l, he loved better than the rest, because he
saw in him that he had a love for 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 ar