Then came my friend's great success. He had written less since his
marriage, and his books, I thought, were beginning to flag a
little. There was a want of freshness about them; he tended to use
the same characters and similar situations; both thought and
phraseology became somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to
the belief that life was beginning to be more interesting to him
than art. But there suddenly appeared the book which made him
famous, a book both masterly and delicate, full of subtle analysis
and perception, and with that indescribable sense of actuality
which is the best test of art. The style at the same time seemed to
have run clear; he had gained a perfect command of his instrument,
and I had about this book, what I had never had about any other
book of his, the sense that he was producing exactly the effects he
meant to produce. The extraordinary merit of the book was instantly
recognised by all, I think, but the author. He went abroad for a
time after the book was published, and eventually returned; it was
at that point of his life that the Diary began.
I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me
that something had happened to him.
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