st time it happened.

"Did you see the procession?"

"The King looked cold."

"No, no, no. But what was it?"

"She's bought a house at Malmesbury."

"How lucky to find one!"

On the contrary, it seems to me pretty sure that she, whoever she may
be, is damned, since it's all a matter of flats and hats and sea gulls,
or so it seems to be for a hundred people sitting here well dressed,
walled in, furred, replete. Not that I can boast, since I too sit
passive on a gilt chair, only turning the earth above a buried memory,
as we all do, for there are signs, if I'm not mistaken, that we're all
recalling something, furtively seeking something. Why fidget? Why so
anxious about the sit of cloaks; and gloves--whether to button or
unbutton? Then watch that elderly face against the dark canvas, a moment
ago urbane and flushed; now taciturn and sad, as if in shadow. Was it
the sound of the second violin tuning in the ante-room? Here they come;
four black figures, carrying instruments, and seat themselves facing
the white squares under the downpour of light; rest the tips of their
bows on the music stand; with a simultaneous movement lift them; lightly
poise them, and, looking across at the player opposite, the first violin
counts one, two, three----

Flourish, spring, burgeon, burst! The pear tree on the top of the
mountain. Fountains jet; drops descend. But the waters of the Rhone flow
swift and deep, race under the arches, and sweep the trailing water
leaves, washing shadows over the silver fish, the spotted fish rushed
down by the swift waters, now swept into an eddy where--it's difficult
this--conglomeration of fish all in a pool; leaping, splashing, scraping
sharp fins; and such a boil of current that the yellow pebbles are
churned round and round, round and round--free now, rushing downwards,
or even somehow ascending in exquisite spirals into the air; curled like
thin shavings from under a plane; up and up.... How lovely goodness is
in those who, stepping lightly, go smiling through the world! Also in
jolly old fishwives, squatted under arches, obscene old women, how
deeply they laugh and shake and rollick, when they walk, from side to
side, hum, hah!

"That's an early Mozart, of course----"

"But the tune, like all his tunes, makes one despair--I mean hope. What
do I mean? That's the worst of music! I want to dance, laugh, eat pink
cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story,
now--I could rel