It would not have mattered the endless discussion whether
the brougham fetching one part of the family from one station and
a bus fetching another part of it from another interfered with a
guest catching a five or a five-to-five train--which could or
could not be stopped--if one could have been quite sure that Mary
Wemyss needed her friend so much that another opportunity would be
given for an intimate interchange of confidences; but plan-weaving
blinds people to a true sense of proportion and my beloved Mary
never had enough time for any of us. She is the only woman I know
or have ever known without smallness or touchiness of any kind.
Her juste milieu, if a trifle becalmed, amounts to genius; and I
was--and still am--more interested in her moral, social and
intellectual opinions than in most of my friends'. Some years ago
I wrote this in my diary about her:
"Mary is generally a day behind the fair and will only hear of my
death from the man behind the counter who is struggling to clinch
her over a collar for her chow."
One of the less prominent of the Souls was my friend, Lionel
Tennyson.[Footnote: Brother of the present Lord Tennyson.] He was
the second son of the poet and was an official in the India
Office. He had an untidy appearance, a black beard and no manners.
He sang German beer-songs in a lusty voice and wrote good verses.
He sent me many poems, but I think these two are the best. The
first was written to me on my twenty-first birthday, before the
Souls came into existence:
What is a single flower when the world is white
with may?
What is a gift to one so rich, a smile to one so gay?
What is a thought to one so rich in the loving
thoughts of men?
How should I hope because I sigh that you will
sigh again?
Yet when you see my gift, you may
(Ma bayadere aux yeux de jais)
Think of me once to-day.
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