ROSE TO FANNY WORSLEY.
News, my dearest Fanny--news is an article as rare with us as with
the morning papers. We see nobody, hear nothing, do nothing, but
amuse ourselves as we best can, and that is not adapted to a letter,
it would require such endless explanations.
In answer to your first question, Yes; Julius is here, or rather, he
is with his mother at the Grange, and very frequently walks over. As
to his being my slave, don't think it! He is evidently not
indifferent to me, but as evidently not in love. The vainest of our
sex (are we so vain?) in my place could not imagine him in love. I'm
rather glad of it, for I certainly _don't_ love _him_, and should be
sorry to lose a _friend_.
But let me tell you of another new acquaintance in the _jeune
premier_ line,--a Mr. Cecil Chamberlayne, whom papa has invited here
for a week. He is handsome, witty, good-natured, and clever--all
very excellent qualities; but there is a levity about him which
somewhat disturbs my liking for him. I could never fancy myself
sentimental with him for a moment. His gaiety makes me laugh, but
does not, somehow, make me gay. Everybody sides against me here,
except Captain Heath, who says he feels as I do in that respect.
They all swear by Mr. Chamberlayne; but, to my taste, Julius St.
John's gaiety is far more exhilarating, perhaps because it is
tempered with a manly seriousness; you feel that his laugh is as
_hearty_ (in the real primitive sense of the word) as his earnestness
is sincere.
Violet is to be home at the end of this week. Papa has written for
her, as mama says that she is only being spoiled at my uncle's. The
real secret is, I believe, that mama has heard how Violet speaks of
her down in Worcestershire, and that the character there given of her
comes up to London. Now, though Violet is, I believe, unjust to
mama, yet people are only too willing, as mama says, to believe
everything ill of a stepmother. I fear Violet won't be comfortable.
Suppose Julius St. John should fall in love with her? It would be a
capital match. They would suit so well: I should like it above all
things.
I am reading Leopardi's poems; they are very beautiful, and very
mournful. Julius St. John says that they are the finest productions
of modern Italy. By the way, though you will accuse me of filling my
letter with Julius, I must tell you of something that occurred
_àpropos_ of Leopardi:--the first evening I met him--it was at Dr.
Whiston's, and I wrote you a long account of it--he spoke to me of
Leopardi, whom I had not heard so highly praised before. Papa had
brought a copy with him from Italy, and I had looked into it from
curiosity, but finding it difficult to read, my Italian being
somewhat flimsy, I took no further trouble with it, till Julius spoke
so enthusiastically about him. I then set doggedly to work, and
mastered the poems; having done so, I read them over again with great
pleasure, and am now a sworn admirer of this strange unhappy being.
Well, one evening, shortly after we had come down here, Julius took
up my copy of Leopardi, which happened to be lying on the table. It
was pencilled all over. He asked whose marks those were. I told him
mine. "You seem to have been a careful reader," he said. "Your
praises," I replied, "taught me to be."
He looked up for a moment, to read in one full, rapid gaze, the
expression of my countenance, and then dropped his eyes once more
upon the book, but not before I had noticed that his cheek was
flushed. Whether in anger or in pleasure I know not, for his eyes
are so shadowed by his dark, straight eyebrows, which meet across the
nose, that it is only in certain aspects you can read what is passing
in them. What there could be in my reply either to anger or to
please him, I cannot guess; but he changed the subject, and I could
not interrogate him, as mama came up at that moment, nor have I dared
since. All I can say is, that if he was angry he had quite forgotten
it; and if he was pleased he is perfectly ungrateful.
This little incident is all I have to relate. Imagine what our life
must be when that is an incident; and yet, as Julius says, "it is not
events but emotions which make life important; and events are only
prized inasmuch as they excite emotions."
Your affectionate friend,
ROSE VYNER.
_P.S._--Now, don't you _misinterpret_ a fact which strikes me in
reading this letter over, namely, that one name occurs very
frequently. It is purely owing to the want of any subject to write
about. Don't imagine it otherwise.