He would be full of little habits. He would have
note-books of a special kind in which to enter his ideas. The tendency of
his mind would be towards concision, and he would by degrees extend his
desire for concision into the twilight and the night of symbolism.'
'A sort of constipated Browning,' said Phillips.
'Exactly,' said Harding.
'And would you have him married?' asked John Norton.
'Certainly. I imagine him living in a tiny little house somewhere near the
river--Westminster or Chelsea. His wife would be a dreadful person, thin,
withered, herring-gutted--a sort of red herring with a cap. But his
daughter would be charming, she would have inherited her father's features.
I can imagine these women living in admiration of this man, tending on him,
speaking very little, removed from worldly influences, seeing only the
young men who come every Tuesday evening to listen to the poet's
conversation--I don't hear them saying much--I can see them sitting in a
corner listening for the ten thousandth time to aestheticisms not one word
of which they understand, and about ten o'clock stealing away to some
mysterious chamber. Something of the poet's sterility would have descended
upon them.'
'That is how you imagine _un g?nie rat?_,' said Phillips.
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