To what, to where? She opened the door. She put her umbrella in the stand. The whiff of beef from the basement; dot, dot, dot. But what I cannot thus eliminate is what I must. With the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull. Indubitably, the figures behind the ferns, commercial travellers. There I was hiding them all this time. Rhododendrons will conceal him utterly. I starve. I strive for red and white. But rhododendrons in Eastbournein Decemberon the Marshes tableno, no, I dare not. Its all a matter of crusts and cruets, frills and ferns. Perhaps therell be a moment later by the sea.
Moreover, I want to prick through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass. I want to peer and peep at the man opposite. James Moggridge is it, whom the Marshes call Jimmy? Minnie, you must promise not to twitch. James Moggridge sells buttons. The big ones and the little ones on the long cards. Some buttons are peacock-eyed. Others are dull gold. Some are cairngorms. Others are coral sprays.
He travels. On Thursdays, his Eastbourne day, he takes his meals with the Marshes. His red face, his little steady eyes, his enormous appetite. This is primitive. I dont like it. Lets see the Moggridge household. Well, James himself mends the family boots on Sundays. He reads Truth. But his passion? Roses and his wife, a retired hospital nurse. Interesting. But shes of the unborn children of the mind. She is illicit. Like my rhododendrons. How many die in every novelthe best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. Its lifes fault. Heres Minnie. She is eating her egg at the bench. There must be Jimmy at the other end of the line.
There must be Moggridgelifes fault. Life imposes its laws. Life blocks the way. Life is behind the fern. Life is the tyrant. I assure you I come willingly. Heaven knows what compulsion took me across ferns and cruets, table and bottles. I come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh, in the robust spine. Wherever I can penetrate, in the soul, of Moggridge the man. The enormous stability. The spine tough as whalebone, straight as oaktree. The ribs; the flesh; the red hollows. The suck and regurgitation of the heart. And meat and beer fall in brown cubes. So we reach the eyes. Behind the aspidistra they see something: black, white, dismal. Now the plate again. Behind the aspidistra they see elderly woman; Marshs sister; the tablecloth now.
Marsh will know whats wrong with Morrises.
Cheese. The plate again. Turn it roundthe enormous fingers; now the woman opposite. Marshs sisternot a bit like Marsh. She is a wretched, elderly female. You must feed your hens. Why is she twitching? Not what I said? Dear, dear, dear! these elderly women. Dear, dear!
Yes, Minnie. I know you twitched. But one momentJames Moggridge.
Dear, dear, dear!
How beautiful the sound is! Like the knock of a mallet on a timber. Like the throb of the heart of an ancient whaler.
Dear, dear!
A bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and solace them. So long. Good luck to you! and then, Whats your pleasure? Though Moggridge will pluck his rose for her, thats over[6]. Now whats the next thing?
Madam, youll miss your train.
Thats the sound that reverberates. Thats St. Pauls[7] and the motor-omnibuses[8]. Oh, Moggridge, you wont stay? You must leave? Are you driving through Eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages? Are you the man who is behind green cardboard boxes? Are you the man who sometimes sits so solemn like a sphinx? Please tell me. But the doors close. We shall never meet again. Moggridge, farewell!
Yes, yes, Im coming. Right up to the top of the house. One moment Ill linger. How the mud goes round in the mind! What a swirl these monsters leave! James Moggridge is dead now. He is gone for ever. Well, Minnie,
I can face it no longer.
If she said that Let me look at her. She is brushing the eggshell. She said it certainly. When the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? The entombed soul, the spirit. The self that took the veil and left the world. A coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful. It flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
I can bear it no longer, her spirit says. That man at lunchHildathe children.
Oh, heavens, her sob! The spirit is wailing its destiny, on the carpetsmeager footholdsall the vanishing universe. Love, life, faith, husband, children.
Not for menot for me.
But thenthe muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats and the consolation of underlinen. If Minnie Marsh is in the hospital, nurses and doctors will exclaim Theres the vista. Theres the vision. Theres the distancethe blue blot at the end of the avenue.
Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mothers brought you!
So, you take the glove with the worn thumb. You renew the fortifications, you thread the grey wool.
In and out, across and over. You are spinning a web through which God himself Hush, dont think of God! How firm the stitches are! You must be proud. Let nothing disturb her. Let the light fall gently. Let the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leaf. Let the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop. Why look up? Was it a sound, a thought? Oh, heavens!
Back again to the thing you did. Back again to the plate glass with the violet loops?
But Hilda will come. Ignominies, humiliations, oh! Close the breach.
Minnie Marsh mended her glove. She laid it in the drawer. She shuts the drawer with decision. I saw her face in the glass. Next she laces her shoes. Then she touches her throat. Whats your brooch? Mistletoe? And what is happening? The moment is coming. The threads are racing. Niagaras ahead. Heres the crisis!
Heaven be with you! Down she goes. Courage, courage! Face it, be it! For Gods sake dont wait on the mat now! Theres the door! Im on your side. Speak! Confront her. Confound her soul![9]
Oh, I beg your pardon! Yes, this is Eastbourne. Ill reach it down for you. Let me try the handle.
But Minnie, I know youIm with you now.
Thats all your luggage?
Much obliged, Im sure.
But why do you look about you? Hilda wont come to the station, nor John. Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne.
Ill wait by my bag, maam. Thats safe. He will meet me. Oh, there he is! Thats my son.
So they walk off together.
Well, but Im confounded. Surely, Minnie, you know better! A strange young man. Stop! Ill tell himMinnie! Miss Marsh! I dont know though. Theres something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but its untrue, its indecent. . Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. Whats the joke? Off they go[10], down the road, side by side. Well, my world is ruined. What do I stand on? What do I know? Thats not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life is bare.
The last look of them. He is stepping from the kerb and she is following him. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street? Where will you sleep tonight? Where will you sleep tomorrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you. Mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten. I follow. This must be the sea. The landscape is grey; dim as ashes. The water murmurs and moves. I fall on my knees. I go through the ritual. I adore you, unknown figures. I open my arms. I embrace you. Ill draw you to meadorable world!
The String Quartet
Well, here we are. Cast your eye over the room. You will see that Tubes[11] and trams and omnibuses, private carriages, landaus with bays in them, are weaving threads from one end of London to the other. Yet I begin to doubt