Day: April 7, 2018

[Postmark: April 7, 1846]

Tuesday.

They have just sent me one proof, only — so I have
been correcting everything as fast as possible, that, returning
it at once, a revise might arrive, fit to send, for this that
comes is just as bad as if I had let it alone in the first
instance. All your corrections are golden. In ‘ Luria,’ I
alter ‘ little circle ‘ to ‘ circling faces ‘ — which is more like
what I meant. As for that point we spoke of yesterday — it
seems ‘ past praying for ‘ — if I make the speech an ‘ aside,’
I commit Ogniben to that opinion : — did you notice, at the
beginning of the second part, that on this Ogniben’s very
entry (as described by a bystander), he is made to say, for
first speech, ‘ I have known so many leaders of revolts ‘ —
‘ laughing gently to himself ? This, which was wrongly
printed in italics, as if a comment of the bystander’s own,
was a characteristic circumstance, as I meant it. All these
opinions should be delivered with a ‘gentle laughter to
himself — but — as is said elsewhere, — we profess and we
perform ! Enough of it — Meliora sperumus !

What am I to say next, my Ba ? When I write my best
and send ‘ grateful’ to you — you send my proof back,
grateful (h) Then I must do and say what you hate . ,
for I am one entire gratitude to you, God knows ! May
He reward you.

It is late ; bless you once again, my dearest ! You have
nothing so much yours as R.

My mother says that I paid only fifteen or sixteen
pounds for the Venice voyage, and much less for the
Naples one — ten and no more, she thinks — and I think ;
but that represents twenty — as the other, twenty five or
thirty pounds, to a person unconnected with the freighting
party. (In the first ship, Rothschild sent a locomotive entire
with all its appurtenances, for one article, to Trieste). Can
I make enquiries for you ? Nay, I will and at once.

[Postmark: April 7, 1846]

Tuesday.

Dearest, it is not I who am a ‘ flatterer ‘ — and if I used
the word first, it is because I had the right of it, I remember,
long and long ago. There is the vainest of vanities in
discussing the application of such a word . . and so, when
you said the other day that you ‘ never flattered ‘ forsooth
. . . (oh no !) I would not contradict you for fear of
the endless flattery it would lead to. Only that I do not
choose (because such things are allowed to pass) to be
called on my side ‘ a flatterer’ — I ! That is too much, and
too out of place. What do I ever say that is like flattery ?
I am allowed, it may be hoped, to admire the ‘ Lurias ‘ and
the rest, quite like other people, and even to say that I
admire them . . may I not lawfully? If that is flattery
woe to me ! I tell you the real truth, as I see the truth,
even in respect to them . . the ‘ Lurias ‘ . .

For instance, did I flatter you and say that you were
right yesterday? Indeed I thought you as wrong as
possible . . wonderfully wrong on such a subject, for you
. . who, only a day or two before, seemed so free from
conventional fallacies . . so free ! You would abolish the
punishment of death too . . and put away wars, I am sure !
But honourable men are bound to keep their honours clean
at the expense of so much gunpowder and so much risk of
life . . that must be, ought to be, . . let judicial deaths
and military glory be abolished ever so ! For my part, I
set all Christian principle aside, (although if it were carried
out . . and principle is nothing unless carried out . . it
would not mean cowardice but magnanimity) but I set it
aside and go on the bare social rational ground . . . and I
do advisedly declare to you that I cannot conceive of any
possible combination of circumstances which could . . I will
not say justify but even excuse an honourable man’s
having recourse to the duellist’s pistol, either on his own
account or another’s. Not only it seems to me horribly
wrong . . but absurdly wrong, it seems to me. Also . . as
a matter of pure reason . . the Parisian method of taking
aim and blowing off a man’s head for the sins of his tongue,
I do take to have a sort of judicial advantage over the
Englishman’s six paces . . throwing the dice for his life or
another man’s, because wounded by that man in his honour.
His honour ! — Who believes in such an honour . . liable
to such amends, and capable of such recovery ! You
cannot, I think — in the secret of your mind. Or if you
can . . you who are a teacher of the world . . . poor
world — it is more desperately wrong than I thought.

A man calls you ‘ a liar ‘ in an assembly of other men.
Because he is a calumniator, and, on that very account, a
worse man than you, you ask him to go down with you
on the only ground on which you two are equals . . the
duelling-ground, . . and with pistols of the same length
and friends numerically equal on each side, play at lives
with him, both mortal men that you are. If it was proposed
to you to play at real dice for the ratification or non-ratiflcation
of his calumny, the proposition would be laughed to
scorn . . and yet the chance (as chance) seems much the
same, . . and the death is an exterior circumstance which
cannot be imagined to have much virtue. At best, what do
you prove by your duel ? . . that your calumniator, though
a calumniator, is not a coward in the vulgar sense . . and
that yourself though you may still be a liar ten times over,
are not a coward either ! ‘ Here be proofs.’

And as to the custom of duelling preventing insults . .
why you say that a man of honour should not go out with
an unworthy adversary. Now supposing a man to be withheld from insult and calumny, just by the fear of being shot |
. . who is more unworthy than such a man? Therefore
you conclude irrationally, illogically, that the system operates
beyond the limit of its operations. — Oh ! I shall write as
quarrelsome letters as I choose. You are wrong, I know
and feel, when you advocate the pitiful resources of this
corrupt social life, . . and if you are wrong, how are we to
get right, we all who look to you for teaching. Are you
afraid too of being taken for a coward ? or would you excuse
that sort of fear . . that cowardice of cowardice, in other
men? For me, I value your honour, just as you do . .
more than your life . . of the two things : but the madness
of this foolishness is so clear to my eyes, than instead of
opening the door for you and keeping your secret, as that
miserable woman did last year, for the man shot by her
sister’s husband, I would just call in the police though you
were to throw me out of the window afterwards. So, with
that beautiful vision of domestic felicity, (which Mrs.
Jameson would leap up to see !) I shall end my letter —
isn’t it a letter worth thanking for ? —

Ever dearest, do you promise me that you never will be
provoked into such an act — never ? Mr. O’Connell vowed
it to himself, for a dead man . . and you may to me, for a
living woman. Promises and vows may be foolish things
for the most part . . but they cannot be more foolish than
in this case, the thing vowed against. So promise and vow.
And I will ‘ flatter ‘ you in return in the lawful way . . for
you will ‘make me happy’ . . so far! May God bless
you, beloved ! It is so wet and dreary to-day that I do not
go down-stairs — I sit instead in the gondola chair . . do
you not see ? . . and think of you . . do you not feel ? I
even love you . . if that were worth mentioning . .

being your own

Ba.

How good of you to write so on Sunday ! to compare
with my bad !