[Postmark: May 6, 1846]
But my own only beloved, I surely did not speak too
‘ insistingly ‘ yesterday. I shrank from your question as
you put it, because you put it wrong. If you had asked
me instead, whether I meant to keep my promise to you, I
would have answered ‘ yes ‘ without hesitation : but the
form you chose, referred to you more than to me, and was
indeed and indeed a foolish form of a question, my own
dearest ! For the rest . . ah, you do not see my innermost
nature, . . you ! — you are happily too high, and cannot
see into it . . cannot perceive how the once elastic spring
is broken with the long weights ! . . you wonder that it
should drop, when you, who lifted it up, do not hold it up !
you cannot understand ! . you wonder ! And I wonder
too . . on the other side ! I wonder how I can feel
happy and alive . . as I can, through you ! how I can turn
my face toward life again . . as I can, for you ! . . and
chiefly of all, how I can ever imagine . . as I do, sometimes
. . that such a one as you, may be happy perhaps with such
a one as I ! . . happy !
Do not judge me severely, you, to whom I have given
both hands, for your own uses and ends ! — you, who are
more to me than I can be to you, even by your own state-
ment — better to me than life . . or than death even, as
death seemed to me before I knew you.
Certainly I love you enough, and trust you enough, if
you knew what God knows. Yet, . . ‘ now hear me.’ I
shall not be able to please you, I think, by a firm continued
belief of this engagement’s being justifiable, until the event
wholly has justified it . . I mean, . . until I shall see you
not less happy for having lived near me for six months or a
year — should God’s mercy permit such justification. Do
not blame me. I cannot help it . . I would, if I could,
help it. Every time you say, as in this dearest letter, ever
dearest, that you have been happy on such a day through
being with me, I have a new astonishment— it runs
through me from head to feet . . I open my eyes astonished,
whenever my sun rises in the morning, as if I saw an angel in
the sun. And I do see him, in a sense. Ah — if you make
a crime to me of my astonishments, it is all over indeed ! can
I help it, indeed ? So forgive me ! let it not be too great a
wrong to be covered by a pardon. Think that we are different,
you and I — and do not think that I would send you
to ‘ money and worldly advancement ‘ . . do not think so
meanly of my ambition for you.
Dearest dearest ! — do you ever think that I could fail to
you ? Do you doubt for a moment, ever . . ever, . . that
my hand might peradventure ‘ shake less ‘ in being loosed
from yours ? Why, it might — and would ! Dead hands
do not shake at all, — and only so, could my hand be loosed
from yours through a failing on my part. It is your hand,
while you hold it : while you choose to hold it, and while it
is a living hand.
Do you know what you are to me, . . you ? We talk of
the mild weather doing me good . . of the sun doing me
good . . of going into the air as a means of good ! Have
you done me no good, do you fancy, in loving me and lift-
ing me up ? Has the unaccustomed divine love and tender-
ness been nothing to me ? Think ! Mrs. Jameson says
earnestly . . said to me the other day . . that ‘ love was
only magnetism.’ And I say in my heart, that, magnet or
no magnet, I have been drawn back into life by your means
and for you . . that I see the dancing mystical lights which .
are seen through the eyelids . . and I think of you with an
unspeakable gratitude always — always ! No other could
have done this for me — it was not possible, except by you.
But, no— do not, beloved, wish the first days here again.
You saw your way better in them than I did. I had too
bitter feelings sometimes : they looked to me like an
epigram of destiny ! as if ‘ He who sitteth on high should
laugh her to scorn — should hold her in derision ‘ — as why
not ? My best hope was that you should be my friend after
all. We will not have them back again . . those days !
And in these, you do not love me less but more } Would it
be strange to thank you ? I feel as if I ought to thank you!
I have written, written, and have more to write, yet must
end here now. The letter I wrote this morning and gave to
my sister to leave in the post, she was so naughty as to forget,
and has been well scolded as a consequence ; but the scold-
ing did not avail, I fear, to take the letter to you to-night ;
there is no chance Mrs. Jameson came to-day when I
was engaged with Lady Margaret Cocks and I could not
see her — and Mr. Kenyon came, when I could see him and
was glad. I am tired with my multitude of visitors — oh, so
tired !
Why are you melancholy, dear, dearest ? Was it my
fault ? could that be ? no — you were unwell, I think . . I
fear. Say how you are ; and believe that you may answer
your own questions, for that I never can fail to you. If
two persons have one will on a matter of that sort, they
need not be thwarted here in London — so answer your own
questions.
Wholly and ever yours I am.