The vices of peace are the vices of old men
Apr 21, 2009 11:02:11 GMT -5
Post by Lawrence on Apr 21, 2009 11:02:11 GMT -5
He wasn't sure he should be here.
No, that wasn't strictly true. He knew, in his heart, that it was his place. That speaking for the Arabs, alongside them, was a purpose he was uniquely qualified to fulfill. That his life, up till now, had been building not to the revolt in the desert but in its aftermath. He'd never been a solider. Not really.
But reminding himself of that fact was difficult, when he woke in the middle of the night not knowing where he was, not recognizing the softness of the mattress under him or, upon being distracted from a daydream, the trousers encasing his legs. At the same time his pen itched to be put to paper, his memories burning a hole in his soul he thought he could not cauterize until he had committed it all to some permanent form. He wanted to go home, to find a home, a cottage he could call his own and be alone. Instead, he was here, preparing to go to war again, but this time with words. He should have felt more comfortable with that. He had more qualifications there than he'd had going to Arabia.
But perhaps it was just the prospect of seeing them again. His comrades. Feisal. Ali. Appearing before them in his English clothes, his head uncovered, nothing about him to distinguish him from anyone else. That was what he'd wanted, too. Only... it wasn't what he wanted to be for them.
All this, however, dissolved into a more generalized confusion as he walked through the Hall of Mirrors, empty but for his deafening footsteps and his own image, small and newly pale again, multiplied across the ages. This was wrong; no one was here. He'd been brought here from his hotel and now, as he explored, he realized something was very, very wrong. There weren't even electric lights, and he was certain there had been, before.
When he emerged, to find his car or any car and get back to the city, he noted that there were none. There weren't even tyre tracks. And Lawrence stood, staring up at Louis XIV, torn between walking back to Paris and considering, for one night at least, Versailles as his own private cottage.
"'There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself,'" he said softly.
No, that wasn't strictly true. He knew, in his heart, that it was his place. That speaking for the Arabs, alongside them, was a purpose he was uniquely qualified to fulfill. That his life, up till now, had been building not to the revolt in the desert but in its aftermath. He'd never been a solider. Not really.
But reminding himself of that fact was difficult, when he woke in the middle of the night not knowing where he was, not recognizing the softness of the mattress under him or, upon being distracted from a daydream, the trousers encasing his legs. At the same time his pen itched to be put to paper, his memories burning a hole in his soul he thought he could not cauterize until he had committed it all to some permanent form. He wanted to go home, to find a home, a cottage he could call his own and be alone. Instead, he was here, preparing to go to war again, but this time with words. He should have felt more comfortable with that. He had more qualifications there than he'd had going to Arabia.
But perhaps it was just the prospect of seeing them again. His comrades. Feisal. Ali. Appearing before them in his English clothes, his head uncovered, nothing about him to distinguish him from anyone else. That was what he'd wanted, too. Only... it wasn't what he wanted to be for them.
All this, however, dissolved into a more generalized confusion as he walked through the Hall of Mirrors, empty but for his deafening footsteps and his own image, small and newly pale again, multiplied across the ages. This was wrong; no one was here. He'd been brought here from his hotel and now, as he explored, he realized something was very, very wrong. There weren't even electric lights, and he was certain there had been, before.
When he emerged, to find his car or any car and get back to the city, he noted that there were none. There weren't even tyre tracks. And Lawrence stood, staring up at Louis XIV, torn between walking back to Paris and considering, for one night at least, Versailles as his own private cottage.
"'There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself,'" he said softly.