' If I had fallen seriously ill, if I had been
captured by brigands, convinced that my father's understanding with the
supreme powers was too complete, that his letters of introduction to the
Almighty were too irresistible for my illness or captivity to turn out
anything but vain illusions, in which there was no danger actually
threatening me, I should have awaited with perfect composure the
inevitable hour of my return to comfortable realities, of my deliverance
from bondage or restoration to health. Perhaps this want of talent, this
black cavity which gaped in my mind when I ransacked it for the theme of
my future writings, was itself no more, either, than an unsubstantial
illusion, and would be brought to an end by the intervention of my father,
who would arrange with the Government and with Providence that I should be
the first writer of my day. But at other times, while my parents were
growing impatient at seeing me loiter behind instead of following them, my
actual life, instead of seeming an artificial creation by my father, and
one which he could modify as he chose, appeared, on the contrary, to be
comprised in a larger reality which had not been created for my benefit,
from whose judgments there was no appeal, in the heart of which I was
bound, helpless, without friend or ally, and beyond which no further
possibilities lay concealed.
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