Robert and Elizabeth

[Postmark: September 10, 1846]

Thursday Morning.

What do you expect this letter will be about, my own dearest ? Those which I write on the mornings after our days seem naturally to answer any strong point brought out in the previous discourse, and not then completely disposed of . . so they generally run in the vile fashion of a disputatious ‘ last word ‘ ; ‘ one word yet ‘ – do not they ? Ah, but you should remember that never does it feel so intolerable, – the barest fancy of a possibility of losing you – as when I have just seen you and heard you and, alas – left you for a time ; on these occasions, it seems so horrible – that if the least recollection of a fear of yours, or a doubt . . . anything which might be nursed, or let grow quietly into a serious obstacle to what we desire – if that rises up threateningly, – do you wonder that I begin by attacking it? There are always a hundred deepest reasons for gratitude and love which I could write about, but which my after life shall prove I never have forgotten . . still, that very after-life depends perhaps on the letter of the morning reasoning with you, teazing, contradicting. Dearest Ba, I do not tell you that I am justified in plaguing you thus, at any time . . only to get your pardon, if I can, on the grounds – the true grounds.

And this pardon, if you grant it, shall be for the past offences, not for any fresh one I mean to commit now. I will not add one word to those spoken yesterday about the extreme perilousness of delay. You give me yourself. Hitherto, from the very first till this moment, the giving hand has been advancing steadily – it is not for me to grasp it lest it stop within an inch or two of my forehead with its crown.

I am going to Town this morning, and will leave off now.

What a glorious dream ; through nearly two years – without a single interval of blankness, – much less, bitter waking !

I may say that, I suppose, safely through whatever befalls !

Also I will ever say, God bless you, my dearest dearest, – my perfect angel you have been ! While I am only your R.

My mother is deeply gratified at your present.

12 o’clock On returning I find your note,

‘ I will do as you wish – understand ‘ – then I understand you are in earnest. If you do goon Monday, our marriage will be impossible for another year – the misery ! You see what we have gained by waiting. We must be married directly and go to Italy. I will go for a licence to-day and we can be married on Saturday. I will call to-morrow at 3 and arrange everything with you. We can leave from Dover &c., after that, – but otherwise, impossible ! Inclose the ring, or a substitute – I have not a minute to spare for the post.

Ever your own R.

[Postmark: September 10, 1846]

Wednesday Night.

Dearest, you are a prophet, I suppose – there can be no denying it. This night, an edict has gone out, and George is to-morrow to be on his way to take a house for a month either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge, . . Papa did ‘not mind which,’ he said, and ‘ you may settle it among you ! ! ‘ but he ‘ must have this house empty for a month in order to its cleaning ‘ – we are to go therefore and not delay.

Now ! – what can be done ? It is possible that the absence may be longer than for a month, indeed it is probable – for there is much to do in painting and repairing, here in Wimpole Street, more than a month’s work they say. Decide, after thinking. I am embarrassed to the utmost degree, as to the best path to take. If we are taken away on Monday . . what then ?

Of course I decline to give any opinion and express any preference, – as to places, I mean. It is not for my sake that we go : – if I had been considered at all, indeed, we should have been taken away earlier, . . and not certainly now, when the cold season is at hand. And so much the better it is for me, that I have not, obviously, been thought of.

Therefore decide ! It seems quite too soon and too sudden for us to set out on our Italian adventure now – and perhaps even we could not compass –

Well – but you must think for both of us. It is past twelve and I have just a moment to seal this and entrust it to Henrietta for the morning’s post.

More than ever beloved, I am

Your own BA.

I will do as you wish – understand.

[Postmark: September 9, 1846]

Tuesday Evening.

I write a word to say, . . dearest, do not run any risk about coming to-morrow. I mean, . . unless you are sure that the noise and exertion will not be too much for you, – unless, when the moment comes for setting off, you feel equal to it . . now, I do beseech you, very dear, not to persist in coming because you have said that you will come – I beseech you. Listen. At three o’clock I shall expect you doubtfully ; at half-past three, the doubt will be the strongest ; and at a quarter to four, I shall have said to myself cheerfully, that you were wise and good and had determined to stay at home. In that case, I shall have a line from you by five or six ! Understand all this, and let it have the right influence and no more. Of course if I could see you without harm to yourself, and so to me, it would be a great happiness : it even makes me happy to think of, as a bare possibility, at this distance off ! I am happy by your letter, twice over, indeed – once, for that reason, . . and again, for the thought of your being in some respects better. At the same time I do not see why your wise man did not follow his plan to the end. It looks as if he did not think you better essentially because of it. Ah well, I shall see with my eyes to-morrow – perhaps I shall : and I shall see in a dream to-night more certainly.

This shall go at once, though, that it may reach you in time in the morning. How I thank you for the precious note ! You are so much too good to me, that your being also too dear is an excusable consequence – or would be, if it were possible. I write nonsense, I believe, – but it is half for gladness . . and half . . for what makes me your own

BA.

[Postmark: September 8, 1846]

Tuesday Morning.

Do you think your wishes, much less your blessings, fall to the ground, my own Ba ? Here is your letter, and here am I writing to you, ‘clothed and in my proper’ room.

My doctor bade me ‘ get up and do as I pleased ‘ – and the perfect pleasure is to say, I may indeed see you to-morrow, dearest, dearest ! Can you look as you look in this letter ? So entirely my own, and yet, – what should never be my own, by right . . such a treasure to one so little worthy !

I have only a few minutes to say this, – the dressing and talking having taken up the time. To-morrow shall repay me !

The lightness, slight uneasiness of the head, continues, though the general health is much better, it seems.

Do you doubt I shall be well in Italy? But I must leave off. Bless you as you have blessed me, my best, dearest Ba, me who am your very own R.

[Postmark: September 8, 1846]

Monday Night.

How unwell you are, dearest beloved ! Ah no ! It is not ‘ the position that tires you,’ it is the illness that incapacitates you. And you to think of getting up and coming here . . you ! Now, for my sake, for both our sakes, you must and shall be patient and quiet, and remember how my thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet. As to the reading, . . you see it makes you dizzy, – and to provoke that sensation cannot plainly be right : and you will be right always, will you not, for my sake, dearest of all ? And for the coming here on Wednesday, . . no, no, I say again, – you ought not to do it, and you shall not : we will see how you are, later in the week ; but for Wednesday, certainly no. That violent transition from the bed to the omnibus would be manifestly wrong. Also I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of your being well again. I wonder to-day how yesterday I was impatient about not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest ! There is no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how I love you only !

For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head : then I took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him just now. And you shall not say that you ‘are glad he is with me if you are not? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be glad of anyone’s being with me if you are not ?

And how should you be glad for anything, if I am not ? Flush and I know our logic better than to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of it.

So hot, indeed, to-day ! If you thought of me, I thought of you, through it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But I have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair of boots for Italy, besides the shoes – because, you see, we shall have such long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go in one’s slippers. Does not that sound like ‘ a grave woman ? ‘ You need not make laws against the jesters, after all ! You need only be well ! And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that travelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this chief matter of your health ? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always well, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest ! I cannot write to you except about you to-night. The subject is too near me – I am under the shadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more, and trust to you to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless you, as I would, I in my weakness ! For the best blessing on your part, love your own

BA.

And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line – three words – I beseech you not to let me do you harm.

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Monday Morning.

I had the greatest mind, when your letter came – (the most welcome of all letters – so much more than I could expect !) – to get up at once and be well in your dearest eyes or through them – but I checked myself and thought that I ought to be contented with one such a letter through whole long weeks of annoyance, instead of one day more.

I am delighted to know Flush is with you, if I am not. Did you remember my petition about him ? But, dearest, it was very imprudent to go to those disgusting wretches yourself – they have had a pretty honour without knowing it !

Here I lie with a dizzy head – unable to read more than a page or two . . there is something in the unwonted position that tires me – but whenever the book is left off, I turn to the dark side of the room and see you, my very own Ba, – and so I am soon better and able to try again.

How hot, and thunder-like this oppressive air ! And you who are affected by such weather ? Tell me, my dearest dearest, all you can tell me – since the real lips and eyes are away.

Bless you, my beloved. Remember, I count upon seeing you on Wednesday at farthest.

Your own R.

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Monday Morning.

Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got up this morning in the good spirits of ‘ our days,’ hoping to see you, believing to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than usual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud – that was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater ! And smiling to myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about the ‘ business ‘ to be talked by the ‘ grave man and woman ‘ ; understanding your precaution against all unlawful jesting ! – jesters forbidden in the protocol ! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even ! How am I to be comforted, my own dearest ? No way, except by your being really better, really well – in order to which I shall not let you come as soon as Wednesday : it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for a journey into London ! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you think of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you, praise you, – nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof of love, more than for other kinds of proof, – I will love you for it, my beloved ! Now judge – shall I be able to help thinking of you every moment of the day ? Could I help it, if I tried ? In return, therefore, you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline – ah but, will not the leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure ? I am uneasy about that milk-diet for you, who always seem to me to want support, and something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me everything – will you, dearest ? whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell me ? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your sister will write – she will have that great goodness ? Let it be so, I beseech you.

But you will be better – oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being better, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends. And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present thoughts : soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am in earnest and not a jester au fond, and am ready to do just as you bid me and think best – which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a shadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you – ‘ and me in you.’ Have I not leave to say that, too, since I feel it more than you could . . (more intensely . . I do not say more sincerely . .) when you used it first ? My happiness and life are in you, – I am your very own

BA.

Your mother – how is she ? Mind you get an amusing book . . something to amuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘ Mathilde ‘ of Sue ? I shall write again to-night.

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Sunday Afternoon.

No, dearest, I am not to see you to-morrow for all the happiness of the permission ! It seems absurd, but perhaps the greater absurdity would be a refusal to submit, under circumstances. You shall hear – I got up with the old vertiginousness, or a little worse – and so, as I had in that case determined, went to consult my doctor. He thinks he finds the root of the evil and can remove it, ‘ if I have patience enough ‘ – so I promised . . expecting something worthy that preamble – whereas I am bidden go to bed and keep there for a day or two – from this Sunday till Wednesday morning – taking nothing but a sip of medicine I can’t distinguish from water, thrice a day – and milk at discretion – no other food ! The mild queerness of it is amusing, is it not ? ‘ And for this fine piece of self-denial,’ says he, ‘ you shall be quite well by the week’s end.’ – ‘ But may I go to town on Wednesday ? ‘ – ‘ Yes.’ –

Now, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim all the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me ; this time, if you will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise – for the truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself ‘ – have I a right to avoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of aches and pains ?”‘ So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed, – as I never wrote before I think – and perhaps my head is a little better, or I fancy so. Mind, I may read, or write, – only in bed I must lie, because there is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause as good – ‘ for reasons, for reasons.’

‘The milk,’ answers Ba, is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of bitterness which overflowed lately about Flush. So it is, my own Ba – and for Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by cakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among the other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own R.

How I shall need your letters, dearest !

[Postmark: September 7, 1846]

Sunday.

Not well – not well ! But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you read what I write to-day ; so I shall not write much. Only a few words to tell you that Flush is found, and lying on the sofa, with one paw and both ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not the successful one. My hero was not at home.

I went, you know, . . did I tell you ? . . with Wilson in the cab. We got into obscure streets ; and our cabman stopped at a public house to ask his way. Out came two or three men, . . ‘ Oh, you want to find Mr. Taylor, I dare say ! ‘ (mark that no name had been mentioned !) and instantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, and out again to tell me that the great man ‘ wasn’t at home ! but wouldn’t I get out ? ‘ Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of such a thing – she believed devoutly in the robbing and murdering, and was not reassured by the gang of benevolent men and boys who ‘ lived but to oblige us ‘ all round the cab. ‘ Then wouldn’t I see Mrs. Taylor,’ suggested the philanthropist, – and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had run back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, . . fat enough to have had an easy conscience all her life, . . who informed me that ‘ her husband might be in in a few minutes, or in so many hours – wouldn’t I like to get out and wait ‘ (Wilson pulling at my gown, the philanthropist echoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.) – ‘ No, I thanked them all – it was not necessary that I should get out, but it was, that Mr. Taylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he had agreed to restore – and I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole Street in the course of the day, and not defer it any longer.’ To which, replied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles – ‘ Oh yes certainly ‘ – and indeed she did believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that business – poising her head to the right and left with the most easy grace – ‘ She was sure that Taylor would give his very best attention.’ . . .

So, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, and Wilson seemed to be of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it was, that the gang was strong there. The society . . the ‘Fancy’ . . had their roots in the ground. The faces of those men ! –

I had not been at home long, when Mr. Taylor did actually come – desiring to have six guineas confided to his honour ! ! . . and promising to bring back the dog. I sent down the money, and told them to trust the gentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it – and while the business was being concluded, in came Alfred, and straightway called our ‘ honourable friend ‘ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar and a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with reiterated oaths he swore, ‘as he hoped to be saved, we should never see our dog again’ – and rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was very angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the sake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was with Alfred, and terrified for Flush, – seeing at a glance the probability of his head being cut off as the proper vengeance ! and down-stairs I went with the resolution of going again myself to Mr. Taylor’s in Manning Street, or Shoreditch wherever it was, and saving the victim at any price. It was the evening, getting dusk – and everybody was crying out against me for being ‘ quite mad ‘ and obstinate, and wilful – I was called as many names as Mr. Taylor. At last, Sette said that he would do it, promised to be as civil as I could wish, and got me to be ‘ in a good humour and go up to my room again.’ And he went instead of me, and took the money and fair words, and induced the ‘ man of honour ‘ to forfeit his vengeance and go and fetch the dog. Flush arrived here at eight o’clock (at the very moment with your letter, dearest !), and the first thing he did was to dash up to this door, and then to drink his purple cup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic about seeing me, as I expected – he seemed bewildered and frightened – and whenever anyone said to him ‘ Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you away ? ‘ he put up his head and moaned and yelled. He has been very unhappy certainly. Dirty he is, and much thinner, and continually he is drinking. Six guineas, was his ransom – and now I have paid twenty for him to the dog-stealers.

Arabel says that I wanted you yesterday, she thought, to manage me a little. She thought I was suddenly seized with madness, to prepare to walk out of the house in that state of excitement and that hour of the evening. But now – was I to let them cut off Flush’s head ? –

There ! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures – and to-morrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear ! – Only remember for my sake, not to come if you are not fit to come. Dearest, remember not to run any hazards ! – That dinner ! which I will blame, because it deserves it ! Mind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of working you harm ! So I expect you to-morrow conditionally . . if you are well enough ! – and I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next to you, . . being ever and ever your own

BA.

I have been to the vestry again to-day.

[Postmark: September 5, 1846]

Saturday Morning.

Dearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of you to-morrow. Flush has not come and I am going on a voyage of discovery myself, – Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed and murdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it is not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.

Just now came a kind little note from dear Mr. Kenyon, who will not come, he says, Flush being away, and has set out on his travels, meaning not to come back for a week. So I might have seen you after all, to-day ! My comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, and that coming through the sun might have made your head suffer. How my thoughts are with you – how all day they never fall from you ! I shall have my letter to-night through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to look towards. Aladdin’s, did you say ? Yes, Aladdin’s.

As to being afraid of you ever – once, do you know, I was quite afraid . . in a peculiar sense – as when it thunders, I am afraid . . or a little different from that even – or, oh yes, very different from that. Now it is changed . . the feeling is – and I am not afraid even so – except sometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own – I am not afraid that it would be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for goodness to the uttermost – and I know perfectly that if you did not love me (supposing it) you are one who would be ashamed for a woman to fear you, as some women fear some men. For me, I could not, you know – I knew you too well and love you too perfectly, and everybody can tell what perfect love casts out.

So you need not have done with me for that reason ! Understand it.

And if I shall not be slain by the ‘ society,’ you shall be written to again to-night. Ah – say in the letter I am to have, that you are better ! And you are to come on Monday – dear, dearest ! mind that !

Your Ba.

Come back safe, but without Flush – I am to have him to-night though.