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I
,
who
am
always
distracted
,
whether
by
a
cat
or
by
a
bee
buzzing
round
the
bouquet
that
Lady
Hampden
keeps
so
diligently
pressed
to
her
nose
,
at
once
make
up
a
story
and
so
obliterate
the
angles
of
the
crucifix
.
I
have
made
up
thousands
of
stories
;
I
have
filled
innumerable
notebooks
with
phrases
to
be
used
when
I
have
found
the
true
story
,
the
one
story
to
which
all
these
phrases
refer
.
But
I
have
never
yet
found
that
story
.
And
I
begin
to
ask
,
Are
there
stories
?
'
Look
now
from
this
terrace
at
the
swarming
population
beneath
.
Look
at
the
general
activity
and
clamour
.
That
man
is
in
difficulties
with
his
mule
.
Half
a
dozen
good-natured
loafers
offer
their
services
.
Others
pass
by
without
looking
.
They
have
as
many
interests
as
there
are
threads
in
a
skein
.
Look
at
the
sweep
of
the
sky
,
bowled
over
by
round
white
clouds
.
Imagine
the
leagues
of
level
land
and
the
aqueducts
and
the
broken
Roman
pavement
and
the
tombstones
in
the
Campagna
,
and
beyond
the
Campagna
,
the
sea
,
then
again
more
land
,
then
the
sea
.
I
could
break
off
any
detail
in
all
that
prospect
--
say
the
mule-cart
--
and
describe
it
with
the
greatest
ease
.
But
why
describe
a
man
in
trouble
with
his
mule
?
Again
,
I
could
invent
stories
about
that
girl
coming
up
the
steps
.
"
She
met
him
under
the
dark
archway
...
'
It
is
over
,
'
he
said
,
turning
from
the
cage
where
the
china
parrot
hangs
.
"
Or
simply
,
"
That
was
all
.
"
But
why
impose
my
arbitrary
design
?
Why
stress
this
and
shape
that
and
twist
up
little
figures
like
the
toys
men
sell
in
trays
in
the
street
?
Why
select
this
,
out
of
all
that
--
one
detail
?
'
Here
am
I
shedding
one
of
my
life-skins
,
and
all
they
will
say
is
,
"
Bernard
is
spending
ten
days
in
Rome
.
"
Here
am
I
marching
up
and
down
this
terrace
alone
,
unoriented
.
But
observe
how
dots
and
dashes
are
beginning
,
as
I
walk
,
to
run
themselves
into
continuous
lines
,
how
things
are
losing
the
bald
,
the
separate
identity
that
they
had
as
I
walked
up
those
steps
.
The
great
red
pot
is
now
a
reddish
streak
in
a
wave
of
yellowish
green
.
The
world
is
beginning
to
move
past
me
like
the
banks
of
a
hedge
when
the
train
starts
,
like
the
waves
of
the
sea
when
a
steamer
moves
.
I
am
moving
too
,
am
becoming
involved
in
the
general
sequence
when
one
thing
follows
another
and
it
seems
inevitable
that
the
tree
should
come
,
then
the
telegraph-pole
,
then
the
break
in
the
hedge
.
And
as
I
move
,
surrounded
,
included
and
taking
part
,
the
usual
phrases
begin
to
bubble
up
,
and
I
wish
to
free
these
bubbles
from
the
trap-door
in
my
head
,
and
direct
my
steps
therefore
towards
that
man
,
the
back
of
whose
head
is
half
familiar
to
me
.
We
were
together
at
school
.
We
shall
undoubtedly
meet
.
We
shall
certainly
lunch
together
.
We
shall
talk
.
But
wait
,
one
moment
wait
.
'
These
moments
of
escape
are
not
to
be
despised
.
They
come
too
seldom
.
Tahiti
becomes
possible
.
Leaning
over
this
parapet
I
see
far
out
a
waste
of
water
.
A
fin
turns
.
This
bare
visual
impression
is
unattached
to
any
line
of
reason
,
it
springs
up
as
one
might
see
the
fin
of
a
porpoise
on
the
horizon
.
Visual
impressions
often
communicate
thus
briefly
statements
that
we
shall
in
time
to
come
uncover
and
coax
into
words
.
I
note
under
F.
,
therefore
,
"
Fin
in
a
waste
of
waters
.
"
I
,
who
am
perpetually
making
notes
in
the
margin
of
my
mind
for
some
final
statement
,
make
this
mark
,
waiting
for
some
winter
's
evening
.
'N
ow
I
shall
go
and
lunch
somewhere
,
I
shall
hold
my
glass
up
,
I
shall
look
through
the
wine
,
I
shall
observe
with
more
than
my
usual
detachment
,
and
when
a
pretty
woman
enters
the
restaurant
and
comes
down
the
room
between
the
tables
I
shall
say
to
myself
,
"
Look
where
she
comes
against
a
waste
of
waters
.
"
A
meaningless
observation
,
but
to
me
,
solemn
,
slate-coloured
,
with
a
fatal
sound
of
ruining
worlds
and
waters
falling
to
destruction
.
'S
o
,
Bernard
(
I
recall
you
,
you
the
usual
partner
in
my
enterprises
)
,
let
us
begin
this
new
chapter
,
and
observe
the
formation
of
this
new
,
this
unknown
,
strange
,
altogether
unidentified
and
terrifying
experience
--
the
new
drop
--
which
is
about
to
shape
itself
.
Larpent
is
that
man
's
name
.
'
'
In
this
hot
afternoon
,
'
said
Susan
,
'
here
in
this
garden
,
here
in
this
field
where
I
walk
with
my
son
,
I
have
reached
the
summit
of
my
desires
.
The
hinge
of
the
gate
is
rusty
;
he
heaves
it
open
.
The
violent
passions
of
childhood
,
my
tears
in
the
garden
when
Jinny
kissed
Louis
,
my
rage
in
the
schoolroom
,
which
smelt
of
pine
,
my
loneliness
in
foreign
places
,
when
the
mules
came
clattering
in
on
their
pointed
hoofs
and
the
Italian
women
chattered
at
the
fountain
,
shawled
,
with
carnations
twisted
in
their
hair
,
are
rewarded
by
security
,
possession
,
familiarity
.
I
have
had
peaceful
,
productive
years
.
I
possess
all
I
see
.
I
have
grown
trees
from
the
seed
.
I
have
made
ponds
in
which
goldfish
hide
under
the
broad-leaved
lilies
.
I
have
netted
over
strawberry
beds
and
lettuce
beds
,
and
stitched
the
pears
and
the
plums
into
white
bags
to
keep
them
safe
from
the
wasps
.
I
have
seen
my
sons
and
daughters
,
once
netted
over
like
fruit
in
their
cots
,
break
the
meshes
and
walk
with
me
,
taller
than
I
am
,
casting
shadows
on
the
grass
.
