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Alexander of Aphrodisias
On Aristotle
On Sense Perception
This page intentionally left blank
Alexander of
Aphrodisias
On Aristotle
On Sense
Perception

Translated by
Alan Towey

LON DON • N E W DE L H I • N E W YOR K • SY DN EY

 Bloomsbury Academic
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

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First published in 2000 by Gerald Duckworth & Co. Ltd.

Paperback edition first published 2014

© Alan Towey (Editor’s Note, Richard Sorabji) 2000

Alan Towey asserts his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988,
to be identified as Author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by
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Acknowledgements
The present translations have been made possible by generous and imaginative funding from the
following sources: the National Endowment for the Humanities, Division of Research Programs,
an independent federal agency of the USA; the Leverhulme Trust; the British Academy;
the Jowett Copyright Trustees; the Royal Society (UK); Centro Internazionale A. Beltrame di Storia
dello Spazio e del Tempo (Padua); Mario Mignucci; Liverpool University; the Leventis Foundation;
the Humanities Research Board of the British Academy; the Esmée Fairbairn Charitable Trust;
the Henry Brown Trust; Mr and Mrs N. Egon; The Netherlands Foundation for Scientific
Research (NWO/GW). The editor wishes to thank Ivars Avotins, Han Baltussen,
John Finamore, Pamela Huby, Peter Lautner, Arthur Madigan, R.W. Sharples and
Teun Tieleman for comments on the MS, and Han Baltussen for preparing the volume for press.

Typeset by Ray Davies

Printed and bound in Great Britain
 Contents

Editor’s Note vi
Preface vii
Introduction 1
Textual Emendations 11

Translation 17

Notes 157
Bibliography 189
English-Greek Glossary 191
Greek-English Index 204
Subject Index 227
 Editor’s Note
In On Sense Perception Aristotle discusses the material conditions of
perception, starting with the sense organs and moving to the material
basis of colour, flavour and odour. His Pythagorean account of hues as a
ratio of dark to light was enthusiastically endorsed by Goethe against
Newton as being true to the painter’s experience. Aristotle finishes with
three problems about continuity. In what sense are indefinitely small
colour patches or colour variations perceptible? Secondly, which percep-
tibles leap discontinuously, like light to fill a whole space, which have to
reach one point before another, and do observers of the latter perceive the
same thing, if they are at different distances? Thirdly, how does the control
sense permit genuinely simultaneous, rather than staggered, perception
of different objects?
Alexander’s highly explanatory commentary is most expansive on these
problems of continuity. His battery of objections to vision involving travel,
which would lead to collisions and interferences by winds, inspired a
tradition of grading the five senses in respect of degrees of immateriality
and of intentionality. He also introduces us to paradoxes of Diodorus
Cronus about the relation of the smallest perceptible to the largest percep-
tible size.

January 2000 R.R.K.S.

 Preface
The present volume is a translation of the commentary on the De Sensu of
Aristotle (to give it its Latin title) attributed to the Aristotelian commen-
tator Alexander of Aphrodisias. The De Sensu deals with sense perception
and is therefore referred to as ‘On Sense Perception’ both in the title of this
volume and elsewhere in the Ancient Commentators series. The Greek
title is Peri aisthêseôs kai aisthêtôn which for consistency with my trans-
lation policy (see notes 1 and 2 on p. 157 below) I have rendered as ‘On
Perception and Perceptibles’.
The aim of this translation is to express Alexander’s meaning accu-
rately whilst writing English which is clear and readable. Alexander is
fond of longer sentences than we find natural in English and in some
places I have broken these up. I have used angle brackets < > to enclose
words or phrases necessary to complete the meaning which are absent
from Alexander’s text.
The English-Greek Glossary indicates how I have chosen to translate
Alexander’s technical vocabulary. Whilst wishing to be consistent I have
had to take account of the fact that for some Greek words (logos is a good
example) the span of meaning is not matched by any one English word.
The alternative translations are listed in the Greek-English index and in
important cases explanations have been provided in the notes.
The translation of Alexander’s commentary on chapters three, six and
seven (pages 41,7 to 66,6 and pages 109,7 to 173,12) originally appeared
as an appendix to my PhD thesis Time, Change, and Perception: Studies
in the Aristotelianism of Alexander of Aphrodisias (London, 1995). I am
grateful to the supervisor of my research, Professor R.R.K. Sorabji, for his
many helpful comments and in particular for allowing me to read his
unpublished commentary on the De Sensu. My thanks are also due to the
examiners of my thesis, Professors R.W. Sharples and M. Schofield.
Save where I have indicated in Textual Emendations, my translation
follows the edition of the text produced by Paul Wendland for the Berlin
Academy in 1901, which itself benefited from the earlier edition of Charles
Thurot as well as unpublished work by Hermann Usener. The survey of
the manuscript tradition found in the preface to Wendland’s edition
(Alexandri in Librum De Sensu Commentarium (CAG 3,1), Berlin 1901,
v-xiii) emphasises the large number of surviving manuscripts, including a
medieval Latin translation. However, all these manuscripts share serious
viii Preface
corruptions and lacunae and are presumed to derive from a single cor-
rupted early medieval archetype. Wendland candidly confesses that in
many places he allowed himself the licence of recovering Alexander’s
meaning rather than his actual words and acknowledges that he has left
several errors for others to correct. But he comments that in an age in
which hardly any readers of Alexander’s commentary can be found it is an
audacious man who expects to find anyone to undertake the task of textual
emendation. It will not, I am sure, be regarded as too audacious of me to
hope that the present volume will go some way to remedying the first
shortage, if not the second.

January 2000 A. Towey

 Introduction
1. Alexander of Aphrodisias
Alexander of Aphrodisias was appointed as a teacher of Aristotelian
philosophy at some time between AD 198 and 209.1 Although he was not
the first to write a commentary upon a work of Aristotle, he was one of the
earliest commentators, and certainly one of the most celebrated.2 Aris-
totle’s treatises require exegetical commentary because of the obscurity of
his expression. They also invite philosophical commentary because they
approach the issues they discuss in a spirit of inquiry which calls for
further reflection rather than acceptance as the last word on a subject. A
commentator on Aristotle therefore should do his job not merely by offer-
ing an exposition of the meaning but also by attempting to resolve the
philosophical problems that Aristotle has addressed. Alexander’s fame as
a commentator rests upon his achievement on both counts.
The Alexandrian corpus comprises commentaries on Aristotle, treat-
ises, and collections of shorter discussions, such as the Quaestiones.3
Alexander always presents himself to the world as a loyal follower of the
Aristotelian school. As Sharples points out, ‘in his independent treatises,
as well as in the commentaries, Alexander’s approach to the issues he
discusses is from Aristotle’s works – and above all from the esoteric works
– as a starting point’.4 On the other hand the five centuries which separate
Alexander from Aristotle had seen the advent of important philosophical
movements, notably the foundation of the Epicurean and Stoic schools.
These impinged on Alexander in two ways. Firstly, as a defender of
Aristotle he would have felt the need to resist the anti-Aristotelian teach-
ings of rival schools. Secondly, there is what Todd refers to as Alexander’s
‘general affinities to the contemporary philosophical culture’,5 which mani-
fest themselves both in his interest in topics not hitherto seen as Aristote-
lian6 and in his philosophical vocabulary much of which is derived from
the Stoics.7 In view of this Alexander’s own protestations8 that his role is
simply to set out Aristotle’s own doctrine as clearly as possible are not to
be taken at face value. Expressions of loyalty to the founder of one’s
philosophical school do not necessarily rule out intellectual independence9
and the commentaries no less than Alexander’s other works provide ample
opportunity for the development of Aristotle’s thought in new directions.
To provide some impression of what this means in practice I have set out
2 Introduction
below10 a case-study of the way in which Alexander goes beyond Aristotle
in the case of the commentary on the De Sensu.

2. The De Sensu
The De Sensu is the first of a series of short treatises now referred to as
the Parva Naturalia in which Aristotle discusses functions or activities
that are ‘common to body and soul’,11 the De Sensu itself dealing with the
activity of sense-perception (aisthêsis).12 As Aristotle indicates13 the De
Sensu is intended to be read as a sequel to the De Anima, a large part of
which was devoted to the subject of sense-perception.
Alexander describes14 the treatise as concerned with the sense-organs
and the perceptibles (the objects of the five senses). This is in some ways
misleading. Only one of the seven chapters (chapter two) is concerned with
sense-organs and the only sense-organ considered is the eye. Although
chapters three to seven do deal with objects of the senses, the discussion
is neither systematic nor exhaustive. Nevertheless Alexander’s descrip-
tion does accurately capture the central concern of the treatise, which
could broadly be described as examining the material or physical condi-
tions, both in the external environment and in the perceiving subject, that
are necessary for an act of sense-perception to occur.
As a philosophical text the De Sensu has had a long and flourishing
history. Together with Alexander’s commentary it was part of the corpus
studied by Arabic followers of Aristotle.15 The De Sensu itself was known
by the ninth century philosopher al-Kindi and was the subject of a lost
commentary by Abu al-Faraj in the eleventh century. It is included in the
epitome of the Parva Naturalia of Ibn Rushd (Averroes) completed in AD
1170. It was available in Latin from the thirteenth century when Aquinas
wrote his commentary on it and subsequently became a major source for
all discussions of the senses in the later middle ages. Aristotle’s assertion
at the end of chapter one that hearing makes a greater contribution to
learning than vision was for example frequently discussed in medieval
Aristotelianism.16 In the sixteenth century the De Sensu and Alexander’s
commentary upon it were (alongside Lucretius’ poem De Rerum Natura)
the most influential sources for the visual theories of ancient atomism.17
Aristotle’s De Sensu is of more than historical interest. The subject of
sense-perception embraces a number of problems of perennial interest to
philosophers both in epistemology (questions relating to the reliability of
our senses in providing our knowledge about the world) and in philosophi-
cal psychology (questions about the relationship between the psychological
processes involved in perception and the physical processes that underlie
them). Within the modern philosophical tradition it is the first grouping of
problems which has tended to monopolise attention, mainly because of the
influence of Descartes. Because the De Sensu has little directly to say on
epistemological questions it has not played a prominent role in these
 Introduction 3
discussions. The arrival of the computer age has moved the pendulum the
other way. Advances in neuroscience and the scientific challenge of creat-
ing artificial intelligence have both exerted an influence on contemporary
philosophers, bringing the problem of consciousness to centre stage. Part
of this general trend is the increased scrutiny now given to Aristotle’s
views on psychology. Aristotle’s De Anima, which considers perception
generally within the context of psychology as a whole, has been the focus
of most debate. But it has increasingly been recognised18 that the De
Anima can only be fully understood by considering the De Sensu.
One difficulty in using Aristotle’s psychological works as a starting-
point for consideration of issues in contemporary philosophy is that they
do not fit neatly into modern pigeon-holes. The De Sensu is a case in point.
Although its subject-matter suggests an affinity with modern concerns in
philosophical psychology, this is presented within a tradition of ancient
natural science which could not appear more remote from modern thought.
For example in chapter two Aristotle has much to say about the physiology
of the eye. But he says it in the context of a discussion of how the five
sense-organs are to be correlated with the four elements, earth, air, fire,
and water. The need for any such correlation will seem odd to any modern
physiologist. Moreover, although dissection was practised in the ancient
world, Aristotle apparently takes little account of the results of such
research in reaching a conclusion.19 A more fundamental difficulty relates
to the treatise’s avowed concern to examine the physical conditions re-
quired for sense-perception. For it is controversial whether we can even
attribute to Aristotle himself the view that an act of sense-perception is
constituted by anything which we would recognise today as a physiological
process. On the one side20 it is maintained that Aristotle’s view of the
material side of life is alien to modern thought and indeed is such that we
cannot take it seriously. The other side21 insist that on the Aristotelian
account sense-perception can be understood in terms of an activity that is
constituted by, but not reducible to, a physiological process. Clearly, in
view of its subject matter, the De Sensu has an important role to play in
the controversy, although it must be admitted that the precise nature of
that role is not clear cut. Indeed both the De Sensu and Alexander’s
commentary on it have been pressed into service on both sides of the
argument.22 Since the issue pervades the commentary it would be redun-
dant in this Introduction to discuss in detail the significance of the
evidence it presents. The translation, together with my notes and the
references they contain, will supply the reader with sufficient materials to
make up his or her mind. In the case-study that follows I will simply draw
attention to one way in which Alexander departs from Aristotle which has
a bearing on the controversy.
4 Introduction

3. Alexander’s Aristotelianism:
a case study
As has been pointed out, the De Sensu looks at the physical conditions that
must be present in the external environment for perception to arise. In
chapter three of the De Sensu Aristotle considers the conditions that give
rise to our perception of different colours. He argues against an account of
colour according to which colours other than black and white are composed
of black and white patches juxtaposed in different ratios (the juxtaposition
theory). He states without explanation that this theory presupposes that
imperceptible times exist. Alexander provides an explanation: he links the
juxtaposition theory to another theory of colour which Aristotle rejects, the
efflux theory, according to which colours are particles received in the eye.
Alexander says that the efflux theory requires imperceptible times be-
tween the arrival of individual particles to explain why the perceiver is not
aware of the particles arriving in the eye and that the juxtaposition theory
requires the existence of imperceptible times because it and the efflux
theory are different aspects of the same theory, the theory of vision held
by Empedocles, Democritus, and Leucippus.23 Alexander is in effect offer-
ing a historical explanation. But the explanation shows scant regard for
historical accuracy. Moreover it ignores the fact that the efflux and the
juxtaposition theories are offering rival accounts of colour.
Alexander has earlier linked the Democritean theory with the followers
of Epicurus24 and his motive in conflating the efflux and the juxtaposition
theories appears to be the polemical one of discrediting a philosophical
rival.25 For the conflated theory is on Alexander’s account saddled with two
absurdities, imperceptible times as already noted, but also imperceptible
magnitudes26 and these two commitments are shown to be absurd by
Aristotle in chapter seven.27
Alexander’s interpretation creates a serious difficulty, for in chapter six
Aristotle concludes that imperceptible magnitudes do exist.28 Alexander
explains this29 by distinguishing Epicurean imperceptible magnitudes
(imperceptible by their own nature) from Aristotelian ones (perceptible
were they not too small). But the price of removing inconsistency here is
only to introduce inconsistency elsewhere. For the magnitudes that the
conflated theory is committed to are Aristotelian ones.30
A further consequence of Alexander’s polemic is to put undue weight on
Aristotle’s arguments in chapter seven against imperceptible times and
magnitudes.31 These appear as a digression from Aristotle’s main concern
in the chapter, which is to argue that simultaneous perception is possible.
For they are introduced only to explain how, if simultaneous perception
were impossible, the appearance of simultaneous perception might arise.
Aristotle therefore has no reason requiring him to deny imperceptible
times or magnitudes and in fact assumes elsewhere32 that there are
imperceptible times. Alexander in contrast has to take them seriously and
 Introduction 5
cannot countenance imperceptible times in any theory he is defending.
This has an interesting consequence for his account of light. The propaga-
tion of light through a medium appears to take no time at all. Clearly it
could be explained as a process which takes time if one postulated an
imperceptible period of time during which the light moves to all parts of
the medium. But this postulate is not available to Alexander who must
defend the view that light really does take no time at all to spread. He does
this by means of the notion that light is a relational property like the
property of being on the right. The doctrine that light is a relation is
relevant to the controversy mentioned above over whether Aristotle re-
quires a physiological change in perception. For it has been used to support
the claim that he does not.33
The case-study therefore illustrates well some of the difficulties which
arise in using Alexander to explain Aristotle. For although it is tempting
simply to take the commentator at face value as providing an accurate
guide to Aristotle’s own meaning, it is evident that Alexander’s doctrine
that light is a relation cannot be viewed independently of his embargo on
imperceptible times and his attack on Epicureanism, both of which posi-
tions can be regarded as innovations that take Alexander beyond Aris-
totle.34

Notes
1. cf. R.W. Sharples, ‘Alexander of Aphrodisias: Scholasticism and Innovation’,
Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 36.2, 1987, 1177-243, 1177. The
termini are supplied from the introduction to the treatise De Fato which is
dedicated to the Roman emperors Septimius Severus and Caracalla in gratitude
for the appointment.
2. Earlier commentators include Aspasius and Adrastus. Cf. R.R.K. Sorabji, ‘The
Ancient Commentators on Aristotle’, in R.R.K. Sorabji (ed), Aristotle Transformed,
London 1990, 1-30, 16. For Alexander’s pre-eminence and the accolades recorded
by Simplicius see Sharples, op. cit. (n. 1), 1179.
3. A comprehensive survey of works by Alexander both extant and no longer
extant, including spurious works, can be found in Sharples, op. cit. (n. 1), 1182-99.
The authenticity of the commentary on the De Sensu has not been doubted,
although its date of composition relative to the other works is disputed (cf. I. Bruns,
Alexandri Aphrodisiensis praeter Commentaria Scripta Minora (Supplementum
Aristotelicum 2,1): De Anima Liber cum Mantissa, Berlin 1882, v, P. Accatino and
P. Donini, Alessandro di Afrodisia: L’anima, Rome 1996, vii.)
4. Sharples, op. cit. (n. 1), 1180.
5. R.B. Todd, Alexander of Aphrodisias on Stoic Physics, Leiden 1976, 17.
6. cf. the comment of R.W. Sharples, Alexander of Aphrodisias On Fate, London
1983, 23, that Peripatetic interest in the concept of fate, the subject of Alexander’s
treatise De Fato, was largely stimulated by its central place in Stoicism.
7. cf. Todd, op. cit. (n. 5), 27-9.
8. cf. de Anima 2,4-9.
9. cf. A.A. Long and D.N. Sedley, The Hellenistic Philosophers, volume I:
Translation of the principal sources with philosophical commentary, Cambridge
6 Introduction
1987, 5-6: ‘It was generally thought more proper to present new ideas as interpre-
tations or developments of the founder’s views’; Sharples, op. cit. (n. 1), 1180: ‘Even
when his own position is clearly a rejection of earlier Peripatetic theories [Alexan-
der] regards himself as providing a more Aristotelian solution.’
10. See section 3 below.
11. Sens. 1,436a7-8. The list given at 436a8-15 is discussed by Alexander at
5,20-6,25. The phrase ‘common to body and soul’ describes those activities of
animals which require a body, i.e. all activities other than the intellectual.
12. In Latin, sensus, hence the treatise’s traditional title. For the meaning of
aisthêsis see note 1 to the translation. According to Alexander perception needs to
be dealt with first because it is perception that all the other common activities
stand in need of (cf. 8,20-1).
13. 436a1-2; cf. 2,7-10.
14. 1,11-18.
15. cf. F.E. Peters, Aristoteles Arabus, The Oriental Translations and Commen-
taries on the Aristotelian Corpus, Leiden 1968, 45-6.
16. cf. T. Frangenberg, ‘Auditus visu prestantior: Comparisons of Hearing and
Vision in Charles de Bovelles’s Liber de sensibus’ in C. Burnett, M. Fend and P.
Gouk (eds), The Second Sense, Studies in Hearing and Musical Judgement from
Antiquity to the Seventeenth Century, London 1991, 71-95, 89.
17. cf. Frangenberg, op. cit. (n. 16), 75, note 18.
18. cf. particularly C.H. Kahn, ‘Sensation and Consciousness in Aristotle’s
Psychology’, Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 48, 1966, 43-81, and in J.
Barnes, M. Schofield, R. Sorabji (eds), Articles on Aristotle 4. Psychology and
Aesthetics, London 1979, 1-31, esp. 6-17.
19. cf. G.E.R. Lloyd, ‘The Empirical Basis of the Physiology of the Parva
Naturalia’, in G.E.R. Lloyd, Methods and Problems in Greek Science, Cambridge
1991, 224-47, 236: ‘References to anatomical points are generally vague to the point
of serious obscurity’, a criticism that applies with equal force to Alexander’s
commentary.
20. cf. S. Broadie, ‘Aristotle’s Perceptual Realism’, Southern Journal of Philo-
sophy, volume XXXI, 1992, 137-59, M.F. Burnyeat, ‘Is an Aristotelian Philosophy
of Mind still Credible? A draft’, in M.C. Nussbaum and A.O. Rorty (eds), Essays on
Aristotle’s De Anima, Oxford 1992, 15-26, M.F. Burnyeat, ‘How Much Happens
when Aristotle Sees Red and Hears Middle C? Remarks on De Anima 2.7-8’, in M.C.
Nussbaum and A.O. Rorty (eds), Essays on Aristotle’s De Anima, Oxford 1995
(paperback edition), 421-34, T.K. Johansen, Aristotle on the Sense-organs, Cam-
bridge 1998.
21. cf. M.C. Nussbaum and H. Putnam, ‘Changing Aristotle’s Mind’, in M.C.
Nussbaum and A.O. Rorty (eds), Essays on Aristotle’s De Anima, Oxford 1992,
27-56, S.M. Cohen, ‘Hylomorphism and Functionalism’ in M.C. Nussbaum and A.O.
Rorty (eds), op. cit., 57-73, R.R.K. Sorabji, ‘Intentionality and Physiological Pro-
cesses: Aristotle’s Theory of Sense-Perception’, in M.C. Nussbaum and A.O. Rorty
(eds), op. cit., 195-225, H. Granger, ‘Aristotle and Perceptual Realism’, Southern
Journal of Philosophy, volume XXXI, 1992, 161-71, J.E. Sisko, ‘Material Alteration
and Cognitive Activity in Aristotle’s De Anima’, Phronesis, 1996, 138-57, S. Ever-
son, Aristotle on Perception, Oxford 1997.
22. cf. M.C. Nussbaum and H. Putnam, op. cit., 42, M.F. Burnyeat, op. cit. (n.
20), 424.
23. 59,21-4; cf. 56,8-16.
24. 24,18-20.
25. Alexander taught philosophy in direct competition with the Stoics, the
 Introduction 7
Epicureans, and the Platonists. For Alexander as a polemicist (against the Stoics)
see Todd, op. cit. (n. 5), 17, Sharples, op. cit. (n. 1), 1178.
26. The juxtaposition theory creates colours out of the juxtaposition of magni-
tudes invisible because of their small size (cf. 56,14-15).
27. cf. 62,4-6.
28. cf. 446a15-16.
29. cf. 61,7-24.
30. cf. 53,18-21 and see note 264 on p. 175 below. The fact that this inconsistency
does not trouble Alexander suggests that his real interest lies in the Epicurean
position.
31. 448a19-b12.
32. cf. Phys. 4.13, 222b14-15.
33. See M.F. Burnyeat, op. cit. (n. 20), 424: ‘But light is not only the condition
for the colour to produce its effect on the medium. In a way it is also the condition
for the colour itself to be present in actuality.’ On the doctrine itself Burnyeat
comments: ‘As usual, Alexander understands Aristotle very well.’
34. This is quite apart from the fact that the doctrine itself appears to go beyond
Aristotle. The important thing about relational change for Alexander is that it is
a change, but a change that takes no time to occur. But for Aristotle a relational
change is no real change at all: the category of relation is excluded from the list of
categories in respect of which change is possible (cf. Phys. 3.1, 200b33-201a9, 5.2,
225b11-13).
This page intentionally left blank
Alexander of Aphrodisias
On Aristotle
On Sense Perception
(On Perception
and Perceptibles)

Translation
This page intentionally left blank
 Textual Emendations

It should be noted that Wendland’s procedure has produced what is

by modern standards a strange text since in some cases he accepts
emendations by previous scholars in the main text but elsewhere he
gives the reading of the MSS and puts suggestions of his own or of
other scholars in the apparatus. My translation follows the text as
printed but (except where otherwise indicated) excludes words that
Wendland has square-bracketed. Other departures from Wendland’s
text are recorded in the notes as they occur and are summarised here.

2,5 Reading aisthêseôs for aisthêseôn (Usener)

5,29 Wendland suspects a lacuna here, since te in 5,28 cannot
be connected to anything in the next line. I have
translated it as if êrtêtai from 5,27 had been repeated,
and have commenced a new sentence at peri
6,3 Reading hekaterôn for hekaterou (Thurot)
10,15 Deleting hôsper
10,20 Deleting tôn and reading phthartikôn sêmantikoi, ha for
phthartikoi, hous (Wendland)
10,23 Reading euporei for euporian (Wendland)
10,24 Reading diakrinei tin’ for diakrinousi (Wendland)
12,15 Deleting toutôn
14,1 Reading kôphous for enneous (Thurot)
14,2 Deleting kôphous and reading kai enneous before tous
and mête for mêde (Thurot)
14,3 Reading tois kôphois ek genetês to kai for kôphois te kai
(Thurot)
15,8 Reading in the lacuna eis ta stoikheia anagontes
(Wendland)
15,9 Deleting the second pantes
17,1-2 Deleting kai tês aporias kai tês dia ti thlibomenê hê opsis
hautên horâi, êremousa de ou (Thurot)
18,2 Reading in the lacuna alla kai touto ou khalepon luein,
ei tis legoi hoti mê (Thurot)
18,20 Reading kai for kan (Thurot) 18,21-2. Reading, after
genomenê, kat’allo ti morion apo tês korês, hês en tini
allôi genomenês estai to diaphanes (Diels)
27,10 Reading dêla for dêlon (Thurot)
12 Textual Emendations
28,21 Reading ho for hou (MSS MT)
33,9 Reading ou for oude (Wendland)
33,25 Reading to for tên and idion for idiôn (Wendland)
34,9 Reading in the lacuna ei de asômaton, oud’ holôs
dunêsetai sumphuesthai to phôs (Wendland)
34,17 Reading korêi for khôrâi
38,1 Add alêthes after an (Wendland)
39,8 Supply a full stop after opsis and add Alla mên epei hê
opsis
39,9 Reading esti for eisi
44,20 Adding to de khrôma before the square-bracketed text
(the contents of which are not to be deleted)
44,27 Reading auta for auto (Wendland)
45,12 Reading phainein in the lacuna and reading gar for men
(Diels)
47,23 Reading toutou for the first touto with Thurot’s MSS BC
47,25 Reading phêsin in the lacuna (Thurot)
48,16 Add en before aoristôi and tôi before diaphanei with the
other Aristotelian MSS
49,15 Reading dêlon hoti ou tou sômatos in the lacuna
(Wendland)
50,9 Reading toutois aitia esti tou khrômatizesthai for toutôn
esti khrômatizesthai (Wendland dubitanter)
50,15 Reading khrôma oikeion ouk ekhonta in the lacuna
(Wendland)
52,20 Reading dê for the second de (Wendland)
53,7 Reading diaphanes with MSS TANa for diaphanesi
56,4 Reading kath’hauta for kat’auta
56,10 Reading dokousin enantioutai doxêi prokatabeblêmenêi
for dokei en hê en doxa prokatabeblêmenê (Wendland)
56,21 Reading tois ophthalmois aitia tou horan tôn
ophthalmôn haptetai all’ for ê horatheisôn and the
subsequent lacuna (Thurot)
56,22 Reading deon for dein (Diels)
58,15 Reading oukhi kan ep’ for kan (Wendland)
58,16 Reading ê exô ê en for ê ex hôn en (Diels)
58,20 Reading kai for ei (Diels)
59,17 Reading sômatôn for khrômatôn (Thurot)
60,17 Reading aph’henos for aphenes (Wendland)
64,15 Deleting touto
64,24 Reading hênômenon for hênômena (Wendland)
64,25 Reading tôi de for to te
65,12 Reading kata for kai (Diels)
69,10 Reading eipôn for eis (Diels)
69,23 Reading autous for auta
 Textual Emendations 13
69,30 Reading khuloi for khumoi (Thurot)
70,10 Reading ou gar toi for ê gar tôi (Wendland)
70,11 Reading diapherei monon for diapherein (Wendland)
75,23 Reading in the lacuna pathous hôs (Wendland)
78,24 Reading êi for esti (Thurot)
80,3 Reading entetheisês for enetheisês (Thurot)
80,8 Reading proskrinomenon for trephon (Wendland)
81,26 Reading in the lacuna men liparon kai to gluku diairoiê,
suntitheiê de to (Wendland, but with gluku for the
suggested hêdu)
82,1 Reading, for mête, ê amphotera and add kai ta deutera
before kai (Wendland)
86,19 Reading in the lacuna ou gar enantia tauta, hoti (Thurot)
90,14 Reading luthôsi for lutheien (Usener)
92,9 Reading in the lacuna osmês dektikon, osphranton houtô
ginomenon (Wendland)
94,7 Reading in the lacuna hupo tês enkhumou xêrotêtos
paskhein ti (Wendland)
95,9 Reading kôluonta for duo onta (Wendland)
96,9 Reading autês for autôn (Wendland)
97,7 Reading to apoton hêmin for ton apo tôn khumôn
(Thurot) and place a comma after rather than before
muron
99,8 Reading tôi aph’hou for tôn aph’hôn (Wendland)
99,9 Reading parekhontai for dekhontai (Diels)
100,1 Placing te in 100,1 after ergôi in 99,27 and omitting kai
in 100,1 (Thurot)
100,12-13 Reading aisthanetai for aisthanontai (Wendland)
101,16 Reading osphrêsamena for osphrêsan (Wendland)
101,19 Reading auton for auta (Wendland)
102,10-11 Transposing kai peri tên opsin to follow horatai
(Wendland)
103,3 Omitting ti (Thurot)
104,10 Adding allôn after tôn (Wendland)
104,27 Reading hautê for autôn (Thurot)
105,1 Reading threptikôn for geustikôn (Thurot)
105,17 Reading enapoplunomenôi for plunonti (Wendland)
106,24 Reading an eidê for anankê (Thurot)
109,21 Reading ginetai sunkrimati tês hapseôs for gar sunkrima
toutou opsesi (Diels)
113,1 Reading hôs for hôn and adunata for dunata (Diels)
118,12-13 Reading epeisi goun for epei oun (Wendland)
118,22 Reading oude dunamei for ouden (Wendland)
119,25 Reading di’hênômenôn for di’hôn (Wendland)
120,8 Reading presbutera hê for hê hustera (Wendland)
14 Textual Emendations
122,13 Reading meros tou for meros autou (Wendland)
125,1 I have not tried to fill the lacuna and have not
translated hoti or gar
126,23 Reading ginetai for gineta and omitting the contents of
the square brackets
127,23 Reading kai oukh hôs tou horan ouk ontos tôn pros ti in
the lacuna (Thurot)
129,9 (lacuna) I have not translated tôi
129,11 Reading kata for ta and tên for kata (Wendland)
130,24 Reading aisthanetai for aisthanesthai (Wendland)
132,18 Reading hôs deon for eis de (Diels)
132,21 Adding hêtis after kinêsis (Wendland)
134,2 Reading ho kai for ê (Wendland)
135,4 Reading esmen, all’ou khumôn oude pephuke paskhein
hupo pantos hugrou in the lacuna (Thurot)
135,18 Adding ho before edêlôsen (Wendland)
137,12 Reading tôi for hôs (Thurot)
137,12 Reading holôs allogenôn for holôn elattonôn (Wendland)
137,26 I have not tried to fill the lacuna. Reading toutois for
touto (Wendland)
138,3 Reading ti hê elattôn for tên elattô (Wendland)
138,5 Reading haplê men gar aisthêsis ouk an eiê for hapla
men gar ex isou kan eien (Wendland)
140,23 Reading tôi mêketi einai for aei (Wendland)
145,23 Reading touto for to (Thurot)
149,18 Reading alêthôs for alêthes (Wendland)
150,13 Reading a comma after tini
152,3 Reading to GB suntelei ti sunêmmenon tôi khronôi ei en
for to sunêmmenon tôi khronôi en (Wendland)
152,5 Reading ou gar for ouk (Wendland)
152,5 Reading GB for B (Wendland)
153,27 Reading ou gar hôs in the lacuna and adding tis after
dunatai (Wendland)
154,13 Reading kai tis diaphora in the lacuna (Wendland)
157,7 Deleting allêla
157,17 Reading atomôi for atomôs (Wendland)
158,1 Reading alêthês, legei for, legôn
160,22 Adding an before anêiroun (Wendland)
161,22 Reading touto in the lacuna (Wendland)
162,15 I have not tried to fill the first lacuna. Deleting ei gar.
Reading allou, allôi de in the second lacuna and
reading allou for allôs
163,23 Reading legei de, ei anankê hama allêlois in the lacuna
(Wendland)
 Textual Emendations 15
168,2 Reading hê dunamis hê aisthêtikê tês psukhês for hêde
psukhê (Thurot)
168,4 Deleting gar
169,6 Adding ouk ap’allou after horômenon kai and kai
aph’hou oukh horatai after horatai (Wendland)
170,21 Reading horaton to for to horan oukh (Wendland)
170,28 Reading ekeino for ekeinou (Wendland)
171,21-2 I have not tried to fill the lacunae. I have not translated
hama an ti eiê hopôs  ameres legein  hoion te ex
amerôn sunekhes ti ginesthai
172,2 Reading horaton in the lacuna (Wendland)
173,9 Reading touto megethos in the lacuna (Thurot)
This page intentionally left blank
 <The Commentary> of Alexander of Aphrodisias on 1,1
<Aristotle’s> On Perception1 and Perceptibles2

Book 1

In the treatise On the Soul <Aristotle> discussed the soul as a whole

in general and universally, and also each of its powers individually,
<saying> how many and what they are and what the existence of each 5
of them depends upon.3 Amongst these he discussed the perceptive
power, saying both what it is4 and into how many senses it is divided,5
going through each of the senses individually and saying what the
potentiality of each of them <is> from which perceiving <comes
about>, and what the actuality <is> and what <it is> concerned with.6
He also discussed the perceptible in respect of each sense so far as he 10
found it useful with reference to the actuality of the senses. In this
book he discusses the sense-organs,7 <saying> what the sense-organ
of each sense <is> and out of what <it is constituted>, since it is not
possible to perceive without a sense-organ. (For the actuality of the
perceptive soul <is> through a body just as the <actualities> of the
other <powers of the soul> are, or at least most of them.8) He also
discusses the perceptibles,9 <saying> what it is which is perceptible 15
by each sense and what it must be in its proper nature if being
perceptible is to belong to it. For being, for perceptibles, is not the
same as being perceptible and he had discussed them as percep-
tibles.10
Another indication of the purpose of the inquiry in the <book> is 2,1
the book’s title. Because he was discussing in it sense-organs and
perceptibles he entitled it ‘On Sense and sense objects’, since the
discussion of the sense-organs contributes to the inquiry concerning
the senses. For perception is common to soul and body.11 Alternatively 5
by ‘Sense’12 he means the sense-organs. For they call the sense-organs
senses.
He begins the book by saying firstly that what follows the inquiry
concerning the soul is <the inquiry> concerning animals and all
animate things and the <inquiry> concerning their activities, both
those that are common and those that are peculiar to each species13
of them. For the soul is a principle14 of all the things which possess 10
soul. He says which of the <activities> are common and which are
peculiar. He has explained that it is reasonable for a person discussing
 18 Translation
the activities of the soul to discuss the activities of animals and things
possessing life by saying that their activities, both those that are
common and those that are peculiar to each <species>, are almost all
15 common to the soul and the body. It is by means of this very point
that he confirms that the soul is <the> actuality of a natural body
which has organs.15 He offers as proof of the statement that the
activities of animate things are common to body and soul the point
that all <these activities> come about either by means of perception
or in conjunction with perception. It is reasonable that, having taken
it as obvious that perception and the activity in respect of it is common
20 to soul and body, he begins to discuss the sense-organs.16 For he has
already discussed the perceptive soul, and perception and the activity
in respect of it17 are common to soul and body, and it was necessary
for the person discussing the common <activities> to discuss percep-
tion first. For this is commonest to all animals and most evident of
the activities in respect of soul.

<CHAPTER 1>

3,1 436a1 Since it has already been determined concerning soul in

itself and concerning each of its powers part by part
He begins the book by showing that the inquiry in it follows the
<inquiry> concerning soul, as I said. For the discussion of soul is
5 followed by the <discussion> of animals and things possessing soul
and their activities, both those that are peculiar to each species and
those that are common. Their activities are not without body. For the
majority by and large <come about> by means of perception, and
perception is common to soul and body.18 He said that it had ‘been
determined concerning soul in itself ’, meaning <that it had been
determined> separately concerning soul as a whole generally and
10 universally, and separately concerning ‘each of its’ parts and ‘powers’.
For in On the Soul firstly he discussed soul universally and defined
it, since it was possible to give to those things which possess <soul>
within themselves both a first and more incomplete definition and a
second and more complete one. Next he discussed each of the powers
15 <of the soul>, the nutritive, the perceptive, the imaginative, and each
of the others.19 Alternatively, <he said that it had been determined>
‘concerning soul in itself ’ because <it had> not also <been deter-
mined> concerning the body, and existence for the soul is in conjunc-
tion with <the body>. For it is for this reason that he will now discuss
the sense-organs. After saying that <the> following task is ‘to make
inquiry concerning the animals’ (436a2-3) he added ‘and concerning
the things which possess life’ (436a3-4), because not all the things
which possess soul are animals, since the animal has been defined by
 Translation 19
perception, as has been stated in On the Soul.20 The nutritive soul is 20
before the perceptive and the things in which there is only <the
nutritive soul> are animate and have life but they are not animals.
Plants are of this sort. He would also say that the parts of animals
possess life. He showed what the inquiry concerning animals and the
things which possess life is by saying ‘which of them are peculiar21
actions and which are common’ (436a4). The phrase ‘which are 4,1
peculiar and which are common’ is equal to ‘concerning the peculiar
and the common’. For he is not proposing to make a division of them,
but to discuss them. He has used the word ‘action’ here, just as he is
accustomed to elsewhere,22 as a commoner alternative to activity. For 5
strictly action is activity which is rational, and none of the things
without reason can have a share of it.

436a5 And so <let> what has been said about soul <be supposed>.
He has said that the inquiry concerning animals and the things which
possess life follows what has been said about soul (the soul is a
potentiality and form23 of each of these). He has also divided the 10
discussion concerning these things into <discussion of> those of their
activities which are common and <discussion of> those which are
peculiar. First he will discuss those activities which are common
either to all things that are animate or at any rate to most of them.
After this he will discuss those activities which are peculiar to each
species of animals, having first examined animals. For there is utility
in the examination and division24 concerning animals with reference
to the activities which are peculiar to each species of animals and to 15
their parts. For25 the activities which are common to things which are
animate join together in a way with the general discussion concerning
soul.26 He will say next what these <common activities> are.
He is saying: let all the things which we have said concerning soul
be laid down as principles of what is about to be said. For men are in
the habit of describing as suppositions the principles which are
indemonstrable, which they also call axioms. But they also describe 20
as suppositions things which are demonstrable but which they take
as agreed and suppose without the demonstration that is proper <to
them>, because they will demonstrate them later but will use them
now as principles for other purposes. ‘And so’, he says, ‘let what has
been said about soul’ and what has been demonstrated be now laid
down as suppositions and principles of what is about to be said. For
they have already been demonstrated and he will not now discuss 25
them any longer.
By means of what he adds he himself makes it clear that he is 5,1
discussing the things which he proposed to discuss because they
followed the inquiry concerning soul, and this is the inquiry into what
 20 Translation
the activities of the animals are and why they come about, and <he
makes it clear that> it is not the case that, having proposed to discuss
animals, he first discusses certain other things, as some people
5 thought, discussing now sense-organs and perceptibles, next life and
death and sleep and waking and prophecy in sleep, and only after
that animals, but rather that these things also pertain to this inquiry
(for some of the common <activities> belong to all animals and others
even to the things which possess life). For having said, ‘Let what has
10 been said about soul be supposed’, he adds, ‘let us discuss what is left
and firstly what is first. The most important <functions> of animals,
both those that are common and those that are peculiar, are clearly
common to the soul and the body’ (436a5-8). He means that the most
important of the <functions> in accordance with the activities of
animals, both those that are common to them and those that are
15 peculiar to each genus, appear to be common to soul and body, and
not <peculiar> to the soul itself in itself. He is showing us that <we>
must inquire into them in this way, by inquiring at the same time
into the parts of the body in which and through which the activities
of the things which possess soul <come about>. He has already said
in On the Soul that the majority of the activities of the soul <come
about> through <the> body.27
20 Next he says what the functions are which are the most important
and common to the soul and the body. For ‘perception and memory
and spiritedness and desire and appetition generally and in addition
to these pleasure and pain’ (436a8-10) are very evident functions of
almost all animals and common activities of them. But these are all
25 common to soul and body, and most of them have already been
discussed in On the Soul,28 whilst some he will discuss later.29 Per-
ception, desire, pleasure, and pain are common to all, and spirited-
ness and memory <are common to> most. All these are dependent
upon perception. For memory is,30 as he will demonstrate31 (he will
discuss memory in the next treatise since he has not yet discussed it).
And he has shown in On the Soul that appetition, pleasure, and pain
30 follow for those who possess perception.32
In addition to these there are certain other <functions>, some
6,1 common to all things which partake of life, others to all animals,
others to the majority. He will inquire into these next in accordance
with his purpose. They are common to soul and body in the same way
as the <functions> already mentioned. For this reason he will discuss
each33 of the pairs at the same time. He lists what they are, saying:
5 ‘the most important of these are four pairs’ (436a12-3). He enumer-
ates them, and carries out his inquiry into them after the discussion
concerning sense-organs and perceptibles. But first he discusses
these and <gives> an explanation of why he will discuss them. The
phrase, ‘for these belong to almost all animals’ (436a10-1), explained
Another random document with
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“Clarissa!” he cried. “Clarissa!” But she never came back. It was
over. He went away that night. He never saw her again.

It was awful, he cried, awful, awful!

Still, the sun was hot. Still, one got over things. Still, life had a way of
adding day to day. Still, he thought, yawning and beginning to take
notice—Regent’s Park had changed very little since he was a boy,
except for the squirrels—still, presumably there were compensations
—when little Elise Mitchell, who had been picking up pebbles to add
to the pebble collection which she and her brother were making on
the nursery mantelpiece, plumped her handful down on the nurse’s
knee and scudded off again full tilt into a lady’s legs. Peter Walsh
laughed out.
But Lucrezia Warren Smith was saying to herself, It’s wicked; why
should I suffer? she was asking, as she walked down the broad path.
No; I can’t stand it any longer, she was saying, having left Septimus,
who wasn’t Septimus any longer, to say hard, cruel, wicked things, to
talk to himself, to talk to a dead man, on the seat over there; when
the child ran full tilt into her, fell flat, and burst out crying.
That was comforting rather. She stood her upright, dusted her frock,
kissed her.
But for herself she had done nothing wrong; she had loved
Septimus; she had been happy; she had had a beautiful home, and
there her sisters lived still, making hats. Why should she suffer?
The child ran straight back to its nurse, and Rezia saw her scolded,
comforted, taken up by the nurse who put down her knitting, and the
kind-looking man gave her his watch to blow open to comfort her—
but why should she be exposed? Why not left in Milan? Why
tortured? Why?
Slightly waved by tears the broad path, the nurse, the man in grey,
the perambulator, rose and fell before her eyes. To be rocked by this
malignant torturer was her lot. But why? She was like a bird
sheltering under the thin hollow of a leaf, who blinks at the sun when
the leaf moves; starts at the crack of a dry twig. She was exposed;
she was surrounded by the enormous trees, vast clouds of an
indifferent world, exposed; tortured; and why should she suffer?
Why?
She frowned; she stamped her foot. She must go back again to
Septimus since it was almost time for them to be going to Sir William
Bradshaw. She must go back and tell him, go back to him sitting
there on the green chair under the tree, talking to himself, or to that
dead man Evans, whom she had only seen once for a moment in the
shop. He had seemed a nice quiet man; a great friend of Septimus’s,
and he had been killed in the War. But such things happen to every
one. Every one has friends who were killed in the War. Every one
gives up something when they marry. She had given up her home.
She had come to live here, in this awful city. But Septimus let himself
think about horrible things, as she could too, if she tried. He had
grown stranger and stranger. He said people were talking behind the
bedroom walls. Mrs. Filmer thought it odd. He saw things too—he
had seen an old woman’s head in the middle of a fern. Yet he could
be happy when he chose. They went to Hampton Court on top of a
bus, and they were perfectly happy. All the little red and yellow
flowers were out on the grass, like floating lamps he said, and talked
and chattered and laughed, making up stories. Suddenly he said,
“Now we will kill ourselves,” when they were standing by the river,
and he looked at it with a look which she had seen in his eyes when
a train went by, or an omnibus—a look as if something fascinated
him; and she felt he was going from her and she caught him by the
arm. But going home he was perfectly quiet—perfectly reasonable.
He would argue with her about killing themselves; and explain how
wicked people were; how he could see them making up lies as they
passed in the street. He knew all their thoughts, he said; he knew
everything. He knew the meaning of the world, he said.
Then when they got back he could hardly walk. He lay on the sofa
and made her hold his hand to prevent him from falling down, down,
he cried, into the flames! and saw faces laughing at him, calling him
horrible disgusting names, from the walls, and hands pointing round
the screen. Yet they were quite alone. But he began to talk aloud,
answering people, arguing, laughing, crying, getting very excited and
making her write things down. Perfect nonsense it was; about death;
about Miss Isabel Pole. She could stand it no longer. She would go
back.
She was close to him now, could see him staring at the sky,
muttering, clasping his hands. Yet Dr. Holmes said there was nothing
the matter with him. What then had happened—why had he gone,
then, why, when she sat by him, did he start, frown at her, move
away, and point at her hand, take her hand, look at it terrified?
Was it that she had taken off her wedding ring? “My hand has grown
so thin,” she said. “I have put it in my purse,” she told him.
He dropped her hand. Their marriage was over, he thought, with
agony, with relief. The rope was cut; he mounted; he was free, as it
was decreed that he, Septimus, the lord of men, should be free;
alone (since his wife had thrown away her wedding ring; since she
had left him), he, Septimus, was alone, called forth in advance of the
mass of men to hear the truth, to learn the meaning, which now at
last, after all the toils of civilisation—Greeks, Romans, Shakespeare,
Darwin, and now himself—was to be given whole to.... “To whom?”
he asked aloud. “To the Prime Minister,” the voices which rustled
above his head replied. The supreme secret must be told to the
Cabinet; first that trees are alive; next there is no crime; next love,
universal love, he muttered, gasping, trembling, painfully drawing out
these profound truths which needed, so deep were they, so difficult,
an immense effort to speak out, but the world was entirely changed
by them for ever.
No crime; love; he repeated, fumbling for his card and pencil, when a
Skye terrier snuffed his trousers and he started in an agony of fear. It
was turning into a man! He could not watch it happen! It was
horrible, terrible to see a dog become a man! At once the dog trotted
away.
Heaven was divinely merciful, infinitely benignant. It spared him,
pardoned his weakness. But what was the scientific explanation (for
one must be scientific above all things)? Why could he see through
bodies, see into the future, when dogs will become men? It was the
heat wave presumably, operating upon a brain made sensitive by
eons of evolution. Scientifically speaking, the flesh was melted off
the world. His body was macerated until only the nerve fibres were
left. It was spread like a veil upon a rock.
He lay back in his chair, exhausted but upheld. He lay resting,
waiting, before he again interpreted, with effort, with agony, to
mankind. He lay very high, on the back of the world. The earth
thrilled beneath him. Red flowers grew through his flesh; their stiff
leaves rustled by his head. Music began clanging against the rocks
up here. It is a motor horn down in the street, he muttered; but up
here it cannoned from rock to rock, divided, met in shocks of sound
which rose in smooth columns (that music should be visible was a
discovery) and became an anthem, an anthem twined round now by
a shepherd boy’s piping (That’s an old man playing a penny whistle
by the public-house, he muttered) which, as the boy stood still came
bubbling from his pipe, and then, as he climbed higher, made its
exquisite plaint while the traffic passed beneath. This boy’s elegy is
played among the traffic, thought Septimus. Now he withdraws up
into the snows, and roses hang about him—the thick red roses which
grow on my bedroom wall, he reminded himself. The music stopped.
He has his penny, he reasoned it out, and has gone on to the next
public-house.
But he himself remained high on his rock, like a drowned sailor on a
rock. I leant over the edge of the boat and fell down, he thought. I
went under the sea. I have been dead, and yet am now alive, but let
me rest still; he begged (he was talking to himself again—it was
awful, awful!); and as, before waking, the voices of birds and the
sound of wheels chime and chatter in a queer harmony, grow louder
and louder and the sleeper feels himself drawing to the shores of life,
so he felt himself drawing towards life, the sun growing hotter, cries
sounding louder, something tremendous about to happen.
He had only to open his eyes; but a weight was on them; a fear. He
strained; he pushed; he looked; he saw Regent’s Park before him.
Long streamers of sunlight fawned at his feet. The trees waved,
brandished. We welcome, the world seemed to say; we accept; we
create. Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it
(scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at
the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To
watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in
the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out,
round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held
them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this
leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good
temper; and now and again some chime (it might be a motor horn)
tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable
as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now;
beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.
“It is time,” said Rezia.
The word “time” split its husk; poured its riches over him; and from
his lips fell like shells, like shavings from a plane, without his making
them, hard, white, imperishable words, and flew to attach
themselves to their places in an ode to Time; an immortal ode to
Time. He sang. Evans answered from behind the tree. The dead
were in Thessaly, Evans sang, among the orchids. There they waited
till the War was over, and now the dead, now Evans himself—
“For God’s sake don’t come!” Septimus cried out. For he could not
look upon the dead.
But the branches parted. A man in grey was actually walking towards
them. It was Evans! But no mud was on him; no wounds; he was not
changed. I must tell the whole world, Septimus cried, raising his
hand (as the dead man in the grey suit came nearer), raising his
hand like some colossal figure who has lamented the fate of man for
ages in the desert alone with his hands pressed to his forehead,
furrows of despair on his cheeks, and now sees light on the desert’s
edge which broadens and strikes the iron-black figure (and Septimus
half rose from his chair), and with legions of men prostrate behind
him he, the giant mourner, receives for one moment on his face the
whole—
“But I am so unhappy, Septimus,” said Rezia trying to make him sit
down.
The millions lamented; for ages they had sorrowed. He would turn
round, he would tell them in a few moments, only a few moments
more, of this relief, of this joy, of this astonishing revelation—
“The time, Septimus,” Rezia repeated. “What is the time?”
He was talking, he was starting, this man must notice him. He was
looking at them.
“I will tell you the time,” said Septimus, very slowly, very drowsily,
smiling mysteriously. As he sat smiling at the dead man in the grey
suit the quarter struck—the quarter to twelve.
And that is being young, Peter Walsh thought as he passed them. To
be having an awful scene—the poor girl looked absolutely desperate
—in the middle of the morning. But what was it about, he wondered,
what had the young man in the overcoat been saying to her to make
her look like that; what awful fix had they got themselves into, both to
look so desperate as that on a fine summer morning? The amusing
thing about coming back to England, after five years, was the way it
made, anyhow the first days, things stand out as if one had never
seen them before; lovers squabbling under a tree; the domestic
family life of the parks. Never had he seen London look so
enchanting—the softness of the distances; the richness; the
greenness; the civilisation, after India, he thought, strolling across
the grass.
This susceptibility to impressions had been his undoing no doubt.
Still at his age he had, like a boy or a girl even, these alternations of
mood; good days, bad days, for no reason whatever, happiness from
a pretty face, downright misery at the sight of a frump. After India of
course one fell in love with every woman one met. There was a
freshness about them; even the poorest dressed better than five
years ago surely; and to his eye the fashions had never been so
becoming; the long black cloaks; the slimness; the elegance; and
then the delicious and apparently universal habit of paint. Every
woman, even the most respectable, had roses blooming under glass;
lips cut with a knife; curls of Indian ink; there was design, art,
everywhere; a change of some sort had undoubtedly taken place.
What did the young people think about? Peter Walsh asked himself.
Those five years—1918 to 1923—had been, he suspected,
somehow very important. People looked different. Newspapers
seemed different. Now for instance there was a man writing quite
openly in one of the respectable weeklies about water-closets. That
you couldn’t have done ten years ago—written quite openly about
water-closets in a respectable weekly. And then this taking out a
stick of rouge, or a powder-puff and making up in public. On board
ship coming home there were lots of young men and girls—Betty
and Bertie he remembered in particular—carrying on quite openly;
the old mother sitting and watching them with her knitting, cool as a
cucumber. The girl would stand still and powder her nose in front of
every one. And they weren’t engaged; just having a good time; no
feelings hurt on either side. As hard as nails she was—Betty
What’shername—; but a thorough good sort. She would make a very
good wife at thirty—she would marry when it suited her to marry;
marry some rich man and live in a large house near Manchester.
Who was it now who had done that? Peter Walsh asked himself,
turning into the Broad Walk,—married a rich man and lived in a large
house near Manchester? Somebody who had written him a long,
gushing letter quite lately about “blue hydrangeas.” It was seeing
blue hydrangeas that made her think of him and the old days—Sally
Seton, of course! It was Sally Seton—the last person in the world
one would have expected to marry a rich man and live in a large
house near Manchester, the wild, the daring, the romantic Sally!
But of all that ancient lot, Clarissa’s friends—Whitbreads, Kinderleys,
Cunninghams, Kinloch-Jones’s—Sally was probably the best. She
tried to get hold of things by the right end anyhow. She saw through
Hugh Whitbread anyhow—the admirable Hugh—when Clarissa and
the rest were at his feet.
“The Whitbreads?” he could hear her saying. “Who are the
Whitbreads? Coal merchants. Respectable tradespeople.”
Hugh she detested for some reason. He thought of nothing but his
own appearance, she said. He ought to have been a Duke. He would
be certain to marry one of the Royal Princesses. And of course Hugh
had the most extraordinary, the most natural, the most sublime
respect for the British aristocracy of any human being he had ever
come across. Even Clarissa had to own that. Oh, but he was such a
dear, so unselfish, gave up shooting to please his old mother—
remembered his aunts’ birthdays, and so on.
Sally, to do her justice, saw through all that. One of the things he
remembered best was an argument one Sunday morning at Bourton
about women’s rights (that antediluvian topic), when Sally suddenly
lost her temper, flared up, and told Hugh that he represented all that
was most detestable in British middle-class life. She told him that
she considered him responsible for the state of “those poor girls in
Piccadilly”—Hugh, the perfect gentleman, poor Hugh!—never did a
man look more horrified! She did it on purpose she said afterwards
(for they used to get together in the vegetable garden and compare
notes). “He’s read nothing, thought nothing, felt nothing,” he could
hear her saying in that very emphatic voice which carried so much
farther than she knew. The stable boys had more life in them than
Hugh, she said. He was a perfect specimen of the public school
type, she said. No country but England could have produced him.
She was really spiteful, for some reason; had some grudge against
him. Something had happened—he forgot what—in the smoking-
room. He had insulted her—kissed her? Incredible! Nobody believed
a word against Hugh of course. Who could? Kissing Sally in the
smoking-room! If it had been some Honourable Edith or Lady Violet,
perhaps; but not that ragamuffin Sally without a penny to her name,
and a father or a mother gambling at Monte Carlo. For of all the
people he had ever met Hugh was the greatest snob—the most
obsequious—no, he didn’t cringe exactly. He was too much of a prig
for that. A first-rate valet was the obvious comparison—somebody
who walked behind carrying suit cases; could be trusted to send
telegrams—indispensable to hostesses. And he’d found his job—
married his Honourable Evelyn; got some little post at Court, looked
after the King’s cellars, polished the Imperial shoe-buckles, went
about in knee-breeches and lace ruffles. How remorseless life is! A
little job at Court!
He had married this lady, the Honourable Evelyn, and they lived
hereabouts, so he thought (looking at the pompous houses
overlooking the Park), for he had lunched there once in a house
which had, like all Hugh’s possessions, something that no other
house could possibly have—linen cupboards it might have been. You
had to go and look at them—you had to spend a great deal of time
always admiring whatever it was—linen cupboards, pillow-cases, old
oak furniture, pictures, which Hugh had picked up for an old song.
But Mrs. Hugh sometimes gave the show away. She was one of
those obscure mouse-like little women who admire big men. She
was almost negligible. Then suddenly she would say something
quite unexpected—something sharp. She had the relics of the grand
manner perhaps. The steam coal was a little too strong for her—it
made the atmosphere thick. And so there they lived, with their linen
cupboards and their old masters and their pillow-cases fringed with
real lace at the rate of five or ten thousand a year presumably, while
he, who was two years older than Hugh, cadged for a job.
At fifty-three he had to come and ask them to put him into some
secretary’s office, to find him some usher’s job teaching little boys
Latin, at the beck and call of some mandarin in an office, something
that brought in five hundred a year; for if he married Daisy, even with
his pension, they could never do on less. Whitbread could do it
presumably; or Dalloway. He didn’t mind what he asked Dalloway.
He was a thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the head;
yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the
same matter-of-fact sensible way; without a touch of imagination,
without a spark of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his
type. He ought to have been a country gentleman—he was wasted
on politics. He was at his best out of doors, with horses and dogs—
how good he was, for instance, when that great shaggy dog of
Clarissa’s got caught in a trap and had its paw half torn off, and
Clarissa turned faint and Dalloway did the whole thing; bandaged,
made splints; told Clarissa not to be a fool. That was what she liked
him for perhaps—that was what she needed. “Now, my dear, don’t
be a fool. Hold this—fetch that,” all the time talking to the dog as if it
were a human being.
But how could she swallow all that stuff about poetry? How could
she let him hold forth about Shakespeare? Seriously and solemnly
Richard Dalloway got on his hind legs and said that no decent man
ought to read Shakespeare’s sonnets because it was like listening at
keyholes (besides the relationship was not one that he approved).
No decent man ought to let his wife visit a deceased wife’s sister.
Incredible! The only thing to do was to pelt him with sugared
almonds—it was at dinner. But Clarissa sucked it all in; thought it so
honest of him; so independent of him; Heaven knows if she didn’t
think him the most original mind she’d ever met!
That was one of the bonds between Sally and himself. There was a
garden where they used to walk, a walled-in place, with rose-bushes
and giant cauliflowers—he could remember Sally tearing off a rose,
stopping to exclaim at the beauty of the cabbage leaves in the
moonlight (it was extraordinary how vividly it all came back to him,
things he hadn’t thought of for years,) while she implored him, half
laughing of course, to carry off Clarissa, to save her from the Hughs
and the Dalloways and all the other “perfect gentlemen” who would
“stifle her soul” (she wrote reams of poetry in those days), make a
mere hostess of her, encourage her worldliness. But one must do
Clarissa justice. She wasn’t going to marry Hugh anyhow. She had a
perfectly clear notion of what she wanted. Her emotions were all on
the surface. Beneath, she was very shrewd—a far better judge of
character than Sally, for instance, and with it all, purely feminine; with
that extraordinary gift, that woman’s gift, of making a world of her
own wherever she happened to be. She came into a room; she
stood, as he had often seen her, in a doorway with lots of people
round her. But it was Clarissa one remembered. Not that she was
striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her;
she never said anything specially clever; there she was, however;
there she was.
No, no, no! He was not in love with her any more! He only felt, after
seeing her that morning, among her scissors and silks, making ready
for the party, unable to get away from the thought of her; she kept
coming back and back like a sleeper jolting against him in a railway
carriage; which was not being in love, of course; it was thinking of
her, criticising her, starting again, after thirty years, trying to explain
her. The obvious thing to say of her was that she was worldly; cared
too much for rank and society and getting on in the world—which
was true in a sense; she had admitted it to him. (You could always
get her to own up if you took the trouble; she was honest.) What she
would say was that she hated frumps, fogies, failures, like himself
presumably; thought people had no right to slouch about with their
hands in their pockets; must do something, be something; and these
great swells, these Duchesses, these hoary old Countesses one met
in her drawing-room, unspeakably remote as he felt them to be from
anything that mattered a straw, stood for something real to her. Lady
Bexborough, she said once, held herself upright (so did Clarissa
herself; she never lounged in any sense of the word; she was
straight as a dart, a little rigid in fact). She said they had a kind of
courage which the older she grew the more she respected. In all this
there was a great deal of Dalloway, of course; a great deal of the
public-spirited, British Empire, tariff-reform, governing-class spirit,
which had grown on her, as it tends to do. With twice his wits, she
had to see things through his eyes—one of the tragedies of married
life. With a mind of her own, she must always be quoting Richard—
as if one couldn’t know to a tittle what Richard thought by reading the
Morning Post of a morning! These parties for example were all for
him, or for her idea of him (to do Richard justice he would have been
happier farming in Norfolk). She made her drawing-room a sort of
meeting-place; she had a genius for it. Over and over again he had
seen her take some raw youth, twist him, turn him, wake him up; set
him going. Infinite numbers of dull people conglomerated round her
of course. But odd unexpected people turned up; an artist
sometimes; sometimes a writer; queer fish in that atmosphere. And
behind it all was that network of visiting, leaving cards, being kind to
people; running about with bunches of flowers, little presents; So-
and-so was going to France—must have an air-cushion; a real drain
on her strength; all that interminable traffic that women of her sort
keep up; but she did it genuinely, from a natural instinct.
Oddly enough, she was one of the most thoroughgoing sceptics he
had ever met, and possibly (this was a theory he used to make up to
account for her, so transparent in some ways, so inscrutable in
others), possibly she said to herself, As we are a doomed race,
chained to a sinking ship (her favourite reading as a girl was Huxley
and Tyndall, and they were fond of these nautical metaphors), as the
whole thing is a bad joke, let us, at any rate, do our part; mitigate the
sufferings of our fellow-prisoners (Huxley again); decorate the
dungeon with flowers and air-cushions; be as decent as we possibly
can. Those ruffians, the Gods, shan’t have it all their own way,—her
notion being that the Gods, who never lost a chance of hurting,
thwarting and spoiling human lives were seriously put out if, all the
same, you behaved like a lady. That phase came directly after
Sylvia’s death—that horrible affair. To see your own sister killed by a
falling tree (all Justin Parry’s fault—all his carelessness) before your
very eyes, a girl too on the verge of life, the most gifted of them,
Clarissa always said, was enough to turn one bitter. Later she wasn’t
so positive perhaps; she thought there were no Gods; no one was to
blame; and so she evolved this atheist’s religion of doing good for
the sake of goodness.
And of course she enjoyed life immensely. It was her nature to enjoy
(though goodness only knows, she had her reserves; it was a mere
sketch, he often felt, that even he, after all these years, could make
of Clarissa). Anyhow there was no bitterness in her; none of that
sense of moral virtue which is so repulsive in good women. She
enjoyed practically everything. If you walked with her in Hyde Park
now it was a bed of tulips, now a child in a perambulator, now some
absurd little drama she made up on the spur of the moment. (Very
likely, she would have talked to those lovers, if she had thought them
unhappy.) She had a sense of comedy that was really exquisite, but
she needed people, always people, to bring it out, with the inevitable
result that she frittered her time away, lunching, dining, giving these
incessant parties of hers, talking nonsense, sayings things she didn’t
mean, blunting the edge of her mind, losing her discrimination. There
she would sit at the head of the table taking infinite pains with some
old buffer who might be useful to Dalloway—they knew the most
appalling bores in Europe—or in came Elizabeth and everything
must give way to her. She was at a High School, at the inarticulate
stage last time he was over, a round-eyed, pale-faced girl, with
nothing of her mother in her, a silent stolid creature, who took it all as
a matter of course, let her mother make a fuss of her, and then said
“May I go now?” like a child of four; going off, Clarissa explained,
with that mixture of amusement and pride which Dalloway himself
seemed to rouse in her, to play hockey. And now Elizabeth was “out,”
presumably; thought him an old fogy, laughed at her mother’s
friends. Ah well, so be it. The compensation of growing old, Peter
Walsh thought, coming out of Regent’s Park, and holding his hat in
hand, was simply this; that the passions remain as strong as ever,
but one has gained—at last!—the power which adds the supreme
flavour to existence,—the power of taking hold of experience, of
turning it round, slowly, in the light.
A terrible confession it was (he put his hat on again), but now, at the
age of fifty-three one scarcely needed people any more. Life itself,
every moment of it, every drop of it, here, this instant, now, in the
sun, in Regent’s Park, was enough. Too much indeed. A whole
lifetime was too short to bring out, now that one had acquired the
power, the full flavour; to extract every ounce of pleasure, every
shade of meaning; which both were so much more solid than they
used to be, so much less personal. It was impossible that he should
ever suffer again as Clarissa had made him suffer. For hours at a
time (pray God that one might say these things without being
overheard!), for hours and days he never thought of Daisy.
Could it be that he was in love with her then, remembering the
misery, the torture, the extraordinary passion of those days? It was a
different thing altogether—a much pleasanter thing—the truth being,
of course, that now she was in love with him. And that perhaps was
the reason why, when the ship actually sailed, he felt an
extraordinary relief, wanted nothing so much as to be alone; was
annoyed to find all her little attentions—cigars, notes, a rug for the
voyage—in his cabin. Every one if they were honest would say the
same; one doesn’t want people after fifty; one doesn’t want to go on
telling women they are pretty; that’s what most men of fifty would
say, Peter Walsh thought, if they were honest.
But then these astonishing accesses of emotion—bursting into tears
this morning, what was all that about? What could Clarissa have
thought of him? thought him a fool presumably, not for the first time.
It was jealousy that was at the bottom of it—jealousy which survives
every other passion of mankind, Peter Walsh thought, holding his
pocket-knife at arm’s length. She had been meeting Major Orde,
Daisy said in her last letter; said it on purpose he knew; said it to
make him jealous; he could see her wrinkling her forehead as she
wrote, wondering what she could say to hurt him; and yet it made no
difference; he was furious! All this pother of coming to England and
seeing lawyers wasn’t to marry her, but to prevent her from marrying
anybody else. That was what tortured him, that was what came over
him when he saw Clarissa so calm, so cold, so intent on her dress or
whatever it was; realising what she might have spared him, what she
had reduced him to—a whimpering, snivelling old ass. But women,
he thought, shutting his pocket-knife, don’t know what passion is.
They don’t know the meaning of it to men. Clarissa was as cold as
an icicle. There she would sit on the sofa by his side, let him take her
hand, give him one kiss—Here he was at the crossing.
A sound interrupted him; a frail quivering sound, a voice bubbling up
without direction, vigour, beginning or end, running weakly and shrilly
and with an absence of all human meaning into
 ee um fah um so
foo swee too eem oo—

the voice of no age or sex, the voice of an ancient spring spouting

from the earth; which issued, just opposite Regent’s Park Tube
station from a tall quivering shape, like a funnel, like a rusty pump,
like a wind-beaten tree for ever barren of leaves which lets the wind
run up and down its branches singing

ee um fah um so
foo swee too eem oo

and rocks and creaks and moans in the eternal breeze.

Through all ages—when the pavement was grass, when it was
swamp, through the age of tusk and mammoth, through the age of
silent sunrise, the battered woman—for she wore a skirt—with her
right hand exposed, her left clutching at her side, stood singing of
love—love which has lasted a million years, she sang, love which
prevails, and millions of years ago, her lover, who had been dead
these centuries, had walked, she crooned, with her in May; but in the
course of ages, long as summer days, and flaming, she
remembered, with nothing but red asters, he had gone; death’s
enormous sickle had swept those tremendous hills, and when at last
she laid her hoary and immensely aged head on the earth, now
become a mere cinder of ice, she implored the Gods to lay by her
side a bunch of purple heather, there on her high burial place which
the last rays of the last sun caressed; for then the pageant of the
universe would be over.
As the ancient song bubbled up opposite Regent’s Park Tube station
still the earth seemed green and flowery; still, though it issued from
so rude a mouth, a mere hole in the earth, muddy too, matted with
root fibres and tangled grasses, still the old bubbling burbling song,
soaking through the knotted roots of infinite ages, and skeletons and
treasure, streamed away in rivulets over the pavement and all along
the Marylebone Road, and down towards Euston, fertilising, leaving
a damp stain.
Still remembering how once in some primeval May she had walked
with her lover, this rusty pump, this battered old woman with one
hand exposed for coppers the other clutching her side, would still be
there in ten million years, remembering how once she had walked in
May, where the sea flows now, with whom it did not matter—he was
a man, oh yes, a man who had loved her. But the passage of ages
had blurred the clarity of that ancient May day; the bright petalled
flowers were hoar and silver frosted; and she no longer saw, when
she implored him (as she did now quite clearly) “look in my eyes with
thy sweet eyes intently,” she no longer saw brown eyes, black
whiskers or sunburnt face but only a looming shape, a shadow
shape, to which, with the bird-like freshness of the very aged she still
twittered “give me your hand and let me press it gently” (Peter Walsh
couldn’t help giving the poor creature a coin as he stepped into his
taxi), “and if some one should see, what matter they?” she
demanded; and her fist clutched at her side, and she smiled,
pocketing her shilling, and all peering inquisitive eyes seemed
blotted out, and the passing generations—the pavement was
crowded with bustling middle-class people—vanished, like leaves, to
be trodden under, to be soaked and steeped and made mould of by
that eternal spring—

ee um fah um so
foo swee too eem oo

“Poor old woman,” said Rezia Warren Smith, waiting to cross.

Oh poor old wretch!
Suppose it was a wet night? Suppose one’s father, or somebody
who had known one in better days had happened to pass, and saw
one standing there in the gutter? And where did she sleep at night?
Cheerfully, almost gaily, the invincible thread of sound wound up into
the air like the smoke from a cottage chimney, winding up clean
beech trees and issuing in a tuft of blue smoke among the topmost
leaves. “And if some one should see, what matter they?”
Since she was so unhappy, for weeks and weeks now, Rezia had
given meanings to things that happened, almost felt sometimes that
she must stop people in the street, if they looked good, kind people,
just to say to them “I am unhappy”; and this old woman singing in the
street “if some one should see, what matter they?” made her
suddenly quite sure that everything was going to be right. They were
going to Sir William Bradshaw; she thought his name sounded nice;
he would cure Septimus at once. And then there was a brewer’s cart,
and the grey horses had upright bristles of straw in their tails; there
were newspaper placards. It was a silly, silly dream, being unhappy.
So they crossed, Mr. and Mrs. Septimus Warren Smith, and was
there, after all, anything to draw attention to them, anything to make
a passer-by suspect here is a young man who carries in him the
greatest message in the world, and is, moreover, the happiest man
in the world, and the most miserable? Perhaps they walked more
slowly than other people, and there was something hesitating,
trailing, in the man’s walk, but what more natural for a clerk, who has
not been in the West End on a weekday at this hour for years, than
to keep looking at the sky, looking at this, that and the other, as if
Portland Place were a room he had come into when the family are
away, the chandeliers being hung in holland bags, and the caretaker,
as she lets in long shafts of dusty light upon deserted, queer-looking
arm-chairs, lifting one corner of the long blinds, explains to the
visitors what a wonderful place it is; how wonderful, but at the same
time, he thinks, as he looks at chairs and tables, how strange.
To look at, he might have been a clerk, but of the better sort; for he
wore brown boots; his hands were educated; so, too, his profile—his
angular, big-nosed, intelligent, sensitive profile; but not his lips
altogether, for they were loose; and his eyes (as eyes tend to be),
eyes merely; hazel, large; so that he was, on the whole, a border
case, neither one thing nor the other, might end with a house at
Purley and a motor car, or continue renting apartments in back
streets all his life; one of those half-educated, self-educated men
whose education is all learnt from books borrowed from public
libraries, read in the evening after the day’s work, on the advice of
well-known authors consulted by letter.
As for the other experiences, the solitary ones, which people go
through alone, in their bedrooms, in their offices, walking the fields
and the streets of London, he had them; had left home, a mere boy,
because of his mother; she lied; because he came down to tea for
the fiftieth time with his hands unwashed; because he could see no
future for a poet in Stroud; and so, making a confidant of his little
sister, had gone to London leaving an absurd note behind him, such
as great men have written, and the world has read later when the
story of their struggles has become famous.
London has swallowed up many millions of young men called Smith;
thought nothing of fantastic Christian names like Septimus with
which their parents have thought to distinguish them. Lodging off the
Euston Road, there were experiences, again experiences, such as
change a face in two years from a pink innocent oval to a face lean,
contracted, hostile. But of all this what could the most observant of
friends have said except what a gardener says when he opens the
conservatory door in the morning and finds a new blossom on his
plant:—It has flowered; flowered from vanity, ambition, idealism,
passion, loneliness, courage, laziness, the usual seeds, which all
muddled up (in a room off the Euston Road), made him shy, and
stammering, made him anxious to improve himself, made him fall in
love with Miss Isabel Pole, lecturing in the Waterloo Road upon
Shakespeare.
Was he not like Keats? she asked; and reflected how she might give
him a taste of Antony and Cleopatra and the rest; lent him books;
wrote him scraps of letters; and lit in him such a fire as burns only
once in a lifetime, without heat, flickering a red gold flame infinitely
ethereal and insubstantial over Miss Pole; Antony and Cleopatra;
and the Waterloo Road. He thought her beautiful, believed her
impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which,
ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink; he saw her, one
summer evening, walking in a green dress in a square. “It has
flowered,” the gardener might have said, had he opened the door;
had he come in, that is to say, any night about this time, and found
him writing; found him tearing up his writing; found him finishing a
masterpiece at three o’clock in the morning and running out to pace
the streets, and visiting churches, and fasting one day, drinking
another, devouring Shakespeare, Darwin, The History of Civilisation,
and Bernard Shaw.
Something was up, Mr. Brewer knew; Mr. Brewer, managing clerk at
Sibleys and Arrowsmiths, auctioneers, valuers, land and estate
agents; something was up, he thought, and, being paternal with his
young men, and thinking very highly of Smith’s abilities, and
prophesying that he would, in ten or fifteen years, succeed to the
leather arm-chair in the inner room under the skylight with the deed-
boxes round him, “if he keeps his health,” said Mr. Brewer, and that
was the danger—he looked weakly; advised football, invited him to
supper and was seeing his way to consider recommending a rise of
salary, when something happened which threw out many of Mr.
Brewer’s calculations, took away his ablest young fellows, and
eventually, so prying and insidious were the fingers of the European
War, smashed a plaster cast of Ceres, ploughed a hole in the
geranium beds, and utterly ruined the cook’s nerves at Mr. Brewer’s
establishment at Muswell Hill.
Septimus was one of the first to volunteer. He went to France to save
an England which consisted almost entirely of Shakespeare’s plays
and Miss Isabel Pole in a green dress walking in a square. There in
the trenches the change which Mr. Brewer desired when he advised
football was produced instantly; he developed manliness; he was
promoted; he drew the attention, indeed the affection of his officer,
Evans by name. It was a case of two dogs playing on a hearth-rug;
one worrying a paper screw, snarling, snapping, giving a pinch, now
and then, at the old dog’s ear; the other lying somnolent, blinking at
the fire, raising a paw, turning and growling good-temperedly. They
had to be together, share with each other, fight with each other,
quarrel with each other. But when Evans (Rezia who had only seen
him once called him “a quiet man,” a sturdy red-haired man,
undemonstrative in the company of women), when Evans was killed,
just before the Armistice, in Italy, Septimus, far from showing any
emotion or recognising that here was the end of a friendship,
congratulated himself upon feeling very little and very reasonably.
The War had taught him. It was sublime. He had gone through the
whole show, friendship, European War, death, had won promotion,
was still under thirty and was bound to survive. He was right there.
The last shells missed him. He watched them explode with
indifference. When peace came he was in Milan, billeted in the
house of an innkeeper with a courtyard, flowers in tubs, little tables in
the open, daughters making hats, and to Lucrezia, the younger
daughter, he became engaged one evening when the panic was on
him—that he could not feel.
For now that it was all over, truce signed, and the dead buried, he
had, especially in the evening, these sudden thunder-claps of fear.
He could not feel. As he opened the door of the room where the
Italian girls sat making hats, he could see them; could hear them;
they were rubbing wires among coloured beads in saucers; they
were turning buckram shapes this way and that; the table was all
strewn with feathers, spangles, silks, ribbons; scissors were rapping
on the table; but something failed him; he could not feel. Still,
scissors rapping, girls laughing, hats being made protected him; he
was assured of safety; he had a refuge. But he could not sit there all
night. There were moments of waking in the early morning. The bed
was falling; he was falling. Oh for the scissors and the lamplight and
the buckram shapes! He asked Lucrezia to marry him, the younger
of the two, the gay, the frivolous, with those little artist’s fingers that
she would hold up and say “It is all in them.” Silk, feathers, what not
were alive to them.
“It is the hat that matters most,” she would say, when they walked
out together. Every hat that passed, she would examine; and the
cloak and the dress and the way the woman held herself. Ill-
dressing, over-dressing she stigmatised, not savagely, rather with
impatient movements of the hands, like those of a painter who puts
from him some obvious well-meant glaring imposture; and then,
generously, but always critically, she would welcome a shop-girl who
had turned her little bit of stuff gallantly, or praise, wholly, with
enthusiastic and professional understanding, a French lady
descending from her carriage, in chinchilla, robes, pearls.