UPTON,
Jan. 26, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--So it is to be Madeira at present? Well, I know Madeira
a little, and I can honestly congratulate you. I had feared it might be
Switzerland. I could not LIVE in Switzerland. It does me good to go
there, to be iced and baked and washed clean with pure air. But the
terrible mountains, so cold and unchanged, with their immemorial
patience, their frozen tranquillity; the high hamlets, perched on their
lonely shelves; the bleak pine-trees, with their indomitable
strength--all these depress me. Of course there is much homely beauty
among the lower slopes; the thickets, the falling streams, the flowers.
But the grim black peaks look over everywhere; and there is seldom a
feeling of the rich and comfortable peace such as one gets in England.
Madeira is very different. I have been there, and must truthfully
confess that it does not suit me altogether--the warm air, the
paradisal luxuriance, the greenhouse fragrance, are not a fit setting
for a blond, lymphatic man, who pants for Northern winds. But it will
suit you; and you will be one of those people, spare and compact as you
are, who find themselves vigorous and full of energy there. I have many
exquisite vignettes from Madeira which linger in my mind. The high
hill-villages, full of leafy trees; the grassy downs at the top; the
droop of creepers, full of flower and fragrance, over white walls; the
sapphire sea, under huge red cliffs. You will perhaps take one of those
embowered Quintas high above the town, in a garden full of shelter and
fountains. And I am much mistaken if you do not find yourself in a very
short time passionately attached to the place. Then the people are
simple, courteous, unaffected, full of personal interest. Housekeeping
has few difficulties and no terrors.
I can't get away for a night; but I will come and dine with you one day
this week, if you can keep an evening free.
And one thing I will promise--when you are away, I will write to you as
often as I can. I shall not attempt any formal letters, but I shall
begin with anything that is in my mind, and stop when I feel disposed;
and you must do the same. We won't feel bound to ANSWER each other's
letters; one wastes time over that. What I shall want to know is what
you are thinking and doing, and I shall take for granted you desire the
same.
You will be happier, now that you KNOW; I need not add that if I can be
of any use to you in making suggestions, it will be a real
pleasure.--Ever yours,