Dusk

Question

by H.H. Munro (Saki)

So Gortsby’s imagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost deserted walk. He was in the mood to count himself among the defeated. Money troubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolled into the thoroughfares of light and noise, and taken his place among the jostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. He had failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heartsore and disillusionised, and not disinclined to take a certain cynical pleasure in observing and labeling his fellow wanderers as they went their ways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.

On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air of defiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respect in an individual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. His clothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster in the half-light, but one’s imagination could not have pictured the wearer embarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying out ninepence on a carnation buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to that forlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of the world’s lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to go Gortsby imagined him returning to a home circle where he was snubbed and of no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weekly bill was the beginning and end of the interest he inspired. His retreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on the bench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressed but scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if to emphasise the fact that the world went badly with him the newcomer unburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flung himself into the seat.

Answer 1

Gortsby, observing the young man beside him, continued his reflections on the nature of despair and defeat. The benches of the almost deserted walkway seemed to serve as a gathering place for the disillusioned—those like him who found themselves at odds with life’s expectations.

The young man’s well-tailored clothing betrayed an incongruity with his expression—an outward appearance of potential success trumped by an inner turmoil that gnawed at the very fabric of his being. Gortsby contemplated the struggles of youth, realizing that they could be just as heavy as those of the elderly gentleman who had just left. Each generation, it seemed, bore its burdens, and yet here they were, sharing this pause in the storm of existence.

Gortsby recalled his own aspirations, now marred by the weight of reality. In moments like these, he felt both an affinity and a distance from the others around him, as if he were a silent observer in a play where the characters were all grappling with their own narratives of failure or frustration.

Just then, the young man, still seething with discontent, began to speak, though Gortsby was not certain if his words were meant for him or simply a soliloquy to the night. “It’s all a bloody farce, you know,” the man declared, his voice sharply cutting through the stillness. “One minute, everything seems possible, and the next, it all comes crashing down. What’s the point of it all?”

Gortsby, intrigued, offered a sympathetic nod, recognizing the universal sentiment in the young man’s rant. He wanted to reach out, to engage in dialogue that might lift the veil of cynicism that surrounded them both, but an inexplicable hesitation held him back. Instead, he merely listened as they both settled into the shared silence of night, nestled in their own thoughts of life's fickle nature.

At last, the night deepened, and as the lamplights flickered against the encroaching darkness, Gortsby wondered—was there hope to be found in vulnerability? Could two spirits, weighed down by the burdens of disappointment, find solace in their shared experience? He yearned to believe that somewhere within the dusk lay the promise of dawn, a light that could pierce through the shadows and reveal the beauty that still thrived, even amidst despair.