_E.B.B. to R.B._
[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]
I do not understand how my letters limp so instead of flying as they
ought with the feathers I give them, and how you did not receive last
night, nor even early this morning, what left me at two o'clock
yesterday. But I understand _now_ the not hearing from you--you were
not well. Not well, not well ... _that_ is always 'happening' at
least. And Mr. Moxon, who is to have his first sheet, whether you are
well or ill! It is wrong ... yes, very wrong--and if one point of
wrongness is touched, we shall not easily get right again--as I think
mournfully, feeling confident (call me Cassandra, but I cannot jest
about it) feeling certain that it will end (the means being so
persisted in) by some serious illness--serious sorrow,--on yours and
my part.
As to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again on Sunday--in which
case, Monday will be clear. If he should not come on Sunday, he will
or may on Monday,--yet--oh, in every case, perhaps you can come on
Monday--there will be no time to let you know of Mr. Kenyon--and
_probably_ we shall be safe, and your being in town seems to fix the
day. For myself I am well enough, and the wind has changed, which will
make me better--this cold weather oppresses and weakens me, but it is
close to April and can't last and won't last--it is warmer already.
Beware of the notes! They are not Ba's--except for the insolence, nor
EBB's--because of the carelessness. If I had known, moreover, that you
were going to Moxon's on Monday, they should have gone to the fire
rather than provoked you into superfluous work for the short interval.
Just so much are they despised of both EBB and Ba.
I am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because you were not
well, and you _must never_ write when you are not well. But if you had
been quite well, should I have heard?--_I doubt it_. You meant me to
hear from you only once, from Thursday to Monday. Is it not the truth
now that you hate writing to me?
The _Athenæum_ takes up the 'Tales from Boccaccio' as if they were
worth it, and imputes in an underground way the authorship to the
members of the 'coterie' so called--do you observe _that_? There is an
implication that persons named in the poem wrote the poem themselves.
And upon _whom_ does the critic mean to fix the song of 'Constancy'
... the song which is 'not to puzzle anybody' who knows the tunes of
the song-writers! The perfection of commonplace it seems to me. It
might have been written by the 'poet Bunn.' Don't you think so?
While I write this you are in town, but you will not read it till
Sunday unless I am more fortunate than usual. On Monday then! And no
word before? No--I shall be sure not to hear to-night. Now do try not
to suffer through 'Luria.' Let Mr. Moxon wait a week rather. There is
time enough.