Throughout these rather
formless meditations he sometimes thought of his past life and the long
array of years (they had begun so early) during which he had had nothing
in his head but "enterprise." They seemed far away now, for his present
attitude was more than a holiday, it was almost a rupture. He had told
Tristram that the pendulum was swinging back and it appeared that the
backward swing had not yet ended. Still "enterprise," which was over
in the other quarter wore to his mind a different aspect at different
hours. In its train a thousand forgotten episodes came trooping back
into his memory. Some of them he looked complacently enough in the face;
from some he averted his head. They were old efforts, old exploits,
antiquated examples of "smartness" and sharpness. Some of them, as he
looked at them, he felt decidedly proud of; he admired himself as if
he had been looking at another man. And, in fact, many of the qualities
that make a great deed were there: the decision, the resolution, the
courage, the celerity, the clear eye, and the strong hand. Of certain
other achievements it would be going too far to say that he was ashamed
of them for Newman had never had a stomach for dirty work. He was
blessed with a natural impulse to disfigure with a direct, unreasoning
blow the comely visage of temptation.
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