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- Стр. 65/81
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'
I
grasp
,
I
hold
fast
,
'
said
Susan
.
'
I
hold
firmly
to
this
hand
,
anyone
's
,
with
love
,
with
hatred
;
it
does
not
matter
which
.
'
'
The
still
mood
,
the
disembodied
mood
is
on
us
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
and
we
enjoy
this
momentary
alleviation
(
it
is
not
often
that
one
has
no
anxiety
)
when
the
walls
of
the
mind
become
transparent
.
Wren
's
palace
,
like
the
quartet
played
to
the
dry
and
stranded
people
in
the
stalls
,
makes
an
oblong
.
A
square
is
stood
upon
the
oblong
and
we
say
,
"
This
is
our
dwelling-place
.
The
structure
is
now
visible
.
Very
little
is
left
outside
.
"
'
'
The
flower
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'
the
red
carnation
that
stood
in
the
vase
on
the
table
of
the
restaurant
when
we
dined
together
with
Percival
,
is
become
a
six-sided
flower
;
made
of
six
lives
.
'
'
A
mysterious
illumination
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
visible
against
those
yew
trees
.
'
'
Built
up
with
much
pain
,
many
strokes
,
'
said
Jinny
.
'M
arriage
,
death
,
travel
,
friendship
,
'
said
Bernard
;
'
town
and
country
;
children
and
all
that
;
a
many-sided
substance
cut
out
of
this
dark
;
a
many-faceted
flower
.
Let
us
stop
for
a
moment
;
let
us
behold
what
we
have
made
.
Let
it
blaze
against
the
yew
trees
.
One
life
.
There
.
It
is
over
.
Gone
out
.
'
'N
ow
they
vanish
,
'
said
Louis
.
'S
usan
with
Bernard
.
Neville
with
Jinny
.
You
and
I
,
Rhoda
,
stop
for
a
moment
by
this
stone
urn
.
What
song
shall
we
hear
now
that
these
couples
have
sought
the
groves
,
and
Jinny
,
pointing
with
her
gloved
hand
,
pretends
to
notice
the
water-lilies
,
and
Susan
,
who
has
always
loved
Bernard
,
says
to
him
,
"
My
ruined
life
,
my
wasted
life
.
"
And
Neville
,
taking
Jinny
's
little
hand
,
with
the
cherry-coloured
finger-nails
,
by
the
lake
,
by
the
moonlit
water
,
cries
,
"
Love
,
love
,
"
and
she
answers
,
imitating
the
bird
,
"
Love
,
love
?
"
What
song
do
we
hear
?
'
'
They
vanish
,
towards
the
lake
,
'
said
Rhoda
.
'
They
slink
away
over
the
grass
furtively
,
yet
with
assurance
as
if
they
asked
of
our
pity
their
ancient
privilege
--
not
to
be
disturbed
.
The
tide
in
the
soul
,
tipped
,
flows
that
way
;
they
can
not
help
deserting
us
.
The
dark
has
closed
over
their
bodies
.
What
song
do
we
hear
--
the
owl
's
,
the
nightingale
's
,
the
wren
's
?
The
steamer
hoots
;
the
light
on
the
electric
rails
flashes
;
the
trees
gravely
bow
and
bend
.
The
flare
hangs
over
London
.
Here
is
an
old
woman
,
quietly
returning
,
and
a
man
,
a
late
fisherman
,
comes
down
the
terrace
with
his
rod
.
Not
a
sound
,
not
a
movement
must
escape
us
.
'
'
A
bird
flies
homeward
,
'
said
Louis
.
'
Evening
opens
her
eyes
and
gives
one
quick
glance
among
the
bushes
before
she
sleeps
.
How
shall
we
put
it
together
,
the
confused
and
composite
message
that
they
send
back
to
us
,
and
not
they
only
,
but
many
dead
,
boys
and
girls
,
grown
men
and
women
,
who
have
wandered
here
,
under
one
king
or
another
?
'
