Monday Morning.
January 19, 1846.
Love, if you knew but how vexed I was, so very few minutes after my note left last night; how angry with the unnecessary harshness into which some of the phrases might be construed – – you would forgive me, indeed. But, when all is confessed and forgiven, the fact remains – – that it would be the one trial I know I should not be able to bear; the repetition of these ‘scenes’ – – intolerable – – not to be written of, even my mind refuses to form a clear conception of them.
My own loved letter is come – – and the news; of which the reassuring postscript lets the interrupted joy flow on again. Well, and I am not to be grateful for that; nor that you do ‘eat your dinner’? Indeed you will be ingenious to prevent me! I fancy myself meeting you on ‘the stairs’ – – stairs and passages generally, and galleries (ah, thou indeed!) all, with their picturesque accidents, of landing-places, and spiral heights and depths, and sudden turns and visions of half open doors into what Quarles calls ‘mollitious chambers’ – – and above all, landing-places – – they are my heart’s delight – – I would come upon you unaware in a landing-place in my next dream! One day we may walk on the galleries round and over the inner court of the Doges’ Palace at Venice; and read, on tablets against the wall, how such an one was banished for an ‘enormous dig (intacco) into the public treasure’ – – another for . . . what you are not to know because his friends have got chisels and chipped away the record of it – – underneath the ‘giants’ on their stands, and in the midst of the cortile the bronze fountains whence the girls draw water.
So you too wrote French verses? – – Mine were of less lofty argument – – one couplet makes me laugh now for the reason of its false quantity – – I translated the Ode of Alcæus; and the last couplet ran thus . . ..
Harmodius, et toi, cher Aristogiton!
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Comme l’astre du jour, brillera votre nom!
The fact was, I could not bear to hurt my French Master’s feelings – – who inveterately maltreated ‘ai’s and oi’s’ and in this instance, an ‘ei.’ But ‘Pauline’ is altogether of a different sort of precocity – – you shall see it when I can master resolution to transcribe the explanation which I know is on the fly-leaf of a copy here. Of that work, the Athenæum said [several words erased] now, what outrageous folly! I care, and you care, precisely nothing about its sayings and doings – – yet here I talk!
Now to you – – Ba! When I go through sweetness to sweetness, at ‘Ba’ I stop last of all, and lie and rest. That is the quintessence of them all, – – they all take colour and flavour from that. So, dear, dear Ba, be glad as you can to see me to-morrow. God knows how I embalm every such day, – – I do not believe that one of the forty is confounded with another in my memory. So, that is gained and sure for ever. And of letters, this makes my 104th and, like Donne’s Bride,
. . . I take,
My jewels from their boxes; call
My Diamonds, Pearls, and Emeralds, and make
Myself a constellation of them all!
Bless you, my own Beloved!
I am much better to-day – – having been not so well yesterday – – whence the note to you, perhaps! I put that to your charity for construction. By the way, let the foolish and needless story about my whilome friend be of this use, that it records one of the traits in that same generous love, of me, I once mentioned, I remember – – one of the points in his character which, I told you, would account, if you heard them, for my parting company with a good deal of warmth of attachment to myself.
What a day! But you do not so much care for rain, I think. My Mother is no worse, but still suffering sadly.
Ever your own, dearest ever – –