.

For a time my mind could make no headway against its monstrous
assemblage of horror. There was something in that jagged black hill
against the moonshine and the gigantic basin of darkness out of which it
rose that seemed to gather all these gaunt and grisly effects into one
appalling heap of agonizing futility. That rock rose up and crouched
like something that broods and watches.

I remember I sat up in the darkness staring at it.

I found myself murmuring: "Get the proportions of things, get the
proportions of things!" I had an absurd impression of a duel between
myself and the cavernous antagonism of the huge black spaces below me. I
argued that all this pain and waste was no more than the selvedge of a
proportionately limitless fabric of sane, interested, impassioned and
joyous living. These stiff still memories seemed to refute me. But why
us? they seemed to insist. In some way it's essential,--this margin. I
stopped at that.

"If all this pain, waste, violence, anguish is essential to life, why
does my spirit rise against it? What is wrong with me?" I got from that
into a corner of self-examination. Did I respond overmuch to these
painful aspects in life? When I was a boy I had never had the spirit
even to kill rats. Siddons came into the meditation, Siddons, the
essential Englishman, a little scornful, throwing out contemptuous
phrases. Soft! Was I a soft? What was a soft? Something not rough, not
hearty and bloody! I felt I had to own to the word--after years of
resistance. A dreadful thing it is when a great empire has to rely upon
soft soldiers.

Was civilization breeding a type of human being too tender to go on
living? I stuck for a time as one does on these nocturnal occasions at
the word "hypersensitive," going round it and about it....

I do not know now how it was that I passed from a mood so darkened and
sunless to one of exceptional exaltation, but I recall very clearly that
I did. I believe that I made a crowning effort against this despair and
horror that had found me out in the darkness and overcome. I cried in
my heart for help, as a lost child cries, to God. I seem to remember a
rush of impassioned prayer, not only for myself, not chiefly for myself,
but for all those smashed and soiled and spoilt and battered residues of
men whose memories tormented me. I prayed to God that they had not lived
in vain, that particularly those poor Kaffir scouts might not have lived
in vain. "They are lik