[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 —