He must try again, but he was warier now. If his own past could not give the present back to him, then the past of another might. For he had given up all hope of finding understanding or wisdom in any living face. He looked now to the faces of the dead, and in particular to the faces of those dead who live immortal in our minds because they epitomize a principle. In the gallery of time there are certain portraits which tell us salvation lies within our heads; and this truth, though terrible, is also comforting. Alone in his library he drew out an engraving of Louis XIV. It was a wily face. There was not much wisdom in it, but much animal cunning and a stubborn will to survive. Louis XIV struck a bargain with mortality and won. Yet it is difficult to know how to make use of another man’s wisdom, for wisdom is an end-product, and it is the technique we need. It was an intelligent face, but a poodle is intelligent at the end of a leash.
