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The Club of Queer Trades | Gilbert K. Chesterton | |
The Awful Reason of the Vicar's Visit |
Page 11 of 13 |
And at these words I also rose to my feet, for the great tragedy of my life had come. Splendid and exciting as life was in continual contact with an intellect like Basil's, I had always the feeling that that splendour and excitement were on the borderland of sanity. He lived perpetually near the vision of the reason of things which makes men lose their reason. And I felt of his insanity as men feel of the death of friends with heart disease. It might come anywhere, in a field, in a hansom cab, looking at a sunset, smoking a cigarette. It had come now. At the very moment of delivering a judgement for the salvation of a fellow creature, Basil Grant had gone mad. "Your whiskers," he cried, advancing with blazing eyes. "Give me your whiskers. And your bald head." The old vicar naturally retreated a step or two. I stepped between. "Sit down, Basil," I implored, "you're a little excited. Finish your wine." "Whiskers," he answered sternly, "whiskers." And with that he made a dash at the old gentleman, who made a dash for the door, but was intercepted. And then, before I knew where I was the quiet room was turned into something between a pantomime and a pandemonium by those two. Chairs were flung over with a crash, tables were vaulted with a noise like thunder, screens were smashed, crockery scattered in smithereens, and still Basil Grant bounded and bellowed after the Rev. Ellis Shorter. |
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The Club of Queer Trades Gilbert K. Chesterton |
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