the world? All reformers are met at the outset by such dissuasion from
their efforts. ‘Better suffer the grievance and get off as cheaply as you
[can]—You, Mahomet,—what if the Caaba _be_ only a black stone? You need
only bow your head as the others, and make any inward remark you like on
the blindness of the people. You, Hampden, have you really so little wit
as to contest payment of a paltry 20_s._ at such risk?’
Ah, but here all the fuss is just about stealing a dog—two or three
words, and the matter becomes simply ludicrous—very easily got rid of!
One cannot take vengeance on the ‘great man’ with his cigar and room of
pictures and burlesque dignities of mediation! Just so, when Robert was
inclined to be sorry for the fate of Bertha’s sister, one can fancy what
a relief and change would be operated in his feelings, if a good-natured
friend send him a version of his mighty crime in Lord Rochester’s funny
account of ‘forsaken damsels’ ... with the motto ‘Women have died ere now
and worms have eaten them—but not for love—’ or ‘At lovers’ perjuries
Jove laughs’ why, Robert is a ‘lady-killer’ like D’Orsay! Well, enough of
sermonizing for the present; it is impossible for me to differ with you
and treat _that_ as a light matter ... or, what on earth would have been
so little to wonder at, as that, loving Flush, you should determine to
save him at any price? If ‘Chiappino’ were to assure you, in terms that
you could not disbelieve, that in the event of your marrying me he would
destroy himself,—would you answer, as I should, ‘Do so, and take the
consequences,’—and think no more about the matter? I should absolutely
leave it, as not my concern but God’s—nor should blame myself any more
than if the poor man, being uncertain what to do, had said ‘If a man
first passes the window—yes—if a woman—no’—and I, a total stranger, had
passed.
One word more—in all this, I labour against the execrable policy of the
world’s husbands, fathers, brothers, and domineerers in general. I am
about to marry you ... how wise, then, to encourage such a temper in you!
such was that divine Griselda’s—a word rules the gentle nature—‘Do this,
or....’
My own Ba, if I thought you could fear me, I think _I_ should have the
courage to give you up to-morrow!
Because _to-day_ I am altogether yours, and you are my very own—and
to-morrow never comes, they say. Bless you, my best dearest Ba—and if you
think I deserve it, you shall test the excellence of those slippers on my
cheek, (and not the flannelled side, neither), the next happy time I see
you ... which will be soon, soon, I trust! who am more than
ever your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]
You best! Was ever any in the world, in any possible world, so
perfectly good and dear to another as you are to me! Ah! if you could
know how I feel to you, when you write such words as came to me this
morning—Dearest! It ends in that, all I can say. And yet I must say
besides that the idea of ‘crossness,’ of hardness, never came to me, for
one moment, from the previous letter. I just shook my head and thought
how you would not act it out, if _you_ had a Flush. Upon which I could
not follow out my argument to myself, through thinking that you were ill.
You are better now, Robert, and you promise to take care of the dinner,
where you should _not_ go if I were near you. I should be ‘afraid of you’
far too much to let you, indeed! Such a wrong thing _that_ dinner is
... as wrong as any dogstealer in his way ... drawing you out just when
you ought to be at home and quiet, if not ‘abstinent.’ When did I ever
tell you to be abstinent, pray? You are too much so, it seems to me, in
general: and to pass the whole of that day without eating! How unwell
you must have been, dearest! How I long to see you and ascertain that
you look tolerably well! How very, very happy I should be, to be able to
look at you to-morrow. But no, no! Mr. Kenyon does not come, and we must
be wise, I suppose, and wait till the ground is clear of him, which will
not be till Monday. Probably he will visit me on Sunday—but the chance
of Saturday is like the hat on a pole in gardens, set there to frighten
away the birds. Still they may sing on the other side of the wall, not to
be too far from the cherries and the hope of them. Monday surely will be
a clear day. Unless Mr. Kenyon shall put off his journey just to despite
us—who shall say?
I have not Flush yet. I am to have him to-morrow morning.
And for the Flush-argument, dear dearest, I hold that your theory is
entirely good and undeniable. I agree with you throughout it, praising
Mahomet, praising Hampden, and classing the Taylors, Gregorys, and
Spanish banditti all together. Also I hope I should try, at least, to
resist with you their various iniquities—and, for instance, I do not
think that any Gregory in the world would draw a shilling from _me_, by a
threat against my own character. I should dare _that_, oh, I am confident
I should—the indignation would be far the stronger, where I myself only
was involved. And even in the imaginary Chiappino-case, the selfish and
dastardly threat would fall from me like a child’s arrow from steel. I
believe so.
But Flush, poor Flush, Flush who has loved me so faithfully; have I
a right to sacrifice _him_ in his innocence, for the sake of any Mr.
Taylor’s guilt in the world? Does not Flush’s condition assimilate to
my own among the banditti? for you agree that you would not, after all,
leave me to the banditti—and I, _exactly on the same ground_, will not
leave Flush. It seems to me that you and I are _at one_ upon the whole
question,—only that _I_ am _your_ Flush, and _he_ is mine. You, if you
were ‘consistent’ ... dearest! ... would not redeem me on any account.
You do ever so much harm by it, observe—you produce catastrophe on
catastrophe, just for the sake of my two ears without earrings! Oh, I
entirely agree with your principle. Evil should be resisted that it may
fly from you.
But Flush is not to be sacrificed—nor even is Ba, it appears. So our two
weaknesses may pardon one another, yours and mine!
Some dog, shut up in a mews somewhere behind this house, has been yelling
and moaning to-day and yesterday. How he has made me think of my poor
poor Flush, I cannot tell you—‘Think of Flush’ he seemed to say.
Yes!—A blow in the street! I wish somebody _would_ propose such a thing
to me, in exchange! I would have thanked Mr. Taylor himself for striking
me down in the street, if the stroke had been offered as an alternative
for the loss of Flush. You may think it absurd—but when my dinner is
brought to me, I feel as if I could not (scarcely) touch it—the thought
of poor Flush’s golden eyes is too strong in me.
Not a word of your mother. She is better, I trust! And you ... may God
keep you better, beloved! To be parted from you so long, teaches me the
necessity of your presence—I am your very, very own.
I was out to-day—driving along the Hampstead Road. What weather!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Saturday.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]
Dearest Ba, I feel your perfect goodness at my heart—I can say nothing.
Nor write very much more: my head still teazes, rather than pains me.
Don’t lay more of it to the dinner than necessary: I got my sister to
write a letter deprecatory of all pressing to eat and drink and such
mistaken hospitality—to the end that I might sit unpitied, uncondoled
with, and be an eyesore to nobody—which succeeded so well that I eat
some mutton and drank wine and water without let or molestation. Our
party was reduced to three, by a couple of defections—but there was an
immense talking and I dare say this continuance of my ailment is partly
attributable to it. I shall be quiet now. I tell you the simple truth,
that you may believe—and this also believe, that it would have done me
great good to go to you this morning,—if I could lean my head on your
neck, what could pain it, dear dear Ba?
I am sorry poor Flush is not back again—very sorry. But no one would hurt
him, be quite sure ... his mere value prevents that.
Shall I see you on Monday then? This is the _first time_ since we met at
the beginning, that a whole week, from a Sunday to a Saturday, has gone
by without a day for us. Well—I trust you are constant ... nay you _are_
constant to your purpose of leaving at the end of this month. When we
meet next, let us talk of our business, like the grave man and woman we
are going to become. Mr. K. will be away—how fortunate this is! We need
implicate nobody. And in the end the reasonableness of what we do will be
apparent to everybody—if I can show you well and happy,—which God send!
Kiss me as I kiss you, my own Ba. I am all one wide wonder at your loving
nature: I can only give it the like love in return, and as much limited
as I am limited. But I seem really to _grow_ under you,—my faculties
extend toward yours.
May God bless you, and enable me to make you as happy as your dear
generous heart will be contented to be made. I am your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Saturday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]
Dearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of
you to-morrow. Flush has not come and I am going on a voyage of discovery
myself,—Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed and
murdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it
is not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.
Just now came a kind little note from dear Mr. Kenyon, who will not come,
he says, Flush being away, and has set out on his travels, meaning not
to come back for a week. So I might have seen you after all, to-day!
My comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, and that
coming through the sun might have made your head suffer. How my thoughts
are with you—how all day they never fall from you! I shall have my letter
to-night through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to
look towards. Aladdin’s, did you say? Yes, Aladdin’s.
As to being afraid of you ever—once, do you know, I was quite afraid ...
in a peculiar sense—as when it thunders, I am afraid ... or a little
different from _that_ even—or, oh yes, _very_ different from _that_.
Now it is changed ... the feeling is—and I am not afraid even so—except
sometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own—I am _not_
afraid that it would be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for
goodness to the uttermost—and I know perfectly that if you did not love
me (_supposing_ it) you are one who would be _ashamed_ for a woman to
fear you, as some women fear some men. For _me_, I could not, you know—I
knew you too well and love you too perfectly, and everybody can tell what
perfect love casts out.
So you need not have done with me for _that_ reason! Understand it.
And if I shall not be slain by the ‘society,’ you shall be written to
again to-night. Ah—say in the letter _I_ am to have, that you are better!
And you are to come on Monday—dear, dearest! mind _that_!
Your Ba.
Come back safe, but without Flush—I am to have him to-night though.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]
Not well—not well! But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you
read what I write to-day; so I shall not write much. Only a few words
to tell you that Flush is found, and lying on the sofa, with one paw and
both ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not
the successful one. My hero was not at home.
I went, you know, ... did I tell you? ... with Wilson in the cab. We
got into obscure streets; and our cabman stopped at a public house
to ask his way. Out came two or three men, ... ‘Oh, you want to find
Mr. Taylor, I dare say!’ (mark that no name had been mentioned!) and
instantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, and
out again to tell me that the great man ‘wasn’t at home! but wouldn’t I
get out?’ Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of
such a thing—she believed devoutly in the robbing and murdering, and
was not reassured by the gang of benevolent men and boys who ‘lived but
to oblige us’ all round the cab. ‘Then wouldn’t I see Mrs. Taylor,’
suggested the philanthropist,—and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had
run back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, ... fat enough to
have had an easy conscience all her life, ... who informed me that ‘her
husband might be in in a few minutes, or in so many hours—wouldn’t I
like to get out and wait’ (Wilson pulling at my gown, the philanthropist
echoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.)—‘No, I thanked them
all—it was not necessary that I should get out, but it _was_, that Mr.
Taylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he
had agreed to restore—and I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole
Street in the course of the day, and not defer it any longer.’ To which,
replied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles—‘Oh yes certainly’—and
indeed she _did_ believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that
business—poising her head to the right and left with the most easy
grace—‘She was sure that Taylor would give his very best attention....’
So, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, and Wilson seemed to
be of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it
was, that the gang was strong there. The society ... the ‘Fancy’ ... had
their roots in the ground. The faces of those men!—
I had not been at home long, when Mr. Taylor did actually come—desiring
to have six guineas confided to his honour!! ... and promising to
bring back the dog. I sent down the money, and told them to trust the
gentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it—and while the
business was being concluded, in came Alfred, and straightway called our
‘honourable friend’ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar
and a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with
reiterated oaths he swore, ‘as he hoped to be saved, we should never see
our dog again’—and rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was
very angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the
sake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was
with Alfred, and terrified for Flush,—seeing at a glance the probability
of his head being cut off as the proper vengeance! and down-stairs I went
with the resolution of going again myself to Mr. Taylor’s in Manning
Street, or Shoreditch [or] wherever it was, and saving the victim at any
price. It was the evening, getting dusk—and everybody was crying out
against me for being ‘quite mad’ and obstinate, and wilful—I was called
as many names as Mr. Taylor. At last, Sette said that _he_ would do it,
promised to be as civil as I could wish, and got me to be ‘in a good
humour and go up to my room again.’ And he went instead of me, and took
the money and fair words, and induced the ‘man of honour’ to forfeit
his vengeance and go and fetch the dog. Flush arrived here at eight
o’clock (at the very moment with your letter, dearest!), and the first
thing he did was to dash up to this door, and then to drink his purple
cup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic
about seeing me, as I expected—he seemed bewildered and frightened—and
whenever anyone said to him ‘Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you
away?’ he put up his head and moaned and yelled. He has been very unhappy
certainly. Dirty he is, and much thinner, and continually he is drinking.
Six guineas, was his ransom—and now I have paid twenty for him to the
dog-stealers.
Arabel says that I wanted _you_ yesterday, she thought, to manage me a
little. She thought I was suddenly seized with madness, to prepare to
walk out of the house in that state of excitement and that hour of the
evening. But now—_was_ I to let them cut off Flush’s head?—
There! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures—and
to-morrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear!—Only remember for my sake,
_not_ to come if you are not fit to come. Dearest, remember not to run
any hazards!—That dinner! which I _will_ blame, because it deserves it!
Mind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of
working you harm! So I expect you to-morrow _conditionally_ ... if you
are well enough!—and I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next
to you, ... being ever and ever your own
BA.
I have been to the _vestry_ again to-day.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]
No, dearest, I am not to see you to-morrow for all the happiness of the
permission! It seems absurd, but perhaps the greater absurdity would be
a refusal to submit, under circumstances. You shall hear—I got up with
the old _vertiginousness_, or a little worse—and so, as I had in that
case determined, went to consult my doctor. He thinks he finds the root
of the evil and can remove it, ‘if I have patience enough’—so I promised
... expecting something worthy that preamble—whereas I am bidden go to
bed and keep there for a day or two—from this Sunday till Wednesday
morning—taking nothing but a sip of medicine I can’t distinguish from
water, thrice a day—and _milk_ at discretion—no other food! The mild
queerness of it is amusing, is it not? ‘And for this fine piece of
self-denial,’ says he, ‘you shall be quite well by the week’s end.’—‘But
may I go to town on Wednesday?’—‘Yes.’—
Now, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim
all the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me; this time, if
you will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise—for
the truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself—‘have I a right to
avoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of
aches and pains?’ So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed,—as
I never wrote before I think—and perhaps my head is a little better, or
I fancy so. Mind, I may read, or write,—only in bed I must lie, because
there is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause
as good—‘for reasons, for reasons.’
‘The milk,’ answers Ba, is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of
bitterness which overflowed lately about Flush. So it is, my own Ba—and
for Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by
cakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among
the other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own
R.
How I shall need your letters, dearest!
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]
Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got
up this morning in the good spirits of ‘_our_ days,’ hoping to see you,
believing to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than
usual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud—_that_
was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater! And smiling
to myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about
the ‘business’ to be talked by the ‘grave man and woman’; understanding
your precaution against all unlawful jesting!—jesters forbidden in the
protocol! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even!
How am I to be comforted, my own dearest? No way, except by your being
really better, really well—in order to which I shall not let you come
as soon as Wednesday: it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for
a journey into London! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the
garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you
think of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you,
praise you,—nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof
of love, more than for _other_ kinds of proof,—I will love you for it,
my beloved! Now judge—shall I be able to help thinking of you every
moment of the day? Could I help it, if I tried? In return, therefore,
you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline—ah but, will not
the leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure? I am uneasy
about that milk-diet for _you_, who always seem to me to want support,
and something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me _everything_—will
you, dearest?—whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell
me? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your
sister will write—she will have that great goodness? Let it be so, I
beseech you.
But you will be better—oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being
better, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends.
And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present
thoughts: soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am
in earnest and not a jester _au fond_, and am ready to do just as you bid
me and think best—which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a
shadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you—‘_and me in you_.’ Have
I not leave to say _that_, too, since I feel it more than you could ...
(more intensely ... I do not say more sincerely ...) when you used it
first? My happiness and life are in you,—I am your very own
BA.
Your mother—how is she? Mind you get an amusing book ... something to
amuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘Mathilde’ of Sue? I shall
write again to-night.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]
I had the greatest mind, when your letter came—(the most welcome of all
letters—so much more than I could expect!)—to get up at once and be well
in your dearest eyes or through them—but I checked myself and thought
that I ought to be contented with one such a letter through whole long
weeks of annoyance, instead of one day more.
I am delighted to know Flush is with you, if I am not. Did you remember
my petition about him? But, dearest, it _was_ very imprudent to go to
those disgusting wretches yourself—they have had a pretty honour without
knowing it!
Here I lie with a dizzy head—unable to read more than a page or two ...
there is something in the unwonted position that tires me—but whenever
the book is left off, I turn to the dark side of the room and see you, my
very own Ba,—and so I am soon better and able to try again.
How hot, and thunder-like this oppressive air! And you who are affected
by such weather? Tell me, my dearest dearest, all you can tell me—since
the real lips and eyes are away.
Bless you, my beloved. Remember, I count upon seeing you on Wednesday at
farthest.
Your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday Night.
[Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]
How unwell you are, dearest beloved! Ah no! It is not ‘the position that
tires you,’ it is the illness that incapacitates you. And _you_ to think
of getting up and coming here ... you! Now, for my sake, for both our
sakes, you _must_ and _shall_ be patient and quiet, and remember how
my thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet. As to the
reading, ... you see it makes you dizzy,—and to provoke that sensation
cannot plainly be right: and you will be right always, will you not, for
my sake, dearest of all? And for the coming here on Wednesday, ... no,
no, I say again,—you ought not to do it, and you shall not: we will see
how you are, later in the week; but for Wednesday, certainly no. That
violent transition from the bed to the omnibus would be manifestly wrong.
Also I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of
your being well again. I wonder to-day how yesterday I was impatient
about not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest! There
is no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how
I love you only!
For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head: then I
took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him _just now_.
And you shall not say that you ‘are glad _he_ is with me if _you_ are
not’? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your
theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be
glad of anyone’s being with me if you are not? And how should _you_ be
glad for anything, if _I_ am not? Flush and I know our logic better than
to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of
it.