Tuesday Morning.
February 4, 1846.
You ought hardly, – – ought you, my Ba? – – to refer to that letter or any expression in it; I had – – and have, I trust – – your forgiveness for what I wrote, meaning to be generous or at least just, God knows. That, and the other like exaggerations were there to serve the purpose of what you properly call a crisis. I did believe, – – taking an expression, in the note that occasioned mine, in connection with an excuse which came in the postscript for not seeing me on the day previously appointed, I did fully believe that you were about to deny me admittance again unless I blotted out – – not merely softened down – – the past avowal. All was wrong, foolish, but from a good notion, I dare to say. And then, that particular exaggeration you bring most painfully to my mind – – that does not, after all, disagree with what I said and you repeat – – does it, if you will think? I said my other ‘likings‘ (as you rightly set it down) used to ‘come and go,’ and that my love for you did not, and that is true; the first clause as the last of the sentence, for my sympathies are very wide and general, – – always have been – – and the natural problem has been the giving unity to their object, concentrating them instead of dispersing. I seem to have foretold, foreknown you in other likings of mine – – now here . . . when the liking ‘came‘ . . . and now elsewhere . . . when as surely the liking ‘went‘: and if they had stayed before the time would that have been a comfort to refer to? On the contrary, I am as little likely to be led by delusions as can be, – – for Romeo thinks he loves Rosaline, and is excused on all hands – – whereas I saw the plain truth without one mistake, and ‘looked to like, if looking liking moved – – and no more deep did I endart mine eye’ – – about which, first I was very sorry, and after rather proud – – all which I seem to have told you before. – – And now, when my whole heart and soul find you, and fall on you, and fix forever, I am to be dreadfully afraid the joy cannot last, seeing that
– – it is so baseless a fear that no illustration will serve! Is it gone now, dearest, ever-dearest?
And as you amuse me sometimes, as now, by seeming surprised at some chance expression of a truth which is grown a veriest commonplace to me – – like Charles Lamb’s ‘letter to an elderly man whose education had been neglected’ – – when he finds himself involuntarily communicating truths above the capacity and acquirements of his friend, and stops himself after this fashion – – ‘If you look round the world, my dear Sir – – for it is round! – – so I will make you laugh at me, if you will, for my inordinate delight at hearing the success of your experiment with the opium. I never dared, nor shall dare inquire into your use of that – – for, knowing you utterly as I do, I know you only bend to the most absolute necessity in taking more or less of it – – so that increase of the quantity must mean simply increased weakness, illness – – and diminution, diminished illness. And now there is diminution! Dear, dear Ba – – you speak of my silly head and its ailments . . . well, and what brings on the irritation? A wet day or two spent at home; and what ends it all directly? – – just an hour’s walk! So with me: now, – – fancy me shut in a room for seven years . . . it is – – no, don’t see, even in fancy, what is left of me then! But you, at the end; this is all the harm: I wonder . . . I confirm my soul in its belief in perpetual miraculousness . . . I bless God with my whole heart that it is thus with you! And so, I will not even venture to say – – so superfluous it were, though with my most earnest, most loving breath (I who do love you more at every breath I draw; indeed, yes dearest,) – – I will not bid you – – that is, pray you – – to persevere! You have all my life bound to yours – – save me from my ‘seven years’ – – and God reward you!
Your own R.