uldn't
play the part of "brilliant" young poet with any success. She was at me
all the while to write more of the same thing. And I didn't want to. The
difference between the "great" man I was supposed to be and the sick child
I really was, began to torture. I knew I oughtn't to go on any further if
I wanted to do anything real. Then one night we had an "artistic" dinner.
My wife had gotten hold of a famous English poet, and through him a
publisher. The publisher was her real game. I drank champagne before
dinner so as to be "brilliant." I was. And before I realized it, Norah had
secured a promise from the publisher to bring out a book of plays. I
remember she said it was practically finished. But it wasn't, only the
one, and I hated that. But I sat down conscientiously to write the book
that she, and apparently all the world that counted, expected me to write.
Well, I couldn't write it. Not a blessed word! Something inside me refused
to work. And there I was. In a month or so she began to ask about it.
Norah thought I ought to turn them out while she waited. I walked up and
down the park one afternoon wondering what to tell her.... And when I
realized that either she would never understand or would despise me, I
grew desperate. I wrote her a note, full of fine phrases about
"incompatibility," her "unapproachable ideals," the "soul's need of
freedom"--things she _would_ understand and wear a heroic attitude
about--and fled. I came here....

THE BOY

Of course. But didn't she follow you? Didn't they bother you?

THE MAN

Not a bit. Norah preferred her lonely heroism. In a few months I was quite
forgotten. That was one of the healthful things I learned. Well, I was a
wreck when I came here, I wanted only to lie down under a tree.... And
there it was, under that tree yonder, my salvation came.

THE BOY

Your salvation?

THE MAN

Hunger. That was my salvation. Simple, elemental, unescapable appetite.
You see I had no servant, no one at all. So I had to get up and work to
prepare my food.... It was very strange. Compared with this life, my life
before had been like living in a locked box. Some one to do everything for
me except think, and consequently I thought too much. But here the very
fact of life was brought home to me. I spent weeks working about the house
and grounds on the common necessities. By the time winter came on the
place was fit to live in--and I was enjoying life. All the "brilliance"
had faded aw