a wooded plain. Below
me steeps of green swept down to the river. I stared at them until I
fancied that they swept up to the sky. The purple darkened, night drew
nearer; it seemed only to cut clearer the chasms and draw higher the
spires of that nightmare landscape. Above me in the twilight was
the huge black hulk of the driver, and his broad, blank back was as
mysterious as the back of Death in Watts' picture. I felt that I was
growing too fantastic, and I sought to speak of ordinary things. I
called out to the driver in French, "Where are you taking me?" and it
is a literal and solemn fact that he answered me in the same language
without turning around, "To the end of the world."

I did not answer. I let him drag the vehicle up dark, steep ways, until
I saw lights under a low roof of little trees and two children, one
oddly beautiful, playing at ball. Then we found ourselves filling up the
strict main street of a tiny hamlet, and across the wall of its inn was
written in large letters, LE BOUT DU MONDE--the end of the world.

The driver and I sat down outside that inn without a word, as if all
ceremonies were natural and understood in that ultimate place. I ordered
bread for both of us, and red wine, that was good but had no name. On
the other side of the road was a little plain church with a cross on top
of it and a cock on top of the cross. This seemed to me a very good end
of the world; if the story of the world ended here it ended well. Then
I wondered whether I myself should really be content to end here, where
most certainly there were the best things of Christendom--a church and
children's games and decent soil and a tavern for men to talk with men.
But as I thought a singular doubt and desire grew slowly in me, and at
last I started up.

"Are you not satisfied?" asked my companion. "No," I said, "I am not
satisfied even at the end of the world."

Then, after a silence, I said, "Because you see there are two ends of
the world. And this is the wrong end of the world; at least the wrong
one for me. This is the French end of the world. I want the other end of
the world. Drive me to the other end of the world."

"The other end of the world?" he asked. "Where is that?"

"It is in Walham Green," I whispered hoarsely. "You see it on the London
omnibuses. 'World's End and Walham Green.' Oh, I know how good this is;
I love your vineyards and your free peasantry, but I want the English
end of the world. I love you