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'

Oh

yes

,

I

can

assure

you

,

men

in

felt

hats

and

women

carrying

baskets

--

you

have

lost

something

that

would

have

been

very

valuable

to

you

.

You

have

lost

a

leader

whom

you

would

have

followed

;

and

one

of

you

has

lost

happiness

and

children

.

He

is

dead

who

would

have

given

you

that

.

He

lies

on

a

camp-bed

,

bandaged

,

in

some

hot

Indian

hospital

while

coolies

squatted

on

the

floor

agitate

those

fans

--

I

forget

how

they

call

them

.

But

this

is

important

;

"

You

are

well

out

of

it

,

"

I

said

,

while

the

doves

descended

over

the

roofs

and

my

son

was

born

,

as

if

it

were

a

fact

.

I

remember

,

as

a

boy

,

his

curious

air

of

detachment

.

And

I

go

on

to

say

(

my

eyes

fill

with

tears

and

then

are

dry

)

,

"

But

this

is

better

than

one

had

dared

to

hope

.

"

I

say

,

addressing

what

is

abstract

,

facing

me

eyeless

at

the

end

of

the

avenue

,

in

the

sky

,

"

Is

this

the

utmost

you

can

do

?

"

Then

we

have

triumphed

.

You

have

done

your

utmost

,

I

say

,

addressing

that

blank

and

brutal

face

(

for

he

was

twenty-five

and

should

have

lived

to

be

eighty

)

without

avail

.

I

am

not

going

to

lie

down

and

weep

away

a

life

of

care

.

(

An

entry

to

be

made

in

my

pocket-book

;

contempt

for

those

who

inflict

meaningless

death

.

)

Further

,

this

is

important

;

that

I

should

be

able

to

place

him

in

trifling

and

ridiculous

situations

,

so

that

he

may

not

feel

himself

absurd

,

perched

on

a

great

horse

.

I

must

be

able

to

say

,

"

Percival

,

a

ridiculous

name

.

"

At

the

same

time

let

me

tell

you

,

men

and

women

,

hurrying

to

the

tube

station

,

you

would

have

had

to

respect

him

.

You

would

have

had

to

form

up

and

follow

behind

him

.

How

strange

to

oar

one

's

way

through

crowds

seeing

life

through

hollow

eyes

,

burning

eyes

.

'

Yet

already

signals

begin

,

beckonings

,

attempts

to

lure

me

back

.

Curiosity

is

knocked

out

for

only

a

short

time

.

One

can

not

live

outside

the

machine

for

more

perhaps

than

half

an

hour

.

Bodies

,

I

note

,

already

begin

to

look

ordinary

;

but

what

is

behind

them

differs

--

the

perspective

.

Behind

that

newspaper

placard

is

the

hospital

;

the

long

room

with

black

men

pulling

ropes

;

and

then

they

bury

him

.

Yet

since

it

says

a

famous

actress

has

been

divorced

,

I

ask

instantly

Which

?

Yet

I

can

not

take

out

my

penny

;

I

can

not

buy

a

paper

;

I

can

not

suffer

interruption

yet

.

Отключить рекламу

'

I

ask

,

if

I

shall

never

see

you

again

and

fix

my

eyes

on

that

solidity

,

what

form

will

our

communication

take

?

You

have

gone

across

the

court

,

further

and

further

,

drawing

finer

and

finer

the

thread

between

us

.

But

you

exist

somewhere

.

Something

of

you

remains

.

A

judge

.

That

is

,

if

I

discover

a

new

vein

in

myself

I

shall

submit

it

to

you

privately

.

I

shall

ask

,

What

is

your

verdict

?

You

shall

remain

the

arbiter

.

But

for

how

long

?

Things

will

become

too

difficult

to

explain

:

there

will

be

new

things

;

already

my

son

.

I

am

now

at

the

zenith

of

an

experience

.

It

will

decline

.

Already

I

no

longer

cry

with

conviction

,

"

What

luck

!

"

Exaltation

,

the

flight

of

doves

descending

,

is

over

.

Chaos

,

detail

return

.

I

am

no

longer

amazed

by

names

written

over

shop-windows

.

I

do

not

feel

Why

hurry

?

Why

catch

trains

?

The

sequence

returns

;

one

thing

leads

to

another

--

the

usual

order

.

'

Yes

,

but

I

still

resent

the

usual

order

.

I

will

not

let

myself

be

made

yet

to

accept

the

sequence

of

things

.

I

will

walk

;

I

will

not

change

the

rhythm

of

my

mind

by

stopping

,

by

looking

;

I

will

walk

.

I

will

go

up

these

steps

into

the

gallery

and

submit

myself

to

the

influence

of

minds

like

mine

outside

the

sequence

.

There

is

little

time

left

to

answer

the

question

;

my

powers

flag

;

I

become

torpid

.

Here

are

pictures

.

Here

are

cold

madonnas

among

their

pillars

.

Let

them

lay

to

rest

the

incessant

activity

of

the

mind

's

eye

,

the

bandaged

head

,

the

men

with

ropes

,

so

that

I

may

find

something

unvisual

beneath

.

Here

are

gardens

;

and

Venus

among

her

flowers

;

here

are

saints

and

blue

madonnas

.

Mercifully

these

pictures

make

no

reference

;

they

do

not

nudge

;

they

do

not

point

.

Thus

they

expand

my

consciousness

of

him

and

bring

him

back

to

me

differently

.

I

remember

his

beauty

.

"

Look

,

where

he

comes

,

"

I

said

.

'

Lines

and

colours

almost

persuade

me

that

I

too

can

be

heroic

,

I

,

who

make

phrases

so

easily

,

am

so

soon

seduced

,

love

what

comes

next

,

and

can

not

clench

my

fist

,

but

vacillate

weakly

making

phrases

according

to

my

circumstances

.

Now

,

through

my

own

infirmity

I

recover

what

he

was

to

me

:

my

opposite

.

Being

naturally

truthful

,

he

did

not

see

the

point

of

these

exaggerations

,

and

was

borne

on

by

a

natural

sense

of

the

fitting

,

was

indeed

a

great

master

of

the

art

of

living

so

that

he

seems

to

have

lived

long

,

and

to

have

spread

calm

round

him

,

indifference

one

might

almost

say

,

certainly

to

his

own

advancement

,

save

that

he

had

also

great

compassion

.

A

child

playing

--

a

summer

evening

--

doors

will

open

and

shut

,

will

keep

opening

and

shutting

,

through

which

I

see

sights

that

make

me

weep

.

For

they

can

not

be

imparted

.

Hence

our

loneliness

;

hence

our

desolation

.

I

turn

to

that

spot

in

my

mind

and

find

it

empty

.

My

own

infirmities

oppress

me

.

There

is

no

longer

him

to

oppose

them

.

Отключить рекламу

'

Behold

,

then

,

the

blue

madonna

streaked

with

tears

.

This

is

my

funeral

service

.

We

have

no

ceremonies

,

only

private

dirges

and

no

conclusions

,

only

violent

sensations

,

each

separate

.

Nothing

that

has

been

said

meets

our

case

.

We

sit

in

the

Italian

room

at

the

National

Gallery

picking

up

fragments

.

I

doubt

that

Titian

ever

felt

this

rat

gnaw

.

Painters

live

lives

of

methodical

absorption

,

adding

stroke

to

stroke

.

They

are

not

like

poets

--

scapegoats

;

they

are

not

chained

to

the

rock

.

Hence

the

silence

,

the

sublimity

.

Yet

that

crimson

must

have

burnt

in

Titian

's

gizzard

.

No

doubt

he

rose

with

the

great

arms

holding

the

cornucopia

,

and

fell

,

in

that

descent

.

But

the

silence

weighs

on

me

--

the

perpetual

solicitation

of

the

eye

.

The

pressure

is

intermittent

and

muffled

.

I

distinguish

too

little

and

too

vaguely

.

The

bell

is

pressed

and

I

do

not

ring

or

give

out

irrelevant

clamours

all

jangled

.

I

am

titillated

inordinately

by

some

splendour

;

the

ruffled

crimson

against

the

green

lining

;

the

march

of

pillars

:

the

orange

light

behind

the

black

,

pricked

ears

of

the

olive

trees

.

Arrows

of

sensation

strike

from

my

spine

,

but

without

order

.

'

Yet

something

is

added

to

my

interpretation

.

Something

lies

deeply

buried

.

For

one

moment

I

thought

to

grasp

it

.

But

bury

it

,

bury

it

;

let

it

breed

,

hidden

in

the

depths

of

my

mind

some

day

to

fructify

.

After

a

long

lifetime

,

loosely

,

in

a

moment

of

revelation

,

I

may

lay

hands

on

it

,

but

now

the

idea

breaks

in

my

hand

.

Ideas

break

a

thousand

times

for

once

that

they

globe

themselves

entire

.

They

break

:

they

fall

over

me

.

"

Line

and

colours

they

survive

,

therefore

...

"

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