london,

3 a queen's road, chelsea, s.w.

november 16, 19—.

you sigh "poesy and economics," supplying the cause and thereby admitting the fact. i wish you had shown some reluctance to see my meaning, that you had preferred to waive the matter on the ground of insufficient data, that you had been less eager to ferret out the science of the thing. do you remember how your boy's respect rose for little barbara whenever she cried when too readily forgiven? "she dreads a double standard," you explained to me with generous heat. you sympathised with her fear lest i demand less of her than of you, honouring her insistence on an equality of duty as well as of privilege. is the man herbert less proud than the child barbara, that you speak of a temperamental difference and ask for a special dispensation?

you are not in love (this you say in not gainsaying my attack on you, and so far i understand), because you are a student of economics. at the last i stop. what is this about economics and poesy? about your emancipation from my riotously lyric sway? the hand of the forces by which you have been moulded cannot detain you from going out upon the love-quest. the fact of your preference for draper cannot forestall your spirit's need of love. there are many codes, but there is one law, binding alike on the economist and poet. it springs out of the common and unappeasable hunger, commanding that love seek love through night to day and through day to night.

yet it is possible to put oneself outside the pale of the law, to refuse the gift of life and snap the tie between time and space and creature. it is possible to be too emaciated for interest or feeling. the men and women of the people know neither love nor art because they are too weary. they lie in sleep prostrate from great fatigue. their bodies are too much tried with the hungers of the body and their spirits too dimly illumined with the hope of fair chances. it is also possible to fill oneself so full with an interest that all else is crowded out. you have done this. like the cobbler who is a cobbler typically, the teacher who is a pedagogue, the physician and the lawyer who are pathologists merely, you are a fanatic of a text. you are in the toils of an idea, the idea of selection, as i well know, and you exploit it like a drudge. when a man finds that he cannot deal in petroleum without smelling of it, it is time that he turn to something else. every man is engaged in the cause of keeping himself whole, in watching himself lest his man turn machine, in watching lest the outside world assail the inner. nature spares the type, but the individual must spare himself. he is strong who is sensitive and who responds subtly to everything in his environment, but his response must be characteristic; he must sustain his personality and become more himself through the years. he alone is vital in the social scheme who lets nothing in him atrophy and who persists in being varied from all others in the scale of character to the degree of variability that was his at the beginning.

i read in your letter nothing but a decision to stop short and give over, as if you had strength for no more than your book and your theory! you have become slave to a small point of inquiry, and you call it the advance to a new time. "the crusade is on," you say. coronation rites for the commoners and destruction to superstition. i put my hand out to you in joy. the joy is in unholy worship of a fetish, the pain that there is no joy also deference to a fetish. your creed thunders "thou shalt not." love is a thing of yesterday. no room for anything that intimately concerns the self. but what are the apostles of the young thought preaching if it is not the right of men to their own, and what would it avail them to come into their own if life be stripped of romance?

i am dissatisfied because you are willing to live as others must live. you should stay aristocrat. ferdinand lassalle dressed with elegance for his working-men audiences, with the hope, he said, of reminding them that there was something better than their shabbiness. you are of the favoured, herbert. it devolves upon you to endear your life to yourself. you do not agree with me. you do not believe that love is the law which controls freedom and life. slave to your theory and rebel to the law, you lose your soul and imperil another's.

"gently! gently!" i say to myself. old sorrows and wrongs oppress me and i grow harsh. my heat only helps to convince you that my position is not based on the rational rightness you hold so essential and that therefore it is unlivable. i will state calmly, then, that it is wrong to marry without love. "for the perpetuation of the species"—that is noble of you! so you strip yourself of the thousand years of civilisation that have fostered you, you abandon your prerogative as a creature high in the scale of existence to obey an instinct and fulfil a function? you say: "these men and women will marry, and the work of the world go on just as it did before. shuffle them about and the work of the world would yet go on." and you are content. you feel no need of anything different from this condition.

believe me, herbert, these million men and women will not let you shuffle them about. there are forces stronger than force, shadows more real than reality. we know that the need of the unhungered for the one friend, one comrade, one mate, is good. we honour the love that persists in loving. more beautiful than starlight is the face of the lover when the voice and the vision enfold him. the race is consecrated to the worship of idea, and the lover who[pg 28] lays his all on the altar of romance (which is idea) is at one with the race. the arms of the unloved girl close about the formless air and more real than her loneliness and her sorrow is the imagined embrace, the awaited warm, close pressure of the hands, the fancied gaze. what does it mean? what secret was there for leonardo in mona lisa's smile, what for him in the motion of waters? you cannot explain the bloom, the charm, the smile of life, that which rains sunshine into our hearts, which tells us we are wise to hope and to have faith, which buckles on us an armour of activity, which lights the fires of the spirit, which gives us godhead and renders us indomitable. comparative anatomy cannot reason it down. it is sensibility, romance, idea. it is a fact of life toward which all other facts make. for the flush of rose-light in the heavens, the touch of a hand, the colour and shape of fruit, the tears that come for unnamed sorrows, the regrets of old men, are more significant than all the building and inventing done since the first social compact.

forgive my tediousness. i have flaunted these truisms before you in order to exorcise that modern slang of yours which is more false than the overstrained forms of a feudal france. to shut out glory is not to be practical. you are not adjusting your life artistically; there is too much strain, too little warmth, too much self-complacence. i see that you are really younger than i thought. the world never censures the crimes of the spirit. you are safe from the world's tongue lashings, and in that safety is the danger against which my friendship warns you.

i have been reading hester's poems, and i know that she is like them, nervous, vibrant, throbbing, sensitive. i have been reading your letters, and i think her soul will escape yours. if you have not love like hers, you have nothing with which to keep her. this i have undertaken to say to you. it is a strange role, yet conventional. i am the father whose matrimonial whims are not met by the son. the stock measure is to disinherit. but the cause of our quarrel is somewhat unusual, and i can be neither so practical nor so vulgar as to set about making codicils. love is of no value to financiers; there is no bank for it nor may it be made over in a will. rather is it carried on in the blood, even as barbara carried it on into the life of her girl-babe. your sister keeps me strong with the faith of love. may god be good to her! it was five years ago that she came to me and whispered, "earl." when she saw i could not turn to her in joy, she leaned her little head back against the roses of the porch and wept, more than was right, i fear, for a girl just betrothed. earl was a cripple and poor and helpless, but barbara knew better than we, for she knew how to give herself. poor little one, whom nobody congratulated! she sends you and hester her love, unfolding you both in her eager tenderness.

dane.