cares for me—it _is_ hard to dare to settle whether the pain of the
lost quarters of the hour yesterday be not balanced by the gladness
and gain of this letter; as it is hard saying whether to kiss your
hand (mind, only the hand!) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you
and only seeing: you cause me abundance of _such_ troubles, dearest,
best, divinest that you are! Oh, how _can_ you, blessing me so, speak
as you spoke yesterday—for the _first_ time! I thought you would only
write such suppositions, such desires—(for it was a desire) ... and
that along with you I was safe from them,—yet you are adorable amid
it all—only I _do_ feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell—no, not
_now_ I feel it,—this letter is before my heart like the hand on my
eyes. I feel this letter, only—how good, good, good of you to write it!
Yes, I _did_ meet Mr. Kenyon on the stairs—with a half opened door that
discovered sundry presences, and _then_ had I to speak of a sudden—put
it to my credit on one side that I _did_ speak and laugh; and on the
other side, that I did neither _too à propos_. He most kindly (SEEING
IT ALL) began asking about Forster and Moxon—and I remember some kind
of stammering remark of the latter which I retailed ... to the effect
that ‘now would be a favourable time to print a volume of poems’—this I
did, to _seem_ to have something on my mind calling for a consultation
with you! Then he made that proposal about Landor and Mr. Eagles ...
whether I ‘encouraged the idea,’ or no, it encouraged me, and helped
me a good deal this morning,—for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a
pressing letter to invite me to go to Ireland,—I should have yachting
and other delights,—and I was glad to return for an answer, that I had
an engagement, ‘conditional on my accepting any.’ As for my ‘excellent
story on the stairs’—you _alarm_ me! Upon my honour, I have not the least
recollection of having told one, or said another word than the above
mentioned. So people are congratulated on displaying this or the other
bravery in battle or fire, when their own memory is left a blank of all
save the confusion! Let me say here, that he amused me also with the
characteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.
And—now! now, Ba, to the subject-matter: whatever you decide on writing
to Mrs. Jameson will be rightly written—it seems to me _nearly_
immaterial; (putting out of the question the confiding the whole secret,
which, from its responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether
you decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months (Ba?)
will make abundantly plain,—or whether you farther inform her that
there _is_ a special secret—of which she must bear the burthen, even
in that mitigated form, for the same two months,—as I say, it seems
immaterial—but it is most material that you should see how the ground is
crumbling from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities—do
not talk about ‘four months,’—till December, that is—unless you mean
what _must_ follow as a consequence. The next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s
application to me—_he certainly knows everything_ ... how else, after
such a speech from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits
incline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience, gentleness:
your father might have entered the room suddenly yesterday and given vent
to all the passionate indignation in the world. I dare say we should have
been married to-day: but I shall have the quietest, most considerate
of expositions made me (with one arm on my shoulder), of how I am sure
to be about to kill you, to ruin you, your social reputation, your
public estimation, destroy the peace of this member of your family, the
prospects of that other,—and the end will be?
Because I _can_ not only die for you but live without you _for you_—once
sure it is for you: I know what you once bade me promise—but I do not
know what assurances on assurance, all on the ground of a presumed
knowledge of your good above your own possible knowledge,—might not
effect! _I do not know!_
_This_ is _through you_! You _ought_ to know now that ‘it would _not_
be better for me to leave you’! That after this devotion of myself
to you I cannot undo it all, and devote myself to objects so utterly
insignificant that yourself do not venture to specify them—‘it would be
better—people will say such things’ ... I will never _force_ you to know
this, however—if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall never
seem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of what my life would
probably be, disengaged from you—it should certainly not be passed where
the ‘people’ are, nor where their ‘sayings’ influenced me any more—but I
ask you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what is worthy
and durable and _the better_—and then _decide_:—for instance, to speak of
waiting for four months will be a decision.
See, dearest—I began lightly,—I cannot end so. I know, after all, the
words were divine, self-forgetting words—after all, that you _are_ mine,
by the one tenure, of your own free gift,—that all the _other_ words have
not been mere breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error
you will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in? I wish I
could take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all my very self, and
fold over them your little hand, and leave them there—then you would see
what belief is mine! But if you had _not_ seen it, would you have uttered
one word, written one line, given one kiss to me? May God bless you, Ba—
R.B.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]
‘Such desires—(for it was a desire—’)
Well put into a parenthesis _that_ is!—ashamed and hiding itself between
the brackets!
Because—my own dearest—it was _not_ a ‘desire’—it was the farthest
possible from being a ‘desire’ ... the word I spoke to you on Tuesday ...
yesterday!
And if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing it——what did
_that_ prove, but that I _was able_ to speak it, and that just it was so
much less earnest and painfully felt? Why it was not a proposition even—.
I said only ‘You had better give me up!’ It was only the reflection,
in the still water, of what _had been_ a proposition. ‘Better’
perhaps!—‘Better’ for you, that you should desire to give me up and do
it—my ‘Idée fixe’ you know. But _said_ with such different feelings from
those which have again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while
I wrote to you the vexatious letter ... that I smile at you seeing no
difference. You, blind!—Which is wrong of me again. I will not smile for
having vexed you ... teazed you. Which is wrong of _you_, though ... the
being vexed for so little! because ‘you _ought_ to know by this time’ ...
(now I will use your reproachful words)—you ought certainly to know that
I am your own, and ready to go through with the matter we are upon, and
willing to leave the times and the seasons in your hand! Four months!
meant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All I thought of
answering to you, was, that there was no need yet of specifying the exact
time. And yet—
Ah—yes!—I feel as _you_ feel, the risks and the difficulties which close
around us. And _you_ feel _that_ about Mr. Kenyon? Is it by an instinct
that I tremble to think of _him_, more than to think of others? The
hazel-rod turns round in my hand when I stand _here_. And as you show
him speaking and reasoning ... his arm laid on your shoulder ... oh,
what a vision, _that_ is! before _that_, I cannot stand any longer!—it
takes away my breath—the likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to
_promise_ to realise itself, one day!
But _you promised_. I have your solemn promise, Robert! If ever you
should be moved by a single one of those vain reasons, it will be an
unfaithful cruelty in you. You will have trusted _another_, against _me_.
You would not do it, my beloved.
For I have none in the world who will hold me to make me live in it,
except only you. I have come back for you alone ... at your voice and
because you have use for me! I have come back to live a little for you—.
I see _you_. My fault is ... not that I think too much of what people
will say. I see you and hear you. ‘People’ did not make me live for
_them_. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve that you should believe in
me, beloved, because my love for you is ‘_Me_.’
Now tell me again to ‘decide’—and I will tell you that the words are not
‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’ Dearest beyond words, did I deserve
you telling me to ‘decide’?
Let it be September then, if _you_ do not decide otherwise—I would not
lean to dangerous delays which are unnecessary—I wish we were at Pisa,
rather!
So try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from Nevers to
Châlons ... _I_ could not to-day, with my French travelling-book, find a
way, either by the _chemin de fer_ or _coche d’eau_.—All the rest is easy
and direct ... and very cheap. We must not hesitate between the French
route and the sea voyage.
Now I will tell you your good story. You said that you had only heard
six words from Mr. Reade—but that they were characteristic. Someone was
talking before him and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore—‘He is very
ill’ said the someone. ‘_But he is no poet_’ said Mr. Reade.
Isn’t it a good story? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘exquisite.’ It is what your
man of science would have called ‘A beautiful specimen’—now isn’t it?
May God bless you, dearest, dearest!—I owe all to you, and love you
wholly—I am your very own—
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday.
[Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]
Now you are my very own best, sweetest, dearest Ba—Do you think after
such a letter as mine any amount of confidence in my own intentions,
or of the reasonableness of being earnest on such a subject, can avail
to save me from mortal misgivings? I should not have said those words,
certainly I should not—but you forgive them and me, do you not?
It was through seeing the peril about Mr. Kenyon just as you see it;
but do not suppose I could break my promise,—to every point urged after
that sad irresistible fashion, my answer would be,—would in the end
amount to,—‘provided she consents.’ And then he would return to you, put
away altogether the arguments just used to me, take up in their stead
the corresponding ones founded on _my_ interests as he would profess to
understand them, and the result would be that a similar answer would be
obtained from you,—which he would call your ‘consent.’ This is not what
I fear _now_,—oh, no!—but the fancy that I was frightened by, yesterday,
while I wrote. Now, I seem to have my powers about me, and could get to
the truth and hold by it through every difficulty,—and if I, how much
more you!
Then, this is expecting the _worst_ of Mr. Kenyon,—and the best is
at least as likely. In any case, one may be sure of cautions and
warnings and a wise, good, shaking of the head—he is none of the ardent
anticipators of exuberant happiness from any scheme begun and ended here
below. But after that,—why, ours is the only thoroughly rational match
that ever came under my notice, and he is too clever not to see some
justification in it. At all events, he will say ‘we shall see!’—whether
he sigh or smile in the saying—and if he waits, he _will_ see.
And we will ‘decide’ on nothing, being sure of the _one_ decision—I
mean, that, if the summer _be_ long, and likely to lead in as fine an
Autumn, and if no new obstacles arise,—September shall go as it comes,
and October too, if your convenience is attained thereby in the least
degree,—afterward, you will be all my own, all your days and hours and
minutes. I forgot, by the way, to reply to your question concerning Mrs.
J.—_if there is good to you_, decided or even not impossible good—of
course, let her be with us if she will, otherwise, oh let us be alone,
Ba! I find by the first map, that from Nevers the Loire proceeds S.E.
till the _Arroux_ joins it, and that just below it communicates with the
Canal du Centre, which runs N.E. from _Paray_ to _Chagny_ and thence
to Châlons sur Saône. It is a roundabout way, but not more so than the
post-road by Autun—the Canal must be there for something, and in that
case, you travel from Orleans to Leghorn by water and with the least
fatigue possible. I observe that steam-boats leave St. Katherine’s Wharf
every Thursday and Sunday morning at 8 o’clock for Havre, Rouen and
Paris—would that way be advisable? I will ascertain the facts about
Nevers and Châlons by the time we meet.
Dearest Ba, my very own, I love you with a love—not to die before any
sorrow! perhaps that is the one remaining circumstance of power to
heighten it! May God bless you for me—
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]
Well, then,—it wasn’t, after all, so extravagant of me to make the
proposition about ‘four months?’ How innocent people may be treated like
guilty ones, through no _mistake_ even, of theirs!
But I hold to my first impression about Mr. Kenyon, whatever your second
ones may be. I know him entirely, and his views of life, and his terrors
of responsibility ... his irresolution, his apprehensiveness. He never
would ‘shake his head’ good-naturedly, ... until he could do nothing
else. Just in proportion to the affection he bears each of us, would he
labour to drive us apart. And by the means you describe! And we who can
foresee and analyze those means from this distance, would not, either of
us, resist the actual process! There ... do not suffer yourself, ever
dearest, to be drawn into any degree of confidence _there_! It would
end miserably, I know ... see ... am confidently sure. Let him, on the
contrary, see the thing done, before he sees it at all, and _then_ he
will see the best of it ... the good in it ... _then_ we shall stand on
the sunshiny side of his philosophy and have all the benefit of _that_,
instead of having to endure, as we should now, the darkness of his
irresolution and the weight of his over-caution. Observe of dear Mr.
Kenyon, that, generous and noble as he is, _he fears like a mere man of
the world_. Moreover he might find very rational cause for fearing, in
a distant view of this ... ‘most rational’ of marriages!—oh, but I am
wrong in my quotation!—this only rational marriage that ever was heard
of!—!!—it is _so_, I think.
Where did you guess that I was to-day? In Westminster Abbey! But we were
there at the wrong hour, as the service was near to begin ... and I was
so frightened of the organ, that I hurried and besought my companions out
of the door after a moment or two. Frightened of the organ!—yes, just
exactly _that_—and you may laugh a little as they did. Through being so
disused to music, it affects me quite absurdly. Again the other day, in
the drawing room, because my cousin sang a song from the ‘Puritani,’
of no such great melancholy, I had to go away to finish my sobbing by
myself. Which is all foolish and absurd, I know—but people cannot help
their nerves—and I was ready to cry to-day, only to _think_ of the organ,
without hearing it—I, who do not cry easily, either! and all Arabel’s
jests about how I was sure of my life even if I _should_ hear one note,
... did not reassure me in the least. We walked within the chapel ...
merely within ... and looked up and looked down! How grand—how solemn!
Time itself seemed turned to stone there! Then we stood where the poets
were laid—oh, it is very fine—it is better than Laureateships and
pensions. Do you remember what is written on Spenser’s monument—‘Here
lyeth, in expectation of the second coming of Jesus Christ, ... Edmond
Spenser, having given proof of his divine spirit in his poems’—something
to that effect; and it struck me as being earnest and beautiful, and as
if the writer believed in him. We should not dare, nowadays, to put such
words on a poet’s monument. We should say ... the author of such a book
... at most! Michael Drayton’s inscription has crept back into the brown
heart of the stone ... all but the name and a date, which somebody has
renewed with black lines ... black as ink.
Dearest, it will not do at all ... the going at eight o’clock in the
morning. I could not leave this house—it would not be possible. And then,
why should we _wish_ even, for that long passage to no end; Southampton
or Brighton being, each of them, accessible and unobjectionable. As for
the expense, it is nearly equal, by railway or sea.
For Mrs. Jameson, I mentioned her because you did once, and because her
being so kind reminded me of it. I thought perhaps you might like her
being with us (how should _I_ know?), in which case ... Well—but you do
not wish it, ... and indeed _I_ do not. Therefore she shall go by herself
... dear Mrs. Jameson ... I will however write to her, which I have not
done yet. It is not so easy as you think, perhaps, to write at once so
much and so little.
Why not tell me how you are, Robert? When you do not, I fancy that
you are not well! Say how you are, and love me till Saturday—and even
afterwards.
Your very own BA.
As to forgiveness—_ought_ I to have been angry when I was not? All I felt
in that letter, was, that you loved me—and as to your pretending to think
that it was ‘show and acting’ on my part, I knew you did not really,
and could not:—but at any rate I was the farthest possible from being
angry—and the _very_ farthest possible, peradventure!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]
Dearest Ba, the love _was_ as you admit, beneath all the foolish
words—I will lay your pardon to my heart with the other blessings.
All this missing of instant understanding—(for it does not amount
to _mis_understanding)—comes of letters, and our being divided. In
my anxiety about a point, I go too much on the other side from mere
earnestness,—as if the written words had need to make up in force what
they want in sound and promptness—and assuredly if I _had_ received such
an impression _directly_ from your suggestion (since not a ‘desire,’—you
dear, dear Ba!) I should have begun at once to ask and argue ... whereas,
it _was_ only to the memory of what you said, an after impression, that I
wrote in answer. Well, I will certainly ‘love you till Saturday,—and even
after.’
Did you indeed go to the Abbey? How right to go! Every such expedition is
the removal of a world of apprehension. And why not accept Mrs. Jameson’s
offer now, stipulating for privacy, and go and see the Museum,—the
Marbles? And the National Gallery, and whatever you would wish to see.
At Pisa, Ba, the Cathedral will be ours, wholly—divinely beautiful it
is—more impressive in itself than the Florence Duomo—and then the green
grass round, over the pavement it hides.
And considerably more impressive than the party at Mrs. Milner Gibson’s
last night—whereof I made one through a sudden goodnatured invitation
which only came yesterday—so I went ‘for reasons.’ Chorley was there,
looking very tired as he said he was. I left very early, having
accomplished my purpose.
You know you are right, and that I knew you to be right about Mr.
Kenyon—no _confidence_ shall I make to him, be assured—but in the case
of a direct application, with all those kind apologies in case his
suspicion should be wrongly excited, what should I say?—to Mr. Kenyon,
with his kindness and its right, mind—not to any other inquirer—think
of the facilities during the week among the Quantock Hills! But no
matter,—nothing but your own real, unmistakable consent, divides us—I
believe _nothing_ till that comes. The Havre voyage was of course merely
a fact noted—all courses, ways, routes are entirely the same to me.
Thank you, dearest—I am very much better, well, indeed—so said my doctor
who came last evening to see my father, whose eye is a little inflamed—so
shall Ba see, but not take the trouble to say, when I rejoice in her
presence to-morrow. Dearest, I love you with my whole heart and soul—may
God bless you—
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday Morning and Evening.
[Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]
Ever dearest, you were wet surely? The rain came before you reached the
front door; and for a moment (before I heard it shut) I hoped you might
return. Dearest, how I blame myself for letting you go—for not sending
you a cab in despite of _you_! I was frightened out of all wisdom by the
idea of who was down-stairs and listening perhaps, and watching—as if
the cab would have made you appear more emphatically you! And then you
said ‘the rain was over’—and I believed you as usual. If this isn’t a
precedent of the evils of too much belief...!!
Altogether, yesterday may pass among the ‘unsatisfactory days,’ I
think—for if I was not frightened of the storm, and _indeed_ I was not,
much—of the state of affairs down in the provinces, I was most sorely
frightened—uneasy the whole time. I seem to be with you, Robert, at this
moment, more than yesterday I was ... though if I look up now, I do not
see you sitting there!—but when you sate there yesterday, I was looking
at Papa’s face as I saw it through the floor, and now I see only yours.
Dearest, he came into the room at about seven, before he went to dinner—I
was lying on the sofa and had on a white dressing gown, to get rid of
the strings ... so oppressive the air was, for all the purifications of
lightning. He looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him, and
said, ‘Has this been your costume since the morning, pray?’
‘Oh no’—I answered—‘Only just now, because of the heat.’
‘Well,’ he resumed, with a still graver aspect ... (so displeased he
looked, dearest!) ‘it appears, Ba, that _that man_ has spent the whole
day with you.’ To which I replied as quietly as I could, that you had
several times meant to go away, but that the rain would not let you,—and
there the colloquy ended. Brief enough—but it took my breath away ... or
what was left by the previous fear. And think how it must have been a
terrible day, when the lightning of it made the least terror.
I was right too about the message—he took up the fancy that I might be
ill perhaps with fear ... ‘and only Mr. Browning in the room’!! which was
not to be permitted. He was _peremptory_ with Arabel, she told me.
Well—we need not talk any more of it—it has made one of us uncomfortable
long enough. Shall you dare come on Tuesday after all? He will be out.
If he is not—if my aunt should not be ... if a new obstacle should occur
... why you shall hear on Tuesday. At any rate I shall write, I think.
He did not see you go yesterday—he had himself preceded you by an hour
... at five o’clock ... which if it had been known, would have relieved
me infinitely. Yet it did not prevent ... you see ... the appalling
commentary at seven—No.
With all the rest I am afraid besides of Mr. Chorley and his idea about
your ‘mysteriousness.’ Let Mr. Kenyon hold that thread in one hand, and
in the other the thread Henrietta gave him so carelessly, why he need
not ask you for information—which reminds me of the case you put to me,
Robert—and certainly you could not help a confession, in such possible
circumstances. Only, even granting the circumstances, you need not
confess more than is wrung from you—need you? Because Mr. Kenyon would
undo us.
Before yesterday’s triple storms, I had a presentiment which oppressed me
during two days ... a presentiment that it would all end _ill_, through
some sudden accident or misery of some kind. What is the use of telling
you this? I do not know. I will tell you besides, that it cannot ...
shall not ... be, by my fault or failing. I may be broken indeed, but
never bent.
If things should go smoothly, however, I want to say one word, once for
all, in relation to them. Once or twice you have talked as if a change
were to take place in your life through marrying—whereas I do beg you to
keep in mind that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed aside
because of me. If you should make me feel myself in the way, should I
like it, do you think? And how could I disturb a single habit or manner
of yours ... as an unmarried man ... though being within call—I? The best
of me is, that I am really very quiet and not difficult to content—having
not been spoilt by an excess of prosperity even in little things. It will
be prosperity in the greatest, if you seem to be happy—believe that,
and leave all the rest. You will go out just as you do now ... when you
choose, and as a matter of course, and without need of a word—you will be
precisely as you are now in everything,—lord of the house-door-key, and
of your own ways—so that when I shall go to Greece, you shall not feel
yourself much better off than before I went. That shall be a reserved
vengeance, Robert.
While I write, comes Mr. Kenyon,—and through a special interposition
of guardian-angels, he has broken his spectacles and carries them in
his hand. On which I caught at the opportunity and told him that they
were the most unbecoming things in the world, and that fervently (and
sincerely) I hoped never to see them mended. The next word was ... ‘Did
you see Browning yesterday?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I thought so, I intended to come
myself, but I thought it probable that he would be here, and so I stayed
away—’
Now——I confess to you that that thought carries me a good way over to
your impression. It is at least ‘suspicious,’ that he who knew you
were with me on Saturday and Tuesday should expect to find you again
on the next Saturday. ‘Oh—how uncomfortable’—the miracle of the broken
spectacles not saving one from the discomfort of the position open to the
bare eyes!—
He talked of you a little—asked what you were doing—praised you as usual
... for inexhaustible knowledge and general reasonableness, this time.
Did I not think so? Yes—of course I thought so.
Presently he made me look aghast by just this question—‘Is there an
attachment between your sister Henrietta and Capt. Cook?’—(put as
abruptly as I put it here).
My heart leapt up—as Wordsworth’s to the rainbow in the sky—but there was
a recoil in my leap. ‘Why, Mr. Kenyon?’—I said ... ‘what extraordinary
questions, opening into unspeakable secrets, you do ask.’
‘But I did not know that it was a secret. How was I to know? I have seen
him here very often, and it is a natural enquiry which I might have put
to anybody in the house touching a matter open to general observation. I
thought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s consent.’