He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all nothing,—absolutely nothing. But then do we not know that our thoughts are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or intrinsic evidences of things,—as would be the case were we always rational,—but by the inner workings of the mind itself? At the present turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.”
“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy. You have come to grief in some of your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter to the taste. I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper appreciation of flavours has come back to me. Bah,—how noisome was that Dead Sea water!”
“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of them by long draughts.”
“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him. “Draughts have not been long which can have been swallowed in your years. Your disease may be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic. A man always thinks at the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his lifetime; but God is too good for that. I do not know what ails you; but this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.”
We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar. Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking,—which was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is enjoying it with him.
“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore, cannot judge.”
“Perhaps not, my dear fellow. But my experience tells me that early wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that yours may be so. The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies. I hope it may be so with you.”
“God knows. I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied than I am; but at the present moment, I am not—not light-hearted.”
“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”
“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then trouble you with my cares. But I had been alone so long, and I was so weary of it!”
“By Jove, and so had I. Make no apology. And let me tell you this,—though perhaps you will not credit me,—that I would sooner laugh with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion demands, I can do the latter also.”