Day: August 27, 2018

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

Here is the bad news going to you as fast as bad news will go ! for you ‘ do really (NOT) see me to-morrow,’ Robert, – there is no chance of it for such ‘ too, two ‘ wise people as we are ! In the first place Mr. Kenyon never paid his visit to-day and will do it to-morrow instead ; and secondly, and while I was gloomily musing over this ‘ great fact,’ arrives the tidings of my uncle and aunt Hedley’s being at Fenton’s Hotel for two days from this evening . . so that not only Friday perishes, but even Saturday, unless there should be a change in their plans. We shall have them here continually ; and there would neither be safety nor peace if we attempted a meeting. So let us take patience, dearest beloved, and let me feel you loving me through the distance. It is only for a short time, to bear these weeks without our days in them ; and presently you will have too much of me perhaps, – ah, the ungrateful creature, who stops in the middle of the sentence, thunderstruck in the tenderest part of her conscience ! So instead, I go on to say that certainly I shall be happy with you, as long as my ‘ sitting in the room ‘ does not make you less happy – certainly I shall be happy with you. I thought once that the capacity of happiness was destroyed in me, but you have made it over again, – God has permitted you ! And while you love me so . . essentially, as you describe, and apart from supposed and suppositious qualities . . I will take courage and hope, and believe that such a love may be enough for the happiness of us both – enough or yours even.

Your father is worthy to be your father, let you call yourself his ‘ unworthy son ‘ ever so. The noblest inheritance of sons is to have such thoughts of their fathers, as you have of yours – the privilege of such thoughts, the faith in such virtues and the gratitude for such affection. You have better than the silver or the gold, and you can afford to leave those to less happy sons. And your mother – Scarcely I was a woman when I lost my mother – dearest as she was, and very tender, (as yours even could be), and of a nature harrowed up into some furrows by the pressure of circumstances : for we lost more in her than she lost in life, my dear dearest mother. A sweet, gentle nature, which the thunder a little turned from its sweetness – as when it turns milk. One of those women who never can resist ; but, in submitting and bowing on themselves, make a mark, a plait, within, – a sign of suffering. Too womanly she was – it was her only fault. Good, good, and dear – and refined too ! – she would have admired and loved you, – but I can only tell you so, for she is gone past us all into the place of the purer spirits. God had to take her, before He could bless her enough.

Now I shall not write any more to-night. You had my note to-day – the note written this morning ? I went out in the carriage, and we drove to one or two shops and up the Uxbridge Road, and I was utterly dull. Shall I not really see you before Monday ? It seems impossible to bear. Let us hope at any rate, for Saturday.

How could such an idea enter your head, pray, as that about selling your copyrights? That would have been travelling at the price of blood, and I never should have agreed to it. I shall be able to bring you a few pennies, I hope ; only it would not be enough for the journey, what I could bring, under the circumstances of imprisonment. When we are free, we ought to place our money somewhere on the railroads, where the percentage will be better – which will not disturb the simplicity of our way of life, you know, though it will give us more liberty in living.

Now I expect to hear your decision about Mrs. Jameson – I expect to hear from you of yourself, though, most and chiefest – tell me how you are, and how your mother is. Dearest, promise me not to say to your family any foolishness about me – remember what the recoil will be, and understand that I must suffer in proportion to all the over-praises. It quite frightens me to think of it ! And then, again, I laugh to myself at your excellent logic of comparison, between Miss Campbell and me ; and how you did not care for walking the bazaars and looking at the dolls with her ; to the discredit of the whole class of Miss Campbells . . whereas, with ME ! ! &c. No wonder that your father should give you books of logic to study, books on the ‘ right use of reason,’ if you do not understand that I am not better than she, except by your loving me better ; that the cause is not in her or me, but in you only. Can it indeed be so true that people, when they love other people, never see them at all ? Yet it seems to me that I see you clearly, discern you entirely and thoroughly – which makes me love you profoundly. But you . . without seeing me at all, you love me . . which does as well, I think – so I am your very own.

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

The post’s old fault, is it not, this letter that does not come? I have waited till nearly the time of the next arrival, 3 o’clock, and perhaps I begin writing now because I have observed that sometimes the letter comes just as I am trying hardest to resign myself. So may it be now, or presently !

Dearest, I did not thank you yesterday for the accounts of your visit and drive . . I always love you for such accounts ; you know, I might like, we will say, a Miss Campbell, while she was in the very act of speaking Greek to Mr. Kenyon’s satisfaction, or making verses, or putting them into action but there would be no following her about the streets, and through bazaars, and into houses, and loving the walking and standing and sitting and companionship with Flush ! I shall be satisfied to the full if you only live in my sight, – cross the room in which I sit, – not to say, sit down by me there, – always supposing that you also, for your part, seem happy and contented, – or at least could not become more so by leaving me. But I do believe you will be happy.

And here the letter comes ! See, what I tell you does now fill my life with gladness, – that, the counterpart of that, you promise me shall make you glad too ! My very own, entirely beloved Ba, there is no exaggeration, no overestimation – the case does not admit of any, indeed ! If a man tells you he owns a peerless horse, the horse may go lame and the estimation sink upon that experience – but if I think, as I do, that the Elgin Horse is peerless (despite his ewe-neck) nothing further can touch it, nor change me. One of my comparisons ! All I want to express is, that I love you, dearest, with a love that seems to separate you from your very qualities – the essential from its accidents. But you must wait to know – wait a life, perhaps.

I used those words you object to – (in your true way), because you shall love nothing connected with me for conventional reasons – and if I understated the amount of kind feeling which you might be led to return for theirs, be assured that I also expressed in the simplest and coldest terms possible my father and mother’s affection for you. I told you, they believe me . . therefore, know in some measure what you are to me. They are both entirely affectionate and generous. My father is tender-hearted to a fault. I have never known much more of those circumstances in his youth than I told you, in consequence of his invincible repugnance to allude to the matter – and I have a fancy, to account for some peculiarities in him, which connects them with some abominable early experience. Thus, if you question him about it, he shuts his eyes involuntarily and shows exactly the same marks of loathing that may be noticed while a piece of cruelty is mentioned . . and the word ‘ blood,’ even, makes him change colour. To all women and children he is ‘ chivalrous ‘ . . as you called his unworthy son ! There is no service which the ugliest, oldest, crossest woman in the world might not exact of him. But I must leave off; to-morrow I do really see you at last, dearest ! God bless you ever for your very own R.

The France-route seems in nearly every way the best – perhaps in every way – let it be as you have decided. Nothing is said in this letter, nothing answered, mind . . time presses so !

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

E. B. B. to R. B.

Dearest, I am to write to you of Mrs. Jameson. First, as to telling her . . will it not be an embarrassment both to her and ourselves ? If she cannot say ‘ I knew nothing of this,’ she bears the odium of confidante and adviser perhaps – who shall explain the distinction to others ? And to Mr. Kenyon, will it not seem as if we had trusted her more than him – and though there is a broad distinction too between their cases, who shall explain that to him so quickly and nicely that he shall not receive the shock of a painful impression ? Consider a little – She is so in medias res – so in the way of all the conversation and the questionings. But it shall be as you like and think best. I am too nervous perhaps.

As for the travelling, she sets out between the seventh and tenth of September, a century before our aera, you know – but if she goes to Italy and is not too angry with me, we might certainly meet her in Paris or at Orleans . . take her up at Orleans, and go on together. That is, if you like it too. She would be pleased, I daresay, if it were proposed – and we might be kind in proposing it – and something I might say to her, if you liked it, on the condition of her not changing her mind. Certainly I do agree with you that she must have some ideas – she is not without imagination, and the suggestions are abundant, – though nothing points to you, mind ! – if she could possibly think me capable of loving anyone else in the world, with you in it.

I had a letter to-day . . with a proposition to write ballads and other lyrics in order to the civilisation of the colonies . . especially Australia. It appears that a Mr. Angus Fife has a scheme on foot nearly, about sending missionary ballad-singers among the natives, and that I am invited to write some of them, or to be invited – for nothing is specified yet. Now what do you think of that ? One should take one’s mythology from the Kangaroos, I suppose.

Then a book of ‘ serious poems ‘ is to be brought out in Edinburgh and contributions are desired so very politely that nobody can quite refuse.

I write to you of anything but what is in my thoughts. Your letter of yesterday took hold of me and will not let me go – it all seems too earnest for the mere dream I have been dreaming all this while – is it not a dream . . or what ? And something I said in my letter, which was wrong to say and I am sorry to think of – forgive me that, ever beloved – but you have forgiven, I know. May God bless you, and not take from me my blessing in you.

I am your very own BA.

We are going out in the carriage and shall post this note.

You will come to-morrow unless you hear more? Is it a compact ?

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

‘ If I care for any love ‘ – ‘ whether I take it or no.’ Now ought I not to reproach you a little, for bearing to write such words of me, when you could not but think all the while, that I should feel a good deal in reading what you wrote beside ? Will you tell me that you did not know I should be glad and grateful for tolerance even ? – the least significance of the kinder feeling affecting me beyond, perhaps, what you could know of me. I am bound to them utterly.

And if it is true, as it is true, that they have much to pardon and overlook in me, . . and among the rest, the painful position imposed on you by my miserable necessities, . . they yet never shall find me, I trust, unworthy of them and you by voluntary failures, and, least of all, by failures of dutiful affection towards themselves – ‘ IF THEY CARE FOR ANY LOVE.’

For the rest of what you tell me, it is all the purest kindness – and you were perfectly, perfectly right in taking so, and as a loan, which we ought, I think, to return when our hands are free, without waiting for the completion of other projects. By living quietly and simply, we shall surely have enough – and more than enough. Then among other resources is Blackwood. I calculated once that without unpleasant labour, with scarcely an effort, I could make a hundred a year by magazine-contributions – and this, without dishonour either. It does ‘ fugitive poems,’ observe, no harm whatever, to let them fly through a periodical before they alight on their tree to sing. Then you will send perhaps the sweepings of your desk to Blackwood, to alternate with my sendings ! Shall we do that, when we sit together on the ragged edge of earthquake chasms, in the midst of the ‘ sulphurous vapour.’ I, afraid? No indeed – I think I should never be afraid, if you were near enough. Only that you never must go away in boats. But there is time enough for such compacts.

As to the sea voyage, that was your scheme, and not mine, from the beginning : and your account of the expenses, if below my fear . . (although I believe that ‘ servants ‘ do not mean ‘ female servants ‘ and that the latter are subject to additional charges), yet seems to me to leave the Rhone and Saone route as preferable as ever. And do you mark, dear dearest, that supposing me to be unfit for the short railroad passage from Rouen to Paris and from Paris to Orleans, I must be just as unfit for the journey to Southampton, which is necessary to the sea-voyage. Then . . supposing me to be unfit for the river-passage, I must be still more unfit for the sea. So don’t suppose either. I am stronger than you fancy. I shall shut my eyes and think of you when there is too much noise and confusion, – the things which try me most, – and it will be easy to find a quiet room and to draw down the blinds and take rest, I suppose, . . which one might in vain long for in that crowded steamer at sea. Therefore, dearest, if I am to think and decide, I have decided . . let us go through France. And let us go quick, quick, and not stop anywhere within hearing of England . . not stop at Havre, nor at Rouen, nor at Paris – that is how I decide. May God help us, and smooth the way before and behind. May your father indeed be able to love me a little, for my father will never love me again.

For you . . you will ‘serve me best ‘ and serve me only, by being happy not away from me. When I shall have none but you, if I can feel myself not too much for you, – not something you would rather leave – then you will have ‘ served ‘ me all you can. But this is more perhaps than you can – these things do not depend on the will of a man – that he should promise to do them. I speak simply for myself, and of what would give me a full contentment. Do not fancy that there is a doubt in the words of it. I cannot doubt now of your affection for me. Dearest, I cannot. Yet you make me uneasy often through this extravagance of over-estimation ; forcing me to contract ‘obligations to pay ‘ which I look at in speechless despair – And here is a penny.

Of Mrs. Jameson, let me write to-morrow – I am benighted and must close. On Friday we shall meet at last, surely ; and then it will be all the happier in proportion to the vexation. Dearest, love me –

I am your own –