Free Possession by A.S. Byatt

endpapers:
    A Journal of Our Home-Life .
In Our House in Richmond
Blanche Glover
Commenced on the day of our setting up house
.
May 1st May Day 1858
    Roland took it up respectfully. It did not have for him the magnetic feel of the two letters that were folded into his pocket, but it represented the tease of curiosity.
    He was worried about his Day Return ticket. He was worried about Maud’s limited patience. The journal was written in an excited and pretty hand, in short rushes. He skimmed it. Carpets, curtains, the pleasures of retirement, “Today we engaged a Cook-general,” a new way to stew rhubarb, a painting of the infant Hermes and his mother, and yes, Crabb Robinson’s breakfast.
    “Here it is.”
    “Good. I’ll leave you. I’ll fetch you when the Library shuts. You’ve got a couple of hours.”
    “Thank you.”

    We went out to breakfast with Mr Robinson, a pleasant but prosy old gentleman who told us a complicated tale of a bust of Wieland, retrieved by himself from unworthy oblivion, to the great delight of Goethe and other literary eminences. Not much of interest was said, and certainly not by shadowy me, though that is as I would have it. Present were Mrs Jameson, Mr Bagehot, Ash the poet, without Mrs Ash, who was indisposed, and some younger members of the London University. The Princess was much admired and rightly. She spoke great good sense to Mr Ash, whose poetry I cannot like, though she professed to like it greatly, which naturally flattered him. He lacks, in my view, the lyrical flow and intensity of Alfred Tennyson, and I doubt his seriousness. His poem about Mesmer is a great puzzle to me, as I cannot tell with any certainty
what
is his attitude to Animal Magnetism, whether mocking or endorsing, and this is so with other of his work, so that often one is led to wonder whether there is not a great pother of talk about nothing much. For my part, I endured a long disquisition on the Tractarians from a young and opinionated university liberal. He would have been much surpris’d to know my true Opinion on these matters, but I did not chuse to let him be so much familiar, I kept mum, and smiled and nodded as best I might, keeping my Thoughts to myself. But I was almost glad when Mr Robinson decided to tell the company at large of his Italian journeyings with Wordsworth, who desired to be back at home with every step they made, and could only with the utmost difficulty be persuaded to look about him.
    I too desired to be at home, and was glad when we were able to close our own dear front door behind us, and be gathered in to the silence of our little parlour.
    A home is a great thing, as I had not courage to say to Mr Robinson, if it is certainly one’s
own home
, as our little house is. When I think of my previous existence—of all I thought I couldreasonably expect of the rest of my life, an allowed place at the extreme corner of someone’s drawing-room carpet, a Servant’s garret or no better, I give thanks for every little thing, which is unspeakably dear to me. We had a late luncheon, cold fowl and a salad got up by Liza, walked in the Park in the afternoon, worked, and in the evening had a dish of warm milk and white bread, sprinkled with sugar, quite as Wordsworth himself might have done. We played and sang together, and read aloud a little of the
Faerie Queene
. Our days weave together the simple pleasures of daily life, which we should never take for granted, and the higher pleasures of Art and Thought which we may now taste as we please, with none to forbid or criticise. Surely Richmond is Beulah, I said to the Princess, who said it was only to be hoped no wicked Fairy envied us our pleasant lot.
    Nothing further, for three and a half weeks, except simple meals, walks and readings, music and Blanche’s plans for paintings. Then Roland found a sentence which could have been something or nothing. Nothing if you were not looking carefully.
    I have been wondering whether to attempt, in