Day: November 22, 2017

Saturday.

November 22, 1845.

Mr. Kenyon came yesterday — and do you know when he took out those verses and spoke his preface and I understood what was to follow, I had a temptation from my familiar Devil not to say I had read them before — I had the temptation strong and clear. For he (Mr. K.) told me that your sister let him see them — .

But no — My ‘vade retro’ prevailed, and I spoke the truth and shamed the devil and surprised Mr. Kenyon besides, as I could observe. Not an observation did he make till he was just going away half an hour afterwards, and then he said rather dryly  . . . ‘And now may I ask how long ago it was when you first read these verses? — was it a fortnight ago?’ It was better, I think, that I should not have made a mystery of such a simple thing,  . . . and yet I felt half vexed with myself and with him besides. But the verses, — how he praised them! more than I thought of doing  . . . as verses — though there is beauty and music and all that ought to be. Do you see clearly now that the latter lines refer to the combination in you, — the qualities over and above those held in common with Chaucer? And I have heard this morning from two or three of the early readers of the Chronicle (I never care to see it till the evening) that the verses are there — so that my wishes have fulfilled themselves there at least — strangely, for wishes of mine  . . . which generally ‘go by contraries’ as the soothsayers declare of dreams. How kind of you to send me the fragment to Mr. Forster! and how I like to read it. Was the Hebrew yours then  . . . written then, I mean  . . . or written now?

Mr. Kenyon told me that you were to dine with him on Tuesday, and I took for granted, at first hearing, that you would come on Wednesday perhaps to me — and afterwards I saw the possibility of the two ends being joined without much difficulty. Still, I was not sure, before your letter came, how it might be.

That you really are better is the best news of all — thank you for telling me. It will be wise not to go out too much — ‘aequam servare mentem’ as Landor quotes,  . . . in this as in the rest. Perhaps that worst pain was a sort of crisis  . . . the sharp turn of the road about to end  . . . oh, I do trust it may be so.

Mr. K. wrote to Landor to the effect that it was not because he (Mr. K.) held you in affection, nor because the verses expressed critically the opinion entertained of you by all who could judge, nor because they praised a book with which his own name was associated  . . . but for the abstract beauty of those verses  . . . for that reason he could not help naming them to Mr. Landor. All of which was repeated to me yesterday.

Also I heard of you from George, who admired you — admired you  . . . as if you were a chancellor in posse, a great lawyer in esse — and then he thought you  . . . what he never could think a lawyer  . . . ‘unassuming.’ And you  . . . you are so kind! Only that makes me think bitterly what I have thought before, but cannot write to-day.

It was good-natured of Mr. Chorley to send me a copy of his book, and he sending so few — very! George who admires you, does not tolerate Mr. Chorley  . . . (did I tell ever?) declares that the affectation is ‘bad,’ and that there is a dash of vulgarity  . . . which I positively refuse to believe, and should, I fancy, though face to face with the most vainglorious of waistcoats. How can there be vulgarity even of manners, with so much mental refinement? I never could believe in those combinations of contradictions.

‘An obvious matter,’ you think! as obvious, as your ‘green hill’  . . . which I cannot see. For the rest  . . . my thought upon your ‘great fact‘ of the ‘two days,’ is quite different from yours  . . . for I think directly, ‘So little’! so dreadfully little! What shallow earth for a deep root! What can be known of me in that time? ‘So there, is the only good, you see, that comes from making calculations on a slip of paper! It is not and it cannot come to good.’ I would rather look at my seventy-five letters — there is room to breathe in them. And this is my idea (ecce!) of monumental brevity — and hic jacet at last

Your E.B.B.

 

Friday Night.

November 22, 1845.

How good and kind to send me these books! (The letter I say nothing of, according to convention: if I wrote down ‘best and kindest’  . . . oh, what poorest words!) I shall tell you all about ‘Pomfret,’ be sure. Chorley talked of it, as we walked homewards together last night,  – – modestly and well, and spoke of having given away two copies only  . . . to his mother one, and the other to  – – Miss Barrett, and ‘she seemed interested in the life of it, entered into his purpose in it,’ and I listened to it all, loving Chorley for his loveability which is considerable at other times, and saying to myself what might run better in the child’s couplet  – – ‘Not more than others I deserve, Though God has given me more’!  – – Given me the letter which expresses surprise that I shall feel these blanks between the days when I see you longer and longer! So am I surprised  – – that I should have mentioned so obvious a matter at all; or leave unmentioned a hundred others its correlatives which I cannot conceive you to be ignorant of, you! When I spread out my riches before me, and think what the hour and more means that you endow one with, I do  – – not to say could  – – I do form resolutions, and say to myself  – – ‘If next time I am bidden stay away a fortnight, I will not reply by a word beyond the grateful assent.’ I do, God knows, lay up in my heart these priceless treasures,  – – shall I tell you? I never in my life kept a journal, a register of sights, or fancies, or feelings; in my last travel I put down on a slip of paper a few dates, that I might remember in England, on such a day I was on Vesuvius, in Pompeii, at Shelley’s grave; all that should be kept in memory is, with me, best left to the brain’s own process. But I have, from the first, recorded the date and the duration of every visit to you; the numbers of minutes you have given me  . . . and I put them together till they make  . . . nearly two days now; four-and-twenty-hour-long-days, that I have been by you  – – and I enter the room determining to get up and go sooner  . . . and I go away into the light street repenting that I went so soon by I don’t know how many minutes  – – for, love, what is it all, this love for you, but an earnest desiring to include you in myself, if that might be; to feel you in my very heart and hold you there for ever, through all chance and earthly changes!

There, I had better leave off; the words!

I was very glad to find myself with your brother yesterday; I like him very much and mean to get a friend in him  – – (to supply the loss of my friend  . . . Miss Barrett  – – which is gone, the friendship, so gone!) But I did not ask after you because I heard Moxon do it. Now of Landor’s verses: I got a note from Forster yesterday telling me that he, too, had received a copy  . . . so that there is no injunction to be secret. So I got a copy for dear Mr. Kenyon, and, lo! what comes! I send the note to make you smile! I shall reply that I felt in duty bound to apprise you; as I did. You will observe that I go to that too facile gate of his on Tuesday, my day  . . . from your house directly. The worst is that I have got entangled with invitations already, and must go out again, hating it, to more than one place.

I am very well  – – quite well; yes, dearest! The pain is quite gone; and the inconvenience, hard on its trace. You will write to me again, will you not? And be as brief as your heart lets you, to me who hoard up your words and get remote and imperfect ideas of what  . . . shall it be written? . . . anger at you could mean, when I see a line blotted out; a second-thoughted finger-tip rapidly put forth upon one of my gold pieces!

I rather think if Warburton reviews me it will be in the Quarterly, which I know he writes for. Hanmer is a very sculpturesque passionless high-minded and amiable man  . . . this coldness, as you see it, is part of him. I like his poems, I think, better than you  – – ‘the Sonnets,’ do you know them? Not ‘Fra Cipolla.’ See what is here, since you will not let me have only you to look at  – – this is Landor’s first opinion  – – expressed to Forster  – – see the date! and last of all, see me and know me, beloved! May God bless you!