There follows more talk; which struck me, when I read the story, as a
mistake; for all that he tells them they have now learnt: that life
to be enjoyed must be lived; that victory to be sweet must be won.
They awake in the dingy cafe in the Rue St. Louis. The ancient
waiter is piling up the chairs preparatory to closing the shutters.
The Poet draws forth his small handful of coins; asks what is to pay.
"Nothing," the waiter answers. A stranger who sat with them and
talked awhile before they fell asleep has paid the bill. They look
at one another, but no one speaks.
The streets are empty. A thin rain is falling. They turn up the
collars of their coats; strike out into the night. And as their
footsteps echo on the glistening pavement it comes to each of them
that they are walking with a new, brave step.
I feel so sorry for Dick--for the tens of thousands of happy,
healthy, cared-for lads of whom Dick is the type. There must be
millions of youngsters in the world who have never known hunger,
except as an appetiser to their dinner; who have never felt what it
was to be tired, without the knowledge that a comfortable bed was
awaiting them.
To the well-to-do man or woman life is one perpetual nursery. They
are wakened in the morning--not too early, not till the nursery has
been swept out and made ready, and the fire lighted--awakened gently
with a cup of tea to give them strength and courage for this great
business of getting up--awakened with whispered words, lest any
sudden start should make their little heads ache--the blinds
carefully arranged to exclude the naughty sun, which otherwise might
shine into their little eyes and make them fretful.
Pages:
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268