Month: April 2018

[Postmark: April 16, 1846]

Thursday.

How are you now, dearest ? If the worse for my visit
. . No, there is no affectation in what I would say — you
might be worse, you know, through excitement, whether
pleasurable or the reverse. One comfort is, the walking,
going down-stairs, &c. have not occasioned it. I expect
everything from your going out of doors, that is to be — what
a joy to write it, think of it, expect it ! Oh, why are you not
here — where I sit writing ; whence, in a moment, I could get
to know why the lambs are bleating so, in the field behind —
I do not see it from either window in this room — but I see a
beautiful sunshine (2½ p.m.) and a chestnut tree leafy all
over, in a faint trembling chilly way, to be sure — and a holly
hedge I see, and shrubs, and blossomed trees over the
garden wall, — were you but here, dearest, dearest — how we
would go out, with Flush on before, for with a key I have,
I lock out the world, and then look down on it ; for there
is a vast view from our greatest hill — did I ever tell you that
Wordsworth was shown that hill or its neighbour ; someone
saying ‘ R. B. lives over there by that hill ‘ — ‘ Hill ‘ ? interposed
Wordsworth — we call that, such as that, a rise !
I must have told you, I think. (While I write, the sun gets
ever brighter — you must be down-stairs, I feel sure — )

I fully meant to go out this morning — but there is a
pressing note from my old young friend, Frank Talfourd, to
get me to witness — only another play and farce ! — and what
is to be done ?

Here shall be my ending ‘for reasons, for reasons.’
To-morrow I will write more ; my Monday — to have to wait
so long ! And when I do see you, I begin to pour out profusions of confusions of speech about Mrs. Procter and her
vain notions — to what earthly good ? . . as it is very easy
to ask now ! now that I am here again, alone again.

Dear, dearest Ba, I cannot serve you, nor even talk to
you . . but love you, — oh, that I must dare say I can do,
as none other could — as you have yet to know !

Bless you my very dearest, sweetest Ba — I am your
own, heart and soul —

[Postmark: April 16, 1846]

Thursday.

This morning, you would never guess what I have been
doing. — Buying a bonnet ! That looks like a serious purpose
of going out, walking out, driving out . . now doesn’t it ?
And having chosen one a little like a Quaker’s, as I thought
to myself, I am immediately assured by the learned that
‘ nothing can be more fashionable’ . . which is a most
satisfactory proof of blind instinct, . . feeling towards the
Bude lights of the world, and which Mrs. Procter would
highly esteem me for, if she did but know it.

In the meanwhile assure yourself that I understand
perfectly your feeling about the subject of yesterday. Flies
are flies, and yet they are vexatious with their buzzing, as
flies. Only Mrs. Jameson told me the other day that a
remedy against the mosquitos . . polvere di morchia . . had
been discovered lately in Italy, so that the world might sleep
there in peace — as you may here . . let us talk no more of
it. I think I should not have told you if I had not needed
it for a talking-ladder to something else. For the rest, it is
amusing to me, quite amusing, to observe how people cannot
conceive of work except under certain familiar forms. Men
who dig in ditches have an idea that the man who leads the
plough rather rests than works : and all men of out-door
labour distrust the industry of the manufacturers in-doors —
while both manufacturers and out-door labourers consider
the holders of offices and clerkships as idle men . . gentlemen
at ease. Then between all these classes and the
intellectual worker, the difference is wider, and the want of
perception more complete. The work of creation, nobody
will admit . . though everybody has by heart, without laying
it to heart, that God rested on the seventh day. Looking
up to the stars at nights, they might as well take all to be
motionless — though if there were no motion there would be
no morning . . and they look for a morning after all. Why
who could mind such obtuse stupidity ? It is the stupidity
of mankind, par excellence of foolishness ! The hedger and
ditcher they see working, but God they do not see working.
If one built a palace without noise and confusion and the
stroke of hammers, one would scarcely get credit for it in
this world . . so full of virtue and admiration it is, to make
a noise ! Even I, you see, who said just now ‘ Talk no
more of it,’ talk more and more, and make more noise than
is necessary. Here is an end though — we leave Mrs.
Procter here. And do not think that the least word of
disrespect was said of you — indeed it was not ! neither disrespect
nor reproach. So you and I will forgive everybody
henceforward, for wishing you to be rich. And if Miss
Procter would ‘ commit suicide ‘ rather than live as you like
to live, I will not, as long as you are not tired of me — and
that, just now and as things are, is of a little more consequence
perhaps. . .

Scarcely had you gone, dearest, yesterday, when I had
two letters with the very prose of life in them, dropping its
black blotchy oil upon all the bright colours of our poetry !
I groaned in the spirit to read, and to have to answer them.
First was a Miss Georgiana Bennet — did you ever hear
of her? — I never did before, but that was my base
ignorance ; for she is a most voluminous writer it appears . .
and sent me five or six works’ (observe), . . published
under the ‘ high sanction ‘ (and reiterated subscription) of
ever so many Royal Highnesses and Right Reverends . . .
written in prose and verse, upon female education and the
portrait of Harrison Ainsworth (‘I gaze upon that noble
face, and bright expressive eyes ! miscellaneous subjects
of that sort ! — also, there is a poem of some length, called
‘ The Poetess,’ which sets forth in detail how Miss Georgiana
Bennet has found the laurel on her brow a mere nightshade,
and the glories of fame no comfort in the world. Well — all
these books were sent to me, with a note hortative — giving
indeed a very encouraging opinion of my poems generally,
but desiring me to consider, that poets write both for the
learned and the unlearned, and that in fact I am in the habit
of using a great many hard words, much to the confusion of
the latter large class of readers. She has heard (Georgiana
has) that I am a classical scholar which of course (of course)
accounts for this peculiarity . . but it is the duty of one’s
friends to tell one of one’s faults, which is the principle she
goes upon. In return for which benevolence, I am requested
to send back a copy of my poems directly, and to ‘ think of
her, as she thinks of me.’ There an end. The next letter
is from a Mrs. Milner, who used to edit the ‘ Christian
Mother’s Magazine ‘ ; the most idiotic tract-literature,
that magazine was, but supported by the Queen dowager and
a whole train of Duchesses proper — very proper indeed !
She used to edit the ‘ Christian Mother,’ but now she has
‘ generalised ‘ it, she says, to the ‘ Englishwoman’s Magazine ‘
and wants me to write for it and says. . .

Oh — I cannot have patience to go on to tell you. Besides
you will take me to be too bitter, when I ought to be grateful
perhaps ! But if you knew how hard it is for me to have to
read and write sometimes, as if you were not in the world
with me .. as if … Is it wrong to laugh a little, to put it
off, — only to you though ? And do you know, I feel ill
at ease in my conscience, on account of what I said (even
to you) about Mrs. Paine, who came to see me, you remember ; and because she has written me a letter which quite
affected me, I shall send it for you to read, to undo any
false impression. Then you will not dislike reading it on
other grounds. She is very different from the Georgiana
Bennets, and I am interested in her, and touched aright by
what she says.

You will write. You think of me ? I am better to-day,
much — and it is strange to be so, when you are not here.
Ever dearest, let your thoughts be with me —

I am your own . .

[Postmark: April 14, 1846]

Tuesday Morning.

I waited till this second letter should arrive — feeling that
it would be easier to address the answer to this.

About the other, — that part which you bid me not refer
to. You are obeyed now — my time will come in its turn,
and I will try and speak. With respect to the immediate
leaving England, you will let me say, I think, that all my
own projects depend on that, — there will not be one least
objection made to it by my father or mother, I know beforehand. You perhaps misconceived something I said last
Saturday. I meant the obvious fact however — that while
there would be a best way of finding myself with you, still,
from the worst way (probably, of taking a house opposite
Mrs. Procter’s) — from that even, to the best way of any other
life I can imagine, — what a descent ! From the worst of roses
to the most flourishing of — dandelions. But we breathe
together, understand together, know, feel, live together . .
I feel every day less and less need of trying to assure you I
feel thus and thus — I seem to know that you must know !

Mrs. Procter is very exactly the Mrs. Procter I knew
long ago. What she says is of course purely foolish. The
world does seem incurably stupid on this, as other points. I
understand Mr. Kenyon’s implied kindness — that is, — understand
he may think he sees my true good in this life with
older and better instructed eyes than my own — so benevolent
people beg me ‘ not to go out in the open air — without
something about my neck,’ and would gird on a triple
worsted ‘ comforter ‘ there, entirely for my good, if I would
let them. ‘ Why, Mr. Procter wears one ! ‘ Ah, but without
it, what a cold he would catch !

The explanatory note fills up an unseemly blank page —
and does not come at the end of the ‘ Soul Tragedy ‘ —
prose after prose — still it does look awkwardly — but then I
don’t consider that it excludes this last from the ‘ Bells ‘ —
rather it says this is the last, (no nine if you like, — as
the title says ‘ eight and last ‘ — from whence will be this
advantage, that, in the case of another edition, all the lyrics
&c. may go together under one common head of Lyrics and
Romances — and the ‘ Soul’s Tragedy,’ profiting by the
general move-up of the rest of the numbers, after the fashion
of hackney coaches on a stand when one is called off, step
into the place and take the style of No. 8 — and the public
not find themselves defrauded of the proper quantity !)

And shall I indeed see you to-morrow, Ba ? I will tell
you many things, it seems to me now, but when I am with
you they always float out of mind. The feelings must
remain unwritten — unsung too, I fear. I very often fancy
that if I had never before resorted to that mode of expres-
sion, to singing, — poetry — now I should resort to it, discover
it ! Whereas now — my very use and experience of it deters
me — if one phrase of mine should seem ‘ poetical ‘ in Mrs.
Procter’s sense — a conscious exaggeration, — put in for effect !
only seem I say ! So I dare not try yet — but one day !

Ba, I kept your letter yesterday, about me — it lay by my
head at night — that its good might not go from me, — such
perfect good ! How strange to hear what you say of my
letters, — of such and such a letter — some seem kind, and
kinder and kindest — and how should I guess why ? My
life and love flow steadily under all those bubbles, or
many or less — it is through the under current that, whatever
you see, does appear, no doubt — but also where nothing
appears, — all is one depth !

Bless you, all dearest beloved.

To-morrow, Wednesday !

Ever your very own,

[Postmark: April 14, 1846]

Monday.

Ever dearest I have your two letters ; and because there
are only two ‘ great lights ‘ to rule the day and the night, I
am not likely to hear from you again before to-morrow. Then
you want Mrs. Jameson’s direction . . (it is just Mrs, Jameson, Ealing !)
and here is the last ‘ Bell and Pomegranate’ — and, for all these reasons, I must write without
waiting ; I will not wait for the night. Thank you for the
book, thank you ! I turn over the leaves ever so proudly.
Tell me how I can be proud of you when I cannot be proud
of your loving me : — I am certainly proud of you. One of
my first searches was for the note explanatory of the title —
and I looked, and looked, and looked, at the end, at the
beginning, at the end again. At last I made up my mind
that you had persisted in not explaining, or that the printer
had dropped the manuscript. Why, what could make you
thrust that note on all but the titlepage of the ‘ Soul’s
Tragedy ‘ ? Oh — I comprehend. Having submitted to
explain, quite at the point of the bayonet, you determined at
least to do it where nobody could see it done. Be frank
and tell me that it was just so. Also the poor ‘ Soul’s
Tragedy,’ you have repudiated so from the ‘ Bells and Pomegranates ‘ . . pushing it gently aside. Well — you must allow
it to be a curious dislocation — only it is not important — and
I like the note, all except the sentence about ‘ Faith and
Works,’ which does not apply, I think, . . that instance.
‘ Bells and Pomegranates ‘ is a symbolic phrase — which the
other is not at all, however much difficult and doubtful
theological argument may have arisen from it as a collective
phrase. So I am the first critic, you see, notwithstanding
that Mr. Forster waylaid the first copy. Ah no ! I shall
have my gladness out of the book presently, beyond the
imagination of any possible critic. Who in the world shall
measure gladnesses with me ?

Tell me — I was going to write that ‘ Tell me ‘ in my
yesterday’s letter, but at last I was hurried, and could not
. . did you come into London on Sunday ? did you walk
past this house on the other side of the street, about two
o’clock ? Because just then I and Flush went down-stairs.
The drawing-room had nobody in it, and the window being
wide open, I walked straight to it to shut it. And there,
across the street, walked somebody … I am so near
sighted that I could only see a shadow in a dimness . . but
the shadow had, or seemed to have, a sign of you, a trace of
you . . . and instead of shutting the window I looked after
it till it vanished. No, it was not you, I feel now that
it was not you ; and indeed yesterday I felt it was not you.
But, for the moment, it made my heart stop beating, . .
that insolent shadow, . . which pretended to be you and
wasn’t. Some one, I dare say, who ‘has an occupation
eight or nine hours a day ‘ and never does anything ! I
may speak against him, for deceiving me — it’s a pure justice.

To go back to the book . . you are perfectly right about
‘ gadge,’ and in the view you take of the effect of such words.
You misunderstood me if you fancied that I objected to the
word — it was simply my ignorance which led me to doubt
whether you had written ‘ gag.’ Of course, the horror
of those specialities is heightened by the very want of
distinct understanding they meet with in us : — it is the rack
in the shadow of the vault. Oh — I fully agree.

And now . . dearest dearest . . do not bring reason to
me to prove . . . what, to prove ? I never get anything by
reason on this subject, be very sure ! — and I like better to
feel that unreasonably you love me — to feel that you love me
as, last year, you did. Which I could not feel, last year, a
whole day or even half a day together. Now the black
intervals are rarer . . which is of your goodness, beloved,
and not of mine. For me, you read me indeed a famous
lesson about faith, . . and set me an example of how you
‘ believed ‘ ! . . . but it does not apply, this lesson, . . it does
not resemble, this example ! — inasmuch as what you had to
believe . . viz. that roses blow in June . . was not quite
as difficult as what I am called to believe, . . viz. that
St. Cecilia’s angel-visitant had a crown of roses on, which
eternally were budding and blowing. But I believe . .
believe . . and want no ‘ proof ‘ of the love, but just itself
to prove it, — for nothing else is worthy. On the other side,
I have the audacity to believe, as I think I have told you,
that no woman in the world could feel for you exactly what
. . . but, here, too, I had better shun the reasons, . .
the ‘ bonnes raisons ‘ which ‘ le roy notre sire ‘ cannot abide.
— What foolishness I am writing really ! And is it to be for
a ‘ year,’ or a ‘ month ‘ — or a week, — better still ? or we may
end by a compromise for the two hours on Wednesdays, . .
if it goes on so, — more sensibly.

I have heard to-day from Miss Martineau and from Mrs.
Jameson, both — one talking Mesmer and the other Homer.
I sent her (Mrs. J.) two versions of the daughters of Pandarus,
the first in the metre you know, and the second in blank
verse ; . . and she does not decide which she likes best, she
says graciously, whereas I could not guess which I liked
worse, when I sent them on Saturday. Do let her have
‘ Luria ‘ at once. She will take the right gladness in it, even
as she appreciates you with the right words and thoughts.
But surely you use too many stamps ? Have you a pair of
scales like Zeus and me ? . . only mine are broken, or I
would send you an authority on this important subject, as
well as an opinion.

How did you not get my letter, pray, by the first post on
Monday ? You ought to have had it ! it was not my fault.
And thinking of ‘causas rerum,’ . . I was to ‘catch cold,’ I
suppose, on Saturday, because you went away ? — there was
no stronger motive. I did not however catch cold — ah,
how you make me giddy with such words, as if I did really
‘ hang over a gulph ‘ ! — not with fear though ! Is it possible,
I say to myself, that I can be so much to him ? to him !
May God bless him ! There was no harm meant by the
black seal, I think? Tell me too of the headache, and,
whether the dinner is for Wednesday, and whether, in that
case, it is still to be preferred, with all its close clipping, to
Thursday. Meantime the letter grows as if there was no
such thing as shears !

Your own

Ba

[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 !

[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.

[Postmark: April 10, 1846]

Friday Morning.

Dearest, sweetest best — how can you, seeing so much,
yet see that ‘ possibility ‘ — I leave off loving you ! and be
‘ angry ‘ and ‘ vexed ‘ and the rest ! Well — take care I don’t
answer fairly and plainly that I can do all this — as the poor
women had to confess in their bewilderment when grave
judges asked ‘ by which of the thirty-seven ways they were
accustomed to signify their desire of his presence to Asmodeus’ — &c. &c. — But I cannot jest, nor trifle here — I
protest in the most solemn way I am capable of conceiving,
that I am altogether unable to imagine how or whence or
why any possible form of anger or vexation or any thing
akin can or could or should or shall ever rise in me to you
— it is a sense hitherto undreamed of, a new faculty —
altogether an inexplicable, impossible feeling. I am not
called on, surely, to suppose cases of pure impossibility ?
To say, ‘ if you did thus or thus,’ — what I know you could
no more do than go and kill cows with your own hand, and
dig up kale grounds ? But I can fancy your being angry
with me, very angry — and speaking the truth of the anger —
that is to ‘ fancied’, and God knows I should in that case
kiss my letters, here, till you pleased to judge me not unworthy to kiss the hem of your garment again. My own Ba !
My election is made or God made it for me, — and is irrevocable. I am wholly yours. I see you have yet to understand
what that implies, — but you will one day. And in this, just
said, I understand serious anger, for serious offences ; to
which, despite my earnest endeavour, who shall say I may
not be liable ? What are you given me for but to make me
better — and, in that, happier ? If you could save my soul,
‘ so as by fire,’ would your dear love shrink from that ? But
in the matter we really refer to . . . Oh, Ba, did I not pray
you at the beginning to tell me the instant you detected
anything to be altered by human effort? to give me that
chance of becoming more like you and worthier of you ?
and here where you think me gravely in the wrong, and I
am growing conscious of being in the wrong, — one or two
repetitions of such conduct as yours, such ‘ disagreeable
letters,’ and I must ‘ leave off ‘ . . . When I do that on
such ground . . I need imprecate no foolish sense on my
head, — the very worst will be in full operation. I only wrote
to justify an old feeling, exercised only in the case of others
I have heard of — men called ‘ cool murderers,’ ‘ deliberate
imbruers of their hands in,’ &c. &c. — and I meant just to say,
— well, — I, and others, despise your society and only go into
it now to be the surer that, when we leave it, we were not
excluded as the children turn from the grapes because their
teeth are set on edge, whatever may be the foxes’ pretext —
but, for your own devoted followers be a little more merciful, and while you encourage them to spend a dozen years
in a law-suit, lest they lose a few pounds . . but I won’t
repeat the offence, dear — you are right and I am wrong and
will lay it to heart, and now kiss, not your feet this time,
because I am the prouder, far from the more humble, by
this admission and retractation —

Your note arrives here — Ba ; — it would have been
‘better for me,’ that? Oh, dearest, let us marry soon, very
soon, and end all this ! If I could begin taking exceptions
again, I might charge you with such wild conventionalism,
such wondrous perversity of sight or blindness rather ! Can
you, now, by this time, tell me or yourself that you could
believe me happy with any other woman that ever breathed ?
I tell you without affectation, that I lay the whole blame to
myself . . that I feel that if I had spoken my love out
sufficiently all this doubt could never have been possible.
You quite believe I am in earnest, know my own mind and
speak as I feel, on these points we disputed about — yet I
am far from being sure of it, or so it seems now — but, as for
loving you, — there I mistake, or may be wrong, or may, or
might or or —

Now kiss me, my best-dearest beloved ! It seems I
am always understood so — the words are words, and faulty,
and inexpressive, or wrongly expressive, — but when I live
under your eyes, and die, you will never mistake, — you do
not now, thank God, say to me — ‘ you want to go elsewhere
for all you say the visit seems too brief ‘ — and, ‘ you would
change me for another, for all you possess ‘ — never do you
say such things — but when I am away, all the mistaking
begins — let it end soon, come, dearest life of my life, light
of my soul, heart’s joy of my heart !

You feel I must see you to-morrow it possible — at all
events I will call for the parcel. (What made you suppose I
was engaged to-morrow night ? The saying that I should
meet my sea-faring friend, perhaps ? But that is to be here
— he comes here — at all events, I recollect no other engagement — if I had one with Death himself, I almost think I
would go, — folly ! But let the parcel be ready (to put into
my hand at once) and I will venture at 3 o’clock.

In truth, all yesterday I was very unwell, — going about
sight-seeing with a friend and his lady-cousins, and afterward
dining with them — I came home dead with intense boring
— I rarely remember to have suffered so much. To-day I
am rather better, — much better, indeed. If I can but see
you for a few minutes to-morrow !

May God bless you, dearest — and show you the truth in
me, the one truth which I dare hope compensates for much
that is to be forgiven : when I told you at the beginning I
was not worthy, was infinitely lower &c., you seemed incredulous! well now, you see ! I, that you would persist
in hoping better things of, held such opinions as those —
and so you begin setting me right, and so I am set far on
towards right — is not all well, love ? And now go on, when
I give next occasion, and tell me more, and let me alter
more, and thank you, if I can, more — but not, not love
you more, you, Ba, whom I love wholly, — with all my
faculties, all my being. May God bless you, again — it all
ends there — !

Your own R.

[Postmark: April 10, 1846]

Friday 2 o’clock p.m.

Ever dearest I wrote last night what might make you
doubtful and uncomfortable about Saturday ; being doubtful
myself and not knowing what word to say of it. But just
now Papa has been here in the room with me, — and a
beatific Jamaica packet has just come in, as the post
declares . . (Benedetta sia l’ora &c !) and he will ‘ hear
more,’ he says, ‘ in the city to-morrow ! ‘ — So we are safe.

Come, if there should be no reason of your own for staying.
For me, I seem to have more need than usual of seeing you.
May God bless you. I am

Your

Ba.

[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.

[Postmark: April 9, 1846]

Thursday. 8. a.m.

Dearest, I have to go out presently and shall not be
able to return before night . . so that the letter I expect
will only be read then and answered to-morrow — what will
it be, the letter ? Nothing but dear and kind, I know . .
even deserve to know, in a sense, — because I am sure all
in my letter was meant to be ‘ read by your light.’ I submit,
unfeignedly, to you, there as elsewhere — and, — as I said, I
think, — I wrote so precisely because it was never likely to
be my own case. I should consider it the most unhappy
thing that could possibly happen to me, — (putting aside the
dreadful possibilities one refuses to consider at all, — the
most)

Have you made any discoveries about the disposition of
Saturday ? May I come, dearest ? (On Saturday evening I
shall see a friend who will tell me all he knows about ships
and voyage expenses — or refer me to higher authorities.)

Bless you, now and ever, my own Ba. Do you know,
next Saturday, in its position of successor to Good Friday,
will be the anniversary of Mr. Kenyon’s asking me, some
four years ago, ‘ if I would like to see Miss B.’ How I
remember ? I was staying with him for a couple of days.
Now, I will ask myself ‘ would you like to kiss Ba?’
‘ Then comes the Selah, Goodbye, dearest-dearest !

Yours R.