_E.B.B. to R.B._
Saturday Evening.
[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]
Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing
to you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead ... which I might
have done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both
thoughts of 'next year,' as you suggested them:--because while you are
with me I see only _you_, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of
yours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so
deep--so that there may be ever so many 'mores,' and no 'more' wonder
of mine!--but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no 'more'
light nor speaking until Thursday, why _then_, that I do not see _you_
but _me_,--_then_ comes the reaction,--the natural lengthening of the
shadows at sunset,--and _then_, the 'less, less, less' grows to seem
as natural to my fate, as the 'more' seemed to your nature--I being I!
_Sunday._--Well!--you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth,
over and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future,
scarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never
beyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the
question which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your
happiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in
what I called the future--but the tops of the trees that looked
towards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into
the river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green
again, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can
it be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also
the future never seemed to belong to me so little--never! It might
appear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself
sometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am--from the sort of
anxiety which might be well connected with my own position _here_, and
which is personal to myself. _That_ is all thrown behind--into the
bushes--long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before.
Agitation comes from indecision--and _I_ was decided from the first
hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really.
Now,--as the Euphuists used to say,--I am 'more thine than my own' ...
it is a literal truth--and my future belongs to you; if it was mine,
it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if
it was given ... beloved....
So you see!
Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather
strange sympathy and dyspathy--the sympathy having concerned the genus
_jilt_ (as vulgarly called) male and female--and the dyspathy--the
whole class of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what
they call 'love' to what they call 'duty.' There are exceptional cases
of course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with
a little contempt to those latter proofs of strength--or weakness, as
it may be:--people are not usually praised for giving up their
religion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their 'holy
things'--while believing them still to be religious and sacramental!
On the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is
possible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women
perhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the
mind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and
retreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth
which is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most
courageous for the truth's sake, and instead of blaming them I hold
them in honour, for me, and always did and shall.
And while I write, you are 'very ill'--very ill!--how it looks,
written down _so_! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had
tossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask
Wilson how _she_ thought you were looking, ... and she 'did not know'
... she 'had not observed' ... 'only certainly Mr. Browning ran
up-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.'
Now promise me dearest, dearest--not to trifle with your health. Not
to neglect yourself ... not to tire yourself ... and besides to take
the advice of your medical friend as to diet and general
treatment:--because there must be a wrong and a right in everything,
and the right is very important under your circumstances ... if you
have a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for
instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at
night, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache--for the
affection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just
as if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy
doing good--and could it _increase_ the evil?--mustard mixed with the
water, remember. Everything approaching to _congestion_ is full of
fear--I tremble to think of it--and I bring no remedy by this teazing
neither! But you will not be 'wicked' nor 'unkind,' nor provoke the
evil consciously--you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at
nights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement
of composition--you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you,
and at intervals grow so frightened! Think _you_, that you are three
times as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest,--because
you are more than three times the larger planet--and because too, you
have known other sources of light and happiness ... but I need not say
this--and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day ...
may I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own
health.
May God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the 'Soul's
Tragedy' should be written out, I can read _that_ perhaps, without
drawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep
off altogether for the present--and let it be as you incline. I do not
speak of 'Luria.'