[Postmark: April 13, 1846]
Sunday.
I will not speak much of the letter, as you desire that I
should not. And because everything you write must be
answered in some way and sense, . . must have some result,
there is the less need of words in the present case. Let me
say only then, ever dearest, dearest, that I never felt towards
you as I felt when I had read that letter . . never loved you
so entirely ! . . that it went to my heart, and stayed there,
and seemed to mix with the blood of it . . . believe this
of me, dear dearest beloved ! For the rest, there is no need
for me to put aside carefully the assumption of being
didactic to you . . of being better than you, so as to teach
you ! … ah, you are so fond of dressing me up in pontifical
garments (‘ for fun,’ as the children say !) — but
because they are too large for me, they drop off always of
themselves, . . they do not require my pulling them off :
these extravagances get righted of their own accord. After
all, too, you, . . with that praeternatural submissiveness of
yours, . . you know your power upon the whole, and
understand, in the midst of the obeisances, that you can do
very much what you please, with your High Priest. Ει τις αισθησις in the ghosts of the tribe of Levi, let them see and
witness how it is !
And now, do you see. It was just natural that when we,
differed for the first time I should fall into low spirits. In
the night, at dream-time, when instead of dreams ‘ deep
thought falleth upon man.’ suddenly I have been sad even
to tears, do you know, to think of that : and whenever I am
not glad, the old fears and misgivings come back — no, you
do not understand . . you cannot, perhaps ! But dear,
dearest, never think of yourself that you have expressed
‘ insufficiently ‘ your feelings for me. Insufficiently ! No
words but just your own, between heaven and earth, could
have persuaded me that one such as you could love me !
and the tongue of angels could not speak better words for
that purpose, than just yours. Also, I know that you
love me . . I do know it, my only dearest, and recognize it
in the gratitude of my soul : — and it is through my want of
familiarity with any happiness — through the want of use in
carrying these weights of flowers, that I drop them again
and again out of weak hands. Besides the truth is, that I
am not worthy of you — and if you were to see it just as I
see it, why there would be an end . . there, . . I sometimes
think reasonably.
Well — now I shall be good for at least a fortnight. Do
I not teaze you and give you trouble ? I feel ashamed of
myself sometimes. Let me go away from myself to talk of
Mr. Kenyon, therefore !
For he came to-day, and arrived in town on Friday evening
— (what an escape on Saturday !) and said of you, . . with
those detestable spectacles — like the Greek burning glasses,
turned full on my face . . ‘ I suppose now that Mr.
Browning’s book is done and there are no more excuses for
coming, he will come without excuses.’ Then, after talk
upon other subjects, he began a long wandering sentence,
the end of which I could see a mile off, about how he
‘ ought to know better than I, but wished to enquire of
me ‘ . . . what, do you suppose ? . . why, ‘ what Mr.
Browning’s objects in life were. Because Mrs. Procter had
been saying that it was a pity he had not seven or eight
hours a day of occupation &c. &c. It is a good thing to
be angry as a refuge from being confounded : I really
could say something to that. And I did say that you ‘ did
not require an occupation as a means of living . . having
simple habits and desires — nor as an end of living, since
you found one in the exercise of your genius ! and that if
Mr. Procter had looked as simply to his art as an end, he
would have done better things.’
Which made Mr. Kenyon cry out . . ‘ Ah now ! you
are spiteful ! and you need not be, for there was nothing
unkind in what she said.’ ‘ But absurd ‘ ! . . I insisted —
‘ seeing that to put race horses into dray carts, was not
usually done nor advised.’
You told me she was a worldly woman ; and here is a
proof, sent back to you. But what business have worldly
women to talk their dust and ashes over high altars in that way ?
I was angry and sinned not — angry for the moment. Then
Mr. Kenyon agreed with me, I think, and illustrated the
subject by telling me how Wordsworth had given himself to
the service of the temple from the beginning — ‘though,’
observed Mr. Kenyon, ‘ he did not escape so from worldliness.’ But William Wordsworth is not Robert Browning.
Mr. Kenyon spoke of your family and of yourself with the
best and most reverent words.
And all this reminds me of what I have often and often
mused about saying to you, and shrank back, and torn the
paper now and then . . . You know the subject you
wanted to discuss, on Saturday. Now whenever the time
shall come for discussing that subject, let this be a point
agreed upon by both of us. The peculiarity of our circumstances will enable us to be free of the world . . of our
friends even . . of all observation and examination, in
certain respects : now let us use the advantage which falls
to us from our misfortune, — and, since we must act for ourselves at last, let us resist the curiosity of the whole race of
third persons . . even the affectionate interest of such
friends as dear Mr. Kenyon, . . and put it into the power
of nobody to say to himself or to another, . . ‘ she had so
much, and he, so much, in worldly possessions — or she had
not so much and he had not so much.’ Try to understand
what I mean. As it is not of the least importance to either
of us, as long as we can live, whether the sixpence, we live
by, came most from you or from me . . and as it will be as
much mine as yours, and yours as mine when we are together . . why let us join in throwing a little dust in all the
winking eyes round — oh, it is nonsense and weakness, I
know — but I would rather, rather, see winking eyes than
staring eyes. What has anybody to do with us ? Even my
own family . . why should they ever see the farthest figure
of our affairs, as to mere money ? There now — it is said, . .
what I have had in my head so long to say. And one other
word resumes my meditations on ‘ the subject ‘ which
will not be ripe for discussion for ever so many months . .
and that other word is . . that if ever I am to wrong you so
much as to be yours so, it is on the condition of leaving
England within the fewest possible half hours afterwards. I
told you that, long ago — so bear it in mind. I should not
dare breathe in this England. Think ! — There is my father —
and there is yours ! Do you imagine that I am not afraid
of your family? and should be still more, if it were not for
the great agony of fear on the side of my own house. Ah —
I must love you unspeakably . . even to dare think of the
possibility of such things. So we will not talk of them now.
I write what I write, to throw it off my mind and have done.
Bear it in yours, but do not refer to it — I ask you not to
refer to it.
A long straggling letter, this is. I shall have mine
to-morrow. And you will tell me if Wednesday or Thursday
shall be our day ; and above all, tell me how you are. Then
the book will come. Remember to send one to Mrs. Jameson
! I write in haste . . in haste — but one may think of
you either in haste or at leisure, without blotting the air.
Love me, beloved . . do not leave off to see if I deserve it.
I am at least (which is at most)
Your very own.
