[Postmark: July 27, 1846]
Sunday.
Mr. Kenyon said nothing, — except a few words at
dinner about the mistake of Talfourd, to Forster, — nothing
whatever, though we sat together and talked for some time
before the arrival of the company. And all that I heard
about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some
wish she meant to express in a letter, of seeing me there.
So you will have to tell me and tell me, dearest, when you
know anything — to-day perhaps.
My own Ba, do not refer to what we spoke of — the next
vile thing to the vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding
that, — painfully, ostentatiously, protesting and debating —
only it seemed absolutely necessary to say thus much at
some time, and early : — now it is done with, — you
understanding what I expect at your hands.
Mr. Longman was of the party yesterday — speaking of
Haydon, he remarked on his omitting to mention in the
list of his creditors, ‘ the House ‘ — to which he owed about
100l. being the loss consequent on publishing his ‘Book’
— the Lectures, I suppose — then, in a break, he said, in
answer to a question from Forster, that the Book in question
had gone into a second edition, but ‘ Oh, no — the
Author had received nothing for it ! ‘ And he lost the
money, poor fellow, besides ! Is not that inexplicable to
all save booksellers ? Also, what could be his need for
another person’s intermediation with the Longmans since
he knew them so well and so long !
I hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on
Tuesday. Do you think I am any longer able to appreciate
properly the additional gift of the day in the week ? I only
know that I do not see you now, my Ba — and I feel as if I
were — the words must not be written ! I need all of
you, — utterly dearest dearest that you are ! My next day,
my ‘ Sunday ‘ is the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted
time (in the worldly sense of not working in it) as at
present, — I read books and at the turning of every page go
back again for shame . . the words only before the eyes,
the thoughts of you before the mind.
I found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our
indefatigable Bennett, — the happy man ! By the way (a very
roundabout one), someone mentioned yesterday as an
agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in Sydney Smith,
that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally
pour water down, or up, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for
coolness’ sake. Nobody made a remark — nor spoke of such
a feat’s disqualifying its performer from going into good
society. Now do you remember poor Horne and the
censorship of his manners? — were not his more rational
libations found abominable ? See the association — Bennett
— Miss Mitford — Horne? But I cannot write sensibly to-
day, nor insensibly, which would be more amusing perhaps
— I can only know I am — here, on Sunday ! and whatever
the pen may force itself to put down, my one thought is,
that you are not here. To-morrow I shall hear, and get
fresh strength in the anticipation of Tuesday, — if the letter
tells me you are well — the ‘ headache for two days,’ — tell
me, my own Ba !
Bless you, ever best and dearest.