Author: EBB

[Postmark: July 3, 1846]

Friday Morning.

I am forced to say something now which you will not
like and which I, for my part, hate to say — but you shall
judge how impossible it is for me to see you to-morrow.

The visitors did not come last night ; and as this
morning we expected them hourly, the post brought a letter
instead, to the effect that they were to arrive just on Saturday
. . leaving us to calculate the time of arrival between one
p.m. to five or six. If at one, . . Papa will be in the house
and likely to stay in it all day after . . which would be a
complication of disadvantages for us, and if at three . .
why even so, my aunt would ‘ admire ‘ a little the reason of
my not seeing her at once, and there would be questions
and answers a faire fremir. So dearest dearest, I must try
to live these two days more without seeing you — and
indeed it will be hard work — the very light of the sun to-morrow,
let it be ever so bright a sun, will only reproach
the day with what it ought to have been . . our day, instead
everybody’s day or nobody’s day, a poor, blank, dreary
day. What, when the clock is at three. . . oh what will
keep me, I wonder, from being sullen to my aunt and sulky
to my cousin ? They will think me (if my ministering angel
should not throw me some hallowing thought of you, best
beloved !) considerably fallen off in the morale, however the
improvement may be of the bodily health — I shall be as
cross, as cross . . well, if I am less than cross, you must be
right after all, and I, ‘ une femme miraculeuse ‘ without
illusion ! It is too bad, too bad. The whole week — from
Monday to Monday ! And I do not positively fix even
Monday, though I hope for Monday : — but Monday may
be taken from us just as Saturday is, and the Hedleys are
to come on Tuesday . . only not to this house. I wish
they were all at Seringapatam.

Do not mind it however. Yes, mind it a little, . .
Robert ! but not overmuch — because the day shall not be
lost utterly — I shall take care. I will be on the watch for
half-days when people go out to shop . . that solemn
business of life, . . and we will have our lost day back
again . . you will see. But I could not get to Mrs.
Jameson’s this morning, not being quite well enough. It is
nothing as illness, — I tell you the truth, dear — and even
now I feel better than I did in the early morning. It was
only just enough to prevent my going. And if I had gone
I should not have seen you — you would not go in time —
you would not perhaps even have my letter in time. The
stars are against us for the moment, it seems.

Write to me, think of me, love me. You shall hear on
Saturday and on Sunday, and we will settle about Monday.

After all, it would have been difficult to have met you at
Mrs. Jameson’s, observing the ‘ fitness of things ‘ :—and as
I am subject to the madness of saying ‘ Robert ‘ without
knowing it … !

May God bless you. Say how you are ! Don’t let me
slide out of your mind through this rift in the rock. I
catch at the jutting stones.

I am your own Ba.

[Postmark: July 3, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

But, ever dearest, I do so fear that I shall not be able
to get to Mrs. Jameson’s to-morrow at all ! not at twelve, I
fear, I fear. Our visitors are to arrive late to-night, too late
for me to see them : and for me to go away at twelve in
the morning, just about the hour when they might reason-
ably expect to have and to hold me, . . seems altogether
unlawful, according to my sisters. Yet the temptation is
strong. Would half-past twelve be too early for you, if I
could manage to go at twelve ? Ah – but I shall not be
able, I do fear. Just see how it becomes possible and
impossible at once for us to touch hands ! I could almost
wring mine, to see ! For I could dare the spectacles, the
hypothetical spectacles, and the eyes discerning without
them : she has no idea to begin with – and you would not
say ‘ Ba, let us order the mules,’ I suppose. If I went, it
would be alone – but probably I shall not be able – so you
had better not think of me, and pay your visit at your own
hour ‘after the devices of your heart.’

In the meanwhile, quite you make me laugh by your
positiveness about the name-calling. Well – if ever I did
such a thing, it was in a moment of unconsciousness all the
more surprising, that, even to my own soul, in the lowest
spirit-whisper, I have not been in the habit of saying
‘ Robert,’ speaking of you. You have only been The One.
No word ever stood for you. The Idea admitted of no
representative – the words fell down before it and were
silent. Still such very positive people must be right of
course – they always are. At any rate it is only one illusion
more – and some day I expect to hear you say and swear
that you saw me fly out of one window and fly in at
another. So much for your Cleopatra’s Roman pearls,
oh my famous in council ! – and appreciation of sour
vinegar !

Dear Miss Mitford came at two to-day and stayed until
seven, and all those hours you were not once mentioned –
I had not courage – and she perhaps avoided an old subject
of controversy . . I do not know. It is singular that for
this year past you are not mentioned between us, while
other names come up like grass in the rain. No single
person will be more utterly confounded than she, when she
comes to be aware of what you are to me now – and that
I was thinking to-day, while she talked to never a listener.
She will be confounded, and angry perhaps – it will be
beyond her sympathies or if they reach so far, the effort
to make them do so will prove a more lively affection for
me, than, with all my trust in her goodness, I dare count
on. Yet very good and kind and tender, she was to me
to-day. And very variously intelligent and agreeable. Do
you know, I should say that her natural faculties were
stronger than Mrs. Jameson’s – though the latter has a
higher aspiration and, in some ways, a finer sensibility of
intellect. You would certainly call her superior to her own
books – certainly you would. She walks strongly on her
two feet in this world but nobody shall see her (not even
you) fly out of a window. Too closely she keeps to the
ground, I always feel. Now Mrs. Jameson can ‘ aspire ‘ like
Paracelsus ; and believes enough in her own soul, to know
a poet when she sees one. Ah – but all cannot be all.

Miss Mitford wrung a promise from me that ‘ if I were
well enough and in England next summer, I would go to
see her.’ So remember. Isn’t it a promise for two ?

Only we shall be mule-riding in those days – unless I
shall have tired you. Shall you be tired of me in one
winter, I wonder ? My programme is, to let you try me
for one winter, and if you are tired (as I shall know without
any confession on your side) why then I shall set the mule
on a canter and leave you in La Cava, and go and live in
Greece somewhere all alone, taking enough with me for
bread and salt. Is it a jest, do you think ? Indeed it is
not. It is very grave earnest, be sure. I believe that I
never could quarrel with you ; but the same cause would
absolutely hinder my living with you if you did not love
me. We could not lead the abominable lives of ‘ married
people ‘ all round – you know we could not – I at least
know that I could not, and just because I love you so
entirely. Then, you know, you could come to England by
yourself and . . ‘ Where’s Ba ? ‘ – ‘ Oh, she’s somewhere
in the world, I suppose. How can I tell?’ And then
Mrs. Jameson would shake her head, and observe that
the problem was solved exactly as she expected, and that
artistical natures smelt of sulphur and brimstone, without
any exceptions.

Am I laughing ? am I crying ? who can tell. But I am
not teazing, . . Robert ! . because, my Robert, if gravely I
distrusted your affection, I could not use such light-
sounding words on the whole now could I ? It is only
the supposition of a possible future . . just possible . . (as
the end of human affections passes for a possible thing) –
which made me say what I would do in such a case.

But I am yours – your own : and it is impossible, in my
belief, that I can ever fail to you so as to be less yours, on
this side the grave or across it. So, I think of impossibilities
– whatever I may, of possibilities !

Will it be possible to see you to -morrow, I wonder ! I
ask myself and not you.

And if you love me only nearly as much (instead of the
prodigal ‘ more ‘) afterward, I shall be satisfied, and shall
not run from you further than to the bottom of the page.

Where you see me as your own

BA.

[Postmark: July 2, 1846]

Wednesday.

No, No ! indeed I never did. If you heard me say
‘ Robert,’ it was on a stair-landing in the House of Dreams
– never anywhere else ! Why how could you fancy such a
thing ? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience
which spoke instead of me, saying ‘ Robert, don’t be extra-
vagant.’ Yes – just the speech that is, for a ‘ good uneasy,’
discerning Conscience and you took it for my speech !
‘ Don’t be extravagant ‘ I may certainly have said. Both I
and the Conscience might have said so obvious a thing.

Ah and now I have got the name, shall I have courage
to say it ? tell me, best councillor ! I like it better than
any other name, though I never spoke it with my own lips
– I never called any one by such a name . . except once
when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have,
called Robert but to me he is an ‘ uncle Hedley ‘ and no
more. So it is a white name to take into life. Isn’t this
an Hebraic expression of a preferring affection . . ‘ I have
called thee by thy name} ? And therefore, because you are
the best, only dearest ! – – Robert.

You passed by and I never knew ! How foolish – but
really it quite strikes me as something wonderful, that I
should not have known. I knew however of your being in
London, because . . . (don’t expect supernatural evidence)
Mrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five,
and brought her niece whom I liked just for the reasons you
give ; and herself was feeling and affectionate as ever : – it
is well that you should give me leave to love her a little.
Once she touched upon Italy . . and I admitted that I
thought of it, and thought it probable as an event . . on
which she pressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’
‘ Perhaps on my own courage,’ I said. ‘ Oh,’ she exclaimed
‘ now I see clearly.’

Which made me smile . . the idea of her seeing clearly,
but earnestly and cordially she desired me to remember that
to be useful to me in any manner, would give her pleasure.
Such kindness ! The sense of it has sunk into my heart.
You cannot praise her too much for me. She was so kind,
that when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street
on Friday, I could not help agreeing at once : and I am to
have the sofa and no company – that’s a promise. She
asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to bring Mr. Kenyon
for an escort – but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s
going, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to
fix a later hour, because . .

Listen to the because. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my
cousin, her adopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow
evening, and stay in this house . . oh, I cannot tell you how
long : for a whole week as a beginning, certainly. I have
been sighing and moaning so about it that Arabel calls it
quite a scandal – but when one can’t be glad, why should it
be so undutiful to appear sad ? If she had but stayed in
Paris six months longer ! Well ! – and to-morrow morning
Miss Mitford comes to spend the day like the kind dear
friend she is ; and I, not the least in the world glad to see
her ! Why have you turned my heart into such hard por-
phyry ? Once, when it was plain clay, every finger (of these
womanly fingers) left a mark on it – and now, . . you see !
Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to her chiefly (as I
know in myself) because she sees you as you are in part,
and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it
. . however she may, and must consistently, expect us to
torment one another, according to the way of the ‘ artistic
temperament,’ evermore, and ever more and more. But for
the rest, the others who do not know you and value you . .
I hate to see them . . and there’s the truth ! There is some-
thing too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness
enforced on occasion ! . which is painful and hateful.
Detestable it all is.

And I like La Cava too ! Think of a hollow in the
mountain . . something like a cave, do you think ? At least
it must be a hollow in the mountains. I wrote to my friend
this morning to ask if the place is considered warm, and if
she knew any more of it. The ‘ porticoes as at Bologna ‘ look
attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by ; and
Baba may escape the forty thieves of English in the Cave,
with a good watchword like Sesame – now that’s half my
nonsense and half yours, I beg you to observe. I won’t be
at the charge of it all.

I was out to-day – walked up, walked down, in my old
fashion – only I do improve in walking, I think, and gain
strength.

May God bless you dear dearest ! I am your own.

[Postmark: July 1, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Thank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter.
He loves you, admires you, trusts you. When what is done
cannot be undone, then he will forgive you besides – that
is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself to see all
manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked
him to look. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look
on the encouragement of ever so many more kind notes,
pleasant as they are to read, and worthy to trust to, under
certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon – but how good he
is ! And I love him more (shall it be under-love ?) because
of his right perception and understanding of you – no one
among men sets you higher than he does as a man and as a
poet – even if he misses the subtle sense, sometimes.

So you dine with him – don’t you ? And I shall have
you on Wednesday instead of Thursday ! yes, certainly.
And on Saturday, of course, next time.

In the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and
as he was not at home, left a card for a footstep. Then
Arabel and Flush and I proceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s
in St. John’s Wood, and I was so nervous . . so anxious for
an excuse for turning back . . that . . can you guess what
Arabel said to me ? ‘ Oh Ba ‘ ; she said, ‘ such a coward as
you are, never will be . . married, while the world lasts.’
Which made me laugh if it did not make me persevere – for
you see by it what her notion is of an heroic deed ! So,
there, I stood at last, at the door of poor Mr. Boyd’s
dark little room, and saw him sitting . . as if he had not
moved these seven years – these seven heavy, changeful
years. Seeing him, my heart was too full to speak at first,
but I stooped and kissed his poor bent-down forehead,
which he never lifts up, his chin being quite buried in his
breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and Cyprus
wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a
god, to take a little of the Cyprus, – there was no help for
me, nor alternative : so I took as little as I could, while he
went on proving to me that the Adamic fall and corruption
of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great theologian) were
never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified as
in the literary controversy about Ossian; every man of the
Highland Society having a lost soul in him ; and Walter
Scott . . . oh, the woman who poisoned all her children
the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott, . . so we need not
talk of him any more. ‘ Arabel ! how much has she taken
of that wine ? not half a glass.’ ‘ But Mr. Boyd, you would
not have me be obliged to carry her home.’

That visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde
Park, and drove close to the Serpentine, and then returned.
Flush would not keep his head out of the window (his
favourite pleasure) all the way, because several drops of rain
trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his
ears : – his nose so near, too !

Right you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau,
though your reasons are too gracious to be right . . except
indeed as to the physical inaptitude, which is an obvious
truth. Another truth (to my mind) is, that women, as they
are (whatever they may be) have not mental strength any
more than they have bodily ; have not instruction, capacity,
wholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a
class, have defects, is as false I think, as to deny that women
have wrongs.

Then you are right again in affirming that the creators
have no business there, with the practical men – you should
not be there for instance. And / (if I am to be thought of)
would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni (Dearest
there is a manufactory of maccaroni and writing-paper at
Amalfi close by – observe that combination ! maccaroni and
writing-paper !) I would be prouder to eat cresses and mac-
caroni with you as you, than to sit with diamonds in my ears,
under the shelter of the woolsack, you being a law-lord and
parliamentary maker of speeches ! By the way, I couldn’t
have diamonds in my ears : they never were bored for it . .
as I never was born for it. A physical inaptitude, here too !

Shall I say what you tell me . . ‘You never seriously
believed ‘ . . . shall I ? I will, if you like. But it is not
Ceva, if you like it is Cava . . La Cava . . in my map,
and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the place is
the same four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘ enchant-
ingly beautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this en-
chanting place which has no English in it, with porticoes like
Bologna, and too little known to be spelt correctly by the
most accomplished geographers.

Ah – your head is ‘ dizzy,’ my beloved ! Tell me how it
is now. And tell me how your mother is. I think of you –
love you. I, who am discontented with myself, . . self-
condemned as unworthy of you, in all else . . am yet satisfied
with the love I have for you – it seems worthy of you, as
far as an abstract affection can go, without taking note
of the personality loving.

Do you see the meaning through the mist ? Do you
accept

Your very own BA?

[Postmark: June 30, 1846]

Tuesday Morning.

The gods and men call you by your name, but I never
do – never dare. In case of invocation, tell me how you
should be called by such as I ? not to be always the ‘ inex-
pressive He ‘ which I make of you. In case of courage for
invocation ! –

Dearest . . (which is a name too) read on the paper in-
side what I have been studying about Salerno since we
parted yesterday. Forsyth is too severe in his deductions,
perhaps, from the apothecaries, but your Naples book will
not help me to contradict him, saying neither the one thing
nor the other. The word we could not read in the letter
yesterday, was La Cava – and La Cava is a town on the way
between Naples and Salerno, which Mrs. Stark describes as
‘ a large town with porticoes on each side of the High Street,
like those at Bologna.’ To which the letter adds, remember
‘ enchantingly beautiful, very good air and no English
Then there is Vietri, mentioned by Forsyth, between La Cava
and Salerno, and on the bay. It is as well to think of all
three. Were you ever at either ? Amalfi itself appears to
be very habitable. Oh – and your Naples book says of
Salerno, that it is illuminated by fireflies, and that the
chanting of frogs covers the noises of the city. You will like
the frogs, if you don’t the apothecaries, and I shall like the
fireflies if I don’t the frogs – but I do like frogs, you know,
and it was quite a mistake of yours when you once thought
otherwise.

Now I am going out in the carriage, to call on Mr.
Kenyon, and perhaps to see Mr. Boyd. Your flowers are
more beautiful than they were yesterday, if possible : and
the fresh coolness helps them to live, so, that I hope you
may see some of them on Saturday when you come. On
Saturday ! What a time to wait ! if not for them, yet for
me. Of the two, it is easier for them, certainly. They only
miss a little dew and air.

I shall write again to-night, – but I cannot be more then
than now, nor less ever than now

Your own

BA.

Here is a coincidence. Hardly had you left me, when,
passing near the table at the end of the room, I saw a parcel
there. Remember your question about the ‘Year of the
World’ Precisely that ! With a note, the counterpart of
yours – desiring an opinion !

May God bless you, dear, dear ! – Did I ever think I
should live to thank God that I did not die five years ago ?
– Not that I quite, quite dare to do it yet. I must be sure
first of something.

Which is not your love, my beloved – it is a something
still dearer and of more consequence.

SALERNO.

‘ Though placed between the beauties of sea and land, of
cultivated and rude nature, the city is so unhealthy that its
richer inhabitants remove to Vietri during the hot months.
In proof of its bad air, I remark here a number of apothe-
caries ! ‘ FORSYTH.

‘ Its white houses curving round the haven at the water’s
brink, the mountains crowding close behind the city, the
ruins of its Gothic castle on the olive-covered hill above,
together mirrored on the waveless water, itself alternate shine
and shadow – ’tis a noble sight.

‘ The view from Salerno is one of the loveliest pictures in
Italy. A clear-complexioned, open-eyed, and bright-faced
city is modern Salerno, – and its streets and piazza were all
astir.’ Letters from Naples.

‘ This town, the approach to which is enchanting, boasts
a tolerably good inn !!’ MRS. STARKE.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Saturday.

I said I would answer your letter to-day, my beloved,
but how shall I say more than I have said and you know ?
Do you not know, you who will not will ‘ over ‘ me, that I
cannot will against you, and that if you set yourself seriously
to take September for October, and August for September,
it is all at an end with me and the calendar ? Still, seriously
. . there is time for deciding, is there not ? . . . even if I
grant to you, which I do at once, that the road does not grow
smoother for us by prolonged delays. The single advantage
perhaps of delay is, that in the summer I get stronger every
week and fitter to travel – and then, it never was thought of
before (that I have heard) to precede September so. Last
year, was I not ordered to leave England in October, and
permitted to leave it in November ? Yet I agree, November
and perhaps October might be late – might be running a
risk through lingering . . in our case ; and you will believe
me when I say I should be loth to run the risk of being forced
to the further delay of a year – the position being scarcely
tenable. Now for September, it generally passes for a hot
month – it ripens the peaches – it is the figtime in Italy.
Well – nobody decides for September nevertheless. The
end of August is nearer – and at any rate we can consider,
and observe the signs of the heavens and earth in the mean-
while – there is so much to think of first ; and the end, re-
member, is only too frightfully easy. Also you shall not
have it on your conscience to have killed me, let ever so
much snow fall in September. If the sea should be frozen
over, almost we might go by the land – might we not ? and
apart from fabulous ports, there are the rivers – the Seine,
the Soane, the Rhone – which might be cheaper than the
sea and the steamers ; and would, I almost should fancy.
These are things among the multitude, to think of, and you
shall think of them, dearest, in your wisdom. Oh – there is
time – full time.

No – there is not, in a sense. I wanted to write so much
more, so much – and I went out to walk first, and, on re-
turning, met Mr. Kenyon, who came up-stairs with me.

Now it is too late to add a word.

May God bless you. I shall see you on Monday. I am
better for Highgate – I walked longer to-day than usual.
How strong you make me, you who make me happy !

I am your own.

[Postmark: June 27, 1846]

Friday Evening.

Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late
and I am very tired ; having . . while you were sitting by
the fire . . been, for my part, driving to Highgate . . now
think of that ! Also it has done me good, I think, and
I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired
certainly.

Your letter shall be answered to-morrow – and here is a
green answer to your leaves ! – what leaves ? whence and
how ? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the
hedge, snatching at it from the carriage- window. The roses
were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of
reach ; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they
do not look for snow-storms in September. No ! it was not
that, they said. I am belying what they said.

I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green
lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever
there, I wonder ?

Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘ im-
patient,’ inconsiderate – and as for selfishness, I have been
uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish.
I am not likely to mistake . . to wrench the wrong way . .
any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word,
when I said that you should decide everything. Could I
hold out for November, or October, or for September even,
if you choose against ? Indeed I could not. We – you will
think – I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not
– I am too entirely yours.

And so good-night – dearest beloved ! Because you
have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and
earth and ocean to become impassable ? Ah well ! we shall
see ! But you shall not see that I deceive you –

I am your very own

Ba.

Dear brown leaves ! where did they come from, besides
from you ?

Not a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could
have proved to you if you had been with me ! Yet it is a
detestable climate, this English climate, let us all confess.
Say how your head is.

[Postmark: June 26, 1846]

Friday Morning.

Arabel insists on my going out in the carriage, but I
will not, I say, before I have written my letter – and while
we talk, the rain comes down like a guardian angel, and I
cannot go out before I have written my letter, as is apparent
to all. Dearest, you did me such good yesterday with see-
ing you and hearing you, that I slept better and am better
altogether, and after a little change into the air, shall be
well – and how is your head ? Now do not forget to tell
me particularly. Say too whether you found your friend
and had the right quantity of talk and got home without
being the worse for him . . or me !

I have not had the heart to look at the newspapers, but
hear that Sir Robert Peel has provided liberally for the
present necessities of the poor Haydons. And do you
know, the more I think the more I am inclined to conclude
that the money-distress was merely an additional irritation,
and that the despair leading to the revolt against life, had its
root in disappointed ambition. The world did not recognize
his genius, and he punished the world by withdrawing the
light. If he had not that thought in him, I am wrong. The
cartoon business, and his being refused employment in the
Houses of Parliament . . that was bitter : and then came his
opposition with Tom Thumb and the dwarfs triumph . . he
talked bitterly of that in a letter to me of last week. He
was a man, you see, who carried his whole being and sensi-
bility on the outside of him ; nay, worse than so, since in
the thoughts and opinions of the world. All the audacity
and bravery and self-exultation which drew on him so much
ridicule were an agony in disguise – he could not live
without reputation, and he wrestled for it, struggled for it,
kicked for it, forgetting grace of attitude in the pang. When
all was vain, he went mad and died. Poor Haydon ! He
measures things differently now ! and let us now be right
and just in our admeasurement of what he was – for, with
all his weaknesses, he was not certainly far from being a
great man.

It is hope and help, to be able to look away from all
such thoughts, to you, dearest beloved, who do not partake
of the faults and feeblenesses of these lower geniuses – There
is hope and help for the world in you – and if for the world,
why for me indeed much more. You do not know . .
ah, you do not know – how I look up to you and trust
perfectly in you. You are above all these clouds – your
element is otherwise – men are not your taskmasters that
you should turn to them for recompense. ‘ Shall I always
think the same of you,’ you asked yesterday. But I never
think the same of you ; because day by day you look greater
and feel dearer. Only there is a deep gulph of another
question, close beside that, which suggests itself, and makes
me shudder to look down.

And now, the rain is over, and I shall dine briefly, and
go out n the carriage.

May God bless you . . très bon ! très cher, pour cause.

Toute à toi – pour toujours.

[Postmark: June 24, 1846]

Tuesday.

Ever tenderest, kindest and most beloved, I thank you
from the quick of my heart, where the thought of you lives
constantly ! In this world full of sadness, of which I have
had my part . . full of sadness and bitterness and wrong
. . full of most ghastly contrasts of life and death, strength
and weakness side by side . . it is too much, to have you
to hold by, as the river rushes on . . too much good, too
much grace for such as I, .. as I feel always, and cannot
cease to feel !

Oh yes – it has shocked me, -this dreadful news of poor
Mr. Haydon – it chilled the blood in my veins when I heard
it from Alfred, who, seeing the Times at the Great Western
Terminus, wrote out the bare extract and sent it to me
by the post. He just thought that the Chronicle did not
mention it, . . and that I had not seen Mr. Haydon . . he
did not perhaps think how it would shock me.

For, this I cannot help thinking. Could anyone –
could my own hand even . . have averted what has happened”?
My head and heart have ached to-day over the inactive
hand ! But, for the moment, it was out of my power, with-
out an application where it would have been useless and
then, I never fancied this case to be more than a piece of a
continuous case . . of a habit fixed. Two years ago he sent
me boxes and pictures precisely so, and took them back
again poor, poor Haydon ! – as he will not this time. And
he said last week that Peel had sent him fifty pounds . .
adding . . ‘ I do not however want charity, but employ-
ment.’ Also, I have been told again and again (oh, never
by you my beloved ! ) that to give money there, was to drop
it into a hole of the ground.

But if to have dropped it so, dust to dust, would have
saved a living man – what then?

Yet of the three notes I had from him last week, the
first was written so lightly, that the second came to desire
me not to attribute to him a ‘ want of feeling.’ And who
could thjnk . . contemplate . . this calamity ? May God
have mercy on the strongest of us, for we are weak. Oh,
that a man so high hearted and highly endowed . . a bold
man, who has thrown down gauntlet after gauntlet in the
face of the world – that such a man should go mad for a
few paltry pounds ! For he was mad if he killed himself !
of that I am as sure as if I knew it. If he killed himself,
he was mad first. .

Some day, when I have the heart to look for it, you
shall see his last note. I understand now that there are
touches in it of a desperate pathos – but never could he
have meditated self-destruction while writing that note.
He said he should write six sets, of lectures more . . six
more volumes. He said he was painting a new background
to a picture, which made him ‘ feel as if his soul had wings.’
And then he hoped his brain would not turn. And he
‘ gloried ‘ in the naval dangers of his son at sea. And he
repeated an old phrase of his, which I had heard from him
often before, and which now rings hollowly to the ears of
my memory . . that he couldrit and wouldn’t die. Strange
and dreadful !

It is nearly two years since we had a correspondence of
some few months – from which at last I receded, notwith-
standing the individuality and spirit of his letters, and my
admiration for a certain fervour and magnanimity of genius,
no one could deny to him. His very faults partook of that
nobleness. But for a year and a half or more perhaps, I
scarcely have written or heard from him – until last week
when he wrote to ask for a shelter for his boxes and pictures.
If you had enquired of me the week before, I might have
answered that I did not wish to renew the intercourse –
yet who could help being shocked and saddened ? Would
it have availed, to have dropped something into that ‘ hole
in the ground ? ‘ Oh, to imagine that \ Yet a little would
have been but as nothing ! – and he did not ask even for a
little and I should have been ashamed to have offered
but a little. Yet I cannot turn the thought away – that
I did not offer.

Henry went to the house as I begged him. His son
came to the door, and to a general enquiry ‘after the
family,’ said that ‘Mr. Haydon was dead and that his
family were quite as well as could be expected.’ That
horrible banality is all I know more than you know.

Yesterday at Rogers’s, Mrs. Jameson led me to his
picture of Napoleon at St. Helena. At the moment we
looked at it, his hand was scarcely cold, perhaps. Surely
it was not made of the commonest clay of men – that
hand !

I pour out my thoughts to you, dearest dearest, as if it
were right rather to think of doing myself that good and
relief, than of you who have to read all. But you spoil me
into an excess of liberty, by your tenderness. Best in the
world ! Oh – you help me to live – I am better and lighter
since I have drawn near to you even on this paper – already
I am better and lighter. And now I am going to dream of
you . . to meet you on some mystical landing place . . in
order to be quite well to-morrow. Oh – we are so selfish
on this earth, that nothing grieves us very long, let it be
ever so grievous, unless we are touched in ourselves . . in
the apple of our eye . . in the quick of our heart . . in
what you are, and where you are . . my own dearest
beloved ! So you need not be afraid for me ! We all look
to our own, as I to you ; the thunderbolts may strike the
tops of the cedars, and, except in the first start, none of us
be moved. True it is of me – not of you perhaps – certainly
you are better than I, in all things. Best in the world, you
are ! – no one is like you. Can you read what I have
written ? Do not love me less ! Do you think that I
cannot feel you love me, through all this distance? If you
loved me less, I should know, without a word or a sign.
Because I live by your loving me ! I am your

BA.

[Postmark: June 23, 1846]

Monday Evening.

Well – I did look everywhere for you to-day, – but not
more than I always do – always I do, when I go out, look
for you in the streets . . round the corners ! And Mrs.
Jameson came alone and she and I were alone at Mr.
Rogers’s, and you must help me to thank her some day for
her unspeakable kindness to me, though she did not leap to
the height of the inspiration of managing to let us see those
pictures together. Ah – if she had, it would have been too
much. As it is, she gave me a great deal of pleasure in
the kindest of ways . . and I let it be pleasure, by mixing
it with enough thoughts of you – (otherwise how could it
be pleasure ?) – and she showed the pictures, and instructed
me, really taking pains and instructing me . . and tellin g
me how Rubens painted landscapes . . as how should my
ignorance guess ? . . . and various other unknown things
The first word as we reached the door, frightened me – for
she said that perhaps we might see Mr. Rogers . . which
was a little beyond our covenant – but we did not see him,
and I suppose the Antinous on the staircase is not at all
like him. Grand it is, in its serene beauty. On a colossal
scale, in white marble. For the pictures, they are full
of wonder and divinity – each giving the measure of a
man’s soul. And think . . sketches from the hand of
Michael Angelo and Raphael ! And a statuette in clay,
alive with the life of Michael Angelo’s finger – the blind
eyes looking . . seeing . . as if in scorn of all clay !
And the union of energy and meditation in the whole
attitude ! You have seen the marble of that figure in
Florence. Then, a divine Virgin and child, worn and faded
to a shadow of Raphael’s genius, as Mrs. Jameson explained
to me and the famous ‘ Ecce Homo ‘ of Guido . . and
Rubens’ magnificent ‘ version ‘ as she called it, of Andrea
Mantegna’s ‘Triumph of Julius Caesar.’ So triumphing to
this day ! And Titian, and Tintoretto . . . and what did
not strike me the least, . . a portrait of Rembrandt by him-
self, which if his landscapes, as they say, were ‘ dug out of
nature,’ looks as if it were dug out of humanity. Such a
rugged, dark, deep subterraneous face, . . yet inspired !
seeming to realize that God took clay and breathed into the
nostrils of it. There are both the clay, and the divinity !
And think ! I saw the agreement between the bookseller
and Milton for the sale of Paradise Lost ! with Milton’s
signature and seal ! and ‘ Witnessed by William Greene,
Mr. Milton’s servant.’ How was it possible not to feel
giddy with such sights ! Almost I could have run my head
against the wall, I felt, with bewilderment – and Mrs.
Jameson must have been edified, I have thought since,
through my intense stupidity. I saw too the first edition of
‘ Paradise Lost.’ The rooms are elegant, with no pretension
to splendour . . which is good taste, a part of the good
taste everywhere. Only, on the chimney-piece of the
dining-room, were two small busts, beautiful busts, white
with marble, . . and representing – now, whom, of gods
and men, would you select for your Lares . . to help your
digestion and social merriment ? . . . Caligula and Nero
in childhood! The ‘childhood’ is horribly suggestive to me!
On the side-board is Pope’s bust, by Roubillac – a too ex
pressive, miserable face – drawn with disease and bitter
thoughts, and very painful, I felt, to look at. These things
I liked least, in the selection and arrangement. Every-
thing beside was admirable : and I write and write of it all
as if I were not tired – but I am . . and most with the
excitement and newness. Mrs. Jameson breakfasted with
Mr. Rogers yesterday, she said, and met the Countess
Hahn-Hahn, who was talking of modern literature when
her host suddenly stopped her with a question . . ‘ Did you
ever read Addison ? ‘

How late it is. Must I have done, before I have half
done?

What I did not tell you yesterday is very much in my
thoughts . . do you know ? /, too, ‘ see what I know and
testify what I have felt . . and, as far as my faculties of
perception go ! ‘ I am confident that you had better not
look for a single reason for loving me. Which is worst ?
A bad reason, or no reason at all ? A bad reason, I think
– and accept the alternative. Ah . . my own only beloved.
And how you write to me to-night ! I will read what you
tell me in Landor . . but no words of inspired lips or
pen . . no poet’s word, of the divinest, . . ever went to
my heart as yours in these letters ! Do I not love you ?
am I not your own ? And while deserving nothing of all of
it, I feel it at least – respond to it – my heart is in your
hand. May God bless you . . ‘ and me in that ,’ – because
even He could not bless me without that. Which He
knows.

Your own.

But there is much beauty in Faustina oh, surely !
The lilies, all in blow except one . . which is blowing.
Are we going to have a storm to-night ? It lightens . .
lightens !