Day: August 18, 2018

[Postmark: August 18, 1846]

Let it be on Thursday then, dearest, for the reasons you mention. I will say nothing of my own desires to meet you sooner . . they are corrected by the other desires to spend my whole life with you. After all, these are the critical weeks now approaching or indeed present there shall be no fault I can avoid. So, till Thursday

Chorley said very little . . he is all discreetness and forbearance, here as on other points. He goes to Birmingham at the end of this week, and returning after some three or four days, leaves London for Paris – probably next Saturday week. From Paris he thinks of going to Holland . . a good step, and of staying at Scheven . . ing . . what is the Bath’s name ? – not a good step, I told him, because of the mortal ugliness of the place – which I well remember . it may have improved in ten years, to be sure. There, ‘walking on the sands,’ (sands in a heapy slope, not a traversable flat) he means to ‘ grow to an end ‘ with his Tragedy . . there is a noble ardour in his working which one cannot help admiring – he has a few weeks’ holiday, is jaded to death with writing, and yet will write away his brief time of respite and restoratives – for what ? He wondered whether there was any chance of our meeting in Paris – ‘ our ‘ meaning him and myself.

As for your communication to Mr. Boyd – how could you do otherwise, my own Ba ? I am altogether regardless of whatever danger there may be, in the great delight at his sympathy and approval of your intention : he probably never heard my name before . . but his own will ever be associated divinely in my memory with those verses which always have affected me profoundly . . perhaps on the whole, more profoundly than any others you ever wrote : that is hard to prove to myself, – but I really think so – the personal allusions in it went straight to my heart at the beginning. I remember, too, how he loved and loves you . . you told me, Ba : so I am most grateful to him, – as I ever shall feel to those who, knowing you, judge me worthy of being capable of knowing you and taking your impress, and becoming yours sufficiently for your happiness.

Are you so well, dearest, in your walks, – after your rides ? Does that rejoice me or no, when I would rather hear you had been happy, than simply see you without such an assurance ? I am very well, since you ask – but my mother is not – her head being again affected. Yet the late improvement gives ground for hope . . nor is this a very violent attack in itself.

I suppose it was in Mrs. Jameson’s mind, as you apprehend – you must always be fond of her – (and such will be always my way of rewarding people I am fond of !)

God bless you, dearest – I love you all I can, Ba. I see another ship is advertised to sail – (a steamer) for Naples, and other southern ports – but no higher. When you are well and disposed to go to Greece, take me, my love. I should feel too happy for this world, I think, among the islands with you.

My very own, I am yours –

[Postmark: August 18, 1846]
ED

For these two dear letters, I thank you, dearest ! You are best, as ever ! And that is all I have to tell you, almost – for I have seen nobody, heard nothing . . except that Eugene Sue can paint, . . which Miss Mitford told me this morning in a note of hers, . . in which, besides, she complains of the fatigue she suffers from the visitors who go to see after her the Reading prison, as the next ‘ sight ‘ of the neighbourhood. Better to live in Cheapside, than among the oaks, on such conditions ! As to Mr. Kenyon, he does not approach me. So he may come to-morrow, perhaps, or even on Wednesday. Would it not appear the top of wisdom if you deferred our day to Thursday’s sun ! – now consider ! It would be a decided gain, surely, to be able to say to him on Wednesday that you had not seen me since you and he saw me together. So I propose Thursday if you permit it. Next week we may take up our two days again, as one takes up so many dropt silken stitches, . . and we will be careful that the beads do not run off in the meantime. To-day George came from circuit. He asked, for nearly a first question, whether I had thought of Italy – ‘Yes, I had thought of it – but there was time to think more.’ I am uneasy a little under George’s eyes.

You did not tell me of Mr. Chorley . . whether he put questions about the Continent, or pbserved on the mysteries in you. Does he go himself, and when ? A curious ‘ fact ‘ is, that Mrs. Jameson was in the next house to us this morning, and also a few days ago ; yet never came here – the reason certainly being a reluctance to seem to tread in upon the recalling confidence. I felt sorry, and obliged to her – both at once. Talking of confidences, I neglected to tell you when you were here last, that one more had escaped us. It was not by my choice, if by my fault. I wrote something in a note to Mr. Boyd some weeks ago, which nobody except himself would have paused to think over ; but he, like a prisoner in a dungeon, sounds every stone of the walls round him, and discerns a hollowness, detects a wooden beam, . . patiently pricks out the mortar with a pin – all this, in his rayless, compamonless Dark, – poor Mr. Boyd ! The time before I last went to see him, he asked me if I were going to be a nun – there, was the first guess! On the next visit he puts his question precisely right – I tried to evade – then, promised to be frank in a little time – but being pressed on all sides, and drawn on by a solemn vow of secrecy, I allowed him to see the truth – and he lives such an isolated life, that it is perfectly safe with him, setting the oath aside. Also, he was very good and kind, and approved highly of the whole, and exhorted me, with ever such exhortation, to keep to my purpose, and to allow no consideration in the world or out of the world, to make any difference – quoting the moral philosophers as to the rights of such questions. Is there harm in his knowing ? He knows nobody, talks to nobody, and is very faithful to his word. Just as I, you will retort, was foolish in mine ! Yet I do assure you, mine was a sort of word, which to nine hundred and ninety nine persons, would have suggested nothing – only he mused over it, turned it into all lights, and had nothing to do but that. Afterwards he was proud, and asked . . ‘ Was I not acute ? ‘ It was a pleasure to him, one could not grudge.

Are you well, ever dearest ? I am well. And yesterday, while they were at dinner, I walked out alone, or with Flush – twice to the corner of the street, turning it, to post your letter. May God bless you. Surely we feel alike in many, many things – the convolvuluses grow together ; twisted together and you lift me up from the ground ; you ! I am your very own –

Mr. Mathews said nothing more than I told you very briefly but he sent the review, he said – and it has not come.