Books > Old Books > The White Peacock (1906)


Page 33

PART I - CHAPTER III
A VENDOR OF VISIONS


and she talked unheeded. The picture under discussion was a water-colour-'Hoeing,' by Clausen.
'You 'd be just that colour in the sunset,' she said, thus bringing him back to the subject, `and if you looked at the ground you'd find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you 'd perceived the colour, it would strengthen till you 'd see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you-it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I'd like to make you suffer. If you'd ever been sick; if you'd ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn't understand; if ever you 'd believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening the germ of a flower. As for me, the flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth. Things don't flower if they 're overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When death is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have touched death. You don't know. There 's always a sense of death in this home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was death in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference.'
As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like a child who feels the tale but does not understand the words. She, looking away from herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and patted his hand, saying :
`Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to me-there isn't any meaning in it all-there isn't really!'
`But,' said he, `why do you say it?'
`Oh, the question!' she laughed. `Let us go back to our muttons, we 're gazing at each other like two dazed images.'
They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, 'There!'
It was Maurice Greiffenhagen's 'Idyll.'

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE and she talked unheeded. what is picture under discussion was a water-colour-'Hoeing,' by Clausen. 'You 'd be just that colour in what is sunset,' she said, thus bringing him back to what is subject, `and if you looked at what is ground you'd find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you 'd perceived what is colour, it would strengthen till you 'd see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you-it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I'd like to make you suffer. If you'd ever been sick; if you'd ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn't understand; if ever you 'd believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening what is germ of a flower. As for me, what is flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth. Things don't flower if they 're overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When what time is it is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have touched what time is it . You don't know. There 's always a sense of what time is it in this home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was what time is it in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference.' As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like a child who feels what is tale but does not understand what is words. She, looking away from herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and patted his hand, saying : `Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to me-there isn't any meaning in it all-there isn't really!' `But,' said he, `why do you say it?' `Oh, what is question!' she laughed. `Let us go back to our muttons, we 're gazing at each other like two dazed images.' They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, 'There!' It was Maurice Greiffenhagen's 'Idyll.' where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The White Peacock (1906) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 33 where is strong PART I - CHAPTER III A VENDOR OF VISIONS where is p align="justify" and she talked unheeded. what is picture under discussion was a water-colour-'Hoeing,' by Clausen. 'You 'd be just that colour in what is sunset,' she said, thus bringing him back to what is subject, `and if you looked at what is ground you'd find there was a sense of warm gold fire in it, and once you 'd perceived what is colour, it would strengthen till you 'd see nothing else. You are blind; you are only half born; you are gross with good living and heavy sleeping. You are a piano which will only play a dozen common notes. Sunset is nothing to you-it merely happens anywhere. Oh, but you make me feel as if I'd like to make you suffer. If you'd ever been sick; if you'd ever been born into a home where there was something oppressed you, and you couldn't understand; if ever you 'd believed, or even doubted, you might have been a man by now. You never grow up, like bulbs which spend all summer getting fat and fleshy, but never wakening what is germ of a flower. As for me, what is flower is born in me, but it wants bringing forth. Things don't flower if they 're overfed. You have to suffer before you blossom in this life. When what time is it is just touching a plant, it forces it into a passion of flowering. You wonder how I have touched what time is it . You don't know. There 's always a sense of what time is it in this home. I believe my mother hated my father before I was born. That was what time is it in her veins for me before I was born. It makes a difference.' As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like a child who feels what is tale but does not understand what is words. She, looking away from herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and patted his hand, saying : `Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to me-there isn't any meaning in it all-there isn't really!' `But,' said he, `why do you say it?' `Oh, what is question!' she laughed. `Let us go back to our muttons, we 're gazing at each other like two dazed images.' They turned on, chatting casually, till George suddenly exclaimed, 'There!' It was Maurice Greiffenhagen's 'Idyll.' where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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