[_Skerryvore_, _Bournemouth_, _April_ 1886.]
MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN,—I try to tell myself it is good nature, but I know
it is vanity that makes me write.
I have drafted the first part of Chapter VI., Fleeming and his friends,
his influence on me, his views on religion and literature, his part at
the Savile; it should boil down to about ten pages, and I really do think
it admirably good. It has so much evoked Fleeming for myself that I
found my conscience stirred just as it used to be after a serious talk
with him: surely that means it is good? I had to write and tell you,
being alone.
I have excellent news of Fanny, who is much better for the change. My
father is still very yellow, and very old, and very weak, but yesterday
he seemed happier, and smiled, and followed what was said; even laughed,
I think. When he came away, he said to me, ‘Take care of yourself, my
dearie,’ which had a strange sound of childish days, and will not leave
my mind.
You must get Litolf’s _Gavottes Célèbres_: I have made another trover
there: a musette of Lully’s. The second part of it I have not yet got
the hang of; but the first—only a few bars! The gavotte is beautiful and
pretty hard, I think, and very much of the period; and at the end of it,
this musette enters with the most really thrilling effect of simple
beauty. O—it’s first-rate. I am quite mad over it. If you find other
books containing Lully, Rameau, Martini, please let me know; also you
might tell me, you who know Bach, where the easiest is to be found. I
write all morning, come down, and never leave the piano till about five;
write letters, dine, get down again about eight, and never leave the
piano till I go to bed. This is a fine life.—Yours most sincerely,