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Предыдущая страница

'

We

are

about

to

part

,

'

said

Neville

.

'

Here

are

the

boxes

;

here

are

the

cabs

.

There

is

Percival

in

his

billycock

hat

.

He

will

forget

me

.

He

will

leave

my

letters

lying

about

among

guns

and

dogs

unanswered

.

I

shall

send

him

poems

and

he

will

perhaps

reply

with

a

picture

post

card

.

But

it

is

for

that

that

I

love

him

.

I

shall

propose

meeting

--

under

a

clock

,

by

some

Cross

;

and

shall

wait

,

and

he

will

not

come

.

It

is

for

that

that

I

love

him

.

Oblivious

,

almost

entirely

ignorant

,

he

will

pass

from

my

life

.

And

I

shall

pass

,

incredible

as

it

seems

,

into

other

lives

;

this

is

only

an

escapade

perhaps

,

a

prelude

only

.

I

feel

already

,

though

I

can

not

endure

the

Doctor

's

pompous

mummery

and

faked

emotions

,

that

things

we

have

only

dimly

perceived

draw

near

.

I

shall

be

free

to

enter

the

garden

where

Fenwick

raises

his

mallet

.

Those

who

have

despised

me

shall

acknowledge

my

sovereignty

.

But

by

some

inscrutable

law

of

my

being

sovereignty

and

the

possession

of

power

will

not

be

enough

;

I

shall

always

push

through

curtains

to

privacy

,

and

want

some

whispered

words

alone

.

Therefore

I

go

,

dubious

,

but

elate

;

apprehensive

of

intolerable

pain

;

yet

I

think

bound

in

my

adventuring

to

conquer

after

huge

suffering

,

bound

,

surely

,

to

discover

my

desire

in

the

end

.

There

,

for

the

last

time

,

I

see

the

statue

of

our

pious

founder

with

the

doves

about

his

head

.

They

will

wheel

for

ever

about

his

head

,

whitening

it

,

while

the

organ

moans

in

the

chapel

.

So

I

take

my

seat

;

and

,

when

I

have

found

my

place

in

the

comer

of

our

reserved

compartment

,

I

will

shade

my

eyes

with

a

book

to

hide

one

tear

;

I

will

shade

my

eyes

to

observe

;

to

peep

at

one

face

.

It

is

the

first

day

of

the

summer

holidays

.

'

'

It

is

the

first

day

of

the

summer

holidays

,

'

said

Susan

.

'

But

the

day

is

still

rolled

up

.

I

will

not

examine

it

until

I

step

out

on

to

the

platform

in

the

evening

.

I

will

not

let

myself

even

smell

it

until

I

smell

the

cold

green

air

off

the

fields

.

But

already

these

are

not

school

fields

;

these

are

not

school

hedges

;

the

men

in

these

fields

are

doing

real

things

;

they

fill

carts

with

real

hay

;

and

those

are

real

cows

,

not

school

cows

.

But

the

carbolic

smell

of

corridors

and

the

chalky

smell

of

schoolrooms

is

still

in

my

nostrils

.

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The

glazed

,

shiny

look

of

matchboard

is

still

in

my

eyes

.

I

must

wait

for

fields

and

hedges

,

and

woods

and

fields

,

and

steep

railway

cuttings

,

sprinkled

with

gorse

bushes

,

and

trucks

in

sidings

,

and

tunnels

and

suburban

gardens

with

women

hanging

out

washing

,

and

then

fields

again

and

children

swinging

on

gates

,

to

cover

it

over

,

to

bury

it

deep

,

this

school

that

I

have

hated

.

'

I

will

not

send

my

children

to

school

nor

spend

a

night

all

my

life

in

London

.

Here

in

this

vast

station

everything

echoes

and

booms

hollowly

.

The

light

is

like

the

yellow

light

under

an

awning

.

Jinny

lives

here

.

Jinny

takes

her

dog

for

walks

on

these

pavements

.

People

here

shoot

through

the

streets

silently

.

They

look

at

nothing

but

shop-windows

.

Their

heads

bob

up

and

down

all

at

about

the

same

height

.

The

streets

are

laced

together

with

telegraph

wires

.

The

houses

are

all

glass

,

all

festoons

and

glitter

;

now

all

front

doors

and

lace

curtains

,

all

pillars

and

white

steps

.

But

now

I

pass

on

,

out

of

London

again

;

the

fields

begin

again

;

and

the

houses

,

and

women

hanging

washing

,

and

trees

and

fields

.

London

is

now

veiled

,

now

vanished

,

now

crumbled

,

now

fallen

.

The

carbolic

and

the

pitch-pine

begin

to

lose

their

savour

.

I

smell

corn

and

turnips

.

I

undo

a

paper

packet

tied

with

a

piece

of

white

cotton

.

The

egg

shells

slide

into

the

cleft

between

my

knees

.

Now

we

stop

at

station

after

station

,

rolling

out

milk

cans

.

Now

women

kiss

each

other

and

help

with

baskets

.

Now

I

will

let

myself

lean

out

of

the

window

.

The

air

rushes

down

my

nose

and

throat

--

the

cold

air

,

the

salt

air

with

the

smell

of

turnip

fields

in

it

.

And

there

is

my

father

,

with

his

back

turned

,

talking

to

a

farmer

.

I

tremble

,

I

cry

.

There

is

my

father

in

gaiters

.

There

is

my

father

.

'

'

I

sit

snug

in

my

own

corner

going

North

,

'

said

Jinny

,

'

in

this

roaring

express

which

is

yet

so

smooth

that

it

flattens

hedges

,

lengthens

hills

.

We

flash

past

signal-boxes

;

we

make

the

earth

rock

slightly

from

side

to

side

.

The

distance

closes

for

ever

in

a

point

;

and

we

for

ever

open

the

distance

wide

again

.

The

telegraph

poles

bob

up

incessantly

;

one

is

felled

,

another

rises

.

Now

we

roar

and

swing

into

a

tunnel

.

The

gentleman

pulls

up

the

window

.

I

see

reflections

on

the

shining

glass

which

lines

the

tunnel

.

I

see

him

lower

his

paper

.

He

smiles

at

my

reflection

in

the

tunnel

.

My

body

instantly

of

its

own

accord

puts

forth

a

frill

under

his

gaze

.

My

body

lives

a

life

of

its

own

.

Now

the

black

window

glass

is

green

again

.

We

are

out

of

the

tunnel

.

He

reads

his

paper

.

But

we

have

exchanged

the

approval

of

our

bodies

.

There

is

then

a

great

society

of

bodies

,

and

mine

is

introduced

;

mine

has

come

into

the

room

where

the

gilt

chairs

are

.

Look

--

all

the

windows

of

the

villas

and

their

white-tented

curtains

dance

;

and

the

men

sitting

in

the

hedges

in

the

cornfields

with

knotted

blue

handkerchiefs

are

aware

too

,

as

I

am

aware

,

of

heat

and

rapture

.

One

waves

as

we

pass

him

.

There

are

bowers

and

arbours

in

these

villa

gardens

and

young

men

in

shirt-sleeves

on

ladders

trimming

roses

.

A

man

on

a

horse

canters

over

the

field

.

His

horse

plunges

as

we

pass

.

And

the

rider

turns

to

look

at

us

.

We

roar

again

through

blackness

.

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And

I

lie

back

;

I

give

myself

up

to

rapture

;

I

think

that

at

the

end

of

the

tunnel

I

enter

a

lamp-lit

room

with

chairs

,

into

one

of

which

I

sink

,

much

admired

,

my

dress

billowing

round

me

.

But

behold

,

looking

up

,

I

meet

the

eyes

of

a

sour

woman

,

who

suspects

me

of

rapture

.

My

body

shuts

in

her

face

,

impertinently

,

like

a

parasol

.

I

open

my

body

,

I

shut

my

body

at

my

will

.

Life

is

beginning

.

I

now

break

into

my

hoard

of

life

.

'

'

It

is

the

first

day

of

the

summer

holidays

,

'

said

Rhoda

.

'

And

now

,

as

the

train

passes

by

these

red

rocks

,

by

this

blue

sea

,

the

term

,

done

with

,

forms

itself

into

one

shape

behind

me

.

I

see

its

colour

.

June

was

white

.

I

see

the

fields

white

with

daisies

,

and

white

with

dresses

;

and

tennis

courts

marked

with

white

.

Then

there

was

wind

and

violent

thunder

.

There

was

a

star

riding

through

clouds

one

night

,

and

I

said

to

the

star

,

"

Consume

me

.

"

That

was

at

midsummer

,

after

the

garden

party

and

my

humiliation

at

the

garden

party

.

Wind

and

storm

coloured

July

.

Also

,

in

the

middle

,

cadaverous

,

awful

,

lay

the

grey

puddle

in

the

courtyard

,

when

,

holding

an

envelope

in

my

hand

,

I

carried

a

message

.

I

came

to

the

puddle

.

I

could

not

cross

it

.

Identity

failed

me

.

We

are

nothing

,

I

said

,

and

fell

.

I

was

blown

like

a

feather

,

I

was

wafted

down

tunnels

.

Then

very

gingerly

,

I

pushed

my

foot

across

.

I

laid

my

hand

against

a

brick

wall

.

I

returned

very

painfully

,

drawing

myself

back

into

my

body

over

the

grey

,

cadaverous

space

of

the

puddle

.

This

is

life

then

to

which

I

am

committed

.

'S

o

I

detach

the

summer

term

.

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