 |
| Dew Pond at Monk's House |
26 February 1935
A very fine
skyblue day, my windows completely filled with blue for a wonder. Mr. Riley has just mended them. And I have been writing & writing &
re-writing the scene by the Round Pond.
What I want to do is reduce it all so that each sentence though
perfectly natural dialogue has a great pressure of meaning behind it. And the most careful harmony & contrast
of scene – the boats colliding &c – has also to be arranged.
(D4 282)
 |
| Dappled Walk in Kensington Gardens |
A lady, fashionably dressed with a purple feather dipping
down on one side of her hat, sat there sipping an ice. The sun dappled the
table and gave her a curious look of transparency, as if she were caught in a
net of light; as if she were composed of lozenges of floating colours. Martin
half thought that he knew her; he half raised his hat. But she sat there
looking in front of her; sipping her ice. No, he thought; he did not know her,
and he stopped for a moment to light his pipe. What would the world be, he said
to himself--he was still thinking of the fat man brandishing his arm--without
"I" in it? He lit the match. He looked at the flame that had become
almost invisible in the sun. He stood for a second drawing at his pipe. Sara
had walked on. She too was netted with floating lights from between the leaves.
A primal innocence seemed to brood over the scene. The birds made a fitful
sweet chirping in the branches; the roar of London encircled the open space in
a ring of distant but complete sound. The pink and white chestnut blossoms rode
up and down as the branches moved in the breeze. The sun dappling the leaves
gave everything a curious look of insubstantiality as if it were broken into
separate points of light. He too, himself, seemed dispersed.
The
Years ( 229)
No comments:
Post a Comment