The
London
Venture
By
MICHAEL
ARLEN
With
drawings
by
Michel
Sevier
1920
London
:
William
Heinemann
APOLOGIA
PRO
NOMINE
MEO
Out
of
consideration
(
in
part
)
to
such
readers
as
may
read
this
book
I
have
assumed
a
name
by
which
they
may
refer
to
me
(
if
ever
he
or
she
may
wish
to
do
so
kindly
)
in
the
same
manner
at
least
twice
running
—
a
feat
of
pronunciation
which
few
of
my
English
acquaintances
have
performed
with
my
natal
name
.
But
there
is
also
another
reason
,
considerate
of
the
author
.
I
have
been
told
that
there
are
writers
whose
works
would
have
been
famous
if
only
their
names
could
have
been
familiarly
pronounced
—
Polish
and
Russian
writers
for
the
most
part
,
I
gather
.
Since
I
had
already
taken
every
other
precaution
but
this
to
deserve
their
more
fortunate
fate
,
in
changing
my
name
I
have
,
I
hope
,
robbed
my
readers
of
their
last
excuse
for
my
obscurity
.
Dikran
Kouyoumdjian
.
"
Michael
Arlen
.
"
ERRATUM
Page
19
line
7
,
for
Illustrated
London
News
read
The
Sphere
I
MY
watch
has
needed
winding
only
twice
since
I
left
London
,
and
already
,
as
I
sit
here
in
the
strange
library
of
a
strange
house
,
whose
only
purpose
in
having
a
library
seems
to
be
to
keep
visitors
like
myself
quiet
and
out
of
harm
's
way
,
I
find
myself
looking
back
to
those
past
months
in
which
I
was
for
ever
complaining
of
the
necessity
that
kept
me
in
London
.
How
I
would
deliver
myself
to
a
congenial
friend
about
what
men
are
pleased
to
call
"
the
artificial
necessity
of
living
"
—
a
cocktail
,
that
courtesan
of
drinks
,
lent
some
artificiality
!
With
what
sincerity
I
would
agree
with
another
's
complaint
of
the
"
monotonous
routine
of
politeness
,
"
without
indulging
which
men
cannot
live
decently
;
how
I
would
mutter
to
myself
of
streets
and
theatres
full
of
men
and
women
and
ugliness
!
Even
as
a
cab
hurried
me
through
the
Tottenham
Court
Road
to
Euston
the
smile
which
I
turned
to
the
never-ending
windows
of
furniture
shops
was
at
the
thought
that
I
should
not
see
them
again
for
many
days
,
and
I
could
not
imagine
myself
ever
being
pleased
to
come
back
to
this
world
of
plain
women
and
bowler
hats
and
bawdily
coloured
cinema
posters
,
whose
duty
it
is
to
attract
and
insult
with
the
crude
portrayal
of
the
indecent
passions
of
tiresome
people
.
If
there
be
a
studio
in
purgatory
for
indiscreet
aesthetics
,
Rhadamanthus
could
do
no
better
than
paper
its
walls
with
illustrations
of
"
The
Blindness
of
Love
,
"
or
"
Is
Love
Lust
?
"
For
it
is
now
a
London
of
coloured
drawings
of
men
about
to
murder
or
be
murdered
,
women
about
to
be
seduced
or
divorced
.
One
has
to
see
a
crowd
of
people
surging
into
a
cinema
,
by
whose
doors
is
a
poster
showing
a
particularly
vapid
servant-girl
,
a
harlot
of
the
"
dark-eyed
,
sinister
"
type
,
and
a
drunken
,
fair-haired
young
man
who
has
not
yet
realised
that
discretion
is
the
better
part
of
an
indiscretion
,
before
one
can
understand
"
the
lure
of
the
screen
.
"
And
even
the
entrance
of
Euston
,
rebuilt
and
newly
painted
,
gave
my
eyes
only
the
pleasure
of
foreseeing
that
the
new
yellow
paint
would
soon
be
dingy
,
and
that
the
eyes
of
porters
would
soon
no
longer
be
offended
with
upstart
colours
which
quarrelled
with
the
greyness
of
their
experience
.
And
in
the
carriage
I
leant
back
and
closed
my
eyes
,
and
was
glad
that
I
was
leaving
London
.
But
the
train
had
scarce
left
the
station
,
and
was
whirling
through
the
northern
suburbs
which
should
so
fervently
have
confirmed
my
gladness
,
when
I
felt
suddenly
as
though
some
little
thing
was
being
born
inside
me
,
as
though
some
little
speck
of
dust
had
come
in
through
the
open
window
,
and
fixed
itself
upon
my
pleasure
at
leaving
London
;
and
very
soon
I
realised
that
this
was
the
first
grain
of
regret
,
and
that
I
should
not
spend
so
many
months
away
from
London
as
my
late
depression
had
imagined
.
Then
up
will
start
the
strong-minded
man
,
and
pish
and
pshaw
me
for
not
knowing
my
own
mind
.
And
if
he
does
,
how
right
he
will
be
!
For
little
do
I
care
whether
this
mood
be
as
the
last
,
so
they
both
fill
up
the
present
moment
with
fitting
thoughts
,
and
pain
,
and
pleasure
!
Now
,
I
was
already
thinking
of
how
I
would
return
to
London
next
year
in
the
spring
.
What
I
would
do
then
,
the
things
I
would
write
,
the
men
I
would
talk
to
,
and
the
women
I
would
lunch
with
,
so
filled
my
mind
,
and
pleasantly
whirled
my
thoughts
from
this
to
that
,
that
Rugby
was
long
passed
before
even
I
had
come
to
think
of
the
pleasures
that
London
in
early
summer
has
in
store
for
all
who
care
to
take
.
When
the
days
were
growing
long
,
it
would
be
pleasant
to
take
a
table
by
the
windows
of
the
Savoy
,
and
dine
there
with
some
woman
with
whom
it
would
be
no
effort
to
talk
or
be
silent
.
Such
a
woman
at
once
comes
to
my
mind
,
with
dark
hair
and
grey-blue
eyes
,
the
corners
of
whose
mouth
I
am
continually
watching
because
it
is
only
there
I
find
the
meaning
of
her
eyes
,
for
she
is
a
sphinx
,
and
I
do
not
yet
know
if
what
she
hides
is
a
secret
or
a
sense
of
humour
.
You
will
say
that
that
means
nothing
,
and
that
she
is
quite
invisible
to
you
;
but
you
do
not
know
her
,
and
I
do
—
at
least
,
I
know
that
much
of
her
.
And
with
her
it
seems
to
me
that
I
could
dine
only
at
that
table
by
the
windows
where
I
could
turn
from
her
eyes
to
the
slow-moving
English
river
,
and
the
specks
of
men
and
trams
,
which
are
all
that
the
leaves
of
trees
will
let
me
see
of
the
Embankment
.
Perhaps
I
would
tell
her
of
that
novel
which
I
once
began
to
write
,
but
could
never
finish
nor
have
any
heart
to
try
again
;
for
it
began
just
here
at
this
table
where
we
are
now
sitting
,
but
the
man
was
alone
,
and
if
he
ever
lived
outside
my
halting
pages
and
had
the
finishing
of
my
novel
,
he
would
put
himself
here
again
at
the
end
,
with
you
sitting
in
front
of
him
.
For
that
is
the
whole
purpose
of
the
novel
,
which
I
never
realised
till
this
moment
,
that
once
a
young
man
was
sitting
here
alone
and
wondering
why
that
should
be
and
what
he
should
do
,
and
in
the
end
he
was
sitting
here
again
with
a
woman
for
whom
his
passion
had
died
,
but
whose
eyes
still
made
him
talk
so
that
he
could
not
see
the
slow
darkening
of
the
river
,
or
hear
the
emptying
of
the
restaurant
,
until
at
last
she
laughed
,
and
he
had
to
stop
because
of
the
waiters
who
hovered
round
the
table
to
relay
it
for
the
bored
people
who
would
come
in
from
the
theatres
for
supper
.
But
all
this
I
had
never
realised
till
I
told
you
of
it
,
and
perhaps
now
I
shall
one
day
finish
it
,
and
call
it
"
Nadine
,
"
for
that
is
your
name
in
the
novel
.
Thinking
of
the
young
man
of
my
unfinished
novel
who
had
sat
there
so
alone
sent
my
thoughts
back
to
the
day
not
many
years
past
when
I
first
came
to
live
in
London
.
I
am
bitter
about
those
first
months
,
and
will
not
easily
forgive
London
for
them
;
and
if
any
young
person
shall
begin
to
tell
me
how
splendid
were
his
first
lonely
days
in
the
wilderness
of
people
,
how
much
he
enjoyed
the
aimless
wandering
about
the
streets
,
how
he
liked
to
watch
the
faces
of
the
people
as
they
passed
,
laughing
,
or
talking
,
or
hungry
,
while
he
could
do
or
be
none
of
these
for
lack
of
company
and
convenience
of
means
,
then
I
will
turn
on
him
and
curse
him
for
a
fool
or
a
knave
,
and
rend
the
affected
conceit
of
his
self-contained
pleasure
with
my
own
experience
and
that
of
many
others
whom
I
know
of
.
But
then
for
a
young
Englishman
—
how
pleasant
it
is
to
write
of
"
young
Englishmen
,
"
as
though
one
were
really
a
foreigner
!
—
the
circumstances
are
a
little
different
,
and
he
need
never
taste
that
first
absolute
loneliness
,
which
,
as
the
weeks
go
by
and
the
words
are
not
spoken
,
seems
to
open
out
a
vista
of
solitude
for
all
the
days
of
life
;
nor
need
he
be
conscious
that
it
is
on
himself
—
how
,
while
it
exaggerates
,
loneliness
stifles
self
!
—
he
must
rely
for
every
acquaintance
,
for
every
word
spoken
in
his
life
.
But
for
him
there
are
aunts
who
live
in
Chester
Square
,
and
cousins
who
come
up
to
stay
a
month
or
so
at
the
Hyde
Park
Hotel
,
and
uncles
who
live
somewhere
about
Bruton
Street
,
and
have
such
a
fund
of
risqué
anecdotes
that
the
length
of
Bond
Street
and
Piccadilly
will
not
see
the
end
of
them
;
and
,
perhaps
,
there
are
age-long
friends
of
the
family
who
have
houses
in
Kensington
and
Hampstead
,
and
"
nice
"
parquet
floors
on
which
you
can
dance
to
a
gramophone
;
while
for
an
Armenian
,
who
soon
realises
that
his
nationality
is
considered
as
something
of
a
faux
pas
,
there
are
none
of
these
things
,
and
he
is
entirely
lost
in
the
wilderness
,
for
there
is
no
solid
background
to
his
existence
in
another
's
country
;
and
,
as
the
days
lengthen
out
and
he
grows
tired
of
walking
in
the
Green
Park
,
he
comes
to
wonder
why
his
fathers
ever
left
Hayastan
;
for
it
seems
to
me
much
better
to
be
a
murdered
prince
in
Hayastan
than
a
living
vagabond
in
London
.
So
I
wandered
about
,
moved
my
chambers
gradually
from
Earl
's
Court
to
the
heart
of
St.
James
's
and
read
"
Manon
Lescaut
,
"
and
sat
in
front
of
Gainsborough
's
"
Musidora
"
until
I
found
that
she
had
three
legs
,
and
could
never
look
at
it
again
.
Then
,
somehow
,
came
acquaintance
,
first
of
the
world
,
then
of
literature
and
its
parasites
;
came
teas
at
Golder
's
Green
and
Hampstead
,
and
queerly
serious
discussions
about
sub-consciousness
;
"
rags
"
at
Chelsea
,
and
"
dalliance
with
grubbiness
,
"
and
women
.
Through
this
early
maze
of
ribaldry
and
discussion
,
the
first
of
which
bored
me
because
of
its
self-consciousness
,
and
because
I
do
not
like
lying
on
the
dirty
floors
of
studios
with
candle
grease
dripping
on
me
,
and
the
latter
which
affected
my
years
miserably
and
almost
entirely
perverted
my
natural
amiability
into
a
morbid
distaste
for
living
(
which
still
breaks
out
at
odd
moments
,
and
has
branded
me
among
many
people
as
a
depressing
and
damnably
superior
young
person
)
;
through
this
maze
of
smoke
and
talk
I
can
only
still
see
the
occasional
personality
of
Mr.
D
.
H
.
Lawrence
,
as
his
clear
,
grey
eyes
—
there
is
no
equivalent
to
spirituel
in
English
—
flashed
from
face
to
face
,
smiling
sometimes
,
often
but
a
vehicle
for
those
bitter
thoughts
(
and
thoughts
are
so
often
conclusions
with
men
of
arrogant
genius
like
Lawrence
)
which
find
such
strange
and
emphatic
expression
in
his
books
.
I
would
need
the
pen
of
a
De
Quincey
to
describe
my
impression
of
that
man
,
and
I
am
candid
enough
to
admit
that
I
lack
the
ability
,
rather
than
the
malice
,
which
caused
the
little
opium-eater
to
be
so
justly
hated
by
such
a
man
as
Bob
Southey
.
There
is
a
bitterness
which
can
find
no
expression
,
is
inarticulate
,
and
from
that
we
turn
away
as
from
a
very
pitiful
thing
;
and
there
is
that
bitterness
which
is
as
clear-cut
as
a
diamond
,
shining
with
definitions
,
hardened
with
the
use
of
a
subtle
reasoning
which
is
impenetrable
but
penetrating
,
"
the
outcome
of
a
fecund
imagination
,
"
as
Lawrence
himself
might
describe
it
;
a
bitterness
so
concisely
and
philosophically
articulate
,
that
,
under
the
guise
of
"
truth
,
"
it
will
penetrate
into
the
receptive
mind
,
and
leave
there
some
indelible
impressions
of
a
strange
and
dominating
mind
.
I
have
found
that
in
the
books
and
person
of
Mr.
D
.
H
.
Lawrence
.
He
seems
to
lack
humility
definitely
,
as
a
man
would
lack
bread
to
eat
,
and
a
note
of
arrogance
,
as
splendid
as
it
is
shameless
,
runs
through
his
written
words
;
and
the
very
words
seem
conscious
that
they
are
pearls
flung
before
swine
.
He
will
pile
them
one
on
top
of
the
other
,
as
though
to
impregnate
each
with
his
own
egotism
,
to
describe
the
sexual
passions
of
this
man
or
that
woman
,
words
so
full
of
his
meaning
,
so
pregnant
with
his
passions
,
that
at
the
end
of
such
a
page
you
feel
that
a
much
greater
and
more
human
Ruskin
is
hurling
his
dogmas
at
your
teeth
,
that
there
is
nothing
you
can
say
or
think
outside
that
pile
of
feeling
which
is
massed
before
you
,
that
you
must
accept
and
swallow
without
cavil
and
without
chewing
.
With
what
relief
one
turns
over
a
page
and
finds
that
here
is
no
touch
of
the
flesh
,
but
that
Mr.
Lawrence
is
writing
of
earth
!
Let
him
sink
into
earth
as
deep
as
he
may
,
he
can
find
and
show
there
more
beauty
and
more
truth
than
in
all
his
arrogant
and
passionate
fumblings
in
the
mire
of
sex
,
in
all
his
bitter
striving
after
that
,
so
to
speak
,
sexual
millennium
,
that
ultimate
psychology
of
the
body
and
mind
,
which
seems
so
to
obsess
him
that
in
his
writings
he
has
buried
his
mind
,
as
,
in
his
own
unpleasant
phrase
,
a
lover
buried
his
head
,
in
the
"
terrible
softness
of
a
woman
's
belly
.
"
Who
has
not
read
"
Sons
and
Lovers
,
"
and
laid
it
down
as
the
work
of
a
strange
and
great
man
,
of
the
company
of
Coleridge
,
Stendhal
,
and
Balzac
?
And
who
,
as
he
read
it
,
has
not
been
shocked
by
a
total
lack
of
that
sweetness
which
must
alloy
all
strength
to
make
it
acceptable
?
"
That
strange
interfusion
of
strength
and
sweetness
,
"
which
Pater
so
admiringly
found
in
Blake
and
Hugo
,
cannot
be
found
in
Mr.
D
.
H
.
Lawrence
;
there
is
a
mass
of
passionate
strength
,
that
of
an
angry
man
straining
with
his
nerves
because
he
despises
his
hands
;
there
is
a
gentleness
in
his
writing
of
children
which
could
never
be
capable
of
such
melodrama
as
that
in
Mr.
Hardy
's
"
Jude
the
Obscure
,
"
but
in
his
men
and
women
,
in
their
day
and
night
,
there
is
no
drop
of
sweetness
.
And
I
do
not
think
he
wishes
it
otherwise
.
As
the
train
flew
through
the
Derbyshire
countryside
,
whose
hillsides
and
vales
,
covered
with
the
brilliant
sheen
of
the
autumn
sun
,
met
the
eye
pleasantly
with
a
rising
and
falling
of
pale
yellowish
green
,
with
here
and
there
a
dark
green
patch
of
woodland
,
and
made
me
want
to
stop
the
hurrying
train
and
breathe
the
air
of
the
place
,
my
thoughts
slipped
back
to
the
spring
and
the
summer
just
before
the
war
;
and
,
with
my
eyes
on
the
quickly
passing
sunshine
on
the
low
hills
,
I
found
that
,
after
all
,
those
last
few
months
of
peace
had
passed
,
perhaps
,
too
lightly
,
too
carelessly
;
but
it
was
pleasant
to
think
back
to
those
days
when
lunches
and
dinners
and
week-ends
took
up
so
much
of
one
's
time
.
I
was
glad
now
that
I
had
not
spent
the
three
summer
months
in
Yorkshire
on
the
moors
,
where
I
should
have
been
uncomfortable
;
and
had
to
be
for
ever
sending
postcards
to
Hatchard
's
to
post
me
this
or
that
book
,
which
would
come
when
my
mood
for
it
had
passed
.
And
how
dreadful
it
is
to
want
to
read
suddenly
"
Love
in
the
Valley
,
"
and
have
to
be
content
with
Tennyson
,
to
long
for
a
chapter
of
Dostoieffsky
,
and
be
met
with
complete
editions
of
Trollope
and
Surtees
!
So
I
see
that
my
middle
age
will
be
crabbed
and
made
solitary
by
my
books
,
and
that
I
shall
never
have
the
heart
to
leave
them
and
go
to
the
East
to
see
the
land
of
my
father
Haik
,
or
to
walk
about
the
lake
upon
which
the
great
Queen
Semiramis
(
who
was
the
first
in
the
world
to
discover
that
men
could
be
conveniently
changed
into
eunuchs
)
built
the
city
Semiramakert
,
which
is
now
called
Van
,
and
where
later
,
when
she
was
pursued
by
the
swordsmen
of
her
son
,
she
threw
a
magic
bracelet
into
the
lake
and
turned
herself
into
a
rock
,
which
still
stands
there
covered
with
the
triumphant
script
of
the
Assyrians
.
II
ONCE
(
in
those
far-off
peaceful
days
when
men
still
had
enough
grammatical
sense
to
know
that
the
word
"
pacifist
"
does
not
exist
,
but
that
the
less
convenient
"
pacificist
"
does
)
I
had
been
very
depressed
for
a
week
,
and
had
scarcely
spoken
to
any
one
,
but
had
just
walked
about
in
my
rooms
and
on
the
Embankment
,
for
I
suddenly
found
myself
without
any
money
at
all
;
and
it
is
thus
with
me
that
when
I
am
without
money
I
am
also
without
ideas
,
but
when
I
have
the
first
I
do
not
necessarily
have
the
last
.
I
wondered
if
I
had
not
done
a
very
silly
thing
in
being
independent
,
and
in
not
doing
as
my
brothers
had
done
,
reading
"
The
Times
"
in
an
office
every
morning
from
ten
to
twelve
,
and
playing
dominoes
in
the
afternoon
,
and
auction
bridge
in
the
evening
,
and
having
several
thousands
a
year
when
I
was
forty
,
and
a
Wolseley
car
to
take
my
wife
for
a
holiday
to
Windermere
,
because
she
looked
pale
,
or
because
we
were
bored
with
each
other
.
I
smiled
to
think
of
the
look
on
my
brothers
'
faces
if
I
suddenly
appeared
at
their
office
one
morning
,
and
said
that
it
was
no
good
,
and
that
I
could
n't
write
,
and
was
very
hungry
.
I
could
not
make
up
my
mind
whether
they
would
laugh
at
me
and
turn
me
out
,
or
whether
they
would
teach
me
how
to
play
auction
and
set
me
to
answer
letters
about
what
had
happened
on
such
and
such
a
day
inst
.
,
and
why
the
firm
of
—
—
thought
it
unnecessary
that
it
should
happen
again
,
while
they
would
sit
in
the
next
room
,
marked
"
Private
,
"
signing
cheques
and
talking
to
visitors
about
the
weather
and
the
cotton
markets
.
Perhaps
I
will
do
that
some
day
,
for
,
from
what
I
have
heard
,
it
seems
to
me
the
easiest
thing
in
the
world
to
talk
about
rises
and
falls
and
margins
without
knowing
anything
about
them
at
all
.
The
same
thing
happens
with
regard
to
books
,
for
one
often
meets
people
who
seem
to
have
read
every
modern
novel
,
and
can
discuss
quite
prettily
whether
Mr.
Wells
is
a
man
or
a
machine
,
or
whether
Mr.
Arnold
Bennett
,
ever
since
he
wrote
the
last
lines
to
"
The
Old
Wives
'
Tales
,
"
has
not
decided
that
it
is
better
to
be
a
merchant
than
a
writer
,
or
whether
Mr.
E
.
V.
Lucas
thinks
he
is
the
second
Charles
Lamb
,
and
what
other
grounds
than
his
splendid
edition
has
he
for
thinking
so
,
or
whether
Mr.
George
Moore
does
or
does
not
think
that
indiscretion
is
the
better
part
of
literature
,
or
whether
Mr.
Chesterton
or
vegetarianism
has
had
the
greatest
effect
on
Mr.
Shaw
's
religion
;
but
then
,
after
all
this
talk
,
it
turns
out
that
they
read
"
The
Times
Literary
Supplement
"
every
week
,
and
think
Epictetus
nothing
to
Mr.
Clutton-Brock
,
or
they
are
steeped
in
Mr.
Clement
Shorter
's
weekly
criticism
en
deshabille
in
the
"
Illustrated
London
News
.
"
At
last
I
could
stand
my
depression
no
longer
,
and
late
one
night
,
after
a
day
in
which
I
had
spoken
to
no
one
but
a
little
old
woman
who
said
that
she
was
n't
a
beggar
but
that
God
blessed
the
charitable
,
I
sat
down
and
wrote
a
long
,
conceited
letter
to
Shelmerdene
;
for
to
her
I
can
write
whether
I
am
gay
or
depressed
,
and
be
sure
that
she
will
not
be
impatient
with
me
.
I
told
her
how
I
had
a
great
fund
of
ambition
,
but
had
it
not
in
me
to
satisfy
a
tenth
part
of
it
;
for
that
is
in
the
character
of
all
my
people
,
they
promise
much
greater
things
in
their
youth
than
they
can
fulfil
in
their
mature
age
.
From
twenty
onwards
they
are
continually
growing
stale
,
and
bitter
with
their
staleness
;
the
little
enthusiasm
of
their
youth
will
not
stretch
through
their
whole
life
,
but
will
flicker
out
shamefully
with
the
conceit
of
their
own
precocity
,
and
in
trying
to
fly
when
other
people
are
just
learning
to
walk
;
and
as
the
years
pass
on
and
youth
becomes
regret
,
the
son
of
Haik
,
the
faded
offspring
of
a
faded
nation
whose
only
call
to
exist
is
because
it
has
lived
so
long
and
has
memories
of
the
sacking
of
Nineveh
and
Carchemish
,
is
left
without
the
impetus
of
development
,
with
an
ambition
which
is
articulate
only
in
bitterness
;
while
the
hardy
Northerner
,
descendant
of
barbarian
Druid
worshippers
whose
nakedness
was
rumoured
with
horror
in
the
courts
and
pleasure
gardens
of
Hayastan
and
Persia
,
slowly
grows
in
mind
as
in
body
,
and
soon
outstrips
the
petty
outbursts
of
the
other
's
stationary
genius
.
I
told
Shelmerdene
that
I
,
who
had
thought
that
England
had
given
me
at
least
some
of
her
continually
growing
enthusiasm
,
that
I
who
had
thought
I
would
not
,
like
so
many
of
my
countrymen
,
be
too
soon
stranded
on
"
the
ultimate
islands
"
of
Oriental
decay
,
was
even
now
in
the
stage
between
the
dying
of
enthusiasm
and
its
realisation
;
for
the
first
impetus
of
my
youthful
conceits
was
vanishing
,
and
there
looked
to
be
nothing
left
to
them
but
an
"
experience
"
and
a
"
lesson
of
life
"
without
which
I
would
have
been
much
happier
.
In
moods
such
as
these
one
can
hear
in
the
far
distance
the
wailing
of
a
dirge
,
a
knell
,
indefinitely
yet
distinctly
,
and
the
foreboding
it
brings
is
of
an
end
to
something
which
should
have
no
end
;
a
falling
away
,
a
premature
decay
which
is
like
a
growing
cloud
soon
to
cover
the
whole
mind
...
.
Shelmerdene
,
do
you
know
the
story
of
the
Dán-nan-Rón
,
which
Fiona
Macleod
tells
?
How
there
lived
three
brothers
on
the
isle
of
Eilanmore
:
Marcus
,
who
was
"
the
Eilanmore
,
"
and
Gloom
,
whose
voice
"
was
low
and
clear
,
but
cold
as
pale
green
water
running
under
ice
,
"
and
Sheumais
,
on
whose
brow
lay
"
the
dusk
of
the
shadow
.
"
Gloom
was
the
wisest
of
the
brothers
,
and
played
upon
an
oaten
flute
,
which
is
called
a
feadan
;
and
men
were
afraid
of
the
cold
,
white
notes
of
his
barbaric
runes
,
as
he
played
his
feadan
from
rock
to
rock
and
on
the
seashore
,
but
most
of
all
they
feared
the
playing
of
the
Dán-nan-Rón
,
which
is
the
Song
of
the
Seal
and
calls
men
to
their
death
in
the
sea
.
And
when
the
eldest
brother
Marcus
was
killed
with
the
throwing
of
a
knife
,
the
murderer
heard
the
woods
of
Gloom
,
which
said
that
he
would
hear
the
Dán-nan-Rón
the
night
before
he
died
,
and
lest
he
should
doubt
those
words
,
he
would
hear
it
again
in
the
very
hour
of
his
death
.
It
happened
as
Gloom
said
:
for
one
night
the
playing
of
the
feadan
drove
the
slayer
,
Manus
MacCodrum
,
down
into
the
sea
,
and
as
he
battled
madly
in
the
water
,
and
the
blood
gushed
out
of
his
body
as
the
teeth
of
seals
tore
the
life
out
of
him
,
he
heard
from
far
away
the
cold
,
white
notes
of
the
Dán-nan-Rón
.
This
tale
always
brings
to
me
that
many
men
,
in
some
sudden
moment
which
even
M
.
Maeterlinck
would
hesitate
to
define
as
"
a
treasure
of
the
humble
,
"
hear
the
playing
of
a
tune
such
as
that
,
which
tells
them
of
some
ending
,
unknown
and
indefinite
,
just
as
,
in
the
moments
of
greatest
love
,
a
man
will
feel
for
a
terrible
second
the
shivering
white
ice
of
sanity
,
which
tells
him
a
different
tale
to
that
which
he
is
murmuring
to
the
woman
in
his
arms
.
Men
who
have
heard
it
must
have
become
morose
with
the
fear
this
distant
dirge
brought
upon
them
;
but
of
that
foreboding
nothing
certain
can
be
known
,
and
it
is
only
in
such
a
mood
as
this
,
and
to
a
Shelmerdene
of
women
,
that
a
fool
will
loosen
his
foolishness
to
inquire
into
such
things
.
Clarence
Mangan
must
have
heard
the
tune
as
he
lay
drunk
and
wretched
in
his
Dublin
garret
,
for
there
is
more
than
Celtic
gloom
in
the
dirge
of
his
lines
.
John
Davidson
,
whose
poetry
you
so
love
,
and
who
wrote
in
a
moment
of
madness
"
that
Death
has
loaded
dice
,
"
must
have
heard
it
,
perhaps
when
first
he
came
to
venture
his
genius
in
London
,
a
young
man
with
a
strange
,
bad-tempered
look
in
his
eyes
;
and
he
must
have
heard
the
exulting
notes
,
as
clearly
as
did
Manus
MacCodrum
,
when
he
walked
into
the
sea
from
Cornwall
.
Charles
Meryon
must
have
heard
it
as
he
walked
hungrily
about
the
streets
of
Paris
,
and
wondered
why
those
gargoyles
—
strange
things
to
beautify
!
—
on
Notre
Dame
,
into
which
he
had
put
so
much
life
,
could
not
scream
aloud
to
the
people
of
Paris
that
a
genius
was
dying
among
them
for
lack
of
food
and
praise
.
Do
you
remember
,
Shelmerdene
,
how
you
and
I
,
when
first
I
began
to
know
you
,
stood
before
a
little
imp
of
wonderfully
carved
onyx
stone
which
leered
at
us
from
the
centre
of
your
mantelpiece
,
and
I
said
that
it
was
like
one
of
those
gargoyles
of
Meryon
's
;
and
that
afternoon
I
told
you
about
his
life
and
death
,
and
when
I
had
finished
you
said
that
I
told
the
tale
as
though
I
enjoyed
it
,
instead
of
being
frightened
by
the
tragedy
of
it
.
But
I
admired
your
imp
of
onyx
stone
very
much
,
telling
you
that
I
loved
its
ravenous
mouth
and
reptile
claws
,
because
they
looked
so
helplessly
lustful
after
something
unattainable
;
and
that
same
night
I
found
a
little
black-and-gold
box
awaiting
me
in
my
rooms
,
in
which
was
the
imp
of
onyx
stone
,
and
a
note
saying
that
I
must
put
it
on
my
table
because
it
would
bring
me
luck
.
For
a
second
I
did
not
believe
your
words
,
but
thought
that
you
had
given
it
to
me
to
be
a
symbol
for
my
helplessness
,
for
I
had
said
that
it
lusted
after
something
utterly
unattainable
.
But
the
second
passed
,
and
I
found
later
that
you
had
forgotten
those
words
,
and
had
sent
it
to
me
because
I
liked
it
...
.
I
would
like
to
spend
these
glorious
spring
days
away
from
London
with
you
,
in
quietness
,
perhaps
in
Galway
somewhere
;
but
if
you
cannot
come
away
with
me
to-morrow
,
I
will
take
you
out
to
dinner
instead
,
and
we
will
talk
about
yourself
and
the
ci-devants
who
have
loved
you
;
and
though
I
have
no
money
at
all
now
,
I
am
quite
sure
that
to-morrow
will
bring
some
.
Sure
enough
a
few
hours
later
I
awoke
to
a
bright
spring
morning
,
which
brought
happiness
in
itself
,
even
without
the
help
of
a
cheque
which
a
recreant
editor
had
at
last
thought
fit
to
send
me
.
As
I
walked
out
into
the
blaze
of
sunshine
on
the
King
's
Road
,
I
felt
that
I
must
surely
be
a
miserable
fellow
to
let
my
ill-nature
so
often
oppress
me
that
only
very
seldom
I
was
allowed
to
enjoy
such
mornings
as
this
;
mornings
which
seem
to
spring
suddenly
out
at
you
from
a
night
of
ordinary
sleep
,
when
,
as
you
walk
through
streets
which
perhaps
only
the
day
before
you
hated
bitterly
,
the
spring
sun
wholly
envelops
your
mind
and
comes
between
yourself
and
your
pretty
dislikes
,
and
the
faces
of
men
and
women
look
brown
,
and
red
,
and
happy
as
the
light
and
shadow
play
on
them
;
such
a
day
was
this
,
a
pearl
dropped
at
my
feet
from
the
tiara
of
some
Olympian
goddess
.
Later
I
telephoned
to
Shelmerdene
to
ask
her
to
lunch
with
me
instead
of
dine
,
as
the
day
was
so
beautiful
;
but
she
said
that
she
had
already
promised
to
lunch
with
some
one
,
a
man
who
had
loved
her
faithfully
for
more
than
ten
years
,
and
as
all
he
wanted
from
her
was
her
company
over
lunch
on
this
particular
day
of
the
week
,
she
could
not
play
him
false
,
even
though
the
day
was
so
beautiful
.
But
I
told
her
that
I
would
not
be
loving
her
faithfully
for
ten
years
,
and
that
she
must
take
the
best
of
me
while
she
could
,
and
that
on
such
a
day
as
this
it
would
be
a
shame
to
lunch
with
an
inarticulate
lover
;
for
a
man
who
had
loved
her
faithfully
for
more
than
ten
years
,
and
wanted
only
her
company
over
lunch
once
a
week
,
must
be
inarticulate
,
or
perhaps
a
knave
whose
subtle
cunning
her
innocence
had
failed
to
unveil
.
So
in
the
end
we
lunched
together
in
Knightsbridge
,
and
then
walked
slowly
through
the
Park
.
The
first
covering
of
spring
lay
on
every
thing
.
The
trees
,
so
ashamed
—
or
was
it
coyness
?
—
were
they
of
their
bareness
in
face
of
all
the
greenness
around
them
,
were
doing
their
best
to
hurry
out
that
clothing
of
leaves
which
,
in
a
few
weeks
'
time
,
would
baffle
the
rays
of
the
sun
which
had
helped
their
birth
;
and
there
was
such
a
greenness
and
clearness
in
the
air
and
on
the
grass
,
and
about
the
flowers
which
seemed
surprised
at
the
new
warmth
of
the
world
,
hesitating
as
yet
to
show
their
full
beauty
for
they
were
afraid
that
the
dark
winter
was
playing
them
a
trick
and
would
suddenly
lurch
clumsily
upon
them
again
,
that
the
Park
has
never
seemed
to
me
so
beautiful
as
on
that
spring
afternoon
when
a
careless
happiness
lay
about
everything
.
So
far
I
have
not
said
a
word
about
Shelmerdene
,
except
that
she
had
found
a
man
—
or
,
rather
,
he
had
tiresomely
found
her
—
to
love
her
faithfully
for
ten
years
,
and
she
had
so
affected
him
that
he
thought
a
weekly
lunch
or
dinner
was
the
limit
of
his
destiny
with
her
.
And
yet
,
had
he
searched
himself
and
raked
out
the
least
bit
of
gumption
,
he
would
have
found
he
was
tremendously
wrong
about
her
—
for
there
were
pinnacles
to
be
reached
with
Shelmerdene
unattainable
within
the
material
limits
of
a
mere
lunch
or
dinner
.
She
was
just
such
a
delightful
adventuress
as
only
a
well-bred
mixture
of
American
and
English
can
sometimes
make
;
such
a
subtle
negation
of
the
morals
of
Boston
or
Kensington
that
she
would
,
in
the
searching
light
of
the
one
or
the
other
,
have
been
acclaimed
the
shining
light
of
their
William
Morris
drawing-rooms
.
She
drew
men
with
a
tentative
,
all-powerful
little
finger
,
and
mocked
them
a
little
,
but
never
so
cruelly
that
they
were
n't
,
from
the
inarticulate
beginning
to
the
inevitable
end
,
deliriously
happy
to
be
miserable
about
her
.
She
was
a
Princess
Casassimma
without
anarchical
affectations
;
and
like
her
she
was
almost
too
good
to
be
true
.
So
much
then
,
for
Shelmerdene
;
for
if
to
cap
it
all
,
I
should
go
on
to
say
that
she
was
beautiful
I
would
be
held
to
have
been
an
infatuated
fool
.
Which
,
perhaps
,
I
carelessly
was
,
since
I
ca
n't
even
now
exactly
fix
upon
the
colour
of
her
hair
,
doubting
now
in
memory
as
I
must
have
done
actually
in
those
past
days
with
her
,
whether
it
was
brown
or
black
or
,
as
sometimes
on
a
sofa
under
a
Liberty-shaded
lamp
,
a
silver-tinted
blue
,
so
wonderfully
deep
...
.
Perhaps
destined
,
in
that
future
when
Shelmerdene
is
at
last
tired
of
playing
at
life
,
to
be
the
"
blue
silver
"
of
the
besotted
madman
to
whom
she
,
at
the
weary
end
,
with
but
a
look
back
at
the
long-passed
procession
of
ci-devants
,
will
thankfully
give
herself
.
Dies
iræ
,
dies
illa
...
.
III
WE
sat
on
chairs
in
the
sun
,
and
after
we
had
been
silent
a
long
while
,
she
began
to
do
what
women
will
never
cease
doing
,
so
wise
men
say
,
as
long
as
men
say
they
love
them
,
to
define
what
the
love
of
a
man
meant
to
a
woman
,
and
to
explain
the
love
of
a
man
.
She
said
that
that
man
was
wise
who
had
said
that
love
was
like
religion
,
and
must
be
done
well
or
not
at
all
,
but
that
she
had
never
yet
found
in
any
man
sincere
love
and
delicacy
,
for
there
was
always
something
coarse
,
some
little
note
which
jarred
,
some
movement
of
the
mind
and
body
maladroit
,
in
a
man
who
is
shown
a
woman
's
love
.
"
When
men
love
and
are
not
loved
,
"
she
said
,
"
often
they
kept
their
grace
and
pride
,
and
women
are
proud
to
be
loved
by
such
men
—
even
faithfully
for
more
than
ten
years
;
but
when
men
are
loved
and
are
confident
,
then
they
seem
to
lose
delicacy
,
to
think
that
love
breaks
down
all
barriers
between
man
and
woman
;
that
love
is
a
vase
of
iron
,
unbreakable
,
and
not
,
as
it
is
,
a
vase
of
the
most
delicate
and
brittle
pottery
,
to
be
broken
to
pieces
by
the
least
touch
of
a
careless
hand
.
They
seem
to
think
that
the
state
of
love
stands
at
the
end
of
a
great
striving
;
they
do
not
realise
that
it
is
only
the
beginning
,
and
that
the
striving
must
never
cease
,
for
without
striving
there
is
no
love
,
but
only
content
.
But
they
do
not
see
that
;
they
insist
on
spoiling
love
,
breaking
the
vase
with
stupid
,
unconscious
hands
;
and
when
it
breaks
they
are
surprised
,
and
they
say
that
love
is
a
fickle
thing
and
will
stand
no
tests
,
and
that
women
are
the
very
devil
.
Always
they
spoil
love
;
it
comes
and
finds
them
helpless
,
puzzling
whether
to
clothe
themselves
entirely
in
reserve
or
whether
to
be
entirely
naked
in
brutality
;
and
generally
they
compromise
,
and
,
physically
and
mentally
,
walk
about
in
their
shirts
.
"
"
As
you
say
that
,
"
I
said
,
"
you
remind
me
of
that
woman
,
Mrs.
Millamant
,
in
Congreve
's
play
,
'
The
Way
of
the
World
.
'
Do
you
remember
that
scene
between
her
and
Mirabell
,
when
she
attaches
'
provisos
'
to
her
consent
to
marry
him
?
She
says
,
'
We
must
be
as
strange
as
though
we
had
been
married
a
long
time
,
and
as
well
bred
as
though
we
had
never
been
married
at
all
.
'
And
it
seems
to
me
that
she
was
right
,
and
that
you
are
right
,
Shelmerdene
.
Nowadays
there
is
a
reaction
against
convention
,
and
such
people
make
life
unclean
.
They
talk
about
being
'
natural
,
'
and
succeed
only
in
being
boorish
;
they
think
that
the
opposite
of
'
natural
'
is
'
artificial
,
'
but
that
is
absurd
,
for
why
was
the
title
'
gentleman
'
invented
if
not
for
the
man
who
could
put
a
presentable
gloss
on
his
primitive
,
'
natural
'
instincts
in
polite
company
?
There
must
always
be
etiquette
in
life
and
in
love
,
and
there
is
no
friendship
or
passion
which
can
justify
familiarity
trying
to
break
down
the
barriers
which
hide
every
man
and
every
woman
from
the
outside
world
.
Men
grow
mentally
limp
with
their
careless
way
of
living
;
and
life
is
like
walking
on
the
Embankment
at
three
o'clock
in
the
morning
,
when
London
is
very
silent
:
and
if
you
lounge
along
as
your
feet
take
you
,
your
hands
deep
in
your
pockets
,
being
'
natural
,
'
you
will
see
very
little
but
the
general
darkness
of
the
night
and
the
patch
of
pavement
on
which
your
eyes
are
glued
:
but
if
you
walk
upright
,
your
mind
taut
and
rigid
as
it
always
must
be
except
when
asleep
,
then
you
will
see
many
things
,
how
the
river
looks
strange
beneath
the
stars
,
the
mystery
of
Battersea
Park
which
might
,
in
the
darkness
,
be
an
endless
forest
of
distantly
murmuring
trees
,
the
figure
of
a
policeman
by
the
bridge
,
a
light
here
and
there
in
the
windows
of
the
houses
in
Cheyne
Walk
,
which
might
mean
birth
or
death
or
nothing
,
but
is
food
for
your
mind
because
you
are
living
and
interested
in
all
living
things
.
It
was
probably
some
wise
philosopher
,
an
Epicurean
,
and
not
a
buffoon
,
as
is
supposed
,
who
first
uttered
that
saying
which
is
now
become
farcical
,
that
'
distance
lends
enchantment
.
'
For
he
did
not
mean
the
material
distance
of
yards
and
furlongs
and
miles
,
but
the
distance
of
necessary
strangeness
,
of
inevitable
mystery
,
and
of
a
rigid
mental
etiquette
,
the
good
manners
of
the
mind
.
And
that
is
why
Henry
James
was
a
great
man
,
and
with
a
great
propaganda
.
He
was
subtle
with
his
propaganda
—
an
ugly
word
which
can
be
used
for
other
things
than
the
bawling
of
tiresome
men
in
this
Park
on
Sunday
afternoons
—
for
he
could
do
nothing
without
an
almost
obvious
subtlety
;
but
it
is
there
in
all
his
work
,
a
teaching
for
all
who
care
to
be
taught
.
In
the
world
of
Henry
James
,
for
he
was
more
fastidious
than
Meredith
or
Mr.
Hardy
and
would
have
nothing
to
do
with
this
world
as
it
was
,
but
made
one
of
his
own
,
in
this
world
the
men
and
women
are
not
just
men
and
women
,
with
thoughts
and
doings
bluntly
and
coarsely
expressed
as
in
real
life
;
but
he
showed
them
to
be
subtle
creatures
,
something
higher
than
clever
animals
,
with
different
shades
of
meaning
in
every
word
—
what
fool
was
it
who
said
that
a
word
spoken
must
be
a
word
meant
!
—
with
barriers
of
reserve
and
strangeness
between
each
person
;
and
their
conversation
is
not
just
a
string
of
words
,
but
a
thing
of
different
values
,
in
which
the
mind
of
the
speaker
and
the
listener
is
alive
and
rigid
to
every
current
of
refined
thought
which
is
often
unexpressed
but
understood
.
I
think
'
thin
'
is
the
right
epithet
for
the
minds
of
James
'
characters
;
and
the
difference
between
them
and
ordinary
people
is
that
within
us
there
is
a
sort
of
sieve
between
the
mind
and
the
mouth
,
or
in
whatever
way
we
choose
to
be
articulate
,
which
,
unlike
ordinary
sieves
,
allows
only
the
coarse
grains
to
drop
through
and
be
given
out
,
but
keeps
the
subtleties
and
the
refinement
to
itself
;
but
between
the
minds
and
the
articulation
of
James
'
people
there
are
no
sieves
,
and
the
inner
subtleties
and
shades
are
given
expression
.
There
is
a
strangeness
,
a
kind
of
mental
tautness
,
a
never-ceasing
etiquette
,
about
them
all
.
"
But
then
I
laughed
,
and
when
she
asked
me
why
I
did
not
go
on
,
I
said
that
I
had
suddenly
realised
that
I
had
strayed
from
the
subject
,
and
that
whereas
she
had
begun
to
talk
of
love
I
had
ended
by
talking
of
Henry
James
.
"
It
is
all
about
the
same
thing
,
"
she
said
,
"
for
we
are
both
grumbling
at
that
mental
limpness
which
makes
people
think
that
they
need
make
no
effort
,
but
that
life
will
go
on
around
them
just
the
same
.
And
that
is
why
I
think
one
of
the
most
dreadful
sights
is
a
man
asleep
.
No
one
should
see
another
person
asleep
;
it
seems
to
me
the
most
private
thing
in
the
world
,
and
if
I
were
a
man
and
a
woman
had
watched
me
as
I
lay
asleep
,
I
should
want
to
kill
her
so
that
she
should
not
go
about
and
tell
people
how
I
had
looked
as
I
lay
stupidly
unconscious
of
everything
around
me
.
Only
once
I
have
seen
a
man
asleep
,
and
that
was
the
end
of
a
perfect
love
affair
.
I
had
suddenly
gone
to
see
him
in
his
chambers
,
and
when
his
man
showed
me
into
his
room
I
found
him
lying
there
on
the
sofa
,
with
his
head
thrown
back
on
a
cushion
,
sleeping
.
His
man
said
that
he
must
be
very
tired
as
he
had
been
working
all
night
,
and
that
it
would
be
kind
of
me
not
to
wake
him
.
I
waited
in
the
room
for
an
hour
,
trying
not
to
look
at
him
but
to
read
a
book
,
but
his
breathing
filled
the
room
and
I
could
not
take
my
eyes
away
from
him
;
and
at
the
end
of
an
hour
I
felt
that
my
love
had
gone
from
me
minute
by
minute
as
I
had
looked
at
him
,
and
that
now
I
might
just
as
well
get
up
and
go
away
,
for
I
did
not
care
any
longer
if
he
was
asleep
or
awake
.
So
I
went
away
,
but
I
do
not
know
if
he
woke
up
as
the
door
closed
behind
me
.
"
"
And
did
you
ever
tell
him
why
you
had
ceased
to
love
him
?
"
I
asked
.
"
I
could
n't
do
that
,
"
she
said
,
"
because
if
he
had
not
understood
me
I
should
have
hated
him
,
and
I
do
not
like
hating
people
whom
I
have
loved
.
But
now
I
dine
with
him
from
time
to
time
,
and
I
can
see
that
he
is
still
wondering
how
it
was
that
on
Monday
I
loved
him
and
on
Tuesday
I
did
n't
.
"
As
we
walked
through
the
Park
towards
the
Park
Lane
gates
,
it
seemed
to
me
wonderful
that
this
day
,
one
among
many
days
,
should
already
be
passing
,
irrevocably
,
and
that
what
we
had
said
and
what
we
had
felt
as
we
sat
on
chairs
in
the
sun
would
never
be
repeated
,
would
never
come
again
except
perhaps
in
a
different
way
and
with
different
surprises
.
And
when
I
asked
her
if
she
felt
the
happiness
of
the
afternoon
,
she
laughed
slightly
and
said
that
she
liked
the
Park
this
spring
afternoon
.
"
It
is
perfect
now
,
"
she
said
,
"
but
when
we
come
here
in
a
month
's
or
two
months
'
time
it
will
be
too
warm
to
sit
in
the
sun
and
talk
about
love
and
Henry
James
,
and
in
the
autumn
we
will
sit
down
for
a
moment
and
shiver
a
little
and
pity
the
brown
leaves
falling
,
and
in
the
winter
we
will
walk
quickly
through
because
it
will
be
too
cold
;
and
then
in
Park
Lane
you
will
put
me
into
a
taxi
and
stand
by
the
door
with
your
hat
in
your
hand
,
and
say
good-bye
.
For
the
seasons
will
have
gone
round
,
and
we
shall
each
have
given
what
the
other
will
take
,
and
when
I
look
at
you
you
will
be
different
,
and
when
you
look
at
me
you
will
not
see
,
as
you
see
now
,
my
eyes
looking
far
away
over
your
shoulder
,
and
you
will
not
wonder
what
it
is
that
I
am
looking
at
.
For
then
,
as
you
stand
by
the
door
of
the
taxi
and
smile
your
good-bye
at
me
,
the
end
will
have
come
,
and
there
will
be
nothing
to
look
at
in
the
distance
over
your
shoulders
.
And
next
year
you
will
be
an
'
old
friend
,
'
and
I
shall
ring
you
up
and
say
that
I
am
very
sorry
I
ca
n't
lunch
and
walk
in
the
Park
with
you
that
day
because
an
Oxfordish
young
man
has
fallen
in
love
with
me
,
and
it
will
be
amusing
to
see
what
sort
of
lunch
he
will
order
when
he
is
in
love
.
"
But
is
a
rose
less
beautiful
because
it
is
sure
to
die
?
"
she
said
.
But
the
winter
she
spoke
of
was
not
of
the
seasons
,
for
it
rushed
incontinently
in
upon
us
between
the
summer
and
the
autumn
,
and
I
,
too
,
was
delicately
added
to
the
sedate
statuary
of
Shelmerdene
's
"
old
friends
...
.
"
And
now
I
am
in
this
strange
library
whose
rows
of
books
stare
so
unfamiliarly
at
me
.
The
table
at
which
I
write
is
by
the
big
French
windows
,
and
I
must
be
careful
to
keep
my
elbows
from
sprawling
as
they
would
,
for
everything
is
covered
with
dust
,
and
if
I
were
fussy
and
wiped
it
away
I
should
raise
a
great
cloud
of
it
around
my
head
...
.
All
is
quiet
and
leisurely
this
morning
.
Outside
there
is
no
sun
or
mildness
to
make
me
restless
and
self-conscious
about
my
laziness
;
it
is
one
of
those
days
on
which
one
need
not
think
of
doing
anything
which
will
be
"
good
for
one
,
"
and
until
about
tea-time
the
outside
world
will
be
better
to
look
at
than
to
breathe
.
For
the
windows
show
me
a
very
dark
,
wet-laden
garden
,
and
the
steady
rain
falling
among
the
last
leaves
of
the
trees
and
their
myriad
dead
comrades
on
the
grass
and
gravel
makes
that
"
swish
"
which
comes
so
coolly
and
pleasantly
to
ears
which
need
not
be
wet
with
it
.
But
at
about
five
o'clock
,
if
the
rain
has
stopped
by
then
,
I
shall
go
out
and
walk
about
the
garden
for
an
hour
or
so
;
I
shall
walk
to
the
top
of
the
Divvil
Mound
,
which
lies
above
half
the
county
to
the
west
and
,
on
a
fine
day
,
gives
your
eyes
a
rugged
length
of
the
distant
Cheviots
,
and
there
I
shall
look
up
to
the
sky
and
draw
in
long
draughts
of
the
fresh
rain-scented
air
,
and
feel
that
I
shall
never
be
ill
again
in
all
my
life
;
and
as
I
walk
back
under
the
trees
the
wet
will
drip
on
to
me
and
I
shall
splash
myself
here
and
there
;
but
I
shall
not
swear
,
for
my
clothes
are
done
for
the
day
,
and
when
I
get
in
I
shall
have
a
bath
and
change
,
and
feel
all
new
and
clean
for
whatever
the
evening
may
bring
.
Beside
me
now
is
an
envelope
with
an
American
stamp
,
and
the
vaguely
woebegone
look
which
readdressed
envelopes
have
;
for
it
followed
me
here
some
ten
days
ago
from
London
,
reaching
me
the
same
morning
that
I
sat
down
to
write
this
(
for
it
has
taken
me
more
than
a
week
of
long
mornings
to
write
these
few
thousand
words
)
which
was
at
first
to
have
been
an
essay
on
London
,
but
seems
now
to
have
fallen
into
the
state
of
a
personal
confession
.
Many
times
I
have
taken
out
this
letter
and
re-read
it
,
for
it
is
a
strange
letter
,
such
a
one
as
a
man
may
receive
only
once
in
his
life
.
This
letter
needs
no
answer
,
for
it
is
dead
like
the
person
who
sent
it
;
and
that
the
sender
should
not
now
care
if
I
read
it
or
not
gives
me
a
queer
feeling
of
triviality
;
for
in
her
letter
she
asks
me
to
write
back
,
not
knowing
then
that
a
letter
from
a
dead
person
is
the
only
sort
one
need
not
answer
without
blame
or
reproach
.
The
day
has
long
passed
when
,
if
you
felt
inclined
,
you
could
moralise
on
death
and
the
frailty
of
human
life
to
your
heart
's
content
and
be
sure
of
a
hearing
.
I
am
sorry
that
the
commonplaces
on
death
find
now
only
impatient
readers
,
for
they
make
pleasant
reading
in
the
pioneer
essayists
from
poor
Overbury
to
Steele
;
for
death
,
with
all
its
embroideries
and
trappings
of
destiny
and
Nemesis
,
is
a
pretty
way
of
exercising
that
philosophy
which
no
one
is
without
.
I
envy
the
courage
of
the
man
who
could
now
write
an
essay
"
On
Death
"
as
Bacon
did
once
,
laying
down
the
law
of
it
with
no
hint
of
an
apology
for
the
monotony
of
his
subject
;
but
there
is
now
no
essayist
or
philosopher
with
the
calm
and
aloof
assurance
and
arrogance
of
a
Bacon
,
that
you
might
see
,
after
the
last
written
words
on
the
most
trivial
theme
,
this
last
seal
,
as
though
he
were
God
,
"
Thus
thought
Francis
Bacon
.
"
But
of
death
there
is
nothing
trivial
and
pleasant
left
to
be
said
,
and
as
a
subject
it
has
grown
monotonous
,
except
for
the
inevitable
slayer
and
the
slain
,
and
that
prevalent
instinct
for
fair
play
(
"
the
essential
quality
of
the
looker-on
"
)
which
interests
itself
in
the
manner
of
the
slaying
.
But
this
letter
has
seemed
strange
to
me
because
,
perhaps
,
I
shall
never
again
receive
a
letter
whose
writer
is
dead
,
and
who
,
when
writing
it
,
dreamt
of
all
material
things
but
death
.
Were
I
Oscar
Wilde
I
might
wonder
now
if
English-women
who
die
in
America
come
back
to
London
;
for
there
is
much
of
London
in
the
letter
:
"
I
should
like
to
be
in
London
to-day
—
Bloomsbury
London
,
Mayfair
London
,
Chelsea
London
,
London
of
the
small
restaurants
and
large
draughts
of
wine
,
London
of
the
intellectual
half-lights
,
drone
of
flippant
phrases
and
racy
epigrams
,
with
a
thin
fog
outside
;
London
of
a
resigned
good
humour
,
of
modulated
debauch
moving
like
her
traffic
,
strips
of
colour
through
dusk
,
and
drab
,
optimistic
,
noisy
solitude
,
tranquillity
of
incessant
sound
:
autumn
lamplight
,
busy
park
,
sheep
,
men
,
women
,
prostitutes
:
doors
slamming
,
people
coming
in
and
sitting
by
the
fire
,
more
cigarettes
,
cakes
,
shops
,
myriads
of
people
...
.
"
But
I
would
not
like
to
be
in
London
this
month
of
November
.
IV
BUT
there
was
once
a
month
of
November
,
about
which
I
could
not
so
grandly
say
that
I
would
not
like
to
spend
it
in
London
;
for
something
happened
which
threw
me
in
a
great
hurly-burly
of
change
into
an
uncomfortable
little
flat
in
Monday
Road
,
which
is
in
South
Kensington
,
but
for
all
the
life
and
gaiety
there
is
in
it
might
just
as
well
be
in
a
scrubby
corner
of
the
Sahara
on
a
dusty
day
.
My
father
had
died
suddenly
,
and
what
little
question
there
was
of
my
ever
going
into
business
now
dropped
away
,
so
I
had
to
make
at
least
a
pretence
of
earning
my
living
,
or
,
rather
,
of
making
a
career
for
myself
.
I
was
very
definite
about
this
,
that
I
must
do
something
,
be
something
:
for
I
had
learnt
this
much
of
the
world
,
that
there
is
no
room
in
it
for
casual
comers
,
that
a
man
must
have
a
background
(
any
background
will
do
,
but
the
more
individual
the
better
)
;
that
there
is
no
room
in
any
part
soever
of
the
social
scale
for
a
man
who
is
just
nothing
at
all
;
and
as
I
have
never
seriously
contemplated
living
exclusively
in
the
company
of
landladies
and
their
friends
,
I
saw
that
I
must
put
my
back
into
it
and
cease
being
a
very
insignificant
rentier
.
I
could
n't
bear
the
idea
of
going
through
life
as
just
a
complacent
Armenian
in
a
world
where
millions
and
millions
of
others
were
trying
honestly
and
otherwise
to
climb
up
the
greasy
pole
of
respectable
attainment
.
But
I
cannot
resist
saying
what
I
think
of
Monday
Road
,
though
I
am
sure
I
can
do
it
no
harm
,
because
better
men
than
I
must
have
hated
it
,
and
more
virulently
.
Monday
Road
,
like
all
the
other
roads
which
sink
their
mutual
differences
into
the
so
dreary
Fulham
Road
,
consists
of
large
,
equal-faced
houses
stuck
together
in
two
opposite
rows
which
are
separated
by
about
fifteen
yards
or
so
of
second-hand
Tarmac
;
a
road
like
another
,
you
will
mildly
say
,
but
you
cannot
possibly
realise
its
dismal
grimness
if
you
have
not
lived
there
.
The
people
who
live
in
the
angular-faced
houses
are
artists
who
believe
in
art
for
art
's
sake
—
else
they
would
n't
be
forced
to
live
in
the
dismalest
street
in
the
world
—
amateur
intellectuals
like
myself
,
and
various
sorts
of
women
.
The
tribe
of
organ-grinders
have
a
great
weakness
for
Monday
Road
,
probably
because
some
tactless
ass
has
stuck
up
a
notice
there
that
"
Barrel-organs
are
prohibited
,
"
which
is
a
silly
thing
to
say
if
you
ca
n't
enforce
it
.
Altogether
it
is
the
sort
of
road
in
which
a
"
spinster
lady
"
might
at
any
moment
lock
her
door
,
close
her
windows
,
turn
on
the
gas
,
and
read
a
novel
to
death
.
A
woman
in
the
flat
next
to
mine
did
that
a
week
after
I
arrived
,
and
I
have
never
viewed
death
more
sympathetically
.
When
men
grow
old
they
are
apt
to
discover
pleasant
memories
attached
even
to
the
worst
periods
,
as
they
thought
them
at
the
time
,
of
their
lives
.
I
am
not
very
old
as
yet
,
but
looking
back
calmly
on
the
eighteen
months
I
spent
in
South
Kensington
,
I
can
find
here
and
there
,
through
an
exaggerated
cloud
of
depression
and
wretchedness
,
a
pleasant
memory
smiling
reprovingly
at
me
;
as
though
,
perhaps
,
I
should
not
be
treacherous
to
the
good
hours
God
or
my
luck
had
given
me
...
.
And
there
was
one
moment
of
them
all
,
when
,
in
the
first
darkness
of
an
early
autumn
night
,
a
dim
slight
figure
stood
mysteriously
on
my
doorstep
,
and
I
blinked
childishly
at
it
because
I
did
not
know
who
the
figure
was
nor
how
it
had
come
there
—
if
indeed
it
had
come
at
all
,
and
I
had
not
dreamed
the
ring
of
the
bell
which
had
startled
me
out
of
my
book
.
Or
,
perhaps
,
she
had
made
a
mistake
,
had
n't
come
for
me
at
all
...
.
But
when
she
spoke
,
asking
for
me
,
I
began
to
remember
her
,
but
only
her
voice
,
for
I
could
not
see
her
face
which
was
hidden
in
the
high
fur
collar
of
an
evening
cloak
.
She
looked
so
mysterious
that
I
did
n't
want
to
remember
where
I
had
seen
her
.
"
I
simply
ca
