was talking about that scene in "Anna Karenina" where
ANNA went to see her son.

Although in the final form of the novel nothing is said in
this scene either about a bonnet or a mirror,--nothing is
mentioned but a thick black veil,--still, I imagine that in its
original form, when he was working on the passage, my father may
have brought Anna up to the mirror, and made her straighten her
bonnet or take it off.

I can remember the interest with which he told me this, and
it now seems strange that he should have talked about such subtle
artistic experiences to a boy of seven who was hardly capable of
understanding him at the time. However, that was often the case
with him.

I once heard from him a very interesting description of what
a writer needs for his work:

"You cannot imagine how important one's mood is," he said.
"Sometimes you get up in the morning, fresh and vigorous, with
your head clear, and you begin to write. Everything is sensible
and consistent. You read it over next day, and have to throw the
whole thing away, because, good as it is, it misses the main
thing. There is no imagination in it, no subtlety, none of the
necessary something, none of that only just without which all
your cleverness is worth nothing. Another day you get up after a
bad night, with your nerves all on edge, and you think, 'To-day I
shall write well, at any rate.' And as a matter of fact, what
you write is beautiful, picturesque, with any amount of