On Everything
So must it have been with that which I will now describe.
A man lay upon a bed of a common sort in a room which was bare of ornament. But he had forgotten the room. He was a man of middle age, corpulent, and one whose Mesh and the skin of whose flesh had sagged under disease. His eyes were closed, his mouth, which was very fine, delicate, and firm, alone of his features preserved its rigour. Those features had been square and massive, their squareness and their strength the more emphasised by the high forehead with its one wisp of hair. But though the strength of character remained behind the face, the muscular strength had left it, for that body had suffered agony.
The man so lying was conscious of little; the external world was already beyond his reach. He knew that somehow he was not suffering pain, and the mortal fatigue that oppressed him had, in that unexpected absence of pain, some opportunity for repose. Neither his room nor what was left of companionship round him, nor the voices that he knew and loved, nor those others that he knew too well and despised, reached his senses. For many years the air in which he had lived and in which he was now perishing had been to him in his captivity a mournful delight. It was a tropical air, but enlivened by the freshness of the sea and continually impelled in great sea winds above him. Now he felt that air no longer, and might have
284
