5. The String Quartet
Well, here we are, and if you cast your eye over the room you will see that Tubes and trams and omnibuses, private carriages not a few, even, I veo believe, landaus with bays in them, have been busy at it, weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin to have my doubts—
If i』s true, as they』re saying, that Regent Street is up, and the Treaty signed, and the weather not cold for the time of year, and even at that rent not a flat to be had, and the worst of influenza its after effects; if I bethink me of having fotten to write about the leak in the larder, a my glove irain; if the ties of blood require me, leaning forward, to accept cordially the hand which is perhaps offered hesitatingly—
「Seven years since we met!」
「The last time in Venice.」
「And where are you living now?」
「Well, the late afternoon suits me the best, though, if it weren』t asking too much—」
「But I knew you at once!」
「Still, the war made a break—」
If the mind』s shot through by such little arrows, and—for human society pels it—no sooner is one lauhan another presses forward; if this engenders heat and in addition they』ve turned on the electric light; if saying ohing does, in so many cases, leave behind it a o improve and revise, stirring besides regrets, pleasures, vanities, and desires—if it』s all the facts I mean, and the hats, the fur boas, the gentlemen』s swallow–tail coats, and pearl tie–pins that e to the surface—what ce is there?
Of what? It bees every minute more difficult to say why, in spite of everything, I sit here believing I 』t now say what, or even remember the last time it happened.
「Did you see the procession?」
「The King looked cold.」
「No, no, no. But what was it?」
「She』s bought a house at Malmesbury.」
「How lucky to find one!」
On the trary, it seems to me pretty sure that she, whoever she may be, is damned, si』s all a matter of flats and hats and sea gulls, or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well dressed, walled in, furred, replete. Not that I boast, sioo sit passive on a gilt chair, only turning the earth above a buried memory, as we all do, for there are signs, if I』m not mistaken, that we』re all recalling something, furtively seeking something. Why fidget? Why so anxious about the sit of cloaks; and gloves—whether to button or unbutton? Then watch that elderly face against the dark vas, a moment ago urbane and flushed; now taciturn and sad, as if in shadow. Was it the sound of the sed violin tuning ie–room? Here they e; four black figures, carrying instruments, ahemselves fag the white squares uhe downpour of light; rest the tips of their bows on the music stand; with a simultaneous movement lift them; lightly poise them, and, looking across at the player opposite, the first violin ts owo, three—
Flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! The pear tree oop of the mountain. Fountai; drops desd. But the waters of the Rhone flow swift and deep, rader the arches, and sweep the trailing water leaves, washing shadows over the silver fish, the spotted fish rushed down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy where—it』s difficult this—glomeration of fish all in a pool; leaping, splashing, scraping sharp fins; and such a boil of current that the yellow pebbles are ed round and round, round and round—free now, rushing downwards, or even somehow asding in exquisite spirals into the air; curled like thin s