Friday Evening.
May 24, 1845.
I intended to write to you last night and this morning, and could not, — you do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And if I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking, (I for my part) of your wild speaking, I do it, not to displease you, but to be in my own eyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a generosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance, yet conclusively; and because my silence would be the most disloyal of all means of expression, in reference to it. Listen to me then in this. You have said some intemperate things . . . fancies, — which you will not say over again, nor unsay, but forget at once, and for ever, having said at all; and which (so) will die out between you and me alone, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this you will do for my sake who am your friend (and you have none truer) — and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our future liberty of intercourse. You remember — surely you do — that I am in the most exceptional of positions; and that, just because of it, I am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday; and that, for me to listen to ‘unconscious exaggerations,’ is as unbecoming to the humilities of my position, as unpropitious (which is of more consequence) to the prosperities of yours. Now, if there should be one word of answer attempted to this; or of reference; I must not . . . I will not see you again — and you will justify me later in your heart. So for my sake you will not say it — I think you will not — and spare me the sadness of having to break through an intercourse just as it is promising pleasure to me; to me who have so many sadnesses and so few pleasures. You will! — and I need not be uneasy — and I shall owe you that tranquillity, as one gift of many. For, that I have much to receive from you in all the free gifts of thinking, teaching, master-spirits, . . . that, I know! — it is my own praise that I appreciate you, as none can more. Your influence and help in poetry will be full of good and gladness to me — for with many to love me in this house, there is no one to judge me . . . now. Your friendship and sympathy will be dear and precious to me all my life, if you indeed leave them with me so long or so little. Your mistakes in me . . . which I cannot mistake ( — and which have humbled me by too much honouring — ) I put away gently, and with grateful tears in my eyes; because all that hail will beat down and spoil crowns, as well as ‘blossoms.’
If I put off next Tuesday to the week after — I mean your visit, — shall you care much? For the relations I named to you, are to be in London next week; and I am to see one of my aunts whom I love, and have not met since my great affliction — and it will all seem to come over again, and I shall be out of spirits and nerves. On Tuesday week you can bring a tomahawk and do the criticism, and I shall try to have my courage ready for it — Oh, you will do me so much good — and Mr. Kenyon calls me ‘docile’ sometimes I assure you; when he wants to flatter me out of being obstinate — and in good earnest, I believe I shall do everything you tell me. The ‘Prometheus’ is done — but the monodrama is where it was — and the novel, not at all. But I think of some half promises half given, about something I read for ‘Saul’ — and the ‘Flight of the Duchess’ — where is she?
You are not displeased with me? no, that would be hail and lightning together — I do not write as I might, of some words of yours — but you know that I am not a stone, even if silent like one. And if in the unsilence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had to say it — and for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of vexation from my words or my deeds!
Your friend in grateful regard,
E.B.B.