"
"I--I know nothing." (What a hypocrite he felt as he said it!)
"Nor I. As far as knowledge goes I haven't any right to speak.
Only--the other evening, you expressed such absolute disbelief in
yourself--"
"I was perfectly sincere."
"I know you were. That's what made me believe in you."
(Well then, if _that_ was what made her believe in him he would
continue to express disbelief in himself.)
She paused. "It's the little men, isn't it, the men of talent, that
are always so self-conscious and so sure? I don't know much about it,
but it seems to me that genius isn't bound to be like that. It might
be so different from your ordinary self that you couldn't be aware of
it in the ordinary way. There would always be a sort of divine
uncertainty about it."
"I'm afraid I don't agree with you. All the great geniuses have been
not only aware of themselves, but most uncommonly certain."
"Still, their genius may have been the part of themselves they
understood least. If they had tried to understand it, they would have
doubted too."
"There's something in that. You mean genius understands
everything--except itself?
"I think that's what I meant."
"Yes; but whether genius understands itself or not, whatever it does,
you see, it doesn't doubt."
"Doesn't it? Have you read Keats' letters? _He_ doubted."
"Only when he was in love with Fanny Brawne."
He paused abruptly. He was seized by an idea, a rushing irresistible
idea that lifted him off his feet and whirled him suddenly into a
region of light, tumultuous and profound.
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