6/3/2010 - But his passion? Roses--and his wife a...
But his passion? Roses--and his wife a retired
hospital nurse--interesting--for God's sake let me have one woman with a
name I like! But no; she's of the unborn children of the mind, illicit,
none the less loved, like my rhododendronsHow many die in every novel
that's written--the best, the dearest, while Moggridge livesHere's Minnie eating her egg at the moment opposite and at t'other
end of the line--are we past Lewes?--there must be Jimmy--or what's her
twitch for?
There must be Moggridge--life's faultLife imposes her laws; life blocks
the way; life's behind the fern; life's the tyrant; oh, but not the
bully! No, for I assure you I come willingly; I come wooed by Heaven
knows what compulsion across ferns and cruets, table splashed and bottles
smearedI come irresistibly to lodge myself somewhere on the firm flesh,
in the robust spine, wherever I can penetrate or find foothold on the
person, in the soul, of Moggridge the manThe enormous stability of the
fabric; the spine tough as whalebone, straight as oaktree; the ribs
radiating branches; the flesh taut tarpaulin; the red hollows; the suck
and regurgitation of the heart; while from above meat deville watch falls in brown
cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again--and so we reach the
eyesBehind the aspidistra they see something: black, white, dismal; now
the plate again; behind the aspidistra they see elderly woman; "Marsh's
sister, Hilda's more my sort;" the tablecloth now"Marsh would know
what's wrong with Morrises talk that over; cheese has come; the plate
again; turn it round--the enormous fingers; now the woman opposite
"Marsh's sister--not a bit like Marsh; wretched, elderly femaleYou
should feed your hensGod's truth, what's set her twitching? Not what
I said? Dear, dear, dear! these elderly womenDear, dear!"
[Yes, Minnie; I know you've twitched, but one moment--James Moggridge]
"Dear, dear, dear!" How beautiful the sound is! like the knock of a
mallet on seasoned timber, like the throb of the heart of an ancient
whaler when the seas press thick and the green is clouded"Dear, dear!"
what a passing bell for the souls of the fretful to soothe them and
solace them, lap them in linen, saying, "So longGood luck to you!" and
then, "What's your pleasure?" for though Moggridge would pluck his rose
for her, that's done, that's overNow what's the next dior rasta bag thing? "Madam,
you'll miss your train," for they don't linger
That's the man's way; that's the sound that reverberates; that's St
Paul's and the motor-omnibusesBut we're brushing the crumbs offOh,
Moggridge, you won't stay? You must be off? Are you driving through
Eastbourne this afternoon in one of those little carriages? Are you man
who's walled up in green cardboard boxes, and sometimes has the blinds
down, and sometimes sits so solemn staring like a sphinx, and always
there's a look of the sepulchral, something of the undertaker, the
coffin, and the dusk about horse and driver? Do tell me--but the doors
slammedWe shall never meet againMoggridge, farewell!
Yes, yes, I'm comingRight up to the top of the houseOne moment I'll
lingerHow the mud goes round in the mind--what a swirl these monsters
leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there,
striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit
sifts itself, and again through the eyes one sees clear and still, and
there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for
the souls of those one nods to, the people one never meets again
James bag chloe paddington Moggridge is dead now, gone for everWell, Minnie--"I can face it
no longer If she said that--(Let me look at herShe is brushing the
eggshell into deep declivities)She said it certainly, leaning against
the wall of the bedroom, and plucking at the little balls which edge the
claret-coloured curtainBut when the self speaks to the self, who is
speaking?--the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central
catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world--a coward
perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly
up and down the dark corridors"I can bear it no longer," her spirit
says"That man at lunch--Hilda--the children Oh, heavens, her sob!
It's the spirit wailing its destiny, the spirit driven hither, thither,
lodging on the diminishing carpets--meagre footholds--shrunken shreds of
all the vanishing universe--love, life, faith, husband, children, I know
not what splendours and pageantries glimpsed in girlhood"Not for
me--not for me
But then--the muffins, the bald elderly dog? Bead mats I should fancy and
the consolation of underlinenIf Minnie Marsh were run over and taken to
hospital, nurses and doctors 2.55 chanel jumbo themselves would exclaimThere's the
vista and the vision--there's the distance--the blue blot at the end of
the avenue, while, after all, the tea is rich, the muffin hot, and the
dog--"Benny, to your basket, sir, and see what mother's brought you!" So,
taking the glove with the worn thumb, defying once more the encroaching
demon of what's called going in holes, you renew the fortifications,
threading the grey wool, running it in and out
Running it in and out, across and over, spinning a web through which God
himself--hush, don't think of God! How firm the stitches are! You must be
proud of your darningLet nothing disturb herLet the light fall
gently, and the clouds show an inner vest of the first green leafLet
the sparrow perch on the twig and shake the raindrop hanging to the
twig's elbowWhy look up? Was it a sound, a thought? Oh, heavens!
Back again to the thing you did, the plate glass with the violet loops?
But Hilda will comeIgnominies, humiliations, oh! Close the breach
Having mended her glove, Minnie Marsh lays it in the drawerShe shuts
the drawer with decisionI catch sight of her face in the glassNext she laces her shoesThen she touches
her christian dior saddle bag throa
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