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The
child
was
asleep
.
I
went
to
my
room
.
'
Was
there
no
sword
,
nothing
with
which
to
batter
down
these
walls
,
this
protection
,
this
begetting
of
children
and
living
behind
curtains
,
and
becoming
daily
more
involved
and
committed
,
with
books
and
pictures
?
Better
burn
one
's
life
out
like
Louis
,
desiring
perfection
;
or
like
Rhoda
leave
us
,
flying
past
us
to
the
desert
;
or
choose
one
out
of
millions
and
one
only
like
Neville
;
better
be
like
Susan
and
love
and
hate
the
heat
of
the
sun
or
the
frost-bitten
grass
;
or
be
like
Jinny
,
honest
,
an
animal
.
All
had
their
rapture
;
their
common
feeling
with
death
;
something
that
stood
them
in
stead
.
Thus
I
visited
each
of
my
friends
in
turn
,
trying
,
with
fumbling
fingers
,
to
prise
open
their
locked
caskets
.
I
went
from
one
to
the
other
holding
my
sorrow
--
no
,
not
my
sorrow
but
the
incomprehensible
nature
of
this
our
life
--
for
their
inspection
.
Some
people
go
to
priests
;
others
to
poetry
;
I
to
my
friends
,
I
to
my
own
heart
,
I
to
seek
among
phrases
and
fragments
something
unbroken
--
I
to
whom
there
is
not
beauty
enough
in
moon
or
tree
;
to
whom
the
touch
of
one
person
with
another
is
all
,
yet
who
can
not
grasp
even
that
,
who
am
so
imperfect
,
so
weak
,
so
unspeakably
lonely
.
There
I
sat
.
'S
hould
this
be
the
end
of
the
story
?
a
kind
of
sigh
?
a
last
ripple
of
the
wave
?
A
trickle
of
water
in
some
gutter
where
,
burbling
,
it
dies
away
?
Let
me
touch
the
table
--
so
--
and
thus
recover
my
sense
of
the
moment
.
A
sideboard
covered
with
cruets
;
a
basket
full
of
rolls
;
a
plate
of
bananas
--
these
are
comfortable
sights
.
But
if
there
are
no
stories
,
what
end
can
there
be
,
or
what
beginning
?
Life
is
not
susceptible
perhaps
to
the
treatment
we
give
it
when
we
try
to
tell
it
.
Sitting
up
late
at
night
it
seems
strange
not
to
have
more
control
.
Pigeon-holes
are
not
then
very
useful
.
It
is
strange
how
force
ebbs
away
and
away
into
some
dry
creek
.
Sitting
alone
,
it
seems
we
are
spent
;
our
waters
can
only
just
surround
feebly
that
spike
of
sea-holly
;
we
can
not
reach
that
further
pebble
so
as
to
wet
it
.
It
is
over
,
we
are
ended
.
But
wait
--
I
sat
all
night
waiting
--
an
impulse
again
runs
through
us
;
we
rise
,
we
toss
back
a
mane
of
white
spray
;
we
pound
on
the
shore
;
we
are
not
to
be
confined
.
That
is
,
I
shaved
and
washed
;
did
not
wake
my
wife
,
and
had
breakfast
;
put
on
my
hat
,
and
went
out
to
earn
my
living
.
After
Monday
,
Tuesday
comes
.
'
Yet
some
doubt
remained
,
some
note
of
interrogation
.
I
was
surprised
,
opening
a
door
,
to
find
people
thus
occupied
;
I
hesitated
,
taking
a
cup
of
tea
,
whether
one
said
milk
or
sugar
.
And
the
light
of
the
stars
falling
,
as
it
falls
now
,
on
my
hand
after
travelling
for
millions
upon
millions
of
years
--
I
could
get
a
cold
shock
from
that
for
a
moment
--
not
more
,
my
imagination
is
too
feeble
.
But
some
doubt
remained
.
A
shadow
flitted
through
my
mind
like
moths
'
wings
among
chairs
and
tables
in
a
room
in
the
evening
.
When
,
for
example
,
I
went
to
Lincolnshire
that
summer
to
see
Susan
and
she
advanced
towards
me
across
the
garden
with
the
lazy
movement
of
a
half-filled
sail
,
with
the
swaying
movement
of
a
woman
with
child
,
I
thought
,
"
It
goes
on
;
but
why
?
"
We
sat
in
the
garden
;
the
farm
carts
came
up
dripping
with
hay
;
there
was
the
usual
gabble
of
rooks
and
doves
;
fruit
was
netted
and
covered
over
;
the
gardener
dug
.
Bees
boomed
down
the
purple
tunnels
of
flowers
;
bees
embedded
themselves
on
the
golden
shields
of
sunflowers
.
Little
twigs
were
blown
across
the
grass
.
How
rhythmical
,
and
half
conscious
and
like
something
wrapped
in
mist
it
was
;
but
to
me
hateful
,
like
a
net
folding
one
's
limbs
in
its
meshes
,
cramping
.
She
who
had
refused
Percival
lent
herself
to
this
,
to
this
covering
over
.
'S
itting
down
on
a
bank
to
wait
for
my
train
,
I
thought
then
how
we
surrender
,
how
we
submit
to
the
stupidity
of
nature
.
Woods
covered
in
thick
green
leafage
lay
in
front
of
me
.
And
by
some
flick
of
a
scent
or
a
sound
on
a
nerve
,
the
old
image
--
the
gardeners
sweeping
,
the
lady
writing
--
returned
.
I
saw
the
figures
beneath
the
beech
trees
at
Elvedon
.
The
gardeners
swept
;
the
lady
at
the
table
sat
writing
.
But
I
now
made
the
contribution
of
maturity
to
childhood
's
intuitions
--
satiety
and
doom
;
the
sense
of
what
is
unescapable
in
our
lot
;
death
;
the
knowledge
of
limitations
;
how
life
is
more
obdurate
than
one
had
thought
it
.
Then
,
when
I
was
a
child
,
the
presence
of
an
enemy
had
asserted
itself
;
the
need
for
opposition
had
stung
me
.
I
had
jumped
up
and
cried
,
"
Let
's
explore
.
"
The
horror
of
the
situation
was
ended
.
'N
ow
what
situation
was
there
to
end
?
Dullness
and
doom
.
And
what
to
explore
?
The
leaves
and
the
wood
concealed
nothing
.
If
a
bird
rose
I
should
no
longer
make
a
poem
--
I
should
repeat
what
I
had
seen
before
.
Thus
if
I
had
a
stick
with
which
to
point
to
indentations
in
the
curve
of
being
,
this
is
the
lowest
;
here
it
coils
useless
on
the
mud
where
no
tide
comes
--
here
,
where
I
sit
with
my
back
to
a
hedge
,
and
my
hat
over
my
eyes
,
while
the
sheep
advanced
remorselessly
in
that
wooden
way
of
theirs
,
step
by
step
on
stiff
,
pointed
legs
.
But
if
you
hold
a
blunt
blade
to
a
grindstone
long
enough
,
something
spurts
--
a
jagged
edge
of
fire
;
so
held
to
lack
of
reason
,
aimlessness
,
the
usual
,
all
massed
together
,
out
spurted
in
one
flame
hatred
,
contempt
.
I
took
my
mind
,
my
being
,
the
old
dejected
,
almost
inanimate
object
,
and
lashed
it
about
among
these
odds
and
ends
,
sticks
and
straws
,
detestable
little
bits
of
wreckage
,
flotsam
and
jetsam
,
floating
on
the
oily
surface
.
I
jumped
up
.
I
said
,
"
Fight
!
Fight
!
"
I
repeated
.
It
is
the
effort
and
the
struggle
,
it
is
the
perpetual
warfare
,
it
is
the
shattering
and
piecing
together
--
this
is
the
daily
battle
,
defeat
or
victory
,
the
absorbing
pursuit
.
The
trees
,
scattered
,
put
on
order
;
the
thick
green
of
the
leaves
thinned
itself
to
a
dancing
light
.
I
netted
them
under
with
a
sudden
phrase
.
I
retrieved
them
from
formlessness
with
words
.
'
The
train
came
in
.
Lengthening
down
the
platform
,
the
train
came
to
a
stop
.
I
caught
my
train
.
And
so
back
to
London
in
the
evening
.
How
satisfactory
,
the
atmosphere
of
common
sense
and
tobacco
;
old
women
clambering
into
the
third-class
carriage
with
their
baskets
;
the
sucking
at
pipes
;
the
good-nights
and
see
you
tomorrows
of
friends
parting
at
wayside
stations
,
and
then
the
lights
of
London
--
not
the
flaring
ecstasy
of
youth
,
not
that
tattered
violet
banner
,
but
still
the
lights
of
London
all
the
same
;
hard
,
electric
lights
,
high
up
in
offices
;
street
lamps
laced
along
dry
pavements
;
flares
roaring
above
street
markets
.
I
like
all
this
when
I
have
despatched
the
enemy
for
a
moment
.
