Saturday.
January 31, 1846.
It is a relief to me this time to obey your wish, and reserve further remark on that subject till by and bye. And, whereas some people, I suppose, have to lash themselves up to the due point of passion, and choose the happy minutes to be as loving in as they possibly can . . . (that is, in expression; the just correspondency of word to fact and feeling: for it – – the love – – may be very truly there, at the bottom, when it is got at, and spoken out) – – quite otherwise, I do really have to guard my tongue and set a watch on my pen . . . that so I may say as little as can well be likely to be excepted to by your generosity. Dearest, love means love, certainly, and adoration carries its sense with it – – and so, you may have received my feeling in that shape – – but when I begin to hint at the merest putting into practice one or the other profession, you ‘fly out’ – – instead of keeping your throne. So let this letter lie awhile, till my heart is more used to it, and after some days or weeks I will find as cold and quiet a moment as I can, and by standing as far off you as I shall be able, see more – – ‘si minus propè stes, te capiet magis.’ Meanwhile, silent or speaking, I am yours to dispose of as that glove – – not that hand.
I must think that Mr. Kenyon sees, and knows, and . . . in his goodness . . . hardly disapproves – – he knows I could not avoid – – escape you – – for he knows, in a manner, what you are . . . like your American; and, early in our intercourse, he asked me (did I tell you?) ‘what I thought of his young relative’ – – and I considered half a second to this effect – – ‘if he asked me what I thought of the Queen-diamond they showed me in the crown of the Czar – – and I answered truly – – he would not return; “then of course you mean to try and get it to keep.”‘ So I did tell the truth in a very few words. Well, it is no matter.
I am sorry to hear of poor Tennyson’s condition. The projected book – – title, scheme, all of it, – – that is astounding; – – and fairies? If ‘Thorpes and barnes, sheep-pens and dairies – – this maketh that there ben no fairies’ – – locomotives and the broad or narrow gauge must keep the very ghosts of them away. But how the fashion of this world passes; the forms its beauty and truth take; if we have the making of such! I went last night, out of pure shame at a broken promise, to hear Miss Cushman and her sister in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ The whole play goes . . . horribly; ‘speak’ bids the Poet, and so M. Walladmir [Valdemar] moves his tongue and dispenses with his jaws. Whatever is slightly touched in, indicated, to give relief to something actually insisted upon and drawn boldly . . . here, you have it gone over with an unremitting burnt-stick, till it stares black forever! Romeo goes whining about Verona by broad daylight. Yet when a schoolfellow of mine, I remember, began translating in class Virgil after this mode, ‘Sic fatur – – so said Æneas; lachrymans – – a-crying‘ . . . our pedagogue turned on him furiously – – ‘D’ye think Æneas made such a noise – – as you shall, presently?’ How easy to conceive a boyish half-melancholy, smiling at itself.
Then Tuesday, and not Monday . . . and Saturday will be the nearer afterward. I am singularly well to-day – – head quite quiet – – and yesterday your penholder began its influence and I wrote about half my last act. Writing is nothing, nor praise, nor blame, nor living, nor dying, but you are all my true life; May God bless you ever – –
R.