Free The Innocent Moon by Henry Williamson Page A

her a moment after flying out, thin and loose of jacket, from the Roebuck. So I went in to get a pint of beer, but Julian Warbeck was there, arrogant with a couple of gallons or so inside him, so I soon left, and made my way through the crowd enjoying the fine evening, past the arc-lights and stall-flares, while an inner voice said, You fool, you’ll regret tomorrow. Remember, no self-destroying mood lasts. Yet this voice had no effect, it carried no conviction.
   Eventually I returned, ate some bread and cheese; now I’m writing in this journal, while the moon rides among the clouds.
   In boyhood, she was Diana, the huntress, a pure light. In youth, when we sang on the Hill in those summer evenings of 1913 and 1914, the moon was all innocence, with only a slight fearful-fascination of Pan. We sailed along in Moonlight Bay, and could hear those Darkies singing. In Flanders the hollow light mocked all life with its casting frosts. Will the innocent moon ever shine again, a thing of beauty and of all longing?
   For weeks I have felt no spiritual refreshment. Spica has refused my offer of a marriage, sent a week ago with the news that I am on the threshold of success.
   In the night sky, Spica Virginis and Mars have separated; star and planet are light-years apart, even when closest together …

Later. I have read her letter again. Or rather, read it carefully for the first time. When it arrived I tore it open, saw it was hopeless, and hid it in a book. What she wrote was, ‘It is too soon yet: I am not awake…. O my dear, you stir my spirit as the branches of trees in the garden outside are tossed by the wind.’
   She goes on to say that her mother is back from Ireland. Then, ‘I am worried by your letters, they are so piteous. Do consider yourself seriously. I can’t be anything but just a friend, and if you won’t see that, it wouldn’t be fair for me to have much to do with you. I’m not your fate. If you won’t see that I can only be a friend, I shall have to flit for your sake. From the very beginning I tried to keep things steady….’
   It is clear how much of her mother’s point of view is in that letter. Her mother dislikes me, and has ever since the Whitsun visit. How much does she know about my affaire with Eveline Fairfax, her niece and Spica’s cousin, last summer? Then there was Willie, who was the next on the list of E’s amours. Also, I was somewhat rude to Mrs. T. when I told her that her remarks were like those of the Edinburgh Review on Keats’ poems.
   I shall not see Spica again.
   So much has happened recently.
   (1) I have a new job, starting July 6, in Fleet Street proper. It is only a rung in the ladder, to be passed quickly.
   (2) My literary agent, Anders Norse, whom I met at the Parnassus Club, tells me that my novel—the old one, the “wishy-washy” one I showed Mrs. Portal-Welch is, “although imperfect in parts, a great work.” And that I shall have a distinguished literary career.
   (3) Austin Harrison will publish my essay, A Devon Night, in November. “It has charm and quality.” Hurray!
   I have no one to write this to. Spica Virginis is gone, her wan fires no longer glimmer below Mars, seen low across London River swirling with filth and death as it flows to the sea.
    July 5. Tonight I have been writing some more of the first part of my new novel. It was not a success, for my thoughts strayed. The rain sighed in the elm-tree, and from the distant houses came Grieg’s To the Spring, calling at my heart, and reawakening the old longing. Only in the spring can I live in the present, and then only in a dreamy restlessness. I have had the best years of my life, and nothing has been done. The old weary cry—tomorrow, tomorrow! Nothing is tomorrow, it is all now, and yet the now is nothing. I look forward to the climax of my life; I want to LIVE, and at the same time realise that it is always now. I cannot work, I want to go into the