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'

Bernard

's

stories

amuse

me

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

at

the

start

.

But

when

they

tail

off

absurdly

and

he

gapes

,

twiddling

a

bit

of

string

,

I

feel

my

own

solitude

.

He

sees

everyone

with

blurred

edges

.

Hence

I

can

not

talk

to

him

of

Percival

.

I

can

not

expose

my

absurd

and

violent

passion

to

his

sympathetic

understanding

.

It

too

would

make

a

"

story

"

.

I

need

someone

whose

mind

falls

like

a

chopper

on

a

block

;

to

whom

the

pitch

of

absurdity

is

sublime

,

and

a

shoe-string

adorable

.

To

whom

I

can

expose

the

urgency

of

my

own

passion

?

Louis

is

too

cold

,

too

universal

.

There

is

nobody

here

among

these

grey

arches

,

and

moaning

pigeons

,

and

cheerful

games

and

tradition

and

emulation

,

all

so

skilfully

organized

to

prevent

feeling

alone

.

Yet

I

am

struck

still

as

I

walk

by

sudden

premonitions

of

what

is

to

come

.

Yesterday

,

passing

the

open

door

leading

into

the

private

garden

,

I

saw

Fenwick

with

his

mallet

raised

.

The

steam

from

the

tea-urn

rose

in

the

middle

of

the

lawn

.

There

were

banks

of

blue

flowers

.

Then

suddenly

descended

upon

me

the

obscure

,

the

mystic

sense

of

adoration

,

of

completeness

that

triumphed

over

chaos

.

Nobody

saw

my

poised

and

intent

figure

as

I

stood

at

the

open

door

.

Nobody

guessed

the

need

I

had

to

offer

my

being

to

one

god

;

and

perish

,

and

disappear

.

His

mallet

descended

;

the

vision

broke

.

'S

hould

I

seek

out

some

tree

?

Should

I

desert

these

form

rooms

and

libraries

,

and

the

broad

yellow

page

in

which

I

read

Catullus

,

for

woods

and

fields

?

Should

I

walk

under

beech

trees

,

or

saunter

along

the

river

bank

,

where

the

trees

meet

united

like

lovers

in

the

water

?

But

nature

is

too

vegetable

,

too

vapid

.

She

has

only

sublimities

and

vastitudes

and

water

and

leaves

.

I

begin

to

wish

for

firelight

,

privacy

,

and

the

limbs

of

one

person

.

'

'

I

begin

to

wish

,

'

said

Louis

,

'

for

night

to

come

.

As

I

stand

here

with

my

hand

on

the

grained

oak

panel

of

Mr

Wickham

's

door

I

think

myself

the

friend

of

Richelieu

,

or

the

Duke

of

St

Simon

holding

out

a

snuff-box

to

the

King

himself

.

It

is

my

privilege

.

My

witticisms

"

run

like

wildfire

through

the

court

"

.

Duchesses

tear

emeralds

from

their

earrings

out

of

admiration

--

but

these

rockets

rise

best

in

darkness

,

in

my

cubicle

at

night

.

I

am

now

a

boy

only

with

a

colonial

accent

holding

my

knuckles

against

Mr

Wickham

's

grained

oak

door

.

The

day

has

been

full

of

ignominies

and

triumphs

concealed

from

fear

of

laughter

.

I

am

the

best

scholar

in

the

school

.

But

when

darkness

comes

I

put

off

this

unenviable

body

--

my

large

nose

,

my

thin

lips

,

my

colonial

accent

--

and

inhabit

space

.

I

am

then

Virgil

's

companion

,

and

Plato

's

.

I

am

then

the

last

scion

of

one

of

the

great

houses

of

France

.

But

I

am

also

one

who

will

force

himself

to

desert

these

windy

and

moonlit

territories

,

these

midnight

wanderings

,

and

confront

grained

oak

doors

.

I

will

achieve

in

my

life

--

Heaven

grant

that

it

be

not

long

--

some

gigantic

amalgamation

between

the

two

discrepancies

so

hideously

apparent

to

me

.

Отключить рекламу

Out

of

my

suffering

I

will

do

it

.

I

will

knock

.

I

will

enter

.

'

'

I

have

torn

off

the

whole

of

May

and

June

,

'

said

Susan

,

'

and

twenty

days

of

July

.

I

have

torn

them

off

and

screwed

them

up

so

that

they

no

longer

exist

,

save

as

a

weight

in

my

side

.

They

have

been

crippled

days

,

like

moths

with

shrivelled

wings

unable

to

fly

.

There

are

only

eight

days

left

.

In

eight

days

'

time

I

shall

get

out

of

the

train

and

stand

on

the

platform

at

six

twenty

five

.

Then

my

freedom

will

unfurl

,

and

all

these

restrictions

that

wrinkle

and

shrivel

--

hours

and

order

and

discipline

,

and

being

here

and

there

exactly

at

the

right

moment

--

will

crack

asunder

.

Out

the

day

will

spring

,

as

I

open

the

carriage-door

and

see

my

father

in

his

old

hat

and

gaiters

.

I

shall

tremble

.

I

shall

burst

into

tears

.

Then

next

morning

I

shall

get

up

at

dawn

.

I

shall

let

myself

out

by

the

kitchen

door

.

I

shall

walk

on

the

moor

.

The

great

horses

of

the

phantom

riders

will

thunder

behind

me

and

stop

suddenly

.

I

shall

see

the

swallow

skim

the

grass

.

I

shall

throw

myself

on

a

bank

by

the

river

and

watch

the

fish

slip

in

and

out

among

the

reeds

.

The

palms

of

my

hands

will

be

printed

with

pine-needles

.

I

shall

there

unfold

and

take

out

whatever

it

is

I

have

made

here

;

something

hard

.

For

something

has

grown

in

me

here

,

through

the

winters

and

summers

,

on

staircases

,

in

bedrooms

.

I

do

not

want

,

as

Jinny

wants

,

to

be

admired

.

I

do

not

want

people

,

when

I

come

in

,

to

look

up

with

admiration

.

I

want

to

give

,

to

be

given

,

and

solitude

in

which

to

unfold

my

possessions

.

'

Then

I

shall

come

back

through

the

trembling

lanes

under

the

arches

of

the

nut

leaves

.

I

shall

pass

an

old

woman

wheeling

a

perambulator

full

of

sticks

;

and

the

shepherd

.

But

we

shall

not

speak

.

I

shall

come

back

through

the

kitchen

garden

,

and

see

the

curved

leaves

of

the

cabbages

pebbled

with

dew

,

and

the

house

in

the

garden

,

blind

with

curtained

windows

.

I

shall

go

upstairs

to

my

room

,

and

turn

over

my

own

things

,

locked

carefully

in

the

wardrobe

:

my

shells

;

my

eggs

;

my

curious

grasses

.

I

shall

feed

my

doves

and

my

squirrel

.

I

shall

go

to

the

kennel

and

comb

my

spaniel

.

So

gradually

I

shall

turn

over

the

hard

thing

that

has

grown

here

in

my

side

.

But

here

bells

ring

;

feet

shuffle

perpetually

.

'

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'

I

hate

darkness

and

sleep

and

night

,

'

said

Jinny

,

'

and

lie

longing

for

the

day

to

come

.

I

long

that

the

week

should

be

all

one

day

without

divisions

.

When

I

wake

early

--

and

the

birds

wake

me

--

I

lie

and

watch

the

brass

handles

on

the

cupboard

grow

clear

;

then

the

basin

;

then

the

towel-horse

.

As

each

thing

in

the

bedroom

grows

clear

,

my

heart

beats

quicker

.

I

feel

my

body

harden

,

and

become

pink

,

yellow

,

brown

.

My

hands

pass

over

my

legs

and

body

.

I

feel

its

slopes

,

its

thinness

.

I

love

to

hear

the

gong

roar

through

the

house

and

the

stir

begin

--

here

a

thud

,

there

a

patter

.

Doors

slam

;

water

rushes

.

Here

is

another

day

,

here

is

another

day

,

I

cry

,

as

my

feet

touch

the

floor

.

It

may

be

a

bruised

day

,

an

imperfect

day

.

I

am

often

scolded

.

I

am

often

in

disgrace

for

idleness

,

for

laughing

;

but

even

as

Miss

Matthews

grumbles

at

my

feather-headed

carelessness

,

I

catch

sight

of

something

moving

--

a

speck

of

sun

perhaps

on

a

picture

,

or

the

donkey

drawing

the

mowing-machine

across

the

lawn

;

or

a

sail

that

passes

between

the

laurel

leaves

,

so

that

I

am

never

cast

down

.

I

can

not

be

prevented

from

pirouetting

behind

Miss

Matthews

into

prayers

.

'N

ow

,

too

,

the

time

is

coming

when

we

shall

leave

school

and

wear

long

skirts

.

I

shall

wear

necklaces

and

a

white

dress

without

sleeves

at

night

.

There

will

be

parties

in

brilliant

rooms

;

and

one

man

will

single

me

out

and

will

tell

me

what

he

has

told

no

other

person

.

He

will

like

me

better

than

Susan

or

Rhoda

.

He

will

find

in

me

some

quality

,

some

peculiar

thing

.

But

I

shall

not

let

myself

be

attached

to

one

person

only

.

I

do

not

want

to

be

fixed

,

to

be

pinioned

.

I

tremble

,

I

quiver

,

like

the

leaf

in

the

hedge

,

as

I

sit

dangling

my

feet

,

on

the

edge

of

the

bed

,

with

a

new

day

to

break

open

.

I

have

fifty

years

,

I

have

sixty

years

to

spend

.

I

have

not

yet

broken

into

my

hoard

.

This

is

the

beginning

.

'

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