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'

He

is

dead

,

'

said

Neville

.

'

He

fell

.

His

horse

tripped

.

He

was

thrown

.

The

sails

of

the

world

have

swung

round

and

caught

me

on

the

head

.

All

is

over

.

The

lights

of

the

world

have

gone

out

.

There

stands

the

tree

which

I

can

not

pass

.

'

Oh

,

to

crumple

this

telegram

in

my

fingers

--

to

let

the

light

of

the

world

flood

back

--

to

say

this

has

not

happened

!

But

why

turn

one

's

head

hither

and

thither

?

This

is

the

truth

.

This

is

the

fact

.

His

horse

stumbled

;

he

was

thrown

.

The

flashing

trees

and

white

rails

went

up

in

a

shower

.

There

was

a

surge

;

a

drumming

in

his

ears

.

Then

the

blow

;

the

world

crashed

;

he

breathed

heavily

.

He

died

where

he

fell

.

'

Barns

and

summer

days

in

the

country

,

rooms

where

we

sat

--

all

now

lie

in

the

unreal

world

which

is

gone

.

My

past

is

cut

from

me

.

They

came

running

.

They

carried

him

to

some

pavilion

,

men

in

riding-boots

,

men

in

sun

helmets

;

among

unknown

men

he

died

.

Loneliness

and

silence

often

surrounded

him

.

He

often

left

me

.

And

then

,

returning

,

"

See

where

he

comes

!

"

I

said

.

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'

Women

shuffle

past

the

window

as

if

there

were

no

gulf

cut

in

the

street

,

no

tree

with

stiff

leaves

which

we

can

not

pass

.

We

deserve

then

to

be

tripped

by

molehills

.

We

are

infinitely

abject

,

shuffling

past

with

our

eyes

shut

.

But

why

should

I

submit

?

Why

try

to

lift

my

foot

and

mount

the

stair

?

This

is

where

I

stand

;

here

,

holding

the

telegram

.

The

past

,

summer

days

and

rooms

where

we

sat

,

stream

away

like

burnt

paper

with

red

eyes

in

it

.

Why

meet

and

resume

?

Why

talk

and

eat

and

make

up

other

combinations

with

other

people

?

From

this

moment

I

am

solitary

.

No

one

will

know

me

now

.

I

have

three

letters

,

"

I

am

about

to

play

quoits

with

a

colonel

,

so

no

more

,

"

thus

he

ends

our

friendship

,

shouldering

his

way

through

the

crowd

with

a

wave

of

his

hand

.

This

farce

is

worth

no

more

formal

celebration

.

Yet

if

someone

had

but

said

:

"

Wait

"

;

had

pulled

the

strap

three

holes

tighter

--

he

would

have

done

justice

for

fifty

years

,

and

sat

in

Court

and

ridden

alone

at

the

head

of

troops

and

denounced

some

monstrous

tyranny

,

and

come

back

to

us

.

'N

ow

I

say

there

is

a

grinning

,

there

is

a

subterfuge

.

There

is

something

sneering

behind

our

backs

.

That

boy

almost

lost

his

footing

as

he

leapt

on

the

bus

.

Percival

fell

;

was

killed

;

is

buried

;

and

I

watch

people

passing

;

holding

tight

to

the

rails

of

omnibuses

;

determined

to

save

their

lives

.

'

I

will

not

lift

my

foot

to

climb

the

stair

.

I

will

stand

for

one

moment

beneath

the

immitigable

tree

,

alone

with

the

man

whose

throat

is

cut

,

while

downstairs

the

cook

shoves

in

and

out

the

dampers

.

I

will

not

climb

the

stair

.

We

are

doomed

,

all

of

us

.

Women

shuffle

past

with

shopping-bags

.

People

keep

on

passing

.

Yet

you

shall

not

destroy

me

.

For

this

moment

,

this

one

moment

,

we

are

together

.

I

press

you

to

me

.

Come

,

pain

,

feed

on

me

.

Bury

your

fangs

in

my

flesh

.

Tear

me

asunder

.

I

sob

,

I

sob

.

'

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'S

uch

is

the

incomprehensible

combination

,

'

said

Bernard

,

's

uch

is

the

complexity

of

things

,

that

as

I

descend

the

staircase

I

do

not

know

which

is

sorrow

,

which

joy

.

My

son

is

born

;

Percival

is

dead

.

I

am

upheld

by

pillars

,

shored

up

on

either

side

by

stark

emotions

;

but

which

is

sorrow

,

which

is

joy

?

I

ask

,

and

do

not

know

,

only

that

I

need

silence

,

and

to

be

alone

and

to

go

out

,

and

to

save

one

hour

to

consider

what

has

happened

to

my

world

,

what

death

has

done

to

my

world

.

'

This

then

is

the

world

that

Percival

sees

no

longer

.

Let

me

look

.

The

butcher

delivers

meat

next

door

;

two

old

men

stumble

along

the

pavement

;

sparrows

alight

.

The

machine

then

works

;

I

note

the

rhythm

,

the

throb

,

but

as

a

thing

in

which

I

have

no

part

,

since

he

sees

it

no

longer

.

(

He

lies

pale

and

bandaged

in

some

room

.

)

Now

then

is

my

chance

to

find

out

what

is

of

great

importance

,

and

I

must

be

careful

,

and

tell

no

lies

.

About

him

my

feeling

was

:

he

sat

there

in

the

centre

.

Now

I

go

to

that

spot

no

longer

.

The

place

is

empty

.

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