Friday.
March 20, 1846.
I shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have been here talking, talking . . . and I did not like to say exactly ‘Go away that I may write.’ Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by a whole half-hour or three quarters — the stars are against us. He is coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and clear — and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so complimentary to me — I will tell you. The writer doesn’t see anything ‘in Browning and Turner,’ she confesses — ‘may perhaps with time and study,’ but for the present sees nothing, — only has wide-open eyes of admiration for E.B.B. . . . now isn’t it satisfactory to me? Do you understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing . . . to be praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare? — to be found on the level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia, ten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! . . . except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I?
Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the ‘risks’ I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike simplicity (‘gods and bulls,’ dearest!) as you made show of yesterday? If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of ‘my stakes?’ and would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as partners, that we ran ‘equal risks’? I trow not — and so do you . . . when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and noir into ‘one red’ of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the point of happiness when you knew me first? — and if now I lose (as I certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have given me, why still I am your debtor for the gift . . . now see! Yet to bring you down into my ashes . . . that has been so intolerable a possibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run more risk than you, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself again if you were unhappy. ‘What had I to do,’ I should think, ‘with touching your life?’ And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice — which is the uttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any more — not even for you! You, for you . . . is all I can!
Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the headache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon. I do, do beseech you to spare yourself, and let ‘Luria’ go as he is, and above all things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them in those notes. Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to say, ‘Now I will be well again.’ Ever dearest, care for me in yourself — say how you are . . .. I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged and weak rather with the cold . . . and look at your flowers for courage and an assurance that the summer is within hearing. May God bless you . . . blessing us, beloved!
Your own
Ba.
Mr. Poe has sent me his poems and tales — so now I must write to thank him for his dedication. Just now I have the book. As to Mr. Buckingham, he will go, Constantinople and back, before we talk of him.