A Child of the Age (Adams)/Chapter 6
ii
The fortnight I was at Seabay went like a spell of fair weather in November.
When I awoke one morning and informed myself that this was the last day I should be here with them, it seemed to me that I thought foolishly. Not even that evening, when we three were in the open air, Mr. Cholmeley in the arm-chair in the middle of the out-flung bay window, Rayne on a stool at his feet, touching him with her dear beautiful hand from time to time, and I half lying on and over the edge of the terrace—not even then, with the certain quiet and sadness with us that was of a last evening together, could I realise that I was going away from the beauty and the life here with them, not to see either again for long, perhaps ever.
We began to talk a little,—of work, its length and weariness and the final rest when it was over: or rather Mr. Cholmeley spoke of it, and every now and then she or I asked him of the things he told or of other thoughts thereby.
Then she left us for a moment to go to speak to Mrs. Jacques about our breakfast, and I came up and sat in her place.
For a little there was silence, and I knew, somehow, that he wished to speak to me about my mother. I waited quite calmly. He was trembling. But at last the words came.
He had felt that he had not done all he might have done for her. He ought to have remembered that he was the only person she had in the world of whom she had a right to expect care and affection. But he had not thought of it in that way then. As he had told me, they had seen so little of one another, that she did not seem to him to be his sister, and so 'sister' had meant but a name that was not as near to him even as 'friend.' He was so full of other things then, his studies, his work; and she seemed happy and contented with her aunt. And then they both married, and she seemed happy and contented with her husband. He knew that he had done wrong. It was clearly his duty, both as a man and her brother, to have befriended her. Perhaps if he had done so, she might never … God only knew!
He was so moved, that all I saw good to do was to quieten him.
I said, as I thought, that he had acted for the best, and that he could not be blamed. The questions that I would like to have asked him—what my mother had done, and when and why she had done it—were not, I saw, to be asked then. I was once almost afraid that he would do himself some harm, and, as I tried to soothe him, I felt in some strange way that the pulse of life beat but faintly here, and, feeling it, grew sad. And so at last Rayne came back, and we talked of other things.
The next morning she went with me down to the station to see me off. When I had got my ticket and seen that the box was all right in the luggage van, we walked up and down the gravel platform talking a little,—of her father and of their going abroad and when we might meet again. She seemed to have no idea that he was very ill, and mine, of the faint-pulsing life, having passed away, there was no certainty in me to tell her of what might after all have been no more than fancy.
She would write to me once every month, she said: that was better than promising to write often and not writing; for it is so difficult to know what to tell a person if you write often, and it is much nicer to have the whole month and write to them when you feel inclined to; didn't I think so? Then I reminded her of her promise to learn hard at Latin and of mine to learn hard at French, so that we might both know the same languages and compare our thoughts upon them. 'And,' I said, 'I shall set upon Italian soon, and see what I can make of it, and write and tell you.'
And a little after that the train came up, and we went stepping down it, till we saw an empty carriage. And then I got into it, and put my coat on the seat, and got down again by her; but we said little, standing together, and I now and then looking at her, and knowing a tremble in me and the lump, and would have held her and kissed her on the lips and said 'Rayne' and never let her go. But the last carriage-door banged to, and the porter was by mine, and there was a hurry to get in and in the hurry somehow I touched her hand, and she rose on her toes with her cheek for me to kiss, and I kissed it, and then was I up in the moving train and not able to see her for the tears, till we were past the end of the station, when I saw her standing and waving her hand with a smile on her dear sweet face. Oh, Rayne, Rayne! Oh, Rayne, Rayne! …'
Glastonbury seemed very dull to me when I first came back from Seabay. I roamed about the fields in search of consolation for something I had lost, but could find little or none. It was a relief when the term began.
I had determined to work hard. I did work hard, and this term I got my remove into the sixth, and was under Craven, but it seemed that the moments of tastelessness, as Mr. Cholmeley had once said, were more frequent as the autumn grew more damp and decaying and the moments of hopeful delight more rare: and all the while no letter from Rayne.
At last, late on in September that is, the letter came. She was sorry not to have written to me quite within the month, as she had said she would, but her father ('father' simply, as she wrote) had been very ill, and she could not settle down to write me a long letter about some things she had been thinking about, and she did not care to send to me 'a scribble.' They had returned to Paris for a few weeks to see a doctor there about father, and then back again to Switzerland, Thun, which he was very fond of. What she had been thinking about was her neglect of religious study.—I can remember that some one had brought this home to her, and that she was reading the New Testament in the original, and a general idea of mine that she had a fit of religious seriousness upon her that puzzled me in a vague sort of way. I didn't think about religion myself. I never had thought about it, somehow.
I answered her at some length, giving a summary of the authors I had read and the impressions I had formed therefrom, with occasional allusions to events or things that interested me, afterwards noticing to myself that I really wasn't thinking very much about her in connection with what I had written. I directed the letter, as she told me, to a poste restante, somewhere in Italy, where they were going shortly.
Late in October her second letter came. I give it entire.
'My dear Bertram,—It is a wet and tempestuous afternoon, and therefore I consider it a fitting occasion to answer your long and with difficulty decipherable epistle. Yesterday was one of the hottest days I remember here, my thermometer going up to over 100 in the shade, and so I knew we should have thunder and lightning. We did have, of a sort, but utterly disappointing. Of course I went out of doors to see what would happen, but, beyond two livid sickly green flashes, all was thick pitchy darkness. So I returned a sadder and wiser woman, dripping wet. We have been enjoying the most glorious weltering simmering heat, and I am out of doors reading or rambling alone through the "lustrous woodland," or else lazily boating, the whole day. You would never have got this letter written, if it had not been for the wet day. I don't believe this place can be matched for pure natural beauty anywhere. Yesterday I went out in a boat, with two damsels. It was rough, and they were both sick and very afraid; but there was a kind of new glory over everything, the air marvellously clear, in preparation for the storm in the night I suppose: the hills all a perfect indigo blue, and masses of cloud entangled in the 'misty mountain tops.' It was a
"Glory beyond all glory ever seen
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul."
And I stood upright in the boat with my head bared, and revelled in it all—much to the disgust of the damsels in question. They shouldn't have plagued me to take them out!… I have got through two volumes of Carlyle's French Revolution, as you desired, and am much impressed and edified. There is rather a tempest going on outside, and so I am going to try to dodge my dear old daddy and Sir James, and get out my boat and enjoy it.—By-the-by, I had forgotten to tell you that an old friend and favourite of ours, Sir James Gwatkin, has been staying with us this last week. He is a most amusing mondain en villégiature, with a marvellous French and Italian accent, and altogether a very amusing companion to father, and myself at times. He knows what seems to me a great deal about Art, the Old Masters particularly. Father is far from well. The spitting is very troublesome, and now often tinged with blood. Three days ago he sent my heart into my throat and made me quite restless for the night, by breaking a blood-vessel; but he has felt far better since, he says, more free and relieved. The doctor says too that it has done him good.—But I really must go out now! Excuse this final scrawl. I have hopes of a storm to-night. Love of course from the daddy. In haste, dear Bertram,—Truly yours, Rayne Cholmeley.
'P.S.—As we're on the move I'll send you an address to send your answer to in a little. R. C.'
(The part about her standing up bare-headed in the boat thrilled me: the rest was almost interestless.)
One day at the end of second lesson Craven came upon a piece of Italian in one of his books of reference, and could not translate it all. He half-smilingly asked if any of us knew Italian? No one did. But I recalled some words of mine to Rayne, and determined that I would learn Italian. After second lesson, then, I went down to the school bookseller, and bought of him a little Italian dictionary and grammar. The man knew nothing of Italian literature, nor did I: I could not even remember any of the names Rayne had quoted, except Dante, Petrarca and Boccaccio. But all at once I thought of Macaulay's Essay on Machiavelli and of some words therein, and asked the man if he had a Machiavelli. After some search he found a little red-paper covered edition of the Principe. I said that would do, and bought it.
I took it up to the school with me and sat at it for the remaining half-hour before dinner. Puzzled out six lines and a half, and came up to wash my hands for dinner, pleased. And after that I gave an hour per day to Italian, at first only to learning the grammar, but, up to the irregular verbs mastered, turned at last joyfully to my book, and found it fairly easy and extremely interesting. It set me about thinking somewhat in this fashion: 'Most things are this or that, because they are made this or that, that is to say, there are certain laws by observing which you can bring about certain results. It is surprising that the world, which I had somehow or other always supposed to be one great witness to the justice of God, seems to be after all rather more like a great stage on which the drama of Might over Right is perpetually being played. Now does pure Right ever come off best? that is, does pure Right ever win by its own unadulterated purity? I rather doubt it. For, surely, when Right is crowned victor, there are certain laws which, having been observed, have brought this about, and consequently Wrong, if it only knows how to observe these laws, is crowned victor also. Honesty is the best policy: rogues can be honest.'
But in a little came a certain disgust with the'whole matter, and I determined not to think about it any more. But determination was wasted. This brought it about that, on more than one occasion, suddenly catching myself at the old thoughts which then bled me I gave vent to a sharp impatient 'Damn!' to the surprise of those who happened to hear me. I remember once in second lesson so losing patience with myself that, unconscious of the presence of anyone, I let fly with my foot at a form in front of me, which went over with a loud bang on to the boards in a small dust-cloud, and as I sat motionless frowning at my book, and answered nothing to the questions Craven asked me about the matter, was given the lesson to write out twice, and afterwards was called up and spoken to on the subject. I preserved complete silence, for what was the good of telling a fool of this sort, who grew furious over a false quantity and preached invertebrate sermons, the truth? I would as soon have thought of telling him a lie! Well, I wrote out the lesson twice, and there that part of the affair ended.
The Christmas holidays were an evil time. I gave myself up to, as it were, an entirely new consideration of affairs. A week's close thought, out on my walks, in bed at night, often till after twelve or one o'clock, made me look upon the Bible as a fairy tale. Then came a fortnight or so of utter confusion, inexplicable to myself: excitement of body and soul, wild dreams, visions or half-visions, a purgatory! Finally I emerged with a certain calmness to wonder at that time, wonder that it had belonged to me. It seemed so dimly far away now, and as if belonging to someone else, and yet not to someone else, and yet not to me.
The opening of the term wrought a change. A new form of the thing which had once done duty to me as woman came to me, producing an amount of longing for her and her love that frequently found vent in emotion and even tears over pencilled poetry sheets. Then Christ was introduced, as a sweet tender friend who consoled me for her present absence by telling me of her future coming. But, after a time, this too passed, and I returned to my old doubtful state, deciding that happiness was undoubtedly the end of life, and that happiness to me meant having written certain quietly delightful books, while I stayed alone apart in a dim place that had little to do with life and nothing with death. My old idea of greatness en bloc was childish, absurd! My new trouble about God and the world was useless, absurd! My ideas about everything were hopelessly vague! Happiness and selfishness are synonymous terms. Everybody is selfish. Good men are good, because they couldn't be happy bad. Bad men are bad because they couldn't be happy good. Men who are the most unselfish are the most selfish: the very pain that their unselfishness causes them is their pleasure. Therefore when I intend to be happy I am simply intending what everybody intends.—It was surprising how calm I grew upon this and other thoughts; how quietly assured of my uninterrupted course towards the cultured happiness that I now began to look upon as mine.
Then suddenly an incident occurred.
Some way on in February, one Saturday afternoon just after dinner, to me, sitting up in the bedroom looking through some of the De Oratore for 'third lesson,' enter Armstrong, who throws me a letter and exit. I pick it up: recognise Colonel James's handwriting: open and read it. He must request my presence in London immediately on important matters. I could apply to Dr. Craven for the necessary funds. There was a train arrived in London to-morrow about one. (The letter was addressed from a street adjoining Piccadilly. I forget its name.) He hoped I should not be later than that. He had something of the greatest importance to communicate to me. I must excuse a hasty letter, but the state of his health at present made every unusual effort very painful to him.
I at once went in to see Craven about it.
I came out from the short interview a little puzzled. He had heard from Colonel James, he said. He gave me enough money for my fare second-class to London and a few shillings over. I might start when I liked. I told him (I don't know why) that I thought I should take the early morning train, as Colonel James had mentioned it as one that would do.
As I was dressing for tea, it suddenly occurred to me that I had heard somewhere about a train which left Glastonbury about six and got into London pretty late that night.—Why not go by it? As well as not!
When I had dressed I went into Mother McCarthy's to see if she had a time-table. She had. I found that there was a train left Glastonbury at 5.55 or so, and got into London at about eight. I looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes to six now. I would try it!
I had bought a glazed black bag last holidays, as being a useful sort of thing for a peripatetic to have. I got a clean night-gown, a clean shirt, a couple of collars, a pair of socks, and some handkerchiefs out of my linen locker: went back into my room: fished the black bag from under my bed: packed in the things I wanted: took my great-coat off the peg,and started away.
I swung into the station at four or five minutes after the train was due to start. I had a sharp cut and run on to and down the platform and got into an empty carriage just as it moved off. The liveliness of the whole affair delighted me. I felt for a little something like an excited child.
The journey did not seem long to me; for I slowly fell into my dim thought-world, and only came out of it for a moment when (about half-way I think) a fat old gentleman got into the carriage with a bulged old carpet-bag which he put on to the seat beside him: then took a newspaper from his inside breast-pocket: put on a pair of black horn pince-nez, and began to read. Just before London they collected the tickets, and I became aware that I felt empty internally: I had had no tea. But I went back into my old dim thought-world again, and was not out of it when we glided down a long gas-lit platform, and it was borne in on me that we were in London.
I got into a hansom and gave Colonel James's address to the driver. We drove through many streets, mostly having little traffic in them, till we drew up suddenly before a house, above the door of which was an oblong of glass lit by a gas-lamp, and in the middle, in black figures, 15, Colonel James's number. I got out; paid the driver, and rang at the bell. The door was opened almost immediately by a man in evening dress with a napkin in his hand. I asked did Colonel James live here? He said, Yes, he did. I said:
'Can I see him?'
The Curling wasn't very well this evening, sir, he said. He was upstairs there with his cawfee just now, sir. He (the man in evening dress with a napkin) didn't think he'd like to be disturbed. But I might give him (the man) my card, and he'd take it up to him.
'I have no card,' I said. 'My name is Leicester. Will you tell Colonel James that I came to-night, instead of to-morrow, and want to know if I can see him?'
The man turned and went slowly up the first few staircase steps: then half-turned, and said:
'Leicester was the name you said?'
'Yes,' I said, 'Leicester.'
I leant against the glazed-paper wall, looking at a large print of Wellington meeting Blucher after Waterloo. A clock ticked in an adjacent room. I heard the man from the top of the stairs say:
'Will you step up, please?'
I put bag and hat on to a dark-red mahogany chair by an umbrella stand, and went up. The man ushered me in through an open door to the right. I entered. The first thing I saw was the part of a large low red-clothed table under the light of a red-shaded lamp: then, a rather thin old gentleman standing on the right side of the hearthrug with his back to the fire. He raised his head. There was a light-flash on his glasses.
He spoke,
'Mr. Leicester?' he said.
'Yes, sir,' I answered.
'Ah yes—exactly so.'
He paused, looking aside. Then again raised his head with the light-flash on his glasses.
'Will you please sit down?' he said. 'Perhaps you would like to take your coat off? It is very warm in here, I dare say—after the street.'
I slowly took off my greatcoat, and then sat down in a chair by the table facing him, he remaining standing. After a pause:
'You have rather taken me by surprise, Mr. Leicester,' he said, 'I, ah, did not expect you till to-morrow morning: as you have said, as you have said.—Did Dr. Craven give you any information about the, ah, reason for your journey?' (Looking up at me as before.) 'No? he did not?—Very well. He acted wisely. I have every possible reason to believe that Dr. Craven is a man of distinguished, ah, fore-thought.' (He kept on inserting 'ah's' in that way all the while.)
Another pause. Then:
'I have a very bad piece of news to give you, Mr. Leicester,' he said, 'I am much afraid so; I am much afraid so. But I think that I had better give it you at once, and without, ah, preamble. Your father's small personal fortune, amounting to, ah, from £120 to £130 a year, was invested in—given up to (I am not quite sure about the correct expression; but it is, ah, immaterial)—to a bank in which he had every confidence. I constantly, during his later years, did my best to prevail upon him to—ah, make some other investment with his money: as, ah, I had myself seen a very sad—ah, incident in my own family in connection with—banks. You may have heard that the Great Southern Bank has recently, ah, become insolvent, or whatever it is? No? Well, ah, it is so, and every hour is bringing in worse information on the, ah, matter. It is, you may perhaps see, Mr. Leicester, quite impossible for you to continue your career at—Glastonbury. Every penny of your father's money has—gone. I, ah, have, I am glad to say, absolutely nothing to—to do with it myself personally. Have you any, ah, designs yourself as to a future, ah, career?'
I put my hand to my mouth, looking steadily at him. He glanced aside and back again, as before:
'—I am not to return to Glastonbury?' I asked.
'Ah, surely not.'
I spoke rather to myself than to him:
'Not to work any more? not to be able to read my books? not to learn?—Why, all my books are there with all the notes I have taken such, trouble to write out—and I here.… What must I do?'
There was a pause.
I rose, and said:
'I can only think of one thing, sir. I have, I believe, some brains, and, I believe, of that sort which can be turned to use. I have more than once desired to write. If I only had time, I am confident that I could make my livelihood'
'Good heavens, sir!' he exclaimed, 'You are not thinking of becoming a—a writer.—Ah! Why, it is, ah, another word for starvation!'
'Men have made their fortune with nothing but their pens to help them before now,' I said, 'and I am not afraid.'
I noticed a thick blue vein swelling out on his forehead. He threw up his hands, and exclaimed vehemently:
'It is madness, madness, sheer, ah, insanity! I will not hear of it! I will give you no help! (He seemed suddenly to collapse.) 'You must go away. I must ring for Salmon, to show you out. You must go away. You are agitating me—dreadfully! I am not to be agitated. Doctor Astley says so. I am not to be agitated.'
At first I was startled: then amused: then saddened: last angered, by this unexpected outburst. I moved a step nearer to him. He looked at me for a moment, and then dropped into the arm-chair by him to the right of the fire.
'Oh, don't touch me!' he cried, 'Don't look at me like that! I will not have it! I will not endure it! Salmon, Salmon, take him away. He agitates me.… Please go away, sir, I am dreadfully agitated.' (I was looking at him frowning. He cried out, almost in a scream)—'For God's sake, don't look at me like that! My God, my God, my God! … She used to look.' … (Then he suddenly started up, exclaiming)—'I say I won't endure it! Do you hear? I won't endure it. Don't act at me, sir! I know it's in your blood, but, if you think you're going to browbeat me, you're mistaken!' (Then he began to fail.) ' Salmon, he is going to act at me. No, no—you're not as careful of me as Edgar used to be. Why did I ever let him go? Why did I ever let him go?' (Ending in a wail.)
I began to grow a little weary of it, and looked aside. He went on maundering about her having killed him, yes, killed him, and other things which I did not notice. At last came a pause. I determined to go: then thought of some questions I would care to ask him, and said:
'I cannot understand, sir, why you have spoken to me like this. I know nothing of my father or my mother. You say you were my father's friend'
'So I was/ he wailed, 'so I was—till she came between us!'
I gave my teeth an impatient clench: then bit my lip and closed my right hand with all my strength, determined not to say what was now on my tongue. What good could it do?
I said:
'I have nothing left then, absolutely nothing?'
He stared at me half vacantly.
'Absolutely nothing,' he repeated.
A new resolution came to me: to leave the questions unasked and go—go at once.
'Good-night, sir, I said, 'I will leave you now.'
He stared at me as before.
'You are not, ah, going?' he said.
'Yes, sir, I am going,' I said; 'good-night.' As I was turning away, he started up convulsively and burst out:
'But it is insanity! I will not hear of it! I will not endure it! I am your guardian. Do you hear, sir, that I am your guardian? Salmon! Damn the man! Salmon, I say!'
I was out of the door and had closed it to. I could hear his voice now wailing as I went to the head of the stairs. Then it died away. I found my bag and hat in the hall. My coat was over my arm: I do not remember either having taken it up or put it there. I went on to the hall-door: opened it, after a little trouble with the latch: went out: pulled it to, by its big round brass handle in the middle, once, twice, and passed over the step and on to the pavement. It was raining.
I walked on into a main street, and then, turning to the right, walked on down it. The perpetual movement of people and horses and things about me brought a feeling into me that I had never felt before. I forgot about myself and my own affairs and my hunger in considering them all. So I went on, till I came to a corner where the main street ended. There I somewhat mechanically crossed. As I reached the pavement on the other side, I heard a man call out twice: 'Kil-burn! Kil-burn!' and looked at him standing, keeping on by a strap with one hand and holding out the other, on an omnibus perch.
'Kilburn,' I thought, 'is the farthest place he goes to. Probably, then, it's a suburb. I may as well go there as anywhere, for what I intend to do. At any rate, I'll see.'
And with that went straight to the omnibus step and clambered up by the ladder on to the top, where I found myself exchanging looks with a man sitting on another omnibus that just then passed by. I laid the bag down and put on my coat, when the conductor got up, crossed to my side, and began removing the tarpaulin from the seat. I thanked him and sat down with the bag beside me, and took to half-absently watching the people passing in and out of the light from the shop windows as we drove on. We drove on for some time.
At last we turned into a long straight rather dark street—Edgware Road, I heard the driver say. As we were some way up it, I noticed what seemed torches or something of the sort flaring by the right side, at the top, just above where it bifurcated. I determined to get down there.
We stopped on the left side just below them. I let myself down with my bag in my teeth, and paid the conductor my fare, 2d. or 3d., I forget which. Then I turned from him, crossed the street, and sauntered on looking at the stalls. There were not many people along the pavement: the hawkers cried their cries rather plaintively: one old man, sitting in front of an oven with a small steam-jet, cried out every now and then sharply: '’Ot! ’Ot!'
It was still raining and it seemed colder. I sauntered on. A tall girl, with a singularly well-made body and well-poised head, moved with a long swinging step in front of me. She stopped in a moment, to buy some nuts, and I saw her face. It was pleasant to look at it, so pure and clear-cut, with crystal eyes and red rarified lips and large regular white teeth. I followed her slowly, thinking of her dear face: I felt sure she would love me if she knew me.
She stopped to listen to a man addressing a few gaunt, shivering children whose faces formed a line along the far side of his stall. I went up close to her and looked at her. She was eating nuts, and every now and then let the shell-bits fall out of her mouth down her black coat to the ground. At last she turned her eyes to mine: then exclaimed in an undertone:
'Oh my! I hope you'll know me next time you see me, young man.'
I turned away and crossed the road. I faced a pawnbroker's. An idea came to me. I went in—into a dusky clothes-hung place where a man was sprawling over the counter, under a large gas-jet, with a cigar in his mouth. I said:
'I want to sell this greatcoat. What will you give me for it?'
'Let's see it, sir,' he said.
I took it off.
In the end he gave me fifteen shillings for it. It was quite new.
I went out and counted my money before the next, a jeweller's shop window which was brightly lit up. I had one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny in my pocket. That left me fourteen shillings and ninepence for myself; for I owed Colonel James threepence for my omnibus fare. This and the rest he should have at once. Some day (I hoped soon) he should have to the last farthing I owed him. I turned away, putting his money into one trouser-pocket and my own into the other, and went on for a little. Then feeling the rain and the air colder, and under some unnoticed impulse turning up my coat-collar, I re-crossed the road and wandered on. I did not remark particularly where I went, only that I turned down the narrowest streets I happened to see.
All at once my eye was caught by a card in a small window I was passing. I stopped to look at it. The window, or rather, a linen-blind, was lit-up from within, the card marking a small oblong on the ledge of one of the upper panes. I looked closer, to read the actual letters: Apartments.
Not seeing either bell or knocker, I rapped at the door with my knuckles.
An old woman holding up a guttering candle half-opened it. I said:
'Do you let apartments?'
'I've a room. Yes.'
'How much is it a week? '
'Five shillings a week, sir.'
'Oh!'
A pause. I turned away considering.
'—But I think I could take four, sir, perhaps?' she said.
'Will you let me see it?' I asked.
'Please step upstairs, sir.—Mind the wall, sir, it comes off.'
I followed her upstairs.
I took the room, and paid for two weeks in advance. The furniture consisted of a bed, a washing-stand, a table, a chair, and two ragged scraps of carpet, one under the table, one by the side of the bed. There was a looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and three photographs in faded violet frames of velvet, worn out: Napoleon iii, the Empress Eugenie, and the Prince Imperial as a boy. She had left a gas-jet turned full on.
I bolted the door, and began pulling off my coat, when I felt the emptiness inside me again. I sat down on the unsteady chair, and began thinking about what had occurred to me to-day; but I soon gave it up: rose and, for a moment, stood irresolute whether to go out and get some food, or to ask this woman, Mrs. Smith, for some, or to get into bed without any? At last I thought I would get into bed. Sleep, cool quiet sleep, would calm and refresh me.
I threw my waistcoat on to the top of the coat, and stood irresolute again, stretching my arms up and down. Then an impulse came to me. I fell down on to my knees and, leaning my arms on the bed, leant my head on my arms. I began in a half whisper:
'If there be a God'
After a pause, of thought almost as much as of words, I said:
'I ask You, God, if You are, to have pity on me if I am blindly wandering, and to lead me to know You some day before I die. I don't know how I am going, but I know where I desire to go: and yet I don't know more than that it is somewhere.' Then the feeling of light and shadow, dream and reality, an eclipsed sun and moon, came to me so strongly that I got up again, slowly, with the intention of saying no more prayers that night. The things around me were all in a sort of noise above my ears. I went and turned out the gas; and then slowly undressed, in the dark save for the light that came from a gas-lamp in the street, through the far window.
I pulled down the upper-clothes; got into bed; sank into enclosing coolness, and very soon sleep.