The Letters of Two Romantics
November 1, 1845.
All to-day, Friday, Miss Mitford has been here! She came at two and went away at seven — and I feel as if I had been making a five-hour speech on the corn laws in Harriet Martineau’s parliament; . . . so tired I am. Not that dear Miss Mitford did not talk both for me and herself, . . . for that, of course she did. But I was forced to answer once every ten minutes at least — Continue reading “#143”
Wednesday Night.
October 30, 1845.
Like your kindness – – too, far too generous kindness, – – all this trouble and correcting, – – Continue reading “#142”
I write in haste, not to lose time about the proof. You will see on the papers here my doubtfulnesses such as they are — but silence swallows up the admirations . . . and there is no time. ‘Theocrite’ overtakes that wish of mine which ran on so fast — Continue reading “#141”
Tuesday 9 a.m.
[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]
I got this on coming home last night – – have just run through it this morning, and send it that time may not be lost. Faults, faults; but I don’t know how I have got tired of this. The Tragedies will be better, at least the second – –
At 3 this day! Bless you – –
R.B.
October 27, 1845.
How does one make ‘silent promises’ . . . or, rather, how does the maker of them communicate that fact to whomsoever it may concern? I know, there have been many, very many unutterable vows and promises made, – – that is, thought down upon – – the white slip at the top of my notes, – – such as of this note; and not trusted to the pen, that always comes in for the shame, – – but given up, and replaced by the poor forms to which a pen is equal; and a glad minute I should account that, in which you collected and accepted those ‘promises’ – – because they would not be all so unworthy of me – – much less you! I would receive, in virtue of them, the ascription of whatever worthiness is supposed to lie in deep, truest love, and gratitude – –
Read my silent answer there too!
All your letter is one comfort: we will be happy this winter, and after, do not fear. I am most happy, to begin, that your brother is so much better: he must be weak and susceptible of cold, remember.
It was on my lip, I do think, last visit, or the last but one, to beg you to detach those papers from the Athenæum’s gâchis. Certainly this opportunity is most favourable, for every reason: you cannot hesitate, surely. At present those papers are lost – – lost for practical purposes. Do pray reply without fail to the proposers; no, no harm of these really fine fellows, who could do harm (by printing incorrect copies, and perhaps eking out the column by suppositious matter . . . ex-gr. they strengthened and lengthened a book of Dickens’, in Paris, by adding quant. suff. of Thackeray’s ‘Yellowplush Papers’ . . . as I discovered by a Parisian somebody praising the latter to me as Dickens’ best work!) – – and who do really a good straightforward un-American thing. You will encourage ‘the day of small things’ – – though this is not small, nor likely to have small results. I shall be impatient to hear that you have decided. I like the progress of these Americans in taste, their amazing leaps, like grasshoppers up to the sun – – from . . . what is the ‘from,’ what depth, do you remember, say, ten or twelve years back? – – to – – Carlyle, and Tennyson, and you! So children leave off Jack of Cornwall and go on just to Homer.
I can’t conceive why my proof does not come – – I must go to-morrow and see. In the other, I have corrected all the points you noted, to their evident improvement. Yesterday I took out ‘Luria’ and read it through – – the skeleton – – I shall hope to finish it soon now. It is for a purely imaginary stage, – – very simple and straightforward. Would you . . . no, Act by Act, as I was about to propose that you should read it; that process would affect the oneness I most wish to preserve.
On Tuesday – – at last, I am with you. Till when be with me ever, dearest – – God bless you ever – –
R.B.
Friday.
October 25, 1845.
I wrote briefly yesterday not to make my letter longer by keeping it; and a few last words which belong to it by right, must follow after it . . . must — for I want to say that you need not indeed talk to me about squares being not round, and of you being not ‘selfish’! You know it is foolish to talk such superfluities, and not a compliment. Continue reading “#138”
October 24, 1845.
‘And be forgiven‘ . . . yes! and be thanked besides — if I knew how to thank you worthily and as I feel . . . only that I do not know it, and cannot say it. And it was not indeed ‘doubt’ of you — oh no — that made me write as I did write; it was rather because I felt you to be surely noblest, . . . and therefore fitly dearest, . . . that it seemed to me detestable and intolerable to leave you on this road where the mud must splash up against you, and never cry ‘gare.’ Yet I was quite enough unhappy yesterday, and before yesterday . . . I will confess to-day, . . . to be too gratefully glad to ‘let you be’ . . . to ‘let you have your way’ — you who overcome always! Always, but where you tell me not to think of you so and so! — as if I could help thinking of you so, and as if I should not take the liberty of persisting to think of you just so. ‘Let me be’ — Let me have my way.’ I am unworthy of you perhaps in everything except one thing — and that, you cannot guess. May God bless you —
Ever I am yours.
The proof does not come!
October 23, 1845.
But I must answer you, and be forgiven, too, dearest. I was (to begin at the beginning) surely not ‘startled‘ . . . only properly aware of the deep blessing I have been enjoying this while, and not disposed to take its continuance as pure matter of course, and so treat with indifference the first shadow of a threatening intimation from without, the first hint of a possible abstraction from the quarter to which so many hopes and fears of mine have gone of late. In this case, Continue reading “#136”
October 22, 1845.
Even at the risk of teazing you a little I must say a few words, that there may be no misunderstanding between us — Continue reading “#135”
<p>Monday Morning.<br>
[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]
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<p> This arrived on Saturday night - - I just correct it in time for this our first post - - will it do, the new matter? I can take it to-morrow - - when I am to see you - - if you are able to glance through it by then.
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<p> The ‘Inscription,’ how does that read?
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<p> There is strange temptation, by the way, in the space they please to leave for the presumable ‘motto’ - - ‘they but remind me of mine own conception’ . . . but one must give no clue, of a silk’s breadth, to the ‘<span>Bower</span>,’ <span>yet</span>, One day!
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<p> - - Which God send you, dearest, and your
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<p>R.B.
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