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Soul of a Bishop-Part21_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the



bed head and went to his bureau.

He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some



time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on

with the thing in his mind.



He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial

to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let



the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then

holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and



stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixturemingle into

an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood



with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink.

He was afraid.



He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion

would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great



simplicities behind. And he was afraid.

He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great



imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He

wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay



just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of

escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very



presence of truth, he would--think.

He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed....



(3)

He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of



wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable

pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in



darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely

larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and



always missing something that passed along distant passages,

something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or



of a ceremony, something of which he was in futilepursuit, of

which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he



seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast

halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean



archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the

utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost



profundity of sorrow....

It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his



tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the

night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his



opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew.

"No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the



tumbler. "Leave that."

Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly



with the bishop's evening clothes.

The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the



draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to

touch.



From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured

upon the engagementtablet which it was Whippham's business to



fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation

services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second



one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an

interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses



for these confirmation services....

The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming.



With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic

and drank it off at a gulp.



(4)

For some moments nothing seemed to happen.



Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came

a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve.



He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that

he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted,



and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may

feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon



sunshine, the outside world and freedom.

He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few






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