I beg your pardon for such profanation, but it really moves my spleen
that people should wish to bring down the volatile figures of your
romance to the level of an every-day novel. It is exactly the romantic
atmosphere of the book in which I revel. You who could cast a glamour
over the black scenery and personalities of ancient and of modern
Massachusetts could hardly fail to throw the tenderest and most
magical hues over Italy, and you have done so. I don't know that I am
especially in love with Miriam or Hilda, or that I care very much what
is the fate of Donatello; but what I do like is the air of unreality
with which you have clothed familiar scenes without making them less
familiar. The way in which the two victims dance through the Carnival
on the last day is very striking. It is like a Greek tragedy in its
effect, without being in the least Greek. As I said before, I can't
single out any special scene, description, or personage by which to
justify or illustrate my feeling about the book. That I could do
better after a second reading, when it would be easy to be coldly
critical. I write now just after having swallowed the three volumes
almost at a draught; and if my tone is one of undue exhilaration, I
can only say it was you gave me the wine. It is the book--as a
whole--that I admire, and I hope you will forgive my saying so in four
pages instead of four words.
Is there any chance of our seeing you this summer? We expect to be in
London next month.
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