It will be very shabby of you not to let us have a
glimpse of you; but I know you to be capable of any meanness in that
line. At any rate, you can have little doubt how much pleasure it will
give us. Pray don't answer this if it is in the least a bore to you to
do so. I know that you are getting notes of admiration by the bushel,
and I have no right to expect to hear from you. At the same time it
would be a great pleasure to me to hear from you, for old (alas,
no,--new) acquaintance' sake.
I remain very sincerely yours,
J. L. MOTLEY.
Of the discussions about "Monte Beni" I remember hearing a good deal,
as my mother laughingly rehearsed passages in letters and reviews
which scolded about Hawthorne's tantalizing vagueness and
conscienceless Catholicity. My parents tried to be lenient towards
the public, whose excitement was so complimentary, if its usually
heavy inability to analyze its best intellectual wine was fatiguing.
My father never for a moment expected to be widely understood,
although he no doubt hoped to be so in certain cases. He must have
easily deduced something in the way of chances for appreciative
analysis from prevalent literature. He struck me as a good deal like
an innocent prisoner at the bar, and if I had not been a member of his
family I might have been sorry for him. As it was, I felt convinced
that he could afford to be silent, patient, indifferent, now that his
work was perfected. My mother put into words all that was necessary of
indignation at people's desire for a romance or a "penny dreadful"
that would have been temporary and ineffective.
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