Хвилі

           Butiftherearenostories,whatendcantherebe,orwhatbeginning?Lifeisnotsusceptibleperhapstothetreatmentwegiveitwhenwetrytotellit.Sittinguplateatnightitseemsstrangenottohavemorecontrol.Pigeon-holesarenotthenveryuseful.Itisstrangehowforceebbsawayandawayintosomedrycreek.Sittingalone,itseemswearespent;ourwaterscanonlyjustsurroundfeeblythatspikeofsea-holly;wecannotreachthatfurtherpebblesoastowetit.Itisover,weareended.Butwait--Isatallnightwaiting--animpulseagainrunsthroughus;werise,wetossbackamaneofwhitespray;wepoundontheshore;wearenottobeconfined.Thatis,Ishavedandwashed;didnotwakemywife,andhadbreakfast;putonmyhat,andwentouttoearnmyliving.AfterMonday,Tuesdaycomes.

           ’Yetsomedoubtremained,somenoteofinterrogation.Iwassurprised,openingadoor,tofindpeoplethusoccupied;Ihesitated,takingacupoftea,whetheronesaidmilkorsugar.Andthelightofthestarsfalling,asitfallsnow,onmyhandaftertravellingformillionsuponmillionsofyears--Icouldgetacoldshockfromthatforamoment--notmore,myimaginationistoofeeble.Butsomedoubtremained.Ashadowflittedthroughmymindlikemoths’wingsamongchairsandtablesinaroomintheevening.