Bildungsromans; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Illegitimate children -- Fiction
Seen from this secluded corner, the Promenade resembled a well-filled
tank in an aquarium. The upholstery of shimmering green plush, the dim
foreground, the splash of light from the bar in one corner, the gliding
circumambient throng among the pillars and, displayed along the
barrier, the bright-hued ladies like sea-anemones—there was nothing
that spoiled the comparison. Moreover, the longer Michael looked, the
more nearly was the effect achieved. At intervals women whose
close-fitting dresses seemed deliberately to imitate scales went by:
and generally the people eyed one another with the indifferent frozen
eyes of swimming fish. There was indeed something cold-blooded in the
very atmosphere, and it was from, this rapacious and vivid shoal of
women that he was expecting Lily to materialize. Yet he was better able
to imagine her in the luxury of the Orient than sleeping down the sun
over a crumpled novelette in such a room as Poppy’s in Camden Town.
The evening wore itself away, and the motion in that subaqueous air was
restful in its continuity. Michael was relieved by the assurance that
he had still a little time in which to compose himself to face the
shock he knew he must ultimately expect from meeting Lily again. The
evening wore itself away. The lady of the haute école was succeeded by
a band of Caucasian wrestlers, by a troupe of Bolivian gymnasts, by
half a dozen cosmopolitan ebullitions of ingenuity. The ballet went its
mechanical course, and as each line of dancers grouped themselves, it
was almost possible to hear the click of the kaleidoscope’s shifting
squares and lozenges. Michael wondered vaguely about the girls in the
ballet and whether they were happy. It seemed absurd to think that down
there on the stage there were eighty or ninety individuals each with a
history, so little more did they seem from here than dolls. And on the
Promenade where it was quite certain that every woman had a history to
account for her presence there, how utterly living had quenched life.
The ballet was over, and he passed out into the streets.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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