With her fair bloom
and her quiet grace she was indeed an ideal public, and if she had
ever confided to him that she would have liked to scribble (she had
in fact not mentioned it to a creature), he would have been in a
perfect position for asking her why a woman whose face had so much
expression should not have felt that she achieved. How in the world
could she express better? There was less than that in Shakespeare
and Beethoven. She had never been more generous than when, in
compliance with her invitation, which I have recorded, he brought his
play to read to her. He had spoken of it to her before, and one dark
November afternoon, when her red fireside was more than ever an
escape from the place and the season, he had broken out as he came
in--"I've done it, I've done it!" She made him tell her all about
it--she took an interest really minute and asked questions
delightfully apt. She had spoken from the first as if he were on the
point of being acted, making him jump, with her participation, all
sorts of dreary intervals.
Pages:
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28