it was not only that it was her own perhaps altogether ignorant and lazy and selfish way of reading everything so that she grasped only the sound and the character of the words and the arrangement of the sentences, and only sometimes a long time afterwards, and with once read books never, anything, except in books on philosophy, of the author’s meaning .... but always the author; in the first few lines; and after that, wanting to change him and break up his shape or going about for days thinking everything in his shape.....

it was that there was nothing there. if there had been anything, reading so attentively, such an odd subject as spanish literature, she would have gathered some sort of vague impression. but in all the close pages of cramped cruel pointed handwriting she had gleaned nothing at all. not a single fact or idea; only mr. lahitte; a voice like an empty balloon...... the lecture was a fraud. he was. how far did he know this? thinking of the audience, those few who could learn quickly enough to follow his voice, waiting and waiting for something but strings of superlatives, the same ones again and again, until the large hall became a prison and the defiant yellow-grey form a tormenter, and their impatience and

restlessness turned to hatred and despair, she pitied him. perhaps he had not read spanish literature. but he must have consulted numbers of books about it, and that was much more than most people did. but what could she do? she glanced at her little page of notes.... break up sentences. use participles instead of which. vary adjectives. have gaps and pauses here and there. sometimes begin further off. what is picaresque? they had been written enthusiastically, seeming like inspirations, in the first pages, before she had discovered the whole of the nothingness. now they were only alterations that were not worth making; helping an imposition and being paid for it......

stopford brooke ... lecturing on browning ... blissful moonface with a fringe of white hair, talking and talking, like song and prayer and politics, the past and the present showing together, browning at the centre of life and outside it all over the world, and seeing forward to the future. perfect quotations, short and long, and the end with the long description of pompilia ...... rising and spreading and ceasing, not ending ... standing out alive in the midst of a world still shaped by the same truths going on and on. “a marvellous piece of analysis.” he had been waiting to say that to the other young man.

introduce their philosophies of life, if any, she wrote; introduce quotations. but there was no time; quotations would have to be translated. nothing could be done. the disaster was completely arranged. there was no responsibility.

she gathered the accepted pages neatly together and began pencilling in improvements.

...... the pencilled sentences made a pleasant wandering decoration. the earlier ones were forgotten and unfamiliar. re-read now, they surprised her. how had she thought of them? she had not thought of them. she had been closely following something, and they had come, quietly, in the midst of engrossment; but they were like a photograph, funny in their absurd likeness, set there side by side with the photograph of mr. lahitte. they were alive, gravely, after the manner of her graver self. it was a curious marvel, a revelation irrevocably put down, reflecting a certain sort of character ..... more oneself than anything that could be done socially, together with others, and yet not herself at all, but something mysterious, drawn uncalculatingly from some fund of common consent, part of a separate impersonal life she had now unconsciously confessed herself as sharing. she remained bent motionless in the attitude of writing, to discover the quality of her strange state. the morning was raw with dense fog; at her wimpole street ledgers she would by this time have been cramped with cold; but she felt warm and tingling with life as if she had been dancing, or for a long while in happy social contact; yet so differently; deeply and serenely alive and without the blank anxious looking for the continuance of social excitement. this something would continue, it was in herself, independently. it was as if there were someone with her in the room, peopling her solitude and bringing close

around her all her past solitudes, as if it were their secret. they greeted her; justified. never again, so long as she could sit at work and lose herself to awake with the season forgotten and all the circumstances of her life coming back fresh leaping, as if narrated from the fascinating life of someone else, would they puzzle or reproach her.

she drew her first page of general suggestions written so long ago that they already seemed to belong to some younger self, and copied them in ink. the sound of the pen shattered the silence like sudden speech. she listened entranced. the little strange sound was the living voice of the brooding presence. she copied each phrase in a shape that set them like a poem in the middle of the page, with even spaces between a wide uniform margin; not quite in the middle; the lower margin was wider than the upper; the poem wanted another line. she turned to the manuscript listening intently to the voice of mr. lahitte pouring forth his sentences, and with a joyous rush penetrated the secret of its style. it was artificial. there was the last line of the poem summing up all the rest. avoid, she wrote, searching; some word was coming; it was in her mind, muffled, almost clear; avoid—it flashed through and away, just missed. she recalled sentences that had filled her with hopeless fury, examining them curiously, without anger. avoid ornate alias. so that was it! just those few minutes glancing through the pages standing by the table while the patient talked about her jolly, noisy, healthy, thoroughly wicked little kid, and now remembering every point

he had made ..... extraordinary. but this was life! these strange unconsciously noticed things, living on in one, coming together at the right moment, part of a reality.

rising from the table she found her room strange, the new room she had entered on the day of her arrival. she remembered drawing the cover from the table by the window and finding the ink-stains. there they were in the warm bright circle of mid-morning lamplight, showing between the scattered papers. the years that had passed were a single short interval leading to the restoration of that first moment. everything they contained centred there; her passage through them, the desperate graspings and droppings, had been a coming back. nothing would matter now that the paper-scattered lamp-lit circle was established as the centre of life. everything would be an everlastingly various joyful coming back. held up by this secret place, drawing her energy from it, any sort of life would do that left this room and its little table free and untouched.