Day: June 3, 2018

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I will tell you, dearest : your good is my good, and
your will mine ; if you were convinced that good would
be promoted by our remaining as we are for twenty
years instead of one, I should endeavour to submit in the
end . . after the natural attempts to find out and remove
the imagined obstacle. If, as you seem to do here, you
turn and ask about my good — yours being supposed to be
uninfluenced by what I answer . . then, here is my truth
on that subject, in that view, — my good for myself. Every
day that passes before that day is one the more of hardly
endurable anxiety and irritation, to say the least ; and the
thought of another year’s intervention of hope deferred —
altogether intolerable ! Is there anything I can do in that
year — or that you can do — to forward our object ? Any-
thing impossible to be done sooner ? If not —

You may misunderstand me now at first, dear, dearest
Ba : at first I sate quietly, you thought ; do I live quietly
now, do you think ? Ought I to show the evidence of the
unselfishness I strive, at least, to associate with my love, by
coolly informing you ‘ what would please me.’

But I will not say more, you must know . . and I seem
to know that this question was one of Ba’s old questions . .
a branch-licence, perhaps, of the original inestimable one,
that charter of my liberties, by which I am empowered to
‘ hold myself unengaged, unbound ‘ &c. &c.

Good Heaven ; I would not, — even to save the being
asked such questions, — have played the horseleech that
cries ‘ give, give,’ in Solomon’s phrase — ‘ Do you let me see
you once a week ? Give me a sight once a day ! — May I
dare kiss you ? Let me marry you to-morrow ! ‘

But to the end, the very end, I am yours : God knows
I would not do you harm for worlds — worlds ! I may
easily mistake what is harm or not. I will ask your leave to
speak — at your foot, my Ba : I would not have dared to
take the blessing of kissing your hand, much less your lip,
but that it seemed as if I was leading you into a mistake —
as did happen — and that you might fancy I only felt a
dreamy, abstract passion for a phantom of my own creating
out of your books and letters, and which only took your
name. . . That once understood, the rest you shall give me.
In every event, I am your own.

12 o’ clock. — I thought another letter might arrive. This
must go as we shall set off presently to Mr. Kenyon’s.

I did understand the question about my sister. I mean,
that you felt somewhat so, incredible as it seems — only I
believe all you say, all — to the letter, the iota. Think of
that, whenever I might ask and do not — or speak, and am
silent . . but I am getting back to the question discussed
above, which I ought not to do — understand me, dearest
dearest ! See me, open the eyes, the dear eyes, and see
the love of your R.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Tuesday Night.

My own dearest who are never to offend me! — And,
true, that is — because I have tried, before now, to be offended,
and could not, . . being under a charm. So it is not my
fault but yours, that never you see me angry.

But your head, my head . . is it better, dearest, by this
time, or is it ringing and aching even, under the crashing
throat-peals of Mr. Landor’s laughter ? he laughs, I remember
like an ogre — he laughs as if laughter could kill, and he
knew it, thinking of an enemy. May it do his friends no
harm to-night ! How I think of you, and, in every thought,
love you ! Yes, surely I can love you as if I were worthier !
and better perhaps and if I were better, . . though that may
sound like a riddle. And dear dearest, why do you talk of
your faults so ? It is not at all gracious of you indeed. You
are on a high hill above me where I cannot reach your hand
— (in the myths, be it understood) and you sigh and say
querulously … ‘ By and bye I may have to take a step
down lower.’ Now is that gracious of you, or worthy of
your usual chivalry ? You ought to be glad, on the contrary,
to be so much nearer me — ! in the myths, be it understood !
For out of the myths we are near enough, as near as two
hearts can be,. . I believe. . I trust !

You will not mistake what I said to you this morning
my own beloved — you will not ? My promise to you was to
place the decision in your hands — and my desire is simply
that you should decide according to your judgment and
understanding . . I do not say, your affections, this
time. Now it has struck me that you have a sort of
instinct . .

But no — I shall not write on that subject to-night.
Rather I will tell you what I have been doing to-day to be so
very, very tired. To-day I paid my first visit — not to Mr.
Kenyon but to an older friend than even he — to Miss
Trepsack . . learn that name by heart . . whom we all of
us have called ‘ Treppy ‘ ever since we could speak. Moreover
she has nursed . . tossed up . . held on her knee —
Papa when he was an infant; the dearest friend of his
mother and her equal, I believe, in age — so you may suppose
that she is old now. Yet she can outwalk my sisters, and
except for deafness, which, dear thing, she carefully explains
as ‘a mere nervous affection,’ — is as young as ever. But
she calls us all ‘ her children ‘ . . and I, you are to understand,
am ‘ her child,’ par excellence . . her acknowledged
darling and favourite, — perhaps because tenderly she thinks
it right to carry on the love of her beloved friend, whom
she lived with to the last. Once she saw you in the
drawing-room — and you perhaps saw her. She dines here
every Sunday, and on the other days of course often, and has
the privilege of scolding everybody in the house when she
is out of humour, and of being ‘ coaxed ‘ by slow degrees
back into graciousness. So, she had full right to have me
on my first visit — had she not ? and the goodness and kindness
and funniness of the reception were enough to laugh
and cry over. First . . half way up-stairs, I found a chair,
to sit and rest on. Then the windows were all shut up,
because I liked it so in my room. And then, for occulter
reasons, a feast was spread for Arabel and Flush and me,
which made me groan in the spirit, and Flush wag his tail,
to look upon . . ice cream and cakes, which I was to taste
and taste in despite of all memories of dinner an hour before
. . and cherrybrandy ! ! ! which I had to taste too, . . just
then saved alive by an oath, on Arabel’s part, that I was
‘ better without it.’ Think of dear Treppy ! — of all the
kindness, and fondness ! Almost she kissed me. to pieces
as the ‘ darlingest of children.’ So I am glad I went — and
so is Flush, who highly approves of that class of hospitable
attentions, and wishes it were the way of the world every
day. But I am tired ! so tired ! The visiting is a new
thing.

It is an old one that I should write such long letters. If
I am tired, you might retort with the Ed io anche !— Yet you
will not, because you are supernaturally good ; and as it was
in the beginning, ever shall be, you say !

But will you explain to me some day why you are sorry
for Italy having been mentioned between us, and why you
would rather prefer Nova Zembla ? So as to kill me the faster,
is it ?

Your ∆lian says that the oldest painters used to write
under a tree, when they painted one, ‘ This is a tree.’ So I
must do, I suddenly remember, under my jests . . I being,
it would appear, as bad an artist in jesting, as they were in
painting. Therefore . . see the last line of the last paragraph
. . ‘ This is a jest. ‘

And this is the earnest thing of all . . that I love you as
I can love — and am for ever . . living and dying . .

Your own —

Take care of the head, I entreat ! and say how you
are ! and how your mother is ! I am grieved to hear of that
relapse !