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'
Also
I
like
to
find
the
pageant
of
existence
roaring
,
in
a
theatre
for
instance
.
The
clay-coloured
,
earthy
nondescript
animal
of
the
field
here
erects
himself
and
with
infinite
ingenuity
and
effort
puts
up
a
fight
against
the
green
woods
and
green
fields
and
sheep
advancing
with
measured
tread
,
munching
.
And
,
of
course
,
windows
in
the
long
grey
streets
were
lit
up
;
strips
of
carpet
cut
the
pavement
;
there
were
swept
and
garnished
rooms
,
fire
,
food
,
wine
,
talk
.
Men
with
withered
hands
,
women
with
pearl
pagodas
hanging
from
their
ears
,
came
in
and
went
out
.
I
saw
old
men
's
faces
carved
into
wrinkles
and
sneers
by
the
work
of
the
world
;
beauty
cherished
so
that
it
seemed
newly
sprung
even
in
age
;
and
youth
so
apt
for
pleasure
that
pleasure
,
one
thought
,
must
exist
;
it
seemed
that
grass-lands
must
roll
for
it
;
and
the
sea
be
chopped
up
into
little
waves
;
and
the
woods
rustle
with
bright-coloured
birds
for
youth
,
for
youth
expectant
.
There
one
met
Jinny
and
Hal
,
Tom
and
Betty
;
there
we
had
our
jokes
and
shared
our
secrets
;
and
never
parted
in
the
doorway
without
arranging
to
meet
again
in
some
other
room
as
the
occasion
,
as
the
time
of
the
year
,
suggested
.
Life
is
pleasant
;
life
is
good
.
After
Monday
comes
Tuesday
,
and
Wednesday
follows
.
'
Yes
,
but
after
a
time
with
a
difference
.
It
may
be
that
something
in
the
look
of
the
room
one
night
,
in
the
arrangement
of
the
chairs
,
suggests
it
.
It
seems
comfortable
to
sink
down
on
a
sofa
in
a
corner
,
to
look
,
to
listen
.
Then
it
happens
that
two
figures
standing
with
their
backs
to
the
window
appear
against
the
branches
of
a
spreading
willow
.
With
a
shock
of
emotion
one
feels
"
There
are
figures
without
features
robed
in
beauty
.
"
In
the
pause
that
follows
while
the
ripples
spread
,
the
girl
to
whom
one
should
be
talking
says
to
herself
,
"
He
is
old
.
"
But
she
is
wrong
.
It
is
not
age
;
it
is
that
a
drop
has
fallen
;
another
drop
.
Time
has
given
the
arrangement
another
shake
.
Out
we
creep
from
the
arch
of
the
currant
leaves
,
out
into
a
wider
world
.
The
true
order
of
things
--
this
is
our
perpetual
illusion
--
is
now
apparent
.
Thus
in
a
moment
,
in
a
drawing-room
,
our
life
adjusts
itself
to
the
majestic
march
of
day
across
the
sky
.
'
It
was
for
this
reason
that
instead
of
pulling
on
my
patent-leather
shoes
and
finding
a
tolerable
tie
,
I
sought
Neville
.
I
sought
my
oldest
friend
,
who
had
known
me
when
I
was
Byron
;
when
I
was
Meredith
's
young
man
,
and
also
that
hero
in
a
book
by
Dostoevsky
whose
name
I
have
forgotten
.
I
found
him
alone
,
reading
.
A
perfectly
neat
table
;
a
curtain
pulled
methodically
straight
;
a
paper-knife
dividing
a
French
volume
--
nobody
,
I
thought
,
ever
changes
the
attitude
in
which
we
saw
them
first
,
or
the
clothes
.
Here
he
has
sat
in
this
chair
,
in
these
clothes
,
ever
since
we
first
met
.
Here
was
freedom
;
here
was
intimacy
;
the
firelight
broke
off
some
round
apple
on
the
curtain
.
There
we
talked
;
sat
talking
;
sauntered
down
that
avenue
,
the
avenue
which
runs
under
the
trees
,
under
the
thick-leaved
murmuring
trees
,
the
trees
that
are
hung
with
fruit
,
which
we
have
trodden
so
often
together
,
so
that
now
the
turf
is
bare
round
some
of
those
trees
,
round
certain
plays
and
poems
,
certain
favourites
of
ours
--
the
turf
is
trodden
bare
by
our
incessant
unmethodical
pacing
.
If
I
have
to
wait
,
I
read
;
if
I
wake
in
the
night
,
I
feel
along
the
shelf
for
a
book
.
Swelling
,
perpetually
augmented
,
there
is
a
vast
accumulation
of
unrecorded
matter
in
my
head
.
Now
and
then
I
break
off
a
lump
,
Shakespeare
it
may
be
,
it
may
be
some
old
woman
called
Peck
;
and
say
to
myself
,
smoking
a
cigarette
in
bed
,
"
That
's
Shakespeare
.
That
's
Peck
"
--
with
a
certainty
of
recognition
and
a
shock
of
knowledge
which
is
endlessly
delightful
,
though
not
to
be
imparted
.
So
we
shared
our
Pecks
,
our
Shakespeares
;
compared
each
other
's
versions
;
allowed
each
other
's
insight
to
set
our
own
Peck
or
Shakespeare
in
a
better
light
;
and
then
sank
into
one
of
those
silences
which
are
now
and
again
broken
by
a
few
words
,
as
if
a
fin
rose
in
the
wastes
of
silence
;
and
then
the
fin
,
the
thought
,
sinks
back
into
the
depths
,
spreading
round
it
a
little
ripple
of
satisfaction
,
content
.
'
Yes
,
but
suddenly
one
hears
a
clock
tick
.
We
who
had
been
immersed
in
this
world
became
aware
of
another
.
It
is
painful
.
It
was
Neville
who
changed
our
time
.
He
,
who
had
been
thinking
with
the
unlimited
time
of
the
mind
,
which
stretches
in
a
flash
from
Shakespeare
to
ourselves
,
poked
the
fire
and
began
to
live
by
that
other
clock
which
marks
the
approach
of
a
particular
person
.
The
wide
and
dignified
sweep
of
his
mind
contracted
.
He
became
on
the
alert
.
I
could
feel
him
listening
to
sounds
in
the
street
.
I
noted
how
he
touched
a
cushion
.
From
the
myriads
of
mankind
and
all
time
past
he
had
chosen
one
person
,
one
moment
in
particular
.
A
sound
was
heard
in
the
hall
.
What
he
was
saying
wavered
in
the
air
like
an
uneasy
flame
.
I
watched
him
disentangle
one
footstep
from
other
footsteps
;
wait
for
some
particular
mark
of
identification
and
glance
with
the
swiftness
of
a
snake
at
the
handle
of
the
door
.
(
Hence
the
astonishing
acuteness
of
his
perceptions
;
he
has
been
trained
always
by
one
person
.
)
So
concentrated
a
passion
shot
out
others
like
foreign
matter
from
a
still
,
sparkling
fluid
.
I
became
aware
of
my
own
vague
and
cloudy
nature
full
of
sediment
,
full
of
doubt
,
full
of
phrases
and
notes
to
be
made
in
pocket-books
.
The
folds
of
the
curtain
became
still
,
statuesque
;
the
paperweight
on
the
table
hardened
;
the
threads
on
the
curtain
sparkled
;
everything
became
definite
,
external
,
a
scene
in
which
I
had
no
part
.
I
rose
,
therefore
;
I
left
him
.
'
Heavens
!
how
they
caught
me
as
I
left
the
room
,
the
fangs
of
that
old
pain
!
the
desire
for
someone
not
there
.
For
whom
?
I
did
not
know
at
first
;
then
remembered
Percival
.
I
had
not
thought
of
him
for
months
.
Now
to
laugh
with
him
,
to
laugh
with
him
at
Neville
--
that
was
what
I
wanted
,
to
walk
off
arm-in-arm
together
laughing
.
But
he
was
not
there
.
The
place
was
empty
.
'
It
is
strange
how
the
dead
leap
out
on
us
at
street
corners
,
or
in
dreams
.
'
This
fitful
gust
blowing
so
sharp
and
cold
upon
me
sent
me
that
night
across
London
to
visit
other
friends
,
Rhoda
and
Louis
,
desiring
company
,
certainty
,
contact
.
I
wondered
,
as
I
mounted
the
stairs
,
what
was
their
relationship
?
What
did
they
say
alone
?
I
figured
her
awkward
with
the
tea-kettle
.
She
gazed
over
the
slate
roofs
--
the
nymph
of
the
fountain
always
wet
,
obsessed
with
visions
,
dreaming
.
She
parted
the
curtain
to
look
at
the
night
.
"
Away
!
"
she
said
.
"
The
moor
is
dark
beneath
the
moon
.
"
I
rang
;
I
waited
.
Louis
perhaps
poured
out
milk
in
a
saucer
for
the
cat
;
Louis
,
whose
bony
hands
shut
like
the
sides
of
a
dock
closing
themselves
with
a
slow
anguish
of
effort
upon
an
enormous
tumult
of
waters
,
who
knew
what
has
been
said
by
the
Egyptian
,
the
Indian
,
by
men
with
high
cheek-bones
and
solitaires
in
hair
shirts
.
I
knocked
:
I
waited
;
there
was
no
answer
.
I
tramped
down
the
stone
stairs
again
.
Our
friends
--
how
distant
,
how
mute
,
how
seldom
visited
and
little
known
.
And
I
,
too
,
am
dim
to
my
friends
and
unknown
;
a
phantom
,
sometimes
seen
,
often
not
.
Life
is
a
dream
surely
.
Our
flame
,
the
will-o
'
-
the-wisp
that
dances
in
a
few
eyes
,
is
soon
to
be
blown
out
and
all
will
fade
.
I
recalled
my
friends
.
I
thought
of
Susan
.
She
had
bought
fields
.
Cucumbers
and
tomatoes
ripened
in
her
hothouses
.
