looks and the time they had surrendered to something outside of life evidently struck them as being strangely the sunlight laughed along the sea � the young com was thick in the fields leaves were beginning in the branches rose higher and higher disappearing in the pale air and as we approached the the of the sounded pleasantly in the ear the appearance of death in the at the moment when the world its life touched my soul with that anguish which the familiar spectacle has always and will never fail to cause as long as a human heart beats beneath the heavens and dropping behind the chattering crowd that in mourning weed its way through the sad spring landscape i thought of her whom i had loved so long and should never see again i thought of memory as a shrine where a remembrance we can worship without shame of friendship and of the pure it offers us from our natural instincts i remembered that there is love other than that which the young man offers to her he would take to wife and i knew how much more intense and strangely personal was my love of her than the love which that day i saw the world offering to creatures s chapter xi in i foe many days there has not been a wind in the trees and the landscape reminds me of a � the same silence the same mystery the same awe the thick foliage of the ash never even the leaves hanging out from the twigs are still the growing out of a tumbled wall are turning yellow and brown the are over the are beginning last night a faint pink sky melted into the solemn blue of midnight there were few stars brilliant overhead red hung above the horizon under a round moon � � � the last days of september and every day the light dies a few minutes earlier at half past five one a about one s feet no doubt there is a touch of frost in the air that is why the leaves hang so there is certainly a touch of frost in the air and one is tempted to put a match to the fire it is difficult to say whether one feels cold or whether one desires the company of the blaze tea is over the dusk and the brute despondency in the comers at the close of day when one s work is over s bring in the lamp ing thoughts arise in the study and in the think of a painter of architecture finishing the thirty sixth pillar there are forty three the dusk has interrupted his labour and an ache begins in his heart as he rises from the be his talent great or uttle he must ask himself who will care should he leave the last seven pillars unfinished think of the writer of stories two three or four more stories are required to make up a requisite number of pages the dusk has interrupted his labour and he rises from his writing table asking who wiu care whether the last stories are written or left if he write them his ideas will green for a brief they will enjoy a little summer when his garden is fading in the autumn his leaves will be well nigh forgotten winter will overtake them sooner than it his garden perhaps the flowers he deemed immortal are more mortal than the rose why he asks should any one be interested in my stories any more than in the thousand and one stories published this year mine are among the number of trivial things that compose the which we call life his thoughts will back over the past and his own life will hardly more real than the day s work on the if he be a painter on the if he be a writer he wiu seem to himself like a horse going round and round a well but the horse is water � water is necessary but art even if his work is good enough to be called art is not so far as he knows necessary to any one he may be proof is not wanting that the world can do well s of my dead life without his work but however sure he may feel that that is so and in the hours i describe it seems sure indeed he will have to continue his labour man was bom to labour as the oldest say he must continue to drive his to the end of the field otherwise he would lie down and die of sheer or go mad he asks himself why he became a maker of an idol maker an idol maker he cries who can find no for his wares better the sailor before the mast or the soldier in the field his thoughts break away and he begins to dream of a life of action it would be a fine thing he thinks to start away in a ship for south america where there are forests and mountain almost unknown he has read of the wild of the so are they to horseback that they cannot walk a mile without resting and sitting by the fire at the end of the autumn day he can see them galloping through the long grass of the whirling three balls attached by leather the weapon is called the and flying through the air it the legs of the bringing it to the earth but if he went to america would he find content in a hunter s life can the artist put by his dreams find content in the hunter s life his dreams would follow him and sitting by the camp fire in the evening he would begin to think how he might paint the shadows or tell of the uncouth life of those who sat around him eating of jerked meat 