按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
a raised saucer of pink flesh where the nail should have been。 The sight was so repulsive that she felt faint for a moment； but in that moment’s darkness； when her eyelids flickered； she was relieved of the pressure of the present。 There was something strange in the shadow that the flicker of her eyes cast； something which （as anyone can test for himself by looking now at the sky） is always absent from the present—whence its terror； its nondescript character—something one trembles to pin through the body with a name and call beauty； for it has no body； is as a shadow without substance or quality of its own； yet has the power to change whatever it adds itself to。 This shadow now； while she flickered her eye in her faintness in the carpenter’s shop； stole out； and attaching itself to the innumerable sights she had been receiving； posed them into something tolerable； prehensible。 Her mind began to toss like the sea。 Yes； she thought； heaving a deep sigh of relief； as she turned from the carpenter’s shop to climb the hill； I can begin to live again。 I am by the Serpentine； she thought； the little boat is climbing through the white arch of a thousand deaths。 I am about to understand。。。
Those were her words； spoken quite distinctly； but we cannot conceal the fact that she was now a very indifferent witness to the truth of what was before her and might easily have mistaken a sheep for a cow； or an old man called Smith for one who was called Jones and was no relation of his whatever。 For the shadow of faintness which the thumb without a nail had cast had deepened now； at the back of her brain （which is the part furthest from sight）； into a pool where things dwell in darkness so deep that what they are we scarcely know。 She now looked down into this pool or sea in which everything is reflected—and； indeed； some say that all our most violent passions； and art and religion； are the reflections which we see in the dark hollow at the back of the head when the visible world is obscured for the time。 She looked there now； long； deeply； profoundly； and immediately the ferny path up the hill along which she was walking became not entirely a path； but partly the Serpentine； the hawthorn bushes were partly ladies and gentlemen sitting with card–cases and gold–mounted canes； the sheep were partly tall Mayfair houses； everything was partly something else； as if her mind had bee a forest with glades branching here and there； things came nearer； and further； and mingled and separated and made the strangest alliances and binations in an incessant chequer of light and shade。 Except when Canute； the elk–hound； chased a rabbit and so reminded her that it must be about half past four—it was indeed twenty–three minutes to six—she forgot the time。
The ferny path led； with many turns and windings； higher and higher to the oak tree； which stood on the top。 The tree had grown bigger； sturdier； and more knotted since she had known it； somewhere about the year 1588； but it was still in the prime of life。 The little sharply frilled leaves were still fluttering thickly on its branches。 Flinging herself on the ground； she felt the bones of the tree running out like ribs from a spine this way and that beneath her。 She liked to think that she was riding the back of the world。 She liked to attach herself to something hard。 As she flung herself down a little square book bound in red cloth fell from the breast of her leather jacket—her poem ‘The Oak Tree’。 ‘I should have brought a trowel；’ she reflected。 The earth was so shallow over the roots that it seemed doubtful if she could do as she meant and bury the book here。 Besides； the dogs would dig it up。 No luck ever attends these symbolical celebrations； she thought。 Perhaps it would be as well then to do without them。 She had a little speech on the tip of her tongue which she meant to speak over the book as she buried it。 （It was a copy of the first edition； signed by author and artist。） ‘I bury this as a tribute；’ she was going to have said； ‘a return to the land of what the land has given me；’ but Lord！ once one began mouthing words aloud； how silly they sounded！ She was reminded of old Greene getting upon a platform the other day paring her with Milton （save for his blindness） and handing her a cheque for two hundred guineas。 She had thought then； of the oak tree here on its hill； and what has that got to do with this； she had wondered？ What has praise and fame to do with poetry？ What has seven editions （the book had already gone into no less） got to do with the value of it？ Was not writing poetry a secret transaction； a voice answering a voice？ So that all this chatter and praise and blame and meeting people who admired one and meeting people who did not admire one was as ill suited as could be to the thing itself—a voice answering a voice。 What could have been more secret； she thought； more slow； and like the intercourse of lovers； than the stammering answer she had made all these years to the old crooning song of the woods； and the farms and the brown horses standing at the gate； neck to neck； and the smithy and the kitchen and the fields； so laboriously bearing wheat； turnips； grass； and the garden blowing irises and fritillaries？
So she let her book lie unburied and dishevelled on the ground； and watched the vast view； varied like an ocean floor this evening with the sun lightening it and the shadows darkening it。 There was a village with a church tower among elm trees； a grey domed manor house in a park； a spark of light burning on some glass–house； a farmyard with yellow corn stacks。 The fields were marked with black tree clumps； and beyond the fields stretched long woodlands； and there was the gleam of a river； and then hills again。 In the far distance Snowdon’s crags broke white among the clouds； she saw the far Scottish hills and the wild tides that swirl about the Hebrides。 She listened for the sound of gun–firing out at sea。 No—only the wind blew。 There was no war to–day。 Drake had gone； Nelson had gone。 ‘And there’； she thought； letting her eyes； which had been looking at these far distances； drop once more to the land beneath her； ‘was my land once： that Castle b