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- Стр. 31/81
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'
There
is
Susan
,
'
said
Louis
.
'S
he
does
not
see
us
.
She
has
not
dressed
,
because
she
despises
the
futility
of
London
.
She
stands
for
a
moment
at
the
swing-door
,
looking
about
her
like
a
creature
dazed
by
the
light
of
a
lamp
.
Now
she
moves
.
She
has
the
stealthy
yet
assured
movements
(
even
among
tables
and
chairs
)
of
a
wild
beast
.
She
seems
to
find
her
way
by
instinct
in
and
out
among
these
little
tables
,
touching
no
one
,
disregarding
waiters
,
yet
comes
straight
to
our
table
in
the
corner
.
When
she
sees
us
(
Neville
,
and
myself
)
her
face
assumes
a
certainty
which
is
alarming
,
as
if
she
had
what
she
wanted
.
To
be
loved
by
Susan
would
be
to
be
impaled
by
a
bird
's
sharp
beak
,
to
be
nailed
to
a
barnyard
door
.
Yet
there
are
moments
when
I
could
wish
to
be
speared
by
a
beak
,
to
be
nailed
to
a
barnyard
door
,
positively
,
once
and
for
all
.
'
Rhoda
comes
now
,
from
nowhere
,
having
slipped
in
while
we
were
not
looking
.
She
must
have
made
a
tortuous
course
,
taking
cover
now
behind
a
waiter
,
now
behind
some
ornamental
pillar
,
so
as
to
put
off
as
long
as
possible
the
shock
of
recognition
,
so
as
to
be
secure
for
one
more
moment
to
rock
her
petals
in
her
basin
.
We
wake
her
.
We
torture
her
.
She
dreads
us
,
she
despises
us
,
yet
comes
cringing
to
our
sides
because
for
all
our
cruelty
there
is
always
some
name
,
some
face
,
which
sheds
a
radiance
,
which
lights
up
her
pavements
and
makes
it
possible
for
her
to
replenish
her
dreams
.
'
'
The
door
opens
,
the
door
goes
on
opening
,
'
said
Neville
,
'
yet
he
does
not
come
.
'
'
There
is
Jinny
,
'
said
Susan
.
'S
he
stands
in
the
door
.
Everything
seems
stayed
.
The
waiter
stops
.
The
diners
at
the
table
by
the
door
look
.
She
seems
to
centre
everything
;
round
her
tables
,
lines
of
doors
,
windows
,
ceilings
,
ray
themselves
,
like
rays
round
the
star
in
the
middle
of
a
smashed
window-pane
.
She
brings
things
to
a
point
,
to
order
.
Now
she
sees
us
,
and
moves
,
and
all
the
rays
ripple
and
flow
and
waver
over
us
,
bringing
in
new
tides
of
sensation
.
We
change
.
Louis
puts
his
hand
to
his
tie
.
Neville
,
who
sits
waiting
with
agonized
intensity
,
nervously
straightens
the
forks
in
front
of
him
.
Rhoda
sees
her
with
surprise
,
as
if
on
some
far
horizon
a
fire
blazed
.
And
I
,
though
I
pile
my
mind
with
damp
grass
,
with
wet
fields
,
with
the
sound
of
rain
on
the
roof
and
the
gusts
of
wind
that
batter
at
the
house
in
winter
and
so
protect
my
soul
against
her
,
feel
her
derision
steal
round
me
,
feel
her
laughter
curl
its
tongues
of
fire
round
me
and
light
up
unsparingly
my
shabby
dress
,
my
square-tipped
finger-nails
,
which
I
at
once
hide
under
the
table-cloth
.
'
'
He
has
not
come
,
'
said
Neville
.
The
door
opens
and
he
does
not
come
.
That
is
Bernard
.
As
he
pulls
off
his
coat
he
shows
,
of
course
,
the
blue
shirt
under
his
arm-pits
.
And
then
,
unlike
the
rest
of
us
,
he
comes
in
without
pushing
open
a
door
,
without
knowing
that
he
comes
into
a
room
full
of
strangers
.
He
does
not
look
in
the
glass
.
His
hair
is
untidy
,
but
he
does
not
know
it
.
He
has
no
perception
that
we
differ
,
or
that
this
table
is
his
goal
.
He
hesitates
on
his
way
here
.
Who
is
that
?
he
asks
himself
,
as
he
half
knows
a
woman
in
an
opera
cloak
.
He
half
knows
everybody
;
he
knows
nobody
(
I
compare
him
with
Percival
)
.
But
now
,
perceiving
us
,
he
waves
a
benevolent
salute
;
he
bears
down
with
such
benignity
,
with
such
love
of
mankind
(
crossed
with
humour
at
the
futility
of
"
loving
mankind
"
)
,
that
,
if
it
were
not
for
Percival
,
who
turns
all
this
to
vapour
,
one
would
feel
,
as
the
others
already
feel
:
Now
is
our
festival
;
now
we
are
together
.
But
without
Percival
there
is
no
solidity
.
We
are
silhouettes
,
hollow
phantoms
moving
mistily
without
a
background
.
'
'
The
swing-door
goes
on
opening
,
'
said
Rhoda
.
'S
trangers
keep
on
coming
,
people
we
shall
never
see
again
,
people
who
brush
us
disagreeably
with
their
familiarity
,
their
indifference
,
and
the
sense
of
a
world
continuing
without
us
.
We
can
not
sink
down
,
we
can
not
forget
our
faces
.
Even
I
who
have
no
face
,
who
make
no
difference
when
I
come
in
(
Susan
and
Jinny
change
bodies
and
faces
)
,
flutter
unattached
,
without
anchorage
anywhere
,
unconsolidated
,
incapable
of
composing
any
blankness
or
continuity
or
wall
against
which
these
bodies
move
.
It
is
because
of
Neville
and
his
misery
.
The
sharp
breath
of
his
misery
scatters
my
being
.
Nothing
can
settle
;
nothing
can
subside
.
Every
time
the
door
opens
he
looks
fixedly
at
the
table
--
he
dare
not
raise
his
eyes
--
then
looks
for
one
second
and
says
,
"
He
has
not
come
.
"
But
here
he
is
.
'
'N
ow
,
'
said
Neville
,
'm
y
tree
flowers
.
My
heart
rises
.
All
oppression
is
relieved
.
All
impediment
is
removed
.
The
reign
of
chaos
is
over
.
He
has
imposed
order
.
Knives
cut
again
.
'
