Oh, but you are a charming lady; you can
decide everything for everybody, can't you! What delicious letters you
write, something unexpected in everyone of them! There are poor dogs
of men, Grizel, who open their letters from their loves knowing
exactly what will be inside--words of cheer, words of love, of
confidence, of admiration, which help them as they sit into the night
at their work, fighting for fame that they may lay it at their loved
one's feet. Discouragement, obloquy, scorn, they get in plenty from
others, but they are always sure of her,--do you hear, my original
Grizel?--those other dogs are always sure of her. Hurrah! Grizel, I
was happy, I was actually honoured, it was helping me to do better and
better, when you quickly put an end to all that. Hurrah, hurrah!"
I feel rather sorry for him. If he had not told her about his book it
was because she did not and never could understand what compels a man
to write one book instead of another. "I had no say in the matter; the
thing demanded of me that I should do it, and I had to do it. Some
must write from their own experience, they can make nothing of
anything else; but it is to me like a chariot that won't budge; I have
to assume a character, Grizel, and then away we go.
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