In the Days of the Comet

From that moment when I insulted old Mrs. Verrall I became representative, I was a man who stood for all the disinherited of the world.  I had no hope of pride or pleasure left in me, I was raging rebellion against God and mankind.  There were no more vague intentions swaying me this way and that; I was perfectly clear now upon what I meant to do.  I would make my protest and die.

I would make my protest and die.  I was going to kill Nettie—­Nettie who had smiled and promised and given herself to another, and who stood now for all the conceivable delightfulnesses, the lost imaginations of the youthful heart, the unattainable joys in life; and Verrall who stood for all who profited by the incurable injustice of our social order.  I would kill them both.  And that being done I would blow my brains out and see what vengeance followed my blank refusal to live.

So indeed I was resolved.  I raged monstrously.  And above me, abolishing the stars, triumphant over the yellow waning moon that followed it below, the giant meteor towered up towards the zenith.

“Let me only kill!” I cried.  “Let me only kill!”

So I shouted in my frenzy.  I was in a fever that defied hunger and fatigue; for a long time I had prowled over the heath towards Lowchester talking to myself, and now that night had fully come I was tramping homeward, walking the long seventeen miles without a thought of rest.  And I had eaten nothing since the morning.

I suppose I must count myself mad, but I can recall my ravings.

There were times when I walked weeping through that brightness that was neither night nor day.  There were times when I reasoned in a topsy-turvy fashion with what I called the Spirit of All Things.  But always I spoke to that white glory in the sky.

“Why am I here only to suffer ignominies?” I asked.  “Why have you made me with pride that cannot be satisfied, with desires that turn and rend me?  Is it a jest, this world—­a joke you play on your guests?  I—­even I—­have a better humor than that!”

“Why not learn from me a certain decency of mercy?  Why not undo?  Have I ever tormented—­day by day, some wretched worm—­making filth for it to trail through, filth that disgusts it, starving it, bruising it, mocking it?  Why should you?  Your jokes are clumsy.  Try—­try some milder fun up there; do you hear?  Something that doesn’t hurt so infernally.”

“You say this is your purpose—­your purpose with me.  You are making something with me—­birth pangs of a soul.  Ah!  How can I believe you?  You forget I have eyes for other things.  Let my own case go, but what of that frog beneath the cart-wheel, God?—­and the bird the cat had torn?”

And after such blasphemies I would fling out a ridiculous little debating society hand.  “Answer me that!”

A week ago it had been moonlight, white and black and hard across the spaces of the park, but now the light was livid and full of the quality of haze.  An extraordinarily low white mist, not three feet above the ground, drifted broodingly across the grass, and the trees rose ghostly out of that phantom sea.  Great and shadowy and strange was the world that night, no one seemed abroad; I and my little cracked voice drifted solitary through the silent mysteries.  Sometimes I argued as I have told, sometimes I tumbled along in moody vacuity, sometimes my torment was vivid and acute.

Abruptly out of apathy would come a boiling paroxysm of fury, when I thought of Nettie mocking me and laughing, and of her and Verrall clasped in one another’s arms.

“I will not have it so!” I screamed.  “I will not have it so!”

And in one of these raving fits I drew my revolver from my pocket and fired into the quiet night.  Three times I fired it.

The bullets tore through the air, the startled trees told one another in diminishing echoes the thing I had done, and then, with a slow finality, the vast and patient night healed again to calm.  My shots, my curses and blasphemies, my prayers—­for anon I prayed—­that Silence took them all.

It was—­how can I express it?—­a stifled outcry tranquilized, lost, amid the serene assumptions, the overwhelming empire of that brightness.  The noise of my shots, the impact upon things, had for the instant been enormous, then it had passed away.  I found myself standing with the revolver held up, astonished, my emotions penetrated by something I could not understand.  Then I looked up over my shoulder at the great star, and remained staring at it.

“Who are you?” I said at last.

I was like a man in a solitary desert who has suddenly heard a voice. . . .

That, too, passed.

As I came over Clayton Crest I recalled that I missed the multitude that now night after night walked out to stare at the comet, and the little preacher in the waste beyond the hoardings, who warned sinners to repent before the Judgment, was not in his usual place.

It was long past midnight, and every one had gone home.  But I did not think of this at first, and the solitude perplexed me and left a memory behind.  The gas-lamps were all extinguished because of the brightness of the comet, and that too was unfamiliar.  The little newsagent in the still High Street had shut up and gone to bed, but one belated board had been put out late and forgotten, and it still bore its placard.

The word upon it—­there was but one word upon it in staring letters—­was:  “War.”

You figure that empty mean street, emptily echoing to my footsteps—­no soul awake and audible but me.  Then my halt at the placard.  And amidst that sleeping stillness, smeared hastily upon the board, a little askew and crumpled, but quite distinct beneath that cool meteoric glare, preposterous and appalling, the measureless evil of that word—­

“War!”