... let me say _that_ in a parenthesis!) I will tell you what I know.
Stormie told me the other day that I had eight thousand pounds in the
funds; of which the interest comes to me quarterly, the money being in
two different per cents ... (do you understand better than I do?) and
from forty to forty-five pounds Papa gives me every three months, the
income tax being first deducted. It may be eight thousand pounds, or more
or less, ... it is difficult to ask about it ... but what comes to me
every three months, I know certainly. Then there is the ship money ... a
little under two hundred a year on an average ... which I have not used
at all (but must for the future use), and the annual amount of which
therefore, has been added to the Fund-money until this year, when I was
directed to sign a paper which invested it (_i.e._ the annual return) in
the Eastern Railroad. That investment is to yield a large percentage, I
heard, and Stormie tried to persuade me to ask Papa to place everything
I had, on the same railroad. Papa had said down-stairs the other day
that it would be best so—and I ought to remind him to do it, repeated
Stormie, as it would very much increase ... increase by doubling almost
... the available income; and without the slightest risk of any kind. But
I could not take the advice under the circumstances—I could not mention
such a word as money to him, giving the appearance even of trouble about
my affairs, now. And he would wonder how I should take a fancy suddenly
to touch such matters with the end of my finger. Then there are the ten
shares in Drury Lane Theatre—out of which comes nothing.
You wonder how I can spend, perhaps, the quarterly forty pounds and
upward that come to me? I _do spend_ them. Yet let me hold you from
being frightened, and teach you to consider how easy it is to spend
money, and not upon oneself. Never in any one year of my life, even when
I was well, have my expenses in dress (as I told Mr. Kenyon the other
day) exceeded twenty pounds. My greatest personal expense lately has
been _the morphine_. Still the money flows out of window and door—you
will understand how it flows like a stream. I have not the gift (if it
is a gift) of making dresses ... in my situation, here. Elsewhere, all
changes, you know. You shall not call me extravagant—you will see. If I
was ‘surprised’ at what you told me of Mrs. Norton, it was only because
I had had other ideas of her—for my own gown cost five shillings ... the
one I had on when you spoke. So she was better than I by a mere sixpence.
Ah—it came into my head afterwards that my being ‘surprised’ about Mrs.
Norton, might argue my own extravagance. See!—
But the Goddess Dulness inspires me to write about it and about it, to
no end. I say briefly at last, that whatever I have, is mine ... and for
use in Italy, as in England. Papa has managed ... has taken a power of
attorney, to manage for me kindly ... but everything is in my name—and
if it were not, he could not for a moment think of interfering with an
incontestable right of property. Still, I do see a difficulty at the
beginning—I mean that, _as I am here_, I could not put my hand out for a
large sum, such as would be necessary perhaps. I have had a great deal to
pay and do lately,—and the next quarter will not be until the middle of
October. Still there would be something, but less than is necessary. We
might either wait on the road till the required sum were called for and
sent—or get a hundred pounds advanced by someone for a few weeks until
everything was settled ... which would be pleasanter, if possible. Poor
Papa’s first act will be to abandon his management. Ah, may God grant him
to do it rather angrily than painfully.
A letter, I have written to you, like the chiming of two penny pieces—a
miserable letter! And there is much to tell you ... but nothing painful
... do not fear. The Hedleys dined here, and Mrs. Hedley has been sitting
with me ... keeping me from writing. Good-night now it must be! When you
write so of caring to be with me, my heart seems to _rock_ with pleasure.
Shouldn’t this letter have been written on ’Change, and isn’t it unworthy
of all you are to me ... and even of all I am to _you_? But such things
must be, after a fashion. Have I told you right, dearest? does it make
any sense, altogether? You are wise in little subjects as in great ones,
and I will let you make me wiser if you can. And there _is_ no clay in
dear Mr. Kenyon ... but just the drop in the chrystal you tell me of—only
you shall not divine by him, my Druid, or you will sit by yourself under
the oak tree to the end of the day!
Wholly yours and ever—in the greatest haste—
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, August 6, 1846.]
No, dearest,—the post brought me no letter till early this morning, a few
hours before the second arrival: so, in case of any unexpected stoppage
in our visit-affairs, if the post _can_ have been to blame, always be
sure it _is_; if I do not arrive at any time when I ought to arrive,
having been sent for—there is the great instance and possibility, which
you are to remember! However at present, _post naufragia tutus sum_ with
my two treasures.
Thank you, dearest, for all that kind care of answering—will you now
let me lay it all quietly up in my head to mature, before I ... really
_think_ upon it, much more, speak of it? If one can do both _once
for all_, what a blessing! But a little leaven of uncertainty and
apprehension, just enough to be tasted bitterly in the whole lump of our
life,—that cannot be too diligently guarded against while there is time.
Well, love, your excursion to Kensington was a real good, well purchased
by my early going—and I am glad the great event stood before all eyes and
mouths. I seem to notice that you do not leave the house quite so often
as, say, a month ago; and that you are not the better for it. Of course
you cannot go out in storm and rain. Will you do what is best for _my_
Ba, you who say you love me,—that is, love her?
Don’t I sympathize with Horne, and see with his eyes, and want with
his senses! But why can he not want after the two months, I ask
selfishly—seeing, or fancying I see, this inconvenience ... that, as
his _report_ will probably be the _latest_ to the world, it would be
advisable for you to look as well as possible,—would it not? It would
not do for him to tell people ‘All I can say is, that a few weeks only
_before it happened_, she appeared to me thus and thus’—while, on
the other hand, if you receive him in the drawing room,—_there_ are
difficulties too.
You never told me how yesterday’s thunder affected you—nor how your
general health is—yet I will answer you that I am very well to-day—about
to go to Mrs. Procter’s, alas—it is good that this letter cannot reach
you before night or nine o’clock—I should fail to deny myself the
moment’s glance at the window—if you could be prayed to stand there! But
it is past praying for now. I told you that I have excused myself to Mrs.
Jameson on the ground of some kind of uncertainty that rules the next
fortnight’s engagements—who shall say what a fortnight may not bring
forth? I shall not mind Mr. Kenyon being of the party to-night, should
it be so ordered ... for, if he asks me, I can say with dignity—‘No,—I
did not call to-day,—meaning to call on Saturday, perhaps’—‘Well, there
is _some_ forbearance,’ he will think! However, he will not be present,
I prophesy, and Chorley _will_ ... or no, perhaps, Rachel’s Jeanne D’Arc
may tempt him. Important to Ba, very! almost as much as to me—so at once
to the really, truly, exclusively important thing, by comparison—Love me
ever, dearest dearest, as I must ever love you,—and take my heart, as if
it were a better offering. Also write to me and tell me that Saturday is
safe ... will it be safe? Your aunt may perhaps leave you soon—and one
observation of hers would be enough to ruin us—consider and decide!
Since these words were written, my mother, who was out, entered the
room to confirm a horrible paragraph in the paper. You know our light
momentary annoyance at the storm on Saturday; it is over for _us_. The
next day, Mr. Chandler, the cultivator of camellias at Wandsworth,
died of grief at the loss from the damage to his conservatories and
flowers—which new calamity added to the other, deprived his eldest son,
and partner—of his senses ... ‘he was found to be raving mad on Monday’
are the words of the _Times_. My mother’s informant called theirs ‘the
most amicable of families.’
How strange—and a few weeks ago I read, in the same paper, a letter from
Constantinople—wherein the writer mentioned that he had seen (I think,
that morning) Pacha somebody, whose malpractices had just drawn down
on him the Sultan’s vengeance, and who had been left with barely his
life,—having lost his immense treasures, palaces and gardens &c., along
with his dignity,—the writer saw this old man selling slices of melon
on a bridge in the city; and on stopping in wonderment to praise such
constancy, the Turk asked him with at least equal astonishment, whether
it was not fitter to praise Allah who had lent him such wealth for forty
years, than to repine that he had judged right to recall it now?
Could we but practise it, as we reason on it!—May God continue me that
blessing I have all unworthily received ... but not, I trust, insensibly
received!
May he keep you, dearest dearest
R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday.
[Post-mark, August 7, 1846.]
I told you nothing yesterday; but the interruption left me no time, and
the house was half asleep before I had done writing what I was able to
write. Otherwise I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Jameson had been here ...
that she came yesterday, and without having received my note. So I was
thrown from my resources. I was obliged to thank her with my voice ... so
much weaker than my hand. If you knew how frightened I was! The thunder,
the morning before, (which I did not hear holding _your_ hand!) shook me
less, upon the whole. I thanked her at least ... I could do _that_. And
then I said it was in vain ... impossible.
‘Mr. Kenyon threw cold water on the whole scheme. But _you_! Have _you_
given up going to Italy?’
I said ‘no, that I have not certainly.’ I said ‘I felt deeply how her
great kindness demanded every sort of frankness and openness from me
towards her,——and yet, that at that moment I could not be frank—there
were reasons which prevented it. Would she promise not to renew the
subject to Mr. Kenyon? not to repeat to him what I said? and to wait
until the whole should be explained to herself?’
She promised. She was kind beyond imagination—at least, far beyond
expectation. She looked at me a little curiously, but asked no more
questions until she rose to go away. And then——
‘But you will go?’ ‘Perhaps—if something unforeseen does not happen.’
‘And you will let me know, and when you can,—when everything is settled?’
‘Yes.’ ‘And you think you shall go?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And with efficient
companionship?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And happily and quietly?’ ... ‘Ye ...’ I could
not say the full ‘Yes,’ to _that_—If it had been utterable, the idea of
‘quiet’ would have been something peculiar. She loosened her grasp of her
catechumen, therefore——nothing was to be done with me.
I forgot, however, to tell you that in the earlier part of the discussion
she spoke of having half given up her plan of going herself. In her
infinite goodness she said, ‘she seemed to want an object, and it was in
the merest selfishness, she had proposed taking _me_ as an object’—‘And
if you go even without me, would it not be possible to meet you on the
road? I shall go to Paris in any case. _If_ you go, _how_ do you go?’
‘Perhaps across France—by the rivers.’
‘Precisely. That is as it should be. Mr. Kenyon talked of a long
sea-voyage.’
Now I have recited the whole dialogue to you, I think, except where my
gratitude grew rhetorical, as well it might. She is the kindest, most
affectionate woman in the world! and you shall let me love her for you
and for me.
As for me, my own dearest, you are fanciful when you say that I do not
go out so much, nor look so well. Now I will just tell you—Henrietta
cried out in loud astonishment at me to-day, desiring Treppy to look at
my face, when we were all standing together in this room—‘Look at Ba,
Treppy!—Did you ever see anyone looking so much better; it really is
wonderful, the difference within these few weeks.’ That’s Henrietta’s
opinion! She quite startled me with crying out ... as if suddenly she had
missed my head!—And _you_!
Then I have been out in the carriage to-day, just to Charing Cross, and
then to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood. I am as well at this moment as
anyone in the world. I have not had one symptom of illness throughout
the summer—perfectly well, I am. At the same time, being _strong_ is
different; and sometimes for a day or two together, when I do not feel
the strongest, it is _right_ to be quiet and not to walk up and down
stairs. So as I ‘love _Ba_,’ (quite enough, I assure you!) I am quiet.
There’s the only meaning of not going out every day! But the health
is perfectly unaffected, I do assure you,—so keep yourself from every
vexing thought of me, _so_ far at least. Are you getting frightened for
me, my beloved? Do not be frightened, I would not deceive you by an
exaggeration, for the sake even of your temporary satisfaction—you may
trust what I say.
For the thunder ... if you thought of me during it, as _you_ say, ... why
it did me just so much good. Think of me, dearest, in the thunder and
out of the thunder; the longest peal’s worth of your thought would not
content me now, because you have made me too covetous.
As to Mr. Horne, you write _Sordelloisms_ of him—and you shall tell me
your real meaning in a new edition on Saturday. Might your meaning be
that I _look worse_ in this room than in the drawing-room? Have you an
objection to this room as a room? I rub my eyes and look for a little
more light—(but can’t be more impertinent!—can I?)
So, till Saturday—yes, Saturday! To-morrow there is a clearance of
aunts—one going at nine in the morning, and one at five in the afternoon:
and uncles and cousins do not stay behind. You are glad, I think—and I,
not sorry.
How striking your two stories are! Wonderful it is to me, when mere
worldly reverses affect men _so_—I cannot comprehend it—I stand musing
_there_. But the sublime sentiment of the Melon-seller applies to the
griefs I _can_ understand—and we may most of us (called Christians) go to
him for his teaching.
May God bless you for _me_! Your BA.
(I want to say one word more and so leave the subject. Stormie told me
this morning, in answer to an enquiry of mine, that certainly I did not
receive the whole interest of the fund-money, ... could not ... making
ever so much allowance for the income-tax. And now, upon consideration, I
seem to see that I cannot have done so. The ship-shares are in the ‘David
Lyon,’ a vessel in the West Indian trade, in which Papa also has shares.
Stormie said ‘There must be three hundred a year of interest from the
fund-money—even at the low rate of interest paid there.’ Now it would be
the easiest thing in the world (as I saw even in to-day’s newspaper) to
have money advanced upon this—only there is a risk of its being known
perhaps, which neither of us would at all like.) _Burn this._
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, August 7, 1846.]
(First of all, let me tell you that the whole story about that death
through grief, madness &c., turns out to be a vile fabrication,—false
from beginning to end. My mother’s informant, I now find, had derived
the knowledge from newspaper also—I hope the _other_ tale, of the Turk,
is true at least.)
And now, love, I can go on to say that no letter comes—is it the post’s
fault? Yes—I think,—so does your goodness spoil me—you have to tell me
about to-morrow, beside. I shall wait hopefully till 2 or 3 o’clock.
Mr. Kenyon was there last evening, for all my prognostications—he had
already twice passed this place in the course of the day on his way to
Lewisham. He soon asked me as I expected—or something that sounded like
it—for, in the half whisper of his tone, I can only hope he did not
put the question thus ‘Have you seen Miss Barrett _since Saturday_,—or
have you called to-day?’ My mind misgives a little—at all events I only
answered the last part of the sentence—and now, mark you!—after dinner he
proposed that I should go to him on Wednesday, and make one of a party he
is organising. I tried some faint excuse or other—‘You know,’ interposed
he, ‘you can pay a visit to Wimpole Street and I shall know and keep
away from troubling you’—or words to that effect. I thought it really
better to simply (in every sense of the word) smile, and attempt to say
nothing. Now, I feel sure that if I were to remark, ‘I will call on
Mrs. Jameson’—for instance—he would say, ‘So will I, then, if I can’—on
that day, rather than any other—unless some special business had been
mentioned as the object of my visit. And here is another inconvenience
he will perhaps consider ‘As he means to call on Wednesday,—there is no
reason I should keep away to-morrow—Saturday—’
It will be, however, a justification in his eyes at the end—‘he knew her
so well, saw so much of her,—who could wonder?’
I sate by a pleasant chatting Jewess, Goldsmid, or whatever the name
is,—also by Thackeray—and Milnes came in the evening,—yet the dulness was
mortal, and I am far from my ordinary self to-day. I am convinced that
general society depresses my spirits more than any other cause. I could
keep by myself for a month till I recovered my mind’s health. But you
are part or all of that self now,—and would be, were you only present in
memory, in fancy. As it is, oh, to be with you, Ba?
* * * * *
Three o’clock, no letter! I will put my own philosophy in practice and
be consoled that you are not in any circumstances to justify and require
anxiety—not unwell—nor have any fresh obstacles arisen _necessarily_....
Any alleviations so long as I am allowed to keep a good substantial
misfortune at the end!
Once you said in your very own way ... when I sent you some roses in a
box, and no letter with them, ‘Now I shall write no more to-day, not
having been written to!’ I cannot write more—I see! Ah, Ba, here the
letter comes!! and I will wait from reading it to kiss my gratitude to
you, you utterly best and dearest! And I repeat my kisses while I write
the few words there is time for—what a giver you are of all good things
all together. Let me take the best first, not minding ingratitude to the
rest, and say _yes_, to-morrow I will see you—even if Mr. Kenyon comes,
it will be easy saying—‘I cannot go on Wednesday.’ Did you manage so well
with Mrs. Jameson? As for Horne,—why, there may have been Sordelloisms,
I daresay—I only meant, ‘if you look an invalid to him,—he will say so,
just when your improved health is my one excuse for the journey and its
fatigues—and if you look plainly no longer an invalid’—Oh, I don’t know
... I thought he might talk of that too, and bring in a host! There is
the secret, rendered more obscurely perhaps! As for the room, the dearest
four walls that I ever have been enclosed by—I only thought of the
possible phrase—‘Still confined to her room’—or the like—and as—that is
the fact,—I rather understood the whole tone in which you spoke of the
circumstance, as of slight dissatisfaction at the notion of the intended
visit ... _in tuam sententiam discedens_, I sordelloized!
The words about your health reassure me, beloved! I had no positive
fears _quite_ as you suppose ... but I coupled one circumstance with
another, do you see, and _did_ get to apprehend what you now show me to
be groundless, thank God!
Oh, my time! Bless you, ever, ever, beloved!
Your own R.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, August 10, 1846.]
Just now I tore the few words I had begun of the letter to you, Ba—they
all went away, strangely afar from the meaning begun in them, through
my mind taking up the thought that you were ‘waiting’ for what I should
write—‘waiting all day’—and ready to call the poor joyful service of
love, ‘goodness’ in me! When such thoughts arise, I am not fit to pay
even that imperfect service—I have only arms to receive you, kisses to
give you—the words seem too cold, indeed! I sincerely believe this I am
to write now, will be the shorter because of the intervention of you,—and
that, like Flush, I shall behave best when not looked at too much!
Then, in our life,—what I do earnestly in intention and from love of
you, _that_ you will always accept and make the best of! How happy you
make me, _now_ and _ever_—in the present happiness, in the assurance of
the future’s even greater happiness, I am obliged to believe! It seemed
like a dream as I walked home last night and thought of all over again,
after a few hours’ talk with my old friends, on subjects from which
you were excluded, and of a kind that brought my former feelings back
again; so as to be understood, at least, and recognised as mine. ‘All
which is changed now,’ I thought going home in the moonlight. Chorley
was apprised of my being there and came good-naturedly—and we discussed
delinquencies political and literary: he says, times were never so bad
as now—people come without a notion of offending a critic, and offer him
money—‘will you do this for so much’—praise this or blame this! He was
in a bad humour, he said; at least teazed and tired—and really looked
both, so that: I asked ‘had you not better throw away a day on our green
dulness at Hatcham, strolling through it with me?’—‘Yes—this day next
week, if you like’—he answered at once ... so that our Saturday will be
gone ... so that our Tuesday _must_ be secured, my own Ba, and after it
the Friday, at an equal interval of time—do you let it be so? Saturday
would seem to be his only available day, poor Chorley—he walked through
the park with me and over the Bridge, at one in the morning—in return
for my proving, (I don’t quite think _that_, however!)—proving, to
_Arnould’s_ great satisfaction at least, that Mr. Horne _was a poet_, and
moreover a dramatic one,—Chorley sees no good in him beyond talent with
an abundance of ‘crotchets,’ and ‘could not read “Orion” for his life.’ I
proved another thing too—that Forster was not a whit behind his brethren
of the faculty, in literary morals—that the _Examiner_, named, was quite
as just and good as another paper, unnamed. Whereat Chorley grew warm and
lost his guard, and at last; declaring I forced him into corners and that
speak he _must_; _instanced the ‘Examiner’s’ treatment of myself as not
generous_ ... ‘Luria’ having been noticed as you remember a week after
the publication, and _yet_, or never, to be reviewed in the Unnamed:—_Ces
Misères!_
A fortnight ago when Rachel played in ‘Andromaque’ ‘for the last
time’—Sarianna and I agreed that if she did ever play again in it, we
would go and see ... and lo, contrary to all expectation she _does_
repeat Hermione to-morrow night, and we are to go. And you, Ba, you
cannot go—ought I to go? One day, one not distant day, and ‘cannot’ will
apply to us both—_now_, it seems to do me good, with the crowd of its
suggestions, this seeing Rachel; beside, Sarianna has just this only
opportunity of going.
I am anxious to let the folly of that person spend itself unaggravated
by any notice of mine—I mean _to you_; any notice which should make
you think it—(the folly)—affected _me_ as well as you; but I do trust
you will not carry toleration too far in this case, nor furnish an
ungenerous, selfish man with weapons for your own annoyance. ‘_Insolent_
letters’ you ought to put up with from _no one_—and as there is no need
of concealment of my position now, I think you will see a point when
I may interfere. Always rely on my being _quietly_ firm, and never
violent nor exasperating: you alluded to some things which I cannot let
my fancy stop upon. Remember you are mine, now,—my own, my very own.
I know very well what a wretched drunkenness there is in that sort of
self-indulgence—what it permits itself to do, all on the strength of its
‘strong feeling’ ‘earnestness’—stupid in execrable sophistry as it is!
I have too a strong belief that the man who would _bully_ you, would
drop into a fit at the sight of a man’s uplifted little finger. Can this
person be the ‘old friend in an ill humour’ who followed me up-stairs one
day? I _trust_ to you—that is the end of all.
Now I will kiss you, my own Ba, and wait for my letter, and then,
Tuesday. Dearest, I am your own, your very own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, August 10, 1846].