[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.