Day: July 1, 2018

[Postmark: 1846-07-0]

Wednesday.

Dearest – dearest, you did once, one time only, call me
by my name – Robert ; and though it was to bid ‘ R. not talk
extravagances ‘ (your very words) still the name so spoken
became what it never had been before to me. I never am
called by any pet-name, nor abbreviation, here at home or
elsewhere . . Oh, best let it alone . . it is one of my in-
communicable advantages to have a Ba of my own, and call
her so – indeed, yes, my Ba ! I write ‘ dearest,’ and ‘ most
dearest,’ but it all ends in – ‘ Ba,’ and the ‘my’ is its frame-
work, – its surrounding arm – Ba – my own Ba ! ‘ Robert ‘
is in Saxon, (ni fallor), ‘ famous in counsel,’ so let him give
a proof of his quality in counselling you to hold your good,
happy inspiration about La Cava (my French map-maker
must have had Ceva in Piedmont in his head) for at such a
place, so situate, we renounce not one sight at Salerno, nor
Amalfi, nor Sorrento . . four miles . . the distance between
your house and Highgate, perhaps ! Cava, – the hollow of
a hill ; and such hills and such hollows are in that land !
Oh, let it be La Cava or Seven Dials, with you !

I passed through Seven Dials this morning – and after-
ward, by your house, – with a heart full of thoughts, – not fuller
than usual, but they were more stirring and alive, near their
source. I called at Mrs. Procter’s door (proceeding from
Forster’s) and then on Mrs. Jameson whom I found and
talked with pleasantly till a visitor came. I do extremely
appreciate her, delight in her . . to avoid saying ‘ love ‘ – I
was never just to her before, far from it. I saw her niece,
a quiet earnest-looking little girl. But did it not please me
to call in at Moxon’s and hear that (amongst other literary
news dexterously enquired after) Miss Barrett’s poems were
selling very well and would ere long be out of print ? And,
after that pleasure, came the other of finding dear, generous,
noble Carlyle had sent his new edition of ‘ Cromwell,’ three
great volumes, with his brave energetic assurance of ‘ regards ‘
and ‘ many ‘ of them, in black manly writing on the first
page. So may he continue to like me till he knows you ;
when it will be ‘ mine ‘ instead of me, that he shall love –
‘ love ‘ ? I let the whole world love you – if they can over-
take my love. As I read on, about the visit to Mr. Boyd,
I thought, ‘ I trust she will kiss his forehead,’ – and I kiss
yours – thus – for that, too, – in gratitude for that. You dear,
good, blessing of a Ba, how I kiss you ! –

R. B.

I am quite well to-day, and my mother is quite well –
The good account of the visit is enough to make me happy
on a Wednesday – leading to a Saturday ! Then my two
letters !

I did not see Moxon – only the brother – who tells odd
stories drily ; one made me laugh to-day. Poor Mr. Reade,
Landor’s love, sent a book to Campbell the Poet, and then
called on him … to discover him in the very act of wiping
a razor on a leaf torn out of the book, laid commodiously by
his toilet-table for the express purpose.

[Postmark: July 1, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Thank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter.
He loves you, admires you, trusts you. When what is done
cannot be undone, then he will forgive you besides – that
is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself to see all
manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked
him to look. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look
on the encouragement of ever so many more kind notes,
pleasant as they are to read, and worthy to trust to, under
certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon – but how good he
is ! And I love him more (shall it be under-love ?) because
of his right perception and understanding of you – no one
among men sets you higher than he does as a man and as a
poet – even if he misses the subtle sense, sometimes.

So you dine with him – don’t you ? And I shall have
you on Wednesday instead of Thursday ! yes, certainly.
And on Saturday, of course, next time.

In the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and
as he was not at home, left a card for a footstep. Then
Arabel and Flush and I proceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s
in St. John’s Wood, and I was so nervous . . so anxious for
an excuse for turning back . . that . . can you guess what
Arabel said to me ? ‘ Oh Ba ‘ ; she said, ‘ such a coward as
you are, never will be . . married, while the world lasts.’
Which made me laugh if it did not make me persevere – for
you see by it what her notion is of an heroic deed ! So,
there, I stood at last, at the door of poor Mr. Boyd’s
dark little room, and saw him sitting . . as if he had not
moved these seven years – these seven heavy, changeful
years. Seeing him, my heart was too full to speak at first,
but I stooped and kissed his poor bent-down forehead,
which he never lifts up, his chin being quite buried in his
breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and Cyprus
wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a
god, to take a little of the Cyprus, – there was no help for
me, nor alternative : so I took as little as I could, while he
went on proving to me that the Adamic fall and corruption
of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great theologian) were
never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified as
in the literary controversy about Ossian; every man of the
Highland Society having a lost soul in him ; and Walter
Scott . . . oh, the woman who poisoned all her children
the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott, . . so we need not
talk of him any more. ‘ Arabel ! how much has she taken
of that wine ? not half a glass.’ ‘ But Mr. Boyd, you would
not have me be obliged to carry her home.’

That visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde
Park, and drove close to the Serpentine, and then returned.
Flush would not keep his head out of the window (his
favourite pleasure) all the way, because several drops of rain
trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his
ears : – his nose so near, too !

Right you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau,
though your reasons are too gracious to be right . . except
indeed as to the physical inaptitude, which is an obvious
truth. Another truth (to my mind) is, that women, as they
are (whatever they may be) have not mental strength any
more than they have bodily ; have not instruction, capacity,
wholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a
class, have defects, is as false I think, as to deny that women
have wrongs.

Then you are right again in affirming that the creators
have no business there, with the practical men – you should
not be there for instance. And / (if I am to be thought of)
would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni (Dearest
there is a manufactory of maccaroni and writing-paper at
Amalfi close by – observe that combination ! maccaroni and
writing-paper !) I would be prouder to eat cresses and mac-
caroni with you as you, than to sit with diamonds in my ears,
under the shelter of the woolsack, you being a law-lord and
parliamentary maker of speeches ! By the way, I couldn’t
have diamonds in my ears : they never were bored for it . .
as I never was born for it. A physical inaptitude, here too !

Shall I say what you tell me . . ‘You never seriously
believed ‘ . . . shall I ? I will, if you like. But it is not
Ceva, if you like it is Cava . . La Cava . . in my map,
and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the place is
the same four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘ enchant-
ingly beautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this en-
chanting place which has no English in it, with porticoes like
Bologna, and too little known to be spelt correctly by the
most accomplished geographers.

Ah – your head is ‘ dizzy,’ my beloved ! Tell me how it
is now. And tell me how your mother is. I think of you –
love you. I, who am discontented with myself, . . self-
condemned as unworthy of you, in all else . . am yet satisfied
with the love I have for you – it seems worthy of you, as
far as an abstract affection can go, without taking note
of the personality loving.

Do you see the meaning through the mist ? Do you
accept

Your very own BA?