And after all, those women! A great deal of doctrine commends and
discommends itself by the delivery: and an honest thing may be said so
foolishly as to disprove its very honesty. Now after all, what did she
mean by that very silly expression about books, but that she did not
feel as she considered herself capable of feeling--and that else but
_that_ was the meaning of the other woman? Perhaps it should have been
spoken earlier--nay, clearly it should--but surely it was better
spoken even in the last hour than not at all ... surely it is always
and under all circumstances, better spoken at whatever cost--I have
thought so steadily since I could think or feel at all. An entire
openness to the last moment of possible liberty, at whatever cost and
consequence, is the most honourable and most merciful way, both for
men and women! perhaps for men in an especial manner. But I shall send
this letter away, being in haste to get change for it.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Wednesday, December 31, 1845.
I have been properly punished for so much treachery as went to that
re-urging the prayer that _you_ would begin writing, when all the time
(after the first of those words had been spoken which bade _me_ write)
I was full of purpose to send my own note last evening; one which
should do its best to thank you: but see, the punishment! At home I
found a note from Mr. Horne--on the point of setting out for Ireland,
too unwell to manage to come over to me; anxious, so he said, to see
me before leaving London, and with only Tuesday or to-day to allow the
opportunity of it, if I should choose to go and find him out. So I
considered all things and determined to go--but not till so late did I
determine on Tuesday, that there was barely time to get to
Highgate--wherefore no letter reached you to beg pardon ... and now
this undeserved--beyond the usual undeservedness--this
last-day-of-the-Year's gift--do you think or not think my gratitude
weighs on me? When I lay this with the others, and remember what you
have done for me--I do bless you--so as I cannot but believe must
reach the all-beloved head all my hopes and fancies and cares fly
straight to. Dearest, whatever change the new year brings with it, we
are together--I can give you no more of myself--indeed, you give me
now (back again if you choose, but changed and renewed by your
possession) the powers that seemed most properly mine. I could only
mean that, by the expressions to which you refer--only could mean that
you were my crown and palm branch, now and for ever, and so, that it
was a very indifferent matter to me if the world took notice of that
fact or no. Yes, dearest, that _is_ the meaning of the prophecy, which
I was stupidly blind not to have read and taken comfort from long ago.
You ARE the veritable Siren--and you 'wait me,' and will sing 'song
for song.' And this is my first song, my true song--this love I bear
you--I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that
name--love. I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me:
they are not earnest enough; so far, not true enough--but this is all
the flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your
feet.
Now let me say it--what you are to remember. That if I had the
slightest doubt, or fear, I would utter it to you on the
instant--secure in the incontested stability of the main _fact_, even
though the heights at the verge in the distance should tremble and
prove vapour--and there would be a deep consolation in your
forgiveness--indeed, yes; but I tell you, on solemn consideration, it
does seem to me that--once take away the broad and general words that
admit in their nature of any freight they can be charged with,--put
aside love, and devotion, and trust--and _then_ I seem to have said
_nothing_ of my feeling to you--nothing whatever.
I will not write more now on this subject. Believe you are my blessing
and infinite reward beyond possible desert in intention,--my life has
been crowned by you, as I said!
May God bless you ever--through you I shall be blessed. May I kiss
your cheek and pray this, my own, all-beloved?
I must add a word or two of other things. I am very well now, quite
well--am walking and about to walk. Horne, or rather his friends,
reside in the very lane Keats loved so much--Millfield Lane. Hunt lent
me once the little copy of the first Poems dedicated to him--and on
the title-page was recorded in Hunt's delicate characters that 'Keats
met him with this, the presentation-copy, or whatever was the odious
name, in M---- Lane--called Poets' Lane by the gods--Keats came
running, holding it up in his hand.' Coleridge had an affection for
the place, and Shelley '_knew_' it--and I can testify it is green and
silent, with pleasant openings on the grounds and ponds, through the
old trees that line it. But the hills here are far more open and wild
and hill-like; not with the eternal clump of evergreens and thatched
summer house--to say nothing of the 'invisible railing' miserably
visible everywhere.
You very well know _what_ a vision it is you give me--when you speak
of _standing up by the table_ to care for my flowers--(which I will
never be ashamed of again, by the way--I will say for the future;
'here are my best'--in this as in other things.) Now, do you remember,
that once I bade you not surprise me out of my good behaviour by
standing to meet me unawares, as visions do, some day--but now--_omne
ignotum_? No, dearest!
Ought I to say there will be two days more? till Saturday--and if one
word comes, _one_ line--think! I am wholly yours--yours, beloved!