Keats was in love when he
doubted. Could that be the explanation of his own misgiving?
"That," he said hastily, "that's another thing altogether. Any way, if
you don't believe in yourself, you'll have some difficulty in making
other people believe in you."
"And if other people _do_ believe in you, before you believe in
yourself?"
"Before? It might be done before, but not after. You may make a man
conceited, but you can't give him back the conceit he had on Saturday,
if he's lost it all by Monday."
"That means that you know you've written a beautiful thing and you
only think you'll never write another."
"Perhaps it does." (He had to keep it up for the pleasure of hearing
her say she believed in him.)
"Well, I don't suppose you will write another _Helen in Leuce_."
"I'm afraid not." He went on to tell her that the wonder was how he
wrote the thing at all. It had been done anyhow, anywhere, in
successive bursts or spasms of creative energy; the circumstances of
his life (he referred to them with some diffidence) not being exactly
favourable to sustained effort. "How did _you_ feel about it?" he
inquired.
"I can hardly tell you. I think I felt as you feel about anything
beautiful that comes to you for the first time. I don't know what it
is you've done. It's as if something had been done to me, as if I'd
been given a new sense. It's like hearing Beethoven or Wagner for the
first time." As she spoke she saw the swift blood grow hot in his
face, she saw the slight trembling of the hand that propped his chin
and she thought, "Poor fellow, so much emotion for a little praise?"
"What did you mean by it?" she said.
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