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Chapters (31)
  1. Cover
  2. I. The Advertisement
  3. II. The Karburator
  4. III. Pantheism
  5. IV. God in the Cellar
  6. V. Bishop Linda
  7. VI. The Board-Meeting
  8. VII. Developments
  9. VIII. The Dredge
  10. IX. The Ceremony
  11. X. Saint Ellen
  12. XI. The First Blow Struck
  13. XII. Doctor Blahous
  14. XIII. The Chronicler’s Apology
  15. XIV. The Land of Plenty
  16. XV. Disaster
  17. XVI. In the Mountains
  18. XVII. The Hammer and Star
  19. XVIII. In the Night Editor’s Room
  20. XIX. The Process of Canonization
  21. XX. St. Kilda
  22. XXI. The Telegram
  23. XXII. The Old Patriot
  24. XXIII. The Augsburg Imbroglio
  25. XXIV. The Napoleon of the Mountain Brigade
  26. XXV. The So-Called Greatest War
  27. XXVI. The Battle of Hradec Kralove
  28. XXVII. A Coral Island in the Pacific
  29. XXVIII. At Seven Cottages
  30. XXIX. The Last Battle
  31. XXX. The End of Everything

He managed to take a few steps, but fell once more, and slid downwards on his stomach. He began to crawl on all fours. His gloves were wet, the snow was inside his leggings, but he must push on. Anything rather than stay there! Melting snow and sweat poured down his cheeks. He could not see for the driving snow, and it looked as though he had lost his way; it made him weep aloud as he crept toilsomely upward. But it was hard work crawling along on all fours in a long coat; he stood up again and stepped forward, battling with the blizzard. For every half-step he made forward he slipped two steps back; he did climb a little farther, but then his feet flew out from under him, and he slid downward with his face buried in the prickly snow. When he picked himself up, he found that he had lost his stick.

Meanwhile clouds of snow were flying over the mountains, massing on the rocks, hissing, bellowing, roaring. The messenger sobbed aloud, gasping with terror and exertion; he climbed on, stopped, took another step and another, halted, turned his back to the wind and took a deep breath through his burning mouth, and then—O Christ in Heaven!—took one step more. He held on to a tree. What was the time? With the greatest effort he drew out his turnip watch in its transparent yellow case. It was encrusted with snow. Perhaps darkness was coming on. Should he turn back? But he couldn’t have far to go now!

The fitful gale had changed into a steady blizzard. Clouds rolled along the slope, a dark and dirty mist full of hurtling sleet. The snow rushed down horizontally, straight into his face, blocking up the eyes, nose and mouth; with wet frozen fingers it had to be dug, half melted, from the cavities of the ears and eyes. The front of the messenger’s body was covered with a layer of snow two inches thick; his coat was rigid, as stiff and heavy as a board—you could not bend it; the cakes of snow on his boot-soles grew bigger and heavier with every step. And in the forest it was getting dark. And yet, good heavens, it was barely two in the afternoon!