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Show THE LONELY MEN By John Galsworthy. They live amid the pulsating throb and din of countless lives, in the city of the great unrest; but they pass their days in crowded solitude, and In silence, surrounded by the sound of speech. The reasons of their loneliness are various. From a pride too poor for intimacy with friends and a poverty not poor enough to herd, they spend long days and evenings by themselves. From the bitterness of failure or mistake, or because of endeavor en-deavor which must work alone, or by reason of isolating thought, they want for the friendly intercourse in-tercourse that cheers. Thus, gradually they change from need. of speech, and come to think about things curiously, and think too much, and lose the way to laugh; and by degrees they shun their friends for want of what to say, so that they miss the chance of knowing know-ing other men. For theirs is the loneliness that rusts and dulls and binds the City solitude among Uie crowds. During the day the lucky ones have work; for only while they really work can they forget. Because Be-cause in the streets they see somany pairs, talking talk-ing and nodding and laughing as they go, and the calm companionship of conscious sympathy, or the bend and question of a lover's look, and the woman's wo-man's little happy, hovering smile. Even they who have hours of Idleness can gain a consolation consola-tion from the light of day, and can Invent the distraction of imaginary business, and long-dld-tance errands, to fill their time and mind. But the night and evening hours are the danger dan-ger time. Because after dark the city seems to change Into a mighty camp of cosy firesides, where families and friends and lovers sit in quiet, comfortable peacefulness, behind the tantalizing squares of lighted "blind. Or, in the blazing, scintillating scin-tillating glare of lighted places, it becomes a fair, with nothing but happiness beneath, where smiling, whispering couples, and contented pairs, and gay, laughing parties, free from care, amuse themselves in quiet merriment, or in brilliant scenes of revelry and fun. For, with the jaundiced jaun-diced eyes of loneliness, they only see the contrasts con-trasts to their state the gay companionships, the friendships, and the love. But even so they seek the busy streets, and the places where the merry people throng, at night and in the hours of their ease, to watch and feel tho jostle of the crowds, for company. For when they shut their room-door on the world, after the work or occupation of the day Is done, they hear, though they read or try to sleep, the city's roar. And to the moaning murmur of its hum, their taunted, envious Imagination works; they see bright scenes of brilliant merriment, or whispering companionships, or the shaded, lamplight lamp-light peacefulness of home. Then the burden of their loneliness settles down, so that the empty heaviness of It hurts. According to the habits of their state, they act. In the streets, they look up quickly at a laugh, and notice what talking people do not see; thoy loiter listlessly from shop to shop, gazing Indifferently Indif-ferently at everything; at times they hug their loneliness, and stoop and brood; and they speak quite loudly to themselves to use their voice. In the restaurants they look and look, with following, follow-ing, interested, regretful eyes; and they talk with strangers, where the custom of the place permits; and they linger with reluctance to depart into the greater isolation of the streets, paying for extra drink to keep their place amid the noise and merrimont of those who dine in company. After Af-ter their solitary, protracted meal, they tramp for miles. With aimless determination to avoid their home, they -walk and walk through unfamiliar unfa-miliar streets and quiet squraes, seeing only al- about amid the glare of the streets where the place of amusement are, and watch the lighted laughter of the crowds, and the flashing couples which the cab lamps show. Until the crowds begin be-gin to thin they walk. For by their nightly meal and wanderings they cheat the evening hours and the night. And they very often pay to be amused, careless care-less or wilfully forgetful of what they spend; but they sit without a smile through funny plays, or stand and smoke, with an apathetic stare, leaning against the barrier of a lounge while exr . entertainers en-tertainers earn applause. It is not that tney do not understand the wit or the labor of trained skill, but they como so frequently that they do not care. Then only seek the company of crowds, and something to look at to forget themselves. But, in spite of their conscious plan or subterfuge, the silent loneliness is always there. The dangers of their state are manifold. For, by their lonely side temptation walks, and whispers, whis-pers, and points an easy way to company or escape. es-cape. , Many listen eagerly at once In the hope of a permanent release. Driven by tne fear of lonely ypars, they seek their few forgotten friends, and claim their aid, and, after deliberate introductions, they choose a wife as men engage a clerk the first who seems to suit; or, forgetful of the gulfs of interests and thought, they take a mate, unearned un-earned and lowly bred, because of a sudden, easy opportunity; or, in a panic of faintheartedness, fainthearted-ness, they pawn their privilege to work and earn, for a sorry dependence that obeys the wishes of an unloved, moneyed wife. These, by their haste or calculation, err; so that they come to look and hear and wonder V , in after years. And others, in rebellion at their lot, defiantly contrive a temporary companionship. In dreary dissipations of a night, or In fierce allegiances of crowded months, while passion grows and scorches and burns out to the ashes of a mutual disregard, disre-gard, or In quiet companionships that only break one law, they buy or get by favor what they want. Others may try to turn away at first from what to them seems sin, because of fears or training or beliefs; but the want of company is more than these. So, after arguments, they also seek relief re-lief where love is passion or a thing for sale. And while they hope to lose their loneliness, they lock lead weights of habit to their feet, that hold them back from knowing better tnlngs; or they raise a barrier of offended codes between themselves them-selves and the women who make homes. A greater great-er loneliness Is theirs, and the bitterness of thinking, think-ing, at the end. Others imperceptibly succumb to a little whisper, urging them to be guy; and they make their seldom evening with a "rlend an occasion for unwonted revelry. But m the many intervals inter-vals of silent days the little whisper grows and grows and grows with the memories of past lightheadedness. light-headedness. So, when their loneliness envelops them one night, they drink alone; and they chaff themselves for drinking by themselves. But, with the knowledge of a quick content, the need of it seems gradually to grow; so that they think more often of escape. And when they think, they argue with themselves, in the street or in the quiet of their rooms; and they pause and swear and finally succumb. With every argued drink they argue less, over a period of resisting:-years, until they forget the reason of their need. These, at the last, repay their borrowed hours of escape with days of maudlin, Impotent remorsa, or lifetimes life-times in the awful peopled wastes of drunken fear. Thus many, in their efforts to escape, burden or waste or throw away their lives. And they only get the blame for what they do, though (the maddening activity of the city drives them on. For they are judged from the cold stone throne of reason by those who do not know. Some patient ones drag on without relief through, a growing dreariness of silent years, numbed into something less than feeling men. By accepted nc ssity and slow degrees, they learn to forget their wish for company; and they steep themselves in thoughts about their work, or theories upon abstract things; or they got a meager joy from looking on, pretending that they like to be alone, and making companions of the city's sights and beauty and the sparrows in the parks. And when they die, only a cousin or a lawyer or a landlord knows. But many win their freedom in the end, through labor and luck, to company and love. And though the streets no longer draw them out, and the quiet evenings fill them with repose, they never quite forget the lonely years. When they hear of the reckless, pitiable folly of a wasted life, in the city's annals of tragedy and sin, they th!nk and remember and condone. For by the lesson of their loneliness they learned. From the London Nation. |