"It would not school the shuddering will
To patience, were it sweet to bear,"
says an old poet; and it is true, I have no doubt; but, good God,
to think that a man, so richly dowered as I am with every
conceivable blessing, should yet have so small a reserve of faith
and patience! Even now I can frame epigrams about it. "To learn to
be content not to be content"--that is the secret--but meanwhile I
stumble in dark paths, through the grove nullo penetrabilis astro,
where men have wandered before now. It seems fine and romantic
enough, when one thinks of another soul in torment. One remembers
the old sage, reading quietly at a sunset hour, who had a sudden
vision of the fate that should befall him. His book falls from his
hands, he sits there, a beautiful and venerable figure enough,
staring heavily into the void. It makes me feel that I shall never
dare to draw the picture of a man in the grip of suffering again; I
have had so little of it in my life, and I have drawn it with a
luxurious artistic emotion. I remember once saying of a friend that
his work was light and trivial, because he had never descended into
hell. Now that I have myself set foot there, I feel art and love,
and life itself, shrivel in the relentless chill--for it is icy
cold and drearily bright in hell, not dark and fiery, as poets have
sung! I feel that I could wrestle better with the loss of health,
of wealth, of love, for there would be something to bear, some
burden to lift.
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