Full text: The waves

asked, ‘ Shall I free the fly ? Shall I let the fly be eaten?” 
So I am late always. My hair is unbrushed and these chips 
of wood stick in it. When I heard you cry I followed you, 
and saw you put down your handkerchief, screwed up, with 
its rage, with its hate, knotted in it. But soon that will 
cease. Our bodies are close now. You hear me breathe. 
You see the beetle too carrying off a leaf on its back. It 
runs this way, then that way, so that even your desire while 
you watch the beetle, to possess one single thing (it is Louis 
now) must waver, like the light in and out of the beech 
leaves ; and then words, moving darkly, in the depths of 
your mind will break up this knot of hardness, screwed in 
your pocket-handkerchief.” 
“1 love,” said Susan, “and I hate. I desire one thing 
only. My eyes are hard. Jinny’s eyes break into a thousand 
lights. Rhoda’s are like those pale flowers to which moths 
come in the evening. Yours grow full and brim and never 
break. But I am already set on my pursuit. I see insects in 
the grass. Though my mother still knits white socks for me 
and hems pinafores and I am a child, I love and 1 hate.” 
“ But when we sit together, close,” said Bernard, “ we 
melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. 
We make an unsubstantial territory.” 
“1 see the beetle,” said Susan. It is black, I see; it 
is green, I see; I am tied down with single words. But 
you wander off ; you slip away; you rise up higher, with 
words and words in phrases.” 
“Now,” said Bernard, “let us explore. There is the 
white house lying among the trees. It lies down there ever 
so far beneath us. We shall sink like swimmers just touching 
the ground with the tips of their toes. We shall sink 
through the green air of the leaves, Susan. We sink as we 
run. The waves close over us, the beech leaves meet above 
our heads. There is the stable clock with its gilt hands 
shining. Those are the flats and heights of the roofs of the 
great house. There is the stable-boy clattering in the yard 
in rubber boots. ‘That is Elvedon. 

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