I do not remember at all clearly what I wrote to her. It has disappeared from existence. But it was certainly a long letter. Throughout this book I have been trying to tell you the growth of my views of life and its purpose, from my childish dreams and Harbury attitudes to those ideas of human development that have made me undertake the work I do. It is not glorious work I know, as the work of great artists and poets and leaders is glorious, but it is what I find best suits my gifts and my want of gifts. Greater men will come at last to build within my scaffoldings. In some summary phrasing I must have set out the gist of this. I must have explained my sense of the supreme importance of mental clarification in human life. All this is manifest in her reply. And I think too I did my best to tell her plainly the faith that was in me, and why life seemed worth while to me....
Her second letter came after an interval of only a few days from the despatch of mine. She began abruptly.
"I won't praise your letter or your beliefs. They are fine and large--and generous--like you. Just a little artificial (but you will admit that), as though you had felt them _give_ here and there and had made up your mind they shouldn't. At times it's oddly like looking at the Alps, the real Alps, and finding that every now and then the mountains have been eked out with a plank and canvas Earl's Court background.... Yes, I like what you say about Faith. I believe you are right. I wish I could--perhaps some day I shall--light up and _feel_ you are right. But--but---- That large, _respectable_ project, the increase of wisdom and freedom and self-knowledge in the world, the calming of wars, the ending of economic injustice and so on and so on----
"When I read it first it was like looking at a man in profile and finding him solid and satisfactory, and then afterwards when I thought it all over and looked for the particular things that really matter to me and tried to translate it into myself--nothing is of the slightest importance in the world that one cannot translate into oneself--then I began to realize just how amazingly deficient you are. It was like walking round that person in profile and finding his left side wasn't there--with everything perfect on the right, down to the buttons. A kind of intellectual Lorelei--sideways. You've planned out your understandings and tolerances and enquiries and clearings-up as if the world were all just men--or citizens--and nothing doing but racial and national and class prejudices and the exacting and shirking of labor, and you seem to ignore altogether that man is a sexual animal first--first, Stephen, first--that he has that in common with all the animals, that it made him indeed because he has it more than they have--and after that, a long way after that, he is the labor-economizing, war-and feud-making creature you make him out to be. A long way after that....