I stopped here to see the Strid again--not seen these many years. It
is curious that life is embittered to me, now, by its former
pleasantness; while _you_ have of these same places painful
recollections, but you could enjoy them now with your whole heart.
Instead of the drive with the poor over-labored one horse through the
long wet day, here, when I was a youth, my father and mother brought
me,[16] and let me sketch in the Abbey and ramble in the woods as I
chose, only demanding promise that I should not go near the Strid.
Pleasant drives, with, on the whole, well paid and pleased drivers,
never with over-burdened cattle; cheerful dinner or tea waiting for me
always, on my return from solitary rambles. Everything right and good
for me, except only that they never put me through any trials to
harden me, or give me decision of character, or make me feel how much
they did for me.
But that error was a fearful one, and cost them and me, Heaven only
knows how much. And now, I walk to Strid, and Abbey, and everywhere,
with the ghosts of the past days haunting me, and other darker spirits
of sorrow and remorse and wonder. Black spirits among the gray, all
like a mist between me and the green woods. And I feel like a
caterpillar,--stung _just enough_. Foul weather and mist enough, of
quite a real kind besides. An hour's sunshine to-day, broken up
speedily, and now veiled utterly.
[Footnote 16: In 1837.]
* * * * *
HERNE HILL, LONDON,
_11th February, 1875_.
I have your sweet letter with news of Dr. John and his brother. I have
been working on the book to-day very hard, after much interruption; it
is two-thirds done now. So glad people are on tiptoe.
Paddocks are frogs, not toads in that grace.[17] And why should not
people smile? Do you think that God does not like smiling graces? He
only dislikes frowns. But you know when once habitual, the child would
be told on a cold day to say "Cold as paddocks;" and everybody would
know what was coming. Finally the deep under-meaning, that as the cold
hand is lifted, so also the cold heart, and yet accepted, makes it one
of the prettiest little hymns I know.
I cannot tell you how very apposite to my work these two feathers are.
I am just going to dwell on the exquisite result of the division into
successive leaves, by which nature obtains the glittering look to set
off her color; and you just send me two feathers which have it more in
perfection than any I ever saw, and I think are more vivid in color.
How those boys must tease you! but you will be rewarded in the world
that good Susies go to.
[Footnote 17: Herrick's. See "Fors Clavigera", Letter XLIII.]
* * * * *
HERNE HILL, _4th October_ (1875).
All your letter is delicious, but chiefest the last sentence where you
say you like your Chaucer so much.--And you need never fear touching
that wound of mine--It is never more--never less--without its pain. I
like you to lay your pure--gentle hand on it.
But I am not despondent or beaten at all, and I'm at work on your
peacock's feathers--and oh me, they should be put into some great arch
of crystal where one could see them like a large rainbow--I use your
dear little lens deep in and in--and can't exhaust their
wonderfulness.
* * * * *
HOTEL MEURICE, PARIS,
_26th August, '76_.
I'm so very miserable just now that I can't write to you: but I don't
want you to think that I am going so far away without wishing to be
near you again. A fit of intense despondency coming on the top, or
under the bottom, of already far-fallen fatigue leaves me helpless
to-day, my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Oh dear, the one
pleasant thing I've to say is that it will make me know the blessings
of Brantwood and dearness of the Thwaite, twenty fold more, when I get
back.
* * * * *
VENICE, _10th September, '76_.
I am a sad long way from the pretty garden steps of the Thwaite, now,
yet in a way, at home, here also--having perhaps more feeling of old
days at Venice than at any other place in the world, having done so
much work there, and I hope to get my new "Stones of Venice" into
almost as nice a form as "Frondes." I'm going to keep all that I think
Susie would like, and then to put in some little bits to my own
liking, and some other little bits for the pleasure of teasing, and I
think the book will come out quite fresh.
I am settled here for a month at least--and shall be very thankful for
Susie notes, when they cross the Alps to me in these lovely days.
Love to Mary--I wish I could have sent both some of the dark blue
small Veronica I found on the Simplon!
* * * * *
VENICE, _12th September, 1876_.
I must just say how thankful it makes me to hear of this true
gentleness of English gentlewomen in the midst of the vice and cruelty
in which I am forced to live here, where oppression on one side and
license on the other rage as two war-wolves in continual havoc.
It is very characteristic of fallen Venice, as of modern Europe, that
here in the principal rooms of one of the chief palaces in the very
headmost sweep of the Grand Canal there is not a room for a servant
fit to keep a cat or a dog in (as Susie would keep cat or dog, at
least).
* * * * *
VENICE, _18th September_ (1876).
I never knew such a fight as the good and wicked fairies are having
over my poor body and spirit just now. The good fairies have got down
the St. Ursula for me and given her to me all to myself, and sent me
fine weather and nice gondoliers, and a good cook, and a pleasant
waiter; and the bad fairies keep putting everything upside down, and
putting black in my box when I want white, and making me forget all I
want, and find all I don't, and making the hinges come off my boards,
and the leaves out of my books, and driving me as wild as wild can be;
but I'm getting something done in spite of them, only I never _can_
get my letters written.
* * * * *
VENICE, _September 29th_.
I have woeful letters telling me you also were woeful in saying
good-bye. My darling Susie, what _is_ the use of your being so good
and dear if you can't enjoy thinking of heaven, and what fine goings
on we shall all have there?
All the same, even when I'm at my very piousest, it puts me out if my
drawings go wrong. I'm going to draw St. Ursula's blue slippers
to-day, and if I can't do them nicely shall be in great despair. I've
just found a little cunning inscription on her bedpost, 'IN FANNTIA.'
The double N puzzled me at first, but Carpaccio spells anyhow. My head
is not good enough for a bedpost....Oh me, the sweet Grange!--Thwaite,
I mean (bedpost again); to think of it in this mass of weeds and ruin!
* * * * *