[Postmark: May 12, 1846]
It is too bad, or too good, or something. Almost I
could reproach you, and quite would thank you ! . yet do
not let it be so again. You are supernaturally kind . .
kindestest, bestestest . . . and, so, dearestest by the merest
justice ; only, to think of your hastening home, as if you
were under an obligation to write to me in the face of the
seven worlds, . . that is too much, and shall not be again —
— now see that it shall not. I seem to hear the rattling of the
chain all this distance. And do, for the future, let it be
otherwise. When you are kept in London, or in any way
hindered, or unwell, . . in any case of the sort, let the vow
be kept by one line, which, too late for the day’s post, may
reach me the next day, — and I shall not be uneasy at eight
o’clock, but wait ‘ as those who wait for the morning.’ In
the meanwhile how I thank you ! The second dear letter
comes close in the footsteps of the first, as your goodnesses
are so apt to do.
Well ! — and whatever you may think about Wednesday,
I am pleased, and feel every inclination to ‘ return thanks ‘
myself in reply to the bishop of Lincoln. I send the letter
back lest you should want it. The worst is that you are
likely to have a very bad headache with the noise and con-
fusion — and the bishop’s blessing on the dramatists of
England, will not prevent it, I fear.
Look what is inside of this letter — look ! I gathered it
for you to-day when I was walking in the Regent’s Park.
Are you surprised ? Arabel and Flush and I were in the
carriage — and the sun was shining with that green light
through the trees, as if he carried down with him the very
essence of the leaves, to the ground, . . and I wished so
much to walk through a half open gate along a shaded path,
that we stopped the carriage and got out and walked, and I
put both my feet on the grass, . . which was the strangest
feeling ! . . and gathered this laburnum for you. It hung
quite high up on the tree, the little blossom did, and Arabel
said that certainly I could not reach it — but you see ! It
is a too generous return for all your flowers : or, to speak
seriously, a proof that I thought of you and wished for you
— which it was natural to do, for I never enjoyed any of my
excursions as I did to-day’s — the standing under the trees
and on the grass, was so delightful. It was like a bit of that
Dreamland which is your especial dominion, — and I felt
joyful enough for the moment, to look round for you, as for
the cause. It seemed illogical, not to see you close by.
And you were not far after all, if thoughts count as bringers
near. Dearest, we shall walk together under the trees some
day !
And all those strange people moving about like phan-
toms of life. How wonderful it looked to me ! — and only
you, . . the idea of you . . and myself seemed to be real
there ! And Flush a little, too ! —
Ah — what . . next to nonsense, . . in the first letter,
this morning ! So you think that I meant to complain
when we first met, of your ‘ loving me only for my poetry ‘ !
Which I did not, simply because I did not believe that you
loved me ! — for any reason. For the rest, I am not over-
particular, I fancy, about what I may be loved for. There
is no good reason for loving me, certainly, and my earnest
desire (as I have said again and again) is, that there should
be by profession no reason at all. But if there is to be any
sort of reason, why one is as welcome as another . . you
may love me for my shoes, if you like it . . except that they
wear out. I thought you did not love me at all — you loved
out into the air, I thought — a love a priori, as the philosophers
might say, and not by induction, any wise ! Your only
knowledge of me was by the poems (or most of it) — and
what knowledge could that be, when I feel myself so far
below my own aspirations, morally, spiritually? So I
thought you did not love me at all — I did not believe in
miracles then, nor in ‘ Divine Legations ‘ — but my miracle is
as good as Constantine’s, you may tell your bishop on
Wednesday when he has delivered his charge.
Is it eight o’clock, or three ? You write a ‘8’ which
looks like both, or at least either.
Love me, my only beloved ; since you can. May God
bless you !
I am ever and wholly your Ba.
Say how you are.