October 7, 1845.
Ah but the good things do not come together — for just as your letter comes I am driven to asking you to leave Tuesday for Wednesday.
On Tuesday Mr. Kenyon is to be here or not to be here, he says — there’s a doubt; and you would rather go to a clear day. So if you do not hear from me again I shall expect you on Wednesday unless I hear to the contrary from you: — and if anything happens to Wednesday you shall hear. Mr. Kenyon is in town for only two days, or three. I never could grumble against him, so good and kind as he is — but he may not come after all to-morrow — so it is not grudging the obolus to Belisarius, but the squandering of the last golden days at the bottom of the purse.
Do I ‘stand’ — Do I walk? Yes — most uprightly. I ‘walk upright every day.’ Do I go out? no, never. And I am not to be scolded for that, because when you were looking at the sun to-day, I was marking the east wind; and perhaps if I had breathed a breath of it . . . farewell Pisa. People who can walk don’t always walk into the lion’s den as a consequence — do they? should they? Are you ‘sure that they should?’ I write in great haste. So Wednesday then . . . perhaps!
And yours every day.
You understand. Wednesday — if nothing to the contrary.