The inherent
insincerity, more or less, of all literary work is a fact of which he
had not thought. I am speaking of the mere 'author,' the
writer-tradesman, the amateur's superstition; not of men of genius, who,
despite cackle, cannot disappoint. If they seem to do so, it must be
that we have not come close enough to know them. But the man of genius
is rarer, perhaps, in the ranks of authorship than anywhere: you are
far more likely to find him on the exchange. They are as scarce as
Caxtons: London possesses hardly half-a-dozen examples.
Narcissus enjoyed the delight of calling one of these his friend, 'a
certain aristocratic poet who loved all kinds of superiorities,' again
to borrow from Mr. Pater. He had once seen him afar off and worshipped,
as it is the blessedness of boys to be able to worship; but never could
he have dreamed in that day of the dear intimacy that was to come. 'If
he could but know me as I am,' he had sighed; but that was all. With the
almost childlike naturalness which is his greatest charm he confessed
this sigh long after, and won that poet's heart. Well I remember his
bursting into our London lodging late one afternoon, great-eyed and
almost in tears for joy of that first visit. He had pre-eminently the
capacity which most fine men have of falling in love with men--as one
may be sure of a subtle greatness in a woman whose eye singles out a
woman to follow on the stage at the theatre--and certainly, no other
phrase can express that state of shining, trembling exaltation, the
passion of the friendships of Narcissus.
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