Month: June 2018

[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.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I will tell you, dearest : your good is my good, and
your will mine ; if you were convinced that good would
be promoted by our remaining as we are for twenty
years instead of one, I should endeavour to submit in the
end . . after the natural attempts to find out and remove
the imagined obstacle. If, as you seem to do here, you
turn and ask about my good — yours being supposed to be
uninfluenced by what I answer . . then, here is my truth
on that subject, in that view, — my good for myself. Every
day that passes before that day is one the more of hardly
endurable anxiety and irritation, to say the least ; and the
thought of another year’s intervention of hope deferred —
altogether intolerable ! Is there anything I can do in that
year — or that you can do — to forward our object ? Any-
thing impossible to be done sooner ? If not —

You may misunderstand me now at first, dear, dearest
Ba : at first I sate quietly, you thought ; do I live quietly
now, do you think ? Ought I to show the evidence of the
unselfishness I strive, at least, to associate with my love, by
coolly informing you ‘ what would please me.’

But I will not say more, you must know . . and I seem
to know that this question was one of Ba’s old questions . .
a branch-licence, perhaps, of the original inestimable one,
that charter of my liberties, by which I am empowered to
‘ hold myself unengaged, unbound ‘ &c. &c.

Good Heaven ; I would not, — even to save the being
asked such questions, — have played the horseleech that
cries ‘ give, give,’ in Solomon’s phrase — ‘ Do you let me see
you once a week ? Give me a sight once a day ! — May I
dare kiss you ? Let me marry you to-morrow ! ‘

But to the end, the very end, I am yours : God knows
I would not do you harm for worlds — worlds ! I may
easily mistake what is harm or not. I will ask your leave to
speak — at your foot, my Ba : I would not have dared to
take the blessing of kissing your hand, much less your lip,
but that it seemed as if I was leading you into a mistake —
as did happen — and that you might fancy I only felt a
dreamy, abstract passion for a phantom of my own creating
out of your books and letters, and which only took your
name. . . That once understood, the rest you shall give me.
In every event, I am your own.

12 o’ clock. — I thought another letter might arrive. This
must go as we shall set off presently to Mr. Kenyon’s.

I did understand the question about my sister. I mean,
that you felt somewhat so, incredible as it seems — only I
believe all you say, all — to the letter, the iota. Think of
that, whenever I might ask and do not — or speak, and am
silent . . but I am getting back to the question discussed
above, which I ought not to do — understand me, dearest
dearest ! See me, open the eyes, the dear eyes, and see
the love of your R.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Tuesday Night.

My own dearest who are never to offend me! — And,
true, that is — because I have tried, before now, to be offended,
and could not, . . being under a charm. So it is not my
fault but yours, that never you see me angry.

But your head, my head . . is it better, dearest, by this
time, or is it ringing and aching even, under the crashing
throat-peals of Mr. Landor’s laughter ? he laughs, I remember
like an ogre — he laughs as if laughter could kill, and he
knew it, thinking of an enemy. May it do his friends no
harm to-night ! How I think of you, and, in every thought,
love you ! Yes, surely I can love you as if I were worthier !
and better perhaps and if I were better, . . though that may
sound like a riddle. And dear dearest, why do you talk of
your faults so ? It is not at all gracious of you indeed. You
are on a high hill above me where I cannot reach your hand
— (in the myths, be it understood) and you sigh and say
querulously … ‘ By and bye I may have to take a step
down lower.’ Now is that gracious of you, or worthy of
your usual chivalry ? You ought to be glad, on the contrary,
to be so much nearer me — ! in the myths, be it understood !
For out of the myths we are near enough, as near as two
hearts can be,. . I believe. . I trust !

You will not mistake what I said to you this morning
my own beloved — you will not ? My promise to you was to
place the decision in your hands — and my desire is simply
that you should decide according to your judgment and
understanding . . I do not say, your affections, this
time. Now it has struck me that you have a sort of
instinct . .

But no — I shall not write on that subject to-night.
Rather I will tell you what I have been doing to-day to be so
very, very tired. To-day I paid my first visit — not to Mr.
Kenyon but to an older friend than even he — to Miss
Trepsack . . learn that name by heart . . whom we all of
us have called ‘ Treppy ‘ ever since we could speak. Moreover
she has nursed . . tossed up . . held on her knee —
Papa when he was an infant; the dearest friend of his
mother and her equal, I believe, in age — so you may suppose
that she is old now. Yet she can outwalk my sisters, and
except for deafness, which, dear thing, she carefully explains
as ‘a mere nervous affection,’ — is as young as ever. But
she calls us all ‘ her children ‘ . . and I, you are to understand,
am ‘ her child,’ par excellence . . her acknowledged
darling and favourite, — perhaps because tenderly she thinks
it right to carry on the love of her beloved friend, whom
she lived with to the last. Once she saw you in the
drawing-room — and you perhaps saw her. She dines here
every Sunday, and on the other days of course often, and has
the privilege of scolding everybody in the house when she
is out of humour, and of being ‘ coaxed ‘ by slow degrees
back into graciousness. So, she had full right to have me
on my first visit — had she not ? and the goodness and kindness
and funniness of the reception were enough to laugh
and cry over. First . . half way up-stairs, I found a chair,
to sit and rest on. Then the windows were all shut up,
because I liked it so in my room. And then, for occulter
reasons, a feast was spread for Arabel and Flush and me,
which made me groan in the spirit, and Flush wag his tail,
to look upon . . ice cream and cakes, which I was to taste
and taste in despite of all memories of dinner an hour before
. . and cherrybrandy ! ! ! which I had to taste too, . . just
then saved alive by an oath, on Arabel’s part, that I was
‘ better without it.’ Think of dear Treppy ! — of all the
kindness, and fondness ! Almost she kissed me. to pieces
as the ‘ darlingest of children.’ So I am glad I went — and
so is Flush, who highly approves of that class of hospitable
attentions, and wishes it were the way of the world every
day. But I am tired ! so tired ! The visiting is a new
thing.

It is an old one that I should write such long letters. If
I am tired, you might retort with the Ed io anche !— Yet you
will not, because you are supernaturally good ; and as it was
in the beginning, ever shall be, you say !

But will you explain to me some day why you are sorry
for Italy having been mentioned between us, and why you
would rather prefer Nova Zembla ? So as to kill me the faster,
is it ?

Your ∆lian says that the oldest painters used to write
under a tree, when they painted one, ‘ This is a tree.’ So I
must do, I suddenly remember, under my jests . . I being,
it would appear, as bad an artist in jesting, as they were in
painting. Therefore . . see the last line of the last paragraph
. . ‘ This is a jest. ‘

And this is the earnest thing of all . . that I love you as
I can love — and am for ever . . living and dying . .

Your own —

Take care of the head, I entreat ! and say how you
are ! and how your mother is ! I am grieved to hear of that
relapse !

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

You are the most entirely lovable creature I ever
dreamed perhaps might be in a better world — altogether
made up of affectionateness and generosity. I do not much
fear, now, I shall ever offend you — in the miserable way of
giving you direct offence which mortal will and endeavour
could avert (although I speak— by design, on profession —
doubtfully about the happiness of the future in some respects,
yet I dare be quite bold here, and feel sure, as of my life at
this moment, that I shall never do that, . .) — but at present
I almost love even the apprehension that I may be found
out too useless, too unworthy in the end ; let it be said so,
since I feel it so, my own Ba ! I love this, because your
dear love seems fit to cover any imperfection of mine : I
dare say you do not see them, as you say — but you will
perhaps, and then I trust to the love wholly. I want forms,
ways, of expressing my devotion to you — but such as I am,
all is yours.

I will write more to-morrow — the stupid head will not be
quiet to-day — my mother’s is sadly affected too — it is partly
my fault for reading … a state to be proud of ! Don’t
let my frankness do me wrong, however, — the inconvenience
is very little, but I was desired to tell you, was I not ? I
shall go out presently and get well.

Are you out to-day, beloved ? It is very warm ; be careful
like the dearest Ba you are ! And kiss me as I kiss you . .
all except the adoration which is mine indefeasibly.

May God bless you ever for your very own.

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

You understand, dearest beloved, all I could mean about
your sister’s coming here. Both I was afraid of not being
liked enough . . which was one reason, and none the less
reasonable because of your being ‘ infatuated ‘ . . (oh, that
is precisely the word to use, and indeed I never falter to
myself in the applying of it !) and I felt it to be impossible
for me to receive so near a relative of yours, your own only
sister, as I should another and a stranger. There would be
the need in me of being affectionate to your sister ! how
could I not ? and yet, how could I? Everything is at once
too near and too far — it is enough to make me tremble to
think of it — it did, when Mr. Kenyon made his proposition.
I would rather, ten times over, receive Queen Victoria and
all her court do you understand ? can you
misunderstand ? can you pretend to fancy, as you talked yesterday,
that the reluctance came from my having ‘ too many visitors,’
or from any of those common causes. Why, she is your
sister — and that was the cause of the reluctance. You will
not dare to turn it into a wrong against yourself.

Now I am going to ask you a question, dearest of mine,
and you will consider it carefully and examine your own
wishes in respect to it, before I have any answer. In fact
it is not necessary to treat of the subject of it at all at this
moment — we have a great deal of time before us. Still, I
want to know whether, upon reflection, you see it to be wise
and better for me to go to Italy with Miss Bayley, or with
any other person who may be willing to take me, (supposing
I should find such a plan possible) and that you should
follow with Mr. Chorley or alone, . . leaving other thoughts
for another year. Or if I find this scheme, as far as I am
concerned, impossible, shall we gain anything, do you think,
on any side of the question that you can see, by remaining
quietly as we are, you at New Cross, and I here, until next
year’s summer or autumn? Shall we be wiser, more
prudent, for any reason, or in any degree, by such a delay ?

It is the question I ask you — it is no proposal of mine,
understand — nor shall I tell you my own impression about
it. I have told you that I would do as you should decide,
and I will do that and no other. Only on that very account
it is the more necessary that you should decide well, and
according to the best lights of your own judgment and
reason.

I forgot to talk to you yesterday of your Statesmen
which I read with a peculiar sort of pleasure, coming and
going as I see you and miss you. There is no mistaking
your footsteps along the sands.

May God bless you, dear dearest ! Say how your head
is, and love me so much more than Machiavelli, as to spare
it from farther injury. It is not hard to think of you to-day
in this chair, where you were sitting yesterday — do you
think it is ?

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: June 1, 1846]

Sunday.

My own Ba, do you want to turn my head with good
fortune and get at my secrets, that you give me two letters
in one day ? For there was too much life and warmth, I
do think, in these last, to be kept in the Postman’s pouch
as before — he delivered them punctually as he was obliged,
not before his cold newspapers and railway-prospectuses felt
astonished, you may be sure ; so, as I say, do you want to
try my temper and bring out infirmities of mind that may
be latent, as kings used to put robes and crowns on their
favourites to see what they would do then ?

I will try and say as soberly as I can, — if you did not
write to me for a week, I would remember and love you
the same — you are not bound to any kindness, much less to
this extravagance— which yet so blesses me that —

Let me leave what I can never say, and make the few
remarks I ought to have made before. Mrs. Jameson did
tell me something about her intended journey to Italy — but
not in detail as to you. Miss Bayley seems worthy to be
your friend, dearest, — and it is satisfactory, very satisfactory
to find her opinion thus confirming yours, of the good
you will derive from travelling. You know I look on
you with absolute awe, in a sense, — I don’t understand how
such a creature lives and breathes and moves and does not
move into fine air altogether and leave us of the Etty-
manufacture ! I have solemnly set down in the tablets of
my brain that Ba prefers morphine to pork, but can eat so
much of a chicken as Flush refuses — a chapter in my
natural history quite as important as one in Pliny’s (and
∆lian’s too) — ‘ When the Lion is sick, nothing can cure
him but to eat an Ape ! ‘ — though not so important as my
great, greatest record of all — ‘ A cup of coffee will generally
cure Ba’s headaches — ‘

As for Pisa or Florence, or Sorrento, or New Orleans, —
ubi Ba, ibi R.B. ! Florence, however, you describe exactly
. . the English there are intolerable, — even from a distance
you see that. Indeed, I have heard here in England of a
regular system of tactics by which parvenus manage to get
among the privileged classes which at home would keep them
off inexorably. Such go to Florence, make acquaintance
as ‘ travellers,’ keeping the native connexions in the farthest
of back grounds, and after a year or two’s expatriation,
come back and go boldly to rejoice the friends they ‘ passed
those amusing days with ‘ &c.

What you say of Lough is right and true in one point of
view — but I excuse him, knowing the way of life in London
— what alternative has he ? Even when you ask people by
ones and twos, and think to be rational, what do you get
for your pains ? Not long ago somebody invited himself to
dine with me — and got of course the plainest fare, and just
hock and claret, because I like them better than heavier
wines myself, and suppose others may. I had to dine in
the same manner with my friend a week after, and he
judiciously began by iced champagne, forced vegetables &c.
What was that but telling me such was his notion of the
duty of the giver of ‘ just a chop ‘ according to stipulation ?
It is all detestable — a mere pretext ! there is simply a
‘fait accompli’ in every such dinner, — it is an eternal record
(to the seasons’ end) that you witnessed (because you may
let it alone for aught anybody cares, so long as you have
eyes and can see) — such a succession of turbot, and springsoup
and — basta ! I shall go and take tea with Carlyle
before very long. Lough has asked me more than once,
but I never went. I like him when he is not on the subject
of himself or other artists. Of one particular in his liberality
I can bear testimony, he promises at a great rate. Some
three years ago he most preposterously signified his intention
of giving me a cast of one of his busts — me who had
neither claim on him, the slightest, nor much desire for the
bust ; but on this intimation I was bound to express as
many thanks as if the bust had arrived in very plaster, —
which it has not done to this day; so that I was too
prodigal, you see, and instead of thanks ought to have
contented myself with making over to him the whole profits
of ‘ Luria ‘—value received. But, jokes apart, he is a good,
kind man I believe, so don’t mention this absurdity to your
sister — which I am sorry for having mentioned now that
mentioned it is ! So sorrow shall be turned into joy, for I
will only think that the evening is come, and night will
follow, and morning end . . 3 o’clock with all of dearest,
dearest Ba, — with the walkings and drivings to evidence in
her face? My face, thank God, I am let say to my
unutterable joy and pride and love, above all other feelings.

Ever your own.