《星期一和星期二》第11章

be　the　sea。　grey　is　the　landscape；　dim　as　ashes；　the　water　murmurs　and　moves。　if　i　fall　on　my　knees；　if　i　go　through　the　ritual；　the　ancient　antics；　it’s　you；　unknown　figures；　you　i　adore；　if　i　open　my　arms；　it’s　you　i　embrace；　you　i　draw　to　me—adorable　world！
．。
5。　The　String　Quartet
小！说
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　venture　to　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　indeed　it’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　forgotten　to　write　about　the　leak　in　the　larder；　and　left　my　glove　in　the　train；　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　launched　than　another　presses　forward；　if　this　engenders　heat　and　in　addition　they’ve　turned　on　the　electric　light；　if　saying　one　thing　does；　in　so　many　cases；　leave　behind　it　a　need　to　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　chance　is　there？
of　what？　it　bees　every　minute　more　difficult　to　say　why；　in　spite　of　everything；　i　sit　here　believing　i　can’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　contrary；　it　seems　to　me　pretty　sure　that　she；　whoever　she　may　be；　is　damned；　since　it’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　can　boast；　since　i　too　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　canvas；　a　moment　ago　urbane　and　flushed；　now　taciturn　and　sad；　as　if　in　shadow。　was　it　the　sound　of　the　second　violin　tuning　in　the　ante–room？　here　they　e；　four　black　figures；　carrying　instruments；　and　seat　themselves　facing　the　white　squares　under　the　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　counts　one；　two；　three—
flourish；　spring；　burgeon；　burst！　the　pear　tree　on　the　top　of　the　mountain。　fountains　jet；　drops　descend。　but　the　waters　of　the　rhone　flow　swift　and　deep；　race　under　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—conglomeration　of　fish　all　in　a　pool；　leaping；　splashing；　scraping　sharp　fins；　and　such　a　boil　of　current　that　the　yellow　pebbles　are　churned　round　and　round；　round　and　round—free　now；　rushing　downwards；　or　even　somehow　ascending　in　exquisite　spirals　into　the　air；　curled　like　thin　shavings　from　under　a　plane；　up　and　up。　。　。　how　lovely　goodness　is　in　those　who；　stepping　lightly；　go　smiling　through　the　world！　also　in　jolly　old　fishwives；　squatted　under　arches；　oh　scene　old　women；　how　deeply　they　laugh　and　shake　and　rollick；　when　they　walk；　from　side　to　side；　hum；　hah！
“that’s　an　early　mozart；　of　course—”
“but　the　tune；　like　all　his　tunes；　makes　one　despair—i　mean　hope。　what　do　i　mean？　that’s　the　worst　of　music！　i　want　to　dance；　laugh；　eat　pink　cakes；　yellow　cakes；　drink　thin；　sharp　wine。　or　an　indecent　story；　now—i　could　relish　that。　the　older　one　grows　the　more　one　likes　indecency。　hall；　hah！　i’m　laughing。　what　at？　you　said　nothing；　nor　did　the　old　gentleman　opposite。　。　。　but　suppose—suppose—hush！”
the　melancholy　river　bears　us　on。　when　the　moon　es　through　the　trailing　willow　boughs；　i　see　your　face；　i　hear　your　voice　and　the　bird　singing　as　we　pass　the　osier　bed。　what　are　you　whispering？　sorrow；　sorrow。　joy；　joy。　woven　together；　like　reeds　in　moonlight。　woven　together；　inextricably　mingled；　bound　in　pain　and　strewn　in　sorrow—crash！
the　boat　sinks。　rising；　the　figures　ascend；　but　now　leaf　thin；　tapering　to　a　dusky　wraith；　which；　fiery　tipped；　draws　its　twofold　passion　from　my　heart。　for　me　it　sings；　unseals　my　sorrow；　thaws　passion；　floods　with　love　the　sunless　world；　nor；　ceasing；　abates　its　tenderness　but　deftly；　subtly；　weaves　in　and　out　until　in　this　pattern；　this　consummation；　the　cleft　ones　unify；　soar；　sob；　sink　to　rest；　sorrow　and　joy。
why　then　grieve？　ask　what？　remain　unsatisfied？　i　say　all’s　been　settled；　yes；　laid　to　rest　under　a　coverlet　of　rose　leaves；　falling。　falling。　ah；　but　they　cease。　one　rose　leaf；　falling　from　an　enormous　height；　like　a　little　parachute　dropped　from　an　invisible　balloon；　turns；　flutters　waveringly。　it　won’t　reach　us。
“no；　no。　i　noticed　nothing。　that’s　the　worst　of　music—these　silly　dreams。　the　second　violin　was　late；　you　say？”
“there’s　old　mrs。　munro；　feeling　her　way　out—blinder　each　year；　poor　woman—on　this　slippery　floor。”
eyeless　old　age；　grey–headed　sphinx。　。　。　there　she　stands　on　the　pavement；　beckoning；　so　sternly；　the　red　omnibus。
“how　lovely！　how　well　they　play！　how—how—how！”
the　tongue　is　but　a　clapper。　simplicity　itself。　th