prepared for rhyme and rhythm. Nevertheless he could not refrain, for he succumbed to the fascination, as a widower to his second wife.
So Nabin sought help from me. The subject of his poems was the old, old one, which is ever new: his poems were all addressed to the beloved one. I slapped his back in jest, and asked him: "Well, old chap, who is she?"
Nabin laughed, as he replied: "That I have not yet discovered!"
I confess that I found considerable comfort in bringing help to my friend. Like a hen brooding on a duck’s egg, I lavished all the warmth of my pent-up passion on Nabin's effusions. So vigorously did I revise and improve his crude productions, that the larger part of each poem became my own.
Then Nabin would say in surprise: "That is just what I wanted to say, but could not. How on earth do you manage to get hold of all these fine sentiments?"
Poet-like, I would reply: "They come from my imagination; for, as you know, truth is silent, and it is imagination only which waxes eloquent. Reality represses the flow of feeling like a rock; imagination cuts out a path for itself."
