CHAPTER EIGHT

insontheirwivessitintheshop,furswrappedroundtheirnecks,armsfolded,eyescontemptuous.Suchfacesasonesees.Thelittlemanfingeringthemeatmusthavesquattedbeforethefireininnumerablelodging-houses,andheardandseenandknownsomuchthatitseemstoutteritselfevenvolublyfromdarkeyes,looselips,ashefingersthemeatsilently,hisfacesadasapoet's,andneverasongsung.Shawledwomencarrybabieswithpurpleeyelidsboysstandatstreetcornersgirlslookacrosstheroad—rudeillustrations,picturesinabookwhosepagesweturnoverandoverasifweshouldatlastfindwhatwelookfor.Everyface,everyshop,bedroomwindow,public-house,anddarksquareisapicturefeverishlyturned—insearchofwhat?Itisthesamewithbooks.Whatdoweseekthroughmillionsofpages?Stillhopefullyturningthepages—oh,hereisJacob'sroom. HesatatthetablereadingtheGlobe.Thepinkishsheetwasspreadflatbeforehim.Heproppedhisfaceinhishand,sothattheskinofhischeekwaswrinkledindeepfolds.Terriblyseverehelooked,set,anddefiant.(Whatpeoplegothroughinhalfanhour!Butnothingcouldsavehim.Theseeventsarefeaturesofourlandscape.AforeignercomingtoLondoncouldscarcelymissseeingSt.Paul's.)Hejudgedlife.Thesepinkishandgreenishnewspapersarethinsheetsofgelatinepressednightlyoverthebrainandheartoftheworld.Theytaketheimpressionofthewhole.Jacobcasthiseyeoverit.Astrike,amurder,football,bodiesfoundvociferationfromallpartsofEnglandsimultaneously.HowmiserableitisthattheGlobenewspaperoffersnothingbettertoJacobFlanders!Whenachildbeginstoreadhistoryonemarvels,sorrowfully,tohearhimspelloutinhisnewvoicetheancientwords. ThePrimeMinister'sspeechwasreportedinsomethingoverfivecolumns.Feelinginhispocket,Jacobtookoutapipeandproceededtofillit.Fiveminutes,tenminutes,fifteenminutespassed.Jacobtookthepaperovertothefire.ThePrimeMinisterproposedameasureforgivingHomeRuletoIreland.Jacobknockedouthispipe.HewascertainlythinkingaboutHomeRuleinIreland—averydifficultmatter.Averycoldnight. Thesnow,whichhadbeenfallingallnight,layatthreeo'clockintheafternoonoverthefieldsandthehill.Clumpsofwitheredgrassstoodoutuponthehill-topthefurzebusheswereblack,andnowandthenablackshivercrossedthesnowasthewinddroveflurriesoffrozenparticlesbeforeit.Thesoundwasthatofabroomsweeping—sweeping. Thestreamcreptalongbytheroadunseenbyanyone.Sticksandleavescaughtinthefrozengrass.Theskywassullengreyandthetreesofblackiron.Uncompromisingwastheseverityofthecountry.Atfouro'clockthesnowwasagainfalling.Thedayhadgoneout. Awindowtingedyellowabouttwofeetacrossalonecombatedthewhitefieldsandtheblacktrees….Atsixo'clockaman'sfigurecarryingalanterncrossedthefield….Araftoftwigstayeduponastone,suddenlydetacheditself,andfloatedtowardstheculvert….Aloadofsnowslippedandfellfromafirbranch….Latertherewasamournfulcry….Amotorcarcamealongtheroadshovingthedarkbeforeit….Thedarkshutdownbehindit…. Spacesofcompleteimmobilityseparatedeachofthesemovements.Thelandseemedtoliedead….Thentheoldshepherdreturnedstifflyacrossthefield.Stifflyandpainfullythefrozenearthwastroddenunderandgavebeneathpressurelikeatreadmill.Thewornvoicesofclocksrepeatedthefactofthehourallnightlong. Jacob,too,heardthem,andrakedoutthefire.Herose.Hestretchedhimself.Hewenttobed.