[Postmark: June 17, 1846]
Wednesday Morning.
My own Ba, I release ‘ you from just as much as you
would easily dispense me from observing in that mutual
promise. Indeed, it has become one unnecessary for our
present relation and knowledge : it was right at the begin-
ning for either to say to the other, using calm words, ‘ It is
your good I seek, not mine,’ and as if it were demonstrated
that I should secure yours at the expense of mine by leaving
you I would endeavour to do it – so, you assure me, you
would act by me. The one point to ascertain therefore, is –
what will amount to a demonstration ; and I for my part
apprize you that no other person in the world can by any
possibility know so much of me as to be entitled to pro-
nounce in the matter – to say ‘ it is for good or for evil ‘ –
therefore, you will no more be justified in giving up to that
kind of demonstration what I consent you shall give up to
one clearly furnished by myself, the only authentic one – than
you would be justified in paying my money, entrusted to
you, on the presentation of a cheque signed by somebody
else . . somebody who loves me better than himself, my
best of friends, truest of advisers &c. &c. It skills not,
boots not – ‘ John Smith ‘ is not R.B., nor B. A. and because
R.B. or B.A. shall be instantly attended to, – the counterfeit
must be refused.’ Just this, so rational and right, I under-
stood you to bid me promise – and so much you have
promised me, a proper precaution for the earlier time when
the friend might seem to argue with some plausibility
‘ really I understand my friend’s interests better than you can.’
But now, who dares assure me that ? I disbelieve it – one
only knows better, can ever know better – yourself ; and I
will obey yourself. So with me – I know better my own
good than you do yet, I think. When I tell you that good
requires such a step as you speak of, you shall acquiesce ;
I will tell you on the instant, as you, in your own case,
should tell me on the instant. I needed not ask you to
promise, as I foolishly did, that you would not act in the
saddest of ways – professing to see what could never be, and
believe what must be untrue. At the beginning, at the first
day, suppose Mr. Kenyon had said – you prevent his getting
such a place, which brings in so much honour and wealth –
or marrying such a person who would effect the same – you
might have assented then, in your comparative ignorance,
just as you could not have objected had he said, ‘ If you
hold Mr. B. to his engagement to come here on the Derby
Day you will ruin him assuredly, for his heart and soul are on
” the turf ” and his betting-book will go to wreck.’ To this
you could never bring yourself to pretend an assent – it
would be no argument if he went on saying ‘ – Why, A and B
and C go to races and bet on them ‘ – you know I do not
so you know my estimate of honour and wealth and the rest,
apart . . I will not say from the love of you, – but from my
own life as I had traced it years ago, and as it is still traced
for me to its end, – your love coming to help it in every
smallest particular, to supply the undreamed-of omissions
in the plan of it, and remove the obstructions best seen
now that they are removed or removable. There is a calmest
‘ of calm ‘ statements of the good of you to me.
My dearest Ba, you say ‘ let us both think ‘ – think of
of this, you ! Do not for God’s sake introduce an element
of uncertainty and restlessness and dissatisfaction into the
feeling whereon my life lies. To speak for myself, this
matter is concluded, done with, – I am yours, you are mine,
and not to give use to refinements upon refinements as to
what is the being most of all each other’s, which might end
in your loving me best while I was turned a Turk in the
East, or my – you know the inquisition does all for the
pure love of the victim’s soul. Let us have common sense –
and think, in its most ordinary exercise, what would my
life be worth now without you – as I, – putting on your own
crown, accepting your own dearest assurance, – dare believe
your life would be incomplete now without mine – so you
have allowed me to believe. Then our course is plain. If
you dare make the effort, we will do as we propose, if not,
not : I have nothing to do but take your hand . . there is
not one difficulty in my path, – nor in yours on my account,
that is for me. If I change my views, and desire hereafter
what I altogether turn from now, – in what conceivable
respect will your being my wife hinder me ? If I accept the
Embassy which Young England in the person of Milnes has
promised me – you shall offer no impediment. If I rather
aspire to ‘ dine out ‘ here in London, you shall stay at home
and be good-natured. I shall attain to all these delights just
as easily with you as without you, I suppose ; ‘ No, I cannot
marry some other woman and by her means and connec-
tions and connexions ‘ – No – because first and least of all,
I begin by drawing on myself the entire cataract of shame
and disgrace in the mouth of the world, – direct accusation or
rather condemnation, against which not a word can be
urged in mitigation, because all would be the pure simple
truth – I do this, who have been fretfully wincing under the
mere apprehension of catching a mere spatter or two of
gossiping scandal – which a very few words would get rid of,
seeing that, in fact, the falseness of the imputation will be
apparent to everybody with eyes to see – for after all, here I
am, living to my own pleasure and my father and mother’s,
and at liberty to do so for ever, as mortals say. Well, and
so having gone under the whole real cataract instead of the
sprinkling impertinence of the half a dozen sprinklings from
the mop at the nursery- window which an upward look and cry
will stop at once, – so having mended the matter, I commit a
sin which I turn and ask you, should you be ever at peace with
God and yourself if you sate still and suffered me to commit, –
not on account of me and my harm to follow in both worlds,
– but in mere justice to your ‘ neighbour,’ – on whom you
would see inflicted this infamous wrong ?
Dear, dear, dear Ba, I kiss you, kiss my heart out unto
you, – best love, one love ! I see above what I will not think
over again, look over again – but what then ? Can I be
quiet when I hear the least, least motion about my treasure,
and my heart that is there, with it ? Then no more, I
beseech you, love, never one word more of all that !
Whenever I can hear such words calmly, I shall be
fit for agreeing to them, – let all be now. These two
kindest of letters both come in together to my blessing –
my entire blessing ! I was writing the last line when they
came – I will just say now, that the Greenwich affair is put
off till Friday. Do not I understand Miss Bayley ! And
do I understand you, my Ba, when I venture this time –
because of the words and the pain I shall not hide that
they did give me, to feel that, even beyond my kissing
you, you kiss this one time your own R.B.
My mother is much better, and out – she is walking
with my sister. I am very well – in the joy perhaps . . but
really much better – and have been so.
My two hundredth letter from her! I, poor?