[Postmark: April 9, 1846]
Wednesday Evening.
After the question about the ‘ Sirens’ song to Ulysses,
dearest? Then directly before I suppose, the other
‘ difficult question ‘ talked of by your Sir Thomas Browne,
as to ‘ what name Achilles bore when he lived among the
women.’ That you think, will be an appropriate position
for our ‘ moot point ‘ which, once in England, was guilty of
tiring you and making your head ache : — and as for
Achilles’ name when he lived among women, it was Μωρος
you will readily guess, and I shall not dare to deny. Only
. . only . . I never shall be convinced on the ‘ previous
question’ by the arguments of your letter — it is not
possible.
May I say just one thing, without touching that specific
subject ? There is a certain class of sacrifice which men
who live in society, should pay willingly to society . . the
sacrifice of little or indifferent things, . . in respect to
mere manners and costume. There is another class of
sacrifice which should be refused by every righteous man
though ever so eminently a social man, and though to the
loss of his social position. Now you would be the last, I
am sure, to confound these two classes of sacrifice — and you
will admit that our question is simply between them . . and
to which of them, duelling belongs . . and not at all
whether society is in itself a desirable thing and much
rejoiced in by the Browns and Smiths. You refuse to wear
a fool’s cap in the street, because society forbids you —
which is well : but if, in order to avoid wearing it, you
shoot the ‘ foolish child ‘ who forces it upon you . . why
you do not well, by any means : it would not be well even
for a Brown or a Smith — but for my poet of the ‘ Bells and
Pomegranates,’ it is very ill, wonderfully ill . . so ill, that I
shut my eyes, and have the heartache (for the headache !)
only to think of it. So I will not. Why should we see
things so differently, ever dearest ? If anyone had asked
me, I could have answered for you that you saw it quite
otherwise. And you would hang men even — you !
Well ! Because I do ‘ not rue ‘ (and am so much the
more unfit to die) I am to be stabbed through the body by
an act of ‘ private judgment ‘ of my next neighbour. So I
must take care and ‘rue ‘ when I do anything wrong — and
I begin now, for being the means of tiring you, . . and
for seeming to persist so ! You may be right and I wrong,
of course — I only speak as I see. And will not speak any
more last words . . taking pardon for these I rue.
To-day I was down-stairs again — and if the sun shines
on as brightly, I shall be out of doors before long perhaps.
Your headache ! tell me how your headache is, — remember to tell me. When your letter came, I kissed it by
a sort of instinct . . not that I do always at first sight (please
to understand), but because the writing did not look angry . .
not vexed writing. Then I read . . ‘ First of all, kiss ‘ . .
So it seemed like magic.
Only I know that if I went on to write disagreeing disagreeable letters, you might not help to leave off loving me
at the end. I seem to see through this crevice.
Good Heavens ! — how dreadfully natural it would be to
me, seem to me, if you did leave off loving me ! How it
would be like the sun-s setting . . and no more wonder !
Only, more darkness, more pain. May God bless you my
only dearest ! and me, by keeping me
Your
Ba.
