t we lose as we
grow older, a sort of youthfulness, a courageous indiscretion, a
beautiful freedom of thought; but we can't have everything, and one's
books must take their appropriate colours from the mind. May I say that
I think your books have grown more and more mature, tolerant, artistic,
wise?--and the last was simply admirable. It entirely engrossed me, and
for a blessed day or two I lived in your mind, and saw out of your
eyes. I am sure it was a great book--a noble and a large-hearted book,
full of insight and faith--the best kind of book." I murmured
something; and he said, "You may think it is arrogant of me to speak
like this; but I have lived among books, and I am sure that I have a
critical gift, mainly because I have no power of expression. You know
the best kind of critics are the men who have tried to write books, and
have failed, as long as their failure does not make them envious and
ungenerous; I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work
all the more for that. You are writing now?" "No," I said, "I am
writing nothing." "Well, I am sorry to hear it," he said, "and may I
venture to ask why?" "Simply because I cannot," I said; and now there
came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that one has
in answering the questions of a great and compassionate physician, who
assumes the responsibility of one's case. Not only did I not resent
these questions, as I should often have resented them, but it seemed to
give me a sense of luxury and security to give an account of myself to
this wise and unaffected old man. He bent his brows upon me: "You have
had a great sorrow lately?" he said. "Yes," I said, "we have lost our
only boy, nine years old." "Ah," he said, "a sore stroke, a sore
stroke!" and there was a deep tenderness in his voice that made me feel
that I should have liked to kneel down before him, and weep at his
knee, with his hand laid in blessing on my head. We sate in silence for
a few moments. "Is it this that has stopped your writing?" he said.
"No," I said, "the power had gone from me before--I could not
originate, I could only do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality
than before." "Well," he said, "I don't wonder; the last book must have
been a great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it.
I remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a
marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak--without any sense
of fatigue, he told me, a