[Postmark: April 8, 1846]
Tuesday Evening.
In my disagree . . able letter this morning, I forgot to
write how, after you went away, and I came to read again
the dedication, I admired it more and more — it is most
graceful and complete. Landor will be gratified and grateful . . he, allowably — and only you shall be ‘ hateful ‘ . .
and only to me, dearest, . . so that it doesn’t matter much.
As to Ogniben, you understand best of course — I understood the ‘ laughing gently to himself,’ though I omitted to
notice the italics. I perfectly understood that it was the
bystander’s observation.
Your letter came so late to-night that I despaired of it —
the postman fell into a trance somewhere I fancy, and it
was not till nine oclock that the knock (equal to the tapping
of a fairy’s wand) came to the door. Now I have two letters
to thank you for together . . for the dear one on Monday,
which lay in the shadow of your coming, and so was a
little, little, less thought of than it could have been under
any other possible circumstance . . and for this letter
to-night. Well ! and for Mr. Buckingham’s voyage, if you
will and can conveniently, (I use that word for my sake, not
for your sake — because I think of you and not of him !) but
if you can without inconvenience make enquiries about
these vessels, why I shall be glad, and shall set it to your
account as one goodness more. It would be easy for him
( and you should have done it, in your voyage) to take with
him those potted meats and portable soups and essences of
game which would prevent his being reduced to common
fare with the sailors. Then a mattress is as portable as
the soups, nearly. Apart from the asafoetida he may
endure, I should think. Do you know, I was amused at
myself yesterday, after the first movement, for liking to
hear you say that ‘dry biscuits satisfied’ you — because,
after all, I should not be easy to see you living on dry
biscuits . . Ceres and Bacchus forbid ! Oh — I don’t profess to apply, out of a pure poetical justice, Lord Byron’s
Pythagoreanism to the ‘ nobler half of creation ‘ — do not be
afraid ‘ — but it is rather desecrating and disenchanting to
mark how certain of those said Nobilities turn upon
their dinners as on the pivot of the day, for their good
pleasure and good temper besides. Did you ever observe
a lord of creation knit his brows together because the
cutlets were underdone, shooting enough fire from his
eyes to overdo them to cinders … ‘ cinder-blast ‘ them,
as schylus would have it ? Did you ever hear of the litany
which some women say through the first course . . low to
themselves ? Perhaps not ! it does not enter into your
imagination to conceive of things, which nevertheless
are.
Not that I ever thought of you with reference to such —
oh no, no ! But every variety of the ‘ Epicuri de grege
porcus,’ I have a sort of indisposition to . . even as the
animal itself (pork of nature and the kitchen) I avoid like a
Jewish woman. Do you smile ? And did I half (or whole)
make you angry this morning through being so didactic and
detestable ? Will you challenge me to six paces at Chalk
Farm, and will you ‘ take aim ‘ this time and put an end
to every sort of pretence in me to other approaches between
us two ? Tell me if you are angry, dearest ! I ask you to
tell me if you felt (for the time even) vexed with me . . I
want to know . . I need to know. Do you not know what
my reflection must reasonably be ? . . That is, apart from
provocation and excitement, you believe in the necessity of
such and such resources, . . provoked and excited you
would apply to them — there could be no counteracting
force . . no help nor hope.
So I spoke my mind — and you are vexed with me,
which I feel in the air. May God bless you dearest, dearest !
Forgive, as you can, best,
Your Ba.