the unbearable bassington-第35章

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playing　in　the　cricket…fields　at　school；　while　he　was　spending　

Christmas　holidays　in　Paris；　while　he　was　going　his　careless　round　

of　theatres；　dances；　suppers　and　card…parties；　just　as　they　were　

doing　it　now；　they　would　be　doing　it　when　there　was　no　one　alive　

who　remembered　Comus　Bassington。　　This　thought　recurred　again　and　

again　with　painful　persistence；　a　morbid　growth　arising　in　part　

from　his　loneliness。



Staring　dumbly　out　at　the　toiling　sweltering　human　ant…hill　Comus　

marvelled　how　missionary　enthusiasts　could　labour　hopefully　at　the　

work　of　transplanting　their　religion；　with　its　homegrown　accretions　

of　fatherly　parochial　benevolence；　in　this　heat…blistered；　fever…

scourged　wilderness；　where　men　lived　like　groundbait　and　died　like　

flies。　　Demons　one　might　believe　in；　if　one　did　not　hold　one's　

imagination　in　healthy　check；　but　a　kindly　all…managing　God；　never。　　

Somewhere　in　the　west　country　of　England　Comus　had　an　uncle　who　

lived　in　a　rose…smothered　rectory　and　taught　a　wholesome　gentle…

hearted　creed　that　expressed　itself　in　the　spirit　of　〃Little　lamb；　

who　made　thee？〃　and　faithfully　reflected　the　beautiful　homely　

Christ…child　sentiment　of　Saxon　Europe。　　What　a　far　away；　unreal　

fairy　story　it　all　seemed　here　in　this　West　African　land；　where　the　

bodies　of　men　were　of　as　little　account　as　the　bubbles　that　floated　

on　the　oily　froth　of　the　great　flowing　river；　and　where　it　required　

a　stretch　of　wild　profitless　imagination　to　credit　them　with　

undying　souls。　　In　the　life　he　had　come　from　Comus　had　been　

accustomed　to　think　of　individuals　as　definite　masterful　

personalities；　making　their　several　marks　on　the　circumstances　that　

revolved　around　them；　they　did　well　or　ill；　or　in　most　cases　

indifferently；　and　were　criticised；　praised；　blamed；　thwarted　or　

tolerated；　or　given　way　to。　　In　any　case；　humdrum　or　outstanding；　

they　had　their　spheres　of　importance；　little　or　big。　　They　

dominated　a　breakfast　table　or　harassed　a　Government；　according　to　

their　capabilities　or　opportunities；　or　perhaps　they　merely　had　

irritating　mannerisms。　　At　any　rate　it　seemed　highly　probable　that　

they　had　souls。　　Here　a　man　simply　made　a　unit　in　an　unnumbered　

population；　an　inconsequent　dot　in　a　loosely…compiled　deathroll。　　

Even　his　own　position　as　a　white　man　exalted　conspicuously　above　a　

horde　of　black　natives　did　not　save　Comus　from　the　depressing　sense　

of　nothingness　which　his　first　experience　of　fever　had　thrown　over　

him。　　He　was　a　lost；　soulless　body　in　this　great　uncaring　land；　if　

he　died　another　would　take　his　place；　his　few　effects　would　be　

inventoried　and　sent　down　to　the　coast；　someone　else　would　finish　

off　any　tea　or　whisky　that　he　left　behind　…　that　would　be　all。



It　was　nearly　time　to　be　starting　towards　the　next　halting　place　

where　he　would　dine　or　at　any　rate　eat　something。　　But　the　

lassitude　which　the　fever　had　bequeathed　him　made　the　tedium　of　

travelling　through　interminable　forest…tracks　a　weariness　to　be　

deferred　as　long　as　possible。　　The　bearers　were　nothing　loth　to　let　

another　half…hour　or　so　slip　by；　and　Comus　dragged　a　battered　

paper…covered　novel　from　the　pocket　of　his　coat。　　It　was　a　story　

dealing　with　the　elaborately　tangled　love　affairs　of　a　surpassingly　

uninteresting　couple；　and　even　in　his　almost　bookless　state　Comus　

had　not　been　able　to　plough　his　way　through　more　than　two…thirds　of　

its　dull　length；　bound　up　with　the　cover；　however；　were　some　pages　

of　advertisement；　and　these　the　exile　scanned　with　a　hungry　

intentness　that　the　romance　itself　could　never　have　commanded。　　The　

name　of　a　shop；　of　a　street；　the　address　of　a　restaurant；　came　to　

him　as　a　bitter　reminder　of　the　world　he　had　lost；　a　world　that　ate　

and　drank　and　flirted；　gambled　and　made　merry；　a　world　that　debated　

and　intrigued　and　wire…pulled；　fought　or　compromised　political　

battles　…　and　recked　nothing　of　its　outcasts　wandering　through　

forest　paths　and　steamy　swamps　or　lying　in　the　grip　of　fever。　　

Comus　read　and　re…read　those　few　lines　of　advertisement；　just　as　he　

treasured　a　much…crumpled　programme　of　a　first…night　performance　at　

the　Straw　Exchange　Theatre；　they　seemed　to　make　a　little　more　real　

the　past　that　was　already　so　shadowy　and　so　utterly　remote。　　For　a　

moment　he　could　almost　capture　the　sensation　of　being　once　again　in　

those　haunts　that　he　loved；　then　he　looked　round　and　pushed　the　

book　wearily　from　him。　　The　steaming　heat；　the　forest；　the　rushing　

river　hemmed　him　in　on　all　sides。



The　two　boys　who　had　been　splitting　wood　ceased　from　their　labours　

and　straightened　their　backs；　suddenly　the　smaller　of　the　two　gave　

the　other　a　resounding　whack　with　a　split　lath　that　he　still　held　

in　his　hand；　and　flew　up　the　hillside　with　a　scream　of　laughter　and　

simulated　terror；　the　bigger　lad　following　in　hot　pursuit。　　Up　and　

down　the　steep　bush…grown　slope　they　raced　and　twisted　and　dodged；　

coming　sometimes　to　close　quarters　in　a　hurricane　of　squeals　and　

smacks；　rolling　over　and　over　like　fighting　kittens；　and　breaking　

away　again　to　start　fresh　provocation　and　fresh　pursuit。　　Now　and　

again　they　would　lie　for　a　time　panting　in　what　seemed　the　last　

stage　of　exhaustion；　and　then　they　would　be　off　in　another　wild　

scamper；　their　dusky　bodies　flitting　through　the　bushes；　

disappearing　and　reappearing　with　equal　suddenness。　　Presently　two　

girls　of　their　own　age；　who　had　returned　from　the　water…fetching；　

sprang　out　on　them　from　ambush；　and　the　four　joined　in　one　joyous　

gambol　that　lit　up　the　hillside　with　shrill　echoes　and　glimpses　of　

flying　limbs。　　Comus　sat　and　watched；　at　first　with　an　amused　

interest；　then　with　a　returning　flood　of　depression　and　heart…ache。　　

Those　wild　young　human　kittens　represented　the　joy　of　life；　he　was　

the　outsider；　the　lonely　alien；　watching　something　in　which　he　

could　not　join；　a　happiness　in　which　he　had　no　part　or　lot。　　He　

would　pass　presently　out　of　the　village　and　his　bearers'　feet　would　

leave　their　indentations　in　the　dust；　that　would　be　his　most　

permanent　memorial　in　this　little　oasis　of　teeming　life。　　And　that　

other　life；　in　which　he　once　moved　with　such　confident　sense　of　his　

own　necessary　participation　in　it；　how　completely　he　had　passed　out　

of　it。　　Amid　all　its　laughing　throngs；　its　card　parties　and　race…

meetings　and　country…house　gatherings；　he　was　just　a　mere　name；　

remembered　or　forgotten；　Comus　Bassington；　the　boy　who　went　away。　　

He　had　loved　himself　very　well　and　never　troubled　greatly　whether　

anyone　else　really　loved　him；　and　now　he　realised　what　he　had　made　

of　his　life。　　And　at　the　same　time　he　knew　that　if　his　chance　were　

to　come　again　he　would　throw　it　away　just　as　surely；　just　as　

perversely。　　Fate　played　with　him　with　loaded　dice；　he　would　lose　

always。



One　person　in　the　whole　world　had　cared　for　him；　for　longer　than　he　

could　remember；　cared　for　him　perhaps　more　than　he　knew；　cared　for　

him　perhaps　now。　　But　a　wall　of　ice　had　mounted　up　between　him　and　

her；　and　across　it　there　blew　that　cold…breath　that　chills　or　kills　

affection。



The　words　of　a　well…known　old　song；　the　wistful　cry　of　a　lost　

cause；　rang　with　insistent　mockery　through　his　brain：





〃Better　loved　you　canna　be；

Will　ye　ne'er　come　back　again？〃





If　it　was　love　that　was　to　bring　him　back　he　must　be　an　exile　for　

ever。　　His　epitaph　in　the　mouths　of　those　that　remembered　him　would　

be；　Comus　Bassington；　the　boy　who　never　came　back。



And　in　his　unutterable　loneliness　he　bowed　his　head　on　his　arms；　

that　he　might　not　see　the　joyous　scrambling　frolic　on　yonder　

hillside。







CHAPTER　XVII







THE　bleak　rawness　of　a　grey　December　day　held　sway　over　St。　James's　

Park；　that　sanctuary　of　lawn　and　tree　and　pool；　into　which　the　

bourgeois　innovator　has　rushed　ambitiously　time　and　again；　to　find　

that　he　must　take　the　patent　leather　from　off　his　feet；　for　the　

ground　on　which　he　stand