[Postmark: April 13, 1846]
Sunday.
Dearest, unspeakably dear Ba, — would I were with you !
But my heart stays with you : I write this, tired somewhat
and out of spirits — for I have been writing notes this
morning ; getting rid of the arrears which turn out more
considerable than I thought. And the moment I have done,
I look to the chair and the picture and desire to be at rest
with you; the perfect rest and happiness here on earth.
But do think, my own Ba, in the direction I indicated
yesterday — any obstacle now, would be more than I could
bear — I feel I must live with you, — if but for a year, a month
— to express the love which words cannot express, nor
these letters, nor aught else.
See one thing ! Through your adorable generosity, my
beloved, — at the beginning you pleased to tell me my love
was returned, — that I had gained your love; without your
assurance, I should never have believed that possible, whatever
you may think ; but you, what you say, I believe ;
would in other matters believe, rather than my own senses ;
and here I believed — in humbleness, God knows ; but so it
was. — Then, is there not this one poor fruit of that
generosity, one reassuring consideration, if you will accept it,
that, nearly a year ago, I was in possession of all I aspired
to? — so that if I had been too weak for my accorded
happiness — likely to be in due time satiated with it, and
less and less impressed by it, and so on, till at last ‘
changed, — would not this have happened inevitably before
now? I had gained your love ; one could not go on gaining
it — but some other love might be gained ! Indeed, I
don’t see how, in certain instances (where there is what is
called a pursuit and all the excitement of suspense, and
alternating hope and fear, all ending in the marriage day,
after the fashion of a Congreve comedy), how with the
certainty of that kind of success, all the interest of the
matter can avoid terminating. But it does seem to me,
that the love I have gained is as nothing to the love I trust
to gain. I want the love at our lives’ end, the love after
trial, the love of my love, when mine shall have had time
and occasion to prove itself ! I have already, from the
beginning indeed, had quite enough magnanimity to avoid
wishing for opportunities of doing so at your expense — I
pray you may never be in dangers from which I rescue you,
nor meet sorrow from which I divert you : but in the
ordinary chances of life — I shall be there, and ready,
and your own, heart and soul. Why do I say this to you ?
All words are so weak, — so weak !
Here, — (no, I shall have to send it to-morrow, I believe
— well, here in the course of the day) — comes ‘ Luria ‘ and
the other — and I lay it at my dear Lady’s feet, wishing it
were worthier of them, and only comforted, through all the
conviction of the offering’s unworthiness, by knowing that
she will know, — the dear, peerless, all precious Ba I adore,
will know — that I would give her my life gladlier at a
word. See what I have written on the outside — ‘ to Miss
Barrett ‘ ! — because I thought even leaving out the name might
look suspiciously ! But where no eye can see ; save your
dear eye . . there is written a dedication.
Kiss me, dear Ba. May God bless you. Care for
everything— if you should have taken cold last night, for
instance ! Talk of a sword suspended by a hair ! — what is the
feeling of one whose priceless jewel hangs over a gulf by a
hair ? Tell me all — I love you wholly and am wholly yours.
See the strangely dirty paper — it comes from my desk
where, every now and then, a candle gets over-set ; or the
snuffers remain open, aghast at what I write !