love? Ah, dearest,—_you_ to wonder I could look up to you for ever as you
stand,—you who once wrote to me that, in order to verify a date about
Shelley in a book I lent you, ‘You had accomplished a journey to the
other end of the room, even’! And _now_! I thankfully _know_ this to be
miraculous—nor have I to ask my spiritual director’s opinion thereon—to
whom, how on earth can one surrender one’s private right of judgment when
it is only by the exercise of that very right that I select him from
the multitude of would-be directors of me and the whole world? What but
a deliberate act of judgment takes up Dr. Pusey of Oxford rather than
Mrs. Fox of Finsbury—and is it for _that_ pernicious first step that I
determine on never risking a second?
Bless you, ever dearest—and do you bless your
very own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]
Dearest, the leaf of yesterday was folded down quite smoothly and softly.
A dinner party swept the thought of you out of people’s minds. Otherwise
I was prepared to be a little afraid,—for my aunt said to Arabel, upon
being dispensed with so cavalierly from this room, ... (said in the
passage, Arabel told me, with a half-laugh,) ‘Pray which of Ba’s lovers
may _this_ be?’ So Arabel had to tell the name of the visitor. But the
dinner-party set all right, and this morning I was asked simply whether
it had been an agreeable visit, and what you had written, and banalities
after such a fashion.
Oh, and I went out ... remembering your desire ... was it not a desire,
dearest, dearest? I went out, any way—but the wind blew, and I had to
hold my veil against my mouth, doubled, and trebled ... with as many
folds, indeed, as Ajax’s shield ... to keep myself in breathing order.
The wind always gives me a sort of strangling sensation, which is the
effect, I suppose, of having weak lungs. So it was not a long walk, but I
liked it because you seemed to be with me still,—and Arabel, who walked
with me, was ‘sure, without being told, that I had had a happy visit,
just from my manner.’ The wisest of interpreters, I called her, and _pour
cause_.
If ever I mistake you, Robert, doing you an injustice, ... you ought
to be angry, I think, _rather_ and _more_ with me than with another—I
should have far less excuse it appears to me, for making such a mistake,
than any other person in the world. I thought so yesterday when you
were speaking, and now upon consideration I think so with an increasing
certainty. Is it your opinion that the members of our family, ... those
who live with us always, ... know us best? They know us on the side we
offer to them ... a bare profile ... or the head turned round to the
ear—yes!—they do not, except by the merest chance, look into our eyes.
They know us in a conventional way ... as far from God’s way of knowing
us, as from the world’s—mid-way, it is—and the truest and most cordial
and tender affection will not hinder this from being so partial a
knowledge. Love! I love those who at the present moment, ... who love me
(and tenderly on both sides) ... but who are so far from _understanding_
me, that I never think of speaking myself into their ears ... of trying
to speak myself. It is wonderful, it is among the great mysteries of
life, to observe how people can love one another in the dark, blindly
... loving without knowing. And, as a matter of general observation, if
I sought to have a man or woman revealed to me in his or her innermost
nature, I would not go to the _family_ of the person in question—though I
should learn there best, of course, about personal habits, and the social
bearing of him or her. George Sand delights me in one of her late works,
where she says that the souls of blood relations seldom _touch_ except at
one or two points. Perfectly true, _that_ is, I think—perfectly.
Remember how you used to say that I did not know you ... which was true
in a measure ... yet I felt I knew you, and I did actually know you, in
another larger measure. And if _now_ you are not known to me altogether,
it is my dulness which makes me unknowing.
But I know you—and I should be without excuse if ever I wronged you with
a moment’s injustice. I do not think I ever could depreciate you for a
moment,—_that_ would not be possible. There are other sins against you
(_are_ they against you?) which bring their own punishment! You shall
never be angry with me for those.
While I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon. As usual he said that there was no
use in his coming—that you had taken his place, and so on. He was in a
high good humour, though, and spirits, and I did not mind much what he
was pleased to say. More I minded, that he means ‘to stay in London all
the summer’ ... which I can’t be glad of, ... though I was glad at his
not persisting in going to Scotland against his own wishes. But he might
like to go somewhere else—it would be a pleasure, _that_, in which I
should sympathize! The more shame for me!
Mr. Chorley pleases me more _than he ever pleased me before_! Only,
as an analysis, he has done curiously with ‘Pippa.’ But it is good
appreciation, good and righteous, and he has given me, altogether, a
great, great deal of pleasure. As to the letter, I liked that too in its
degree—and the advice is wise for the head, if foolish for the work. How
_can_ wise people be so foolish?
I am going out to walk now with Henrietta, and shall put this letter into
the post with my own hand. It is seven p.m. May God bless you. Do say how
you are, dear, dearest!
I am your very own BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]
Certainly you _do_ know me, my own Ba, beyond all other knowledge
possible to relatives,—_that_ I know—in fact, I found myself speaking
unwarily on a subject where speech is obliged to stop abruptly—the fault
was mine for bringing up terms, remarks &c. quite inapplicable out of
this house,—where all, as you understand, have seen me so long that they
do not see differences in me,—increases or diminutions; I am twice as
blind, most likely, to _them_, after the same fashion. Still, one is slow
to concede an excuse to such blindness—hence the ‘hasty words’ I told you
they charge me with uttering.
I apprehend no danger from _that_, to your feeling for me—it is your
own speech my Ba, which I will take from you, and use—my own general
short-comings, you will inevitably see and be sorry for—but there will
be the more need of your love, which I shall go on asking for daily and
nightly as if I never could have enough—which is the exact fact; and
also, I shall grow fitter through the love to be what you would have me,
so the end may be better than the beginning, let us hope.
Will you not do what you can with me who am your very own? as you are my
own too, but for a different end—I am yours to operate on, as you are my
only lady to dispose of what belongs to you. Dear, dearest Ba, it _is_
so; will ever be so!
Yes, that notice by Chorley is very kind and gratifying. I
wanted—(_quite_ apart from the poor good to me or my books—but for
Chorley’s own sake, I rather wanted)—some decided streak of red, or spot,
or spark,—some life in the increasing grey of the ashes—this is true,
_live_ lovingness of him—I will tell him so.
For Domett’s letter,—he means, by all that nonsense, that my health is
more in his estimation than any works producible at its expense. All the
calculation about so many lines a day, so many a month &c., _he_ knows
to be absurd ... you _can’t_ write ‘so many lines to-day,’ and add next
day’s complement, and so ‘grow to an end’—any more than you can paint
a picture by thumb-breadths. The other paragraph about intelligibility
laughs at itself all the time ... is not to be taken for serious.
Indeed I _did_ desire with a great desiring that you should go out, and
now I thank you for all the good account of the walk, and victory over
the wind: and how kind that sister is!—I shall never forget it.
My own head, since you _will_ be teazed with intelligence about it, was
not very well yesterday, but is better decidedly this morning—_I_, too,
will go and put this letter in the post and think of to-morrow ... for do
not I keep to-morrow? I shall be with you unless another order comes ...
may it be averted! And may you be happy always _with_ me, as I shall be
through you ... nay, but half as happy, dearest Ba, my very own!
Your R.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]
How I long, my sweetest Ba, to know whether any heavy price is to be paid
for our three hours yesterday,—if your Aunt knew or has discovered since?
I shall not murmur in any case, I hope ... they are too delicious, these
three-hour visits—and if _I_ could pay for them by myself, Ba,—what
would I not pay?
Will you let me write something, and forgive me? Because it is, I
know, quite unnecessary to be written, and, beside, may almost seem an
interference with your own delicacy,—teaching it its duty! However, I
will venture to go on, with your hand before my two eyes. Then,—you
remember what we were speaking of yesterday,—house-rents and styles of
living? You will never overlook, through its very obviousness, that to
consult my feelings on the only point in which they are sensitive to the
world you must endeavour to live as simply and cheaply as possible, down
to my own habitual simplicity and cheapness,—so that you shall come and
live with me, in a sense, rather than I with Miss Campbell! You see, Ba,
if you have more money than you want, you shall save it or spend it in
pictures or parrots or what you please ... you avoid all offence to _me_
who never either saved money nor spent it—but the large house, I should
be forced to stay in,—the carriage, to enter, I suppose. And you see
too, Ba, that the one point on which I desire the world to be informed
concerning our future life, will be that it is ordered _so_—I wish they
could hear we lived in one room like George Sand in ‘that happy year—’
No, there I have put down an absurdity—because, I shall have to confess
a weakness, at some time or other, which is hardly reconcilable to that
method of being happy—why may I not tell you now, my adored Ba, to whom I
tell everything as it rises to me? Now put the hand on my eyes again—now
that I have kissed it. I shall begin by begging a separate room from
yours—I could never brush my hair and wash my face, I do think, before my
own father—I could not, I am sure, take off my coat before you _now_—why
should I ever? The kitchen is an unknown horror to me,—I come to the
dining-room for whatever repast there may be,—nor willingly stay too
long there,—and on the day on which poor Countess Peppa taught me how
maccaroni is made,—_then_ began a quiet revolution, (indeed a rapid one)
against ‘tagliolini, ‘fettucce, ‘lasagne,’ etc., etc., etc.—typical,
typical!
What foolishness ... spare me, my own Ba, and don’t answer one word,—do
not even laugh,—for I _know_ the exceeding unnecessary foolishness of it!
Chorley has just sent me a note which I will send you because it is most
graceful in its modesty—but you must not, if you please, return it to me
in an envelope that ought only to hold your own writing,—and so make my
heart beat at first, and my brows knit at last! (Toss it into ‘my room,’
at Pisa!!)
Thus it is to be made happy and unwise! Never mind—make me happier still
by telling me you are well and have been out, and where, and when, and
how—the footsteps of you, Ba, should be kissed if I could follow them.
Bless you, ever dearest, dearest, as yesterday, and always you bless me—I
love you with all my heart and soul—_yes_ Ba!
Your own, very own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]
I did not go out yesterday, and was very glad not to have a command laid
on me to go out, the wind blew so full of damp and dreariness. Then it
was pleasanter to lie on the sofa and think of you, which I did, till
at last I actually dreamed of you, falling asleep for that purpose. As
to Flush, he came up-stairs with a good deal of shame in the bearing of
his ears, and straight to me—no indeed! I would not speak to him—then he
went up to Arabel ... ‘naughty Flush, go away’ ... and Wilson, ... who
had whipped him before, ‘because it was right,’ she said ... in a fit of
poetical justice, ... did not give him any consolation. So he lay down
on the floor at my feet looking from under his eyebrows at me. I did
not forgive him till nearly eight o’clock however. And I have not yet
given him your cakes. Almost I am inclined to think now that he has not
_a soul_. To behave so to you! It is nearly as bad as if I had thrown the
coffee-cup! Wicked Flush!—Do you imagine that I scolded Wilson when she
confessed to having whipped him? I did not. It was done with her hand,
and not very hardly perhaps, though ‘he cried,’ she averred to me—and
if people, like Flush, choose to behave like dogs savagely, they must
take the consequences indeed, as dogs usually do! And _you_, so good and
gentle to him! Anyone but _you_, would have said ‘hasty words’ at least.
I think I shall have a muzzle for him, to make him harmless while he
learns to know you. Would it not be a good plan?
But nobody heard yesterday of either your visit or of Flush’s misdoings
... so Wilson was discreet, I suppose, as she usually is, by the instinct
of her vocation. Of all the persons who are _not_ in our confidence, she
has the most certain knowledge of the truth. Dearest, we shall be able to
have Saturday. There will be no danger in it.
Perhaps in the days to come we shall look back on these days as covetable
things. Will _you_ do so, because you were loved in them as a beginning,
or because you were _free_? (Am _I_ not as bad as Flush, to ask such
questions?) _I_ shall look back on these days gratefully and gladly,
because the good in them has overcome the evil, for the first time in
days of mine. Yet my position is worse than yours on some accounts—_now_.
Henrietta has had a letter from Capt. Surtees Cook who says in it, she
says, ... ‘I hope that poor Ba will have courage to the end.’ There’s a
generous sympathy! Tell me that there is none in the world!
Will you let me know how you are? Such a letter you wrote to me on
Sunday! Ah!—to _be anything to you_ ... what is the colour of _ambition_
afterwards? When I look forwards I can see no work and no rest, but what
is for you and in you. Even Duty seems to concentrate itself into one
Debt—Dearest!
Yet it will be a little otherwise perhaps!—not that ever I shall love you
otherwise or less—No.
You shall see some day at Pisa what I will not show you now. Does not
Solomon say that ‘there is a time to read what is written.’ If he
doesn’t, he _ought_.
Your very own BA.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]
Dearest, what you say is unnecessary for you to say—it is in everything
_so_ of course and obvious! You must have an eccentric idea of _me_ if
you can suppose for a moment such things to be necessary to say. If they
had been _unsaid_, it would have been precisely the same, believe me, in
the event.
As to the way of living—now you shall arrange _that_ for yourself. You
shall choose your own lodging, order your own dinner ... and if you
choose to live on locusts and wild honey, I promise not to complain
... I shall not indeed be _inclined_ to complain ... having no manner
of ambition about carriages and large houses, even if they were within
our possibilities,—which they may not be, according to Mr. Surtees’s
calculation or experience. The more simply we live, the better for _me_!
So you shall arrange it for yourself, lest I should make a mistake! ...
which, in _that_ question, is a just possible thing.
One extravagance I had intended to propose to you ... but it shall be
exactly as you like, and I hesitate a little as I begin to speak of it.
I have thought of taking Wilson with me, ... for a year, say, if we
returned then—if not, we might send her home alone ... and by that time,
I should be stronger perhaps and wiser ... rather less sublimely helpless
and impotent than I am now. My sisters have urged me a good deal in this
matter—but if you would rather it were otherwise, be honest and say so,
and let me alter my thoughts at once. There is one consideration which I
submit to yours, ... that I cannot leave this house with the necessary
number of shoes and pocket handkerchiefs, without help from somebody. Now
whoever helps me, will suffer through me. If I left her behind she would
be turned into the street before sunset. Would it be right and just of
me, to permit it? Consider! I must manage a sheltering ignorance for my
poor sisters, at the last, ... and for all our sakes. And in order to
_that_, again, I must have some one else in my confidence. Whom, again, I
would unwillingly single out for an absolute _victim_.
Wilson is attached to me, I believe—and, in all the discussions about
Italy, she has professed herself willing to ‘go anywhere in the world
with me.’ Indeed I rather fancy that she was disappointed bitterly last
year, and that it would not be a pure devotion. She is an expensive
servant—she has sixteen pounds a year, ... but she has her utilities
besides, and is very amiable and easily satisfied, and would not add
to the expenses, or diminish from the economies, even in the matter
of room—_I_ would manage _that_ for her. Then she would lighten your
responsibilities ... as the Archbishop of Canterbury and company do Mr.
Bevan’s. Well—you have only to consider your own wishes. I shall not care
many straws, if you decide this way or that way. Let it be as may seem to
you wisest.
I like Mr. Chorley’s note. I began to write so late that _I_, too, must
send you a bare note to-night. May God bless you, ever dearest. I am
tired ... so tired—yet I have not a long story to tell you of myself
for the day’s chronicle I was just out for the few minutes my walking
occupies, and came home and had coffee at half-past four; and scarcely
was the cup empty, when Mrs. Jameson arrived—she stayed while you might
count to a hundred—and your name was not once mentioned. And now,
good-night. I hope the ‘testimonials’ may be ‘satisfactory,’ in this
note which will not wait to be a letter! Dearest, say how your head is—do.
I am your Ba, always!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]
I have just returned from Town and Mr. Kenyon’s, my own Ba. I called,
according to compact, to point out the precise way he must go to reach
us. He seemed to make sure I was going to Wimpole Street—‘Oh, no!’
So, losing Wimpole Street, I made haste home, and gain my letter,—my dear
letter: yesterday night, too, the first letter arrived duly—you perfect
in kindness!
My dearest—dearest,—you might go to Pisa without shoes,—or feet to wear
them, for aught I know, since you may have wings, only folded away from
me—but without your Wilson, or some one in her capacity, you ... no,
I will not undertake to speak of _you_; then, _I_, should be simply,
exactly, INSANE to move a step; I would rather propose, let us live on
bread and water, and sail in the hold of a merchant-ship; THIS CANNOT be
dispensed with! It is most fortunate, most providential, that Wilson is
inclined to go—I am _very_ happy; for a new servant, with even the best
dispositions, would never be able to anticipate your wants and wishes
during the voyage, at the very beginning. Yet you write of this to me
_so_, my Ba! I think I will, in policy, begin the anger at a good place.
Yes, all the anger I am capable of descends on the head—(not in kisses,
whatever you may fancy).
And so poor Flush suffered after all! Dogs that are dog-like would
be at no such pains to tell you they would not see you with comfort
approached by a stranger who might be—! A ‘muzzle’? oh, no,—but suppose
you have him removed next time, and perhaps the next, till the whole
occurrence is out of his mind as the fly bite of last week—because, if
he sees me and begins his barking and valiant snapping, and gets more
and heavier vengeance down-stairs, perhaps,—his transient suspicion of
me will confirm itself into absolute dislike, hatred, whereas, after an
interval, we can renew acquaintance on a better footing. Dogs have such
memories! My sister told me last week she saw in a provincial newspaper
an anecdote of one,—a miller’s dog, that was a good fellow in the main,
but chose to take an especial dislike to one of his master’s customers,
whom he invariably flew at and annoyed—so much so that the man declared
he must carry his custom elsewhere unless the dog was parted with:
this the miller was unwilling to do; so he hit on an expedient—by some
contrivance, the dog was suffered to fall into a deep well, and bark
himself hoarse there in vain—no help came—till the obnoxious individual
arrived, let himself down and brought up the prisoner. From which time
nothing could exceed the devotion of the dog to his rescuer; whom he
always insisted henceforth on accompanying as far as his home, for one
instance of it.
I wonder whether I have anywhere one of the sketches my father made of my
bulldog’s face.
What ‘tired’ you, dearest? You are not _less_ well, I trust? Pray tell
me,—and remember there are three days before our Saturday. I am very much
better—the walking and riding of this morning did me good, too—and what
profits it, if you are not better also? Love me in caring for yourself,
which is _my_ truest self! And I will go on and try to love you more than
I do—for what may happen?
Ever your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]
No letter for me to-night! not a word!—Perhaps the post is sinning again.
If so, I shall hear to-morrow morning, if not ... may it be anything
rather than that you are more unwell than usual! anything!
There is not much to say on my part. I had a letter from Miss Mitford
this morning, and she encloses to me ... you will not guess what—a lyric
of the ubiquitous Bennett—the ‘Mignonette.’ Are you not amused? That’s
the way to ‘agitate’ for readers and praisers. She sees something in
Bennett. He is to be ‘heard of in our literature.’ She shed tears over
the ‘Mignonette,’ herself—
Your portrait of Victor Hugo, I like less and less—there is something
ignoble in the face—and even the forehead is rather big than large. _He_
does not ‘look like a poet’ in any case—now does he?
Dearest, did I annoy you ... frighten you, ... about Wilson yesterday?
Did _that_ prevent you from writing to me to-day—if really you did not
write to me to-day? It yet was the merest _question_, ... I wished you
to understand—the merest question for a yes or a no—and I shall not
mind, _however_ you may answer, be certain. I have been thinking to-day
that it would be possible enough to leave a direction which might supply
everything, and so escape inflicting the injury apprehended—yes, and as
for myself, I shall manage perfectly. Observe how I pinned your coat,
miraculously pricking you at the same moment. I shall do for myself and
by myself, as well as possible. And therefore, judge, speak your thoughts
out to the purpose and without drawback. I shall always feel to thank you
for speaking the _truth_, even where it goes against me. But _this_ will
not go against me, _however_ you speak it, ... understand.
And as for what my sisters think, it is nothing to the purpose. Say
your ‘no,’ and they never shall hear it. I will avoid the subject from
henceforth, with them ... _that_ is all.
And take care of Mr. Kenyon to-morrow. I feel afraid of Mr. Kenyon. But
take care of yourself most—look well that you never let me do, in the
least or greatest matter, what would seem better undone hereafter. Not
in the least, not in the greatest. For me, if I am to be thought of,
remember that you _kill_ me, if you suffer me to injure you. That is for
_me_.
See how I exhort people who do not write to me!... Ah no! It must be the
post’s fault. You could not be very much vexed with me, I think, for a
mere proposal about Wilson. And the rest of my letter was all made up
of assent and agreement. You could not be vexed about Wilson. And you
_shall_ not be ill, because I cannot bear to think of it—which, dearest,
is a good reason and irrefragable.
The Hedleys dine here, and others. I hear the voices and the laughing. I
wish I could, your voice, as near. May God bless you ... bless you—
Your own BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]