Day: January 17, 2018

Saturday.

January 17, 1846.

Did my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get to a book on the forb  – – no, unforbidden shelf  – – wherein Voltaire pleases to say that ‘si Dieu n’existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer’? I feel, after reading these letters,  – – as ordinarily after seeing you, sweetest, or hearing from you,  – – that if marriage did not exist, I should infallibly invent it. I should say, no words, no feelings even, do justice to the whole conviction and religion of my soul  – – and though they may be suffered to represent some one minute’s phase of it, yet, in their very fulness and passion they do injustice to the unrepresented, other minute’s, depth and breadth of love  . . . which let my whole life (I would say) be devoted to telling and proving and exemplifying, if not in one, then in another way  – – let me have the plain palpable power of this; the assured time for this  . . . something of the satisfaction  . . . (but for the fantasticalness of the illustration)  . . . something like the earnestness of some suitor in Chancery if he could once get Lord Lyndhurst into a room with him, and lock the door on them both, and know that his whole story must be listened to now, and the ‘rights of it,’  – – dearest, the love unspoken now you are to hear ‘in all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth  . . . at the hour of death, and’  – –

If I did not know this was so,  – – nothing would have been said, or sought for. Your friendship, the perfect pride in it, the wish for, and eager co-operation in, your welfare, all that is different, and, seen now, nothing.

I will care for it no more, dearest  – – I am wedded to you now. I believe no human being could love you more  – – that thought consoles me for my own imperfection  – – for when that does strike me, as so often it will, I turn round on my pursuing self, and ask ‘What if it were a claim then, what is in Her, demanded rationally, equitably, in return for what were in you  – – do you like that way!’  – – And I do not, Ba  – – you, even, might not  – – when people everyday buy improveable ground, and eligible sites for building, and don’t want every inch filled up, covered over, done to their hands! So take me, and make me what you can and will  – – and though never to be more yours, yet more like you, I may and must be  – – Yes, indeed  – – best, only love!

And am I not grateful to your sisters  – – entirely grateful for that crowning comfort; it is ‘miraculous,’ too, if you please  – – for you shall know me by finger-tip intelligence or any art magic of old or new times  – – but they do not see me, know me  – – and must moreover be jealous of you, chary of you, as the daughters of Hesperus, of wonderers and wistful lookers up at the gold apple  – – yet instead of ‘rapidly levelling eager eyes’  – – they are indulgent? Then  – – shall I wish capriciously they were not your sisters, not so near you, that there might be a kind of grace in loving them for it’  – – but what grace can there be when  . . . yes, I will tell you  – – no, I will not  – – it is foolish!  – – and it is not foolish in me to love the table and chairs and vases in your room.

Let me finish writing to-morrow; it would not become me to utter a word against the arrangement  – – and Saturday promised, too  – – but though all concludes against the early hour on Monday, yet  – – but this is wrong  – – on Tuesday it shall be, then,  – – thank you, dearest! you let me keep up the old proper form, do you not?  – – I shall continue to thank, and be gratified &c. as if I had some untouched fund of thanks at my disposal to cut a generous figure with on occasion! And so, now, for your kind considerateness thank you  . . . that I say, which, God knows, could not say, if I died ten deaths in one to do you good, ‘you are repaid’  – –

To-morrow I will write, and answer more. I am pretty well, and will go out to-day  – – to-night. My Act is done, and copied  – – I will bring it. Do you see the Athenæum? By Chorley surely  – – and kind and satisfactory. I did not expect any notice for a long time  – – all that about the ‘mist,’ ‘unchanged manner’ and the like is politic concession to the Powers that Be  . . . because he might tell me that and much more with his own lips or unprofessional pen, and be thanked into the bargain, yet he does not. But I fancy he saves me from a rougher hand  – – the long extracts answer every purpose  – –

There is all to say yet  – – to-morrow!

And ever, ever your own; God bless you!

R.

Admire the clean paper . . .. I did not notice that I have been writing in a desk where a candle fell! See the bottoms of the other pages!

 

Thursday Night.
[In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]

Ever dearest — how you can write touching things to me; and how my whole being vibrates, as a string, to these! How have I deserved from God and you all that I thank you for? Too unworthy I am of all! Only, it was not, dearest beloved, what you feared, that was ‘horrible,’ it was what you supposed, rather! It was a mistake of yours. And now we will not talk of it any more.

Friday morning. — For the rest, I will think as you desire: but I have thought a great deal, and there are certainties which I know; and I hope we both are aware that nothing can be more hopeless than our position in some relations and aspects, though you do not guess perhaps that the very approach to the subject is shut up by dangers, and that from the moment of a suspicion entering one mind, we should be able to meet never again in this room, nor to have intercourse by letter through the ordinary channel. I mean, that letters of yours, addressed to me here, would infallibly be stopped and destroyed — if not opened. Therefore it is advisable to hurry on nothing — on these grounds it is advisable. What should I do if I did not see you nor hear from you, without being able to feel that it was for your happiness? What should I do for a month even? And then, I might be thrown out of the window or its equivalent — I look back shuddering to the dreadful scenes in which poor Henrietta was involved who never offended as I have offended  . . . years ago which seem as present as to-day. She had forbidden the subject to be referred to until that consent was obtained — and at a word she gave up all — at a word. In fact she had no true attachment, as I observed to Arabel at the time — a child never submitted more meekly to a revoked holiday. Yet how she was made to suffer. Oh, the dreadful scenes! and only because she had seemed to feel a little. I told you, I think, that there was an obliquity — an eccentricity, or something beyond — on one class of subjects. I hear how her knees were made to ring upon the floor, now! she was carried out of the room in strong hysterics, and I, who rose up to follow her, though I was quite well at that time and suffered only by sympathy, fell flat down upon my face in a fainting-fit. Arabel thought I was dead.

I have tried to forget it all — but now I must remember — and throughout our intercourse I have remembered. It is necessary to remember so much as to avoid such evils as are inevitable, and for this reason I would conceal nothing from you. Do you remember, besides, that there can be no faltering on my ‘part,’ and that, if I should remain well, which is not proved yet, I will do for you what you please and as you please to have it done. But there is time for considering!

Only  . . . as you speak of ‘counsel,’ I will take courage to tell you that my sisters know, Arabel is in most of my confidences, and being often in the room with me, taxed me with the truth long ago — she saw that I was affected from some cause — and I told her. We are as safe with both of them as possible  . . . and they thoroughly understand that if there should be any change it would not be your fault . . .. I made them understand that thoroughly. From themselves I have received nothing but the most smiling words of kindness and satisfaction (I thought I might tell you so much), they have too much tenderness for me to fail in it now. My brothers, it is quite necessary not to draw into a dangerous responsibility. I have felt that from the beginning, and shall continue to feel it — though I hear and can observe that they are full of suspicions and conjectures, which are never unkindly expressed. I told you once that we held hands the faster in this house for the weight over our heads. But the absolute knowledge would be dangerous for my brothers: with my sisters it is different, and I could not continue to conceal from them what they had under their eyes; and then, Henrietta is in a like position. It was not wrong of me to let them know it? — no?

Yet of what consequence is all this to the other side of the question? What, if you should give pain and disappointment where you owe such pure gratitude. But we need not talk of these things now. Only you have more to consider than I, I imagine, while the future comes on.

Dearest, let me have my way in one thing: let me see you on Tuesday instead of on Monday — on Tuesday at the old hour. Be reasonable and consider. Tuesday is almost as near as the day before it; and on Monday, I shall be hurried at first, lest Papa should be still in the house, (no harm, but an excuse for nervousness: and I can’t quote a noble Roman as you can, to the praise of my conscience!) and you will be hurried at last, lest you should not be in time for Mr. Forster. On the other hand, I will not let you be rude to the Daily News,  . . . no, nor to the Examiner. Come on Tuesday, then, instead of Monday, and let us have the usual hours in a peaceable way, — and if there is no obstacle, — that is, if Mr. Kenyon or some equivalent authority should not take note of your being here on Tuesday, why you can come again on the Saturday afterwards — I do not see the difficulty. Are we agreed? On Tuesday, at three o’clock. Consider, besides, that the Monday arrangement would hurry you in every manner, and leave you fagged for the evening — no, I will not hear of it. Not on my account, not on yours!

Think of me on Monday instead, and write before. Are not these two lawful letters? And do not they deserve an answer?

My life was ended when I knew you, and if I survive myself it is for your sake: — that resumes all my feelings and intentions in respect to you. No ‘counsel’ could make the difference of a grain of dust in the balance. It is so, and not otherwise. If you changed towards me, it would be better for you I believe — and I should be only where I was before. While you do not change, I look to you for my first affections and my first duty — and nothing but your bidding me, could make me look away.

In the midst of this, Mr. Kenyon came and I felt as if I could not talk to him. No — he does not ‘see how it is.’ He may have passing thoughts sometimes, but they do not stay long enough to produce — even an opinion. He asked if you had been here long.

It may be wrong and ungrateful, but I do wish sometimes that the world were away — even the good Kenyon-aspect of the world.

And so, once more — may God bless you!

I am wholly yours —

Tuesday, remember! And say that you agree.

Thursday Morning.

January 17, 1846.

Our letters have crossed; and, mine being the longest, I have a right to expect another directly, I think. I have been calculating: and it seems to me — now what I am going to say may take its place among the paradoxes, — that I gain most by the short letters. Last week the only long one came last, and I was quite contented that the ‘old friend’ should come to see you on Saturday and make you send me two instead of the single one I looked for: it was a clear gain, the little short note, and the letter arrived all the same. I remember, when I was a child, liking to have two shillings and sixpence better than half a crown — and now it is the same with this fairy money, which will never turn all into pebbles, or beans, whatever the chronicles may say of precedents.

Arabel did tell Mr. Kenyon (she told me) that ‘Mr. Browning would soon go away’ — in reply to an observation of his, that ‘he would not stay as I had company’; and altogether it was better, — the lamp made it look late. But you do not appear in the least remorseful for being tempted of my black devil, my familiar, to ask such questions and leave me under such an impression — ‘mens conscia recti’ too!! —

And Mr. Kenyon will not come until next Monday perhaps. How am I? But I am too well to be asked about. Is it not a warm summer? The weather is as ‘miraculous’ as the rest, I think. It is you who are unwell and make people uneasy, dearest. Say how you are, and promise me to do what is right and try to be better. The walking, the changing of the air, the leaving off Luria  . . . do what is right, I earnestly beseech you. The other day, I heard of Tennyson being ill again,  . . . too ill to write a simple note to his friend Mr. Venables, who told George. A little more than a year ago, it would have been no worse a thing to me to hear of your being ill than to hear of his being ill! — How the world has changed since then! To me, I mean.

Did I say that ever  . . . that ‘I knew you must be tired?’ And it was not even so true as that the coming event threw its shadow before?

Thursday night. — I have begun on another sheet — I could not write here what was in my heart — yet I send you this paper besides to show how I was writing to you this morning. In the midst of it came a female friend of mine and broke the thread — the visible thread, that is.

And now, even now, at this safe eight o’clock, I could not be safe from somebody, who, in her goodnature and my illfortune, must come and sit by me — and when my letter was come — ‘why wouldn’t I read it? What wonderful politeness on my part.’ She would not and could not consent to keep me from reading my letter. She would stand up by the fire rather.

No, no, three times no. Brummel got into the carriage before the Regent,  . . . (didn’t he?) but I persisted in not reading my letter in the presence of my friend. A notice on my punctiliousness may be put down to-night in her ‘private diary.’ I kept the letter in my hand and only read it with those sapient ends of the fingers which the mesmerists make so much ado about, and which really did seem to touch a little of what was inside. Not all, however, happily for me! Or my friend would have seen in my eyes what they did not see.

May God bless you! Did I ever say that I had an objection to read the verses at six years old — or see the drawings either? I am reasonable, you observe! Only, ‘Pauline,’ I must have some day — why not without the emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to wait a little — if you promise at last to let me see the book, which I will not show. Some day, then! you shall not be vexed nor hurried for the day — some day. Am I not generous? And I was ‘precocious’ too, and used to make rhymes over my bread and milk when I was nearly a baby  . . . only really it was mere echo-verse, that of mine, and had nothing of mark or of indication, such as I do not doubt that yours had. I used to write of virtue with a large ‘V,’ and ‘Oh Muse’ with a harp, and things of that sort. At nine years old I wrote what I called ‘an epic’ — and at ten, various tragedies, French and English, which we used to act in the nursery. There was a French ‘hexameter’ tragedy on the subject of Regulus — but I cannot even smile to think of it now, there are so many grave memories — which time has made grave — hung around it. How I remember sitting in ‘my house under the sideboard,’ in the dining-room, concocting one of the soliloquies beginning

Poor Regulus! — Can’t you conceive how fine it must have been altogether? And these were my ‘maturer works,’ you are to understand,  . . . and ‘the moon was bright at ten o’clock at night’ years before. As to the gods and goddesses, I believed in them all quite seriously, and reconciled them to Christianity, which I believed in too after a fashion, as some greater philosophers have done — and went out one day with my pinafore full of little sticks (and a match from the housemaid’s cupboard) to sacrifice to the blue-eyed Minerva who was my favourite goddess on the whole because she cared for Athens. As soon as I began to doubt about my goddesses, I fell into a vague sort of general scepticism,  . . . and though I went on saying ‘the Lord’s prayer’ at nights and mornings, and the ‘Bless all my kind friends’ afterwards, by the childish custom  . . . yet I ended this liturgy with a supplication which I found in ‘King’s Memoirs’ and which took my fancy and met my general views exactly . . .. ‘O God, if there be a God, save my soul if I have a soul.’ Perhaps the theology of many thoughtful children is scarcely more orthodox than this: but indeed it is wonderful to myself sometimes how I came to escape, on the whole, as well as I have done, considering the commonplaces of education in which I was set, with strength and opportunity for breaking the bonds all round into liberty and license. Papa used to say  . . . ‘Don’t read Gibbon’s history — it’s not a proper book. Don’t read “Tom Jones” — and none of the books on this side, mind!’ So I was very obedient and never touched the books on that side, and only read instead Tom Paine’s ‘Age of Reason,’ and Voltaire’s ‘Philosophical Dictionary,’ and Hume’s ‘Essays,’ and Werther, and Rousseau, and Mary Wollstonecraft  . . . books, which I was never suspected of looking towards, and which were not ‘on that side’ certainly, but which did as well.

How I am writing! — And what are the questions you did not answer? I shall remember them by the answers I suppose — but your letters always have a fulness to me and I never seem to wish for what is not in them.

But this is the end indeed.