PARTISAN REVIEW
415
THE BAPTIST'S SINGERS
Each time the varnish of the carriage fills me with a pro–
found but unexpected delight such as
rises
from the sudden recollec–
tion of something loved in childhood and long forgotten. The luster
of the varnish
is
so deep that it appears to have its own source of
light, which moves under the surface, approaches, fades, divides and
comes together and disappears according to a pleasure of its own.
The motions of the light bear witness to something in the nature of
the carriage, and to some appearances of the world that it passes,
but however closely they are watched, their play looks as though it
were independent of both. And I realize each time, when it
is
too
late, that the motions of the light in the varnish have so captivated
me that I cannot say with any certainty what color the varnish
is.
I know it is dark. Some opalescent shade scarcely distinguished from
black. But not black. And on the side of the carriage, in an arc like
a rainbow's, are the words THE SINGERS, in blue letters edged
with little flames of green and gold, and under them is a painting
of John the Baptist standing thigh-deep in the sky blue Jordan.
The horses are dark too, but not black, and their wine red
harness, and the carriage itself, stream with white ribbons tied
in
little bows.
In the carriage the four singers face each other: two women,
one young and pale, the other with a darker complexion and heavy
features, both of them in the wide bonnets of another time, both of
them
in
long gloves, with which they hold their stringed instruments.
They are riding backwards. Across from them a portly man in a
tall hat and a ginger coat, and a boy in black velvet, are sitting, the
boy holding a flute. All four of them appear to
be
laughing merrily
at their own conversation. Their heads nod, but nothing can
be
heard.
The footman raises the long coach horn but
if
he blows it I
cannot hear it. The coachman in his dark coat drives on, slowly,
and the carriage moves on as smoothly as a barge. The blue wheels
