Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I feel
I must write again before the week comes round. It was, after all, a
silly promise we made each other to write just once a week, neither
more nor less. This time I write at odds with myself. It's all very
well to talk about sincerity, it baffles one completely at times;
there isn't a greater liar under the sun at this moment than Emilia
Fletcher. My outward life is all out of tune with my inward self.
Perhaps if you saw me with my old ladies, you would say: "Quite
right; please them by all means, sit with them, drive with them,
make small talk, listen to their little tales. It pleases them, and
it doesn't harm you." But I answer: Is it right? Is it not rank
hypocrisy? Is affection won by false pretences worth the having? I
tell you, I am playing a part all day long. I read to them out of
books that I either despise or abhor; I play to them music unworthy
of the name; I nod my head in acquiescence when my very soul cries
no. Nor is that all; I take my place each morning in the centre of
the room, open the Bible, and in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth
the prayers that are to strengthen the household through the day.
When, at a given point, all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in
their calico gowns and turn their demure backs to me as they kneel
in a row, I know not whether to laugh or cry. O Constance, it is
infamous of me! And why do I do it? Out of consideration for them?
out of kind-heartedness? Not a bit of it! Vanity, my dear; sheer
vanity. If they cared for me less, if I did not feel that they
almost worship me, holding out their old hands to me for all the
pleasure that their day still may bring, would I do it? No; for then
I should not care, as I feel I do now, to keep their good opinion,
even at the expense of making myself appear better, according to
their lights, than I really am. I am a worm; I never thought I could