Gladiator by Philip Wylie (recommended reading .txt) 📕

across the goal for the winning touchdown, he saw three of the men on the opposing team lie down and weep. There he stood, pretending to pant, feigning physical distress, making himself a hero at the expense of innocent victims. Jackstraws for a giant. There was no triumph in that. He could not go on.

Afterwards they had made him speak, and the breathless words that had once come so easily moved heavily through his mind. Yet he had carried his advantage beyond the point of turning back. He could not say that the opponents of Webster might as well attempt to hold back a Juggernaut, to throw down a siege-gun, to outrace light, as to lay their hands on him to check his intent. Webster had been good to him. He loved Webster and it deserved his best. His best! He peered again into the celebrating night and wondered what that awful best would be.

He desired passionately to be able to give that⁠—to cover the earth, making men glad and bringing a revolution into their lives, to work himself into a fury and to fatigue his incredible sinews, to end with the feeling of a race well run, a task nobly executed. And, for a year, that ambition had seemed in some small way to be approaching fruition. Now it was turned to ashes. It was not with the muscles of men that his goal was to be attained. They could not oppose him.

As he sat gloomy and distressed, he wondered for what reason there burned in him that wish to do great deeds. Humanity itself was too selfish and too ignorant to care. It could boil in its tiny prejudices for centuries to come and never know that there could be a difference. Moreover, who was he to grind his soul and beat his thoughts for the benefit of people who would never know and never care? What honour, when he was dead, to lie beneath a slab on which was punily graven some note of mighty accomplishment? Why could he not content himself with the food he ate, the sunshine, with wind in trees, and cold water, and a woman? It was that sad and silly command within to transcend his vegetable self that made him human. He tried to think about it bitterly: fool man, grown suddenly more conscious than the other beasts⁠—how quickly he had become vain because of it and how that vanity led him forever onward! Or was it vanity⁠—when his aching soul proclaimed that he would gladly achieve and die without other recognition or acclaim than that which rose within himself? Martyrs were made of such stuff. And was not that, perhaps, an even more exaggerated vanity? It was so pitiful to be a man and nothing more. Hugo bowed his head and let his body tremble with strange agony. Perhaps, he thought, even the agony was a selfish pleasure to him. Then he should be ashamed. He felt shame and then thought that the feeling rose from a wish for it and foundered angrily in the confusion of his introspection. He knew only and knew but dimly that he would lift himself up again and go on, searching for some universal foe to match against his strength. So pitiful to be a man! So Christ must have felt in Gethsemane.

“Hey, Hugo!”

“Yeah?”

“What the hell did you come over here for?”

“To be alone.”

“Is that a hint?” Lefty entered the room. “They want you over at the bonfire. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“All right. I’ll go. But, honest to God, I’ve had enough of this business for today.”

Lefty slapped Hugo’s shoulders. “The great must pay for their celebrity. Come on, you sap.”

“All right.”

“What’s the matter? Anything the matter?”

“No. Nothing’s the matter. Only⁠—it’s sort of sad to be⁠—” Hugo checked himself.

“Sad? Good God, man, you’re going stale.”

“Maybe that’s it.” Hugo had a sudden fancy. “Do you suppose I could be let out of next week’s game?”

“What for? My God⁠—”

Hugo pursued the idea. “It’s the last game. I can sit on the lines. You fellows all play good ball. You can probably win. If you can’t⁠—then I’ll play. If you only knew, Lefty, how tired I get sometimes⁠—”

“Tired! Why don’t you say something about it? You can lay off practice for three or four days.”

“Not that. Tired in the head, not the body. Tired of crashing through and always getting away with it. Oh, I’m not conceited. But I know they can’t stop me. You know it. It’s a gift of mine⁠—and a curse. How about it? Let’s start next week without me.”

The night ended at last. A new day came. The bell on Webster Hall stopped booming. Woodie, the coach, came to see Hugo between classes. “Lefty says you want us to start without you next week. What’s the big idea?”

“I don’t know. I thought the other birds would like a shot at Yale without me. They can do it.”

Mr. Woodman eyed his player. “That’s pretty generous of you, Hugo. Is there any other reason?”

“Not⁠—that I can explain.”

“I see.” The coach offered Hugo a cigarette after he had helped himself. “Take it. It’ll do you good.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, Hugo. I want to ask you a question. But, first, I want you to promise you’ll give me a plain answer.”

“I’ll try.”

“That won’t do.”

“Well⁠—I can’t promise.”

Woodman sighed. “I’ll ask it anyway. You can answer or not⁠—just as you wish.” He was silent. He inhaled his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. His eyes rested on Hugo with an expression of intense interest, beneath which was a softer light of something not unlike sympathy. “I’ll have to tell you something, first, Hugo. When you went away last summer, I took a trip to Colorado.”

Hugo started, and Woodman continued: “To Indian Creek. I met your father and your mother. I told them that I knew you. I did my best to gain their confidence. You see, Hugo, I’ve watched you with a more skilful eye than most people. I’ve