Now his fighting powers were so well engaged as to take
something from the reality of a future battlefield.
In many ways it was not as he would have imagined it had he known of such
a thing. He would have thought of it as one long mood of despair,
inflamed at times by the passion of rebellion. There were, in truth, many
moods. In hours when he was quiet they spoke of the things they had seen
and loved, of Italy and the Alps they spoke often, struggling for the
words to paint a picture. Sometimes she read a little to him--there would
be much of that now. Through it all, they seized upon anything which
would sustain each other. Once when he saw her faltering he told her
that he thought after awhile he would write a book. He did not call it a
text-book; did not speak of it as the kind of work to which a man
sometimes turns when his creative work is done. He had always thought
that when he was sixty or seventy he might write a few books. He would
write them now at forty.
And when there came times of its being utterly unbearable, they were
either silent or trivial.
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