_E.B.B. to R.B._
[Post-mark, October 11, 1845.]
Dear Mr. Kenyon has been here again, and talking so (in his kindness
too) about the probabilities as to Pisa being against me ... about all
depending 'on one throw' and the 'dice being loaded' &c. ... that I
looked at him aghast as if he looked at the future through the folded
curtain and was licensed to speak oracles:--and ever since I have been
out of spirits ... oh, out of spirits--and must write myself back
again, or try. After all he may be wrong like another--and I should
tell you that he reasons altogether from the delay ... and that 'the
cabins will therefore be taken' and the 'circular bills' out of reach!
He _said_ that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to
'_knout_' me every day--didn't he?
Well--George will probably speak before _he_ leaves town, which will
be on Monday! and now that the hour approaches, I do feel as if the
house stood upon gunpowder, and as if I held Guy Fawkes's lantern in
my right hand. And no: I shall not go. The obstacles will not be those
of Mr. Kenyon's finding--and what their precise character will be I do
not see distinctly. Only that they will be sufficient, and thrown by
one hand just where the wheel should turn, ... _that_, I see--and you
will, in a few days.
Did you go to Moxon's and settle the printing matter? Tell me. And
what was the use of telling Mr. Kenyon that you were 'quite well' when
you know you are not? Will you say to me how you are, saying the
truth? and also how your mother is?
To show the significance of the omission of those evening or rather
night visits of Papa's--for they came sometimes at eleven, and
sometimes at twelve--I will tell you that he used to sit and talk in
them, and then _always_ kneel and pray with me and for me--which I
used of course to feel as a proof of very kind and affectionate
sympathy on his part, and which has proportionably pained me in the
withdrawing. They were no ordinary visits, you observe, ... and he
could not well throw me further from him than by ceasing to pay
them--the thing is quite expressively significant. Not that I pretend
to complain, nor to have reason to complain. One should not be
grateful for kindness, only while it lasts: _that_ would be a
short-breathed gratitude. I just tell you the fact, proving that it
cannot be accidental.
Did you ever, ever tire me? Indeed no--you never did. And do
understand that I am not to be tired 'in that way,' though as Mr. Boyd
said once of his daughter, one may be so 'far too effeminate.' No--if
I were put into a crowd I should be tired soon--or, apart from the
crowd, if you made me discourse orations De Coronâ ... concerning your
bag even ... I should be tired soon--though peradventure not very much
sooner than you who heard. But on the smooth ground of quiet
conversation (particularly when three people don't talk at once as my
brothers do ... to say the least!) I last for a long while:--not to
say that I have the pretension of being as good and inexhaustible a
listener to your own speaking as you could find in the world. So
please not to accuse me of being tired again. I can't be tired, and
won't be tired, you see.
And now, since I began to write this, there is a new evil and
anxiety--a worse anxiety than any--for one of my brothers is ill; had
been unwell for some days and we thought nothing of it, till to-day
Saturday: and the doctors call it a fever of the typhoid character ...
not typhus yet ... but we are very uneasy. You must not come on
Wednesday if an infectious fever be in the house--_that_ must be out
of the question. May God bless you--I am quite heavy-hearted to-day,
but never less yours,