Once I came across a farmer’s wife in a low and peculiarly ugly portion of the East coast of England, and she had the same sort of craving soul after beautiful scenery. “I feel,” she said to me once, “as though I would like to look on the Alps—and die.”
It is the same throughout the world of men. It must have been so through countless ages. There must have been Mozarts and Purcells in the ages that were before musical instruments were made, and the laws of harmony laid down and concerted music was made possible. Hundreds and thousands of Doble Drewes over all the earth and in all time. A mystery! A perplexing problem I could not solve. It haunted me. It distressed me.
A few years ago I was at my old home, and I was talking to the curate of the parish in which Doble Drewe had lived.
“So,” said I, “poor old Drewe is dead.”
“Yes, and buried.”
“I wish——”
“You were not in this neighbourhood then?”
“No. Tell me something about the old fellow.”
“I really do not think I have anything to tell.”
“Was his wife a little less nagging as he grew older and faded away?”