all that happened many years ago; long enough for even the restlessness to have forgotten, one would think. and i am content — successful. moreover, i am well liked in the world, which means a lot to me, who to be content must be loved.
just now, alone in my room, i viewed myself in a mirror. the face that looked back was familiar enough; as familiar, or rather more so, than my own soul. i myself liked it.
smooth, young-looking for a man near forty; pleasant — above all else pleasant — with a little inward twist at the corners of the finely cut mouth, and an amused but wholly agreeable slyness to the clear, light-blue eyes.
not romantic. romance is only another word for idealism, and that face has no ideals of its own. yet so many romantic people have loved it! as i looked, my mind drifted back over the long, dear, self-sacrificing, idealistic line of those who have borne my burdens and made my life easy and enjoyable.
away down, pressed back in the very depths of my being, a pang of horror gnawed; but i have grown used to that. that wasn’t me. i was — i am — that face which returned my gaze from the mirror.
it is true that left to himself the boy, clayton, might never have dared take that which so many people in this good old world are ready to offer to one who does dare; who is not afraid to be the god above their altar. but what harm to the devotees? that sort get their own happiness so. they like to sacrifice themselves and, to change the simile, they love their crucifier. they suffer, endure perhaps, like nils berquist, all shame, and the final agony of death. and god sends them a dream, and they are content!
i understand that. why not? it is because i have strength to be what they are if i chose that i have such strength in being what i am. i am content in my own fashion, which suits me, and the restlessness should learn to be content in the same manner.
let it be quiet now. i have written the story; i, clayton barbour, the successful, the loved, the happy . . .
what, still restless and torn with horror? then bring out the whole truth if you must, and be quiet after!
what has been written was the story of clayton barbour; but it is i whom he has tormented into writing it for him!
yes, i, the pleasant, crafty usurper; i, the ignoble hypocrite to myself and god; i, the self ridden outcast of happiness in any world; the eternal and accursed sham; the acceptor of sacrifice, the loved, the damned, the angel-drowned-in-mire, serapion!
i have absorbed his being; yes! but in the very face of victory i, who never had a conscience, have paid a bitter price for the new lease of life in the flesh that i coveted. body and soul you yielded to me, clayton barbour; body and soul, i took you, and thence onward forever, body and soul, in spirit or flesh, we two are indissolubly bound.
and my punishment is this: that you are not content, and i know now that you never will be. year by year you, who were weak, have grown stronger; day by day, even hour by hour, you are tightening the grip that draws me into your own cursed circle of conscience-stricken misery.
sooner or later — ah, but the very writing of this gives you power. is it true, then? after all these years must the long, bright shadow of nils berquist’s cross touch and save me even against my will? must i, clayton–serapion, the dual soul made one, surrender at last and myself take up the awful burden god lays on those he loves?
first painful step on that road, i have confessed.
the end
