It was not till I read his _Life_, when it first came out in 1909, that I realised what a struggle his had been. Reared in a workhouse, this maker of the Congo (which we muddled and allowed the Belgians to take for their own) was indeed a remarkable man. He attained position, wealth in a minor degree, a charming lady as a wife, and a title. His self-education and magnificent strength of purpose secured all this unaided, even by good fortune. His _Life_ reads like an excellent novel. In these Socialistic days one receives with interest his remark, “Individuals require to be protected from the rapacity of Communities. Socialism is a return to primitive conditions.” Yes. Stanley was a great man. Seven thousand miles across unknown Africa, amidst slave-traders, cannibals, and wild beasts, his expedition “tottered its way to the Atlantic, a scattered column of long and lean bodies; dysentery, ulcers, and scurvy fast absorbing the remnant of life left by famine.” So he crossed from East to West, and traversed hundreds of miles of the river Congo. My other neighbour at that dinner—Hall Caine—had much in common with me, and we discussed Iceland, where, of course, we had both been; Norway, which he knew in summer and I in winter; and then Nansen. The Manxman is an interesting companion, his nervous intensity throws warmth and enthusiasm into all his sayings and makes his subjects appear more interesting than they really are, perhaps. There is a magnetic influence in him. Physically delicate, a perfect bundle of nerves, there is an electric thrill in all he says, in spite of the sad, soft intonation of his voice. He ponders again and again over his scenes, throws himself heart and soul into his characters, himself lives all the tragic episodes and terrible moments that the men and women undergo, with the result that by the time the book is completed he is absolutely played out, mind and body. Certainly, to sum up, my dinner neighbours have often been, and often are, most interesting, and frequently delightful as well. Nothing in the world is more bracing than contact with brilliant minds. Brilliancy begets brilliancy just as dullness makes thought barren. CHAPTER XXIII PRIVATE DINNERS