Author: EBB

[Postmark: September 19, 1846]

Friday Night.

At from half-past three to four, then—four will not, I
suppose, be too late. I will not write more— I cannot.
By to-morrow at this time, I shall have you only, to love me
—my beloved !

You only ! As if one said God only. And we shall have
Him beside, I pray of Him.

I shall send to your address at New Cross your Hanmer’s
poems—and the two dear books you gave me, which I do
not like to leave here and am afraid of hurting by taking
them with me. Will you ask our Sister to put the parcel
into a drawer, so as to keep it for us ?

Your letters to me I take with me, let the ‘ounces’ cry
out aloud, ever so. I tried to leave them, and I could not.
That is, they would not be left : it was not my fault—I will
not be scolded.

Is this my last letter to you, ever dearest ? Oh—if I
loved you less . . a little, little less.

Why I should tell you that our marriage was invalid, or
ought to be ; and that you should by no means come
for me to-morrow. It is dreadful . . dreadful . . to have
to give pain here by a voluntary act—for the first time in
my life.

Remind your mother and father of me affectionately
and gratefully—and your Sister too ! Would she think it
too bold of me to say our Sister, if she had heard it on the
last page ?

Do you pray for me to-night, Robert ? Pray for me,
and love me, that I may have courage, feeling both—

Your own
BA.

The boxes are safely sent. Wilson has been perfect to
me. And I . . calling her ‘timid,’ and afraid of her
timidity ! I begin to think that none are so bold as the
timid, when they are fairly roused.

[Postmark: September 18, 1846]

Dearest, here is the paper of addresses. I cannot
remember, I am so confused, half of them.

Surely you say wrong in the hour for to-morrow. Also
there is the express train. Would it not be better ?

Your BA.

[Postmark: September 18, 1846]

Dearest take this word, as if it were many. I am so tired
—and then it shall be the right word.

Sunday and Friday are impossible. On Saturday I will
go to you, if you like—with half done, . . nothing done
. . . scarcely. Will you come for me to Hodgson’s ? or
shall I meet you at the station ? At what o’clock should I
set out, to be there at the hour you mention ?

Also, for the boxes . . we cannot carry them out of the
house, you know, Wilson and I. They must be sent on
Friday evening to the Vauxhall station, ‘to be taken care
of.’ Will the people keep them carefully ? Ought someone
to be spoken to beforehand ? If we sent them to New
Cross, they would not reach you in time.

Hold me my beloved—with your love. It is very
hard— But Saturday seems the only day for us. Tell me
if you think so indeed.

Your very own BA.

The boxes must have your name on them of course.
Let there be no great haste about sending out the cards.
Saturday might be mentioned in the advertisement, without
the date—might it not ?

[Postmark: September 17, 1846]

Dearest, the general departure from this house takes place on Monday – and the house at Little Bookham is six miles from the nearest railroad, and a mile and a half from Leatherhead where a coach runs. Now you are to judge. Certainly if I go with you on Saturday I shall not have half the letters written – you, who talk so largely of epic poems, have not the least imagination of my state of mind and spirits. I began to write a letter to Papa this morning, and could do nothing but cry, and looked so pale thereupon, that everybody wondered what could be the matter. Oh – quite well I am now, and I only speak of myself in that way to show you how the inspiration is by no means sufficient for epic poems. Still, I may certainly write the necessary letters, . . and do the others on the road . . could I, do you think ? I would rather have waited – indeed rather – only it may be difficult to leave Bookham . . yet possible – so tell me what you would have me do.

Wilson and I have a light box and a carpet bag between us – and I will be docile about the books, dearest. Do you take a desk ? Had I better not, I wonder ?

Then for box and carpet bag . . Remember that we cannot take them out of the house with us. We must send them the evening before – Friday evening, if we went on Saturday . . and where ? Have you a friend anywhere, to whose house they might be sent, or could they go direct to the railroad office – and what office ? In that case they should have your name on them, should they not ?

Now think for me, ever dearest – and tell me what you do not tell me . . that you continue better. Ah no – you are ill again – or you would not wait to be told to tell me. And the dear, dear little bud ! – I shall keep it to the end of my life, if you love me so long, . . or not, sir ! I thank you, dearest.

Your mother ! – I am very, very sorry. Would it be better and kinder to wait on her account ? – tell me that too.

Yes, they are perfectly kind. We must love them well : and I shall, I am sure.

Mr. Kenyon sends the ‘ Fawn,’ which IS Landor’s Fawn, and desires me to send it to you when I have done with it. As if I could read a word ! He directs me to write to him to Taunton, Somersetshire. May God bless you, beloved.

No more to-night from your very own

BA.

Are not passengers allowed to carry a specific proportion of luggage ? What do you mean then, by paying for every ounce ? As to Dieppe, the diligence would be more fatiguing than the river, and, without strong reasons, one would prefer of course the Havre plan. Still I am not afraid of either. Think.

You might put in the newspaper . . of Wimpole Street and Jamaica, or . . and Cinnamon Hill, Jamaica. That is right and I thought of it at first – only stopped . . seeming to wish to have as little about poor Papa as possible. Do as you think best now.

[Postmark: September 16, 1846]

Tuesday.

Dearest, you were in the right as usual, and I in a fright as sometimes. I took a mere fancy into my head about your writing to Mr. Kenyon. To-day he came, and I did not see him – on the ground of a headache, which, though real, was not really sufficient of itself to keep me from seeing him, if I had not distrusted my self-control – so I did not see him. To-morrow he goes away. His letters will of course be made to follow him, and we may easily precede the newspapers by a day or two.

As for the advertisements, you quite amuse me by telling me to compose an advertisement. How should I know better than you, dearest, or as well even ? All I intermeddle with willingly is the matter of the date – although there is something in what you say about the mystery, and the idea of our being six months married – still it is our disquieted conscience that gives us such thoughts – and when the advertisement appears and the cards come out so very properly, people will not have enough imagination to apprehend a single mystery in the case : and the omission of the date will not be so singular . . will it ? On the other hand I apprehend evil from the date of the marriage being known. One of my brothers may be sent to examine the register, but would not betray the fact in question, I think, to my father : would not, I am certain, willingly give cause for additional irritation against me. But if the date be publicly announced, Papa must know it, and most of my personal friends will be sure to know it. I have written letters and seen people since the twelfth . . Mr. Kenyon on Sunday, Miss Bordman on Monday. Moreover Papa would be exposed to unpleasant observations – he going every day among his City friends, and on Saturday among the rest. What quantities of good reasons, . . till you are tired of them and me !

Would you put it this way . . At such a church, by such a minister, Robert Browning Esquire, of New Cross, author of ‘ Paracelsus,’ to Elizabeth Barrett, eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett Esquire of Wimpole Street. Would you put it so ? I do not understand really, . . and whether you should be specified as the author of ‘ Paracelsus ‘ . . but, for me, it ought to be, I think, simply as I have written it. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that what we did on Saturday is quite invalid, so that you may give me up now if you like – it isn’t too late. You gave me a wrong name – Moulton is no Christian name of mine. Moulton Barrett is our family name ; Elizabeth Barrett, my Christian name – Behold and see !

I will send the list if I can have time to-night to write it – but the haste, the hurry – do you think, when in your right mind, of getting away this week ? Think of the work before us ! Next Monday is the day fixed for the general departure to a house taken at Little Bookham or Hookham . . what is it ? Well – we must think. Tell me when you want me to go. I might go from the new house, perhaps. But you will think, dearest, and tell me. Tell me first, though, how your head continues or begins again . . for I fear that the good news is too sudden to last long – I fear.

Thankful, thankful I shall be when we are gone out of reach of evil, when I shall have heard that my poor dearest Papa is only angry with me, and not sorry because of me, and that Henrietta and Arabel are not too miserable. They come between me and the thought of you often – but I do not, for that, love you less – oh no. You are best and dearest in saying what you say – only, observe, there is not any practicable ‘ concession ‘ now for you. All you can do now, is what you will do . . in being tolerant, and gentle, for my sake. My own dearest, I am your

BA.

The list to-morrow.

[Postmark: September 15, 1846]

Monday Evening.

First, God is to be thanked for this great joy of hearing that you are better, my ever dearest – it is a joy that floats over all the other emotions. Dearest, I am so glad ! I had feared that excitement’s telling on you quite in another way. When the whole is done, and we have left England and the talkers thereof behind our backs, you will be well, steadfastly and satisfactorily, I do trust. In the meantime, there seems so much to do, that I am frightened to look towards the heaps of it. As to accoutrements, everything has been arranged as simply as possible that way – but still there are necessities – and the letters, the letters ! I am paralysed when I think of having to write such words as . . ‘ Papa, I am married ; I hope you will not be too displeased.’ Ah, poor Papa ! You are too sanguine if you expect any such calm from him as an assumption of indifference would imply. To the utmost, he will be angry, – he will cast me off as far from him. Well – there is no comfort in such thoughts. How I felt to-night when I saw him at seven o’clock, for the first time since Friday, and the event of Saturday ! He spoke kindly too, and asked me how I was. Once I heard of his saying of me that I was ‘ the purest woman he ever knew,’ – which made me smile at the moment, or laugh I believe, outright, because I understood perfectly what he meant by that – viz – that I had not troubled him with the iniquity of love affairs, or any impropriety of seeming to think about being married. But now the whole sex will go down with me to the perdition of faith in any of us. See the effect of my wickedness ! –’ Those women ! ‘

But we will submit, dearest. I will put myself under his feet, to be forgiven a little, . . enough to be taken up again into his arms. I love him – he is my father – he has good and high qualities after all : he is my father above all. And you, because you are so generous and tender to me, will let me, you say, and help me to try to win back the alienated affection – for which, I thank you and bless you, – I did not thank you enough this morning. Surely I may say to him, too, . . ‘ With the exception of this act, I have submitted to the least of your wishes all my life long. Set the life against the act, and forgive me, for the sake of the daughter you once loved.’ Surely I may say that, – and then remind him of the long suffering I have suffered, – and entreat him to pardon the happiness which has come at last.

And he will wish in return, that I had died years ago ! For the storm will come and endure. And at last, perhaps, he will forgive us – it is my hope.

I accede to all you say of Mr. Kenyon. I will ask him for his address in the country, and we will send, when the moment comes, our letters together.

From Mrs. Jameson I had the letter I enclose, this morning, (full of kindness – is it not ?) and another really as kind from Miss Bayley, who begs me, if I cannot go to Italy, to go to Hastings and visit her. To both I must write at some length. Will you write to Mrs. Jameson, besides what I shall write ? And what are we to say as to travelling ? As she is in Paris, perhaps we may let her have the solution of our problem sooner than the near people. May we ? shall we ? Yet we dare not, I suppose, talk too historically of what happened last Saturday. It is like the dates in the newspaper – advertisements, which we must eschew, as you observe.

Other things, too, you observe, my beloved, which are altogether out of date. In your ways towards me, you have acted throughout too much ‘ the woman’s part,’ as that is considered. You loved me because I was lower than others, that you might be generous and raise me up : – very characteristic for a woman (in her ideal standard) but quite wrong for a man, as again and again I used to signify to you, Robert – but you went on and did it all the same. And now, you still go on – you persist – you will be the woman of the play, to the last ; let the prompter prompt ever so against you. You are to do everything I like, instead of my doing what you like, . . and to ‘ honour and obey ‘ me, in spite of what was in the vows last Saturday, – is that the way of it and of you? and are vows to be kept so, pray ? after that fashion ? Then, don’t put ‘ at home ‘ at the corner of the cards, dearest ! It is my command !

And forgive the inveterate jesting, which jests with eyes full of tears. I love you – I bless God for you. You are too good for me, as always I knew. I look up to you continually.

It is best, I continue to think, that you should not come here – best for you, because the position, if you were to try it, would be less tolerable than ever – and best for both of us, that in case the whole truth were ever discovered (I mean, of the previous marriage) we might be able to call it simply an act in order to security. I don’t know how to put my feeling into words, but I do seem to feel that it would be better, and less offensive to those whom we offend at any rate, to avoid all possible remark on this point. It seems better to a sort of instinct I have.

Then, if I see you – farewell, the letter-writing. Oh no – there will be time enough when we are on the railway ! – We shall talk then.

Ah – you say such things to me ! Dearest, dearestest ! And you do not start at that word, ‘ Irrevocable,’ as I have had fancies that you might, when the time came ! ‘ But you may recover, by putting out your hand, all you have given me, . . nearly all. I never, never, being myself, could willingly vex you, torment you. If I approach to it, you will tell me. I will confide in you, to that end also. Dearest.

And your father’s goodness, and the affectionateness of them all. When they shall have learnt most that I am not worthy of you, they will have learnt besides that I can be grateful to them and you. Certainly I am capable, I hope, of loving them all, well and with appreciation. And then . . imagine the comfort I take to the deepest of my heart from these hands held out to me ! For your sake ! Yes, for your sake entirely ! – and, so, the more dearly comforting to

Your very own BA.

There is still difficulty about the house. They think of Tunbridge Wells.

[Postmark: September 14, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Ever dearest, this one word goes to you to say about Mr. Kenyon’s letter – oh, do not send any letter, dearest, till we are out of hearing of the answer. It terrifies me to think of your sending a letter, perhaps, without delay. Do let no letter nor intimation be given till the very last. Remember that I shall be killed – it will be so infinitely worse than you can have an idea.

Afterwards – yes ! – you will, for my sake forget some natural pride, as I, for yours, have forgotten some as natural apprehensiveness. That kindness, I expected from you, . . and now accept . . thanking you, dearest. In the meanwhile, there seems to remain the dreadful danger of the newspapers – we must trust, as you say.

Your mother’s goodness touches me very deeply. I am grateful to her and to all your family, beyond any power of mine to express my feelings. Let me be silent therefore, instead of trying.

As to the important business of the cards, you know I have heard the whole theory of etiquette lately on that subject, and you must not think of putting any ‘ At home’ anywhere, or any other thing in the place of it. A Fellows is an authority in Asia Minor, but for the minora of the cards, not at all. Put simply the names, as you say, on one card, only without abbreviation or initial, and no intimation of address, which is not necessary, and would be under our circumstances quite wrong. Then I had better perhaps send you a list of names and addresses. But for this, enough time.

They hasten me – I must go. Not from the thought however of you . . being your very own Ba.

I shall write of course in the evening again.

[Postmark: September 14, 1846]

Sunday.

My own beloved, if ever you should have reason to complain of me in things voluntary and possible, all other women would have a right to tread me underfoot, I should be so vile and utterly unworthy. There is my answer to what you wrote yesterday of wishing to be better to me . . you ! What could be better than lifting me from the ground and carrying me into life and the sunshine ? I was yours rather by right than by gift (yet by gift also, my beloved !) ; for what you have saved and renewed is surely yours. All that I am, I owe you – if I enjoy anything now and henceforth, it is through you. You know this well. Even as I, from the beginning, knew that I had no power against you, . . or that, if I had, it was for your sake.

Dearest, in the emotion and confusion of yesterday morning, there was yet room in me for one thought which was not a feeling – for I thought that, of the many, many women who have stood where I stood, and to the same end, not one of them all perhaps, not one perhaps, since that building was a church, has had reasons strong as mine, for an absolute trust and devotion towards the man she married, – not one ! And then I both thought and felt, that it was only just, for them, . . those women who were less happy, . . to have that affectionate sympathy and support and presence of their nearest relations, parent or sister . . which failed to me, . . needing it less through being happier !

All my brothers have been here this morning, laughing and talking, and discussing this matter of the leaving town, – and in the room, at the same time, were two or three female friends of ours, from Herefordshire – and I did not dare to cry out against the noise, though my head seemed splitting in two (one half for each shoulder), I had such a morbid fear of exciting a suspicion. Treppy too being one of them, I promised to go to see her to-morrow and dine in her drawing-room if she would give me, for dinner, some bread and butter. It was like having a sort of fever. And all in the midst, the bells began to ring. ‘ What bells are those ? ‘ asked one of the provincials. ‘ Marylebone Church bells ‘ said Henrietta, standing behind my chair.

And now . . while I write, having escaped from the great din, and sit here quietly, – comes . . who do you think? – Mr. Kenyon.

He came with his spectacles, looking as if his eyes reached to their rim all the way round ; and one of the first words was, ‘ When did you see Browning?’ And I think I shall make a pretension to presence of mind henceforward ; for, though certainly I changed colour and he saw it, I yet answered with a tolerably quick evasion, . . ‘ He was here on Friday’ – and leapt straight into another subject, and left him gazing fixedly on my face. Dearest, he saw something, but not all. So we talked, talked. He told me that the ‘ Fawn of Sertorius,’ (which I refused to cut open the other day,) was ascribed to Landor – and he told me that he meant to leave town again on Wednesday, and would see me once before then. On rising to go away, he mentioned your name a second time . . ‘ When do you see Browning again ? ‘ To which I answered that I did not know.

Is not that pleasant ? The worst is that all these combinations of things make me feel so bewildered that I cannot make the necessary arrangements, as far as the letters go. But I must break from the dream-stupor which falls on me when left to myself a little, and set about what remains to be done.

A house near Watford is thought of now – but, as none is concluded on, the removal is not likely to take place in the middle of the week even, perhaps.

I sit in a dream, when left to myself. I cannot believe, or understand. Oh ! but in all this difficult, embarrassing and painful situation, I look over the palms to Troy – I feel happy and exulting to belong to you, past every opposition, out of sight of every will of man – none can put us asunder, now, at least. I have a right now openly to love you, and to hear other people call it a duty, when I do, . . knowing that if it were a sin, it would be done equally. Ah – I shall not be first to leave off that – see if I shall ! May God bless you, ever and ever dearest ! Beseech for me the indulgence of your father and mother, and ask your sister to love me. I feel so as if I had slipped down over the wall into somebody’s garden – I feel ashamed. To be grateful and affectionate to them all, while I live, is all that I can do, and it is too much a matter of course to need to be promised. Promise it however for your very own Ba whom you made so happy with the dear letter last night. But say in the next how you are – and how your mother is.

I did hate so, to have to take off the ring ! You will have to take the trouble of putting it on again, some day.

[Postmark: September 12, 1846]

Saturday. Sept. 12. – 4½ p.m.

Ever dearest, I write a word that you may read it and know how all is safe so far, and that I am not slain downright with the day – oh, such a day ! I went to Mr. Boyd’s directly, so as to send Wilson home the faster – and was able to lie quietly on the sofa in his sitting-room down-stairs, before he was ready to see me, being happily engaged with a medical councillor. Then I was made to talk and take Cyprus wine, – and, my sisters delaying to come, I had some bread and butter for dinner, to keep me from looking too pale in their eyes. At last they came, and with such grave faces ! Missing me and Wilson, they had taken fright, – and Arabel had forgotten at first what I told her last night about the fly. I kept saying, ‘ What nonsense, . . what fancies you do have to be sure,’ . . trembling in my heart with every look they cast at me. And so, to complete the bravery, I went on with them in the carriage to Hampstead . . as far as the heath, – and talked and looked – now you shall praise me for courage – or rather you shall love me for the love which was the root of it all. How necessity makes heroes – or heroines at least ! For I did not sleep all last night, and when I first went out with Wilson to get to the fly-stand in Marylebone Street I staggered so, that we both were afraid for the fear’s sake, – but we called at a chemist’s for sal volatile and were thus enabled to go on. I spoke to her last night, and she was very kind, very affectionate, and never shrank for a moment. I told her that always I should be grateful to her.

You – how are you ? how is your head, ever dearest ?

It seems all like a dream ! When we drove past that church again, I and my sisters, there was a cloud before my eyes. Ask your mother to forgive me, Robert. If I had not been there, she would have been there, perhaps.

And for the rest, if either of us two is to suffer injury and sorrow for what happened there to-day – I pray that it may all fall upon me ! Nor should I suffer the most pain that way, as I know, and God knows.

Your own

BA.

Was I very uncourteous to your cousin ? So kind, too, it was in him ! Can there be the least danger of the newspapers ? Are those books ever examined by penny-a-liners, do you suppose ?

[Postmark: September 11, 1846]

Thursday.

Dearest, I write one word, and have one will which is yours. At the same time, do not be precipitate – we shall not be taken away on Monday, no, nor for several days afterward. George has simply gone to look for houses – going to Reigate first.

Oh yes – come to-morrow. And then, you shall have the ring . . soon enough and safer.

Not a word of how you are ! – you so good as to write me that letter beyond compact, yet not good enough, to say how you are ! Dear, dearest . . take care, and keep yourself unhurt and calm. I shall not fail to you – I do not, I will not. I will act by your decision, and I wish you to decide. I was yours long ago, and though you give me back my promise at this eleventh hour, . . you generous, dear unkind ! . . . you know very well that you can do as well without it. So take it again for my sake and not your own.

I cannot write, I am so tired, having been long out. Will not this dream break on a sudden ? Now is the moment for the breaking of it, surely.

But come to-morrow, come. Almost everybody is to be away at Richmond, at a picnic, and we shall be free on all sides.

Ever and ever your BA.