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you in the corner； what’s your name—woman—minnie marsh； some such name as that？ there she is； tight to her blossom； opening her hand–bag； from which she takes a hollow shell—an egg—who was saying that eggs were cheaper？ you or i？ oh； it was you who said it on the way home； you remember； when the old gentleman； suddenly opening his umbrella—or sneezing was it？ anyhow； kruger went； and you came “home a back way；” and scraped your boots。 yes。 and now you lay across your knees a pocket–handkerchief into which drop little angular fragments of eggshell—fragments of a map—a puzzle。 i wish i could piece them together！ if you would only sit still。 she’s moved her knees—the map’s in bits again。 down the slopes of the andes the white blocks of marble go bounding and hurtling； crushing to death a whole troop of spanish muleteers； with their convoy—drake’s booty； gold and silver。 but to return—
to what； to where？ she opened the door； and； putting her umbrella in the stand—that goes without saying； so； too； the whiff of beef from the basement； dot； dot； dot。 but what i cannot thus eliminate； what i must； head down； eyes shut； with the courage of a battalion and the blindness of a bull； charge and disperse are； indubitably； the figures behind the ferns； mercial travellers。 there i’ve hidden them all this time in the hope that somehow they’d disappear； or better still emerge； as indeed they must； if the story’s to go on gathering richness and rotundity； destiny and tragedy； as stories should； rolling along with it two； if not three； mercial travellers and a whole grove of aspidistra。 “the fronds of the aspidistra only partly concealed the mercial traveller—” rhododendrons would conceal him utterly； and into the bargain give me my fling of red and white； for which i starve and strive； but rhododendrons in eastbourne—in december—on the marshes’ table—no； no； i dare not； it’s all a matter of crusts and cruets； frills and ferns。 perhaps there’ll be a moment later by the sea。 moreover； i feel； pleasantly pricking through the green fretwork and over the glacis of cut glass； a desire to peer and peep at the man opposite—one’s as much as i can manage。 james moggridge is it； whom the marshes call jimmy？ ＇minnie； you must promise not to twitch till i’ve got this straight＇。 james moggridge travels in—shall we say buttons？—but the time’s not e for bringing them in—the big and the little on the long cards； some peacock–eyed； others dull gold； cairngorms some； and others coral sprays—but i say the time’s not e。 he travels； and on thursdays； his eastbourne day； takes his meals with the marshes。 his red face； his little steady eyes—by no means。 altogether monplace—his enormous appetite （that’s safe； he won’t look at minnie till the bread’s swamped the gravy dry）； napkin tucked diamond–wise—but this is primitive； and； whatever it may do the reader； don’t take me in。 let’s dodge to the moggridge household； set that in motion。 well； the family boots are mended on sundays by james himself。 he reads truth。 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 rhododendrons。 how many die in every novel that’s written—the best； the dearest； while moggridge lives。 it’s life’s fault。 here’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 fault。 life 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 e willingly； i e wooed by heaven knows what pulsion across ferns and cruets； table splashed and bottles smeared。 i e 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 man。 the 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 falls in brown cubes and beer gushes to be churned to blood again—and so we reach the eyes。 behind 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 e； the plate again； turn it round—the enormous fingers； now the woman opposite。 “marsh’s sister—not a bit like marsh； wretched； elderly female。 。 。 you should feed your hens。 。 。 god’s truth； what’s set her twitching？ not what i said？ dear； dear； dear！ these elderly women。 dear； 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 long。 good luck to you！” and then； “what’s your pleasure？” for though moggridge would pluck his rose for her； that’s done； that’s over。 now what’s the next 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–omnibuses。 but we’re brushing the crumbs off。 oh； 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 slammed。 we shall never meet again。 moggridge； farewell！
yes； yes； i’m ing。 right up to the top of the house。 one moment i’ll linger。 how 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 es 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 moggridge is dead now； gone for ever。 well； minnie—“i can face it no longer。” if she said that—（let me look at her。 she 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 curtain。 but when the self speaks to the self； who is speaking？—the entombed soul； the spirit driven in； in； in to the central catab； the self that took the veil and left the world—a coward perhaps； yet somehow beautiful； as it flits with its lantern restlessl