Author: RB

[Postmark: August 6, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

No, dearest, — the post brought me no letter till early
this morning, a few hours before the second arrival : so, in
case of any unexpected stoppage in our visit-affairs, if the
post can have been to blame, always be sure it is ; if I do
not arrive at any time when I ought to arrive, having been
sent for — there is the great instance and possibility,
which you are to remember ! However at present, post naufragia
tutus sum with my two treasures.

Thank you, dearest, for all that kind care of answering —
will you now let me lay it all quietly up in my head to
mature, before I . . really think upon it, much more, speak
of it ? If one can do both once for all, what a blessing !
But a little leaven of uncertainty and apprehension, just
enough to be tasted bitterly in the whole lump of our life,
— that cannot be too diligently guarded against while
there is time.

Well, love, your excursion to Kensington was a real
good, well purchased by my early going — and I am glad the
great event stood before all eyes and mouths. I seem to
notice that you do not leave the house quite so often as,
say, a month ago ; and that you are not the better for it.
Of course you cannot go out in storm and rain. Will you
do what is best for my Ba, you who say you love me, —
that is, love her ?

Don’t I sympathize with Horne, and see with his eyes,
and want with his senses ! But why can he not want after
the two months, I ask selfishly — seeing, or fancying I see,
this inconvenience . . that, as his report will probably be the
latest to the world, it would be advisable for you to look as
well as possible, — would it not ? It would not do for him
to tell people ‘ All I can say is, that a few weeks only before
it happened, she appeared to me thus and thus ‘ — while, on
the other hand, if you receive him in the drawing room, —
there are difficulties too.

You never told me how yesterday’s thunder affected
you — nor how your general health is — yet I will answer you
that I am very well to-day — about to go to Mrs. Procter’s,
alas — it is good that this letter cannot reach you before
night or nine o’clock — I should fail to deny myself the
moment’s glance at the window — if you could be prayed to stand
there ! But it is past praying for now. I told you that I have
excused myself to Mrs. Jameson on the ground of some
kind of uncertainty that rules the next fortnight’s engagements
— who shall say what a fortnight may not bring forth ?
I shall not mind Mr. Kenyon being of the party to-night,
should it be so ordered . . for, if he asks me, I can
say with dignity — ‘ No, — I did not call to-day, — meaning
to call on Saturday, perhaps’ — ‘Well, there is some
forbearance,’ he will think ! However, he will not be present,
I prophesy, and Chorley will . . or no, perhaps, Rachel’s
Jeanne D’Arc may tempt him. Important to Ba, very !
almost as much as to me — so at once to the really, truly,
exclusively important thing, by comparison — Love me ever,
dearest dearest, as I must ever love you, — and take my heart,
as if it were a better offering. Also write to me and tell me
that Saturday is safe . . will it be safe ? Your aunt may
perhaps leave you soon — and one observation of hers would
be enough to ruin us — consider and decide !

Since these words were written, my mother, who was
out, entered the room to confirm a horrible paragraph
in the paper. You know our light momentary annoyance at
the storm on Saturday ; it is over for us. The next day,
Mr. Chandler, the cultivator of camellias at Wandsworth,
died of grief at the loss from the damage to his
conservatories and flowers — which new calamity added to
the other, deprived his eldest son, and partner — of his
senses . . ‘ he was found to be raving mad on Monday ‘
are the words of the Times. My mother’s informant called
theirs ‘ the most amicable of families. ‘

How strange — and a few weeks ago I read, in the same
paper, a letter from Constantinople — wherein the writer
mentioned that he had seen (I think, that morning) Pacha
somebody, whose malpractices had just drawn down on him
the Sultan’s vengeance, and who had been left with barely
his life, — having lost his immense treasures, palaces and
gardens &c., along with his dignity, — the writer saw this
old man selling slices of melon on a bridge in the city ;
and on stopping in wonderment to praise such constancy, the
Turk asked him with at least equal astonishment, whether it
was not fitter to praise Allah who had lent him such wealth
for forty years, than to repine that he had judged right to
recall it now ?

Could we but practise it, as we reason on it ! — May God
continue me that blessing I have all unworthily received . .
but not, I trust, insensibly received!

May he keep you, dearest dearest

R.

[Postmark: August 5, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

If I had felt, as you pleased to feel yesterday, that it had
been ‘ only one hour ‘ which my coming gained — I should
richly deserve to find out to-day, as I do fully, what the
precise value of such an hour is. But I never act so
ungratefully and foolishly — you are more than ever you
have been to me, — yet at any time I would have gone for the
moment’s sight of you, — one moment’s — and returned
happy. You never doubt this because I do not waylay
you in your walks and rides ? I consider your sisters, and
your apprehension for them, and other reasons that make
such a step objectionable. Do you remember what I said
yesterday — what I have told myself so often? It is one
proof how I love you that I am jealous of any conversation
with you which should be too interesting for itself, apart
from the joy of your presence — it is better to sit and see
you, or hear you, or only say something which, in its
insignificance, shall be obviously of no account beside the
main and proper delight — as at wine-feasts you get the wine
and a plate of thin dry tasteless biscuits — (observe, for
instance, that this noble simile was not set before you
yesterday — no, my Ba !)

And you did understand also why I left, on that mere
chance of danger to you, — for it was not, do you think it
was only the irksomeness to myself I sought to escape —
though that would have been considerable. There is no
unstable footing for me in the whole world except just in
your house — which is not yours. I ought not to be in that
one place — all I could do in any circumstances (were a
meeting to happen) would be wrong, unfortunate. The
certainty of misconception would spoil everything — so much
of gentleness as is included in gentlemianliness would pass
for a very different quality — and the manliness which one
observes there too, would look like whatever it is farthest
from. This is a real avowal of weakness — because, being in
the right, as I dare trust I am, so far as I can see through the
involvement, I ought to be able to take my stand upon it, —
and so I shall be able, and easily — but not here, just here.
With Mr. Kenyon, in spite of a few misgivings, I shall
know what to say — I can justify myself, if not convince
him. Never fancy, dearest, that he has any ‘ clay ‘ in his
composition — he may show a drop of water at the heart of
the else entire chrystal he is — did you ever see that pretty
phenomenon — of which Claudian wrote so prettily ? ‘ Non
potuit toto mentiri corpore gemmam, sed medio latuit
proditor orbe latex.’ Our Druids used to make balls for
divining out of such all-but-solid gems with the central
weakness — I have had them in my hand. Such doubts and
fears are infinitely more becoming in him, situated as he is,
than their absence would be — if he said for instance, ‘ Oh
yes, — I am used to a certain style of living, which of course
I do not change for no reason at all, — but who doubts that
I could do so, without difficulty or regret ? I shall hardly
bestow any sympathy on what I am sure must be the easiest
life in the world ! ‘ One would rather hear an epicure say
frankly he cannot conceive how people can end a dinner
without Tokay, than ask over his Tokay (as Sheridan’s
Abbot in the ‘ Duenna ‘) of the poor starved wistful attendant
monk, ‘ Haven’t you the chrystal spring ? ‘

In this case, he is directly looking to your possible
undertakings, not merely expressing his general ‘ remembrance
that we are dust ‘ and need gilding — and certainly
if in some respects you have, as I believe, less use, fewer
uses for money than ordinary women, — you also have an
absolute necessity for whatever portion you do require, —
such a necessity as they have not, neither. I shall never
grieve over the lace handkerchiefs you cannot get — but
whatever you possess already in this room of yours, or might
possess on the contingency of such illness, you must keep,
— to your life’s end. I would not take you away on any other
condition. Now listen Ba — not think for a moment that it
puts me to the least, least pain imaginable to talk on this
subject, while I know you wholly, as there I am sure I do,
and while you too know me, as I also am sure, — we may
discuss this, as we do the better or worse routes to Italy,
in the fullest confidence of our aims and desires being absolutely
identical, — so that it is but a prize for the ingenuity of
either, — a prize from the common stock of our advantage, —
whenever a facility is discovered or a difficulty avoided. So
listen, — will you, at once, or as soon as practicable, ascertain
what you certainly possess — what is quite yours, and in your
sole power, to take or to let remain — what will be just as
available to you in Italy as in England ? I want to know,
being your possible husband. My notion of the perfection
of money arrangements is that of a fairy purse which every
day should hold so much, and there an end of trouble.
Houses and land always seem like a vineyard to a man who
wants a draught of wine for present thirst : so tell me how
much will be found in the purse — because when we are in
Italy or halfway there telling will be superfluous or beyond
remedy, — easy remedy at least.

Since writing the above I have been down-stairs — and
now return to tell you, a miracle has just happened, which
my father, mother and sister are at this moment engaged in
admiring — I hear their voices in the garden. We have a
fig-tree which I planted four years ago — this year it produces
its first fruit, a small fig, ‘ seule et unique, ‘ which is still on
the tree — not another fig, ripe or unripe, living or dead, has
ever been carried into the garden — yet this morning is
discovered in the exact centre of the garden, and parallel with
the fig-tree aforesaid, another indubitable seedling fig-tree, —
‘ how begot, how nourished ? ‘ Ipse vidi — does that
prognosticate, my own Siren, my soothsayer and wise lady?

And now, have you been incommoded by the storm, —
and thunder, which was loud and lasting here ? I thought
of you with such thoughts.

And what came of my visit ? Was it really your Aunt —
did my precipitation improve matters ? Will Saturday have
to fear ?

Yesterday I was not in a mood to go quietly home —
‘ for my soul kept up too much light under my eyelids for
the night, and thus I went disquieted ‘ till at Charing Cross
it struck me that going home by water (to Greenwich, at
least) would be a calmative — so I went on board a steamer.
Close by me sate three elderly respectable men, — I could
not help hearing them talk rationally about the prospects of
the planters, the ‘ compensation there is to be in the article
of Rum,’ — how we ‘ get labour,’ which is the main thing,
and may defy, with that, Cuba, the Brazils &c. One who
talked thus was a fat genial fellow, ending every sentence
in a laugh from pure good-nature — his companions somehow
got to ‘ the Church,’ then Puseyism, then Dissent — on all
which this personage had his little opinion, — when one
friend happened to ask ‘ you think so ? ‘ — ‘ I do, ‘ said the
other ‘and indeed I know it.’ ‘How so?’ — ‘Because it
was revealed to me in a vision.’ ‘A … vision ?’ — ‘Yes,
a vision ‘ — and so he began to describe it, quite in earnest,
but with the selfsame precision and assurance, with which
he had been a little before describing the effect of the
lightning on an iron steam boat at Woolwich as he witnessed
it. In this vision he had seen the devil cast out of himself
— which he took for an earnest of God’s purposes for good
to the world at large — I thought, ‘ we mad poets, — and
this very unpoetical person ! ‘ who had also previously been
entering on the momentous question ‘ why I grow fatter
than of old, seeing that I eat no more — ‘

Come, Ba, say, is not this too bad, too far from the line ?
— I may talk this by you, — but write this away from you,
— oh, no ! Be with me then, dearest, for one moment, for
many moments, in spite of the miles, while I kiss your
sweetest lips, as now — Beloved !

I am ever your very own

Oh, — I determine not to go yet to Mrs. J’s ‘ for reasons ‘
— a phrase which ought to be ready stereotyped.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Oh, the comfort you are to me, Ba — the perpetual
blessing and sustainment ! And what a piece of you, how
instinct with you, this letter is ! I will not try to thank
you, but my whole life shall.

See ! Now talk of ‘ three or four months ‘ ! And is not
the wonder, that this should wait for the eighty-second visit
to happen ? Or could anything be more fortunate, more
mitigating than the circumstances under which it did happen
at last? The rain and thunder, — the two hours (see the
accounts — nothing like it has been known, for years), at most,
proved against us, — the ignorance of the visits last week —
in spite of all which, see what comes and is likely to come !

Let me say at once that, at the worst, it may come !
You have had time to know enough of me, my Ba, — and I,
who from the first knew you, have taken one by one your
promises from your lips, — I believe what you write here ; I
accept it as the foundation of all my future happiness — ‘ you
will never fail me ‘ — I will never fail you, dearest dearest.

How you have mistaken my words, whatever they may
have been, about the ‘ change ‘ to be expected in my life !
I have, most sincerely I tell you, no one habit nor manner
to change or persevere in, — if you once accept the general
constitution of me as accordant to yours in a sufficient
degree, — my incompleteness with your completeness,
dearest, — there is no further difficulty. I want to be a
Poet — to read books which make wise in their various ways,
to see just so much of nature and the ways of men as seems
necessary — and having done this already in some degree, I
can easily and cheerfully afford to go without any or all of
it for the future, if called upon, — and so live on, and ‘ use
up, ‘ my past acquisitions such as they are. I will go to Pisa
and learn, — or stay here and learn in another way — putting,
as I always have done, my whole pride, if that is the proper
name, in the being able to work with the least possible
materials. There is my scheme of life without you, before
you existed for me ; prosecuted hitherto with every sort of
weakness, but always kept in view and believed in. Now
then, please to introduce Ba, and say what is the habit she
changes ? But do not try to say what divinest confirmation
she brings to ‘ whatever is good and holy and true ‘ in this
scheme, because even She cannot say that ! All the liberty and
forbearance . . most graceful, most characteristic of you,
sweet ! But why should I play with you, at taking what I
mean to give again ? — or rather, what it would be a horror
to have to keep — why make fantastic stipulations only to
have the glory of not abiding by them ? If I may speak of
my own desires for a moment unconnected with your happiness,
— of what I want for myself, purely — what I mean
by marrying you, — it is, that I may be with you forever — I
cannot have enough of you in any other relation : why then
should I pretend to make reservations and say ‘ Yes, you
shall deprive me of yourself ‘ (of your sympathy, of your
knowledge, and good wishes, and counsel) on such and
such occasions? But I feel your entire goodness, dear
angel of my life, — ever more I feel it, though all seems
felt and recorded.

And now of your ‘ chronicling ‘ — of course Mr. Kenyon
knows — and this is the beginning of his considerate,
cautious kindness — he has determined to hurry nothing,
interfere abruptly in no case, to make you infer rather than
pretend to instruct you — as you must, — for ‘ if the
visits of Captain Cook have that appearance &c., must not
those of R.B. &c., &c., ‘ So, this is not from Chorley’s
information, mind, but from his own spectacled acumen.

After this, it seems very natural to remark that the Havre
packets leave now at nine instead of eight o’clock on
Thursdays and Sundays — while the departures from
Southampton are on Tuesdays and Fridays. My presentiment
is that suddenly you will be removed to Devonshire or
Sussex or — . In which case, our difficulties will multiply
considerably — be prepared for such events !

And for to-morrow — only think of yourself, lest you
should forget my interests : pray write to-night, if but two
or three words. If I am allowed to call, I will bring
Mrs. Butler’s book in a cover, and, if I find a note from you,
leave that, as an excuse for the knock. Will you contrive
that a note shall be ready — in case of your Aunt’s presence
&c. If it saves you from a danger, let me stay away — until
the letters stop, I can bear absence till the two months end
— any such journey as I apprehend would be most annoying,
deplorable indeed.

Would you not if the worst came, — what would you
do?

May God bless you, infinitely bless you, ever dearest
dearest, prays ever your very own —

R.

Mrs. Procter wants me to go to her on Thursday — is there
anything to get out of that arrangement ? — probably not
— but write !

Do reconsider, Ba, — had I better stay away to-morrow ?
You cannot misunderstand me, — I only think of you — any
man’s anger to me is Flushie’s barking, without the
respectability of motive, — but, once the door shut on me,
if he took to biting you ! Think for us both ! Is there any
possibility of a suspicious sudden return because of the
facilities of the day ? Or of the servant being desired to
mention my visits — or to ‘ deny you, ‘ as unwell &c. ? Ah
my soul revolts at the notion of a scene in your presence
— my own tied tongue, and a system of patience I can well
resolve upon, but not be sure of, as experience makes sure.

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Sunday.

What can I tell you, ever dearest, while I am expecting
all you are to tell me ? I will not conjecture, nor be afraid
(for you) before the time — I felt your dear hand press mine
closer while the thunder sounded — so it will always be, I
know, in life, in death — and when a thunder shall break, of
a kind that I can fear. I will hold your hand, my Ba.
Perhaps there is nothing formidable here . . indeed there
can hardly be — tell me all. I got to your Hodgson’s,
waited a few minutes till a cab passed, and then was
properly deposited at the Haymarket. The streets, at least
the roads out of Town, were flooded — very canals. Here, at
home our skylight was broken, — and our chimneys behaved
just as yours.

And now — shall I see you really on Tuesday after this
Saturday of perils? And how will your head be, — your
health in general be, you sweetest Ba ? Is it the worse for
the storm and the apprehension, — to say nothing of what
may have followed ? Oh, if but a ‘ sign ‘ might be
vouchsafed me — if I might go to Wimpole Street presently,
and merely know by the disposition of a blind or of a shutter,
that you were better, or no worse ! I ought to have contrived
something of the kind yesterday — but ‘ presence of mind ‘ !

Ba, I have been reading those poems — now to speak
soberly — I had no conception, Mrs. Butler could have
written anything so mournfully mediocre . . to go as near
flattery as I can. With the exception of three or four pieces
respectable from their apparent earnestness, all that album
writing about ‘ sprites,’ and the lily-bell, and ‘ wishes ‘ —
now to be dead and now alive, — descriptions without colour,
songs without tune, — why, Bennett towers above it ! Either
Bennett — for the one touch you recorded, ‘ I will not be
forgot ‘ — seems grandly succinct contrasted with

Yet not in tears remembered be my name —
Weep over those ye loved — for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality.

How many of these unfortunate Sundays are in store
for me, I wonder — eight or nine, then the two months . .
‘ when constant faith and holy hope shall die, ‘ one lost in
certainty and one in the deep deep joy of the ever present
ever dearest Ba ! Oh, Ba, how I love you !

Your own R.

[Postmark: July 31, 1846]

Friday.

Dearest Ba, the love was as you admit, beneath all the
foolish words — I will lay your pardon to my heart with the
other blessings. All this missing of instant understanding
— (for it does not amount to misunderstanding) — comes of
letters, and our being divided. In my anxiety about a
point, I go too much on the other side from mere earnest-
ness, — as if the written words had need to make up in force
what they want in sound and promptness — and assuredly if
I had received such an impression directly from your
suggestion (since not a ‘ desire, ‘ — you dear, dear Ba ! )
I should have begun at once to ask and argue . . whereas, it
was only to the memory of what you said, an after impression,
that I wrote in answer. Well, I will certainly ‘ love you till
Saturday, — and even after. ‘

Did you indeed go to the Abbey ? How right to go !
Every such expedition is the removal of a world of
apprehension. And why not accept Mrs. Jameson’s offer now,
stipulating for privacy, and go and see the Museum, — the
Marbles? And the National Gallery, and whatever you
would wish to see. At Pisa, Ba, the Cathedral will be
ours, wholly — divinely beautiful it is — more impressive
in itself than the Florence Duomo — and then the green grass
round, over the pavement it hides.

And considerably more impressive than the party at
Mrs. Milner Gibson’s last night — whereof I made one through
a sudden goodnatured invitation which only came yesterday —
so I went ‘ for reasons. ‘ Chorley was there, looking
very tired as he said he was. I left very early, having
accomplished my purpose.

You know you are right, and that I knew you to be right
about Mr. Kenyon — no confidence shall I make to him, be
assured — but in the case of a direct application, with all
those kind apologies in case his suspicion should be wrongly
excited, what should I say ? — to Mr. Kenyon, with his
kindness and its right, mind — not to any other inquirer —
think of the facilities during the week among the Quantock
Hills! But no matter, — nothing but your own real,
unmistakable consent, divides us — I believe nothing till
that comes. The Havre voyage was of course merely a fact
noted — all courses, ways, routes are entirely the same to me.

Thank you, dearest — I am very much better, well,
indeed — so said my doctor who came last evening to see
my father, whose eye is a little inflamed — so shall Ba see,
but not take the trouble to say, when I rejoice in her
presence to-morrow. Dearest, I love you with my whole
heart and soul — may God bless you —

[Postmark: July 30, 1846]

Thursday.

Now you are my very own best, sweetest, dearest Ba —
Do you think after such a letter as mine any amount of
confidence in my own intentions, or of the reasonableness
of being earnest on such a subject, can avail to save me
from mortal misgivings ? I should not have said those
words, certainly I should not — but you forgive them and
me, do you not ?

It was through seeing the peril about Mr. Kenyon just as
you see it ; but do not suppose I could break my promise,
— to every point urged after that sad irresistible fashion,
my answer would be, — would in the end amount to, — ‘
provided she consents. ‘ And then he would return to you,
put away altogether the arguments just used to me, take up
in their stead the corresponding ones founded on my
interests as he would profess to understand them, and the
result would be that a similar answer would be obtained
from you, — which he would call your ‘ consent.’ This is
not what I fear now, — oh, no ! — but the fancy that I was
frightened by, yesterday, while I wrote. Now, I seem to
have my powers about me, and could get to the truth and
hold by it through every difficulty, — and if I, how much
more you !

Then, this is expecting the worst of Mr. Kenyon, — and
the best is at least as likely. In any case, one may be sure
of cautions and warnings and a wise, good, shaking of the
head — he is none of the ardent anticipators of exuberant
happiness from any scheme begun and ended here below.
But after that, — why, ours is the only thoroughly rational
match that ever came under my notice, and he is too clever
not to see some justification in it. At all events, he will
say ‘ we shall see ! ‘ — whether he sigh or smile in the saying
— and if he waits, he will see.

And we will ‘ decide ‘ on nothing, being sure of the one
decision — I mean, that, if the summer be long, and likely to
lead in as fine an Autumn, and if no new obstacles arise,
— September shall go as it comes, and October too, if your
convenience is attained thereby in the least degree, — after-
ward, you will be all my own, all your days and hours
and minutes. I forgot, by the way, to reply to your
question concerning Mrs. J. — if there is good to you, decided
or even not impossible good — of course, let her be with us
if she will, otherwise, oh let us be alone, Ba ! I find by
the first map, that from Nevers the Loire proceeds S.E. till
the Arroux joins it, and that just below it communicates
with the Canal du Centre, which runs N.E. from Paray to
Chagny and thence to Chalons sur Saone. It is a roundabout
way, but not more so than the post-road by Autun —
the Canal must be there for something, and in that case, you
travel from Orleans to Leghorn by water and with the least
fatigue possible. I observe that steam-boats leave St.
Katherine’s Wharf every Thursday and Sunday morning at
8 o’clock for Havre, Rouen and Paris — would that way be
advisable ? I will ascertain the facts about Nevers and
Chalons by the time we meet.

Dearest Ba, my very own, I love you with a love — not
to die before any sorrow ! perhaps that is the one remaining
circumstance of power to heighten it ! May God bless you
for me —

[Postmark: July 29, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

This is just the way, the only way, my ever, ever dearest,
you make cares for me — it is hard to dare to settle whether
the pain of the lost quarters of the hour yesterday be not
balanced by the gladness and gain of this letter ; as it is
hard saying whether to kiss your hand (mind, only the
hand !) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you and only
seeing : you cause me abundance of such troubles, dearest,
best, divinest that you are ! Oh, how can you, blessing me
so, speak as you spoke yesterday — for the first time ! I
thought you would only write such suppositions, such
desires — (for it was a desire) . . and that along with you I
was safe from them, — yet you are adorable amid it all —
only I do feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell — no, not
now I feel it, — this letter is before my heart like the hand
on my eyes. I feel this letter, only how good, good,
good of you to write it ! Yes, I did meet Mr. Kenyon on
the stairs — with a half opened door that discovered sundry
presences, and then had I to speak of a sudden — put it to
my credit on one side that I did speak and laugh ; and on
the other side, that I did neither too a propos. He most
kindly (SEEING IT ALL) began asking about Forster and
Moxon — and I remember some kind of stammering remark
of the latter which I retailed . . to the effect that ‘ now would
be a favourable time to print a volume of poems ‘ this I
did, to seem to have something on my mind calling for a
consultation with you ! Then he made that proposal about
Landor and Mr. Eagles . . whether I ‘ encouraged the idea, ‘
or no, it encouraged me, and helped me a good deal this
morning, — for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a pressing
letter to invite me to go to Ireland, — I should have
yachting and other delights, — and I was glad to return for
an answer, that, ‘ conditional on
my accepting any. ‘ As for my ‘ excellent story on the
stairs ‘ — you alarm me ! Upon my honour, I have not the
least recollection of having told one, or said another word
than the above mentioned. So people are congratulated on
displaying this or the other bravery in battle or fire, when
their own memory is left a blank of all save the confusion !
Let me say here, that he amused me also with the
characteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.

And — now ! now, Ba, to the subject-matter : whatever
you decide on writing to Mrs. Jameson will be rightly
written — it seems to me nearly immaterial ; (putting out of
the question the confiding the whole secret, which, from its
responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether you
decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months
(Ba ?) will make abundantly plain, — or whether you farther
inform her that there is a special secret — of which she must
bear the burthen, even in that mitigated form, for the same
two months, — as I say, it seems immaterial — but it is most
material that you should see how the ground is crumbling
from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities
— do not talk about ‘four months,’ — till December, that is
— unless you mean what must follow as a consequence. The
next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s application to me — he
certainly knows everything . . how else, after such a speech
from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits
incline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience,
gentleness : your father might have entered the room suddenly
yesterday and given vent to all the passionate indignation
in the world. I dare say we should have been
married to-day : but I shall have the quietest, most
considerate of expositions made me (with one arm on my
shoulder), of how I am sure to be about to kill you, to ruin
you, your social reputation, your public estimation, destroy
the peace of this member of your family, the prospects of
that other, — and the end will be ?

Because I can not only die for you but live without you
for you — once sure it is for you : I know what you once
bade me promise — but I do not know what assurances on
assurance, all on the ground of a presumed knowledge of
your good above your own possible knowledge, — might not
effect ! I do not know !

This is through you ! You ought to know now that ‘ it
would not be better for me to leave you ‘ ! That after this
devotion of myself to you I cannot undo it all, and devote
myself to objects so utterly insignificant that yourself do not
venture to specify them — ‘ it would be better — people will
say such things ‘ . . I will never force you to know this,
however — if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall
never seem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of
what my life would probably be, disengaged from you — it
should certainly not be passed where the ‘ people ‘ are, nor
where their ‘ sayings ‘ influenced me any more — but I ask
you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what
is worthy and durable and the better — and then decide : —
for instance, to speak of waiting for four months will be a
decision.

See, dearest — I began lightly, — I cannot end so. I
know, after all, the words were divine, self-forgetting words
— after all, that you are mine, by the one tenure, of your own
free gift, — that all the other words have not been mere
breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error you
will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in ?
I wish I could take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all
my very self, and fold over them your little hand, and leave
them there — then you would see what belief is mine ! But
if you had not seen it, would you have uttered one word,
written one line, given one kiss to me ? May God bless
you, Ba —

R. B.

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Monday Morning.

That is sufficient, ever dearest : now dismiss the matter
from your thoughts, as I shall — having forced myself once
to admit that most dreadful of possibilities and to provide
for it, I need not have compunction at dwelling on the
brighter, better chances which God’s previous dispensations
encourage me to expect. There may be even a claimant,
instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can bequeath
— who knows ? For which reason, but most of all for the
stronger yourself adduce — the contingency of your illness
— I do not ask you to ‘ relinquish a part ‘ — not as our
arrangements now are ordered : for I have never been so
foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of my
obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain
respects I should have preferred to try the first course, —
at the beginning at least, when my faculties seemed more my
own and that ‘ end of the summer ‘ had a less absorbing
interest (as I perceive now) — yet, as that is not to be, I
have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on my
exertions, — which I could not be sure of, — particularly
with this uncertain head of mine. I hope when we once
are together, the world will not hear of us again until
the very end — it would be horrible to have to come back to
it and ask its help.

I wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit — our Tuesday
would be safer — I shall be with you unless a letter forbids.
I can only say this now, because I expect my visitors nearly
directly, — Moxon and Forster, do you remember? And
the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I
should fill sheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell
you how I love you — ‘ more than ever ‘ — I am wholly your
own, dearest dearest.

Pat Flush for me — after having let me kiss you, Ba !

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Sunday.

Mr. Kenyon said nothing, — except a few words at
dinner about the mistake of Talfourd, to Forster, — nothing
whatever, though we sat together and talked for some time
before the arrival of the company. And all that I heard
about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some
wish she meant to express in a letter, of seeing me there.
So you will have to tell me and tell me, dearest, when you
know anything — to-day perhaps.

My own Ba, do not refer to what we spoke of — the next
vile thing to the vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding
that, — painfully, ostentatiously, protesting and debating —
only it seemed absolutely necessary to say thus much at
some time, and early : — now it is done with, — you
understanding what I expect at your hands.

Mr. Longman was of the party yesterday — speaking of
Haydon, he remarked on his omitting to mention in the
list of his creditors, ‘ the House ‘ — to which he owed about
100l. being the loss consequent on publishing his ‘Book’
— the Lectures, I suppose — then, in a break, he said, in
answer to a question from Forster, that the Book in question
had gone into a second edition, but ‘ Oh, no — the
Author had received nothing for it ! ‘ And he lost the
money, poor fellow, besides ! Is not that inexplicable to
all save booksellers ? Also, what could be his need for
another person’s intermediation with the Longmans since
he knew them so well and so long !

I hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on
Tuesday. Do you think I am any longer able to appreciate
properly the additional gift of the day in the week ? I only
know that I do not see you now, my Ba — and I feel as if I
were — the words must not be written ! I need all of
you, — utterly dearest dearest that you are ! My next day,
my ‘ Sunday ‘ is the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted
time (in the worldly sense of not working in it) as at
present, — I read books and at the turning of every page go
back again for shame . . the words only before the eyes,
the thoughts of you before the mind.

I found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our
indefatigable Bennett, — the happy man ! By the way (a very
roundabout one), someone mentioned yesterday as an
agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in Sydney Smith,
that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally
pour water down, or up, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for
coolness’ sake. Nobody made a remark — nor spoke of such
a feat’s disqualifying its performer from going into good
society. Now do you remember poor Horne and the
censorship of his manners? — were not his more rational
libations found abominable ? See the association — Bennett
— Miss Mitford — Horne? But I cannot write sensibly to-
day, nor insensibly, which would be more amusing perhaps
— I can only know I am — here, on Sunday ! and whatever
the pen may force itself to put down, my one thought is,
that you are not here. To-morrow I shall hear, and get
fresh strength in the anticipation of Tuesday, — if the letter
tells me you are well — the ‘ headache for two days,’ — tell
me, my own Ba !

Bless you, ever best and dearest.

[Postmark: July 27, 1846]

Sunday.

Why should you ask such a question of me yesterday,
as to whether I loved you as much then as ever ? Love you
as much ? Why should I not love you more ? . . to give
question for question. And it does seem to me, too, that
my question is more reasonable than yours. ‘Is it afternoon
at six o’clock,’ you might have asked in the same
breath with yours, and touched, so, as questionable a
matter.

Tell me how the evening passed at Mr. Kenyon’s. I
have seen nobody yet — not him, not Mrs. Jameson.

Seen nobody ? Except all the Hedleys, who have just
left my room. Do you know, the pomp and circumstance,
the noise and fuss and publicity of this marriage of theirs
happen just in time to make me satisfied with ‘ quite the
other principle ‘ as you said. The system they are carrying
out is detestable to its own extreme. Fifty or sixty people
are to breakfast at Fenton’s Hotel, . . with processions to
and fro ! . . which altogether, though the bride will bear it
very well, (for she has been used to be a Belle ex-officio,
and this business has been arranged by her and for her —
otherwise they would have all been in Paris) is likely, I
think, to half kill the bride’s mother. My poor aunt
wonders how she will get through it. To have to part with
her daughter in that crowd ! So barbarous a system it is,
this system of public marriages, under whatever light
considered. Both my sisters are invited ; and so was I ! (in
vain) and Henrietta officiates as a bridesmaid. Did I tell
you that Arabella Hedley is a glorious convert to Puseyism,
as might have been expected, and talked here like a
theologian a few days since, and ‘ considered the dissenters
in a most dangerous position,’ much to the amusement of my
brothers.

What am I writing of all this time ? Dearest, how did
you get home yesterday through the ambush at Mr.
Kenyon’s ? Tell me everything. And know that I love
you ‘ as much,’ my own beloved ! — you may know it.

When Flush came into the room and had spoken to me
(in the Flush-language) and had examined your chair, he
suddenly fell into a rapture and reminded me that the
cakes you left, were on the table. So I explained thoroughly
to him that you had brought them for him, and that
he ought to be properly ashamed therefore for his past
wickedness, and make up his mind to love you and not bite
you for the future — and then he was allowed to profit from
your goodness to him. How over-good of you ! It is an
encouragement to throw coffee-cups, . . such over-goodness !

Nobody knew of your being here yesterday — at least,
not that I know ! So Tuesday looks brightly, at a distance.
At a distance ! The day after to-morrow ! Ah, it seems
too near ! Too near, in the sense of saying ‘ Too good . .
to be true.’

I will write the paper as you bid me. Only, in the face
of all that is to come, I solemnly tell you that neither I nor
mine . . certainly not I . . will consent to an act of
injustice, disinheriting my last hours (whenever they shall
come) of a natural satisfaction. You are noble in all
things — but this will not be in your power — I will not
discuss it so as to teaze you. Your reputation is dear to
me of course . . the thoughts which men shall have of
you in the least matter, I would choose to keep clean . . .
free from every possible taint. But it will be obvious to all,
that if you pleased, you might throw out of the windows
everything called mine, the moment after our marriage —
interest and principal — why not? And if you abstain from
this, and after your own death allow the sum which originally
came from my family, to relapse there . . why it is all
of pure generosity on your part — and they will understand
it as I do, . . as generosity . . as more than justice.
Well — let that be ! It is your act, and not mine, letting it
be — and I have no objection to show you what my wishes
are, (mere wishes), so helping you to carry out such an act
in the best way. I send you the paper therefore — to that
end — and only that end. There, you must stop — I never
will consent to the extravagance you propose about yourself.
You shall not, if you love me, think of carrying it out.
If I thought you could be so hard on me, . . do you know,
I would rather throw it all up now into the hands of my
sisters, and be poor with you at once — I could bear that so
much better than the thoughts of leaving you to be poor.
Or, would you be easier, dearest — if a part were
relinquished now ? would it make you easier . . and would you
promise me, so, that what is mine should be accepted as
yours to the end ? The worst is that if I were ill, I should
be a burden to you, and thus we might have reasons for
regret. Still it shall be as pleases you best. But I must be
pleased a little too. It is fair that I should.

Certainly you exaggerate to yourself the position.
What would have become of you if you had loved a real
heiress instead ? That would have been a misfortune. As
it is, while you are plotting how to get rid of these penny-
pieces, everybody will be pitying you for having fixed
yourself in such conditions of starvation. You, who might
— have married Miss Burdett Coutts !

See how I tease you ! — first promising not to tease you !
But always I am worse than I meant to be. Wasn’t it your
fault a little for bringing up this horrible subject ? — but
here is the paper, the only sort of ‘ settlement ‘ we shall
have ! Always I have said and sworn that I never, if I married,
would have a settlement — and now I thank God to be able to
keep my word so. This only is a settlement of the question.

Beloved, how is your head ? I love you out of the
deepest of my heart, and shall not cease.

Your very own
BA.

Is this what is called a document”? It seems to me
that I have a sort of legal genius — and that I should be on
the Woolsack in the Martineau Parliament. But it seems,
too, rather bold to attach such a specification to your
name. Laugh and pardon it all !

In compliance with the request of Robert Browning,
who may possibly become my husband, that I would
express in writing my wishes respecting the ultimate disposal
of whatever property I possess at this time, whether
in the funds or elsewhere, . . I here declare my wishes to
be . . that he, Robert Browning, . . having, of course, as
it is his right to do, first held and used the property in
question for the term of his natural life, . . should bequeath
the same, by an equal division, to my two sisters, or, in the
case of the previous death of either or both of them, to
such of my surviving brothers as most shall need it by the
judgment of my eldest surviving brother.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.
Wimpole Street : July, 1846.