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I

have

papers

in

my

private

pocket

that

prove

it

.

But

your

eyes

,

Susan

,

full

of

turnips

and

cornfields

,

disturb

me

.

These

papers

in

my

private

pocket

--

the

clamour

that

proves

that

I

have

passed

--

make

a

faint

sound

like

that

of

a

man

clapping

in

an

empty

field

to

scare

away

rooks

.

Now

it

has

died

down

altogether

,

under

Susan

's

stare

(

the

clapping

,

the

reverberation

that

I

have

made

)

,

and

I

hear

only

the

wind

sweeping

over

the

ploughed

land

and

some

bird

singing

--

perhaps

some

intoxicated

lark

.

Has

the

waiter

heard

of

me

,

or

those

furtive

everlasting

couples

,

now

loitering

,

now

holding

back

and

looking

at

the

trees

which

are

not

yet

dark

enough

to

shelter

their

prostrate

bodies

?

No

;

the

sound

of

clapping

has

failed

.

'

What

then

remains

,

when

I

can

not

pull

out

my

papers

and

make

you

believe

by

reading

aloud

my

credentials

that

I

have

passed

?

What

remains

is

what

Susan

brings

to

light

under

the

acid

of

her

green

eyes

,

her

crystal

,

pear-shaped

eyes

.

There

is

always

somebody

,

when

we

come

together

,

and

the

edges

of

meeting

are

still

sharp

,

who

refuses

to

be

submerged

;

whose

identity

therefore

one

wishes

to

make

crouch

beneath

one

's

own

.

For

me

now

,

it

is

Susan

.

I

talk

to

impress

Susan

.

Listen

to

me

,

Susan

.

'

When

someone

comes

in

at

breakfast

,

even

the

embroidered

fruit

on

my

curtain

swells

so

that

parrots

can

peck

it

;

one

can

break

it

off

between

one

's

thumb

and

finger

.

The

thin

,

skimmed

milk

of

early

morning

turns

opal

,

blue

,

rose

.

At

that

hour

your

husband

--

the

man

who

slapped

his

gaiters

,

pointing

with

his

whip

at

the

barren

cow

--

grumbles

.

You

say

nothing

.

You

see

nothing

.

Custom

blinds

your

eyes

.

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At

that

hour

your

relationship

is

mute

,

null

,

dun-coloured

.

Mine

at

that

hour

is

warm

and

various

.

There

are

no

repetitions

for

me

.

Each

day

is

dangerous

.

Smooth

on

the

surface

,

we

are

all

bone

beneath

like

snakes

coiling

.

Suppose

we

read

The

Times

;

suppose

we

argue

.

It

is

an

experience

.

Suppose

it

is

winter

.

The

snow

falling

loads

down

the

roof

and

seals

us

together

in

a

red

cave

.

The

pipes

have

burst

.

We

stand

a

yellow

tin

bath

in

the

middle

of

the

room

.

We

rush

helter-skelter

for

basins

.

Look

there

--

it

has

burst

again

over

the

bookcase

.

We

shout

with

laughter

at

the

sight

of

ruin

.

Let

solidity

be

destroyed

.

Let

us

have

no

possessions

.

Or

is

it

summer

?

We

may

wander

to

a

lake

and

watch

Chinese

geese

waddling

flat-footed

to

the

water

's

edge

or

see

a

bone-like

city

church

with

young

green

trembling

before

it

.

(

I

choose

at

random

;

I

choose

the

obvious

.

)

Each

sight

is

an

arabesque

scrawled

suddenly

to

illustrate

some

hazard

and

marvel

of

intimacy

.

The

snow

,

the

burst

pipe

,

the

tin

bath

,

the

Chinese

goose

--

these

are

signs

swung

high

aloft

upon

which

,

looking

back

,

I

read

the

character

of

each

love

;

how

each

was

different

.

'

You

meanwhile

--

for

I

want

to

diminish

your

hostility

,

your

green

eyes

fixed

on

mine

,

and

your

shabby

dress

,

your

rough

hands

,

and

all

the

other

emblems

of

your

maternal

splendour

--

have

stuck

like

a

limpet

to

the

same

rock

.

Yet

it

is

true

,

I

do

not

want

to

hurt

you

;

only

to

refresh

and

furbish

up

my

own

belief

in

myself

that

failed

at

your

entry

.

Change

is

no

longer

possible

.

We

are

committed

.

Before

,

when

we

met

in

a

restaurant

in

London

with

Percival

,

all

simmered

and

shook

;

we

could

have

been

anything

.

We

have

chosen

now

,

or

sometimes

it

seems

the

choice

was

made

for

us

--

a

pair

of

tongs

pinched

us

between

the

shoulders

.

I

chose

.

I

took

the

print

of

life

not

outwardly

,

but

inwardly

upon

the

raw

,

the

white

,

the

unprotected

fibre

.

I

am

clouded

and

bruised

with

the

print

of

minds

and

faces

and

things

so

subtle

that

they

have

smell

,

colour

,

texture

,

substance

,

but

no

name

.

I

am

merely

"

Neville

"

to

you

,

who

see

the

narrow

limits

of

my

life

and

the

line

it

can

not

pass

.

But

to

myself

I

am

immeasurable

;

a

net

whose

fibres

pass

imperceptibly

beneath

the

world

.

My

net

is

almost

indistinguishable

from

that

which

it

surrounds

.

It

lifts

whales

--

huge

leviathans

and

white

jellies

,

what

is

amorphous

and

wandering

;

I

detect

,

I

perceive

.

Beneath

my

eyes

opens

--

a

book

;

I

see

to

the

bottom

;

the

heart

--

I

see

to

the

depths

.

I

know

what

loves

are

trembling

into

fire

;

how

jealousy

shoots

its

green

flashes

hither

and

thither

;

how

intricately

love

crosses

love

;

love

makes

knots

;

love

brutally

tears

them

apart

.

I

have

been

knotted

;

I

have

been

torn

apart

.

'

But

there

was

another

glory

once

,

when

we

watched

for

the

door

to

open

,

and

Percival

came

;

when

we

flung

ourselves

unattached

on

the

edge

of

a

hard

bench

in

a

public

room

.

'

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'

There

was

the

beech

wood

,

'

said

Susan

,

'

Elvedon

,

and

the

gilt

hands

of

the

clock

sparkling

among

the

trees

.

The

pigeons

broke

the

leaves

.

The

changing

travelling

lights

wandered

over

me

.

They

escaped

me

.

Yet

look

,

Neville

,

whom

I

discredit

in

order

to

be

myself

,

at

my

hand

on

the

table

.

Look

at

the

gradations

of

healthy

colour

here

on

the

knuckles

,

here

on

the

palm

.

My

body

has

been

used

daily

,

rightly

,

like

a

tool

by

a

good

workman

,

all

over

.

The

blade

is

clean

,

sharp

,

worn

in

the

centre

.

(

We

battle

together

like

beasts

fighting

in

a

field

,

like

stags

making

their

horns

clash

.

)

Seen

through

your

pale

and

yielding

flesh

,

even

apples

and

bunches

of

fruit

must

have

a

filmed

look

as

if

they

stood

under

glass

.

Lying

deep

in

a

chair

with

one

person

,

one

person

only

,

but

one

person

who

changes

,

you

see

one

inch

of

flesh

only

;

its

nerves

,

fibres

,

the

sullen

or

quick

flow

of

blood

on

it

;

but

nothing

entire

.

You

do

not

see

a

house

in

a

garden

;

a

horse

in

a

field

;

a

town

laid

out

,

as

you

bend

like

an

old

woman

straining

her

eyes

over

her

darning

.

But

I

have

seen

life

in

blocks

,

substantial

,

huge

;

its

battlements

and

towers

,

factories

and

gasometers

;

a

dwelling-place

made

from

time

immemorial

after

an

hereditary

pattern

.

These

things

remain

square

,

prominent

,

undissolved

in

my

mind

.

I

am

not

sinuous

or

suave

;

I

sit

among

you

abrading

your

softness

with

my

hardness

,

quenching

the

silver-grey

flickering

moth-wing

quiver

of

words

with

the

green

spurt

of

my

clear

eyes

.

'N

ow

we

have

clashed

our

antlers

.

This

is

the

necessary

prelude

;

the

salute

of

old

friends

.

'

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