you,—punished you ought to be for such a letter! When the ancients were
in doubt about a man’s identity (the ancient fathers) they called him
‘aut Erasmus (or whoever it might be) aut—diabolus!’—no gradation, no
mean between best and worst! Or do you think Flush bit me and inoculated
me with super-cynical snappishness? Well, I _do_ think I should not have
conducted myself as you consider highly possible,—even if you _had_
made, let me say at once, the _most_ preposterous of proposals, even
that of going _without_ Wilson, or her substitute. I think and am sure I
should, like a rational being, write all the faster to try and get you
to reconsider the matter—convinced as I should be that your perfect good
sense would, after a few minutes examination, see that I could no more
take you away without such assistance than desire you to perform the
passage of the Mont Cenis on foot. Do I not remember that you intended
to be thus accompanied even when your sister was to be of the party? But
the absolute necessity of what you fancy I may object to ... it is not
_that_, I complain about—but of the strange notion, that whenever Fate
shall decree that you say, or do, or think anything, from which I shall
be forced to differ,—my proceedings will needs take this fashion and
colour—I shall ‘sulk’ and _say_ nothing,—or perhaps turn aside grandly
offended and meditative of noble vengeance! Oh, Ba, dearest, dearest
beyond all words, come for _once_ and always _into_ the heart which is
your own, and see how full it is of you, and if you say, _that_ does
not prevent the head being weak and acting accordingly, I will begin
exemplifying the very point I want to convince you of by at once writing
and speaking and by every imaginable means making you know, that the
heart _does_ teach the head better than such foolishness—ought to do it,
and _does_ do it!
Do you believe me, Ba, my own? Or, what nonsense! Did you _wonder_
at my letter when it did come? Or _did_ it come? It was duly
posted at Deptford—moreover the ‘Thursday’ at the top was written
‘Wednesday’—because all day long I was in that error—having been used to
see you on Mondays, and to calculate my time by the number of days since
I saw you—whence, knowing to my cost that two days had gone by since such
an event, I thought what I wrote.
Now kiss me, my very own, for an end to every thing—your doubt and my
impudent making the most of it,—for I do not doubt _you_, sweetest,
truest, best love!
To-morrow brings me to you, Ba, I trust—I will be careful to-day, never
fear your
own devoted R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]
Why should you ask such a question of me yesterday, as to whether I loved
you as much then as ever? Love you as much? Why should I not love you
_more_? ... to give question for question. And it does seem to me, too,
that _my_ question is more reasonable than yours. ‘Is it afternoon at
six o’clock,’ you might have asked in the same breath with yours, and
touched, _so_, as questionable a matter.
Tell me how the evening passed at Mr. Kenyon’s. I have seen nobody
yet—not him, not Mrs. Jameson.
Seen nobody? Except all the Hedleys, who have just left my room. Do you
know, the pomp and circumstance, the noise and fuss and publicity of
this marriage of theirs happen just in time to make me satisfied with
‘quite the other principle’ as you said. The system they are carrying
out is detestable to its own extreme. Fifty or sixty people are to
breakfast at Fenton’s Hotel, ... with processions to and fro! ... which
altogether, though the bride will bear it very well, (for she has been
used to be a Belle _ex-officio_, and this business has been arranged by
her and for her—otherwise they would have all been in Paris) is likely,
I think, to half kill the bride’s mother. My poor aunt wonders how she
will get through it. To have to part with her daughter in that crowd! So
barbarous a system it is, this system of public marriages, under whatever
light considered. Both my sisters are invited; and so was _I_! (in vain)
and Henrietta officiates as a bridesmaid. Did I tell you that Arabella
Hedley is a glorious convert to Puseyism, as might have been expected,
and talked here like a theologian a few days since, and ‘considered the
dissenters in a most dangerous position,’ much to the amusement of my
brothers.
What am I writing of all this time? Dearest, how did you get home
yesterday through the ambush at Mr. Kenyon’s? Tell me everything. And
_know_ that I love you ‘as much,’ my own beloved!—you may know it.
When Flush came into the room and had spoken to me (in the
Flush-language) and had examined your chair, he suddenly fell into a
rapture and reminded me that the cakes you left, were on the table. So I
explained thoroughly to him that _you_ had brought them for him, and that
he ought to be properly ashamed therefore for his past wickedness, and
make up his mind to love you and not bite you for the future—and then he
was allowed to profit from your goodness to him. How _over_-good of you!
It is an encouragement to throw coffee-cups, ... such over-goodness!
Nobody knew of your being here yesterday—at least, not that _I_ know!
So Tuesday looks brightly, at a distance. At a distance! The day after
to-morrow! Ah, it seems too near! Too near, in the sense of saying ‘_Too
good_ ... to be true.’
I will write the paper as you bid me. Only, in the face of all that is
to come, I solemnly tell you that neither I nor mine ... certainly not
I ... will consent to an act of injustice, disinheriting my last hours
(whenever they shall come) of a natural satisfaction. You are noble in
all things—but this will not be in your power—I will not discuss it so as
to teaze you. Your reputation is dear to me of course ... the thoughts
which men shall have of you in the least matter, I would choose to keep
clean ... free from every possible taint. But it will be obvious to all,
that if you pleased, you might throw out of the windows everything called
mine, the moment after our marriage—interest and principal—why not? And
if you abstain from this, and after your own death allow the sum which
originally came from my family, to relapse there ... why it is all of
pure generosity on your part—and they will understand it as I do, ... as
generosity ... as more than justice. Well—let _that_ be! It is your act,
and not mine, letting it be—and I have no objection to show you what my
wishes are, (mere wishes), so helping you to carry out such an act in the
best way. I send you the paper therefore—to that end—and only that end.
There, you must stop—I never will consent to the extravagance you propose
about yourself. You shall not, _if you love me_, think of carrying it
out. If I thought you _could be so hard on me_, ... do you know, I would
rather throw it all up now into the hands of my sisters, and be poor
with you at once—I could bear _that_ so much better than the thoughts of
_leaving_ you to be poor. Or, would you be easier, dearest—if a _part_
were relinquished _now_? would it make you easier ... and would you
promise me, _so_, that what is mine should be accepted as yours to the
end? The worst is that if I were ill, I should be a burden to you, and
thus we might have reasons for regret. Still it shall be as pleases you
best. But _I_ must be pleased a little too. It is _fair_ that I should.
Certainly you exaggerate to yourself the position. What would have become
of you if you had loved a real heiress instead? That _would_ have been
a misfortune. As it is, while you are plotting how to get rid of these
penny-pieces, everybody will be pitying you for having fixed yourself
in such conditions of starvation. _You_, who _might_—_have married Miss
Burdett Coutts_!
See how I teaze you!—first promising not to teaze you! But always I am
worse than I meant to be. Wasn’t it your fault a little for bringing
up this horrible subject?—but here is the paper, the only sort of
‘settlement’ we shall have! Always I have said and sworn that I never, if
I married, would have a settlement—and now I thank God to be able to keep
my word so. _This_ only is a settlement of the question.
Beloved, how is your head? I love you out of the deepest of my heart, and
shall not cease.
Your very own
BA.
Is this what is called a _document_? It seems to me that I have a
sort of legal genius—and that I should be on the Woolsack in the
Martineau. Parliament. But it seems, too, rather _bold_ to attach such a
specification to your name. Laugh and pardon it all!
In compliance with the request of Robert Browning, who may
possibly become my husband, that I would express in writing my
wishes respecting the ultimate disposal of whatever property I
possess at this time, whether in the funds or elsewhere, ... I
here declare my wishes to be ... that he, Robert Browning, ...
having, of course, as it is his right to do, first held and
used the property in question for the term of his natural life,
... should bequeath the same, by an equal division, to my two
sisters, or, in the case of the previous death of either or
both of them, to such of my surviving brothers as most shall
need it by the judgment of my eldest surviving brother.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.
Wimpole Street: July, 1846.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]
Mr. Kenyon said nothing,—except a few words at dinner about the mistake
of Talfourd, to Forster,—nothing whatever, though we sat together and
talked for some time before the arrival of the company. And all that I
heard about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some wish she
meant to express in a letter, of seeing me there. So you will have to
tell me and tell me, dearest, when you know anything—to-day perhaps.
My own Ba, _do not refer to what we spoke of_—the next vile thing to
the vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding _that_,—painfully,
ostentatiously, protesting and debating—only it seemed absolutely
necessary to say thus much at some time, and early:—now it is done
with,—you understanding what I expect at your hands.
Mr. Longman was of the party yesterday—speaking of Haydon, he remarked
on his omitting to mention in the list of his creditors, ‘the House’—to
which he owed about 100_l._ being the loss consequent on publishing his
‘Book’—the Lectures, I suppose—then, in a break, he said, in answer to a
question from Forster, that the Book in question had gone into a second
edition, but ‘Oh, no—the Author had received nothing for it!’ And he
lost the money, poor fellow, besides! Is not that inexplicable to all
save booksellers? Also, what could be his need for another person’s
intermediation with the Longmans since he knew them so well and so long!
I hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on Tuesday. Do you think
I am any longer able to appreciate properly the additional gift of the
day in the week? I only know that I do not see you _now_, my Ba—and
I feel as if I were—the words must not be written! I need _all_ of
you,—utterly dearest dearest that you are! My next day, _my_ ‘Sunday’
is the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted time (in the worldly sense
of not working in it) as at present,—I read books and at the turning of
every page go back again for shame ... the words only before the eyes,
the thoughts of you before the mind.
I found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our indefatigable
Bennett,—the happy man! By the way (a very roundabout one), someone
mentioned yesterday as an agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in
Sydney Smith, that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally
pour water down, or _up_, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for coolness’
sake. Nobody made a remark—nor spoke of such a feat’s disqualifying its
performer from going into good society. Now do you remember poor Horne
and the censorship of his manners?—were not his more rational libations
found abominable? See the association—Bennett—Miss Mitford—Horne? But
I cannot write sensibly to-day, nor _in_sensibly, which would be more
amusing perhaps—I can only know I am—_here_, on Sunday!—and whatever the
pen may force itself to put down, my one thought is, that you are not
here. To-morrow I shall hear, and get fresh strength in the anticipation
of Tuesday,—if the letter tells me you are well—the ‘headache for two
days,’—tell me, my own Ba!
Bless you, ever best and dearest.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]
That is sufficient, ever dearest: now dismiss the matter from your
thoughts, as I shall—having forced myself once to admit that most
dreadful of possibilities and to provide for it, I need not have
compunction at dwelling on the brighter, better chances which God’s
previous dispensations encourage me to expect. There may be even a
_claimant_, instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can
bequeath—who knows? For which reason, but most of all for the stronger
yourself adduce—the contingency of your illness—I do not ask you to
‘relinquish a part’—not as our arrangements now are ordered: for I have
never been so foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of
my obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain respects
I should have preferred to try the first course,—at the beginning
at least, when my faculties seemed more my own and that ‘end of the
summer’ had a less absorbing interest (as I perceive now)—yet, as that
is not to be, I have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on
my exertions,—which I could not be _sure_ of,—particularly with this
uncertain head of mine. I hope when we once are together, the world will
not hear of us again until the very end—it would be horrible to have to
come back to it and ask its help.
I wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit—our Tuesday would be safer—I shall
be with you _unless_ a letter forbids. I can only say this now, because I
expect my visitors nearly directly,—Moxon and Forster, do you remember?
And the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I should fill
sheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell you how I love
you—‘more than ever’—I am wholly your own, dearest dearest.
Pat Flush for me—after having let me kiss you, Ba!
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 28, 1846.]
Ever dearest, your ‘Hush’ came too late. I had spoken. Do not blame
me however,—for I do not blame myself. It was not very possible that
I should allow your fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath.
Nevertheless we will not carry on this discussion any farther: my simple
protest is enough for the present,—and we shall have time, I hope, in
the future, for your nobleness to unteach itself from being too proud.
At any rate, let the subject _be_, now! I mentioned my ‘eldest surviving
brother’ in that way in the paper, because he is put out of the question
by the estates being entailed ... the Jamaica estates, I mean. And now,
to have done! Unless I could _make you easier_—!
Dearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday ... for my aunt goes out and we
shall have a clear ground. Ah—can it be true that you wish me to be with
you _so_—dearest, dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after?
Yet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections, always. Let them
count for something, that it may not be entirely an absence.
Bennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my coffee on the little tray
on Saturday, there was a Bennett ready on one corner. Then I must not
forget to tell you how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine?) writes of
you to _me_, ... speaking what she little knows the effects of ... ‘I
hope,’ she says, ‘that you admire “Luria” greatly. I don’t know whether
you will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I feel inclined to call
Browning the greatest dramatic genius we have had for hundreds of years.’
Can anybody be more than the ‘greatest’ to anybody? Half inclined I
might be to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you—yet no. Dearest
is greater than Greatest ... even if one Greatest were not greater than
another.
As to my headache, you might as well enquire about Troy—_Fait_. It was
the air, perhaps—the heat or the cold ... the causes are forgotten with
the effects. And, since I began this letter, I have been out with my
aunt and Henrietta, the former having visits to pay in all the noisiest
streets of the town, as appeared to me. The stone pavements seemed to
accumulate on all sides to run to meet us, and I was stunned and giddy,
and _am_ so tired that I shall finish my letter in a hurry, looking to
to-morrow. We were out nearly three hours. Think of travelling three
hours in a ‘Diligence,’ with a Clap of Thunder! It may be something like
_that_! And as we were coming homeward ... there was Mr. Kenyon! He
shook hands through the window and declared that he was on the point of
paying a visit to me, holding up as witness, his lump of sugar for Flush
... which Flush leapt from the other side of the carriage to accept,
_ore rotundo_. Then the next word was ... ‘Did you see our friend B.’
... (pronounced Bee) ... ‘on Saturday.?’ ‘No,’ said I ... saying no
for yes in the confusion ... ‘but I shall to-morrow.’ ‘He dined with
me,’ continued Mr. Kenyon. The sound of which struck me into a fit of
clairvoyance and I had to unsay myself with an ‘Oh yes—I _did_ see him on
Saturday.’ Mr. Kenyon must have thought me purely stupid or foolish or
something of the sort—and really I agree with him. To imagine my telling
in that unsolicited way, too, both to my aunt and himself, that you were
coming here to-morrow! So provoking! Well—it can’t be helped. He won’t
come to-morrow in any case.
And _you_ will! Dearest, how glad I am that you are coming!
Being your own
BA.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]
Dearest, as I lost nearly an hour of you to-day, I make amends to myself
by beginning to write to you as if I had not seen you at all. A large
sheet of paper, too, has flown into my hands—the Fates giving ample room
and verge enough, my characters ... not ‘of _Hell_’ ... to trace, _as_ I
am not going to swear at Mr. Kenyon, whatever the provocation! Dear Mr.
Kenyon!
It appears that he talked to my sisters some time before he let himself
be announced to me—he said to them ‘I want to talk to you ... sit down
by me and listen.’ Then he began to tell them of Mrs. Jameson, repeating
what _you_ told me, of her desire to take me to Italy, ... and of her
earnestness about it. To which, he added, he had replied by every
representation likely to defeat those thoughts—that only a relative
would be a fit companion for me, and that no person out of my family
could be justified in accepting such a responsibility, on other grounds,
entering on the occurrences of last year, and reasoning on from them to
the possibility that if I offended by an act of disobedience, I might
be ‘cast off’ as for a crime. Oh—poor Papa was not spared at all—not to
Mrs. Jameson, not to my sisters. Mr. Kenyon said ... ‘It is painful to
you perhaps to hear me talk so, but it is a sore subject with me, and I
cannot restrain the expression of my opinions.’ He ‘had told Mrs. Jameson
everything—it was due to her to have a full knowledge, he thought ... and
he had tried to set before her the impossibility she was under, of doing
any good.’ Then he asked my sisters ... if I ever spoke of Italy ... if
they thought I dwelt on the idea of it. ‘Yes,’ they answered ‘in _their_
opinion, I had made up my mind to go.’ ‘But _how_? what is the practical
side of the question? She can’t go alone—and which of you will go with
her? You know, last year, she properly rejected the means which involved
you in danger.’ Henrietta advised that nothing should be said or done.
‘Ba must do everything for herself. Her friends cannot help her. She must
help herself.’ ‘But she must not go to Italy by herself. Then, _how_?’
‘She has determination of character,’ continued Henrietta—‘She will
surprise everybody some day.’
‘_But how?_’—Mr. Kenyon repeated ... looking uneasy. (And how imprudent
of Henrietta to say _that_! I have been scolding her a little.)
The discussion ended by his instructing them to tell _me_ of Mrs.
Jameson’s proposal; ‘because it was only right that I should have the
knowledge of her generous kindness, though for his part, he did not like
to agitate me by conversing on the subject.’
Yes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having had some conversation
with my uncle Hedley, who was ‘very angry’—and he asked if my aunt Hedley
had no influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered in the
negative. And this is all. He appears to have no ‘plan’ of his particular
own.
What do you say, Robert, to all this? Since I am officially _informed_ of
Mrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank her certainly—and in what words?
‘_How_’!——as Mr. Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and
thank her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but the
secret of _there being a secret_ with the weight of which I am unwilling
to oppress her at this time. Could it be done, I wonder? Perhaps not.
Yet how hard, how very difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily,
and be silent wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship! And a
_whole confidence_ now is dangerous ... would torment her with a sense of
responsibility. Think which way it should be.
Once you asked me about joining travelling-company, with Mrs. Jameson.
Should you like it? prefer it for any cause? ... if it could be done
without involving her in trouble, of course.
Ah, dearest ... what a loss the three quarters of an hour were to me!
like the loss of four quarters of a moon on a dark night! When dear Mr.
Kenyon came to me, he found me with my thoughts astray—following you
up the street! He asked how long you had been here.... ‘Some time,’ I
said—by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my answers were
not so apt!—were more like ‘cross-questions,’ perhaps, than answers
of the common. But he roused me a little by telling me that he wanted
you to ‘make an excursion’ with Landor and himself, and that you did
not ‘encourage the idea’—and by proceeding to tell me further, that at
a dinner the other day at his house, your poetry being taken up and
praised to the right measure, before that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote
a letter by the morning’s post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that
he (Mr. Reade) should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits
‘of a brother-bard,’ but that Edmund Reade _could not_ recognize Robert
Browning as a master-mind of the period, for reasons, which were given
at length. ‘_He_, (Robert Browning) had never rushed, with a passionate
genius, into the production of long poems’ ... (like ‘Italy’) ‘and long
dramas’ ... (like ... like ... what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last?)
Poor, wretched man! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in compassion too
tender toward humanity! Also he told me your excellent story on the
stairs.
On the stairs! I heard the talking and the laughing, and felt ready to
cry out the burden. Well—, Saturday will come, as surely as _you_ could
go. May God bless you, my own!—are you my own? and not rather, yes,
rather, far rather, _I_ am your own, your very own
BA.
I doubt your being able to read what is written. Only don’t send the
‘manuscript’ to Mr. Forster, to be interpreted ... after the fashion of
others!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]