_Luc_. Enough! You urge a willing steed. I was about to bespeak your
attention. You must be my witness to the world, that there is reason
in my madness. Indeed, apart from this, the work of recollection is a
pleasure, and has become a constant practice with me; twice, thrice in
a day I repeat over his words, though there is none to hear. A lover,
in the absence of his mistress, remembers some word, some act of hers,
dwells on it, and beguiles hours of sickness with her feigned
presence. Sometimes he thinks he is face to face with her; words,
heard long since, come again from her lips; he rejoices; his soul
cleaves to the memory of the past, and has no time for present
vexations. It is so with me. Philosophy is far away, but I have heard
a philosopher's words. I piece them together, and revolve them in my
heart, and am comforted. Nigrinus is the beacon-fire on which, far out
in mid-ocean, in the darkness of night, I fix my gaze; I fancy him
present with me in all my doings; I hear ever the same words. At
times, in moments of concentration, I see his very face, his voice
rings in my ears. Of him it may truly be said, as of Pericles,

In every heart he left his sting.

_Fr_. Stay, gentle enthusiast. Take a good breath, and start again; I
am waiting to hear what Nigrinus said. You beat about the bush in a
manner truly exasperating.

_Luc_. True, I must make a start, as you say. And yet... Tell me, did
you never see a tragedy (nay, the comedies fare no better) murdered by
bad acting, and the culprits finally hissed off the stage for their
pains? As often as not the play is a perfectly good one, and has
scored a success.