Month: May 2018

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Saturday.

You shall have a visit from me on the seventh day as
on the others, I think, because I remember you every day
equally, and because, without waiting for your Saturday’s
letter, I have always with me enough of you, to thank you.
This morning, Henrietta and I went as usual to Hodgson’s
and took possession of the chair in waiting, as Flush did of
the whole territory, setting himself, with all the airs of a
landed proprietor, to snap at the shop boy. Nota bene —
Flush is likely to injure my popularity if I take him about
with me much. He has been used, you see, to be ‘ CÊsar
in his own house,’ and the transition to being CÊsar everwhere
is the easiest thing in the world. Yet as to leaving
him at home, it is impossible, . . not to mention other
objections ! His delight in going out in the carriage is
scarcely a natural thing — but I have told you of it. Yesterday
I was in the back drawing-room waiting to go out, and
just said to him, ‘ Flush ! go and see if the carriage is come’
— instantly he ran to the front windows, standing on his
hind legs and looking up the street and down. Now Mr.
Kenyon would declare that was my invention. Yet it
is the literal truth of history.

Coming back from Hodgson’s, we passed our door and
walked to 57 and home, which is an improvement in the
distance. Then I walked up-stairs to the drawing-room,
and was carried the rest of the way. May I be tired a
little, after it all ? Just a little, perhaps.

Henrietta dined at Mr. Lough’s yesterday, and met Miss
Camilla Toulmin who was gracious . . and Professor
Forbes, who can do nothing without the polka, . . and
sundries. There was a splendid dinner, and wine of all
vintages — one is in a strait in such cases to know how to
praise at once the hospitable intentions and to blame the
bad taste — surely it is bad taste in a man like Mr. Lough
who lives by his genius, to give ambitious dinners like a man
who lives by his dinners. The true dignity of simplicity in
these things were worth such a man’s holding, one might
think. But he is kind and liberal, and a good artist, . .
and sent me a very gracious invitation to go and see his
works.

The Hedleys are likely to be in England this summer
again more’s the pity. I am fond of them, but would
rather, rather, not see them just now, and not be seen by
them — for eyes have they, and can see. My uncle Hedley
comes next week, . . comes to London for several weeks
. . that is certain — and my aunt after settling the younger
part of her family, at Bareges for the summer, ponders
coming, . . as I behold from afar off, . . with her daughter
Arabella, who is to be married immediately to the younger
brother of the great Brewery partner, Barclay and Bevan, a
Mr. Bevan. But they will not be in this house, and we
must manage as we can, dearest ! One leap over Sunday,
and Monday comes bringing you ! Then, I shall have you
near on Tuesday besides, and Wednesday, afterwards ! how
the cup overflows ! May God bless you my beloved ! It
is not exaggeration to say that I feel you in the air and the
sun.

Ever and ever your own I am !

Ba.

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Saturday.

Oh, yes, do ‘ show me how to get rid of you,’ my best
Ba,— for so I shall have the virtuous delight of deciding to
keep you, instead of being wholly kept by you, — it is all out
of my head, now, how I used to live when I was my own :
and if you can, by one more witchery, give me back that
feeling for once . . Ba, I have no heart to write more
nonsense, when I can take your dearest self into my arms ;
yet I shall never quite lie quiet and happy, I do think . .
I shall be always wishing you would be angry and cruel
and unjust, for a moment, — for my love overflows the
bounds, needs to prove itself all which is foolish, I know.
To-day, for some unknown reason, is a day of hope with me
. . all bright things seem possible ; I was feeling them so,
when your note came — as I sate in the garden — and when I
saw the flower (Paracelsus’ own . . they usually ornament
his pictures with it, — I said something on the subject in
the poem, too, and gave a note about ‘ Flammula citrinula
— herba Paracelso multum familiaris ‘ — ) when I saw that,
and read on and on, — every now and then laying the letter
down to feel the entire joy, — and when the end came, —
Ba, dearest Ba, it was with me then as now, as always after
steady thinking of what you are to me . . I cannot tell you
— but for the past, utterly irrespective of the future, — for
what you have been, this love cannot cease though you were
transformed into all you are not nor could ever be. I mean,
that after the blow struck, the natural vibration must follow
and continue its proper period — and that my love for what
I have received from you already must last to my life’s end
— cannot end sooner ! ‘ Shall I continue to love you ! ‘

You said in Thursday’s letter — ‘We have not been
frightened much yet,’ our meetings have been uninterrupted
hitherto, and these letters : yes, that I am most thankful for
— whatever should happen, our real relation one to the
other is wholly known — that fact has been established
beyond possibility of doubt at least. I don’t make myself
understood here, I know, — but, think, — if at the very
beginning any accident had separated us . .

But I will believe in the end now and henceforth — I
will believe you are my very own Ba, — my best dream’s
realization, my life’s fulfilment and consummation — and
having discovered you, I shall live and die with you. So
may God dispose.

I will write the rest, — (nothing is here) a longer letter
to-morrow — but now my mind is too full of you — the poor
hand gets despised for lagging after ! All my thoughts are
with you, dearest. May God bless you and make me less
unworthy — being your own, own R.

One more day — one, and Monday !

(See what kindness of Mr. Kenyon ! I do not accept,
having no need to trouble him as he desires — but see how
kind.)

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Friday.

I have your letter . . you who cannot write ! The
contrariety is a part of the ‘ miracle.’ After all it seems to
me that you can write for yourself pretty well— rather too
well I used to think from the beginning. But if you persist
in the proposition about my doing it for you, leaving room
for your signature . . shall it be this way ?

Show me how to get rid of you.

(signed) R. B.

Now isn’t it I who am . . not ‘balancing my jewel’
over the gulph . . but actually tossing it up in the air out
of sheer levity of joyousness ? Only it is not perhaps such
dangerous play as it looks : there may be a little string
perhaps, tying it to my finger. Which, if it is not imprudence
in act, is imprudence in fact, you see !

Dearest, I committed a felony for your sake to-day — so
never doubt that I love you. We went to the Botanical
Gardens, where it is unlawful to gather flowers, and I was
determined to gather this for you, and the gardeners were
here and there . . they seemed everywhere . . but I
stooped down and gathered it. Is it felony, or burglary on
green leaves — or what is the name of the crime ? would the
people give me up to the police, I wonder ? Transie de peur,
I was, . . listening to Arabel’s declaration that all gathering
of flowers in these gardens is highly improper, — and I
made her finish her discourse, standing between me and
the gardeners — to prove that I was the better for it.

How pretty those gardens are, by the way ! We went
to the summer-house and sate there, and then on, to the
empty seats where the band sit on your high days. What I
enjoy most to see, is the green under the green . . where
the grass stretches under trees. That is something unspeakable
to me, in the beauty of it. And to stand under
a tree and feel the green shadow of the tree ! I never knew
before the difference of the sensation of a green shadow and
a brown one. I seemed to feel that green shadow through
and through me, till it went out at the soles of my feet and
mixed with the other green below. Is it nonsense, or not ?
Remember that by too much use we lose the knowledge
and apprehension of things, and that I may feel therefore
what you do not feel.

But in everything I felt you — and always, dearest
beloved, you were nearer to me than the best.

Well ; to go on with my story. Coming home and
submitting to be carried up-stairs because I was tired, the
news was that Miss Bayley had waited to see me three
quarters of an hour. Then she sate with me an hour — and
oh, such kind, insisting, persisting plans about Italy ! I did
not know what to say, so I was niaise and grateful, and said
‘ thank you, thank you ‘ as I could Did Mrs. Jameson
tell you of her scheme of going to Florence for two years
and to Venice for one, taking her niece with her in order to
an ‘ artistical education ‘ ? And Mr. Bezzi, who is the ‘ most
accurate of men,’ furnishes the details of necessary expenses,
and assures her in his programme that she may ‘ walk in silk
attire ‘ and drive her carriage like an English aristocrat, for
three hundred a year, at Florence — but the place is English-
ridden . . filled and polluted. Sorrento is better or even
Pisa. We will keep our Siren-isles to ourselves . . will we
not?

And now tell me. Was there not a picture of Sirens by
Etty, exhibited years ago . . which was also ‘ abominable,’
as I thought when I saw it ? Is it the same picture returning
like a disquieted ghoule . . much more that, than like
a Siren at all, if it is the same, . . I remember it was
scarcely to be looked at for hideousness . . though I heard
some carnivorous connoisseurs praising the ‘ colouring ‘ ! !
Foreigners might refer such artistical successes to our
national ‘beef . . . ‘le bifteak’ ideal. The materialism
of Art.

Can you love me so? do you? . . will you always?
And is any of that love ‘ lost,’ do you think, . . as the saying
is ? Indeed it is not. I put golden basins all round (the
reverse shape of lachrymatories) to catch every drop as it
falls, . . so that when we two shall meet together in the
new world, I may look in your face (as I cannot at this
moment) and say ‘ None of the love was lost, though all of
it was undeserved.’ May God bless you, dearest, best !
My heart is in you, I think. You would laugh to see the
books I take up . . first, ‘ Strafford ‘ . . then Suetonius to
see about your Caesar . . then the Naples book. Oh, but I
find you out in the Statesmen . . for all the dim light.

Your very own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 29, 1846]

Friday.

My own darling, your little note was a great delight to
me last night, when I expected nothing ; and though I do not
hear to-day, I will believe you are well after the walk— the
walk, what a ‘ divine fancy ‘ ; not mentioned by Quarles !

And then the words that follow the good news of the
walk . . those assurances . . oh, my best, dearest Ba, — it is
all right that I cannot speak here, — if I could, by some
miracle, speak, it would be foolish : — but my life lies before
you to take and direct, and keep or give away, — I am altogether
your own.

I come in rather tired from Town — having spent the
morning at the Exhibition, and made calls beside. (Etty’s
picture of the sirens is abominable ; though it looks admirable
beside another picture of his : did I not tell you he had
chosen the sirens for a subject ?)

Oh, dearest beyond all dearness, now, at this moment
only, your last and pro tempore best letter comes to me !
One can’t scold and kiss at the same time . . so let the
wretched Post arrangements be unmentioned for the
moment ; there is enough to get up a revolution about, I do
think ! But you, you spoil me and undo me almost, — ought
to do so, at least, — they were too delicious to bear, the
things you say to me ! Why will you not say rather what I
feel, — for you can, perhaps, being what you are, — and let
me subscribe it ! It is a real pain to me to feel as I feel,
and speak no more than I speak.

And again the time urges . . just when I want most to
go on writing — but to-morrow I will do nothing else. Take
this now, sweet, sweet Ba, with my whole heart that loves,
loves you !

your R.

[Postmark: May 29, 1846]

Thursday.

Dearest dearest, I thought I had lost my letter to-night,
for not a sound came like a postman’s knock . . I thought
I had lost my letter, talking of losing jewels. I waited and
waited, and at last broke silence to Arabel with, ‘ when will
the post come ? ‘ ‘ Not to-night,’ said she — ‘ it is nearly ten.’
On which I exclaimed so pitifully and with such a desperate
sense of loss, ‘ You mean to say that I shall have no letter
to-night,’ ? . . that after she had laughed a very little, she
went down-stairs to search the letterbox and brought me
what I wanted.

And you think it possible that I should give up my letters
and their golden fountain ? — I ! . . while I live and have
understanding ! I can’t fancy what manner of eagles you
believe in. If in real live eagles, . . why it is as probable
as any other thing of the sort, that I or you should be
snatched away by an eagle . . . the eagle who used to live,
for instance, at the Coliseum of Regent’s Park. And when
I ride away upon an eagle, I may take a wrong counsel perhaps
that hour from other birds of the air : . . . but till
then, I am yours to have and to hold, . . unless, as you say,
you open your hand wide and cry with a distinct voice, ‘ Go.’
It shall be your doing and not mine, if we two are to part —
or God’s own doing, through illness and death. And the
way to avert danger is to avoid observation and discussion,
as much as we can — and we have not been frightened much
yet, . . now have we ? As for Wednesday, there is time to
think. But how can you leave your sister ? you cannot.
So unless you derange your ‘ myth ‘ altogether, and find a
trysting place for us, . . . each mounted on an eagle, . .
in Nephelococcygia, we had better be satisfied, it seems to
me, with Monday and Saturday.

I was out to-day as you saw by my letter, which with my
own hand I dropped into the post. I liked to do it beyond
what you discern. And how the sun shone, — and the little
breath of wind could do nobody harm, I felt. Also there
was the ‘ Autography ‘ in the shop-window to see, before I sate
down in the shop. So you were thought of by necessity,
besides the freewill.

Do you not see that I am bound to you hand and foot ?
Why do you not see what God sees ?

But it is late, and the rest must be for to-morrow. The
sender of the rose-tree sent to-day a great heliotrope — so,
presently, you will have to seek me in a wood.

Everywhere your own

Ba.

[Postmark: May 28, 1846]

Thursday.

There is a long four days more of waiting — I feel more
and more and ever more how, wanting you, my life wants all
it can have. Dear Ba, never wonder that I fancy at times such
an event’s occurrence as you tell me I need not fear. I shall
always fear, — never can I hold you sufficiently fast, I shall
think. So, if my jewel must be taken from me, let some eagle
stoop down for it suddenly, baffling all human precaution, as I
look on my treasure on a tower’s top miles and milesinland, —
don’t let me have to remember, though but in a minute of life
afterwards, that I let it drop into the sea through foolishly
balancing it in my open hand over the water. There is one of
Ba’s ‘myths,’ excepting all Ba’s felicitousness of application
and glory of invention, — but then it has all my own love and
worship of Ba’s self, all I care to be distinguished by.

I hope you go out this fine morning — the wind is cold,
to be sure, but London is much warmer than this place,
and the wind kept off by the houses. I have got two of Mr.
Kenyon’s kind notes, to confirm the appointment for Wednesday
(when Mrs. Jameson is to be of the party), and to
invite me to meet Landor on Tuesday — so that for three
days running I shall be in Ba’s very neighbourhood . . for if
the wind can’t get through houses and walls, Ba can and does,
as my heart knows. Might I not see you for a moment on
the Wednesday ? Ah, there will be time to contrive, to
concert — but the worst is that when I see you I contrive
nothing, nor do you help me, you Ba ! Else, out of these
walks, — who is to object to my going to see the Thames
Tunnel or the Tower, by way of Wimpole Street, — wanting
the organ of locality as I am said to ? Whereas I am all one
consciousness of the influence of one locality, turning as my
whole heart and soul turn to Ba, — my dearest, dearest,
whom may God bless and requite. I can only kiss you, as
I do, and be your very own, my Ba, as I am and shall be
ever.

[Postmark: May 28, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

Dearest it is my fancy to write quickly this morning and
take my letter to the post myself. Oh, I shall do it this time
— there will be no obstacle. The office is just below Hodgson’s,
the bookseller’s. And so with this letter, please to
understand that I go to you twice and wholly, once in the
spirit, and again in the body.

But there is nothing to tell you, except that I think of
you with the thought which never can change essentially,
while it deepens always. What I meant to say yesterday
was simply, that I, knowing that, should be ‘ bad ‘ if I could
fail practically to myself and you. I have known from the
beginning the whole painful side of what is before me, also
. . I should have no excuse therefore for any weakness in
any fear. Should I not be ‘ bad ‘ then, and more unworthy
of you than even according to my own account, if the obstacle
came from me ? It never can. Remember to be sure of it.

A change of feeling indeed would be a different thing,
and we think exactly alike on the fit consequences of it.
Which change is however absolutely impossible in my
position and to me, ‘ for reasons . . for reasons ‘ . . . . you
guess at some of them, some are spoken, and others cannot
be.

In one word for all, life seems to come to me only through
you.

I am your very own.

Ba.

[Postmark: May 26, 1846]

3 1/2 P.M. Tuesday.

Dearest, your dearest of notes only arrived at 2 o’clock —
and Carlyle has just been with me,— come on horseback for
the express purpose of strolling about — so that I was forced,
forced . . you see ! He is gone again — and there is only
time to tell you why no more is told — but to-morrow will
supply all deficiency. Bless you, my dearest best Ba. How
I love you !

Your own —

Poor Capt. Jones is dead, — you may see in the papers.

[Postmark: May 26, 1846]

Monday Morning.

My beloved I scarcely know what to say about the poem.
It is almost profane and a sin to keep you from writing it
when your mind goes that way, — yet I am afraid that you
cannot begin without doing too much and without suffering
as a consequence in your head. Now if you make yourself
ill, what will be the end ? So you see my fears ! Let it be
however as it must be ! Only you will promise to keep from
all excesses, and to write very very gently. Ah — can you
keep such a promise, if it is made ever so ? There are the
fears again.

You are very strange in what you say about my reading
your poetry — as if it were not my peculiar gladness and
glory ! — my own, which no man can take from me. And
not you indeed ! Yet I am not likely to mistake your poetry
for the flower of your nature, knowing what that flower is,
knowing something of what that flower is without a name,
and feeling something of the mystical perfume of it. When
I said, or when others said for me, that my poetry was the
flower of me, was it praise, did you think, or blame ? might
it not stand for a sarcasm ? It might, — if it were not true,
miserably true after a fashion.

Yet something of the sort is true, of course, with all poets
who write directly from their personal experience and emotions
— their ideal rises to the surface and floats like the bell
of the waterlily. The roots and the muddy water are subaudita
you know — as surely there, as the flower.

But you . . you have the superabundant mental life and
individuality which admits of shifting a personality and
speaking the truth still. That is the highest faculty, the
strongest and rarest, which exercises itself in Art, — we are
all agreed there is none so great faculty as the dramatic.
Several times you have hinted to me that I made you
careless for the drama, and it has puzzled me to fancy how
it could be, when I understand myself so clearly both the
difficulty and the glory of dramatic art. Yet I am conscious
of wishing you to take the other crown besides — and after
having made your own creatures speak in clear human voices,
to speak yourself out of that personality which God made,
and with the voice which He tuned into such power and
sweetness of speech. I do not think that, with all that
music in you, only your own personality should be dumb,
nor that having thought so much and deeply on life and its
ends, you should not teach what you have learnt, in the
directest and most impressive way, the mask thrown off
however moist with the breath. And it is not, I believe, by
the dramatic medium, that poets teach most impressively —
I have seemed to observe that ! . . it is too difficult for the
common reader to analyse, and to discern between the vivid
and the earnest. Also he is apt to understand better always,
when he sees the lips move. Now, here is yourself, with
your wonderful faculty! — it is wondered at and recognised
on all sides where there are eyes to see — it is called wonderful
and admirable ! Yet, with an inferior power, you might
have taken yourself closer to the hearts and lives of men,
and made yourself dearer, though being less great. Therefore
I do want you to do this with your surpassing power —
it will be so easy to you to speak, and so noble, when
spoken.

Not that I usen’t to fancy I could see you and know you,
in a reflex image, in your creations ! I used, you remember.
How these broken lights and forms look strange and unlike
now to me, when I stand by the complete idea. Yes, now
I feel that no one can know you worthily by those poems.
Only . . I guessed a little. Now let us have your own voice
speaking of yourself — if the voice may not hurt the speaker
— which is my fear.

Evening. — Thank you, dearest dearest ! I have your
parcel — I have your letters . . . three letters to-day, it is
certainly feast day with me. Thank you my own dearest
The drawings I had just fixed in my mind, courageously to
ask for, because as you meant me to keep them I did not
see why I should throw away a fortune — and they return to
me with interest . . I observe these new vivid sketches !
Some day I shall put them into a book, as you should have
done. Then for the Roman ode, and all the rest, thank
you, thank you. I looked here and looked there, though,
for a letter — I could not find it at first, and was just saying
to myself quite articulately ‘ What wickedness ‘ ! . . . meaning
that it was wickedness in you to send me a parcel without
a word, . . when I came upon the folded paper. For I looked
inside the books, be sure. I did not toss them away . . .

There’s the gratitude of the world, you see ! and of
womankind in particular ! there’s the malign spirit of the
genus coffee-cup-throw-arum! Talking of which coffee-cups,
you dare me to it. Which is imprudent, to say the least of
it. I heard once of her most gracious Majesty’s throwing a
tea-cup, — whereupon Albertus Magnus, who is no conjurer,
could find nothing better to do than to walk out of the room
in solemn silence. If I had been he, I should have tied
the royal hands. I think ; for when women get to be warlike
after that demonstrative fashion, it seems to me to be allowable
to teach them that they are not the strongest. I say it,
never thinking of my ‘ licence to ‘ throw coffee-cups — which
you granted, knowing very well what I know intimately, . .
that . . that . .

I have a theory about you. Was ever anybody in the
world, . . a woman at least, . . angry with you? If anyone
ever tried, did she not fail in the first breath of the trying ? —
go out to curse like the prophet, and bless instead ? Tell
me if anyone was ever angry with you ? It is impossible, I
know perfectly. Therefore, as to the coffee-cup license, . .
the divine Achilles, invulnerable all but the heel, might as
well have said to his dearest foe ‘ Draw out your sword, O
Diomede, and strike me across the head, prick me in the
forehead, slash me over the ears, . .’ and that stand for a
proof of courage !

What stuff I do write, to be sure. I was out to-day walking,
with Arabel and Flush, and rested at the bookseller’s ;
but as I went farther than the other day, I let Stormie carry
me up-stairs, . . it is such a long way ! Say how you are,
dearest — you do not ! Shall you walk so fast when you
walk with me under the trees ? I shall not let you — I shall
hang back, as Flush does, when he won’t go with a string.
Ah — little (altogether) you know perhaps what a hard
Degree that B : A : is, to take the BA which is not a
Bachelor’s.

No, no, for the rest. It was not any Brown on earth,
but the only Browning of the great genius, who was shown
up as intimate friend to the Miss Cokers and elect husband
of that cloud, Miss Campbell the ‘ great heiress ‘ — all
in proportion, observe ! But I do entreat you not to say a
word to Dr. White or another. Why should you ? It is
mere nonsense, — so do let it evaporate quietly. Why, with
all my doubts for which you have blamed me, . . at the
thickest and saddest of the doubting, it never was what
people could say of you that could move me. And this is
so foolish, and unbelieved even by the very persons who say
it, perhaps ! Let it pass away with other dust, in the wind.
It is not worth the watering.

May God bless you ! This is my last letter . . already !
I had another criticism to-day from America, in a book called
‘ Thoughts on the Poets,’ which is written by a Mr. Tuckermann,
and selects its poets on the most singular principle . . or
rather on none at all . . beginning with Petrarch, ending with
Bryant, receiving Tennyson, Procter, Hunt, and your Ba . .
and not a word of you ! Stupid book — Petrarch and Alfieri
are the only foreign poets admitted — criticisms, swept back
to the desk from the magazines, I dare say. Very kind to
me — you shall see if you like.

And now . . good-night at last ! it must come. Have I
not written you one letter as long as the three ? Only not
worth a third as much — that I know.

Wholly and ever your

Ba.

Oh I must speak, though I meant to be silent ! though
first, I meant to keep the great subject of the Statesmen for
an explosion on Wednesday. I gave up the early poems
because I felt contented to read them afterwards — but listen
. . my Statesmen , I will not give up. Now listen — I expect
nothing at all from them — they were written for another
person, and under peculiar circumstances . . they are probably
as bad as anything written by you, can be. Will that
do, to say ? And may I see them ? Now I ask ever so
humbly . . Dearest !

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Monday.

Dear, dear love, your letter comes at half past three by a
new Postman, — very bewildered. You will perhaps have
received my parcel and note — if not, such things are on the
road. All in your note delights me entirely. As for my
walking fast, that is exactly my use and wont . . I am
famous for it, — as my father is for driving old lady-friends
into illnesses, and then saying innocently, ‘ I took care to
walk very slowly.’ When I have anything to occupy my mind,
I all but run — but the pen can’t run, for this letter must go,
and nothing said.

So, Ba, my Ba, Goodbye till to-morrow from

Your own, own.