Day: August 7, 2018

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Friday Morning.

(First of all, let me tell you that the whole story about
that death through grief, madness &c, turns out to be a vile
fabrication, — false from beginning to end. My mother’s
informant, I now find, had derived the knowledge from
newspaper also — I hope the other tale, of the Turk, is true
at least.)

And now, love, I can go on to say that no letter comes —
is it the post’s fault ? Yes — I think, — so does your
goodness spoil me — you have to tell me about to-morrow,
beside. I shall wait hopefully till 2 or 3 o’clock.

Mr. Kenyon was there last evening, for all my prognostications
— he had already twice passed this place in the course of
the day on his way to Lewisham. He soon asked me as I
expected — or something that sounded like it — for, in
the half whisper of his tone, I can only hope he did not put
the question thus ‘ Have you seen Miss Barrett since Saturday,
— or have you called to-day ? ‘ My mind misgives a little
— at all events I only answered the last part of the sentence
— and now, mark you ! — after dinner he proposed that I
should go to him on Wednesday, and make one of a party
he is organising. I tried some faint excuse or other — ‘ You
know,’ interposed he, ‘ you can pay a visit to Wimpole Street
and I shall know and keep away from troubling you ‘ — or
words to that effect. I thought it really better to simply (in
every sense of the word) smile, and attempt to say nothing.
Now, I feel sure that if I were to remark, ‘ I will call on
Mrs. Jameson ‘ — for instance — he would say, ‘So will I,
then, if I can ‘ — on that day, rather than any other —
unless some special business had been mentioned as the object
of my visit. And here is another inconvenience he will perhaps
consider ‘ As he means to call on Wednesday, — there is no
reason I should keep away to-morrow — Saturday — ‘

It will be, however, a justification in his eyes at the end
— ‘ he knew her so well, saw so much of her, — who could
wonder ? ‘

I sate by a pleasant chatting Jewess, Goldsmid, or whatever
the name is, — also by Thackeray — and Milnes came in
the evening, — yet the dulness was mortal, and I am far
from my ordinary self to-day. I am convinced that general
society depresses my spirits more than any other cause. I
could keep by myself for a month till I recovered my mind’s
health. But you are part or all of that self now, — and
would be, were you only present in memory, in fancy. As
it is, oh, to be with you, Ba ?

Three o’clock, no letter ! I will put my own philosophy
in practice and be consoled that you are not in any
circumstances to justify and require anxiety — not unwell
— nor have any fresh obstacles arisen necessarily . . Any
alleviations so long as I am allowed to keep a good
substantial misfortune at the end !

Once you said in your very own way . . when I sent
you some roses in a box, and no letter with them, ‘ Now I
shall write no more to-day, not having been written to ! ‘ I
cannot write more — I see ! Ah, Ba, here the letter comes ! !
and I will wait from reading it to kiss my gratitude to you,
you utterly best and dearest ! And I repeat my kisses while
I write the few words there is time for — what a giver you
are of all good things all together. Let me take the best
first, not minding ingratitude to the rest, and say yes,
to-morrow I will see you — even if Mr. Kenyon comes, it
will be easy saying — ‘ I cannot go on Wednesday.’ Did you
manage so well with Mrs. Jameson ? As for Horne, — why,
there may have been Sordelloisms, I daresay — I only meant,
‘ if you look an invalid to him, — he will say so, just when
your improved health is my one excuse for the journey and
its fatigues — and if you look plainly no longer an invalid ‘
— Oh, I don’t know . . I thought he might talk of that too,
and bring in a host ! There is the secret, rendered more
obscurely perhaps ! As for the room, the dearest four walls
that I ever have been enclosed by — I only thought of the
possible phrase — ‘ Still confined to her room ‘ — or the
like — and as — that is the fact, — I rather understood
the whole tone in which you spoke of the circumstance, as
of slight dissatisfaction at the notion of the intended visit
. . in tuam sententiam discedens, I sordelloized !

The words about your health reassure me, beloved ! I
had no positive fears quite as you suppose . . but I coupled
one circumstance with another, do you see, and did get to
apprehend what you now show me to be groundless,
thank God !

Oh, my time ! Bless you, ever, ever, beloved !

Your own R.

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Thursday.

I told you nothing yesterday ; but the interruption left
me no time, and the house was half asleep before I had
done writing what I was able to write. Otherwise I wanted
to tell you that Mrs. Jameson had been here . . that she
came yesterday, and without having received my note. So
I was thrown from my resources. I was obliged to thank
her with my voice . . so much weaker than my hand. If
you knew how frightened I was ! The thunder, the
morning before, (which I did not hear holding your hand !)
shook me less, upon the whole. I thanked her at least . .
I could do that. And then I said it was in vain . .
impossible.

‘ Mr. Kenyon threw cold water on the whole scheme.
But you ! Have you given up going to Italy ? ‘

I said ‘no, that I have not certainly.’ I said ‘I felt
deeply how her great kindness demanded every sort of
frankness and openness from me towards her, — and yet,
that at that moment I could not be frank — there were
reasons which prevented it. Would she promise not to
renew the subject to Mr. Kenyon ? not to repeat to him
what I said ? and to wait until the whole should be
explained to herself ?’

She promised. She was kind beyond imagination — at
least, far beyond expectation. She looked at me a little
curiously, but asked no more questions until she rose to go
away. And then —

‘ But you will go ? ‘ ‘ Perhaps — if something unforeseen
does not happen.’ ‘ And you will let me know, and when
you can, — when everything is settled ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you
think you shall go?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And with efficient
companionship?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And happily and quietly?’ .
‘Ye . . ‘ I could not say the full ‘Yes,’ to that — If
it had been utterable, the idea of ‘ quiet ‘ would have been
something peculiar. She loosened her grasp of her
catechumen, therefore — nothing was to be done with me.

I forgot, however, to tell you that in the earlier part of
the discussion she spoke of having half given up her plan
of going herself. In her infinite goodness she said, ‘she
seemed to want an object, and it was in the merest
selfishness, she had proposed taking me as an object ‘ —
‘ And if you go even without me, would it not be possible
to meet you on the road ? I shall go to Paris in any case.
If you go, how do you go ? ‘

‘ Perhaps across France — by the rivers.’

‘Precisely. That is as it should be. Mr. Kenyon
talked of a long sea-voyage.’

Now I have recited the whole dialogue to you, I think,
except where my gratitude grew rhetorical, as well it might.
She is the kindest, most affectionate woman in the world !
and you shall let me love her for you and for me.

As for me, my own dearest, you are fanciful when you
say that I do not go out so much, nor look so well. Now
I will just tell you — Henrietta cried out in loud
astonishment at me to-day, desiring Treppy to look at
my face, when we were all standing together in this room
— ‘ Look at Ba, Treppy ! — Did you ever see anyone
looking so much better ; it really is wonderful, the
difference within these few weeks.’ That’s Henrietta’s
opinion ! She quite startled me with crying out . . as
if suddenly she had missed my head ! — And you !

Then I have been out in the carriage to-day, just to
Charing Cross, and then to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood.
I am as well at this moment as anyone in the world. I have
not had one symptom of illness throughout the summer —
perfectly well, I am. At the same time, being strong is
different ; and sometimes for a day or two together, when I
do not feel the strongest, it is right to be quiet and not to
walk up and down stairs. So as I ‘ love Ba,’ (quite enough,
I assure you !) I am quiet. There’s the only meaning of not
going out every day ! But the health is perfectly unaffected,
I do assure you, — so keep yourself from every vexing
thought of me, so far at least. Are you getting frightened
for me, my beloved ? Do not be frightened, I would not
deceive you by an exaggeration, for the sake even of your
temporary satisfaction — you may trust what I say.

For the thunder . . if you thought of me during it, as
you say, . . why it did me just so much good. Think of
me, dearest, in the thunder and out of the thunder ; the
longest peal’s worth of your thought would not content me
now, because you have made me too covetous.

As to Mr. Horne, you write Sordelloisms of him — and
you shall tell me your real meaning in a new edition on
Saturday. Might your meaning be that I look worse in this
room than in the drawing-room ? Have you an objection
to this room as a room ? I rub my eyes and look for a
little more light — (but can’t be more impertinent ! —
can I ?)

So, till Saturday — yes, Saturday ! To-morrow there is a
clearance of aunts — one going at nine in the morning,
and one at five in the afternoon : and uncles and cousins
do not stay behind. You are glad, I think — and I, not
sorry.

How striking your two stories are ! Wonderful it is to
me, when mere worldly reverses affect men so — I cannot
comprehend it — I stand musing there. But the sublime
sentiment of the Melon-seller applies to the griefs I can
understand — and we may most of us (called Christians)
go to him for his teaching.

May God bless you for me ! Your BA.

(I want to say one word more and so leave the subject.
Stormie told me this morning, in answer to an enquiry of
mine, that certainly I did not receive the whole interest of
the fund-money, . . could not . . making ever so much
allowance for the income-tax. And now, upon consideration,
I seem to see that I cannot have done so. The ship-shares
are in the ‘ David Lyon,’ a vessel in the West Indian trade,
in which Papa also has shares. Stormie said ‘ There must
be three hundred a year of interest from the fund-money —
even at the low rate of interest paid there.’ Now it would
be the easiest thing in the world (as I saw even in to-day’s
newspaper) to have money advanced upon this — only there
is a risk of its being known perhaps, which neither of us
would at all like.) Burn this.