and unimportant people who have given their vividness
and originality to life itself, to talk and letters
and complex relationships; we do not want the lives
of people who have prosed on platforms and bawled at
the openings of bazaars. They have said their
say, and we have heard as much as we need to hear
of their views already. But I know half-a-dozen
people, of whose words and works probably no record
whatever will be made, whose lives, if they could
be painted, would be more interesting than any novel,
and more inspiring than any sermon; who have not taken
things for granted, but have made up their own minds;
and, what is more, have really had minds to make up;
who have said, day after day, fine, humorous, tender,
illuminating things; who have loved life better than
routine, and ideas-better than success; who have really
enriched the blood of the world, instead of feebly
adulterating it; who have given their companions zest
and joy, trenchant memories and eager emotions:
but the whole process has been so delicate, so evasive,
so informal, that it seems impossible to recapture
the charm in heavy words. A man who would set
himself to write the life of one of these delightful
people, instead of adding to the interminable stream
of tiresome romances which inundate us, might leave
a very fine legacy to the world. It would mean
an immense amount of trouble, and the cultivation
of a Boswellian memory—for such a book would
consist largely of recorded conversations—but
what a hopeful and uplifting thing it would be to
read and re-read!
The difficulty is that to a perceptive man—and
none but a man of the finest perception could do it,—an
eagle-eating eagle, in fact—it would seem
a ghoulish and a treacherous business. He would
feel like an interviewer and like a spy. It would
have to be done in a noble, self-denying sort of secrecy,
amassing and recording day by day; and he would never
be able to let his hero suspect what was happening,
or the gracious spontaneity would vanish; for the
essence of such a life and such talk as I have described
is that they should be wholly frank and unconsidered;
and the thought of the presence of the note-taking
spectator would overshadow its radiance at once.
There is a task for a patient, unambitious, perceptive
man! He must be a man of infinite leisure, and
he must be ready to take a large risk of disappointment;
for he must outlive his subject, and he must be willing
to sacrifice all other opportunities of artistic creation.
But he might write one of the great books of the world,
and win a secure seat upon the Muses’ Hill.
XLVI