It was evening now and he had
been asleep. The sun was gone
behind the hill and there was a
shadow all across the plain and
the small animals were feeding
close to camp; quick dropping
heads and switching tails, he
watched them keeping well out
away from the bush now. The birds
no longer waited on the ground.
They were all perched heavily in a
tree. There were many more of
them. His personal boy was sitting
by the bed.
"Memsahib's gone to shoot," the boy
said. "Does Bwana want?"
"Nothing."
She had gone to kill a piece of
meat and, knowing how he liked to
watch the game, she had gone well
away so she would not disturb this
little pocket of the plain that he
could see. She was always
thoughtful, he thought. On anything
she knew about, or had read, or
that she had ever heard.
It was not her fault that when he
went to her he was already over.
How could a woman know that you
meant nothing that you said; that
you spoke only from habit and to
be comfortable? After he no longer
meant what he said, his lies were
more successful with women than
when he had told them the truth.
It was not so much that he lied as
that there was no truth to tell. He
had had his life and it was over
and then he went on living it again
with different people and more
money, with the best of the same
places, and some new ones.
You kept from thinking and it was
all marvellous. You were equipped
with good insides so that you did
not go to pieces that way, the way
most of them had, and you made
an attitude that you cared nothing
for the work you used to do, now
that you could no longer do it. But,
in yourself, you said that you would
write about these people; about the
very rich; that you were really not
of them but a spy in their country;
that you would leave it and write
of it and for once it would be
written by some one who knew what
he was writing of. But he would
never do it, because each day of
not writing, of comfort, of being
that which he despised, dulled his
ability and softened his will to
work so that, finally, he did no
work at all. The people he knew
now were all much more
comfortable when he did not work.
Africa was where he had been
happiest in the good time of his
life, so he had come out here to
start again. They had made this
safari with the minimum of comfort.
There was no hardship; but there
was no luxury and he had thought
that he could get back into
training that way. That in some
way he could work the fat off his
soul the way a fighter went into the
mountains to work and train in
order to burn it out of his body.
She had liked it. She said she
loved it. She loved anything that
was exciting, that involved a
change of scene, where there were
new people and where things were
pleasant. And he had felt the
illusion of returning strength of will
to work. Now if this was how it
ended, and he knew it was, he
must not turn like some snake
biting itself because its back was
broken. It wasn't this woman's
fault. If it had not been she it
would have been another. If he
lived by a lie he should try to die
by it. He heard a shot beyond the
hill.
Title : Snows of kilimanjaro (3)
Description : It was evening now and he had been asleep. The sun was gone behind the hill and there was a shadow all across the plain and the small an...