“For what else can I do, a lame old man, than sing hymns to God?  If then I were a nightingale I would do the part of a nightingale:  if I were a swan, I would do like a swan.  But now I am a rational creature and I ought to praise God; this is my work, I do it, nor will I desert this post so long as I am allowed to keep it; and I exhort you to join in this same song.”

No, I am neither nightingale nor swan, and cannot add, as they do, to the beauty of the earth.  The lame old man has his limitations; but within them, he can, by cleaving to his post and praising God, fulfil his destiny.

Carlotta coming onto the housetop to summon me to lunch looks over my shoulder as I write these words.

“But you are not a lame old man!” she cries in indignation.  “You are the youngest and strongest and cleverest man in the world!”

“What am I to do with these miraculous gifts?” I ask, laughing.

“You are to become famous,” she says, with conviction.

“Very well, my dear.  We will have to go to some new land where attaining fame is easier for a beginner than in London; and we’ll send for Antoinette and Stenson to help us.”

“That will be very nice,” she observes.

So I am to become famous. Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut.  And Carlotta has got a soul of her own now and means to make the most of it.  It will lead me upward somewhere.  But whether I am to be king of New Babylon or Prime Minister of New Zealand or lawgiver to a Polynesian tribe is a secret as yet hidden in the lap of the gods, whence Carlotta doubtless will snatch it in her own good time.

“You are writing a lot of rubbish,” says Carlotta.

“And a little truth.  The mixture is Life,” I answer.