Wednesday, May 20.
Was it very wrong of me that never did I once think of
the possibility of your coming here with Mr. Kenyon ?
Never once had I the thought of it. If I had, I should
have put it away by saying aloud ‘ Don’t come ‘ ; because as
you say, it would have prevented Saturday’s coming, the
coming to-day would, . . and also, as you do not say, it would
have been infinitely hard for me to meet you and Mr. Kenyon
in one battalion. Oh no, no ! The gods forefend that you
should come in that way ! It was bad enough as it was,
to-day, when while he sate here his ten minutes, (first showing
me a sonnet from America, which began ‘ Daughter of
GrÊcian Genius ! ‘) he turned those horrible spectacles full
on me and asked, ‘ Does Mrs. Jameson know that Mr.
Browning comes here?’ ‘No,’ said I, — suddenly abashed,
though I had borne the sonnet like a hero. ‘ Well, then !
I advise you to give directions to the servants that when she
or anyone else asks for you, they should not say Mr.
Browning is with you — as they said the other day to Miss
Bayley who told me of it.’ Now, wasn’t that pleasant to
hear? I thanked him for his advice, and felt as uncomfortable
as was well possible — and am, at this moment, a
little in doubt how he was thinking while he spoke. Perhaps
after the fashion of my sisters, when they cry out ‘ Such a
state of things never was heard of before ! ‘ Not that they
have uttered one word of opposition . . not, from the first
they knew, . . understand ! — but that they are frightened
at what may be said by people who take for granted that we
are strangers, you and I, to one another. Ah ! — a little
more, a little less . . of what consequence is it ?
Such a day, to-day ! — it was finer last year I remember !
and Tuesday, instead of Wednesday ! Your sister was right,
very right — though mine went — but the distance was less,
with us. A party of twelve went from this house — ‘ among
us but not of us.’ For my part, I have not stirred from my
room of course — the carriage was out of the question. And,
if you please, I never ‘ promised’ to be at the park gate— oh
indeed, I never meditated seeing you even from afar — I
thought only that I should hear a little distant music and
remember that, where it sounded, you were, that was all,
. . and too much, the stars made out, and so drove down the
clouds.
Poor Mr. Kenyon was grave — depressed about his
friend, who is in a desperate state — dying in fact. He
returns to Portsmouth to-morrow to be with him till the
change comes.
Dearest, how are you ? Never now will you condescend
to say how you are. Which is not to be allowed in this
second year of our reign. I am very well. Yesterday I
heard some delightful matrimonial details of an ‘ establishment’
in Regent’s Park, quite like an old pastoral in the
quickness of the repartee. ‘ I hate you ‘ — ‘ I abhor you ‘
— ‘ I never liked you ‘ — ‘ I always detested you.’ A cup and
saucer thrown bodily, here, by the lady ! On which the
gentleman upsets her, . . chair and all, . . flat on the floor.
The witness, who is a friend of mine, gets frightened and
begins to. cry. She was invited to the house to be godmother
to their child, and now she is pressed to stay longer to witness
the articles of separation.
Oh, I suppose such things are common enough ! — But
what is remarkable here, is the fact that neither party is a
poet, by the remotest courtesy.
Goodnight, dear dearest —
I am your
Ba.