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one regards that poem with more reverence than do I。 You can have but
small conception what a help it is to me also。 I； too； so often read it to
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myself； and when We understand。 As one who turns his back on scenes
of riot to drink the moonlight in quiet ways； I go to it for sweetness and for
peace。 So much do I admire the poem； I naturally feel desire and
curiosity to meet its author； to know him。 I should delight； drawing him
aside from the crowded room； to grasp him by the hand； to say to him：
'My dearmy very dear Mr。 Minor Poet； I am so glad to meet you！ I
would I could tell you how much your beautiful work has helped me。
This； my dear sirthis is indeed privilege！' But I can picture so vividly
the bored look with which he would receive my gush。 I can imagine the
contempt with which he； the pure liver； would regard me did he know me…
…me； the liver of the fool's hot days。〃
〃A short French story I once read somewhere；〃 I said； 〃rather
impressed me。 A poet or dramatistI am not sure whichhad married the
daughter of a provincial notary。 There was nothing particularly attractive
about her except her dot。 He had run through his own small fortune and
was in some need。 She worshipped him and was； as he used to boast to
his friends； the ideal wife for a poet。 She cooked admirablya useful
accomplishment during the first half… dozen years of their married life； and
afterwards； when fortune came to him； managed his affairs to perfection；
by her care and economy keeping all worldly troubles away from his study
door。 An ideal Hausfrau； undoubtedly； but of course no companion for
our poet。 So they went their ways； till； choosing as in all things the right
moment； when she could best be spared； the good lady died and was
buried。
〃And here begins the interest of the story； somewhat late。 One article
of furniture； curiously out of place among the rich appointments of their
fine hotel； the woman had insisted on retaining； a heavy； clumsily carved
oak desk her father had once used in his office； and which he had given to
her for her own as a birthday present back in the days of her teens。
〃You must read the story for yourselves if you would enjoy the subtle
sadness that surrounds it； the delicate aroma of regret through which it
moves。 The husband finding after some little difficulty the right key； fits
it into the lock of the bureau。 As a piece of furniture； plain； solid； squat；
it has always jarred upon his artistic sense。 She too； his good；
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affectionate Sara； had been plain； solid； a trifle squat。 Perhaps that was
why the poor woman had clung so obstinately to the one thing in the
otherwise perfect house that was quite out of place there。 Ah； well！ she is
gone now； the good creature。 And the bureauno； the bureau shall
remain。 Nobody will need to come into this room； no one ever did come
there but the woman herself。 Perhaps she had not been altogether so
happy as she might have been。 A husband less intellectualone from
whom she would not have lived so far apartone who could have entered
into her simple； commonplace life！ it might have been better for both of
them。 He draws down the lid； pulls out the largest drawer。 It is full of
manuscripts； folded and tied neatly with ribbons once gay； now faded。
He thinks at first they are his own writings things begun and discarded；
reserved by her with fondness。 She thought so much of him； the good
soul！ Really； she could not have been so dull as he had deemed her。 The
power to appreciate rightly… …this； at least； she must have possessed。 He
unties the ribbon。 No； the writing is her own； corrected； altered； underlined。
He opens a second； a third。 Then with a smile he sits down to read。 What
can they be like； these poems； these stories？ He laughs； smoothing the
crumpled paper； foreseeing the trite commonness； the shallow sentiment。
The poor child！ So she likewise would have been a litterateure。 Even
she had her ambition； her dream。
〃The sunshine climbs the wall behind him； creeps stealthily across the
ceiling of the room； slips out softly by the window； leaving him alone。
All these years he had been living with a fellow poet。 They should have
been comrades； and they had never spoken。 Why had she hidden herself？
Why had she left him； never revealing herself？ Years ago； when they were
first marriedhe remembers nowshe had slipped little blue…bound copy…
books into his pocket； laughing； blushing； asking him to read them。 How
could he have guessed？ Of course； he had forgotten them。 Later； they
had disappeared again； it had never occurred to him to think。 Often in
the earlier days she had tried to talk to him about his work。 Had he but
looked into her eyes； he might have understood。 But she had always
been so homely…seeming； so good。 Who would have suspected？ Then
suddenly the blood rushes into his face。 What must have been her
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opinion of his work？ All these years he had imagined her the amazed
devotee； uncomprehending but admiring。 He had read to her at times；
comparing himself the while with Moliere reading to his cook。 What
right had she to play this trick upon him？ The folly of it！ The pity of it！
He would have been so glad of her。〃
〃What becomes； I wonder；〃 mused the Philosopher； 〃of the thoughts
that are never spoken？ We know that in Nature nothing is wasted； the
very cabbage is immortal； living again in altered form。 A thought
published or spoken we can trace； but such must only be a small
percentage。 It often occurs to me walking down the street。 Each man and
woman that I pass by； ea