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I
began
to
get
a
sense
of
progress
,
that
I
was
transforming
,
as
a
fountain
in
a
wind
is
transformed
in
shape
;
an
eddy
in
the
water
.
The
wind
and
the
light
became
mere
secondaries
,
roads
to
the
present
state
,
this
state
without
dimensions
or
sensations
;
awareness
of
pure
being
.
Or
perhaps
that
is
a
solipsism
;
it
was
simply
a
pure
awareness
.
That
lasted
;
and
then
changed
,
like
the
other
states
.
This
state
was
being
imposed
on
me
from
outside
,
I
knew
this
,
I
knew
that
although
it
did
not
flow
in
on
me
like
the
wind
and
the
light
,
it
nevertheless
flowed
,
though
flowed
was
not
the
word
.
There
was
no
word
,
it
arrived
,
descended
,
penetrated
from
outside
.
It
was
not
an
immanent
state
,
it
was
a
conferred
state
,
a
presented
state
.
I
was
a
recipient
.
But
once
again
there
came
this
strange
surprise
that
the
emitters
stood
all
around
me
.
I
was
not
receiving
from
any
one
direction
,
but
from
all
directions
.
Though
once
again
,
direction
is
too
physical
a
word
.
I
was
having
feelings
that
no
language
based
on
concrete
physical
objects
,
on
actual
feeling
,
can
describe
.
I
think
I
was
aware
of
the
metaphoricality
of
what
I
felt
.
I
knew
words
were
like
chains
,
they
held
me
back
;
and
like
walls
with
holes
in
them
.
Reality
kept
rushing
through
;
and
yet
I
could
not
get
out
to
fully
exist
in
it
.
This
is
interpreting
what
I
struggled
to
remember
feeling
;
the
act
of
description
taints
the
description
.
I
had
the
sense
that
this
was
the
fundamental
reality
and
that
reality
had
a
universal
mouth
to
tell
me
so
;
no
sense
of
divinity
,
of
communion
,
of
the
brotherhood
of
man
,
of
anything
I
had
expected
before
I
became
suggestible
.
No
pantheism
,
no
humanism
.
But
something
much
wider
,
cooler
and
more
abstruse
.
That
reality
was
endless
interaction
.
No
good
,
no
evil
;
no
beauty
,
no
ugliness
.
No
sympathy
,
no
antipathy
.
But
simply
interaction
.
The
endless
solitude
of
the
one
,
its
total
enislement
from
all
else
,
seemed
the
same
thing
as
the
total
interrelationship
of
the
all
.
All
opposites
seemed
one
,
because
each
was
indispensable
to
each
.
The
indifference
and
the
indispensability
of
all
seemed
one
.
I
suddenly
knew
,
but
in
a
new
hitherto
unexperienced
sense
of
knowing
,
that
all
else
exists
.
Knowing
,
willing
,
being
wise
,
being
good
,
education
,
information
,
classification
,
knowledge
of
all
kinds
,
sensibility
,
sexuality
,
these
things
seemed
superficial
.
I
had
no
desire
to
state
or
define
or
analyze
this
interaction
,
I
simply
wished
to
constitute
it
—
not
even
"
wished
to
"
—
I
constituted
it
.
I
was
volitionless
.
There
was
no
meaning
.
Only
being
.
But
the
fountain
changed
,
the
eddy
whirled
.
It
seemed
at
first
to
be
a
kind
of
reversion
to
the
stage
of
the
dark
wind
breathing
in
on
me
from
every
side
,
except
that
there
was
no
wind
,
the
wind
had
been
only
a
metaphor
,
and
now
it
was
millions
,
trillions
of
such
consciousnesses
of
being
,
countless
nuclei
of
hope
suspended
in
a
vast
solution
of
hazard
,
a
pouring
out
not
of
photons
,
but
noons
,
consciousness
-
of
-
being
particles
An
enormous
and
vertiginous
sense
of
the
innumerability
of
the
universe
;
an
innumerability
in
which
transience
and
unchangingness
seemed
integral
,
essential
and
uncontradictory
.
I
felt
like
a
germ
that
had
landed
,
like
the
first
penicillin
microbe
,
not
only
in
a
culture
where
it
was
totally
at
home
,
totally
nourished
;
but
in
a
situation
in
which
it
was
infinitely
significant
.
A
condition
of
acute
physical
and
intellectual
pleasure
,
a
floating
suspension
,
a
being
perfectly
adjusted
and
related
;
a
quintessential
arrival
.
An
intercognition
.
At
the
same
time
a
parabola
,
a
fall
,
an
ejaculation
;
but
the
transience
,
the
passage
,
had
become
an
integral
part
of
the
knowledge
of
the
experience
.
The
becoming
and
the
being
were
one
.
I
think
I
saw
the
star
again
for
a
while
,
the
star
as
it
simply
was
,
hanging
in
the
sky
above
,
but
now
in
all
its
being
-
and
-
becoming
.
It
was
like
walking
through
a
door
,
going
all
round
the
world
,
and
then
walking
through
the
same
door
but
a
different
door
.
Then
darkness
.
I
remember
nothing
.
Then
light
.
Someone
had
knocked
on
the
door
.
I
was
staring
at
a
wall
.
I
was
in
bed
,
I
was
wearing
pajamas
,
my
clothes
were
folded
on
the
chair
.
It
was
daylight
,
very
early
,
the
first
thin
sunlight
on
the
tops
of
the
pines
outside
.
I
looked
at
my
watch
.
Just
before
six
o
’
clock
.
I
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bed
.
I
had
a
black
plunge
of
shame
,
of
humiliation
;
of
having
been
naked
in
front
of
Conchis
,
of
having
been
in
his
power
;
even
worse
,
others
could
have
seen
.
Lily
.
I
saw
myself
lying
there
and
all
of
them
sitting
and
grinning
while
Conchis
asked
me
questions
and
I
gave
naked
answers
.
But
Lily
—
he
must
also
hypnotize
her
;
this
was
why
she
could
not
lie
.
Svengali
and
Trilby
.
Then
the
mystical
experience
itself
,
still
so
vivid
,
as
clear
as
a
learnt
lesson
,
as
the
details
of
a
drive
in
new
country
,
hit
me
.
I
saw
how
it
had
been
done
.
There
would
have
been
some
drug
,
some
hallucinogen
in
the
raki
.
He
had
suggested
these
things
,
these
stages
of
knowledge
,
he
had
induced
them
as
I
lay
there
.
The
richness
of
what
I
remembered
;
the
potential
embarrassment
of
what
I
could
not
;
the
good
of
it
and
the
evil
of
it
;
these
two
things
made
me
sit
for
minutes
with
my
head
in
my
hands
,
torn
between
resentment
and
gratitude
.
I
went
and
washed
,
stared
at
myself
in
the
mirror
,
went
down
to
the
coffee
the
silent
Maria
had
waiting
for
me
.
I
knew
Conchis
would
not
appear
,
Maria
would
say
nothing
.
Nothing
was
to
be
explained
,
everything
was
planned
to
keep
me
in
suspense
until
I
came
again
.
As
I
walked
back
through
the
trees
,
I
tried
to
assess
the
experience
;
why
,
though
it
was
so
beautiful
,
so
intensely
real
,
it
seemed
also
so
sinister
.
It
was
difficult
in
that
early
morning
light
and
landscape
to
believe
that
anything
on
earth
was
sinister
,
yet
the
feeling
persisted
with
me
and
it
was
not
only
one
of
humiliation
.
It
was
one
of
new
danger
,
of
meddling
in
darker
,
stranger
things
than
needed
to
be
meddled
with
.
It
also
made
Lily
’
s
emotional
fear
of
Conchis
much
more
convincing
than
his
pseudo
-
medical
pity
for
her
;
she
might
just
be
schizophrenic
,
but
he
was
proven
a
hypnotist
.
But
this
was
to
assume
that
they
were
not
working
together
to
trick
me
;
and
then
I
began
clawing
,
in
a
panic
of
memory
,
through
all
my
meetings
with
Conchis
,
trying
to
see
if
he
could
ever
have
hypnotized
me
before
,
without
my
being
aware
of
it
.
I
remembered
bitterly
that
only
the
afternoon
before
I
had
said
to
Lily
that
my
sense
of
reality
was
like
gravity
.
For
a
while
I
was
like
a
man
in
space
,
whirling
through
madness
.
I
remembered
Conchis
’
s
trancelike
state
during
the
Apollo
scene
.
Had
he
hypnotized
me
into
imagining
it
all
?
Had
he
willed
me
to
go
to
sleep
when
I
did
that
afternoon
,
so
conveniently
placed
for
the
Foulkes
apparition
?
Had
there
ever
been
a
man
and
a
girl
standing
there
?
Lily
even
…
but
I
recalled
the
feel
of
her
skin
,
of
those
ungiving
lips
.
I
got
back
to
earth
.
But
I
was
badly
shaken
.
It
was
not
only
the
being
hypnotized
by
Conchis
that
unanchored
me
;
in
a
subtler
but
similar
way
I
knew
I
had
been
equally
hypnotized
by
Lily
.
I
had
always
believed
,
and
not
only
out
of
cynicism
,
that
a
man
and
a
woman
could
tell
in
the
first
ten
minutes
whether
they
wanted
to
go
to
bed
together
;
and
that
the
time
that
passed
after
those
first
ten
minutes
represented
a
tax
,
which
might
be
worth
paying
if
the
article
promised
to
be
really
enjoyable
,
but
which
nine
times
out
of
ten
became
rapidly
excessive
.
It
wasn
’
t
only
that
I
foresaw
a
very
steep
bill
with
Lily
;
she
shook
my
whole
theory
.
She
had
a
certain
exhalation
of
surrender
about
her
,
as
if
she
was
a
door
waiting
to
be
pushed
open
;
but
it
was
the
darkness
beyond
that
held
me
.
Perhaps
it
was
partly
a
nostalgia
for
that
extinct
Lawrentian
woman
of
the
past
,
the
woman
inferior
to
man
in
everything
but
that
one
great
power
of
female
dark
mystery
and
beauty
:
the
brilliant
,
virile
male
and
the
dark
,
swooning
female
.
The
essences
of
the
two
sexes
had
become
so
confused
in
my
androgynous
twentieth
-
century
mind
that
this
reversion
to
a
situation
where
a
woman
was
a
woman
and
I
was
obliged
to
be
fully
a
man
had
all
the
fascination
of
an
old
house
after
a
cramped
,
anonymous
modern
flat
.
I
had
been
enchanted
into
wanting
sex
often
enough
before
;
but
never
into
wanting
love
.
All
that
morning
I
sat
in
classes
,
teaching
as
if
I
was
still
hypnotized
,
in
a
dream
of
hypotheses
.
Now
I
saw
Conchis
as
a
sort
of
novelist
sans
novel
,
creating
with
people
,
not
words
;
now
I
saw
him
as
a
complicated
but
still
very
dirty
old
man
;
now
as
a
Svengali
;
now
as
a
genius
among
practical
jokers
.
But
whichever
way
I
saw
him
I
was
fascinated
,
and
Lily
,
Lily
with
her
hair
blown
sideways
,
Lily
with
her
tearstained
face
,
Lily
at
that
first
moment
,
in
the
lamplight
,
cool
ivory
…
I
didn
’
t
try
to
pretend
that
I
was
anything
else
than
almost
literally
bewitched
by
Bourani
.
It
was
almost
a
force
,
like
a
magnet
,
drawing
me
out
of
the
classroom
windows
,
through
the
blue
air
to
the
central
ridge
,
and
down
there
where
I
so
wanted
to
be
.
The
rows
of
olive
-
skinned
faces
,
bent
black
heads
,
the
smell
of
chalk
dust
,
an
old
inkstain
that
rorschached
my
desk
—
they
were
like
things
in
a
mist
,
real
yet
unreal
;
obstacles
in
limbo
.
I
was
glad
,
with
a
simplicity
that
recalled
earliest
adolescence
,
first
pash
on
a
girl
,
that
I
had
the
white
thread
.
I
put
it
in
an
envelope
,
and
I
must
have
looked
at
it
a
dozen
times
that
day
,
between
classes
,
even
during
classes
,
as
if
it
was
a
mascot
,
a
proof
,
a
good
omen
.
After
lunch
Demetriades
came
into
my
room
and
wanted
to
know
who
Alison
was
;
and
began
being
obscene
,
dreadful
stock
Greek
facetiae
about
tomatoes
and
cucumbers
,
when
I
refused
to
tell
him
anything
.
I
shouted
at
him
to
fuck
off
;
had
to
push
him
out
by
force
.
He
was
offended
and
spent
the
rest
of
that
week
avoiding
me
.
I
didn
’
t
mind
.
It
kept
him
out
of
my
way
.
After
my
last
lesson
I
couldn
’
t
resist
it
.
I
had
to
go
back
to
Bourani
.
I
didn
’
t
know
what
I
was
going
to
say
,
but
I
had
to
reenter
the
domaine
.
As
soon
as
I
saw
it
,
the
hive
of
secrets
lying
in
the
last
sunshine
over
the
seething
pinetops
,
far
below
,
I
was
profoundly
relieved
,
as
if
it
might
not
have
been
still
there
;
and
I
was
a
little
more
cautious
and
practical
,
less
inclined
to
walk
in
without
being
invited
.
The
closer
I
got
,
the
more
nefarious
I
felt
,
and
the
more
nefarious
I
became
.
I
began
to
realize
that
I
didn
’
t
want
to
be
seen
;
I
simply
wanted
to
see
them
;
to
know
they
were
there
,
waiting
for
me
.
I
approached
at
dusk
from
the
east
,
slipped
under
the
wire
,
and
walked
down
cautiously
past
the
statue
of
Poseidon
,
over
the
gulley
,
and
through
the
trees
to
where
I
could
see
the
house
.
Every
window
at
the
side
was
shuttered
up
.
There
was
no
smoke
from
Maria
’
s
cottage
.
I
worked
round
to
where
I
could
see
the
front
of
the
house
.
The
French
windows
under
the
colonnade
were
shuttered
.
So
were
the
ones
that
led
from
Conchis
’
s
bedroom
onto
the
terrace
.
It
was
clear
that
no
one
was
there
.
I
walked
back
through
the
darkness
,
feeling
depressed
,
and
increasingly
resentful
that
Conchis
could
spirit
his
world
away
like
that
,
deprive
me
of
it
,
like
a
callous
drugward
doctor
with
some
hooked
addict
.
The
next
day
I
wrote
a
letter
to
Mitford
,
telling
him
that
I
’
d
been
to
Bourani
,
met
Conchis
,
and
begging
him
to
come
clean
on
his
own
experience
there
.
I
sent
it
to
the
address
in
Northumberland
.
I
also
saw
Karazoglou
again
,
and
tried
to
coax
more
information
out
of
him
about
Leverrier
.
He
was
obviously
quite
sure
that
Levertier
had
never
met
Conchis
.
He
remembered
one
new
thing
:
that
Leverrier
had
been
a
Catholic
;
he
had
used
to
go
to
mass
in
Athens
.
And
he
said
more
or
less
the
same
as
Conchis
.
Il
avait
toujours
rair
un
peu
triste
,
il
ne
s
’
est
jamais
habitué
a
la
vie
ici
.
Yet
Conchis
had
also
said
that
he
had
made
an
excellent
"
seeker
.
"
I
got
Leverrier
’
s
address
in
England
out
of
the
school
bursar
,
but
then
decided
not
to
write
;
I
had
it
at
hand
if
I
needed
it
.
I
also
did
a
little
research
on
Artemis
.
She
was
Apollo
’
s
sister
in
mythology
;
protectress
of
virgins
and
patroness
of
hunters
.
The
saffron
dress
,
the
buskins
and
the
silver
bow
(
the
crescent
new
moon
)
constituted
her
standard
uniform
in
classical
poetry
.
Though
she
seemed
permanently
trigger
-
happy
where
amorous
young
men
were
concerned
I
could
find
no
mention
of
her
being
helped
by
her
brother
.
She
was
"
an
element
in
the
ancient
matriarchal
cult
of
the
Triple
Moon
-
goddess
,
linked
with
Astarte
in
Syria
and
Isis
in
Egypt
.
"
Isis
,
I
noted
,
was
often
accompanied
by
the
dogheaded
Anubis
,
guardian
of
the
underworld
,
who
later
became
Cerberus
.
Fascinating
.
But
it
explained
nothing
.
On
Tuesday
and
Wednesday
prep
duties
kept
me
at
the
school
.
On
Thursday
I
went
over
to
Bourani
again
;
nothing
had
changed
.
It
was
as
deserted
as
it
had
been
on
Monday
.
I
went
up
to
the
house
,
tried
the
shutters
,
roamed
the
grounds
,
went
down
to
the
private
beach
,
from
which
the
boat
was
gone
I
sat
for
half
an
hour
in
the
darkness
under
the
colonnade
;
and
thought
,
among
other
things
,
of
Conchis
’
s
foolishness
in
leaving
the
Modigliani
and
Bonnards
like
that
,
in
such
a
deserted
house
.
My
mind
traveled
up
to
the
Bonnards
,
and
grasshoppered
from
them
to
Alison
.
That
night
there
was
a
special
midnight
boat
to
take
the
boys
and
masters
back
to
Athens
for
the
half
-
term
holiday
.
It
meant
sitting
up
all
night
dozing
in
an
armchair
in
the
scruffy
first
-
class
saloon
,
but
it
gave
one
all
Friday
in
Athens
.
A
minute
later
I
was
walking
fast
down
the
path
towards
the
gate
.
But
even
then
,
as
I
came
to
the
trees
,
I
looked
back
and
hoped
,
with
one
thousandth
of
a
hope
,
that
someone
might
be
beckoning
me
back
.
But
no
one
was
;
so
I
set
out
for
my
faute
de
mieux
.
