belated in its appearance. Or some deep generalization drawn from
the dark backward of my vast experience would be produced, and
either ruthlessly ignored or contemptuously corrected by some
unsympathetic elder of unyielding voice and formed opinions. And
then there was the crushing sense, at the conclusion of one of
these interviews, of having been put down as a tiresome and heavy
young man. I fully believed in my own liveliness and sprightliness,
but it seemed an impossible task to persuade my elders that these
qualities were there. A good-natured, elderly friend used at times
to rally me upon my shyness, and say that it all came from thinking
too much about myself. It was as useless as if one told a man with
a toothache that it was mere self-absorption that made him suffer.
For I have no doubt that the disease of self-consciousness is
incident to intelligent youth. Marie Bashkirtseff, in the terrible
self-revealing journals which she wrote, describes a visit that
she paid to some one who had expressed an interest in her and a
desire to see her. She says that as she passed the threshold of the
room she breathed a prayer, "O God, make me worth seeing!" How
often used one to desire to make an impression, to make oneself
felt and appreciated!

Well, all that uneasy craving has left me. I no longer have any
particular desire for or expectation of being impressive. One
likes, of course, to feel fresh and lively; but whereas in the old
days I used to enter a circle with the intention of endeavouring to
be felt, of giving pleasure and interest, I now go in the humble
hope of receiving either. The result is that, having got rid to a
great extent of this pompous and self-regarding attitude of mind, I
not only find myself more at ease, but I also find other people
infinitely more interesting. Instead of laying one's frigate