“Yes,” I said, “I can understand that; but I must confess that there seems to me something wanting in the melodies of this place.  The music which I loved in the old days was the music which spoke to the soul of something further yet and unattainable; but here the music seems to have attained its end, and to have fulfilled its own desire.”

“Yes,” said Charmides, “I know that you feel that; your mind is very clear to me, up to a certain point; and I have sometimes wondered why you spend your time here, because you are not one of us, as your friend Cynthia is.”

I glanced, as he spoke, to where Cynthia sat on a great carved settle among cushions, side by side with Lucius, whispering to him with a smile.

“No,” I said, “I do not think I have found my place yet, but I am here, I think, for a purpose, and I do not know what that purpose is.”

“Well,” he said, “I have sometimes wondered myself.  I feel that you may have something to tell me, some message for me.  I thought that when I first saw you; but I cannot quite perceive what is in your mind, and I see that you do not wholly know what is in mine.  I have been here for a long time, and I have a sense that I do not get on, do not move; and yet I have lived in extreme joy and contentment, except that I dread to return to life, as I know I must return.  I have lived often, and always in joy—­but in life there are constantly things to endure, little things which just ruffle the serenity of soul which I desire, and which I may fairly say I here enjoy.  I have loved beauty, and not intemperately; and there have been other people—­men and women—­whom I have loved, in a sense; but the love of them has always seemed a sort of interruption to the life I desired, something disordered and strained, which hurt me, and kept me away from the peace I desired—­from the fine weighing of sounds and colours, and the pleasure of beautiful forms and lines; and I dread to return to life, because one cannot avoid love and sorrow, and mean troubles, which waste the spirit in vain.”

“Yes,” I said, “I can understand what you feel very well, because I too have known what it is to desire to live in peace and beauty, not to be disturbed or fretted; but the reason, I think, why it is dangerous, is not because life becomes too easy.  That is not the danger at all—­life is never easy, whatever it is!  But the danger is that it grows too solemn!  One is apt to become like a priest, always celebrating holy mysteries, always in a vision, with no time for laughter, and disputing, and quarrelling, and being silly and playing.  It is the poor body again that is amiss.  It is like the camel, poor thing; it groans and weeps, but it goes on.  One cannot live wholly in a vision; and life does not become more simple so, but more complicated, for one’s time and energy are spent in avoiding the sordid and the tiresome things which one cannot and must not avoid.  I remember, in an illness which I had, when I was depressed and fanciful, a homely old doctor said to me, ’Don’t be too careful of yourself:  don’t think you can’t bear this and that—­go out to dinner—­eat and drink rather too much!’ It seemed to be coarse advice, but it was wise.”