18 Şubat 2010 Perşembe

virgina kurtulusu


Perhaps it was the middle of January in the present that I first looked
up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary
to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of
yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the
round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must have been the winter
time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking
a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first
time. I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for
a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag
flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the
cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to
my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old
fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small
round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or seven inches above
the mantelpiece.

How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little
way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it. . .
If that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a picture, it
must have been for a miniature--the miniature of a lady with white
powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A
fraud of course, for the people who had this house before us would have
chosen pictures in that way--an old picture for an old room. That is the
sort of people they were--very interesting people, and I think of them so
often, in such queer places, because one will never see them again, never
know what happened next. They wanted to leave this house because they
wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in
process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it
when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour
out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden
of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.

But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made
by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might get up,
but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say
for certain; because once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it
happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life; The inaccuracy of thought!
The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our
possessions we have--what an accidental affair this living is after all
our civilization--let me just count over a few of the things lost in one
lifetime, beginning, for that seems always the most mysterious of
losses--what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble--three pale blue
canisters of book-binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron
hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle
board, the hand organ--all gone, and jewels, too. Opals and emeralds,
they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is
to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit
surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to
compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the
Tube at fifty miles an hour--landing at the other end without a single
hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked!
Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels
pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like
the tail of a race-horse. Yes, that seems to express the rapidity of
life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so haphazard. . .

But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the
cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red
light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here,
helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the
roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants? As for saying which are
trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things,
that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will
be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intersected by thick stalks, and
rather higher up perhaps, rose-shaped blots of an indistinct colour--dim
pinks and blues--which will, as time goes on, become more definite,
become--I don't know what. . .

And yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caused
by some round black substance, such as a small rose leaf, left over from
the summer, and I, not being a very vigilant housekeeper--look at the
dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried
Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing
annihilation, as one can believe.

The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane. . . I want to
think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have
to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without
any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper,
away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself,
let me catch hold of the first idea that passes. . . Shakespeare. . .
Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an
arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so--A shower of ideas fell
perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant
his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open
door,--for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer's
evening--But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't
interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought,
a track indirectly reflecting credit upon myself, for those are the
pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest
mouse-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislike to hear
their own praises. They are not thoughts directly praising oneself; that
is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:

"And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how
I'd seen a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old house in
Kingsway. The seed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles
the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First?" I
asked--(but, I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple
tassels to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up
the figure of myself in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly
adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch myself out, and stretch my
hand at once for a book in self-protection. Indeed, it is curious how
instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any
other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original
to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It
is a matter of great importance. Suppose the looking glass smashes, the
image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths
all about it is there no longer, but only that shell of a person which is
seen by other people--what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it
becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibuses
and underground railways we are looking into the mirror that accounts for
the vagueness, the gleam of glassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in
future will realize more and more the importance of these reflections,
for of course there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number;
those are the depths they will explore, those the phantoms they will
pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their
stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and
Shakespeare perhaps--but these generalizations are very worthless. The
military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles,
cabinet ministers--a whole class of things indeed which as a child one
thought the thing itself, the standard thing, the real thing, from which
one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation.
Generalizations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon
walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes,
and habits--like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a
certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything.
The rule for tablecloths at that particular period was that they should
be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them,
such as you may see in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the
royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths.
How shocking, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that these real
things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country houses, and tablecloths
were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation
which visited the disbeliever in them was only a sense of illegitimate
freedom. What now takes the place of those things I wonder, those real
standard things? Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point
of view which governs our lives, which sets the standard, which
establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppose,
since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon--one may
hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the
mahogany sideboards and the Landseer prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so
forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating sense of illegitimate
freedom--if freedom exists. . .

In certain lights that mark on the wall seems actually to project from
the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it seems to
cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that
strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small
tumulus, a smooth tumulus like those barrows on the South Downs which
are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to
be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people, and finding it
natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath the
turf. . . There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug
up those bones and given them a name. . . What sort of a man is an
antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the most part, I daresay,
leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of
earth and stone, and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring
clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of
importance, and the comparison of arrow-heads necessitates cross-country
journeys to the county towns, an agreeable necessity both to them and to
their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study,
and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the
tomb in perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himself feels agreeably
philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is
true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being
opposed, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly
meeting of the local society when a stroke lays him low, and his last
conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that
arrowhead there, which is now in the case at the local museum, together
with the foot of a Chinese murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a
great many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass
that Nelson drank out of--proving I really don't know what.

No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at
this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really--what
shall we say?--the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred
years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many
generations of housemaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and
is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white-walled
fire-lit room, what should I gain?--Knowledge? Matter for further
speculation? I can think sitting still as well as standing up. And what
is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches
and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs,
interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars? And
the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for
beauty and health of mind increases. . . Yes, one could imagine a very
pleasant world. A quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue
in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists or
house-keepers with the profiles of policemen, a world which one could
slice with one's thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing
the stems of the water-lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea
eggs. . . How peaceful it is drown here, rooted in the centre of the world
and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light,
and their reflections--if it were not for Whitaker's Almanack--if it were
not for the Table of Precedency!

I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is--a
nail, a rose-leaf, a crack in the wood?

Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This train
of thought, she perceives, is threatening mere waste of energy, even some
collision with reality, for who will ever be able to lift a finger
against Whitaker's Table of Precedency? The Archbishop of Canterbury is
followed by the Lord High Chancellor; the Lord High Chancellor is
followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows somebody, such is
the philosophy of Whitaker; and the great thing is to know who follows
whom. Whitaker knows, and let that, so Nature counsels, comfort you,
instead of enraging you; and if you can't be comforted, if you must
shatter this hour of peace, think of the mark on the wall.

I understand Nature's game--her prompting to take action as a way of
ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence, I suppose,
comes our slight contempt for men of action--men, we assume, who don't
think. Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's
disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.

Indeed, now that I have fixed my eyes upon it, I feel that I have grasped
a plank in the sea; I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once
turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of
shades. Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a
midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies
quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity,
worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of
some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sure of. . .
Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree; and trees
grow, and we don't know how they grow. For years and years they grow,
without paying any attention to us, in meadows, in forests, and by the
side of rivers--all things one likes to think about. The cows swish their
tails beneath them on hot afternoons; they paint rivers so green that
when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it
comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the stream
like flags blown out; and of water-beetles slowly raiding domes of mud
upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself:--first the
close dry sensation of being wood; then the grinding of the storm; then
the slow, delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it, too, on winter's
nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing
tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an
earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. The song of birds
must sound very loud and strange in June; and how cold the feet of
insects must feel upon it, as they make laborious progresses up the
creases of the bark, or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the
leaves, and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes. . .
One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the
earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive
deep into the ground again. Even so, life isn't done with; there are a
million patient, watchful lives still for a tree, all over the world, in
bedrooms, in ships, on the pavement, lining rooms, where men and women
sit after tea, smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy
thoughts, this tree. I should like to take each one separately--but
something is getting in the way. . . Where was I? What has it all been
about? A tree? A river? The Downs? Whitaker's Almanack? The fields of
asphodel? I can't remember a thing. Everything's moving, falling,
slipping, vanishing. . . There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is
standing over me and saying--

"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."


"Though it's no good buying newspapers. . . Nothing ever happens. Curse
this war; God damn this war! . . . All the same, I don't see why we should
have a snail on our wall."

Ah, the mark on the wall! It was a snail.

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