Day: November 24, 2017

Monday.

November 24, 1845.

But what unlawful things have I said about ‘kindness’? I did not mean any harm — no, indeed! And as to thinking  . . . as to having ever thought, that you could ‘imitate’ (can this word be ‘imitate’?) an unfelt feeling or a feeling unsupposed to be felt  . . . I may solemnly assure you that I never, never did so. ‘Get up’ — ‘imitate’!! But it was the contrary  . . . all the contrary! From the beginning, now did I not believe you too much? Did I not believe you even in your contradiction of yourself  . . . in your yes and no on the same subject,  . . . and take the world to be turning round backwards and myself to have been shut up here till I grew mad,  . . . rather than disbelieve you either way? Well! — You know it as well as I can tell you, and I will not, any more. If I have been ‘wrong,’ it was not so  . . . nor indeed then  . . . it is not so, though it is now, perhaps.

Therefore  . . . but wait! I never gave away what you ask me to give you, to a human being, except my nearest relatives and once or twice or thrice to female friends,  . . . never, though reproached for it; and it is just three weeks since I said last to an asker that I was ‘too great a prude for such a thing’! it was best to anticipate the accusation! — And, prude or not, I could not — I never could — something would not let me. And now  . . . what am I to do  . . . ‘for my own sake and not yours?’ Should you have it, or not? Why I suppose  . . . yes. I suppose that ‘for my own sense of justice and in order to show that I was wrong’ (which is wrong — you wrote a wrong word there  . . . ‘right,’ you meant!) ‘to show that I was right and am no longer so,’  . . . I suppose you must have it, ‘Oh, You,’  . . . who have your way in everything! Which does not mean  . . . Oh, vous, qui avez toujours raison — far from it.

Also  . . . which does not mean that I shall give you what you ask for, to-morrow, — because I shall not — and one of my conditions is (with others to follow) that not a word be said to-morrow, you understand. Some day I will send it perhaps  . . . as you knew I should  . . . ah, as you knew I should  . . . notwithstanding that ‘getting up’  . . . that ‘imitation’  . . . of humility: as you knew too well I should!

Only I will not teaze you as I might perhaps; and now that your headache has begun again — the headache again: the worse than headache! See what good my wishes do! And try to understand that if I speak of my being ‘wrong’ now in relation to you  . . . of my being right before, and wrong now,  . . . I mean wrong for your sake, and not for mine  . . . wrong in letting you come out into the desert here to me, you whose place is by the waters of Damascus. But I need not tell you over again — you know. May God bless you till to-morrow and past it for ever. Mr. Kenyon brought me your note yesterday to read about the ‘order in the button-hole’ — ah! — or ‘oh, you,’ may I not re-echo? It enrages me to think of Mr. Forster; publishing too as he does, at a moment, the very sweepings of Landor’s desk! Is the motive of the reticence to be looked for somewhere among the cinders? — Too bad it is. So, till to-morrow! and you shall not be ‘kind’ any more.

Your

E.B.B.

But how, ‘a foolish comment’? Good and true rather! And I admired the writing  . . . worthy of the reeds of Jordan!

 

Sunday Night.

November 24, 1845.

But a word to-night, my love  – – for my head aches a little,  – – I had to write a long letter to my friend at New Zealand, and now I want to sit and think of you and get well  – – but I must not quite lose the word I counted on.

So, that way you will take my two days and turn them against me? Oh, you! Did I say the ‘root’ had been striking then, or rather, that the seeds, whence the roots take leisure and grow, they had been planted then  – – and might not a good heart and hand drop acorns enough to grow up into a complete Dodona-grove,  – – when the very rook, say farmers, hides and forgets whole navies of ship-wood one day to be, in his summer storing-journeys? But this shall do  – – I am not going to prove what may be, when here it is, to my everlasting happiness.

– – And ‘I am kind’  – – there again! Do I not know what you mean by that? Well it is some comfort that you make all even in some degree, and take from my faculties here what you give them, spite of my protesting, in other directions. So I could not when I first saw you admire you very much, and wish for your friendship, and be willing to give you mine, and desirous of any opportunity of serving you, benefiting you; I could not think the finding myself in a position to feel this, just this and no more, a sufficiently fortunate event  . . . but I must needs get up, or imitate, or  . . . what is it you fancy I do?  . . . an utterly distinct, unnecessary, inconsequential regard for you, which should, when it got too hard for shamming at the week’s end,  – – should simply spoil, in its explosion and departure, all the real and sufficing elements of an honest life-long attachment and affections! that I should do this, and think it a piece of kindness does . . ..

Now, I’ll tell you what it does deserve, and what it shall get. Give me, dearest beyond expression, what I have always dared to think I would ask you for  . . . one day! Give me  . . . wait  – – for your own sake, not mine who never, never dream of being worth such a gift  . . . but for your own sense of justice, and to say, so as my heart shall hear, that you were wrong and are no longer so, give me so much of you  – – all precious that you are  – – as may be given in a lock of your hair  – – I will live and die with it, and with the memory of you  – – this at the worst! If you give me what I beg,  – – shall I say next Tuesday  . . . when I leave you, I will not speak a word. If you do not, I will not think you unjust, for all my light words, but I will pray you to wait and remember me one day  – – when the power to deserve more may be greater  . . . never the will. God supplies all things: may he bless you, beloved! So I can but pray, kissing your hand.

R.B.

Now pardon me, dearest, for what is written  . . . what I cannot cancel, for the love’s sake that it grew from.

The Chronicle was through Moxon, I believe  – – Landor had sent the verses to Forster at the same time as to me, yet they do not appear. I never in my life less cared about people’s praise or blame for myself, and never more for its influence on other people than now  – – I would stand as high as I could in the eyes of all about you  – – yet not, after all, at poor Chorley’s expense whom your brother, I am sure, unintentionally, is rather hasty in condemning; I have told you of my own much rasher opinion and how I was ashamed and sorry when I corrected it after. C. is of a different species to your brother, differently trained, looking different ways  – – and for some of the peculiarities that strike at first sight, C. himself gives a good reason to the enquirer on better acquaintance. For ‘Vulgarity’  – – NO! But your kind brother will alter his view, I know, on further acquaintance  . . . and,  – – woe’s me  – – will find that ‘assumption’s’ pertest self would be troubled to exercise its quality at such a house as Mr. K.’s, where every symptom of a proper claim is met half way and helped onward far too readily.

Good night, now. Am I not yours  – – are you not mine? And can that make you happy too?

Bless you once more and for ever.

That scrap of Landor’s being for no other eye than mine  – – I made the foolish comment, that there was no blotting out  – – made it some four or five years ago, when I could read what I only guess at now, through my idle opening the hand and letting the caught bird go  – – but there used to be a real satisfaction to me in writing those grand Hebrew characters  – – the noble languages!