Meanwhile, one held a kind of mental stocktaking. As often
as not by the light of a complete disillusionment. Of the many glorious
things one had hoped to do--or to be--nothing was accomplished: the
great realisation, in youth breathlessly chased but never grasped, was
now seen to be a mist-wraith, which could wear a thousand forms, but
invariably turned to air as one came up with it. In nine instances out
of ten there was nothing to put in its place; and you began to ask
yourself in a kind of horrific amaze: "Can this be all? . . . THIS? For
this the pother of growth, the struggles, and the sufferings?" The
soul's climacteric, if you would, from which a mortal came forth dulled
to resignation; or greedy for the few physical pleasures left him; or
prone to that tragic clinging to youth's skirts, which made the later
years of many women and not a few men ridiculous. In each case the
motive power was the same: the haunting fear that one had squeezed life
dry; worse still, that it had not been worth the squeezing.
Thus his reason. But, like a tongue of flame, his instinct leapt up to
give combat. By the gods, this cap did NOT fit him! Squeezed life
try? . . . found it not worth while? Why, he had never got within
measurable distance of what he called life, at all! There could be no
question of him resigning himself: deep down in him, he knew, was an
enormous residue of vitality, of untouched mental energy that only waited
to be drawn on.
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