my soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll.
I have experienced a real re-creation.
“Therefore,” concluded Professor Maturin, as we finished our cigars, “you must not be surprised if, within the next few weeks, I compose a pastoral symphony, or become a new Theocritus, or—what is less unlikely—retire to a villa, as Horace did.”
V
Food for Thought
I WAS just ordering dinner at the Athenaeum when Professor Maturin entered the room and peered about over his spectacles in search of a congenial corner. Happily for me, his glance encountered mine, and his smile accepted my invitation. I settled myself for an hour of rare conversation.
“And what are you planning to have?” he queried. I passed him the order I was signing, but noticed, as he read it, first surprise, then incredulity, and finally sorrow in his expression.
“My friend, my friend,” he said, mournfully shaking his head, “and you a literary man!”
“Won’t you, then, order for me instead?” I responded, cancelling the slip, outwardly meek, but inwardly rejoicing that my friend’s energy had created a situation which his kindliness would require him to explain at length.
“In the cause of the advancement of learning, sir, I will!” he replied. And taking a new blank, he began to write from the bottom upward, remarking: “In the first place, I always feel, in order that a dinner may have unity and consistency, it should be planned like a poem, from the end toward the beginning; all the more, since there is no chance for revision. There,” he resumed, finishing, “I think that will do, as simple, nourishing, and suggestive.”