[Postmark: April 4, 1846]
Friday Evening.
Shall the heir to a Marquisate ‘ justify his title’ in these
days ? Is not the best thing he can do for himself, to forget
it in a studio at Rome ? — and one of the best things he can
do for his country, perhaps, to desecrate it at dog-fighting
before the eyes of all men ? I should not like to have to
justify my Marquisate to reasonable men now-a-days, —
should you . . seriously speaking? It would be a hard
task, and rather dull in the performance. On the other
hand, the noble dog-fighters (unconscious patriots !) find it
easy and congenial occupation down in St. Giles’s, rubbing
out (as in the old game of fox and goose) figure by figure,
prestige by prestige, the gross absurdity of hereditary
legislators, lords, and the like. Yet of the three positions, I
would rather be at Rome, certainly a man looks nobler
there, is better, is happier . . a good deal nearer the
angels than on his ‘landed estates’ playing at feudal
proprietor, or even in St. Giles’s dog-fighting. See what a
republican you have for a . . Ba. Did you fancy me
capable of writing such unlawful, disorderly things ? And
it isn’t out of bitterness, nor covetousness . . no, indeed.
People in general would rather be Marquises than Roman
artists, consulting their own wishes and inclination. I, for
my part, ever since I could speak my mind and knew it,
always openly and inwardly preferred the glory of those who
live by their heads, to the opposite glory of those who carry
other people’s arms. So much for glory. Happiness goes
the same way to my fancy. There is something fascinating
to me, in that Bohemian way of living . . all the conventions
of society cut so close and thin, that the soul can see
through . . beyond . . above. It is ‘ real life ‘ as you say
. . whether at Rome or elsewhere. I am very glad that
you like simplicity in habits of life — it has both reasonableness and sanctity. People are apt to suffocate their faculties
by their manners — English people especially. I admire
that you, — R. B., — who have had temptation more than
enough, I am certain, under every form, have lived in
the midst of this London of ours, close to the great social
vortex, yet have kept so safe, and free, and calm and pure
from the besetting sins of our society. When you came to
see me first, I did not expect so much of you in that one
respect. How could I ? You had lived in the world, I
knew, and I thought . . . well ! — what matter, now, what I
thought ?
I will tell you instead how to-day has gone by with me.
Not like yesterday, indeed ! In the first place, I went
down-stairs, walked up and down the drawing-room twice,
and finding nobody there (they were all having luncheon in
the dining-room) came up-stairs again . . . half-way on the
stairs met Flush, who having been asleep, had not missed
me till just then, and was in the act of search. I was lost
for ever, thought poor Flush. At least I think he thought
so by his eyes. They were three times their usual largeness
— he looked quite wild . . and leaped against me with
such an ecstasy of astonished joy, that I nearly fell backward
down the stairs (whereupon, you would have had to go to
the Siren’s island, dearest, all by yourself !) After which
escape of mine and Flushie’s, and when I had persuaded
him to be good and quiet and to believe that I was not my
own ghost, I came home with him and prepared to see . .
I will tell you. She is a Mrs. Paine who lives at
Farnham, and learns Greek, and writes to me such overcoming
letters, that at last, and in a moment of imprudent
reaction from an ungrateful discourtesy on my part, I agreed
to see her if she ever came to London. Upon which, she
comes directly — I am taken in my trap. She comes and
returns the same day, and all to see me. Well — she had
been kind to me . . and she came at two to-day. Do
you know, . . for the first five minutes, I repented quite ?
Dearest . . she came just with the sort of face which a
child might take to see a real, alive lioness at the Zoological
Gardens . . she just sate down on a chair, and stared.
How can people do such things in this year of grace when
they are abolishing the Corn Laws, I wonder ? For my part
it was so unlike anything civilized I had ever been used to
that I felt as if my voice and breath went together. It
would have saved me to be able to stare back again, but
that was out of my power. So I endured — and, after a
pause, ran violently down a steep place into some sort
of conversation (thinking of your immortal Simpson, and
vowing never to be drawn into such a situation again)
and in a little while, I was able to recognize that there was
nothing worse than bad manners — ignorant manners—
and that, for the rest, my antagonist was a young, pretty
woman (rather pretty), enthusiastic and provincial, with a
strong love for poetry and literature generally, loving Carlyle
and yourself, (could I hold out against that) and telling
me all her domestic happinesses with a frankness which quite
appeased me and prevented my being too tired . . though
she stayed two hours, and wasn’t you ! —
So there is my history of to-day for you ! To-morrow
you will have the proof — and perhaps, I shall ! Monday
will bring a better thing than a proof May God bless you,
beloved. Say how you are . . to-morrow ! Mind to do
it . . or I will not sit any more in your gondola-chair.
How can you make me, unless I choose ?
And you speak against my letter to-night ? you shall not
dare do such things. It is a good, dear letter, and it is
mine to call so . . and I knew its fellows before I knew
you and loved them before I loved you, and so you are not
to be proud and scornful and try to put them down ‘in
that way.’
Your own
Ba.