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'N

ow

we

march

,

two

by

two

,

'

said

Louis

,

'

orderly

,

processional

,

into

chapel

.

I

like

the

dimness

that

falls

as

we

enter

the

sacred

building

.

I

like

the

orderly

progress

.

We

file

in

;

we

seat

ourselves

.

We

put

off

our

distinctions

as

we

enter

.

I

like

it

now

,

when

,

lurching

slightly

,

but

only

from

his

momentum

,

Dr

Crane

mounts

the

pulpit

and

reads

the

lesson

from

a

Bible

spread

on

the

back

of

the

brass

eagle

.

I

rejoice

;

my

heart

expands

in

his

bulk

,

in

his

authority

.

He

lays

the

whirling

dust

clouds

in

my

tremulous

,

my

ignominiously

agitated

mind

--

how

we

danced

round

the

Christmas

tree

and

handing

parcels

they

forgot

me

,

and

the

fat

woman

said

,

"

This

little

boy

has

no

present

,

"

and

gave

me

a

shiny

Union

Jack

from

the

top

of

the

tree

,

and

I

cried

with

fury

--

to

be

remembered

with

pity

.

Now

all

is

laid

by

his

authority

,

his

crucifix

,

and

I

feel

come

over

me

the

sense

of

the

earth

under

me

,

and

my

roots

going

down

and

down

till

they

wrap

themselves

round

some

hardness

at

the

centre

.

I

recover

my

continuity

,

as

he

reads

.

I

become

a

figure

in

the

procession

,

a

spoke

in

the

huge

wheel

that

turning

,

at

last

erects

me

,

here

and

now

.

I

have

been

in

the

dark

;

I

have

been

hidden

;

but

when

the

wheel

turns

(

as

he

reads

)

I

rise

into

this

dim

light

where

I

just

perceive

,

but

scarcely

,

kneeling

boys

,

pillars

and

memorial

brasses

.

There

is

no

crudity

here

,

no

sudden

kisses

.

'

'

The

brute

menaces

my

liberty

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

when

he

prays

.

Unwarmed

by

imagination

,

his

words

fall

cold

on

my

head

like

paving-stones

,

while

the

gilt

cross

heaves

on

his

waistcoat

.

The

words

of

authority

are

corrupted

by

those

who

speak

them

.

I

gibe

and

mock

at

this

sad

religion

,

at

these

tremulous

,

grief-stricken

figures

advancing

,

cadaverous

and

wounded

,

down

a

white

road

shadowed

by

fig

trees

where

boys

sprawl

in

the

dust

--

naked

boys

;

and

goatskins

distended

with

wine

hang

at

the

tavern

door

.

I

was

in

Rome

travelling

with

my

father

at

Easter

;

and

the

trembling

figure

of

Christ

's

mother

was

borne

niddle-noddling

along

the

streets

;

there

went

by

also

the

stricken

figure

of

Christ

in

a

glass

case

.

Отключить рекламу

'N

ow

I

will

lean

sideways

as

if

to

scratch

my

thigh

.

So

I

shall

see

Percival

.

There

he

sits

,

upright

among

the

smaller

fry

.

He

breathes

through

his

straight

nose

rather

heavily

.

His

blue

and

oddly

inexpressive

eyes

are

fixed

with

pagan

indifference

upon

the

pillar

opposite

.

He

would

make

an

admirable

churchwarden

.

He

should

have

a

birch

and

beat

little

boys

for

misdemeanours

.

He

is

allied

with

the

Latin

phrases

on

the

memorial

brasses

.

He

sees

nothing

;

he

hears

nothing

.

He

is

remote

from

us

all

in

a

pagan

universe

.

But

look

--

he

flicks

his

hand

to

the

back

of

his

neck

.

For

such

gestures

one

falls

hopelessly

in

love

for

a

lifetime

.

Dalton

,

Jones

,

Edgar

and

Bateman

flick

their

hands

to

the

back

of

their

necks

likewise

.

But

they

do

not

succeed

.

'

'

At

last

,

'

said

Bernard

,

'

the

growl

ceases

.

The

sermon

ends

.

He

has

minced

the

dance

of

the

white

butterflies

at

the

door

to

powder

.

His

rough

and

hairy

voice

is

like

an

unshaven

chin

.

Now

he

lurches

back

to

his

seat

like

a

drunken

sailor

.

It

is

an

action

that

all

the

other

masters

will

try

to

imitate

;

but

,

being

flimsy

,

being

floppy

,

wearing

grey

trousers

,

they

will

only

succeed

in

making

themselves

ridiculous

.

I

do

not

despise

them

.

Their

antics

seem

pitiable

in

my

eyes

.

I

note

the

fact

for

future

reference

with

many

others

in

my

notebook

.

When

I

am

grown

up

I

shall

carry

a

notebook

--

a

fat

book

with

many

pages

,

methodically

lettered

.

I

shall

enter

my

phrases

.

Under

B

shall

come

"

Butterfly

powder

"

.

If

,

in

my

novel

,

I

describe

the

sun

on

the

window-sill

,

I

shall

look

under

B

and

find

butterfly

powder

.

That

will

be

useful

.

The

tree

"

shades

the

window

with

green

fingers

"

.

That

will

be

useful

.

But

alas

!

I

am

so

soon

distracted

--

by

a

hair

like

twisted

candy

,

by

Celia

's

Prayer

Book

,

ivory

covered

.

Louis

'

can

contemplate

nature

,

unwinking

,

by

the

hour

.

Soon

I

fail

,

unless

talked

to

.

"

The

lake

of

my

mind

,

unbroken

by

oars

,

heaves

placidly

and

soon

sinks

into

an

oily

somnolence

.

"

That

will

be

useful

.

'

'N

ow

we

move

out

of

this

cool

temple

,

into

the

yellow

playing-fields

,

'

said

Louis

.

'

And

,

as

it

is

a

half-holiday

(

the

Duke

's

birthday

)

we

will

settle

among

the

long

grasses

,

while

they

play

cricket

.

Could

I

be

"

they

"

I

would

choose

it

;

I

would

buckle

on

my

pads

and

stride

across

the

playing-field

at

the

head

of

the

batsmen

.

Look

now

,

how

everybody

follows

Percival

.

He

is

heavy

.

He

walks

clumsily

down

the

field

,

through

the

long

grass

,

to

where

the

great

elm

trees

stand

.

His

magnificence

is

that

of

some

mediaeval

commander

.

Отключить рекламу

A

wake

of

light

seems

to

lie

on

the

grass

behind

him

.

Look

at

us

trooping

after

him

,

his

faithful

servants

,

to

be

shot

like

sheep

,

for

he

will

certainly

attempt

some

forlorn

enterprise

and

die

in

battle

.

My

heart

turns

rough

;

it

abrades

my

side

like

a

file

with

two

edges

:

one

,

that

I

adore

his

magnificence

;

the

other

I

despise

his

slovenly

accents

--

I

who

am

so

much

his

superior

--

and

am

jealous

.

'

'

And

now

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

let

Bernard

begin

.

Let

him

burble

on

,

telling

us

stories

,

while

we

lie

recumbent

.

Let

him

describe

what

we

have

all

seen

so

that

it

becomes

a

sequence

.

Bernard

says

there

is

always

a

story

.

I

am

a

story

.

Louis

is

a

story

.

There

is

the

story

of

the

boot-boy

,

the

story

of

the

man

with

one

eye

,

the

story

of

the

woman

who

sells

winkles

.

Let

him

burble

on

with

his

story

while

I

lie

back

and

regard

the

stiff-legged

figures

of

the

padded

batsmen

through

the

trembling

grasses

.

It

seems

as

if

the

whole

world

were

flowing

and

curving

--

on

the

earth

the

trees

,

in

the

sky

the

clouds

.

I

look

up

,

through

the

trees

,

into

the

sky

.

The

match

seems

to

be

played

up

there

.

Faintly

among

the

soft

,

white

clouds

I

hear

the

cry

"

Run

"

,

I

hear

the

cry

"

How

's

that

?

"

The

clouds

lose

tufts

of

whiteness

as

the

breeze

dishevels

them

.

If

that

blue

could

stay

for

ever

;

if

that

hole

could

remain

for

ever

;

if

this

moment

could

stay

for

ever

--

'

But

Bernard

goes

on

talking

.

Up

they

bubble

--

images

.

"

Like

a

camel

,

"

...

"

a

vulture

.

"

The

camel

is

a

vulture

;

the

vulture

a

camel

;

for

Bernard

is

a

dangling

wire

,

loose

,

but

seductive

.

Yes

,

for

when

he

talks

,

when

he

makes

his

foolish

comparisons

,

a

lightness

comes

over

one

.

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