“As you do?”
“Well. Yes. I try to strike a balance.”
“A few old engravings—good, I suppose—a little luxury in furniture and flowers, a few things that come within your means. Art—in moderation, and a few kindly acts of the pleasanter sort, a certain respect for truth; duty—also in moderation. Eh? It’s just that even balance that I cannot contrive. I cannot sit down to the oatmeal of this daily life and wash it down with a temperate draught of beauty and water. Art!… I suppose I’m voracious, I’m one of the unfit—for the civilised stage. I’ve sat down once, I’ve sat down twice, to perfectly sane, secure, and reasonable things.… It’s not my way.”
He repeated, “It’s not my way.”
Melville, I think, said nothing to that. He was distracted from the immediate topic by the discussion of his own
