[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?