GRAYSMILL, August 7th.
Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I feel
I must write again before the week comes round. It was, after all, a
silly promise we made each other to write just once a week, neither
more nor less. This time I write at odds with myself. It's all very
well to talk about sincerity, it baffles one completely at times;
there isn't a greater liar under the sun at this moment than Emilia
Fletcher. My outward life is all out of tune with my inward self.
Perhaps if you saw me with my old ladies, you would say: "Quite
right; please them by all means, sit with them, drive with them,
make small talk, listen to their little tales. It pleases them, and
it doesn't harm you." But I answer: Is it right? Is it not rank
hypocrisy? Is affection won by false pretences worth the having? I
tell you, I am playing a part all day long. I read to them out of
books that I either despise or abhor; I play to them music unworthy
of the name; I nod my head in acquiescence when my very soul cries
no. Nor is that all; I take my place each morning in the centre of
the room, open the Bible, and in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth
the prayers that are to strengthen the household through the day.
When, at a given point, all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in
their calico gowns and turn their demure backs to me as they kneel
in a row, I know not whether to laugh or cry. O Constance, it is
infamous of me! And why do I do it? Out of consideration for them?
out of kind-heartedness? Not a bit of it! Vanity, my dear; sheer
vanity. If they cared for me less, if I did not feel that they
almost worship me, holding out their old hands to me for all the
pleasure that their day still may bring, would I do it? No; for then
I should not care, as I feel I do now, to keep their good opinion,
even at the expense of making myself appear better, according to
their lights, than I really am. I am a worm; I never thought I could
sink so low. It was so easy to live in tune with Truth beside my
mother; but she was Truth's high-priestess; she never swerved from
the straight path.
I went to church last Sunday; there's a confession! Another such act
of cowardice, and I am lost. It never entered my head, of course, to
go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so happened that I had a
headache that day, no comment was made upon my absence. But on
Saturday the vicar said something about "to-morrow"; Uncle George
invited himself to dinner after service; and when Aunt Caroline
asked me, at breakfast on Sunday, what hat I was going to put on, I
replied, "The small one," and followed her like a lamb. I don't know
what to do now. This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to
call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went,
Heaven knows why. I was well served out. There they sat a mortal
hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could have
shrieked. When I had safely seen Aunt Caroline home, I set off for a
long walk in the gloaming; the silent earth was stretched in peace
beneath the deepening sky, the moon rose among great clouds that
floated like dragons' ghosts upon the blue. And I cried out within
myself for very pain that I who had perception of these things
should live so lying and so false a life. Perhaps I am not quite
myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my strength
has left me. But it is cowardly to make excuses.
I hear you: "There you go, old wise-bones! Here's a storm in a
tea-cup! It's much better to behave properly _out_side anyway, than
to hurt people's feelings and make them think worse of you than they
need, by showing them what a wicked infidel you are. Besides, what
does it matter?"
Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that Christmas
morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches together?
I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself at the door
of Santa Maria Novella. With all the strictness of my nineteen years
I was simply horrified.
"Constance!" I cried, "what on earth are you doing?"
"I don't like to be left in the cold," you replied; "if there are
any blessings going, I may as well have my share."
"But, dearest," said I, "you don't believe in it!"
"Of course I don't, but it may be true, for all that; how do we
know? Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny! The stale water
may not do me any good, but it won't do me any harm either, now will
it?"
Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the remembered
words! It was a long time ago. Dear and sweet one, I must not think
of you too much, I long for you so.
Yours in endless love,
EMILIA.