[Postmark: August 11, 1846]
Monday Morning.
Then let it be Tuesday. It will correct, too, my stupidity
to Mr. Kenyon, for easily you may reply to his certain
question, that you had not been here on Wednesday but meant
to go on Friday instead. Ah well ! By the time all this is
over we shall be fit to take a degree in some Jesuits’
college — we shall have mastered all the points of casuistry.
To wash one’s hands of it, and then throw away the water,
will be something gained at least.
Dearest, no, indeed ! — there is nothing for your goodness
to do in that badness I told you of, and which you describe
so precisely in your word, ‘ drunkenness ‘ of mind. It is
precisely that, and no more nor less — a throwing off of
moral restraint . . a miserable degradation. One may
get angry, frightened, disgusted — but, after all,
compassion comes in : — and who would think of fighting a
delirious man with a sword ? It would be a cruelty, like
murder. There is a fine nature too, under these ruins of
the will ; and a sensibility which strikes inwards and
outwards — (no one else should have any sensibility, within
a thousand miles.) Think of a sort of dumb Rousseau, — with
the ‘ Confessions ‘ in him, pining evermore to get out ! A
miserable man, first by constitution and next by fortune —
seeing only the shadow, for the sun, — the nettles in the
field, — and breathing hard when he stands among garden-roses,
to attain to smelling the onions over the wall. I have told
him sometimes that he had a talent for anger ! — ‘ indignatio
facit orationes ‘ : and that is his pleasure, ‘ par excellence,’
— to be let talk against this abuse or that abuse, this class
of men or that class of men, this or that world’s misery or
offence : — he will rise up in it and be eloquent and happy.
Otherwise . . mecreants we must be, he thinks, who dare
to be happy in this vale of tears. Life is a long moan to
him. And is not such a man enough punished ? For me,
I have not had the heart to take quite the position I ought
to have done, looking only to his most outrageous bearing
towards myself — although he talks of my scorn and
sarcasms, as if I had shown myself quite equal to self-defence.
An old, old friend, too ! — known as a friend these twelve or
thirteen years ! And then, men are nearly all the same in
the point of wanting generosity to women. It is a sin of sex,
be sure — and we have our counter-sins and should be
merciful. So I have been furiously angry, and then
relented — by turns ; as I could. Oh yes — it was he who
followed you upstairs. There was an explosion that day
among the many — and I had to tell him as a consequence,
that if he chose to make himself the fable and jest of the
whole house, he was the master, but that I should insist
upon his not involving my name in the discussion of his
violences. Wilson said he was white with passion as he
followed you, and that she in fear trembled so she could
scarcely open the door. He was a little ashamed afterwards,
and apologized in a manner for what sufficiently
required an apology. Before a servant too ! — But that is
long ago — and at that time he knew nothing for a certainty.
Is it possible to be continuously angry with any one who
proves himself so much the weaker ? The slave of himself . .
of his own passions — is too unhappy for the rod of
another — man or woman.
Mr. Chorley — Mr. Chorley ! — how could he utter such
words ! Men seem imbecile sometimes — understandings
have they, and understand not.
Monday Night.
Dearest, I have your last letter. Thank you out of my
heart — though you are not a prophet, dear dearest — not
about Mr. Kenyon at least. See how far you are from the
truth-well, with that divining hazel which you wave to and
fro before my eyes. Mr. Kenyon, instead of too much
remembering us, has forgotten me to-day. I waited an
hour with my bonnet on, and he did not come. And then
came a note ! He had had business — he had forgotten
me — he would come to-morrow. Which I, thinking of
you, wrote back a word against, and begged him to come
rather on Thursday or Saturday, or Monday. Is that right,
dearest? Your coming to-morrow will be very right.
But when you say that there can be no love except ‘from
beneath’ . . is it right ? is it comforting to hear of ? No,
no — indeed ! How unhappy I should be if I accepted
your theory ! So I accept rather your love, beloved . .
Trusting to be yours.