Marsh mended her glove. She laid it in the drawer. She shuts the drawer with decision. I saw her face in the glass. Next she laces her shoes. Then she touches her throat. What’s your brooch? Mistletoe? And what is happening? The moment is coming. The threads are racing. Niagara’s ahead. Here’s the crisis!
Heaven be with you! Down she goes. Courage, courage! Face it, be it! For God’s sake don’t wait on the mat now! There’s the door! I’m on your side. Speak! Confront her. Confound her soul![9]
“Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. I’ll reach it down for you. Let me try the handle.”
But Minnie, I know you—I’m with you now.
“That’s all your luggage?”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
But why do you look about you? Hilda won’t come to the station, nor John. Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne.
“I’ll wait by my bag, ma’am. That’s safe. He will meet me. Oh, there he is! That’s my son.”
So they walk off together.
Well, but I’m confounded. Surely, Minnie, you know better! A strange young man. Stop! I’ll tell him—Minnie! Miss Marsh! I don’t know though. There’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but it’s untrue, it’s indecent. . Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s the joke? Off they go[10], down the road, side by side. Well, my world is ruined. What do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life is bare.
The last look of them. He is stepping from the kerb and she is following him. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street? Where will you sleep tonight? Where will you sleep tomorrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you. Mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten. I follow. This must be the sea. The landscape is grey; dim as ashes. The water murmurs and moves. I fall on my knees. I go through the ritual. I adore you, unknown figures. I open my arms. I embrace you. I’ll draw you to me—adorable world!
The String Quartet
Well, here we are. Cast your eye over the room. You will see that Tubes[11] and trams and omnibuses, private carriages, landaus with bays in them, are weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin to doubt…
If indeed it’s true, as they say, that Regent Street is closed, and the weather not cold for the time of year… If I forgot to write about the leak in the larder… If I left my glove in the train… If the ties of blood require to accept cordially the hand which is offered…
“Seven years since we met!”
“The last time in Venice.”
“And where are you living now?”
“Well, the late afternoon suits me the best[12].”
“But I knew you at once!”
“Still, the war is the war.”
Such little arrows. One is launched. Another presses forward. What chance is there?
Of what? It becomes every minute more difficult to say why, in spite of everything, I sit here. I believe I can’t now say what happened. I can’t now say when it happened.
“Did you see the procession?”
“The King looked cold.”
“No, no, no. But what was it?”
“She bought a house at Malmesbury.”
“How lucky to find one!”
On the contrary, it is sure that she is damned. Whoever she may be. Why fidget? Why so anxious about the cloaks and gloves, whether to button or unbutton? Was it the sound of the second violin the ante-room? Here they come. Four black figures. They are carrying instruments. They seat themselves under the downpour of light. They rest the tips of their bows on the music stand. They lift them with a simultaneous movement. They poise them lightly. The first violin counts one, two, three…
Flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! The pear tree on the top of the mountain. Fountains jet. Drops descend. But the waters of the Rhone flow swift and deep. They race under the arches. The fish rushed down by the swift waters. Now the fish swept into an eddy where. It’s difficult. Conglomeration of fish all in a pool. Jolly old fishwives, obscene old women. How deeply they laugh and shake and rollick, when they walk, from side to side, hum, hah!
“That’s an early Mozart, of course.”
“But the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair[13]. I mean hope. What do I mean? That’s the worst of music! I want to dance. I want to laugh. I want to eat pink cakes, yellow cakes. I want to drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story, now—I can relish that. The older ones like indecency. Hah, hah! I’m laughing. What at? You said nothing. Nor did the old gentleman opposite. But suppose—suppose… Hush!”
The moon comes through the willow boughs. I see your face. I hear your voice. The bird is singing. We pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Together, like reeds in moonlight. Crash!
The boat sinks. The figures ascend. But they taper to a dusky wraith which draws its twofold passion from my heart. For me it sings. It unseals my sorrow. It thaws compassion. It floods with love the sunless world. Soar, sob, sink to rest, sorrow and joy.
Why then grieve? Ask what? Remain unsatisfied? Rose leaves are falling. Falling. Ah, but they cease. One rose leaf is falling from an enormous height. It is like a little parachute from an invisible balloon. It won’t reach us.
“No, no. I noticed nothing. That’s the worst of music—these silly dreams. The second violin was late, you say?”
“There’s old Mrs. Munro, she goes out on this slippery floor. Poor woman. Blinder each year”
Eyeless old age, grey-headed Sphinx. There she stands on the pavement. She is beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.
“How lovely! How well they play! How-how-how!”
Simplicity itself. The feathers in the hat are bright. They are pleasing as a child’s rattle. Very strange, very exciting.
“How-how-how!” Hush!
These are the lovers on the grass.
“If, madam, you take my hand…”
“Sir, I can trust you with my heart. Moreover, we left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.”
“Then these are the embraces of our souls.”
The lemons nod assent. The swan pushes
confound her soul! – чтоб ей пусто было!
off they go – они уходят
Tubes – метро
suits me the best – мне вполне удобно
makes one despair – приводит в отчаяние
