So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drumming
on the roof a downpouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, it
seemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of darkness which, creeping
in at keyholes and crevices, stole round window blinds, came into
bedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowl of red and
yellow dahlias, there the sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers.
Not only was furniture confounded; there was scarcely anything left of
body or mind by which one could say, "This is he" or "This is she." Sometimes
a hand was raised as if to clutch something or ward off something,
or somebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing a joke
with nothingness.
Nothing stirred in the drawing-room or in the dining-room or on the
staircase. Only through the rusty hinges and swollen sea-moistened
woodwork certain airs, detached from the body of the wind (the house
was ramshackle after all) crept round corners and ventured indoors. Almost
one might imagine them, as they entered the drawing-room questioning
and wondering, toying with the flap of hanging wall-paper, asking,
would it hang much longer, when would it fall? Then smoothly
brushing the walls, they passed on musingly as if asking the red and yellow
roses on the wall-paper whether they would fade, and questioning
(gently, for there was time at their disposal) the torn letters in the
wastepaper basket, the flowers, the books, all of which were now open to
them and asking, Were they allies? Were they enemies? How long would
they endure?
So some random light directing them with its pale footfall upon stair
and mat, from some uncovered star, or wandering ship, or the Lighthouse
even, with its pale footfall upon stair and mat, the little airs mounted
the staircase and nosed round bedroom doors. But here surely, they
must cease. Whatever else may perish and disappear, what lies here is
steadfast. Here one might say to those sliding lights, those fumbling airs
that breathe and bend over the bed itself, here you can neither touch nor
destroy. Upon which, wearily, ghostlily, as if they had feather-light
102
fingers and the light persistency of feathers, they would look, once, on
the shut eyes, and the loosely clasping fingers, and fold their garments
wearily and disappear. And so, nosing, rubbing, they went to the window
on the staircase, to the servants' bedrooms, to the boxes in the attics;
descending, blanched the apples on the dining-room table, fumbled the
petals of roses, tried the picture on the easel, brushed the mat and blew a
little sand along the floor. At length, desisting, all ceased together,
gathered together, all sighed together; all together gave off an aimless
gust of lamentation to which some door in the kitchen replied; swung
wide; admitted nothing; and slammed to.
[Here Mr Carmichael, who was reading Virgil, blew out his candle. It
was past midnight.]
103
