CHAPTER TWELVE

ppieralone,"saidSandra."Wehavebeenseparatedfromthenewspapers.Well,itisbetterthatpeopleshouldhavewhattheywant….Youhaveseenallthesewonderfulthingssincewemet….Whatimpression…Ithinkthatyouarechanged." "YouwanttogototheAcropolis,"saidJacob."Upherethen." "Onewillrememberitallone'slife,"saidSandra. "Yes,"saidJacob."Iwishyoucouldhavecomeintheday-time." "Thisismorewonderful,"saidSandra,wavingherhand. Jacoblookedvaguely. "ButyoushouldseetheParthenonintheday-time,"hesaid."Youcouldn'tcometo-morrow—itwouldbetooearly?" "Youhavesatthereforhoursandhoursbyyourself?" "Thereweresomeawfulwomenthismorning,"saidJacob. "Awfulwomen?"Sandraechoed. "Frenchwomen." "Butsomethingverywonderfulhashappened,"saidSandra.Tenminutes,fifteenminutes,halfanhour—thatwasallthetimebeforeher. "Yes,"hesaid. "Whenoneisyourage—whenoneisyoung.Whatwillyoudo?Youwillfallinlove—ohyes!Butdon'tbeintoogreatahurry.Iamsomucholder." Shewasbrushedoffthepavementbyparadingmen. "Shallwegoon?"Jacobasked. "Letusgoon,"sheinsisted. Forshecouldnotstopuntilshehadtoldhim—orheardhimsay—orwasitsomeactiononhispartthatsherequired?Farawayonthehorizonshediscerneditandcouldnotrest. "You'dnevergetEnglishpeopletositoutlikethis,"hesaid. "Never—no.WhenyougetbacktoEnglandyouwon'tforgetthis—orcomewithustoConstantinople!"shecriedsuddenly. "Butthen…" Sandrasighed. "YoumustgotoDelphi,ofcourse,"shesaid."But,"sheaskedherself,"whatdoIwantfromhim?PerhapsitissomethingthatIhavemissed…." "Youwillgetthereaboutsixintheevening,"shesaid."Youwillseetheeagles." Jacoblookedsetandevendesperatebythelightatthestreetcornerandyetcomposed.Hewassuffering,perhaps.Hewascredulous.Yettherewassomethingcausticabouthim.Hehadinhimtheseedsofextremedisillusionment,whichwouldcometohimfromwomeninmiddlelife.Perhapsifonestrovehardenoughtoreachthetopofthehillitneednotcometohim—thisdisillusionmentfromwomeninmiddlelife. "Thehotelisawful,"shesaid."Thelastvisitorshadlefttheirbasinsfullofdirtywater.Thereisalwaysthat,"shelaughed. "ThepeopleonemeetsAREbeastly,"Jacobsaid. Hisexcitementwasclearenough. "Writeandtellmeaboutit,"shesaid."Andtellmewhatyoufeelandwhatyouthink.Tellmeeverything." Thenightwasdark.TheAcropoliswasajaggedmound. "Ishouldliketo,awfully,"hesaid. "WhenwegetbacktoLondon,weshallmeet…" "Yes." "Isupposetheyleavethegatesopen?"heasked. "Wecouldclimbthem!"sheansweredwildly. ObscuringthemoonandaltogetherdarkeningtheAcropolisthecloudspassedfromeasttowest.Thecloudssolidifiedthevapoursthickenedthetrailingveilsstayedandaccumulated. ItwasdarknowoverAthens,exceptforgauzyredstreakswherethestreetsranandthefrontofthePalacewascadaverousfromelectriclight.Atseathepiersstoodout,markedbyseparatedotsthewavesbeinginvisible,andpromontoriesandislandsweredarkhumpswithafewlights. "I'dlovetobringmybrother,ifImay,"Jacobmurmured. "AndthenwhenyourmothercomestoLondon—,"saidSandra. ThemainlandofGreecewasdarkandsomewhereoffEuboeaacloudmusthavetouchedthewavesandspatteredthem—thedolphinscirclingdeeperanddeeperintothesea.ViolentwasthewindnowrushingdowntheSeaofMarmarabetweenGreeceandtheplainsofTroy. InGreeceandtheuplandsofAlbaniaandTurkey,thewindscoursthesandandthedust,andsowsitselfthickwithdryparticles.Andthenitpeltsthesmoothdomesofthemosques,andmakesthecypresses,standingstiffbytheturbanedtombstonesofMohammedans,creakandbristle. Sandra'sveilswereswirledabouther. "Iwillgiveyoumycopy,"saidJacob."Here.Willyoukeepit?" (ThebookwasthepoemsofDonne.) Nowtheagitationoftheairuncoveredaracingstar.Nowitwasdark.Nowoneafteranotherlightswereextinguished.Nowgreattowns—Paris—Constantinople—London—wereblackasstrewnrocks.Waterwaysmightbedistinguished.InEnglandthetreeswereheavyinleaf.Hereperhapsinsomesouthernwoodanoldmanlitdryfernsandthebirdswerestartled.Thesheepcoughedoneflowerbentslightlytowardsanother.TheEnglishskyissofter,milkierthantheEastern.Somethinggentlehaspassedintoitfromthegrass-roundedhills,somethingdamp.ThesaltgaleblewinatBettyFlanders'sbedroomwindow,andthewidowlady,raisingherselfslightlyonherelbow,sighedlikeonewhorealizes,butwouldfainwardoffalittlelonger—oh,alittlelonger!—theoppressionofeternity. ButtoreturntoJacobandSandra. Theyhadvanished.TherewastheAcropolisbuthadtheyreachedit?ThecolumnsandtheTempleremaintheemotionofthelivingbreaksfreshonthemyearafteryearandofthatwhatremains? AsforreachingtheAcropoliswhoshallsaythatweeverdoit,orthatwhenJacobwokenextmorninghefoundanythinghardanddurabletokeepforever?Still,hewentwiththemtoConstantinople. SandraWentworthWilliamscertainlywoketofindacopyofDonne'spoemsuponherdressing-table.AndthebookwouldbestoodontheshelfintheEnglishcountryhousewhereSallyDuggan'sLifeofFatherDamieninversewouldjoinitoneofthesedays.Thereweretenortwelvelittlevolumesalready.Strollinginatdusk,Sandrawouldopenthebooksandhereyeswouldbrighten(butnotattheprint),andsubsidingintothearm-chairshewouldsuckbackagainthesoulofthemomentor,forsometimesshewasrestless,wouldpulloutbookafterbookandswingacrossthewholespaceofherlifelikeanacrobatfrombartobar.Shehadhadhermoments.Meanwhile,thegreatclockonthelandingtickedandSandrawouldheartimeaccumulating,andaskherself,"Whatfor?Whatfor?" "Whatfor?Whatfor?"Sandrawouldsay,puttingthebookback,andstrollingtothelooking-glassandpressingherhair.AndMissEdwardswouldbestartledatdinner,assheopenedhermouthtoadmitroastmutton,bySandra'ssuddensolicitude:"Areyouhappy,MissEdwards?"—athingCissyEdwardshadn'tthoughtofforyears. "Whatfor?Whatfor?"Jacobneveraskedhimselfanysuchquestions,tojudgebythewayhelacedhisbootsshavedhimselftojudgebythedepthofhissleepthatnight,withthewindfidgetingattheshutters,andhalf-a-dozenmosquitoessinginginhisears.Hewasyoung—aman.AndthenSandrawasrightwhenshejudgedhimtobecredulousasyet.Atfortyitmightbeadifferentmatter.AlreadyhehadmarkedthethingshelikedinDonne,andtheyweresavageenough.However,youmightplacebesidethempassagesofthepurestpoetryinShakespeare. ButthewindwasrollingthedarknessthroughthestreetsofAthens,rollingit,onemightsuppose,withasortoftramplingenergyofmoodwhichforbidstoocloseananalysisofthefeelingsofanysingleperson,orinspectionoffeatures.Allfaces—Greek,Levantine,Turkish,English—wouldhavelookedmuchthesameinthatdarkness.AtlengththecolumnsandtheTempleswhiten,yellow,turnroseandthePyramidsandSt.Peter'sarise,andatlastsluggishSt.Paul'sloomsup. TheChristianshavetherighttorousemostcitieswiththeirinterpretationoftheday'smeaning.Then,lessmelodiously,dissentersofdifferentsectsissueacantankerousemendation.Thesteamers,resoundinglikegigantictuning-forks,statetheoldoldfact—howthereisaseacoldly,greenly,swayingoutside.Butnowadaysitisthethinvoiceofduty,pipinginawhitethreadfromthetopofafunnel,thatcollectsthelargestmultitudes,andnightisnothingbutalong-drawnsighbetweenhammer-strokes,adeepbreath—youcanhearitfromanopenwindowevenintheheartofLondon. Butwho,savethenerve-wornandsleepless,orthinkersstandingwithhandstotheeyesonsomecragabovethemultitude,seethingsthusinskeletonoutline,bareofflesh?InSurbitontheskeletoniswrappedinflesh. "Thekettleneverboilssowellonasunnymorning,"saysMrs.Grandage,glancingattheclockonthemantelpiece.ThenthegreyPersiancatstretchesitselfonthewindow-seat,andbuffetsamothwithsoftroundpaws.Andbeforebreakfastishalfover(theywerelatetoday),ababyisdepositedinherlap,andshemustguardthesugarbasinwhileTomGrandagereadsthegolfingarticleinthe"Times,"sipshiscoffee,wipeshismoustaches,andisofftotheoffice,whereheisthegreatestauthorityupontheforeignexchangesandmarkedforpromotion.Theskeletoniswellwrappedinflesh.EventhisdarknightwhenthewindrollsthedarknessthroughLombardStreetandFetterLaneandBedfordSquareitstirs(sinceitissummer-timeandtheheightoftheseason),planetreesspangledwithelectriclight,andcurtainsstillpreservingtheroomfromthedawn.Peoplestillmurmuroverthelastwordsaidonthestaircase,orstrain,allthroughtheirdreams,forthevoiceofthealarumclock.Sowhenthewindroamsthroughaforestinnumerabletwigsstirhivesarebrushedinsectsswayongrassbladesthespiderrunsrapidlyupacreaseinthebarkandthewholeairistremulouswithbreathingelasticwithfilaments. Onlyhere—inLombardStreetandFetterLaneandBedfordSquare—eachinsectcarriesaglobeoftheworldinhishead,andthewebsoftheforestareschemesevolvedforthesmoothconductofbusinessandhoneyistreasureofonesortandanotherandthestirintheairistheindescribableagitationoflife. Butcolourreturnsrunsupthestalksofthegrassblowsoutintotulipsandcrocusessolidlystripesthetreetrunksandfillsthegauzeoftheairandthegrassesandpools. TheBankofEnglandemergesandtheMonumentwithitsbristlingheadofgoldenhairthedrayhorsescrossingLondonBridgeshowgreyandstrawberryandiron-coloured.Thereisawhirofwingsasthesuburbantrainsrushintotheterminus.Andthelightmountsoverthefacesofallthetallblindhouses,slidesthroughachinkandpaintsthelustrousbellyingcrimsoncurtainsthegreenwine-glassesthecoffee-cupsandthechairsstandingaskew. Sunlightstrikesinuponshaving-glassesandgleamingbrasscansuponallthejollytrappingsofthedaythebright,inquisitive,armoured,resplendent,summer'sday,whichhaslongsincevanquishedchaoswhichhasdriedthemelancholymediaevalmistsdrainedtheswampandstoodglassandstoneuponitandequippedourbrainsandbodieswithsuchanarmouryofweaponsthatmerelytoseetheflashandthrustoflimbsengagedintheconductofdailylifeisbetterthantheoldpageantofarmiesdrawnoutinbattlearrayupontheplain.