| 259 | 260 | 261 | 262 | 263 |
| 1 | 74 | 149 | 223 | 297 |
|
Curse science! He fumed over the intolerable prospect for some time, and
then the pain returned, and he recalled the made-up prescription of the
first doctor, still happily in his pocket. He took a dose forthwith.
It calmed and soothed him greatly, and he could sit down in his most
comfortable chair beside his library (of phonographic records), and
think over the altered aspect of affairs. His indignation passed, his
anger and his passion crumbled under the subtle attack of that
prescription, pathos became his sole ruler. He stared about him, at his
magnificent and voluptuously appointed apartment, at his statuary and
discreetly veiled pictures, and all the evidences of a cultivated and
elegant wickedness; he touched a stud and the sad pipings of Tristan's
shepherd filled the air. His eye wandered from one object to another.
They were costly and gross and florid--but they were his. They presented
in concrete form his ideals, his conceptions of beauty and desire, his
idea of all that is precious in life. And now--he must leave it all like
a common man. He was, he felt, a slender and delicate flame, burning
out. So must all life flame up and pass, he thought. His eyes filled
with tears.
Then it came into his head that he was alone. Nobody cared for him,
nobody needed him! at any moment he might begin to hurt vividly. He
might even howl. Nobody would mind. According to all the doctors he
would have excellent reason for howling in a day or so. It recalled what
his spiritual adviser had said of the decline of faith and fidelity, the
degeneration of the age. He beheld himself as a pathetic proof of this;
261
Page
Quick Jump
|