Author: RB

[Postmark: August 18, 1846]

Let it be on Thursday then, dearest, for the reasons you mention. I will say nothing of my own desires to meet you sooner . . they are corrected by the other desires to spend my whole life with you. After all, these are the critical weeks now approaching or indeed present there shall be no fault I can avoid. So, till Thursday

Chorley said very little . . he is all discreetness and forbearance, here as on other points. He goes to Birmingham at the end of this week, and returning after some three or four days, leaves London for Paris – probably next Saturday week. From Paris he thinks of going to Holland . . a good step, and of staying at Scheven . . ing . . what is the Bath’s name ? – not a good step, I told him, because of the mortal ugliness of the place – which I well remember . it may have improved in ten years, to be sure. There, ‘walking on the sands,’ (sands in a heapy slope, not a traversable flat) he means to ‘ grow to an end ‘ with his Tragedy . . there is a noble ardour in his working which one cannot help admiring – he has a few weeks’ holiday, is jaded to death with writing, and yet will write away his brief time of respite and restoratives – for what ? He wondered whether there was any chance of our meeting in Paris – ‘ our ‘ meaning him and myself.

As for your communication to Mr. Boyd – how could you do otherwise, my own Ba ? I am altogether regardless of whatever danger there may be, in the great delight at his sympathy and approval of your intention : he probably never heard my name before . . but his own will ever be associated divinely in my memory with those verses which always have affected me profoundly . . perhaps on the whole, more profoundly than any others you ever wrote : that is hard to prove to myself, – but I really think so – the personal allusions in it went straight to my heart at the beginning. I remember, too, how he loved and loves you . . you told me, Ba : so I am most grateful to him, – as I ever shall feel to those who, knowing you, judge me worthy of being capable of knowing you and taking your impress, and becoming yours sufficiently for your happiness.

Are you so well, dearest, in your walks, – after your rides ? Does that rejoice me or no, when I would rather hear you had been happy, than simply see you without such an assurance ? I am very well, since you ask – but my mother is not – her head being again affected. Yet the late improvement gives ground for hope . . nor is this a very violent attack in itself.

I suppose it was in Mrs. Jameson’s mind, as you apprehend – you must always be fond of her – (and such will be always my way of rewarding people I am fond of !)

God bless you, dearest – I love you all I can, Ba. I see another ship is advertised to sail – (a steamer) for Naples, and other southern ports – but no higher. When you are well and disposed to go to Greece, take me, my love. I should feel too happy for this world, I think, among the islands with you.

My very own, I am yours –

[Postmark: August 17, 1846]

I come home from Town for my letters . . the two I ventured to expect, and here they meet me. As I said, you had written, and I thanked you then, and now, too, just as if I had been despairing all along – and over and above, there are some especial thanks to pay, – for when I could not otherwise disengage myself from a dinner a little way out of town, – having unawares confessed to the day’s being at my disposal, . . I said – ‘ I expect letters at home which must be answered ‘ – and here I am.

Or rather, here you are, dearest, – in, I do think, your dearest mood. I must shift my ground already, alter my moment of time, and avow that it is now I love you the best, the completest. Do you want to know how much kindness I can bear? If I ever am so happy as to speak so as to please you, it may be only your own kindness overflowing and running back to you – I feel every day, often in every day, the regret follow some thought of you, – that this thought, for instance, if I could secure and properly tell you this only, you would know my love for what it is, – and yet that this thought will pass unexpressed like the others ! Well, I do not care – rightly considered, there is not so much to regret – the words should lead to acts, and be felt insufficient.

Now we collect then, from Mr. Kenyon’s caution, or discretion, or pity, or ignorance, that he will not interpose, and that there will be one great effort, and acknowledgment for all ? I should certainly like it so best. You seem stronger than to need the process of preparatory disclosures, now to one, now to another friend. It is clearly best as it is like to be . . for perhaps the chances are in our favour that the few weeks more will be uninterrupted.

My time is gone – and nothing said ! For to-morrow, all rests with you . . if the note bids me go, I shall be in absolute readiness – otherwise on Wednesday . . just as you seem to discern the times and the seasons.

Bless you my own best, dearest Ba – your own R.

[Postmark: August 17, 1846]

No, my own dearest, your letter does not arrive on Saturday, but this morning – what then ? You will not be prevented from your usual ways of entire goodness to me by that! You will continue to write through the remainder of the writing-time? This one letter reaches me, – if another was sent, it stays back till to-morrow – so I do get a blessing by your endeavour, and am grateful as ever, my own Ba ! After all, neither of us loses, – effectually loses – anything – for my letter always comes in its good time, – it is not cast hopelessly away – and do you suppose that you lose any of the gladness and thanks ? Rather, you get them doubly – for all along, all through the suspense, I have been (invariably) sure of the deed when promised, and of the unchanging love, when only expected . . so that when the letter finds me at last, the joy being unaccountably unabated do you not see that there is a gain somehow ? I told you on Friday I loved you more at that instant than at any previous time – I will show you why, because I can show you, I think – though it seems at first an irrational word . . for always having loved you wholly, how can I, still only loving you wholly, speak of ‘ more ‘ or ‘ less ‘ ? This is why – I used to see you once a week, to sit with you for an hour and a half – to receive a letter, or two, or three, during the week – and I loved you, Ba, wholly, as I say, and reckoned time for no time in the intervals of seeing you and hearing from you. Now I see you twice in the week, and stay with you the three hours, and have letter on dear letter, – and the distance is, at least, the same, between the days, and between the letters – I will only affirm it is the same – so I must love you more – because if you were to bring me back to the old allowance of you, – the one short visit, the two or three letters, – I should be starved with what once feasted me ! (If you do not understand Flush does !) Seriously, does not that go to prove, I love you more ! Increased strength comes insensibly thus, – is only ascertained by such process of induction . . once you crossed the room to look out Shelley’s age in a book, and were not tired – now you cross London to see the trains arrive, and (I trust) are not tired . . So – you are stronger.

Dearest, I know your very meaning, in what you said of religion, and responded to it with my whole soul – what you express now, is for us both . . those are my own feelings, my convictions beside – instinct confirmed by reason. Look at that injunction to ‘ love God with all the heart, and soul, and strength ‘ and then imagine yourself bidding any faculty, that arises towards the love of him, be still ! If in a meeting house, with the blank white walls, and a simple doctrinal exposition, – all the senses should turn (from where they lie neglected) to all that sunshine in the Sistine with its music and painting, which would lift them at once to Heaven, – why should you not go forth ? – to return just as quickly, when they are nourished into a luxuriance that extinguishes, what is called, Reason’s pale wavering light, lamp or whatever it is – for I have got into a confusion with thinking of our convolvuluses that climb and tangle round the rose-trees – which might be lamps or tapers ! See the levity ! No – this sort of levity only exists because of the strong conviction, I do believe ! There seems no longer need of earnestness in assertion, or proof . . so it runs lightly over, like foam on the top of a wave.

Chorley came and was very agreeable and communicative. You shall tell me more about Mr. Mathews and his review. And with respect to his lady-friend, you will see her, I think. But first tell me of Mr. Kenyon, and yourself – how you are, and what I am to do, when to see you.

Now goodbye, my own Ba – ‘goodbye.’ Be prepared for all fantasticalness that may happen ! Perhaps some day I shall shake hands with you, simply, and go . . just to remember the more exquisitely where I once was, and where you let me stay now, you dearest, dearest heart of my heart, soul of my soul ! But the shaking-hands, at a very distant time ! Now – let me kiss you, beloved – and so I do kiss you –

Ever your own.

[Postmark: August 15, 1846]

Saturday.

My very, very dearest — many, if not all, of those things
for which I want the words when too close to you, become
quite clear at a little distance. How simple, for instance, it
is to admit, that in our case, — my own, only Ba once
discovered, the circumstances of the weakness and retirement
were, on the whole, favourable rather than otherwise ! Had
they been unfavourable . . I do not think a few obstacles
would have discouraged me . . but this way has been easier
— better — and now all is admitted ! By themselves, the
circumstances could never obtain more than the feeling
properly due to them — do you think one particle of love
goes with the pity and service to a whole Hospital of
Incurables ? So let all the attraction of that kind pass for
what it is worth, and for no more. If all had been different,
and I had still perceived you and loved you, then there might,
perhaps, — or probably — be as different an aim for me, —
for my own peculiar delight in you . . I should want to feel
and be sure of your love, in your happiness . . certainly in
your entire happiness then as now — but I should aspire to
find it able to support itself in a life altogether different
from the life in which I had first seen you — if you loved me
you would need to be happy in quiet and solitude and simplicity
and privation . . then I should know you loved me, knowing how
you had been happy before ! But now, do you not see that
my utmost pride and delight will be to think you are happy,
as you were not, — in the way you were not : if you chose to
come out of a whirl of balls and parties and excursions and
visitings — to my side, I should love you as you sate still by
me, — but now, when you stand up simply, much more walk
. . I will consider, if you let me, every step you take that
brings you pleasure, — every smile on your mouth, and light
on your eyes — as a directest obedience to me . . all the
obedience you can ever pay me . . you shall say in every
such act ‘ this I do on purpose to content you ! ‘ I hope to
know you have been happy . . that shall prove you loved
me, at the end.

Probably you will not hear anything to-day from Mr.
Kenyon, as your sister is to be present : do you really
imagine that those eyes and spectacles are less effective than
the perceptions of your ‘ Treppy ? ‘

By the way, hear an odd coincidence — you heard that
foolish story of Thackeray and Mr. ‘ Widdicombe ‘ . . which
I told just to avoid a dead silence and guilty blankness of
face. As I was returning I met Thackeray (with Doyle —
H.B.) and was energetically reminded of our dinner . .
he is in very earnest, Mr. Kenyon may assure himself.
Presently I reached Charing Cross — and stood waiting for
my omnibus. There is always a crowd of waiters — in a
moment there passes an extraordinary looking personage —
a policeman on duty at this police-requiring spot saunters
up to me, of all others, and says (on some miraculous
impulse, no doubt) — with an overflowing impressible grin,
‘ D’ye know him, Sir ? ‘ ‘ No — who may he be ? ‘ ‘ He’s
Widdicombe ! — He goes now to Astley’s, and afterwards
to Vauxhall — there’s a good likeness of him in the painting
of the Judge and Jury Club. ‘ Here my omnibus arrives . .
‘ Thank you ‘ I said — and there was an end of the
communication. How for many thousand years may I walk the
street before another inspired policeman addresses me with-
out preface and tells me, that is the man I have just been
talking of to somebody else ? Let me chronicle Mr. W.’s
glories . . his face is just Tom Moore’s, plus two painted
cheeks, a sham moustache, and hair curled in wiry long
ringlets ; Thackeray’s friend was a friend indeed, ‘ warning
every man and teaching every man ‘ — the tete-a-tete would
have been portentous.

Now, dearest, you cannot return me such delectabilities,
so must even be content to tell me what happens to-day
and what is said and done and surmised — and how you
are . . three times over, how you are, dearest dearest !
And I will write to-morrow, and kiss you meanwhile, as now
as ever. Bless you, love —

your R.

[Postmark: August 13, 1846]

Thursday.

Dearest Ba, I love you wholly and for ever ! How shall
the charm ever break ?

My two letters ! I think we must institute solemn days
whereon such letters are to be read years hence . . when I
shall ask you, — (all being known, many weaknesses you do
not choose to see now, and perhaps some strength and
constancy you cannot be sure of — for the charm may
break, you think) . . ‘ If you stood there ‘ . . at Wimpole
Street in the room . . would you whisper ‘ Love, I love you,
as before ? ‘ Oh, how fortunately, fortunately the next verse
comes with its sweetest reassurance !

When I have chosen to consider the circumstances of
the altered life I am about to lead with you . . (‘chosen,’
because you have often suggested drawbacks, harms to my
interest &c. which I have really been forced to take up and
try to think over seriously, lest I should be unawares found
treating what had undoubtedly come from you with disrespect),
I never, after all the considering in my power, was
yet able to fancy even the possibility of their existence. I
will not revert to them now — nor to the few real inconveniences
which I did apprehend at the beginning, but which
never occurred to you : at present I take you, and with you
as much happiness as I seem fit to bear in this world, — the
one shadow being the fear of its continuance. Or if there is
one thing I shall regret . . it is just that which I should as
truly lose if I married any Miss Campbell of them all —
rather, then should really lose, what now is only modified,
— transferred partly and the rest retainable. There was
always a great delight to me in this prolonged relation of
childhood almost . . nay altogether — with all here. My
father and I have not one taste in common, one artistic
taste . . in pictures, he goes, ‘souls away,’ to Brauwer,
Ostade, Teniers . . he would turn from the Sistine Altar
piece to these — in music he desiderates a tune ‘ that has
a story connected with it, ‘ whether Charles II.’s favourite
dance of ‘ Brose and butter ‘ or — no matter, — what I mean
is, that the sympathy has not been an intellectual one. I
hope if you want to please me especially, Ba, you will
always remember I have been accustomed, by pure choice,
to have another will lead mine in the little daily matters of
life. If there are two walks to take (to put the thing at
simplest) you must say, ‘ This one ‘ and not ‘ either ‘ . .
because though they were before indifferently to be chosen
— after that speech, one is altogether better than the other,
to me if not to you. When you have a real preference which
I can discern, you will be good enough to say nothing about
it, my own Ba ! Now, do you not see how, with this feeling,
which God knows I profess to be mine without the least
affectation, — how much my happiness would be disturbed by
allying myself with a woman to whose intellect, as well as
goodness, I could not look up ? — in an obedience to whose
desires, therefore, I should not be justified in indulging ?
It is pleasanter to lie back on the cushions inside the
carriage and let another drive — but if you suspect he cannot
drive ?

Nothing new at Mr. Kenyon’s yesterday — I arrived late
to a small party — Thackeray and Procter — pleasant as
usual. I took an opportunity of mentioning that I had come
straight from home. Did you really look from the window,
dearest ? I was carried the other way, by the new road,
but I thought of you till you may have felt it !

And indeed you are ‘ out ‘ again as to my notions of
your notions, you dearest Ba ! I know well enough that by
‘ calmness ‘ you did not mean absence of passion — I spoke
only of the foolish popular notion.

To-morrow there would seem to be no impediment whatever
— and I trust to be with you, beloved — but before, I
can kiss you as now, — loving you as ever — ever —

Your own.

[Postmark: August 12, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I have been putting all the letters into rings — twenty
together — and they look now as they should — ‘ infinite
treasure in a little room ‘ — note, that they were so united
and so ranged from the beginning, at least since I began to
count by twenties — but the white tape I used (no red tape,
thank you !) was vile in its operation, — the untying and
retying (so as to preserve a proper cross ) hard for
clumsy fingers like mine : — these rings are perfect. How
strange it will be to have no more letters ! Of all the
foolishnesses that ever were uttered that speech of mine, —
about your letters strewing the house, — was the most thoroughly
perfect ! yet you have nothing to forgive in me, you say !

Just now I took up a periodical and read a few lines of
a paper on the charm that there is in a contrariety of tempers
and tastes, for friends and lovers — and there followed
platitudes in a string — the clever like the stupid, the grave
choose the lively, and so forth. Now, unless, the state of the
liker and chooser is really considered by him as a misfortune,
— what he would get rid of if he could in himself, so shall
hardly desire to find in another — except in this not very
probable case, is there not implied by every such choice,
an absolute despair of any higher one ? The grave man
says (or would if he knew himself) — ‘ except on my particular
grounds such a serious humour would be impossible
and absurd . . and where can I find another to appreciate
them ? Better accept the lower state of ignorance that they
exist even, and consequent gaiety, — than a preposterous
melancholy arising from no adequate cause. ‘ And what
man of genius would not associate with people of no talent
at all, rather than the possessors of mere talent, who keep
sufficiently near him, as they walk together, to give him
annoyance at every step ? Better go with Flush on his four
legs, avowedly doglike, than with a monkey who will shuffle
along on two for I don’t know how many yards. Now
for instance, is the writer of that wise notice of Landor in
last week’s Athenceum, one whit nearer your sympathy
in that precise matter, than somebody who never heard of
Landor or supposed him to have usually written under the
signature of L. E. L.? With the exception of a word or
two about the silly abuse of Plato, and on the occasional
unfairness of statement, is there one word right and
seasonable ?

Here am I letting the words scratch themselves one
after another while my thought as usual goes quite
another way. Perhaps my wits are resting because of the
great alacrity they are to display at Mr. Kenyon’s this
evening . . I shall take care not to be first comer, nor last
goer. Dearest, you are wrong in your fancy about my little
caring whether he knows or does not. I see altogether with
your eyes . . indeed, now that you engage to remove any
suspicion of unkindness or mistrust which might attach to
me in his thoughts (all I ever apprehended for myself), there
is no need to consider him — at all. He can do no good
nor harm. Did you ever receive such a letter ? The dull
morning shall excuse it — anything but the dull heart —
for you fill it, however the heat may keep within, sometimes.

Bless you, Ba, my dearest, perfect love — now I will
begin thinking of you again — let me kiss you, my own !

[Postmark: August 11, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Then let it be Tuesday. It will correct, too, my stupidity
to Mr. Kenyon, for easily you may reply to his certain
question, that you had not been here on Wednesday but meant
to go on Friday instead. Ah well ! By the time all this is
over we shall be fit to take a degree in some Jesuits’
college — we shall have mastered all the points of casuistry.
To wash one’s hands of it, and then throw away the water,
will be something gained at least.

Dearest, no, indeed ! — there is nothing for your goodness
to do in that badness I told you of, and which you describe
so precisely in your word, ‘ drunkenness ‘ of mind. It is
precisely that, and no more nor less — a throwing off of
moral restraint . . a miserable degradation. One may
get angry, frightened, disgusted — but, after all,
compassion comes in : — and who would think of fighting a
delirious man with a sword ? It would be a cruelty, like
murder. There is a fine nature too, under these ruins of
the will ; and a sensibility which strikes inwards and
outwards — (no one else should have any sensibility, within
a thousand miles.) Think of a sort of dumb Rousseau, — with
the ‘ Confessions ‘ in him, pining evermore to get out ! A
miserable man, first by constitution and next by fortune —
seeing only the shadow, for the sun, — the nettles in the
field, — and breathing hard when he stands among garden-roses,
to attain to smelling the onions over the wall. I have told
him sometimes that he had a talent for anger ! — ‘ indignatio
facit orationes ‘ : and that is his pleasure, ‘ par excellence,’
— to be let talk against this abuse or that abuse, this class
of men or that class of men, this or that world’s misery or
offence : — he will rise up in it and be eloquent and happy.
Otherwise . . mecreants we must be, he thinks, who dare
to be happy in this vale of tears. Life is a long moan to
him. And is not such a man enough punished ? For me,
I have not had the heart to take quite the position I ought
to have done, looking only to his most outrageous bearing
towards myself — although he talks of my scorn and
sarcasms, as if I had shown myself quite equal to self-defence.
An old, old friend, too ! — known as a friend these twelve or
thirteen years ! And then, men are nearly all the same in
the point of wanting generosity to women. It is a sin of sex,
be sure — and we have our counter-sins and should be
merciful. So I have been furiously angry, and then
relented — by turns ; as I could. Oh yes — it was he who
followed you upstairs. There was an explosion that day
among the many — and I had to tell him as a consequence,
that if he chose to make himself the fable and jest of the
whole house, he was the master, but that I should insist
upon his not involving my name in the discussion of his
violences. Wilson said he was white with passion as he
followed you, and that she in fear trembled so she could
scarcely open the door. He was a little ashamed afterwards,
and apologized in a manner for what sufficiently
required an apology. Before a servant too ! — But that is
long ago — and at that time he knew nothing for a certainty.
Is it possible to be continuously angry with any one who
proves himself so much the weaker ? The slave of himself . .
of his own passions — is too unhappy for the rod of
another — man or woman.

Mr. Chorley — Mr. Chorley ! — how could he utter such
words ! Men seem imbecile sometimes — understandings
have they, and understand not.

Monday Night.

Dearest, I have your last letter. Thank you out of my
heart — though you are not a prophet, dear dearest — not
about Mr. Kenyon at least. See how far you are from the
truth-well, with that divining hazel which you wave to and
fro before my eyes. Mr. Kenyon, instead of too much
remembering us, has forgotten me to-day. I waited an
hour with my bonnet on, and he did not come. And then
came a note ! He had had business — he had forgotten
me — he would come to-morrow. Which I, thinking of
you, wrote back a word against, and begged him to come
rather on Thursday or Saturday, or Monday. Is that right,
dearest? Your coming to-morrow will be very right.

But when you say that there can be no love except ‘from
beneath’ . . is it right ? is it comforting to hear of ? No,
no — indeed ! How unhappy I should be if I accepted
your theory ! So I accept rather your love, beloved . .

Trusting to be yours.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Monday Morning.

You dearest Ba, do you write thus to put all thoughts
of fear out of my head, and make me confident nothing can
go ill with us if you feel so for me ? I seem to have a
presentiment that this afternoon, before this letter reaches
you, Mr. Kenyon will have spoken — and if the whole
world spoke its loudest, your words would be all I should
hear. Or are they trials, every such word, of my vanity and
weakness, — do you think, ‘ if anything can call them up,
this will ? ‘ No, I very well know your entire truth in this
and the other assurances I make my life bright with, —
through any darkness that can come. What you choose to
assert of yourself, I feel of myself every hour. But there
must be this disproportionateness in a beloved object —
before I knew you, women seemed not so much better than
myself, — therefore, no love for them ! There is no love
but from beneath, far beneath, — that is the law of its
nature — and now, no more of words — will there indeed be
need of no more, — as I dare hope and believe, will the
deeds suffice ? — not in their own value, no ! — but in
their plain, certain intention, — as a clear advance
beyond mere words? We shall soon know — if you live, you
will be mine, I must think — you have put these dear arms
too surely round my neck to be disengaged now. I cannot
presume to suggest thoughts to you resolutions for the
future — you must impart to me always, — but I do lift up
my heart in an aspiration to lead the life that seems
accorded by your side, under your eyes. — I cannot write
on this, dear Ba, — to say, I will live and work as I
ought, seems too presumptuous. Understand all, and help me
with your dearest hand, my own love !

As I say, I fancy Mr. Kenyon will speak — I only hope,
the caution will act both ways, and that he will see as
much inexpediency in altogether opposing as in encouraging
such a step. That you should pass another winter and the
risk of it — and perhaps many — that seems the worst fate.
Can he apprehend any worse evil than that ?

I observe in the Times to-day that the Peninsular &
Oriental Steam Company have advertised a ship from
Southampton to Genoa, Leghorn, Civita Vecchia and
Naples on the 30th September, and that ‘ thenceforth the
company will despatch a first-class steamer to those ports on
the 15th of every month. One more facility, should
circumstances require it. Are you sure that the France
journey with the delays and fatigue is preferable to this —
where if the expenses are greater, yet the uncertain expenses
are impossible ? You are to think, beloved.

Now, will you write to-night ? I may come to-morrow ?
Say one word — you have heard why I wanted to come, even
if Mr. Kenyon’s questions had not been put — otherwise,
Friday will be impossible — I can say, ‘ I called on
Saturday, and think of doing so next Friday — ‘ I must
see you to-morrow indeed, love !

Let me leave off here — I love you wholly, and bless you
ever as now — Your own R.

[Postmark: August 10, 1846]

Sunday.

Just now I tore the few words I had begun of the letter
to you, Ba — they all went away, strangely afar from the
meaning begun in them, through my mind taking up the
thought that you were ‘ waiting ‘ for what I should write
— ‘waiting all day ‘ — and ready to call the poor joyful
service of love, ‘ goodness ‘ in me ! When such thoughts
arise, I am not fit to pay even that imperfect service —
I have only arms to receive you, kisses to give you — the
words seem too cold, indeed ! I sincerely believe this I
am to write now, will be the shorter because of the
intervention of you, — and that, like Flush, I shall
behave best when not looked at too much !

Then, in our life, — what I do earnestly in intention and
from love of you, that you will always accept and make the
best of ! How happy you make me, now and ever — in the
present happiness, in the assurance of the future’s even
greater happiness, I am obliged to believe ! It seemed
like a dream as I walked home last night and thought of
all over again, after a few hours’ talk with my old friends,
on subjects from which you were excluded, and of a kind
that brought my former feelings back again ; so as to be
understood, at least, and recognised as mine. ‘ All which
is changed now, ‘ I thought going home in the moonlight.
Chorley was apprised of my being there and came
good-naturedly — and we discussed delinquencies political
and literary : he says, times were never so bad as now —
people come without a notion of offending a critic, and
offer him money — ‘ will you do this for so much ‘ —
praise this or blame this ! He was in a bad humour, he
said ; at least teazed and tired — and really looked both,
so thaf I asked ‘ had you not better throw away a day on
our green dulness at Hatcham, strolling through it with me ? ‘
— ‘ Yes — this day next week, if you like ‘ — he answered
at once . . so that our Saturday will be gone . . so that our
Tuesday must be secured, my own Ba, and after it the Friday,
at an equal interval of time — do you let it be so? Saturday
would seem to be his only available day, poor Chorley — he
walked through the park with me and over the Bridge, at one
in the morning — in return for my proving, (I don’t quite
think that, however ! ) — proving, to Arnoultfs great
satisfaction at least, that Mr. Horne was a poet, and
moreover a dramatic one, — Chorley sees no good in him
beyond talent with an abundance of ‘ crotchets,’ and ‘ could
not read ” Orion ” for his life.’ I proved another thing too
— that Forster was not a whit behind his brethren of the
faculty, in literary morals — that the Examiner, named, was
quite as just and good as another paper, unnamed. Whereat
Chorley grew warm and lost his guard, and at last ;
declaring I forced him into corners and that speak he must ;
instanced the ‘ Examiner’s ‘ treatment of myself as not
generous . . ‘ Luria ‘ having been noticed as you remember a
week after the publication, and yet, or never, to be
reviewed in the Unnamed : Ces Miseres !

A fortnight ago when Rachel played in ‘ Andromaque ‘
‘ for the last time ‘ — Sarianna and I agreed that if she did
ever play again in it, we would go and see . . and lo,
contrary to all expectation she does repeat Hermione
to-morrow night, and we are to go. And you, Ba, you cannot
go — ought I to go ? One day, one not distant day, and
‘cannot’ will apply to us both — now, it seems to do me
good, with the crowd of its suggestions, this seeing Rachel ;
beside, Sarianna has just this only opportunity of going.

I am anxious to let the folly of that person spend itself
unaggravated by any notice of mine — I mean to you ; any
notice which should make you think it — (the folly) —
affected me as well as you ; but I do trust you will not
carry toleration too far in this case, nor furnish an
ungenerous, selfish man with weapons for your own annoyance.
‘ Insolent letters ‘ you ought to put up with from no one —
and as there is no need of concealment of my position now, I
think you will see a point when I may interfere. Always
rely on my being quietly firm, and never violent nor
exasperating : you alluded to some things which I cannot let
my fancy stop upon. Remember you are mine, now, — my
own, my very own. I know very well what a wretched
drunkenness there is in that sort of self-indulgence — what it
permits itself to do, all on the strength of its ‘ strong
feeling ‘ ‘ earnestness ‘ — stupid in execrable sophistry as
it is ! I have too a strong belief that the man who would bully
you, would drop into a fit at the sight of a man’s uplifted
little finger. Can this person be the ‘old friend in an ill
humour ‘ who followed me up-stairs one day ? I trust to
you — that is the end of all.

Now I will kiss you, my own Ba, and wait for my letter,
and then, Tuesday. Dearest, I am your own, your very
own.

[Postmark: August 7, 1846]

Friday Morning.

(First of all, let me tell you that the whole story about
that death through grief, madness &c, turns out to be a vile
fabrication, — false from beginning to end. My mother’s
informant, I now find, had derived the knowledge from
newspaper also — I hope the other tale, of the Turk, is true
at least.)

And now, love, I can go on to say that no letter comes —
is it the post’s fault ? Yes — I think, — so does your
goodness spoil me — you have to tell me about to-morrow,
beside. I shall wait hopefully till 2 or 3 o’clock.

Mr. Kenyon was there last evening, for all my prognostications
— he had already twice passed this place in the course of
the day on his way to Lewisham. He soon asked me as I
expected — or something that sounded like it — for, in
the half whisper of his tone, I can only hope he did not put
the question thus ‘ Have you seen Miss Barrett since Saturday,
— or have you called to-day ? ‘ My mind misgives a little
— at all events I only answered the last part of the sentence
— and now, mark you ! — after dinner he proposed that I
should go to him on Wednesday, and make one of a party
he is organising. I tried some faint excuse or other — ‘ You
know,’ interposed he, ‘ you can pay a visit to Wimpole Street
and I shall know and keep away from troubling you ‘ — or
words to that effect. I thought it really better to simply (in
every sense of the word) smile, and attempt to say nothing.
Now, I feel sure that if I were to remark, ‘ I will call on
Mrs. Jameson ‘ — for instance — he would say, ‘So will I,
then, if I can ‘ — on that day, rather than any other —
unless some special business had been mentioned as the object
of my visit. And here is another inconvenience he will perhaps
consider ‘ As he means to call on Wednesday, — there is no
reason I should keep away to-morrow — Saturday — ‘

It will be, however, a justification in his eyes at the end
— ‘ he knew her so well, saw so much of her, — who could
wonder ? ‘

I sate by a pleasant chatting Jewess, Goldsmid, or whatever
the name is, — also by Thackeray — and Milnes came in
the evening, — yet the dulness was mortal, and I am far
from my ordinary self to-day. I am convinced that general
society depresses my spirits more than any other cause. I
could keep by myself for a month till I recovered my mind’s
health. But you are part or all of that self now, — and
would be, were you only present in memory, in fancy. As
it is, oh, to be with you, Ba ?

Three o’clock, no letter ! I will put my own philosophy
in practice and be consoled that you are not in any
circumstances to justify and require anxiety — not unwell
— nor have any fresh obstacles arisen necessarily . . Any
alleviations so long as I am allowed to keep a good
substantial misfortune at the end !

Once you said in your very own way . . when I sent
you some roses in a box, and no letter with them, ‘ Now I
shall write no more to-day, not having been written to ! ‘ I
cannot write more — I see ! Ah, Ba, here the letter comes ! !
and I will wait from reading it to kiss my gratitude to you,
you utterly best and dearest ! And I repeat my kisses while
I write the few words there is time for — what a giver you
are of all good things all together. Let me take the best
first, not minding ingratitude to the rest, and say yes,
to-morrow I will see you — even if Mr. Kenyon comes, it
will be easy saying — ‘ I cannot go on Wednesday.’ Did you
manage so well with Mrs. Jameson ? As for Horne, — why,
there may have been Sordelloisms, I daresay — I only meant,
‘ if you look an invalid to him, — he will say so, just when
your improved health is my one excuse for the journey and
its fatigues — and if you look plainly no longer an invalid ‘
— Oh, I don’t know . . I thought he might talk of that too,
and bring in a host ! There is the secret, rendered more
obscurely perhaps ! As for the room, the dearest four walls
that I ever have been enclosed by — I only thought of the
possible phrase — ‘ Still confined to her room ‘ — or the
like — and as — that is the fact, — I rather understood
the whole tone in which you spoke of the circumstance, as
of slight dissatisfaction at the notion of the intended visit
. . in tuam sententiam discedens, I sordelloized !

The words about your health reassure me, beloved ! I
had no positive fears quite as you suppose . . but I coupled
one circumstance with another, do you see, and did get to
apprehend what you now show me to be groundless,
thank God !

Oh, my time ! Bless you, ever, ever, beloved !

Your own R.