I made the most of this idea, studying my effects so as to squeeze out the maximum of consolation.
Thus, I always began by assuming the worst; my appeal was dismissed.
That meant, of course, I was to die.
Sooner than others, obviously.
“But,” I reminded myself, “it’s common knowledge that life isn’t worth living, anyhow.”
And, on a wide view, I could see that it makes little difference whether one dies at the age of thirty or threescore and ten—since, in either case, other men and women will continue living, the world will go on as before.
Also, whether I died now or forty years hence, this business of dying had to be got through, inevitably.
Still, somehow this line of thought wasn’t as consoling as it should have been; the idea of all those years of life in hand was a galling reminder!
However, I could argue myself out of it, by picturing what would have been my feelings when my term was up, and death had cornered me.
Once you’re up against it, the precise manner of your death has obviously small importance.
Therefore—but it was hard not to lose the thread of the argument leading up to that “therefore”—I should be prepared to face the dismissal of my appeal.
At this stage, but only at this stage, I had, so to speak, the right, and accordingly I gave myself leave, to consider the other alternative; that my appeal was successful.
And then the trouble was to calm down that sudden rush of joy racing through my body and even bringing tears to my eyes.
But it was up to me to bring my nerves to heel and steady my mind; for, even in considering this possibility, I had to keep some order in my thoughts, so as to make my consolations, as regards the first alternative, more plausible.
When I’d succeeded, I had earned a good hour’s peace of mind; and that, anyhow, was something.
It was at one of these moments that I refused once again to see the chaplain.
I was lying down and could mark the summer evening coming on by a soft golden glow spreading across the sky.
I had just turned down my appeal, and felt my blood circulating with slow, steady throbs.
No, I didn’t want to see the chaplain. ...
Then I did something I hadn’t done for quite a while; I fell to thinking about Marie.
She hadn’t written for ages; probably, I surmised, she had grown tired of being the mistress of a man sentenced to death.
Or she might be ill, or dead.
After all, such things happen.
How could I have known about it, since, apart from our two bodies, separated now, there was no link between us, nothing to remind us of each other?
Supposing she were dead, her memory would mean nothing; I couldn’t feel an interest in a dead girl.
This seemed to me quite normal; just as I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn’t even say that this was hard to stomach; really, there’s no idea to which one doesn’t get acclimatized in time.
My thoughts had reached this point when the chaplain walked in, unannounced.
I couldn’t help giving a start on seeing him.
He noticed this evidently, as he promptly told me not to be alarmed.
I reminded him that usually his visits were at another hour, and for a pretty grim occasion.
This, he replied, was just a friendly visit; it had no concern with my appeal, about which he knew nothing.
Then he sat down on my bed, asking me to sit beside him.
I refused—not because I had anything against him; he seemed a mild, amiable man.
He remained quite still at first, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on his hands.
They were slender but sinewy hands, which made me think of two nimble little animals.
Then he gently rubbed them together.
He stayed so long in the same position that for a while I almost forgot he was there.
All of a sudden he jerked his head up and looked me in the eyes.
“Why,” he asked, “don’t you let me come to see you?”
I explained that I didn’t believe in God.
“Are you really so sure of that?”
I said I saw no point in troubling my head about the matter; whether I believed or didn’t was, to my mind, a question of so little importance.
He then leaned back against the wall, laying his hands flat on his thighs.
Almost without seeming to address me, he remarked that he’d often noticed one fancies one is quite sure about something, when in point of fact one isn’t.
When I said nothing, he looked at me again, and asked:
“Don’t you agree?”
I said that seemed quite possible.
But, though I mightn’t be so sure about what interested me, I was absolutely sure about what didn’t interest me.
And the question he had raised didn’t interest me at all.
He looked away and, without altering his posture, asked if it was because I felt utterly desperate that I spoke like this.