Robert and Elizabeth

[Postmark: June 5, 1846]

Thursday.

You are too perfect, too overcomingly good and tender
— dearest you are, and I have no words with which to answer
you. There is little wonder indeed that I, being used so
long to the dark, should stumble and mistake, and see men
like trees walking — and yet I must tell you that I did not
mistake to the extent you have set down for me . . and that
never was I so dull, so idiotic and ungrateful, as to fancy
you into one ‘ wishing to let me down gently with cowardly
excuses.’ Since I first looked you in the face, and before
that day, I have been incapable of defiling the idea of you
with such an unworthy imputation. And surely what I did
fancy, was consistent with the fullest faith in you and in the
completest verity of your affection for myself. You might
have had reasons, surely, which I did not see, without
aggrieving me in any fashion. So do not make me out too
stupid- it is bad enough actually. Yes — those questions
you refer to, turned me down that path— and do tell me
how I could be expected to guess at the real drift of them,
after having been accustomed to walk rather, with men than
with angels ! Ah —and now even, that I see, it makes me
smile and sigh together. To say that I am not worthy, all
at once grows too little to say. No one could be worthy of
such words from you. You are best, best ! ! How much
more do you want me to owe to you, when I begin owing
to you all things, . . the only happiness of my life?

As to Italy, I thought of it first, so I am in no danger of
thinking that you engage me as female courier and
companion . . the feminine of what Mr. Bezzi wants to be,
Miss Bayley told me to-day. So if it is the same thing to
you, we will put off Nova Zembla a little. But how is it
possible to jest, with this letter close by ? Dearest of all,
believe that I am grateful to you as I ought to be . .
penetrated . . touched to the bottom of my heart with the sense
of what you have been to me and are ; dearest beloved !

So do not reproach me with my dull questions, on
Saturday. I won’t ask them any more, . . and I did not
mean by them the wickedness you thought . . so now let
us be tranquil and happy till the fine weather ends. Brightly
it begins, does it not? So hot it is to-day — so very hot in
this room ! Miss Bayley came just as I had been out walking
and was tired ; but she talked and interested me, and I
found out from her that you were not in the gardens when
we drove round them, but in the house when I looked up at
the windows. Very happy and agreeable you all were, she
said, at Mr. Kenyon’s — though Mrs. Jameson missed the
flower-show.

I forgot to tell you that Treppy is a Creole — she would
say so as if she said she was a Roman. She lived, as an
adopted favourite, in the house of my great grandfather in
Jamaica for years, and talks to the delight of my brothers, of
that ‘ dear man ‘ who, with fifty thousand a year, wore
patches at his knees and elbows, upon principle. Then
there are infinite traditions of the great great grandfather,
who flogged his slaves like a divinity : and upon the
beatitude of the slaves as slaves, let no one presume to
doubt, before Treppy. If ever she sighs over the slaves, it
is to think of their emancipation. Poor creatures, to be
emancipated !

May God bless you, dear dearest ! Shall I ever be
better, I wonder, than the torment of your life ? It is I who
wanted to be ‘ justified,’ and not you my beloved, — except as
to your good sense for having made such a choice.

Such as I am however, I am

Your very own

Ba.

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Thursday.

‘Vex me,’ or ‘ teaze me,’ my own Ba, you cannot. I look
on it indeed, after a moment, as the only natural effect of
your strange disbelief in yourself, and ignorance of our true
relation one to the other by every right and reason. Only,
Ba, you are wrong — doubly, — that is, you would be wrong if
your own estimate of your power over me were the true one —
for, — though it is difficult for me to fancy these abstractions
and fantastic metamorphoses (as how one could feel without
one’s head, — or how I could live without the love of you
now I have once got it) — yet, since you make me, I will
fancy I love my head and love you no longer. . and then
(which is now) now, do you think I am so poor a creature
as to go on adding to my faults, and letting you gently
down, as the phrase is, with cowardly excuses, ‘ postponing’
this, and ‘consenting to delay’ the other, — and perhaps
managing to get you to do the whole business for me in the
end? I hope and think I should say at once — Oh, no
more of this ! But see how right I was — ‘an instinct, you
seem to see.’ So, I have been thinking, — there are but few
topics of our conversation from which any such impressions
could arise — was it that I have asked more than once, if
you could really bear another winter in London, (in all
probability a severe one) — and again, if you could get to
Italy by any ordinary means without the same opposition
you will have to encounter for my sake ? . . My Ba, as God
knows, all that was so much pure trembling attempting to
justify myself for the over-greatness of the fortune, the
excess of the joy, — if I could but feel that there was a
little of your own good in it too — that you would gain that
much advantage at least by my own inestimable advantage !
If you knew how, — spite of all endeavours, — how happy
I have been — which is a shame to confess — but how very
happy to hear that you could not without a degree of
danger stay here — could no more easily leave England
with Miss Bayley than with me ! It seemed to justify me,
as I say. And so of ‘ the wishing I had not mentioned
Italy ‘ — I wish your will to be mine, to originate mine, your
pleasure to be only mine. Expressed first — it will be my
pleasure . . but all is wrong if you take the effect, seek to
know it, before the cause. What does it matter that I should
prefer Italy to Nova Zembla ? So, you ought to have begun
by saying ‘we will go there,’ and then my pleasure in
obedience had been naturally expressed. Did I not ask you
whether you had not, after all, thought of going to Italy first
— to Pisa, or Malta, — from the very beginning ? Always to
Justify myself ! Always !

But — this too is misunderstood. Let me say humbly, I
should prefer to go with you to Italy or any place where
we can live alone for some little time, till you can know me,
be as sure of me as of yourself. Nor am I so selfish, I hope,
as that (because my uttermost pride and privilege and
glory above all glories would be to live in your sick-room
and serve you,) — as that, on that account, I would not
rather see you in a condition to need none of my service
. . the next thing to serving you, is to be — what shall
I say? — served by you . . loved by you, made happy
by you — it is the being an angel, though there might be archangels —

And if now you do not-understand, — well, I kneel to
you, my Ba, and pray you to give yourself to me in deed as
in word, the body as the heart and mind, — and now ! — at
any time, — you know what I cannot say, I cannot, I think,
— if I know myself — love you more than I do . . but I
shall always love you thus — and thus, in any case, happen
what God may ordain —

Your R.

I know this is taking the simple experimental question
too seriously to heart . . but such experiments touch at the
very quick and core of the heart . . I cannot treat them
otherwise — ought I ?

You will see Miss Bayley to-day — Mr. Kenyon asked if
I were going to call to-day . . ‘ if not. Miss B. would.’

I have your letter . . the short note, not the promised
one . . for all this writing about the question . . but I
could not merely say — ‘ Oh no, you mistake . . I had rather,
upon the whole, not wait.’

Even now the feeling, in its subsiding, hinders me from
speaking of the delightful account of ‘ Treppy ‘ . . whom I
remember now, perfectly — and what comfort is in thy dear
note !

Bless you, my ‘ darlingest creature,’ — my Ba !

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Wednesday Evening.

Nothing at all had it to do with your Magna Charta,
beloved, that question of mine. After you were gone the
other day and I began turning your words over and over, . .
(so, I make hay of them to feed the horses of the sun !) it
struck me that you had perhaps an instinct of common
sense, which, with a hand I did not see and a voice I
could not hear, drew you perhaps. So I thought I would
ask. For after all, this is rather a serious matter we are
upon, and if you think that you are not to have your share
of responsibility . . that you are not to consider and arrange
and decide, and perform your own part, . . you are as much
mistaken as ever I was. ‘ Judge what I say.’ For my part,
I have done, it seems to me, nearly as much as I can do. I
do not, at least, seem to myself to have any power to doubt
even, of the path to choose for the future. If for any reason
you had seen wisdom in delay, it would have been a different
thing — and the seeing was a possible thing, you will admit.
I did not ask you if you desired a delay, but if you saw a
reason for it. In the meantime I was absolutely yours, I
remembered thoroughly, . . and the question went simply
to enquire what you thought it best to do with your
own.

For me I agree with your view — I never once thought of
proposing a delay on my own account. We are standing on
hot scythes, and because we do not burn in the feet, by a
miracle, we have no right to count on the miracle’s prolongation.
Then nothing is to be gained — and everything may be
lost — and the sense of mask-wearing for another year would
be suffocating. This for me. And for yourself, I shall not
be much younger or better otherwise, I suppose, next year.
I make no motion, then, for a delay, further than we have
talked of, . . to the summer’s end.

My good . . happiness ! Have I any that did not come
from you, that is not in you, that you should talk of my good
apart from yours ? I shudder to look back to the days when
you were not for me. Was ever life so like death before ?
My face was so close against the tombstones, that there
seemed no room even for the tears. And it is unexampled
generosity of yours, that, having done all for me, you should
write as you always do, about my giving . . giving ! Among
the sons of men there is none like you as I believe and
know, . . and every now and then declare to my sisters.

Dearest, if I vexed you, teazed you, by that question
which proved unnecessary . . forgive me ! Had you
uncomfortable thoughts in the gardens to-day ? Perhaps !
And I could not smooth them away, though I drew as
near as I dared . . though I was in a carriage at seven
o’clock, running a mystical circle round your tents and music.
Did you feel me, any more than if I were a ‘ quick spider,’ I
wonder.

Henrietta and Arabel were going to spend the evening
with cousins of ours, and as the carriage waited for the
plaiting of Henrietta’s hair, or the twisting of the ringlets,
Arabel said to me ‘ Will you go for a quarter of an hour ? ‘
And in a minute, we were off . . she and Flush and Lizzie
and I. Never did I expect again to see so many people —
but I thought of one so much that my head was kept from
turning round — and we drove once round the ‘ inner circle,’
so called, and looked up to Mr. Kenyon’s windows — and
there, or there, you were, certainly ! — and either there, or
there, you were being disquieted in your thoughts by me, as
certainly ! Ah forgive me. After all, . . listen . . I love
you with the fulness of my nature. Nothing of all this
unspeakable goodness and tenderness is lost on me. . . I
catch on my face and hands every drop of all this dew.

So now . . you are not teazed ? we are at one again, and
may talk of outside things again ?

But first, I must hear how the head is. How is it, best
and dearest ? And you had my letter at last, had you not ?
Because I wrote it as usual, of course. May God bless you
— and me as I am altogether your own.

Twice (observe) I have been out to-day — the first time,
walking. Also, twice have I written to you.

Say how your mother is — and yourself! —

George and Henrietta were asked to meet you at Mr.
Kenyon’s — but only to-day, and too late to forestall other
engagements. Did you enjoy any of it ? Tell me.

[Postmark: June 4, 1846]

Wednesday — 5 p.m.

Then let it be as we meant it should be. And do you
forgive me, my own, if I have teazed you . . vexed you.
Do I not always tell you that you are too good for me ?

Yet the last of my intentions was, this time, to doubt
of your attachment for me. Believe that, I will write
to-night more fully — but never can be more than at this
moment

Your

Ba.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Wednesday Morning.

I will tell you, dearest : your good is my good, and
your will mine ; if you were convinced that good would
be promoted by our remaining as we are for twenty
years instead of one, I should endeavour to submit in the
end . . after the natural attempts to find out and remove
the imagined obstacle. If, as you seem to do here, you
turn and ask about my good — yours being supposed to be
uninfluenced by what I answer . . then, here is my truth
on that subject, in that view, — my good for myself. Every
day that passes before that day is one the more of hardly
endurable anxiety and irritation, to say the least ; and the
thought of another year’s intervention of hope deferred —
altogether intolerable ! Is there anything I can do in that
year — or that you can do — to forward our object ? Any-
thing impossible to be done sooner ? If not —

You may misunderstand me now at first, dear, dearest
Ba : at first I sate quietly, you thought ; do I live quietly
now, do you think ? Ought I to show the evidence of the
unselfishness I strive, at least, to associate with my love, by
coolly informing you ‘ what would please me.’

But I will not say more, you must know . . and I seem
to know that this question was one of Ba’s old questions . .
a branch-licence, perhaps, of the original inestimable one,
that charter of my liberties, by which I am empowered to
‘ hold myself unengaged, unbound ‘ &c. &c.

Good Heaven ; I would not, — even to save the being
asked such questions, — have played the horseleech that
cries ‘ give, give,’ in Solomon’s phrase — ‘ Do you let me see
you once a week ? Give me a sight once a day ! — May I
dare kiss you ? Let me marry you to-morrow ! ‘

But to the end, the very end, I am yours : God knows
I would not do you harm for worlds — worlds ! I may
easily mistake what is harm or not. I will ask your leave to
speak — at your foot, my Ba : I would not have dared to
take the blessing of kissing your hand, much less your lip,
but that it seemed as if I was leading you into a mistake —
as did happen — and that you might fancy I only felt a
dreamy, abstract passion for a phantom of my own creating
out of your books and letters, and which only took your
name. . . That once understood, the rest you shall give me.
In every event, I am your own.

12 o’ clock. — I thought another letter might arrive. This
must go as we shall set off presently to Mr. Kenyon’s.

I did understand the question about my sister. I mean,
that you felt somewhat so, incredible as it seems — only I
believe all you say, all — to the letter, the iota. Think of
that, whenever I might ask and do not — or speak, and am
silent . . but I am getting back to the question discussed
above, which I ought not to do — understand me, dearest
dearest ! See me, open the eyes, the dear eyes, and see
the love of your R.

[Postmark: June 3, 1846]

Tuesday Night.

My own dearest who are never to offend me! — And,
true, that is — because I have tried, before now, to be offended,
and could not, . . being under a charm. So it is not my
fault but yours, that never you see me angry.

But your head, my head . . is it better, dearest, by this
time, or is it ringing and aching even, under the crashing
throat-peals of Mr. Landor’s laughter ? he laughs, I remember
like an ogre — he laughs as if laughter could kill, and he
knew it, thinking of an enemy. May it do his friends no
harm to-night ! How I think of you, and, in every thought,
love you ! Yes, surely I can love you as if I were worthier !
and better perhaps and if I were better, . . though that may
sound like a riddle. And dear dearest, why do you talk of
your faults so ? It is not at all gracious of you indeed. You
are on a high hill above me where I cannot reach your hand
— (in the myths, be it understood) and you sigh and say
querulously … ‘ By and bye I may have to take a step
down lower.’ Now is that gracious of you, or worthy of
your usual chivalry ? You ought to be glad, on the contrary,
to be so much nearer me — ! in the myths, be it understood !
For out of the myths we are near enough, as near as two
hearts can be,. . I believe. . I trust !

You will not mistake what I said to you this morning
my own beloved — you will not ? My promise to you was to
place the decision in your hands — and my desire is simply
that you should decide according to your judgment and
understanding . . I do not say, your affections, this
time. Now it has struck me that you have a sort of
instinct . .

But no — I shall not write on that subject to-night.
Rather I will tell you what I have been doing to-day to be so
very, very tired. To-day I paid my first visit — not to Mr.
Kenyon but to an older friend than even he — to Miss
Trepsack . . learn that name by heart . . whom we all of
us have called ‘ Treppy ‘ ever since we could speak. Moreover
she has nursed . . tossed up . . held on her knee —
Papa when he was an infant; the dearest friend of his
mother and her equal, I believe, in age — so you may suppose
that she is old now. Yet she can outwalk my sisters, and
except for deafness, which, dear thing, she carefully explains
as ‘a mere nervous affection,’ — is as young as ever. But
she calls us all ‘ her children ‘ . . and I, you are to understand,
am ‘ her child,’ par excellence . . her acknowledged
darling and favourite, — perhaps because tenderly she thinks
it right to carry on the love of her beloved friend, whom
she lived with to the last. Once she saw you in the
drawing-room — and you perhaps saw her. She dines here
every Sunday, and on the other days of course often, and has
the privilege of scolding everybody in the house when she
is out of humour, and of being ‘ coaxed ‘ by slow degrees
back into graciousness. So, she had full right to have me
on my first visit — had she not ? and the goodness and kindness
and funniness of the reception were enough to laugh
and cry over. First . . half way up-stairs, I found a chair,
to sit and rest on. Then the windows were all shut up,
because I liked it so in my room. And then, for occulter
reasons, a feast was spread for Arabel and Flush and me,
which made me groan in the spirit, and Flush wag his tail,
to look upon . . ice cream and cakes, which I was to taste
and taste in despite of all memories of dinner an hour before
. . and cherrybrandy ! ! ! which I had to taste too, . . just
then saved alive by an oath, on Arabel’s part, that I was
‘ better without it.’ Think of dear Treppy ! — of all the
kindness, and fondness ! Almost she kissed me. to pieces
as the ‘ darlingest of children.’ So I am glad I went — and
so is Flush, who highly approves of that class of hospitable
attentions, and wishes it were the way of the world every
day. But I am tired ! so tired ! The visiting is a new
thing.

It is an old one that I should write such long letters. If
I am tired, you might retort with the Ed io anche !— Yet you
will not, because you are supernaturally good ; and as it was
in the beginning, ever shall be, you say !

But will you explain to me some day why you are sorry
for Italy having been mentioned between us, and why you
would rather prefer Nova Zembla ? So as to kill me the faster,
is it ?

Your ∆lian says that the oldest painters used to write
under a tree, when they painted one, ‘ This is a tree.’ So I
must do, I suddenly remember, under my jests . . I being,
it would appear, as bad an artist in jesting, as they were in
painting. Therefore . . see the last line of the last paragraph
. . ‘ This is a jest. ‘

And this is the earnest thing of all . . that I love you as
I can love — and am for ever . . living and dying . .

Your own —

Take care of the head, I entreat ! and say how you
are ! and how your mother is ! I am grieved to hear of that
relapse !

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

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

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

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

May God bless you ever for your very own.

[Postmark: June 2, 1846]

Tuesday.

You understand, dearest beloved, all I could mean about
your sister’s coming here. Both I was afraid of not being
liked enough . . which was one reason, and none the less
reasonable because of your being ‘ infatuated ‘ . . (oh, that
is precisely the word to use, and indeed I never falter to
myself in the applying of it !) and I felt it to be impossible
for me to receive so near a relative of yours, your own only
sister, as I should another and a stranger. There would be
the need in me of being affectionate to your sister ! how
could I not ? and yet, how could I? Everything is at once
too near and too far — it is enough to make me tremble to
think of it — it did, when Mr. Kenyon made his proposition.
I would rather, ten times over, receive Queen Victoria and
all her court do you understand ? can you
misunderstand ? can you pretend to fancy, as you talked yesterday,
that the reluctance came from my having ‘ too many visitors,’
or from any of those common causes. Why, she is your
sister — and that was the cause of the reluctance. You will
not dare to turn it into a wrong against yourself.

Now I am going to ask you a question, dearest of mine,
and you will consider it carefully and examine your own
wishes in respect to it, before I have any answer. In fact
it is not necessary to treat of the subject of it at all at this
moment — we have a great deal of time before us. Still, I
want to know whether, upon reflection, you see it to be wise
and better for me to go to Italy with Miss Bayley, or with
any other person who may be willing to take me, (supposing
I should find such a plan possible) and that you should
follow with Mr. Chorley or alone, . . leaving other thoughts
for another year. Or if I find this scheme, as far as I am
concerned, impossible, shall we gain anything, do you think,
on any side of the question that you can see, by remaining
quietly as we are, you at New Cross, and I here, until next
year’s summer or autumn? Shall we be wiser, more
prudent, for any reason, or in any degree, by such a delay ?

It is the question I ask you — it is no proposal of mine,
understand — nor shall I tell you my own impression about
it. I have told you that I would do as you should decide,
and I will do that and no other. Only on that very account
it is the more necessary that you should decide well, and
according to the best lights of your own judgment and
reason.

I forgot to talk to you yesterday of your Statesmen
which I read with a peculiar sort of pleasure, coming and
going as I see you and miss you. There is no mistaking
your footsteps along the sands.

May God bless you, dear dearest ! Say how your head
is, and love me so much more than Machiavelli, as to spare
it from farther injury. It is not hard to think of you to-day
in this chair, where you were sitting yesterday — do you
think it is ?

Your own

Ba.

[Postmark: June 1, 1846]

Sunday.

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

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

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

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

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

Ever your own.

[Postmark: May 30, 1846]

Saturday.

You shall have a visit from me on the seventh day as
on the others, I think, because I remember you every day
equally, and because, without waiting for your Saturday’s
letter, I have always with me enough of you, to thank you.
This morning, Henrietta and I went as usual to Hodgson’s
and took possession of the chair in waiting, as Flush did of
the whole territory, setting himself, with all the airs of a
landed proprietor, to snap at the shop boy. Nota bene —
Flush is likely to injure my popularity if I take him about
with me much. He has been used, you see, to be ‘ CÊsar
in his own house,’ and the transition to being CÊsar everwhere
is the easiest thing in the world. Yet as to leaving
him at home, it is impossible, . . not to mention other
objections ! His delight in going out in the carriage is
scarcely a natural thing — but I have told you of it. Yesterday
I was in the back drawing-room waiting to go out, and
just said to him, ‘ Flush ! go and see if the carriage is come’
— instantly he ran to the front windows, standing on his
hind legs and looking up the street and down. Now Mr.
Kenyon would declare that was my invention. Yet it
is the literal truth of history.

Coming back from Hodgson’s, we passed our door and
walked to 57 and home, which is an improvement in the
distance. Then I walked up-stairs to the drawing-room,
and was carried the rest of the way. May I be tired a
little, after it all ? Just a little, perhaps.

Henrietta dined at Mr. Lough’s yesterday, and met Miss
Camilla Toulmin who was gracious . . and Professor
Forbes, who can do nothing without the polka, . . and
sundries. There was a splendid dinner, and wine of all
vintages — one is in a strait in such cases to know how to
praise at once the hospitable intentions and to blame the
bad taste — surely it is bad taste in a man like Mr. Lough
who lives by his genius, to give ambitious dinners like a man
who lives by his dinners. The true dignity of simplicity in
these things were worth such a man’s holding, one might
think. But he is kind and liberal, and a good artist, . .
and sent me a very gracious invitation to go and see his
works.

The Hedleys are likely to be in England this summer
again more’s the pity. I am fond of them, but would
rather, rather, not see them just now, and not be seen by
them — for eyes have they, and can see. My uncle Hedley
comes next week, . . comes to London for several weeks
. . that is certain — and my aunt after settling the younger
part of her family, at Bareges for the summer, ponders
coming, . . as I behold from afar off, . . with her daughter
Arabella, who is to be married immediately to the younger
brother of the great Brewery partner, Barclay and Bevan, a
Mr. Bevan. But they will not be in this house, and we
must manage as we can, dearest ! One leap over Sunday,
and Monday comes bringing you ! Then, I shall have you
near on Tuesday besides, and Wednesday, afterwards ! how
the cup overflows ! May God bless you my beloved ! It
is not exaggeration to say that I feel you in the air and the
sun.

Ever and ever your own I am !

Ba.