But, if you doubt my
judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with
other verse."
"Never!" he said. "How can you even suggest such a thing? Look here,
Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up
there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words.
When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall
he judge? He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by
the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than
himself."
I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever climbed
less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing
where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.
"No," he replied again, "no, I am too weak myself to help others.
Dear girl, don't you see that those things were written with the
blood of my heart? Cold men would read them, tear them to pieces.
Emilia! they would review me!"
He said this with a sort of yell of despair. I saw that he was in a
perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace. We talked of you
afterwards, and he sent you his love. Was that bold or not? If you
don't care for the gift, send it back to me.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79