Lore of Proserpine | Page 3

has enjoyed himself enormously. If you could
get either of these two alone in a confidential mood you might learn
some curious particulars of their coy neighbour; and not the least
curious would be the effect of his changing the glass of the first floor
windows. It seems that he had that done directly he got into his rooms,
saying that it was impossible to see out of such windows, and that a
man must have light. Where he got his glass from, by whom it was
fitted, I can't tell you, but the effect of it is most extraordinary. The
only summary account I feel able to give of it at the moment is that it
transforms the world upon which it opens. You look out upon a new

earth, literally that. The trees are not trees at all, but slim grey persons,
young men, young women, who stand there quivering with life, like a
row of Caryatides--on duty, but tiptoe for a flight, as Keats says. You
see life, as it were, rippling up their limbs; for though they appear to be
clothed, their clothing is of so thin a texture, and clings so closely that
they might as well not be clothed at all. They are eyed, they see
intensely; they look at each other so closely that you know what they
would be doing. You can see them love each other as you watch. As for
the people in the street, the real men and real women, as we say, I
hardly know how to tell you what they look like through the first floor's
windows. They are changed of everything but one thing. They occupy
the places, fill the standing-room of our neighbours and friends; there is
a something about them all by which you recognise them--a trick of the
hand, a motion of the body, a set of the head (God knows what it is,
how little and how much); but for all that--a new creature! A thing like
nothing that lives by bread! Now just look at that policeman at the
corner, for instance; not only is he stark naked--everybody is like
that--but he's perfectly different from the sturdy, good-humoured,
red-faced, puzzled man you and I know. He is thin, woefully thin, and
his ears are long and perpetually twitching. He pricks them up at the
least thing; or lays them suddenly back, and we see them trembling. His
eyes look all ways and sometimes nothing but the white is to be seen.
He has a tail, too, long and leathery, which is always curling about to
get hold of something. Now it will be the lamp-post, now the square
railings, now one of those breathing trees; but mostly it is one of his
own legs. Yet if you consider him carefully you will agree with me that
his tail is a more expressive remnant of the man you have always seen
there than any other part of him. You may say, and truly, that it is the
only recognisable thing left. What do you think of his feet and hands?
They startled me at first; they are so long and narrow, so bony and
pointed, covered with fine short hair which shines like satin. That way
he has of arching his feet and driving his toes into the pavement
delights me. And see, too, that his hands are undistinguishable from
feet: they are just as long and satiny. He is fond of smoothing his face
with them; he brings them both up to his ears and works them forward
like slow fans. Transformation indeed. I defy you to recognise him for
the same man--except for a faint reminiscence about his tail.

But all's of a piece. The crossing-sweeper now has shaggy legs which
end in hoofs. His way of looking at young people is very
unpleasant;--and one had always thought him such a kindly old man.
The butcher's boy--what a torso!--is walking with his arm round the
waist of the young lady in Number seven. These are lovers, you see;
but it's mostly on her side. He tilts up her chin and gives her a kiss
before he goes; and she stands looking after him with shining eyes,
hoping that he will turn round before he gets to the corner. But he
doesn't.
Wait, now, wait, wait--who is this lovely, straining, beating creature
darting here and there about the square, bruising herself, poor beautiful
thing, against the railings? A sylph, a caught fairy? Surely, surely, I
know somebody--is it?--It can't be. That careworn lady? God in Heaven,
is it she? Enough! Show me no more. I will show you no more, my
dear sir, if it agitates you; but I confess that I have come to regard it as
one of the most interesting