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 cou

Answer 1

ld easily supply the necessary details to make them truly dilapidated. The elderly gentleman appeared to be engaged in a solitary reverie, perhaps contemplating his lost opportunities or the passage of time.

Gortsby observed him with keen interest, allowing his mind to conjure a narrative around the man’s presence. He could envision a once-esteemed figure, perhaps a lawyer or a member of the gentry, now reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. The gentle slope of the man’s shoulders suggested a burden carried for many years, a weight of expectations and disappointments.

As Gortsby analyzed the passing individuals under the dim streetlights, he began to create stories for them as well. There was the young woman, clutching a book tightly to her chest, perhaps an aspiring writer or a student yearning for a chance to escape her mundane life. A couple walked hand in hand, their whispered conversations imbued with affection, yet Gortsby couldn’t help but wonder if their love would withstand the test of time.

This exercise in imagination provided a brief respite from Gortsby’s own heartache. However, it was not long before he was interrupted by the rustling of paper. The elderly gentleman beside him suddenly pulled out a worn-out notebook and began scribbling furiously. The determined furrow in his brow suggested that he might be crafting his own narrative, perhaps an epitaph for his lost ambitions or a testament to a life that had not unfolded as he had once envisioned.

Intrigued, Gortsby leaned in a little closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s writing. The curiosity simmering within him was nearly palpable, blending with his earlier cynicism. This was a fellow traveler in the ebbing light of dusk, someone who, like himself, was attempting to navigate through the shadows of reality.

With dusk enveloping the park, Gortsby felt an unexpected kinship with the elderly gentleman. Perhaps, he mused, within their shared solitude lay the flickering flame of hope, a spark that could illuminate their respective journeys. And with this thought, the line between observer and participant began to blur; the stories they had created in the quietude of their minds were now entwined in the intricate tapestry of life that persisted beyond the fading daylight.