of the things about which I doubt most whether it ought ever to have
been written at all. It describes two innocent children gradually
growing at once omniscient and half-witted under the influence of
the foul ghosts of a groom and a governess. As I say, I doubt whether
Mr. Henry James ought to have published it (no, it is not indecent,
do not buy it; it is a spiritual matter), but I think the question
so doubtful that I will give that truly great man a chance.
I will approve the thing as well as admire it if he will write
another tale just as powerful about two children and Santa Claus.
If he will not, or cannot, then the conclusion is clear; we can
deal strongly with gloomy mystery, but not with happy mystery;
we are not rationalists, but diabolists.

. . . . .

I have thought vaguely of all this staring at a great red fire that
stands up in the room like a great red angel. But, perhaps, you have
never heard of a red angel. But you have heard of a blue devil.
That is exactly what I mean.


XVIII

The Tower

I have been standing where everybody has stood, opposite the great
Belfry Tower of Bruges, and thinking, as every one has thought
(though not, perhaps, said), that it is built in defiance of all decencies
of architecture. It is made in deliberate disproportion to achieve
the one startling effect of height. It is a church on stilts.