Day: May 16, 2018

[Postmark: May 16, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

You shall hear from me on this Sunday, though it
cannot be as an answer, dearest, to your letter of to-night.
But I being so wretchedly tired last night, and ‘ yawning ‘
being, to your mind, so ‘ intolerable,’ it is as well to leave a
better impression with you than that . . though there is
nothing to say, and the east wind blows on virulently.

The AthenÊum has put me out of humour for the day
. . besides. Not a word of ‘Luria’ — not a word of the
Literary Fund dinner, and a great, drawling carrying out
of the ‘ Poetry for the Million ‘ article . . as if all this trash
could not die of itself ! — as if it were not dead of itself! —
That the critics of a country should set themselves to such
work . . is as if the Premier of England took his official
seat in the window to kill flies, . . talking, with his first
finger out, of ‘ my administration.’ Only flies are flies and
have fly-life in them : they are nobler game than those.

Mrs. Jameson, while she was here the five minutes
yesterday, talked, in an under-breath to my under-breath
opposition, her opinion about the present age. ‘ That the
present age did not, could’ not, ought not, to express itself
by Art, . . though the next age would.’ She is surprisingly
wrong, it appears to me. There is no predominant character
in the age, she says, to be so expressed ! there is no
unity, to bear expression.

But art surely, if art is anything, is the expression, not
of the characteristics of an age except accidentally, . . essentially
it is the expression of Humanity in the individual
being — and unless we are men no longer, I cannot conceive
how such an argument as hers can be upheld for a
moment. Also it is exasperating to hear such things.

Then I do not believe, for one, that genius in the arts
is a mere reflection of the character of the times. Genius
precedes surely, — initiates. It is genius which gives an
Age its character and imposes its own colour …. But I
shall not write any more. Her paper on ‘ Titian’s House at
Venice,’ which she let me read in proof, and which is one
of the essays she is printing now, is full of beauty and truth,
and I admired it heartily. Then there is a quotation about
the ‘calm, cold, beautiful regard,’ of ‘Virgin child and
saint’ . . . which you may remember perhaps. I know
you will like the essay and feel it to be Venetian.

That you were feeling the east wind, beloved, meant
that you were not well, though you have quite left off telling
me a word of yourself lately. And why ? It shall not be
so next week, — now shall it ? May God bless you. I am
afraid of going down-stairs, because of the double-knocks.
It will be great gain to have the loudest noises from the
cicale. Except when somebody else is noisy, — which is a
noise I am always forgetting, just as if it were impossible.

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 16, 1846]

Saturday.

Then, dearest-dearest, do take Mrs. Jameson’s advice — do
take care of the results of this fatigue— why should you see
any woman that pleases to ask to come ? I am certain that
some of the men you have refused to admit, would be more
considerate — and Miss Heaton must be a kind of fool into
the bargain with her inconsiderateness . . though that is the
folly’s very self. As for her ‘ Yorkshire Tragedy,’ I hold
myself rather aggrieved by it — they used to get up better
stories of Lord Byron, — and even I told you, anticipatingly,
that I caused that first wife of mine to drown and hang
herself . . whereas, now, it turns out she did neither, but
bade me do both . . nay, was not my wife after all ! I
hope she told Miss Heaton the story in the presence of the
husband who had no irreligious scruples. But enough of
this pure nonsense — I had, by this post that brings me your
last letter, one from Home — he leaves to-day for Ireland,
and says kind things about my plays — and unkind things
of Mr. Powell ‘a dog he repudiates for ever.’ So our
‘clique ‘ is deprived of yet another member !

For me, love, — I am pretty well — but rather out of
spirits, — for no earthly cause. I shall take a walk and get
better presently— your dear letters have their due effect, all
that effect !

So, dear, — all my world, my life, all I look to or live
for, my own Ba — I will bless you and bid you goodbye for
to-day — to-morrow I will write more — and on Monday —
return, my Ba, this kiss . . my dearest above all dearness !

[Postmark: May 16, 1846]

Not even do you yawn in vain then, O you ! And
this, then, is what Cicero called ‘ oscitans sapientia ? ‘ The
argument of the yawn ought in fact, to be conclusive. !

But, dearest, if it was ‘ intolerable ‘ to see you yawn
yesterday, still less supportable was it to-day when I had all
the yawning to myself, and proved nothing by it. Tired I
am beyond your conceiving of . . tired ! You saw how I
broke off in my letter to you this morning. Well — that was
Miss Heaton, who came yesterday and left the packet you
saw, and came again to-day and sate here exactly three hours.
Now imagine that ! Three hours of incessant restless
talking. At the end I was blanched, as everybody could see,
and Mrs. Jameson who came afterwards for five minutes
and was too unwell herself to stay, seriously exhorted me
not to exert myself too much lest I should pay the penalty.
And I had not been down-stairs even — only been ground
down in the talking-mill. Arabel told her too, before she
came up-stairs, that I was expecting a friend — ‘ Oh ‘ . . said
she to me, ‘ I shall go away directly anyone comes.’ And
again presently . . ‘ Pray tell me when I ought to go away ‘ !
(As if I could say Go. She deserved it, but I couldn’t !)
And then . . ‘ How good of you to let me sit here and talk ! ‘
So good of me, when I was wishing her . . only at Leeds in
the High Street, between a dissenter and a churchman —
anywhere but opposite to my eyes ! Yet she has very bright
ones, and cheeks redder than your roses ; and she is kind
and cordial … as I thought in the anguish of my soul,
when I tried to be grateful to her. Certainly I should have
been more so, if she had stayed a little less, talked a little
less — it is awful to think how some women can talk !
Happily she leaves London to-morrow morning, and will not
be here again till next year, if then. She talked biography
too … ah, I did not mean to tell you — but it is better to
tell you at once and have done . . only she desired me not
to mention it . . only she little knew what she was doing !
You will not mention it. She told me that ‘ her informant
about Mr. Browning, . . was a lady to whom he had been
engaged . . that there had been a very strong attachment on
both sides, but that everything was broken off by her on the
ground of religious differences — that it happened years ago
and that the lady was married.’ At first I exclaimed im-
prudently enough (but how could it be otherwise ?) that it
was not true — but I caught at the bridle in a minute or two
and let her have it her own way. Do not answer this — it
is nonsense, I know — but it helped to tire me with the rest.
Wasn’t it a delightful day for me ? At the end of the three
hours, she threw her arms round me and kissed me some
half dozen times and wished me ‘ goodbye ‘ till next year.
Wilson found me standing in the middle of the room, look-
ing as she said, ‘ like a ghost.’ And no wonder ! The
‘ vile wind ‘ out of doors was nothing to it.

Dearest, you are well ? Your letter says nothing. Only
one more letter, and then Monday. Ah — it is the sweetest
of flattery to say that you ‘ need ‘ me — but isn’t it difficult
to understand ? Yet while you even fancy that you have
such a need, you may be sure (let Charles Fox break his
promises ever so ! ) of your own

Ba

{1846|} {AND|} {Elizabeth|} {Barrett|} {Barrett|} {157|}