of more consequence.
SALERNO.
‘Though placed between the beauties of sea and land, of
cultivated and rude nature, the city is _so unhealthy_ that its
richer inhabitants remove to Vietri during the hot months. In
proof of its bad air, I remark here a number of apothecaries!’
FORSYTH.
‘Its white houses curving round the haven at the water’s brink,
the mountains crowding close behind the city, the ruins of
its Gothic castle on the olive-covered hill above, together
mirrored on the waveless water, itself alternate shine and
shadow—’tis a noble sight.
‘The view from Salerno is one of the loveliest pictures in
Italy. A clear-complexioned, open-eyed, and bright-faced city
is modern Salerno,—and its streets and piazza were all astir.’
_Letters from Naples._
‘This town, the approach to which is enchanting, boasts a
tolerably good _inn_!!’
MRS. STARKE.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, June 30, 1846.]
I have looked in the map for ‘L——,’ the place praised in the letter, and
conclude it must be either Ceva, (La Ceva, between Nocera and Salerno,
about four miles from the latter, and on the mountain-side, I suppose ...
see a map, my Ba!)—or else _Lucera_, (which looks very like the word ...
and which lies at about sixty miles to the N.E. of Naples, in a straight
line over the mountains and roadless country, but perhaps twice as far
by the mainway through _Avellino_, _Ariano_, _Bovino_, and Savia—exactly
120 Italian miles now that I count the posts). So that there would be
somewhat of a formidable journey to undertake after the sea voyage. I
daresay at Ceva there is abundance of quietness, as the few who visit
Salerno do not go four miles inland,—can you enquire into this?
How inexpressibly charming it is to me to have a pretext for writing thus
... about such approaches to the real event—these business-like words,
and names of places! If at the end you should bring yourself to say ‘But
you never seriously believed this would take place’—what should I answer,
I wonder?
Let me think on what is real, indisputable, however ... the improvement
in the health as I read it on the dear, dear cheeks yesterday. This
morning is favourable again ... you will go out, will you not?
Mr. Kenyon sends me one of his kindest letters to ask me to dine with him
next week—on Wednesday. I feel _his_ kindness, just as you feel in the
other case, and in its lesser degree, I feel it,—and then I know,—dare
think I know whether he will be so sorry in the end,—loving you as he
does. I will send his letter that you may understand here as elsewhere.
I think my head is dizzy with reading the debates this morning—Peel’s
speech and farewell. How exquisitely absurd, it just strikes me, would
be any measure after Miss Martineau’s own heart, which should introduce
women to Parliament as we understand its functions at present—how
essentially retrograde a measure! Parliament seems no place for
originating, creative minds—but for second-rate minds influenced by
and bent on working out the results of these—and the most efficient
qualities for such a purpose are confessedly found oftener with men than
with women—physical power having a great deal to do with it beside. So
why shuffle the heaps together which, however arbitrarily divided at
first, happen luckily to lie pretty much as one would desire,—here the
great flint stones, here the pebbles—and diamonds too. The men of genius
knew all this, said more than all this, in their way and proper place
on the outside, where Miss M. is still saying something of the kind—to
be taken up in its time by some other Mr. Cobden and talked about,
and beleaguered. But such people cannot or will not see where their
office begins and advantageously ends; and that there is such a thing
as influencing the influencers, playing the Bentham to the Cobden, the
Barry to a Commission for Public Works, the Lough to the three or four
industrious men with square paper caps who get rules and plummets and dot
the blocks of marble all over as his drawings indicate. So you and I
will go to Salerno or L—— (not to the L—akes, Heaven forefend!) and if we
‘let sail winged words, freighted with truth from the throne of God’—we
may be sure——
Ah, presumption all of it! Then, you shall fill the words with their
freight, and I will look on and love you,—is that too much? _Yes_—for any
other—_No_—for one you [know] is _yours_—
Your very own.
For the quick departing yesterday our day was not spoken of ... it is
Saturday, is it not?
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 1, 1846.]
Thank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter. He loves you,
admires you, trusts you. When what is done cannot be undone, then he will
forgive you besides—that is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself
to see all manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked him to
look. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look on the encouragement
of ever so many more kind notes, pleasant as they are to read, and worthy
to trust to, under certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon—but how good he
is! And I love him more (shall it be _under-love_?) because of his right
perception and understanding of _you_—no one among men sets you higher
than he does as a man and as a poet—even if he misses the subtle sense,
sometimes.
So you dine with him—don’t you? And I shall have you on Wednesday instead
of Thursday! yes, certainly. And on Saturday, of course, next time.
In the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and as he was
not at home, left a card for a footstep. Then Arabel and Flush and I
proceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood, and I was so
nervous ... so anxious for an excuse for turning back ... that ... can
you guess what Arabel said to me? ‘Oh Ba’; she said, ‘such a coward as
_you_ are, never will be ... married, while the world lasts.’ Which made
me laugh if it did not make me persevere—for you see by it what her
notion is of an heroic deed! So, there, I stood at last, at the door of
poor Mr. Boyd’s dark little room, and saw him sitting ... as if he had
not moved these seven years—these seven heavy, changeful years. Seeing
him, my heart was too full to speak at first, but I stooped and kissed
his poor bent-down forehead, which he never lifts up, his chin being
quite buried in his breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and
Cyprus wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a god, to
take a little of the Cyprus,—there was no help for me, nor alternative:
so I took as little as I could, while he went on proving to me that
the Adamic fall and corruption of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great
theologian) were never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified
as in the _literary controversy about Ossian_; every man of the Highland
Society having a lost soul in him; and Walter Scott ... oh, the woman
who poisoned all her children the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott,
... so we need not talk of him any more. ‘Arabel!—how much has she taken
of that wine? not half a glass.’ ‘But Mr. Boyd, you would not have me be
obliged to carry her home.’
That visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde Park, and drove close
to the Serpentine, and then returned. Flush would not keep his head out
of the window (his favourite pleasure) all the way, because several
drops of rain trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his
ears:—his nose so near, too!
Right you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau, though your
reasons are too gracious to be right ... except indeed as to the physical
inaptitude, which is an obvious truth. Another truth (to my mind) is,
that women, as they _are_ (whatever they _may be_) have not mental
strength any more than they have bodily; have not instruction, capacity,
wholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a class, have
defects, is as false I think, as to deny that women have wrongs.
Then you are right again in affirming that the creators have no business
_there_, with the practical men—_you_ should not be _there_ for
instance. And _I_ (if I am to be thought of) would be prouder to eat
cresses and maccaroni (Dearest—there is a manufactory of maccaroni and
writing-paper at Amalfi close by—observe that combination! maccaroni
and writing-paper!) _I_ would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni
with _you_ as _you_, than to sit with diamonds in my ears, under the
shelter of the woolsack, _you_ being a law-lord and parliamentary maker
of speeches! By the way, I _couldn’t_ have diamonds in my ears: they
never were _bored_ for it ... as I never was _born_ for it. A physical
inaptitude, here too!
Shall I say what you tell me ... ‘You never seriously believed’ ... shall
I? I will, if you like. But it is not _Ceva_, if you like—it is Cava ...
La Cava ... in my map, and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the
place is the same—four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘enchantingly
beautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this enchanting place which
has no English in it, with porticoes like Bologna, and too little known
to be spelt correctly by the most accomplished geographers.
Ah—your head is ‘_dizzy_,’ my beloved! Tell me how it is now. And tell me
how your mother is. I think of you—love you. I, who am discontented with
myself, ... self-condemned as unworthy of you, in all else ... am yet
satisfied with the _love_ I have for you—it seems worthy of you, as far
as an abstract affection can go, without taking note of the personality
loving.
Do you see the meaning through the mist? Do you accept
Your very own
BA?
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, July 1, 1846.]
Dearest—dearest, you _did_ once, one time only, call me by my
name—Robert; and though it was to bid ‘R. not talk extravagances’ (your
very words) still the name so spoken became what it never had been before
to me. I never am called by any pet-name, nor abbreviation, here at home
or elsewhere.... Oh, best let it alone ... it is one of my incommunicable
advantages to have a Ba of my own, and call her so—indeed, yes, my Ba!
I write ‘dearest,’ and ‘most dearest,’ but it all ends in—‘Ba,’ and the
‘my’ is its framework,—its surrounding arm—Ba—my own Ba! ‘Robert’ is in
Saxon, (_ni fallor_), ‘famous in counsel,’ so let him give a proof of his
quality in counselling you to hold your good, happy inspiration about La
Cava (my French map-maker must have had _Ceva in Piedmont_ in his head)
for at such a place, so situate, we renounce not one sight at Salerno,
nor Amalfi, nor Sorrento ... four miles ... the distance between your
house and Highgate, perhaps! Cava,—the hollow of a hill; and such hills
and such hollows are in that land! Oh, let it be La Cava—or Seven Dials,
_with you_!
I passed through Seven Dials this morning—and afterward, by your
house,—with a heart full of thoughts,—not fuller than usual, but they
were more stirring and alive, near their source. I called at Mrs.
Procter’s door (proceeding from Forster’s) and then on Mrs. Jameson whom
I found and talked with pleasantly till a visitor came. I do extremely
appreciate her, delight in her ... to avoid saying ‘love’—I was never
just to her before, far from it. I saw her niece, a quiet earnest-looking
little girl. But did it not please me to call in at Moxon’s and hear that
(amongst other literary news dexterously enquired after) Miss Barrett’s
poems were selling very well and would ere long be out of print? And,
after that pleasure, came the other of finding dear, generous, noble
Carlyle had sent his new edition of ‘Cromwell,’ three great volumes,
with his brave energetic assurance of ‘regards’ and ‘many’ of them, in
black manly writing on the first page. So may he continue to like me
till he knows you; when it will be ‘mine’ instead of me, that he shall
love—‘love’? I let the whole world love you—if they can overtake my love.
As I read on, about the visit to Mr. Boyd, I thought, ‘I trust she will
kiss his forehead,’—and I kiss yours—thus—for _that_, too,—in gratitude
for that. You dear, good, blessing of a Ba, how I kiss you!—
R.B.
I am quite well to-day, and my mother is quite well—The good account
of the visit is enough to make me happy on a Wednesday—leading to a
Saturday! Then my two letters!
I did not see Moxon—only the brother—who tells odd stories drily; one
made me laugh to-day. Poor Mr. Reade, Landor’s love, sent a book to
Campbell the Poet, and then called on him ... to discover him in the very
act of wiping a razor on a leaf torn out of the book, laid commodiously
by his toilet-table for the express purpose.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, July 2, 1846.]
No, No! indeed I never did. If you heard me say ‘Robert,’ it was on a
stair-landing in the House of Dreams—never anywhere else! Why how could
you fancy such a thing? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience
which spoke instead of me, saying ‘Robert, don’t be extravagant.’
Yes—just the speech _that_ is, for a ‘good _un_easy,’ discerning
Conscience—and you took it for my speech! ‘Don’t be extravagant’ I may
certainly have said. Both I and the Conscience might have said so obvious
a thing.
Ah—and now I have got the name, shall I have courage to say it? tell me,
best councillor! I like it better than any other name, though I never
spoke it with my own lips—I never called any one by such a name ...
except once when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have, called
Robert—but to me he is an ‘uncle Hedley’ and no more. So it is a white
name to take into life. Isn’t this an Hebraic expression of a preferring
affection ... ‘_I have called thee by thy name._’? And therefore, because
you are the best, only dearest!——_Robert._
You passed by and I never knew! How foolish—but really it quite strikes
me as something wonderful, that I should not have known. I knew however
of your being in London, because ... (don’t expect supernatural evidence)
Mrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five, and brought her
niece whom I liked just for the reasons you give; and herself was feeling
and affectionate as ever:—it is well that you should give me leave to
love her a little. Once she touched upon Italy ... and I admitted that
I thought of it, and thought it probable as an event ... on which she
pressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’ ‘Perhaps on my own courage,’
I said. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed ‘now I see clearly.’
Which made me smile ... the idea of her seeing clearly, but earnestly
and cordially she desired me to remember that to be useful to me in any
manner, would give her pleasure. Such kindness! The sense of it has sunk
into my heart. You cannot praise her too much for _me_. She was so kind,
that when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street on Friday,
I could not help agreeing at once: and I am to have the sofa and no
company—that’s a promise. She asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to
bring Mr. Kenyon for an escort—but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s
going, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to fix a later
hour, because....
Listen to the _because_. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my cousin, her
adopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow evening, and stay in this
house ... oh, I cannot tell you how long: for a whole week as a
beginning, certainly. I have been sighing and moaning so about it that
Arabel calls it quite a scandal—but when one can’t be glad, why should it
be so undutiful to appear sad? If she had but stayed in Paris six months
longer! Well!—and to-morrow morning Miss Mitford comes to spend the day
like the kind dear friend she is; and I, not the least in the world glad
to see her! Why have you turned my heart into such hard porphyry? Once,
when it was plain clay, every finger (of these womanly fingers) left a
mark on it—and now, ... you see! Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to
her chiefly (as I know in myself) because she sees you as you are in
part, and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it ...
however she may, and must consistently, expect us to torment one another,
according to the way of the ‘artistic temperament,’ evermore, and ever
more and more. But for the rest, the others who do not know you and
value you ... _I hate to see them_ ... and there’s the truth! There is
something too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness enforced on
occasion! ... which is painful and hateful. Detestable it all is.
And _I_ like La Cava too! Think of a hollow in the mountain ... something
like a cave, do you think? At least it must be a hollow in the mountains.
I wrote to my friend this morning to ask if the place is considered
warm, and if she knew any more of it. The ‘_porticoes as at Bologna_’
look attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by; and _Baba_ may
escape the forty thieves of English in the _Cave_, with a good watchword
like Sesame—now that’s half _my_ nonsense and half yours, I beg you to
observe. I won’t be at the charge of it all.
I was out to-day—walked up, walked down, in my old fashion—only I do
improve in walking, I think, and gain strength.
May God bless you dear dearest! I am your own.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday.
[Post-mark, July 2, 1846.]
Dear, you might as well imagine you had never given me any other of the
gifts, as that you did not call me, as I tell you. You spoke quickly,
interrupting me, and, for the name, ‘I can hear it, ’twixt my spirit and
the earth-noise intervene’; do you think I forget one gift in another,
even a greater? I should still taste the first freshness of the vinegar,
(or whatever was the charm of it)—though Cleopatra had gone on dissolving
pearl after pearl in it. I love you for these gifts to me now—hereafter,
it seems almost as if I must love you even better, should you choose to
continue them to me in spite of complete knowledge: I feel this as often
as I think of it, which is not seldom.
Do you know, Mrs. Jameson asked _me_ to go and see her on Friday
morning—would you like me to go? What _I_ like ... do not fancy,—because
your own pleasure is to be consulted. Should you fear the eyes, which
_can_, on occasion, wear spectacles? If not ... and if our Saturday will
not be interfered with ... and if you can tell me the hour ‘later than
twelve’ you mean to appoint, ... so that my call may be neither too early
nor too late ... why, then, Ba, dearest, dearest—
La Cava—is surely our cave, Ba—early in October will be vintage-time,—no
fire flies. There will be the advantage in the vicinity of Naples,
that through the Rothschilds’ House there we can, I believe, receive
and dispatch letters without any charge, which otherwise would be an
expensive business in Italy. The economy of the Post Office there is
astounding. A stranger goes to a window and asks for ‘A’s’ or ‘Z’s’
letters ... not even professing himself to be ‘A,’ or ‘Z’—whereupon the
official hands over sundry dozens of letters, without a word of enquiry,
out of which the said stranger picks what pleases him, and paying for
his selections, goes away and there an end. At Venice, I remember, they
offered me, with other letters, about ten or fifteen for the Marquis
of Hastings who was not arrived yet—I had only to say ‘I am sent for
them’.... At Rome a lady lamented to me the sad state of things ‘A letter
might contain Heaven only knew what and lie at the office and’—‘_I_ might
go and get it,’ I said—‘You? Nay, my husband might!’ she answered as one
mightily wronged.
But of your dear self now—the going out will soon and effectually cure
the nervousness, we may be sure. I am most happy, love, to hear of the
walking and increased strength. So you used to like riding on a donkey?
Then you shall have a mule, un bel mulo, and I will be your muleteer,
walk by your side—and you will think the moment you see him of the wicked
shoeing of cats with walnut-shells, for they make a mule’s shoes turn
up, for all the world like large shells—those on his forefeet at least.
Will the time really come then? Meanwhile, your visitors ... let us hope
they will go sight-seeing or call-making, do anything but keep the house
on our days.... The three hours seem as a minute ... if they are to be
curtailed,—oh, no, no, I hope. Tell me all you can, dearest ... and let
me tell you all I can, little as it is, in kissing you, my best and
dearest Ba, as now kisses your very own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 3, 1846.]
But, ever dearest, I do so fear that I shall not be able to get to Mrs.
Jameson’s to-morrow at all! not at twelve, I fear, I fear. Our visitors
are to arrive late to-night, too late for me to see them: and for me to
go away at twelve in the morning, just about the hour when they might
reasonably expect to have and to hold me, ... seems altogether unlawful,
according to my sisters. Yet the temptation is strong. Would half-past
twelve be too early for you, if I could manage to go at twelve? Ah—but
I shall not be able, I do fear. Just see how it becomes possible and
impossible at once for us to touch hands! I could almost wring mine, to
see! For I _could_ dare the spectacles, the hypothetical spectacles, and
the eyes discerning without them: she has no idea to begin with—and you
would not say ‘Ba, let us order the mules,’ I suppose. If I went, it
would be _alone_—but probably I shall not be able—so you had better not
think of me, and pay your visit at your own hour ‘after the devices of
your heart.’
In the meanwhile, quite you make me laugh by your positiveness about
the name-calling. Well—if ever I did such a thing, it was in a moment
of unconsciousness all the more surprising, that, even to my own soul,
in the lowest spirit-whisper, I have not been in the _habit_ of saying
‘Robert,’ speaking of you. You have only been The One. No word ever stood
for you. The Idea admitted of no representative—the words fell down
before it and were silent. Still such very positive people must be right
of course—they always are. At any rate it is only one illusion more—and
some day I expect to hear you say and swear that you saw me fly out of
one window and fly in at another. So much for your Cleopatra’s Roman
pearls, oh my famous in council!—and appreciation of sour vinegar!
Dear Miss Mitford came at two to-day and stayed until seven, and all
those hours you were not once mentioned—_I_ had not courage—and she
perhaps avoided an old subject of controversy ... I do not know. It is
singular that for this year past you are not mentioned between us, while
other names come up like grass in the rain. No single person will be more
utterly confounded than she, when she comes to be aware of what you are
to me now—and _that_ I was thinking to-day, while she talked to never a
listener. She will be confounded, and angry perhaps—it will be beyond
her sympathies or if they reach so far, the effort to make them do so
will prove a more lively affection for me, than, with all my trust in
her goodness, I dare count on. Yet very good and kind and tender, she
was to me to-day. And very variously intelligent and agreeable. Do you
know, I should say that her _natural_ faculties were stronger than Mrs.
Jameson’s—though the latter has a higher aspiration and, in some ways, a
finer sensibility of intellect. You would certainly call her superior to
her own books—certainly you would. She walks strongly on her two feet in
this world—but nobody shall see her (not even _you_) fly out of a window.
Too closely she keeps to the ground, I always feel. Now Mrs. Jameson can
‘aspire’ like Paracelsus; and believes enough in her own soul, to know a
poet when she sees one. Ah—but all cannot be all.
Miss Mitford wrung a promise from me—that ‘if I were well enough and in
England next summer, I would go to see _her_.’ So remember. Isn’t it a
promise for two?