Day: March 27, 2018

[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.