_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, March 20, 1846.]
I shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have
been here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly 'Go
away that I may write.' Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by
a whole half-hour or three quarters--the stars are against us. He is
coming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and
clear--and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a
good joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so
complimentary to me--I will tell you. The writer doesn't see anything
'in Browning and Turner,' she confesses--'_may_ perhaps with time and
study,' but for the present sees nothing,--only has wide-open eyes of
admiration for E.B.B. ... now isn't it satisfactory to _me_? Do you
understand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be
praised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare?--to be found on
the level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia,
ten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ...
except such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I?
Will you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the
'risks' I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike
simplicity ('gods and bulls,' dearest!) as you made show of yesterday?
If we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to
play with, should I have a right to talk proudly of 'my stakes?' and
would any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as
partners, that we ran 'equal risks'? I trow not--and so do _you_ ...
when you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and
noir into 'one red' of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the
point of happiness when you knew me first?--and if now I lose (as I
certainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have
given me, why still I am your debtor for _the gift_ ... now see! Yet
to bring you down into my ashes ... _that_ has been so intolerable a
possibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run _more_ risk than
you, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself
again if you were unhappy. 'What had _I_ to do,' I should think, 'with
touching your life?' And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that
I never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice--which is the
uttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any
more--not even for _you_! _You_, for _you_ ... is all I can!
Since you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the
headache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon. I do, do
beseech you to spare yourself, and let 'Luria' go as he is, and above
all things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them
in those notes. Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to
say, 'Now I will be well again.' Ever dearest, care for me in
yourself--say how you are.... I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged
and weak rather with the cold ... and look at your flowers for courage
and an assurance that the summer is within hearing. May God bless you
... blessing _us_, beloved!