The passage written, I would turn to some
previous chapter, which had been type-written, smooth out the
creases, enrich the dialogue, retouch the descriptions, omit,
correct, clarify. Perhaps in the evening I would read a passage
aloud, if we were alone; and how often would Maud, with her perfect
instinct, lay her finger on a weak place, show me that something
was abrupt or lengthy, expose an unreal emotion, or, best of all,
generously and whole-heartedly approve. it seems now, looking back
upon it, that it was all impossibly happy and delightful, too good
to be true. Yet I have everything that I had, except my unhappy
writing; and the want of it poisons life. I no longer seem to lie
pleasantly in ambush for pretty traits of character, humorous
situations, delicate nuances of talk. I look blankly at garden,
field, and wood, because I cannot draw from them the setting that I
want. Even my close and intimate companionship with Maud seems to
have suffered, for I was like a child, bringing the little wonders
that it finds by the hedgerow to be looked at by a loving eye. Maud
is angelically tender, kind, sweet. She tells me only to wait; she
draws me on to talk; she surrounds me with love and care.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118