Letter from a Cold Pinnacle
SIR,—Even flying sauce-boats arrive late at their destination in this rather remote countryside, and so it yvas not until yesterday that I was aware of Mr. Rice's letter in your columns—or, as for that, of Mr. Rice.
Mr. Rice, it may be, has more to be modest about than I have. I certainly hope, for his sake, that he has more time in which to cultivate this virtue. Writing, and trying to correct factual errors re the arts, and to improve public taste, leave a man with less time for contemplation than he might wish. But indeed my " cold pinnacle," to which your corres- pondent so touchingly refers, is not so lonely as he seems to think. A jostling crowd is alwayi trying to push me off it ; and every now and then when a deceptive feeling of tranquillity asserts itself, a flying sauce-boat, a cold pudding or some other attractive missile, comes hurtling through the air at me.
And who denies me grace? That is a prerogative of the Almighty, and it is hardly modest—I say it with all modesty—of Mr. Rice to set himself up in this way to deny it to me. Moreover, he seems to be basing his judgement entirely on one answer made to an angry old gentleman, who chose to interfere between my father and myself, and to tell me my duty as a son. (Incidentally, I first read Mr. Rice's own address as 29 Cross Patch, Radlett, and was disappointed to find I was mistaken.)
Now, let us have no more of these unassuming Uriah Heeps, telling their betters (I shall be in trouble for that, again) where they get off.—
Castello di Montegufoni, Montagnana, Val di Pesa, Florence.
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