Day: July 29, 2018

[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 !