March 21, 1846.
I do not understand how my letters limp so instead of flying as they ought with the feathers I give them, and how you did not receive last night, nor even early this morning, what left me at two o’clock yesterday. But I understand now the not hearing from you — you were not well. Not well, not well . . . that is always ‘happening’ at least. And Mr. Moxon, who is to have his first sheet, whether you are well or ill! It is wrong . . . yes, very wrong — and if one point of wrongness is touched, we shall not easily get right again — as I think mournfully, feeling confident (call me Cassandra, but I cannot jest about it) feeling certain that it will end (the means being so persisted in) by some serious illness — serious sorrow, — on yours and my part.
As to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again on Sunday — in which case, Monday will be clear. If he should not come on Sunday, he will or may on Monday, — yet — oh, in every case, perhaps you can come on Monday — there will be no time to let you know of Mr. Kenyon — and probably we shall be safe, and your being in town seems to fix the day. For myself I am well enough, and the wind has changed, which will make me better — this cold weather oppresses and weakens me, but it is close to April and can’t last and won’t last — it is warmer already. Beware of the notes! They are not Ba’s — except for the insolence, nor EBB’s — because of the carelessness. If I had known, moreover, that you were going to Moxon’s on Monday, they should have gone to the fire rather than provoked you into superfluous work for the short interval. Just so much are they despised of both EBB and Ba.
I am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because you were not well, and you must never write when you are not well. But if you had been quite well, should I have heard? — I doubt it. You meant me to hear from you only once, from Thursday to Monday. Is it not the truth now that you hate writing to me?
The Athenæum takes up the ‘Tales from Boccaccio’ as if they were worth it, and imputes in an underground way the authorship to the members of the ‘coterie’ so called — do you observe that? There is an implication that persons named in the poem wrote the poem themselves. And upon whom does the critic mean to fix the song of ‘Constancy’ . . . the song which is ‘not to puzzle anybody’ who knows the tunes of the song-writers! The perfection of commonplace it seems to me. It might have been written by the ‘poet Bunn.’ Don’t you think so?
While I write this you are in town, but you will not read it till Sunday unless I am more fortunate than usual. On Monday then! And no word before? No — I shall be sure not to hear to-night. Now do try not to suffer through ‘Luria.’ Let Mr. Moxon wait a week rather. There is time enough.
Ever your
Ba.