Day: September 18, 2017

Thursday Morning.

September 18, 1845.

But you, too, will surely want, if you think me a rational creature, my explanation  – – without which all that I have said and done would be pure madness, I think. It is just ‘what I see’ that I do see,  – – or rather it has proved, since I first visited you, that the reality was infinitely worse than I know it to be  . . . for at, and after the writing of that first letter, on my first visit, I believed  – – through some silly or misapprehended talk, collected at second hand too  – – that your complaint was of quite another nature  – – a spinal injury irremediable in the nature of it. Had it been so  – – now speak for me, for what you hope I am, and say how that should affect or neutralize what you were, what I wished to associate with myself in you? But as you now are:  – – then if I had married you seven years ago, and this visitation came now first, I should be ‘fulfilling a pious duty,’ I suppose, in enduring what could not be amended  – – a pattern to good people in not running away  . . . for where were now the use and the good and the profit and  – –

I desire in this life (with very little fluctuation for a man and too weak a one) to live and just write out certain things which are in me, and so save my soul. I would endeavour to do this if I were forced to ‘live among lions’ as you once said  – – but I should best do this if I lived quietly with myself and with you. That you cannot dance like Cerito does not materially disarrange this plan  – – nor that I might (beside the perpetual incentive and sustainment and consolation) get, over and above the main reward, the incidental, particular and unexpected happiness of being allowed when not working to rather occupy myself with watching you, than with certain other pursuits I might be otherwise addicted to  – – this, also, does not constitute an obstacle, as I see obstacles.

But you see them  – – and I see you, and know my first duty and do it resolutely if not cheerfully.

As for referring again, till leave by word or letter  – – you will see  – –

And very likely, the tone of this letter even will be misunderstood  – – because I studiously cut out all vain words, protesting &c.:  – – No  – – will it?

I said, unadvisedly, that Saturday was taken from me  . . . but it was dark and I had not looked at the tickets: the hour of the performance is later than I thought. If to-morrow does not suit you, as I infer, let it be Saturday  – – at 3  – – and I will leave earlier, a little, and all will be quite right here. One hint will apprise me.

God bless you, dearest friend.

R.B.

Something else just heard, makes me reluctantly strike out Saturday  – –

Monday then?

 

Wednesday.

September 18, 1845.

Of course you cannot do otherwise than go with your sister — or it will be ‘Every man out of his humour’ perhaps — and you are not so very ‘savage’ after all.

On Monday then, if you do not hear — to the contrary.

Papa has been walking to and fro in this room, looking thoughtfully and talking leisurely — and every moment I have expected I confess, some word (that did not come) about Pisa. Mr. Kenyon thinks it cannot end so — and I do sometimes — and in the meantime I do confess to a little ‘savageness’ also — at heart! All I asked him to say the other day, was that he was not displeased with me — and he wouldn’t; and for me to walk across his displeasure spread on the threshold of the door, and moreover take a sister and brother with me, and do such a thing for the sake of going to Italy and securing a personal advantage, were altogether impossible, obviously impossible! So poor Papa is quite in disgrace with me just now — if he would but care for that!

May God bless you. Amuse yourself well on Saturday. I could not see you on Thursday any way, for Mr. Kenyon is here every day  . . . staying in town just on account of this Pisa business, in his abundant kindness . . .. On Monday then.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

 

September 18, 1845.

Words!  – – it was written I should hate and never use them to any purpose. I will not say one word here  – – very well knowing neither word nor deed avails  – – from me.

My letter will have reassured you on the point you seem undecided about  – – whether I would speak &c.

I will come whenever you shall signify that I may  . . . whenever, acting in my best interests, you feel that it will not hurt you (weary you in any way) to see me  – – but I fear that on Saturday I must be otherwhere  – – I enclose the letter from my old foe. Which could not but melt me for all my moroseness and I can hardly go and return for my sister in time. Will you tell me?

It is dark  – – but I want to save the post  – –

Ever yours

R.B.

 

Wednesday Evening.

September 18, 1845.

But one word before we leave the subject, and then to leave it finally; but I cannot let you go on to fancy a mystery anywhere, in obstacles or the rest. You deserve at least a full frankness; and in my letter I meant to be fully frank. I even told you what was an absurdity, so absurd that I should far rather not have told you at all, only that I felt the need of telling you all: and no mystery is involved in that, except as an ‘idiosyncrasy’ is a mystery. But the ‘insurmountable’ difficulty is for you and everybody to see; and for me to feel, who have been a very byword among the talkers, for a confirmed invalid through months and years, and who, even if I were going to Pisa and had the best prospects possible to me, should yet remain liable to relapses and stand on precarious ground to the end of my life. Now that is no mystery for the trying of ‘faith’; but a plain fact, which neither thinking nor speaking can make less a fact. But don’t let us speak of it.

I must speak, however, (before the silence) of what you said and repeat in words for which I gratefully thank you — and which are not ‘ostentatious’ though unnecessary words — for, if I were in a position to accept sacrifices from you, I would not accept such a sacrifice  . . . amounting to a sacrifice of duty and dignity as well as of ease and satisfaction  . . . to an exchange of higher work for lower work  . . . and of the special work you are called to, for that which is work for anybody. I am not so ignorant of the right uses and destinies of what you have and are. You will leave the Solicitor-Generalships to the Fitzroy Kellys, and justify your own nature; and besides, do me the little right, (over the over-right you are always doing me) of believing that I would not bear or dare to do you so much wrong, if I were in the position to do it.

And for all the rest I thank you — believe that I thank you  . . . and that the feeling is not so weak as the word. That you should care at all for me has been a matter of unaffected wonder to me from the first hour until now — and I cannot help the pain I feel sometimes, in thinking that it would have been better for you if you never had known me. May God turn back the evil of me! Certainly I admit that I cannot expect you  . . . just at this moment,  . . . to say more than you say,  . . . and I shall try to be at ease in the consideration that you are as accessible to the ‘unicorn’ now as you ever could be at any former period of your life. And here I have done. I had done living, I thought, when you came and sought me out! and why? and to what end? That, I cannot help thinking now. Perhaps just that I may pray for you — which were a sufficient end. If you come on Saturday I trust you to leave this subject untouched, — as it must be indeed henceforth.

I am yours,

E.B.B.

No word more of Pisa — I shall not go, I think.