[Postmark: July 20, 1846]
Sunday.
Dearest, the leaf of yesterday was folded down quite
smoothly and softly. A dinner party swept the thought
of you out of people’s minds. Otherwise I was prepared to
be a little afraid, — for my aunt said to Arabel, upon being
dispensed with so cavalierly from this room, . . (said in the
passage, Arabel told me, with a half-laugh,) ‘Pray which
of Ba’s lovers may this be ? ‘ So Arabel had to tell the
name of the visitor. But the dinner-party set all right, and
this morning I was asked simply whether it had been an
agreeable visit, and what you had written, and banalities
after such a fashion.
Oh, and I went out . . remembering your desire . .
was it not a desire, dearest, dearest ? I went out, any
way — but the wind blew, and I had to hold my veil against
my mouth, doubled, and trebled . . with as many folds,
indeed, as Ajax’s shield . . to keep myself in breathing
order. The wind always gives me a sort of strangling
sensation, which is the effect, I suppose, of having weak
lungs. So it was not a long walk, but I liked it because
you seemed to be with me still, — and Arabel, who walked
with me, was ‘sure, without being told, that I had had a
happy visit, just from my manner.’ The wisest of inter-
preters, I called her, and pour cause.
If ever I mistake you, Robert, doing you an injustice.
. . you ought to be angry, I think, rather and more with me
than with another — I should have far less excuse it appears
to me, for making such a mistake, than any other person in
the world. I thought so yesterday when you were speaking,
and now upon consideration I think so with an increasing
certainty. Is it your opinion that the members of our
family, . . those who live with us always, . . know us best ?
They know us on the side we offer to them . . a bare
profile . . or the head turned round to the ear — yes ! —
they do not, except by the merest chance, look into our
eyes. They know us in a conventional way . . as far from
God’s way of knowing us, as from the world’s — mid-way,
it is — and the truest and most cordial and tender affection
will not hinder this from being so partial a knowledge.
Love ! I love those who at the present moment, . . who
love me (and tenderly on both sides) . . but who are
so far from understanding me, that I never think of
speaking myself into their ears . . of trying to speak myself.
It is wonderful, it is among the great mysteries of life, to
observe how people can love one another in the dark,
blindly . . loving without knowing. And, as a matter of
general observation, if I sought to have a man or woman
revealed to me in his or her innermost nature, I would not
go to the family of the person in question — though I
should learn there best, of course, about personal habits,
and the social bearing of him or her. George Sand delights
me in one of her late works, where she says that the souls of
blood relations seldom touch except at one or two points.
Perfectly true, that is, I think — perfectly.
Remember how you used to say that I did not know
you . . which was true in a measure . . yet I felt I knew
you, and I did actually know you, in another larger measure.
And if now you are not known to me altogether, it is my
dulness which makes me unknowing.
But I know you — and I should be without excuse if
ever I wronged you with a moment’s injustice. I do not
think I ever could depreciate you for a moment, — that
would not be possible. There are other sins against you
(are they against you ?) which bring their own punishment !
You shall never be angry with me for those.
While I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon. As usual he
said that there was no use in his coming — that you had
taken his place, and so on. He was in a high good
humour, though, and spirits, and I did not mind much
what he was pleased to say. More I minded, that he
means ‘to stay in London all the summer ‘ . . which I
can’t be glad of, . . though I was glad at his not persisting
in going to Scotland against his own wishes. But he might
like to go somewhere else — it would be a pleasure, that, in
which I should sympathize ! The more shame for me !
Mr. Chorley pleases me more than he ever pleased me
before ! Only, as an analysis, he has done curiously with
‘Pippa.’ But it is good appreciation, good and righteous,
and he has given me, altogether, a great, great deal of
pleasure. As to the letter, I liked that too in its degree —
and the advice is wise for the head, if foolish for the work.
How can wise people be so foolish ?
I am going out to walk now with Henrietta, and shall
put this letter into the post with my own hand. It is seven
p.m. May God bless you. Do say how you are, dear,
dearest !
I am your very own BA.