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 flesh 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 been so many thousand miles away in
the place where he had been born, or many thousand miles more, in the
snows of a great campaign, or under the violent desert sun of certain
remembered battles; it was all one to him, for he only held to life by
one thread within, and outer things had already left him.
Within, however, his mind in that last weakness still busily turned;
no longer considering as it had considered during the activity of a
marvellous life what answers the great questions propounded to the soul
of man should receive, still less noting practical and immediate needs
or considering set problems. His mind for once, almost for the first
time, was this last time seeing things go by.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account