Day: April 28, 2018

[Postmark: April 28, 1846]

Now bless you, my dearest, best Ba, for this letter that
comes at the eleventh hour, — which means, at 3 o’clock.
Was not I frightened ! I made sure you would write. Why,
our Post emulates the Italian glory . . nay, that is too savage
a saying — for in Venice or Rome I should have to go for this
to the office, and only get it at last through the forbearing
honesty of every other applicant for letters during the day,
or week — since to every man and woman who thrusts his
or her head in at the window at Venice, the clerk hands
coolly over the whole odd hundred, and turns to his rest
again till as many are taken as may be thought necessary.
But, Ba, dear dearest Ba, do you really mean to tell me I
said ‘ that ‘ . . of ‘ transferring feelings ‘ etc ? I hope I did, —
though I cannot imagine how I ever could — say so — for so
the greater fault will be Ba’s — who drives me from one Scylla
(see my critic’s account) into a worse Charybdis through pure
fear and aversion, — and then cries ‘ See where you are now ! ‘
I was retreating as far as possible from that imaginary
‘ woman who called out those feelings,’ — might have called
them out, — just as this April sun of ours makes date-palms
grow and bear — and because I said, of the two hypotheses,
the one which taught you the palms might be transplanted
and live on here, — that was the more rational . . you turn
and ask ‘ So your garden will rear palms.’ Now, I tell
Ba, — no, I will kiss Ba and so tell her.

How happy Miss Bayley’s testimony makes me ! One
never can be too sure of such a happiness. She has no
motive for thus confirming it. You ‘ look so well ‘ — and
she not merely sees it, but acts upon it, — is for deriving a
practical benefit from it, and forthwith. Then, Miss Bayley,
let me try and ‘ transfer ‘ . . ah, the palm is too firmly rooted
in my very heart, — I can but sprinkle you over with yellow
dust !

Oh, Ba ; not to tell me of the League ; the number ! —
will you please tell me ? One letter more I get, do I not ?
Then comes Thursday — my Thursday.

What you style ‘ impertinence ‘ in your Brother, is very
kind and good-natured to my thinking. Well, now —
see the way a newspaper criticism affects one, nearly the
only way ! If this had been an attack — how it would
affect you and me matters nothing — it might affect others dis-
agreeably — and through them, us. So I feel very much
obliged to Forster in this instance.

I kiss you with perfect love, my sweetest best Ba. May
God bless you.

R

[Postmark: April 28, 1846]

Very good Examiner ! — I am pleased with it and with
Mr. Forster for the nonce, though he talks a little nonsense
here and there, in order to be a true critic, and though he
doesn’t talk at all, scarcely, of the ‘ Soul’s Tragedy ‘ . . . how
is one to bear it ? That ‘ Tragedy ‘ has wonderful things in it
— thoughts, suggestions, . . and more and more I feel, that
you never did better dialogue than in the first part. Every
pulse of it is alive and individual — dramatic dialogue of the
best. Nobody in the world could write such dialogue —
now, you know, you must be patient and ‘ meke as maid,’
being in the course of the forty-nine days of enduring
praises. Praises, instead of ‘ bangs ‘ ! ! — consider that it
might be worse ! — dicit ipsissima Ba.

Think of my not hearing a word about the article in the
Examiner, until I had your note this morning. And the
Examiner was in the house since Saturday night, and no-
body to tell me ! I was in high vexation, reproaching
them all, to-day — till Stormie had the impertinence to turn
round and tell me that only Papa had read the paper, and that
‘ he had of course put it away to keep me from the impro-
priety of thinking too much about . . about ‘ . . yes, really
Stormie was so impertinent. For the rest, when Papa came
up-stairs at one o’clock, he had it in his hand.

At two, Miss Bayley came, and sate here two hours, and
thought me looking so well, with such improved looks from
last autumn, that I don’t mean to groan at all to you to-day
about the wind — it is a savage wind, as you say, and I wish
it were gone, and I am afraid of stirring from the room
while it lasts, but there’s an end . . and not of me, says Miss
Bayley. She doffed her bonnet and talked and talked, and
was agreeable and affectionate, and means to come constantly
to see me . . . ( ‘ only not on Thursday,’ I desired : )
and do you know, you need not think any more of my going
with you to Italy, for she has made up her mind to take me
herself . . there is no escape for me that I can see — it’s
fixed . . certain ! with a thousand generous benignities she
stifled my ‘ no’s ‘ . . and all I had breath to say at last, was,
that ‘there was time enough for plans of that kind.’
Seriously, I was quite embarrassed to know how to adjourn
the debate. And she is capable of ‘ arranging everything ‘
— of persisting, of insisting— who knows what? And so,
. . when I am ‘ withdrawn ‘ . . carried away . . then, shall
all my ‘ feelings,’ which are in you, be given to somebody
else ? is that the way — ?

Now I shall not make jests upon that . . I shall not :
first, I shall not, because it is ungrateful — and next and
principally, because my heart stands still only to think of
it . . ! Why did you say that to me ? I could be as jealous
(did I not tell you once ? ) as any one of your melodramatic
gitana heroines, who carries a poignard between the white-
satin sash and the spangles ? I perfectly understand, at this
distance, what jealousy is, would be, ought to be, must be —
though I never guessed at all what love was, at that distance,
and startled I am often and confounded, to see the im-
potency of my imagination.

Forgive the blottings out — I have not blotted out
lately . . have I now ? and it is pardonable once in a
hundred years or days.

The rest for to-morrow. Your correspondent of the first
letter you sent me really does write like a Bennet, though
he praises you. I could not help laughing very gently,
though he praises you. Good-night my only beloved . .
dearest ! As my Bennet says (Georgiana) when she catches
vehemently at the laurel . . ‘ I will not be forgot ‘ . . .

‘ I must die . . but I will not be forgot ‘ (in large
capitals ! ) But what she applies to the Delphic groves,
turns for me to something more ambitious. ‘ I will not be
forgot ‘ . . will I ? shall I ? not till Thursday at least . . being
ever and ever

Your own

Ba.