DOI article:
D'Arcy, Ella: The web of Maya
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27806#0308
304 The Web of Maya
discovered and brought home to him. These were the ready-made
notions the truth of which Le Mesurier had taken for granted :
but now he had tested them ; he had tested them, and behold,
they were false. After all, he told himself, every man’s experience
is individual; you can learn nothing from books, nothing from
the experience of others. Hearsay evidence is worthless. “ I am
a murderer, as it is called. I should inevitably be hanged if they
could prove the thing against me. And yet—remorse ? ” No ;
he felt himself to be a thousand times happier, a thousand times
easier in his mind, a thousand times more contented, more at
peace, than he had ever been in the days of his innocence. In killing
Shergold, he had simply removed an intolerable burden from his
spirit.
He found himself singing, whistling, scraps of opera, snatches
of old ballads, as he went about the daily routine of preparing his
food, or as he wandered hither and thither over the scant sun-
burned grass of the islet. After all, Shergold had well-deserved
his fate. It was owing to him that Le Mesurier’s life was ruined,
his home broken up, his boy separated from him, his wife’s affec-
tions alienated. It was thanks to Shergold that he had come here,
more than a year ago, to lead the life of a misanthrope, alone in
this melancholy cottage on Le Tas.
And yet, Shergold was not his wife’s lover ; had never been her
lover ; never, Le Mesurier knew, had desired to be her lover. He
thought he could almost have forgiven Shergold more easily if he
had been her lover ; the situation would have seemed, somehow,
less abnormal than the actual one. But Shergold had got at her
intellectually, had seduced her mind, had subjugated her spiritually.
He had known her before her marriage, ever since she was a girl
of sixteen. He had given her lessons in Greek, in mathematics.
Possibly, had he not been a married man himself at the time, he
might
discovered and brought home to him. These were the ready-made
notions the truth of which Le Mesurier had taken for granted :
but now he had tested them ; he had tested them, and behold,
they were false. After all, he told himself, every man’s experience
is individual; you can learn nothing from books, nothing from
the experience of others. Hearsay evidence is worthless. “ I am
a murderer, as it is called. I should inevitably be hanged if they
could prove the thing against me. And yet—remorse ? ” No ;
he felt himself to be a thousand times happier, a thousand times
easier in his mind, a thousand times more contented, more at
peace, than he had ever been in the days of his innocence. In killing
Shergold, he had simply removed an intolerable burden from his
spirit.
He found himself singing, whistling, scraps of opera, snatches
of old ballads, as he went about the daily routine of preparing his
food, or as he wandered hither and thither over the scant sun-
burned grass of the islet. After all, Shergold had well-deserved
his fate. It was owing to him that Le Mesurier’s life was ruined,
his home broken up, his boy separated from him, his wife’s affec-
tions alienated. It was thanks to Shergold that he had come here,
more than a year ago, to lead the life of a misanthrope, alone in
this melancholy cottage on Le Tas.
And yet, Shergold was not his wife’s lover ; had never been her
lover ; never, Le Mesurier knew, had desired to be her lover. He
thought he could almost have forgiven Shergold more easily if he
had been her lover ; the situation would have seemed, somehow,
less abnormal than the actual one. But Shergold had got at her
intellectually, had seduced her mind, had subjugated her spiritually.
He had known her before her marriage, ever since she was a girl
of sixteen. He had given her lessons in Greek, in mathematics.
Possibly, had he not been a married man himself at the time, he
might