Day: February 19, 2018

[Post-marks, Mis-sent to Mitcham. February 19 and 20, 1846.]

Best and kindest of all that ever were to be loved in dreams, and wondered at and loved out of them, you are indeed! I cannot make you feel how I felt that night when I knew that to save me an anxious thought you had come so far so late — it was almost too much to feel, and is too much to speak. So let it pass. You will never act so again, ever dearest — you shall not. If the post sins, why leave the sin to the post; and I will remember for the future, will be ready to remember, how postmen are fallible and how you live at the end of a lane — and not be uneasy about a silence if there should be one unaccounted for. For the Tuesday coming, I shall remember that too — who could forget it? . . . I put it in the niche of the wall, one golden lamp more of your giving, to throw light purely down to the end of my life — I do thank you. And the truth is, I should have been in a panic, had there been no letter that evening — I was frightened the day before, then reasoned the fears back and waited: and if there had been no letter after all — . But you are supernaturally good and kind. How can I ever ‘return’ as people say (as they might say in their ledgers)  . . . any of it all? How indeed can I who have not even a heart left of my own, to love you with?

I quite trust to your promise in respect to the medical advice, if walking and rest from work do not prevent at once the recurrence of those sensations — it was a promise, remember. And you will tell me the very truth of how you are — and you will try the music, and not be nervous, dearest. Would not riding be good for you — consider. And why should you be ‘alone’ when your sister is in the house? How I keep thinking of you all day — you cannot really be alone with so many thoughts  . . . such swarms of thoughts, if you could but see them, drones and bees together!

George came in from Westminster Hall after we parted yesterday and said that he had talked with the junior counsel of the wretched plaintiffs in the Ferrers case, and that the belief was in the mother being implicated, although not from the beginning. It was believed too that the miserable girl had herself taken step after step into the mire, involved herself gradually, the first guilt being an extravagance in personal expenses, which she lied and lied to account for in the face of her family. ‘Such a respectable family,’ said George, ‘the grandfather in court looking venerable, and everyone indignant upon being so disgraced by her!’ But for the respectability in the best sense, I do not quite see. That all those people should acquiesce in the indecency (according to every standard of English manners in any class of society) of thrusting the personal expenses of a member of their family on Lord Ferrers, she still bearing their name — and in those peculiar circumstances of her supposed position too — where is the respectability? And they are furious with her, which is not to be wondered at after all. Her counsel had an interview with her previous to the trial, to satisfy themselves of her good faith, and she was quite resolute and earnest, persisting in every statement. On the coming out of the anonymous letters, Fitzroy Kelly said to the juniors that if anyone could suggest a means of explanation, he would be eager to carry forward the case,  . . . but for him he saw no way of escaping from the fact of the guilt of their client. Not a voice could speak for her. So George was told. There is no ground for a prosecution for a conspiracy, he says, but she is open to the charge for forgery, of course, and to the dreadful consequences, though it is not considered at all likely that Lord Ferrers could wish to disturb her beyond the ruin she has brought on her own life.

Think of Miss Mitford’s growing quite cold about Mr. Chorley who has spent two days with her lately, and of her saying in a letter to me this morning that he is very much changed and grown to be ‘a presumptuous coxcomb.’ He has displeased her in some way — that is clear. What changes there are in the world.

Should I ever change to you, do you think,  . . . even if you came to ‘love me less’ — not that I meant to reproach you with that possibility. May God bless you, dear dearest. It is another miracle (beside the many) that I get nearer to the mountains yet still they seem more blue. Is not that strange?

Ever and wholly

Your Ba.

 

Thursday Morning.

February 19, 1846.

My sweetest, best, dearest Ba I do love you less, much less already, and adore you more, more by so much more as I see of you, think of you  – – I am yours just as much as those flowers; and you may pluck those flowers to pieces or put them in your breast; it is not because you so bless me now that you may not if you please one day  – – you will stop me here; but it is the truth and I live in it.

I am quite well; indeed, this morning, noticeably well, they tell me, and well I mean to keep if I can.

When I got home last evening I found this note  – – and I have accepted, that I might say I could also keep an engagement, if so minded, at Harley Street  – – thereby insinuating that other reasons may bring me into the neighbourhood than the reason  – – but I shall either not go there, or only for an hour at most. I also found a note headed ‘Strictly private and confidential’  – – so here it goes from my mouth to my heart  – – pleasantly proposing that I should start in a few days for St. Petersburg, as secretary to somebody going there on a ‘mission of humanity’  – – grazie tante!

Did you hear of my meeting someone at the door whom I take to have been one of your brothers?

One thing vexed me in your letter  – – I will tell you, the praise of my letters. Now, one merit they have  – – in language mystical  – – that of having no merit. If I caught myself trying to write finely, graphically &c. &c., nay, if I found myself conscious of having in my own opinion, so written, all would be over! yes, over! I should be respecting you inordinately, paying a proper tribute to your genius, summoning the necessary collectedness,  – – plenty of all that! But the feeling with which I write to you, not knowing that it is writing,  – – with you, face and mouth and hair and eyes opposite me, touching me, knowing that all is as I say, and helping out the imperfect phrases from your own intuition  – – that would be gone  – – and what in its place? ‘Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we write to Ambleside.’ No, no, love, nor can it ever be so, nor should it ever be so if  – – even if, preserving all that intimate relation, with the carelessness, still, somehow, was obtained with no effort in the world, graphic writing and philosophic and what you please  – – for I will be  – – would be, better than my works and words with an infinite stock beyond what I put into convenient circulation whether in fine speeches fit to remember, or fine passages to quote. For the rest, I had meant to tell you before now, that you often put me ‘in a maze’ when you particularize letters of mine  – – ‘such an one was kind’ &c. I know, sometimes I seem to give the matter up in despair, I take out paper and fall thinking on you, and bless you with my whole heart and then begin: ‘What a fine day this is?’ I distinctly remember having done that repeatedly  – – but the converse is not true by any means, that (when the expression may happen to fall more consentaneously to the mind’s motion) that less is felt, oh no! But the particular thought at the time has not been of the insufficiency of expression, as in the other instance.

Now I will leave off  – – to begin elsewhere  – – for I am always with you, beloved, best beloved! Now you will write? And walk much, and sleep more? Bless you, dearest  – – ever  – –

Your own,