Author: EBB

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your own BA.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Sunday.

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

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

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

Your BA.

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Thursday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘ Perhaps across France — by the rivers.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May God bless you for me ! Your BA.

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

[Postmark: August 6, 1846]

Wednesday Night.

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

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

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

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

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

Wholly yours and ever — in the greatest haste —

[Postmark: August 5, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Postmark: August 4, 1846]

Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

Your own, I am.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Sunday Morning and Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and ever and ever I am your own BA.

[Postmark: July 31, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

Well, then, — it wasn’t, after all, so extravagant of me to
make the proposition about ‘ four months ? ‘ How innocent
people may be treated like guilty ones, through no mistake
even, of theirs !

But I hold to my first impression about Mr. Kenyon,
whatever your second ones may be. I know him entirely,
and his views of life, and his terrors of responsibility . .
his irresolution, his apprehensiveness. He never would ‘ shake
his head ‘ good-naturedly, . . until he could do nothing else.
Just in proportion to the affection he bears each of us,
would he labour to drive us apart. And by the means you
describe ! And we who can foresee and analyze those
means from this distance, would not, either of us, resist
the actual process ! There . . do not suffer yourself, ever
dearest, to be drawn into any degree of confidence there !
It would end miserably, I know . . see . . am confidently
sure. Let him, on the contrary, see the thing done, before
he sees it at all, and then he will see the best of it . . the
good in it . . then we shall stand on the sunshiny side of
his philosophy and have all the benefit of that, instead of
having to endure, as we should now, the darkness of his
irresolution and the weight of his over-caution. Observe of
dear Mr. Kenyon, that, generous and noble as he is, he fears
like a mere man of the world. Moreover he might find very
rational cause for fearing, in a distant view of this . .
‘ most rational ‘ of marriages ! — oh, but I am wrong in my
quotation ! — this only rational marriage that ever was heard
of ! — ! ! — it is so, I think.

Where did you guess that I was to-day ? In Westminster Abbey!
But we were there at the wrong hour,
as the service was near to begin . . and I was so frightened
of the organ, that I hurried and besought my companions
out of the door after a moment or two. Frightened of the
organ ! — yes, just exactly that — and you may laugh a little
as they did. Through being so disused to music, it affects
me quite absurdly. Again the other day, in the drawing
room, because my cousin sang a song from the ‘ Puritani, ‘
of no such great melancholy, I had to go away to finish my
sobbing by myself. Which is all foolish and absurd, I
know — but people cannot help their nerves — and I was
ready to cry to-day, only to think of the organ, without
hearing it — I, who do not cry easily, either ! and all
Arabel’s jests about how I was sure of my life even if I
should hear one note, . . did not reassure me in the least.
We walked within the chapel . . merely within . . and
looked up and looked down ! How grand — how solemn !
Time itself seemed turned to stone there ! Then we stood
where the poets were laid — oh, it is very fine — it is
better than Laureateships and pensions. Do you remember what
is written on Spenser’s monument — ‘ Here lyeth, in
expectation of the second coming of Jesus Christ, . . Edmond
Spenser, having given proof of his divine spirit in his poems ‘
— something to that effect ; and it struck me as being
earnest and beautiful, and as if the writer believed in him.
We should not dare, nowadays, to put such words on a
poet’s monument. We should say . . the author of such
a book . . at most ! Michael Drayton’s inscription has
crept back into the brown heart of the stone . . all but the
name and a date, which somebody has renewed with black
lines . . black as ink.

Dearest, it will not do at all . . the going at eight
o’clock in the morning. I could not leave this house — it
would not be possible. And then, why should we wish even,
for that long passage to no end ; Southampton or Brighton
being, each of them, accessible and unobjectionable. As
for the expense, it is nearly equal, by railway or sea.

For Mrs. Jameson, I mentioned her because you did
once, and because her being so kind reminded me of it. I
thought perhaps you might like her being with us (how
should I know ? ), in which case . . Well — but you do not
wish it, . . and indeed I do not. Therefore she shall go
by herself . . dear Mrs. Jameson . . I will however write
to her, which I have not done yet. It is not so easy as
you think, perhaps, to write at once so much and so little.

Why not tell me how you are, Robert ? When you do
not, I fancy that you are not well ! Say how you are,
and love me till Saturday — and even afterwards.

Your very own BA.

As to forgiveness — ought I to have been angry when I
was not ? All I felt in that letter, was, that you loved me
— and as to your pretending to think that it was ‘ show and
acting ‘ on my part, I knew you did not really, and
could not : — but at any rate I was the farthest possible
from being angry — and the very farthest possible,
peradventure !

[Postmark: July 30, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

‘ Such desires — (for it was a desire — ‘)

Well put into a parenthesis that is ! — ashamed and hiding
itself between the brackets !

Because — my own dearest — it was not a ‘ desire ‘ — it
was the farthest possible from being a ‘ desire ‘ . . the word
I spoke to you on Tuesday . . yesterday !

And if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing
it — what did that prove, but I was able to speak it,
and that just it was so much less earnest and painfully felt ?
Why it was not a proposition even — . I said only ‘ You
had better give me up ! ‘ It was only the reflection, in the
still water, of what had been a proposition. ‘ Better ‘
perhaps ! — ‘ Better ‘ for you, that you should desire to
give me up and do it — my ‘Idee fixe’ you know. But
said with such different feelings from those which have
again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while
I wrote to you the vexatious letter . . . that I smile at you
seeing no difference. You, blind ! — Which is wrong of
me again. I will not smile for having vexed you . .
teased you. Which is wrong of you, though . . the being
vexed for so little ! because ‘you ought to know by this
time ‘ . . (now I will use your reproachful words) — you
ought certainly to know that I am your own, and ready to
go through with the matter we are upon, and willing to leave
the times and the seasons in your hand ! Four months !
meant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All
I thought of answering to you, was, that there was no need
yet of specifying the exact time. And yet —

Ah — yes ! — I feel as you feel, the risks and the
difficulties which close around us. And you feel that about
Mr. Kenyon ? Is it by an instinct that I tremble to think
of him, more than to think of others ? The hazel-rod turns
round in my hand when I stand here. And as you show
him speaking and reasoning . . his arm laid on your
shoulder . . oh, what a vision, that is ! before that, I
cannot stand any longer ! — it takes away my breath — the
likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to promise to realise
itself, one day !

But you promised. I have your solemn promise, Robert !
If ever you should be moved by a single one of those vain
reasons, it will be an unfaithful cruelty in you. You will
have trusted another, against me. You would not do it, my
beloved.

For I have none in the world who will hold me to make
me live in it, except only you. I have come back for you
alone . . at your voice and because you have use for me !
I have come back to live a little for you — I see you. My
fault is . . not that I think too much of what people will
say. I see you and hear you. ‘ People ‘ did not make
me live for them. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve
that you should believe in me, beloved, because my love
for you is ‘Me.’

Now tell me again to ‘ decide ‘ — and I will tell you that
the words are not ‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’
Dearest beyond words, did I deserve you telling me to
‘ decide ‘ ?

Let it be September then, if you do not decide other-
wise — I would not lean to dangerous delays which are
unnecessary — I wish we were at Pisa, rather !

So try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from
Nevers to Chalons . . I could not to-day, with my French
travelling-book, find a way, either by the chemin de fer or
coche d’eau. — All the rest is easy and direct . . and very
cheap. We must not hesitate between the French route
and the sea voyage.

Now I will tell you your good story. You said that
you had only heard six words from Mr. Reade — but that
they were characteristic. Someone was talking before him
and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore — ‘ He is very ill ‘
said the someone. ‘ But he is no poet ‘ said Mr. Reade.

Isn’t it a good story ? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘ exquisite.’
It is what your man of science would have called ‘ A
beautiful specimen ‘ — now isn’t it ?

May God bless you, dearest, dearest ! — I owe all to
you, and love you wholly — I am your very own —

[Postmark: July 29, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Dearest, as I lost nearly an hour of you to-day, I make
amends to myself by beginning to write to you as if I had
not seen you at all. A large sheet of paper, too, has flown
into my hands — the Fates giving ample room and verge
enough, my characters . . not ‘ of Hell ‘ . . to trace, as I am
not going to swear at Mr. Kenyon, whatever the provocation !
Dear Mr. Kenyon !

It appears that he talked to my sisters some time before
he let himself be announced to me — he said to them ‘ I
want to talk to you . . sit down by me and listen. ‘ Then he
began to tell them of Mrs. Jameson, repeating what you told
me, of her desire to take me to Italy, . . and of her earnestness
about it. To which, he added, he had replied by every
representation likely to defeat those thoughts — that only
a relative would be a fit companion for me, and that no
person out of my family could be justified in accepting
such a responsibility, on other grounds, entering on the
occurrences of last year, and reasoning on from them to the
possibility that if I offended by an act of disobedience, I
might be ‘ cast off ‘ as for a crime. Oh — poor Papa was
not spared at all — not to Mrs. Jameson, not to my sisters.
Mr. Kenyon said . . ‘ It is painful to you perhaps to hear
me talk so, but it is a sore subject with me, and I cannot
restrain the expression of my opinions. ‘ He ‘ had told Mrs.
Jameson everything — it was due to her to have a full
knowledge, he thought . . and he had tried to set before
her the impossibility she was under, of doing any good. ‘
Then he asked my sisters . . if I ever spoke of Italy . . if
they thought I dwelt on the idea of it. ‘ Yes, ‘ they
answered ‘ in their opinion, I had made up my mind to
go.’ ‘ But how? what is the practical side of the question ?
She can’t go alone — and which of you will go with
her ? You know, last year, she properly rejected the
means which involved you in danger. ‘ Henrietta advised
that nothing should be said or done. ‘ Ba must do everything
for herself. Her friends cannot help her. She must
help herself. ‘ ‘ But she must not go to Italy by herself.
Then, how? ‘ ‘ She has determination of character, ‘
continued Henrietta — ‘ She will surprise everybody some
day. ‘

‘ But how ? ‘ — Mr. Kenyon repeated . . looking uneasy.
(And how imprudent of Henrietta to say that ! I have been
scolding her a little.)

The discussion ended by his instructing them to tell me
of Mrs. Jameson’s proposal ; ‘ because it was only right that
I should have the knowledge of her generous kindness,
though for his part, he did not like to agitate me by
conversing on the subject.’

Yes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having
had some conversation with my uncle Hedley, who was
‘very angry’ — and he asked if my aunt Hedley had no
influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered
in the negative. And this is all. He appears to have no
‘ plan ‘ of his particular own.

What do you say, Robert, to all this ? Since I am
officially informed of Mrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank
her certainly — and in what words ? ‘ How ‘ ! — — as Mr.
Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and thank
her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but
the secret of there being a secret with the weight of which I
am unwilling to oppress her at this time. Could it be
done, I wonder ? Perhaps not. Yet how hard, how very
difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily, and be silent
wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship !
And a whole confidence NOW is dangerous . . would torment
her with a sense of responsibility. Think which way it
should be.

Once you asked me about joining travelling-company,
with Mrs. Jameson. Should you like it ? prefer it for any
cause? . if it could be done without involving her in trouble,
of course.

Ah, dearest . . what a loss the three quarters of an hour
were to me ! like the loss of four quarters of a moon on a
dark night ! When dear Mr. Kenyon came to me, he found
me with my thoughts astray — following you up the street !
He asked how long you had been here . . ‘ Some time, ‘ I
said — by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my
answers were not so apt ! were more like ‘ cross-questions,’
perhaps, than answers of the common. But he roused me
a little by telling me that he wanted you to ‘ make an
excursion ‘ with Landor and himself, and that you did not
‘ encourage the idea ‘ — and by proceeding to tell me further,
that at a dinner the other day at his house, your poetry
being taken up and praised to the right measure, before
that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote a letter by the morning’s
post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that he (Mr. Reade)
should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits ‘ of
a brother-bard, ‘ but that Edmund Reade could not recognize
Robert Browning as a master-mind of the period, ‘ for
reasons, which were given at length. ‘ He, (Robert Browning)
had never rushed, with a passionate genius, into the
production of long poems ‘ . . (like ‘ Italy ‘) ‘ and long dramas
. . (like . . like . . . what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last ?)
Poor, wretched man ! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in
compassion too tender toward humanity ! Also he told
me your excellent story on the stairs.

On the stairs ! I heard the talking and the laughing,
and felt ready to cry out the burden. Well — , Saturday
will come, as surely as you could go. May God bless you,
my own ! — are you my own ? and not rather, yes, rather, far
rather, I am your own, your very own

BA.

I doubt your being able to read what is written. Only
don’t send the ‘ manuscript ‘ to Mr. Forster, to be
interpreted . . after the fashion of others !