Day: June 13, 2018

[Postmark: June 13, 1846]

Saturday.

Dearest, all dearest beyond my heart’s uttering, will you
forgive me for that foolish letter, and the warmth, and – FOR
ALL, – more than ever I thought to have needed to ask for-
giveness for ! I love you in every imaginable way. All was
wrong, absurd, in that letter – do you forgive now, – while I
kiss your feet, my own, own Ba ?

For see why it was wrong . . my father and mother will
NOT BE PAINED IN ANY DEGREE : they will believe what I
say, exactly what I say. I wrote on and on in a heat at the
sudden ridiculous fancy of the matter’s taking place some
fine morning, without a word of previous intimation, – ‘ I am
going away, never mind where, – with somebody, never
concern yourselves whom, – to stay, if for ever, is it any busi-
ness of yours to enquire ? ‘ All which was . . what was it ?
a method of confirming you in your complimentary belief in
my ‘calmness ‘ – or that other in my ‘ good practical sense ‘
– oh, Ba, Ba, how I deserve you ! I will only say, I agree in
all you write – it will be clearly best, and I can obviate every
untowardness here . . show that all is pure kindness and
provident caution . . so easy all will be ! And for the other
matters, I will fear nothing.

But you do – you DO understand what caused the sudden
fancy . . how I thought ‘ not show them my pride of prides,
my miraculous, altogether peerless and incomparable Ba ! ‘
It was not flying from your counsel, – oh, no !

So, is your hand in mine, or rather mine in yours again,
sweetest, best love ? All will be well. Follow out your in-
tention, as you spoke of it to me, in every point. Do not
for God’s sake run the risk, or rather, encounter the certainty
of hearing words which most likely have not anything like
the significance to the speaker that they would convey to the
hearer and so let us go quietly away. I will care nothing
about diplomatism or money-getting extraordinary why,
my own works sell and sell and are likely to sell, Moxon
says. And I mean to write wondrous works, you may be
sure, and sell them too, – and out of it all may easily come
some fifty or sixty horrible pounds a year, – on which one
lives famously in Ravenna, I dare say : think of Ravenna,
Ba ! – it seems the place of places, with the pines and the
sea, and Dante, and no English, and all Ba.

My Ba, I see you on Monday, do I not ? You let me
come then, do you not ? I am on fire to see you and know
you love me . . not as I love you . . that can never be ! I
am your own

R.

I resolve, after a long pause and much irresolution, to
write down as much as I shall be able, of an obvious fact . .
If the saddest fate I can imagine should be reserved for me . .
I should wish, you would wish to live the days out worthily,
not end them – nor go mad in them to prevent which, I
should need distraction, the more violent the better, – and it
would have to be forced on me in the only way possible –
therefore, after my death, I return nothing to your family, be
assured. You will not recur to this !

[Postmark: June 13, 1846]

Friday.

But dearest, dearest, . . when did I try to dissuade you
from telling all to your father and mother ? Surely I did
not and could not. That you should ‘ wound them to the
very soul and for ever ‘ . . I am so far from counselling it,
that I would rather, I think, as was intimated in my letter
of this morning, have all at an end at once – rather !
Certainly rather, . . when the alternative would be your
certain unhappiness and remorse. A right, they have, to
your entire confidence ; for me to say a word against your
giving it – may God forbid ! Even that you should submit
your wishes to theirs in this matter, would be no excess
of duty – I said so, I think, in my letter of this morning.

At the same time, I am of opinion, . . which was what
I meant to put into words, . . that, in the case of their ap-
proving in the sufficient degree . . and of your resolving
finally on carrying out our engagement . . . you should
avoid committing them further than is necessary, and so
exposing them to unpleasant remarks and reproaches from
my family . . to go no farther. You think that nothing can
be said – I wish I could think so. You are not to be re-
strained perhaps . . but you are to be advised . . and it
would be a natural step for your father, to go straight to his
friend Mr. Kenyon. Do you see what might be done though
you are ‘ of age ‘ – and for not doing which, your father
might be reproached ? And more there would be to do,
besides. Therefore I thought that you should avoid, as far
as possible, committing him openly . . making him a party
in the eyes of the world (as would be done by my visit
to New Cross for instance) yet I may be wrong here, . .
and you, in any case, are the master, to act as you see
best.

And, looking steadily at the subject, do you not see, . .
now that we look closely besides, . . how mortifying to the
just pride of your family, as well as to your own self-respect,
is every possible egress from these unhappy circumstances ?
Ah – I told you – I told you long ago ! I saw that at the
beginning. Giving the largest confidence to your family, you
still must pain them – still.

For the rest . . you are generous and noble as always –
but, no, . . I shall refuse steadily for reasons which are plain,
to put away from me God’s gifts . . given perhaps in order to
this very end . . and apart from which, I should not have
seen myself justified, . . even as far as now I vaguely, dimly
seem . . to cast the burden of me upon you. No. I care
as little for money as you do but this thing I will not agree
to, because I ought not. At the same time, you shall be at
liberty to arrange that after the deaths of us two, the money
should return to my family . . this, if you choose for it
shall be by your own act hereafter, that they may know you for
what you are. In the meanwhile, I should laugh to scorn
all that sort of calumny . . even if I could believe it to be
possible. Supposing that you sought money, you would not
be quite so stupid, the world may judge for itself, as to take
hundreds instead of thousands, and pence instead of guineas.
To do the world justice, it is not likely to make a blunder
on such a point as this.

I wish, if you can wish so, that you were the richer. I
could be content to have just nothing, if we could live easily
so. But as I have a little without seeking it, you must, on
the other hand, try to be content, and not be too proud.

As to Lord Monteagle, . . dearest . . . you will do what
you like of course, though I do not understand exactly what
your object is. A pension on literary grounds is the more
difficult to obtain, that the fund set apart for that end is
insufficient, I believe. Then if you are to do diplomacy for
it, . . how do you know that you may not be sent to Russia,
or somewhere impossible for me to winter in ? If you were
fixed even in London, . . what then ? You know best what
your own views are, and wishes are – I would not cross them,
if you should be happier so, or so.

And do you think that because this may be done, or not
done . . and because that ought not to be borne . . we can
make any change . . act any more openly . . face to face,
perhaps voice to voice ? Alas, no ! – You said once that
women were as strong as men, . . unless in the concurrence
of physical force. Which is a mistake. I would rather be
kicked with a foot, . . (I, for one woman ! . . ) than be
overcome by a loud voice speaking cruel words. I would
not yield before such words – I would not give you up if they
were said . . but, being a woman and a very weak one (in
more senses than the bodily), they would act on me as
a dagger would, . . I could not help dropping, dying before
them. I say it that you may understand. Tyranny ? Per-
haps. Yet in that strange, stern nature, there is a capacity
to love – and I love him – and I shall suffer, in causing him
to suffer. May God bless you. You will scarcely make out
these hurried straggling words – and scarcely do they carry
out my meaning. I am for ever your

BA.