[Postmark: August 17, 1846]
Your sight of Widdicombe was highly dramatic – and the policeman ‘ intersit nodo ‘ as well as any god of them all. What a personage Widdicombe must be ! Think of the mental state of a man, who could gravely apply to his own face false moustachios and rouge before a looking-glass. There is something in it to wonder over, as over the megalosaurie and prodigions of ridicules. Mind – when I talked of rouge improving a complexion for the nonce, I was thinking of women ; not of men, in whom that sort of colouring (even if it were natural) is detestable, or, to measure one’s language, very ugly indeed. I have seen a man, of whom it was related that he painted his lips – so that at dinner, with every course, was removed a degree of bloom ; the lips paled at the soup, grew paler at the mutton, became white at the fricandeau and ghastly at the pudding – till with the orange at dessert, his nearest neighbours drew back their chairs a little, expecting him to fall flat in a fainting-fit. But he was very rich, and could only talk charmingly out of those painted lips. There were women who ‘couldn’t conceive why people should call him a fool.’ To every Bottom’s head (not to wrong Bottom by such a comparison), there will be a special Titania – see if there will not !
So you go on Wednesday to this club-dinner, really. And you come to me also on Wednesday. Does that remain decided? I have had a letter from that poor Chiappino, to desire a ‘ last interview ‘ . . which is promised to be ‘ pacific.’ Oh – such stuff ! Am I to hold a handkerchief to my eyes and sob a little ? Your policeman is necessary to the full development of the drama, I think. And I forgot to tell you that there were two things in which I had shown great want of feeling – one, the venturing to enclose your verses – the other . . (now listen !) the other . . the having said that ‘ I was sincerely sorry for all his real troubles.’ Which I do remember having said once, when I was out of patience – as how can any one be patient continually ? and how was I especially to condole with him in lawn and weepers, on the dreadful fact of your existence in the world ? Well – he has real troubles unfortunately, and he is going away to live in a village somewhere. Poor Chiappino! A little occupation would be the best thing that could happen for him ; it would be better than prosperity without it. When a man spins evermore on his own axis, like a child’s toy I saw the other day, . . what is the use of him but to make a noise ? No greater tormentor is there, than self-love, . . even to self. And no greater instance of this, than this !
Dearest beloved, to turn away from the whole world to you . . when I do, do I lose anything . . or not rather gain all ? Sometimes I feel to wish that I had more to sacrifice to you, so as to prove something of what is in me – but you do not require sacrifice . . it is enough, you say, that I should be happy through you. How like those words are to you ! – how they are said in your own idiom ! And for myself, I am contented to think that, . . if such things can really satisfy you, . . you would find with difficulty elsewhere in the world than here, a woman as perfectly empty of life and gladness, except what comes to her from your hands. Many would be happy through you :– but to be happy through only you, is my advantage . . my boast. In this, I shall be better than the others.
Why, if you were to drive me from you after a little, in what words could I reproach you, but just in these . . ‘ You might have left me to die before.’ Still I should be your debtor, my beloved, as now I am
Your very own
BA.
I told you that I was going to the chapel one Sunday but I have not been yet. I had not courage. May God bless you ! –