Shadows of Ecstasy Read Free

the presence of those two auditors. He had often talked highly in similar circumstances before, not theatrically certainly but with a sardonic consciousness that the subservient listeners probably thought him a little mad, with the slight enjoyment of being too much for them, with an equally slight but equally definite and continuous despair that words which meant so much to him meant so little to others. But Considine was speaking perfectly naturally, only always with that sounding depth of significance in his voice.
    â€œI am glad you liked it,” Roger said foolishly.
    Considine said nothing at all to this, and Roger became instantly conscious of the fatuity of the words. “Rapturous cry”… “glad you liked it.” Ass! “No, really,” he said very hastily, “I mean … I did really mean it. I mean I do like poetry. Good God!” he thought to himself, “if my classes could hear me now.”
    Hatted and gloved, Considine turned to him. “You are a little afraid of it, I think,” he said. “Or else you have spoken your beliefs very little.”
    â€œNobody cares about it,” Roger said, “and I mock at myself, God forgive mé, because there’s nothing else to do.”
    They were moving together out of the cloakroom.
    â€œThere’s much else to do,” Considine answered, “and I think you believe that; I think you dare encounter darkness.”
    He raised his hand in salutation. Isabel was ready waiting with Sir Bernard, but before he joined them Roger stood still watching Considine going towards the door, and when at last he came to them he was still troubled.
    â€œDarling, what’s the matter?” Isabel said. “You’re looking very gloomy.”
    â€œMr. Considine’s been talking of the fakirs,” Sir Bernard said, “and Roger’s wondering if he’s one.”
    Roger regarded them for a moment and then made an effort to recover himself. “I don’t mind telling you,” he answered, “that Mr. Considine has played me entirely off my own stage in my own play, and I didn’t think there was a man living who could do that.”
    â€œElucidate,” Sir Bernard said.
    â€œI shan’t elucidate,” Ingram answered. “I don’t see why I should be the only fellow to encounter darkness. D’you want a taxi, Sir Bernard?”
    Sir Bernard did, and after having parted from the Ingrams and entered it, he lay back and tried once more to remember where he had seen Considine. It was quite recently, and yet he had a vague feeling that it wasn’t recently. An idea of yesterday and an idea of many years ago conflicted in his mind—a man with his hand a little lifted, almost as if it contained and controlled power, a hand of energy in rest. Perhaps, he thought, it was the theme of the speeches which had misled him; they had been listening to talk about distant places, and perhaps his mind had transferred that distance to time. It must have been yesterday or he wouldn’t remember so clearly. It couldn’t have been long ago or Considine, who was obviously younger than his own sixty odd years, would have changed. His gesture mightn’t have changed, all the same—well, it didn’t matter. As he got out at his Kensington house he reflected that it would come back, of course; sooner or later the pattern of his knowledge would bring that little detail to his mind. The intellect hardly ever failed one eventually, if one fulfilled the conditions it imposed. But it did perhaps rather ignore the immediate necessities of ordinary life; in its own pure life it overlooked the “Now and here” of one’s daily wishes. Still, his own was very good to him; with a happy gratitude to it he came into the library, where he found his son reading letters.
    â€œHullo, Philip!” he said. “Had a good evening? How’s Rosamond?”
    â€œVery fit,