Gradually he got the stories of our lives. I told how all my life I had been raising up gods to worship, and how the harbor had flowed silently in beneath, undermining each one and bringing it down.
"It seems to have such a habit of changing," I ended, "that it won't let a fellow stop."
"Lucky people," he answered, smiling, "to have found that out so soon—to have had all this modern life condensed so cozily into your harbor before your eyes—and to have discovered, while you are still young, that life is growth and growth is change. I believe the age we live in is changing so much faster than any age before it, that a man if he's to be vital at all must give up the idea of any fixed creed—in his office, his church or his home—that if he does not, he will only wear himself out butting his indignant head against what is stronger and probably better than he. But if he does, if he holds himself open to change and knows that change is his very life, then he can get a serenity which is as much better than that of the monk as living is better than dying."
We talked of books being written in England and France, in Germany and Russia, all dealing with deep changes in the views and beliefs and desires of men.
"Any man," he said, "who thinks that modern Europe will go smoothly, quietly on, needs a dose of your harbor to open his eyes."
He turned to me with a sudden thought.
"Why don't you write a book," he asked, "about this harbor you have known!"
Eleanore made a quick move in her chair.
"That's just what you ought to do!" she exclaimed.
"I wonder if I could," I said. "It would be hard to see it now, as it looked at all the different times."