The Rainbow

Inside the room was a great steadiness, a core of living

eternity. Only far outside, at the rim, went on the noise and

the destruction. Here at the centre the great wheel was

motionless, centred upon itself. Here was a poised, unflawed

stillness that was beyond time, because it remained the same,

inexhaustible, unchanging, unexhausted.

As they lay close together, complete and beyond the touch of

time or change, it was as if they were at the very centre of all

the slow wheeling of space and the rapid agitation of life,

deep, deep inside them all, at the centre where there is utter

radiance, and eternal being, and the silence absorbed in praise:

the steady core of all movements, the unawakened sleep of all

wakefulness. They found themselves there, and they lay still, in

each other's arms; for their moment they were at the heart of

eternity, whilst time roared far off, for ever far off, towards

the rim.

Then gradually they were passed away from the supreme centre,

down the circles of praise and joy and gladness, further and

further out, towards the noise and the friction. But their

hearts had burned and were tempered by the inner reality, they

were unalterably glad.

Gradually they began to wake up, the noises outside became

more real. They understood and answered the call outside. They

counted the strokes of the bell. And when they counted midday,

they understood that it was midday, in the world, and for

themselves also.

It dawned upon her that she was hungry. She had been getting

hungrier for a lifetime. But even yet it was not sufficiently

real to rouse her. A long way off she could hear the words, "I

am dying of hunger." Yet she lay still, separate, at peace, and

the words were unuttered. There was still another lapse.

And then, quite calmly, even a little surprised, she was in

the present, and was saying: "I am dying with hunger."

"So am I," he said calmly, as if it were of not the slightest

significance. And they relapsed into the warm, golden stillness.

And the minutes flowed unheeded past the window outside.

Then suddenly she stirred against him.

"My dear, I am dying of hunger," she said.

It was a slight pain to him to be brought to.

"We'll get up," he said, unmoving.

And she sank her head on to him again, and they lay still,

lapsing. Half consciously, he heard the clock chime the hour.

She did not hear.

"Do get up," she murmured at length, "and give me something

to eat."

"Yes," he said, and he put his arms round her, and she lay

with her face on him. They were faintly astonished that they did

not move. The minutes rustled louder at the window.