Day: August 12, 2018

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning

Shall you pass through this street to Mr. Kenyon’s, this
evening? I have been sitting here these five minutes,
wondering. But no answer is possible now, and if I go to
the window of the other room and look up and look down
about half-past five or a little later, it will be in vain
perhaps. Just now I have heard from Mr. Kenyon, who cannot
come to-day to drive with me though he may come to talk. He
does not leave London, he says, so soon as he thought ! —
more’s the pity. Ah ! What unkind things one learns
to write and meditate in this world, even of the dear Mr.
Kenyons in it ! — I am ashamed. Instruct your guardian
angel to cover me with the shadow of his wings, — dearest.

Now I will tell you a curious thing which Treppy said to
Arabel yesterday while you and I were together. Arabel
was walking with her, and she was in one of her ill humours,
poor Treppy, sighing and moaning over the wickedness of
the people in Wimpole Street — she ‘ should go and live at
Ramsgate, she thought, as nobody paid her the right
attention ! ‘ That’s the intermittent groan, when she is out
of humour, poor Treppy. ‘ And besides ‘ said she, ‘ it is much
better that I should not go to Wimpole Street at this time
when there are so many secrets. Secrets indeed ! You think
that nobody can see and hear except yourselves, I suppose ;
and there, are two circumstances going on in the house,
plain for any eyes to see ! and those are considered secrets,
I suppose.’ ‘Oh, Treppy’ — interpolated Arabel . . ‘you
are always fancying secrets where there are none.’ ‘ Well,
I don’t fancy anything now ! I know — just as you do.’ —
Something was said too about ‘ Ba’s going to Italy.’ ‘ And,
Treppy, do you think that she will go to Italy ? ‘ ‘ Why there
is only one way for her to go — but she may go that way.
If she marries, she may go.’ ‘ And you would not be
surprised?’ ‘I ! not in the least — I am never surprised,
because I always see things from the beginning. Nobody
can hide anything from me.’ After which fashion she
smoothed the darkness till it smiled, and boasted herself
back into a calmer mood. But just observe how people
are talking and inferring ! It frightens me to think of it.
Not that there is any danger from Treppy. She would as
soon cut off her hand, as bring one of us into a difficulty,
and me, the last. Only it would not do to tell her, — she
must have it in her power to say ‘ I did not know this ‘ . .
for reasons of the strongest. To occasion a schism between
her and this house, would be to embitter the remainder of
her days.

Here is a letter from a lady in a remote district called
Swineshead, who sends me lyrical specimens, and desires
to know if this be Genius. She does not desire to publish ;
at any rate not for an indefinite number of years ; but for
her private and personal satisfaction, she would be glad to
be informed whether she is a Sappho or George Sand or
anything of that kind. What in the world is to be
answered, now, to an application of that kind ! To meddle
with a person’s opinion of himself or herself (quite a private
opinion) seems like meddling with his way of dressing, with
her fashion of putting in pins — like saying you shall put
your feet on a stool, or you shan’t eat pork. It is an
interference with private rights, from which I really do
shrink. Unfortunately too it is impossible to say what she
wants to hear — I am in despair about it. When we are at Pisa
we shall not hear these black stones crying after us any
more perhaps. I shall listen, instead, to my talking bird
and singing tree, and repose from the rest. How did you
get home ? And tell me of Mr. Kenyon’s dinner ! So
nervous I am about Mr. Kenyon, when you or I happen to
be en rapport with him.

Not only I loved you yesterday, but even to-day I love
you ; which is remarkable. To-morrow and to-morrow and
to-morrow, what will you do ? Is that an ‘ offence ? ‘ Nay,
but it is rather reasonable that when the hour strikes, the
fairy-gold should turn back into leaves, and poor Cinderella
find herself sitting in her old place among the ashes, just as
she had touched the hand of the king’s son.

Don’t think I mean anything by that, ever dearest —
not so much as to teaze you — Robert !

I only love you to-day — that is, I love you and do
nothing more. And the Fairy Tales are on the whole, I
feel, the most available literature for illustration,
whenever I think of loving you.

Your own BA.

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I have been putting all the letters into rings — twenty
together — and they look now as they should — ‘ infinite
treasure in a little room ‘ — note, that they were so united
and so ranged from the beginning, at least since I began to
count by twenties — but the white tape I used (no red tape,
thank you !) was vile in its operation, — the untying and
retying (so as to preserve a proper cross ) hard for
clumsy fingers like mine : — these rings are perfect. How
strange it will be to have no more letters ! Of all the
foolishnesses that ever were uttered that speech of mine, —
about your letters strewing the house, — was the most thoroughly
perfect ! yet you have nothing to forgive in me, you say !

Just now I took up a periodical and read a few lines of
a paper on the charm that there is in a contrariety of tempers
and tastes, for friends and lovers — and there followed
platitudes in a string — the clever like the stupid, the grave
choose the lively, and so forth. Now, unless, the state of the
liker and chooser is really considered by him as a misfortune,
— what he would get rid of if he could in himself, so shall
hardly desire to find in another — except in this not very
probable case, is there not implied by every such choice,
an absolute despair of any higher one ? The grave man
says (or would if he knew himself) — ‘ except on my particular
grounds such a serious humour would be impossible
and absurd . . and where can I find another to appreciate
them ? Better accept the lower state of ignorance that they
exist even, and consequent gaiety, — than a preposterous
melancholy arising from no adequate cause. ‘ And what
man of genius would not associate with people of no talent
at all, rather than the possessors of mere talent, who keep
sufficiently near him, as they walk together, to give him
annoyance at every step ? Better go with Flush on his four
legs, avowedly doglike, than with a monkey who will shuffle
along on two for I don’t know how many yards. Now
for instance, is the writer of that wise notice of Landor in
last week’s Athenceum, one whit nearer your sympathy
in that precise matter, than somebody who never heard of
Landor or supposed him to have usually written under the
signature of L. E. L.? With the exception of a word or
two about the silly abuse of Plato, and on the occasional
unfairness of statement, is there one word right and
seasonable ?

Here am I letting the words scratch themselves one
after another while my thought as usual goes quite
another way. Perhaps my wits are resting because of the
great alacrity they are to display at Mr. Kenyon’s this
evening . . I shall take care not to be first comer, nor last
goer. Dearest, you are wrong in your fancy about my little
caring whether he knows or does not. I see altogether with
your eyes . . indeed, now that you engage to remove any
suspicion of unkindness or mistrust which might attach to
me in his thoughts (all I ever apprehended for myself), there
is no need to consider him — at all. He can do no good
nor harm. Did you ever receive such a letter ? The dull
morning shall excuse it — anything but the dull heart —
for you fill it, however the heat may keep within, sometimes.

Bless you, Ba, my dearest, perfect love — now I will
begin thinking of you again — let me kiss you, my own !