Month: March 2018

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Tuesday Evening,

If people were always as grateful to other people for being
just kind to themselves . . what a grateful world we should
have of it ! The actual good you get out of me, may be
stated at about two commas and a semi-colon — do I overstate
it, I wonder ? You, on the other side, never overstate anything
. . never enlarge . . never exaggerate ! In fact, the
immense ‘ worldly ‘ advantages which fall to you from me,
are plain to behold. Dearest, what nonsense you talk some
times, for a man so wise ! nonsense as wonderful in its way
for ‘ Robert Browning ‘ as the dancing of polkas ! The worst
is, that it sets me wishing impotently, to do some really good
helpful thing for you — and I cannot, — cannot. The good
comes to me from you, and will not go back again. Even
the loving you, . . which is all I can, . . have I not had to
question of it again and again . …” Is that good ? ” Now
see.

I shall be anxious to hear your own thoughts of the
‘ Soul’s Tragedy’ when you have it in print. You liked
‘ Luria ‘ better for seeing it printed — and I must have you like
the ‘ Tragedy ‘ in proportion. It strikes me. It is original, as
they say. There is something in it awakening . . striking :
— and when it has awakened, it won’t let you go to sleep
again immediately.

And of yourself, not a word. You might have said one
word — but you have been in London which makes me hope
that you are perhaps a little better . . or at least not worse.
Oh, I do not hope much while you are about this printing.
You are sure not to be well. That is to be accepted as a
necessary consequence — it cannot be otherwise. The comfort
is, that the whole will be put away in a week or ten
days, and that then I may set myself to hope for you, as
the roses to blow in June. Fit summer-business, that
will be ! And you will help me, and walk and take care.

What do you think I have been doing to-day to Mr.
Kenyon? Sending him the ‘enchanted poetry’ which
such as you are never to see . . the translation about
Hector and Andromache ! — yes, really. Yet after all it is
not that I like him so much better than you . . I do not
indeed . . it is just that Miss Thomson and her book are of
consequence to him, and that he hears through Miss Bayley
and herself of the attempt here and the failure there, . .
and so, being interested altogether, he asked me to let him
see what I did with Homer. And it is not much. Old
Homer laughs his translators to very scorn . . and he does
not spare me for being a woman. Surpassingly and pro-
foundly beautiful that scene is. I have tried it in blank
verse. About a year ago, when I had a sudden fit of
translating, I made an experiment on the first fifty lines
of the Iliad in a rhymed measure which seemed to me
rather nearer to the Greek cadence than our common heroic
verse. Listen to what I remember —

Thus he spake in his prayer : and Apollo gave ear to the whole ;
And came down from the steep of Olympus, with wrath in his soul ;
On his shoulder the bow, and the quiver fast woven by fate.
And the darts hurtled on, as he trod, with the thrill of his hate
And the step of his godhead. Like night did he travel below —
And he sate down afar from the ships, and drew strong to the bow —

And so we get to the arrows you talked of . . ah, do you
remember . . do you remember? . . which were to kill
dogs and mules, you said ! But they didn’t. I have an
enchanted dog (‘ which nobody can deny ‘ !) and am not far
to seek in my Apollo.

To-day I had a letter from Miss Mitford who says that,
inasmuch as she does not go to Paris, she shall come for a
fortnight to London and ‘ see me every day.’ ! ! No time
is fixed — but I look a little aghast. Am I not grateful and
affectionate ? Is it right of you, not to let me love anyone
as I used to do ? Is it in that sense that you kill the dogs
and mules ? Perhaps. The truth is, I would rather she
did not come — far rather. And she may not, after all — . .
now I am ashamed of myself thoroughly

I have not been down-stairs to-day — the weather seemed
so doubtful. To-morrow, if it is possible, I will . . must
. . do it. So . . goodbye till the day after — Thursday.
May God bless you every day ! and if only as I think of you
. . you would not lose much !

Your Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Tuesday

Dear, dear, Ba, what shall I say or not say ? On a kind
of principle, I have tried before this to subdue the expres-
sion of gratitude for the material, worldly good you do me —
for my poor store of words would all pay themselves
away here, at the beginning, and so leave the higher,
peculiar, Ba’s own gifts even without a cry of acknowledgement,
not to say of thanks. But somehow you, you my
dearest, my Ba, look out of all imaginable nooks and
crevices in the materiality — I see you through your goodness,
— I cannot distinguish between your acts now, — the greater,
indeed, and the lesser ! Which is the ‘ lesser ‘ ? With
you all their heap of work seems no more than – -. (I
cannot even think of what may serve for some lesser act of
kindness ! That is just what I wanted to say — ‘ the effect
defective comes by cause ‘ here — there is no ‘ lesser ‘ blessing
in your power, as I said !)

Now, darling, — it is late in the afternoon, as posts go —
I have been out all the morning in town, and while I was
happy with one letter (found waiting my return) — the parcel
comes — so I will just say this much, (this little, this least) —
this word now — and by tonight all shall be corrected, I
hope, and got rid of fairly. And to-morrow, I will have you
to myself, my best one, and will write till you cry out against
me. I go now. God bless you and reward you — prays your
very own R. B.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Monday Evening.

Ah now, now, you see ! Held up in that light, it is ‘ a
foolish fancy,’ and unlawful, besides ! ‘ Not on any pretence’
will you do without letters . . you ! And you count it
among the imaginations of your heart that I could do without
them better perhaps . . I . . to whom they are sun,
air, and human voices, at the very lowest calculation?
Why seriously you don’t imagine that your letters are not
a thousand times more to me than letters ever in the
world were before, . . since ‘ Heaven first brought them
to some wretch’s aid.’ If you do that is the foolishest fancy
of all.

So foolish as to be unspeakable. We will ‘ have done
with it,’ as you say. I only ‘ revert ‘ and innocently, — I do
not reproach, even ignorantly, — I am grateful rather. What
you said in the letter this morning made me grateful, . .
and oh, so glad ! so glad ! what you said, I mean, of writing
to me on every day that we did not meet on otherwise.
That promise seemed to bring us nearer (see how I think
of letters !), nearer than another word could though you
went for it to the end of the universe, . . that other word.
So I accept the promise as a promise of pure gold, and
thank you as pure gold too, which you are, or rather far
above. Only my own dearest, you shall not write long
letters . . long letters are out of the agreement . . I never
feel the need of length as long as the writing is there . . just
the little shred of the Koran, to be gathered up reverently
. . (Inshallah !) — and then, you shall not write at all when
you are not well . . no, you shall not. So remember from
henceforth ! Shall I whip my enchanted dog when he is so
good and true ? — not to say that the tags of the lashes (do
you call them tags ?) would swing round and strike me on
the shoulders ? Dearest, you are the best, kindest in the
world — such a very, very, very ‘ little lower than the angels ! ‘
If ever I could take advantage of your goodness and tenderness
, to teaze and vex you, . . what should I be, I have
been seriously enquiring to-day, head on hand, when I had
sent away ‘ Luria.’ For I sent it away, and the ‘ Tragedy ‘ with
it, and I hope you will have all to-morrow morning at the
furthest, . . before you get this letter. There was a note
too in the parcel.

As to dedications . . . believe me that I would not
have them if I could . . that is, even if there were no dangers,
I could not bear to have words from you which the world
might listen to . . I mean, that to be commended of you
in that way, on that ground, would make me feel
cold to the heart. Oh no, no, no ! It is better to have the
proof-sheet as I had it this morning : it is the better glory
. . as glory !

‘ Not worthy of my pains ‘ . . you are right ! But
infinitely worthy of my pleasures — such pleasure as I could
gather from nothing else, except from your letters and your
very presence. Do you think that anything beside in the
whole world could bring pleasure to me, as pleasure goes,
. . . anything like reading your poetry ? My ‘ pains ‘
indeed ! It is a felicitous word — ‘ je vous en fais mon
compliment.’

And all this time, while I write lightly, you are not well
perhaps — you were unwell when you wrote to me ; you were
unwell a little yesterday even. Say how you are to-morrow
— do not forget. For the cause of the unwellness, I see it,
if you do not. It was the proof-correcting — I expected that
you would be unwell — it is no worse than was threatened to
my thoughts. The comfort is that all this wrong work
is coming to an end, and that it is covenanted between us
for you to rest absolutely from henceforth. Say how you
are, dearest dearest. And walk, walk. For me, I have
not been down-stairs. It has been cold — too cold for that,
I thought.

Oh — but I wanted to say one thing ! That wonderful
picture, which is not much like a unicorn or even ‘ a whale ‘
. . but rather more perhaps than like me you may
keep for weeks or months, if you choose ; if it continues
‘ not to make you cross.’ Because it does not flatter, and
because you do not flatter (in such equal proportions !) : the
sympathy accounts for the liking . . or absence of dislike ;
on your part.

Now I must end. Thursday is our day, I think : — and
it is easier to say ‘ Thursday ‘ on Monday than on Saturday
. a discovery of mine, that as good as Faraday’s last !

Say how you are. Do not forget. I had to say ….
What I cannot, to-night.

But I am your own

Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Monday.

Dearest, I send you back the two parts of the ‘ Soul’s Tragedy,’ and the proof. On a strip of paper are two or
three inanities in the form of doubts I had in reading the
first part. I think upon the whole that you owe me all
gratitude for the help of so much high critical wisdom – of
which this paper is a fair proof and expression.

The proof, the printed ‘ Luria ‘ I mean, has more
than pleased me. It is noble and admirable ; and grows
greater, the closer seen. The most exceptionable part,
it seems to me, is Domizia’s retraction at the last, for
which one looks round for the sufficient motive. But the
impression of the whole work goes straight to the soul – it
is heroic in the best sense.

I write in such haste. Oh – I should have liked to have
read again the second part of the ‘ Tragedy,’ but dare not
keep it though you give me leave. I think of the
printers – and you will let me have the proof, in this case
also.

Your letter shall be answered presently. Your sister’s
word about the picture proves very conclusively how wonderfully like it must be as a portrait ! That would settle
the question to any ‘ Royal Commission ‘ in the world – only
we need not go so far.

Dearest I end here – to begin again in another half hour.
Ah – and you promise, you promise –

No time – but ever your own.

Ba

[Postmark: March 30, 1846]

Monday.

‘ The system,’ Ba ? — Were you to stop writing, as if for
my reasons ? Could I do without your letters, on any pretence? You say well — it was a foolish fancy, and now —
have done with it !

And do you think you could have refused to see me after
that visit? I mean, do you think I did not resolve so
to conduct myself ; so to ‘ humble myself and go still and
softly all my days ‘ ; that your suspicion should needs
insensibly clear up . . (if it had been so pre-ordained, and
that no more was in my destiny,) and at last I should have
been written down your friend for ever, and let come and stay,
on that footing. But you really think the confirmation of that
sentence must have been attended with such an effect — that
I should have forgotten you or so remembered you ? You
think that on the strength of such a love as that, I would
have ventured a month of my future life . . much less, the
whole of it ? Not you, Ba, — my dearest, dearest !

How you surprise me (what ever may you think) by
liking that ‘ Tragedy ‘ ! It seems as if, having got out of
the present trouble, I shall never fall into its fellow — I will
strike, for the future, on the glowing, malleable metal ;
afterward, filing is quite another process from hammering,
and a more difficult one. Note, that ‘ filing ‘ is the wrong
word, — and the rest of it, the wrong simile, — and all of it, in
its stupid wrongness very characteristic of what I try to
illustrate — oh, the better, better days are before me there as
in all else ! But, do you notice how stupid I am to-day ?
My head begins again — that is the fact ; it is better a good
deal than in the morning— its oeconomy passes my comprehension altogether, that is the other fact. With the deep
joy in my heart below — this morning’s letter here — what
does the head mean by its perversity ? I will go out presently and walk it back to its senses.

Dearest, did you receive my ‘proof ‘ this morning? Do
not correct nor look at it, nor otherwise trouble yourself —
there is plenty of time. But what day is ours to be ? Of
that you say nothing, and of my poems a great deal, ‘ O
you inverter ! ‘ But I am, rather, a reverter — and you shall
revert, and mind the natural order of things, and tell me
first of all — (in to-night’s letter, dearest ?)— that it is to be
on — ?

Now let me kiss you here — my own Ba ! Being stupid
makes some difference in me — I am no poet, nor prose- writer,
nor rational ‘ Christian, pagan nor man ‘ this afternoon — but
I am now — as yesterday — as the long ‘year ago’ — your
own, utterly your own ! May God bless you ! (I
wondered yesterday if you had gone down-stairs — ‘ no ‘ I
infer !)

[Postmark: March 30, 1846]

Sunday Evening.

Dearest, I have been trying your plan of thinking of you
instead of writing, to-day, and the end is that I am driven to
the last of the day and have scarcely room in it to write
what I would. Observe if you please, how badly ‘ the
system works,’ as the practical people say. Then Mr.
Kenyon came and talked, — asked when I had seen you, . .
and desired, ‘if ever I saw you again,’ (ah, what an ‘if
ever’ !) that I would enquire about the ‘ blue lilies ‘ . . which
I satisfied him were of the right colour, on your authority.

But, to go to the ‘ Tragedy ‘ — I am not to admire it . .
am I ? And you really think that anyone who can think
. . feel , . could help such an admiration, or ought to try
to help it? Now just see. It is a new work with your
mark on it. That is . . it would make some six or sixteen
works for other people, if ‘ cut up into little stars ‘ — rolled
out . . diluted with rain-water. But it is your work as it
is — and if you do not care for that I care, and shall
remember to care on. It is a work full of power and
significance, and I am not at all sure (not that it is wise to
make comparisons, but that I want you to understand how I
am impressed !) — I am not at all sure that if I knew you
now first and only by these two productions, . . ‘ Luria ‘ and
the ‘ Tragedy,’ . . I should not involuntarily attribute more
power and a higher faculty to the writer of the last — I should
I think — yet ‘ Luria ‘ is the completer work . . I know it
very well. Such thoughts, you have, in this second part of
the Tragedy ! a ‘ Soul’s Tragedy ‘ indeed ! No one thinks
like you — other poets talk like the merest women in comparison. Why it is full of hope for both of us, to look
forward and consider what you may achieve with that combination of authority over the reasons and the passions,
and that wonderful variety of the plastic power !
But I am going to tell you — Certainly I think you were
right (though you know I doubted and cried out) I think
now you were right in omitting the theological argument you
told me of, from this second part. It would clog the action,
and already I am half inclined to fancy it a little clogged
in one or two places — but if this is true even, it would be
easy to lighten it. Your Ogniben (here is my only criticism
in the ways of objection) seems to me almost too wise for a
crafty worldling — tell me if he is not ! Such thoughts, for
the rest, you are prodigal of ! That about the child, . . .
do you remember how you brought it to me in your first
visit, nearly a year ago ?

Nearly a year ago ! how the time passes ! If I had ‘ done
my duty ‘ like the enchanted fish leaping on the gridiron,
and seen you never again after that first visit, you would
have forgotten all about me by this day. Or at least, ‘ that
prude ‘ I should be ! Somewhere under your feet, I should
be put down by this day ! Yes ! and my enchanted dog
would be coursing ‘ some small deer ‘ . . some unicorn
of a ‘golden horn,’ . . (not the Kilmansegg gold !) out of
hearing if I should have a mind to whistle ever so, . . but
out of harm’s way perhaps besides.

Well, I do think of it sometimes as you see. Which
proves that I love you better than myself by the whole
width of the Heavens ; the sevenfold Heavens. Yet I think
again how He of the heavens and earth brought us together
so wonderfully, holding two souls in His hand. If my fault
was in it, my will at least was not. Believe it of me, dear
dearest, that I who am as clear-sighted as other women,
and not more humble (as to the approaches of common
men), was quite resolutely blind when you came — I could
not understand the possibility of that It was too much
. . too surpassing. And so it will seem to the end. The
astonishment, I mean, will not cease to be. It is my own
especial fairy-tale . . from the spells of which, may you be
unharmed . . ! How one writes and writes over and over
the same thing ! But day by day the same sun rises, . . over,
and over, and nobody is tired. May God bless you, dearest
of all, and justify what has been by what shall be, . . and let
me be free of spoiling any sun of yours ! Shall you ever
tell me in your thoughts, I wonder, to get out of your sun ?
No — no — Love keeps love too safe ! and I have faith, you
see, as a grain of mustard-seed !

Your own

Ba.

Say how you are . . mind !

[Postmark: March 30, 1846]

Sunday Afternoon.

Now, I think, if I had been ‘ pricked at the heart ‘ by
dear, dearest Ba’s charge yesterday, — if I did not certainly
know why it might sometimes seem better to be silent than
to speak, — should I not be found taking out three or four
sheets of paper, and beginning to write, and write ! My
own, dearest and best, it is not so, — not wrong, my heart’s
self tells me, — and tells you ! But, for the rest, there shall
never pass a day till my death wherein I will not write to
you, so long as you let me, excepting those days I may
spend with you, partly or . . altogether — Love, shall I
have very, very long to be hating to write, yet writing ?

You see sometimes how I talk to you, — even in mere
talking what a strange work I make of it. I go on thinking
quite another way ; so, generally, I often have thought,
the little I have written, has been an unconscious scrawling
with the mind fixed somewhere else : the subject of the
scrawl may have previously been the real object of the
mind on some similar occasion, — the very thing which then
to miss, (finding in its place such another result of a still
prior fancy-fit) — which then to see escape, or find escaped,
was the vexation of the time ! One cannot, (or I cannot)
finish up the work in one’s mind, put away the old projects
and take up new. Well, this which I feel on so many
occasions, do you wonder if — if !

I should write on this for ever ! It is all so strange, such
a dream as you say !

Indeed, love, the picture is not like, nor ‘ flattered ‘ by
any means, yet I don’t know how it is, I cannot be cross
with it — there is a touch of truth in the eyes, — would one
have believed that I know my own way with portraits ;
how I let them master eventually my most decided sense of
their unlikeness — and this finds me very prepared — still —
it seems already more faithful than last night . . how do I
determine where the miraculousness ends? (My Mother
was greatly impressed by it — and my sister, coming (from
my room) into the room where I was with a visitor, before
whom she could not speak English, said ‘ È molto bella ‘ !)

Here is my ‘ proof ‘ — I found it as I expected. I fear
I must put you to that trouble of sending the other two
acts — I hate to think of so troubling you ! But do not, Ba,
hurry yourselfnor take extraordinary pains — what is worth
your pains in these poor things ? I like Luria better now, —
it may do, now, — probably because it must ! but, as I said
yesterday, I seriously hope and trust to shew my sense of
gratitude for what is promised my future life, by doing
some real work in it : work of yours, as through you. I have
felt, not for the first time now, but from the beginning
vexed, foolishly vexed perhaps, that I could not without
attracting undesirable notice, ‘ dedicate,’ in the true sense
of the word, this or the last number to you. But if any
really worthy performance should follow, then my mouth
will be unsealed. All is forewritten !

I wonder if you have ventured down this sunny after-
noon — tell me how you are, and, once again, do not care
about those papers ; any time will do.

So, bless you, my own — my all-beloved Ba.

Your R. B.

[Postmark: March 27, 1846]

Friday.

‘ Qui laborat, orat ‘ ; so they used to say, and in that
case I have been devotional to a high degree this morning.
Seven holes did I dig (to keep up inversions of style) —
seven rose-trees did I plant — ( ‘ Brennus ‘ — and ‘ Madame
Lafarge ‘ ! are two names I remember ; very characteristic
of old Gaul and young France — ) and, for my pains, the first
fruits, first blossoms some two or three months hence, will
come, and will go to dearest Ba who first taught me what a
rose really was, how sweet it might become with superadded
memories of the room and the chair and the vase, and the cutting-
stalks and pouring fresh water . . ah, my own Ba ! — And
did you think to warn me out of the Flush-simile by the hint
of Aminè’s privilege which it would warrant ? If the ‘ ever so
much whipping ‘ should please you ! . . . And beside it was,
if I recollect, for the creature’s good, those poor imprisoned
sisters, all the time. Moreover, I was ‘ born ‘ all this and
more, that you will know, at least — and only walked
glorious and erect on two legs till dear Siren, an old friend
of, and deep in the secrets of Circe, sprinkled the waters
. . perhaps on those roses — No, before that ! —

Well, to-morrow comes fast now — and I shall trust to be
with you my beloved — and, first, you are to show me the
portrait, remember.

I am glad you like Mrs. Jameson — do not I like her all
the better, much the better ! But it is fortunate I shall not
see. her by any chance just now — she would be sure to begin
and tell me about you — and if my hands did not turn cold,
my ear-tips would assuredly turn red. I daresay that St.
Cecilia is the beautiful statue above her tomb at Rome ;
covered with a veil — affectingly beautiful ; I well remember
how she lies.

Nqw good-bye ; and to-morrow ! Bless you, ever dear,
dearest Ba —

Your own

R.

[Postmark: March 27, 1846]

Thursday.

Not the ‘ dexterous hand ‘ — say rather the good cause.
For the rest, when you turn into a dog and lie down, are
you not afraid that a sorcerer should go by and dash the
water and speak the formula of the old tales. ‘ If thou
were born a dog, remain a dog, but if not ‘ . . If not . .
what is to happen ? Aminè whipped her enchanted hounds
ever so often in the day . . ah, what nonsense happens !

Dear, dearest, how you ‘take me with guile,’ or with
stronger than guile, . . with that divine right you have, of
talking absurdities ! You make it clear at last that I am so
much the better for being bad . . . and I . . . shall I
laugh ? can I ? is it possible ? The words go too deep . . .
as deep as death which cannot laugh ! And I am forbidden-
to ‘ dwell ‘ on the meaning of them — I ! There are
‘ I’s ‘ to match yours !

I shall have the right of doing one thing, . . (passing to
my rights). I shall hold to the right of remembering to
my last hour, that you who, might well have passed by on
the other side if we two had met on the road when I was
riding at ease, . . did not when I was in the dust. I
choose to remember that to the end of feeling. As for men
you are not to take me to be quite ignorant of what they
are worth in the gross. The most blindfolded women may
see a little under the folds . . and I have seen quite
enough to be glad to shut my eyes. Did I not tell you that
I never thought that any man whom I could love, would
stoop to love me even if I attained so far as the sight of
such. Which I never attained . . until . . until ! Then,
that you should care for me. ! ! Oh — I hold to my rights,
though you overcome me in most other things. And it is
my right to love you better than I could do if I were more
worthy to be loved by you.

Mrs. Jameson came late to-day, . . at five — and was
hurried and could not stay ten minutes, . . but showed me
her etchings and very kindly left a ‘ Dead St. Cecilia ‘ which
I admired most, for its beautiful lifelessness. She is not to
be in town again, she said, till a month has gone — a month,
at least. Oh — and ‘ quite uneasy ‘ she was, about my ‘ cold
hands ‘ — yesterday — she thought she had put me to death
with over-talking ! — which made me smile a little . . ‘ subridens.’ But she is very kind and affectionate; and you
were right to teach me to like her — and now, do you know,
I look in vain for the ‘ steely eyes ‘ I fancied I saw once,
and see nothing but two good and true ones.

Well — here is an end till Saturday. It is too late . . or
I could go on writing . . which I do not hate indeed.
Talking of hating, . . . ‘what you love entirely’ means
that you love entirely . . and no more and no less. If it
did not mean so, I should be unhappy about the mistake
. . but to ‘ love entirely ‘ is not a mistake and cannot
pass for one either on earth or in Heaven. May God
bless you, ever dearest. Such haste I write in — as if the
angels were running up Jacob’s ladder ! — or down it, rather,
at this close !

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: March 26, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

Sometimes I have a disposition to dispute with dearest
Ba, to wrench her simile-weapons out of the dexterous hand
(that is, try and do so) and have the truth of things my way
and its own way, not hers, if she be Ba — (observe, I say
nothing about ever meeting with remarkable success in
such undertakings, only, that they are entered on some-
times). But at other times I seem as if I must lie down,
like Flush, with all manner of coral necklaces about my
neck, and two sweet mysterious hands on my head, and so
be forced to hear verses on me, Ba’s verses, in which I,
that am but Flush of the lower nature, am called loving
friend and praised for not preferring to go ‘ coursing hares ‘
— with ‘ other dogs.’ So I will lie now, as you will have it,
and say in Flush-like tones (the looks that are dog’s tones)
— I don’t don’t know how it is, or why, or what it all will
end in, but I am very happy and what I hear must mean
right, by the music, — though the meaning is above me, — and
here are the hands — which I may, and will, look up to, and
kiss — determining not to insist any more this time that at
Miss Mitford’s were sundry dogs, brighter than ‘ brown ‘ —
See where, just where, Flush stops discreetly ! ‘ Eternity ‘
he would have added, ‘ but stern death ‘ &c. &c,

I treat these things lightheartedly, as you see — instead
of seriously, which would at first thought seem the wiser
course — ‘ for after all, she will find out one day ‘ &c. No
dearest, — I do not fear that ! Why make uneasy words of
saying simply I shall continue to give you my best flowers,
all I can find — if I bring violets, or grass, when you expected
to get roses, — you will know there were none in my garden
— that is all.

And for you — as I may have told you once, — as I tell
myself always — you are entirely what I love — not just a rose
plucked off with an inch of stalk, but presented as a rose
should be, with a green world of boughs round : all about
you is ‘ to my heart ‘ — (to my mind, as they phrase it) — and
were it not that, of course, I know when to have done with
fancyings and merely flitting permissible ‘ inly-sayings with
heart-playing,’ and when it is time to look at the plain ‘ best ‘
through the lock of ‘ good ‘ and ‘ better ‘ in circumstances and
accident — I do say — were the best blessing of all, the blessing
I trust and believe God intends, of your perfect restoration
to health, — were that not so palpably best, — I should catch
myself desirous that your present state of unconfirmed health
might never pass away ! Ba understands I know !. After
all, it will always stay, that luxury, — if but through the memory
of what has been, and may recur, that deepest luxury that
makes my very heartstrings tremble in the thought of — that I
shall have a right, a duty — where in another case, they would
be uncalled for, superfluous, impertinent. Tapers ordinarily
burn best let alone, with all your light depending on the little
flame, the darkest night but for it— why, stand off”— what good
can you do, so long as there is no extraordinary evil to avert,
breaking down of the candlestick to prevent ? But here —
there will be reason as well as a delight beyond delights in
always learning to close over, all but holding the flame in
the hollow of one’s hand ! I shall have a right to think it
is not mere pleasure, merely for myself, that I care and am
close by — and that which thus is called ‘ not for myself after all, in its essence, most for myself, — why it is a
luxury, a last delight ! —

In the procurement of which there will be this obstacle,
or grave matter to be first taken into consideration, — that
the world will ‘ change colour ‘ about it, will have its Own
thoughts on the subject I have my own thoughts, on its
subject, the affairs of the world and pieces of perfect good
fortune it approves of, and stamps for enviable — and on the
whole the world has quite a right to treat me uncere-
moniously, — I having begun it. As for the ‘ seeing out of
the window once ‘ — those who knew nothing about us but
our names had better think that was the way, than most
others ; and the half-dozen who knew a little more, may hear
the true account if they please, when they hear anything —
those who know all, all necessary to know, will understand
my 137 letters here and my 54 visits . . see, I write as if this
were to be pleaded to-night — would it were ! As if you
had to write the meeting between Hector and Andromache,
not the parting ! By the way, dearest, what enchanted
poetry all your translations for Miss Thomson are — as Carlyle
says ! ‘ Nobody can touch them, get at them ! ‘ How
am I the better for Nonnus, and Apuleius ? Now, do you
serve me well there ?

I shall hear to-morrow of Mrs. Jameson’s etchings and
discourses ? and more good news of you, darling ? I am quite
well to-day — going out with my sister to dine next door —
then, over to-morrow, and the letter, will come Saturday,
my day.

Bless you, my own best, dearest — I am your own.

R.