Sometimes, using the very language of the dead
man's letter, I would talk to him, wondering if by any chance some
flash of memory would come back to him, and once or twice it seemed
to me that into the mild, pathetic eyes there came a look that I had
seen before, but it passed away, and indeed, it was difficult to
think of this sad little human oddity, with its pleading
helplessness, in connection with the strong, swift, conquering
spirit that I had watched passing away amid the silence of the
mountains.
The one thing that brought joy to him was his art. I cannot help
thinking that, but for his health, he would have made a name for
himself. His work was always clever and original, but it was the
work of an invalid.
"I shall never be great," he said to me once. "I have such
wonderful dreams, but when it comes to working them out there is
something that hampers me. It always seems to me as if at the last
moment a hand was stretched out that clutched me by the feet. I
long so, but I have not the strength. It is terrible to be one of
the weaklings."
It clung to me, that word he had used. For a man to know he is
weak; it sounds a paradox, but a man must be strong to know that.
And dwelling upon this, and upon his patience and his gentleness,
there came to me suddenly remembrance of that postscript, the
significance of which I had not understood.
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