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'

'

Unknown

,

with

or

without

a

secret

,

it

does

not

matter

,

'

said

Rhoda

,

'

he

is

like

a

stone

fallen

into

a

pond

round

which

minnows

swarm

.

Like

minnows

,

we

who

had

been

shooting

this

way

,

that

way

,

all

shot

round

him

when

he

came

.

Like

minnows

,

conscious

of

the

presence

of

a

great

stone

,

we

undulate

and

eddy

contentedly

.

Comfort

steals

over

us

.

Gold

runs

in

our

blood

.

One

,

two

;

one

,

two

;

the

heart

beats

in

serenity

,

in

confidence

,

in

some

trance

of

well-being

,

in

some

rapture

of

benignity

;

and

look

--

the

outermost

parts

of

the

earth

--

pale

shadows

on

the

utmost

horizon

,

India

for

instance

,

rise

into

our

purview

.

The

world

that

had

been

shrivelled

,

rounds

itself

;

remote

provinces

are

fetched

up

out

of

darkness

;

we

see

muddy

roads

,

twisted

jungle

,

swarms

of

men

,

and

the

vulture

that

feeds

on

some

bloated

carcass

as

within

our

scope

,

part

of

our

proud

and

splendid

province

,

since

Percival

,

riding

alone

on

a

flea-bitten

mare

,

advances

down

a

solitary

path

,

has

his

camp

pitched

among

desolate

trees

,

and

sits

alone

,

looking

at

the

enormous

mountains

.

'

'

It

is

Percival

,

'

said

Louis

,

's

itting

silent

as

he

sat

among

the

tickling

grasses

when

the

breeze

parted

the

clouds

and

they

formed

again

,

who

makes

us

aware

that

these

attempts

to

say

,

"

I

am

this

,

I

am

that

,

"

which

we

make

,

coming

together

,

like

separated

parts

of

one

body

and

soul

,

are

false

.

Something

has

been

left

out

from

fear

.

Something

has

been

altered

,

from

vanity

.

We

have

tried

to

accentuate

differences

.

From

the

desire

to

be

separate

we

have

laid

stress

upon

our

faults

,

and

what

is

particular

to

us

.

Отключить рекламу

But

there

is

a

chain

whirling

round

,

round

,

in

a

steel-blue

circle

beneath

.

'

'

It

is

hate

,

it

is

love

,

'

said

Susan

.

That

is

the

furious

coal-black

stream

that

makes

us

dizzy

if

we

look

down

into

it

.

We

stand

on

a

ledge

here

,

but

if

we

look

down

we

turn

giddy

.

'

'

It

is

love

,

'

said

Jinny

,

'

it

is

hate

,

such

as

Susan

feels

for

me

because

I

kissed

Louis

once

in

the

garden

;

because

equipped

as

I

am

,

I

make

her

think

when

I

come

in

,

"

My

hands

are

red

,

"

and

hide

them

.

But

our

hatred

is

almost

indistinguishable

from

our

love

.

'

'

Yet

these

roaring

waters

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

upon

which

we

build

our

crazy

platforms

are

more

stable

than

the

wild

,

the

weak

and

inconsequent

cries

that

we

utter

when

,

trying

to

speak

,

we

rise

;

when

we

reason

and

jerk

out

these

false

sayings

,

"

I

am

this

;

I

am

that

!

"

Speech

is

false

.

Отключить рекламу

'

But

I

eat

.

I

gradually

lose

all

knowledge

of

particulars

as

I

eat

.

I

am

becoming

weighed

down

with

food

.

These

delicious

mouthfuls

of

roast

duck

,

fitly

piled

with

vegetables

,

following

each

other

in

exquisite

rotation

of

warmth

,

weight

,

sweet

and

bitter

,

past

my

palate

,

down

my

gullet

,

into

my

stomach

,

have

stabilized

my

body

.

I

feel

quiet

,

gravity

,

control

.

All

is

solid

now

.

Instinctively

my

palate

now

requires

and

anticipates

sweetness

and

lightness

,

something

sugared

and

evanescent

;

and

cool

wine

,

fitting

glove-like

over

those

finer

nerves

that

seem

to

tremble

from

the

roof

of

my

mouth

and

make

it

spread

(

as

I

drink

)

into

a

domed

cavern

,

green

with

vine

leaves

,

musk-scented

,

purple

with

grapes

.

Now

I

can

look

steadily

into

the

mill-race

that

foams

beneath

.

By

what

particular

name

are

we

to

call

it

?

Let

Rhoda

speak

,

whose

face

I

see

reflected

mistily

in

the

looking-glass

opposite

;

Rhoda

whom

I

interrupted

when

she

rocked

her

petals

in

a

brown

basin

,

asking

for

the

pocket-knife

that

Bernard

had

stolen

.

Love

is

not

a

whirlpool

to

her

.

She

is

not

giddy

when

she

looks

down

.

She

looks

far

away

over

our

heads

,

beyond

India

.

'

'

Yes

,

between

your

shoulders

,

over

your

heads

,

to

a

landscape

,

'

said

Rhoda

,

'

to

a

hollow

where

the

many-backed

steep

hills

come

down

like

birds

'

wings

folded

.

There

,

on

the

short

,

firm

turf

,

are

bushes

,

dark

leaved

,

and

against

their

darkness

I

see

a

shape

,

white

,

but

not

of

stone

,

moving

,

perhaps

alive

.

But

it

is

not

you

,

it

is

not

you

,

it

is

not

you

;

not

Percival

,

Susan

,

Jinny

,

Neville

or

Louis

.

When

the

white

arm

rests

upon

the

knee

it

is

a

triangle

;

now

it

is

upright

--

a

column

;

now

a

fountain

,

falling

.

It

makes

no

sign

,

it

does

not

beckon

,

it

does

not

see

us

.

Behind

it

roars

the

sea

.

It

is

beyond

our

reach

.

Yet

there

I

venture

.

There

I

go

to

replenish

my

emptiness

,

to

stretch

my

nights

and

fill

them

fuller

and

fuller

with

dreams

.

And

for

a

second

even

now

,

even

here

,

I

reach

my

object

and

say

,

"

Wander

no

more

.

All

else

is

trial

and

make-believe

.

Here

is

the

end

.

"

But

these

pilgrimages

,

these

moments

of

departure

,

start

always

in

your

presence

,

from

this

table

,

these

lights

from

Percival

and

Susan

,

here

and

now

.

Always

I

see

the

grove

over

your

heads

,

between

your

shoulders

,

or

from

a

window

when

I

have

crossed

the

room

at

a

party

and

stand

looking

down

into

the

street

.

'

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