They run after us as we pass and strew us with roses. Roses! We
stretch out our hands, pressing them to our lips. How long is it since
we held roses in our hands? How did these girls of the London streets
know that above all things we longed for flowers? It was worth it all,
the mud and stench and beastliness, when it was to this that the road
led back. And the girls--they're even better than the flowers; so many
pretty faces made kind by compassion. Somewhere inside ourselves we're
laughing; we're so happy. We don't need any one's pity; time enough
for that when we start to pity ourselves. We feel mean, as though we
were part of a big deception. We aren't half so ill as we look; if you
put sufficient bandages on a wound you can make the healthiest man
appear tragic. We're laughing--and then all of a sudden we're crying.
We press our faces against the pillow ashamed of ourselves. We won't
see the crowds; we're angry with them for having unmanned us. And then
we can't help looking; their love reaches us almost as though it were
the touch of hands. We won't hide ourselves if we mean so much to
them. We're not angry any more, but grateful.
Suddenly the ambulance-nurse shouts to the driver. The ambulance
stops. She's quite excited. Clutching me with one hand, she points
with the other, "There he is."
"Who?"
I raise myself. A naval lieutenant is standing against the pavement,
gazing anxiously at the passing traffic.
"Your brother, isn't it?"
I shook my head.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42