Author: EBB

[Postmark: September 1, 1846]

Monday Night.

You are better, dearest, – and so I will confess to having felt a little inclined to reproach you gently for the earlier letter, except that you were not well when you wrote it. That you should endure painfully and impatiently a position unworthy of you, is the natural consequence of the unworthiness – and I do hold that you would be justified at this moment, on the barest motives of self-respect, in abandoning the whole ground and leaving me to Mr. Kenyon and others. What I might complain of, is another thing – what I might complain of is, that I have not given you reason to doubt me or my inclination to accede to any serious wish of yours relating to the step before us. On the contrary I told you in so many words in July, that, if you really wished to go in August rather than in September, I would make no difficulty – to which you answered, remember, that October or November would do as well. Now is it fair, ever dearest, that you should turn round on me so quickly, and call in question my willingness to keep my engagement for years, if ever ? Can I help it, if the circumstances around us are painful to both of us ? Did I not keep repeating, from the beginning, that they must be painful ? Only you could not believe, you see, until you felt the pricks. And when all is done, and the doing shall be the occasion of new affronts, sarcasms, every form of injustice, will you be any happier then, than you are now that you only imagine the possibility of them ? I tremble to answer that question – even to myself – ! As for myself, though I cannot help feeling pain and fear, in encountering what is to be encountered, and though I sometimes fear, in addition, for you, lest you should overtask your serenity in bearing your own part in it, . . yet certainly I have never wavered for a moment from the decision on which all depends. I might fill up your quotations from ‘ Prometheus,’ and say how no evil takes me unaware, having foreseen all from the beginning – but I have not the heart for filling up quotations. I mean to say only, that I never wavered from the promise I gave freely ; and that I will keep it freely at any time you choose – that is, within a week of any time you choose. As to a light word . . . why now, dear, judge me in justice ! If I had written it, there might have been more wrong in it – but I spoke it lightly to show it was light, and in the next breath I told you that it was a jest. Will you not forgive me a word so spoken, Robert ? will you rather set it against me as if habitually I threw to you levities in change for earnest devotion ? – you imply that of me. Or you seem to imply it – you did not mean, you could not, a thought approaching to unkindness, – but it looks like that in the letter, or did, this morning. And all the time, you pretended not to know very well, . . (dearest !) . . that what you made up your mind to wish and ask of me, I had not in my power to say ‘ no ‘ to. Ah, you knew that you had only to make up your mind, and to see that the thing was possible. So if September shall be possible, let it be September. I do not object nor hold back. To sail from the Thames has not the feasibility – and listen why ! All the sailing or rather steaming from London begins early ; and I told you how out of the question it was, for me to leave this house early. I could not, without involving my sisters. Arabel sleeps in my room, on the sofa, and is seldom out of the room before nine in the morning – and for me to draw her into a ruinous confidence, or to escape without a confidence at that hour, would be equally impossible. Now see if it is my fancy, my whim ! And as for the expenses, they are as nearly equal as a shilling and two sixpences can be – the expense of the sea-voyage from London to Havre, and of the land and sea voyage, through Southampton . . or Brighton. But of course what you say of Brighton, keeps us to Southampton, of those two routes. We can go to Southampton and meet the packet . . take the river-steamer to Rouen, and proceed as rapidly as your programme shows. You are not angry with me, dearest, dearest ? I did not mean any harm.

May God bless you always. I am not angry either, understand, though I did think this morning that you were a little hard on me, just when I felt myself ready to give up the whole world for you at the holding up of a finger. And now say nothing of this. I kiss the end of the dear finger ; and when it is ready, I am ready ; I will not be reproached again. Being too much your own, very own

BA.

Tell me that you keep better. And your mother ?

[Postmark: August 31, 1846]
ED

I have just come from the vestry of Paddington chapel, and bore it very well, and saw nobody except one woman. Arabel went with me, and during the singing we escaped and stood outside the door. Now, that is over ; and the next time I shall care less. It was a rambling sermon, which I could hear distinctly through the open door, quite wanting in coherence, but with good and touching things in it, the more touching that they came from a preacher whose life is known to us – from Mr. Stratten, for whom I have the greatest respect, though he never looked into Shakespeare till he was fifty, and shut the book quickly, perhaps, afterward. He is the very ideal of his class ; and, with some of the narrow views peculiar to it, has a heart of miraculous breadth and depth ; loving further than he can see, pitying beyond what he can approve, having in him a divine Christian spirit, the ‘ love of love ‘ in the most expansive form. How that man is beloved by his congregation, the members of his church, by his children, his friends, is wonderful to see – for everybody seems to love him from afar, as a man is loved who is of a purer nature than others. There is that reverence in the love – and yet no fear. His children have been encouraged and instructed to speak aloud before him on religion and other subjects in all freedom of conscience – he turns to his little daughter seriously ‘to hear what she thinks.’ The other day his eldest son, whom he had hoped to see succeed him at Paddington, determined to enter the Church of England : his wife became quite ill with grief about it, and to himself perhaps it was a trial, a disappointment. With the utmost gentleness and tenderness however, he desired him to take time for thought and act according to his conscience. – I believe for my part that there never was a holier man . . ‘ except those bonds ‘ . . never a man who more resolutely trod under his feet every form of evil and selfish passion when it was once recognized – and looked to God and the Truth with a direct aspiration. Once I could not help writing to put our affairs into his hands to settle them for us – but that would be wrong – because Papa would forbid Arabel’s going to the chapel or communicating with his family, and it would be depriving her of a comfort she holds dear – oh no. And besides, you are wise in taking the other view.

Think of our waiting day after day to fall into the net so, yesterday ! How I was provoked and vexed – but more for you, dearest dearest, than for me – much more for you. As for me I saw you, which was joy enough, let the hours be ever so clipped of their natural proportions – and then, youknow, you were obliged to go soon, whether Mr. Kenyon had come or not come. After you were gone, nothing was said, and nothing asked, and it is delightful to have heard of those intended absences one after another till far into October : which will secure us from future embarrassments. See if he means to put us to the question ! – not such a thing is in his thoughts.

And I said what you ‘ would not have believed of me ‘ ! Have you forgiven me, beloved – for saying what you would not have believed of me, – understanding that I did not mean it very seriously, though I proved to be capable of saying it ? Seriously, I don’t want to make unnecessary delays. It is a horrible position, however I may cover it with your roses and the thoughts of you – and far worse to myself than to you, inasmuch that what is painful to you once a week, is to me so continually. To hear the voice of my father and meet his eye makes me shrink back – to talk to my brothers leaves my nerves all trembling . . and even to receive the sympathy of my sisters turns into sorrow and fear, lest they should suffer through their affection for me. How I can look and sleep as well as I do, is a miracle exactly like the rest – or would be, if the love were not the deepest and strongest thing of all, and did not hold and possess me overcomingly. I feel myself to be yours notwithstanding every other influence, and being yours, cannot but be happy by you. Ah – let people talk as they please of the happiness of early youth ! Mrs. Jameson did, the other day, when she wished kindly to take her young niece with her to the Continent, that she might enjoy what in a few years she could not so much enjoy. There is a sort of blind joy common perhaps to such times – a blind joy which blunts itself with its own leaps and bounds ; peculiar to a time of comparative ignorance and inexperience of evil : – but I for my part, with all the capacity for happiness which I had from the beginning, I look back and listen to my whole life, and feel sure of what I have already told you, . . that I am happier now than I ever was before . . infinitely happier now, through you . . infinitely happier ; even now in this position I have just called ‘ horrible.’ When I hear you say for instance, that you ‘ love me perceptibly more ‘ . . why I cannot, cannot be more happy than when I hear you say that – going to Italy seems nothing ! a vulgar walk to Primrose Hill after being caught up to the third Heaven ! I think nothing of Italy now, though I shall enjoy it of course when the time comes. I think only that you love me, that you are the angel of my life, – and for the despair and desolation behind me, they serve to mark the hour of your coming, – and they are behind, as Italy is before. Never can you feel for me, Robert, as I feel for you . . it is not possible of course. I am yours in a way and degree which the tenderest of other women could not be at her will. Which you know. Why should I repeat it to you ? Why, except that is a reason to prove that we cannot, as you say, ‘ ever be a common wife and husband.’ But I don’t think I was intending to give proofs of that –no, indeed.

To-morrow I shall hear from you. Say how your mother is, in the second letter if you do not in the first. May God bless you and keep you, dearest beloved –

Your very own BA.

There is not much in the article by Mr. Chorley, but it is right and kind as far as it goes.

[Postmark: August 29, 1846]

Will you come, dearest, after all ? Judge for both of us. The Hedleys go to-morrow morning and we shall not see them after to-night when they are dining here – but Mr. Kenyon has not paid his visit, and may come to-morrow, or may take Sunday, which he is fond of doing – is it worth while to be afraid of Mr. Kenyon ? What do you think ? I leave it to your wisdom which is the greatest. Perhaps he may not come till Monday – yet he may.

Dearest, I have had all your thoughts by turns, or most of them . . and each one has withered away without coming to bear fruit. Papa seems to have no more idea of my living beyond these four walls, than of a journey to Lapland. I confess that I thought it possible he might propose the country for the summer, or even Italy for the winter, in a ‘ late remark ‘ – but no, ‘ nothing ‘ and there is not a possibility of either word, as I see things. My brothers ‘ wish that something could be arranged’ – a wish which I put away quietly as often as they bring it to me. And for my uncle and aunt, they have been talking to me to-day – and she with her usual acuteness in such matters, observing my evasion, said, ‘ Ah Ba, you have arranged your plans more than you would have us believe. But you are right not to tell us – indeed I would rather not hear. Only don’t be rash – that is my only advice to you.’

I thought she had touched the truth, and wondered – but since then, from another of her words, I came to conclude that she imagined me about to accept the convoy of Henrietta and Captain Cook ! She said in respect to them – ‘ I only say that your father’s consent ought to be asked, as a form of respect to him.’ Which, in their case should be, I think – and should also in ours, but for the peculiar position of one of us. My uncle urged me to keep firm and go to Italy, and my aunt, though she would not advise, she said, yet thought that I ‘ ought to go,’ and that to live on in this fashion in this room was lamentable to contemplate. Both of them approved of the French route, and urged me to go to them in Paris – ‘ And,’ said my uncle kindly, ‘ when once we have you, we shall not bear to part with you, I think.’

(Do you really imagine, by the way, that to appear in Paris for one half-minute, to a single soul, could be less detestable to me than to you ? I shall take care that nobody belonging to me there shall hear of my being within a hundred miles – and why need we stay in Paris the half minute ? Not unless you pause to demand an audience of Mr. Chorley at the Barriere des Etoiles.

While we were talking, Papa came into the room. My aunt said, ‘ How well she is looking ‘ -‘ Do you think so ? ‘ he said. ‘ Why, do not you think so ? Do you pretend to say that you see no surprising difference in her ? ‘ – ‘ Oh, I don’t know,’ he went on to say.’ ‘ She is mumpish, I think.’ Mumpish !

‘ She does not talk,’ resumed he –

‘ Perhaps she is nervous ‘ – my aunt apologised – I said not one word . . When birds have their eyes out, they are apt to be mumpish.

Mumpish ! The expression proved a displeasure. Yet I am sure that I have shown as little sullenness as was possible. To be very talkative and vivacious under such circumstances as those of mine, would argue insensibility, and was certainly beyond my power.

I told her gently afterwards that she had been wrong in speaking of me at all – a wrong with a right intention, – as all her wrongness must be. She was very sorry to have done it, she said, and looked sorry.

Poor Papa ! – Presently I shall be worse to him than ‘ mumpish ‘ even. But then, I hope, he will try to forgive me, as I have forgiven him, long ago.

My own beloved – do you know that your letter caught me in the act of wondering whether the absence would do me harm with you, according to that memorable theory. And so in the midst came the solution of the doubt – you do not love me less. Nay, you love me more – ah, but if you say so, I am capable of wishing not to see you for a month added to the week ! For did I not once confess to you that I loved your love as much as I loved you . . or very, very, very nearly as much ? Not precisely so much. Confiteor tibi – but I will sing a penitential psalm low to myself and do the act of penance by seeing you to-morrow if you choose to come, – and then you shall absolve me and give me the Benedicite, which, if you come, you cannot keep back, because it comes with you of necessity.

Not a word of your head, nor of your mother ! You should come I think, to-morrow, if only to say it. Yet let us be wise to the end. Be you wise to the end, and decide between Saturday and Monday. And I, for my part, promise to go to Italy, only with you do not be afraid.

And for your poetry, I believe in it as ‘ golden water ‘ – and the ‘ singing tree ‘ does not hide it from me with all the overcropping branches and leaves. In fact, the chief inconvenience we are likely to suffer from, in the way of income, is the having too much. Don’t you think so ? But in that case, we will buy an island of our own in one of those purple seas, and inherit the sun – or perhaps the shadow . . of Calypso’s cave.

So do not be uneasy, dearest ! – not even lest I should wish to spend three weeks in Paris, to show myself at the Champs Elysees and the opera, and gather a little glory after what you happily call ‘ our adventure.’

Our adventure, indeed ! But it is you who are adventuring in the matter, – and as any Red Cross Knight of them all, whom you exceed in their chivalry proper.

Chiappino little knew how right he was, when he used to taunt me with my ‘ New Cross Knight.’ He did – Ah ! Even if he had talked of ‘ Rosie Cross,’ he would not have been so far wide – the magic ‘ saute aux yeaux.’

And now, will you come to-morrow, I wonder, or not ? The answer is in you.

And I am your own, ever and as ever !

And you thought I was dying with a desire to tell Mrs. Jameson ! ! – I!

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

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

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

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

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

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

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

E. B. B. to R. B.

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

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

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

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

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

I am your very own BA.

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

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

[Postmark: August 27, 1846]

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am your own –

[Postmark: August 26, 1846]

‘ Nor is it very long to wait ‘ – Alas ! – My note went two hours ago to cross out the application of that phrase, and now it is very long to wait, . . all the days to Friday. Tell me, dearest, if you think it wise, at least, to make such an unhappy arrangement, . . considering, you know, Mr. Kenyon and my brothers. It ought to be wise, I think . . it is so unhappy and disappointing. Consider what I am without you all this long dreary while ; and how little ever so much sense of wisdom can console anybody.

Friday will come however, – and I may as well go on to tell you that Mrs. Jameson came yesterday. ‘ Anything settled ? ‘ she asked ; as she walked into the room. She looked at me with resolute, enquiring eyes. I wonder if she ever approaches to the divination of something like the truth – not the truth, but like it. Either she must see indistinctly ‘ something new and strange,’ or attribute to me a strange delight in the mysterious. She half promised to see me again before she leaves England, and begged me to write and tell her all whenever I shall have it in my power to make the communication. Affectionate she was, as always.

To-day I have seen nobody, except Mr. Boyd for a little, after driving through street upon street, where I might have met you if I had been happy enough. Albemarle Street . . were you there ? I sate there, in the carriage, opposite to the York Hotel, while Henrietta paid her visit to old Lady Bolingbroke, a full half hour . . Flush and I – Flush staring out of the window, and I . . doing what I generally do in this room, do you ask what it was ? At the end of some twenty minutes, a boy passed, who had the impertinence to look full at Flush and whistle, whereupon Flush growled, and appealed to me with two immense eyes . . both seeming to say ‘ I hope you observe how I am insulted.’ So my reverie was broken in the middle – but being better tempered, rather, than Flush, or having larger resources, I did not growl, but took your latest letter out instead, which lasted for the whole remainder of the time. Then at Mr. Boyd’s . . oh, I must tell you . . he began to tell me some romantic compliments of several young ladies who desired to be disguised in servant’s accoutrements, just to open the door to me (to have a good stare, I suppose) or, in good earnest, to be my maid ! (to go with us to Pisa, dearest . . how would you like that ? – Seriously now do just calculate the wonderful good fortune of such a person, in falling upon two lions instead of one – nay, on a great wild forest-lion, this time, in addition to the little puny lioness of the original bargain !) Well ! – but when Mr. Boyd had done his report, I asked naturally, ‘And what am I to say to all this ? ‘ ‘ Why you are to say that you will be good-natured, and give somebody pleasure at the cost of no pain to yourself, and go to the room downstairs and speak three words to Miss Smith who is there, waiting.’ Imagine anybody having a Miss Smith ready in the drawing-room to let out upon one ! Imagine me too (to be less abstract) walking in to that same Miss Smith, . . to the effect of – ! ‘ Here I am ! just come to be looked at. Is it at all what you expected, Miss Smith ‘ ?

The worst was, that dear Mr. Boyd would have set it down to a species of malignancy, if I had refused – so I took my courage up with both hands, and remembering that I had seen two or three times, years ago, the stepmother of the said Miss Smith, I thought I might enquire after her with a sort of propriety. And I got through it somehow. ‘ Will you let me shake hands with you and ask how Mrs. Smith is ? Does she remember me, I wonder ? I am Elizabeth Barrett.’ – ‘ Is it possible ? Ah ! I thought you were one of your sisters at first ! Dear me ! Why how much better, you must be, to be sure ! – Oh dear me, what an illness you have had ! Ah, quite shut up so long ! How very, very interesting, to be sure.’ – If Flush had swallowed her up in the middle, I might have forgiven him, to be sure. So interesting too, that catastrophe would have been ! But you shall not set me down as a savage – it was all kindness on her side, of course – but one may be savage to a situation . . (which is just the way with me, . .) without being a born barbarian woman.

As to Miss Martineau, the expression which sounds so rampant with conceit, may yet be the plainest proof of a mere instinct of self-preservation. If three Smiths would be mob enough to mob me to death (and they may make a mob, as three fine days, a summer !), let us have some feeling for her, exposed, from various causes, to the thirties . . at the lowest comparative computation.

For Ossian, you admit the nucleus. Which is only like your Ba, dearest . . you will not stand higher as an Ossianic critic unless you believe the verbal authenticity, ‘ nothing extenuating.’ The cushion of the armchair ! My place of deposit used to be between the mattresses of my crib – a little mahogany crib with cane sides to it. You were like Lord Byron (another point of likeness !) in imitating Ossian, but you were still earlier at the work than he was.

It is very well to ascertain the prices by the steamers ; though my expectation is that you will find them higher than you fancy them. Nineteen guineas was the charge last year, as far as Gibraltar only. Then, if you charmed ever so eloquently with the voice of the charmer, you never, as a passenger, would induce those people to diminish the rate, because of our being three ; and a female servant is charged for at the higher rate . . if not the highest. Altogether the expenses will be, out of all comparison, beyond that of the passage through France . . . see if it will not. Ten pounds, as far as the travelling goes, seem to cover everything, in going from hence to Leghorn . . to Pisa . . taking Rouen and Orleans – and meaning of course, for one person. And if the advantages are, as you describe, besides . . why should we forego them ? Is the fatigue so much greater ? If there are more changes and shiftings, there is also more absolute rest – and the rivers are smoother than the seas. Still, it is well to consider and there are good reasons on each side, worthy of consideration.

So much more I had to say – I break off suddenly, being benighted. How you write to me ! how you wrote to me on Sunday and yesterday ! How I wish for two hearts to love you with, and two lives to give to you, and two souls to bear the weight worthily of all you have given to me. But if one heart and one life will do, . . they are yours . . I cannot give them again.

Beloved, if your mother should be ill, we must not think of your leaving her, surely ?

May God bless you, dearest beloved.

I am your BA.

[Postmark: August 26, 1846]

I have just had a note from Mr. Kenyon, who, after his absence at Richmond, promises to come and see me on Thursday afternoon. Now . . would it be quite ‘ unco guid ‘ of us . . and wise ‘ above what is written ‘ (in your letter) if we put off our day to Friday, and gave me the power to answer to Mr. Kenyon’s certain question, . . ‘ no, I have not seen him since I saw you. ‘ ? If you think it would be wise, my own dearest, why do not come to-morrow ; do not come till Friday. See – to-day is Tuesday, and only two days more will intervene, – and we are agreed on the necessity of prudence for the coming weeks – particularly when my brothers have nothing particular to do, at this time of vacation, but to watch us on all sides. I am so nervous that my own footsteps startle me. But quite well I am, and you shall not have fancies about me – as to strength, I mean – as to what I cannot do, bear, and the like.

To-night I shall write a letter as usual. This is a bare line, which Henrietta will throw into the post, to speak to you of to-morrow. The letter follows.

How I miss you, and long for Friday. If you have an engagement for Friday, there is Saturday. ‘ Understand’ . . as you say, and I repeat.

To-night I will tell you where I went to-day.

Your own I am always

[Postmark: August 25, 1846]
ED

Dearest, how you frightened me with the sight of your early letter ! But it is only your wisdom, – which by this time should scarcely startle me, – there’s a compliment, to begin with, you see, in change for all the praises ; . . my ‘ peerlessness ‘ (! ! !) being settled like the Corn Law repeal ! oh, you want no more evidence of it, not you ! (poor blind you !) and the other witnesses are bidden to ‘ stand down ‘ – ‘ I may smile even now ‘ . . . as you say quoad Flush, . . smile at your certainty as you smile at my doubt. Will you let me smile, and not call it a peerless insolence, or ingratitude, – dearest you ?

For dearest you are, and best in the world, . . it all comes to that, . . and considerate for me always : and at once I agree with you that for this interval it will be wise for us to set the visits, . . ‘ our days . . far apart, . . nearly a week apart, perhaps, so as to escape the dismal evils we apprehend. I agree in all you say – in all. At the same time, the cloud has passed for the present – nothing has been said more, and not a word to me ; and nobody appears out of humour with me. They will be displeased of course, in the first movement . . we must expect that . . they will be vexed at the occasion given to conversation and so on. But it will be a passing feeling, and their hearts and their knowledge of circumstances may be trusted to justify me thoroughly. I do not fear offending them – there is no room for fear. At this point of the business too, you place the alternative rightly – their approbation or their disapprobation is equally to be escaped from. Also, we may be certain that they would press the applying for permission – and I might perhaps, in the storm excited, among so many opinions and feelings, fail to myself and you, through weakness of the body. Not of the Will ! And for my affections and my conscience, they turn to you and untremblingly turn.

Will you come on Wednesday rather than Tuesday then ? It is only one day later than we meant at first, but it nearly completes a week of separation ; and we can then go to next week for the next day. Also, on Wednesday we secure Mr. Kenyon’s absence. He will be still at Richmond.

Your letter which startled me by coming early, yet came too late for you to receive the answer to it to-night. But I will send it to the post to-night ; and I write hurriedly to be in time for that end.

My own beloved, you shall not be uneasy on my account. – I send you foolishnesses and you are daunted by them – but see ! What affects me in those churches and chapels is something different, quite different, from railroad noises and the like. You do not understand, and I never explained, . . you could not understand – but the music, the sight of the people, the old tunes of hymns . . all these things seem to suffocate my very soul with the sense of the past, past days, when there was one beside me who is not here now – I am upset, overwhelmed with it all. I think I should have been quite foolishly, hysterically ill yesterday if I had persisted in staying. Next Sunday I shall go to the vestry, and see nobody, and get over it by degrees.

Well – but for the sea-voyage, it seems to me that the great thing for us to ascertain is the precise expense. I should not at all mind going by sea, only that I fear the expense, and also that it is necessary to take our passages some time before, . . and then, if anything happened . . I mean any little thing . . an obstacle for a day or two ! Consider our circumstances.

I shall write again perhaps. Do not rely, though, on my writing. Perhaps I shall write. I shall think of your goodness certainly ! May God bless you, dearest beloved, I love, love you ! I cannot be more

Your own.

Don’t forget to bring the paper on ‘ Colombe’s Birthday,’ – and say particularly how you are – and how your mother is. In such haste I write ! –

[Postmark: August 24, 1846]

My own dearest, let me say the most urgent thing first. You hear these suspicions of your brothers. Will you consider if, during this next month, we do not risk too much in seeing each other as usual? We risk everything . . and what do we gain, in the face of that ? I can learn no more about you, be taught no new belief in your absolute peerlessness – I have taken my place at your feet for ever : all my use of the visits is, therefore, the perfect delight of them . . and to hazard a whole life of such delight for the want of self-denial during a little month, – that would be horrible. I altogether sympathise with your brothers’ impatience, or curiosity, or anxiety, or ‘ graveness ‘ – and am prepared for their increasing and growing to heights difficult or impossible to be borne. But do you not think we may avoid compelling any premature crisis of this kind ? I am guided by your feelings, as I seem to perceive them, in this matter ; the harm to be apprehended is through the harm to them – to your brothers. If they determine on avowedly knowing what we intend, I do not see which to fear most ; the tacit acquiescence in our scheme which may draw down a vengeance on them without doing us the least good, – or the open opposition which would bring about just so much additional misfortune. I know, now, your perfect adequacy to any pain and danger you will incur for our love’s sake – I believe in you as you would have me believe : but give yourself to me, dearest dearest Ba, the entire creature you are, and not a lacerated thing only reaching my arms to sink there. Perhaps this is all a sudden fancy, not justified by circumstances, arising from my ignorance of the characters of those I talk about ; that is for you to decide – your least word reassures me, as always. But I fear much for you, to make up, perhaps, for there being nothing else in the world fit to fear : I exclude direct visitations of God, which cannot be feared, after all – dreadful dooms to which we should bow. But the ‘ fear ‘ proper, means with me an apprehension that, with all my best effort, it may be unable to avert some misfortune . . the effort going on all the time : and this is a real effort, dearest Ba, this letter : consider it thus. I will (if possible) send it to town, so as to reach you earlier and allow you to write one line in reply. You have heard all I can say . . say you, shall I come to-morrow ? If you think it advisable, I will come and be most happy.

Another thing : you see your excitement about the church and the crowd . . My own love, are you able, – with all that great, wonderful heart of yours, – to bear the railway fatigues, and the entering and departure from Paris and Orleans and the other cities and towns ? Would not the long sea-voyage be infinitely better, if a little dearer? Or what can be dear if it prevents all that risk, or rather certainty, of excitement and fatigue ? You see, the packet sails on the 30th September and the 15th October. As three of us go, they would probably make some reduction in price. Ah, even here, I must smile . . will you affirm that ever an approximation to a doubt crossed your mind about Flush ? I think your plans with respect to ‘ Blackwood ‘ most excellent – I see many advantages.

Here is the carriage for my sister, who is going to stay in town at the Arnoulds’ for a week, – with Mrs. A. in it to fetch her. I shall give this letter to be put in the post – I have all to say, but the very essential is said – understand me, my best, only love, and forgive my undue alarm, for the sake of the love that prompts it. Write the one line . . do not let me do myself wrong by my anxiety – if I may come, let me ! Bless you, Ba.