《星期一和星期二》第9章

the　cheapness　of　eggs。　so　she　reaches　home—scrapes　her　boots。
have　i　read　you　right？　but　the　human　face—the　human　face　at　the　top　of　the　fullest　sheet　of　print　holds　more；　withholds　more。　now；　eyes　open；　she　looks　out；　and　in　the　human　eye—how　d’you　define　it？—there’s　a　break—a　division—so　that　when　you’ve　grasped　the　stem　the　butterfly’s　off—the　moth　that　hangs　in　the　evening　over　the　yellow　flower—move；　raise　your　hand；　off；　high；　away。　i　won’t　raise　my　hand。　hang　still；　then；　quiver；　life；　soul；　spirit；　whatever　you　are　of　minnie　marsh—i；　too；　on　my　flower—the　hawk　over　the　down—alone；　or　what　were　the　worth　of　life？　to　rise；　hang　still　in　the　evening；　in　the　midday；　hang　still　over　the　down。　the　flicker　of　a　hand—off；　up！　then　poised　again。　alone；　unseen；　seeing　all　so　still　down　there；　all　so　lovely。　none　seeing；　none　caring。　the　eyes　of　others　our　prisons；　their　thoughts　our　cages。　air　above；　air　below。　and　the　moon　and　immortality。　。　。　oh；　but　i　drop　to　the　turf！　are　you　down　too；　you　in　the　corner；　what’s　your　name—woman—minnie　marsh；　some　such　name　as　that？　there　she　is；　tight　to　her　blossom；　opening　her　hand–bag；　from　which　she　takes　a　hollow　shell—an　egg—who　was　saying　that　eggs　were　cheaper？　you　or　i？　oh；　it　was　you　who　said　it　on　the　way　home；　you　remember；　when　the　old　gentleman；　suddenly　opening　his　umbrella—or　sneezing　was　it？　anyhow；　kruger　went；　and　you　came　“home　a　back　way；”　and　scraped　your　boots。　yes。　and　now　you　lay　across　your　knees　a　pocket–handkerchief　into　which　drop　little　angular　fragments　of　eggshell—fragments　of　a　map—a　puzzle。　i　wish　i　could　piece　them　together！　if　you　would　only　sit　still。　she’s　moved　her　knees—the　map’s　in　bits　again。　down　the　slopes　of　the　andes　the　white　blocks　of　marble　go　bounding　and　hurtling；　crushing　to　death　a　whole　troop　of　spanish　muleteers；　with　their　convoy—drake’s　booty；　gold　and　silver。　but　to　return—
to　what；　to　where？　she　opened　the　door；　and；　putting　her　umbrella　in　the　stand—that　goes　without　saying；　so；　too；　the　whiff　of　beef　from　the　basement；　dot；　dot；　dot。　but　what　i　cannot　thus　eliminate；　what　i　must；　head　down；　eyes　shut；　with　the　courage　of　a　battalion　and　the　blindness　of　a　bull；　charge　and　disperse　are；　indubitably；　the　figures　behind　the　ferns；　mercial　travellers。　there　i’ve　hidden　them　all　this　time　in　the　hope　that　somehow　they’d　disappear；　or　better　still　emerge；　as　indeed　they　must；　if　the　story’s　to　go　on　gathering　richness　and　rotundity；　destiny　and　tragedy；　as　stories　should；　rolling　along　with　it　two；　if　not　three；　mercial　travellers　and　a　whole　grove　of　aspidistra。　“the　fronds　of　the　aspidistra　only　partly　concealed　the　mercial　traveller—”　rhododendrons　would　conceal　him　utterly；　and　into　the　bargain　give　me　my　fling　of　red　and　white；　for　which　i　starve　and　strive；　but　rhododendrons　in　eastbourne—in　december—on　the　marshes’　table—no；　no；　i　dare　not；　it’s　all　a　matter　of　crusts　and　cruets；　frills　and　ferns。　perhaps　there’ll　be　a　moment　later　by　the　sea。　moreover；　i　feel；　pleasantly　pricking　through　the　green　fretwork　and　over　the　glacis　of　cut　glass；　a　desire　to　peer　and　peep　at　the　man　opposite—one’s　as　much　as　i　can　manage。　james　moggridge　is　it；　whom　the　marshes　call　jimmy？　＇minnie；　you　must　promise　not　to　twitch　till　i’ve　got　this　straight＇。　james　moggridge　travels　in—shall　we　say　buttons？—but　the　time’s　not　e　for　bringing　them　in—the　big　and　the　little　on　the　long　cards；　some　peacock–eyed；　others　dull　gold；　cairngorms　some；　and　others　coral　sprays—but　i　say　the　time’s　not　e。　he　travels；　and　on　thursdays；　his　eastbourne　day；　takes　his　meals　with　the　marshes。　his　red　face；　his　little　steady　eyes—by　no　means。　altogether　monplace—his　enormous　appetite　（that’s　safe；　he　won’t　look　at　minnie　till　the　bread’s　swamped　the　gravy　dry）；　napkin　tucked　diamond–wise—but　this　is　primitive；　and；　whatever　it　may　do　the　reader；　don’t　take　me　in。　let’s　dodge　to　the　moggridge　household；　set　that　in　motion。　well；　the　family　boots　are　mended　on　sundays　by　james　himself。　he　reads　truth。　but　his　passion？　roses—and　his　wife　a　retired　hospital　nurse—interesting—for　god’s　sake　let　me　have　one　woman　with　a　name　i　like！　but　no；　she’s　of　the　unborn　children　of　the　mind；　illicit；　none　the　less　loved；　like　my　rhododendrons。　how　many　die　in　every　novel　that’s　written—the　best；　the　dearest；　while　moggridge　lives。　it’s　life’s　fault。　here’s　minnie　eating　her　egg　at　the　moment　opposite　and　at　t’other　end　of　the　line—are　we　past　lewes？—there　must　be　jimmy—or　what’s　her　twitch　for？
there　must　be　moggridge—life’s　fault。　life　imposes　her　laws；　life　blocks　the　way；　life’s　behind　the　fern；　life’s　the　tyrant；　oh；　but　not　the　bully！　no；　for　i　assure　you　i　e　willingly；　i　e　wooed　by　heaven　knows　what　pulsion　across　ferns　and　cruets；　table　splashed　and　bottles　smeared。　i　e　irresistibly　to　lodge　myself　somewhere　on　the　firm　flesh；　in　the　robust　spine；　wherever　i　can　penetrate　or　find　foothold　on　the　person；　in　the　soul；　of　moggridge　the　man。　the　enormous　stability　of　the　fabric；　the　spine　tough　as　whalebone；　straight　as　oaktree；　the　ribs　radiating　branches；　the　flesh　taut　tarpaulin；　the　red　hollows；　the　suck　and　regurgitation　of　the　heart；　while　from　above　meat　falls　in　brown　cubes　and　beer　gushes　to　be　churned　to　blood　again—and　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；　“marsh’s　sister；　hilda’s　more　my　sort；”　the　tablecloth　now。　“marsh　would　know　what’s　wrong　with　morrises。　。　。”　talk　that　over；　cheese　has　e；　the　plate　again；　turn　it　round—the　enormous　fingers；　now　the　woman　opposite。　“marsh’s　sister—not　a　bit　like　marsh；　wretched；　elderly　female。　。　。　you　should　feed　your　hens。　。　。　god’s　truth；　what’s　set　her　twitching？　not　what　i　said？　dear；　dear；　dear！　these　elderly　women。　dear；　dear！”
＇yes；　minnie；　i　know　you’ve　twitched；　but　one　moment—james　moggridge＇。
“dear；　dear；　dear！”　how　beautiful　the　sound　is！　like　the　knock　of　a　mallet　on　seasoned　timber；　like　the　throb　of　the　heart　of　an　ancient　whaler　when　the　seas　press　thick　and　the　green　is　clouded。　“dear；