Author: EBB

[Postmark: April 10, 1846]

Friday 2 o’clock p.m.

Ever dearest I wrote last night what might make you
doubtful and uncomfortable about Saturday ; being doubtful
myself and not knowing what word to say of it. But just
now Papa has been here in the room with me, — and a
beatific Jamaica packet has just come in, as the post
declares . . (Benedetta sia l’ora &c !) and he will ‘ hear
more,’ he says, ‘ in the city to-morrow ! ‘ — So we are safe.

Come, if there should be no reason of your own for staying.
For me, I seem to have more need than usual of seeing you.
May God bless you. I am

Your

Ba.

[Postmark: April 10, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

I thought you had not written to me to-night, ever
dearest ! Nine o’clock came and went, and I heard no
postman’s knock ; and I supposed that I did not deserve
(in your mind) to hear it at all. At last I rang the bell and
said to Wilson . . ‘ Look in the letter-box— there may be a
letter perhaps. If there should be none, you need not come
up-stairs to tell me — I shall understand.’ So she left me,
and, that time, I listened for footsteps . . the footsteps of
my letter. If I had not heard them directly, what should I
have thought ?

You are good and kind, . . too good and kind always, . .
always, always ! — and I love you gratefully and shall to the
end, and with an unspeakable apprehension of what you are
in yourself, and towards me : — yet you cannot, you know,
— you know you cannot, dearest . . ‘ submit ‘ to me in an
opinion any more than I could to you, if I desired it ever
so anxiously. We will talk no more however on this subject
now. I have had some pain from it, of course . . but I am
satisfied to have had the pain, for the knowledge . . which
was as necessary as possible, under circumstances, for more
reasons than one.

Dearest . . before I go to talk of something else . .
will you be besought of me to consider within yourself, . .
and not with me to tease you ; why the ‘ case,’ spoken of,
should ‘ never in likelihood be your own ? ‘ Are you and
yours charmed from the influence of offensive observations
. . personally offensive? ‘The most unhappy thing that
could happen to you,’ is it, on that account, the farthest
thing ?

Now — ! Mrs. Jameson was here to-day, and in the
room before, almost, I heard of her being on the stairs. It
is goodnatured of her to remember me in her brief visits
to London — and she brought me two or three St. Sebastians
with the arrows through them, etched by herself, to look at
— very goodnatured ! Once she spoke of you — ‘ Oh,’ she
said, ‘ you saw Mr. Browning’s last number ! yes, I remember how you spoke of it. I suppose Mr. Kenyon lent you
his copy’ . . . And before I could speak, she was on
another subject. But I should not have had heart to say
what I meant and predetermined to say, even if the opportunity to-day had been achieved. As if you could not be
read except in Mr. Kenyon’s copy ! I might have confessed to my own copy, even if not to my own original . .
do you not think ?

Before she came, I went down to the drawing-room, I
and Flush, and found no one there . . and walked drearily
up and down the rooms, and, so, came back to mine. May
you have spent your day better. There was sunshine for
you, as I could see. God bless you and keep you. Saturday-
may be clear for us, or may not — and if it should not
be clear, certainly Monday and Tuesday will not . . what
shall be done ? Will you wait till Wednesday ? or will you
(now let it be as you choose !) come on Saturday, running
the risk of finding only a parcel . . a book and a letter . .
and so going away, if there should be reasons against the
visit. . Because last Monday was known of, and I shall not
ascertain until Saturday whether or not we shall be at
liberty. Or . . shall we at once say Wednesday ? It is for
your decision. You go out on Saturday evening . . and
perhaps altogether there may be a conspiracy against Saturday. Judge and decide.

I am writing as with the point of a pilgrim’s staff rather
than a pen. ‘ We are all strangers and pilgrims.’ Can you
read anywise ?

I think of you, bless you, love you — but it would have
been better for you never to have seen my face perhaps,
though Mr. Kenyon gave the first leave. Perhaps ! ! — I
‘flatter’ myself to-night, in chance for you.

Best beloved I am your

Ba.

[Postmark: April 9, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

After the question about the ‘ Sirens’ song to Ulysses,
dearest? Then directly before I suppose, the other
‘ difficult question ‘ talked of by your Sir Thomas Browne,
as to ‘ what name Achilles bore when he lived among the
women.’ That you think, will be an appropriate position
for our ‘ moot point ‘ which, once in England, was guilty of
tiring you and making your head ache : — and as for
Achilles’ name when he lived among women, it was Μωρος
you will readily guess, and I shall not dare to deny. Only
. . only . . I never shall be convinced on the ‘ previous
question’ by the arguments of your letter — it is not
possible.

May I say just one thing, without touching that specific
subject ? There is a certain class of sacrifice which men
who live in society, should pay willingly to society . . the
sacrifice of little or indifferent things, . . in respect to
mere manners and costume. There is another class of
sacrifice which should be refused by every righteous man
though ever so eminently a social man, and though to the
loss of his social position. Now you would be the last, I
am sure, to confound these two classes of sacrifice — and you
will admit that our question is simply between them . . and
to which of them, duelling belongs . . and not at all
whether society is in itself a desirable thing and much
rejoiced in by the Browns and Smiths. You refuse to wear
a fool’s cap in the street, because society forbids you —
which is well : but if, in order to avoid wearing it, you
shoot the ‘ foolish child ‘ who forces it upon you . . why
you do not well, by any means : it would not be well even
for a Brown or a Smith — but for my poet of the ‘ Bells and
Pomegranates,’ it is very ill, wonderfully ill . . so ill, that I
shut my eyes, and have the heartache (for the headache !)
only to think of it. So I will not. Why should we see
things so differently, ever dearest ? If anyone had asked
me, I could have answered for you that you saw it quite
otherwise. And you would hang men even — you !

Well ! Because I do ‘ not rue ‘ (and am so much the
more unfit to die) I am to be stabbed through the body by
an act of ‘ private judgment ‘ of my next neighbour. So I
must take care and ‘rue ‘ when I do anything wrong — and
I begin now, for being the means of tiring you, . . and
for seeming to persist so ! You may be right and I wrong,
of course — I only speak as I see. And will not speak any
more last words . . taking pardon for these I rue.

To-day I was down-stairs again — and if the sun shines
on as brightly, I shall be out of doors before long perhaps.

Your headache ! tell me how your headache is, — remember to tell me. When your letter came, I kissed it by
a sort of instinct . . not that I do always at first sight (please
to understand), but because the writing did not look angry . .
not vexed writing. Then I read . . ‘ First of all, kiss ‘ . .

So it seemed like magic.

Only I know that if I went on to write disagreeing disagreeable letters, you might not help to leave off loving me
at the end. I seem to see through this crevice.

Good Heavens ! — how dreadfully natural it would be to
me, seem to me, if you did leave off loving me ! How it
would be like the sun-s setting . . and no more wonder !
Only, more darkness, more pain. May God bless you my
only dearest ! and me, by keeping me

Your

Ba.

[Postmark: April 8, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

In my disagree . . able letter this morning, I forgot to
write how, after you went away, and I came to read again
the dedication, I admired it more and more — it is most
graceful and complete. Landor will be gratified and grateful . . he, allowably — and only you shall be ‘ hateful ‘ . .
and only to me, dearest, . . so that it doesn’t matter much.
As to Ogniben, you understand best of course — I understood the ‘ laughing gently to himself,’ though I omitted to
notice the italics. I perfectly understood that it was the
bystander’s observation.

Your letter came so late to-night that I despaired of it —
the postman fell into a trance somewhere I fancy, and it
was not till nine oclock that the knock (equal to the tapping
of a fairy’s wand) came to the door. Now I have two letters
to thank you for together . . for the dear one on Monday,
which lay in the shadow of your coming, and so was a
little, little, less thought of than it could have been under
any other possible circumstance . . and for this letter
to-night. Well ! and for Mr. Buckingham’s voyage, if you
will and can conveniently, (I use that word for my sake, not
for your sake — because I think of you and not of him !) but
if you can without inconvenience make enquiries about
these vessels, why I shall be glad, and shall set it to your
account as one goodness more. It would be easy for him
( and you should have done it, in your voyage) to take with
him those potted meats and portable soups and essences of
game which would prevent his being reduced to common
fare with the sailors. Then a mattress is as portable as
the soups, nearly. Apart from the asafoetida he may
endure, I should think. Do you know, I was amused at
myself yesterday, after the first movement, for liking to
hear you say that ‘dry biscuits satisfied’ you — because,
after all, I should not be easy to see you living on dry
biscuits . . Ceres and Bacchus forbid ! Oh — I don’t profess to apply, out of a pure poetical justice, Lord Byron’s
Pythagoreanism to the ‘ nobler half of creation ‘ — do not be
afraid ‘ — but it is rather desecrating and disenchanting to
mark how certain of those said Nobilities turn upon
their dinners as on the pivot of the day, for their good
pleasure and good temper besides. Did you ever observe
a lord of creation knit his brows together because the
cutlets were underdone, shooting enough fire from his
eyes to overdo them to cinders … ‘ cinder-blast ‘ them,
as schylus would have it ? Did you ever hear of the litany
which some women say through the first course . . low to
themselves ? Perhaps not ! it does not enter into your
imagination to conceive of things, which nevertheless
are.

Not that I ever thought of you with reference to such —
oh no, no ! But every variety of the ‘ Epicuri de grege
porcus,’ I have a sort of indisposition to . . even as the
animal itself (pork of nature and the kitchen) I avoid like a
Jewish woman. Do you smile ? And did I half (or whole)
make you angry this morning through being so didactic and
detestable ? Will you challenge me to six paces at Chalk
Farm, and will you ‘ take aim ‘ this time and put an end
to every sort of pretence in me to other approaches between
us two ? Tell me if you are angry, dearest ! I ask you to
tell me if you felt (for the time even) vexed with me . . I
want to know . . I need to know. Do you not know what
my reflection must reasonably be ? . . That is, apart from
provocation and excitement, you believe in the necessity of
such and such resources, . . provoked and excited you
would apply to them — there could be no counteracting
force . . no help nor hope.

So I spoke my mind — and you are vexed with me,
which I feel in the air. May God bless you dearest, dearest !
Forgive, as you can, best,

Your Ba.

[Postmark: April 7, 1846]

Tuesday.

Dearest, it is not I who am a ‘ flatterer ‘ — and if I used
the word first, it is because I had the right of it, I remember,
long and long ago. There is the vainest of vanities in
discussing the application of such a word . . and so, when
you said the other day that you ‘ never flattered ‘ forsooth
. . . (oh no !) I would not contradict you for fear of
the endless flattery it would lead to. Only that I do not
choose (because such things are allowed to pass) to be
called on my side ‘ a flatterer’ — I ! That is too much, and
too out of place. What do I ever say that is like flattery ?
I am allowed, it may be hoped, to admire the ‘ Lurias ‘ and
the rest, quite like other people, and even to say that I
admire them . . may I not lawfully? If that is flattery
woe to me ! I tell you the real truth, as I see the truth,
even in respect to them . . the ‘ Lurias ‘ . .

For instance, did I flatter you and say that you were
right yesterday? Indeed I thought you as wrong as
possible . . wonderfully wrong on such a subject, for you
. . who, only a day or two before, seemed so free from
conventional fallacies . . so free ! You would abolish the
punishment of death too . . and put away wars, I am sure !
But honourable men are bound to keep their honours clean
at the expense of so much gunpowder and so much risk of
life . . that must be, ought to be, . . let judicial deaths
and military glory be abolished ever so ! For my part, I
set all Christian principle aside, (although if it were carried
out . . and principle is nothing unless carried out . . it
would not mean cowardice but magnanimity) but I set it
aside and go on the bare social rational ground . . . and I
do advisedly declare to you that I cannot conceive of any
possible combination of circumstances which could . . I will
not say justify but even excuse an honourable man’s
having recourse to the duellist’s pistol, either on his own
account or another’s. Not only it seems to me horribly
wrong . . but absurdly wrong, it seems to me. Also . . as
a matter of pure reason . . the Parisian method of taking
aim and blowing off a man’s head for the sins of his tongue,
I do take to have a sort of judicial advantage over the
Englishman’s six paces . . throwing the dice for his life or
another man’s, because wounded by that man in his honour.
His honour ! — Who believes in such an honour . . liable
to such amends, and capable of such recovery ! You
cannot, I think — in the secret of your mind. Or if you
can . . you who are a teacher of the world . . . poor
world — it is more desperately wrong than I thought.

A man calls you ‘ a liar ‘ in an assembly of other men.
Because he is a calumniator, and, on that very account, a
worse man than you, you ask him to go down with you
on the only ground on which you two are equals . . the
duelling-ground, . . and with pistols of the same length
and friends numerically equal on each side, play at lives
with him, both mortal men that you are. If it was proposed
to you to play at real dice for the ratification or non-ratiflcation
of his calumny, the proposition would be laughed to
scorn . . and yet the chance (as chance) seems much the
same, . . and the death is an exterior circumstance which
cannot be imagined to have much virtue. At best, what do
you prove by your duel ? . . that your calumniator, though
a calumniator, is not a coward in the vulgar sense . . and
that yourself though you may still be a liar ten times over,
are not a coward either ! ‘ Here be proofs.’

And as to the custom of duelling preventing insults . .
why you say that a man of honour should not go out with
an unworthy adversary. Now supposing a man to be withheld from insult and calumny, just by the fear of being shot |
. . who is more unworthy than such a man? Therefore
you conclude irrationally, illogically, that the system operates
beyond the limit of its operations. — Oh ! I shall write as
quarrelsome letters as I choose. You are wrong, I know
and feel, when you advocate the pitiful resources of this
corrupt social life, . . and if you are wrong, how are we to
get right, we all who look to you for teaching. Are you
afraid too of being taken for a coward ? or would you excuse
that sort of fear . . that cowardice of cowardice, in other
men? For me, I value your honour, just as you do . .
more than your life . . of the two things : but the madness
of this foolishness is so clear to my eyes, than instead of
opening the door for you and keeping your secret, as that
miserable woman did last year, for the man shot by her
sister’s husband, I would just call in the police though you
were to throw me out of the window afterwards. So, with
that beautiful vision of domestic felicity, (which Mrs.
Jameson would leap up to see !) I shall end my letter —
isn’t it a letter worth thanking for ? —

Ever dearest, do you promise me that you never will be
provoked into such an act — never ? Mr. O’Connell vowed
it to himself, for a dead man . . and you may to me, for a
living woman. Promises and vows may be foolish things
for the most part . . but they cannot be more foolish than
in this case, the thing vowed against. So promise and vow.
And I will ‘ flatter ‘ you in return in the lawful way . . for
you will ‘make me happy’ . . so far! May God bless
you, beloved ! It is so wet and dreary to-day that I do not
go down-stairs — I sit instead in the gondola chair . . do
you not see ? . . and think of you . . do you not feel ? I
even love you . . if that were worth mentioning . .

being your own

Ba.

How good of you to write so on Sunday ! to compare
with my bad !

[Postmark: April 5, 1846]ZM

Sunday.

It seems to me the safest way to send back the proofs
by the early Monday post : you may choose perhaps to
bring the sheet corrected into town when you come, and so
I shall let you have what you sent me, before you come to
take it . . though I thought first of waiting. To-morrow I
shall force you to tell me how you like the ‘ Tragedy ‘ now !
For my part, it delights me — and must raise your reputation
as a poet and thinker . . must Chiappino is highly
dramatic in that first part, and speaks so finely sometimes
that it is a wrench to one’s sympathies to find him overthrown-
. Do you know that, as far as the temper of the
man goes, I am acquainted with a Chiappino . . just such
a man, in the temper, the pride and the bitterness . . not
in other things. When I read your manuscript I was
reminded — but here in print it, seems to grow nearer and
nearer. My Chiappino has tired me out at last — I have
borne more from him than women ought to bear from men,
because he was unfortunate and embittered in his nature
and by circumstances, and because I regarded him as a
friend of many years. Yet, as I have told him, anyone,
who had not such confidence in me, would think really ill of
me through reading the insolent letters which he has thought
fit to address to me on what he called a pure principle of
adoration. At last I made up my mind (and shall keep
it so) to answer no letter of the kind. Men are ignoble
in some things, past the conceiving of their fellows. Again
and again I have said . . ‘ Specify your charge against me ‘
— but there is no charge. With the most reckless and
dauntless inconsistency I am lifted halfway to the skies, and
made a mark there for mud pellets — so that I have been
excited sometimes to say quite passionately . . ‘If I am
the filth of the earth, tread on me — if I am an angel of
Heaven, respect me — but I can’t be both, remember.’ See
where your Chiappino leads you . . and me ! Though I
shall not tell you the other name of mine. Whenever I see
him now, I make Arabel stay in the room — otherwise I am
afraid — he is such a violent man. A good man, though, in
many respects, and quite an old friend. Some men grow
incensed with the continual pricks of ill-fortune, like mad
bulls : some grow tame and meek.

Well — I did not like the spirit of the Athenaeum remarks
either. I like what you say. These literary men are never
so well pleased, as in having opportunities of barking against
one another — and, for the Athenaeum people, if they wanted
to be didactic as to morals, they might have taken occasion
to be so out of their own order, and in their own country.
And then to bring in Balzac so ! The worst of Balzac (who
has not a fine moral sense at any time, great and gifted as
he is), the very worst of him, is his bearing towards his
literary brothers . . the manner in which he, who can so
nobly present genius to the reverence of humanity in
scientific men (as he describes them in his books), always
dishonours and depreciates it in the man of letters and
the poet. See his ‘ Grand Homme de Province à Paris,’
one of the most powerful of his works, but the remark
is true everywhere. I go on writing as if I were not to see
you directly. It is past four oclock — and if Mr. Kenyon
does not come to-day, he may come to-morrow, and
find you, who were here last Thursday to his knowledge ! —
Half I fear.

Observe the proof. Since you have two, you say, I have
not scrupled to write down on this ever so much improvidence, which you will glance at and decide upon finally.

‘Grateful’ . . ‘ grateful’ . . what a word that is. I
never would have such a word on any proof that came to
me for correction. Do not use such inapplicable words —
do not, dearest ! for you know very well in your under-
standing (if not in your heart) that if such a word is to be
used by either of us, it is not by you. My word, I shall
keep mine, — I am ‘ grateful you cannot be ‘ grateful ‘ . ,
for ineffable reasons . .

‘ Pour bonnes raisons
Que I’on n’ose dire.
Et que nous taisons. ‘

For the rest, it is certainly very likely that you may
‘ want all your faculties, and more ‘ … to bear with me . .
to support me with graceful resignation; and who can tell
whether I may not be found intolerable after all ?

By the way (talking of St. Catherine’s wheels and the
like torments) you wrote ‘ gag ‘ . . did you not ? . . where
the proof says ‘ gadge ‘ — I did not alter it. More and more
I like ‘ Luria.’

Your Ba.

Mr. Kenyon has been here — so our Monday is safe.

[Postmark: April 4, 1846]

Friday Evening.

Shall the heir to a Marquisate ‘ justify his title’ in these
days ? Is not the best thing he can do for himself, to forget
it in a studio at Rome ? — and one of the best things he can
do for his country, perhaps, to desecrate it at dog-fighting
before the eyes of all men ? I should not like to have to
justify my Marquisate to reasonable men now-a-days, —
should you . . seriously speaking? It would be a hard
task, and rather dull in the performance. On the other
hand, the noble dog-fighters (unconscious patriots !) find it
easy and congenial occupation down in St. Giles’s, rubbing
out (as in the old game of fox and goose) figure by figure,
prestige by prestige, the gross absurdity of hereditary
legislators, lords, and the like. Yet of the three positions, I
would rather be at Rome, certainly a man looks nobler
there, is better, is happier . . a good deal nearer the
angels than on his ‘landed estates’ playing at feudal
proprietor, or even in St. Giles’s dog-fighting. See what a
republican you have for a . . Ba. Did you fancy me
capable of writing such unlawful, disorderly things ? And
it isn’t out of bitterness, nor covetousness . . no, indeed.
People in general would rather be Marquises than Roman
artists, consulting their own wishes and inclination. I, for
my part, ever since I could speak my mind and knew it,
always openly and inwardly preferred the glory of those who
live by their heads, to the opposite glory of those who carry
other people’s arms. So much for glory. Happiness goes
the same way to my fancy. There is something fascinating
to me, in that Bohemian way of living . . all the conventions
of society cut so close and thin, that the soul can see
through . . beyond . . above. It is ‘ real life ‘ as you say
. . whether at Rome or elsewhere. I am very glad that
you like simplicity in habits of life — it has both reasonableness and sanctity. People are apt to suffocate their faculties
by their manners — English people especially. I admire
that you, — R. B., — who have had temptation more than
enough, I am certain, under every form, have lived in
the midst of this London of ours, close to the great social
vortex, yet have kept so safe, and free, and calm and pure
from the besetting sins of our society. When you came to
see me first, I did not expect so much of you in that one
respect. How could I ? You had lived in the world, I
knew, and I thought . . . well ! — what matter, now, what I
thought ?

I will tell you instead how to-day has gone by with me.
Not like yesterday, indeed ! In the first place, I went
down-stairs, walked up and down the drawing-room twice,
and finding nobody there (they were all having luncheon in
the dining-room) came up-stairs again . . . half-way on the
stairs met Flush, who having been asleep, had not missed
me till just then, and was in the act of search. I was lost
for ever, thought poor Flush. At least I think he thought
so by his eyes. They were three times their usual largeness
— he looked quite wild . . and leaped against me with
such an ecstasy of astonished joy, that I nearly fell backward
down the stairs (whereupon, you would have had to go to
the Siren’s island, dearest, all by yourself !) After which
escape of mine and Flushie’s, and when I had persuaded
him to be good and quiet and to believe that I was not my
own ghost, I came home with him and prepared to see . .

I will tell you. She is a Mrs. Paine who lives at
Farnham, and learns Greek, and writes to me such overcoming
letters, that at last, and in a moment of imprudent
reaction from an ungrateful discourtesy on my part, I agreed
to see her if she ever came to London. Upon which, she
comes directly — I am taken in my trap. She comes and
returns the same day, and all to see me. Well — she had
been kind to me . . and she came at two to-day. Do
you know, . . for the first five minutes, I repented quite ?
Dearest . . she came just with the sort of face which a
child might take to see a real, alive lioness at the Zoological
Gardens . . she just sate down on a chair, and stared.
How can people do such things in this year of grace when
they are abolishing the Corn Laws, I wonder ? For my part
it was so unlike anything civilized I had ever been used to
that I felt as if my voice and breath went together. It
would have saved me to be able to stare back again, but
that was out of my power. So I endured — and, after a
pause, ran violently down a steep place into some sort
of conversation (thinking of your immortal Simpson, and
vowing never to be drawn into such a situation again)
and in a little while, I was able to recognize that there was
nothing worse than bad manners — ignorant manners—
and that, for the rest, my antagonist was a young, pretty
woman (rather pretty), enthusiastic and provincial, with a
strong love for poetry and literature generally, loving Carlyle
and yourself, (could I hold out against that) and telling
me all her domestic happinesses with a frankness which quite
appeased me and prevented my being too tired . . though
she stayed two hours, and wasn’t you ! —

So there is my history of to-day for you ! To-morrow
you will have the proof — and perhaps, I shall ! Monday
will bring a better thing than a proof May God bless you,
beloved. Say how you are . . to-morrow ! Mind to do
it . . or I will not sit any more in your gondola-chair.
How can you make me, unless I choose ?

And you speak against my letter to-night ? you shall not
dare do such things. It is a good, dear letter, and it is
mine to call so . . and I knew its fellows before I knew
you and loved them before I loved you, and so you are not
to be proud and scornful and try to put them down ‘in
that way.’

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: April 3, 1846]

Friday

Dearest, your flowers make the whole room look like
April, they are so full of colours . . growing fuller and
fuller as we get nearer to the sun. The wind was melancholy too, all last night — oh, I think the wind melancholy,
just as you do, — or more than you do perhaps for having
spent so many restless days and nights close on the sea-
shore in Devonshire. I seem now always to hear the sea in
the wind, voice within voice ! But I like a sudden wind
not too loud, — a wind which you hear the rain in rather
than the sea — and I like the half cloudy half sunny April
weather, such as we have it here in England, with a west or
south wind — I like and enjoy that ! and remember vividly
how I used to like to walk or wade nearly up to my waist in
the wet grass or weeds, with the sun overhead, and the
wind darkening or lightening the verdure all round.

But none of it was happiness, dearest dearest. Happiness does not come with the sun or the rain. Since my
illness, when the door of the future seemed shut and locked
before my face, and I did not tire myself with knocking
any more, I thought I was happier, happy, I thought,
just because I was tranquil unto death. Now I know life
from death, . . and the unsorrowful life for the first time
since I was a woman ; though I sit here on the edge of a
precipice in a position full of anxiety and danger. What
matter, … if one shuts one’s eyes, and listens to the birds
singing? Do you know, I am glad — I could almost
thank God — that Papa keeps so far from me . . that he
has given up coming in the evening . . I could almost
thank God. If he were affectionate, and made me, or let
me, feel myself necessary to him, . . how should I bear
(even with my reason on my side) to prepare to give him
pain ? So that the Pisa business last year, by sounding
the waters, was good in its way . . and the pang that came
with it to me, was also good. He feels ! — he loves me . .
but it is not (this, I mean to say) to the trying degrees of
feeling and love . . trying to me. Ah, well ! In any case,
I should have ended probably, in giving up all for you —
I do not profess otherwise. I used to think I should, if
ever I loved anyone — and if the love of you is different
from, it is greater than, anything preconceived . . divined.

Mrs. Jameson, the other day, brought out a theory of
hers which I refused to receive, and which I thought to
myself she would apply to me some day. with the rest of
what Miss Mitford calls ‘ those good-for-nothing poets and
poetesses.’ She maintained, (Mrs. Jameson did) that
‘artistical natures never learn wisdom from experience —
that sorrow teaches them nothing — leaves no trace at all
— that the mind is modified in no way by passion —
suffering.’ Which I disbelieved quite, and ventured to say
on the other side, that although practically a man or woman
might not be wiser, through perhaps the interception of a
vivid apprehension of the present, which might put back
the influence of the future over actions, . . yet that it was
impossible for a self-conscious nature (which all these
artistic natures are) and a sensitive nature, not to receive
some sort of modification from things suffered — ‘ No ‘ — she
said, they did not ! she had known and loved such — and
they were like children, all of them, — essentially immature.’
But she did not persuade me. What is inequality of nature,
as Dugald Stewart observed it, (and did he not say that men
of genius had lop-sided minds ?) is different, I think, from
immaturity in her sense of the word. We were talking of
her friend Mrs. Butler, which brought us to the subject.
Presently she will say of you and me . . ‘ Just see there !
she meant no harm, poor thing, I dare say — but she acts
like a child ! And, for him, his is the imbecility of most
regent genius . . such as I am to live to see confessed
imperial, or I die a disappointed woman.’ !

Do you hear? I do, distinctly. You in the meantime,
are looking at the ‘ locks ‘ . . just as poor Louis Seize did
when they were preparing his guillotine.

May God bless you, my own dearest — Think of me a
little — as you say !

Your

Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Tuesday Evening,

If people were always as grateful to other people for being
just kind to themselves . . what a grateful world we should
have of it ! The actual good you get out of me, may be
stated at about two commas and a semi-colon — do I overstate
it, I wonder ? You, on the other side, never overstate anything
. . never enlarge . . never exaggerate ! In fact, the
immense ‘ worldly ‘ advantages which fall to you from me,
are plain to behold. Dearest, what nonsense you talk some
times, for a man so wise ! nonsense as wonderful in its way
for ‘ Robert Browning ‘ as the dancing of polkas ! The worst
is, that it sets me wishing impotently, to do some really good
helpful thing for you — and I cannot, — cannot. The good
comes to me from you, and will not go back again. Even
the loving you, . . which is all I can, . . have I not had to
question of it again and again . …” Is that good ? ” Now
see.

I shall be anxious to hear your own thoughts of the
‘ Soul’s Tragedy’ when you have it in print. You liked
‘ Luria ‘ better for seeing it printed — and I must have you like
the ‘ Tragedy ‘ in proportion. It strikes me. It is original, as
they say. There is something in it awakening . . striking :
— and when it has awakened, it won’t let you go to sleep
again immediately.

And of yourself, not a word. You might have said one
word — but you have been in London which makes me hope
that you are perhaps a little better . . or at least not worse.
Oh, I do not hope much while you are about this printing.
You are sure not to be well. That is to be accepted as a
necessary consequence — it cannot be otherwise. The comfort
is, that the whole will be put away in a week or ten
days, and that then I may set myself to hope for you, as
the roses to blow in June. Fit summer-business, that
will be ! And you will help me, and walk and take care.

What do you think I have been doing to-day to Mr.
Kenyon? Sending him the ‘enchanted poetry’ which
such as you are never to see . . the translation about
Hector and Andromache ! — yes, really. Yet after all it is
not that I like him so much better than you . . I do not
indeed . . it is just that Miss Thomson and her book are of
consequence to him, and that he hears through Miss Bayley
and herself of the attempt here and the failure there, . .
and so, being interested altogether, he asked me to let him
see what I did with Homer. And it is not much. Old
Homer laughs his translators to very scorn . . and he does
not spare me for being a woman. Surpassingly and pro-
foundly beautiful that scene is. I have tried it in blank
verse. About a year ago, when I had a sudden fit of
translating, I made an experiment on the first fifty lines
of the Iliad in a rhymed measure which seemed to me
rather nearer to the Greek cadence than our common heroic
verse. Listen to what I remember —

Thus he spake in his prayer : and Apollo gave ear to the whole ;
And came down from the steep of Olympus, with wrath in his soul ;
On his shoulder the bow, and the quiver fast woven by fate.
And the darts hurtled on, as he trod, with the thrill of his hate
And the step of his godhead. Like night did he travel below —
And he sate down afar from the ships, and drew strong to the bow —

And so we get to the arrows you talked of . . ah, do you
remember . . do you remember? . . which were to kill
dogs and mules, you said ! But they didn’t. I have an
enchanted dog (‘ which nobody can deny ‘ !) and am not far
to seek in my Apollo.

To-day I had a letter from Miss Mitford who says that,
inasmuch as she does not go to Paris, she shall come for a
fortnight to London and ‘ see me every day.’ ! ! No time
is fixed — but I look a little aghast. Am I not grateful and
affectionate ? Is it right of you, not to let me love anyone
as I used to do ? Is it in that sense that you kill the dogs
and mules ? Perhaps. The truth is, I would rather she
did not come — far rather. And she may not, after all — . .
now I am ashamed of myself thoroughly

I have not been down-stairs to-day — the weather seemed
so doubtful. To-morrow, if it is possible, I will . . must
. . do it. So . . goodbye till the day after — Thursday.
May God bless you every day ! and if only as I think of you
. . you would not lose much !

Your Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Monday Evening.

Ah now, now, you see ! Held up in that light, it is ‘ a
foolish fancy,’ and unlawful, besides ! ‘ Not on any pretence’
will you do without letters . . you ! And you count it
among the imaginations of your heart that I could do without
them better perhaps . . I . . to whom they are sun,
air, and human voices, at the very lowest calculation?
Why seriously you don’t imagine that your letters are not
a thousand times more to me than letters ever in the
world were before, . . since ‘ Heaven first brought them
to some wretch’s aid.’ If you do that is the foolishest fancy
of all.

So foolish as to be unspeakable. We will ‘ have done
with it,’ as you say. I only ‘ revert ‘ and innocently, — I do
not reproach, even ignorantly, — I am grateful rather. What
you said in the letter this morning made me grateful, . .
and oh, so glad ! so glad ! what you said, I mean, of writing
to me on every day that we did not meet on otherwise.
That promise seemed to bring us nearer (see how I think
of letters !), nearer than another word could though you
went for it to the end of the universe, . . that other word.
So I accept the promise as a promise of pure gold, and
thank you as pure gold too, which you are, or rather far
above. Only my own dearest, you shall not write long
letters . . long letters are out of the agreement . . I never
feel the need of length as long as the writing is there . . just
the little shred of the Koran, to be gathered up reverently
. . (Inshallah !) — and then, you shall not write at all when
you are not well . . no, you shall not. So remember from
henceforth ! Shall I whip my enchanted dog when he is so
good and true ? — not to say that the tags of the lashes (do
you call them tags ?) would swing round and strike me on
the shoulders ? Dearest, you are the best, kindest in the
world — such a very, very, very ‘ little lower than the angels ! ‘
If ever I could take advantage of your goodness and tenderness
, to teaze and vex you, . . what should I be, I have
been seriously enquiring to-day, head on hand, when I had
sent away ‘ Luria.’ For I sent it away, and the ‘ Tragedy ‘ with
it, and I hope you will have all to-morrow morning at the
furthest, . . before you get this letter. There was a note
too in the parcel.

As to dedications . . . believe me that I would not
have them if I could . . that is, even if there were no dangers,
I could not bear to have words from you which the world
might listen to . . I mean, that to be commended of you
in that way, on that ground, would make me feel
cold to the heart. Oh no, no, no ! It is better to have the
proof-sheet as I had it this morning : it is the better glory
. . as glory !

‘ Not worthy of my pains ‘ . . you are right ! But
infinitely worthy of my pleasures — such pleasure as I could
gather from nothing else, except from your letters and your
very presence. Do you think that anything beside in the
whole world could bring pleasure to me, as pleasure goes,
. . . anything like reading your poetry ? My ‘ pains ‘
indeed ! It is a felicitous word — ‘ je vous en fais mon
compliment.’

And all this time, while I write lightly, you are not well
perhaps — you were unwell when you wrote to me ; you were
unwell a little yesterday even. Say how you are to-morrow
— do not forget. For the cause of the unwellness, I see it,
if you do not. It was the proof-correcting — I expected that
you would be unwell — it is no worse than was threatened to
my thoughts. The comfort is that all this wrong work
is coming to an end, and that it is covenanted between us
for you to rest absolutely from henceforth. Say how you
are, dearest dearest. And walk, walk. For me, I have
not been down-stairs. It has been cold — too cold for that,
I thought.

Oh — but I wanted to say one thing ! That wonderful
picture, which is not much like a unicorn or even ‘ a whale ‘
. . but rather more perhaps than like me you may
keep for weeks or months, if you choose ; if it continues
‘ not to make you cross.’ Because it does not flatter, and
because you do not flatter (in such equal proportions !) : the
sympathy accounts for the liking . . or absence of dislike ;
on your part.

Now I must end. Thursday is our day, I think : — and
it is easier to say ‘ Thursday ‘ on Monday than on Saturday
. a discovery of mine, that as good as Faraday’s last !

Say how you are. Do not forget. I had to say ….
What I cannot, to-night.

But I am your own

Ba.