[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.