Yes, that time made
me very sorry . . . . .
"Years of hard work after that and never a sight of the door.
It's only recently it has come back to me. With it there has come
a sense as though some thin tarnish had spread itself over my
world. I began to think of it as a sorrowful and bitter thing that
I should never see that door again. Perhaps I was suffering a
little from overwork--perhaps it was what I've heard spoken of as
the feeling of forty. I don't know. But certainly the keen
brightness that makes effort easy has gone out of things recently,
and that just at a time with all these new political developments
--when I ought to be working. Odd, isn't it? But I do begin to
find life toilsome, its rewards, as I come near them, cheap. I
began a little while ago to want the garden quite badly. Yes--and
I've seen it three times."
"The garden?"
"No--the door! And I haven't gone in!"
He leaned over the table to me, with an enormous sorrow in his
voice as he spoke. "Thrice I have had my chance--THRICE!
If ever that door offers itself to me again, I swore, I will go in
out of this dust and heat, out of this dry glitter of vanity, out
of these toilsome futilities. I will go and never return. This
time I will stay . . . . . I swore it and when the time came--
I DIDN'T GO.
"Three times in one year have I passed that door and failed to
enter.
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