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.
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