as on a book-shelf, behind the bars
of the grate. There it was. And it gave forth, as the flames crept
up the blue cloth sides of it, a pleasant though acrid smell. My
astonishment had passed, giving place to an exquisite satisfaction.
How pottering and fumbling a thing was even the best kind of written
criticism! I understood the contempt felt by the man of action for the
man of words. But what pleased me most was that at last, actually, I, at
my age, I of all people, had committed a crime--was guilty of a crime.
I had power to revoke it. I might write to my bookseller for an
unburnt copy, and place it on the shelf where this one had stood--this
gloriously glowing one. I would do nothing of the sort. What I had done
I had done. I would wear forever on my conscience the white rose of
theft and the red rose of arson. If hereafter the owner of this cottage
happened to miss that volume--let him! If he were fool enough to write
to me about it, would I share my grand secret with him? No. Gently,
with his poker, I prodded that volume further among the coals.
The all-but-consumed binding shot forth little tongues of bright
colour--flamelets of sapphire, amethyst, emerald. Charming! Could even
the author herself not admire them? Perhaps. Poor woman!--I had scored
now, scored so perfectly that I felt myself to be almost a brute while
I poked off the loosened black outer pages and led the fire on to pages
that were but pale brown.

These were quickly devoured. But it seemed to me that whenever I left
the fire to forage for itself it made little headway. I pushed the book
over on its side. The flames closed on it, but presently, licking their
lips, fell back, as though they had had enough. I took the tongs and put
the book upright again, and raked it fore and aft. It seemed almost
as thick as ever. With poker and tongs I carved it into two, three
sections--the inner pages flashing white as when they were sent to
the binders. Strange! Aforetime, a book was burnt now and again in the
market-place by the common hangman. Was he, I wondered, paid by the
hour? I had always supposed the thing quite easy for him--a bright
little, brisk little conflagration, and so home. Perhaps other books
were less resistant than this one? I began to feel that the critics were
more right than they knew. Here was a book that had indeed an intense
vitality, and an immense vitality. It was a book that would live--do
what one might. I vowed it should not. I