[Postmark: March 25, 1846]
Wednesday.
You were right to bid me never again wish my poor flowers were ‘diamonds’ — you could not, I think, speak so to my heart of any diamonds. God knows my life is for you
to take just as you take flowers :— these last please you,
serve you best when plucked — and ‘my life’s rose’ . . if I
dared profane that expression I would say, you have but to
‘stoop’ for it. Foolish, as all words are.
You dwell on that notion of your being peculiarly isolated,
— of any kindness to you, in your present state, seeming
doubled and quadrupled — what do I, what could anyone
infer from that but, most obviously, that it was a very
fortunate thing for such kindness, and that the presumable
bestower of it got all his distinction from the fact that no
better . . however, I hate this and cannot go on. Dearest,
believe that under ordinary circumstances, with ordinary
people, all operates differently — the imaginary kindness-
bestower with his ideal methods of showing and proving his
love, — there would be the rival to fear !
Do not let us talk of this — you always beat me, beside,
turn my own illustrations into obscurations — as in the notable
case of the cards and stakes and risks — I suppose, (to save
my vanity!) that if I knew anything about cards, I might go
on, a step at least, with my argument. I once heard a dispute in the street between the proprietor of an oyster-stall
and one of his customers — who was in the wrong . . that
is, who used the clenching argument you shall hear presently,
I don’t remember ; but one brought the other to this pass —
‘Are there three shells to an oyster?’ — Just that ! If there
were not — he would clearly be found in the wrong, that was
all ! — ‘Why,’ . . began the other; and I regret I did not
catch the rest — there was such a clear possibility contained
in that ‘Why . . an oyster might have three shells !’
Note the adroitness, — (calm heroic silence of the act
rather than a merely attempted word,) the mastery with
which, taking up Ba’s implied challenge, I do furnish her
with both ‘ amusement and instruction ‘ — moreover I will
at Ba’s bidding amuse and instruct the world at large, and
make them know all to be known — for my purposes — about
‘ Bells and Pomegranates ‘ — yes, it will be better.
I said rather hastily that my head ‘ached’ yesterday :
that meant, only that it was more observable because, after
walking, it is usually well — and I had been walking. To-day
it is much better ; I sit reading ‘Cromwell,’ and the newspaper,
and presently I shall go out — all will be better now,
I hope — it shall not be my fault, at least, depend on that.
All my work (work !) — well, such as it is, it is done — and I
scarcely care how — I shall be prouder to begin one day—
(may it be soon! — ) with your hand in mine from the beginning — that
is a very different thing in its effect from the same
hand touching mine after I had begun, with no suspicion
such a chance could befall ! I repeat, both these things,
‘Luria’ and the other, are manque, failures — the life-incidents
ought to have been acted over again, experienced afresh ;
and I had no inclination nor ability. But one day, my siren !
Let me make haste and correct a stupid error. I spoke
to my father last night about that tragedy of the studs — I
was wholly out in the story — the sufferer was his uncle, and
the scene should have been laid on the Guinea coast. A propos
of errors — the copyright matter is most likely a case of copy-wrong
by reporters — I never heard of it before — to be sure, I
signed a petition of Miss Martineau’s superintending once on
a time — but long ago, ‘I, I, I’ — how, dear, all important ‘I’
takes care of himself, and issues bulletins, and corrects his
wise mistakes, and all this to . . just ‘one of his readers
of the average intelligence.’ Are you that, so much as that,
Ba ? I will tell you — if you do not write to me all about
vour dear, dearest self, I shall sink with shame at the recollection
of what this letter and its like prove to be — must
prove to be ! Dear love, tell me — that you walk and are in
good spirits, and I will try and write better. May God
bless my own beloved! — Ever her own
R.
I think, am all but sure, there is a Mrs. Hornblower something !
Just a minute to say your second note has come, and
that I do hate hate having to write, not kiss my answer on
your dearest mouth — kindest, dearest — to-morrow I will
try — and meantime — though Ba by the fire will not be cold
at heart, cold of heart, at least, and I will talk to her and
more than talk — My dearest, dearest one!