“Well, I mean that, while my brain grows year by year more catholic in its sympathies, and sees more clearly all the time opportunities of feeling old and new, my heart and senses seem less and less inclined to second it with any energy of enthusiasm or excitement. The beauty of the world, for example, never seemed more beautiful to me than it does now. I can see far more beauty in it than I could when I was a boy, appreciate far more its infinite variety; nor has it lost in wonder, or mystery or holiness. All this I see, and thankfully accept—but it is seldom that I am set in a fine glow, or that I fall into a dream about it. My appreciation of it is no longer rapture. Yes, I have lost rapture.”
“Poor old thing!” laughed the Sphinx derisively, “but go on.”
“Laugh,” said I, “but it’s all too true. Take another illustration: Some noble cause, some ghastly wrong, some agonising disaster. Never has my imagination been more alive to such appeals; never have they stirred me to greater aspiration, indignation or pity—mentally. But while my perceptive, imaginative side is thus more active than ever, it seems unable to set going the motive forces of feeling, as it used to do. It were as if I should say ‘Oh yes! indeed, I see it all—but I’ll feel about it to-morrow.’ Something underneath seems to say: ‘What is the use of being excited about it—of taking fire. It’s noble, it’s monstrous, it’s pitiful—but what’s the use!—feeling won’t help.’ To think how inspired, how savage, how wrought I should have been once—use or no use! But now....”
“Tell me about falling in love,” interrupted the Sphinx, quizzically. “How does this sad state of things affect that?”
“In just the same way. I see a beautiful face, or come in contact with some romantic personality. I say to myself: ‘How wonderful she is! I could spend my life looking into those strange eyes, and I am old enough to know that I should never want to look into any others.’ I say to myself: ‘I think I have but to set my heart on it, and that woman and I might make life a fairy tale for each other!’ But I raise no hand. I am content to see the possibility, content to admire the opportunity, content to see it pass. I am too lazy even for romance.”
“And so you write no more poems?”
“Yes—or very staid ones. As it happens I have brought you one to-night, which you will see is very evidently inspired by the muse of middle-age. It has an unexceptionable moral, and is entitled ‘New Loves for Old.’ Shall I read it?”
“Go on,” said the Sphinx, and I proceeded to read the following:
“‘New Loves for Old!’ I heard a pedler cry,
‘New Loves for Old!’ as down the street he passed,
And from each door I noted with a sigh
How all the people ran at once to buy—
Bringing in hand the dimmed old loves that last.
“‘New Loves for Old!’ O wondrous fair and bright
Seem the new loves against the loves grown old,
So flower-fresh and dewy with delight,
And burning as with supernatural light—
Ah yes! the rest were tinsel—this is gold!