MONDAYORTUESDAYVirginiaWoolf

Firstpublishedin1921

https://TheVirtualLibrary.org

TableofContents

AHauntedHouseASocietyMondayorTuesdayAnUnwrittenNovelTheStringQuartetBlue&GreenGreenBlueKewGardensTheMarkontheWall

AHAUNTEDHOUSEWhateverhouryouwoketherewasadoorshutting.Fromroomtoroomtheywent,handinhand,liftinghere,openingthere,makingsure—aghostlycouple.

“Hereweleftit,”shesaid.Andheadded,“Oh,butheretoo!”“It’supstairs,”shemurmured.“Andinthegarden,”hewhispered.“Quietly,”theysaid,“orweshallwakethem.”

Butitwasn’tthatyouwokeus.Oh,no.“They’relookingforit;they’redrawingthecurtain,”onemightsay,andsoreadonapageortwo.“Nowthey’vefoundit,”onewouldbecertain,stoppingthepencilonthemargin.Andthen,tiredofreading,onemightriseandseeforoneself,thehouseallempty,thedoorsstandingopen,onlythewoodpigeonsbubblingwithcontentandthehumofthethreshingmachinesoundingfromthefarm.“WhatdidIcomeinherefor?WhatdidIwanttofind?”Myhandswereempty.“Perhapsit’supstairsthen?”Theappleswereintheloft.Andsodownagain,thegardenstillasever,onlythebookhadslippedintothegrass.

Buttheyhadfounditinthedrawingroom.Notthatonecouldeverseethem.Thewindowpanesreflectedapples,reflectedroses;alltheleavesweregreenintheglass.Iftheymovedinthedrawingroom,theappleonlyturneditsyellowside.Yet,themomentafter,ifthedoorwasopened,spreadaboutthefloor,hunguponthewalls,pendantfromtheceiling—what?Myhandswereempty.Theshadowofathrushcrossedthecarpet;fromthedeepestwellsofsilencethewoodpigeondrewitsbubbleofsound.“Safe,safe,safe,”thepulseofthehousebeatsoftly.“Thetreasureburied;theroom…”thepulsestoppedshort.Oh,wasthattheburiedtreasure?

Amomentlaterthelighthadfaded.Outinthegardenthen?Butthetreesspundarknessforawanderingbeamofsun.Sofine,sorare,coollysunkbeneaththesurfacethebeamIsoughtalwaysburntbehindtheglass.Deathwastheglass;deathwasbetweenus;comingtothewomanfirst,hundredsofyearsago,leavingthehouse,sealingallthewindows;theroomsweredarkened.Heleftit,lefther,wentNorth,wentEast,sawthestarsturnedintheSouthernsky;soughtthehouse,founditdroppedbeneaththeDowns.“Safe,safe,safe,”thepulseofthehousebeatgladly.“TheTreasureyours.”

Thewindroarsuptheavenue.Treesstoopandbendthiswayandthat.Moonbeamssplashandspillwildlyintherain.Butthebeamofthelampfallsstraightfromthewindow.Thecandleburnsstiffandstill.Wanderingthroughthehouse,openingthewindows,whisperingnottowakeus,theghostlycoupleseektheirjoy.

“Hereweslept,”shesays.Andheadds,“Kisseswithoutnumber.”“Wakinginthemorning—”“Silverbetweenthetrees—”“Upstairs—”“Inthegarden—”“Whensummercame—”“Inwintersnowtime—”Thedoorsgoshuttingfarinthedistance,gentlyknockinglikethepulseofaheart.

Nearertheycome;ceaseatthedoorway.Thewindfalls,therainslidessilverdowntheglass.Oureyesdarken;wehearnostepsbesideus;weseenoladyspreadherghostlycloak.Hishandsshieldthelantern.“Look,”hebreathes.“Soundasleep.Loveupontheir

lips.”

Stooping,holdingtheirsilverlampaboveus,longtheylookanddeeply.Longtheypause.Thewinddrivesstraightly;theflamestoopsslightly.Wildbeamsofmoonlightcrossbothfloorandwall,and,meeting,stainthefacesbent;thefacespondering;thefacesthatsearchthesleepersandseektheirhiddenjoy.

“Safe,safe,safe,”theheartofthehousebeatsproudly.“Longyears—”hesighs.“Againyoufoundme.”“Here,”shemurmurs,“sleeping;inthegardenreading;laughing,rollingapplesintheloft.Hereweleftourtreasure—”Stooping,theirlightliftsthelidsuponmyeyes.“Safe!safe!safe!”thepulseofthehousebeatswildly.Waking,Icry“Oh,isthisyourburiedtreasure?Thelightintheheart.”

ASOCIETYThisishowitallcameabout.Sixorsevenofusweresittingonedayaftertea.Someweregazingacrossthestreetintothewindowsofamilliner’sshopwherethelightstillshonebrightlyuponscarletfeathersandgoldenslippers.Otherswereidlyoccupiedinbuildinglittletowersofsugarupontheedgeoftheteatray.Afteratime,sofarasIcanremember,wedrewroundthefireandbeganasusualtopraisemen—howstrong,hownoble,howbrilliant,howcourageous,howbeautifultheywere—howweenviedthosewhobyhookorbycrookmanagedtogetattachedtooneforlife—whenPoll,whohadsaidnothing,burstintotears.Poll,Imusttellyou,hasalwaysbeenqueer.Foronethingherfatherwasastrangeman.Heleftherafortuneinhiswill,butonconditionthatshereadallthebooksintheLondonLibrary.Wecomfortedherasbestwecould;butweknewinourheartshowvainitwas.Forthoughwelikeher,Pollisnobeauty;leaveshershoelacesuntied;andmusthavebeenthinking,whilewepraisedmen,thatnotoneofthemwouldeverwishtomarryher.Atlastshedriedhertears.Forsometimewecouldmakenothingofwhatshesaid.Strangeenoughitwasinallconscience.Shetoldusthat,asweknew,shespentmostofhertimeintheLondonLibrary,reading.Shehadbegun,shesaid,withEnglishliteratureonthetopfloor;andwassteadilyworkingherwaydowntotheTimesonthebottom.Andnowhalf,orperhapsonlyaquarter,waythroughaterriblethinghadhappened.Shecouldreadnomore.Bookswerenotwhatwethoughtthem.“Books,”shecried,risingtoherfeetandspeakingwithanintensityofdesolationwhichIshallneverforget,“areforthemostpartunutterablybad!”

OfcoursewecriedoutthatShakespearewrotebooks,andMiltonandShelley.

“Oh,yes,”sheinterruptedus.“You’vebeenwelltaught,Icansee.ButyouarenotmembersoftheLondonLibrary.”Herehersobsbrokeforthanew.Atlength,recoveringalittle,sheopenedoneofthepileofbookswhichshealwayscarriedaboutwithher—“FromaWindow”or“InaGarden,”orsomesuchnameasthatitwascalled,anditwaswrittenbyamancalledBentonorHenson,orsomethingofthatkind.Shereadthefirstfewpages.Welistenedinsilence.“Butthat’snotabook,”someonesaid.Soshechoseanother.Thistimeitwasahistory,butIhaveforgottenthewriter’sname.Ourtrepidationincreasedasshewenton.Notawordofitseemedtobetrue,andthestyleinwhichitwaswrittenwasexecrable.

“Poetry!Poetry!”wecried,impatiently.“Readuspoetry!”Icannotdescribethedesolationwhichfelluponusassheopenedalittlevolumeandmouthedouttheverbose,sentimentalfoolerywhichitcontained.

“Itmusthavebeenwrittenbyawoman,”oneofusurged.Butno.Shetoldusthatitwaswrittenbyayoungman,oneofthemostfamouspoetsoftheday.Ileaveyoutoimaginewhattheshockofthediscoverywas.Thoughweallcriedandbeggedhertoreadnomore,shepersistedandreadusextractsfromtheLivesoftheLordChancellors.Whenshehadfinished,Jane,theeldestandwisestofus,rosetoherfeetandsaidthatsheforonewasnotconvinced.

“Why,”sheasked,“ifmenwritesuchrubbishasthis,shouldourmothershavewastedtheiryouthinbringingthemintotheworld?”

Wewereallsilent;and,inthesilence,poorPollcouldbeheardsobbingout,“Why,whydidmyfatherteachmetoread?”

Clorindawasthefirsttocometohersenses.“It’sallourfault,”shesaid.“Everyoneofusknowshowtoread.Butnoone,savePoll,hasevertakenthetroubletodoit.I,forone,havetakenitforgrantedthatitwasawoman’sdutytospendheryouthinbearingchildren.Iveneratedmymotherforbearingten;stillmoremygrandmotherforbearingfifteen;itwas,Iconfess,myownambitiontobeartwenty.Wehavegoneonalltheseagessupposingthatmenwereequallyindustrious,andthattheirworkswereofequalmerit.Whilewehavebornethechildren,they,wesupposed,havebornethebooksandthepictures.Wehavepopulatedtheworld.Theyhavecivilizedit.Butnowthatwecanread,whatpreventsusfromjudgingtheresults?Beforewebringanotherchildintotheworldwemustswearthatwewillfindoutwhattheworldislike.”

Sowemadeourselvesintoasocietyforaskingquestions.Oneofuswastovisitaman–of–war;anotherwastohideherselfinascholar’sstudy;anotherwastoattendameetingofbusinessmen;whileallweretoreadbooks,lookatpictures,gotoconcerts,keepoureyesopeninthestreets,andaskquestionsperpetually.Wewereveryyoung.YoucanjudgeofoursimplicitywhenItellyouthatbeforepartingthatnightweagreedthattheobjectsoflifeweretoproducegoodpeopleandgoodbooks.Ourquestionsweretobedirectedtofindingouthowfartheseobjectswerenowattainedbymen.Wevowedsolemnlythatwewouldnotbearasinglechilduntilweweresatisfied.

Offwewentthen,sometotheBritishMuseum;otherstotheKing’sNavy;sometoOxford;otherstoCambridge;wevisitedtheRoyalAcademyandtheTate;heardmodernmusicinconcertrooms,wenttotheLawCourts,andsawnewplays.Noonedinedoutwithoutaskingherpartnercertainquestionsandcarefullynotinghisreplies.Atintervalswemettogetherandcomparedourobservations.Oh,thoseweremerrymeetings!NeverhaveIlaughedsomuchasIdidwhenRosereadhernotesupon“Honour”anddescribedhowshehaddressedherselfasanÆthiopianPrinceandgoneaboardoneofHisMajesty’sships.Discoveringthehoax,theCaptainvisitedher(nowdisguisedasaprivategentleman)anddemandedthathonourshouldbesatisfied.“Buthow?”sheasked.“How?”hebellowed.“Withthecaneofcourse!”Seeingthathewasbesidehimselfwithrageandexpectingthatherlastmomenthadcome,shebentoverandreceived,toheramazement,sixlighttapsuponthebehind.“ThehonouroftheBritishNavyisavenged!”hecried,and,raisingherself,shesawhimwiththesweatpouringdownhisfaceholdingoutatremblingrighthand.“Away!”sheexclaimed,strikinganattitudeandimitatingtheferocityofhisownexpression,“Myhonourhasstilltobesatisfied!”“Spokenlikeagentleman!”hereturned,andfellintoprofoundthought.“IfsixstrokesavengethehonouroftheKing’sNavy,”hemused,“howmanyavengethehonourofaprivategentleman?”Hesaidhewouldprefertolaythecasebeforehisbrotherofficers.Sherepliedhaughtilythatshecouldnotwait.Hepraisedhersensibility.“Letmesee,”hecriedsuddenly,“didyourfatherkeepacarriage?”“No,”shesaid.“Oraridinghorse!”“Wehadadonkey,”shebethoughther,“whichdrewthemowingmachine.”Atthishisfacelighted.“Mymother’sname―”sheadded.“ForGod’ssake,man,don’tmentionyourmother’sname!”he

shrieked,tremblinglikeanaspenandflushingtotherootsofhishair,anditwastenminutesatleastbeforeshecouldinducehimtoproceed.Atlengthhedecreedthatifshegavehimfourstrokesandahalfinthesmallofthebackataspotindicatedbyhimself(thehalfconceded,hesaid,inrecognitionofthefactthathergreatgrandmother’sunclewaskilledatTrafalgar)itwashisopinionthatherhonourwouldbeasgoodasnew.Thiswasdone;theyretiredtoarestaurant;dranktwobottlesofwineforwhichheinsisteduponpaying;andpartedwithprotestationsofeternalfriendship.

ThenwehadFanny’saccountofhervisittotheLawCourts.AtherfirstvisitshehadcometotheconclusionthattheJudgeswereeithermadeofwoodorwereimpersonatedbylargeanimalsresemblingmanwhohadbeentrainedtomovewithextremedignity,mumbleandnodtheirheads.Totesthertheoryshehadliberatedahandkerchiefofbluebottlesatthecriticalmomentofatrial,butwasunabletojudgewhetherthecreaturesgavesignsofhumanityforthebuzzingofthefliesinducedsosoundasleepthatsheonlywokeintimetoseetheprisonersledintothecellsbelow.ButfromtheevidenceshebroughtwevotedthatitisunfairtosupposethattheJudgesaremen.

HelenwenttotheRoyalAcademy,butwhenaskedtodeliverherreportuponthepicturesshebegantorecitefromapalebluevolume,“O!forthetouchofavanishedhandandthesoundofavoicethatisstill.Homeisthehunter,homefromthehill.Hegavehisbridlereinsashake.Loveissweet,loveisbrief.Spring,thefairspring,istheyear’spleasantKing.O!tobeinEnglandnowthatApril’sthere.Menmustworkandwomenmustweep.Thepathofdutyisthewaytoglory—”Wecouldlistentonomoreofthisgibberish.

“Wewantnomorepoetry!”wecried.

“DaughtersofEngland!”shebegan,butherewepulledherdown,avaseofwatergettingspiltoverherinthescuffle.

“ThankGod!”sheexclaimed,shakingherselflikeadog.“NowI’llrollonthecarpetandseeifIcan’tbrushoffwhatremainsoftheUnionJack.Thenperhaps—”heresherolledenergetically.GettingupshebegantoexplaintouswhatmodernpicturesarelikewhenCastaliastoppedher.

“Whatistheaveragesizeofapicture?”sheasked.“Perhapstwofeetbytwoandahalf,”shesaid.CastaliamadenoteswhileHelenspoke,andwhenshehaddone,andweweretryingnottomeeteachother’seyes,roseandsaid,“AtyourwishIspentlastweekatOxbridge,disguisedasacharwoman.IthushadaccesstotheroomsofseveralProfessorsandwillnowattempttogiveyousomeidea—only,”shebrokeoff,“Ican’tthinkhowtodoit.It’sallsoqueer.TheseProfessors,”shewenton,“liveinlargehousesbuiltroundgrassplotseachinakindofcellbyhimself.Yettheyhaveeveryconvenienceandcomfort.Youhaveonlytopressabuttonorlightalittlelamp.Theirpapersarebeautifullyfiled.Booksabound.Therearenochildrenoranimals,savehalfadozenstraycatsandoneagedbullfinch—acock.Iremember,”shebrokeoff,“anAuntofminewholivedatDulwichandkeptcactuses.Youreachedtheconservatorythroughthedoubledrawing–room,andthere,onthehotpipes,weredozensofthem,ugly,squat,bristlylittleplantseachinaseparatepot.OnceinahundredyearstheAloeflowered,somyAuntsaid.Butshediedbeforethathappened—”Wetoldhertokeeptothepoint.“Well,”sheresumed,“whenProfessorHobkinwasout,Iexaminedhislifework,aneditionofSappho.It’sa

queerlookingbook,sixorseveninchesthick,notallbySappho.Oh,no.MostofitisadefenceofSappho’schastity,whichsomeGermanhaddenied,andIcanassureyouthepassionwithwhichthesetwogentlemenargued,thelearningtheydisplayed,theprodigiousingenuitywithwhichtheydisputedtheuseofsomeimplementwhichlookedtomeforalltheworldlikeahairpinastoundedme;especiallywhenthedooropenedandProfessorHobkinhimselfappeared.Averynice,mild,oldgentleman,butwhatcouldheknowaboutchastity?”Wemisunderstoodher.

“No,no,”sheprotested,“he’sthesoulofhonourI’msure—notthatheresemblesRose’sseacaptainintheleast.IwasthinkingratherofmyAunt’scactuses.Whatcouldtheyknowaboutchastity?”

Againwetoldhernottowanderfromthepoint,—didtheOxbridgeprofessorshelptoproducegoodpeopleandgoodbooks?—theobjectsoflife.

“There!”sheexclaimed.“Itneverstruckmetoask.Itneveroccurredtomethattheycouldpossiblyproduceanything.”

“Ibelieve,”saidSue,“thatyoumadesomemistake.ProbablyProfessorHobkinwasagynæcologist.Ascholarisaverydifferentsortofman.Ascholarisoverflowingwithhumourandinvention—perhapsaddictedtowine,butwhatofthat?—adelightfulcompanion,generous,subtle,imaginative—asstandstoreason.Forhespendshislifeincompanywiththefinesthumanbeingsthathaveeverexisted.”

“Hum,”saidCastalia.“PerhapsI’dbettergobackandtryagain.”

SomethreemonthslaterithappenedthatIwassittingalonewhenCastaliaentered.Idon’tknowwhatitwasinthelookofherthatsomovedme;butIcouldnotrestrainmyself,and,dashingacrosstheroom,Iclaspedherinmyarms.Notonlywassheverybeautiful;sheseemedalsointhehighestspirits.“Howhappyyoulook!”Iexclaimed,asshesatdown.

“I’vebeenatOxbridge,”shesaid.

“Askingquestions?”

“Answeringthem,”shereplied.

“Youhavenotbrokenourvow?”Isaidanxiously,noticingsomethingaboutherfigure.

“Oh,thevow,”shesaidcasually.“I’mgoingtohaveababy,ifthat’swhatyoumean.Youcan’timagine,”sheburstout,“howexciting,howbeautiful,howsatisfying—”

“Whatis?”Iasked.

“To—to—answerquestions,”sherepliedinsomeconfusion.Whereuponshetoldmethewholeofherstory.ButinthemiddleofanaccountwhichinterestedandexcitedmemorethananythingIhadeverheard,shegavethestrangestcry,halfwhoop,halfholloa—

“Chastity!Chastity!Where’smychastity!”shecried.“HelpHo!Thescentbottle!”

Therewasnothingintheroombutacruetcontainingmustard,whichIwasabouttoadministerwhensherecoveredhercomposure.

“Youshouldhavethoughtofthatthreemonthsago,”Isaidseverely.

“True,”shereplied.“There’snotmuchgoodinthinkingofitnow.Itwasunfortunate,by

theway,thatmymotherhadmecalledCastalia.”

“Oh,Castalia,yourmother—”Iwasbeginningwhenshereachedforthemustardpot.

“No,no,no,”shesaid,shakingherhead.“Ifyou’dbeenachastewomanyourselfyouwouldhavescreamedatthesightofme—insteadofwhichyourushedacrosstheroomandtookmeinyourarms.No,Cassandra.Weareneitherofuschaste.”Sowewentontalking.

Meanwhiletheroomwasfillingup,foritwasthedayappointedtodiscusstheresultsofourobservations.Everyone,Ithought,feltasIdidaboutCastalia.Theykissedherandsaidhowgladtheyweretoseeheragain.Atlength,whenwewereallassembled,Janeroseandsaidthatitwastimetobegin.Shebeganbysayingthatwehadnowaskedquestionsforoverfiveyears,andthatthoughtheresultswereboundtobeinconclusive—hereCastalianudgedmeandwhisperedthatshewasnotsosureaboutthat.Thenshegotup,and,interruptingJaneinthemiddleofasentence,said:

“Beforeyousayanymore,Iwanttoknow—amItostayintheroom?Because,”sheadded,“IhavetoconfessthatIamanimpurewoman.”

Everyonelookedatherinastonishment.

“Youaregoingtohaveababy?”askedJane.

Shenoddedherhead.

Itwasextraordinarytoseethedifferentexpressionsontheirfaces.Asortofhumwentthroughtheroom,inwhichIcouldcatchthewords“impure,”“baby,”“Castalia,”andsoon.Jane,whowasherselfconsiderablymoved,putittous:

“Shallshego?Issheimpure?”

Sucharoarfilledtheroomasmighthavebeenheardinthestreetoutside.

“No!No!No!Letherstay!Impure?Fiddlesticks!”YetIfanciedthatsomeoftheyoungest,girlsofnineteenortwenty,heldbackasifovercomewithshyness.Thenweallcameaboutherandbeganaskingquestions,andatlastIsawoneoftheyoungest,whohadkeptinthebackground,approachshylyandsaytoher:

“Whatischastitythen?Imeanisitgood,orisitbad,orisitnothingatall?”SherepliedsolowthatIcouldnotcatchwhatshesaid.

“YouknowIwasshocked,”saidanother,“foratleasttenminutes.”

“Inmyopinion,”saidPoll,whowasgrowingcrustyfromalwaysreadingintheLondonLibrary,“chastityisnothingbutignorance—amostdiscreditablestateofmind.Weshouldadmitonlytheunchastetooursociety.IvotethatCastaliashallbeourPresident.”

Thiswasviolentlydisputed.

“Itisasunfairtobrandwomenwithchastityaswithunchastity,”saidPoll.“Someofushaven’ttheopportunityeither.Moreover,Idon’tbelieveCassyherselfmaintainsthatsheactedasshedidfromapureloveofknowledge.”

“Heisonlytwenty–oneanddivinelybeautiful,”saidCassy,witharavishinggesture.

“Imove,”saidHelen,“thatnoonebeallowedtotalkofchastityorunchastitysavethosewhoareinlove.”

“Oh,bother,”saidJudith,whohadbeenenquiringintoscientificmatters,“I’mnotinloveandI’mlongingtoexplainmymeasuresfordispensingwithprostitutesandfertilizingvirginsbyActofParliament.”

ShewentontotellusofaninventionofherstobeerectedatTubestationsandotherpublicresorts,which,uponpaymentofasmallfee,wouldsafeguardthenation’shealth,accommodateitssons,andrelieveitsdaughters.ThenshehadcontrivedamethodofpreservinginsealedtubesthegermsoffutureLordChancellors“orpoetsorpaintersormusicians,”shewenton,“supposing,thatistosay,thatthesebreedsarenotextinct,andthatwomenstillwishtobearchildren―”

“Ofcoursewewishtobearchildren!”criedCastalia,impatiently.Janerappedthetable.

“Thatistheverypointwearemettoconsider,”shesaid.“Forfiveyearswehavebeentryingtofindoutwhetherwearejustifiedincontinuingthehumanrace.Castaliahasanticipatedourdecision.Butitremainsfortherestofustomakeupourminds.”

Hereoneafteranotherofourmessengersroseanddeliveredtheirreports.Themarvelsofcivilisationfarexceededourexpectations,and,aswelearntforthefirsttimehowmanfliesintheair,talksacrossspace,penetratestotheheartofanatom,andembracestheuniverseinhisspeculations,amurmurofadmirationburstfromourlips.

“Weareproud,”wecried,“thatourmotherssacrificedtheiryouthinsuchacauseasthis!”Castalia,whohadbeenlisteningintently,lookedprouderthanalltherest.ThenJaneremindedusthatwehadstillmuchtolearn,andCastaliabeggedustomakehaste.Onwewentthroughavasttangleofstatistics.WelearntthatEnglandhasapopulationofsomanymillions,andthatsuchandsuchaproportionofthemisconstantlyhungryandinprison;thattheaveragesizeofaworkingman’sfamilyissuch,andthatsogreatapercentageofwomendiefrommaladiesincidenttochildbirth.Reportswerereadofvisitstofactories,shops,slums,anddockyards.DescriptionsweregivenoftheStockExchange,ofagigantichouseofbusinessintheCity,andofaGovernmentOffice.TheBritishColonieswerenowdiscussed,andsomeaccountwasgivenofourruleinIndia,AfricaandIreland.IwassittingbyCastaliaandInoticedheruneasiness.

“Weshallnevercometoanyconclusionatallatthisrate,”shesaid.“Asitappearsthatcivilisationissomuchmorecomplexthanwehadanynotion,woulditnotbebettertoconfineourselvestoouroriginalenquiry?Weagreedthatitwastheobjectoflifetoproducegoodpeopleandgoodbooks.Allthistimewehavebeentalkingofaeroplanes,factories,andmoney.Letustalkaboutmenthemselvesandtheirarts,forthatistheheartofthematter.”

Sothedinersoutsteppedforwardwithlongslipsofpapercontaininganswerstotheirquestions.Thesehadbeenframedaftermuchconsideration.Agoodman,wehadagreed,mustatanyratebehonest,passionate,andunworldly.Butwhetherornotaparticularmanpossessedthosequalitiescouldonlybediscoveredbyaskingquestions,oftenbeginningataremotedistancefromthecentre.IsKensingtonaniceplacetolivein?Whereisyoursonbeingeducated—andyourdaughter?Nowpleasetellme,whatdoyoupayforyourcigars?Bytheway,isSirJosephabaronetoronlyaknight?Oftenitseemedthatwe

learntmorefromtrivialquestionsofthiskindthanfrommoredirectones.“Iacceptedmypeerage,”saidLordBunkum,“becausemywifewishedit.”Iforgethowmanytitleswereacceptedforthesamereason.“Workingfifteenhoursoutofthetwenty–four,asIdo―”tenthousandprofessionalmenbegan.

“No,no,ofcourseyoucanneitherreadnorwrite.Butwhydoyouworksohard?”“Mydearlady,withagrowingfamily―”“Butwhydoesyourfamilygrow?”Theirwiveswishedthattoo,orperhapsitwastheBritishEmpire.Butmoresignificantthantheanswersweretherefusalstoanswer.Veryfewwouldreplyatalltoquestionsaboutmoralityandreligion,andsuchanswersasweregivenwerenotserious.Questionsastothevalueofmoneyandpowerwerealmostinvariablybrushedaside,orpressedatextremerisktotheasker.“I’msure,”saidJill,“thatifSirHarleyTightbootshadn’tbeencarvingthemuttonwhenIaskedhimaboutthecapitalistsystemhewouldhavecutmythroat.Theonlyreasonwhyweescapedwithourlivesoverandoveragainisthatmenareatoncesohungryandsochivalrous.Theydespiseustoomuchtomindwhatwesay.”

“Ofcoursetheydespiseus,”saidEleanor.“Atthesametimehowdoyouaccountforthis—Imadeenquiriesamongtheartists.Now,nowomanhaseverbeenanartist,hasshe,Poll?”

“Jane–Austen–Charlotte–Brontë–George–Eliot,”criedPoll,likeamancryingmuffinsinabackstreet.

“Damnthewoman!”someoneexclaimed.“Whataboresheis!”

“SinceSapphotherehasbeennofemaleoffirstrate―”Eleanorbegan,quotingfromaweeklynewspaper.

“It’snowwellknownthatSapphowasthesomewhatlewdinventionofProfessorHobkin,”Ruthinterrupted.

“Anyhow,thereisnoreasontosupposethatanywomaneverhasbeenabletowriteoreverwillbeabletowrite,”Eleanorcontinued.“Andyet,wheneverIgoamongauthorstheyneverceasetotalktomeabouttheirbooks.Masterly!Isay,orShakespearehimself!(foronemustsaysomething)andIassureyou,theybelieveme.”

“Thatprovesnothing,”saidJane.“Theyalldoit.Only,”shesighed,“itdoesn’tseemtohelpusmuch.Perhapswehadbetterexaminemodernliteraturenext.Liz,it’syourturn.”

Elizabethroseandsaidthatinordertoprosecuteherenquiryshehaddressedasamanandbeentakenforareviewer.

“Ihavereadnewbooksprettysteadilyforthepastfiveyears,”saidshe.“Mr.Wellsisthemostpopularlivingwriter;thencomesMr.ArnoldBennett;thenMr.ComptonMackenzie;Mr.McKennaandMr.Walpolemaybebracketedtogether.”Shesatdown.

“Butyou’vetoldusnothing!”weexpostulated.“OrdoyoumeanthatthesegentlemenhavegreatlysurpassedJane–ElliotandthatEnglishfictionis―where’sthatreviewofyours?Oh,yes,‘safeintheirhands.’”

“Safe,quitesafe,”shesaid,shiftinguneasilyfromfoottofoot.“AndI’msurethattheygiveawayevenmorethantheyreceive.”

Wewereallsureofthat.“But,”wepressedher,“dotheywritegoodbooks?”

“Goodbooks?”shesaid,lookingattheceiling.“Youmustremember,”shebegan,speakingwithextremerapidity,“thatfictionisthemirroroflife.Andyoucan’tdenythateducationisofthehighestimportance,andthatitwouldbeextremelyannoying,ifyoufoundyourselfaloneatBrightonlateatnight,nottoknowwhichwasthebestboardinghousetostayat,andsupposeitwasadrippingSundayevening—wouldn’titbenicetogototheMovies?”

“Butwhathasthatgottodowithit?”weasked.

“Nothing—nothing—nothingwhatever,”shereplied.

“Well,tellusthetruth,”webadeher.

“Thetruth?Butisn’titwonderful,”shebrokeoff—“Mr.ChitterhaswrittenaweeklyarticleforthepastthirtyyearsuponloveorhotbutteredtoastandhassentallhissonstoEton―”

“Thetruth!”wedemanded.

“Oh,thetruth,”shestammered,“thetruthhasnothingtodowithliterature,”andsittingdownsherefusedtosayanotherword.

Itallseemedtousveryinconclusive.

“Ladies,wemusttrytosumuptheresults,”Janewasbeginning,whenahum,whichhadbeenheardforsometimethroughtheopenwindow,drownedhervoice.

“War!War!War!DeclarationofWar!”menwereshoutinginthestreetbelow.

Welookedateachotherinhorror.

“Whatwar?”wecried.“Whatwar?”Weremembered,toolate,thatwehadneverthoughtofsendinganyonetotheHouseofCommons.Wehadforgottenallaboutit.WeturnedtoPoll,whohadreachedthehistoryshelvesintheLondonLibrary,andaskedhertoenlightenus.

“Why,”wecried,“domengotowar?”

“Sometimesforonereason,sometimesforanother,”sherepliedcalmly.“In1760,forexample―”Theshoutsoutsidedrownedherwords.“Againin1797—in1804—ItwastheAustriansin1866—1870wastheFranco–Prussian—In1900ontheotherhand―”

“Butit’snow1914!”wecuthershort.

“Ah,Idon’tknowwhatthey’regoingtowarfornow,”sheadmitted.

*****

Thewarwasoverandpeacewasinprocessofbeingsigned,whenIoncemorefoundmyselfwithCastaliaintheroomwhereourmeetingsusedtobeheld.Webeganidlyturningoverthepagesofouroldminutebooks.“Queer,”Imused,“toseewhatwewerethinkingfiveyearsago.”“Weareagreed,”Castaliaquoted,readingovermyshoulder,“thatitistheobjectoflifetoproducegoodpeopleandgoodbooks.”Wemadenocommentuponthat.“Agoodmanisatanyratehonest,passionateandunworldly.”“What

awoman’slanguage!”Iobserved.“Oh,dear,”criedCastalia,pushingthebookawayfromher,“whatfoolswewere!ItwasallPoll’sfather’sfault,”shewenton.“Ibelievehediditonpurpose—thatridiculouswill,Imean,forcingPolltoreadallthebooksintheLondonLibrary.Ifwehadn’tlearnttoread,”shesaidbitterly,“wemightstillhavebeenbearingchildreninignoranceandthatIbelievewasthehappiestlifeafterall.Iknowwhatyou’regoingtosayaboutwar,”shecheckedme,“andthehorrorofbearingchildrentoseethemkilled,butourmothersdidit,andtheirmothers,andtheirmothersbeforethem.Andtheydidn’tcomplain.Theycouldn’tread.I’vedonemybest,”shesighed,“topreventmylittlegirlfromlearningtoread,butwhat’stheuse?IcaughtAnnonlyyesterdaywithanewspaperinherhandandshewasbeginningtoaskmeifitwas‘true.’Nextshe’llaskmewhetherMr.LloydGeorgeisagoodman,thenwhetherMr.ArnoldBennettisagoodnovelist,andfinallywhetherIbelieveinGod.HowcanIbringmydaughteruptobelieveinnothing?”shedemanded.

“Surelyyoucouldteachhertobelievethataman’sintellectis,andalwayswillbe,fundamentallysuperiortoawoman’s?”Isuggested.Shebrightenedatthisandbegantoturnoverouroldminutesagain.“Yes,”shesaid,“thinkoftheirdiscoveries,theirmathematics,theirscience,theirphilosophy,theirscholarship―”andthenshebegantolaugh,“IshallneverforgetoldHobkinandthehairpin,”shesaid,andwentonreadingandlaughingandIthoughtshewasquitehappy,whensuddenlyshedrewthebookfromherandburstout,“Oh,Cassandra,whydoyoutormentme?Don’tyouknowthatourbeliefinman’sintellectisthegreatestfallacyofthemall?”“What?”Iexclaimed.“Askanyjournalist,schoolmaster,politicianorpublichousekeeperinthelandandtheywillalltellyouthatmenaremuchclevererthanwomen.”“AsifIdoubtedit,”shesaidscornfully.“Howcouldtheyhelpit?Haven’twebredthemandfedandkeptthemincomfortsincethebeginningoftimesothattheymaybecleverevenifthey’renothingelse?It’sallourdoing!”shecried.“Weinsisteduponhavingintellectandnowwe’vegotit.Andit’sintellect,”shecontinued,“that’satthebottomofit.Whatcouldbemorecharmingthanaboybeforehehasbeguntocultivatehisintellect?Heisbeautifultolookat;hegiveshimselfnoairs;heunderstandsthemeaningofartandliteratureinstinctively;hegoesaboutenjoyinghislifeandmakingotherpeopleenjoytheirs.Thentheyteachhimtocultivatehisintellect.Hebecomesabarrister,acivilservant,ageneral,anauthor,aprofessor.Everydayhegoestoanoffice.Everyyearheproducesabook.Hemaintainsawholefamilybytheproductsofhisbrain—poordevil!Soonhecannotcomeintoaroomwithoutmakingusallfeeluncomfortable;hecondescendstoeverywomanhemeets,anddaresnottellthetrutheventohisownwife;insteadofrejoicingoureyeswehavetoshutthemifwearetotakehiminourarms.True,theyconsolethemselveswithstarsofallshapes,ribbonsofallshades,andincomesofallsizes—butwhatistoconsoleus?Thatweshallbeableintenyears’timetospendaweek–endatLahore?OrthattheleastinsectinJapanhasanametwicethelengthofitsbody?Oh,Cassandra,forHeaven’ssakeletusdeviseamethodbywhichmenmaybearchildren!Itisouronlychance.Forunlessweprovidethemwithsomeinnocentoccupationweshallgetneithergoodpeoplenorgoodbooks;weshallperishbeneaththefruitsoftheirunbridledactivity;andnotahumanbeingwillsurvivetoknowthatthereoncewasShakespeare!”

“Itistoolate,”Ireplied.“Wecannotprovideevenforthechildrenthatwehave.”

“Andthenyouaskmetobelieveinintellect,”shesaid.

Whilewespoke,menwerecryinghoarselyandwearilyinthestreet,and,listening,weheardthattheTreatyofPeacehadjustbeensigned.Thevoicesdiedaway.Therainwasfallingandinterferednodoubtwiththeproperexplosionofthefireworks.

“MycookwillhaveboughttheEveningNews,”saidCastalia,“andAnnwillbespellingitoutoverhertea.Imustgohome.”

“It’snogood—notabitofgood,”Isaid.“Oncesheknowshowtoreadthere’sonlyonethingyoucanteachhertobelievein—andthatisherself.”

“Well,thatwouldbeachange,”sighedCastalia.

SowesweptupthepapersofourSociety,and,thoughAnnwasplayingwithherdollveryhappily,wesolemnlymadeherapresentofthelotandtoldherwehadchosenhertobePresidentoftheSocietyofthefuture—uponwhichsheburstintotears,poorlittlegirl.

MONDAYORTUESDAYLazyandindifferent,shakingspaceeasilyfromhiswings,knowinghisway,theheronpassesoverthechurchbeneaththesky.Whiteanddistant,absorbedinitself,endlesslytheskycoversanduncovers,movesandremains.Alake?Blottheshoresofitout!Amountain?Oh,perfect—thesungoldonitsslopes.Downthatfalls.Fernsthen,orwhitefeathers,foreverandever―

Desiringtruth,awaitingit,laboriouslydistillingafewwords,foreverdesiring—(acrystartstotheleft,anothertotheright.Wheelsstrikedivergently.Omnibusesconglomerateinconflict)—foreverdesiring—(theclockasseverateswithtwelvedistinctstrokesthatitismidday;lightshedsgoldscales;childrenswarm)—foreverdesiringtruth.Redisthedome;coinshangonthetrees;smoketrailsfromthechimneys;bark,shout,cry“Ironforsale”—andtruth?

Radiatingtoapointmen’sfeetandwomen’sfeet,blackorgold–encrusted—(Thisfoggyweather—Sugar?No,thankyou—Thecommonwealthofthefuture)—thefirelightdartingandmakingtheroomred,savefortheblackfiguresandtheirbrighteyes,whileoutsideavandischarges,MissThingummydrinksteaatherdesk,andplate–glasspreservesfurcoats―

Flaunted,leaf–light,driftingatcorners,blownacrossthewheels,silver–splashed,homeornothome,gathered,scattered,squanderedinseparatescales,sweptup,down,torn,sunk,assembled—andtruth?

Nowtorecollectbythefiresideonthewhitesquareofmarble.Fromivorydepthswordsrisingshedtheirblackness,blossomandpenetrate.Fallenthebook;intheflame,inthesmoke,inthemomentarysparks—ornowvoyaging,themarblesquarependant,minaretsbeneathandtheIndianseas,whilespacerushesblueandstarsglint—truth?ornow,contentwithcloseness?

Lazyandindifferenttheheronreturns;theskyveilsherstars;thenbaresthem.

ANUNWRITTENNOVELSuchanexpressionofunhappinesswasenoughbyitselftomakeone’seyesslideabovethepaper’sedgetothepoorwoman’sface—insignificantwithoutthatlook,almostasymbolofhumandestinywithit.Life’swhatyouseeinpeople’seyes;life’swhattheylearn,and,havinglearntit,never,thoughtheyseektohideit,ceasetobeawareof—what?Thatlife’slikethat,itseems.Fivefacesopposite—fivematurefaces—andtheknowledgeineachface.Strange,though,howpeoplewanttoconcealit!Marksofreticenceareonallthosefaces:lipsshut,eyesshaded,eachoneofthefivedoingsomethingtohideorstultifyhisknowledge.Onesmokes;anotherreads;athirdchecksentriesinapocketbook;afourthstaresatthemapofthelineframedopposite;andthefifth—theterriblethingaboutthefifthisthatshedoesnothingatall.Shelooksatlife.Ah,butmypoor,unfortunatewoman,doplaythegame—do,foralloursakes,concealit!

Asifsheheardme,shelookedup,shiftedslightlyinherseatandsighed.Sheseemedtoapologiseandatthesametimetosaytome,“Ifonlyyouknew!”Thenshelookedatlifeagain.“ButIdoknow,”Iansweredsilently,glancingattheTimesformanners’sake.“Iknowthewholebusiness.‘PeacebetweenGermanyandtheAlliedPowerswasyesterdayofficiallyusheredinatParis—SignorNitti,theItalianPrimeMinister—apassengertrainatDoncasterwasincollisionwithagoodstrain….’Weallknow—theTimesknows—butwepretendwedon’t.”Myeyeshadoncemorecreptoverthepaper’srim.Sheshuddered,twitchedherarmqueerlytothemiddleofherbackandshookherhead.AgainIdippedintomygreatreservoiroflife.“Takewhatyoulike,”Icontinued,“births,deaths,marriages,CourtCircular,thehabitsofbirds,LeonardodaVinci,theSandhillsmurder,highwagesandthecostofliving—oh,takewhatyoulike,”Irepeated,“it’sallintheTimes!”Againwithinfinitewearinessshemovedherheadfromsidetosideuntil,likeatopexhaustedwithspinning,itsettledonherneck.

TheTimeswasnoprotectionagainstsuchsorrowashers.Butotherhumanbeingsforbadeintercourse.Thebestthingtodoagainstlifewastofoldthepapersothatitmadeaperfectsquare,crisp,thick,imperviouseventolife.Thisdone,Iglancedupquickly,armedwithashieldofmyown.Shepiercedthroughmyshield;shegazedintomyeyesasifsearchinganysedimentofcourageatthedepthsofthemanddampingittoclay.Hertwitchalonedeniedallhope,discountedallillusion.

SowerattledthroughSurreyandacrosstheborderintoSussex.ButwithmyeyesuponlifeIdidnotseethattheothertravellershadleft,onebyone,till,saveforthemanwhoread,wewerealonetogether.HerewasThreeBridgesstation.Wedrewslowlydowntheplatformandstopped.Washegoingtoleaveus?Iprayedbothways—Iprayedlastthathemightstay.Atthatinstantherousedhimself,crumpledhispapercontemptuously,likeathingdonewith,burstopenthedoor,andleftusalone.

Theunhappywoman,leaningalittleforward,palelyandcolourlesslyaddressedme—talkedofstationsandholidays,ofbrothersatEastbourne,andthetimeofyear,whichwas,Iforgetnow,earlyorlate.Butatlastlookingfromthewindowandseeing,Iknew,onlylife,shebreathed,“Stayingaway—that’sthedrawbackofit―”Ah,nowweapproached

thecatastrophe,“Mysister–in–law”—thebitternessofhertonewaslikelemononcoldsteel,andspeaking,nottome,buttoherself,shemuttered,“nonsense,shewouldsay—that’swhattheyallsay,”andwhileshespokeshefidgetedasthoughtheskinonherbackwereasapluckedfowl’sinapoulterer’sshop–window.

“Oh,thatcow!”shebrokeoffnervously,asthoughthegreatwoodencowinthemeadowhadshockedherandsavedherfromsomeindiscretion.Thensheshuddered,andthenshemadetheawkwardangularmovementthatIhadseenbefore,asif,afterthespasm,somespotbetweentheshouldersburntoritched.Thenagainshelookedthemostunhappywomanintheworld,andIoncemorereproachedher,thoughnotwiththesameconviction,foriftherewereareason,andifIknewthereason,thestigmawasremovedfromlife.

“Sisters–in–law,”Isaid—

Herlipspursedasiftospitvenomattheword;pursedtheyremained.Allshedidwastotakehergloveandrubhardataspotonthewindow–pane.Sherubbedasifshewouldrubsomethingoutforever—somestain,someindeliblecontamination.Indeed,thespotremainedforallherrubbing,andbackshesankwiththeshudderandtheclutchofthearmIhadcometoexpect.Somethingimpelledmetotakemygloveandrubmywindow.There,too,wasalittlespeckontheglass.Forallmyrubbingitremained.Andthenthespasmwentthroughme;Icrookedmyarmandpluckedatthemiddleofmyback.Myskin,too,feltlikethedampchicken’sskininthepoulterer’sshop–window;onespotbetweentheshouldersitchedandirritated,feltclammy,feltraw.CouldIreachit?SurreptitiouslyItried.Shesawme.Asmileofinfiniteirony,infinitesorrow,flittedandfadedfromherface.Butshehadcommunicated,sharedhersecret,passedherpoison;shewouldspeaknomore.Leaningbackinmycorner,shieldingmyeyesfromhereyes,seeingonlytheslopesandhollows,greysandpurples,ofthewinter’slandscape,Ireadhermessage,decipheredhersecret,readingitbeneathhergaze.

Hilda’sthesister–in–law.Hilda?Hilda?HildaMarsh—Hildatheblooming,thefullbosomed,thematronly.Hildastandsatthedoorasthecabdrawsup,holdingacoin.“PoorMinnie,moreofagrasshopperthanever—oldcloakshehadlastyear.Well,well,withtwochildrenthesedaysonecan’tdomore.No,Minnie,I’vegotit;hereyouare,cabby—noneofyourwayswithme.Comein,Minnie.Oh,Icouldcarryyou,letaloneyourbasket!”Sotheygointothedining–room.“AuntMinnie,children.”

Slowlytheknivesandforkssinkfromtheupright.Downtheyget(BobandBarbara),holdouthandsstiffly;backagaintotheirchairs,staringbetweentheresumedmouthfuls.[Butthiswe’llskip;ornaments,curtains,trefoilchinaplate,yellowoblongsofcheese,whitesquaresofbiscuit—skip—oh,butwait!Halfwaythroughluncheononeofthoseshivers;Bobstaresather,spooninmouth.“Getonwithyourpudding,Bob;”butHildadisapproves.“Whyshouldshetwitch?”Skip,skip,tillwereachthelandingontheupperfloor;stairsbrass–bound;linoleumworn;oh,yes!littlebedroomlookingoutovertheroofsofEastbourne—zigzaggingroofslikethespinesofcaterpillars,thisway,thatway,stripedredandyellow,withblue–blackslating].Now,Minnie,thedoor’sshut;Hildaheavilydescendstothebasement;youunstrapthestrapsofyourbasket,layonthebedameagrenightgown,standsidebysidefurredfeltslippers.Thelooking–glass—no,youavoidthelooking–glass.Somemethodicaldispositionofhat–pins.Perhapstheshellbox

hassomethinginit?Youshakeit;it’sthepearlstudtherewaslastyear—that’sall.Andthenthesniff,thesigh,thesittingbythewindow.Threeo’clockonaDecemberafternoon;theraindrizzling;onelightlowintheskylightofadraperyemporium;anotherhighinaservant’sbedroom—thisonegoesout.Thatgiveshernothingtolookat.Amoment’sblankness—then,whatareyouthinking?(Letmepeepacrossatheropposite;she’sasleeporpretendingit;sowhatwouldshethinkaboutsittingatthewindowatthreeo’clockintheafternoon?Health,money,hills,herGod?)Yes,sittingontheveryedgeofthechairlookingovertheroofsofEastbourne,MinnieMarshpraystoGod.That’sallverywell;andshemayrubthepanetoo,asthoughtoseeGodbetter;butwhatGoddoesshesee?Who’stheGodofMinnieMarsh,theGodofthebackstreetsofEastbourne,theGodofthreeo’clockintheafternoon?I,too,seeroofs,Iseesky;but,oh,dear—thisseeingofGods!MorelikePresidentKrugerthanPrinceAlbert—that’sthebestIcandoforhim;andIseehimonachair,inablackfrock–coat,notsoveryhighupeither;Icanmanageacloudortwoforhimtositon;andthenhishandtrailinginthecloudholdsarod,atruncheonisit?—black,thick,thorned—abrutaloldbully—Minnie’sGod!Didhesendtheitchandthepatchandthetwitch?Isthatwhysheprays?Whatsherubsonthewindowisthestainofsin.Oh,shecommittedsomecrime!

Ihavemychoiceofcrimes.Thewoodsflitandfly—insummertherearebluebells;intheopeningthere,whenSpringcomes,primroses.Aparting,wasit,twentyyearsago?Vowsbroken?NotMinnie’s!…Shewasfaithful.Howshenursedhermother!Allhersavingsonthetombstone—wreathsunderglass—daffodilsinjars.ButI’moffthetrack.Acrime….Theywouldsayshekepthersorrow,suppressedhersecret—hersex,they’dsay—thescientificpeople.Butwhatflummerytosaddleherwithsex!No—morelikethis.PassingdownthestreetsofCroydontwentyyearsago,thevioletloopsofribboninthedraper’swindowspangledintheelectriclightcatchhereye.Shelingers—pastsix.Stillbyrunningshecanreachhome.Shepushesthroughtheglassswingdoor.It’ssale–time.Shallowtraysbrimwithribbons.Shepauses,pullsthis,fingersthatwiththeraisedrosesonit—noneedtochoose,noneedtobuy,andeachtraywithitssurprises.“Wedon’tshuttillseven,”andthenitisseven.Sheruns,sherushes,homeshereaches,buttoolate.Neighbours—thedoctor—babybrother—thekettle—scalded—hospital—dead—oronlytheshockofit,theblame?Ah,butthedetailmattersnothing!It’swhatshecarrieswithher;thespot,thecrime,thethingtoexpiate,alwaystherebetweenhershoulders.“Yes,”sheseemstonodtome,“it’sthethingIdid.”

Whetheryoudid,orwhatyoudid,Idon’tmind;it’snotthethingIwant.Thedraper’swindowloopedwithviolet—that’lldo;alittlecheapperhaps,alittlecommonplace—sinceonehasachoiceofcrimes,butthensomany(letmepeepacrossagain—stillsleeping,orpretendingsleep!white,worn,themouthclosed—atouchofobstinacy,morethanonewouldthink—nohintofsex)—somanycrimesaren’tyourcrime;yourcrimewascheap;onlytheretributionsolemn;fornowthechurchdooropens,thehardwoodenpewreceivesher;onthebrowntilesshekneels;everyday,winter,summer,dusk,dawn(hereshe’satit)prays.Allhersinsfall,fall,foreverfall.Thespotreceivesthem.It’sraised,it’sred,it’sburning.Nextshetwitches.Smallboyspoint.“Bobatlunchto–day”—Butelderlywomenaretheworst.

Indeednowyoucan’tsitprayinganylonger.Kruger’ssunkbeneaththeclouds—washedoveraswithapainter’sbrushofliquidgrey,towhichheaddsatingeofblack—eventhe

tipofthetruncheongonenow.That’swhatalwayshappens!Justasyou’veseenhim,felthim,someoneinterrupts.It’sHildanow.

Howyouhateher!She’llevenlockthebathroomdoorovernight,too,thoughit’sonlycoldwateryouwant,andsometimeswhenthenight’sbeenbaditseemsasifwashinghelped.AndJohnatbreakfast—thechildren—mealsareworst,andsometimestherearefriends—fernsdon’taltogetherhide‘em—theyguess,too;sooutyougoalongthefront,wherethewavesaregrey,andthepapersblow,andtheglasssheltersgreenanddraughty,andthechairscosttuppence—toomuch—fortheremustbepreachersalongthesands.Ah,that’sanigger—that’safunnyman—that’samanwithparakeets—poorlittlecreatures!IstherenooneherewhothinksofGod?—justupthere,overthepier,withhisrod—butno—there’snothingbutgreyintheskyorifit’sbluethewhitecloudshidehim,andthemusic—it’smilitarymusic—andwhattheyarefishingfor?Dotheycatchthem?Howthechildrenstare!Well,thenhomeabackway—“Homeabackway!”Thewordshavemeaning;mighthavebeenspokenbytheoldmanwithwhiskers—no,no,hedidn’treallyspeak;buteverythinghasmeaning—placardsleaningagainstdoorways—namesaboveshop–windows—redfruitinbaskets—women’sheadsinthehairdresser’s—allsay“MinnieMarsh!”Buthere’sajerk.“Eggsarecheaper!”That’swhatalwayshappens!Iwasheadingheroverthewaterfall,straightformadness,when,likeaflockofdreamsheep,sheturnst’otherwayandrunsbetweenmyfingers.Eggsarecheaper.Tetheredtotheshoresoftheworld,noneofthecrimes,sorrows,rhapsodies,orinsanitiesforpoorMinnieMarsh;neverlateforluncheon;nevercaughtinastormwithoutamackintosh;neverutterlyunconsciousofthecheapnessofeggs.Soshereacheshome—scrapesherboots.

HaveIreadyouright?Butthehumanface—thehumanfaceatthetopofthefullestsheetofprintholdsmore,withholdsmore.Now,eyesopen,shelooksout;andinthehumaneye—howd’youdefineit?—there’sabreak—adivision—sothatwhenyou’vegraspedthestemthebutterfly’soff—themoththathangsintheeveningovertheyellowflower—move,raiseyourhand,off,high,away.Iwon’traisemyhand.Hangstill,then,quiver,life,soul,spirit,whateveryouareofMinnieMarsh—I,too,onmyflower—thehawkoverthedown—alone,orwhatweretheworthoflife?Torise;hangstillintheevening,inthemidday;hangstilloverthedown.Theflickerofahand—off,up!thenpoisedagain.Alone,unseen;seeingallsostilldownthere,allsolovely.Noneseeing,nonecaring.Theeyesofothersourprisons;theirthoughtsourcages.Airabove,airbelow.Andthemoonandimmortality….Oh,butIdroptotheturf!Areyoudowntoo,youinthecorner,what’syourname—woman—MinnieMarsh;somesuchnameasthat?Theresheis,tighttoherblossom;openingherhand–bag,fromwhichshetakesahollowshell—anegg—whowassayingthateggswerecheaper?YouorI?Oh,itwasyouwhosaiditonthewayhome,youremember,whentheoldgentleman,suddenlyopeninghisumbrella—orsneezingwasit?Anyhow,Krugerwent,andyoucame“homeabackway,”andscrapedyourboots.Yes.Andnowyoulayacrossyourkneesapocket–handkerchiefintowhichdroplittleangularfragmentsofeggshell—fragmentsofamap—apuzzle.IwishIcouldpiecethemtogether!Ifyouwouldonlysitstill.She’smovedherknees—themap’sinbitsagain.DowntheslopesoftheAndesthewhiteblocksofmarblegoboundingandhurtling,crushingtodeathawholetroopofSpanishmuleteers,withtheirconvoy—Drake’sbooty,goldandsilver.Buttoreturn―

Towhat,towhere?Sheopenedthedoor,and,puttingherumbrellainthestand—thatgoeswithoutsaying;so,too,thewhiffofbeeffromthebasement;dot,dot,dot.ButwhatIcannotthuseliminate,whatImust,headdown,eyesshut,withthecourageofabattalionandtheblindnessofabull,chargeanddisperseare,indubitably,thefiguresbehindtheferns,commercialtravellers.ThereI’vehiddenthemallthistimeinthehopethatsomehowthey’ddisappear,orbetterstillemerge,asindeedtheymust,ifthestory’stogoongatheringrichnessandrotundity,destinyandtragedy,asstoriesshould,rollingalongwithittwo,ifnotthree,commercialtravellersandawholegroveofaspidistra.“Thefrondsoftheaspidistraonlypartlyconcealedthecommercialtraveller—”Rhododendronswouldconcealhimutterly,andintothebargaingivememyflingofredandwhite,forwhichIstarveandstrive;butrhododendronsinEastbourne—inDecember—ontheMarshes’table—no,no,Idarenot;it’sallamatterofcrustsandcruets,frillsandferns.Perhapsthere’llbeamomentlaterbythesea.Moreover,Ifeel,pleasantlyprickingthroughthegreenfretworkandovertheglacisofcutglass,adesiretopeerandpeepatthemanopposite—one’sasmuchasIcanmanage.JamesMoggridgeisit,whomtheMarshescallJimmy?[Minnie,youmustpromisenottotwitchtillI’vegotthisstraight].JamesMoggridgetravelsin—shallwesaybuttons?—butthetime’snotcomeforbringingthemin—thebigandthelittleonthelongcards,somepeacock–eyed,othersdullgold;cairngormssome,andotherscoralsprays—butIsaythetime’snotcome.Hetravels,andonThursdays,hisEastbourneday,takeshismealswiththeMarshes.Hisredface,hislittlesteadyeyes—bynomeansaltogethercommonplace—hisenormousappetite(that’ssafe;hewon’tlookatMinnietillthebread’sswampedthegravydry),napkintuckeddiamond–wise—butthisisprimitive,and,whateveritmaydothereader,don’ttakemein.Let’sdodgetotheMoggridgehousehold,setthatinmotion.Well,thefamilybootsaremendedonSundaysbyJameshimself.HereadsTruth.Buthispassion?Roses—andhiswifearetiredhospitalnurse—interesting—forGod’ssakeletmehaveonewomanwithanameIlike!Butno;she’softheunbornchildrenofthemind,illicit,nonethelessloved,likemyrhododendrons.Howmanydieineverynovelthat’swritten—thebest,thedearest,whileMoggridgelives.It’slife’sfault.Here’sMinnieeatinghereggatthemomentoppositeandatt’otherendoftheline—arewepastLewes?—theremustbeJimmy—orwhat’shertwitchfor?

TheremustbeMoggridge—life’sfault.Lifeimposesherlaws;lifeblockstheway;life’sbehindthefern;life’sthetyrant;oh,butnotthebully!No,forIassureyouIcomewillingly;IcomewooedbyHeavenknowswhatcompulsionacrossfernsandcruets,tablesplashedandbottlessmeared.Icomeirresistiblytolodgemyselfsomewhereonthefirmflesh,intherobustspine,whereverIcanpenetrateorfindfootholdontheperson,inthesoul,ofMoggridgetheman.Theenormousstabilityofthefabric;thespinetoughaswhalebone,straightasoak–tree;theribsradiatingbranches;thefleshtauttarpaulin;theredhollows;thesuckandregurgitationoftheheart;whilefromabovemeatfallsinbrowncubesandbeergushestobechurnedtobloodagain—andsowereachtheeyes.Behindtheaspidistratheyseesomething:black,white,dismal;nowtheplateagain;behindtheaspidistratheyseeelderlywoman;“Marsh’ssister,Hilda’smoremysort;”thetableclothnow.“Marshwouldknowwhat’swrongwithMorrises…”talkthatover;cheesehascome;theplateagain;turnitround—theenormousfingers;nowthewomanopposite.“Marsh’ssister—notabitlikeMarsh;wretched,elderlyfemale….Youshouldfeedyourhens….God’struth,what’ssethertwitching?NotwhatIsaid?Dear,dear,dear!these

elderlywomen.Dear,dear!”

[Yes,Minnie;Iknowyou’vetwitched,butonemoment—JamesMoggridge].

“Dear,dear,dear!”Howbeautifulthesoundis!liketheknockofamalletonseasonedtimber,likethethroboftheheartofanancientwhalerwhentheseaspressthickandthegreenisclouded.“Dear,dear!”whatapassingbellforthesoulsofthefretfultosoothethemandsolacethem,laptheminlinen,saying,“Solong.Goodlucktoyou!”andthen,“What’syourpleasure?”forthoughMoggridgewouldpluckhisroseforher,that’sdone,that’sover.Nowwhat’sthenextthing?“Madam,you’llmissyourtrain,”fortheydon’tlinger.

That’stheman’sway;that’sthesoundthatreverberates;that’sSt.Paul’sandthemotor–omnibuses.Butwe’rebrushingthecrumbsoff.Oh,Moggridge,youwon’tstay?Youmustbeoff?AreyoudrivingthroughEastbournethisafternooninoneofthoselittlecarriages?Areyouthemanwho’swalledupingreencardboardboxes,andsometimeshastheblindsdown,andsometimessitssosolemnstaringlikeasphinx,andalwaysthere’salookofthesepulchral,somethingoftheundertaker,thecoffin,andtheduskabouthorseanddriver?Dotellme—butthedoorsslammed.Weshallnevermeetagain.Moggridge,farewell!

Yes,yes,I’mcoming.Rightuptothetopofthehouse.OnemomentI’lllinger.Howthemudgoesroundinthemind—whataswirlthesemonstersleave,thewatersrocking,theweedswavingandgreenhere,blackthere,strikingtothesand,tillbydegreestheatomsreassemble,thedepositsiftsitself,andagainthroughtheeyesoneseesclearandstill,andtherecomestothelipssomeprayerforthedeparted,someobsequyforthesoulsofthoseonenodsto,thepeopleonenevermeetsagain.

JamesMoggridgeisdeadnow,goneforever.Well,Minnie—“Icanfaceitnolonger.”Ifshesaidthat—(Letmelookather.Sheisbrushingtheeggshellintodeepdeclivities).Shesaiditcertainly,leaningagainstthewallofthebedroom,andpluckingatthelittleballswhichedgetheclaret–colouredcurtain.Butwhentheselfspeakstotheself,whoisspeaking?—theentombedsoul,thespiritdrivenin,in,intothecentralcatacomb;theselfthattooktheveilandlefttheworld—acowardperhaps,yetsomehowbeautiful,asitflitswithitslanternrestlesslyupanddownthedarkcorridors.“Icanbearitnolonger,”herspiritsays.“Thatmanatlunch—Hilda—thechildren.”Oh,heavens,hersob!It’sthespiritwailingitsdestiny,thespiritdrivenhither,thither,lodgingonthediminishingcarpets—meagrefootholds—shrunkenshredsofallthevanishinguniverse—love,life,faith,husband,children,Iknownotwhatsplendoursandpageantriesglimpsedingirlhood.“Notforme—notforme.”

Butthen—themuffins,thebaldelderlydog?BeadmatsIshouldfancyandtheconsolationofunderlinen.IfMinnieMarshwererunoverandtakentohospital,nursesanddoctorsthemselveswouldexclaim….There’sthevistaandthevision—there’sthedistance—theblueblotattheendoftheavenue,while,afterall,theteaisrich,themuffinhot,andthedog—“Benny,toyourbasket,sir,andseewhatmother’sbroughtyou!”So,takingtheglovewiththewornthumb,defyingoncemoretheencroachingdemonofwhat’scalledgoinginholes,yourenewthefortifications,threadingthegreywool,runningitinandout.

Runningitinandout,acrossandover,spinningawebthroughwhichGodhimself—hush,don’tthinkofGod!Howfirmthestitchesare!Youmustbeproudofyourdarning.Let

nothingdisturbher.Letthelightfallgently,andthecloudsshowaninnervestofthefirstgreenleaf.Letthesparrowperchonthetwigandshaketheraindrophangingtothetwig’selbow….Whylookup?Wasitasound,athought?Oh,heavens!Backagaintothethingyoudid,theplateglasswiththevioletloops?ButHildawillcome.Ignominies,humiliations,oh!Closethebreach.

Havingmendedherglove,MinnieMarshlaysitinthedrawer.Sheshutsthedrawerwithdecision.Icatchsightofherfaceintheglass.Lipsarepursed.Chinheldhigh.Nextshelaceshershoes.Thenshetouchesherthroat.What’syourbrooch?Mistletoeormerry–thought?Andwhatishappening?UnlessI’mmuchmistaken,thepulse’squickened,themoment’scoming,thethreadsareracing,Niagara’sahead.Here’sthecrisis!Heavenbewithyou!Downshegoes.Courage,courage!Faceit,beit!ForGod’ssakedon’twaitonthematnow!There’sthedoor!I’monyourside.Speak!Confronther,confoundhersoul!

“Oh,Ibegyourpardon!Yes,thisisEastbourne.I’llreachitdownforyou.Letmetrythehandle.”[But,Minnie,thoughwekeepuppretences,I’vereadyouright—I’mwithyounow].

“That’sallyourluggage?”

“Muchobliged,I’msure.”

(Butwhydoyoulookaboutyou?Hildawon’tcometothestation,norJohn;andMoggridgeisdrivingatthefarsideofEastbourne).

“I’llwaitbymybag,ma’am,that’ssafest.Hesaidhe’dmeetme….Oh,thereheis!That’smyson.”

Sotheywalkofftogether.

Well,butI’mconfounded….Surely,Minnie,youknowbetter!Astrangeyoungman….Stop!I’lltellhim—Minnie!—MissMarsh!—Idon’tknowthough.There’ssomethingqueerinhercloakasitblows.Oh,butit’suntrue,it’sindecent….Lookhowhebendsastheyreachthegateway.Shefindsherticket.What’sthejoke?Offtheygo,downtheroad,sidebyside….Well,myworld’sdonefor!WhatdoIstandon?WhatdoIknow?That’snotMinnie.ThereneverwasMoggridge.WhoamI?Life’sbareasbone.

Andyetthelastlookofthem—hesteppingfromthekerbandshefollowinghimroundtheedgeofthebigbuildingbrimsmewithwonder—floodsmeanew.Mysteriousfigures!Motherandson.Whoareyou?Whydoyouwalkdownthestreet?Whereto–nightwillyousleep,andthen,to–morrow?Oh,howitwhirlsandsurges—floatsmeafresh!Istartafterthem.Peopledrivethiswayandthat.Thewhitelightspluttersandpours.Plate–glasswindows.Carnations;chrysanthemums.Ivyindarkgardens.Milkcartsatthedoor.WhereverIgo,mysteriousfigures,Iseeyou,turningthecorner,mothersandsons;you,you,you.Ihasten,Ifollow.This,Ifancy,mustbethesea.Greyisthelandscape;dimasashes;thewatermurmursandmoves.IfIfallonmyknees,ifIgothroughtheritual,theancientantics,it’syou,unknownfigures,youIadore;ifIopenmyarms,it’syouIembrace,youIdrawtome—adorableworld!

THESTRINGQUARTETWell,hereweare,andifyoucastyoureyeovertheroomyouwillseethatTubesandtramsandomnibuses,privatecarriagesnotafew,even,Iventuretobelieve,landauswithbaysinthem,havebeenbusyatit,weavingthreadsfromoneendofLondontotheother.YetIbegintohavemydoubts—

Ifindeedit’strue,asthey’resaying,thatRegentStreetisup,andtheTreatysigned,andtheweathernotcoldforthetimeofyear,andevenatthatrentnotaflattobehad,andtheworstofinfluenzaitsaftereffects;ifIbethinkmeofhavingforgottentowriteabouttheleakinthelarder,andleftmygloveinthetrain;ifthetiesofbloodrequireme,leaningforward,toacceptcordiallythehandwhichisperhapsofferedhesitatingly—

“Sevenyearssincewemet!”

“ThelasttimeinVenice.”

“Andwhereareyoulivingnow?”

“Well,thelateafternoonsuitsmethebest,though,ifitweren’taskingtoomuch―”

“ButIknewyouatonce!”

“Still,thewarmadeabreak―”

Ifthemind’sshotthroughbysuchlittlearrows,and—forhumansocietycompelsit—nosoonerisonelaunchedthananotherpressesforward;ifthisengendersheatandinadditionthey’veturnedontheelectriclight;ifsayingonethingdoes,insomanycases,leavebehinditaneedtoimproveandrevise,stirringbesidesregrets,pleasures,vanities,anddesires—ifit’sallthefactsImean,andthehats,thefurboas,thegentlemen’sswallow–tailcoats,andpearltie–pinsthatcometothesurface—whatchanceisthere?

Ofwhat?Itbecomeseveryminutemoredifficulttosaywhy,inspiteofeverything,IsitherebelievingIcan’tnowsaywhat,orevenrememberthelasttimeithappened.

“Didyouseetheprocession?”

“TheKinglookedcold.”

“No,no,no.Butwhatwasit?”

“She’sboughtahouseatMalmesbury.”

“Howluckytofindone!”

Onthecontrary,itseemstomeprettysurethatshe,whoevershemaybe,isdamned,sinceit’sallamatterofflatsandhatsandseagulls,orsoitseemstobeforahundredpeoplesittingherewelldressed,walledin,furred,replete.NotthatIcanboast,sinceItoositpassiveonagiltchair,onlyturningtheearthaboveaburiedmemory,aswealldo,fortherearesigns,ifI’mnotmistaken,thatwe’reallrecallingsomething,furtivelyseekingsomething.Whyfidget?Whysoanxiousaboutthesitofcloaks;andgloves—whethertobuttonorunbutton?Thenwatchthatelderlyfaceagainstthedarkcanvas,amomentago

urbaneandflushed;nowtaciturnandsad,asifinshadow.Wasitthesoundofthesecondviolintuningintheante–room?Heretheycome;fourblackfigures,carryinginstruments,andseatthemselvesfacingthewhitesquaresunderthedownpouroflight;restthetipsoftheirbowsonthemusicstand;withasimultaneousmovementliftthem;lightlypoisethem,and,lookingacrossattheplayeropposite,thefirstviolincountsone,two,three―

Flourish,spring,burgeon,burst!Thepeartreeonthetopofthemountain.Fountainsjet;dropsdescend.ButthewatersoftheRhoneflowswiftanddeep,raceunderthearches,andsweepthetrailingwaterleaves,washingshadowsoverthesilverfish,thespottedfishrusheddownbytheswiftwaters,nowsweptintoaneddywhere—it’sdifficultthis—conglomerationoffishallinapool;leaping,splashing,scrapingsharpfins;andsuchaboilofcurrentthattheyellowpebblesarechurnedroundandround,roundandround—freenow,rushingdownwards,orevensomehowascendinginexquisitespiralsintotheair;curledlikethinshavingsfromunderaplane;upandup….Howlovelygoodnessisinthosewho,steppinglightly,gosmilingthroughtheworld!Alsoinjollyoldfishwives,squattedunderarches,obsceneoldwomen,howdeeplytheylaughandshakeandrollick,whentheywalk,fromsidetoside,hum,hah!

“That’sanearlyMozart,ofcourse―”

“Butthetune,likeallhistunes,makesonedespair—Imeanhope.WhatdoImean?That’stheworstofmusic!Iwanttodance,laugh,eatpinkcakes,yellowcakes,drinkthin,sharpwine.Oranindecentstory,now—Icouldrelishthat.Theolderonegrowsthemoreonelikesindecency.Hah,hah!I’mlaughing.Whatat?Yousaidnothing,nordidtheoldgentlemanopposite….Butsuppose—suppose—Hush!”

Themelancholyriverbearsuson.Whenthemooncomesthroughthetrailingwillowboughs,Iseeyourface,Ihearyourvoiceandthebirdsingingaswepasstheosierbed.Whatareyouwhispering?Sorrow,sorrow.Joy,joy.Woventogether,likereedsinmoonlight.Woventogether,inextricablycommingled,boundinpainandstrewninsorrow—crash!

Theboatsinks.Rising,thefiguresascend,butnowleafthin,taperingtoaduskywraith,which,fierytipped,drawsitstwofoldpassionfrommyheart.Formeitsings,unsealsmysorrow,thawscompassion,floodswithlovethesunlessworld,nor,ceasing,abatesitstendernessbutdeftly,subtly,weavesinandoutuntilinthispattern,thisconsummation,thecleftonesunify;soar,sob,sinktorest,sorrowandjoy.

Whythengrieve?Askwhat?Remainunsatisfied?Isayall’sbeensettled;yes;laidtorestunderacoverletofroseleaves,falling.Falling.Ah,buttheycease.Oneroseleaf,fallingfromanenormousheight,likealittleparachutedroppedfromaninvisibleballoon,turns,flutterswaveringly.Itwon’treachus.

“No,no.Inoticednothing.That’stheworstofmusic—thesesillydreams.Thesecondviolinwaslate,yousay?”

“There’soldMrs.Munro,feelingherwayout—blindereachyear,poorwoman—onthisslipperyfloor.”

Eyelessoldage,grey–headedSphinx….Thereshestandsonthepavement,beckoning,sosternly,theredomnibus.

“Howlovely!Howwelltheyplay!How—how—how!”

Thetongueisbutaclapper.Simplicityitself.Thefeathersinthehatnextmearebrightandpleasingasachild’srattle.Theleafontheplane–treeflashesgreenthroughthechinkinthecurtain.Verystrange,veryexciting.

“How—how—how!”Hush!

Thesearetheloversonthegrass.

“If,madam,youwilltakemyhand―”

“Sir,Iwouldtrustyouwithmyheart.Moreover,wehaveleftourbodiesinthebanquetinghall.Thoseontheturfaretheshadowsofoursouls.”

“Thenthesearetheembracesofoursouls.”Thelemonsnodassent.Theswanpushesfromthebankandfloatsdreamingintomidstream.

“Buttoreturn.Hefollowedmedownthecorridor,and,asweturnedthecorner,trodonthelaceofmypetticoat.WhatcouldIdobutcry‘Ah!’andstoptofingerit?Atwhichhedrewhissword,madepassesasifhewerestabbingsomethingtodeath,andcried,‘Mad!Mad!Mad!’WhereuponIscreamed,andthePrince,whowaswritinginthelargevellumbookintheorielwindow,cameoutinhisvelvetskull–capandfurredslippers,snatchedarapierfromthewall—theKingofSpain’sgift,youknow—onwhichIescaped,flingingonthiscloaktohidetheravagestomyskirt—tohide….Butlisten!thehorns!”

Thegentlemanrepliessofasttothelady,andsherunsupthescalewithsuchwittyexchangeofcomplimentnowculminatinginasobofpassion,thatthewordsareindistinguishablethoughthemeaningisplainenough—love,laughter,flight,pursuit,celestialbliss—allfloatedoutonthegayestrippleoftenderendearment—untilthesoundofthesilverhorns,atfirstfardistant,graduallysoundsmoreandmoredistinctly,asifseneschalsweresalutingthedawnorproclaimingominouslytheescapeofthelovers….Thegreengarden,moonlitpool,lemons,lovers,andfisharealldissolvedintheopalsky,acrosswhich,asthehornsarejoinedbytrumpetsandsupportedbyclarionsthererisewhitearchesfirmlyplantedonmarblepillars….Trampandtrumpeting.Clangandclangour.Firmestablishment.Fastfoundations.Marchofmyriads.Confusionandchaostrodtoearth.Butthiscitytowhichwetravelhasneitherstonenormarble;hangsenduring;standsunshakable;nordoesaface,nordoesaflaggreetorwelcome.Leavethentoperishyourhope;droopinthedesertmyjoy;nakedadvance.Barearethepillars;auspicioustonone;castingnoshade;resplendent;severe.BackthenIfall,eagernomore,desiringonlytogo,findthestreet,markthebuildings,greettheapplewoman,saytothemaidwhoopensthedoor:Astarrynight.

“Goodnight,goodnight.Yougothisway?”

“Alas.Igothat.”

BLUE&GREEN

GREENThepointedfingersofglasshangdownwards.Thelightslidesdowntheglass,anddropsapoolofgreen.Alldaylongthetenfingersofthelustredropgreenuponthemarble.Thefeathersofparakeets—theirharshcries—sharpbladesofpalmtrees—green,too;greenneedlesglitteringinthesun.Butthehardglassdripsontothemarble;thepoolshoverabovethedessertsand;thecamelslurchthroughthem;thepoolssettleonthemarble;rushesedgethem;weedsclogthem;hereandthereawhiteblossom;thefrogflopsover;atnightthestarsaresetthereunbroken.Eveningcomes,andtheshadowsweepsthegreenoverthemantelpiece;theruffledsurfaceofocean.Noshipscome;theaimlesswavesswaybeneaththeemptysky.It’snight;theneedlesdripblotsofblue.Thegreen’sout.

BLUEThesnub–nosedmonsterrisestothesurfaceandspoutsthroughhisbluntnostrilstwocolumnsofwater,which,fiery–whiteinthecentre,sprayoffintoafringeofbluebeads.Strokesofbluelinetheblacktarpaulinofhishide.Slushingthewaterthroughmouthandnostrilshesings,heavywithwater,andtheblueclosesoverhimdowsingthepolishedpebblesofhiseyes.Thrownuponthebeachhelies,blunt,obtuse,sheddingdrybluescales.Theirmetallicbluestainstherustyirononthebeach.Bluearetheribsofthewreckedrowingboat.Awaverollsbeneaththebluebells.Butthecathedral’sdifferent,cold,incenseladen,faintbluewiththeveilsofmadonnas.

KEWGARDENSFromtheoval–shapedflower–bedthereroseperhapsahundredstalksspreadingintoheart–shapedortongue–shapedleaveshalfwayupandunfurlingatthetipredorblueoryellowpetalsmarkedwithspotsofcolourraiseduponthesurface;andfromthered,blueoryellowgloomofthethroatemergedastraightbar,roughwithgolddustandslightlyclubbedattheend.Thepetalswerevoluminousenoughtobestirredbythesummerbreeze,andwhentheymoved,thered,blueandyellowlightspassedoneovertheother,staininganinchofthebrownearthbeneathwithaspotofthemostintricatecolour.Thelightfelleitheruponthesmooth,greybackofapebble,or,theshellofasnailwithitsbrown,circularveins,orfallingintoaraindrop,itexpandedwithsuchintensityofred,blueandyellowthethinwallsofwaterthatoneexpectedthemtoburstanddisappear.Instead,thedropwasleftinasecondsilvergreyoncemore,andthelightnowsettleduponthefleshofaleaf,revealingthebranchingthreadoffibrebeneaththesurface,andagainitmovedonandspreaditsilluminationinthevastgreenspacesbeneaththedomeoftheheart–shapedandtongue–shapedleaves.Thenthebreezestirredrathermorebrisklyoverheadandthecolourwasflashedintotheairabove,intotheeyesofthemenandwomenwhowalkinKewGardensinJuly.

Thefiguresofthesemenandwomenstraggledpasttheflower–bedwithacuriouslyirregularmovementnotunlikethatofthewhiteandbluebutterflieswhocrossedtheturfinzig–zagflightsfrombedtobed.Themanwasaboutsixinchesinfrontofthewoman,strollingcarelessly,whilesheboreonwithgreaterpurpose,onlyturningherheadnowandthentoseethatthechildrenwerenottoofarbehind.Themankeptthisdistanceinfrontofthewomanpurposely,thoughperhapsunconsciously,forhewishedtogoonwithhisthoughts.

“FifteenyearsagoIcameherewithLily,”hethought.“WesatsomewhereovertherebyalakeandIbeggedhertomarrymeallthroughthehotafternoon.Howthedragonflykeptcirclingroundus:howclearlyIseethedragonflyandhershoewiththesquaresilverbuckleatthetoe.AllthetimeIspokeIsawhershoeandwhenitmovedimpatientlyIknewwithoutlookingupwhatshewasgoingtosay:thewholeofherseemedtobeinhershoe.Andmylove,mydesire,wereinthedragonfly;forsomereasonIthoughtthatifitsettledthere,onthatleaf,thebroadonewiththeredflowerinthemiddleofit,ifthedragonflysettledontheleafshewouldsay“Yes”atonce.Butthedragonflywentroundandround:itneversettledanywhere—ofcoursenot,happilynot,orIshouldn’tbewalkingherewithEleanorandthechildren—Tellme,Eleanor.D’youeverthinkofthepast?”

“Whydoyouask,Simon?”

“BecauseI’vebeenthinkingofthepast.I’vebeenthinkingofLily,thewomanImighthavemarried….Well,whyareyousilent?Doyoumindmythinkingofthepast?”

“WhyshouldImind,Simon?Doesn’tonealwaysthinkofthepast,inagardenwithmenandwomenlyingunderthetrees?Aren’ttheyone’spast,allthatremainsofit,thosemen

andwomen,thoseghostslyingunderthetrees,…one’shappiness,one’sreality?”

“Forme,asquaresilvershoebuckleandadragonfly—”

“Forme,akiss.Imaginesixlittlegirlssittingbeforetheireaselstwentyyearsago,downbythesideofalake,paintingthewater–lilies,thefirstredwater–liliesI’deverseen.Andsuddenlyakiss,thereonthebackofmyneck.AndmyhandshookalltheafternoonsothatIcouldn’tpaint.ItookoutmywatchandmarkedthehourwhenIwouldallowmyselftothinkofthekissforfiveminutesonly—itwassoprecious—thekissofanoldgrey–hairedwomanwithawartonhernose,themotherofallmykissesallmylife.Come,Caroline,come,Hubert.”

Theywalkedonthepasttheflower–bed,nowwalkingfourabreast,andsoondiminishedinsizeamongthetreesandlookedhalftransparentasthesunlightandshadeswamovertheirbacksinlargetremblingirregularpatches.

Intheovalflowerbedthesnail,whoseshellhadbeenstainedred,blue,andyellowforthespaceoftwominutesorso,nowappearedtobemovingveryslightlyinitsshell,andnextbegantolabouroverthecrumbsoflooseearthwhichbrokeawayandrolleddownasitpassedoverthem.Itappearedtohaveadefinitegoalinfrontofit,differinginthisrespectfromthesingularhighsteppingangulargreeninsectwhoattemptedtocrossinfrontofit,andwaitedforasecondwithitsantennætremblingasifindeliberation,andthensteppedoffasrapidlyandstrangelyintheoppositedirection.Browncliffswithdeepgreenlakesinthehollows,flat,blade–liketreesthatwavedfromroottotip,roundbouldersofgreystone,vastcrumpledsurfacesofathincracklingtexture—alltheseobjectslayacrossthesnail’sprogressbetweenonestalkandanothertohisgoal.Beforehehaddecidedwhethertocircumventthearchedtentofadeadleafortobreastittherecamepastthebedthefeetofotherhumanbeings.

Thistimetheywerebothmen.Theyoungerofthetwoworeanexpressionofperhapsunnaturalcalm;heraisedhiseyesandfixedthemverysteadilyinfrontofhimwhilehiscompanionspoke,anddirectlyhiscompanionhaddonespeakinghelookedonthegroundagainandsometimesopenedhislipsonlyafteralongpauseandsometimesdidnotopenthematall.Theeldermanhadacuriouslyunevenandshakymethodofwalking,jerkinghishandforwardandthrowinguphisheadabruptly,ratherinthemannerofanimpatientcarriagehorsetiredofwaitingoutsideahouse;butinthemanthesegestureswereirresoluteandpointless.Hetalkedalmostincessantly;hesmiledtohimselfandagainbegantotalk,asifthesmilehadbeenananswer.Hewastalkingaboutspirits—thespiritsofthedead,who,accordingtohim,wereevennowtellinghimallsortsofoddthingsabouttheirexperiencesinHeaven.

“HeavenwasknowntotheancientsasThessaly,William,andnow,withthiswar,thespiritmatterisrollingbetweenthehillslikethunder.”Hepaused,seemedtolisten,smiled,jerkedhisheadandcontinued:—

“Youhaveasmallelectricbatteryandapieceofrubbertoinsulatethewire—isolate?—insulate?—well,we’llskipthedetails,nogoodgoingintodetailsthatwouldn’tbeunderstood—andinshortthelittlemachinestandsinanyconvenientpositionbytheheadofthebed,wewillsay,onaneatmahoganystand.Allarrangementsbeingproperlyfixedbyworkmenundermydirection,thewidowappliesherearandsummonsthespiritby

signasagreed.Women!Widows!Womeninblack―”

Hereheseemedtohavecaughtsightofawoman’sdressinthedistance,whichintheshadelookedapurpleblack.Hetookoffhishat,placedhishanduponhisheart,andhurriedtowardshermutteringandgesticulatingfeverishly.ButWilliamcaughthimbythesleeveandtouchedaflowerwiththetipofhiswalking–stickinordertodiverttheoldman’sattention.Afterlookingatitforamomentinsomeconfusiontheoldmanbenthiseartoitandseemedtoansweravoicespeakingfromit,forhebegantalkingabouttheforestsofUruguaywhichhehadvisitedhundredsofyearsagoincompanywiththemostbeautifulyoungwomaninEurope.HecouldbeheardmurmuringaboutforestsofUruguayblanketedwiththewaxpetalsoftropicalroses,nightingales,seabeaches,mermaids,andwomendrownedatsea,ashesufferedhimselftobemovedonbyWilliam,uponwhosefacethelookofstoicalpatiencegrewslowlydeeperanddeeper.

Followinghisstepssocloselyastobeslightlypuzzledbyhisgesturescametwoelderlywomenofthelowermiddleclass,onestoutandponderous,theotherrosycheekedandnimble.Likemostpeopleoftheirstationtheywerefranklyfascinatedbyanysignsofeccentricitybetokeningadisorderedbrain,especiallyinthewell–to–do;buttheyweretoofarofftobecertainwhetherthegesturesweremerelyeccentricorgenuinelymad.Aftertheyhadscrutinisedtheoldman’sbackinsilenceforamomentandgiveneachotheraqueer,slylook,theywentonenergeticallypiecingtogethertheirverycomplicateddialogue:

“Nell,Bert,Lot,Cess,Phil,Pa,hesays,Isays,shesays,Isays,Isays,Isays―”

“MyBert,Sis,Bill,Grandad,theoldman,sugar,

Sugar,flour,kippers,greens,Sugar,sugar,sugar.”

Theponderouswomanlookedthroughthepatternoffallingwordsattheflowersstandingcool,firm,anduprightintheearth,withacuriousexpression.Shesawthemasasleeperwakingfromaheavysleepseesabrasscandlestickreflectingthelightinanunfamiliarway,andcloseshiseyesandopensthem,andseeingthebrasscandlestickagain,finallystartsbroadawakeandstaresatthecandlestickwithallhispowers.Sotheheavywomancametoastandstilloppositetheoval–shapedflowerbed,andceasedeventopretendtolistentowhattheotherwomanwassaying.Shestoodtherelettingthewordsfalloverher,swayingthetoppartofherbodyslowlybackwardsandforwards,lookingattheflowers.Thenshesuggestedthattheyshouldfindaseatandhavetheirtea.

Thesnailhadnowconsideredeverypossiblemethodofreachinghisgoalwithoutgoingroundthedeadleaforclimbingoverit.Letalonetheeffortneededforclimbingaleaf,hewasdoubtfulwhetherthethintexturewhichvibratedwithsuchanalarmingcracklewhentouchedevenbythetipofhishornswouldbearhisweight;andthisdeterminedhimfinallytocreepbeneathit,fortherewasapointwheretheleafcurvedhighenoughfromthegroundtoadmithim.Hehadjustinsertedhisheadintheopeningandwastakingstockofthehighbrownroofandwasgettingusedtothecoolbrownlightwhentwootherpeoplecamepastoutsideontheturf.Thistimetheywerebothyoung,ayoungmanandayoungwoman.Theywerebothintheprimeofyouth,oreveninthatseasonwhich

precedestheprimeofyouth,theseasonbeforethesmoothpinkfoldsoftheflowerhavebursttheirgummycase,whenthewingsofthebutterfly,thoughfullygrown,aremotionlessinthesun.

“Luckyitisn’tFriday,”heobserved.

“Why?D’youbelieveinluck?”

“TheymakeyoupaysixpenceonFriday.”

“What’ssixpenceanyway?Isn’titworthsixpence?”

“What’s‘it’—whatdoyoumeanby‘it’?”

“O,anything—Imean—youknowwhatImean.”

Longpausescamebetweeneachoftheseremarks;theywereutteredintonelessandmonotonousvoices.Thecouplestoodstillontheedgeoftheflowerbed,andtogetherpressedtheendofherparasoldeepdownintothesoftearth.Theactionandthefactthathishandrestedonthetopofhersexpressedtheirfeelingsinastrangeway,astheseshortinsignificantwordsalsoexpressedsomething,wordswithshortwingsfortheirheavybodyofmeaning,inadequatetocarrythemfarandthusalightingawkwardlyupontheverycommonobjectsthatsurroundedthem,andweretotheirinexperiencedtouchsomassive;butwhoknows(sotheythoughtastheypressedtheparasolintotheearth)whatprecipicesaren’tconcealedinthem,orwhatslopesoficedon’tshineinthesunontheotherside?Whoknows?Whohaseverseenthisbefore?EvenwhenshewonderedwhatsortofteatheygaveyouatKew,hefeltthatsomethingloomedupbehindherwords,andstoodvastandsolidbehindthem;andthemistveryslowlyroseanduncovered—O,Heavens,whatwerethoseshapes?—littlewhitetables,andwaitresseswholookedfirstatherandthenathim;andtherewasabillthathewouldpaywitharealtwoshillingpiece,anditwasreal,allreal,heassuredhimself,fingeringthecoininhispocket,realtoeveryoneexcepttohimandtoher;eventohimitbegantoseemreal;andthen—butitwastooexcitingtostandandthinkanylonger,andhepulledtheparasoloutoftheearthwithajerkandwasimpatienttofindtheplacewhereonehadteawithotherpeople,likeotherpeople.

“Comealong,Trissie;it’stimewehadourtea.”

“Whereverdoesonehaveone’stea?”sheaskedwiththeoddestthrillofexcitementinhervoice,lookingvaguelyroundandlettingherselfbedrawnondownthegrasspath,trailingherparasol,turningherheadthiswayandthatway,forgettinghertea,wishingtogodownthereandthendownthere,rememberingorchidsandcranesamongwildflowers,aChinesepagodaandacrimsoncrestedbird;butheboreheron.

Thusonecoupleafteranotherwithmuchthesameirregularandaimlessmovementpassedtheflower–bedandwereenvelopedinlayerafterlayerofgreenbluevapour,inwhichatfirsttheirbodieshadsubstanceandadashofcolour,butlaterbothsubstanceandcolourdissolvedinthegreen–blueatmosphere.Howhotitwas!Sohotthateventhethrushchosetohop,likeamechanicalbird,intheshadowoftheflowers,withlongpausesbetweenonemovementandthenext;insteadoframblingvaguelythewhitebutterfliesdancedoneaboveanother,makingwiththeirwhiteshiftingflakestheoutlineofashatteredmarblecolumnabovethetallestflowers;theglassroofsofthepalmhouseshoneasifawhole

marketfullofshinygreenumbrellashadopenedinthesun;andinthedroneoftheaeroplanethevoiceofthesummerskymurmureditsfiercesoul.Yellowandblack,pinkandsnowwhite,shapesofallthesecolours,men,women,andchildrenwerespottedforaseconduponthehorizon,andthen,seeingthebreadthofyellowthatlayuponthegrass,theywaveredandsoughtshadebeneaththetrees,dissolvinglikedropsofwaterintheyellowandgreenatmosphere,stainingitfaintlywithredandblue.Itseemedasifallgrossandheavybodieshadsunkdownintheheatmotionlessandlayhuddledupontheground,buttheirvoiceswentwaveringfromthemasiftheywereflameslollingfromthethickwaxenbodiesofcandles.Voices.Yes,voices.Wordlessvoices,breakingthesilencesuddenlywithsuchdepthofcontentment,suchpassionofdesire,or,inthevoicesofchildren,suchfreshnessofsurprise;breakingthesilence?Buttherewasnosilence;allthetimethemotoromnibuseswereturningtheirwheelsandchangingtheirgear;likeavastnestofChineseboxesallofwroughtsteelturningceaselesslyonewithinanotherthecitymurmured;onthetopofwhichthevoicescriedaloudandthepetalsofmyriadsofflowersflashedtheircoloursintotheair.

THEMARKONTHEWALLPerhapsitwasthemiddleofJanuaryinthepresentyearthatIfirstlookedupandsawthemarkonthewall.Inordertofixadateitisnecessarytorememberwhatonesaw.SonowIthinkofthefire;thesteadyfilmofyellowlightuponthepageofmybook;thethreechrysanthemumsintheroundglassbowlonthemantelpiece.Yes,itmusthavebeenthewintertime,andwehadjustfinishedourtea,forIrememberthatIwassmokingacigarettewhenIlookedupandsawthemarkonthewallforthefirsttime.Ilookedupthroughthesmokeofmycigaretteandmyeyelodgedforamomentupontheburningcoals,andthatoldfancyofthecrimsonflagflappingfromthecastletowercameintomymind,andIthoughtofthecavalcadeofredknightsridingupthesideoftheblackrock.Rathertomyreliefthesightofthemarkinterruptedthefancy,foritisanoldfancy,anautomaticfancy,madeasachildperhaps.Themarkwasasmallroundmark,blackuponthewhitewall,aboutsixorseveninchesabovethemantelpiece.

Howreadilyourthoughtsswarmuponanewobject,liftingitalittleway,asantscarryabladeofstrawsofeverishly,andthenleaveit….Ifthatmarkwasmadebyanail,itcan’thavebeenforapicture,itmusthavebeenforaminiature—theminiatureofaladywithwhitepowderedcurls,powder–dustedcheeks,andlipslikeredcarnations.Afraudofcourse,forthepeoplewhohadthishousebeforeuswouldhavechosenpicturesinthatway—anoldpictureforanoldroom.Thatisthesortofpeopletheywere—veryinterestingpeople,andIthinkofthemsooften,insuchqueerplaces,becauseonewillneverseethemagain,neverknowwhathappenednext.Theywantedtoleavethishousebecausetheywantedtochangetheirstyleoffurniture,sohesaid,andhewasinprocessofsayingthatinhisopinionartshouldhaveideasbehinditwhenweweretornasunder,asoneistornfromtheoldladyabouttopouroutteaandtheyoungmanabouttohitthetennisballinthebackgardenofthesuburbanvillaasonerushespastinthetrain.

Butasforthatmark,I’mnotsureaboutit;Idon’tbelieveitwasmadebyanailafterall;it’stoobig,tooround,forthat.Imightgetup,butifIgotupandlookedatit,tentooneIshouldn’tbeabletosayforcertain;becauseonceathing’sdone,nooneeverknowshowithappened.Oh!dearme,themysteryoflife;Theinaccuracyofthought!Theignoranceofhumanity!Toshowhowverylittlecontrolofourpossessionswehave—whatanaccidentalaffairthislivingisafterallourcivilization—letmejustcountoverafewofthethingslostinonelifetime,beginning,forthatseemsalwaysthemostmysteriousoflosses—whatcatwouldgnaw,whatratwouldnibble—threepalebluecanistersofbook–bindingtools?Thentherewerethebirdcages,theironhoops,thesteelskates,theQueenAnnecoal–scuttle,thebagatelleboard,thehandorgan—allgone,andjewels,too.Opalsandemeralds,theylieabouttherootsofturnips.Whatascrapingparingaffairitistobesure!ThewonderisthatI’veanyclothesonmyback,thatIsitsurroundedbysolidfurnitureatthismoment.Why,ifonewantstocomparelifetoanything,onemustlikenittobeingblownthroughtheTubeatfiftymilesanhour—landingattheotherendwithoutasinglehairpininone’shair!ShotoutatthefeetofGodentirelynaked!Tumblingheadoverheelsintheasphodelmeadowslikebrownpaperparcelspitcheddownashootinthepostoffice!Withone’shairflyingbacklikethetailofarace–horse.Yes,thatseemstoexpressthe

rapidityoflife,theperpetualwasteandrepair;allsocasual,allsohaphazard….

Butafterlife.Theslowpullingdownofthickgreenstalkssothatthecupoftheflower,asitturnsover,delugesonewithpurpleandredlight.Why,afterall,shouldonenotbebornthereasoneisbornhere,helpless,speechless,unabletofocusone’seyesight,gropingattherootsofthegrass,atthetoesoftheGiants?Asforsayingwhicharetrees,andwhicharemenandwomen,orwhethertherearesuchthings,thatonewon’tbeinaconditiontodoforfiftyyearsorso.Therewillbenothingbutspacesoflightanddark,intersectedbythickstalks,andratherhigherupperhaps,rose–shapedblotsofanindistinctcolour—dimpinksandblues—whichwill,astimegoeson,becomemoredefinite,become—Idon’tknowwhat….

Andyetthatmarkonthewallisnotaholeatall.Itmayevenbecausedbysomeroundblacksubstance,suchasasmallroseleaf,leftoverfromthesummer,andI,notbeingaveryvigilanthousekeeper—lookatthedustonthemantelpiece,forexample,thedustwhich,sotheysay,buriedTroythreetimesover,onlyfragmentsofpotsutterlyrefusingannihilation,asonecanbelieve.

Thetreeoutsidethewindowtapsverygentlyonthepane….Iwanttothinkquietly,calmly,spaciously,nevertobeinterrupted,nevertohavetorisefrommychair,toslipeasilyfromonethingtoanother,withoutanysenseofhostility,orobstacle.Iwanttosinkdeeperanddeeper,awayfromthesurface,withitshardseparatefacts.Tosteadymyself,letmecatchholdofthefirstideathatpasses….Shakespeare….Well,hewilldoaswellasanother.Amanwhosathimselfsolidlyinanarm–chair,andlookedintothefire,so—AshowerofideasfellperpetuallyfromsomeveryhighHeavendownthroughhismind.Heleanthisforeheadonhishand,andpeople,lookinginthroughtheopendoor,—forthissceneissupposedtotakeplaceonasummer’sevening—Buthowdullthisis,thishistoricalfiction!Itdoesn’tinterestmeatall.IwishIcouldhituponapleasanttrackofthought,atrackindirectlyreflectingcredituponmyself,forthosearethepleasantestthoughts,andveryfrequenteveninthemindsofmodestmouse–colouredpeople,whobelievegenuinelythattheydisliketoheartheirownpraises.Theyarenotthoughtsdirectlypraisingoneself;thatisthebeautyofthem;theyarethoughtslikethis:

“AndthenIcameintotheroom.Theywerediscussingbotany.IsaidhowI’dseenaflowergrowingonadustheaponthesiteofanoldhouseinKingsway.Theseed,Isaid,musthavebeensowninthereignofCharlestheFirst.WhatflowersgrewinthereignofCharlestheFirst?”Iasked—(butIdon’tremembertheanswer).Tallflowerswithpurpletasselstothemperhaps.Andsoitgoeson.AllthetimeI’mdressingupthefigureofmyselfinmyownmind,lovingly,stealthily,notopenlyadoringit,forifIdidthat,Ishouldcatchmyselfout,andstretchmyhandatonceforabookinself–protection.Indeed,itiscurioushowinstinctivelyoneprotectstheimageofoneselffromidolatryoranyotherhandlingthatcouldmakeitridiculous,ortoounliketheoriginaltobebelievedinanylonger.Orisitnotsoverycuriousafterall?Itisamatterofgreatimportance.Supposethelookingglasssmashes,theimagedisappears,andtheromanticfigurewiththegreenofforestdepthsallaboutitistherenolonger,butonlythatshellofapersonwhichisseenbyotherpeople—whatanairless,shallow,bald,prominentworlditbecomes!Aworldnottobelivedin.Aswefaceeachotherinomnibusesandundergroundrailwayswearelookingintothemirror;thataccountsforthevagueness,thegleamofglassiness,inoureyes.And

thenovelistsinfuturewillrealizemoreandmoretheimportanceofthesereflections,forofcoursethereisnotonereflectionbutanalmostinfinitenumber;thosearethedepthstheywillexplore,thosethephantomstheywillpursue,leavingthedescriptionofrealitymoreandmoreoutoftheirstories,takingaknowledgeofitforgranted,astheGreeksdidandShakespeareperhaps—butthesegeneralizationsareveryworthless.Themilitarysoundofthewordisenough.Itrecallsleadingarticles,cabinetministers—awholeclassofthingsindeedwhichasachildonethoughtthethingitself,thestandardthing,therealthing,fromwhichonecouldnotdepartsaveattheriskofnamelessdamnation.GeneralizationsbringbacksomehowSundayinLondon,Sundayafternoonwalks,Sundayluncheons,andalsowaysofspeakingofthedead,clothes,andhabits—likethehabitofsittingalltogetherinoneroomuntilacertainhour,althoughnobodylikedit.Therewasaruleforeverything.Therulefortableclothsatthatparticularperiodwasthattheyshouldbemadeoftapestrywithlittleyellowcompartmentsmarkeduponthem,suchasyoumayseeinphotographsofthecarpetsinthecorridorsoftheroyalpalaces.Tableclothsofadifferentkindwerenotrealtablecloths.Howshocking,andyethowwonderfulitwastodiscoverthattheserealthings,Sundayluncheons,Sundaywalks,countryhouses,andtableclothswerenotentirelyreal,wereindeedhalfphantoms,andthedamnationwhichvisitedthedisbelieverinthemwasonlyasenseofillegitimatefreedom.WhatnowtakestheplaceofthosethingsIwonder,thoserealstandardthings?Menperhaps,shouldyoubeawoman;themasculinepointofviewwhichgovernsourlives,whichsetsthestandard,whichestablishesWhitaker’sTableofPrecedency,whichhasbecome,Isuppose,sincethewarhalfaphantomtomanymenandwomen,whichsoon,onemayhope,willbelaughedintothedustbinwherethephantomsgo,themahoganysideboardsandtheLandseerprints,GodsandDevils,Hellandsoforth,leavingusallwithanintoxicatingsenseofillegitimatefreedom—iffreedomexists….

Incertainlightsthatmarkonthewallseemsactuallytoprojectfromthewall.Norisitentirelycircular.Icannotbesure,butitseemstocastaperceptibleshadow,suggestingthatifIranmyfingerdownthatstripofthewallitwould,atacertainpoint,mountanddescendasmalltumulus,asmoothtumuluslikethosebarrowsontheSouthDownswhichare,theysay,eithertombsorcamps.OfthetwoIshouldpreferthemtobetombs,desiringmelancholylikemostEnglishpeople,andfindingitnaturalattheendofawalktothinkofthebonesstretchedbeneaththeturf….Theremustbesomebookaboutit.Someantiquarymusthavedugupthosebonesandgiventhemaname….Whatsortofamanisanantiquary,Iwonder?RetiredColonelsforthemostpart,Idaresay,leadingpartiesofagedlabourerstothetophere,examiningclodsofearthandstone,andgettingintocorrespondencewiththeneighbouringclergy,which,beingopenedatbreakfasttime,givesthemafeelingofimportance,andthecomparisonofarrow–headsnecessitatescross–countryjourneystothecountytowns,anagreeablenecessitybothtothemandtotheirelderlywives,whowishtomakeplumjamortocleanoutthestudy,andhaveeveryreasonforkeepingthatgreatquestionofthecamporthetombinperpetualsuspension,whiletheColonelhimselffeelsagreeablyphilosophicinaccumulatingevidenceonbothsidesofthequestion.Itistruethathedoesfinallyinclinetobelieveinthecamp;and,beingopposed,inditesapamphletwhichheisabouttoreadatthequarterlymeetingofthelocalsocietywhenastrokelayshimlow,andhislastconsciousthoughtsarenotofwifeorchild,butofthecampandthatarrowheadthere,whichisnowinthecaseatthelocalmuseum,togetherwiththefootofaChinesemurderess,ahandfulofElizabethannails,a

greatmanyTudorclaypipes,apieceofRomanpottery,andthewine–glassthatNelsondrankoutof—provingIreallydon’tknowwhat.

No,no,nothingisproved,nothingisknown.AndifIweretogetupatthisverymomentandascertainthatthemarkonthewallisreally—whatshallwesay?—theheadofagiganticoldnail,drivenintwohundredyearsago,whichhasnow,owingtothepatientattritionofmanygenerationsofhousemaids,revealeditsheadabovethecoatofpaint,andistakingitsfirstviewofmodernlifeinthesightofawhite–walledfire–litroom,whatshouldIgain?—Knowledge?Matterforfurtherspeculation?Icanthinksittingstillaswellasstandingup.Andwhatisknowledge?Whatareourlearnedmensavethedescendantsofwitchesandhermitswhocrouchedincavesandinwoodsbrewingherbs,interrogatingshrew–miceandwritingdownthelanguageofthestars?Andthelesswehonourthemasoursuperstitionsdwindleandourrespectforbeautyandhealthofmindincreases….Yes,onecouldimagineaverypleasantworld.Aquiet,spaciousworld,withtheflowerssoredandblueintheopenfields.Aworldwithoutprofessorsorspecialistsorhouse–keeperswiththeprofilesofpolicemen,aworldwhichonecouldslicewithone’sthoughtasafishslicesthewaterwithhisfin,grazingthestemsofthewater–lilies,hangingsuspendedovernestsofwhiteseaeggs….Howpeacefulitisdownhere,rootedinthecentreoftheworldandgazingupthroughthegreywaters,withtheirsuddengleamsoflight,andtheirreflections—ifitwerenotforWhitaker’sAlmanack—ifitwerenotfortheTableofPrecedency!

Imustjumpupandseeformyselfwhatthatmarkonthewallreallyis—anail,arose–leaf,acrackinthewood?

Hereisnatureoncemoreatheroldgameofself–preservation.Thistrainofthought,sheperceives,isthreateningmerewasteofenergy,evensomecollisionwithreality,forwhowilleverbeabletoliftafingeragainstWhitaker’sTableofPrecedency?TheArchbishopofCanterburyisfollowedbytheLordHighChancellor;theLordHighChancellorisfollowedbytheArchbishopofYork.Everybodyfollowssomebody,suchisthephilosophyofWhitaker;andthegreatthingistoknowwhofollowswhom.Whitakerknows,andletthat,soNaturecounsels,comfortyou,insteadofenragingyou;andifyoucan’tbecomforted,ifyoumustshatterthishourofpeace,thinkofthemarkonthewall.

IunderstandNature’sgame—herpromptingtotakeactionasawayofendinganythoughtthatthreatenstoexciteortopain.Hence,Isuppose,comesourslightcontemptformenofaction—men,weassume,whodon’tthink.Still,there’snoharminputtingafullstoptoone’sdisagreeablethoughtsbylookingatamarkonthewall.

Indeed,nowthatIhavefixedmyeyesuponit,IfeelthatIhavegraspedaplankinthesea;IfeelasatisfyingsenseofrealitywhichatonceturnsthetwoArchbishopsandtheLordHighChancellortotheshadowsofshades.Hereissomethingdefinite,somethingreal.Thus,wakingfromamidnightdreamofhorror,onehastilyturnsonthelightandliesquiescent,worshippingthechestofdrawers,worshippingsolidity,worshippingreality,worshippingtheimpersonalworldwhichisaproofofsomeexistenceotherthanours.Thatiswhatonewantstobesureof….Woodisapleasantthingtothinkabout.Itcomesfromatree;andtreesgrow,andwedon’tknowhowtheygrow.Foryearsandyearstheygrow,withoutpayinganyattentiontous,inmeadows,inforests,andbythesideofrivers—allthingsonelikestothinkabout.Thecowsswishtheirtailsbeneaththemonhot

afternoons;theypaintriverssogreenthatwhenamoorhendivesoneexpectstoseeitsfeathersallgreenwhenitcomesupagain.Iliketothinkofthefishbalancedagainstthestreamlikeflagsblownout;andofwater–beetlesslowlyraisingdomesofmuduponthebedoftheriver.Iliketothinkofthetreeitself:firsttheclosedrysensationofbeingwood;thenthegrindingofthestorm;thentheslow,deliciousoozeofsap.Iliketothinkofit,too,onwinter’snightsstandingintheemptyfieldwithallleavesclose–furled,nothingtenderexposedtotheironbulletsofthemoon,anakedmastuponanearththatgoestumbling,tumbling,allnightlong.ThesongofbirdsmustsoundveryloudandstrangeinJune;andhowcoldthefeetofinsectsmustfeeluponit,astheymakelaboriousprogressesupthecreasesofthebark,orsunthemselvesuponthethingreenawningoftheleaves,andlookstraightinfrontofthemwithdiamond–cutredeyes….Onebyonethefibressnapbeneaththeimmensecoldpressureoftheearth,thenthelaststormcomesand,falling,thehighestbranchesdrivedeepintothegroundagain.Evenso,lifeisn’tdonewith;thereareamillionpatient,watchfullivesstillforatree,allovertheworld,inbedrooms,inships,onthepavement,liningrooms,wheremenandwomensitaftertea,smokingcigarettes.Itisfullofpeacefulthoughts,happythoughts,thistree.Ishouldliketotakeeachoneseparately—butsomethingisgettingintheway….WherewasI?Whathasitallbeenabout?Atree?Ariver?TheDowns?Whitaker’sAlmanack?Thefieldsofasphodel?Ican’trememberathing.Everything’smoving,falling,slipping,vanishing….Thereisavastupheavalofmatter.Someoneisstandingovermeandsaying—

“I’mgoingouttobuyanewspaper.”

“Yes?”

“Thoughit’snogoodbuyingnewspapers….Nothingeverhappens.Cursethiswar;Goddamnthiswar!…Allthesame,Idon’tseewhyweshouldhaveasnailonourwall.”

Ah,themarkonthewall!Itwasasnail.

A Haunted HouseA SocietyMonday or TuesdayAn Unwritten NovelThe String QuartetBlue & GreenGreenBlueKew GardensThe Mark on the Wall