Day: May 19, 2018

[Postmark: May 19, 1846]

Tuesday.

With this day expires the first year since you have been
yourself to me — putting aside the anticipations, and prognostications,
and even assurances from all reasons short of
absolute sight and hearing, — excluding the five or six
months of these, there remains a year of this intimacy. You
accuse me of talking extravagantly sometimes. I will be
quiet here, — is the tone too subdued if I say, such a life —
made up of such years — I would deliberately take rather
than any other imaginable one in which fame and worldly
prosperity and the love of the whole human race should
combine, excluding ‘ that of yours — to which I hearken ‘ —
only wishing the rest were there for a moment that you
might see and know that I did turn from them to you.
My dearest, inexpressibly dearest. How can I thank
you ? I feel sure you need not have been so kind to me, so
perfectly kind and good, — I should have remained your own,
gratefully, entirely your own, through the bare permission
to love you, or even without it — seeing that I never dreamed
of stipulating at the beginning for ‘ a return,’ and ‘ reward,’ —
but I also believe, joyfully, that no course but the course
you have taken would have raised me above my very self,
as I feel on looking back. I began by loving you in com-
parison with all the world, — now, I love you, my Ba, in the
face of your past self, as I remember it.

All words are foolish — but I kiss your feet and offer you
my heart and soul, dearest, dearest Ba.

I left you last evening without the usual privilege — you
did not rise, Ba ! But, — I don’t know why, — I got nervous
of a sudden, it seemed late and I remembered the Drawing-
room and its occupants.

[Postmark: May 19, 1846]

Tuesday Morning.

My own ever dearest, when I try to thank you for such
a letter as yesterday’s, . . for any proof, in fact, of your
affection, . . I cannot speak : but you know, of this and all
things, that I understand, feel — you must know it very well.
There is only one thing I can do as I ought, and it is to
love you ; and the more I live, not ‘ the less ‘ but the more I
am able to love you — believe it of me. And for the less, . .
we never will return to that foolish subject, . . but for the
‘ less ‘ you spoke of when you said ‘ you do not love me
less?’ . . . why I thought at the moment and feel now,
that it would be too late, as I am, ever, upon any possible
ground, to love you less. If you loved me less . . even !
— or (to leave that) if you were to come to me and say that
you had murdered a man — why I may imagine such things,
you know — but I cannot imagine the possibility of my
loving you less, as a consequence of your failing so ! I am
yours in the deepest of my affections : — not unreasonably,
certainly, as I see you and know you — but if it were to turn
unreasonable . . I mean, if you took away the appearance
of reasonableness . . still I should be yours in the deepest
of my affections . . it is too late for a difference there.
Mrs. Jameson has just now sent me a proof with the
‘ Daughters of Pandarus,’ which she is to call for presently
and therefore I must come to an end with this note. How
I shall think of you to-morrow ! And if it should be fine, I
may perhaps drive in the park near the gardens . . take
my sisters to the gate of the gardens, and feel that you are
inside ! That will be something, if it is feasible. And if
it is fine or not, and if I go or not, I shall remember our
first day, the only day of my life which God blessed visibly
to me, the only day undimmed with a cloud . . my great
compensation-day, which it was worth while being born
for !

Your very own

Ba.

Oh — YOU will not see me to-morrow, remember ! I tell
you only out of cunning . . to win a thought !