Day: August 15, 2018

[Postmark: August 15, 1846]

Saturday.

My very, very dearest — many, if not all, of those things
for which I want the words when too close to you, become
quite clear at a little distance. How simple, for instance, it
is to admit, that in our case, — my own, only Ba once
discovered, the circumstances of the weakness and retirement
were, on the whole, favourable rather than otherwise ! Had
they been unfavourable . . I do not think a few obstacles
would have discouraged me . . but this way has been easier
— better — and now all is admitted ! By themselves, the
circumstances could never obtain more than the feeling
properly due to them — do you think one particle of love
goes with the pity and service to a whole Hospital of
Incurables ? So let all the attraction of that kind pass for
what it is worth, and for no more. If all had been different,
and I had still perceived you and loved you, then there might,
perhaps, — or probably — be as different an aim for me, —
for my own peculiar delight in you . . I should want to feel
and be sure of your love, in your happiness . . certainly in
your entire happiness then as now — but I should aspire to
find it able to support itself in a life altogether different
from the life in which I had first seen you — if you loved me
you would need to be happy in quiet and solitude and simplicity
and privation . . then I should know you loved me, knowing how
you had been happy before ! But now, do you not see that
my utmost pride and delight will be to think you are happy,
as you were not, — in the way you were not : if you chose to
come out of a whirl of balls and parties and excursions and
visitings — to my side, I should love you as you sate still by
me, — but now, when you stand up simply, much more walk
. . I will consider, if you let me, every step you take that
brings you pleasure, — every smile on your mouth, and light
on your eyes — as a directest obedience to me . . all the
obedience you can ever pay me . . you shall say in every
such act ‘ this I do on purpose to content you ! ‘ I hope to
know you have been happy . . that shall prove you loved
me, at the end.

Probably you will not hear anything to-day from Mr.
Kenyon, as your sister is to be present : do you really
imagine that those eyes and spectacles are less effective than
the perceptions of your ‘ Treppy ? ‘

By the way, hear an odd coincidence — you heard that
foolish story of Thackeray and Mr. ‘ Widdicombe ‘ . . which
I told just to avoid a dead silence and guilty blankness of
face. As I was returning I met Thackeray (with Doyle —
H.B.) and was energetically reminded of our dinner . .
he is in very earnest, Mr. Kenyon may assure himself.
Presently I reached Charing Cross — and stood waiting for
my omnibus. There is always a crowd of waiters — in a
moment there passes an extraordinary looking personage —
a policeman on duty at this police-requiring spot saunters
up to me, of all others, and says (on some miraculous
impulse, no doubt) — with an overflowing impressible grin,
‘ D’ye know him, Sir ? ‘ ‘ No — who may he be ? ‘ ‘ He’s
Widdicombe ! — He goes now to Astley’s, and afterwards
to Vauxhall — there’s a good likeness of him in the painting
of the Judge and Jury Club. ‘ Here my omnibus arrives . .
‘ Thank you ‘ I said — and there was an end of the
communication. How for many thousand years may I walk the
street before another inspired policeman addresses me with-
out preface and tells me, that is the man I have just been
talking of to somebody else ? Let me chronicle Mr. W.’s
glories . . his face is just Tom Moore’s, plus two painted
cheeks, a sham moustache, and hair curled in wiry long
ringlets ; Thackeray’s friend was a friend indeed, ‘ warning
every man and teaching every man ‘ — the tete-a-tete would
have been portentous.

Now, dearest, you cannot return me such delectabilities,
so must even be content to tell me what happens to-day
and what is said and done and surmised — and how you
are . . three times over, how you are, dearest dearest !
And I will write to-morrow, and kiss you meanwhile, as now
as ever. Bless you, love —

your R.

[Postmark: August 15, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

A bright beautiful day this is, on which you do not come
— it seems as if you ought to have come on it by rights.
Dearest, you did not meet Mr. Kenyon yesterday after you
left me ? I fancied that you might, and so be detected in
the three hours, to the fullest length of them — it seemed
possible. Now I look forward to the driving instead of to
you — and he has just sent to desire me to be ready at a
quarter to three, and not later, as was fixed in your
hearing. And why, pray, should you be glad that I am going
on this excursion ? I should have liked it, if we had been
living in the daylight ; but with all these ‘ shadows, clouds
and darkness, ‘ it is pleasanter to me to sit still and see
nobody — and least, Mr. Kenyon. Oh, that somebody
would spirit him away gently, very gently, so as to do him
no manner of harm in achieving the good for me ! — for
both you and me. Did you say ‘ Do you pity me ‘ to me ?
I did not tell you yesterday that I have another new fear
. . an American lady who in her time has reviewed both
you and me, it seems, comes to see me . . is about to
come to see me . . armed with a letter of introduction
from Mr. Mathews — and in a week, I may expect her perhaps.
She is directed, too, towards Mr. Horne. Observe
the double chain thrown across the road at my feet — I am
entreated to show her attention and introduce her to my
friends . . things out of the question as I am situated.
Yet I have not boldness to say ‘ I will not see you.’ I
almost must see her, I do fear. Mr. Mathews ought to
have felt his way a little, before throwing such a weight on
me. He is delighted with your ‘ Bells and Pomegranates ‘
(to pass from his frailties to his merits) and the
review of them is sent to me, he says — only that I do not
receive it.

Dearest, when I told you yesterday, after speaking of
the many coloured theologies of the house, that it was hard
to answer for what I was, . . I meant that I felt unwilling,
for my own part, to put on any of the liveries of the sects.
The truth, as God sees it, must be something so different
from these opinions about truth — these systems which fit
different classes of men like their coats, and wear brown at
the elbows always ! I believe in what is divine and floats
at highest, in all these different theologies — and because the
really Divine draws together souls, and tends so to a unity,
I could pray anywhere and with all sorts of worshippers,
from the Sistine Chapel to Mr. Fox’s, those kneeling and
those standing. Wherever you go, in all religious societies,
there is a little to revolt, and a good deal to bear with —
but it is not otherwise in the world without ; and, within, you
are especially reminded that God has to be more patient
than yourself after all. Still you go quickest there, where
your sympathies are least ruffled and disturbed — and I like,
beyond comparison best, the simplicity of the dissenters . .
the unwritten prayer, . . the sacraments administered
quietly and without charlatanism ! and the principle of a
church, as they hold it, I hold it too, . . quite apart from
state-necessities . . pure from the law. Well — there is
enough to dissent from among the dissenters — the Formula
is rampant among them as among others — you hear things
like the buzzing of flies in proof of a corruption — and see
every now and then something divine set up like a post for
men of irritable minds and passions to rub themselves
against, calling it a holy deed — you feel moreover bigotry
and ignorance pressing on you on all sides, till you gasp for
breath like one strangled. But better this, even, than
what is elsewhere — this being elsewhere too in different
degrees, besides the evil of the place. Public and social
prayer is right and desirable — and I would prefer, as a
matter of custom, to pray in one of those chapels, where
the minister is simple-minded and not controversial —
certainly would prefer it. Not exactly in the Socinian chapels,
nor yet in Mr. Fox’s — not by preference. The Unitarians
seem to me to throw over what is most beautiful in the
Christian Doctrine ; but the Formulists, on the other side,
stir up a dust, in which it appears excusable not to see.
When the veil of the body falls, how we shall look into
each other’s faces, astonished, . . after one glance at
God’s !

Have I written to you more than too much about my
doxy ? I was a little, little, uncomfortable in the retrospect
of yesterday, lest my quick answer should have struck you
as either a levity or an evasion — and have you not a right
to all ray thoughts of all things? For the rest, we will be
married just as you like . . volo quod vis : and you will
see by this profession of faith that I am not likely much to
care either way. There are some solemn and beautiful
things in the Church of England Marriage-service, as I once
heard it read, the only time I was present at such a ceremony
— but I heard it then in the abbreviated customary
form . . and not as the Puseyites (who always bring up the
old lamps against a new) choose to read it, they say, in spite
of custom. Archdeacon Hale with an inodorous old lamp,
displeased some of the congregation from Fenton’s Hotel, I
hear. But we need not go to the Puseyites at least. And
after all, perhaps the best will be what is easiest.
Something is sure to happen — something must surely happen
to put an end to it all … before I go to Greece !

May God bless you, ever dearest : Tell me if you get
this letter to-day, Saturday.

Your very own BA.