he said aloud.
How could you translate that: you couldn't translate it: no one could translate Heine:
"It was the summer night came over me:
That was silent riding . . ."
A voice cut into his warm, drowsy thought:
"Oh, you do exist. But you've spoken too late. I've run into the horse." He must have been speaking aloud. He had felt the horse quivering at the end of the reins. The horse, too, was used to her by now. It had hardly stirred . . . He wondered when he had left off singing "John Peel." . . . He said:
"Come along, then: have you found anything?"
The answer came:
"Something . . . But you can't talk in this stuff . . . I'll just . . ."
The voice died away as if a door had shut. He waited: consciously waiting: as an occupation! Contritely and to make a noise he rattled the whip-stock in its bucket. The horse started and he had to check in quickly: a damn fool he was. Of course a horse would start if you rattled a whip-stock. He called out:
"Are you all right?" The cart might have knocked her down. He had, however, broken the convention. Her voice came from a great distance: