Hello there.
Thanks so much for choosing me as your narrator this evening.
And welcome back to The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Armin.
Tonight we're going to be listening to Chapter 8.
But before we begin,
Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.
Okay,
I'll begin.
Presently,
When Mrs Wilkins and Mrs Arbuthnot
Wandered out and down the worn stone steps
And under the pergola into the lower garden,
Mrs Wilkins said to Mrs Arbuthnot,
Who seemed pensive,
Don't you see that if somebody else does the ordering,
It frees us?
Mrs Arbuthnot said she did see,
But nevertheless she thought it rather silly to have everything taken out of their hands.
I love things to be taken out of my hands,
Said Mrs Wilkins.
But we found San Salvatore,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot,
And it is rather silly that Mrs Fisher should behave as if it belonged only to her.
What is rather silly,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
With much serenity,
Is to mind.
I can't see the least point in being in authority at the price of one's liberty.
Mrs Arbuthnot said nothing to that for two reasons.
First,
Because she was struck by the remarkable and growing calm
Of the hitherto incoherent and excited Lottie,
And secondly,
Because what she was looking at was so very beautiful.
All down the stone steps on either side were periwinkles in full flower,
And she could now see what it was that had caught at her the night before
And brushed wet and scented across her face.
It was wisteria,
Wisteria and sunshine,
She remembered the advertisement.
Here indeed were both in profusion.
The wisteria was tumbling over itself in its excess of life,
Its prodigality of flowering,
And where the pergola ended,
The sun blazed on scarlet uraniums,
Bushes of them,
And nasturtiums in great heaps,
And marigolds so brilliant that they seemed to be burning,
And red and pink snapdragons all outdoing each other in bright fierce colour.
The ground behind these flaming things dropped away in terraces to the sea,
Each terrace a little orchard where among the olives grew vines on trellises
And fig trees and peach trees and cherry trees.
The cherry trees and peach trees were in blossom,
Lovely showers of white and deep rose colour among the trembling delicacy of the olives.
The fig leaves were just big enough to smell of figs,
The vine buds were only beginning to show,
And beneath these trees were groups of blue and purple irises,
And bushes of lavender,
And grey sharp cactuses,
And the grass was thick with dandelions and daisies,
And right down at the bottom was the sea.
Colour seemed flung down anyhow,
Anywhere,
Every sort of colour piled up in heaps,
Pouring along in rivers.
The periwinkles looked exactly as if they were being pulled down each side of the steps,
And flowers that grow only in borders in England,
Proud flowers keeping themselves to themselves over there,
Such as the great blue irises and the lavender,
Were being jostled by small shining common things,
Like dandelions and daisies and the white bells of the wild onion,
And only seemed the better and the more exuberant for it.
They stood looking at this crowd of loveliness,
This happy jumble,
In silence.
No,
It didn't matter what Mrs Fisher did.
Not here,
Not in such beauty.
Mrs Arbuthnot's discomposure melted out of her.
In the warmth and light of what she was looking at,
Of what to her was a manifestation and entirely new side of God,
How could one be discomposed?
If only Frederick were here with her,
Seeing it too,
Seeing as he would have seen it when first they were lovers,
In the days when he saw what she saw and loved what she loved.
She sighed.
You mustn't sigh in heaven,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
One doesn't.
I was thinking how one longs to share this with those one loves,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot.
But you mustn't long in heaven,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
You're supposed to be quite complete there.
And it is heaven,
Isn't it Rose?
See how everything has been let in together,
The dandelions and the irises,
The vulgar and the superior,
Me and Mrs Fisher,
All welcome,
All mixed up anyhow,
And all so visibly happy and enjoying ourselves.
Mrs Fisher doesn't seem happy.
Not visibly anyhow,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot,
Smiling.
She'll begin soon,
You'll see.
Mrs Arbuthnot said she didn't believe that after a certain age people began anything.
Mrs Wilkins said she was sure no one,
However old and tough,
Could resist the effects of perfect beauty.
Before many days,
Perhaps only hours,
They would see Mrs Fisher bursting out into every kind of exuberance.
I'm quite sure,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
That we've got to heaven,
And once Mrs Fisher realises that that's where she is,
She's bound to be different,
You'll see.
She'll leave off being ossified and go all soft and able to stretch,
And we shall get quite,
Why,
I shouldn't be surprised,
If we get quite fond of her.
The idea of Mrs Fisher bursting out into anything,
She who seemed so particularly firmly fixed inside her buttons,
Made Mrs Arbuthnot laugh.
She condoned Lottie's loose way of talking about heaven,
Because in such a place,
On such a morning,
Condonation was in the very air.
Besides,
What an excuse there was.
And Lady Caroline,
Sitting where they had left her before breakfast on the wall,
Peeped over when she heard laughter,
And saw them standing on the path below,
And thought what a mercy it was they were laughing down there,
And had not come up and done it around her.
She disliked jokes at all times,
But in the morning she hated them,
Especially close up,
Especially crowding in her ears.
She hoped the originals were on their way out for a walk,
And not on their way back from one.
They were laughing more and more.
What could they possibly find to laugh at?
She looked down on the tops of their heads,
With a very serious face,
For the thought of spending a month with laughers was a grave one.
They,
As though they felt her eyes,
Turned suddenly and looked up.
The dreadful geniality of those women.
She shrank away from their smiles and wavings,
But she couldn't shrink out of sight without falling into the lilies.
She neither smiled nor waved back,
And turning her eyes to the more distant mountains,
Surveyed them carefully till the two,
Tired of waving,
Moved away along the path and turned the corner and disappeared.
This time they both did notice that they had been met with,
At the very least,
Unresponsiveness.
If we weren't in heaven,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
Serenely,
I should say we had been snubbed.
But as nobody snubs anybody there,
Of course we can't have been.
Perhaps she is unhappy,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot.
Whatever it is,
She'll get over it here,
Said Mrs Wilkins,
With conviction.
We must try and help her,
Said Mrs Arbuthnot.
Oh,
But nobody helps anybody in heaven.
That's finished with.
You don't try to be,
Or do.
You simply are.
Well,
Mrs Arbuthnot wouldn't go into that.
Not here,
Not today.
The vicar,
She knew,
Would have called Lottie's talk levity,
If not profanity.
How old he seemed from here.
An old,
Old vicar.
They left the path and clambered down the olive terraces,
Down and down,
To where at the bottom,
The warm,
Sleepy sea heaved gently among the rocks.
There a pine tree grew close to the water,
And they sat under it,
And a few yards away was a fishing boat,
Lying motionless and green-bellied on the water.
The ripples of the sea made little gurgling noises at their feet.
They screwed up their eyes to be able to look into the blaze of light
Beyond the shade of their tree.
The hot smell from the pine needles,
And from the cushions of wild thyme
That padded the spaces between the rocks,
And sometimes the smell of pure honey
From a clump of warm irises up behind them in the sun,
Puffed across their faces.
Very soon,
Mrs Wilkins took her shoes and stockings off
And let her feet hang in the water.
After watching her a minute,
Mrs Arbuthnot did the same.
Their happiness was then complete.
Their husbands wouldn't have known them.
They left off talking.
They ceased to mention heaven.
They were just cups of acceptance.
Meanwhile,
Lady Caroline,
On her wall,
Was considering her position.
The garden on the top of the wall was a delicious garden,
But its situation made it insecure and exposed to interruptions.
At any moment the others might come and want to use it,
Because both the hall and the dining room
Had doors opening straight into it.
Perhaps,
Thought Lady Caroline,
She could arrange it that it should be solely hers.
Mrs Fisher had the battlements,
Delightful with flowers,
And a watchtower all to herself,
Besides having snatched the one really nice room in the house.
There were plenty of places the originals could go to.
She had herself seen at least two other little gardens,
While the hill the castle stood on was itself a garden,
With walks and seats.
Why should not this one spot be kept exclusively for her?
She liked it.
She liked it best of all.
It had the Judas tree and an umbrella pine.
It had the friezes and the lilies.
It had a tamarisk beginning to flush pink.
It had the convenient low wall to sit on.
It had,
From each of its three sides,
The most amazing views.
To the east,
The bay and the mountains.
To the north,
The village across the tranquil,
Clear green water of the little harbour,
And the hills dotted with white houses and orange groves.
And to the west was the thin thread of land,
By which San Salvatore was tied to the mainland,
And then the open sea and the coastline beyond Genoa,
Reaching away into the blue dimness of France.
Yes,
She would say she wanted to have this entirely to herself.
How obviously sensible,
If each of them had their own special place to sit in apart.
It was essential to her comfort
That she should be able to be apart,
Left alone,
Not talked to.
The others ought to like it best too.
Why herd?
One had enough of that in England,
With one's relations and friends.
Oh,
The numbers of them,
Pressing on one continually.
Having successfully escaped them for four weeks,
Why continue,
And with persons having no earthly claim on one,
To herd?
She lit a cigarette.
She began to feel secure.
Those two had gone for a walk.
There was no sign of Mrs Fisher.
How very pleasant this was.
Somebody came out through the glass doors,
Just as she was drawing a deep breath of security.
Surely it couldn't be Mrs Fisher wanting to sit with her.
Mrs Fisher had her battlements.
She ought to stay on them,
Having snatched them.
It would be too tiresome if she wouldn't,
And wanted not only to have them and her sitting room,
But to establish herself in this garden as well.
No,
It wasn't Mrs Fisher,
It was the cook.
She frowned.
Was she going to have to go on ordering the food?
Surely one or other of those two waving women would do that now.
The cook,
Who had been waiting in increasing agitation in the kitchen,
Watching the clock getting nearer to lunchtime,
While she was still without knowledge of what lunch was to consist of,
Had gone at last to Mrs Fisher,
Who had immediately waved her away.
She then wandered about the house,
Seeking a mistress,
Any mistress,
Who would tell her what to cook,
And finding none,
And at last directed by Francesca,
Who always knew where everybody was,
Came out to Lady Caroline.
Domenico had provided this cook.
She was Costanza,
The sister of one of his cousins,
Who kept a restaurant down on the piazza.
She helped her brother in his cooking when she had no other job,
And knew every sort of fat,
Mysterious Italian dish,
Such as the workmen of Castagnetto,
Who crowded the restaurant at midday,
And the inhabitants of Mezzago,
When they came over on Sundays,
Loved to eat.
She was a fleshless spinster of fifty,
Grey-haired,
Nimble,
Rich of speech,
And thought Lady Caroline more beautiful
Than anyone she had ever seen.
And so did Domenico.
And so did the boy Giuseppe,
Who helped Domenico,
And was besides his nephew.
And so did the girl,
Angela,
Who helped Francesca,
And was besides Domenico's niece.
And so did Francesca herself.
Domenico and Francesca,
The only two who had seen them,
Thought the two ladies who arrived last
Very beautiful,
But compared to the fair young lady
Who arrived first,
They were as candles to the electric light
That had lately been installed.
Lady Caroline scowled at the cook.
The scowl,
As usual,
Was transformed on the way
Into what appeared to be
An intent and beautiful gravity.
And Costanza threw up her hands
And took the saints aloud to witness
That here was the very picture
Of the Mother of God.
Lady Caroline asked her crossly
What she wanted,
And Costanza's head went on one side
With delight at the sheer music
Of her voice.
She said,
After waiting a moment
In case the music was going to continue,
For she didn't wish to miss any of it,
That she wanted orders.
She had been to the signorina's mother,
But in vain.
She is not my mother,
Repudiated Lady Caroline angrily,
And her anger sounded like
The regretful wail of a melodious orphan.
Costanza poured forth pity.
She,
Too,
She explained,
Had no mother.
Lady Caroline interrupted
With the curt information
That her mother was alive
And in London.
Costanza praised God and the saints
That the young lady did not yet know
What it was like to be without a mother.
Quickly enough did misfortunes overtake one.
No doubt the young lady already
Had a husband.
No,
Said Lady Caroline,
Icily.
Worse than jokes in the morning
Did she hate the idea of husbands.
And everybody was always trying
To press them on her.
All her relations,
All her friends,
All the evening papers.
After all,
She could only marry one,
Anyhow.
But you would think,
From the way everybody talked,
And especially those persons
Who wanted to be husbands,
That she could marry at least a dozen.
A soft,
Pathetic no
Made Costanza,
Who was standing close to her,
Wail with sympathy.
Poor little one,
Said Costanza,
Moved,
Actually,
To pat her encouragingly on the shoulder.
Take hope.
There is still time.
For lunch,
Said Lady Caroline,
Freezingly,
Marvelling,
As she spoke,
That she should be patted.
She,
Who had taken so much trouble
To come to a place,
Remote and hidden,
Where she could be sure
That among other things
Of a like oppressive nature,
Pattings also were not.
We will have.
.
.
Costanza became businesslike.
She interrupted with suggestions,
And her suggestions
Were all admirable,
And all expensive.
Lady Caroline did not know
They were expensive,
And fell in with them at once.
They sounded very nice.
Every sort of young vegetables
And fruits came into them,
And much butter,
And a great deal of cream,
And incredible numbers of eggs.
Costanza said enthusiastically
At the end,
In tribute to this acquiescence,
That of the many ladies and gentlemen
She had worked for on temporary jobs
Such as this,
She preferred the English ladies
And gentlemen.
She more than preferred them.
They roused devotion in her.
For they knew what to order.
They did not skimp.
They refrained from grinding down
The faces of the poor.
From this,
Lady Caroline concluded
That she had been extravagant,
And promptly countermanded the cream.
Costanza's face fell,
For she had a cousin who had a cow,
And the cream was to have come
From them both.
And perhaps we had better not have chickens,
Said Lady Caroline.
Costanza's face fell more,
For her brother at the restaurant
Had kept chickens in his backyard,
And many of them were ready for killing.
Also,
Do not order strawberries
Till I have consulted with the other ladies,
Said Lady Caroline,
Remembering that it was only
The first of April,
And that perhaps people
Who lived in Hampstead might be poor,
Indeed must be poor,
Or why live in Hampstead?
It is not I who am mistress here.
Is it the old one?
Asked Costanza,
Her face very long.
No,
Said Lady Caroline.
Which of the other two ladies is it?
Neither,
Said Lady Caroline.
Then Costanza's smiles returned,
For the young lady was having fun with her,
And making jokes.
She told her so in her friendly Italian way,
And was genuinely delighted.
I never make jokes,
Said Lady Caroline,
Briefly.
You had better go,
Or lunch will certainly not be ready
By half past twelve.
And these curt words
Came out sounding so sweet,
That Costanza felt
As if kind compliments were being paid her,
And forgot her disappointment
About the cream and the chickens,
And went away,
All gratitude and smiles.
This,
Thought Lady Caroline,
Will never do.
I haven't come here to housekeep,
And I won't.
She called Costanza back.
Costanza came running.
The sound of her name in that voice
Enchanted her.
I have ordered a lunch for today,
Said Lady Caroline,
With the serious angel face
That was hers when she was annoyed,
And I have also ordered the dinner,
But from now on,
You will go to one of the other ladies
For orders.
I give no more.
The idea that she would go on
Giving orders was too absurd.
She never gave orders at home.
Nobody there dreamed of asking her
To do anything.
That such a very tiresome activity
Should be thrust upon her here,
Simply because she happened
To be able to talk Italian,
Was ridiculous.
Let the originals give orders,
If Mrs.
Fisher refused to.
Mrs.
Fisher,
Of course,
Was the one nature intended
For such a purpose.
She had the very air
Of a competent housekeeper.
Her clothes were the clothes
Of a housekeeper,
And so was the way she did her hair.
Having delivered herself
Of her ultimatum
With an acerbity
That turned sweet on the way,
And accompanied it
By a peremptory gesture of dismissal
That had the grace and loving kindness
Of a benediction,
It was annoying
Costanza should only stand still
With her head on one side,
Gazing at her
In obvious delight.
Oh,
Go away!
Exclaimed Lady Caroline
In English,
As she was suddenly exasperated.
There had been a fly
In her bedroom that morning,
Which had stuck,
Just as Costanza was sticking,
Only one,
But it might have been a myriad,
It was so tiresome from daylight on.
It was determined
To settle on her face,
And she was determined
It should not.
Its persistence was uncanny.
It woke her,
And again and again.
She hit at it,
And it eluded her
Without fuss or effort,
And with an almost visible blandness,
And she had only hit herself.
It came back again instantly,
And with a loud buzz
Alighted on her cheek.
She hit at it again
And hurt herself,
While it skimmed gracefully away.
She lost her temper,
And sat up in bed
Watching to hit at it and kill it.
She kept on hitting
At it at last with fury,
And with all her strength,
As if it were a real enemy,
Deliberately trying to
Madden her,
And it elegantly skimmed in
And out of her blows,
Not even angry,
To be back again the next instant.
It succeeded every time
In getting on to her face,
And was quite indifferent
How often it was driven away.
That was why
She had dressed and come out
So early.
Francesca had already been told
To put a net over her bed,
For she was not going to allow herself
To be annoyed twice like that.
People were
Exactly like flies.
She wished there were nets for keeping them off.
She hit at them with words
And frowns,
And like the fly
They slipped between her blows
And were untouched.
Worse than the fly,
They seemed unaware that she had even
Tried to hit them.
The fly at least did for a moment
Go away.
With human beings
The only way to get rid of them
Was to go away herself.
That was what,
So tired,
She had done
This April,
And having got
Here,
Having got close up
To the details of life
At San Salvatore,
It appeared that here too
She was not to be left alone.
Viewed from London,
There had
Seemed to be no details.
San Salvatore
From there seemed
To be an empty,
A delicious
Blank.
Yet,
After only 24 hours
Of it,
She was discovering
That it wasn't a blank at all
And that she was having to
Ward off as actively as ever.
Already,
She had been much stuck to.
Mrs Fisher had
Stuck nearly the whole of the
Day before,
And this morning
There had been no peace,
Not 10 minutes uninterruptedly
Alone.
Costanza,
Of course,
Had finally to go
Because she had to cook,
But
Hardly had she gone before Domenico
Came.
He came to water
And tie up.
That was natural,
Since
He was the gardener,
But
He watered and tied up all the
Things that were nearest to her.
He hovered closer and closer,
He watered to excess,
He tied plants that were
As straight and steady as arrows.
Well,
At least
He was a man,
And therefore
Not quite so annoying,
And his
Smiling good morning was received
With an answering smile,
Upon which Domenico
Forgot his family,
His wife,
His mother,
His grown-up children
And all his duties,
And only
Wanted to kiss the young lady's
Feet.
He couldn't do that
Unfortunately,
But he could talk
While he worked,
And talk he did,
Voluminously,
Pouring out every kind
Of information,
Illustrating
What he said,
With gestures
So lively that he had to put down
The watering pot,
And thus
Delay the end of the watering.
Lady Caroline
Bore it for a time,
But presently was unable to
Bear it,
And as he wouldn't
Go,
And she couldn't tell him to,
Seeing that he was engaged
In his proper work,
Once
Again it was she who had
To go.
She got
Off the wall,
And moved
To the other side of the garden,
Where in a wooden shed
Were some comfortable low
Cane chairs.
All she wanted was to turn
One of these round,
With its back
To Domenico,
And its front
To the sea,
Towards Genoa.
Such a little thing
To want.
One would
Have thought she might have been allowed
To do that,
Unmolested.
But he,
Who watched
Her every movement,
When he
Saw her approaching the chairs,
Darted after her,
And seized one,
And asked
To be told where to put it.
Would she never
Get away from being waited on,
Being made comfortable,
Being asked where she wanted
Things put,
Having to say
Thank you?
She was
Shocked with Domenico,
Who
Instantly concluded that the sun
Had given her a headache,
And
Ran in,
And fetched her a sunshade,
And a cushion,
And a footstool,
And was skilful,
And
Was wonderful,
And was one of
Nature's gentlemen.
She shut her eyes
In a heavy resignation.
She could not be unkind
To Domenico.
She could not get up and walk
Indoors,
As she would have done
If it had been one of the others.
Domenico was intelligent
And very competent.
She had at once
Discovered that it was he
Who really ran the house,
Who
Really did everything.
And his manners were definitely
Delightful,
And he undoubtedly
Was a charming person.
It was only
That she did so much long
To be left alone.
If only,
Only
She could be left quite quiet
For this one month,
She felt she might perhaps
Make something of herself
After all.
She kept her eyes shut,
Because
Then he would think she wanted to sleep
And would go away.
Domenico's romantic
Italian soul melted
Within him at this sight,
But having her eyes shut
Was extraordinarily
Becoming to her.
He stood entranced,
Quite
Still,
And she thought he had
Stolen away,
So she opened
Her eyes again.
Nope,
There he was,
Staring
At her,
Even he.
There was no getting
Away from being stared at.
I have a headache,
She said,
Shutting them again.
It is the sun,
Said Domenico,
And sitting
On the wall without a hat.
I wish to sleep.
Si,
Signorina,
He said sympathetically,
And went softly away.
She opened
Her eyes with a sigh of relief.
The gentle closing
Of the glass doors showed her
That he had not only gone quite
Away,
But had shut her out
In the garden so that she
Should be undisturbed.
Now perhaps she would be alone
Till lunchtime.
It was very curious,
And no one in the world
Could have been more surprised
Than she herself,
But she
Wanted to think.
She had never wanted to do that
Before.
Everything else
That it is possible to do
Without too much inconvenience,
She had either wanted to do
Or had done at one period
Or another of her life,
But not before had she
Wanted to think.
She had come to San Salvatore
With the single intention
Of lying comatose
For four weeks in the sun,
Somewhere where her parents
And friends were not,
Lapped in forgetfulness,
Staring herself
Only to be fed,
And she had not been there
More than a few hours
When this strange new desire
Took hold of her.
There had been wonderful stars
The evening before,
And she had gone out into the top garden
After dinner,
Leaving Mrs.
Fisher alone
Over her nuts and wine,
And,
Sitting on the wall
At the place where the lilies
Crowded their ghost heads,
She had looked out into the gulf of the night,
And it had suddenly seemed
As if her life had been
A noise all about nothing.
She had been
Intensely surprised.
She knew stars and
Darkness did produce
Unusual emotions,
Because
In others she had seen them being
Produced,
But they had not
Before done it in herself.
A noise
All about nothing.
Could she be quite well,
She had wondered.
For a long while past,
She had been aware that her life was a noise,
But it had seemed to be
Very much about something.
A noise indeed
About so much,
She must get out of earshot for a little,
Or she would be completely
And perhaps permanently deafened.
But suppose
It was only a noise
About nothing.
She had not had a question
Like that in her mind before.
It had made her feel lonely.
She wanted to be
Alone,
But not lonely.
That was
Very different.
That
Was something that ached and hurt
Dreadfully,
Right inside
One.
It was
What one dreaded most.
It was what made one
Go to so many parties,
And lately,
Even the
Parties have seemed once or twice
Not to be a perfectly
Certain protection.
Was it possible that
Loneliness had nothing to do
With circumstances,
But
Only with the way one met them?
Perhaps she had thought
She'd better go to bed.
She couldn't be very well.
She went to bed.
And in the morning,
After she had escaped the fly
And had her breakfast,
And got
Out again into the garden,
There'd been this same feeling again,
And in broad daylight.
Once more,
She'd had that really rather
Disgusting suspicion
That her life till now
Had not only been loud,
But
Empty.
Well,
If that was so,
And if
Her first 28 years,
The best ones,
Had gone
Just in meaningless noise,
She had better stop a moment
And look round her.
Pause,
As they say in
Tiresome novels,
And consider.
She hadn't got
Many sets of 28 years.
One more
Would see her growing very like
Mrs.
Fisher.
Two more
She averted her eyes.
Her mother
Would have been concerned
If she had known.
Her mother doted on her.
Her father would have
Been concerned too,
For he
Also doted.
Everybody doted.
And when,
Melodiously
Obstinate,
She had insisted
On going off to entomb herself
In Italy for a whole month
With queer people she'd got out
Of an advertisement,
Refusing
Even to take her maid,
The only explanation
Her friends could imagine was that
Poor Scrap,
Such was her
Name among them,
Had overdone
It and was feeling a little
Nervy.
Her mother
Had been distressed at her departure.
It was such an odd
Thing to do,
Such a sign
Of disappointment.
She encouraged the general
Idea of the verge
Of a nervous breakdown.
If she could have seen her
Adored Scrap,
More delightful
To look upon than any
Other mother's daughter had ever yet
Been,
The object of
Her utmost pride,
The
Source of all her fondest hopes,
Sitting,
Staring
At the empty noonday
Mediterranean,
Considering
Her three possible sets
Of 28 years,
She
Would have been miserable.
To go away alone was
Bad.
To think
Was worse.
No good could come
Out of the thinking of a beautiful
Young woman.
Complications could come out of it
In profusion,
But no
Good.
The thinking
Of the beautiful was bound
To result in hesitations,
In reluctances,
In unhappiness all around.
And here,
If she could have seen her,
Sat her Scrap,
Thinking
Quite hard.
And such
Things,
Such old
Things,
Things
Nobody ever began to think
Till they were at least
40.
To be continued.
