"
He turned round on the blanket, put his head between his fists and continued:--
"On the Soul which I have lost and on the Conscience which I have killed, I
tell you that I CANNOT feel! I am as the gods, knowing good and evil, but
untouched by either. Is this enviable or is it not?"
When a man has lost the warning of "next morning's head," he must be in a bad
state, I answered, looking at McIntosh on the blanket, with his hair over his
eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not think the insensibility good
enough.
"For pity's sake, don't say that! I tell you, it IS good and most enviable.
Think of my consolations!"
"Have you so many, then, McIntosh?"
"Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is essentially the weapon of a
cultured man, are crude. First, my attainments, my classical and literary
knowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immoderate drinking--which reminds me that
before my soul went to the Gods last night, I sold the Pickering Horace you so
kindly lent me. Ditta Mull the Clothesman has it. It fetched ten annas, and may
be redeemed for a rupee--but still infinitely superior to yours. Secondly, the
abiding affection of Mrs. McIntosh, best of wives. Thirdly, a monument, more
enduring than brass, which I have built up in the seven years of my
degradation.
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