How deep the blow cut will be shown by these following extracts: 

“I once had my faith in human nature rudely wrecked, and it has never attempted a long voyage again.  I hug the coast and look regretfully out to sea; perhaps the day may come when I may strike into it ... believe in it always if you can; I do not say it is vanity ... the shock blinded me; I can not see if I would.”

And again—­

“Moral wounds never heal; they may be torn open by a chance word, by a fragment of print, by a sentence from a letter; and there we have to sit with pale face and shuddering heart, to bleed in silence and dissemble it.  Then, too, there is that constant dismal feeling which the Greeks called [Greek:  upoulos]:  the horrible conviction, the grim memory lurking deep down, perhaps almost out of sight, thrust away by circumstance and action, but always ready to rise noiselessly up and draw you to itself.”

“‘A good life, and therefore a happy one,’ says my old aunt, writing to me this morning; it is marvellous and yet sustaining what one can pass through, and yet those about you—­those who suppose that they have the key, if any, to your heart—­be absolutely ignorant of it.  ‘He looks a little tired and worn:  he has been sitting up late;’ ’all young men are melancholy:  leave him alone and he will be better in a year or two,’ was all that was said when I was actually meditating suicide—­when I believe I was on the brink of insanity.”

All these extracts are from letters to myself at different periods.  Taking them together, and thus arranged, my case seems irresistible; still I must concede that it is all theory—­all inference:  I do not wholly know the facts, and never shall.

CHAPTER IV

I found the first hint that occurs to indicate the lines of his later life, in a letter to his father, written in his last week at Cambridge.  In the Classical Tripos Arthur contrived to secure a second; in the translations, notably Greek, we heard he did as well as anybody; but history and other detailed subjects dragged him down:  it was an extraordinarily unequal performance.

His father, being ambitious for his sons, and knowing to a certain extent Arthur’s ability, was altogether a good deal disappointed.  He had accepted Arthur’s failure to get a scholarship or exhibition, not with equanimity, but with a resolute silence, knowing that strict scholarship was not his son’s strong point, but still hoping that he would at least do well enough in his Tripos to give him a possibility of a Fellowship.