Author: RB

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

You are the most entirely lovable creature I ever
dreamed perhaps might be in a better world — altogether
made up of affectionateness and generosity. I do not much
fear, now, I shall ever offend you — in the miserable way of
giving you direct offence which mortal will and endeavour
could avert (although I speak— by design, on profession —
doubtfully about the happiness of the future in some respects,
yet I dare be quite bold here, and feel sure, as of my life at
this moment, that I shall never do that, . .) — but at present
I almost love even the apprehension that I may be found
out too useless, too unworthy in the end ; let it be said so,
since I feel it so, my own Ba ! I love this, because your
dear love seems fit to cover any imperfection of mine : I
dare say you do not see them, as you say — but you will
perhaps, and then I trust to the love wholly. I want forms,
ways, of expressing my devotion to you — but such as I am,
all is yours.

I will write more to-morrow — the stupid head will not be
quiet to-day — my mother’s is sadly affected too — it is partly
my fault for reading … a state to be proud of ! Don’t
let my frankness do me wrong, however, — the inconvenience
is very little, but I was desired to tell you, was I not ? I
shall go out presently and get well.

Are you out to-day, beloved ? It is very warm ; be careful
like the dearest Ba you are ! And kiss me as I kiss you . .
all except the adoration which is mine indefeasibly.

May God bless you ever for your very own.

[Postmark: June 1, 1846]

Sunday.

My own Ba, do you want to turn my head with good
fortune and get at my secrets, that you give me two letters
in one day ? For there was too much life and warmth, I
do think, in these last, to be kept in the Postman’s pouch
as before — he delivered them punctually as he was obliged,
not before his cold newspapers and railway-prospectuses felt
astonished, you may be sure ; so, as I say, do you want to
try my temper and bring out infirmities of mind that may
be latent, as kings used to put robes and crowns on their
favourites to see what they would do then ?

I will try and say as soberly as I can, — if you did not
write to me for a week, I would remember and love you
the same — you are not bound to any kindness, much less to
this extravagance— which yet so blesses me that —

Let me leave what I can never say, and make the few
remarks I ought to have made before. Mrs. Jameson did
tell me something about her intended journey to Italy — but
not in detail as to you. Miss Bayley seems worthy to be
your friend, dearest, — and it is satisfactory, very satisfactory
to find her opinion thus confirming yours, of the good
you will derive from travelling. You know I look on
you with absolute awe, in a sense, — I don’t understand how
such a creature lives and breathes and moves and does not
move into fine air altogether and leave us of the Etty-
manufacture ! I have solemnly set down in the tablets of
my brain that Ba prefers morphine to pork, but can eat so
much of a chicken as Flush refuses — a chapter in my
natural history quite as important as one in Pliny’s (and
∆lian’s too) — ‘ When the Lion is sick, nothing can cure
him but to eat an Ape ! ‘ — though not so important as my
great, greatest record of all — ‘ A cup of coffee will generally
cure Ba’s headaches — ‘

As for Pisa or Florence, or Sorrento, or New Orleans, —
ubi Ba, ibi R.B. ! Florence, however, you describe exactly
. . the English there are intolerable, — even from a distance
you see that. Indeed, I have heard here in England of a
regular system of tactics by which parvenus manage to get
among the privileged classes which at home would keep them
off inexorably. Such go to Florence, make acquaintance
as ‘ travellers,’ keeping the native connexions in the farthest
of back grounds, and after a year or two’s expatriation,
come back and go boldly to rejoice the friends they ‘ passed
those amusing days with ‘ &c.

What you say of Lough is right and true in one point of
view — but I excuse him, knowing the way of life in London
— what alternative has he ? Even when you ask people by
ones and twos, and think to be rational, what do you get
for your pains ? Not long ago somebody invited himself to
dine with me — and got of course the plainest fare, and just
hock and claret, because I like them better than heavier
wines myself, and suppose others may. I had to dine in
the same manner with my friend a week after, and he
judiciously began by iced champagne, forced vegetables &c.
What was that but telling me such was his notion of the
duty of the giver of ‘ just a chop ‘ according to stipulation ?
It is all detestable — a mere pretext ! there is simply a
‘fait accompli’ in every such dinner, — it is an eternal record
(to the seasons’ end) that you witnessed (because you may
let it alone for aught anybody cares, so long as you have
eyes and can see) — such a succession of turbot, and springsoup
and — basta ! I shall go and take tea with Carlyle
before very long. Lough has asked me more than once,
but I never went. I like him when he is not on the subject
of himself or other artists. Of one particular in his liberality
I can bear testimony, he promises at a great rate. Some
three years ago he most preposterously signified his intention
of giving me a cast of one of his busts — me who had
neither claim on him, the slightest, nor much desire for the
bust ; but on this intimation I was bound to express as
many thanks as if the bust had arrived in very plaster, —
which it has not done to this day; so that I was too
prodigal, you see, and instead of thanks ought to have
contented myself with making over to him the whole profits
of ‘ Luria ‘—value received. But, jokes apart, he is a good,
kind man I believe, so don’t mention this absurdity to your
sister — which I am sorry for having mentioned now that
mentioned it is ! So sorrow shall be turned into joy, for I
will only think that the evening is come, and night will
follow, and morning end . . 3 o’clock with all of dearest,
dearest Ba, — with the walkings and drivings to evidence in
her face? My face, thank God, I am let say to my
unutterable joy and pride and love, above all other feelings.

Ever your own.

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Saturday.

Oh, yes, do ‘ show me how to get rid of you,’ my best
Ba,— for so I shall have the virtuous delight of deciding to
keep you, instead of being wholly kept by you, — it is all out
of my head, now, how I used to live when I was my own :
and if you can, by one more witchery, give me back that
feeling for once . . Ba, I have no heart to write more
nonsense, when I can take your dearest self into my arms ;
yet I shall never quite lie quiet and happy, I do think . .
I shall be always wishing you would be angry and cruel
and unjust, for a moment, — for my love overflows the
bounds, needs to prove itself all which is foolish, I know.
To-day, for some unknown reason, is a day of hope with me
. . all bright things seem possible ; I was feeling them so,
when your note came — as I sate in the garden — and when I
saw the flower (Paracelsus’ own . . they usually ornament
his pictures with it, — I said something on the subject in
the poem, too, and gave a note about ‘ Flammula citrinula
— herba Paracelso multum familiaris ‘ — ) when I saw that,
and read on and on, — every now and then laying the letter
down to feel the entire joy, — and when the end came, —
Ba, dearest Ba, it was with me then as now, as always after
steady thinking of what you are to me . . I cannot tell you
— but for the past, utterly irrespective of the future, — for
what you have been, this love cannot cease though you were
transformed into all you are not nor could ever be. I mean,
that after the blow struck, the natural vibration must follow
and continue its proper period — and that my love for what
I have received from you already must last to my life’s end
— cannot end sooner ! ‘ Shall I continue to love you ! ‘

You said in Thursday’s letter — ‘We have not been
frightened much yet,’ our meetings have been uninterrupted
hitherto, and these letters : yes, that I am most thankful for
— whatever should happen, our real relation one to the
other is wholly known — that fact has been established
beyond possibility of doubt at least. I don’t make myself
understood here, I know, — but, think, — if at the very
beginning any accident had separated us . .

But I will believe in the end now and henceforth — I
will believe you are my very own Ba, — my best dream’s
realization, my life’s fulfilment and consummation — and
having discovered you, I shall live and die with you. So
may God dispose.

I will write the rest, — (nothing is here) a longer letter
to-morrow — but now my mind is too full of you — the poor
hand gets despised for lagging after ! All my thoughts are
with you, dearest. May God bless you and make me less
unworthy — being your own, own R.

One more day — one, and Monday !

(See what kindness of Mr. Kenyon ! I do not accept,
having no need to trouble him as he desires — but see how
kind.)

[Postmark: May 29, 1846]

Friday.

My own darling, your little note was a great delight to
me last night, when I expected nothing ; and though I do not
hear to-day, I will believe you are well after the walk— the
walk, what a ‘ divine fancy ‘ ; not mentioned by Quarles !

And then the words that follow the good news of the
walk . . those assurances . . oh, my best, dearest Ba, — it is
all right that I cannot speak here, — if I could, by some
miracle, speak, it would be foolish : — but my life lies before
you to take and direct, and keep or give away, — I am altogether
your own.

I come in rather tired from Town — having spent the
morning at the Exhibition, and made calls beside. (Etty’s
picture of the sirens is abominable ; though it looks admirable
beside another picture of his : did I not tell you he had
chosen the sirens for a subject ?)

Oh, dearest beyond all dearness, now, at this moment
only, your last and pro tempore best letter comes to me !
One can’t scold and kiss at the same time . . so let the
wretched Post arrangements be unmentioned for the
moment ; there is enough to get up a revolution about, I do
think ! But you, you spoil me and undo me almost, — ought
to do so, at least, — they were too delicious to bear, the
things you say to me ! Why will you not say rather what I
feel, — for you can, perhaps, being what you are, — and let
me subscribe it ! It is a real pain to me to feel as I feel,
and speak no more than I speak.

And again the time urges . . just when I want most to
go on writing — but to-morrow I will do nothing else. Take
this now, sweet, sweet Ba, with my whole heart that loves,
loves you !

your R.

[Postmark: May 28, 1846]

Thursday.

There is a long four days more of waiting — I feel more
and more and ever more how, wanting you, my life wants all
it can have. Dear Ba, never wonder that I fancy at times such
an event’s occurrence as you tell me I need not fear. I shall
always fear, — never can I hold you sufficiently fast, I shall
think. So, if my jewel must be taken from me, let some eagle
stoop down for it suddenly, baffling all human precaution, as I
look on my treasure on a tower’s top miles and milesinland, —
don’t let me have to remember, though but in a minute of life
afterwards, that I let it drop into the sea through foolishly
balancing it in my open hand over the water. There is one of
Ba’s ‘myths,’ excepting all Ba’s felicitousness of application
and glory of invention, — but then it has all my own love and
worship of Ba’s self, all I care to be distinguished by.

I hope you go out this fine morning — the wind is cold,
to be sure, but London is much warmer than this place,
and the wind kept off by the houses. I have got two of Mr.
Kenyon’s kind notes, to confirm the appointment for Wednesday
(when Mrs. Jameson is to be of the party), and to
invite me to meet Landor on Tuesday — so that for three
days running I shall be in Ba’s very neighbourhood . . for if
the wind can’t get through houses and walls, Ba can and does,
as my heart knows. Might I not see you for a moment on
the Wednesday ? Ah, there will be time to contrive, to
concert — but the worst is that when I see you I contrive
nothing, nor do you help me, you Ba ! Else, out of these
walks, — who is to object to my going to see the Thames
Tunnel or the Tower, by way of Wimpole Street, — wanting
the organ of locality as I am said to ? Whereas I am all one
consciousness of the influence of one locality, turning as my
whole heart and soul turn to Ba, — my dearest, dearest,
whom may God bless and requite. I can only kiss you, as
I do, and be your very own, my Ba, as I am and shall be
ever.

[Postmark: May 26, 1846]

3 1/2 P.M. Tuesday.

Dearest, your dearest of notes only arrived at 2 o’clock —
and Carlyle has just been with me,— come on horseback for
the express purpose of strolling about — so that I was forced,
forced . . you see ! He is gone again — and there is only
time to tell you why no more is told — but to-morrow will
supply all deficiency. Bless you, my dearest best Ba. How
I love you !

Your own —

Poor Capt. Jones is dead, — you may see in the papers.

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Monday.

Dear, dear love, your letter comes at half past three by a
new Postman, — very bewildered. You will perhaps have
received my parcel and note — if not, such things are on the
road. All in your note delights me entirely. As for my
walking fast, that is exactly my use and wont . . I am
famous for it, — as my father is for driving old lady-friends
into illnesses, and then saying innocently, ‘ I took care to
walk very slowly.’ When I have anything to occupy my mind,
I all but run — but the pen can’t run, for this letter must go,
and nothing said.

So, Ba, my Ba, Goodbye till to-morrow from

Your own, own.

Monday. 12 o’clock.

I get nothing by the post this morning : — perhaps
at next delivery ! Well, I had the unexpected largess
yesterday, you know. At this time last year the letters
came once a week ! Now the manna falls as manna should
omitting only the seventh day.

Do you know, my Ba, — the Campbell mystery is all but
solved, to my thinking, by supposing, as one may, that,
those foolish ladies confound their cousin’s friend Brown,
an indubitable Scot and Lord Jeffrey’s nephew, — (and their
intimate for aught I know) — with me. He is in town now ;
did dine with them just before I saw him a fortnight ago ;
and may meditate happiness with Miss Campbell, and be
provided with a paragon of a ‘ sister ‘ besides. Those
ladies have been to Scotland — may easily know him there
and see ‘ sights ‘ with him here. Is not all this likely ?
It is not worth writing about to White, nor a visit to him at
Doctors’ Commons, but when I next chance on his company,
I will enquire.

Here is the review, — which I like very much — the introductory,
abstract remarks might be better, but so it always
is when a man, having really something to say about one
precise thing your poems, thinks he had better preface it by
a little graceful generality. All he wanted to write, I agree
in, thoroughly agree, — though I cannot but fancy my own
selection, — that might be, — of passages and single poems !

And, dearest, I venture to keep back the Statesmen,
as I asked leave to do yesterday, for the reasons then given
— may I keep it back ?

Also I return those sketches, — now they have been in
your hand, they cannot lie about here — I keep brown paper
with your writing on it, and string, and the wrappage of
this pen of mine — to be sure) so I shall get you to bear
with them again, two or three being added, just as I find
them. There is, too, the ode which was presented to me
on my departure from Rome by an enthusiastic Roman ;
red ribbon and all ! And last of all you have my play as
altered by Macready : greater excisions had been determined
on, but on the appearance of the printed copy had the
effect it intended . . it would have been too ludicrous to
leave out the whole of the first scene, for instance (as was
in contemplation), and then to tell the public ‘ my play ‘ had
been acted. I refer to this silly business only to show
you what success or non-success on the stage, means and is
worth. It is all behind me now — so far behind !

Now I will wait and see what next post may bring me
from dearest Ba — Ba, the dear, and the beloved, e sopra
tutto, the tall ! Does she not ‘ stand high in the affection ‘
— of her very own

R. B. ?

[Postmark: May 25, 1846]

Sunday Morning.

My own Ba is entreated to observe, that when she sends
me reviews about herself, and songs by herself, and a make-
weight book about ‘ Junius ‘ happens to be sent also . . I
do not ordinarily plunge into the Junius-discussion at
once — perhaps from having made up my mind that the
Author is Miss Campbell : — at all events, while the review
was read and re-read and the music done justice and in-
justice to, the Junius was opened for the first time this
morning, at eight of the clock, and Ba’s letter which lay
between pages 16 and 17, ‘ came to hand’ — was brought to
me by my mother, from my father ! but for whose lucky
inspiration of curiosity the said note had perhaps lain shut
in till the book’s secret was found out . . certainly I should
never have touched the book before then ! And from this
note, duly studied, I learn that yesterday I must have
appeared to Ba touched by a general mental paralysis — inasmuch
as I was surprised, over and above the joyfulness,
to hear that she was in the Park on Thursday, as well as
Friday . . (oh, I know the letter I did receive mentioned it,
but it seems as if one of the two excursions were unrecorded)
— and seeing that I enquired whether Ba had heard with
her own ears the song . . and altogether omitted thanking
her for the gift of it : and lastly, brought no Statesmen,
even on Ba’s request ! Of all which matters I ought to have
been made acquainted by the note : what must you think of
me, you Ba ; dearest-dearest, that expect me to know the
face through the bonnet, and the letter through the book
covers — (Ba sitting in the Bookseller’s shop was a type, I
see !). What did you think of me yesterday, I want to know ?
Well, and now my letter does come I thank you — (for
all the trouble this precedent will give me — next time a
parcel comes — of poking into all impossible places to see
and to see !) You are the dearest, dearest, impossibly dear
Ba that heart ever adored,

‘ And the roses which thou strowest,
All the cheerful way thou goest,
Would direct to follow thee,’

as Shirley sings — and every now and then the full sense
of the sweetness collects itself and overcomes me entirely,
as now, on the occasion of this note that I find ; I am
blessed by you in the hundred unspeakable ways — but
were it only for this and similar pure kindness, I find it in
my heart to give you my life could it profit you ! Here
ought I, by every law and right and propriety . . ask Miss
Campbell ! . . to be ministering to you, caring for you ;
and . . oh, Ba, do please, please, throw a coffee cup at me !
— (giving some grounds for complaint !) — and after it the
soucoupe (‘ glaring with saucer eyes’) — and see what you
shall see, and hear what you shall hear ! You ‘ strongest
woman that has written yet’ ! Have they found that out?
I know it, I think, by this ! So I will go and think over it
in the garden, and tell you more in the afternoon.

12 o’ clock ! — What strange weather ! — but pleasant, I
think — you have been out, or will go out, perhaps. Tell
me all, dearest, and how you feel after it. To-morrow I
will send you the Review and some of the other books you
have spoken of from time to time — but, I almost dare to
keep the Statesmen, spite of your positive request. Why,
dear, want to see what I desire to forget altogether ? So
my other poems, ‘ Sordello ‘ &c. — I most unaffectedly
shudder at the notion of your reading them, as I said
yesterday. My poetry is far from the ‘ completest expression
of my being ‘ — I hate to refer to it, or I could tell you
why, wherefore, . . prove how imperfect (for a mild word),
how unsatisfactory it must of necessity be. Still, I should not
so much object, if, such as it is, it were the best, the flower of
my life . . but that is all to come, and through you, mainly,
or more certainly. So will it not be better to let me write
one last poem this summer, — quite easily, stringing every
day’s thoughts instead of letting them fall, — and laying them
at the dear feet at the summer’s end for a memorial ? I
have been almost determining to do this, or try to do it, as
I walked in the garden just now. A poem to publish or
not to publish ; but a proper introduction to the afterwork.
What do you think, my Ba, my dearest siren, and muse,
and Mistress, and . . something beyond all, above all and
better . . shall I do this? And what are you studying
about Amalfi, my Ba ? Will you please keep that Naples’
Note-book till I ask for it — at Amalfi. Till holy church
incorporate two in one ; and I take the degree of my
aspiration. Rt. Bg. B.A. — in earnest of which, kiss me dear,
‘ earnest, most earnest of poets,’ and let me kiss you as I do
. . loving you as I love you. Bless you, best and dearest.

[Postmark: May 22, 1846]

Friday.

I have a great mind to retract , , I do retract altogether
whatever I said the other day in explanation of Miss Heaton’s
story. I make no doubt, now, it was a pure dream to which
my over-scrupulousness of conscience gave a local habitation
and name both, through the favourable dimness and illusion
of ‘ a good many years ago ‘ — because this last charge about
‘ Miss Campbell’ — briefly — I never in my life saw, to my
knowledge, a woman of that name — nor can there be any
woman of any other name from my acquaintance with whom
the merest misunderstanding in the world could possibly
arise to a third person . . I mean, that it must be a simple
falsehood and not gossip or distortion of fact, as I supposed
in the other case. I told you of the one instance where
such distortion might take place,— (Miss Haworth, to avoid
mistake). This charge after the other . . I will tell you of
what it reminds me – in my early boyhood I had a habit of
calling people ‘ fools,’ with as little reverence as could be,
. . and it used to be solemnly represented to me after such
offences that ‘ whoso calleth his brother ” fool,” is in danger
&c. for he hath committed murder in his heart already ‘ &c. in
short,— there was no help for it, — I stood there a convicted
murderer . . to which I was forced penitently to agree . .
Here is Miss Heaton’s charge and my confession. Now, let
a policeman come here presently to ask what I know about
the ‘ Deptford Murder ‘ or the ‘ Marshalsea Massacre ‘ — and
you will have my ‘ intimate friend’s ‘ charge. By the way,
did your brother overhear this, or was it spoken to someone
in his company, or is my friend his acquaintance also ?
Because in either of the latter cases I can interfere easily.
(There is a Mr, Browning — Henry I think — living in, or
near the Regent’s Park.) At all events, please say that I
know no such person, nor ever knew, — that the whole is a
pure falsehood — (and I only use so mild a word because I
write to you, and because on reading the letter again I see
the speakers were women).

It is a fact that I have made myself almost ridiculous by
a kind of male prudery with respect to ‘ young ladies ‘ . .
that I have seemed to imply — ‘ If I gave you the least
encouragement something would be sure to follow.’ In fact
never seeing any attractiveness in the class, I was very little
inclined to get involved in troubles and troubles for nothing
at all. And as for marrying . . that is a point on which I
have certainly not chosen to dilate before you, nor shall I
now dilate on it.

Well, I shall see you to-morrow, that remedies everything.
And that is your way of letting me see the Review, —
you send it ! Not that it has arrived yet. Dear Ba, hown
ever good you are !

All about the lady enthusiasts makes me laugh — don’t
think I fail of the proper respect to them, however — it is
only once in a week that one sees a real painted Emperor
settle on a flower, and then perhaps for a few minutes —
while at all times, if you look, you will find a good half
dozen of earnest yet sleepy drones living there, working
away at the sweet, — after all, these get the most out of the
flower.

Did you really go out yesterday ? I was not sure, for
the wind was Easterly — but it appears to have done you no
harm, — you may ‘go into the street’ to-day — I am most
happy, — most happy — and always entirely happy in you,—
in thinking of you, and hoping, — my life is in you now —

Bless you, dearest — I am your own.

2 o’clock, the parcel arrives . . thank you, best of Ba’s !
I will read and tell you — (only what on earth do you mean
by sending back those sketches ?)