Page 628 - sons-and-lovers

had been with her. He wanted everything to stand still, so
that he could be with her again.
The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to
have fused, gone into a conglomerated mass. He could not
tell one day from another, one week from another, hardly
one place from another. Nothing was distinct or distin-
guishable. Often he lost himself for an hour at a time, could
not remember what he had done.
One evening he came home late to his lodging. The fire
was burning low; everybody was in bed. He threw on some
more coal, glanced at the table, and decided he wanted no
supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. It was perfectly
still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the dim smoke
wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out,
cautiously, nibbling the fallen crumbs. He watched them as
it were from a long way off. The church clock struck two. Far
away he could hear the sharp clinking of the trucks on the
railway. No, it was not they that were far away. They were
there in their places. But where was he himself?
The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scam-
pered cheekily over his slippers. He had not moved a muscle.
He did not want to move. He was not thinking of anything.
It was easier so. There was no wrench of knowing anything.
Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, work-
ing mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.
‘What am I doing?’
And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the an-
swer:
‘Destroying myself.’