Thursday Evening.
February 27, 1846.
If all third persons were as foolish as this third person of yours, ever dearest, first and second persons might follow their own devices without losing much in the way of good counsel. But you are unlucky in your third person as far as the wits go, he talks a great deal of nonsense, and Flush, who is sensible, will have nothing to do with him, he says, any more than you will with Sir Moses: — he is quite a third person singular for the nonsense he talks!
So, instead of him, you shall hear what I have been doing to-day. The sun, which drew out you and the hawthorns, persuaded me that it was warm enough to go down-stairs — and I put on my cloak as if I were going into the snow, and went into the drawing-room and took Henrietta by surprise as she sate at the piano singing. Well, I meant to stay half an hour and come back again, for I am upon ‘Tinkler’s ground’ in the drawing-room and liable to whole droves of morning visitors — and Henrietta kept me, kept me, because she wanted me, besought me, to stay and see the great sight of Capt. Surtees Cook — plus his regimentals — fresh from the royal presence at St. James’s, and I never saw him in my life, though he is a sort of cousin. So, though I hated it as you may think, . . . not liking to be unkind to my sister, I stayed and stayed one ten minutes after another, till it seemed plain that he wasn’t coming at all (as I told her) and that Victoria had kept him to dinner, enchanted with the regimentals. And half laughing and half quarrelling, still she kept me by force, until a knock came most significantly . . . and ‘There is Surtees’ said she . . . ‘now you must and shall stay! So foolish,’ (I had my hand on the door-handle to go out) ‘he, your own cousin too! who always calls you Ba, except before Papa.’ Which might have encouraged me perhaps, but I can’t be sure of it, as the very next moment apprized us both that no less a person than Mrs. Jameson was standing out in the passage. The whole 36th. regiment could scarcely have been more astounding to me. As to staying to see her in that room, with the prospect of the military descent in combination, I couldn’t have done it for the world! so I made Henrietta, who had drawn me into the scrape, take her up-stairs, and followed myself in a minute or two — and the corollary of this interesting history is, that being able to talk at all after all that ‘fuss,’ and after walking ‘up-stairs and down-stairs’ like the ancestor of your spider, proves my gigantic strength — now doesn’t it?
For the rest, ‘here be proofs’ that the first person can be as foolish as any third person in the world. What do you think?
And Mrs. Jameson was kind beyond speaking of, and talked of taking me to Italy. What do you say? It is somewhere about the fifth or sixth proposition of the sort which has come to me. I shall be embarrassed, it seems to me, by the multitude of escorts to Italy. But the kindness, one cannot laugh at so much kindness.
I wanted to hear her speak of you, and was afraid. I could not name you. Yet I did want to hear the last ‘Bell’ praised.
She goes to Ireland for two months soon, but prints a book first, a collection of essays. I have not seen Mr. Kenyon, with whom she dined yesterday. The Macreadys were to be there, and he told me a week ago that he very nearly committed himself in a ‘social mistake’ by inviting you to meet them.
Ah my hawthorn spray! Do you know, I caught myself pitying it for being gathered, with that green promise of leaves on it! There is room too on it for the feet of a bird! Still I shall keep it longer than it would have stayed in the hedge, that is certain!
The first you ever gave me was a yellow rose sent in a letter, and shall I tell you what that means — the yellow rose? ‘Infidelity,’ says the dictionary of flowers. You see what an omen, . . . to begin with!
Also you see that I am not tired with the great avatar to-day — the ‘fell swoop’ rather — mine, into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Jameson’s on me.
And I shall hear to-morrow again, really? I ‘let‘ you. And you are best, kindest, dearest, every day. Did I ever tell you that you made me do what you choose? I fancied that I only thought so. May God bless you. I am your own.
Shall I have the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ on Saturday? — any of it? But do not work — I beseech you to take care.