To have put my hand round Lucia's living throat; yes,
that would have been a keen delight, but I was not dead set on
possessing myself of her handkerchief that I might kiss in private.
I had one portrait of her--that was all--and that I rarely looked
at.
The first thing I did in Paris was to find a translator for Howard's
poem, which, after a time, appeared in one of the literary papers in
its French dress, and returned to its original title. He came to me
suddenly one evening with a contemporary paper in his hand, and the
flush of gratified talent, and the pride that is its first cousin,
kindling in his face.
"Look here, Vic!" he said; "isn't this first-class? Here's a
critique on my verses, and just see how they crack them up!"
I took the paper and read the paragraph, Howard leaning over my
shoulder and resting his knee on the arm of my chair. When I had
finished I looked up at him.
"Not a word more than it deserves, old man!" I said. "Now you
realise, don't you, what you can be and do if you choose!"
"Yes. Well, really, if all that's true, I ought to make some sort of
a name some day, eh?"
And for a time it seemed that a lasting impression had been made
upon him. He seemed to feel that elation and enthusiasm stir in him
which makes it a joy to the genius to renounce all for his work.
With regard to my own manuscripts, I sent some of them, in English,
to one of the French publishing firms, and there ensued a blank of
three weeks.
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