[Postmark: August 6, 1846]
Thursday Morning.
No, dearest, — the post brought me no letter till early
this morning, a few hours before the second arrival : so, in
case of any unexpected stoppage in our visit-affairs, if the
post can have been to blame, always be sure it is ; if I do
not arrive at any time when I ought to arrive, having been
sent for — there is the great instance and possibility,
which you are to remember ! However at present, post naufragia
tutus sum with my two treasures.
Thank you, dearest, for all that kind care of answering —
will you now let me lay it all quietly up in my head to
mature, before I . . really think upon it, much more, speak
of it ? If one can do both once for all, what a blessing !
But a little leaven of uncertainty and apprehension, just
enough to be tasted bitterly in the whole lump of our life,
— that cannot be too diligently guarded against while
there is time.
Well, love, your excursion to Kensington was a real
good, well purchased by my early going — and I am glad the
great event stood before all eyes and mouths. I seem to
notice that you do not leave the house quite so often as,
say, a month ago ; and that you are not the better for it.
Of course you cannot go out in storm and rain. Will you
do what is best for my Ba, you who say you love me, —
that is, love her ?
Don’t I sympathize with Horne, and see with his eyes,
and want with his senses ! But why can he not want after
the two months, I ask selfishly — seeing, or fancying I see,
this inconvenience . . that, as his report will probably be the
latest to the world, it would be advisable for you to look as
well as possible, — would it not ? It would not do for him
to tell people ‘ All I can say is, that a few weeks only before
it happened, she appeared to me thus and thus ‘ — while, on
the other hand, if you receive him in the drawing room, —
there are difficulties too.
You never told me how yesterday’s thunder affected
you — nor how your general health is — yet I will answer you
that I am very well to-day — about to go to Mrs. Procter’s,
alas — it is good that this letter cannot reach you before
night or nine o’clock — I should fail to deny myself the
moment’s glance at the window — if you could be prayed to stand
there ! But it is past praying for now. I told you that I have
excused myself to Mrs. Jameson on the ground of some
kind of uncertainty that rules the next fortnight’s engagements
— who shall say what a fortnight may not bring forth ?
I shall not mind Mr. Kenyon being of the party to-night,
should it be so ordered . . for, if he asks me, I can
say with dignity — ‘ No, — I did not call to-day, — meaning
to call on Saturday, perhaps’ — ‘Well, there is some
forbearance,’ he will think ! However, he will not be present,
I prophesy, and Chorley will . . or no, perhaps, Rachel’s
Jeanne D’Arc may tempt him. Important to Ba, very !
almost as much as to me — so at once to the really, truly,
exclusively important thing, by comparison — Love me ever,
dearest dearest, as I must ever love you, — and take my heart,
as if it were a better offering. Also write to me and tell me
that Saturday is safe . . will it be safe ? Your aunt may
perhaps leave you soon — and one observation of hers would
be enough to ruin us — consider and decide !
Since these words were written, my mother, who was
out, entered the room to confirm a horrible paragraph
in the paper. You know our light momentary annoyance at
the storm on Saturday ; it is over for us. The next day,
Mr. Chandler, the cultivator of camellias at Wandsworth,
died of grief at the loss from the damage to his
conservatories and flowers — which new calamity added to
the other, deprived his eldest son, and partner — of his
senses . . ‘ he was found to be raving mad on Monday ‘
are the words of the Times. My mother’s informant called
theirs ‘ the most amicable of families. ‘
How strange — and a few weeks ago I read, in the same
paper, a letter from Constantinople — wherein the writer
mentioned that he had seen (I think, that morning) Pacha
somebody, whose malpractices had just drawn down on him
the Sultan’s vengeance, and who had been left with barely
his life, — having lost his immense treasures, palaces and
gardens &c., along with his dignity, — the writer saw this
old man selling slices of melon on a bridge in the city ;
and on stopping in wonderment to praise such constancy, the
Turk asked him with at least equal astonishment, whether it
was not fitter to praise Allah who had lent him such wealth
for forty years, than to repine that he had judged right to
recall it now ?
Could we but practise it, as we reason on it ! — May God
continue me that blessing I have all unworthily received . .
but not, I trust, insensibly received!
May he keep you, dearest dearest
R.