Chapter 31. Spirit

           

           Anybodymaypass,anyday,inthethrongedthoroughfaresofthemetropolis,somemeagre,wrinkled,yellowoldman(whomightbesupposedtohavedroppedfromthestars,iftherewereanystarintheHeavensdullenoughtobesuspectedofcastingoffsofeebleaspark),creepingalongwithascaredair,asthoughbewilderedandalittlefrightenedbythenoiseandbustle.Thisoldmanisalwaysalittleoldman.Ifhewereeverabigoldman,hehasshrunkintoalittleoldman;ifhewerealwaysalittleoldman,hehasdwindledintoalessoldman.Hiscoatisacolour,andcut,thatneverwasthemodeanywhere,atanyperiod.Clearly,itwasnotmadeforhim,orforanyindividualmortal.SomewholesalecontractormeasuredFateforfivethousandcoatsofsuchquality,andFatehaslentthisoldcoattothisoldman,asoneofalongunfinishedlineofmanyoldmen.Ithasalwayslargedullmetalbuttons,similartonootherbuttons.Thisoldmanwearsahat,athumbedandnaplessandyetanobduratehat,whichhasneveradapteditselftotheshapeofhispoorhead.Hiscoarseshirtandhiscoarseneckclothhavenomoreindividualitythanhiscoatandhat;theyhavethesamecharacterofnotbeinghis—ofnotbeinganybody’s.Yetthisoldmanwearstheseclotheswithacertainunaccustomedairofbeingdressedandelaboratedforthepublicways;asthoughhepassedthegreaterpartofhistimeinanightcapandgown.

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