It wasn't
true. They didn't remember. They had forgotten. Or, if they remembered
at all, it was only the things they had done, not what they had felt--the
frightful pain that was an undreamed-of happiness, and the joy that tore
the heart out of you, and the wonder of a new discovery. You lost
yourself, You gave everything that you were and had. You asked nothing,
hoped for nothing. And suddenly you became strong so that you were not
afraid any more of anything in the world--not of punishment nor disgrace,
nor even laughter.
But they pretended to understand. Their pretence made you despise and
pity them. It was a horrid thing, as though a skeleton came to life and
jiggled its bones and mouthed at you, "You see, I used to do that too."
That was why you told lies to them--even to Christine.
He had forgotten his cap. The sales-boy ran after him with it and stuck
it on his thick fair hair back to front.
"There--you'll be losing your 'ead next!"
It was dusk outside. The evening performance began at once, and already a
thick black stream of people was pouring up the roped gangways and
frothing and seething at the box offices. As they came out of the
darkness they had a mystical air of suddenly returned life. They were
pilgrims' souls surging at the entrance of Paradise. In a little while
they would see her. Not that they would know what they saw. They would
not be able to understand how great, how brave and splendid she was.
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