Day: June 27, 2018

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Saturday.

I said I would answer your letter to-day, my beloved,
but how shall I say more than I have said and you know ?
Do you not know, you who will not will ‘ over ‘ me, that I
cannot will against you, and that if you set yourself seriously
to take September for October, and August for September,
it is all at an end with me and the calendar ? Still, seriously
. . there is time for deciding, is there not ? . . . even if I
grant to you, which I do at once, that the road does not grow
smoother for us by prolonged delays. The single advantage
perhaps of delay is, that in the summer I get stronger every
week and fitter to travel – and then, it never was thought of
before (that I have heard) to precede September so. Last
year, was I not ordered to leave England in October, and
permitted to leave it in November ? Yet I agree, November
and perhaps October might be late – might be running a
risk through lingering . . in our case ; and you will believe
me when I say I should be loth to run the risk of being forced
to the further delay of a year – the position being scarcely
tenable. Now for September, it generally passes for a hot
month – it ripens the peaches – it is the figtime in Italy.
Well – nobody decides for September nevertheless. The
end of August is nearer – and at any rate we can consider,
and observe the signs of the heavens and earth in the mean-
while – there is so much to think of first ; and the end, re-
member, is only too frightfully easy. Also you shall not
have it on your conscience to have killed me, let ever so
much snow fall in September. If the sea should be frozen
over, almost we might go by the land – might we not ? and
apart from fabulous ports, there are the rivers – the Seine,
the Soane, the Rhone – which might be cheaper than the
sea and the steamers ; and would, I almost should fancy.
These are things among the multitude, to think of, and you
shall think of them, dearest, in your wisdom. Oh – there is
time – full time.

No – there is not, in a sense. I wanted to write so much
more, so much – and I went out to walk first, and, on re-
turning, met Mr. Kenyon, who came up-stairs with me.

Now it is too late to add a word.

May God bless you. I shall see you on Monday. I am
better for Highgate – I walked longer to-day than usual.
How strong you make me, you who make me happy !

I am your own.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Saturday.

Your dear gentle laugh, as I seem to hear it, makes all
well again for the moment undoubtedly. I cannot help
trusting you implicitly . . so whenever I seem able to reason
a little, and set you reasoning for me, ought I not to try, – and
then give up, and sink my head over you . . dearest ! In
fact, I was a little frightened by what I heard and saw . .
for you, if you please, began by saying ‘ it was too cold to
go out ‘ – and you were paler, I thought. The news of High-
gate and the green leaves are re-assuring indeed – but my
brown leaves might be sent to you by myriads for all that,
for all the light laugh, – all roses fast going, lilies going . .
autumnal hollyhocks in full blow . . and now to count
three months over before summer is to end ! These rains
may do something, or hinder somewhat – and certainly our
fire was left alone early yesterday morning. Well, I have
not been presumptuous except … ah, the exception !

How could I presume, for one thing, to hope for last
evening’s letter . . a pure piece of kindness in you, Ba !
And all your kindness is pure, entire, pearl-like for round-
ness and completeness . . there is no one rough side as
when a crystal is broken off and given : do you think it no
good augury of our after life in what must be called, I sup-
pose, another relation, – that this has been so perfect . . to
me . . this last year, let me only say ? In this relation there
are as many ‘ écueils ‘ as in the other, – as many, though of a
different nature, lovers quarrel on as various grounds as the
wedded – and though with the hue and softness of love the
most energetic words and deeds may change their character;
yet one might write savage sentences in Chinese celestial-
blue ink, which after a powdering with gold-dust should
look prettier than the truest blessing in ordinary black.
But you have been PERFECT to me hitherto – perfect ! And
of course only to you is the praise . . for I have to be en-
tirely confided in by you, seeing that you cannot keep an
eye on me after I leave your room . . whereas, – not I, but a
gross, stupid fool who conceived of no liberty but that of the
body, nor that the soul may be far more unfaithful – such
an one might exult in the notion of the closed door and the
excluded world of rivals.

Bless you, darling – Monday is not very far off now !
And I am to hear again. I am much better, – my mother
much better too. I saw my French friend and talked and
heard him talk. Yesterday, the whole day, (after the fire
went out) was given to a cousin of mine, a girl, just married,
and here from Paris with her husband – these two had to be
amused somehow. Ever your very own – R.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Friday Evening.

Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late
and I am very tired ; having . . while you were sitting by
the fire . . been, for my part, driving to Highgate . . now
think of that ! Also it has done me good, I think, and
I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired
certainly.

Your letter shall be answered to-morrow – and here is a
green answer to your leaves ! – what leaves ? whence and
how ? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the
hedge, snatching at it from the carriage- window. The roses
were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of
reach ; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they
do not look for snow-storms in September. No ! it was not
that, they said. I am belying what they said.

I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green
lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever
there, I wonder ?

Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘ im-
patient,’ inconsiderate – and as for selfishness, I have been
uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish.
I am not likely to mistake . . to wrench the wrong way . .
any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word,
when I said that you should decide everything. Could I
hold out for November, or October, or for September even,
if you choose against ? Indeed I could not. We – you will
think – I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not
– I am too entirely yours.

And so good-night – dearest beloved ! Because you
have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and
earth and ocean to become impassable ? Ah well ! we shall
see ! But you shall not see that I deceive you –

I am your very own

Ba.

Dear brown leaves ! where did they come from, besides
from you ?

Not a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could
have proved to you if you had been with me ! Yet it is a
detestable climate, this English climate, let us all confess.
Say how your head is.