I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that crossed mine, but principally because I feel that I must write you a few words before I go to sleep. I have just gone through Gabriel’s poems, and am beside myself with wonder. Constance, the creature is a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his life. No, I’ll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh. Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,—and he too.
December 1st.
We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!
We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might have used must have sounded fulsome flattery. But later on, I asked:—
“Have you thought of a publisher for your verse?”
He shook his head and made a face at me.
“You must certainly publish those poems,” I said; “you surely know that they are unusually beautiful, and that you have no right to keep them to yourself.”
“Dear Emilia,” he answered, “I like to hear this from you, but you are mistaken. My poems are not so remarkable as you imagine; you are too near a friend to be a fair judge. They are intensely subjective,—that is, by the way, one of their faults; they reflect me; therefore you, who know me well and care for me, find them sympathetic. That’s the whole of the tale.”
“If I cared for you ten times more than I do,” said I then, “I should not be quite so blind as you suppose. But, if you doubt my judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with other verse.”
“Never!” he said. “How can you even suggest such a thing? Look here, Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words. When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall he judge? He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than himself.”