Yet he wanted to go among
the mountains, to cross a glacier. So he had walked on and on, like one
possessed, ever forward. His name might have been Excelsior, indeed.
But then, when he reached his Furka, only to walk along the ridge and to
descend on the same side! My God, it was killing to the soul. And here
he was, down again from the mountains, beginning his journey home again:
steamer and train and steamer and train and Tube, till he was back in
the machine.
It hadn't let him go, and he knew it. Hence his cruel self-torture of
fatigue, his cruel exercise of courage. He who hung his head in his milk
in torment when I asked him a question in German, what courage had he
not needed to take this his very first trip out of England, alone,
on foot!
His eyes were dark and deep with unfathomable courage. Yet he was going
back in the morning. He was going back. All he had courage for was to go
back. He would go back, though he died by inches. Why not? It was
killing him, it was like living loaded with irons. But he had the
courage to submit, to die that way, since it was the way allotted
to him.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251