Month: April 2018

[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.

[Postmark: April 8, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

First of all, kiss me, dearest, — and again — and now, with
the left arm round you, I will write what I think in as few
words as possible. I think the fault of not carrying out
principles is yours, here. Several principles would arrive at
the result you desire — Christianity, Stoicism, Asceticism,
Epicureanism (in the modern sense) — all these ‘ carried out’
stop the procedure you deprecate — but I fancy, as you state
your principle, that it is an eclecticism from these and others ;
and presently one branch crosses its fellow, and we stop,
arrive at nothing. Do you accept ‘ life’s warm-beating joy
and dole,’ for an object of that life ? Is ‘ society ‘ a thing
to desire to participate in? not by the one exceptional
case out of the million, but by men generally, — men who
‘ live ‘ only for living’s sake, in the first instance ; next, men
who, having ulterior objects and aims of happiness, yet
derive various degrees of sustainment and comfort from the
social life round them ; and so on, higher up, till you come
to the half-dozen, for whom we need not be pressingly
urgent to legislate just yet, having to attend to the world
first. Well, is social life, a good, generally to these ? If so,
— go back to another principle which I suppose you to
admit, — that ‘ good ‘ may be lawfully held, defended, — even
to the death. Now see where the ‘ cross ‘ takes place.
Something occurs which forces a man to hold this, defend
this — he must do this, or renounce it. You let him do
neither. Do not say he needs not renounce it, — we go
avowedly on the vulgar broad ground of fact — you very well
know it is a fact that by his refusing to accept a challenge,
or send one, on conventionally sufficient ground, he will be
infallibly excluded from a certain class of society thenceforth-
and forever. What society should do rather, is wholly
out of the question — what will be done? And now,
candidly, can you well fancy a more terrible wrong than
this to the ordinary multitude of men ? Alter the principles
of your reasoning — say, Christianity forbids this, — and that
will do — rational Simon renounces on his pillar more than
the pleasures of society if so he may save his soul : say,
society is not worth living in, — it is no wrong to be forced
to quit it — that will do, also, — a man with ‘ Paradise Lost ‘
or ‘ Othello ‘ to write ; or with a Ba to live beside for his
one companion, — or many other compensations, — he may
retire to his own world easily. Say, on the lowest possible
ground, ‘ out of society one eats, drinks &c. excellently well ;
what loss is there? ‘ — all these principles avail ; but mix
them — and they surely neutralize each other. A man may
live, enjoy life, oppose an attempt to prevent his enjoying
life, — yet not — you see ! ‘ The method is irrational,
proves nothing &c. ‘ — what is that to the question ? Is the
effect disputable or no ? Wordsworth decides he had better
go to court — then he must buy or borrow a court-dress.
He goes because of the poetry in him. What irrationality
in the bag and sword — in the grey duffil gown yonder, he
wrote — half through the exceeding ease and roominess of it
‘ The Excursion ‘ ; how proper he should go in it, therefore
. . beside it will wring his heartstrings to pay down the
four pounds, ten and sixpence : good, Mr. Wordsworth
There’s no compulsion ; go back to the lakes and be
entirely approved of by Miss Norwick ! . . but, if you do
choose to kiss hands (instead of cheeks ‘ smackingly ‘) why
you must even resolve to ‘ grin and bear it ‘ (a sea-phrase!)
— and, Ba, your imaginary man, who is called ‘ liar ‘ before
a large assembly, must decide for one or the other course
‘ He makes his antagonist double the wrong ‘ ? Nay — here
the wrong begins— the poor author of the outrage should
have known his word was nothing — the sense of it, he and
his like express abundantly every hour of the day, if they
please, in language only a shade removed from this that
causes all the harm, — and who does other than utterly
ineffably despise them ? but he chooses, as the very phrase
is, to oblige his adversary to act thus. He is nothing (I am
going on your own case of a supposed futile cause of
quarrel) — he may think just what he pleases — but having
said this and so — it is entirely society’s affair — and whatis
society’s present decision ? Directly it relaxes a regulation
allows another outlet to the natural contempt for, and
indifference to such men and their opinions spoken or
unspoken, everybody avails himself of it directly. If the
Lord Chamberlain issues an order this morning, ‘ No swords
need be worn at next levee ‘ — who will appear with one ?
A politician is allowed to call his opponent a destructive
&c. A critic may write that the author of such a book or
such, is the poorest creature in the world — and who dreams:
of being angry ? but society up to this time says, ‘ if a man
calls another &c. &c., then he must ‘ — Will you renounce
society? I for one, could, easily: so therefore shall Mr.
Kenyon ! Beside, I on purpose depreciate the value of an
admission into society . . as if it were only for those who
recognize no other value ; and the wiser men might easily
forego it. Not so easily ! There are uses in it, great uses,
for purposes quite beyond its limits — you pass through it, mix
with it, to get something by it : you do not go in to the
world to live on the breath of every fool there, but you
reach something out of the world by being let go quietly, if
not with a favourable welcome, among them. I leave here
to go to Wimpole Street : — I want to have as little as possible
to say to the people I find between — but, do you know, if I
allow a foolish child to put the very smallest of fool’s caps
on my head instead of the hat I usually wear, though the
comfort would be considerable in the change, — yet I shall
be followed by an increasing crowd, say to Charing Cross,
and thence pelted, perhaps, till I reach No 50 — there,
perhaps to find the servant hesitate about opening the door
to such an apparition, — and when Papa comes to hear how
illustriously your visitor was attended through the streets !
why he will specially set apart Easter Monday to testify in
person his sense of the sublime philosophy, will he not ? My
Ba — I tell the child on the first symptom of such a wish on
his part ‘ Don’t ! ‘ with all the eloquence in my power — if I
can put it handsomely off my head, even, I will, and with
pitying good nature – but if I must either wear the cap, and
pay the penalty, or — slap his face, why — ! ‘ Ah,’ you say, ‘ but
he has got a pistol that you don’t see and will shoot you
dead like a foolish child as he is.’ That he may ! Have I
to be told that in this world men, foolish or wicked, do
inflict tremendous injuries on their unoffending fellows?
Let God look to it, I say with reverence, and do you look
to this point, where the injury begins. The foolish man
who throws some disfiguring liquid in your face, which to
remove you must have recourse to some dangerous surgical
operation, — perilling himself, too, by the consequent vengeance
of the law, if you sink under knife or cauterizing iron, —
shall I say ‘ the fault is yours — why submit to the operation ?
The fault is his that institutes the very fault — which begin
by teaching him from his cradle in every possible shape !
But don’t, don’t say — ‘ the operation is unnecessary ; your
blistered face will look, does look just as usual, not merely
to me who know you, perhaps love you, — but to the whole
world . . on whose opinion of its agreeableness, I confess
that you are dependent for nearly every happy minute of
your life. ‘ In all this, I speak for the world, not for me —
I have other, too many other sources of enjoyment — I could
easily I think, do what you require. I endeavour to care
for others with none of these ; as dear, dearest Ba, sitting
in her room because of a dull day, would have me take a
few miles’ exercise. Has everybody a Ba ? I had not last
year — yet last year I had reasons, and still have, for, on
occasion, renouncing society fifty times over : what I should
do, therefore, is as improper to be held up for an example,
as the exemplary behaviour of Walpole’s old French officer
of ninety, who ‘ hearing some youths diverting themselves
with some girls in a tent close by, asked, ‘ Is this the example
I set you, gentlemen ? ‘ . But I shall be dishonoured however
— Ba will ‘ go and call the police ‘ — why, so should I for
your brother, in all but the extremest case ! — because when
I had told all the world, with whom the concern solely is,
that, despite his uttermost endeavour, I had done this, — the
world would be satisfied at once — and the whole procedure
is meant to satisfy the world — even the foolishest know that
the lion in a cage, through no fault of his, cannot snap at a fly
outside the bars. The thing to know is, will Ba dictate to
her husband ‘ a refusal to fight,’ and then recommend him
to go to a dinner-party ? Say, ‘ give up the dinner for my
sake,’ if you like — one or the other it must be : you know,
I hate and refuse dinner-parties. Does everybody ?

But now in candour, hear me : I write all this to show
the not such irrationality of the practice even on comparatively frivolous grounds . . and that those individuals to
whom you once admit society may be a legitimate enjoyment, must take such a course to retain the privileges they
value — and that the painful consequences should be as
unhesitatingly attributed to the first offence and its author, —
as the explosion and horror to the fool who would put the
match, in play perhaps, to the powder-barrel. And I
excepted myself from the operation of this necessity. But I
must confess that I can conceive of ‘combinations of
circumstances’ in which I see two things only . . or a
Third : a miscreant to be put out the world, my own arm
and best will to do it ; and,, perhaps, God to excuse ; which
is, approve. My Ba, what is Evil, in its unmistakable
shape, but a thing to suppress at any price ? I do approve
of judicial punishment to death under some circumstances
— I think we may, must say : ‘ when it comes to that we
will keep our pact of life, stand by God and put that out of
us, our world — it shall not be endured, or we shall not be
endured ‘ ! Dear Ba, is Life to become a child’s game ? A. is
wronged, B. rights him, and is a hero as we say ; B. is wronged
again, by C. ; but he must not right himself ; that is D.’s
proper part, who again is to let E. do the same kind office
for him — and so on. ‘ Defend the poor and fatherless ‘ —
and we all applaud — but if they could defend themselves,
why not ? I will not fancy cases — here’s one that strikes
me — a fact. Some soldiers were talking over a watch fire
abroad — one said that once he was travelling in Scotland
and knocked at a cottage-door — an old woman with one
child let him in, gave him a supper and a bed — next
morning he asked how they lived and she said the cow, the
milk of which he was then drinking, and the kale in the
garden, such as he was eating — were all her ‘ mailien ‘ or
sustenance — whereon, rising to go, he, for the fun, ‘ killed
the cow and destroyed the kale ‘ — ‘ the old witch crying out
she should certainly be starved ‘ — then he went his way.
‘ And she was starved, of course,’ said a young man ; ‘ do
you rue it ?’ — The other laughed ‘ Rue aught like that ! ‘
— The young man said, ‘ I was the boy, and that was my
mother — now then ! ‘ — In a minute or two the preparer of
this ‘combination of circumstances’ lay writhing with a
sword through him up to the hilt — ‘ If you had rued it ‘ — the
youth said — ‘ you should have answered it only to God ! ‘

More than enough of this — but I was anxious to stand
clearer in your dear eyes. ‘ Vows and promises ! ‘ — I want to
leave society for the Sirens’ isle, — and now I often seriously
reproach myself with conduct quite the reverse of what you
would guard against : I have too much indifferentism to
the opinions of Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown — by no means
am anxious to have his notions agree with mine. Smith
thinks Cromwell a canting villain, — Brown believes no dissenter
can be saved, — and I repeat Goethe’s ‘ Be it your unerring
rule, ne’er to contradict a fool, for if folly choose to
brave you, all your wisdom cannot save you ! ‘ And sometimes
I help out their arguments by a touch or two, after
Ogniben’s fashion — it all seems so wearisomely unprofitable ;
what comes of Smith’s second thought if you change his
first — out of that second will branch as great an error, you
may be sure ! (11 o’clock) Here comes your letter ! My own
Ba ! My dearest best, best beloved ! I, angry ! ch, how
you misinterpret, misunderstand the motions of my mind !
In all that I said, or write here, I speak of others — others,
if you please, of limited natures : I say why they may be
excused . . that is all. ‘ You do not like pork ‘ ? But those
poor Irish Colliers whose only luxury is bacon once a month ;
you understand them liking it ? I do not value society —
others do : ‘ we are all His children ‘ says Euripides and
quotes Paul.

Now, love, let this be a moot point to settle among the
flowers one day — with Sir Thomas Browne’s ‘ other hard
questions yet not impossible to be solved ‘ (‘ What song the
Sirens sang to Ulysses,’ is the first !) in which blessed hope
let me leave off ; for I confess to having written myself all-but-tired, headachy. But ‘ vexed with you ‘ ! Ba, Ba ; you
perplex me, bewilder me ; let me get right again ; kiss me,
dearest, and all is right — God bless you ever —

Your R.

[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.

[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 !

[Postmark: April 6, 1846]

Monday Morning.

I shall receive a note from you presently, I trust — but
this had better go now — for I expect a friend, and must
attend to him as he wants to go walking — so, dearest — .
dearest, take my — last work I ever shall send you, if God
please !

A word about a passage or two, — I had forgotten to say
before — gadge is a real name (in Johnson, too) for a torturing iron — it is part of the horror of such things that they
should be mysteriously named, — indefinitely, — ‘ The Duke
of Exeter’s Daughter ‘ for instance . . Ugh ! — Besides, am
I not a rhymester ?’ Well, who knows but one may want to
use such a word in a couplet with ‘ badge ‘ — which, if one
reject the old and obsolete fadge is rhymeless ?

Then Chiappino remarks that men of genius usually do
the reverse . . of beginning by dethroning &c. and so arriving with utmost reluctancy at the acknowledgment of a
natural and unalterable inequality of Mankind — instead of
that they begin at once he says, by recognizing it in their
adulation &c. &c. — I have supplied the words ‘ atonce and
taken out ‘ virtually which was unnecessary ; so that the
parallel possibly reads clearlier. I know there are other
things to say — but at this moment my memory is at fault.

Can you tell me Mrs Jameson’s address ?

My sea-friend’s opinion is altogether unfavourable to the
notion of an invalid’s trusting himself alone in a merchant
vessel — he says — ‘.it will certainly be the gentleman’s death.’
So very small a degree of comfort can be secured amid all
the inevitable horrors of dirt, roughness, &c. The expenses
are trifling in any case, on that very account. Any number
of the Shipping Gazette (I think) will give a list of all
vessels about to sail, with choice of ports — or on the walls
of the Exchange one may see their names placarded, with
reference to the Agent — or he will, himself, (my friend Chas.
Walton) do his utmost with a shipowner, we both know, and
save some expense, perhaps. I made him remark the difference
between my carelessness of accommodations and an
invalid’s proper attention beforehand — but he persisted in
saying nothing can be done, nothing effectual. My time is
out — but I must bless you my ever dearest Ba — and kiss
you —

Ever your own.

[Postmark: April 6, 1846]ZM, CC

Sunday.

I sent you some even more than usual hasty foolish words,
— not caring much, however — for dearest Ba shall have to
forgive my shortcomings every hour in the day, — it is her
destiny, and I began unluckily with that stupidest of all
notions, — that about the harm coming of genius &c., so I fell
with my subject and we rolled in the mud together — pas vrai?
But there was so many other matters alluded to in
your dearest (because last) letter — there are many things in
which I agree with you to such a tremblingly exquisite exactness, so to speak, that I hardly dare cry out lest the charm
break, the imaginary oscillation prove incomplete and your
soul, now directly over, pass beyond mine yet, and not stay !
Do you understand, dear soul of my soul, dearest Ba ? Oh,
how different it all might be ! In this House of life — where
I go, you go — where I ascend you run before — when I descend
it is after you. Now, one might have a piece of Ba,
but a very little of her, and make it up into a lady and a
mistress, and find her a room to her mind perhaps
when she should sit and sing, ‘ warble eat and dwell ‘ like
Tennyson’s blackbird, and to visit her there with due honour
one might wear the finest of robes, use the courtliest of
ceremonies — and then — after a time, leave her there and
go, the door once shut, without much blame, to throw off
the tunic and put on Lord Compton’s blouse and go whither
one liked — after, to me, the most melancholy fashion in the
world. How different with us ! If it were not, indeed —
what a mad folly would marriage be ! Do you know what
quaint thought strikes me, out of old Bunyan, on this very
subject ? He says (with another meaning though) ‘ Who
would keep a cow, that may buy milk at a penny the quart ‘
— (elegant allusion). Just so, — whoever wants ‘ a quart ‘ of
this other comfort, as solace of whatever it may be (at break-fast or tea time too), why not go and ‘ buy ‘ the same, and
having discussed it, drink claret at dinner at his club?
Why did not Mr. Butler read Fanny Kemble’s verses, paying
his penny of intellectual labour, and see her play ‘ Portia’
at night, and make her a call or ride with her in the middle
of the day — why ‘ keep the cow ‘ ? But — don’t you know
they prescribe to some constitutions the perpetual living in
a cow-house ? the breath, the unremitting influence is everything-
, — not the milk — (now, Ba — Ba is suddenly Ιω πλανωμενη and Mrs. Jameson is the Gadfly — and I am laughed
at — not too cruelly, or the other lock of hair becomes mine —
with which locks . . and not with Louis Seize iron knicknack
ones, I rather think I was occupied last time, last
farewell taking — )

From all which I infer — that I shall see you to-morrow!
Yes, or I should not have the heart to be so glad and
absurd.

Well, to-morrow makes amends — dear, dear Ba ! Why
do you persist in trying to turn my head so ? It does not
turn, I look the more steadfastly at the feet and the ground,
for all your crying and trying ! But something shocking
might happen — would happen, if it were not written that I
am to get nothing but good from Ba, — and who, who began
calling names — who used the word ‘ flatterer ‘ first ?

Bless you my own dearest flatterer — I love you with
heart and soul. Are you downstairs- to day ? it is warm, the
rain you like — yes you are down, I think. God keep you
wherever you are !

Your own.

I went last night to Lord Compton’s father’s Soiree, —
and for all our deep convictions, and philosophic rejoicing,
I assure you that of the two or three words that we interchanged-
— congratulation on the bright fortune of his son
formed no part, — any more than intelligence about ordering
Regiments to India whenever I met the relatives of the
ordered. And yesterday morning I planted a full dozen more
rose-trees, all white — to take away the yellow-rose reproach!
!

[Postmark: April 5, 1846]ZM

Sunday.

It seems to me the safest way to send back the proofs
by the early Monday post : you may choose perhaps to
bring the sheet corrected into town when you come, and so
I shall let you have what you sent me, before you come to
take it . . though I thought first of waiting. To-morrow I
shall force you to tell me how you like the ‘ Tragedy ‘ now !
For my part, it delights me — and must raise your reputation
as a poet and thinker . . must Chiappino is highly
dramatic in that first part, and speaks so finely sometimes
that it is a wrench to one’s sympathies to find him overthrown-
. Do you know that, as far as the temper of the
man goes, I am acquainted with a Chiappino . . just such
a man, in the temper, the pride and the bitterness . . not
in other things. When I read your manuscript I was
reminded — but here in print it, seems to grow nearer and
nearer. My Chiappino has tired me out at last — I have
borne more from him than women ought to bear from men,
because he was unfortunate and embittered in his nature
and by circumstances, and because I regarded him as a
friend of many years. Yet, as I have told him, anyone,
who had not such confidence in me, would think really ill of
me through reading the insolent letters which he has thought
fit to address to me on what he called a pure principle of
adoration. At last I made up my mind (and shall keep
it so) to answer no letter of the kind. Men are ignoble
in some things, past the conceiving of their fellows. Again
and again I have said . . ‘ Specify your charge against me ‘
— but there is no charge. With the most reckless and
dauntless inconsistency I am lifted halfway to the skies, and
made a mark there for mud pellets — so that I have been
excited sometimes to say quite passionately . . ‘If I am
the filth of the earth, tread on me — if I am an angel of
Heaven, respect me — but I can’t be both, remember.’ See
where your Chiappino leads you . . and me ! Though I
shall not tell you the other name of mine. Whenever I see
him now, I make Arabel stay in the room — otherwise I am
afraid — he is such a violent man. A good man, though, in
many respects, and quite an old friend. Some men grow
incensed with the continual pricks of ill-fortune, like mad
bulls : some grow tame and meek.

Well — I did not like the spirit of the Athenaeum remarks
either. I like what you say. These literary men are never
so well pleased, as in having opportunities of barking against
one another — and, for the Athenaeum people, if they wanted
to be didactic as to morals, they might have taken occasion
to be so out of their own order, and in their own country.
And then to bring in Balzac so ! The worst of Balzac (who
has not a fine moral sense at any time, great and gifted as
he is), the very worst of him, is his bearing towards his
literary brothers . . the manner in which he, who can so
nobly present genius to the reverence of humanity in
scientific men (as he describes them in his books), always
dishonours and depreciates it in the man of letters and
the poet. See his ‘ Grand Homme de Province à Paris,’
one of the most powerful of his works, but the remark
is true everywhere. I go on writing as if I were not to see
you directly. It is past four oclock — and if Mr. Kenyon
does not come to-day, he may come to-morrow, and
find you, who were here last Thursday to his knowledge ! —
Half I fear.

Observe the proof. Since you have two, you say, I have
not scrupled to write down on this ever so much improvidence, which you will glance at and decide upon finally.

‘Grateful’ . . ‘ grateful’ . . what a word that is. I
never would have such a word on any proof that came to
me for correction. Do not use such inapplicable words —
do not, dearest ! for you know very well in your under-
standing (if not in your heart) that if such a word is to be
used by either of us, it is not by you. My word, I shall
keep mine, — I am ‘ grateful you cannot be ‘ grateful ‘ . ,
for ineffable reasons . .

‘ Pour bonnes raisons
Que I’on n’ose dire.
Et que nous taisons. ‘

For the rest, it is certainly very likely that you may
‘ want all your faculties, and more ‘ … to bear with me . .
to support me with graceful resignation; and who can tell
whether I may not be found intolerable after all ?

By the way (talking of St. Catherine’s wheels and the
like torments) you wrote ‘ gag ‘ . . did you not ? . . where
the proof says ‘ gadge ‘ — I did not alter it. More and more
I like ‘ Luria.’

Your Ba.

Mr. Kenyon has been here — so our Monday is safe.

[Postmark: April 4, 1846]ZM, CC

Saturday.

Oh, my two letters — and to turn from such letters to
you, to my own Ba ! — I very well know I am not grateful
enough, if there is any grace in that, any power to avert
punishment, as one hopes ! But all my hope is in future
endeavour — it is, my Ba, — this is earnest truth. And one
thing that strikes me on hearing such prognostications of
Mrs. Jameson’s opinion on our subject — is that — as far as I
am concerned . . or yourself, indeed — we must make up
our mind to endure the stress of it, and of such opinions
generally, with all resignation . . and by the time we can
answer, — why, alas, they are gone and forgotten, so that
there’s no paying them for their impertinence. I mean,
that I do not expect as a foolish fanciful boy might, that
on the sudden application of ‘ Hymen’s torch ‘ (to give the
old simile one chance more) your happiness will blaze out
apparent to the whole world lying in darkness, like a
wondrous ‘ Catherine-wheel,’ now all blue, now red, and so
die at the bed amid an universal clapping of hands — I trust
a long life of real work ‘ begun, carried on and ended,’ as it
never otherwise could have been (certainly by me , . . and if
I dare hope, you dearest, it is because you teach me to
aspire to the height) — that the attainment of all that
happiness of daily, hourly life in entire affection, which
seeing that men of genius need rather more — ah, these
words, I cannot look back and take up the thread of the
sentence, — but I wanted to say — we will live the real
answer, will we not, dearest, all the stupidity against ‘ genius ‘
‘ poets,’ and the like, is got past the stage of being treated
with patient consideration and gentle pity — it is too vexatious-
, if it will not lie still, out of the way, by this time.
What is the crime, to his fellow man or woman (not to God,
I know that— these are peculiar sins to Him — whether
greater in His eyes, who shall say ?) — but to mankind, what
is crime which would have been prevented but for the
‘ genius ‘ involved in it ? A man of genius ill-treats his wife
— well, take away the ‘genius’ — does he so naturally
improve? See the article in to-day’s Athenaeum, about
the French Duel — far enough from ‘ men of genius ‘ these
Dujarriers &c. — but go to-night into half the estaminets of
Paris, and see whether the quarrels over dice and some
wine present any more pleasing matter of contemplation
aufond. Sin is sin everywhere and the worse, I think, for
the grossness. Being fired at by a duellist is a little better,
I think also, than being struck on the face by some ruffian.
These are extreme cases — but go higher and it is the same
thing. Poor, cowardly miscreated natures abound — if you
could throw ‘ genius ‘ into their composition, they would
become more degraded still, I suppose !

I know I want every faculty I can by any possibility dare —
want all, and much more, to teach me what you are, my
own Ba, and what I should do to prove that I am taught,
and do know.

I will write at length to you to-morrow, my all beloved.
I am, somehow, overflowing with things to say, and the
time is fearfully short — my proofs have just arrived, here
they are, not even glanced over by me — (To-morrow, love !
not one thing answered in my letters, as when I read and
read them to-night I shall say to myself). Bless you,
dearest, dearest

R.

[Postmark: April 4, 1846]

Friday Evening.

Shall the heir to a Marquisate ‘ justify his title’ in these
days ? Is not the best thing he can do for himself, to forget
it in a studio at Rome ? — and one of the best things he can
do for his country, perhaps, to desecrate it at dog-fighting
before the eyes of all men ? I should not like to have to
justify my Marquisate to reasonable men now-a-days, —
should you . . seriously speaking? It would be a hard
task, and rather dull in the performance. On the other
hand, the noble dog-fighters (unconscious patriots !) find it
easy and congenial occupation down in St. Giles’s, rubbing
out (as in the old game of fox and goose) figure by figure,
prestige by prestige, the gross absurdity of hereditary
legislators, lords, and the like. Yet of the three positions, I
would rather be at Rome, certainly a man looks nobler
there, is better, is happier . . a good deal nearer the
angels than on his ‘landed estates’ playing at feudal
proprietor, or even in St. Giles’s dog-fighting. See what a
republican you have for a . . Ba. Did you fancy me
capable of writing such unlawful, disorderly things ? And
it isn’t out of bitterness, nor covetousness . . no, indeed.
People in general would rather be Marquises than Roman
artists, consulting their own wishes and inclination. I, for
my part, ever since I could speak my mind and knew it,
always openly and inwardly preferred the glory of those who
live by their heads, to the opposite glory of those who carry
other people’s arms. So much for glory. Happiness goes
the same way to my fancy. There is something fascinating
to me, in that Bohemian way of living . . all the conventions
of society cut so close and thin, that the soul can see
through . . beyond . . above. It is ‘ real life ‘ as you say
. . whether at Rome or elsewhere. I am very glad that
you like simplicity in habits of life — it has both reasonableness and sanctity. People are apt to suffocate their faculties
by their manners — English people especially. I admire
that you, — R. B., — who have had temptation more than
enough, I am certain, under every form, have lived in
the midst of this London of ours, close to the great social
vortex, yet have kept so safe, and free, and calm and pure
from the besetting sins of our society. When you came to
see me first, I did not expect so much of you in that one
respect. How could I ? You had lived in the world, I
knew, and I thought . . . well ! — what matter, now, what I
thought ?

I will tell you instead how to-day has gone by with me.
Not like yesterday, indeed ! In the first place, I went
down-stairs, walked up and down the drawing-room twice,
and finding nobody there (they were all having luncheon in
the dining-room) came up-stairs again . . . half-way on the
stairs met Flush, who having been asleep, had not missed
me till just then, and was in the act of search. I was lost
for ever, thought poor Flush. At least I think he thought
so by his eyes. They were three times their usual largeness
— he looked quite wild . . and leaped against me with
such an ecstasy of astonished joy, that I nearly fell backward
down the stairs (whereupon, you would have had to go to
the Siren’s island, dearest, all by yourself !) After which
escape of mine and Flushie’s, and when I had persuaded
him to be good and quiet and to believe that I was not my
own ghost, I came home with him and prepared to see . .

I will tell you. She is a Mrs. Paine who lives at
Farnham, and learns Greek, and writes to me such overcoming
letters, that at last, and in a moment of imprudent
reaction from an ungrateful discourtesy on my part, I agreed
to see her if she ever came to London. Upon which, she
comes directly — I am taken in my trap. She comes and
returns the same day, and all to see me. Well — she had
been kind to me . . and she came at two to-day. Do
you know, . . for the first five minutes, I repented quite ?
Dearest . . she came just with the sort of face which a
child might take to see a real, alive lioness at the Zoological
Gardens . . she just sate down on a chair, and stared.
How can people do such things in this year of grace when
they are abolishing the Corn Laws, I wonder ? For my part
it was so unlike anything civilized I had ever been used to
that I felt as if my voice and breath went together. It
would have saved me to be able to stare back again, but
that was out of my power. So I endured — and, after a
pause, ran violently down a steep place into some sort
of conversation (thinking of your immortal Simpson, and
vowing never to be drawn into such a situation again)
and in a little while, I was able to recognize that there was
nothing worse than bad manners — ignorant manners—
and that, for the rest, my antagonist was a young, pretty
woman (rather pretty), enthusiastic and provincial, with a
strong love for poetry and literature generally, loving Carlyle
and yourself, (could I hold out against that) and telling
me all her domestic happinesses with a frankness which quite
appeased me and prevented my being too tired . . though
she stayed two hours, and wasn’t you ! —

So there is my history of to-day for you ! To-morrow
you will have the proof — and perhaps, I shall ! Monday
will bring a better thing than a proof May God bless you,
beloved. Say how you are . . to-morrow ! Mind to do
it . . or I will not sit any more in your gondola-chair.
How can you make me, unless I choose ?

And you speak against my letter to-night ? you shall not
dare do such things. It is a good, dear letter, and it is
mine to call so . . and I knew its fellows before I knew
you and loved them before I loved you, and so you are not
to be proud and scornful and try to put them down ‘in
that way.’

Your own

Ba.