ngles with the other and is
absorbed in it. If some part of us exists beyond words and forms, if our
thought sometimes floats in regions of pure mentality, is it not this
principle deprived of consciousness which bathes in the tremulous waves
of sound?

3

And Rose is also listening. But Rose listens without hearing. She, whom
the most beautiful things leave unmoved, here preserves an appearance of
absolute attention better than any one else in the audience. She
listens in that passive manner which is characteristic of her nature.
She lives a waking sleep. There is no consciousness, no effort, but
neither any desire.

When the orchestra fills the house with a song of gladness, I forget my
anxiety and let my imagination soar into its heights and weave romances
around that strange, cold beauty; but, if the music stops, if Rose moves
or speaks, then it comes to earth again with some simple little plan,
quite practical and quite ordinary.

4

She leant forward and I saw glittering under the electric lamp the
little silver chain which she wore round her neck on the day when I saw
her first, in the Normandy cornfields, standing amid the tall golden
sheaves; and, as I recalled that first impression, the difference
between then and now came like a blinding flash. In the cool morning
breeze, the sickles advance with the sound and the surge of waves; and
the golden expanse bows before the oncoming death. The sky is blue, the
village steeple shimmers in the sunlight, a great calm reigns ... and a
woman stands there, bending over the ground. What have I done? What have
I done? Was not everything better so?

CHAPTER VIII

1

"It looks like snowing," says Rose.

The words falling upon an absolute silence distract me from my work.

It is a dull, drab winter's day. There is no colour, no light in the sky
that shows through the muslin blinds. On the branches of the bare trees,
a few dead leaves, which the wind has left behind, shiver miserably at
some passing gust. There is just enough noise for us to enjoy the peace
that enfolds the house. From time to time, carriage-wheels roll by and
the crack of a whip cuts into our silence; then the dog wakes, sits up,
looks questioningly at me and quietly puts his nose back between his
paws and begins to snore again. Rose is sitting opposite him, on the
other side of the fire-place. She is holding a book in her hands without
reading it. Her beautiful eyes are staring drea