Friday.
December 1, 1845.
It comes at eight o’clock — the post says eight . . . I say nearer half past eight . . . it comes — and I thank you, thank you, as I can. Do you remember the purple lock of a king on which hung the fate of a city? I do! And I need not in conscience — because this one here did not come to me by treason — ‘ego et rex meus,’ on the contrary, do fairly give and take.
I meant at first only to send you what is in the ring . . . which, by the way, will not fit you I know — (not certainly in the finger which it was meant for . . .) as it would not Napoleon before you — but can easily be altered to the right size . . .. I meant at first to send you only what was in the ring: but your fashion is best so you shall have it both ways. Now don’t say a word on Monday . . . nor at all. As for the ring, recollect that I am forced to feel blindfold into the outer world, and take what is nearest . . . by chance, not choice . . . or it might have been better — a little better — perhaps. The best of it is that it’s the colour of your blue flowers. Now you will not say a word — I trust to you.
It is enough that you should have said these others, I think. Now is it just of you? isn’t it hard upon me? And if the charge is true, whose fault is it, pray? I have been ashamed and vexed with myself fifty times for being so like a little girl, . . . for seeming to have ‘affectations’; and all in vain: ‘it was stronger than I,’ as the French say. And for you to complain! As if Haroun Alraschid after cutting off a head, should complain of the want of an obeisance! — Well! — I smile notwithstanding. Nobody can help smiling — both for my foolishness which is great, I confess, though somewhat exaggerated in your statement — (because if it was quite as bad as you say, you know, I never should have seen you . . . and I have!) and also for yours . . . because you take such a very preposterously wrong way for overcoming anybody’s shyness. Do you know, I have laughed . . . really laughed at your letter. No — it has not been so bad. I have seen you at every visit, as well as I could with both eyes wide open — only that by a supernatural influence they won’t stay open with you as they are used to do with other people . . . so now I tell you. And for the rest I promise nothing at all — as how can I, when it is quite beyond my control — and you have not improved my capabilities . . . do you think you have? Why what nonsense we have come to — we, who ought to be ‘talking Greek!’ said Mr. Kenyon.
Yes — he came and talked of you, and told me how you had been speaking of . . . me; and I have been thinking how I should have been proud of it a year ago, and how I could half scold you for it now. Ah yes — and Mr. Kenyon told me that you had spoken exaggerations — such exaggerations! — Now should there not be some scolding . . . some?
But how did you expect Mr. Kenyon to ‘wonder’ at you, or be ‘vexed’ with you? That would have been strange surely. You are and always have been a chief favourite in that quarter . . . appreciated, praised, loved, I think.
While I write, a letter from America is put into my hands, and having read it through with shame and confusion of face . . . not able to help a smile though notwithstanding, . . . I send it to you to show how you have made me behave! — to say nothing of my other offences to the kind people at Boston — and to a stray gentleman in Philadelphia who is to perform a pilgrimage next year, he says, . . . to visit the Holy Land and your E.B.B. I was naughty enough to take that letter to be a circular . . . for the address of various ‘Europaians.’ In any case . . . just see how I have behaved! and if it has not been worse than . . . not opening one’s eyes! — Judge. Really and gravely I am ashamed — I mean as to Mr. Mathews, who has been an earnest, kind friend to me — and I do mean to behave better. I say that to prevent your scolding, you know. And think of Mr. Poe, with that great Roman justice of his (if not rather American!), dedicating a book to one and abusing one in the preface of the same. He wrote a review of me in just that spirit — the two extremes of laudation and reprehension, folded in on one another. You would have thought that it had been written by a friend and foe, each stark mad with love and hate, and writing the alternate paragraphs — a most curious production indeed.
And here I shall end. I have been waiting . . . waiting for what does not come . . . the ring . . . sent to have the hair put in; but it won’t come (now) until too late for the post, and you must hear from me before Monday . . . you ought to have heard to-day. It has not been my fault — I have waited. Oh these people — who won’t remember that it is possible to be out of patience! So I send you my letter now . . . and what is in the paper now . . . and the rest, you shall have after Monday. And you will not say a word . . . not then . . . not at all! — I trust you. And may God bless you.
If ever you care less for me — I do not say it in distrust of you . . . I trust you wholly — but you are a man, and free to care less, . . . and if ever you do . . . why in that case you will destroy, burn, . . . do all but send back . . . enough is said for you to understand.
May God bless you. You are best to me — best . . . as I see . . . in the world — and so, dearest aright to
Your
E.B.B.
Finished on Saturday evening. Oh — this thread of silk — And to post!! After all you must wait till Tuesday. I have no silk within reach and shall miss the post. Do forgive me.
