He spoke no more, and settled himself more deeply in the dust. Micky
did the same. He had vague memories of men and women who had died
before reaching maturity, of boys and unwedded maidens and youths
lowered into the grave before their parents' eyes. Whither had they
gone, that undeveloped minority? What was the point of their brief
existence? Had they vanished utterly, or were they given another chance
of accreting experiences until they became like Janet or himself? One
thing was certain: there were no young, either in the mountains or the
plain, and perhaps the very memory of such creatures was an illusion
fostered by cloud.
The time was now ripe for a review of his life on earth. He traced his
decomposition--his work had been soft, his books soft, he had softened
his relations with other men. He had seen good in everything, and this
is itself a sign of decay. Whatever occurred he had been appreciative,
tolerant, pliant. Consequently he had been a success; Adam was right;
it was the moment in civilisation for his type. He had mistaken
self-criticism for self-discipline, he had muffled in himself and
others the keen, heroic edge. Yet the luxury of repentance was denied
him. The fault was his, but the fate humanity's, for every one grows
hard or soft as he grows old.
"This is my life," thought Micky; "my books forgotten, my work
superseded. This is the whole of my life." And his agony increased,
because all the same there had been in that life an elusive joy which,
if only he could have distilled it, would have sweetened infinity. It
was part of the jest that he should try, and should eternally oscillate
between disgust and desire. For there is nothing ultimate in Hell; men
will not lay aside all hope on entering it, or they would attain to the
splendour of despair. To have made a poem about Hell is to mistake its
very essence; it is the imagination of men, who will have beauty, that
fashions it as ice or flame. Old, but capable of growing older, Micky
lay in the sandy country, remembering that once he had remembered a
country--a country that had not been sand....
He was aroused by the mutterings of the spirits round him. An
uneasiness such as he had not noted in them before had arisen. "A
pillar of sand," said one. Another said, "It is not; it comes from the
river."