Now I am half tempted to tear this letter in two (and it is long
enough for three) and to send you only the latter half. But you will
understand--you will not think that there is a contradiction between
the first and last ... you _cannot_. One is a truth of me--and the
other a truth of you--and we two are different, you know.
You are not over-working in 'Luria'? That you _should not_, is a
truth, too.
I observed that Mr. Kenyon put in '_Junior_' to your address. Ought
that to be done? or does my fashion of directing find you without
hesitation?
Mr. Kenyon asked me for Mr. Chorley's book, or you should have it.
Shall I send it to you presently?
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday Morning.
[Post-mark, November 17, 1845.]
At last your letter comes--and the deep joy--(I know and use to
analyse my own feelings, and be sober in giving distinctive names to
their varieties; this is _deep_ joy,)--the true love with which I
take this much of you into my heart, ... _that_ proves what it is I
wanted so long, and find at last, and am happy for ever. I must have
more than 'intimated'--I must have spoken plainly out the truth, if I
do myself the barest justice, and told you long ago that the
admiration at your works went _away_, quite another way and afar from
the love of you. If I could fancy some method of what I shall say
happening without all the obvious stumbling-blocks of falseness, &c.
which no foolish fancy dares associate with you ... if you COULD tell
me when I next sit by you--'I will undeceive you,--I am not _the_ Miss
B.--she is up-stairs and you shall see her--I only wrote those
letters, and am what you see, that is all now left you' (all the
misapprehension having arisen from _me_, in some inexplicable way) ...
I should not begin by _saying_ anything, dear, dearest--but _after
that_, I should assure you--soon make you believe that I did not much
wonder at the event, for I have been all my life asking what
connection there is between the satisfaction at the display of power,
and the sympathy with--ever-increasing sympathy with--all imaginable
weakness? Look now: Coleridge writes on and on,--at last he writes a
note to his 'War-Eclogue,' in which he avers himself to have been
actuated by a really--on the whole--_benevolent_ feeling to Mr. Pitt
when he wrote that stanza in which 'Fire' means to 'cling to him
everlastingly'--where is the long line of admiration now that the end
snaps? And now--here I refuse to fancy--you KNOW whether, if you never
write another line, speak another intelligible word, recognize me by a
look again--whether I shall love you less or _more_ ... MORE; having a
right to expect more strength with the strange emergency. And it is
because I know this, build upon this entirely, that as a reasonable
creature, I am bound to look first to what hangs farthest and most
loosely from me ... what _might_ go from you to your loss, and so to
mine, to say the least ... because I want ALL of you, not just so much
as I could not live without--and because I see the danger of your
entirely generous disposition and cannot quite, yet, bring myself to
profit by it in the quiet way you recommend. Always remember, I never
wrote to you, all the years, on the strength of your poetry, though I
constantly heard of you through Mr. K. and was near seeing you once,
and might have easily availed myself of his intervention to commend
any letter to your notice, so as to reach you out of the foolish crowd
of rushers-in upon genius ... who come and eat their bread and cheese
on the high-altar, and talk of reverence without one of its surest
instincts--never quiet till they cut their initials on the cheek of
the Medicean Venus to prove they worship her. My admiration, as I
said, went its natural way in silence--but when on my return to
England in December, late in the month, Mr. K. sent those Poems to my
sister, and I read my name there--and when, a day or two after, I met
him and, beginning to speak my mind on them, and getting on no better
than I should now, said quite naturally--'if I were to _write_ this,
now?'--and he assured me with his perfect kindness, you would be even
'pleased' to hear from me under those circumstances ... nay,--for I
will tell you all, in this, in everything--when he wrote me a note
soon after to reassure me on that point ... THEN I _did_ write, on
_account of my purely personal obligation_, though of course taking
that occasion to allude to the general and customary delight in your
works: I did write, on the whole, UNWILLINGLY ... with consciousness
of having to _speak_ on a subject which I _felt_ thoroughly
concerning, and could not be satisfied with an imperfect expression
of. As for expecting THEN what has followed ... I shall only say I was
scheming how to get done with England and go to my heart in Italy. And
now, my love--I am round you ... my whole life is wound up and down
and over you.... I feel you stir everywhere. I am not conscious of
thinking or feeling but _about_ you, with some reference to you--so I
will live, so may I die! And you have blessed me _beyond_ the _bond_,
in more than in giving me yourself to love; inasmuch as you believed
me from the first ... what you call 'dream-work' _was_ real of its
kind, did you not think? and now you believe me, _I_ believe and am
happy, in what I write with my heart full of love for you. Why do you
tell me of a doubt, as now, and bid me not clear it up, 'not answer
you?' Have I done wrong in thus answering? Never, never do _me_ direct
_wrong_ and hide for a moment from me what a word can explain as now.
You see, you thought, if but for a moment, I loved your intellect--or
what predominates in your poetry and is most distinct from your
heart--better, or as well as you--did you not? and I have told you
every thing,--explained everything ... have I not? And now I will dare
... yes, dearest, kiss you back to my heart again; my own. There--and
there!
And since I wrote what is above, I have been reading among other poems
that sonnet--'Past and Future'--which affects me more than any poem I
ever read. How can I put your poetry away from you, even in these
ineffectual attempts to concentrate myself upon, and better apply
myself to what remains?--poor, poor work it is; for is not that sonnet
to be loved as a true utterance of yours? I cannot attempt to put down
the thoughts that rise; may God bless me, as you pray, by letting that
beloved hand shake the less ... I will only ask, _the less_ ... for
being laid on mine through this life! And, indeed, you write down, for
me to calmly read, that I make you happy! Then it is--as with all
power--God through the weakest instrumentality ... and I am past
expression proud and grateful--My love,