VI

I don’t know why, to-night in particular, the fact that I am a dead man

occurs to me very insistently. I had forgotten this for two whole days.

If any one very dear to you has ever been _in extremis_ at a distance

and you have journeyed to be at the last bedside, you will know how

possible this is--how for hours at a time the mind will go wandering

away from the main fact that is drawing you onwards, till suddenly it

comes back: someone is dying at a distance. And I suppose one’s I is

the nearest friend that one has--and my I is dying at a distance. At

the end of a certain number of days is the deathbed towards which I am

hurrying--it is a fact which I cannot grasp. But one aspect grows more

clear to me every time I return to this subject.

You remember that, when we have discussed suicide, we have agreed that

to the man of action death is a solution: to the man of thoughts it

is none. For the man of action expresses himself in action, and death

is the negation of action: the man of thought sees the world only in

thoughts, and over thought death exercises no solution of continuity.

If one dies one’s actions cease, one’s problem continues. For that

reason it is only in so far as I am a man of action that I shall be

dying. You understand what I mean--for I do not mean that it is my

actions that have killed me. It is simply because I have taken refuge

from my thoughts in action, and because after April 5 that refuge will

be closed to me, that I take refuge in a final action which, properly

speaking, is neither action nor refuge.

And perhaps I am no man of action at all, since the action in which I

have taken refuge is properly speaking no action at all, but merely

the expression of a frame of mind. I have gambled, that is to say I

have not speculated. For the speculator acts for gain: the gambler in

order to interest himself. I have gambled--to escape from you: I have

tried to escape from my thoughts of you into divining the undivinable

future. For that is what gambling is. You try for a rise: you try for a

fall--and the rise or the fall may depend on the momentary madness of a

dozen men who declare a war, or upon the rain from heaven which causes

so many more stalks of wheat to arise upon so many million square

inches of earth. The point is that you make yourself dependent upon

caprice--upon the caprice of the weather or upon the movement in the

minds of men more insane than yourself.

To-day I have entered upon what is the biggest gamble of my whole

life. Certain men who believe in me--they are not Edward Burdens,

nevertheless they believe in me--have proposed to me to form a corner

in a certain article which is indispensable to the daily life of the

City. I do not tell you what it is because you will assuredly witness

the effects of this inspiration.

You will say that, when this is accomplished, it will be utterly

uninteresting. And that is literally true: when it is done it will

be uninteresting. But in the multiplicity of things that will have

to be done before the whole thing is done--in the waiting for things

to take effect, in the failures perhaps more than in the successes,

since the failures will imply new devising--in all the meticulous

thought-readings that will be necessary, the interest will lie, and in

the men with whom one is brought into contact, the men with whom one

struggles, the men whom one must bribe or trick.

And you will say: How can I who am to die in fourteen days embark upon

an enterprise that will last many months or many years? That, I think,

is very simple.

It is my protest against being called a man of action, the

misconception that I have had to resent all my life. And this is a

thought: not an action: a thought made up of an almost infinite number

of erring calculations. You have probably forgotten that I have founded

two towns, upon the south coast: originated four railways in tropical

climates and one in the west of England: and opened up heaven knows how

many mines of one kind or another--and upon my soul I had forgotten

these things too until I began to cast about in my mind. And now I go

to my death unmindful of these glories in so far as they are concrete.

In that sense my death is utter: it is a solution. But, in so far as

they are my refuges from you they remain problems to which, if my

ghost is to escape you, I must return again and again.

In dying I surrender to you and thus, for the inner self of myself,

death is no ending but the commencement of who knows what tortures. It

is only in the latent hope that death is the negation of consciousness

that I shall take my life. For death, though it can very certainly end

no problem, may at least make us unconscious of how, eventually, the

problem solves itself. That, you see, is really the crux of the whole

thing--that is why the man of action will take refuge in death: the

man of thought, never. But I, I am the man of neither the one nor the

other: I am the man of love, which partakes of action and of thought,

but which is neither.

The lover is, perhaps, the eternal doubter--simply because there is no

certain panacea for love. Travel may cure it--but travel may cause to

arise homesickness, which of all forms of love is the most terrible. To

mix with many other men may cure it--but again, to the man who really

loves, it may be a cause for still more terrible unrest, since seeing

other men and women may set one always comparing the beloved object

with the same thing. And, indeed, the form that it takes with me--for

with me love takes the form of a desire to discuss--the form which

it takes with me renders each thing that I see, each man with whom I

speak, the more torturing, since always I desire to adjust my thoughts

of them by your thoughts. I went down the other day--before I had

begun to write these letters to you and before I knew death impended

so nearly over me--to the sea at P--. I was trying to get rid of you.

I sat in the moonlight and saw the smacks come home, visible for a

minute in the track of the moon and then no more than their lights in

the darkness. The fishermen talked of death by drowning mostly: the

passage of the boats across that trail of light suggested reflections,

no doubt trite. But, without you to set my thoughts by, I could get no

more forward: I went round and round in a ring from the corpses fished

up in the nets to the track of the moon. And since walking up and down

on the parade brought me no nearer to you, I did not even care to move:

I neither meditated nor walked, neither thought nor acted. And that is

real torture.

It was the next morning that I heard that young Burden desired that his

_fiancée’s_ solicitors should scrutinise the accounts of the Burden

Trust--and Death loomed up before me.

You will ask: why Death? Why not some alternative? Flight or prison?

Well: prison would be an unendurable travelling through Time, flight,

an equally unendurable travelling through Time with Space added. Both

these things are familiar: Death alone, in spite of all the experience

that humanity has had of Death, is the utterly unfamiliar. For a

gambler it is a _coup_ alluring beyond belief--as we know neither what

we stake nor what we stand to win. I, personally, stand to win a great

deal, since Life holds nothing for me and I stake only my life--and

what I seek is only forgetfulness of you, or some sort of eventual and

incomprehensible union with you. For the union with you that I seek is

a queer sort of thing; hardly at all, I think, a union of the body, but

a sort of consciousness of our thoughts proceeding onwards together.

That we may find in the unending Afterwards. Or we may find the Herb

Oblivion.

Either of these things I desire. For, in so far as we can dogmatise

about Death we may lay it down that Death is the negation of Action

but is powerless against Thought. I do not desire Action: and at the

same time I do not fear Thought. For it is not my thoughts of you that

I fear: left alone with them I can say: “What is she more than any

other material object?” It is my feelings that wear out my brain--my

feelings that make me know that you are more than every material object

living or still, and more than every faith dead or surviving. For

feeling is neither Thought nor Action: it is the very stuff of Life

itself. And, if Death be the negation of Life it may well be the end of

consciousness.

The worst that Death can do to me is to deliver me up for ever to

unsatisfied longings for you. Well, that is all that Life has done,

that is all that Life can do, for me.

But Life can do so much more that is worse. Believe me when I say that

I dread imprisonment--and believe me when I say that I do not dread

disgrace. For you know very well that it is true when I say that I

positively chuckle at the thought of the shock my fall would give

to all these unawakened intelligences of this world. You know how I

despise Edward Burden for trusting in me; you know how I have always

despised other people who trusted in established reputations. I don’t

mean to say that I should not have liked to keep the game up, certainly

I should, since in gambling it is more desirable to win than to lose.

And it is more amusing to fool fools than to give them eye-openers. But

I think that, in gambling, it is only a shade less desirable, _per se_,

to lose than to win. The main point is the sensation of either; and the

only valid objection to losing is that, if one loses too often one has

at last no longer the wherewithal to gamble. Similarly, to give people

eye-openers is, _per se_, nearly as desirable as to fool them. It is

not quite so desirable, since the game itself _is_ the fooling. But

the great objection in _my_ case is that the eye-opener would once and

for all put an end to the chance of my ever fooling them again. That,

however, is a very small matter and what I dread is not that. If people

no longer trusted in me I could no doubt still find an outlet for my

energies with those who sought to take advantage of my abilities,

trusting to themselves to wrest from me a sufficient share of the

plunder that they so ardently desire, that I so really have no use for.

No, I seek in Death a refuge from exposure not because exposure

would cripple my energies: it would probably help them: and not

because exposure would mean disgrace; I should probably find ironical

satisfaction in it--but simply because it would mean imprisonment.

That I dread beyond belief: I clench my fingers when, in conversation,

I hear the words: “A long sentence.” For that would mean my being

delivered up for a long time--for ever--to you. I write “for ever”

advisedly and after reflection, since a long subjection, without

relief, to that strain would leave upon my brain a wound that must

prove ineffaceable. For to be alone and to think--those are my terrors.

One reads that men who have been condemned for long years to solitary

imprisonment go mad. But I think that even that sad gift from

Omnipotent Fate would not be mine. As I figure the world to myself,

Fate is terrible only to those who surrender to her. If I surrendered,

to the extent of living to go to prison, then assuredly the future must

be uniformly heavy, uniformly doomed, in my eyes. For I would as soon

be mad as anything else I can think of. But I should not go mad. Men go

mad because of the opportunities they miss: because the world changes

outside their prison walls, or because their children starve. But I

have no opportunities to miss or take: the changes of the world to me

are nothing, and there is no soul between whom and starvation I could

stand.

Whilst I am about making this final disposition of my properties--let

me tell you finally what I have done in regard to your husband himself.

It is a fact--and this I have been keeping up my sleeve as a final

surprise for you--that he is almost cured....

But I have just received an incomprehensible note from Edward Burden.

He asks me for some particulars as to his confounded estate and whether

I can lend him some thousands of pounds at short notice. Heaven knows

what new scrape this is that he’s in. Of course this may precipitate my

crash. But whatever happens, I shall find time to write my final words

to you--and nothing else really matters....