_E.B.B. to R.B._
Saturday.
[Post-mark, 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 _un_know 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.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Morning,
[Post-mark, October 14, 1845.]
Be sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen
for the best in the end. It is hard to bear now--but _you_ have to
bear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing
you--_will_ be well this one winter if you can, and then--since I am
_not_ selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me,--I
desire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours
and with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, YOU--and
no hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment's care or fear; but
that one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised in any
least interest of yours--and before that, I am, and would ever be,
still silent. But now--what is to make you raise that hand? I will not
speak _now_; not seem to take advantage of your present feelings,--we
will be rational, and all-considering and weighing consequences, and
foreseeing them--but first I will prove ... if _that_ has to be done,
why--but I begin speaking, and I should not, I know.
Bless you, love!