Герберт Джордж Уэллс
The Secret Places of the Heart
Then they returned to the car and ran round by a winding road into the wonder of Avebury. They found a clean little inn there kept by pleasant people, and they garaged the car in the cowshed and took two rooms for the night that they might the better get the atmosphere of the ancient place. Wonderful indeed it is, a vast circumvallation that was already two thousand years old before the dawn of British history; a great wall of earth with its ditch most strangely on its inner and not on its outer side; and within this enclosure gigantic survivors of the great circles of unhewn stone that, even as late as Tudor days, were almost complete. A whole village, a church, a pretty manor house have been built, for the most part, out of the ancient megaliths; the great wall is sufficient to embrace them all with their gardens and paddocks; four cross-roads meet at the village centre. There are drawings of Avebury before these things arose there, when it was a lonely wonder on the plain, but for the most part the destruction was already done before the MAYFLOWER sailed. To the southward stands the cone of Silbury Hill; its shadow creeps up and down the intervening meadows as the seasons change. Around this lonely place rise the Downs, now bare sheep pastures, in broad undulations, with a wart-like barrow here and there, and from it radiate, creeping up to gain and hold the crests of the hills, the abandoned trackways of that forgotten world. These trackways, these green roads of England, these roads already disused when the Romans made their highway past Silbury Hill to Bath, can still be traced for scores of miles through the land, running to Salisbury and the English Channel, eastward to the crossing at the Straits and westward to Wales, to ferries over the Severn, and southwestward into Devon and Cornwall.
The doctor and Sir Richmond walked round the walls, surveyed the shadow cast by Silbury upon the river flats, strolled up the down to the northward to get a general view of the village, had tea and smoked round the walls again in the warm April sunset. The matter of their conversation remained prehistoric. Both were inclined to find fault with the archaeological work that had been done on the place. “Clumsy treasure hunting,” Sir Richmond said. “They bore into Silbury Hill and expect to find a mummified chief or something sensational of that sort, and they don’t, and they report nothing. They haven’t sifted finely enough; they haven’t thought subtly enough. These walls of earth ought to tell what these people ate, what clothes they wore, what woods they used. Was this a sheep land then as it is now, or a cattle land? Were these hills covered by forests? I don’t know. These archaeologists don’t know. Or if they do they haven’t told me, which is just as bad. I don’t believe they know.
“What trade came here along these tracks? So far as I know, they had no beasts of burthen. But suppose one day someone were to find a potsherd here from early Knossos, or a fragment of glass from Pepi’s Egypt.”
The place had stirred up his imagination. He wrestled with his ignorance as if he thought that by talking he might presently worry out some picture of this forgotten world, without metals, without beasts of burthen, without letters, without any sculpture that has left a trace, and yet with a sense of astronomical fact clear enough to raise the great gnomon of Silbury, and with a social system complex enough to give the large and orderly community to which the size of Avebury witnesses and the traffic to which the green roads testify.
The doctor had not realized before the boldness and liveliness of his companion’s mind. Sir Richmond insisted that the climate must have been moister and milder in those days; he covered all the downlands with woods, as Savernake was still covered; beneath the trees he restored a thicker, richer soil. These people must have done an enormous lot with wood. This use of stones here was a freak. It was the very strangeness of stones here that had made them into sacred things. One thought too much of the stones of the Stone Age. Who would carve these lumps of quartzite when one could carve good oak? Or beech – a most carvable wood. Especially when one’s sharpest chisel was a flint. “It’s wood we ought to look for,” said Sir Richmond. “Wood and fibre.” He declared that these people had their tools of wood, their homes of wood, their gods and perhaps their records of wood. “A peat bog here, even a few feet of clay, might have pickled some precious memoranda… No such luck… Now in Glastonbury marshes one found the life of the early iron age – half way to our own times – quite beautifully pickled.”
Though they wrestled mightily with the problem, neither Sir Richmond nor the doctor could throw a gleam of light upon the riddle why the ditch was inside and not outside the great wall.
“And what was our Mind like in those days?” said Sir Richmond. “That, I suppose, is what interests you. A vivid childish mind, I guess, with not a suspicion as yet that it was Man ruling his Planet or anything of that sort.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “None,” he delivered judicially. “If one were able to recall one’s childhood – at the age of about twelve or thirteen – when the artistic impulse so often goes into abeyance and one begins to think in a troubled, monstrous way about God and Hell, one might get something like the mind of this place.”
“Thirteen. You put them at that already?.. These people, you think, were religious?”
“Intensely. In that personal way that gives death a nightmare terror. And as for the fading of the artistic impulse, they’ve left not a trace of the paintings and drawings and scratchings of the Old Stone people who came before them.”
“Adults with the minds of thirteen-year-old children. Thirteen-year-old children with the strength of adults – and no one to slap them or tell them not to… After all, they probably only thought of death now and then. And they never thought of fuel. They supposed there was no end to that. So they used up their woods and kept goats to nibble and kill the new undergrowth. DID these people have goats?”
“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “So little is known.”
“Very like children they must have been. The same unending days. They must have thought that the world went on for ever-just as they knew it – like my damned Committee does… With their fuel wasting away and the climate changing imperceptibly, century by century… Kings and important men followed one another here for centuries and centuries… They had lost their past and had no idea of any future… They had forgotten how they came into the land… When I was a child I believed that my father’s garden had been there for ever…
“This is very like trying to remember some game one played when one was a child. It is like coming on something that one built up with bricks and stones in some forgotten part of the garden…”
“The life we lived here,” said the doctor, “has left its traces in traditions, in mental predispositions, in still unanalyzed fundamental ideas.”
“Archaeology is very like remembering,” said Sir Richmond. “Presently we shall remember a lot more about all this. We shall remember what it was like to live in this place, and the long journey hither, age by age out of the south. We shall remember the sacrifices we made and the crazy reasons why we made them. We sowed our corn in blood here. We had strange fancies about the stars. Those we brought with us out of the south where the stars are brighter. And what like were those wooden gods of ours? I don’t remember… But I could easily persuade myself that I had been here before.”
They stood on the crest of the ancient wall and the setting sun cast long shadows of them athwart a field of springing wheat.
“Perhaps we shall come here again,” the doctor carried on Sir Richmond’s fancy; “after another four thousand years or so, with different names and fuller minds. And then I suppose that this ditch won’t be the riddle it is now.”
“Life didn’t seem so complicated then,” Sir Richmond mused. “Our muddles were unconscious. We drifted from mood to mood and forgot. There was more sunshine then, more laughter perhaps, and blacker despair. Despair like the despair of children that can weep itself to sleep… It’s over… Was it battle and massacre that ended that long afternoon here? Or did the woods catch fire some exceptionally dry summer, leaving black hills and famine? Or did strange men bring a sickness – measles, perhaps, or the black death? Or was it cattle pest? Or did we just waste our woods and dwindle away before the new peoples that came into the land across the southern sea? I can’t remember…”
Sir Richmond turned about. “I would like to dig up the bottom of this ditch here foot by foot – and dry the stuff and sift it – very carefully… Then I might begin to remember things.”
Section 5
In the evening, after a pleasant supper, they took a turn about the walls with the moon sinking over beyond Silbury, and then went in and sat by lamplight before a brightly fussy wood fire and smoked. There were long intervals of friendly silence.
“I don’t in the least want to go on talking about myself,” said Sir Richmond abruptly.
“Let it rest then,” said the doctor generously.
“To-day, among these ancient memories, has taken me out of myself wonderfully. I can’t tell you how good Avebury has been for me. This afternoon half my consciousness has seemed to be a tattooed creature wearing a knife of stone…”
“The healing touch of history.”
“And for the first time my damned Committee has mattered scarcely a rap.”
Sir Richmond stretched himself in his chair and blinked cheerfully at his cigar smoke.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “this confessional business of yours has been an excellent exercise. It has enabled me to get outside myself, to look at myself as a Case. Now I can even see myself as a remote Case. That I needn’t bother about further… So far as that goes, I think we have done all that there is to be done.”
“I shouldn’t say that – quite – yet,” said the doctor.
“I don’t think I’m a subject for real psychoanalysis at all. I’m not an overlaid sort of person. When I spread myself out there is not much indication of a suppressed wish or of anything masked or buried of that sort. What you get is a quite open and recognized discord of two sets of motives.”
The doctor considered. “Yes, I think that is true. Your LIBIDO is, I should say, exceptionally free. Generally you are doing what you want to do – overdoing, in fact, what you want to do and getting simply tired.”
“Which is the theory I started with. I am a case of fatigue under irritating circumstances with very little mental complication or concealment.”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I agree. You are not a case for psychoanalysis, strictly speaking, at all. You are in open conflict with yourself, upon moral and social issues. Practically open. Your problems are problems of conscious conduct.”
“As I said.”
“Of what renunciations you have consciously to make.”
Sir Richmond did not answer that…
“This pilgrimage of ours,” he said, presently, “has made for magnanimity. This day particularly has been a good day. When we stood on this old wall here in the sunset I seemed to be standing outside myself in an immense still sphere of past and future. I stood with my feet upon the Stone Age and saw myself four thousand years away, and all my distresses as very little incidents in that perspective. Away there in London the case is altogether different; after three hours or so of the Committee one concentrates into one little inflamed moment of personality. There is no past any longer, there is no future, there is only the rankling dispute. For all those three hours, perhaps, I have been thinking of just what I had to say, just how I had to say it, just how I looked while I said it, just how much I was making myself understood, how I might be misunderstood, how I might be misrepresented, challenged, denied. One draws in more and more as one is used up. At last one is reduced to a little, raw, bleeding, desperately fighting, pin-point of SELF… One goes back to one’s home unable to recover. Fighting it over again. All night sometimes… I get up and walk about the room and curse… Martineau, how is one to get the Avebury frame of mind to Westminster?”
“When Westminster is as dead as Avebury,” said the doctor, unhelpfully. He added after some seconds, “Milton knew of these troubles. ‘Not without dust and heat’ he wrote – a great phrase.”
“But the dust chokes me,” said Sir Richmond.
He took up a copy of THE GREEN ROADS OF ENGLAND that lay beside him on the table. But he did not open it. He held it in his hand and said the thing he had had in mind to say all that evening. “I do not think that I shall stir up my motives any more for a time. Better to go on into the west country cooling my poor old brain in these wide shadows of the past.”
“I can prescribe nothing better,” said Dr. Martineau. “Incidentally, we may be able to throw a little more light on one or two of your minor entanglements.”
“I don’t want to think of them,” said Sir Richmond. “Let me get right away from everything. Until my skin has grown again.”
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
THE ENCOUNTER AT STONEHENGE
Section 1
Next day in the early afternoon after a farewell walk over the downs round Avebury they went by way of Devizes and Netheravon and Amesbury to Stonehenge.
Dr. Martineau had seen this ancient monument before, but now, with Avebury fresh in his mind, he found it a poorer thing than he had remembered it to be. Sir Richmond was frankly disappointed. After the real greatness and mystery of the older place, it seemed a poor little heap of stones; it did not even dominate the landscape; it was some way from the crest of the swelling down on which it stood and it was further dwarfed by the colossal air-ship hangars and clustering offices of the air station that the great war had called into existence upon the slopes to the south-west. “It looks,” Sir Richmond said, “as though some old giantess had left a discarded set of teeth on the hillside.” Far more impressive than Stonehenge itself were the barrows that capped the neighbouring crests.
The sacred stones were fenced about, and our visitors had to pay for admission at a little kiosk by the gate. At the side of the road stood a travel-stained middle-class automobile, with a miscellany of dusty luggage, rugs and luncheon things therein – a family automobile with father no doubt at the wheel. Sir Richmond left his own trim coupe at its tail.
They were impeded at the entrance by a difference of opinion between the keeper of the turnstile and a small but resolute boy of perhaps five or six who proposed to leave the enclosure. The custodian thought that it would be better if his nurse or his mother came out with him.
“She keeps on looking at it,” said the small boy. “It isunt anything. I want to go and clean the car.”
“You won’t SEE Stonehenge every day, young man,” said the custodian, a little piqued.
“It’s only an old beach,” said the small boy, with extreme conviction. “It’s rocks like the seaside. And there isunt no sea.”
The man at the turnstile mutely consulted the doctor.
“I don’t see that he can get into any harm here,” the doctor advised, and the small boy was released from archaeology.
He strolled to the family automobile, produced an EN-TOUT-CAS pocket-handkerchief and set himself to polish the lamps with great assiduity. The two gentlemen lingered at the turnstile for a moment or so to watch his proceedings. “Modern child,” said Sir Richmond. “Old stones are just old stones to him. But motor cars are gods.”
“You can hardly expect him to understand – at his age,” said the custodian, jealous for the honor of Stonehenge…
“Reminds me of Martin’s little girl,” said Sir Richmond, as he and Dr. Martineau went on towards the circle. “When she encountered her first dragon-fly she was greatly delighted. ‘Oh, dee’ lill’ a’eplane,’ she said.”
As they approached the grey old stones they became aware of a certain agitation among them. A voice, an authoritative bass voice, was audible, crying, “Anthony!” A nurse appeared remotely going in the direction of the aeroplane sheds, and her cry of “Master Anthony” came faintly on the breeze. An extremely pretty young woman of five or six and twenty became visible standing on one of the great prostrate stones in the centre of the place. She was a black-haired, sun-burnt individual and she stood with her arms akimbo, quite frankly amused at the disappearance of Master Anthony, and offering no sort of help for his recovery. On the greensward before her stood the paterfamilias of the family automobile, and he was making a trumpet with his hands in order to repeat the name of Anthony with greater effect. A short lady in grey emerged from among the encircling megaliths, and one or two other feminine personalities produced effects of movement rather than of individuality as they flitted among the stones. “Well,” said the lady in grey, with that rising intonation of humorous conclusion which is so distinctively American, “those Druids have GOT him.”
“He’s hiding,” said the automobilist, in a voice that promised chastisement to a hidden hearer. “That’s what he is doing. He ought not to play tricks like this. A great boy who is almost six.”
“If you are looking for a small, resolute boy of six,” said Sir Richmond, addressing himself to the lady on the rock rather than to the angry parent below, “he’s perfectly safe and happy. The Druids haven’t got him. Indeed, they’ve failed altogether to get him. ‘Stonehenge,’ he says, ‘is no good.’ So he’s gone back to clean the lamps of your car.”
“Aa-oo. So THAT’S it!” said Papa. “Winnie, go and tell Price he’s gone back to the car… They oughtn’t to have let him out of the enclosure…”
The excitement about Master Anthony collapsed. The rest of the people in the circles crystallized out into the central space as two apparent sisters and an apparent aunt and the nurse, who was packed off at once to supervise the lamp cleaning. The head of the family found some difficulty, it would seem, in readjusting his mind to the comparative innocence of Anthony, and Sir Richmond and the young lady on the rock sought as if by common impulse to establish a general conversation. There were faint traces of excitement in her manner, as though there had been some controversial passage between herself and the family gentleman.
“We were discussing the age of this old place,” she said, smiling in the frankest and friendliest way. “How old do YOU think it is?”
The father of Anthony intervened, also with a shadow of controversy in his manner. “I was explaining to the young lady that it dates from the early bronze age. Before chronology existed… But she insists on dates.”
“Nothing of bronze has ever been found here,” said Sir Richmond.
“Well, when was this early bronze age, anyhow?” said the young lady.
Sir Richmond sought a recognizable datum. “Bronze got to Britain somewhere between the times of Moses and Solomon.”
“Ah!” said the young lady, as who should say, ‘This man at least talks sense.’
“But these stones are all shaped,” said the father of the family. “It is difficult to see how that could have been done without something harder than stone.”
“I don’t SEE the place,” said the young lady on the stone. “I can’t imagine how they did it up – not one bit.”
“Did it up!” exclaimed the father of the family in the tone of one accustomed to find a gentle sport in the intellectual frailties of his womenkind.
“It’s just the bones of a place. They hung things round it. They draped it.”
“But what things?” asked Sir Richmond.
“Oh! they had things all right. Skins perhaps. Mats of rushes. Bast cloth. Fibre of all sorts. Wadded stuff.”
“Stonehenge draped! It’s really a delightful idea;” said the father of the family, enjoying it.
“It’s quite a possible one,” said Sir Richmond.
“Or they may have used wicker,” the young lady went on, undismayed. She seemed to concede a point. “Wicker IS likelier.”
“But surely,” said the father of the family with the expostulatory voice and gesture of one who would recall erring wits to sanity, “it is far more impressive standing out bare and noble as it does. In lonely splendour.”
“But all this country may have been wooded then,” said Sir Richmond. “In which case it wouldn’t have stood out. It doesn’t stand out so very much even now.”
“You came to it through a grove,” said the young lady, eagerly picking up the idea.
“Probably beech,” said Sir Richmond.
“Which may have pointed to the midsummer sunrise,” said Dr. Martineau, unheeded.
“These are NOVEL ideas,” said the father of the family in the reproving tone of one who never allows a novel idea inside HIS doors if he can prevent it.
“Well,” said the young lady, “I guess there was some sort of show here anyhow. And no human being ever had a show yet without trying to shut people out of it in order to make them come in. I guess this was covered in all right. A dark hunched old place in a wood. Beech stems, smooth, like pillars. And they came to it at night, in procession, beating drums, and scared half out of their wits. They came in THERE and went round the inner circle with their torches. And so they were shown. The torches were put out and the priests did their mysteries. Until dawn broke. That is how they worked it.”
“But even you can’t tell what the show was, V.V.” said the lady in grey, who was standing now at Dr. Martineau’s elbow.
“Something horrid,” said Anthony’s younger sister to her elder in a stage whisper.
“BLUGGY,” agreed Anthony’s elder sister to the younger, in a noiseless voice that certainly did not reach father. “SQUEALS!..”
This young lady who was addressed as “V.V.” was perhaps one or two and twenty, Dr. Martineau thought, – he was not very good at feminine ages. She had a clear sun-browned complexion, with dark hair and smiling lips. Her features were finely modelled, with just that added touch of breadth in the brow and softness in the cheek bones, that faint flavour of the Amerindian, one sees at times in American women. Her voice was a very soft and pleasing voice, and she spoke persuasively and not assertively as so many American women do. Her determination to make the dry bones of Stonehenge live shamed the doctor’s disappointment with the place. And when she had spoken, Dr. Martineau noted that she looked at Sir Richmond as if she expected him at least to confirm her vision. Sir Richmond was evidently prepared to confirm it.
With a queer little twinge of infringed proprietorship, the doctor saw Sir Richmond step up on the prostrate megalith and stand beside her, the better to appreciate her point of view. He smiled down at her. “Now why do you think they came in THERE?” he asked.
The young lady was not very clear about her directions. She did not know of the roadway running to the Avon river, nor of the alleged race course to the north, nor had she ever heard that the stones were supposed to be of two different periods and that some of them might possibly have been brought from a very great distance.
Section 2
Neither Dr. Martineau nor the father of the family found the imaginative reconstruction of the Stonehenge rituals quite so exciting as the two principals. The father of the family endured some further particulars with manifest impatience, no longer able, now that Sir Richmond was encouraging the girl, to keep her in check with the slightly derisive smile proper to her sex. Then he proclaimed in a fine loud tenor, “All this is very imaginative, I’m afraid.” And to his family, “Time we were pressing on. Turps, we must go-o. Come, Phoebe!”
As he led his little flock towards the exit his voice came floating back. “Talking wanton nonsense… Any professional archaeologist would laugh, simply laugh…”
He passed out of the world.
With a faint intimation of dismay Dr. Martineau realized that the two talkative ladies were not to be removed in the family automobile with the rest of the party. Sir Richmond and the younger lady went on very cheerfully to the population, agriculture, housing and general scenery of the surrounding Downland during the later Stone Age. The shorter, less attractive lady, whose accent was distinctly American, came now and stood at the doctor’s elbow. She seemed moved to play the part of chorus to the two upon the stone.
“When V.V. gets going,” she remarked, “she makes things come alive.”
Dr. Martineau hated to be addressed suddenly by strange ladies. He started, and his face assumed the distressed politeness of the moon at its full. “Your friend,” he said, “interested in archaeology?”
“Interested!” said the stouter lady. “Why! She’s a fiend at it. Ever since we came on Carnac.”
“You’ve visited Carnac?”
“That’s where the bug bit her.” said the stout lady with a note of querulous humour. “Directly V.V. set eyes on Carnac, she just turned against all her up-bringing. ‘Why wasn’t I told of this before?’ she said. ‘What’s Notre Dame to this? This is where we came from. This is the real starting point of the MAYFLOWER. Belinda,’ she said, ‘we’ve got to see all we can of this sort of thing before we go back to America. They’ve been keeping this from us.’ And that’s why we’re here right now instead of being shopping in Paris or London like decent American women.”
The younger lady looked down on her companion with something of the calm expert attention that a plumber gives to a tap that is misbehaving, and like a plumber refrained from precipitate action. She stood with the backs of her hands resting on her hips.
“Well,” she said slowly, giving most of the remark to Sir Richmond and the rest to the doctor. “It is nearer the beginnings of things than London or Paris.”
“And nearer to us,” said Sir Richmond.
“I call that just – paradoxical,” said the shorter lady, who appeared to be called Belinda.
“Not paradoxical,” Dr. Martineau contradicted gently. “Life is always beginning again. And this is a time of fresh beginnings.”
“Now that’s after V.V.‘s own heart,” cried the stout lady in grey. “She’ll agree to all that. She’s been saying it right across Europe. Rome, Paris, London; they’re simply just done. They don’t signify any more. They’ve got to be cleared away.”
“You let me tell my own opinions, Belinda,” said the young lady who was called V.V. “I said that if people went on building with fluted pillars and Corinthian capitals for two thousand years, it was time they were cleared up and taken away.”
“Corinthian capitals?” Sir Richmond considered it and laughed cheerfully. “I suppose Europe does rather overdo that sort of thing.”
“The way she went on about the Victor Emmanuele Monument!” said the lady who answered to the name of Belinda. “It gave me cold shivers to think that those Italian officers might understand English.”
The lady who was called V.V. smiled as if she smiled at herself, and explained herself to Sir Richmond. “When one is travelling about, one gets to think of history and politics in terms of architecture. I do anyhow. And those columns with Corinthian capitals have got to be a sort of symbol for me for everything in Europe that I don’t want and have no sort of use for. It isn’t a bad sort of capital in its way, florid and pretty, but not a patch on the Doric; – and that a whole continent should come up to it and stick at it and never get past it!..”
“It’s the classical tradition.”
“It puzzles me.”
“It’s the Roman Empire. That Corinthian column is a weed spread by the Romans all over western Europe.”
“And it smothers the history of Europe. You can’t see Europe because of it. Europe is obsessed by Rome. Everywhere Marble Arches and ARCS DE TRIOMPHE. You never get away from it. It is like some old gentleman who has lost his way in a speech and keeps on repeating the same thing. And can’t sit down. ‘The empire, gentlemen – the Empire. Empire.’ Rome itself is perfectly frightful. It stares at you with its great round stupid arches as though it couldn’t imagine that you could possibly want anything else for ever. Saint Peter’s and that frightful Monument are just the same stuff as the Baths of Caracalla and the palaces of the Caesars. Just the same. They will make just the same sort of ruins. It goes on and goes on.”
“AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS,” said Dr. Martineau.
“This Roman empire seems to be Europe’s first and last idea. A fixed idea. And such a poor idea!.. America never came out of that. It’s no good-telling me that it did. It escaped from it… So I said to Belinda here, ‘Let’s burrow, if we can, under all this marble and find out what sort of people we were before this Roman empire and its acanthus weeds got hold of us.’”
“I seem to remember at Washington, something faintly Corinthian, something called the Capitol,” Sir Richmond reflected. “And other buildings. A Treasury.”
“That is different,” said the young lady, so conclusively that it seemed to leave nothing more to be said on that score.
“A last twinge of Europeanism,” she vouchsafed. “We were young in those days.”
“You are well beneath the marble here.”
She assented cheerfully.
“A thousand years before it.”
“Happy place! Happy people!”
“But even this place isn’t the beginning of things here. Carnac was older than this. And older still is Avebury. Have you heard in America of Avebury? It may have predated this place, they think, by another thousand years.”
“Avebury?” said the lady who was called Belinda.
“But what is this Avebury?” asked V.V. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“I thought it was a lord,” said Belinda.
Sir Richmond, with occasional appeals to Dr. Martineau, embarked upon an account of the glory and wonder of Avebury. Possibly he exaggerated Avebury…
It was Dr. Martineau who presently brought this disquisition upon Avebury to a stop by a very remarkable gesture. He looked at his watch. He drew it out ostentatiously, a thick, respectable gold watch, for the doctor was not the sort of man to wear his watch upon his wrist. He clicked it open and looked at it. Thereby he would have proclaimed his belief this encounter was an entirely unnecessary interruption of his healing duologue with Sir Richmond, which must now be resumed.
