plot upon which Fate planted you at the beginning, and you were too dully
inert either to cultivate hot-house orchids thereon or even let it become
overgrown with wild oats and roses. And I think sometimes that on good
intentions we eventually mount to heaven. I certainly know that the good
intentions of the early autumn make me very nearly forgive the cycle of
the seasons which robs me of summer and its joys. And after all, there
is always this to be said for a good intention, nobody knows, yourself
least of all, if you may not one day fulfil it. That is what makes
dreaming so exciting. In your dreams you _have_ learnt Russian; you
_have_ read all the novels of Balzac; you _will_ be able to understand
Sir Oliver Lodge when he leaves the realms of spiritualism and talks
about the stars. And maybe--who knows?--by the time that your dreams
have materialised into reality and spring has just arrived, you _will_ be
able to tell Lenin, if you happen to meet him, that you have "seen the
daughters of the lawyer and lost the pen of your aunt"; and you _will_
have read the books of Paul de Kock because you couldn't struggle through
Balzac; and you _will_ know the composition of the moon and the
impossibility of there being a man in it--which, after all, is a far
greater achievement than having played countless games of bridge, learnt
sixty-two steps of the tango, evolved a racing system, and arrived at
loving the Germans, isn't it?

_Autumn Determination_

But unless your determination be something Napoleonic, you won't have
achieved very much more than this. It has all been so invigorating and
delightful to contemplate; and the way of your decline has been so cosy
and so comfortable, and it has so often ended in a glass of hot "toddy"
and so to bed. You had stage-managed your self-education so beautifully.
You had brought the most comfortable easy-chair right up to the fire; you
had put on your "smoking"--not that garment almost as uncomfortable as
evening-dress, but that coat which is made of velvet, or flannel, softly
lined with silk and deliciously padded: you had brought out all your
books--the "First Steps to Russian," "How to appreciate Balzac,"
"Introduction to Astronomy"--put your feet on the fender, cut the end of
your best cigar. Everything simply invited peace and comfort and an
intellectual feast. Then, just _one more_ glimpse at the evening
paper--and you would begin . . . oh yes! you _would begin_!