It was a romantic September morning, swathed in thick, white mist. A
blue haze of thin smoke rose upward from the shadowy houses of the
neighbouring settlement, vanishing in the mist. Meanwhile, the birds
were singing, and a rivulet close by murmured in the stillness.
Under the influence of the homely, placid country air, I felt my spirit
soften and grow more humble, and I began to think that the manuscript
which I carried in my hand was nothing more than a farrago of
foolishness and vulgarity.
The voice of prudence, which was also that of cowardice, cautioned me:
"What is the good of publishing this? Will it bring you reputation?"
"Certainly not."
"Have you anything to gain by it?"
"Probably not either."
"Then, why irritate and offend this one and that by saying things which,
after all, are nobody's business?"
To the voice of prudence, however, my habitual self replied:
"But what you have written is sincere, is it not? What do you care,
then, what they think about it?"
But the voice of prudence continued:
"How quiet everything is about you, how peaceful! This is life, after
all, and the rest is madness, vanity and vain endeavour."
There was a moment when I was upon the point of tossing my manuscript
into the air, and I believe I should have done so, could I have been
sure that it would have dematerialized itself immediately like smoke; or
I would have thrown it into the river, if I had felt certain that the
current would have swept it out to sea.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193