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'

There

are

hours

and

hours

,

'

said

Rhoda

,

'

before

I

can

put

out

the

light

and

lie

suspended

on

my

bed

above

the

world

,

before

I

can

let

the

day

drop

down

,

before

I

can

let

my

tree

grow

,

quivering

in

green

pavilions

above

my

head

.

Here

I

can

not

let

it

grow

.

Somebody

knocks

through

it

.

They

ask

questions

,

they

interrupt

,

they

throw

it

down

.

'N

ow

I

will

go

to

the

bathroom

and

take

off

my

shoes

and

wash

;

but

as

I

wash

,

as

I

bend

my

head

down

over

the

basin

,

I

will

let

the

Russian

Empress

's

veil

flow

about

my

shoulders

.

The

diamonds

of

the

Imperial

crown

blaze

on

my

forehead

.

I

hear

the

roar

of

the

hostile

mob

as

I

step

out

on

to

the

balcony

.

Now

I

dry

my

hands

,

vigorously

,

so

that

Miss

,

whose

name

I

forget

,

can

not

suspect

that

I

am

waving

my

fist

at

an

infuriated

mob

.

"

I

am

your

Empress

,

people

.

"

My

attitude

is

one

of

defiance

.

I

am

fearless

.

I

conquer

.

Отключить рекламу

'

But

this

is

a

thin

dream

.

This

is

a

papery

tree

.

Miss

Lambert

blows

it

down

.

Even

the

sight

of

her

vanishing

down

the

corridor

blows

it

to

atoms

.

It

is

not

solid

;

it

gives

me

no

satisfaction

--

this

Empress

dream

.

It

leaves

me

,

now

that

it

has

fallen

,

here

in

the

passage

rather

shivering

.

Things

seem

paler

.

I

will

go

now

into

the

library

and

take

out

some

book

,

and

read

and

look

;

and

read

again

and

look

.

Here

is

a

poem

about

a

hedge

.

I

will

wander

down

it

and

pick

flowers

,

green

cowbind

and

the

moonlight-coloured

May

,

wild

roses

and

ivy

serpentine

.

I

will

clasp

them

in

my

hands

and

lay

them

on

the

desk

's

shiny

surface

.

I

will

sit

by

the

river

's

trembling

edge

and

look

at

the

water-lilies

,

broad

and

bright

,

which

lit

the

oak

that

overhung

the

hedge

with

moonlight

beams

of

their

own

watery

light

.

I

will

pick

flowers

;

I

will

bind

flowers

in

one

garland

and

clasp

them

and

present

them

--

Oh

!

to

whom

?

There

is

some

check

in

the

flow

of

my

being

;

a

deep

stream

presses

on

some

obstacle

;

it

jerks

;

it

tugs

;

some

knot

in

the

centre

resists

.

Oh

,

this

is

pain

,

this

is

anguish

!

I

faint

,

I

fail

.

Now

my

body

thaws

;

I

am

unsealed

,

I

am

incandescent

.

Now

the

stream

pours

in

a

deep

tide

fertilizing

,

opening

the

shut

,

forcing

the

tight-folded

,

flooding

free

.

To

whom

shall

I

give

all

that

now

flows

through

me

,

from

my

warm

,

my

porous

body

?

I

will

gather

my

flowers

and

present

them

--

Oh

!

to

whom

?

'S

ailors

loiter

on

the

parade

,

and

amorous

couples

;

the

omnibuses

rattle

along

the

sea

front

to

the

town

.

I

will

give

;

I

will

enrich

;

I

will

return

to

the

world

this

beauty

.

I

will

bind

my

flowers

in

one

garland

and

advancing

with

my

hand

outstretched

will

present

them

--

Oh

!

to

whom

?

'

'N

ow

we

have

received

,

'

said

Louis

,

'

for

this

is

the

last

day

of

the

last

term

--

Neville

's

and

Bernard

's

and

my

last

day

--

whatever

our

masters

have

had

to

give

us

.

The

introduction

has

been

made

;

the

world

presented

.

They

stay

,

we

depart

.

The

great

Doctor

,

whom

of

all

men

I

most

revere

,

swaying

a

little

from

side

to

side

among

the

tables

,

the

bound

volumes

,

has

dealt

out

Horace

,

Tennyson

,

the

complete

works

of

Keats

and

Matthew

Arnold

,

suitably

inscribed

.

I

respect

the

hand

which

gave

them

.

He

speaks

with

complete

conviction

.

To

him

his

words

are

true

,

though

not

to

us

.

Speaking

in

the

gruff

voice

of

deep

emotion

,

fiercely

,

tenderly

,

he

has

told

us

that

we

are

about

to

go

.

He

has

bid

us

"

quit

ourselves

like

men

"

.

(

On

his

lips

quotations

from

the

Bible

,

from

The

Times

,

seem

equally

magnificent

.

)

Some

will

do

this

;

others

that

.

Some

will

not

meet

again

.

Neville

,

Bernard

and

I

shall

not

meet

here

again

.

Life

will

divide

us

.

But

we

have

formed

certain

ties

.

Our

boyish

,

our

irresponsible

years

are

over

.

But

we

have

forged

certain

links

.

Above

all

,

we

have

inherited

traditions

.

These

stone

flags

have

been

worn

for

six

hundred

years

.

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On

these

walls

are

inscribed

the

names

of

men

of

war

,

of

statesmen

,

of

some

unhappy

poets

(

mine

shall

be

among

them

)

.

Blessings

be

on

all

traditions

,

on

all

safeguards

and

circumscriptions

!

I

am

most

grateful

to

you

men

in

black

gowns

,

and

you

,

dead

,

for

your

leading

,

for

your

guardianship

;

yet

after

all

,

the

problem

remains

.

The

differences

are

not

yet

solved

.

Flowers

toss

their

heads

outside

the

window

.

I

see

wild

birds

,

and

impulses

wilder

than

the

wildest

birds

strike

from

my

wild

heart

.

My

eyes

are

wild

;

my

lips

tight

pressed

.

The

bird

flies

;

the

flower

dances

;

but

I

hear

always

the

sullen

thud

of

the

waves

;

and

the

chained

beast

stamps

on

the

beach

.

It

stamps

and

stamps

.

'

'

This

is

the

final

ceremony

,

'

said

Bernard

.

This

is

the

last

of

all

our

ceremonies

.

We

are

overcome

by

strange

feelings

.

The

guard

holding

his

flag

is

about

to

blow

his

whistle

;

the

train

breathing

steam

in

another

moment

is

about

to

start

.

One

wants

to

say

something

,

to

feel

something

,

absolutely

appropriate

to

the

occasion

.

One

's

mind

is

primed

;

one

's

lips

are

pursed

.

And

then

a

bee

drifts

in

and

hums

round

the

flowers

in

the

bouquet

which

Lady

Hampton

,

the

wife

of

the

General

,

keeps

smelling

to

show

her

appreciation

of

the

compliment

.

If

the

bee

were

to

sting

her

nose

?

We

are

all

deeply

moved

;

yet

irreverent

;

yet

penitent

;

yet

anxious

to

get

it

over

;

yet

reluctant

to

part

.

The

bee

distracts

us

;

its

casual

flight

seems

to

deride

our

intensity

.

Humming

vaguely

,

skimming

widely

,

it

is

settled

now

on

the

carnation

.

Many

of

us

will

not

meet

again

.

We

shall

not

enjoy

certain

pleasures

again

,

when

we

are

free

to

go

to

bed

,

or

to

sit

up

,

when

I

need

no

longer

smuggle

in

bits

of

candle-ends

and

immoral

literature

.

The

bee

now

hums

round

the

head

of

the

great

Doctor

.

Larpent

,

John

,

Archie

,

Percival

,

Baker

and

Smith

--

I

have

liked

them

enormously

.

I

have

known

one

mad

boy

only

.

I

have

hated

one

mean

boy

only

.

I

enjoy

in

retrospect

my

terribly

awkward

breakfasts

at

the

Headmaster

's

table

with

toast

and

marmalade

.

He

alone

does

not

notice

the

bee

.

If

it

were

to

settle

on

his

nose

he

would

flick

it

off

with

one

magnificent

gesture

.

Now

he

has

made

his

joke

;

now

his

voice

has

almost

broken

but

not

quite

.

Now

we

are

dismissed

--

Louis

,

Neville

and

I

for

ever

.

We

take

our

highly

polished

books

,

scholastically

inscribed

in

a

little

crabbed

hand

.

We

rise

,

we

disperse

;

the

pressure

is

removed

.

The

bee

has

become

an

insignificant

,

a

disregarded

insect

,

flown

through

the

open

window

into

obscurity

.

Tomorrow

we

go

.

'

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