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 affection 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 omission 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.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, June 12, 1846.]
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 countenance 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 rationality.
_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 endeavouring 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 injustice 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.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, June 13, 1846.]
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 approving 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 restrained 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? Perhaps. 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.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Saturday.
[Post-mark, June 13, 1846.]
Dearest, all dearest beyond my heart’s uttering, will you forgive me
for that foolish letter, and the warmth, and—FOR ALL,—more than ever
I thought to have needed to ask forgiveness for! I love you in every
imaginable way. All was wrong, absurd, in that letter—do you forgive—now,
while I kiss your feet, my own, own Ba?
For see why it was wrong ... my father and mother will NOT BE PAINED IN
ANY DEGREE: they will believe what I say, exactly what I say. I wrote on
and on in a heat at the sudden ridiculous fancy of the matter’s taking
place some fine morning, without a word of previous intimation,—‘I am
going away, never mind where,—with somebody, never concern yourselves
whom,—to stay, if for ever, is it any business of yours to enquire?’
All which was ... _what_ was it? a method of confirming you in your
complimentary belief in my ‘calmness’—or that other in my ‘good practical
sense’—oh, Ba, Ba, how I deserve you! I will only say, I agree in all you
write—it will be clearly best, and I can obviate every untowardness here
... show that all is pure kindness and provident caution ... so easy all
will be! And for the other matters, I will fear nothing.
But you do—you do understand what caused the sudden fancy ... how I
thought ‘not show them my pride of prides, my miraculous, altogether
peerless and incomparable Ba!’ It was not flying from your counsel,—oh,
no!
So, is your hand in mine, or rather mine in yours again, sweetest, best
love? All will be well. Follow out your intention, as you spoke of it
to me, in every point. _Do not for God’s_ sake run the risk, or rather,
encounter the certainty of hearing words which most likely have not
anything like the significance to the speaker that they would convey
to the hearer—and so let us go quietly away. I will care nothing about
diplomatism or money-getting extraordinary—why, my own works sell and
sell and are likely to sell, Moxon says. And I mean to write wondrous
works, you may be sure, and sell them too,—and out of it all may easily
come some fifty or sixty horrible pounds a year,—on which one lives
famously in Ravenna, I dare say: think of Ravenna, Ba!—it seems the place
of places, with the pines and the sea, and Dante, and _no_ English, and
all Ba.
My Ba, I see you on Monday, do I not? You let me come then, do you not?
I am on fire to see you and know you love me ... _not as_ I love you ...
that can never be! I am your own
R.
I resolve, after a long pause and much irresolution, to write down as
much as I shall be able, of an obvious fact.... If the saddest fate I can
imagine should be reserved for me ... I should wish, _you_ would wish to
live the days out worthily,—not end them—nor go mad in them—to prevent
which, I should need distraction, the more violent the better,—and it
would have to be _forced_ on me in the only way possible—therefore,
_after my death_, I return nothing to your family, be assured. You will
not recur to _this_!
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, June 15, 1846.]
I wrote last night when my head was still struggling and swimming between
two tides of impressions received from the excitement and fatigue of
the day. Mr. Kenyon (dear Mr. Kenyon in his exquisite kindness!) took
me to see the strange new sight (to _me_!) of the Great Western ... the
train coming in: and we left the carriage and had chairs—and the rush
of the people and the earth-thunder of the engine almost overcame me
... not being used to such sights and sounds in this room, remember!!
and afterwards I read and answered your letter with a whirling head.
I cannot be sure _how_ I answered it, my head whirled so. I only hope
... hope ... hope ... that it did not seem unworthy of your goodness
and generosity—for _that_ would be unworthy of my perception of them
and reverence for them, besides. You do not, in particular, I do hope,
misunderstand my reasons for refusing to improve what you call my
‘advantages,’ by turning them into disadvantages for _you_. Really it
struck me at the moment and strikes me new every time I think of it,
that it would be monstrous in me to stop at such an idea long enough
to examine it. To do such a thing would complete the ‘advantages’ of
my alliance—if _that_ is a desire of yours. And if I were to be ill
afterwards, there would be the crown of the crown. Now ask yourself if _I
ought_—
I cannot conceive of the possibility of a ‘calumny’ on such a
pretext—there seems no room for it. You will however have it in your
power hereafter, without injury to either of us, to do yourself full
justice in this particular— —only neither now nor hereafter shall I
consent to let in sordid withering cares with your life. God has not made
it so and it shall not be so by an act of mine.
And after all, shall we be so much ... so much too rich? do you fancy
that Miss Kilmansegg is made of brass compared to me? It is not so bad,
be very sure. If Arabel should not offend Papa, she will be richer
hereafter than we are ... yet not rich even so. Why are you fanciful in
_that_ way? People are more likely to say that _I have taken you in_. The
sign of the Red Dragon! as you suggested once yourself!
I could make you laugh, if it were not too hot to laugh, with telling you
how I really do not know what my ‘advantages’ are—specifically—so many,
and so many. I am not ‘allowed’ to spend what I might—but the motive
is of course a kind one— —there is no mistaking _that_. Poor Papa! He
attends just to those pecuniary interests which no one cares for, with a
scrupulous attention. Nearly two hundred a year of ship shares I never
touch. Then there is the interest of six thousand pounds (not _less_
at any rate) in the funds—and I referred to the principal of _that_,
when I said yesterday, that when we had ceased to need it, it might
return to my family, since it came from them, if you chose. But this is
all air—and _nothing shall be said of it now_—and whatever may be said
hereafter, shall come from _you_, and be your word rather than mine. So I
beseech you, by your affection for me, to speak no more of this hateful
subject, which I have entered for a _moment_ lest you should exaggerate
to yourself and mistake me for the least in the world of an heiress.
As to Lord Monteagle, we can do without him, _I_ think—and unless he
would give us a house to keep, or something of that sort, at Sorrento or
Ravenna, I do not exactly see what he can do for us. To make an agreement
with a periodical, would be more a possibility perhaps—but it is not
a necessity—there is no sort of need, in fact—and why should you be
tormented ‘in the multitude of the thoughts within you,’ utterly in vain?
As to your family ... I understand your natural desire of giving your
confidence at the fullest to your father and mother, who deserve and
claim it ... I understand that you should speak and listen to them,
and cross no wish of theirs, and in nothing displease and pain them.
But I do not understand the argument by which you involve the question
with other questions ... when you say, for instance, that I ‘ought not
to countenance the preposterousness and tyranny.’ How do I seem to
countenance what I revolt from? Do you mean that we ought to do what we
are about, _openly_? It is the only meaning I can attach to your words.
Well—If you choose it to be so, knowing what I have told you, _let_ it be
so. I can however, as I said yesterday, answer only for my will and mind,
and not for my strength and body—and if the end should be different from
the end you looked for, you will not blame me, being just, ... any more
than I shall blame myself. May God bless you, ever dearest!—
I am your own as ever.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, June 15, 1846.]
May I venture to speak to dearest Ba as if I had seen her or heard from
her since I wrote yesterday,—and that seeing or that hearing had brought
the usual comfort and assurance,—and forgiveness when needed, but delight
at all times? Do you forgive me indeed, Ba?
I shall know to-morrow—which ‘to-morrow’ is your _to_-day. I am soon to
be with you _to-day_. I trust there is [no] occasion to exercise fancy
and say—‘When we meet on your return from Tunbridge a month hence,’ or
two, or three ... to go on fancying! What should I do,—be able to do? and
if I understood you rightly the letter-communication would be hindered,
if not stopped altogether. Thus is one the sport of one’s own wishes.
Fine weather is desired ... fine enough to drive people out of town into
the country!
As it is, I have been sufficiently punished for that foolish letter,
which has lost me the last two or three days of your life and deeds, my
Ba. You went to Mr. Kenyon’s—may have gone elsewhere (and gathered roses
I did not deserve to receive)—but I do not know, and shall not recover my
loss—not ever ... because if you tell me _now_, you exclude something new
you would say otherwise ... if you write it on Tuesday, what becomes of
Tuesday’s own stock of matter for chronicling?
Well, the proper word in my mouth is—I am sorry to the heart, and will
try never to offend so again. How you wrote to me, also! How you rise
above yourself while I get no nearer where you were first of all, no
nearer than ever! But so it should be! so may it ever be!
I believe the fault comes from a too-sweet sense of the freedom of
being _true_ with you, telling you all, hiding nothing. Carlyle was
saying in his fine way, he understood why the Romans confined acting to
their slaves ... it was no employment for a free man to amuse people
... be bound to do that, and if other faculties interposed, tending
to other results on an audience than amusement, be bidden suppress
them accordingly ... and so, he thought, it would be one day with our
_amusers_, writers of fun, concocters of comic pieces. _I_ feel it
delicious to be free when most bound to you, Ba,—to be able to love on
in all the liberty of the implied subjection ... so I am angry _to_ you,
desponding sometimes _to_ you, as well as joyous and hopeful—well, well,
I _love_, at any rate,—do love you with heart and soul, my Ba,—ever shall
love you, dearest above all dearness: God bless you!
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, June 16, 1846.]
As to ‘practical sense’ I never saw, I confess, much to praise you
for—but you began by making a great profession of it, please to
remember—and, otherwise, you certainly ought to know more of the world
and the wisdom thereof than I, or you are _dull_, dearest mine, and one
might as well call the sun so on this burning dazzling morning, when
everything is at a white heat. Then for the ‘calmness’ ... I did not call
your eyes ‘green’ after all ... nor did I mean what you would force on
me for a meaning in the other way:—you pretend to misunderstand? Eyes,
at least, that had the mastery with me from the beginning! and it was so
long, so long (as you observed yourself), that I could not lift up mine
against them—they were the mystic crystal walls, so long!
After you were gone yesterday and I had done with the roses (exquisite
roses!) and had my coffee, I saw my uncle Hedley who had been inquiring
about me, said my sisters, all the afternoon, ... for it was he who came
when we heard the greetings on the stairs—and he told me that his wife
and daughter were to be in London early in July ... so that we shall have
the whole squadron sooner than we thought—drawn up like a very squadron
... my other aunt, Miss Clarke, coming at the same time, and my cousin
with her, Arlette Butler. But only those two will be in the house here,
and they will not be for very long, nor will they be much in the way, I
hope.
Shall I tell you? I repented yesterday ... I repented last night ... I
repent to-day, having made the promise you asked of me. I could scarcely
sleep at all last night, through thinking that I ought not to have made
it. Be generous, and free me from that promise. To be true to you in
the real right sense, I need no promises at all—and if an argument were
addressed to me _in order_ to _separate us_, I should see through the
piteous ingenuity of it, I think, whatever ground it took, and admit
no judgment and authority over your life to be higher than your own.
But I have misgivings about that promise, because I can conceive of
circumstances.... Loose me from my promise, and let me be grateful to
you, my beloved, in all things and ways, and hold you to be generous in
the least as in the greatest. What _I_ asked of _you_, was as different
as our positions are—different beyond what you see or can see. No third
person can see,—no second person can see ... what my position is and has
been ... I do not enter on it here. But there is just and only _one_ way
in which I may be injured by you, ... and _that_ is, in being allowed to
_injure you_—so remember, remember, ... to the last available moment.