[Postmark: May 2, 1846]
How you write to me ! Is there any word to answer to
these words . . which, when I have read, I shut my eyes as
one bewildered, and think blindly . . or do not think — some
feelings are deeper than the thoughts touch. My only
beloved, it is thus with me . . . I stand by a miracle in
your love, and because I stand in it and it covers me,
just for that, you cannot see me ! May God grant that you .
never see me — for then we two shall be ‘ happy ‘ as you say,
and I, in the only possible manner, be very sure. Mean-
while, you do quite well not to speculate about making me
happy . . your instinct knows, if you do not know, that it is
implied in your own happiness . . or rather (not to assume
a magnanimity) in my sense of your being happy, not apart
from me. As God sees me, and as I know at all the motions
of my own soul, I may assert to you that from the first moment
of our being to each other anything, I never conceived
of happiness otherwise . . never thought of being happy
through you or by you or in you, even — your good was all
my idea of good, and is, I hear women say sometimes of
men whom they love . . ‘ such a one will make me happy,
I am sure,’ or ‘ I shall be happy with him I think’ — or
again . . ‘ He is so good and affectionate that nobody need
be afraid for my happiness.’ Now, whether you like or dis-
like it, I will tell you that I never had such thoughts of you,
nor ever, for a moment, gave you that sort of praise. I do
not know why . . or perhaps I do . . but I could not so
think of you , . I have not time nor breath . . I could
as soon play on the guitar when it is thundering. So be
happy, my own dearest . . and if it should be worth a
thought that you cannot be alone, so, you may think that too.
You have so deep and intense a nature, that it were impossible
for you to love after the fashion of other men, weakly
and imperfectly, and your love, which comes out like your
genius, may glorify enough to make you happy, perhaps.
Which is my dream, my calculation rather, when I am happiest
now. May God bless you. Suppose I should ever
read in your eyes that you were not happy with me ? — can I
help, do you fancy, such thoughts ? Could you help being
not happy ? The very word ‘ unhappiness ‘ implies that you
cannot help it. Now forgive me my naughtiness, because I
love you, and never loved but you, . . and because I promise
not to go with Miss Bayley to Italy . . I promise. Ah —
If you could pretend to be afraid of that, indeed, I have a
right to be afraid, without pretence at all . . I who am a
woman and frightened of lightning. And see the absurdity.
If I did not go to Italy with you, the reason would be that
you did not choose — and if you did not choose, I should not
choose . . I would not see Italy without your eyes — could I,
do you think ? So if Miss Bayley takes me to Italy with a
volume of the Cyclic poets, it will be as a dead Ba clasped
up between the leaves of it. You talked of a ‘ Flora,’ you
remember, in the first letter I had from you.
How bad of William Howitt ! How right you are,
always ! Yet not quite always, dear dearest beloved, happily
for your own
Ba.
Say how you are I beseech you, and honestly ! I
was down-stairs to-day, since the wind changed, and am
the better for it. What writing for a postman ! — or for you
even !