The fellow
should see himself as a mat for Mariana's feet. But that wasn't life, he
realized; existence seemed to become more and more heedless of the
proprieties, of the simplest concessions to duty. He saw the world as a
ship which, admirably navigated a score or more years ago, had jammed
its rudder. No one could predict what rocks the unmanageable sphere
might be driving for.
The significance born by that sentence robbed the remainder of the
letter of pleasure. He read that Mariana had ordered the customary gift
of cigarettes, and hoped they would last him longer than everybody knew
they would. The implied affection of all the paragraphs was visible in
the last words. He put the letter carefully away. The cigarettes were
sufficient for a considerable time beyond customary. Something of his
appetite had gone; the periods of half wakeful slumber in his chair drew
out through whole evenings. The actual world retreated; his memories, as
bright as ever, became a little confused; the years, figures, mingled
incongruously; famous arias were transposed to operas in which they had
not been sung.
Winter retreated, but the latter part of March and April were bitterly
cold; no leaves appeared; the ground remained barren; he seldom got out.
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