On the Monday morning of which I am writing, and on which we had
our last conversation, I had made up my mind that, as I had spoilt
many good conversations by talking too much myself, I would hold
my tongue and let the Master for once make the first move. I had
not had much experience of his classical and devastating silences
and had often defended him from the charge; but it was time to see
what happened if I talked less.
When we got into the room and he had shut the door, I absently
selected the only comfortable chair and we sat down next to each
other. A long and quelling silence followed the lighting of my
cigarette. Feeling rather at a loose end, I thought out a few
stage directions--"here business with handkerchief, etc."--and
adjusted the buckles on my shoes. I looked at some photographs and
fingered a paper-knife and odds and ends on the table near me. The
oppressive silence continued. I strolled to the book-shelves and,
under cover of a copy of "Country Conversations," peeped at the
Master. He appeared to be quite unaware of my existence.
"Nothing doing," said I to myself, putting back the book.
Something had switched him off as if he had been the electric
light.
At last, breaking the silence with considerable impatience, I
said:
"Really, Master, there is very little excuse for your silence!
Surely you have something to say to me, something to tell me; you
have had an experience since we talked to each other that I have
never had: you have been near Death.
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