[Postmark: June 23, 1846]
Monday Evening.
Well – I did look everywhere for you to-day, – but not
more than I always do – always I do, when I go out, look
for you in the streets . . round the corners ! And Mrs.
Jameson came alone and she and I were alone at Mr.
Rogers’s, and you must help me to thank her some day for
her unspeakable kindness to me, though she did not leap to
the height of the inspiration of managing to let us see those
pictures together. Ah – if she had, it would have been too
much. As it is, she gave me a great deal of pleasure in
the kindest of ways . . and I let it be pleasure, by mixing
it with enough thoughts of you – (otherwise how could it
be pleasure ?) – and she showed the pictures, and instructed
me, really taking pains and instructing me . . and tellin g
me how Rubens painted landscapes . . as how should my
ignorance guess ? . . . and various other unknown things
The first word as we reached the door, frightened me – for
she said that perhaps we might see Mr. Rogers . . which
was a little beyond our covenant – but we did not see him,
and I suppose the Antinous on the staircase is not at all
like him. Grand it is, in its serene beauty. On a colossal
scale, in white marble. For the pictures, they are full
of wonder and divinity – each giving the measure of a
man’s soul. And think . . sketches from the hand of
Michael Angelo and Raphael ! And a statuette in clay,
alive with the life of Michael Angelo’s finger – the blind
eyes looking . . seeing . . as if in scorn of all clay !
And the union of energy and meditation in the whole
attitude ! You have seen the marble of that figure in
Florence. Then, a divine Virgin and child, worn and faded
to a shadow of Raphael’s genius, as Mrs. Jameson explained
to me and the famous ‘ Ecce Homo ‘ of Guido . . and
Rubens’ magnificent ‘ version ‘ as she called it, of Andrea
Mantegna’s ‘Triumph of Julius Caesar.’ So triumphing to
this day ! And Titian, and Tintoretto . . . and what did
not strike me the least, . . a portrait of Rembrandt by him-
self, which if his landscapes, as they say, were ‘ dug out of
nature,’ looks as if it were dug out of humanity. Such a
rugged, dark, deep subterraneous face, . . yet inspired !
seeming to realize that God took clay and breathed into the
nostrils of it. There are both the clay, and the divinity !
And think ! I saw the agreement between the bookseller
and Milton for the sale of Paradise Lost ! with Milton’s
signature and seal ! and ‘ Witnessed by William Greene,
Mr. Milton’s servant.’ How was it possible not to feel
giddy with such sights ! Almost I could have run my head
against the wall, I felt, with bewilderment – and Mrs.
Jameson must have been edified, I have thought since,
through my intense stupidity. I saw too the first edition of
‘ Paradise Lost.’ The rooms are elegant, with no pretension
to splendour . . which is good taste, a part of the good
taste everywhere. Only, on the chimney-piece of the
dining-room, were two small busts, beautiful busts, white
with marble, . . and representing – now, whom, of gods
and men, would you select for your Lares . . to help your
digestion and social merriment ? . . . Caligula and Nero
in childhood! The ‘childhood’ is horribly suggestive to me!
On the side-board is Pope’s bust, by Roubillac – a too ex
pressive, miserable face – drawn with disease and bitter
thoughts, and very painful, I felt, to look at. These things
I liked least, in the selection and arrangement. Every-
thing beside was admirable : and I write and write of it all
as if I were not tired – but I am . . and most with the
excitement and newness. Mrs. Jameson breakfasted with
Mr. Rogers yesterday, she said, and met the Countess
Hahn-Hahn, who was talking of modern literature when
her host suddenly stopped her with a question . . ‘ Did you
ever read Addison ? ‘
How late it is. Must I have done, before I have half
done?
What I did not tell you yesterday is very much in my
thoughts . . do you know ? /, too, ‘ see what I know and
testify what I have felt . . and, as far as my faculties of
perception go ! ‘ I am confident that you had better not
look for a single reason for loving me. Which is worst ?
A bad reason, or no reason at all ? A bad reason, I think
– and accept the alternative. Ah . . my own only beloved.
And how you write to me to-night ! I will read what you
tell me in Landor . . but no words of inspired lips or
pen . . no poet’s word, of the divinest, . . ever went to
my heart as yours in these letters ! Do I not love you ?
am I not your own ? And while deserving nothing of all of
it, I feel it at least – respond to it – my heart is in your
hand. May God bless you . . ‘ and me in that ,’ – because
even He could not bless me without that. Which He
knows.
Your own.
But there is much beauty in Faustina oh, surely !
The lilies, all in blow except one . . which is blowing.
Are we going to have a storm to-night ? It lightens . .
lightens !
