And I wondered whether
the people of Bath who saw the tall, impassive-looking, hazel-eyed
son and the invalid father in their daily pilgrimages to the Pump
Room, or in church on Sunday, or in the Park on sunny afternoons had
the least notion of the tragedy that was going on. My reflections
were interrupted by his entrance. He had forced up a cheerfulness
that I am sure he didn't really feel, and seemed afraid of letting
our talk flag for a moment. I remember, too, that for the first
time he offered to read me his novel, instead of as usual waiting
for me to ask to hear it. I can see him now, fetching the untidy
portfolio and turning over the pages, adroitly enough, as though
anxious to show how immaterial was the loss of a left arm. That
night I listened to the first half of the third volume of 'Lynwood's
Heritage,' and couldn't help reflecting that its author seemed to
thrive on misery; and yet how I grudged him to this deadly-lively
place, and this monotonous, cooped-up life.
"How do you manage to write one-handed?" I asked.
And he sat down to his desk, put a letter-weight on the left-hand
corner of the sheet of foolscap, and wrote that comical first
paragraph of the eighth chapter over which we have all laughed.
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