Sometimes I had a horrible fear that I might not live to
set down what was so clear in my mind; but there is a certain
freshness which comes of self-restraint. Day after day, as I
strolled, and read, and talked, I used to hug myself at the thought
of the beloved evening hours that were coming, when I should fling
myself upon the book with a passionate zest, and feel it grow under
my hand. And then it was done! I remember writing the last words,
and the conviction came upon me that it was the end. There was more
to be told; the story stretched on into the distance; but it was as
though the frame of the picture had suddenly fallen upon the
canvas, and I knew that just so much and no more was to be seen.
And then, as though to show me plainly that the work was over, the
next day came an event which drew my mind off the book. I had had a
period of unclouded health and leisure, everything had combined to
help me, and then this event, of which I need not speak, came and
closed the book at the right moment.
What wonder if one grows fatalistic about writing; that one feels
that one can only say what is given one to say! And now, dry and
arid as my mind is, I would give all I have for a renewal of that
beautiful glow, which I cannot recover.
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