She never recognised the "torment of form"; the furthest she went was
to introduce into one of her books (in satire her hand was heavy) a
young poet who was always talking about it. I couldn't quite
understand her irritation on this score, for she had nothing at stake
in the matter. She had a shrewd perception that form, in prose at
least, never recommended any one to the public we were condemned to
address, and therefore she lost nothing (putting her private
humiliation aside) by not having any. She made no pretence of
producing works of art, but had comfortable tea-drinking hours in
which she freely confessed herself a common pastrycook, dealing in
such tarts and puddings as would bring customers to the shop. She
put in plenty of sugar and of cochineal, or whatever it is that gives
these articles a rich and attractive colour. She had a serene
superiority to observation and opportunity which constituted an
inexpugnable strength and would enable her to go on indefinitely. It
is only real success that wanes, it is only solid things that melt.
Greville Fane's ignorance of life was a resource still more unfailing
than the most approved receipt. On her saying once that the day
would come when she should have written herself out I answered: "Ah,
you look into fairyland, and the fairies love you, and THEY never
change. Fairyland is always there; it always was from the beginning
of time, and it always will be to the end. They've given you the key
and you can always open the door. With me it's different; I try, in
my clumsy way, to be in some direct relation to life." "Oh, bother
your direct relation to life!" she used to reply, for she was always
annoyed by the phrase--which would not in the least prevent her from
using it when she wished to try for style. With no more prejudices
than an old sausage-mill, she would give forth again with patient
punctuality any poor verbal scrap that had been dropped into her. I
cheered her with saying that the dark day, at the end, would be for