Month: July 2018

[Postmark: July 31, 1846]

Friday.

Dearest Ba, the love was as you admit, beneath all the
foolish words — I will lay your pardon to my heart with the
other blessings. All this missing of instant understanding
— (for it does not amount to misunderstanding) — comes of
letters, and our being divided. In my anxiety about a
point, I go too much on the other side from mere earnest-
ness, — as if the written words had need to make up in force
what they want in sound and promptness — and assuredly if
I had received such an impression directly from your
suggestion (since not a ‘ desire, ‘ — you dear, dear Ba ! )
I should have begun at once to ask and argue . . whereas, it
was only to the memory of what you said, an after impression,
that I wrote in answer. Well, I will certainly ‘ love you till
Saturday, — and even after. ‘

Did you indeed go to the Abbey ? How right to go !
Every such expedition is the removal of a world of
apprehension. And why not accept Mrs. Jameson’s offer now,
stipulating for privacy, and go and see the Museum, — the
Marbles? And the National Gallery, and whatever you
would wish to see. At Pisa, Ba, the Cathedral will be
ours, wholly — divinely beautiful it is — more impressive
in itself than the Florence Duomo — and then the green grass
round, over the pavement it hides.

And considerably more impressive than the party at
Mrs. Milner Gibson’s last night — whereof I made one through
a sudden goodnatured invitation which only came yesterday —
so I went ‘ for reasons. ‘ Chorley was there, looking
very tired as he said he was. I left very early, having
accomplished my purpose.

You know you are right, and that I knew you to be right
about Mr. Kenyon — no confidence shall I make to him, be
assured — but in the case of a direct application, with all
those kind apologies in case his suspicion should be wrongly
excited, what should I say ? — to Mr. Kenyon, with his
kindness and its right, mind — not to any other inquirer —
think of the facilities during the week among the Quantock
Hills! But no matter, — nothing but your own real,
unmistakable consent, divides us — I believe nothing till
that comes. The Havre voyage was of course merely a fact
noted — all courses, ways, routes are entirely the same to me.

Thank you, dearest — I am very much better, well,
indeed — so said my doctor who came last evening to see
my father, whose eye is a little inflamed — so shall Ba see,
but not take the trouble to say, when I rejoice in her
presence to-morrow. Dearest, I love you with my whole
heart and soul — may God bless you —

[Postmark: July 31, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

Well, then, — it wasn’t, after all, so extravagant of me to
make the proposition about ‘ four months ? ‘ How innocent
people may be treated like guilty ones, through no mistake
even, of theirs !

But I hold to my first impression about Mr. Kenyon,
whatever your second ones may be. I know him entirely,
and his views of life, and his terrors of responsibility . .
his irresolution, his apprehensiveness. He never would ‘ shake
his head ‘ good-naturedly, . . until he could do nothing else.
Just in proportion to the affection he bears each of us,
would he labour to drive us apart. And by the means you
describe ! And we who can foresee and analyze those
means from this distance, would not, either of us, resist
the actual process ! There . . do not suffer yourself, ever
dearest, to be drawn into any degree of confidence there !
It would end miserably, I know . . see . . am confidently
sure. Let him, on the contrary, see the thing done, before
he sees it at all, and then he will see the best of it . . the
good in it . . then we shall stand on the sunshiny side of
his philosophy and have all the benefit of that, instead of
having to endure, as we should now, the darkness of his
irresolution and the weight of his over-caution. Observe of
dear Mr. Kenyon, that, generous and noble as he is, he fears
like a mere man of the world. Moreover he might find very
rational cause for fearing, in a distant view of this . .
‘ most rational ‘ of marriages ! — oh, but I am wrong in my
quotation ! — this only rational marriage that ever was heard
of ! — ! ! — it is so, I think.

Where did you guess that I was to-day ? In Westminster Abbey!
But we were there at the wrong hour,
as the service was near to begin . . and I was so frightened
of the organ, that I hurried and besought my companions
out of the door after a moment or two. Frightened of the
organ ! — yes, just exactly that — and you may laugh a little
as they did. Through being so disused to music, it affects
me quite absurdly. Again the other day, in the drawing
room, because my cousin sang a song from the ‘ Puritani, ‘
of no such great melancholy, I had to go away to finish my
sobbing by myself. Which is all foolish and absurd, I
know — but people cannot help their nerves — and I was
ready to cry to-day, only to think of the organ, without
hearing it — I, who do not cry easily, either ! and all
Arabel’s jests about how I was sure of my life even if I
should hear one note, . . did not reassure me in the least.
We walked within the chapel . . merely within . . and
looked up and looked down ! How grand — how solemn !
Time itself seemed turned to stone there ! Then we stood
where the poets were laid — oh, it is very fine — it is
better than Laureateships and pensions. Do you remember what
is written on Spenser’s monument — ‘ Here lyeth, in
expectation of the second coming of Jesus Christ, . . Edmond
Spenser, having given proof of his divine spirit in his poems ‘
— something to that effect ; and it struck me as being
earnest and beautiful, and as if the writer believed in him.
We should not dare, nowadays, to put such words on a
poet’s monument. We should say . . the author of such
a book . . at most ! Michael Drayton’s inscription has
crept back into the brown heart of the stone . . all but the
name and a date, which somebody has renewed with black
lines . . black as ink.

Dearest, it will not do at all . . the going at eight
o’clock in the morning. I could not leave this house — it
would not be possible. And then, why should we wish even,
for that long passage to no end ; Southampton or Brighton
being, each of them, accessible and unobjectionable. As
for the expense, it is nearly equal, by railway or sea.

For Mrs. Jameson, I mentioned her because you did
once, and because her being so kind reminded me of it. I
thought perhaps you might like her being with us (how
should I know ? ), in which case . . Well — but you do not
wish it, . . and indeed I do not. Therefore she shall go
by herself . . dear Mrs. Jameson . . I will however write
to her, which I have not done yet. It is not so easy as
you think, perhaps, to write at once so much and so little.

Why not tell me how you are, Robert ? When you do
not, I fancy that you are not well ! Say how you are,
and love me till Saturday — and even afterwards.

Your very own BA.

As to forgiveness — ought I to have been angry when I
was not ? All I felt in that letter, was, that you loved me
— and as to your pretending to think that it was ‘ show and
acting ‘ on my part, I knew you did not really, and
could not : — but at any rate I was the farthest possible
from being angry — and the very farthest possible,
peradventure !

[Postmark: July 30, 1846]

Thursday.

Now you are my very own best, sweetest, dearest Ba —
Do you think after such a letter as mine any amount of
confidence in my own intentions, or of the reasonableness
of being earnest on such a subject, can avail to save me
from mortal misgivings ? I should not have said those
words, certainly I should not — but you forgive them and
me, do you not ?

It was through seeing the peril about Mr. Kenyon just as
you see it ; but do not suppose I could break my promise,
— to every point urged after that sad irresistible fashion,
my answer would be, — would in the end amount to, — ‘
provided she consents. ‘ And then he would return to you,
put away altogether the arguments just used to me, take up
in their stead the corresponding ones founded on my
interests as he would profess to understand them, and the
result would be that a similar answer would be obtained
from you, — which he would call your ‘ consent.’ This is
not what I fear now, — oh, no ! — but the fancy that I was
frightened by, yesterday, while I wrote. Now, I seem to
have my powers about me, and could get to the truth and
hold by it through every difficulty, — and if I, how much
more you !

Then, this is expecting the worst of Mr. Kenyon, — and
the best is at least as likely. In any case, one may be sure
of cautions and warnings and a wise, good, shaking of the
head — he is none of the ardent anticipators of exuberant
happiness from any scheme begun and ended here below.
But after that, — why, ours is the only thoroughly rational
match that ever came under my notice, and he is too clever
not to see some justification in it. At all events, he will
say ‘ we shall see ! ‘ — whether he sigh or smile in the saying
— and if he waits, he will see.

And we will ‘ decide ‘ on nothing, being sure of the one
decision — I mean, that, if the summer be long, and likely to
lead in as fine an Autumn, and if no new obstacles arise,
— September shall go as it comes, and October too, if your
convenience is attained thereby in the least degree, — after-
ward, you will be all my own, all your days and hours
and minutes. I forgot, by the way, to reply to your
question concerning Mrs. J. — if there is good to you, decided
or even not impossible good — of course, let her be with us
if she will, otherwise, oh let us be alone, Ba ! I find by
the first map, that from Nevers the Loire proceeds S.E. till
the Arroux joins it, and that just below it communicates
with the Canal du Centre, which runs N.E. from Paray to
Chagny and thence to Chalons sur Saone. It is a roundabout
way, but not more so than the post-road by Autun —
the Canal must be there for something, and in that case, you
travel from Orleans to Leghorn by water and with the least
fatigue possible. I observe that steam-boats leave St.
Katherine’s Wharf every Thursday and Sunday morning at
8 o’clock for Havre, Rouen and Paris — would that way be
advisable ? I will ascertain the facts about Nevers and
Chalons by the time we meet.

Dearest Ba, my very own, I love you with a love — not
to die before any sorrow ! perhaps that is the one remaining
circumstance of power to heighten it ! May God bless you
for me —

[Postmark: July 30, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

‘ Such desires — (for it was a desire — ‘)

Well put into a parenthesis that is ! — ashamed and hiding
itself between the brackets !

Because — my own dearest — it was not a ‘ desire ‘ — it
was the farthest possible from being a ‘ desire ‘ . . the word
I spoke to you on Tuesday . . yesterday !

And if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing
it — what did that prove, but I was able to speak it,
and that just it was so much less earnest and painfully felt ?
Why it was not a proposition even — . I said only ‘ You
had better give me up ! ‘ It was only the reflection, in the
still water, of what had been a proposition. ‘ Better ‘
perhaps ! — ‘ Better ‘ for you, that you should desire to
give me up and do it — my ‘Idee fixe’ you know. But
said with such different feelings from those which have
again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while
I wrote to you the vexatious letter . . . that I smile at you
seeing no difference. You, blind ! — Which is wrong of
me again. I will not smile for having vexed you . .
teased you. Which is wrong of you, though . . the being
vexed for so little ! because ‘you ought to know by this
time ‘ . . (now I will use your reproachful words) — you
ought certainly to know that I am your own, and ready to
go through with the matter we are upon, and willing to leave
the times and the seasons in your hand ! Four months !
meant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All
I thought of answering to you, was, that there was no need
yet of specifying the exact time. And yet —

Ah — yes ! — I feel as you feel, the risks and the
difficulties which close around us. And you feel that about
Mr. Kenyon ? Is it by an instinct that I tremble to think
of him, more than to think of others ? The hazel-rod turns
round in my hand when I stand here. And as you show
him speaking and reasoning . . his arm laid on your
shoulder . . oh, what a vision, that is ! before that, I
cannot stand any longer ! — it takes away my breath — the
likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to promise to realise
itself, one day !

But you promised. I have your solemn promise, Robert !
If ever you should be moved by a single one of those vain
reasons, it will be an unfaithful cruelty in you. You will
have trusted another, against me. You would not do it, my
beloved.

For I have none in the world who will hold me to make
me live in it, except only you. I have come back for you
alone . . at your voice and because you have use for me !
I have come back to live a little for you — I see you. My
fault is . . not that I think too much of what people will
say. I see you and hear you. ‘ People ‘ did not make
me live for them. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve
that you should believe in me, beloved, because my love
for you is ‘Me.’

Now tell me again to ‘ decide ‘ — and I will tell you that
the words are not ‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’
Dearest beyond words, did I deserve you telling me to
‘ decide ‘ ?

Let it be September then, if you do not decide other-
wise — I would not lean to dangerous delays which are
unnecessary — I wish we were at Pisa, rather !

So try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from
Nevers to Chalons . . I could not to-day, with my French
travelling-book, find a way, either by the chemin de fer or
coche d’eau. — All the rest is easy and direct . . and very
cheap. We must not hesitate between the French route
and the sea voyage.

Now I will tell you your good story. You said that
you had only heard six words from Mr. Reade — but that
they were characteristic. Someone was talking before him
and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore — ‘ He is very ill ‘
said the someone. ‘ But he is no poet ‘ said Mr. Reade.

Isn’t it a good story ? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘ exquisite.’
It is what your man of science would have called ‘ A
beautiful specimen ‘ — now isn’t it ?

May God bless you, dearest, dearest ! — I owe all to
you, and love you wholly — I am your very own —

[Postmark: July 29, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

This is just the way, the only way, my ever, ever dearest,
you make cares for me — it is hard to dare to settle whether
the pain of the lost quarters of the hour yesterday be not
balanced by the gladness and gain of this letter ; as it is
hard saying whether to kiss your hand (mind, only the
hand !) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you and only
seeing : you cause me abundance of such troubles, dearest,
best, divinest that you are ! Oh, how can you, blessing me
so, speak as you spoke yesterday — for the first time ! I
thought you would only write such suppositions, such
desires — (for it was a desire) . . and that along with you I
was safe from them, — yet you are adorable amid it all —
only I do feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell — no, not
now I feel it, — this letter is before my heart like the hand
on my eyes. I feel this letter, only how good, good,
good of you to write it ! Yes, I did meet Mr. Kenyon on
the stairs — with a half opened door that discovered sundry
presences, and then had I to speak of a sudden — put it to
my credit on one side that I did speak and laugh ; and on
the other side, that I did neither too a propos. He most
kindly (SEEING IT ALL) began asking about Forster and
Moxon — and I remember some kind of stammering remark
of the latter which I retailed . . to the effect that ‘ now would
be a favourable time to print a volume of poems ‘ this I
did, to seem to have something on my mind calling for a
consultation with you ! Then he made that proposal about
Landor and Mr. Eagles . . whether I ‘ encouraged the idea, ‘
or no, it encouraged me, and helped me a good deal this
morning, — for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a pressing
letter to invite me to go to Ireland, — I should have
yachting and other delights, — and I was glad to return for
an answer, that, ‘ conditional on
my accepting any. ‘ As for my ‘ excellent story on the
stairs ‘ — you alarm me ! Upon my honour, I have not the
least recollection of having told one, or said another word
than the above mentioned. So people are congratulated on
displaying this or the other bravery in battle or fire, when
their own memory is left a blank of all save the confusion !
Let me say here, that he amused me also with the
characteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.

And — now ! now, Ba, to the subject-matter : whatever
you decide on writing to Mrs. Jameson will be rightly
written — it seems to me nearly immaterial ; (putting out of
the question the confiding the whole secret, which, from its
responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether you
decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months
(Ba ?) will make abundantly plain, — or whether you farther
inform her that there is a special secret — of which she must
bear the burthen, even in that mitigated form, for the same
two months, — as I say, it seems immaterial — but it is most
material that you should see how the ground is crumbling
from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities
— do not talk about ‘four months,’ — till December, that is
— unless you mean what must follow as a consequence. The
next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s application to me — he
certainly knows everything . . how else, after such a speech
from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits
incline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience,
gentleness : your father might have entered the room suddenly
yesterday and given vent to all the passionate indignation
in the world. I dare say we should have been
married to-day : but I shall have the quietest, most
considerate of expositions made me (with one arm on my
shoulder), of how I am sure to be about to kill you, to ruin
you, your social reputation, your public estimation, destroy
the peace of this member of your family, the prospects of
that other, — and the end will be ?

Because I can not only die for you but live without you
for you — once sure it is for you : I know what you once
bade me promise — but I do not know what assurances on
assurance, all on the ground of a presumed knowledge of
your good above your own possible knowledge, — might not
effect ! I do not know !

This is through you ! You ought to know now that ‘ it
would not be better for me to leave you ‘ ! That after this
devotion of myself to you I cannot undo it all, and devote
myself to objects so utterly insignificant that yourself do not
venture to specify them — ‘ it would be better — people will
say such things ‘ . . I will never force you to know this,
however — if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall
never seem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of
what my life would probably be, disengaged from you — it
should certainly not be passed where the ‘ people ‘ are, nor
where their ‘ sayings ‘ influenced me any more — but I ask
you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what
is worthy and durable and the better — and then decide : —
for instance, to speak of waiting for four months will be a
decision.

See, dearest — I began lightly, — I cannot end so. I
know, after all, the words were divine, self-forgetting words
— after all, that you are mine, by the one tenure, of your own
free gift, — that all the other words have not been mere
breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error you
will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in ?
I wish I could take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all
my very self, and fold over them your little hand, and leave
them there — then you would see what belief is mine ! But
if you had not seen it, would you have uttered one word,
written one line, given one kiss to me ? May God bless
you, Ba —

R. B.

[Postmark: July 29, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Dearest, as I lost nearly an hour of you to-day, I make
amends to myself by beginning to write to you as if I had
not seen you at all. A large sheet of paper, too, has flown
into my hands — the Fates giving ample room and verge
enough, my characters . . not ‘ of Hell ‘ . . to trace, as I am
not going to swear at Mr. Kenyon, whatever the provocation !
Dear Mr. Kenyon !

It appears that he talked to my sisters some time before
he let himself be announced to me — he said to them ‘ I
want to talk to you . . sit down by me and listen. ‘ Then he
began to tell them of Mrs. Jameson, repeating what you told
me, of her desire to take me to Italy, . . and of her earnestness
about it. To which, he added, he had replied by every
representation likely to defeat those thoughts — that only
a relative would be a fit companion for me, and that no
person out of my family could be justified in accepting
such a responsibility, on other grounds, entering on the
occurrences of last year, and reasoning on from them to the
possibility that if I offended by an act of disobedience, I
might be ‘ cast off ‘ as for a crime. Oh — poor Papa was
not spared at all — not to Mrs. Jameson, not to my sisters.
Mr. Kenyon said . . ‘ It is painful to you perhaps to hear
me talk so, but it is a sore subject with me, and I cannot
restrain the expression of my opinions. ‘ He ‘ had told Mrs.
Jameson everything — it was due to her to have a full
knowledge, he thought . . and he had tried to set before
her the impossibility she was under, of doing any good. ‘
Then he asked my sisters . . if I ever spoke of Italy . . if
they thought I dwelt on the idea of it. ‘ Yes, ‘ they
answered ‘ in their opinion, I had made up my mind to
go.’ ‘ But how? what is the practical side of the question ?
She can’t go alone — and which of you will go with
her ? You know, last year, she properly rejected the
means which involved you in danger. ‘ Henrietta advised
that nothing should be said or done. ‘ Ba must do everything
for herself. Her friends cannot help her. She must
help herself. ‘ ‘ But she must not go to Italy by herself.
Then, how? ‘ ‘ She has determination of character, ‘
continued Henrietta — ‘ She will surprise everybody some
day. ‘

‘ But how ? ‘ — Mr. Kenyon repeated . . looking uneasy.
(And how imprudent of Henrietta to say that ! I have been
scolding her a little.)

The discussion ended by his instructing them to tell me
of Mrs. Jameson’s proposal ; ‘ because it was only right that
I should have the knowledge of her generous kindness,
though for his part, he did not like to agitate me by
conversing on the subject.’

Yes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having
had some conversation with my uncle Hedley, who was
‘very angry’ — and he asked if my aunt Hedley had no
influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered
in the negative. And this is all. He appears to have no
‘ plan ‘ of his particular own.

What do you say, Robert, to all this ? Since I am
officially informed of Mrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank
her certainly — and in what words ? ‘ How ‘ ! — — as Mr.
Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and thank
her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but
the secret of there being a secret with the weight of which I
am unwilling to oppress her at this time. Could it be
done, I wonder ? Perhaps not. Yet how hard, how very
difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily, and be silent
wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship !
And a whole confidence NOW is dangerous . . would torment
her with a sense of responsibility. Think which way it
should be.

Once you asked me about joining travelling-company,
with Mrs. Jameson. Should you like it ? prefer it for any
cause? . if it could be done without involving her in trouble,
of course.

Ah, dearest . . what a loss the three quarters of an hour
were to me ! like the loss of four quarters of a moon on a
dark night ! When dear Mr. Kenyon came to me, he found
me with my thoughts astray — following you up the street !
He asked how long you had been here . . ‘ Some time, ‘ I
said — by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my
answers were not so apt ! were more like ‘ cross-questions,’
perhaps, than answers of the common. But he roused me
a little by telling me that he wanted you to ‘ make an
excursion ‘ with Landor and himself, and that you did not
‘ encourage the idea ‘ — and by proceeding to tell me further,
that at a dinner the other day at his house, your poetry
being taken up and praised to the right measure, before
that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote a letter by the morning’s
post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that he (Mr. Reade)
should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits ‘ of
a brother-bard, ‘ but that Edmund Reade could not recognize
Robert Browning as a master-mind of the period, ‘ for
reasons, which were given at length. ‘ He, (Robert Browning)
had never rushed, with a passionate genius, into the
production of long poems ‘ . . (like ‘ Italy ‘) ‘ and long dramas
. . (like . . like . . . what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last ?)
Poor, wretched man ! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in
compassion too tender toward humanity ! Also he told
me your excellent story on the stairs.

On the stairs ! I heard the talking and the laughing,
and felt ready to cry out the burden. Well — , Saturday
will come, as surely as you could go. May God bless you,
my own ! — are you my own ? and not rather, yes, rather, far
rather, I am your own, your very own

BA.

I doubt your being able to read what is written. Only
don’t send the ‘ manuscript ‘ to Mr. Forster, to be
interpreted . . after the fashion of others !

[Postmark: July 28, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Ever dearest, your ‘ Hush ‘ came too late. I had
spoken. Do not blame me however, — for I do not blame
myself. It was not very possible that I should allow your
fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath. Nevertheless
we will not carry on this discussion any farther : my simple
protest is enough for the present, — and we shall have time,
I hope, in the future, for your nobleness to unteach itself
from being too proud. At any rate, let the subject be,
now ! I mentioned my ‘ eldest surviving brother ‘ in that
way in the paper, because he is put out of the question
by the estates being entailed . . the Jamaica estates, I
mean. And now, to have done ! Unless I could make
you easier — !

Dearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday . . for my
aunt goes out and we shall have a clear ground. Ah — can
it be true that you wish me to be with you so — dearest,
dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after?
Yet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections,
always. Let them count for something, that it may not
be entirely an absence.

Bennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my
coffee on the little tray on Saturday, there was a Bennett
ready on one corner. Then I must not forget to tell you
how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine ?) writes of you
to me, . . speaking what she little knows the effects of . .
‘ I hope, ‘ she says, ‘ that you admire ‘ Luria ‘ greatly. I don’t
know whether you will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I
feel inclined to call Browning the greatest dramatic genius
we have had for hundreds of years.’ Can anybody be more
than the ‘ greatest ‘ to anybody ? Half inclined I might be
to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you — yet no.
Dearest is greater than Greatest . . even if one Greatest
were not greater than anotner.

As to my headache, you might as well enquire about
Troy — Fait. It was the air, perhaps — the heat or the cold
. . the causes are forgotten with the effects. And, since I
began this letter, I have been out with my aunt and Henrietta,
the former having visits to pay in all the noisiest streets
of the town, as appeared to me. The stone pavements
seemed to accumulate on all sides to run to meet us, and I
was stunned and giddy, and am so tired that I shall finish
my letter in a hurry, looking to to-morrow. We were out
nearly three hours. Think of travelling three hours in a
‘ Diligence, ‘ with a Clap of Thunder ! It may be something
like that ! And as we were coming homeward . .
there was Mr. Kenyon ! He shook hands through the
window and declared that he was on the point of paying a
visit to me, holding up as witness, his lump of sugar for
Flush . . which Flush leapt from the other side of the
carriage to accept, ore rotundo. Then the next word
was . . ‘ Did you see our friend B. ‘ . . (pronounced Bee)
. . ‘ on Saturday. ? ‘ ‘ No,’ said I . . saying no for yes in
the confusion . . . ‘ but I shall to-morrow. ‘ ‘ He dined
with me, ‘ continued Mr. Kenyon. The sound of which
struck me into a fit of clairvoyance and I had to unsay
myself with an ‘ Oh yes — I did see him on Saturday. ‘ Mr.
Kenyon must have thought me purely stupid or foolish or
something of the sort — and really I agree with him. To
imagine my telling in that unsolicited way, too, both to my
aunt and himself, that you were coming here to-morrow !
So provoking ! Well — it can’t be helped. He won’t
come to-morrow in any case.

And you will ! Dearest, how glad I am that you are
coming !

Being your own
BA.

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Monday Morning.

That is sufficient, ever dearest : now dismiss the matter
from your thoughts, as I shall — having forced myself once
to admit that most dreadful of possibilities and to provide
for it, I need not have compunction at dwelling on the
brighter, better chances which God’s previous dispensations
encourage me to expect. There may be even a claimant,
instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can bequeath
— who knows ? For which reason, but most of all for the
stronger yourself adduce — the contingency of your illness
— I do not ask you to ‘ relinquish a part ‘ — not as our
arrangements now are ordered : for I have never been so
foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of my
obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain
respects I should have preferred to try the first course, —
at the beginning at least, when my faculties seemed more my
own and that ‘ end of the summer ‘ had a less absorbing
interest (as I perceive now) — yet, as that is not to be, I
have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on my
exertions, — which I could not be sure of, — particularly
with this uncertain head of mine. I hope when we once
are together, the world will not hear of us again until
the very end — it would be horrible to have to come back to
it and ask its help.

I wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit — our Tuesday
would be safer — I shall be with you unless a letter forbids.
I can only say this now, because I expect my visitors nearly
directly, — Moxon and Forster, do you remember? And
the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I
should fill sheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell
you how I love you — ‘ more than ever ‘ — I am wholly your
own, dearest dearest.

Pat Flush for me — after having let me kiss you, Ba !

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Sunday.

Mr. Kenyon said nothing, — except a few words at
dinner about the mistake of Talfourd, to Forster, — nothing
whatever, though we sat together and talked for some time
before the arrival of the company. And all that I heard
about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some
wish she meant to express in a letter, of seeing me there.
So you will have to tell me and tell me, dearest, when you
know anything — to-day perhaps.

My own Ba, do not refer to what we spoke of — the next
vile thing to the vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding
that, — painfully, ostentatiously, protesting and debating —
only it seemed absolutely necessary to say thus much at
some time, and early : — now it is done with, — you
understanding what I expect at your hands.

Mr. Longman was of the party yesterday — speaking of
Haydon, he remarked on his omitting to mention in the
list of his creditors, ‘ the House ‘ — to which he owed about
100l. being the loss consequent on publishing his ‘Book’
— the Lectures, I suppose — then, in a break, he said, in
answer to a question from Forster, that the Book in question
had gone into a second edition, but ‘ Oh, no — the
Author had received nothing for it ! ‘ And he lost the
money, poor fellow, besides ! Is not that inexplicable to
all save booksellers ? Also, what could be his need for
another person’s intermediation with the Longmans since
he knew them so well and so long !

I hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on
Tuesday. Do you think I am any longer able to appreciate
properly the additional gift of the day in the week ? I only
know that I do not see you now, my Ba — and I feel as if I
were — the words must not be written ! I need all of
you, — utterly dearest dearest that you are ! My next day,
my ‘ Sunday ‘ is the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted
time (in the worldly sense of not working in it) as at
present, — I read books and at the turning of every page go
back again for shame . . the words only before the eyes,
the thoughts of you before the mind.

I found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our
indefatigable Bennett, — the happy man ! By the way (a very
roundabout one), someone mentioned yesterday as an
agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in Sydney Smith,
that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally
pour water down, or up, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for
coolness’ sake. Nobody made a remark — nor spoke of such
a feat’s disqualifying its performer from going into good
society. Now do you remember poor Horne and the
censorship of his manners? — were not his more rational
libations found abominable ? See the association — Bennett
— Miss Mitford — Horne? But I cannot write sensibly to-
day, nor insensibly, which would be more amusing perhaps
— I can only know I am — here, on Sunday ! and whatever
the pen may force itself to put down, my one thought is,
that you are not here. To-morrow I shall hear, and get
fresh strength in the anticipation of Tuesday, — if the letter
tells me you are well — the ‘ headache for two days,’ — tell
me, my own Ba !

Bless you, ever best and dearest.

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Sunday.

Why should you ask such a question of me yesterday,
as to whether I loved you as much then as ever ? Love you
as much ? Why should I not love you more ? . . to give
question for question. And it does seem to me, too, that
my question is more reasonable than yours. ‘Is it afternoon
at six o’clock,’ you might have asked in the same
breath with yours, and touched, so, as questionable a
matter.

Tell me how the evening passed at Mr. Kenyon’s. I
have seen nobody yet — not him, not Mrs. Jameson.

Seen nobody ? Except all the Hedleys, who have just
left my room. Do you know, the pomp and circumstance,
the noise and fuss and publicity of this marriage of theirs
happen just in time to make me satisfied with ‘ quite the
other principle ‘ as you said. The system they are carrying
out is detestable to its own extreme. Fifty or sixty people
are to breakfast at Fenton’s Hotel, . . with processions to
and fro ! . . which altogether, though the bride will bear it
very well, (for she has been used to be a Belle ex-officio,
and this business has been arranged by her and for her —
otherwise they would have all been in Paris) is likely, I
think, to half kill the bride’s mother. My poor aunt
wonders how she will get through it. To have to part with
her daughter in that crowd ! So barbarous a system it is,
this system of public marriages, under whatever light
considered. Both my sisters are invited ; and so was I ! (in
vain) and Henrietta officiates as a bridesmaid. Did I tell
you that Arabella Hedley is a glorious convert to Puseyism,
as might have been expected, and talked here like a
theologian a few days since, and ‘ considered the dissenters
in a most dangerous position,’ much to the amusement of my
brothers.

What am I writing of all this time ? Dearest, how did
you get home yesterday through the ambush at Mr.
Kenyon’s ? Tell me everything. And know that I love
you ‘ as much,’ my own beloved ! — you may know it.

When Flush came into the room and had spoken to me
(in the Flush-language) and had examined your chair, he
suddenly fell into a rapture and reminded me that the
cakes you left, were on the table. So I explained thoroughly
to him that you had brought them for him, and that
he ought to be properly ashamed therefore for his past
wickedness, and make up his mind to love you and not bite
you for the future — and then he was allowed to profit from
your goodness to him. How over-good of you ! It is an
encouragement to throw coffee-cups, . . such over-goodness !

Nobody knew of your being here yesterday — at least,
not that I know ! So Tuesday looks brightly, at a distance.
At a distance ! The day after to-morrow ! Ah, it seems
too near ! Too near, in the sense of saying ‘ Too good . .
to be true.’

I will write the paper as you bid me. Only, in the face
of all that is to come, I solemnly tell you that neither I nor
mine . . certainly not I . . will consent to an act of
injustice, disinheriting my last hours (whenever they shall
come) of a natural satisfaction. You are noble in all
things — but this will not be in your power — I will not
discuss it so as to teaze you. Your reputation is dear to
me of course . . the thoughts which men shall have of
you in the least matter, I would choose to keep clean . . .
free from every possible taint. But it will be obvious to all,
that if you pleased, you might throw out of the windows
everything called mine, the moment after our marriage —
interest and principal — why not? And if you abstain from
this, and after your own death allow the sum which originally
came from my family, to relapse there . . why it is all
of pure generosity on your part — and they will understand
it as I do, . . as generosity . . as more than justice.
Well — let that be ! It is your act, and not mine, letting it
be — and I have no objection to show you what my wishes
are, (mere wishes), so helping you to carry out such an act
in the best way. I send you the paper therefore — to that
end — and only that end. There, you must stop — I never
will consent to the extravagance you propose about yourself.
You shall not, if you love me, think of carrying it out.
If I thought you could be so hard on me, . . do you know,
I would rather throw it all up now into the hands of my
sisters, and be poor with you at once — I could bear that so
much better than the thoughts of leaving you to be poor.
Or, would you be easier, dearest — if a part were
relinquished now ? would it make you easier . . and would you
promise me, so, that what is mine should be accepted as
yours to the end ? The worst is that if I were ill, I should
be a burden to you, and thus we might have reasons for
regret. Still it shall be as pleases you best. But I must be
pleased a little too. It is fair that I should.

Certainly you exaggerate to yourself the position.
What would have become of you if you had loved a real
heiress instead ? That would have been a misfortune. As
it is, while you are plotting how to get rid of these penny-
pieces, everybody will be pitying you for having fixed
yourself in such conditions of starvation. You, who might
— have married Miss Burdett Coutts !

See how I tease you ! — first promising not to tease you !
But always I am worse than I meant to be. Wasn’t it your
fault a little for bringing up this horrible subject ? — but
here is the paper, the only sort of ‘ settlement ‘ we shall
have ! Always I have said and sworn that I never, if I married,
would have a settlement — and now I thank God to be able to
keep my word so. This only is a settlement of the question.

Beloved, how is your head ? I love you out of the
deepest of my heart, and shall not cease.

Your very own
BA.

Is this what is called a document”? It seems to me
that I have a sort of legal genius — and that I should be on
the Woolsack in the Martineau Parliament. But it seems,
too, rather bold to attach such a specification to your
name. Laugh and pardon it all !

In compliance with the request of Robert Browning,
who may possibly become my husband, that I would
express in writing my wishes respecting the ultimate disposal
of whatever property I possess at this time, whether
in the funds or elsewhere, . . I here declare my wishes to
be . . that he, Robert Browning, . . having, of course, as
it is his right to do, first held and used the property in
question for the term of his natural life, . . should bequeath
the same, by an equal division, to my two sisters, or, in the
case of the previous death of either or both of them, to
such of my surviving brothers as most shall need it by the
judgment of my eldest surviving brother.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.
Wimpole Street : July, 1846.