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Nothing
would
happen
to
lift
that
weight
of
intolerable
boredom
.
The
terms
went
on
.
We
grew
;
we
changed
;
for
,
of
course
,
we
are
animals
.
We
are
not
always
aware
by
any
means
;
we
breathe
,
eat
,
sleep
automatically
.
We
exist
not
only
separately
but
in
undifferentiated
blobs
of
matter
.
With
one
scoop
a
whole
brakeful
of
boys
is
swept
up
and
goes
cricketing
,
footballing
.
An
army
marches
across
Europe
.
We
assemble
in
parks
and
halls
and
sedulously
oppose
any
renegade
(
Neville
,
Louis
,
Rhoda
)
who
sets
up
a
separate
existence
.
And
I
am
so
made
that
,
while
I
hear
one
or
two
distinct
melodies
,
such
as
Louis
sings
,
or
Neville
,
I
am
also
drawn
irresistibly
to
the
sound
of
the
chorus
chanting
its
old
,
chanting
its
almost
wordless
,
almost
senseless
song
that
comes
across
courts
at
night
;
which
we
hear
now
booming
round
us
as
cars
and
omnibuses
take
people
to
theatres
.
(
Listen
;
the
cars
rush
past
this
restaurant
;
now
and
then
,
down
the
river
,
a
siren
hoots
,
as
a
steamer
makes
for
the
sea
.
)
If
a
bagman
offers
me
snuff
in
a
train
I
accept
.
I
like
the
copious
,
shapeless
,
warm
,
not
so
very
clever
,
but
extremely
easy
and
rather
coarse
aspect
of
things
;
the
talk
of
men
in
clubs
and
public-houses
,
of
miners
half
naked
in
drawers
--
the
forthright
,
perfectly
unassuming
,
and
without
end
in
view
except
dinner
,
love
,
money
and
getting
along
tolerably
;
that
which
is
without
great
hopes
,
ideals
or
anything
of
that
kind
;
what
is
unassuming
except
to
make
a
tolerably
good
job
of
it
.
I
like
all
that
.
So
I
joined
them
,
when
Neville
sulked
or
Louis
,
as
I
quite
agree
sublimely
,
turned
on
his
heel
.
'
Thus
,
not
equally
by
any
means
or
with
order
,
but
in
great
streaks
my
waxen
waistcoat
melted
,
here
one
drop
,
there
another
.
Now
through
this
transparency
became
visible
those
wondrous
pastures
,
at
first
so
moon-white
,
radiant
,
where
no
foot
has
been
;
meadows
of
the
rose
,
the
crocus
,
of
the
rock
and
the
snake
too
;
of
the
spotted
and
swart
;
the
embarrassing
,
the
binding
and
tripping
up
.
One
leaps
out
of
bed
,
throws
up
the
window
;
with
what
a
whirr
the
birds
rise
!
You
know
that
sudden
rush
of
wings
,
that
exclamation
,
carol
,
and
confusion
;
the
riot
and
babble
of
voices
;
and
all
the
drops
are
sparkling
,
trembling
,
as
if
the
garden
were
a
splintered
mosaic
,
vanishing
,
twinkling
;
not
yet
formed
into
one
whole
;
and
a
bird
sings
close
to
the
window
.
I
heard
those
songs
.
I
followed
those
phantoms
.
I
saw
Joans
,
Dorothys
,
Miriams
,
I
forget
their
names
,
passing
down
avenues
,
stopping
on
the
crest
of
bridges
to
look
down
into
the
river
.
And
from
among
them
rise
one
or
two
distinct
figures
,
birds
who
sang
with
the
rapt
egotism
of
youth
by
the
window
;
broke
their
snails
on
stones
,
dipped
their
beaks
in
sticky
,
viscous
matter
;
hard
,
avid
,
remorseless
;
Jinny
,
Susan
,
Rhoda
.
They
had
been
educated
on
the
east
coast
or
on
the
south
coast
.
They
had
grown
long
pigtails
and
acquired
the
look
of
startled
foals
,
which
is
the
mark
of
adolescence
.
'
Jinny
was
the
first
to
come
sidling
up
to
the
gate
to
eat
sugar
.
She
nipped
it
off
the
palms
of
one
's
hands
very
cleverly
,
but
her
ears
were
laid
back
as
if
she
might
bite
.
Rhoda
was
wild
--
Rhoda
one
never
could
catch
.
She
was
both
frightened
and
clumsy
.
It
was
Susan
who
first
became
wholly
woman
,
purely
feminine
.
It
was
she
who
dropped
on
my
face
those
scalding
tears
which
are
terrible
,
beautiful
;
both
,
neither
.
She
was
born
to
be
the
adored
of
poets
,
since
poets
require
safety
;
someone
who
sits
sewing
,
who
says
,
"
I
hate
,
I
love
,
"
who
is
neither
comfortable
nor
prosperous
,
but
has
some
quality
in
accordance
with
the
high
but
unemphatic
beauty
of
pure
style
which
those
who
create
poetry
so
particularly
admire
.
Her
father
trailed
from
room
to
room
and
down
flagged
corridors
in
his
flapping
dressing-gown
and
worn
slippers
.
On
still
nights
a
wall
of
water
fell
with
a
roar
a
mile
off
.
The
ancient
dog
could
scarcely
heave
himself
up
on
to
his
chair
.
And
some
witless
servant
could
be
heard
laughing
at
the
top
of
the
house
as
she
whirred
the
wheel
of
the
sewing-machine
round
and
round
.
'
That
I
observed
even
in
the
midst
of
my
anguish
when
,
twisting
her
pocket-handkerchief
,
Susan
cried
,
"
I
love
;
I
hate
.
"
"
A
worthless
servant
,
"
I
observed
,
"
laughs
upstairs
in
the
attic
,
"
and
that
little
piece
of
dramatization
shows
how
incompletely
we
are
merged
in
our
own
experiences
.
On
the
outskirts
of
every
agony
sits
some
observant
fellow
who
points
;
who
whispers
as
he
whispered
to
me
that
summer
morning
in
the
house
where
the
corn
comes
up
to
the
window
,
"
The
willow
grows
on
the
turf
by
the
river
.
The
gardeners
sweep
with
great
brooms
and
the
lady
sits
writing
.
"
Thus
he
directed
me
to
that
which
is
beyond
and
outside
our
own
predicament
;
to
that
which
is
symbolic
,
and
thus
perhaps
permanent
,
if
there
is
any
permanence
in
our
sleeping
,
eating
,
breathing
,
so
animal
,
so
spiritual
and
tumultuous
lives
.
'
The
willow
tree
grew
by
the
river
.
I
sat
on
the
smooth
turf
with
Neville
,
with
Larpent
,
with
Baker
,
Romsey
,
Hughes
,
Percival
and
Jinny
.
Through
its
fine
plumes
specked
with
little
pricked
ears
of
green
in
spring
,
of
orange
in
autumn
,
I
saw
boats
;
buildings
;
I
saw
hurrying
,
decrepit
women
.
I
buried
match
after
match
in
the
turf
decidedly
to
mark
this
or
that
stage
in
the
process
of
understanding
(
it
might
be
philosophy
;
science
;
it
might
be
myself
)
while
the
fringe
of
my
intelligence
floating
unattached
caught
those
distant
sensations
which
after
a
time
the
mind
draws
in
and
works
upon
;
the
chime
of
bells
;
general
murmurs
;
vanishing
figures
;
one
girl
on
a
bicycle
who
,
as
she
rode
,
seemed
to
lift
the
corner
of
a
curtain
concealing
the
populous
undifferentiated
chaos
of
life
which
surged
behind
the
outlines
of
my
friends
and
the
willow
tree
.
'
The
tree
alone
resisted
our
eternal
flux
.
For
I
changed
and
changed
;
was
Hamlet
,
was
Shelley
,
was
the
hero
,
whose
name
I
now
forget
,
of
a
novel
by
Dostoevsky
;
was
for
a
whole
term
,
incredibly
,
Napoleon
;
but
was
Byron
chiefly
.
For
many
weeks
at
a
time
it
was
my
part
to
stride
into
rooms
and
fling
gloves
and
coat
on
the
back
of
chairs
,
scowling
slightly
.
I
was
always
going
to
the
bookcase
for
another
sip
of
the
divine
specific
.
Therefore
,
I
let
fly
my
tremendous
battery
of
phrases
upon
somebody
quite
inappropriate
--
a
girl
now
married
,
now
buried
;
every
book
,
every
window-seat
was
littered
with
the
sheets
of
my
unfinished
letters
to
the
woman
who
made
me
Byron
.
For
it
is
difficult
to
finish
a
letter
in
somebody
else
's
style
.
I
arrived
all
in
a
lather
at
her
house
;
exchanged
tokens
but
did
not
marry
her
,
being
no
doubt
unripe
for
that
intensity
.
'
Here
again
there
should
be
music
.
Not
that
wild
hunting-song
,
Percival
's
music
;
but
a
painful
,
guttural
,
visceral
,
also
soaring
,
lark-like
,
pealing
song
to
replace
these
flagging
,
foolish
transcripts
--
how
much
too
deliberate
!
how
much
too
reasonable
!
--
which
attempt
to
describe
the
flying
moment
of
first
love
.
A
purple
slide
is
slipped
over
the
day
.
Look
at
a
room
before
she
comes
and
after
.
Look
at
the
innocents
outside
pursuing
their
way
.
They
neither
see
nor
hear
;
yet
on
they
go
.
Moving
oneself
in
this
radiant
yet
gummy
atmosphere
how
conscious
one
is
of
every
movement
--
something
adheres
,
something
sticks
to
one
's
hands
,
taking
up
a
newspaper
even
.
Then
there
is
the
being
eviscerated
--
drawn
out
,
spun
like
a
spider
's
web
and
twisted
in
agony
round
a
thorn
.
