Booksellers and bookselling -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Poets -- Fiction
The boy took a lighted candle and went up the stairs. This was the
first occasion on which he had ventured to do this unattended since
the night he had passed in the cell at the police station. But now a
new-born sense of power was upon him, the fruit of knowledge. Of late
he had made an amazing advance in his studies. He was already beginning
to move about the great world out of doors in freedom and security.
He had even begun to carry his capacity in his bearing. Only that
afternoon a small girl of ten with a basket on her arm had asked him to
tell her the time, and also the nearest way to High Holborn. And the
proud consciousness was his that he had performed both these offices
with perfect satisfaction to them both.
He lay in his pillows that night with almost the sensations of a
conqueror. Who among all the cruel and remorseless throng in the
streets of the great city, who were yet so strong and capable and
so wonderfully certain of themselves, could have done more? A year
ago such an achievement as this would have been beyond his wildest
ambitions. A month ago he could not have done it. A week ago it would
have been barely possible. As he lay in this flush of valour it
occurred to him suddenly that the light was burning at its fullest.
There and then he determined, for the first time in his life, to get
out of bed and turn it out.
He jumped from the sheets with a bound, fearing to delay. With a touch
of the finger the room was plunged in complete darkness. Like one
possessed he darted back across the floor and found his way back into
his bed. He buried his head deep down under the clothes. He lay there
shuddering among nameless horrors, and shuddering fell asleep.
That night his father never sought his couch at all. He sat below in
the little room until the daylight came, pondering the contents of
the ancient tome. In the morning at seven o’clock when the boy came
down-stairs again he found his father still in meditation.
“I have had such dreams, my father,” said the boy, and his face was
still flushed with the excitement of the previous night. “Some of them
were so hideous that they made me cry out, yet all the time I knew
myself to be one of the great ones of the earth.”
XI
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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