Saturday.
October 14, 1845.
It was the merest foolishness in me to write about fevers and the rest as I did to-day, just as if it could do any good, all the wringing of hands in the world. And there is no typhus yet . . . and no danger of any sort I hope and trust! — and how weak it is that habit of spreading the cloud which is in you all around you, how weak and selfish . . . and unlike what you would do . . . just as you are unlike Mr. Kenyon. And you are unlike him — and you were right on Thursday when you said so, and I was wrong in setting up a phrase on the other side . . . only what I said came by an instinct because you seemed to be giving him all the sunshine to use and carry, which should not be after all. But you are unlike him and must be . . . seeing that the producers must differ from the ‘nati consumere fruges’ in the intellectual as in the material. You create and he enjoys, and the work makes you pale and the pleasure makes him ruddy, and it is so of a necessity. So differs the man of genius from the man of letters — and then dear Mr. Kenyon is not even a man of letters in a full sense . . . he is rather a Sybarite of letters. Do you think he ever knew what mental labour is? I fancy not. Not more than he has known what mental inspiration is! And not more than he has known what the strife of the heart is . . . with all his tenderness and sensibility. He seems to me to evade pain, and where he suffers at all to do so rather negatively than positively . . . if you understand what I mean by that . . . rather by a want than by a blow: the secret of all being that he has a certain latitudinarianism (not indifferentism) in his life and affections, and has no capacity for concentration and intensity. Partly by temperament and partly by philosophy he contrives to keep the sunny side of the street — though never inclined to forget the blind man at the corner. Ah, dear Mr. Kenyon: he is magnanimous in toleration, and excellent in sympathy — and he has the love of beauty and the reverence of genius — but the faculty of worship he has not: he will not worship aright either your heroes or your gods . . . and while you do it he only ‘tolerates’ the act in you. Once he said . . . not to me . . . but I heard of it: ‘What, if genius should be nothing but scrofula?’ and he doubts (I very much fear) whether the world is not governed by a throw of those very same ‘loaded dice,’ and no otherwise. Yet he reveres genius in the acting of it, and recognizes a God in creation — only it is but ‘so far,’ and not farther. At least I think not — and I have a right to think what I please of him, holding him as I do, in such true affection. One of the kindest and most indulgent of human beings has he been to me, and I am happy to be grateful to him.
Sunday. — The Duke of Palmella takes the whole vessel for the 20th and therefore if I go it must be on the 17th. Therefore (besides) as George must be on sessions to-morrow, he will settle the question with Papa to-night. In the meantime our poor Occy is not much better, though a little, and is ordered leeches on his head, and is confined to his bed and attended by physician and surgeon. It is not decided typhus, but they will not answer for its not being infectious; and although he is quite at the top of the house, two stories above me, I shall not like you to come indeed. And then there will be only room for a farewell, and I who am a coward shrink from the saying of it. No — not being able to see you to-morrow, (Mr. Kenyon is to be here to-morrow, he says) let us agree to throw away Wednesday. I will write, . . . you will write perhaps — and above all things you will promise to write by the ‘Star’ on Monday, that the captain may give me your letter at Gibraltar. You promise? But I shall hear from you before then, and oftener than once, and you will acquiesce about Wednesday and grant at once that there can be no gain, no good, in that miserable good-bye-ing. I do not want the pain of it to remember you by — I shall remember very well without it, be sure. Still it shall be as you like — as you shall chose — and if you are disappointed about Wednesday (if it is not vain in me to talk of disappointments) why do with Wednesday as you think best . . . always understanding that there’s no risk of infection.
Monday. — All this I had written yesterday — and to-day it all is worse than vain. Do not be angry with me — do not think it my fault — but I do not go to Italy . . . it has ended as I feared. What passed between George and Papa there is no need of telling: only the latter said that I ‘might go if I pleased, but that going it would be under his heaviest displeasure.’ George, in great indignation, pressed the question fully: but all was vain . . . and I am left in this position . . . to go, if I please, with his displeasure over me, (which after what you have said and after what Mr. Kenyon has said, and after what my own conscience and deepest moral convictions say aloud, I would unhesitatingly do at this hour!) and necessarily run the risk of exposing my sister and brother to that same displeasure . . . from which risk I shrink and fall back and feel that to incur it, is impossible. Dear Mr. Kenyon has been here and we have been talking — and he sees what I see . . . that I am justified in going myself, but not in bringing others into difficulty. The very kindness and goodness with which they desire me (both my sisters) ‘not to think of them,’ naturally makes me think more of them. And so, tell me that I am not wrong in taking up my chain again and acquiescing in this hard necessity. The bitterest ‘fact’ of all is, that I had believed Papa to have loved me more than he obviously does: but I never regret knowledge . . . I mean I never would unknow anything . . . even were it the taste of the apples by the Dead sea — and this must be accepted like the rest. In the meantime your letter comes — and if I could seem to be very unhappy after reading it . . . why it would be ‘all pretence’ on my part, believe me. Can you care for me so much . . . you? Then that is light enough to account for all the shadows, and to make them almost unregarded — the shadows of the life behind. Moreover dear Occy is somewhat better — with a pulse only at ninety: and the doctors declare that visitors may come to the house without any manner of danger. Or I should not trust to your theories — no, indeed: it was not that I expected you to be afraid, but that I was afraid — and if I am not ashamed for that, why at least I am, for being lâche about Wednesday, when you thought of hurrying back from Paris only for it! You could think that! — You can care for me so much! — (I come to it again!) When I hold some words to my eyes . . . such as these in this letter . . . I can see nothing beyond them . . . no evil, no want. There is no evil and no want. Am I wrong in the decision about Italy? Could I do otherwise? I had courage and to spare — but the question, you see, did not regard myself wholly. For the rest, the ‘unforbidden country’ lies within these four walls. Madeira was proposed in vain — and any part of England would be as objectionable as Italy, and not more advantageous to me than Wimpole Street. To take courage and be cheerful, as you say, is left as an alternative — and (the winter may be mild!) to fall into the hands of God rather than of man: and I shall be here for your November, remember.
And now that you are not well, will you take care? and not come on Wednesday unless you are better? and never again bring me wet flowers, which probably did all the harm on Thursday? I was afraid for you then, though I said nothing. May God bless you.
Ever yours I am — your own.
Ninety is not a high pulse . . . for a fever of this kind — is it? and the heat diminishes, and his spirits are better — and we are all much easier . . . have been both to-day and yesterday indeed.
