t, and the fact of my being poor and you
rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course
when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having
the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing
think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so
concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I
have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend
I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's
yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,
but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've
sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than
most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their
business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they
should. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to
be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he
said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't
pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want
a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.
Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself
I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really
satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when
one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the
lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and
finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it
properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you
how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,
and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,
the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you
love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've
got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty
of admiration and several capita