But it did not pass, and a crisis
gained upon him.
As the evening of the third day came on, his heart rang with fear. He
could not bear another night. Another night was coming on, for another
night he was to be suspended in chain of physical life, over the
bottomless pit of nothingness. And he could not bear it. He could not
bear it. He was frightened deeply, and coldly, frightened in his soul.
He did not believe in his own strength any more. He could not fall into
this infinite void, and rise again. If he fell, he would be gone for
ever. He must withdraw, he must seek reinforcements. He did not believe
in his own single self, any further than this.
After dinner, faced with the ultimate experience of his own
nothingness, he turned aside. He pulled on his boots, put on his coat,
and set out to walk in the night.
It was dark and misty. He went through the wood, stumbling and feeling
his way to the Mill. Birkin was away. Good--he was half glad. He turned
up the hill, and stumbled blindly over the wild slopes, having lost the
path in the complete darkness.
Pages:
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704