the whole world had faded and darkened to a uniform tint, black and dingy. the woman who stood there could hardly say whether this tint were brown or grey, for there was no colour to contrast it with, nothing but her own black dress seen through the same sordid medium. in front of her, rather lighter in tint, she could see a few inches of parapet, on which her hands were lying, and dimly could discern the ground at her feet. if she leant over the parapet she could not see the water, but where she believed it to be, something like the shadow of a ripple moved across the dusk.
and as for want of contrast she could determine no colour, so for want of distance she could determine no size. all she saw could be enclosed by four small walls; all she could not see might reveal miles of river-bank, streets of stately houses. it was not the infinite but the indetermined that she looked upon. noises had sunk into a hoarse murmur and swell, dulled as by this thick, heavy medium. no such monotony of existence could be conceived; a world of shadows, an isle of voices, would be life itself to this. and yet she believed herself to be standing in the heart of the greatest city in the world, but a few paces removed from streets where men and women were moving up and down; where her face was turned across the water stood (she believed) a great house, a town garden where wood-pigeons built, and where she had seen lilies of the valley flower, saying softly to herself:—
“here in dust and dirt, oh here,
the lilies of his love appear.”
how was it possible that in so short a time such a change should fall, such a swallowing up of life as the centuries cannot bring to the cities of the south? truly she was living by faith in a blank world of existence. a foot or two of parapet each side of her hands; a foot or two of gravel each side of her feet—beyond that limit nothingness. yet by faith she would move in this void.
she turned to the left and walked along the path which appeared step by step as she paced, until in front of her the shadow of a building fell upon the fog: cornerwise it rose, fading into mist, and likewise vanished a few feet above her head.
yet she believed that this was a great tower; she believed that the building stretched away from her, and that at that moment, gathered inside its halls, was the council of the nation. it is strange if you think of it, how firmly she believed in that invisible building, in those inaudible deliberations, in the reality of its connection with the isolated fragments of parapet and path—fragments without visible support, the only things she could see and the least of all she believed in.
for as she believed in a present invisible, so she believed in a future uncreated; that she should presently return from where she stood to her own house, the fragment of visible world opening before her and above her, closing behind her as she went. if she could not find the way, other figures dawning on her, fog-enwrapped, would direct her. strange—how she believed in their existence, though she could neither see nor hear them, how she trusted in their good faith, though she knew neither who they were nor whence they would come, in their greater knowledge, though all men were more or less astray in the same fog.
so resting peaceably in this belief she looked again over the parapet.
a shadow on blank colourlessness in front; a splash as of water to the ear. the shadow deepened, defined itself, and out of nothingness grew a great black barge; it seemed to float on water that she could not see. two men, one with body bent forward, one with body swayed back, swung a great oar at the stern. they were steering in this indistinguishable world; in this chaos of a world, threading their way between dangers undiscerned till ruin was impending. now the black outline was opposite to her and now the barge was shortened, and still the two figures swayed and bent, swayed and bent, at their steering. the dark vision faded into darkness again. out of nothing grew that barge, into nothing it went.
the third thing she saw was this: just below the parapet where the fog was least thick, out of nothingness came a bird, like a little white spirit. it was smaller than a seagull; its wings, delicately shaded with brown, showed a sharper outline, and round them ran a dark line; the head too was dark.
a moment it hung below her lightly poised, white wings uplifted, head down-bent, feet down-dropped towards the flood below. then this too vanished in the mist.
and having seen that she went away content.
