Thursday.
November 21, 1845.
Thank you! and will you, if your sister made the copy of Landor’s verses for me as well as for you, thank her from me for another kindness, . . . not the second nor the third? For my own part, be sure that if I did not fall on the right subtle interpretation about the letters, at least I did not ‘think it vain’ of you! vain: when, supposing you really to have been over-gratified by such letters, it could have proved only an excess of humility! — But . . . besides the subtlety, — you meant to be kind to me, you know, — and I had a pleasure and an interest in reading them — only that . . . mind. Sir John Hanmer’s, I was half angry with! Now is he not cold? — and is it not easy to see why he is forced to write his own scenes five times over and over? He might have mentioned the ‘Duchess’ I think; and he a poet! Mr. Chorley speaks some things very well — but what does he mean about ‘execution,’ en revanche? but I liked his letter and his candour in the last page of it. Will Mr. Warburton review you? does he mean that? Now do let me see any other letters you receive. May I? Of course Landor’s ‘dwells apart’ from all: and besides the reason you give for being gratified by it, it is well that one prophet should open his mouth and prophesy and give his witness to the inspiration of another. See what he says in the letter . . .. ‘You may stand quite alone if you will — and I think you will.’ That is a noble testimony to a truth. And he discriminates — he understands and discerns — they are not words thrown out into the air. The ‘profusion of imagery covering the depth of thought’ is a true description. And, in the verses, he lays his finger just on your characteristics — just on those which, when you were only a poet to me, (only a poet: does it sound irreverent? almost, I think!) which, when you were only a poet to me, I used to study, characteristic by characteristic, and turn myself round and round in despair of being ever able to approach, taking them to be so essentially and intensely masculine that like effects were unattainable, even in a lower degree, by any female hand. Did I not tell you so once before? or oftener than once? And must not these verses of Landor’s be printed somewhere — in the Examiner? and again in the Athenæum? if in the Examiner, certainly again in the Athenæum — it would be a matter of course. Oh those verses: how they have pleased me! It was an act worthy of him — and of you.
George has been properly ‘indoctrinated,’ and, we must hope, will do credit to my instructions. Just now . . . just as I was writing . . . he came in to say good-morning and good-night (he goes to chambers earlier than I receive visitors generally), and to ask with a smile, if I had ‘a message for my friend’ . . . that was you . . . and so he was indoctrinated. He is good and true, honest and kind, but a little over-grave and reasonable, as I and my sisters complain continually. The great Law lime-kiln dries human souls all to one colour — and he is an industrious reader among law books and knows a good deal about them, I have heard from persons who can judge; but with a sacrifice of impulsiveness and liberty of spirit, which I should regret for him if he sate on the Woolsack even. Oh — that law! how I do detest it! I hate it and think ill of it — I tell George so sometimes — and he is good-natured and only thinks to himself (a little audibly now and then) that I am a woman and talking nonsense. But the morals of it, and the philosophy of it! And the manners of it! in which the whole host of barristers looks down on the attorneys and the rest of the world! — how long are these things to last!
Theodosia Garrow, I have seen face to face once or twice. She is very clever — very accomplished — with talents and tastes of various kinds — a musician and linguist, in most modern languages I believe — and a writer of fluent graceful melodious verses, . . . you cannot say any more. At least I cannot — and though I have not seen this last poem in the ‘Book of Beauty,’ I have no more trust ready for it than for its predecessors, of which Mr. Landor said as much. It is the personal feeling which speaks in him, I fancy — simply the personal feeling — and, that being the case, it does not spoil the discriminating appreciation on the other page of this letter. I might have the modesty to admit besides that I may be wrong and he, right, all through. But . . . ‘more intense than Sappho’! — more intense than intensity itself! — to think of that! — Also the word ‘poetry’ has a clear meaning to me, and all the fluency and facility and quick ear-catching of a tune which one can find in the world, do not answer to it — no.
How is the head? will you tell me? I have written all this without a word of it, and yet ever since yesterday I have been uneasy, . . . I cannot help it. You see you are not better but worse. ‘Since you were in Italy’ — Then is it England that disagrees with you? and is it change away from England that you want? . . . require, I mean. If so — why what follows and ought to follow? You must not be ill indeed — that is the first necessity. Tell me how you are, exactly how you are; and remember to walk, and not to work too much — for my sake — if you care for me — if it is not too bold of me to say so. I had fancied you were looking better rather than otherwise: but those sensations in the head are frightful and ought to be stopped by whatever means; even by the worst, as they would seem to me. Well — it was bad news to hear of the increase of pain; for the amendment was a ‘passing show’ I fear, and not caused even by thoughts of mine or it would have appeared before; while on the other side (the sunny side of the way) I heard on that same yesterday, what made me glad as good news, a whole gospel of good news, and from you too who profess to say ‘less than nothing,’ and that was that ‘the times seemed longer to you‘: — do you remember saying it? And it made me glad . . . happy — perhaps too glad and happy — and surprised: yes, surprised! — for if you had told me (but you would not have told me) if you had let me guess . . . just the contrary, . . . ‘that the times seemed shorter,’ . . . why it would have seemed to me as natural as nature — oh, believe me it would, and I could not have thought hardly of you for it in the most secret or silent of my thoughts. How am I to feel towards you, do you imagine, . . . who have the world round you and yet make me this to you? I never can tell you how, and you never can know it without having my heart in you with all its experiences: we measure by those weights. May God bless you! and save me from being the cause to you of any harm or grief! . . . I choose it for my blessing instead of another. What should I be if I could fail willingly to you in the least thing? But I never will, and you know it. I will not move, nor speak, nor breathe, so as willingly and consciously to touch, with one shade of wrong, that precious deposit of ‘heart and life’ . . . which may yet be recalled.
And, so, may God bless you and your
E.B.B.
Remember to say how you are.
I sent ‘Pomfret’ — and Shelley is returned, and the letters, in the same parcel — but my letter goes by the post as you see. Is there contrast enough between the two rival female personages of ‘Pomfret.’ I fancy not. Helena should have been more ‘demonstrative’ than she appeared in Italy, to secure the ‘new modulation’ with Walter. But you will not think it a strong book, I am sure, with all the good and pure intention of it. The best character . . . most life-like . . . as conventional life goes . . . seems to me ‘Mr. Rose’ . . . beyond all comparison — and the best point, the noiseless, unaffected manner in which the acting out of the ‘private judgment’ in Pomfret himself is made no heroic virtue but simply an integral part of the love of truth. As to Grace she is too good to be interesting, I am afraid — and people say of her more than she expresses — and as to ‘generosity,’ she could not do otherwise in the last scenes.
But I will not tell you the story after all.
At the beginning of this letter I meant to write just one page; but my generosity is like Grace’s, and could not help itself. There were the letters to write of, and the verses! and then, you know, ‘femme qui parle’ never has done. Let me hear! and I will be as brisk as a monument next time for variety.