[Postmark: April 10, 1846]
Thursday Evening.
I thought you had not written to me to-night, ever
dearest ! Nine o’clock came and went, and I heard no
postman’s knock ; and I supposed that I did not deserve
(in your mind) to hear it at all. At last I rang the bell and
said to Wilson . . ‘ Look in the letter-box— there may be a
letter perhaps. If there should be none, you need not come
up-stairs to tell me — I shall understand.’ So she left me,
and, that time, I listened for footsteps . . the footsteps of
my letter. If I had not heard them directly, what should I
have thought ?
You are good and kind, . . too good and kind always, . .
always, always ! — and I love you gratefully and shall to the
end, and with an unspeakable apprehension of what you are
in yourself, and towards me : — yet you cannot, you know,
— you know you cannot, dearest . . ‘ submit ‘ to me in an
opinion any more than I could to you, if I desired it ever
so anxiously. We will talk no more however on this subject
now. I have had some pain from it, of course . . but I am
satisfied to have had the pain, for the knowledge . . which
was as necessary as possible, under circumstances, for more
reasons than one.
Dearest . . before I go to talk of something else . .
will you be besought of me to consider within yourself, . .
and not with me to tease you ; why the ‘ case,’ spoken of,
should ‘ never in likelihood be your own ? ‘ Are you and
yours charmed from the influence of offensive observations
. . personally offensive? ‘The most unhappy thing that
could happen to you,’ is it, on that account, the farthest
thing ?
Now — ! Mrs. Jameson was here to-day, and in the
room before, almost, I heard of her being on the stairs. It
is goodnatured of her to remember me in her brief visits
to London — and she brought me two or three St. Sebastians
with the arrows through them, etched by herself, to look at
— very goodnatured ! Once she spoke of you — ‘ Oh,’ she
said, ‘ you saw Mr. Browning’s last number ! yes, I remember how you spoke of it. I suppose Mr. Kenyon lent you
his copy’ . . . And before I could speak, she was on
another subject. But I should not have had heart to say
what I meant and predetermined to say, even if the opportunity to-day had been achieved. As if you could not be
read except in Mr. Kenyon’s copy ! I might have confessed to my own copy, even if not to my own original . .
do you not think ?
Before she came, I went down to the drawing-room, I
and Flush, and found no one there . . and walked drearily
up and down the rooms, and, so, came back to mine. May
you have spent your day better. There was sunshine for
you, as I could see. God bless you and keep you. Saturday-
may be clear for us, or may not — and if it should not
be clear, certainly Monday and Tuesday will not . . what
shall be done ? Will you wait till Wednesday ? or will you
(now let it be as you choose !) come on Saturday, running
the risk of finding only a parcel . . a book and a letter . .
and so going away, if there should be reasons against the
visit. . Because last Monday was known of, and I shall not
ascertain until Saturday whether or not we shall be at
liberty. Or . . shall we at once say Wednesday ? It is for
your decision. You go out on Saturday evening . . and
perhaps altogether there may be a conspiracy against Saturday. Judge and decide.
I am writing as with the point of a pilgrim’s staff rather
than a pen. ‘ We are all strangers and pilgrims.’ Can you
read anywise ?
I think of you, bless you, love you — but it would have
been better for you never to have seen my face perhaps,
though Mr. Kenyon gave the first leave. Perhaps ! ! — I
‘flatter’ myself to-night, in chance for you.
Best beloved I am your
Ba.