omedallmydaystowriteletters,sendvoices,whichfalluponthetea-table,fadeuponthepassage,makingappointments,whilelifedwindles,tocomeanddine?Yetlettersarevenerableandthetelephonevaliant,forthejourneyisalonelyone,andifboundtogetherbynotesandtelephoneswewentincompany,perhaps—whoknows?—wemighttalkbytheway.
Well,peoplehavetried.Byronwroteletters.SodidCowper.Forcenturiesthewriting-deskhascontainedsheetsfitpreciselyforthecommunicationsoffriends.Mastersoflanguage,poetsoflongages,haveturnedfromthesheetthatendurestothesheetthatperishes,pushingasidethetea-tray,drawingclosetothefire(forlettersarewrittenwhenthedarkpressesroundabrightredcave),andaddressedthemselvestothetaskofreaching,touching,penetratingtheindividualheart.Wereitpossible!Butwordshavebeenusedtoooftentouchedandturned,andleftexposedtothedustofthestreet.Thewordsweseekhangclosetothetree.Wecomeatdawnandfindthemsweetbeneaththeleaf.
Mrs.FlanderswrotelettersMrs.JarviswrotethemMrs.DurranttooMotherStuartactuallyscentedherpages,therebyaddingaflavourwhichtheEnglishlanguagefailstoprovideJacobhadwritteninhisdaylonglettersaboutart,morality,andpoliticstoyoungmenatcollege.ClaraDurrant'sletterswerethoseofachild.Florinda—theimpedimentbetweenFlorindaandherpenwassomethingimpassable.Fancyabutterfly,gnat,orotherwingedinsect,attachedtoatwigwhich,cloggedwithmud,itrollsacrossapage.Herspellingwasabominable.Hersentimentsinfantile.AndforsomereasonwhenshewroteshedeclaredherbeliefinGod.Thentherewerecrosses—tearstainsandthehanditselframblingandredeemedonlybythefact—whichalwaysdidredeemFlorinda—bythefactthatshecared.Yes,whetheritwasforchocolatecreams,hotbaths,theshapeofherfaceinthelooking-glass,Florindacouldnomorepretendafeelingthanswallowwhisky.Incontinentwasherrejection.Greatmenaretruthful,andtheselittleprostitutes,staringinthefire,takingoutapowder-puff,decoratinglipsataninchoflooking-glass,have(soJacobthought)aninviolablefidelity.
ThenhesawherturningupGreekStreetuponanot