"Are you fond of the country?"
"Why, yes! What else is there?" I answered, laughing.
"Ah, you are an artist!"
"I hope to be one."
"Its a bad business," said he, testily,—"a very bad business. If I were you, I would give it up."
"Have you ever tried it?"
"Tried it?" he ejaculated, kicking the gravel-walk,—"yes, and everything else, I believe. If I thought it would do you any good, I would give you the benefit of my experience; but you'd only laugh, and make a good story of it to your wife."
"Alas! I have no such incumbrance."
"The worse for you, if you have genius and the modesty of genius. A true artist, who seeks to interpret Nature in its purest and most exquisite relations, who penetrates the deepest temples of the woods and the silent sanctuaries of the mountains, must be a true, pure, and good man. He must be a happy man,—happy in a sweet and natural way. A man whose life is passed in a daily delight that gently stirs without feverish excitement will be tender and most lovely to women. He ought to marry."
"Did you ever write poetry?" I asked.