The Letters of Two Romantics
12. Wednesday.
June 25, 1845.
Pomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and see into, but not hearts, – – so why should I try and speak?
Friday is best day because nearest, but Saturday is next best – – it is next near, you know: if I get no note, therefore, Friday is my day.
Now is Post-time, – – which happens properly.
God bless you, and so your own
R.B.
Tuesday Morning,
June 24, 1845.
(So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that first letter, on Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes after, its natural fate accordingly. Then on Saturday I thought to take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the morning – – about town too: last post-hour from this Thule of a suburb – – 4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on Mondays; – – and then my real letter set out with the others – – and, it should seem, set at rest a ‘wonder whether thy friend’s questions deserved answering’ – – de-served – – answer-ing – – !) Continue reading “#48”
Sunday Afternoon.
June 23, 1845.
And if I am ‘suspicious of your suspiciousness,’ who gives cause, pray? The matter was long ago settled, I thought, when you first took exception to what I said about higher and lower, and I consented to this much – – that you should help seeing, if you could, our true intellectual and moral relation each to the other, so long as you would allow me to see what is there, fronting me. ‘Is my eye evil because yours is not good?’ My own friend, if I wished to ‘make you vain,’ if having ‘found the Bower’ I did really address myself to the wise business of spoiling its rose-roof, – – I think that at least where there was such a will, there would be also something not unlike a way, Continue reading “#46”
Thursday Morning.
June 19, 1845.
When I next see you, do not let me go on and on to my confusion about matters I am more or less ignorant of, but always ignorant. I tell you plainly I only trench on them, and intrench in them, from gaucherie, pure and respectable . . . I should certainly grow instructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if deprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I shall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am thinking all the while, ‘now I will just ask simply, what flattery there was,’ &c. &c., which, as I had not courage to say then, I keep to myself for shame now. This I will say, then – – wait and know me better, as you will one long day at the end.
Why I write now, is because you did not promise, as before, to let me know how you are – – this morning is miserably cold again – – Will you tell me, at your own time?
God bless you, my dear friend.
R.B.
June 14, 1845.
When I ask my wise self what I really do remember of the Prize poem, the answer is – – both of Chapman’s lines a-top, quite worth any prize for their quoter – – then, the good epithet of ‘Green Europe’ contrasting with Africa – – then, deep in the piece, a picture of a Vestal in a vault, where I see a dipping and winking lamp plainest, and last of all the ominous ‘all was dark’ that dismisses you. I read the poem many years ago, and never since, though Continue reading “#42”
June 9, 1845.
Just after my note left, yours came – – I will try so to answer it as to please you; and I begin by promising cheerfully to do all you bid me about naming days &c. I do believe we are friends now and for ever. Continue reading “#39”
Saturday Morning.
June 7, 1845.
I ventured to hope this morning might bring me news of you – – First East-winds on you, then myself, then those criticisms! – – I do assure you I am properly apprehensive. How are you? May I go on Wednesday without too much ανθαδια. Continue reading “#38”
May 28, 1845.
Saturday, Monday, as you shall appoint – – no need to say that, or my thanks – – Continue reading “#35”
May 26, 1845.
Nay – – I must have last word – – as all people in the wrong desire to have – – and then, no more of the subject. You said I had given you great pain – – so long as I stop that, think anything of me you choose or can! But before your former letter came, I saw the pre-ordained uselessness of mine. Speaking is to some end, (apart from foolish self-relief, which, after all, I can do without) – – and where there is no end – – you see! or, to finish characteristically – – since the offering to cut off one’s right-hand to save anybody a headache, is in vile taste, even for our melodramas, seeing that it was never yet believed in on the stage or off it, – – how much worse to really make the ugly chop, and afterwards come sheepishly in, one’s arm in a black sling, and find that the delectable gift had changed aching to nausea! There! And now, ‘exit, prompt-side, nearest door, Luria’ – – and enter R.B. – – next Wednesday, – – as boldly as he suspects most people do just after they have been soundly frightened!
I shall be most happy to see you on the day and at the hour you mention.
God bless you, my dear friend,
R.B.
Saturday Morning.
May 24, 1845.
Don’t you remember I told you, once on a time that you ‘knew nothing of me’? whereat you demurred – – but I meant what I said, and knew it was so. To be grand in a simile, for every poor speck of a Vesuvius or a Stromboli in my microcosm there are huge layers of ice and pits of black cold water – – and I make the most of my two or three fire-eyes, because I know by experience, alas, how these tend to extinction – – and the ice grows and grows – – still this last is true part of me, most characteristic part, best part perhaps, and I disown nothing – – only, – – when you talked of ‘knowing me’! Continue reading “#31”