The Groping City

           IleftthepubdoorswingingbehindmeasImademywaytothecornerofthemainroad.ThereIhesitated.

           Totheleft,throughmilesofsuburbanstreets,laytheopencounty;totheright,theWestEndofLondon,withtheCitybeyond.Iwasfeelingsomewhatrestored,butcuriouslydetachednow,andrudderless.Ihadnoglimmeringofaplan,andinthefaceofwhatIhadatlastbeguntoperceiveasavastandnotmerelylocalcatastrophe,ifwasstilltoostunnedtobegintoreasononeout.Whatplancouldtherebetodealwithsuchathing?Ifeltforlorn,castintodesolation,andyetnotquitereal,notquitemyselfhereandnow.Innodirectionwasthereanytraffic,noranysoundofit.Theonlysignsoflifewereafewpeoplehereandtherecautiouslygropingtheirwayalongtheshopfronts.

           Thedaywasperfectforearlysummer.Thesunpoureddownfromadeepblueskysetwithtuftsofwhitewoollyclouds.Allofitwascleanandfreshsaveforasmearmadebyasinglecolumnofgreasysmokecomingfromsomewherebehindthehousestothenorth.

           Istoodthereindecisivelyforafewminutes.ThenIturnedeast,Londonward.

           TothisdayIcannotsayquitewhy.Perhapsitwasaninstincttoseekfamiliarplaces,orthefeelingthatiftherewereauthorityanywhereitmustbesomewhereinthatdirection.

           Thebrandyhadmademefeelmorehungrythanever,butIdidnotfindtheproblemoffeedingaseasytodealwithasitshouldhavebeen.Andyetthereweretheshops,untenantedandunguarded,withfoodinthewindows—andherewasI,withhungerandthemeanstopay.