It will warp us both down
to the level of these people."
She tried to stop him, but he went on, a flush of fever on his cheek:
"They degrade the nature they have touched. Their squat little
town is a caricature like themselves. Everything they touch they
belittle. Here they sit while side-walks rot and teams mire in the
streets."
He raged on like one demented-bitter, accusing, rebellious. In such
a mood he could not write. In place of inspiring him, the little
town and its people seemed to undermine his power and turn his
sweetness of spirit into gall and acid. He only bowed to them now
as he walked feebly among them, and they excused it by referring
to his sickness. They eyed him each time with pitying eyes; "He's
failin' fast," they said among themselves.
One day, as he was returning from the post office, he felt blind for
a moment and put his hand to his head. The wold of vivid green
grew gray, and life rceded from him into illimitable distance. He
had one dim fading glimpse of a shaggy-bearded face looking
down at him, and felt the clutch of an iron-hard strong arm under
him, and then he lost hold even on so much consciousness.
He came back slowly, rising out of immeasurable deeps toward a
distant light which was like the mouth of a well filled with clouds
of misty vapor.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344