《星期一和星期二》第8章

ng　roofs　like　the　spines　of　caterpillars；　this　way；　that　way；　striped　red　and　yellow；　with　blue–black　slating＇。　now；　minnie；　the　door’s　shut；　hilda　heavily　descends　to　the　basement；　you　unstrap　the　straps　of　your　basket；　lay　on　the　bed　a　meagre　nightgown；　stand　side　by　side　furred　felt　slippers。　the　looking–glass—no；　you　avoid　the　looking–glass。　some　methodical　disposition　of　hat–pins。　perhaps　the　shell　box　has　something　in　it？　you　shake　it；　it’s　the　pearl　stud　there　was　last　year—that’s　all。　and　then　the　sniff；　the　sigh；　the　sitting　by　the　window。　three　o’clock　on　a　december　afternoon；　the　rain　drizzling；　one　light　low　in　the　skylight　of　a　drapery　emporium；　another　high　in　a　servant’s　bedroom—this　one　goes　out。　that　gives　her　nothing　to　look　at。　a　moment’s　blankness—then；　what　are　you　thinking？　（let　me　peep　across　at　her　opposite；　she’s　asleep　or　pretending　it；　so　what　would　she　think　about　sitting　at　the　window　at　three　o’clock　in　the　afternoon？　health；　money；　bills；　her　god？）　yes；　sitting　on　the　very　edge　of　the　chair　looking　over　the　roofs　of　eastbourne；　minnie　marsh　prays　to　gods。　that’s　all　very　well；　and　she　may　rub　the　pane　too；　as　though　to　see　god　better；　but　what　god　does　she　see？　who’s　the　god　of　minnie　marsh；　the　god　of　the　back　streets　of　eastbourne；　the　god　of　three　o’clock　in　the　afternoon？　i；　too；　see　roofs；　i　see　sky；　but；　oh；　dear—this　seeing　of　gods！　more　like　president　kruger　than　prince　albert—that’s　the　best　i　can　do　for　him；　and　i　see　him　on　a　chair；　in　a　black　frock–coat；　not　so　very　high　up　either；　i　can　manage　a　cloud　or　two　for　him　to　sit　on；　and　then　his　hand　trailing　in　the　cloud　holds　a　rod；　a　truncheon　is　it？—black；　thick；　thorned—a　brutal　old　bully—minnie’s　god！　did　he　send　the　itch　and　the　patch　and　the　twitch？　is　that　why　she　prays？　what　she　rubs　on　the　window　is　the　stain　of　sin。　oh；　she　mitted　some　crime！
i　have　my　choice　of　crimes。　the　woods　flit　and　fly—in　summer　there　are　bluebells；　in　the　opening　there；　when　spring　es；　primroses。　a　parting；　was　it；　twenty　years　ago？　vows　broken？　not　minnie’s！　。　。　。　she　was　faithful。　how　she　nursed　her　mother！　all　her　savings　on　the　tombstone—wreaths　under　glass—daffodils　in　jars。　but　i’m　off　the　track。　a　crime。　。　。　they　would　say　she　kept　her　sorrow；　suppressed　her　secret—her　sex；　they’d　say—the　scientific　people。　but　what　flummery　to　saddle　her　with　sex！　no—more　like　this。　passing　down　the　streets　of　croydon　twenty　years　ago；　the　violet　loops　of　ribbon　in　the　draper’s　window　spangled　in　the　electric　light　catch　her　eye。　she　lingers—past　six。　still　by　running　she　can　reach　home。　she　pushes　through　the　glass　swing　door。　it’s　sale–time。　shallow　trays　brim　with　ribbons。　she　pauses；　pulls　this；　fingers　that　with　the　raised　roses　on　it—no　need　to　choose；　no　need　to　buy；　and　each　tray　with　its　surprises。　“we　don’t　shut　till　seven；”　and　then　it　is　seven。　she　runs；　she　rushes；　home　she　reaches；　but　too　late。　neighbours—the　doctor—baby　brother—the　kettle—scalded—hospital—dead—or　only　the　shock　of　it；　the　blame？　ah；　but　the　detail　matters　nothing！　it’s　what　she　carries　with　her；　the　spot；　the　crime；　the　thing　to　expiate；　always　there　between　her　shoulders。
“yes；”　she　seems　to　nod　to　me；　“it’s　the　thing　i　did。”
whether　you　did；　or　what　you　did；　i　don’t　mind；　it’s　not　the　thing　i　want。　the　draper’s　window　looped　with　violet—that’ll　do；　a　little　cheap　perhaps；　a　little　monplace—since　one　has　a　choice　of　crimes；　but　then　so　many　（let　me　peep　across　again—still　sleeping；　or　pretending　sleep！　white；　worn；　the　mouth　closed—a　touch　of　obstinacy；　more　than　one　would　think—no　hint　of　sex）—so　many　crimes　aren’t　your　crime；　your　crime　was　cheap；　only　the　retribution　solemn；　for　now　the　church　door　opens；　the　hard　wooden　pew　receives　her；　on　the　brown　tiles　she　kneels；　every　day；　winter；　summer；　dusk；　dawn　（here　she’s　at　it）　prays。　all　her　sins　fall；　fall；　for　ever　fall。　the　spot　receives　them。　it’s　raised；　it’s　red；　it’s　burning。　next　she　twitches。　small　boys　point。　“bob　at　lunch　to–day”—but　elderly　women　are　the　worst。
indeed　now　you　can’t　sit　praying　any　longer。　kruger’s　sunk　beneath　the　clouds—washed　over　as　with　a　painter’s　brush　of　liquid　grey；　to　which　he　adds　a　tinge　of　black—even　the　tip　of　the　truncheon　gone　now。　that’s　what　always　happens！　just　as　you’ve　seen　him；　felt　him；　someone　interrupts。　it’s　hilda　now。
how　you　hate　her！　she’ll　even　lock　the　bathroom　door　overnight；　too；　though　it’s　only　cold　water　you　want；　and　sometimes　when　the　night’s　been　bad　it　seems　as　if　washing　helped。　and　john　at　breakfast—the　children—meals　are　worst；　and　sometimes　there　are　friends—ferns　don’t　altogether　hide　‘em—they　guess；　too；　so　out　you　go　along　the　front；　where　the　waves　are　grey；　and　the　papers　blow；　and　the　glass　shelters　green　and　draughty；　and　the　chairs　cost　tuppence—too　much—for　there　must　be　preachers　along　the　sands。　ah；　that’s　a　nigger—that’s　a　funny　man—that’s　a　man　with　parakeets—poor　little　creatures！　is　there　no　one　here　who　thinks　of　god？—just　up　there；　over　the　pier；　with　his　rod—but　no—there’s　nothing　but　grey　in　the　sky　or　if　it’s　blue　the　white　clouds　hide　him；　and　the　music—it’s　military　music—and　what　they　are　fishing　for？　do　they　catch　them？　how　the　children　stare！　well；　then　home　a　back　way—“home　a　back　way！”　the　words　have　meaning；　might　have　been　spoken　by　the　old　man　with　whiskers—no；　no；　he　didn’t　really　speak；　but　everything　has　meaning—placards　leaning　against　doorways—names　above　shop–windows—red　fruit　in　baskets—women’s　heads　in　the　hairdresser’s—all　say　“minnie　marsh！”　but　here’s　a　jerk。　“eggs　are　cheaper！”　that’s　what　always　happens！　i　was　heading　her　over　the　waterfall；　straight　for　madness；　when；　like　a　flock　of　dream　sheep；　she　turns　t’other　way　and　runs　between　my　fingers。　eggs　are　cheaper。　tethered　to　the　shores　of　the　world；　none　of　the　crimes；　sorrows；　rhapsodies；　or　insanities　for　poor　minnie　marsh；　never　late　for　luncheon；　never　caught　in　a　storm　without　a　mackintosh；　never　utterly　unconscious　of　the　cheapness　of　eggs。　so　she　reaches　home—scrapes　her　boots。
have　i　read　you　right？　but　the　hu