The Tragic Muse. Генри Джеймс

I heard of such a delightful little spot; a place where a wild fig-tree grows in the south wall, the outer side, of an old Spanish city. I was told it was a deliciously brown corner—the sun making it warm in winter. As soon as I could I went there."

      "And what did you do?"

      "I lay on the first green grass—I liked it."

      "If that sort of thing's all you accomplish you're not encouraging."

      "I accomplish my happiness—it seems to me that's something. I have feelings, I have sensations: let me tell you that's not so common. It's rare to have them, and if you chance to have them it's rare not to be ashamed of them. I go after them—when I judge they won't hurt any one."

      "You're lucky to have money for your travelling expenses," said Nick.

      "No doubt, no doubt; but I do it very cheap. I take my stand on my nature, on my fortunate character. I'm not ashamed of it, I don't think it's so horrible, my character. But we've so befogged and befouled the whole question of liberty, of spontaneity, of good humour and inclination and enjoyment, that there's nothing that makes people stare so as to see one natural."

      "You're always thinking too much of 'people.'"

      "They say I think too little," Gabriel smiled.

      "Well, I've agreed to stand for Harsh," said Nick with a roundabout transition.

      "It's you then who are lucky to have money."

      "I haven't," Nick explained. "My expenses are to be paid."

      "Then you too must think of 'people.'"

      Nick made no answer to this, but after a moment said: "I wish very much you had more to show for it."

      "To show for what?"

      "Your little system—the æsthetic life."