The Trespasser | Page 8

He laughed
as he looked out of the carriage window.
Below, in the street, a military band passed glittering. A brave sound
floated up, and again he laughed, loving the tune, the clash and glitter
of the band, the movement of scarlet, blithe soldiers beyond the park.
People were drifting brightly from church. How could it be Sunday! It
was no time; it was Romance, going back to Tristan.
Women, like crocus flowers, in white and blue and lavender, moved
gaily. Everywhere fluttered the small flags of holiday. Every form
danced lightly in the sunshine.
And beyond it all were the silent hillsides of the island, with Helena. It
was so wonderful, he could bear to be patient. She would be all in
white, with her cool, thick throat left bare to the breeze, her face
shining, smiling as she dipped her head because of the sun, which
glistened on her uncovered hair.
He breathed deeply, stirring at the thought. But he would not grow
impatient. The train had halted over the town, where scarlet soldiers,
and ludicrous blue sailors, and all the brilliant women from church
shook like a kaleidoscope down the street. The train crawled on,
drawing near to the sea, for which Siegmund waited breathless. It was
so like Helena, blue, beautiful, strong in its reserve.
Another moment they were in the dirty station. Then the day flashed
out, and Siegmund mated with joy. He felt the sea heaving below him.
He looked round, and the sea was blue as a periwinkle flower, while
gold and white and blood-red sails lit here and there upon the blueness.
Standing on the deck, he gave himself to the breeze and to the sea,
feeling like one of the ruddy sails--as if he were part of it all. All his
body radiated amid the large, magnificent sea-moon like a piece of
colour.
The little ship began to pulse, to tremble. White with the softness of a

bosom, the water rose up frothing and swaying gently. Ships drew near
the inquisitive birds; the old Victory shook her myriad pointed flags of
yellow and scarlet; the straight old houses of the quay passed by.
Outside the harbour, like fierce creatures of the sea come wildly up to
look, the battleships laid their black snouts on the water. Siegmund
laughed at them. He felt the foam on his face like a sparkling, felt the
blue sea gathering round.
On the left stood the round fortress, quaintly chequered, and solidly
alone in the walk of water, amid the silent flight of the golden-and
crimson-winged boats.
Siegmund watched the bluish bulk of the island. Like the beautiful
women in the myths, his love hid in its blue haze. It seemed impossible.
Behind him, the white wake trailed myriads of daisies. On either hand
the grim and wicked battleships watched along their sharp noses.
Beneath him the clear green water swung and puckered as if it were
laughing. In front, Sieglinde's island drew near and nearer, creeping
towards him, bringing him Helena.
Meadows and woods appeared, houses crowded down to the shore to
meet him; he was in the quay, and the ride was over. Siegmund
regretted it. But Helena was on the island, which rode like an anchored
ship under the fleets of cloud that had launched whilst Siegmund was
on water. As he watched the end of the pier loom higher, large
ponderous trains of cloud cast over him the shadows of their bulk, and
he shivered in the chill wind.
His travelling was very slow. The sky's dark shipping pressed closer
and closer, as if all the clouds had come to harbour. Over the flat lands
near Newport the wind moaned like the calling of many violoncellos.
All the sky was grey. Siegmund waited drearily on Newport station,
where the wind swept coldly. It was Sunday, and the station and the
island were desolate, having lost their purposes.
Siegmund put on his overcoat and sat down. All his morning's blaze of
elation was gone, though there still glowed a great hope. He had slept

only two hours of the night. An empty man, he had drunk joy, and now
the intoxication was dying out.
At three o'clock of the afternoon he sat alone in the second-class
carriage, looking out. A few raindrops struck the pane, then the blurred
dazzle of a shower came in a burst of wind, and hid the downs and the
reeds that shivered in the marshy places. Siegmund sat in a chilly
torpor. He counted the stations. Beneath his stupor his heart was
thudding heavily with excitement, surprising him, for his brain felt
dead.
The train slowed down: Yarmouth! One more station, then. Siegmund
watched the platform, shiny with rain, slide past. On the dry grey under
the shelter, one white