Forgive me for writing such a foul letter, and bless you for answering
it so promptly. The alarming list of faults which you have produced in
answer to mine relieves my mind a good deal. Thank Heaven for a woman
with a sense of humour. I was feeling rather awful that day, being
thoroughly fagged, and had, I suppose, a grouch against civilisation.
But I quite agree about the innocent “animal” business; I can imagine
nothing more tedious. All the same, I feel very strongly, in my more
honest moments, that love has got to be happy, for fear it should become
all-important. I can’t expect you to understand this, and you would be
an unnatural woman if you did, and I should hate you for it. But I do
feel that the old “not long will his love stay behind him” attitude is
degrading and horrible. I don’t want to feel that anybody’s life and
happiness is bound up with mine. What dignity is there in life if one is
not free to take one’s own risks? It doesn’t matter whether it’s a wife
or a parent or a child or a brother—people should set their own value
on themselves and not “live for others” or “live only in their
children,” or whoever it is. It’s beastly. And yet—if I heard you say
that—I don’t know, but I expect I should go off the deep end like poor
old Harrison.
I think Lathom is rather getting on my nerves. If I had known he was
such a gregarious devil I don’t think I should have agreed to set up
housekeeping with him. Fortunately, as he is merely an acquaintance, and
_not_ my wife or my father or my brother, I can more or less ignore his
vagaries. He is always “running down” to see the Harrisons, and having
them up here. You can’t get on with your work when people are
everlastingly coming in and out. I just chuck it now, and sit tight in
my own room, and let them get on with it.
I like the old boy, though—and, by jove, he does know how to cook! Yes,
cook! He has a passion for cookery as a fine art. I must get him to show
me how to make omelettes—I don’t believe _you_ know anything about it,
do you? Also rump-steak, on which his views are very sound. He also has
a fungus-complex—thinks the poor peasant ought to go forth and cull his
grub from the hedgerow, and all that. He knows a tremendous lot about
edible toadstools, and delivers lectures on them to Lathom, for whom he
has taken a great fancy. As a matter of fact, Lathom is one of those
offensively healthy people who shovel down anything that is set before
them, but Harrison doesn’t see that, and enthuses mildly on in a sort of
resistless river of speech that forces itself past all interruptions.
Mrs. H. yawns, Miss Milsom yawns, Lathom yawns and I do my best not to
yawn, because I’m the only person here who has any real sympathy with
the subject, so it’s up to me. I’m not sure, though, that his monologues
aren’t better than her intense duets. However, Harrison has now gone
away into the country on his lonesome, so perhaps we shall be free of
visitors for a bit.
I have been round to see Merritt & Hopkins, and this time saw the great
Man of Merritt himself. He was very genial, and encouraged me to dig my
old novel out of its sepulchre, in a last forlorn effort. You know—the
one I wrote just before I met you, and which no one will have anything
to do with. He has promised to read it himself, which was so decent of
him that I hadn’t the heart to suggest that a younger man might look
upon it with more sympathy!
I have just been reading the _Messenger’s_ interview with you, my child.
How entertaining! What grand publicity! And how damnable impertinent. I
suppose I shall be expected to put up with everybody having the right to
comment on My Wife in public. We shall have rows about it; I see that
inevitably. I shall sneer first and then lose my temper, and if you once
give in you will be a lost woman.