Month: June 2018

[Postmark: June 17, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Best, . . best, you are, to write to me when you were
tired, and so ! When I am tired and write to you, it is too
apt to be what may trouble you. With you, how different !
In nothing do you show your strength more than in your
divine patience and tenderness towards me, till . . not
being used to it, I grow overwhelmed by it all, and would
give you my life at a word. Why did you love me, my
beloved, when you might have chosen from the most perfect
of all women and each would have loved you with the
perfectest of her nature ? That is my riddle in this world.
I can understand everything else . . I was never stopped
for the meaning of sorrow upon sorrow . . but that you
should love me I do not understand, and I think that I
never shall.

Do I remember? Yes indeed, I remember. How I
recurred and wondered afterwards, though at the moment
it seemed very simple and what was to be met with in our
philosophy every day. But there, you see, there’s the
danger of using mala verba ! The Fates catch them up
and knit them into the web ! Then I remember all the
more (though I should at any rate) through an imprudence
of my own (or a piece of ill-luck rather . . it shall not be
called an imprudence) of which I will tell you. I was
writing to Miss Mitford and of you – we differed about you
often, . . because she did not appreciate you properly, and
was fond of dwelling on the ‘ obscurity ‘ when I talked of
the light, – and I just then writing of you, added in my
headlong unreflecting way that I had had a real letter from
you which said that you loved me – ‘Oh but,’ – I wrote
on, ‘ you are not to mistake this, not to repeat it for of
course, it is simply the purest of philanthropies ‘ . . . some
words to that effect – and if yours was the purest of philan-
thropies, mine was the purest of innocences, as you may
well believe, . . for if I had had the shadow of a foresight,
I should not have fallen into the snare. So vexed I was
afterwards ! Not that she thought anything at the time,
or has referred to it since, or remembers a word now.
Only I was vexed in my innermost heart . . and am . . do
you know? . . that I should have spoken lightly of such
an expression of yours though you meant it lightly too.
Dearest ! It was a disguised angel and I should have
known it by its wings though they did not fly.

But I foresaw nothing, . . looked to you for nothing,
. . nothing can prove better to myself, than my having
mentioned the quaint word at all. For I know, and I hope
you know, how impossible it always has been to me to
choose for a subject of conversation and jest, things which
never should be spoken to friend or sister. But how was
I to foresee ? So the quaintness passed as quaintness with
me. And never from that time (you grew sacred too soon !),
never again from that moment, did I mention you to Miss
Mitford – oh yes, I did, when she talked of introducing
Mr. Chorley, and when I replied that, being a woman, I
would have my wilful way, and that my wilful way was to
see you instead. But except then . . and when I sent her
Mr. Landor’s verses on you . . not a word have I spoken
. . except in bare response. She thinks perhaps that my
old fervour about you has sunk into the socket – she
suspects nothing – in fact she does not understand what love
is . . and I never should think of asking her for sympathy.
She is one of the Black Stones, which, when I climb up
towards my Singing Tree and Golden Water, will howl
behind me and call names.

You had my second letter to-day, speaking of Landor,
and of Mr. Kenyon’s visit. At half-past six came Miss
Bayley, talking exceeding kindnesses of Italy, and entreating
me to use her . . to let her go with me and take care of me
and do me all manner of good. What kindness, really, in a
woman whom I have not seen six times in all ! I am very
grateful to her. She held my hands, and told me to write
to her if ever I had need of her – she would come at a
moment, go for a year ! – she would do anything for me I
desired ! And this woman to believe of herself that she
has no soul ! Help me to thank her in your thoughts of
her ! She said, by the way, that Mrs. Jameson had talked
to her of wishing to take me, . . but she thought (Miss
Bayley thought) that she (Mrs. Jameson) had too many
objects and too much vivacity . . it would not do so well,
she thought. In reply – I could just thank her, and scarcely
could do that, . . only I am sure she saw and felt that I
was grateful to her aright, let the words come ever so
wrong. To-morrow she leaves London for an indefinite time.

She told me too that a friend of hers, calling on Mrs.
Jameson, had found her on the point of coming to me
to-day, to drive out . . but she suffered from toothache and
was going to Cartwright’s first . . . and last, I suppose. I
dare say he put her to torture, to be classified with ‘ the
thumbscrew and the gadge’ . . some disabling torture,
for I have not seen her at all. So as at half-past seven
Henrietta was going out to dinner, Lizzie and I and Flush
took our places by her in the carriage, and went to Hyde
Park . . drove close by the Serpentine, and saw by the
ruffling of the water that there was a breath of wind more
than we felt. The shadows were gathering in quite fast,
shade upon shade ; and at last the silvery water seemed to
hold all the light left, as on the flat of a hand. Very much
I liked and enjoyed it. And, as we came home, the gas
was in the shops . . another strange sight for me – and we
all liked everything. Flush had his head out of the window
the whole way . . except when he saw a long whip, . . or
had a frightful vision at the water of somebody washing a
little dog . . which made him draw back into the carriage
with dilated eyes and quivering ears, and set about licking
my hands, for an ‘ Ora pro nobis.’ And Lizzie confided to
me, that, when she is ‘ grown up,’ she never will go out to
dinners like Henrietta, but drive in the park like Ba, instead
. . unless she can improve upon both, and live in a cottage
covered with roses, in the country. I, in the meantime,
between my companions, thought of neither of them more
than was necessary, but of somebody whom I had been
teazing perhaps . . dearest, was it so, indeed ? . . but I
avenge you by teazing myself back again ! A long rambling
letter, with nothing in it ! ‘ Passages, that lead to nothing ‘
and staircases, too ! May I be loved nevertheless, as
usual ? and forgiven for my ‘ secret faults ? ‘ You are the
whole world to me and the stars besides !

And I am your very own

BA.

[Postmark: June 17, 1846]

Tuesday. 6 o’clock.

Beloved, this weather, which makes Flush cross, perhaps
helped to make me depressed this morning. I had not
slept well, and ought not to have written to you till the
effect of it had gone off. Now I feel more as if I had been
with you yesterday. Ah well ! I don’t, can’t remember
what I wrote . . and some of it was wise . . for I ought
not to have promised that, . . and you must loose me, that
I may be loosed in Heaven, from the bands of it. Only
you are not to go to Greenwich (you go to Greenwich
to-morrow, do you not ?) thinking that I wanted to teaze you.
There is just one meaning to all my words, let them be sad
or gay . . and it is, that your happiness is precious. For
myself, if we were to part now and for ever, I should still owe
you the only happiness of my life. But nobody is talking of
parting, you know – I am yours, and cannot be put away from
you except by your own hand. Which is decided ! What
I ask of you, is to spare me the pang of causing you to
suffer on my account, . . and you may suffer sometimes, I
fear, through all your affection for me, . . and indirectly, if
not directly.

Two visitors I have had to-day – dear Mr. Kenyon, and
Lady Margaret Cocks. She is going to Italy – (oh, of
course !) to Rome. He came to tell me that the books
came to me from Landor himself, and that I must write
to him to thank him properly. Mrs. Jameson I do not see,
nor Miss Bayley.

How hot it will be for you to-morrow ! Try to be
amused and not too tired, dearest beloved, and tell me in
your letters how the head is.

While the heart beats (mine !) I am your own.

I am going in the carriage presently and shall write
again to-night. Won’t that be three times in a day according
to order?

[Postmark: June 16, 1846]

Tuesday.

I have just returned from Town – some twelve miles at
least I must have walked in this extreme heat . . so what
has become of the headache ? And now I sit down to write
what Ba will read . . what has become of the heat and
fatigue ? In this sense Ba ‘ looks cool at me ! ‘

I shall just write that I love, and love you, and love you
again – my own Ba – just this, lest you learn the comfort of
a respite from hearing what you are doomed to hear, with
variations, all the days of your life. But not much more
than this shall I write, because the love lies still in me, and
deep, as water does, – cannot run forth in rivulets and sparkle,
this hot weather ; but then how I love her when I can only
say so, – how I feel her . . as in an old opera’s one line that
stays in my recollection the tropical sun is described on the
ocean – ‘fervid on the glittering flood’ – so she lies on
me.

See the pure nonsense, my own Ba, and laugh at it,
but not at what lies at bottom of it, because that is true as
truth, true as Ba’s self in its way.

I called on Forster this morning : he says Landor is in
high delight at the congratulatory letters he has received –
so you must write, dearest, and add the queen-rose to his
garland. F– talks about some 500 copies or did he
say 300 ? being sold already . . so there is hope for
Landor’s lovers.

So I should have written once . . but like Virgil’s
shepherd . . ‘ know I now what love is ! ‘ – Do you re-
member that the first word I ever wrote to you was ‘ I love
you, dear Miss Barrett ? ‘ It was so, – could not but be so –
and I always loved you, as I shall always.

Tell me all you can about your dearest self, my own
love. I am so happy in you, in your perfect goodness and
truth, – in all of you.

Be careful this fatiguing weather . . the evenings and
mornings are the only working time of the day, as in the
beginning of things. But all day long is rest-time to love
you, dear, and kiss you, as now – kisses

Your own.

[Postmark: June 16, 1846]

Tuesday.

As to ‘ practical sense ‘ I never saw, I confess, much to
praise you for – but you began by making a great profession
of it, please to remember – and, otherwise, you certainly
ought to know more of the world and the wisdom thereof
than I, or you are dull, dearest mine, and one might as well
call the sun so on this burning dazzling morning, when
everything is at a white heat. Then for the ‘ calmness ‘
…. I did not call your eyes ‘ green ‘ after all . . nor did
I mean what you would force on me for a meaning in the
other way : you pretend to misunderstand? Eyes, at
least, that had the mastery with me from the beginning !
and it was so long, so long (as you observed yourself), that
I could not lift up mine against them they were the mystic
crystal walls, so long !

After you were gone yesterday and I had done with the
roses (exquisite roses !) and had my coffee, I saw my uncle
Hedley who had been inquiring about me, said my sisters,
all the afternoon, . . for it was he who came when we heard
the greetings on the stairs – and he told me that his wife and
daughter were to be in London early in July . . so that we
shall have the whole squadron sooner than we thought –
drawn up like a very squadron . . my other aunt, Miss
Clarke, coming at the same time, and my cousin with her,
Arlette Butler. But only those two will be in the house
here, and they will not be for very long, nor will they be
much in the way, I hope.

Shall I tell you ? I repented yesterday . . I repented
last night . . I repent to-day, having made the promise you
asked of me. I could scarcely sleep at all last night,
through thinking that I ought not to have made it. Be
generous, and free me from that promise. To be true to
you in the real right sense, I need no promises at all and if
an argument were addressed to me in order to separate us,
I should see through the piteous ingenuity of it, I think,
whatever ground it took, and admit no judgment and
authority over your life to be higher than your own. But I
have misgivings about that promise, because I can conceive
of circumstances . . Loose me from my promise, and let
me be grateful to you, my beloved, in all things and ways,
and hold you to be generous in the least as in the greatest.
What I asked of you, was as different as our positions are
– different beyond what you see or can see. No third
person can see, no second person can see . . what my
position is and has been . . I do not enter on it here.
But there is just and only one way in which I may be in-
jured by you, . . and that is, in being allowed to injure you
– so remember, remember, . . to the last available moment.

Then . . I have lived so in a dream for very long ! –
and everything, all undertakings, all movements, seem easy
in dream-life. The sense of this has lately startled me. To
waken up suddenly and find that I have wronged you –
what more misery ? – and I feel already that I am bringing
you into a position which will by some or many be
accounted unworthy of you. Well – we will not talk of it –
not now ! there is time for the grave consideration which
must be. Let us both think.

And may God bless you, ever dearest ! You are the
best and most generous of all in the world ! Whatever my
mistake may be, it is not concerning that. Also I love you,
love you. Premature things I say sometimes, which are
foolish always. Tell me how you are . . tell me how your
mother is – but speak of your own head . . tam chari . .
particularly. Overcoming, the heat is – and I do hope that
Mrs. Jameson won’t come after all.

Your
BA.

[Postmark: June 15, 1846]

Sunday.

May I venture to speak to dearest Ba as if I had seen
her or heard from her since I wrote yesterday, – and that
seeing or that hearing had brought the usual comfort and
assurance, – and forgiveness when needed, but delight at all
times ? Do you forgive me indeed, Ba ?

I shall know to-morrow – which ‘ to-morrow ‘ is your to-
day. I am soon to be with you to-day. I trust there is
occasion to exercise fancy and say – ‘ When we meet on your
return from Tunbridge a month hence,’ or two, or three . .
to go on fancying ! What should I do, – be able to do ?
and if I understood you rightly the letter-communication
would be hindered, if not stopped altogether. Thus is one
the sport of one’s own wishes. Fine weather is desired . .
fine enough to drive people out of town into the country !

As it is, I have been sufficiently punished for that foolish
letter, which has lost me the last two or three days of your
life and deeds, my Ba. You went to Mr. Kenyon’s – may
have gone elsewhere (and gathered roses I did not deserve
to receive) – but I do not know, and shall not recover my
loss not ever . . because if you tell me now, you exclude
something new you would say otherwise . . if you write it on
Tuesday, what becomes of Tuesday’s own stock of matter
for chronicling?

Well, the proper word in my mouth is – I am sorry to
the heart, and will try never to offend so again. How you
wrote to me, also ! How you rise above yourself while I
get no nearer where you were first of all, no nearer than
ever ! But so it should be ! so may it ever be !

I believe the fault comes from a too-sweet sense of the
freedom of being true with you, telling you all, hiding
nothing. Carlyle was saying in his fine way, he understood
why the Romans confined acting to their slaves . . it was
no employment for a free man to amuse people . . be bound
to do that, and if other faculties interposed, tending to
other results on an audience than amusement, be bidden
suppress them accordingly . . and so, he thought, it would
be one day with our amusers, writers of fun, concocters of
comic pieces. I feel it delicious to be free when most
bound to you, Ba, – to be able to love on in all the liberty
of the implied subjection . . so I am angry to you, despond-
ing sometimes to you, as well as joyous and hopeful – well,
well, I love, at any rate, do love you with heart and soul,
my Ba, – ever shall love you, dearest above all dearness :
God bless you !

[Postmark: June 15, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

I wrote last night when my head was still struggling and
swimming between two tides of impressions received from
the excitement and fatigue of the day. Mr. Kenyon (dear
Mr. Kenyon in his exquisite kindness !) took me to see the
strange new sight (to me !) of the Great Western . . the
train coming in : and we left the carriage and had chairs –
and the rush of the people and the earth-thunder of the
engine almost overcame me . . not being used to such
sights and sounds in this room, remember ! ! and after-
wards I read and answered your letter with a whirling head.
I cannot be sure how I answered it, my head whirled so. I
only hope . . hope . . hope . . that it did not seem un-
worthy of your goodness and generosity – for that would
be unworthy of my perception of them and reverence for
them, besides. You do not, in particular, I do hope, mis-
understand my reasons for refusing to improve what you
call my ‘ advantages,’ by turning them into disadvantages
for you. Really it struck me at the moment and strikes me
new every time I think of it, that it would be monstrous in
me to stop at such an idea long enough to examine it. To
do such a thing would complete the ‘ advantages ‘ of my
alliance – if that is a desire of yours. And if I were to be
ill afterwards, there would be the crown of the crown. Now
ask yourself if I ought –

I cannot conceive of the possibility of a ‘ calumny ‘ on
such a pretext – there seems no room for it. You will how-
ever have it in your power hereafter, without injury to either
of us, to do yourself full justice in this particular – only
neither now nor hereafter shall I consent to let in sordid
withering cares with your life. God has not made it so
and it shall not be so by an act of mine.

And after all, shall we be so much . . so much too
rich ? do you fancy that Miss Kilmansegg is made of brass
compared to me ? It is not so bad, be very sure. If Arabel
should not offend Papa, she will be richer hereafter than we
are . . yet not rich even so. Why are you fanciful in that
way ? People are more likely to say that I have taken you
in. The sign of the Red Dragon ! as you suggested once
yourself !

I could make you laugh, if it were not too hot to laugh,
with telling you how I really do not know what my ‘ advan-
tages ‘ are – specifically so many, and so many. I am not
‘ allowed ‘ to spend what I might – but the motive is of
course a kind one – there is no mistaking that. Poor
Papa ! He attends just to those pecuniary interests which
no one cares for, with a scrupulous attention. Nearly two
hundred a year of ship shares I never touch. Then there is
the interest of six thousand pounds (not less at any rate) in
the funds – and I referred to the principal of that, when I
said yesterday, that when we had ceased to need it, it might
return to my family, since it came from them, if you chose.
But this is all air – and nothing shall be said of it now – and
whatever may be said hereafter, shall come from you, and be
your word rather than mine. So I beseech you, by your
affection for me, to speak no more of this hateful subject,
which I have entered for a moment lest you should exaggerate
to yourself and mistake me for the least in the world of an
heiress. As to Lord Monteagle, we can do without him, I
think – and unless he would give us a house to keep, or
something of that sort, at Sorrento or Ravenna, I do not
exactly see what he can do for us. To make an agreement
with a periodical, would be more a possibility perhaps but
it is not a necessity – there is no sort of need, in fact and
why should you be tormented ‘in the multitude of the
thoughts within you,’ utterly in vain ?

As to your family . . I understand your natural desire
of giving your confidence at the fullest to your father and
mother, who deserve and claim it . . I understand that you
should speak and listen to them, and cross no wish of theirs,
and in nothing displease and pain them. But I do not
understand the argument by which you involve the question
with other questions . . when you say, for instance, that I
‘ ought not to countenance the preposterousness and
tyranny.’ How do I seem to countenance what I revolt
from ? Do you mean that we ought to do what we are
about, openly ? It is the only meaning I can attach to your
words. Well – If you choose it to be so, knowing what
I have told you, let it be so. I can however, as I
said yesterday, answer only for my will and mind, and
not for my strength and body – and if the end should be
different from the end you looked for, you will not blame
me, being just, . . any more than I shall blame myself.
May God bless you, ever dearest !

I am your own as ever.

[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.

[Postmark: June 12, 1846]

Friday.

When I am close to you, in your very room, I see through
your eyes and feel what you feel but after, the sight widens
with the circle of outside things I cannot fear for a moment
what seemed redoubtable enough yesterday – nor do I
believe that there will be two opinions anywhere in the
world as to your perfect right to do as you please under the
present circumstances. People are not quite so tolerant to
other people’s preposterousness, and that which yourself
tell me exceeds anything I ever heard of or imagined – but,
dearest, on twice thinking, one surely ought not to coun-
tenance it as you propose – why should not my father and
mother know ? What possible harm can follow from their
knowing ? Why should I wound them to the very soul and
for ever, by as gratuitous a piece of unkindness as if, – no, –
there is no comparison will do ! Because, since I was a
child I never looked for the least or greatest thing within
the compass of their means to give, but given it was, nor
for liberty but it was conceded, nor confidence but it was
bestowed. I dare say they would break their hearts at such
an end of all. For in any case they will take my feeling
for their own with implicit trust and if I brought them a
beggar, or a famous actress even, they would believe in her
because of me, – if a Duchess or Miss Hudson, or Lady
Selina Huntingdon rediviva . . they would do just the same,
sorrow to say ! As to any harm or blame that can attach
itself to them, it is too absurd to think of ! What earthly
control can they have over me ? They live here, – I go my
own way, being of age and capability. How can they
interfere ?

And then, blame for what, in either God’s or the devil’s
name ? I believe you to be the one woman in the world I
am able to marry because able to love. I wish, on some
accounts, I had foreseen the contingency of such an one’s
crossing my path in this life – but I did not, and on all
ordinary grounds preferred being free and poor, accordingly.
All is altered now. Does anybody doubt that I can by
application in proper quarters obtain quite enough to support
us both in return for no extraordinary expenditure of such
faculties as I have ? If it is to be doubted, I have been
greatly misinformed, that is all. Or, setting all friends and
their proposals and the rest of the hatefulness aside – I
should say that so simple a procedure as writing to anybody
. . Lord Monteagle, for instance, who reads and likes my
works, as he said at Moxon’s two days ago on calling there
for a copy to give away . . surely to write to him, ‘ When you
are minister next month, as is expected, will you give me for
my utmost services about as much as you give Tennyson for
nothing ? ‘ – this would be rational and as easy as all ration-
ality. Let me do so, and at once, my own Ba ! And do you,
like the unutterably noble creature I know you, transfer
your own advantages to your brothers or sisters . . making
if you please a proper reservation in the case of my own
exertions failing, as failure comes everywhere. So shall
the one possible occasion of calumny be removed and all
other charges go for the simple absurdities they will be. I
am entirely in earnest about this, and indeed had thought
for a moment of putting my own share of the project into
immediate execution – but on consideration, – no ! So I
will live and so die with you. I will not be poorly endeavour-
ing to startle you with unforeseen generosities, catch you in
pretty pitfalls of magnanimities, be always surprising you, or
trying to do it. No, I resolve to do my best, through you –
by your counsel, with your help, under your eye . . the
most strenuous endeavour will only approximate to an
achievement of that, – and to suppose a superfluousness of
devotion to you (as all these surprises do) would be
miserably foolish. So, dear, dear Ba, understand and
advise me. I took up the paper with ordinary feelings . .
but the absurdity and tyranny suddenly flashed upon me . .
it must not be borne – indeed its only safety in this instance
is in its impotency. I am not without fear of some things
in this world – but the ‘ wrath of men,’ all the men living
put together, I fear as I fear the fly I have just put out of
the window ; but I fear God – and am ready, he knows, to
die this moment in taking his part against any piece of in-
justice and oppression, so I aspire to die !

See this long letter, and all about a tiny one, a plain
palpable commonplace matter about which you agree with
me, you the dear quiet Ba of my heart, with me that make
all this unnecessary fuss ! See what is behind all the
‘ bated breath and whispered humbleness ? ‘ – but it is right,
after all, to revolt against such monstrous tyranny. And I
ought not, I feel, to have forgotten the feelings of my father
and mother as I did – because I know as certainly as I
know anything that if I could bring myself to ask them to
give up everything in the world ; they would do it and
cheerfully.

So see, and forgive your own

R.

[Postmark: June 12, 1846]

Friday Morning.

I must write very little to-day, dearest, because Mr.
Kenyon, as a note from him just tells me, comes at half
past two for me, and in the meantime I am expecting a visit
from my uncle Hedley, who arrived yesterday while we were
together. Scarcely could Henrietta keep him, she says,
from coming up-stairs ‘ to see Ba ! ‘ We just escaped,
therefore. I have been thinking that having the barbarians
down on us may be at least a means of preserving us from
going into the wilderness ourselves . . myself . . if I were
taken away, as I told you, to Tunbridge, Dover, or other
provinces of Siberia. How should I bear, do you think, to
be taken away from you ? Very badly ! – though you will
not hear of my being able to love you as I ought – when
that is precisely the only thing I can do, it seems to me, at
all worthily of you.

Ora pro me in Mr. Kenyon’s carriage to-day – I am getting
so nervous and frightened ! I shall feel all the while as if
set on a vane on the top of St. Paul’s . . can you fancy the
feeling? I do wish I were safe at home again, reading
your letter . . which will come to-night will . . shall . . must
. . according to the letter and spirit of the Law.

You made the proposal to me about New Cross, yester-
day, out of consideration and kindness to me ! I understand
it so, thanking you. For the rest, I need not, I am certain,
assure you that it would be the greatest pain to me at any
time, to be wanting in even the forms of respect and affec-
tion towards your family – and that I would not, from a
mere motive of shyness, hazard a fault against them – you
will believe this of me. But the usual worldly form (if the
world is to give the measure) would be against my paying
such a visit – and under ordinary circumstances it never is
paid – not so. Therefore the not paying it is not an omis-
sion of an ordinary form of attention – that is what I mean to
say. And to keep all dear to you quite safe and away from
all splashing of the mud which we cannot ourselves hope to
escape, is the great object, – it does seem to me. Your
father and mother would be blamed (in this house, I know,
if not in others) for not apprizing my father of what they
knew. As it is, there is evil enough – though there is a
way of escaping that evil.

As it is. – Now I do beseech you to consider well
whether you will not have too much pain in finding that
they suffer it (after every precaution taken) . . to render all
this which we are about, wise and advisable. They will
suffer, to hear you spoken of as we both shall be spoken of
. . be perfectly sure ! They will suffer, to have to part with
you so – and the circumstances, perhaps, will not help to
give them confidence in the stranger, who presumes so to
enter their family. I ask you not to answer this ! – only, to
think of it in time, lest you should come to think of it too
late. Put it between the leaves of Machiavel, – that at need
you may confute yourself as well as M. Thiers.

Beloved, say how you are and how your mother is.
Here I must end to be ready for dear Mr. Kenyon, and
casualties of uncles &c. Think of me, love me – my heart
is full of you.

I am your BA.