And, after all, even the effect he aims at is not
got. It is nearly got, but never quite. There is a tireless effort, but
the effort is too plain and fatigues the reader, forcing him to share it.
A thin powder of dullness lies everywhere.
* * * * *
When I had read these stories, I took out "Life's Handicap," and tasted
again the flavour of "On Greenhow Hill," which I have always considered to
be among the very best of Kipling's stories. It would be too much to say
that I liked it as well as ever. I did not. Time has staled it. The
author's constitutional sentimentality has corroded it in parts. But it is
still a very impressive and a fundamentally true thing. It was done in the
rich flush of power, long before its creator had even suspected his hidden
weaknesses, long before his implacable limitations had begun to compel him
to imitate himself. It was done in the days when he could throw off
exquisite jewels like this, to deck the tale:
_To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear;_
_Her band within his rosy fingers lay,_
_A chilling weight. She would, not turn or hear;_
_But with averted, face went on her way._
_But when pale Death, all featureless and grim,_
_Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning_
_Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him,_
_And Love was left forlorn and wondering,_
_That she who for his bidding would not stay,_
_At Death's first whisper rose and went away_.
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