Month: August 2018

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Friday Morning.

(First of all, let me tell you that the whole story about
that death through grief, madness &c, turns out to be a vile
fabrication, — false from beginning to end. My mother’s
informant, I now find, had derived the knowledge from
newspaper also — I hope the other tale, of the Turk, is true
at least.)

And now, love, I can go on to say that no letter comes —
is it the post’s fault ? Yes — I think, — so does your
goodness spoil me — you have to tell me about to-morrow,
beside. I shall wait hopefully till 2 or 3 o’clock.

Mr. Kenyon was there last evening, for all my prognostications
— he had already twice passed this place in the course of
the day on his way to Lewisham. He soon asked me as I
expected — or something that sounded like it — for, in
the half whisper of his tone, I can only hope he did not put
the question thus ‘ Have you seen Miss Barrett since Saturday,
— or have you called to-day ? ‘ My mind misgives a little
— at all events I only answered the last part of the sentence
— and now, mark you ! — after dinner he proposed that I
should go to him on Wednesday, and make one of a party
he is organising. I tried some faint excuse or other — ‘ You
know,’ interposed he, ‘ you can pay a visit to Wimpole Street
and I shall know and keep away from troubling you ‘ — or
words to that effect. I thought it really better to simply (in
every sense of the word) smile, and attempt to say nothing.
Now, I feel sure that if I were to remark, ‘ I will call on
Mrs. Jameson ‘ — for instance — he would say, ‘So will I,
then, if I can ‘ — on that day, rather than any other —
unless some special business had been mentioned as the object
of my visit. And here is another inconvenience he will perhaps
consider ‘ As he means to call on Wednesday, — there is no
reason I should keep away to-morrow — Saturday — ‘

It will be, however, a justification in his eyes at the end
— ‘ he knew her so well, saw so much of her, — who could
wonder ? ‘

I sate by a pleasant chatting Jewess, Goldsmid, or whatever
the name is, — also by Thackeray — and Milnes came in
the evening, — yet the dulness was mortal, and I am far
from my ordinary self to-day. I am convinced that general
society depresses my spirits more than any other cause. I
could keep by myself for a month till I recovered my mind’s
health. But you are part or all of that self now, — and
would be, were you only present in memory, in fancy. As
it is, oh, to be with you, Ba ?

Three o’clock, no letter ! I will put my own philosophy
in practice and be consoled that you are not in any
circumstances to justify and require anxiety — not unwell
— nor have any fresh obstacles arisen necessarily . . Any
alleviations so long as I am allowed to keep a good
substantial misfortune at the end !

Once you said in your very own way . . when I sent
you some roses in a box, and no letter with them, ‘ Now I
shall write no more to-day, not having been written to ! ‘ I
cannot write more — I see ! Ah, Ba, here the letter comes ! !
and I will wait from reading it to kiss my gratitude to you,
you utterly best and dearest ! And I repeat my kisses while
I write the few words there is time for — what a giver you
are of all good things all together. Let me take the best
first, not minding ingratitude to the rest, and say yes,
to-morrow I will see you — even if Mr. Kenyon comes, it
will be easy saying — ‘ I cannot go on Wednesday.’ Did you
manage so well with Mrs. Jameson ? As for Horne, — why,
there may have been Sordelloisms, I daresay — I only meant,
‘ if you look an invalid to him, — he will say so, just when
your improved health is my one excuse for the journey and
its fatigues — and if you look plainly no longer an invalid ‘
— Oh, I don’t know . . I thought he might talk of that too,
and bring in a host ! There is the secret, rendered more
obscurely perhaps ! As for the room, the dearest four walls
that I ever have been enclosed by — I only thought of the
possible phrase — ‘ Still confined to her room ‘ — or the
like — and as — that is the fact, — I rather understood
the whole tone in which you spoke of the circumstance, as
of slight dissatisfaction at the notion of the intended visit
. . in tuam sententiam discedens, I sordelloized !

The words about your health reassure me, beloved ! I
had no positive fears quite as you suppose . . but I coupled
one circumstance with another, do you see, and did get to
apprehend what you now show me to be groundless,
thank God !

Oh, my time ! Bless you, ever, ever, beloved !

Your own R.

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Thursday.

I told you nothing yesterday ; but the interruption left
me no time, and the house was half asleep before I had
done writing what I was able to write. Otherwise I wanted
to tell you that Mrs. Jameson had been here . . that she
came yesterday, and without having received my note. So
I was thrown from my resources. I was obliged to thank
her with my voice . . so much weaker than my hand. If
you knew how frightened I was ! The thunder, the
morning before, (which I did not hear holding your hand !)
shook me less, upon the whole. I thanked her at least . .
I could do that. And then I said it was in vain . .
impossible.

‘ Mr. Kenyon threw cold water on the whole scheme.
But you ! Have you given up going to Italy ? ‘

I said ‘no, that I have not certainly.’ I said ‘I felt
deeply how her great kindness demanded every sort of
frankness and openness from me towards her, — and yet,
that at that moment I could not be frank — there were
reasons which prevented it. Would she promise not to
renew the subject to Mr. Kenyon ? not to repeat to him
what I said ? and to wait until the whole should be
explained to herself ?’

She promised. She was kind beyond imagination — at
least, far beyond expectation. She looked at me a little
curiously, but asked no more questions until she rose to go
away. And then —

‘ But you will go ? ‘ ‘ Perhaps — if something unforeseen
does not happen.’ ‘ And you will let me know, and when
you can, — when everything is settled ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you
think you shall go?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And with efficient
companionship?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And happily and quietly?’ .
‘Ye . . ‘ I could not say the full ‘Yes,’ to that — If
it had been utterable, the idea of ‘ quiet ‘ would have been
something peculiar. She loosened her grasp of her
catechumen, therefore — nothing was to be done with me.

I forgot, however, to tell you that in the earlier part of
the discussion she spoke of having half given up her plan
of going herself. In her infinite goodness she said, ‘she
seemed to want an object, and it was in the merest
selfishness, she had proposed taking me as an object ‘ —
‘ And if you go even without me, would it not be possible
to meet you on the road ? I shall go to Paris in any case.
If you go, how do you go ? ‘

‘ Perhaps across France — by the rivers.’

‘Precisely. That is as it should be. Mr. Kenyon
talked of a long sea-voyage.’

Now I have recited the whole dialogue to you, I think,
except where my gratitude grew rhetorical, as well it might.
She is the kindest, most affectionate woman in the world !
and you shall let me love her for you and for me.

As for me, my own dearest, you are fanciful when you
say that I do not go out so much, nor look so well. Now
I will just tell you — Henrietta cried out in loud
astonishment at me to-day, desiring Treppy to look at
my face, when we were all standing together in this room
— ‘ Look at Ba, Treppy ! — Did you ever see anyone
looking so much better ; it really is wonderful, the
difference within these few weeks.’ That’s Henrietta’s
opinion ! She quite startled me with crying out . . as
if suddenly she had missed my head ! — And you !

Then I have been out in the carriage to-day, just to
Charing Cross, and then to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood.
I am as well at this moment as anyone in the world. I have
not had one symptom of illness throughout the summer —
perfectly well, I am. At the same time, being strong is
different ; and sometimes for a day or two together, when I
do not feel the strongest, it is right to be quiet and not to
walk up and down stairs. So as I ‘ love Ba,’ (quite enough,
I assure you !) I am quiet. There’s the only meaning of not
going out every day ! But the health is perfectly unaffected,
I do assure you, — so keep yourself from every vexing
thought of me, so far at least. Are you getting frightened
for me, my beloved ? Do not be frightened, I would not
deceive you by an exaggeration, for the sake even of your
temporary satisfaction — you may trust what I say.

For the thunder . . if you thought of me during it, as
you say, . . why it did me just so much good. Think of
me, dearest, in the thunder and out of the thunder ; the
longest peal’s worth of your thought would not content me
now, because you have made me too covetous.

As to Mr. Horne, you write Sordelloisms of him — and
you shall tell me your real meaning in a new edition on
Saturday. Might your meaning be that I look worse in this
room than in the drawing-room ? Have you an objection
to this room as a room ? I rub my eyes and look for a
little more light — (but can’t be more impertinent ! —
can I ?)

So, till Saturday — yes, Saturday ! To-morrow there is a
clearance of aunts — one going at nine in the morning,
and one at five in the afternoon : and uncles and cousins
do not stay behind. You are glad, I think — and I, not
sorry.

How striking your two stories are ! Wonderful it is to
me, when mere worldly reverses affect men so — I cannot
comprehend it — I stand musing there. But the sublime
sentiment of the Melon-seller applies to the griefs I can
understand — and we may most of us (called Christians)
go to him for his teaching.

May God bless you for me ! Your BA.

(I want to say one word more and so leave the subject.
Stormie told me this morning, in answer to an enquiry of
mine, that certainly I did not receive the whole interest of
the fund-money, . . could not . . making ever so much
allowance for the income-tax. And now, upon consideration,
I seem to see that I cannot have done so. The ship-shares
are in the ‘ David Lyon,’ a vessel in the West Indian trade,
in which Papa also has shares. Stormie said ‘ There must
be three hundred a year of interest from the fund-money —
even at the low rate of interest paid there.’ Now it would
be the easiest thing in the world (as I saw even in to-day’s
newspaper) to have money advanced upon this — only there
is a risk of its being known perhaps, which neither of us
would at all like.) Burn this.

[Postmark: August 6, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

No, dearest, — the post brought me no letter till early
this morning, a few hours before the second arrival : so, in
case of any unexpected stoppage in our visit-affairs, if the
post can have been to blame, always be sure it is ; if I do
not arrive at any time when I ought to arrive, having been
sent for — there is the great instance and possibility,
which you are to remember ! However at present, post naufragia
tutus sum with my two treasures.

Thank you, dearest, for all that kind care of answering —
will you now let me lay it all quietly up in my head to
mature, before I . . really think upon it, much more, speak
of it ? If one can do both once for all, what a blessing !
But a little leaven of uncertainty and apprehension, just
enough to be tasted bitterly in the whole lump of our life,
— that cannot be too diligently guarded against while
there is time.

Well, love, your excursion to Kensington was a real
good, well purchased by my early going — and I am glad the
great event stood before all eyes and mouths. I seem to
notice that you do not leave the house quite so often as,
say, a month ago ; and that you are not the better for it.
Of course you cannot go out in storm and rain. Will you
do what is best for my Ba, you who say you love me, —
that is, love her ?

Don’t I sympathize with Horne, and see with his eyes,
and want with his senses ! But why can he not want after
the two months, I ask selfishly — seeing, or fancying I see,
this inconvenience . . that, as his report will probably be the
latest to the world, it would be advisable for you to look as
well as possible, — would it not ? It would not do for him
to tell people ‘ All I can say is, that a few weeks only before
it happened, she appeared to me thus and thus ‘ — while, on
the other hand, if you receive him in the drawing room, —
there are difficulties too.

You never told me how yesterday’s thunder affected
you — nor how your general health is — yet I will answer you
that I am very well to-day — about to go to Mrs. Procter’s,
alas — it is good that this letter cannot reach you before
night or nine o’clock — I should fail to deny myself the
moment’s glance at the window — if you could be prayed to stand
there ! But it is past praying for now. I told you that I have
excused myself to Mrs. Jameson on the ground of some
kind of uncertainty that rules the next fortnight’s engagements
— who shall say what a fortnight may not bring forth ?
I shall not mind Mr. Kenyon being of the party to-night,
should it be so ordered . . for, if he asks me, I can
say with dignity — ‘ No, — I did not call to-day, — meaning
to call on Saturday, perhaps’ — ‘Well, there is some
forbearance,’ he will think ! However, he will not be present,
I prophesy, and Chorley will . . or no, perhaps, Rachel’s
Jeanne D’Arc may tempt him. Important to Ba, very !
almost as much as to me — so at once to the really, truly,
exclusively important thing, by comparison — Love me ever,
dearest dearest, as I must ever love you, — and take my heart,
as if it were a better offering. Also write to me and tell me
that Saturday is safe . . will it be safe ? Your aunt may
perhaps leave you soon — and one observation of hers would
be enough to ruin us — consider and decide !

Since these words were written, my mother, who was
out, entered the room to confirm a horrible paragraph
in the paper. You know our light momentary annoyance at
the storm on Saturday ; it is over for us. The next day,
Mr. Chandler, the cultivator of camellias at Wandsworth,
died of grief at the loss from the damage to his
conservatories and flowers — which new calamity added to
the other, deprived his eldest son, and partner — of his
senses . . ‘ he was found to be raving mad on Monday ‘
are the words of the Times. My mother’s informant called
theirs ‘ the most amicable of families. ‘

How strange — and a few weeks ago I read, in the same
paper, a letter from Constantinople — wherein the writer
mentioned that he had seen (I think, that morning) Pacha
somebody, whose malpractices had just drawn down on him
the Sultan’s vengeance, and who had been left with barely
his life, — having lost his immense treasures, palaces and
gardens &c., along with his dignity, — the writer saw this
old man selling slices of melon on a bridge in the city ;
and on stopping in wonderment to praise such constancy, the
Turk asked him with at least equal astonishment, whether it
was not fitter to praise Allah who had lent him such wealth
for forty years, than to repine that he had judged right to
recall it now ?

Could we but practise it, as we reason on it ! — May God
continue me that blessing I have all unworthily received . .
but not, I trust, insensibly received!

May he keep you, dearest dearest

R.

[Postmark: August 6, 1846]

Wednesday Night.

Dearest, you did not have my letter, I think — the letter
I wrote on Tuesday, yesterday. These iniquitous postpeople
— who are not likely to see in a vision (like your fat
prophet) the devil cast out of them for the good of the
world ! Indeed it is too bad.

To answer first the question — (You are wise beyond me
in all things . . let me say that in a parenthesis ! ) I will
tell you what I know. Stormie told me the other day that
I had eight thousand pounds in the funds ; of which the
interest comes to me quarterly, the money being in two
different per cents . . (do you understand better than I
do ?) and from forty to forty-five pounds Papa gives me
every three months, the income tax being first deducted.
It may be eight thousand pounds, or more or less, . . it
is difficult to ask about it . . but what comes to me every
three months, I know certainly. Then there is the ship
money . . a little under two hundred a year on an average
. . which I have not used at all (but must for the future
use), and the annual amount of which therefore, has been
added to the Fund-money until this year, when I was
directed to sign a paper which invested it (i.e. the annual
return) in the Eastern Railroad. That investment is to
yield a large percentage, I heard, and Stormie tried to
persuade me to ask Papa to place everything I had, on the
same railroad. Papa had said down-stairs the other day
that it would be best so — and I ought to remind him to do
it, repeated Stormie, as it would very much increase . .
increase by doubling almost . . the available income ; and
without the slightest risk of any kind. But I could not
take the advice under the circumstances — I could not
mention such a word as money to him, giving the appearance
even of trouble about my affairs, now. And he would
wonder how I should take a fancy suddenly to touch such
matters with the end of my finger. Then there are the ten
shares in Drury Lane Theatre — out of which comes
nothing.

You wonder how I can spend, perhaps, the quarterly
forty pounds and upward that come to me ? I do spend
them. Yet let me hold you from being frightened, and
teach you to consider how easy it is to spend money, and
not upon oneself. Never in any one year of my life, even
when I was well, have my expenses in dress (as I told Mr.
Kenyon the other day) exceeded twenty pounds. My
greatest personal expense lately has been the morphine.
Still the money flows out of window and door — you will
understand how it flows like a stream. I have not the gift
(if it is a gift) of making dresses . . in my situation, here.
Elsewhere, all changes, you know. You shall not call me
extravagant — you will see. If I was ‘ surprised ‘ at what
you told me of Mrs. Norton, it was only because I had had
other ideas of her — for my own gown cost five shillings
. . the one I had on when you spoke. So she was better
than I by a mere sixpence. Ah — it came into my head
afterwards that my being ‘ surprised ‘ about Mrs. Norton,
might argue my own extravagance. See ! —

But the Goddess Dulness inspires me to write about it
and about it, to no end. I say briefly at last, that
whatever I have, is mine . . and for use in Italy, as in
England. Papa has managed . . has taken a power of attorney,
to manage for me kindly . . but everything is in my name —
and if it were not, he could not for a moment think of
interfering with an incontestable right of property. Still,
I do see a difficulty at the beginning — I mean that, as I
am here, I could not put my hand out for a large sum, such
as would be necessary perhaps. I have had a great deal to
pay and do lately, — and the next quarter will not be until
the middle of October. Still there would be something,
but less than is necessary. We might either wait on the
road till the required sum were called for and sent — or
get a hundred pounds advanced by someone for a few weeks
until everything was settled . . which would be pleasanter,
if possible. Poor Papa’s first act will be to abandon his
management. Ah, may God grant him to do it rather
angrily than painfully.

A letter, I have written to you, like the chiming of two
penny pieces — a miserable letter ! And there is much to
tell you . . but nothing painful . . do not fear. The
Hedleys dined here, and Mrs. Hedley has been sitting with
me . . keeping me from writing. Good-night now it must
be ! When you write so of caring to be with me, my heart
seems to rock with pleasure. Shouldn’t this letter have
been written on ‘Change, and isn’t it unworthy of all you
are to me . . and even of all I am to you ? But such
things must be, after a fashion. Have I told you right,
dearest? does it make any sense, altogether? You are
wise in little subjects as in great ones, and I will let
you make me wiser if you can. And there is no clay in dear
Mr. Kenyon . . but just the drop in the chrystal you tell me
of — only you shall not divine by him, my Druid, or you will
sit by yourself under the oak tree to the end of the day !

Wholly yours and ever — in the greatest haste —

[Postmark: August 5, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

If I had felt, as you pleased to feel yesterday, that it had
been ‘ only one hour ‘ which my coming gained — I should
richly deserve to find out to-day, as I do fully, what the
precise value of such an hour is. But I never act so
ungratefully and foolishly — you are more than ever you
have been to me, — yet at any time I would have gone for the
moment’s sight of you, — one moment’s — and returned
happy. You never doubt this because I do not waylay
you in your walks and rides ? I consider your sisters, and
your apprehension for them, and other reasons that make
such a step objectionable. Do you remember what I said
yesterday — what I have told myself so often? It is one
proof how I love you that I am jealous of any conversation
with you which should be too interesting for itself, apart
from the joy of your presence — it is better to sit and see
you, or hear you, or only say something which, in its
insignificance, shall be obviously of no account beside the
main and proper delight — as at wine-feasts you get the wine
and a plate of thin dry tasteless biscuits — (observe, for
instance, that this noble simile was not set before you
yesterday — no, my Ba !)

And you did understand also why I left, on that mere
chance of danger to you, — for it was not, do you think it
was only the irksomeness to myself I sought to escape —
though that would have been considerable. There is no
unstable footing for me in the whole world except just in
your house — which is not yours. I ought not to be in that
one place — all I could do in any circumstances (were a
meeting to happen) would be wrong, unfortunate. The
certainty of misconception would spoil everything — so much
of gentleness as is included in gentlemianliness would pass
for a very different quality — and the manliness which one
observes there too, would look like whatever it is farthest
from. This is a real avowal of weakness — because, being in
the right, as I dare trust I am, so far as I can see through the
involvement, I ought to be able to take my stand upon it, —
and so I shall be able, and easily — but not here, just here.
With Mr. Kenyon, in spite of a few misgivings, I shall
know what to say — I can justify myself, if not convince
him. Never fancy, dearest, that he has any ‘ clay ‘ in his
composition — he may show a drop of water at the heart of
the else entire chrystal he is — did you ever see that pretty
phenomenon — of which Claudian wrote so prettily ? ‘ Non
potuit toto mentiri corpore gemmam, sed medio latuit
proditor orbe latex.’ Our Druids used to make balls for
divining out of such all-but-solid gems with the central
weakness — I have had them in my hand. Such doubts and
fears are infinitely more becoming in him, situated as he is,
than their absence would be — if he said for instance, ‘ Oh
yes, — I am used to a certain style of living, which of course
I do not change for no reason at all, — but who doubts that
I could do so, without difficulty or regret ? I shall hardly
bestow any sympathy on what I am sure must be the easiest
life in the world ! ‘ One would rather hear an epicure say
frankly he cannot conceive how people can end a dinner
without Tokay, than ask over his Tokay (as Sheridan’s
Abbot in the ‘ Duenna ‘) of the poor starved wistful attendant
monk, ‘ Haven’t you the chrystal spring ? ‘

In this case, he is directly looking to your possible
undertakings, not merely expressing his general ‘ remembrance
that we are dust ‘ and need gilding — and certainly
if in some respects you have, as I believe, less use, fewer
uses for money than ordinary women, — you also have an
absolute necessity for whatever portion you do require, —
such a necessity as they have not, neither. I shall never
grieve over the lace handkerchiefs you cannot get — but
whatever you possess already in this room of yours, or might
possess on the contingency of such illness, you must keep,
— to your life’s end. I would not take you away on any other
condition. Now listen Ba — not think for a moment that it
puts me to the least, least pain imaginable to talk on this
subject, while I know you wholly, as there I am sure I do,
and while you too know me, as I also am sure, — we may
discuss this, as we do the better or worse routes to Italy,
in the fullest confidence of our aims and desires being absolutely
identical, — so that it is but a prize for the ingenuity of
either, — a prize from the common stock of our advantage, —
whenever a facility is discovered or a difficulty avoided. So
listen, — will you, at once, or as soon as practicable, ascertain
what you certainly possess — what is quite yours, and in your
sole power, to take or to let remain — what will be just as
available to you in Italy as in England ? I want to know,
being your possible husband. My notion of the perfection
of money arrangements is that of a fairy purse which every
day should hold so much, and there an end of trouble.
Houses and land always seem like a vineyard to a man who
wants a draught of wine for present thirst : so tell me how
much will be found in the purse — because when we are in
Italy or halfway there telling will be superfluous or beyond
remedy, — easy remedy at least.

Since writing the above I have been down-stairs — and
now return to tell you, a miracle has just happened, which
my father, mother and sister are at this moment engaged in
admiring — I hear their voices in the garden. We have a
fig-tree which I planted four years ago — this year it produces
its first fruit, a small fig, ‘ seule et unique, ‘ which is still on
the tree — not another fig, ripe or unripe, living or dead, has
ever been carried into the garden — yet this morning is
discovered in the exact centre of the garden, and parallel with
the fig-tree aforesaid, another indubitable seedling fig-tree, —
‘ how begot, how nourished ? ‘ Ipse vidi — does that
prognosticate, my own Siren, my soothsayer and wise lady?

And now, have you been incommoded by the storm, —
and thunder, which was loud and lasting here ? I thought
of you with such thoughts.

And what came of my visit ? Was it really your Aunt —
did my precipitation improve matters ? Will Saturday have
to fear ?

Yesterday I was not in a mood to go quietly home —
‘ for my soul kept up too much light under my eyelids for
the night, and thus I went disquieted ‘ till at Charing Cross
it struck me that going home by water (to Greenwich, at
least) would be a calmative — so I went on board a steamer.
Close by me sate three elderly respectable men, — I could
not help hearing them talk rationally about the prospects of
the planters, the ‘ compensation there is to be in the article
of Rum,’ — how we ‘ get labour,’ which is the main thing,
and may defy, with that, Cuba, the Brazils &c. One who
talked thus was a fat genial fellow, ending every sentence
in a laugh from pure good-nature — his companions somehow
got to ‘ the Church,’ then Puseyism, then Dissent — on all
which this personage had his little opinion, — when one
friend happened to ask ‘ you think so ? ‘ — ‘ I do, ‘ said the
other ‘and indeed I know it.’ ‘How so?’ — ‘Because it
was revealed to me in a vision.’ ‘A … vision ?’ — ‘Yes,
a vision ‘ — and so he began to describe it, quite in earnest,
but with the selfsame precision and assurance, with which
he had been a little before describing the effect of the
lightning on an iron steam boat at Woolwich as he witnessed
it. In this vision he had seen the devil cast out of himself
— which he took for an earnest of God’s purposes for good
to the world at large — I thought, ‘ we mad poets, — and
this very unpoetical person ! ‘ who had also previously been
entering on the momentous question ‘ why I grow fatter
than of old, seeing that I eat no more — ‘

Come, Ba, say, is not this too bad, too far from the line ?
— I may talk this by you, — but write this away from you,
— oh, no ! Be with me then, dearest, for one moment, for
many moments, in spite of the miles, while I kiss your
sweetest lips, as now — Beloved !

I am ever your very own

Oh, — I determine not to go yet to Mrs. J’s ‘ for reasons ‘
— a phrase which ought to be ready stereotyped.

[Postmark: August 5, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

One word or two to-night and no more, let the paper
spread itself as it may. Dearest, it was wise of you,
perhaps, to go to-day. Wisdom was the first to wear sack-
cloth. My aunt, who had just had time to hear of your
being in the house, found my door open, and you were
noticed by a passing jest . . too passing to meet ears in
authority — and I was made to put on my bonnet and go
out in the carriage with our department of the bridal party,
who had come home first, in order to change their costume
into something wearable for comfort . . into gowns which
had not a devil, torturing the wearers with a morbid sense
of flounces. So they came home for that, and we were
vexed and frightened for that reason — and I was taken to
Kensington Gardens to leave some walkers there, and then
to Fenton’s Hotel, to leave my aunt as comforter for
the evening. Altogether, oh, how provoked I was !
But it was wise perhaps. I will not say that it was not
very wise indeed. Papa knows nothing of your having
been here, and Saturday is not far off. Still, to think
of two hours being cut off ; and of the long journey
from New Cross, just for the one hour ! Shall I hear
to-morrow fully, to make up for it, Robert ? And tell
me if you accept Mrs. Jameson’s invitation. And your
head ?

Flush thanks you ! I asked him if he loved you even,
and he wagged his tail. Generally when I ask him that
question he won’t answer at all, — but you have overcome
him with generosity . . as you do me !

I forgot to tell you — There is a letter from Mr. Horne
which makes me vexed a little. He is coming to England,
and says, that, if still I will not see him, he shall bring his
guitar to play and sing for my sisters, leaving the door open
that I may hear up-stairs. What a vexation ! How shall I
escape a checkmate now? He castles his king, and the
next move undoes me. There’s a bishop though to be
played first, for he wants an introduction to Whately, which
I am to write for to Miss Mitford, if I don’t know him
myself.

My consolation for to-day, is, that to-morrow is not
Sunday. In the meanwhile, nothing is talked except of the
glories of Fenton’s Hotel. The bride behaved with the
most indisputable grace, and had words and smiles for
everybody. The bridegroom appears to have been rather
petrified (he was saying orisons to St. James, I dare say) and
was condemned by the severer critics, for being able to
produce no better speech at the breakfast, when his health
was drunk with ever so much elaboration of eloquence, than
‘ I thank you — I propose yours. ‘ For my part I sympathize
more with him in that point of specific stupidity, than on
any other I have yet heard of. If he had said as little about
ecclesiastical architecture, he would have been
unobjectionable, wholly. They went away with four horses, in disdain
of the railroads.

But poor Mrs. Hedley was dreadfully affected — I knew
she would be. This is the only grown-up daughter, you
see, — the others being all children, the youngest three years
old — and she loses a constant companion, besides the
hourly sight of a very lovely girl, the delight of her eyes and
heart.

Dearest, you understood why I told you to-day of Mr.
Kenyon’s professed opinions ? It was to make you know
him. The rest, we know alike. And for him even, when
he looks back on a thing instead of looking forward to it
(where the Bude Light of the world is in his eyes and blinds
them) he will see aright and as we do. Only you frightened
me by your idea about his application to you. May God
forbid !

May God bless you, rather, in the best way ! Why
should I choose how ? I ‘ ought ‘ not, I think, to fancy
that I know the best for you, enough to use such words.

But I am your own. That, we both know ! May I be
yours, not to do you harm, my beloved ! Good-night, now !

[Postmark: August 4, 1846]

Monday.

Two precious letters to make amends for yesterday ! and
in return only just two or three words to say . . ‘ yes, come. ‘
And I meant to have proposed to you something like what
you suggest when you talk of the book and the note. If
the ground is not clear at three, and Papa (above all) still
in the house, you shall have a note, instead of admittance, . .
and you will understand by the sign that it is wise for us
not to meet. My hope and expectation are, however, that
no obstacle will occur — that he will be in the city, and she
at Fenton’s Hotel, engaged in some office of consolation
beside her sister. I seriously exhorted her to remain there
the rest of the day to wipe away the tears of the bride’s
mother . . as an appendix to the breakfast : — ah, and
seriously I thought she ought to stay, as well as seriously
wishing it. And thus, altogether, we shall probably have
open ground when it is desirable. If not, the note ! —

For the rest, dearest, do not exaggerate to yourself my
report of what passed on Saturday. It was an unpleasant
impression, and that is all, . . and nothing, I believe, has
been thought of it since. Once before, remember, your
apparition made an unpleasant impression, which was
perfectly transitory then as now. Now as then, do not
suffer such things to vex you beyond their due import.
There will be no coming back, no directions to servants,
nothing of the sort. Only it would not do to deepen
Saturday’s impression with to-morrow’s — we must be
prudent a little.

And you see me, my prophet, sent to Sussex or Devonshire,
in a flash of lightning ? That is your presentiment,
do you say ? Well ! Sussex is possible, Kent is not
impossible. This house, . . vox populi clamat, — wants
cleaning, painting, papering — the inhabitants thereof, too,
cry aloud for fresh air. Nevertheless, summer after summer,
there have been the same reasons for going, and nobody
goes. We shall see.

So, till to-morrow ! Dear, dearest ! you are always
best — to justify the dearest, I suppose ! I remember your
having said before some of this . . which, never could I
forget, having once heard. But think how Alfred the king
divided his days — and how Solomon the king would tell
you of ‘ a time ‘ for sitting with me. ‘ Bid me . . not . .
discourse ‘ however — we shall both know what is right
presently — and I in the meanwhile perfectly do now that
I could not consent to your shutting yourself up for my
sake — no, indeed !

Shall I fail to you ? Could I ? Could it be needful for
me to say ‘ I will not fail. ‘

Your own, I am.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Oh, the comfort you are to me, Ba — the perpetual
blessing and sustainment ! And what a piece of you, how
instinct with you, this letter is ! I will not try to thank
you, but my whole life shall.

See ! Now talk of ‘ three or four months ‘ ! And is not
the wonder, that this should wait for the eighty-second visit
to happen ? Or could anything be more fortunate, more
mitigating than the circumstances under which it did happen
at last? The rain and thunder, — the two hours (see the
accounts — nothing like it has been known, for years), at most,
proved against us, — the ignorance of the visits last week —
in spite of all which, see what comes and is likely to come !

Let me say at once that, at the worst, it may come !
You have had time to know enough of me, my Ba, — and I,
who from the first knew you, have taken one by one your
promises from your lips, — I believe what you write here ; I
accept it as the foundation of all my future happiness — ‘ you
will never fail me ‘ — I will never fail you, dearest dearest.

How you have mistaken my words, whatever they may
have been, about the ‘ change ‘ to be expected in my life !
I have, most sincerely I tell you, no one habit nor manner
to change or persevere in, — if you once accept the general
constitution of me as accordant to yours in a sufficient
degree, — my incompleteness with your completeness,
dearest, — there is no further difficulty. I want to be a
Poet — to read books which make wise in their various ways,
to see just so much of nature and the ways of men as seems
necessary — and having done this already in some degree, I
can easily and cheerfully afford to go without any or all of
it for the future, if called upon, — and so live on, and ‘ use
up, ‘ my past acquisitions such as they are. I will go to Pisa
and learn, — or stay here and learn in another way — putting,
as I always have done, my whole pride, if that is the proper
name, in the being able to work with the least possible
materials. There is my scheme of life without you, before
you existed for me ; prosecuted hitherto with every sort of
weakness, but always kept in view and believed in. Now
then, please to introduce Ba, and say what is the habit she
changes ? But do not try to say what divinest confirmation
she brings to ‘ whatever is good and holy and true ‘ in this
scheme, because even She cannot say that ! All the liberty and
forbearance . . most graceful, most characteristic of you,
sweet ! But why should I play with you, at taking what I
mean to give again ? — or rather, what it would be a horror
to have to keep — why make fantastic stipulations only to
have the glory of not abiding by them ? If I may speak of
my own desires for a moment unconnected with your happiness,
— of what I want for myself, purely — what I mean
by marrying you, — it is, that I may be with you forever — I
cannot have enough of you in any other relation : why then
should I pretend to make reservations and say ‘ Yes, you
shall deprive me of yourself ‘ (of your sympathy, of your
knowledge, and good wishes, and counsel) on such and
such occasions? But I feel your entire goodness, dear
angel of my life, — ever more I feel it, though all seems
felt and recorded.

And now of your ‘ chronicling ‘ — of course Mr. Kenyon
knows — and this is the beginning of his considerate,
cautious kindness — he has determined to hurry nothing,
interfere abruptly in no case, to make you infer rather than
pretend to instruct you — as you must, — for ‘ if the
visits of Captain Cook have that appearance &c., must not
those of R.B. &c., &c., ‘ So, this is not from Chorley’s
information, mind, but from his own spectacled acumen.

After this, it seems very natural to remark that the Havre
packets leave now at nine instead of eight o’clock on
Thursdays and Sundays — while the departures from
Southampton are on Tuesdays and Fridays. My presentiment
is that suddenly you will be removed to Devonshire or
Sussex or — . In which case, our difficulties will multiply
considerably — be prepared for such events !

And for to-morrow — only think of yourself, lest you
should forget my interests : pray write to-night, if but two
or three words. If I am allowed to call, I will bring
Mrs. Butler’s book in a cover, and, if I find a note from you,
leave that, as an excuse for the knock. Will you contrive
that a note shall be ready — in case of your Aunt’s presence
&c. If it saves you from a danger, let me stay away — until
the letters stop, I can bear absence till the two months end
— any such journey as I apprehend would be most annoying,
deplorable indeed.

Would you not if the worst came, — what would you
do?

May God bless you, infinitely bless you, ever dearest
dearest, prays ever your very own —

R.

Mrs. Procter wants me to go to her on Thursday — is there
anything to get out of that arrangement ? — probably not
— but write !

Do reconsider, Ba, — had I better stay away to-morrow ?
You cannot misunderstand me, — I only think of you — any
man’s anger to me is Flushie’s barking, without the
respectability of motive, — but, once the door shut on me,
if he took to biting you ! Think for us both ! Is there any
possibility of a suspicious sudden return because of the
facilities of the day ? Or of the servant being desired to
mention my visits — or to ‘ deny you, ‘ as unwell &c. ? Ah
my soul revolts at the notion of a scene in your presence
— my own tied tongue, and a system of patience I can well
resolve upon, but not be sure of, as experience makes sure.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Sunday.

What can I tell you, ever dearest, while I am expecting
all you are to tell me ? I will not conjecture, nor be afraid
(for you) before the time — I felt your dear hand press mine
closer while the thunder sounded — so it will always be, I
know, in life, in death — and when a thunder shall break, of
a kind that I can fear. I will hold your hand, my Ba.
Perhaps there is nothing formidable here . . indeed there
can hardly be — tell me all. I got to your Hodgson’s,
waited a few minutes till a cab passed, and then was
properly deposited at the Haymarket. The streets, at least
the roads out of Town, were flooded — very canals. Here, at
home our skylight was broken, — and our chimneys behaved
just as yours.

And now — shall I see you really on Tuesday after this
Saturday of perils? And how will your head be, — your
health in general be, you sweetest Ba ? Is it the worse for
the storm and the apprehension, — to say nothing of what
may have followed ? Oh, if but a ‘ sign ‘ might be
vouchsafed me — if I might go to Wimpole Street presently,
and merely know by the disposition of a blind or of a shutter,
that you were better, or no worse ! I ought to have contrived
something of the kind yesterday — but ‘ presence of mind ‘ !

Ba, I have been reading those poems — now to speak
soberly — I had no conception, Mrs. Butler could have
written anything so mournfully mediocre . . to go as near
flattery as I can. With the exception of three or four pieces
respectable from their apparent earnestness, all that album
writing about ‘ sprites,’ and the lily-bell, and ‘ wishes ‘ —
now to be dead and now alive, — descriptions without colour,
songs without tune, — why, Bennett towers above it ! Either
Bennett — for the one touch you recorded, ‘ I will not be
forgot ‘ — seems grandly succinct contrasted with

Yet not in tears remembered be my name —
Weep over those ye loved — for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality.

How many of these unfortunate Sundays are in store
for me, I wonder — eight or nine, then the two months . .
‘ when constant faith and holy hope shall die, ‘ one lost in
certainty and one in the deep deep joy of the ever present
ever dearest Ba ! Oh, Ba, how I love you !

Your own R.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Sunday Morning and Evening.

Ever dearest, you were wet surely ? The rain came
before you reached the front door ; and for a moment
(before I heard it shut) I hoped you might return. Dearest,
how I blame myself for letting you go — for not sending you
a cab in despite of you ! I was frightened out of all wisdom
by the idea of who was down-stairs and listening perhaps,
and watching — as if the cab would have made you appear
more emphatically you ! And then you said ‘ the rain was
over ‘ — and I believed you as usual. If this isn’t a
precedent of the evils of too much belief … ! !

Altogether, yesterday may pass among the ‘ unsatisfactory
days, ‘ I think — for if I was not frightened of the storm,
and indeed I was not, much — of the state of affairs down in
the provinces, I was most sorely frightened — uneasy the
whole time. I seem to be with you, Robert, at this moment,
more than yesterday I was . . though if I look up now, I do
not see you sitting there ! — but when you sate there
yesterday, I was looking at Papa’s face as I saw it through
the floor, and now I see only yours.

Dearest, he came into the room at about seven, before
he went to dinner — I was lying on the sofa and had on a
white dressing gown, to get rid of the strings . . so
oppressive the air was, for all the purifications of lightning.
He looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him, and
said, ‘ Has this been your costume since the morning,
pray ? ‘

‘ Oh no ‘ — I answered — ‘ Only just now, because of
the heat.’

‘ Well, ‘ he resumed, with a still graver aspect . . (so
displeased he looked, dearest ! ) ‘ it appears, Ba, that
that man has spent the whole day with you. ‘ To which I
replied as quietly as I could, that you had several times
meant to go away, but that the rain would not let you, —
and there the colloquy ended. Brief enough — but it took
my breath away . . or what was left by the previous fear.
And think how it must have been a terrible day, when the
lightning of it made the least terror.

I was right too about the message — he took up the
fancy that I might be ill perhaps with fear . . ‘ and only
Mr. Browning in the room ‘ ! ! which was not to be
permitted. He was peremptory with Arabel, she told me.

Well — we need not talk any more of it — it has made one
of us uncomfortable long enough. Shall you dare come on
Tuesday after all ? He will be out. If he is not — if my
aunt should not be . . if a new obstacle should occur . .
why you shall hear on Tuesday. At any rate I shall write,
I think. He did not see you go yesterday — he had himself
preceded you by an hour . . at five o’clock . . which if it
had been known, would have relieved me infinitely. Yet it
did not prevent . . you see . . the appalling commentary at
seven — No.

With all the rest I am afraid besides of Mr. Chorley and
his idea about your ‘ mysteriousness. ‘ Let Mr. Kenyon
hold that thread in one hand, and in the other the thread
Henrietta gave him so carelessly, why he need not ask you
for information — which reminds me of the case you put to
me, Robert — and certainly you could not help a confession,
in such possible circumstances. Only, even granting the
circumstances, you need not confess more than is wrung
from you — need you ? Because Mr. Kenyon would undo us.

Before yesterday’s triple storms, I had a presentiment
which oppressed me during two days . . a presentiment that
it would all end ill, through some sudden accident or misery
of some kind. What is the use of telling you this ? I do
not know. I will tell you besides, that it cannot . . shall
not . . be, by my fault or failing. I may be broken indeed,
but never bent.

If things should go smoothly, however, I want to say
one word, once for all, in relation to them. Once or twice
you have talked as if a change were to take place in your
life through marrying — whereas I do beg you to keep in
mind that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed
aside because of me. If you snould make me feel myself
in the way, should I like it, do you think ? And how could
I disturb a single habit or manner of yours . . as an un-
married man . . though being within call — I ? The best
of me is, that I am really very quiet and not difficult to
content — having not been spoilt by an excess of prosperity
even in little things. It will be prosperity in the greatest,
if you seem to be happy — believe that, and leave all the
rest. You will go out just as you do now . . when you choose,
and as a matter of course, and without need of a word — you
will be precisely as you are now in everything, — lord of the
house-door-key, and of your own ways — so that when I
shall go to Greece, you shall not feel yourself much better
off than before I went. That shall be a reserved vengeance,
Robert.

While I write, comes Mr. Kenyon, — and through a
special interposition of guardian-angels, he has broken his
spectacles and carries them in his hand. On which I
caught at the opportunity and told him that they were the
most unbecoming things in the world, and that fervently
(and sincerely) I hoped never to see them mended. The
next word was . . ‘ Did you see Browning yesterday ? ‘
‘ Yes.’ ‘ I thought so, I intended to come myself, but I
thought it probable that he would be here, and so I stayed
away — ‘

Now — — confess to you that that thought carries me
a good way over to your impression. It is at least ‘
suspicious, ‘ that he who knew you were with me on Saturday
and Tuesday should expect to find you again on the next
Saturday. ‘ Oh — how uncomfortable ‘ — the miracle of the
broken spectacles not saving one from the discomfort of the
position open to the bare eyes ! —

He talked of you a little — asked what you were doing —
praised you as usual . . for inexhaustible knowledge and
general reasonableness, this time. Did I not think so?
Yes — of course I thought so.

Presently he made me look aghast by just this question —
‘ Is there an attachment between your sister Henrietta
and Capt. Cook ? ‘ –(put as abruptly as I put it here).

My heart leapt up — as Wordsworth’s to the rainbow in
the sky — but there was a recoil in my leap. ‘ Why, Mr.
Kenyon ? ‘ — I said . . ‘ what extraordinary questions, opening
into unspeakable secrets, you do ask. ‘

‘ But I did not know that it was a secret. How was I
to know ? I have seen him here very often, and it is a
natural enquiry which I might have put to anybody in the
house touching a matter open to general observation. I
thought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s
consent.’

‘ But you ought to know, ‘ I answered, ‘ that such
things are never permitted in this house. So much for
the consent. As for the matter itself you are right in your
supposition — but it is a great secret, — and I entreat
you not to put questions about it to anybody in or out of
the house. ‘ Something to that effect I believe I said — I
was frightened . . frightened . . and not exactly for
Henrietta. What did he mean ? — Had he too in his mind . . .

He touched on Mrs. Jameson . . just touched . . He had
desired my sisters to tell me. He thought I had better
write a note to thank her for her kindness. He had told
her that if I had any thoughts of Italy they could be
accomplished only by a sea-voyage, which was impossible to
her.

I briefly expressed a sense of the kindness and said that
I meant to write. On which the subject was changed in
mutual haste, as seemed to me.

Is not this the book of the chronicles ? . . And you shall
hear again on Tuesday, if the post should be faithful to me
that morning. I might be inclined to put off our Tuesday’s
meeting, but Mrs. Hedley remains in London for a few days
after her daughter’s marriage, and ‘ means to see a great
deal ‘ of me — therefore Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, . .
where should we look, from Tuesday ? but I must consider
and will write. May God bless you ! Do say how you
are after that rain. The storm is calm,

and ever and ever I am your own BA.