Month: August 2018

[Postmark: August 15, 1846]

Saturday.

My very, very dearest — many, if not all, of those things
for which I want the words when too close to you, become
quite clear at a little distance. How simple, for instance, it
is to admit, that in our case, — my own, only Ba once
discovered, the circumstances of the weakness and retirement
were, on the whole, favourable rather than otherwise ! Had
they been unfavourable . . I do not think a few obstacles
would have discouraged me . . but this way has been easier
— better — and now all is admitted ! By themselves, the
circumstances could never obtain more than the feeling
properly due to them — do you think one particle of love
goes with the pity and service to a whole Hospital of
Incurables ? So let all the attraction of that kind pass for
what it is worth, and for no more. If all had been different,
and I had still perceived you and loved you, then there might,
perhaps, — or probably — be as different an aim for me, —
for my own peculiar delight in you . . I should want to feel
and be sure of your love, in your happiness . . certainly in
your entire happiness then as now — but I should aspire to
find it able to support itself in a life altogether different
from the life in which I had first seen you — if you loved me
you would need to be happy in quiet and solitude and simplicity
and privation . . then I should know you loved me, knowing how
you had been happy before ! But now, do you not see that
my utmost pride and delight will be to think you are happy,
as you were not, — in the way you were not : if you chose to
come out of a whirl of balls and parties and excursions and
visitings — to my side, I should love you as you sate still by
me, — but now, when you stand up simply, much more walk
. . I will consider, if you let me, every step you take that
brings you pleasure, — every smile on your mouth, and light
on your eyes — as a directest obedience to me . . all the
obedience you can ever pay me . . you shall say in every
such act ‘ this I do on purpose to content you ! ‘ I hope to
know you have been happy . . that shall prove you loved
me, at the end.

Probably you will not hear anything to-day from Mr.
Kenyon, as your sister is to be present : do you really
imagine that those eyes and spectacles are less effective than
the perceptions of your ‘ Treppy ? ‘

By the way, hear an odd coincidence — you heard that
foolish story of Thackeray and Mr. ‘ Widdicombe ‘ . . which
I told just to avoid a dead silence and guilty blankness of
face. As I was returning I met Thackeray (with Doyle —
H.B.) and was energetically reminded of our dinner . .
he is in very earnest, Mr. Kenyon may assure himself.
Presently I reached Charing Cross — and stood waiting for
my omnibus. There is always a crowd of waiters — in a
moment there passes an extraordinary looking personage —
a policeman on duty at this police-requiring spot saunters
up to me, of all others, and says (on some miraculous
impulse, no doubt) — with an overflowing impressible grin,
‘ D’ye know him, Sir ? ‘ ‘ No — who may he be ? ‘ ‘ He’s
Widdicombe ! — He goes now to Astley’s, and afterwards
to Vauxhall — there’s a good likeness of him in the painting
of the Judge and Jury Club. ‘ Here my omnibus arrives . .
‘ Thank you ‘ I said — and there was an end of the
communication. How for many thousand years may I walk the
street before another inspired policeman addresses me with-
out preface and tells me, that is the man I have just been
talking of to somebody else ? Let me chronicle Mr. W.’s
glories . . his face is just Tom Moore’s, plus two painted
cheeks, a sham moustache, and hair curled in wiry long
ringlets ; Thackeray’s friend was a friend indeed, ‘ warning
every man and teaching every man ‘ — the tete-a-tete would
have been portentous.

Now, dearest, you cannot return me such delectabilities,
so must even be content to tell me what happens to-day
and what is said and done and surmised — and how you
are . . three times over, how you are, dearest dearest !
And I will write to-morrow, and kiss you meanwhile, as now
as ever. Bless you, love —

your R.

[Postmark: August 15, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

A bright beautiful day this is, on which you do not come
— it seems as if you ought to have come on it by rights.
Dearest, you did not meet Mr. Kenyon yesterday after you
left me ? I fancied that you might, and so be detected in
the three hours, to the fullest length of them — it seemed
possible. Now I look forward to the driving instead of to
you — and he has just sent to desire me to be ready at a
quarter to three, and not later, as was fixed in your
hearing. And why, pray, should you be glad that I am going
on this excursion ? I should have liked it, if we had been
living in the daylight ; but with all these ‘ shadows, clouds
and darkness, ‘ it is pleasanter to me to sit still and see
nobody — and least, Mr. Kenyon. Oh, that somebody
would spirit him away gently, very gently, so as to do him
no manner of harm in achieving the good for me ! — for
both you and me. Did you say ‘ Do you pity me ‘ to me ?
I did not tell you yesterday that I have another new fear
. . an American lady who in her time has reviewed both
you and me, it seems, comes to see me . . is about to
come to see me . . armed with a letter of introduction
from Mr. Mathews — and in a week, I may expect her perhaps.
She is directed, too, towards Mr. Horne. Observe
the double chain thrown across the road at my feet — I am
entreated to show her attention and introduce her to my
friends . . things out of the question as I am situated.
Yet I have not boldness to say ‘ I will not see you.’ I
almost must see her, I do fear. Mr. Mathews ought to
have felt his way a little, before throwing such a weight on
me. He is delighted with your ‘ Bells and Pomegranates ‘
(to pass from his frailties to his merits) and the
review of them is sent to me, he says — only that I do not
receive it.

Dearest, when I told you yesterday, after speaking of
the many coloured theologies of the house, that it was hard
to answer for what I was, . . I meant that I felt unwilling,
for my own part, to put on any of the liveries of the sects.
The truth, as God sees it, must be something so different
from these opinions about truth — these systems which fit
different classes of men like their coats, and wear brown at
the elbows always ! I believe in what is divine and floats
at highest, in all these different theologies — and because the
really Divine draws together souls, and tends so to a unity,
I could pray anywhere and with all sorts of worshippers,
from the Sistine Chapel to Mr. Fox’s, those kneeling and
those standing. Wherever you go, in all religious societies,
there is a little to revolt, and a good deal to bear with —
but it is not otherwise in the world without ; and, within, you
are especially reminded that God has to be more patient
than yourself after all. Still you go quickest there, where
your sympathies are least ruffled and disturbed — and I like,
beyond comparison best, the simplicity of the dissenters . .
the unwritten prayer, . . the sacraments administered
quietly and without charlatanism ! and the principle of a
church, as they hold it, I hold it too, . . quite apart from
state-necessities . . pure from the law. Well — there is
enough to dissent from among the dissenters — the Formula
is rampant among them as among others — you hear things
like the buzzing of flies in proof of a corruption — and see
every now and then something divine set up like a post for
men of irritable minds and passions to rub themselves
against, calling it a holy deed — you feel moreover bigotry
and ignorance pressing on you on all sides, till you gasp for
breath like one strangled. But better this, even, than
what is elsewhere — this being elsewhere too in different
degrees, besides the evil of the place. Public and social
prayer is right and desirable — and I would prefer, as a
matter of custom, to pray in one of those chapels, where
the minister is simple-minded and not controversial —
certainly would prefer it. Not exactly in the Socinian chapels,
nor yet in Mr. Fox’s — not by preference. The Unitarians
seem to me to throw over what is most beautiful in the
Christian Doctrine ; but the Formulists, on the other side,
stir up a dust, in which it appears excusable not to see.
When the veil of the body falls, how we shall look into
each other’s faces, astonished, . . after one glance at
God’s !

Have I written to you more than too much about my
doxy ? I was a little, little, uncomfortable in the retrospect
of yesterday, lest my quick answer should have struck you
as either a levity or an evasion — and have you not a right
to all ray thoughts of all things? For the rest, we will be
married just as you like . . volo quod vis : and you will
see by this profession of faith that I am not likely much to
care either way. There are some solemn and beautiful
things in the Church of England Marriage-service, as I once
heard it read, the only time I was present at such a ceremony
— but I heard it then in the abbreviated customary
form . . and not as the Puseyites (who always bring up the
old lamps against a new) choose to read it, they say, in spite
of custom. Archdeacon Hale with an inodorous old lamp,
displeased some of the congregation from Fenton’s Hotel, I
hear. But we need not go to the Puseyites at least. And
after all, perhaps the best will be what is easiest.
Something is sure to happen — something must surely happen
to put an end to it all … before I go to Greece !

May God bless you, ever dearest : Tell me if you get
this letter to-day, Saturday.

Your very own BA.

[Postmark: August 13, 1846]

Thursday.

Dearest Ba, I love you wholly and for ever ! How shall
the charm ever break ?

My two letters ! I think we must institute solemn days
whereon such letters are to be read years hence . . when I
shall ask you, — (all being known, many weaknesses you do
not choose to see now, and perhaps some strength and
constancy you cannot be sure of — for the charm may
break, you think) . . ‘ If you stood there ‘ . . at Wimpole
Street in the room . . would you whisper ‘ Love, I love you,
as before ? ‘ Oh, how fortunately, fortunately the next verse
comes with its sweetest reassurance !

When I have chosen to consider the circumstances of
the altered life I am about to lead with you . . (‘chosen,’
because you have often suggested drawbacks, harms to my
interest &c. which I have really been forced to take up and
try to think over seriously, lest I should be unawares found
treating what had undoubtedly come from you with disrespect),
I never, after all the considering in my power, was
yet able to fancy even the possibility of their existence. I
will not revert to them now — nor to the few real inconveniences
which I did apprehend at the beginning, but which
never occurred to you : at present I take you, and with you
as much happiness as I seem fit to bear in this world, — the
one shadow being the fear of its continuance. Or if there is
one thing I shall regret . . it is just that which I should as
truly lose if I married any Miss Campbell of them all —
rather, then should really lose, what now is only modified,
— transferred partly and the rest retainable. There was
always a great delight to me in this prolonged relation of
childhood almost . . nay altogether — with all here. My
father and I have not one taste in common, one artistic
taste . . in pictures, he goes, ‘souls away,’ to Brauwer,
Ostade, Teniers . . he would turn from the Sistine Altar
piece to these — in music he desiderates a tune ‘ that has
a story connected with it, ‘ whether Charles II.’s favourite
dance of ‘ Brose and butter ‘ or — no matter, — what I mean
is, that the sympathy has not been an intellectual one. I
hope if you want to please me especially, Ba, you will
always remember I have been accustomed, by pure choice,
to have another will lead mine in the little daily matters of
life. If there are two walks to take (to put the thing at
simplest) you must say, ‘ This one ‘ and not ‘ either ‘ . .
because though they were before indifferently to be chosen
— after that speech, one is altogether better than the other,
to me if not to you. When you have a real preference which
I can discern, you will be good enough to say nothing about
it, my own Ba ! Now, do you not see how, with this feeling,
which God knows I profess to be mine without the least
affectation, — how much my happiness would be disturbed by
allying myself with a woman to whose intellect, as well as
goodness, I could not look up ? — in an obedience to whose
desires, therefore, I should not be justified in indulging ?
It is pleasanter to lie back on the cushions inside the
carriage and let another drive — but if you suspect he cannot
drive ?

Nothing new at Mr. Kenyon’s yesterday — I arrived late
to a small party — Thackeray and Procter — pleasant as
usual. I took an opportunity of mentioning that I had come
straight from home. Did you really look from the window,
dearest ? I was carried the other way, by the new road,
but I thought of you till you may have felt it !

And indeed you are ‘ out ‘ again as to my notions of
your notions, you dearest Ba ! I know well enough that by
‘ calmness ‘ you did not mean absence of passion — I spoke
only of the foolish popular notion.

To-morrow there would seem to be no impediment whatever
— and I trust to be with you, beloved — but before, I
can kiss you as now, — loving you as ever — ever —

Your own.

[Postmark: August 13, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

‘ Did I ever receive such a letter ? ‘ Never — except
from you. It is a question easily answered.

As to other question, about the communion of contrarieties,
I agree with you, thought for thought, in all your
thinking about it — only adding one more reason to the
reasons you point out. There is another reason at the
bottom of all, I think — I cannot but think — and it is
just that, when women are chosen for wives, they are not
chosen for companions — that when they are selected to be
loved, it is quite apart from life — ‘ man’s love is of man’s
life a thing apart. ‘ A German professor selects a woman
who can merely stew prunes — not because stewing prunes
and reading Proclus make a delightful harmony, but because
he wants his prunes stewed for him and chooses to read
Proclus by himself. A fulness of sympathy, a sharing of
life, one with another, . . is scarcely ever looked for except
in a narrow conventional sense. Men like to come home
and find a blazing fire and a smiling face and an hour of
relaxation. Their serious thoughts, and earnest aims in
life, they like to keep on one side. And this is the carrying
out of love and marriage almost everywhere in the world —
and this, the degrading of women by both.

For friendship . . why Like seeks Like in friendship
very openly. To ‘ have sympathy ‘ with a person, is a good
banal current motive for friendship. Yet (for the minor
points) a man with a deficiency of animal spirits may like
the society of a man who can amuse him, and the amusing
man may have pleasure again in the sense of using a faculty
and conferring a benefit. It is happily possible to love
down, and even across a chasm — or the world would be
more loveless than it is. I have loved and still love people
a thousand souls off — as you have and do, of course ; —
but to love them better on that account, would be strange and
difficult.

Always I know, my beloved, that I am unworthy of
your love in a hundred ways — yet I do hold fast my sense
of advantage in one, — that, as far as I can see, I see
after you . . understand you, divine you . . call you by
your right name. Then it is something to be able to look
at life itself as you look at it — (I quite sigh sometimes with
satisfaction at that thought !) : there will be neither hope nor
regret away from your footsteps. Dearest — I feel to myself
sometimes, ‘ Do not move, do not speak — or the dream will
vanish.’ So fearfully like a dream, it is ! Like a reflection
in the water of an actual old, old dream of my own, too . .
touching which, . . now silent voices used to say “That
romantic child.”

What did you mean to say about my not believing in
your nature . . in your feelings . . what did you and could
you mean yesterday ? Was it because of my speech about
the ‘ calm eyes ‘ ? Ah — you ! — I did not think to make so
impressive a speech when I made it . . for this is not the
first time, Robert, you have quoted Hansard for it.
Well ! I shall not rise to explain after all. Only I do
justice to the whole subject . . eyes inclusively . .
‘ whatever you may think ‘ as you said yesterday with ever
such significance.

No — yes — now I will ask you one thing. Common eyes
will carry an emotion of a soul — and, so, not be calm, of
course. Calm ones, I know, will carry the whole soul and
float it up against yours, till it loses footing, and . . . . .
That is a little of what I meant by the calm in the eyes, and
so I will ask you whether I could wrong, by such meaning,
any depth in the nature.

At this moment you are at Mr. Kenyon’s — and you did
not, I think, go up this street. Perhaps you will go home
through it — but I shall not see — I cannot watch, being
afraid of the over-watchers. May God bless you, my own
dearest ! You have my heart with you as if it lay in your
hand ! I told you once that I never could love (in this
way of love) except upward very far and high — but you
are not like me in it, I thank God — since you can love
me. Love me, dearest of all — do not tire. I am your very
own

BA.

Another Bennett ! ! — yet the same. ! To Friday.

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning

Shall you pass through this street to Mr. Kenyon’s, this
evening? I have been sitting here these five minutes,
wondering. But no answer is possible now, and if I go to
the window of the other room and look up and look down
about half-past five or a little later, it will be in vain
perhaps. Just now I have heard from Mr. Kenyon, who cannot
come to-day to drive with me though he may come to talk. He
does not leave London, he says, so soon as he thought ! —
more’s the pity. Ah ! What unkind things one learns
to write and meditate in this world, even of the dear Mr.
Kenyons in it ! — I am ashamed. Instruct your guardian
angel to cover me with the shadow of his wings, — dearest.

Now I will tell you a curious thing which Treppy said to
Arabel yesterday while you and I were together. Arabel
was walking with her, and she was in one of her ill humours,
poor Treppy, sighing and moaning over the wickedness of
the people in Wimpole Street — she ‘ should go and live at
Ramsgate, she thought, as nobody paid her the right
attention ! ‘ That’s the intermittent groan, when she is out
of humour, poor Treppy. ‘ And besides ‘ said she, ‘ it is much
better that I should not go to Wimpole Street at this time
when there are so many secrets. Secrets indeed ! You think
that nobody can see and hear except yourselves, I suppose ;
and there, are two circumstances going on in the house,
plain for any eyes to see ! and those are considered secrets,
I suppose.’ ‘Oh, Treppy’ — interpolated Arabel . . ‘you
are always fancying secrets where there are none.’ ‘ Well,
I don’t fancy anything now ! I know — just as you do.’ —
Something was said too about ‘ Ba’s going to Italy.’ ‘ And,
Treppy, do you think that she will go to Italy ? ‘ ‘ Why there
is only one way for her to go — but she may go that way.
If she marries, she may go.’ ‘ And you would not be
surprised?’ ‘I ! not in the least — I am never surprised,
because I always see things from the beginning. Nobody
can hide anything from me.’ After which fashion she
smoothed the darkness till it smiled, and boasted herself
back into a calmer mood. But just observe how people
are talking and inferring ! It frightens me to think of it.
Not that there is any danger from Treppy. She would as
soon cut off her hand, as bring one of us into a difficulty,
and me, the last. Only it would not do to tell her, — she
must have it in her power to say ‘ I did not know this ‘ . .
for reasons of the strongest. To occasion a schism between
her and this house, would be to embitter the remainder of
her days.

Here is a letter from a lady in a remote district called
Swineshead, who sends me lyrical specimens, and desires
to know if this be Genius. She does not desire to publish ;
at any rate not for an indefinite number of years ; but for
her private and personal satisfaction, she would be glad to
be informed whether she is a Sappho or George Sand or
anything of that kind. What in the world is to be
answered, now, to an application of that kind ! To meddle
with a person’s opinion of himself or herself (quite a private
opinion) seems like meddling with his way of dressing, with
her fashion of putting in pins — like saying you shall put
your feet on a stool, or you shan’t eat pork. It is an
interference with private rights, from which I really do
shrink. Unfortunately too it is impossible to say what she
wants to hear — I am in despair about it. When we are at Pisa
we shall not hear these black stones crying after us any
more perhaps. I shall listen, instead, to my talking bird
and singing tree, and repose from the rest. How did you
get home ? And tell me of Mr. Kenyon’s dinner ! So
nervous I am about Mr. Kenyon, when you or I happen to
be en rapport with him.

Not only I loved you yesterday, but even to-day I love
you ; which is remarkable. To-morrow and to-morrow and
to-morrow, what will you do ? Is that an ‘ offence ? ‘ Nay,
but it is rather reasonable that when the hour strikes, the
fairy-gold should turn back into leaves, and poor Cinderella
find herself sitting in her old place among the ashes, just as
she had touched the hand of the king’s son.

Don’t think I mean anything by that, ever dearest —
not so much as to teaze you — Robert !

I only love you to-day — that is, I love you and do
nothing more. And the Fairy Tales are on the whole, I
feel, the most available literature for illustration,
whenever I think of loving you.

Your own BA.

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I have been putting all the letters into rings — twenty
together — and they look now as they should — ‘ infinite
treasure in a little room ‘ — note, that they were so united
and so ranged from the beginning, at least since I began to
count by twenties — but the white tape I used (no red tape,
thank you !) was vile in its operation, — the untying and
retying (so as to preserve a proper cross ) hard for
clumsy fingers like mine : — these rings are perfect. How
strange it will be to have no more letters ! Of all the
foolishnesses that ever were uttered that speech of mine, —
about your letters strewing the house, — was the most thoroughly
perfect ! yet you have nothing to forgive in me, you say !

Just now I took up a periodical and read a few lines of
a paper on the charm that there is in a contrariety of tempers
and tastes, for friends and lovers — and there followed
platitudes in a string — the clever like the stupid, the grave
choose the lively, and so forth. Now, unless, the state of the
liker and chooser is really considered by him as a misfortune,
— what he would get rid of if he could in himself, so shall
hardly desire to find in another — except in this not very
probable case, is there not implied by every such choice,
an absolute despair of any higher one ? The grave man
says (or would if he knew himself) — ‘ except on my particular
grounds such a serious humour would be impossible
and absurd . . and where can I find another to appreciate
them ? Better accept the lower state of ignorance that they
exist even, and consequent gaiety, — than a preposterous
melancholy arising from no adequate cause. ‘ And what
man of genius would not associate with people of no talent
at all, rather than the possessors of mere talent, who keep
sufficiently near him, as they walk together, to give him
annoyance at every step ? Better go with Flush on his four
legs, avowedly doglike, than with a monkey who will shuffle
along on two for I don’t know how many yards. Now
for instance, is the writer of that wise notice of Landor in
last week’s Athenceum, one whit nearer your sympathy
in that precise matter, than somebody who never heard of
Landor or supposed him to have usually written under the
signature of L. E. L.? With the exception of a word or
two about the silly abuse of Plato, and on the occasional
unfairness of statement, is there one word right and
seasonable ?

Here am I letting the words scratch themselves one
after another while my thought as usual goes quite
another way. Perhaps my wits are resting because of the
great alacrity they are to display at Mr. Kenyon’s this
evening . . I shall take care not to be first comer, nor last
goer. Dearest, you are wrong in your fancy about my little
caring whether he knows or does not. I see altogether with
your eyes . . indeed, now that you engage to remove any
suspicion of unkindness or mistrust which might attach to
me in his thoughts (all I ever apprehended for myself), there
is no need to consider him — at all. He can do no good
nor harm. Did you ever receive such a letter ? The dull
morning shall excuse it — anything but the dull heart —
for you fill it, however the heat may keep within, sometimes.

Bless you, Ba, my dearest, perfect love — now I will
begin thinking of you again — let me kiss you, my own !

[Postmark: August 11, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Then let it be Tuesday. It will correct, too, my stupidity
to Mr. Kenyon, for easily you may reply to his certain
question, that you had not been here on Wednesday but meant
to go on Friday instead. Ah well ! By the time all this is
over we shall be fit to take a degree in some Jesuits’
college — we shall have mastered all the points of casuistry.
To wash one’s hands of it, and then throw away the water,
will be something gained at least.

Dearest, no, indeed ! — there is nothing for your goodness
to do in that badness I told you of, and which you describe
so precisely in your word, ‘ drunkenness ‘ of mind. It is
precisely that, and no more nor less — a throwing off of
moral restraint . . a miserable degradation. One may
get angry, frightened, disgusted — but, after all,
compassion comes in : — and who would think of fighting a
delirious man with a sword ? It would be a cruelty, like
murder. There is a fine nature too, under these ruins of
the will ; and a sensibility which strikes inwards and
outwards — (no one else should have any sensibility, within
a thousand miles.) Think of a sort of dumb Rousseau, — with
the ‘ Confessions ‘ in him, pining evermore to get out ! A
miserable man, first by constitution and next by fortune —
seeing only the shadow, for the sun, — the nettles in the
field, — and breathing hard when he stands among garden-roses,
to attain to smelling the onions over the wall. I have told
him sometimes that he had a talent for anger ! — ‘ indignatio
facit orationes ‘ : and that is his pleasure, ‘ par excellence,’
— to be let talk against this abuse or that abuse, this class
of men or that class of men, this or that world’s misery or
offence : — he will rise up in it and be eloquent and happy.
Otherwise . . mecreants we must be, he thinks, who dare
to be happy in this vale of tears. Life is a long moan to
him. And is not such a man enough punished ? For me,
I have not had the heart to take quite the position I ought
to have done, looking only to his most outrageous bearing
towards myself — although he talks of my scorn and
sarcasms, as if I had shown myself quite equal to self-defence.
An old, old friend, too ! — known as a friend these twelve or
thirteen years ! And then, men are nearly all the same in
the point of wanting generosity to women. It is a sin of sex,
be sure — and we have our counter-sins and should be
merciful. So I have been furiously angry, and then
relented — by turns ; as I could. Oh yes — it was he who
followed you upstairs. There was an explosion that day
among the many — and I had to tell him as a consequence,
that if he chose to make himself the fable and jest of the
whole house, he was the master, but that I should insist
upon his not involving my name in the discussion of his
violences. Wilson said he was white with passion as he
followed you, and that she in fear trembled so she could
scarcely open the door. He was a little ashamed afterwards,
and apologized in a manner for what sufficiently
required an apology. Before a servant too ! — But that is
long ago — and at that time he knew nothing for a certainty.
Is it possible to be continuously angry with any one who
proves himself so much the weaker ? The slave of himself . .
of his own passions — is too unhappy for the rod of
another — man or woman.

Mr. Chorley — Mr. Chorley ! — how could he utter such
words ! Men seem imbecile sometimes — understandings
have they, and understand not.

Monday Night.

Dearest, I have your last letter. Thank you out of my
heart — though you are not a prophet, dear dearest — not
about Mr. Kenyon at least. See how far you are from the
truth-well, with that divining hazel which you wave to and
fro before my eyes. Mr. Kenyon, instead of too much
remembering us, has forgotten me to-day. I waited an
hour with my bonnet on, and he did not come. And then
came a note ! He had had business — he had forgotten
me — he would come to-morrow. Which I, thinking of
you, wrote back a word against, and begged him to come
rather on Thursday or Saturday, or Monday. Is that right,
dearest? Your coming to-morrow will be very right.

But when you say that there can be no love except ‘from
beneath’ . . is it right ? is it comforting to hear of ? No,
no — indeed ! How unhappy I should be if I accepted
your theory ! So I accept rather your love, beloved . .

Trusting to be yours.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Monday Morning.

You dearest Ba, do you write thus to put all thoughts
of fear out of my head, and make me confident nothing can
go ill with us if you feel so for me ? I seem to have a
presentiment that this afternoon, before this letter reaches
you, Mr. Kenyon will have spoken — and if the whole
world spoke its loudest, your words would be all I should
hear. Or are they trials, every such word, of my vanity and
weakness, — do you think, ‘ if anything can call them up,
this will ? ‘ No, I very well know your entire truth in this
and the other assurances I make my life bright with, —
through any darkness that can come. What you choose to
assert of yourself, I feel of myself every hour. But there
must be this disproportionateness in a beloved object —
before I knew you, women seemed not so much better than
myself, — therefore, no love for them ! There is no love
but from beneath, far beneath, — that is the law of its
nature — and now, no more of words — will there indeed be
need of no more, — as I dare hope and believe, will the
deeds suffice ? — not in their own value, no ! — but in
their plain, certain intention, — as a clear advance
beyond mere words? We shall soon know — if you live, you
will be mine, I must think — you have put these dear arms
too surely round my neck to be disengaged now. I cannot
presume to suggest thoughts to you resolutions for the
future — you must impart to me always, — but I do lift up
my heart in an aspiration to lead the life that seems
accorded by your side, under your eyes. — I cannot write
on this, dear Ba, — to say, I will live and work as I
ought, seems too presumptuous. Understand all, and help me
with your dearest hand, my own love !

As I say, I fancy Mr. Kenyon will speak — I only hope,
the caution will act both ways, and that he will see as
much inexpediency in altogether opposing as in encouraging
such a step. That you should pass another winter and the
risk of it — and perhaps many — that seems the worst fate.
Can he apprehend any worse evil than that ?

I observe in the Times to-day that the Peninsular &
Oriental Steam Company have advertised a ship from
Southampton to Genoa, Leghorn, Civita Vecchia and
Naples on the 30th September, and that ‘ thenceforth the
company will despatch a first-class steamer to those ports on
the 15th of every month. One more facility, should
circumstances require it. Are you sure that the France
journey with the delays and fatigue is preferable to this —
where if the expenses are greater, yet the uncertain expenses
are impossible ? You are to think, beloved.

Now, will you write to-night ? I may come to-morrow ?
Say one word — you have heard why I wanted to come, even
if Mr. Kenyon’s questions had not been put — otherwise,
Friday will be impossible — I can say, ‘ I called on
Saturday, and think of doing so next Friday — ‘ I must
see you to-morrow indeed, love !

Let me leave off here — I love you wholly, and bless you
ever as now — Your own R.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Sunday.

Ever dearest, I shall write to you a little this morning
and try to manage to post myself what shall be written, too
early to permit the possibility (almost) of your being without
a letter to-morrow. Dearest, how you were with me yesterday,
after you went away ! — I thought, thought, thought of
you, — and the books I took up one by one . . (I tried a
romance too ‘ Les Femmes ‘ by a writer called Desnoyers
. . quite new, and weak and foolish enough as a story, but
full of clever things about shoe tyes . . philosophy in small
🙂 the books were all so many lorgnons through which I looked
at you again and again. Did you ever hear a story of the
late Lord Grey, that he was haunted by a head, a head
without a body ? If he turned to the right or left there it
was — if he looked up in the air, there it hung . . or down
to the floor, there it lay — or walked up or down stairs, there
it bounded before him — flop . . flop . . just on its chin,
‘ Alas, poor ghost ? ‘ And just such another, as far as the
haunting goes, were you to me, dearest, yesterday — only
that you were of the celestial rather than ghastly
apparitionery, and bore plainly with you airs from Heaven full
against my forehead. How did I ever deserve you — how
ever ? Never indeed ! And how can it seem right to submit to
so much happiness undeservedly, as the knowledge
of your affection gives, you who are ‘ great in everything, ‘
as Mr. Kenyon said the other day ! Shall I tell you how I
reconcile myself to the good ? Thus it is. First I think
that no woman in the world, let her be ever so much
better than I, could quite be said to deserve you — and that
therefore there may not be such harm in your taking the
one who will owe you most with the fullest consciousness !
If it may not be merit, it shall be gratitude — that is how I
look at it when I would keep myself from falling back into
the old fears. Ah ! you may prevent my rising up to
receive you . . though I did not know that I did . . it was
a pure instinct ! — but you cannot prevent my sinking down
to the feet of your spirit when I think of the love it has
given me from the beginning and not taken away. Dearest,
dearest — I am content to owe all to you — it is not too
much humiliation !

While I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon . . the spectacles
mended, and looking whole catechisms from behind them.
The first word was, ‘ Have you seen Browning lately ? ‘ I,
taken by surprise, answered en niaise, ‘Yes, yesterday.’
‘ And did he tell you that he was coming on Wednesday,
next Wednesday ? ‘ ‘He said something of it.’

A simpleton would have done better — to call me one
were too much honour ! — yet it seemed impossible to be
adroit under the fire of the full face, spectacles included.
The words came without the will. And now, what had we
better do ? Take Tuesday, that you may be able to say on
Wednesday, ‘ I was not there to-day ‘ . . ? or be frank for
the hour and let it all pass ? Think for us, Robert — I am
quite frightened at what I have done. It seemed to me
too, afterwards, that Mr. Kenyon looked grave. Still he
talked of Miss Mitford and Mr. Buckingham, and Landor,
and of going to the Lakes himself for a few days, and
laughed and jested in great good humour, the subject being
turned — he asked me too if I had ever discussed your
poetry with Miss Mitford, on which I said that she did not
much believe in you — ‘ Not even in ” Saul ” ? ‘ said he.
I don’t know what to think. I am in a fog off the Nore.
And he proposed coming to-morrow with a carriage, to
drive me up the Harrow road to see the train coming in,
and then to take me to his house, and, so, home, – all in
his infinite kindness. He comes at half-past three — let
me have your thoughts with me then — and the letter,
farther on. Two letters, I am to have to-morrow. If Sunday
is the worst day, Monday is the best, — of those I mean of
course, on which I do not see you. May God bless you,
my own beloved. I love you in the deepest of my heart ;
which seems ever to grow deeper. I live only for you ; and
feel that it is worth while.

Your BA.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Sunday.

Just now I tore the few words I had begun of the letter
to you, Ba — they all went away, strangely afar from the
meaning begun in them, through my mind taking up the
thought that you were ‘ waiting ‘ for what I should write
— ‘waiting all day ‘ — and ready to call the poor joyful
service of love, ‘ goodness ‘ in me ! When such thoughts
arise, I am not fit to pay even that imperfect service —
I have only arms to receive you, kisses to give you — the
words seem too cold, indeed ! I sincerely believe this I
am to write now, will be the shorter because of the
intervention of you, — and that, like Flush, I shall
behave best when not looked at too much !

Then, in our life, — what I do earnestly in intention and
from love of you, that you will always accept and make the
best of ! How happy you make me, now and ever — in the
present happiness, in the assurance of the future’s even
greater happiness, I am obliged to believe ! It seemed
like a dream as I walked home last night and thought of
all over again, after a few hours’ talk with my old friends,
on subjects from which you were excluded, and of a kind
that brought my former feelings back again ; so as to be
understood, at least, and recognised as mine. ‘ All which
is changed now, ‘ I thought going home in the moonlight.
Chorley was apprised of my being there and came
good-naturedly — and we discussed delinquencies political
and literary : he says, times were never so bad as now —
people come without a notion of offending a critic, and
offer him money — ‘ will you do this for so much ‘ —
praise this or blame this ! He was in a bad humour, he
said ; at least teazed and tired — and really looked both,
so thaf I asked ‘ had you not better throw away a day on
our green dulness at Hatcham, strolling through it with me ? ‘
— ‘ Yes — this day next week, if you like ‘ — he answered
at once . . so that our Saturday will be gone . . so that our
Tuesday must be secured, my own Ba, and after it the Friday,
at an equal interval of time — do you let it be so? Saturday
would seem to be his only available day, poor Chorley — he
walked through the park with me and over the Bridge, at one
in the morning — in return for my proving, (I don’t quite
think that, however ! ) — proving, to Arnoultfs great
satisfaction at least, that Mr. Horne was a poet, and
moreover a dramatic one, — Chorley sees no good in him
beyond talent with an abundance of ‘ crotchets,’ and ‘ could
not read ” Orion ” for his life.’ I proved another thing too
— that Forster was not a whit behind his brethren of the
faculty, in literary morals — that the Examiner, named, was
quite as just and good as another paper, unnamed. Whereat
Chorley grew warm and lost his guard, and at last ;
declaring I forced him into corners and that speak he must ;
instanced the ‘ Examiner’s ‘ treatment of myself as not
generous . . ‘ Luria ‘ having been noticed as you remember a
week after the publication, and yet, or never, to be
reviewed in the Unnamed : Ces Miseres !

A fortnight ago when Rachel played in ‘ Andromaque ‘
‘ for the last time ‘ — Sarianna and I agreed that if she did
ever play again in it, we would go and see . . and lo,
contrary to all expectation she does repeat Hermione
to-morrow night, and we are to go. And you, Ba, you cannot
go — ought I to go ? One day, one not distant day, and
‘cannot’ will apply to us both — now, it seems to do me
good, with the crowd of its suggestions, this seeing Rachel ;
beside, Sarianna has just this only opportunity of going.

I am anxious to let the folly of that person spend itself
unaggravated by any notice of mine — I mean to you ; any
notice which should make you think it — (the folly) —
affected me as well as you ; but I do trust you will not
carry toleration too far in this case, nor furnish an
ungenerous, selfish man with weapons for your own annoyance.
‘ Insolent letters ‘ you ought to put up with from no one —
and as there is no need of concealment of my position now, I
think you will see a point when I may interfere. Always
rely on my being quietly firm, and never violent nor
exasperating : you alluded to some things which I cannot let
my fancy stop upon. Remember you are mine, now, — my
own, my very own. I know very well what a wretched
drunkenness there is in that sort of self-indulgence — what it
permits itself to do, all on the strength of its ‘ strong
feeling ‘ ‘ earnestness ‘ — stupid in execrable sophistry as
it is ! I have too a strong belief that the man who would bully
you, would drop into a fit at the sight of a man’s uplifted
little finger. Can this person be the ‘old friend in an ill
humour ‘ who followed me up-stairs one day ? I trust to
you — that is the end of all.

Now I will kiss you, my own Ba, and wait for my letter,
and then, Tuesday. Dearest, I am your own, your very
own.