He was already famous; he
would soon be glorious. Looking out once more over the familiar
desert, he felt the searchings of his conscience stilled by the
manifest certainty that it was for this that Providence had been
reserving him through all these years of labour and of sorrow for
this! What was the Mahdi to stand up against him! A thousand
schemes, a thousand possibilities sprang to life in his
pullulating brain. A new intoxication carried him away. 'Il faut
etre toujours ivre. Tout est la: c'est l'unique question.' Little
though he knew it, Gordon was a disciple of Baudelaire. 'Pour ne
pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos epaules et
vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans treve.' Yes-
- but how feeble were those gross resources of the miserable
Abdul-Shakur! Rum? Brandy? Oh, he knew all about them; they were
nothing. He tossed off a glass. They were nothing at all. The
true drunkenness lay elsewhere. He seized a paper and pencil, and
dashed down a telegram to Sir Evelyn Baring. Another thought
struck him, and another telegram followed. And another, and yet
another. He had made up his mind; he would visit the Mahdi in
person, and alone. He might do that; or he might retire to the
Equator. He would decidedly retire to the Equator, and hand over
the Bahr-el-Ghazal province to the King of the Belgians.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362