Emotion there seemed none, in the sense that _I_ knew feeling. I knew,
if anything, the ultimate secrets of two primitive sensations--joy and
awe.... The dawn grew swiftly brighter. There was gold, as though the
sands of Nubia spilt their brilliance on each shining detail; there was
glory, as though the retreating tide of stars spilt their light foam
upon the world; and there was passion, as though the beliefs of all the
ages floated back with abandonment into the--Sun. Ruined Egypt merged
into a single temple of elemental vastness whose floor was the empty
desert, but whose walls rose to the stars.
Abruptly, then, chanting and rhythm ceased; they dipped below. Sand
muffled them. And the Sun looked down upon its ancient world....
A radiant warmth poured through me. I found that I could move my limbs
again. A sense of triumphant life ran through my stony frame. For one
passing second I heard the shower of gritty particles upon my surface
like sand blown upwards by a gust of wind, but this time I could _feel_
the sting of it upon my skin. It passed. The drenching heat bathed me
from head to foot, while stony insensibility gave place with returning
consciousness to flesh and blood. The sun had risen.... I was alive,
but I was--changed.
It seemed I opened my eyes. An immense relief was in me. I turned; I
drew a deep, refreshing breath; I stretched one leg upon a thick, green
carpet. Something had left me; another thing had returned. I sat up,
conscious of welcome release, of freedom, of escape.
There was some violent, disorganising break. I found myself; I found
Moleson; I found George Isley too. He had got shifted in that room
without my being aware of it. Isley had risen. He came upon me like a
blow. I saw him move his arms. Fire flashed from below his hands; and I
realised then that he was turning on the electric lights. They emerged
from different points along the walls, in the alcove, beneath the
ceiling, by the writing-table; and one had just that minute blazed into
my eyes from a bracket close above me. I was back again in the Present
among modern things.
But, while most of the details presented themselves gradually to my
recovered senses, Isley returned with this curious effect of speed
and distance--like a blow upon the mind. From great height and from
prodigious size--he dropped. I seemed to find him rushing at me.
Moleson was simply ‘there’; there was no speed or sudden change in him
as with the other. Motionless at the piano, his long thin hands lay
down upon the keys yet did not strike them. But Isley came back like
lightning into the little room, signs of the monstrous obsession still
about his altering features. There was battle and worship mingled in
his deep-set eyes. His mouth, though set, was smiling. With a shudder I
positively saw the vastness slipping from his face as shadows from a
stretch of broken cliff. There was this awful mingling of proportions.
The colossal power that had resumed his being drew slowly inwards.
There was collapse in him. And upon the sunburned cheek of his rugged
face I saw a tear.
Poignant revulsion caught me then for a moment. The present showed
itself in rags. The reduction of scale was painful. I yearned for
the splendour that was gone, yet still seemed so hauntingly almost
within reach. The cheapness of the hotel room, the glaring ugliness of
its tinsel decoration, the baseness of ideals where utility instead
of beauty, gain instead of worship, governed life--this, with the
dwindled aspect of my companions to the insignificance of marionettes,
brought a hungry pain that was at first intolerable. In the glare
of light I noticed the small round face of the portable clock upon
the mantelpiece, showing half-past eleven. Moleson had been two
hours at the piano. And this measuring faculty of my mind completed
the disillusionment. I was, indeed, back among present things. The
mechanical spirit of To-day imprisoned me again.
For a considerable interval we neither moved nor spoke; the sudden
change left the emotions in confusion; we had leaped from a height,
from the top of the pyramid, from a star--and the crash of landing
scattered thought. I stole a glance at Isley, wondering vaguely why
he was there at all; the look of resignation had replaced the power
in his face; the tear was brushed away. There was no struggle in him
now, no sign of resistance; there was abandonment only; he seemed
insignificant. The real George Isley was elsewhere: he himself had not
returned.
By jerks, as it were, and by awkward stages, then, we all three came
back to common things again. I found that we were talking ordinarily,
asking each other questions, answering, lighting cigarettes, and all
the rest. Moleson played some commonplace chords upon the piano, while
he leaned back listlessly in his chair, putting in sentences now and
again and chatting idly to whichever of us would listen. And Isley came
slowly across the room towards me, holding out cigarettes. His dark
brown face had shadows on it. He looked exhausted, worn, like some
soldier broken in the wars.
‘You liked it?’ I heard his thin voice asking. There was no interest,
no expression; it was not the real Isley who spoke; it was the little
part of him that had come back. He smiled like a marvellous automaton.
Mechanically I took the cigarette he offered me, thinking confusedly
what answer I could make.
‘It’s irresistible,’ I murmured; ‘I understand that it’s easier to go.’
‘Sweeter as well,’ he whispered with a sigh, ‘and very wonderful!’