of rambling about the country, and was an
enchanting companion in a tete-a-tete. In the evening he used to expand
very much into a genial humour which was very attractive; he had, too,
the art of making swift and subtle transitions into an emotional mood;
and here his poetical gift of seeing unexpected analogies and delicate
characteristics gave his talk a fragrant charm which I have seldom
heard equalled.

It was indeed a picture of wonderful prosperity, happiness, and
delight. The children were engaging, clever, and devotedly
affectionate, and indeed the atmosphere of mutual affection seemed to
float over the circle like a fresh and scented summer air. One used to
feel, as one drove away, that though one's visit had been a pleasure,
there would be none of the flatness which sometimes follows the
departure of a guest, but that one was leaving them to a home life that
was better than sociability, a life that was both sacred and beautiful,
full to the brim of affection, yet without any softness or
sentimentality.

Then came my friend's great success. He had written less since his
marriage, and his books, I thought, were beginning to flag a little.
There was a want of freshness about them; he tended to use the same
characters and similar situations; both thought and phraseology became
somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to the belief that life was
beginning to be more interesting to him than art. But there suddenly
appeared the book which made him famous, a book both masterly and
delicate, full of subtle analysis and perception, and with that
indescribable sense of actuality which is the best test of art. The
style at the same time seemed to have run clear; he had gained a
perfect command of his instrument, and I had about this book, what I
had never had about any other book of his, the sense that he was
producing exactly the effects he meant to produce. The extraordinary
merit of the book was instantly recognised by all, I think, but the
author. He went abroad for a time after the book was published, and
eventually returned; it was at that point of his life that the Diary
began.

I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me
that something had happened to him. Instead of being radiant with
success, eager and contented, I found him depressed, anxious, haggard.
He told me that he felt unstrung and exhausted, and that his power of
writing had deserted him. But I must bear testimony at the s