or the art more than
for all the rewards of art. And once when they sate together, the boy
Percival said, "Dear sir, may I ask you a question?" "A dozen, if it
be your will," said Paul, smiling; "but, dear child, I know not if I
can answer it." Then the boy said, "Why do you not make more music,
dear sir? for it seems to me like a well that holds its waters close
and deep, and will not give them forth." Then Paul said, smiling,
"Nay, I have given men music of the best. But there are two reasons
why I make no more; and I will tell you them, if you can understand
them. The first is that many years ago I heard a music that shamed me;
and that sealed the well." Then the boy said, musing, "Tell me the
name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I have heard that you were
ever the first." Then Paul said, "Nay, I know not the name of the
maker of it." Then the boy said, smiling, "Then, dear sir, it must
have been the music of the angels." And Paul said, "Ay, it was that."
Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused, touching
his lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, "And the second
reason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that
_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can make
no new thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers of
age the dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane and
unholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily;
it is as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, and
put into it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I think
that those who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker for
the praise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that is
unworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, and
have nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. So
hearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I could
attain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in the
hand of God, and that He would give it as men needed it; but that my
own work was done. For each man must decide for himself when to make
an end. And further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and for
all that follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, so
vain of it, that we think there is nought else in the world. Into that
error I fell, and therein abode. But we are in this world like little
children at school. God has many fair things