You will see that I am sane enough to be thinking more of your (possibly non-existent) children than of you. There are two clear ideas in my head, and they desire each other in marriage—the idea of children and the idea of the theater. But, alas! I fear it is beyond me to bring them together. I cannot reach beyond my marionettes, which are, after all, only the working models of the theater I should like to conceive, and, having conceived, to create and set down in England as a reproach to the clumsy sentimental play-acting of English life. That would, I believe, more powerfully than any other instrument, quell the disease. If you had a theater which was a place of art it would lead you on to life, and you would presently discard the sham morals, imitation art, false emotions, and tortuous thoughts with which you now defend yourselves against it.
I have written much under my umbrella. I hope I have said something. At least, with this, I shake you by the hand and we three puppets dance on through the merry burlesque which our modern life will seem to be to the wiser and healthier generations who shall come after us.
The old are supposed to be in a position to advise the young. I have learned through you, and yet I may give you this counsel: “If ever you find yourself faced with a risk, take it.” Love, I conclude, is a voyager, and it is our privilege to travel with him; but, if we stay too long in the inn of habit, we lose his company and are undone.
Yours affectionately,
H. J. BEENHAM.
Transcriber’s Note
Images of the source text used in this transcription are available through the Internet Archive. See:
[archive.org/details/oldmolebeingsurp00cannrich]
The British first edition published by Martin Secker was used to confirm specific readings (e.g., hyphenation) of the source text. Images of this edition are also available through the Internet Archive. See: