Again, I was once engulfed in a crevasse, hanging from the ice-ledge with a portentous gulf below, and a glacier-stream roaring in the darkness.  I could get no hold for foot or hand, my companions could not reach me or extract me; and as I sank into unconsciousness, hearing my own expiring breath, I knew that I was doomed; but I can only say, quite honestly and humbly, that I had no fear at all, and only dimly wondered what arrangements would be made at Eton, where I was then a master, to accommodate the boys of my house and my pupils.  It was not done by an effort, nor did I brace myself to the situation:  fear simply did not come near to me.

Once again I found myself confronted, not so long ago, with an incredibly painful and distressing interview.  That indeed did oppress me with almost intolerable dread beforehand.  I was to go to a certain house in London, and there was just a chance that the interview might not take place after all.  As I drove there, I suddenly found myself wondering whether the interview could really be going to take place—­how often had I rehearsed it beforehand with anguish—­and then as suddenly became aware that I should in some strange way be disappointed if it did not take place.  I wanted on the whole to go through with it, and to see what it would be like.  A deep-seated curiosity came to my aid.  It did take place, and it was very bad—­worse than I could have imagined; but it was not terrible!

These are just four instances which come into my mind.  I should be glad to feel that the courage which undoubtedly came had been the creation of my will; but it was not so.  In three cases, the events came unexpectedly; but in the fourth case I had long anticipated the moment with extreme dread.  Yet in that last case the fear suddenly slipped away, without the smallest effort on my part; and in all four cases some strange gusto of experience, some sense of heightened life and adventure, rose in the mind like a fountain—­so that even in the crevasse I said to myself, not excitedly but serenely, “So this is what it feels like to await death!”

It was this particular experience which gave me an inkling into that which in so many tragic histories seems incredible—­that men often do pass to death, by scaffold and by stake, at the last moment, in serenity and even in joy.  I do not doubt for a moment that it is the immortal principle in man, the sense of deathlessness, which comes to his aid.  It is the instinct which, in spite of all knowledge and experience, says suddenly, in a moment like that, “Well, what then?” That instinct is a far truer thing than any expectation or imagination.  It sees things, in supreme moments, in a true proportion.  It asserts that when the rope jerks, or the flames leap up, or the benumbing blow falls, there is something there which cannot possibly be injured, and which indeed is rather freed from the body of our humiliation.  It is but an incident, after all, in a much longer