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"
She
leads
one
into
a
private
alcove
and
admits
one
to
the
honour
of
her
intimacy
.
Surnames
change
to
Christian
names
;
Christian
names
to
nicknames
.
What
is
to
be
done
about
India
,
Ireland
or
Morocco
?
Old
gentlemen
answer
the
question
standing
decorated
under
chandeliers
.
One
finds
oneself
surprisingly
supplied
with
information
.
Outside
the
undifferentiated
forces
roar
;
inside
we
are
very
private
,
very
explicit
,
have
a
sense
indeed
,
that
it
is
here
,
in
this
little
room
,
that
we
make
whatever
day
of
the
week
it
may
be
.
Friday
or
Saturday
.
A
shell
forms
upon
the
soft
soul
,
nacreous
,
shiny
,
upon
which
sensations
tap
their
beaks
in
vain
.
On
me
it
formed
earlier
than
on
most
.
Soon
I
could
carve
my
pear
when
other
people
had
done
dessert
.
I
could
bring
my
sentence
to
a
close
in
a
hush
of
complete
silence
.
It
is
at
that
season
too
that
perfection
has
a
lure
.
One
can
learn
Spanish
,
one
thinks
,
by
tying
a
string
to
the
right
toe
and
waking
early
.
One
fills
up
the
little
compartments
of
one
's
engagement
book
with
dinner
at
eight
;
luncheon
at
one-thirty
.
One
has
shirts
,
socks
,
ties
laid
out
on
one
's
bed
.
'
But
it
is
a
mistake
,
this
extreme
precision
,
this
orderly
and
military
progress
;
a
convenience
,
a
lie
.
There
is
always
deep
below
it
,
even
when
we
arrive
punctually
at
the
appointed
time
with
our
white
waistcoats
and
polite
formalities
,
a
rushing
stream
of
broken
dreams
,
nursery
rhymes
,
street
cries
,
half-finished
sentences
and
sights
--
elm
trees
,
willow
trees
,
gardeners
sweeping
,
women
writing
--
that
rise
and
sink
even
as
we
hand
a
lady
down
to
dinner
.
While
one
straightens
the
fork
so
precisely
on
the
table-cloth
,
a
thousand
faces
mop
and
mow
.
There
is
nothing
one
can
fish
up
in
a
spoon
;
nothing
one
can
call
an
event
.
Yet
it
is
alive
too
and
deep
,
this
stream
.
Immersed
in
it
I
would
stop
between
one
mouthful
and
the
next
,
and
look
intently
at
a
vase
,
perhaps
with
one
red
flower
,
while
a
reason
struck
me
,
a
sudden
revelation
.
Or
I
would
say
,
walking
along
the
Strand
,
"
That
's
the
phrase
I
want
"
,
as
some
beautiful
,
fabulous
phantom
bird
,
fish
or
cloud
with
fiery
edges
swam
up
to
enclose
once
and
for
all
some
notion
haunting
me
,
after
which
on
I
trotted
taking
stock
with
renewed
delight
of
ties
and
things
in
shop-windows
.
'
The
crystal
,
the
globe
of
life
as
one
calls
it
,
far
from
being
hard
and
cold
to
the
touch
,
has
walls
of
thinnest
air
.
If
I
press
them
all
will
burst
.
Whatever
sentence
I
extract
whole
and
entire
from
this
cauldron
is
only
a
string
of
six
little
fish
that
let
themselves
be
caught
while
a
million
others
leap
and
sizzle
,
making
the
cauldron
bubble
like
boiling
silver
,
and
slip
through
my
fingers
.
Faces
recur
,
faces
and
faces
--
they
press
their
beauty
to
the
walls
of
my
bubble
--
Neville
,
Susan
,
Louis
,
Jinny
,
Rhoda
and
a
thousand
others
.
How
impossible
to
order
them
rightly
;
to
detach
one
separately
,
or
to
give
the
effect
of
the
whole
--
again
like
music
.
What
a
symphony
with
its
concord
and
its
discord
,
and
its
tunes
on
top
and
its
complicated
bass
beneath
,
then
grew
up
!
Each
played
his
own
tune
,
fiddle
,
flute
,
trumpet
,
drum
or
whatever
the
instrument
might
be
.
With
Neville
,
"
Let
's
discuss
Hamlet
.
"
With
Louis
,
science
.
With
Jinny
,
love
.
Then
suddenly
,
in
a
moment
of
exasperation
,
off
to
Cumberland
with
a
quiet
man
for
a
whole
week
in
an
inn
,
with
the
rain
running
down
the
window-panes
and
nothing
but
mutton
and
mutton
and
again
mutton
for
dinner
.
Yet
that
week
remains
a
solid
stone
in
the
welter
of
unrecorded
sensation
.
It
was
then
we
played
dominoes
;
then
we
quarrelled
about
tough
mutton
.
Then
we
walked
on
the
fell
.
And
a
little
girl
,
peeping
round
the
door
,
gave
me
that
letter
,
written
on
blue
paper
,
in
which
I
learnt
that
the
girl
who
had
made
me
Byron
was
to
marry
a
squire
.
A
man
in
gaiters
,
a
man
with
a
whip
,
a
man
who
made
speeches
about
fat
oxen
at
dinner
--
I
exclaimed
derisively
and
looked
at
the
racing
clouds
,
and
felt
my
own
failure
;
my
desire
to
be
free
;
to
escape
;
to
be
bound
;
to
make
an
end
;
to
continue
;
to
be
Louis
;
to
be
myself
;
and
walked
out
in
my
mackintosh
alone
,
and
felt
grumpy
under
the
eternal
hills
and
not
in
the
least
sublime
;
and
came
home
and
blamed
the
meat
and
packed
and
so
back
again
to
the
welter
;
to
the
torture
.
'N
evertheless
,
life
is
pleasant
,
life
is
tolerable
.
Tuesday
follows
Monday
;
then
comes
Wednesday
.
The
mind
grows
rings
;
the
identity
becomes
robust
;
pain
is
absorbed
in
growth
.
Opening
and
shutting
,
shutting
and
opening
,
with
increasing
hum
and
sturdiness
,
the
haste
and
fever
of
youth
are
drawn
into
service
until
the
whole
being
seems
to
expand
in
and
out
like
the
mainspring
of
a
clock
.
How
fast
the
stream
flows
from
January
to
December
!
We
are
swept
on
by
the
torrent
of
things
grown
so
familiar
that
they
cast
no
shadow
.
We
float
,
we
float
...
'
However
,
since
one
must
leap
(
to
tell
you
this
story
)
,
I
leap
,
here
,
at
this
point
,
and
alight
now
upon
some
perfectly
commonplace
object
--
say
the
poker
and
tongs
,
as
I
saw
them
sometime
later
,
after
that
lady
who
had
made
me
Byron
had
married
,
under
the
light
of
one
whom
I
will
call
the
third
Miss
Jones
.
She
is
the
girl
who
wears
a
certain
dress
expecting
one
at
dinner
,
who
picks
a
certain
rose
,
who
makes
one
feel
"
Steady
,
steady
,
this
is
a
matter
of
some
importance
"
,
as
one
shaves
.
Then
one
asks
,
"
How
does
she
behave
to
children
?
"
One
observes
that
she
is
a
little
clumsy
with
her
umbrella
;
but
minded
when
the
mole
was
caught
in
the
trap
;
and
finally
,
would
not
make
the
loaf
at
breakfast
(
I
was
thinking
of
the
interminable
breakfasts
of
married
life
as
I
shaved
)
altogether
prosaic
--
it
would
not
surprise
one
sitting
opposite
this
girl
to
see
a
dragon-fly
perched
on
the
loaf
at
breakfast
.
Also
she
inspired
me
with
a
desire
to
rise
in
the
world
;
also
she
made
me
look
with
curiosity
at
the
hitherto
repulsive
faces
of
new-born
babies
.
And
the
little
fierce
beat
--
tick-tack
,
tick-tack
--
of
the
pulse
of
one
's
mind
took
on
a
more
majestic
rhythm
.
I
roamed
down
Oxford
Street
.
We
are
the
continuers
,
we
are
the
inheritors
,
I
said
,
thinking
of
my
sons
and
daughters
;
and
if
the
feeling
is
so
grandiose
as
to
be
absurd
and
one
conceals
it
by
jumping
on
to
a
bus
or
buying
the
evening
paper
,
it
is
still
a
curious
element
in
the
ardour
with
which
one
laces
up
one
's
boots
,
with
which
one
now
addresses
old
friends
committed
to
different
careers
.
Louis
,
the
attic
dweller
;
Rhoda
,
the
nymph
of
the
fountain
always
wet
;
both
contradicted
what
was
then
so
positive
to
me
;
both
gave
the
other
side
of
what
seemed
to
me
so
evident
(
that
we
marry
,
that
we
domesticate
)
;
for
which
I
loved
them
,
pitied
them
,
and
also
deeply
envied
them
their
different
lot
.
'
Once
I
had
a
biographer
,
dead
long
since
,
but
if
he
still
followed
my
footsteps
with
his
old
flattering
intensity
he
would
here
say
,
"
About
this
time
Bernard
married
and
bought
a
house
...
His
friends
observed
in
him
a
growing
tendency
to
domesticity
...
The
birth
of
children
made
it
highly
desirable
that
he
should
augment
his
income
.
"
That
is
the
biographic
style
,
and
it
does
to
tack
together
torn
bits
of
stuff
,
stuff
with
raw
edges
.
After
all
,
one
can
not
find
fault
with
the
biographic
style
if
one
begins
letters
"
Dear
Sir
"
,
ends
them
"
your
faithfully
"
;
one
can
not
despise
these
phrases
laid
like
Roman
roads
across
the
tumult
of
our
lives
,
since
they
compel
us
to
walk
in
step
like
civilized
people
with
the
slow
and
measured
tread
of
policemen
though
one
may
be
humming
any
nonsense
under
one
's
breath
at
the
same
time
--
"
Hark
,
hark
,
the
dogs
do
bark
"
,
"
Come
away
,
come
away
,
death
"
,
"
Let
me
not
to
the
marriage
of
true
minds
"
,
and
so
on
.
"
He
attained
some
success
in
his
profession
...
He
inherited
a
small
sum
of
money
from
an
uncle
"
--
that
is
how
the
biographer
continues
,
and
if
one
wears
trousers
and
hitches
them
up
with
braces
,
one
has
to
say
that
,
though
it
is
tempting
now
and
then
to
go
blackberrying
;
tempting
to
play
ducks
and
drakes
with
all
these
phrases
.
But
one
has
to
say
that
.
'
I
became
,
I
mean
,
a
certain
kind
of
man
,
scoring
my
path
across
life
as
one
treads
a
path
across
the
fields
.
My
boots
became
worn
a
little
on
the
left
side
.
When
I
came
in
,
certain
re-arrangements
took
place
.
"
Here
's
Bernard
!
"
How
differently
different
people
say
that
!
There
are
many
rooms
--
many
Bernards
.
There
was
the
charming
,
but
weak
;
the
strong
,
but
supercilious
;
the
brilliant
,
but
remorseless
;
the
very
good
fellow
,
but
,
I
make
no
doubt
,
the
awful
bore
;
the
sympathetic
,
but
cold
;
the
shabby
,
but
--
go
into
the
next
room
--
the
foppish
,
worldly
,
and
too
well
dressed
.
What
I
was
to
myself
was
different
;
was
none
of
these
.
I
am
inclined
to
pin
myself
down
most
firmly
there
before
the
loaf
at
breakfast
with
my
wife
,
who
being
now
entirely
my
wife
and
not
at
all
the
girl
who
wore
when
she
hoped
to
meet
me
a
certain
rose
,
gave
me
that
feeling
of
existing
in
the
midst
of
unconsciousness
such
as
the
tree-frog
must
have
couched
on
the
right
shade
of
green
leaf
.
"
Pass
"
...
I
would
say
.
"
Milk
"
...
she
might
answer
,
or
"
Mary
's
coming
"
...
--
simple
words
for
those
who
have
inherited
the
spoils
of
all
the
ages
but
not
as
said
then
,
day
after
day
,
in
the
full
tide
of
life
,
when
one
feels
complete
,
entire
,
at
breakfast
.
Muscles
,
nerves
,
intestines
,
blood-vessels
,
all
that
makes
the
coil
and
spring
of
our
being
,
the
unconscious
hum
of
the
engine
,
as
well
as
the
dart
and
flicker
of
the
tongue
,
functioned
superbly
.
Opening
,
shutting
;
shutting
,
opening
;
eating
,
drinking
;
sometimes
speaking
--
the
whole
mechanism
seemed
to
expand
,
to
contract
,
like
the
mainspring
of
a
clock
.
Toast
and
butter
,
coffee
and
bacon
.
