Category: Uncategorized

[Postmark: August 3, 1846]

Sunday Morning and Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and ever and ever I am your own BA.

[Postmark: July 31, 1846]

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 31, 1846]

Thursday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your very own BA.

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

[Postmark: July 30, 1846]

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 30, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Postmark: July 29, 1846]

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 29, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BA.

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

[Postmark: July 28, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Ever dearest, your ‘ Hush ‘ came too late. I had
spoken. Do not blame me however, — for I do not blame
myself. It was not very possible that I should allow your
fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath. Nevertheless
we will not carry on this discussion any farther : my simple
protest is enough for the present, — and we shall have time,
I hope, in the future, for your nobleness to unteach itself
from being too proud. At any rate, let the subject be,
now ! I mentioned my ‘ eldest surviving brother ‘ in that
way in the paper, because he is put out of the question
by the estates being entailed . . the Jamaica estates, I
mean. And now, to have done ! Unless I could make
you easier — !

Dearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday . . for my
aunt goes out and we shall have a clear ground. Ah — can
it be true that you wish me to be with you so — dearest,
dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after?
Yet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections,
always. Let them count for something, that it may not
be entirely an absence.

Bennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my
coffee on the little tray on Saturday, there was a Bennett
ready on one corner. Then I must not forget to tell you
how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine ?) writes of you
to me, . . speaking what she little knows the effects of . .
‘ I hope, ‘ she says, ‘ that you admire ‘ Luria ‘ greatly. I don’t
know whether you will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I
feel inclined to call Browning the greatest dramatic genius
we have had for hundreds of years.’ Can anybody be more
than the ‘ greatest ‘ to anybody ? Half inclined I might be
to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you — yet no.
Dearest is greater than Greatest . . even if one Greatest
were not greater than anotner.

As to my headache, you might as well enquire about
Troy — Fait. It was the air, perhaps — the heat or the cold
. . the causes are forgotten with the effects. And, since I
began this letter, I have been out with my aunt and Henrietta,
the former having visits to pay in all the noisiest streets
of the town, as appeared to me. The stone pavements
seemed to accumulate on all sides to run to meet us, and I
was stunned and giddy, and am so tired that I shall finish
my letter in a hurry, looking to to-morrow. We were out
nearly three hours. Think of travelling three hours in a
‘ Diligence, ‘ with a Clap of Thunder ! It may be something
like that ! And as we were coming homeward . .
there was Mr. Kenyon ! He shook hands through the
window and declared that he was on the point of paying a
visit to me, holding up as witness, his lump of sugar for
Flush . . which Flush leapt from the other side of the
carriage to accept, ore rotundo. Then the next word
was . . ‘ Did you see our friend B. ‘ . . (pronounced Bee)
. . ‘ on Saturday. ? ‘ ‘ No,’ said I . . saying no for yes in
the confusion . . . ‘ but I shall to-morrow. ‘ ‘ He dined
with me, ‘ continued Mr. Kenyon. The sound of which
struck me into a fit of clairvoyance and I had to unsay
myself with an ‘ Oh yes — I did see him on Saturday. ‘ Mr.
Kenyon must have thought me purely stupid or foolish or
something of the sort — and really I agree with him. To
imagine my telling in that unsolicited way, too, both to my
aunt and himself, that you were coming here to-morrow !
So provoking ! Well — it can’t be helped. He won’t
come to-morrow in any case.

And you will ! Dearest, how glad I am that you are
coming !

Being your own
BA.

[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.