like tools. But the dirty shell of
his toil did upholster him a little, and he emerges from it gaunter,
and horribly squeezed within the littleness of a torturing jacket. His
bony legs, in trousers too wide and too short, break off at the bottom
in long and mournful shoes, with hillocks, and resembling crocodiles;
and their soles, being soaked in paraffin, leave oily footprints,
rainbow-hued, in the plastic mud.

Perhaps it is because of this dismal companion towards whom I turn my
head, and whom I see trotting slowly and painfully at my side in the
rumbling grayness of the evening exodus, that I have a sudden and
tragic vision of the people, as in a flash's passing. (I do sometimes
get glimpses of the things of life momentarily.) The dark doorway to
my vision seems torn asunder. Between these two phantoms in front the
sable swarm outspreads. The multitude encumbers the plain that
bristles with dark chimneys and cranes, with ladders of iron planted
black and vertical in nakedness--a plain vaguely scribbled with
geometrical lines, rails and cinder paths--a plain utilized yet barren.
In some places about the approaches to the factory cartloads of clinker
and cinders have been dumped, and some of it continues to burn like
pyres, throwing off dark flames and darker curtains. Higher, the hazy
clouds vomited by the tall chimneys come together in broad mountains
whose foundations brush the ground and cover the land with a stormy
sky. In the depths of these clouds humanity is let loose. The immense
expanse of men moves and shouts and rolls in the same course all
through the suburb. An inexhaustible echo of cries surrounds us; it is
like hell in eruption and begirt by bronze horizons.

At that moment I am afraid of the multitude. It brings something
limitless into being, something which surpasses and threatens us; and
it seems to me that he who is not with it will one day be trodden
underfoot.

My head goes down in thought. I walk close to Marcassin, who gives me
the impression of an escaping animal, hopping through the
darkness--whether because of his name,[1] or his stench, I do not know.
The evening is darkening; the wind is tearing leaves away; it thickens
with rain and begins to nip.

[Footnote 1: _Marcassin_--a young wild boar.--Tr.]

My miserable companion's voice comes to me in shreds. He is trying to
explain to me the law of unremitting toil. An echo of his murmur
reaches my face.

"And that's wha