slightly more animated than the sunshine and the stone and the
motionless caper-bush above her. Still her fingers went along the strand
of fleece near her breast.
'That is an old way of spinning,' I said.
'What?'
She looked up at me with eyes clear and transcendent as the heavens. But
she was slightly roused. There was the slight motion of the eagle in her
turning to look at me, a faint gleam of rapt light in her eyes. It was
my unaccustomed Italian.
'That is an old way of spinning,' I repeated.
'Yes--an old way,' she repeated, as if to say the words so that they
should be natural to her. And I became to her merely a transient
circumstance, a man, part of the surroundings. We divided the gift of
speech, that was all.
She glanced at me again, with her wonderful, unchanging eyes, that were
like the visible heavens, unthinking, or like two flowers that are open
in pure clear unconsciousness. To her I was a piece of the environment.
That was all. Her world was clear and absolute, without consciousness of
self. She was not self-conscious, because she was not aware that there
was anything in the universe except _her_ universe. In her universe I
was a stranger, a foreign _signore_. That I had a world of my own, other
than her own, was not conceived by her. She did not care.
So we conceive the stars. We are told that they are other worlds. But
the stars are the clustered and single gleaming lights in the night-sky
of our world. When I come home at night, there are the stars. When I
cease to exist as the microcosm, when I begin to think of the cosmos,
then the stars are other worlds. Then the macrocosm absorbs me. But the
macrocosm is not me. It is something which I, the microcosm, am not.
So that there is something which is unknown to me and which nevertheless
exists. I am finite, and my understanding has limits. The universe is
bigger than I shall ever see, in mind or spirit. There is that which
is not me.
If I say 'The planet Mars is inhabited,' I do not know what I mean by
'inhabited', with reference to the planet Mars. I can only mean that
that world is not my world. I can only know there is that which is not
me. I am the microcosm, but the macrocosm is that also which I am not.
The old woman on the terrace in the sun did not know this. She was
herself the core and centre to the world, the sun, and the single
firmament. She knew that I was an inhabitant of lands which she had
never seen. But what of that! There were parts of her own body which she
had never seen, which physiologically she could never see. They were
none the less her own because she had never seen them. The lands she had
not seen were corporate parts of her own living body, the knowledge she
had not attained was only the hidden knowledge of her own self. She
_was_ the substance of the knowledge, whether she had the knowledge in
her mind or not. There was nothing which was not herself, ultimately.
Even the man, the male, was part of herself. He was the mobile, separate
part, but he was none the less herself because he was sometimes severed
from her. If every apple in the world were cut in two, the apple would
not be changed. The reality is the apple, which is just the same in the
half-apple as in the whole.
And she, the old spinning-woman, was the apple, eternal, unchangeable,
whole even in her partiality. It was this which gave the wonderful clear
unconsciousness to her eyes. How could she be conscious of herself when
all was herself?
She was talking to me of a sheep that had died, but I could not
understand because of her dialect. It never occurred to her that I could
not understand. She only thought me different, stupid. And she talked
on. The ewes had lived under the house, and a part was divided off for
the he-goat, because the other people brought their she-goats to be
covered by the he-goat. But how the ewe came to die I could not
make out.
Her fingers worked away all the time in a little, half-fretful movement,
yet spontaneous as butterflies leaping here and there. She chattered
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