property to see the house that inspired the house in which Anne was depicted as growing up.' (If this was the birthplace house, it must have been rebuilt, as it still stands at some little distance from the rest of the site. Or was it the homestead where Montgomery lived for many years with her grandparents? Or even the farmhouse itself? As I said, too little solid information.)

The Price of Fish

 I must stop this fooling around with ChatGTP, but I thought I'd try it with this – 'a conversation about the price of fish in the style of Ronald Firbank'. The result, I think, is not bad, an index perhaps of how easy Firbank is to parody – indeed, he was not above doing it himself... 

A GILDED DRAWING ROOM IN KENSINGTON, JUST AFTER TEA. THE CURTAINS ARE A FRIGHTFUL SHADE OF LILAC.

Lady Thangmire (tapping a lorgnette against her teeth):
"I was told—quite earnestly—that the haddock had risen again."

Mr. Popsy Devlin (in pale violet gloves, yawning exquisitely):
"Haddock? Darling, in July? What a vulgar month for ascendancy."

Lady Thangmire:
"Oh, quite. But the fishmonger looked rapturous, as if he'd seen angels in the icebox."

Popsy:
“Fishmen always do, dear. It’s the brine. Or perhaps an excess of cod.”

Lady Thangmire:
“I detest cod. It reminds me of widows and bad upholstery.”

Popsy (dreamily):
"I was nearly seduced once, over a fillet of sole. It was in Biarritz. Or Bournemouth. Somewhere with an ‘r’ and questionable morals."

Lady Thangmire:
"How continental. I do admire a man who can whisper sweet nothings between courses."

Popsy:
"Still, the price of turbot is criminal. Positively republican."

Lady Thangmire:
“Oh, but everything’s gone up, hasn’t it? Even sin is frightfully dear.”

Popsy:
"Darling, I've been economising wickedly. I only dine twice now. Breakfast is a flirtation. Supper, an affair."

Lady Thangmire (archly):
“Do you pay for either?”

Popsy (with a shrug):
"Only with my reputation, which—mercifully—is priceless."

Lady Thangmire:
"Still. I might send for herring. There's a Protestant dignity to it. It never smiles."

Popsy (sighing):
“If fish could smile, we'd all be Roman Catholics.”

So then I thought I'd set it a tougher challenge – 'a conversation about the price of fish in the style of Ivy Compton-Burnett'. The result was disappointing, but also, I suppose, reassuring, in demonstrating that Ivy's style is truly inimitable...   

Characters:

• Mrs. Galbraith – Matriarch of the household, direct and controlling.

• Miriam – Her adult daughter, dutiful but quietly resentful.

• Algernon – The younger son, sarcastic and detached.

• Cook (Mrs. Simms) – Housekeeper with opinions of her own.

---

Scene: The dining room, late morning. Mrs. Galbraith is seated with letters. Miriam stands by the window. Algernon enters, late for breakfast.

Mrs. Galbraith:
You have missed the haddock, Algernon. It was not unworthy of attention, though Cook informs me it now verges on extravagance.

Algernon:
Then I am relieved to have missed it. I cannot eat what has become a symbol.

Miriam:
I thought it was simply haddock.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Miriam, do not be obtuse. A price rising beyond what it was must suggest a new function. Food ceases to nourish and begins to signify.

Algernon:
In this case, it signifies inflation and Cook’s disapproval.

Mrs. Simms (entering quietly):
It signifies, Madam, that fish costs three shillings more than it did last week, and that the fishmonger looks at me as if I had done it myself.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Perhaps you have, Mrs. Simms. The household seems to affect the economy more than I thought.

Miriam:
We must eat something, Mother.

Mrs. Galbraith:
We must indeed. Though apparently not fish, if we are to avoid economic blame.

Algernon:
I shall go without. It will be my contribution to fiscal stability.

Mrs. Simms:
If Master Algernon eats nothing, it will be the first time the kitchen has saved money by his abstinence.

Algernon:
Mrs. Simms, I see you have turned against me. Perhaps it is the sardines.

Mrs. Simms:
They too have gone up, Sir.

Mrs. Galbraith:
Then it is settled. We shall eat root vegetables and declare ourselves patriots. Miriam, make a note that we are no longer to be part of the fish economy.

Miriam:
Yes, Mother. Shall I also inform the fishmonger that he has lost our trust?

Mrs. Galbraith:
He may take that as implied. If he notices the absence of Mrs. Simms, he will know we are not unaware of his machinations.

Algernon:
It is a bold stance. I admire our commitment to justice in matters piscatorial.

Mrs. Galbraith:
We must be bold, Algernon. What else have we to be?


Hmm. A shame this is so weak – especially as the price of fish was just the kind of subject Ivy was liable to raise in the course of conversation...

---

'Passing the old vicarage this morning...'

 My Canadian son-in-law has been introducing me to the delights/horrors of AI and ChatGPT. Last night he asked ChatGPT to generate a blogpost in the style of Nigeness, and the result was a curious affair, full of references to (and quotations from) Richard Jefferies, a writer who has barely figured on this blog, and of whom I have read almost nothing, having been defeated by The Story of My Heart. 
  Today I had another go, and asked again for a piece in the style of Nigeness – a blog, ChatGPT assures me, 'known for its elegant brevity, wry English charm, cultural-literary references, and gentle melancholia — often centred around overlooked beauty, curious historical trivia, or literary figures'. Fair enough, I suppose – and here is the blogpost it came up with. I think it reads like a rather clumsy pastiche, almost a parody – a kind of melange of various elements forming a less than convincing whole – but it's slightly unnerving, all the same...

Fallen Fruit and Unseasonable Saints

Passing the old vicarage this morning — now, of course, a boutique dental surgery — I noticed the apples had begun to fall early. The lawn, usually immaculate, was strewn with windfalls: lopsided, half-ripened, strangely luminous in the damp grass. A sign, perhaps, of the season misbehaving. Or behaving exactly as seasons do now: erratically, impatiently, with none of that measured English reluctance we once counted on.

It reminded me of a line from Edward Thomas, whose poetry clings to me most when things are shifting:
“The summer is over / And never a flower.”
He had a way of noticing what was no longer there — and making it feel all the more present.

Inside, the waiting room was lit with a kind of sterile hospitality — coffee-table glossies, a muted diffuser smelling faintly of eucalyptus, and an impossibly polite receptionist who may once have sung madrigals. A child was drawing what looked like St. George fighting a dragon with orthodontic gear.

Speaking of saints, I learned recently that St. Swithin’s Day (15th July) used to be a far more observed affair. If it rained on that day — so the rhyme goes — it would rain for forty more. This sort of meteorological superstition now feels quaintly consoling. One wonders if the weather used to listen more closely to verse.

Still, the apples — early or not — had a kind of poignant promise. I pocketed one on the way back, slightly bruised, a little worm-bitten, but somehow perfect in its refusal to be ornamental.