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Was
he
not
like
Keats
?
she
asked
;
and
reflected
how
she
might
give
him
a
taste
of
Antony
and
Cleopatra
and
the
rest
;
lent
him
books
;
wrote
him
scraps
of
letters
;
and
lit
in
him
such
a
fire
as
burns
only
once
in
a
lifetime
,
without
heat
,
flickering
a
red
gold
flame
infinitely
ethereal
and
insubstantial
over
Miss
Pole
;
Antony
and
Cleopatra
;
and
the
Waterloo
Road
.
He
thought
her
beautiful
,
believed
her
impeccably
wise
;
dreamed
of
her
,
wrote
poems
to
her
,
which
,
ignoring
the
subject
,
she
corrected
in
red
ink
;
he
saw
her
,
one
summer
evening
,
walking
in
a
green
dress
in
a
square
.
"
It
has
flowered
,
"
the
gardener
might
have
said
,
had
he
opened
the
door
;
had
he
come
in
,
that
is
to
say
,
any
night
about
this
time
,
and
found
him
writing
;
found
him
tearing
up
his
writing
;
found
him
finishing
a
masterpiece
at
three
o'clock
in
the
morning
and
running
out
to
pace
the
streets
,
and
visiting
churches
,
and
fasting
one
day
,
drinking
another
,
devouring
Shakespeare
,
Darwin
,
The
History
of
Civilisation
,
and
Bernard
Shaw
.
Something
was
up
,
Mr.
Brewer
knew
;
Mr.
Brewer
,
managing
clerk
at
Sibleys
and
Arrowsmiths
,
auctioneers
,
valuers
,
land
and
estate
agents
;
something
was
up
,
he
thought
,
and
,
being
paternal
with
his
young
men
,
and
thinking
very
highly
of
Smith
's
abilities
,
and
prophesying
that
he
would
,
in
ten
or
fifteen
years
,
succeed
to
the
leather
arm-chair
in
the
inner
room
under
the
skylight
with
the
deed-boxes
round
him
,
"
if
he
keeps
his
health
,
"
said
Mr.
Brewer
,
and
that
was
the
danger
--
he
looked
weakly
;
advised
football
,
invited
him
to
supper
and
was
seeing
his
way
to
consider
recommending
a
rise
of
salary
,
when
something
happened
which
threw
out
many
of
Mr.
Brewer
's
calculations
,
took
away
his
ablest
young
fellows
,
and
eventually
,
so
prying
and
insidious
were
the
fingers
of
the
European
War
,
smashed
a
plaster
cast
of
Ceres
,
ploughed
a
hole
in
the
geranium
beds
,
and
utterly
ruined
the
cook
's
nerves
at
Mr.
Brewer
's
establishment
at
Muswell
Hill
.
Septimus
was
one
of
the
first
to
volunteer
.
He
went
to
France
to
save
an
England
which
consisted
almost
entirely
of
Shakespeare
's
plays
and
Miss
Isabel
Pole
in
a
green
dress
walking
in
a
square
.
There
in
the
trenches
the
change
which
Mr.
Brewer
desired
when
he
advised
football
was
produced
instantly
;
he
developed
manliness
;
he
was
promoted
;
he
drew
the
attention
,
indeed
the
affection
of
his
officer
,
Evans
by
name
.
It
was
a
case
of
two
dogs
playing
on
a
hearth-rug
;
one
worrying
a
paper
screw
,
snarling
,
snapping
,
giving
a
pinch
,
now
and
then
,
at
the
old
dog
's
ear
;
the
other
lying
somnolent
,
blinking
at
the
fire
,
raising
a
paw
,
turning
and
growling
good-temperedly
.
They
had
to
be
together
,
share
with
each
other
,
fight
with
each
other
,
quarrel
with
each
other
.
But
when
Evans
(
Rezia
who
had
only
seen
him
once
called
him
"
a
quiet
man
,
"
a
sturdy
red-haired
man
,
undemonstrative
in
the
company
of
women
)
,
when
Evans
was
killed
,
just
before
the
Armistice
,
in
Italy
,
Septimus
,
far
from
showing
any
emotion
or
recognising
that
here
was
the
end
of
a
friendship
,
congratulated
himself
upon
feeling
very
little
and
very
reasonably
.
The
War
had
taught
him
.
It
was
sublime
.
He
had
gone
through
the
whole
show
,
friendship
,
European
War
,
death
,
had
won
promotion
,
was
still
under
thirty
and
was
bound
to
survive
.
He
was
right
there
.
The
last
shells
missed
him
.
He
watched
them
explode
with
indifference
.
When
peace
came
he
was
in
Milan
,
billeted
in
the
house
of
an
innkeeper
with
a
courtyard
,
flowers
in
tubs
,
little
tables
in
the
open
,
daughters
making
hats
,
and
to
Lucrezia
,
the
younger
daughter
,
he
became
engaged
one
evening
when
the
panic
was
on
him
--
that
he
could
not
feel
.
For
now
that
it
was
all
over
,
truce
signed
,
and
the
dead
buried
,
he
had
,
especially
in
the
evening
,
these
sudden
thunder-claps
of
fear
.
He
could
not
feel
.
As
he
opened
the
door
of
the
room
where
the
Italian
girls
sat
making
hats
,
he
could
see
them
;
could
hear
them
;
they
were
rubbing
wires
among
coloured
beads
in
saucers
;
they
were
turning
buckram
shapes
this
way
and
that
;
the
table
was
all
strewn
with
feathers
,
spangles
,
silks
,
ribbons
;
scissors
were
rapping
on
the
table
;
but
something
failed
him
;
he
could
not
feel
.
Still
,
scissors
rapping
,
girls
laughing
,
hats
being
made
protected
him
;
he
was
assured
of
safety
;
he
had
a
refuge
.
But
he
could
not
sit
there
all
night
.
There
were
moments
of
waking
in
the
early
morning
.
The
bed
was
falling
;
he
was
falling
.
Oh
for
the
scissors
and
the
lamplight
and
the
buckram
shapes
!
He
asked
Lucrezia
to
marry
him
,
the
younger
of
the
two
,
the
gay
,
the
frivolous
,
with
those
little
artist
's
fingers
that
she
would
hold
up
and
say
"
It
is
all
in
them
.
"
Silk
,
feathers
,
what
not
were
alive
to
them
.
"
It
is
the
hat
that
matters
most
,
"
she
would
say
,
when
they
walked
out
together
.
Every
hat
that
passed
,
she
would
examine
;
and
the
cloak
and
the
dress
and
the
way
the
woman
held
herself
.
Ill-dressing
,
over-dressing
she
stigmatised
,
not
savagely
,
rather
with
impatient
movements
of
the
hands
,
like
those
of
a
painter
who
puts
from
him
some
obvious
well-meant
glaring
imposture
;
and
then
,
generously
,
but
always
critically
,
she
would
welcome
a
shopgirl
who
had
turned
her
little
bit
of
stuff
gallantly
,
or
praise
,
wholly
,
with
enthusiastic
and
professional
understanding
,
a
French
lady
descending
from
her
carriage
,
in
chinchilla
,
robes
,
pearls
.
"
Beautiful
!
"
she
would
murmur
,
nudging
Septimus
,
that
he
might
see
.
But
beauty
was
behind
a
pane
of
glass
.
Even
taste
(
Rezia
liked
ices
,
chocolates
,
sweet
things
)
had
no
relish
to
him
.
He
put
down
his
cup
on
the
little
marble
table
.
He
looked
at
people
outside
;
happy
they
seemed
,
collecting
in
the
middle
of
the
street
,
shouting
,
laughing
,
squabbling
over
nothing
.
But
he
could
not
taste
,
he
could
not
feel
.
In
the
tea-shop
among
the
tables
and
the
chattering
waiters
the
appalling
fear
came
over
him
--
he
could
not
feel
.
He
could
reason
;
he
could
read
,
Dante
for
example
,
quite
easily
(
"
Septimus
,
do
put
down
your
book
,
"
said
Rezia
,
gently
shutting
the
Inferno
)
,
he
could
add
up
his
bill
;
his
brain
was
perfect
;
it
must
be
the
fault
of
the
world
then
--
that
he
could
not
feel
.
