_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, February 21, 1846.]
As my sisters did not dine at home yesterday and I see nobody else in
the evening, I never heard till just now and _from Papa himself_, that
'George was invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter.' How
surprised you will be. It must have been a sudden thought of Mr.
Kenyon's.
And I have been thinking, thinking since last night that I wrote you
then a letter all but ... insolent ... which, do you know, I feel half
ashamed to look back upon this morning--particularly what I wrote
about 'missions of humanity'--now was it not insolent of me to write
so? If I could take my letter again I would dip it into Lethe between
the lilies, instead of the post office:--but I can't--so if you
wondered, you must forget as far as possible, and understand how it
was, and that I was in brimming spirits when I wrote, from two causes
... first, because I had your letter which was a pure goodness of
yours, and secondly because you were 'noticeably' better you said, or
'noticeably well' rather, to mind my quotations. So I wrote what I
wrote, and gave it to Arabel when she came in at midnight, to give it
to Henrietta who goes out before eight in the morning and often takes
charge of my letters, and it was too late, at the earliest this
morning, to feel a little ashamed. Miss Thomson told me that she had
determined to change the type of the few pages of her letterpress
which had been touched, and that therefore Mr. Burges's revisions of
my translations should be revised back again. She appears to be a very
acute person, full of quick perceptions--naturally quick, and
carefully trained--a little over anxious perhaps about mental lights,
and opening her eyes still more than she sees, which is a common fault
of clever people, if one must call it a fault. I like her, and she is
kind and cordial. Will she ask you to help her book with a translation
or two, I wonder. Perhaps--if the courage should come. Dearest, how I
shall think of you this evening, and how near you will seem, not to be
here. I had a letter from Mr. Mathews the other day, and smiled to
read in it just what I had expected, that he immediately sent Landor's
verses on you to a _few editors_, friends of his, in order to their
communication to the public. He received my apology for myself with
the utmost graciousness. A kind good man he is.
After all, do you know, I am a little vexed that I should have even
_seemed_ to do wrong in my speech about the letters. It must have been
wrong, if it seemed so to you, I fancy now. Only I really did no more
mean to try your letters ... mine ... such as they are to me now, by
the common critical measure, than the shepherds praised the pure tenor
of the angels who sang 'Peace upon earth' to them. It was enough that
they knew it for angels' singing. So do _you_ forgive me, beloved, and
put away from you the thought that I have let in between us any
miserable stuff 'de métier,' which I hate as you hate. And I will not
say any more about it, not to run into more imprudences of mischief.
On the other hand I warn you against saying again what you began to
say yesterday and stopped. Do not try it again. What may be quite good
sense from me, is from _you_ very much the reverse, and pray observe
that difference. Or did you think that I was making my own road clear
in the the thing I said about--'jilts'? No, you did not. Yet I am
ready to repeat of myself as of others, that if I ceased to love you,
I certainly would act out the whole consequence--but _that_ is an
impossible 'if' to my nature, supposing the conditions of it otherwise
to be probable. I never loved anyone much and ceased to love that
person. Ask every friend of mine, if I am given to change even in
friendship! _And to you...!_ Ah, but you never think of such a thing
seriously--and you are conscious that you did not say it very sagely.
You and I are in different positions. Now let me tell you an apologue
in exchange for your Wednesday's stories which I liked so, and mine
perhaps may make you 'a little wiser'--who knows?
It befell that there stood in hall a bold baron, and out he spake to
one of his serfs ... 'Come thou; and take this baton of my baronie,
and give me instead thereof that sprig of hawthorn thou holdest in
thine hand.' Now the hawthorn-bough was no larger a thing than might
be carried by a wood-pigeon to the nest, when she flieth low, and the
baronial baton was covered with fine gold, and the serf, turning it
in his hands, marvelled greatly.
And he answered and said, 'Let not my lord be in haste, nor jest with
his servant. Is it verily his will that I should keep his golden
baton? Let him speak again--lest it repent him of his gift.'
And the baron spake again that it was his will. 'And I'--he said once
again--'shall it be lawful for me to keep this sprig of hawthorn, and
will it not repent thee of thy gift?'
Then all the servants who stood in hall, laughed, and the serf's hands
trembled till they dropped the baton into the rushes, knowing that his
lord did but jest....
Which mine did not. Only, _de te fabula narratur_ up to a point.
And I have your letter. 'What did I expect?' Why I expected just
_that_, a letter in turn. Also I am graciously pleased (yes, and very
much pleased!) to '_let_ you write to-morrow.' How you spoil me with
goodness, which makes one 'insolent' as I was saying, now and then.
The worst is, that I write 'too kind' letters--I!--and what does that
criticism mean, pray? It reminds me, at least, of ... now I will tell
you what it reminds me of.
A few days ago Henrietta said to me that she was quite uncomfortable.
She had written to somebody a not kind enough letter, she thought, and
it might be taken ill. 'Are _you_ ever uncomfortable, Ba, after you
have sent letters to the post?' she asked me.
'Yes,' I said, 'sometimes, but from a reason just the very reverse of
your reason, _my_ letters, when they get into the post, seem too
kind,--rather.' And my sisters laughed ... laughed.
But if _you_ think so beside, I must seriously set to work, you see,
to correct that flagrant fault, and shall do better in time _dis
faventibus_, though it will be difficult.
Mr. Kenyon's dinner is a riddle which I cannot read. _You_ are
invited to meet Miss Thomson and Mr. Bayley and '_no one else_.'
George is invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter and '_no one
else_'--just those words. The '_absolu_' (do you remember Balzac's
beautiful story?) is just _you_ and 'no one else,' the other elements
being mere uncertainties, shifting while one looks for them.
Am I not writing nonsense to-night? I am not 'too _wise_' in any case,
which is some comfort. It puts one in spirits to hear of your being
'well,' ever and ever dearest. Keep so for _me_. May God bless you
hour by hour. In every one of mine I am your own