BR TO LUCY M. DONNELLY, 29 MAR. 1904
BRACERS 58442. ALS. McMaster. Auto. 1: 172–3
Edited by Maria Forte. Proofread by K. Blackwell

<letterhead>
St. Catherine’s House,
First-Class Private Hotel,
Fowey,
Cornwall.
March 29. 1904

My dear Lucy

Your letter, which I got this morning, was a great pleasure to me, and made me feel sorry that I had just written. For I should be very sorry if you came to feel it a duty to write to me, and as long as your not writing is to be taken as a sign that things are going well with you, I shall feel quite easy in my mind. I am so glad of what you say — glad both that you have been free from depression and that I have been able to help to free you. But I am afraid I put too strongly what I said about Helen in my last letter. I think, provided she puts will-power and suppression of demands for private rights into her life, she ought to have, even considering her deafness, a good deal more happiness than comes to the average woman. It is only that certain dangers occurred to me, which I know you saw too. But also I am seized with a kind of terror at the thought of having said anything whatever as to your relation to Helen; for that is really a matter I have no business with.

I agree entirely with what you say about modesty. Self is a very Proteus; and one can hardly recognize all his many shapes. But some are less harmful than others.

I have never been in Capri since the age of two, tho’ I saw it from the sea 2½ years ago. What you say about the grottos* [*By the way, I gather you looked it up, so I accept your final spelling] is amusing: I always now think of Alladine et Palomides in connection with grottos.

As for work, I have not thought at all, either with satisfaction or the reverse, about my fiscal career, now happily closed. That whole episode seems to have just faded away. Also I have not thought much about philosophy; tho’ when I do think of it, the thought is rather pleasant. MacCarthy, who was an ideal companion, left me about 5 days ago. Since then I have been alone, and have found the time most valuable. A great sense of peace comes over me as I walk over green hills by the sea, with nobody to consult, and nobody to be careful of. In a quiet instinctive way (very uncommon with me) I think through practical difficulties that had seemed insoluble, and lay up a store of peace of mind to last through the agitations and fatigues of ordinary life. When I am not thinking of the way, or the scenery, I am mostly thinking about people’s affairs: trying to get the facts straight, and to decide how much I can do to better the facts. It takes a good deal of time and thought to imagine oneself in a certain situation, and decide whether one could be sufficiently impressive to effect a great result. My Self comes in in being flattered by my knowledge of people’s affairs, and anxious to have their confidence; but I try hard to make Self in this form subservient to good ends.

Then, when I reach an Inn, the people are all interesting owing to the solitude of my walks; I observe their little ways, compare landladies, and listen to the local gossip and the trials of innkeepers’ lives. I could write at length on this subject; but it would be rather Pickwickian. In this Hotel, we are a happy family party, and all dine together. As I came downstairs, a middle-aged woman was giving herself some final touches before the Hall looking-glass; she looked round quickly, and when she saw I was not the man for whom she was doing it, she went on as before. Another middle-aged woman, with an earnest manner and a very small waist, was in great form, because the young man had given her a bunch of white violets, which she was wearing. Then there was the inevitable old lady who dined at a table apart, and only joined the conversation occasionally, throwing in a remark about how sweet the spring flowers are; and there was the pompous man, who was saying “Well, my opinion is that the directors have just thrown away £12,000 of the shareholders’a money.” Then there was myself, much ashamed of having no change of clothes among all these respectable people, and much despised by them for the same reason; and like the man at the helm in the Snark, I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me; but I was well amused. Yesterday I stayed at a place called Mevagissey,b where there was a Parish Council Election going on. The landlady’s daughter was laying my dinner, when I asked her if it was a contest of Liberal and Tory. “Oh no, Sir, it’s only some of them wanted to put up a Doctor, and others said he wasn’t a Mevagissey man, and had only lived for 6 or 7 years in the place.” “Disgraceful”, I said. “Yes it is, Sir, ain’t it? And they had a show of hands and he got the worst of it, but he demanded a poll, and now the fishermen hope he’ll be turned out.” “Well”, I said, “he doesn’t seem to have much chance”. “You see, Sir, the people who are backing him are powerful people, they’re fish-buyers, and some of the fishermen get their nets from them. Then he’s backed by what they call the Christians, the people who are against us poor innkeepers”. Oho, I thought, now I’m getting at it. “Is he a Nonconformist” I asked. “Oh yes Sir, he’s not a Churchman” — in a tone of great contempt. Then I found his backers were also Noncons, that they had made their own money, were very kind to sober men, but very hard on drunkards; and that several pubs had been annoyed by them. I was interested to find that, in the common parlance of church people, “Christian” is the antithesis to “Churchman”. I found further from the landlady that these monsters in human shape actually proposed a new drainage scheme and a new water supply, altho’ the rates were already dreadfully high. “How high?” I asked. “I couldn’t say Sir, but I know they’re dreadfully high”. The Dr. was not elected; but I was consoled to learn that the parson had also been turned out. — These little distractions keep me from having a moment’s boredom.

I am amused and interested about Miss Minturn’s flirtations. When we told her in Venice that she was an unconscionable flirt, she was amazed that any one could think anything so unkind and unjust! She flirts very charmingly — I enjoyed her operations, tho’ no doubt I ought not to have.

Forgive this prosy letter; and give my love to Miss Minturn. The cuttings enclosed are from Alys.

Yrs affectionately
Bertrand Russell.

Textual Notes

• a

  shareholders’ after deleted illegible word

• b

  Mevagissey after deleted Megae