Chapter Four
"and of course Celia will have custody of the children."
"Of course."
"Then what about the Old Rectory? I don't imagine you'll want to settle
down with Julia bang at our gates. The children look on it as their home,
you know. Robin's got no place of his own till his uncle dies. After all,
you never used the studio, did you? Robin was saying only the other day what
a good playroom it would make--big enough for badminton."
"Robin can have the Old Rectory."
"Now with regard to money, Celia and Robin naturally don't want to
accept anything for themselves, but there's the question of the children's
education."
"That will be all right. I'll see the lawyers about it."
"Well, I think that's everything," said Mulcaster. "You know, I've seen
a few divorces in my time, and I've never known one work out so happily for
all concerned. Almost always, however matey people are at the start, bad
blood crops up when they get down to detail. Mind you, I don't miricl saying
there have been times in the last two years when I thought you were treating
Celia a bit rough. It's hard to tell with one's own sister, but I've always
thought her a jolly attractive girl, the sort of girl any chap would be glad
to have--artistic, too, just down your street. But I must admit you're a
good picker. I've always had a soft spot for Julia. Anyway, as things have
turned out everyone seems satisfied. Robin's been mad about Celia for a year
or more. D'you know him?"
"Vaguely. A half-baked, pimply youth as I remember him." "Oh, I
wouldn't quite say that. He's rather young, of course, but the great thing
is that Johnjohn and Caroline adore him. You've got two grand kids there,
Charles. Remember me to Julia; wish her all the best for old time's sake."
"So you're being divorced," said my father. "Isn't that rather
unnecessary, after you've been happy together all these years?"
"We weren't particularly happy, you know."
"Weren't you? Were you not? I distinctly remember last Christmas seeing
you together and thinking how happy you looked, and wondering why. You'll
find it very disturbing, you know, starting off again. How old are
you--thirty-four? That's no age to be starting. You ought to be settling
down. Have you made any plans?"
"Yes. I'm marrying again as soon as the divorce is through."
"Well, I do call that a lot of nonsense. I can understand a man wishing
he hadn't married and trying to get out of it -- though I never felt
anything of the kind myself -- but to get rid of one wife and take up with
another immediately is beyond all reason. Celia was always perfectly civil
to me. I had quite a liking for her, in a way. If you couldn't be happy with
her, why on earth should you expect to be happy with anyone else? Take my
advice, my dear boy, and give up the whole idea."
"Why bring Julia and me into this?" asked Rex. "If Celia wants to marry
again, well and good; let her. That's your business and hers. But I should
have thought Julia and I were quite happy as we are. You can't say I've been
difficult. Lots of chaps would have cut up nasty. I hope I'm a man of the
world. I've had my own fish to fry, too. But a divorce is a different thing
altogether; I've never known a divorce do anyone any good."
"That's your affair and Julia's."
"Oh, Julia's set on it. What I hoped was, you might be able to talk her
round. I've tried to keep out of the way as much as I could; if I've been
around too much, just tell me, I shan't mind. But there's too much going on
altogether at the moment, what with Bridey wanting me to clear out of the
house; it's disturbing, and I've got a lot on my mind."
Rex's public life was approaching a climacteric. Things had not gone as
smoothly with him as he had planned. I knew nothing of finance, but I heard
it said that his dealings were badly looked on by orthodox conservatives;
even his good qualities of geniality and impetuosity counted against him,
for his parties at Brideshead got talked about. There was always too much
about him in the papers; he was one with the press lords and their sad-eyed,
smiling hangers-on; in his speeches he said the sort of thing which "made a
story" in Fleet Street, and that did him no good with his party chiefs; only
war could put Rex's fortunes right and carry him into power. A divorce would
do Him no harm with these cronies; it was rather that with a big bank
running he could not look up from the table.
"If Julia insists on a divorce, I suppose she must have it," he said.
"But she couldn't have chosen a worse time. Tell her to hang on a bit,
Charles, there's a good fellow."
"Bridey's widow said: 'So you're divorcing one divorced man and
marrying another. It sounds rather complicated, but my dear' -- she called
me 'my dear' about twenty times -- 'I've usually found every Catholic family
has one lapsed member, and it's often the nicest.'"
Julia had just returned from a luncheon party given by Lady Rosscommon
in honour of Brideshead's engagement.
"What's she like?"
"Majestic and voluptuous; common, of course; might be Irish or Jewish
or both; husky voice, big mouth, small eyes, dyed hair -- I'll tell you one
thing, she's lied to Bridey about her age. She's a good forty-five. I don't
see her providing an heir. Bridey can't take his eyes off her. He was
gloating on her in the most revolting way all through luncheon."
"Friendly?"
"Goodness, yes, in a condescending way. You see, I imagine 1 she's been
used to bossing things rather in naval circles, with flag-lieutenants
trotting round and young officers-on-the-make sucking up to her. Well, she
clearly couldn't do a great deal of bossing at Aunt Fanny's, so it put her
rather at ease to have me there as the black sheep. She concentrated on me,
in fact; asked my advice about shops and things; said, rather pointedly, she
hoped to see me often in London. I think Bridey's scruples only extend to
her sleeping under the same roof with me. Apparently I can do her no serious
harm in a hat-shop or hairdresser's ' or lunching at the Ritz. The scruples
are all on Bridey's part, anyway; the widow is madly tough."
"Does she boss him?"
"Not yet, much. He's in an amorous stupor, poor beast, and doesn't
quite know where he is. She's just a good-hearted woman who wants a good
home for her children and isn't going to let anything get in her way. She's
playing up the religious stuff at j the moment for all it's worth. I daresay
she'll ease up a bit when she's settled."
The divorces were much talked of among our friends; even in that summer
of general alarm there were still corners where private affairs commanded
first attention. My wife was able to put it across that the business was a
matter of congratulation for her and reproach for me; that she had behaved
wonderfully, had stood it longer than anyone but she would have done; Robin
was seven years younger and a little immature for his age, they whispered in
their private corners, but he was absolutely devoted to poor Celia, and
really she deserved it after all she had been through. As for Julia and me,
that was an old story. "To put it crudely," said my cousin Jasper, as though
he had ever in his life put anything otherwise: "I don't see why you bother
to marry."
Summer passed; delirious crowds cheered Neville Chamberlain's return
from Munich; Rex made a rabid speech in the House of Commons which sealed
his fate one way or the other; sealed it, as is sometimes done with naval
orders, to be opened later at sea. Julia's family lawyers, whose black, tin
boxes, painted marquis of marchmain, seemed to fill a room, began the slow
process of her divorce; my own, brisker firm, two doors down, were weeks
ahead with my affairs. It was necessary for Rex and Julia to separate
formally, and since, for the time being, Brideshead was still her home, she
remained there and Rex removed his trunks and valet to their house in
London. Evidence was taken against Julia and me in my flat. A date was fixed
for Brideshead's wedding, early in the Christmas holidays, so that his
future stepchildren might take part.
One afternoon in November Julia and I stood at a window in the
drawing-room watching the wind at work stripping the lime-trees, sweeping
down the yellow leaves, sweeping them up and round and along the terrace and
lawns, trailing them through puddles and over the wet grass, pasting them on
walls and window-panes, leaving them at length in sodden piles against the
stonework.
"We shan't see them in spring," said Julia; "perhaps never again."
"Once before," I said, "I went away, thinking I should never return."
"Perhaps years later, to what's left of it, with what's left of us ..."
A door opened and shut in the darkling room behind us. Wilcox
approached through the firelight into the dusk about the long windows.
"A telephone message, my lady, from Lady Cordelia."
"Lady Cordelia! Where was she?"
"In London, my lady."
"Wilcox, how lovely! Is she coming home?"
"She was just starting for the station. She will be here after dinner."
"I haven't seen her for twelve years," I said -- not since the evening
when we dined together and she spoke of being a nun; the evening when I
painted the drawing-room at Marchmain House.
"She was an enchanting child."
"She's had an odd life. First, the convent; then, when that was no
good, the war in Spain. I've not seen her since then. The other girls who
went with the ambulance came back when the war was over; she stayed on,
getting people back to their homes, helping in the prison camps. An odd
girl. She's grown up quite plain, you know."
"Does she know about us?"
"Yes, she wrote me a sweet letter."
It hurt to think of Cordelia growing up quite plain; to think of all
that burning love spending itself on serum injections and delousing powder.
When she arrived, tired from her journey, rather shabby, moving in the
manner of one who has no interest in pleasing, I thought her an ugly woman.
It was odd, I thought, how the same ingredients, differently dispensed,
could produce Brideshead, Sebastian, Julia and her. She was unmistakably
their sister, without any of Julia's or Sebastian's grace, without
Brideshead's gravity. She seemed brisk and matter-of-fact, steeped in the
atmosphere of camp and dressing station, so accustomed to gross suffering as
to lose the finer shades of pleasure. She looked more than her twenty-six
years; hard living had roughened her; constant intercourse in a foreign
tongue had worn away the nuances of speech; she straddled a little as she
sat by the fire, and when she said, "It's wonderful to be home," it sounded
to my ears like the grunt of an animal returning to its basket.
Those were the impressions of the first half-hour, sharpened by the
contrast with Julia's white skin and silk and jewelled hair and with my
memories of her as a child.
"My job's over in Spain," she said; "the authorities were very polite,
thanked me for all I'd done, gave me a medal and sent me packing. It looks
as though there'll be plenty of the same sort of work over here soon."
Then she said: "Is it too late to see Nanny?"
"No, she sits up to all hours with her wireless." We went up, all three
together, to the old nursery. Julia and I always spent part of our day
there. Nanny Hawkins and my father were two people who seemed impervious to
change; neither an hour older than when I first knew them. A wireless set
had now been added to Nanny Hawkins's small assembly of pleasures--the
rosary, the Peerage with its neat brown-paper wrapping protecting the red
and gold covers, the photographs and holiday souvenirs -- on her table. When
we broke it to her that Julia and I were to be married, she said, "Well,
dear, I hope it's all for the best," for it was not part of her religion to
question the propriety of Julia's actions.
Brideshead had never been a favourite with her; she greeted the news of
his engagement with "He's certainly taken long enough to make up his mind,"
and, when the search through Debrett afforded no information about Mrs.
Muspratt's connections: "She's caught him, I daresay."
We found her, as always in the evening, at the fireside with her
teapot, and the wool rug she was making.
"I knew you'd be up," she said. "Mr. Wilcox sent to tell me you were
coming."
"I brought you some lace."
"Well, dear, that is nice. Just like her poor Ladyship used to wear at
mass. Though why they made it black I never did understand, seeing lace is
white naturally. That is very welcome, I'm sure."
"May I turn off the wireless, Nanny?"
"Why, of course; I didn't notice it was still on, in the pleasure of
seeing you. What have you done to your hair?"
"I know it's terrible. I must get all that put right now I'm back.
Darling Nanny."
As we sat there talking, and I saw Cordelia's fond eyes on all of us, I
began to realize that she, too, had a beauty of her own.
"I saw Sebastian last month."
"What a time he's been gone! Was he quite well?"
"Not very. That's why I went. It's quite near you know from Spain to
Tunis. He's with the monks there."
"I hope they look after him properly. I expect they find him a regular
handful. He always sends to me at Christmas, but it's not the same as having
him home. Why you must all always be going abroad I never did understand.
Just like his Lordship. When there was that talk about going to war with
Munich, I said to myself, there's Cordelia and Sebastian and his Lordship
all abroad; that'll be very awkward for them."
"I wanted him to come home with me, but he wouldn't. He's got beard
now, you know, and he's very religions."
"That I won't believe, not even if I see it. He was always a little
heathen. Brideshead was one for church, not Sebastian. And a beard, only
fancy; such a nice fair skin as he had; always looked clean though he'd not
been near water all day, while Brideshead there was no doing anything with
scrub as you might."
"It's frightening," Julia once said, "to think how completely you have
forgotten Sebastian."
"He was the forerunner."
"That's what you said in the storm. I've thought since: perhaps I am
only a forerunner, too."
Perhaps, I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us
like a wisp of tobacco smoke -- a thought to fade and vanish like smoke
without a trace -- perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a
hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only
a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types
and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from
disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other,
snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always
a pace or two ahead of us.
I had not forgotten Sebastian. He was with me daily in Julia; or rather
it was Julia I had known in him, in those distant, Arcadian days.
"That's cold comfort for a girl," she said when I tried to explain.
"How do I know I shan't suddenly turn out to be somebody else? It's an easy
way to chuck."
I had not forgotten Sebastian; every stone of the house had a memory of
him, and when I heard him spoken of by Cordelia as someone she had seen a
month ago, my lost friend filled my thoughts. When we left the nursery, I
said, "I want to hear all about Sebastian."
"To-morrow. It's a long story."
And next day, walking through the wind-swept park, she told me: --
"I heard he was dying," she said. "A journalist in Burgos told me,
who'd just arrived from North Africa. A down-and-out called Flyte, who
people said was an English lord, whom the fathers had found starving and
taken in at a monastery near Carthage. That was how the story reached me. I
knew it couldn't be quite true--however little we did for Sebastian, he at
least got his money sent him--but I started off at once.
"It was all quite easy. I went to the consulate first and they knew all
about him; he was in the infirmary of the head house of some missionary
fathers. The consul's story was that Sebastian had turned up in Tunis one
day, some weeks before, in a motor bus from Algiers, and had applied to be
taken on as a missionary lay brother. The fathers took one look at him and
turned him down. Then he started drinking. He lived in a little.' hotel on
the edge of the Arab quarter. I went to see the place later; it was a bar
with a few rooms over it, kept by a Greek, smelling of hot oil and garlic
and stale wine and old clothes, a place where the small Greek traders came
and played draughts and listened to the wireless. He stayed there a month
drinking Greek absinthe, occasionally wandering out, they didn't know where,
coming back and drinking again. They were afraid he j would come to harm and
followed him sometimes, but he only went to the church or took a car to the
monastery outside the town. They loved him there. He's still loved, you see,
wherever he goes, whatever condition he's in. It's a thing about him he'll
never lose. You should have heard the proprietor and his family talk of him,
tears running down their cheeks; they'd clearly robbed him right and left,
but they'd looked after him and tried j to make him eat'his meals. That was
the thing that shocked them about him: that he wouldn't eat; there he was
with all that money, so thin. Some of the clients of the place came in while
we were talking in very peculiar French; they all had the same story: such a
good man, they said, it made them unhappy to sec him so low. They thought
very ill of his family for leaving him like that; it couldn't happen with
their people, they said, and I daresay they're right.
"Anyway, that was later; after the consulate I went straight to the
monastery and saw the Superior. He was a grim old Dutch man who had spent
fifty years in Central Africa. He told me his part of the story; how
Sebastian had turned up, just as the consul said, with his beard and a
suitcase, and asked to be admitted as a lay brother. 'He was very earnest,'
the Superior said -- Cordelia imitated his guttural tones; she had had an
aptitude for mimicry, I remembered, in the schoolroom -- " 'please do not
think there is any doubt of that -- he is quite sane and quite in earnest.
He wanted to go to the bush, as far away as he could get, among the simplest
people, to the cannibals. The Superior said: 'We have no cannibals in our
missions.' He said, well, pygmies would do, or just a primitive village
somewhere on a river; or lepers--lepers would do best of anything. The
Superior said: 'We have plenty of lepers, but they live in our settlements
with doctors and nuns. It is all very orderly.' He thought again, and said
perhaps lepers were not what he wanted, was there not some small church by a
river -- he always wanted a river you see --which he could look after when
the priest was away. The Superior said; 'Yes, there are such churches. Now
tell me about, yourself.' 'Oh, I'm nothing,' he said. 'We see some queer
fish'" -- Cordelia lapsed again into mimicry; " 'he was a queer fish, but he
was very earnest.' The Superior told him about the novitiate and the
training and said: 'You are not a young man. You do not seem strong to me.'
He said: 'No, I don't want to be trained. I don't want to do things that
need training.' The Superior said: 'My friend, you need a missionary for
yourself,' and he said: 'Yes, of course.' Then he sent him away.
"Next day he came back again. He had been drinking. He said he had
decided to become a novice and be trained. 'Well,' said the Superior, 'there
are certain things that are impossible for a man in the bush. One of them is
drinking. It is not the worst thing, but it is nevertheless quite fatal. I
sent him away.' Then he kept coming two or three times a week, always drunk,
until the Superior gave orders that the porter was to keep him out. I said,
'Oh dear, I'm afraid he was a terrible nuisance to you,' but of course
that's a thing they don't understand in a place like that. The Superior
simply said, 'I did not think there was anything I could do to help him
except pray.' He was a very holy old man and recognized it in others."
"Holiness?"
"Oh yes, Charles, that's what you've got to understand about Sebastian.
"Well, finally one day they found Sebastian lying outside the main gate
unconscious; he had walked out -- usually he took a car -- and fallen down
and lain there all night. At first they thought he was merely drunk again;
then they realized he was very ill, so they put him in the infirmary, where
he'd been ever since.
"I stayed a fortnight with him till he was over the worst of his
illness. He looked terrible, any age, rather bald with a straggling beard,
but he had his old sweet manner. They'd given him a room to himself; it was
barely more than a monk's cell with a bed and a crucifix and white walls. At
first he couldn't talk much and was not at all surprised to see me; then he
was surprised and wouldn't talk much, until just before I was going, when he
told me all that had been happening to him. It was' mostly about Kurt, his
German friend. Well, you met him, so you know all about that. He sounds
gruesome, but as long as Sebastian had him to look after, he was happy. He
told me he'd practically given up drinking at one time while he and Kurt
lived together. Kurt was ill and had a wound that wouldn't heal. Sebastian
saw him through that. Then they went to Greece when Kurt got well. You know
how Germans sometimes seem to discover a sense of decency when they get to a
classical country. It seems to have worked with Kurt. Sebastian says he
became quite human in Athens. Then he got sent to prison; I couldn't quite
make out why; apparently it wasn't particularly his fault-- some brawl with
an official. Once he was locked up the German authorities got at him. It was
the time when they were rounding up all their nationals from all parts of
the world to make them into Nazis. Kurt didn't at all want to leave Greece.
But the Greeks didn't want him, and he was marched straight from prison with
a lot of other toughs into a German boat and shipped home.
"Sebastian went after him, and for a year could find no trace. Then in
the end he ran him to earth dressed as a storm trooper in a provincial town.
At first he wouldn't have anything to do with Sebastian; spouted all the
official jargon about the rebirth of his country, and his belonging to his
country and finding t self-realization in the life of the race. But it was
only skin-deep with him. Six years of Sebastian had taught him more than a
year of Hitler; eventually he chucked it, admitted he hated Germany, and
wanted to get out. I don't know how much it was simply the call of the easy
life, sponging on Sebastian, bathing in the Mediterranean, sitting about in
caf&, having his shoes polished. Sebastian says it wasn't entirely that;
Kurt had just begun to grow up in Athens. It may be he's right. Anyway, he
decided to try and get out. But it didn't work. He always got into trouble
whatever he did, Sebastian said. They caught him and put him in a
concentration camp. Sebastian couldn't get near him or hear a word of him;
he couldn't even find what camp he was in; he hung about for nearly a year
in Germany, drinking again, until one day in his cups he took up with a man
who was just out of the camp where Kurt had been, and learned that he had
hanged himself in his hut the first week.
"So that was the end of Europe for Sebastian. He went back to Morocco,
where he had been happy, and gradually drifted down the coast, from place to
place, until one day when he had sobered up -- his drinking goes in pretty
regular bouts now--he conceived the idea of escaping to the savages. And
there he was.
"I didn't suggest his coming home. I knew he wouldn't, and he was too
weak still to argue it out. He seemed quite happy by the time I left. He'll
never be able to go into the bush, of course, or join the order, but the
Father Superior is going to take charge of him. They had the idea of making
him a sort of under-porter; there are usually a few odd hangers-on in a
religious house, you know; people who can't quite fit in either to the world
or the monastic rule. I suppose I'm something of the sort myself. But as I
don't happen to drink, I'm more employable."
We had reached the turn in our walk, the stone bridge at the foot of
the last and smallest lake, under which the swollen waters fell in a
cataract to the stream below; beyond the path doubled back towards the
house. We paused at the parapet looking down into the dark water.
"I once had a governess who jumped off this bridge and drowned
herself."
"Yes, I know."
"How could you know?"
"It was the first thing I ever heard about you---before I ever met
you."
"How very odd. . . ."
"Have you told Julia this about Sebastian?"
"The substance of it; not quite as I told you. She never loved him, you
know, as we do."
"Do" The word reproached me; there was no past tense in Cordelia's verb
"to love."
"Poor SebastianI" I said. "It's too pitiful. How will it end?"
"I think I can tell you exactly, Charles. I've seen others like him,
and I believe they are very near and dear to God. He'll live on, half in,
half out of the community, a familiar figure pottering round with his broom
and his bunch of keys. He'll be a great favourite with the old fathers,
something of a joke I to the novices. Everyone will know about his drinking;
he'll disappear for two or three days every month or so, and they'll all nod
and smile and say in their various accents, 'Old Sebastian's on the spree
again,' and then he'll come back dishevelled and shamefaced and be more
devout for a day or two in the chapel. He'll probably have little hiding
places about the garden where he keeps a bottle and takes a swig now and
then on the sly. They'll bring him forward to act as guide, whenever they
have an English-speaking visitor; and he will be completely charming, so
that before they go they'll ask about him and perhaps be given a hint that
he has high connections at home. If he lives long enough, generations of
missionaries in all kinds of remote places will think of him as a queer old
character who was somehow part of the Hope of their student days, and
remember him in their masses. He'll develop little eccentricities of
devotion, intense personal cults of his own; he'll be found in the chapel at
odd times and missed when he's expected. Then one morning, after one of his
drinking bouts, he'll be picked up at the gate dying, and show by a mere
flicker of the eyelid that he is conscious when they give him the last
sacraments. It's not such a bad way of getting through one's life."
I thought of the joyful youth with the Teddy-bear under the flowering
chestnuts. "It's not what one would have foretold," I said. "I suppose he
doesn't suffer?"
"Oh, yes, I think he does. One can have no idea what the suffering may
be, to be maimed as he is -- no dignity, no power of will. No one is ever
holy without suffering. It's taken that form with him. . . . I've seen so
much suffering in the last few years; there's so much coming for everybody
soon. It's the spring of love . . ." And then in condescension to my
paganism, she added: "He's in a very beautiful place, you know, by the sea
-- white cloisters, a bell tower, rows of green vegetables, and a monk
watering them when the sun is low."
I laughed. "You knew I wouldn't understand?"
"You and Julia . . ."she said. And then, as we moved on towards the
house, "When you met me last night did you think, 'Poor Cordelia, such an
engaging child, grown up a plain and pious spinster, full of good works'?
Did you think 'thwarted'?"
It was no time for prevarication. "Yes," I said, "I did; I don't now,
so much."
"It's funny," she said, "that's exactly the word I thought of for you
and Julia. When we were up in the nursery with Nanny. Thwarted passion,' I
thought."
She spoke with that gentle, infinitesimal inflection of mockery which
descended to her from her mother, but later that evening the words came back
to me poignantly.
Julia wore the embroidered Chinese robe which she often used when we
were dining alone at Brideshead; it was a robe whose weight and stiff folds
stressed her repose; her neck rose exquisitely from the plain gold circle at
her throat; her hands lay still among the dragons in her lap. It was thus
that I had rejoiced to see her nights without number, and that night,
watching her as she sat between the firelight and the shaded lamp, unable to
look away for love of her beauty, I suddenly thought, When else have I seen
her like this? Why am I reminded of another moment of vision? And it came
back to me that this was how she had sat in the liner, before the storm;
this was how she had looked; and I realized that she had regained what I
thought she had lost for ever, the magical sadness which had drawn me to
her, the thwarted look that had seemed to say, "Surely I was made for some
other purpose than this?"
That night I woke in the darkness and lay awake turning over in my mind
the conversation with Cordelia. How I had said, "You knew I would not
understand?" How often, it seemed to me, I was brought up short, like a
horse in full stride suddenly refusing an obstacle, backing from the spurs,
too shy even to put his nose at it and look at the thing.
And another image came to me, of an arctic hut and a trapper alone with
his furs and oil lamp and log fire; the remains of supper on the table, a
few books, skis in the corner; everything dry and neat and warm inside, and
outside the last blizzard of winter raging and the snow piling up against
the door. Quite silently a great weight forming against the timber; the bolt
straining in its socket; minute by minute in the darkness outside the white
heap sealing the door, until quite soon, when the wind dropped and the sun
came out on the ice slopes and the thaw set in, a block would move, slide
and tumble, high above, gather way, gadier weight, till the whole hillside
seemed to be falling, and the little lighted place would crash open and
splinter and disappear, rolling with the avalanche into the ravine.
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