Day: June 4, 2018

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Thursday.

‘Vex me,’ or ‘ teaze me,’ my own Ba, you cannot. I look
on it indeed, after a moment, as the only natural effect of
your strange disbelief in yourself, and ignorance of our true
relation one to the other by every right and reason. Only,
Ba, you are wrong — doubly, — that is, you would be wrong if
your own estimate of your power over me were the true one —
for, — though it is difficult for me to fancy these abstractions
and fantastic metamorphoses (as how one could feel without
one’s head, — or how I could live without the love of you
now I have once got it) — yet, since you make me, I will
fancy I love my head and love you no longer. . and then
(which is now) now, do you think I am so poor a creature
as to go on adding to my faults, and letting you gently
down, as the phrase is, with cowardly excuses, ‘ postponing’
this, and ‘consenting to delay’ the other, — and perhaps
managing to get you to do the whole business for me in the
end? I hope and think I should say at once — Oh, no
more of this ! But see how right I was — ‘an instinct, you
seem to see.’ So, I have been thinking, — there are but few
topics of our conversation from which any such impressions
could arise — was it that I have asked more than once, if
you could really bear another winter in London, (in all
probability a severe one) — and again, if you could get to
Italy by any ordinary means without the same opposition
you will have to encounter for my sake ? . . My Ba, as God
knows, all that was so much pure trembling attempting to
justify myself for the over-greatness of the fortune, the
excess of the joy, — if I could but feel that there was a
little of your own good in it too — that you would gain that
much advantage at least by my own inestimable advantage !
If you knew how, — spite of all endeavours, — how happy
I have been — which is a shame to confess — but how very
happy to hear that you could not without a degree of
danger stay here — could no more easily leave England
with Miss Bayley than with me ! It seemed to justify me,
as I say. And so of ‘ the wishing I had not mentioned
Italy ‘ — I wish your will to be mine, to originate mine, your
pleasure to be only mine. Expressed first — it will be my
pleasure . . but all is wrong if you take the effect, seek to
know it, before the cause. What does it matter that I should
prefer Italy to Nova Zembla ? So, you ought to have begun
by saying ‘we will go there,’ and then my pleasure in
obedience had been naturally expressed. Did I not ask you
whether you had not, after all, thought of going to Italy first
— to Pisa, or Malta, — from the very beginning ? Always to
Justify myself ! Always !

But — this too is misunderstood. Let me say humbly, I
should prefer to go with you to Italy or any place where
we can live alone for some little time, till you can know me,
be as sure of me as of yourself. Nor am I so selfish, I hope,
as that (because my uttermost pride and privilege and
glory above all glories would be to live in your sick-room
and serve you,) — as that, on that account, I would not
rather see you in a condition to need none of my service
. . the next thing to serving you, is to be — what shall
I say? — served by you . . loved by you, made happy
by you — it is the being an angel, though there might be archangels —

And if now you do not-understand, — well, I kneel to
you, my Ba, and pray you to give yourself to me in deed as
in word, the body as the heart and mind, — and now ! — at
any time, — you know what I cannot say, I cannot, I think,
— if I know myself — love you more than I do . . but I
shall always love you thus — and thus, in any case, happen
what God may ordain —

Your R.

I know this is taking the simple experimental question
too seriously to heart . . but such experiments touch at the
very quick and core of the heart . . I cannot treat them
otherwise — ought I ?

You will see Miss Bayley to-day — Mr. Kenyon asked if
I were going to call to-day . . ‘ if not. Miss B. would.’

I have your letter . . the short note, not the promised
one . . for all this writing about the question . . but I
could not merely say — ‘ Oh no, you mistake . . I had rather,
upon the whole, not wait.’

Even now the feeling, in its subsiding, hinders me from
speaking of the delightful account of ‘ Treppy ‘ . . whom I
remember now, perfectly — and what comfort is in thy dear
note !

Bless you, my ‘ darlingest creature,’ — my Ba !

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

Nothing at all had it to do with your Magna Charta,
beloved, that question of mine. After you were gone the
other day and I began turning your words over and over, . .
(so, I make hay of them to feed the horses of the sun !) it
struck me that you had perhaps an instinct of common
sense, which, with a hand I did not see and a voice I
could not hear, drew you perhaps. So I thought I would
ask. For after all, this is rather a serious matter we are
upon, and if you think that you are not to have your share
of responsibility . . that you are not to consider and arrange
and decide, and perform your own part, . . you are as much
mistaken as ever I was. ‘ Judge what I say.’ For my part,
I have done, it seems to me, nearly as much as I can do. I
do not, at least, seem to myself to have any power to doubt
even, of the path to choose for the future. If for any reason
you had seen wisdom in delay, it would have been a different
thing — and the seeing was a possible thing, you will admit.
I did not ask you if you desired a delay, but if you saw a
reason for it. In the meantime I was absolutely yours, I
remembered thoroughly, . . and the question went simply
to enquire what you thought it best to do with your
own.

For me I agree with your view — I never once thought of
proposing a delay on my own account. We are standing on
hot scythes, and because we do not burn in the feet, by a
miracle, we have no right to count on the miracle’s prolongation.
Then nothing is to be gained — and everything may be
lost — and the sense of mask-wearing for another year would
be suffocating. This for me. And for yourself, I shall not
be much younger or better otherwise, I suppose, next year.
I make no motion, then, for a delay, further than we have
talked of, . . to the summer’s end.

My good . . happiness ! Have I any that did not come
from you, that is not in you, that you should talk of my good
apart from yours ? I shudder to look back to the days when
you were not for me. Was ever life so like death before ?
My face was so close against the tombstones, that there
seemed no room even for the tears. And it is unexampled
generosity of yours, that, having done all for me, you should
write as you always do, about my giving . . giving ! Among
the sons of men there is none like you as I believe and
know, . . and every now and then declare to my sisters.

Dearest, if I vexed you, teazed you, by that question
which proved unnecessary . . forgive me ! Had you
uncomfortable thoughts in the gardens to-day ? Perhaps !
And I could not smooth them away, though I drew as
near as I dared . . though I was in a carriage at seven
o’clock, running a mystical circle round your tents and music.
Did you feel me, any more than if I were a ‘ quick spider,’ I
wonder.

Henrietta and Arabel were going to spend the evening
with cousins of ours, and as the carriage waited for the
plaiting of Henrietta’s hair, or the twisting of the ringlets,
Arabel said to me ‘ Will you go for a quarter of an hour ? ‘
And in a minute, we were off . . she and Flush and Lizzie
and I. Never did I expect again to see so many people —
but I thought of one so much that my head was kept from
turning round — and we drove once round the ‘ inner circle,’
so called, and looked up to Mr. Kenyon’s windows — and
there, or there, you were, certainly ! — and either there, or
there, you were being disquieted in your thoughts by me, as
certainly ! Ah forgive me. After all, . . listen . . I love
you with the fulness of my nature. Nothing of all this
unspeakable goodness and tenderness is lost on me. . . I
catch on my face and hands every drop of all this dew.

So now . . you are not teazed ? we are at one again, and
may talk of outside things again ?

But first, I must hear how the head is. How is it, best
and dearest ? And you had my letter at last, had you not ?
Because I wrote it as usual, of course. May God bless you
— and me as I am altogether your own.

Twice (observe) I have been out to-day — the first time,
walking. Also, twice have I written to you.

Say how your mother is — and yourself! —

George and Henrietta were asked to meet you at Mr.
Kenyon’s — but only to-day, and too late to forestall other
engagements. Did you enjoy any of it ? Tell me.

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Wednesday — 5 p.m.

Then let it be as we meant it should be. And do you
forgive me, my own, if I have teazed you . . vexed you.
Do I not always tell you that you are too good for me ?

Yet the last of my intentions was, this time, to doubt
of your attachment for me. Believe that, I will write
to-night more fully — but never can be more than at this
moment

Your

Ba.