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One

floats

,

too

,

as

if

one

were

that

bubble

;

one

is

freed

;

I

have

escaped

,

one

feels

.

Even

the

chubby

little

boys

(

Dalton

,

Larpent

and

Baker

)

feel

the

same

abandonment

.

They

like

this

better

than

the

cricket

.

They

catch

the

phrases

as

they

bubble

.

They

let

the

feathery

grasses

tickle

their

noses

.

And

then

we

all

feel

Percival

lying

heavy

among

us

.

His

curious

guffaw

seems

to

sanction

our

laughter

.

But

now

he

has

rolled

himself

over

in

the

long

grass

.

He

is

,

I

think

,

chewing

a

stalk

between

his

teeth

.

He

feels

bored

;

I

too

feel

bored

.

Bernard

at

once

perceives

that

we

are

bored

.

I

detect

a

certain

effort

,

an

extravagance

in

his

phrase

,

as

if

he

said

"

Look

!

"

but

Percival

says

"

No

.

"

For

he

is

always

the

first

to

detect

insincerity

;

and

is

brutal

in

the

extreme

.

The

sentence

tails

off

feebly

.

Yes

,

the

appalling

moment

has

come

when

Bernard

's

power

fails

him

and

there

is

no

longer

any

sequence

and

he

sags

and

twiddles

a

bit

of

string

and

falls

silent

,

gaping

as

if

about

to

burst

into

tears

.

Among

the

tortures

and

devastations

of

life

is

this

then

--

our

friends

are

not

able

to

finish

their

stories

.

'

'N

ow

let

me

try

,

'

said

Louis

,

'

before

we

rise

,

before

we

go

to

tea

,

to

fix

the

moment

in

one

effort

of

supreme

endeavour

.

This

shall

endure

.

We

are

parting

;

some

to

tea

;

some

to

the

nets

;

I

to

show

my

essay

to

Mr

Barker

.

This

will

endure

.

From

discord

,

from

hatred

(

I

despise

dabblers

in

imagery

--

I

resent

the

power

of

Percival

intensely

)

my

shattered

mind

is

pieced

together

by

some

sudden

perception

.

I

take

the

trees

,

the

clouds

,

to

be

witnesses

of

my

complete

integration

.

I

,

Louis

,

I

,

who

shall

walk

the

earth

these

seventy

years

,

am

born

entire

,

out

of

hatred

,

out

of

discord

.

Here

on

this

ring

of

grass

we

have

sat

together

,

bound

by

the

tremendous

power

of

some

inner

compulsion

.

The

trees

wave

,

the

clouds

pass

.

The

time

approaches

when

these

soliloquies

shall

be

shared

.

We

shall

not

always

give

out

a

sound

like

a

beaten

gong

as

one

sensation

strikes

and

then

another

.

Children

,

our

lives

have

been

gongs

striking

;

clamour

and

boasting

;

cries

of

despair

;

blows

on

the

nape

of

the

neck

in

gardens

.

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'N

ow

grass

and

trees

,

the

travelling

air

blowing

empty

spaces

in

the

blue

which

they

then

recover

,

shaking

the

leaves

which

then

replace

themselves

,

and

our

ring

here

,

sitting

,

with

our

arms

binding

our

knees

,

hint

at

some

other

order

,

and

better

,

which

makes

a

reason

everlastingly

.

This

I

see

for

a

second

,

and

shall

try

tonight

to

fix

in

words

,

to

forge

in

a

ring

of

steel

,

though

Percival

destroys

it

,

as

he

blunders

off

,

crushing

the

grasses

,

with

the

small

fry

trotting

subservient

after

him

.

Yet

it

is

Percival

I

need

;

for

it

is

Percival

who

inspires

poetry

.

'

'

For

how

many

months

,

'

said

Susan

,

'

for

how

many

years

,

have

I

run

up

these

stairs

,

in

the

dismal

days

of

winter

,

in

the

chilly

days

of

spring

?

Now

it

is

midsummer

.

We

go

upstairs

to

change

into

white

frocks

to

play

tennis

--

Jinny

and

I

with

Rhoda

following

after

.

I

count

each

step

as

I

mount

,

counting

each

step

something

done

with

.

So

each

night

I

tear

off

the

old

day

from

the

calendar

,

and

screw

it

tight

into

a

ball

.

I

do

this

vindictively

,

while

Betty

and

Clara

are

on

their

knees

.

I

do

not

pray

.

I

revenge

myself

upon

the

day

.

I

wreak

my

spite

upon

its

image

.

You

are

dead

now

,

I

say

,

school

day

,

hated

day

.

They

have

made

all

the

days

of

June

--

this

is

the

twenty-fifth

--

shiny

and

orderly

,

with

gongs

,

with

lessons

,

with

orders

to

wash

,

to

change

,

to

work

,

to

eat

.

We

listen

to

missionaries

from

China

.

We

drive

off

in

brakes

along

the

asphalt

pavement

,

to

attend

concerts

in

halls

.

We

are

shown

galleries

and

pictures

.

'

At

home

the

hay

waves

over

the

meadows

.

My

father

leans

upon

the

stile

,

smoking

.

In

the

house

one

door

bangs

and

then

another

,

as

the

summer

air

puffs

along

the

empty

passages

.

Some

old

picture

perhaps

swings

on

the

wall

.

A

petal

drops

from

the

rose

in

the

jar

.

The

farm

wagons

strew

the

hedges

with

tufts

of

hay

.

All

this

I

see

,

I

always

see

,

as

I

pass

the

looking-glass

on

the

landing

,

with

Jinny

in

front

and

Rhoda

lagging

behind

.

Jinny

dances

.

Jinny

always

dances

in

the

hall

on

the

ugly

,

the

encaustic

tiles

;

she

turns

cartwheels

in

the

playground

;

she

picks

some

flower

forbiddenly

,

and

sticks

it

behind

her

ear

so

that

Miss

Perry

's

dark

eyes

smoulder

with

admiration

,

for

Jinny

,

not

me

.

Miss

Perry

loves

Jinny

;

and

I

could

have

loved

her

,

but

now

love

no

one

,

except

my

father

,

my

doves

and

the

squirrel

whom

I

left

in

the

cage

at

home

for

the

boy

to

look

after

.

'

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'

I

hate

the

small

looking-glass

on

the

stairs

,

'

said

Jinny

.

'

It

shows

our

heads

only

;

it

cuts

off

our

heads

.

And

my

lips

are

too

wide

,

and

my

eyes

are

too

close

together

;

I

show

my

gums

too

much

when

I

laugh

.

Susan

's

head

,

with

its

fell

look

,

with

its

grass-green

eyes

which

poets

will

love

,

Bernard

said

,

because

they

fall

upon

close

white

stitching

,

put

mine

out

;

even

Rhoda

's

face

,

mooning

,

vacant

,

is

completed

,

like

those

white

petals

she

used

to

swim

in

her

bowl

.

So

I

skip

up

the

stairs

past

them

,

to

the

next

landing

,

where

the

long

glass

hangs

and

I

see

myself

entire

.

I

see

my

body

and

head

in

one

now

;

for

even

in

this

serge

frock

they

are

one

,

my

body

and

my

head

.

Look

,

when

I

move

my

head

I

ripple

all

down

my

narrow

body

;

even

my

thin

legs

ripple

like

a

stalk

in

the

wind

.

I

flicker

between

the

set

face

of

Susan

and

Rhoda

's

vagueness

;

I

leap

like

one

of

those

flames

that

run

between

the

cracks

of

the

earth

;

I

move

,

I

dance

;

I

never

cease

to

move

and

to

dance

.

I

move

like

the

leaf

that

moved

in

the

hedge

as

a

child

and

frightened

me

.

I

dance

over

these

streaked

,

these

impersonal

,

distempered

walls

with

their

yellow

skirting

as

firelight

dances

over

teapots

.

I

catch

fire

even

from

women

's

cold

eyes

.

When

I

read

,

a

purple

rim

runs

round

the

black

edge

of

the

textbook

.

Yet

I

can

not

follow

any

word

through

its

changes

.

I

can

not

follow

any

thought

from

present

to

past

.

I

do

not

stand

lost

,

like

Susan

,

with

tears

in

my

eyes

remembering

home

;

or

lie

,

like

Rhoda

,

crumpled

among

the

ferns

,

staining

my

pink

cotton

green

,

while

I

dream

of

plants

that

flower

under

the

sea

,

and

rocks

through

which

the

fish

swim

slowly

.

I

do

not

dream

.

'N

ow

let

us

be

quick

.

Now

let

me

be

the

first

to

pull

off

these

coarse

clothes

.

Here

are

my

clean

white

stockings

.

Here

are

my

new

shoes

.

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