2
People from South Place, gravely circling.
“That’s not dancing, it’s the Ethical Movement.”
Shaw. The darling. Religiously enduring. Coming to Lycurgan gatherings as others go to church.
3
The ring, made by those who remained, extended when their linked hands were stretched at arm’s length, all the way round the large room. These people were part of the crowd that had stood shouting the refrains of the folk-songs led by the woman on the estrade with the determined voice. Seen thus they had seemed threatening, inhuman; and édition de luxe of the noisy elements in a street crowd. And more threatening, because they were driven by ideas. The massed effect of djibbêhs and tweeds and dress-suits, bellowing, was of a wilful culture banded together in defiance of a world it could not see.
But now, standing ringed round the room with linked hands they were charming. Innocent; children linked for a game, dependent on each other. In the midst of them, somehow in the centre to which all their faces were turned, was something beyond the reach of socialism. It sounded even in the dismal notes of Auld Lang Syne with its suggestion of mournful survival from a golden past. To stand thus linked and singing was to lose the weight of individuality and keep its essence, its queer power of being one with every one alive.
But it was also embarrassing. Made an embarrassment that everyone had to share. For the thread of song was stronger than anyone there. Even those who meeting known eyes above an unusually opened mouth, or imagining themselves to be objects of hilarious scrutiny, tried to be individually funny, were presently overwhelmed and drawn along. The thin beginning on a few voices had swelled to a unison of varying octaves and strengths. She heard her own voice within it and felt as she sang how short and wavering and shapeless was her life, and short and wavering even the most shapely lives about her.
As the dismal refrain was lifting its third monotonous howl there came from behind her, where a door opened on to a cloakroom, a woman’s voice angry, deep and emphatic, like an ox roaring at a gate. Her hand was torn from her nearest companion’s and the newcomer was in the ring singing with stern lustiness below a hat askew. The last words of the song echoed round the room upon the might of her voice.
CHAPTER VIII
Another spring vanished....
A sheet of crocuses singing along the grass alley. White, under trees still bare. Crocuses dotting the open grass with June gold....
Suddenly a mist of green on the trees, as quiet as thought.... Small leaves in broad daylight, magic reality, silent at midday amidst the noise of traffic....
Then full spring for three days. Holding life still, when the dawn mists drew off the sea and garden and revealed their colour.
Everyone had loved it, independent of other loves. Become for a while single. Wanting and trying and failing to utter its beauty. Everyone had had those moments of reality in forgetfulness. Quickly passing. Growing afterwards longer than other moments, spreading out over the whole season; representing it in memory....