Thursday.

[Post-mark, May 28, 1846.]

There is a long four days more of waiting—I feel more and more and ever

more how, wanting you, my life wants all it can have. Dear Ba, never

wonder that I fancy at times such an event’s occurrence as you tell me I

need not fear. I shall always fear,—never _can_ I hold you sufficiently

fast, I shall think. So, if my jewel must be taken from me, let some

eagle stoop down for it suddenly, baffling all human precaution, as I

look on my treasure on a tower’s top miles and miles inland,—don’t let

me have to remember, though but in a minute of life afterwards, that

I let it drop into the sea through foolishly balancing it in my open

hand over the water. There is one of Ba’s ‘myths,’ excepting all Ba’s

felicitousness of application and glory of invention,—but then it has all

my own love and worship of Ba’s self, all I care to be distinguished by.

I hope you go out this fine morning—the wind is cold, to be sure, but

London is much warmer than this place, and the wind kept off by the

houses. I have got two of Mr. Kenyon’s kind notes, to confirm the

appointment for Wednesday (when Mrs. Jameson is to be of the party), and

to invite me to meet Landor on Tuesday—so that for three days running I

shall be in Ba’s very neighbourhood ... for if the wind can’t get through

houses and walls, Ba can and does, as my heart knows. Might I not see

you for a moment on the Wednesday? Ah, there will be time to contrive,

to concert—but the worst is that when I see you I contrive nothing,

nor do you help me, you Ba! Else, out of these walks,—who is to object

to my going to see the Thames Tunnel or the Tower, by way of Wimpole

Street,—wanting the organ of locality as I am said to? Whereas I am all

one consciousness of the influence of one locality, turning as my whole

heart and soul turn to Ba,—my dearest, dearest, whom may God bless and

requite. I can only kiss you, as I do, and be your very own, my Ba, as I

am and shall be ever.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Thursday.

[Post-mark, May 29, 1846.]

Dearest dearest, I thought I had lost my letter to-night, for not a sound

came like a postman’s knock ... I thought I had lost my letter, talking

of losing jewels. I waited and waited, and at last broke silence to

Arabel with, ‘when _will_ the post come?’ ‘Not to-night,’ said she—‘it is

nearly ten.’ On which I exclaimed so pitifully and with such a desperate

sense of loss, ‘You mean to say that I shall have no letter to-night,’?

... that after she had laughed a very little, she went down-stairs to

search the letterbox and brought me what I wanted.

And you think it possible that I should give up my letters and their

golden fountain?—_I!_ ... while I live and have understanding! I can’t

fancy what manner of eagles you believe in. If in real live eagles, ...

why it is as probable as any other thing of the sort, that I (or you)

should be snatched away by an eagle ... the eagle who used to live, for

instance, at the Coliseum of Regent’s Park. And when I ride away upon an

eagle, I may take a wrong counsel perhaps that hour from other birds of

the air: ... but _till then_, I am yours to have and to hold, ... unless,

as you say, you open your hand wide and cry with a distinct voice, ‘Go.’

It shall be your doing and not mine, if we two are to part—or God’s

own doing, through illness and death. And the way to avert danger is

to avoid observation and discussion, as much as we can—and we have not

been frightened much yet, ... now have we? As for Wednesday, there is

time to think. But how can you leave your sister? you cannot. So unless

you derange your ‘myth’ altogether, and find a trysting place for us,

... each mounted on an eagle, ... in Nephelococcygia, we had better be

satisfied, it seems to me, with Monday and Saturday.

I was out to-day as you saw by my letter, which with my own hand I

dropped into the post. I liked to do it beyond what you discern. And how

the sun shone,—and the little breath of wind could do nobody harm, I

felt. Also there was the ‘Autography’ in the shop-window to see, before I

sate down in the shop. So you were thought of by necessity, besides the

freewill.

Do you not see that I am bound to you hand and foot? Why do you not see

what God sees?

But it is late, and the rest must be for to-morrow. The sender of the

rose-tree sent to-day a great heliotrope—so, presently, you will have to

seek me in a wood.

Everywhere your own

BA.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Friday.

[Post-mark, May 29, 1846.]

My own darling, your little note was a great delight to me last night,

when I expected nothing; and though I do not hear to-day, I will believe

you are well after the walk—the walk, what a ‘divine fancy’; not

mentioned by Quarles!

And then the words that follow the good news of the walk ... those

assurances ... oh, my best, dearest Ba,—it is all right that I

cannot speak here,—if I _could_, by some miracle, speak, it would be

foolish:—but my life lies before you to take and direct, and keep or give

away,—I am altogether your own.

I come in rather tired from Town—having spent the morning at the

Exhibition, and made calls beside. (Etty’s picture of the _sirens_ is

abominable; though it looks admirable beside another picture of his: did

I not tell you he had chosen the sirens for a subject?)

Oh, dearest beyond all dearness, _now_, at this moment only, your last

and _pro tempore best_ letter comes to me! One can’t scold and kiss at

the same time ... so let the wretched Post arrangements be unmentioned

for the moment; there is enough to get up a revolution about, I do

think! But you, you spoil me and undo me almost,—_ought_ to do so, at

least,—they were _too_ delicious to bear, the things you say to me! Why

will you not say rather what I feel,—for you can, perhaps, being what you

are, and let me subscribe it! It is a real pain to me to feel as I feel,

and speak no more than I speak.

And again the time urges ... just when I want most to go on writing—but

to-morrow I will do nothing else. Take this now, sweet, sweet Ba, with my

whole heart that loves, loves you!

Your R.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Friday.

[Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]

I have your letter ... you who cannot write! The contrariety is a part of

the ‘miracle.’ After all it seems to me that you can write for yourself

pretty well—rather too well I used to think from the beginning. But if

you persist in the proposition about my doing it for you, leaving room

for your signature ... shall it be this way?

_Show me how to get rid of you._

(signed) _R.B._

Now isn’t it _I_ who am ... not ‘balancing my jewel’ over the gulph ...

but actually tossing it up in the air out of sheer levity of joyousness?

Only it is not perhaps such dangerous play as it looks: there may be

a little string perhaps, tying it to my finger. Which, if it is not

imprudence in act, is imprudence in fact, you see!

Dearest, I committed a felony for your sake to-day—so never doubt that

I love you. We went to the Botanical Gardens, where it is unlawful

to gather flowers, and I was determined to gather this for you, and

the gardeners were here and there ... they seemed everywhere ... but

I stooped down and gathered it. Is it felony, or burglary on green

leaves—or what is the name of the crime? would the people give me up to

the police, I wonder? _Transie de peur_, I was, ... listening to Arabel’s

declaration that all gathering of flowers in these gardens is highly

improper,—and I made her finish her discourse, standing between me and

the gardeners—to prove that I was the better for it.

How pretty those gardens are, by the way! We went to the summer-house and

sate there, and then on, to the empty seats where the band sit on your

high days. What I enjoy most to see, is the green under the green ...

where the grass stretches under trees. _That_ is something unspeakable

to me, in the beauty of it. And to stand under a tree and feel the green

shadow of the tree! I never knew before the difference of the _sensation_

of a green shadow and a brown one. I seemed to feel that green shadow

through and through me, till it went out at the soles of my feet and

mixed with the other green below. Is it nonsense, or not? Remember that

by too much use we lose the knowledge and apprehension of things, and

that I may feel therefore what you do not feel.

But in everything I felt _you_—and always, dearest beloved, you were

nearer to me than the best.

Well; to go on with my story. Coming home and submitting to be carried

up-stairs because I was tired, the news was that Miss Bayley had waited

to see me three quarters of an hour. Then she sate with me an hour—and

oh, such kind, insisting, persisting plans about Italy! I did not know

what to say, so I was _niaise_ and grateful, and said ‘thank you, thank

you’ as I could. Did Mrs. Jameson tell you of her scheme of going to

Florence for two years and to Venice for one, taking her niece with

her in order to an ‘artistical education’? And Mr. Bezzi, who is the

‘most accurate of men,’ furnishes the details of necessary expenses,

and assures her in his programme that she may ‘walk in silk attire’ and

drive her carriage like an English aristocrat, for three hundred a year,

at Florence—but the place is English-ridden ... filled and polluted.

Sorrento is better or even Pisa. We will keep our Siren-isles to

ourselves ... will we not?

And now tell me. Was there not a picture of Sirens by Etty, exhibited

years ago ... which was also ‘abominable,’ as I thought when I saw it?

Is it the same picture returning like a disquieted ghoule ... much more

_that_, than like a Siren at all, if it is the same, ... I remember it

was scarcely to be looked at for hideousness ... though I heard some

carnivorous connoisseurs praising the ‘colouring’!! Foreigners might

refer such artistical successes to our national ‘beef’ ... ‘le bifteak’

ideal. The materialism of Art.

Can you love me _so_? _do_ you? ... will you always? And is any of that

love ‘lost,’ do you think, ... as the saying is? Indeed it is not. I put

golden basins all round (the reverse shape of lachrymatories) to catch

every drop as it falls, ... so that when we two shall meet together in

the new world, I may look in your face (as I cannot at this moment) and

say ‘None of the love was lost, though all of it was undeserved.’ May God

bless you, dearest, best! My heart is _in_ you, I think. You would laugh

to see the books I take up ... first, ‘Strafford’ ... then Suetonius to

see about your Cæsar ... then the Naples book. Oh, but I find you out in

the _Statesmen_ ... for all the dim light.

Your very own

BA.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Saturday.

[Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]

Oh, yes, do ‘show me how to get rid of you,’ my best Ba,—for so I shall

have the virtuous delight of deciding to keep you, instead of being

wholly kept by you,—it is all out of my head, now, how I used to live

when I was my own: and if you can, by one more witchery, give me back

that feeling for once ... Ba, I have no heart to write more nonsense,

when I can take your dearest self into my arms; yet I shall never quite

lie quiet and happy, I do think ... I shall be always wishing you would

be angry and cruel and unjust, for a moment,—for my love overflows the

bounds, needs to prove itself—all which is foolish, I know. To-day, for

some unknown reason, is a day of hope with me ... all bright things seem

possible; I was feeling them so, when your note came—as I sate in the

garden—and when I saw the flower (Paracelsus’ _own_ ... they usually

ornament his pictures with it,—I said something on the subject in the

poem, too, and gave a note about ‘Flammula citrinula—herba Paracelso

multum familiaris’—) when I saw that, and read on and on,—every now and

then laying the letter down to feel the entire joy,—and when the end

came,—Ba, dearest Ba, it was with me then as now, as always after steady

thinking of _what_ you are to me ... I cannot tell you—but for the past,

utterly irrespective of the future,—for what you _have_ been, this love

cannot cease though you were transformed into all you are not nor could

ever be. I mean, that after the blow struck, the natural vibration must

follow and continue its proper period—and that my love for what I have

received from you already _must_ last to my life’s end—cannot end sooner!

‘Shall I continue to love you!’

You said in Thursday’s letter—‘We have not been frightened much yet,’

our meetings have been uninterrupted hitherto, and these letters: yes,

_that_ I am most thankful for—whatever should happen, our real relation

one to the other is wholly known—that fact has been established beyond

possibility of doubt at least. I don’t make myself understood here, I

know,—but, think,—if at the very beginning any accident had separated

us....

But I will believe in the end now and henceforth—I will believe you _are_

my very own Ba,—my best dream’s realization, my life’s fulfilment and

consummation—and having discovered you, I shall live and die with you. So

may God dispose.

I will write the rest,—(nothing is here) a longer letter to-morrow—but

now my mind is too full of you—the poor hand gets despised for lagging

after! All my thoughts are with you, dearest. May God bless you and make

me less unworthy—

being your own, own R.

One more day—one, and Monday!

(See what kindness of Mr. Kenyon! I do not accept, having no need to

trouble him as he desires—but see how kind.)

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Saturday.

[Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]

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

‘_Cæsar_ in his own house,’ and the transition to being Cæsar everywhere

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 _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

Baréges 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_.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday.

[Post-mark, June 1, 1846.]

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

Ælian’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 spring-soup 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.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday.

[Post-mark, June 2, 1846.]

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.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday.

[Post-mark, June 2, 1846.]