You are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said ...
that I must love you more than at first ... a little sign, and to be
looked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows
_can_ only be little, so very little now--and as the fine French
Chemical Analysts bring themselves to appreciate matter in its refined
stages by _millionths_, so--! At first I only thought of being _happy_
in you,--in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours
that must come--I shall grow old with you, and die with you--as far as
I can look into the night I see the light with me. And surely with
that provision of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed
sense of security to the sunny middle of the day. I am in the full
sunshine now; and _after_, all seems cared for,--is it too homely an
illustration if I say the day's visit is not crossed by uncertainties
as to the return through the wild country at nightfall?--Now Keats
speaks of 'Beauty, that must _die_--and Joy whose hand is ever at his
lips, bidding farewell!' And _who_ spoke of--looking up into the eyes
and asking 'And _how long_ will you love us'?--There is a Beauty that
will not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will
love for ever!
And _I_--am to love no longer than I can. Well, dear--and when I _can_
no longer--you will not blame me? You will do only as ever, kindly and
justly; hardly more. I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my
fancy to such an experiment, and consider how _that_ is to happen, and
what measures ought to be taken in the emergency--because in the
'universality of my sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one
with my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a
spectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis. There is no doubt
I should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more
fortunate human being. And I hope that because such a calamity does
not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no
less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no
humanity can be altogether exempt--just as God bids us ask for the
continuance of the 'daily bread'!--'battle, murder and sudden death'
lie behind doubtless. I repeat, and perhaps in so doing only give one
more example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we
bestow in another's case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our
own, ... that I only contemplate the _possibility_ you make me
recognize, with pity, and fear ... no anger at all; and imprecations
of vengeance, _for what_? Observe, I only speak of cases _possible_;
of sudden impotency of mind; that _is_ possible--there _are_ other
ways of '_changing_,' 'ceasing to love' &c. which it is safest not to
think of nor believe in. A man _may_ never leave his writing desk
without seeing safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs
the disposal of his papers in the event of his reason suddenly leaving
him--or he may never go out into the street without a card in his
pocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up in
an apoplectic fit--but if he once begins to fear he is growing a glass
bottle, and, _so_, liable to be smashed,--do you see? And now, love,
dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba--see no more--see what I _am_,
what God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as
I, received already so much; much, past expression! It is but--if you
will so please--at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my
sake; but you _will_ be as sure of me _one_ day as I can be now of
myself--and why not _now_ be sure? See, love--a year is gone by--we
were in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter 'Do not say
I do not tire you' (by writing)--'_I am sure I do_.' A year has gone
by--_Did you tire me then?_ _Now_, you tell me what is told; for my
sake, sweet, let the few years go by; we are married, and my arms are
round you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, '_Were you
not_ to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy behind all joys, a
life added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the
possible gifts of God on this earth, for which I seemed to have lived;
which accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what
they can; what, it is very likely, they esteem more--for why should my
eye be evil because God's is good; why should I grudge that, giving
them, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the
inferior good and belief in its worth? I should have wished _that_
further concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their
sakes--but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only
tribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to pay. Hear this said
_now before_ the few years; and believe in it _now for then_, dearest!
Must you see 'Pauline'? At least then let me wait a few days; to
correct the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the
history of it; what is necessary you should know before you see it.
That article I suppose to be by Heraud--about two thirds--and the
rest, or a little less, by that Mr. Powell--whose unimaginable,
impudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the 'Story from
Boccaccio'--of which the _words_ quoted were _his_, I am sure--as sure
as that he knows not whether Boccaccio lived before or after
Shakspeare, whether Florence or Rome be the more northern city,--one
word of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio's in particular.
When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a
sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a _buyer_ of other
men's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he _bought_ two
modernisations of Chaucer--'Ugolino' and another story from Leigh
Hunt--and one, 'Sir Thopas' from Horne, and printed them as his own,
as I learned only last week. He paid me extravagant court and, seeing
no harm in the mere folly of the man, I was on good terms with him,
till ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of mine who had
written an article for the Review--(which is as good as _his_, he
being a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing
the voices of his co-mates in council)--well, he insulted my friend,
who had written that article at my special solicitation, and did all
he could to avoid paying the price of it--Why?--Because the poor
creature had actually taken the article to the Editor _as one by his
friend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell the
aforesaid_,--cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes
of Printer and Publisher! Now I was away all this time in Italy or he
would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence.
And my friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of
'practice,' in the American sense, held his peace and went without his
'honorarium.' But on my return, I enquired, and made him make a
proper application, which Mr. Powell treated with all the insolence in
the world--because, as the event showed, the having to write a cheque
for 'the Author of _the_ Article'--that author's name _not_ being
Talfourd's ... _there_ was certain disgrace! Since then (ten months
ago) I have never seen him--and he accuses _himself_, observe, of
'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'--one as much as the other!
And now why do I tell you this, all of it? Ah,--now you shall hear!
Because, it has often been in my mind to ask you what _you_ know of
this Mr. Powell, or ever knew. For he, (being profoundly versed in
every sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me, and the
rest of his acquaintance) he told me long ago, 'he used to correspond
with you, and that he quarrelled with you'--which I supposed to mean
that he began by sending you his books (as with one and everybody) and
that, in return to your note of acknowledgment, he had chosen to write
again, and perhaps, again--is it so? Do not write one word in answer
to me--the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought
not to have a place in your letters--and _that way_ he would get near
to me again; near indeed this time!--So _tell_ me, in a word--or do
not tell me.
How I never say what I sit down to say! How saying the little makes me
want to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as
a thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and
commentaries; all is of importance to me--every breath you breathe,
every little fact (like this) you are to know!
I was out last night--to see the rest of Frank Talfourd's theatricals;
and met Dickens and his set--so my evenings go away! If I do not bring
the _Act_ you must forgive me--yet I shall, I think; the roughness
matters little in this stage. Chorley says very truly that a tragedy
implies as much power _kept back_ as brought out--very true that is. I
do not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied--as was to be but
expected--with the effect of this last--the _shelve_ of the hill,
whence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it, so that at
the very last you may pass off into a plain and so away--not come to a
stop like your horse against a church wall. It is all in long
speeches--the _action, proper_, is in them--they are no descriptions,
or amplifications--but here, in a drama of this kind, all the
_events_, (and interest), take place in the _minds_ of the actors ...
somewhat like 'Paracelsus' in that respect. You know, or don't know,
that the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I
thought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt,
spasmodic writing--they will find some fault with this, of course.
How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing
now here now there--precisely! I wish he minded the _Athenæum_, its
silence or eloquence, no more nor less than I--but he goes on
painfully plying me with invitation after invitation, only to show me,
I feel confident, that _he_ has no part nor lot in the matter: I have
_two_ kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Saturday. See
the absurd position of us both; he asks more of my presence than he
can want, just to show his own kind feeling, of which I do not doubt;
and I must try and accept more hospitality than suits me, only to
prove my belief in that same! For myself--if I have vanity which such
Journals can raise; would the praise of them raise it, they who
praised Mr. Mackay's own, own 'Dead Pan,' quite his own, the other
day?--By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other evening that the
gentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ... 'singularly
like Schiller's; _considering that Mr. M. had never_ seen it!' I am
told he writes for the _Athenæum_, but don't know. Would that sort of
praise be flattering, or his holding the tongue--which Forster, deep
in the mysteries of the craft, corroborated my own notion about--as
pure willingness to hurt, and confessed impotence and little clever
spite, and enforced sense of what may be safe at the last? You shall
see they will not notice--unless a fresh publication alters the
circumstances--until some seven or eight months--as before; and then
they _will_ notice, and _praise_, and tell anybody who cares to
enquire, '_So_ we noticed the work.' So do not you go expecting
justice or injustice till I tell you. It answers me to be found
writing so, so anxious to prove I understand the laws of the game,
when that game is only 'Thimble-rig' and for prizes of
gingerbread-nuts--Prize or no prize, Mr. Dilke _does_ shift the pea,
and so did from the beginning--as Charles Lamb's pleasant _sobriquet_
(Mr. _Bilk_, he would have it) testifies. Still he behaved kindly to
that poor Frances Brown--let us forget him.
And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer--I am with you
again and out of them all--there, _here_, in my arms, is my _proved
palpable success_! My life, my poetry, gained nothing, oh no!--but
this found them, and blessed them. On Tuesday I shall see you,
dearest--am much better; well to-day--are you well--or 'scarcely to be
called an invalid'? Oh, when I _have_ you, am by you--
Bless you, dearest--And be very sure you have your wish about the
length of the week--still Tuesday must come! And with it your own,
happy, grateful