CHAPTER X

DREAM WORLDS

OSALIND is not always quite sure that my occupations are entirely profitable. I notice at times an uncertain expression in her face when she finds me brooding over some old myth for hours together. I am conscious of a disapproval which is rarely expressed, but which is none the less unmistakable in a nature so unflinchingly and uncompromisingly honest. I do not mean that Rosalind has no liking for fables or old legends. On the contrary, I have heard her read the "Tanglewood Tales" and "Wonder Book" so many times to the children that I associate certain clear tones of her voice and certain characteristic accentuations with passages in the story of Midas and of Perseus. Rosalind's doubt is in regard to the great value

which I attach to these venerable fictions, and to the very considerable time I often devote to them. Last night, after I had given the fire a critical examination, and had settled back again in my chair to further reading of a new and fascinating book of popular tales, I noticed the faintest possible scepticism in Rosalind's face. Rosalind sometimes permits herself to suspect that I am wasting a day, and I fear there are occasional grounds for such a suspicion. There are days when the mind refuses to be put to any service; it lounges about according to its mood, and yields neither to persuasion nor to command. At such times I find myself obliged to keep my mind company, and I have no sense of responsibility for wasted time.

I am by no means certain that such days are lost; I am rather of opinion that they are days of special fertility, and that the mind comes back from its wanderings quickened and enriched by new contacts Iwith life and truth. While Goldsmith was playing his flute for rustic dances in French villages, he was storing up impres

sions and experiences that were to add a flavour to all his later work. But this reaction of the mind against routine, or against work of any kind, is not so much what I am thinking about now as that kind of fruitful dreaming out of which myths, legends, and imaginary creations of all sorts spring. It is surprising to find how many of the greatest works of literature have their roots in this withdrawal from the actual in order that the ideal may be approached and possessed. Last evening, when I noticed the faint touch of scepticism on Rosalind's face, I was quite ready to defend myself; in fact, that charming woman often tells me that I defend myself when no attack is intended; and this, I have no doubt, she recognises as a slight stirring of conscience on my part, and so receives fresh confirmation of her suspicions. I long ago recognised the fact that, as all roads lead to Rome, so do all devices end in disaster when the woman who knows one best is concerned. Peter the Great finally learned the secret of victory at the hands of the foes who so long defeated him; but in the peaceful

warfare which I have in mind, he is the wisest man who learns soonest that defeat is inevitable, and that resignation is the single flower that blooms on these wellcontested fields. There are times when victory seems assured; one is armed at all points, and has made the most careful disposition of his forces. The enemy seems to have a foreboding of defeat; there is a lack of spirit in her resistance; she soon yields and draws one on, careless and confident. Suddenly there is a portentous change; the right wing is turned and flying, the left wing follows suit; the centre is seized with sudden panic, and gives way at the first attack. The reserve is brought up, and promptly routed, and one retires at last from the field, not sullen, but dazed, confused, and hopelessly perplexed. By every known law of military science he ought to have held hist ground and routed the foe; his arguments were overpowering, his facts invincible; nevertheless he is a solitary fugitive. Those who have not gone through the experience will doubt this record of it; those who have passed through its varied phases will

instantly recognise its fidelity to nature, and will decline to confirm it; there is a conspiracy of silence on this subject among those who have fallen victims to rash confidence in their powers. It must be added that nothing can exceed the delicacy of behaviour on the part of the victor on such occasions. It is only by a little increase of colour, an irrepressible light in the eye, that the consciousness of success is betrayed. Friendly relations are immediately resumed, and one is even deluded into the conviction that his defeat was more apparent than real, and that in disaster his own greatness has become more evident, and been instantly recognised. This is a delightful feeling, and it survives as long as it remains unexpressed.

This is a long digression, but an open fire sings as many tunes as one has moods, and I make no apology for rambling from my subject. At that very moment Goethe's

Autobiography" lay open in Rosalind's lap; I gently disentangled it from some of that ornamental work which fringes all a woman's occupations, and read the legend of the poet's youth which he calls "The