Saturday Evening.
February 16, 1846.
Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing to you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead . . . which I might have done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both thoughts of ‘next year,’ as you suggested them: — because while you are with me I see only you, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of yours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so deep — so that there may be ever so many ‘mores,’ and no ‘more’ wonder of mine! — but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no ‘more’ light nor speaking until Thursday, why then, that I do not see you but me, — then comes the reaction, — the natural lengthening of the shadows at sunset, — and then, the ‘less, less, less’ grows to seem as natural to my fate, as the ‘more’ seemed to your nature — I being I!
Sunday. — Well! — you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth, over and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future, scarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never beyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the question which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your happiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in what I called the future — but the tops of the trees that looked towards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into the river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green again, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can it be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also the future never seemed to belong to me so little — never! It might appear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself sometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am — from the sort of anxiety which might be well connected with my own position here, and which is personal to myself. That is all thrown behind — into the bushes — long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before. Agitation comes from indecision — and I was decided from the first hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really. Now, — as the Euphuists used to say, — I am ‘more thine than my own’ . . . it is a literal truth — and my future belongs to you; if it was mine, it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if it was given . . . beloved . . ..
So you see!
Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather strange sympathy and dyspathy — the sympathy having concerned the genus jilt (as vulgarly called) male and female — and the dyspathy — the whole class of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what they call ‘love’ to what they call ‘duty.’ There are exceptional cases of course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with a little contempt to those latter proofs of strength — or weakness, as it may be: — people are not usually praised for giving up their religion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their ‘holy things’ — while believing them still to be religious and sacramental! On the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is possible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women perhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the mind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and retreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth which is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most courageous for the truth’s sake, and instead of blaming them I hold them in honour, for me, and always did and shall.
And while I write, you are ‘very ill’ — very ill! — how it looks, written down so! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had tossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask Wilson how she thought you were looking, . . . and she ‘did not know’ . . . she ‘had not observed’ . . . ‘only certainly Mr. Browning ran up-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.’
Now promise me dearest, dearest — not to trifle with your health. Not to neglect yourself . . . not to tire yourself . . . and besides to take the advice of your medical friend as to diet and general treatment: — because there must be a wrong and a right in everything, and the right is very important under your circumstances . . . if you have a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at night, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache — for the affection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just as if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy doing good — and could it increase the evil? — mustard mixed with the water, remember. Everything approaching to congestion is full of fear — I tremble to think of it — and I bring no remedy by this teazing neither! But you will not be ‘wicked’ nor ‘unkind,’ nor provoke the evil consciously — you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at nights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement of composition — you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you, and at intervals grow so frightened! Think you, that you are three times as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest, — because you are more than three times the larger planet — and because too, you have known other sources of light and happiness . . . but I need not say this — and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day . . . may I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own health.
May God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ should be written out, I can read that perhaps, without drawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep off altogether for the present — and let it be as you incline. I do not speak of ‘Luria.’
Your own
BA.
If it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should say, almost, Wednesday, instead of Thursday — I want to see you so much, and to see for myself about the looks and spirits, only it would not do if he found you here on Wednesday. Let him come to-morrow or on Tuesday, and Wednesday will be safe — shall we consider? what do you think?