Month: September 2017

September 29, 1845.

Then first,  . . . first, I ask you not to misunderstand. Because we do not  . . . no, we do not  . . . agree (but disagree) as to ‘what is your true good’  . . . but disagree, and as widely as ever indeed.

The other asking shall come in its season  . . . some day before I go, if I go. It only relates to a restitution — and you cannot guess it if you try  . . . so don’t try! — and perhaps you can’t grant it if you try — and I cannot guess.

Cabins and berths all taken in the Malta steamer for both third and twentieth of October! see what dark lanterns the stars hold out, and how I shall stay in England after all as I think! And thus we are thrown back on the old Gibraltar scheme with its shifting of steamers  . . . unless we take the dreary alternative of Madeira! — or Cadiz! Even suppose Madeira,  . . . why it were for a few months alone — and there would be no temptation to loiter as in Italy.

Don’t think too hardly of poor Papa. You have his wrong side  . . . his side of peculiar wrongness  . . . to you just now. When you have walked round him you will have other thoughts of him.

Are you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and trying to be better? May God bless you! Tuesday need not be the last day if you like to take one more besides — for there is no going until the fourth or seventh,  . . . and the seventh is the more probable of those two. But now you have done with me until Tuesday.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

 

September 27, 1845.

Think for me, speak for me, my dearest, my own! You that are all great-heartedness and generosity, do that one more generous thing?

God bless you for

R.B.

What can it be you ask of me!  – – ‘a boon’  – – once my answer to that had been the plain one  – – but now  . . . when I have better experience of  – – No, now I have best experience of how you understand my interests; that at last we both know what is my true good  – – so ask, ask! My own, now! For there it is!  – – oh, do not fear I am ‘entangled‘  – – my crown is loose on my head, not nailed there  – – my pearl lies in my hand  – – I may return it to the sea, if I will!

What is it you ask of me, this first asking?

 

Friday Evening.

September 27, 1845.

I had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the house by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I had wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been possible.

But it will be the same thing — for you know as well as if you saw my answer, what it must be, what it cannot choose but be, on pain of sinking me so infinitely below not merely your level but my own, that the depth cannot bear a glance down. Yet, though I am not made of such clay as to admit of my taking a base advantage of certain noble extravagances, (and that I am not I thank God for your sake) I will say, I must say, that your words in this letter have done me good and made me happy,  . . . that I thank and bless you for them,  . . . and that to receive such a proof of attachment from you, not only overpowers every present evil, but seems to me a full and abundant amends for the merely personal sufferings of my whole life. When I had read that letter last night I did think so. I looked round and round for the small bitternesses which for several days had been bitter to me, and I could not find one of them. The tear-marks went away in the moisture of new, happy tears. Why, how else could I have felt? how else do you think I could? How would any woman have felt  . . . who could feel at all  . . . hearing such words said (though ‘in a dream’ indeed) by such a speaker?

And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me — my heart was full when you came here to-day. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you harm — and I am yours too much, in my heart, ever to consent to do you harm in that way. If I could consent to do it, not only should I be less loyal  . . . but in one sense, less yours. I say this to you without drawback and reserve, because it is all I am able to say, and perhaps all I shall be able to say. However this may be, a promise goes to you in it that none, except God and your will, shall interpose between you and me,  . . . I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate time from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you whatever at that hour you shall choose  . . . whether friend or more than friend  . . . a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with God and with you — only in the meanwhile you are most absolutely free  . . . ‘unentangled’ (as they call it) by the breadth of a thread — and if I did not know that you considered yourself so, I would not see you any more, let the effort cost me what it might. You may force me feel:  . . . but you cannot force me to think contrary to my first thought  . . . that it were better for you to forget me at once in one relation. And if better for you, can it be bad for me? which flings me down on the stone-pavement of the logicians.

And now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget afterwards that it ever was asked? I have hesitated a great deal; but my face is down on the stone-pavement — no — I will not ask to-day — It shall be for another day — and may God bless you on this and on those that come after, my dearest friend.

 

September 25, 1845.

You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know certain feelings you had been forced to endure. I suppose all of us have the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most  – – and I truly wish you may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this treatment, which I refuse to characterize  – – so blind is it for blindness. I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and a child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love’s caprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying source. Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections  – – you remember what  – – to myself, my own happiness,  – – did I once allude to, much less argue against, or refuse to acknowledge those objections? For I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest, wariest, pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance they entail  – – but now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded, but ruined, cast away. And whoever is privileged to interfere should do so in the possessor’s own interest  – – all common sense interferes  – – all rationality against absolute no-reason at all. And you ask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all passive obedience and implicit submission of will and intellect is by far too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by God to Man in this life of probation  – – for they evade probation altogether, though foolish people think otherwise. Chop off your legs, you will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will find it is difficult to reason ill. ‘It is hard to make these sacrifices!’  – – not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty of an Eternity to come; ‘hard to effect them, then, and go through with them’  – – not hard, when the leg is to be cut off  – – that it is rather harder to keep it quiet on a stool, I know very well. The partial indulgence, the proper exercise of one’s faculties, there is the difficulty and problem for solution, set by that Providence which might have made the laws of Religion as indubitable as those of vitality, and revealed the articles of belief as certainly as that condition, for instance, by which we breathe so many times in a minute to support life. But there is no reward proposed for the feat of breathing, and a great one for that of believing  – – consequently there must go a great deal more of voluntary effort to this latter than is implied in the getting absolutely rid of it at once, by adopting the direction of an infallible church, or private judgment of another  – – for all our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief, and there is but one law, however modified, for the greater and the less. In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to yourself; that is, to God in the end. Your own reason should examine the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in requisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your conduct should have its utmost claims considered  – – your father’s in the first place; and that interest, not in the miserable limits of a few days’ pique or whim in which it would seem to express itself; but in its whole extent  . . . the hereafter which all momentary passion prevents him seeing  . . . indeed, the present on either side which everyone else must see. And this examination made, with whatever earnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion you should act, in confidence that a duty has been performed  . . . difficult, or how were it a duty? Will it not be infinitely harder to act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who can not do that?

I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will fall  – – knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain or point to, will be caught and understood, and presented in a better light. The hard thing  . . . this is all I want to say  . . . is to act on one’s own best conviction  – – not to abjure it and accept another will, and say ‘there is my plain duty’  – – easy it is, whether plain or no!

How ‘all changes!’ When I first knew you  – – you know what followed. I supposed you to labour under an incurable complaint  – – and, of course, to be completely dependent on your father for its commonest alleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached myself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any proposition I might then have made  – – for though I have never been at all frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with it, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet I could not but feel the consideration, of what failure would now be, paralyse all effort even in fancy. When you told me lately that ‘you could never be poor’  – – all my solicitude was at an end  – – I had but myself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe, that I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could cheerfully and confidently undertake the removing that obstacle. Now again the circumstances shift  – – and you are in what I should wonder at as the veriest slavery  – – and I who could free you from it, I am here scarcely daring to write  . . . though I know you must feel for me and forgive what forces itself from me  . . . what retires so mutely into my heart at your least word  . . . what shall not be again written or spoken, if you so will  . . . that I should be made happy beyond all hope of expression by. Now while I dream, let me once dream! I would marry you now and thus  – – I would come when you let me, and go when you bade me  – – I would be no more than one of your brothers  – – ‘no more‘  – – that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Saturday, I should get Saturday as well  – – two hours for one  – – when your head ached I should be here. I deliberately choose the realization of that dream (  – – of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any other, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I know  – – And it will continue but a dream.

God bless my dearest E.B.B.

R.B.

You understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose.

I am better  – – thank you  – – and will go out to-day.

You know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do.

 

I have spoken again, and the result is that we are in precisely the same position; only with bitterer feelings on one side. If I go or stay they must be bitter: words have been said that I cannot easily forget, nor remember without pain; and yet I really do almost smile in the midst of it all, to think how I was treated this morning as an undutiful daughter because I tried to put on my gloves  . . . for there was no worse provocation. At least he complained of the undutifulness and rebellion (!!!) of everyone in the house — and when I asked if he meant that reproach for me, the answer was that he meant it for all of us, one with another. And I could not get an answer. He would not even grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what I supposed to be good, to him. I told him that my prospects of health seemed to me to depend on taking this step, but that through my affection for him, I was ready to sacrifice those to his pleasure if he exacted it — only it was necessary to my self-satisfaction in future years, to understand definitely that the sacrifice was exacted by him and was made to him,  . . . and not thrown away blindly and by a misapprehension. And he would not answer that. I might do my own way, he said — he would not speak — he would not say that he was not displeased with me, nor the contrary: — I had better do what I liked: — for his part, he washed his hands of me altogether.

And so I have been very wise — witness how my eyes are swelled with annotations and reflections on all this! The best of it is that now George himself admits I can do no more in the way of speaking,  . . . I have no spell for charming the dragons,  . . . and allows me to be passive and enjoins me to be tranquil, and not ‘make up my mind’ to any dreadful exertion for the future. Moreover he advises me to go on with the preparations for the voyage, and promises to state the case himself at the last hour to the ‘highest authority’; and judge finally whether it be possible for me to go with the necessary companionship. And it seems best to go to Malta on the 3rd of October — if at all  . . . from steam-packet reasons  . . . without excluding Pisa  . . . remember  . . . by any means.

Well! — and what do you think? Might it be desirable for me to give up the whole? Tell me. I feel aggrieved of course and wounded — and whether I go or stay that feeling must last — I cannot help it. But my spirits sink altogether at the thought of leaving England so — and then I doubt about Arabel and Stormie  . . . and it seems to me that I ought not to mix them up in a business of this kind where the advantage is merely personal to myself. On the other side, George holds that if I give up and stay even, there will be displeasure just the same,  . . . and that, when once gone, the irritation will exhaust and smooth itself away — which however does not touch my chief objection. Would it be better  . . . more right  . . . to give it up? Think for me. Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be thrown off — that is my conviction. But  . . . shall I give up at once? Do think for me.

And I have thought that if you like to come on Friday instead of Saturday  . . . as there is the uncertainty about next week,  . . . it would divide the time more equally: but let it be as you like and according to circumstances as you see them. Perhaps you have decided to go at once with your friends — who knows? I wish I could know that you were better to-day. May God bless you

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

 

Wednesday Evening.

September 25, 1845.

I walked to town, this morning, and back again  – – so that when I found your note on my return, and knew what you had been enjoining me in the way of exercise, I seemed as if I knew, too, why that energetic fit had possessed me and why I succumbed to it so readily. You shall never have to intimate twice to me that such an insignificant thing, even, as the taking exercise should be done. Besides, I have many motives now for wishing to continue well. But Italy just now  – – Oh, no! My friends would go through Pisa, too.

On that subject I must not speak. And you have ‘more strength to lose,’ and are so well, evidently so well; that is, so much better, so sure to be still better  – – can it be that you will not go!

Here are your new notes on my verses. Where are my words for the thanks? But you know what I feel, and shall feel  – – ever feel  – – for these and for all. The notes would be beyond price to me if they came from some dear Phemius of a teacher  – – but from you!

The Theatricals ‘went off’ with great éclat, and the performance was really good, really clever or better. Forster’s ‘Kitely’ was very emphatic and earnest, and grew into great interest, quite up to the poet’s allotted tether, which is none of the longest. He pitched the character’s key note too gravely, I thought; beginning with certainty, rather than mere suspicion, of evil. Dickens’ ‘Bobadil’ was capital  – – with perhaps a little too much of the consciousness of entire cowardice  . . . which I don’t so willingly attribute to the noble would-be pacificator of Europe, besieger of Strigonium &c.  – – but the end of it all was really pathetic, as it should be, for Bobadil is only too clever for the company of fools he makes wonderment for: having once the misfortune to relish their society, and to need but too pressingly their ‘tobacco-money,’ what can he do but suit himself to their capacities?  – – And D. Jerrold was very amusing and clever in his ‘Country Gull’  – – And Mr. Leech superb in the Town Master Mathew. All were good, indeed, and were voted good, and called on, and cheered off, and praised heartily behind their backs and before the curtain. Stanfield’s function had exercise solely in the touching up (very effectively) sundry ‘Scenes’  – – painted scenes  – – and the dresses, which were perfect, had the advantage of Mr. Maclise’s experience. And  – – all is told!

And now; I shall hear, you promise me, if anything occurs  – – with what feeling, I wait and hope, you know. If there is no best of reasons against it, Saturday, you remember, is my day  – – This fine weather, too!

May God bless my dearest friend  – –

Ever yours

R.B.

 

September 24, 1845.

I have nothing to say about Pisa,  . . . but a great deal (if I could say it) about you, who do what is wrong by your own confession and are ill because of it and make people uneasy — now is it right altogether? is it right to do wrong? . . . for it comes to that: — and is it kind to do so much wrong? . . . for it comes almost to that besides. Ah — you should not indeed! I seem to see quite plainly that you will be ill in a serious way, if you do not take care and take exercise; and so you must consent to be teazed a little into taking both. And if you will not take them here  . . . or not so effectually as in other places; why not go with your Italian friends? Have you thought of it at all? I have been thinking since yesterday that it might be best for you to go at once, now that the probability has turned quite against me. If I were going, I should ask you not to do so immediately  . . . but you see how unlikely it is! — although I mean still to speak my whole thoughts — I will do that  . . . even though for the mere purpose of self-satisfaction. George came last night — but there is an adverse star this morning, and neither of us has the opportunity necessary. Only both he and I will speak — that is certain. And Arabel had the kindness to say yesterday that if I liked to go, she would go with me at whatever hazard — which is very kind — but you know I could not — it would not be right of me. And perhaps after all we may gain the point lawfully; and if not  . . . at the worst  . . . the winter may be warm (it is better to fall into the hands of God, as the Jew said) and I may lose less strength than usual,  . . . having more than usual to lose  . . . and altogether it may not be so bad an alternative. As to being the cause of any anger against my sister, you would not advise me into such a position, I am sure — it would be untenable for one moment.

But you  . . . in that case,  . . . would it not be good for your head if you went at once? I praise myself for saying so to you — yet if it really is good for you, I don’t deserve the praising at all. And how was it on Saturday — that question I did not ask yesterday — with Ben Jonson and the amateurs? I thought of you at the time — I mean, on that Saturday evening, nevertheless.

You shall hear when there is any more to say. May God bless you, dearest friend! I am ever yours,

E.B.B.

 

Friday Morning.

September 19, 1845.

It is not ‘misunderstanding’ you to know you to be the most generous and loyal of all in the world — you overwhelm me with your generosity — only while you see from above and I from below, we cannot see the same thing in the same light. Moreover, if we did, I should be more beneath you in one sense, than I am. Do me the justice of remembering this whenever you recur in thought to the subject which ends here in the words of it.

I began to write last Saturday to thank you for all the delight I had had in Shelley, though you beguiled me about the pencil-marks, which are few. Besides the translations, some of the original poems were not in my copy and were, so, quite new to me. ‘Marianne’s Dream’ I had been anxious about to no end — I only know it now. —

On Monday at the usual hour. As to coming twice into town on Saturday, that would have been quite foolish if it had been possible.

Dearest friend,

I am yours,

E.B.B.

 

Thursday Morning.

September 18, 1845.

But you, too, will surely want, if you think me a rational creature, my explanation  – – without which all that I have said and done would be pure madness, I think. It is just ‘what I see’ that I do see,  – – or rather it has proved, since I first visited you, that the reality was infinitely worse than I know it to be  . . . for at, and after the writing of that first letter, on my first visit, I believed  – – through some silly or misapprehended talk, collected at second hand too  – – that your complaint was of quite another nature  – – a spinal injury irremediable in the nature of it. Had it been so  – – now speak for me, for what you hope I am, and say how that should affect or neutralize what you were, what I wished to associate with myself in you? But as you now are:  – – then if I had married you seven years ago, and this visitation came now first, I should be ‘fulfilling a pious duty,’ I suppose, in enduring what could not be amended  – – a pattern to good people in not running away  . . . for where were now the use and the good and the profit and  – –

I desire in this life (with very little fluctuation for a man and too weak a one) to live and just write out certain things which are in me, and so save my soul. I would endeavour to do this if I were forced to ‘live among lions’ as you once said  – – but I should best do this if I lived quietly with myself and with you. That you cannot dance like Cerito does not materially disarrange this plan  – – nor that I might (beside the perpetual incentive and sustainment and consolation) get, over and above the main reward, the incidental, particular and unexpected happiness of being allowed when not working to rather occupy myself with watching you, than with certain other pursuits I might be otherwise addicted to  – – this, also, does not constitute an obstacle, as I see obstacles.

But you see them  – – and I see you, and know my first duty and do it resolutely if not cheerfully.

As for referring again, till leave by word or letter  – – you will see  – –

And very likely, the tone of this letter even will be misunderstood  – – because I studiously cut out all vain words, protesting &c.:  – – No  – – will it?

I said, unadvisedly, that Saturday was taken from me  . . . but it was dark and I had not looked at the tickets: the hour of the performance is later than I thought. If to-morrow does not suit you, as I infer, let it be Saturday  – – at 3  – – and I will leave earlier, a little, and all will be quite right here. One hint will apprise me.

God bless you, dearest friend.

R.B.

Something else just heard, makes me reluctantly strike out Saturday  – –

Monday then?

 

Wednesday.

September 18, 1845.

Of course you cannot do otherwise than go with your sister — or it will be ‘Every man out of his humour’ perhaps — and you are not so very ‘savage’ after all.

On Monday then, if you do not hear — to the contrary.

Papa has been walking to and fro in this room, looking thoughtfully and talking leisurely — and every moment I have expected I confess, some word (that did not come) about Pisa. Mr. Kenyon thinks it cannot end so — and I do sometimes — and in the meantime I do confess to a little ‘savageness’ also — at heart! All I asked him to say the other day, was that he was not displeased with me — and he wouldn’t; and for me to walk across his displeasure spread on the threshold of the door, and moreover take a sister and brother with me, and do such a thing for the sake of going to Italy and securing a personal advantage, were altogether impossible, obviously impossible! So poor Papa is quite in disgrace with me just now — if he would but care for that!

May God bless you. Amuse yourself well on Saturday. I could not see you on Thursday any way, for Mr. Kenyon is here every day  . . . staying in town just on account of this Pisa business, in his abundant kindness . . .. On Monday then.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.