Index
Jack L. Chalker Changewinds 1 When the Changewinds Blow
Chalker Jack L W Świecie Studni 1 Północ przy Studni Dusz (pdf)
Jack Vance To Live Forever (v5.0) (pdf)
Chalker Jack L W Świecie Studni 2 Wyjście (pdf)
Jack L. Chalker Watchers at the Well 02 Shadows of the Well of Souls
Jack L. Chalker WOS 5 Twilight at the Well of Souls
Jay Caselberg Jack Stein 1 Wyrmhole
Jack L. Chalker Soul R
Jack Kerouac On the Road
685. London Cait Przytul mnie mocno
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    droop of her mouth. The look in her eyes became faraway. She rubbed the
    dimness hastily out of them; it interfered with her stitching.
    'No, it is not the hunger that makes the heart ache,' she explained. 'You get
    used to being hungry. It is for my child that I cry. It was the machine that
    killed her. It is true that she worked hard, but I cannot understand. She was
    strong. And she was young only forty; and she worked only thirty years. She
    began young, it is true; but my man died. The boiler exploded down at the
    works. And what were we to do? She was ten, but she was very strong. But the
    machine killed her. Yes, it did. It killed her, and she was the fastest worker
    in the shop. I have thought about it often, and I know. That is why I cannot
    work in the shop. The machine bothers my head. Always I hear it saying, "I did
    it, I did it." And it says that all day long. And then I think of my daughter,
    and I cannot work.'
    The moistness was in her old eyes again, and she had to wipe it away before
    she could go on stitching.
    I heard the Bishop stumbling up the stairs, and I opened the door. What a
    spectacle he was. On his back he carried half a sack of coal, with kindling on
    top. Some of the coal dust had coated his face, and the sweat from his
    exertions was running in streaks. He dropped his burden in the corner by the
    stove and wiped his face on a coarse bandanna handkerchief. I could scarcely
    accept the verdict of my senses. The Bishop, black as a coal-heaver, in a
    working-man's cheap cotton shirt (one button was missing from the throat), and
    in overalls! That was the most incongruous of all the overalls, frayed at the
    bottoms, dragged down at the heels, and held up by a narrow leather belt
    around the hips such as labourers wear.
    Though the Bishop was warm, the poor, swollen hands of the old woman were
    already cramping with the cold; and before we left her, the Bishop had built
    the fire, while I had peeled the potatoes and put them on to boil. I was to
    learn, as time went by, that there were many cases similar to hers, and many
    worse, hidden away in the monstrous depths of the tenements in my
    neighbourhood.
    We got back to find Ernest alarmed by my absence. After the first surprise of
    greeting was over, the Bishop leaned back in his chair, stretched out his
    overall-covered legs, and actually sighed a comfortable sigh. We were the
    first of his old friends he had met since his disappearance, he told us; and
    during the intervening weeks he must have suffered greatly from loneliness. He
    told us much, though he told us more of the joy he had experienced in doing
    the Master's bidding.
    'For truly now,' he said, 'I am feeding his lambs. And I have learned a great
    lesson. The soul cannot be ministered to till the stomach is appeased. His
    lambs must be fed with bread and butter and potatoes and meat; after that, and
    only after that, are their spirits ready for more refined nourishment.'
    He ate heartily of the supper I cooked. Never had he had such an appetite at
    our table in the old days. We spoke of it, and he said that he had never been
    so healthy in his life.
    'I walk always now,' he said, and a blush was on his cheek at the thought of
    the time when he rode in his carriage, as though it were a sin not lightly to
    be laid.
    'My health is better for it,' he added hastily. 'And I am very happy indeed,
    most happy. At last I am a consecrated spirit.'
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    And yet there was in his face a permanent pain, the pain of the world that he
    was now taking to himself. He was seeing life in the raw, and it was a
    different life from what he had known within the printed books of his library.
    'And you are responsible for all this, young man,' he said directly to
    Ernest.
    Ernest was embarrassed and awkward.
    'I I warned you,' he faltered.
    'No, you misunderstand,' the Bishop answered. 'I speak not in reproach, but
    in gratitude. I have you to thank for showing me my path. You led me from
    theories about life to life itself. You pulled aside the veils from the social
    shams. You were light in my darkness, but now I, too, see the light. And I am
    very happy, only& ' he hesitated painfully, and in his eyes fear leaped large.
    'Only the persecution. I harm no one. Why will they not let me alone? But it
    is not that. It is the nature of the persecution. I shouldn't mind if they cut
    my flesh with stripes, or burned me at the stake, or crucified me
    head-downward. But it is the asylum that frightens me. Think of it! Of me in
    an asylum for the insane! It is revolting. I saw some of the cases at the
    sanatorium. They were violent. My blood chills when I think of it. And to be
    imprisoned for the rest of my life amid scenes of screaming madness! No! no!
    Not that! Not that!'
    It was pitiful. His hands shook, his whole body quivered and shrank away from
    the picture he had conjured. But the next moment he was calm.
    'Forgive me,' he said simply. 'It is my wretched nerves. And if the Master's
    work leads there, so be it. Who am I to complain?'
    I felt like crying aloud as I looked at him: 'Great Bishop! O hero! God's
    hero!'
    As the evening wore on, we learned more of his doings.
    'I sold my house my houses, rather,' he said, 'and all my other possessions.
    I knew I must do it secretly, else they would have taken everything away from
    me. That would have been terrible. I often marvel these days at the immense
    quantity of potatoes two or three hundred thousand dollars will buy, or bread,
    or meat, or coal and kindling.' He turned to Ernest. 'You are right, young
    man. Labour is dreadfully underpaid. I never did a bit of work in my life,
    except to appeal æsthetically to Pharisees I thought I was preaching the
    message and yet I was worth half a million dollars. I never knew what half a
    million dollars meant until I realized how much potatoes and bread and butter
    and meat it could buy. And then I realized something more. I realized that all
    those potatoes and that bread and butter and meat were mine, and that I had
    not worked to make them. Then it was clear to me someone else had worked and
    made them and been robbed of them. And when I came down amongst the poor I
    found those who had been robbed and who were hungry and wretched because they
    had been robbed.'
    We drew him back to his narrative.
    'The money? I have it deposited in many different banks under different
    names. It can never be taken away from me, because it can never be found. And
    it is so good, that money. It buys so much food. I never knew before what
    money was good for.'
    'I wish we could get some of it for the propaganda,' Ernest said wistfully.
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    'It would do immense good.'
    'Do you think so?' the Bishop said. 'I do not have much faith in politics. In
    tact, I am afraid I do not understand politics.'
    Ernest was delicate in such matters. He did not repeat his suggestion, though
    he knew only too well the sore straits the Socialist Party was in through lack
    of money.
    'I sleep in cheap lodging-houses,' the Bishop went on. 'But I am afraid, and
    I never stay long in one place. Also, I rent two rooms in working-men's houses
    in different quarters of the city. It is a great extravagance, I know, but it
    is necessary. I make up for it in part by doing my own cooking, though
    sometimes I get something to eat in cheap coffeehouses. And I have made a
    discovery.Tamales1are very good when the air grows chilly late at night. Only [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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