[Postmark: July 3, 1846]
Friday.
No, dear, dear Ba, I shall not see you to-day in spite of
all the hoping and fancying . . for I could not, as I calculate,
reach Mrs. Jameson’s before 1 o’clock or a little
later . . and there would be the worst of vexations, to know
you had been and gone again ! I persuade myself you may
not pay the visit to-day, . . (‘it is impossible’ you say),
and that it may be paid next week, the week in which there
is only one day for us . . how do you say, dearest ? all
complaining is vain — let to-morrow make haste and arrive !
Ba, there is nothing in your letter that shocks me, —
nothing : if you choose to imagine that ‘possibility,’ you
are consistent in imagining the proper step to take . . it is
all imagining. But I feel altogether as you feel about the
horribleness of married friends, mutual esteemers &c. — when
your name sounds in my ear like any other name, your
voice like other voices, — when we wisely cease to interfere
with each other’s pursuits, — respect differences of taste &c.
&c., all will be over then !
I cannot myself conceive of one respect in which I shall
ever fall from this feeling for you . . there never has been
one word, one gesture unprompted by the living, immediate
love beneath — but there have been many, many, so many
that the same love has suppressed, refused to be represented
by ! I say this, because I can suppose a man taking
up a service of looks and words, which service is only to
last for a time, and so may be endured, — after which the
‘real affection,’ ‘honest attachment’ &c. &c. means to go
to its ends by a shorter road, saving useless ceremony and
phrases . . do you know what I mean ? I hardly do . .
except that it is, whatever it is, opposed, as heaven to earth,
to what I feel is. I count confidently on being more and
more able to find the true words and ways (which may not
be spoken words perhaps), the true rites by which you should
be worshipped, you dear, dear Ba, my entire blessing now
and ever — and ever ; if God shall save me also.
Let me kiss you now, and long for to-morrow — I shall
bring you the poorest flowers — all is brown, dry, autumnal.
The sun shines and reproves me . . After all, there would
have been some rocks in the pleasant water of to-day’s
meeting . . ‘Oh, hardness to dissemble’ !
Here is no dissembling . . I kiss you, my very own !