[Postmark: June 26, 1846]
Friday Morning.
I drew the table to the fire before I wrote this. Here
is cool weather, grateful to those overcome by last week’s
heat, I suppose ! – much as one conceives of a day’s starva-
tion being grateful to people who were overfeasted some
time back. But the coolness (that is, piercing cold as the
north wind can make) sets me to ponder on what you said
yesterday, – of considering summer as beginning next Wed-
nesday, or there about, and ending by consequence with
September. Our time is ‘ at the Summer’s end ‘ : and it
does strike me that there may be but too many interpositions
beside that of ‘ my own will ‘ . . far too many. If those
equinoctial winds disturb the sea, the cold weather adds
to the difficulties of the land-journey . . then the will may
interpose or stand aloof . . I cannot take you and kill you
. . really, inevitably kill you ! As it is .. or rather, as it
might be, I should feel during a transit under the most
favourable circumstances possible, somewhat as the per-
former of that trick by which a full glass of water resting in
the open hand is made to describe a circle from above to
below and back without spilling a drop – through some good-
natured suspension, in the operator’s interest, of just a
fundamental law of the universe, no more ! Therefore if
any September weather shall happen in September . . let us
understand and wait . . another year ! and another, and
another.
Now, have I ever, with all those askings, asked you once
too often, that is, unnecessarily – ‘if this should be,’ – or
‘ when this should be ? ‘ What is my ‘ will ‘ to do with it ?
Can I keep the winds away, alas ? My own will has all
along been annihilated before you, – with respect to you – I
should never be able to say ‘ she shall dine on fish, or fruit,’
‘She i shall wear silk, gloves or ‘thread gloves’ – even to
exercise in fancy that much ‘ will over you ‘ is revolting – I
will this, never to be ‘ over you ‘ if I could !
So, you decide here as elsewhere – but do decide, Ba,
my own only Ba – do think, to decide. I can know nothing
here as to what is gained or lost by delay or anticipation – I
only refer to the few obvious points of the advantage of
our ‘ flight not being in the winter ‘ – and the consideration
that the difficulty in another quarter will never be less nor
more, – therefore is out of the question.
I will tell you something I meant to speak of yesterday.
Mrs. Jameson said Mr. Kenyon had assured her, with the
kindest intentions, that it was quite vain to make those
offers of company to Pisa or elsewhere, for your Father
would never give his consent, and the very rationality of the
plan, and probability of the utmost benefit following the
adoption of it, would be the harder to forego the more they
were entertained – whereupon, ‘having the passions of his
kind he spoke some certain things ‘ – bitter and unavoid-
able. Then Mrs J. spoke too, as you may imagine ; ap-
parently from better knowledge than even I possess. Now
I repeat this to your common- sense, my Ba – it is not hard to
see that you must be silent and suffering, where no other
can or will be either – so that if a verdict needs must be
pronounced on our conduct, it will be ‘ the world’s ‘ and
not an individual’s – and for once a fair one. Mrs. Jame-
son’s very words were . . (writing from what has been, observe
what is irrevocably past, and not what may be) – ‘ I feel
unhappy when in her presence . . impelled to do her some
service, and impeded. Can nothing be done to rescue
her from this ? ought it to continue ? ‘ So speaks – not your
lover ! – who, as he told you, did long to answer ‘ someone
with attempt, at least ! ‘ But it was best, for Mrs. Jameson
would be blamed afterward, as Mr. K. might be abused, as
ourselves will be vituperated, as my family must be
calumniated . . by whom
Do you feel me kiss your feet while I write this ? I
think you must, Ba ! There is surely, – I trust, surely no
impatience here, in this as in the other letter – if there is, I
will endeavour to repress it . . but it will be difficult – for I
love you, and am not a stock nor a stone.
And as we are now, – another year !
Well, kissing the feet answers everything, declares
everything – and I kiss yours, my own Ba.