Волны

           Iamoftenindisgraceforidleness,forlaughing;butevenasMissMatthewsgrumblesatmyfeather-headedcarelessness,Icatchsightofsomethingmoving--aspeckofsunperhapsonapicture,orthedonkeydrawingthemowing-machineacrossthelawn;orasailthatpassesbetweenthelaurelleaves,sothatIamnevercastdown.IcannotbepreventedfrompirouettingbehindMissMatthewsintoprayers.

           ’Now,too,thetimeiscomingwhenweshallleaveschoolandwearlongskirts.Ishallwearnecklacesandawhitedresswithoutsleevesatnight.Therewillbepartiesinbrilliantrooms;andonemanwillsinglemeoutandwilltellmewhathehastoldnootherperson.HewilllikemebetterthanSusanorRhoda.Hewillfindinmesomequality,somepeculiarthing.ButIshallnotletmyselfbeattachedtoonepersononly.Idonotwanttobefixed,tobepinioned.Itremble,Iquiver,liketheleafinthehedge,asIsitdanglingmyfeet,ontheedgeofthebed,withanewdaytobreakopen.Ihavefiftyyears,Ihavesixtyyearstospend.Ihavenotyetbrokenintomyhoard.Thisisthebeginning.’

           ’Therearehoursandhours,’saidRhoda,’beforeIcanputoutthelightandliesuspendedonmybedabovetheworld,beforeIcanletthedaydropdown,beforeIcanletmytreegrow,quiveringingreenpavilionsabovemyhead.HereIcannotletitgrow.Somebodyknocksthroughit.Theyaskquestions,theyinterrupt,theythrowitdown.

           ’NowIwillgotothebathroomandtakeoffmyshoesandwash;butasIwash,asIbendmyheaddownoverthebasin,IwilllettheRussianEmpress’sveilflowaboutmyshoulders.