Day: July 2, 2018

[Postmark: July 2, 1846]

Thursday.

Dear, you might as well imagine you had never given
me any other of the gifts, as that you did not call me, as I
tell you. You spoke quickly, interrupting me, and, for the
name, ‘I can hear it, ‘twixt my spirit and the earth-noise
intervene ‘ ; do you think I forget one gift in another, even
a greater ? I should still taste the first freshness of the
vinegar, (or whatever was the charm of it) – though Cleopatra
had gone on dissolving pearl after pearl in it. I love you for
these gifts to me now – hereafter, it seems almost as if I
must love you even better, should you choose to continue
them to me in spite of complete knowledge : I feel this as
often as I think of it, which is not seldom.

Do you know, Mrs. Jameson asked me to go and see
her on Friday morning – would you like me to go ? What
I like . . do not fancy, because your own pleasure is to
be consulted. Should you fear the eyes, which can, on
occasion, wear spectacles ? If not . . and if our Saturday
will not be interfered with . . and if you can tell me the
hour ‘ later than twelve ‘ you mean to appoint, . . so that
my call may be neither too early nor too late . . why, then,
Ba, dearest, dearest –

La Cava – is surely our cave, Ba – early in October will
be vintage-time, – no fire flies. There will be the advantage
in the vicinity of Naples, that through the Rothschilds’
House there we can, I believe, receive and dispatch letters
without any charge, which otherwise would be an expen-
sive business in Italy. The economy of the Post Office
there is astounding. A stranger goes to a window and asks
for ‘ A’s ‘ or ‘ Z’s ‘ letters . . not even professing himself to
be ‘A,’ or ‘Z’ – whereupon the official hands over sundry
dozens of letters, without a word of enquiry, out of which
the said stranger picks what pleases him, and paying for his
selections, goes away and there an end. At Venice, I
remember, they offered me, with other letters, about ten or
fifteen for the Marquis of Hastings who was not arrived yet –
I had only to say ‘ I am sent for them ‘ . . At Rome a
lady lamented to me the sad state of things ‘ A letter
might contain Heaven only knew what and lie at the office
and ‘ – ‘I might go and get it,’ I said – ‘ You? Nay, my
husband might ! ‘ she answered as one mightily wronged.

But of your dear self now – the going out will soon and
effectually cure the nervousness, we may be sure. I am
most happy, love, to hear of the walking and increased
strength. So you used to like riding on a donkey ? Then
you shall have a mule, un bel mulo, and I will be your
muleteer, walk by your side – and you will think the
moment you see him of the wicked shoeing of cats with
walnut-shells, for they make a mule’s shoes turn up, for all
the world like large shells – those on his forefeet at least.
Will the time really come then ? Meanwhile, your visitors
. . let us hope they will go sight-seeing or call-making, do
anything but keep the house on our days . . The three
hours seem as a minute . . if they are to be curtailed, oh,
no, no, I hope. Tell me all you can, dearest . . and let me
tell you all I can, little as it is, in kissing you, my best and
dearest Ba, as now kisses your very own.

[Postmark: July 2, 1846]

Wednesday.

No, No ! indeed I never did. If you heard me say
‘ Robert,’ it was on a stair-landing in the House of Dreams
– never anywhere else ! Why how could you fancy such a
thing ? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience
which spoke instead of me, saying ‘ Robert, don’t be extra-
vagant.’ Yes – just the speech that is, for a ‘ good uneasy,’
discerning Conscience and you took it for my speech !
‘ Don’t be extravagant ‘ I may certainly have said. Both I
and the Conscience might have said so obvious a thing.

Ah and now I have got the name, shall I have courage
to say it ? tell me, best councillor ! I like it better than
any other name, though I never spoke it with my own lips
– I never called any one by such a name . . except once
when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have,
called Robert but to me he is an ‘ uncle Hedley ‘ and no
more. So it is a white name to take into life. Isn’t this
an Hebraic expression of a preferring affection . . ‘ I have
called thee by thy name} ? And therefore, because you are
the best, only dearest ! – – Robert.

You passed by and I never knew ! How foolish – but
really it quite strikes me as something wonderful, that I
should not have known. I knew however of your being in
London, because . . . (don’t expect supernatural evidence)
Mrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five,
and brought her niece whom I liked just for the reasons you
give ; and herself was feeling and affectionate as ever : – it
is well that you should give me leave to love her a little.
Once she touched upon Italy . . and I admitted that I
thought of it, and thought it probable as an event . . on
which she pressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’
‘ Perhaps on my own courage,’ I said. ‘ Oh,’ she exclaimed
‘ now I see clearly.’

Which made me smile . . the idea of her seeing clearly,
but earnestly and cordially she desired me to remember that
to be useful to me in any manner, would give her pleasure.
Such kindness ! The sense of it has sunk into my heart.
You cannot praise her too much for me. She was so kind,
that when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street
on Friday, I could not help agreeing at once : and I am to
have the sofa and no company – that’s a promise. She
asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to bring Mr. Kenyon
for an escort – but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s
going, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to
fix a later hour, because . .

Listen to the because. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my
cousin, her adopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow
evening, and stay in this house . . oh, I cannot tell you how
long : for a whole week as a beginning, certainly. I have
been sighing and moaning so about it that Arabel calls it
quite a scandal – but when one can’t be glad, why should it
be so undutiful to appear sad ? If she had but stayed in
Paris six months longer ! Well ! – and to-morrow morning
Miss Mitford comes to spend the day like the kind dear
friend she is ; and I, not the least in the world glad to see
her ! Why have you turned my heart into such hard por-
phyry ? Once, when it was plain clay, every finger (of these
womanly fingers) left a mark on it – and now, . . you see !
Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to her chiefly (as I
know in myself) because she sees you as you are in part,
and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it
. . however she may, and must consistently, expect us to
torment one another, according to the way of the ‘ artistic
temperament,’ evermore, and ever more and more. But for
the rest, the others who do not know you and value you . .
I hate to see them . . and there’s the truth ! There is some-
thing too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness
enforced on occasion ! . which is painful and hateful.
Detestable it all is.

And I like La Cava too ! Think of a hollow in the
mountain . . something like a cave, do you think ? At least
it must be a hollow in the mountains. I wrote to my friend
this morning to ask if the place is considered warm, and if
she knew any more of it. The ‘ porticoes as at Bologna ‘ look
attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by ; and
Baba may escape the forty thieves of English in the Cave,
with a good watchword like Sesame – now that’s half my
nonsense and half yours, I beg you to observe. I won’t be
at the charge of it all.

I was out to-day – walked up, walked down, in my old
fashion – only I do improve in walking, I think, and gain
strength.

May God bless you dear dearest ! I am your own.