Once or twice I heard of Basil Norman, though our paths did not cross.
Some one claimed that Norman could have been a great violinist, if----
Another told me that _Punch_ had published a delicate little sonnet of
his that had the quality of tears about it. There was no question (he
said), if---- An artist I met had painted one landscape that defied
criticism--even ours--and I spoke of the exquisite coloring and detail
of the foreground.
"I could not have done that," he said, "but for Basil Norman, who
brooded over me like an inspiration. The work is mine, but the
conception his. If----"
Yet the world did not know of his existence. He remained a detached
personality, treading lightly where sorrow was, singing his song of the
sunlight wherever ears had become dulled with discouragement. A
fantastic, gentle, twinkling-eyed prince in a kingdom of butterflies
and violets. Try as I would, I could not refrain from contrasting my
life of literary vivisection with his primrose youth that seemed
eternal, springing from a genuine joy in living, a youth that was as
perfect as a melody of Chopin's.
"The happiest of Christmases, old Pest!"
The subject of my thoughts was standing before me, and the bells were
clamoring exultantly on the frosty air.
I gripped his hand, and something in his eyes told me the truth.... He
had come for me because I was lonely and needed him.
And the message of the bells took on a new meaning.