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'N

ow

the

meal

is

finished

;

we

are

surrounded

by

peelings

and

breadcrumbs

.

I

have

tried

to

break

off

this

bunch

and

hand

it

you

;

but

whether

there

is

substance

or

truth

in

it

I

do

not

know

.

Nor

do

I

know

exactly

where

we

are

.

What

city

does

that

stretch

of

sky

look

down

upon

?

Is

it

Paris

,

is

it

London

where

we

sit

,

or

some

southern

city

of

pink-washed

houses

lying

under

cypresses

,

under

high

mountains

,

where

eagles

soar

?

I

do

not

at

this

moment

feel

certain

.

'

I

begin

now

to

forget

;

I

begin

to

doubt

the

fixity

of

tables

,

the

reality

of

here

and

now

,

to

tap

my

knuckles

smartly

upon

the

edges

of

apparently

solid

objects

and

say

,

"

Are

you

hard

?

"

I

have

seen

so

many

different

things

,

have

made

so

many

different

sentences

.

I

have

lost

in

the

process

of

eating

and

drinking

and

rubbing

my

eyes

along

surfaces

that

thin

,

hard

shell

which

cases

the

soul

,

which

,

in

youth

,

shuts

one

in

--

hence

the

fierceness

,

and

the

tap

,

tap

,

tap

of

the

remorseless

beaks

of

the

young

.

And

now

I

ask

,

"

Who

am

I

?

"

I

have

been

talking

of

Bernard

,

Neville

,

Jinny

,

Susan

,

Rhoda

and

Louis

.

Am

I

all

of

them

?

Am

I

one

and

distinct

?

I

do

not

know

.

We

sat

here

together

.

But

now

Percival

is

dead

,

and

Rhoda

is

dead

;

we

are

divided

;

we

are

not

here

.

Yet

I

can

not

find

any

obstacle

separating

us

.

There

is

no

division

between

me

and

them

.

As

I

talked

I

felt

"

I

am

you

"

.

This

difference

we

make

so

much

of

,

this

identity

we

so

feverishly

cherish

,

was

overcome

.

Yes

,

ever

since

old

Mrs

Constable

lifted

her

sponge

and

pouring

warm

water

over

me

covered

me

with

flesh

I

have

been

sensitive

,

percipient

.

Here

on

my

brow

is

the

blow

I

got

when

Percival

fell

.

Here

on

the

nape

of

my

neck

is

the

kiss

Jinny

gave

Louis

.

My

eyes

fill

with

Susan

's

tears

.

I

see

far

away

,

quivering

like

a

gold

thread

,

the

pillar

Rhoda

saw

,

and

feel

the

rush

of

the

wind

of

her

flight

when

she

leapt

.

Отключить рекламу

'

Thus

when

I

come

to

shape

here

at

this

table

between

my

hands

the

story

of

my

life

and

set

it

before

you

as

a

complete

thing

,

I

have

to

recall

things

gone

far

,

gone

deep

,

sunk

into

this

life

or

that

and

become

part

of

it

;

dreams

,

too

,

things

surrounding

me

,

and

the

inmates

,

those

old

half-articulate

ghosts

who

keep

up

their

hauntings

by

day

and

night

;

who

turn

over

in

their

sleep

,

who

utter

their

confused

cries

,

who

put

out

their

phantom

fingers

and

clutch

at

me

as

I

try

to

escape

--

shadows

of

people

one

might

have

been

;

unborn

selves

.

There

is

the

old

brute

,

too

,

the

savage

,

the

hairy

man

who

dabbles

his

fingers

in

ropes

of

entrails

;

and

gobbles

and

belches

;

whose

speech

is

guttural

,

visceral

--

well

,

he

is

here

.

He

squats

in

me

.

To-night

he

has

been

feasted

on

quails

,

salad

,

and

sweetbread

.

He

now

holds

a

glass

of

fine

old

brandy

in

his

paw

.

He

brindles

,

purrs

and

shoots

warm

thrills

all

down

my

spine

as

I

sip

.

It

is

true

,

he

washes

his

hands

before

dinner

,

but

they

are

still

hairy

.

He

buttons

on

trousers

and

waistcoats

,

but

they

contain

the

same

organs

.

He

jibs

if

I

keep

him

waiting

for

dinner

.

He

mops

and

mows

perpetually

,

pointing

with

his

half-idiot

gestures

of

greed

and

covetousness

at

what

he

desires

.

I

assure

you

,

I

have

great

difficulty

sometimes

in

controlling

him

.

That

man

,

the

hairy

,

the

ape-like

,

has

contributed

his

part

to

my

life

.

He

has

given

a

greener

glow

to

green

things

,

has

held

his

torch

with

its

red

flames

,

its

thick

and

smarting

smoke

,

behind

every

leaf

.

He

has

lit

up

the

cool

garden

even

.

He

has

brandished

his

torch

in

murky

by-streets

where

girls

suddenly

seem

to

shine

with

a

red

and

intoxicating

translucency

.

Oh

,

he

has

tossed

his

torch

high

!

He

has

led

me

wild

dances

!

'

But

no

more

.

Now

to-night

,

my

body

rises

tier

upon

tier

like

some

cool

temple

whose

floor

is

strewn

with

carpets

and

murmurs

rise

and

the

altars

stand

smoking

;

but

up

above

,

here

in

my

serene

head

,

comes

only

fine

gusts

of

melody

,

waves

of

incense

,

while

the

lost

dove

wails

,

and

the

banners

tremble

above

tombs

,

and

the

dark

airs

of

midnight

shake

trees

outside

the

open

windows

.

When

I

look

down

from

this

transcendency

,

how

beautiful

are

even

the

crumbled

relics

of

bread

!

What

shapely

spirals

the

peelings

of

pears

make

--

how

thin

,

and

mottled

like

some

sea-bird

's

egg

.

Even

the

forks

laid

straight

side

by

side

appear

lucid

,

logical

,

exact

;

and

the

horns

of

the

rolls

which

we

have

left

are

glazed

,

yellow-plated

,

hard

.

I

could

worship

my

hand

even

,

with

its

fan

of

bones

laced

by

blue

mysterious

veins

and

its

astonishing

look

of

aptness

,

suppleness

and

ability

to

curl

softly

or

suddenly

crush

--

its

infinite

sensibility

.

'

Immeasurably

receptive

,

holding

everything

,

trembling

with

fullness

,

yet

clear

,

contained

--

so

my

being

seems

,

now

that

desire

urges

it

no

more

out

and

away

;

now

that

curiosity

no

longer

dyes

it

a

thousand

colours

.

It

lies

deep

,

tideless

,

immune

,

now

that

he

is

dead

,

the

man

I

called

"

Bernard

"

,

the

man

who

kept

a

book

in

his

pocket

in

which

he

made

notes

--

phrases

for

the

moon

,

notes

of

features

;

how

people

looked

,

turned

,

dropped

their

cigarette

ends

;

under

B

,

butterfly

powder

,

under

D

,

ways

of

naming

death

.

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But

now

let

the

door

open

,

the

glass

door

that

is

for

ever

turning

on

its

hinges

.

Let

a

woman

come

,

let

a

young

man

in

evening-dress

with

a

moustache

sit

down

:

is

there

anything

that

they

can

tell

me

?

No

!

I

know

all

that

,

too

.

And

if

she

suddenly

gets

up

and

goes

,

"

My

dear

,

"

I

say

,

"

you

no

longer

make

me

look

after

you

.

"

The

shock

of

the

falling

wave

which

has

sounded

all

my

life

,

which

woke

me

so

that

I

saw

the

gold

loop

on

the

cupboard

,

no

longer

makes

quiver

what

I

hold

.

'S

o

now

,

taking

upon

me

the

mystery

of

things

,

I

could

go

like

a

spy

without

leaving

this

place

,

without

stirring

from

my

chair

.

I

can

visit

the

remote

verges

of

the

desert

lands

where

the

savage

sits

by

the

camp-fire

.

Day

rises

;

the

girl

lifts

the

watery

fire-hearted

jewels

to

her

brow

;

the

sun

levels

his

beams

straight

at

the

sleeping

house

;

the

waves

deepen

their

bars

;

they

fling

themselves

on

shore

;

back

blows

the

spray

;

sweeping

their

waters

they

surround

the

boat

and

the

sea-holly

.

The

birds

sing

in

chorus

;

deep

tunnels

run

between

the

stalks

of

flowers

;

the

house

is

whitened

;

the

sleeper

stretches

;

gradually

all

is

astir

.

Light

floods

the

room

and

drives

shadow

beyond

shadow

to

where

they

hang

in

folds

inscrutable

.

What

does

the

central

shadow

hold

?

Something

?

Nothing

?

I

do

not

know

.

'

Oh

,

but

there

is

your

face

.

I

catch

your

eye

.

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