Who leads his own life? Who is master of
himself? What can you do but live according to your income in, I am
sure, a very charming little cell; buzz about your little world with
your cheerful, kindly song, helping these your fellow insects here,
doing day by day the useful offices apportioned to you by your
temperament and means, seeing the same faces, treading ever the same
narrow circle? Why do I write poetry? I am not to blame. I must
live. It is the only thing I can do. Why does one man live and die
upon the treeless rocks of Iceland, another labour in the vineyards
of the Apennines? Why does one woman make matches, ride in a van to
Epping Forest, drink gin, and change hats with her lover on the
homeward journey; another pant through a dinner-party and half a
dozen receptions every night from March to June, rush from country
house to fashionable Continental resort from July to February, dress
as she is instructed by her milliner, say the smart things that are
expected of her? Who would be a sweep or a chaperon, were all roads
free? Who is it succeeds in escaping the law of the hive? The
loafer, the tramp.
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