Хвилі

           Butnowletthedooropen,theglassdoorthatisforeverturningonitshinges.Letawomancome,letayoungmaninevening-dresswithamoustachesitdown:isthereanythingthattheycantellme?No!Iknowallthat,too.Andifshesuddenlygetsupandgoes,"Mydear,"Isay,"younolongermakemelookafteryou."Theshockofthefallingwavewhichhassoundedallmylife,whichwokemesothatIsawthegoldlooponthecupboard,nolongermakesquiverwhatIhold.

           ’Sonow,takinguponmethemysteryofthings,Icouldgolikeaspywithoutleavingthisplace,withoutstirringfrommychair.Icanvisittheremotevergesofthedesertlandswherethesavagesitsbythecamp-fire.Dayrises;thegirlliftsthewateryfire-heartedjewelstoherbrow;thesunlevelshisbeamsstraightatthesleepinghouse;thewavesdeepentheirbars;theyflingthemselvesonshore;backblowsthespray;sweepingtheirwaterstheysurroundtheboatandthesea-holly.Thebirdssinginchorus;deeptunnelsrunbetweenthestalksofflowers;thehouseiswhitened;thesleeperstretches;graduallyallisastir.Lightfloodstheroomanddrivesshadowbeyondshadowtowheretheyhanginfoldsinscrutable.Whatdoesthecentralshadowhold?Something?Nothing?Idonotknow.

           ’Oh,butthereisyourface.Icatchyoureye.