had an object and worked for it, even though he never got within miles of accomplishment. "A life for a man is a life among men," he would say with emphasis. "The woods are all right as an interlude, but not as a career." He was very sympathetic, but he shook his head violently. "In action lies a man's safety in life," he growled at me. "The world needs men of action, not dreamers," he repeated and repeated, "and Buddhism has never yet produced a man of action. Do something, even if it prove the wrong thing. Dreaming, without action, is the quickest way of self-corruption I know." And he would then urge me again to become a doctor, after which he would proceed to dream himself for an hour or two ... showing that all his life he had been far more of a dreamer than a man of action....
It was chance that suddenly led me into the doctor's secret. He became for me, from that moment, the most pathetic and tragic of human beings. My own troubles seemed insignificant.
One afternoon early in December, gloomy, very cold, a studio appointment failed, and I decided to go to the wooden house. It was that or the public library, but I wanted a talk, I wanted also to get really warm. I had no overcoat; the doctor's room was always like an oven. The vermin I had grown accustomed to and hardly noticed them. An idea of food, too, was in my mind, for the free lunch glass of beer and salt chip-potatoes was all I had eaten since breakfast. Seven o'clock, however, was my usual hour of visit, I had never been in the afternoon before. A memorable visit; we were alone; he told me his secret very quietly.
I found him in his most awful mood, rude, his nerves unbearably on edge. He said he had not expected me, but when I tried to go, he became angry and begged me to stay, saying that I helped him more than I could ever know. Had I brought the fiddle? I said I would run up the street and get it. "No," he implored, "don't go now. You can go later--before supper. Please do not
leave me--please!" He then said he would tell me
