You should have heard him say,
'My ivory.' Oh, yes, I heard him. 'My Intended, my ivory, my station,
my river, my--' everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath
in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal
of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything
belonged to him--but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he
belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That
was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible--it
was not good for one either--trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat
amongst the devils of the land--I mean literally. You can't understand.
How could you?--with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind
neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately
between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and
gallows and lunatic asylums--how can you imagine what particular region
of the first ages a man's untrammelled feet may take him into by the
way of solitude--utter solitude without a policeman--by the way of
silence--utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can
be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the
great difference.
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