fellinto
a
pit
of
thought
.
I
did
not
remark
at
first
the
change
that
was
creeping
over
his
face
.
He
lay
back
on
his
pillow
,
made
a
faint
zzzing
sound
that
ceased
,
and
presently
and
quite
quietly
he
died-greatly
comforted
by
my
assurance
.
I
do
not
know
when
he
died
.
His
hand
relaxed
insensibly
.
Suddenly
,
with
a
start
,
with
a
shock
,
I
found
that
his
mouth
had
fallen
open
,
and
that
he
was
dead
...
.
It
was
dark
night
when
I
left
his
deathbed
and
went
back
to
my
own
inn
down
the
straggling
street
of
Luzon
.
That
return
to
my
inn
sticks
in
my
memory
also
as
a
thing
apart
,
as
an
experience
apart
.
Within
was
a
subdued
bustle
of
women
,
a
flitting
of
lights
,
and
the
doing
of
petty
offices
to
that
queer
,
exhausted
thing
that
had
once
been
my
active
and
urgent
little
uncle
.
For
me
those
offices
were
irksome
and
impertinent
.
I
slammed
the
door
,
and
went
out
into
the
warm
,
foggy
drizzle
of
the
village
street
lit
by
blurred
specks
of
light
in
great
voids
of
darkness
,
and
never
a
soul
abroad
.
That
warm
veil
of
fog
produced
an
effect
of
vast
seclusion
.
The
very
houses
by
the
roadside
peered
through
it
as
if
from
another
world
.
The
stillness
of
the
night
was
marked
by
an
occasional
remote
baying
of
dogs
;
all
these
people
kept
dogs
because
of
the
near
neighbourhood
of
the
frontier
.
Death
!
It
was
one
of
those
rare
seasons
of
relief
,
when
for
a
little
time
one
walks
a
little
outside
of
and
beside
life
.
I
felt
as
I
sometimes
feel
after
the
end
of
a
play
.
I
saw
the
whole
business
of
my
uncle
's
life
as
something
familiar
and
completed
.
It
was
done
,
like
a
play
one
leaves
,
like
a
book
one
closes
.
I
thought
of
the
push
and
the
promotions
,
the
noise
of
London
,
the
crowded
,
various
company
of
people
through
which
our
lives
had
gone
,
the
public
meetings
,
the
excitements
,
the
dinners
and
disputations
,
and
suddenly
it
appeared
to
me
that
none
of
these
things
existed
.
It
came
to
me
like
a
discovery
that
none
of
these
things
existed
.
Before
and
after
I
have
thought
and
called
life
a
phantasmagoria
,
but
never
have
I
felt
its
truth
as
I
did
that
night
...
.
We
had
parted
;
we
two
who
had
kept
company
so
long
had
parted
.
But
there
was
,
I
knew
,
no
end
to
him
or
me
.
He
had
died
a
dream
death
,
and
ended
a
dream
;
his
pain
dream
was
over
.
It
seemed
to
me
almost
as
though
I
had
died
,
too
.
What
did
it
matter
,
since
it
was
unreality
,
all
of
it
,
the
pain
and
desire
,
the
beginning
and
the
end
?
There
was
no
reality
except
this
solitary
road
,
this
quite
solitary
road
,
along
which
one
went
rather
puzzled
,
rather
tired
...
.
Part
of
the
fog
became
a
big
mastiff
that
came
towards
me
and
stopped
and
slunk
round
me
,
growling
,
barked
gruffly
,
and
shortly
and
presently
became
fog
again
.
My
mind
swayed
back
to
the
ancient
beliefs
and
fears
of
our
race
.
My
doubts
and
disbeliefs
slipped
from
me
like
a
loosely
fitting
garment
.
I
wondered
quite
simply
what
dogs
bayed
about
the
path
of
that
other
walker
in
the
darkness
,
what
shapes
,
what
lights
,
it
might
be
,
loomed
about
him
as
he
went
his
way
from
our
last
encounter
on
earth-along
the
paths
that
are
real
,
and
the
way
that
endures
for
ever
?
Last
belated
figure
in
that
grouping
round
my
uncle
's
deathbed
is
my
aunt
.
When
it
was
beyond
all
hope
that
my
uncle
could
live
I
threw
aside
whatever
concealment
remained
to
us
and
telegraphed
directly
to
her
.
But
she
came
too
late
to
see
him
living
.
She
saw
him
calm
and
still
,
strangely
unlike
his
habitual
garrulous
animation
,
an
unfamiliar
inflexibility
.
"
It
is
n't
like
him
,
"
she
whispered
,
awed
by
this
alien
dignity
.
I
remember
her
chiefly
as
she
talked
and
wept
upon
the
bridge
below
the
old
castle
.
We
had
got
rid
of
some
amateurish
reporters
from
Biarritz
,
and
had
walked
together
in
the
hot
morning
sunshine
down
through
Port
Luzon
.
There
,
for
a
time
,
we
stood
leaning
on
the
parapet
of
the
bridge
and
surveying
the
distant
peeks
,
the
rich
blue
masses
of
the
Pyrenees
.
For
a
long
time
we
said
nothing
,
and
then
she
began
talking
.
"
Life
's
a
rum
Go
,
George
!
"
she
began
.
"
Who
would
have
thought
,
when
I
used
to
darn
your
stockings
at
old
Wimblehurst
,
that
this
would
be
the
end
of
the
story
?
It
seems
far
away
now-that
little
shop
,
his
and
my
first
home
.
The
glow
of
the
bottles
,
the
big
coloured
bottles
!
Do
you
remember
how
the
light
shone
on
the
mahogany
drawers
?
The
little
gilt
letters
!
Ol
Amjig
,
and
Snap
!
I
can
remember
it
all-bright
and
shining-like
a
Dutch
picture
.
Real
!
And
yesterday
.
And
here
we
are
in
a
dream
.
You
a
man-and
me
an
old
woman
,
George
.
And
poor
little
Teddy
,
who
used
to
rush
about
and
talk-making
that
noise
he
did-Oh
!
"
She
choked
,
and
the
tears
flowed
unrestrained
.
She
wept
,
and
I
was
glad
to
see
her
weeping
.
She
stood
leaning
over
the
bridge
;
her
tear-wet
handkerchief
gripped
in
her
clenched
hand
.
"
Just
an
hour
in
the
old
shop
again-and
him
talking
.
Before
things
got
done
.
Before
they
got
hold
of
him
.
And
fooled
him
.
"
Men
ought
n't
to
be
so
tempted
with
business
and
things
...
.
"
They
did
n't
hurt
him
,
George
?
"
she
asked
suddenly
.
For
a
moment
I
was
puzzled
.
"
Here
,
I
mean
,
"
she
said
.
"
No
,
"
I
lied
stoutly
,
suppressing
the
memory
of
that
foolish
injection
needle
I
had
caught
the
young
doctor
using
.
"
I
wonder
,
George
,
if
they
'll
let
him
talk
in
Heaven
...
.
"
She
faced
me
.
"
Oh
!
George
,
dear
,
my
heart
aches
,
and
I
do
n't
know
what
I
say
and
do
.
Give
me
your
arm
to
lean
on-it
's
good
to
have
you
,
dear
,
and
lean
upon
you
...
.
Yes
,
I
know
you
care
for
me
.
That
's
why
I
'm
talking
.
We
've
always
loved
one
another
,
and
never
said
anything
about
it
,
and
you
understand
,
and
I
understand
.
But
my
heart
's
torn
to
pieces
by
this
,
torn
to
rags
,
and
things
drop
out
I
've
kept
in
it
.
It
's
true
he
was
n't
a
husband
much
for
me
at
the
last
.
But
he
was
my
child
,
George
,
he
was
my
child
and
all
my
children
,
my
silly
child
,
and
life
has
knocked
him
about
for
me
,
and
I
've
never
had
a
say
in
the
matter
;
never
a
say
;
it
's
puffed
him
up
and
smashed
him-like
an
old
bag-under
my
eyes
.
I
was
clever
enough
to
see
it
,
and
not
clever
enough
to
prevent
it
,
and
all
I
could
do
was
to
jeer
.
I
've
had
to
make
what
I
could
of
it
.
Like
most
people
.
Like
most
of
us
...
.
But
it
was
n't
fair
,
George
.
It
was
n't
fair
.
Life
and
Death-great
serious
things-why
could
n't
they
leave
him
alone
,
and
his
lies
and
ways
?
If
WE
could
see
the
lightness
of
it-
"
Why
could
n't
they
leave
him
alone
?
"
she
repeated
in
a
whisper
as
we
went
towards
the
inn
.
CHAPTER
THE
SECOND
LOVE
AMONG
THE
WRECKAGE
When
I
came
back
I
found
that
my
share
in
the
escape
and
death
of
my
uncle
had
made
me
for
a
time
a
notorious
and
even
popular
character
.
For
two
weeks
I
was
kept
in
London
"
facing
the
music
,
"
as
he
would
have
said
,
and
making
things
easy
for
my
aunt
,
and
I
still
marvel
at
the
consideration
with
which
the
world
treated
me
.
For
now
it
was
open
and
manifest
that
I
and
my
uncle
were
no
more
than
specimens
of
a
modern
species
of
brigand
,
wasting
the
savings
of
the
public
out
of
the
sheer
wantonness
of
enterprise
.
I
think
that
in
a
way
,
his
death
produced
a
reaction
in
my
favour
and
my
flight
,
of
which
some
particulars
now
appeared
stuck
in
the
popular
imagination
.
It
seemed
a
more
daring
and
difficult
feat
than
it
was
,
and
I
could
n't
very
well
write
to
the
papers
to
sustain
my
private
estimate
.
There
can
be
little
doubt
that
men
infinitely
prefer
the
appearance
of
dash
and
enterprise
to
simple
honesty
.
No
one
believed
I
was
not
an
arch
plotter
in
his
financing
.
Yet
they
favoured
me
.
I
even
got
permission
from
the
trustee
to
occupy
my
chalet
for
a
fortnight
while
I
cleared
up
the
mass
of
papers
,
calculations
,
notes
of
work
,
drawings
and
the
like
,
that
I
left
in
disorder
when
I
started
on
that
impulsive
raid
upon
the
Mordet
quap
heaps
.
I
was
there
alone
.
I
got
work
for
Cothope
with
the
Ilchesters
,
for
whom
I
now
build
these
destroyers
.
They
wanted
him
at
once
,
and
he
was
short
of
money
,
so
I
let
him
go
and
managed
very
philosophically
by
myself
.
But
I
found
it
hard
to
fix
my
attention
on
aeronautics
,
I
had
been
away
from
the
work
for
a
full
half-year
and
more
,
a
half-year
crowded
with
intense
disconcerting
things
.
For
a
time
my
brain
refused
these
fine
problems
of
balance
and
adjustment
altogether
;
it
wanted
to
think
about
my
uncle
's
dropping
jaw
,
my
aunt
's
reluctant
tears
,
about
dead
negroes
and
pestilential
swamps
,
about
the
evident
realities
of
cruelty
and
pain
,
about
life
and
death
.
Moreover
,
it
was
weary
with
the
frightful
pile
of
figures
and
documents
at
the
Hardingham
,
a
task
to
which
this
raid
to
Lady
Grove
was
simply
an
interlude
.
And
there
was
Beatrice
.
On
the
second
morning
,
as
I
sat
out
upon
the
veranda
recalling
memories
and
striving
in
vain
to
attend
to
some
too
succinct
pencil
notes
of
Cothope
's
,
Beatrice
rode
up
suddenly
from
behind
the
pavilion
,
and
pulled
rein
and
became
still
;
Beatrice
,
a
little
flushed
from
riding
and
sitting
on
a
big
black
horse
.
I
did
not
instantly
rise
.
I
stared
at
her
.
"
YOU
!
"
I
said
.
She
looked
at
me
steadily
.
"
Me
,
"
she
said
I
did
not
trouble
about
any
civilities
.
I
stood
up
and
asked
point
blank
a
question
that
came
into
my
head
.
"
Whose
horse
is
that
?
"
I
said
.
She
looked
me
in
the
eyes
.
"
Carnaby
's
,
"
she
answered
.
"
How
did
you
get
here-this
way
?
"
"
The
wall
's
down
.
"
"
Down
?
Already
?
"
"
A
great
bit
of
it
between
the
plantations
.
"
"
And
you
rode
through
,
and
got
here
by
chance
?
"
"
I
saw
you
yesterday
.
And
I
rode
over
to
see
you
.
"
I
had
now
come
close
to
her
,
and
stood
looking
up
into
her
face
.
"
I
'm
a
mere
vestige
,
"
I
said
.
She
made
no
answer
,
but
remained
regarding
me
steadfastly
with
a
curious
air
of
proprietorship
.
"
You
know
I
'm
the
living
survivor
now
of
the
great
smash
.
I
'm
rolling
and
dropping
down
through
all
the
scaffolding
of
the
social
system
...
.
It
's
all
a
chance
whether
I
roll
out
free
at
the
bottom
,
or
go
down
a
crack
into
the
darkness
out
of
sight
for
a
year
or
two
.
"
"
The
sun
,
"
she
remarked
irrelevantly
,
"
has
burnt
you
...
.
I
'm
getting
down
.
"
She
swung
herself
down
into
my
arms
,
and
stood
beside
me
face
to
face
.
"
Where
's
Cothope
?
"
she
asked
.
"
Gone
.
"
Her
eyes
flitted
to
the
pavilion
and
back
to
me
.
We
stood
close
together
,
extraordinarily
intimate
,
and
extraordinarily
apart
.
"
I
've
never
seen
this
cottage
of
yours
,
"
she
said
,
"
and
I
want
to
.
"
She
flung
the
bridle
of
her
horse
round
the
veranda
post
,
and
I
helped
her
tie
it
.
"
Did
you
get
what
you
went
for
to
Africa
?
"
she
asked
.
"
No
,
"
I
said
,
"
I
lost
my
ship
.
"
"
And
that
lost
everything
?
"
"
Everything
.
"
She
walked
before
me
into
the
living-room
of
the
chalet
,
and
I
saw
that
she
gripped
her
riding-whip
very
tightly
in
her
hand
.
She
looked
about
her
for
a
moment
,
-and
then
at
me
.
"
It
's
comfortable
,
"
she
remarked
.
Our
eyes
met
in
a
conversation
very
different
from
the
one
upon
our
lips
.
A
sombre
glow
surrounded
us
,
drew
us
together
;
an
unwonted
shyness
kept
us
apart
.
She
roused
herself
,
after
an
instant
's
pause
,
to
examine
my
furniture
.
"
You
have
chintz
curtains
.
I
thought
men
were
too
feckless
to
have
curtains
without
a
woman
.
But
,
of
course
,
your
aunt
did
that
!
And
a
couch
and
a
brass
fender
,
and-is
that
a
pianola
?
That
is
your
desk
.
I
thought
men
's
desks
were
always
untidy
,
and
covered
with
dust
and
tobacco
ash
.
"
She
flitted
to
my
colour
prints
and
my
little
case
of
books
.
Then
she
went
to
the
pianola
.
I
watched
her
intently
.
"
Does
this
thing
play
?
"
she
said
.
"
What
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Does
this
thing
play
?
"
I
roused
myself
from
my
preoccupation
.
"
Like
a
musical
gorilla
with
fingers
all
of
one
length
.
And
a
sort
of
soul
...
.
It
's
all
the
world
of
music
to
me
.
"
"
What
do
you
play
?
"
"
Beethoven
,
when
I
want
to
clear
up
my
head
while
I
'm
working
.
He
is-how
one
would
always
like
to
work
.
Sometimes
Chopin
and
those
others
,
but
Beethoven
.
Beethoven
mainly
.
Yes
.
"
Silence
again
between
us
.
She
spoke
with
an
effort
.
"
Play
me
something
.
"
She
turned
from
me
and
explored
the
rack
of
music
rolls
,
became
interested
and
took
a
piece
,
the
first
part
of
the
Kreutzer
Sonata
,
hesitated
.
"
No
,
"
she
said
,
"
that
!
"
She
gave
me
Brahms
'
Second
Concerto
,
Op.
58
,
and
curled
up
on
the
sofa
watching
me
as
I
set
myself
slowly
to
play
...
.
"
I
say
,
"
he
said
when
I
had
done
,
"
that
's
fine
.
I
did
n't
know
those
things
could
play
like
that
.
I
'm
all
astir
...
"
She
came
and
stood
over
me
,
looking
at
me
.
"
I
'm
going
to
have
a
concert
,
"
she
said
abruptly
,
and
laughed
uneasily
and
hovered
at
the
pigeon-holes
.
"
Now-now
what
shall
I
have
?
"
She
chose
more
of
Brahms
.
Then
we
came
to
the
Kreutzer
Sonata
.
It
is
queer
how
Tolstoy
has
loaded
that
with
suggestions
,
debauched
it
,
made
it
a
scandalous
and
intimate
symbol
.
When
I
had
played
the
first
part
of
that
,
she
came
up
to
the
pianola
and
hesitated
over
me
.
I
sat
stiffly-waiting
.
Suddenly
she
seized
my
downcast
head
and
kissed
my
hair
.
She
caught
at
my
face
between
her
hands
and
kissed
my
lips
.
I
put
my
arms
about
her
and
we
kissed
together
.
I
sprang
to
my
feet
and
clasped
her
.
"
Beatrice
!
"
I
said
.
"
Beatrice
!
"
"
My
dear
,
"
she
whispered
,
nearly
breathless
,
with
her
arms
about
me
.
"
Oh
!
my
dear
!
"
Love
,
like
everything
else
in
this
immense
process
of
social
disorganisation
in
which
we
live
,
is
a
thing
adrift
,
a
fruitless
thing
broken
away
from
its
connexions
.
I
tell
of
this
love
affair
here
because
of
its
irrelevance
,
because
it
is
so
remarkable
that
it
should
mean
nothing
,
and
be
nothing
except
itself
.
It
glows
in
my
memory
like
some
bright
casual
flower
starting
up
amidst
the
debris
of
a
catastrophe
.
For
nearly
a
fortnight
we
two
met
and
made
love
together
.
Once
more
this
mighty
passion
,
that
our
aimless
civilisation
has
fettered
and
maimed
and
sterilised
and
debased
,
gripped
me
and
filled
me
with
passionate
delights
and
solemn
joys-that
were
all
,
you
know
,
futile
and
purposeless
.
Once
more
I
had
the
persuasion
"
This
matters
.
Nothing
else
matters
so
much
as
this
.
"
We
were
both
infinitely
grave
in
such
happiness
as
we
had
.
I
do
not
remember
any
laughter
at
all
between
us
.
Twelve
days
it
lasted
from
that
encounter
in
my
chalet
until
our
parting
.
Except
at
the
end
,
they
were
days
of
supreme
summer
,
and
there
was
a
waxing
moon
.
We
met
recklessly
day
by
day
.
We
were
so
intent
upon
each
other
at
first
so
intent
upon
expressing
ourselves
to
each
other
,
and
getting
at
each
other
,
that
we
troubled
very
little
about
the
appearance
of
our
relationship
.
We
met
almost
openly
...
.
We
talked
of
ten
thousand
things
,
and
of
ourselves
.
We
loved
.
We
made
love
.
There
is
no
prose
of
mine
that
can
tell
of
hours
transfigured
.
The
facts
are
nothing
.
Everything
we
touched
,
the
meanest
things
,
became
glorious
.
How
can
I
render
bare
tenderness
and
delight
and
mutual
possession
?
I
sit
here
at
my
desk
thinking
of
untellable
things
.
I
have
come
to
know
so
much
of
love
that
I
know
now
what
love
might
be
.
We
loved
,
scarred
and
stained
;
we
parted-basely
and
inevitably
,
but
at
least
I
met
love
.
I
remember
as
we
sat
in
a
Canadian
canoe
,
in
a
reedy
,
bush-masked
shallow
we
had
discovered
operating
out
of
that
pine-shaded
Woking
canal
,
how
she
fell
talking
of
the
things
that
happened
to
her
before
she
met
me
again
...
.
She
told
me
things
,
and
they
so
joined
and
welded
together
other
things
that
lay
disconnected
in
my
memory
,
that
it
seemed
to
me
I
had
always
known
what
she
told
me
.
And
yet
indeed
I
had
not
known
nor
suspected
it
,
save
perhaps
for
a
luminous
,
transitory
suspicion
ever
and
again
.
She
made
me
see
how
life
had
shaped
her
.
She
told
me
of
her
girlhood
after
I
had
known
her
.
"
We
were
poor
and
pretending
and
managing
.
We
hacked
about
on
visits
and
things
.
I
ought
to
have
married
.
The
chances
I
had
were
n't
particularly
good
chances
.
I
did
n't
like
'
em
.
"
She
paused
.
"
Then
Carnaby
came
along
.
"
I
remained
quite
still
.
She
spoke
now
with
downcast
eyes
,
and
one
finger
just
touching
the
water
.
"
One
gets
bored
,
bored
beyond
redemption
.
One
does
about
to
these
huge
expensive
houses
I
suppose-the
scale
's
immense
.
One
makes
one
's
self
useful
to
the
other
women
,
and
agreeable
to
the
men
.
One
has
to
dress
...
.
One
has
food
and
exercise
and
leisure
,
It
's
the
leisure
,
and
the
space
,
and
the
blank
opportunity
it
seems
a
sin
not
to
fill
.
Carnaby
is
n't
like
the
other
men
.
He
's
bigger
...
.
They
go
about
making
love
.
Everybody
's
making
love
.
I
did
...
.
And
I
do
n't
do
things
by
halves
.
"
She
stopped
.
"
You
knew
?
"
-she
asked
,
looking
up
,
quite
steadily
.
I
nodded
.
"
Since
when
?
"
"
Those
last
days
...
.
It
has
n't
seemed
to
matter
really
.
I
was
a
little
surprised
.
"
She
looked
at
me
quietly
.
"
Cothope
knew
,
"
she
said
.
"
By
instinct
.
I
could
feel
it
.
"
"
I
suppose
,
"
I
began
,
"
once
,
this
would
have
mattered
immensely
.
Now-
"
"
Nothing
matters
,
"
she
said
,
completing
me
.
"
I
felt
I
had
to
tell
you
.
I
wanted
you
to
understand
why
I
did
n't
marry
you-with
both
hands
.
I
have
loved
you
"
-she
paused-
"
have
loved
you
ever
since
the
day
I
kissed
you
in
the
bracken
.
Only-I
forgot
.
"
And
suddenly
she
dropped
her
face
upon
her
hands
,
and
sobbed
passionately-
"
I
forgot-I
forgot
,
"
she
cried
,
and
became
still
...
.
I
dabbled
my
paddle
in
the
water
.
"
Look
here
!
"
I
said
;
"
forget
again
!
Here
am
I-a
ruined
man
.
Marry
me
.
"
She
shook
her
head
without
looking
up
.
We
were
still
for
a
long
time
.
"
Marry
me
!
"
I
whispered
.
She
looked
up
,
twined
back
a
whisp
of
hair
,
and
answered
dispassionately-
"
I
wish
I
could
.
Anyhow
,
we
have
had
this
time
.
It
has
been
a
fine
time-has
it
been-for
you
also
?
I
have
n't
nudged
you
all
I
had
to
give
.
It
's
a
poor
gift-except
for
what
it
means
and
might
have
been
.
But
we
are
near
the
end
of
it
now
.
"
"
Why
?
"
I
asked
.
"
Marry
me
!
Why
should
we
two-
"
"
You
think
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
could
take
courage
and
come
to
you
and
be
your
everyday
wife-while
you
work
and
are
poor
?
"
"
Why
not
?
"
said
I
.
She
looked
at
me
gravely
,
with
extended
finger
.
"
Do
you
really
think
that-of
me
?
Have
n't
you
seen
me-all
?
"
I
hesitated
.
"
Never
once
have
I
really
meant
marrying
you
,
"
she
insisted
.
"
Never
once
.
I
fell
in
love
with
you
from
the
first
.
But
when
you
seemed
a
successful
man
,
I
told
myself
I
would
n't
.
I
was
love-sick
for
you
,
and
you
were
so
stupid
,
I
came
near
it
then
.
But
I
knew
I
was
n't
good
enough
.
What
could
I
have
been
to
you
?
A
woman
with
bad
habits
and
bad
associations
,
a
woman
smirched
.
And
what
could
I
do
for
you
or
be
to
you
?
If
I
was
n't
good
enough
to
be
a
rich
man
's
wife
,
I
'm
certainly
not
good
enough
to
be
a
poor
one
's
.
Forgive
me
for
talking
sense
to
you
now
,
but
I
wanted
to
tell
you
this
somehow
.
"
She
stopped
at
my
gesture
.
I
sat
up
,
and
the
canoe
rocked
with
my
movement
.
"
I
do
n't
care
,
"
I
said
.
"
I
want
to
marry
you
and
make
you
my
wife
!
"
"
No
,
"
she
said
,
"
do
n't
spoil
things
.
That
is
impossible
!
"
"
Impossible
!
"
"
Think
!
I
ca
n't
do
my
own
hair
!
Do
you
mean
you
will
get
me
a
maid
?
"
"
Good
God
!
"
I
cried
,
disconcerted
beyond
measure
,
"
wo
n't
you
learn
to
do
your
own
hair
for
me
?
Do
you
mean
to
say
you
can
love
a
man-
"
She
flung
out
her
hands
at
me
.
"
Do
n't
spoil
it
,
"
she
cried
.
"
I
have
given
you
all
I
have
,
I
have
given
you
all
I
can
.
If
I
could
do
it
,
if
I
was
good
enough
to
do
it
,
I
would
.
But
I
am
a
woman
spoilt
and
ruined
,
dear
,
and
you
are
a
ruined
man
.
When
we
are
making
love
we
're
lovers-but
think
of
the
gulf
between
us
in
habits
and
ways
of
thought
,
in
will
and
training
,
when
we
are
not
making
love
.
Think
of
it-and
do
n't
think
of
it
!
Do
n't
think
of
it
yet
.
We
have
snatched
some
hours
.
We
still
may
have
some
hours
!
"
She
suddenly
knelt
forward
toward
me
,
with
a
glowing
darkness
in
her
eyes
.
"
Who
cares
if
it
upsets
?
"
she
cried
.
"
If
you
say
another
word
I
will
kiss
you
.
And
go
to
the
bottom
clutching
you
.
"
I
'm
not
afraid
of
that
.
I
'm
not
a
bit
afraid
of
that
.
I
'll
die
with
you
.
Choose
a
death
,
and
I
'll
die
with
you-readily
.
Do
listen
to
me
!
I
love
you
.
I
shall
always
love
you
.
It
's
because
I
love
you
that
I
wo
n't
go
down
to
become
a
dirty
familiar
thing
with
you
amidst
the
grime
.
I
've
given
all
I
can
.
I
've
had
all
I
can
...
.
Tell
me
,
"
and
she
crept
nearer
,
"
have
I
been
like
the
dusk
to
you
,
like
the
warm
dusk
?
Is
there
magic
still
?
Listen
to
the
ripple
of
water
from
your
paddle
.
Look
at
the
warm
evening
light
in
the
sky
.
Who
cares
if
the
canoe
upsets
?
Come
nearer
to
me
.
Oh
,
my
love
!
come
near
!
So
.
"
She
drew
me
to
her
and
our
lips
met
.
I
asked
her
to
marry
me
once
again
.
It
was
our
last
morning
together
,
and
we
had
met
very
early
,
about
sunrise
,
knowing
that
we
were
to
part
.
No
sun
shone
that
day
.
The
sky
was
overcast
,
the
morning
chilly
and
lit
by
a
clear
,
cold
,
spiritless
light
.
A
heavy
dampness
in
the
air
verged
close
on
rain
.
When
I
think
of
that
morning
,
it
has
always
the
quality
of
greying
ashes
wet
with
rain
.
Beatrice
too
had
changed
.
The
spring
had
gone
out
of
her
movement
;
it
came
to
me
,
for
the
first
time
,
that
some
day
she
might
grow
old
.
She
had
become
one
flesh
with
the
rest
of
common
humanity
;
the
softness
had
gone
from
her
voice
and
manner
,
the
dusky
magic
of
her
presence
had
gone
.
I
saw
these
things
with
perfect
clearness
,
and
they
made
me
sorry
for
them
and
for
her
.
But
they
altered
my
love
not
a
whit
,
abated
it
nothing
.
And
when
we
had
talked
awkwardly
for
half
a
dozen
sentences
,
I
came
dully
to
my
point
.
"
And
now
,
"
I
cried
,
"
will
you
marry
me
?
"
"
No
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
shall
keep
to
my
life
here
.
"
I
asked
her
to
marry
me
in
a
year
's
time
.
She
shook
her
head
.
"
This
world
is
a
soft
world
,
"
I
said
,
"
in
spite
of
my
present
disasters
.
I
know
now
how
to
do
things
.
If
I
had
you
to
work
for-in
a
year
I
could
be
a
prosperous
man
.
"
"
No
,
"
she
said
,
"
I
will
put
it
brutally
,
I
shall
go
back
to
Carnaby
.
"
"
But-
!
"
I
did
not
feel
angry
.
I
had
no
sort
of
jealousy
,
no
wounded
pride
,
no
sense
of
injury
.
I
had
only
a
sense
of
grey
desolation
,
of
hopeless
cross-purposes
.
"
Look
here
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
have
been
awake
all
night
and
every
night
.
I
have
been
thinking
of
this-every
moment
when
we
have
not
been
together
.
I
'm
not
answering
you
on
an
impulse
.
I
love
you
.
I
love
you
.
I
'll
say
that
over
ten
thousand
times
.
But
here
we
are-
"
"
The
rest
of
life
together
,
"
I
said
.
"
It
would
n't
be
together
.
Now
we
are
together
.
Now
we
have
been
together
.
We
are
full
of
memories
I
do
not
feel
I
can
ever
forget
a
single
one
.
"
"
Nor
I
.
"
"
And
I
want
to
close
it
and
leave
it
at
that
.
You
see
,
dear
,
what
else
is
there
to
do
?
"
She
turned
her
white
face
to
me
.
"
All
I
know
of
love
,
all
I
have
ever
dreamt
or
learnt
of
love
I
have
packed
into
these
days
for
you
.
You
think
we
might
live
together
and
go
on
loving
.
No
!
For
you
I
will
have
no
vain
repetitions
.
You
have
had
the
best
and
all
of
me
.
Would
you
have
us
,
after
this
,
meet
again
in
London
or
Paris
or
somewhere
,
scuffle
to
some
wretched
dressmaker
's
,
meet
in
a
cabinet
particulier
?
"
"
No
,
"
I
said
.
"
I
want
you
to
marry
me
.
I
want
you
to
play
the
game
of
life
with
me
as
an
honest
woman
should
.
Come
and
live
with
me
.
Be
my
wife
and
squaw
.
Bear
me
children
.
"
I
looked
at
her
white
,
drawn
face
,
and
it
seemed
to
me
I
might
carry
her
yet
.
I
spluttered
for
words
.
"
My
God
!
Beatrice
!
"
I
cried
;
"
but
this
is
cowardice
and
folly
!
Are
you
afraid
of
life
?
You
of
all
people
!
What
does
it
matter
what
has
been
or
what
we
were
?
Here
we
are
with
the
world
before
us
!
Start
clean
and
new
with
me
.
We
'll
fight
it
through
!
I
'm
not
such
a
simple
lover
that
I
'll
not
tell
you
plainly
when
you
go
wrong
,
and
fight
our
difference
out
with
you
.
It
's
the
one
thing
I
want
,
the
one
thing
I
need-to
have
you
,
and
more
of
you
and
more
!
This
love-making-it
's
love-making
.
It
's
just
a
part
of
us
,
an
incident-
"
She
shook
her
head
and
stopped
me
abruptly
.
"
It
's
all
,
"
she
said
.
"
All
!
"
I
protested
.
"
I
'm
wiser
than
you
.
Wiser
beyond
words
.
"
She
turned
her
eyes
to
me
and
they
shone
with
tears
.
"
I
would
n't
have
you
say
anything-but
what
you
're
saying
,
"
she
said
.
"
But
it
's
nonsense
,
dear
.
You
know
it
's
nonsense
as
you
say
it
.
"
I
tried
to
keep
up
the
heroic
note
,
but
she
would
not
listen
to
it
.
"
It
's
no
good
,
"
she
cried
almost
petulantly
.
"
This
little
world
has
made
us
what
we
are
.
Do
n't
you
see-do
n't
you
see
what
I
am
?
I
can
make
love
.
I
can
make
love
and
be
loved
,
prettily
.
Dear
,
do
n't
blame
me
.
I
have
given
you
all
I
have
.
If
I
had
anything
more-I
have
gone
through
it
all
over
and
over
again-thought
it
out
.
This
morning
my
head
aches
,
my
eyes
ache
.
"
The
light
has
gone
out
of
me
and
I
am
a
sick
and
tired
woman
.
But
I
'm
talking
wisdom-bitter
wisdom
.
I
could
n't
be
any
sort
of
helper
to
you
,
any
sort
of
wife
,
any
sort
of
mother
.
I
'm
spoilt
.
"
I
'm
spoilt
by
this
rich
idle
way
of
living
,
until
every
habit
is
wrong
,
every
taste
wrong
.
The
world
is
wrong
.
People
can
be
ruined
by
wealth
just
as
much
as
by
poverty
.
Do
you
think
I
would
n't
face
life
with
you
if
I
could
,
if
I
was
n't
absolutely
certain
I
should
be
down
and
dragging
in
the
first
half-mile
of
the
journey
?
Here
I
am-damned
!
Damned
!
But
I
wo
n't
damn
you
.
You
know
what
I
am
!
You
know
.
You
are
too
clear
and
simple
not
to
know
the
truth
.
You
try
to
romance
and
hector
,
but
you
know
the
truth
.
I
am
a
little
cad-sold
and
done
.
I'm-
.
My
dear
,
you
think
I
've
been
misbehaving
,
but
all
these
days
I
've
been
on
my
best
behaviour
...
.
You
do
n't
understand
,
because
you
're
a
man
.
"
A
woman
,
when
she
's
spoilt
,
is
SPOILT
.
She
's
dirty
in
grain
.
She
's
done
.
"
She
walked
on
weeping
.
"
You
're
a
fool
to
want
me
,
"
she
said
.
"
You
're
a
fool
to
want
me-for
my
sake
just
as
much
as
yours
.
We
've
done
all
we
can
.
It
's
just
romancing-
"
She
dashed
the
tears
from
her
eyes
and
turned
upon
me
.
"
Do
n't
you
understand
?
"
she
challenged
.
"
Do
n't
you
know
?
"
We
faced
one
another
in
silence
for
a
moment
.
"
Yes
,
"
I
said
,
"
I
know
.
"
For
a
long
time
we
spoke
never
a
word
,
but
walked
on
together
,
slowly
and
sorrowfully
,
reluctant
to
turn
about
towards
our
parting
.
When
at
last
we
did
,
she
broke
silence
again
.
"
I
've
had
you
,
"
she
said
.
"
Heaven
and
hell
,
"
I
said
,
"
ca
n't
alter
that
.
"
"
I
've
wanted-
"
she
went
on
.
"
I
've
talked
to
you
in
the
nights
and
made
up
speeches
.
Now
when
I
want
to
make
them
I
'm
tongue-tied
.
But
to
me
it
's
just
as
if
the
moments
we
have
had
lasted
for
ever
.
Moods
and
states
come
and
go
.
To-day
my
light
is
out
...
"
To
this
day
I
cannot
determine
whether
she
said
or
whether
I
imagined
she
said
"
chloral
.
"
Perhaps
a
half-conscious
diagnosis
flashed
it
on
my
brain
.
Perhaps
I
am
the
victim
of
some
perverse
imaginative
freak
of
memory
,
some
hinted
possibility
that
scratched
and
seared
.
There
the
word
stands
in
my
memory
,
as
if
it
were
written
in
fire
.
We
came
to
the
door
of
Lady
Osprey
's
garden
at
last
,
and
it
was
beginning
to
drizzle
.
She
held
out
her
hands
and
I
took
them
.
"
Yours
,
"
she
said
,
in
a
weary
unimpassioned
voice
;
"
all
that
I
had-such
as
it
was
.
Will
you
forget
?
"
"
Never
,
"
I
answered
.
"
Never
a
touch
or
a
word
of
it
?
"
"
No.
"
"
You
will
,
"
she
said
.
We
looked
at
one
another
in
silence
,
and
her
face
full
of
fatigue
and
misery
.
What
could
I
do
?
What
was
there
to
do
?
"
I
wish-
"
I
said
,
and
stopped
.
"
Good-bye
.
"
That
should
have
been
the
last
I
saw
of
her
,
but
,
indeed
,
I
was
destined
to
see
her
once
again
.
Two
days
after
I
was
at
Lady
Grove
,
I
forget
altogether
upon
what
errand
,
and
as
I
walked
back
to
the
station
believing
her
to
be
gone
away
she
came
upon
me
,
and
she
was
riding
with
Carnaby
,
just
as
I
had
seen
them
first
.
The
encounter
jumped
upon
us
unprepared
.
She
rode
by
,
her
eyes
dark
in
her
white
face
,
and
scarcely
noticed
me
.
She
winced
and
grew
stiff
at
the
sight
of
me
and
bowed
her
head
.
But
Carnaby
,
because
he
thought
I
was
a
broken
and
discomfited
man
,
saluted
me
with
an
easy
friendliness
,
and
shouted
some
genial
commonplace
to
me
.
They
passed
out
of
sight
and
left
me
by
the
roadside
...
.
And
then
,
indeed
,
I
tasted
the
ultimate
bitterness
of
life
.
For
the
first
time
I
felt
utter
futility
,
and
was
wrung
by
emotion
that
begot
no
action
,
by
shame
and
pity
beyond
words
.
I
had
parted
from
her
dully
and
I
had
seen
my
uncle
break
and
die
with
dry
eyes
and
a
steady
mind
,
but
this
chance
sight
of
my
lost
Beatrice
brought
me
to
tears
.
My
face
was
wrung
,
and
tears
came
pouring
down
my
cheeks
.
All
the
magic
she
had
for
me
had
changed
to
wild
sorrow
.
"
Oh
God
!
"
I
cried
,
"
this
is
too
much
,
"
and
turned
my
face
after
her
and
made
appealing
gestures
to
the
beech
trees
and
cursed
at
fate
.
I
wanted
to
do
preposterous
things
,
to
pursue
her
,
to
save
her
,
to
turn
life
back
so
that
she
might
begin
again
.
I
wonder
what
would
have
happened
had
I
overtaken
them
in
pursuit
,
breathless
with
running
,
uttering
incoherent
words
,
weeping
,
expostulatory
.
I
came
near
to
doing
that
.
There
was
nothing
in
earth
or
heaven
to
respect
my
curses
or
weeping
.
In
the
midst
of
it
a
man
who
had
been
trimming
the
opposite
hedge
appeared
and
stared
at
me
.
Abruptly
,
ridiculously
,
I
dissembled
before
him
and
went
on
and
caught
my
train
...
.
But
the
pain
I
felt
then
I
have
felt
a
hundred
times
;
it
is
with
me
as
I
write
.
It
haunts
this
book
,
I
see
,
that
is
what
haunts
this
book
,
from
end
to
end
.
CHAPTER
THE
THIRD
NIGHT
AND
THE
OPEN
SEA
I
have
tried
throughout
all
this
story
to
tell
things
as
they
happened
to
me
.
In
the
beginning-the
sheets
are
still
here
on
the
table
,
grimy
and
dogs-eared
and
old-looking-I
said
I
wanted
to
tell
MYSELF
and
the
world
in
which
I
found
myself
,
and
I
have
done
my
best
.
But
whether
I
have
succeeded
I
cannot
imagine
.
All
this
writing
is
grey
now
and
dead
and
trite
and
unmeaning
to
me
;
some
of
it
I
know
by
heart
.
I
am
the
last
person
to
judge
it
.
As
I
turn
over
the
big
pile
of
manuscript
before
me
certain
things
become
clearer
to
me
,
and
particularly
the
immense
inconsequences
of
my
experiences
.
It
is
,
I
see
now
that
I
have
it
all
before
me
,
a
story
of
activity
and
urgency
and
sterility
.
I
have
called
it
Tono-Bungay
,
but
I
had
far
better
have
called
it
Waste
.
I
have
told
of
childless
Marion
,
of
my
childless
aunt
,
of
Beatrice
wasted
and
wasteful
and
futile
.
What
hope
is
there
for
a
people
whose
women
become
fruitless
?
I
think
of
all
the
energy
I
have
given
to
vain
things
.
I
think
of
my
industrious
scheming
with
my
uncle
,
of
Crest
Hill
's
vast
cessation
,
of
his
resonant
strenuous
career
.
Ten
thousand
men
have
envied
him
and
wished
to
live
as
he
lived
.
It
is
all
one
spectacle
of
forces
running
to
waste
,
of
people
who
use
and
do
not
replace
,
the
story
of
a
country
hectic
with
a
wasting
aimless
fever
of
trade
and
money-making
and
pleasure-seeking
.
And
now
I
build
destroyers
!
Other
people
may
see
this
country
in
other
terms
;
this
is
how
I
have
seen
it
.
In
some
early
chapter
in
this
heap
I
compared
all
our
present
colour
and
abundance
to
October
foliage
before
the
frosts
nip
down
the
leaves
.
That
I
still
feel
was
a
good
image
.
Perhaps
I
see
wrongly
.
It
may
be
I
see
decay
all
about
me
because
I
am
,
in
a
sense
,
decay
.
To
others
it
may
be
a
scene
of
achievement
and
construction
radiant
with
hope
.
I
,
too
,
have
a
sort
of
hope
,
but
it
is
a
remote
hope
,
a
hope
that
finds
no
promise
in
this
Empire
or
in
any
of
the
great
things
of
our
time
.
How
they
will
look
in
history
I
do
not
know
,
how
time
and
chance
will
prove
them
I
cannot
guess
;
that
is
how
they
have
mirrored
themselves
on
one
contemporary
mind
.
Concurrently
with
writing
the
last
chapter
of
this
book
I
have
been
much
engaged
by
the
affairs
of
a
new
destroyer
we
have
completed
.
It
has
been
an
oddly
complementary
alternation
of
occupations
.
Three
weeks
or
so
ago
this
novel
had
to
be
put
aside
in
order
that
I
might
give
all
my
time
day
and
night
to
the
fitting
and
finishing
of
the
engines
.
Last
Thursday
X
2
,
for
so
we
call
her
,
was
done
and
I
took
her
down
the
Thames
and
went
out
nearly
to
Texel
for
a
trial
of
speed
.
It
is
curious
how
at
times
one
's
impressions
will
all
fuse
and
run
together
into
a
sort
of
unity
and
become
continuous
with
things
that
have
hitherto
been
utterly
alien
and
remote
.
That
rush
down
the
river
became
mysteriously
connected
with
this
book
.
As
I
passed
down
the
Thames
I
seemed
in
a
new
and
parallel
manner
to
be
passing
all
England
in
review
.
I
saw
it
then
as
I
had
wanted
my
readers
to
see
it
.
The
thought
came
to
me
slowly
as
I
picked
my
way
through
the
Pool
;
it
stood
out
clear
as
I
went
dreaming
into
the
night
out
upon
the
wide
North
Sea
.
It
was
n't
so
much
thinking
at
the
time
as
a
sort
of
photographic
thought
that
came
and
grew
clear
.
X2
went
ripping
through
the
dirty
oily
water
as
scissors
rip
through
canvas
,
and
the
front
of
my
mind
was
all
intent
with
getting
her
through
under
the
bridges
and
in
and
out
among
the
steam-boats
and
barges
and
rowing-boats
and
piers
.
I
lived
with
my
hands
and
eyes
hard
ahead
.
I
thought
nothing
then
of
any
appearances
but
obstacles
,
but
for
all
that
the
back
of
my
mind
took
the
photographic
memory
of
it
complete
and
vivid
...
.
"
This
,
"
it
came
to
me
,
"
is
England
.
That
is
what
I
wanted
to
give
in
my
book
.
This
!
"
We
started
in
the
late
afternoon
.
We
throbbed
out
of
our
yard
above
Hammersmith
Bridge
,
fussed
about
for
a
moment
,
and
headed
down
stream
.
We
came
at
an
easy
rush
down
Craven
Reach
,
past
Fulham
and
Hurlingham
,
past
the
long
stretches
of
muddy
meadow
And
muddy
suburb
to
Battersea
and
Chelsea
,
round
the
cape
of
tidy
frontage
that
is
Grosvenor
Road
and
under
Vauxhall
Bridge
,
and
Westminster
opened
before
us
.
We
cleared
a
string
of
coal
barges
and
there
on
the
left
in
the
October
sunshine
stood
the
Parliament
houses
,
and
the
flag
was
flying
and
Parliament
was
sitting
.
I
saw
it
at
the
time
unseeingly
;
afterwards
it
came
into
my
mind
as
the
centre
of
the
whole
broad
panoramic
effect
of
that
afternoon
.
The
stiff
square
lace
of
Victorian
Gothic
with
its
Dutch
clock
of
a
tower
came
upon
me
suddenly
and
stared
and
whirled
past
in
a
slow
half
pirouette
and
became
still
,
I
know
,
behind
me
as
if
watching
me
recede
.
"
Are
n't
you
going
to
respect
me
,
then
?
"
it
seemed
to
say
.
Not
I
!
There
in
that
great
pile
of
Victorian
architecture
the
landlords
and
the
lawyers
,
the
bishops
,
the
railway
men
and
the
magnates
of
commerce
go
to
and
fro-in
their
incurable
tradition
of
commercialised
Bladesovery
,
of
meretricious
gentry
and
nobility
sold
for
riches
.
I
have
been
near
enough
to
know
.
The
Irish
and
the
Labour-men
run
about
among
their
feet
,
making
a
fuss
,
effecting
little
,
they
've
got
no
better
plans
that
I
can
see
.
Respect
it
indeed
!
There
's
a
certain
paraphernalia
of
dignity
,
but
whom
does
it
deceive
?
The
King
comes
down
in
a
gilt
coach
to
open
the
show
and
wears
long
robes
and
a
crown
;
and
there
's
a
display
of
stout
and
slender
legs
in
white
stockings
and
stout
and
slender
legs
in
black
stockings
and
artful
old
gentlemen
in
ermine
.
I
was
reminded
of
one
congested
afternoon
I
had
spent
with
my
aunt
amidst
a
cluster
of
agitated
women
's
hats
in
the
Royal
Gallery
of
the
House
of
Lords
and
how
I
saw
the
King
going
to
open
Parliament
,
and
the
Duke
of
Devonshire
looking
like
a
gorgeous
pedlar
and
terribly
bored
with
the
cap
of
maintenance
on
a
tray
before
him
hung
by
slings
from
his
shoulder
.
A
wonderful
spectacle
!
It
is
quaint
,
no
doubt
,
this
England-it
is
even
dignified
in
places-and
full
of
mellow
associations
.
That
does
not
alter
the
quality
of
the
realities
these
robes
conceal
.
The
realities
are
greedy
trade
,
base
profit-seeking
,
bold
advertisement
;
and
kingship
and
chivalry
,
spite
of
this
wearing
of
treasured
robes
,
are
as
dead
among
it
all
as
that
crusader
my
uncle
championed
against
the
nettles
outside
the
Duffield
church
.
I
have
thought
much
of
that
bright
afternoon
's
panorama
.
To
run
down
the
Thames
so
is
to
run
one
's
hand
over
the
pages
in
the
book
of
England
from
end
to
end
.
One
begins
in
Craven
Reach
and
it
is
as
if
one
were
in
the
heart
of
old
England
.
Behind
us
are
Kew
and
Hampton
Court
with
their
memories
of
Kings
and
Cardinals
,
and
one
runs
at
first
between
Fulham
's
episcopal
garden
parties
and
Hurlingham
's
playground
for
the
sporting
instinct
of
our
race
.
The
whole
effect
is
English
.
There
is
space
,
there
are
old
trees
and
all
the
best
qualities
of
the
home-land
in
that
upper
reach
.
Putney
,
too
,
looks
Anglican
on
a
dwindling
scale
.
And
then
for
a
stretch
the
newer
developments
slop
over
,
one
misses
Bladesover
and
there
come
first
squalid
stretches
of
mean
homes
right
and
left
and
then
the
dingy
industrialism
of
the
south
side
,
and
on
the
north
bank
the
polite
long
front
of
nice
houses
,
artistic
,
literary
,
administrative
people
's
residences
,
that
stretches
from
Cheyne
Walk
nearly
to
Westminster
and
hides
a
wilderness
of
slums
.
What
a
long
slow
crescendo
that
is
,
mile
after
mile
,
with
the
houses
crowding
closelier
,
the
multiplying
succession
of
church
towers
,
the
architectural
moments
,
the
successive
bridges
,
until
you
come
out
into
the
second
movement
of
the
piece
with
Lambeth
's
old
palace
under
your
quarter
and
the
houses
of
Parliament
on
your
bow
!
Westminster
Bridge
is
ahead
of
you
then
,
and
through
it
you
flash
,
and
in
a
moment
the
round-faced
clock
tower
cranes
up
to
peer
at
you
again
and
New
Scotland
Yard
squares
at
you
,
a
fat
beef-eater
of
a
policeman
disguised
miraculously
as
a
Bastille
.
For
a
stretch
you
have
the
essential
London
;
you
have
Charing
Cross
railway
station
,
heart
of
the
world
,
and
the
Embankment
on
the
north
side
with
its
new
hotels
overshadowing
its
Georgian
and
Victorian
architecture
,
and
mud
and
great
warehouses
and
factories
,
chimneys
,
shot
towers
,
advertisements
on
the
south
.
The
northward
skyline
grows
more
intricate
and
pleasing
,
and
more
and
more
does
one
thank
God
for
Wren
.
Somerset
House
is
as
picturesque
as
the
civil
war
,
one
is
reminded
again
of
the
original
England
,
one
feels
in
the
fretted
sky
the
quality
of
Restoration
Lace
.
And
then
comes
Astor
's
strong
box
and
the
lawyers
'
Inns
.
(
I
had
a
passing
memory
of
myself
there
,
how
once
I
had
trudged
along
the
Embankment
westward
,
weighing
my
uncle
's
offer
of
three
hundred
pounds
a
year
...
.
)
Through
that
central
essential
London
reach
I
drove
,
and
X2
bored
her
nose
under
the
foam
regardless
of
it
all
like
a
black
hound
going
through
reeds-on
what
trail
even
I
who
made
her
cannot
tell
.
And
in
this
reach
,
too
,
one
first
meets
the
seagulls
and
is
reminded
of
the
sea
.
Blackfriars
one
takes-just
under
these
two
bridges
and
just
between
them
is
the
finest
bridge
moment
in
the
world-and
behold
,
soaring
up
,
hanging
in
the
sky
over
a
rude
tumult
of
warehouses
,
over
a
jostling
competition
of
traders
,
irrelevantly
beautiful
and
altogether
remote
,
Saint
Paul
's
!
"
Of
course
!
"
one
says
,
"
Saint
Paul
's
!
"
It
is
the
very
figure
of
whatever
fineness
the
old
Anglican
culture
achieved
,
detached
,
a
more
dignified
and
chastened
Saint
Peter
's
,
colder
,
greyer
,
but
still
ornate
;
it
has
never
been
over
thrown
,
never
disavowed
,
only
the
tall
warehouses
and
all
the
roar
of
traffic
have
forgotten
it
,
every
one
has
forgotten
it
;
the
steamships
,
the
barges
,
go
heedlessly
by
regardless
of
it
,
intricacies
of
telephone
wires
and
poles
cut
blackly
into
its
thin
mysteries
,
and
presently
,
when
in
a
moment
the
traffic
permits
you
and
you
look
round
for
it
,
it
has
dissolved
like
a
cloud
into
the
grey
blues
of
the
London
sky
.
And
then
the
traditional
and
ostensible
England
falls
from
you
altogether
.
The
third
movement
begins
,
the
last
great
movement
in
the
London
symphony
,
in
which
the
trim
scheme
of
the
old
order
is
altogether
dwarfed
and
swallowed
up
.
Comes
London
Bridge
,
and
the
great
warehouses
tower
up
about
you
,
waving
stupendous
cranes
,
the
gulls
circle
and
scream
in
your
ears
,
large
ships
lie
among
their
lighters
,
and
one
is
in
the
port
of
the
world
.
Again
and
again
in
this
book
I
have
written
of
England
as
a
feudal
scheme
overtaken
by
fatty
degeneration
and
stupendous
accidents
of
hypertrophy
.
For
the
last
time
I
must
strike
that
note
as
the
memory
of
the
dear
neat
little
sunlit
ancient
Tower
of
London
lying
away
in
a
gap
among
the
warehouses
comes
back
to
me
,
that
little
accumulation
of
buildings
so
provincially
pleasant
and
dignified
,
overshadowed
by
the
vulgarest
,
most
typical
exploit
of
modern
England
,
the
sham
Gothic
casings
to
the
ironwork
of
the
Tower
Bridge
.
That
Tower
Bridge
is
the
very
balance
and
confirmation
of
Westminster
's
dull
pinnacles
and
tower
.
That
sham
Gothic
bridge
;
in
the
very
gates
of
our
mother
of
change
,
the
Sea
!
But
after
that
one
is
in
a
world
of
accident
and
nature
.
For
the
third
part
of
the
panorama
of
London
is
beyond
all
law
,
order
,
and
precedence
;
it
is
the
seaport
and
the
sea
.
One
goes
down
the
widening
reaches
through
a
monstrous
variety
of
shipping
,
great
steamers
,
great
sailing-ships
,
trailing
the
flags
of
all
the
world
,
a
monstrous
confusion
of
lighters
,
witches
'
conferences
of
brown-sailed
barges
,
wallowing
tugs
,
a
tumultuous
crowding
and
jostling
of
cranes
and
spars
,
and
wharves
and
stores
,
and
assertive
inscriptions
.
Huge
vistas
of
dock
open
right
and
left
of
one
,
and
here
and
there
beyond
and
amidst
it
all
are
church
towers
,
little
patches
of
indescribably
old-fashioned
and
worn-out
houses
,
riverside
pubs
and
the
like
,
vestiges
of
townships
that
were
long
since
torn
to
fragments
and
submerged
in
these
new
growths
.
And
amidst
it
all
no
plan
appears
,
no
intention
,
no
comprehensive
desire
.
That
is
the
very
key
of
it
all
.
Each
day
one
feels
that
the
pressure
of
commerce
and
traffic
grew
,
grew
insensibly
monstrous
,
and
first
this
man
made
a
wharf
and
that
erected
a
crane
,
and
then
this
company
set
to
work
and
then
that
,
and
so
they
jostled
together
to
make
this
unassimilable
enormity
of
traffic
.
Through
it
we
dodged
and
drove
eager
for
the
high
seas
.
I
remember
how
I
laughed
aloud
at
the
glimpse
of
the
name
of
a
London
County
Council
steamboat
that
ran
across
me
.
Caxton
it
was
called
,
and
another
was
Pepys
,
and
another
was
Shakespeare
.
They
seemed
so
wildly
out
of
place
,
splashing
about
in
that
confusion
.
One
wanted
to
take
them
out
and
wipe
them
and
put
them
back
in
some
English
gentleman
's
library
.
Everything
was
alive
about
them
,
flashing
,
splashing
,
and
passing
,
ships
moving
,
tugs
panting
,
hawsers
taut
,
barges
going
down
with
men
toiling
at
the
sweeps
,
the
water
all
a-swirl
with
the
wash
of
shipping
,
scaling
into
millions
of
little
wavelets
,
curling
and
frothing
under
the
whip
of
the
unceasing
wind
.
Past
it
all
we
drove
.
And
at
Greenwich
to
the
south
,
you
know
,
there
stands
a
fine
stone
frontage
where
all
the
victories
are
recorded
in
a
Painted
Hall
,
and
beside
it
is
the
"
Ship
"
where
once
upon
a
time
those
gentlemen
of
Westminster
used
to
have
an
annual
dinner-before
the
port
of
London
got
too
much
for
them
altogether
.
The
old
facade
of
the
Hospital
was
just
warming
to
the
sunset
as
we
went
by
,
and
after
that
,
right
and
left
,
the
river
opened
,
the
sense
of
the
sea
increased
and
prevailed
,
reach
after
reach
from
Northfleet
to
the
Nore
.
And
out
you
come
at
last
with
the
sun
behind
you
into
the
eastern
sea
.
You
speed
up
and
tear
the
oily
water
louder
and
faster
,
siroo
,
siroo-swish-siroo
,
and
the
hills
of
Kent-over
which
I
once
fled
from
the
Christian
teachings
of
Nicodemus
Frapp-fall
away
on
the
right
hand
and
Essex
on
the
left
.
They
fall
away
and
vanish
into
blue
haze
,
and
the
tall
slow
ships
behind
the
tugs
,
scarce
moving
ships
and
wallowing
sturdy
tugs
,
are
all
wrought
of
wet
gold
as
one
goes
frothing
by
.
They
stand
out
,
bound
on
strange
missions
of
life
and
death
,
to
the
killing
of
men
in
unfamiliar
lands
.
And
now
behind
us
is
blue
mystery
and
the
phantom
flash
of
unseen
lights
,
and
presently
even
these
are
gone
,
and
I
and
my
destroyer
tear
out
to
the
unknown
across
a
great
grey
space
.
We
tear
into
the
great
spaces
of
the
future
and
the
turbines
fall
to
talking
in
unfamiliar
tongues
.
Out
to
the
open
we
go
,
to
windy
freedom
and
trackless
ways
.
Light
after
light
goes
down
.
England
and
the
Kingdom
,
Britain
and
the
Empire
,
the
old
prides
and
the
old
devotions
,
glide
abeam
,
astern
,
sink
down
upon
the
horizon
,
pass-pass
.
The
river
passes-London
passes
,
England
passes
...
This
is
the
note
I
have
tried
to
emphasise
,
the
note
that
sounds
clear
in
my
mind
when
I
think
of
anything
beyond
the
purely
personal
aspects
of
my
story
.
It
is
a
note
of
crumbling
and
confusion
,
of
change
and
seemingly
aimless
swelling
,
of
a
bubbling
up
and
medley
of
futile
loves
and
sorrows
.
But
through
the
confusion
sounds
another
note
.
Through
the
confusion
something
drives
,
something
that
is
at
once
human
achievement
and
the
most
inhuman
of
all
existing
things
.
Something
comes
out
of
it
...
.
How
can
I
express
the
values
of
a
thing
at
once
so
essential
and
so
immaterial
.
It
is
something
that
calls
upon
such
men
as
I
with
an
irresistible
appeal
.
I
have
figured
it
in
my
last
section
by
the
symbol
of
my
destroyer
,
stark
and
swift
,
irrelevant
to
most
human
interests
.
Sometimes
I
call
this
reality
Science
,
sometimes
I
call
it
Truth
.
But
it
is
something
we
draw
by
pain
and
effort
ont
of
the
heart
of
life
,
that
we
disentangle
and
make
clear
.
Other
men
serve
it
,
I
know
,
in
art
,
in
literature
,
in
social
invention
,
and
see
it
in
a
thousand
different
figures
,
under
a
hundred
names
.
I
see
it
always
as
austerity
,
as
beauty
.
This
thing
we
make
clear
is
the
heart
of
life
.
It
is
the
one
enduring
thing
.
Men
and
nations
,
epochs
and
civilisation
pass
each
making
its
contribution
I
do
not
know
what
it
is
,
this
something
,
except
that
it
is
supreme
.
It
is
,
a
something
,
a
quality
,
an
element
,
one
may
find
now
in
colours
,
now
in
norms
,
now
in
sounds
,
now
in
thoughts
.
It
emerges
from
life
with
each
year
one
lives
and
feels
,
and
generation
by
generation
and
age
by
age
,
but
the
how
and
why
of
it
are
all
beyond
the
compass
of
my
mind
...
.
Yet
the
full
sense
of
it
was
with
me
all
that
night
as
I
drove
,
lonely
above
the
rush
and
murmur
of
my
engines
,
out
upon
the
