throb of the heart of an ancient whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded。 “dear； dear！” what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and solace them； lap them in linen； saying； “so long。 good luck to you！” and then； “what’s your pleasure？” for though moggridge would pluck his rose for her； that’s done； that’s over。 now what’s the next thing？ “madam； you’ll miss your train；” for they don’t linger。
that’s the man’s way； that’s the sound that reverberates； that’s st。 paul’s and the motor–omnibuses。 but we’re brushing the crumbs off。 oh； moggridge； you won’t stay？ you must be off？ are you driving through eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages？ are you man who’s walled up in green cardboard boxes； and sometimes has the blinds down； and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx； and always there’s a look of the sepulchral； something of the undertaker； the coffin； and the dusk about horse and driver？ do tell me—but the doors slammed。 we shall never meet again。 moggridge； farewell！
yes； yes； i’m ing。 right up to the top of the house。 one moment i’ll linger。 how the mud goes round in the mind—what a swirl these monsters leave； the waters rocking； the weeds waving and green here； black there； striking to the sand； till by degrees the atoms reassemble； the deposit sifts itself； and again through the eyes one sees clear and still； and there es to the lips some prayer for the departed； some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to； the people one never meets again。
james moggridge is dead now； gone for ever。 well； minnie—“i can face it no longer。” if she said that—（let me look at her。 she is brushing the eggshell into deep declivities）。 she said it certainly； leaning against the wall of the bedroom； and plucking at the little balls which edge the claret–coloured curtain。 but when the self speaks to the self； who is speaking？—the entombed soul； the spirit driven in； in； in to the central catab； the self that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps； yet somehow beautiful； as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors。 “i can bear it no longer；” her spirit says。 “that man at lunch—hilda—the children。” oh； heavens； her sob！ it’s the spirit wailing its destiny； the spirit driven hither； thither； lodging on the diminishing carpets—meagre footholds—shrunken shreds of all the vanishing universe—love； life； faith； husband； children； i know not what splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood。 “not for me—not for me。”
but then—the muffins； the bald elderly dog？ bead mats i should fancy and the consolation of underlinen。 if minnie marsh were run over and taken to hospital； nurses and doctors themselves would exclaim。 。 。 there’s the vista and the vision—there’s the distance—the blue blot at the end of the avenue； while； after all； the tea is rich； the muffin hot； and the dog—“benny； to your basket； sir； and see what mother’s brought you！” so； taking the glove with the worn thumb； defying once more the encroaching demon of what’s called going in holes； you renew the fortifications； threading the grey wool； running it in and out。
running it in and out； across and over； spinning a web through which god himself—hush； don’t think of god！ how firm the stitches are！ you must be proud of your darning。 let nothing disturb her。 let the light fall gently； and the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf。 let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop hanging to the twig’s elbow。 。 。 why look up？ was it a sound； a thought？ oh； heavens！ back again to the thing you did； the plate glass with the violet loops？ but hilda will e。 ignominies； humiliations； oh！ close the breach。
having mended her glove； minnie marsh lays it in the drawer。 she shuts the drawer with decision。 i catch sight of her face in the glass。 lips are pursed。 chin held high。 next she laces her shoes。 then she touches her throat。 what’s your brooch？ mistletoe or merry–thought？ and what is happening？ unless i’m much mistaken； the pulse’s quickened； the moment’s ing； 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！
“oh； i beg your pardon！ yes； this is eastbourne。 i’ll reach it down for you。 let me try the handle。” ＇but； minnie； though we keep up pretences； i’ve read you right—i’m with you now＇。
“that’s all your luggage？”
“much obliged； i’m sure。”
（but why do you look about you？ hilda don’t e to the station； nor john； and moggridge is driving at the far side of eastbourne）。
“i’ll wait by my bag； ma’am； that’s safest。 he said he’d 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； down the road； side by side。 。 。 well； my world’s done for！ what do i stand on？ what do i know？ that’s not minnie。 there never was moggridge。 who am i？ life’s bare as bone。
and yet the last look of them—he stepping from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder—floods me anew。 mysterious figures！ mother and son。 who are you？ why do you walk down the street？ where to–night will you sleep； and then； to–morrow？ oh； how it whirls and surges—floats me afresh！ 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； turning the corner； mothers and sons； you； you； you。 i hasten； i follow。 this； i fancy； must be the sea。 grey is the landscape； dim as ashes； the water murmurs and moves。 if i fall on my knees； if i go through the ritual； the ancient antics； it’s you； unknown figures； you i adore； if i open my arms； it’s you i embrace； you i draw to me—adorable world！
．。
5。 The String Quartet
小！说
5。 the string quartet
well； here we are； and if you cast your eye over the room you will see that tubes and trams and omnibuses； private carriages not a few； even； i venture to believe； landaus with bays in them； have been busy at it； weaving threads from one end of london to the other。 yet i begin to have my doubts—
if indeed it’s true； as they’re saying； that regent street is up； and the treaty signed； and the weather not cold for the time of year； and even at that rent not a flat to be had； and the worst of influenza its after effects； if i bethink me of having forgotten to write about the leak in the larder； and left my glove in the train； if the ties of blood require me； leaning forward； to accept cordially the hand which is perhaps offered hesitatingly—
“seven years since we met！”
“the last time in venice。”
“and where are you living now？”
“well； the late afternoon suits me the best； though； if it weren’t asking too much—”
“but i knew you at once！”
“still； the war made a break—”
if the mind’s shot through by such little arrows； and—for human society pels it—no sooner is one launched than another presses forward； if this engenders heat and in addition they’ve turned on the electric light； if saying one thing does； in so many cases； leave behind it a need to improve and revise； stirring besides regrets； pleasures； vanities； and desires—if it’s all the facts i mean； and the hats； the fur boas； the gentlemen’s swallow–tail coats； and pearl tie–pins that e to the surface—what chance is there？
of what？ it bees every minute more difficult to say why； in spite of everything； i sit here believing i can’t now say what； or even remember the last time it happened。
“did you see the procession？”
“the king looked cold。”
“no； no； no。 but what was it？”
“she’s bought a house at malmesbury。”
“how lucky to find one！”
on the contrary； it seems to me pretty sure that she； whoever she may be； is damned； since it’s all a matter of flats and hats and sea gulls； or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well dressed； walled in； furred； replete。 not that i can boast； since i too sit passive on a gilt chair； only turning the earth above a buried memory； as we all do； for there are signs； if i’m not mistaken； that we’re all recalling something； furtively seeking something。 why fidget？ why so anxious about the sit of cloaks； and gloves—whether to button or unbutton？ then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas； a moment ago urbane and flushed； now taciturn and sad； as if in shadow。 was it the sound of the second violin tuning in the ante–room？ here they e； four black figures； carrying instruments； and seat themselves facing the white squares under the downpour of light； rest the tips of their bows on the music stand； with