GRAYSMILL, October 18th.
Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and
welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when
another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in
spring by this time,--perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know
myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery,
but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.
A woman that is debarred from woman's best profession--wifehood
and motherhood--must find some other work to do; idleness,
uselessness--above all, idleness--are the hotbed of all manner of
follies. The stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the
worldliest work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted,
so to speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that
blows. You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at
least a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!
Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your
singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study,
however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, the
Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a
sewing-machine at least, and make flannel petticoats for the poor;
anything, Constantia, only don't for Heaven's sake sit there with
your hands in your lap, listening to the gabble of fools, while Mrs.
Rayner touches up a curl here and a frill there, from morning till
night, for ever and ever.
But now to other things, for indeed I am not in the fault-finding
mood you might suppose. Only, as you know well, I can always worry
about you, at any time.
Well, I have seen my wood-sprite again, this very morning. I could
not sleep after six, although I twice covered up my head with the
bed-clothes and made believe I was not awake; so I got up, and the
young sun was so beautiful, driving the mists out of the valley,
that I went out.
Between the flower garden and the park, there lies a shrubbery;
green paths wind in and out between high walls of box and laurel,
leading one at length to a little blue door in an old wall. Well, I
was stepping along between the evergreens as fast as the moss on the
pebbles would let me, swinging my hat round as I went, and singing
loudly, when I thought I heard footsteps round the bend of the path.
I turned the corner--nobody; only a little scrambling sound, and the
treacherous flutter of a branch in the laurel hedge. Of course I
immediately thought of poachers, and in my imagination already saw
Emilia Fletcher stretched a lifeless corpse upon the ground. I took
three backward steps, then paused. Silence and stillness reigned.
Pooh! thought I, it's nothing, and with a bold, swift step I walked
past the fearful spot. No sooner had I passed than there came
another crackle; I turned and beheld a luminous eye between the
branches. Whether I turned pale with fright or not, I cannot tell;
but a hand came forth, a foot, then, with considerable difficulty,
an entire body; and on the path before me stood my dishevelled
friend, covered with green dust and blushes.
"I have no excuse to offer," said he.