In an early love-letter to me, Henry wrote:
"Imaginative insight you have more than any one I have ever met!
"I think I am deficient in one form of imagination; and Henry will
agree with this. I have a great longing to help those I love: this
leads me to intrepid personal criticism; and I do not always know
what hurts my friends' feelings. I do not think I should mind
anything that I have said to others being said to me, but one
never can tell; I have a good, sound digestion and personally
prefer knowing the truth; I have taken adverse criticism pretty
well all my life and had a lot of it; but by some gap I have not
succeeded in making my friends take it well. I am not vain or
touchy; it takes a lot to offend me; but when I am hurt the scar
remains. I feel differently about people who have hurt me; my
confidence has been shaken; I hope I am not ungenerous, but I fear
I am not really forgiving. Worldly people say that explanations
are a mistake; but having it out is the only chance any one can
ever have of retaining my love; and those who have neither the
courage, candour nor humbleness to say they are wrong are not
worth loving. I am not afraid of suffering too much in life, but
much more afraid of feeling too little; and quarrels make me
profoundly unhappy. One of my complaints against the shortness of
life is that there is not time enough to feel pity and love for
enough people. I am infinitely compassionate and moved to my
foundations by the misfortunes of other people.
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