Instead of undressing he refilled his lamp, made up his fire,
and drew his chair to the hearth. There was a question, put off, too,
like his work, from hour to hour, and silenced by the scuffling,
meaningless movements of the day. It related to the promise he had
made to Lucia Harden at the end of their last interview. He had then
said to her that, since she desired it, she should know what it was
that she had done for him. Hitherto he had determined that she should
not know it yet; not know it till death had removed from her his
embarrassing, preposterous personality. The gift of knowledge that she
might have refused from the man, she could then accept from the poet.
The only condition that honour, that chivalry insisted on was the
removal of the man. But there were other ways of getting rid of a man
besides the clumsy device of death. Might he not be considered to have
effaced himself sufficiently by marriage? As far as Lucia was
concerned he could see very little difference between the two
processes; in fact, marriage was, if anything, the safer. For the
important thing was that she should know somehow; that he should hand
over his gift to her before it was too late. And suppose--suppose he
should fail to remove himself in time? Beholding the years as they
now stretched before him, it seemed to him that he would never die.
There was another consideration which concerned his honour, not as a
man but as a poet.
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