it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But
_I_ have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair
of boots for Italy, besides the shoes—because, you see, we shall have
such long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go
in one’s slippers. Does not _that_ sound like ‘a grave woman?’ You need
not make laws against the jesters, after all! You need only be well!
And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that
travelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have
grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this
chief matter of your health? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always
well, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the
meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest! I cannot write to
you except about you to-night. The subject is too near me—I am under the
shadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more,
and _trust to you_ to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless
you, as _I_ would, _I_ in my weakness! For the best blessing on your
part, love your own
BA.
And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line—three words—I
beseech you not to let me do you harm.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]
Do you think your wishes, much less your blessings, fall to the
ground, my own Ba? Here is your letter, and here am I writing to you,
‘clothed and in my proper’ room My doctor bade me ‘get up and do as
I pleased’—and the perfect pleasure is to say, I may indeed see you
to-morrow, dearest, dearest! Can you look as you look in this letter? So
entirely my own, and yet,—what should never be my own, by right ... such
a treasure to one so little worthy!
I have only a few minutes to say this,—the dressing and talking having
taken up the time. To-morrow shall repay me!
The lightness, slight uneasiness of the head, continues, though the
general health is much better, it seems.
Do you doubt I shall be well in Italy? But I must leave off. Bless you as
you have blessed me, my best, dearest Ba, me who am your very own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 9, 1846.]
I write a word to say, ... dearest, do not run any risk about coming
to-morrow. I mean, ... unless you are sure that the noise and exertion
will not be too much for you,—unless, when the moment comes for setting
off, you feel equal to it ... now, I do beseech you, very dear, not to
persist in coming because you have said that you will come—I beseech you.
Listen. At three o’clock I shall expect you doubtfully; at half-past
three, the doubt will be the strongest; and at a quarter to four, I shall
have said to myself cheerfully, that you were wise and good and had
determined to stay at home. In that case, I shall have a line from you by
five or six! Understand all this, and let it have the right influence and
no more. Of course if I could see you without harm to yourself, and so to
me, it would be a _great happiness_: it even makes me happy to think of,
as a bare possibility, at this distance off! I am happy by your letter,
twice over, indeed—once, for _that_ reason, ... and again, for the
thought of your being in some respects better. At the same time I do not
see why your wise man did not follow his plan to the end. It looks as if
he did not think you better essentially because of it. Ah well, I shall
see with my eyes to-morrow—_perhaps_ I shall: and I shall see in a dream
to-night more certainly.
This shall go at once, though, that it may reach you in time in the
morning. How I thank you for the precious note! You are so much too good
to me, that your being also too _dear_ is an excusable consequence—or
would be, if it were possible. I write nonsense, I believe,—but it is
half for gladness ... and half ... for what makes me your own
BA.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday Night.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]
Dearest, you are a prophet, I suppose—there can be no denying it. This
night, an edict has gone out, and George is to-morrow to be on his way to
take a house for a month either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge, ... Papa
did ‘not mind which,’ he said, and ‘you may settle it among you!!’ but he
‘must have this house empty for a month in order to its cleaning’—we are
to go therefore and not delay.
Now!—what _can_ be done? It is possible that the absence may be longer
than for a month, indeed it is probable—for there is much to do in
painting and repairing, here in Wimpole Street, more than a month’s work
they say. Decide, after thinking. I am embarrassed to the utmost degree,
as to the best path to take. If we are taken away on Monday ... what then?
Of course I decline to give any opinion and express any preference,—as
to places, I mean. It is not for my sake that we go:—if _I_ had been
considered at all, indeed, we should have been taken away earlier, ...
and not certainly now, when the cold season is at hand. And so much the
better it is for me, that I have not, obviously, been thought of.
Therefore decide! It seems quite too soon and too sudden for us to set
out on our Italian adventure now—and perhaps even we could not compass—
Well—but you must think for both of us. It is past twelve and I have just
a moment to seal this and entrust it to Henrietta for the morning’s post.
More than ever beloved, I am
Your own BA.
I will do as you wish—understand.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]
What do you expect this letter will be about, my own dearest? Those
which I write on the mornings after our days seem naturally to _answer_
any strong point brought out in the previous discourse, and not then
completely disposed of ... so they generally run in the vile fashion of a
disputatious ‘last word’; ‘one word yet’—do not they? Ah, but you should
remember that never does it feel so intolerable,—the barest fancy of a
possibility of losing you—as when I have just seen you and heard you and,
alas—left you for a time; on these occasions, it seems so horrible—that
if the least recollection of a fear of yours, or a doubt ... anything
which might be nursed, or let grow quietly into a serious obstacle to
what we desire—if _that_ rises up threateningly,—do you wonder that I
begin by attacking _it_? There are always a hundred deepest reasons for
gratitude and love which I could write about, but which my after life
shall prove I never have forgotten ... still, that very after-life
depends perhaps on the letter of the morning reasoning with you, teazing,
contradicting. Dearest Ba, I do not tell you that I am justified in
plaguing you thus, at any time ... only to get your pardon, if I can, on
the grounds—the true grounds.
And this pardon, if you grant it, shall be for the past offences, not
for any fresh one I mean to commit now. I will not add one word to those
spoken yesterday about the extreme perilousness of delay. You _give_ me
yourself. Hitherto, from the very first till this moment, the giving hand
has been advancing steadily—it is not for me to grasp it lest it stop
within an inch or two of my forehead with its crown.
I am going to Town this morning, and will leave off now.
What a glorious dream; through nearly two years—without a single interval
of blankness,—much less, bitter waking!
I may say _that_, I suppose, safely through whatever befalls!
Also I will ever say, God bless you, my dearest dearest,—my perfect angel
you have been! While I am only your R.
My mother is deeply gratified at your present.
* * * * *
12 o’clock. On returning I find your note,
‘I will do as you wish—understand’—then I understand you are in earnest.
If you _do_ go on Monday, our marriage will be impossible for another
year—the misery! You see what we have gained by waiting. We must be
_married directly_ and go to Italy. I will go for a licence to-day and
we can be married on Saturday. I will call to-morrow at 3 and arrange
everything with you. We can leave from Dover &c., _after_ that,—but
otherwise, impossible! Inclose the ring, or a substitute—I have not a
minute to spare for the post.
Ever your own R.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
4 p.m. Thursday.
[Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]
I broke open your sealed letter and added the postscript just now. The
post being thus saved, I can say a few words more leisurely.
I will go to-morrow, I think, and not to-day for the licence—there are
fixed hours I fancy at the office—and I might be too late. I will also
make the arrangement with my friend for Saturday, if we should want
him,—as we shall, in all probability—it would look suspiciously to be
unaccompanied. We can arrange to-morrow.
Your words, first and last, have been that you ‘would not fail me’—you
will not.
And the marriage over, you can take advantage of circumstances and
go early or late in the week, as may be practicable. There will be
facilities in the general packing &c.,—your own measures may be taken
unobserved. Write short notes to the proper persons,—promising longer
ones, if necessary.
See the _tone_ I take, the way I write to _you_ ... but it is all through
you, in the little brief authority you give me,—and in the perfect
belief of your truth and firmness—indeed, I do not consider this an
extraordinary occasion for proving those qualities—this conduct of your
father’s is quite characteristic.
Otherwise, too, the departure with its bustle is not unfavourable.
If you hesitated, it would be before a little hurried shopping and
letter-writing! I expected it, and therefore spoke as you heard
yesterday. _Now your_ part must begin. It may as well begin and end,
both, _now_ as at any other time. I will bring you every information
possible to-morrow.
It seems as if I should insult you if I spoke a word to confirm you, to
beseech you, to relieve you from your promise, if you claim it.
God bless you, prays your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday.
[Post-mark, September 11, 1846.][7]
Dearest, I write one word, and have one will which is yours. At the
same time, do not be precipitate—we shall not be taken away on Monday,
no, nor for several days afterward. George has simply gone to look for
houses—going to Reigate first.
Oh yes—come to-morrow. And then, you shall have the ring ... soon enough
and safer.
Not a word of how you are!—_you_ so good as to write me that letter
beyond compact, yet not good enough, to say how you are! Dear, dearest
... take care, and keep yourself unhurt and calm. I shall not fail to
you—I do not, I will not. I will act by your decision, and I wish you to
decide. I was yours long ago, and though you give me back my promise at
this eleventh hour, ... you generous, dear unkind! ... you know very well
that you can do as well without it. So take it again for my sake and not
your own.
I cannot write, I am so tired, having been long out. Will not this dream
break on a sudden? Now is the moment for the breaking of it, surely.
But come to-morrow, come. Almost everybody is to be away at Richmond, at
a picnic, and we shall be free on all sides.
Ever and ever your BA.
[7] [The envelope of this letter is endorsed by R.B. ‘Saturday, Septr.
12, 1846, ¼11—11¼ A.M. (91).’ This is the record of his marriage with
E.B.B. in Marylebone Church. The number 91 indicates that it was the
ninety-first of their meetings, a record of which was always endorsed
by Robert Browning on the letters received by him from Miss Barrett.]
_R.B. to E.B.B._
1 p.m. Saturday.
[Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]
You will only expect a few words—what will those be? When the heart is
full it may run over, but the real fulness stays within.
You asked me yesterday ‘if I should repent?’ Yes—my own Ba,—I could
wish all the past were to do over again, that in it I might somewhat
more,—never so little more, conform in the outward homage to the inward
feeling. What I have professed ... (for I have performed nothing) seems
to fall short of what my first love required even—and when I think of
_this_ moment’s love ... I could repent, as I say.
Words can never tell you, however,—form them, transform them anyway,—how
perfectly dear you are to me—perfectly dear to my heart and soul.
I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every
letter, every _silence_—you have been entirely perfect to me—I would not
change one word, one look.
My hope and aim are to preserve this love, not to fall from it—for which
I trust to God who procured it for me, and doubtlessly can preserve it.
Enough now, my dearest, dearest, own Ba! You have given me the highest,
completest proof of love that ever one human being gave another. I am all
gratitude—and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to
the right source) all pride that my life has been so crowned by you.
God bless you prays your very own R.
I will write to-morrow of course. Take every care of _my life_ which is
in that dearest little hand; try and be composed, my beloved.
Remember to thank Wilson for me.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Saturday. Sept. 12.—4½ p.m.
[Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]
Ever dearest, I write a word that you may read it and know how all is
safe so far, and that I am not slain downright with the day—oh, _such
a day_! I went to Mr. Boyd’s directly, so as to send Wilson home the
faster—and was able to lie quietly on the sofa in his sitting-room
down-stairs, before he was ready to see me, being happily engaged with a
medical councillor. Then I was made to talk and take Cyprus wine,—and,
my sisters delaying to come, I had some bread and butter for dinner,
to keep me from looking too pale in their eyes. At last they came, and
with such grave faces! Missing me and Wilson, they had taken fright,—and
Arabel had forgotten at first what I told her last night about the fly.
I kept saying, ‘What nonsense, ... what fancies you do have to be sure,’
... trembling in my heart with every look they cast at me. And so, to
complete the bravery, I went on with them in the carriage to Hampstead
... as far as the heath,—and talked and looked—now you shall praise me
for courage—or rather you shall love me for the love which was the root
of it all. How necessity makes heroes—or heroines at least! For I did not
sleep all last night, and when I first went out with Wilson to get to the
fly-stand in Marylebone Street I staggered so, that we both were afraid
for the fear’s sake,—but we called at a chemist’s for sal volatile and
were thus enabled to go on. I spoke to her last night, and she was very
kind, very affectionate, and never shrank for a moment. I told her that
always I should be grateful to her.
You—how are you? how is your head, ever dearest?
It seems all like a dream! When we drove past that church again, I and my
sisters, there was a cloud before my eyes. Ask your mother to forgive me,
Robert. If _I_ had not been there, _she_ would have been there, perhaps.
And for the rest, if either of us two is to suffer injury and sorrow for
what happened there to-day—I pray that it may all fall upon _me_! Nor
should I suffer the most pain _that_ way, as I know, and God knows.
Your own
BA.
Was I very uncourteous to your cousin? So kind, too, it was in him!
Can there be the least danger of the newspapers? Are those books ever
examined by penny-a-liners, do you suppose?
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Sunday.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]
My own beloved, if ever you should have reason to complain of me in
things voluntary and possible, all other women would have a right to
tread me underfoot, I should be so vile and utterly unworthy. There is my
answer to what you wrote yesterday of wishing to be better to me ... you!
What could be better than lifting me from the ground and carrying me into
life and the sunshine? I was yours rather by right than by gift (yet by
gift also, my beloved!); for what you have saved and renewed is surely
yours. All that I am, I owe you—if I enjoy anything now and henceforth,
it is through you. You know this well. Even as _I_, from the beginning,
knew that I had no power against you, ... or that, if I _had_, it was for
your sake.
Dearest, in the emotion and confusion of yesterday morning, there was yet
room in me for one thought which was not a feeling—for I thought that,
of the many, many women who have stood where I stood, and to the same
end, not one of them all perhaps, not one perhaps, since that building
was a church, has had reasons strong as mine, for an absolute trust and
devotion towards the man she married,——not one! And then I both thought
and felt, that it was only just, for them, ... those women who were less
happy, ... to have that affectionate sympathy and support and presence of
their nearest relations, parent or sister ... which failed to _me_, ...
needing it less through being happier!
All my brothers have been here this morning, laughing and talking, and
discussing this matter of the leaving town,—and in the room, at the same
time, were two or three female friends of ours, from Herefordshire—and
I did not _dare_ to cry out against the noise, though my head seemed
splitting in two (one half for each shoulder), I had such a morbid fear
of exciting a suspicion. Treppy too being one of them, I promised to go
to see her to-morrow and dine in her drawing-room if she would give me,
for dinner, some bread and butter. It was like having a sort of fever.
And all in the midst, the bells began to ring. ‘What bells are those?’
asked one of the provincials. ‘Marylebone Church bells’ said Henrietta,
standing behind my chair.
And now ... while I write, having escaped from the great din, and sit
here quietly,—comes ... who do you think?—Mr. Kenyon.
He came with his spectacles, looking as if his eyes reached to their
rim all the way round; and one of the first words was, ‘_When did you
see Browning?_’ And I think I shall make a pretension to presence of
mind henceforward; for, though _certainly_ I changed colour and he saw
it, I yet answered with a tolerably quick evasion, ... ‘He was here on
Friday’—and leapt straight into another subject, and left him gazing
fixedly on my face. Dearest, he saw something, but not all. So we talked,
talked. He told me that the ‘Fawn of Sertorius,’ (which I refused to cut
open the other day,) was ascribed to Landor—and he told me that he meant
to leave town again on Wednesday, and would see me once before then. On
rising to go away, he mentioned your name a second time ... ‘When do you
see Browning again?’ To which I answered that I did not know.
Is not _that_ pleasant? The worst is that all these combinations of
things make me feel so bewildered that I cannot make the necessary
arrangements, as far as the letters go. But I must break from the
dream-stupor which falls on me when left to myself a little, and set
about what remains to be done.
A house near Watford is thought of now—but, as none is concluded on,
the removal is not likely to take place in the middle of the week even,
perhaps.
I sit in a dream, when left to myself. I cannot believe, or understand.
Oh! but in all this difficult, embarrassing and painful situation, I
look over the palms to Troy—I feel happy and exulting to belong to you,
past every opposition, out of sight of every will of man—none can put us
asunder, now, at least. I have a right now openly to love you, and to
hear other people call it _a duty_, when I do, ... knowing that if it
were a sin, it would be done equally. Ah—_I_ shall not be first to leave
off _that_—see if I shall! May God bless you, ever and ever dearest!
Beseech for me the indulgence of your father and mother, and ask your
sister to love me. I feel so as if I had slipped down over the wall into
somebody’s garden—I feel ashamed. To be grateful and affectionate to them
all, while I live, is all that I can do, and it is too much a matter of
course to need to be promised. Promise it however for your very own Ba
whom you made so happy with the dear letter last night. But say in the
next how you are—and how your mother is.
I did hate so, to have to take off the ring! You will have to take the
trouble of putting it on again, some day.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]
Thank you a thousand times for the note, my own Ba. I welcomed it as I
never yet welcomed even _your_ notes; entirely kind to write, and write
_so_! Oh, I know the effort you made, the pain you bore for my sake! I
tell you, once and for ever, your proof of love to me is _made_ ... I
_know_ love, my dearest dearest: my whole life shall be spent in trying
to furnish such a proof of _my_ affection; such a perfect proof,—and
perhaps vainly spent—but I will endeavour with God’s help. Do you feel
what I mean, dearest? How you have dared and done all this, under my very
eyes, for my only sake? I believed you would be capable of it—what then?
What is a belief? My own eyes have seen—my heart will remember!
Dearest, nothing needs _much_ trouble you farther: take your own time and
opportunity. I confide in your judgment—(for I am not going to profess
confidence in _you_!)—I am sure you will see and act for the best. My
preparations are made; I have only to await your desires. I will not ask
to see you, for instance—though of course a word brings me as usual to
you—your will is altogether my will.
The first obvious advantage of our present relation, I will take. You are
mine—your generosity has given to me my utmost claim upon your family—so
far as I am concerned, putting aside my sympathy with you, there is
nothing more they _can_ give me: so, I will say, perhaps a little less
reservedly than I could have brought myself to say before, that there
is no conceivable submission I will refuse, nor possible satisfaction I
will hesitate to make to those feelings I have been forced to offend, if
by any means I may preserve, for _you_, so much of their affection as
you have been accustomed to receive; I do not require anything beyond
_toleration_ for myself ... I will cheerfully accept as the truest
kindness to me, a continuance of kindness _to you_. You know what I would
have done to possess you:—now that I _do_ possess you, I renew the offer
to _you_ ... judge with what earnest purpose of keeping my word! I do not
think ... nor do you think ... that any personal application, directly
or by letter, would do any good—it might rather add to the irritation we
apprehend: but my consent is given beforehand to any measure you shall
ever consider proper. And your father may be sure that while I adore
his daughter it will be impossible for me, under any circumstances,
to be wanting in the utmost respect for, and observance of, himself.
Understand, with the rest, why I write this, Ba. To your brothers and
sisters I am bound for ever,—by every tie of gratitude: _they_ may
acquiesce more easily ... comprehending more, perhaps, of the dear
treasure you are, they will forgive my ambition of gaining it. I will
write to Mr. Kenyon. You will probably have time to write all the letters
requisite.
Do not trouble yourself with more than is strictly necessary—you can
supply all wants at Leghorn or Pisa. Let us be as unencumbered with
luggage as possible.
What is your opinion about the advertisements? If our journey is
delayed for a few days, we had better omit the _date_, I think. And the
_cards_? I will get them engraved if you will direct me. The simplest
form of course:—and the last (or among the last) happens to be also the
simplest, consisting merely of the words ‘Mr. and Mrs. R.B.’ on _one_
card—with the usual ‘at home’ in a corner. How shall we manage _that_,
by the way? Could we put ‘In Italy for a year?’ There is precedent
for it—Sir—Fellows’ (what is the traveller’s name?)—_his_ were thus
subscribed. By which means we should avoid telling people absolutely,
that they need never come and see us. Choose your own fashion, my Ba, and
tell me how many you require.
I only saw my cousin for a few minutes afterward—he came up in a cab
immediately—he understood all there was need he should. _You_ to be
‘uncourteous’ to anybody! no, no—sweetest! But I will thank him as you
bid, knowing the value of Ba’s thanks! For the prying penny-a-liners ...
why, trust to Providence—we must! I do not apprehend much danger....
Dearest, I woke this morning _quite well_—quite free from the sensation
in the head. I have not woke _so_, for two years perhaps—what have you
been doing to me?
My father and mother and sister love you thoroughly—my mother said this
morning, in my room, ‘If I were as I have been, I would try and write
to her’—I said, ‘I will tell her what I know you feel.’ She is much
better—(I hear her voice while I write ... below the open window). Poor
Pritchard came home from the country on Friday _night_—late—and posted
here immediately—he was vexed to be made understand that there was some
way in which he might have served me and did not. It was kind, very kind
of Wilson.
I will leave off—to resume to-morrow. Bless you, my very own, only Ba—my
pride, and joy, and utter comfort. I kiss you and am ever your own.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]