Barty stood there for some time, quite dazed; partly because his pupil was so dilated he could hardly see—partly (he thinks) because he in some way became unconscious; although when he woke from this little seeming trance, which may have lasted for more than a minute, he found himself still standing upright on his legs. What woke him was the sudden consciousness of the north, which he hadn't felt for many years; and this gave him extraordinary confidence in himself, and such a wholesome sense of power and courage that he quickly recovered his wits; and when the glad surprise of this had worn itself away he was able to think and realize the terrible thing that had happened. He was almost pleased that his aunt Caroline was away. He felt he could not have faced her with such news—it was a thing easier to write and prepare her for than to tell by word of mouth.
He walked about Louvain for several hours, to tire himself. Then he went to Brussels and dined, and again walked about the lamp‑lit streets and up and down the station, and finally went back to Malines by a late train—very nervous—expecting that the retina of his right eye would suddenly go pop—yet hugging himself all the while in his renewed old comfortable feeling of companionship with the north pole, that made him feel like a boy again; that inexplicable sensation so intimately associated with all the best reminiscences of his innocent and happy childhood.
He had been talking to himself like a father all day, though not in the same strain as M. Noiret; and had almost arrived at framing the programme of a possible existence—singing at cafés with his guitar—singing anywhere: he felt sure of a living for himself, and for the little boy who would have to lead him about—if the worst came to the worst.
If but the feeling of self‑orientation which was so necessary to him could only be depended upon, he felt that in time he would have pluck enough to bear anything. Indeed, total eclipse was less appalling, in its finality, than that miserable sword of Damocles which had been hanging over him for months—robbing him of his manhood—poisoning all the springs of life.
Why not make life‑long endurance of evil a study, a hobby, and a pride; and be patient as bronze or marble, and ever wear an invincible smile at grief, even when in darkness and alone? Why not, indeed!
And he set himself then and there to smile invincibly, meaning to keep on smiling for fifty years at least—the blind live long.
"'HELAS! MON JEUNE AMI....'"
So he chatted to himself, saying Sursum cor! sursum corda! all the way home; and walking down the Grand Brul, he had a little adventure which absolutely gave him a hearty guffaw and sent him almost laughing to bed.