the same characters and similar situations; both thought and
phraseology became somewhat mannerised. I put this down myself to
the belief that life was beginning to be more interesting to him
than art. But there suddenly appeared the book which made him
famous, a book both masterly and delicate, full of subtle analysis
and perception, and with that indescribable sense of actuality
which is the best test of art. The style at the same time seemed to
have run clear; he had gained a perfect command of his instrument,
and I had about this book, what I had never had about any other
book of his, the sense that he was producing exactly the effects he
meant to produce. The extraordinary merit of the book was instantly
recognised by all, I think, but the author. He went abroad for a
time after the book was published, and eventually returned; it was
at that point of his life that the Diary began.

I went to see him not long after, and it became rapidly clear to me
that something had happened to him. Instead of being radiant with
success, eager and contented, I found him depressed, anxious,
haggard. He told me that he felt unstrung and exhausted, and that
his power of writing had deserted him. But I must bear testimony at
the same time to the fact which does not emerge in the Diary,
namely, the extraordinary gallantry and patience of his conduct and
demeanour. He struggled visibly and pathetically, from hour to
hour, against his depression. He never complained; he never showed,
at least in my presence, the smallest touch of irritability. Indeed
to myself, who had known him as the most equable and good-humoured
of men, he seemed to support the trial with a courage little short
of heroism. The trial was a sore one, because it deprived him both
of motive and occupation. But he made the best of it; he read, he
took long walks, and he threw himself with great eagerness into the