their remarks with Yes, yes, I see, yes, with sometimes a murmured m-m-m-m. She never said No, no, no. How alarmed she and others would have been had she said No, no, no! no I don’t see, I don’t understand! But, yes, she saw, she understood, yes yes of course, m-m-m-m.
They ate without speaking, although sometimes Philip turned to glance at Grace as he made a casual guest-warming and including remark. She realised that she had lived almost entirely in a world
of blue-eyed people. Philip’s eyes were hazel - no, not hazel, nor yellow nor amber; an autumn colouring with flecks like the veins of golden leaves; yet not autumnal - there was something - why, his eyes were like the yellowish flesh of a cooked trout, they had the earthy golden taste too and the soft separation of flesh from bone; there showed in them, too, the innocent meanness of a small boy in a school playground; also a ‘brown-eye-pick-the-pie’ greed; then a pure truthful wintry concern for clarity, an autumnal dissolving of all foliage, all blossoming masses of obscurity from - say - a grove of thought, landscape of human behaviour.
When Grace studied Philip’s eyes she could feel at the back of her mind the movement of sliding doors opening to let out small furry evil-smelling animals with sharp claws and teeth, into the sunlight; Grace could feel the door moving, she sniffed the stench that followed the little animal as it crept inquisitively yet cautiously out of its cage; its bright eyes closed quickly in the glare of the light, then growing used to the new enclosure it opened its eyes and began exploring, until it discovered the wire-netting, the boundaries; it was not free, after all; it had been let out to blink in the sun only while its cage was being cleaned!
After dinner Grace went with Philip and Anne to the sitting room where a coal fire was burning. Grace sat in an armchair by the fire near bookshelves filled with books, Philip sat opposite her, while Anne sat facing the fire, a new copy of Ulysses open on her lap. Grace studied the books - New Zealand Year Books, New Zealand Histories, New Zealand, New Zealand . . .
She tensed herself for the after-dinner fireside conversation. Philip opened the latest copy of the Church Times and began to read.
—Listen to this. You won’t like it.
He was talking to Anne who dutifully listened.
—Do you see the Church Times , Grace?
—Yes, once or twice.
Philip and Anne did not discuss what Philip had read. Anne returned to her book, Philip to his newspaper, while Grace cast stealthy glances at both, trying to penetrate their secrets.
—Have you read Ulysses , Grace?
—Yes, a long time ago.
—However did you manage to read it?
—Oh, Grace said, suddenly terrified that perhaps she had sounded too bold and proud, almost boastful, for evidently one boasted when one had read Ulysses —Oh I read it. Of course, she said firmly, lessening her glory,—I didn’t understand much of it, but I liked reading it.
—I don’t know, Anne said wearily,—how anyone can get through it.
Perceiving in her tone a reference to housewifery, motherhood, life in Winchley, as well as to the reading of Ulysses , Philip looked warmly at her, and with an in-spite-of-Winchley-and-all cheering note in his voice he said to Grace,
—Anne’s been very good, you know; she attends a WEA course on Modern Novels, and they’re studying James Joyce. She’s been doing a hell of a lot of reading. She’s been awfully good.
He looked admiringly at Anne. He had spoken rather loudly, as if to drown the voice of Winchley-and-all.
Meanwhile Grace was dividing her mind between studying Philip and Anne and their life together, and trying to arrange, ready for its appearance in speech, the truth of her relationship with Ulysses . She found that her memory had placed Ulysses , not under the heading of Literature, but in the file which held the embarrassing and painful facts of College Life. She read
They ate without speaking, although sometimes Philip turned to glance at Grace as he made a casual guest-warming and including remark. She realised that she had lived almost entirely in a world
of blue-eyed people. Philip’s eyes were hazel - no, not hazel, nor yellow nor amber; an autumn colouring with flecks like the veins of golden leaves; yet not autumnal - there was something - why, his eyes were like the yellowish flesh of a cooked trout, they had the earthy golden taste too and the soft separation of flesh from bone; there showed in them, too, the innocent meanness of a small boy in a school playground; also a ‘brown-eye-pick-the-pie’ greed; then a pure truthful wintry concern for clarity, an autumnal dissolving of all foliage, all blossoming masses of obscurity from - say - a grove of thought, landscape of human behaviour.
When Grace studied Philip’s eyes she could feel at the back of her mind the movement of sliding doors opening to let out small furry evil-smelling animals with sharp claws and teeth, into the sunlight; Grace could feel the door moving, she sniffed the stench that followed the little animal as it crept inquisitively yet cautiously out of its cage; its bright eyes closed quickly in the glare of the light, then growing used to the new enclosure it opened its eyes and began exploring, until it discovered the wire-netting, the boundaries; it was not free, after all; it had been let out to blink in the sun only while its cage was being cleaned!
After dinner Grace went with Philip and Anne to the sitting room where a coal fire was burning. Grace sat in an armchair by the fire near bookshelves filled with books, Philip sat opposite her, while Anne sat facing the fire, a new copy of Ulysses open on her lap. Grace studied the books - New Zealand Year Books, New Zealand Histories, New Zealand, New Zealand . . .
She tensed herself for the after-dinner fireside conversation. Philip opened the latest copy of the Church Times and began to read.
—Listen to this. You won’t like it.
He was talking to Anne who dutifully listened.
—Do you see the Church Times , Grace?
—Yes, once or twice.
Philip and Anne did not discuss what Philip had read. Anne returned to her book, Philip to his newspaper, while Grace cast stealthy glances at both, trying to penetrate their secrets.
—Have you read Ulysses , Grace?
—Yes, a long time ago.
—However did you manage to read it?
—Oh, Grace said, suddenly terrified that perhaps she had sounded too bold and proud, almost boastful, for evidently one boasted when one had read Ulysses —Oh I read it. Of course, she said firmly, lessening her glory,—I didn’t understand much of it, but I liked reading it.
—I don’t know, Anne said wearily,—how anyone can get through it.
Perceiving in her tone a reference to housewifery, motherhood, life in Winchley, as well as to the reading of Ulysses , Philip looked warmly at her, and with an in-spite-of-Winchley-and-all cheering note in his voice he said to Grace,
—Anne’s been very good, you know; she attends a WEA course on Modern Novels, and they’re studying James Joyce. She’s been doing a hell of a lot of reading. She’s been awfully good.
He looked admiringly at Anne. He had spoken rather loudly, as if to drown the voice of Winchley-and-all.
Meanwhile Grace was dividing her mind between studying Philip and Anne and their life together, and trying to arrange, ready for its appearance in speech, the truth of her relationship with Ulysses . She found that her memory had placed Ulysses , not under the heading of Literature, but in the file which held the embarrassing and painful facts of College Life. She read
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