[Postmark: March 31, 1846]
Monday Evening.
Ah now, now, you see ! Held up in that light, it is ‘ a
foolish fancy,’ and unlawful, besides ! ‘ Not on any pretence’
will you do without letters . . you ! And you count it
among the imaginations of your heart that I could do without
them better perhaps . . I . . to whom they are sun,
air, and human voices, at the very lowest calculation?
Why seriously you don’t imagine that your letters are not
a thousand times more to me than letters ever in the
world were before, . . since ‘ Heaven first brought them
to some wretch’s aid.’ If you do that is the foolishest fancy
of all.
So foolish as to be unspeakable. We will ‘ have done
with it,’ as you say. I only ‘ revert ‘ and innocently, — I do
not reproach, even ignorantly, — I am grateful rather. What
you said in the letter this morning made me grateful, . .
and oh, so glad ! so glad ! what you said, I mean, of writing
to me on every day that we did not meet on otherwise.
That promise seemed to bring us nearer (see how I think
of letters !), nearer than another word could though you
went for it to the end of the universe, . . that other word.
So I accept the promise as a promise of pure gold, and
thank you as pure gold too, which you are, or rather far
above. Only my own dearest, you shall not write long
letters . . long letters are out of the agreement . . I never
feel the need of length as long as the writing is there . . just
the little shred of the Koran, to be gathered up reverently
. . (Inshallah !) — and then, you shall not write at all when
you are not well . . no, you shall not. So remember from
henceforth ! Shall I whip my enchanted dog when he is so
good and true ? — not to say that the tags of the lashes (do
you call them tags ?) would swing round and strike me on
the shoulders ? Dearest, you are the best, kindest in the
world — such a very, very, very ‘ little lower than the angels ! ‘
If ever I could take advantage of your goodness and tenderness
, to teaze and vex you, . . what should I be, I have
been seriously enquiring to-day, head on hand, when I had
sent away ‘ Luria.’ For I sent it away, and the ‘ Tragedy ‘ with
it, and I hope you will have all to-morrow morning at the
furthest, . . before you get this letter. There was a note
too in the parcel.
As to dedications . . . believe me that I would not
have them if I could . . that is, even if there were no dangers,
I could not bear to have words from you which the world
might listen to . . I mean, that to be commended of you
in that way, on that ground, would make me feel
cold to the heart. Oh no, no, no ! It is better to have the
proof-sheet as I had it this morning : it is the better glory
. . as glory !
‘ Not worthy of my pains ‘ . . you are right ! But
infinitely worthy of my pleasures — such pleasure as I could
gather from nothing else, except from your letters and your
very presence. Do you think that anything beside in the
whole world could bring pleasure to me, as pleasure goes,
. . . anything like reading your poetry ? My ‘ pains ‘
indeed ! It is a felicitous word — ‘ je vous en fais mon
compliment.’
And all this time, while I write lightly, you are not well
perhaps — you were unwell when you wrote to me ; you were
unwell a little yesterday even. Say how you are to-morrow
— do not forget. For the cause of the unwellness, I see it,
if you do not. It was the proof-correcting — I expected that
you would be unwell — it is no worse than was threatened to
my thoughts. The comfort is that all this wrong work
is coming to an end, and that it is covenanted between us
for you to rest absolutely from henceforth. Say how you
are, dearest dearest. And walk, walk. For me, I have
not been down-stairs. It has been cold — too cold for that,
I thought.
Oh — but I wanted to say one thing ! That wonderful
picture, which is not much like a unicorn or even ‘ a whale ‘
. . but rather more perhaps than like me you may
keep for weeks or months, if you choose ; if it continues
‘ not to make you cross.’ Because it does not flatter, and
because you do not flatter (in such equal proportions !) : the
sympathy accounts for the liking . . or absence of dislike ;
on your part.
Now I must end. Thursday is our day, I think : — and
it is easier to say ‘ Thursday ‘ on Monday than on Saturday
. a discovery of mine, that as good as Faraday’s last !
Say how you are. Do not forget. I had to say ….
What I cannot, to-night.
But I am your own
Ba.