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Now
,
too
,
the
rising
sun
came
in
at
the
window
,
touching
the
red-edged
curtain
,
and
began
to
bring
out
circles
and
lines
.
Now
in
the
growing
light
its
whiteness
settled
in
the
plate
;
the
blade
condensed
its
gleam
.
Chairs
and
cupboards
loomed
behind
so
that
though
each
was
separate
they
seemed
inextricably
involved
.
The
looking-glass
whitened
its
pool
upon
the
wall
.
The
real
flower
on
the
window-sill
was
attended
by
a
phantom
flower
.
Yet
the
phantom
was
part
of
the
flower
,
for
when
a
bud
broke
free
the
paler
flower
in
the
glass
opened
a
bud
too
.
The
wind
rose
.
The
waves
drummed
on
the
shore
,
like
turbaned
warriors
,
like
turbaned
men
with
poisoned
assegais
who
,
whirling
their
arms
on
high
,
advance
upon
the
feeding
flocks
,
the
white
sheep
.
'
The
complexity
of
things
becomes
more
close
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'
here
at
college
,
where
the
stir
and
pressure
of
life
are
so
extreme
,
where
the
excitement
of
mere
living
becomes
daily
more
urgent
.
Every
hour
something
new
is
unburied
in
the
great
bran
pie
.
What
am
I
?
I
ask
.
This
?
No
,
I
am
that
.
Especially
now
,
when
I
have
left
a
room
,
and
people
talking
,
and
the
stone
flags
ring
out
with
my
solitary
footsteps
,
and
I
behold
the
moon
rising
,
sublimely
,
indifferently
,
over
the
ancient
chapel
--
then
it
becomes
clear
that
I
am
not
one
and
simple
,
but
complex
and
many
.
Bernard
,
in
public
,
bubbles
;
in
private
,
is
secretive
.
That
is
what
they
do
not
understand
,
for
they
are
now
undoubtedly
discussing
me
,
saying
I
escape
them
,
am
evasive
.
They
do
not
understand
that
I
have
to
effect
different
transitions
;
have
to
cover
the
entrances
and
exits
of
several
different
men
who
alternately
act
their
parts
as
Bernard
.
I
am
abnormally
aware
of
circumstances
.
I
can
never
read
a
book
in
a
railway
carriage
without
asking
,
Is
he
a
builder
?
Is
she
unhappy
?
I
was
aware
today
acutely
that
poor
Simes
,
with
his
pimple
,
was
feeling
,
how
bitterly
,
that
his
chance
of
making
a
good
impression
upon
Billy
Jackson
was
remote
.
Feeling
this
painfully
,
I
invited
him
to
dinner
with
ardour
.
This
he
will
attribute
to
an
admiration
which
is
not
mine
.
That
is
true
.
But
"
joined
to
the
sensibility
of
a
woman
"
(
I
am
here
quoting
my
own
biographer
)
"
Bernard
possessed
the
logical
sobriety
of
a
man
.
"
Now
people
who
make
a
single
impression
,
and
that
,
in
the
main
,
a
good
one
(
for
there
seems
to
be
a
virtue
in
simplicity
)
,
are
those
who
keep
their
equilibrium
in
mid-stream
.
(
I
instantly
see
fish
with
their
noses
one
way
,
the
stream
rushing
past
another
.
)
Canon
,
Lycett
,
Peters
,
Hawkins
,
Larpent
,
Neville
--
all
fish
in
mid-stream
.
But
you
understand
,
you
,
my
self
,
who
always
comes
at
a
call
(
that
would
be
a
harrowing
experience
to
call
and
for
no
one
to
come
;
that
would
make
the
midnight
hollow
,
and
explains
the
expression
of
old
men
in
clubs
--
they
have
given
up
calling
for
a
self
who
does
not
come
)
,
you
understand
that
I
am
only
superficially
represented
by
what
I
was
saying
tonight
.
Underneath
,
and
,
at
the
moment
when
I
am
most
disparate
,
I
am
also
integrated
.
I
sympathize
effusively
;
I
also
sit
,
like
a
toad
in
a
hole
,
receiving
with
perfect
coldness
whatever
comes
.
Very
few
of
you
who
are
now
discussing
me
have
the
double
capacity
to
feel
,
to
reason
.
Lycett
,
you
see
,
believes
in
running
after
hares
;
Hawkins
has
spent
a
most
industrious
afternoon
in
the
library
.
Peters
has
his
young
lady
at
the
circulating
library
.
You
are
all
engaged
,
involved
,
drawn
in
,
and
absolutely
energized
to
the
top
of
your
bent
--
all
save
Neville
,
whose
mind
is
far
too
complex
to
be
roused
by
any
single
activity
.
I
also
am
too
complex
.
In
my
case
something
remains
floating
,
unattached
.
'N
ow
,
as
a
proof
of
my
susceptibility
to
atmosphere
,
here
,
as
I
come
into
my
room
,
and
turn
on
the
light
,
and
see
the
sheet
of
paper
,
the
table
,
my
gown
lying
negligently
over
the
back
of
the
chair
,
I
feel
that
I
am
that
dashing
yet
reflective
man
,
that
bold
and
deleterious
figure
,
who
,
lightly
throwing
off
his
cloak
,
seizes
his
pen
and
at
once
flings
off
the
following
letter
to
the
girl
with
whom
he
is
passionately
in
love
.
'
Yes
,
all
is
propitious
.
I
am
now
in
the
mood
.
I
can
write
the
letter
straight
off
which
I
have
begun
ever
so
many
times
.
I
have
just
come
in
;
I
have
flung
down
my
hat
and
my
stick
;
I
am
writing
the
first
thing
that
comes
into
my
head
without
troubling
to
put
the
paper
straight
.
It
is
going
to
be
a
brilliant
sketch
which
,
she
must
think
,
was
written
without
a
pause
,
without
an
erasure
.
Look
how
unformed
the
letters
are
--
there
is
a
careless
blot
.
All
must
be
sacrificed
to
speed
and
carelessness
.
I
will
write
a
quick
,
running
,
small
hand
,
exaggerating
the
down
stroke
of
the
"
y
"
and
crossing
the
"
t
"
thus
--
with
a
dash
.
The
date
shall
be
only
Tuesday
,
the
17th
,
and
then
a
question
mark
.
But
also
I
must
give
her
the
impression
that
though
he
--
for
this
is
not
myself
--
is
writing
in
such
an
off-hand
,
such
a
slap-dash
way
,
there
is
some
subtle
suggestion
of
intimacy
and
respect
.
I
must
allude
to
talks
we
have
had
together
--
bring
back
some
remembered
scene
.
But
I
must
seem
to
her
(
this
is
very
important
)
to
be
passing
from
thing
to
thing
with
the
greatest
ease
in
the
world
.
I
shall
pass
from
the
service
for
the
man
who
was
drowned
(
I
have
a
phrase
for
that
)
to
Mrs
Moffat
and
her
sayings
(
I
have
a
note
of
them
)
,
and
so
to
some
reflections
apparently
casual
but
full
of
profundity
(
profound
criticism
is
often
written
casually
)
about
some
book
I
have
been
reading
,
some
out-of-the-way
book
.
I
want
her
to
say
as
she
brushes
her
hair
or
puts
out
the
candle
,
"
Where
did
I
read
that
?
Oh
,
in
Bernard
's
letter
.
"
It
is
the
speed
,
the
hot
,
molten
effect
,
the
laval
flow
of
sentence
into
sentence
that
I
need
.
Who
am
I
thinking
of
?
Byron
of
course
.
I
am
,
in
some
ways
,
like
Byron
.
Perhaps
a
sip
of
Byron
will
help
to
put
me
in
the
vein
.
Let
me
read
a
page
.
No
;
this
is
dull
;
this
is
scrappy
.
This
is
rather
too
formal
.
Now
I
am
getting
the
hang
of
it
.
Now
I
am
getting
his
beat
into
my
brain
(
the
rhythm
is
the
main
thing
in
writing
)
.
Now
,
without
pausing
I
will
begin
,
on
the
very
lilt
of
the
stroke
--
.
'
Yet
it
falls
flat
.
It
peters
out
.
I
can
not
get
up
steam
enough
to
carry
me
over
the
transition
.
My
true
self
breaks
off
from
my
assumed
.
And
if
I
begin
to
re-write
it
,
she
will
feel
"
Bernard
is
posing
as
a
literary
man
;
Bernard
is
thinking
of
his
biographer
"
(
which
is
true
)
.
No
,
I
will
write
the
letter
tomorrow
directly
after
breakfast
.
'N
ow
let
me
fill
my
mind
with
imaginary
pictures
.
Let
me
suppose
that
I
am
asked
to
stay
at
Restover
,
King
's
Laughton
,
Station
Langley
three
miles
.
I
arrive
in
the
dusk
.
In
the
courtyard
of
this
shabby
but
distinguished
house
there
are
two
or
three
dogs
,
slinking
,
long-legged
.
There
are
faded
rugs
in
the
hall
;
a
military
gentleman
smokes
a
pipe
as
he
paces
the
terrace
.
The
note
is
of
distinguished
poverty
and
military
connections
.
A
hunter
's
hoof
on
the
writing
table
--
a
favourite
horse
.
"
Do
you
ride
?
"
"
Yes
,
sir
,
I
love
riding
.
"
"
My
daughter
expects
us
in
the
drawing-room
.
"
My
heart
pounds
against
my
ribs
.
She
is
standing
at
a
low
table
;
she
has
been
hunting
;
she
munches
sandwiches
like
a
tomboy
.
I
make
a
fairly
good
impression
on
the
Colonel
.
I
am
not
too
clever
,
he
thinks
;
I
am
not
too
raw
.
Also
I
play
billiards
.
Then
the
nice
maid
who
has
been
with
the
family
thirty
years
comes
in
.
The
pattern
on
the
plates
is
of
Oriental
long-tailed
birds
.
Her
mother
's
portrait
in
muslin
hangs
over
the
fireplace
.
I
can
sketch
the
surroundings
up
to
a
point
with
extraordinary
ease
.
But
can
I
make
it
work
?
Can
I
hear
her
voice
--
the
precise
tone
with
which
,
when
we
are
alone
,
she
says
"
Bernard
"
?
And
then
what
next
?
