fintheEnglishcountryhousewhereSallyDuggan'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.