R.B. to E.B.B.
Thursday.
[Post-mark, May 21, 1846.]
Just as I write, the weather is a little more proper for this ‘the blest ascension-day of the cheerful month of May’: may you not go out therefore, my Ba? Or down-stairs, at all events. We were sorry, Sarianna and I, to see the bright afternoon yesterday ... we ought to have gone, perhaps—but Mr. Kenyon is good and will understand; spite of the spectacles. But what sonnet is that, you perverse Ba, of which you give me the two or three words,—in print,—how, where? And if I do not request and request I shall be sure to hear nothing of that American review again,—so, I do request, Ba!
Last night brought Dickens’ ‘Pictures from Italy’—which I read this morning. He seems to have expended his power on the least interesting places,—and then gone on hurriedly, seeing or describing less and less, till at last the mere names of places do duty for pictures of them, and at Naples he fairly gives it up ... the Vesuvius’ journey excepted. But the book is readable and clever—shall I bring it?—(or next week when everybody here has done with it).
I know, dearest, you did not promise me that beatific vision by the gate—but was not enough said to justify me in waiting for you there? Indeed, yes—only the rain and wind seemed to forbid you; as they did. Were your sisters pleased? I am not sure I should have been glad to meet them so—I could not have left my sister (whom nobody would have known)—and then, with that unspoken secret between us. Also I please myself by hoping that Mr. Kenyon was only relieved of a great trouble and annoyance in the present state of his anxieties by our keeping away. Poor Captain Jones—really a fine, manly, noble fellow—I am heartily sorry. As for me, since Ba asks, I am pretty well,—much better in some points, and no worse in the rest—all is right but the little sound in the head which will be intrusive—but I must walk it away presently, or think it away at worst.
For, dearest, dearest Ba, I can cure all pains at once with you to think of, and to love, and to bless. So, bless you!
Your R.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Thursday.
[Post-mark, May 22, 1846.]
Dearest, when your letter came I was cutting open the leaves of Dickens’ ‘Letters from Italy’ which Papa had brought in—so I am glad to have your thoughts of the book to begin with. Before your letter came I had sent you the review, as you will find. What changes, what changes! And the sonnet was purely manuscript, and for the good of the world should remain so. Oh—you cannot care for all this trash—such trash! Why I had a manuscript sonnet sent to me last autumn by ‘person or persons unknown,’ ... ‘To EBB on her departure from England to Pisa.’ Can you fancy that melodious piece of gossipping? Then a lady of the city, famous, I believe, for haberdashery, used to address all her poems to me—which really was original ... for she would write five or six ‘poems’ on an evening, and sweep them up and send them to me once a fortnight, upon faith, hope and charity, seaweed and moonshine, cornlaws and the immortality of the soul, and take me for her standing muse, properly thou’d and thee’d all through. What a good vengeance it would be upon your unjust charges, if I set you to read a volume or two of those ‘poems’ ... which all went into the fire—so you need not be frightened.