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James, Henry, 1843-1916

"The Death of the Lion"

"
She turned it over. "He hasn't any disfigurement?"
"Nothing to speak of!"
"Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his
occupations?"
"That but feebly expresses it."
"So that he can't give himself up to his beautiful imagination?"
"He's beset, badgered, bothered--he's pulled to pieces on the
pretext of being applauded. People expect him to give them his
time, his golden time, who wouldn't themselves give five shillings
for one of his books."
"Five? I'd give five thousand!"
"Give your sympathy--give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those
who approach him only do it to advertise themselves."
"Why it's too bad!" the girl exclaimed with the face of an angel.
"It's the first time I was ever called crude!" she laughed.
I followed up my advantage. "There's a lady with him now who's a
terrible complication, and who yet hasn't read, I'm sure, ten pages
he ever wrote."
My visitor's wide eyes grew tenderer. "Then how does she talk--?"
"Without ceasing. I only mention her as a single case. Do you
want to know how to show a superlative consideration? Simply avoid
him."
"Avoid him?" she despairingly breathed.
"Don't force him to have to take account of you; admire him in
silence, cultivate him at a distance and secretly appropriate his
message.


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