Day: July 7, 2018

[Postmark: July 7, 1846]YS

Tuesday.

Dearest, the first thing to say is the deep joyfulness of expecting to see you, really, to-morrow—mind, the engagement with Mr. Kenyon is nothing in the way. If you cannot let me stay the usual time—I can call, pass away the interval easily . . this is a superfluous word to your goodness which is superfluous in these ‘old ways of Ba’s’—dear Ba, whom I kiss with perfect love—and shall soon kiss in no dream! Landor is all well enough in one sentence . . happily turned that is,—but I am vexed at his strange opinion of Goethe’s poem,—and the more, that a few years ago he wrote down as boldly that nothing had been written so ‘Hellenic’ these two thousand years—(in a note to the ‘Satire on the Satirists’)—and of these opinions I think the earlier much nearer the truth. Then he wrote so, because Wordsworth had depreciated Goethe—now, very likely, some maladroit applauder has said Landor’s own ‘Iphigenia’ is worthy of Goethe,—or similar platitudes.

Yes, dearest, you are quite right—and my words have a wrong sense, and one I did not mean they should bear, if they object to confessions and autobiographies in general. Only the littleness and temporary troubles, the petty battle with foes, which is but a moment’s work however the success may be, all that might go when the occasion, real or fancied, is gone. I would have the customary ‘habits,’ as we say, of the man preserved, and if they were quilted and stiffened with steel and bristling all over with the offensive and defensive weapons the man judged necessary for his safety,—they should be composed and hung up decently—telling the true story of his life. But I should not preserve the fretful gesture,—lift the arm, as it was angrily lifted to keep off a wolf—which now turns out to have been only Flush in a fever of vigilance—half-drew the sword which—Ah, let me have done with this! You understand, if I do not. For the bad story,—the telling that, if it were true, is nearly as bad as inventing it. That poor woman is the hack-block of a certain class of redoubtable braggarts—there are such stories by the dozen in circulation. All may have been misconception . . ‘advances’—to induce one more painter to introduce her face in his works.

My time is out . . I had much to say, but this letter of mine arrived by the afternoon post,—shame on the office! To-morrow!

Bless you, ever dearest dearest —
Your own.

[Postmark: July 7, 1846]

Tuesday Morning

in haste.

Dearest, I am uncertain whether I can see you to-morrow. To-night I will write again — you shall hear. You tell me to risk nothing . . which is what I feel. But I long, long to see you. You shall hear in the morning.

Read the note which Mr. Kenyon sends me from Mr. Forster. Very averse I feel, from applying, in the way prescribed, to Mr. Serjeant Talfourd. Tell me what to do, Robert . . my ‘famous in council!’ Sick at heart, it all makes me. Am I to write to Mr. Talfourd, do you think?

Oh, you would manage it for me — but to mix you up in it, will make a danger of a worse evil. May God bless you, my own. I may see you to-morrow perhaps after all it is a ‘perhaps’ though . . and I am surely

Your BA.

[Postmark: July 7, 1846]

Monday.

But I meant to ‘leave it to you,’ not to come before Wednesday but after Wednesday, in case of some Wednesday’s engagement coming to cross mine. ‘Ba’s old way’ . . do you cry out! Perhaps — only that an engagement is a possible thing always. Not meaning an engagement with Miss Campbell. I hope, hope, then, to be able to see you, dearest Robert, on Wednesday. On Wednesday, at last!

Here is a letter which I had this morning from Mr. Landor, than which can anything be more gracious? It appears . . I forgot to tell you yesterday after I heard it from Mr. Kenyon . . it appears that my note of thanks had my signature affixed to it in such a state of bad writing, that Mr. Landor, being sorely puzzled, sent the letter up to Mr. Forster to be read. Mr. Forster read it (so it could be read!) and then took it to Mr. Kenyon, who read it too, and afterwards came to scold me for being perfectly illegible. It was signed at full length too, Elizabeth Barrett Barrett . . and really I couldn’t believe that I was very guilty till Mr. Lander’s own letter persuaded me this morning of its being so much pleasanter to be guilty than innocent, for the nonce.

Ah — you use the right word for the other subject. If a bequest, it is indeed a ‘dispiriting bequest,’ this of poor Haydon’s. But I hope to the last that he meant simply to point to me as the actual holder of the papers — and certainly when he sent the great trunk here, it was with no intention of dying; Mr. Kenyon agreed with me to that effect — I showed him the notes which I had found and laid aside for you, and which you shall take with you on Wednesday. Still, there must be an editor found somewhere because the papers cannot go as they are to a publisher’s hands from mine, if I only hold them. Does any one say that I am a fit editor? Have I the power? the knowledge of art and artists? of the world? of the times? of the persons? All these things are against me — and others besides.

Now I will tell you one thing which he told me in confidence, but which is at length perhaps in those papers — I tell you because you are myself, and will understand the need and obligation to silence — and I want you to understand besides how the twenty-six volumes hang heavily on my thoughts. He told me in so many words that Mrs. Norton had made advances towards him — and that his children, in sympathy towards their mother, had dashed into atoms the bust of the poetess as it stood in his painting room.

If you can say anything safely for me at Mr. Talfourd’s, of course I shall be glad . . and Mr. Kenyon will speak to Mr. Forster, he said. I want to get back my letters too as soon as I can do it without disturbing anyone’s peace. What is in those letters, I cannot tell, so impulsively and foolishly, sometimes, I am apt to write; and at that time, through caring for nobody and feeling so loose to life, I threw away my thoughts without looking where they fell. Often my sisters have blamed me for writing in that wild way to strangers — and I should like to have the letters back before they shall have served to amuse two or three executors — but of this too, I spoke to Mr. Kenyon.

Still it is not of me that we are called to think — and I would not for the world refuse any last desire, if clearly signified, and if the power should be with me. He was not a common man — he had in him the stuff of greatness, this poor Haydon had; and we must consider reverently whatever rent garment he shall have left behind. Quite, in some respects, I think with you — but your argument does appear to me to sweep out too far on one side, so that if you do not draw it back, Robert, you will efface all autobiography and confession — tear out a page bent over by many learners — I mean when you say that because he is above (now) the passions and frailties he has recorded, we should put from us the record. True, he is above it all — true, he has done with the old Haydon; like a man outgrowing his own childhood he will not spin this top any more. Oh, it is true — I feel it all just as you do. But, after all, a man outgrowing his childhood, may leave his top to children, and no one smile! This record is not for the angels, but for us, who are a little lower at highest. Three volumes perhaps may be taken from the twenty-six full of character and interest, and not without melancholy teaching. Only some competent and sturdy hand should manage the selection; as surely as mine is unfit for it. But where to seek discretion? delicacy?

Dearest, I speak the truth to you — I am not ill indeed. When I was at best in health I used sometimes to be a little weak and faint, and it has only been so for this last day or two. By Wednesday the cloud will have passed. And, do you know, I have found out something from our long parting, . . I have found out that I love you better than even I thought. There’s a piece of finding out! My own dearest — what would become of me indeed, if I could not see you on Wednesday nor on Thursday nor on Friday? — no breath I have, for going on. No breath I should have, for living on. I do kiss you through the distance — since you tell me. I love you with my soul.

Your own I am.

Three of the flowers and nearly all the little blue ones stay with me all this while to comfort me!! isn’t it kind of them?

Two letters to-day — and such letters! Ah — if you love me always but half as much — I will agree with you now for half! Yet, O Hesiod, half is not better than the whole, by any means! Yet . . if the whole went away, and did not leave me half! —

When I was a child I heard two married women talking. One said to the other . . ‘The most painful part of marriage is the first year, when the lover changes into the husband by slow degrees.’ The other woman agreed, as a matter of fact is agreed to. I listened with my eyes and ears, and never forgot it . . as you observe. It seemed to me, child as I was, a dreadful thing to have a husband by such a process. Now, it seems to me more dreadful.

Si l’âme est immortelle
L’amour ne l’est-il pas?

Beautiful verses — just to prove to you that I do not remember only the disagreeable things . . only to teaze you with, like so many undeserved reproaches. And you so good, so best — Ah — but it is that which frightens me! so far best!

You were foolish to begin to love me, you know, as always I told you, my beloved! — but since you would begin, . . go on to do it as long as you can . . do not leave me in the wilderness. God bless you for me! —

I am your BA.

Think if people were to get hold of that imputation on poor Mrs. Norton — think!