drawn the blinds; the room was drowned in a bloody
shadow. The poet stared at the silent clock.
“What would you like me to sing?” Sibbi
murmured, offering the sting so that he could draw the poison from it.
“Anything,” he said. What does it
matter , he thought, what she sings? Desire ran through her hand into
his body, yet he scarcely felt it, sex, like an absent limb lost in some war,
castrated by some mental battle... His eyes unfocused on the face of the clock.
He did not want to go back to the room in the tower, to the unfinished work,
the spell which evaded him, urgent once, now meaningless. He had put it off.
The girl began softly to sing; she sang as if far away over some hill of the
mind, words he had written to an old tune of the island:
“Stream, from
the black cold sun of night,
Phantoms in
robes of darkest light,
To muddy the
clear waters of our lives
With dreams.”
And
after this dream, what? The room began to breathe about him, or else it was the
sea. Nothing achieved or to come, and if achieved what did it signify? Ants
crawling in ant cities... He felt the floor tilt a little beneath his chair and
thought distantly: Now, an earthquake .
But it was the sea, the sea cool and
green, washing in across the floor.
“By George, we’re flooded,” Merton
observed jovially, without rancour or alarm. “And the roof’s come down.”
The house was gone. In a paper boat they
rocked gently over an ocean glaucous and slippery as the backs of seals.
“Look at this,” Merton said, prodding
the paper. “Soon sink. Dear chap, I said the shipwright should look at her. Not
sea-worthy, you know.”
The ship was composed of manuscripts.
The ink ran and darkened the water.
“You have had my wife, of course,”
Merton said, “but it’s all for the best. Ballast, you-know. Jettison extra
cargo.”
The poet looked down and saw that Laura
and Sibbi floated under the glass-green runnels of waves with wide eyes and
fish swimming in their hair and in and out of their open mouths. With his right
hand he was holding Albertine beneath the water, while her garments floated out
like Ophelia’s, and she smiled at him sadly, encouraging him to do whatever was
necessary to save himself.
Ashburn leapt to his feet and the bottom
gave way in the paper boat and, as the water closed over his head like salty
fire, he saw Merton knock the dottle from his pipe—
Albertine still lay against his arm, he
was trying to lift her above the sea and she was calling to him and struggling
with him and suddenly he found himself in the blood-red room with fragments of
glass on the table, Sibbi cowering in her chair, and no hands visible except
Albertine’s, both holding on to him, as if he and she were drowning indeed.
But it was night which drowned
everything, all confusion and outcry.
It swooped on the island. The sea turned
red then black, the sky opened itself to an ochre moon. A serpent of lights
wound out of the village at sunset and settled upon the beach below the house
with the hoarse screeches of predatory bats.
“Our favourite pagan-Christians are
restive again,” Laura said. “Dear God, who would believe such ceremonies could
still exist. Are they sacrificing maidens to the sea?”
“Praying for rain,” Merton said. “Poor
beggars. They get little enough from the land in a good year, but this drought—well,
there’s no telling.”
“Their hovels are empty of food,
clothing and furniture,” Laura said, “and in the church are three gold
candlesticks. How can such fools hope to survive?”
Merton lit his pipe and relapsed in his
shadowy chair. Sibbi sat slapping down cards before the lamp; Laura, her wormwood
letters written, stood at the window gazing out at the firefly glare on the
foreshore. And above? From time to time each of the three looked up at the
ceiling. The poet and his pale woman were locked in some curious, stilted, yet
private and unsharing communion.
My satisfaction lies only in
shadow. The poet stared at the silent clock.
“What would you like me to sing?” Sibbi
murmured, offering the sting so that he could draw the poison from it.
“Anything,” he said. What does it
matter , he thought, what she sings? Desire ran through her hand into
his body, yet he scarcely felt it, sex, like an absent limb lost in some war,
castrated by some mental battle... His eyes unfocused on the face of the clock.
He did not want to go back to the room in the tower, to the unfinished work,
the spell which evaded him, urgent once, now meaningless. He had put it off.
The girl began softly to sing; she sang as if far away over some hill of the
mind, words he had written to an old tune of the island:
“Stream, from
the black cold sun of night,
Phantoms in
robes of darkest light,
To muddy the
clear waters of our lives
With dreams.”
And
after this dream, what? The room began to breathe about him, or else it was the
sea. Nothing achieved or to come, and if achieved what did it signify? Ants
crawling in ant cities... He felt the floor tilt a little beneath his chair and
thought distantly: Now, an earthquake .
But it was the sea, the sea cool and
green, washing in across the floor.
“By George, we’re flooded,” Merton
observed jovially, without rancour or alarm. “And the roof’s come down.”
The house was gone. In a paper boat they
rocked gently over an ocean glaucous and slippery as the backs of seals.
“Look at this,” Merton said, prodding
the paper. “Soon sink. Dear chap, I said the shipwright should look at her. Not
sea-worthy, you know.”
The ship was composed of manuscripts.
The ink ran and darkened the water.
“You have had my wife, of course,”
Merton said, “but it’s all for the best. Ballast, you-know. Jettison extra
cargo.”
The poet looked down and saw that Laura
and Sibbi floated under the glass-green runnels of waves with wide eyes and
fish swimming in their hair and in and out of their open mouths. With his right
hand he was holding Albertine beneath the water, while her garments floated out
like Ophelia’s, and she smiled at him sadly, encouraging him to do whatever was
necessary to save himself.
Ashburn leapt to his feet and the bottom
gave way in the paper boat and, as the water closed over his head like salty
fire, he saw Merton knock the dottle from his pipe—
Albertine still lay against his arm, he
was trying to lift her above the sea and she was calling to him and struggling
with him and suddenly he found himself in the blood-red room with fragments of
glass on the table, Sibbi cowering in her chair, and no hands visible except
Albertine’s, both holding on to him, as if he and she were drowning indeed.
But it was night which drowned
everything, all confusion and outcry.
It swooped on the island. The sea turned
red then black, the sky opened itself to an ochre moon. A serpent of lights
wound out of the village at sunset and settled upon the beach below the house
with the hoarse screeches of predatory bats.
“Our favourite pagan-Christians are
restive again,” Laura said. “Dear God, who would believe such ceremonies could
still exist. Are they sacrificing maidens to the sea?”
“Praying for rain,” Merton said. “Poor
beggars. They get little enough from the land in a good year, but this drought—well,
there’s no telling.”
“Their hovels are empty of food,
clothing and furniture,” Laura said, “and in the church are three gold
candlesticks. How can such fools hope to survive?”
Merton lit his pipe and relapsed in his
shadowy chair. Sibbi sat slapping down cards before the lamp; Laura, her wormwood
letters written, stood at the window gazing out at the firefly glare on the
foreshore. And above? From time to time each of the three looked up at the
ceiling. The poet and his pale woman were locked in some curious, stilted, yet
private and unsharing communion.
My satisfaction lies only in
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