But
he had achieved no fame, no success. He earned nothing, living in
comfort on an allowance from his mother. He seldom spoke of his
plans and never of his hopes. He had in fact settled down into a
dilletante, having learnt gently to scorn the triumphs which he
lacked the force to win. He imagined that industry and a regular
existence were sufficient justification in themselves for any
man's life. Constance had dropped the habit of expecting him to
astound the world. He was rather grave and precise in manner,
courteous and tepid, with a touch of condescension towards his
environment; as though he were continually permitting the
perspicacious to discern that he had nothing to learn--if the
truth were known! His humour had assumed a modified form. He often
smiled to himself. He was unexceptionable.
On the day after Sophia's funeral he set to work to design a
simple stone for his aunt's tomb. He said he could not tolerate
the ordinary gravestone, which always looked, to him, as if the
wind might blow it over, thus negativing the idea of solidity. His
mother did not in the least understand him. She thought the
lettering of his tombstone affected and finicking. But she let it
pass without comment, being secretly very flattered that he should
have deigned to design a stone at all.
Pages:
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966