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These

broad

thoroughfares

--

Piccadilly

South

,

Piccadilly

North

,

Regent

Street

and

the

Haymarket

--

are

sanded

paths

of

victory

driven

through

the

jungle

.

I

too

,

with

my

little

patent-leather

shoes

,

my

handkerchief

that

is

but

a

film

of

gauze

,

my

reddened

lips

and

my

finely

pencilled

eyebrows

,

march

to

victory

with

the

band

.

'

Look

how

they

show

off

clothes

here

even

under

ground

in

a

perpetual

radiance

.

They

will

not

let

the

earth

even

lie

wormy

and

sodden

.

There

are

gauzes

and

silks

illumined

in

glass

cases

and

underclothes

trimmed

with

a

million

close

stitches

of

fine

embroidery

.

Crimson

,

green

,

violet

,

they

are

dyed

all

colours

.

Think

how

they

organize

,

roll

out

,

smooth

,

dip

in

dyes

,

and

drive

tunnels

blasting

the

rock

.

Lifts

rise

and

fall

;

trains

stop

,

trams

start

as

regularly

as

the

waves

of

the

sea

.

This

is

what

has

my

adhesion

.

I

am

a

native

of

this

world

,

I

follow

its

banners

.

How

could

I

run

for

shelter

when

they

are

so

magnificently

adventurous

,

daring

,

curious

,

too

,

and

strong

enough

in

the

midst

of

effort

to

pause

and

scrawl

with

a

free

hand

a

joke

upon

the

wall

?

Therefore

I

will

powder

my

face

and

redden

my

lips

.

I

will

make

the

angle

of

my

eyebrows

sharper

than

usual

.

I

will

rise

to

the

surface

,

standing

erect

with

the

others

in

Piccadilly

Circus

.

I

will

sign

with

a

sharp

gesture

to

a

cab

whose

driver

will

signify

by

some

indescribable

alacrity

his

understanding

of

my

signals

.

For

I

still

excite

eagerness

.

I

still

feel

the

bowing

of

men

in

the

street

like

the

silent

stoop

of

the

corn

when

the

light

wind

blows

,

ruffling

it

red

.

'

I

will

drive

to

my

own

house

.

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I

will

fill

the

vases

with

lavish

,

with

luxurious

,

with

extravagant

flowers

nodding

in

great

bunches

.

I

will

place

one

chair

there

,

another

here

.

I

will

put

ready

cigarettes

,

glasses

and

some

gaily

covered

new

unread

book

in

case

Bernard

comes

,

or

Neville

or

Louis

.

But

perhaps

it

will

not

be

Bernard

,

Neville

or

Louis

,

but

somebody

new

,

somebody

unknown

,

somebody

I

passed

on

a

staircase

and

,

just

turning

as

we

passed

,

I

murmured

,

"

Come

.

"

He

will

come

this

afternoon

;

somebody

I

do

not

know

,

somebody

new

.

Let

the

silent

army

of

the

dead

descend

.

I

march

forward

.

'

'

I

no

longer

need

a

room

now

,

'

said

Neville

,

'

or

walls

and

firelight

.

I

am

no

longer

young

.

I

pass

Jinny

's

house

without

envy

,

and

smile

at

the

young

man

who

arranges

his

tie

a

little

nervously

on

the

door-step

.

Let

the

dapper

young

man

ring

the

bell

;

let

him

find

her

.

I

shall

find

her

if

I

want

her

;

if

not

,

I

pass

on

.

The

old

corrosion

has

lost

its

bite

--

envy

,

intrigue

and

bitterness

have

been

washed

out

.

We

have

lost

our

glory

too

.

When

we

were

young

we

sat

anywhere

,

on

bare

benches

in

draughty

halls

with

the

doors

always

banging

.

We

tumbled

about

half

naked

like

boys

on

the

deck

of

a

ship

squirting

each

other

with

hose-pipes

.

Now

I

could

swear

that

I

like

people

pouring

profusely

out

of

the

Tube

when

the

day

's

work

is

done

,

unanimous

,

indiscriminate

,

uncounted

.

I

have

picked

my

own

fruit

.

I

look

dispassionately

.

'

After

all

,

we

are

not

responsible

.

We

are

not

judges

.

We

are

not

called

upon

to

torture

our

fellows

with

thumb-screws

and

irons

;

we

are

not

called

upon

to

mount

pulpits

and

lecture

them

on

pale

Sunday

afternoons

.

It

is

better

to

look

at

a

rose

,

or

to

read

Shakespeare

as

I

read

him

here

in

Shaftesbury

Avenue

.

Here

's

the

fool

,

here

's

the

villain

,

here

in

a

car

comes

Cleopatra

,

burning

on

her

barge

.

Here

are

figures

of

the

damned

too

,

noseless

men

by

the

police-court

wall

,

standing

with

their

feet

in

fire

,

howling

.

This

is

poetry

if

we

do

not

write

it

.

They

act

their

parts

infallibly

,

and

almost

before

they

open

their

lips

I

know

what

they

are

going

to

say

,

and

wait

the

divine

moment

when

they

speak

the

word

that

must

have

been

written

.

If

it

were

only

for

the

sake

of

the

play

,

I

could

walk

Shaftesbury

Avenue

for

ever

.

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'

Then

coming

from

the

street

,

entering

some

room

,

there

are

people

talking

,

or

hardly

troubling

to

talk

.

He

says

,

she

says

,

somebody

else

says

things

have

been

said

so

often

that

one

word

is

now

enough

to

lift

a

whole

weight

.

Argument

,

laughter

,

old

grievances

--

they

fall

through

the

air

,

thickening

it

.

I

take

a

book

and

read

half

a

page

of

anything

.

They

have

not

mended

the

spout

of

the

teapot

yet

.

The

child

dances

,

dressed

in

her

mother

's

clothes

.

'

But

then

Rhoda

,

or

it

may

be

Louis

,

some

fasting

and

anguished

spirit

,

passes

through

and

out

again

.

They

want

a

plot

,

do

they

?

They

want

a

reason

?

It

is

not

enough

for

them

,

this

ordinary

scene

.

It

is

not

enough

to

wait

for

the

thing

to

be

said

as

if

it

were

written

;

to

see

the

sentence

lay

its

dab

of

clay

precisely

on

the

right

place

,

making

character

;

to

perceive

,

suddenly

,

some

group

in

outline

against

the

sky

.

Yet

if

they

want

violence

,

I

have

seen

death

and

murder

and

suicide

all

in

one

room

.

One

comes

in

,

one

goes

out

.

There

are

sobs

on

the

staircase

.

I

have

heard

threads

broken

and

knots

tied

and

the

quiet

stitching

of

white

cambric

going

on

and

on

on

the

knees

of

a

woman

.

Why

ask

,

like

Louis

,

for

a

reason

,

or

fly

like

Rhoda

to

some

far

grove

and

part

the

leaves

of

the

laurels

and

look

for

statues

?

They

say

that

one

must

beat

one

's

wings

against

the

storm

in

the

belief

that

beyond

this

welter

the

sun

shines

;

the

sun

falls

sheer

into

pools

that

are

fledged

with

willows

.

(

Here

it

is

November

;

the

poor

hold

out

matchboxes

in

wind-bitten

fingers

.

)

They

say

truth

is

to

be

found

there

entire

,

and

virtue

,

that

shuffles

along

here

,

down

blind

alleys

,

is

to

be

had

there

perfect

.

Rhoda

flies

with

her

neck

outstretched

and

blind

fanatic

eyes

,

past

us

.

Louis

,

now

so

opulent

,

goes

to

his

attic

window

among

the

blistered

roofs

and

gazes

where

she

has

vanished

,

but

must

sit

down

in

his

office

among

the

typewriters

and

the

telephone

and

work

it

all

out

for

our

instruction

,

for

our

regeneration

,

and

the

reform

of

an

unborn

world

.

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