He was to
have been one of those men, too fine and far-reaching for the dull
manoeuvers of such politics as rule the world to-day. The project
seemed still large, still whitely noble, but now it was unlit and
dead, and in the foreground he sat in the flat of Mrs. Skelmersdale,
feeling dissipated and fumbling with his white tie. And she was
looking tired. "God!" he said. "How did I get there?"
And then suddenly he reached out his arms in the darkness and prayed
aloud to the silences.
"Oh, God! Give me back my visions! Give me back my visions!"
He could have imagined he heard a voice calling upon him to come out
into life, to escape from the body of this death. But it was his
own voice that called to him. . . .
10
The need for action became so urgent in him, that he got right out
of his bed and sat on the edge of it. Something had to be done at
once. He did not know what it was but he felt that there could be
no more sleep, no more rest, no dressing nor eating nor going forth
before he came to decisions. Christian before his pilgrimage began
was not more certain of this need of flight from the life of routine
and vanities.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202