Category: Uncategorized

[Postmark: June 13, 1846]

Friday.

But dearest, dearest, . . when did I try to dissuade you
from telling all to your father and mother ? Surely I did
not and could not. That you should ‘ wound them to the
very soul and for ever ‘ . . I am so far from counselling it,
that I would rather, I think, as was intimated in my letter
of this morning, have all at an end at once – rather !
Certainly rather, . . when the alternative would be your
certain unhappiness and remorse. A right, they have, to
your entire confidence ; for me to say a word against your
giving it – may God forbid ! Even that you should submit
your wishes to theirs in this matter, would be no excess
of duty – I said so, I think, in my letter of this morning.

At the same time, I am of opinion, . . which was what
I meant to put into words, . . that, in the case of their ap-
proving in the sufficient degree . . and of your resolving
finally on carrying out our engagement . . . you should
avoid committing them further than is necessary, and so
exposing them to unpleasant remarks and reproaches from
my family . . to go no farther. You think that nothing can
be said – I wish I could think so. You are not to be re-
strained perhaps . . but you are to be advised . . and it
would be a natural step for your father, to go straight to his
friend Mr. Kenyon. Do you see what might be done though
you are ‘ of age ‘ – and for not doing which, your father
might be reproached ? And more there would be to do,
besides. Therefore I thought that you should avoid, as far
as possible, committing him openly . . making him a party
in the eyes of the world (as would be done by my visit
to New Cross for instance) yet I may be wrong here, . .
and you, in any case, are the master, to act as you see
best.

And, looking steadily at the subject, do you not see, . .
now that we look closely besides, . . how mortifying to the
just pride of your family, as well as to your own self-respect,
is every possible egress from these unhappy circumstances ?
Ah – I told you – I told you long ago ! I saw that at the
beginning. Giving the largest confidence to your family, you
still must pain them – still.

For the rest . . you are generous and noble as always –
but, no, . . I shall refuse steadily for reasons which are plain,
to put away from me God’s gifts . . given perhaps in order to
this very end . . and apart from which, I should not have
seen myself justified, . . even as far as now I vaguely, dimly
seem . . to cast the burden of me upon you. No. I care
as little for money as you do but this thing I will not agree
to, because I ought not. At the same time, you shall be at
liberty to arrange that after the deaths of us two, the money
should return to my family . . this, if you choose for it
shall be by your own act hereafter, that they may know you for
what you are. In the meanwhile, I should laugh to scorn
all that sort of calumny . . even if I could believe it to be
possible. Supposing that you sought money, you would not
be quite so stupid, the world may judge for itself, as to take
hundreds instead of thousands, and pence instead of guineas.
To do the world justice, it is not likely to make a blunder
on such a point as this.

I wish, if you can wish so, that you were the richer. I
could be content to have just nothing, if we could live easily
so. But as I have a little without seeking it, you must, on
the other hand, try to be content, and not be too proud.

As to Lord Monteagle, . . dearest . . . you will do what
you like of course, though I do not understand exactly what
your object is. A pension on literary grounds is the more
difficult to obtain, that the fund set apart for that end is
insufficient, I believe. Then if you are to do diplomacy for
it, . . how do you know that you may not be sent to Russia,
or somewhere impossible for me to winter in ? If you were
fixed even in London, . . what then ? You know best what
your own views are, and wishes are – I would not cross them,
if you should be happier so, or so.

And do you think that because this may be done, or not
done . . and because that ought not to be borne . . we can
make any change . . act any more openly . . face to face,
perhaps voice to voice ? Alas, no ! – You said once that
women were as strong as men, . . unless in the concurrence
of physical force. Which is a mistake. I would rather be
kicked with a foot, . . (I, for one woman ! . . ) than be
overcome by a loud voice speaking cruel words. I would
not yield before such words – I would not give you up if they
were said . . but, being a woman and a very weak one (in
more senses than the bodily), they would act on me as
a dagger would, . . I could not help dropping, dying before
them. I say it that you may understand. Tyranny ? Per-
haps. Yet in that strange, stern nature, there is a capacity
to love – and I love him – and I shall suffer, in causing him
to suffer. May God bless you. You will scarcely make out
these hurried straggling words – and scarcely do they carry
out my meaning. I am for ever your

BA.

[Postmark: June 12, 1846]

Friday.

When I am close to you, in your very room, I see through
your eyes and feel what you feel but after, the sight widens
with the circle of outside things I cannot fear for a moment
what seemed redoubtable enough yesterday – nor do I
believe that there will be two opinions anywhere in the
world as to your perfect right to do as you please under the
present circumstances. People are not quite so tolerant to
other people’s preposterousness, and that which yourself
tell me exceeds anything I ever heard of or imagined – but,
dearest, on twice thinking, one surely ought not to coun-
tenance it as you propose – why should not my father and
mother know ? What possible harm can follow from their
knowing ? Why should I wound them to the very soul and
for ever, by as gratuitous a piece of unkindness as if, – no, –
there is no comparison will do ! Because, since I was a
child I never looked for the least or greatest thing within
the compass of their means to give, but given it was, nor
for liberty but it was conceded, nor confidence but it was
bestowed. I dare say they would break their hearts at such
an end of all. For in any case they will take my feeling
for their own with implicit trust and if I brought them a
beggar, or a famous actress even, they would believe in her
because of me, – if a Duchess or Miss Hudson, or Lady
Selina Huntingdon rediviva . . they would do just the same,
sorrow to say ! As to any harm or blame that can attach
itself to them, it is too absurd to think of ! What earthly
control can they have over me ? They live here, – I go my
own way, being of age and capability. How can they
interfere ?

And then, blame for what, in either God’s or the devil’s
name ? I believe you to be the one woman in the world I
am able to marry because able to love. I wish, on some
accounts, I had foreseen the contingency of such an one’s
crossing my path in this life – but I did not, and on all
ordinary grounds preferred being free and poor, accordingly.
All is altered now. Does anybody doubt that I can by
application in proper quarters obtain quite enough to support
us both in return for no extraordinary expenditure of such
faculties as I have ? If it is to be doubted, I have been
greatly misinformed, that is all. Or, setting all friends and
their proposals and the rest of the hatefulness aside – I
should say that so simple a procedure as writing to anybody
. . Lord Monteagle, for instance, who reads and likes my
works, as he said at Moxon’s two days ago on calling there
for a copy to give away . . surely to write to him, ‘ When you
are minister next month, as is expected, will you give me for
my utmost services about as much as you give Tennyson for
nothing ? ‘ – this would be rational and as easy as all ration-
ality. Let me do so, and at once, my own Ba ! And do you,
like the unutterably noble creature I know you, transfer
your own advantages to your brothers or sisters . . making
if you please a proper reservation in the case of my own
exertions failing, as failure comes everywhere. So shall
the one possible occasion of calumny be removed and all
other charges go for the simple absurdities they will be. I
am entirely in earnest about this, and indeed had thought
for a moment of putting my own share of the project into
immediate execution – but on consideration, – no ! So I
will live and so die with you. I will not be poorly endeavour-
ing to startle you with unforeseen generosities, catch you in
pretty pitfalls of magnanimities, be always surprising you, or
trying to do it. No, I resolve to do my best, through you –
by your counsel, with your help, under your eye . . the
most strenuous endeavour will only approximate to an
achievement of that, – and to suppose a superfluousness of
devotion to you (as all these surprises do) would be
miserably foolish. So, dear, dear Ba, understand and
advise me. I took up the paper with ordinary feelings . .
but the absurdity and tyranny suddenly flashed upon me . .
it must not be borne – indeed its only safety in this instance
is in its impotency. I am not without fear of some things
in this world – but the ‘ wrath of men,’ all the men living
put together, I fear as I fear the fly I have just put out of
the window ; but I fear God – and am ready, he knows, to
die this moment in taking his part against any piece of in-
justice and oppression, so I aspire to die !

See this long letter, and all about a tiny one, a plain
palpable commonplace matter about which you agree with
me, you the dear quiet Ba of my heart, with me that make
all this unnecessary fuss ! See what is behind all the
‘ bated breath and whispered humbleness ? ‘ – but it is right,
after all, to revolt against such monstrous tyranny. And I
ought not, I feel, to have forgotten the feelings of my father
and mother as I did – because I know as certainly as I
know anything that if I could bring myself to ask them to
give up everything in the world ; they would do it and
cheerfully.

So see, and forgive your own

R.

[Postmark: June 12, 1846]

Friday Morning.

I must write very little to-day, dearest, because Mr.
Kenyon, as a note from him just tells me, comes at half
past two for me, and in the meantime I am expecting a visit
from my uncle Hedley, who arrived yesterday while we were
together. Scarcely could Henrietta keep him, she says,
from coming up-stairs ‘ to see Ba ! ‘ We just escaped,
therefore. I have been thinking that having the barbarians
down on us may be at least a means of preserving us from
going into the wilderness ourselves . . myself . . if I were
taken away, as I told you, to Tunbridge, Dover, or other
provinces of Siberia. How should I bear, do you think, to
be taken away from you ? Very badly ! – though you will
not hear of my being able to love you as I ought – when
that is precisely the only thing I can do, it seems to me, at
all worthily of you.

Ora pro me in Mr. Kenyon’s carriage to-day – I am getting
so nervous and frightened ! I shall feel all the while as if
set on a vane on the top of St. Paul’s . . can you fancy the
feeling? I do wish I were safe at home again, reading
your letter . . which will come to-night will . . shall . . must
. . according to the letter and spirit of the Law.

You made the proposal to me about New Cross, yester-
day, out of consideration and kindness to me ! I understand
it so, thanking you. For the rest, I need not, I am certain,
assure you that it would be the greatest pain to me at any
time, to be wanting in even the forms of respect and affec-
tion towards your family – and that I would not, from a
mere motive of shyness, hazard a fault against them – you
will believe this of me. But the usual worldly form (if the
world is to give the measure) would be against my paying
such a visit – and under ordinary circumstances it never is
paid – not so. Therefore the not paying it is not an omis-
sion of an ordinary form of attention – that is what I mean to
say. And to keep all dear to you quite safe and away from
all splashing of the mud which we cannot ourselves hope to
escape, is the great object, – it does seem to me. Your
father and mother would be blamed (in this house, I know,
if not in others) for not apprizing my father of what they
knew. As it is, there is evil enough – though there is a
way of escaping that evil.

As it is. – Now I do beseech you to consider well
whether you will not have too much pain in finding that
they suffer it (after every precaution taken) . . to render all
this which we are about, wise and advisable. They will
suffer, to hear you spoken of as we both shall be spoken of
. . be perfectly sure ! They will suffer, to have to part with
you so – and the circumstances, perhaps, will not help to
give them confidence in the stranger, who presumes so to
enter their family. I ask you not to answer this ! – only, to
think of it in time, lest you should come to think of it too
late. Put it between the leaves of Machiavel, – that at need
you may confute yourself as well as M. Thiers.

Beloved, say how you are and how your mother is.
Here I must end to be ready for dear Mr. Kenyon, and
casualties of uncles &c. Think of me, love me – my heart
is full of you.

I am your BA.

[Postmark: June 10, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

Best, dearest beloved, . . would it not be strange if you
were not so to me ? How do you think I feel, hearing you
say such things . . finding such thoughts in your mind ? If
it is not worthy of you to have a burden set on your shoulders
and to be forced into the shadow of disquietudes not your
own, yet this divine tenderness is worthy of you . . worthy
of your nature ; as I know and recognise ! May God help
me to thank you, for I have not a word.

Practically however, see how your proposal would work.
It could not work at all, unless circumstances were known –
and if they were known, at the very moment of their being
known you would be saved, dearest, all the trouble of coming
up-stairs to me, by my being thrown out of the window to
you . . upon which, you might certainly pick up the pieces
of me and put them into a bag and set off for Nova Zembla.
That would be the event of the working of your proposition.
Yet remember that I will accede to whatever you shall
choose – so think for us both. You know more of the world
and have more practical sense than I – and if you did not,
had not, you may do what you like with your own, as surely
as the Duke of Newcastle might.

For Mrs. Jameson, I never should think of telling her
‘all’ – I should not, could not, would not ! and the gods
tbrefend that you should think of telling Mr. Kenyon any
more. Now, listen. Perfectly I understand your reasons,
your scruples . . what are they to be called ? But I promise
to take the blame of it. I will tell dear Mr. Kenyon here-
after that you would have spoken, but that I would not let
you – won’t that do ? won’t it stop the pricking of the con-
science ? Because, you see, I know Mr. Kenyon, . . and I
know perfectly that either he would be unhappy himself, or
he would make us so. He never could bear the sense of
responsibility. Then, as he told me to-day, and as long ago
I knew, . . he is ‘ irresolute,’ timid in deciding. Then he
shrinks before the daemon of the world – and ‘ what may be
said ‘ is louder to him than thunder. And then again, and
worst of all, he sees afar off casualty within casualty, and a
marriage without lawyers would be an abomination in his
sight. Moreover, to discover ourselves to him, and not
submit to his counsels, would be a real offence . . would it
not ? As it is, it may seem natural and excusable that we
two of ourselves should poetically rush into a foolishness
but if we heard counsel, and rejected it ! ! Do you
see? . . .

He came here to-day, dear Mr. Kenyon, and is to come
with Miss Bayley on Friday, and take me in the carriage to
drive, and to see his house. I must go, but dread it . .
shrink from it – yes, indeed. As for Mr. Lough, how could
I have ‘ bound him with Styx nine times round him ? ‘ It
is easier to bind Mrs. Jameson. Oh no ! You were right,
and I was wrong in my first inclination about Mr. Lough.

And yesterday I was not tired to signify. I shall not be
ill, my beloved, I think I shall not. I am as perfectly well
now in all respects (except that I have not strength for much
exercise and noise and confusion, . .) as it is possible to be.
So do not be anxious about me rather spend your dear
thoughts of me in loving me, . . dear, dearest !

You breakfast with Mrs. Jameson, and I shall remember
not to long too much for the eight o’clock letter at night.
Remember you, not to be hurried as to the writing of it

Oh ! I had a letter from my particular Bennet this
morning, . . and my Georgiana desires me instantly to
say why I presumed not to write to her before. I am
commanded out of all further delays. ‘ Did I receive her
letter,’ she wonders ! ! ! ! Georgiana is imperative.

May God bless you, you who bless me !

I am wholly your own.

[Postmark: June 9, 1846]

Tuesday.

Is your letter ‘ long,’ my own Ba? I seem to get to the
end, each time I read it, just as sorrowfully soon as usual –
so much for thankfulness ! But if Ba is not to be ‘tall,’
depend on it, her letter shall not describe itself as ‘ long’ –
though in a sense nothing ever written, ever read by me, drew
such a trail of light after it as her letters – your letters, my
own, own love ! While I write this, my lips rest on the
eglantine . . well, it shall be ‘ dog-rose ‘ for Flushie’s sake !
You say truly about the folly – it is very foolish, – when I
fancy you proposing to give me a golden Papal rose and gift
for a King, instead of this ! And if I feel this, why should
not you, and more vividly even ? A rose from Hampstead !
And you bore the journey well ? You should tell me,
precisely, detailedly.

As for Lough’s statues . . now, I have said more than I
meant if it deters you from going to see them ! If he will
abide strictly by his promise, there is much to reward the
trouble of going.

Always remember, my Ba, that the secret is your secret
and not mine . . that I keep it while you bid me, but that
you may communicate it to whom you please, when you
please, without waiting to apprize me. I should, I think,
have preferred telling Mrs. Jameson from the beginning
about the mere visits . . or, I don’t know . . by one such
piece of frankness you only expose yourself to, fifty new –
whatever they are ! For there would be so much the
more talk about you, and either the quick woman’s wit and
discernment are to be eluded, or they are not, – foiled or not –
and how manage without . . without those particular
evasions which seem to degrade most of all ? Miss Mitford’s
promises began the embarrassment. In short I think the
best way in such a case is to tell all or none. I believe you
might tell all to Mrs. Jameson with perfect safety, but,
for her sake, I doubt the propriety . . for it would be to
introduce her forthwith to exactly our own annoyances with
respect to Mr. Kenyon, Chorley &c. Once knowing, she
cannot un-know. In any case, I promise my conscience to
give her, – and anybody else that may have a right to it, – a
full explanation at the earliest safe moment . . may that be
at no great distance ! My own feeling is for telling Mr.
Kenyon . . though you would considerably startle me if you
answered ‘ well, do ! ‘ But, of the whole world, I seem only
to care for his not feeling aggrieved : oh, he will understand !
– and can, because he knows the circumstances at your house.
Come what will, I am sure of you ; ‘ if you live, and are
well ‘ – even this last clause I might exclude ; it has
often been in my thought to tell you . . only, dearest, there
is always, when I plan never so dreamily and vaguely,
always an understood submission the most absolute to your
own desire . . but I fancied, that, in the case of any real
obstacle arising so as to necessitate the ‘ postponement,’ &c.,
I should have stipulated . . in the right yourself have given
me . . I should have said – ‘ we will postpone it, if you will
marry me now . . merely as to the form . . but so as to
enable me, if difficulties should thicken, to be by your bed-
side at least.’ You see, what you want ‘ to relieve ‘ me of, is
just what my life should be thrice paid down for and cheaply.
How could you ever be so truly mine as so ? Even the poor
service does not ‘ part us ‘ before ‘ death ‘ – ‘ till sickness
do us part ! ‘

But there will be no sickness and all happiness, I trust
in God ! Dear, dear Ba, I love you wholly and for ever
true as I kiss your rose, and will keep it for ever. Bless you.

My first letter ‘ did not reach you by the first post on
Monday morning ‘ – No ! How should it . . when I carried
it to town on Sunday night and went half a mile out of my
way to put it in the general post office at the corner of
Oxford Street !

You know I am to breakfast with Mrs. Jameson to-mor-
row and perhaps I may make some calls after : if anything
keeps me in Town so as to hinder the letter by the 8 o’clock-
post, you will know the reason . . and expect the letter the
next morning ; but I will endeavour to get back in time.

[Postmark: June 9, 1846]

Monday Morning.

The stars threaten you with a long letter to-day, it seems,
for I stretch out my hand and take blindly the largest sheet.
Dearest, I have been driving out before your letter came . .
and to Hampstead! think of that. And see the proof of
it – this grew in the hedges when the sun rose to-day. We
had a great branch gathered, and ‘this was of it,’ starred
over with dog-roses. I did in the morning long for air,
through the suffocation yesterday, and the walking being
better for another day, my sisters persuaded me into the
carriage. Only I wanted to wait for your letter, my letter,
and could not – it did not come by the usual early post, and
the carriage was here before it . . so I had to go, thinking
of it all the way, and having it on my return ready to
gladden me. How you make me laugh with your phreno-
logist ! ‘For the interests of science’ you should have
given your name. Then, would have come the whole history
in the next lecture, . . how ‘Once in an omnibus he met
an individual with a forehead and eyes of mark, and knew
him at a glance for the first poet of the age.’ It would
have made a feature in the lecture, and highly developed, I
dare say, . . to suit the features in the omnibus. Just at
the moment of this observation I too was thinking of eyes
‘calm eyes’ did I say ? Yes, calm, serene . . which was
what struck me first of all, in the look of them was it ever
observed before, I wonder? The most serene spiritual eyes,
I ever saw – I thought that the first day I saw you. They
may be called by other names beside, but they shall not
lose the name I then gave them. Now to bear with the
horrible portrait in the matter of the eyes, is a hard thing –
Mr. Howitt must have his shut nearly, I think. The hair is
like – and nothing else. The mouth, the form of the cheek,
one is as unlike as the other. And the character of the
whole is most unlike of the whole – it is a vulgarized
caricature and I only wonder how I could have fastened
it inside of my ‘ Paracelsus ‘ frontispiece-fashion. When it
was hung up and framed, I did not know you face to face,
remember. Mr, Kenyon told me it was ‘ rather like.’ But
always and uninstructed I seemed to know that it was not
like you in some things . .

Monday Evening.

Observe how the sentence breaks off!
While I was writing it, came a ‘ tapping, tapping at the cham-
ber door,’ as sings my dedicator Edgar Poe. Flush barked
vociferously ; I threw down the pen and shut up the writing
case, . . and lo, Mrs. Jameson ! I suppose she did not
guess that I was writing to you. She brought me the
engravings of Xanthian marbles, and also her new essays
. . and was very kind as usual, and proposed to come some
day next week with a carriage to take me out, and all this
time, how we treat her ! Will she not have a right to com-
plain of being denied the degree of confidence we gave
(. . Mr. Kenyon gave for me . .) to Miss Bayley? Will
she not think hereafter ‘There was no need of their
deceiving me ? ‘ And yet I doubt how to retreat now.
Could I possibly say to her the next time she speaks of you
. . or could I not ? it would set her on suspecting perhaps.
She talked a little to-day of Italy, and plainly asked me what
thoughts I had of it, – to which I could answer truthfully
‘ No thoughts, but dreams.’ Then she insisted, ‘ But
whenever you have thoughts, you will let me know them ?
You will not be in Italy when I am there, without my
knowing it ? And where will you go – ? to Pisa ? . . to
Sienna ? to Naples ? ‘ And she advised . . ‘ Don’t go where
the English are, in any case.’ And encouraged like an
oracle, . . ‘ Remember that where there’s a will there’s a
way ‘ knowing no more what she spoke, than a Pythian on
the serpent’s skin.

Beloved, you are right in your fear about Mr. Lough.
I have decided not to go there. Oh, it is best certainly ;
and, quietly considered, I shall be happier as well as safer
in not going. We must walk softly on the snowdrifts of the
world, now that we have got to them.

For the rest, . . that is for the chief thing . . you wrote
foolishly in your first letter to-day, my beloved, – you can
write foolishly on occasion, let me grant to the critics. I
have just so much logic as to be able to see (though I am a
woman) that for me to be too good for you, and for you to
be too good for me, cannot be true at once, both ways.
Now I could discern and prove, from the beginning of the
beginning, that you were too good for me – it is too late
therefore to take up the other argument – the handle of it
was broken last year.

Also, I do not go to the world to ask it to appraise you
I would fain leave to Robins the things of Robins. I
hope you have repented all day to-day having written so
foolishly yesterday. Even Robins would not justify you.

Dearest, the avalanches are on us ! Uncle and aunts
coming down in a great crash ! My uncle Hedley comes
next week ! – on the second or third of July, the eldest of
my aunts, . . from Paris, . . who proposes to reside in
this house for a week it may be longer ! and, still in July,
the rest of the Hedleys, I think ! – everybody coming,
coming ! Their welcome will be somewhat of a ghastly
smile from me – for indeed I cannot be quite delighted, after
the fashion of a thoroughly dutiful niece.

Ah, never mind them ! Nobody can change anything,
if you do not change yourself. You have ‘ a right ‘ . . not
the ‘ shadow ‘ of one, but the very right . . to all I am, and
to all the life I live. Did you not see before, what I have
felt so long, that indeed you have a right to me and over
me?

I am your own

BA.

[Postmark: June 8, 1846]

Monday.

My ‘ recommendation ‘ to dearest Ba was properly
interpreted by her when she regarded the spirit and not the
letter of it.

The day was hot — even I thought who thrive in heat —
and yesterday you did well to keep the house — but last
night’s rain, and this comfort of cloudiness may allow you
to resume the exercise, — only with all ease, darling ! Mrs.
Jameson told me she called the other day on Miss Barrett,
and was informed that lady was ‘walking before her door’
— for I went last night, and deserved to be amused, perhaps,
for the effort, . . and so I was, I never liked our friend as
I now like her, I more than like the good nature and good
feeling and versatility of ready intelligence and quick general
sympathy. She is to see you to-day. She told this to a
Miss Kindersley who had been reading the ‘ Drama of Exile ‘
to her complete delight — but in listening silently, — and after,
when Mrs. J. obligingly turned and said ‘ How I should like
to introduce you to Miss Barrett . . did you ever see her?’
. . to which I answered in the old way, ‘ that nobody, as
she knew, saw you.’ At all these times did not I feel the
‘ mask ‘ you speak of ! I am, fortunately, out of the way of
enquiries . . but if the thing were of constant occurrence,
it would be intolerable. Shall it indeed end soon ? May I
count by months, by weeks ? It is not safe — beginning to
write on this subject — I can do nothing moreover.

Well, Lough has some good works, and you will be
pleased I daresay : but of all things, hold him to his bond
of maintaining the strictest privacy — for Mr. Powell or his
kith and kin go there, and his impudence and brazen
insensibility are dreadful to encounter beyond all belief!
He would book-make about ‘the meeting,’ and in his
ordinary talk, be supplied with a subject to tell lies about
for the next year or two, — unless he got a lesson earlier.
But Lough will understand and keep his promise, no doubt,
if you exact it strictly.

My mother is decidedly better, . . I am quite well—
considering Thursday is so far off ! — considering the end
of summer is so far off. Would it be profane to think of
that lament . . ‘the Summer is ended and we are not
saved ‘ ?

I am obliged to leave off here — I love you ever my best

dearest, own Ba !

[Postmark: June 8, 1846]

Sunday.

One thing you said yesterday which I want to notice
and protest against, my Ba — you charged me with speaking
depreciatingly of myself because you had set the example—
‘ I should not have thought of it but that you began.’ Now
I am tired, just at this moment, and submissive altogether,
and hopeful besides, on the whole, — so I will let you off with
a simple but firmest of protests, — I did not think of imitating
you, but spoke as I felt and knew, — and feel and know
still. The world, generally, will inform you of this in its
own good time and way, so . . taceo ! (The last opinion
of the world’s on the respective value of people and people,
is unhappily too decisive. ‘ And, after all, Mr. Langton is
quite as good as the Duke’s daughter . . for he will have
full twenty thousand a year ! ‘) I suspect I was going to
turn a pretty phrase and tell you I have only a heart, as
the play-books prescribe, — when the said heart pricks me as
if I reserved something — so I will confess to owning a
‘ forehead and an eye ‘ — one advantage over Pope, to whom
folks used to remark ‘ Sir, you have an eye ‘ — and no more
— whereas yesterday evening after leaving Ba, while I settled
myself in the corner of our omnibus to think of her, a
spruce gentleman stretched over, and amid the rumbling
begged my pardon for being forced to remark that my forehead
and eye interested him deeply, phrenologist as he was ;
and he was sure I must needs be somebody . . besides a
passenger to Greenwich ! So if Ba will trust in phrenology !
— I will at least not be unkind to her as to the learned man
— who left the vehicle in due time, lamenting that in return
for his own confidence and pink bill (‘Mr. Hamilton,
phrenologist and lecturer ‘ &c. &c.) I would not break my
obstinate reserve and augustly pronounce ‘ Am I a Beefeater
now?’

Assez de sottises : Ba, my Ba, I am happy in you beyond
hope of expression — you know how happy . . And have not
I some shade of a right, — I who loved the dear, dear pale
cheek and the thin hand, — a right to be blessed in the
wonders I see . . so long as I continue to be thankful to
God whose direct doing I know it to be : how can I ever
doubt the rest . . the so easy matters remaining — I will not
doubt more, I think.

Tell me, write of yourself, love : remember the fierce
heat . . and never go up the long stairs — or, at least, rest
at proper intervals. I think of the Homeric stone heaved
nearly to the hill-top and then ! . . An accident now would
be horrible, — think, and take every precaution — because it
is my life, (if that will influence you) my whole happiness
you are carrying safely or letting slip. May God over-watch
all and care for us !

Good bye, best beloved, — I fear I ought to go to Mrs.
Jameson’s to-night : there is a breakfast engagement for
Wednesday, to meet – this and the other notable ; and a
simple ‘ at home ‘ promised to anybody calling this evening
— and my pride won’t let me accept one nor my liking to
Mrs. J. suffer me to refuse both . . Yet the fatigue ! I
have been at church to-day, seeing people faint.

Your own, your own R.

[Postmark: June 6, 1846]

Sunday.

This is the first word I have written out of my room,
these five years, I think . . if I dare count anything beyond
two . . for I do know that one comes after two . . (now
just see what I have written !) that two comes after one, I
meant to say, . . as well as a mathematician. I am writing
now in the back drawing-room, half out of the window for
air, driven out of my own territory by the angel of the sun
this morning. Oh — it is so hot — and the darkness does
not help when the lack is just of air. There is a thick
mist lacquered over with light — it is cauldron-heat, rather
than fire-heat. So different in the country it must be !
Well, everybody being at church or chapel, I knew I could
have this room to myself, without fear even of the dreadful
knocker . . more awful to me than the famous knocks
which used to visit the Wesley family — so here I curl up my
feet ‘more meo’ on the settee, and help to keep the
sabbath by resting upon you. Would Miss Goldsmid call
it as ‘ profane ‘ as anything in your poems ? But it will not:
be more profane for that — as I could prove if we wanted
proofs — only we do not.

Such flowers as you brought me yesterday — such roses !
The roses are best, as coming from your garden ! When I
began to arrange them, I thought I never saw such splendid
roses anywhere — they are more beautiful than what you
brought last year surely ! It seems so to me. Dearest,
how did you get home, and how are you ? and how is your
mother ? Remember to answer my questions, if you please.

After you were gone I received from Mr. Lough a very
gracious intimation that if I would go to see his studio, his
statue of the Queen and other works, he would take care
that no creature should be present, he would uncover all
the works and provide a clear solitude for me — he ‘ would
not do it for a Duchess,’ he said, but he ‘ would for me’ !
Now what am I to say. My sisters tell me that I can go
quite easily. The place is very near, and there are no
stairs. Well, I think I must go. It is very kind and
considerate, and there would be a pleasure, of course. Do
you know that statues have more power over me than all
the pictures and all the colours thereof which the world can
show ? Mr. Kenyon told me once that it was a pure affectation
of mine to say so — and for my own part I could not
see for a long while what was the reason of a most unaffected
preference. I think I see it now. Painting flatters the
senses and makes the Ideal credible in a vulgar way. But
with sculpture it is different — and there is a grand audacity
in the power of an Ideal which, appealing directly to the
Senses, and to the coarsest of them, the Touch, as well
as the Sight, yet forces them to receive Beauty through
the door of an Abstraction which is a means abhorrent to
them. Have I written what I mean, I wonder, or do you
understand it, without? Then there is a great deal, of
course, in that grand white repose ! Like the Ideas of the
Platonic system, these great sculptures seem — when looked
at from a distance.

When you were gone yesterday, and I had had my coffee
and put on my bonnet, I went, with the intention of walking
out, as far as the drawing-room, and there, failed : not even
with your recommendation in my ears, beloved, could I get
any further. Notwithstanding all my flatteries (meaning
the flatteries of me !) I was not at best and strongest,
yesterday, nor am even to-day, though it is nothing to mind
or to mention — only I think I shall not try to walk out in
this heat even to-day, and yesterday it seemed impossible.
So I came back and lay on my own sofa, and presently
began to read ‘ Le Comte de Monte Cristo,’ the new book
by Dumas, (observe how I waste my time — while you learn
how not to fortify cities, out of Machiavelli !) and really he
amuses me with his ‘ Monte Cristo ‘ . . six volumes I am
glad to see — he is the male Scheherazade certainly. Now
that the hero is safe in a dungeon (of the Chateau d’lf) it
will be delightful to see how he will get out — somebody
knocks at the wall already. Only the narrative is not
always very clear to me, inasmuch as, when I read, I unconsciously
interleave it with such thoughts of you as make
very curious cross readings . . j’avais cru remarquer quelques
infidelitÈs . . he really seems to love me — l’homme n’est
jamais qu’un homme . . never was any man like him — ses
traits Ètaient bouleversÈs . . the calmest eyes I ever saw . .
So, Dumas or Machiavelli, it is of the less consequence
what I read, I suppose, while I apply so undestractedly.

May God bless you, ever beloved ! I think of you, I
love you — I forgot again your ‘ Strafford ‘ — Mr. Forster’s
‘ Strafford,’ I beg his pardon for not attributing to him other
men’s works. Not that I mean to be cross — not to him
even.

I am your own.

[Postmark: June 5, 1846]

Friday.

Nor did I mean so bad, dearest dearest, as that you
were suspecting me of that . . Oh no, since ‘ Scorn of me
that ” me “) would recoil on you ‘ . . you would have no
right to bear with such a person for a moment : but I put
the broadest case possible to declare upon broadly. As I
would do so if I felt so . . felt no love longer . . so, in due
degree, I would tell you frankly a fear or a doubt if I felt
either. I thought you suspected me, perhaps, of being
deficient in this last point of courage : but it was not altogether
so, — or if it was, you shall doubt no more, but believe
the more strongly for the future . . let us kiss on that convention,
dearest ! You see, I knew it could not but be
that . . for if anything had struck you as really to be
gained by delay, you must feel whether I should listen to
that or no— last year, for instance, when you said ‘ let us
wait.’

Ah, Ba, my own, many things are that ought not to be
. . and I hide nothing . . cannot hide from you some
feelings . . as that — after all, after all — talk, and indeed
think, as one may — it is, let us say, a pleasant thing, at
least, to be able to prove one’s words, — even one’s lighter
words. The proof may justify some words, I mean, and the
rest, that admit of no proof, get believed on the score of
them, — the first words and proofs. I should like to prove a
very, very little . . if I could but do so in turning fifty-
thousand a year, or less, to some account and building
Flush a house ‘ fair to see ‘ — after which I could go on
talking about the longings never to be satisfied here . .

Now this is foolish, — so the causeless blame, if you
please, shall be transferred here . . as naughty children
punished by mistake are promised a remission of next
offence.

Oh to-morrow kisses all right . . all so right again,
dearest ! I have so much to say. Make me remember,
love, to tell you something I have just learned about Mr.
Kenyon which makes one — no, all is proper, — he should
have the money, and I the admiration and love of his
divine use of it : something to love him for, and he happy
that God will reward it. Remember — for even that I should
forget by you !

And all has been charming at Mr. Kenyon’s — Landor’s
dinner, and our flower-show feast, — I will tell you to-morrow
— and last night I went to Mrs. Procter’s in downright
spirits ‘ pour cause ‘ (with my first letter . . not my second,
which only arrived this morning) — and I danced, to put it
on record there that I was altogether happy, and saw Mrs.
Jameson, and the Countess Hahn-Hahn, and Milnes and
the Howitts and others in a multitude, — and I got to this
house door at 4 o’clock, with the birds singing loud and
the day bright and broad — and my head is quite well, — as
my mother’s is better, I hope — quite well, I am at this
minute. For the rest, the news of your two exits and
entrances in one day . . oh, thank you, thank the golden
heart of my own, own Ba ! whom I shall see to-morrow,
but can . . how I can kiss her now — being her own

R.B.