that you are recovering from the pain and excitement; that is happy! I
waited to hear from you, my own Ba, and will only write a word—then go
out—_think_.
Do you feel _so_, through the anxieties and trouble of this situation?
You take my words from me—_I_ ‘exult’ in the irrevocability of this
precious bestowal of yourself on me—come what will my life has borne
flower and fruit—it is a glorious, successful, felicitous life, I thank
God and you.
All has been for the best, you will see, even in these apparently
untoward circumstances—this particular act was _precipitated_ by
them, certainly—but it is done, and well done. Does it not simplify
our arrangements that this is _done_? And surely there was every
justification for the precipitancy in that proposed journey, and
uncertain return,—(in Winter to a freshly-painted house!) But every
moment of my life brings fresh proof to me of the intervention of
Providence. How the _natural_ course would have embarrassed us!—any
consultation with you respecting your own feelings on a removal at
present—any desire to gratify them....
Will not Mr. Kenyon understand at least? Would it not be well to
ascertain his precise address in the country,—so as to send your letter
there, before the newspaper reaches him,—or any other person’s version?
I will send you my letter to accompany yours—just a few words to explain
why he was not consulted—(by _me_) ... what is strictly _my own_ part to
be excused. What do you intend to do about Mrs. Jameson? I only want to
know in the case of our mutual friends, of course, so as to avoid the
necessity of going over the same ground in our letters.
I confided my approaching marriage to that kind old Pritchard, lest he
should be too much wounded—if his surprise was considerable, his delight
kept due proportion. You may depend on his secrecy—I need not say, I
mentioned the fact _simply_ ... without a word about any circumstances.
If your father could be brought to allow the matter to pass as
_indifferent_ to him ... what he did not choose to interfere with,
however little he approved it,—we should be fortunate? Perhaps pride, if
no kinder feeling, may induce him to that.
My family all love you, dearest—you cannot conceive my father
and mother’s childlike faith in goodness—and my sister is very
high-spirited, and quick of apprehension—so as to seize the true point
of the case at once. I am in great hopes you will love them all, and
understand them. Last night, I asked my father, who was absorbed over
some old book, ‘if he should not be glad to see his new daughter?’—to
which he, starting, replied ‘Indeed I _shall_!’ with such a fervour as
to make my mother laugh—not abated by his adding, ‘And how I should be
glad of her seeing Sis!’ his other daughter, Sarianna, to wit—who was at
church.
Trifles, trifles, only commended to your dear, affectionate heart. Do
you confide in me, Ba? Well, you _shall_!—in my love, in my pride, in
my heart’s purposes; but not in anything else. Give me your counsel at
all times, beloved: I am wholly open to your desires, and teaching, and
direction. Try what you can make of me,—if you can in any way justify
your choice to the world. So _I_ would gladly counsel you on any point!
See how I read lectures about Flush! Only give a kiss before beginning,
and promise me another upon my profiting,—and I shall be twice blessed
beside the profit. So, _my_ counsel being done, here begin the kisses,
you dear dear Ba of mine. Bless you ever, Ba! I continue _quite well_—is
it not strange ... or _is_ it? And my mother is better decidedly. When
she comes back from town (where she and my sister are caring for me) I
will tell her what you bade me promise to give her—in return for what she
has long given you. Good-bye, my own—very own Ba, from your R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]
Ever dearest, this one word goes to you to say about Mr. Kenyon’s
letter—oh, do not send any letter, dearest, till we are out of hearing of
the answer. It terrifies me to think of your sending a letter, perhaps,
without delay. Do let no letter nor intimation be given till the very
last. Remember that I shall be _killed_—it will be so infinitely worse
than you can have an idea.
Afterwards—yes!—you will, for my sake forget some natural pride, as
I, for yours, have forgotten some as natural apprehensiveness. That
kindness, I expected from you, ... and now accept ... thanking you,
dearest. In the meanwhile, there seems to remain the dreadful danger of
the newspapers—we must trust, as you say.
Your mother’s goodness touches me very deeply. I am grateful to her and
to all your family, beyond any power of mine to express my feelings. Let
me be silent therefore, instead of trying.
As to the important business of the cards, you know I have heard the
whole theory of etiquette lately on that subject, and you must not think
of putting any ‘_At home_’ anywhere, or any other thing in the place of
it. A Fellows is an authority in Asia Minor, but for the _minora_ of the
cards, not at all. Put simply the names, as you say, on one card, only
without abbreviation or initial, and no intimation of address, which is
not necessary, and would be under our circumstances quite wrong. Then I
had better perhaps send you a list of names and addresses. But for this,
enough time.
They hasten me—I must go. Not from the thought however of you ... being
your very own Ba.
I shall write of course in the evening again.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]
First, God is to be thanked for this great joy of hearing that you are
better, my ever dearest—it is a joy that floats over all the other
emotions. Dearest, I am so glad! I had feared that excitement’s telling
on you quite in another way. When the whole is done, and we have left
England and the talkers thereof behind our backs, you will be well,
steadfastly and satisfactorily, I do trust. In the meantime, there seems
so much to do, that I am frightened to look towards the heaps of it. As
to accoutrements, everything has been arranged as simply as possible that
way—but still there are necessities—and the letters, the letters! I am
paralysed when I think of having to write such words as ... ‘Papa, I am
married; I hope you will not be too displeased.’ Ah, poor Papa! You are
too sanguine if you expect any such calm from him as an assumption of
indifference would imply. To the utmost, he will be angry,—he will cast
me off as far from him. Well—there is no comfort in such thoughts. How I
felt to-night when I saw him at seven o’clock, for the first time since
Friday, and the event of Saturday! He spoke kindly too, and asked me how
I was. Once I heard of his saying of me that I was ‘the purest woman
he ever knew,’—which made me smile at the moment, or laugh I believe,
outright, because I understood perfectly what he meant by _that_—viz—that
I had not troubled him with the iniquity of love affairs, or any
impropriety of seeming to think about being married. But now the whole
sex will go down with me to the perdition of faith in any of us. See the
effect of my wickedness!—‘Those women!’
But we will submit, dearest. I will put myself under his feet, to be
forgiven a little, ... enough to be taken up again into his arms. I
love him—he is my father—he has good and high qualities after all: he
is my father _above_ all. And _you_, because you are so generous and
tender to me, will let me, you say, and help me to try to win back the
alienated affection—for which, I thank you and bless you,—I did not thank
you enough this morning. Surely I may say to him, too, ... ‘With the
exception of this act, I have submitted to the least of your wishes all
my life long. Set the life against the act, and forgive me, for the sake
of the daughter you once loved.’ Surely I may say _that_,—and then remind
him of the long suffering I have suffered,—and entreat him to pardon the
happiness which has come at last.
And _he_ will wish in return, that I had died years ago! For the storm
will come and endure. And at last, perhaps, he will forgive us—it is my
hope.
I accede to all you say of Mr. Kenyon. I will ask him for his address
in the country, and we will send, when the moment comes, our letters
together.
From Mrs. Jameson I had the letter I enclose, this morning, (full of
kindness—is it not?) and another really as kind from Miss Bayley, who
begs me, if I cannot go to Italy, to go to Hastings and visit her. To
both I must write at some length. Will _you_ write to Mrs. Jameson,
besides what I shall write? And what are we to say as to travelling?
As she is in Paris, perhaps we may let her have the solution of our
problem sooner than the near people. May we? shall we? Yet we dare not, I
suppose, talk too historically of what happened last Saturday. It is like
the dates in the newspaper—advertisements, which we must eschew, as you
observe.
Other things, too, you observe, my beloved, which are altogether out
of date. In your ways towards me, you have acted throughout too much
‘the woman’s part,’ as that is considered. You loved me because I was
lower than others, that you might be generous and raise me up:—very
characteristic for a woman (in her ideal standard) but quite wrong for a
man, as again and again I used to signify to you, Robert—but you went on
and did it all the same. And now, you still go on—you persist—you will
be the woman of the play, to the last; let the prompter prompt ever so
against you. You are to do everything I like, instead of my doing what
_you_ like, ... and to ‘honour and obey’ _me_, in spite of what was in
the vows last Saturday,—is _that_ the way of it and of you? and are vows
to be kept _so_, pray? after that fashion? Then, _don’t_ put ‘at home’ at
the corner of the cards, dearest! It is my command!
And forgive the inveterate jesting, which jests with eyes full of tears.
I love you—I bless God for you. You are too good for me, as always I
knew. I look up to you continually.
It is best, I continue to think, that you should not come here—best
for _you_, because the position, if you were to try it, would be less
tolerable than ever—and best for both of us, that in case the whole truth
were ever discovered (I mean, of the previous marriage) we might be able
to call it simply an act in order to security. I don’t know how to put my
feeling into words, but I do seem to feel that it would be better, and
less offensive to those whom we offend at any rate, to avoid all possible
remark on this point. It seems better to a sort of instinct I have.
Then, if I see you—farewell, the letter-writing. Oh no—there will be time
enough when we are on the railway!—We shall talk then.
Ah—you say such things to me! Dearest, dearest_est_!—And you do not
start at that word, ‘Irrevocable,’ as I have had fancies that you might,
when the time came!’ But you may recover, by putting out your hand, all
you have given me, ... nearly all. I never, never, being myself, could
willingly vex you, torment you. If I approach to it, you will tell me. I
will confide in you, to that end also. Dearest.
And your father’s goodness, and the affectionateness of them all. When
they shall have learnt most that I am not worthy of you, they will have
learnt besides that I can be grateful to _them_ and you. Certainly I am
capable, I hope, of loving them all, well and with appreciation. And then
... imagine the comfort I take to the deepest of my heart from these
hands held out to me! For your sake! Yes, for your sake entirely!—and,
so, the more dearly comforting to
Your very own BA.
There is still difficulty about the house. They think of Tunbridge Wells.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]
My own Ba, could you think me capable of such a step? I forget what I
exactly said in the first letter, but in the second, which you have
received by this, I know there is mention made of _your_ account which
is to accompany mine. You never quite understood, I think, my feeling
about Mr. Kenyon and desire to tell him earlier. In the first place, at
the very _beginning_, he seemed to stand (as he did) in closer connection
with you than any other person I could communicate with,—therefore to
represent, in some degree, your dear self in the worldly sense, and be
able to impose on me any conditions &c. which your generous nature might
be silent on, and my ignorance and excitement overlook: then there was
another reason, the natural one, of our own ... _his_ friendship, rather,
for me, and the circumstance of his having in a manner introduced me to
your acquaintance,—at all events, facilitated my introduction,—and so
being after a fashion responsible in some degree for my conduct. These
two reasons, added to a general real respect for his circumspection and
sagacity, and a desire to make both of them instruct me in the way of
doing you good. But you effectually convinced me that in neither case
would the benefit derivable balance the certain injury, or at least,
annoyance, to himself—while you showed me that I should not be so truly
serving you, as I had intended, by the plans I used to turn over in my
mind.
In brief, it was written that your proof of love and trust to me was to
be complete, the _completest_—and I could not but be proud and submit—and
a few words will explain the mere sin against friendship. I quite, quite
feel as you feel, nor ever had the least intention of writing ... that
is, of sending any letter,—till the very last. Be sure of it.
For the cards, I have just given orders, as you desire and as I entirely
agree. The notion of a word about our _not being in England_ was only a
fancy for your family’s sake—just to save people’s application to _them_,
to know what had become of us—and I had heard Mr. Kenyon commend the
considerateness of those ‘Lydian measures’ ... albeit there was ... or
narrowly escaped being—an awful oversight of the traveller’s which would
have made him the sad hero of a merry story for ever ... as I will tell
you some day. If you will send the addresses, at any time, that trouble
will be over. In all these mighty matters, be sure I shall never take the
least step without consulting you—will you draw up the advertisement,
please? I will supply the clergyman’s name &c. &c.
I shall not see one friend more before I leave with you. So that nobody
needs divine that since the 12th, we have not been at Margate—seeking
‘food for the mind’—
11¾ A.M.
Dearest, I agree to all—I will not see you, for those reasons. I think,
as you may, that it will be a point in excuse of the precipitancy that a
removal was threatened for ‘next Monday perhaps’ ... which, finding us
unprepared, would have been ruinous. Say all you would have me say to
your father,—no concession shall be felt by the side of your love. I will
write a few words to Mrs. J.—her kindness is admirable and deserves the
attention. For the _date_,—you will have seen the precautions I take,—I
hope to see nobody now; but I don’t know that it will be necessary to
suppress it in the advertisement, if we can leave England by the end of
the week, as I hope ... do you not hope, too? For I see announcements,
in to-day’s _Times_, of marriages on the 8th and 9th and our silence on
that particular might be only the beginning of some mystery ... as if it
had happened half a year ago, for instance. Beside, your relations will
examine the register. All rests with you, however—and _will_ rest, Ba! I
shall ask you to do no more of my business that I can manage myself but
where I can _not_ manage ... why, then you shall think for me,—that is my
command!
I suppose when a man buys a spinning-machine he loses dignity because
he lets _it_ weave stockings,—does not keep on with his clumsy fingers!
No, I will retain my honours, be certain,—you shall say, _Ego et rex
meus_ like Wolsey—or rather, like dear, dear Ba—like yourself I will ever
_worship_! See the good of taking up arms against me out of that service!
If you ‘honour and obey’ me, ‘with my body I thee worship’—my best,
dearest, sweetest Ba, and that I have avowed thus ‘irrevocably’—is the
heart’s delight of your own R.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]
Dearest, you were in the right as usual, and I in a fright as sometimes.
I took a mere fancy into my head about your writing to Mr. Kenyon. To-day
he came, and I did not see him—on the ground of a headache, which, though
real, was not really sufficient of itself to keep me from seeing him, if
I had not distrusted my self-control—so I did not see him. To-morrow he
goes away. His letters will of course be made to follow him, and we may
easily precede the newspapers by a day or two.
As for the advertisements, you quite amuse me by telling me to compose
an advertisement. How should I know better than you, dearest, or as
well even? All I intermeddle with willingly is the matter of the
date—although there is something in what you say about the mystery, and
the idea of our being six months married—still it is our disquieted
conscience that gives us such thoughts—and when the advertisement
appears and the cards come out so very properly, people will not have
enough imagination to apprehend a single mystery in the case: and the
omission of the date will not be so singular ... will it? On the other
hand I apprehend evil from the date of the marriage being known. One of
my brothers may be sent to examine the register, but would not betray
the fact in question, _I think_, to my father; would not, I am certain,
willingly give cause for additional irritation against me. But if the
date be publicly announced, Papa must know it, and most of my personal
friends will be sure to know it. I have written letters and seen people
since the twelfth ... Mr. Kenyon on Sunday, Miss Bordman on Monday.
Moreover Papa would be exposed to unpleasant observations—he going
every day among his City friends, and on Saturday among the rest. What
quantities of good reasons, ... till you are tired of them and me!
Would you put it this way.... At such a church, by such a minister,
Robert Browning Esquire, of New Cross, author of ‘Paracelsus,’ to
Elizabeth Barrett, eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett Esquire of
Wimpole Street. Would you put it so? I do not understand really, ... and
whether you should be specified as the author of ‘Paracelsus’ ... but,
for _me_, it ought to be, I think, simply as I have written it. Oh, and
I forgot to tell you that what we did on Saturday is quite _invalid_, so
that you may give me up now if you like—it isn’t too late. You gave me a
wrong name—_Moulton_ is no Christian name of mine. Moulton Barrett is our
family name; Elizabeth Barrett, my Christian name—Behold and see!
I will send the list if I can have time to-night to write it—but the
haste, the hurry—do you think, when in your right mind, of getting away
this week? Think of the work before us! Next Monday is the day fixed for
the general departure to a house taken at Little Bookham or Hookham ...
what is it? Well—we must think. Tell me when you want me to go. I might
go from the new house, perhaps. But you will think, dearest, and tell me.
Tell me first, though, how your head continues or begins again ... for I
fear that the good news is too sudden to last long—I fear.
Thankful, thankful I shall be when we are gone out of reach of evil,
when I shall have heard that my poor dearest Papa is only angry with me,
and not sorry because of me, and that Henrietta and Arabel are not too
miserable. They come between me and the thought of you often—but I do
not, for _that_, love you less—oh no. You are best and dearest in saying
what you say—only, observe, there is not any practicable ‘concession’ now
for you. All you can do now, is what you will do ... in being tolerant,
and gentle, for my sake. My own dearest, I am your
BA.
The list to-morrow.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]
Ever dearest, you are right about the date ... so it shall be—and so the
advertisement shall run, save and except the avowal of ‘Paracelsus’ ...
I avow _you_, and to add another title of honour would succeed no better
than in Dalhousie’s case, who was ‘God of War and Lieutenant-general
to the Earl of Mar.’ I wanted the description &c. of your father. What
a strange mistake I made—(but as for invalidation, oh no!)—I save your
every word and then apply them thus! (In to-day’s _Times_ is a notice
without a date ... not looking at all singular. It is far better).
It is absolutely for yourself to decide on the day and the mode—if for
no other reason, because I am quite ready, and shall have no kind of
difficulty; while you have every kind. Make the arrangements that promise
most comfort to yourself. Observe the packets and alter the route if
necessary. There is one from Brighton to Dieppe every day, for instance
... but then the getting to Rouen! The Havre-boat leaves Southampton,
_Wednesdays_ and _Saturdays_—and Portsmouth, _Mondays_ and _Thursdays_.
The boat from London, Thursdays and Saturdays at 9 A.M.
I do not know where ‘Bookham’ is—you must decide ... I am sure you will
be anxious to get away.
The business of the letters will grow less difficult when once begun—see
if it will not! and in these four or five days whole epics might be
written, much more letters. Have you arranged all with Wilson? Take, of
course, the simplest possible wardrobe &c.—so as to reduce our luggage
to the very narrowest compass. The expense—(beside the common sense of a
little luggage)—is considerable—every ounce being paid for. Let us treat
our journey as a mere journey—we can return for what else we want, or
get it sent, or procure it abroad. I shall take just a portmanteau and
carpet bag. I think the fewer books we take the better; they take up
room—and the wise way always seemed to me to read in rooms at home, and
open one’s eyes and _see_ abroad. A critic somewhere mentioned _that_
as my characteristic—were two other poets he named placed in novel
circumstances ... in a great wood, for instance, Mr. Trench would begin
opening books to see how woods were treated of ... the other man would
set to writing poetry forthwith, from his old stock of associations, on
the new impulse—and R.B. would sit still and learn how to write after! A
pretty compliment, I thought that!—But seriously there must be a great
library at Pisa ... (with that university!) and abroad they are delighted
to facilitate such matters ... I have read in a chamber of the Doges’
palace at Venice painted all over by Tintoretto, walls and ceiling—and
at Rome there is a library with a learned priest always kept ready ‘to
solve any doubt that may arise!’ Murray’s book you have, I think? Any
guide-books &c.
Be sure, dearest, I will do my utmost to conciliate your father:
sometimes I could not but speak impatiently to you of him ... that was
while you were in his direct power—now there is no _need_ of a word in
any case ... I shall be silent if the _worst imaginable_ happens; and if
anything better, most grateful. You do not need to remind me he is your
father ... I shall be proud to say _mine_ too. Then, he said _that_ of
you—for which I love him—love the full prompt justice of that ascription
of ‘perfect purity’—it is another voice responding to mine, confirming
mine.
Good-bye, dearest dearest; I continue _quite_ well ... I thank God, as
you do, and see his hand in it. My poor mother suffers greatly, but is no
worse ... rather, better I hope. They (all here) will leave town for some
quiet place at the beginning of October for some three weeks at least.
Dear, kind souls they are.
Kiss me as I kiss you, dearest Ba. I can bring you no flowers but I pluck
this bud and send it with all affectionate devotion.
Your own
R.B.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]