A Wet Night in London 



for the stage, but anyhow far removed, like the 

 goddesses on Olympus, from the splash and misery 

 of London. Drive on. 



The head of a great grey horse in a van drawn up 

 by the pavement, the head and neck stand out and 

 conquer the rain and misty dinginess by sheer force 

 of beauty, sheer strength of character. He turns his 

 head his neck forms a fine curve, his face is full of 

 intelligence, in spite of the half dim light and the 

 driving rain, of the thick atmosphere, and the black 

 hollow of the covered van behind, his head and neck 

 stand out, just as in old portraits the face is still 

 bright, though surrounded with crusted varnish. It 

 would be a glory to any man to paint him. Drive on. 



How strange the dim, uncertain faces of the crowd, 

 half-seen, seem in the hurry and rain; faces held 

 downwards and muffled by the darkness not quite 

 human in their eager and intensely concentrated 

 haste. No one thinks of or notices another on, 

 on splash, shove, and scramble; an intense selfish- 

 ness, so selfish as not to be selfish, if that can be 

 understood, so absorbed as to be past observing 

 that any one lives but themselves. Human beings 

 reduced to mere hurrying machines, worked by wind 

 and rain, and stern necessities of life; driven on; 

 something very hard and unhappy in the thought of 

 this. They seem reduced to the condition of the 

 wooden cabs the mere vehicles pulled along by 

 the irresistible horse Circumstance. They shut their 

 eyes mentally, wrap themselves in the overcoat of 

 indifference, and drive on, drive on. It is time 

 to get out at last. The 'bus stops on one side of the 

 street, and you have to cross to the other. Look up 

 and down lights are rushing each way, but for the 

 moment none are close. The gas -lamps shine in the 

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