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'

Yet

we

scarcely

breathe

,

'

said

Neville

,

's

pent

as

we

are

.

We

are

in

that

passive

and

exhausted

frame

of

mind

when

we

only

wish

to

rejoin

the

body

of

our

mother

from

whom

we

have

been

severed

.

All

else

is

distasteful

,

forced

and

fatiguing

.

Jinny

's

yellow

scarf

is

moth-coloured

in

this

light

;

Susan

's

eyes

are

quenched

.

We

are

scarcely

to

be

distinguished

from

the

river

.

One

cigarette

end

is

the

only

point

of

emphasis

among

us

.

And

sadness

tinges

our

content

,

that

we

should

have

left

you

,

torn

the

fabric

;

yielded

to

the

desire

to

press

out

,

alone

,

some

bitterer

,

some

blacker

juice

,

which

was

sweet

too

.

But

now

we

are

worn

out

.

'

'

After

our

fire

,

'

said

Jinny

,

'

there

is

nothing

left

to

put

in

lockets

.

'

'S

till

I

gape

,

'

said

Susan

,

'

like

a

young

bird

,

unsatisfied

,

for

something

that

has

escaped

me

.

'

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'

Let

us

stay

for

a

moment

,

'

said

Bernard

,

'

before

we

go

.

Let

us

pace

the

terrace

by

the

river

almost

alone

.

It

is

nearly

bed-time

.

People

have

gone

home

.

Now

how

comforting

it

is

to

watch

the

lights

coming

out

in

the

bedrooms

of

small

shopkeepers

on

the

other

side

of

the

river

.

There

is

one

--

there

is

another

.

What

do

you

think

their

takings

have

been

today

?

Only

just

enough

to

pay

for

the

rent

,

for

light

and

food

and

the

children

's

clothing

.

But

just

enough

.

What

a

sense

of

the

tolerableness

of

life

the

lights

in

the

bedrooms

of

small

shopkeepers

give

us

!

Saturday

comes

,

and

there

is

just

enough

to

pay

perhaps

for

seats

at

the

Pictures

.

Perhaps

before

they

put

out

the

light

they

go

into

the

little

garden

and

look

at

the

giant

rabbit

couched

in

its

wooden

hut

.

That

is

the

rabbit

they

will

have

for

Sunday

dinner

.

Then

they

put

out

the

light

.

Then

they

sleep

.

And

for

thousands

of

people

sleep

is

nothing

but

warmth

and

silence

and

one

moment

's

sport

with

some

fantastic

dream

.

"

I

have

posted

my

letter

,

"

the

greengrocer

thinks

,

"

to

the

Sunday

newspaper

.

Suppose

I

win

five

hundred

pounds

in

the

football

competition

?

And

we

shall

kill

the

rabbit

.

Life

is

pleasant

.

Life

is

good

.

I

have

posted

the

letter

.

We

shall

kill

the

rabbit

.

"

And

he

sleeps

.

'

That

goes

on

.

Listen

.

There

is

a

sound

like

the

knocking

of

railway

trucks

in

a

siding

.

That

is

the

happy

concatenation

of

one

event

following

another

in

our

lives

.

Knock

,

knock

,

knock

.

Must

,

must

,

must

.

Must

go

,

must

sleep

,

must

wake

,

must

get

up

--

sober

,

merciful

word

which

we

pretend

to

revile

,

which

we

press

tight

to

our

hearts

,

without

which

we

should

be

undone

.

How

we

worship

that

sound

like

the

knocking

together

of

trucks

in

a

siding

!

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'N

ow

far

off

down

the

river

I

hear

the

chorus

;

the

song

of

the

boasting

boys

,

who

are

coming

back

in

large

charabancs

from

a

day

's

outing

on

the

decks

of

crowded

steamers

.

Still

they

are

singing

as

they

used

to

sing

,

across

the

court

,

on

winters

'

nights

,

or

with

the

windows

open

in

summer

,

getting

drunk

,

breaking

the

furniture

,

wearing

little

striped

caps

,

all

turning

their

heads

the

same

way

as

the

brake

rounded

the

corner

;

and

I

wished

to

be

with

them

.

'

What

with

the

chorus

,

and

the

spinning

water

and

the

just

perceptible

murmur

of

the

breeze

we

are

slipping

away

.

Little

bits

of

ourselves

are

crumbling

.

There

!

Something

very

important

fell

then

.

I

can

not

keep

myself

together

.

I

shall

sleep

.

But

we

must

go

;

must

catch

our

train

;

must

walk

back

to

the

station

--

must

,

must

,

must

.

We

are

only

bodies

jogging

along

side

by

side

.

I

exist

only

in

the

soles

of

my

feet

and

in

the

tired

muscles

of

my

thighs

.

We

have

been

walking

for

hours

it

seems

.

But

where

?

I

can

not

remember

.

I

am

like

a

log

slipping

smoothly

over

some

waterfall

.

I

am

not

a

judge

.

I

am

not

called

upon

to

give

my

opinion

.

Houses

and

trees

are

all

the

same

in

this

grey

light

.

Is

that

a

post

?

Is

that

a

woman

walking

?

Here

is

the

station

,

and

if

the

train

were

to

cut

me

in

two

,

I

should

come

together

on

the

further

side

,

being

one

,

being

indivisible

.

But

what

is

odd

is

that

I

still

clasp

the

return

half

of

my

ticket

to

Waterloo

firmly

between

the

fingers

of

my

right

hand

,

even

now

,

even

sleeping

.

'

Now

the

sun

had

sunk

.

Sky

and

sea

were

indistinguishable

.

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