Day: April 22, 2018

[Postmark: April 22, 1846]

I never thought I should convince you, dearest — and I
was foolish to write so, since it makes you reply so. At all
events, I do not habitually offend in this kind — forty-nine
days out of fifty I hear my own praises from your lips, and
yet keep silence — on the fiftieth I protest gently — is that too
much ? Then I will be quiet altogether, my Ba, and get a
comfort out of the consciousness of obedience there at least.
But I should like some talking-bird to tell you the struggle
there is and what I could say. Shall I idealize you into mere
mist, Ba, and see the fine, fine, last of you ? Well, I cannot
even play with the fancy of that — so, one day, when so much
is to be cleared up between us, look for a word or two on
this matter also. Some savage speech about the ‘ hand I
was to have dropped ‘ — the whole ending with the Promethean
— Οὑτως ὑβρἰζειν τους ὑβρἰζοντας χρέων. Meantime
my revenge on the hand must be to kiss it — I kiss it.

Yesterday’s letters both arrived this morning by the 11½
post — was that right ? I add my mite of savageness to the
general treasury of wrath : every body is complaining . Still,
so long as I do get my letters, — such letters !

The cold wind continues — you will have kept the room
to-day no doubt — what colourless weather ; not the moist
fresh bright true April of old years ! I shall go out presently
— but with such an effort, such unwillingness ! I am better
however — and my mother still continues well — goes out
every morning — so there is hope for everybody. I ought to
tell you that I went to my doctor last evening — (remembering
to whom I promised I would do so, if need were, or good
seemed likely to follow) — and he speaks encouragingly and
I have engaged to be obedient ; perhaps, because he ordains
no very intolerable laws. He says I am better than when he
saw me last — and, as he wanted then to begin and prescribe,
. . . there is clearly a gain of about two months’ comfort !

Here strikes fatal four-o’clock ! To-morrow for more
writing ; and now, for the never-ending love, and thought of
my dearest dearest. May God bless you, Ba.

Your own ——

[Postmark: April 22, 1846]

‘ Vanity ‘ ! I never saw in you, my very dearest, even the
short morning shadow of ‘ vanity.’ ‘ Vanity ‘ is not of you!
You work as the cedars grow, upward, and without noise,
and without turning to look on the darkness you cause upon
the ground. It is only because you are best and dearest
that you let me see the letters . . . yes, and besides, because
I have a little a right to have them sent to me, — since
they concern me more than you, — and are, after a fashion,
my letters. My letters ? what am I saying ? My letters,
my true letters, are different indeed — and one of them came
to-night to prove so !
But Mr. Chorley’s and the illegible man’s whose name
begins with a D (or doesn’t) both gave me pleasure. If Mr.
Chorley did not read ‘Luria’ at once, he speaks of you in the
right words — and the naval illegible man, with his downright
earnest way of being impressed, makes a better critic than
need be sought for in the Athenæum synod. And what a
triumph (after all !) and what a privilege, and what a good
deed, is this carrying of the light down into the mines
among the workmen, this bringing down of the angels of
the Ideal into the very depth of the Real, where the hammer
rings on the rough stone. The mission of Art, like that
of Religion, is to the unlearned . . to the poor and to
the blind — to make the rugged paths straight, and the
wilderness to blossom as the rose — at least it seems so to
me. And now, pray, why am I not to hear what Carlyle
said ? will you tell me ? won’t you tell me ? how shall I
persuade you ? If I can or not, I will say God bless him
too . . since he spoke the right word, to do you good. For
the manifest advance in clearness and directness of expression
. . I quite forgot to take notice of what you said to me
— and you, who never flatter ! — about being the cause of it
— I ! Now do observe that the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ which is
as light as day, I never touched with my finger, except in
one place, I think . . to say . . ‘ Just here there is a little
shade.’ The fact is, that your obscurities, . . as far as they
concern the medium, . . you have been throwing off gradually
and surely this long while — you have a calmer mastery
over imagery and language, and it was to be expected that
you should. For me, I am the fly on the chariot, . . ‘ How
we drive ! ‘ Shall I ever, ever, ever, be of any use or good
to you ? See what a thought you have thrown me into,
from that height ! Shall I ever, ever, be of any use, any
good — and not, rather, the contrary to these? Love is
something : and it is something to love you better than a
better woman could : but . . but . .

There is no use nor good in writing so, and you with a
headache too ! Why, how could you get that headache ?
First with not walking ; then with walking — I ! and read-
ing Balzac. But you had been writing notes perhaps?
or Carlyle had talked too ‘ bracingly ? ‘ or you fasted too long,
being too late for his tea-kettle ? The headache came at any
rate. Did it go ? tell me, dearest beloved ! say how you are.
And let me hear if your mother continues to be better.
How happy that change must make you all ! and shall I not
thank God that it makes you happy?

Mr. Kenyon has not been here, and I have nothing,
nothing, to tell you. The east wind has kept guard at the
door, so that I should not go out, . . and nothing has
happened. I seem not to have drawn breath scarcely,
since we parted. ‘ Parted ‘ — what a word ! As if we could !
— in the full sense !

I have written to Miss Bayley to ask her to come on any
day except Saturday.

Shall the thirty-six Bas love you all together in that one
Ba who is your own ?