I think that from the very
beginnings of literature there could have been no author who derived
from his labors more absolute pleasure than I derived from mine: never
was a story more interesting to tell than the story of Tomaso and
Lucilla. It proved to be a very long one, much longer than I had
supposed I could make it, and sometimes I felt that it was due to the
general character of my book that I should occasionally insert some
description of scenery or instances of travel.
My secretary wrote as fast as I could dictate, and sometimes wished, I
think, that I would dictate faster. She seldom made comments unless she
thought it absolutely necessary to do so, but there were certain
twitches and movements of her head and shoulders which might indicate
emotions, such as pleasant excitement at the sudden development of the
situation, or impatience at my delay in the delivery of interesting
passages; and I imagined that during the interpolation of descriptive
matter she appeared to be anxious to get through with it as quickly as
possible, and to go on with the story.
It was my wish to make my book a very large one; it was therefore
desirable to be economical with the material I had left, and to eke it
out as much as I could with fiction; but upon considering the matter I
became convinced that it could not be very long before the material
which in any way could be connected with the story must give out, and
that therefore it would have to come to an end.
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