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"
But
what
did
Bernard
feel
for
the
plumber
?
Did
he
not
only
wish
to
continue
the
sequence
of
the
story
which
he
never
stops
telling
himself
?
He
began
it
when
he
rolled
his
bread
into
pellets
as
a
child
.
One
pellet
was
a
man
,
one
was
a
woman
.
We
are
all
pellets
.
We
are
all
phrases
in
Bernard
's
story
,
things
he
writes
down
in
his
notebook
under
A
or
under
B
.
He
tells
our
story
with
extraordinary
understanding
,
except
of
what
we
most
feel
.
For
he
does
not
need
us
.
He
is
never
at
our
mercy
.
There
he
is
,
waving
his
arms
on
the
platform
.
The
train
has
gone
without
him
.
He
has
missed
his
connection
.
He
has
lost
his
ticket
.
But
that
does
not
matter
.
He
will
talk
to
the
barmaid
about
the
nature
of
human
destiny
.
We
are
off
;
he
has
forgotten
us
already
;
we
pass
out
of
his
view
;
we
go
on
,
filled
with
lingering
sensations
,
half
bitter
,
half
sweet
,
for
he
is
somehow
to
be
pitied
,
breasting
the
world
with
half-finished
phrases
,
having
lost
his
ticket
:
he
is
also
to
be
loved
.
'N
ow
I
pretend
again
to
read
.
I
raise
my
book
,
till
it
almost
covers
my
eyes
.
But
I
can
not
read
in
the
presence
of
horse-dealers
and
plumbers
.
I
have
no
power
of
ingratiating
myself
.
I
do
not
admire
that
man
;
he
does
not
admire
me
.
Let
me
at
least
be
honest
.
Let
me
denounce
this
piffling
,
trifling
,
self-satisfied
world
;
these
horse-hair
seats
;
these
coloured
photographs
of
piers
and
parades
.
I
could
shriek
aloud
at
the
smug
self-satisfaction
,
at
the
mediocrity
of
this
world
,
which
breeds
horse-dealers
with
coral
ornaments
hanging
from
their
watch-chains
.
There
is
that
in
me
which
will
consume
them
entirely
.
My
laughter
shall
make
them
twist
in
their
seats
;
shall
drive
them
howling
before
me
.
No
;
they
are
immortal
.
They
triumph
.
They
will
make
it
impossible
for
me
always
to
read
Catullus
in
a
third-class
railway
carriage
.
They
will
drive
me
in
October
to
take
refuge
in
one
of
the
universities
,
where
I
shall
become
a
don
;
and
go
with
schoolmasters
to
Greece
;
and
lecture
on
the
ruins
of
the
Parthenon
.
It
would
be
better
to
breed
horses
and
live
in
one
of
those
red
villas
than
to
run
in
and
out
of
the
skulls
of
Sophocles
and
Euripides
like
a
maggot
,
with
a
high-minded
wife
,
one
of
those
University
women
.
That
,
however
,
will
be
my
fate
.
I
shall
suffer
.
I
am
already
at
eighteen
capable
of
such
contempt
that
horse-breeders
hate
me
.
That
is
my
triumph
;
I
do
not
compromise
.
I
am
not
timid
;
I
have
no
accent
.
I
do
not
finick
about
fearing
what
people
think
of
"
my
father
a
banker
at
Brisbane
"
like
Louis
.
'N
ow
we
draw
near
the
centre
of
the
civilized
world
.
There
are
the
familiar
gasometers
.
There
are
the
public
gardens
intersected
by
asphalt
paths
.
There
are
the
lovers
lying
shamelessly
mouth
to
mouth
on
the
burnt
grass
.
Percival
is
now
almost
in
Scotland
;
his
train
draws
through
the
red
moors
;
he
sees
the
long
line
of
the
Border
hills
and
the
Roman
wall
.
He
reads
a
detective
novel
,
yet
understands
everything
.
The
train
slows
and
lengthens
,
as
we
approach
London
,
the
centre
,
and
my
heart
draws
out
too
,
in
fear
,
in
exultation
.
I
am
about
to
meet
--
what
?
What
extraordinary
adventure
waits
me
,
among
these
mail
vans
,
these
porters
,
these
swarms
of
people
calling
taxis
?
I
feel
insignificant
,
lost
,
but
exultant
.
With
a
soft
shock
we
stop
.
I
will
let
the
others
get
out
before
me
.
I
will
sit
still
one
moment
before
I
emerge
into
that
chaos
,
that
tumult
.
I
will
not
anticipate
what
is
to
come
.
The
huge
uproar
is
in
my
ears
.
It
sounds
and
resounds
,
under
this
glass
roof
like
the
surge
of
a
sea
.
We
are
cast
down
on
the
platform
with
our
handbags
.
We
are
whirled
asunder
.
My
sense
of
self
almost
perishes
;
my
contempt
.
I
become
drawn
in
,
tossed
down
,
thrown
sky-high
.
I
step
out
on
to
the
platform
,
grasping
tightly
all
that
I
possess
--
one
bag
.
'
The
sun
rose
.
Bars
of
yellow
and
green
fell
on
the
shore
,
gilding
the
ribs
of
the
eaten-out
boat
and
making
the
sea-holly
and
its
mailed
leaves
gleam
blue
as
steel
.
Light
almost
pierced
the
thin
swift
waves
as
they
raced
fan-shaped
over
the
beach
.
The
girl
who
had
shaken
her
head
and
made
all
the
jewels
,
the
topaz
,
the
aquamarine
,
the
water-coloured
jewels
with
sparks
of
fire
in
them
,
dance
,
now
bared
her
brows
and
with
wide-opened
eyes
drove
a
straight
pathway
over
the
waves
.
Their
quivering
mackerel
sparkling
was
darkened
;
they
massed
themselves
;
their
green
hollows
deepened
and
darkened
and
might
be
traversed
by
shoals
of
wandering
fish
.
As
they
splashed
and
drew
back
they
left
a
black
rim
of
twigs
and
cork
on
the
shore
and
straws
and
sticks
of
wood
,
as
if
some
light
shallop
had
foundered
and
burst
its
sides
and
the
sailor
had
swum
to
land
and
bounded
up
the
cliff
and
left
his
frail
cargo
to
be
washed
ashore
.
In
the
garden
the
birds
that
had
sung
erratically
and
spasmodically
in
the
dawn
on
that
tree
,
on
that
bush
,
now
sang
together
in
chorus
,
shrill
and
sharp
;
now
together
,
as
if
conscious
of
companionship
,
now
alone
as
if
to
the
pale
blue
sky
.
They
swerved
,
all
in
one
flight
,
when
the
black
cat
moved
among
the
bushes
,
when
the
cook
threw
cinders
on
the
ash
heap
and
startled
them
.
Fear
was
in
their
song
,
and
apprehension
of
pain
,
and
joy
to
be
snatched
quickly
now
at
this
instant
.
Also
they
sang
emulously
in
the
clear
morning
air
,
swerving
high
over
the
elm
tree
,
singing
together
as
they
chased
each
other
,
escaping
,
pursuing
,
pecking
each
other
as
they
turned
high
in
the
air
.
And
then
tiring
of
pursuit
and
flight
,
lovelily
they
came
descending
,
delicately
declining
,
dropped
down
and
sat
silent
on
the
tree
,
on
the
wall
,
with
their
bright
eyes
glancing
,
and
their
heads
turned
this
way
,
that
way
;
aware
,
awake
;
intensely
conscious
of
one
thing
,
one
object
in
particular
.
Perhaps
it
was
a
snail
shell
,
rising
in
the
grass
like
a
grey
cathedral
,
a
swelling
building
burnt
with
dark
rings
and
shadowed
green
by
the
grass
.
Or
perhaps
they
saw
the
splendour
of
the
flowers
making
a
light
of
flowing
purple
over
the
beds
,
through
which
dark
tunnels
of
purple
shade
were
driven
between
the
stalks
.
Or
they
fixed
their
gaze
on
the
small
bright
apple
leaves
,
dancing
yet
withheld
,
stiffly
sparkling
among
the
pink-tipped
blossoms
.
Or
they
saw
the
rain
drop
on
the
hedge
,
pendent
but
not
falling
,
with
a
whole
house
bent
in
it
,
and
towering
elms
;
or
,
gazing
straight
at
the
sun
,
their
eyes
became
gold
beads
.
Now
glancing
this
side
,
that
side
,
they
looked
deeper
,
beneath
the
flowers
,
down
the
dark
avenues
into
the
unlit
world
where
the
leaf
rots
and
the
flower
has
fallen
.
Then
one
of
them
,
beautifully
darting
,
accurately
alighting
,
spiked
the
soft
,
monstrous
body
of
the
defenceless
worm
,
pecked
again
and
yet
again
,
and
left
it
to
fester
.
Down
there
among
the
roots
where
the
flowers
decayed
,
gusts
of
dead
smells
were
wafted
;
drops
formed
on
the
bloated
sides
of
swollen
things
.
The
skin
of
rotten
fruit
broke
,
and
matter
oozed
too
thick
to
run
.
Yellow
excretions
were
exuded
by
slugs
,
and
now
and
again
an
amorphous
body
with
a
head
at
either
end
swayed
slowly
from
side
to
side
.
The
gold-eyed
birds
darting
in
between
the
leaves
observed
that
purulence
,
that
wetness
,
quizzically
.
Now
and
then
they
plunged
the
tips
of
their
beaks
savagely
into
the
sticky
mixture
.
