The Greater Inclination | Page 5

that; I didn't mean to go back to Venice or to see you again. I
was running away from you--and I mean to keep on running! If you
won't, I must. Somebody must save you from marrying a disappointed
woman of--well, you say years don't count, and why should they, after
all, since you are not to marry me?
That is what I dare not go back to say. You are not to marry me. We

have had our month together in Venice (such a good month, was it not?)
and now you are to go home and write a book--any book but the one
we--didn't talk of!--and I am to stay here, attitudinizing among my
memories like a sort of female Tithonus. The dreariness of this
enforced immortality!
But you shall know the truth. I care for you, or at least for your love,
enough to owe you that.
You thought it was because Vincent Rendle had loved me that there
was so little hope for you. I had had what I wanted to the full; wasn't
that what you said? It is just when a man begins to think he understands
a woman that he may be sure he doesn't! It is because Vincent Rendle
_didn't love me_ that there is no hope for you. I never had what I
wanted, and never, never, never will I stoop to wanting anything else.
Do you begin to understand? It was all a sham then, you say? No, it
was all real as far as it went. You are young--you haven't learned, as
you will later, the thousand imperceptible signs by which one gropes
one's way through the labyrinth of human nature; but didn't it strike you,
sometimes, that I never told you any foolish little anecdotes about him?
His trick, for instance, of twirling a paper-knife round and round
between his thumb and forefinger while he talked; his mania for saving
the backs of notes; his greediness for wild strawberries, the little
pungent Alpine ones; his childish delight in acrobats and jugglers; his
way of always calling me _you--dear you_, every letter began--I never
told you a word of all that, did I? Do you suppose I could have helped
telling you, if he had loved me? These little things would have been
mine, then, a part of my life--of our life--they would have slipped out
in spite of me (it's only your unhappy woman who is always reticent
and dignified). But there never was any "our life;" it was always "our
lives" to the end....
If you knew what a relief it is to tell some one at last, you would bear
with me, you would let me hurt you! I shall never be quite so lonely
again, now that some one knows.
Let me begin at the beginning. When I first met Vincent Rendle I was

not twenty-five. That was twenty years ago. From that time until his
death, five years ago, we were fast friends. He gave me fifteen years,
perhaps the best fifteen years, of his life. The world, as you know,
thinks that his greatest poems were written during those years; I am
supposed to have "inspired" them, and in a sense I did. From the first,
the intellectual sympathy between us was almost complete; my mind
must have been to him (I fancy) like some perfectly tuned instrument
on which he was never tired of playing. Some one told me of his once
saying of me that I "always understood;" it is the only praise I ever
heard of his giving me. I don't even know if he thought me pretty,
though I hardly think my appearance could have been disagreeable to
him, for he hated to be with ugly people. At all events he fell into the
way of spending more and more of his time with me. He liked our
house; our ways suited him. He was nervous, irritable; people bored
him and yet he disliked solitude. He took sanctuary with us. When we
travelled he went with us; in the winter he took rooms near us in Rome.
In England or on the continent he was always with us for a good part of
the year. In small ways I was able to help him in his work; he grew
dependent on me. When we were apart he wrote to me continually--he
liked to have me share in all he was doing or thinking; he was impatient
for my criticism of every new book that interested him; I was a part of
his intellectual life. The pity of it was that I wanted to be something
more. I was a young woman and I was in love with him--not because he
was Vincent Rendle, but just because he was himself!
People began